Another short installment; so I'll be brief. I have done my best to hold to Warcraft lore, and I have a fair amount of experience with it. Having played WoW nearly since release, I would hope that I remembered enough to be accurate. However, if I make any mistakes here, please don't hesitate the let me know.
Being set in a fantasy world doesn't excuse this story from being accurate.
Watching Rayne's healing touch was like watching a savant sit at an instrument. There was no preparation, there was no distraction, there was nothing left in the world itself. Big Olrec knew his way around medicines, and could identify an herb just by the feel of it between his fingers; he could tell the grade of a poultice at a glance. He watched Rayne set to work and felt like an amateur apprentice all over again. The very fabric of nature itself clung to her fingers, and obeyed her unspoken commands with unwavering obedience.
"Where did he find this child?" she asked, and her voice snapped the dwarf out of his trance-like admiration. He had seen her at work on a great number of occasions, and it never failed to catch him off-guard. Something so green, so tranquil, so alive in this place ravaged by the dead, was a nearly religious experience.
"Hard t' tell," Big Olrec replied with effort. "Not much fer talkin'. Out on patrol few nights past, said he found the fledgling huddled under a bunch o' rags. Picked 'im up, wrapped 'im in a cloak, brought 'im back. Thought maybe one o' us could help 'im."
"The disease has hold of him," the druidess murmured. "I don't know that I've ever seen someone hold on long enough for it to progress this far. It stops evolving after death; the body simply starts to fall apart." She gestured to his stick-like limbs. "This poor boy's nearly dead from starvation, never mind the plague."
"We been feedin' him much as we can," Olrec said softly, somewhat sheepishly, "me 'n the big'un, but he was like that when 'e came in. Ain't woke up since. Just been shakin' 'n moanin' like that. Poor lad's good as dead, but the elf won't hear it."
A soft smile visited Rayne's features. "I...can believe that of him. Tell me, Master Stoutfeather. How is he doing here with your company? How does he fare under Captain Lingham?" She looked honestly intrigued, though still with a conflicted air that came over her whenever the subject of the young shapeshifter came up.
Olrec grunted. "Most men, comes time for their patrol, they get their weapons 'n wrap themselves in metal. They go out lookin' round, make sure none o' the beasties are afoot. Call if they find one. Standard procedure, m'lady. Ain't none of us s'posed ter take out a plaguer without backup." He grimaced at the look on Rayne's face. "Apologies, m'lady. Plague victim. But Sythius, that one's a walkin' army by himself. That one don't go patrollin'. He goes huntin'."
"He seeks them out?"
"Aye. Calls 'em dark. Evil. Says he's gotta give 'em back ter the earth. Only been with us a coupl'a weeks, he's got more of 'em put down than the rest o' the company put together in the last month-and-a-half." Big Olrec smiled. "One thing ya gotta give that giant: he's dedicated."
Rayne's smile widened a bit. She didn't respond for a long moment, however, as she wiped the boy's forehead with a damp cloth. She began to change one of the tiny elf's bandages, grimacing at the puss-filled wound that must have been the gateway for the sickness. The Walking Sickness, as it was sometimes called.
Rayne lifted back the child's eyelids. An unseeing, unnaturally bright green gaze stared up at nothing. "...Sin'dorei," she murmured softly. "He's a blood elf."
"Aye. Some o' the men're...concerned."
"This boy wouldn't have the strength or the training to cause any damage, even if he didn't have the plague," Rayne said dismissively. "He's too young to have taken part in the rituals. Something else corrupted him." The young night elf sighed. "...Poor darling. As though he didn't have enough to worry about."
"Aye..."
Rayne was not like any number of her kin. All elves' eyes glowed, made alight by their connection to the energies of the earth. Her own were a bright, cutting silver that gleamed like twin moons set into her face. Sythius's were amber. These were their natural colors.
Those elves who turned to the arcane, unlike Rayne's people who abhorred such magic, were gifted with eyes that glinted with a bright, cyan blue.
Elves corrupted by the magic of the damned, who sought the strength of demons and devils, had green eyes.
Most night elves would have turned their noses at a high elf's blue eyes; they would have immediately set a knife into the ribs of any green-eyed monster like this.
Rayne would not. And neither would Sythius Sil'nathin.
"Do you think he was abandoned by Silvermoon?" the druidess asked, semi-conversationally. "He looks as though he hasn't had a good meal in weeks. They might be the enemy, but I can't believe they would be this abusive to one of their own." Rayne was a pacifist at heart; she had little time or tolerance for the war with the Horde. "Even if they were running low on supplies, they'd not abandon a child to the plague…would they?"
"The blood elves're a pragmatic lot," Big Olrec grumbled. "They'd no use for weakness. Still, like ye say, they're not populated enough ter be tossin' out children. 'Specially one's young as this. Young means impressionable. Young means obedient. They'd want 'im for a soldier."
Before Rayne could respond with any more than an offended flash of her ethereal eyes, she suddenly went stiff. Her hands disappeared into the voluminous sleeves of her robes as she rose into a stealthy crouch. She seemed meek, mild, even weak; but the way she moved betrayed her training. Big Olrec was already on his feet, his hammers embedded into the granite of his fists.
One thing that the Plaguelands did for those brave or insane enough to inhabit them was to sharpen their instincts to a devastating edge. Every one of them who had lasted longer than a week knew what that particular shuffling, scraping, growling sound meant.
The dead were walking.
The dead were feeding.
Olrec and Rayne exchanged looks as Vant Lingham's men fell into position.
"…Where are ye, elf?"
A bit of a cliffhanger. Those who have read my other works on this site know I have a bit of a penchant for these. I beg patience. With luck, it will all be worth it in the end.
'Til next time, all.
