IV
It was a rude awakening. A harsh, unrelenting grip on her neck forced her to shake off the somnambulic nightmare, in favour of a waking one. It certainly wasn't much of an improvement. Spindly, purple fingers held her by the throat, too far from the ground for her to be even remotely comfortable.
She looked up, flailing. A snarl left her lips when she realised that the creature holding her did not have a mouth. Instead, several tentacle-like tendrils were sprouting from its face just below the eyes, making it look as if some sort of a cephalopod attached itself to the otherwise humanoid shape. Even the name they had for those felt like a sting of a poisoned barb, piercing one's skull and scattering the thoughts, leading to a slow, painful death. K'thir.
"Yes, keep struggling, fight me. It only makes it all the more delicious," she could hear the creature's cackle in her mind. This k'thir must have been a man at some point, or at least he sounded like one.
The Gilnean held onto her self-control for as long as she could. She kept the beast inside at bay, the balance between her human and wolf parts had to be maintained, especially if she wanted to rely on all of her senses and her mind, and not let her nose take the lead in the investigation. The claw-like, leathery digits held her tightly by the neck, she could feel the sharp nails of the creature pierce her pale skin. That was the moment to let the Worgen come forward. She growled and closed her eyes, wrinkling her nose. It was incredibly odd to transform when not on the ground, not feeling the familiarity of her feet becoming paws, her leg joints adjusting. In her panicked, flailing motions, even the customary wisp of dark smoke that accompanied her change into a humanoid wolf couldn't conceal the growls of pain and discomfort. This was outside what she had practised, and as her form was altered, the nails dug deeper beyond the light-grey fur, making the hold even more painful.
The advantage, at least anatomically, was no longer on the k'thir's side. Alystoria herself was now sporting a pair of razor sharp clawed fingers, it took two fierce swipes to make the k'thir let go of her.
"Bad dog... you'll regret this," the creature hissed at her, nursing his maimed arm for a moment as tendrils of dark energy began reknitting it into its original state. The flesh was mended, but the robe was permanently cut open. There had to be a way to kill it. There was always a way.
Alystoria soon learned what the k'thir meant with regretting her actions. The Worgen landed on the floor, the knee that was injured in her dreamlike vision took the brunt of her weight, making the woman howl in pain. She snarled again and swiped her claws around in blind anger, more to defend herself desperately against any incoming blows rather than to deliberately damage the opponent.
The dark, heavy laugh rang out in her mind again, mocking her, leaking a tone of superiority, "I told you it would hurt... Why do you keep struggling? Why did you come here? To find your doom?"
"I want you out of my head! I'll have you out of my head!" Alystoria growled and leapt forward, drawing her daggers in the meantime. They were crafted specifically for her, of Kaldorei make. And though obtaining them was a quest and a half, in three literal parts, she was always thankful that Sentinel Mooncrow pushed her to its completion. The blades saw no moonlight to reflect its majestic light, not in the depths of the monastery, dark, damp, and musty. Perhaps the Goddess Elune wouldn't favour Alystoria's blades in this fight. Then again, where was she when her people burned...?
The leap seemed like half an eternity, especially considering how quickly the k'thir moved out of her way, and Alystoria considered herself to be quick on her feat, as she had proven many times with swift kills during her military career.
Her surroundings. If the enemy had some sort of advantage over her, it was always the circumstance that helped. A vantage point, using the possible furniture, anything, really, to make the opponent's life more difficult. Her feet weren't the only quick part. She looked around, trying to make sense of her environment. The halls were dark, devoid of lit torches, the sconces were covered in a combination of dust and old oil, a nightmare to clean, should anyone ever attempt it.
She could see the ancient, faded sandstone that was the building material, her Worgen eyes adapted to the dark, but there were no clear hints as to where to run. The room was square, there were four doorways leading into what seemed like long, equally dark corridors. Her ears perked up and she leaned back, with her feet moving away from the source of the sound almost instinctively and she saw the spindly form of the k'thir leap by, almost fly, with claws outstretched. It would have tackled and pinned her to the ground were it not for the Worgen reflexes helping her dodge.
With a growl, she sought a different playing ground. Something, anything to make this creature's chances of mercilessly gutting her at least a bit less successful. With her daggers put away for the moment, Alystoria resorted to dropping on all fours before she bolted into the hallway that was the nearest to her. She was capable of racing galloping horses and charging nightsabers like this, so the k'thir would have to sweat to catch up with her. She hoped that the corridor was long enough to create sufficient space between them.
"You can run all you want... But is it really me you're running from? Look at you. Death would be a mercy..." the voice was close enough to reverberate in her mind, making her snarl and snap her jaws at the air. She kept running, her pace wild and her tongue lolling out as she began panting, fuelled by pain, fuel, and anger in equal parts. It was a split second of a realisation that there was something in the darkness, something in the way. A door. Instead of planting into it muzzle first, Alystoria rose from her four-limbed sprint and turned her body to barge into the door with her shoulder.
She found herself almost blinded by the snow outside. She looked behind her, the door was there, a lone display of damp boards nailed together. The monastery disappeared. Only for the time being, something told her. This time she was almost painfully aware of her mind being tested. This must have been a trick of sorts. She began moving in the snow, simply going forward, until she found a path. The Worgen was dressed for wind and rain, not snow, but her fur provided enough warm to keep her from simply collapsing in the endless plains of white fluff.
"Bit of a blunder there, eh?" she could hear a voice right next to her. The pine green eyes, the black hair and a neatly styled moustache that added much needed gravitas to his modest frame. Isaac. It was Isaac Emsworth, "Don't worry, you'll be fine with the unit. I admit, it's nice to have someone who's not a Night Elf to talk to. Another Gilnean," he smiled. Even though they would be the perfect target for gossip for being, at that time, the only female and male Gilneans in the unit respectively, their persuasions made it impossible for that to come true. Isaac was a horrible gossip. And the best gossip ever. Discussing all the latest tea with him was always refreshing, and a moment to chuckle sensibly and leave all the atrocities of wars and fighting behind. Good, old Isaac... But she knew it wasn't him. A memory was nice, it warmed her heart for a moment, a reminder of a dear friendship that dissolved over time, much like anything in her life that was worthy of attention.
"Remember, Allie. Never forget, never surrender," Isaac saluted at her, then waved, and slowly became translucent, like a ghost. She remembered. Her first mission with the unit, they were going to Winterspring to investigate storms of magical nature. Something old, and angry was causing them, and it definitely wasn't mother nature. She remembered stumbling upon items on the way to the epicentre of the magic. Ancient Kaldorei trinkets, journals, fragments of nightsaber saddles. These were ghosts of the Night Elves that lived millennia ago. Those who served their vain, illustrious queen Azshara. That is, before everything went down the drain. Or rather, deep into the ocean.
The shriek that filled her long, pointy wolf-like ears was beyond painful. She fell to her knees yet again, covering her head. The spirits were standing over her and she knew it. Their anger was icy, there was no mercy, no understanding in them. She felt a kick to her side and rolled to her back, seeing double for a few moments as she tried to catch her breath. She shielded herself as claws of ice began working away at her armour and her muzzle, making the blood in her veins begin to freeze. Not like this. Alystoria leapt back to her feet with unnatural grace and drew her blades again, slicing through the spirits. Unsurprisingly, the weapon had no effect, apart from their surprised stares and looks of indignation. And at that moment, she recalled more.
"We never fought. You lie, we never fought. There was no need to draw arms. I found your stories, your trinkets of old. I made you realise that your time was long due," she said to the spirits, with her clawed hand raised in a soothing motion, "Go. Go as you did that day. Please..."
Perhaps it was the vulnerability in her voice. Perhaps it was the determination and knowledge of what was true, of what had occurred that made the ghosts look at her with a certain... understanding.
"Ha! That was easy, perhaps too easy, even. Nourishing, yes..." the voice sounded inside her mind again. She looked around, frowning. There was nothing but snow surrounding her. Out of nowhere, a blast of energy came her way, pushing her far and onto her back.
Instead of landing in the snow, she found herself raising orange dust as she hit the ground on a sandy path. Mountains surrounded her, the sky was high up. She could see the peaks, reaching up to touch the clouds, the realisation took her a moment. Stonetalon, she was in Stonetalon. She hated that place. She tried to remind herself that not everything about it was bad...
"Again. Get up and try again. A sword is a much more versatile weapon than that sickle you've got. It has range, it can be used in one, or two hands. It can slash, stab, and deflect. Remember what I told you about the strong point and the weak point of a blade," she looked at a gauntleted hand, reaching out to help her stand. This time she recognised the voice of her instructor, Ethylea. A tall Night elf who kept her white hair braided, with a bluish glow to her eyes. There was no weapon she couldn't handle. Sadly, despite her attempts to modernise the way the Sentinels approached their enemies, her ideas remained unheard in the traditional Kaldorei society. She was a good teacher.
Alystoria rose from the ground, she didn't bother dusting herself off. She picked up the sword and looked at it for a moment, pensive. Study your enemy. Find their weak point. Most fights are over in seconds. Nourishing, the k'thir said. Were her memories, her emotions, her pain... Was she simply fodder for the monster that haunted her dreams and her waking hours? The images of the battles were creeping up on her, crawling somewhere from the back of her head to her consciousness, slowly but surely. The pouring darkness, the whispers, the ghosts in the woods, of a man who had no eyes, no ears, she tried to help him, but he disappeared. The enemy ships collapsed, when the armies far, far away succeeded in bringing down their commander. It was as if they were puppets with suddenly cut strings. Except the puppets themselves were hulking masses of steel and unholy energies powering them up.
She hated even flying over Stonetalon after spending a week there, trapped with darkness and insanity. That place was like a bad rash. Irritating, painful, and hard to wash off, even after a few honest attempts. But now it had a face. An ugly, leathery face, half-full of tentacles. And if something has a head, it can be decapitated. Alystoria lowered the sword and closed her eyes. She couldn't trust them, not in here. Perhaps it was time to lean on her other senses. She could smell her own blood. It was distracting, and it reminded her that she started this fight on uneven ground, but as long as most of the crimson liquid remained inside, she still had a chance. Her ears twitched, wary of any small rustles, seemingly insignificant creaks or shuffles. He could be anywhere.
Stonetalon Mountains had a dusty smell to them, but there was always a pleasant breeze there, a freshness. Her nose couldn't be fooled so easily. She was still in the monastery, and perhaps her opponent was in the very same room. Watching her struggle, putting on mask after mask to gain her trust and then burn it down in a blow served without mercy.
There it was. The rustling of the robe. Quick, but not quick enough to dodge a diagonal slash of her blade. She could feel a warm, sticky spray of the creature's blood on her chest. It shrieked in anger and sent her against a wall with another of its tricks. The room became dark, empty and dusty yet again, but this time the illusion faded, and she could see again. The long, spindly hands kept coming at her with clawing motions, and she kept parrying and deflecting, creating cuts and gashes in them. It almost seemed that they began to heal slower, as if there were so many of them that the creature finally began to be weakened. Could it be? Was there still hope?
Alystoria felt the small heel of her boot against a door frame. And with another parry, the world went up in flames. "You will not escape. Not this time. You will burn with the rest of these fools!" the k'thir hissed at her, angered enough to continue his desperate attacks. It wanted pain, it wanted nourishment, and the Worgen's moment of composure wasn't providing any. Fire, however, was a good way of eliciting utmost terror in the Gilnean. Especially the fire that consumed the great tree, Teldrassil. She could hear them. Elves, Gilneans, afflicted or not, screaming for help. Some were trapped under collapsed buildings. Others were rolling around trying to put themselves out. There were children, lost and unable to find their parents, or to recognise their charred remains any more. She remembered the guilt. She couldn't save enough people. Her panicked mind had enough reason with it to grab a sack of potatoes and attach it to her hippogryph before the animal became so afraid that it forced her to leave. The next weeks were deathly quiet. Hiding in the woods, taking out undead patrols in the most ingenious, the most cruel of ways, considering the limited resources. The potatoes came in handy, for sure, but they were a constant reminder of her complete and utter failure. Of not being able to do more. She saw the k'thir close his eyes in a moment of ecstasy. Her regret and remorse were like the juiciest morsels for him. He raised his hand, a purplish-black ball of energy began forming at the tip of his finger, "You've failed them. You've tried and for what? A soldier girl, trying to save the world... and whom did you save? A sack of potatoes. Pathetic."
She sliced through the air with all the fury she could muster. She had enough. Enough of guilt, enough of being pinned to the ground and made to crawl by the same scenes playing in her mind over and over again. She couldn't go back. She couldn't fix it. If she wanted to make any amends, she'd have to start with her mind. And that alone was a momentous task. Her blade connected with the k'thir's neck and for a moment she could see surprise in the red eyes as the strength of her blow cut deep and deadly, removing the creature's head once and for all. It rolled onto the floor for a moment, the tentacles stopped it from being a good ball. The inert body of the k'thir dropped to its knees and then to the side without so much as a word. It didn't feel like a victory, but it felt... clearer. Her mind regained some measure of sharpness, now that the k'thir no longer had a hold on her. But there was still something. How did it know? How could it know? So much about her... What secrets did it hold?
Alystoria dropped the blade and knelt down by the lifeless corpse to search it. Bags of ingredients, writings in a language that was impossible to comprehend, curved daggers... and a mirror. It looked old, and the handle was very simple, made of polished wood. The Worgen tilted her head to the side and picked it up, driven by curiosity. Why on earth would a k'thir need a mirror?
Immediately, she was granted an image. A large, dark forest, where there was so little light that the moss was red in colour, and the gangly, spiralling branches of the looming trees looked like arms of witches, reaching out to steal away those who dared wander in. She could almost feel a certain... hunger when looking at the mirror. A need to hunt. A need to kill. An urge that was unstoppable and uncontrollable, burning all over her entire form.
There was a man on a horse. He had a top hat, a rifle resting against the saddle, dressed well, in a Gilnean fashion, so familiar to her. The image moved closer and closer to him until whoever was running leapt at him, claws first, throwing him off of his horse. The animal neighed in terror and ran away deeper into the woods, while the man stared at her in complete and utter terror, "Please, no... no!" he begged for his life, he called names, perhaps of his family, perhaps of loved ones, friends. It didn't matter to the hungry wolf. It tore into his throat and rid him of life as if he were nothing.
There was something about that image... the light-grey fur on the Worgen's claws. It looked like hers. And the way the hunting beast growled... it sounded like her. It was her first kill. The mirror then became a swirl of faces, each of them contorted in pain. Undead, Orcs, Humans on the wrong side, Quillboar, Elves of the kind that weren't with the Alliance... A myriad of faces, just to remind her every single soul she sent on its way. Suddenly, the image faded. The mirror reflected a bloodied muzzle of a drooling, snarling beast. It was her. It was who she was. That was her truth. In rage, she threw the mirror against the wall, shattering it before it could show her anything else.
"How do you like your truth?" the voice in her mind was fading. Whatever unholy energy was keeping the k'thir alive was weakening, to the point where only faint whispers came, but no more words, until only silence remained.
With a ferocious snarl, she leapt towards the corpse, claws first. What difference would it make? A killer was a killer. Once and for all. He proved her point. What if the mirror could show her the path to salvation? It was too late. She failed. Again.
From that night onwards, the farmers who lived and worked the land close to the northern coast of Stormsong Valley feared not the ghosts of the cursed monastery, but the bone-chilling howls of despair coming from the ruin. They pierced the hearts of the bravest men with notes of deep, unending terror. The terror of knowing oneself.