~* Author's Notes *~
This is the original chapter 31, written 8/10/12, and since updated.
I'm adding an "anthropology" section to the End Notes from now on. Mostly for my own amusement, but also to fill in the void left by Blizz in giving their races culture.
~*~ Chapter 72 ~*~
~ Kayas, Kalimdor ~
This isn't fair, Kayas though. All I wanted was some bear meat. What did I do to deserve all this instead?
Elune didn't answer. Probably still mad about that incident with her and fire magic and a Scarlet Combound. But that was … days ago.
She should be over that, right?
It had been her idea,though; something spouted off in order to gain passenger status on what amounted to a flying death machine. At the time it had seemed a wonderful idea: smiting the Dark Lady's bank account by skipping town on her dime. The rest was only a smut and wonderful idea in theory. The marrow warming idea of getting home had filled her with such childish delight that the rest of it just slipped out unbidden. Thus, her current predicament.
This isn't fair!
The ship had been docked half a day now and the little Druid wouldn't abandon it for all the lost relics in Azshara. Nope. Not gonna happen. She sat perched in feline form on the top of the cabin, glaring angrily at the welcoming party -
-of over two dozen angry, fully armed city guards. Each green-skinned, hairy one of them was enough to tear her up in just one hit. Yellow teeth and tatoos and piercings and why did they smell like that? She suspected it may be a stench given off in the haze of battle to either overwhelm the enemy's olfactory glands, else induce vomiting. Puking enemies did not pose much of a thread.
She should know.
There was enough open space between themselves for launched projectiles. Either they could skewer her like a wet, fresh skin to the roof of the cabin, or she could launch herself and shred one of them before the brought her low. Either way she'd wind up a pelt on someone's easy chair by the end of the day.
The thing is… she was sitting on Neutral Ground(tm)…
… docked in the heart of Orgrimmar while the captain had his balloon replaced at her recommendation.
She wasn't budging from the ship. Nope. Not gonna happen.
~ Four Days Earlier ~
~ Tirisfal Glades, Jetadiah and Co. ~
"You. Did. What?" The Priest, dressed neck to deck in his finest once more and radiating holy glory, spoke slowly so that the cowering guard in front of him could understand his words. Even with the slow intake and exhale of air from lungs frozen at the guards message, he doubted anyone would understand his words; his teeth clenched so hard they could dent mithril. The bright green glow of his eyes only gave his smooth feature a sinister sort of shadowing. The pressure it put on his temples did not help the woozy feeling of her words had brought.
Zeppelin.
Kalimdor.
Gone.
How had it all spun out of control so quickly? The collar was there to grant a modicum of freedom, but this was ridiculous. He didn't need to watch her kitty squats for fear of suspicious behavior, but apparently just letting her run wild was out of the question too.
Happy mediums were not to intent on showing themselves at the moment, and were probably laughing at him behind his back.
He ignored the recesses of his mind and a mocking voice that said 'Told you so! That's what you get for thinking you can keep those filthy Night Elves from their stupid trees'.
Actually, that was just Corrosa's muttering. Nevermind.
Behind him the Warlock, arms crossed and foot a-tapping, complained to the air and no one in general about having to go chasing after her companions 'project'. Her voice was low but not due to politeness; more from holding in screams for hours as she had been shackled at the Scarlet Monastery and drug back to the house to be subdued.
She was not in a good mood, and for some reason she and the Banshee Queen weren't speaking. Jetadiah suspected it had something to do with him. Instinct kept him from being alone with the two, as amongst the High Elves at least, females often settled their disputes and re-solidify their unity by terrorizing the nearest male in proximity. The Sin'dorie were only a decade removed from that lot, so he didn't take chances.
"We, um… told her not to." The first guard said, looking over at the other guard for confirmation. The other guard nodded vigorously, undead eyes glued to the person at the end of the line.
The Priest chanted inside is head, breath breath breathbreathbreath, else he was going to reach out and shake the quaking guard who so carelessly let his Druid slip onto an air ship bound for Kalimdor. No doubt said Druid though she was being clever using the tabard to get pas the guards. Come to find out they had actually conversed quite a bit...?
It set his teeth grinding.
"I understand what you said," the Dark Lady hissed, one purple stained nail pointed rather threateningly, as if lining up an arrow shot, "But I don't understand how you Let. It. Happen."
Beside the Banshee Queen cat shaped shadow moved, repeatedly butted her leg in depends for more pettings. His tail was like a thorium cable, wrapped firmly around both slim ankles and prevented her advancing further up the line of people interested in questioning the guards. Her armor aside, all she wore at the moment was thick forest green bathrobe, fuzzy felhound headed slippers (a gift from one of the children, questionmark) and a blue towel wrapped around her shoulders on which damp hair was spread.
Someone was insanely cranky at having her bath-time interrupted by a Holy Light wielding Priest who threatened to dip his infused wand in her bathtub and electrocute her if she didn't help him find his druid. Not shredding his face off was one of greatest accomplishments to date. If anything happened to Corrosa the first thing the Dark Lady planned to do was tie Dearest Jetadiah up in her basement and pluck every single strand of hair from his head until the loss of his hard earned manhood wrecked him on every level(2).
In front of her was Serze. In front of him was Corrosa. In front of him was the Priest. The two imps were in the back of the line and Caspin was hiding in a tree after finding out who is engineering instructor really was and what the Dark Lady could do to Night Elves if she so chose. The dreadstead was no where to be seen but just from the corner of everyone's eye they could swear a pack of purple hounds circled the rickety tower.
"We told her not to!" The second guard wailed. "We told her to say here!"
"What," Serz asked slowly and politely, "were your exact words, madam?"
The first guard all but broke down squealing, "We told her about the Wretched, the Worgen, the Humans and even told her to stay away from other Night Elves!" She turned to the Dark Lady, pleading on both knees, "We told her you would take care of her if she would let you, that she is Forsaken now and it would be pointless going back to where she came from!"
The Dark Lady actually face palmed and stood there with her hand over her eyes as she breathed in and out to calm herself. Tripping over the great jungle cat's tail was all that prevented her advancing and shredding her faithful subjects. The nails of one hand worked under his chin and seconds latter squeak of satisfaction eeked out into the air.
"You told her about Worgen, Wretched and murderous Humans closing in on all sides as a means to get her to stay here?"
The Banshee Queen's eyes were a murderous shade of coal in the morning light. "I was scrubbing rotted flesh from between my toes when I got this news," she growled out, earning a similar rumble from the the feline by her side. "Instead of getting the massage I ordered I have been threatened – threatened – by someone who doesn't pat a mosquito on the back after a good day's work and it turns out to your fault."
The fresh memory whispered up over her mind like smoke through treetops: him standing there all flowing black hair and the hint of stubble, eyes just a shade shy of being red themselves, brandishing that stupid mechanical wand, and illuminated with Holy Light.
Her next bath would need to be a cold one.
Why are the pretty ones always the most arrogant?
Oh. Corrosa.
Her trail ended at the base of the guard tower. And here they all arrived, all the help which the Priest requisitioned from across Tirisfal Glades, all waiting patiently for the words of the one who were the last known souls to see the Druid.
The guards cowered, chain mail and armor rattling.
The Priest shoot his head, topknot shimmering from side to side, "They tried. There was nothing they could do." Even the dead could get the Priest's sympathy to rise.
"Oh?" The Dark Lady asked. She made an effort to hide annoyance, though the one slightly jumping eyebrow would have given her away to those few who knew her well. Fortunately the Angels guild leaders were otherwise occupied, and so she supposed she did a good enough job curbing irritation. You got me out of a hot bath only to take have an empathy attack at a time like this? I have revision work and a deadline, you gutless hotbody.
The Priest hung his head, deep sadness in his voice. "I pushed her to her limits." Accusing green eye landed on the Dark Lady, who was taken aback at the barely concealed viciousness, "Then you drug her kicking and screaming over them and so far on the other side she can't tell what she is anymore."
The Dark Lady opened her mouth to protest but snapped it shut again. Reminding the Priest who she was and how dare you speak to me this way only brought the Warlock's anger out, and though she could control Corrosa if she so chose, she didn't want to risk breaking her sheath so soon after he had just recovered. No doubt Dearest Jetadiah would look forward to the day the Dark Lady went head to head with his Corrosa.
They hadn't even let her put clothes on, just the one nagging and nagging like a bleating mother goat, and the other starting with cold, dead eyes and not moving except to always remain five feet south of her. Why south? No idea. Had it only been a couple of hours? She could feel the Warlock's restrain sizzling even now in the air like hot oil trying to leap away from wet surfaces.
Some days I really stick both feet in it, don't I? As if to answer, her once companion propped himself up on hind legs, wrapping wide arms around her as if to embrace sooth her battle worn mind. In the familiar pull of padded feline paws she was reminded that even if the Druid hated her, it had been for a reason, and in the end she would understand that.
The Priest continued while gesturing in curving, elegant motions with one gloveless and manicured hand, "Fight or flight, you see, and so she ran. A Druid cannot dwell in a dead place for long without going insane." The sleeve of his robe fell back revealing a glimpse of a tattoo. When the Dark Lady's eyes landed on it he hastily pulled the sleeve back down
So Blaze did get her hands on you after all? Interesting.
He continued, head high as if he were not turning a light shade of pink, though is voice pitched higher than he intended. "We've seen very well what becomes of insane Druids." He glanced at Corrosa over his shoulder. His companion returned his gaze but made no sound or motion to indicate how she felt about their trips to the Wailing Caverns and the Greymane Wall. She didn't say she had the map of the caves memorized and had skinned several of the snakes to make herself some dancing boots and would never, ever admit she had a lovely white handbag of the same skin which only came out on special "dressing up" occasions.
The Dark Lady's head fell to the side, a curtain of drying hair blocking her view of the others as she made faces no one could see. The black cat sneezed over he shoulder and got down. The Dark Lady pointedly ignoring the fact that the they would not speak too each other, but kept attempting to rope each other into breaking the silence first with lines like that. She stayed out of the way, not wanting to be there when he sizzled with Holy Light and electrocuted the Warlock to her soul as when Corrosa's leash strains and she shoots him so full of fel energy his skin blisters and peels.
And they would still refuse to let go of each other even while it happened.
A part of the Dark Lady remembered that kind of a relationship and knew a hollow sensation behind her navel which indicated heartache and jealousy. She indulged in the brief bite of sucking emotions before they dissipated and were gone. The sensation left her hollow, like someone scooped out all her marrow and replaced it with her usual concealed rage.
Pushing her hair damp hair back into place, she said "I remember you having this nifty little contraption around her neck that is suppose to prevent her from escaping. When exactly did you make the mistake of removing the range limit?"
The Priest was confounded for a second, trying not to look too caught in the trap. The tips of his long ears swayed in a harsh blow of wind. The black shimmer of his hair lifted and fell. "I get the feeling you're about to blame me for doing something to my Druid, so allow me to remind you that she is indeed my Druid. Get your own."
My toy. Not sharing! MOOOM!
The Warlock ignored everyone, still muttering under her breath about how she could be sitting down to a nice bowl of chili-o-kitty right now if a certain someone didn't have a permanent 'nelfy' shaped wound in his oversized heart.
"I told you not to call call her a 'nelfy'; it's insulting!"(3)
Two seconds latter he blanched slightly, jaw tightening and lips screwing up in A Look. Suddenly he realize... just lost the Not-Talking-to-You contest. He wouldn't turn around, wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
The Dark Lady dearly loved to see him unbalanced. Though Dear Corrosa never fully withdrew herself from him, puling back even slightly tipped the proud elf, bringing him skidding back down to earth with the rest of the squishy mortals. The sight of which was the highlight of everyone's morning so far as they all allowed him to flounder in the wake of losing.
Fortunately Serze was present to break the awkward silence and pull them back to the question at hand with the oh-so-helpful suggestion of, "I believe he did it when he got back to the house with Corrosa and told her to 'go somewhere else for a while', Your Majesty." He was smiling like newborn innocence itself. If infants had a full set of slightly sharpened teeth.
The Priest glared through the back of his own head at the undead man. His back was stiff, both hands balled into fists as if his manicured nails biting into his palms would somehow every stop the man from opening his mouth to be helpful again.
Serz didn't seem to notice, but the black feline took exception to the hand which quit scratching his chin and warbled keenly.
Crossing her arms the Banshee Queen was satisfied, "You let her get away. Now go get her back. She planted the dorie trees in Silvermoon, and I want her to make more."
The Priest turned around, impressive in his flowing battle robes and high, dark topknot, looked the undead Queen directly in the eyes. "There is no way this side of the Maelstrom I'm taking her to Thunder Bluff. You can hang that up right now."
They argued.
The Dark Lady took exception to being spoken too in such a manor; after all she was a Queen. Though the Warlock said nothing either in support of or to condemn either of them, it was clear that, having lost the argument, her Priest once again needed her silent presence to deter anyone who might think his Holy purity could be manipulated – or, fel forbid, threatened – into a course of action which didn't directly benefit the Warlock. With Dear Corrosa right there, there wasn't much the Banshee Queen could do besides try to use her words to be persuasive. It was only Dearest Jetadiah she couldn't skewer with her entire arm and welcome into the ranks of the Forsaken if (lets be honest, when) they peeved her.
She needed him for other things, and as long as his Warlock was undead, that was enough to persuade him to her cause.
They argued some more; long enough for Serz to roll his eyes and leave to go find a mage. He knew exactly where the ship would end up. And exactly where the Druid would be four days from now when she got there.
~ Four Days Latter~
~ Orgirimar, Jetadiah ~
The baking hot desert sun dumped heat down from overhead, lighting up the valleys of Orgrimar with an shimmering brightness. The edges of some cliffs even polished to reflect sunlight into all but the darkest clefs. On one high ledge sat the zeppelin repair tower. Docked in it's port was a zeppelin having it's hot air balloon replaced. On top of the cabin of the ship a Night Elf Druid stretched out in full view.
A living wall of Orcs blocked access to the repair tower. The High Priest and Warlock stood watching the Druid lounging in the sun. She basked in the heat, rolling over on her back and licking her paws luxuriously. It hadn't taken long to figure out that the Orcs wouldn't board the ship, even if she were in plain sight and within distance of long reaching poking sticks.
After spending days sulking her companion had reached the limits of his ability to put up with her mood. The Warlock was back to her old self again.
"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen," she hissed, "Ever."
She on the other hand had plugged her ears and sang loudly when he would start talking about how he 'hoped she was safe' and how she was 'my responsibility' and 'I'm not so certain the Darksprear don't still eat humanoids. There are never any murlocs in Troll lands."(4).
The Priest sighed heavily, arms crossed. Eyes heavy from many sleepless nights watched the Druid's dark fur soak up the midday heat. From Corrosa's experience, the plague did not like the sun, and so it must be costing her some amount of discomfort to sit there.
She was headstrong, that one. Nothing said you can't break me quite as much as laying in the sunlight in full view of Orcs when one was infected with plague and a Night Elf. Her defiance made him happy in a corner of his heart kept secret from the rest of his kind. He knew that feeling, that loathing to be brought low and cowed.
… but he also knew what it had cost him.
The smile which had been hiding behind his lips ran away and he sealed himself to do what he needed to. Jetadiah's gloves were carelessly stuffed into the belt at one elbow. Bare hands were needed to reactivate the collar.
"Corrosa, do something for me."
Flattered, the Warlock stood up straighter and awaited the suggestion. Of all the things he's asked her to do killing was certainly amongst them, and was certainly what she was hoping for now.
It's been quite some time since she disintegrated a full-grown Orc.
The Priest turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder, "Clear a path." Causing the Warlock to act against the Orcs had not been his first idea. They were packed in so tight around the loading dock that there were blood stains on the rocks below where one or two had actually been pushed off. They wouldn't move at his request or his demands, and the High Priest would never, ever bring himself so low as to threaten someone. The universe was suppose to provide him whatever he wanted, provided he just asked nicely. And if not...
That's why he had a Warlock.
If she were capable of tearing up over sentimentalizes the undead woman would have. "I though you'd never ask!"
A wicked cackle escaped her gaping jaws as she put on her best 'war face', grasped her fel-infused green and red tome, and advanced upon the unwary guards. Her bare toe bones clackle-clackled on the orange and pink sandstone cliff rocks.
That was the only warning those in the back got before a series of quick curses turned the ground to black crumbling circles of runes and the rock began to crack and split. Steam shot out, hitting the undersides of someone's war kilt and her hammering bellow was met with a weave of red heat rising.
"MOVE!" the Warlock yelled, causing several to jump, notice the cracking black of the ground and skitter aside. The threat from behind suddenly became so much more important that the scrawny Druid's languorously sun bath. Not that the undead were never seen in Orgrimmar, but the tended to stay out of any place that remotely resembled 'sunny'. Durotar chief amongst them.
They certainly were never this loud.
"Silvermoon emissary coming though!" Walls of green fel flame(1) shot up on her left and right, creating a fiery isle down the middle of the guards. One managed to be slow in moving and was subsequently howling as his toes were scorched to raw black nubs. The yowling, flopping and rolling brought the Warlock to a stop. Condemnation shot forth like it's own curse as she pointed and shrieked, "That'll teach you some respect!"
The Warlock could walk on her own fel contaminated ground, though the rest could not, and so each quick hand jerk and shrill curse was met with a widening of the isles and the hollering of another Orc who came perilous close to being pushed off the edge.
They parted to let her because they didn't have a choice.
The High Priest, belt pouch full of reagents, sparked one feather to life, cast the spell on himself, stepped up into the air and floated. The Warlocks hands were now gesturing to him as if they had a mind of their own. They said Don't you know who this is? and then things far more insulting to their station, since how important could they be if they didn't know the people worth knowing? Not that the entire city hadn't been starting at him since he got there; Blood Elves were even more rare in Durotar than the Forsaken.
This, the Priest took, was his queue to follow.
Stately as any fallen prince, he moved forward down the isles of fire. If his mind were not serious and set on the rather unpleasant task ahead he would have been taken in by the irony of this situation: Blood Elf and the isle of fire. Fel fire and a Priest.
The irony was wasted, for upon reaching the end of the path his hand shaded eyes followed the plank up to the deck and from that up to the cabin roof. His gaze met a mouth full of shiv sharp teeth and pure white eyes glowing with immense hatred.
His heart skipped a beat, but his arm came down. Setting one booted foot firmly on the plank he took a tentative step forward, hand on another feather if it were needed. The plank held. Glancing back up he placed another foot.
He had to travel forward; it was too late to go back.
~Notes~
1) In 2012 when this chapter was written only an addon could give you green flames. Since then Blizz finally added it in-game. As a result of a glitch in the original addon I have added characters to this story:
Bad. Ass. Fel. Paladins. Coming soon to a desperate population of crack elves near you!
2) Anthropology: Sin'dorei Professor: Jetadiah Subject: Social Interactions and Hair
When female Sin'dorei fight they will eventually settle the despite by teaming up to take out on the nearest male. The poor male spends the next several days in a nearly catatonic state of trauma, sits in a corner and nervously styles his hair. The condition is called ondalu and comes with the hidden bonus of free, no-questions-asked vacation (read: recovery) time from work.
Males with longer hair trigger the instinct in women to pick him for this exercise and, subsequently, longer hair is more appealing to females in general. Ondalu is considered a right of passage, and female BE have their own version. But that is for another class period!
The BE have a lot of lore, culture and customs surrounding hair.
I mentioned some chapters ago that Jetadiah's long hair indicate his status as 'untouchable' in battle. I had the theory, but didn't quite explain it too well. When Game of Thrones came out, the description of Dothraki and their braids made me facepalm with "YES, that's what I meant!" Like the Dothraki, one way to shame a Blood Elf is to cut off any amount of their hair. Unlike Dothraki, they don't automatically lose those luscious locks just for losing a fight.
2) Anthropology: Forsaken Professor: Sylvanas Subject: Literature
I gave Sylvanas a hobby – writing novels inspired by folk heroes. In the early days of the Forsaken Sylvanas needed money to fund her army and so she turned her field writing expertise into penning articles for various newspapers around the world under the pen-name Synon'hym Fordeth. Though she doesn't write magazine articles anymore, one advice column survived called "What would you ask of Deth?" wherein she gives advice while pretending to be herself. It's wildly popular.
The first Nekov novel came out to The Librarian's highest acclaims. The hero, a tortured friar who survived the fall of Lordaeron, goes around the world tracking down those infected with the plague, fulfilling their emotional last wishes with gut-wrenching sympathy and laying them peacefully in their graves at the ends of each book. The twists and turns in each mission, as well as the eye-popping reveal at the end of the third book, and the laughing stock the author makes out of SI:7, made the series immensely popular.
She was deciding whether or not to keep Nekov as the main character now that the real one had reared his not-so-ugly head right about the time the Priest smote his way into her private chambers.
3) A reference to a separate sub-story that I haven't posted yet.
4 ) All trolls practiced cannibalism as part of their culture. The Darkspear swear they aren't still cannibals. I believe that SO much, because, you know, you see troll graveyards everywhere. Oh, wait. No, you don't.
~End Story Arch II: The Forsaken~