freeversevoidform-blog

[freeversevoidform-blog]

In(re)trospection

To Wyrmrest Accord --

There I went again. In a fit of creative outpouring, I found myself drawn back to you, only to wind up over-committing to the laborious task of generating new material when I really didn’t have the time, energy, or attitude to either play or write. What had begun as an inspired effort to make something new, an effort fueled by a deep admiration of your growth over the years and the desire to contribute to that growth, quickly devolved into a mess of lethargy and half-hearted imaginings of all the things I could have written.

Considering how many times I’d been down this road with you, it was clear to see that my plans needed adjusting. Even more than that, I needed to reevaluate what really mattered to me and to attempt to reconcile that sense of calling with what I could not simply do, but do well.

I had basically given up on building my character’s saga a long time ago. I kept trying to resuscitate Westleigh Argyle in the vain hope of seeing him fulfill my dreams and bring a breath of fresh air that I thought you needed. Of course, that was just my impression, and looking at what you’ve become over the last six years, you’ve shown that you still have plenty left to offer all by yourself. You never needed me to change your working formula, and I was never willing to accept the fact that I’d been running on fumes for far too long than was good for either of us.

Consider this a mixture of apology and acceptance. For one thing, I’m sorry for trying to change you to fit my image; it’s not like I was even very good at that in the moments when I was trying (those moments were few and far between, too). Not only that, but I know the truth: Wes Argyle had a damned fine run, but it’s time to let him go.

Wes’s golden age passed a couple years back, and I wasn’t paying enough attention to notice. You saw fit to deliver me into an amazing guild, one in a long line of groups that I was all too happy to pour out my heart and soul for, and I can’t thank you enough for the experiences I had with them. That all changed when the leadership shifted - I wasn’t ready to build a community of my own, and I feel like I let you down by wasting the faith several of your finest players placed in me. We may not have changed the face of your world, but they certainly changed mine, and I’ve doubted myself over that failing even to this day.

Now, I can freely accept that the times have changed. I’ve put a great deal of thought into where I want to go next, and it was in the midst of those musings that I knew our paths would have to part for good. No more RP relapses, no more sudden subscription renewals, no more diving back in head-first only to run into a mental block and deprive myself of my own enjoyment. None of this is your fault. I’ve been tired for a long time, and that fatigue comes from many sources outside the game, some of which I’ve been learning to manage during my latest - and final - absence.

I don’t really know who will take the time to read this or if it will make a difference, but that doesn’t change the fact that I needed to get this off my chest. This is my final parting, and with this message, I want to pass along the one thing I’ve learned thanks to you: it’s okay to feel this way. Whatever is happening in life at any given moment, it’s alright. Whether your emotions are running dry or running free, it’s alright. Whenever your world is collapsing in on itself and you can’t possibly bear to give one more ounce of effort, it’s alright. Accept it, explore it, learn to forgive yourself, and if you have to let something go to make it through tomorrow, do whatever it takes to make that happen.

It’s been a wild ride, WrA, and I wish I could say that I’ll see you again. At the very least, I plan to write one last short piece to reflect Wes’s passing into my own personal Character Hall of Fame, and maybe some of my own feelings will be a bit clearer once that’s done. Until that happens...

...cheers.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Ars Poetica for a New Year

“Poetry for poetry’s sake” is a curious phrase

and it tickles the brain in more ways than one.

Is it possible to have poetry for poetry’s sake?

Poetry must be read, observed, and absorbed,

for poetry cannot react to its own meaning;

the meaning of poetry is lost on paper because

it is meant for the people who read poetry.

It is for the people who process poetry and

dissect its messy messages and put them back

in some semblance of order to be called poetry.

Even the essence of poetry is in changing

what was once an assortment of thoughts and

tidying them up into poetry, which is an

edited truth, a revision of reality distilled into

a little piece of poetry paper. It is for the people

with their stories and stanzas of history,

their bright hopes and dim futures, their

grim determination and far-flung aspiration --

poetry is for them, and they make it poetry.

People’s veins can translate lines of poetry

into their life’s blood, and their brains are tickled

by poetry’s blend of contradictions and candor, and

the mantras by which they live resonate with the words

committed to the realm of poetry. The answer, then,

is undeniable: “Yes. Poetry has always been for

poetry’s sake, for we, the people, are poetry.”

[freeversevoidform-blog]

The Cobweb Confessions

Everything I touch turns into a lie.

I’ve perfected the art of transmuting words

into webs, but haven’t figured out how

not to tangle myself up in them with

the other victims. Peering through strands

of silken cynicism, I’m reminded of

the broken window in my room,

shattered by my fear of doorways and

inviting my eight-legged family into

a place that’s never really been a home.

I wish I could turn this futile struggle into a

tap-dance on the strings of deception

that are long overdue for a visit from

the feather duster of honest conversation.

It’s just that I suck at keeping a clean

dwelling place, and I can’t hold onto

that sort of thing anyway because

everything I touch turns into a lie.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

To the moon

where my feet first met a surface

colder than they had ever known

and a tugging of the tide stirred

long-silent blood in weary veins

whose reflection brought the ocean

to tears over such simple beauty

and the gentle song issued

from lips as pure as tragedy

who floats ever out of reach

beyond the clamoring of her children

and dances opposite the sun

in the eternal chase of estranged lovers

that holds my imagination hostage

with beams of bright seduction

and breathes life into a lust

too deep to dispel with simple poetry

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Apathy

Her presence is

a wave across the surface of

my ocean-blue secret self

that pushes away from

presupposition and

mediocrity but

can't sustain the energy, the effort

of moving for very long

and fades like the ripples

of a skipping stone's reunion with

the waters. Then

all is still once more.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Songs of Escape - Contents

Collected poems by Westleigh Argyle

Apathy

The Gardener’s Divorce

Rapture

King’s Confession

I Am Not Of Lines

Red River Rapids

Heart Failure

Frame Tale

Repressed

Clarity Versus Insanity

Burns Like Ice

Ars Poetica

Songs of Escape

Excerpt from the Cover: “Composed during his internment at Light's Grace Asylum, 'Songs of Escape' is Westleigh Argyle's first compilation of poems, showcasing his deep appreciation for classical imagery while fusing it with more modern stylistic elements. Argyle draws on his own experience as an exile from his home kingdom of Gilneas to inform his writing on the perils we all face - loneliness, frustration, and self-deception. He constructs a world in which all these issues arise out of a lack of communication and proposes a simple solution: to simply be open with one another, dropping all pretense of social acceptance in favor of genuine connection.”

Editor’s Note: Upon request, the text has been translated from its original language by the author. A second edition in the unknown tongue employed by the author is slated for release in the spring.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Remembrance

I must say that I’m surprised by the unorthodox success of your first collection of poetry. It didn’t shape up at all like I imagined it would when you first proposed publishing it, and you already know how skeptical I’ve been of your judgment ever since you were committed (and let’s not forget that harebrained “escape plan” you cooked up in there). Still, you’ve done good work so far, and your poems are catching at least a few eyes. Let’s just hope your little cult following doesn’t turn into an actual cult. In the meantime, keep up your writing - you’ll feel better if you keep your brain occupied with something other than your delusions.

A.L.

Editors’ notes had never been easy for Wes to take, and this one was no exception. It wasn’t that his current editor was overbearing, stuffy, and unpleasant to deal with - to be fair, he was all those things. If there was one thing that Wes did better than anything, though, it was rolling with the punches. One belligerent editor and flagging sales was hardly the worst hand he’d ever been dealt.

More importantly, this was the first hand he’d truly dealt himself, and he wasn’t about to fold anytime soon.

All things considered, he’d been doing quite well for himself once he got released from Light’s Grace Asylum. He’d made a few acquaintances, purchased a tidy little cottage in Elwynn Forest with some of the money he’d been saving before his internment, and was finally reconnecting with the sense of normalcy that had been missing from his life. A rogue thought brought a hint of a smile to his face: this would be a lovely time to start composing his memoirs. That would really give his editor a reason to complain.

He pushed his chair back, marveling at how well his new Shal’dorei silk rug muffled sounds, and padded his way over to the lacquered wardrobe that was a member of his small-yet-dedicated collection of furniture. The doors swung open with just enough of a creak to give them a feeling of character and history; Wes had paid the carpenter thirty extra gold pieces for that added touch. With a deep sigh, he gazed at its contents: several rows of glass containers, each one containing a trinket or other small item and bearing a handwritten label. He brushed a spindly finger across each dome, his look of solemn recollection twisted by the convex surfaces and turning his features into an unsightly caricature.

Then came the knocking. In his puzzlement, Wes turned to the door and peered through the tiny peephole he’d insisted on having installed once he moved in. Once he saw his visitor, he relaxed and unchained the door, opening it with - you guessed it - the same gentle squeak exhibited by his wardrobe. “Good afternoon, Miss Galderfield.”

The elderly woman beamed and held out a basket, its contents covered with a solid blue cloth. “Hello, dear Mister Argyle. How are you settling into the new house?”

“Quite nicely,” he replied as he took the basket. Sneaking a quick look under the cloth, he couldn’t help but smile back - the old lady certainly knew how to put together a welcoming gift. “That’s due in no small part to your kindness, by the way. I’ve been blessed with excellent neighbors.”

She laughed and waved him off, causing her bracelets to jangle in protest at the sudden movement. “Never you mind that, young man. I’d say you’ve done a fine job with the place.” She gestured behind him. “Mementos from your days on the road, I take it?”

He blinked and looked over his shoulder, realizing that he’d forgotten to close the wardrobe. “Er, yes... you could say that. I like to keep track of where I’ve been so I don’t end up repeating myself.”

Miss Galderfield just winked and tapped her temple, eliciting more jingling from her jewelry. “Say no more, young man. Everyone’s got their fair share of history, and I won’t make you spill yours until you’re good and ready. Anyhow, do enjoy those little treats! You’ll have to let me know how I did when I stop by next time.”

Wes grinned and nodded, although he knew he was trying to place himself between her and the wardrobe. “That I can do. Take care of yourself, Miss Galderfield, and feel free to stop by anytime.”

He drummed his fingers on the door frame as she trundled away, only closing the door once she was out of sight. Placing the basket on his desk, he turned back toward the shelves, putting himself in a state of reflection once again. The labels seemed to be calling to him - inviting him to remember, to lose himself in the past. All he had to do was open the containers and then open his mind...

Later. That could come later. In the meantime, there was far less pleasant work to be done. His glance stole over to the nightstand and came to rest on the small portrait of two young faces, a boy and a girl, as bright and full of life as they had been in reality.

Some punches, it seemed, just left you in pain.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Frame Tale

Pictures are worth thousands of

broken little moments cobbled together from

slivers of reflective glass that once

occupied their frames. Words just fall

short and don’t fit together neatly or

satisfy the heart’s yearning for

some kind of meaning derived from madness.

The mind itches and festers, not quelled by

the scratching of a quill on paper or pleased with

oceans of ink spilled in the name of

creative expression, a child-king ruling over

a kingdom of fools. Somewhere, scraps of

pictures are taking flight on blazing winds that

score the thoughts and sear the eyes, and

the house that light built collapses under

the weight of its shadow.

Bodies pass with empty frames for

faces, searching for the memories they lost under

starry skies long ago, clawing at wayward words and

coming up far too short to finish their story.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Observations from a Bench in Stormwind

Once were sorrows bought and riches sold

In favor of a kingdom wrought of gold,

And souls with little mettle grew too old.

 “Be yourself!” The burning banners scream,

And smoke from heated words then drags a stream

Of conscious hatred into pleasant dreams.

 Their emptiness exposed, those warriors black

Withdrew into contentment, though they lack

The friends that they had once kept at their backs.

 Yet more often has this winter shown

That hearts once whole, when frigid winds have blown,

Would court disasters worse than being alone.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Back from the Dead(?)

Buona sera, cari amici, and I apologize for being gone for basically an entire year. Too later after my extended leave, I realized there were one or two people out in the vast spaces of the internet who actually enjoyed my writing, and I’m a fan of propagating my creative discharge wherever it will end up (insert obligatory innuendo here), so... here I am.

And, by extension, here we are.

There’s no two ways about it: without readers, I see no reason to write. I mean, sure - I’d do it anyway because I believe I have a message worth sharing and lessons to teach those who can read between the lines as well as they can read within them, but it’s not quite the same without an audience to read my work, give feedback, and bounce it off of in the hopes of reaching some troubled soul who would really benefit reading about coming to terms with reality, postures of the heart, the trials of parenting, and other subjects through the eyes of a fictional character.

Fiction breeds empathy, empathy breeds understanding, and understanding breeds acceptance.

So, fast-forwarding to the present day in the world of RP, Wes is settling into his routine as a freelance writer and a poet with a dream (lots of dreams, actually, and most of them gods-damned horrific nightmares). Most of my future posts will be poems I’ve written that tie particularly well into his story, and will - at least in the WrA scene - be credited to him for RP purposes. It’s my genuine pleasure to be writing again, and my sincere hope that you’ll enjoy the snippets of work I’ll be posting from here on out.

Now, on with the show!

Best regards,

Wes (both the RL person and the character)

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Scribbled in the Margin

The lamps have long since gone out. Blessed, silent sleep has descended on the house and blanketed the three beings within - the two children, dreaming of all they can imagine, and the father, devoid of dreams for far too long. It's right there, resting on the corner of the desk: buried among the lines, shrouded in inky darkness, scribbled in the margin, is the note.

"I am the one who waits

silent and still, staring

beneath the stars

for your words to find me on

swift, silver wings and messages

from the heavens above."

[freeversevoidform-blog]

The Clarity of Insanity

When I first realized

the extent of my insanity, I

laughed until tears sprang from

my eyes, mimicking the thoughts leaping

from my mind. I stood on one

side of the abyss, and part

of me said, “It’s time

to jump across.”

 Funny how no one tells

you how insanity is another

form of clarity, of recognizing

one’s purpose and discovering what

it means to know that you’re

not paranoid – you’re just

correct about life.

 Revision is necessary. I

pick apart my brain and dare

to clean the pathways within it that

I walk so often, and then I’m carried by a thought

that leaps from my mind, flinging

out its hands in the hopes of

grabbing the other side

of sanity’s sharp

and hostile

cliffs.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Rapture

A woman is an unbidden flame

surrounded by the shadows of the night

as she dances for no one’s enjoyment

aave her own. She brings light, life,

warmth, and security in the darkest

of times. She can annihilate your

resistances and spread your matter

as ashes on the wind, turning you into

nothing

no one

depriving you of existence should you

scorn her burning embrace. But if

you love her, cherish her, feed

her dreams, aspirations, fiery passions

and give yourself over to her,

she will take you in her arms and

bless you and keep you and

never let your inner light go out.

Such is the beauty of

the unbidden flame that is a

woman.

[freeversevoidform-blog]

(OOC) The Stories Thus Far

Ladies and gentlebeasts,

I’ve basically been getting type-happy and dropping all this super-hot fire backstory for Wes on this blog without bothering to explain names, dates, or the significance of these events to who he is and what he wants to accomplish.

If you’re confused about this, that’s cool. However, I also feel that I should probably outline some of that stuff so you can actually, you know, make sense of it. Let me fill in the blanks for you in chronological order.

The Savagery of Hubris - Wes around the age of 20 and still a fledgling adventurer. He joined a worgen-exclusive pack guild, which strongly influenced his “worgen supremacist” attitudes and cause him to struggle with racism (no kidding) to this day. Also introduces Alia, his sister by adoption. Her whereabouts are currently unknown.

Death Perception - Wes after leaving the Moonrage Pack and joining the Order of the Golden Law, during which time he also met, fell in love with, impregnated, and married (in that specific order) Ainsley Visana, his only marriage thus far. After a difficult fight with a lich, he was heavily wounded and had his first experience with the Void while in a coma.

Extreme Prejudice - Wes, now 26 and a member of House Sydor. His children are five years old, and they just moved to Barrowfield so he can be closer to his work and family at the same time. He’s having a tough time adjusting to being a commoner who’s advising a noble, and still overcoming a few deep-seated prejudices against common folk and nobles intermingling so freely.

To Seem A Saint - the most recent story that would have taken place sometime in the previous two evenings. Wes’s primary trade is that of an information broker, but now his political aspirations and the true extent of his madness begin to manifest themselves. After years of exposure to the Void and a growing struggle to balance his public persona with his increasingly feral instincts, he’s beginning to feel pressure to advance his agenda and secure a better future for his children.

Further questions and feedback about my creative writing so far are more than appreciated. Stay classy, and hit me up with prompts or suggestions if you want to get involved in the stories I craft.

-- The Infamous Wes

[freeversevoidform-blog]

Death Perception

Well, that didn't go as planned.

Wes opened his eyes. He thought he did, anyway - there didn’t seem to be anything different than before, so he blinked a few times to test his vision. Nothing changed. The same emptiness wrapped itself around him, and even though he couldn’t say for sure, he felt that it stretched on for aeons, reaching unfathomable distances into which he himself was being pulled. It was overwhelming.

It should have been, and yet - for reasons he didn’t understand and didn’t seem to care about - he was as empty and placid as the unbroken blackness shrouding his sight. It was almost comforting.

Without warning, a flicker broke through the shadows. Tiny though it was, it still burned as brightly as a prodigal sun in the ancient darkness. Instead of recoiling and shielding his eyes, he relaxed and let it wash over him, a brief instant of warmth counteracting the cold in his soul. Another appeared, and then another, each one searing its way through him. As the lights died down, he could see that his form was still the same. He was walking among the shades of long-dead stars, guided solely by the familiar whispers tugging at his mind, their words now clear and pleasing to hear: Come to us.

He knew what they were promising was false. No matter what he might find across the horizon, he knew he wouldn’t break, no matter how far he would bend to get what he was looking for.

Onward he strode, a silent specter of tranquil bliss traversing the infinite Void. The whispers grew louder and the pull became stronger, urging him to seize the power that awaited him. It would

set you free, make you whole, redeem your name, fulfill your dreams

in ways that nothing else could. The time had come to

embrace the destiny of all things. We are eternal.

Then he was before them. Their presence was stifling. It wasn’t that they were beyond his comprehension - he sensed that they were the place itself, that he was within their terrible consciousness that had somehow seen fit to grant him an audience. He tried to speak, but his words seemed as inconsequential and unreal as the dying light of the evening.

“What is it that you will give me?”

The power to undo what has been done.

“What must I give in return?”

Your mind. Your soul. Your existence. You will return to the shadows that the light has forgotten and spurned.

“That is what you desire?”

Our desires are yours. You masquerade as a shining paragon, but you have no light within you. Return to us.

He could already feel them closing in on his thoughts. It wasn’t unreasonable. He knew it to be true. Except...

The light began to grow once more, this time from a singular source. They were coming back for him. He hadn’t been abandoned. He wouldn’t break, no matter how far he had bent to reach this point. His purpose came back to him in the form of her face, and he felt the shadows recoiling, the Void withdrawing from him and leaving him with nothing but pain and suffering. There would no be compromise. The darkness had left him empty and desperate, but it also left him with a plan for the future. It was time to embrace a destiny all his own.

Wes opened his eyes. There she was, dozing off in the shade of the tent. Judging from the sounds beyond the flaps, the other members of the Order of the Golden Law were still recovering from their encounter with the lich. It had been nasty; he hazarded a glance down at his chest, which turned out to be covered in bandages soaked in pungent antiseptic. The same was true of his left leg and, upon further probing with his hand, the left side of his head.

Ainsley began to stir, and he realized he’d been making too much noise inspecting his wounds on the creaky cot. He reached over to run his claws through her soft hair, his eyes eventually falling to her rounded belly. The thought of the life hidden within made him grin like an idiot, but he promptly yelped and winced when he realized that smiling was probably a bad idea with a cracked jaw.

Once she was fully awake, he leaned over to nuzzle her cheek, eliciting a sigh of relief from them both. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he managed to croak from his sore muzzle.

She reached up to pet his cheek and kissed the top of his snout. “You slept awfully late, you scoundrel,” she shot back. “I was afraid you’d miss our date.”

Wes blinked slowly and, just for a second, remembered the events of his dream... if that was truly what it was. He shivered a little, but quickly recovered and shook his head at Ainsley. He could see the mixture of fear and hope in her misty eyes, and he reached down to take her hand in his.

“Never forget this, Ainsley Visana: for our family, there is nothing I would not do.”

[freeversevoidform-blog]

To Seem A Saint

“As of now, he has few redeeming qualities. I would not count on his loyalty to last, nor would I believe him to be an effective executor of our organization.”

Wes couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Come now, Inspector. He has been of use to us in the past. If I am to find a problem with your statement, it will rest in your generous use of the term ‘organization’ to describe our little movement.”

The silver-furred worgen across the desk shrugged, his pelt reflecting the scattered light from the various candles arranged between and on top of stacks of books, scrolls, and other paperwork. His attire, cherry-red by day, now looked as dark and dreary as an old bloodstain by night.

“It’s what we are. At least, it’s what we will be, provided you ever set this whole thing in motion. At this rate, no one will ever know who we are or what we plan to do.”

“That’s the point, my friend. There will be no tipping of hands so long as I am tasked with coordinating our efforts.” Wes scooted his chair across the floor, the rough wooden legs making a faint rustling noise on the study’s carpet. “I will not involve the house in these affairs if I can avoid it - partially out of respect for those within its ranks, and partially because they would only slow our progress.”

He caught the other worgen’s motion in the corner of his eye as he joined him by the window, and the two simply basked in the view of Barrowfield’s darkened landscape for several moments. Finally, the inspector added, “You don’t spend much time in your true form these days, Argyle.”

Sensing the unspoken inquiry at the end of that seemingly-innocuous statement, Wes responded first with a small, bitter smile. “The transformation has grown taxing over the years, old friend. I claim some degree of responsibility for being so liberal with shape-changing in combat back then, but my body simply can’t handle the stress like it used to... that, and it wears on my mind.”

His last comment caught the worgen’s attention more than the others. “Don’t tell me you’re going to wind up like Rage.”

“I can’t guarantee that I won’t. Still, we wound up setting him free in Silverpine Forest. As far as I know, he’s still hunting and roaming the woods up north, just like the wolves he fought so hard to emulate. You can’t tell me that’s not a relatively decent fate.”

Both fell silent for a few more moments. Once again, it was the inspector who broke that silence. “What happened to you, Wes? I fear for your sanity.”

Wes exhaled slowly, giving himself time to mull over possible answers. What was he to say? He certainly didn’t have a tidy conclusion laying around for occasions when people asked that question - it wasn’t all about inherited psychoses, his all-encompassing hatred for the undead, or even his growing lack of balance between human and bestial behaviors. It was more than that. The answer was somewhere out there in the blackness between stars, in the realms that no mortal imagination could breach. It could only be found in the cold embrace of the Void, the embrace that Wes himself had grifted and cheated to the point that he was incessantly haunted by its desire to reclaim what he had stolen from it.

He could have said any of those things, or all of them, to a companion as trusted as the inspector. Instead, he settled for saying, “I found my purpose. This is what we will do, old friend: we will build our empire one soul at a time. We will become masters of our fate. We will do what needs to be done to unite the peoples of this land and all others for the sake of our survival.”

Wes turned to face the somber visage of the worgen beside him. “The Burning Legion has shown us the importance of unity. The Alliance cannot win this war on its own, and no man or nation is strong enough to withstand the horrors that await. That is why we must bring Azeroth together.”

He smiled once more - lips thin, eyes blazing, and features contorted with malice for the briefest of moments. “That is why I must rule.”

And thus I clothe my naked villainy

With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ;

And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

-- William Shakespeare, Richard III

[freeversevoidform-blog]

The Savagery of Hubris

Wes watched the kal’dorei woman’s arm bend at an unnatural angle, and a deep part of his soul stirred at the sound of her tendons and muscles snapping apart. Her skin, normally a light shade of violet, turned pale white as the blood drained from her face. To her credit, she didn’t cry out - she bore the full force of the blow and simply fell to her knees before the victor of the fight.

Her aggressor, a large worgen with grey streaks marring his otherwise-unified coat of black fur, grabbed her good arm and pulled her upright again. “Good show, Fibius,” he said, “but you’ll have to be quicker than that.”

“Thank you.” The elf bowed slightly, and before they could press their conversation any further, Wes padded away, heading back up toward the cave near the top of the waterfall. This was home - the Moonrage Pack, his own kind, would be his future. He was sure of it.

He made his way up the rocky path, guiding his steps with tree branches and stray boulders when balance alone was inadequate. A trio of other worgen lay lounging around near the cave entrance, lazily acknowledging his approach. Instead of going inside, he posted up on a small outcropping overlooking the surrounding woods - the waterfall erupting into the vicious whirlpool down below, the trees swaying as if in fear of the approaching nightfall. Darkshore seemed to have a mysterious mixture of unnatural calm and otherworldly danger hovering over it, likely due to the world still reeling from the effects of the Cataclysm. It was more than that, though; every now and again, whispered snatches of sinister voices came on the breeze and made him look over his shoulder, only to find that no one was speaking.

One of the other worgen walked up quietly, and he didn’t notice her until she was already next to him. “Are you okay?”

Wes grunted before offering a reply. “It’s the elf. I don’t know why Elder Rage insists on allowing those smoothskins into the pack. They’re so fragile - they don’t know how to take punishment.”

The female was younger than Wes, but she almost matched his size. Malnourishment had not been kind to him, so he hardly cut an imposing figure himself. “I’m sure he has good reasons for what he does. He may be crazy, but he’s still smart.”

He fell silent for a few moments. There was no denying that Rage’s behavior had been growing increasingly erratic lately, but Wes wasn’t about to question his leader and mentor in front of the rest of the pack, let alone his adopted sister. “Have some faith in him, Alia. He’s one of us, and therefore, he’s not the one we have to worry about. I just don’t agree with his decision to start letting non-gifted ones into the pack.”

Alia leaned closer and rested against his shoulder, and out of habit, Wes placed his hand on her back in a protective gesture. “Stay near me, dear sister. No matter what happens, I will guard you with my life. We’re not as fragile as the smoothskins.”

With that, he began to pull her toward the cave, his back turned on the wounded world beneath them.