A/N: Shamefully, I do not remember the geography of pre-Cataclysm areas as well as I would like, and Wowpedia is only so helpful. If things are a bit incorrect, then please pardon me. I leveled in Kalimdor anyways.
Fly, you fools!
- Gandalf the Grey
"So, a dwarf walks out of a bar..."
"That is the most overused joke in all of Azeroth."
"Still funny." The attempt at jocularity had been halfhearted at best; Zoen looked down, adjusting her grip on the reins of the palomino rented to her. Behind her, she could hear the plodding of Blaine's chestnut, the distant clamor of Southshore little more than a low, transient buzz in her ear. Breezes wafted past the group, carrying the fresh, clean smell of pine. The stench of Tarren Mill was an undercurrent, a faint and repulsive aftertaste that left a nauseous feeling in the party. Their path would require them to pass right by the Forsaken outpost, and with sunset slowly but surely creeping up on them...
Zoen frowned, shaking her head. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, a trickle of something dripping down her spine. A twig snapped above her; she jumped, a hand going to her bow -
the head, shoot the head
"You okay?"
Startled back to reality, Zoen turned, grinning sheepishly at Felix. "Thought I heard something," she said, glancing back at where she'd heard the twig snap. There was nothing, no signs of a - of a what exactly? - a threat, no leaf out of place.
Just your everyday creepy forest, Mith, thought the hunter wryly. She almost jumped out of her seat when she saw a flash of yellow, but it was only Salric lighting a torch in preparation for darkness. Welcome to the world of nervousness and paranoia, which will eventually drive you to an early grave from alcohol poisoning or into becoming the newest plaything for a psychopathic Old God. Have a good day!
The life of an adventurer was glamorous, indeed.
Soras nodded sympathetically before turning his head forward again, pitching his voice louder. "We should make camp," he suggested. "It's getting dark, and I feel like we're being watched." Zoen grinned weakly before looking down at her palomino's mane.
Markus grunted from ahead, the massive charger he rode shaking its head at some minuscule, pesky flies. "Too dangerous," he rumbled. "They're too close."
The Forsaken were close, probably even observing the party quietly from the shadows. The stench of undeath threatened to overwhelm Zoen and her stomach roiling queasily. Salric had turned a sickly shade of green, and none of the other paladins seemed to be faring any better. Tiris whined, his tail tucked firmly between his legs as he padded alongside Zoen's horse, muscles quivering under black fur. The horses weren't any better; their ears swivelled rapidly, their nostrils flared widely.
The forest reeked like an abattoir, and Zoen wondered if that was where they were heading.
"The horses are going to bolt," warned Salric quietly, his voice harsh. "That, or one of us is going to get shot. We need to go."
"Go where?" Blaine challenged. "Passing by Tarren Mill is the most expedient way into the Plaguelands at this point. Besides, we're not Scarlet Crusaders, nor are we here on Alliance business. The Argent Dawn is neutral to the skirmishes of the Alliance and Horde."
"Sir, I really don't think that matters to them. We're alive. We're human. We're paladins of the Light, and not all of us are Argent Dawn." He glanced back at Zoen.
"Then what should we do? Scale the mountains between us and the Plaguelands?"
"It might be safer, sir."
Blaine grunted, turning from Salric. "We'll be fine, boy."
We're going to be eaten.
Silence reigned afterwards, its rule questioned only by the clopping of the horses' hooves and the rustle of armor. No one dared speak a word, as though the inhabitants of Tarren Mill - which was growing so very, very close, if the thickening stench indicated anything - would bear down on the party if any of them dared to so much as breathe too loudly. The sky had darkened immensely, clouds coming in to block out any watercolors of the dying sunset. A light drizzle had begun, harbinger to an oncoming storm. The idea of camp had fled from all minds. They would not be able to keep up a fire, and they would not be able to hear the knives that came from the shadows to slit their throats.
From somewhere, Markus produced and lit a lantern, which he passed on to Blaine, who was currently in the lead. The drizzle gave way to heavy rainfall soon afterwards, and Zoen quickly began to long for a cloak with a hood instead of her coat. Her soaking hair hung in her eyes, and cold rainwater ran down her spine. Her quiver, luckily, was waterproof, as was the sheath she kept her bow in. Of course, that did little to comfort her; she was cold, and wet, and miserable, and Sparks could just snap her fingers and make a fire -
- and she wasn't going to think about Sparks, because she was on a freaking adventure and she was going to come back, decked out in that mail armor that she saw on some of the famous hunters, and she was going to move herself and Sparks out of that wretched little Old Town slum, and she was going to sign her name Zoen Mith for the rest of time and it'd show up in history books -
- and there was a gentleman on the road.
Gentleman might not have been the best term, she realized as she neared where Blaine had halted. He looked… wrong. His top hat was torn and scuffed, his aristocratic clothing ragged and filthy. The cane in his hand was topped by a metal skull. His monocle was cracked, the metal tarnished. His boots were holey and covered in dirt. His top coat and shirt were also torn, and she could see his ribs and shoulder bones through them.
His ribs…
They had been stopped by a Forsaken gentleman. Zoen forgot how to breathe for a moment.
The last time she had seen undead had been when she was little, and Arthas had returned to Capitol City from Northrend to begin his reign by slaughtering his father and razing his country. She had seen ghouls, and abominations, and even a gargoyle, but… but never up close. She had been small and fast, and she and Sparks had slipped out of the burning city and footed their way to Stormwind. No ghouls, no walking skeletons, just hidden dragons and pissed off masons. And now there was a Forsaken, right there, smiling at them as best he could considering how much of his face had rotted away.
This was not what she signed up for.
He cleared his throat, displacing the maggots that likely resided there, before saying politely, "Terribly sorry, good sirs and madam. I do apologize for obstructing your path." His voice was terrible. Rough and hoarse, like sandpaper being scratched against a coffin. He seemed unconcerned with the storm, and Zoen gagged when a strip of flesh fell off due to the rain. Beside her, Salric had turned a nasty shade of green.
Blaine spoke, his voice carefully neutral even as the rain forced him to nearly shout. "Nothing to fret about, my good man. We're simply on our way to the Plaguelands to investigate a recently emptied Scourge hideout." He emphasized Plaguelands and Scourge, kept his hands on his reins and nowhere near his sword. Unthreatening to the undead man while revealing their intentions to further undermine the Forsaken's most hated enemy. Talked to the man as an equal, didn't derogate his… deadness. In short, Blaine gave himself and his party the very best chance of keeping on the Forsaken's good side.
He belongs in politics, thought Zoen. He's wasted as a paladin.
The Forsaken smiled again, showing off mossy teeth and decayed facial muscles. In the lanternlight, he was especially sinister, a flickering shadow that jumped in and out of perception. "Marvelous!" he exclaimed, his hands going high, the cane's head gleaming when lightning arced through the sky. "It is always good to come across people intending to further undermine the Lich King's forces. I congratulate you on your resolve, good man, and your friends as well. It really does make this even more of a tragedy."
A beat. "Tragedy?" repeated Blaine, his voice hitched a little higher. There were yellow lights in the rain-soaked forest. They were not lanterns
The undead nodded apologetically. "Yes. Unfortunately, I and my associates are hungry. I really do apologize. Please know that there is no malice involved in what we do now. It is simple hunger."
And the lights became eyes, and the eyes had faces, and the faces had teeth.
They were going to die.
An arrow whizzed by her, nicking her right ear, and Zoen Mith revised her thought.
They were going to be eaten, and then they were going to die.
The palomino beneath her jerked, terror maddening it, and the hunter swore as her head smacked against a pine branch. She didn't know where she was, if she was still in the Hillsbrad Foothills or if they had run into the Hinterlands yet. The rain blinded her as much as the darkness of the forest, and now there was blood running down her forehead from where the branches had scratched her. Hideous shrieks of laughter grated at her ears, gargled words of Gutterspeak being shouted mockingly up at her and the others.
The others. Where were they? Had they died - their mounts overrun, their armor picked apart like crabs' shells, exposing the yummy flesh beneath? The image made her sick; closing her eyes, Zoen willed herself not to throw up, not to imagine the rotting corpses crawling over the paladins, teeth and clawlike fingers ripping, tearing, devouring -
Another arrow, this time just skimming her throat. Zoen tried to scream, but only a strangled puff of air escaped her.
Screams resonated from her right; twisting her head, the hunter watched in awe as Blaine motioned, holy fire engulfing a few of his pursuers. Their cries of agony frenzied their fellows, even as they too fell to the powers of the Light.
"Blaine!" Zoen shrieked, hoping that she could be heard above the rain and the growls of their pursuers; she was, and the paladin's face snapped over to her. He motioned forward, towards more darkness and trees. Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminated what he pointed at for just a second. Ahead of them raced Markus and Felix and Salric, and ahead of them she saw -
Something slammed into Zoen's side, tearing through flesh and sinew and muscle, and just a second before she realized what had happened, she saw the glint of the arrowhead peeking out just beneath her ribcage. Pure agony lanced through her, and she screamed, nearly falling from her horse before numb fingers curled around the mane, the reins, anything, and she couldn't take her eyes off the arrow, off her blood that was spilling from her side. They shot her. The Forsaken shot her.
Her throat started to burn, and she realized she was still screaming.
The forest became a little darker, even as lightning arced the sky again. The break in the treeline - the mountains that'd she'd seen, leading to - to Aerie Peak, to the Plaguelands - was ahead. Her head started swimming, and she couldn't feel her fingers. Her heartbeat was throbbing all the way down to her toes.
Am I dying?
There were no more trees around her, just… mountains, towering up above, and she could taste rain-soaked hair and there was blood in her eyes and her belly and she couldn't move her arm…
She closed her eyes, spat out her hair. Laid her head against the horse's neck. Couldn't hear growls and Gutterspeak anymore.
Death isn't so bad if this is it.
Someone was on her right. Chainmail and cloth scraped and chinked, and there was pressure against her sides and then whoosh, up in the air and then on another saddle and horse. Pain twinged from her side for just a second, then lanced as one two three pull she saw the arrow sail away into the darkness.
"Stay awake," someone ordered above her ear. Zoen giggled, her head lolling.
"Make… me," she sniggered, her eyes drooping. More muffled voices spoke from all around, their words flowing into a stream of music. It was like a lullaby. Zoen hummed along with it, the feeling of weightlessness settling on her again. There was a rumble against her ear, something about medics and hunters. A dog whined, and something warm and wet rasped against the cut on her brow. Maybe she could sleep now.
Sleep now.
When she was four, she got lost in the Undercity.
Sparks was arguing with a man, haggling for bread, and Zoen had been bored out of her mind, too full of jittery energy to Stay here like Sparks told her to. She'd wandered away unnoticed, padding through the crowded little market amidst the shins and knees of grown-ups, making faces at anyone her age. A few of them looked at her jealously, as they should. They weren't brave enough to not Stay here like they were told. She was. Any minute now, they'd be begging her to go slay a dragon for them.
Then there was a cat. Not one of the scrawny, wretched little creatures that roamed around her and Sparks' complex, but a pretty cat, like the kind in the thrownaway coloring books she saw sometimes. Excited, she'd given chase, hunting the feline all the way down into the catacombs beneath Capitol City, careless of the twists and turns she took. When she finally scooped the squirming animal up into her arms, marvelling at how soft it was, she decided to go beg Sparks to allow her to keep it. It could eat mice and become a guard kitty. One day, it would even help her slay dragons.
Then she turned around, started walking through the dark underground… and realized how completely, utterly lost she was.
She'd cried, and held the cat tighter, and then it scratched her arms and her face and she cried even more as it finally wormed its way out of her embrace and rocketed away, leaving her alone in the dark. She called for Sparks pitifully, ambling through the maze with no real direction. She didn't know how long she was down there. There was no day, no night. Just darkness and walls that pressed down on her and made it hard to breathe or think. She still cried for Sparks, begging not to ever not Stay here again, and yelled out how much she hated cats, and that she'd get a dog to help her fight dragons. Or maybe that was dehydration talking.
At some point she'd collapsed from exhaustion and hunger and thirst. The walls were too close, the ceiling caving in from the hundreds and thousands of tons of stuff on top of it, and she was cold and hungry and she wanted Sparks. She wanted to go home.
There was a candle in the distance. It grew brighter, and larger, and just before she fell asleep, Zoen thought she saw brown hair and robes.
A/N: This was long-coming, I know, I know, I've simply been busy with finals and Christmas and visiting my father in New York City. The Phantom of the Opera has officially become the greatest live performance I've ever seen, and I was - am - going through a serious Erik/Christine binge right now. Bad excuses, but they're my excuses.
As usual, the largest accolades are given to my main mantis, Buglet, the greatest insect that I've never squished. Keep on waving those spiny forelegs, man. They're terrifying.
Review, my lovelies. They make me warm and gushy and want to write even faster.