Title: Strength of Spirit (subject to retitling)
Author: Myself, Amy Rene
Chapter: 1/??
Rating: Teen for battle sequences, blood and the possibility of swearing.
Disclaimer: This fan fiction was written using the MMORPG World of Warcraft as its base. WoW is (c) Blizzard Entertainment, and this story was not written with the intent of monetary gain or copyright infringement. While I made a point of researching proper lore in writing this, some parts may have been altered by right of artistic license to better fit my story. All characters here are my own creations and are therefore my property.
Status: Still under revision pending constructive critisisms. Currently passed its third proof-reading, which should have taken care of any wayward typos...
In the flickering light a figure stirred. The breeze roused the trees and in turn the sunlight passed serenely over the periwinkle skin of a dozing creature, danced over shining scale armor. A lone raven took to raucous flight from the bough of a tree some feet away and the figure popped into awareness, startled by the harsh cawing and the brilliant sunlight. Discerning that no danger was present, the figure flopped back onto the grass with a soft chink of scale and a sigh. Her name was Ivairmov.
She was lying on the shore of the Southfury River, some distance north of the Orc city of Orgrimmar, beneath the fiery boughs of Azshara's forest. Across the river canyon laid the cool, misty retreat of Ashenvale Forest, but she had forsaken it for the sloping shoreline of Azshara. So close to enemy territory, Ivairmov had sought to camp further away from the Horde's logging outfit in Ashenvale, and their outpost near to it. Having awoken alive, she figured her plan had been, at least, not the dumbest thing ever conceived.
Slender yet calloused fingers wove their way through the short tufts of grass for the leather-bound handle of her trusted accomplice, a mace of considerable magical accommodation. It's cool, hard weight in her palm was reassuring, though at present there was nothing to be reassured of. Azshara was relatively peaceful beyond her camp site. The wind in the towering treetops brought back nothing but the smell of the sea from whence it blew. The previous night it had blown from the south, and carried with it the stench of Orc fires.
Time was not to be wasted on the bank of a river, however comfortable the ground was or however tired she may be. Darnassus was still a day's journey ahead and there had been suspicious talk of the Horde's motivations in Ashenvale, where Ivairmov's hooves would carry her next. She packed camp in silence, though there was little to pack. All her possessions had been destroyed when the Exodar had crashed, as well as other things that could never be replaced…
It had been since that day, when she'd crawled from the wreckage to find her life shorn in two, which Ivairmov had decided upon her life's path. She had picked up a mace and a piece of the Light, and had never glanced back. Her journey had taken her beyond any suffering she could have imagined: it had stripped her of her notions about the world and the order of life and at the same time had reaffirmed them. By doing so, it had reaffirmed her. Armed now with a mace as strong as she was, there was very little she was not prepared to challenge. However, her present journey was much more mundane. Her satchel could not hold any more: she was on her way to the auction house.
The crossing she chose was not particularly sound. The water here was shallow but the banks were steep and unstable. Even her cloven hooves slipped on the loose, decomposing rock. Ivairmov slid down the bank until her hooves met the water with an awkward splash that soaked through the chain of her boots to the wool lining beneath. Grumbling, the paladin waded up to her waist through the river, holding her sack and mace above her head. The opposite bank proved no easier than the one she had just slid down, and the rain of dirt and rocks into the water beneath her as she climbed was testimony. Upon reaching the top she shouldered her pack and mace and set off, humming gaily but keeping a keen eye out for danger.
Two minutes into her journey the paladin pulled out her maps, scanning landmarks carefully to be sure she gave the logging camp the widest berth. It did not seem wise, right under the pug-nose of Thrall, to go flouncing through his camps. In the distance just barely audible over the low thrum of cicadas there came a sick, pulsing noise of grinding machinery and collapsing timber. Ivairmov shuddered, but this was not her battle. The druids were already in full force against this onslaught. She knew one in particular who was quite vehement on the point.
The forest, though still in a natural state of beauty wild beyond belief, bore unnatural scars. Rough tree stumps, so massive even in such decay they could have housed an inn, sat in still mourning beneath the silent, watchful shadows of their living brethren. Here and there, patches of burnt earth glowered up from their evergreen surroundings. The Orcs seemed to care little for the land they were destroying. A broken whiskey bottle lay between two clumps of bushes.
Ivairmov stuffed the maps back in the front pocket of her satchel and strode on, absently adjusting the silvery headpiece she wore. Strands of silken olive-teal hair obscured her vision and when she cleared it she threw herself into a surprised halt. An Orc peon, short and burly and broad, was standing right at the bend in the road, staring at her as if afraid to believe what he was seeing. He was carrying a blunted axe and a handful of coiled hemp rope, but he was apparently alone. He seemed keen to remedy this. For a split second he remained still, and then he threw back his head and bawled the alarm to his camp mates.
Knowing she only had seconds before his cries were answered, Ivairmov sprang. Her satchel hit the ground as her mace swung up, gripped in two gloved hands, and plummeted with all the force of a bludgeon down upon the Orc. He didn't move fast enough: the mace collided with his shoulder just as he'd raised his axe in a feeble attempt to retaliate. She called the Light to her aide, felt it course through her fingers and into her weapon, felt the hammer glow and pulse as if living. A blinding flash lit the path and a sickening thud rendered the deforester dead. But more were coming.
Another appeared, taller than his fellow and darker, but not smarter. He flung himself at her alone, grunting in foul Orcish tongues, brandishing a stout stripping axe that she parried without thinking. Her mace found his ugly, gaping face and he too crumpled. Then suddenly the trees were full of them: peons and overseers and brutally armored grunts. They watched their comrade fall in silence, and knowing his mistake they attacked all at once.
A pair of peons hit first, and with a swing timed precisely to their leap Ivairmov smote them flat to the ground. An overseer flung himself at her from behind, but in that split second she harnessed the Light again and he reeled backwards, howling as his flesh burned. Ivairmov swung hard again, bashed his knees from beneath him, and finished him with a brutal crack to the face. More came. As one fell another sent out a more urgent call, and Orc after Orc spilled through the trees as if the forest were bleeding. Fire lit the ground beneath her, sending the next wave back in howls of pain, but as they retreated another battalion surged forth. A thick, coarse constriction met her throat, and the swing she aimed at a grunt was caught mid-air in his massive hands. His face leered at her through the smoke that rose from her feet. The rope tightened on her neck. An axe bit sharply into her thigh. In the big Orc's eyes mocking triumph spread, but as soon as it had come it was replaced with fear.
He was looking beyond her now, over the head of the thrashing, suffocating Draenei. Then, like a ripple, the peons behind him began to see it too. The rope slackened, fell to her feet as her captors began to flee. Sucking in a ragged breath, Ivairmov spun around to see the forest behind her quaking. Trees swayed and groaned as an invisible force shoved through them; birds shrieked and took wing from the advancing menace that could not yet be seen. Whatever was coming, Ivairmov knew she would be no match for it. She scooped up her sack and her mace and bolted in the direction the Orcs had fled, back towards the lumber yard.
The ground shook in earnest now. Orcs were fleeing on foot, some on wolfback, and others still were bellowing at their cowardly brethren. A lone Draenei in their midst went unnoticed. She flung herself up the wooden stairs of an overseer's tower and scrambled onto the landing, barely noting that it was deserted. The tower swayed. Over the stampede of Orcs she saw the trees across the road part, and from their shadows poured a dozen infernals. Their limbs were held together by viciously glowing green magic, their round, boulder-shaped heads supporting two tiny green eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Horror came as she realized these stone beings were only the mounts, only the transportation. Their riders were hooded and masked, perched atop their infernal henchmen and armed with long, hooked polearms and swords of unrecognizable craftsmanship. They charged into the camp. The foremost rider, he alone adorned with pauldrons that spiked and peaked several feet beyond his shoulders, pulled a crossbow and fit it with a hooked arrow. He aimed, at first it seemed blindly into the crowd of Orcs, and then she saw him.
A lone human male was sprinting through the crowd, and though it afforded him protection now it was rapidly thinning, and soon his cover would be gone. He seemed to have given up all hope of magical defenses. He was running flat out, his arms over his head and his elbows plowing aside Orcs that unknowingly slowed his escape. The leading rider pulled up short, searching, but just as his aim tautened the man dove bodily into an animal hide tent. The riders spread out, now having a clear battleground, and Ivairmov ducked back behind the wooden trusses of the watch post. A rider passed directly beneath the edge of her tower's platform, and she could make out red eyes beneath his scaled helm. His cloak bore a strange, twisted symbol, demonic no doubt but in Ivairmov's mind worthless. She didn't recognize it. The infernals stomped the camp flat, their riders searching hungrily for the human Ivairmov could no longer see. She watched his tent furtively; desperate that he should not give himself away.
The troops seemed convinced that their quarry was nowhere nearby, but their leader was not. He pulled up, directly between Ivairmov's tower and the unknown man's tent, and dismounted. His feet hit the earth with a chattering of chain and plate. The forest fell silent as he began to prowl between the tents, his sword drawn. Ivairmov prayed he would be fooled. And he was. He passed so close to the tent in which the man hid that for a moment Ivairmov's heart ceased beating. Then he moved on, mounted again, and called his riders away to the east.
One did not seem to be satisfied by his leader's search. He sat in silent contemplation between the tent and the tower, though the rest of his party had moved on. She caught sight of the man's eyes, peeking through the flap of the tent, and as the rider's back was to her she tried desperately to catch the man's attention, to tell him to stay put. But he could not see her or his fear was too great, because as the creature moved nearer, sniffing the air, he burst from the tent and bolted between the infernal's legs. The rider screeched, loud and shrill, and dove from the back of its mount to give chase.
Instantaneously her decision was made. Ivairmov flung herself from the tower and landed with awkward grace in the creature's path, her satchel hitting the ground with a compact splat and her mace drawn, fusing her nerves with bravery. Or stupidity. The creature snarled, drew a sword from each hip, and flew at her. She was unprepared. Its first blow hit only her chain mail, but knocked the wind from her breast and left her reeling. Its second she parried, and with such force the thing was thrown back far enough to give her back her stance. The man stood behind her, eyes wide, frozen in place.
Her hands burned with the Light, and as the steel of her mace hummed with holy power her feet became lighter. She danced, dodged a blade and landed a blow to the creature's chest. It merely coughed. In its red eyes she saw an evil she'd never faced before, and knew she was outmatched. The man remained unmoving.
A tremendous effort bore her back out of the reach of the creature's singing blades. She parried, dodged, and was hit again, sent whirling away by the force of the blow. She was reminded by a cruel pain in her thigh that she had not yet mended from her encounter with the Orcs. It flew at her again, snarling as its blades were missed, ducked beneath, and finally met with a great swipe of her war hammer. They were backing towards the human, though no amount of forward effort on her part could dissuade the creature from drawing nearer to him. The man seemed to dissolve, and he backed against the leg of the tower and panicked there. Ivairmov felt the sting of a blade hit her arm, and blood spilled blue and hot down her glove. Her hands grew hot again, and with a blinding flash the creature howled and stepped back, unable to see. Seeking this advantage, Ivairmov aimed a blow at his helm, and it whirled off.
He was an Orc. But no Orc of his like had she ever seen before. His skin was red and tusks as long as her forearm jutted from his massive lower jaw. In her surprise she forgot to dodge, and his blade landed hard and fast upon her shoulder. She stumbled backwards, felt her hooves slip and her body roll over the top of the human, who had come forward. His blade pierced the ground inches from where she lay. She rolled, kicked to her feet, and turned in time to deflect his next attack. It landed on the unprotected chest of the human she was defending. He gasped and fell, clutching bloodied garments. Ivairmov's eyes widened. The Orc spun again, but Ivairmov bolted from his range. She recalled the Light to her hands and seared him again, blinding him. In a moment of pure desperation she pulled his sword from the earth and hurled it at him. It stuck, jutting from his shoulder and dark blood leaked onto his armor. He shrieked, again that nauseatingly shrill sound, and ran east after his party.
Ivairmov's legs shook but she dare not drop her defense until his broad form disappeared into the hazy backdrop of the forest. At last she cast her eyes to the man and felt her stomach turn hollow and sick. He was lying in his own blood, gasping for breath as his hands groped his chest, trying to staunch the flow. Her mace hit the ground after her knees did. Pale hands became stained red as, in as much desperation as the man, she attempted to address his wounds. He recoiled.
"Don't, hold still-" she began, but he seemed not to hear her. She sat back, gathered her mind together, and felt her palms flush with holy light. The man looked panicked, but he had backed himself up against the supports for the tower once more and Ivairmov pressed her hands firmly to his chest. The Light sputtered and died. Once more she tried, but the second her hands touched his bloodied chest her healing abilities seemed to flee. Her eyes found his, and found her panic reflected. A third attempt was no more successful, and he had lost a lot of blood.
Finally she clawed for her satchel and dumped it out upon the scarred, soaked earth. Silk bandages floated softly to the ground and she snatched them up and pressed them to his wounds. The fair pink cloth turned plum, but the pressure began to stem the flow of blood. The man's breathing relaxed and in turn did Ivairmov's. When at last her bandage supply had been exhausted, the man's wound had been eased. He watched her now, fascinated though she could not think by what. Her own body was bleeding; sticky blue streams had puddled in the fingers of her glove. She ripped it off, cast it aside, and watched the man draw away in revulsion.
Her head swam as she attempted to call to her the Light once more, but it merely healed her thigh, and vanished as she sought to direct it towards her arm. Feeling as though this were due to her own lack of skill, her frustration mounted, and she grabbed a bloodied piece of bandage and attempted to mop it up.
The man was sitting up now, not looking at her. His eyes swept the forest line over the trunks of felled trees. She knew what he dreaded to see, but the woods were still. Birdlife had not yet dared voice their song. Wrapping the bandage as a tourniquet, Ivairmov gathered her pack together again and pushed herself closer to the human man. She kept her voice soft, and although her Common was not as fluent as she would have liked, she hoped he would understand.
"We need to leave here. The Orcs or those…riders…will be back. Can you stand?" She watched his face for any sign of comprehension, but he continued to look white and frightened and maddeningly unmoving. "Can you stand?" She repeated, more firmly as if to inflect that it was not an idle request. Then, much to her relief, he nodded, and groped his way up the wooden support. She offered him her hand but he refused, watching her with gold-green eyes and an intense sense of confusion.
"There is a town a few hours from here that is friendly," she told him gently, shouldering her mace and rising to stand. He was shorter than she was, but she had come to expect that of humans. They were a rather small race. "We'll make for that." He nodded, but made no venture from his support. "Quickly," she amended. Slowly, he stepped out, and they made their way towards the road.
As they walked the Draenei glanced sideways to study his face. He was young, and her incomplete knowledge of humans placed him at about twenty-five years of age. His complexion was pale but his hair was dark mahogany and his jaw was shadowed the same. He wore cloth clothes, a peasant's shirt and britches and worn shoes. She guessed him as a priest or a mage, for he certainly didn't feel like a warlock, but now was not the time to ask. She kept her mace ready along the road, pointed ears tuned for the slightest disturbance beyond the trees. Her arm had begun to throb as if something large were moving painfully inside it. She could only imagine what his chest felt like. The look on his face was plain enough.
"I'm sorry I could not do more," she murmured, always one eye on the trees. "I believe this is beyond my skill to heal." He nodded, distracted and scared, and tightened his arms around his chest. Fishing for something to give him hope, she said, "But I know someone to whom this will be easy. We can send word to him at Astranaar, once we get there…"
But it seemed unlikely they ever would. The pain in her arm was becoming unbearable. Her eyes watered and blurred. She wondered, vaguely, if the blades had not been poisoned, or if the creature knew some magic she did not. Her hooves struck something hard and beneath her she could make out the wood of the Falfarren Bridge. They were closer. The man staggered and Ivairmov halted, moving to his side. He leaned on the railing and spat over the side, groaning in pain. Acting quickly, Ivairmov moved to lower him down to sit, then hopped the railing and landed neatly in shin-deep water. The summertime river was low. She leaned to fill a bear bladder with the cool water and hurried back to the man's side. He drank but only when the water was shoved under his nose. His mistrust of her was surprisingly wounding. Had she not just saved his hide from being stretched as a victory banner?
Keeping her irritation at bay and masked as simply pain, the paladin took the bladder next and attempted to soothe her aching arm. The cool rush of liquid over the gash helped, but as soon as it was gone the pain returned. The sky overhead was reddening in the west and purpling in the east. Whatever unseen harm the Orcish blade had done would be remedied, she hoped, if only they could reach Astranaar. Pulling the man to his feet, Ivairmov bid her hooves take her further down the path.
The sun sank lower, lazily drifting down to nestle at the world's belt. As the forest grew dimmer the road lamps bloomed a pale blue that threw enormous shadows beyond the trees. Ivairmov's muscles were burning. Her heart was protesting, aching in her chest. The man fared no better. She was holding him upright, dragging him along the dimly lit path towards the elven town. Astranaar lit up the distance, but seemed still so far away.
Suddenly a voice from the twilight called out, strong and untroubled, "Who's there?" and Ivairmov felt her steps quicken. Elves.
"Help us," she called back as the man sagged against her, losing his fight to remain conscious. "We've been attacked."
From the darkness ahead came two sentinels. The nearest pushed a bracing shoulder into Ivairmov's side and the other sent up a flare before rushing to scoop up the injured man. "By what?" she demanded. Ivairmov could not find the strength to answer. She clung to the sentinel's shoulders and fought to extract the name she knew would be of most help from her throat.
"Sylvestris…" she whispered. "Cloudsbreak…"