It's been a long time since I've been able to write for this project. I've mentioned in a few recent updates that there have been a great number of things claiming access to my time lately; things outside of creative work. I don't like it. Adult obligations suck. But I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.
Throughout the course of November, trying to engage in the non-profit event called NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for the uninitiated), I've worked extensively with these characters. So, I'm back!
Let's visit Moonglade.
The forest called Moonglade felt like nature made liquid, frozen in stasis like a piece of artwork. It was a statue, a panorama built by a superior mind, with surer hands and cleaner vision than any mortal craftsman.
The ring of mismatched companions seemed to shimmer into existence as if brought to life by a celestial paintbrush. Sythius quickly swept up the boy, obviously unaffected by their otherworldly transportation; the others were not so lucky. Sylvanne swayed on her feet, Olrec was drawing in short, gasping little breaths like he'd just been dunked into a winter-cold pond, and Kayli doubled over and retched out her lunch onto the pristine grass.
A huge creature approached; it looked like a bull that taught itself to stand upright, except that its front legs were shaped like arms, with three-fingered hands. It was a tauren, a member of one of Kalimdor's native races. Big Olrec, when he gathered himself, couldn't help but flinch when he saw the hulking beast. As a veteran of the Third War, the old shaman had faced more than his fair share of tauren on the field. He knew well the honor-bound savagery of which they were capable with a weapon.
He had to remind himself where he was: Moonglade was the home and base of operations for the Cenarion Circle, an order of druids unaffiliated with and largely uninterested in the petty blood-squabbles of the Alliance and Horde. This tauren was not an enemy, and anyway, by any reasonable standards Big Olrec had long since retired from active duty. It was no longer his responsibility to fight for his country.
"Welcome, Dawnlings, to Moonglade," said the tauren, taking note of the tabards worn by Sythius and Olrec. The dwarf bowed his head. Sythius nodded. The druid was of a height with the bull-man, and seemed not to register that this was an oddity. Sythius was not one to consider social awkwardness, and the fact that Olrec would have had to stand on Kayli's shoulders just to look either of them in the eye was completely lost on him. "I am Austerion. What assistance might I provide you?"
The tauren's voice was deep, rumbling, yet somehow sheltering. Nerves were calmed and minds cleared in Austerion's presence, and though his face was unsmiling, he seemed to ingratiate himself to these strangers in front of him merely by standing there.
Sythius glanced down at his arms, and lifted Kin up toward Austerion as if in answer. For a wonder, the guard didn't seem surprised, or offended, by the sick elfling. He frowned, nodded soberly, and merely asked: "What illness plagues this little one?"
"Fancy ye should use such words," said Olrec. "Fledgling's dyin' o' plague."
"We seek Lady Anathala Sil'nathin," Sylvanne said, cleanly cutting Olrec off without quite sounding like it. "I am her daughter, Sylvanne, Acolyte of the Moon."
Austerion blinked, clearly surprised, before bowing his head. "Of course, Milady. Follow me."
The tauren led the small group down a quaint stone path through the painted forest, past pagodas and under awnings, not swiftly but not slowly. Despite the grim nature of their errand, Sylvanne, Kayli, and Olrec all could not help but gawp at their surroundings. The trees were graceful statues, the hills unrolled like red carpets for kings. Out in the distance, mist obscured the view so that the glade felt like a place outside of reality.
"The hills are aliveā¦" Kayli murmured softly, awestruck. And they were. Thorns and vines and flowers, each with vibrant energy, made their meandering way across the scape, animated by the sheer power of life that permeated from the ground beneath their feet.
Austerion seemed amused in spite of himself. "Moonglade is the cradle of druidic magic," he said, gesturing grandly. "There is no land more fertile, no trees more magnificent, no wildlife more regal, than here."
As if summoned by this declaration, a stag bounded into view. It stood atop a huge rock, its antlers like a crown, and regarded the approaching group with calm pride. Sythius took note of the beast as they passed, and smiled unconsciously.
Austerion led them into a clearing, sheltered by a canopy of branches and leaves, deep in the heart of the glade's wilderness. Kneeling there in the center of it, hands outstretched toward what might have been a small garden, as if coaxing the plants awake or conducting a symphony, was a woman.
She was tall, as all elves were tall, with hair the soft blue of a waterfall. She wore bright, vibrant robes of green and gold; far from the humble robes of an acolyte or the furs and leathers of an explorer, she dressed like a queen. When Austerion stepped forward and announced, "Good lady, your grace has visitors," she stood slowly, easily, and the gleaming, sun-fire patterns of the robes' embroidery seemed to ripple and whirl like living things.
Anathala Sil'nathin turned.
Big Olrec bowed deeply at the waist. "Milady," he said, humbled.
"Madam," Kayli offered, taking a knee.
Anathala graced her visitors with a warm smile, and approached Sylvanne with open arms. "Sylvanne. Darling."
Sylvanne accepted the embrace. "It is wonderful to see you, Mother," she said softly, and did not catch the slight twinge at her formality. Then the goddess in mortal form turned toward the last, and largest, of their party. Her eyes searched the gruff, leathered face, raked the stone-wrought muscles.
Sythius grinned like a fool and said, as though he had been apart from this woman for a matter of days, rather than three-fourths a century:
"Min'da."
"Min'da" is a Darnassian word, roughly equivalent to "Mama" or "Mommy."
