Shaman

The unbearable heat...  The echoing screams of agony...

Amidst the unnerving sounds of battle, a dark figure stood atop a ledge, though merely a silhouette through the dense smoke buffeting across the Molten Front.

Flames licked across the sky, lighting the magma-wastes below. In the distance, she could see molten spires cutting out sharp outlines against the scorched horizon, their blazing summits glaring down at Malfurion’s encampment. Even the air itself was hostile, heavy with ash and crackling with heat. Each breath she took clawed at her chest.

This was like it was like then, to be consumed by the Flame. She could taste the hunger of the raging element in the air, feel its burning embrace against her skin. And the silence - despite the clatter of arms on the plains below - was deafening to the shaman. No hiss of the wind, no gurgle of water. Not even the steady rumble of the earth behind her hooves.

“If you’re done with it, take the jar of salve back into the encampment!”

There is an art to living quietly, a fine line to walk between one's private life and public persona. It is why I dislike Silvermoon so, aside from the stink of fel that rises up from every gutter and gutter rat there: the public lives of the elves there are so bold, so grand, so ridiculously indulgent and self-centered, that one wonders if there is any substance to them at all past the dazzling show of lights and magic. There is so very little that they do not put on display for the world--do they have any private lives at all?

Amidst the fortress that ran throughout the hills of Aerie Peak, the Meddlers called an end to their weekly meeting, sending the unique heroes back to the corners of the world where they fought tirelessly to protect azeroth from destruction while getting on the nerves of legitimate authority figures. Dolraan exhaled, happy that no brawls had broken out, even with Philius pushing buttons like a child left with a new babysitter. While that stress was relieved, there was a whole different level of stress waiting in the wings, as Dolraan's eyes fell upon Rhianon. She stood in one of the corners, smiling as the Meddlers filed out and keeping quiet as she often did. This was it. Weeks of travel, hours of design and construction work, and it would all come down to this.

"Rhia, can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure."

(Okay, so far so good. I think she's having a nice day, so that will help.)

The chirps of the small frogs, buzzing of the insects, and occasional croak of a larger frog were the only noises save the soft rustle of the foliage and calm splashes of the small waterfall into the pond that rose to about waist height. Kyi’lin paused, her toes just dipping into the water’s edge. It had been only a few hours since she arrived in Stranglethorn, but the land seemed to be as familiar as if she had been here ages. The Troll took a deep, calm breath before slipping off her dusty, simple robes and setting them down on the ground next to her. She stepped into the water with a soft slosh. The water was cool and refreshing, a welcomed embrace from the hot jungle air, thick with sweet humidity.

Continued from Betrayed...

"I am sorry."

"No joo ain't." She said it quietly, though, and her voice was lost in the crackling hiss of the cell's bars. She stood and moved closer, fur rising to stand on end as she neared the bars of uncomfortably violet light. "Joo gonna pay for dis."

Continued from Cornered...

"Dey be comin' now, get ready!" The quiet exclamation caught the attention of everyone in the room, and there was a rush of clanking armor and weapons as those around the fire moved to take their places. The first wave of naga came with a hissing, shrieking cry, scaled bodies scraping over the rough stone of the ruins, spears sparking and crackling with captive lightning. Two fell to axe throwers, one to the elf with the bow, and then they were pressed against the hurried line of shields that had been erected across the entrance, howling and snapping.

Six trolls, two orcs, an unusually scrawny tauren, four draenei, three humans, and an elf of some sort huddled in the large ruined building, keeping a wary eye on the exit. It had been a good two hours since the naga's last attack, which might mean they had another hour of peace before the next one. Or it might mean they had only minutes, if the scaly creatures decided to break their pattern in an attempt to catch the combined groups off guard.

After that, if she was still judging time correctly, there would probably be one more attack and then a break of four to five hours that they could use for sleep. That was the pattern the last eight days had followed, at least.

It was the last place anyone would think to look for him. But because she had no better ideas, it was where she started.

Kyi'lin was getting used to navigating the Bluffs, the elements were helping prevent her from stumbling over the edge, but after going on her own little explotations without Raeril's small hand tugging her carefully along, the Troll seemed to now know her way around the Spirit Rise and Main Bluff. The Elder Rise was next, but for now Kyi was happy with getting to the inn for a simple meal. Her steps were careful and the Taurens often moved out of the way, giving her shoulder a gentle pat of encouragement. By the time Kyi'lin reached the inn, she was in a good mood, the sun warmed the Bluffs and a gentle breeze ensured that it would not grow too hot. This place was surely favoured by the elements for it's people's respect of them. Raeril had taken the liberty of dividing Kyi'lin's coins into seperate pouches, allowing her to simply hand the pouch to the innkeeper in return for her usual meal of tea and fresh bread.

Ripples spread across the surface of the pool, far more than the waterfall usually generated. One big male troll noticed, gliding ankle-deep through the running waters. He paused, sank down low, small eyes scanning the mossy stones and bobbing plantlife. The spray caused him to blink his eyes. He spoke some low, rolling words and rose. 

Behind him, a leaner male barked out an exclamation, standing to his full height.  Bone necklaces dangled across his dusky blue chest, a thick leather strap bearing the painted holster of a curved hand-axe. He pointed one long arm to a few clumsy objects stashed near some stones, away from the damp aura of falling water. The big one jerked a nod to him, replying with an inquisitive tone. The lean one bent down and picked up from among the things a leather belt bearing two sheathes, and from one sheath pulled a shining steel dagger.

Close your eyes.

Breathe in, slowly. Hold that breath. A moment longer. Now let it out.

Air surrounds us. It is the wind that carries the clouds and the dragons, the breath that gives us life. Do you feel the breeze on your skin? Can you feel it tugging at your hair?

It is the most subtle element, but one of the wildest, and it is always with us. It carries distant sounds to us, and visions, too, for the experienced. With enough time, a shaman may learn to call upon it at will, to guide her feet and to quicken her blows.

Take another breath, and let Air free.

The soggy morning air hung heavily around the walls of Warden’s Vigil, clinging to the brows of the soldiers who sat in single file along the easternmost edge of the main fortification, their eyes fixed on the now-empty gate and barren horizon. They were battered, heads in their hands, and a dark-haired priestess shuffled among the ranks, ladling cool mouthfuls of water out for whoever was willing. Another much younger initiate followed behind the priestess, a basket filled with bandages and salves clutched between her shaking hands.

Rhianon, perched on the top of the fortress’s highest wall, watched the two of them appreciatively. Water and simple salves could do little in this momentary respite from battle, but she could see tentative smiles dance across the soldiers’ faces as the two priestesses passed. Even now, as cold rain trickled down their backs and battles raged just over the horizon, the soldiers’ minds wandered back to a sun-bathed cathedral in Stormwind, or maybe some distant childhood stories of noble paladins bearing their forces to victory under the name of the Holy Light. She had heard some shaman around the Exodar bemoaning the fact that whatever authority they might gain over time, they would never mean to their people what an Anchorite or a Vindicator would mean. Rhianon was, however, perfectly happy with her status in society. She certainly didn’t want anyone making wooden toy figurines out of her, thank you very much!

In a circular alcove set to one side of The Temple of the Moon, a priestess sat behind a screen of living, flowering vines.  She rested in quiet meditation, a prayer for her last visitor weaving through her mind.  So great was her repose she hardly lifted her head as the next visitor arrived, though she opened her eyes and smiled in gentle reflection of Elune's grace.  All souls would be purified in Her light.

I stood stark still in the middle of a desert, my eye transfixed on a fiery orb in the sky. It wasn’t the sun, of course, but far more ferocious. A deafening roar surrounded me. My feet suddenly felt water lapping at my toes, and rising quickly. I don’t move. The water rises, and swallows me as I stand like a stone under the waves. I finally look up, seeing  the water’s surface. It feels like miles away. I see someone swimming on the surface. Their body is lithe, muscular but still soft with supple and comforting feminine features. Her strokes are languid, and her chocolate colored hair flows behind her like an aura of earth. I reach up to her, but she is so far, I could grasp her entire form in the palm of my outstretched hand. My mouth opens, and I spoke to her tiredly.

Twenty-two years ago...

Ten paces crossed the length of the cavern; five crossed the width.  Lorith paced, circled, paused.  At times, she would look out a thin opening where the snowdrifts did not entirely block the mouth of the cave, watching the white flakes waft among thick pine boles.  At times, she would hunker down in the darkness of the far reaches of the stone, rocking on her heels and trying to remember.

The cold made her shiver but did her little harm.  A trait of the dwarves benefiting her, or some other protection?  She didn’t know.  She stared at the lank golden locks of her hair for hours on end.

“In the beginning, there was only Shadow. Then came the Light, and life began in all the worlds.”

My father's words echoed through the centuries. I whispered the ancient prayer as I plucked the silverleaf and placed it in my bag. I sat in the shade of the tree the plant grows alongside to rest awhile. The solidity of the earth reassured me. The ground was warm, with few rocks in this part of the island. At my back, the tree pulsed with life, from the skittering of insects to the flitting of birds through the branches. Leaves prepared to fall, ensuring the continuation of the slow upward climb toward the sun.

“Everything that is, is alive.”

Nobundo's words joined my father's in my memory. The Broken's appearance in Telredor had changed much in our ancient culture, so often staid and slow-moving.

I hadn't known then how much that epiphany would change my own life.

Experimenting with some new techniques. All photoshop work, one layer, dodge/burn, brush and smudge, no reference (other than what I've stored in my head). All comments welcome. Thanks for your attention.

Tyi'jin slammed his fist on the table, shaking the assorted bones and carved tiki heads. "What'chu mean dat da eurtquakes not be da eut spirit, brudda?" The large troll wore his armor with the heavy sword hanging from leather straps on his back. His helmet sat on the table as he looked at his brother with a mix of anger, confusion, and fear. Sem'jul shook his head and shrugged, settong a tiki head back up. "It not be da eurt spirit dat be causin' dis an' dat be makin' all da spirits angreh'..." The smaller much more relaxed troll wore his worn linen robes with his assorted bone accesories. "I be gettin' littal from dem, dey be too busy amongst demselves in dere anga, ta be talkin ta da shamons, maybeh T'rall be able ta, but not me, brudda, not me."

"Den how do we be calmin' dem Sem'jul? Dere must be sometin' dat we be doin' ta 'elp."

"Where is the small orc?"

It was the wrong question to ask, and the long-haired elf watched with amusement as Tanakyll whirled, snarling at him. He set the armor and weapons down and leaned back against the wall of the inn, arms folded. Once the story had come out--

"You can always make another."

She growled, reaching for her leggings. "Always so calm."

He shrugged. "Makes a nice counter to your frequent bouts of insanity."

She snorted. "You are the one who got stuck watching an orc. Must have done something wrong."

The elf frowned at that, running a hand through his hair. It was a habit he had obviously picked up from Tiradell, and the knight who had til now been quietly working to strap on his plate stifled a small chuckle. Tana glared at them both.

Tiradell swallowed, face tensing back into its expression of worry. "We'll find him, Tana."

Soft, moss-covered skin covering hard muscle, the scars’ patterns weaving through.  Shujaa ran his hand over the troll female’s skin, her robes torn in the massive blast that elf let loose.  The dark rusty blood of her wound stained both of them, his blue fur clumped from the mess, her mossy skin stained and crusted.  Her eyes were now closed in sleep, the panicked fluttering calmed to a still rest, her chest moving steadily up and down as she breathed, no longer gasping raggedly.

A pitch-black world surrounded Tarreya, binding her arms and legs.  The sickly smell of decay was her only companion.  Fear and anger coursed side-by-side through her, powerful muscles flexing, mind straining to call the elements to her.  For hours the muffled noises outside were oblivious to her cries.  She knew where she was and what would happen soon.  Soon the nerubians would carry her down and she would never be seen or heard from again.

Her body stiffened as she heard faintly through the thick webs the sounds of shrieking and hissing.  A slender line of light suddenly split her dark universe, the sickly smell intensifying as the webs split away.  A loud whoop burst forth from her as she saw a troll in dark armor in front of her, a red wind serpent coiled around his arms, two wicked-looking blades in his hands.