A Eulogy in Silvermoon

The sliver of metal she turned over in her fingers, looking down at it as if it held her future. Finely crafted, exquisite in its simplicity, precious in that it was a gift.

Soft eyes then rose, slow, blinking once. As if, for a moment she could change the very nature of the world with just the force of her will, make that which was, somehow wasn’t.

That was foolish. And she knew it. From the door her gaze rose further, knowing what she would see before the night proved it true. The windows more than dark. Empty. The blackness within the polished frames like eyes blinded, never to see again.

She turned her hand

The key fell and then bounced down the cobbles of Murder Row.

Homecoming.

No longer.

Just a door with the locks changed.

“No Kree …”

The warlock sat, in the twilight, that gray quiet between the sun’s light and the moon’s darkness. The big red demon’s head rested in her lap and she slipped her fingers along fine scales and dangerous bone. Many scalawags have called the fierce felhunter some manner of puppy. Now might prove those words, the simple demon trying to comfort its mistress. For the warlock, it didn’t matter if the great beast understood what she said; in truth she knew the demon probably didn’t.

“It wasn’t my choice …

“And it was not the choice I would have made.

“It was just the one I was told I would make.”

A breath taken. And then eyes closed.

“Its strange, Kree. I have been cut and mauled and torn, felt the slash of a sword, the tear of fangs, the burn of magic’s fair and foul.

“But of them all, the only one who managed to hurt me, was the one I cared for.”

Again, there was a long moment’s silence, heavy as death.

“No Kree. No. I won’t let you bite and rend. What ever path lead from here, I hope it is one that is happy and fulfilled. Come the end of the day and the fall of night, that’s all I ever wished. For me and you, well, we get the twilight, alone again between light and shadow.”

Her head shifted, resting her cheek against a polished horn, one normally used for gutting someone who would bring her harm. A beat, and then two, was held before she continued.

“I don’t think so Kree. I really don’t.

“I think maybe the minstrels are right about that too.

“That it only happens once.

“It is true for me.

“But it takes two.”

A petty vandalism.

On an abandoned door in Silvermoon, upon Murder Row.

A pair of initials.

A simple heart.

A second set of initials.

Chesspiece

"She had a name ..."

The young woman sat back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her refuge was painted in shadows, here beneath the world. In that dark place, cold and dim, the only light the frail green luminesense of disturbingly slowly churning waters.

"She had a name ..."

Eyes closed, she rapped her head back against the Lordaeron stonework. Somewhere, beyond, there was the rattle and clatter of conversation and commerce, so mundane and yet, for this set of heartbeats, almost a world away and fel surreal, like a smile painted upon a funereal mask.

Beside her, the great crimson felhunter shifted, lifting her head as she caught the hints of mana in the air, somewhere out amongst the canals and bridgework. But then, all it took was a soft, slender hand upon the demons thousand toothed muzzle to say ... this is not the time.

"Moonlight and dark gray storm clouds, Kree, and they knew. They knew, and it didn't even mean a thing. And we, me and you, we played right into their macabre game, their jest. You could see the hint in her tortured eyes, that faint glimmer that the pain would finally end, as we so obliviously offered her that flask of hope. To then watch those eyes darken, her realization of our betrayal some dark mixture of fear and hurt and innocence, and the panic - the last thing she wanted was to die - and knowing that the end of her pain was to be, in truth, her end ..."

White teeth set upon worn rose lips, pressing until they paled. Her crimson hair fell in a silken cascade, rolling over soft Sindorei shoulders as the warlock shook her head.

"I wonder if she had a family, some friend, a great bull out there waiting for her ... someone to live for, some place at the end of her travels to reach, that for her was worth her exile to that grim Apothacary, cut off from her earth-mother, cut off from the sun's light. How could she not, to make it through each dark, lost, forgotten day?

"Did she know they didn't care? Did she know that they took joy in her hurting, like a hunter enjoys the stalking of their prey? Sun's light, Kree ... she was not some faceless, anonymous creature, like a rat in a cage. They knew who she was ..."

Green eyes, they opened, to narrow slits.

"And she was Tauren, Kree. Not Human, not Dwarven, not Gnomish, Dranei or Kaldorei. Tauren, Kree, Tauren.

"They offered her hope ... why should she think different? We are supposed to be allies, we are supposed to be friends, we are supposed to look out for each other ..."

Slowly she stood. Her palms smoothed her robes, shaking out the forsaken dust.

" ... and we walked right into it, just like a pawn on a chessboard. We should have seen it, how ... how could we have been so naive?"

The warlock drew herself straight and tall, a shake of her head almost aristocratic as she set her path.

"Never again, Kree, never again."

One step, then two, and she could not help but stop. Looking over her shoulder, she tried not to shake.

"I hope the fields you walk now are green and scented of spring and forever's sunshine. And that the ones you lived for ... that they will join you there, to once again share steps and clasped hands.

"... but ... but not ... not too soon."

A breath, a pause, a heartbeat in the city of the undead.

"Good night, Thersa Windsong."

Fourteen Hundred Words

The scirocco cut across the pale dunes, kicking up the dust and sand. Like a fog or mist it blurred the landscape, softening it, casting the rippled dunes in gentle pastels, fading the deserts of Tanaris like a worn memory.

She stood, arms clasped about her waist, silent and as still as a statue. The hot wind tossed her crimson mane, tumbling it over her long slender ears, dashing it upon her shoulders. The only noise was its low whistle, the shuffling of sand over sand and the snap like puppies at one’s heels as it rippled about the hem of her long robes. In truth while barely heard they seemed to echo like thunder against the surrounding emptiness.

Alone, save for the sepia shadows of the wood lashed watchtowers.

Alone, save for the Sandsorrow dead.

I should feel something.

She looked across the sea of carnage, the bodies slowly vanishing beneath the drifting dunes, the darkened splashes where the blood had seeped into the desert already offered to the unforgiving wind.

I should feel something.

Anything.

Her head ducked, turning her back to the storm. A slender arm rose, the back of her hand dragged across her light green eyes, nothing to dry, simply to free them of the wind blown fog.

But I don’t. I know I should, shouldn’t I? The only difference between them and I now just a heartbeat. Between fel magics and my demon’s cobalt claws I have shorn them from this mortal world, from whatever they had, leaving only silence. Soon the dunes will cover them and it will be as if they were never here at all. A theft, of all a body has, taken and in their place left only nothing.

Just like me.

Is that all what we are? Simply swords sent out into the desert, to return for a handful of coin or some shiny trinket. Is that the truth of the world, that we are nothing but carrion creatures, drawing what we need from someone else’s corpse; be it a scrap of silk from these forgotten trolls or the sacking of Stormwind by our grand battalions beneath banners of deep rust and black? Is this emptiness what must necessarily be; because to actually feel, to be more than that assassin’s blade, to have something touch this silence inside would force one to turn to face the hurt and cruelty we have left in our wake? Against the destruction of our lands by the Scourge, against the betrayals of the Alliance, against those whom we leave behind swallowed by the Sun’s passing and the Night’s conquest is empathy but a deadly and self destructive luxury and is it only the simple pragmatics of survival to just let it wash over and around and past one's self like this desert sand upon its hot wind?

Crouching, the slender elf dipped her hands into the dune. Cupping her palms she watched the grains sift through her fingers, slowly turning them to try and work out the rusted remains of the Sandsorrow life’s blood. There was something in the simple, repetitive motions. Comfort, familiarity or perhaps just the silent discipline of the task in and of it self.

No one ever told me.

What am I supposed to feel?

Unconsciously the blood elf winced, her head turning as if slammed by a gauntleted fist.

Mother’s sword never asked questions, never had more than a single answer to the world. Mother’s armor was impenetrable, forged from the Light and brooking no quarter, no wavering of Faith. A hero of Silvermoon, oh that she was, nary a dark word or vengeful lance could stay her. That was supposed to be good, wasn’t it? Something to aspire to, right and proper by anyone’s accounting. I am her daughter, blood tells they say, shouldn’t that set my path, define my right and wrong in the world? Give me something to believe in? Allow me the luxury to feel?

But I have seen the beautiful crystal. I have heard its funeral dirge beneath the streets of Silvermoon. Felt the cold chains of power that bind it.

How can there be Light when it is born of Darkness? How can something good be dependent upon another’s torment? Is it simply another addiction, if a pleasure is born of pain is there really any difference between the two?

Flip a coin, toss it into the air, does it matter what face it lands on. Heads or tails, good or evil, pleasure or pain or Mother or Father.

Father wouldn’t even consider the question, for it has no meaning in his world. In the Royal halls what is white may now be black completely dependent upon the Regent’s mood. There is no future in his world, no past, only the cut throat morals of the Now. His past is nothing but foundations for today’s choices and it is today’s choices that make the future real. Like a roc upon this desert windstorm it doesn’t matter which way the wind blows; what only matters is how you ride it.

Is his seneschal’s world just as much an illusion as Mother’s? Is all that we can do is build ourselves a fortress, stone by stone, to create an illusion of propriety … as one might build a set in the halls of Kharazhan, upon which to place a passion play? Nothing more than a façade, the reality of our world not set by any truth but simply force of will?

If so – what can we hold?

Is this why I don’t feel anything? How can anything be true if there is nothing between these illusions we build and the impartial, unfeeling drift of the dunes. The implacable desert, erasing not just these lost trolls but eventually myself too?

Is there anything real?

Slowly standing, the blood elf closed her eyes, turning her head in the direction of the sun. It was low on the horizon, just a pale disk against the fog of the sandstorm. If she concentrated she could pretend she felt its warmth.

One thing I know. It is a long ride back to Silvermoon, to those polished halls, shimmering concourses and whatever tavern this night hosts the household that claims me. I doubt they ever consider these questions, instead choosing to let the wind take them where it wills. Maybe it is easier, simpler, not to question, not to think, to just sit about the tavern and listen to the conversations drift back and forth, hear the skalds sing of ancient heroes and mysteries, lace them with drama and passionate romance. To set down one’s pack and forget about deserts and trolls and place.

To set down one’s pack.

She smiled at that, small but true, taking in a deep deep breath.

It won’t be set down alone, I suspect. And we will trade our tales on where the fates have tossed us between then and now, and how long the nights were and I found this and thought of you and then it would be just as fine to sit quietly, safe, safe and no longer …

… and no longer apart.

Maybe the minstrels do have it right. As they tell their stories of well crossed lovers and passionate betrayals, the soft lament of those who fell before us.

I remember watching a queen of ice, her heart no longer beating, and yet that frozen soul warmed just a bit, by a locket, a token supposedly scorned and when no one was supposed to be looking, cherished.

The trinket, in itself, was nothing. A piece of jewelry, cold metal, unfeeling stone and that’s all. And yet it broke through the weight of the years and the curse of a frozen throne.

Sisters. Forever torn apart, and yet, for that one brief instance, together, even if just a memory in an unbeating heart.

Maybe that’s it.

It’s not right or wrong. It’s not good or evil. It’s not power or strength, not shadow or fire, and certainly not Light or Darkness.

It is not where the fates send us but who we share that journey with.

Tonight my pack will rest next to another’s.

That is real. That is true.

The minstrels, listen to them. They have fourteen hundred words to describe our relationships with each other.

I have three.

That’s not very many.

But it’s a good start.

Pamela's Doll

It was dusk.

It was always dusk in the Plaguelands. The air sifted in sepia shadows, the dying trees cast orange and brown shadows crisscrossing in a chaotic moire and the sun beyond nothing but a lighter smudge in the dusty sky above. She had to stop, to rub her eyes, teeth clenching, fingernails digging into her palms, anything to stop her hands from shaking.

It was a doll.

It was just a doll.

It was just a broken, moon-cursed and raggedy, old, falling apart little girl's doll.

The Sindorei sat upon the forgotten porch, the house behind her empty save for spirits restless. Its faded boards let in as much light as the shattered windows, pale gray strands of illumination, barely enough to cast a shadow. Long ago, this place had been known as Darrowshire. Once, she supposed, it had been a bright and noisy place, where the human-kin played in the streets and beneath it's trees, laughing in their strange and alien games. But then the Scourge came, and the Scourge didn't care if you had mundane blood or elven.

In her hands were needle and thread. Her own embroidery was fitting for any elven court. The finest stitching, the flash of gold and silver thread upon crimson samite; her own robes were not just woven of silk and shimmering netherweave but her own sun blessed magics. So this, this should have been such a simple task.

She tried again, to stitch the torn doll back together. But the dust, it must have been in her eyes, for all was blurred.

She never had a doll, herself. Oh no, that was too fine for Mother. Her daughter was going to be a knight, a stalwart and cruel and unwavering paladin. There was no room for such soft play in her world, for such simple and so domestic pleasures. Nobles of the Court didn’t have time ‘tween lessons and social engagements for such frivolities.

Green eyes closed, a touch of steel framing to the young women’s expression. It didn’t mean she ever wished. It didn’t mean that a day didn’t go by that she wouldn’t have traded the glittering façade of appearances and affections … just for one day running in the streets, playing hopscotch upon a chalk marked court. Or even, to sit on a bench with a cloth companion.

Maybe one just like this.

Wincing, hard, her eyes opened to narrow slits. It didn’t take much imagination to feel the sting, for her memory far too good. To once again know the sharpness that was her Mother's backhand discipline, if Mother ever found out her daughter was stitching up some girl's doll. Let alone a human child's doll.

Mother would be the first to remind her, that the only thing Humankind ever taught the Sindorei was the meaning of betrayal.

There was a shift in the light, like a mist passing before a candle. She started, suddenly alert. A breath held. And then, when the village's silence was again heavy enough, she let that breath out and relaxed. The Scourge had been here - Kel'Thuzad's legions of twisted abominations - and the ghosts they left behind were not just some minstrel's myth. They were real.

Shaking her head, trying to see straight, the blood elf once again attempted to focus at the bits of cloth and straw in her lap. Button eyes, faded yarn hair, a doll's simple sack dress. Obviously crafted to look like one worn by a little girl.

A little girl who didn't deserve this. All the betrayals in the world, and the blood lost between Sindorei and Humankind didn't, couldn't, wouldn't make any of this right. Just a little girl, and little girls should be playing beneath these trees, their biggest care how many daisies it takes to make a circlet for her hair, whether or not her doll took one acorn or two in her imaginary teacup.

But then the Scourge came, and the Scourge didn't care.

A little girl should have a chance. Just a chance, to play all the games of hide and seek and imaginary tea the older Sindorei never had.

A little girl shouldn't have to haunt until the dying of the final night, the last of the days, hurting forever because she lost her doll and not understanding at all that she was no longer alive.

It took a long press of her forearm to her eyes to clear them. To realize that there was no dust in her eyes.

Only tears.

Damn you, Kel'Thuzad ... for making me hurt for a human child.

The blood elf slowly, so slowly stitched Pamela's doll back together. It was the only thing she could do for the dead.

Why couldn't she stop crying.

Damn you, Kel'Thuzad ... for teaching me compassion.

Serenity in Solitude

Appropriately it was storming upon Thunder Bluff. The rain came down in blinding sheets, the tents and long houses illuminated for merest heartbeats with the flash of jagged lightning, the plains echoing for miles with the bellow of the resulting thunder.

And then there was the storm inside Paha’s inn.

Like a victim of a ship capsizing she looked, her long red hair flattened and slick with the downpour, her fine robes soaked, leaving a trail of water between her place and the door. Even her tall ears were canted down, rainwater dropleting off them in a slow drip drip drip drip.''

Her silence was louder than the warlike crashing of tall black clouds, darker than a moonless night.

She held the goblet in both hands. Within was a mulled wine, warming her cold, cold fingers. Yet not a drop had slipped past her lips. Instead she swirled it, looking deep into the liquid, like a seer trying to foretell the future, like a witch doctor trying to discern the course of events through entrails.

What was She thinking?

It made no sense. Here I am, skilled in the arts of demon kind, my control as sure as the cold iron manacles that bound the prisoners lost deep in the Lady’s lair. So who does She send to deal with the demon for Her strange machinations? Two skilled in sword and shield … so much like sending a carpenter to fix a fine timepiece with a three stone hammer. That … and to send them into most dangerous lands. Yes, the orc was big and strong and would prove a fine defender. But his companion had seen less summers than she.

Not to mention that the one who should have been keeping that dark haired companion safe …

… was now staring at a goblet of wine in a Tauren tavern.

And my task? Not just the collection of a innocent victim for the Lady’s play – a true task for those who specialize in swords and blugeouning – but into a town whose lords valued so little such that only the most inexperienced of their knights cut their teeth upon their first tours of duty there. By Kael’s word and the Sun’s light, even my Voidwalker could slice them to bits while I might sit back and comb out my tresses.

She looked into her wine, her teeth set upon her lower lip. She considered, just as she did every late evening when they shared the blood rich liquor in Fairbreeze.

No, I am not like her maidservant Bereave. The cut palm that holds the household together, that cruel slice hurts. And I might be many things, but stupid is not one them; I take no enjoyment from that pain. But that is exactly why I it must be done. The hurt is what makes my oath real … and not trivial.

And that is what cuts the most.

Either The Lady - who didn’t even deign to offer her this task; her missive was delivered through her deranged intermediary - Either The Lady was not telling me the truth and thinks I am an idiot … or is, beneath the facade of elegant and visceral malevolence, is herself five cards short of a poker hand.

To travel halfway across the continent and back to collect a human token because folks disappear from there every day and no one will notice. Blue skies help you that the poor soul doesn’t have a family and families have incredibly vengeful memories – especially when their kith and kin disappear without a trace.

When, but a few heartbeats gallop away, there were those who not only were stronger, better fit for Her Ladyship’s use … and yes, they too might have kin and lordship who might acknowledge their loss – but in this case they would be just another soul lost in their crusade, counted along with all the other martyrs who died that day in answer to their call.

Not only that, but the Scarlet Crusade annoyed everybody. While the Alliance might get vexed if they lost their Darkshire citizens, they would probably send congratulatory flowers for the death of a monastery guard.

But no … no … we had to go to Duskwood, to Darkshire.

It made no sense. Was it some sort of test? Rasth, the older demon-tamer, didn’t even question it. Like an automaton doll he wound up and headed straight off. If it was a test, what was She testing?

A test of blind obedience and ignorant loyalty, to do The Lady’s words without question or thought?

If that’s what the Lady wanted she should have just hired two street trolls with a sack.

Blind obedience. That’s one thing I can’t do.

No. It’s one thing I refuse to do.

I’m smart. Damn you Lady, I’m smart. You want me, you have to take this part of me too.

You sent me on a fools errand.

And you expected me not to realize it?

And that final straw, that last twist of the dagger, was I trusted to undertake this task on my own?

Oh no …

Upon this fool’s errand I needed to be assigned a baby sitter.

There I was, listening to Rasth become immeshed in the finding a place to sleep in those ruins which held dark memories for him, some unspeakable horror had crossed his path beneath those silk shrouded trees. And did he tell of them, no, of course not, they were … unspeakable. By the Sun’s light is everyone in this household a closet masochist? There was a warm bed and fire but a short ride away, yet we were supposed to make do with shattered buildings, spiders and a splintery floor?

That’s when I rode across the trail, to a neighboring farm, ordered Helwen to seduce one of the Defias brigands who had made their shelter there, distracting that soon to be lost soul quite sufficiently for me to bop them on the head like some deranged nursery story rabbit.

Rasth was still running house to house when I returned.

But even then the night was salvageable.

Until, in great surety and wisdom, my esteemed colleague, my household mate, proclaimed in words bold, proud and authoritive that here was the most preferred place to take shelter, because here we were perfectly secluded, no one to bother us, no one to overseer our clandestine activities for miles and miles.

Of course that is when the Dwarf ran up, along with a companion Gnome.

I had to point out his nobody was running circles around him.

Did you know gnomes multiply worse than rabbits?

The cool fire of anger, the slow analysis seen within her goblet was shattered as one of the Horde’s great warriors, when a strong Tauren lad stormed in and sat next to her; loud, boisterous and oh so sure of himself.

“Paha … someone asked if you were serving drowned rats today. I answered of course, you’d serve anybody …”

His strong hand slammed down upon the center of the blood elf’s back, knocking her forward, the mock camaraderie both illuminating her as the subject of his words and sending her wine tumbling in a spray of rich magenta.

Surprise played into her hand. The sudden sharp upwards reach, the small fist wrapping in collar and fur, the sudden yank downwards and she was nose to nose with the large bull.

“You got two choices.

“I can rip your soul from your mortal remains so swift your corpse will be halfway out the door before you figure out you’ve just been slaughtered …

“ …or …

“ … you can leave me alone.”

Solitude.

“Think fast.”

You make your own.

Mother and Father Dearest

Not all stories begin in the shadows; the lost lass rising from the lower castes, striving against all odds to draw oneself from the humblest quarters to those the minstrels sing. Not all roles are cast in drama twisted and dark, where cruelty is called a virtue and pleasure is a gift only arising from another's pain. It is not only the poor who have children, but also the noble...

Her parents were raised as the Horde grew from but a whisper to a collective, though one far removed from their beloved Quel'Thalas. One took to the sword, the other rose within the noble courts. Both dedicated to the well being of their people, one through strength of arms and the other through the crafting of words. When they met, it was no accident. A marriage arranged for the betterment of all, a courtship following traditions old. In time they grew accustomed to each other, if it was love it was a matter of course; and enough to anchor them through the destruction of their homeland. Mother, she fought alongside Lor'themar Theron at the Second Battle of Quel'Thalas. Father, he served the Sunstrider and was one of those who returned with gifts of magic and the promise of hope.

Now, Mother trains those who wish to dedicate themselves to the Light.

And Father? He walks the halls and barters in alliances and negotiations.

Their daughter, now she shared her birthday with the Last Guardian. No fancy portent, no fell prophecy, nothing more than a simple coincidence.

They raised her as they had been raised.

Bright steel, polished perfect, sparkling beneath the sun, the strength of her will and force of personality was as vital as her sword. Other woman swooshed with each step, rich robes and silken tunics bedecked in bright and fanciful jewelry. Her pace was the unmistakable and so unique sound finely articulated armor pieces moving over each other. When she backhanded, because discipline made you strong, you it was not just a gauntlet that made her point ... it was a very reverent gauntlet. That was Mother.

She was strength of will.

They simply didn't expect that she would be exactly who she grew up to be.

The fine clothes, the kind word, the tongue of silvered adamatine and always knowing which words to say and more importantly who to say them to, now he swooshed, in his arcane robes. And the only thing that he managed better than his spells was the social politics of their rebuilt city, weaving influence as one might cast a spell. That was Father.

He was cunning insight.

Her mother's daughter, her fathers child.

Of course they loved their daughter. They made sure she had everything. A fine home, an excellent education. The nicest clothes they gave her, and made very sure that they were home, to share a formal breakfast and then dinner at night. Oh, of course, whenever possible ... one must understand dear daughter, that Mother and Father have their duties, without which you would not have all these nice things. And there was always another rendevous or official meeting with Folks who were Names ... and there was always another dark threat to the city that needed a bright sword to keep it at bay and save the day ... so those dinners, those breakfasts, tended to be exceptions rather than the rule.

Of course they loved their daughter. So pretty was she at a formal ball, a perfect token of their household, didn't she reflect well on them?

Of course Father loved her, making sure she would marry so well, the nicest young mage, of good breeding and good family, and of course she will be happy.

Of course Mother loved her, knowing she is going to follow in her footsteps for blood tells true. Everyone just knows she is destined to be a hero in service to Silvermoon.

Isn't she?

Their house. Their clothes she wore. Their choice who she would marry. Their choice of her path beneath the Sun.

She stood there, looking back at Mother and Father. Her head was tilted, quizzically, unable to comprehend why they were looking at her so strangely. True, the blood clashed, it just didn't match the color of her hair, it streaked her robes and good cleaning help was so hard to find these days and she hadn't expected the end to be so ... explosive, but then the room behind her, the sitting room, for formal introductions, wasn't overly large and, well, a Voidwalker might be big and strong and trustworthy but they tended to be less than precise.

Fine.

The Voidwalker was downright sloppy.

But most importantly, he was hers. It wasn't a gift, it wasn't another choice they had made for her. It was who she chose to be. It was something she could do. On her own terms.

"Father ..."

She tried to explain.

"Mother ..."

It did seem completely reasonable, didn't it?

"Next time you decide who I am going to marry ... at the best, you could have asked me first. At the least ... you could have picked someone ... somewhat ... less ... fragile."

That night was the first night she spent in a tavern. The bedding was not as fine as those she was used to, and that was a concern.

But she had paid for it.

With her own coin.

Big Beautiful Skies

... big beautiful skies

Can't you see me dancing here in Silvermoon

I can hear you singing on a Ghostlands night

Pink brilliant gems sparklin' in my hand

Big beautiful skies ...

Tidbits from a Horde warlock's life.