automaticenemycrusade

[automaticenemycrusade]

Joyride: Ch. 4 - Those We Led Astray

It was the eve of summer--he could recall that much. He remembered how the heat brushed against his fur coat and how his Pop had warned him that the heat then would make the spring heat look like a mid-autumn. He remembered being cordially invited to head north with his relatives, in a well-equipped, well-spaced wagon. He remembered how he denied their offer. He was ten, Jole was six.

His was a genius innocence, a mastermind whose ploys depended on Nord’s permission, on his acceptance, back when there was still a modicum of respect between them. His pelt was still light enough to resemble his mother’s, before it darkened to resemble his father’s, same for his demeanor. He remembered sitting by the campfire the day after his folks had pushed on without him, listening to the idle ramblings of the Vulpera around him, their wondrous stories and tall tales about their grand hunts and their miscellaneous adventures. 

Then, he plopped down beside him: a visiting cousin that Nord had rarely heard about besides the vague mentions of his name. Jolluh, his name was, but as he made very clear very early on, he preferred ‘Jole.’ Before then, he hadn’t known much about his uncle, the “daring, roguish seadog” that his aunt had fallen for during his visit to the desert, but Jole apprised him as best a six-year-old could. His summaries of the man grew less and less elaborate as he grew older, but it generally followed the same vein. A fox of the ocean blue who fancied rubies and pearls, who vowed to sail the seas until one of the sixteen mutinies he’d go on to experience did him in. They never did, obviously.

“Hey,” he had said, his voice still indicative of his youth. He had a lisp then, he remembered. Too much time spent around swabbies.

“Hi.” His own voice had always been deep and toneless, fit for sarcasm, though he never had the heart for it. He remembered the silence that followed and how they waved at each other to fill it, despite the fact they’d already exchanged greetings.

“My name’s Jole!” He grinned. It was less malicious then, less malicious than what it would end up being, before the honey turned sour. Nord’s response proved just as unintentionally soulless as his hello. He didn’t intend for it, but even then, Jole probably knew that. He continued, “I heard your mom and dad were going away for a while.”

Nord went on to learn just how similar their situations were. Jole’s dad had given him a chance at something bigger than himself, just as his Pop had, and they both put down the invitation in the name of paving their own roads. The not-so-ashfur knew what that kind of life meant for him, especially with someone like his dad at the helm, greed and all. “Yeah,” he had said. Even as a kit, he hadn’t been one for words.

“And your sister too?”

“Yeah. I think I’ll miss her the most.” Looking back on it, she was a blur in his mind, a blotch in his memory. He could still make out her features when he put the effort in--a face that mirrored his own, with a button nose and two piercingly purple eyes. She had gotten those from Mom, as well as the stripes that marked her torso. He remembered her giggle and how her ears flopped when she was excited. He remembered her odd fascination with rats too, with bugs in general. And her name…

It was on the tip of his tongue. It was short and simple, like his own. It was…

“I wish you got to meet her,” he had added half-consciously. He would never be certain why he had said that, but it made sense in his head after the fact. A rare occurrence, that.

“Well, hey,” Jole had shuffled onto his knees and moved to face Nord. “You got me now! No one better, swear.” His first taste of his signature self-centeredness, though at the time, he thought nothing of it. In fact, he even laughed. He hadn’t done that in a while. It used to be a prized and beloved thing to them, how he’d begin with a snort, then derail into a fit of kiddish laughter. Things like that felt distant now.

“You’re sticking around?” Nord had thought this a simple luxury visit, but then again, who in their right mind would come here for anything involving luxury? Then again, who was to say Jole was in his right mind? Maybe he expected too much out of a six-year-old, or maybe he was thinking too much.

Someone coughed, then poked his shoulder. “You good?” It was Jole. It seemed Nord had missed a good portion of that conversation, the first of many. “I said yeah! Yeah, I am. We can be buddies!”

“Buddies?” He blinked, then stared back at the campfire. “Er, sure, sure, yeah--we’ll be buddies.”

Jole’s smile had never been wider, all because of him, his acknowledgement and recognition. He tried to hide it, sure, but that made it all the more heartwarming. If only he could have remembered that sooner, how important he was despite how he felt about himself… or did that inevitably lead to selfishness, as it had for Jole? He was thinking too hard again.

He had zoned out at that point, lost in the embers of the campfire and leaving his cousin to rant on about a brilliant new scheme he had come up with only earlier that evening.

His cousin, who now laid limp in his arms.

He had been so close, so close, and still he failed to catch him, his last responsibility. The ashfur had slipped through the break in the mountain with the ease and finesse of a thief, but it didn’t matter, nor did it matter when he laughed triumphantly, victoriously, in the face of his adversity, of the Sethrak. At the time, it felt like the odds were on his side, because they were, they should’ve been, but all that washed away when Nord caught sight of a staff raised in opposition, the staff of a skycaller: lizardmen that commanded the storm. Before he could blink, a bolt of lightning erupted from the staff’s peak and struck the ashfur in the back, throwing him into a fit of jitters and jerks, before he collapsed onto the sand and rolled down the incline.

There were no words. Nord had collected the body in a panic, before Rheana ushered him inside and rolled the wagon to safety. Apollo and Hutch hadn’t made it--the trip had been too straining, and that was Nord’s fault. All of it was. Anyone who might have said otherwise was gone now--yes, even her. She had no reason to stay, but neither did she, yet there she sat just behind him.

He didn’t pay her much mind, his eyes resting solely on the cousin whose blood was on his hands. What did he do now? Seek vengeance on the Sethrak, like Jole had? No, they weren’t the problem. They had never been the problem. He was the problem. And he needed to remove that problem.

So it was.

♦

He didn’t sleep much that night, or at all actually, but that wasn’t straying too far from the norm. There were too many things flooding his head, too many paranoid thoughts, too many burdens, too much guilt, and in his desperation, he sought escape. He rose to his feet and leaned his weight against the door, but he hesitated, he hesitated when his eyes landed on the last to remain, on Irro, who slept soundly on a wagon bed now free of the people that once piled on top of it. He promised to keep her safe, didn’t he?

It struck him--the weight of her father’s hand in his own, the soft, reassuring words that left his lips. He lied. He lied, and he’d kill her too.

So he followed through, he opened the door and closed it behind him, quiet as could be, then trudged away. How far would he make it? Not at all, he hoped. He had never been one to pray, but this time, he did. He lowered his head and prayed to be claimed by the sands. He prayed to be forgiven, and he prayed to be forgotten. He pleaded to whatever higher entity may have been out there: be done with him. Please, be done with him.

But they did not answer. He would have called out in rage, but his voice proved too hoarse with grief to properly channel it. His knees wobbled and his hands shook, with sadness and fury.

Behind him, he heard the familiar plap-plap of footsteps, and anger lumped in his throat. “Where you headed?” A voice said, as nonchalant as could be.

“Go home, Irro.” He didn’t even recognize himself. He sounded so harsh and upset, but he couldn’t control it. He was sorry. He was so sorry.

She inhaled a shaky breath, mumbling something akin to “just come back to the ‘piercer. It’ll be fine.”

“I can’t protect you anymore,” He didn’t turn to face her. He didn’t have the strength to. “I can’t protect anyone. I couldn’t protect Jole, or,” No, he couldn’t hear it again. “or anyone. I can’t--” His voice quivered with frustration? “I couldn’t protect them.”

Her breath grew heavier. She mumbled another plea he hadn’t picked up on before clutching at his arm, tugging, tugging, but he had shoved her away. She plopped onto her rear with a grunt, panting. He turned to face her, to help her, to apologize, but he couldn’t. He’d kill her. He’d kill her.

She looked back up at him, fumbling just like her father did. She said something, but Nord hadn’t caught it--there was too much ringing, too much of his own exasperated breath clogging his ears. He touched his face. He was scowling.

She looked afraid. She was afraid. She was afraid of him.

She stuttered. “Please--”

“Go home.”

“I don’t-- Wait!”

“Go. Home.”

And finally, she was all the wiser.

“Do you got a happy place?

That’s where I go when I’m sad.

I think about the people I love!”

[automaticenemycrusade]

Joyride: Ch. 3 - Reconciling with Nord

“No more going out at night!”

“No more playing outside!”

“And NO more Valley Hopping!”

♦

And that had been the last straw for little Raysik. He was appalled, furious, and he didn’t even know what those words meant! In fact, he went right to his sister and demanded he be brought home the moment she got the chance. At least, that’s what he was trying to get across, though it probably got lost somewhere between the venomous insults and the obnoxious whining. He’d never understand why so many things were lost in translation, but he didn’t care, as long as he got what he wanted by the end of his tantrum, which he did. He always did. And with that in mind, it wasn’t any surprise when Rheana gave in and led him on his merry way.

He wouldn’t outright ask about it, but he did wonder why she looked so sad, especially now, especially as they ducked behind a cliff face and lost sight of the wagon. He wasn’t stupid! He knew what people were feeling when they dramatically looked over their shoulder and frowned. Still, he didn’t get it, and he couldn’t put two and two together because it just didn’t make sense. The trip was a total bust! Or it was now, anyway. It was fun the first few times, but really? No more sandball fights without some old, sad guy staring at them from behind their backs? No more sneaking around at night? No more Valley Hopping? He loved Valley Hopping! Even if he didn’t actually play it, and more often than not, just kind of watched--or, at least, until he was told to, “go play in the water or something,” in a place not anywhere near the oasis.

Obviously, something wasn’t registering with him. Man, his feet hurt--

“We’re here.”

He looked back to his sister, dumbstruck, then to the array of huts and tents far out into the distance. Pfft, they weren’t here! That was at least, like, a thousand more steps!

She elaborated, “Well. Almost here. There.”

“‘Kay?” Was she dying? Why were they stopping? “Let’s go!” And so he turned on his heel and continued his stride, but he quickly found that his sister was no longer accompanying him. He looked back at her again, gesturing wildly to just how close home was. No way they were taking a break this close to their destination! C’mooooon.

“I’m not going. I mean, I can’t go. I’m sorry.”

He was taken aback. “What? Why?” He really didn’t get what the big deal was! Was this a girl thing? Irro had never gotten around to telling him about girl things. She always said he’d learn when he was older. So much for that.

“Tell them you came alone for me. Okay?” And when he looked into her eyes, he saw that stupid, pleading look, the one she used to bend their mom to her every whim, to make selfish stuff seem like necessities or whatever. But he wouldn’t object, even if he really, really wanted to, so all he gave was a delayed shrug and a hesitant bob of his head. She smiled at him--a frail, tired smile--before trudging over and wrapping him in her arms. He…

Well, he wasn’t sure how to feel.

He didn’t return the hug. It wasn’t the first time he hadn’t, but self-preservation was important! No way he was catching that disease Irro told him about: Cooties. In any case, he didn’t speak another word, as his mind was drawing one big blank. His sister didn’t seem to mind though. “I love you,” she said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

And then she went.

She stood there a few minutes longer, of course, but once he made it clear he had nothing more to give, she accepted it and backpedaled her way past the horizon. There was an ill feeling that came afterward, like a pit in his stomach, where all he wished to do was cry. When the water flushed at his eyes, when the sorrow overcame the frustration, he swallowed it back. Only losers cry--that’s what Irro used to tell him--and he was no loser.

So he pushed on, chest puffed out and shoulders broad, until he waltzed into camp with a swagger unlike what the boy might be expected to emit, the boy who'd been missing for four years. Jeez. It sounded a lot more dire when he said it like that. Though, once he made it into campground proper, he found that he had been tackled to the ground and scooped into someone’s embrace, or as he’d come to find out, a couple’s embrace: his parents, who had never hugged him harder. They weren’t at all like Irro’s hugs, but those were usually faint and reluctant, the flavorful kind!

Man, they looked old. His mom and dad, that is. It feels like they’d switched roles, with the delicate one looking just about ready to gnaw his ear off, and the stone-faced one looking more concerned than anything else. In the cluster of questions and remarks about his physical condition, Raysik shrugged, assuring them that, yes, he was fine, and yep, he came alone, and no, he had no idea where the others were, and sure, he’d love a slice of pie. 

So it was that he had a slice of pie, his mom’s pie, which he hadn’t had in what felt like four whole years, because it had been. The cheers and joyous cries surrounding his arrival quieted, and soon, everything went back to normal, as if it was all just some silly fever dream.

Because it had been. And he whole-heartedly believed that. Things were normal now, and he’d keep it that way, so he ignored the faces he saw on the notice board, he ignored the big, red, ‘MISSING’ emblazoned beneath them, and he ignored when, for two of them, that word turned to an ink-bound ‘WANTED.’

♦

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Summer, near midnight, four years and six months since they’d first began this venture, a month since losuʎ˥ passed away, a month since her brother had gone home. They celebrated their birthdays this season, though Rheana would be receiving no gifts, nor no miracles. Instead, she’d be the victim of a thrillseeker and her folly, a rule breaker and her mischief. Who better than Irro to take that mantle? She no longer had Raysik to care for, so she supposed she had the time on her hands. Though, following that logic…

“Yes, whatever, I’m sure. Are you helping me or not?” She gave her a look that said it all. She knew what the answer was, but still she asked, if just for the satisfaction of hearing it. This hadn’t been the first time she had roped Rheana into her antics. She was never invited along for the activities that took place, as she was only used to help the girl sneak out, and possibly as an alibi should she ever be caught, though she hoped never to find that out.

“I will. I always do, don’t I?” That squeezed a smirk out of the other vixen. Score. “What do you need me to do?”

“The usual. Keep them distracted while I’m out, then get me back in, nice and quietly.” She made it sound so easy. Perhaps it was, for her at least, but for Rheana, it meant standing by the door for an hour and waiting anxiously for that knock at the door, the knock they practiced. Knock, knock, pause, knock. It’s like it was intended to keep her teeth chattering as she lie in wait for that last knock that, very plausibly, may have never come. But, for all the tens of times they had done this, it worked.

All except for one.

She remembered it vividly, how Irro had taken most of the flak that night, how every word was coated in its own flavor of venom. She expected Nord to scold her just as harshly, but he didn’t. He didn’t. He simply stared down at her with the blankness of a corpse, like a host without guests. His eyes used to gleam with such… indifference. Now they were but a flicker of their predecessors. She remembered a single word being exchanged between them, but she hadn’t picked up on it, for she had lost herself in that ocean, that glistening body of water where an insurmountable amount of stars reflected off of its surface.

“Rhe-Rhe. Hey. You with me?”

She blinked. Was she overthinking things again? Oh, end her life, ahhhh. “Hm? Yeah! Did you say something? I’m sorry if I missed it! Just… thinking.” And there it was, the clearing of her throat that Irro so lovingly described as being “signature” to her. The vixen knew well what it meant, and it was obnoxiously clear that she was savoring every second of it.

“I’ll get outta your fur,” She waved a hand with a roll of her eyes. “I know you gotta daydream about Nordy,” The fluster was instantaneous. Luckily for Rheana, a fur coat really helps with hiding those sorts of things. Irro continued, “But make it quick, m‘kay? I don’t want you stuck up in the clouds when I’m trying to get back inside.” They traded nods, then followed along with the routine they took every night. She slung on her knapsack, slapped on her shroud, assured her counterpart she’d be safe, then headed off into the deep desert, where she’d be visible for but a moment before vanishing beneath the cloak of night.

And then she closed the door, to which the face of doom itself came to greet her. She didn’t even need to look to know who it was, to know that her death was near, to know that the scolding would be scalding. Suffice to say, she never lived down the scream that escaped her that night, nor would she ever forget the wide grin that revealed itself from the shadows.

She had suspected the daunting features of Nord. Instead, they were the ever sly ones of Jole, and truly, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, or all the more terrified by the revelation. She chose the former, despite every gut feeling telling her otherwise. “Oh. Hi. Jole. Um.” She choked and stammered. That wasn’t too out of the ordinary though.

“Rhe-Rhe,” He started. “Long night?” She, in true Jole fashion, wasn’t given the chance to respond, as he had glanced off at the door and tacked on, “She out again?”

Again? Did he know? Had he always known? Rheana forced a smile, though it didn’t look quite as convincing as she had hoped, but where was the surprise in that? Her mouth craned open a little wider, as if words were meant to be there, but were running late due to certain circumstances. “Ahhh,” She cleared her throat, again. “She, ah--” Nope. She was drawing a blank.

The ashfur, of course, found this all very amusing. “Don’t try and hide it, I already know. Have known for a hot minute now. But! Given she’s still at it and all that, I’m sure you can guess I haven’t peeped.” Oh, good. That calmed her nerves a tinge. Still, she really hoped that wouldn’t be used against her in the future, which, knowing Jole, it was worryingly probable. “Though, seeing as I do know your little secret,” And she spoke too soon. “I wanna ask a favor,” Fudge. “Just a teensy one,” She’s dead. “I mean, you don’t gotta, it’s no big deal, but you know, knowing what I know, ehhhh,”

“YES?” She blurted. Jole blinked at her, then grinned.

“I’m calling for a truce. Help me out with Nordy--’cause he won’t talk to me--and I won’t peep. Lips will be sealed forever. Not a word.”

Rheana looked surprised, if anything. Pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless. Sympathy? From Jole? Unheard of! But she was happy to see it, made clear by the warm smile that soon overtook her features. That apparently got Jole to smile back, and not the evil, mischievous smirk he was accustomed to, but a nice, genuine smile. Awh. “Of course I can.” She said sweetly. “I’ve honestly been a little afraid to, because I feel like a bad person with the, um,” She waved around her hands. “Irro stuff.” Irro stuff. She wished she could find a more extravagant name for it, perhaps one that didn’t feel so… blame-y, but that’s what it was, how it was. She furrowed her brows. “Where is he anyway?”

After looking off elsewhere to absently chuckle, Jole’s gaze returned to her, with a brow quirked up at the query. “Nord? Uh. Probably outside.” They both looked to the window where a tanned hide flapped in the wind, briefly revealing what laid outside. A dune sea glimmering with rays of dusklight, enough light to discern the onyx silhouette that sat just at the edge of her sight. Jole had joined her by the flap, where she had apparently gone in her “poetic daze.” He had never looked so deep in thought. Of course, Rheana never suspected he thought of much of anything besides himself, but it seems now she was being proved wrong. “Yeah,” He said, as if answering a question unspoken. “It’s been a month and he’s still, you know,”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. See? You get ‘em! I got a feeling you’re better with the touchy feely stuff than lil’ ol’ me.”

She rolled her eyes. He got a lot of people to do that, she noticed. “You could get better if you really tried,” She assured. “You just have to put the effort in and--”

“See past my unrealistic ambitions and overinflated ego--yeah, I know.” He slurred into a more sarcastic tone, “Hate me more, why don’tcha.”

“I don’t hate you! Do you think I do? I’m sorry.”

“Worry worry worry. Man, you get me anxious just being around you.” He went to noogie her atop the head, to which she sneezed, flopped her ears down, and mumbled an incredibly quiet, “Sorry.”

They went back to peering outside after that, watching the wayward Nord’s every move, or in this case, lack thereof. Who knew how long they stood there, but it was the ashfur that eventually broke the silence. “With how much time he spends outside, you’d think your little friend would get caught more often. Like, what’s it she does? Go out the back door? Can’t be that hard to spot.”

The vixen shook her head, elaborating, “He’s not all there, actually.” but before she could speak any further, she was interrupted by a quip.

“Yeah, no dung heap, Rhe-Rhe.”

“--No, just- just listen to me. Okay?”

He looked down at her dumbfoundedly. “‘Kay?”

“It isn’t all the time, but a lot of the time, he isn’t really himself. He feels like he’s looking in on his life from an outside perspective. Like, um, like reading a book! And I think, after, um,” She paused to take a breath. “He passed away, he feels like he doesn’t control his own story anymore, so he chooses to be… blank. Like he can’t hurt anyone if he doesn’t do anything.” She looked back up at Jole, who looked a mix of utterly confused and beyond amazed. She couldn’t tell whether or not he picked up on all of it, or any of it for that matter.

“Wow.”

Well, that didn’t relieve her any. “Wow?”

“Didn’t realize you were a trained therapist, Rhe. You got a degree in your backpocket?”

She blinked. “What’s a therapist?”

He facepalmed, which she could only imagine was done to offset the irony of eye rolling. To be beset by a fate he often put onto others was something he couldn’t possibly bear to have tacked on to his brand, or at least, that’s how she perceived it. “Bluh,” He puffed. “Right. Pirate lingo. It’s a job that people have. There’s a few of ‘em in some of the port cities my dad goes to sometimes. They, like, help out guys whose maiden voyages went through rocky shores and sank and, you know, have to cope with a huge death count. That sorta thing.”

She mulled over the thought, idly gnawing on her lower lip. “Oh.” It was definitely sparking some familiarity. “So like a sage! One of ours, I mean. They foresee things in the sand, and have a lot of wisdom.”

“Ehhh,” He made a so-so gesture. “More science, less magicy wisdom stuff. Plus, it’s less about being born with the gift and more of a self-teaching kinda deal, you know? Like, you have to go to a school place to do it right, or to know how to, I guess. And school’s kinda like, with you teaching everybody how to read, just with a lot more resources and a really big hut. A lot more kits too.”

She nodded along with a keen listening ear. This all sounded so interesting! So much so that she had all but forgotten her previous anxieties. But though she ran off at the mouth with questions, the ashfur offered nothing more, for that’s all that he knew. “The base stuff,” he called it. So, they went back to staring out the window, where they found that the silhouette hadn’t moved an inch. Even his ears, it seemed, bobbed in the same pattern they had since the two started watching. Rheana leaned her forearms against the windowsill where her chin soon followed, deep in thought. It’s like he was caught in a freeze-frame that looped the same animation again and again, ever constant. Whatever plot his life had held up until that point had just ceased to continue, like a dead end to his saga.

Jole looked to her, and the vixen addressed him without meeting his eyes. “You don’t talk about your dad a lot.” She said. “He tells you about the outside world, right? Beyond the desert?”

He huffed so quickly that it nearly cut her off. Touchy subject? “Not something I wanna get into right now. Plus,” He laid his hands against her cheeks to aim her head back out at the silhouette, at Nord. “Priorities. Help me out, I’ll do whatever.” Finger guns. That’s something Irro would have lovingly described as being “signature” to Jole.

Then, she sighed. She hoped she was okay. Avoiding Nord’s wrath was one thing, but her going off and dying was, obviously, another. She clicked her claws against the windowsill in an anxious rhythm, still neglecting to meet eye-to-eye with the ashfur.

“Tell you what,” He started, which finally gained her ocular attention. “You go out and have a chat with him, and I’ll stick here to let you-know-who back in when she drops by. Cool?”

She sucked in a breath. “Cool.” And so she gave him a nod, and he gave her a pair of thumbs-up, and then she went on her merry way, though not without hyperventilating by the door for a minute or two. What if she didn’t use the right words? What if he pushed her away? What if this just sunk him deeper?

No. No, you got this, Rhe. You got this.

Operation MNLMA was a-go.

And with a squeak from the door, she went to confront her unmaker.

♦

Summer, near midnight, four years and six months since they’d first began this venture, a month and three days since |oꙅᴎʏ⅃ passed away, a month and three days since her brother had gone home.

And she couldn’t sleep.

She laid amidst a cluttered pile of bodies, that of a slumbering Jole and a drowsy, barely conscious Irro, but like most nights, excluding a Nord, who usually slept beneath them--”like a mattress,” as he used to say. That is, until a month and three days ago. Instead, he sat across from them, at the opposite end of the wagon bed, and watched. Sometimes he’d read, sometimes he’d scrawl things on parchment, and sometimes, sometimes, he’d nod off, if only for a moment, and at last look at peace. Seeing his eyes droop and his snout tip forward was a welcome sight for Rheana, despite the unhealthy implications of that, but if seeing him be just a little joyous meant settling for less, then so be it.

Three days, and their encounter still held her conscience captive. It shouldn’t have held such high stakes, yet it felt like it very much did, as if her words were the difference between life or death. Rather than simply striking up a conversation with her dear friend, she was instead the epicenter of an intervention. 

She had approached him as calmly as she could, and with dignity (at least she hoped) to match. She noted how long he had been out there, asked if he was okay with her presence, and stood aside while she awaited an answer, but she would receive none.

There was silence. She called for him again, and this time gained his attention. He eyed her blankly, rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then apologized for his ignorance, explaining that he hadn’t been paying attention. All was forgiven. She then planted herself beside him and, for a moment, sat quietly. She knew she had to act soon, unless she wished to lose him again, so she did just that and popped the question: did he want to go home?

He shook his head, and so easily too. Before she could follow up, he repeated the question to her, aiming a brief glance her way before looking back off into the distance. And not so easily, she shook her head too. She watched as his lips parted to speak another word, only to be cut off with a simply put why. His mouth closed. He pondered it for exactly forty-one seconds (she counted), then he elucidated. He was horrified of confronting their parents, he said. What was he supposed to say? How did he explain to them the tragedies they had experienced while maintaining his faultlessness? She went to rest a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it, and later, his head as well. It was his fault, he said. All of it.

She begged to differ. She wanted to beg to differ, but her fear begged to differ. She said nothing, and eventually, he said nothing either. His mouth closed. A minute and three seconds, and it was open again. He concluded that maybe he really was a monster. No!--but it got caught in her throat.

No.

She sat there, hands clasped in her lap, as she listened to him, not his words but his breathing. It shook, then staggered, then inhaled. He turned to her. She turned to him. He repeated the question. Why?

She, too, shook, then staggered, then inhaled.

You.

♦

Jole had never been one for sentimentality. It’s not like he envied those who were, not at all, but if he were being honest (which he rarely ever was) he could see it being a useful skill in a few situations he’s been tangled up in. In fact, he could recall a time when Nordy was in a similar bind. Not as deep-seated, obviously, but somewhere in that realm of headspace. Putting details aside, the ashfur didn’t handle it well, or at least, he didn’t think so, which, coming from him, was saying something.

It’s rare that he did anything wrong.

But hey, he got better. He got better at using humor as a tool of consolation, to deflect the stupid emotions people feel, to put smiles on faces and rosy hues on cheeks. Man, that’d make a good slogan. Obviously, there were those who didn’t appreciate his work as much, people like Rheana. But she was coming around, he liked to think. People always say that everything’s hilarious when you’re young and that you lose your sense of humor when you’re older. For Rhe-Rhe? He figured the opposite was true. Did that mean her sense of humor would eventually outshine his? Pfft, no, of course not. If she got the whole sentimentality niche, then he got to be the funny guy. That’s just how life worked.

Maybe sentimentality and hilarity were never meant to go hand-in-hand, except when someone was sad and needed a little cheer to brighten their day. A bad trade, he’d say, but hey, whatever works.

He thought back to what Rheana had said about Nord’s condition, how he didn’t do anything out of fear that he’d hurt someone. Really? Were they all that important to him? Was he that important to him? Maybe he should ask him. He should talk to him. Why couldn’t he talk to him? Was he afraid he’d hurt someone too? That he’d hurt Nordy? Stupid, stupid questions.

Then he found himself there, a name call away from Nordy, maybe farther. He hesitated, not because he didn’t wish to follow through, but because the strangest thought invaded his mind, the thought that he’d become mainstream. Everybody’s had the sappy chat with Nordy by now, so was he really going to do the same? What did he have to bring to the table? Some one-liners and punchlines? A few snarky japes, maybe? Oh, but Jole, you’ll have the benefit of being you, the guy who knows Nordy best.

Maybe. But maybe he didn’t know him, not like he thought he did. If he knew, like really knew, he could have compounded this, he could have slid it into the grand scheme, but he didn’t, and his scheme turned out not so grand after all. What was he still doing out there? It’s in the middle of summer, in a desert.

“Jole?”

He looked over to Nord, blinking once, then twice, then another time. That’s how blinking works, if you didn’t notice. “Heyyyy, big guy.”

“Can we talk?”

“Shoot.”

“I know things have been rough recently,” He said, then Jole opened his mouth, which received a sharp, “Save the quippy remarks. Promise I’ll let you get them out, just let me say my piece,” so Jole obeyed, for once in his life. “I’m not completely sure why you’ve stayed so long, but I think I know why--and don’t worry, I won’t say it out loud and sully your reputation.” He snickered, faintly. “But I guess, if you do stick around, then I’ll try to be better. I know I haven’t really been myself since--”

And in the nick of time, Jole chimed in right before he could dwell on that thought, “I getcha. I could probably be better about things too, probably. It’s a journey we can take together, to betterness. Then, who knows? Maybe I can get back to thinking up more bright ideas for you to pick apart and show me the flaws of. That’d be a nice change of pace, eh?”

“Yeah,” He nodded. “It would be. We can have some fun again, okay? I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

And for the first time, Nord lied, because that next decade felt more like ten minutes than ten years.

♦

They say it takes twenty-one days to make a habit, so how many days does it take to make a routine? Are habits and routines the same thing, or does a routine count for an abundance of habits? Does it depend on perspective, or do people only say that to get away with being wrong? Does a habit make the passage of time go by faster? If a routine is a bunch of habits, does a routine make the passage of time even faster? If a decade counts for ten years, does a routine count of ten habits? Does a habit count for a year? Does a routine count for a decade?

Maybe the heat was starting to get to him--not that Jole wasn’t, obviously, mythically resilient. He wore a coat, for crying out loud. Who else wore a coat in temperatures like these? That’s right, no one. Or maybe middle-aged dads. He recoiled at himself.

“I’m not like a middle-aged dad, right?” He asked aloud.

Rheana and Irro, preoccupied with whatever, turned to offer their constructive feedback:

“What?”

“Totally.”

Correction: their not-so-constructive feedback. He turned away with a huff, looking off toward the front of the wagon bed, where Nordy--who still hadn’t given an answer--sat idly with his back turned. Of course, what more did he expect from that ever-so-chatty cousin of his? “And what’s your two cents, Mister Silent Treatment?” He started. “Honest answer.”

Nord didn’t turn to face him, but replied all the same, “Whatever keeps you going, Jole.” before going back to whatever pressing matter he’d been attending to for the past decade. Surely he couldn’t have been the only one infuriated by how far Sadface McGee had taken his charade. Right? Right?

Maybe it was the heat.

“Woo. Cool it with the enthusiasm, big guy, leave some of the party for us.” He retorted, and this time, his behavior wouldn’t be so easily remedied. Jole was a big boy now. “Seriously, my bad for interrupting your thumb-twiddling session.” And, miraculously, he picked up on the faintest scoff, the first he’d heard from Nordy in what felt like centuries. He feigned appallment in the face of such extravagant emotion, slapping his hands over his snout and gasping. “It lives!”

“Don’t you have chores to do?” He shot back.

“Don’t you have a personality to maintain?” He ricocheted.

“As much as I’d like to play back-and-forth with you--”

“I wish you would!”

“Jole--”

Irro, ever the instigator, decided to cut in, “Dads are fighting a-” to which a hand--or at least, he assumed it was a hand, telling by the clap--clamped over her mouth. With a glance over his shoulder, he watched her--joined by Rheana now, obviously--practically bumrush out the door. Okay, was that necessary? It couldn’t have been that serious. Right?

Right.

Okay, maybe he went a little too hard on the teasing, he could admit to that, but it was just a goof, c’mon. He found that something had slipped from him that hadn’t slipped from him in some time, one of those playful, absent-minded chuckles with an unintentionally awkward execution. But he’s Jole. He’d recover. “But hey, listen--” And this time, he was cut off. Oh, the audacity.

“Yes, I get it. Are you done?”

Jole blinked. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, I’m done.” And before he could get another word out, Nord interjected again.

“Okay. Thank you.” Great, here comes the uncanny silence. Thanks a lot, Nordy. Thankfully, he spoke up again not two seconds later, “You know I can’t play around with you anymore, right? You know we’re not kids anymore. I can’t be as careless as I used to be. I have to take responsibility. I have to keep on track.” Yadda, yadda, yadda.

“You were never careless in the first place, Nordy!” He snapped. “That’s the thing! We’ve been out here how long? Like a decade? Think of how many years that is to have the same stick up your butt! Hell, I’m surprised your bowels still function the way they’re supposed to,” He arched a foot back for a dramatic lean. Always the showman, this guy. “But hey, what do I know? Maybe you get a free pass when you spend weeks at a time staring into space.”

“There is no we. There hasn’t been a we for a long time. There’s been a you and a me, a you who stays here and a me wondering why you haven’t gone home yet. It’s as simple as that.”

Jole could have said anything, anything, and it would have been better than what he ended up saying. He could have lamented how he had nowhere else to go, how Nordy--his beloved cousin, his brother through this struggle called life--was as close to a family as Jole could manage. He could have opted to have his actions speak over his words and wrapped the big guy in some solemn, wordless embrace. But he didn’t. Given the chance, he’d say that was his greatest mistake. Maybe not in public, or even out loud, but somewhere deep inside, he’d admit that to himself.

But hey, no time like the present, right? It’s not the first time the ashfur’s gone off at the mouth without letting his brain catch up.

“Well, maybe I will go home. Hell, maybe I’ll burn something down while I’m at it, be more of a use to society than you’ve been in ten damned years, or, you know, whatever measure of time you use when ten years is about as interesting as ten seconds out in the sun.” He backpedaled, staggering only when he saw the contortion of Nord’s expression, twisting serenity and calm into fear and terror, and to see Nord so vulnerable, so afraid, so abruptly, it made him doubt himself. Jole never doubted himself. He knew how these stunts worked, he knew he couldn’t step down once he’d gotten on stage, he knew he couldn’t finish the joke without the punchline. He had to follow through. He had to.

Nord reached out, like he was acting on old, long-forgotten instincts. Not forgotten enough, clearly. “Jole?”

“You lost me.” He said, and not another word was passed between them, not until he made his flamboyant departure by throwing open the door and descending onto the dunes. Nord had called out to him in another vain attempt to get him back in line, but Jole didn’t care. Maybe he wanted to, maybe, but no, he didn’t, shut up. He deafened him out, he deafened out the incompetent negotiation and the calls of his name. He didn’t care, he didn’t care. When the girls looked over at him with shocked looks, he didn’t turn to meet their gazes, he didn’t turn to see how apologetic Rheana’s looked, or how vulnerable Irro’s had become, because he didn’t care. Of course he didn’t care! Why would he care? He didn’t.

At last, he left them behind, with as calm a stride as he could manage. He had all the time in the world, actually! He could walk as slowly as he dared. It didn’t matter to him. That is, until he found himself running. Sure, he could run as fast as he dared too! It didn’t matter. None of it did.

None of it. He swore. He really, really did.

Right?

♦

Spring, late in the afternoon, thirteen years and three months since they’d first began this venture, a decade since her brother had gone home, a minute since Jole had stormed off into the deep desert, fifty seconds since she assured Irro of her safety, and thirty-seven seconds since she stormed off after him.

The ashfur was fast on his feet, that much was certain, for as soon as Rheana gave chase, Jole was already lightyears ahead of her, but luckily for her, the sand left tracks, tracks that she could follow. It took roughly half an hour of steady pursuit to catch up with her friend, who found himself tucked behind makeshift cover, with a selection of lethal devices in his possession. Chemical weapons. What use did he have for those?

“Jole? What are you doing?”

“Rhe-Rhe!” He said, casually. She’d have scoffed at the tone he was taking, but that wasn’t quite “signature” to her, as Irro might’ve said. “Have you, too, gotten fed up with a certain someone’s attitude? ‘Cause hey, join the club! We’ll be buddies in Anti-Nordiry.”

“What?” She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m done, is what I’m talking about. I’m done sticking in line and waiting for him to get his act together, ‘cause ten years is a little too much, Rhe, even for me. So, I’m gonna make my own fun,” He paused, knocking his head back to gesture to… something. It wasn’t until she looked off into the distance that she caught a little village sitting on the horizon, except it wasn’t one of theirs. It belonged to those serpentine creatures that hailed them day-to-day, the Sethrak. He wasn’t really suggesting--? “If you wanna join me, be my guest. Need all the help I can get to, you know, spread the flames.” He shook a flask in front of her, filled with a fizzy orange liquid that she didn’t recognize.

“What is--?”

“Alchemical fire.” Despite her confusion, he offered no further explanation before slotting the flask back into a knapsack she had watched him leave with. Telling by the clinking of metal, she could only assume he had a much bigger abundance than he was letting on. She couldn’t let him go through with this!

“Jole, are you--” She stammered. No surprise there. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Absolutely.” He said. There was a mixture of arrogance, overconfidence, hubris, all of Jole’s negatives, swirling in his pale blues, and Rheana was finding it difficult to suppress her anger. Jole was the only man alive to have come so close to breaking her, but not today, not today. Breathe. Nonetheless, he chimed in again once he noticed her fumbling with a response, “Tell me why it isn’t. In fact, just tell me no. I’ll be convinced then, promise.”

She choked on her words, though that was nothing out of the ordinary. “You could get hurt, Jole! You could die, you could be imprisoned, you could--!”

“Hearing a lot of ‘coulds’, not a lot of ‘wills’, Rhe-Rhe. Still doesn’t answer the question.”

“It’s insane! This isn’t a good idea, you--” Another stammer, another choke, another interjection.

“Sure it isn’t. Half the thrill! Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it, right? ‘Course, I still haven’t heard the magic word.”

“You--” No. “This is--” No. “What would--?” No. “Jole--” No.

“Don’t waste your breath. ‘Kay? You wouldn’t wanna spoil the fun, right? Take someone else’s idea of fun and baby proof it, all that?” He returned to his feet. “I kinda like the sentiment. Promise I won’t waste it. But really, if you wanna be useful, run back on to Nordy and tell him to bring around the Sandpiercer to that break in the mountain closest to the village. If he doesn’t, well, that’s on him.”

Rheana was quiet. She could open her mouth, but no words would come to her rescue, no refusals, no arguments, no retorts. Jole had that effect on people, she noticed. When she finally managed to get her bearings though, the only word to escape her was one that, in itself, shook with restrained emotion, a faint, unsteady, “Okay.”

The ashfur looked back off at the horizon, where a visible shiver traveled down his spine. It was then that he shared with her a wordless secret only she would know, that he was afraid. The dismissive chuckle afterward only rubbed salt in the wound. “See you in a few.”

And off he went.

♦

Ten years…

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Watching Raysik make the trek back home alongside Rheana (before he was apprised of her intentions to stay, obviously) was an oddly welcome sight for Nord. Of course he would miss them, but the bliss often overcame the sorrow. Most of the time, that is. Seeing Jole take the same path though, that hit very differently. He could recall the two of them making a promise to one another so long ago, a promise to never abandon the other, a promise of duality, but a promise that had seemingly been put on hold for the good of their trip, but to the ruin of their friendship. Leadership had blinded him. Instead of standing on equal ground with everyone else, he sought only to impress them, to be someone they could look up to, and for Jole, especially so.

All the more to be sickened with himself over, he supposed. Still, he still had some grip on the bright side of things. Maybe this was nothing but healthy for Jole, maybe he’d inspire the others to follow in his footsteps, maybe this was the fuse Nord had been waiting for! Maybe then Nord could start rebuilding himself. Alone. Isolated.

He wasn’t privy to the idea of being stranded in the middle of the desert without any contact, but if it meant protecting others from his curse, he wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a second. He couldn’t hurt anyone if there was no one to hurt.

Just listening to his own thoughts grated his patience. It’s a wonder anyone wanted to hear out his issues. It’s a wonder he let them.

Therein laid the issue, perhaps. He spent half the time complaining and debating with himself, and the other half attending to his “responsibilities”. Excuses, more like. The appeal of his trip was having fun, and true to Jole’s word, he had been denying himself that, and in the process, everyone else. Maybe he could’ve been more careless had he not known what “having fun” led to. If only he were there in time.

Many of… his doodles and sketches still laid stamped to the walls. He had managed to take a few down for safe-keeping, but for those that remained, he didn’t have the will to touch them. He’d be sullying them otherwise. Sometimes the splatters of ink felt fresh, fresh enough to muddy, and he didn’t dare blur the crude yet familiar shapes those splatters took. Nord was always drawn with arms long enough to encompass them all, to protect them, to protect him.

His mind cracked under that weight, but in its final throes, it promptly changed the subject. He recalled Jole’s final words to him, especially that threat he had so casually tacked on. ‘Burn something down.’ What did he mean? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it served as one last slap to the face for all the torture his cousin had undergone due to his selfishness. He liked that answer.

Then there came an abrupt hammering at the door, one that chilled Nord to his very core. No matter the context, no matter the reasoning, it always brought him back there, to that day, to that haunting memory that plagued every recess of his mind. Nonetheless, he answered the call.

“Nord!” It was Rheana, and she sounded panicked. “Jole is-- He did something dumb!”

His heart sank. There was only one time that outshined how fast it did, but he need not elaborate on that. “What?”

“He wants us to meet him at the break in the mountain, the one closest to the Sethrak settlement. He said he was tired of waiting, that he was going to make his own fun. I think--” She stammered. “I think he’s going to try and burn the village down! We--”

He stopped listening. He stopped thinking. He pulled her onto the wagon bed with a sharp, “In. Now.” before descending onto the sand and fitting Apollo and Hutch into the reins, who had been caught in the midst of their evening snack. Every shortcut, every workaround, every lousy path that more or less guaranteed a broken wheel, he took it. The crack of a whip, the groaning of alpacas and the clack of their nails, the rattle and screech of wagon wheels, the heaving of his own breath. Then, a stammering voice.

“Nord, we can’t-- we won’t last on this kind of road. We have to stop, or--”

He snapped, “I am NOT losing another one!”

And that was that.

They made it eventually, albeit in a state of disrepair, but they made it. They made it. He could see the flames roaring in the distance, and being this close, he could practically feel the heat too. He could hear the seething of Sethrak, the clicking of their fangs, their incessant hissing. Then, a shouting voice. His cousin’s! He planted his feet in the sand, locked his jaw, tightened his stance, all in anticipation of his arrival, and soon enough, he caught sight of a silver outline, of ash fur, of his last responsibility. He reached out.

But his hand did not find Jole’s.

[automaticenemycrusade]

A Frightening Dream

Morgo blinked his eyes open and let out a small gasp as he observed his surroundings. He was in a dimly lit room with no apparent exit. Although he couldn’t remember how he got here and despite zero signs of any danger, he felt uneasy. He glanced around the room again to try and get his bearings. The room was lit up by a small red light which hung off a dark ceiling. The room itself was circular with white, cushioned walls surrounding it, as one might find inside an asylum. The sorcerer scratched his head. Why was he here? Perhaps a teleportation spell gone wrong? What was he doing before he got here? He couldn’t remember for the life of him, but his train of thought was interrupted as he saw something emerge from the dark corners of the room.

It was him, or at least, he thought it was him. A troll which seemed near identical to Morgo himself stepped out of the shadows of the room, darkened visage and all. At first, the arcanital thought that perhaps this was a wayward mirror image showing him the way out, but he shook his head. There was something off about the person standing in front of him. He certainly looked like Morgo, the same facial features, piercings, body shape, but there was simply something... off about him. His hair was jet black, and the usual golden clad robes Morgo wore were replaced by some tattered, dark leathers. The being stepped closer to him before stopping only a few feet away. 

“Who are you? Where am I?” Morgo asked in his native tongue. He was confused. Perhaps this was all just some strange dream? After all, he did have a bad habit of zoning out. This seemed different however, and it all felt so real. 

“Who does it look like?” The apparition grinned. “I am you, or at least, what you want to be. What we could be.” 

“I don’t understand you, speak plainly. I ask again, who are you? Because you certainly aren’t me, I’m Morgo’Boondax!” Morgo responded, puffing his chest out proudly. 

The man standing before him seemed to sneer, rolling his shoulders back, which showed off dark runes running up and down along his shoulders. “You still haven’t caught on then, have you? Oho, my friend, I am Morgo’Boondax, just as much as you are Morgo’Boondax.” He stopped himself for a moment, letting out a light chuckle. One thing was for certain, he sounded exactly like Morgo, if not a bit more… arrogant, and his tone was certainly harsher. 

Morgo crossed his arms, “An Imposter then? Is this another one of the Meister’s tricks? Am I being tested? Or perhaps you are another assassin sent by my mother, wishing to drag me back home so she can tear my ear off about how I’ve failed her and our family? Oh, what if you are-” 

The other Morgo raised a hand, cutting him off. “Ah, still confused, are we? You always were a little slow. I shall explain, dear Morgo, for you see, there are no tricks afoot here. I am simply a creation of your- our mind.” He grinned. “Everything you ever wanted to be, confident, proud, powerful.” 

Morgo raised a brow. He wasn’t wearing his mask so he couldn’t hide his facial expressions as well as he’d usually be able to. His thoughts turned to that of anger--how dare this imposter prance around and act like he knew everything about him! After all, If his words were to be believed, then he could dispel him with a single thought! “So, you are my insecurities then? Come to torment me in a physical form? Beh I say! Many people and beings far beyond your power have tried and failed in breaking me.” He spat back. 

In response, the clone simply chucked once again, an infuriating smirk chiseled onto his features. “That’s what makes this so beautiful, right? The fact that you are simply talking to yourself. We are talking to ourselves, rather. Come now, I only wish to have a little chat with you. Times have been so hard on us after all. Us and our little friends of ours.” He spoke in a condescending voice, mocking the proud mage that stood before him. “Well. More your friends than mine.” 

Morgo growled at this, his anger ever rising. For whatever reason, this twisted copy of himself speaking to him in this way was really getting under his skin. “Do NOT speak about my friends like that! What would you know about them anyways?”

This seemed to only fuel his aggravator’s enjoyment of the current back and forth. “I am you, remember? All your memories are mine, and oh, please forgive me, mighty Morgo! Surely such a wise and compassionate friend such as yourself, in your infinite wisdom, could spare a morsel of empathy for me, yes? Unless…” He paused. “Ah, of course, since no one knows me, and no one will know how you treat me... I am worthless then, yes? You need not keep up your precious reputation around me, so that makes it okay to treat me poorly then? Hah.” 

Morgo clenched his fists. What was this guy on about? He was just standing there, mocking him, pushing all his buttons, and not the good ones either. “You’re crazy, a jester. Consider me unamused. As you can see, I’m not in the best of moods as you so skillfully pointed out, and I’m definitely not in the mood to be mocked by my own clone!” 

The clone, in response to this, gasped dramatically and put a hand over his heart. “Oh my! Is that a hint of anger I hear coming from you, great Morgo? How uncharacteristic of you! Ahah! Hmm. Perhaps, well, perhaps it’s not uncharacteristic at all.” 

Morgo’s eyeball twitched irritably. What was this guy- this clone’s game? Here they were in a room that he could only assume to be the creation of his own conscience, and the only companion he had was some annoying rip-off of himself that kept picking away at his patience. “What is your point!? What are you even talking about? If you are me, then you should know everything I have gone through, and you should know the last thing I need is some insane copycat insulting me!” 

The clone of Morgo’s eyes widened as he began to laugh at Morgo himself. “Ahah, insane! Yes! He finally gets it!” He clapped his hands together slowly. It was at this point Morgo noticed something which made his blood run cold. The man’s forearm did not look like Morgo’s own at all. What should’ve been the golden tattoos Zandalar-inscribed upon blue skin were instead replaced by a pitch black, oozing substance, which completely engulfed the shadowy Morgo’s arm up to his elbow. It seeped with dark energy and voodoo, the same mystical magics he once saw radiating in De Other Side, where he battled the spirits of his own ancestors.

The imposter’s smirk grew as he saw a brief flash of fear in Morgo’s eyes, which was quickly replaced by anger. Nevertheless, he went on. “We are insane, Morgo. I am insane in the fact that I am not the one in your shoes right now, controlling our actions! Taking our life and living it the way the son of Jorgo should! And you, well, you are insane in the fact that you think you can hide who you, who we truly are. You cannot hide your true nature! Not anymore. I won’t allow it.” 

Morgo blinked. He had half a mind to shoot this man down where he stood. He was spouting meaningless nonsense to his ears! True nature? Morgo was goodhearted, he knew this, and he wasn’t some arrogant brat who let paranoia and fear dictate his actions, surely how this horrid perception of him did. “You simply wish to exist, to corrupt me and make me doubt myself, and I will not fall for your tricks! I am greater than that, greater than you.” 

“Greater than me? Quite arrogant for a paragon of humility such as yourself to say, huh, Morgo? Even now you show our true arrogance, our pride, the very same pride that led us to being manipulated by so many others who wished to do wrong by us.” The clone quipped back. Morgo went to respond, but he stopped when he noticed something. The room’s lighting had turned red, and the walls were now covered in a mishmash of violently scrawled down words. They all appeared to be illegible, aside from a select few which were written in bright red, bold letters. His gaze seemed to be forcibly moved around, reading each word and being forced to stare at them for an uncomfortably long time. F A I L U R E was the first he saw, quickly followed by B O R G, and then, suddenly, memories of Borg’Boondax flooded Morgo’s head--how he trusted him, how he let himself be bound to the spectre, how his frustrations and insecurities toward his family put him in the mindset that allowed a fanatical spirit to guide his actions, and how he brutally slaughtered the ghosts of his ancestors in the name of said spirit, damning them all to oblivion in a blind rage and under the promise that his father would be saved.

P O I S O N was the next word, with the biting pain that he felt when Borg stabbed him in the back with a poisoned blade shooting though his entire body. His mind was filled with flashbacks to when he was slowly decaying due to the poison and how his loved ones were forced to watch him suffer, all because of the mistake he made. The next word, W E A K, rang through his skull. Morgo clasped his hands over his ears and shut his eyes closed. His imposter had gone silent, but there was no escaping this mental onslaught he was enduring now. “Agh!” He cried out. “Why… Why are you showing me this?-” He was cut off. Images of Morgo’s battle with his ancient ancestor, Boondax, played through his head, how, even with his strongest attack, he was unable to defeat him, and how, if not for his father destroying the conqueror, he would have surely doomed himself and his friends. The visions ceased, but the damage had been done. Morgo sank to his knees and he began to shake, visibly in pain. “I… I have endured, I have made many mistakes... But I have learned from them-” 

Morgo’s apparition roared out, “WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED!?” Morgo opened his eyes. He was looking up at the dark copy of himself who now loomed above him. He appeared larger, stronger, more powerful than before. “Over and over again, it is the same story! Just replace the people! We give our heart, our soul, in the name of the ‘greater good’ or being a ‘better person’. Better person? BAH! We are MORGO’BOONDAX! The greatest magical specimen our empire has EVER birthed, and yet we waste our power in the name of friendship- FRIENDSHIP!” His voice boomed throughout the halls, which was certainly deeper now. Morgo could do nothing to stop him, powerless at this moment. This dark version of himself pounded on his chest. “Kisa,” He lamented. “We tried to help her, to bring justice in the face of evil, and what did we get in return for confronting an accused murderer? WE WERE BRANDED AS A VILLAIN.” Memories of a night spent in the barbershop flashed through Morgo’s head. The memories of that failure, and the great shame and humiliation he’s felt ever since then, shook him to his core.

“Now replace that name with Irro, someone whose life we’ve saved countless times, who we’ve supported since day one. Look at all the PAIN she’s given us--she made our mate miserable, she’s made you miserable! She is a RAT, an ingrate! She mocks our ROYAL ancestry, and you should’ve killed her when you had the chance! You would’ve shown her what it means when you cross US!” Yet again, rippling images of the incident seeped into Morgo’s head. Splashes of crimson began to appear on the walls of the room he was now locked in as the vision played out. “But you saved her, a decision she has made us regret ever since.” The apparition of Morgo spoke with such rage, such contempt. He had gone from zero to one hundred in the blink of an eye. Everything was escalating so quickly, and Morgo couldn’t keep up. All he could feel was pain and hurt. More emotions came, that of anger, rage, sorrow, and remorse. Every possible negative emotion came crashing down upon Morgo in this one painful moment. Even so, the shade of Morgo’s consciousness continued. “The power we possess, the blood of a conqueror runs through our veins! We are unparalleled on the field of battle! And yet you suppress it! You suppress our power, you suppress yourself, what we could be. I am you, Morgo, I am the Morgo’Boondax that lets go of these pathetic wastes of lives that call themselves our friends. Quathe? A murderous mana-sucking leech who only uses you for his next fix, or for a shoulder to cry on. Dya? A prideful, foolish, and victimizing wannabe pirate who was so desperate for any kind of affection that she returned to an abuser. An abuser that, if you recall, WE had to kill for her, and where was our thanks!? Nowhere!”  The clone stopped for a moment though, chuckling. “We did get one reward out of it though, eheh!” He licked his lips slowly, psychotically, “Blood.” then waved a hand. “A taste for it, anyway.”

No sooner did the words escape his lips that the sound of a chandelier falling atop an unsuspecting elf ring through the room. The sounds of bones crunching and blood gurgling filled his ears. Morgo was then shown a vision of himself shooting down said chandelier. Unlike the prior memories however, Morgo had a sick grin on his face in this vision. His clone’s voice rang through his head. “We are bred killers, we were meant to enjoy it... Yet we spend far too much time trying to aid people who do not want our help. We pursue such meaningless and empty ideals such as mercy and wisdom and we still have nothing to show for it. Our greatest moments--our greatest memories!--come from when we are on the battlefield, when we are destroying, not giving!” Morgo’s mind was finally given a break. The visions stopped and the horrific sounds began to cease. He weakly pushed himself to his feet, his breathing heavy. He looked over at his other half. It seemed all the rage and zeal had finally left him, at least for now. The apparition now stood alone in the corner of the room, further away from Morgo than before. 

Morgo choked out a few words, clearly exhausted from the episode. “You.. we.. we are better than this.. We will be fine, we are fine. It is just a moment of weakness-” He was then cut off. The maddened scrawlings on the wall seemed to shift and change, before two words became legible. Plastered over every inch of wall, those two words read, I ‘ M  F I N E. 

“That’s what we always say.” The clone sighed, seemingly dejected now as he continued, “We suffer through so much for other people's needs, Morgo. It is tearing us apart. When will you realize we are alone in this world? Every friend that did not once hate us, or have something against us to try and tear us down, is gone. All that remains are those that wish to drag us down with them, and all we try to do is portray a beacon of righteousness, but we are not righteous. We are Morgo’Boondax, we are flawed, but you only create more flaws by being something that you are not. It deludes you, it makes you think that sparing the killer of our father was a noble thing to do!” 

Morgo’s shoulders slumped down. He was greatly disheartened by all of this. When would this end? Why was this happening? Even still, he pushed himself toward his clone, certain that he’d make it through this. “We aren’t alone, our friendships make us strong… It gives us wisdom, and if we ever feel alone, Liv will be there for us-” A whirlpool of shadows engulfed the dark shadow of Morgo, making him disappear for a brief moment before immediately reappearing directly in front of Morgo, face to face, tusk to tusk. His eyes were pitch black.

“And when she’s not? Look at where we are right now! She’s been distant. Maybe she’s finally had enough of us? She did try to end herself once before because of your inability to speak. Who’s to say she won’t again? What if you ‘accidentally’ hurt her like you did in that trial? What would all your wisdom and happiness do for you then, huh? HUH?” Morgo blinked, his eyes began to water. That cut deep, and went way too far, even for his clone’s sake. “Sh- shut up! Don’t you dare say that! How could you even suggest such a thing!? I’ve had enough of this, this torture! You are darkness! You are everything I strive to be against, and I will not give into you, your desires to be bitter, rage-fueled, paranoid, and pessimistic! I will never become you.”

The apparition--this clone, this shade of Morgo--only grinned, his pitch black eyes staring daggers into Morgo’s very soul. The endless voids that were his eyes held all of Morgo’s pain, all his sorrow and regret within them. Every mistake, every regret, and every drop of rage could be found in this Morgo's gaze. It was truly horrifying to the real Morgo, catching all of this in one glance. He’d certainly been put through a meatgrinder of trauma just now, and it was weighing on him. Before he could recover, the clone began to laugh. “Ahaha! Oh Morgo, don’t you know you possess all those qualities you just listed? You only try to hide them! You could become me. You will become me, given time… soon enough, just wait. Something will break you, then you will finally embrace me and become everything we were destined to be. Maybe it will be tomorrow, maybe it will be in another year from now, who knows? After all, all it takes is just one bad day.” 

The clone began to laugh, although this time it sounded much more unhinged than before. Its noise began to crescendo to a deafening amount. “Ahaha-ahaha! AHAHA!” The room around the two Morgos began to shake. Morgo, the real one, clasped his hands over his ears once again and stumbled backward, wincing as he felt blood trickle out of his ears. He closed his eyes tightly, as he could feel another round of visions were about to play out, but those visions did not come. In fact, the laughter began to die down. He opened his eyes to see that the clone was also looking around in confusion, his laughter cut short as a blinding light had suddenly breached through the red lighting of the room, making the dimly lit chamber begin to shine with a radiance it hadn’t known before. The maddened scrawlings on the wall began to melt away, all the blood and remnants of the violent visions were purged, and the clone himself was engulfed by the light, soon being reduced to ash. Morgo was fearful at first as the light began to envelop him, as it had just melted his excuse for a counterpart, though instead of pain, he felt… warmth, comfort. A tender and loving care could be felt as the light washed over Morgo. It mended those recently reopened traumatic wounds of his, and closed them gently with a soothing sensation to go with it. Morgo embraced this feeling, which brought even more tears to his face. This time though, the tears were that of joy and relief. This nightmare was finally coming to a close, or so it seemed to be. Something appeared in the midst of this light bathing Morgo. It was a hand, calloused and rough-looking, and it seemed familiar to him. Now that he thought about it, he could sense a familiarity to the energies surrounding him. It was the same light that his staff possessed! His mind began to finally ease up, and he reached a hand upwards, grasping the outstretched hand in kind, and just like that, Morgo was pulled out of the darkest recesses of his mind. 

He opened his eyes, and the blinding light of the desert sun filled his vision. He wearily rose a hand above his face to shield his eyes from the blinding light, then blinked a few times. He looked around. How long had he been standing here for? Oh Loa, he must’ve zoned out again! That was a really bad day dream he just had, he thought. He dusted his robes off quickly and readjusted his mask to better fit his face. Eventually, after recomposing himself and getting his bearings back, Morgo shook his head, getting rid of any cobwebs that may have remained. He gently patted his staff, feeling the holy energy that radiated off of it. He whispered, “Thank you.” before heading down an old dirt road to continue his day. Morgo’Boondax was off! He had to hurry! Someone probably needed him, somewhere, for some reason.

~ Fin ~

[automaticenemycrusade]

Dya: Chapter Two

           Dya stared down at Garadar from her perch, sitting in a tree on one of the floating islands. She wasn’t allowed to go into town, not since the day she bit Varuk. There were times when she still felt insulted by it – he’d fought with her first – but there was nothing she could do about it. It was something she had to make peace with, and honestly there were upsides. She’d learned to like coming up, to sit on the soil above the world with Wa’tar’s wind rider. It was quiet, the view was gorgeous, and it let her think.

           Getting jealous over Dar’zok’s power had been unkind. She knew that. But she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stave back the pangs of envy when she thought about the lightning coursing through his veins, the fact that the elements favored him. The fact that no source of power would favor her again. She knew that if any other elves could see her now they’d scoff at her, call her worthless. What was an elf without her magic after all? Nothing, that’s what. Even though she hadn’t seen another pointy-eared mess in almost four years it was still hard to get away from that thought sometimes. She shook the thought from her head. She sat up, peering downward. She looked at the town, searching for a single green face among a sea of brown, when a voice called out to her.

           “Dya! I didn’t know you would be in town today.” Dya turned to see a familiar smile and warm grey eyes. Dar’zok had landed on the big island behind her. He tied his wyvern to the tree and smiled at her as he approached. She did her best to smile back. She didn’t want Dar’zok to have even the slightest inkling as to what she might’ve been thinking about.

           “I didn’t know either. This was an impromptu trip,” she said, “What brings you up here? Surely you have better things to be doing than talking to Wa’tar’s nonexistent daughter.”

           “Well,” Dar’zok said, “If that’s how you react to the prospect of my company then maybe I should just leave,” He held a hand up to his chest, mock-hurt, before sitting down next to her, “I think I know who I want to bring with me for the hunt.”

           “Let me guess, Shagar?”

           Dar’zok, enthused, carried on that Shagar had accepted his invitation to be an observer for his hunt. Dya tried not to feel stung. Dar’zok was her only friend, that was true, but that didn’t mean she was his only friend. Dya has listened to Dar’zok talk about Shagar enough to know that she very much had his interest. She was allegedly very pretty. She was Blackrock, with skin as dark as onyx and eyes as bright as lava. She wore her hair in a long black braid, and she was steadily allowing Dar’zok closer and closer. Much to his delight. He told Dya that she’d accepted on the condition that she get a piece of the kill.

           “Perhaps your performance in the field will impress her enough to accept that courting gift you’ve been keeping in your bag for the past five months.” Dya teased, and Dar’zok went pink.

           “How did you know?” He asked, dismayed. Dya merely rolled her eyes.

           “Because you told me about it when you made it.”

           “…Oh. Yeah. I did,” he admitted. Dya merely chuckled.

           “I hope it goes the way you want it to,” she said, “I’m honestly a little relieved the orcs don’t like me. I don’t have to ask someone to come with me only to be rejected.”

           Dar’zok went quiet for a moment. His brows had furrowed, and he looked upset. His back hunched over just the slightest, his well-groomed hair with some elaborate braids falling into the dirt. He didn’t even bother to lift it off the ground when he responded.

           “You…wouldn’t want me to go with you?” He sounded genuinely hurt, and Dya blinked up at him. For the first in a long time, her ears twitched. She’d normally scold herself when she did that, the few orcs who saw her still liked to poke at her about them.

           “You want to? I thought you’d be hoping Shagar would invite you.”

           Dar’zok shook his head,

           “As much as I’d like that, you’re my friend. I met you before I ever even knew Shagar existed. Just because the people in Garadar like to pretend you don’t exist, that doesn’t mean you’re not important or that I don’t want to come see!” he went quiet for a second, “If they’d let me, I’d be inviting you.” Dar’zok looked upset, and Dya stared up at him incredulous. That was a far more serious admission that she thought he realized. The air had immediately become tense, the breezes halting with Dar’zok’s tumultuous emotions. There was a moment of awkward silence, and Dya decided to lure the conversation to safer waters.

           They spent a few hours up on the island, talking about everything and nothing. Dar’zok poked at her again and again, asking her what animal she was going to hunt for her own test. He wanted to know so badly, especially because he told her what he was going after. She was, after all, the only person he’d confided in on the subject of a specific clefthoof he wanted to down. Dya finally sighed.

           “I’m going to Hellfire Peninsula and I’m going to hunt a ravager.”

           Dar’zok got quiet for a moment, and then he did exactly what she expected him to. What she had direly hoped he wouldn’t.

           “That’s insane Dya! Those things will kill you!”

           She sighed, listening to him carry on about how small she was. How delicate she was. How a ravager thrice her size would have no issue with her. She tried to keep it together, truly, she did. Alas, Dar’zok’s lecture didn’t sit well with her. In fact, she could feel remnants of power responding to her anger. She took a deep breath, but it didn’t seem to help. Doing her best to suppress the green energy that still resided within, she finally snapped.

           “Dar’zok do you really think so little of me?” she snarled. Dar’zok stopped, looking at her like he was a puppy she just kicked. If puppies weighed three hundred pounds and wore gold rings on their tusks. Dya couldn’t help the rising indignation. How dare he act wounded when he was the one doing all the attacking?

           “No, not at all, just…” he trailed off, searching for the words he wanted but Dya knew what he would say before he could get it out.

           “Yes, Dar’zok, I know. I’m not an orc.”

           She didn’t give him the opportunity to respond, merely bolting to the wind rider and flying down to the ground to wait for Wa’tar.

/*\

           Dya didn’t sleep that night. She stared around at the baked bricks of her added room. Bricks she’d made and baked herself. She laid on a bed she’d made from a tree she’d cut down. All by herself. She wrapped herself in furs that she’d hunted with Wa’tar’s careful supervision, but ultimately, she’d done it herself. She stared out the window, listening to Wa’tar snore from the other room. She glowered at the stars, watching a meteorite fall. Just like it did almost four years ago, but this time Dya didn’t make a wish.

           She threw off her covers, uncaring that it was cold. She didn’t want to risk waking Wa’tar, so instead of leaving out the front door she crawled out the window. Dya walked over to her little stable, tall, with rooms. Feeders, hay storage, a small irrigation system from the pure source of the river for her precious pet. Even more things she hadn’t been too delicate to build on her own. She looked in to see if Xayla was awake. The little talbuk looked up at her as she approached, a wide yawn separating her snout. She looked sleepy, blinking at Dya with bleary eyes, but she didn’t seem upset by the interruption of her nap. Dya let herself into the pen, gently petting Xayla’s velvety little ears.

           “You don’t care that I’m not an orc,” she whispered, “and you don’t care that I’m an elf forbidden from her magic.”

           Dya snuggled up with the talbuk, the deer curling around her tiny body. She did her best not to cry as she tried to lull herself back to sleep. She would have liked to see her mother right now. Though she tried not to, Dya often wondered what had happened to her mother. Perhaps she was dead. Perhaps she had merely left. Perhaps she’d fallen and hit her head and was wandering Outland with amnesia. She’d always told Dya that she had quite the imagination, but Dya would have liked to have her there if only to have someone to hug. Her mother would have known what to say to her, what to do. She’d have told Dya to chin up and that she loved her. That it didn’t matter what other people thought. But it did matter.

Dya held fur in her fists, noting the plain linen dress she’d worn to sleep in contrast with all the things she’d had in her childhood. This was one of the rare times she missed Quel’thalas. Even with the grimacing servants, the carousing nobles, the ever-lurking threat of her father’s violence there had been things about Quel’thalas she’d liked. She’d loved her sister, who she still dearly missed. She’d loved Eldranil River, the waters always sparking with magic. She missed the dragonhawks, some of whom would play with her when she went outside without anyone knowing. But there was something else. Though there had been a host of bad things at the estate, there was one thing she had there. One thing she wished to have again.

           She had been worth something to the people of Quel’thalas.

/*\

           Dya woke early the next morning. She snuck back to her bed so that Wa’tar wouldn’t lecture her for staying in Xayla’s stable and accuse her of coddling an animal. Today was important, and though Wa’tar had advised against it Dya didn’t care. She would go to Garadar today, not into the town, just up onto her island. She had a few hours to prepare for the trip. She skirted around Wa’tar to the various shelves and cabinets in the hut, his grumbled ‘good morning’ being met with a mere hum as she took stock of the supplies and decided what to bring.

           “So, you’re going against my advice and going anyway,” he accused,

           “Yes,” Dya said unflinchingly, staring up at the orc with a jar of dried fish jerky in her hands. Despite both their hopes, Dya hadn’t grown much since Wa’tar saved her. She remained stalwartly short, having only grown a few inches. She had to crane her neck to look up at him, but she did so confidently. The graying orc sighed at her, his green face softening just a tad as he smoothed out his beard.

           “Very well. You are almost an adult, you should be making your own decisions,” he said, “I just worry that you could get hurt,” his ever-gruff voice had gotten a little quieter, and Dya smiled at him.

           “True, I could get hurt. But Dar’zok is my friend and I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t at least go to see him set off, right?”

           Wa’tar only sighed again, shaking his head, but Dya liked to think that he approved. Sometimes people had to do things that were hard, or that were risky. That was just life. Wa’tar didn’t say anything as she grabbed some rations so she could eat throughout the day. She packed some bedding just in case her other task for the day left her unable to return. She checked everything off her mental list, and when she turned, she found Wa’tar handing her another empty clay jar.

           “If you bring back a few of the glowing mushrooms in the marsh, I’ll ask Ursa to make you a pie.”

           Dya laughed but took the jar anyway. What were some mushrooms in addition to lakeweed?

           “I’ll keep an eye out for them,” she said, taking the extra jar and making space for it in her bag. She decided to stow it with the other empty jar. Wa’tar watched and snorted. He shook his head and when he spoke again, he sounded irate. He was even more irate on the matter than she was.

           “You’ve passed that ceremony a hundred times over since I’ve taken you in,” he grumbled, “I could never trust any of those young upstarts in Garadar for half the tasks I’ve entrusted to you. Remember that.”

           Dya appreciated Wa’tar’s words, his votes of confidence in her. She only smiled at the graying orc and loaded her supplies up on the wyvern. Throk was a temperamental animal, but stalwartly loyal. Wa’tar watched from the doorway of the house as she hoisted herself into the saddle.

           “Be careful. The wasps out there will kill you,” Wa’tar never was one to sugarcoat his words. Dya laughed.

           “I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” she said, “I’ve done this run for you a thousand times. Even if something goes wrong, I have Throk here with me,” she scratched behind the wyvern’s ears. His eyes slid closed happily.

           “I wouldn’t say a thousand,” Wa’tar grunted, crossing his arms and glaring at her meaningfully.

           Dya laughed, said her goodbyes, and set off. It wasn’t long until she landed on the island. Already there was a crowd amassed in Garadar. Dar’zok wouldn’t be setting off until noon, and as Dya checked the sun she realized she only barely made it. She didn’t bother dismounting, simply watched from her place. She couldn’t hear anything that was being said, but she could see Dar’zok. He was standing in the center of the village next to a giant bonfire. He was being given space to say something, Dya wasn’t sure what. The crowd cheered for him, and it wasn’t long before another orc approached him on the back of one of the wolves. Shagar, most likely. Dar’zok looked out across the crowd, waving.

           Dya knew he couldn’t see her, but she waved back anyway. She watched as Dar’zok left with Shagar. Dar’zok had told her they’d be going southwest, toward Oshugun. They’d be sure to find big game down there, and he wanted to impress his new friend in the worst way. Dya wasn’t sure why that made her sad. She took off, allowing Throk to leap off the island. She would be going north, almost the exact opposite direction. She steered Throk into a stream of wind, allowing him to coast. The journey there would take an hour at least.

           She fought to keep her hair out of her face. Despite Wa’tar’s insistent nagging on the subject she refused to tie back her hair. It was her hair and she could do, or not do, as she wished. Though, she was admittedly regretting not taking his advice now. Not that she’d ever let him know that. She was glad she packed her brush. She’d fix the mussed brown waves when she landed.

           Once she and Throk had jumped the mountains, Dya had him land on a mushroom. She had long since learned to keep the high ground out here. The wasps rarely flew high, and the more terrestrial threats wouldn’t be able to see her. She knew there were enemies beyond the wildlife in Zangarmarsh, such as broken draenei. There were also unbroken draenei who didn’t much care for elves. She’d learned that the hard way. She looked around, reveling in the rainy weather. It had been almost a year since she’d done a run in Zangarmarsh specifically, having been hurt by a squadron of draenei who’d called themselves the Alliance. That had been terrifying, but it hadn’t seemed to make Wa’tar think less of her. She furrowed her brows as the memory resurfaced. She hoped they wouldn’t still be out here.

           She grabbed a bowl from her pack and set it down, filling it with water from her skin so Throk could have a drink. She didn’t want to bring him to the ground until he’d had a chance to rest, and to be honest she was growing hungry. Dya fixed her hair and searched her bag for the smoked salmon and wheat crackers Wa’tar had insisted she take. She shared it with Throk. She took a moment to stare up into the sky, into the rain and clouds.

           It was cold. The rain was rarely ever warm in Zangarmarsh, but Dya still let herself enjoy it. It was peaceful. It pitter-pattered sweetly on the mushroom she reclined on. Despite the dangers below Dya could have some peace. She didn’t have to be worried that one of the orcs would spit insults at her and Wa’tar, that Dar’zok would show up to tell her how wonderful a time he’d had with Shagar. Though the tradeoff wound up being life threatening bugs and hostile draenei, she was okay with that. In moments like these she could just be. That was probably why she always begged Wa’tar to let her do these tasks with him, and now for him. She could explore and find quiet nooks all over the regions to think.

           Dya sighed. It was time to get to work. She got on Throk’s back to get to the ground. The chore itself wouldn’t take long. She’d collected mushrooms and lakeweed for Wa’tar enough times now to know which ones he was looking for, but Zangarmarsh was different now. Dya wondered how she hadn’t noticed before. There had always been a road in Zangarmarsh, but there had never been a settlement. She had landed near the pass to Hellfire Peninsula, opting to do her mushroom hunting before setting out for the lakes. Near the pass she saw something most odd. Buildings. Had she truly been away for so long that a whole new town had been erected without her knowledge? How had they built such a tall tower, such a huge inn, in only a year?

           She wondered if the people were hostile. She hoped they were friendly. She was careful as she approached, but she was still noticed. A tall violet woman – a night elf? Her father had told her about night elves – spotted her and flagged her down. She ran towards her, but she kept her weapons sheathed. All the same Dya grabbed her spear off her back and got ready, the threat of danger sparking an onslaught of adrenaline. The woman held her hands up.

           “Whoa! Hold on, hold on, I mean you no harm! I didn’t mean to spook you.” Her orcish was heavily accented, so much so that Dya almost couldn’t understand her, “Who are you? We’ve had a few blood elves come through here, but I don’t recognize you,” Dya felt her brows furrow. Taken off guard, Dya lowered the spear just a tad. She appraised the woman. Long purple hair, bright glowing eyes. Relaxed muscles, sheathed weapons. Dya decided the woman was friendly, so she asked a question.

           “What are blood elves?”

           Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest decision on her part, but Dya followed the druid into the little town. She was brought into an inn and the druid sat Dya down with a drink and a blanket. A few people began fawning over Throk, much to his delight. He rather enjoyed the head pats and chin scratches. These strangers were nice. At the very least they were good at pretending to be nice. They asked her where she’s come from, and she told the truth: Nagrand. That only seemed to confuse them. She asked questions and they asked questions back, and by the time the whole thing ended Dya had even more questions than before.

           Dya learned that the strangers were from Azeroth, like her. She learned that they were druids, though she needed the term explained to her. She listened to them talk, and they told her what had happened to Quel’thalas, why the people had renamed themselves to sin’dorei. They told her that people like her had become a rarity outside of Quel’thalas, and that many were hoping to create a new start here in Outland. Most importantly, they told her where others like her were. There was an outpost for the sin’dorei in Hellfire Peninsula. Some had gone to Shattrath, claiming to no longer support the prince. Others still joined a night elf who’d turned himself into a demon. She had trouble understanding that part through the other elf’s accent.  

           Dya left the little town reeling. Throk had stayed with her the whole way through, letting her lean on him for comfort. The druids had seen her distress, offered to let her stay the night there and send a message to Wa’tar if need be. They had, after all, been very curious to know why there was an elf who spoke Orcish better than Thalassian. She said no. She only asked where the other elves had gone because she wanted to see them herself.

           Dya began to wonder if that was a bad idea. She had walked down the road with Throk, but she wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking. She didn’t know where she was, and as she looked around in a panic trying to find a familiar landmark, she heard shouting. Then the clank of metal on metal and the screams one heard before death. Had someone been attacked by an animal? Was there a fight going on? Should she investigate or run away? Dya didn’t know, but then she realized something.

           They were screaming in Thalassian.

/*\

           Taranis was with his squadron when the draenei hit.

           He hadn’t been impressed with Zangarmarsh to begin with. The landscape itself was a droll shade of blue, like rainclouds on a sad day. The forests were made of mushrooms instead of trees, and venomous insects seemed to exist every which way the eye could see. That wasn’t even to acknowledge the Alliance enemies that encroached on the territory or the naga who even now tried to lay claim to the lakes across the valley.

           He’d been on the back of his hawkstrider when he caught a glimpse of something shimmery. An arrow reflecting the light. He’d screamed at everyone to get down and dove to the ground just as the arrow embedded itself into the trunk of the mushroom behind him. Where his head would have been. It was truly disadvantageous, that the draenei could blend into the surroundings so effortlessly. He wondered why the Horde hadn’t abandoned the marsh for a different territory. But that didn’t matter right now.

           He forced the Light to bend to his will, shielding him from arrows and blinding a man before him. As the draenei yelped in pain, stumbling backward as his eyes were rendered useless, Taranis took the opportunity to shove his sword through the horned man’s throat. He didn’t have time to feel horrified at himself, to watch as the arcane glow in his enemy’s eyes faded. There were still more attackers, and he still had more fighting to do.

           Between potshots and attempted killing strikes it didn’t take Taranis long to realize just how outnumbered the five of them were. The fight was easily four to one, if not more. The man he’d downed had been replaced three-fold, and he knew he was in danger of falling prey to his fear. So long as he had the Light he’d be fine. That’s what he told himself, but the draenei had the Light too.

           The battle was vicious. Just as he slew another attacker his commanding officer had been beheaded right before his very eyes. He had to roll to avoid getting speared through with a lance, but it didn’t do much. Gaivan and Tarina had managed to put a dent into the attacking force, until Tarina tripped on a body and Gaivan rushed to help her. Those mistakes had cost them their lives. Taranis managed to take three more of them down, but it was useless. The mage, Daneera, had taken a sword to the stomach, and she���d used to last of her power to incinerate as many of the attackers as she possibly could. In the end he was the only one left, and two draenei had escaped Daneera’s dying curse.

It had been an explosion. Taranis had been launched backward by the sheer force of Daneera’s fire, momentarily blinded and disoriented. He’d needed a moment to get his bearings, and that was all his enemies needed. They had gotten lucky. They’d been far enough away that they were able to dive behind a mushroom, the stench of burning fungi wafting in the air. They’d seen him get launched back, and when they realized he was still alive they jolted forward and stabbed him just above the hip. He’d fallen back, sitting against a mushroom, and his bleary eyes watched as one of the last two men raised an axe high above his head. This wasn’t how Taranis envisioned dying, but there wasn’t much else to be done. He braced himself for pain, hoping his family knew that he loved them and that he was sorry he couldn’t be coming home. He spared a thought to wish that he’d told his sister he didn’t like her new suitor. However, that wasn’t the end. Just as Taranis expected the axe to come down the horned man was attacked from the side.

           A large wyvern had tackled him to the ground, and Taranis heard his screaming turn to sickened gurgles as the animal tore the draenei’s throat out. His gaze flickered to the final opponent, but he was preoccupied. Taranis’s eyes widened. There weren’t supposed to be any other sin’dorei in the marsh. He’d never seen the girl in front of him before. She called commands to the wyvern, but it did not assist her. Instead, it bolted over to Taranis. For a moment, the elf wondered if this was his end, but the wyvern did not attack him. It stood guard over him.

           He watched as the girl, barely half the size of the draenei she fought, wove around her opponents’ feet. She pierced a spot in the armor, causing injury but the kind that was only a minor annoyance. But she kept doing it. She hit the draenei over the head. She stabbed at the ankle. She created a small incision on his tail. She caused so many little injuries that the draenei was having trouble defending himself, distracted by the stinging of all the little wounds she’d inflicted. Finally, the girl got her shot, and she lanced him through the neck.

           Just like that it was over and when she turned to look at Taranis, she looked worried. Her eyes glittered a familiar shade of fel, the shade almost all sin’dorei now wore. Her hair hung long and brown to her hips, and when he took her hand to stand up, he found that she was even tinier than she initially seemed.

           “Thank you,” he said, wincing as the movement worried his injury. She took notice and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She supported his weight as they walked back to the road, leaving the pile of corpses behind.

/*\

           Dya had needed to ask the man which way to go. He told her that the Cenarion Expedition was the closest place to acquire medical aid, so that was the direction she went. She continued holding him, one arm slung around her shoulders, while she gingerly held him at the waist. She was a pointy-eared crutch, and she kept pace with him as he limped. He hissed with each breath, and she took note of the blood that leaked through his breastplate.

           “What is your name?” she asked. Now that the battle was over, she noticed that the man was rather pretty. His hair hung long and blond over his shoulder. His eyes glittered green. His handsome face grimaced in annoyance as the wound continued bleeding.

           “Taranis,” he exhaled, “And who are you? I’ve never seen you in Shattrath, or anywhere really.”

           “You can call me Dya,” she answered hesitantly. She didn’t want to have to explain to him why she couldn’t speak Thalassian as well as he did. It had been almost four years since she’d had to use it. She made small talk with him, basic conversation as they walked to the little town near the pass. She told him a few jokes and a pun.

           “- And the innkeeper said, ‘Lok’tar, Ogre,’” she paused, “Though I suppose that’s funnier in Orcish.”

           “And how, exactly, is this meant to be distracting me from the pain?” he asked, not unkindly. Dya turned pink,

           “It’s just what I was taught to do. It helps the injured feel like maybe it’s not that serious, so they relax, and the healing goes more smoothly.”

           Taranis chuckled. Dya decided he had a nice laugh. They had finally made it to the town. Dya was relieved, exhaling as she passed Taranis off to the druid she’d met earlier. A tauren came up to her.

           “What happened?” she asked,

           “They were attacked,” Dya said, “He got hurt, so I brought him here.”

           The tauren peered at her curiously but asked no further questions. Instead, she merely shooed Dya into the deep violet medical tent.

           “Go with him, it’ll be good for him to know an ally is near.”

           Despite her misgivings, Dya did as the tauren instructed. Would it really be helpful for him to have a stranger nearby? But the tauren persisted, cowing Dya into the tent. She closed the flap behind her and watched as the night elf tended to the wound. She was still in the process of getting Taranis’s armor off when Dya entered. Taranis blinked at her.

           “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking at her with a deadened gaze. He didn’t seem upset, but he didn’t exactly seem comforted by her presence earlier. She was quickly regretting listening to the woman outside. She briefly considered bolting. Dya gulped.

           “I was told my being here might help,” she said softly, “I don’t know how true that is.”

           Taranis snorted, merely beckoning her forward. The night elf put his chestplate aside and instructed him to remove his shirt if he was capable. He wasn’t. The shirt was stuck to the wound, and Dya could see tears welling up in his eyes when the night elf accidentally pulled on it. He turned his face away from her. Dya immediately sat next to him while the night elf took a knife to the shirt.

           “I liked that shirt,” he grumbled, the tears marring his voice. Dya couldn’t help the guilt. Her being there was definitely not helping, but Taranis had grabbed onto her hand, refusing to let go. Dya peeked over at the wound. It was seeping blood. Even though he’d used his own magic on the wound while they walked Dya couldn’t help but think it still looked awful. She couldn’t help the alarm that crossed her face when the druid said it needed to be cauterized. Taranis scoffed at her, but she could tell it was all bravado. She didn’t make mention of it as his voice quavered.

           “How is it that you fought so well back there but you’re so squeamish at the sight of a little blood?” he teased. Dya averted her gaze.

           “That…was my first real fight,” she admitted. Taranis blinked, seeming to momentarily forget that the healer had said ‘cauterize’.

           “They sent you out here for your first mission?” he looked horrified, “What the hell were they thinking?! Who’s your commanding officer?” he paused, “How old are you?”

           Dya couldn’t help her laughter, but she explained. Maybe this was where distraction would help? She’d been abandoned in the peninsula, Wa’tar had found her, she’d been living in Nagrand. She held his hand in both of hers as he cried out in pain when the night elf took a red-hot piece of metal to the stab wound. He asked her to talk to him more, his golden face paling. So she told him more, about how beautiful the rivers in Nagrand were, how she’d started hunting with Wa’tar at thirteen. She told him she was getting ready for the adulthood rite that Wa’tar insisted she be allowed to participate in. She was careful not to say much more.

           “Oh, I thought you were much younger,” he remarked, breathing heavily and still a bit pale, “I was conscripted at fifteen, shortly after Arthas killed everyone. It’s hard to believe that was only two years ago now,” Taranis got a faraway look in his eyes, and Dya felt her brows furrow.

           “What…does Quel’thalas look like now?” she asked softly. Taranis shook his head with what energy he had left. He gently squeezed her hand.

           “You don’t wanna know,” he slurred, his eyelids drooping. The green glow in each iris was beginning to fade, and he had somehow gone even paler. Dya panicked.

           “What’s going on? Is he okay? What does that mean?” she interrogated the druid. The night elf merely laughed,

           “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she assured, “He just needs a little rest. He’ll be fine. Cauterizing a stab wound is tiring for everyone involved. If you like you can stay with him. Just no naughty stuff yeah?” she winked, and left Dya with the injured man.

           Dya wasn’t sure what the night elf had meant by naughty stuff, but she remembered that she hadn’t collected a single mushroom for Wa’tar. She swore to herself. She debated whether she should send Throk back with a message. On the one hand, she’d be able to let Wa’tar know she was okay. On the other, Wa’tar might take Throk’s presence as a warning and not even bother with the note. If he even noticed it. Dya sighed.

           This mushroom picking adventure had not gone according to plan. She didn’t even have the lakeweed. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to get around to it. Maybe she could buy rations from the inn? Then Dya remembered: she hadn’t brought any money. There weren’t supposed to be people out here.

           Dya resigned herself to her new responsibility, Throk waiting patiently at the tent flap. He’d curled up into a ball for a nap, and she watched as one of the druids placed a little pillow beneath his head. He looked awfully comfortable. She smiled at him and contemplated getting dinner from the bag on his back when the tauren from earlier came in with a plate of food and a bowl of soup.

           “Oh, he’s asleep then,” the woman remarked, her tail swishing. Dya nodded,

           “I think the cauterizing really took it out of him,” Dya remarked. Her gaze kept sliding back to his face, so like her own but not. She’d almost forgotten what other elves looked like. The tauren laughed.

           “Cauterization can do that. Do you know him?”

           Dya only shook her head. The tauren sighed.

           “Well, I’m sure your presence here is welcome anyhow,” she said, “sometimes having your own people around can be a comfort whether they’re familiar or no. Stay with him. It might help the healing process go a little easier,” the tauren’s suggestion sounded more like a command.

           Dya just murmured her affirmation that she would stay, and the tauren handed her a plate of food. She inspected it, unsure what it was at first. The tauren laughed again.

           “Usually, it’s just chunks of mushroom in spices, but a kind soul went fishing for us. So now, we have chunks of mushroom and fish, and for the man some fish and mushroom soup,”

           “If he doesn’t wake up, can I eat the soup?” Dya said, grinning.

           The tauren snickered, merely saying she could bring more, and left Dya to her dinner. She ate quickly, throwing the fish skin to Throk. He yawned happily before resuming his nap. Dya sat by Taranis’s cot, watching the even rise and fall of his chest. He had a few scars already, and he wasn’t much older than her. She could feel her brows furrowing. Would she have shared his fate had she not gotten lost in Outland? Would she have been forced into a war at only fifteen too? Would she even be alive now if that had been the case?

           Dya had so many questions, and few to no answers. For now, she did what she could, and that meant staying with the wounded elf until he woke.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Joyride: Ch. 2 - Kit’s Caravan

“Why is it my job to babysit?”

This had been the fourth or fifth time Nord was being complained to by Irro about their little arrangement, and while it went without saying, he was growing just a tinsy bit weary of it. From what he could tell, she had grown impatient and bored in the week that followed, in the week they all bargained for. The one day he promised them proved just as unfulfilling as the last, just as the next day did, then the next, then the next, but today, he always said, today would be the day where he could be careless.

He responded flatly, and with a hint of exasperation, “Because that’s your job.” What more did she expect? He supposed it made sense when he gave it some deeper thought. There must have been a reason for the vixen to blatantly leave behind her sibling. Maybe she sought escape from just that, from babysitting. In any case, he pushed it aside. He could discuss theories with himself later, because for now, Irro still looked irked.

“Okay, but why is it my job to babysit?” Out of all the odd jobs the caravan had to do on the Sandpiercer, she was burdened with the delicate task of caring for the smaller ones, including the more menial of duties, like in her current case, changing out Raysik’s diaper. If one couldn’t tell already, it was the responsibility that she hated the most. Nord could never tell why, nor would he ever ask. It’s anyone’s guess as to the latter.

“Because it’s your job, like it’s Rheana’s job to babysit Lynsol, and it’s Jole’s job to cook, and it’s my job to…” He trailed off. Fortunately for him, his cousin had just arrived to finish off his sentence. How convenient.

“To do everything else. We get it, big guy. Say, I’m starved, you think you could head out and-” And then he was cut off by another, by Raysik.

“Go faster! I wanna playyyy!”

“Yeah, I know, and it’ll go faster if you stay quiet for five more seconds.”

Then the boy started kicking his legs, and then the whining ensued, and then a sharp, “FASTER.” bellowed from him. Irro was next to join the cacophony with an unnecessarily drawn-out groan, and soon, Lynsol with his whimpers; Rheana with her pleading; Jole with his sly comments. Nord’s ears began to wilt, draping over the sides of his cheeks and pinning there to block out the raving chatter. It wasn’t working.

“Please shut up, please.” But in spite of her begging, Raysik continued to wail, which caused her to raise her voice and vice versa. Syllables grew more prolonged, cries grew louder, and Nord continued to shrink.

Nord interjected, “Raysik, pl-” but was cut off again.

“It hurts…”

“I know, honey.”

“Hmph!”

“Stop moving so much!”

Nord tried at it again. “Guys-” Again, he was cut off. Rheana’s added attempts at silencing them fell on deaf ears.

“Too loud.”

“Please quiet down.”

“Faster!”

“I’d be done if you’d stop kicking!”

And again. “Guys, listen to me. Guys?” And the cycle repeated, again. “Please.” And again. “No one’s listening to me--guys!” And again. “Guys!” Until the words eventually blurred together in a cluster of inseparable sounds, until Nord simply couldn’t take it anymore, and it was only with a thunderous stomp and a booming, “GUYS!” that silence finally descended upon the wagon. They all stared back at him with those same starry-eyed looks, waiting and anticipating. He didn’t have to utter a word for the caravan to fall into a chorus of apologies and resignations. He was almost awestruck at how much sway he held, but proud all the same. “Thank you.” And with that, he moved to open the door and head outside, for he was in desperate need of fresh air. He was stopped by the familiar stammer of a vixen though, namely Rheana.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“Outside. I need some air. I won’t be long.”

She nodded faintly, adding, “Okay.” And not another word was spoken as Nord departed out the door. In fact, it wasn’t until he made it a few yards away that he heard the chatter start up again, though from this distance, he couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad. Either way, it wasn’t his problem right now, and he trusted Jole enough to keep things orderly in his absence, even if the fox was the living incarnate of chaos. He’d freely admit to that too. For now, he needed time to himself, time to think, time to collect his thoughts. Despite how free-rein this trip of theirs was, he rarely got the time to do just that. It was better spent tending to something or doing a chore, the very thing he wanted to escape when he agreed to this. This was meant to be his temporary reprieve! Yet all it had been was another way for fate, or karma, or kismet to kick him in the butt.

He couldn’t complain though. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t grown fond of their little family in the week he had known them, even if they came to odds every now and again. Today, though, felt like the worst of them all, at least in terms of everyone’s physical shape. Lynsol had been feeling ill since the day before, Jole was lacking his usual pep, Irro was bored, Rheana was paranoid, and Raysik was oftentimes impatient. Nord, on the other hand, was lost. This wasn’t the first time he had come outside in the name of retrospection, nor would it be the last, and he could guarantee that. He felt aimless, dull, and he wasn’t at all pleased with how accustomed he was growing with the shackles of leadership. It scared him how much they all looked up to him, how much faith they had in him, because he knew he didn’t deserve it. Deep down, he knew he was both their blessing and their curse.

He hated it. He hated it so much. He just wasn’t sure who ‘it’ should be. Though, as per the usual, his train of thought was derailed once a voice reached his ears, a voice calling his name. His eyes shot up to the sky, in fear that time was once again slipping away. How long had he sat out there? An hour? More? He looked over to Jole--who had just arrived at his side--and opened his mouth, though he found the words had already abandoned him. His cousin, however, was happy to fill the silence.

“Nordyyy,” He started. “You good?” Nord had to wonder how many times those words had been passed between them at that point. Too many times. “I’ve been sensing some off vibes from you.”

“I’m just stressed, is all. We’ve been out here a week, Jole. I don’t--” He stammered. “What do I tell their parents when we get back? Why are we still out here?” A sharp pain hit his gut, like all of his stupidity was just now donning on him. What was he thinking, being so selfish? What was he thinking? He wobbled and shot up onto his feet, sputtering, “We need to go home. All of us. We’ve been out here too long.” And then he pivoted and started walking, but to his surprise, a hand to his shoulder hindered him from going any further. He turned his head to send the most boggled glance at Jole. What was he doing?

“Hey, hey,” He reeled Nord back in, cooing soothingly. “Just take a sit down, big guy. I can tell things have been weighing on you lately, but you don’t gotta worry, ‘cause I got everything handled behind the scenes. It’s the big, deep desert, Nordy. They’d be stupid not to expect a delay or four.” He spoke slowly and enunciated his words, which, to his success (Nord could only guess), got his cousin to start nodding along, for better or for worse. “Remember what this is all about, ‘kay?”

“We’re educating the kits? The authentic caravaneer experience?”

Jole shook his head. “Fun, bud. Fun.”

Despite all the cozy reassurances, Nord remained unconvinced, and with a shrug of his shoulder, continued his traipse toward the wagon. He was stopped again. “What.”

“You’re stressed, I get it,” The ashfur put his hands out in front of him, appearing as understanding as he possibly could. “But you don’t wanna ruin all their fun, right?”

Nord scoffed. He knew that was a lie. He knew that was a lie. “Jole--”

“Shh-shh-shh,” Jole put a finger to his cousin’s lip. “I got an easy fix. You’re tense, you’re worried, and that’s fine, I am too sometimes, but me? I got a solution.” He raised his hand, wiggled his fingers, then dug deep into that overstuffed coat he had grown prone to wearing, before pulling from it the smallest satchel Nord had ever seen. He’d be better off calling it a pouch with buckles and straps, though it’s what was inside that Jole sought to grab his attention with. A crudely-carved pipe that, once he caught a whiff, smelt absolutely rancid. Jole, however, was waving the thing around like it was the key to a Sethraki fortune. “This’ll make you feel a million times better.”

Nord retrieved it from him tentatively. “What is it?”

The ashfur shrugged, as if he himself wasn’t all that sure. “Gift from Dad. He has, like, fifty of ‘em, and he decided to send me one, so…” He paused, itching at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t wanna put it to waste, right?” And to push the point, he nudged it further into his grasp, which worked. Somehow.

“How do--” And Jole immediately hushed him, as his hand delved back into his coat and pulled out a little sack--a packet--which he tore open and slipped its contents into the bowl of the pipe. It appeared to be an array of milled herbs and plantlife. Nord couldn’t help but wonder what the end goal here was.

“And then,” He paused and held up a finger, before bolting off back to the Sandpiercer, where he snatched up a twig--of all things--and held it to the lantern light to set the tip ablaze. Once he brought that back, to Nord’s sheer confusion, he held it to the bowl and set the flame to the herbs. Nord recoiled in disgust. That did NOT smell fragrant. “Easy as that.” Jole popped a grin. “Now, you smoke it. Puff-puff.”

His counterpart had never quirked his brow higher, though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued by the prospect. Nord shuffled the device awkwardly in his hands, uncertain as to how he should take it, but with Jole’s guidance, he got the proper hold eventually. “Puff-puff,” He repeated, bringing the mouthpiece to his lips. “Puff.” And he proceeded to do the exact opposite and inhale, hacking and sputtering once the mix of herbs went the opposite way. Jole nearly slapped him upside the head for that one.

“Puff.”

“Right. Sorry.”

And he did just that. Puff. Smoke soon trailed from his nostrils as his shoulders began to sag, a distant, “You feelin’ it?” catching his ear. For the first time, he felt relaxed. He was amazed! What kind of magic was this? “What?” He stuttered, though he found the word only played in his head, or if it did come out, it was faint. Time was moving faster, the world was spinning--it was both a dream and a nightmare. The pipe itself had left his hand, before finding itself there again but a second later. Puff.

Puff.

Nord couldn’t have told anyone in full confidence how long he’d stood there, in that spot, with pipe in hand. It could have been as little as five minutes, or as long as a day. He wasn’t sure. But, when he eventually returned from semi-consciousness, he found that he was alone again, with delicate footsteps approaching close behind him. He didn’t dare to catch a preemptive glance at whatever was coming to greet him, and it was anyone’s guess as to why.

“Hey,” they said. It was Irro, unexpectedly. “You’ve been out here a while.”

He didn’t find that as off-putting as he probably should have. He asked for this the minute he took Jole up on his offer. “Yeah,” he replied lazily, his movements sluggish. “Just needed some me time, I guess.” With that, he left them at an awkward and wordless impasse. That is, until his eyes landed on the pipe still planted in his hands, when shame and guilt took hold. He couldn’t hide it anymore. “Hey,” Irro looked back at him, wide-eyed. “Don’t be like me. Okay?”

She turned her gaze elsewhere when he said it, placid-like. She probably wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart, but she was here, she had made that decision, and now she faced the consequences. She shrugged. “Dunno why. You seem kinda,” She made a so-so gesture. “Prime example-ish.”

Nord chuckled half-heartedly. “Do as I say, not as I do.” And that, too, squeezed a titter out of the vixen. Not a word more was exchanged between them, but he didn’t mind. He was satisfied with the company. He--and he assumed she too--fell into a fit of admiring the sunset, a sight he too often missed, just as it was descending past the horizon. It was nice. This was nice. “--Irro?”

And she was already gone.

♦

To no one’s surprise, the day that followed didn’t prove any more thrilling than the last, nor the next, nor the next. A week turned to two, weeks turned to a month, a month turned to six, and months turned to a year. A year. A year away from home and family, a year Nord had kept the children under his care away from their mothers and fathers. A year turned to more drags of the pipe; it turned to more of Jole’s stupid reassurances; it turned to more impatience, paranoia, and boredom, but on a lighter note, it turned to stronger bonds; it turned to more days spent as a family; it turned to memories that Nord could enjoy well into his golden years. In time, a year turned to four.

Nord had lost count of the days. With each sunrise and sunset, he had to remind himself it wasn’t the one from the night before. Sometimes he’d forget to do so and lose a day, and those added up very quickly. He’d often lose weeks at a time if there wasn’t something particularly memorable that happened in them, which didn’t happen often, because little changed from day to day. Today was no exception.

Here he sat, aboard the Sandpiercer, watching the vulpera mingle with one another, and awaiting something, anything, to happen. Though it excluded the company of Jole and Lynsol, the others did their best to entertain him, with some being more fervent than their peers. Rheana--bless her soul--could talk his ear off all she wanted, but her efforts were for naught. To Nord, it was but another day, where nothing ever changed.

It was unsettling. The deeper he fell into his own head, the more the voices around him dimmed and the less physical response Rheana received. Then came the abrupt hammering at the door, and his senses were instantly reignited.

“We got a big problem here!”

♦

Jole had never been one for theatrics. Of course, he had never been all that good at telling the truth either! But, if there’s one thing he was ace at, it was coming up with bizarre and ludicrous games for the whole family to enjoy. They came in all variants, all styles of play, and while he had his preferences, his utmost favorite of them all was Valley Hopping. It was a simple enough game to play: you picked an opponent, you picked a valley, you picked a starting spot and a finish line, then you met up, you clapped hands, and you ran. The best part? It didn’t matter who won the race. It only mattered how much stuff you managed to grab along the way, as that’s how points were tallied. Plantlife, herbs, metal scraps, whatever one could spot mid-dash. And today, that’s exactly the game he wanted to play.

Step One: Pick an Opponent. Easy enough. There was no one around that he was particularly on board with, or vice versa. More so vice versa. The siblings had some steady vibes, but one was really annoying and the other hated his guts for whatever reason. She’d say otherwise when she got the chance, but Jole saw right through her. That’s another thing he was ace at. He was ace at a lot of things. Was he getting off topic? He was getting off topic. There was the other vixen, but she was subpar competition, and Jole was looking for something fresh, something exciting. Lo and behold, in came that little, dappled bundle of sunshine. Lyn, Lynnie, Lynman, Lynster, Lil’ Lyn, Lynsol. Bingo.

“Lynnie!”

“Mm?”

He stuck out a hand. “Wanna go Valley Hopping?”

“Me? Really?” He already looked giddy. Jole’s handiwork, no doubt. “Oh, but,” And then it evaporated. Jole would have scoffed-- “Nordy said I had chores to do today. He says I gotta start being more independent.” He scoffed. Lynsol, true to his nature, took notice of it and elaborated, “But I wanna go! I can do stuff after.” And there came that smile. Who could say no to that smile? Not that Jole was planning on saying no anyway.

“Not a worry, Lynman, I’m sure the big boss won’t mind. We’re here to have fun, aren’t we?” He gave the boy’s shoulder a light punch, which was met with a similarly light titter. That’s one step down.

Step Two: Pick a Valley. This step might as well have been a formality. Vol’dun was practically made of valleys. Instead of doing the thing Nordy might have done, like pull out a whole-ass map to pencil down the approximate locations and the threat of the local wildlife and the Sethrak activity in the area, Jole was going to do a thing called “winging it,” which as you may have guessed, was another thing he was ace at. All the same, he and Lynster wandered around the desert for quite some time before landing upon a quaint little canyon in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t his go-to, but it would do.

The ashfur swung his sack onto the ground, announcing with prolix, “Allllriiiiiight! Now all we need to do is pick a start and finish,” Step Three, by the way. “and we’ll be more golden than a troll king buried in a family tomb. I sayyyyy, here to there!” He pointed vaguely. “Easy-peasy.” 

Lynsol looked unsure of what to do with the jumble of words that just escaped Jole’s lips, but damn it if he didn’t try anyway-- “Okay!” He paused, briefly looking off into the distance, supposedly where Jole had pointed. He was far off, but Jole gave credit where it was due. The boy looked back. “Where?”

Jole waved his hands dismissively. “Details, details! Just follow me and stop when I stop.”

“Oh, okay!” Lynnie’s eyes darted off elsewhere, before darting right back. “What if I get in front of you?”

He would have scoffed if not for-- You know what? Fuck it. He scoffed. “First of all,” He rose a pointer finger. “You won’t. Trust me,” then rose a middle finger. “And second of all, it doesn’t matter who wiiins! C’mon, y’know this. Just matters how much stuff you grab along the way.” He flicked at Lynman’s ear. Playfully, obviously. In any case, he looked more than on board.

Step Four: Clap Hands. Technically Step Five, but they had already “met up,” per se, so they were allowed to skip around. Plus, it was his game, so he could do what he wanted. It’s not like having fun was meant to be orderly. Was he being bitter? He was being bitter. After a quick readjustment of his vibe, he led his opponent to their starting spot, as it were, before arching low enough that his chest would meet his thigh and his knuckles would meet the sand. He extended his hand out at his side, where it would soon meet the flat of Lynnie’s.

“Remember, it’s a test of perception, not speed.” He probably didn’t know what ‘perception’ meant, huh? Jole elaborated, “Who can eye gooder.”

“Okay!”

“No looking back, no backtracking. Oh, and mind the hornets.”

“What?”

“OKAY. ONETWOTHREEGO.”

And with their resounding clap, they set off into the canyon, with that previous sound becoming completely overshot by the sound of their footsteps, and soon enough, the heaving of their breath, though that may have just been Jole. Did the vigor of youth count as cheating?-- Whoa. He nearly missed that clump of star moss. Keep it cool, keep it frosty.

Running, and running, and running. He couldn’t waste even a moment to look over his shoulder to see the state of his competitor. It’s not like he could have overtaken him already! This was the kid’s first time playing, and there were a lot of tactics one had to learn to--

And there he was, like some mystical, blazing arrow that had been shot from the bow of a Loa. Did Loa have bows? Jole had never been too poetic-- FOCUS. And so he began to speed up, his feet slamming into the dunes like it had just insulted his mother, which, admittedly, wasn’t all that good of a simile, because Jole wouldn’t have cared. Worse yet, now they were heading into the brush and briar, which meant thorns to jab at their toes. At the very least, he was ahead of Lynster again, though he was deeply regretting not opting for his go-to. He knew that valley inside and out! He would have had the advantage! When he asked for something exciting and something fresh, he wasn’t asking to lose.

Not that he was going to lose, of course.

And that mentality stuck! That is, until Jole found that he had collided with a branch. WHAM! But as quick as he collapsed, he ascended back to his feet. A distant, concerned, “Are you okay?” rung out behind him, probably from Lynnie, definitely from Lynnie. He called out in reply, “NO BACKTRACKING.” which received an even quieter, “Right! Sorry!” in turn.

He repeated the process again, over and over, in an almost mindless fashion. What he thought to be absolute centuries of droning and braindead collection turned out to be, to his surprise, a singular minute. He blanked. Did he just pull a Nordy? He wouldn’t be given the chance to process that, as he was tugged back into reality by the click-clacking of… something. He could have stopped running to investigate, but therein lied the issue. It required stopping. It’s not like he had to pin it down. It could have been something as simple as the rustle of their knapsacks, which it no doubt was now that he thought about it.

Still, that gut feeling wasn’t going away, and it was rare that his gut feelings were wrong. The click-clacking grew louder, so loud that it crept into the realm of familiarity. He knew exactly what he was hearing, yet at the same time, he was denying it. A contradiction unto himself. His first instinct was to keep running, but then he heard the grunts, the panicked cry, and then one, sharp, “JOLLY!”

And that finally convinced him to grind to a halt. He huffed out a breath, then weakly pivoted on his heel. His knees were numb. Everything was numb. But none of that mattered when the adrenaline took hold. He would remember vividly what he saw that evening: that same dappled bundle of sunshine batting away at a hornet--the ugliest one he had ever seen--with a twig. Maybe they were all that ugly. He had never gotten this close to one before, willingly or not.

The ashfur watched as the hornet’s stinger, like some disgusting, throbbing quill, sunk into Lynsol’s back for the briefest moment, before fight or flight took the reins. Jole barreled into the fray, hefting up a branch two times his size and swinging it at the thing. Never had he been so pleased to hear the crunching of a carapace than in that moment, but he couldn’t stay long. Despite every muscle in his body pushing him to finish the bug off, he knew he had to do the wise thing, just this once. 

And that’s just what he did.

He hoisted the boy into his arms and ran. He ran like he never had before, which may have been a lie. He was only vulperan, so he had his limitations, but, you know, dramatic narration and all. This isn’t to say he wasn’t trying, he really was trying. He really was. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t want it to be his fault. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be.

“I’ve gotcha, little guy, don’t worry.” He didn’t sound all that certain, which isn’t to say that he wasn’t. He definitely was! He just didn’t sound like it. “Just hold on for me, ‘kay? ‘Kay. Alright.”

He hadn’t gone too far, thankfully, so it wasn’t long until the Sandpiercer was in sight. He wasted no time in colliding with the door and banging on it relentlessly. Between his panicked breathing and his incoherent cursing, he sputtered out,

“We got a big problem here!”

♦

When Nord threw open the door, he was greeted with a relative who fancied himself a visionary, carrying the limp body of a dreamer. In all his life, in all the terrible, abhorrent news he had seen and been given over the years, in all the times his heart had sunk, it had never sunk so fast as when his eyes landed upon the aimless, dull blues of Lynsol’s, staring back at him pleadingly. His hand had never flown up so quickly, and he had never pointed at Rheana with such fury before. His voice had never bellowed so loudly, nor had it ever sounded so angry. His suggestions became demands and his propositions became orders. In an instant, he had changed. In an instant, the gravity of the situation had broken him.

As soon as he received the rug he had asked for, he swept himself outside, laid it on the ground, and barked, “Put him down on this!” which his cousin was more than happy to oblige. His hands landed on the boy just as the opportunity arose, checking every place one could tell a pulse from, repeatedly, as his mind lay fragmented somewhere between paranoia and blind hatred. This time he wouldn’t let the seconds slip away from him, because he was going to count each and every one of them. His eyes shot back up at Jole. “What did you do.”

The ashfur looked disturbed, to say the least, but as per his nature, he had the divine ability to evaporate his own tension as if it were as easy as flipping a switch. “I dunno. He was out playing in the canyon, I think. I didn’t know what he was doing, but I looked away for one second and I found him like this.” He rose the boy’s head, high enough to gesture to the venomous wound that lay in his back. The rampant anxiety clung harder. “Sting, I could guess.” He shrugged. Shrugged. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all.

“Well, did you clean it? He should be fine if you disinfected the wound. You cleaned it, right?” Nord’s breathing only grew further out of pace, while Lynsol’s began to waver.

Jole paused. “I, uh, I didn’t find him soon enough. I didn’t know what to do--” He choked.

“Then it’s infected. It’s infected.” He muttered a swear. “There’s an antidote. It’s the,” He clapped his hands together in a desperate attempt to reignite his memory. “The stalk, near the caves, to the north. Get some, quickly.” He waved off the ashfur, but he did not leave. He blanked at him. “Jole, go!--”

“Do you want me to die too?! I can’t go! It’s almost night, the Sethrak will--”

“He’s going to die, Jole! Are you just going to stand there and gawk while you could be, I don’t know, TRYING?” Nord’s eyes fell back down to the boy, who now clung to his arm. He clung back, if not with a tinge more force, before his attention shot back up to the ashfur. Why was he still here? “JOLE.”

“I CAN’T DO ANYTHING.”

Nord’s heart beat within his chest faster than it ever had. He felt faint. Every solution he calculated in his head lost its legs at an unprecedented dead end, everything he and his merry band of children could do would do next to nothing. What could he do? Why didn’t he go back? Why didn’t he say no?

There was a huff of breath that reached his ears--Lynsol’s--that caused him to envelope the boy with his own body. The rise and fall of his chest staggered, as Nord desperately tried making out the words he was supposedly being told.

“Can’t breathe.”

“I can’t breathe.”

Nord muttered back, “It’s okay, Lynnie, shhh… It’s okay.” as he laid him back down while remaining just as close. His hand went to frailly claw at his throat to emphasize the point, the truth that Nord wished to do anything but accept. “Remember when I said you’d help us all learn how to keep our chins up? Well, you did it, Lynnie. We need you to keep doing it. I need you.” And in that single space of time, his surroundings became just as unclear as when he took a drag of the pipe. The world seemed to slow, solely to trap him in this one torturous moment. He couldn’t hear any other voice, any other breath, besides the boy’s, not even his own. He stared into the eyes of happiness itself, of sunshine, of hope. He stared into those eyes just as they began to flicker. Every word he ushered he couldn’t hear; every minor reassurance fell on deaf ears. He was all that mattered. Why didn’t they see that? He wanted to scream, to berate, to separate the wall, but he, too, was limp, just as that little bundle of sunshine was.

Lynnie.

And then the light died.

[automaticenemycrusade]

The Journal of Morgo’Boondax: Entry 1

Entry 1, Year 33

Dear Diary,

At the time of writing this, it has been three months since my father passed. I mourn his loss greatly. Everyday, I think often of him and what he’d be saying to me right now. Currently, I am on a transport ship headed for the Horde city of Orgrimmar! It is quite exciting, I must say, and rather interesting too. For the first time in years, my people are truly venturing out beyond our home! My father would be proud of me, I'm sure, or at least, I would hope so. He always did love exploring! I remember when he returned home from his campaign in Pandaria. He brought home many trinkets and gifts for me and Mother! Like those strange things he wore on his feet: boots, I believe he called them. I never saw much need to cover the feet, as most everyone in the city walks around barefoot. I wonder if people in Orgrimmar wear boots, regardless! 

I have fond memories of the night he returned home from Zul’s campaign, though it pains me knowing that he had spent his time serving with that mad prophet. However, nothing can change the fun we had that night. I remember he came home late, and mother and I had been staying up for him. Grandfather had dozed off on the couch. It was a joyous uproar when he entered the room! I could tell he was tired, but he still made sure to speak with us about his battles, and give us each a gift. Mine was a magical staff made of jade! I’ve kept it in my room as a trophy up until now, in which I now carry it as my own weapon. It reminds me of that night we were all together, and it reminds me of him. Perhaps, with it, I will gain some of his previous wisdom! I sure could use some of Father’s guidance right now. Ah, how I wish he were here, for I am heading into unknown territory. For the first time in my life, I am leaving the safety of the mighty golden city that is my home, and heading off to some rough, rugged, and strange, far-off city built in the middle of a desert. It reminds me of Vol’dun now that I think about it. Better than Nazmir though, Loa knows I hate that place. I remember the long trek that is needed to reach the Frogmarsh, where Krag’wa and his children reside. I’d always have to make that pilgrimage, but it is always worth it, for having the blessing of the mighty Loa is truly an honor. I suppose I’ll need all the blessings I can get now too! 

Mother was very worried for me. She gave me lots of our family’s gold, a special handcrafted mask for me to wear, and you, my dear diary! Not to mention all the piles and piles of magical scrolls and tomes she told me to read. “Always keep up with your studies, Morgo!” She told me. It is good advice though, and I cherish her words greatly. She doesn’t speak much anymore. She got quieter after father’s passing. At least she let me bring Helmutt though! I told her I'd need someone to keep me company while I visited Orgrimmar, and it actually took me a while to convince her to let me go! In truth, I’m very tired of staying cramped up at home, it only makes me think about Father’s death. Not to mention that Dazar’alor just hasn’t felt the same since the siege. Ugh, it angers me just writing about it! Damn the Kul Tirans and their allies, that Alliance witch, they are the reason father is dead, my people’s fleet ruined, and our city in disrepair. Hopefully the Horde will help us get back on our feet as promised, and help us claim our revenge! I hope so, at least. 

For starters, I hope to learn much about each of the races that reside within this faction, and learn of their cultures and what makes them unique, as well as just what binds them all together under one banner.  So much to learn, it is just so exciting! Ah, but I am repeating myself. To be frank, I’m also terrified. I don’t talk to people much at all as I never was that social, and for being on a diplomatic trip, social skills--I imagine--are needed dearly… I’m sure it will be fine, probably, hopefully, maybe, maybe not. I shouldn’t be too pessimistic! After all, with new horizons come new beginnings! Or something like that. So hopefully I will have a new beginning in my social life! Yes yes, that makes sense. I’m not very good at this journaling business, am I? Well, I suppose not, but it's not like it matters, as only I will see this! Aha! I make myself laugh. Mother said writing in a diary and chronicling the events of the day was healthy and cathartic! Which seems like a true statement. Most things Mother says are true so I try not to doubt her too much. She is a very persuasive woman after all! 

I must say I do feel a little better after writing all this down, feels like I completed something! There will be many more pages to come. Who knows, Diary? Maybe one day, when I become Morgo’Boondax the Famous, I'll publish a fully written version of you, and people will be foaming at the mouth to get it! Aha! In seriousness though, it is getting late, and I believe I’ve written enough for one night. The ship should be at our destination early tomorrow morning, so goodnight, Diary! Thank you for letting me write in you and all that! Goodnight!

- 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔬

[automaticenemycrusade]

Joyride: Ch. 1 - A Tale of Six

It was but a day before that the fox was rising up from his desk after a less-than-preferable slumber to do the same things he did any other day, random and sometimes unnecessary chores that he (and others) put himself up to. Yet, here he was, alongside his cousin, watching him curiously as he rambled on about the route they planned to take. Admittedly, he hadn’t been paying all that much attention until a roll of vellum made its way onto that dingy table of his, unfurled to reveal a roughly-drawn outline of their pilgrimage.

Jole tapped at it with a pointer finger. “We start here,” He said, tracing his finger along the dotted line and stopping somewhere in the middle, before resuming his tapping. “Stop here. Neat lil’ ruin there, easy to scavenge, full of fun toys n’ keepsakes, stuff like that.”

“Is it safe?”

There was a pause. “Probably?”

“Jole.” He said exasperatedly. “These kits are being put under our care, so the least we can do is guarantee their safety.” He inhaled, reemphasizing,  “Is it safe?”

The vulpera knocked back his head with a wince, sucking in a breath of air through gritted teeth. “Yeah,” He exhaled. “Yeah, I know a guy. He can scout it out, see what’s what.” The poor thing, he almost sounded ashamed of himself, so much so that Nord felt pressured to reassure him.

“We’ll make this work.” His tone, obviously, held a tinge of uncertainty, as this could have very well been bait to stroke Jole’s ego, which it was. It definitely, definitely was. “Just get everything sorted. There’s no point in it if we’re stressing ourselves out the whole time.”

“Half the charm, bud. We’re in the big leagues now!”

Nord cut in. “If you consider carting around kits the big leagues, then yeah.” Now he was the one being hypocritical! How the tables have turned. In any case, the interjection was met with an eyeroll and a scoff, as was customary. It was a miracle they still tolerated each other after all these years of quarrels and quibbles, but lo and behold, by the blessing of whatever the hell kept their hearts beating, they still co-existed. Generally, anyway.

“If you consider carting around kits the big leagues.” He mimicked.

“Very mature.”

“Y’know, you’re really dead set on there being kits.”

“That’s what you told me.”

“Did not.”

“So, you are just inviting those girls.”

“N- no! I didn’t say that!”

“Kinda sounds like you did.”

They could go on for hours. In fact, they probably already had. How long had it been? Who knows. The two todds, eventually, for better or for worse, came to the mutual agreement that things should be kept formal and professional for as long as the planning phase of their scheme lasted. Here’s hoping it never ended, right? It couldn’t be broken either, for it was by pinky that they sealed their pact, and if there’s any sort of promise you can’t break, it’s a pinky one.

The ashfur had long since departed from the tent by then, leaving with a, “I’ll spot out some company. Catch some zizzies! We got a big day next sunrise.” and for once, Nord went to bed properly that night, in his own bed, under his own sheets, and nestled against his own pillow.

Except he couldn’t sleep.

He was too busy thinking, and unlike the layman, he wasn’t mulling over all the insurmountable things that could go wrong. He was thinking about the very opposite, actually. The friends they’d make, the sights they’d see, the freedom he’d feel, but like all of his cousin’s incredibly ambitious projects, it felt just out of reach. He made a promise not to have any high expectations after the first few disappointments, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t excited. Something inside of him called out for adventure, and the world had just conveniently given it to him. Who was he to put down the opportunity?

He shifted uncomfortably and tugged the sheets further over his chest as an updraft of wind made its way past the tent flap. He hadn’t tightened the rope enough, and yet he neglected to crawl out of bed to do just that. Why? He wasn’t sleeping anytime soon. Maybe it was out of fear he’d collapse at his desk again. Maybe he was already sleeping and his dream happened to concern being awake. He couldn’t have been that bland, right? He was still young, he could still experience the thrill of youth, which was something he had lacked up until now. For a day, he could be a kit again; for a day, he could be careless.

He recalled Jole’s words in that moment, “No supervision.” and it was just as that burden of responsibility washed over him that he pressed into the pillow, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and forced himself into slumber. No more thinking, not tonight.

♦

The morning after was both the busiest and most unpleasant one he had ever woken up to. As if the lack of sleep wasn’t enough, Jole barging in and clanging two horseshoes together definitely took the cake. That’s what Nord woke up to, in any case, and Jole, true to his fashion, didn’t stop until he was sure his cousin was properly roused. An unnecessary amount of wake up’s, come on’s, and I’m awake’s were exchanged between the two before the onyx vulpera actually managed to scramble to his feet and dust himself off of the morning grime. He hadn’t even put on his vest yet, which he promptly went to remedy.

“Today’s the day, Nordy!” He had never looked so thrilled in the time Nord had known him, which was a high bar to jump. Not that he was surprised, the occasion called for it. “The day we rewrite the game, the day we add puh to the pow, you and me.” Nord gave him a look. “And I.” There you go.

“So, everything’s set?” He had just finished yanking his vest from an unkempt pile of clothes and fitting it over his torso when the question left his lips. Laundry. He should do that when he gets back.

Jole, meanwhile, slurred off into an, “Ehhh…” as he itched at the back of his neck with unease. “I mean, not all the people I asked said yes,” The vixens. Called it. “But we got a few applicants. Kits. We’re gonna go pick ‘em up, actually.” He instinctively went to raise up his hands just as Nord leaned back to pinch at the bridge of his snout. “Yeah, we’ll have to talk to some parents, but that’s why I do the talking! You just stand there and look, uh…” He trailed off.

“Mature?”

“Right. That. Look like you know a thing or two.”

“I do know a thing or two.”

“Not my point, but sure.” The ashfur paused, then rose a finger. “In fact,” He paused again, this time with an open grin. A joyous, illegible voice from outside then broke their silence, calling out a name that Nord couldn’t quite catch from this distance. It was unfamiliar to him, but seemingly not to Jole, who said right afterward, “Here’s one now.” 

He had questions, lots of them, but it appeared now wasn’t the time, as Jole made pretty clear by shushing him, taking him by the hand, and ushering him outside. The glare of the sun took him by surprise once they left the safety of his shelter, squeezing out an, “Ow.” once it got him in the eyes. A part of him wanted to plead with Jole to slow down, to give him just a bit of respite, but the other pushed him on, the other kept reminding him of the spectacular day ahead once they got their wagon on the trail.

They never said it was easy having fun in the desert.

The voice called out again, clear enough to pick out the words this time, “Mister Jolluh?” and once Nord was able to track its source, his eyes landed upon a short, dappled orange vulpera who couldn’t have been more than five or six.

Jole called back, “Jole! It’s Jole.”

“It’s Jolluh.” Nord cut in, which his cousin was quick to prohibit by swiping a hand in front of his face.

“Jole.” He repeated. By then, he had waved the child over, who practically tripped over himself in trying to close the distance. It wasn’t any help that he was carrying quite a load on him, with a mix of knapsacks and nap snacks.

“Hi!” He offered a little wave, which nearly caused all that stuff he was holding to slip onto the ground. Should he help? Nord wasn’t sure. “I’m Lynsol!” He said, cheerily. Nord had never seen someone quite as bright and joyous as the boy, and that was enough to make him smile. Jole looked pretty proud of himself for that one.

Speaking of the ashfur, he had leaned over to be eye-level with the kit, presenting his hand to be shaken, which it was, almost immediately. “And how old are you, buddy?”

The boy, Lynsol, held up five fingers. Huh. He wasn’t far off. Nord had apparently looked off-put by this discovery, as the kit brought attention to it by waving at him and reassuring him, “Don’t be sad! Mom says I got a gold heart! And I got op-ti-mi-sm! Which means I’m super happy!” And then he giggled, and in a blink, Nord forgot what sadness was. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“She’s right, you know.” Nord, too, outstretched his hand, which was taken just as fast. “Maybe you can teach us how to keep our chins up as well as you do, huh?” Lynsol, in turn, nodded repeatedly, an exuberant smile still planted on his snout.

“Isn’t he just a bundle of joy?” Jole went to pinch at his cheeks, which caused another giggle to escape from the boy and another smile to sweep onto Nord’s face. “With that out of the way, how ‘bout I introduce you to the sacks of fluff we’ll be using this eve’?” He waved a hand off to the side with dramatic flair, which Lynsol felt pressed to applaud at. Awh.

“I’m gonna be really disappointed if one’s not pink.” Nord remarked. Jole, whilst in the motion of pivoting and leading them off to the stable, rolled his eyes in response. He could practically hear the unspoken hardy har har radiating from him. Strangely, it felt as if he blacked out somewhere along the way, because one second they weren’t there, then the next they were, and he had no recollection of the steps it took to get there. The fact Jole was giving him one of those looks only added to the mystery.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

Two blinks, a shake of his head, and a roll of his shoulders later, and he had more or less snapped back to reality. By then, his cousin had disappeared into the stable, and by the next second, he emerged with--

“What.”

What lay before Nord was a pair of the scruffiest, shaggiest, and grungiest alpacas he had ever had the misfortune of looking upon. Had that one even been sheared since it was born? And the other smelt like marmot breath. He couldn’t help but recoil in disgust. “Are you s-”

“Oh, I love them! Can I pet them? Pretty please?” The boy queried, excitedly. Nord could barely believe his eyes. He was made so giddy by just seeing an alpaca, and not even a good, healthy one, for that matter. Should he have been giddy? Was he missing something? Either way, his cousin was happy to humor the little one.

“Go right ahead, lil’ guy!” He replied, twirling his fingers in the alpacas’ direction as if he were spinning a cane. Always the showman, this guy. Lynsol clapped his hands together in a rapid, exhilarated rhythm, as he--true to Jole’s directions--went right ahead. Those small hands of his darted over to scritch at what was likely a tick-ridden clump of fluff, but oddly enough, that didn’t look to be of any concern to the kit, nor to the alpaca. In fact, the alpaca looked at the boy like he was the first to have given them a scritch or two, as if everybody else had always judged them by their disheveled appearances. In a flash, Nord had gone from being generally neutral to feeling guilty and terrible. He felt pressured to redeem himself in his own eyes, and so it was that his subconscious took the wheel and put one foot in front of the other. A hand rose to caress the animal, but he found that it hovered in front of Jole’s face instead, as he had conveniently moved in front of him during his approach. The ashfur gently moved the hand aside, and with that, Nord blinked himself back to reality. No more thinking, not today.

“Apollo and Hutch.”

“Huh?”

“Apollo and Hutch, the alpacas.” Jole pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the duo. The alpacas, Apollo and Hutch, looked on expectantly, while Lynsol kept itching at their scruffs, cooing and chortling. “Something tells me you didn’t catch much sleep last night, big guy.” He clapped a hand onto Nord’s shoulder, almost sounding concerned. Almost.

“I’m fine.” Nord said, waving a hand dismissively. He really wasn’t, and Jole knew it too, but he didn’t want to bring down the mood. He wasn’t that selfish. Either way, he didn’t think his soul--nor anyone’s soul, for that matter--could sustain the boy being unhappy with his dismay. He didn’t think he could sustain the boy being unhappy at all.

“If you say so.” The words slapped Nord back to attention. It was obvious the ashfur wasn’t convinced of his cousin’s fineness, but he wasn’t one to push, especially not today. Why was it today that Nord’s head decided to preoccupy itself with all these thoughts? He wasn’t sure. Though, just like the last few times, life moved on, because Jole had a job to do. “Right! So, Lyn, Lynnie, buddy,”

Lynsol tossed a glance over his shoulder, the joy in his eyes never once dimming since the time they had met. “Hm?”

“Lucky you, you're our first member aboard the wagon, bud, ‘cause we got friends on the way. You’re gonna help me and Nordy here pick ‘em up!” Jole planted a hand against his cousin’s vest, patting it twice, before sweeping his hand back to his side. “And yeah, you might be thinking, ‘but Jole, where are we gonna get a wagon this late into your special day?’ And my answer to that is riiiiight,” He held up a finger again, his eyes closed and his free hand set on his hip. He continued to hold out the word, to seemingly to no avail, because nothing happened. He began to look nervous. “Arrrrooouuund,” Nothing. “Thhhhhhe,” Nord’s amusement in the situation started to dwindle. “Cooorrrrnn-”

And, lo and behold, he was cut off by the familiar sound of wagon wheels crunching through sand. Soon enough, a vixen came into the view, an older, exhausted vixen, but Nord wasn’t paying attention to her. He was paying attention to the wagon she was dragging behind her, because unlike Apollo and Hutch, it looked incredibly well-preserved. The wood looked fresh, with not a splinter to be seen in the wheels, and the sheet that constructed its cover lacked the wear and tear that he was accustomed to. Suffice to say, he was amazed, and couldn’t help but mutter a soft, “Wow.” in its wake.

“Ah-ha!” Jole spread his arms. “I call it the Sandpiercer.”

“I still think that’s a stupid name, Jolluh.” The vixen remarked, to which the ashfur choked out a laugh that balanced somewhere between being sarcastic and legitimately wanting to punch someone in the face.

“It’s Jole-- okay, buh-bye, love you.” He quickly waved off the vixen, who did just that, leaving nothing but a roll of her eyes and a disgusted scoff with her departure. Nord and Lynsol both had their fair share of laughter at the exchange.

“You named it?” Nord finally asked.

Jole nodded. “‘Course I did! That’s what you do with a wagon bound for greatness. Plus, it’s cool, and no, you can’t tell me any different.”

“Uh-huh.” He rolled his eyes, though it wasn’t long until those eyes landed back on the wagon. “Sandpiercer.” He repeated, still awestruck by just how pristine it was. He really wasted no expense with this one, did he? Though, as soon as he entered that paradise of thought, it was interrupted by Jole’s voice, which swept in front of him like a moon eclipsing a star.

“Without further adieu,” He said, placing a hand against the door to the wagon and throwing it open not a second later. “Let’s not keep those new friends of ours waiting.” He frantically directed them in. “C’mooon, don’t be shy.” Lynsol took the initiative and eagerly scrambled up onto the wagon bed via Jole’s aid. Nord popped in just behind him, though his ascent was much steadier given his size. His cousin, however, didn’t follow them in, as he had to keep outside to guide over the alpacas and fit them into the reins. This conveniently left Nord in the awkward position of being alone in the wagon with Lynsol. Should he say something? Strike up a conversation, maybe? What sort of things do you talk about with a five-year-old? Nord had no clue. Maybe he didn’t have to. He looked preoccupied anyway.

In the end, it didn’t matter, because Lynsol took on that charge for him, lamenting, “You look sad.”

He did? He dragged a hand along his features insecurely, replying, “I’m fine.” How many times could he lie to himself? It wasn’t like he could describe why he wasn’t fine, in any case. Lynsol, unfortunately, didn’t look convinced, but similarly to Jole, he didn’t seem intent on budging.

“Do you got a happy place? That’s where I go when I’m sad.” The boy smiled, bright enough to light a lantern, if not a few dozen. “I think about the people I love!”

Nord paused. What was his happy place? Should he feel bad that one didn’t immediately come to mind? While he managed to force a smile, he wasn’t given the chance to answer, because a certain relative of his was knocking at the door frame for his attention. He looked over to Jole earnestly, tired eyes narrowed.

“‘Cause I feel generous, I’m gonna let you drive.” He said, slipping into the wagon and waving a hand outside. He assured, “I’ll keep our friend here company,” before taking Nord by the shoulder and guiding him to the door, where he simply nodded and wished him good luck. The onyx vulpera may or may not have stopped listening somewhere in there, but nonetheless, he shuffled outside and boarded the front of the wagon, where he took hold of the reins and steadied out the alpacas with a clicking whistle. Apollo and Hutch, despite their conditions, looked more than eager to get moving. Maybe Nord really did misjudge them.

As the pitter-patter of alpaca nails and the groan of wagon wheels invaded his ears, so too did the chatter within: Jole’s laughter and Lynsol’s kiddish giggling, on repeat in his head.

He deafened them out eventually.

♦

The first was a pair of siblings, both red-furred and accented with tanned patches. The younger of the two (he assumed) barreled in front of his sister and tugged at her impatiently, whining for her to move faster, not that she looked in any position to do that. Unlike Lynsol, she was carrying a burden of equipment made for two, though it seemed the younger was neglecting to pull his weight. The urge to lighten the load came along and he acted on it thoughtlessly, hopping down from his vantage and bolting over to lend a hand.

“Raysik!-” The vixen called agitatedly. It’s no surprise she was annoyed with the lack of help, but as she caught Nord in the midst of his dash, she looked a little relieved, if not a tinge confused. He was, after all, running at her without an established intention.

“I got it,” was all he said before closing the distance and shifting a thing or two into his arms. The girl looked thankful, smiling accordingly.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

It wasn’t a second later that Jole threw open the door, dramatic enthusiasm at the ready. “Heeeyyyo!” He hollered. Lynsol followed suit and popped his head out from behind the door, holding in a snicker or two. “I’ll be your oh-so-beloved conductor this eve’.” He tipped a nonexistent hat. The siblings’ parents, whom Nord had just noticed, looked less than impressed. One was stone-faced, while the other appeared much more delicate, which is to say they had a superb contrast. It was only then that Jole noticed the girl’s plight, darting over to aid her, but with his, “I gotcha!” came a stutter from the vixen.

“Are you sure? It’s a little heavy-”

Nord intruded. “I got it.” And so came an end to Jole’s zeal, for his vibe had been executed. He rose his arms in defeat, before spinning on his heel and approaching the older vulpera with a finger gun. Nord would have almost preferred to be the one talking if Jole insisted on being so… himself. Still, he aided the girl in getting their luggage onto the wagon bed, while the younger, Raysik, introduced himself to Lynsol, before going on a rant about something Nord had long since tuned out.

Eventually, the onyx fox was brought back to focus by another stutter from the vixen. “I’m Rheana.” She said shyly.

He turned to look at her. “I’m Nord.” He paused, quickly tacking on, “It’s nice to meet you.”

She nodded gently, pointing a thumb at the boys behind her, whose mouths were still running a mile a minute. Nord could only assume she was gesturing to Raysik. “That’s my brother. Raysik?” Her brother didn’t answer her, so she sighed annoyedly instead. “He’s… fun.” She didn’t sound certain, obviously, but Nord didn’t get the chance to discuss it further, for she had already moved on to the next topic, peering outside and pointing at the ashfur chatting up her parents. “Is that your brother?”

“Cousin.” He responded.

“You two seem close.”

Nord paused. She really had no idea, did she? “Yeah. We are.” Now was his turn to switch topics. “And how old are you, Rheana?”

“Oh, um,” The question took her by surprise, which Nord didn’t intend for, but he couldn’t exactly go back on it now. Add it to the ever growing heap of unspoken guilt. “Seven.” She said. “My brother’s four.” And suddenly, he couldn’t think, nor could he speak. He was expecting young, but this was young young, this was the influencing stages of life sort of young. He choked on still air for a moment, which Rheana instantly took notice to. “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to.”

He frantically waved his hands. “No, no--” He set his hands on her shoulders, affirming, “No. I’m fine. I was just thinking, is all.” And just as before, he forced a smile, which Rheana didn’t seem at all convinced by, but she wasn’t one to budge, right?

“Okay.”

And that was the last word spoken between them before Jole popped back in and bobbed his arms up and down to grab everyone’s attention. He was pretty good at that. “Just one more pitstop and we’ll be good to go!” The boys cheered while Rheana offered light applause, which was soon joined in on by Nord. Of course, he reminded himself that he was still the designated driver, which slowed his clapping to a halt. Wordlessly, he moved onto his feet, dusted himself off, and walked outside, repeating the same motion of grabbing the reins and steadying the alpacas with that clicking whistle. This time another voice joined the chatter, then a second once Rheana (he assumed) felt comfortable enough. This time he couldn’t deafen them out.

“Having fun in there?” He eventually said, and just his luck, the chatter continued to roar over him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the idea that he was brought along just to be a chauffeur. Did Jole really mean it when he told him to stand there and look mature? Nord wasn’t sure.

But, as fate was feeling kind today, both Jole’s and Lynsol’s heads popped out the window, which had been sealed via curtain prior to that. “Yeah!” The boy said, heartily.

“Party’s just getting started--” Jole began, though he cut himself off to slip his head back in and call illegibly for someone to “do the thing,” so to speak. Not a moment later did Raysik appear, sliding his head atop Lynsol’s and looping their ears together, before they collectively blew raspberries. Jole threw his head back in laughter, with the boys in tow, and ultimately Nord as well. However, as soon as it began, the rambunctious chuckling was again drowned out by chatter, as each of them fell back from the window.

And to subconsciously answer his own question, Nord muttered a reticent, “Yeah. Me too.”

♦

Within the hour, they arrived upon another settlement, where an older, peach-furred vulpera fumbled with the knapsack strapped across a younger vixen’s back. The girl was garnet-colored, with patches just a shade darker, and she appeared just as ecstatic as Lynsol had been. The vulpera Nord could only assume to be the father mumbled out a twitchy, stress-ridden, “I packed you three meals. One lasts an hour, one lasts six, and one lasts eleven, which is for breakfast, lunch, and dinner-- Oh, I forgot dessert.” He choked on his words, facing away to holler out for another’s attention, “Pumpkin, did I forget dessert, or is it with you?”

Another voice, practically illegible, called back out to him, though the only words Nord managed to pick out were ‘no’, ‘here’, and maybe ‘it’s’? The father huffed out a breath at whatever the voice had said, pleading with the girl to, “Just stick tight,” before straggling back into the tent where the voice had originated.

Through all of this, Nord had almost forgotten why he was there. That is, until Jole ruptured through the door with a spirited, “Heeeyyyo!” Oh right, their grand adventure. The ashfur slung himself from the doorway, where Nord soon joined him. 

The vixen had just begun scurrying over to them when they slotted themselves against the frame, stopping just short of the wagon and slipping a sharp, “Oh!” before tripping on herself and scampering the opposite way, where she dove into another tent and fell silent. Meanwhile, the girl’s father had reemerged from the central tent, holding with him whatever they called “dessert.” When a sweep from left to right didn’t land his eyes on his daughter, he started calling her name.

Jole, ever the opportunist, took this as his chance for a meet-and-greet, so he did just that, tumbling from the wagon and approaching the fox with--you guessed it--a finger gun. “Heyyya, buddy,” was all Nord caught before they slurred off into murmurs and incoherent nonsense.

He didn’t know how, or when, but the moment he looked down, there she was, as if out of thin air. She shuffled her things closer to her chest before allowing a wave at him. “Hi.” She whispered.

Although he found it confusing, Nord felt the need to match her volume. “Hi.” And without any signal to do so, they both looked over to the ashfur, then back to each other, to which Nord outstretched a hand and said, “Long day?”

“Duh.” She tittered, taking his hand, where it was then gently shaken.

“Here’s hoping we can have some fun then, huh?”

“Mhm!”

Nord, too, snickered along with her, though he couldn’t help but feel like something was wrong. The girl kept an aura, like she was hiding a dozen secrets at once, not that that was something he was willing to bring up. “I’m Nord.” He bowed his head.

“Irro.” She bowed her own.

“Are you alone?” He asked.

She looked taken aback, shifting her eyes from side to side suspiciously, before focusing back in on Nord, to which she smiled, perked up her shoulders, and said, “Yep!”

He didn’t question it. Maybe he should have, but in the moment, he didn’t think to, and that was that. Instead, he dismissed whatever paranoia he held about the situation and gave her a warm smile, the best he could manage, before sliding his hand down her forearm and clutching on tight. “Alright, Irro-- big steps.” With a heave, he hoisted her up onto the wagon bed, which she giggled at; all the more when she noticed those who sat within and when those who sat within noticed her. Introductions began: hands were waved, names were exchanged, smiles grew brighter, and as with most things, Nord smiled subconsciously. They had rounded everyone up, as far as he knew, so finally, finally, they could do what they came here to do: have fun.

And when one fell, another came to take its place, because just as Nord turned around again, there stood Irro’s father, as well as Jole. He really couldn’t handle another jumpscare, seriously. “Sir--” The vulpera extended the dessert, flubbing. “Sir, is my little girl in there? I have her tarts, sir.”

Nord swerved his head back. “Irro.”

The kit emerged from the mass of giggling children the second he called for her, sliding onto her knees to retrieve the carefully wrapped box from her dad. “Thank you, Paaaa~” She leaned forward to lay a peck on his forehead, which, from what Nord could tell, put him on the verge of tears.

“Oh!” He grieved, turning to Nord and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You keep my little girl safe, okay, sir? You keep her safe.”

Nord nodded solemnly, taking the fox’s finger and shifting it into an open hand for him to shake. “You have my word. It’s only a day, you won’t even know she’s gone.”

“Love you, Pa.” She added, for better or for worse.

“I love you too.” He replied, inhaling shakily, before resigning himself and turning to depart.

Jole, on the other hand, tacked on a less-than-helpful, “Not a worry, big guy! This is gonna be the trip of a lifetime, and I’m sure she wouldn’t wanna miss out on it,” which caused the older vulpera to briefly stop, before continuing to walk. Nord looked less than amused with his cousin, but he wasn’t in the mood to push it. In the meantime, Irro returned to the circle the other kits had made, where they shared stories passed down to them by their parents. Likely all false, but who was Nord to ruin their fun?

The cousins had clambered back into the Sandpiercer by then, where Jole had unraveled a sheet of vellum, the same vellum that kept their route bound in ink, except now it was turned on its opposite side. His eyes flicked from the sheet to the kits repeatedly, until he eventually squinted over at Nord and whispered, “There’s supposed to be seven. We’re missing one.”

Nord knitted his brows. “Do we need to make another stop?” He was certain he said that was their last stop, because he sure didn’t see anyone else, unless Jole just miscalculated. Very plausible.

“No, her,” He vaguely pointed at Irro. “She has a sister.”

And it was that final piece of information that confirmed his gut feeling, and yet after everything, Nord felt inclined to put aside his better judgement and keep it their little secret. Who was he to deny their fun? They were all here to escape, if just for a day. He wasn’t going to be the one to strip them of that.

So he shrugged.

“Did you want to go back?” Nord asked.

Jole was as impatient as he was self-assured, Nord knew that well enough, so when he shook his head and wrapped up the vellum, his cousin was already ten steps ahead. “Nope. First come first served.” And with that, he thwapped Nord across the head with the scroll, before promptly calling shotgun.

Just Jole being Jole, right?

♦

Nord had never once had a companion in the front seat during the trip, so Jole, for once, was welcome company, even if he was just there to spout out directions that corresponded with their route. On that note, he wasn’t listening all that much, not like he needed to. He had spent his entire life in these dunes, of course he knew where he was going! Though, he was thankful for that time along the way where Jole made sure he took a left instead of a right. 

Despite how much they bickered, they could often tell what was circling in each other’s heads, though this time around, the exchange was incredibly one-sided. Jole knew everything about Nord, but Nord knew nothing about Jole, which was… a little odd, he had to admit. His cousin was usually the much more open of the two, yet for this voyage, he had put on a façade just for the benefit of the children. What a charitable guy.

He inevitably gave into the urge to strike up a conversation that didn’t involve pointless directions, querying, “So, how’s it feel, Jole? One of your plans finally worked.”

The ashfur had been in the midst of calling for a left turn when the question was asked, causing his head to perk up and dumbfounded eyes to land on Nord. He scoffed. “Was bound to happen! Just needed the right idea, the right time,” He puffed out a breath. “The right people.”

“Awh,” Nord put a hand over his heart, or at least, wherever he thought it was. “I’m flattered.”

He shot back, “Don’t be, was mostly me,” and that one nearly caused Nord to scoff up his lungs. He’d never admit defeat, would he? And following that thought, his cousin conveniently went, “Thought you’d catch me off-guard, huh?”

“Read my mind,” Literally. “How’d you know?”

“It’s my job to know, Nordy. Think of where you’d be without me,” and just as Nord went to answer, he shushed him. “Don’t answer that. You’d be bored, is what you’d be.”

Well. He couldn’t disagree with that. “Right.”

That was the last of their conversation for a fair while, until it grew so quiet that Nord fell into a state of disassociation. He was still guiding the alpacas, following Jole’s directions, but he did so mindlessly, as if he himself was elsewhere, out-of-body. He didn’t remember the sights along the way, nor the awful one-liners his cousin may have slipped to him. He didn’t remember how the kits leaned their heads out the windows to catch the wind on their faces, nor when Jole… 

Whatever Jole did, it kept them from leaning too far out. Good for them.

And then they were there, after a mere five minutes.

“You good? Your throat dry? Don’t think you’ve made a sound in an hour, big guy.”

Nord blinked, then blinked again. An hour? Had it been that long? He licked his lips, which he found to be immensely dry, and in his state of confusion, he didn’t quite catch what his cousin had said, which Jole obviously found to be concerning. “We’re here. We made it.” He said, nudging at him with an elbow, and that was enough to bring him back to life.

He inhaled a breath, then started gasping for it, before transitioning to panting. “Right. Sorry. Got lost in my head for a second there.”

His counterpart knocked at his shoulder. “Was more than a second, Nordy,” He paused. “But hey! We’re here, let’s go have some fun.” And to have some fun he went, dismounting from the wagon and throwing open the door to lead everyone out. Varied cheers roared from the kits as they barreled out the door, separating into what Nord guessed to be their social groups. Two boys, two girls, perfectly balanced.

By the time Nord had finished settling down Apollo and Hutch, Jole had already filed them all into a line, where he was now offering them exposition behind the grand ruins they were nigh to explore. It goes without saying, but it was all bullshit. He professed, “Have you ever heard of… The Dune Duke? He was the greatest of tomb raiders, you know. He retired in wealth and luxury!”

Nord had never slapped himself so hard in the face. “Jole.”

Lynsol, however, looked more than invested, though definitely a little confused by the terminology. “Mister Jolluh?”

“Jole.” He corrected. “What’s up?”

“What’s ‘retire’?”

“Well, my dappled friend, it’s something my dad really likes to shove in my face, but lucky us, we don’t gloat on the Sandpiercer!” And with those words came an uproar of questions and suggestions:

“Ooh, a gloat! Is that like a lizard goat? I want a lizard goat!”

“What’s a Sandpiercer?”

“That sounds mean!”

“Your dad sounds cool! Tell us about your dad!”

Nord cut in. “Yeah. Tell them about your dad, Jole.”

The poor ashfur let out a whine. Suave remarks weren’t going to save him here, so he opted for the next best thing, a change of subject. “All of those questions are GREAT questions, but how ‘bout we go on and get this party started, ‘kay? Who wants to do some looting, ‘cuz I know I dooooo!” The kits looked content enough with that answer, speeding past Jole with the fox himself close behind. Unfortunately for him, he’d find his path blocked by none other than his cousin, who still had one last question that definitely needed to be answered.

“Did your scout find anything? Is it safe?”

Jole shrunk in his place. If a vulpera could turn pale, he would have looked sickly. “Uh,” He wouldn’t lie to Nord, right? They could trust each other. “Yeeesss. Super safe. There was a Sethrak patrol moving through here, buuuut, uh, they went,” He wouldn’t lie. “Somewhere else.”

He lied.

Nord tuned out the laughter, the bonding of friendships, the joyous cries when someone had found something. All of his focus lay on a single phrase, looping in his head. Protect the kits. That’s all that mattered. He checked every nook and cranny; he searched behind every rock and every stone; he listened to every footstep and every claw tap. Nothing. The day he was meant to be free was spent being shackled by responsibility. The day he wasn’t meant to waste had been wasted. 

Eventually, he found himself outside the Sandpiercer, staring down at the sand and devoid of emotion. Only then did he realize the shadow of night that cloaked his surroundings, and more importantly, the voice calling for him, “Nord! Nord, you good?” It was Jole’s. He finally turned to look at him, where it was revealed they had gathered around a makeshift campfire, with their loot dumped out in front of them. “We’re making a lootpile,” He explained. “You grab anything?”

Nord looked down at his hands. Empty. Not even in his delusions did he have the sense to grab a memento or two. “Ah, no. I didn’t. Sorry.” A few among the children seemed to find that funny. So much for no gloating on the Sandpiercer.

Jole looked nothing short of unimpressed, waving at him dismissively and emitting a disappointed, “Pfft.” Nord had never so desperately wanted to shove the blame off himself and onto another, but he said nothing. He kept his frustration pent-up. It was easier that way. 

He allowed them but a second more, before approaching them and saying, “We should get you all home.” And that, too, faced an uproar.

“Oh, c’mon!”

“Can we stay out another day?”

“Mom and Dad won’t mind!”

The obvious ‘no’ became clogged in his throat. He cast a glance over the five of them, to Lynsol, to Irro, to Raysik, to Rheana, to Jole, who still, somehow, looked sly, like this had all worked to plan. They all looked on expectantly, waiting, anticipating, all aside from her, aside from Rheana, the only one with any sense. And he said that because he had none.

“Yeah.”

There was silence.

“We can stay another day.”

And with their rousing cheers, came a thousand broken promises.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Ch. 2, Childhood

“Papa, I can’t do it,” Liv protested, just a small child. She was panting, absolutely exhausted from being up and working since dawn. She wiped some sweat off her brow, looking at Kadanis. She was met with a disapproving glare and a raised hand, no words being returned. Liv blanched backwards before lifting her hands back up in front of her, palms up.

She concentrated, trying to focus on the inner magic Kadanis would harp about to her. ‘Find your inner magic. Every fucking Sin’dorei has it, Livandris. Try harder. Apply yourself. Stop disappointing me.’ Constant harsh words would spout out of his mouth in these training lessons. For a little girl, it was traumatizing to see her father be so cruel. Weren’t fathers supposed to be kind? To take care of the mother and children?

Her mind trailed off as she thought, her eyes darkening as emotions started to rise. But alas, not even a spark of magic came from her fingertips. Nothing. Kadanis scoffed, letting out a hot huff of air, and pushed himself up off of the ground. He became angry quickly. “You aren’t trying hard enough, brat. You have to TRY.” He started to raise his voice even louder, and it boomed throughout the forest. “You will never cease to disappoint me!” He stormed off, leaving Livandris in the middle of Eversong.

“Papa!” Liv protested. “Papa, it’s dark! Don’t leave me here! I’m hungry!” Her voice became rough as sadness caught in her throat. “Please!” She begged once more, but he was out of sight. “No,” she whined, looking around at the vast forest, with no sense of direction. She was lost.

Liv fell to the ground with tears in her eyes. She thought of her mother. She wished they would be able to escape in the night, away from the horrible man that lived with them. Where would they go? Neither of them were permitted to go outside the city unless they were under his strict supervision. Even then, it was like they were on a leash. Eventually, she shook her head with a sigh. “Things will be better,” she croaked to herself, softly. Those were the words that her mother would tell her every night before bed.

Eventually, night took over completely. The sun had fallen behind the horizon, and it grew colder. The night creatures started crawling out of their holes, filling the forest with scary sounds. Liv looked around frantically, searching for a safe place to curl up for the night. Suddenly, a loud SNAP sounded off behind her, and she made a run for it. She ran to the nearest tree that she thought she could climb, and climbed it quickly, no turning back for anything now.

Safety finally came to her as she curled herself up in a ball on one of the thick branches of the tree. Her breathing was ragged, whimpers coming out of her tiny body. Eventually, as any child would, she began to sob. “Why doesn’t he love me,” she whispered to herself. After a while, she drifted off into sleep… and before she knew it, it was dawn again.

***

“Livandris?” a voice called out. “Liv?!” It was a woman’s voice. Liv slowly opened her eyes and rubbed them, clutching her head afterwards as a sharp pain rang in it. She groaned as her name was shouted again. “Livandris!”

After a while, Liv realized it was her mother. Immediately, tears threatened again, and she looked down below the branch she laid upon. Her voice was still distant, but it was getting closer, Liv thought. She looked around for her mother, tears falling from her face. “Mommy?” she cried out, although it was barely a whisper. The child was dehydrated and famished.

“Mommy?” She called out again, this time a little louder in hopes Iyarralei would hear her. She began to climb back down the tree, but lost her footing and scraped herself on the way down, leaving splinters and cuts along the left side of her body. She was scared her mother was going to yell at her for never coming home, or for running away- and panic set in once more.

Iyarralei eventually came within view of Liv, and immediately all of her panic went away. Relief washed over her in a drowning wave, and she began to sob as she bolted toward her mother. “Oh, Liv,” Iyarralei started, but was interrupted with the impact of her baby girl’s embrace. “Oh, my sweet dove, are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened to your arm?” She examined the cuts that went down her side, but eventually stopped speaking and flopped down on the ground, bringing Liv into her lap.

They cried together for a long while. Her mother started swaying back and forth, humming the elven lullaby of their nightly routine when Liv would have a bad day. The child needed this, and it only caused her to sob more into her mother’s chest. She squeezed her tiny arms around Iyarralei, and in return, she pet her black, messy hair. After a long while of silence, her mother spoke. “Come, let’s get you home and cleaned up.. You’re probably starving, huh?” She cooed at her, planting a kiss on her forehead.

Iyarralei scooped Liv onto her back, and the two girls made their way back into Silvermoon. Livandris fell fast asleep against her mother, as the scent of her perfume and clothing reminded her of a safe place. “I love you, mama,” she said softly, before trailing off into her nap.

“I love you too, my heart,” Iyarralei said in return, her lips pursing in anger as she made her way home. There was hell to pay, and she was going to unleash it upon Kadanis the moment she set her eyes on him. No one hurts mama bear’s cub.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Joyride: Prologue

“Nord!”

The onyx vulpera awoke with a gasp, soft as it could be, as he jerked his head up from the shabby, little table. Oh, had he fallen asleep at his desk again? No doubt he’d be dying the day he actually decided to sleep in his own bed. He glanced down to regard the mess he’d made, only to notice the goopy, black ink that had splattered across both himself and the parchment he was supposedly scrawling on. Fur and ink, what an exciting mixture. Dunes know he’d be having the time of his life washing that out.

He barely had time to make himself presentable before another vulpera emerged from underneath the flap of his tent, the one who had called his name. To neither his nor anyone’s surprise, it was his relative, a cousin whose only mission in life was to bother the former with his “brilliant” ideas. Nord acknowledged his presence as best he could, before swiping a rag off the table and wiping at his sullied pelt. It wasn’t coming out.

“Nord, hey,” The swagger in his step, the giddiness in his features, the passion brimming at his cheeks, warped and stretched to either side by that smile. That damn smile. Nord knew those motions all too well. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you, ‘cause I think,” Here it comes. “And stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” Despite the urge to, Nord smiled encouragingly, as if to say ‘do go on,’ to which his counterpart was happy to oblige. “‘cause I think I got it!”

And there it was. The poor fox had to resist rolling his eyes into the back of his head and groaning, which he did with ease. He had the practice after all. “Yeah?” He replied, lifting his brow. “And what is the ingenious plan you’ve cooked up this time, Jole?” Wry smirk in hand--or on face, technically speaking--he raised a single digit as he continued, “Are we convincing the guards to personally escort us to the oasis by pretending to be, what was it?” He tapped his chin in sarcastic thought, before lighting up his face in a similarly sarcastic realization. “The Dune Duke?”

The other vulpera, Jole, was taken aback by an eyeroll of his own, as well as a derisive series of hardy har har’s. “Before you mock me,” He began. “Just hear me out,” Nord complied, allowing him to continue, “Hot take: we get a wagon, a few alpacas, and we take everyone who wants it on the adventure of their lives.” That showman’s finesse of his really shined through in moments like this. Nord supposed one had to build some sort of charismatic skill set when they came up with bizarre schemes as often as Jole did, which is to say, he was irritably used to this. Nonetheless, he went on, “Day-long trip, from here to there, let the kits see the sights and get a taste of that authentic caravaneer life. Hundred-percent educational experience, no foul play.” He bent forward in a semi-bow, spreading his arms to either side with a final, “Whaddya think?”

“Well, first off, I think you’re insane.” He responded, oddly calm in tone for how witty his remark had been. They shared a chuckle, though Nord was quick to recover. “So, what? Are we bribing some,” He vaguely waved his hand. “Famous caravaneer to be our guide? For celebrity appeal?” Jole shook his head, though he did gesture for Nord to keep guessing. He was, no doubt, delightfully entertained. Nord obeyed. “Will the alpacas be incredibly rare? One has extravagant colors, maybe? Hot pink?”

Jole produced a drawn-out, “Noooooope.” in reply. He was having fun with this, and Nord couldn’t help but roll back his eyes at that. For what felt like the first time, he was actually intrigued by the prospect, even if it was probably extraordinarily dangerous. Of course, he’d had this mentality about Jole’s ingenuity dozens of times before, but there was always one tiny complication or flaw in the grand scheme that ruined it for him. Suffice to say, he wasn’t making any special exceptions nor holding his breath for this one.

The onyx vulpera finally relented, leaning back onto his palms with a shrug--his palms still stained by the ink, obviously. “What is it then?” He said, boggled, despite having never guessed it on the first try before. “What’s the outside help?”

Jole grinned that cocky grin of his and arched forward, “There is none,” He lifted up his hands to dramatically waggle his fingers. “‘cause we do it ourselves. You and me,”

“You and I.” Nord corrected.

“You and I. Not even! Mostly me.” The ash-furred vulpera winked--sweet sand demons, he hated those--before straightening out his posture, because you just know all that bending and curving he did for his showy presentations was taking its toll on his spine. Nord didn’t think it possible for his eyes to go any further into the back of his head, yet here he was, on the verge of an eyeball backflip. Although, Jole’s performances aside, the idea itself was interest-piquing. It’s the kind of thing he would have enjoyed as a kit. It’s the kind of thing he could still enjoy now. But, as with all of Jole’s ploys, they were too selfish to be fully realized. His cousin was never one to scheme if he didn’t think it benefitted him too.

“Let me guess,” Nord’s eyes glinted with familiarity, as he went to meet his counterpart’s gaze with knitted brows. “First people you invite are the vixens you talked up at the story circle,” He lifted a finger just as Jole went to interject. “The same story circle where you regaled the tale of The Dune Duke and his Dusty Damsel.” He, too, grinned a malicious grin, snark and snide practically enchanting his demeanor in that moment. This is what made listening to Jole’s rambling so very worth it. Still, he couldn’t help but feign shame and aim a friendly punch at his shoulder, tacking on a, “I’m kidding.”

“You laugh now, but just you wait until I get things in full gear.” Jole assured, and as per any accusation that involved him and women, he felt pressed to address it. “And for one, those ladies were delighted to have me; for two, that story was great,” And in an attempt to mimic his cousin, he raised a finger to Nord’s face before he could interrupt. “And you can’t deny it, ‘cause everyone else thought it was great too!”

“I dunno.” The curve of Nord’s lip twirled into a sly smirk. “I personally thought the ending could’ve been a little better. Plus, aren’t stories at the story circle supposed to be true?”

“It was true!” He retorted, though he quickly remedied his behavior once faced with a skeptical look from Nord. He folded his arms and paused. “Some of it, anyway- Look, that’s not the point. Point is, we got things to do!”

“Not people, I hope.”

“Doh,” And at last, Nord squeezed an eyeroll out of him, so much so that he couldn’t help but grin. “Alright, inkface,” Wait, was it on his face? He went to uncomfortably feel at it as Jole continued, “--Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice that little detail when I rolled in here. Tell you what, you go wash up and I’ll do all the hard work, ‘cause I’m a generous and hard-working friend.”

Nord’s own laughter knocked the wind out of him. He replied, “You haven’t worked a day in your life.” just as Jole vanished back outside, to which he could hear a guffaw radiate from beyond his tent flap.

“It’s about persistence, not work ethic!”

The onyx vulpera scoffed, obviously, and although he wished to push the topic further, he decided against it. He turned back to that filthy desk of his, glancing at it with disdain, the disdain one got when they told themselves to do a chore. As if washing himself up wouldn’t take long enough! Note to Nord: sleep in your damn bed.

And then it donned on him, and he promptly dove his head past the tent flap in search of his cousin, which, praise be, there he stood, hands shoved in his pouch-pockets and eyes gliding from vixen to vixen. He’d slap himself in the face if he wasn’t preoccupied with another thought. “Jole!” He called out, to which the oblivious ashfur perked up an ear and spun on his heels to look back at Nord. “How do you plan on dealing with the older vulpera? That might be uncomfortable.”

“That’s the best part!” He shouted back.

“No supervision!”

♦

Nord had spent far too many minutes scrubbing away at his paw, far too many hours. Had it even been an hour? He hadn’t cared to check how high the sun rose above the horizon, and who knows when he originally woke up. At this point, he could barely remember the night before at all. Though, knowing him, it might be better to say, “the early morning before.” What was it he was biding all that time with? Funnily enough, that was exactly the problem. It was the very fact he had nothing to bide his time with. With each sunrise came the same routine, the same chores, the same hunts, the same necessities for survival. Had he grown so stale that he was finally giving into Jole’s senseless thrillseeking ways? Was there a part of him that wished that one of his cousin’s ploys would actually come to pass?

He wasn’t sure.

What he was sure of though, was that this damn ink, wasn’t coming out. Even with the addition of lukewarm water, it insisted on sticking to him. What was that ink made out of anyway? Tar? He needed a break, he needed a getaway, he needed something to sweep him off his mundane feet and wrap him in the exoticity of life. He needed an adventure. But, every time they got close, Jole lost motivation, or found something better to do, or abandoned the project all together out of spite.

Maybe this time, it’d be different. Just maybe.

Not that he was getting his hopes up, of course. Last thing he needed was to put effort into something and have it fail miserably, but hey, he was a hopeful guy. His birthright was that of faith he could misplace at his leisure, not that he was in any hurry. If anything, he was in more of a hurry to get this stain off. How much force did he have to apply? There’s only so much pressure a fifteen-year-old kid can exude!

“Nord!”

Fuck it. Just wrap it, wrap it up, no one will know. And that’s just what he did. He tore a strip of leather off of his own trousers and laced it around the still (somehow) ink-soaked hand. You burned yourself. That’s the story we’re going with. At last, he ushered himself outside, seeing none other than Jole standing… about a yard or two away from him. A cough was exchanged between the two as he moved an inch or two closer. His flair for the dramatic was a gamble as to whether or not it would be properly executed.

“So!” The ashfur began, clicking his tongue.

Nord, meanwhile, calculated all the excuses that were about to leave his cousin’s mouth. They were out of wagons. They want to keep the alpacas out of the deep desert for a few months. I had a wagon, but the wheel snapped when I tried moving it. I had an alpaca, but they fell ill just today. Everyone I asked said no. I kinda had a change of heart. I got an even better idea! I thought you hated the idea, so I got discouraged. I was sure you meant-

“We’re back in business, baby!”

[automaticenemycrusade]

Dya - Chapter 1

Words: 5308

           “What…is that?”

           “Maybe a featherless aarakoa?”

           “It’s ears swivel like talbuk!”

           Dya’s first impression of Garadar wasn’t pleasant. Her ears sat flat against her head, and as Wa’tar carried her tiny, malnourished body through the town she was desperately trying to catch herself on fire again. As people got a bit too close, she let her eyes glow brighter and she bared her fangs. While her parents had told her it was a rude and unbecoming action, especially for a child of noble blood, it was better than trying to speak to the strangers. All it seemed to do was amuse them. They bared their teeth back, almost mockingly, and she fervently wished that she could just disappear.

           It had been difficult getting out of Hellfire Peninsula. That was what the orc had called it. He’d arrived in the nick of time. He’d shot lightning from his fingertips, killing a few of the bugs and scaring even more. They’d vanished after that. Wa’tar had just looked at her, and then gestured slowly at the corpse. He said something to her, very softly, but she couldn’t understand him. At that point she’d just been glad he wasn’t hostile. Dya had turned from her father’s body and shook her head.

           “I don’t wanna,” she said, sniffling. He seemed to know what she meant, but afterward there was a distinct challenge. He couldn’t understand her, and she couldn’t understand him. He’d noticed Sloofun a second later, and Dya recognized the look in the orcs eye. Just as it had been when he slew the bugs. He snarled, preparing another lightning bolt in his hand and Dya threw herself in front of the demon. He looked at her with a bewildered and annoyed expression on his face, and Dya yelled at him.

           “Sloofun is the reason I’m alive!” she yelled. She managed to summon up another spurt of flames around her body, and the orc looked taken aback, but the problem still wasn’t solved. She couldn’t talk to him, and he most certainly couldn’t talk to her. He’d rifled through a satchel on his belt and took out a potion. She watched skeptically as he drank a little and then he handed her the rest. She raised an eyebrow, but not knowing what else to do, she drank it.

           “Can you understand me now, little one?” He asked, Dya hesitantly nodded.

           “Can you understand me?” She asked back. He didn’t respond to the question, merely jutting his chin out at the corpse.

           “Who is that?”

           “My father.”

           “Where is your mother?”

           Dya had no answer, merely shrugging her shoulders. She didn’t want to tell him what happened, that her mother had just up and left her. That she was likely as dead as her father. That Dya was now as alone in this strange land as could be. The orc took her silence as an answer and asked another question. He pointed back at the body.

           “Is he the one who taught you fel?” When she looked puzzled, he revised his question, “Did he teach you how to summon that?” He pointed at Sloofun. The demon whined, as though offended.

           Dya nodded, a little confused, and he scoffed. He didn’t say much more, only walking over to the carcass. He propped the corpse’s mouth open and ripped out one of Duke Than’rel’s fangs. Dya wasn’t sure she wanted to know the reasoning. When he returned, he stared her down a moment, as though considering what to do.

           “Get rid of that,” he said, pointing to Sloofun. Dya immediately bristled.

           “If it weren’t for that demon, I wouldn’t be alive,” she reiterated, “I need him to hunt.” The orc considered that. He seemed to be analyzing her, trying to figure something out. He snorted.

           “I’ll teach you how to hunt. You can come with me, but only if you dismiss the demon.”

           Sloofun had whined, but he nuzzled her hand. Licking her fingers and wagging his spiny red tail. As though saying he’d be fine back home until she needed him again. Dya nodded.

           “Okay,” she said.

           And that was how she ended up here, like a sideshow circus animal for the orcs to gawk at. She didn’t like it, and she made no secret of the matter. She spoke rather loudly, for a moment forgetting that the other orcs couldn’t understand her.

           “Wa’tar, if one more person pokes their fingers in my face, I’m gonna bite them off!” She looked up at the orc very seriously. The big man laughed.

           “I’ll be sure to let them know.”

           Dya spent the rest of the day grumbling, but she couldn’t deny that her situation had improved greatly. Watar had sat her on something called a wyvern. They’d flown high above the mountains, through clouds over giant mushrooms. He’d taken her someplace that most certainly didn’t look like it belonged on the same planet as the red desert. Nagrand was everything she’d wished to see at the end of the journey. It looked nothing like Quel’thalas but there was grass, trees, rivers. She had gotten more than the bare minimum of what she’d been hoping for, and she had to admit she was grateful for that.

           Wa’tar, true to his word, told the other orcs what she’d said. They’d laughed but respected her space from then on. A particularly nice woman had even offered her a few pieces of fruit. Curious, rather than nervous, her ears had straightened some. She’d even managed to ignore the delighted squeal of a bystander as she ate the cherry, debating how she liked it. When she offered a tentative affirmation, the orc looked pleased. Dya was offered a few other types of food to try, and she looked up at Wa’tar questioningly.

           “She wants to feed you. You look too small.”

           Either way Dya wasn’t going to say no to free food. Especially since she’d spent the past several weeks eating sandworms. The woman was nice, and Wa’tar was willing to sit and translate while she ate. They could finish stocking up on supplies after. The woman introduced herself as Ursa, and though she had tusks, height, and a long if spikey braid Dya didn’t find her the least bit intimidating. She asked Dya questions about where she was from. How old she was. If she had any friends back home. So, she answered.

Dya told Ursa about the estate in Quel’thalas. How her father had insisted she learn magic, and that she’d never been allowed any friends as it would interfere with her studies. She had a house full of servants, for the sole purpose of allowing her more time to learn. On the rare occasions she was let out, she had to be pretty and silent. If she ever spoke in public, she’d be sent to bed without dinner. Dya wasn’t sure why Ursa seemed saddened by those answers. As Dya finished up the woman cleaned after her, telling Wa’tar that she’d have to learn to do dishes after growing up so spoiled.

           Then another orc barged into the small hut. He looked angry, but Dya had met her fair share of angry men. Though he was bigger, and arguably looked a bit scarier, nothing could ever frighten her as much as her father had. Something he could do no longer. Dya paused to consider the ramifications of that as the orc stomped his way in.

           He was mean, the orc. His dark brows furrowed over his eyes. He bared his teeth in a vicious snarl. His head was bald and scarred, and he looked upon the little girl with no small amount of disdain.

           “What have you brought into Garadar Wa’tar?” He snarled, pointing at her with an armored hand. To his credit, Wa’tar rolled his eyes. He looked unworried.

           “A child,” he said simply, sipping from a waterskin.

           “It’s fel,” the stranger growled. Wa’tar stood up.

           “By no fault of her own. Why don’t we take this argument outside?” He stood up, and though he was graying the other orc looked a bit nervous. Dya watched as he agreed, and they started shouting. She could feel Ursa staring as she sighed, merely sipping at the glass of juice she’d been given. The orc woman studied her.

           “So small, but so brave. You’re truly not afraid, are you?” She asked. Dya snorted, shaking her head and smiling. That was when she was toppled over. She let out a startled shriek and looked up to see a boy laughing.

           “Hah! It must’ve been the runt. It fell way too easy.” He cackled. Dya felt her eyes narrow. She leapt up, summoning fire to her fingers. The boy looked dismayed for but a moment, then he sneered. But before he had the chance to say anything, Ursa intervened.

           “Varuk!” She boomed, “That is enough!”

           “But Ursa–”

           “No buts, apologize now. She is a guest.” Ursa scolded him, an undeniably frustrated look on her face. Dya looked at the boy skeptically. He had a long black braid hanging down his back, one of his tusks decorated with a small gold ring. He looked down at Dya and huffed.

           “Sorry,” he mumbled, before going back for one last shove, but Dya had had enough. Her day had been hard, to say the least. She’d been on the verge of starving to death out in Hellfire Peninsula. She stumbled upon her father’s desecrated and destroyed body by accident. She had no idea where her mother was, and she was quite certain that she’d never see her homeland again. At only twelve years old. So, could she really be blamed for what happened?

           As Varuk shoved her, she snapped. As quickly as his arm shot out, she grabbed his hand and made good on her threat. Though the orcs mocked her teeth she knew just how sharp they really were. It was all too satisfying when the boy let out a high-pitched shriek as her tiny fangs ripped through the flesh of his forearm. Ursa looked shocked as Varuk fell to the ground, tears in his river blue eyes, calling for his father.

           Dyalara stuck her tongue out at him, his blood dripping down her chin. It was only after the fact that she bothered to think that there could be consequences for this. She was sure she’d get in trouble, possibly abandoned by Wa’tar or worse for this transgression. She fully expected Ursa to throw her out of the hut and tell her to never come back, so imagine her surprise when Ursa laughed. As the boy sobbed, bleeding on the floor, Ursa spoke.

           “Well, Varuk, I think you’ve gotten your very first set of battle scars.” This was said almost as a consolation. Indeed, the wound would likely need stitches. It was deep, and the blood had stained almost everything the boy had on him, from his clothing to his knife to what looked to be an herb bag on his belt. The bald orc came barreling in, Wa’tar close behind. He took in the surroundings and presumably trying to figure out why his son had screamed. He caught sight of Varuk, blubbering and pointing at Dya. She still hadn’t quite bothered to wipe the blood off her face. The bald orc looked angry, but Wa’tar looked like he was trying to suppress his laughter.

           “Would you look at that!” he said, before Varuk’s father could do anything, “I’m a father for less than a day and my ‘fel runt’ has already bested your young warrior.” The other man looked like he was going to explode.

           “Is this really the most productive way to grieve, Wa’tar?” He asked, pulling Varuk up to his feet. Wa’tar’s gaze darkened.

           “Do not speak of my wife.”

           The room seemed to get colder almost, and Dya stood awkwardly at the side. She wasn’t sure what to do or say. She stood as still as possible, as though the orcs could only see her if she moved. Ursa came up to her, handing her a piece of cloth and gesturing to clean her face off. So, she did. As Wa’tar glared the other man down, Varuk was dragged away out of the hut. Dya still had no idea what to do and looked to the other two orcs for guidance.

           “Am I in trouble?” She asked quietly, her ears pinned back. Wa’tar shook his head, though his mood hadn’t seemed to improve. Ursa only laughed.

           “Not at all,” she said, “you’ve established yourself in the hierarchy. You’ve shown the children that you are not to be messed with.”

           Dya thought that sounded very fake, but she wasn’t about to argue. All the same, she couldn’t stop herself from raising an eyebrow as she nodded slowly. It was at this point Wa’tar made a remark on the sun, saying that it was getting late and he should get Dya set up in her new home. Dya was inclined to agree, for no other reason than that she wanted to sleep. Sleep sounded nice, especially since Wa’tar said she could choose from some of the furs he had for her bed. She’d never seen real fur before.

           Yet, as she exited Ursa’s tiny hut, something else awaited her. A small group of children, staring at her curiously. She wondered if she’d have to use her teeth again when one of them ran up to her. Another boy, still taller than her. But instead of shoving her he smiled and waved.

           “Are you the one that bit Varuk?” He asked. He didn’t seem unfriendly. When Dya nodded he cackled. “Ha! It’s about time someone showed him up. I’m Dar’zok.”

           Dya shook his hand carefully, wary of any potential trick, but there was none. Dar’zok seemed nice. He told her a few things about Garadar, that it was really nice and she’d like it there. She was too tired to really pay attention to the details. He tried to ask her something, but Wa’tar had come up and placed a hand on her shoulder.

           “I appreciate you trying to welcome our new friend here Dar’zok, but it’s been a very long day for her. She needs some rest.” Wa’tar was gruff, but not mean. Dar’zok looked a little embarrassed.

           “Oh. Right. I’ll talk to you later! Maybe you’ll tell me your name next time.” He laughed, and then went off to join the other children. Wa’tar led her back to the stable where he’d put his wind rider. People still stared and whispered curiously, but Dya was glad that they had stopped coming up to her. The novelty was wearing off already it seemed, and Dya was grateful.

           Wa’tar flew further west, up onto a hill with a small hut. Dya could hear a waterfall nearby, and she saw a family of owls in one of the trees. There were brightly colored snakes slithering along the ground, but Wa’tar assured her they were harmless. They’d only attack her if she provoked them, and Dya made a mental note never to mess with the wildlife. He told her about the river further up the hill. It was a source, so it was some of the purest water in Nagrand. They would often have visitors coming to collect some, especially in times when the water purifiers were in disrepair. After running over the few rules he had, he led her over to a large rack covered in what looked like swaths of unwoven fibers.

           “These are the furs I have. There are blankets too, but it gets very cold at night. You may choose three to take to your bed. I’ll go ahead and set that up while you pick. As you get older, I’ll show you how to get your own furs, and you can have those instead.”

           Dya liked that notion, getting something herself. All the furs were pretty colors, ranging from plain browns to blues to whites. Dya wasn’t sure how to pick, so she looked for the softest ones, gently holding corners in her fingers as she tried to make her decision. One was a dark shade of brown, one white, and one a pretty shade of blue, but there was a problem. Unsure of what to do, and unwilling to mess up the rack, she waited for Wa’tar to come back.

           “How do I get them down?” She asked softly, and it seemed as though it was only then Wa’tar realized how much taller the rack was than her. She remained quiet as he mulled over it a moment.

           “I’m going to show you how to build some stepstools, but that can wait ‘til morning,” he said, hefting her choices off the rack. He handed them to her, looking entirely unfazed as she almost fell over under the weight, “You can’t be relying on me for everything.”

           His tone said he was scolding her, but Dya had gotten enough real scolding’s in her life to know he wasn’t ill-intentioned. She nodded solemnly and followed him to another small room in the house. It looked like it was meant for storage, and he’d just cleared off some space for her to sleep. A small curtain separated it from the rest of the house.

           “We can make an addition for you, little one, but you will have to remain here while it’s built. And you’ll have to help,” he seemed to be waiting for a reaction. Dya only snorted.

           “It’ll be nice to have something permanent, instead of pitching a tent and destroying it every day,” she looked up at him pointedly, as if to say that she’s done much worse. Wa’tar snorted.

           “So motivated for one so spoiled, you will make a good student yet,” he remarked. Dya couldn’t help but bare her teeth as she spoke. After all, it seemed her teeth were how she’d make the orcs respect her. At least, it had gotten the other children to.

           “I have always been a good student!” She exclaimed, bristling. For the first time in her short life, Dya felt genuinely offended. Wa’tar snorted, gesturing to her fangs.

           “Save that for the other children. Adults will not take kindly to it,” he warned, and that made Dya’s brows furrow.

           “Then how do I get the adults to respect me? Magic? Reading? Dressing well?” she demanded. Wa’tar looked a moment confused. He knelt to her height as she struggled to keep the heavy furs in her arms aloft. She stared back, determined, trying not to look desperate. After all, securing an adult’s respect meant keeping food, shelter, a warm bed each night.

           “How about, before we get to things like respect, I show you some skills. How does that sound?” His brusque voice was not unkind, but it only made Dyalara’s distress heighten.

           “No! I need to know how to make them respect me! If I don’t, they’ll make you get rid of me!” Dya was beginning to panic, and Wa’tar didn’t seem to know what to make of it. He looked down at her, pushing his hair aside as he considered her. He put a hand on her shoulder.

           “This is not that kind of place,” he said gently, “we do not cast out children, we help them grow and learn. Your fate will be what you choose, but when I say that I mean in terms of…hobbies. Occupation. What you choose to do with your life skills. You will not be removed for a lapse in manners or getting an answer to a question wrong. Do you understand?”

           Dya was quiet for a few seconds, considering Wa’tar and the consequences of his words. Or rather, the lack of consequences. It didn’t sound right, but then there were a lot of things about her current situation that were not right. Slowly she nodded.

           “Okay,” she said. She turned around, dropping the furs into the tiny cot Wa’tar had prepared for her. He watched quietly as she arranged them to perfection, taking far more time than it likely should have, and only left once she’d crawled in to go to sleep.

/*\

           Four Years Later

           It was getting close, and Dya was trying her best not to get too excited. It was her fourth summer in Nagrand. She was going to be sixteen in a handful of days, and with that came a very important ceremony. Wa’tar had argued with several nosy townspeople over it, over whether she should be allowed. Some said she was too small. Any animal in Outland would thrash her. Some said that her hunting skills were lax, having started her education in the subject far later than her peers and that if the ceremony were to take place then it should be further out. Others simply stated that she wasn’t an orc, and so shouldn’t be “forced” to participate in their traditions.

           There were lots of less tactful comments, but Dya had long since learned to tune them out. She twirled the iron spear in her hands one last time before jogging up the hill to the little pond. Dya was quite certain it was magic, the pond. Water dripped from a ledge into an impressive waterfall. It fueled one of the branches of the rivers, but it all seemed to come from this one tiny little pond. Producing more water than it needed. Regardless Dya wasn’t too inclined to dwell on it. She cupped her hands in the water and took a drink. When she was finished she looked down the waterfall, gazing at the slightly larger pool they used for bathing.

           She bounded down the hill, taking the turn to the next pond. The water was freezing. It always was. It was one of the few things she’d ever lamented, wishing she could go back to Quel’thalas for. There was nothing in this life like a hot bath, and Wa’tar told her that if she wanted a hot bath she’d have to build herself a tub. And a heating spot. And a few privacy walls. Which she had done! Most nights she carried bucket after bucket of water into the house for the sole purpose of heating it up for her bath, and then she had to carry bucket after bucket of dirty water back out. It was worth it.

           But right now, she didn’t have time for that. She needed to bathe quickly, and that unfortunately meant using the freezing droplets right from the source. She shivered as she scrubbed her hair, looking longingly at the towel that waited for her on a nearby tree branch. She rushed as quickly as possible. Though Wa’tar had never let someone stumble upon her in these moments of privacy, she desperately did not want that to change.

           She pulled her clothes on, a simple linen dress, and carried her armor home. She was careful not to let it bend in the wrong place, and she made a mental note to scrub it down with leather soap later. Just as she placed her spear in its spot, she heard a familiar voice call a greeting through the doorway. She opened the door and a tall man entered, long hair almost brushing the floor. For once, it was a guest she liked. Dar’zok had never been bad company. It was lucky that he was the only remaining student of Elder Windfang.

           “I take it you’ve run out of felweed then?” she stated casually, ladling some clean water into a kettle. Even if the guests didn’t want tea, she’d still prepare and offer. Besides, even if it was rejected, she usually liked to have a cup for herself.

           “Unfortunately, yes,” Dar’zok said, “Ever since Elder Windfang lost her patience and told Varuk to leave, our supplies have been dwindling a little more quickly than they should.” He snorted. Dya huffed. As she was about to make a remark on Varuk’s character Elder Windfang jabbed a finger in Dar’zok’s stomach. He yelped in surprise.

           “You knock that off!” the old woman scolded, “Varuk can be a but much, certainly had no talent with the elements, but we have no evidence that he’s a thief.” Dya had always liked Elder Windfang. She was an elderly healer of Garadar, another shaman like Wa’tar who tended to keep to herself away from the town. She was so old she hobbled about with a cane, and every hair on her head was gray. One of her tusks were chipped, but she never acknowledged it. Despite all these qualities Dya had long since learned to never offer her a chair. Despite her limp, she was a spry old woman. Sometimes, Dya thought, sprier than Wa’tar.

           Dar’zok shrugged but gave Dya a look. It typically meant the two of them knew better, and as Dya went over to collect the leaves from the right shelf Dar’zok deigned to make conversation. He walked over to the window, studying the young talbuk in her makeshift stable.

           “So, how’s the training going? Settle on a name for her yet?” He asked. The animal was asleep, having virtually buried herself in hay. Dya laughed.

           “I think I’m going to call her Xayla. That was the name of my hawkstrider chick back in Quel’thalas.” One of the few good things about it. She tacked on silently. Dar’zok made a face.

           “I still don’t understand what that is,” he said, “birds aren’t big enough to ride, and if they were they’d probably be predators. Much more likely to eat you than be trained!” As always, Dya laughed at him.

           “You know, the same could be said for wolves. Pack animals that don’t like being told what to do.” She finished transferring the herbs he needed into another jar and passed it over. Dar’zok only rolled his eyes.

           “Well, Xayla is a fine name. She will make a good hunting companion. I hear talbuk make excellent bait for large predators.” He teased. She snorted.

           “Here’s your felweed Dar’zok,” she drawled, “be sure to come back if you need anything else, should this ‘unknown thief’ return.”

           Dar’zok nodded, looking unusually irate. As he left the hut Dya sighed. The kettle hadn’t even gotten to whistle before they left. Granted, it had been all business, but Dya would be lying if she said she didn’t get lonely sometimes. Especially now that Wa’tar was making more and more trips into Garadar, leaving her to tend to the hut. Rare moments like these were nice, and as she steeped her tea and sighed, she heard a knock at the door again. She looked around the room. Had they forgotten something? She didn’t see anything amiss, and so opened the door. It was just Dar’zok.

           “Is something wrong? Did I give you the wrong leaves? Not enough?” She started going over everything she could have done wrong, and Dar’zok laughed, some hair getting in his face as he shook his head.

           “No, no, nothing like that. Elder Windfang just said that she wanted to take the walk home by herself, so I figured I’d stay behind and talk to you for a while,” he explained. Dya could feel her nose scrunch up a tad.

           “Is that really the best idea? What if she loses her cane? Or a large animal finds her? I know she’s a powerful shaman, but she is pretty old…” Once again, Dya’s mind went immediately to the worst-case scenario but Dar’zok shook his head.

           “Okay, first of all, stop worrying,” he said, “and second, I want to see what the old man had been teaching you. Show me what you’ve learned with Xayla so far.”

           Dya immediately perked up. It was nice to spend time with Xayla, she’d take any excuse to keep playing with the young talbuk and Dar’zok had given her the perfect one. Setting down her teacup, knowing it would likely be cold by the time she got back in, she led Dar’zok over to the stable.

           As Dya offered a more edible kind of hay to the sleepy animal she listened to Dar’zok talk. When Dya told him about the weapons, the saddle, the hunting techniques, the traps, he’d listened intently. When she finished, he offered up information of his own. He talked about his studies with Elder Windfang. How he was doing well with healing and even better with combative magic. He even got up and shot a lightning bolt harmlessly into the air, looking over in excitement. Dya did her best to smile, nod in encouragement.

           “That was good but if I may make a suggestion?” she stood up and corrected the positioning of his hands, his fingers, “I don’t know if it’s the same with shamanic magic, but if you do it like this you might get a stronger reaction. If I know one thing about magic, it’s that confidence is key.” Dar’zok nodded and tried again. Indeed, her advice had worked. The lightning bolt went further, the thunder louder. He looked delighted.

           “I appreciate the help Dya!” he exclaimed, “Is there anything I can offer in return? I don’t know much about talbuk other than how to cook them, but I’m sure I could find something out that’s helpful!”

           Dya appreciated his enthusiasm, but as fading sparks of mana trailed along his Frostwolf tattoos, she couldn’t help the vicious jealousy that swirled in her stomach. Magic wasn’t for her. Even though she’d loved it, been good at it, Dya had to put the spellbooks down and walk away. After so many months of trying to get off the fel, learn different types of magic, it became abundantly clear that Dya would never escape the corruption within her. Wa’tar had told her many times that it wasn’t her fault, that her father had no business exposing her to the fel. Especially at such a young age. Yet it still felt like a magnanimous failure on her part. She still had nights when she wondered what she could be if she chose to go back to wielding that power. If she chose to summon flame and fiend once more and be as strong as she was when she was merely twelve.

           But it wasn’t a thought worth entertaining. She grinned and told Dar’zok that she’d love to hear anything he learned about talbuk, even if was a minor and irrelevant fact. Apparently, their horns could be used to make certain types of medicine, most commonly a paste for bruises and soreness. Dya didn’t tell him she already knew that, merely nodding and thanking him for that piece of information. With that, his debt was paid.

           They trailed off into other subjects. The incoming ceremony for all the children who were coming of age. His own hunt, coming in a matter of days. He still wasn’t quite sure who he wanted to bring with him. Despite the warnings he told her he was going to try and take down a clefthoof on his own. It would feed the whole village for days. Dya told him she was confident in his abilities. They whiled away a few hours just talking, playing with the talbuk in her stable. Finally, he had to go. His mother needed help with something back at their house in Garadar, and he was going to be late as it was.

Dya couldn’t help eyeing his arm as he left, the tattoos that helped him channel and control his power. Though she enjoyed hunting, the training with Xayla, the ever-growing physical strength in her legs and arms, there was still a part of herself that felt indignant and enraged. As Wa’tar had told her so many times, it hadn’t been her fault. But she still remembered what magic meant in Silvermoon, to the elves. How to be without magic was to be less than. Despite everything, she still wanted her power back.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Morgo’Boondax: Exordium

                                            ﷼ Exordium ﷼

The golden city, grand was its majesty. It glimmered before his eyes, eyes that now lay behind lenses of distress and unease. With a hand still clasped on the door, he glanced over his shoulder and shouted a final warning, “Barricade de doors n’ don’t let nobody in! If it ain’t me, dey ain’t safe.” The prelate wouldn’t stay long enough to see his demands met, for as soon as the words left his lips, he stepped outside and slammed the door behind him. It was as if he feared that for every vestige of strength he hadn’t put into securing the door, his foes would take their due. Donning his mask, he glided down the intricately-paved roads with all due haste, tossing fleeting looks from here to there in an attempt to see if the enemy had risen past the city’s first line of defense.

Luckily for him, all his gaze caught onto was a familiar lone sorcerer, plagued with fatigue, and he supposedly had a message for him, if the standing salute had anything to say.

“Soldier!” The prelate announced. “What’s de situation at de flank?”

Oddly, the sorcerer shook his head, his response bedeviled with baited breath, “Nah, mon! Dey be attacking from de docks now! Nazmir was just a ruse.” The prelate looked on with sudden horror, as his counterpart continued, “Our forces gonna need time ta reconvene at de stairs!”

“By de Loa,” He said grimly. “Hurry on den, wit’ me! We gotta be reinforcin’ da forward line.” With a nod from the sorcerer, they pressed further into the city. Somewhere along the way, the prelate regarded the troll at his side with a warm smile, as he knew the man from battles long since fought. Raptazi, was his name.

It wasn’t long until they spotted the first signs of resistance. The duo came upon a bridge, and on said bridge, a small skirmish was taking place. Zandalari warriors, a pair, were holding their own against their oppressors to the best of their ability. They were outnumbered by several Alliance paratroopers, all varied in race, though one amongst them was a Pandaren. The prelate’s heart sank at the notion. It was he that once traveled across the sea in an effort to see the maddened prophet’s vision fulfilled, and yet, here they still stood, on opposing sides of a war. Despite this, the Pandaren, as well as the rest of his comrades, were still taking part in assaulting the city, his city, and his honor be damned if he let them lay a finger on his kin. So, he met their bloodlust and animosity with that of his own, bounding into the fray and joining the melee alongside his companions. 

The confrontation went surprisingly well at first; he landed a strike here and a jab there, ushering in the crimson tide of his foes. However, they were still outnumbered seven to four, and he and the men he led slowly grew overwhelmed by their adversaries. 

Rumble, rumble. What was that? Rumble, rumble. The sound grew louder as it got nearer, and soon enough, in the distance, the prelate could spot a familiar face atop an armored Direhorn. 

Brandishing a finely-decorated broadsword, the troll atop the beast called for his mount to ram into their flank. The ivory of its horns glistened with blood as it shredded through their ranks, providing the Zandalari the edge they needed to turn the tide completely.

The prelate’s features brightened beneath his mask, so much so that he felt inclined to show his glee wholly by removing the faceguard and hooking it onto his brooch. “Hakolho!” He exclaimed, with an emotion unlike what the situation would portend: happiness. “Knew ya couldn’t stay away.”

Hakolho, as he had been revealed to be, met the optimism with a wily grin, hollering out in response, “If it ain’t Jorgo’Boondax!” and with that, he swung out the broadsword and leapt down from the Direhorn to finish the deed. With his aid, the allied forces triumphed.

Although Jorgo desperately wished for a moment of respite to catch up with Hakolho, a troll that he hadn’t seen for far too long, the conflict all around him only worsened, so in agreement with his better judgement, he pushed reunions aside and barked out the order, “Regroup! Everybody ta de steps!” His command was followed. The battalion assumed formation at the prelate’s back as they barreled to the docks, drenched in sweat and gripped with exhaustion. Nearly there…

Fear and disquiet took their hearts once they laid eyes upon the horrid sight, the sight of the port and its Alliance infestation. They were countless, endless, merely a wave of steel-clad men and women with that same azure tabard and that same lion’s crest, wielding an insurmountable arsenal of swords, bulwarks, and firearms. Boomsticks, they called them, a machination that Jorgo had come to find dishonorable and cowardly. A bow required a hunter’s senses, a keen eye, and the strength to nock an arrow, but these things, they accomplished the same goal, just with the added convenience of pulling a trigger. For an instant, Jorgo’Boondax embraced the calm before the storm, as he lifted his spear to a sky clouded with smog and cried out, “Fah Rastakhan! Fah Rezan!”

“FAH ZANDALAR!”

A cacophony of war cries and thunderous cheers echoed out across the field of slaughter, as steel clashed against steel and plate grinded against plate, a tide of human, dwarf, and elf descending upon the small battalion, though despite their struggle against overwhelming odds, they held strong at the top of the steps, which would soon be flooded with blood. Even still, Jorgo fought on, for behind him were the homes of his people, his family, and the families of his men. The burden on his shoulders was heavy,

Ten.

But it was necessary that he hold this position until reinforcements return from their fool’s quest in Nazmir. The situation was growing unsalvageable as their enemy gave no quarter. One by one, his men began to fall, as their shields cracked against the onslaught of steel and left them exposed for attack. A warrior was felled by what felt like a thousand blades, as another was struck with arrows like needles to a pincushion.

Nine.

An outrunner had slipped past his defense and deftly avoided the halberd aimed at them, a dagger emerging from their sleeve and tearing through a warrior’s backside. The crimson result gushed onto the prelate, only delving him further into a senseless battle trance.

Eight.

Everything went out of focus, as he blindly drove his spear through the outrunner’s neck, then another, then another. He lost count, eventually. The more that came within his reach, the more corpses that landed at his feet.

Seven.

An agonized shriek ruptured from the Direhorn’s throat, which, notably, was now deluged in both its own and its enemy’s blood. It was difficult to tell which fluid took the majority on its hide, but either way, it thudded forward and sluggishly swayed to the rhythm of its own death, sliding onto its side, and eventually, down the steps themselves, which hurled Hakolho from the saddle and into the ravaging maw of the Alliance masses.

Six.

Try as he might to aid Hakolho in his time of need, he was all too preoccupied by the torrent of Alliance dogs he was being forced to single-handedly deal with. The spark of hope within him was at last fading as his deterrence was continuously breached, but, when all seemed lost, the rallying cries of his reinforcements finally met his ears, to which his faith was instantly reignited. If he was to die here, he wouldn’t die alone.

Five.

With his load lightened, he took the time to stumble behind the newly-formed frontline of Zandalari and tend to his wounds, calling upon his Loa’s light… except nothing would answer. Each attempt led to a measly flicker within his palm. He clenched his hand into a fist.

Four.

Something was off. “Push forward!” He called out, unsteadily, and yet the feeling did not expire. Something was wrong.

Three.

He looked off the right. Nothing.

Two.

He looked off the left. Nothing… or so he thought.

One.

Among the last things he saw were the barely visible silhouettes of the archers atop the pillar and a despondent, bloodied Hakolho ascending the stairs, just as the sharpened tips of arrows dug into his chest and sent him spiraling to the ground.

Doriyah.

Morgo… Morgo.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Ch. 1: The Beginning

It was on the third of March that Iyarralei Ik’thiel found out she was pregnant. She had gone to one of the many medics in Silvermoon to get an examination, hoping and praying to the Light that there was nothing wrong with her. Goodness knows her husband would have a fit. When the medic broke the news to her, the elven woman’s mint green eyes went wide, her pale skin finding a way to become almost ghostly.

Panic set in as she walked back to her home in Murder Row, where the man of the house, Kadanis Ik’thiel, would be waiting for her. He’d be wondering where she was at this hour, so late in the evening, instead of making him dinner and making sure he had a kept home. Many thoughts raced through her mind as she ran through the dialogue in her head. They all ended in slammed doors, broken bottles, and threats.

She decided not to tell him that night. Instead, she ran to the inn to buy a nice, fresh meal for him, hoping that would ease his reaction to her being out so late. When she walked in the door, she was met with a sight that would change her life. The man she was forced to marry on top of another woman on their kitchen table, taking his anger out in a loud, disgusting hate-fuck that would soon be reaching its end.

Iyarralei dropped the bag of his food on the ground, completely shattering the alcohol bottle that was inside, and they stopped. “GET OUT OF HERE, WOMAN,” Kadanis commanded, and the woman looked lazily over at her with a drunken grin. Iyarralei knew where she stood, now, and she walked out of the house with a slammed door.

A few weeks later, things had returned to their usual routine. Iyarralei would stay home all day, make sure the house was kept, and cooked dinner for her husband. She had thought many times about mixing something he was allergic to in his food, or put poison in one of his many alcoholic beverages that he indulged in so frequently, but feared the consequences of the Silvermoon Guard too much to go through with it. She longed for a different life… and she was about to get one.

Her stomach was growing past the point of ‘just gaining weight’. She had to come clean and tell Kadanis they were expecting. As she put his plate of food in front of him at the same dinner table he was caught in the act at, she spoke softly. “Kadanis. I must tell you something.” Even for a lower-class elf, she spoke like a noble. She took a seat at her side of the table, reliving the memory of walking in on him for just a moment, before continuing.

“A few weeks ago, I went to a medic. I had been having… strange feelings, hormonal differences, and most importantly, I was getting sick in the mornings after you left for work.” She grimaced. “..I’m pregnant,” she spouted out.

Kadanis froze. He locked a grim, dark gaze upon her, stabbing his fork into the meat she prepared for him. “Better hope it’s mine,” he spat in rebuttal. “Otherwise, I’ll kill the damned thing myself. Can’t fuckin’ afford a child from adultery.” A wicked grin spread across his face as he made gyrating motions in his chair, as a reminder to Iyarralei.

She made a disgusted face and looked away from him, her black hair falling over her face. She began to tear up. Usually, she could take his abuse and torment- but the child growing in her said differently now. “..I understand, Kadanis.. And I can assure you that it is yours.” She said the last bit in a hiss, staring up at him blankly.

“Bitch,” he sneered, shoving an oversized bite of steak into his mouth. With that, Iyarralei simply pushed herself back from the table and cleared her plate… which was still full of food. She regretted it the moment it hit the compost bin, staring at it for a long time. She opted to just have some jerky she had bought from the grocery not too long ago, and stormed off into their bedroom. Locking the door behind her, she ate her jerky in the candlelit room, alone with her thoughts.

Months later, Iyarralei had been planning her sweet escape. Nine months pregnant, and the abuse never stopped. Continuous women would come in and out of the house to satisfy Kadanis’ lust, since his wife was too “ugly” and “fat” to look at any more. As though any of the physical contact they had was consensual anyway. She found it almost as a blessing, falling into the routine of going to bed early, locking the door behind her, waking up to his drunken rage, and moving him out of the way in the morning.

It was up until the night where she had to rush herself to the medic who broke the news to her because her water broke. For some reason or another, Kadanis was nowhere to be found within their house. She breathed a sigh of relief, thanking the Light that this was going to be somewhat smooth. She waddled out of her house, down the Row, towards the Exchange to her Medic’s office. She just hoped someone was still there.

She had to stop every now and again to breathe through the contractions, and it was only when another woman came up to her with panic in her voice that she stopped altogether. “Holy shit, what are you doing out this late? Are you alright, ma’am?” the woman spoke. “Are you heading towards the Medic’s office? I think they’re closed- no matter, let me help you get over there.”

Only hours later, Livandris Ik’thiel was brought into the world on the fifteenth of November. With two separate colored eyes- one mint, one olive- hair of the deepest of blacks, and pale skin, just like her mother. The only resemblance to her father was the olive green eye… but Iyarralei thought it made her even more special and unique. “Light bless you, darling Livandris,” her mother whispered to her as she cradled her newborn in her arms.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Dya - Prologue

Words - 3003

           Hellfire Peninsula lived up to its name well. Dya looked across the sandy expanse in all her unimpressed twelve-year-old glory. It was nothing like home. No trees, no rivers, not even grass. The landscape looked dead, and if it weren’t for the dangerous animals and the corrupted orcs, she’d have thought its appearance was accurate.

           Dya wasn’t sure why her mother had insisted she be brought along for this expedition. She wouldn’t say, and Dya wouldn’t go asking her father for anything if she could help it. Once they left the portal they were on their own, and Dya wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. They had started walking west, and once they’d managed to dodge the stray demons that remained in Outland she’d been tasked with setting up camp for the night while her parents ‘talked.’

           This always meant it would escalate into a fight. It could be over finances, or a lack of affection, or even over something as trivial as a stray unfavored spice making its way into her father’s dinner. She’d long since learned how to tune them out, focusing instead on the tent. She knew where to nail it into the ground, what to do with the ropes. She knew they had other, proper terms, but she wasn’t inclined to care. Just as she finished up, she heard the familiar escalation of voices. Then a hard ‘thwack.’

           That was always the part she could never tune out.

           Dya said nothing as her parents returned to the fire she’d made, a forming bruise across her mother’s face and her father rummaging about in a sack for his favored drink. The child could only anticipate how much worse it would get when her father didn’t have nobles to impress, maintain decorum for. She hoped her mother would survive this trip. Though Duke Than’rel met no consequences for his actions in Quel’thalas, he’d manage to face even less out here.

           Dya went to bed that night listening to her mother cry. Her father had drunk himself to sleep, and she couldn’t get herself to rest. She blinked, wide green eyes, and grasped her mother’s hand across the small tent. Her mother jolted, looking up in alarm.

           “I thought you were asleep,” she sounded ashamed, “Rest darling, we have a lot more walking to do in the morning.”

           And they did. Though her father’s scarred face scowled at any and everything, they persevered. They went further west, and they camped again. They’d needed to fight their way past an enormous structure, swarming with fel orcs. Dya had been hidden away in a remote spot where there didn’t seem to be anything amiss, and when her parents returned their robes seemed torn. They had a few cuts each, and they instructed her to pack up and keep going.

           The night was the same as the last, and it felt as though Dya and her parents were falling into a new routine. The duke kept drinking himself to sleep in his exhaustion, and her mother kept crying herself to sleep when she thought Dya couldn’t hear. It was almost enough to make the child miss the estate in Quel’thalas. Almost. For days, this trend continued. They’d walk, they’d fight, they’d camp. Their supplies slowly dwindled, and for the first time in her life Dya found her father useful.

           “Dyalara,” his sharp voice called out to her across the little camp they’d made earlier than usual, “Come here.” She did her best not to let him see how spooked she was. He’d never hit her, her mother tended to suffice as his punching bag, but that didn’t mean he never would.

           “Yes father?” She said, her voice as even and unprovoking as it could be.

           “Show me how you’ve progressed with your magic.”

           She obeyed, showing her father various spells she’d learned. She rather enjoyed fire, but her father pushed her harder and harder to diversify her skill set. She’d been focusing on summoning, and as she showed him the strongest demon she’d managed to bind yet, he nodded. He seemed to approve.

           “Very good Dyalara. Felhunters are strong demons, tricky, but if you can keep a firm hold of it you will make a fine warlock,” he said, “Keep it on guard tonight. There are dangers abound in this strange world. You may need to fight.”

           Then the routine continued, but Dya kept the felhunter close. It was almost like a dog, the way it wagged its tail and sat its head in her lap. She knew it was most likely a trick, to get potential prey to let its guard down, but it was nice to pretend it was showing affection. Her father and mother got into their nightly argument, and Dya threw the demon scraps from her dinner. It was a small consolation.

           Once it was finished and the dishes were cleaned and put away, Dya did as her father had instructed. There had been people on the hill, watching and seemingly waiting. There were wild animals in search of a fresh meal. There was limited water, of which they had some. Dya kept watch over the tiny camp for the first portion of the night, while her parents slept soundly in the tent nearby. As she stared up at the stars in the sky, tending to her meager fire, Dya saw something shoot across the sky. A meteorite. Her mother called them shooting stars, and said that when she saw one, she should make a wish. So Dya closed her eyes and whispered a wish so softly even the felhunter could not hear.

                                                               /*\

           They remained in the camp the next day. At the very least, Dya and her mother did. The duke decided to go out and search for something. For what, Dya didn’t know. She was just glad he’d be gone for a while. She could let out the breath she felt like she was always holding. As she swept out some of the sand from the tent her mother called her over.

           “Dya, my darling, come here. I want to show you something,” she said.

           “What is it?”

           “I’m going to tell you about herbs and medicine today. I don’t want to scare you but there may come a time when we won’t be around to help if something happens. I want you to know how to make it if you need to.”

           Dya knew she was a good student. Though it was boring to listen to her mother categorize different plants and tell her which one did what, there was something that caught her attention.

           “This one is silverleaf. If you mix it with bloodthistle and briarthorn you’ll make a sleeping aid. You can tell what it is because the bush–” But she didn’t get to finish, as Dya did something unusual. She interrupted her mother.

           “A sleeping aid?” She questioned, looking at the leaves with renewed interest. Her mother stuttered a moment, taken aback by her sudden excitement.

           “Well yes. Granted, it’s a paste at first so you need to mix it with water to make an acceptable potion, but that’s what it does. Why? Are you having trouble sleeping?” Her mother, as always, seemed worried. Dya nodded.

           “Yeah. Especially since father put me on guard duty at night.”

           Dya’s mother sighed. She looked regretful, and she pulled the child into a tight hug. So tight that for a moment Dya thought she’d stop breathing.

           “I’m sorry darling,” she said, “I wish my family had chosen someone different. Maybe you’d be happier. More carefree.”

           “Still in Quel’thalas?” She inquired, trying to smile and keep a humorous tone. It worked; her mother laughed.

           “Yes, still in Quel’thalas,” she brushed a strand of hair from Dya’s face, “and with your sister. Playing with friends and bemoaning your schoolwork.”

           Dya knew a bit of her mothers’ troubles. She knew her mother kept a lot of secrets, but she did have a special friend back home. A man named Firen. He was nice. He was a lower noble who’d once wanted to marry her. At least, that’s what Dya thought. Every so often Dya would see them together, talking and smiling. Sometimes he gave her mother presents, and he’d never once been mean to Dya or her sister. Once she’d even found her mother kissing Firen. The woman had panicked, offering Dya anything she wanted to keep the secret. But Dya shook her head.

           “He’s nice to you mama, I would never.”

           And that had been that. But still she remained with Duke Than’rel, and still she suffered in his home for the sake of her parents. Dya’s grandmother had once told her that the same would be expected of her one day, that she would have to marry whoever the Duke told her to with no argument. An unfair life, but a normal one.

           The lesson had continued throughout the day, until the stars rose and the desert cooled. Her father returned, and the routine continued. Yet Dya couldn’t stop thinking about the sleeping aid. True, she’d been having difficulty sleeping. Honestly, she’d had difficulty sleeping since the first time she saw her father hit her mother. She was tempted to snoop through her mother’s herbalism bag to try it herself, but the thought of what would happen should her father catch her gave her pause. Maybe he’d go away the next day too, to scout, and she could ask her mother more questions in the safety of his absence.

                                                              /*\

           When her father returned the next night, he spoke of a few new threats. There was a valley nearby full of creatures that looked like monkeys. If monkeys were predators. He said their claws looked like scythes and that they howled like dying animals. Furthermore, there were other beasts, that looked like oversized bugs with massive mouths full of fangs. The land was truly treacherous, and though he loathed to continue without more information they had to keep moving if they wanted to survive.

           Where exactly they were going, Dya wasn’t sure, but she hoped it was nicer than the peninsula. She’d be satisfied with just a little bit of rain to be completely honest. Alas, they were to spend one more night in the desert, and Dya recognized that she’d just have to be patient. That was the night her mother made the sleeping aid.

           For the first time in a very long time, Dya slept soundly, dreamlessly. When she awoke the next morning, she felt refreshed. The demon she’d summoned had remained with them. It seemed unworried, having stood guard by itself the night before, and nothing had been amiss. Dya had woken up early. Before her parents, and she saw that her mother had left a bottle out in the open. The one with the sleeping potion.

           Dya wasn’t sure where the impulse came from. Whether it was wise to indulge or not, she didn’t really think about it all that hard. She went over to the bottle and picked it up. She eyed her father’s satchel. It would be bad if she were to get caught.

           That night, Duke Than’rel did not return. Nor did he come back the second night. Or the third. Or the fourth. Finally, reluctant though she was, Dya’s mother started packing up.

           “Mother, what are you doing?” Dya asked, having just awoken from a nap in the tent. She wondered if she should feel guilty that she didn’t miss her father in the slightest, or if it was perhaps justified. It didn’t matter, because the last four days had been among the most peaceful of her life. She’d been able to just relax, spend time with her mother. She didn’t think anything had happened to Duke Than’rel. She’d once overheard her mother speaking to her grandmother, “the wicked always live forever.” She wasn’t sure if her father counted, but he was certainly mean.

           It had been nice not having to wake up worrying about his scowling face. Worrying whether he’d be in a good or bad mood. She could just wake up, have breakfast with her mother, and they would talk about all the things they wanted to do when they went back home. She indulged Dya’s impulses, feeding scraps to the demon as though it were a pet. They’d had a lovely time together, so why was she leaving?

           “I’m sorry Dya, stay here. Be safe. I need to go find your father, if he’s dead, well,” her mother didn’t seem to know what to say. Dya shrugged.

           “If he’s dead we can go home right?” She tried not to sound overeager.

           “You hush!” Her mother rarely got harsh with her, so Dya was a bit taken aback when she continued speaking, “That is your father out there! I know he’s unpleasant, but you should be hoping for his return!”

           Speechless, Dya nodded. She watched her mother continue packing her things, getting ready for an expedition of her own. Dya sat at the fire, morose. She was going to be left alone. Despite her frustrations, Dya’s mother froze. She scooped Dya up in a big hug, and she said goodbye.

           “I love you Dyalara, I’m sorry I got frustrated. Stay here. I’ll return.”

           That was the last time Dya ever saw her mother.

                                                               /*\

           A few days turned to a few weeks. Dya had learned to ration her food and water. The food ran out first, and then Sloofun had helped her hunt. She’d thought it was a silly name for a demon. That was why she’d picked him out from the grimoires. He was a good hunter, rarely needing help to bring down a boar or sand worm. At that point Dya had no choice but to share her meals with the demon, or else let the animal rot and go to waste. A few times she tried making jerky from a book, but it didn’t work out. Sloofun always managed to snatch the meat when she wasn’t looking.

           Despite everything, Dya could feel herself getting thinner. She was worried she’d never get to go home again. She was worried for her mother. She hoped if one had to die it was her father. Perhaps a vicious thought in one so young, but it was true. She whiled away those days quietly, sleeping in her tent and patrolling her tiny territory. It wasn’t until the camp got destroyed that she decided to venture out and search for her parents.

           The beasts from the valley had come up to the ridge. They ripped her family’s tent apart, stealing the food and water. Destroying the books. Scattering the ashes from the fire and setting the dry fabrics alight. Dya returned to find everything in flame, and Sloofun whined. He shoved his face into her hand, as though to provide some comfort. Dya had nothing now. No parents, no camp, no food. Nothing but the clothes on her back, a small knife, and her half empty water skin.

           At this point, she had no choice but to keep moving. For a moment she was grateful that her father had pushed her so hard in her spellwork. If he hadn’t, she might not even have an imp to watch her back. Dyalara kept east. That was, after all, the direction her parents had went. It surprised her how easy the walk was, how simple the direction. The peninsula felt more like a valley sometimes, a bowl surrounded by mountains. As she scuffed the red sand beneath her feet Dya did her best to maintain her calm. She played a game her mother had taught her. Count the steps, and once you lose track, eat a cookie. She didn’t have any cookies, but she could pretend.

           She managed to have a smidgen of fun, up until she reached the end of the valley. There was a road it looked like, and a pass through the mountain. She wasn’t sure what was on the other side, but what was on her side was clear. Bugs, big ones.

           She figured these had to be the creatures her father had spoken of. Enormous, armored insects with big teeth. The sounds they made sent chills down her spine. Even worse, she saw something on the ground. Surrounded by flies. She wasn’t sure she wanted to get closer, even with Sloofun’s help those monsters looked tough, but she had to confirm her suspicion. None of them were very close to the object, gold and red glinting in the sunlight. She crept closer, and closer, and closer, until her suspicion was finally confirmed.

           It was her father. Flies surrounded his body. He held in his hand a bottle full of drink and sleeping aid, and his innards had been torn out.

           Dya couldn’t help the shriek of terror that escaped her throat. She was, after all, only twelve. She skated back, for a moment forgetting that she was in the territory of a hive of monsters. They heard her, and the crept out through the crevices in the rocks. They walked over boulders like it was nothing, and slavering jaws met her frightened gaze.

           She swallowed hard and called upon her magic, hoping it would work. She set her small body alight, hoping it would make her look bigger, more threatening. Her father had taught her to do it with bears. It worked, for a mere second. Sloofun bluff charged at them, snarling, baring his fangs. The monsters didn’t care. Dya tried flinging some fireballs, but her aim was atrocious. They dodged with ease. For a second she could feel her eyes well up with tears, and her green flames fizzled out to nothing in her panic. She didn’t want to end up like her father, her insides on the outside. She stepped back, only to realize there was a barrier that hadn’t been there before. When she looked up, she saw a man. A green man. With tusks and long braided black hair.

           She screamed.

[automaticenemycrusade]

Dya

[automaticenemycrusade]

"What's poppin', honeybee?"

[automaticenemycrusade]

Make Way! It's Irro

Full Name: Irro ‘Scandalous-Endearing-Brazen’

Age: 26 Summers

Race: Vulpera

Gender: Female

Birthplace: Vol’dun

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual, female leaning

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Occupation: Merchant, saleswoman, con artist, privateer(?)

In-Game Character Name: Irro

Faction: Horde

Server: Wyrmrest Accord

Looking For: S̶̙̤̭̟͝ȅ̴͈̏̒̊ŗ̵̝̝̙̖̓́͌̎͘v̴̱̯͙̈͂̒̈́â̷̲͕̜̺̔̌ń̸̳̇̾͠t̶̠̝̀͠s̸͈̲̔͗̽͜ Long-term RP partners! Preferably of the emotionally-compromised comedic and/or dark variety. To each their own! Irro is (or at least, can be) very adaptable, when she’s not, you know, being herself.

You Might Know Her If:

C’mon, who hasn’t heard of Irro? If you know, you know, and if you don’t, then offense has been taken.

-- On a more serious note,

You visited Dazar’alor, where she was a freelance trader for about a year.

You saw her during her visits in either Booty Bay or Ratchet, which were both incredibly short and ended less than nicely.

You have heard of her reputation as a devilishly charismatic businesswoman.

RP Style: Mirror, very mirror, incredibly mirror. Whatever the situation demands, you got it. Short n’ quippy? Say no more. A good ol’ bit? Not a bother. Spicy romance? Try your hand at it. Dismemberment? Maybe not. A thorough discussion about magic and its connection to the constellations? Sure, but you’re liable to being shot.

Themes: Comedic and/or casual’s my norm nowadays, but tragic/dark situations are completely up my alley as well. Just… be careful, ‘kay? Her heart’s fragile.

Face/Voice Claim: As seen in game, mostly (FC), Lily Allen (VC)

Description: Irro is a garnet-colored Vulpera, made blatantly obvious by her relatively fennec features and the bushy, semi-kempt plume just above her backside. Her ears are scruffy and averagely-sized, pierced with a helix stud (right) and a pair of hoop earrings. A warm amber illuminates her eyes, which hold an inherent twinkle and gleam within them, as well as an envious amount of charm. She prioritizes comfort and maneuverability over practicality, as seen in her wardrobe, which would include a varied amount of long-sleeved tunics, vibrantly-colored shirts, overalls, and of course, a trusty cap, for both fashion and business purposes. If one thing was for certain, it was that she was a divine specimen.. though that might just be the hat.

It’s just the hat, isn’t it?

Tycoon. Entrepreneur. Conwoman. Irro is a zealously narcissistic and overconfident individual who adores herself just as much as everyone else does. In a world that gave her nothing and stripped her of the things she did have, she has supposedly found her own cart on this manic rollercoaster called life, via the use of her wit, cunning, and natural born charisma. She views her surroundings behind lenses of false bliss and delusional grandeur, often opting to trust herself and live by her own authority over anything else. This often leads to confrontation and miscommunication within her social circles.

Likeness: A fox that winks and fingerguns. How dazzling.

Irro's content will always be marked with the hashtag #irromemoirs

[automaticenemycrusade]

Becoming the Best: Morgo'Boondax

Full Name: Morgo’Boondax

Age: 23 in HY

Race: Zandalari Troll

Gender: Male

Birthplace: Dazar’alor, Zuldazar

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Alignment: Neutral Good

Occupation: Arcanital, sorcerer, enchanter, small-time adventurer

In-Game Character Name: Morgoboondax

Faction: Horde

Server: Wyrmrest Accord

Looking For: Chill people to tell awesome stories with! Long-term RP partners are welcome and encouraged.

You Might Know Him If:

You have visited the golden city itself and frequented the Arcanital wing, or the district in which sorcerers like Morgo would reside.

You have seen him around in Orgrimmar.

You have heard of his great deeds and magical prowess!

You have sought him out for his magical services.

RP Style: Mirroring, adaptable, para (including multi), and novella. I love comedic roleplay, though I can enjoy darker themes as well. Short posts tend to be my go-to when out and about in the city. No snoo-snoo, obviously.

Themes: Comedic, casual RP I’m more inclined to, but Morgo can adapt himself to more dark and serious situations, especially so as of late.

Face/Voice Claim: As seen in-game (FC), Popcaan (VC).

Description: Standing at an average height of 8’2”, Morgo possesses the same lean and muscular build that many of his brethren do, if not a little thinner. He bears the physique of a track athlete, more or less, with a toned pair of legs and some decent meat on his bones, though he is not without the qualities that his bookish disposition would portend to. If put side-to-side with another troll, he’d look dreadfully frail in comparison. The sorcerer could often be seen outfitted in his golden raiment, the look of quality sewn into every stitch, as well as a few of his own magical modifications. Even from afar, the sheen of enchantments and golden lining were present (and ever radiant) upon his form, calling to attention that he was truly a beacon of culture. His hair, on the other hand, was an exotic set of spiked-up curls, bright pink in color. If his taste in fashion wasn’t enough to allure attention, his hair would definitely do the job.

Morgo is an incredibly anxious, but golden-hearted troll that will always set himself aside to prioritize those he loves and cares for. While his quick-to-forgive and scapegoatish nature could at first be seen as naive optimism, he isn’t as gullible as he tends to present himself as, often taking initiative when it comes to revealing injustices and punishing them accordingly.

Likeness: Twinky troll boy.

Morgo's content will always be marked with the hashtag #frogboyfiction