Sorry for the delay in today's chapter; I had homework to take care of before I could turn my attention to writing. This chapter introduces a new character, named Jaquet Bristow. She belongs to a good friend of mine, and I've tried my best to keep her intact as I make the transition from talking about her to writing her.
Play nice with the new kid, everyone.
Seriously. She's dangerous.
"I'm sorry, Master Stoutfeather," Rayne said, looking as though she were suffering physical pain. "There's nothing I can do for this boy. He's…too far gone. As if the plague weren't enough, the poor darling is traumatized. If he wakes up and sees…any of us, he's completely inconsolable. I can't…there's nothing. I wish there was some final idea that I could try, some…last chance. But there isn't one."
Olrec scowled, his beard quivering. "Devil's work. Ye hear talk of evil in the churches, 'n what it looks like. Ye hear the preachers squawk on how ter fight it, 'n keep it from temptin' ye. There's no temptin' with real evil. Weren't no fightin' this."
Rayne closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated.
The dwarf picked up the unconscious elfling and sighed. "He won't hear it. Ye know that, don't ye? Won't give up 'til the lad starts eatin' 'im. Sad a state as the elf's in, 'e might just let 'im do it. Too soft fer this. He's a beast, 'n a fair sight better a fighter 'n most of us…but he's too soft."
A nod. "Yes. You're…right."
"Ye've 'ad words with the man," Olrec said, finally voicing something that had been on his mind for near to a week. "When the Maiden had him. Aye?" Another nod. "And if I'm gonna venture a guess, M'lady, those words weren't pleasant." Nod. "Any chance o' things…fixin' themselves?"
She shrugged. "I'm not sure."
"Mm. Well, no stranger to that." Olrec shrugged as well. "I'm gonna go figure out how ter break this to 'im. It won't be pretty."
"No matter what may have happened between us," Rayne murmured, mostly to herself, "I'd not wish this on him. He saved our lives. He threw himself at pure evil and came away with a smile. And now…for this to be his reward…? It's not right, Olrec. It's just…not right."
"Aye. Not fer the newbie…an' not for the boy."
As he started his aimless trek about the chapel, the old dwarf had to admit that Rayne was right. Big Olrec Stoutfeather was no stranger to uphill battles; he'd made a military career out of them. But he'd never heard of a single case of the undead plague being cured when it was this advanced. The blood elf child with no name was quite literally becoming a skeleton with skin; his over-bright eyes were sunken in, and when he opened them, they were delirious. His extremities were blackened by gangrene, his hair was coming out in clumps, and he was sleeping upwards of twenty hours a day. Soon, the boy would sleep himself straight to death, and wake up a monster.
That he'd held on this long was a miracle in itself.
Ever since he'd been given a tabard, Sythius had been wearing the colors of the Argent Dawn every hour of the day. He spent time outside of patrolling trying to find someone, anyone, who could help his dying companion. Every time he spoke to an officer, he got the same response: they were too strapped. What few healers they had in their employ were so busy with the wounded and dying already that they couldn't spare any time or energy on a case as hopeless as the little blood elf's. Olrec and Rayne were only able to devote the most cursory amounts of time to keep the child comfortable—as comfortable as he could be in his condition—before their duties called them away.
The druid's frustration was coming out as he grew more and more feral. Even when he was in camp, when he was usually halfway civil, Sythius growled much more often than he spoke, and a great number of the younger recruits made a point of avoiding him altogether. Commander Tyrosus made no effort to stop his interrogations of the healers. When Olrec, one of the few soldiers with leave to invade his private tent, asked him about it, the commander said:
"It has not yet come to a point where he is proving a distraction to the others, and his patrols are netting more headway than any other company. The frustration and anger only adds to his effectiveness. It's callous, and it's cruel, and I don't like it. But it works. And out here, what works is what matters. Let him be. If he does eventually become a problem…well, we'll handle it then."
And so the time passed. Captain Lingham took up a new assignment, and his company set to defending the chapel while another band of fighters made their way deeper into the plaguelands. The day passed when Rayne was sure the elfling would have turned, and he was still holding on. The day became a week. And yet he remained desperately, pitifully alive.
"He's the most blasphemous miracle I've ever seen," the druidess said.
One day, she received a most surprising visitor. Clad in armor that was richer and more elaborate than most of the men had ever seen, much less owned, she was heard long before she entered Rayne's tent. Turning, the elf found a smile and rose to her feet. "Sir," she said.
Jaquet Bristow, known throughout Lordaeron as the Iron Maiden, waved a metal-swathed hand dismissively. "I've told you, it's Jaquet. Do I look like a sir? And before you say 'ma'am,' I'm not one of those, either. Stop insulting me. From what I hear, the big one's causing a stir again. Where's this boy?"
She had a striking red mane of hair that was far brighter and healthier than it had any right to be, and her eyes were even brighter. She was a beautiful woman, and would have been downright enchanting if not for the fact that the scowl on her face could have sent an ogre running for the hills. This explosive woman commanded more awe and respect than most generals, and yet she had no official military record. Jaquet headed a band of hand-selected mercenaries, and had her eyes set on Sythius Sil'nathin joining her ranks.
Once he was properly trained, that was.
Rayne gestured.
Jaquet's face might have shown sympathy at that moment, but it could just as easily have been disgust. "Damn it," she breathed, looking sardonically amused. "The great idiot would take in a pathetic case like that. Let me guess: there's no hope for him."
Rayne shook her head. "No." There was no doubt in her voice. No doubt in her heart.
The Maiden sighed. "I'll talk some sense into the damned bear." As she turned back toward the entrance to the tent, she added, "You have more important work to be doing. End it clean."
"…Is that an order?"
Jaquet may not have had official command of any soldier at the chapel, but she'd proven herself on the field more than often enough to have unofficial command. An order from her was as good as one from the commander.
"Yes."
It might be that this case of the undead plague wouldn't work this way. Indeed, from all indications, it doesn't take very long for someone to turn. This would be especially true for a child. However, there is a very particular reason why he's lasting so long, which I can't reveal just yet.
Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now, would we?
Thank you for reading, and I hope to see you again next week.
Take it easy, all.
