Of Remnants and Return

[Monuv]

Monuv began disrobing in his quarters aboard the great ice-breaking ship as the warmer air of Stormwind's harbor caused him great discomfort in the heavy furs he had worn the last month. The expedition to the North was a successful one. Humans have begun building on top of their foothold on the Southern shores of Northrend, tenuous though it may be. Soon the call will be brought down to the people of the Eastern Kingdoms to rally to face a foe so great the demons of Outland pale in comparison. Soon the fight will come home... if nothing is done now.

Monuv had been specifically chosen to be among a small group that explored the vast region surrounding the Borean Tundra as it was named. Everywhere he went, Monuv could feel the Lich King's grasp. Even now, looking out of the small port hole at the hazy port, something whispered in the back of his mind causing the small hairs on his neck to rise.

Koria would be waiting, this would mark the first time they had been apart since their second meeting. However much he wished to enduldge in passion, the urgency of his self-appointed task pushed his heart aside.

She will not be happy to see the worry carved into his face.

---

Koria had followed Monuv around the world on his many adventures. She was a simple woman and did not seek out such things, magic and demons are better left in bedtime tales. Her work was much more visceral. She wore her sword in such a way that most wouldn't be surprised how expertly she wielded the weapon, but it had been unused for so long to her it was just another article of clothing. Her primary joy was at the forge, not creating weapons of war or grand armor, but instead intricate gears and casings for steam engines. Most of her friends were dwarven smiths, hence her crass attitude.

When Monuv told her she would be unable to follow her to this secret world to the North, she was secretly relieved. The last place he forced her to live was in the haunted camp surrounding Karazhan, not exactly a place conducive to doing business. Living for a time within the city, even if she would be disconnected from her lover, was a welcome change of pace. She never had a fear in any fiber of her being that she wouldn't see him again. Monuv was a man of great power as well as integrity, when he looked her in the eyes and promised to return she simply smiled and replied, "of course you will." Now that his older brother was essentially out of the picture, there was nothing in this world that would keep them apart save death itself.

She knew his ship would return at some point this week, but no one knew the exact day. She would spend her time strolling about the docks, some days she would bring her latest wares to hawk at the sailors and traders. When the ship finally appeared at the horizon, she ran back to their apartment and began turning the bedroom that had grown cold over the last month into one of warmth and cloying scents. She changed quickly into a long, yet very comfortable gown and tried her best not to laugh in excitement.

---

Monuv saw Koria waving to him, she looked amazing in the dress. It would be mere moments before the ship was finished tying down and the gangplank lowered to the docks. Their eyes locked and he watched the smile melt away from her face and eventually mirror the great stress and worry radiating from his own. These moments went by quickly and suddenly he was moving through a crowd of soldiers practically running to her. They met with a clash and their embrace was strong, but Koria did not mention how much she missed him.

"What's wrong?" Her voice shook with a mixture of unease and joy.

"Hopefully nothing, yet everything." He pulled her off and pushed her back at arms reach to look at her. "I cannot be apart from you again." Her smile burst out at his words. "Come, there is literally no time to waste."

"I thought you'd want something to eat first!" Monuv was dragging her up the many steps leading back into the city.

"No, unfortunately that will have to wait... as will the food, we must travel to Elwynn immediately. I hope he's still there..." Monuv whistled for a runner and sent the boy to the stables to prepare their horses.

"Who?" Koria was dizzy and upset, all she wanted was to throw her man on the bed and come out to see the light a few days later.

"Johnson. I've heard he stayed behind, if anyone would know where everyone is, it would be him."

Monuv turned from Koria and began walking briskly toward the stables, at first leaving her behind. After only a couple steps he turned back to see her pouting there in the middle of a throng of onlookers trying to see what news the ship brought home. Monuv reached his hand out as if to beckon her. With a sigh, she crossed her arms and began walking slowly toward him, but did not take his offered hand.

"This better be very good, Monuv." He almost laughed at this. "I put on perfume..."

"We have the rest of our lives for that." He began walking briskly once more. "Trust me, what must be done now... we have to stop before it's too late."

The couple navigated their way to the stables and made off to Elwynn Forest and to the ruins of the Defenders Manor.

[Val]

(( I'm going to have to cut this up a bit, since it's so long. Bear with me. I'll outline the parts that are detailing Valand's life, and the rest are the story. It's only really necessary to read the non-biographical sections. ))

He twirled the felt ink pen over in his hand. His other held his chin as it rested against his palm. There was a faint light coming from the windows, but the thick drapes left the room in a near perpetual dark. Two slow burning candles sat next to him, casting an orange glow on the blank parchment before him. It had never occurred to him how difficult writing a suicide letter would be.

With the thought tracing his mind 'Where to start?' He did what came naturally, placing pen to ink, and ink to paper, he began the long trek through his memories.

“My name is Valandur Arkenett; I was born north of the City of Alterac in a town known as Glen’s Wake during autumn of the year 581, or what would now be known as two years prior to the opening of the Dark Portal. I am, as of the September twenty first in 624 or 32 years after the, thirty-four years old.

My earliest memories as a child were those spent in the fields, playing with my older brother Garen. I remember Garen and I would spend our days running through the woods, playing knight and squire, Garen was always the Knight. Garen had many older boys as friends, but he never abandoned me to play with them. He watched over me like a hawk. My older brother Garen was always much taller than both myself and my father, he had lighter hair like my father. We both shared the square jaw and stout nose. My sister Shia was a baby, but she would grow to be of a petite frame, with the same raven colored hair that my mother and I had. My father’s name was Harlome Arkenett, he was an abbot, and spent most of his days speaking to us of the virtues of the light, and every Sunday morning, to the surrounding farm folk. My mother’s name was Valeria Alevall; she was a semi-retired tradeswoman, who had during her time traveled all over northern Lordaeron plying her trade as a seamstress. According to my mother, she met my father in the town of Tarren Mill, and through divine purpose my brother Garen was conceived out of wedlock, something that my father made us swear an oath of silence. On the rare occasion, my mother would travel south out of the mountains and set up trade at the bazaars that would sometimes set up in the town of South Shore. My father, Garen and I would use this time to go fishing in the river to the east, something we normally never got the chance to do. At one point, when I was two, I almost drowned when Garen let me wade into the water; an undercurrent swept me down river. My father had to dive in and pull me out, I’ve not learned to swim well, and to this date have a hard time getting on boats. That was the last trip we took to the Hillsbrad Foothills before the first war.

At the age of three, in the autumn of the year 593, or the first year after the opening of the Dark Portal word of the First War reached Lordaeron’s southern coast with merchant ships from Azeroth, it would be the first time I ever heard the word Orc in my life. My father and mother spent most of their nights stockpiling supplies in case the war would spill over onto our continent. Garen was 14 at the time, Shia was a year old. We were simply told to not pay attention, this was when I first noticed that Garen didn’t seem to smile like he used to. I was left to my own devices and childhood continued.

Three years later, the summer of 596, refugees from the southern human nations of Azeroth, led by a charismatic man known as Lord Anduin Lothar reached the southern Lordaeron borders; it was a short time later that the emergency council of all seven human nations was met in the capitol city, Lordaeron. It was then that the Alliance of Lordaeron was officially announced the following year. I was 6 at the time, Garen was 17 and Shia was 4. My father kept himself busy as many refugees from Stormwind had moved onto the land south of Strahnbrad, into the Hillsbrad Foothills. Many of them traveled to see him preach, there were very few active churches left in the area during that time, and the remaining churches were very full; many people sought out the comfort in the light during this time. With the abundance of faith and lack of confessors, the stress was clearly taking its toll on my father; he often vented his frustrations on Garen, who for the better part of two years spent most of his days training to follow my father’s footsteps, thinking heavily on leaving for Stratholme for seminal training. As it was, Garen never had it in him to join the priesthood; I remember he confided this in me, he wanted so terribly to join the military. Everyone could tell that we were on the brink of war, even I could.

The spring of 598, the Second War began, Garen was one of the first priests to receive spiritual and martial training, and as it was, he was assigned to work as one of the auxiliary priests to the Order of the Silver Hand. It made my father proud. But I remember as proud as he was, it didn’t diminish the fears that the war would spin out of control, and he would lose his eldest son, the rest of the family shared the same fears, except for me, I was sure that Garen would be able to fight his way out of any situation, such is the faith of the young. Shortly after it started, the Horde, as they were now called, had reached the Southern shores and had sacked the towns known as Southshore, Hillsbrad and Tarren Mill. My father held mass every evening that entire year.

It was the early summer that I first saw the Horde. They had been trekking straight through Alterac with no resistance from national military force; I remember many men of the village, my father included, spewing vile curses toward the name Perenolde. I had no idea what that meant.

The next two months were spent in bitter fear, no word from trade came, neither north nor south bound, our little village was effectively cut off from the world. There was an utter peace that, to this day unsettled me more than most of the vile things I’ve born witness to. It was right before the leaves began to turn, we received a letter. The first news from the outside world, it was from Garen. He was battling along side the famed Uther Lightbringer on the eastern front, in a town called Tyr’s Hand. He brought word of our own Lord Aiden Perenolde’s treachery, and that even as he was writing the letter, preparations were being made by Stromgarde’s national forces to march on Alterac and burn it to the ground. My father and mother packed hastily, I remember that final sermon my father gave, he gave a rousing accolade to the triumph and determination of men and issued a warning to the others of the battle that would come to Alterac and praying to the Light that mercy would be found in the arms of Stromgarde. That would be the last time he preached to any formal congregation. Many people went home that night and packed, but far too many stayed. We made our way south, Southshore and Hillsbrad were utterly destroyed, Tarren Mill was in dire straits as well. We spent the next two months wandering, trying to avoid the war. The whole time, all I could think about was joining my older brother in battle, along side shining knights with fantastic powers.

After spending the better part of three weeks in a mineshaft west of Southshore, my mother finally broke down, and urged my father to travel west to Gilneas. Her older brother was a citizen of Gilneas and would offer them help in their time of need. It took two more weeks of living in the silence and dark of the Azurelode Mine before the pride that my father held finally faltered and he decided that asking for help would be better than leaving his family to starve in a mineshaft or wandering aimlessly through war-torn farmlands. We finally settled in a place called Gilneas, war had managed to avoid touching it, but it was a rather strange place. My father found work as a blacksmithing apprentice under my mother’s older brother, my uncle, a giant man named Dravith Alevall, whom was. My father was the same age as Dravith, but while my father was a reserved man, who practiced an active pacifism in the face of adversity, my Uncle Dravith was a loud braggart, who would just as soon punch a man in the jaw as he would wink at him, not to mention he was friends with one of the surliest dwarves on the continent, maybe the world, a horrid smelling dwarf named Keggar Breakwind. At first, my father found it hard to associate with Dravith, and never quite became fond of Keggar. More often than once did my father’s pacifist demeanor give way to frustrations at Dravith and Keggar’s antics. But, over time they grew to respect one another, and eventually became close friends over the following months in Gilneas. We remained in Gilneas for the remainder of the war.

The Second War was officially ended on my birthday, which was the best present I could have asked for. My birthday falls on the 7th of October, near a time which would now be known as Hallow’s End. Everyone all around the world, or at least Gilneas, seemed were in cheer for the end of the war. That winter Garen came to Gilneas, a stronger man, he was no longer just my older brother, he was my idol.

The following summer of 599, we left Gilneas and returned to what remained of Glen’s Wake, there wasn’t much. The town had been abandoned, so we left for the city. What we found were troops from Stromgarde, they had since imposed martial law on the nation of Alterac, I was 8 years old and had no idea what that meant, but I was enamored with the tall men incased in shining metal, yet none of them seemed to compare in stature to my older brother. With nowhere to go, my father and mother turned west to find a home in the Silverpine Forests, north of Gilneas. My father received word from Dravith that he had moved out of Gilneas, due to the possibility that they would isolate themselves from the rest of the alliance out of some political issues with the rest of the Alliance. He had settled in a place called Ambermill, that is where we went. My father, brother and I built a home in the wooded hills north of the town, it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen in my life, and our family remained there for the next 19 years. My father went into business alongside Dravith as the local smiths, forging largely only farming equipment, but on occasion Dravith would get a special order, forging a weapon of some sort. My father never learned how to create a weapon, he never wanted to.

During that time, at my brother’s, as well as my own, insistence, we asked that he be allowed to train me in the ways of the light, and of war. Despite the bitterness that accompanied my father’s unwilling allowance, he had high hopes for the future of his youngest son. He could see that with Garen helping me along, I would become a strong man of the faith. To his surprise, however, there were apparent changes in the Church of the Holy Light, now allowing women to be counted amongst their ranks as priestesses; he took my sister Shia under his wing, to be trained as a priestess in a more “classical” sense.

That winter, the Alliance issued a proclamation stating that any soldiers willing to follow the Alliance expedition into the Dark Portal would be compensated greatly, with honors and other monetary value. Garen considered it, but the prospect of Garen leaving didn’t settle well with anyone in the family, with myself included. Garen formally resigned from the Order of the Silver Hand that summer, a decision he made upon hearing that upon the completion of the construction of the newly formed Nethergarde Keep, he would be placed on garrison duty there. It was a sad day for everyone, I felt shame at my joy, it was obvious that being a member of the Silver Hand was a matter of great pride to Garen; he had lofty dreams of being knighted and known as a Paladin. Nonetheless, I was still glad my older brother remained home. It was later that year that the news of the sacrifice of the Alliance Expedition was announced, and the leaders of the expeditions were heralded as some of the Alliances greatest heroes. When upon hearing the tragic news of the alliance expedition’s sacrifice, Garen regretfully agreed that he was better off staying home. In 602, the Alliance, at the behest of King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron funded the reconstruction of the City of Stormwind to the south. This caused uproar with many nations of the Alliance, particularly Gilneas. Simultaneously, as the construction of Stormwind began, the southern nation of Gilneas began construction of a wall, effectively separating themselves from Lordearon via the land route. This was particularly disconcerting to Dravith, who knew of his country’s strange isolationist beliefs, but never expected that.

In 602, I remember hearing of the escape of the Orcs from Durnholde. This was particularly upsetting news to my mother and father, but I was ready to take my training and put it to use against the Orcs, just as my brother had done. I was ten years old, and wise enough to keep this fervor silent, and as I would find out later in life, was lucky I never faced the escaped Orc-who-would-be-Warchief; otherwise my story would have ended far sooner than expected.

Life remained quiet for Ambermill, no word of foreign battles, nothing of Orcs or Trolls crossed anyone, the only notable events in my life were the disbanding of the Alliance in 603, or 11 years after the opening of the Dark Portal, and the closing of the newly finished Greymane Wall. The isolation of Gilneas proved to become something that, to this day, angers me to my very core. Over the next several years our lives had returned and everything was as it should be. Garen continued to tutor me as per usual, during the day I would help as an apprentice blacksmith under Dravith and my father, afternoons were spent with Garen, and he would show me how to handle myself in a battle, how to properly clean and tend to armor, and how to effectively shield myself in combat. Nights were spent in study and contemplation of the three virtues of the Church of Holy Light, Respect, Tenacity, and Compassion.

It was in 605 there became a distinct rift between Garen and my father about my training. My father did not see my spiritual development on the same levels of my martial skills. It was true, at the age of sixteen, I was matching Garen blow for blow, and he knew it. He took pride in my training. But I could not say as much for my grasp on the Holy Light, I understood acceptance and respect, but for some reason I was still not able to call upon the Holy Light as my brother could, or as I found out that year, my father. It was a strange evening, that night, I remember a lot of tension as Garen and my father had just finished an hour long shouting argument over my training. It was a particularly uncomfortable and painful experience for me personally; I don’t think either of them knew that at the time. On one hand, my father was helping to tutor Shia, who was quickly becoming a devout Priestess, displaying miraculous abilities; he blamed my brother’s lack of focus on my lack of results. My brother would counter it, and say that “Shia was an exceptionally gifted young woman, and that neither I nor Val could expect to do the things she has done so adeptly.” After my mother broke up the fight, we sat quietly around the dinner table. My father and Garen didn’t speak for 2 whole months afterward.

It was a comment that Garen made, however, that allowed me to become the person I am today. He approached me one evening, after sparring, he placed his hand on my shoulder and he smiled and said “You’ve got the light in you, it’s running through you, I can tell as much every single time I land a blow on you. It's in the way nothing fazes you, nothing but a single minded focus, that’s the light in you Val. I don’t care what dad says, you’re a success.”

The winter of 605 is when I met her, a young woman named Marla; she was a beautiful young woman, a few years younger than I. With blond hair that ran to her waist, and distinct blue eyes, she stole my heart. I met her one evening; I was returning from delivering an order of retooled saw blades to a town west of us called Pyrewood village. I found her lying in the woods, sobbing. Apparently she had been out with another suitor from Pyrewood, and they had been accosted by a lone Worg, as they ran she tripped and broke her ankle, he left her there. When I found her I did not see traces of a Worg near, but I did not question her story. I helped calm her down, and then carried her to her home in Pyrewood. She lived with her widowed mother; she offered to let me stay through the night. I did, and then invariably stayed for the next three days. I had planned on staying a fourth, but Garen and my Uncle Dravith had come looking for me, my family had been worried I had been lost. Overcome with grief as they were, I was lucky to have had Garen and Dravith been the ones to find me. They simply laughed when I told them that I had purposely found reasons to stay, just so I could chase after Marla’s heart. I left for home with Garen and uncle Drav.

During 606 and 607 I spent most of my time traveling to Pyrewood, and in the spring of 610, at the age of 21, Marla and I married and moved to Ambermill. Garen, Dravith, my father and I built another smaller home near the family home. Garen had done the same on the opposite end of the land a year or so before. Garen was 32 years old and had not settled down. He was a lover, as we found out, and had courted many women in the surrounding areas. He never found a wife. Shia had blossomed now too, she was seeing a young man who worked the mill named Darren. My father hated him, which goes to prove that being a man of the Light doesn’t stop you from being a father.

As it was, those seven years I spent with Marla were the most fulfilling and happy years I have ever had. All was peaceful for that time, Garen and I continued train until he had nothing more to teach me. Marla took up the hobby of knitting; she took lessons from my mother. It took her two years to finish her first quilt, she stopped knitting shortly after.

617, the Scourge arrived. My life and everything I knew and loved at the time would come to an utter and tragic end.

As man…”

The knocking at the door sounded.

“Val?”

The melodic voice was that of Elly Langston, the barkeep’s daughter. She was around twenty-five years old, and she had the face of an angel. The dim light under the door began to cast shadows as Elly stood outside. She lightly knocked.

“Valand, are you awake?”

Valand put the quill down; he blew the ink dry and turned the pages over. He stood quickly and moved to the door. Opening it, the pretty young face of Elly Langston greeted him with a smile.

“Hey, Elly, what’s the problem?”

She looked past Valand into the dusty room.

“Gosh it’s dark in there, do you have the windows covered?”

Valand looked back momentarily and nodded.

“Yeah, not much of a view anyway.”

Elly smiled, she always smiled.

“Well, ok Mr. Cave Monster, if you’re hungry, we’ve got some roast boar leftover, Dad said to come see if you wanted any.”

Valand initially wanted to respectfully decline and get back to his writing, but the rumbling of his stomach told him that food would be a wiser choice.

“Thanks Elly, I’m starving.”

She smiled again and started back down the hallway, Valand followed. They walked out onto the balcony above the bar, the place was quiet, except for Harry and Bartleby who never left. Harry Burlguard, a retired soldier, and Reese Langston, the owner and barkeep of the Pig and Whistle Tavern, sat and talked about next to nothing at the bar. Harry threw back another pint and laughed at something Reese said. David Langston, Elly’s brother and Reese’s son, stood idly in the corner cleaning the muck off the taps in a water basin. When Valand and Elly reached the railing, Reese was the first to notice them.

“Val, hey, got some boar if you want it?”

Valand smiled.

“Did Ryback make it?”

Reese nodded.

“Then it’s probably better off in the trash.”

Harry, David and Reese all laughed, a voice could be heard from the kitchen.

“Yeah, well, your mother is an Orc!”

Harry laughed even harder, Bartleby even chucked.

“You would know, wouldn’t you Ryback.” Valand replied, then looking around he said. “Where is it then, I’m starving.”

Reese pulled a plate out from under the bar and slid it over to Val. He started picking pieces of boar meat off the bone and stuffing it in his mouth.

Harry sat next to him and watched with amusement.

“When was the last time you ate, boy?”

Valand simply smiled and continued to chew. Meanwhile, Elly was cleaning table tops off in the bar room floor, Bartleby swaggered over and plopped down in a chair.

“So, Elly, when are you and I going to go get married?” he said, he smiled a toothless grin.

Elly returned the smile and without missing a beat replied.

“As soon as you can manage to save up some money for a ring, buy me a house, and buy me a maid so I never have to scrub tables again.”

Bartleby chuckled.

“Oh, Elly, baby, I’ve already got enough money for the both of us.”

Elly then replied in turn.

“Then if you’ve got that kind of money, why can’t you afford to take a bath once in a while?”

Valand laughed, Harry bellowed with laughter, Reese smiled at his daughter, and David looked up and shook his head, then continued to scrub glasses.

Elly turned and began to walk back to the kitchen; Harry then grabbed her by her hips and pulled her onto his lap.

“Well, what about me Elly? You know I’ve got the gold, I can make you queen of castle Burlguard!”

Elly stood up and chuckled.

“Sorry Harry, I make it a habit of not marrying old married men.” She smiled then and turned back and walked into the kitchen.

Bartleby joined them at the bar and watched Elly walk into the kitchen.

“What a woman.” He said.

“Easy now.” Reese said.

“What? You should take that as a compliment, you’re daughter is one of the most beautiful women in Old Town, possibly all of Stormwind. You should be proud. If I weren’t such a screw up, I know she’d take me.”

Reese simply shook his head and continued wiping down the bar.

Harry leaned on the bar and added “Yeah, and if I weren’t damn near 50 years old and married, I’d have a chance too.”

Bartleby snorted. “Uther’s balls, you’re full of it Burlguard.”

He then put his arm around Valand; his breath reeked of distilled liquor and pork.

“What about you Val? You’re a successful, stand up guy; Reese likes you well enough to rent the upstairs apartment out to you. Hell, you ain’t old like Harry, you aren’t married are ya?”

Harry slapped his forehead and stared at Bartleby, Reese blanched and stared. David stopped cleaning dishes and turned to glare at Bartleby. Valand stopped smiling slowly, then cast his gaze to the boar. It didn’t seem appealing any longer.

“Bartleby, why don’t you learn to keep that snaggle toothed mouth of yours shut once in a while?” David glowered.

Bartleby shut up quickly and took his arm off Valand, the room quieted and the air became tense. Bartleby started to say something, but Harry stuck his finger before his lips and silenced him. Valand took another few bites of the boar and then slid the plate out before him. He smiled a bit.

“Thanks for the boar Reese, I’m gonna go back upstairs and finish some reading.”

“No problem Val, you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Valand quietly walked back upstairs.

Through the door.

Down the hallway.

Back to his room.

When he entered, the candles were still lit on the table in the center of the room; the wax had melted down considerably. They still cast the strange sad glow over the room, shadows rippling about them with the silent wind that blew in behind Valand.

Reaching down he blew out a single candle, and grabbed the tray the other was on. He shifted slowly and moved it to the table next to his bed. He felt the overflowing wax drip off the tray, it landed on his hand. He sat down on the bed; he watched quietly as the wax cooled and hardened on his skin. With a sigh, he flicked the wax dripping into the tray and looked forward out of his remaining left eye to the door across the room, at the light underneath the frame shining in. He put his head in his hands and began to sob quietly.

[Celera]

The grass was cool and damp between her toes. And she had forgotten the smell of it, the rich woody smell of land in the Great Tree. Laranna laid back on the grass and rolled over, resting her forehead on her arms and inhaling deeply of the scent of home. She didn't bother to keep an eye out for trouble. Even clad in her simple pants and shirt, with bare feet, the creatures ignored her. The furbolgs ignored her too, although she had had to kill one of them first. She didn't want to. She hadn't even cast a spell, simply stabbed once with her old dagger, and the poor brute fell over dead. She felt rather bad about it, but since then she had not had to so much as glare at anyone or anything to remain completely safe. It was sort of nice, and yet, it felt strange, to be safe.

Tim growled softly, as one of the grey nightsabres came near, looking curious. The big cat looked at the old black wolf, and hissed, but it was just for show, and they both knew it. Tim closed his eyes and seemed to doze off, as the grey cat walked looking, as cats will, as if he had not just been utterly put in his place. Celera smiled slightly, and her eyes met the wolf's eyes for just a moment, before Tim stretched out and went to sleep for real. Celera stretched out on the grass next to her sister, but looking up through the leaves of the trees that grew on the Great Tree, and at the blue sky just beyond them.

"So," Laranna said finally, still the one more impatient with silence, "will you see Mother in the Emerald Dream?"

Celera sighed. "I told you, I can't answer that," she said, with the air of a tutor talking to a dimwitted pupil.

"I know, but it's silly," her sister answered, rolling over onto her side and looking at her sister, as if perhaps she could get more information out of her by willpower alone. "I'm a high priestess, now. I know the deepest secrets of the way of Elune, and many other things too. I am," she tried not to act vain, but it was hard, "more powerful even than you."

"Oh, are you now!" Celera sat up, and looked at Laranna with an arched eyebrow. But it was true, and they both knew it. Celera laid back down, and resumed her staring at the leaves and sky. "It isn't that it's a secret. I just, can't tell you. There aren't any words that fit."

"But is it where she has gone?"

"Well, no. It isn't an afterlife, exactly." Celera said, "It's not where we go when we die."

"You saw D'ana'no there."

"Well, yes. I don't really understand that myself. Something was going on with Windfoot, he didn't just die. It was more than that."

Laranna pointed out that there was really no such thing as more than dying and Celera had no way to disagree. In any case, their mother had merely died, and for no reason that anyone could explain. She had taken to just sitting in her room, staring out the window, for days at a time. Celera thought that Nienna had gathered what little will she had left, and just willed herself away.

"So," Laranna broke into the silence again, "how long before you go back?"

"To the Dream? Or to Zangarmarsh?"

"Well, either one. You never tell me your plans."

"I don't have plans. I just go where it seems I should go."

"What about Kielon? Is he in the Dream? Do you see him? Are you still friends there?"

Celera smiled. Her sister had changed so much, and yet so little. "He has been there a long time. I see him sometimes, in a sense. And we are always friends. Some things can't be changed or forgotten, whatever happens." Her fingers closed around a stick nearby, and she poked Laranna in the side with it, playfully. "Just like we'll always be sisters. And no matter how exalted you are in the Outlands, I'll always be the one who mashed up eggs for you when you were a baby."

"And saved me from the murlocs," Laranna smiled back at her. "I still have a scar from that day." She rolled up her sleeve and they both looked for a moment at the mark on her arm, faded but still visible. Celera shuddered slightly. She had faced far greater dangers, but never been more frightened than she was that day.

"So, what about you, Miss High Priestess," Celera asked. "Where are you going from here? Back to Kharazan?"

"No, my work there is done, I think. I thought I would go back to Shadowmoon Valley, where they have those drakes. I've heard you can learn to ride them, and they're really fast! But then when I was at the temple in town, I talked to Janna and..." She hesitated. "Well, she wants me to stay there, for a while, and teach. Isn't that just weird? Me? But I think I will, for a while. I just feel like I should stay here for now. I've learned a lot, and it seems like I should pass it on. Somehow...I think everything we learned out there is going to be needed here soon."

[Val]

[Kielon]

The green tint was ever-present. Even the doe, softly drinking from the water’s edge, looked a strange hue of green. Light cascaded through the trees, reflecting off the water, glimmering in the eyes of the deer. Nearby, in a copse of trees, silent as death itself, a large, black cat watched with feigned interest. The doe lazily finishes the drink and wanders closer still to the trees. As if on cue, the back legs of the cat raise, as if kneading the soft moss that has, until now, served as the bed of the powerful feline. Closer the doe gets . . . the cat poises to strike, and . . .

Nothing.

As if waking from a haze, the cat looks up to see the doe galloping to the far trees and a tall night elf standing in front of him. Confusion, then anger, showed on the cat’s face.
“Why do you stop me, elf? Have I no right to hunt?”

“You know the answer. It is time to return. You have been gone too long.” The wind blows through the trees and pushes the hair from the stranger’s face. A glint of recognition passes across the cat’s eyes.

“I have no business there any longer. The place is infernal; the remnants of that taint are overpowering to the senses. I live here now.”

The elf stood at the edge of the water. Bending down, he shuffles some grass and removes a stone from the earth. Tossing it into the lake, he turns with a sigh to the cat now lazing at his feet.

“And this is not what you want. This is not who you are. Somewhere along the line, you have left yourself, and resigned to this life.”

“I have forgotten that life. I have forgotten much. I am cat now.”

“No. It is time to forget the cat. It is now time to remember that you are a druid, Kielon. Come now. It is time to go to Northrend.” With that, the elf turns to stride away.

“But . . .” the cat begins to protest.

“No time for worries. They will be there. They have not forgotten. She will be there.”

With that, druid stands where cat once laid. The druid makes his way around the lake to catch up.

[Val]

OMG Kielon. Awesome post man, SO glad to see you on again.

[Val]

Oh, I was scouring the boards earlier this morning, gathering old RP information and whatnot, doing my homework. I stumbled onto this treasure.

www3.telus.net/revchj/dov/index.html

Bookmarked.

[Monuv]

[Classic home page goodness...]

Elwynn was rather peaceful, especially for this time of year. Normally winds from the North would cause the dying leaves to swirl about in a maelstrom of color. The peaceful silence was disquieting when looking upon the gutted frame of the once great manor. Monuv and Koria urged their horses on a slow walk around the stone wall to survey the damage.

"I haven't been back since you brought me here." Monuv breathed as he took in the details. He had never lived here permanently, but Valand and Koria had rescued Monuv from his own brother almost two years ago they brought him here.

"Nor I..." Koria was never a part of the Defenders, but the short time she stayed here left an indelible mark.

Although the majority of the manor, including the small wing that survived the fire, had long since collapsed from the elements, the gardens all appeared to be in good order and the hedges were trimmed closely. They continued their tour of the ruins hoping this evidence meant the man they were looking for still kept his residence here. As if on cue, Monuv spotted someone on their hands and knees weeding a bed of flowers. He was dressed in simple shorts with suspenders that lapped over a dirty shirt. His features were covered by the large-brimmed hat that protected his neck from the sun.

"Ho there." The man jumped up, startled at Monuv's call. He was so intent upon what he was doing, he did not hear the horses. "Johnson, I presume?"

He removed the hat and revealed himself to be none other than the former master of the household. He was only slightly disheveled, which is leaps and bounds more than Monuv had ever seen him while he walked the halls of the Defenders. "Master Monuv?" Johnson raised his arm up to block the sun. "By the gods, you've gone from a boy to a man... and quite a man." He bowed toward Koria, "my apologies, we have met but your name escapes me."

"Koria, I tend to follow this one." She nodded toward Monuv with a smile. Both of them slid off their horses and walked through a small waste-high gate to greet Johnson face to face.

"Koria, of course. Again I apologize." He placed the hat back on to cover his pale skin. "Come, my quarters are still intact. I have tea and biscuits."

"That will be wonderful," Monuv began, the urgency still tugging at him, "but we are here for more than a visit I'm afraid."

"Yes, as has everyone been lately." Johnson stopped for a mere second to pull an errant twig-sized branch from the hedge. "Since the fire some would return to find what news I had of others, lately more and more have come." Monuv was actually surprised at this, has everyone felt the same fear as he? "I try to keep everything straight, keep all my letters." He stopped once more to look directly at Monuv. "I do this in case someone like Fechak were to return... you'll do, you'll do."

They continued on around the corner and toward the servants quarters, of which he was the only remaining resident. The inside was immaculate, to the level of which Johnson was renowned. Even with all of the perfection it felt warm and inviting, something Monuv had never quite figured out.

Koria was instantly at home and sat down on a plush chair, leaning back into the thick down. Monuv remained standing and followed Johnson as he moved around the small kitchen lighting a flame and gathering snacks. He pointed to his bookshelf where there appeared to be several dozen scrolls bound up in neat piles. "Those are the letters, some are in Elven. I can translate if necessary. Please help yourself, they're not personal, but addressed to all."

Monuv moved quickly to the book case ignoring Johnson as he prattled on about the weather. Each of the scrolls was clearly labeled and in alphabetical order. Monuv went instantly to the end, finding nothing he was looking for.

"No word from Valand?" Monuv called back over his shoulder.

"Why yes of course, he visits the most. In fact he was here just last week, helped me take up a tree stump." Johnson was still busy making tea.

"Last week?!" Monuv could hardly contain himself, he considered Valand more of a brother than his true kin. "Where was he headed?"

"He lives in Stormwind, by the gods in the same inn as that blasted Gnome."

[Val]

((I'm long winded.))

“As man is inherently weak and easily manipulated, it came to no surprise to me when I learned the truth of the Scourge of Lordaeron, and the Cult of the Damned later in my life.”



He etched the characters, line by line into the parchment as every painful memory flooded back into his mind with such mental acuity that it felt like he was experiencing it all over again. He was too far gone now, he could only continue to write, to relive everything.



“At the time, in my life, I was happily living, peace and prosperity, despite the overwhelming political tension, and the increasing taxes, life was without war, and as such, it was a good time.

For those seven years, Marla and I had been happy, and our lives had been fruitful. My family bloomed and grew, Shia had gotten married, Garen had found a woman that he didn’t run away from, Marla and I were planning on having a child within the next few years.

But in 616, the rumors, and the whispers of those who promised “eternal” life, free of the taxes of the King reached our ears. Such a thing never much bothered us, but from what we heard, the northern villages and cities bustled with “death cult” activity. The idea was growing on many people, and would bother us eventually at the rate its influence was spreading. Even Stratholme was to be infiltrated. Such a thing bothered my father greatly, citing that the “frailties of the human race will never cease to amaze me. Even in the presence of such omnipotent light, more power is sought.” I always agreed with him, but the light is easy to dismiss in times of peace. When no force of the light can alleviate the pain you feel in your wallet, a promise of freedom from taxation was a very seductive one.

Garen tried hard to simply understand what these people thought, he went so far as to ride north to a town called Brill, and hear what one of the people said. To Garen’s surprise, he found the message to not be as disheartening as it seemed. But, a man as devout as my brother would not be swayed so easily, he returned and bore no message of ill will and believed the cult was “harmless”.

This was something he would live to regret, for the rest of his life.

Later that year, even more reports of a vicious plague were breaking out in northern Lordaeron, I realized this was more than a coincidence, Garen would not believe me. He was convinced it was the work of Orc subterfuge. Men would die, and three days later rise as zombies, seemingly mindless in their pursuits for carnage. Infected cities and towns were kept secure, and cordoned off from the rest of Lordaeron, that is until the following year, when the Third War for Azeroth began.

It was in 617 that Prince Arthas Menethil, son of King Terenas Menethil II, a powerful warrior in service to the Order of the Silver hand, a man whom even my brother admired, began his “cleansing”. From what was told, in Alterac, rogue bands of Orcs had taken hostages of the civilians. News of this caused my father grief unlike I had seen him do since the Second War. Arthas’ assault on the Orcs was short received news; we took it as a sort of reprieve. But it was also short-lived, as reports that the plague had breached the quarantines and had begun ravaging the town of Hearthglen. At the time, we were left completely oblivious of Arthas’ actions.

The culling of Stratholme, the madness that took hold there and the subsequent disbanding of the Silver Hand, we knew of none of it. Not until Arthas’ disappearance after he sailed north and no one returned. The Kingdom fell into mourning as, not only had the iconic Paladin Prince Arthas succumbed to grief and madness, but he and several of the soldiers he commanded were presumed dead.

That summer, however, Arthas returned home, he wasted little time in returning to the capitol. Despite his apparent madness, and the murder of countless lives at Stratholme, Arthas was welcomed as a hero returned, for he had saved Lordaeron from the plague of undeath. Uncle Dravith, Garen and I were at the capitol the day of his return.

We were there, for the bells, the cheers of the roaring crowds and the excitement abuzz in the air. We were there when that same clamor proved to hide the strange feeling we felt when Arthas walked through the capitol.

We were there the day Arthas betrayed his people. We were there the day the Scourge, lying in wait, attacked Lordaeron.

We were there, and not home.

Dravith, Garen and I fought, cleaved, struggled and slashed our way through the undead siege. I remember seeing the faces for the first time, those eyeless sockets staring back with nothing of empathy; nothing of passion, just the driving will to murder, I felt the horror in my soul arise in disgust and stripping me of my will to fight. I saw a man slain; rise up after mere moments to attack the person he once tried to defend. I saw horrible, stitched up abominations of walking flesh that spewed vile toxins. I saw monstrous spiders; with skeletal appendages wreak havoc on my countryman without hesitation. I saw the hopelessness in such a fight, I fled.

We escaped via the sewer system, which had been built extensively throughout the capitol, along with many others, who fled to the certain death that awaited them outside the city walls. In the rush, the chaos of battle, the groups of evacuees that we had been with were cornered outside the city. The choice that was placed before us was to escape into the Lordamere Lake and try to swim to the Dawning Isles, or escape down the coast which was rapidly being overrun by Undead. Both choices almost guaranteed certain death. It was my Uncle Dravith who would make the sacrifice; he single handedly launched himself into battle with a platoon of undead soldiers. To this day, I remember seeing his wild black hair, flipping about as he tore into the ranks of the undead, axe in hand. Garen, myself and the rest of the survivors fled into the Silverpine forests, expecting to find a reprieve. It was not to be so.

The Scourge had already completely razed the region, setting fires to the homes and farms, murdering men, women and children were the stood. Panic overtook Garen and I, we abandoned the rest of the group and fled to Ambermill as quickly as we could. We ran for several hours, avoiding the thick undead patrols. As every minute passed, worry overtook me even more. It was at the last hill before we reached our homestead that Garen stopped me. He grabbed me by my shoulder and looked into my eyes and said “Valand, I need you to be strong, for Marla. They’re going to be fine, and we’re going to get through this.” He smiled, he was brave for me. This would be the last time my brother spoke to me with his sanity intact.

When we got home, we found my mother and father dead in their bedrooms, sleeping peacefully, a bottle of poison was standing next to their bed stand. Shia was found in a similar position with the young man from the mill, Darren, along with another poison vial.

I find it hard now to write this, for all the travesties that I have succumbed to in my journeys through this war crafted world of ours, I find it hard to compare anything to the feeling that I felt when I returned to my own home. Marla was there, dead, with a similar bottle of poison, standing near her, underneath the poison vial was a folded letter. Marla was wearing the same dress she wore the day I found her in the woods, she wore no expression. I opened the letter and I learned of my unborn child.

My dead wife with child.

Garen and I gathered the corpses of our family, and burned them, along with my father’s house. Neither Garen nor I spoke to each other over the course of the next few hours.

I still remember the smell of them burning.

Garen and I huddled that night in our respective homes, neither of us risked lighting a fire, for fear of attracting the dead. In that cold dark house, now alien to the place I once called home and I prayed that whatever was happening in Lordaeron would kill us both. I considered killing myself, I feel comfortable saying that Garen did too.

The next morning Garen awoke shortly before I did. I saw him wearing his armor, with his blade he once bore into battle in the Second War, strapped to his back. I called out his name and he didn’t seem to hear, or care. He began walking north, into the woods, to Lordaeron. I never saw Garen again. I still would like to imagine, my brother dying valiantly, fighting with the power and might of the holy Paladin that he was at heart. But, it is something that I will never know the truth of.

I was now abandoned, and alone, for the first time in my life. Lordaeron was in ruins, there was nothing for anyone, save the dead, in those lands. I had no hope, no reason, but my feet and legs just began walking.

I walked for weeks on end, southeast. I found myself at Tol Barad; I found passage on an evacuee ship and sailed south. The next few months remain a mystery to me, everything was lifeless, colorless. I did not care about world around me, I wondered Azeroth until my body dropped, and there I lie, until my body could conjure up the energy to move again. I cared little for the trappings of self worth. I wandered until my body finally stopped and I could not find the energy to continue, I was finally accepting the fate that was to be mine, like the rest of my family. I remember crying when I closed my eyes.

It was a miracle that they found me; I awoke in the chapel at Northshire.

I was being tended to by a young man in the robes of a cleric. There were others like me all around, haggard survivors. Initially I had no idea of where or what I was doing, so I remember lying there, feeling the same helplessness that I felt before. I slept fitfully for those next few days; I was fevered and had suffered from some infection. Even with the holy light, no wounds can be healed without the will to live.

It was roughly a week later, I woke from a fevered sleep, hearing a young woman singing down the hall. She was singing the melody to the Lordaeron Royal Anthem. I remember feeling nothing but shame in myself, in letting myself fall like I had. For the first time since that fateful summer day, I felt the same passion as I had when I was a child. I wanted to live, I wanted to fight.

The war was over in the north, Lordaeron had fallen, and I had done nothing to stop it. Not like my brother or uncle. When listening to the sad anthem-made-eulogy being sung, I swore an oath to myself to never stop believing and living, in the memories of my family and my countrymen.

The interesting thing about oaths, however, they are often broken.

During the remainder of the war, my body was broken, wracked with pain and disease from my travels, it took me a two months to fully recuperate. By that time, the war had been drawn off of the Eastern Continent, now dubbed Azeroth. It had spilled over to a land far beyond the great sea to the west, from what reports at the time were calling Kalimdor.

I, however, was an evacuee of Lordaeron in the newly finished city of Stormwind.

I remember hearing news of the reconstruction of Stormwind and how it was terribly taxing on the peoples of Lordearon, I myself was one to complain about such heavy taxation, but Stormwind was the epitome of humankind’s efforts in this world. There were towers of stone, shining as if carved of pearl, beautiful rows of statues, created in the image of the fallen heroes of the Second War. Stormwind was just as, if not more, beautiful and grand than the might of the fallen capitol of Lordaeron.

Despite my awe and shock in the cities beautiful construction, I found that work was scarce in the nation of Stormwind. I was lucky, however, for five years I worked as a smith’s apprentice in a village called Darkshire in the darkened trees of Duskwood, a strange place in the southern Elwynn forests. I took my skills learned from my father and my uncle and put them to work. The local smith was far more than impressed with my skills; he hired me and helped me get set up before I could afford to build a home of my own. I lived here, quietly, as it could have been with all the bizarre events that seemed to center on the tiny hamlet.

In 622, or 31 years after the opening of the Dark Portal, I was waylaid in Northern Elwynn forest by men who called themselves Defias. They bore red scarves and cog tattoos on their hands and they murdered a man whom I came to call friend, his name was Thomas Devine. During my time as a smith, much of my own personal feelings toward the outside world became null and I tried to keep myself out of trouble, but the senseless murder of Thomas set off a chain of events that would bring me to where I am today. They lit a spark in my heart that reminded me of that fevered oath I made before.

This was the first time since leaving Silverpine forest that I would lift a blade.

I killed the three of them, then chased the fourth into the woods and cut his throat. I decided that I stood aside, idly, for far long enough. If in this world, created seemingly for the pure crafting of war, I would not find peace.

I left Darkshire and lent my aid to the militia forces forming all around the lands. I met success and managed to do my best and help the people in one form or another, I felt that I could be doing more, however. That alone I was but a single man with a blade in hand. This would change during that fall, when I was asked to join the Defenders. Once more, my life seemed to have hope. But, that of course, was meant to fail as well.”



Valand placed the quill down then, leaning back in his chair, he scratched his right eye under where his eye patch had been soaking up sweat, which now dripped from his forehead by the gallon it seemed. He hadn’t realized he had worked himself up so much, just from writing. He sighed then, and cast a long eyed gaze to his footlocker at the end of the room. Standing, he stretched his stiff shoulders out and walked over and knelt before the tiny chest. Pulling his eye patch back, he tore a tiny brass key out of a pocket stitched into the damp piece of cloth. Replacing his patch, he placed the key in the lock and turned it. Lifting the footlocker, the smell of dried blood, sand, dirt and ash hit him full on in the nose. He smiled and pulled out a very stained piece of cloth. It was a beautifully sewn white linen tabard, with a sword placed over a shield embroidered in golden stitching on the breast. He smiled and placed the cloth against his chest and let out a deep sigh.

[Emizael]

Storm and sea.

Frozen wind hurls sheets of ice against the mainsail, the sound of ice-choked lines snapping taut as the ship heaves to, threatening to dash itself to bits along the forbidden rocky coast.

Unknown land, untamed land, land seen only through glimpses as the hellish sky unleashes another bolt of cancerous green lightnings.

Hoarse cries, once-human voices, register dimly...

" LAND HO!!!"

The gunwales snap. A tearing sound. Mast splinters, showering the uncaring crew with shrapnel.

" Forty years before the mast! Forty years!! I will land this maggot-ridden corpse of a vessel afore she sinks!!"

The voice is horrid. Sounds like the crunching of glass. Too much hate, in that voice.

The captain walks forward against the freezing rain. A piece of the mast pierces his chest, where breathing lungs once lay. Nearly a yard long, the shaft does nothing to slow the Forsaken. He hisses, and points one wretched claw at the nearing shoreline.

" FORTY YEARS BEFORE THE MAST!!! WE'LL MAKE THEM ALL PAY!! THE LICH KING CALLS!! "

The Captains' yell is answered by the crew, sounding even above the detonations of the heavens above them.

Lights. We see lights...ahead...

[Val]

((All done with this nonsense. It's important to note that the last section of this post has many psuedo political overtones in it, don't read into them too much. I'm not protesting, Iraq isn't filled with Orcs to my knowledge. ))

“I met a roaming priest then, when working in cahoots with the People’s Militia of Westfall. A group of likeminded individuals including, the priest Raldin, a Dwarf named Turley, myself and a Night Elf. I had met night elves in passing, not many of them came to Westfall, I had seen some in Stormwind, harboring around the Dwarven District near the newly finished Deeprun Tram platform. Hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk to one, they are a beautiful race.

We succeeded in defeating many of the machinations of the Defias during our raid of the Deadmines of Moonbrook, it was one of many that I had been on, but the thing that made this one special was during the debriefing. The priest, Raldin, approached me. He spoke to me of a group of wise and adventurous people, whose ultimate aim was the defense against chaos and provision of peace in the world. We spoke at great lengths about this, and after the evening was done, and we had all went our separate ways, Raldin approached me one last time and handed me a slip of paper with an address.

Admittedly interested, followed the address to find an opulent mansion on the outskirts of Stormwind to the east, in the foothills north of Elwynn Forest.

The size and structure of the massive complex was something that never ceased to amaze me. Somehow feeling just as small as I had outside the gates of Stormwind, I quietly entered in the main hall. I met a young man, he said he was the gardener, I asked him who I should talk to. He looked at me for a few moments and then shrugged and pointed to a sheet of paper posted to a chunk of wood. It had several names already written on it. At the top it said, fill out name and address of current residence.

I didn’t really have a home at the time, so I put the address to the Lion’s Pride Inn. I waited there for a single night. Surely enough, the next morning, a tall Night Elf wearing simple black clothing with a red tabard walked into the bar, he stood in the floor room and quietly said, “I am looking for Valandur Arkenett.”

He was the current Lord of The Defenders of Valor, as they called themselves. His name was Lord D’ana’no Keldamyr, or simply Windfoot. Light rest his soul, he was one of the wisest and strongest of people I have ever met, and am fairly certain ever will. We spoke at lengths outside the gates of Stormwind, under a tree. I told him freely of my life, something I had not done at all since the death of my family. He nodded with a sage’s wisdom and smiled when I finished spinning my tale. I was admitted there shortly thereafter to the ranks of the Defenders of Valor. It was there that I truly met some of the most influential people in my life, many of which I hold dear to my heart to this very day, and will call friend and mentor till I die.

It was spring of last year that we saw the untimely death of D’ana’no and the mysterious burning of the Defender’s Manor, many thought that it was fate and that their time with the Defenders of Valor had come to a close. I, myself, and others, who still held tightly to that tradition, found ourselves few. Many left; it was for a long while we all corresponded through letters and through sporadic meetings.

Although the Defenders were no longer together, the battles continued. The Silithus incident and the Gates of Anh’Qiraj, the attempted summoning of the Blood God Hakkar in the dead Troll city of Zul’Gurub, the Scourge’s second attack on the mortal races, and the appearing of the floating citadel Naxxramas.

My life, during these tumultuous two years was a busy one. With more chaos than peace and despite the seeming endless lists of would be heroes lining up to take jobs, work was never scarce. During this time, my skills grew and far exceeded my own expectations. I took on work with the Stormpike Guard near my homeland, in Alterac Valley, doing my part to end the Horde’s attacks on their bastions in Dun Baldar. The Horde claimed that they had “Sacred Rights” to that Valley, as a child and former citizen of the fallen nation of Alterac, I know without a doubt that any rights by either side are terribly mistaken. The Dwarves did, however, hold home to certain portions of the Alterac Mountain range, that much I knew, but Orcs claiming heritage of our mountains is preposterous, Orcs are alien to this world, and I felt no pity in driving their corpses into the snow. Honorable in battle, though they were, I still felt no remorse driving my blade into their thick skin. During my seven month tenure at Dun Baldar, I gained the rank of Sergeant Major with the Alliance.

After my time, I was offered a posh apartment in the Canal District to “retire” into, or go into inactive duty. At the time, I found the idea a wonderful one, I felt that my oath was not entirely fulfilled, but the world was in better hands now. I kept in contact with my many friends, often meeting in the park district for evening chats. But, my short lived “retirement” came to an end when the Dark Portal, that had lied dormant since the end of the Second War, suddenly flared to life in the early winter days of 623.

So, I fought there, and there I found myself surrounded by the same hopelessness that I had found in Lordaeron. For another nine months I fought and scrapped and clawed my way through Outland. While doing my hardest, along with the armies of the Alliance, to rid Azeroth of the dangers of Outland and the Burning Legion, I had finally found the light.

It was something that I still find hard to describe, when my faith in the light allowed me to finally manifest the light in my body. It was like the bursting of a bubble. I never realized it until now, but my whole life I’ve felt like I was under pressure, when I first laid healing hands onto a colleague; I felt that pressure release and the light poured through me. That, in and of itself is a story worthy of a novel and not something I wish to disclose at great lengths, because that is not what this letter is about.

No, I feel now that I am drawing to a close. In these past few months, I’ve seen the world for what it truly has become, through fresh eyesight, I can see. We fight a pointless war, based not on reasoning, but on heartless politics and mindless racism at its core. In my time in Alterac, I felt justified in my murder, I felt like I was repelling a hypocritical interloper. But now, with the dogging wars and the pointless skirmishes, It’s nothing of the wars of old, which were wars of survival. Where the Horde were vile creatures hell bent on destroying, not a refugee peoples who want nothing more than to forget their past crimes.

No, the last shred of decency found in the pointless hostilities between the Horde and Alliance were dashed in the winds once Kil’Jaeden was pushed back through the Sunwell. Now what do we do? We return to mindless infighting, and due to some mistakes I made years ago, I am now being called by the military to return to battle, for nothing. I will not, however, fight any longer; I will not go to war with a people who would have nothing to do with us. I will not go to war for sake of conquering proximity. I will not murder for men who only fight because their enemy’s skin is green.

I will never forget what the Horde did, but it has been made clear of the valor of the Horde on numerous occasions, that they have tried to mend that wound, where men have only stagnated on memories and let themselves be blinded. If any of this seems biased, it is rightfully so, I could not fathom the mind of an Orc, but I do not doubt his mind is just as capable of violence and racism.

But I am a man, and I see daily how our minds are warped by fear and xenophobia. I hate to see the men now, honored amongst their peers for slaying an Orc in battle, when that battle never had a point to begin with. Being smothered by false honor, I feel pity for that blind man.

So, I sit here in this room, I do not leave. I fear returning to the streets, worrying that a member of the military will find me and call me a deserter or that I will hang in the gallows, or starve in the Stockades.

Coupled on the fact that the last of my friends have all gone, off fighting in these heartless wars, my life has accumulated itself into residing in this spare room, in a bar. The colors that painted this world have all but drained, and I find myself sitting at my window, looking out and no longer wishing to be amongst the people, but despising them for their ignorance to the world. I would call myself crazy too if I didn’t know any better.

If this is what it takes, to make this world understand, to make this world see, that hostilities bred by ignorance is nothing of the valor of men like Anduin Lothar, and the sacrifices made by men like my brother. If taking my life would open the eyes, of even a few, whose eyes have been welded shut by the ravages of fear and propaganda, then for this my death has merit. My only fear is that it will not, and mine will be another dead soldier for no reason.

As of now it is 7:32 pm on the Twenty-Second day of the month of October in the year 624. May the Light bless this world, and free it’s inhabitants of the frailties of ignorance.

- Valandur Arkenett, Sergeant Major of the Alliance.

[Monuv]

"Stormwind?!" Monuv was in the process of sitting in a chair, but stopped himself halfway to stand once more. "For how long?"

Johnson was a little taken aback by Monuv's excitement, he stuttered out his reply, "W-why only a few weeks..." For a moment, Johnson became suspicious, but that was erased when elation washed over Monuv's visage. Johnson looked to Koria. She was smiling and shaking her head knowing they were soon leaving after she had just gotten comfortable.

"I wish he was as excited to have seen me after these last months..." Koria snorted and stood up.

"Oh, but..." Monuv was at a loss for words

"I believe we'll be leaving back from where we came?"

"You won't be having any tea, then?" Johnson held up the steaming pot trying not to look dejected.

"Is there anyone else nearby?" Monuv's mind was set. Johnson poured a cup for himself and explained most of the Defenders were in the Outland, or fighting for control of the Sunwell. Most that traveled these lands were merely passing through from one end of the world to another. He had kept an inventory of everyone's last whereabouts as told by their letters, this small book he gave to Monuv knowing he would need it. Monuv flipped through it quickly and noticed names were crossed off, most notably D'ana'no and Fechak among a few others.

"What's this?" Monuv pointed to the names, Johnson nodded sadly.

"Those that are lost to us..."

"Fechak? When...?" A deep fear settled into Monuv's stomach, this was terrible news if i ndeed it were true.

"You have been gone for some time." Johnson turned away from Monuv and walked to the shelf of letters, pulling one out instantly knowing where it was. "A letter from Celera, it's written in Elven of course. She had heard his body was found floating in Booty Bay, apparently she went there herself to confirm it."

"No..." The color drained from Monuv's face, the only outward sign his hope was shattered. He held the tightly rolled letter as if it were the plague. Koria's touch did nothing to bring him back.

---

Monuv, Koria and Johnson stood above Fechak's grave situated in the small cemetary on the opposite side of the manor grounds. They stood silently and the woods held their breath as if in reverence to the moment. Only the slightest of rustle could be heard far above in the canopy.

"How did this happen?" Monuv's voice was ragged, his throat constricted with grief threatening his breath.

"No one knows." Johnson slowly moved to one side of the grave and wiped some dust from the stone then cleared away a few leaves. "It was as if he simply drowned."

Monuv was relying on Fechak to rally the Defenders, he was the last tie that bound the group together.

The ride to Stormwind was surreal, Monuv was now adrift in the unknown.

Valand's strength is needed... he will know what to do.

[Windfoot]

((First, thank you all for this. It's a great little yarn and possibly ths start of something great. I have a few ideas percolating already, but am not quite ready to write. More voices!))

[Gudran]

((Holy awesomeness. Great reading and it keeps getting better! I want to add to this story as well, but I am unable to devote the amount of time this story deserves. I will start outlining some ideas now! Hope to get a little something going soon!

Keep writing! Cause... I can only draw, lol. Nah, just kidding, time to write!))

[Fechak]

((Wouldn't it be cool to show some illustrations of moments in the story?? You can pawn them off as classwork))