~*~ Author's Notes ~*~
Reuploaded Dec, 16
List of Fixes:
Obvious spelling, grammatical and consistency errors (in writing style as well as story).
Tense changes: should now all be in present tense.
Requiring the plot point of this chapter, now properly accredited to Corrosa as well as Sylvannas.
Removed all references to growing up in the sticks from the Warlocks vernacular (most people don't know what "fatback" is or what o do with it), dialect ("Get us a [whatever] to do [whatever]" replaced with "Find a [whatever] to do [whatever]") and vocabulary ("Yall, aint and yonder")… I hope.
~*~ Chapter 4 ~*~
She awakens with a start, moving but unable to see a think. It takes a minute to realize she's tucked inside a pack of some kind that is slung across the backside of a horse. The skin of the horse is hard as plate, with ridges. It's warmer than a normal horse, almost hot.
"Wake up little meat sack." The Warlock jeers. The buttons on the top of the pack come open, her head slides out, looking around. She is in her feline form, dark blue skin rippling with energy. The area around them is dead of plant life. The ground calls out for healing. It's all she can do not to answer. She mewls in mourning for what this land has lost. "Bleeding heart, isn't she?" This takes her by surprise that the Warlock knows her feelings for the land.
In the distance black smoke rises from several different places. The scarred land sees only a few bones and vultures. The vultures do not see the wolves. The wolves do not see the Priest and his traveling companion. They do see her.
From a distance she sees one coming, full speed, snapping, snarling and desperate with hunger. Tensing, she slides out of the bag and lands in a graceful coil on the dusty red ground. It's not long before it's right on top of her. Oh, it is huge! Five times or more her size, with the strength to back it. Before it's jaws can touch her, a pillar of golden Light streams from the sky and slams the wolf into the dust and despair of the land. Bright energy crackles on its dark red fur. It dies almost immediately.
The Warlock snorts, "One shot. Stupid wolf." She is behind the Druid, who is staring at the wolf's copse, mourning in a small way, the loss of life on her behalf. She glances back at the Warlock who has her black cloak masking her figure; the hood is drawn full up against the midday sun. Only the unblinking hard yellow eyes show. It was her horse the Druid had been riding.
The Druid wheals around and backs away from the angry demon steed. Its hide is fel-scales and ash. The main is dancing ribbons of fire, caught up in a Nether wind. The tail drips lava where the steal hairs melt bit by bit even as they grew Hot waves of heat seep from the mouth and nose, making everything wavy around the beast's great horned head. The eyes glow with seething hatred: it is irate at being the Warlock's prisoner and will murder her if it could. It would kill everything. The monster was an inferno covered in scales.
"There, there. He won't bite." The Priest spoke gently to the frightened Druid. He and his own mount, a reanimated warhorse covered in the red livery of the Horde, were waiting not far from the wolf. He had been the one to kill it; the Warlock had just sat there hoping to see her die.
The little Druid creeps towards him. No doubt he had won the argument with his companion over who would carry her. The backside of his Warhorse is pointed bone and would be very uncomfortable.
Another wolf came running. She tenses, turns and readies for a fight. Spinning, the Warlock flung a bolt of radiating green hatred at the wolf. It slams into the animal so hard that it's flung over backward and lands in a heap of dead flesh. No more wolves came.
The Druid still creeps towards the Priest. She doesn't trust the Warlock. No one should be able to do something like that without trying. The warlock smirks. "Looks like she wants to ride with you."
The priest sighs. "She can't," he states plainly.
Curious, the Druid wants to know why she can't. She sits at the Priest's feet and waits for him to explain. The end of her tail thumps the ground absently. After a moment the Priest looks down at her.
"Corrosa is going to let you ride on her Dreadstead. I'd suggest you stay in the bag if you don't want to get seen by the local wildlife."
The Druid can hear the warlock harumph and cross her arms in agitation. The demon stead snorts and tosses it's head, as if it is trying to toss aside the mental control the warlock has over it. "Get in the bag, Kitty, we don't got all day to wait for you." With that command, the Forsaken settles the cloak around her so that sunlight never touches her undead skin and takes up the reins once more.
Looking back up at the Priest, the Druid begs with a look to be allowed to ride with him instead. Reaching down, the Blood Elf scratches her chin- the catches himself with an amused smile. "Corrosa here is a very fine tailor and a master spellcaster. She has made a bag that will hide you from the outside world. It doesn't work if you are on this side of the protective sigils." It must be his nature to be so focused, she thought. Supposing his companion made up for it though. Howexactlydoyouhavethatforacompanion?
She glances back at the warlock, who was making a noise not unlike the sizzle of cooking flesh, and hung her head. She'll do what the Priest asked because he saved her life. She walks back to the warlock and leaps up to the back of the great stead. It snorted at her approach and tries to buck at her mounting. The fel scales of its flank were as hot as the midday sun. She will be glad in being inside the bag to be away from the sun and dust. And, indeed, she would not be able to survive even one blow from the local wildlife.
Climbing inside the back, she allows the warlock of fasten the button, sharpened finger tips moving with quick percussion.
She wonders, for the first time now that she isn't in some serious danger, where she was and why they have taken her. Suddenly her heart leaps- the Warlock had asked the Priest why he didn't keep her for a pet if she can't. Oh,Elune!TobethepetthingoftheHorde!TobethepetofaBloodElf!TobemadetokeepaWarlockanddemonsforcompany!Elune…!
"Settle down in there or I'll settle you down." The Warlock hisses. DidImove? She wonders… DidImakeasound? "You don't gotta make a sound, I can feel you getting antsy."
With that the little Druid settles down. Obviously the Warlock had hidden talents or skills for reading people or feeling what was going on around her. It only made her more evil in the Druid's mind.
They ride for long stretches of time. At times they walked and at times they galloped. The dead steed and the demon steed do not have mortal weaknesses like fatigue; the pace depends entirely on the whim of the riders. The Priest leads the way. At some points the Druid can hear scorpions or wild dogs. She can hear fire crackling and smell what she thinks must be lava. The bag protects her from the heat and the harsh winds, from being found by the other animals and seems to even protect her against the despair that cries out from the land. The Warlock's tailoring is good but the priest must have added some protective spells of his own.
At last they come to a stopping point. Threw the bag, with her refined feline hearing, there comes the sound of an exchange with a goblin; then the deep and cultured voice of another Blood Elf. The Warlock got off her mount and spoke as well. The Blood Elf made a quip about the Forsaken… the Priest had to repair the damage. The Warlock gets what they came for and they go on their way.
"If we didn't have the meat sack with us, we could just get a mage to take us back to Orgrimmar-" the Warlock was saying.
At the mention of Orgrimmar, the Druid tried to jump up and voice her complaints at the same time. The Warlock laughed so hard she was holding her sides in fits as the cat in the bag tried to claw it's way out. Mewling in distress and protest, the Druid struggled for a long moment before realizing she wasn't shifting into her elven form.
Perplexed, she stopped struggling. Shifting was something that was as natural to her as breathing. Not being able to shift was… unnatural. "Mrow… mroooowww…" she mewled. Sounding just like the cat in a bag that she was, she demanded to be let out in literally as few words as possible.
The Warlock just laughed more. She wheezed and gasped and thumped the metallic scales of the demonic beast they ride. "Does the meat sack want out? Auntie Corrosa will let you out…"