At Death's door and the The Mother Moon
Halgrind awoke with a heavy headache that made his vision blurry. There was a peculiar glow surrounding him, but beyond his gaze there was mostly darkness. His hand clutched his forehead as a painful, throbbing sensation pulsed within his skull. It was in that very moment that Halgrind realised his fate. For it was not a human hand that he possessed. Sharp, elongated claws had replaced his fingers, his hand was covered in a dark fur similar to that of a wild wolf. He was no longer human.
Fleeting memories of his son, who was six years old, and his loving wife came to his mind. The two people in the whole world that made life worth living. A blurry vision of his claws dripping with crimson blood. A small child curled into a fetal position, while a large pool of blood covered the floor. In the distance was a larger figure, a woman, whose body laid upon a vast pool of crimson blood. These were the images that haunted Halgrind as he awoke from the madness of the worgen curse. In that madness he had killed his family. It had been his duty to protect them, but they died at his hands. There was a void growing in his stomach. An empty feeling.
Struck by grief and anger, Halgrind let out a piercing howl which echoed through the cavity beneath Tal'doren's roots. His claws dug into the black soil, they left great rifts in the earth as his heartfelt despair came out in laboured screams. The animalistic howls of sorrow began to break apart. Weak, shallow sobbing which seemed more human in nature overcame Halgrind. Black dirt fell from his paw-like hands, returning to the ground as he stared upon his wolf-like hands. A dark thought entered Halgrind's mind; I could always put an end to it, while I am still conscious.
It was chance that stayed Halgrind's hand. Before the tortured Gilnean could slit his own throat, with a great claw that was attached to his paw-like palm, he glanced into the darkness. One last time. A few feet away, there was someone lying on the ground. It appeared humanoid, but much taller than an average human and with pointed ears. An elf?
Curiosity beckoned him to move closer. All prior thoughts were swept away, as if a spell consumed him. The pale glow that ebbed from the strange well allowed Halgrind's eyes to see in the dark. The creature possessed a long mane of pure white hair. A weak glow emitted from underneath its eyelids, as if the creature had luminescent eyes. The Gilnean within him was afraid at first, but he crawled closer to the stranger. The wounds became all too visible. Terrible gashes that ran deep into the elf's flesh. A sense of guilt came over him.
It was at that point when Halgrind acted before settling his doubt. The Blackwald kept much of the sun's warm rays at bay and Tal'doren's canopy cast the entire grove in an almost perpetual darkness. He pulled the taller creature's arm across his shoulder. His worgen form made him stronger than he was as a human. He dragged the wounded being closer to the mystical well and placed him upon the ground with great care. The soil seemed warmer and more comfortable in the vicinity of the well. There was something about the smell in the air which drew Halgrind closer to it. A pleasant, calming sensation. A sense of warmth. He felt at ease in its presence.
As he stood upright, he towered above the unconscious creature at his feet, Halgrind peered into the shimmering light that came from the well. Long strands of flowing light twisted and turned as the glow hovered towards the roof above. Halgrind could see the ancient roots that formed a shelter above their heads. The light that emanated from the well was beautiful. It calmed his inner rage which would have otherwise consumed him. It allowed him to see reason, to feel remorse for his actions. His worgen eyes turned blank, they were brimming over with a watery sheen. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. His legs caved in beneath him, as he fell on his knees. He did not sob, nor did he growl in anger. They were silent tears. Memories of his family, from when they were still alive, filled his thoughts. A memory that was worth keeping.
These were memories he possessed from his human life. Such as the first moment he saw his child. His son's first words. Moments he knew were real, that had been forgotten with the curse. In that moment they resurged, and as they came back to him; the light that emanated from the well grew more potent. It was as if the strange light communed with him. I will not forget them, he thought to himself. The image of his lost love formed amidst the tendrils of light, and she smiled upon Halgrind one last time. Her mouth parted slowly, as if she was about to speak, yet froze before uttering a single word. A fabrication of his imagination, it might have been, but it allowed the aged Gilnean to regain his sanity. As he calmed down, the image vanished in front of his eyes. The glow from the well diminished back to normal.
The dim light that came from the well served as a guiding light for the Gilnean, as he sat on his knees in the dark. The moment had passed, but he could have sworn he saw his wife. He began to breathe steadily, so he could calm his senses. A part of him wondered what his wife might have said to him, if she blamed him for what had happened, or if she forgave him for his sins. He had begun to realise that for all the remorse he might feel, it would be his choices from that moment onward that mattered. That he had to honour their memory by doing what he could to atone for his mistakes.
The worgen's eyes were stern, there was little humanity left in his wolf-like appearance. He glanced upon the wounded elf with determination. He would not let the stranger die because of him. Halgrind observed the wounds that he had caused. The curse was truly frightening. He had no memory of inflicting such wounds, but he knew instinctively that he was responsible. He tried to remember how to treat wounds, but simply wrapping some fabric around it could do more harm than good. An old hag, who used to live on the outskirts of the forest, once taught him that for a wound to heal properly it needed to be treated in a clean manner. Heat or alcohol were often used to burn away infections, neither of which was at hand.
The worgen noticed how the creature seemed to be in pain, although the elf was unconscious. Its breath was laboured and inconsistent, as if each breath of air brought more pain. There were signs of fever, the elf had beads of sweat forming at the temples of his head. Sudden twitches and shivers could be observed as the stranger's state did not seem to improve as time passed. Halgrind began to conclude that simply watching over the creature was not going to do much good. He was not a mender, his hands had turned into claws. A part of him feared that the elf had possibly been inflicted by the curse.
Halgrind felt restless. The animal within him wanted to act, it did not want to sit idly by. He tried to argue with himself that someone needed to watch over the creature, there were others inflicted with the curse and other hostile beings in the forest of Blackwald. Yet, all logic subsided. He got onto his feet, or perhaps hind-paws would be more accurate, and proceeded to leave the safety of the grove. The beast within Halgrind cherished in the act of leaping over rocks, branches and fallen trees. It was a sensation that felt otherworldly, as if the Gilnean was merely a passenger in his own soul.
Despite the loss of self-restraint, Halgrind felt as if he was driven by a purpose. A desperate chase. It was not the bloodlust which had blinded him before, but a quest of sorts. To look for something or someone that could mend wounds: a healer or an alchemist; bandages and spirits. The heightened sense of smell made it easier to pick up on the scent of human civilisation. He could smell the smoke from stone chimneys in the distance. His sense of hearing was also heightened, but there were no voices or noises which indicated that humans were nearby. He did, however, pick up a different scent. A foreign one. It was similar to that of the elf. His pace quickened as he leapt through the trees on all four, much like a wild beast. His paws trampled the fallen leaves into the mud. The worgen instincts within him allowed him to track the scent faster than any human, and enabled him to move swiftly through the dimly lit forest. The worgen within him felt liberated, Halgrind could sense how his self-restraint began to fall apart the further he travelled from the ancient tree. He struggled with his senses, as the scent made him want to kill. To hunt. The beast began to slowly infiltrate his thoughts, instead of logic there was instinct. Yet, that foreign scent remained his primary goal. It grew ever stronger, as the beast closed in on its prey.
Halgrind lurked along the old path that led south west towards Stormglen. The dark fog seemed to vapourise at the border of the forest, as the fog gave way to a gloomy sky that was littered with ominous clouds. From above fell the rain, a downpour that was steady and relentless. It was as if the fog itself fueled the skies above, feeding it with moisture, so it was constantly raining upon the cursed land. His prey was close, he could smell its scent even stronger than before, and so he hunched down at the border of the woods and observed a crooked, old mill. The old mill, known as Bradshaw Mill, whence the scent emanated.
There was no sign of humans. Almost as if the old mill was vacant. Or perhaps abandoned was a better term to describe it. Yet, there was a foreign scent in the air. Neither human nor beast. Halgrind growled uncontrollably, the worgen side of him lacked the restraint to observe. So, before long he lost the battle of wills and jumped out of the forest's edge. He sprinted towards the ruined structure, his snout tracing the scent amidst the rubble. It was then that he felt a cold, almost extrinsic tone of voice echo through his ears. It spoke to him, as if he was caught between the vast walls of stark cliffs which repeated each phrase in an echo: "I've been expecting you. Do not be alarmed."
Halgrind turned swiftly, his teeth bared in a sneer as the source of the voice had snuck up behind him. It was a tall creature, with pale-blue skin. And pointed ears. An elf? He had never seen such an elf before, but the elf was remarkably similar to the creature that he had wounded in his fit of rage.
"My name is Belysra. I am a priestess of the moon… a night elf." The elf continued in a calm manner, as she watched the worgen who had yet to launch an attack at her. She stepped forwards, slowly. Those bright, elven eyes glowed consistently, as the elf never seemed to blink.
"A night elf? I have never heard of such a species before." He growled, struggling to speak properly as his mind was still fighting the urge to kill the creature. Rage was teeming within him, a rage that sought to reach for the weak creature and rip it apart.
"You might not know my people, but the destinies of our two races have been linked since the Curse befell you." Belysra answered the worgen, and with a sense of calm that disarmed the violent tendencies of the beast that occupied his spirit.
"Destinies? Linked?" The words fell from his beast-like maw in a guttural manner. Halgrind felt a sense of confusion, he was not able to process the logic in a calm manner, nor did he understand what she meant by those words. He had never believed in destinies or religions.
"You must have many questions. And they will be answered in time." She came closer, her hand was raised up in a sign of peace. A passive gesture which was almost universal among humanoid creatures. Even those who were primitive. Halgrind was more similar to a beast than a humanoid, however, and he growled his warning towards the elf.
Belysra cared little for the worgen's behaviour. The priestess placed her palm atop Halgrind's furrowed brows. A strange glow illuminated the worgen's eyes. He was blinded by it, as his anger dissipated into a soothing state of calmness. Halgrind regained the same control of his senses that he had at Tal'doren, as if all the stress and anger within him was gone. Elven magic. Of course.
"I know why you're here and what you're looking for." She spoke suddenly, which snapped Halgrind away from his conclusion. The elf smiled softly at the worgen. She nodded at the beast before continuing; "Show me the way." Her words were somber, as if the elf could read his mind with a single touch of her hand against his head.
Halgrind spun about and sprinted away from Bradshaw Mill, with the night elf chasing him. She was remarkably agile for a humanoid dressed in romes. Belysra Starbreeze was as fast as any Sentinel among her kin, although the worgen was faster still. Only a druid could outrun such a beast. They chased through the dark woods until the looming shadow of Tal'doren cast the ground in darkness before them. Belysra glanced upon the vast tree with a hint of awe. The Wild Home.
The dark boughs of Tal'doren formed an elaborate cave beneath the great tree-trunk. The area was so vast that it was difficult to see in the dark shadows, for humans and their ilk. For a nocturnal Kaldorei it was less of a problem. When Belysra entered the cave-like shelter, she quickly saw the gleaming light of the moonwell at the center. The worgen ran ahead, his claws burrowed deep into the earth. The creature came to a stop by the moonwell. On all four, like a great direwolf. At his paws there was a shadow, a wounded Kaldorei.
The priestess ran towards the wounded Kaldorei. He was unconscious. His white hair was soiled with blood. Gashes covered the elf's chest. They ran far and deep into the flesh of the wounded Kaldorei. The blood had stained the leather chestpiece which was torn open where the gashes dug into the flesh. It was anything but a clean wound. Her brows furrowed as she observed the state the fellow Kaldorei. A beastly growl echoed in the air as the large worgen looked upon Belysra with what seemed to be compassion.
"He stayed my rampage. Save him." The worgen uttered in a dark tone, it seemed as much a threat as a plea. The priestess looked into the worgen's eyes and saw regret. She smiled at the notion. Belysra had dealt with many a worgen until that day, regret was rarely displayed by whom turned cursed.
The Kaldorei murmured a prayer in Darnassian. Her hand glowed bright like moonlight. Belysra cast her spell upon the wound in order to mend the flesh and tissue. It was a slow process due to the severity of the wounds, but the wounds gradually sealed and ceased to bleed. Most of the prayer was too soft-spoken for the worgen to pick up on, except one phrase at the very end: "Ana'Talah!" Its meaning was lost on a Gilnean such as Halgrind, but the hesitant plea of the Kaldorei's voice was all too tangible to his worgen ears. A plea for the wounded elf to survive, or it seemed like a plea to whom was listening.
The magic slowly faded away. The tendrils of ephemeral moonlight evaporated before Halgrind's eyes, they diminished like droplets of water amidst a fiery chasm and turned to magical vapour before his eyes. Darkness consumed the vacant space. Silence pressed against Halgrind's eardrums. A dull tension filled the air and made it difficult to breathe. The only light source was the shimmering glow that came from the moonwell. The female night elf remained with her palm against the male Kaldorei's chest. The remaining glow in Atelniar's eyes was merely a reflection of the light from the moonwell.
Belysra sat motionless in the darkness. Her palm retreated from the fellow Kaldorei's chest. It was not the first time she had seen one of her kin burn out. She had arrived too late to save his life. She placed her palms together and closed her eyes, her spell had failed to restore what was lost. A gesture of respect was all that the priestess could offer: "Ande'thoras-ethil", she stated with a solemn voice; farewells were worse when no one replied. Belysra raised her head towards the roof of Tal'doren's boughs. The light from the moonwell swirled against the dark wood above her.
It was then, a moment in time when fate seemed to be decided upon, that a miracle occured. Tal'doren was more than an ancient reflection of Daral'nir in the Emerald Dream. There was power within the old tree's remains. But it was not that power alone that stirred in the air. Time seemed to pass slowly, as the light of the moonwell grew in strength. The luminescent glow embraced the priestess, the worgen and the druid. A tremendous aura of power expanded from the moonwell. It grew in strength, until it suddenly evaporated along with the intense light. Time flowed normally again. Belysra blinked in confusion, her gaze was fixated on the swirling tendrils of light above. She noticed a change in the atmosphere around her.
Atelniar's eyelids stirred slightly. A sharp intake of breath ran through the druid's lungs. Belysra looked down upon him, her only emotion at that time was shock. She was shocked that anyone could return to life so suddenly. Her spell had been ineffective, or so she had thought. Bright, amber eyes opened up. He was awake. Those amber eyes were beaming with life, as if the druid had awoken anew after a deep slumber.