Blood, Lash, and Ta'lim had all been in the middle of setting up their tents for the night when they'd seen something completely inexplicable which had halted their actions in a breath. The three watched as Shadow, a goliath among even the giants of the Horde, stepped silently to the side. Again.
And again.
He noticed them watching him and held a finger up to his lips. It wasn't like any of them could have said anything anyway. They couldn't believe that a fully plated tauren could move so quietly.
Mitchell, however, was too busy inspecting Wren and Sethyl with furrowed brow to notice the shadow that fell over him as the tauren inched over to him. The two elves were desperately flying through the fake mana crystals that Mitchell and Haa'aji had swapped with their real ones during their zeppelin ride. Worse, Sethyl was getting more and more irritable the longer he went without quelling his need for magic. Wren, on the other hand, just seemed to be getting tired.
Mitchell had rather hoped they would have similar side effects for mana withdrawal. As it was, he would need to study far more subjects to see which signs were more telling of an addiction about to spiral out of control. Hopefully it wouldn't vary too greatly.
"What, pray tell, are you up to?"
Mitchell shrieked and whirled around, sending a fireball flying through the air just inches away from Shadow's face, leaving some of his facial fur and mane singed. As Mitchell realized it was not some vicious abomination towering over him, but rather a guild mate, he ground his teeth. "What in the nether is wrong with you?" He paused and glanced around Impervious' camp to see that almost everyone was watching him. However, most simply laughed it off and went back to setting up for the night. As he turned back to Shadow, he didn't notice Wren's gaze linger in his direction. "You don't sneak up on people like that!"
Shadow couldn't hide his grin. "What's got you so captivated?"
Mitchell eyed Shadow for a moment and then looked around for Haa'aji. They wanted to keep their experiment from the elves—since the elves knowing they were being tested and studied would probably not go over well—so they'd agreed to be careful who they told. Margaret or the guild leaders were out of the question. They'd demand the duo cease and desist. However, Shadow was sort of on the fence. After all, he went along with some of their...mishaps and misadventures.
Haa'aji was absent from their gathering. With a frown, Mitchell looked back at Shadow. Should he tell him? Why did that troll have to disappear at the most important times? Haa'aji would be better at gauging the situation...
"Mitchell?"
The mage jumped again, despite himself. Glancing over his shoulder, he was sure that if he were capable, he would have paled. "...Yes, Wren?"
With a faint smile, Wren nodded to him. He looked horrible. Blackish circles encompassed his eyes, making even his eyelids look bruised, and his shoulders were slumped, as though even such a simple action as standing upright was becoming too heavy a burden.
Mitchell shifted his weight as Shadow bit his tongue to keep from commenting on how rough their guild mate appeared. "...Was there something you needed?"
Blinking slowly, Wren paused and then nodded. He reached up and ran his fingers through his stringy bangs. "Yes...sorry. I'm a bit...out of it." He seemed to take a moment to focus on Mitchell's face, as though he was confused to see the straps crisscrossing the mage's face and wondering where he ought to direct his gaze to meet Mitchell's. "I…think someone's playing...tricks." He tried to offer them a smile. "Even after Hallow's End has ended." When Mitchell merely furrowed his brow, Wren paused, gathering his thoughts with effort. "I think someone's placed a curse of exhaustion on me."
Even as Mitchell's eyes widened almost far enough for the empty sockets to be glimpsed behind his bindings, a sharp, disapproving noise came from behind him, and he glanced back at Shadow. However, the death knight merely glared down at him. "Mages can remove curses, can't they?"
Mitchell jumped and whipped his attention back to Wren. "What? Right, of course." Cloudless was generally the one to remove curses during battles, so Mitchell had to fumble through his spell book, all the while wondering why Wren had come to him of all people. Why not Sprocket or Margaret or Genji? Or Zereesa? The little mage was still traveling with them for whatever reason. Or even Sethyl? He glanced toward the paladin to see him kick his tent and send the whole thing collapsing on itself all because he couldn't stretch one of the ties quite far enough to secure the side.
Okay, he could see why Wren might want to avoid Sethyl. Mitchell finally found the spells he was looking for, half hidden beneath a folded page. He paused, remembering how he'd had to remove one of Timmons' curses from Roberts years ago. He'd dog-eared the page back then, in case he ever needed it again. A pity that had been lost among almost a hundred other dog-ears and loose sheets of paper stuffed between pages, each indicating a spell of particular importance to some scenario housed somewhere in the disjointed scribblings across the paper.
Mitchell glanced over them quickly before settling on the strongest of his spells. While he knew Wren's ailment was no symptom of a curse, he didn't want the elf to think he was dismissing his concerns. That might raise suspicions.
However, as soon as the spell had left his lips, his jaw dropped. His spellbook thudded to the ground as Wren did the same.
Wren reeled. Whispers were coming from every direction, even ones that he was certain ought not to exist. The air was thick with magic, as was the ground, the plants crushed beneath his knees, the bodies around him. Everything seemed to have suddenly offered some type of spell or incantation a home, and every last spell was chattering as though it had a voice that could actually be heard.
And he could feel the different magics brushing against him, flowing beneath him, crawling along his skin, curious to see why he was suddenly so in tune with their existence.
Wren wanted to bundle himself up in magic resistance gear and plug up his ears or just mana tap the world into silence and stillness. Even as the soundless voices overwhelmed him, it occurred to him that this was the first time he'd ever seen magic so clearly. It was as though he'd been watching the world through a thick screen, with only little wisps of the ethereal slipping through to him. Now, for whatever the reason, it had all laid itself bare for him. And his senses couldn't handle it.
He thought he recognized a voice. A real one. Glancing up, he could barely make out Margaret's face among the thousands of runes that flickered through the air.
He opened his mouth to tell her to speak up, but magic seeped down his throat, coating his tongue with a sweet taste before continuing down to fill his lungs. Even as he choked on the arcane, he crumpled forward, into the forsakenness' arms.
Margaret shook Wren, her voice decibels above its normal tone. "Wren? Wren?" She looked him over frantically and then snapped a horrified gaze up toward Mitchell. "Light and nether, what did you do?"
Mitchell shook his head, desperate for his word to be true, "N-nothing. Other than remove any curses he might have..."
Gregor knelt at Wren's side, brushing the elf's hair back to see the farstrider had passed out. "Let's get him to his tent—"
"It's not set up yet," Shadow murmured, motioning with his head to the pitiful looking campsite, with the elf's tent still bundled up and only a few supports sticking crookedly from the ground. Mitchell wanted to curse himself for focusing only on the elf and not his surroundings. Wren's fatigue was far worse than he'd expected...but then, it had only been two days since they'd switched his mana crystals for fake ones. Could he really be suffering so quickly?
"Help me get him to mine, then," Gregor murmured, beginning to loop an arm under Wren's shoulders. However, Shadow merely stayed his hand and hoisted the elf up himself, practically cradling the creature with a single arm.
"Lead the way."
As Mitchell gaped at their receding forms, Margaret's voice captured his attention. It was eerily calm. "What did you do to him?"
"Nothing," Mitchell snapped, a bit too forcefully.
Margaret stood straighter than usual as she watched Shadow lower Wren into Gregor's and Roberts'—who'd come over to help—arms and held the tent flap up so that the duo could drag Wren into the tent and lay him down. She didn't speak until Shadow released the canvas and started back toward them. "If I find out you hurt Wren, I won't forgive you."
She didn't look at him as she resumed her slouch and walked after the others. Cinder got to the tent first and shooed both forsaken out so that she could sit with the farstrider and cast a few healing spells on him. Several other guild mates, as well as Zeresa, had taken to crowding the entrance, asking questions Gregor had no clue how to answer. Before Shadow could get to Mitchell, Gregor called him back, trying to piece together what had happened.
"De hell, mon?"
Mitchell didn't bother to look as he tossed a fire spell over his shoulder. Even when he heard Haa'aji curse something about being lucky to not have eyebrows, Mitchell couldn't muster a smile. "You have to give Wren back his mana crystals."
Haa'aji stepped forward and squatted down beside Mitchell, eyeing the mage and then watching the desperate conversations a few yards away. Sethyl was hanging back, looking as though he wanted to ask what was wrong, but fearing he might simply snap at anyone who wasn't forthcoming fast enough.
"Ah ain't got 'em," Haa'aji shrugged. "Give Sethyl's back. Dey can share 'til we be reachin' anotha Horde outpost. Some sin'dorei can loan dem some dea, Ah be sure."
Mitchell wanted to pull his Mohawk out. "I tossed Sethyl's off the zeppelin. I figured they'd be able to sense the crystals if I was carrying them around and that they'd figure out that theirs were fake. Give them Wren's."
Haa'aji frowned at Mitchell as though he were a child asking to wield his father's sword. "When dem goblins tossed meh ova de side a de zeppelin...Ah dropped Wren's when Ah been untanglin' mahself." Haa'aji turned a critical eye toward Sethyl. "So den. At least we got ah answa, yeh? Dat magic addiction be real, not just in dea heads."
Mitchell's eye twitched. "We have to fix this."
"Ah got it, mon," Haa'aji whispered, disappearing again.
Mitchell was left to himself for a few minutes before Haa'aji was abruptly beside Sethyl, messing with his mana crystal pouch. The paladin snatched it back and then tapped a few in quick succession as soon as they were his again. His relief was almost instant.
Even as the paladin peered down at his mana crystals, clearly confused, Haa'aji disappeared again. Mitchell waited with growing impatience before Haa'aji finally reappeared next to him. "A'ight. I gave two real ones ta Cinda ta give ta Wren when he wake up."
"Where did you get them?"
"Bloodsworn's playt'in'."
Mitchell stopped short, staring blankly at Haa'aji as he tried to think why Liila would have mana crystals. Then, abruptly, a movement caught his eye, and he stood stock still as he watched Zeresa pacing near Wren's tent, hands wringing.
"She's—"
"Yep."
"And we're just…traveling with her?"
"Yep."
Mitchell glanced up at Haa'aji, who was watching the spy with relative disinterest. "Does Liila know?"
"Yep."
"And…anyone else?"
"Buncha diffe'ent people."
"Am I the last to know?"
"Nah," Haa'aji reached over and patted the side of his Mohawk gingerly. "Ah be lettin' ya in de loop befoa Timmons dis time."
Mitchell had to say, he felt pretty important to be included in something before than despicable warlock. Though… Timmons had seemed to have drawn into himself ever since his heartbeat.
Still…
~"~
Adrias Duskflame had barely been sober since little Liila's adventures in Silvermoon.
While, yes, his brother's attack—in public no less—had left him in a rather fickle mood, truth be told he was unsettled and upset well before that.
When he'd set up Liila to arrive early, he hadn't really cared if something terrible happened. Misunderstandings, dismemberment, death. It hadn't meant much. One less quel'dorei to mar the world with their presence.
He'd been nigh giddy when he'd shown up and heard the conflict going on near the translocation orb. He would have joined the fun, or so he'd thought, until those idiot ambassadors had run over to help.
As they'd lectured the blood knight and spoken to the high elf in soft voices, Adrias had slipped close enough to see her, and the second he had, his world had started to crack.
He hadn't gotten a good look at her, but from what he'd seen…
Liila had looked like a ghost from his past.
Despite trying to convince himself to untangle himself from the mess he'd caused, he hadn't gotten far, instead lurking in the Sunspire courtyard, waiting. He hadn't even realized he'd been watching the exit from the Spires until the ambassadors had entered into the city with a sin'dorei on their heels.
There had been a few inconsistencies from his memory. While he'd only seen her once or twice, that face had been ingrained into his memory.
She was thinner, sharper than she used to be, her hair shorter, expression muted, but it was her.
Amaeria Lightswill.
Gryst'lyn Emberdawn's long lost fiancé.
Adrias despised Amaeria completely. He'd wished for her death so many times over, figuring she deserved it for stealing his best friend, the only person in the entire world who understood him. He'd wished for her to meet countless horrid ends, and then when she had…
When she'd been lost to the Scourge, Gryst'lyn had refused to accept it. He'd been so fucking dedicated. Once they'd failed to save her, he'd left.
Left the city, their people, Adrias.
He'd gone into the Plaguelands and never returned.
While many had assumed him dead, Adrias knew better. Whatever staggering odds Gryst'lyn had faced, he still drew breath.
Adrias knew.
After all, he'd soulstoned him.
Adrias glanced down at the blackish-purple stone resting in his palm, turning it idly and watching the ethereal flicker of light from deep within it.
Gryst'lyn still drew breath, for his soul was content to stay with Adrias. Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps if Gryst'lyn knew the truth about where his soul was, he'd be furious at the warlock, but Adrias couldn't bring himself to care.
If there was one person in this world that deserved to live, to have a second chance at life, it was Gryst'lyn.
He deserved everything.
And yet…
And yet when Adrias thought about Amaeria, about Gryst'lyn wrapping his arms around her, taking her in his bed, resuming their happy march to the altar, it made his skin crawl.
A good friend would let him know. A good friend would track him down and tell him that his fiancé yet lived. A good friend would reunite them, and bask in the warmth of their rekindled love.
A good friend would do a lot of things. Adrias had struggled to be mediocre at best. With a ragged breath, he poured himself another shot of whiskey and kept drinking.
~"~
Wren felt like he was swimming through muck. Loud, angry muck filled with cicadas and tree frogs and all manners of noisy insects, each one swarming around his head and trying to crawl into his ears. To make sure they'd be the last thing he ever heard.
Most of them sounded off-key, like they were musical instruments who had been tuned wrong. While they waltzed through their regular songs, the entire melody was askew, bastardized and demented.
And then, there was a single, soft chime in the din that struck a pure note. Wren strained his ears, trying to hear it better, but it made no difference. However, the din had begun to change, with that single chime. Instead of insects, he could hear…he wasn't sure. It wasn't a voice per se, though it did remind him of the magics that flowed through Eversong.
The ones that had come with the Scourge.
A terror struck him that he was being risen and even as he tried to find the strength to raise his hands and wrench away the magics that would strip his soul of its dying graces and trap him in an eternal hell, the chime sounded again. Closer.
No. It was the same distance as before, but it was somehow more.
The angry stirrings around him seemed to grow frantic, grasping at him with tendril-like wisps of magic. As the ethereal fingers clung to his being, the chime came again. This time, it was merely the start of a soft melody, a crescendo of purer and purer notes, steadily building to a forte and drowning out the necrotic spells that had seeped into the very soil beneath him.
Wren blinked slowly, surprised to find that it was not angels hovering over him, but merely a rough burlap tent.
With a groan, he reached up to his head and tried to sit up, though a hand quickly caught his shoulder and pushed down. While he felt he could have easily overcome the pressure, he acquiesced to its will and continued to lay on his back.
It took him a moment to realize he could hear soft humming coming from somewhere to his side. He slowly turned his head to see Tizzle sitting beside him, lips turned in the faintest of smiles as he continued his faint melody. The little goblin was obviously tone deaf, but somehow it didn't matter. His hymn still held a pure ring to it, and it set Wren's soul at ease.
When Wren looked at him, he could have sworn the goblin turned a lighter shade of green, though he quickly recovered and offered him a smile. Tizzle nodded to him, abruptly dropping his song. "Glad to see ya made it, friend."
Wren felt the cascade of gentle magic taper off and realized that his guild mate must have been channeling a priest spell. He paused, waiting for something to happen. For the other magics to overwhelm him again, for his fatigue to come back tenfold.
Instead, nothing happened.
"Made it?"
Tizzle opened his mouth to reply and then hesitated, glancing toward the flap of the tent. With a sigh, he shrugged. "Somethin' happened ta ya mana crystals. We ain't sure when, but we think Haa'aji was behind it. No proof, of course." He hesitated. "Ya went inta pretty bad withdrawal, there."
Frowning, Wren pushed himself up into a sitting position, pausing to wave away Tizzle's second attempt to keep him lying down. He could feel the death magics all around them, yet somehow, he was able to tune out most of them, to listen to only the crystalline tinkles of shadows dancing across the landscape and light playing through clouds. The arcane was rich to the west, as well, though he didn't try to reach for it to quell his thirst for magic.
Rather, he didn't have much of a thirst for it at all.
Even before the fall of the Sunwell, he had never felt this sated. Tizzle continued on, saying that there was no rush to rejoin the others, but when Wren felt ready, they would head out, and that as the guild officer in charge of guild disputes, he would be willing to bring penalties down against whoever it was who had done this, so soon as the culprit was discovered.
However, Wren could barely keep his mind on what the goblin was saying. Instead, he felt a few lost strands of life winding through the air about them, and he longed to see them, to know whether they were merely remnants of Tizzle's spells, or actual life attempting to reclaim its lost continent.
Tizzle was just beginning to awkwardly ask Wren to keep in mind that not everyone was to blame and that Impervious would do everything in their power to make amends and 'fix' this travesty, when Wren reached his hand forward and clasped it around the lonesome spell whispering to him.
As he cupped his hand and turned it so that it was palm up, his fingers curling toward the sky, a small light flickered just above his skin. It lasted barely a second before it escaped his reach, but that was enough to cut Tizzle off in the middle of his sentence and leave him slack-jawed.
Wren didn't notice. Furrowing his brow, he focused again, calling the light back to him. It seemed hesitant to answer his call at first. However, Tizzle tapped his shoulder and arched an eyebrow as Wren gave him an irritated look.
The goblin spoke a single word.
At first, Wren didn't understand why he would be casting a healing spell. And then it dawned on him. Looking back to his palm, Wren repeated the word, and the light flashed in front of him, brighter this time.
Wren had cast the spell almost a dozen more times before large green hands clasped his and forced his attention to his guild mate. "Ya gonna wear yaself out, kid. The rest of the guild headed out west ta deal with some weird magic stuff goin' on in a place called Coldarra. We'll meet up with 'em when ya feelin' a bit better. No rush, though."
Even as Wren tried to protest, he suddenly realized that he felt like passing out again. He slumped forward, though he drew his knees up so he could lean on them. This didn't make any sense. How had a near death experience transformed him in such a profound way? How was this possible?
Turning his gaze toward Tizzle, the goblin was surprised to see an earnest awe on the elf's face. "You'll teach me, won't you? To use magic?"
Tizzle blinked at him twice before a grin swept across his features. "Sure thing. I'll even give ya the first few lessons free, since the guild nearly killed ya and all." Wren could barely contain his enthusiasm as he nodded. His goblin caretaker, however, fixed him with a stern look. "Now lay down and get some rest, ya hear me? I ain't gonna be responsible for ya tired ass fallin' off ya bird when we go ta catch up. And neither will Howl or Margaret—they stayed back, too. They're around somewhere, probably findin' us dinner."
Even as Wren lay back down, he paused thinking back over what the goblin had been saying earlier. As much as he wanted to settle in and listen to the soft chimes and rhythms of magic around him, the ones that whispered that hope was never more than a breath away, something Tizzle had said was finally sinking in.
"What was that about fixing something?"
Tizzle's mouth formed a thin line, and his ears flattened slightly. "Oh. That." He paused as though debating actually saying anything. "Ya might wanna rest up before we talk about that, actually."
Wren frowned. "Now I have to hear it."
"No, really—"
"If you don't tell me," Wren sat back up. "I'm going to worry about it, and I won't be able to sleep. And then I will fall off my 'bird'."
Tizzle sucked in a slow breath, obviously wishing to continue dancing around the subject. When Wren arched his eyebrows, he finally sighed. "Let's just say Liila ain't the only high elf of the Horde, anymore."
~"~
Lash's mount loped up beside Gore's, and he waved to get his attention, nodding toward his uncle when Gore finally looked his way. As his guild leader pulled on his own worg's reins, slowing to a pace that would allow him to talk, Lash felt a coil of unease in his gut.
When he'd told Gore about his name, his uncle had been so proud. Lash could have sworn the old orc nearly cried, though he'd kept such emotions in check and thumped his fist against his chest instead. Now, whenever Gore looked at Lash, there was a new sense of pride there, a glimmer in his eyes.
Gregor was not so pleased. He'd nearly gone off about fighting Alliance, terror plain in his voice, but Sham and Margaret had managed to drag him away before he could say anything that might belittle Lash's achievements.
Truly, all of the guild seemed proud of him. Gregor had later told him that he was happy he'd found himself a name. Lash had been most surprised to see the old bag of bones bow his head and apologize for his earlier actions, whispering something about forgetting himself.
Lash had accepted the apology graciously.
Gregor hadn't said much to him since, though.
However… it was hard to say if that was because of what Lash had done, or because of what Liila had done.
Whatever it was, he wasn't very well versed, but it seemed to have shaken Gregor to his core. His guild leader wasn't talking to Liila at the moment. By the ancestors, he seemed barely capable of looking at her.
As the two of them dropped back through the group until they were well behind the rest, Lash arched his brow, his stone gripped firmly in his palm as he tried not to panic. What if the tension was between him and Gregor after all? What if he was in trouble? Surely, he couldn't be. "If you wanted to talk, you could have just said something."
"I needed it to look like you wanted to talk to me," Gore replied, leaning forward in his saddle. When Lash cocked his head, Gore took in a weathered breath. "You know I am proud of you, yes?"
Lash hadn't been expecting that. He fumbled through an affirmative, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks, darkening them a few shades of green.
"You know that I think you are an integral part of our group and that I would never think you anything other than worthy, yes?"
Tension crept through Lash's shoulders. "What's this about?"
Taking in a deep breath, Gore closed his eyes and held up a hand, all but commanding Lash to stay put for whatever explanations or lectures he had in mind. "I need you to leave the guild."