A/N: Okay! Well, this got a couple Alerts and a reveiw in just its first day of life, so I figure I may as well continue! Besides, this sorta just wrote itself today.
Alright...there were some points I wanted to address; for one, updating isn't going to be on-time or schedueled-rather, updates will be sporadic and come as they may. I do however, promise not to take super long in between them. I can also promise that this will be finished-I don't know when, but it will be.
Secondly, I'm going to try to stick as close to the game as possible, in the sense of lore, timeline, battle interface, etc...but incorperate it as naturally as possible; if anyone has any tips, or any mistakes to point out, feel free, please.
Furthermore, I may get some of this stuff wrong, but I'm gonna really try to keep it all right! Also note that I'm going to be sticking to Vanilla and BC; WotLK may come in a sequel, should anyone want one.
Last of all...apologies to anyone who likes Gnomes. For an Ally POV or not, I hate those little midgets; they scare me. So yea. Hehe.
Please enjoy! Reveiws feed the soul! Flames will be used to bring Deathwing down upon you~
There were quiet moments when I'd often wonder about this path I was on. A path…is something you make for yourself, I suppose. So, when did I start down this winding road of mine? How? Why? That was what I pondered more often than not, should I bother to stop and ponder anything at all.
My father's name was Carissus Clearsend. He was a Warrior who died in battle before I was born. It may make me a lesser person, feed that more undesirable side of me, but I never felt remorse or sadness over this fact. I…couldn't. The death of a man I'd never known-essential in my life or not-had little effect on me. Still, I mourned, for my mother's sake. She missed her mate greatly, and everything she did bespoke of him, honored some bit of his memory. So, I honored that devotion and cried with her, prayed with her, at her side. My mother's name was Conivera Felwhisper, and she was-is-a Priest. Or more precisely, a Priestess in the Temple of the Moon.
Though I respected that position, and was undeniably faithful to Elune, I could never appreciate the lifestyle. I could never understand spell-work, mana, or anything of the sort, nor did any of it interest me. No, I adored and adhered to the bow, the sword. I lived for the untamable, not for divinity. I belonged in the forest, the hills, under the stars, not inside the temples. Mother once told me I had no first words, just a first growl. She didn't laugh, as she was completely serious about the fact, but she did smile fondly at the memory.
My conviction was reaffirmed during what I believe to be a very much fateful event.
One dusky evening in the late summer, some weeks after the end of the Midsummer Fire Festival to be exact, I was sent by mother to bring a healing tonic-made with herbs mother identified as Peacebloom and Silverleaf-to a visiting researcher by the name of Donny Frizzlecog. I remember thinking it was the oddest name I'd ever heard, which was awfully ignorant of me, since I'd never even left Shaodwglen.
According to mother, the, in her opinion, "fool" had gotten the bright idea into his head to ingest some foul brew made from the local Felcones and a few Timberling Sprouts. Apparently, it hadn't ended well.
My original reaction to the gnome-which was what he proudly proclaimed himself to be-was shocked, amazed amusement. I was a mere seven years old at the time, and the man-for he had fumed that he was 'over a hundred years old, thank you very much'-was only as tall as my waist. Needless to say, after blinking owlishly several times, I fell to the floor laughing, rolling onto my side in the crisp foliage, my sides aching. Mr. Fizzlecog did not seem to like me much after that.
Mother tried to scold me when I returned home, but gave up after several failed attempts at suppressing a wolfishly amused grin. She admitted to having a similar reaction the first time she'd ever seen a dwarf-which were explained to be slightly taller, well-muscled creatures-before he promptly smacked her over the head with a rather meaty fist. After seeing that my grandmother-a wise old druid named Jerinya Grasswing-transformed into a bird of some sort, carried the dwarf off, and calmly threw him off of Ironforge. I assumed this 'Ironforge' was fairly tall, since mother quickly assured me that the dwarf wasn't killed. In fact, grandmother flew down, helped him up, and bought them both a round of Thunderbrew ale. The two ended up becoming close friends and drinking buddies. Mother then showed me a painting of grandmother and the dwarf-who was now identified as the 'Uncle' Levarg I'd never met-passed out in a tavern, drunk out of their minds. This too made us laugh, a happy sound.
Three days after that I was once again sent to Donny Fizzlecog's camp, per his request to return the tonic's flask and give me something for my troubles.
I ran there swiftly, without complaint, simply loving the feel of the mossy earth beneath my feet, the wind rushing through my short hair that smelled of life. It was just before I was to turn of the road and venture up the gently sloping hill near the ponds when I saw them, a family of Nightsabers. It was a mother, a dark-stripped, graceful cat, and her two cubs, one a replica of her, one spotted and a dark, blackish blue-gray.
The mother, her tail lashing and fur on end, was currently attempting to yank the spotted cub out of a rather large thorn bush by the scruff of its neck, the baby itself half-roaring, half-mewling in protest, its growls laced with pain.
Something about that cub's cries broke me, a part of me, heart, body, soul, I didn't know, but some part, some part ached, throbbed, bled, screamed.
My mind was shouting-if thoughts could shout-at me to rush forward and do everything in my limited power to help the little spotted cat. But instinct would not allow it-I knew, if I just ran over, or for that matter, moved too fast at all, the matriarch would flay me. Rule one of beasts: Stay away from the babies. Mommy will kill you. I had to procede with the utmost caution; if I wasn't very careful and very lucky, I'd be dead.
I made my stride uneven, my footsteps loud, and the mother's head snapped around, fierce, ferocious golden eyes boring into mine, her bared fangs daring me to come any closer. I broke eye contact quickly and blinked slowly a few times, crouching low and tilting my head to the side, so my jugular was fully exposed. I had to be submissive, had to show I wasn't a threat.
The seconds ticked by. Seconds turned to minutes. The cub still cried.
A puff of warm, wet, blood-scented breath ghosted over my neck.
Slowly, so incredibly slowly, I turned my face upward and locked gazes with the proud beast. Her canines grazed my collarbone when she leaned in and sniffed my jaw, opening her mouth to let the scent reach her.
The fang pressed down just a tad more, the right just above my heart, which was racing, though I felt strangely tranquil.
She pulled back, made a sort of jumping-growl sound accompanied by a pained huff, then flicked her long tail and loped back to her children, casting a swift look at me as she did.
With the same exaggerated slowness I stood and moved forward, stopping to let her smell me again every time she growled. This happened four or five times, and then finally, I was next to them. The stripped cub gave a tiny roar that sounded more like disgruntled grumbling. The spotted one stopped struggling and twisted a bit to look up at me with determined, defiant, and definitely intelligent eyes. They were a mossy-amber color, and for some reason, this made my breath hitch.
I glanced at the matriarch one more time and, at what I'm positive was an actual nod, reached into the briars and gently disentangled the cub before pulling him-as I saw it was a 'him'-out. He stared at me for a moment, then stretched out his little neck and thumped his nose-coal black, cool, and damp-against mine. Thanks given, he squirmed out of my grip like a snake and clumsily dashed after his mother and sibling, who had already disappeared into the undergrowth.
Had I known better, I would have sworn I heard a melodic, yet somewhat strangled-as if not used to speaking-voice murmur,
"Thank you."
The event with the Nightsabers had taken much longer than I'd thought, and by the time I made it to Fizzlecog's camp, the sun had nearly set. My night-vision wasn't hampered by the change in lighting-it was just as good as during the day, if not better-so I could clearly see the horror that lay before me.
Donny Fizzlecog was dead, lying twisted and charred in a pool of ash-swirled blood on the ground. His tent was torn and tattered, shreds of the spidersilk canvas scattered about, some lightly smoking. Glass shards and various pools of acrid-smelling liquids glinted and glimmered in the wan moonlight.
Around the corpse, in a poor excuse for a circle, danced blue Grells, chirping and hissing away while they let their Faerie Fire play. One of them paused for a moment, jerking as if eager to be in motion again, and stuck its nose up in the air, inhaling deeply. I froze when beady black eyes zeroed in on my form, crouching in the shadows. A euphoric, jittery scream was torn from its twisted lips, and in an instant, all the little demons had focused on me, sardonic delight a palpable aura around them.
I couldn't move; they bounded forward, the one that had first seen me in the lead. I couldn't even flinch couldn't close my eyes.
A roar ripped through the night from my right, and my head turned toward the sound without my consent.
There, deadly, proud, noble, and looking like ferocity incarnate, the mother Nightsaber stood tall, her dark coat melding into the shadows, yet somehow fracturing the darkness. With another wild roar, she leapt, landing amongst the Grells and, without so much as a moment's pause, began tearing into the stunned creatures. Bright green blood in varying hues spraying the air, and strangled shouts, almost childlike, pierced the air. The demons simply were no match for the claws, teeth, and fury of the matriarch.
I felt something tugging at the hem of my skirt-I hated skirts; I only wore them for mother-and nearly jumped out of my skin; I'd been so engrossed in my rescuer's battle. It was the spotted cub, pulling me away from the scene, his sibling pacing anxiously further off, showing me the way. I didn't think; I just scooped up the cubs and ran.
We crashed through the ancient undergrowth, practically flying in my haste. I only came to a stop-and abruptly, at that-when I burst into a clearing and found the mother waiting for us. Her only wound was a burn mark that resembled a star above her left eye, just below the ear. She cocked her head and blinked at me, as if to say 'What are you doing?'.
I honestly didn't know myself. Breathless, I released her cubs, and was surprised when the spotted one scratched at my leg, huffing demandingly. Curious, I reached down, stretching my hand out to him, only to have it bitten very, very hard be not-so-tiny teeth.
I snatched my hand back and pouted a bit, letting the injury bleed as it may. What really caught me off guard was the smug-yes, smug-glint in the kit's eyes. With a final head-butt to my shin, he turned and promptly marched back to his mother. Still confused, but eternally grateful, I bowed to the mighty huntress. She merely flickered her ears in response, a pleased purr rumbling deep in her chest. She then turned and, picking up the stripped cub, padded into the forest, letting the sentinel tree's shadows swallow her up.
The spotted cub lingered a moment, just a moment, but long enough for me to make my move; darting in, I nipped the tip of his right ear hard enough to draw blood. He squeaked, and gave me a little snarl, leaping up and launching himself into the undergrowth.
But not before one last look, one last intense gaze, one last view into each other's souls. The message was clear as a crystalline stream: 'You're marked as mine, and I as yours. We'll meet again.'
I smiled, fondly, like mother had. I would be waiting.
