Eonthane felt as if his lungs were going to burst. The cold air was like swallowing needles into his chest and each step he took sent a volley of icy stabs up his legs. Still, he ran. His worg-fur cloak was abandoned in favor of speed and even his robes were no protection from the wind. They strung out behind him, the slits down either side exposing his legs and allowing him to run unencumbered. But the full force of the air above Icecrown was allowed to wrap its way around him, stinging his face, his hands.
It was nothing compared to the pain he'd feel if he slowed down. So the blood elf sucked in painful air and ran, stubbornly ignoring the signs his body was giving him that he couldn't keep this up for much longer. He was not strong. But his mind was stronger than the body and although it would ruin muscles and ligament, he ran. For behind him pursued no less than ten enraged vykrul, all intent on taking the elf's head.
The plan had been Molinu's, of course. The orc had been chattering idly while repairing his goggles and Warraven sat at the same table, holding some speared fish over the coals in the middle and letting the aroma drift about the tavern to mingle with all the other scents. The stink of the wolves and unwashed sweat. The pungent spices and heady aroma of ale. Eonthane sat some distance away, not just because he was anti-social, but because Molinu had some delicate parts close to an open flame.
"I don't think we should ask that of Eonthane." The priest had started paying attention after Warraven spoke his name.
"Ah, what else do we send? I can outrun 'em." Molinu picked the goggles up and squinted at the ceiling through them. "You just go all wolf and outrun 'em. We needs bait."
Eonthane stood and walked over, standing silently a pace away. The tauren shaman glanced at him, then pulled the fish away from the heat and sniffed it. Molinu stared at him expectantly, that idiotic grin on his face that meaning he was too busy being wrapped up in his own brilliance to think of the consequences.
"Fine," Eonthane had said, "Where are we going now?"
The vrykul roared in victory. There was a sheer cliff up ahead and a long stretch of snow beneath that, leading into the Scourge controlled valley. Surely the priest was cornered. Eonthane skidded to a stop, dropping to one knee in the snow as he turned. And out of the high hills of snow surrounding him rose two figures, hidden in worg-fur cloaks, snow clinging thickly to the spikes of fur. The retort of a gun echoed off the cliffside and the shot was accompanied by the slam of the projectile into the snow. It crackled and burst outward, forming a thick layer of ice on top of the ice. The first of the vrykul hit the patch and lost his balance, finding impenetrable ice instead of snow under his foot. He fell and took two down with him. Someone else stepped up the lead and was reward by the retort of the gun once more, the bullet piercing his skull in a neat hole. The projectile exploded, turning the skull into shrapnel and another nearby warrior fell, his throat severed by an arrow of bone.
And Warraven... she fell upon the nearest. The tauren's mass wasn't that of the vrykul but she fought with the elements and Eonthane saw the visible shift in stance that lowered her center of gravity. Become one with the earth, she had described it, and let the ground hold you and no one can knock you aside. There was a brutal sort of grace in her movements. Her mace traced a path upwards and the wind's fury howled about the weapon, encasing her in a swirling maelstrom of snow. Bright beads of life-red traced through the air, following her weapon's path. The crunch was audible and Eonthane's mind coldly calculated that her weapon had landed in the knee. There was the pop of tendon snapping as the kneecap fairly exploded.
Eonthane stood. There was fire within him, just waiting to be unleashed. It hurt, surging through his veins, and he focused on the pain instead of the yearning. The addiction constantly urged him to give in, to indulge, to lose himself. And so he focused on the holy fire that twined through his blood like a living thing, let the pain pulse in time with his heart. It steeled his mind. The iron of flesh was not for him. His power was in his will.
Holy light surged up from the ground, diving tendrils of power into the bodies of his two companions. It drank deep of their injuries, raw power pulling skin and muscle together with no guidance. It was exhausting to simply bombard power with little intent but Eonthane did not have the luxury of being precise. It was simply not possible in a combat situation.
Three of the vrykul broke through. Eonthane braced himself, the fel green of his eyes lending to his sickly pallor. They stepped past Warraven and Molinu was half-turned, reloading his gun as he noticed what was about to happen.
The ice cracked. For a moment everything paused and Eonthane regarded the crack before turning his eyes up to the monsters that had added a bit too much weight to the cliff edge. Then it splintered and Eonthane threw out an arm, trying to keep his balance as the ledge crumbled beneath them. He could catch himself, he could...
Somewhere, Warraven screamed his name. And the entire ledge went sliding over to the steep drop below as the tauren's weight slammed down upon it. Eonthane felt a hand in his hair, pulling him close and then an impact on his back as they hit the cliffside, far softer than he would have expected stone to be. Then a warm arm, fur stained with someone else's blood, wrapped around his chest and he ducked his head, the tauren wrapped about him like he was a child.
They fell.
Icecrown was quiet. The wind did not enter the valley like it did up on the cliffs. Somewhere the Scourge patrolled but they had not made their way here, not yet. Eonthane stared at the sky, reveling in the sheer fact he was breathing. The fall had felt like drowning. There was no way to draw in breath and so now he just took in oxygen, let it go, and tried to let his confused memories just drift away. He was alive.
Someone was making their way down the cliffside. Eonthane sat up a bit, squinting at the orc that was carefully treading down the last bit of scree and loose snow. The tiger Firestripe went first and Molinu followed in its path. Eonthane rolled to the side and stood. His body screamed in protest and he ignored it. To do otherwise would be to let the cold claim him, to sleep, and finally give up on this life. He would die someday, but it would not be because he gave up. Warraven lay nearby and she opened one eye when she saw him stand.
He remembered their fall slowing. Two of the vrykul had survived and Warraven had shoved him to the side, stepped forwards to put herself between the two, and summoned the wolves. Their howls and the tearing of flesh and roar of battle had lulled him into unconsciousness. Now she lay still, three dead vrykul in the snow. Eonthane put a hand to the back of his head, feeling sticky blood in his hand, and gingerly felt for a wound. There was none. However, there were beads of blood at Warraven's muzzle.
"You coughed blood into my hair?" he asked. Molinu was checking to ensure the vrykul were dead. It wasn't so much checking as putting an extra bullet through the skull, just to be sure.
Warraven frowned and tried to sit up, then collapsed back into the snow, unable to rise.
"My hair," the priest said, walking closer, "Coughing up blood is fine. I can heal that. But coughing it up into my hair?"
"There's just so much of it, it gets in the way," Warraven groaned, "Besides, if I hadn't shielded your fall you'd be the one with the chest full of broken ribs right now. You can't withstand those injuries."
Yes. Yes he could. She didn't understand.
"Ah, you worry about it too much anyways," Molinu said, the grim task of dispatching the vrykul done, "Just cut it short and then mebbeh we'll stop mistaking you for a woman."
"Women don't have beards," Eonthane replied coldly.
"You call that a beard?" The orc snorted. "Looks like you glued squirrel fuzz to your face."
"At least I haven't set mine on fire."
Eonthane turned away. That was just Molinu's manner. He knelt beside Warraven and carefully felt around her chest, trying to find the soft points in her armor that gave and made her wince. Healing was more effective when directed correctly. The tauren remained silent through it all, only gasping in pain once when he pressed on her abdomen. He took the longest wrapping the holy fire into her body there, as it was difficult to tell how badly she was bleeding internally and he did not want to take chances.
"So," Molinu said as the priest worked, "I think that went well. I dun think the banners exploding was what they were expecting... and that house was completely out of my control. Fire spreads, you know. Especially when it's flying through the air and raining down chunks of flammable debris..." He cleared his throat. "Still, is a start. Blowing up their banners, killing off a good number of their warriors, and then falling off a cliff has to have some sort of effect on their morale."
"Yes," Eonthane agreed, "They probably want to kill us all the more now. Vrykul are reasonable sorts."
He backed away and let Warraven struggle to her feet. She looked tired but did not say so, only checked to see that her maces were still with her. Molinu was looking to the north where the Shadow Vault lay. If they pressed hard they might make it before sundown.
"Thank you," Eonthane said softly to Warraven, "I appreciate the thought. Next time, just let me levitate myself. It's a lot less hassle than healing someone who nearly tore themselves apart doing idiotic heroics."
If there was a next time.
"Levitate?" She stared at him for a moment, her expression unimpressed. "And what about when you landed safely and two very angry vrykul hit the ground behind you, still alive and even more angry from their injuries? Or the gargoyles that patrol the skies? Wouldn't they have ripped you apart?"
Molinu was up ahead, talking and gesturing. Planning the fastest way to get to safety. His voice was animated as it often became shortly after narrowly evading a messy death.
"So you're welcome, Eonthane. You might not hold it in very high esteem, elf, but I would prefer to see you live, even if it means I have to save your life once in a while."
She turned and followed Molinu northwards. For a moment Eonthane stood there, then swore softly and pulled his hair back into a ponytail. The blood had congealed and blended seamlessly into the reddish-brown mess. It left stains on his fingers when he pulled his hands away and started hiking off after the two. He did not wipe the blood away and did not shiver as the cold air caressed his hands, freezing the crimson droplets to his skin.