the-redmane-family

[the-redmane-family]

Pale Spring

I

“As for you, my sister… Bash’a no falor talah!”

Melinda Redmane spoke only passable Thalassian, having encountered enough of the children of Quel’Thalas in her travels, but she knew the meaning of those particular words as the ren’dorei priestess seated on the other side of the table from her uttered them: Taste the chill of true death.

In the center of that round, carved oak table sat a dark glass orb that the red-haired human rogue had come to despise in a very short span of time. It was nearly identical to the one that she had grown up watching her mother—Patricia Redmane, the Westfall-born witch—peer into, and even the memories of her mother’s behavior, the trances, the visions, the whispers, the seizures, the beatings, turned her stomach. Even now, she could hear faint whispers as the thing’s power was invoked.

The human and the ren’dorei were not alone in the dimly lit, single-room dwelling on the outskirts of the deep forest. At the table also sat the Night’s Watchman, Quincey Holmwood, the serious yet kind-hearted man who had revealed few details about his past in the days since they left Duskwood, journeying first through Darkshire and then making their way to book passage on a seabound ship which took them here, to the mountainous Kul Tiran region of Drustvar.

“Is that it, then?” a gruff voice spoke from across the room where a fourth sat, hunched forward and seated in one of two chairs at a small dining table.

This was their host, the man who had welcomed them upon their arrival. His fiery red hair and full beard sported an impressive amount of silver and grey hairs as well, and although his rugged face was lined with age and evidence of one who had seen their fair share of combat, his eyes were kind, and his question was posed in a cautious, hesitant tone as if he did not wish to break the ren’dorei’s concentration.

For several seconds, the ren’dorei held her hand over the dark globe, her fingers curled slightly as if guiding some spellwork. Melinda watched her face intently as the priestess’s silvery eyes remained closed in intense concentration. Then the woman leaned back, and slowly the whispers in the air dissipated. Melinda was glad for it.

“Yes, Ciarán,” Vizjerei Duskmourn replied, her calm, commanding voice belying a hint of the exhaustion that came from focusing such potent magic. “It’s done.”

Quincey let out a slow sigh through his mouth that was barely audible, as if his entire being had been taut with concentration and was only now relaxing. “So, what happens now? Is your sister and her allies—are they dead?”

Vizjerei shook her head grimly. “I do not know. My sister is nothing if not persistent. She has survived worse.”

Melinda reached across the table, taking the priestess’s delicate and yet dexterous elven hands in her own. It was almost an impulse that seized her; and yet, despite the uncertain fear she felt at this woman’s presence, there was an inexplicable sense of comfort, of wanting to be near her.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Vizjerei looked back into Melinda’s eyes. Although the ren’dorei did not smile, her words were spoken softly, as if she could detect the need for reassurance. “I am fine, Melinda. Get some rest.”

“If they’re not dead, they’ll be looking for us. We’ll need to prepare for that. You’re not worried Terquine will lead them back here?” Quincey’s spoke confidently, but the unease in his question was palpable. “I swore an oath to protect you from the Forsaken. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

“The forest won’t tolerate their presence,” the man named Ciarán said as he stood and moved toward the small countertop that passed as a stove. He was a large man, just over six feet and a few inches tall, clad in the fur-lined garments commonly worn by the mysterious order of druids that Melinda knew inhabited these woods.

“Life and death are a cycle. They’re balanced. The undead… are not a part of that cycle.” As he spoke, Ciarán peered out of the small window over the countertop and rubbed his left arm thoughtfully, as if remembering old wounds. “I suppose I’m fated to meet that sister of yours again. I don’t look forward to it.”

The elven priestess remained seated at the table, peering at the black orb silently for a moment. Then she declared, “Such considerations can wait until morning. The Scarlet Lion will want to bring the full might of his mercenary company to begin the work of helping to Alliance cleanse the Horde from Drustvar. We must aid him.”

Then Vizjerei stood, her eyes traveling between the three humans in the room with her. “But for now, let us rest.”

II

Overhead, a sea of stars hung like a heavy tapestry woven into the sky. The chilly, frosty air cut deeply and to the bone even in the early days of spring, and Melinda shivered as she stood clad in several jackets and wrapped in one of the thick blankets that Ciarán had offered her. As she stood peering upward, her breath visible, she wondered if her mother was looking back. She wondered where her mother was, if her mother was anywhere at all—if anything happened to the dead, or if without interference, they simply ceased to be anything more than the ghosts that haunted every backroad of her troubled memories.

Behind her the door to the small cottage opened, and she could hear heavy boots falling upon the wooden planks of the porch. A moment later, Ciarán spoke.

“Thought you might like some tea,” he offered, and as the older Kul Tiran man stepped out and alongside her, Melinda was glad to see steam rising from the mug that was being extended toward her. She smiled half-heartedly as she accepted it.

“Thanks, Mister Ashgrove,” she said, but she felt as if her words rang hollow. Her entire being was consumed with doubt over why she had come.

“Please. Ciarán.” The taller man stood next to her, looking up at the star-spotted night. “The nights are always the most beautiful this time of year.”

“Yeah?” Melinda’s Westfall accent was a stark contrast to Ciarán’s lilting, seaside Kul Tiran way of speaking.

“It’s the last days of winter, and the first days of spring. Death passes to life. The whole land is preparing to wake up. There’s nothing more beautiful to me than seeing life renewed, and remembering that with every death, there’s also a life. But without death to remind us, we’d forget the true beauty of life.” Ciarán kept his eyes upturned, slowly raising the mug of tea to his mouth to take a careful sip.

Melinda gave him a quizzical look as she cupped her own tea between her pale hands. “You’re too much of a poet to have ever been a soldier,” she muttered.

Ciarán laughed as he sipped. “So soldiers can’t be poets as well?”

The red-haired rogue rolled her eyes even as she smiled. “I haven’t met many who were both, that’s all.”

“Then you haven’t met enough,” he quipped.

For several seconds, the two stood in silence as they watched the stars. Melinda’s thoughts turned again to her mother. To her death. What had she felt at the end? Had she ever felt any remorse for her actions? How could there be any beauty in her death, except that the world was finally rid of her?

I will show you the reason why her death haunts you. Vizjerei’s words to her echoed in her mind, and Melinda shifted uncomfortably at the recollection. 

“I don’t know why I came here,” she blurted out abruptly.

Ciarán looked down at her. “Because you chose to,” the Kul Tiran replied simply.

Melinda shook her head. “I needed to give Miss Duskmourn her… that thing back. That thing that my mother stole. I needed it away from me, forever. If I’d’ve left it there, in Westfall, it would’ve always been a part of me—sitting there in the farmstead I grew up in. I knew if I left it there, I’d never be rid of her.”

“So you chose to bring it back.”

“It didn’t feel like much of a choice.”

“Neither do many things. And yet still, we choose to do them. Why?” He chuckled, looking up at the sky. “Because some things need to be done.”

Both fell silent for a moment. Then Melinda breathed in slowly and exhaled, letting the breath pass through her nostrils. “I’ve never much cared for what needed to be done except what I needed to do to survive.”

Ciarán looked over at her. “You don’t think this has anything to do with that?”

“What’s it got to do with that? This is Miss Duskmourn and her sister. Terquine and his vendetta. This doesn’t concern me. She dragged you into it, too—and Quincey, and—”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with me?” Ciarán returned. “With Quincey? Miss Redmane—Melinda—it’s got everything to do with all of us.”

Melinda raised an eyebrow at him.

“Some battles need to be fought.” His kind face was set in a very serious expression. “I remember what it was like to fight in the Third War. To fight the Lich King. Kul Tiras hadn’t been invaded yet, only Lordaeron. But we were prepared to die in that war if we needed to. Because if we didn’t die on the battlefield, at sea, fighting the undead, we would’ve died eventually. Arthas and his master weren’t going to stop with Lordaeron. They wanted the whole world to burn.”

Melinda cupped her tea in front of her, still staring up at the stars as Ciarán spoke. She knew his point even before he made it; and yet, even in the truth she knew the man was speaking, she couldn’t help but wonder if someone else had once spoken words like these to her mother to convince her to follow the teachings she did. Conviction, above all things, impressed and terrified the woman.

“This is just a microcosm,” Ciarán continued. “These battles. This war will be fought on all fronts. No matter where we go, we have to oppose her.” The man’s tone darkened as his words turned to the Horde’s warchief. “Because if Sylvanas and her minions win, that’s it. No more winter, no more spring. No more rebirth… only undeath.”

The pair fell silent. Melinda did not answer, and standing on the frost-touched ground at the edge of the deep forest where Ciarán’s kin the Thornspeakers made their dwelling, Melinda attempted to find what little solace she could in the hot mug of tea in her hands and the reassuring flintlock pistol at her side.

[the-redmane-family]

In the Woods Somewhere

I

Amongst her mother’s possessions, she found many useless things. Useless, that was, to her. To her mother, of course, each item told a different story, the mute companions that had watched summer turn to fall, and the onset of an inevitable winter. Patricia Redmane had not been a kind woman, but these keepsakes and baubles did not do her the disservice of speaking ill things in the aftermath of her departure.

They were destined instead to preside over her aging husband as he faced the final years of his life alone: husband to a dead wife, father to an errant daughter. Melinda tucked the unspoken regrets away as she now did the small parcel. Nestled within the pointless detritus of her mother’s dark, surreptitious dealings, there was only one thing she cared for. One thing that could ever make her return to this vacant place.

The item she’d been sent to retrieve.

Her father sat in the other room, a nearly empty bottle of gin his only companion as he stared half-lidded at the dust motes circling aimlessly in the beams of the late afternoon sun.

“I’m leaving again, daddy,”  Melinda said, standing by the doorway. She’d put her traveling coat on again, buckled and laced her boots, as if she expected no more than a simple goodbye.

Jerome Redmane looked up, toward the stranger who now stood in the farmhouse’s large foyer, his daughter who had become all but unrecognizable to him over the course of her thirty-something years. Already, the house seemed to welcome decay. He said nothing.

Melinda stared for a moment and then turned off, exiting without another word as she stepped out into the breeze sweeping across the plains of Westfall. She clutched the small parcel close, and as the twisting knot of dread in her stomach began to reform, she turned her eyes off toward the tall trees of Duskwood.

You’re my daughter, Melinda. Her mother’s words echoed in her head. It’s in your blood. This is in your blood. Don’t you ever think to deny it.

The red-haired woman closed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath of home one last time. Then she began to walk, silently bearing her treasure away, back to the one it was taken from so long ago.

She would find what she sought in the woods somewhere.

II

Melinda made the trek across Westfall over the course of the next day and without incident. To one who had known those fields and backroads intimately for many years, who had spent her youngest days amongst its tall wheat stalks, piled hay bales, and sun-baked soil, navigating the terrain was almost second nature. Not that any Defias cutpurse or gnoll raiders would’ve rattled her; she had crossed blades in enough late night brawls and barroom duels with many more that would easily be their betters, even as the rum-haze had muddied her vision and judgment.

The real dread of Westfall came in the form of her mother’s ghost that she now cradled in the small parcel. It was a reminder that some things could not stay buried forever; as far as she had run from the dark deeds of her parentage, here she was again.

As she crossed over the bridge into Duskwood, the sun on her back, she didn’t bother to pause or turn. There was nothing left there for her to see. The cobblestone road stretched out interminably beneath the fading trees, and Melinda Redmane followed it.

Night had already seemed to fall over the forest, despite the sun that still managed to pierce a bit of this land which had once been called Brightwood. The mist-laden trees seemed to stare unwelcomingly at her as she walked on, further and further, until night came in earnest. Passing by on her left, the fires of a small encampment in the abandoned town of Raven Hill reached out with indifferent hospitality.

A shiver ran through her body. Melinda gritted her teeth, placing one foot in front of the other. The prize she carried in her pack had awoken.

You’re not here anymore, mama, the red-haired woman thought coolly. Nothing you can say is real anymore.

I’ll always be a part of you. This time, the voice was not a memory. It was real, and it spoke icy words in the dark of the evening, despite Melinda being alone on the road. You’re my daughter. How many times do I have to remind you of that?

You don’t have to do anything anymore, mama. You’re dead, and my hatred for you died a long time ago. I’m at peace now.

At peace? The voice of Patricia Redmane cooed mockingly. Sweet child, you’re anything but at peace. You’re taking me back to that witch.

You’re the witch, Melinda snapped back. You stole from her. You brought the troubles on yourself.

And you’ll only bring more by taking me back to her.

It’s the only way to undo what you did.

She’ll pull you in. You won’t be able to stop what’s coming. I’ve seen where this path takes you, and I’ll tell you now: how it ends isn’t pretty.

Melinda suddenly realized she was walking in a huff now, her boots thumping against the cobblestone road angrily as she went. How long had she been walking for? She stopped, looking around at the trees… and then spotted the familiar pathway that led off through the trees.

She stopped, willing her mind to be silent. The voice of her mother had stopped—no, the voice of whatever that thing was had stopped. Her mother was dead, and she was not coming back.

III

The road had been gloomy, but without the aid of the rusted lanterns’ flames, the forest was nigh submerged in inky darkness. Carefully Melinda moved through the night, steadily winding her way along the hidden (but not too hidden) path that led through the trees and into the shadows.

Suddenly, from up ahead, an awful noise sounded through the trees: a low growl that quickly grew into an enraged roar, and as quickly as it began, it ceased. In the blackness, the cry guttered out as if cut short by some predator.

Melinda froze. The noises of the forest continued unabated, but her approach was now colored with fear. One foot after the other, the red-haired woman crept along the path until she could see through the trees what she knew she would find: her destination. A small cottage, and from inside the tarnished windows, the flicker of candles. If she could make it to the front door—

Another noise suddenly broke her train of thought, but not one so jarring as the cry of whatever beast had screamed. This noise crept from the background of the forest sounds until, after several seconds of consideration, Melinda realized what she was listening to.

Chewing.

Slowly, she turned her head in the direction of the noise and lifted herself from the crouched position she’d dropped into. Peering through the leaves and tall bushes, she could barely make out the form of some hunched creature as it feasted on the corpse of its kill.

Something was wrong about it. The animal it was eating was not quite an animal. Sprawled out in a frightening final repose, the corpse revealed itself to be that of a worgen, his snout leaking blood as the claws of his right hand pointed skyward. And whatever had killed him, whatever was eating him now, didn’t resemble an animal at all. It looked instead like a person. It looked like it was wearing—

As if on cue, the killer stood, drawing itself up to its full height. A human silhouette.

In an instant, Melinda realized what she was looking at, just as the killer turned to face her. What might have been a beautiful woman in life stared back at Melinda, her sickly green face speckled with rot and her mouth and jaw stained black from the gore of the worgen she had been eating. Gleaming yellow eyes gazed at the red-haired woman with unbridled intensity. A split second later, the undead woman’s left hand shot up, and from the compact crossbow she now held, a soft snap sounded as a shot was fired off.

The bolt zinged past Melinda’s head, embedding itself in a tree behind her. The red-haired rogue did not need another prompting; she darted out from the bushes, tearing down what remained of the path toward the cottage’s small front door.

Melinda had barely gone ten feet before she felt herself tripping. Her jaw slammed into the leaf-laden forest floor, the taste of dirt and blood filling her mouth as she clumsily swore and immediately rolled over to reach for the knife in her boot.

That was when she looked down and saw the bolas wrapped tightly around her booted feet. An instant later, the armor-clad undead woman was on top of her, a long hunting knife placed to her throat.

“Not so fast,” her assailant breathed, and Melinda nearly gagged at the stench emitting from the woman’s mouth: rotten flesh mingled with fresh blood and Light knew what else.

“Go to hell,” Melinda spat, her eyes ablaze with defiance as one hand lay aside in the dirt. She had spotted the hilt of another blade protruding from the Forsaken’s boot. Great minds think alike, she thought wildly, and immediately began to formulate a plan of action.

The Forsaken woman only tilted her head in reply, giving Melinda a tight-lipped smile. “Too late,” came her reply. She spoke with a soft accent that sounded Lordaeronian, and her dark hair was partially held back by a set of rider’s goggles she wore, now pushed up onto her head. Her mouth and chin were still soaked in the dark red of the worgen’s blood, and several droplets dripped onto Melinda’s face.

Melinda’s eyes darted toward the cottage door, and it was then that she realized that in falling, she had dropped her pack. It now lay open, the precious contents exposed. Her assailant’s head turned quickly, following her gaze to the pack.

The rogue wasted no time. Just as the Forsaken’s head turned, she grabbed the dagger in her attacker’s boot. It came free of its sheath effortlessly, and she slashed at the arm holding the knife to her throat, failing to pierce the undead woman’s armor but swatting away the force that held her down. Melinda rolled to the side, forcing herself up to her knees.

Just as she whipped her arm around to slash the bolas holding her legs together, she saw the Forsaken woman’s foot fly toward her hand that held the knife, kicking the weapon out of her grip with expert precision. Melinda had seen kicks like that before. This woman was no ordinary cutthroat. Her movements gave her away: she was a soldier of some kind, a trained fighter. It didn’t make any sense. What were the Forsaken doing so far south?

A hard kick to her back disrupted her thoughts once more as Melinda was forced face-first into the ground where she continued to lay, lifting her head and gazing in defiance at her pack which lay open before the cottage doorway. Only now, the doorway was open, and two figures stood watching them. Melinda spat a lump of bloody saliva into the dirt, her mind still racing. In frustration she cursed her lack of foresight; she hadn’t bothered to bring her cutlass or flintlock pistol. If she’d had the pistol, she thought, she would have been able to blast the Forsaken’s pretty dead face to smithereens. Silence fell over the scene as Melinda lay on the forest floor, breathing hard.

“Enough,” she heard one of the figures in the doorway say. The voice was a smooth, commanding female voice.

“She brought it,” the Forsaken woman replied.

“Of course she did, Emelye.” The speaker moved from the doorway to where Melinda lay, as if unconcerned with the opened pack nearby. Instead, she knelt beside the red-haired rogue, lifting the woman’s bruised chin with one delicate, dextrous elven hand.

Melinda looked up into the woman’s pale, silvery eyes, eyes which flickered with a dark light. She forcibly attempted to slow her breathing as she felt someone, presumably the Forsaken woman called Emelye, untying the bolas that bound her legs together. The lump of dread in her stomach, forgotten in the midst of her adrenaline, had returned. She remembered the voice, the voice that had impersonated her mother.

I’ve seen where this path takes you, and I’ll tell you now: how it ends isn’t pretty.

The ren’dorei woman smiled darkly. “Welcome back, Melinda,”

Melinda sat up, her legs now untied, and looked back over her shoulder. The other figure that had been standing in the doorway was a man who looked to be Melinda’s age, clad in the armor of the Night Watch, Darkshire’s somber militia. He moved toward the discarded pack, picking it up and taking care to make sure that its contents were safe within. From a dozen or so feet away, Emelye watched him carefully, the long hunting knife still held in one armored hand.

Fueled by frustration and confusion at the appearance of this new interloper, Melinda forced herself to her feet, meeting the void elf’s gaze determinedly.

“Hello again, Miss Duskmourn.”

IV

The foursome moved into the small cottage after Emelye dragged the worgen’s corpse into a shallow grave nearby. Melinda didn’t understand what had driven the woman to kill it, let alone tear into it like it was a piece of chicken-fried steak—but that was the way of the Forsaken. The armored undead woman filled the small cottage with the sickly sweet stench of earthy decay, along with a strong chemical odor. Melinda guessed that it was some kind of embalming fluid, designed to keep the woman’s body from falling too rapidly into decomposition. Her companions seemed not to notice, but Melinda breathed through her mouth. It was almost unbearable.

The Night Watchman, who had given his name as Quincey Holmwood, stood near the fireplace with Melinda’s prize, the last remaining memory of Patricia Redmane, cradled in his gloved hands. It was a dark, glassy orb that almost seemed to reach out and absorb the nearby light from the hearth. Within the center of the blackness, a soft emerald light flickered.

“The taint of the fel,” he said. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“I don’t know if Miss Duskmourn told you, Watcher Holmwood, but my mama was a witch,” Melinda admitted begrudgingly. “She wanted to use that thing for her coven’s own purposes. Fancied herself a kind of prophet. What’s all that power and manipulation good for now?” She stared bitterly at the dark orb.

“I will deal with the taint,” the elven woman said grimly. She crossed the room to the hearth where Quincey stood, her dusky, silver-threaded robes whispering across the floorboards. “We have other matters to address.” Duskmourn then looked toward Emelye.

“He’ll have surmised you’re on the move.” The Forsaken ranger leaned against the far wall, her arms folded across her chest. “It will not stay his hand. He’s been speaking with your sister. She claims to have returned from Kul Tiras to seek the help of apothecaries in the field,” Emelye said, shaking her head. “But I’ve guessed her real purpose. She has spent several nights in his office, not departing until foredawn. They’re planning something. He’s coming for you.”

Melinda looked toward Emelye, and then back at the elven woman. “Who’s coming for you?”

Duskmourn extended a hand toward Quincey, taking the ominously black orb from him and wrapping it in a dark cloth before placing it on a nearby table. She looked back at the Forsaken woman. “Then I suppose, Emelye, that our time is over.”

Melinda thought she saw the faintest hint of regret, of some deeper sadness, cross the mail-clad ranger’s face. If she did, Emelye’s voice did not betray it, and the woman simply answered with, “I suppose it is.”

Slowly, Duskmourn turned, moving toward the ranger until she was in front of the woman. She lifted a hand and offered a small item that Melinda could not see from where she sat. Emelye looked down at the void elf’s palm for a moment, and then back into her eyes. Quickly she took what was offered, and tucked it away in a small parcel at her hip.

“Farewell, Emelye Darkmar, who was once called Nesterova,” Duskmourn said, a touch of sadness entering her own voice. “Go in strength, and in the Shadow’s graces. For darkness will flow between us, and it may be that we shall not meet again,” she continued, almost as if reciting some text, “unless it be far hence upon a road that has no returning.”

The armored undead woman stared back for a moment. She had not bothered to clean the blood from her earlier feast of worgen off her chin, but now in this moment, she seemed to realize as much. With the back of one hand, she hastily wiped at the drying gore until much of it came off onto her glove. In this moment, Melinda thought, she almost looked human again; the rot and the greenish tint of her skin remained, but the eyes that stared out were genuine, and looked just as intense and determined as they had when Melinda first saw her.

“Goodbye, Vizjerei Duskmourn.” It seemed as if she wanted to say more, but after several seconds, Emelye moved to the front door in silence and quickly disappeared into the night.

Melinda looked at Vizjerei worriedly. “Who’s coming for you, Miss Duskmourn?” she repeated.

“Quincey,” Vizjerei said, once more ignoring the question and moving toward a small bundle in the corner, which looked to be an assortment of items she intended to take from the sparsely furnished dwelling. “We must leave at once.”

Quincey wordlessly moved with her, collecting some of the supplies. Melinda was nonplussed.

“Leave? I’ve only just gotten here. Where are you going now? I came here for your help, not to see you off. And definitely not to be left behind, either.”

“Easy there, friend,” the man said. “No one’s leaving anyone behind.”

Vizjerei turned, giving Melinda a strained smile. “Quincey is right. I intend to help you, Melinda, but you must help me first. We have a long journey ahead of us. We will stop in Darkshire. Sarah has agreed to furnish us with what supplies can be spared.”

“Watcher Ladimore’s a good woman,” Quincey said as he strapped his sword to his belt. “She helped Darkshire get back on its feet after that business with the Veiled Hand. We lost too many good men and women to the Legion.” He looked at Melinda, and then glanced at Vizjerei. “I’m not about to lose one more to the Forsaken.”

The red-haired rogue gritted her teeth. “A long journey to where?”

“Along the western coast of Kul Tiras, there lies an old forest in a land called Drustvar. An order of druids lives there,” Vizjerei explained, a soft smile growing on her face. “One among them is a very old friend and pupil of mine. We will go to him.”

“Fine,” Melinda said, looking again toward where the orb now sat wrapped in its dark shawl. You won’t be able to stop what’s coming.

“Take your mother’s legacy with you, Melinda,” Vizjerei said. “You have borne this burden hence; now you must bear it a little further. When we arrive at our destination, I will show you the reason why her death haunts you.”

“Nothing haunts me,” Melinda retorted. “All I want are the answers.”

Quincey looked between the two women. “We’d best be getting on. It’s still a ways to Darkshire, if you intend for us to be there before dawn.”

Vizjerei nodded. “Then we will leave. Come, Melinda.” She extended a hand, and after a moment of defiant reluctance, Melinda moved to her side.

“Good thing I didn’t have anywhere else to be,” the red-haired rogue remarked sarcastically.

For all of Melinda’s outward confidence, the small knot in her stomach remained. As the three left the small cottage, she looked back at its now darkened windows, for Quincey had extinguished the fire and the candles before leaving. She would be free, but not without a fight, it seemed. The dreadful twisting in her stomach reminded her always of the orb she carried, and of the hold her mother’s memory still had on her.

It would not let her go just yet.

[the-redmane-family]

Frostheart

A chilling wind gusted through the small, snow-laden vale at dusk as the distant cold sun began to sink over the western horizon. The clouds circling overhead provided a light dusting of snow uncommon for this time of year, a harsh reminder of winter even as summer crept ever closer. In this secluded location, deep in the Alterac Mountains, a small frozen lake slept soundly beneath the unseasonable cold.

At the edge of the glacial covering, a solitary woman stood, a pale blue and purple dot that almost seemed to merge with the twilight cerulean of the lakeside snow. As Thea Redmane stood alone, she held her wedding ring in the palm of her left hand, tracing the runic markings upon the band lovingly. Tenderly.

Greedily. Hungrily.

Just three days past, she had bound her Scourged husband’s soul within the confines of the small gemstone set into the band. It had been a slow, methodical project, to fashion such a secure prison out of something so small. Long nights had passed in the confines of her study, poring over forbidden texts that she had recovered from the ruins of Dalaran. Books penned by authors whose names had long since been stricken from the histories of the magocratic order; scholars and sorcerers that delved too deeply into the depraved art of necromancy, and for their hubris, had paid the price of forfeiting all that would have been their legacy.

One name, however, remained forever etched into the memory of Dalaran, whether the mages would have it or not. One scholar whose writings, no matter how profane, could not be contained or erased. Even here, she sensed the faint echo of his passage. Leaving the order that she had once counted herself among, and some years after that, returning at the heel of his king. A faithful servant whose reward had been power beyond reckoning.

But this place, my love. This place is for you and I, now.

Thea closed her hand over the ring and turned, facing away from the lake, casting her eyes off down a large snow embankment that led through a winding mountain pass. Her gleaming yellow eyes knew this place; they had kept silent vigil over its snow-covered stones for years. A body divided from a soul. As Thea turned again, she beheld the weathered rock of a mountainside… and a great frozen waterfall. This waterfall would remain frozen perhaps eternally, for it had been made to freeze not by the weather of the world, but by the twisted magic of a death knight in pursuit of his quarry. In pursuit of her, Thea the Bright, the last act of a desperate woman as she fled the wreckage of the caravan she had been charged with protecting. She grimaced at the memory as she strode toward the ice-bound waterfall.

The remembrance of the death knight’s magic ripping her soul from her body did nothing to slow her advance as she stepped lightly across the frozen water, toward what appeared to be an empty grave dug into the densely packed ice. The ice here had been made to freeze so deeply and so thoroughly that any liquid water only existed more than several feet beneath the surface. Thea stopped as she reached the grave’s edge.

It was quite large—too large to have been dug for a human. Of course, the ice had only been sundered once, and not to place anything within the grave, but to remove its contents. Thea had not been alone that day, so many years ago, when she had perished freezing and alone. Another had followed her to the same fate, entombed in a crystalline prison of death. One called—

“Frostheart.”

The word left Thea’s mouth as if to herald the arrival of the clomping hooves that now clacked across the thick ice behind her. Slowly she turned to look upon the skeletal visage of her faithful warhorse, its tattered barding arrayed in hues of purple and blue that matched her own robes. She reached up with one hand, running her delicate fingers down the horse’s skinless, furless muzzle.

I am dying, Thea, spoke a voice from the past, that of the legendary Andromath. She closed her eyes, thinking back to that moment in the venerable archmage’s study.

You can’t die, Shal. You’re one of the most gifted archmages I know. We’ll find a cure for this sickness. Dalaran is the heart of all human learning.

The archmage had shaken his head, gesturing as if to refuse the chance at more life. I can die, and I will. I must. I have lived through so many lives of men. It has been a long life. A good life. I have learned much, and taught many. I know that I can go to my rest with nothing to regret. It must be this way.

The tears had welled up in Thea’s eyes. Even as Shal had spoken the words, she had known them to ring true; perhaps truer than anything he’d ever said to her.

Always trust in love, Thea. My brightest, my best. You are the daughter that I should have had. Alas, it was not so, but I am grateful to have instructed you. Please, do not mourn with my passing. Only smile in my memory. A warm embrace had followed, as Shal had hugged his most beloved student one final time. Look after your husband, and your niece. And keep hounding Ainsworth to finish his research. I fear that he’ll become too productive without someone to keep him grounded.

There had been a twinkle in the old man’s eye as he spoke of their mutual friend, and the two had shared a laugh through tears before the elderly man beckoned her outside to the stables. Come. There is something I must show you.

Flameheart. Thea could still hear the wonderment in her voice. Your war-steed. You cannot give me this honor. With all my heart, I don’t deserve this.

Shal had led the brilliantly white horse over by the bit as the great animal followed dutifully. The stallion’s deep, intelligent eyes had met hers with something akin to a solemn understanding. A shared sadness at the imminent departure of the man whom they both cherished so dearly.

That is why he will pass to you, dear Thea. You are my greatest achievement. Yes, even as I take credit for that which is not mine to take credit for. Greater than any spell, of more value than the most precious gems or crystals, more powerful than all of the arcane energy in the cosmos… is love. The love, the goodness that you have inside you. Never lose sight of it.

The band of the wedding ring burned coldly against Thea’s dead hand as she clutched it close to her breast. The undead horse stood beside her, studying her.

“Flameheart, you once were,” she said, bringing her face close to the skeletal muzzle. “But the fire of life is no longer within you. Just as it is not in me.” The mage whispered harshly as a cold wind blew through her hair. “Now,” she whispered, “you are Frostheart. Your heart is frozen, your blood still. Just… like… mine.” Slowly she kissed the grey, bony muzzle.

Thea looked down at her palm again, and then slipped the wedding ring onto her finger as she studied it, tracing the runes once more. She smiled darkly.

“Thea the Bright,” she said, climbing atop the horse’s back, turning the reins toward the pass which led north, through the Plaguelands and back to the Undercity. “So I was called, once.”

She looked down at her ring again. Inside, the soul of her husband writhed and twisted restlessly. The mage leaned down to speak to it, as if the man trapped within could hear her. “Do not fret, my love. I will find you a body. Very soon, we will hold each other once more. And none shall separate us—not now, not then, not ever again.”

Thea looked up, speaking to Frostheart. “Yes, Thea the Bright I was, but am no longer.” A twisted, determined smile bloomed upon her dead, immaculately preserved face. “I am Thea the Damned. Who has loved as greatly as I have? Who could even begin to imagine all I have endured? Woe to they that stand in my way, and woe to those who oppose me.”

[the-redmane-family]

The Sisters’ Lament

[ This is a short story I wrote recently to offer a glimpse into the relationship between two of my characters—the Void Elf priestess Vizjerei Duskmourn, and her older sister, the High Elf death knight Jadyss Duskmourn. It’s a strained relationship, to say the least. Enjoy! ]

The night waxed on as the elven woman knelt in silence beside a tepid pool of rainwater that had gathered in the cathedral transept, accumulating in a small crater-like depression in the stonework before the smashed altar. Her pale, lavender skin seemed almost to glow in the moonlight that washed in through the mostly collapsed roof of the ancient building as she studied the frayed, aged piece of cloth in her hands.

A steady river of thought ran through her mind as she contemplated the golden lion and royal blue dye, both of which had faded considerably, washed away by years of rain and the inevitable passage of time that had befallen this forgotten place. Looking up at the night sky, at the moon now encircled by dark clouds, Vizjerei Duskmourn closed her eyes. A single drop of precipitation landed on her face, rolling down her unblemished cheek as the moonlight upon her dusky hair accentuated the subtle streaks of silver that ran through it.

The Alliance of Lordaeron, it had once been called. Once, she had tended to its wounded, even as she preached to them the benevolence of the Light… and its intrinsic duality. The inseparable nature of another deity that the Church of the Holy Light had forbidden its priesthood from studying. The path to knowledge that one had finally dared walk, one whom Vizjerei had chosen to follow. After long centuries that the elf had spent quietly delving into the mysteries of the Shadow, it had been Natalie Seline to finally proclaim such teachings boldly. Humans, she had thought with no small measure of wonderment. Ever does their kind reveal the majesty of the Shadow in creation. Forging their own destinies. Seizing the freedom that every soul in creation is owed. Remarkable in their potential, but the star that burns twice as bright burns half as long. And so they are cursed with half-lives, short lives, here for a time and then gone but for the impact they leave on this plane. So she had followed Seline, followed her here, carrying the word of her teachings to all who would listen… until the Azerothian bishop’s own star was extinguished.

As were the lives of the soldiers who had carried the banner she now held loosely. A relic of an age past, an age when the northern kingdoms rallied after the death of Anduin Lothar and drove Doomhammer’s Horde south to these mountains, in the shadow of the ill-fated Guardian’s tower, whereupon the orcs were pushed further still into the Black Morass and back to the hellish world from whence they came. But many had perished along the way, leaving traces of their passage. As Vizjerei looked down at the frayed banner, she felt the loss of each soul etched into its cloth. A sickly sweet melancholy swept over her, and the sparse drops of rain that landed on her face were now joined by a single tear that mingled seamlessly with the midnight droplets.

As she studied the banner, a sudden cold wind swept through the chapel, cold enough to chill even the priestess’ void-touched form. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stood, letting the old banner fall from her hands. It landed on the grimy stone, sprawled unceremoniously across the damp ground.

“I wondered when you would find me.” Vizjerei spoke without turning, her clear, commanding voice ringing out in the ruined chapel.

“You’re a creature of habit, little sister.” The woman’s voice that answered was similar in its commanding nature, but possessed an eerie echo. The elven priestess turned slowly, facing the speaker.

The form that appeared at the far end of the chapel bore some resemblance to the priestess standing before the altar, but it was several inches taller, possessing a thin figure whose height was perhaps accentuated by the sinister, spike- and skull-adorned armor she wore, upon which seemed to hang a mantle of frost. Her straight hair, as long as her sister’s, was a brilliant shock of icy white, contrasted against the blackened cloak that hung about her features, falling over her shoulders and clasped at her neck with two small metal skulls. The ebon cloak, as well as the metal of the elven woman’s armor, seemed alive with some malice. Her hair was only a few shades lighter than the face it framed—and if Vizjerei’s skin was said to be pale, the woman that now confronted her was nearly as white as the moon above, completely devoid of any life. In her right hand, pointed down and away from its wielder, a long and sickeningly sharp runeblade whispered malevolently in the dark.

“I bear you no ill will, Jadyss.” Vizjerei addressed the death knight calmly, even as the latter’s gaze fell upon her with a predatory intensity, like a hunter that had at last managed to corner its prey, savoring the final moments before the kill.

“Ill will,” Jadyss repeated, flashing a menacing smile at the priestess. Her fang-like incisors, a hallmark of certain elven lineages, had grown considerably since the last time the two had met, almost enough to descend past her lower lip as she grinned. “Do you really think I have any reason to care about what feelings you harbor toward me?”

The shadowy priestess folded her hands in front of her, studying the mockery of life that was once her sister. “I know what it is you’ve come for. You shall not have it. My life belongs to the Shadow. It is the Shadow’s to take, and the Shadow’s alone.”

“Your petty insistences will not stop the inevitable,” the death knight hissed. “I’ve longed for this moment for years untold. But my master bid me wait. So I waited.” She gritted her icy teeth through thin lips. “And then, just when I thought my chance may never come, I heard that you’d gone south. Returned to the very enemy of the ones I’d been sent to assist. To the Alliance—to this place you told me of, years ago. You asked me to come here once, dear sister, do you remember? I remember.” The words were spoken in a cruel whisper. “You mocked the power I had achieved. The magic I wielded. You snide, contemptible thing. Returning home only once every decade to pour derision on my accomplishments. I could have snuffed your life out then, and who would have cared, or even known?”

Vizjerei stood mute, watching Jadyss with an unwavering gaze. As the elder Duskmourn sister spoke, more raindrops landed on the blasted stone, in the pool that had formed in the crater-like depression of smashed masonry, the ripples of their impact softly radiating outward in the silent pond.

“But I didn’t. I let you live and I regret it every day.” Jadyss’ gaze narrowed. “No longer, though. No more will you lecture me about true understanding. I’ve tasted true strength, true power,” she said, taking an ominous step forward. “And you are not strong enough to resist it. This I promise you.”

The elven priestess did not move as her sister slowly advanced. “I have no power, Jadyss. I never have. I do not want power; I wish only to serve the Shadows. To allow them to use me as they will. I ask for their favor, and they answer me as they see fit.” Her voice did not waver as she spoke, and after a brief pause, she added, “The Shadows are strong in this place. You should not have come.”

Jadyss’ smile widened, becoming even more sinister as the full range of her icy white teeth was shown, the alabaster skin stretching beneath her cold, Scourge-lit eyes. She pressed her advance, ignoring Vizjerei’s warning, and as the death knight slowly made her way through the cathedral nave, the puddles of rainwater began to freeze, crunching beneath her saronite boots as the moment of her vengeance drew ever nearer. “Have no power? Oh, I doubt that. You’ve survived much. Still, you cannot even begin to imagine this dark gift,” she growled hungrily. “Perhaps I will share it with you, sister. Even after all this time, I would welcome you at my side. Leave this pathetic Alliance. Return to the Horde… return with me, and I will remake you.”

“Your loyalty to the Horde is as thin as the ice upon which you now walk,” Vizjerei said scornfully. “I have taught their peoples much, and now the Shadows have sent me back to the Alliance. I do not regret undertaking the journey with Umbric, for that is my purpose. To know the Shadow. To preach its tenets. But you,” The priestess’ eyes narrowed. “I know whom you serve. You still heed the voice of the Lich King.”

Jadyss continued her slow forward march as more raindrops fell upon the two elven women. “Oh, sister. For one who claims to know so much, you see so little. The Lich King is no longer the true enemy. He sent me to the Ebon Blade, to the Horde, to help them. Don’t you see?” She stopped, having closed nearly the half the distance between herself and Vizjerei. “You are the enemy.” The death knight’s twisted smile faded a bit, becoming more thoughtful as she spoke. “To vanquish one’s enemy is strength, yes. But to make an ally of them… to make them see the value in your cause…” The corners of her lips turned upward but her pale, blue frost-lit eyes remained cold, dead, mirthless and penetrating as they stared forward.

“You’re wrong. He will betray you, and you’ll be forced to choose. Which master then will you serve?” Vizjerei met her sister’s cold eyes with conviction.

“No, sister, it is you who serve. The Shadows. The Alliance. Come with me. Taste undeath. Taste true power.” The deathly echo in Jadyss’ voice seemed amplified in the impenetrable gloom as the clouds above began to obscure the moon. More rain began to fall. “The choice is yours, sister. Them, or me. Serve in heaven, or reign in hell.”

The silence that passed between the two was deafening. For a still moment that seemed to last an eternity, neither spoke as their gazes bored into each other. A distant crack of thunder sounded as raindrops pelted the desecrated cathedral.

Jadyss smiled again. “Then you shall die, and be forgotten. A nameless drudge in the army of the dead.” As the words left her mouth, she lifted her runeblade aloft with one hand, sending bolts of dark necromantic energy arcing outward from the jagged metal toward the dark ground. Almost instantly, skeletal hands shot up through the soil that had mingled with the rotten stonework. In other places, the stones themselves split apart as the bones of dead Alliance and Horde soldiers climbed upward with frightening quickness to invade the domain of the living. In a matter of seconds, half a dozen skeletal warriors stood beside the death knight. With the time for talk now past, Jadyss and her small army began to advance on the lone void elf with frightening quickness, moving in long strides as a gust of wind rippled through the smashed windowpanes, blowing the death knight’s white hair and black cloak out behind her.

Vizjerei closed her eyes, lowering her head. For a moment, it looked as if she were resigned to her fate, and Jadyss’ smile grew hungrier as the undead elf broke into a run. A second later, however, the younger Duskmourn looked back up, her eyes now open and pulsing with a starry black energy. She raised her arms and suddenly began to hover several inches off the ground. Almost instantly, the air inside the ruined cathedral seemed to warp and twist, as if the very fabric of reality itself had shifted. The ground lurched, and the death knight’s advance was stalled momentarily as she stumbled. Her skeletal minions flanked her, keeping pace with their master.

“You… have… NO… POWER… HERE, betrayer!” Vizjerei’s voice roared, shaking the ground once more as a storm of staticy dark energy swirled about her being. It swirled throughout the entire cathedral, tearing chunks of stone from the walls and throwing piles of debris in all directions. The rain was coming down in sheets now, but it too was blown away by the storm of void energy. Vizjerei’s skin had taken on the same starry blackness that shone in her eyes as she stared at her sister. Her very form seemed to pulse with shadow.

The skeletal minions that had risen were effortlessly smashed to pieces in the howling voidstorm, but as their bones were swept aside, they immediately seemed to fall into a sickening gravity well, swirling about their summoner’s plate-clad form and forming a protective outer shell which kept the shadowy energy at bay. In the eye of the twisted, seething ossuary, Jadyss slowly made her advance, fighting for every step as she nevertheless continued toward her sister. A glowing shell of green necromantic power circulated around her being as the mad smile grew madder still.

“Give in, sister,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “For all this, you still cannot stop me. You are weaker. You will always be weaker than I!” Jadyss shouted as she began to advance more quickly, pushing through the hurricane of shadow with a deathless resolve. She had almost reached the transept. The bones encircling her form slowly began to chip and splinter as the void energies ripped them away one by one, piece by piece.

“Betrayer!” Vizjerei shouted again, her voice like a thunderclap as the very walls of the cathedral itself began to collapse inward, wilting under the torrential assault of shadowy entropy. “The Shadows will unmake your hellbound heart!”

As the last of the swirling bones was ripped away, dark claws began to tear at Jadyss’ necrotic shielding, reaching out from the blackness of the voidstorm and beating against the green energy, chipping away small pieces here and there, crashing tirelessly into the shell. Still it held, and still the death knight advanced. As she reached the steps of the altar, large tentacles suddenly burst from the ground, wrapping themselves around her armored legs and at last stopping the elf’s advance as the shadowy forces continued to break themselves on her shielding. The elder Duskmourn roared angrily, lurching to maintain her balance as her legs were rooted to the floor.

“Fool… you cannot stop death… sooner or later, it will come for you… as it came… for ME!” With a shout, the death knight whipped her runeblade around, pointing the tip at Vizjerei and unleashing a blast of frigid ice that sailed through the air. It was no use; the death magic was stopped mid-air and swatted aside by Vizjerei’s near impenetrable hurricane of dark, twisting energy.

“We will meet again, little sister,” Jadyss hissed in defeat as more and more of the necromantic energy that protected her was relentlessly battered and broken away by the tearing, shadowy claws. “You cannot hide in this sacred place forever. Soon you will join me on that cold shoreline… and I will welcome you into everlasting unlife with open arms. My beloved sister…” As the undead elf spoke, her form began to dissipate into a thick cloud of pale mist that lingered for a moment as she gave Vizjerei one final, baleful smile. Just as the sickly green hue of the death knight’s protective magics finally conceded to the shadowy assault, the woman was gone, the pale mist evaporating into the night, blown away on the wind. The grasping claws converged on nothing, swallowing up the location where Jadyss had stood into a dark, lightless expanse of emptiness.

The howling ceased. The static pulse of malice and shadow in the air ceased, and the spiraling debris that had been caught in the powerful storm fell to the ground, forming newly arranged heaps of lifeless inanimacy. The void elf’s feet gently touched the ground once more, and in the wake of such a taxing transformation, she knelt, lowering her head, breathing harshly. The rain, no longer swept aside by the dark energies, began to fall once more upon her figure, soaking her dusky hair and the black, silver-threaded robes she wore.

All around her, the walls of the cathedral had collapsed. Hardly anything remained of the decrepit building save for the altar she knelt beside. With no roof at all left, and no standing walls to hold the night at bay, the moon began to shine on Vizjerei’s pale form once more. The rain slowed to a light drizzle and then ceased altogether. A cold wind blew through the mountains, chilling the wet ground, but it was not an unnatural chill. All around the kneeling priestess, the Shadows whispered and spoke in hushed tones.

The moonlight danced in cold puddles as an uneasy silence engulfed the land.

[the-redmane-family]

The Deaths of Emelye Nesterova, Part 3

[ Though it’s taken me slightly longer to complete than I initially imagined, Emelye’s introductory story concludes with this final part! Enjoy!

Link to Part 1: http://the-redmane-family.tumblr.com/post/172997503680/the-deaths-of-emelye-nesterova-part-1

Link to Part 2: http://the-redmane-family.tumblr.com/post/173295139370/the-deaths-of-emelye-nesterova-part-2 ]

For what seemed like an eternity, the priest and the ranger sat in silence. The memory of Emelye’s final moments hung between them like a thick tapestry, thicker still than the partition that now separated them in the rotted wooden confessional. She sat unbreathing, held in what seemed to be a duty-bound pause, until the dark bishop spoke again.

“And so, for a time, your mind was lost to the Scourge, your soul ensnared by the icy grasp of the Frozen Throne.”

“Yes.”

“But it was not so forever. She found you. She set you free.”

“Yes.”

Another paused followed from the deep voice. When next it spoke, there was a hushed reverence to it. “As it was with all of our people. Yes… the Shadows have chosen her to lead us unto that dark horizon.”

“It is as you say, bishop.”

“I digress, Darkmar. Tell me again of the killing of your brother. It was some time after your joining the Forsaken, was it not?” The air between them held an ominous charge, as if the man who now urged such recollections knew of the emotional weight they carried, perhaps even relished the chance to bring that sentimentality once more into the light—and once more to smash it to pieces with the hammer of Forsaken justice.

“Yes, it was,” she replied simply. “Neither my brother nor I much cared to reflect on our newfound freedom. I guess we’ve just never been ones to let our thoughts get in the way of our actions. So we found work to do. There was plenty to be done, and he soon found himself among the Royal Apothecary Society, while I joined the Forsaken military. It was an easy choice because it was duty. And duty has always made sense to me.”

“A credit to your father’s legacy. Even in death, his daughter remains steadfast.”

Emelye smiled bitterly, a smile that her confessor could not see. It was gone by the time she spoke again. “Me, yes. My brother, not so much.”

“Tell me of his crime.”

“He kept his misgivings a secret—even from me. Always he told me of things when we were younger, but being among the undead… being undead ourselves, it changed us forever. We both felt it. I accepted it, but Kegan… Kegan couldn’t handle the experiments that the apothecaries engaged in. Even having apprenticed with an apothecary in his life… of course, I didn’t find any of this out until later. After I was sent to hunt him down.”

“And why were you dispatched on such an errand?”

Emelye gave another brief pause before she continued. At last, the moment was upon her. The killing. Another chance to snuff out the unlife of the baby brother she’d once sung to sleep when the drafty loft of their home woke him from his tender rest. Safe in the loving hands of his sister. Hands that were fated to take the very life they once safeguarded.

“An apothecary reported a break in at the Society’s vaults. Kegan was clumsy, and didn’t take care to cover his tracks. None of his companions thought to dispose of the witnesses, either. They were on a mission of morality, and to kill anything was unthinkable to them.” She frowned. “But I’d have rather him killed fellow Forsaken than what he did next.”

“What did he do?”

“He went to the Alliance.” The chainmail-clad woman uttered the word venomously. “There were four in total—my brother, a woman called Alina, and two other men, Ricter and Dermot. Ordinary citizens who had joined the Society and, by chance, happened upon a collection of artifacts that set them on edge. The bloodstones.”

An audible shifting sounded from the other side of the partition. “Go on.”

“I still don’t know what power lurked within those stones. I’m not a mage, or a scholar. But whatever the bloodstones were capable of, it scared my brother. And apparently he wasn’t the only one frightened.” She grimaced, recalling the cold feel of the stones in her satchel as she had transported them back to the Forsaken magus—a formless malice that scratched at the corners of her mind, yearning to be let in. But she had ignored it then, as she ignored the temptation to dwell on it now.

“So, he convinced the others to help him. They stole from the Forsaken. They stole from the Dark Lady. And they fled south, to Hillsbrad, where they willingly turned themselves over to the humans at the Lordamere Internment Camp, to the warden who oversaw the installation. Belamoore was her name. It didn’t take long for our agents to track him down… and when they did, well.” The woman fell silent for a moment. “Well, the magus charged with their retrieval sent for me.”

“Wordeen Voidglare.” The brooding priest spoke the name disinterestedly.

“He saw an opportunity,” Emelye continued. “An opportunity to test me. To see if disloyalty ran in the family… to ensure that, one way or another, he wouldn’t have to worry about the Darkmar siblings ever again. You see, I’d been working out of Tarren Mill as a scout for some time, assisting the Deathstalkers in probing for weaknesses along the outskirts of Southshore and the Hillsbrad Fields. Before they were blighted into oblivion.” The ranger furrowed her brow, her face twisting into a hard, determined stare as she studied the decrepit floorboards of the confessional. “So Voidglare sent for me. And he instructed me to kill Kegan, to kill his companions, and to return the bloodstones to him.”

Silence followed from the other side of the small booth. After a pregnant pause, the deep voice sounded again. “How was the manner of his death? How did your brother meet his fate?”

“Like a coward.” The reply came without pause. Emelye lifted her eyes to study the far wooden wall, her voice tinged with bitterness as she spoke. “It was easy enough to slip through the camp’s perimeter. Just me and two others. That was all we needed. In and out, silent as the shadows. We found Alina, Ricter, Dermot, and disposed of them one by one. The Alliance fools hadn’t even taken the bloodstones from them. It was twice the reward for half the effort: the Dark Lady’s artifacts retrieved, and the traitors who stole them snuffed out.

“Then we found Kegan. The last of the four to die, fittingly. I remember every detail. The look on his face when he saw me enter. Recognition. Acceptance. Resignation. The fight had gone out of him—the light in his eyes that I remembered from so long ago. The first day he came home from his work at that apothecary in Stratholme,” Emelye said as her voice grew softer, “and the day that I drove a sword through his heart. I stared at him, disbelieving, and said ‘Little brother… what have you done?’” The ranger’s voice was barely a whisper now as she repeated the words, her face still set in a look of determination. “‘Little brother… what have you done?’ I’ll never forget his reply, just as I’ll never forget when father said goodbye for the last time. He said, ‘Remember father, sister. A choice between what’s right and what’s easy. This is right.’” The ranger stopped for a moment. “I had never hated him more. To invoke father like that. As if doing my duty was easy. Loyalty is right. Stealing is easy. Duty is right. Fleeing is easy.”

“He knew the price of his misdeeds. None can long elude the justice of the Forsaken.”

Emelye seemed not to hear him as she continued. “He was clutching the red, oval-shaped gemstone in his hand when my blade pierced his chest. Sometimes I wonder if he had intended to defend himself with it… to use it against me, somehow. But I don’t think he did. He would rather have died than be Forsaken any longer. He would rather have died than harm me.” The ruminative tone quickly evaporated. “He was weak. And a coward.”

“And yet, he was your brother.”

“Yes.” She paused. “He was my brother.” The final words of the woman’s confession echoed the first, signaling an unannounced end to the shadowy bishop’s methodical, meandering interrogation. For a moment longer, she sat in silence until the sound of creaking wood came from the other side of the partition.

“Come, Darkmar. We have work to do.”

Emelye stood wordlessly, moving with a soldier’s grace as she stepped out of the confessional and into the relatively small back room where it was located, her footsteps thudding dully on the wooden floorboards. The tall priest stood with his hands folded behind his back, peering down at her out of sickly, aged yellow eyes.

“I have an assignment for you, my shadow hand. It is an errand of great importance.”

The ranger mimicked the priest’s posture, straightening her back and standing with her armored hands clasped behind her, over the dark cloak she wore. “Yes, bishop. What do you require?”

Her confessor narrowed his gaze, his bushy eyebrows knitting together as the sallow skin on his face creased with lines of age and undeath. “The time has come for you to take up your brother’s place within the Royal Apothecary Society. I have worked among their ranks for some time, observing the apothecaries, assisting with inquiries, steering the wayward sheep from… seditious proclivities.” He continued, his low voice seeming to fill the space of the small room with its authoritative timbre. “And now that your duties have brought you back to Lordaeron, I ask that you continue the work of the Shadow in the halls of the Apothecarium. Learn their craft. Assist them with their weaponry and their constructs. Protect them in the field. Bring a steady hand and an equanimous mind.”

Emelye offered no protest, but the look on her face did little to hide her apparent surprise at the bishop’s instructions. The thought of joining the very organization that her brother had served years ago was one she hadn’t considered until this very moment.

“Understood, bishop. What of my work with the Forsaken military?”

“You will continue there as ever you have ere this meeting,” the man replied. “And therein lies your inherent value to the Society. The disparate entities that exist to protect the Forsaken must be inseparable. Doubtless you will find that much of the work overlaps… for the same blight created by the apothecaries is also deployed on the field of battle.”

“The Stormheim strain was quite potent,” Emelye said. “The wreck of the Black Rose in the Cove of Nashal had a remarkable effect on the wildlife. It was impressively destructive… to understand the subtleties of blight chemistry…” The ranger pursed her lips, slowly working her jaw in thought.

“You will be assigned to Branch 27-B, under Grand Apothecary Thaddeus Seenwood. I have sent a missive to the high apothecary of Testing and Deployment, Ethyl Plagueguts, regarding your imminent arrival. I would also have you speak with the branch’s chief of security, the warrior known as Helskorn.” The towering bishop squinted at her. “He, too, participated in the battle against Greymane’s forces that took place in Stormheim. A deathguard aboard the Black Rose, and a peerless fighter with as much reason to hate the worgen filth as any true Forsaken.”

Emelye nodded solemnly. “It will be done then, bishop. I will join the Royal Apothecary Society, offer them my assistance, and await any instruction from you.”

The dark priest grimaced. “You will be my eyes and ears, Darkmar. With the preparations for war well underway, the Cult must be rallied once more. The Forgotten Shadow will drive the heart and soul of our people as the Forsaken war machine heralds the dawn of a new era, and we shall ride the approaching storm to the bereavement of our enemies. I go hence to make such spiritual matters my foremost preoccupation, returning only as I am needed to assist the Forsaken government.”

The armor-clad ranger bowed her head respectfully, and then the bishop placed his hand on her shoulder, the dark cloth of his glove resting on the layered chainmail pauldron.

“Draw your strength from the aphotic divine that dwells inseparably in every soul. You will need to be fortified for the times ahead.”

“May the Shadows ever guide our way,” she replied, and as Maerlyn removed his hand from Emelye’s shoulder, her yellow, undead eyes burned with intensity. Then she spoke again, her light, almost delicate voice taking on a tone of stern authority. “It is as the Dark Lady has said. We will go forth and strike down our enemies, and once they have been vanquished, we will rebuild Lordaeron to its former glory.”

[the-redmane-family]

The Deaths of Emelye Nesterova, Part 2

[ Part 2/3 of Emelye Darkmar’s “introductory” story! Enjoy!

Link to Part 1: http://the-redmane-family.tumblr.com/post/172997503680/the-deaths-of-emelye-nesterova-part-1 ]

“He was my brother.”

The words left her mouth with a stark simplicity, confessed in such a way as to rob the statement of any possible emotion it might have conveyed. No anger, no disgust; an unabashed revelation concerning the nature of her relationship with the one she claimed such disdain for.

Silence followed from the other party, and for a brief moment, Emelye forgot that the dark bishop was even still present. She had already begun to slip into a recollection of days long past, but the memories came in a practiced slideshow. She was a soldier, and she was Forsaken. This would not be a cathartic experience for her as it might be for some, she had decided; she would simply do her duty. She would recount the killing of her brother here in this decaying church, on display for the man who now sat on the other side of the partition and for all of the unseen ghosts that still lingered in this sorrowful place. For like them, her brother was just a memory, resurrected only for such recollections as these to be killed once more and sent off again into the mind’s deepest vaults, trapped in limbo until the next time he was called upon to die.

“And you loved him.” The priest’s voice held to its inviting quality, beckoning Emelye down a broken path into the detritus of the past.

“Yes, I did. How could I not?” Emelye spoke with the same straightforwardness, but her voice was beginning to find its confidence as she retraced a well-trodden path in her mind. “I cared for him since he was a child. He was my little brother and he hardly knew our father, so growing up for him… all he had was me, our brother, and our mother. It wasn’t easy. We never had much. Stratholme was a big city, and it was easy to be forgotten on the lower rungs of the social ladder.”

“You sacrificed much on his behalf.” It was more a statement than a question, the priest’s tone ruminative, as if he were peering into her mind’s eye and making some observation of his own.

“I did what I had to. I helped my mother with her work so that she could rest when she needed to, but there weren’t many moments when we weren’t trading off like that. She would return home, tend to Kegan and Morgan, and I’d go back to sweeping the shop floors, washing the laundry, mending the thatching on rooftops, learning whatever skills I could to work for whomever I could.” Emelye paused, and then shrugged almost instinctively. “And then I’d go home after a full day’s worth of work and she’d go off to do her work. It was our life. We were poor.”

“And your father. Where was he?”

“He died.” The same detached hollowness. There was an emptiness to the words which befitted the darkened chapel, the chapel that had once played host to a multitude of people, a myriad of comings and goings full of life and laughter and love brought in the hearts of people whose religion availed them nothing when the chill of death came knocking at their doors.

“Tell me of him.”

“He fought against the Horde when they attacked Lordaeron. I was barely a teenager then. Kegan was… seven or eight. I still remember father leaving that day for the front. Morgan was trying to be strong, to prove that he was a man, but Kegan just clung to me, frightened as if he knew it would be the last time he saw his father. I’ll never forget the way father put his hand on Kegan’s shoulder, looked deep into his youngest son’s eyes, and said, ‘My son, someday you’ll have to decide between what’s right, and what’s easy. On that day, I want you to remember me. Be strong and when that day comes, you’ll know what to do.’

“He kissed the top of Kegan’s head and gave me a look that I often found myself thinking about late at night, sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep. I’d sit up in bed and watch my brothers and I would think of the look that father gave me. The look that said he was proud of me. I knew then that I couldn’t give up, or let him down. I knew then that he expected the same sense of duty from me that he’d modeled all my life. The same soldier’s discipline.”

The deep voice of the priest sounded again as Emelye finished speaking. “A discipline that your brother lacked. Too callow, too foolish to restrain himself.”

Emelye paused, thinking. “I remember when Kegan first became apprentice to the local apothecary. He was the same age I’d been when father died. He came home one day with his face blackened by what looked like soot and smoke, clothes stained and ruined, his hair a bloody mess…” She reached up absent-mindedly to touch her own hair, pushing some of the darkly-dyed strands up over her left ear. Now, she thought with a certain detached bitterness, her own hair wasn’t much of an improvement over her brother’s that day.

“There’d been some kind of an explosion, a mishap he’d caused by mixing chemicals he shouldn’t have. He had been warned of the dangers but he did it anyway. It was stupid of him, but that was my brother—his curiosity never relented, even in the face of danger. Before I even knew what had happened, I rushed over to him and grabbed him and said, ‘Little brother… what have you done?’ He gave me the most uncertain look… and then he just smiled. Told me that he knew what he wanted to become. And that was it. He went back to that apothecary every day and he learned. There were a few more explosions, but he learned all the same. I won’t ever forget that day, though. Just like I won’t ever forget the way father looked at me before he left.”

A light ‘hmph’ came from the other side of the confessional. Whether it was given in sympathy or contempt was difficult to say. “Your brother was a failure. Be that as it may, not all of Michael Nesterov’s children were failures.”

Emelye pursed her lips, the faintest hint of decay upon them. “No. All I’d wanted since the day he left was a chance to live up to his memory. To show him that I could be the kind of daughter he saw when he looked at me for the last time. So when I was old enough, I joined the military.” She paused. “Not quite old enough. But the major who recruited me wasn’t checking papers. It was peacetime—how could they have known what would happen in just a few years?” She smiled darkly, bitterly. “It was the quickest way to make the money that my mother needed for her medicine and, I thought, the best way to honor my father.”

“An estimable deed. Far greater men and women have wasted themselves on far more ignoble pursuits. What of your mother, then?”

“She deserved better,” the reply came immediately. “Left on her own to care for three children who were barely old enough to realize all that she gave for us. Only I was old enough to work, and I—I hardly understood what it meant for her to go back to the shops every day. Of course I understood the work, the fatigue, the long hours... but to persist even after the crown abandoned her? No money came to fill the void of my father’s absence—no pension, no compensation, nothing.” Though such words would ordinarily have been delivered with passion, they came instead from the armor-clad ranger with an undeniably hollow apathy.

“All that she gave for you,” the bishop repeated, his tone musing, ostensibly prodding for further elaboration.

Emelye replied with a nod again, followed by a moment of silence. “The work took its toll. Eventually, she became too sick, too worn down by life to bear the burden she had for years. Her last few years were spent mostly bedridden while Kegan brought in a meager salary from his apprenticeship. The money I made in my own service to the crown was generous by comparison, but…” She shook her head. “It wasn’t enough in the end. Death comes for us all.” The words did not echo in the wooden room, instead piercing the invisible haze of moisture in the air with a dull veracity that somehow seemed less impactful than it should have.

“Death comes for us all.” The dark man repeated her words again gravely, reverently in the gloom of the chapel’s confessional. “But it is not always the end. And so it was not the end for you, or for your brother.”

“No. It was not.”

“Tell me, how did you find the experience?”

Emelye paused. “The experience of dying?”

“Yes, Darkmar. Tell me of your death. Spare no detail, for there can be no appreciation of the unlife afforded to you if you do not regularly reflect on the vessel that brought you hence. The feeble, flesh-cursed thing that has only been made pure in the light of the Dark Lady’s gift.” The priest spoke with the same conviction that he often displayed when pontificating on matters of death, the body, and the soul, for such was his belief: free undeath was not a curse, but a gift reserved for a fortunate few.

“Military leave,” Emelye offered once more in practiced recitation. It was not practiced in the sense that she had spoken these exact words many times before, however, but rather that she had learned not to question an order given. For though the dark priest who occupied the space in the confessional’s twin booth held no direct rank over her, she knew better than to rebuff his request. For everything there is a time and a place, and that time and place was not here, not now. She was here because he’d asked her, because something about her demeanor had given him pause. Relinquishing herself to the Shadow’s guidance, she continued. “The ordeal took several days. I was home, back in Stratholme to visit Kegan and Morgan. It’d been nearly five years to the date since mother’s passing. We visited the shop on Bast Lane… the small loft where we’d grown up, night after night huddled together beneath blankets to keep warm.

“A grain shipment had been delivered from the west, an unmarked caravan. All shipments from Andorhal were ordered stopped and destroyed… but the Cult of the Damned found ways around our precautions. They circumnavigated roadblocks, going ‘round for miles to avoid patrols, turning up at city gates right on schedule with mislabeled crates. Cinderhome. I think that’s the name of the granary these boxes came bearing. It didn’t matter, though. Cinderhome, Andorhal… soon enough, all grain shipments arriving in the Eastweald were contaminated.” She paused, and then gave a detached gesture resembling a shrug. “So, we ate of the plagued grain.”

Outside, in the dark of midnight, an inhuman cry sounded in the blackness, carried on the wind that gusted through the frost-gripped vale. Several seconds later it sounded once more, repeating a third time an interval higher before falling silent. Both parties sat in momentary muteness, caught in a reflective pause.

The armor-clad ranger continued. “At first, we didn’t realize we’d been infected. Then the drowsiness came. The fever. You could see it in the eyes of everyone who walked the streets of that ill-fated city a full day before the prince’s arrival. Sick. Something wasn’t right. We knew it… and—the nightmares...” Emelye said grimly, pausing as if uncertain of how to even articulate the darkest horrors that had haunted her final night of earthly rest. “I don’t know. Why do things happen as they do in dreams?” The uncertainty was almost out of place coming from the woman, disquieting in the questions it left unanswered.

The man’s voice sounded in reassurance. “None can say. But it is a matter best left for the past to ponder. Dreams evaporate with the dawn. Only the works of our hands remain.”

The ranger looked down at her gloved digits, spreading the fingers evenly as if to remind herself that her brain still possessed enough willpower to command such an action. She still didn’t know how all of this was possible, this undeath, and even after so many years she still didn’t want to. All she knew was that the Shadow gave her strength, and that these hands still had work left to do.

“When the prince arrived, he brought fire. Fire and the sword. There were no calls to evacuate, no horns sounded, no warning. An army marched through the streets, dragged shopkeepers out onto the cobblestones, and gutted them. The town crier was beheaded. All up and down Bast Lane, bodies lay in the streets as blood pooled and rats scattered. The heat of the prince’s torches as he burned the city to the ground sent up billows of acrid smoke that we nearly choked on… would have choked on, if not for Arnaud Crowley, the apothecary my brother was apprentice to. He had an old cellar that ran beneath his shop, out to the city’s sewers and into the main aqueduct that fed water to the city from the Thondroril.

“We spent the better part of that day in that tunnel out of Stratholme. Morgan… was not with us. He’d returned home to grab everything he had left of father and mother. Keepsakes, family heirlooms and the lot. Always the sentimental kind. When the prince’s men came around the bend and turned down Amundsen, we could wait no longer. So we ducked into Arnaud’s cellar, and we ran.”

The wind gusted against the cracked, dust-caked window panes in the chapel hall beyond the far door, as if some monstrous, immaterial beast now sought to be let in like an unwelcome guest summoned forth by memories of a dark time in the land’s history.

“Crowley didn’t make it, either. The old man had already inhaled too much smoke during our flight, and at that point, all of our fevers were spiking. He collapsed in the tunnel, and we left him there. It’s not as if Kegan and I made it much further.” The ghost a smile began to tug upward at the corners of Emelye’s mouth. “And that’s when I saw it.”

“Saw what?” The priest’s query was characteristically snappish, but his eagerness was all too often mistaken for impatience by those who had not learned the subtleties of his manner.

“The towering blaze behind us. The sky was choked with black wreaths of smoke as we wound our way into the foothills, barely strong enough to stand. The last thing I remember… is collapsing.” Her eyes narrowed as the ghostly smile upon her face lingered. “In a clearing. A perfect vantage point to survey the destruction. From that far away, you could almost see… movement in the flames.”

The dark bishop remained silent as Emelye continued her recollection. Now, her glowing yellow eyes were alight with the memory of the flames, and of what she saw in them. She spoke as if hypnotized, staring at the floor, staring through the floor, into a window on the past.

“Movement, yes. My brother was delirious with fever, so we lay in each other’s arms, my vision turning black as I held him and told him not to be afraid. I told him not to be afraid as I watched the ghastly, misshapen horrors clash with what must have been the prince’s men. I saw a towering beast, impossibly large, cleaving through men with monstrous claws, a winged hellspawn… and the townsfolk. Throwing themselves onto the soldiers’ waiting swords, tearing men to pieces with their bare hands. I knew then in that moment that the army of the dead was upon us, truly upon us, and it had no end. The very earth must have cried out at the damnable weight of them. The rest…” she shook her head slowly, gradually waking from the trance.

“The rest is silence.”

[the-redmane-family]

The Deaths of Emelye Nesterova, Part 1

[ Hello all! This is part one of a three part short story I’m at work on to act as a sort of “introduction” to Emelye Darkmar, a newer character born of an old concept that I’ve been sitting on for some time. Parts two and three will follow shortly. Happy readings! ]

“And now, O blessed divine, lead us ever onward in fervent pursuit of victory. May our people ascend to the knowledge of the true destiny that lies before them, and in your darkest embrace may we be found in all strength and sufficiency.”

The dank, musty air of the rotted chapel hung heavy in the pale gloom of midnight as the priest finished intoning the final words of his prayer. Emelye knelt in genuflection behind a smashed pew of moldy wood, its splintered back revealing the mildew that had set in after years of neglect. The years since the plague had not been kind to this place, nor had they been kind to her. As she opened her eyes, she stared indifferently at the pair of gauntlets resting on her knee, one folded over the other.

Within these gauntlets were two hands—her hands—that had once caressed her baby brother’s face. Hands that had once been held by a young suitor in the springtime of love, before her duty took her away from him. These hands had once sewn bandages and wrapped tourniquets for the beleaguered soldiers of Lordaeron, her former comrades, and body bags for those less fortunate. They had gripped shovels that dug trenches, fixed machinery that waged war, wielded sword and bow and rifle that had rent flesh from neck and knee and breast. Now they sat idly upon one armored knee, wrapped in filthy bandages wrapped in sleek chainmail gauntlets. Her hands—or, what was left of them.

“Go now in the grace of the Dark Lady, fellow Forsaken. May the benevolent Shadows guide you.” The speaker stepped down from the pulpit, his eyes now fixed on Emeyle as she knelt.

Several strands of her dark hair fell back from her face as she lifted her head, standing up before the pew as the tall bishop made his way toward her. The other Forsaken who had come for the prayers were already shuffling out, the chapel rapidly beginning to appear abandoned once more as the Cult of Forgotten Shadows slipped quietly into the blackness of the night. The priest’s stride was purposeful as he approached, his gait betraying not a hint of hesitation despite his considerable age. A thin, close-trimmed white beard clung to the sallow, dead skin on his face and his robes of crimson appeared almost to be the color of dried blood in the poor lighting. Yellow eyes gleamed in aged sockets as he approached her.

“I sense a burden upon your shoulders, Darkmar.” The priest raised one bushy eyebrow, his hands clasped behind his back. “The manner of your posture easily betrays the weight you carry.” He peered down at her, standing a full foot taller than the armor-clad woman and scrutinizing her with a look that might appear to some as condemnation. To Emelye, it was simply the way of things. She knew this man, and he knew her. A single nod was her only reply.

The man returned her nod with one of his own, and then gestured with one bony hand toward the back room of the chapel, around to one side of the small pulpit from which he had delivered the prayer. “Come. Let us spend time in palaver. I would hear more of what troubles you. As well you know, it is pointless to hide such things from me for long, and in the grace of the Shadow, the expulsion of weakness is the adoption of strength.”

The pair made their way into the back room, Emelye’s armor clinking softly in the stillness of the empty building. Her armor was fashioned from blackened chain links, and bound in places by straps of leather and cloth to strategically keep the mail rings tightly fitted to her figure. As she followed the shadowy bishop, she moved with a similarly deliberate and almost graceful stride, and whether it was the tight-fitting armor or perhaps simply the illusion caused by her movements, she appeared to still possess a fit and able body beneath her armor.

Were one to strip away the protective carapace however, the full extent of her decay would be revealed: much of her arms and legs had been wrapped in ichor-stained bandages and cloth to keep the bugs from coming and going freely, and though her hands and forearms were the most heavily wrapped, they also suffered from the greatest damage. Large strips of flesh had rotted away from time and use, revealing decayed muscle and bone that she had meticulously bound to keep them from causing her any hindrance.

The back room was much smaller than one might have thought, leaving only enough room for a small wooden confessional against the far wall which the bishop now moved toward. It was not the first time the two had sat together as they were about to. Once more, the pair made their way toward the wooden booth, fashioned from material that appeared to have undergone the same neglect as most of the furniture that filled the small church. It did not matter to the priest, nor did it matter to Emelye; the comforts of the living were something that neither party much considered anymore.

Emelye moved right as the priest moved left, a wordless understanding between the pair as both settled themselves and sat in silence for a moment before the aged man spoke again. His deep voice did not boom in this smaller space, but it lacked nothing of its rich, ominous bass quality—the kind of voice that could inspire courage as well as dread, a fair voice that could persuade even the surest of men to doubt themselves and drive even the noblest of heart to despair.

“So, my shadow hand. You return to me at last.” He paused. “The conflict in Stormheim is all but concluded. I trust that your service to our queen was carried out with the utmost dedication and excellence, as per your record.”

“Yes.” It was the first word Emelye had spoken since her arrival at the chapel for the prayers. Her voice was low, almost hoarse, and somewhat ragged sounding in comparison to the dark bishop’s rich tonality. A light, eastern Lordaeronian accent graced her vowels. “But even now, there’s no clear victor. We’re still fighting battles across the isle with Genn’s forces. Small battles, of course. Most units have been recalled for… well.” She let the final word hang as she looked down at her hands once more.

The priest was silent for a moment before responding. “To serve in the queen’s army is an honor. You and your fellow dread-riders must have struck fear into the hearts of the pathetic worgen soldiers—a rabid lot of mongrels whose ferocity is a feeble substitute for the tactical genius of Forsaken commanders. The Gilneans will be cowed soon enough.”

Emelye did not reply, instead offering only a nod that the priest could not see. After another moment had passed, the man continued.

“But a detailed account of the Stormheim conflict is not why we sit here tonight. I know you well, my shadow hand. Well enough to know that no duty asked of you by your people would ever be too great for you to bear without the steely determination for which you are known.” He paused naturally, and then added, “Save perhaps but for one. Your thoughts linger on him tonight, do they not?”

“They do,” she replied curtly, turning her head away from the confessional’s partition which now separated the two. “Returning home will always come with memories of him.”

“He was a traitor to our people. A traitor to our queen.”

“Yes, he was.”

“I know you better than to think that some part of you has gone soft, Darkmar,” the shadowy priest said gravely. “All the same, it was not intended to be an easy assignment. The defining moment in one’s career ought always to be one in which they are tested against the strongest of their convictions.”

Emelye was silent for a moment before answering. “I feel no regret. No remorse. Only bitterness. I am not at peace with his memory. If I could, I would return to that moment just to savor the last bit of unlife leaving his eyes. I would kill him again, and again, and again, and I’d still be filled with this hate.”

“Then speak of him, Darkmar, and kill him once again for me. Hold him in your mind as a child, watch him become a man, see how he was given the same gift you were—and kill him for squandering it.” The bishop’s words were spoken in a harsh, almost hushed tone. “Unburden yourself in the Shadow’s welcome embrace.”

Emelye’s fists were now clenched as she leaned forward in the booth, her eyes shut. She said nothing for a moment, and then, “All right.”

“Start at the beginning. What was his name?” The harshness was gone from the priest’s voice with startling immediacy, replaced instead by a calm evenness that invited the woman to share her secrets at length. A persuasive voice. A dangerous voice.

“Kegan. Kegan Darkmar.” She stopped as her fists and her eyes opened. Leaning back in the confessional, she stared vacantly across the room at the wood of the far wall. “Kegan… Nesterov.”

“Who was he?” “He was my brother.”

[the-redmane-family]

Twilight of the Soul

[ Another story featuring Thea Redmane, Isolde’s aunt! I won’t say too much except that I enjoyed getting to explore my own version of how I imagine this significant event in the Warcraft timeline must’ve felt to experience.

Accompanying music: “Reindeer King”, by Tori Amos*

*Don’t forget to pause the music on this page’s music player first (bottom right corner)! ]

A dense, freezing fog spread languidly across the water as the boat sailed onward. Its grim, steady forward motion set it determinedly against the perpetually receding wall of icy mist as the men upon the deck looked nervously about. None of them seemed sure of himself; doubt lingered on their faces as surely as the moisture in the air clung to the ship’s wooden deck.

“Are you certain we’ve not strayed off course, my lady?”

One of the men now addressed a woman standing at the head of the ship. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her posture straight; several dark strands of hair fell into her face as the rest remained bound in a loose bun behind her head. A set of eyes peered out across the veiled sea, seeing and yet not seeing.

“Stay the course. I know these waters. Our destination is not far.”

Thea heard herself speak to the man as if across a great chasm. It was as if her words were not her own, as if she were listening to some echo that had only just returned to her years later. The effect was disorienting, but somehow she maintained the dignity of her posture long enough for the doubting sailor to turn back to his duties, passing under the shrouds and making his way back to join his crewmates.

Turning and making her way below deck, Thea felt as if she had just come unstuck from some web in time. The cold, damp air suddenly felt real again. How long had she been standing upon the bow? Flexing her hands, she clenched and unclenched her fists, blowing into them uselessly. Her breath seemed only to chill them more. She peered around the cabin to search for some candle or kindling, but there was none to be found. Instead she opted for a blanket, a thin white cotton shawl draped across the nearby chair. The fabric was coarse, and it might as well have not existed at all, for the cold was inescapable; the fog’s tendrils permeated every corner of the cabin. She peered out of the grimy windows as soft beams of silver light poured in, but it was a dead light, listless and purposeless. The fog was everywhere.

A strange sensation suddenly gripped her: an overwhelming sadness, its origin utterly inexplicable. Stunned at the immediacy with which this new wave of feeling enveloped her, Thea stumbled backward into the nearest chair, slumping forward as a single tear rolled down her face.

What is happening to me? Her thoughts rattled around in her skull; the voice that spoke inside her head was her own for the first time in an age.

But was it? How could there ever have been a voice speaking to her apart from that which she now heard? The sadness multiplied, giving way to dread. Where in the name of all good things was she? Why had she told the sailor that she knew these waters? A slow panic seeped into her bones, joining the interminable cold that had settled there. What if she had been bewitched? What if these waters were cursed with some obfuscating magic that befuddled the mind and robbed her of all senses?

Surely there’s got to be some—

Her thoughts were interrupted as the dull, pale light shining through the cabin windows suddenly began to take on a golden hue. From above deck, a multitude of voices sounded. The crew had seen something; a break in the mist, the arrival of the sun! The light was suddenly brilliant, and for the first time in what seemed like years, the cold was forgotten. Throwing aside her doubts, Thea stood and strode with purpose to the door of the cabin, and flinging it open—

—she beheld a vast, endless field. The sky overhead was filled with clouds, but the sky was still visible; hues of red and orange and amber seemed to denote that sunset was imminent. Across the lone and level plains, a solitary figure stood facing her. Its face and features were impossible to make out.

As if in a deep trance, Thea stepped slowly off the wooden planks and onto the cool dirt, suddenly realizing in this moment that she was barefoot. She looked down and observed that the coarse white blanket she had wrapped herself in had become a full dress, the only article of clothing she now wore. Hadn’t she been wearing robes only a moment ago? A memory of plain dark robes filled her mind, but even now, those robes and the chill of the cabin seemed to call from a distant, unreachable shore. Compelled by some unknown force, she moved through the tall grass of the field until she was but a few feet away from the figure, which now seemed to shimmer as if a mirage.

“Listen to me now, sister,” the voice that spoke was as sweet as honey, as the lightest caress of a lover’s sharpened nails upon bare skin. “We haven’t much time here.”

“Who are you?” Thea heard herself asking. She struggled to maintain her presence in this place; all around her, the essence of the world seemed perilously fragile, and the void of uncertainty yawned just beyond the edge of her thoughts.

“It does not matter. What matters is that I know you’ve felt your free will returning to you.” The figure was still somehow hard to see, even this close, and it seemed only seconds away from fading out completely.

“My free will…” Thea repeated, and as if the words had suddenly smashed the lock on a vault deep within her, a flood of memories surged forth violently. At once, she remembered it all: the merciless grip of the death knight’s magic tearing her soul away from her body, encased in a prison of ice; her ruined, terrible spirit adrift on the wind, carrying out the Lich King’s bidding as the remnants of Lordaeron were hunted down and destroyed; sobbing in restless, ceaseless agony and loneliness in a prison where there was no one else to comfort her; the vengeful anger seemingly devouring what remained of her human spirit.

Immediately she dropped to her knees, and now the source of the sadness was all too clear. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes and cascaded down her fair cheeks. She knew now that these tears were immaterial, belonging to a body that she had left behind in some distant mountain pass, never to be seen again.

No.

The thought rang in her mind as clear as a bell, as sharp and crisp as the air on a frigid winter’s morning.

I am not his. No longer. My will is my own again.

“Yes…” the figure spoke again, and now it began to swim into view; ragged leather armor clung tightly to dead skin as blood red eyes peered down at her. “Your mind is no longer a prison. You’re free of his whispers… and you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

How did this happen?

“It’s a long story. One that we don’t have time for here. But we need you, sister. For the sake of us all, there’s only one thing that’s left for us to do…”

Suddenly the field was filled with innumerable figures just like the one that now spoke to her. A sea of hateful red eyes stared down at her. Some looked like peasants, some looked like soldiers, still others were beings of pure spirit. Now she understood. This was their time. The hour of their jailer’s reckoning had come.

I know what must be done.

“Good.” The figure intoned a single word. “A trap has been laid, a deal struck. The new king will not sit long upon his vaunted throne. We’re going to give that son of a bitch the death he should’ve had years ago.”

A thunderous roar filled the field of the dead, and suddenly everything swam out of Thea’s vision. Her eyes opened upon the same field… but now it was truly dead, the ground rotted over with fetid blight. Scourge war machines rolled forth, crunching over the brittle mucus as they were hauled on by monstrosities of flesh. Light snow flurries dusted the ashen soil.

In control of my mind again, Thea thought. She could feel it now. There were others here, too, in this very company. Others who were free. They knew not to step out of line until the time was right, and so did she.

And so they marched on. Thea’s spirit drifted across the blackened hardpan, but it was no longer at the command of the Lich King. Like a single sunbeam in a raging tempest, a faint glimmer of hope burned within her soul.

I will be free. I am free. And when I have revenged myself against my oppressors, I will take back what they stole from me. I will have my magic again. I will have my books again. I will have my mind again, no longer a slave to fear.

[the-redmane-family]

One Last Goodbye

[ A *huge* thank you to @featherycats for this incredible piece—a scene between Isolde and Thea that I’ve long pictured, but never had the artistic ability to create myself. Below, I’ve attached a brief piece of a story to compliment the art; for context, this is set during the Third War, moments before Arthas and Kel'Thuzad invaded Dalaran in search of the Book of Medivh (during the Undead campaign in Warcraft III, as seen in the mission "The Siege of Dalaran"). At the time of writing, this is the last time Isolde and Thea have seen each other. ]

Already the city’s defenses had been mobilized, and as Antonidas’ booming, amplified voice echoed off of every spire and minaret in the Violet Citadel, Thea rushed into the square, her heart pounding in her chest as adrenaline shot through her. The deep breath had been taken; the plunge was upon them. Together Dalaran would stand, and perhaps together they would die, as well.

“...My brethren and I have erected auras that will destroy any undead that pass through them.”

Halfway across the plaza, Thea’s eyes darted upward just as the final spellwork was woven into place—a brief shimmer in the air, and suddenly a light, purple hue began to tint the skyline, as the subtle but immensely powerful concentration of the city’s most gifted archmages was wed into a final, beautiful hope that perhaps humanity’s brightest shining beacon of knowledge and magic could weather this storm. Just as the final aura settled in the air overhead, a voice called out to Thea.

“Wait. Please, wait.”

The mage stopped, and turning, she saw her niece also making her way across the square toward her, from the doorway. Alvar stood watching, his face etched with worry. Isolde still clutched the silver brooch in her hand; she would not be denied one last goodbye.

“Melony, I—” Thea started but could not finish before her niece was upon her, gripping her shoulders tightly as she stared into her aunt’s eyes with a sadness that melted Thea’s compassionate heart.

“Promise me. Promise me that I’ll see you again,” Isolde said softly. Already in her voice was the steely determination that Thea knew would safeguard the girl on her path for many years to come.

“Pull your troops back, or we will be forced to unleash our full powers against you! Make your choice, death knight.” Another pulse in the air as Antonidas ceased his bitter parley with the fallen prince. The cobblestones beneath them already felt like the surface of an anvil, mere seconds away from the hammer’s fall.

Thea reached out and pulled Isolde closer, staring back into her niece’s eyes even as tears began to form within them. A single drop rolled down Isolde’s pale cheek. “I promise you that I’ll see you again. Soon. And when we see each other, the pain of this moment will be wiped away,” she said as she reached up with the sleeve of her violet robe, drying the girl’s face, this face that she had loved and cared for for so many years, the face that she had watched grow from a young girl’s into that of a young woman. “Like these tears. I promise you this, too, will pass. No more darkness. No more despair.”

Isolde smiled weakly as her aunt softly kissed her forehead, and suddenly the young girl threw her arms around Thea, who could do nothing but hug her back as the two shut their eyes against the sounds of a city preparing for battle; against the frantic wizards and footmen rushing past them to engage the attackers; against the silent fear that both now shared.

Forget for this moment the joy, the sadness, the laughter and the pain of life, and remember only this: a promise may not be the truth, but it is what we wish were true.

[the-redmane-family]

When The Angels Fall: Prologue

[ So... this is where stories and characters start to overlap! Oops—I’d hoped to have a better way to keep the stories separated, and I will be looking into that, but for now I’ll just clarify: This is the beginning of a story with Thea Redmane, Isolde’s aunt, as the feature character.

Until I find a better way, I’ll just be using this Tumblr to keep track of writings involving the various characters in Isolde’s story. Enjoy! ]

The sun broke clear through the clouds that morning, rays of golden light illuminating every mote of dust, every particle adrift in the air, and the subtle haze of moisture that lingered in the Dalaran study as the woman at the desk wrote with a spellbound focus. A candle sat not far from the parchment on which she now wrote, all but melted down to nothing and yet still enduring. The nearby fireplace had cooled considerably, distended, mere embers as the last traces of night receded before the dawn.

The writer, a woman of surprising youth for the antiquity of the study that she now occupied, set her quill aside as a knock upon the door sounded, as if to officially announce the end of night. Her head drooped in defeat as her concentration was shattered. The realization that she had spent the better part of the night at work and away from sleep caused a low, audible groan to escape from her. And who was calling at such an early hour? As she stood, a few strands of her dark hair fell into her face, though the majority remained held in a low twisted bun. Her simple robe, the Kirin Tor equivalent of plainclothes, hung upon her frame somewhat unflatteringly. Dressed for comfort and robbed of sleep, she was not in the mood for visitors

She moved to the door and, with no particular grace, flung it open, the new morning greeting her with a blast of chilly air. The knocker, a young man about Thea’s age, nearly stumbled backward as she appeared on the threshold, fixing him with an arresting gaze.

“Yes? Have you any idea what time it is?” Her voice came out raspy, nearly hoarse, and she cleared her throat with the same curtness.

“Uhh, well, it’s—” the man looked up at the sky, and then back at the woman in front of him. “It’s daybreak.”

He stood staring, and she stared back, the look on her face a clear indicator that he would have to do far better than that if he didn’t want the door slammed in his face. Hastily composing himself, he tried again.

“I’m sorry, where are my manners. You must be Thea Carteneau? Alvar Redmane,” he said, extending a hand in an earnest attempt at recompense for his disturbance.

Only a second passed before Thea frowned and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, lifting a hand to her face and rubbing tired eyes. “I’ve barely had any sleep tonight. Yes, I’m Thea Carteneau.” She hesitated for a moment. “Alvar? The alchemist?” As the irritation slid from her mind, she began to realize the reason for his calling. “Did you expect that we’d be departing so early?”

Alvar shrugged, a timid smile creeping over his handsome features as he slowly lowered his unshaken hand. He was clean-shaven, dark-haired and stood about a half a foot taller than Thea. A respectable height and collected appearance did nothing in the moment, however, to bolster his confidence in the midst of this initial questioning.

“Perhaps not, but I thought that it might be better if we had plenty of time to ensure we’re properly packed. Grim Batol is quite the trek.”

Both of Thea’s hands raised to her temples, rubbing them lightly as she turned from the door, crossing the small study to a modestly sized leather satchel, nondescript and decidedly forgettable in appearance. “Way ahead of you, it looks like.” She lifted the pack over one shoulder and, still clad in her bulky robe, spread her arms in mock enthusiasm. “Ready to go?”

“I, uh.” Alvar stuttered a bit, looking confused. “Wh—uhm. Don’t you want to ah, maybe change into something more…” He hesitated. “...outdoorsy?”

The thin smile that had loomed over her soft features now bloomed into full wry completion. A single laugh followed, but it was not of the cruel sort; rather, it came with substantial amusement. She exhaled lightly.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to go. I’m going to finish these letters, make myself a cup of tea, change into something more...” she paused. “...outdoorsy, and then we’ll leave. But I am not doing all of that while you stand there in the doorway. As nice as you are to look at.” She added this last bit after a short pause, and the flush of embarrassment on Alvar’s face was exactly the reaction she’d hoped for.

“Right. Of course.”

Thea’s smile shifted away from amusement, softening a bit as she decided that the grilling she’d given this poor sod was suitable enough. “There’s a little stone walkway that winds back around the tower, and a nice garden where the trees catch the sunlight at this hour of morning. If you’re looking for somewhere to wait, that’d be my recommendation.” She turned away from the door, moving back to sit at the desk where the unattended and unfinished letters sat patiently awaiting her return.

“Yes, of course,” Alvar added again, giving her a polite, earnest smile. “Thank you. And sorry for the disturbance. I’ll uh, I’ll be in the garden.” The door gently shut behind him.

Thea sat at the desk for several moments before picking up her quill again, thinking. She was still running on precious little sleep, and had several things yet to do before she could properly depart with her nervous, timid new companion. Her handsome, nervous, timid new companion.

This thought was accompanied by a roll of the eyes. In spite of herself, however, Thea Carteneau smiled.

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not more than an hour passed before Thea had finished tidying up her affairs and preparing for the journey ahead. She gathered the last of her materials, threw the small satchel over her shoulder, and set off down the stone path that wound around one of the city’s many mage towers, now dressed in comfortable traveling clothes and slightly more fortified after consuming a light breakfast with tea.

Being efficient in the face of a deadline was something she had always prided herself in, and the ability to focus on the task at hand and eschew distraction had served her extremely well in her magical tutelage. Having not so long before successfully completed her studies under Archmage Andromath, and well on her way to being offered a position as a tenured lecturer in the Violet Citadel, she was eager now to seize upon this opportunity for discovery in the southern lands of Khaz Modan. Perhaps this would provide her with the lynchpin that would tie months—years, even—of diligent research together and make it ready for defense before a council of archmages. Pending success in that arena, publication would soon follow.

And yet, in the midst of her exhaustion and excitement, there was suddenly this newcomer. She had requested a seasoned alchemist to accompany her on the journey, someone with an intrinsic knowledge of herbs and their magical and practical uses, and the Kirin Tor had sent her this man, a strikingly attractive and yet boyishly polite personality. The last hour of her writing and preparation had seen her thoughts return to their meeting in the doorway, and part of her resented him for it even as she struggled against the equivalent measure of curiosity and intrigue brought on by his stuttering, well-meaning arrival and departure, an encounter that had needed only a few moments to embed itself indelibly in her mind. Amazed at her petty, childish behavior, she had willed the feelings away and told herself to stop acting silly. Rinse and repeat.

Her mind filled with doubts and second-guessing—clearly, the intention was not only to test her, but to test him as well, and she now realized that their pairing was as much to aid his research as to aid her own. So much for the special privilege she thought she had earned for her work thus far. And yet… something about her was still drawn to him. No longer did she wonder who would be assigned to go with her; now the question was why this one?

Her boots made light tapping sounds as she trod the cobblestone walkway, and before long she was forced to put away such thoughts as those she’d entertained while making ready for the trek that lay before her. At the end of the path where she now stood, the walkway wound itself into a small garden where a bench and a lamppost were positioned for a perfect view of the morning sun as it began its daily journey across the amenable canvas of an autumn sky. Undispelled clouds circled in patterns that had earlier colored the sky a faint red. An ill omen, her father would’ve said, and a day unfit for safe travel on the open sea.

But wish as she may for one more chance to speak with Jean Carteneau, he was not here to advise her on the present situation: the young man, Alvar Redmane, now seated with his back turned to her. He was hunched over, settled comfortably on the bench, occasionally glancing up at the garden before him. As Thea slowly closed the gap between the two, she saw that a small leather sketchbook was open in his lap. The young alchemist busied himself with some drawing that remained obscured to her at her present distance.

“Sorry about earlier.” Alvar spoke without turning or looking up from his work. “I don’t know what I was thinking, really, showing up at such an early hour without giving you some kind of warning.”

Surprised by his perceptiveness, Thea paused for just a moment before answering. “No, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have been up so late. Or, so early. Or… I should’ve given myself more time to sleep is all.” She smiled lightly.

“I heard you coming. The cobblestones are quite loud, and at this hour, it would seem not many people frequent the garden.” Alvar had sensed even the hesitancy in her voice. This was the same Alvar she’d just spoken to outside her door less than an hour ago, wasn’t it?

“A lot of people don’t realize how beautiful it is here in the mornings. I come here sometimes to work… but even more often just to sit and appreciate the beauty.”

The young alchemist turned his head, looking at her. “Would you like to sit with me for a few minutes?” Alvar offered.

Thea hesitated again, but only for a moment. Her response came in the form of a nod, and a nervous smile. Somehow he’d managed to turn the tables on her.

“We can leave whenever you’d like, I just want to finish up a few more parts of this… maybe I’ll pick it up another morning.” He turned his sketchbook so she could have a better look at it. The sight of his drawing caused Thea to gasp involuntarily.

“You did this… all of this in the last hour?”

“More or less. It’s still coming together. I don’t quite like the way this tree turned out… and the bushes over there, beside that other bench…”

His words tumbled out in a casual apology, but Thea made no effort to hide her amazement at the careful detail that he’d managed in so short a time. She studied the drawing for a few more moments as Alvar continued: a line here, a bit of shading there. “It’s incredible,” she heard herself say.

Alvar smiled. “Well, thank you. It’s not my best work, but I can’t ignore a scene that inspires me. You were right about this place. It’s remarkable.” He continued to sketch, the soft scraping marks of the pencil against the paper seeming almost a natural ambience in the fresh dawn as dewdrops clung to tree leaves and a gentle breeze whispered through the silence. “In truth, I’m more of a painter. I just carry this old thing around so I don’t miss any inspiration when it strikes.”

“Well, color me impressed,” Thea said, immediately feeling silly again as the words left her mouth. She looked around the garden, and back down at the sketch. She had been here many times, but this was the first time she’d ever seen it so differently; through the inspired eyes of another.

“A little bit of work and some good art helps me focus. Just a little bit of home to carry with me before we’re off.” Alvar paused, lifting his head to look at the garden. “Still, it’s… missing something.”

Without warning, his gaze turned to Thea, and she subconsciously moved back a bit as if she was afraid that whatever vortex of creative energy now encircled the man might draw her into the very pages of the sketchbook. Would that really be such an awful fate? A small voice whispered in her head.

“Would you do me a favor?” A faint smile pushed upward at the corners of Alvar’s mouth. “Go stand over there, by that tree.”

Another smile, this one more nervous, bloomed on Thea’s face, and with a faint curiosity and excitement she thought that perhaps the tiny voice hadn’t been so wrong after all. Her earlier objections and irritations completely forgotten, she stood, walking over to the nearest tree. She stepped into a pool of sunlight, turning to face Alvar, who now looked as if his present state of focus was about to transcend some barrier.

“Turn your head… just like that. Yes, and your hand… just a bit over there.” He motioned for her to mimic him, guiding her posture as she gave him the same nervous but trusting look. “Just… like that.” He went back to working, now at a feverish but deliberate pace.

Thea couldn’t help but laugh inwardly. Just an hour ago she had questioned and (and even resented) this man’s sudden appearance, almost ready to coddle him on the journey if need be. Now here she stood, at his behest—at his instruction, even—as he sketched her. The morning had been nothing if not full of surprises.

Alvar smiled now, his eyes on the paper for a moment. He then looked up at her. “Thank you.”

“For what?” She smiled back at him, the nervousness gone.

He paused, still smiling at her. “For what I am looking at.”

[the-redmane-family]

Shadow and Flame, Part II: The Nascent

“My first thought was that he lied in every word.”

The pair of figures that now strode through the pale late afternoon sun conversed as they went, a perpetual cold in the air as the advent of spring yet clung to winter’s icy chill. To some they might’ve been an odd pairing, given their manner of dress; the man’s tattered leathers and worn traveling cloak seemed to indicate that he was not a resident of the floating city in which he now found himself. His companion, the woman, wore a similarly heavy cloak, though far less tattered. Beneath this cloak, her robes of crimson were unmistakable: the Scarlet Crusade clothed its most devoted followers in such regalia, and were any to recognize her garments, she would find the cold of Northrend warmer than any welcome she might receive from the city’s inhabitants.

Not far ahead of them walked a youthful woman whose robes identified her as an apprentice magi of the Kirin Tor. With her head held high, she led them on through the lively street, aloof as she carried out her duty to the lofty archmages who could not be bothered with such menial tasks. As the man and the woman trailed behind her, they spoke in lowered voices.

“What reason would you have to believe that he lied?” The woman probed.

“You can’t seriously think they’ll just welcome you back,” the man answered. “The Kirin Tor are snobbish at best, and vengeful at worst. If they have any reason to doubt your allegiance, they will.”

“Do I detect a hint of fear in your voice, Marius?”

The man furrowed his brow and grumbled disapprovingly as they made their way toward a large building. The Violet Citadel loomed at the far end of the street, its many spires and minarets piercing the hazy sky. The city’s magocracy was proud of their legacy as a pillar of magical knowledge, even prouder to have risen from the ashes of Archimonde’s fury, and their architecture showed it.

“I don’t expect a warm welcome, and your instincts have always served you well. At least, they’ve kept you alive thus far.” A smirk passed over the woman’s pale face as the man shook his head.

“Call it luck, I’m not so sure I’d trust my instincts after they got me into… well.” He let the sentence hang. Both knew of what he spoke, the latest in a long series of wordless communications that passed between the two. They didn’t need magic to converse silently. They had something far more potent: shared experience.

Just as the pair and their young guide were crossing the threshold of the Citadel’s massive doorway, another similarly dressed young apprentice was moving toward them, his gait dutiful but his manner flustered. He began speaking even as he was still hurriedly closing the distance between them.

“Nelphi, the archmages are not ready! She—” he paused as he noticed that Nelphi was leading two persons, not one, “—they cannot be here yet.” His voice was nasally and his tone stringent.

The young blonde-haired mage who had just finished leading the pair through the streets seemed embarrassed and frustrated. “Well, here they are,” she quipped sarcastically.

“Were you not clearly instructed to show today’s arrivals to temporary accommodations?”

“My instructions were to bring them here. So I guess they’re your problem now, Pierson.” She delivered this line with a certain satisfaction before turning to address her former charges. “Safe journey, and good luck with this one.” Her eyes flicked to the other apprentice, and a mere second later, she strode off, leaving neither party with a chance to respond.

The one called Pierson had already seemed irritated upon his arrival, and this encounter did nothing to improve his demeanor. “Insufferable little—” he clamped his jaw shut, his slightly rounded face turning red with boyish indignation. Facing the pair, he did his best to act the part of the apologetic greeter. “I apologize for the inconvenience, and I must apologize for my lack of manners. I am Apprentice Pierson.” He fixed the woman with a polite but obviously strained smile. “Miss Redmane, is it? Isolde Redmane?”

The woman nodded. “At your service.”

Pierson returned the nod distractedly before shifting his gaze to her companion, whose haggard appearance singled him out even more in the bustling crowd of magi going about their business in the citadel’s large main room. The apprentice favored Marius’s tousled, shoulder-length hair and scraggly beard with a slightly disapproving look. “And your companion…?” Pierson trailed off as he noticed the milky complexion of the man’s eyes. The unkempt traveler was blind.

“Marius Renferrel.” Though bereft of their pupils, Marius’s eyes yet returned Pierson’s stare, as the former offered a slight smile.

“Do forgive me, Mister Renferrel. We were under the impression that Miss Redmane would be arriving alone. We have accommodations for her, but not for you.”

There was an awkward pause, and Apprentice Pierson quickly began to prattle on in order to avoid lingering on his first piece of bad news. “As I was just telling Apprentice Nelphi—” he uttered the name with thinly veiled disgust, “—the council of archmages that has been arranged to see you cannot do so at this time. It’d be best if you came back tomorrow morning. Miss Redmane, you’ll want to take this.”

He produced a single coin from his robes, which he then handed over to the woman. Emblazoned with the sigil of Dalaran, it was minted for the purpose of acting as a sort of magical identifier to prove that the bearer was indeed who they claimed to be. Isolde recognized its purpose and accepted it without question.

“Present this at the inn across the square from the bank.” He fidgeted. “I suppose if you don’t mind sharing a bed, Mister Renferrel can join you. Otherwise he’ll need to rent a room of his own.”

Marius shook his head, turning it slightly in Isolde’s direction. “I’ll take the floor. Enough time in the wilderness and you grow accustomed to the ground beneath you. Wouldn’t get much sleep in a bed anyway.” The woman gave him a skeptical look, but said nothing.

Pierson’s eyes darted back and forth between the two, the uptight apprentice already acting as if he’d overstayed his welcome. “Pleasant dreams, then. Tomorrow morning, once Archmage Cross arrives, the council will see you. We’ll say at ten bells in the Chamber of Perception. That’s up the stairs behind me, through the doors on your left, and then all the way to the end of the hall.” He paused for a moment as Isolde stared at him blankly, her face unreadable. “Well, then. Goodbye!”

The woman shook her head as Pierson departed, and Marius exhaled loudly.

“Well, the apprentices around here sure know their asses from their elbows,” he quipped sarcastically. “Come on, let’s head to the inn. Maybe they’ll at least have some decent food. I’m wasting away over here.”

Isolde seemed not to hear him. A font of recollection had opened deep within her mind, pouring out remembrances of days gone by at the mention of Darius Cross’s name. Perhaps it had been the trauma of the recent years, but she had almost forgotten her former mentor and his stifling lessons. She had not cared for them then, and time had not softened her to the rigidity of the archmage’s instruction.

Sensing something out of place, Marius put his hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her. She had been staring at the stone floor for an indeterminable amount of time, and her companion was anxious to leave. “Hey? Wake up. Time to go.”

She started, turning immediately toward the door and rapidly regaining the composure that she actively fought to maintain in all but the most private of settings. As one who had experienced the mania of the Crusade alongside her, Marius had seen her in some of her most vulnerable moments, and in this moment the blind ex-Scarlet did not sense any reason to be troubled by her sudden departure from the present.

“You’re looking pretty hungry yourself,” he continued as they descended the steps of the large building and once again found themselves in the busy streets. “I mean, I imagine you do. My eyes may not work anymore, but my mind’s eye is sharper than ever, and right now everyone looks hungry.” He took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and then exhaling out of his mouth. “Every meal smells like a feast, and every woman is happy to see me.”

“You’re a lousy mage, Marius,” she teased.

“I am not. I’ve just had enough of conjured food. I need something real. No more conjuring fires in the forest or washing in rivers or burying my shit with my hands. I want—”

“—to sleep in a real bed?” Isolde interjected, an amused look on her face. “I thought the cold hard earth beneath you was enough?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll have you know it’s not the same when you’re in a floating city. I hope you’re ready to bunk up.”

The woman rolled her eyes, but smiled inwardly. Although levity did not come naturally to her, Marius had a way of dispelling the darkness that hounded her soul. His company had returned some of the humanity she had thought was lost to her, and despite being more at home on her own, she was glad of it. They arrived at the inn that would house them that evening just as dusk had begun taking root, and with the night’s chill—the true chill—returning to the air, it would be a welcome respite.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first emotion she felt upon waking was more complex than simple fear. It was a hideous mixture of terror and dread, awakening yet another old memory long forgotten, buried in the recesses of her psyche. Her eyes had flown open but she had not screamed; she hadn’t even moved. Across the room, Marius lay bundled up in several quilts on a modestly comfortable sofa near the fireplace. Fearing that she would fall back into the uncharted depths of her dreams, she sat up, the air of the bedchamber cool against her sweat-drenched skin. For a moment she held this posture, closing her eyes and listening to the stillness around her before opening them again and climbing out of the bed. She pulled some of the sheets off with her, wrapping them against her as she strode over to the large window that looked out across the square, now practically devoid of life in these deep, late watches.

The moon was nearly full, bathing the city in pale light that contrasted with the tawdry luster shed upon it by numerous lamps lining the streets. When making arrangements for the journey to Dalaran, she had not considered all the memories this place held for her; it was almost as if she believed that the city would be unrecognizable, having been once destroyed and then summarily uprooted from the geography she had always known it by since she last lived here. Yet even now as she watched it sleep, the familiarity was undeniable. Humans were a lusty race, young and stubborn, full of pride and ambition. Much of Dalaran had been rebuilt to honor the legacy of its forebears, and to Isolde, it was different and yet the same.

Many nights past she had awoken in this city facing these same nightmares, and even after years of searching for a way to answer them, to know what secrets they held, true understanding still eluded her. Upon joining the Scarlet Crusade and delving into the dark arts, the nightmares had ceased. For a time she thought that perhaps they had simply been a guide, a dark fire pulling her on toward the power she now understood, but their unannounced return resurrected the same old questions. The same frustration. The same dread.

Follow the current to its source.

A soft voice spoke words to her, turning the key on another vault of memory. These memories, however, were not of frustration or fear; they were of comfort and confidence. The only one who had known in earnest the struggles that a young Isolde had grappled with, long before the Scarlet Crusade or Kellen Grisham or the two sons that were now lost to her. This was her aunt, Thea Redmane, a woman who could turn a single teardrop into an ocean of hope.

Behind her, the man on the couch shifted and began to snore lightly. She thought about returning to bed, for the terror of the moment had passed. But now her mind was consumed with other thoughts, returning to nights past when Thea had come to her bedside, offering counsel and waiting up with her until the girl grew tired and fell into a mercifully dreamless rest.

Isolde peered at the moon, its cold light filling her irises. A distant memory stirred, and she closed her eyes, feeling the past envelop her like a warm blanket. It wrapped itself around her form in the same way that the sheets she had pulled from the bed did, and after a few moments she found herself looking through the eyes of a young girl…

…waking as she always did following the visions—for visions they were—in a state of panic and mild nausea. Isolde peered around through young eyes, eyes that were her own but only in the distant years now long past. The room, a different room, seemed to swim into focus as if a wide sargasso sea, the furniture huddling itself against the walls in dark clumps that did little to provide a comfortable return to reality. Though a typical size for traditional Dalaran bedchambers, it easily dwarfed the tiny home that the girl had known for the better part of her youth. In this memory it was still new, alien, earnestly attempting familiarity but lacking the smells, the feeling of the home where her father had seen her to bed for many moons. Now with the advent of her thirteenth year, it seemed that whatever brief childhood she had was already over.

A large rug lay across the stone floor between her bed and the fireplace which now housed little more than glowing embers, an indication that the hour was quite late. The young girl sat up, pushing her back against the pillows and drawing her legs up to her chest. Despite the temperate evening, she shivered, pulling the blankets up to her chin. The nausea had passed, but the fear remained; uncertainty gnawed at the corners of her mind.

From the hallway outside her door, the girl heard someone approaching. It was only several seconds later that the light of a candle appeared beneath the door’s wooden frame, and several seconds more until the bedroom door cracked open slightly and the face of her aunt Thea appeared, peeking into the room.

Their eyes met, and Thea smiled.

It was not a jovial, beaming smile. That was not her aunt’s way, and later in life it would not be the girl’s way either. Thea’s smiles always seemed more subtle, nuanced, warm and inviting and yet laced with a peculiar sadness. Her dark brown hair was cut into a bob, and curled naturally; even in the haze of the early morning hours it looked effortless. The candle’s small flame cast shadows on the wall and illuminated her face and her lavender silk nightgown as she approached the bed.

“Bad dreams again?” Thea’s voice was soft, muted so as not to disturb her husband, the girl’s uncle, who slept down the hall. She spoke with a faint Kul Tirasian accent, a hint at the humble seaside fishing town beginnings which she had left behind for her studies and career in the Violet Citadel.

“Yes.” The girl fixed her eyes on the blanket in front of her, her arms wrapped around her legs still drawn up close to her chest.

Thea carefully lifted the chair from the desk against the wall opposite the bed and brought it over to the bedside, seating herself. The candle was now resting on the end table to the left of the bed, to the left of the young girl as she sat silently save for the one word she had spoken to her aunt.

“Poor Melony,” Thea’s response was genuine, sympathetic. “Can I bring you something? Water?”

The girl shook her head. After a moment, she met her aunt’s gaze. “I thought that coming here would help me understand these dreams. I thought they’d stop, or get better… or that I’d learn something about them.” She frowned. “But no one has said anything about magic causing dreams like this.”

Thea watched her as she spoke, thoughtful as ever. “Magic causes a lot of things to happen. After so many years, there’s still so much we don��t understand about it. We can study it, use it, but we have to respect it. It’s a strange beast, temperamental and dangerous.” She paused. “You have a natural affinity for it, no one will deny that. These dreams, they will get better. But you’ve only been here for less than a year. It will take time, Melony.”

“How long? How will I even know where to begin figuring them out?”

“Sometimes we just have to follow the current to its source. You said these dreams are vivid, sometimes different in small details, but usually following the same pattern. They sound more like visions to me.” Another pause. “But that’s all the help I can offer if you won’t tell me more about them.”

“I don’t like talking about them. They’re... difficult to describe. The magic, the spells and incantations I’ve been learning about aren’t like the dreams in any way. The dreams are dark, frightening… they don’t make any sense.”

Thea’s face became slightly more wan as her niece spoke. “No one will tell you that there isn’t a dark side to magic. I’m not going to shield you from that reality. But we have to face it, and be courageous.”

“My father always told me that I needed to pray to the Light to make the dreams stop.” The girl sighed. “It didn’t work. How do we face the dark when the Light doesn’t answer us?”

“The Light answers whom it will,” Thea responded, “and only those religiously devoted to it seem to be able to channel it with repeated success.” She stopped speaking, and repositioned herself so that she was seated on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, she took her niece’s hand in her own. “Find the light inside of you. You are a light; you can do incredible things when you aren’t held back by fear or doubt.”

The two locked eyes, the doubt and uncertainty still visible in the young girl’s deep blue eyes as she listened to her aunt. The stillness of the bedchamber seemed less oppressive and dangerous with the woman seated on the bed, the woman who so clearly loved and cared about the girl.

Thea looked down at her niece’s hand. “These are discussions we should be having when the sun is up,” she mused, almost as if to herself rather than to the girl. She lifted her gaze. “Tomorrow, Melony.” She stood up from the bed, taking the candle in one hand. “Try to get some rest. Your uncle and I are just down the hallway if you need us.”

“I’m not a child.”

Her aunt simply smiled. “No, you’re not. But we’ll be down the hallway just the same.”

The door swung open slowly, and just as Thea was about to exit the room, her niece spoke up. “Why do you call me that?”

Her aunt turned, not speaking.

“You call me Melony. You’ve called me that since I got here. But my name isn’t Melony.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

The girl hesitated, then shook her head. “No… I don’t mind it. I just want to know why.”

Thea smiled again. “When you tell me about your dreams, I’ll tell you about your name.”

The door closed softly…

…and the room began to spin, swimming once again out of focus. The older woman opened her eyes, and she was standing again in her room at the inn, facing the window, the moon’s cold light reaching out timidly.

Sometimes we just have to follow the current to its source.

Where did that current lead? What yawning abyss would she find herself drowning in if she waded out into the oily black waters of the dreaming? Monsters lurked there, she thought. Many horrors had she seen, and with each passing year, it seemed that her soul was slipping further and further into a chasm, utterly dark and yet one of her own choosing. That was the price of the magic she now practiced, and what she had given to surpass her mentor and escape the clutches of the Crusade, she dared not speak except in the darkest of nights. She knew the price; but for want of the knowledge of the truth, all was else expendable. Look at us, the voices demanded. You can’t deny us for long. We’ll always be here, watching you. In time, you will understand.

She lowered her head and turned, returning to the bed. No more rest would she find this night, but still she would try. In several hours the morning would arrive, and with it, a fateful reunion of teacher and pupil.

[the-redmane-family]

Rebirth, Part 1

The forest floor was dark and silent as it slumbered beneath the blanket of midnight. The first winter’s frost had begun to take hold, though it was just a few days prior to the celebration of Hallow’s End. Many miles north lay the glades of Tirisfal, where the Forsaken would be busy at work with preparations for the daily burning of the Wickerman, remembering their liberation from the deathless grasp of the Scourge. But here, in the deepest recesses of the Silverpine Forest, there was no sound to be heard apart from the rumblings of bears, the howling of wolves, and the occasional branch or twig snapping underfoot as some unknown beast made its passage through the pervasive blackness. The land slept, and all was still.

In the deep of the woods, a stone building hulked in shadow, its outline gothic and foreboding, reminiscent of the abbeys that were a staple of any established human settlement. It was made all the more ominous by its secluded and seemingly purposeless location, far from any road and situated in the backwoods of the once great kingdom of Lordaeron. Normally it would have sat empty, as it had for many moons, mute and forgotten.

But tonight, it was occupied.

A small campfire could be seen burning through the broken stained-glass windows as if some vagrant had taken up residence within, protected from any foraging animals and in relative comfort as the frost settled on the grass outside. The occupant, a grizzled, aging man with a scraggly beard and unkempt hair, sat motionless before the flames as they crackled and danced, casting wild shadows on the walls of the ruined chapel. His dress was that of a man who had lived for a long time in the wilderness—tattered cloth and leather. A shiver ran through his bones, and instinctively he pulled his traveling cloak close around him.

How long have I been here?

The walls were overgrown with moss and lichen, indicating that no one had been there in years. The vines which now climbed the walls obscured strange markings; Eredic in nature, what magic they once channeled was now long gone from this place, and they alone remained in soundless testimony of the horror that had occurred here, long ago. A mage, the man sensed their presence, remembering the night they were drawn, and with each passing moment he questioned more deeply why he had come.

How long have I been here?

He could not remember how many years it had been. Since that night, time had become stretched and warped for him, and even one as practiced in the art of magic as he was unable to discern why. No curse had been laid upon him, no shifting of ley energies had befallen the region (at least, none that he knew of). All he knew was that some answer lay here, hidden, and only once every year did the night reveal some sign to illuminate his path. And so here he sat, pondering his condition, and awaiting some revelation.

How long have I—

"Marius."

The man’s thoughts scattered like so many leaves in a windstorm as the words broke his trance-like state of rumination. Lifting his head, he cast his sightless eyes across the room to the doorway where the voice had emanated from. It was calm, elegant, yet also commanding and stern. He knew the voice, and though its owner remained in the shadows beyond the reach of the firelight, his eyes were no longer his principle means of distinguishing one person from another. He knew to whom that voice belonged.

"Isolde," was all he said.

As if prompted by his acknowledgment, Isolde stepped forward into the light. She had wrapped a warm traveling cloak around her, covering all but her face, but did not appear to show any signs of exposure to the elements, as if she had simply materialized in the veiled darkness of the chapel’s doorway. She pulled back the hood of her robe, revealing hazel eyes and locks of dark hair that she had tied and braided neatly.

"You’re a creature of habit, Marius. I should’ve known that you would be here on this night." She watched him diligently from where she stood, seeing much even as he saw nothing.

"I’m not the same man that I was. My life changed that night—what we did was beyond my reckoning in power and scope. The rush, the euphoria… and then, it went so very wrong."

"Wrong, perhaps, according to you," the woman scoffed, and then shook her head. "No. It went as it was meant to."

Marius was silent. "As you say. I wonder still sometimes why I’m still here. I should’ve died horribly like the others, burned to a crisp or sucked into the Void, or whatever happened. Instead I’m still wandering about these woods." He smiled a hollow, empty smile, turning his head toward the fire. "How long has it been, Isolde?"

The woman regarded him with an expression mostly unreadable, but perhaps not entirely devoid of sympathy. "Long enough, Marius."

The blind mage lifted his head, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly. He held the breath for a moment and then slowly let it pass from his lungs, through his nostrils and into the frigid air of the stone room. "He loved you, you know. Did you love him?"

"Once."

"Can’t say I blame you for what you did. I suppose I’d have done the same to anyone who… well, I suppose he got what he deserved."

"He served his purpose." The statement was as cold as the frozen ground outside. "I came here to deliver a warning to you, old friend. Someone in Stormwind is looking for you."

"And why should that merit a warning?" Marius’ blind eyes were still shut. "Why should I care if someone in the southern kingdoms is poking around asking questions about a blind ex-Scarlet like myself? I’ll be freezing my ass off up here in the north for awhile yet."

"Perhaps you remember Sir Terquine, the knight that was present at all of Kellen’s council meetings. He was assigned to personally protect the circle of magi that studied under Kellen."

Marius was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone had sobered a small measure. "I remember. That old bastard is still kicking around, is he? Well, if he was assigned to protect Kellen’s allies, then I’ve got nothing to worry about."

"And to protect Kellen himself. Sir Terquine would be most interested in finding anyone involved in the archmage’s death."

The silence that followed was only slightly longer this time, but far more ominous. The blind wizard opened his eyes. "You had a far greater part in his death than I did. Why would you be the one to deliver such a warning to me? You’re the one who chose to go south and rejoin the Alliance."

The woman began to circle the room, stepping over the fallen chunks of stone that littered the floor, until she came around to the opposite side of the small blaze Marius had erected in the center. She stood, watching him as he patiently awaited her reply. "My powers have grown since that night."

"And as a result of that night," he interjected.

Isolde smiled knowingly. "The secret remains safe with us for now, Marius. Only we know what truly happened here. Sir Terquine, however, is a relentless pursuer and a capable warrior; he was one of the Crusade’s most dangerous knights. And unorthodox as he may be for a paladin, he still wields the Light. If left to his quest, he will eventually find out the truth. He will find you."

The blind mage sighed, growing more certain with each passing second that his exile could continue no longer. "What do you propose, then?"

"Let me share with you some of what I’ve learned." Her tone was enticing, as if she dangled whatever knowledge she was offering in front of him like a savory piece of meat.

Another brief silence passed between them, and then, "Alright, alright." Marius leaned forward, the tone of his voice becoming graver still. "Do you… still have it?"

The flames danced in Isolde’s eyes as the small campfire crackled and spat. Outside, the wind had begun to howl through the trees, a sign that a storm was about to pass through the secluded forest. "Yes, I still have it. Come with me, Marius."

For the first time since the woman’s arrival, Marius stood. "Where are we going?"

Isolde simply smiled as she turned to face the doorway. "Come. I have much to show you."

[the-redmane-family]

Shadow and Flame, Part 1: The Dreaming

An icy wind gusted through the near-empty streets. As he walked, Ridley wondered why he had ever decided that taking up residence in Dalaran to study with the Kirin Tor was a wise decision. The young mage had his ambitions, but on nights such as these, the frost cut especially deep, and for one accustomed more to the comfort of a library with a blazing hearth than to the frozen air of Northrend, the chill was nigh unbearable.

After several more agonizing minutes of the howling wind in his face, Ridley arrived at his destination. Entering into the relative warmth of the stone foyer, he pulled off his gloves and quickly began rubbing his hands together. Ordinarily, he would’ve used this opportunity to practice exciting the molecules in the air to warm himself as he had been studying, but the news he was delivering could not wait another moment. He had been told to go quickly by his instructor, and go quickly he did. Now was not the time for practicing magic.

At the end of the foyer, the young man passed into a large circular room filled with books and all matter of random arcana. Knowing that he had reached the workplace of a distinguished magus, Ridley took several deep breaths to calm himself, and then called out for the man he had been sent to seek.

“Darius? Darius Cross?” Though he could feel another’s presence, he was alone in the room, until after a moment he heard feet begin to carefully descend the circular wrought iron staircase that was located in the middle of the room.

The figure that descended was clearly aged, a man who had seen far more winters than the one who had come to see him. The picture of a loyal, distinguished member of the Kirin Tor, Darius wore flowing robes of purple emblazoned with a golden eye: the sigil of the Violet Citadel.

“What have you come for, Ridley?” The mage’s voice was a rich baritone, smooth despite his age and full of authority.

“Pardon, archmage. I don’t mean to disturb you. But my instructor, Archmage Berinand, sent me here with an important missive. I don’t know what it says, sir, but he requested that I bring it to you posthaste.”

Cross waited patiently for Ridley to finish speaking before he nodded and returned simply with, “Very well. Thank you, lad. You may go.”

The younger man gave a respectful bow in parting, and quickly made his way outside once more. Perhaps it was the momentary blessing of warmth inside Cross’s library, or perhaps it was simply the stillness of the air outside, but upon leaving, Ridley felt at ease. Something about the letter he carried had filled him with a sense of foreboding. Knowing that as of yet he was beneath questioning such things, he was simply glad to have completed his errand as he started off down the street again, headed for his quarters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside his study, Darius Cross opened the letter. Berinand and he were longtime friends, the former being one of the Kirin Tor’s most learned scholars on Malygos’s blue dragonflight, and an influential figure in the magocratic city-state’s northern migration. Whatever news he felt was urgent was undoubtedly of great concern to Cross.

Unfolding the parchment, the archmage began to read, and as he did so, an expression of concern came over his face. He peered intensely at the script, taking in each word.

Archmage Cross,

I hope this letter finds you well. Since the matter at hand is urgent, I will dispense with most of the pleasantries and inform you presently the purpose behind my entrusting this letter to my most promising apprentice for immediate delivery. My friend, an old student of yours has contacted us. You will not have forgotten her: Mordecai Redmane’s daughter, the wayward disciple of fire. Isolde.

Upon reaching the name, Darius paused. He stared at the word for several minutes, his mind lost in thought as a rush of memories flooded upon him. What could a teacher do to forget one of his greatest trials in that role?

We had heard, of course, that she had joined the Scarlet Crusade and was a pillar of their organization, making her way around diplomatic circles in the southern kingdom. Now she claims to have left them. Why or how, she has not said, but she expresses a desire to work with us once more. I thought that you should know, old friend, that she will be arriving in Dalaran shortly to be examined by a council of archmages. I’d like you to sit on that council and determine if we ought to accept her aid. Please do not delay in your reply, I hope to hear from you come tomorrow. Be safe, Darius.

-Archmage Berinand

Darius set down the letter and settled into a nearby armchair. The hearth crackled as shadows danced on the stone walls, cast by the fire. For a long time, he sat in silence, considering the possibility--nay, the certainty--of meeting her once more. Questions of all sorts drifted through his mind. It had been over ten years since the Scourge of Lordaeron. What sort of depravities had the Crusade inflicted upon the young girl’s body and soul? How far had her reckless quest for knowledge taken her?

As he sat pondering these things, the archmage closed his eyes, and very shortly, fell into a deep sleep. The night waxed on as he slept, and as he slept, he dreamed...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was cloudy. Not a morning fog, flat gray overcast type of cloudy, but one that filled the sky with dark storm clouds. The archmage stood upon a great cliff, high above a dark sea, looking out across the waves. Somehow, he knew that these were the shores of Lordaeron, but more... primal. Unshaped by the weathering of time. Dramatic mountains pierced the sky, lush green foliage grew rampant, and hundreds of feet below, tumultuous waves roared and beat against the rocks. Raising a hand to the sky, he attempted to call on the ley energies of Azeroth to open a portal down from his high vantage point, but found that he could not communicate with the arcane. His spells seemed ineffectual, and all he could do was observe his surroundings.

Upon realizing this, he suddenly discerned another presence beside him. Turning his face seemed to take an eternity, but before he even laid eyes on her, he knew who it was that he shared his vantage point with. It was her. His former student, the one who had grown so frustrated at the restrictions he had placed on her.

“Be careful, child...” he heard himself say, but it was as if his voice came from a million miles away... or, perhaps, a million years ago. “You are tampering with powers beyond your comprehension or ability to control!”

She smiled at him, a knowing, icy smile that sent a chill up his spine. Somehow he knew, in this moment, that his student was long past the point of heeding his warnings... and far greater in power here than he could ever hope to be in twice his lifetime.

She turned to face the seas, and raising a single hand, called out in a tongue he could not decipher. As she spoke, her voice seemed to echo in the very rock that they stood on, and the seas below began to boil, turning a sickly green color as they began to melt the cliffside. Large chunks of stone dislodged and fell into the hungry waters. The plantlife, green and expansive, ignited, and burned with such intensity that Darius could only try to shut his eyes against the light and heat... but he found that he was powerless to do that, as well.

The clouds in the sky then began to congeal, and belched falling meteors the likes of which he had not seen since the Burning Legion’s invasion during the Third War. These, however, were not of the Legion... they crashed into the sea, turning it an angry red, the color of shed blood. Likewise, the fires which consumed the grass did not scorch the earth black, but instead turned it a dark, sinister crimson.

Just when Darius thought he could not handle any more rage and destruction, he heard his apprentice speak once more. This time, she spoke to him.

“You tried to hold me back, Cross... but I have learned the path to true power. I see now the way things must be. All life will end. Now, embrace yours.”

It seemed all to occur in a split second: a large roar, and everything turned red. Flames consumed the entire landscape, evaporating the seas, devouring the rock, and destroying the woman that stood beside him. All he saw in the final moments of his dream were a pair of fiery eyes that stared into his very soul. Lidless, bodiless eyes. Crimson eyes.

With a shout, Darius Cross awoke. The chamber was still and silent. The fire in the hearth crackled invitingly, but in its warm embrace, a bitter chill ran up the archmage’s spine.

[the-redmane-family]

winsnap:

The Witness by Zac Robinson

[the-redmane-family]

daily-meme:

I Love Alan Rickman. http://daily-meme.tumblr.com/