~ Author's Notes ~
I suppose Jet doesn't have to wear trinkets as earrings but nothing looks manlier than a charm bracelet, right?
~Fixes ~
Reuploaded: Dec 26
Basically this chapter got fleshed out, almost a half a page of additions and changes. The changes are probably enough to make it worth rereading though the only real change is that I'm retconing the Druid's age back to fourteen down from the cliché sixteen.
~*~ Chapter 6 ~*~
Though their reasons for taking the long way from Darkshore to Orgrimmar – the long way- was unknown, the energies of the lands along with the sights, sounds and smells told the Druid exactly who owned the territory. From traveler's gossip she surmised names.
First stop was Searing Gorge, to pick up something for the Warlock. The wishy-washy Dark Iron Dwarfs - whoever they were - were up to no good; the Druid could tell by their tone of voice. Such sweet lies. Fortunately, or perhaps not, the Warlock caught on. She got after one of the Generals with her wicked spell blade, cornering him in a demonic circle and faying strips of flesh from is face. The item they were withholding – pending a higher asking price – was quickly handed over. Discounted even when the Priest patiently reattached the man's skin to his muscles. The effect was an improvement, or so the Warlock said.
The Dark Iron thanked them for the business and they were on their way.
After that it was the cool forests of Darkshire so Jetadiah could help exercise some specters who had found their way into Medivh's old castle. From overhearing the familiarity with the others in the group, the young Druid got the impression he was called on to do this allot, and handsomely paid. The shiny new earrings Jet wore, both on one ear, as he remounted his warhorse latter that evening sparked with a formerly malevolent glow. No doubt the Priest's pure spirit would purge the remaining taint and they would once more be used for good.
The Warlock had complained that she never got anything new. The Priest asked what happened to the item they had gotten from the Dark Iron. The Warlock replied that it didn't count; she hadn't gotten to kill anyone to get it. She ignored the Priest when he pointed out everyone in the old castle was already dead, not convinced the others in the group hadn't gotten to reek havoc and misery. She also ignored her companion when he pointed out that she had also been invited to the group and declined because there was already another Warlock. The man had been threatened with dire consequences should he think to take anything the Forsaken woman wanted. This promptly got her uninvited.
"I keep telling you to practice some people skills." The Priest preached.
"I got us a discount from the Dark Iron!" the Warlock argued, "How is that not people skill?"
No one bothered to argue. The Druid had still been nursing bruises from being beaten half to death by a baby Ogre. The Priest had admonished her, reminding her over and over that he had advised staying in the bag.
I didn't think the babies would hit that hard! She all but wailed this into his palm as he repaired a loose fang.
After leaving Darkshire, it was over to the dead lands formerly belonged to the Blood Elves. Those fallen nobles of the Nigh Elf race who have repeatedly brought about their destruction threw their continued pursuit of the magical arts. As if inviting Sargaras to Azeroth had not been enough; as if inadvertently inviting the Orcs to Azeroth has not been enough; as if blowing up two-thirds of the world and causing the Plague of Undeath to begin with was not enough. Even when their nation was once again brought to ruin… still they pursue the magical arts.
This was the Druid's opinion at least. The Highbourn were the cause of all the world's major problems, and most of the minor as far as she was educated to believe and concerned.
This time when the Warlock was asked to join the group she accepted and kept her mouth shut, despite the Shadow Sister giving her the Evil Eye from across the way. When she and the Priest arrived at the appointed meeting place, the group of Trolls and Tauren adventurers waiting outside were at once wary and relieved. Not often did the Warlock accept one of the Horde's calls to service. She more or less devoted her time to making sure no one took advantage of her more cooperative traveling companion.
This last fact had dawned on the Druid gradually. Corrosa's role in the Priest's life was both mandatory and permanent. She and he was an odd match.
The war with the Amani Trolls over the land that once belonged to them had escalated. They were taking prisoners now and a rescue mission was underway. The group had to choose between a gifted healer and a very powerful Warlock. One who needed to be reminded that it was a rescue mission early and often. One who could start at the beginning of the Troll city and not stop till she got to the end, sucking out her own life to fuel her malevolent spells- so long as she had a healer to restore the missing life. Though the group tried to convince them both to come, the Priest simply declined. Arguing risked setting the Warlock off and so it was decided.
Off she went then, up the lane and out of sight towards the massive gates of the last Amani stronghold. Jetadiah had chosen a camp away from everyone else, where he could let his captive out of her bag to roam around and stretch her legs. The lessons was learned in Duskwood; she needed to be allowed to run and play else she would do something stupid just to get to hunt and play.
When it had been the Priest who was in Karazhan, and after the Warlock had laughed herself into a fit watching the Druid get pulverized by a toddler Ogre bigger than she, the Druid had opted to find a spot in the bush to sprawl and had stayed there. That is, till the Warlock began chanting her Light-forsaking spells over the fire and filled the whole place with the moaning wails of demons.
In a panic, the Druid had attempted to run and been knocked senseless by the collar's anti-escape failsafe. When she awoke, the Priest was just re-fitting the collar back onto her neck after repairs and the Warlock was scowling in the background, arms crossed. She didn't say anything, having just been admonished by the Priest for scaring his pet so bad she had triggered that particular feature.
The Warlock and the Druid gave each other space and heated glares all the way to the last bastion of the Amani Empire. The Priest ignored them both, head and shoulders stiff from his pretense.
The local life in the last few territories they traveled threw were no threat to her and yet the Druid still traveled in the bag on back of the demon horse. Or, as the Warlock often called it, "Damnyou Holdstill!" whenever she was attempting to reload supplies onto the thing.
Any Alliance who saw the traveling companion steered clear, either because they knew the individuals they gazed upon or because they knew of the deadly combination of the two pair in general. If, however, they saw they were holding one of their own captive they would surely make attempts to free her. This would be avoided if the Druid were not seen by anyone.
And they got boat and airship fare for three paying for just two!
With the Warlock gone and the Priest meditating by the fire, the bored Druid pounced on lunar moths that happened to close. Delicate as she was in her feline form, she could strike down a moth with all of her weight and it would still be capable of flight once released from under her claws. And she would pounce again.
The idea was to keep in shape, stay honed, despite the lack of food. Her body no longer cried in hunger, accustomed to the lack of food. All fat reserves were burned off, leaving a lean and trim cat where a decently fed one had been. Not that she had been fat to begin with, but amongst her people the children didn't lose all of their baby fat till they were in early adulthood. Fearful of becoming lazy as well as weak the Druid insisted on keeping up physical training.
With the last of the moths chased out of range she stood on furry paws watching it flutter away. The Priest had extended her range with the repair but not so far that she could break into a full run before the small static shocks warned her to stop. Feline haunches sat down and in the dead grass and she pouted, whining at being unable to explore the night. Or hunt. Or eat.
Shuffling sounds behind her brought her attention to the approaching Priest. His meditations had ended early; he had enjoyed seeing the playful child of a Druid leaping about after moths. That she didn't harm them, but instead let them flutter away impressed him.
"There is a reverence for life in you, child." The cultured voice bespoke the past and his long lost nobility. Though Blood Elf now, the Druid was certain he had been a High Elf once. Had been there thousands of years ago when the races separated, when they had been called the Highbourn. Had seen the rise and fall of these Highbourne. Had seen his city raised, then razed. Had been a part of the Alliance – had even seen the Banshee Queen while she lived… Yet here he was; Blood Elf; Horde; enemy.
All of my people revere life, the Druids amongst them most of all! While she couldn't say these things, she thumped her tail on the ground to show her agitation and agreement. Her dream made her believe he had no known his past, else denied it, but she had known hers. Even before she could walk she knew; hand and knee she had crawled threw the roots of the forests and felt the power of nature. When she could walk, she swam in the sacred waters of the Moonwell, giving praise to Elune though she could not speak. Yes, she loved Elune but the feel of dirt under paw and the power of her feline form were stronger than the calling to the Temple-bound life of a Priest.
Smiling slightly, the Priest amended, "I meant only that the feral arts, while admirable, might not be the best you can aspire too." His expression was soft, as if in memory of someone who had given this talk to him.
You may not have known, but I do. There is a wild beast in my heart and she will not be tamed. She is I and I am she. We can only be together. She warbled softly when the priest came to stand besides her, looking out into the night. Down the hill a ways some of the local wildlife fought the reanimated corpses of the Amani ancestors.
She needed freedom more than anything and so the Druid path was the only real choice their had been. Her people had many paths and many professions but to become a Druid and heal the scars of the world was one of the most revered. Her mother and father were her most loving supporters. In her up close and personal pursuit of the magic and power of nature they allowed freedom above and beyond what others gave their children. What she saw and experience even as a babe forever shaped who she was and would be the rest of her life: Druid and feral and wild.
"You feel the corruption of this land." His voice hitched. After a moment to gather his nerve he spoke again, "You feel it as I do. As I did."
Startled, the Druid looked up at him. He had been here? When this happened to this land, he was here? She crooned in sadness and nudged at his hand. To see your land and your people destroyed? It wasn't fair; even if they were Horde now they had once been a part of her own race and it wasn't right that their children and children's children continue to suffer so long after the fact.
Her nose brushed his holy book, always hanging from his waist, and the power shot threw her in a warm and inviting jolt. It had done the same in Duskwood when he healed her beaten body.
No, she could not deny that the Priesthood had called to her. Though certain that her days were not mean to be spent tending to the shrines of the fallen and tirelessly working by the deathbeds of heroes, she could not lie that, as a Druid, she felt the immense pain of the corrupted lands. In sorrow she wished she were powerful enough to do something. Anything! Druids above all tend to the forests and fields of their homelands, forever content to just exist in harmony.
Of its own accord, his hand comes to rest on top of her head. This formerly strange feeling of being petted was now as familiar to her as the emptiness in her stomach. Though never when the Warlock was present the Priest had inadvertently discovered the soothing effects of petting a cat. The bigger the better it seemed. For all the stress he dealt with as part of his job, being called from every corner of the world, had made him a legend among healers. The Warlock of her own accord mitigated as much of his troubles as she was able, though unwittingly caused just as many threw her own faults.
I'm sorry, I wish there were something I could do. Though never giving much though to where she wanted to go with her life, or what she wanted to do to help the Alliance, she was fiercely loyal to their cause. Especially since the Orcs have made no signs of slowing their invasion of her homelands. Just a few miles away from her family home even there was an outpost on the Zoram Strands.
Taking up the feral arts had proved to be advantageous. The form of the bear, the hardest form to master according to her teachers, came to her as easily as the cat. Seeing her talents the teachers had sent her out into the field as soon as she learned to control the bear's inconsolable rage. Never afraid to stand up front and take the brunt of the damage, the ability snap and snarl in just the right way to make herself appear the biggest of the threads despite her small size – at least long enough for the enemies to be picked off from a distance – had her being called on quite a bit to clear out some of the Furbolg and Naga threads to her people's land.
I suppose, she though to him, even though he couldn't hear, I will learn more about the bear aspect. I seem very good at it. Standing back and making sure everyone is healed is not my way; I prefer being in the thick of things making sure the job gets done!
Briefly he traces a finger over her collar in a precise pattern; it glows and then dims. "Let us take a walk?" he asks, motioning to the deer trails before them. The trails are narrow and they will have to walk single file, bringing them even closer to the Amani Catacombs with their undead denizens.
Before one foot is in front of the other the Druid notices she has feet. Born of two legs, a Druid must hold other forms by will and the collar had been forcibly doing so, but no longer.
Gasping, she looks down at herself then up at him. Being upright gain felt strange. Even young, she only of fourteen years, she is almost as tall as he. One day she will be even taller. Cool, almost cold, air breezes over her lightly tinted skin and causes a shiver. It ruffles the fly-aways of hair, which was still done in the Dwarven fashion with braids in a tale. Her friends had passed around a fashion publication the morning she had departed for the hunt…
Looking down, she gasped to see wearing nary a thing she had put on the day of her capture. Not even her bag. A cloth belt was fastened around her waist, on which her hearthstone was attached like a buckle, and over her starving frame was a simple white woolen dress.
"Who dressed me?" The Priest turned back to her and grinned, wicked even in his holiness.
