doashstories

[doashstories]

Wiltheia stumbled through the undergrowth, blindly clawing a path for her desperate escape. The branches twisted and curled back with whip like cracks behind her, the rustle of disturbed leaves like a constant downpour of rain around her. The path behind her closed as quickly as she could open one ahead of herself, and every step brought with it a new scratch or cut as the woodlands sought to arrest her flight.

Wiltheia didn't know why she ran. She had simply been running for as long as she could remember, and knew without knowing why that to stop was to give in to the most horrible fate she could imagine. The scout could hear it behind her, crashing through the undergrowth, snapping whole tree's that got between it and it's prey. She could hear the ragged snarling and panting of the thing, just as surely as she knew it could hear her own desperate heart beat and wanted nothing more than to tear it from her already aching chest. 

Despite herself, she looked back. She could not see her pursuer itself, but Wiltheia saw its shadow, the enveloping darkness of it's approach. She still ran, but the moment's distraction cost her as a low branch caught her leg and took it out from beneath her.She hit the ground hard, feeling the breath knocked from her lungs. Desperately Wiltheia reached ahead, trying to pull herself further away from it, trying to get to her feet, fear clouding her mind and making her think of nothing else but escape. The branches and leaves scratched and clawed at her hands, tearing away and giving her no traction. Fear rising even higher still, Wiltheia turned her head and saw it coming closer, racing at her like a elekk at full charge.She had barely begun to scream when it reached her, icy claws thrusting out of the darkness, aimed straight for her heart-* * *Wiltheia awoke, bolted upright, and immediately knew the bitter taste of regret.Despite the care of no less than four healers, despite not a mark remaining of the injury, Wiltheia felt the burden of it in her chest. The dull, leaden weight of it hung there and, aggravated by her sudden movement, she felt it protest with fiery lances of pain. Almost immediately she doubled over, arms wrapping around herself as if to protect her body from any more pain as a shuddering cough escaped her.It took several minutes for the pain to pass, and as it faded so too did her drum like heart beat and the violent pounding in her ears. Silvery eyes slowly opened, focusing on nothing. The nightmare was past, but reality was not much comfort to Wiltheia.The scout was in the medical hall of the Tide's fortress, as safe and as alone as when she'd been left there. The torches were nearly all out, providing only the most meager of light to see by, but Wiltheia's kind had been born in the night. Her eyes could pick out the details of the room far better than a human could in perfect lighting; the way the bed across from her was precisely folded, the spatter of blood on the next one's frame from its last occupant, the discarded vial that had long since dribbled its contents out and stained the floor beneath the table. She could, if she turned her head, see and read the titles on all thirty four volumes that lined one book shelf, or counted the boards in the ceiling above. She knew this without looking, for it was far from her first time being alone in this room.The scout finally sat up, moving slowly as if afraid of disturbing the room around her. Pale, slender shoulders rose and fell as she tried to work the stiffness from them, eyes closing in a grimace. Long past was the waifish girl who had sought her place in the world, replaced by a tall, lanky woman who often times wondered if her body had outpaced her mind. With limbs that now bore subtle but strong muscles, a body that was not curved in a sickening manner that displayed the bones beneath, and a face that now looked long and thin instead of drawn and gaunt, Wiltheia looked quite like any other woman of her age. A little lanky, perhaps, but certainly healthy and fit. Pulling the blankets aside she turned on the mattress and lowered her feet to the ground, ignoring the chill of the stone beneath her feet as she stood up. Wiltheia wore a thin gown, the sort given to patients when their own clothing was unsuitable for their stay in the hall, the sort that only just reached past her knee's. It had a sash that tied it shut like a bathrobe and hid her bandaged body beneath, but did little for the chill she felt. She tucked her hands under her armpits as she shuffled towards the washbasin, trying to force some warmth back into her bones as she moved. Even injured and feeling weak her training took priority in her subconscious mind, each step feather light and almost silent in the still air.Reaching the basin Wiltheia stooped down, reluctantly pulling her hands free of the warmth and dipping them into the chilled water. She brought up a handful and splashed her face, dampening the short blue bangs that fell just above her brow. Wiltheia repeated the action a few more times before running her hands up and down, lifting her head to look at herself in the mirror.Wiltheia found herself tracing the marks, the twin, curved tattoos of violet ink that crossed over her eyes. Once, they had been her pride, the culmination of back breaking training and relentless aspirations to prove herself more than a child defying what others said out of petulant spite. Now, the dagger like markings seemed to taunt her, as if this latest injury was only further proof that it had been a mistake to brand her with them.On the edge of the mirror Wiltheia caught sight of her armor, neatly folded and set on a table alongside her weapons. Her tabard, another once-source of pride for the scout, had been draped over it all to await her. The scorched and tattered sigil of the Tide, the compass that (she felt) represented the four corners of the world they were to uncover, had changed with it's damage. It now looked like an angry eye, dark and hateful at the shameful bearer who had allowed it to be desecrated so. Wiltheia shook her head and reached back into the basin. She'd just brought her cupped hands free of the water when she heard it outside the door; the rain like rustling, the scrape of claws against stone, the echoing thud of something too large striking the wall or floor. It was here. It was a impossible thing, a nightmare clawing its way out of the landscape of her dream to stalk her waking moments, but it was happening. Wiltheia could hear it coming for her, the prey that escaped, to drag her back to its lair of nightmare and torment. The pounding of her own heart beat sounded in her ears and made the spot of her injury ache, but over that she heard it coming closer, step by step.Wiltheia's eyes darted to her armor and weapons, trying not to meet the accusing eye. Her blades, her knives, her pistol; all of them were there, only a few feet from her. It was the simplest thing to step to them and arm herself, to make a good account of herself before she fell, but she could not find the strength. Wiltheia's body was frozen, fear arresting her movements and the baleful dark gaze of the eye pinning her like a butterfly in some nobleman's collection. Was this her penance then? To have shamed the Tide so, this thing now wanted her punished and the very sigil of the Tide itself would ensure she could not escape?Wiltheia tried to move, tried to formulate a plan, tried to think of a way out. A hundred and more thoughts raced through her head, but all in pieces, too fragmented by terror to make sense of. Through it all the sound came closer and closer, nearly upon the door, and she silently urged her body to break through the shell of horror that enveloped her so fully. It refused, the pounding of her heart only serving to aggravate the memory ache of her injuries and make the muscles throb.The door swung open, and the sudden movement lessened the eyes hold on her for a single heart beat. It was enough; the water she'd held in trembling hands splashed back into the basin and floor as she spun around, a wordless cry forming in her mouth. There, silhouetted in the doorway by the lights beyond it stood. Just as before, it's form was indistinct, made all the larger and more intimidating by the shadows that hide it from her. Then, with a wicker-crack of combustion the torches in the room sprang into life, causing Wiltheia to yelp and shield her eyes.Doom did not find it's way to her. Rather, she heard a soft, almost bemused chuckle, markedly kinder than the terrifying beast growls of her dream. A silver glow entered the room briefly, easing the pain she felt and returning some measure of serenity to her. Feeling some control of her limbs accompany this, Wiltheia forced her shaking hand down, eyes cautiously opening to peer at her tormentor.The silver glow faded back to its source, the figure's staff. The weapon was topped with axe blades in the form of curved wings, with orbs of shadowy magic orbiting one another in the space between the wings. A heavy robe covered the figure, thick with padded cloth and hung with moon and star icons hung with fine silver chain, rustling with each movement. From beneath the hem on the figure's left side emerged silver talons where toes might be, the machined seams and bolts that held the facsimile together immaculately built by the loving hand of a master. But what Wiltheia truly found herself looking at was the face. Older and rounded, bearing silver markings of flowers in bloom over a face that was never far from exhaustion or a playful smile, it was one of the closest faces to her own in the world. One that she had once revered, now thought of with spite and vile despite all that had been offered from it.Altheira Snowsong smiled, then inclined her head towards the half cowering woman.“Good evening, Wiltheia,” the priestess said in a calm voice, lifting her head to meet the scout's gaze once more. “I believe it is long past time we speak once more.”

[doashstories]

[doashstories]

Portal Theft: Epilogue

So, it’s been a while since I did any decent chunk of writing. But, the @cryptic-tide  just wrapped up a short story arc that I headed up, and because I was so pumped (and to give people a hint of what is coming next with these new characters), I went a little nuts. So... enjoy!

Spatial relocation was never a clean and neat thing when industrialized. You were, in essence, bending fundamental forces that gave solidity and reason to reality, tearing apart all notions of order and control in favor of barely controlled chaos. To do so with a automated process, devoid of the careful micro-adjustments only a sentient practitioner could provide was to make the experience rougher, more jarring and volatile. It also expedited the process and made it a weapon of unequaled potential.

With a boom of displaced energy and a ozone-tinted breath of air, the travelers arrived. Despite once more being upon friendly soil, the four stepped away from the fifth, blades not quite at rest as the vague form of heads rotated and hunted for any sign of deceit or danger. Limbs given form only by the wrapping of aged and charred cloth that bound aetheric light gracefully moved to carry them out of the charred circle, creating a buffer between the workers and the arrivals.

The fifth ignored all of this and strode forwards, leaving the guards to flow in his wake. His hooded face stared ahead, all pretense of emotion robbed by the fixed, glowering skull that hung before a nexus of swirling energies. Skeletal arms reached back for one hand to clasp the other, the figure adopting a hunched gait. Conversations hushed, workers hurried to move from the path of the being and it's guards, and gaze's tactfully averted themselves for less dangerous views. All gazes but one.

A man stood in the being's path, almost certainly mortal were it not for the pale blue glow of his eyes. He wore clothes woven of wrapped cloth, mirroring the Ethereal's choice of bondage to the physical plane, only with flesh beneath instead of intangible energy. Twin blades were not far from his hands, folded as they were in symmetry with the hooded figure, but his back was straight and his chin was up, standing stoic and proud. The hooded figure stopped before him, towering over the man even with its hunch, and the hooded face turned to meet his eyes.

"How did they perform?" the figure asked. Those nearby shuddered, even those nominally of the same race; Ethereals did not possess vocal chords, instead relying on a projection of their arcane energies to communicate, but such was the force and authority of this one that even his own kind struggled to listen.  The man did not waver however, meeting his lord's gaze evenly as he spoke.

"As expected, my lord," he replies, finally breaking his posture to bend at the waist in a deep bow. "The Ma'khal was operated, and they used it to escape. Our tracking suggests they reached Lunarfall, short of Oazan's projected target. However, they did manage to transport the Ma'khal as well, which he believed they would fail to."

"Oazan's bitterness clouds his appraisal of their skill, Haarnos," the hooded one says, moving past the man with his guards like a flowing river at his back. "Contact him and the rest. We must speak of this development and our plans."

"As you wish, my lord Hassan," Haarnos says, turning and watching his lord depart through stolen eyes.

*            *            *

A hour later, and dozen chambers away, Hassan stood with Haarnos at his back as they observed a recording of the night's activities. The varied members of the opposing organization, of the Cryptic Tide, were fighting off a over sized Goren while others readied the Ma'khal for use, activating and re-tuning it to their needs.  Behind him, Hassan could hear the shift shift and creak as his guardian took in the recording. Such subtle adjustments would be hard to catch for another mortal, but lacking such fleshly limitations meant Hassan could hear them plainly.

The recording faded as it drew to a end, and the quiet murmur of the rooms other occupants drew Hassan's attention. A half dozen figures, some vague projections that dimmed and wavered uncertainly as the aetheric winds toyed with their signals, others flesh and blood standing at respectful distances. None of them enjoyed what they saw.

"I still don' see why'ze y' didn't just let me collapse the cave on'em," one finally spoke up, a armored goblin with a hefty looking rifle slung across his back. "Or fer th'matter, why you didn' just let me an' my boy's get the drop on'em in Shadowmoon. We had'em dead t'rights!"

"Though I do not share his flippant tone, I am in agreement with the rodent Gilrick for once," one of the projections chided, wavering and flickering as the distant connection struggled to maintain itself. "It would have been far simpler to simply eliminate them, would it not my lord?"

"It is as I said to them directly, Oazan," Hassan replied, looking to the image. "The Triumvirate does not seek open conflict with them. Their involvement with our operations once more was a unfortunate alignment, but we have presented our terms of a cease fire."

"A cease fire? Is tha' wha' y'lo' call bringin' down a mountain' on them?" another of the projections asks, a wicked cackle underlying it from a similar one beside it. Two sets of ember like eyes looked out from the distorted images, watching the Nexus-Prince. "Migh' be how it works where ye come from, bu' where they do tha' migh' as well be a ac' of war!"

"They were left a means to escape," Haarnos replied, his voice a measured and calm relief from Hassan's reverb. "If they were not capable of using it, they would cease to be a threat. That they were able to means they should deduce the full implications of tonight and our actions."

"Perhaps, but the cost of this debacle has stretched our resources tightly," countered Oazan, the space between the speakers filling with lists and charts. "We only were able to salvage a tenth of what we hoped to from the Ma'khal prototype before we had to jury rig that replacement for them to recover. And the Order is on high alert now, we had to raid them earlier than planned to prepare the trap-"

"The Order's research was enough," Hassan said, silencing the projection We will leave them be for now, Oazan. They may be of future use to us, but for now they are to be left to their own devices. If they are restricted and tied up in investigations by outside groups, they will cease to be a possible resource for us. They are easier to manipulate than groups like the Tide."

"What of my other Draenor project then, my lord?" asks the fourth projection, the only one thus far that had not spoken. "Am I free to proceed with the preparations?"

"You are," Hassan rumbles, looking to the projection. "But send Dhar'jia back to us. Recent events have made it clear she must be fielded where we can more carefully watch her."

The projection bows it's head, and then flickers out, leaving the room faintly dimmer than before. The others look to Hassan, whose gaze turns upwards to the triangular engraving on the rooms ceiling.

"In the meantime, we will proceed with Haarnos's proposal," he says at length, looking back to the man. "Begin your preparations. Oazan, you and Gilrick will assist the operations on Draenor. Doctors, once Dhar'jia returns to us, reincorporate her to one of the volunteers. Make my irritation at her actions clear as well."

With a chorus of 'Yes lord's, the projections fade, leaving Hassan, Haarnos and the goblin in the room. With a exaggerated salute that made the goblin's feelings clear, Gilrick moved towards the exit, leaving the two alone in the center of the room.

""You are troubled, Haarnos?" Hassan asks at length, turning to face the man and gazing down at him. "I had assumed you would be pleased that your proposal has been accepted. You ever did dislike our previous methods in that field."

Haarnos looked up, meeting the empty sockets of his masters face. A shallow nod was offered before he lowered his head once more. "I am thankful you have granted me this opportunity, my lord," Haarnos said, holding his posture of subservience. "It is the Tide that concerns me. Do you truly believe they will not interfere with us again?"

"I never said I did, Haarnos," he replied, turning to face the center of the room once more. "Knowingly, by happenstance, it is irrelevant. That group and ours are aligned, linked through the will of fate. We may try and mitigate the damage of their involvement, but I will not sacrifice the Triumvirate's goals to avoid conflict if it comes to that."

"Nor would I ever presume to dare ask such a thing, my lord." Haarnos replied, dropping to a knee. "Forgive me, I spoke out of turn."

"I asked you to speak, not grovel," Hassan snapped, looking back at the man. "You, I have always given permission to speak freely to me. Sycophancy is not a trait I sought when I named you my oath-guard, and I did not grant you a new body to see you act like this."

Haarnos suppressed a flinch, then rose to his feet and lifted his head. "My apologies, my lord. I recognize where I have failed you, and will endeavor not to do so again."

"See to it you do, Haarnos," Hassan replied, turning and moving towards the rooms exit. As if peeled from the shadows, the quartet of guards left the four corners of the room to move in step with him once more, leaving Haarnos in the center of the room by himself. "The Triumvirate has far to go yet before it's goals are reached. The erosion of your will is proof of that, and I will not have you be that weakness."

Haarnos looked up as the door closed behind him,  taking in the sigil above him. The three starbursts of heart, body and soul, connected by a path of lines etched between, all of it encircled by the aetheric winds of the Nether. One hand rose and traced over his own neck, feeling the stolen heartbeat that pulsed through veins and between corded muscle.

"Perhaps it is not weakness, my lord," he murmured to himself, staring at the 'soul' sunburst directly over his head. "Perhaps it is simply remembrance of something we never realized we truly lost..."

[doashstories]

     Wiltheia's feet lightly touched the packed earth of the barrow's floor, rising slowly from the bed to avoid disturbing Kaera's sleep. She glanced back towards the other woman briefly, envying her peaceful expression, then padded her way to the dresser and picked up her sword harness. Fastening it about her waist and shoulders as she moved, Wiltheia left the room and began tracing the long path upwards, out of the den.

    Sleep had not come easy in recent memory, and she stopped at the entrance to try and steady herself, eyes closing and taking in the calm of the night. The soft scent of the forest was a heady rush for those unused to it, and the gentle lapping of Elun'ara's waters upon the shore, the footfalls of sentries keeping watch and the sounds of the natural order taking advantage of the sun's absence all competed for dominance in her ears. Her eyes opened, glowing orbs that caught the tiniest light and applied greater detail to the nocturnal world than she could ever hope for in the day. The path before Wiltheia stretched towards a large fountain, where it branched around the lake or towards the other dens, but she instead stepped off it and into the woods.

    Wiltheia walked for a while, thoughts racing. Tonight had been dangerous, certainly, and her lack of recent work with the Tide had made it painfully aparent how out of practise she was. The crystal blade and one of her knives sang as they left their sheathes, and she rolled her wrists, each step slowly working into a well practised routine as her arms began to slice, block, stab, counter, parry, disengage, and sweep.

    If she was honest with herself, and Wiltheia wasn't fully commited to being so, it wasn't that she was out of practise. Her form was not flawless, but she had improved considerably in recent months. It was that her mind was elsewhere, her thoughts on a slip of the tongue that had occured the previous week, one that she found harder and harder to push away.

    "Or your cousin, you could ask her."

    It was impossible. It had been denied, re-explained, and attempts had been made to distract Wiltheia from it, but it still hung there in the back of her mind. It was the impossible connection between a hundred doubts and questions, and bit by bit pieces were falling into place. If it was fake, then she was simply worrying for nothing. If it was real...

    Wiltheia's introspection was broken by a gnarled root that caught her foot, dragging her down and causing her weapons to fly from her grasp. Unarmored as she was, the thin shirt did little to protect her stomach and her air left her in a rush, eyes watering immediatly. Wiltheia rolled onto her back and put her arms over her stomach, wincing and trying to supress the pain.

    She would have to investigate further. But first, she had to figure out how to function with the question still haunting her.

[doashstories]

Twilight of a Priestess - Part 1

In the aftermath of the Siege of Orgrimmar, Altheira Do'Ash has returned to Darnassus to be with those she cares for and spend time focusing on herself, instead of aiding in fixing whatever calamity befalls the world. This evening finds her working on a thesis she has had in mind for years, but was never able to work on. Even as she does, however, the stage is being set for a event that will change her forever.

Modern Day - Darnassus

Night had fallen over Teldrassil, home of the Kaldorei. Whereas this may have meant the end of the day with any other culture, for the nocturnal residents of the great city Darnassus, it meant that the day had just begun. Merchants were hawking their wares, both the native inhabitants of the city and the traders, the newly arrived of the latter fighting off the urge to sleep, as steel-eyed, proud Sentinel's rode past on saber back, the war-cats ever alert for anything out of place. Occasionally, off the mossy stone paths that the citizens used to traverse the city, a tree would rise and shake the dirt from its roots, before lumbering off to a new location to rest; often times accompanied by the abrupt departure of some avian that had chosen to make nest in its boughs, or some novice druid quickly seeking to follow, trying to continue a conversation.

In the southern most district of Darnassus, the great structure raised in honor of the goddess Elune shined with the illumination of the deified orb rising above the city. The Temple was attended by many devout citizens, paying homage to their goddess as the Sisterhood led them in nightly prayer. The voices of the faithful drifted over the city, providing a low, bass hum that rose and fell like the slow tide of the beach, adding a serene touch to the city's bustle. As the cool evening breeze carried these sounds and scents away from the city, they passed the home built near the gates to Teldrassil, allowing the resident to sample them despite the distance from the city proper. The pale skinned woman smiled to herself as she closed her eyes; despite years of keeping her distance from her people, the atmosphere of Darnassus was something she could never forget, and experiencing even a taste was enough for her memory to race. She saw herself walking those same paths, singing the same songs, invoking the goddess with the same words; it felt like a lifetime ago, and for all intents and purposes, she had to admit it was. This was not the first Elven city of such scale and grandeur the had been home to Altheira Do'Ash, but she loved it all the same. Altheira's hand rose, brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes and tucking them behind her ear. Her eyes half focused on a spot outside the home; like most dwellings, the home lacked a proper wall on one side, opening the home's interior to the natural beauty of the city. She was seated against the most distant interior wall, but felt as if she was seated outside instead. She lowered her hand, lifting the cup that sat on the desk beside her quill, and brought it to her lips to drink. The sweet tea went down easily, and as she pulled the cup away she sighed in quiet pleasure. Returning it to the table top, she looked down to the words she had written, rereading the last paragraph. And so, despite the continued opposition to the idea, I have delved into a comparative study of the modern day Troll cultures and lifestyles, and our own Elven ones. This is a heretical topic for many of my fellow Kaldorei, but I see it as a line of questioning that must be continued; it speaks volumes of our history, and even more of our possible future. As well, to stifle it out of some preconceived notion of racial superiority is both alarmingly similar to the viewpoints of the early resistance leaders prior to the Sundering, and strikingly blind to the facts presented to us. With her place found, Altheira nodded and brought her quill up, dipping it in a inkwell before continuing on the next page. The primary reason for this hypothesis continues to be the physical similarities between our two races. While there are those who decry such a basic notion, and having once counted myself amongst them, I feel that it is a fundamental that cannot be ignored; a foundation for future discourse. And it is a lesson that is not only found between our races, as well; I call upon what we know of the Vrykul and their connection to modern day humans, as my first example.  The most striking difference between a Vrykul and human is, first and foremost, the size. Vrykul stand three times the height of a human man, and have an appropriate musculature to match. However, this has led to an exaggeration of proportion; their arms and legs are much thicker, and longer, as befit their size and the environment in which they live. And as such, even the way they move is of obvious note; with far longer steps and motions to keep their balance and center of gravity firmly in check, there is little about the Vrykul that is 'subtle'. However, one can easily see the comparative similarities between the two; the clothing and weapon styles are nearly identical to early humans, similar housing and settlement planning as even modern day ones. Indeed, a near identical social structure dominates Vrykul and human society, a patriarchal one quite at odds with Kaldorei way of life. One could look at Vrykul as a more barbaric, baseline human, and not be entirely inaccurate. So too, must we look at trolls. With a similar range of skin tones, ears, and when looking at the females facial structures, from the neck up there is a large degree of similarity. Opponents of this shared-history theory will often claim that this is the end of the similarities, and to look at it from such a high level, they would be correct. However, once one goes deeper, the coincidences only build on one another. Altheira paused, reaching out to pick up the cup and take a sip of the tea; this time, she winced at the taste, shaking her head as she set the cup down. Evidently, the cool breeze she had been enjoying had worked on her drink far quicker than she would have liked. Rising to her feet, she picked up the cup and carried it towards the kettle, seeking a fresh batch. As she walked away, a thin ring of shadows enveloped the quill, and it rose into the air, dipping itself into the inkwell before returning to the page, carrying on her thoughts. Trolls, particularly the Jungle subspecies of Stranglethorn, have a high degree of athleticism as one would expect. However, in day to day life they use it much as an elf would. They are not orcs, brutal, straightforward, aggressive creatures seeking to crush what is in their path. They are hunters, stalkers, tacticians. They will lay their traps and pounce when an enemy falls into it. They ride their raptors into battle as we do our night sabers, performing hit and run tactics with great speed to confuse the foe and keep them off balance. And while much has been said, more recently in poor jest towards elven flexibility, to see the tribal rituals and dances of a troll would put any Kaldorei's attempts at dance to shame. She upturned the cup over the edge of the rail, dumping the contents on the ground below, and then set it aside. Lifting the small, pandaren kettle she'd brought to the home, she placed it over a sun-shaped stone and ran her finger over an inscription built into the stone's base. There was a soft glow, and in short order she heard the sounds of the water starting to boil. Content and having to wait, she placed her hands on the rail and leaned out into the night, closing her eyes to enjoy the atmosphere once more. A new sound caught Altheira's ears this time. The dull, metal-on-wood crash of a war mace striking oak and sundering it, the sharp crack of an axe going through timber. Her eyes opened and she turned her gaze, looking towards the open training grounds offered by the Sentinel's to the city's denizens. There, near the largest sets of training dummy's, her eyes caught a brilliant white flash of hair amongst the ruins of several thoroughly dismembered 'orcs'. A heavily armored female warrior, forsaking the lighter armor Kaldorei normally employed, stood amid arms severed from the rotund bodies and old, third-war era helmets of the Horde split in two. The figure was still moving, dancing around her targets, striking at them with a fury that suggested each had personally insulted her mother, father, unborn children, and then went on to describe in great detail some manner of personal offense they took with her. Watching the distant carnage, the elven priestess smiled, briefly reminded of the topic she was working on and how the idea had come about. Before the line of thought could continue further, however, a shrill whistle joined the sounds of the night, and she turned to find a line of steam shooting out of the kettle's spout. She quickly made her way towards it, touching the inscription and leaving the kettle where it was to stay warm, before taking a fresh cup and setting it out. She laid a small, metal net over the lip of the cup, and placed a healthy amount of the tea leaves she'd purchased from Halfhill into it. Altheira then took the kettle and poured it over them, letting the water carry with it the taste of the tea. It was a simple ritual, but one she found relaxed her more and more these days; it was enough to make her pause and chuckle at herself, for falling into the traps of age. Shaking her head, she finished pouring in the water and removed the infuser, setting it aside and bringing the cup up with both hands. Bowing her head over it, Altheira drew in a deep breath, smiling at the scent of the freshly brewed tea. She turned, moving back towards the desk, but paused to look at herself in a full length mirror near the bed. The greatest example of physiological similarity between Kaldorei and Trolls can be found when comparing ourselves to the Zandalar subspecies, from the Isle of Thunder campaign. These trolls, having been infused with the energy of the Thunder King, possess a body structure quite similar to that of a male Kaldorei, standing upright and proud, with a heavy-set physique that does not seem to hinder their high-mobility combat style. Examples have been seen of Zandalar warriors, carrying massive weapons of war, leaping from the backs of Skyterror's or tall cliffs to assault their foes, much like how our own forces have been known to attack from tree top or Hippogryph back. The priestess looked at herself in the mirror, smiling at what she saw. A shorter woman, by elven standards, she did not have the same height as many of her sisters. However, she did have a certain, matronly body that she felt offset any difference; if she had to compare herself to another race, and she’d call upon the humans to do so, she would guess her body to belong to a woman of her thirties. Her face, soft and warm, had lost the innocent, curious look of her novice years, but had been replaced by a desire to learn, to explore. The tattoo's surrounding her silver eyes was in the shape of two leaves, the stems descending her cheeks to the mid-point and colored a silver-blue. Her hair, eternally messy, had been allowed to grow out since her return; recently, she'd been forced to tie it back to keep it out of her way, and a messy ponytail shot out between her blade-like ears.  Where once she had worn combat robes as a matter of habit, or the gaudy dress robes of a politician, Altheira now wore a far more traditional elven style. A thin moon cloth robe hung from her form, kept upright by a tight loop around her neck, and descending over her form in intricate curls and lines that evoked the Goddess and her blessings. Her pale skinned arms were bare from the shoulders down, and turning slightly, the light caught the lines of muscle just beneath the surface; she could not claim to be as strong as the woman she'd been watching, but she kept herself fit and able, at least. Her waist was trim, unlike many rail-thin elves that seemed to populate the non-elven cities and give improper impressions of Kaldorei bodies and lifestyles, and though the robes covered them her legs were much the same as the arms, the subtle muscle beneath the skin the result of her routine. And on the subject of the Zandalar, more specifically how those seen in the presence of the Isle of Thunder have been so radically different from others, I feel there is no better point to bring up a separate point of similarity, in regards to Kaldorei origins. Our people came about as a direct result of our evolution alongside the Well of Eternity, a powerful source of magic believed to be linked to the Titans. Similarly, evidence unearthed by adventurer's assisting Lorewalker Cho in scouring Mogu facilities in Pandaria suggests that Lei Shen, the Thunder King, was empowered by Titanic Energies himself. In both cases, the overwhelming magical auras of these power sources seem to have invoked mutation and rapid evolution in the baseline species affected. This is further proof towards the shared origin of Kaldorei and Trolls, though admittedly, only baseline speculation as of yet. Altheira turned slightly, admiring her form from another angle, chuckling to herself. She did not consider herself vain, but she was pleased with how she'd maintained herself through a near decade of war and travel. Thinking back through the events of the past years kept a smile on her face, particularly as her eyes settled on the final piece of her wardrobe, one that had been constant since she gained it a few months previous. Wrapped around her neck was a thin piece of ghost metal, conforming to the shape of her neck precisely and without impeding the range of motions. Set in the front were three stones, one large, dominating piece of back jet cut in the shape of a snarling night saber’s face, flanked by twin feathers made of white sapphire, angled as if bowing to the saber between them. She couldn't see it without a mirror behind her as well, but the back connected smoothly with no hint of a seam or clasp; for all intents and purposes, it looked as if the choker had simply been forged around her neck. I believe that this mutation and evolution is a result of the troll physiology in action. As is well documented, trolls have a fantastic ability to regenerate almost any injury; only fire means certain doom for them. This accounts for a wide variety of troll subspecies, as they adapt to new environments accordingly; in Stranglethorn, where the thick vines that give those jungles their name, a more lithe form is easier to use for hunting and fighting. Compare this to the forests of Northern Lordaeron, where the war bears that the Amani fight and tame require far more physical strength. Or the ice-bound Drakkari, whom have been noted to grow a thin layer of fur to help resist the elements, or the Ferraki of Tanaris who are smaller, but better conserve water than their cousins.

  It is therefore my belief that the ancient proto-Kaldorei whom settled upon the shores of the Well, as trolls, adapted to the influx of magical energy lead them to where they are now. This influx hurried their evolution, and radically altered the physical structure of the Kaldorei into one better suited to the manipulation of the Arcane. Proof of this can be found in records from that era, as when Queen Azshara ordered the Well’s power cut off from the rest of the world, it manifested as a sense of fatigue and weakness in the Kaldorei resistance. Later, when Malfurion Stormrage shattered the barrier holding back the energy, a sense of revitalization was felt throughout the forces aligned against the Legion’s forces, extending even to those who did not use magic to fight.

These examples can further be found in our descendants, the High and Blood Elves, the Naga, the Satyr. Each is an example of how our physiology mutates due to the rapid, sudden changes of environment. And while many of these examples are due to magical means, rather than natural evolution, it does showcase the ease in which the elven form adapts and changes, just as the troll’s has. A more detailed report of this ease of transformation and corruption can be found in the works of Gershala Nightwhisper, whom studied the subject some years ago in relation to Blood Elf evolution.

Altheira’s mind wandered back to the origin of the paper she was working on, and after a moment’s consideration, left the mirror to return to the balcony. Setting her cup on the rail, she leaned out, looking for the figure again, but saw only novice Sentinel’s working to pick up the aftermath of the berserker workout. A frown creased Altheira's lips as she looked about, until she spotted the woman returning to the home.

The priestess smiled, but did not call out to her, simply watching her approach. Heavy plate armor adorned her form, worn with the ease of someone who preferred nothing else. A heavy war mace and long sword hung from her back, and save for the short ponytail and shoulder length white hair that framed her head, nothing else could be seen of her features; a large, spiked face mask dominated most of her head from the neck up, cut only to expose the red-tinted eyes.

Beside her came a large frost saber, ivory and ebony striped fur gleaming in the pale moonlight. A single paw was as wide as Altheira's upper torso, and each was topped by thick, powerful muscle, capable of propelling him in leaps and bounds as fast as any horse.  Where normally, heavy armor protected him as it did his rider, he moved through the city without only guards on his legs and over his shoulders, the relative peace of the area negating its requirement and allowing him the freedom of the plate's absence.

Altheira watched as the two came to the home’s ground level, but rather than enter, the warrior moved to a small work station beside it. Lifting her drink, the priestess followed to watch her as she began to strip down from the work out. Her weapons were set aside, and soon, the mask came with it, revealing a beautiful but stern face. There was a hint of controlled anger just beneath the surface, as well as a self-assured confidence that Altheira enjoyed far more than she cared to admit. The pauldrons, breastplate and gloves came next, pulled away to reveal a black silk shirt providing protection between the harsh metal and tough skin, with the sleeves tucked into vambraces on her forearms. Even from where she stood, Altheira could see the definition of strong muscles in the arms and torso.

The rest of the armor remained in place as the warrior set to work, starting to heat the forge she stood at. After building the flame, she moved aside to begin gathering up the raw material stored nearby, hunks of ghost iron carried and set in a pile beside the forge. Picking up her tools, the warrior waited for the heat to climb appropriately, and then set to work smelting the ore into workable bars, setting each aside one by one to cool in preparation of being sold later.

The priestess smiled as she watched, focused on the woman below. It was only after several minutes of observing her that she realized the quill had continued to jot down notes behind her, and with a start, rose and walked back towards the desk, a light flush darkening her skin.

Reaching the desk, she grabbed the quill and pulled it aside, her other hand taking the page and lifting it up to see what had been written as her mind wandered. Her eyes closed, and with an embarrassed laugh she crumpled the page up, tossing it aside. My observations are supposed to be on trolls, not her, she thought to herself as she took a new page and carried it, along with the quill, to the balcony to continue her work. She sat in a chair beside the rail, pausing briefly to ensure she could still see the woman below, before continuing.

As a piece of personal and original research, I have discovered another link between trolls and elves. In some rare cases, an elf is born who has a, for lack of a better term, troll like body; that is not to say it is deformed, but rather, that it exhibits certain qualities more similar to the troll race. They exhibit a much higher metabolism, and eat far more than other elves, which translates to a much higher capability for physical performance and stamina. I believe this to be a byproduct of deactivated regenerative properties in the elven physiology, which in trolls, requires a very robust lifestyle and high intake of energy in order to maintain.

These elves are fast, strong, and generally overcome illness quickly. And while it is not without drawbacks, it is certainly an advantage they put to good use. I believe that such traits were disabled in most elves due to the influx of magical energy from the Well of Eternity; our evolution was spurred on by a the vast power that permeated these proto-Kaldorei, and meant that unlike other trolls, our bodies were freed from that requirement. As we became less warlike amongst ourselves, the need for rapid regeneration fell out of favor amongst other evolutionary advantages. Alternatively, it is possible that the arcane energy disabled the regeneration factor, similar to how certain types of energy have been found to cancel one another out.

Altheira paused in her writing to chuckle at herself; truth be told, she’d only encountered one elf who exhibited such characteristics. And yet, for the purpose of what she was writing, it was far better to fib and assume there were others, as it was certainly more likely than an isolated incident of random mutation, in her mind.

Besides, I doubt she’d appreciate the attention of being singled out, Altheira mused, looking over the balcony to where the woman was working. She smiled and looked back to her paper, eying over the words. Even with the fib, it was a strong argument she felt; much of what she had written had been corroborated by far more prestigious scholars than her over the years. She had only decided to connect the pieces and present it as a school of debate, after all.

She looked upon her quill, and saw it was almost dry, the last few words she had written being little more than thin scratches. With an irritated sigh at herself for being so thoughtless, she rose and, after securing the paper from any sudden breezes, moved back towards the desk to retrieve the inkwell. I need to focus on what I write, not on how goo-

Her heel connected with the floor, and it shattered noiselessly beneath her. She fell into the void that opened beneath her, the shattered pieces of the floor falling around her as a rain of jagged stone. Panic, the first, instinctual reaction to her situation rose in her, but was quickly pushed aside by training. Technique's and mantra's she'd learned ages past formed in her mind, and reaching out, she forced order onto the sudden chaos that affected her. Where most elven priests followed the teachings of Elune, and how her blessings could heal her devout and the just, while raining her fury upon the wicked and cruel, Altheira had left behind such training when she first left this city. The humans and dwarves both had their Light, and while she was well versed in it's mysteries, the powers she now called upon were of it's dark twin. She felt the Shadow envelop her like flames upon the Wickerman, crawling and dancing over her skin in wild and erratic, almost joyful patterns of chaos. The Light and Elune both encouraged sharing, to give the power over to the aid of others, but like the flames, the Shadow only cared for itself, for how bright it could burn, no matter what it consumed. It wanted to be unleashed, to shackle this vision and turn it to it's own desire, to raise her up as it's avatar of gleeful disharmony, to- No, she thought, forcing the desires away. To entertain them was to give them purchase, and at that moment, she needed control. With a deep breath, the priestess closed her eyes and began to focus on a set of familiar images, repeating them in her mind one by one. Book cases, shelves worn by constant use. Comfortable chairs and couches, grooved for hours of use. The soft glow of candles, bright enough to read by without becoming harsh. The soft, worn texture of a rug padded by bare feet time and time again. She repeated the images again and again, focusing on them. Shelves. Books. Couch. Chair. Candle. Rug. Her eyes opened, and she found herself in the library of a keep. She knew it well; this was her sanctum, the center of focus and calm she had built within her own mind. This place had never existed, not physically, but to a Shadow adept, it's mental existence was more real than any man made structure. She could smell the dusty, untouched shelves just out of reach, feel the soft warmth of the flickering flames lighting the room. She wiggled her toes, and smiled at the feel of the rug beneath her feet, rocking on her heels. Looking upwards, in place of a roof, Altheira saw the void that had opened beneath her stretching up infinitely. The shards that had given way beneath her in the twilight between the waking world and dream world she now inhabited were falling softly like snow flakes. Not snowflakes, she corrected herself, seeing them already starting to twist to fit the metaphor. Pages from a book. The mental image took hold, and the pages fell around her, scattered as if some massive tome had lost it's bindings. The words on each were scrawled hastily, as if the author had been putting his words to the paper even as they were snatched away by the wind. She looked at one that landed at her feet, and started to read it. His eyes! So dark and cold, they stared at me with a hunger unlike any before. Oh, what fear I feel, as he steps towards me, the menace of the man who had been my savior moments ago terrifying beyond comprehension. Why is he doing this? What compels him? Come no closer! I beg of you, stay back! You frighten me sir, you frighten me so! As the priestess read the words, they began to blur and meld together, becoming a moving image. Altheira saw herself, slinking backwards and pressing against a invisible wall, the fear in her eyes like that of a child. She shook her head in disbelief, disgusted with what she saw of herself; once, she may have felt like that, but it was another lifetime ago. The horror's of the world she had seen since that day, the tragedy and mayhem unleashed by the uncaring cosmos, it rendered the predations of a man upon a novice priest a almost trivial thing. She tore her gaze from the page, looking to the others, only to see them all imitating the first as their words became images of what was written. Each was unique, and a twisted mockery of the truth; she saw herself cackling with laughter, sobbing uncontrollably, giggling and blushing like a novice. Some held images of her in pain, blood streaming from dozens of wounds; others, rapturous joy, admiration, lovingly looking upon something unseen. There, she seemed to be singing, and yet two pages away, her throat was slit, a jagged stone in her own hand dripping with blood. Altheira twisted in place, trying to find solace, yet unable to look away from the myriad images; the more she looked at, the more wild and imaginative they became, each seeking to outdo the last in it's separation from her reality. Some were screaming defiance; some were on their knees, hands held up in desperate prayer for mercy. There, one at the edge of a cliff, a blade at her throat; another held a reverse of the image, a demented grin on her reflection’s face as it prepared to drive a dagger into a unseen target. The images became more and more twisted, the very concept of her reality torn asunder for the wild fantasies of the madman author to run amok. One held the image of her, flames leaping from her hands and flanked by Wrathguard soldiers, directing legions of demonic forces against Stormwinds gate. Another showed the severed head of Garrosh Hellscream beneath a metal-clad foot; as she tore her gaze away from the page, she saw a splash of crimson and bone white as something cracked and gave way. There, in page nearest her now, she was at the helm of some ship, twisting the wheel desperately to avoid something in the water before her; Altheria did not see if she hit it or not, however, for a new page appeared where she was behind a long, slender rifle, staring down a scope at a target, finger curling around the trigger. Each image seem connected somehow, pieces of what if’s and could have been’s, fragments of memory and emotion. With a low, deep-throated growl of anger, she shut her mind out to the random, chaotic images and focused on what she knew to be true. She saw the rapturous face she had expressed when she was accepted by the temple, the joy to serve Elune radiating off her. Opposite it was the fear of a woman too ashamed to remain in her home, and fleeing the life she knew in desperation. Upon the icy plains of the Icecrown Glacier stood a Crusader, defiantly standing her ground amongst her comrades against a horde of undead, and there, alongside a flame wielding warlock and powerful, savage-kin druid, the Shadow was unleashed against the forces of the Horde. As sense was made of the shards, she twisted again, seeking more familiar ones, trying to draw them out as a source of comfort. A conclave of purple clad scholars;  a line of soldiers on a red, lightning scared plain, charging towards a massive crater; the great floating islands of Nagrand, seen from griffon-back; a great tsunami, rising from the ocean and rushing towards her; a small farm by the sea- There, she thought, twisting to focus on it. It was a familiar sight, one she had seen countless times before, and it was impossible to place when this particular memory had been formed. But she focused on it, and like the corner piece of a great puzzle, began to build and connect the pages around it. One by one, the other scattered pieces of paper flew to it, joining together and fading into stone once more. Building for herself a base of familiarity and the stone cold facts of her life, the library faded away to leave her on a disc of polished marble, firm and unyielding to whatever assailed her mind.

With a stable platform, she looked about, taking in her surroundings. The library had melted away as her attention had been focused on the pages, and there was a deep darkness that surrounded her, defying her senses with it's impenetrable depths. It was not the blackness of a unlit basement or moonless night; this was an eternal darkness of infinite size and scope. She felt pain build in her head as it struggled to make sense of the distances, and looked down, focusing on the disc that she stood upon, shutting out the rest.

Rather suddenly, she felt the jerk of sudden deceleration; evidently, she’d continued to fall even after the disc formed. She fell to her knees, the left making a metallic ‘thunk’ as it struck the stone, her hands grabbing the edges to keep from spilling over. And then Altheira saw why the momentum had been arrested.

A great foundry was spread out beneath her, one that evidently had seen better days. Some type of war munitions plant, it was pock-marked with explosions and the remains of fires, self-inflicted abuse from being pushed too hard without the proper safety precautions. She looked over the building in horror at the damage inflicted in the name of progress, shaking her head. Without anyone present to explain it, she still somehow knew that this had been done with full knowledge of the results.

As she looked, she saw a single addition being added, a large lightning rod hastily constructed from the debris surrounding it. She stared at it in confusion, unsure why anyone would worry about such a trivial thing. She then heard the loud, ear splitting crack of thunder, and spun about, looking skywards.

Black clouds, flickering with ruby strikes of lightning, floated towards the ruined building. The red lightning danced from one cloud to the next, not hitting the ground. And yet, as the cloud boiled overhead, she saw the ground beneath it split and crack, torn asunder with the power of the cloud’s passage.  The fury of the storm was absolute, and she shook her head. The buildings and work yards would never survive its passage.

Then a brilliant spear of red light shot past her, and she spun again to follow its path. It hit the lightning rod, and surprisingly, the metal withstood the blow. The energy traveled down its length and into the factory, which then lit up with a great, purple glow. Smoke rose from smokestacks, and in short order, more and more lightning rods were built with eager glee. Each time one was erected, lightning began to strike it, and the factories production picked up with the jump in power.

It was not without its costs, however. Altheira saw that each strike brought more and more power and production to the factory, but the storm still shook the earth beneath it. She watched a great warehouse of munitions collapse on itself and then go up in a powerful explosion, flattening the neighboring buildings. A lightning rod collapsed on itself as a dozen bolts struck it at once, melting the metal under the intense heat. In it's absence, a dozen bolts flayed the tower it had been atop, glass shattering and mortar crumbling as it was prematurely aged by heat. Yet whoever ran the factory only continued to build the lightning rods, stepping up production of the self-destructive item as if to dare the sky to unleash more of it's fury against the complex.

Altheira shook her head and fell to her knees once more, clutching her head. Her eyes were closed, but she could still see each strike of lightning, the damage inflicted. The storm and factory both worked towards the goal of destruction, and it was a battle the factory was losing.  The smokestacks fell, collapsing under themselves, and the great production lines shattered, spilling their contents over the ground.  More and more rods were built to try and absorb the threat of the storm even as the workers must surely be dieing in droves, but so much was channeled into what the factory did it that even had production ceased, the death was unavoidable.

The sound of the factory collapsing under the weight of its own production and the storm’s fury was proving too much; the pain in Altheira’s head was too strong, too overbearing, and she felt her mental hold slipping. The platform cracked, then shattered, sending her spiraling down towards the near-ruins of the factory, chased by crackling spears of red electricity as the ground raced to embrace her first.

The last thing she was conscious of was a great snap, something unfurling on her back to catch her and bring her to safety, the briefest hint of ebony feathers surrounding her. Then the welcoming abyss of unconsciousness greeted her like a lover, carrying her into its safe embrace.

[doashstories]

Twilight of a Priestess - Author's Note

This is a rather ambitious project of mine, and such, a bit of background is in order. Altheira Do'Ash is a character I started almost ten years ago in World of Warcraft, and has been my primary RP character since that time. She has had a full life, both in her backstory and in what interactions she has had with others. However, I feel that her story has reached a point of stagnation, one where too much has happened for her to remain as she is and still be playable.

As such, I began to write her finale, how she would be killed off. It quickly evolved into the story I am posting, one that may not see her dead, but perhaps changed, a fresh start given. However, that cannot be done without a look at the events that shaped her, nor the influence of those in her life now. As such, this story will attempt to do both, however long it runs.