Common Ground
CHAPTER ONE – An Act of Mercy
One minute Pelcyr was rapt with concentration; the next she was gasping for breath, staring into the fading sky. There was sticky wetness on her lips and the world was out of focus. She couldn't breathe-
"Pelcyr!" Medarion was screaming her name but his voice was getting more and more distant. She struggled to sit up and found something braced across her middle, holding her with uncaring ferocity. She couldn't breathe. Black edges crept into her vision and she clenched her jaw, fighting unconsciousness, trying to see or to feel what was going on. All she could remember was watching the boys take on a young wyvern together, standing back to heal them if it got out of hand. But they had been doing well, winning, though the beast was young and strong. Together they could take it down. And then? And now?
She couldn't breathe.
"Medarion-" Beln panted, stumbling up the path after his friend. "Med, wait, I can't-" He bent over, hands on knees, gasping. He was dizzy from blood loss and altitude, scrambling after the panicked Night Elf on a path that was barely a path and strewn with loose rock and thin, twining roots.
"Maybe you should go on alone. I'll wait here-" he offered, taking the moment to sit and drink a swallow of water.
Medarion looked torn- part of him wanted to leave his friend and pursue his sister, but he couldn't leave the injured man.
"No, no. I'll not leave you. I can't- spirits, she can't be gone."
"No she can't. And we'll find her. Just, just let me catch my breath. I'll be useless if I can't move."
Medarion snorted. "That's a lie. Your role is to stand there and look like a big, blue target while stuff hits you. And while it hits you, I hit it."
"Ugh," Beln curled his lip, "too simple. Come on. Without Pelcyr, we're both useless."
Pelcyr woke to a cold, consuming agony. It gripped her torso from sternum to groin and she nearly lapsed into unconsciousness again. But she could breathe- barely. Her breath whistled and shook in her chest and when her rib-cage expanded, she saw white lights and her eyes rolled. Trembling, she raised her hands, closed her eyes and willed herself to concentrate. Serenity. She tried to find the soothing white gulf of peace that she drew on to heal. It was there, clouded with panic and fear and worry but it existed. She could use it.
Something rolled her roughly onto her stomach and she drew a long gagging breath to scream then found the pain simply too cloying to express. Serenity lost, she stared, uncomprehending at the rude bed of sticks and feathers and scraps of unmentionable debris she had been thrust on. Little chiming chirps approached and she suddenly realized what had happened: the fledgling wyvern in combat, it's cries increasingly more desperate, the sudden shadow and unknown source of pain- the little wyvern had been rescued. Pelcyr had been snatched up in retribution, or perhaps simply expediency, and brought home to their prey's younger siblings.
She was in the wyvern nest with the matriarch's paw on her back and two hungry babies eying her up from a foot away.
"Oh spirits no-" she managed, "Please no-" The adult pridewing growled encouragement from behind her and Pelcyr whimpered and felt tears spill down her cheeks. This was not how she wanted to die! She couldn't be this useless, end this young! She was supposed to grow up helping Beln and her brother, grow up to mentor the next generation of priests, grow honoured and old and someday die heroically-
One of the baby wyverns squeaked in surprise and they paused in their wary inspection of the still-groaning morsel in their nest. Pelcyr coughed, tasting blood and the next instant found herself flattened against the nest as the matriarch bellowed and fell against her. Pelcyr struggled to roll away, the wyvern's wings beating frantically, claws shearing at something the wounded Night Elf couldn't see. Light flared, incinerating the matriarch and part of the nest. One final flailing paw smashed into her cheek and Pelcyr dropped into darkness again.
This time when she came to, there was a gentle voice encouraging her.
"Come child, you are strong. You will not die of this. You are strong. Be alive." The voice was deep and female and accented but speaking words that Pelcyr understood. She wanted to believe those words, desperately.
"Augh..." she moaned, "what... happened?" The world was still out of focus; all she could see was the sky again and dark projections into it that were probably the tops of trees. The sky was too bright. She closed her eyes.
"Ah ah, now, we will have not of that, no, keep your eyes open, child. Talk to me."
"Everything's fuzzy."
"You were hit on the head. What is your name?"
"Pelcyr... Woodsgrace."
"Good. Have you any family?"
"Brother... Medarion. He... was with... me. Is he all right?"
"Hmmm... only you in the nest. I saw no other."
"He must have... got away."
"That is good. An elder brother or younger?"
Pelcyr wrinkled her nose. Dried blood flaked off at the action. "Younger. Must be... out of his... mind worrying now."
"Good brothers do that," said the voice.
"Who are you?" asked Pelcyr.
"No, not yet. First we get you somewhere safe. You talk and stay awake."
"About what?"
"Describe what you can see."
"I can see the sky," said Pelcyr and as she spoke, she realized they were moving. The woman's voice came from above her head, in the direction of their travel but Pelcyr couldn't see her. Pelcyr felt around with half-numb fingers and found rough wooden poles, the bark still on, twine and a soft pelt, probably wolf. She was on a travois, pulled by her anonymous rescuer.
Pelcyr's vision slowly coalesced into something acceptable and her narration of their journey grew more detailed.
"Its going to rain," she said, "I can smell it."
"As can I," said the woman. "I see a cave. We will go there."
"My brother..."
"I will find him in the morning if he has not already found us," she promised.
Pelcyr saw the sky close up with clouds and then the patchwork of treetops and then completely disappear as they entered the cave. The travois was set down and Pelcyr lay still, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom and her head revel in the soothing darkness.
A little glow bloomed as the woman struck sparks with flint and steel and the tinder caught. In the soft light, Pelcyr craned her head to squint at her rescuer. It took her a long time to resolve what she was seeing, both because she was upside down and because the knocks to the head had slowed her down a bit.
"You're not a Night Elf," she said, puzzled. The woman- a bulky dark smudge between Pelcyr and the fire- chuckled.
"Oh no, not a Night Elf."
"I thought you were. You're speaking Darnassian."
"Very badly, probably."
"Well, not that badly. But I thought maybe you were foreign or... something."
"No, I learned your language in my youth. It has come in handy. Now, I will help you sit up and bind your stomach."
Pelcyr tried to look down at herself. She could make out a fast and hap-hazard swathe of bandages- Pelcyr's own from her pack, she saw. "Stomach?"
"When it picked you up, it pierced you in three places," said the woman softly.
Then she knelt down within the firelight and Pelcyr's eyes widened. Her heart pounded but she made no other response.
"You're Tauren," she said.
"Yes," said the woman. Pelcyr stared. She was enormous- her biceps were thicker than Pelcyr's waist- dressed in battle-worn but clearly well-crafted leather armour. The parts of her not buried in layers of toughened leather were covered in sleek fur of unrelieved black. She was watching Pelcyr watch her. "I will not hurt you."
Pelcyr took in the detailed, inscribed armour, the pale scars on the Tauren's muzzle, the massive breadth of her shoulders, the worn, chipped horns and concluded that this was someone who, if she had wanted Pelcyr hurt, would have been capable of doing it bare-handed and blind-Jashided.
"Okay," she managed but continued to stare. "Why...?"
"Because you are a child and no child deserves to die as you were about to," said the woman.
"Th-thank you," whispered Pelcyr, "I am in your debt. What is your name?"
"Ironcore."
"My name is-"
"It's okay child, you already told me."
"Oh. My head..." said Pelcyr, embarassed and flustered. She sat still, feeling awkard and tense. Ironcore leaned forward and with one enormous hand, slowly pushed Pelcyr upright until the Elf was sitting cross-legged. Leaning forward helped her abdomen feel less painful. "I'm a priest," Pelcyr offered. "I can help you heal me."
"No need. Do not push yourself. You need to rest." And a swirling green light sprang up around the Tauren's hands. For a moment, Pelcyr was mesmerized by the rhythmiclly flowing energy, then she blinked.
"You're a Druid."
"I am."
"So you learned Darnassian from the elves in Moonglade."
"I did."
"Um," said Pelcyr, eyes sliding shut. The green glow twined around her in gentle tides and Pelcyr felt herself growing more relaxed. Her stomach barely hurt at all now.
Ironcore caught the elf when she fainted.
"This has turned out to be a singularly horrific experience," said Beln between chattering teeth. He figured he was at the moment more dead than alive, more asleep than awake and more mud than Draenei. The clouds had conspired to eviscerate themselves on the mountains about an hour ago and drop a gutload of torrential rain on the two injured adventurers. Medarion plugged onwards, eyes fixed in a wide, unseeing stare. Beln, the more grievously wounded of the two, was now limping heavily despite the linen bandage wrapped tightly around his calf.
"I won't leave her here," said Medarion. His voice was a searching monotone.
"No, we won't but we must rest."
"She's out here somewhere, all alone and hurt. She's my only sister. If she has to- to die, then she should at least be with me."
"Hey," said Beln, more gently, "She won't die. Pelcyr is tough. She's got a cool head and more importantly she can heal herself. We'll find her."
"We'll find her," echoed Medarion and continued doggedly up the slope. At the crest of the ridge, he stopped. The rain was turning the ground at their feet into mud. Beln slipped on his bad leg and went down onto his knees with a grunt and a colourful curse.
"Beln-" said Medarion, with worry in his voice.
"I'll be fine," the warrior replied, hobbling back into a standing position. He leaned heavily on his sheathed longsword, trying to ignore what the dirt and the water were doing to the beautifully oiled scabbard. "The matriarch flew- look." He pointed and Medarion sighted along his arm with precise Night Elf eyes.
"The nest. But-"
"When your sister gets mad, she gets blazing mad!" Most of the nest was missing, charred and falling apart to the ground below. As they moved closer, they could see all that was left of the wyvern matriarch: half the pelvis, charred crisp with one blackened leg still attached, an arm's length of the spine and the tail, which was curiously intact and unburnt. A fistful of singed brown hair remained near the front end of the mess to mark where the beast's head had been.
"Wow," was all Medarion said. Beln squinted at the ground, trying to discern anything else through driving rain and bouts of shivering. Medarion poked around in the mud near the dead pridewing.
"There could be a set of tracks here, but the rain's pummeled all the detail out of them."
"At least we know she walked away from it."
"Walked, yes, but how far? Something like that- I didn't even know she was capable of that kind of power. Afterwards she would have passed out from fatigue. If she did walk, she can't have gone far." Medarion was already up and circling the scene, scrutinizing the ground and raising his head to gaze into the rain.
"Pel's smart. She'd know what that kind of move would do. She'd look for somewhere to hole up and recover."
"A cavern?"
"Or at least a big tree."
Their searching took on a fresh angle and the men spiralled out relentlessly from the nest, pushing aside branches, peering into holes and behind boulders.
"Damn this rain!" Medarion said bitterly. "I can hardly see ten feet in front of me! She could be here and we'd never even see her! I could be missing her by an arm's length!"
Beln plodded ahead, bleary-eyed and bone-cold. A sense of dire urgency was beginning to permeate his brain. "Medarion, I have to rest. I can't feel my right leg."
The Night Elf whirled. "What? You didn't say anything-"
"I didn't think it was this serious," said the warrior in a strained voice. "I've got to rest."
"Yes. Here, lean on me." Medarion struggled to haul Beln's arm over his shoulders and squared his feet to accept the Draenei's weight as Beln's leg gave out completely. The warrior swore again but his speech was clumsy and garbled. "Dammnit," muttered Medarion. "We passed a little crevice just a couple minutes ago. It'll do."
The crevice was just that: enough of a space to squeeze two broad-shouldered men and a tiny fire into and keep them all out of the elements. Neither of them could lie down and as soon as Medarion had the fire going, Beln slumped against the wall in exhausted slumber.
The young Night Elf man stared out into the storm and hoped his sister had found refuge somewhere, alive.
Pelcyr woke to songbirds and a shaft of early sun splashed across her legs like a blanket. She felt a bit fuzzy-headed but so very comfortable. There was the smell of wood smoke and something pleasant cooking. When was the last time she'd had someone else make her breakfast? Pelcyr couldn't remember. Slowly, carefully, she eased herself up, legs straight out before her, leaning back on her hands.
Ironcore knelt by the fire, stirring something in a pot.
"Good morning," said the Tauren, in mellow, unaccented Common. Pelcyr experimentally raised one hand and scratched gingerly at the blood mat in her hair.
"How many languages do you speak?" she asked with a tiny grin.
"Five," said the druid and sniffed at the contents of the pot. "Porridge?"
"I was just trying to think of the last time anyone made me breakfast. I couldn't. Now there's a Tauren making me porridge."
The Tauren in question gave a throaty chuckle. "Don't be too impressed. The nice smell it's giving off is just because I have to mask my terrible cooking skills with delicious spices." She used a battered metal spoon to scoop some of the meal into a bowl and brought it to Pelcyr. "Eat this. I am going to look for your lost men. If something dangerous comes by while I am gone, you can use the red bottle in that corner as a distraction and then escape."
Pelcyr looked across the cavern to the bottle. It appeared innocent enough.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Immolation Oil," Ironcore replied. "Throw it and run." Pelcyr ate- no, Ironcore was not the world's greatest cook but the spices were delicious- and watched as her rescuer donned the rest of her armour and shouldered a mace taller and heavier than Pelcyr herself. The druid nodded and was gone.
"Unbelievable," she murmured to herself.
Ironcore paused on the ledge below the cavern. The storm of the previous night had broken near dawn and left the valley sparkling and clean. It had also rendered the unvegetated portions of the mountainsides very treacherous. With a sigh, the druid dug her toes into the mud and attempted not to slide all the way down on her tail.
Once in the valley, she didn't have to go far before she recognized despairing voices. They were speaking Common, one with the distinctly genteel Night Elf accent and one with something more flambouyant and rough. She stopped, listened, considered and picked her way through the puddles and debris towards the two.
"Do what you were doing last night," said the Draenei. He was leaning against the boulder behind him, putting all his weight on his left foot. There was more red than white to the bandage around his calf. "Work in a spiral, starting with the nest."
The Night Elf he was addressing continued to cast about himself with no sense of reason, panicked and over-wrought.
"What if she fainted? There was so much water- what if she-"
"Medarion!" bellowed the Draenei and whacked his open palm against the rock behind him, "Stop it! Look for her and don't give up til you find her! I'm not going- oh Twisting Nether, just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse…"
Ironcore continued to amble toward the pair, who were now frozen mid-decision. Did they stand their ground against her and inevitablly lose? Would the Night Elf run and leave his friend to save himself?
"I mean you no harm," she said in Common and stopped a sufficient distance from them that when she unshouldered the mace and dropped it (one-handed) to the ground beside her, they cautiously straightened out of their respective half-crouches. The Draenei couldn't hold any sort of passable defensive stance, thought he was trying, and the Night Elf looked too bothered to attempt it.
"If you are looking for a young Night Elf woman named Pelcyr, then be assured she is safe."
At that, the Night Elf half-turned his head to eye her with bald suspicion, but the Draenei fell to his knees with a exclamation of relief.
"Please," he said, "please be telling the truth."
"I have nothing to gain by lying or hurting either of you. Come, I'll take you to her. It looks like her night was considerably more comfortable than yours."
The two men exchanged a wary look. The Elf approached slowly, weariness and mistrust showing in every motion.
"If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't bother with some elaborate lie to lure you away from the safety of your broken rock."
The Draenei gave a sharp yip of laughter and began the arduous process of levering himself up-right, using his sword. Ironcore approached them, leaving her mace in the mud, and held out a hand to the limping warrior.
"Save your weapon for warfare," she said. He seized her forearm and she did the same, single-handedly supporting his weight while he adjusted himself.
"Great spirits," he muttered to himself. He couldn't close his hand around her forearm and her grip on his was obviously calculated to support but not crush. Beln had seen Taurens before, mostly from afar, had even fought a young bull when they had surprised each other in Ashenvale, but he had never been this close to a trained adult. As she helped him stand and then guided his arm around her waist, he couldn't help but feel... rather un-manned.
"How did you find her?" asked Medarion. His wounds seemed mostly superficial and his drive to find his sister was out-competing the need for rest at the moment. Ironcore turned her head, chin brushing the crest of the Draenei's horns.
"I was on the ridge above when I saw the pridewing bring her into the nest."
"So you did that to the wyvern."
"Yes, I'm afraid."
"Afraid?"
"She had two young."
There was a long silence.
"Where are they now?" asked Medarion.
"In my backpack, in the cave with your sister," replied the Tauren. "I'll take them to Thousand Needles to be trained as Windriders." Medarion nodded and caught Beln's eye. Beln quirked one corner of his mouth up and then looked at the woman.
"My name is Beln; this is Medarion Woodsgrace. Next time I hear anyone make cow jokes, I will happily knock their teeth down their throat."
"I am Ironcore," she said with a chuckle. "You can start with the Blood Elves."
Medarion paced along behind the Tauren and Beln, alternately biting his fingernails and combing them through his hair, thoughts racing. Foremost on his mind was the mantra This is a trap this is a trap this is a trap. Just looking at the cow's back made the hairs on his neck stand up. Maybe it was the cloak- something heavy and fine and probably enchanted- swinging from her shoulders that gave him a sense of forboding. She was obviously powerful enough to murder them both, so why was she helping them? Had she actually rescued Pelcyr? He desperately wanted to believe that she had and he wouldn't allow himself to not take the chance.
Medarion's gaze switched to Beln's back: he had a short, simple cape that ended at his belt and was, at the moment, crumpled haphazardly by the Tauren's arm linked around his waist. Beln leaned into her whole-heartedly but if their places were reversed, Medarion knew he would have demanded Beln be the one supporting him, fatigue or not.