Title: A Shattered World
Disclaimer: I do not own the Warcraft universe. I do, however, own Vanyral. The other characters mentioned in the story are property of their respective owners.
Rating: T for language and violence.
Summary: The story follows the footsteps of a young blood elf, Vanyral, who is travelling through Draenor on a mission for his order.
Notes: The story is set during a server campaign hosted on Argent Dawn EU, "Ashes of Draenor". The Horde and Alliance have both sent forces to secure valuable resources in the broken planet, resources left untapped for far too long.
I
Of Rats and Magic
As shadow fell over the great forest, things began to change. Merely a trick of the mind, perhaps, but the trees now had a more sinister look to them, the strange teal light emitted from their eerie fruit only making the situation worse – creating shadows where there should be none, deceiving one into seeing things that are not there. The air was thick with moisture, giving the impression of liquid more than gas. One's vision quickly became blurry in this environment – the air's thickness definitely unpleasant. As daytime slowly gave its place to darkness, so did the creatures of day – withdrawing, only to be replaced by those of the night. Moths, spiders and other beasts, creeping or skittering or running, on the hunt for food.
Amidst the general silence and darkness, only rarely broken by the rustling of leaves and steps on soil and grass was a source of dim, violet light, accompanied by a sound that the large rat currently creeping towards had never heard before. It was a sound akin to that of dry leaves being crushed, stepped on – but it was continuous, sometimes louder than others. The rat jerked its head, eyelids fluttering irritably because of the light. It could not make out its source which, at any rate, was certainly not something one normally encountered in Terokkar. The large beast continued to creep forward, baring its fangs as the strange sound suddenly ceased.
A brief but very loud crack echoed between the moss-covered, thick barks and throughout the forest, causing birds to fly away from their perching spots high up on the surrounding trees in confusion – but relative silence. The rat simply turned and made a run for it, the instinct of survival prevailing over its curiosity. The following silence was deafening.
With a light sigh, the tall elf slowly lowered his left, outstretched hand, arcane particles still concentrated around it, lightly sizzling – residue from the spell he had cast. Bending, though careful not to drop the heavy satchel strapped to his back, he picked up the map he had dropped mere moments ago and continued to study it, under the illumination of a faint arcane werelight that he himself had conjured between the fingers of his right hand, just as the darkness had began to fall. He had not expected it to draw such a large number of rats – the animals were enough to swarm him, had he allowed them to approach further.
With a final glance at the map, the elf took out his light with a brief flick of his fingers and carefully rolled the worn parchment tightly, placing it into a leather case in the shape of a cylinder and back into his satchel. His grim expression was soon no longer visible as the final remnants of his conjured light faded and he sunk into the darkness. The elf's dark crimson and black garments made him relatively difficult to detect as he walked in a brisk pace, with the grace that his kin is so renowned for. Careful not to trip over any roots and other obstacles, he made his way through the now almost completely dark forest.
It was filled with magic. Latent energies sizzled within every living organism around him, and the elf could see them – with his eye that no longer saw the material world. The proximity to the Twisting Nether, perhaps, caused the world to be so filled with energy and magic, so beautiful-
No. He had a mission to complete, and he could not allow the beauty that surrounded him distract him from it. What mattered was that he was not completely blind to his surroundings, that he would not need to create another source of light and draw attention to himself. With another faint sigh the elf trudged on, to the spot where his mount and supplies were supposed to be waiting for him.
II
Of Fangs and Flight
The somewhat pleasant terrain that was the forest rapidly began to change, the soil becoming more parched with every step Vanyral's hawkstrider took. The mount was sturdy, requiring little rest and able to cover extremely long distances very quickly. Still, the elf dreaded what was to come. Just as he began to remember how extremely inhospitable the Hellfire Peninsula is said to be – and why else would it be given that name if it did not reflect the truth – the air grew less thick with moisture and much warmer. The trees slowly but steadily turned to huge bundles of dry, thorny plants and each of the strider's nimble steps caused a small cloud of red dust to rise from the ground. Vanyral allowed himself to wallow in dread for a moment before he composed himself. He had reached Hellfire.
After several minutes of riding in silence, a series of long, high-pitched squealing sounds caught the elf's attention. He began to scan his surroundings for their source – be it animal or humanoid, or perhaps something entirely else but was unable to discover anything, even under the remorseless sun that seemed intent to further scorch the already charred-looking landscape. His brow furrowed as he rode – he could see no traces of magic that might have caused the sound. Just as the elf was about to attribute it to the gusts of wind whipping the rocks and dried plants and shifting the red dirt with no particular pattern, a creature made its appearance several yards in front of the hawkstrider, not blocking its path but capable of doing so, if it moved quickly enough.
The beast possessed four legs that normally would belong to an insect, claw-like and long. It was a mystery to Vanyral how it could stand on them, a mystery he was not willing to look into at the moment. Said legs supported a long, ugly torso, the back of which was covered with a sort of scales and spikes, such that the creature's back would be nigh impossible to hold onto without impaling oneself. The front of the torso seemed softer – another assumption Vanyral was not willing to test. Finally, a large mouth was featured at the top, with long fangs protruding from it and two glowing red eyes – currently fixed on the elf and his mount.
The elf leaned forward, lowering his hood and murmuring something to his mount while placing a hand at the side of its head – calming words, so as to ensure the strider would not panic as it rode past the ravager – which is what Vanyral assumed the creature was. The mount did not panic, but it did pick up its pace, hoping to get away from this place and the predator that was eyeing it with such interest as much, or even more than its rider.
And so the elf rushed past the ravager. The beast remained in place for a second before letting out the same high-pitched sound that had alerted Vanyral earlier and broke into pursuit. Its malformed – in the arcanist's opinion, at least – legs carried it surprisingly quickly and it appeared that, given the chance, it would certainly catch up to the elf and strider. And, disturbingly, the same sound echoed from behind stones and thorns throughout the path, behind and in front of the strider.
Vanyral rose slightly on the saddle, looking over his shoulder and cursed his luck under his breath. He then began to furiously murmur words in a jumbled language, holding his right hand out to his side – the runes embroidered to his glove and sleeve glowing with teal and violet light that gradually increased in brightness. More ravagers made their appearance; jumping into the path from their hiding places and joining their pursuit, including even a couple that were so small they could be no more than hatchlings.
The elf did not seem to notice, or at least showed no signs of such. His features were set in an expression of pure concentration as he prepared his illusion, drawing from the reserves of energy stored on the gems hidden in his armor and made accessible to him by the runes of binding on it. He did not know what those ravagers preferred to eat; he could not summon a convincing illusion and be sure that they would not prefer the juicy meat of a strider and elf to it. There was, thus, only one alternative, one that would drain his powers far more and one that he would prefer not to employ. As the arcane rushed to his person on his command and wrapped around him and his mount in a thin layer, both elf and hawkstrider began to fade out of sight – first subtly and then far more quickly, until they disappeared completely. And the moment this happened, a screech far louder than those the ravagers were producing, but sounding as if it came from one of them filled the area. The beasts did not immediately cease their pursuit, but they could no longer see or hear their prey, the screech being far louder than the sound of strider feet pounding on the dry soil. By the time the screech faded, the ravagers had dropped their pursuit and Vanyral thought they certainly would frown in disappointment if they could do so without being impaled by their own spikes.
The elf grinned far more widely than he had in a long time as he became visible again, panting through his teeth. His complexion seemed to have grown paler, surely a result of the exhaustion brought forth by the magic he used. He directed the hawkstrider towards Falcon Watch with somewhat unsteady hands, reassuring the animal – and, perhaps, himself that the danger is far behind them.
III
Of Dust and Duty
With a loud groan, Vanyral pulled himself back on his hawkstrider, mere hours after his arrival to Falcon Watch. He coughed loudly, covering his hand with his mouth. He was allowed to show weakness when he was by himself, wasn't he? He was hoping to at least get some rest after the exhaustion his earlier shenanigans had brought about. His silent complaints did nothing to improve the situation, of course. The elf looked towards Falcon Watch over his shoulder, huffing before he murmured a command to his strider and set out towards the dreadful place that was Zangarmarsh.
The Arbiter had, of course, ordered him not to stay. He had not complained in front of her, but his thighs and legs were protesting even as he returned to riding for the third day in a row with very little sleep. He reached for his now refilled waterskin, knowing it would do little about the red dirt that covered the entire Peninsula and seemed to cling onto everything – which had, of course, found its way into his throat, eyes and the crevices of his body, sneaking under his garments like they did not exist. Even his boots were full of it, and there was nothing he could do about it. Not that the marsh would be much better, of course. He was not even certain if the fresh mount he had obtained in Falcon Watch was able to tread in the mud of the marsh – surely there would be no proper roads in this savage place.
He pulled the leather case containing his map out of his satchel half-heartedly, somewhat used to balancing on a moving strider with his hands otherwise occupied by now. After slipping the map out and unrolling the worn parchment, he discovered his idea certainly was faulty. The wind made the map unreadable, at least without stopping. The elf instructed his mount to do so and studied the map once again – though he knew most of it by heart by now. Yes, there only was one road to the marsh from the Peninsula. No hostiles should be encountered, though the information he received from the scouts in Falcon Watch was not nearly adequate. Not that he had openly complained, of course. With a shake of his head, the elf slipped the map back into its place and lightly patted on the side of the strider's head, resuming his travel.
As the strider's steady, rhythmical steps covered the distance to Vanyral's destination, he produced a small leather-bound book and a piece of charcoal and began to write, his handwriting sloppy due to the constant motion. "If Emberleaf truly is hiding something, I don't intend to let it slide. The amnesia he claims is unlikely, but possible. But why would he claim such a thing was it not true?" The elf paused for a time, not paying mind to his surroundings, apparently confident that his mount would alert him of any danger. "Perhaps he's been saved by someone in the Alliance, or struck a deal with one of them. Or… perhaps his mind is under their influence. He may be a spy, not necessarily willingly. He needs to be examined as soon as possible, but I lack the proficiency to do so." The elf wrote this furiously, not addressed to anyone – simply a pool of thoughts that he could refer to later.
He suddenly seemed to remember where he was, and shoved the book back into his satchel, dropping the charcoal on the ground. The terrain around him remained the same – red hills and plains filled with the same red dust, but the mountains in front of him had grown closer somewhat. To his right, Vanyral could see several large red crystals the origin of which he did not know. They were similar to blood crystals, but he could not be certain without a closer look, and he could not afford one. So he rode ahead, to the marsh, leaving behind the charred Peninsula without, worst of all, being completely certain that he would not miss it in light of what was to come.
IV
Of Mud and Mushrooms
"I need somewhere dry to stay, and guidance. If you could offer me that, I would be indebted to you – heavily." Vanyral spoke with a meek tone, hesitating between every word. His Common was broken, laced with a heavy Thalassian accent. He'd gotten rid of his tabard and usual attire and was, instead, wearing typical traveler's clothes: A worn pair of leather trousers, a shirt and a pair of galoshes complete with a walking stick, all transformed into little more than filthy rags by the mud of the swamp.
The Kaldorei guard slowly sheathed her blade, eyeing the elf up and down. Despite her inherent hate for what she considered traitors, she could not ignore a traveler's plea – it was her duty as a member of the Circle to offer him aid. And thus, she allowed the travel-worn elf to enter the Refuge and gave him what aid the Circle could afford to offer.
Several hours later and after having cleaned himself up, Vanyral set out from the Refuge with a satchel filled with goods in hand. He followed the road for almost half a mile before breaking off it and heading to the spot where he'd hidden his supplies and armor. After retrieving them from high up one of the large mushrooms, where he had earlier levitated them, the elf heaved his second pack and began his long walk through Zangarmarsh. He took special care to place the map he had obtained from the Circle into his case and make sure it remained dry and safe before doing so. His boots sank into the mud that was a large part of the so called road repeatedly – just as he had predicted. The elf had chosen to forsake his identity as a member of the Crimson Concord when he fully entered the swamp and realized his hawkstrider would not be able to take him all the way to Zabra'jin. He could not risk walking across the swamp in his Horde colors, for he would be taken prisoner if he met any hostile soldiers on the way. Thus, he had decided to adopt the guise of a traveler, to have more chances of survival in case he was captured.
A bug – some sort of large mosquito rose to Vanyral's eye level. He raised his first, punching the bug away and of course not doing any damage to it. After a brief consideration, the arcanist gathered his strength to cast a complicated spell yet again – one that would filter the air entering his body, mostly so that he does not accidentally swallow a bug or contract a disease, though he was very much unsure how successful he would be. It also shielded his exposed skin, mostly some parts of his face and neck from bug bites, and thus required a steady flow of energy to maintain. He knew he would likely be exhausted by the time he reached Zabra'jin, but it was worth the trouble. Bite marks, in his experience, were an inconvenience he could not afford.
He hated this place. Chuckling bitterly, he realized that hate was an understatement just as a mosquito landed on his face and immediately dissolved into dust – his spell sizzling loudly, abruptly and making him start.