Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OCs, WoW belongs to Blizzard. On-shot set after Mists of Pandaria. Small cutting room snippet from a long time ago, based on the backstories of old characters my friend and I had. Please review so I can become a better writer and write better stuff you.
Fear. He could smell it all around him. That was the first scent he experienced when he entered Stormwind, covered from head to paw in demonbreaker battleplate, with one two- handed axe slung across his back, along with a short sword at his hip. He didn't care, he just wanted to go to the tavern.
The guards asked his name. Frederick Foy, from a lowly Gilnean family.
Like many from Gilneas, he was a Worgen. A soldier under Greymane.
And like so many, alone.
His entire family slaughtered by the Forsaken. His mother, his father, his elder brother, his younger brother. Even the youngest, his sister Joyella, was cut down by the undead. That loss was the most painful. She was a pure child, a paragon of humanity's capacity for empathy, untainted by war, fear, and even prejudice.
When he wrested control of his mind away from the curse, the village looked at him with fearful eyes. He didn't blame them. When his family reunited with him, they looked at him with worry and sorrow. He felt guilty. But not Joyella. She didn't look at him with sorrow. She looked happy, ran up and hugged his furry leg tightly. He was never more shocked in all his life. He broke down that moment and hugged his little sister more desperately than he thought possible, a few happy tears rolling down his muzzle.
Then came the Forsaken invasion, and shortly after that, the Cataclysm. He took up arms once again to protect his family, and to reclaim the country he had been grateful to serve. He met the night elves, who in turn helped them better control their curse, which became his blessing. Him, his elder brother Derric, and the rest of Gilneans fought hard for their homes and countrymen. But it was a losing battle.
They had to flee. The mass exodus of their country was heavy on the hearts, with many still grieving the loss of their loved ones, his family included. His brother died in the final battle against Sylvanus, the cursed Banshee Queen. They all felt the sorrow, but it was Joyella who cried the hardest, for still too young to understand the concept of death. He did what he could to comfort her, and she looked to him for any small happiness.
But before they could board the ships to Darnassus, the ambush came. He fought with everything he had, even resorting to his most feral of instincts, but it was not enough. One of the Forsaken's pyromancers broke through their line and began wreaking havoc among their lines. Before they could stop him he, with a mad grin and scream of "For Sylvanus," he activated a huge fireball, incinerating himself and any Gilneans near him. Including Joyella.
His sister was gone, nothing more than a pile of ashes. She was pure and good and kind and they killed her! His mind went black at that, and he would not awaken until many days in the safety of Darnassus.
When they told him, his heart broke and he wailed at his loss. When they tried to comfort him, he swiped at them. He didn't want their pity. He wanted to tear something apart. A Forsaken or maybe one of the orcs.
He wanted a second chance. To try to save them from the ambush.
He wanted his sister. His brightest source of light in his cursed life.
Although he did not have her remains, he gave her a proper burial. He gathered whatever flowers he could and spread them all over the earth around the Howling Oak. She had been smiling, unaware of the crazed skeleton that had ended her life. That's what broke his heart the most. She always smiled. She was always happy, even in grief. He knew she was with the rest of his family now, but that only made him feel worse.
He followed Greymane to Stormwind, as part of his guard. Gilneas was part of the Alliance now, but he didn't care. He just wanted the nearest pub, and their strongest ale.
It is now almost two years later and he was returning from Orgrimmar after the assault on Garrosh's citadel. The great cities all over Azeroth were in celebration. He didn't care. He just wanted to go back to the tavern.
He made his way to the dwarven district, passing the cathedral he despised with every waking thought. What had the Light done for him? What had it done for Joyella?
He made it to the Silver Stag, a small and secluded bar that barely got enough business to stay open. That wasn't the case this day it seemed. With a sigh he went through the door and a mass of people to the bar. The owner saw and recognized him right away, even in his beastly form, and gave him the usual; a pint of his two strongest ales mixed together. Frederick grabbed and downed it in one long, slow gulp. He slammed a pouch of twenty gold pieces on the bar. The owner knew what that meant: "Keep 'em coming," and with a nod he kept filling up the worgen's mug when he could.
The pub was packed with groups of adventurers, guards, and citizens, seasoned or newly minted. Men were cheering and hollering, women were dancing and laughing, they all were drinking. A few men and women were flirting, some were even further along than that. There were all kinds of races present, while the majority were humans, there were a bunch of dwarves and gnomes, a few night elves and draenei, and even a few worgen. Like it is in any pub there were more men than women, and every man trying to get touchy with the females.
Something caught Frederick's eye, and he turned his head. He saw Joyella laughing and smiling.
He forced his head back to the bar and forced his drink down his gullet. He wasn't drunk enough if he saw her.
Someone sat next to him and he turned to see. It was a Night elf, female, with long silver hair, pale purple skin and two green blade markings on each eye. She was surprisingly pretty, one of the prettiest he'd seen in fact. Her staff was along her back, resembling the ones carried by the orcs in the Underhold. That meant she was one of the heroes he had fought Garrosh's Horde with. She was wearing a leather cloak that seemed to resonate with energy. If he had to guess, he'd say she was a druid, like many night elves. She was looking at him with a curious smile, waiting.
"Need something?" he asked politely. He wasn't going to be rude, he was raised better.
"I was curious," she replied. "I was there with you when Garrosh's citadel fell, though I'm sure you don't recognize me or that paladin over there." she gestured over to a male draenei covered head to hoof in brilliant gold armor with a large mace across his back. His face was covered by his helmet. "Everyone has been celebrating the victory and tributing the brave fallen but you. You seem as if you're disappointed, but at what I can't tell."
He had to credit her, she was very perceptive. He was disappointed. He didn't just go to Orgrimmar to fight for everyone. He was actually slightly hoping he would fall in battle. As much as the grief hurt, he wouldn't kill himself. He was stronger than that. He wouldn't take the coward's way out.
"I guess you can say that." He replied in his deep gruff voice.
"I see you are a warrior. Were you hoping for a better challenge, like many of your other warriors?"
He paused as he gathered his words before replying. "Yes and no will be my answer." he said before turning back to his drink, which had just been refilled.
Her brows scrunched together as her confusion grew. Then her eyes widened and mild horror graced her features. "You didn't...you didn't go to Garrosh to fight. You went to die didn't you?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. Her question wasn't really a question that should have been answered. When he didn't answer she brought a hand to her lips and let out a small gasp. "Why?" She asked. "What happened to you to make you this way?"
He looked at her through the corner of his eye. "Who said I haven't always been like this?" He replied.
She brought her hand down to the bar a little hard, but went unnoticed, before replying, "No one just gives up on life at the beginning. It takes something in a person's life to make them this way." She gestured to all of him with her other hand. "Did the worgen curse make you like this?"
That didn't surprise him that she came up with that conclusion. Most Gilneans that survived the evacuation were worgen, and many of those worgen hated their gift, calling it a "curse."
Frederick took one last drink of his ale and let out a sigh before replying. "No, I don't think of this as a curse. I'm not going to continue this talk either. My reasons are my own and I'll ask that you respect them. If you really are curious then go to Darnassus, and ask a worgen or the Cenarion Circle about a Frederick Foy. They'll tell you everything there is to know." He stood up from his stool and turned, the night elf looking up at him in worry and confusion. "Good day miss. May Elune watch over you or whatever you say." At that he began to leave the bar, pushing his way through the crowd.
The druid just continued to stare after him, even after he left her sight. "Why would he..?" She muttered. She stood and left the tavern in a hurry, she wasn't going to look for Frederick. She was going to the mage quarter. She was then wrapped in light for a brief moment before turning into her bird form and lifting into the air.
It took only a few seconds of flying before she reached the tower door. Perching on the windowsill she shifted into her natural form and hopped down. She then climbed to the top and went to the portal room teeming with mages.
"Excuse me sir." She called to a mage at a bookshelf. The man looked at the druid with a smile.
"How can I help miss..?"
"My name is Alethil Mossoak, and I was hoping I could ask for your help in securing a portal to Darnassus. I'd be happy to compensate for your trouble."
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
It had been a few days after Garrosh fell, and the celebrations had died down but people were still giddy and energetic. Frederick wasn't interested in it. He was walking along the edge of Darnassus, out of his armor, in a simple black pants and shirt attire, and free of his weapons...he didn't need them today. He walked along the edge for a few more steps before stopping. He was on his way to visit his sister's "grave" with some fresh flowers. Even though her body wasn't there it was a place he could pay his respects. But now there was a figure sitting in front of her gravestone.
It was a Night Elf. A female, with silver hair that reached the middle of her back. Her scent was familiar, and then he remembered the elf from the Silver Stag earlier that week.
"I guess she did look up my past after all." He sighed to no one. Frederick resumed his slow trek to the gravestone, walking by the woman and placing the flowers at his sister's headstone. They were red zinnias. Joyella's favorite color...she said it always reminded her of the setting sun.
"I'm so sorry...really I am." Frederick didn't turn around. He didn't want to. He didn't want her to see the tears that were starting to roll off his muzzle. It would only make her pity him, and he HATED want pity.
"I know the reason why you feel this way...and given the circumstances...I guess even the strongest can feel the same as you. No one deserves that."
His head hung. Her words were like fire. They just continued to burn his still torn heart.
"But still…" She continued, "...why? Why do you seek death in battle? Why do you fight if it hurts so much?" A small hiccup escaped her lips. She was crying as well, from what he could guess. Why would she be crying?
He sighed. "On his deathbed, my grandfather said that there were only two ways for a person to enter the afterlife. You can either die fighting for what you believe is right, or you could pass in a warm bed, surrounded by your friends and loved ones." Frederick took a breath to steady himself. He could feel himself losing his will to stay strong. "He said he was glad he could pass peacefully, with his last thoughts of home and his loved ones."
He paused. "But me? I have only one option in death. All my friends died in the worgen attack. My brother died at the hands of that bitch Sylvanas. And the rest...died at that ambush ." He was cut off when a pair of thin arms wrapped around his abdomen.
The druid's head was buried into his back.
"Why..?" He asked. "Why are you doing this? I don't want your pity."
"I don't pity you." She said. "I feel sorry for you."
A hollow, barking laugh escaped his throat, but he made no move to be released. "Not much of a difference."
Her grip tightened around him. "If I pitied you, I wouldn't be here today. I want to help you. No one should feel the way you do. No one should go through what you've already been through. I want to help you." She whispered the end.
Fresh tears stung his eyes again. He didn't know what it was about this woman that made him fall apart. Who was she? He barely knew her. What was her name? He didn't know her before their first encounter. So why? Why did she want to help him? Why was he losing his will?
Even if the answer came then, he wouldn't have noticed.
Frederick's legs gave way under him and he fell forward, placing his hands against the ground to keep him from falling completely, but only in the physical sense. He was crying again, only this time it was heard, loud and clear. Desperate, heart wrenching wails flew from his throat till it was raw. The fur on his muzzle was matted against the flesh underneath. All the time spent holding down and drowning his pain was wasted, for it all came out then.
Alethil had made her way to his side and wrapped her arms around his thick furry neck, to be Frederick's anchor. They both stayed that way for the longest time, till the moon was high and Frederick's final howl of anguish brought him to rest.