Woe of Ages

by Hikari-letal-blood

Screams echoed through the halls and beyond the caves into the Southern Winter's cold air. The Planes of Hazael banished from the men's dead gaze, and their ears tuned to an almost hypnotic chant. The first to rise was Varnt, a former woodcutter dragged into The Purge's hunger of men. His blood was still warm, and his skin still attached to his body.

HALLOOO! Hikari-Letal-Blood is back in the game... not really xD I do not own this story, but I'm publishing it here on his behalf. So, go ahead and have a nice time reading...

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Hello, everyone.

I wrote this story in 2012 for a writing contest in the Hive Workshop, a Warcraft 3 modding site. The contest's theme was "Reincarnation of a Dead Soldier." You can find the thread here

forums/screenwriting-storyboarding-concept-creation-291/story-lore-mini-contests-reincarnation-dead-soldier-220083/

I did pretty badly, but I still like what I wrote, so I requested my sister to post it here. I haven't written another full-fledged story since then, and I didn't want to create an account just to post one thing.

Anyway, as hinted by its category, the story is set in a Warcraft-inspired universe, with the same races and magic, but with a different history and other alliances.

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WOE OF AGES

Screams echoed through the halls and beyond the caves into the Southern Winter's cold air. The Planes of Hazael banished from the men's dead gaze, and their ears tuned to an almost hypnotic chant. The first to rise was Varnt, a former woodcutter dragged into The Purge's hunger of men. His blood was still warm, and his skin still attached to his body. An eerie aura of blight surrounded him.

Alas, he understood nothing of what had happened. He couldn't make out the words coming out of the female demon's bewitching mouth, or the grave whispers into his heart.

He felt... alive. Yet, mysteriously so. Hadn't he been slayed by a familiar figure moments ago? With his hand he felt a wound reaching deep inside, which then sliced clean through his shoulder. He spotted an elven blade that had been fed recently, and it lay on the ground. Yes, he thought, it had been her.

Following this, distorted memories came into his mind as his followers rose in the darkness. The Purge, the Elves' arrival, Jeanne – his wife -, their dead daughter – gods save her from undeath -, the evenings in Neïv, Supreme Commander Holg'ath, Marcus and Gyfja, the orcs, his ten brothers, a blad-

"Rise! Rise! Come forth, my champions! By my will I bring you back to this plane!"

From nowhere spoke this thunderous voice; surely it was heard even in Tadir's home, thought Varnt, deep in the woo-

"What have you done!? Tell me! This… this isn't what I wished…! This is… a curse!

Without a trace of thought, the company limply grabbed their swords and approached the female demon. She kept screaming and flailing her arms, as night elven tattoos on her body began to shine with the light of a full Moon, dimly illuminating the halls they were in. As her words became incomprehensible, Varnt's strength and craving for the kill overcame him, until it compelled him to attack.

"Stop!" Six swords came to a halt, ready to spill the tainted blood. "She is not your enemy!"

Enemy? Who was his enemy? The tainted orcs, and their lesser troll brothers? The civilized elves and their night elf 'pet', who upon their arrival to the oldest continent sided with such fowl creatures? The undead, forever banished from these lands 349 years ago? The demons of myth and legend, gods' mistakes and man's burden? Who? Who?

"Who?"

His followers repeated him, echo-like. "Who? Who? Who? Who? Who?"

II

"Our enemy is unknown", spoke General Fathar through the hastened winds, "but if reports are correct, we are to face demons."

Murmurs quickly arose. Demons! Everyone questioned, cursed, and prayed. Fathar added something about the elves, but no one listened. Despite their experience - having faced the fiercest of orcs, trolls and ogres - just a single demon would bring far more dread into their hearts than any other creature. Varnt, who stood close to Gyfja's brother, tried to stay at ease, but his mind was troubled with the memories of his hometown. Having survived the slaughter at Gods' Valley, he longed to return home with his wife. He longed to cut wood again, just like he had done for almost 40 years. He longed to sit by the riverbed. He longed to sit by the warmth of fire. He longed, indeed...

A push to the shoulder brought Varnt back to winter. Rothar, clad in battered iron armor, muttered something, and advanced with reluctance towards Fathar's silhouette. Baltan, Gyfja's brother, and a visibly older Laurus followed him. Varnt followed, too, as the six veterans set to cross the snowy gorges.

Throughout the journey no one spoke, and the only sounds heard were that of the wind and the men's armor clashing. After a few hours of walking, the weather worsened into a blizzard; snow felt like shrapnel against their nude faces, and a piercing frost crept through their armor as their hands and feet began to falter.

Luckily, or perhaps unfortunately for them, they found an entrance to a cave while the sinking sun still struggled to pierce the clouds. Judging by the footsteps outside, and an unnatural fire coming from inside, they understood it was the place they were looking for. Without a single word, the six masked their heads with helmets, adjusted their armor, armed themselves with sword and shield, embraced death, and went into their grave.

III

"Who?"

The weak voices failed to get their attention. The female demon cursed the face on the wall, until she was silenced by a deafening roar and an incredible weight overcame her, forcing her to kneel. Then, the carved one spoke again, and, unlike the female's, Varnt understood his words clearly.

"I have granted you your greatest desire, the immortality you foolishly sought for. In seeking it you forsook your brothers and betrayed your forefathers. You gave me your soul and theirs; your vessel twisted at your will, not mine. But you gave a soul to a soulless one, and rescued me from oblivion. For that I stand thankful. Serve me, and you shall find path to elfdom once again. Else, you shall carry that curse unto your grave. I bequeath you these champions. What say you?"

The female demon stayed silent for a very long time. The six grew impatient, until a fierce voice broke the air.

It was Varnt.

"No! I shan't bow to you, demon! My only rulers live in the House of An. I rather spend eternity in this gods' forsaken place than swear an oath to your idolatry!"

IV

A vermilion glow flooded the cave and the galleries it connected to. From the cave they reached an immense room, where elven architecture stood in ageless columns in rows of nine. It was empty, so they continued their path into confining halls.

Their walls were engraved with elven symbols and patterns, graceful and delicately carved in the black rock. Wherever the six moved, they glowed, with a slow, steady pace.

The place was a labyrinth, they thought. They were following blind leads, attempting to hear a voice among the mountain's beatings. They got lost several times, and found too many dead ends. Rather than frustrated or desperate, they were weary from alertness, and no enemy was to be seen.

Only corpses of abominations and sacrileges; godless fiends lying in puddles and fires of their own blood.

At one point, the voice became stronger and stronger, and they were close to their target, whatever it would be. When Baltan announced the news, Varnt's body filled with terror. He had been hoping, ever since they were walking through the frost, that they would never find the place. Or go inside, or follow leads and voices, or reach this hall, or find… her.

She was standing in the farthest end of a ledge. In front of her, an abyss, from whence incandescence illuminated the elven arcades. She was facing, and possibly talking to a colossus entombed in the cave wall opposite to her.

Varnt advanced slowly, helplessly trying to evade the inevitable confrontation, and noticed that the giant's left arm was stretched toward the platform, as if trying to clasp whoever had been there when it was sealed away. He plodded until the six came to a point where they faced right into its immortal eyes. The elf heard them, and spoke, without turning back.

"At last."

A stab to the back took away Laurus's breath and stole his staff. The five remaining stood there, shocked and motionless. When he fell down, Baltan ran to help him, but his body set ablaze. Gyfja's brother, desperately seeking the elf, was struck by an arcane bolt that pierced his chest. Angrily, yet afraid, Fathar approached Varnt.

He yelled something at him, something about fighting the elf and ending this, but he fell too; fright betraying the medals and awards on his armor. An axe slid until it touched Varnt's feet, and when he turned around, he saw Rothar's body being consumed by nocturnal fires.

A feminine figure approached Varnt, in blank stare, with blade and staff in hand. Wearing mage's raiment, the night elf moved quickly and decisively. He was immobile. Memories overcame Varnt, both dear and hateful. Her wife and friends brought him back to his senses. Courage filled his body and soul, and when his eyes met hers, a sword slashed.

Staff and blade locked in duel. The dagger blocked all attacks, and the shield grew cumbersome confronting such speed. From the rod came fire, water and lightning, but Varnt reacted quickly and dodged the spells. He struck several times, but she struck more. He blocked several times, but she blocked more. It seemed the eyes on the wall had already decided a winner.

Eventually Varnt was too exhausted to continue, and came to a standoff. Perhaps it was his age, or the long trek here, that had drained his energies. The elf wasn't as fatigued, but she bled heavily, and, as if doubting the giant's judgment, she frequently stole glances at the wall. At one point she stopped looking, and started listening. Varnt did not understand her actions, until she readied herself, and advanced again. This was it.

A staff and an arm both flew through the hall. A dagger lodged in a chest and then sliced clean through a shoulder, before being tossed on the ground. He knelt, and fell; and the elf, prostrate, pleaded with fearful voice, "I… I shall give… you my soul… make me… eternal; grant me what I yearn for…!"

Suddenly, a veil of darkness fell over their eyes. Screams echoed through the halls and beyond the caves into the Southern Winter's cold air, while the Planes of Hazael appeared in the men's dead gaze.

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I believe some explanation is in order? The bit presented here is in fact the end of the first part, out of two, of a longer story that occurred to me around that time. Humans allied with dwarves started a war to purge the other races (orcs, trolls and tauren) from their continent. Unluckily for them, shortly after it started,immortal elves from across the sea landed in the continent, and allied with the orcs, the first to meet them.

Amongst their heroes was a night elf, envious of her brother's perennial life. She was tainted by the demon, and betrayed her kin to fulfill her wish. Varnt was just another human dragged into the war, whose actions took him across many lands, until this fateful encounter. The second half would have seen the war taking a turn for the worse, with the night elf and her champions as a centerpiece.

Now, you might think that starting a story with the end might not be a good idea, but following this writing style I could alternate between narrating the first and second half, and the attentive reader could piece everything together.

One last thing, at the time of writing I had recently read Vargas Llosa's "The Green House", and the way it's written, if confusing at first, captivated me. I admire its nonlinearity, and I believe it's something more writers should try. This story lacks context without the information I gave you, unless you paid attention to the little hints here and there. Not everything needs to be told! I would never be so direct as to hand the reader a nice "summary" of the whole story.

I hope you enjoyed what I wrote. See you around.