A/N: hello readers! Welcome to the first chapter of the first volume of a three volume saga known as 'Taming the Beast,' the ballad of a half night elf, half jungle troll from Ratchet learning about life and the world one mistake at a time. All three volumes have been finished for almost a year and have been sitting on my hard drive, external hard drive and online file storage (I'm paranoid about losing my work, lol) waiting to be edited and posted.
Her room was dark. It was well lit, but dark. It was also musty. Air circulation was fine, but it was musty. She had decorated her personal living quarters in pastels and even neons in some places. Yet the whole environment was drab. New furniture that seemed weathered by something other than the elements crowded the tiny apartment, covered in tarps to keep it clean for guests that would never come. Walls bearing no ornament nor paintings squared it all in, creating a prison with an easily accessible, unlocked door.
It was by the window she stood, a window letting in light that illuminated nothing. Arms folded, eyes downcast, back turned, she waited until she could be alone again. Just waited until there was nothing left to wait for. Her vibrant, full, freshly washed head of dark brown hair had been combed strategically to hide her face. She was outgoing. She loved to be around people. Yet at that moment, he could tell that she wanted nothing more than to be around no one.
He watched her adept's off-duty robes as she stood, refusing to look at him. So still had she held that he couldn't even see if she had stopped breathing or not as she stood, waiting for his exit. Stiff in posture, a stranger entering her room may have thought her part of the furniture until they walked close to her, finding themselves startled to a jump upon realization that a person had been there the whole time. She leaned against the wall, reluding to react.
She was the closest being of her kind to have been compatible with him, he forced himself to think. Rationalizing it into an equation of traits and qualities and matchmaking took the emotional sting out of her refusal to look at him. Everything was supposed to have worked out. They were right for each other. Or so they thought.
Pushing through an ocean of tension, he waded across her room to reach her, feeling her grow ever more stiff at each footstep he took. He felt like the ceiling would collapse if he pushed further, and yet he did, navigating a maze of tightly packed furniture as he tried to reach her. By the time he did, she had become a statue, unmoving and unfeeling. His large, violet-blue hand reached around to hold hers - tanned, olive colored - as gently as he could. Despite her stiffness, she didn't resist or even react. He felt the coldness of her body radiating through her robes, chilling his chest as he hunched over her shoulder, forced to stoop due to her human-sized quarters. He leaned his elbow up where the wall met the ceiling to relieve some of the strain of leaning close without invading her space, taking care so that his relatively short tusks didn't catch on those silky strands of hair. There was no reason to provoke her further.
Try as he might with those glowing silver eyes of his, he failed to pierce into her two dark browns - irises the color of her hair. Her gaze was unshakeably fixated on the countertop in front of her, refusing to look at anything else. Even beneath his thick, strong palms, the top of her hand barely even held a pulse, as if she had somehow slowed down her own system in the process of giving him the cold shoulder.
Finding no more reason to drag, things out, he spoke without expecting a reaction. He didn't know why. But it felt wrong not to say anything, no matter how useless words would be.
"Some time apart...might do us some good," he whispered softly into her ear, garnering no reaction at all. It was as if she'd become immune to him. "I'll come back."
He stepped back without hesitation, seeing no reason to linger and beg for a response. It was unbefitting and she knew it. He navigated again through the sea of covered furniture, making his way toward the door. Even though he didn't look back, he knew she didn't either. He didn't even need to turn around to know that.
Not wanting to be immature about it, he closed the door as silently as he had opened it. Since she hadn't even turned around, she likely wouldn't know he had left until a few minutes later. She never was that perceptive, on any level.
Maybe she would perceive one day. But as he walked down the hall and out of the women's quarters, he knew that day wouldn't be today.
The Argent Crusade knew how to plan and staff a proper base. He had to give them that.
He felt it as he exited the two story building that housed permanently stationed female troops and negotiated his way between the barracks for temporary troops on rotation. Even the grass was well kept, despite the numerous horseback riders and pulled carts that tended to roll through. Everyone had something to do and somewhere to go save himself, and by the time he reached the cobblestone main road leading south, he was once again pleasantly taken aback by the tendency of everyone to hang to the right side of the road and walk single file unless they were in a hurry. Sharing not a word with the people he passed, he strolled down road toward the camp's exit, slinging one of his two travel bags over his shoulder. The other was safe and sound next to his bat outside the main gates. In a place like this, one never need worry about theft.
Out in the midst of the Plaguelands, the place had become a haven for adventurers of most races and factions to contribute what they could to controlling the ever present threat of the Scourge. The Scourge had been around for far longer than he had even been alive, his parents told him. Even when their leader had been destroyed decades ago - some corrupt human former nobleman - they trudged on, always looming, ever present. But as the somber, violet-blue man covered in leather and chainmail observed all the new recruits and old veterans taking part in war games and supplies hoarding, he knew he had done his part to help these people help the world. He had never accepted offers to join. In fact, he found the presence of a handful of pureblooded Kaldorei men to be a bit strange considering the vows they'd have to take. But he'd participated in a few of their campaigns and would always have that to feel proud of.
The crowds of troops and even larger crowds of civilian service workers and laborers were so diverse that nobody stared or even took second notice of him. It was like being back home, where everybody was just a little weird themselves, and thus nobody was weird. Truth be told, he knew he was one of the most normal people out there: well adjusted, level headed and objective. That wasn't arrogance; that was confidence, he repeated to himself. And as he lifted his elbows to avoid knocking over a gaggle of giggling gnolls that swept just a little too closely to him, he felt a small twinge of sorrow that he'd be leaving.
As he passed the shops of the craftspeople and the stations for food and drink, he reveled in the fact that there were no hawkers hawking or gawkers gawking. That was a far cry from many other cities in the Eastern Kingdoms. Decades after the factional wars had ended, many people were still unused to seeing members of other races and tended to stare. He had zero social awkwardness about him, but he did have a temper similar to his youngest brother that often filled him with the desire to knock the block off of all the pinkskins and their tendency to find anyone even remotely different to be some kind of oddity. None of that happened at this military base, though. It was a peaceful place overall, and had been a fine temporary home after his guild had broken up. A temporary home. That was the operative term.
The camp was so organized and uniform that it was nondescript. Even though he could never get lost, he soon lost track of which street he was on as he was leaving. Knowing it might be his last day visiting there, he found it difficult to focus on the road ahead of him and avoid becoming lost in thought.
Three gnomes ran in between his legs as he passed the houses of the militia members, the non-elite force that always kept their homes by every entrance of the place, ready to defend at a minute's notice. A certain household of Gilnean Rangers were closed to the impossibly thick stone walls marking the end of the camp, and the young man knew he'd have to break out of his post split melancholy to put up his front.
"Welcome to Hearthglen, Hearthglen!" the lame worgen leader of the rifle squad among the militia joked heartily. It was a play on words - his family name, neither elven nor trollish, happened to be the same as the name of the human founded base camp.
Forcing himself to laugh at the pun he'd heard a hundred times, the man ambled over to the household and leaned up against the porch railing, obliging the permanently injured man. "Any news?" the half blooded traveler asked to be polite, not particularly caring either way.
The white-furred worgen's eyes lit up, ever eager to share news with someone who spent significant spans of time outside. "The Forsaken leadership released a statement regarding the latest Scourge attack," the middle aged Gilnean said in a low voice as he leaned forward in his chair. The news he shared was always common knowledge, yet he would always behave as though everything were a secret. "Apparently, they condemn what happened at the Howling Fjord!" The man's tone was derisive, his expression comical.
"They're always ready with their statements and condemnations," the young man sighed, leaning the upper part of his torso against the railing as well. A caravan of silk merchants entered and were immediately mobbed by both shopkeepers and military tabard and battle standard suppliers, and as the cacophony passed by them the younger man had to raise his voice. "It doesn't come off as sincere when Undercity isn't willing to send any troops to help the rest of the civilized world."
"You seem to be using 'civilized' under a very loose definition there," the worgen chuckled, though there was a tone of resentment of crimes long unpunished in his voice.
"Well, you know what I mean. Even if they didn't cause the problems - you know, the Scourge did - they have to understand that people will wonder. Especially that, once they left their original faction, they didn't bother opening embassies anywhere."
The worgen had to lean forward to hear the last part over the shouting of prices in the street, an uncharacteristic scene of disorder in such an orderly place. "Yes, they're nothing like your father's people. Your father is a night elf, was that what you said before?"
"My mother, actually," the young man corrected him. "My father is a jungle troll."
"Right, sorry. So anyway, it's nothing like your mother's people. They left the Alliance, but they put embassies and consulates everywhere. The Forsaken left the Horde, and zip. Nada."
"My family has a close friend who is one of them, you know."
The worgen raised an eyebrow curiously. "Really? What does he make of all this?"
"Oh hell, I couldn't tell you. It's been over three years since the last time I visited home. You know how it is out here. But...well, he's an individual, and obviously since he lives in a port city, he's more open. He doesn't agree with how shifty his people's leadership is acting."
"Well, people are individuals wherever you go. I don't think we could quite have an undead around here," the worgen said as he swept his hands to indicate the entire camp. "But what you see here is surely a sign that people are people wherever you go. Eh, speaking of which, where are you going this time?"
Sensing that the conversation wouldn't drag out like it usually did, the young man walked up a single step on the man's porch so they could hear each other better, knowing he would soon be able to escape. "The coast out on the Hinterlands, actually," he answered as the worgen whistled in awe. "Yes, it's far, I know. One of my parents' old friends accepted a contract to help some villagers out there build a port, you know, to raise their economic situation seeing as how the Hinterlands will need to be tamed."
"Lawless region that is. Maybe getting the people there more connected to the rest of the world would help them to tame the place." The man leaned forward a little, suddenly looking to be a little more discreet. "So Rachel, over in the barracks there...how will she take it? You being gone and so far, I mean?"
He immediately knew what the worgen man meant, and brushed it off just as quickly. "She'll be fine. We're just friends, if that's what you're asking." Technically not a lie anymore, he thought. "I'll see everyone here soon enough. I can't imagine a brief protection contract to last more than a month or two."
Suspicious at first, the worgen eventually seemed to accept his explanation. "If you say so," the man said softly while leaning back in his chair. "Why not keep in touch, if you can. It would be nice to know one of our allies is doing alright out there."
The two of them only exchanged pleasantries for a minute or so before they broke off again, and the violet-blue man was able to finish his exit from the camp. Negotiating his way once more through the throngs of buyers swarming the foreign merchants, he weaved in and out of the crowd until he had passed them, reaching just outside the main gate to find a young runner he'd paid tending to his bat. A common Tirisfal duskbat, the mount was uncommon outside of its home region, and certainly out of place in the Hillsbrad Foothills, where he'd originally found it. The large furry creature looked more like a goofy, bug eyed hand puppet than a sleek mount prepared for aerial combat. It was rare, however, and unquestioningly loyal despite its timid nature.
The teenage human tending to it had already affixed the second back to the back of the bat's trappings by the time the tall biracial man had finished tightening the first bag to his back and running a final check of his equipment. The human ruffled the big bat behind the ears, watching as it lapped insects up off the ground like small pieces of candy.
"Your bat is ready, Navarion!" the cross eyed human teenager beamed while saluting the big violet-blue man. As if to punctuate the overly enthusiastic point, the bat let out what sounded like a chirp in affirmation.
The man donned a pair of riding gloves that had been sitting on a wooden fence post outside the high stone walls as he spoke. "Thanks a lot, guy. It has to be eleven by now. This big fleabag can see at night, but so can other, more awful things flying around these parts." The duskbat twisted its head around, sending ripples across its dark brown fur coat, unaware that it had been referred to despite understanding Common rather well.
"Aw, go easy on him! He's a big sweetheart." This time, the bat did seem to notice it had been spoken of, and ruffled its pug nose at the teenager in an attempt to look cute. "You sure you can make it to Quel'danil Lodge before nightfall?"
"Not quite, assuming the moon rises...er, sun sets around eight in the evening in these parts. I can arrive at the border perhaps two hours after that, if this furball can push it a little. The lodge is just another half hour past the border, and we'll probably have a day or two to rest before moving out with the others."
"Alright then, but go easy on the bat. I don't think he's really the combat type," the teenager said as the tall man ascended the bat's back.
"I'll cut him some slack when he can pull his own weight," the man replied, using slang terms the big bat didn't quite seem to understand. Once he had donned his flying goggles, he reached into his coin purse and overpaid the teenager slightly. "You're a prince and a scholar, like everyone with the Argent Crusade. I look forward to seeing this place again."
"Hearthglen bids you farewell, Hearthglen!" the human teenager joked, and the man once again pretended to laugh.
Treating the bat as gently as he could so as not to frighten it, Navarion Hearthglen gave the command to lift off. After a few awkward gallops, the bat bounded down the hill leading out of the camp and took off, pumping its wings up and down until it could gain altitude and soar. They'd have to cross a lot of undead territory before nightfall.