A/N: hello, readers! Welcome to volume four of seven in a thread I like to call the Saga of Sharimara. Like all other stories in the series, you DO NOT need to read my other stories in order to understand this one. All context is given in the narrative itself and the paragraph below. Of course, I would like it if you read my other stories too, but I won't force you to do so.
This story takes place in the year 203 on the Warcraft timeline - for reference, the WoD expansion was in the year 31. This is Azeroth nearly two centuries in the future, where the events of the current games are just blips in the history books. Factions matter little, politics have obviously changed but it's still the Warcaft world. Enjoy!
The autumn sun was an odd feature of Winterspring. In such a cold region, the sun could still beat down harshly when it wanted to, and often at odd times in the day. While high noon was considered the warmest part of the day in many localities, the sun before dusk in that day felt particularly annoying in its heat. And in what was considered the territory of the Sentinels, the brightness of the sun didn't carry the positive connotation it did in other cultures.
Decked out in full armor, the two figures descended from their frost sabres and approached the huntress lodge that marked the only sign of intelligent life in the flat, open fields of snow. To say they were a little odd would have been accurate; from afar they could blend in, but up close there were a few deviations from the norm. One of them wore the medium armor typical of night elven sentries, forest green hair whipping in the wind. Unlike most night elven sentries, however, this individual also had a forest green beard, signifying him as the rare male sentry in a matriarchal society.
His larger companion was even more odd. Wearing the cape and plate armor of a Kaldorei warden, the woman bore the face of an elf and the ears and build of a troll; the long indigo ponytail lied somewhere in between. As the two new acquaintances walked, the man talked about the situation that was unfolding at the lodge.
"We really can't thank you enough for taking the time to come out here, Warden Hearthglen," he said with about as much nervousness as could be detected in the voice of a professional soldier. "Just be ready for the locals...they rarely come here, what with the big distances between each grove and all, but the news reporter keeps getting them whipped up about the loss of a national icon."
A common feature on the highways in Sentinel territory, the huntress lodge bore the familiar purple and blue hues typical of most proper night elven structures. Of course, quite a few of their people still preferred to live in trees, but those who didn't tended to dwell in structures boasting much less aesthetic variety than those of other peoples. Even in the midst of the pure white fields, there was a sense of familiarity with at least half of the warden's family heritage. A dugout covered by a naturally grown awning of tree roots marked the spot where the sabres could seek shelter from minor snowstorms (they'd be brought inside the lodge itself alongside their elven riders during major weather phenomena) and was occupied by at least a dozen of the dozing creatures. At the sound of a familiar sentry approaching, none of them stirred, knowing they didn't need to spring to the location's defense.
The lodge itself was quite large, though that wasn't surprising. Unlike the other regions under the flag of the Sentinels, Winterspring was mostly flat and open, and only a few provinces bore the cover and protection provided by forests. The sparsely placed huntress lodges on the highways were rather well fortified as a result, and both mobile and embedded glaive throwers lied unhidden and strategically placed around the three story lodge.
Before the two figures even reached the front steps, the warden could already see the journalist that the green haired sentry had warned her about.
Thin and short by the standards of Kaldorei men, the bookworm wearing a faction tabard sat in a bench in front of the lodge flipped through a notepad he'd obviously been using to record all of his observations. Obviously quite young by their standards, he appeared very serious about his work as he jotted down notes so fast that he almost dropped his pencil a few times. Once the two armor clad travelers reached the stairs, the commotion they could already hear from inside the lodge was drowned out by the sound of the journalist leaping to his feet, tripping and falling to his knees, and stumbling over it them before even wiping the snow off of his pants.
"Throrandil Willoweep of the Darnassus Moon," the rather presumptuous journalist said in a rush while flipping his press pass at them. Without even checking to see if either person was even interested in talking to him at all, the man began walking beside them and flipping through his notes. "Are you the bounty huntress they flew in here in order to track down the culprit in the frostsabre culls?"
The male sentry quite literally shoved Thorandil in the chest and knocked him down the stairs and into the snow again. The warden, for her part, didn't mind. "Last warning, Willoweep. The restraining order put on you still prevents you even from sitting on our bench, technically. Don't make me bring the priestess."
Just before the warden entered the tarp behind the sentry, she could hear the very annoying man shouting his defiance from a spot in the snow where he'd gotten stuck. "Go ahead, bring the priestess! The people have a right to know, and I have the right to investigate for them!"
Inside, the bottom floor of the lodge was typical for such structures, only larger than those in more heavily forested areas. It was essentially a large meeting hall and reception area, with the wings to the side and the upper floors left for various other purposes. A handful of huntresses and archers already appeared to have woken up despite the early hour - being nocturnal, few night elves enjoyed being awake before the moon had risen. Sleepy eyed and disinterested, they mostly either lingered around the administrative desk or the passageway leading out to the back veranda, lining either side of a crowd of huddled locals.
At least two druids stood among them, likely restoration druids judging by their robes. They were most often responsible for the growing of food since the faction had managed to avoid involvement in the last few major military conflicts; they'd certainly have their work cut out for them in a region as inhospitable as Winterspring. Surrounding them were normal civilians wearing the rough furs of harvesters, those responsible for gathering the rapid growing crops and cooking or otherwise preparing them for their neighbors. The group was about a dozen in total, and by the standards of elves they all appeared rather upset. On at least one occasion, one of the archers had to ask an irate local woman to back up from the one person everyone was trying to speak to.
"I'm very sorry, but I've delivered all the news that we have available to us at this current time," the obvious priestess announced, her silver eyes glowing even more powerfully than usual for their people. "And as much as I do enjoy hearing from our sisters and brothers, the reality is that there's nothing more to ask me that hasn't already been asked."
The woman's voice held that familiar kind firmness and firm kindness that priestesses of the moon were so well known for. The warden hadn't heard such a voice in a very long time, but she'd recognize a person of such a class anywhere. The irate local woman, a harvester sporting the rare silver hair color which could almost always be traced to Kaldorei families originally from the region, didn't seem satisfied.
"Priestess Pamaira, what does the government plan on actually doing?" the harvester asked urgently, visibly distraught and not directly angry at anyone so much as the situation. "This is a national tragedy for all children of the stars, how can we not be doing more about this?"
Laying a hand on the harvester's shoulder despite the woman's flaring nostrils, the priestess named Pamaira lowered her voice, causing the entire group to lean closer lest they miss a significant piece of information. "My sister, please understand," Pamaira said quietly in the face of a bad attitude, "that all of us feel the same. We at this lodge were charged by High Priestess Silverglade with the protection of these icons; their survival constitutes our entire life here." Pamaira paused for effect, and it seemed to succeed given the harvester's drooping ears. "Nobody cares about them as much as we do. Nobody on this planet. What we ask so that we may perform our jobs is your patience and understanding, so that we can focus on the task at hand."
Guilty due to her outburst, the harvester looked down and backed up to join her fellow villagers. "May Elune reward you, big sister," the woman mumbled.
Standing off to the side, the warden watched Pamaira and felt a measure of respect for the strange employer. Had the priestess wanted, she could have flipped the spotlight onto the newcomer in order to dodge dealing with the upset locals. That she chose not to do so was admirable, and the warden didn't make haste in nudging the male sentry to announce her presence.
"Ah...ishnu alah, Priestess Pamaira," the man mumbled in order to gain the attention of the leader of the lodge.
The group parted in order to allow Pamaira to face the two newcomers directly. Her relived smile spoke of a very subtle exhaustion that had just been wiped away and she motioned for the two of them to approach. "Has our guest arrived?" she asked rhetorically.
"Yes, priestess. This is Warden Sharimara Hearthglen, the individual who responded to the bounty we posted."
Murmurs broke out among the crowd of nearly a dozen locals. Most of them looked even more relieved than the priestess, while a few still appeared skeptical. The priestess nodded to Sharimara while beckoning the male sentry. "Nethel, please show our sisters and brothers in Elune to the canteen so that we may share a good meal; I need to have a moment with our guest out on the veranda," the priestess said while also ushering a few of the huntresses to help herd the local people away.
"Of course, priestess," the male replied as he and three huntresses escorted the harvesters and druids toward a different wing of the lodge.
Once they were a good distance away, the Pamaira turned to face the warden again, relaxing a bit as she clasped her hands and inspected the large woman's armor. Long ago, the woman wearing the gear of the wardens specific to the night elven people had been in touch with her roots. A life of hiring herself out to the highest bidder as Sharimara chased down Azeroth's worst villains and criminals had taken her far away, and it had been at least a century since she'd been in touch with those roots. In this case, they were the roots of her late mother's race, which she was ironically weaker in despite her profession. Her Darnassian was not as fluent as her Common, and despite the religious aphorisms peppering her speech, the last time she'd visited a temple had been more than a century prior.
Regardless, she still respected the traditions that she wasn't upholding as well as she should a great deal. Not wanting a priestess from the Sisterhood of Elune to be reduced to reaching forward and burdening herself to initiate the introduction, Sharimara stepped forward and ensured that she bowed lower than Pamaira, even attempting to kiss the woman's hand.
"That won't be necessary," Pamaira chortled while resisting the show of ritual reverence. "You are not from my flock, here; our relationship is that of one equal ensliting the help of another."
Smiling at that familiar humility in the Sisterhood, Sharimara felt a calmness that her doubt and misgivings had led her to believe was just a fantasy. "I don't accept that," she replied, much to Pamaira's amusement. "But I will not argue. And judging by the wording of the quest bulletin I found, I take it that there is no time to argue anyway."
Pamaira's smile didn't fade, but it lost a bit of its starlight. "Unfortunately true...walk with me, Warden Hearthglen." The two of them walked out onto the chilly veranda at the back end of the lodge, the furthest part from the highway. Pamaira hugged her heavy cotton cloak more tightly as they made their way across the spacious covered area toward the railing at the edge, just barely covered beneath the awning. "Please, take a look."
As far as the eye could see, the area beyond the highway, the lodge and the few amenities such as the hippogriff roost was draped in white. Not a blade of grass could be seen, and since the area was ostensibly a province of rolling hills and flat plains, there were virtually no trees. Just over the horizon, Sharimara could see the mountains, not simply capped in snow but completely covered in it to the point where not even a single space of the rock beneath was visible.
"It's gorgeous," Sharimara breathed as she tried to take in her surroundings.
"This land is sacred; frostsabres are only collected from the breeding populations here. We do not breed them in captivity, as opposed to the case of nightsabres. Though I'm sure you already know that..."
Sharimara hummed in her throat affirmatively. "True, but all I know of this crisis aside from what I read on the quest bulletin board are rumors. I would rather here the official story."
Getting right down to business, Pamaira inhaled deeply and launched directly into the summary of what Sharimara had - roughly - already heard.
"Each population of frostsabres is unique; unlike nightsabres, we don't crossbreed them or allow them to mate while in active duty. This works out numerically; nightsabres are used by huntresses, archers and the rest of the rank and file; frostsabres are reserved for my class, which obviously means we need much less of them. Nightsabres breed like rabbits but the demand is quite a bit higher. And...well, I'm sure you know the math already."
"That part, yes, I'm aware of."
"Good, good. So the frostsabres are drawn from local breeding populations; in order to ensure optimal health and genealogy, we monitor their numbers closely and keep the different subspecies separated. Each local area tends to its own subspecies, and the entire system has functioned as such for ten thousand years. Much like the condition of our society in the immediate decades after immortality ended, the frostsabre population is fragile."
"And therein lies the problem, yes?"
Pamaira lowered her head, frowning resentfully as she gripped her staff just a little more tightly. "Our subspecies here had a stable breeding population of over two thousand. In the past few years, the slayings have caused that number to drop by nearly half. As always, our leaders were slow to act due to beliefs about caution; by the time they did send an inspector here, they declared that if the population drops below five hundred, they'll declare the subspecies doomed and..." She closed her eyes, overcome with more emotion than was usually considered befitting the stoic priestesses that led Sentinel society. "...they will rescind protection under the assumption that extinction is inevitable."
Despite her disconnection from her roots, Sharimara felt that anger as well. The frostsabres were magnificent creatures, and as Nethel had said, a national icon for the Kaldorei. "What are the leads?" she asked, breaking the silence.
Pamaira relaxed somewhat, but continued gazing out across the snowy plains. "Very little. No tracks, no scent; just claw marks. But frostsabres do not attack each other naturally, and I have detected no traces of magic corruption nor rabies on the victims. The slayings occur all over, and never as part of a spree." Pamaira turned to face the warden, stepping away from the railing. "Our ranger, Xeres, can tell you much more; I have no more information to offer, which is part of what makes this so frustrating. Come; I'll mark the position of her post on your map. We can lend you a hippogriff which knows the location; it's only two hours by flight."
"That would help quite a bit," Sharimara said as she started to follow after the priestess.
Before returning to the interior of the lodge, however, she looked out over the snowy fields one last times. Miles and miles of whiteness spread out before her, every square inch of it indistinguishable from every other. There were no roads or settlements, and an outlaw camp would have been noticed by the routine flights of the Sentinel Air Force by then. The case of the slow decimation of the frostsabre subspecies was truly a mystery, and one that would require Sharimara to switch from her usual work busting up crime rings in urban settings to scouring the wilds.
She blew a raspberry through her pursed lips before following Pamaira inside. "This one is going to take a while," she murmured to herself.