From the Journal of an Erudite Observer
I.
Ironic Ingenuity
Flames flickered. Heat waned. The campfire was on its last legs. A human male huddled closely to the sputtering flames, desperately trying to soak in the warmth. He watched his fire as it devoured the last branches of fuel. Its crackling arms lashed out in search of new food. It had greedily consumed what it had been given. It had sparse resources left. Flame did not know conservation. Flame did not know mercy. If it could be reached, it would be taken. Fire was avarice incarnate; its insatiable mouth always needed more to consume.
Those who wielded fire were often demonized. It was not surprising that fire incited fear amongst the populace. Why should they blame the fire, though? Flame needed to eat in order to survive. All living beings needed to eat in order to survive. Fire ate out of necessity. It ate to survive. It seemed as if people would only accept certain things if those things were dead and gone.
The campsite went dark. Relighting the fire would be futile. There was no fuel left to burn. Without the fire's warm vigilance, the chill of night descended. It slid its icy fingers across all the flesh it could touch. Ice was the antithesis of fire, yet no one seemed to realize that the cold was where true madness laid. With the darkness of night came the chill of ice. With the light of day came the warmth of fire.
The human let his eyes rest. He had a long day of travels ahead of him. Never had he wished to spend a night in the depths of a forest, but Ashenvale was simply too large to traverse in a single day. The temporal gongs of old could still be heard, echoing through the forest. The air of Ashenvale was humid and thick with the whispers of ancient trees. It was spooky as hell.
The breeze halted.
The forest stood still.
Consciousness came before the sun had given birth to morning. He stirred, feeling oddly refreshed. His sleep must have been sounder than he had intended. There was great danger in sleeping deeply in the depths of hostile ground. He looked to the sky and thanked the Light for his safety.
Streaks of moonlight pierced the forest canopy like weak trickles of water. Morning would come soon. He could feel the air lighten into cool mist. Although it didn't rain, dew formed on each and every blade of grass. The forest chimed with life and rejuvenation. Unfortunately, life was not complete without death.
The corpse of a fawn rested not twenty meters from the human's makeshift bed. The kill was fresh.
The human rose and observed his surroundings. The moonlight failed to illuminate the shadowed crevasses of the woods. With his knowledge of flame and the arcane, he could easily conjure a torch. He decided against it. A fire without natural fuel could only survive by feeding off the energy of its summoner. Wasting energy wouldn't be wise if danger lurked nearby.
He cautiously approached the fallen fawn. He was no druid, but he assumed it was odd for a hunter to simply leave prey to rot. Either the hunter was still around, or something larger had scared the hunter off. He really did not know which option to fear more. Spiders scurried away in fright as he knelt down to examine the corpse. Its skin was still clean. The only wounds it had were two puncture marks on the neck. The minuscule spiders were now climbing his boots. They amassed like a horde of militia defending their domain. He shook them off with ease, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process. It must have seemed like a vicious sandstorm to creatures so small. He re-examined the puncture marks. A spider or some vampiric species could have killed the fawn. The later seemed unlikely. The spiders gathered for retaliation. These spiders were far too small to have created punctures of that size. He stepped back. He turned around.
It figured.
It was a surprise worthy of a cheesy children's novel. An unwelcome guest had ventured its way into the campsite. It was a spider. It was big. It was ugly. The greedy bastard probably wanted more to eat than the small fawn. The human raised an arm. Still unwilling to use much energy, he let trickles of magick dance between his fingers. He cracked the energy swiftly like a whip.
It was dead.
He looked down at the fawn. His arachnid opposition was now fleeing for the nearby trees. There were now two corpses littering the camp. What a morbid night. The larger spider was singed while glowing and pulsing with weak energy. Darkness once again consumed the forest as the flames began to smolder. The idea of hanging out with dead animals was lovely, but he decided to resume his journey to Astranaar.
Fire could kill, but then again, so could any other form of magic. Even the docile priests could use their powers to smite vile creatures. The magicks of flame were never given a chance in the scholarly communities of the Kirin Tor. When breakthroughs in pyromancy arose, the beings responsible were denounced as fools. Their projects were shut down. No one considered the art long enough to understand it. If only it was given a chance.
If only.