Swill Remembers
(Segment Two from the Adventures of Tazeria in Azeroth)
He was young, about 10 years of age, when he first met the four elves. Swill sat crossed legged upon the small, soft bed at the orphanage in Stormwind, looking at the still wrapped packages he had received from Great Father Winter. It was cold outside and New Year's Eve preparations had the city in a flurry of excitement.
"They are yours to keep or to give away as you see fit."-Said the plump matron softly as she sat next to the lad on the bed. She reached a hand forward and gently brushed a lock of straight brown hair from his forehead. She smelled ever so slightly of roses.
The boy had never known another home. Abandoned in a basket and left at the top of the stairs of this orphanage 10 years before as a newborn, with no suspect parents, this was all Swill knew. He was a healthy, well-fed infant, and a decade later was already larger and more intelligent than most his age. He was also stubborn, insolent and a bit of a schoolyard bully.
Swill had heard from the town crier about the great massacre by the Horde, at Teldrassil, The Great Tree, which was home to the unusual race of Night Elves. The matrons here at the orphanage had told the children that there would soon be newcomers as a result of the assault.
"There is nothing I want… in those packages." He replied to the woman without looking at her face. The matron nodded his direction and knew he spoke the truth, knowing with satisfaction that the child would not regret his decision. She was so proud of this boy.
Swill stood, began quickly gathering each package up, stacking them neatly at the foot of the bed. As he turned to walk though the doorway and down to the Centeroom to be near the warm fire the boy stopped and took a glance back at her smiling face, which was filled with nothing but softness for him.
"They're here?" he asked her quietly.
"Indeed they are." Mrs. Beachnor replied with a light smile.
The boy then turned the corner at the doorway and began to walk rapidly down the large, gray stone flat steps that curved to the Centeroom. He paused at the final step and slowly but curiously, peered around the edge of the wall to silently glimpse his new housemates.
There were four of them, sitting next to each other as close as could be on the sette before the fire. Three were covered in bandages, and the fourth, the only female, was speaking softly in a strange language to the others. She stood straight up off the seat when the elfling spotted Swill peeking at them, her arms spread to the sides as to shield her companions from the onlooker.
"Who are you?" she asked Swill is a strange, attractive, lilting accent which rolled the r and made "you" sound more like "yea".
"I am called Swill." The boy stretched out his hand to offer her a hello, "What are your names?" he shyly asked.
She looked down upon his hand, and thought it to be such a strange gesture for a greeting, but slowly raised hers to his, hoping it was the correct response. Swill grasped her palm and shook it in a very human manner.
"I am Tazeria," she answered, "these are my friends, Drun, Ito and Lefty." She pointed at each of her companions respectively.
"Nice to meet you," Swill reached to shake Ito's hand but Tazeria stopped the gesture lightly but firmly, and in a low voice she said to Swill, "Ito cannot see your hand to respond, He was blinded by a light. They say he will regain his sight but no one really knows."
"What's with the others, their…injuries?" Swill curiously asked the elf, also in a low voice, while looking at the three on the settee.
"Drun cannot hear you, his ears were affected by blasting powder close to his head. And Lefty doesn't speak…. he never really has." She answered.
At that moment, a gray-white ball of smoke began to form behind Swill, curling and rolling and with a POP! And there appeared another boy, about the same age as Swill, behind the pair before the fire. He was smaller than Swill and wore robes of blue and silver. He had no hair.
"Balyon!" cried a startled Swill, as he promptly pushed the new arrival into a large, overstuffed chair. Tazeria jumped toward her friends.
Chuckling, the budding warlock said, "I got you guys good."…. grinning from ear to ear he popped up from the chair and pulled his wand from his sleeve. " I think some nice hot cider for our new family is in order."
The Transformation
Present Day:
The large, beautifully crafted shield lay heavily across Swill's muscled forearm. His sword, gripped tightly in his right hand, reflecting the red, glinting light from the unusual sun in Shadowmoon Valley. His body screamed, readied to charge the scene before him, conflicting with his soldiers' instinct, which compelled him to wait for the opportune moment for the initial strike. His breath was heavy, his skin rippled with "warrior fire", he looked to his right, where Whisten, his battle mate, had stood only a moment before.
She had shifted into Bear form, and no matter how many times he'd witnessed it, Swill marveled as if the first time, at this ability of the Druid. The beast, fierce and snarling, was massive and hulking-a silvery-gray thick fur covering a bulk of terrifying muscle and sinew. Whisten's long jaws; contained large, sharp teeth and huge canines that promised certain death.
Whisten had turned Feral Blood. The only way she could release the transformation was to kill an enemy in battle, or to be killed herself; there was no other option for those Druids who chose the Feral Blood Path.
The ways of the druid had always been a mystery to Swill; he expressed no desire to give any deeper understanding of them either. He wasn't uncomfortable around shape shifters; he simply didn't care to expand his knowledge of their practices. All he concerned himself with was that Whisten was in command and control of the Feral Blood Path because if she lost her discipline, things would be ugly, in a hurry, for all of them.
He was sure of this one fact- Whisten was deadly, disciplined and second to none in her battlefield, front- line skill.
As for Whisten- well, for her there had been no other choice.
Whisten stood outside the orphanage with her small, finely shaped nose pressed lightly against the frost-ringed glass, peeking in at the six small people inside. Her presence was unnoticed by those within the Centeroom where the cheery fire flamed and a hotpot of cider and warm mugs appeared upon the low table in front of the settee. It was cold where she stood, but she ignored the shivers that ran trails of gooseflesh up and down her arms.
She had just done the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, in her short 25 years of life. The beautiful, skilled healer brought and gave the four elflings to the matrons, of the Stormwind Orphanage. Whisten held her gaze upon them for a full three minutes, standing in the cold at that window, as to engrain the lasting picture of the six inside the building, to her memory. Her gaze lingered upon Tazeria. She bit back the tears threatening to overflow into the cold frame of the window ledge.
She was done.
As Whisten turned, sadly and slowly from the window, for her unknown destination, she felt it happen. It was physical and began as a small hunger in her gut; the hunger became a twist, the twist a knot, the knot a rolling, cramping hard rock. The pain was immense and searing to the core of her being. She doubled over but didn't fall, her hands gripping her midsection, kneading the pained flesh beneath her cloak. Her breath caught in her chest and she let out a cry, but to her surprise and confusion, the sound of a growling, low roar of a wild animal in pain, and not the squeak of an elf- maid, came from her throat.
Whisten took several stumbling steps forward to grab the railing of the huge expanse of steps that lead upward to the Stormwind Cathedral of the Lightbringer. The contractions of her midsection were making it difficult for her to draw breath; she was beginning to become dizzy. Hand over hand; using the railing for support, she pulled her pained body up one step at a time. Whisten felt her knees weaken and she dropped to the cold, hard stone of the stair. Her body was heaving with agony-filled, growling gasps for air as she crawled on hand and knee to reach the platform at the top of the stair. It was all she could bear; she collapsed in a ball, shut her eyes tightly and pulled into a tight bundle all the while rolling from side to side in an effort to ease the deep burning in her gut.
"What's happening to me!" she cried inwardly.
At that precise thought, a soothing calm response entered her thought patterns as a smooth, low female voice that was warm and healing in her mind.
"Do not fight the path of the soul young druid, you must embrace the change, and know that we are here for you"
With that, Whisten's world went dark.
She began to awaken as warm hands pressed their palms to her grimaced face and stroked her cheeks until they smoothed, she was no longer on the steps, in the cold. She felt warm and safe, soft down comforters that smelled like spices now covered her from head to toe. She felt no more pain. Slowly Whisten began to open her eyes, still unsure of all the events that had just occurred to her.
As the druid peeked from under heavily lidded eyes, she saw a tall, beautiful woman with long, strawberry blond hair, dressed in shimmering, white, long robes trimmed in light yellow and deep purple. Standing next to this woman was a very, very short man.
Whisten blinked; she had never seen someone so short! He wore a long beard, and was regally dressed in white, loose fitting pants and knee length tunic, which were both, trimmed in pure gold. He was magnificent! The dwarf stood straight-spine and inspected the young elf's face intently.
His short legs took two small steps close to her bed, his eyes looking directly in to hers.
"I'm Thorden, head of Stormwind Cathedral of the Lightbringer, which is where you find yourself today lass. I trust Sariseva has brought you to health once again", he bowed gracefully, his stubby fingers touching his gold waistband. "Now that you're awake, I shall leave you two to your business." The Paladin gave Whisten a smile, bowed deeply to Sariseva and turned on his boot heel and left the room.
Sari sat on the edge of the bed where Whisten lay, and noticed they were about the same age, "I'm Sariseva, healing priestess for Thorden," she smiled lightly, "you were in transition when I found you on the stairs. Tell me what happened to you before this took place, if you're not too tired."
Whisten found her voice; it was horse and didn't sound like herself. She recounted everything to Sari, from the moment the Horde had come to Teldrassil, until bringing the elflings to the orphanage. She was breathless and shaking by the time she was done her tale.
Sariseva was horrified.
"Never again," said Whisten, her eyes becoming hard as two pale shards of ice as she stared at Sariseva… will I heal those who I do not first, protect."
Sari nodded in agreement. The two knew at that moment, that they had a bond that transcended their gifts for healing.
"Let's get you dressed." Sari spoke as she hopped up from the bed and headed to a beautiful armoire in the corner of the room. She pulled the door open and removed a lovely warm green gown with silver brocade. It glittered and had a light silvery glow about it.
"This gown has a healing enchantment on it that will help you with your unexpected transitions. Seresta created the gown and then enchanted it just for you." Sari carried the gown to Whisten.
"It's fabulous!" Whisten's face beamed with delight. Suddenly, a puzzled look came upon her and she turned to Sari and asked:
"Who's Seresta?"
"Seresta is my younger sister who lives here, with me, at the Cathedral. She is very talented in tailoring and enchanting." Sari smiled a bit and added, "For what it's worth, she is great friends with those children from the orphanage. She also spends a good deal of time with Balyon." clarified Sariseva.
Whisten watched Sari's face frown a bit at that final statement, and although concerned, didn't feel it her place to press the issue for an explanation. The druid reasoned that time would find her the reason for Sari's frown soon enough. The woman also had the distinct impression that if it were a troublesome situation, Sari wouldn't allow it, and for now, that had to be enough solace to carry her cares away from any present, regretful thought.
After all, what was done was done.
There was no going back on her choices.
As Whisten slipped into the magnificent gown, she instantly felt the enchantment calm her core being. The material was soft against her skin and when she turned to the mirror to admire herself draped in the garment, was startled to see two young faces popping back from the doorway behind her reflection! With a jump she turned quickly;
"Who are the little spies?" she asked Sari.
"Ah, they would be Seresta and Marudas." Sari answered without turning around to look.
"Sometimes they can be quite the curious pair and have been watching us this whole time. Marudas came a short while ago to live here. Thorden has adopted the boy as a son. We're happy to have him with us."
Sari smiled to herself.
"The child has taken a liking to Seresta (Sari seemed a bit puzzled about that) but I think it's good for my sister to have a friend she can care for." Raising her voice slightly the priestess said," Come here you two and meet our guest properly." Sari directed the children into the tiny room.
Seresta was holding Marudas' hand as they cautiously rounded the corner and stepped into full view. The toddler had Seresta's apron pulled halfway down her hip and was covering his face with it from the nose down. His finger prints, in blue, dotted the entire front of the white material, Seresta didn't seem to care much about that though and boldly walked up to Whisten with an outstretched hand and a curtsey.
Whisten eagerly smiled at the pair of peepers," Hello there. I am Whisten, nice to meet you." She extended her hand in the manner in which she witnessed the young boy inside the orphanage greet Tazeria.
Instantly, she noticed a mark on the inside of Seresta's right wrist. It appeared to have been a burn of sort which had since healed. The mark was triangular in shape, with a single wavy line underneath. Druids knew this to be the mark of the magical ones.
Inwardly, Whisten was SHOCKED but held her emotion well. She also held in the myriad of questions she now had about this sister. How in the heck can there be a sister of light and healing, to also have the blood of one born with the mark of the magic? A warlock and a healer from the same family! She would never have guessed this as a possibility, but then the total destruction of her village was never a possibility in her mind either. She immediately quashed that thought as it surfaced with a shudder.
"My pleasure" Seresta met Whisten eye to eye. Whisten sucked in a breath at the beauty of the preteen girl. Her long, pitch black hair, and her face was the mirror image of a younger Sariseva. Seresta's eyes were greener then the finest of summer grass, and her walk, even at her young age, was regal and flowing; her curtsey, that of a practiced ballerina.
Marudas hid behind the apron and flatly stated "NO!" loud enough for everyone on that wing of the building to hear.
Whisten giggled as she looked at the boy hiding his face, the fingers of his which she was able to see were covered in blue clay and grasping the apron tightly around his face. She noticed he was sticking his tongue out behind the material. A big wet spot where he'd been chewing on the material surrounded the area.
"You must be Mr. Marudas." She smiled down at the lad and extended her hand to him as well.
Quick as a whip Marudas jumped from behind Seresta and licked Whisten's palm, leaving a sloppy wet spot of spit and blue clay. He giggled loudly and ran to the doorway dragging Seresta with him.
Whisten looked at her hand, then back at Sari, surprise all over her expression.
"Like I said before,' she grinned at her friend, "He's new."
Present day:
Fusion
Tinged red fingers of the dawning sun crept into Stormrages' chambers like a thief. Instinct high and on full alert, he focused his thoughts on the source of his unrest as he continued his pacing the long path from one end of the room to the other.
Something was different.
Experience had long taught him to trust his gut feelings. One did not become this powerful by mistake or simple chance. But there was a threat, a threat so large he could no longer deny that his position was indeed in jeopardy.
"But from where…who"
… questioned his own thoughts, a slow breath hissed between his teeth and he felt the blood in his veins begin to surge as no answer presented itself. Frustrated, he began his pacing the path which had become so familiar to him over the last seven hours; all the while his brain ticking and searching for the clue to his unrest. His thoughts trailed…to near madness.
Miles away, at that same moment, Swill whispered his three closest friends, and said, "The time has come. Meet in Ironforge." The cryptic message signaled the friends that indeed this was the moment they had been awaiting. Loyalty, and the promise of triumphant battles to come, baited them. One boarded the tram, one a griffin and the last the boat. Each lost in thought of the meeting to come.
The three friends, met on the bridge, and with a slight nod in one another's direction, said not a word but stood, side by side, each looking to the crowd for the face they traveled so far to see…
…looking for he who had summoned them.
Swill, who had recently been imprisoned for four months, for reasons unknown to the friends, had returned.
He silently moved in from the crowd behind them and they jumped as he startled them as he snapped, "You three took too long," a little too loudly for their somber mood.
Swill walked across the bridge and the friends followed. Once they were seated inside the inn with fresh mugs of Dwarvian Stout in their hands he leaned in across the table and in a voice hushed, laden with urgency and strength, he said one word and one word only,
'Vindication."
With that word, miles away in the treacherous area known as Shadowmoon Valley, Illidan Stormrage roared.