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Post by Kestrel on Apr 9, 2009 11:18:47 GMT 1
In her dream, she never escaped. The pale warlock laughs, obscene in the pleasure she takes in watching her demons work. Blood, hers and theirs, runs thick from disceting cuts, mattes her hair to hard spikes, armours her skin, sets in her throat. She was barely there when it happened. Trust this, her weak Kaldorei heart, to keep the memory for her, wrought in detail, nailed to a place she never wanted to see.
It isn't her, that snarling and snapping thing that the leeches methodically reduce to flesh and whimpers and leaking guts. She is not there, she is something else: a ghost, a whisper, an echo in the bars of the cage. She is...
"Ecestre! Look at me!"
The command, the words -- consciousness jerks her by the throat, her eyes snap open with shock, but Arriana isn't there. Just the pup, Aleithia, staring back at her and telling her things that aren't true. She isn't safe, she isn't free -- the leeches can still find her, they promised they could when they put the chains on her, to make sure she would weaken and die if she betrayed them. She tries to explain, but her tongue is thick, her head is slow, sick blood crawls like worms under her skin. Outside the room, someone is talking. Serinde, and someone else, something unnatural and familiar. The air brings the smell of dead things, and she slips back into shadow, half convinced it is her.
And then there is pain. Fire crawling up her legs, to her waist, closing over her head and pouring into her mouth as she opens it to scream. The world is water, pure as moonfire, and she can't touch it without burning. It covers her, acid to the fel runes on the collar of her chains, acid to the fel taint the leeches ground into her. Churning water blinds her, felfire sears into her neck -- and then they pull her up and she is gulping air again. Serinde and Aleithia lift her out of the water, cold hands grab her throat, forcing into the narrow space between her neck and the collar, and pull. She coughs water from her lungs, thrashes to breathe or scream, glimpses the pure glow of the moonwell and the tall trees of Darkshore. And then the grip goes, and they push her back under.
Some part, the old part, tells her they are helping. She tries not to scream, or fight. She fails at both. Hands close on her throat again, the water touching the collar boils, ice forms where those same cold hands twist the collar -- and then there is a sound, like stones shattering in a bonfire. Fire flashes at her throat, pieces of metal snap and scrape burned skin, and then the weight of the collar is gone. A voice, snarling with contained pain - male, wrong - a girl's graceful hands on her throat, mending the damage - darkness again, speckled with the green flares of felfire as the chains on her wrists are torn apart like the collar was.
And then, not even that. Like a fog lifting, the spell of weakness gutters out and is gone. Exhaustion stays and does what it does best: drops her deep into dreaming. The last thing she sees are the pale warlock and her leech master rising from the mists of nightmare -- and then the darting shape of a slim green drake-that-is-a-girl rips them to ribbons, and she falls through the tatters into simple, formless sleep.
It is almost morning when the hippogryph sets down in Nighthaven, but she knows nothing of it. Between them, Aleithia and Serinde make good on the promise the pup made earlier. She is safe; she is free. When she sleeps, Serinde watches and keeps the nightmares at bay.
In her dream, she runs with wolves through the cool shadows of a starlit forest. When the pack leaves her, he is there, waiting, as he always should have been. She goes to him, of course she does. If there are dragons in the night sky far above, this once she never, ever sees them.
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Post by Kestrel on Apr 9, 2009 12:10:33 GMT 1
Death defies her again, it has for too long to be surprised by it anymore. She never thanks Serinde and Aleithia, as she leaves Moonglade. She is weak and slow when she stalks through Darkshore, but the wolf hears her howl and comes back to her. Together they make their way to Maestra, and to other places. A week later, she is well again, and back in Moonglade, explaining to the Guardians and the Moonguard why their help is needed. The Evenstar she and her sisters stole from the Highborne. The corner of Dream they hid it in. The leeches' descendants and mad Malygos, both seeking to retrieve what they see as theirs, and willing to tear down the walls of Ysera's Dream to get it.
"We'll get it first," she says. "We'll take it to the dragons. From there, it will be out of our hands."
They agree, and they go.
She shivers, as they walk into the barrows. She shakes, as Serinde begins the ritual. Heartfire of a black dragon, to remember earth -- smoke, from plants that grew on Zaetar's grave and still carry the spirit of Cenarius -- blessed dreamcatcher gems, to focus fire and spirit and help those who must go pierce the veil into dream. She remembers this. She remembers panic on the edge of Dream, failing, and being a druid no longer. The pack found her not long after, made her something else. And then the path is there, like it once was, the pack runs beside her, and her body stretches out, strong and predatory, as a wolf's should be.
The others join her, in time. One by one the wolves around her change, become lithe elvish shapes, coloured by dreams of their own. Shandaris, trailing feathers like wings -- Kiva, crowned by pure moonfire -- Illidor drawn and contorted by pains unseen -- Sarama riding the beast that is her nightmare, as if defying it made it any less a part of her. Fae follows a bird that fades to nothing, Ninian and the nameless young druid run on silent cat feet. The path becomes solid, stone, the place she remembers, the tall stairs to the guard that almost killed her when she escaped the warlock and her master. And then the Green Flight's kin are on them, striking to kill, and she knows it has all gone terribly wrong.
***
She scattered the pack soon after, sent the Guardians and Moonguard back home to wake where they would. Plans to make, bridges to unburn. Nothing else for it.
Yet.
What she told Serinde was simpler than what happened, but no less true. In the end, she had thrown down her weapon, dropped to a knee, howled for the last of the drakes to listen. The Green had shot past her, blind with rage or fear, talons reaching for one of the youngling druids. The Guardians had done what they had to, and returned alive - but with Green blood on their blades, and nothing to show for it. The high stairs had been empty, the Evenstar's nightmare guard gone.
"The Greens thought we were the thieves," she had told Sarama, after Serinde stormed out, in horror and rage. "The guard was not there, because the guard was dead. We failed. Someone took the Evenstar before us. Don't know who. Not sure the Greens will tell, now. You should talk to them. Explain for us. Apologise."
It had been a long night. Sarama left finally, furious and stripped so close to the bone that she might as well have been naked. Neither had relished the experience. Tell me what is worse than killing the children of the Green Flight, she had snarled, when the assassin scorned the wrong they had done Ysera's children. Tell me what you think is worse. Tell me what you did.
And the mirage that called itself Sarama had looked her in the eye, and done just that.
Secrets. No matter how many you told, always there were more.
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Post by Kestrel on Jun 6, 2009 15:32:51 GMT 1
She finds Sarama in Astranaar, returning from checking the lines. Last plans are made as they walk. Short words, grim: few will be there to make the assault. But then, when have the Kaldorei ever fought with numbers, or on an even ground? Stealth and surprise, and cover of night: those are the weapons they have always excelled at.
If Sarama is uneasy, there is no telling it. Though she is drunk enough to be numb, the assassin stares down the gathered warriors as if she were stone sober and ancient as Tyrande. She thanks them for coming - and she tells them that for the duration of the assault, they will accept her command without question, or go now.
All stay. Sarama grins, and blazes through the plan of battle, as if it were already won, and actually enacting the violence were only a finishing touch, an afterthought.
And that's how it feels, an hour later, when the assassin gives the word to attack and the Guardians and their allies boil over the edge of the cliff. Leap the palisade, catch the edge of a watchtower built recklessly close to the defences of the outpost, hit the ground weapons ready, behind the Horde gathered at the gate of the outpost -- from there, it's a simple matter to draw a bead on their backs, and begin feathering them with arrows.
It works perfectly. The enemy's discipline shatters like brittle autumn ice: chaos ensues, bloody and beautiful. The Kaldorei ride the fray, dancing blades and rending claws, a whirlwind of violence wrapped in the healing magic of the druids hanging behind them. They bleed, they heal, they shatter the outpost's defence in seconds and charge on, to finish the maneuver. At the end of it they are at the back of the outpost, at the mouth of the barrow claimed by orc shamans. Sarama snaps a command: Aleithia and her chosen few keep moving, vanish into the shadows of the barrow. The rest fan out to positions Sarama assigns them, ready to defend the barrows as soon as the Horde recover their nerve.
And then, they wait. From far below, she can hear the earth shifting, unraveling and changing to the song of the druids below. Spirits shift, stars blink, the eye of the Goddess sails on in the night sky, perhaps for a moment seeing her children's raised hand, and answering. A shiver runs along her spine, as bones are carried out of the barrow. She drenches them in oil and burns them, trying to keep watch on the approach to the cave, and the plan. Hold a piece of enemy ground, long enough to cleanse it and dedicate it to the Goddess -- long enough, perhaps, to make it painful for the ancestor spirits the orc shamans rely on, and drive them out.
It will not last. Anything they can do so fast, the orcs will undo, once they discover it. But perhaps it will unsettle them. Perhaps it will show them that the Moonwells of the Goddess are not the only hallowed things that can be threatened - the spirits of their ancestors are just as easily harried.
She is grateful and disappointed that after the massacre at the gate, only stragglers of the Horde return to test the resolve of the Kaldorei. They finish, more easily than they could have hoped to: Aleithia and the druids return from the barrows, saying it is done. Sarama nods, and gives the mark. Between one breath and the next, the assault party breaks formation, dashes back down the hillside, retreats into the shadows of Ashenvale following the path chosen before they even left Maestra. No-one gives chase, not orcs or their leech allies. When they tend the wounded at Silverwing refuge, the path remains clear.
The words they exchange later that night, she and Sarama, are less grim. It feels good to win. It feels good to gain blades, not lose them. When she leaves, to see to other assaults already in preparation, it's with the hope that the orcs will take the lesson of this battle, and remember it. Our lands. Our laws. Dishonour them, and you will never be more than invaders here.
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Post by Kestrel on Jun 6, 2009 15:38:14 GMT 1
The ward is easy to shatter once its guardian has been taken down. She kills the howl of victory trying to rise in her throat - in the open, echoing spires of the Nexus, sound will carry far. Sarama, picking shards of crystal from her armor, glances around impatiently, waiting.
"I don't see anything."
Serinde ignores them, watching the sky obscured by the shimmering defences of the spire. "Wait for it. Wait-- there!"
The shield falters, flickers, tears - failsafes kick in almost immediately, closing the gaps, but not before a handful of dragons, dropping at breakneck speed from the heights they'd been waiting at, come crashing down through the passage opened for them. The air rips with a sound like thunder as the creatures spread their wings and right themselves. They soar briefly, majestic in their power, before touching down on the smooth crystal of the Nexus's outer rings. They bow their heads, green, red and bronze, and speak to Serinde alone.
The Guardians wait, as calmly as possible when invading the stronghold of an enemy inconceivably superior. They have one hope: they know that Esragos, Malygos's lieutenant and master of this part of the spire, has secrets of his own from the master of the Blue Flight. Secrets they hope will make him hide the intrusion from his master, and try to deal with it himself.
They had thought it was Malygos who stole the Evenstar from where it had lain hidden in the Dream. They'd been wrong - though the Blue dragon who had blazed through the Dream had captured the talisman, he had never given it to Malygos. Instead he had hidden it, used it even -- because if the gem could in time give a mere elf the power to challenge the Spellweaver, what could it do in the hands of a dragon?
Sarama had been a long time deciding, there. With mad Malygos tearing the world apart, internal strife among the Blue Flight could only help the the Balance -- but in the long term? The death of an Aspect was unthinkable, a chance better not taken. Better take the Evenstar back now, while Esragos still struggled to bend it to his will. The Flights of teh Wyrmrest Accord had assented: a few had volunteered to assist. She isn't sure if she should feel honoured or intimidated to be so involved in the affairs of dragons. It doesn't matter. Seven thousand years ago, she and her sisters were charged with seeing the Evenstar would never be used again. The others are all dead, now: it is down to her, now. Her, the Guardians, and the dragons.
The way to the heart of the spire is hard but they move swiftly: they dare no less. The crystal wards of the inner defences are easily broken: the magelord managing them almost returns the favour and breaks them. She misses most of that fight, and comes to her senses again to see Fae leaned over her, asking if she is alright. Burns in her armour and the touch of air on newly mended skin tell her how close death passed this time - she is surprised to catch a shiver, the trill of fear at coming so close to failing this one last duty. She won't have it, and so she roughly shoulders the young druid aside and rolls to her feet, trying to get her bearings. That's when she catches the scent, and her eyes flash skyward, as if they could pick out the target past the rings of crystal as cleanly as her other senses can.
"Sarama." There is a snarl in her voice, though she couldn't say if it's fear or anticipation, desperate desire to finally be free of this burden. "Up. He is exposed - we should go now."
They do, rising on the wings of dragons. It is as the Flights told them - the Blue are creatures of magic, and the Nexus now is a raw, raging conduit for it - no warriors of the younger species can hope to defeat a Blue here, on his own ground. But the dragons can. All they needed was for the Guardians to bring them to the target, through the wards that prevent one Flight from entering another's domain.
As it the battle unfolds, she knows she will only remember it in nightmares. She knows she would have never become the Dragonrider Vinga was training her to be, all those millennia ago. And yet somehow she hangs on, as the dragon under her swoops and dances and spits long tongues of fire, somehow she finds the voice to scream warnings to it when threats approach from angles it can't see. Somehow she manages to be more help than hiderance, following the creature's moves and adding her weight and senses to help it turn tighter, see more, fight better. She is terrified past telling, but even so, it is glorious. Five of them against an elder blue, ten times the size of any of the youngling dragons aiding them, and drunk on the fraction of power the Evenstar has already given it.
It's that elation that proves its downfall. How could these gnats possibly threaten it? When it discovers otherwise, it is too late. The bronze drakes have their enemy cornered -- time around it warps and bends -- and when it slips back into it's groove again, Esragos is falling, flailing, a wailing mass of scarred flesh and burned wings. She turns away, at the last moment, before the body impacts on the crags of arcane crystal below. She has seen the deaths of dragons before, but never one so old. Somehow, suddenly, it seems sacrilege to watch it die after having helped cause it.
They find what they were looking for among the crystal rings of the spire. A stone cache, engraved with draconic runes of concealment, hiding the treasures within from the ultimate lord of the Nexus. They break it open. Uncovered, the Evenstar is as she remembers: a smooth stone, the size of the end of her thumb, fit to be worn on a ring or medallion, or set into a dagger or tiara. It is pale blue, plain even -- and if she didn't know better, she'd think the dim sparks dancing within it were only reflections of the fey lights of the Nexus. She takes off her tabard, takes Fae's cloak, and wraps the stone in them before she can change her mind. As it disappears from view, the stone has already begun to glow: even through the cloth, she can feel the heat and pull of arcane power gathering, crying to be used. When Heian offers to take it from her, she only snarls. Perhaps he is sincere, offering only to shoulder the physical danger -- he came with them, he took blows that would have killed any of the Guardians, the one thing the undead abomination he calls a body is still good for. But for all his claims of loyalty to the Cirle, he is still a creature of the Scourge -- a thing of black magic that warps the Balance simply by existing. She can justify using him as a blunt instrument to destroy worse evils, for now. She cannot justify trusting him with a talisman even Cenarius feared.
With the talisman recovered, they leave -- speed over stealth, trusting the dragons they fought with to carry them to Wyrmrest Accord and Alextrasza before Esragos's spells on the Evenstar can fade, before Malygos can realise what has happened in his realm, and come to take the prize from them. The dragons fly high and fast, with little care for their passengers past keeping them from falling. The raw northern air ripping past them, the gem growing hotter inside the cloth bundle clenched to her chest -- between them, she forgets to be afraid and only holds on for grim life.
The dragons leave them on the high ledge at the top of Wyrmrest Temple. She stands there dazed, uncertain, until Sarama glances at the dimly glowing bundle of cloth in her hands, now trailing thin tongues of smoke, and throws a pointed look into the hall ahead. "You'd better be quick," The assassin suggests. "That thing looks ready to burst into flame."
She nods, takes a step, realises no-one else is following. She hesitates, then nods again. "You don't have to come. Won't be long."
And it isn't. She walks into the hall where the Accord takes council, eyes cast down in case any of the dragons is looking her way. She kneels before the Lifebinder, and offers the smoking cloth bundle to her. "Yours," she says quietly. "If you can't keep it safe from Sin'dorei and Blue alike, no-one can."
Though she never looks up, she feels the dragon queen's eyes as they fall on her. She feels the bundle taken from her hands; smells smoke as the cloth goes up in flames at Alextrasza's touch. The Evenstar's light is blinding, star-bright, and bites through her closed eyes, making her cringe -- for moments, she hears magic in its purest form, and knows exactly how the Highborne were once seduced by it. Then Alextrasza closes her hand. When she opens it again, it is quiet, and the snowglared winternight of Dragonblight seems hopelessly bleak by comparison.
Through all of it, the dragon queen speaks only once -- at least to her. A promise, gentle confirmation of what she already knows. "It is over, little wolf."
She merely nods, and leaves without ever looking up.
Over. Finally.
That's what she tells Sarama later, after Serinde and what once called itself Heian Stormborn have left them, and Sarama is celebrating their victory the Dwarvish way, by pouring double shots into Fae at Westguard Keep. Over -- past mattering, except in memory. The assassin glares at her, accuses her of being a wet blanket, and goes looking for more shots. She shrugs, grunts, and leaves it be, unable to find words to explain why the thought is joyful.
She will, eventually. For now, it is enough to know it. They won. The Highborne did not get the talisman, nor did the Blue. Seven thousand years after it was given, her sisters can finally rest, knowing their mission is complete. That is enough to be grateful for: enough to howl for.
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