The woman was silent, resting atop a hill amidst brush and foliage. Pralea sat still as death on the ground in her best effort to keep the heavy plate that concealed her body silent. Her armor was crafted in elementium, shaped at spaulders and gorget into wicked spikes, jutting upward toward the sky. At her hip, a sword, jagged and short, and upon her back, a wicked, rough caste shield, the elementium scorched a permanent ebon hue; her prize from the landmark encounter of her life. It had been several months since the last great siege at Wyrmrest Temple; since the final great battle in the war brought on by Deathwing's Cataclysm. Her best efforts had not seen her into the final battle. No, she, and several allies, had instead found their place aboard the Skybreaker, the great airship that pursued the Aspect of Death to the center of the great sea where the Maelstrom had churned for millennia. They were an escorting party, to see that the ones chosen to face Deathwing were delivered safely, a task in itself that had presented great challenge and risk as Twilight dragons and their riders assaulted the flying barge.
The greatest battle she had ever fought had been against an impossibly huge Tauren, a contest of sword and board that drove her own skills to their limits. With strange pride, she remembered Warmaster Blackhorn and the battle against him, the fury with which they both fought, their ideals, regardless of intent or claim to sanity, they struggled to uphold. When the killing blow came, after their armor, and Blackhorn's body, were all and broken, their blades twisted and chinked, Pralea had nothing left to give to the effort. She had fought as her father trained her, hard, in earnest, and with unwavering resolve.
Her reward was to watch the party selected specifically for the next encounter leap onto the monster's back and expose him to a blow from the legendary Dragon Soul. When the battle moved to the islets around the cyclonic Maelstrom, the young Twilight Drake, Nethrax, bore her weight and brought her as close as he could or would dare, and she watched as the heroes and Aspects join forces, and extinguished him once and for all. The great destroyer was no more, and for a time, Azeroth was safe once again. Restoration and healing could finally, truly begin. Pralea had recovered from her injuries after some time, and some prompting by an old friend of her fathers to see a priest for proper healing. The emotional wounds ran deep, but were more bearable now than they had been over a year ago when her family, her children and parents, had been claimed by the great black wyrm in Stormwind. She now faced a new dilemma, one that such personal investment in the war had created in its wake; what was left? For days, she pondered the question. In such fashion, days became weeks, and weeks months.
"What kind of creature are we looking for, Papa?", she asked, clutching an old shortsword acquired from the town militia. It was heavier than the wooden weapons she'd grown accustomed to training with, but she still bore its weight well in one hand, the other arm fit with a wooden targe fashioned out of a heavy barrel lid. Some defense was better than nothing, after all.
"Some kind of wild dog or wolf, by the tracks," Christopher said, the hushed tone of his gruff voice almost like a clamor in the pre-dawn woods. He dressed in a blue linen shirt and leather vest, black breeches and boots, with a thinning blonde hairline atop his head. "I want you to be cautious, Premia."
"Do you have to call me that?", she complained.
"It's the name your mother gave you. If you insist on changing it, you'll do it when you're on your own, but under my roof, you are Premia Azalea Catori."
She gave a begrudging sigh of resignation, reaching up to brush her blonde bangs out of her eyes.
"As I was saying, be cautious. The tracks appear to belong to some kind of dog, but even by a wolf's standards they're large. And then there are the claw marks..." He trailed off in thought there. Pralea let him, focusing on the woods around them for any signs of the beast.
They continued on for some time, plumbing the forest for a creature responsible for the slaughter of the local livestock, but turned up little. There were scraps of torn linen about, the remnants of some kind of primitive garb that reeked of musk. Bones lay scattered, riddled with bite marks, and even some rough made or stolen tools, but not their perpetrator. Two things were certain, though; there were more than one of these things, and it seemed they had taken up some kind of communal residence in the region. The search wound down in time as it continued to bear only remnants of their targets' presence, and they began back toward Darkshire.
"Papa?"
"Yes, Premia?"
She looked up to her father. "Why did you stop being a soldier, if you do things like this so much?"
He seemed to smile a little at that question. "Haven't we talked about how I wanted to start a family with your mother?"
"I don't mean that," she said quickly, recalling that part of the story about their meeting in Lordaeron. "You run off criminals, stop arguments, and do things like this, but you're not even a part of the Night's Watch. Why?"
The smiled gradually faded into his contemplative expression again. Recognizing that look, she turned her eyes back ahead, seeking out the edge of the woodline in the distance.
"There are two reasons, Premia."
If shock had covered how quickly he'd addressed her from his thoughts, she'd have likened the sensation to being struck by lightning. "This is my home, above all other things. If a common man is unable to stand up for the welfare of his own house, cannot take responsibility for it, then he has no right to call the place home. I simply do what I am able while taking care of my family. " Christopher took a breath, his eyes growing distant. "However, old soldiers... for some, it is not as simple as just stepping off the battlefield."
"What do you mean?"
"War... War is not something that will ever change. The means by which they fight them may, but the wars themselves will never change. Men rise to fight, men die, someone must win and someone must lose, and everyone involved or who loves someone involved is affected by it. In time, for some men, like myself, it becomes a part of you. You will see things you wish you could forget, learn hard lessons and lose friends, become engrossed in battle and the rush it brings, knowing what it is you're doing all the way. It creates a place for itself within you, and resides there throughout, creating all kinds of different sensations and experiences.
"However, there is a void left in the wake of that place the battle creates within you. Once the wars are through and peace arrives for others, you'll find old habits die hard, ones from times of conflict that have no place with the peace. There are some, like myself, who find more positive ways to act out these habits, and enhance their surroundings for it. Some, though, do not know how to fill this void, and turn out as shells of men, broken and unable to return to life off the battlefield, and in the worst cases, become the very thing they fought against to begin with.
"It is why I pray for a longstanding peace. I know you are adamant about your training; you'd have gone on to fight with or without it, so I felt it best to educate you so that you might stand a chance once the day once the day comes you have to fight." He looked down to her, a hand coming over to settle on her shoulder. "I do not, however, ever wish to see you involved in the wars I have been in. The prices for those involved are higher than any one man has the right to ask another, but there are those who pay them anyways. As your father, my most selfish wish is that you never have to know what it is to pay that price."
It had taken a long time for Pralea to piece together what he meant with true understanding, but even then, her father's wisdom did not prepare her for experience. The void in her soul was gaping wide; she fought not just for Azeroth, not for those who yet lived, and cared for her as she cared for them, but for bitter vengeance. She carried no illusion that the destroyer's blood would mend her own wounds or return the family his reckless actions had taken from her, she was not so naive. She did, however, expect the satisfaction of seeing the bane of their world's last moments, perhaps even be more directly involved than she was, would give her something to enjoy.
Yet there was nothing, and now she was left, twiddling her thumbs, unsure of what step to take next in her life. What could possibly give her a sense of self again? The empire she served, she loved and cared for unconditionally. They had been there for her during her best and her worst, but even their accompaniment did little to bring her out of her rut. She had no desire to pursue love, and drinking, that only came in handy to put her away from whatever situation she was in, no solution, just a cheat out of obligation.
A cart rattled down the road, going from east to west, belonging to a trader local to Darkshire. She knew the family, small as her home town was, and could see from where she was perched that both father and son of the family were handling their wares. With the Worgen from Gilneas now settled in old Raven Hill, and the apothecary of the graveyard run off in the direction of Deadwind Pass, there was reason to use the road for commerce again. Their little trade route circled through Westfall, Elwynn Forest and back, and though there was little to offer from their town in the murky woodland, it kept food on the table for the rest of their family at home.
At least they had their happiness.
"Father, from the south!"
Darkshire was once again set upon by foes. In the years since the Third War, there had been contest over the jungle territory to the south known as Stranglethorn Vale. On occasion, that conflict would bleed over, and those with hearts as black as the depths of the forest would emerge and encroach on her home. Tonight, it seemed, would be one of those nights. Only a few days before she would set out on her own journey to aid the Alliance across the sea in Kalimdor, rogues set upon the hamlet town with fire in their eyes, and blood on their hands.
Pralea approached behind the Night's Watch with others not of the guard who stood ready to defend; citizens and visiting travelers alike who saw fit to stand with them. Chainmail and leather rattled on her frame, the silvery finish glinting in torchlight, as she clutched a massive battle axe fashioned like a pinwheel in both hands and at her waist.
"I'd like to speak with whoever's in charge of this... quaint, little town," a blood elf said at the front of their pack. Though his kind was more at home far to the north beyond old Lordaeron prior to their passing into Outland, Pralea had then supposed every race had their fair share of black sheep, even if they were lowlife pirates.
"State your business," Althea Ebonlocke commanded at the head of the watch, a lantern in one hand held up between their two parties, the other resting upon the sword at her hip, prepared to draw at a moment's notice. "You'll have no audience with our mayor before your travelling party has seen my approval into our lands."
"Strong woman, I like that," he said, grinning over his shoulder to what made up his crew; a gaggle of raggedly dressed people from several races. No surprise where that was concerned, alliances in the southern jungles were bought in blood and gold; faction, family or clan loyalties had only a residual impact, more than likely made by drinking stories. "My boys have recently run afoul of the bruisers back down in Booty Bay, little scuffle with another small house of cutthroats. Sadly, the goblin guard didn't see the story our way, and showed us the door." He smiled darkly. "It's such a long way on foot or mount through that jungle, and we've got a bit of a trip ahead of us. We were hoping you could spare some supplies to a poor travelling band of misfits?"
"I believe you have a fort going up just a few miles back into the thick of the jungle, don't you?" Althea responded coldly.
"Only to those of us who wave the banner of that gaggle the Warchief of Durotar composed. I'm afraid it leaves some of our other friends shorthanded."
"Friends of whom I'm certain have warrants to hang," her father said brusquely, stepping forward aside Althea, dressed in leathers and sporting only plate gauntlets and a massive bastard sword, that on its own nearly stood up at his shoulders and was as wide as his arm was thick. "Darkshire has no place for criminals and scum even the Horde won't accept, let alone the bastards who've forsaken our own laws. Go back to your rat's nest."
"I t'ink de old mon gotta problem wit' you," a troll snickered from behind the elf. "Mebbe 'cause you prettier den summa de girls in dis town."
"Be quiet before I introduce you to some true voodoo, Troll," he murmured impatiently, not keen on being riffed on after such an insult from Christopher. "Listen, I'm keeping this simple for you. All we want is food, drink, a little money to travel off of... maybe some time with a couple of your women, and we'll be on the way. Fel, we'll even cut the gold from the asking price if it eases the offer a bit for a few bedside companions, what do you say?"
"We don't keep whores in our town," Pralea snapped with flame in her tone.
"Even if we did, like Fel we'd put your type up!"
"Keep out of our town, heathens!"
"Your kind don't belong here, scram!"
The townsfolk had begun to rally, and it was clear that their patron warriors visiting from far and away were just as willing to lend a hand as the sound of steel being drawn cut through the night air, arcane energy swirled with palpable intensity, and the creatures they travelled with began to hoot, howl, growl and roar. Darkshire was ready.
"Shame it had to go this way," the elf said, drawing a sword from his hip, his baleful green eyes beginning to glow with fervor. "Then again, all the more for us. Take the town!"
Pralea was one of the first to cross the line, closing in on them with her father and a handful of the watch as arrows and spells began to fly. The fledgling warrior took close quarters with one of the Forsaken, garbed in rotted leathers and wielding daggers tainted with venoms, of what kind she could not say. She could see Althea out the corner of her eye, engaging the rogues' commander, as her father fought it out with another man bearing sword and shield. Others closed in around them, and chaos broke out on the road.
Pralea's focus fell upon her target, the quick, undead bastard who was working to dance circles around her. His hands were quick, slashes and thrusts coming at her as fast as she could move her battle axe to intercept them, blocking and parrying on the shaft of the weapon. Most of her readings so far had been purely instinct; she hadn't yet developed the skill to simply know what was coming, she'd simply move her weapon to where the enemy's blade went and survive. Before long, a chance opened, fleeting and brief, too narrow a gap for a proper swing of her battle axe.
Instead she lunged, slamming into the corpse's chest and blowing him and herself out of the melee and off the road. She tumbled over him and rolled to one knee, spinning about to where he was, only to see he'd up and gone in the time it took her to blink. Staggering to her feet, she whipped her head around, looking for any trace of movement; rustling brush, impressions in the soft soil, anything.
Her answer came as she felt something cut into her side, drawing a yelp from her and forcing her to stagger back. Her chain mail had actually been sliced open, so keen was the blade and so strong the strike, leaving blood to trickle down her side. Whatever was on his blades, it would be fast acting, and she had to move before it took effect. Spinning about, she caught sight of him and swung, not caring what side of her weapon faced him. He was caught in the shoulder by the flat of her axe, pitching him against an iron fence nearby with a clatter of bones on metal. The blow was non-fatal, for lack of a better term, but left her open to finish him. She stepped off into a dead sprint, weapon drawn back, prepared to strike him down.
Her body seized suddenly, and she tumbled to the ground, rasping in pain as she curled up, hands abandoning her axe and instead clutching her side. The toxin was one meant to cripple her movements, as apparent as it was now, but she'd never encountered one so strong. It threatened to seize her heart along with her breath as the wave of pain washed over her.
"Not bad for a whelp," he rumbled in a hollow, raspy voice, picking himself up and striding over to her. He reached down, grasping a handful of her hair and hauling the warrior to her knees, "but I was fighting wars before you were born, brat. You don't have the skill to take me."
"Tell ya..." she breathed out as the crippling wave of pain began to recede, "tell ya what... I do have..."
Humoring her, he cocked his head to one side.
The sound of rotting flesh tearing and brittle bones snapping was the next to ring through the air, before she was released and collapsed beside him; or at least the half that was hemorrhaging all manner of his ichor and innards. In her hand, she clutched a small dagger soaked in all manner of fluids, kept on hand for any chance she may've been disarmed, or found the battle axe rendered useless, for whatever reason.
"Guts."
She wasn't sure if the groan from the ghoul was a dying one or from how bad that quip had turned out. Whatever, she'd work on her wit later. Reaching over, she grasped her battle axe, and with one arm, swung up in an arch, and brought the hooked blades down through the Forsaken's face. He fell still before her immediately, as dead as he ought have been from the start of his wretched unlife.
"Pralea, behind you!"
One of the villagers had called her attention at the last possible second. Twisting about, she brought her weapon up, barely catching a blow from wicked looking warhammer in the hands of a Tauren. Her body buckled from the sheer force behind the strike, sending her sprawling back onto the ground. For such a sizable beast, he was fast, following up by leaping into the air, all intents clear on crushing her, either beneath his weight or swing. She stared wide-eyed, feeling a wave of pain from the poison beginning to wash over her again, and could only brace herself for the worst.
The next thing she knew, the Tauren crashed down next to her, blood splattering on her body from a deep gash under his left arm that reached far into his chest, pouring what few seconds of life remained from that wound onto the ground next to her. She was left in shock, trying to piece together exactly what had happened; at least until her head turned. Before her, she saw her father, bastard sword held in both hands at his side, saturated in blood up to the hilt. Age had affected his stamina, but he otherwise seemed no worse for the wear.
In fact, as she got a good look into his eyes, she felt a twinge of fear. They were wide, pupils completely dilated and black, like a man possessed. It eased back as he regained his composure, and he approached, reaching an arm out to her.
"P... Papa..."
"Can you stand?" he breathed wearily,his tone firm.
Mustering a nod, Pralea reached out and took his arm with her own, quickly being hauled up to her feet. She staggered a little, bracing her weapon on the ground for support as her eyes fixed on Christopher. She wanted to ask him what had just happened, though she had a faint feeling she was already aware.
"Are you alright, Pralea?" Althea asked as she approached, a bloody sword in hand that had not originally been hers.
"Yes, Pa-... Father, saved me at the last second."
"We'd had them all but crushed," she said, looking back to the pile of bodies behind her, a few missing from the pack. "Some fled when they learned they couldn't win; that one picked you off by yourself and saw you as an easy target. You still have a little green on you, and he knew it."
"Working on it," she murmured, gasping a bit as the pain hit her again. She held her weapon in both hands, leaning on it, only to have her weight pulled away from it as the strong arms she'd known since she was small came under hers and supported her. She looked to her father, and leaned her weight on his.
"There's no shame in that," Christopher reassured. "You're learning, and you lived, the two most important things. Live long enough and things like this won't happen anymore." He cocked a brow at her, swinging his bastard sword over his shoulder with one free arm and placing it in its holster. "So what did you learn?"
Pralea managed a smile. "Work on my jokes."
That had been the first time she'd seen what battle had done to her father, how it actually played out in the heat of the moment. Her love for him had not changed, but when he was gripped by combat, by the direness of the situation, there was a force in him she would have challenged anyone to this day to face, had he still lived. In standing in the defense of his home, he had found a way to use what war had left behind in him constructively. Somehow, he'd mastered the demon given to him on the battlefield.
Now how do I do this? she thought, drawing the black elementium bulwark from her back and laying it on her lap; the prize she secreted off of what remained of Deathwing's armored hide at the Maelstrom after the battle. She traced her fingers over the glowing indentation in the shield's body, feeling heated remnants of the destroyer's blood radiating even through her gauntlet.
With a heavy breath, she rose to her feet, turning and beginning up the hill behind her. Nethrax would be along shortly to pick her up and take her to Stormwind; from there, on to another meeting with the empire, another night of inductions, announcements and plans. How many were expected... four, five tonight? She'd have to gather up tabards and guildstones still...
And then tell them the same thing as every other one before them... She began to walk down the hill, her brow creasing in a frown. Put on that smile and tell them just what they're standing for. Tell them that they're joining a group with great purpose... And after that, I'll come back to my office and it will all repeat. Left to dig for trivial artifacts no one cares about, fill out paperwork, eat, and sleep... She stopped at the edge of a clearing, turning her eyes up at the half moon overhead. Her fists clenched at her sides as frustration mounted. That was all that seemed to be left to her. She'd had a hand in vengeance, indirect as it ultimately was, she had her trophy resting on her back, but she had nothing of consequence after that.
Vengeance and war had left their void.
"Pralea!"
The warrior's head turned to the massive figure that swept in over the tree tops, descending in the clearing before her. The Twilight Drake, Nethrax, an ally hard-won from her own bullheadedness and his own misgivings about the jaded path Deathwing had bred them to travel, she counted on him in recent months for his curtness and honesty. She had thought, after the great destroyer had been felled, he'd leave, fade into obscurity; instead, though he now had his own travels, he would regularly visit her, and grant her swift passage where ever she needed to go, such as that meeting she was certainly going to be late for.
"Satisfied with your thinking yet?" he asked, cutting straight to point.
"I could think for the rest of my life and never be satisfied," she said, stepping forward as he lowered down. Crouching, she sprang up, planting a hand on his neck and swinging one leg over, landing seated between his shoulders. "I wish I'd just been able to find my answer as easily as you."
"I think you're dwelling too much on it," he said, beating his wings a few times before hopping up, and taking straight to the air, knocking the limbs off of a few trees in his sharp ascent, "as usual."
"How did you manage it?"
"... You're seriously looking to me for advice?"
"Our situations aren't too different. Neither of us really have anyone to go home to, the empire notwithstanding."
"So that preaching about the Twilight Empire being like a family to you-"
"I'm not lying," she cut him off, her tone curt. She took a breath, leaning forward on her palms. "But... I still miss mine... if it didn't spit in the face of every good law of nature, I'd love to have my kids and parents back, but I can't, and when the work for the day is done..."
"I get it," he said, taking her high up, to where the air over Duskwood grew chill. "It was different for me though. There wasn't much love or camaraderie among the Twilight flight, other than live and fight for Deathwing's cause. When your group came and laid siege to my mother's nest in Hyjal... well, you were the only one insane enough to want to see what one of us would do if we were spared."
"Valuing one's life after being bred not to means you had some lick of sense, just needed to be dragged out of you was all."
"Clearly," he muttered dryly. "Regardless, the world is still new to me, and I have things to explore and learn. Taking one of those Night Elf forms has helped with that, and taught me many things. Perhaps you should go on a journey of your own."
"I've seen this world already," she said, sighing and lying down, resting her forehead aside one of the spikes jutting out of his neck. "All that brought me was blood and battle."
Having successfully shot down the one suggestion the drake had presented her, the two travelled in silence to Stormwind. She was dropped off at the far side of the city, near stables where she had kept a gryphon in green plated armor. Nethrax may not have followed the path in life many of his late brethren had, but a Twilight drake flying free over Stormwind was cause for alarm no less. The few times she had done it...
Well, there were fights over the insults from the last time, and she recalled having to pay for the medical expenses.
The two split off, Nethrax departing in the kaldorei shape they had spoken of briefly, off to the Mage District to broaden the skills that already came naturally to his brood. She, on the other hand, barely made the vessel to cross the sea. The voyage gave her time to think, however, time to consider the options lying ahead of her.
When Teldrassil at last came into view, she still lacked her answer. Sitting at the front deck of the ship atop the railing, chewing on some jerky and lightly running her fingers through the tufts of feathers on her gryphon's head, the sight of their meeting place brought back only the thoughts from Duskwood. Telling the tales of their strong empire, the aspirations, the great unity of their group...
"I've heard the Orcs are stepping up their offensive," she heard off behind her, turning her head over her shoulder. Two of the ship's hands were speaking as they worked, sparing gazes towards Darkshore to the south. The one speaking was a human, his partner one of the kaldorei whose very land he spoke of. "Some have been brazen enough to push from Ashenvale into Darkshore. Any truth to that?"
"I haven't been home in some time, but I would not be surprised to hear you're right," the kaldorei said with some clear bitterness in his tone. "Their despicable warchief already pushed us to its edge after the Cataclysm. If our line were broken..."
"If they can, then I'm sure it won't be long before the Alliance comes down on their heads for it. With this new nonsense of theirs in Theramore, Garrosh is looking to pick a fight. If our leaders have any sense, he won't be in the condition to even limp away from it after."
Pralea turned her head forward, gazing back at Teldrassil and letting the conversation tune out of her mind. She now had images, crisp ones from her imagination of that conflict to the south; rather, the lot of them in general. The conflict in the great expanse of the Barrens came to mind where the Alliance had trespassed, this was not terribly different. What would battle hold, ultimately, regardless of the victor? A contest of strength, one great force against the other. Blood, bone and steel would be shattered and splattered across the ground for the procurement of resources, for glory, for the Fel of it. Ultimately, it was all a sign of those who couldn't sit down and talk like adults, or those who could and refused to see reason. And yet...
She stared up at the boughs of the great tree, up where, outside of Darnassus proper, the empire would meet to discuss business, and announce plans, and welcome new blood into their fold, and do the same thing they had always done. She would return from the one moderately uplifting thing of her week, and return to the mundane drag of simply existing day to day, while others fought and sacrificed life and limb over what in the grand scheme of things boiled down to trivialities, in the names of leaders who did not know theirs. In the end, even, the survivors would return to the same mundane drag as she would.
She swung her legs over the guardrail and stepped over to her gryphon, taking its reins in hand and saddling up. At her hip, she pulled off a small coin purse she'd set aside for the journey, inspecting it briefly before giving a light nudge to the gryphon's side with her heels.
"Let's go." They were off, the gryphon turning and running to the back of the ship before leaping off the stairs and spreading its massive wings. Drawing her arm back, she tossed the coin purse towards the captain of the ship. "Heads up!" She watched the captain's head turn, and hand shoot up reflexively, catching the coin, before she steered off for the misty shore.
Pralea never showed to the meeting.
Cyrdia Marcello had known Pralea since they were children, a friend from neighboring Lakeshire. Whenever Pralea's father would come to town with her from their home in Darkshire, they would play; sometimes she would be the damsel, othertimes she would be a thief against the knight, and a few times, they would fight with the boys. After several events in her life had driven her to walk the shadows as a rogue, she had even found Pralea in Outland on a mission, and introduced her to the Twilight Empire. When she had recovered from injuries that had left her missing to most the world, and had retrained herself to use the shadow as opposed to walk in it, to weave its energies as a warlock, Pralea was the first she let know of her return.
So for her childhood friend to not alert her of her absence, when Cyrdia was finally able to make it to one of those meetings off of business in the frigid continent of Northrend, she was unsure whether she was more perturbed or concerned.
She blew wisps of black hair from out of her hazel eyes, gazing down past black and violet robes into the great lake in the middle of Darnassus, her darkened complexion staring back at her with a frown from below. It wasn't like the warrior. She'd gotten on the ship, they had confirmed each would see the other at the meeting over the guildstone, the enchanted device with which they communicated with one another. What could have happened that would have kept her from showing face?
She had thought to keep an ear amongst the senators, per chance that they had heard anything. The few who had remained behind in their meeting area, at the great stone arch that signaled the entry into Darnassus proper from Teldrassil's wilds, were scattered about, talking amongst themselves or preparing for departure. Cyrdia sat on the edge of one of the great stone bridges above the water, gazing down into it quietly. Her left eye flickered slightly, a green, baleful light settled deep within it. Her right closed, and her consciousness fell from her surroundings.
"Has anyone tried contacting her?" one woman's voice asked, soft and pleasant on the ears. She recognized it right away as Senator Terrison's. The human woman stood at what seemed to be the lead of their circle. "I mean, it's unlike her to miss a meeting without some kind of prior notice."
The image that fed into her mind was of the terrace on the arch. From several pillars back, Cyrdia eavesdropped on the meeting through the presence of the Eye of Kilrogg. With some long spent hours of studying the fel orb's nature in past missions, she had been able to infuse it with an alteration that allowed her to hear as well as see, a hindrance that, with the past of a rogue behind her, bothered her without end. Now she was capable of this, and the well of information would prove to be vast.
"She does seem to be sleeping quite a lot these days," Minister Spellfixer said thoughtfully, one hand cupping his chin and rubbing back and forth through his short white beard. He looked up to the rest of the senators who towered over his gnomish physique, save the violet clad gnome fussing with a guildstone beside him. "Oft times it seems she will greet others through the guildstone for the first time after dusk, and wearily at that. Perhaps she's simply overslept."
"I have my doubts in that," Senator Smartgear said, his tone contemplative, eyes trained on the stone in his hand. "It seems she's moving."
"Where to?" Senator Terrison asked.
"South of here, quite a ways down through Darkshore at the moment." He paused, raising his head, before turning and beginning to walk off towards, out of the eye's view. "If you'll excuse me, there's a matter that requires my immediate attention." His departure was met with nods of acknowledgement amongst the rest of the leadership.
"What should we make of this?" Senator Furyswipe asked, towering over the rest of his peers.
"She could be in trouble," General Larmont proposed grimly.
"Knowing Pral, it's likely she's causing it," Senator Keithson said with a spice of humor in his tone. "It does merit looking int-"
"It's not polite to spy."
Cyrdia was startled so badly she nearly flung herself from the bridge. She broke her link with the Eye of Kilrogg and turned at the waist, staring straight at a pointed violet wizard's hat that adorning the figure of Senator Tinox Smartgear. Even beneath the shaded brim of the hat and his thick gray beard, the disapproval was still plain enough for anyone to see. Had he teleported? That was the only thing she could think of, he was powerful in his art. Even so, to come so far...
"A, ah... Senator Smartgear, I..." She paused, trailing off, unsure of what to say as vision slowly returned to her left eye, blurring his shape considerably on one side.
"I would suggest that the next time you decide to extend an ear, you simply stay behind and speak with us. The glow off of that thing alone would have drawn down a skyguard."
"I... I understand, Senator. I apologize."
He harumphed, and walked over to the ledge. Cyrdia, now having regained some of her equilibrium, twisted back around and looked back into the water. "It's not as if I don't understand. Pralea worried about you when you vanished as much as you seem to be about her."
She smiled dimly, folding her hands in her lap. "Well... we sort of grew up together..."
"I understand. Be that as it may, I'm going to say it again, it's generally considered poor manners to spy upon your senators. I'd like to not catch you doing it again."
Cyrdia nodded, gazing out at the lake. She deserved so much chastisement for her actions. "Yes, Senator." She cupped her hands together, leaning forward into them. "Pralea, though..."
"Is currently crossing the border into Ashenvale."
"... What?" She looked to him, bewildered. He turned, beginning to walk off.
"It's late, and chasing you down here was bothersome enough. I expect you'll be going after her anyways, so it would be best for you to have some idea of where to look. I know as well as you how strange this behavior is for her."
Cyrdia stared after him for just a moment longer before smiling, drawing herself up to stand. "Thank you, Senator," she said. She turned away, beginning towards her own mount settled at the Warrior's Terrace nearby, before a thought struck her. "Hey, um, just how did you get here so f-" She stopped after turning back, only to find an empty bridge stretching out before her. She gazed back, puzzling over his disappearance for a short time before resuming her walk to the terrace.
"Pralea's right, mages are too damned fast."
Reaching Ashenvale itself was no great chore aside from what time the journey consumed. What left her at a loss was actually finding the errant warrior. She suspected it would be in bad form to simply ask about it over the guildstone, the empire's leadership had gone to some effort to keep their conversation to themselves after all. However, she lacked any way to contact Senator Smartgear with her dilemma. The best she could do was search the area beneath the thick of the tree tops, hoping to spot some familiar shape.
Her efforts were for naught, ultimately. Even considering that she'd come to the woodland, what guarantee was there that she had stayed? She could have gone anywhere on Kalimdor, especially if Nethrax were bearing her over the distance. Ultimately, it felt as though she had gone through an exercise in futility.
A low rumble of protest from her gryphon caught her attention. Of course. it made sense; they had been flying for some time without rest. Taking her surroundings in briefly, she tapped at its side and began to guide it towards the forest floor below.
The place they settled down stood in stark contrast to the rest of Ashenvale. Lush plantlife and ancient trees were long felled, reduced to little more than stumps, wood chips and scorched earth. The remnants of a Horde logging operation that had long cleared the area were evident in debris left behind. This was beyond mere harvest; at least at this particular site, the Horde had gone to lengths to spit on the Night Elven efforts to repel them by burning whatever they could not use, as if to say their efforts were in vain. Absent mindedly, Cyrdia began to run her hand through her mount's feathers, stroking the creature gently.
"Times like this make me wonder about the concept of peace, you know..." she murmured to no one in particular. It was almost as if she could hear the sounds of bloodshed. Several weapons scattered about indicated that, at one point, this had been a battleground. No doubt the kaldorei natives of the woodlands would have fought to repel the invaders and their destructive methods. She began to move forward, towards the ruins of an old Shredder machine that she might inspect the mechanical armor.
The ground rumbled softly, and she stopped. Those battle sounds became more distinct. She blinked, turning her eyes southward.
Smoke, she thought, the only one she needed for it to register in her mind that she was not simply waxing nostalgic. The conflict over the forest was raging just nearby, and in force. Alliance and Horde locked in the throes of combat as one sought dominance over the other. Up 'til now, her trip had seemed to be for naught.
Well, I may as well do something worthwhile for all the trouble I went to getting here. Turning, she gestured to the treetops ahead. Her gryphon was disciplined enough to understand, and took flight, soaring overhead. It was worn, and she would need something a bit more hardy for the conflict to serve her. Pivoting on her toes, she focused on the ground, holding her hands out as Fel energies began to twist and writhe through the air. The soil, already scorched by the Horde's flames, blackened further as the dark magic poured into it. In a few short seconds, flame burst from the ground, and a hellish neighing split the silence of the woods. Her Dreadsteed appeared, a demonic mockery of the creatures native to Azeroth sporting black scales in place of fur. Thick plating ran down from the crown of its head to its tail, and wicked horns jutted towards the tree tops. In place of fetlocks and mane were fire, the orange-red glow cast out over the forest floor and adding to the hellish appearance of the ravaged wood.
It had been some time since she'd summoned this beast. As she made a slow approach, it whickered and turned to her, casting a bitter gaze to her through its blazing eyes. A derisive snort puffed fire and ash into the air as it evaluated her.
"I wouldn't call you if it weren't important," she assured the dread mount, reaching a hand out to it. "I need someone fitted to ride into battle with me, and could think of no other. You'll have your fill of souls tonight, so I ask you to bear me into the fray."
The steed's look never changed. It gazed on at her for a moment as the two shared in what silence could be had with the battle on the horizon, weighing its options. For a moment, Cyrdia was unsure the offer was enough. However, it nudged her hand and turned, stomping one of its hooves, blowing out a small ring of fire at its feet. Cyrdia only smiled. With a quickness, she leapt atop the beast and affixed her grip to the nearest of the horns. Secure, the Dreadsteed tore off, its smoldering footfalls marking their way to the battleground.
Blood and smoke were thick in the air, the sounds of dozens of voices barely resounding over the clamor of steel and spell clashing. It was the Alliance against the Horde once again, the story that had retold itself time and again since the First War, its form ever varying, be it by size, or the characters entrenched in the fury of battle.
Pralea was not the hero of the story, but she made for a damned good supporting cast. She roared, literally, in her Worgen shape as she made a dead sprint for her target, a Tauren bearing the Silverwing Sentinels' provisions on its back, what they required to keep up the fight to keep the Horde out of Ashenvale. Without those to supply the troops on the field, they would be forced to fall back and regroup until they could resupply. Of course, as they sat on the outskirts of Ashenvale, a day's journey from the nearest town, so did the Horde face the same dilemma on the northern reaches of the Barrens. Pushing the opponent to where they had to survive off of almost nothing was the quickest way to end direct combat shy of blotting the sun out with a body count. Such was the nature of Warsong Gulch.
In fact, the nature at times struck her so oddly she had to contemplate it. Every time it was about the same number of trips against either side to leave them tactically crippled, and they had no backstores? It was as if it were more of a damned game than a real fight. That thought was fleeting, though, as she caught sight of a nearby Blood Elf, chest bursting with black and green energy before he fell dead to the floor. No matter how asinine and repetitive the tactics were, the combat was still real, and as real as it was, mistakes were just as costly.
One mistake, for instance, was her brief attention diversion to the elf. As she looked back, she saw the Tauren halt and spin at her. His hands glowed a shade of green, not the baleful light cast by Fel energy, but a light that would have soothed her were she not so intent on jamming her sword down his throat. She crouched, preparing to close the distance between them with a powerful leap. Instead, as she leapt, she was snagged, lost her balance, and slammed to the forest floor with enough force to drive the wind out of her.
Looking to her legs, she let fly a loud curse. He was a damned druid, of course, and had used the natural life that they sought to protect against her. Roots and vines tightly bound her legs, immobilizing and anchoring her to the spot. Twisting her head back, she beheld the final stages of transformation from his hulking bovine form, to that of a great horned cat; one she swore wore a Cheshire grin. She bellowed a furious roar after him as he turned tail and took off.
Something, there's got to be something...She stopped, catching sight of a Gnome nearby, clad in leathers and wielding wicked blades in his hands, blades that carved through the face of his Troll opponent as a hot knife through butter. "Hey, Gnome boy!"
The Gnome heard her and ran over. He seemed ready to go for her bindings, but she pushed herself upright, gesturing to the cat who was taking more than a little too much pride in their impending victory, almost prancing about the field as his allies drove them back.
"Ever wonder what it's like to fly?", she asked, holding a clawed hand out.
"Not particularly," he responded. In spite of that, he stepped up, one foot on her wrist as a hand gripped by her elbow. "Of course, you don't gain anything mixing the same chemicals, sometimes you require a new element."
I am so glad Tinox doesn't talk like that. She grinned, pushing herself upright and balancing herself carefully. Twisting her body back and sighting the fanciful furball, she bellowed another roar as she heaved with all her might, sending her companion flying soaring through the air. He vanished in a puff of smoke no sooner than he took off, something that had admittedly taken her by surprise. She glanced away only long enough to jam her sword between the center of the roots and begin to pull up, looking back as they began to snap and give way. She had to know if it worked, and even as she freed herself, the seconds after felt like hours.
The feral cry of pain and the dark clad figure that stood as the Tauren dropped to his hind quarters said enough. She sneered, crouching down and making another powerful leap, successfully this time, closing a great distance between them in one bound that rattled and split the earth of the Barrens now beneath her as she landed and broke into a dead sprint.
A short-lived sprint as she felt something grip her, before she began to soar backwards through the air. Turning, she saw the source of her frustration; a death knight, a goblin death knight.
Tall, half-animal person subdued by a technophiliac anklebiter, she thought, drawing her shield arm back. The irony would be hilarious if I weren't so pissed about it. Pralea swung for the fences as she landed before the goblin, only to catch herself parried on the great runeblade he carried, seeming disproportionately huge for his size, but making it no less dangerous.
"We've got th' provisions back!" a thick Dwarven accented voice called from nearby as she drew back and thrust her sword forward, nicking the steel against his wicked plate helmet.
"The warlock has the Horde's," a gruff human man's called, "give her support!" Pralea reeled back as the runeblade lashed out, a frost-bitten blue color wrapped about it and chilling her even as it brushed past her breastplate.
"She's snared!" a female 's voice, nasal and pitched like a Gnome's called.
"Get that rogue before she gets closer," the man called again, "see the warlock into the base and the battle's ours!" Pralea's foot lashed out, catching the goblin in the chest. She lunged, sword poised and ready to drive down through his throat.
"We have the provisions! We've won!"
Pralea stopped cold, shield arm slamming down to brace her weight as she bent over, her sword looming over the goblin's throat. At one side of her face, his hand was poised, a sickly green and black bolt stirring within his grip. They were in just the right position to send each other off to the next life.
"Seems you guys are out of luck this time," she rumbled, her tone calm in spite of the adrenaline and very apparent threat to her life.
"How it goes, friend," the dread knight replied, cockiness reverberating in the strange echo his kind had to their tone.
"You're the type to make a deal, right? How about I don't slip and put you back where the Lich King got you from, and you don't mess up my haircut?"
"You don't perhaps mean everything from your shoulders on up, do ya, missy?"
"Those might be the ones."
"I like the terms. No strings?"
"Do I look like one of your Trade Princes?"
"Good point."
Pralea pushed back and stood as soon the power hissed from the goblin's hand, watching him roll up to his feet. She snorted, weapons still in hand as they walked cautiously past one another. Her ears pricked up, listening for any suspicious movement on her foes part. After a moment, she found herself more than a little surprised on how well he honored his word.
Death Knight or no, I suppose at his core he's a businessman. She allowed herself a grin, before approaching the crowd hailing the hero of their battle. She wanted to see the face of the warlock responsible for pulling them out of defeat's clutches, no great feat as she towered over half of her fellows.
Her face fell as she caught eyes with the warlock, smiling broadly up to that point. The impatience in her expression stopped the celebration cold, and as Pralea's ears pinned back against her head, all she could really manage to do was just stand there, dumbstruck.
"Hello, Pralea," she remarked coldly.
"Uh... hey, Cyrdia."
Crap.
"Honestly, how can you just run off like that?" Cyrdia asked Pralea, sparing no bitterness to her tone as the paced the grounds outside of the Silverwing Sentinels' post.
Pralea, settled on a large stone aside a nearby tree, knew she had every right to be angry. So lost in her own thoughts as she'd been, especially over the last several days, she had entirely forgotten about Cyrdia's homecoming from Northrend. Not like there was going to be a great celebration, but, even she knew what it meant to have someone there to come home to.
"Sorry, Cyr," she muttered, her human body better projecting the regret in her voice than her Worgen shape could. "I've just..."
"Got your head up your ass."
Pralea winced. "Can't say I don't deserve that." She did manage a faint grin, looking to the warlock as she gazed down sternly upon her. "When did you become such a firecracker? I recall having to stick up for you a lot against the boys when we were growing up."
"Sometime between spending months in rehabilitation on the Argent Tournament grounds and you deciding to perform stunts on Deathwing's back, by yourself, over nothing but the black earth of the Twilight Highlands."
"You're going to remind me about that every time we see each other, aren't you?"
"Because you're the only fool stupid enough to do it herself! At least the ones who brought him down at the Maelstrom had a plan and team!"
Pralea sighed again, reaching up and rubbing her sinuses. She lowered her head, eventually settling her chin into her palm, and stared silently at the forest floor. Cyrdia said nothing else, there was only the forest and its flora and fauna to break their silence.
The next thing she felt were arms slipped around her neck. The warlock's weight rested on her shoulders, cautiously placed aside her bladed and spiked spaulders. All Pralea could do was reach up with one arm and half-heartedly return the gesture.
"... Did it help you any?" Cyrdia's voice was soft, knowing in what she spoke. "I heard a good lot of the empire helped guard the Skybreaker during the assault... so, you had front row seats, didn't you?"
Pralea paused, but felt her fingers grip at the back of her friend's robes. "A bit," she said quietly. "It's not bringing Mom or Dad back... or Ilia or Adrius... but seeing him get his stifled the fury. Just..."
"Just...?"
Pralea remained like that for another moment, before standing up and sighing. She began to walk back towards the camp, her fists clenching. "I wish I'd at least kept that much."
"Pralea..."
"I just feel numb," she said, frustration welt up in the back of her throat. She stopped far short of the camp, turning and setting one hand on her hip, the other shooting out as she braced her forearm up against a tree and leaned against it. "For over a year I went through so many mood swings a day, I'd swear I got whiplash off of it. At the end of the day I was so wound up over everything he'd done, what he was still doing, I was ready to snap. So I jumped at the opportunity to be on any part of the advance team against him.
When they told me we'd be on the Skybreaker, I was ready to do whatever it took." She smiled, a bitter quality to it set in her eyes. "Would you believe that when the Dragon Soul's first shot at Deathwing failed, some part of me was happy? Thrilled to hear that we'd be chasing him, that we'd get the chance to face him personally? Light's sakes, fate of Azeroth on the line and all. Fighting Blackhorn though... That was unlike anything I'd ever faced. He was strong, unbelievably so. He broke my damned shield with one of his blows, and after he fell, I had pride in the victory, and developed some twisted respect for his power."
Her arm shifted, her elbow settled against the rough bark as she placed her head in her hand. "I almost throttled the guy in charge who said that I wouldn't be on the team to fight Deathwing though. I had Nethrax waiting in the hold, I was ready to dive down and take the fight right to him, but even then, I conceded to the fact that my armor was thrashed and I was down one of my prime tools. So I watched as they dived onto his back, I didn't look away for a moment, and when the Skybreaker pulled away, Nethrax and I jumped ship and flew to the outskirts of the Maelstrom to make sure the job was done, far enough that the aspects, if they could see us, at least wouldn't bother us.
And then he came up again. It was the longest time of my life, just sitting back and watching, because I'd just wind up being a liability if I jumped in. I just wanted him to die." She heaved a sigh before pushing off the tree. "And so he did. We just... watched everything after that. Watched as the Aspects talked to Thrall and his woman about... something, I don't know, and gave the heroes of the day passage off the islands. Then we landed, and I just let it all sink in... I think a half a day went by before I was ready to go, really."
"You scavenged a little too, I see," Cyrdia remarked offhandedly, making a gesture to her back where the wicked shield was set.
Pralea chuckled faintly. "I wanted a keepsake... and I did need a new shield anyways." Standing from the tree, she turned to her old friend, her expression growing dour. "But after that, I was left with a new dilemma. I'd spent so long hating Deathwing, hating the Black Dragonflight, wanting to claw those giant burning eyes out of his face, that when he finally perished, I had nothing left. I spent a year of my life dedicated to erasing his at any cost up to my own, and now that he's gone, I don't know what to do with myself. We have peace now, relative anyways, and it's driving me nuts."
Cyrdia gazed at her with an expression that spoke a mix of sympathy and confusion. She approached, looking to the camp and at narrow valley that led into the gulch proper. "So then why come here? Why just blow everyone off and go AWOL on the empire's meeting? Your absence was noted, you know that, right?"
"The truth?" She turned, looking back to the valley and adjusting her gauntlets. "Light, if I knew myself... I suppose I can still feel something on the battlefield. Everything else has just boiled down to monotony, and it's nothing any of the others couldn't handle in my absence."
"I don't like you talking like that," Cyrdia returned frankly, bringing the warrior pause. She had to think about it a moment before shaking her head.
"N... no, no, I don't mean it like that, Cyr." Pralea ran a hand through her bangs, sighing in exasperation. "Anyone can make a speech or hand out tabards and stones, is what I'm getting at... but out here... This is something I'm capable of doing, something I'm frankly pretty damned good at." She lowered her hand before her eyes, gazing into it before clenching her fist. "I don't want another lover... I don't want more kids, or pity for the matter. I had my family, lost it, and right now, something like that would just feel like I were looking for a hollow replacement. I've been a fighter since I was a child, and when the day comes that I die, it'll be one even the Orcs'll have to acknowledge, with all their ceremony around battle and whatnot." She looked up, her lips twisting into a lopsided grin. "Besides, whenever I talk politics, it gets ugly. Better to swing I think."
Cyrdia stared on at her a moment, a certain dumbfoundedness in her face as she clearly worked to make the words sink in. Finally, she sighed, approaching and closing the gap between them. The warlock's hands came to rest on her shoulders, giving her a very light shake.
"I understand," she said, though her eyes grew stern. "But that doesn't give you the right to worry us like that, or to shirk your responsibilities, you understand? Fel, both our fathers would have lit into you for that... Talk to Donnelly and Tinox, at least, let them know what's on your mind. Doesn't have to be some big announcement, but you owe us at least that much respect before you go gallivanting off and risking your life. Are we clear?"
"Yeah," Pralea muttered. Cyrdia stepped forward and embraced her once again, and this time, Pralea returned the gesture, wrapping her arms around her old friend's back. "I'm sorry, I suppose I have been kind of a bitch about that."
"That's another thing," she said, though with levity in her tone as she stepped back, looking up at the taller woman. "Stop the damned worgen jokes."
A grin spread over her Pralea's lips as Cyrdia stepped back. She turned and began to walk, the warlock keeping in stride with her.
"Of course, Tinox may be sour with you," Cyrdia said.
"As long as this guildstone doesn't wind up at the bottom of some gorge in the sea or something, I think he'll forgive me. I've pissed off people worse than him. Or as long as I don't make a disappearing act like you did." The blonde cast her gaze over her shoulder to her friend, smirking. "Maybe since we're telling stories, you'll care to share that one with me, and how you wound up becoming a warlock?"
"One long story at a time, Pralea," she giggled. "I think this one's gone long enough."
"Yeah. Happiest ending I've gotten in a long while though." Pralea gazed ahead again, taking a breath and squaring her shoulders as they came upon the camp. "Feel like staying around for whenever they get ready to scrap with us again?"
Cyrdia chuckled. "You'll have my spells, so long as you've got my back."
Pralea nodded vigorously. "Yours, and our friends', always."
Afterward: Hey folks, the author here. Normally I don't make too much for commentary, but I felt I ought to let you all in on this. First, thanks for reading, especially as I fight the site's formatting system to make it look pleasing to the eye. Second, this is going to be a log of stories from Pralea, as her character develops on my in-game realm and guild. It's not going to be updating regularly, as the story develops and all, but everything will go here.
This may raise the question of "Facing the Fire", to those of you who are aware. That story felt pretty self-contained, and is a part in her life left behind now. This is a brand new striking out for her, and good things, hopefully, are on the horizon. I will, however, be updating a few other story chapters to this from old writings, with some touching up, naturally, to bring quality to tier with this. I hope you all enjoy it and I look forward to being able to entertain the readers. Be well, stay safe, and keep your eyes peeled for the next chapters!