plaguelands

The grass on the hilltop was oddly pulsh, for as dead as the land here was. I layed there, on my stomach, peering out into the distance. Bloodmire was his name. Jonelath Bloodmire. And I had been tasked with ridding what is now called the Plaguelands of his presense.

I am Quìnn Duskwind. A ranger. A Farstrider. My assignment wasn't without a fair degree of irony. Jonelath was one of us. One of our best. And my old teacher.

I closed my eyes, calling upon my magic. When I opened them, my vision had rushed forward, giving me a close look at Jonelath and his creations. All I saw was death. Death in motion. Still death. Death coming slowly to the poor souls they'd taken alive. I'd seen all I needed. It was time to act.

The soft breathing and gentle smells of wood smoke weren’t enough to wake up the elf on the bed, but his eyes snapped open.  He sat up, shivering; his body relaxing as he looked at the female orc on the bed next to him.  He carefully climbed off the large bed, slipping on his light shirt and pants, tiptoeing over to a small table.  The furniture in the Orgrimmar apartment wasn’t very finely crafted, but it was sturdy.  He reached down to the bags that he usually kept hung from his motorcycle, softly undoing the buckles then pulling out a few sheets of paper, a small inkwell and a slim metal case.  The darkness in the apartment was deep, until a small flame ignited above a candlestick on the table.

Day One:

She found a few tentative footholds in the hill behind the forge and had made it to a small wooded rise between the Keep and the Forge as the sun began to rise.  Pittch was a few yards behind her, as he mimed her body's position. A soft cover of dead leaves made a slight cover as they both laid with bellies to the ground, as flat as can be, while every muscle was relaxed as they both settled in for the day, reminding herself that sleeping would be a bad idea.

The camp was quiet, the murmurs of the soldiers as they past below and even took their cigarette breaks in late afternoon shadows of the trees, was mundane at best.

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It just don't seem fair.

When the Orcs razed our homeland, we ran to Lordaeron. Rollin' hills, crystal waters, lush forests. I spent a lotta time working with the army—how I met my best friend, even—so I got to see a lotta the land. I liked Corrin's Crossin', on the shores of Lake Mereldar. I liked the little village outside of Stratholme more than the city itself.

Now Lordaeron is a wasteland, and the people who survived came south.

“The Eye displays what it feels the one looking into it is most suited to see.”

“...But here and now he was still a Prince of Lordaeron trying to do what was best for his kingdom...”

She looked at the magically preserved Stratholme lily in her hand, felt a pang in her chest and a sting in her eyes. Around her, a fetid mist rolled in, heralding one of the dank rainstorms common in these forsaken northern hills.

They just kept coming.

She opened herself to the Light, calling on it's brilliance to sustain her as she fought back the endless hordes of undead, tried to heal the terrified people who looked to her for safety. For a time, she almost believed she could hold out; just a bit longer...

Her energies flagged. She tried to rally herself, but the momentary lapse had cost dearly. The fallen groaned as the foul mists made them rise again, eyes aglow with unholy flame, shambling ever closer. There were too many; the only thing to do now was to protect her own soul from joining them as claws raked and jagged teeth tore at her flesh...

The blade sliced along her side, cutting through her robe and hitting her armor in a weaker spot. She could feel the blade dig into her side and then disappear as it was withdrawn as fast as it had struck. Asilia glared at Feroxx her hands gripping frozen star tightly, he only seemed amused by her anger.

"If you don't block then you'll get cut little one," Feroxx said simply holding his own blade at the ready, the leading edge bearing red stains from asilia's blood.

They were shackled and kneeling infront of Asilia quivering in fright, She could feel Feroxx's shadow on her back. His presence was immense even more so because of the small room fo the scarlet house they stood in. The two before Asilia were Scarlet Crusaders, though they were unarmed and looked like they didn't even know how to fight. More then likely they were just farmers, she could hear an impatient growl from Feroxx as she stared at the two prisoners.

"We're not here to look at flowers!"

The voice was cold and authorative, and was followed by a blow that nearly caused Asilia to spin around in circles. She impulsively recoiled having never been treated this way nor use to being struck by someone who was suppose to be an ally. Her hand jerked open, dropping the flower she had been trying to look at.

Janiil tried to fight back her tears as she walked away from Taneel. Shaking her head lightly whenever she glanced back at him. Even after she crested the hill Janiil kept walking despite her footfalls seeming to grow heavier. She didn't want to do this, but she couldn't live being bonded to this blade either having it corrupting her will. Or being weakened to the point of near death from tossing it away.

Scripture states:  "The Universe is the Light’s. It is one thing… a Wholeness… against which all separations may be identified. Transient life, even that self-aware and reasoning life which we call sentient, holds only a fragile trusteeship on any portion of that Wholeness."

((The night before the Holmgang.))

I stood before the Bulwarks with two young Tauren.  They needed to see, these two, they needed to feel, to hear the screaming of the trees.  The dark Hunter, his connection to the Earth Mother is so strong and yet his eyes were not open, his ears did not hear.  The lovely Druidess, soon to be his bride – you remind me of Lucren, the peace I see in those wide, soft eyes.

“This is not a healthy place to be,” I said, crouching, head tipped to the side, trying to see beyond the barrier.  “Can you see the haze in the air?  Can you taste it in your throat?”

Artisania Marveloso watched the comings and goings of Light's Hope Chapel through half-closed eyes.

Never did the pace slaken, the arrivals of adventurers seeking rewards, soldiers seeking solace, hopeful missionaries seeking enlightenment in the ruin of the Lordaeron's hills. And out they went, some slumped, some shrugging, some turning on their heels with a sense of purpose; out they went again into the dark plagueland night, bereft of stars with the moonlight distant and unclear.

Streaked with blood and ichor, Lorith pulled the long blades of her clawed fist weapon from the robes of the fallen Necromancer. With professional dexterity she searched his robes – a handful of silver from his beltpouch, a few strips of fine runecloth from his clothing, and ah, there… Flipping her dagger in her hand, Lorith sliced the cord binding a dark rune about his neck. Funny thing, she thought, holding the little icon up in the strange light of the chamber. Jane's long claws clicked impatiently on the stones close by.

"No lass, don' eat 'em. He's all tainted. I know yer hungry but there's work t' do."

With the stink of raw rat on my breath and the slimy f’lassil salve glistening on my naked and bloody body, I began making my way toward Tranquillien in the hopes of finding a healer. 

The hills northwest of Corrin's Crossing were tailor made for avoiding Scourge and barren enough to be mostly free of the local wildlife as well. We pushed pretty hard for a few hours, making decent time. There were a couple of Scourge patrols out, but they were easy enough to avoid.

We'd been running for hours. The Scourge weren't very good pursuers but they were tireless and there were a lot of them. More than once I'd silently cursed myself for saving the girl. Two of us could have gotten on my horse and ridden past them; not an option with three. Best we could do was take turns riding while the other two hung on the bridle.

Adrian Warner.  I could have lived not knowing that.

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