In the dim almost-darkness, there was nothing to see but endless mist and fog. She found herself walking aimlessly, her steps muffled in eerie silence. No, not quite aimlessly. But for what purpose she couldn’t remember.
“About time, paladin,” a gruff voice called out.
The voice echoed hollowly, unnatural even in the strange blanket of dream mist. She blinked. A shadow detached itself from the fog. From the darkness of an ornate, covered helm, a pair of glowing eyes glowered. Familiar eyes.
And in that instant, all the memories washed over her. She was not surprised when the figure removed the helm, revealing a face that was a reflection of her own.
The paladin nodded neutrally. “ ‘Twas hard findin me way through th’ bloody dream mists. Th’ lass was makin sure th’ sleepin draught would be keepin me asleep. Seein as how ye were tryin ta stir up mischief,” she added pointedly.
The death knight sighed. “Yes.”
She folded her arms and scowled. “I’m thinkin we agreed ye’d nae be tryin tha’ agin,” she growled.
The other dwarf mirrored back the same scowl. “That was before, paladin. Things are changing. Getting worse. Even with that salve, the fel energies are still building up. We don’t have time to sit back and wait for someone else to find a different solution.”
“So ye were explainin ta Lyir, aye. I’m rememberin tha’.” She had memory of that conversation now, though she had not technically been present at the time.
“It’s the easiest solution, paladin. Cut off the hand, cut me loose, and you’ll be free.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “But what o’ ye?”
The death knight rolled eyes impatiently at the gentle tone of that question. “What does that matter? I don’t belong here anyway,” she added darkly. “I knew where my choices would take me.”
For a silent moment they shared the death knight’s memories of those dark choices.
The paladin shook her head. “Has ta be ‘nother way…”
“WHAT other way? Face reality, paladin – I’m a damned soul! My fate was sealed the day they branded this thing on my hand!” The death knight threw off her left gauntlet and brandished the glowing demonic symbol in the paladin’s face. “Like it or not, Branwynne Stelhamor, I AM damned, and none of your oh-so-shiny goody-goody intentions can undo that!”
The paladin’s jaw set mulishly. “An’ I’m sayin there HAS ta be ‘nother way, ye pig-headed bloody fool o’ a dwarf! Yer jest set in yer ways, an’ nae willin ta look fer it! ‘Sides, ‘tis MY body, like Lyir was sayin, an’ I’m nae willin ta hae me hand cut off, an’ tha’s final!”
The pair bristled at each other with identical expressions of ire.
“Do you not listen? Or are you just stupid? The fel energies are building up! It’s like, like an infection, or a cancer – if you don’t get rid of it, it will rupture, it will spread.”
“So how can we be getting rid o’ the blighted energies, then?”
The death knight snorted. “The only way *I* know of to get rid of them is to USE them. And right now, Miss shiny paladin, that’s not exactly possible, is it?” She sneered at the paladin, expecting an explosion of dwarvish temper.
But the expression of the other turned suddenly pensive instead. “An’ iffen ye could?”
Glowing eyes blinked in confusion. “…what?”
“If ye could bleed off some o’ them fel energies, use ‘em fer summat. Would tha’ give us more time ta find ‘nother way?”
She considered it for a long moment. “Possibly. But I don’t see how it would work. You’re so besotted by the Light, there’s no way you could harness the power.”
“Aye, I’ll nae be able ta. I’m knowin tha’. But ye’d be able ta.”
Another long moment of silence.
“Your druid friends won’t like it,” the death knight hazarded cautiously. “Nor your paladin friend, I think. They don’t trust me.” She did not have to add, with good cause.
“I’m knowin that,” the paladin shook her head tiredly. “But ‘tis our best chance, I’m thinkin. I’ll talk ta them ‘bout th’ idea, leastwise.”
The death knight offered a wry grin. “Good luck with that, paladin.” She turned to walk back into the mist.
“Dun ferget yer gauntlet,” Branny shouted after her. A muffled grumbling was the only response.
Showing posts with label Branwynne. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Branwynne. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fallen (Part 11) - A Price to be Paid
“Does Branwynne know about all this?”
The other shook her head. “No,” the hollow voice replied. “She does not. For her, our memories are yet… tangled. Much of what she recalls of my existence, she mistakes for her own deeds.”
“Then what right do you have to decide what is best for her?” Lyirdanna growled. “You admit this isn’t your body, or your place.”
The bound dwarf barked a laugh. “Think about it, elf! Use that bit of fluff between those big, floppy ears of yours. What’s the price of a hand – a mere hand! – compared to eternal damnation and torment? And believe me, the Burning Legion know well how to make even a minute seem an eternity of sorrow. A hand is a small price to pay.”
“Be that as it may, YOU don’t have the right. Branwynne should be the one to decide this matter.”
The deathknight’s bound spirit rolled her grey-green eyes disdainfully. “SHE would just make things more complicated. Drag her oh-so-high-and-mighty morals into the whole thing…”
“How do you know?”
“By the Nether, I know because I’ve been STUCK in here!” snapped the dwarf. “With HER! All this time! All the weak-willed compassion, all the righteous purpose, wrapped up in a sense of honor and topped off with a frilly bow! Bloody hells, who WOULDN’T want to get away from all of that sappiness?”
The dwarf’s words were harsh and filled with scorn, but sounded slightly rehearsed to the druid’s ears. Her eyes narrowed, sensing deception. “Why…?”
“Lyir,” the priest interrupted softly, voice strained. “I can’t hold the spell much longer.”
She grimaced, then nodded reluctantly at the priest. She shot one last glare at the deathknight. “We aren’t through here, dwarf. I’ll be watching you, so don’t try it again.”
_____
The dwarf was asleep in the other room, resting. The priest was also tired, but sat with Lyirdanna sipping tea.
“Well, that was interesting,” the priest noted wryly. “Is this something you get to do regularly?”
“No, it isn’t.” Lyir growled quietly.
Her attempt at levity rebuffed, the priest sighed. “So, what now?”
The druid considered a moment. “That spell… could you do it again?”
“I should be able to, yes. So long as I get a chance to recover first – wrestling an uncooperative spirit is a taxing thing.”
“Could another do the same, do you think? Another priest? Or a paladin, maybe?”
“Lyir, I just need a little time to rest…”
The night elf shook her head. “I know. But I don’t know how much time we have.”
Mollified, the priest considered. “Another priest probably could, yes – if they were strong enough. But I don’t think a paladin be much use in this matter. Unless you want to beat the spirit out of her.”
Lyir growled something wordless into her tea. A thoughtful silence followed. “It was lying,” she said finally.
“Hmm? With the compulsions I set upon it, I don’t think…”
“Lying,” she repeated firmly. “Or at least, not telling the whole truth.”
“Ah. Well, probably not. We are talking about a deathknight spirit, after all.”
“It was hiding something.” The night elf’s expression set. “We need to find out what.”
“Not tonight, I hope.”
“No, not tonight,” Lyirdanna agreed. “For now, we wait until Branwynne wakes.”
“And then?”
“Then, I drag her off to find Alishe and Prydion. And we can all argue with her about what to do next.”
The other shook her head. “No,” the hollow voice replied. “She does not. For her, our memories are yet… tangled. Much of what she recalls of my existence, she mistakes for her own deeds.”
“Then what right do you have to decide what is best for her?” Lyirdanna growled. “You admit this isn’t your body, or your place.”
The bound dwarf barked a laugh. “Think about it, elf! Use that bit of fluff between those big, floppy ears of yours. What’s the price of a hand – a mere hand! – compared to eternal damnation and torment? And believe me, the Burning Legion know well how to make even a minute seem an eternity of sorrow. A hand is a small price to pay.”
“Be that as it may, YOU don’t have the right. Branwynne should be the one to decide this matter.”
The deathknight’s bound spirit rolled her grey-green eyes disdainfully. “SHE would just make things more complicated. Drag her oh-so-high-and-mighty morals into the whole thing…”
“How do you know?”
“By the Nether, I know because I’ve been STUCK in here!” snapped the dwarf. “With HER! All this time! All the weak-willed compassion, all the righteous purpose, wrapped up in a sense of honor and topped off with a frilly bow! Bloody hells, who WOULDN’T want to get away from all of that sappiness?”
The dwarf’s words were harsh and filled with scorn, but sounded slightly rehearsed to the druid’s ears. Her eyes narrowed, sensing deception. “Why…?”
“Lyir,” the priest interrupted softly, voice strained. “I can’t hold the spell much longer.”
She grimaced, then nodded reluctantly at the priest. She shot one last glare at the deathknight. “We aren’t through here, dwarf. I’ll be watching you, so don’t try it again.”
_____
The dwarf was asleep in the other room, resting. The priest was also tired, but sat with Lyirdanna sipping tea.
“Well, that was interesting,” the priest noted wryly. “Is this something you get to do regularly?”
“No, it isn’t.” Lyir growled quietly.
Her attempt at levity rebuffed, the priest sighed. “So, what now?”
The druid considered a moment. “That spell… could you do it again?”
“I should be able to, yes. So long as I get a chance to recover first – wrestling an uncooperative spirit is a taxing thing.”
“Could another do the same, do you think? Another priest? Or a paladin, maybe?”
“Lyir, I just need a little time to rest…”
The night elf shook her head. “I know. But I don’t know how much time we have.”
Mollified, the priest considered. “Another priest probably could, yes – if they were strong enough. But I don’t think a paladin be much use in this matter. Unless you want to beat the spirit out of her.”
Lyir growled something wordless into her tea. A thoughtful silence followed. “It was lying,” she said finally.
“Hmm? With the compulsions I set upon it, I don’t think…”
“Lying,” she repeated firmly. “Or at least, not telling the whole truth.”
“Ah. Well, probably not. We are talking about a deathknight spirit, after all.”
“It was hiding something.” The night elf’s expression set. “We need to find out what.”
“Not tonight, I hope.”
“No, not tonight,” Lyirdanna agreed. “For now, we wait until Branwynne wakes.”
“And then?”
“Then, I drag her off to find Alishe and Prydion. And we can all argue with her about what to do next.”
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Fallen (Part 10) - A Deathknight's Story
Once, in life, I was a dwarf of the Steelhammer clan. I do not recall much of the time before the Deathwar. But I remember the name.
According to the dragon we spoke to, your dwarven friend and I, there is another Azeroth out there, on some different plane of existence. A different Azeroth, where different choices were made.
In my Azeroth, former Highlord Tirion Fordring was executed for treason. His son, Taelan Fordring, grew up hating the Silver Hand and all it stood for. That hatred drew the attentions of Kel’Thuzad, and through him the Lich King. In time, he became the commander of the Ner’zhul’s military forces.
As for Prince Arthas, he died a hero, leading the tattered remains of the Silver Hand against Lord Taelan’s forces. Under his leadership, we held them at bay just long enough, allowing Lady Jaina and the last members of the Council of Tirisfal to cast a gate spell. A handful of survivors escaped from Azeroth altogether through that gateway, to lands unknown.
Arthas paid for that victory with his life – and unlife. Lord Taelan turned him into a mindless, shambling husk. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.
Those few who survived the Scourge were eventually turned, or slain. Once all the lands had fallen, the Lich King, empowered by the conquest and desecration of Azeroth and Kalimdor, rose up against the Burning Legion, and was betrayed by Lord Taelan in turn.
It is a ruined, dying world, where death – true death – is the only escape.
How I got here, I do not know. Not exactly. My brother – a spineless traitorous toad, a lapdog of the Lich King – tried to recreate that original gate spell, as cast by the Lady. I tried to stop him. I thought I killed him in time. But the spell did not end with his death, it merely became unstable. Something hit me, and I was felled.
When I woke, I was in Ironforge. For a time could not recall much of my past. I slowly recovered my memories. I realized that I had somehow become linked to this other version of myself. Your dwarf did not know of my intrusion, at first. It gave me time to learn, and plan.
Originally, I plotted to oust your dwarf, and stay in this place forever. Here, where I was free, and no pawn of demons and their ilk. And after all, she was weak, like all the people of this place. Soft. None of you have known the horrors that we of my world have suffered. I felt I deserved it, more than she ever did.
But before my plans were in place, another intervened.
Just as my spirit had been torn from my homeland and brought into this land, so had my brother’s spirit been brought here as well. But where I had become aware only months before, he had had years to accustom himself to this new world.
And he had plans. Whatever they were, they involved your paladin.
She consulted one of the magic wyrms for aid against him. That one sent her to another, a time wyrm. The time wyrm sensed my presence, as well as the presence of my brother’s spirit. We did not belong here, in this time and place. But the wyrm said she could not directly interfere, and neither the paladin nor I were powerful enough to best his spirit alone.
Instead, she proposed something different, which could only succeed with our consent. She cast some manner of spell, allowing us to speak, the paladin and I.
The paladin could not let my twisted brother succeed. Nor could she let her brother’s captive spirit remain in torment. And I knew that I could only be free with my brother’s death. We agreed. Using draconic magics, the wyrm melded our two spirits – deathknight and paladin – together into one. Our memories and powers, virtues and sins, all bled into each other.
I do not recall much of that time. I remember it was not pleasant. I know that, somehow, we succeeded in destroying the physical vessel of my brother’s spirit, and freeing her brother from damnation.
We… suffered wounds from that battle. Not all of them have healed. For a time, I… we… had no memories of what had befallen. And when at last the memories began to return, they were blurred – some mine, some hers. For a time, it was a strange balance.
But the melding is not perfect. It begins to fray. And as I have become slowly aware again, I understand why.
The Light rejects the darkness I embraced, when I pledged myself as a deathknight to the cause of the Burning Legion. Now that oath is broken as well. And the fel-blood brand, the mark of my oath, blazes to claim my soul. I am thrice-damned – by the dark, by my betrayal, and by my forsaking of the Light I once bore.
My spirit is bound to the fel-blood brand. Somehow, I know this to be true. By severing the brand from the paladin, the bonding between our two souls will be broken. The fel energies would consume my essence, but leave your paladin whole and unharmed.
By my own choices, and by my own deeds, I am damned. I accept this. But one last decent act I can do, is to keep your paladin from sharing my fate.
According to the dragon we spoke to, your dwarven friend and I, there is another Azeroth out there, on some different plane of existence. A different Azeroth, where different choices were made.
In my Azeroth, former Highlord Tirion Fordring was executed for treason. His son, Taelan Fordring, grew up hating the Silver Hand and all it stood for. That hatred drew the attentions of Kel’Thuzad, and through him the Lich King. In time, he became the commander of the Ner’zhul’s military forces.
As for Prince Arthas, he died a hero, leading the tattered remains of the Silver Hand against Lord Taelan’s forces. Under his leadership, we held them at bay just long enough, allowing Lady Jaina and the last members of the Council of Tirisfal to cast a gate spell. A handful of survivors escaped from Azeroth altogether through that gateway, to lands unknown.
Arthas paid for that victory with his life – and unlife. Lord Taelan turned him into a mindless, shambling husk. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.
Those few who survived the Scourge were eventually turned, or slain. Once all the lands had fallen, the Lich King, empowered by the conquest and desecration of Azeroth and Kalimdor, rose up against the Burning Legion, and was betrayed by Lord Taelan in turn.
It is a ruined, dying world, where death – true death – is the only escape.
How I got here, I do not know. Not exactly. My brother – a spineless traitorous toad, a lapdog of the Lich King – tried to recreate that original gate spell, as cast by the Lady. I tried to stop him. I thought I killed him in time. But the spell did not end with his death, it merely became unstable. Something hit me, and I was felled.
When I woke, I was in Ironforge. For a time could not recall much of my past. I slowly recovered my memories. I realized that I had somehow become linked to this other version of myself. Your dwarf did not know of my intrusion, at first. It gave me time to learn, and plan.
Originally, I plotted to oust your dwarf, and stay in this place forever. Here, where I was free, and no pawn of demons and their ilk. And after all, she was weak, like all the people of this place. Soft. None of you have known the horrors that we of my world have suffered. I felt I deserved it, more than she ever did.
But before my plans were in place, another intervened.
Just as my spirit had been torn from my homeland and brought into this land, so had my brother’s spirit been brought here as well. But where I had become aware only months before, he had had years to accustom himself to this new world.
And he had plans. Whatever they were, they involved your paladin.
She consulted one of the magic wyrms for aid against him. That one sent her to another, a time wyrm. The time wyrm sensed my presence, as well as the presence of my brother’s spirit. We did not belong here, in this time and place. But the wyrm said she could not directly interfere, and neither the paladin nor I were powerful enough to best his spirit alone.
Instead, she proposed something different, which could only succeed with our consent. She cast some manner of spell, allowing us to speak, the paladin and I.
The paladin could not let my twisted brother succeed. Nor could she let her brother’s captive spirit remain in torment. And I knew that I could only be free with my brother’s death. We agreed. Using draconic magics, the wyrm melded our two spirits – deathknight and paladin – together into one. Our memories and powers, virtues and sins, all bled into each other.
I do not recall much of that time. I remember it was not pleasant. I know that, somehow, we succeeded in destroying the physical vessel of my brother’s spirit, and freeing her brother from damnation.
We… suffered wounds from that battle. Not all of them have healed. For a time, I… we… had no memories of what had befallen. And when at last the memories began to return, they were blurred – some mine, some hers. For a time, it was a strange balance.
But the melding is not perfect. It begins to fray. And as I have become slowly aware again, I understand why.
The Light rejects the darkness I embraced, when I pledged myself as a deathknight to the cause of the Burning Legion. Now that oath is broken as well. And the fel-blood brand, the mark of my oath, blazes to claim my soul. I am thrice-damned – by the dark, by my betrayal, and by my forsaking of the Light I once bore.
My spirit is bound to the fel-blood brand. Somehow, I know this to be true. By severing the brand from the paladin, the bonding between our two souls will be broken. The fel energies would consume my essence, but leave your paladin whole and unharmed.
By my own choices, and by my own deeds, I am damned. I accept this. But one last decent act I can do, is to keep your paladin from sharing my fate.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Fallen (Part 9) - Strangers
They secured the paladin firmly, tying her to the chair at several points, in order to be sure she would not manage to break free. Just in case.
“Try to relax,” the priest soothed, her voice soft and comforting. “Let your tension go, envision it lifting from you…”
“Bloody hard ta relax, right now,” the dwarf grumbled under her breath. “I’m tied ta this bloody chair, and someone keeps chattering at me.”
“You’re the one who wanted to be tied, stubborn dwarf,” Lyirdanna chided.
“It’s safer this way, in case I go bloody crazed on ye again.”
“Never mind that now,” the priest said, with a sharp, silencing glance first at one, then the other. “Now, Branwynne, just close your eyes and try to relax. Breath deeply.”
She nodded tersely, then closed her eyes and tried to focus on releasing the tension within herself. She concentrated on her breathing, and slowly felt the pressure of her neck and shoulders ease.
“There. Good. We’re almost ready.”
A pair of warm hands gripped her shoulders gently. There was a sudden, brilliant burst of light.
Then everything was gone.
_____
The priest stood behind the seated dwarf, eyes closed, focused on the task. After a long moment of silence, she nodded.
“You’re right, Lyir,” the priest confirmed. “There is something – someone – in there.”
The druid frowned. “Is it demonic? Can you tell?”
Silence, as the priest probed further. “No, no I don’t think so. It... the presence seems linked to the fel taint, there,” she tilted her head towards the dwarf’s bandaged left hand, “… but is not demonic itself.”
“Can you tell what it is? Why it’s tied to Branwynne?”
“Why don’t you ask it? I can bring it to the fore, though not for long.” The priest concentrated a moment, then nodded again.
Lyirdanna leaned down towards the dwarf’s still face. “Who are you?”
Grey-green eyes opened suddenly. “What do you want, elf?” The voice was harsh, dry, and slightly hollow.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Stop meddling. You endanger yourself, and those around you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. A warning, elf. You don’t know what you’re dealing with…”
“I’m dealing with you, you… whatever you are!” snapped the druid, eyes flashing. “Possessing my friend. Trying to cause her harm…”
“Harm?” A cold, sharp bark of laughter. “No, not harm. Cure. The only cure. The taint, the fel energies, the brand – they need to be removed.”
“Not that way. The salve…”
“Only delays the inevitable,” the voice cut in. “Cut it out now, and minimize the damage. Free her from the taint. And me.”
“And you? Who are you?” Lyirdanna snarled. “Tell us, damn you!”
“Your curses mean naught to me.” The eyes closed again, tiredly. “Damned I am, damned I was, now and forever. By my own hand, and by my own choice.” The bandaged hand clenched, and the eyes opened again, blazing with a fierce determination that set the druid aback. “I’ll not have this one damned as well.”
“Who ARE you?” the druid growled.
The blazing green eyes regarded her for a silent moment of cold calculation.
“I am Deathknight Stelh, of the Order of the Shattered Mountain. Subaltern of the Fourth Talon, Deathreaper Company. Among the elite deathknight troops, sworn in service to Deathlord Taelan Fordring, Commander of the Azerothian Corps. Part of the Burning Legion.”
“Try to relax,” the priest soothed, her voice soft and comforting. “Let your tension go, envision it lifting from you…”
“Bloody hard ta relax, right now,” the dwarf grumbled under her breath. “I’m tied ta this bloody chair, and someone keeps chattering at me.”
“You’re the one who wanted to be tied, stubborn dwarf,” Lyirdanna chided.
“It’s safer this way, in case I go bloody crazed on ye again.”
“Never mind that now,” the priest said, with a sharp, silencing glance first at one, then the other. “Now, Branwynne, just close your eyes and try to relax. Breath deeply.”
She nodded tersely, then closed her eyes and tried to focus on releasing the tension within herself. She concentrated on her breathing, and slowly felt the pressure of her neck and shoulders ease.
“There. Good. We’re almost ready.”
A pair of warm hands gripped her shoulders gently. There was a sudden, brilliant burst of light.
Then everything was gone.
_____
The priest stood behind the seated dwarf, eyes closed, focused on the task. After a long moment of silence, she nodded.
“You’re right, Lyir,” the priest confirmed. “There is something – someone – in there.”
The druid frowned. “Is it demonic? Can you tell?”
Silence, as the priest probed further. “No, no I don’t think so. It... the presence seems linked to the fel taint, there,” she tilted her head towards the dwarf’s bandaged left hand, “… but is not demonic itself.”
“Can you tell what it is? Why it’s tied to Branwynne?”
“Why don’t you ask it? I can bring it to the fore, though not for long.” The priest concentrated a moment, then nodded again.
Lyirdanna leaned down towards the dwarf’s still face. “Who are you?”
Grey-green eyes opened suddenly. “What do you want, elf?” The voice was harsh, dry, and slightly hollow.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Stop meddling. You endanger yourself, and those around you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. A warning, elf. You don’t know what you’re dealing with…”
“I’m dealing with you, you… whatever you are!” snapped the druid, eyes flashing. “Possessing my friend. Trying to cause her harm…”
“Harm?” A cold, sharp bark of laughter. “No, not harm. Cure. The only cure. The taint, the fel energies, the brand – they need to be removed.”
“Not that way. The salve…”
“Only delays the inevitable,” the voice cut in. “Cut it out now, and minimize the damage. Free her from the taint. And me.”
“And you? Who are you?” Lyirdanna snarled. “Tell us, damn you!”
“Your curses mean naught to me.” The eyes closed again, tiredly. “Damned I am, damned I was, now and forever. By my own hand, and by my own choice.” The bandaged hand clenched, and the eyes opened again, blazing with a fierce determination that set the druid aback. “I’ll not have this one damned as well.”
“Who ARE you?” the druid growled.
The blazing green eyes regarded her for a silent moment of cold calculation.
“I am Deathknight Stelh, of the Order of the Shattered Mountain. Subaltern of the Fourth Talon, Deathreaper Company. Among the elite deathknight troops, sworn in service to Deathlord Taelan Fordring, Commander of the Azerothian Corps. Part of the Burning Legion.”
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Fallen (Part 8) - Omnious Visits
Up high in the city of Shattrath, at the inn on the Aldor terraces, Branwynne Stelhamor peered at the contents of a small glass jar and sighed. It was almost empty again. Already.
She was grateful for the improved formula – it was a LOT less smelly – but it was still a routine she would just as well be done with. Still, the druids seemed encouraged. After all these months – almost a year, now? – it seemed the “infection” had been pushed back. Now, it seemed confined to the left hand, just below the wrist. But the eerie green glyph still pulsed malevolently, and so far all attempts to remove it had failed.
The nagging whispers had also faded, thankfully. And the dreams, while not completely gone, were less frequent, and nowhere near as intense. But she did find herself suffering more and more often from unexplained bouts of dizziness. She had dutifully informed both Lyir and Alishe, and had been told to get more sleep. But even that didn’t seem to help with the persistent feeling of tiredness that plagued her.
But that’s neither here nor there, and doesn’t get the jar filled of smelly salve, does it? she reminded herself sternly, and made her way to the Stormwind portal.
_____
“Branwynne, welcome!” the night elf greeted the dwarf at the door.
“Evening, Lyir,” she replied warmly, hanging her cloak and propping her weapons up against the wall. “Sorry ta be bothering you so late, but…”
“Let me guess, more salve?”
She nodded. “Aye.”
“Alright, but first let me see your arm. Come over to the table, get that bandage off and let’s see…”
As Branny unwound the bandages, the druid fetched a bowl. Filling it with hot water from the kettle, Lyirdanna crushed some herbs into it, fetched a clean cloth, then sat at the table across from the dwarf. She added a bit of cooler water from the jar on the table to the steaming bowl, then reached over for the arm.
“Wouldn’t do to scald you, after all,” she explained, dipping the cloth into the warm mixture and cleaning the salve from the dwarf’s arm. “And I’d have to explain all the loud dwarvish cursing to the neighbors. And probably translate.”
Branny snorted. “I’ll try ta keep my cursing ta Common, then.”
After a few minutes examining the arm, the druid re-salved and bandaged it back again. “It seems the same. Still an improvement, of course.” She peered at the dwarf’s tired face. “Although you seem tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“Aye, been trying ta rest a bit more. Still feel just a bit tired, sometimes.”
“Still getting the dizzy spells?”
“Sometimes.”
“No voices? No dreams?”
She shook her head. “No, no voices. Dreams…”
Lyir raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Well… nothing I can bring ta mind, anyway. Usually can’t remember ‘em clear. Just a feeling of something dark and threatening.”
The druid frowned slightly. “Hmm…”
A thoughtful, worried silence descended.
“Well, ‘tis getting a bit late…” the dwarf interrupted awkwardly.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Let me fill that jar.”
Lyir quickly took the empty jar to the distillery, just in the next room. It didn’t take long, but by the time she returned, she found that the tired dwarf had nodded off at the table. Shaking her head, prodded the sleepy dwarf awake.
“You, stubborn dwarf, are not going anywhere until you’ve had a good night’s sleep. Now, change yourself out of that armor – go on! – while I get a sleeping pallet ready.”
After no small amount of dwarvish grumbling and elvish bullying, the paladin was soon trundled off to bed. It only took a few minutes before she was fast asleep.
_____
Lyirdanna woke suddenly. There was a noise in the other room. Troubled, she rose to investigate.
At the doorway, she gasped. “Branny?”
The demonic rune pulsed from Branwynne’s left hand, illuminating the room. The dwarf stood, sword upraised, poised to strike, obviously intending to chop the tainted hand off.
“NO!” Lyir ran forward. Somehow, she managed to wrest the sword away from her friend, and tossed it across the room. “What are you doing!?” she yelled, grasping the dwarf and shaking her.
And, looking down, found herself gazing into the eyes of a stranger.
“Druids,” said a dry, harsh voice, filled with disdain. It came from Branwynne’s mouth, but somehow, Lyir knew in her soul that they were not her friend’s words. “Why do you always interfere where you’re not wanted?”
Before she could reply, the stocky frame shuddered, and went limp.
_____
“…and you don’t remember anything?” Lyirdanna asked sharply. “Nothing at all?”
Branwynne shook her head. “Nay. Not a thing.” She looked around in dismay at the broken clutter. “Did I…?”
“Never mind that now. Did you dream last night? Do you remember anything about that?”
The dwarf was silent, trying to remember. “No… or… maybe…”
“What do you remember.”
“Just… I seem ta remember something. Just a bit. Like… two voices, talking. Only, I couldn’t understand ‘em. It’s all fuzzy. Next thing I know, ye were hollerin’ at me, and I was layin’ on the floor.”
Branny looked around again. “What’s goin on, Lyir?”
The druid pursed her lips in thought. “I’m not sure, but we’re going to find out.”
She was grateful for the improved formula – it was a LOT less smelly – but it was still a routine she would just as well be done with. Still, the druids seemed encouraged. After all these months – almost a year, now? – it seemed the “infection” had been pushed back. Now, it seemed confined to the left hand, just below the wrist. But the eerie green glyph still pulsed malevolently, and so far all attempts to remove it had failed.
The nagging whispers had also faded, thankfully. And the dreams, while not completely gone, were less frequent, and nowhere near as intense. But she did find herself suffering more and more often from unexplained bouts of dizziness. She had dutifully informed both Lyir and Alishe, and had been told to get more sleep. But even that didn’t seem to help with the persistent feeling of tiredness that plagued her.
But that’s neither here nor there, and doesn’t get the jar filled of smelly salve, does it? she reminded herself sternly, and made her way to the Stormwind portal.
_____
“Branwynne, welcome!” the night elf greeted the dwarf at the door.
“Evening, Lyir,” she replied warmly, hanging her cloak and propping her weapons up against the wall. “Sorry ta be bothering you so late, but…”
“Let me guess, more salve?”
She nodded. “Aye.”
“Alright, but first let me see your arm. Come over to the table, get that bandage off and let’s see…”
As Branny unwound the bandages, the druid fetched a bowl. Filling it with hot water from the kettle, Lyirdanna crushed some herbs into it, fetched a clean cloth, then sat at the table across from the dwarf. She added a bit of cooler water from the jar on the table to the steaming bowl, then reached over for the arm.
“Wouldn’t do to scald you, after all,” she explained, dipping the cloth into the warm mixture and cleaning the salve from the dwarf’s arm. “And I’d have to explain all the loud dwarvish cursing to the neighbors. And probably translate.”
Branny snorted. “I’ll try ta keep my cursing ta Common, then.”
After a few minutes examining the arm, the druid re-salved and bandaged it back again. “It seems the same. Still an improvement, of course.” She peered at the dwarf’s tired face. “Although you seem tired. Have you been getting enough sleep?”
“Aye, been trying ta rest a bit more. Still feel just a bit tired, sometimes.”
“Still getting the dizzy spells?”
“Sometimes.”
“No voices? No dreams?”
She shook her head. “No, no voices. Dreams…”
Lyir raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Well… nothing I can bring ta mind, anyway. Usually can’t remember ‘em clear. Just a feeling of something dark and threatening.”
The druid frowned slightly. “Hmm…”
A thoughtful, worried silence descended.
“Well, ‘tis getting a bit late…” the dwarf interrupted awkwardly.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Let me fill that jar.”
Lyir quickly took the empty jar to the distillery, just in the next room. It didn’t take long, but by the time she returned, she found that the tired dwarf had nodded off at the table. Shaking her head, prodded the sleepy dwarf awake.
“You, stubborn dwarf, are not going anywhere until you’ve had a good night’s sleep. Now, change yourself out of that armor – go on! – while I get a sleeping pallet ready.”
After no small amount of dwarvish grumbling and elvish bullying, the paladin was soon trundled off to bed. It only took a few minutes before she was fast asleep.
_____
Lyirdanna woke suddenly. There was a noise in the other room. Troubled, she rose to investigate.
At the doorway, she gasped. “Branny?”
The demonic rune pulsed from Branwynne’s left hand, illuminating the room. The dwarf stood, sword upraised, poised to strike, obviously intending to chop the tainted hand off.
“NO!” Lyir ran forward. Somehow, she managed to wrest the sword away from her friend, and tossed it across the room. “What are you doing!?” she yelled, grasping the dwarf and shaking her.
And, looking down, found herself gazing into the eyes of a stranger.
“Druids,” said a dry, harsh voice, filled with disdain. It came from Branwynne’s mouth, but somehow, Lyir knew in her soul that they were not her friend’s words. “Why do you always interfere where you’re not wanted?”
Before she could reply, the stocky frame shuddered, and went limp.
_____
“…and you don’t remember anything?” Lyirdanna asked sharply. “Nothing at all?”
Branwynne shook her head. “Nay. Not a thing.” She looked around in dismay at the broken clutter. “Did I…?”
“Never mind that now. Did you dream last night? Do you remember anything about that?”
The dwarf was silent, trying to remember. “No… or… maybe…”
“What do you remember.”
“Just… I seem ta remember something. Just a bit. Like… two voices, talking. Only, I couldn’t understand ‘em. It’s all fuzzy. Next thing I know, ye were hollerin’ at me, and I was layin’ on the floor.”
Branny looked around again. “What’s goin on, Lyir?”
The druid pursed her lips in thought. “I’m not sure, but we’re going to find out.”
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Fallen - Thanks (Part 7)
Branny walked through Ironforge tiredly, careful to keep out of the way of the various people busily rushing down the streets on their own, myriad errands. While the city was never exactly quiet, it was quieter than she remembered from days long past. The rough and rowdy adventuring types had moved their base of operations to distant Shattrath, leaving the citizens of Ironforge in relative peace.
Except from the occasional insane gnome, she amended silently, shaking her head sadly as she passed one by. Dancing on a mailbox he was, and sputtering some nonsense, while mostly unclothed.
Many folk held that all gnomes were insane. She didn’t completely agree, but neither could she completely disagree. All gnomes were a wee bit off kilter, but most were harmless enough if left in peace, barring a wee bit of gentle shepherding to keep ‘em from wandering too far from sanity. But gentle and kindly treatment is what they needed, especially since the destruction of Gnomeregan. A good, sharp shove is all any gnome needed to fall over into the abyss.
And I’m knowing all about that. Her left hand clenched.
She walked out towards the Great Forge, and a small apartment there. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer, and peering through the windows, she saw no one there. She frowned, and walked over to a nearby guard, standing stoically on duty.
“Pardon, boyo – have ye seen the gnome girly who usually stays here?”
The guard blinked. “Gnome, ye say? Cannae say. I’m nae one ta notice th’ buggers, ‘til ‘tis trouble they’re bringin.” His tone carried a slight tinge of disdain.
She ignored it. Not yer fight, girl. Keep yer head. “Thankee,” she replied shortly, then turned to walk away.
Maybe she’s over by Fizzlespinner’s place…
_____
From the shadows, a small figure watched fearfully.
Abby had been off to get a quick snack from the pie vendor, muttering under her breath about the inefficiency of a pie vendor who insisted on wandering the streets instead of establishing a stationary base of operations, where customers could always find pies to purchase at their convenience, rather than having to always chase after the ambulatory source of baked sweetness.
She ducked fearfully behind some boxes as soon as she recognized the dwarf. Talking to the guard dwarf, near the location of her workshop. When the guard dwarf shook his head at some comment, the dwarf looked irritated and moved on.
Pie forgotten, the gnome panicked.
Oh no! She’s looking for me! I… I need to get out of here! Can’t take the tram, she might see me! Where to go, what to do, have to run… wait! Teleport! Yes!
It took her several deep breaths before she was calm enough to get the incantation right. A sharp flash of light, and Abby was gone.
_____
“…no, miss lightwielder Lady Branwynne, ma’am,” Adelheide chirped cheerfully. “I’m afraid Abby isn’t here right now. She was helping Nik with a project earlier, but stepped out for some fresh air and a bite to eat. Well, maybe not fresh air, as she is still confined to the boundaries of Ironforge for the duration of her punishment, but fresher than the workshop by a fair margin…”
“Ah, yes,” Branny interrupted gently. “Alright then. Well, when ye see her, tell her I was looking for her, an’ pass along my thanks.”
“Oh, of course, miss lighwielder Lady Branwynne, ma’am!”
Branny suppressed the urge to sigh.
_____
The sweet smells wafting from the forgotten pie drew the attention of a nearly naked gnome, tired from a day of failed experiments and several hours of dancing on a mailbox (he didn’t know why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time). He peered about, but the pie’s rightful owner seemed no where in sight. With a shrug, he appropriated it.
“Ugh, cherry again. You’d think Srazz would try something more innovative from time to time…”
Except from the occasional insane gnome, she amended silently, shaking her head sadly as she passed one by. Dancing on a mailbox he was, and sputtering some nonsense, while mostly unclothed.
Many folk held that all gnomes were insane. She didn’t completely agree, but neither could she completely disagree. All gnomes were a wee bit off kilter, but most were harmless enough if left in peace, barring a wee bit of gentle shepherding to keep ‘em from wandering too far from sanity. But gentle and kindly treatment is what they needed, especially since the destruction of Gnomeregan. A good, sharp shove is all any gnome needed to fall over into the abyss.
And I’m knowing all about that. Her left hand clenched.
She walked out towards the Great Forge, and a small apartment there. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer, and peering through the windows, she saw no one there. She frowned, and walked over to a nearby guard, standing stoically on duty.
“Pardon, boyo – have ye seen the gnome girly who usually stays here?”
The guard blinked. “Gnome, ye say? Cannae say. I’m nae one ta notice th’ buggers, ‘til ‘tis trouble they’re bringin.” His tone carried a slight tinge of disdain.
She ignored it. Not yer fight, girl. Keep yer head. “Thankee,” she replied shortly, then turned to walk away.
Maybe she’s over by Fizzlespinner’s place…
_____
From the shadows, a small figure watched fearfully.
Abby had been off to get a quick snack from the pie vendor, muttering under her breath about the inefficiency of a pie vendor who insisted on wandering the streets instead of establishing a stationary base of operations, where customers could always find pies to purchase at their convenience, rather than having to always chase after the ambulatory source of baked sweetness.
She ducked fearfully behind some boxes as soon as she recognized the dwarf. Talking to the guard dwarf, near the location of her workshop. When the guard dwarf shook his head at some comment, the dwarf looked irritated and moved on.
Pie forgotten, the gnome panicked.
Oh no! She’s looking for me! I… I need to get out of here! Can’t take the tram, she might see me! Where to go, what to do, have to run… wait! Teleport! Yes!
It took her several deep breaths before she was calm enough to get the incantation right. A sharp flash of light, and Abby was gone.
_____
“…no, miss lightwielder Lady Branwynne, ma’am,” Adelheide chirped cheerfully. “I’m afraid Abby isn’t here right now. She was helping Nik with a project earlier, but stepped out for some fresh air and a bite to eat. Well, maybe not fresh air, as she is still confined to the boundaries of Ironforge for the duration of her punishment, but fresher than the workshop by a fair margin…”
“Ah, yes,” Branny interrupted gently. “Alright then. Well, when ye see her, tell her I was looking for her, an’ pass along my thanks.”
“Oh, of course, miss lighwielder Lady Branwynne, ma’am!”
Branny suppressed the urge to sigh.
_____
The sweet smells wafting from the forgotten pie drew the attention of a nearly naked gnome, tired from a day of failed experiments and several hours of dancing on a mailbox (he didn’t know why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time). He peered about, but the pie’s rightful owner seemed no where in sight. With a shrug, he appropriated it.
“Ugh, cherry again. You’d think Srazz would try something more innovative from time to time…”
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Fallen (Part 6)
How long am I goin ta have to do this?
She grimaced and opened the jar, trying to ignore the pungent odor. And failing. Again. Determinedly, she dipped two fingers into the buggering mess, scooped out a minimal portion, and smeared it distastefully over her left hand and arm. Once done, she wiped the remaining bit of goop off her fingers with a bit of faded cloth, and tossed it into the small fire. A small cloud of stench rose up. A short pause, then suddenly the forest was alive with the sounds of scuttling feet and flapping wings, as even the beasties hastily fled the foulness.
She wished she could be so lucky. With a sigh, she took started wrapping her arm in bandages. Once done, she tied it off and tested the tightness, clenching and unclenching her hand, then bending her wrist to and fro.
She still couldn’t tell. The druids, they said the infection had gotten no worse. But no better either. But it had only been a week’s time, after all. They couldn’t be sure if things would improve, with time. Or worsen. Only time would tell. They said.
~And of course, they mean what they say, don’t they? And say what they mean. But do they say all that know?~
She blinked, confused, her train of thought suddenly broken. After a bewildered moment, she turned back to the task at hand – kicking out the fire, gathering up her medicine kit, and packing her belongings safely away.
Hope, they told her. Prydion, and Alishe, and Lyirdanna too. Where there was life, and breath, there was still hope. Hope, and faith. She’d lost hers, somewhere along the dark road she’d taken. But they had not. So she’d borrow theirs, for a while. Store it up, bit by treasured bit, to fill the aching emptiness – the dark chasm within, where the warmth of the Light once filled her. Until, perhaps, she could find her own again.
~Aye, let yourself rely on their feeble hopes, their precious faith. But when you falter, when you slip, then they turn and walk away, it’ll all go tumbling down again. And then you’ll see how pointless it is. How empty you are.~
She rose to her feet, clutching her head at a moment of dizziness, and waited until it had passed. Then, adjusting the shield at her back and the blade at her hip, she turned to Ash – the gryphon waited stoically.
“Alright, birdbrain,” she told him gruffly. “Let’s go.”
___
It wasn’t a long flight to Shattrath. Ash landed lightly, then stood calmly, waiting for her to dismount. As always the dwarf was quietly amazed that a beast so large, so proud, could be so …
“BRANNY!” a voice shouted suddenly. She blinked, and found herself suddenly tackled and engulfed in a breath-stealing hug.
“Urk…” she managed, wincing as strong, armor-clad arms squeezed her own armor-clad form uncomfortably. The figure only took this as encouragement, and squeezed harder.
“It’s you! You’re back! Omigosh, it’s been so long!”
I know that voice… I know this GRIP! With effort, the dwarf struggled, forced air from her lungs. “… can’t… breath… ease up… girly…!”
The warrior loosened her grip slightly – the dwarf tried not to gasp too audibly for breath. “You sound funny, Branny. That IS you, right?”
She nodded weakly. “Aye, Cylinn. It’s me.” This earned her a renewed squeeze. “Gah… ease up, Cyl!”
“But you’ve been gone so LONG! Where have you been, anyway?”
She thought about it a moment. No use telling her, she won’t understand… “I guess… ye can say, been through th’ Nether, an’ come back again,” she said, finally.
Cylinn frowned just a bit, then brightened. “Oh wow, that’s sounds like it was far away! Was it a long trip?”
“Aye, ye can say that. Long indeed.”
“Did you bring me back any souvenirs?”
She blinked. Thought. Patted the pockets in her cloak. “Umm… I think I might have… what’s this…?” After a moment of searching, she produced a small, rather grotesque, imp-head-shaped… thing… on a small chain. Wordlessly, she handed it over.
“Ooooh, nifty!” Cylinn took it happily, then grabbed the gnome-box at her belt and shouted into it happily, “Branny just gave me an imp’s head on a chain! It’s cool!” There was an audible, collective groan in response to this exuberant announcement.
Despite herself, she grinned. Really, truly smiled. It felt odd, strange even, as if her face had all but forgotten how to smile so wide, so full of joy. But it felt good, as well.
Ash shifted his stance slightly – he’d prudently moved aside when the warrior had crashed into his rider, but still waited patiently. As Cyl continued to chatter excitedly about her new souvenir, the dwarf removed the halter from his beak, and gave him a friendly pat, releasing him to the skies until she needed him again. He nuzzled her briefly, then bounded into the air, leaving the groundlings to their own devices. For now.
Branny shielded her eyes from the sun, and watched him soar. Free.
Cylinn paused in her chattering and sniffed loudly. "Ew. What's that smell."
The dwarf ignored that.
She grimaced and opened the jar, trying to ignore the pungent odor. And failing. Again. Determinedly, she dipped two fingers into the buggering mess, scooped out a minimal portion, and smeared it distastefully over her left hand and arm. Once done, she wiped the remaining bit of goop off her fingers with a bit of faded cloth, and tossed it into the small fire. A small cloud of stench rose up. A short pause, then suddenly the forest was alive with the sounds of scuttling feet and flapping wings, as even the beasties hastily fled the foulness.
She wished she could be so lucky. With a sigh, she took started wrapping her arm in bandages. Once done, she tied it off and tested the tightness, clenching and unclenching her hand, then bending her wrist to and fro.
She still couldn’t tell. The druids, they said the infection had gotten no worse. But no better either. But it had only been a week’s time, after all. They couldn’t be sure if things would improve, with time. Or worsen. Only time would tell. They said.
~And of course, they mean what they say, don’t they? And say what they mean. But do they say all that know?~
She blinked, confused, her train of thought suddenly broken. After a bewildered moment, she turned back to the task at hand – kicking out the fire, gathering up her medicine kit, and packing her belongings safely away.
Hope, they told her. Prydion, and Alishe, and Lyirdanna too. Where there was life, and breath, there was still hope. Hope, and faith. She’d lost hers, somewhere along the dark road she’d taken. But they had not. So she’d borrow theirs, for a while. Store it up, bit by treasured bit, to fill the aching emptiness – the dark chasm within, where the warmth of the Light once filled her. Until, perhaps, she could find her own again.
~Aye, let yourself rely on their feeble hopes, their precious faith. But when you falter, when you slip, then they turn and walk away, it’ll all go tumbling down again. And then you’ll see how pointless it is. How empty you are.~
She rose to her feet, clutching her head at a moment of dizziness, and waited until it had passed. Then, adjusting the shield at her back and the blade at her hip, she turned to Ash – the gryphon waited stoically.
“Alright, birdbrain,” she told him gruffly. “Let’s go.”
___
It wasn’t a long flight to Shattrath. Ash landed lightly, then stood calmly, waiting for her to dismount. As always the dwarf was quietly amazed that a beast so large, so proud, could be so …
“BRANNY!” a voice shouted suddenly. She blinked, and found herself suddenly tackled and engulfed in a breath-stealing hug.
“Urk…” she managed, wincing as strong, armor-clad arms squeezed her own armor-clad form uncomfortably. The figure only took this as encouragement, and squeezed harder.
“It’s you! You’re back! Omigosh, it’s been so long!”
I know that voice… I know this GRIP! With effort, the dwarf struggled, forced air from her lungs. “… can’t… breath… ease up… girly…!”
The warrior loosened her grip slightly – the dwarf tried not to gasp too audibly for breath. “You sound funny, Branny. That IS you, right?”
She nodded weakly. “Aye, Cylinn. It’s me.” This earned her a renewed squeeze. “Gah… ease up, Cyl!”
“But you’ve been gone so LONG! Where have you been, anyway?”
She thought about it a moment. No use telling her, she won’t understand… “I guess… ye can say, been through th’ Nether, an’ come back again,” she said, finally.
Cylinn frowned just a bit, then brightened. “Oh wow, that’s sounds like it was far away! Was it a long trip?”
“Aye, ye can say that. Long indeed.”
“Did you bring me back any souvenirs?”
She blinked. Thought. Patted the pockets in her cloak. “Umm… I think I might have… what’s this…?” After a moment of searching, she produced a small, rather grotesque, imp-head-shaped… thing… on a small chain. Wordlessly, she handed it over.
“Ooooh, nifty!” Cylinn took it happily, then grabbed the gnome-box at her belt and shouted into it happily, “Branny just gave me an imp’s head on a chain! It’s cool!” There was an audible, collective groan in response to this exuberant announcement.
Despite herself, she grinned. Really, truly smiled. It felt odd, strange even, as if her face had all but forgotten how to smile so wide, so full of joy. But it felt good, as well.
Ash shifted his stance slightly – he’d prudently moved aside when the warrior had crashed into his rider, but still waited patiently. As Cyl continued to chatter excitedly about her new souvenir, the dwarf removed the halter from his beak, and gave him a friendly pat, releasing him to the skies until she needed him again. He nuzzled her briefly, then bounded into the air, leaving the groundlings to their own devices. For now.
Branny shielded her eyes from the sun, and watched him soar. Free.
Cylinn paused in her chattering and sniffed loudly. "Ew. What's that smell."
The dwarf ignored that.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Fallen (Part 5)
(A letter to Lyirdanna)
Dear former high lady miss tall one Lyirdanna ma’am,
Greetings and salutations.
Nikolas has been busily reviewing the designs that young Abigayle adapted for this mobile containment unit that she was working on. He is very concerned about so many different systems being contained in one single device. Most were intended on being individual devices. Nik says that combining so many creates the need for a very powerful power source, which can produce enough energy to run all of the systems.
Nik also says that he isn’t sure how Abby managed to reverse the intended power flow in regards to the various gems – originally, he intended the power contained within these gems to function as a means of enhancing certain natural properties of the gems themselves, and then infuse the metal with these properties – allowing, for example, a ruby to contain the power of fire, and transferring this into a sword. Instead, she has somehow managed to use the gems to capture and contain the demonic energies from the fel-infused steel, which in turn absorbs the energies from the strange demonic glyph.
However, Nik is afraid that Abby may not have correctly configured part of the wiring, or perhaps did not completely comprehend the conversion system, and he believes it may not be functioning correctly. He isn’t sure, because he is working on deciphering schematics, which may or may not correctly portray the reality of how the device is functioning, but he believes it is possible that the gems are not properly storing these energies. In which case, the device may not be functioning, and the demonic energies are not being contained at all. It is more likely, however, that the device is functioning as intended, but at a lesser capacity. While this would give you more time to develop an alternative solution to this dilemma before the gems reach critical capacity, it unfortunately also means that the energies from the glyph are free to continue spreading freely.
There is also the slight possibility that, because the fel-infused steel in and of itself contains some vestiges of demonic taint, the gems may actually be injecting more demonic energies into the glyph, instead of drawing it out. Again, he can’t be sure without studying the actual device in person, but he does believe that the amount of taint contained within the metal would only be a slight amount, and most likely would not have a noticeable effect.
Nik also says he’s not sure he completely agrees with Abby’s assessment of the volatile nature of the gems upon releasing the non-key-dependant locking mechanism, but he is sufficiently concerned to be working on a means to help mitigate the possible resultant explosion of energies. He believes that the nature of the demonic energies can be thwarted by natural and holy energies. In fact, he further postulates that this may be part of the reason miss lady paladin Branwynne attempted to contact a druid for aid in this matter – to counter those energies emanating from the glyph.
I agree with Nik on this. Demonic energies by nature are corrupting, destructive, and unholy. If these energies can be countered by nurturing, creative, and holy energies of sufficient power, in an exact ratio of 1:1, I believe that the effect of these energies can be cancelled out. The problem, of course, is to determine the exact amount of energies that must be applied to negate the demonic energies. If a proper balance between the conflicting energies is not established, the results could be disastrous.
Unfortunately, we do not at this time have accurate readings of exactly how much demonic energies are being produced by the glyph in question – we only have a reading on how much demonic energies the gems currently contain. We are therefore unable to give a reliable estimate on the amounts of anti-demonic energies would be required to counter the demonic energies.
I hope our research thus far can be of some assistance. Nikolas and I will continue our research into this device and the energy systems, in hopes of providing more helpful information.
In all sincerity and good wishes,
Adelheide Frizzlespring and Nikolas Whirlybolt
_____
“There,” said the gnome happily. “Just a quick, short note. Not too complicated, I think. What do you think, Speedy?”
But the tortoise was already fast asleep.
Dear former high lady miss tall one Lyirdanna ma’am,
Greetings and salutations.
Nikolas has been busily reviewing the designs that young Abigayle adapted for this mobile containment unit that she was working on. He is very concerned about so many different systems being contained in one single device. Most were intended on being individual devices. Nik says that combining so many creates the need for a very powerful power source, which can produce enough energy to run all of the systems.
Nik also says that he isn’t sure how Abby managed to reverse the intended power flow in regards to the various gems – originally, he intended the power contained within these gems to function as a means of enhancing certain natural properties of the gems themselves, and then infuse the metal with these properties – allowing, for example, a ruby to contain the power of fire, and transferring this into a sword. Instead, she has somehow managed to use the gems to capture and contain the demonic energies from the fel-infused steel, which in turn absorbs the energies from the strange demonic glyph.
However, Nik is afraid that Abby may not have correctly configured part of the wiring, or perhaps did not completely comprehend the conversion system, and he believes it may not be functioning correctly. He isn’t sure, because he is working on deciphering schematics, which may or may not correctly portray the reality of how the device is functioning, but he believes it is possible that the gems are not properly storing these energies. In which case, the device may not be functioning, and the demonic energies are not being contained at all. It is more likely, however, that the device is functioning as intended, but at a lesser capacity. While this would give you more time to develop an alternative solution to this dilemma before the gems reach critical capacity, it unfortunately also means that the energies from the glyph are free to continue spreading freely.
There is also the slight possibility that, because the fel-infused steel in and of itself contains some vestiges of demonic taint, the gems may actually be injecting more demonic energies into the glyph, instead of drawing it out. Again, he can’t be sure without studying the actual device in person, but he does believe that the amount of taint contained within the metal would only be a slight amount, and most likely would not have a noticeable effect.
Nik also says he’s not sure he completely agrees with Abby’s assessment of the volatile nature of the gems upon releasing the non-key-dependant locking mechanism, but he is sufficiently concerned to be working on a means to help mitigate the possible resultant explosion of energies. He believes that the nature of the demonic energies can be thwarted by natural and holy energies. In fact, he further postulates that this may be part of the reason miss lady paladin Branwynne attempted to contact a druid for aid in this matter – to counter those energies emanating from the glyph.
I agree with Nik on this. Demonic energies by nature are corrupting, destructive, and unholy. If these energies can be countered by nurturing, creative, and holy energies of sufficient power, in an exact ratio of 1:1, I believe that the effect of these energies can be cancelled out. The problem, of course, is to determine the exact amount of energies that must be applied to negate the demonic energies. If a proper balance between the conflicting energies is not established, the results could be disastrous.
Unfortunately, we do not at this time have accurate readings of exactly how much demonic energies are being produced by the glyph in question – we only have a reading on how much demonic energies the gems currently contain. We are therefore unable to give a reliable estimate on the amounts of anti-demonic energies would be required to counter the demonic energies.
I hope our research thus far can be of some assistance. Nikolas and I will continue our research into this device and the energy systems, in hopes of providing more helpful information.
In all sincerity and good wishes,
Adelheide Frizzlespring and Nikolas Whirlybolt
_____
“There,” said the gnome happily. “Just a quick, short note. Not too complicated, I think. What do you think, Speedy?”
But the tortoise was already fast asleep.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Fallen (Part 4)
As if things weren’t already bad enough… she grumbled silently, as she quickly stomped her way through the busy city. She’d been fairly lucky, for the most part. Until the other day, that is. Rage and despair rocked through her.
What is it about nosy druids and meddling paladins? She’d done her best to drive the pair off. It had worked with everyone else, thus far. But the druid had not been so easy to fool, and her paladin-husband was as persistent as a tooth ache. Walking away had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
A part of her wanted to cry. Another part of her wanted to smash things, to lash out in retaliation to the pain. And a quiet, disturbing corner of her mind wanted to inflict that pain on them.
Her left hand clenched involuntarily, a sudden spasm of pain that was by now all too familiar. She grit her teeth and did her best to ignore it – both the pain and that insidious siren call.
You’ll not get me THAT easily, Nether take your filthy hides, she growled silently. So long as I have breath, so long as I have will, I’ll turn this damnable curse against you and yours.
~And how long will THAT be, hmmm?~
She ignored that voice, and walked on.
What is it about nosy druids and meddling paladins? She’d done her best to drive the pair off. It had worked with everyone else, thus far. But the druid had not been so easy to fool, and her paladin-husband was as persistent as a tooth ache. Walking away had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
A part of her wanted to cry. Another part of her wanted to smash things, to lash out in retaliation to the pain. And a quiet, disturbing corner of her mind wanted to inflict that pain on them.
Her left hand clenched involuntarily, a sudden spasm of pain that was by now all too familiar. She grit her teeth and did her best to ignore it – both the pain and that insidious siren call.
You’ll not get me THAT easily, Nether take your filthy hides, she growled silently. So long as I have breath, so long as I have will, I’ll turn this damnable curse against you and yours.
~And how long will THAT be, hmmm?~
She ignored that voice, and walked on.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Fallen (Part 3)
She scowled down at the new letter, freshly delivered. She knew who it was from, written as it was on a bit of tree bark, carefully rolled and sealed with twine. The delivery gnome had already scampered away by the time she looked up again – he’d been on the job long enough to know when a quick exit was warranted. Several of the taverns other patrons looked at each other in askance, but, seeing the cold, hard face of the dwarf, turned back to their drinks. And their silences.
Damn it all, she cursed silently, eyes burning with tears of sheer frustration and grief that she would not shed. Stubborn, stubborn elf…
Maybe she should have chosen another. But… who else was there, really? Who else could be trusted with the task, who would not falter? She’d asked Abigayle about her former friends, and the resulting report left few options.
The hateful memory clouded her mind once again. She shook herself free of it with a low growl.
Damn it all, she cursed silently, eyes burning with tears of sheer frustration and grief that she would not shed. Stubborn, stubborn elf…
Maybe she should have chosen another. But… who else was there, really? Who else could be trusted with the task, who would not falter? She’d asked Abigayle about her former friends, and the resulting report left few options.
The hateful memory clouded her mind once again. She shook herself free of it with a low growl.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Fallen (Part 2)
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” the small figure asked, doubt visible in her eyes, obscured as they were behind rose-colored goggles almost bigger than her head. “This particular field of research is still very much in its beginning stages, and this device is only an individual, experimental endeavor, based solely on very limited data. I must warn you, there is the very slightest of remote possibilities that this prototype may not function quite as intended.”
“How’s that different from any other gnome contraption,” the battered figure muttered under her breath. Then in a clear voice, added in common, “I’m sure. Strap it on.” She pushed up a sleeve and held out her left arm.
The young gnome frowned down at it. It was clearly the arm of a battle-scarred veteran, and grimy with accumulated dirt and blood and sweat, but that isn’t what caught the eye. No, it was the twisting, unnatural brand, the demonic symbol flowing sluggishly with greenish fire, that drew her full attention. Even with the powerful protection of the goggles, she felt a slight twinge of nausea looking at it for too long.
“This may cause some momentary sensations that you may find unpleasant,” the gnome cautioned. “Try not to move.” The dwarf only grunted.
Taking a deep breath, the gnome reached out and struggled with a rather large, heavy contraption of metal, augmented with various flashing jewels which seemed to light up from within. This was clamped around the swirling brand, encasing and enclosing it completely, then bolted shut. With a frown of concentration, the gnome focused a thin stream of fire from her fingers at the seam, sealing it completely, then inscribed the metal with small, concise, arcane runes of warding.
“Done,” she said finally, removing the pinkish goggles with a tired sigh. She wiped sweat from her brow with a handy rag, unaware of the thin streak of grease she left behind in the process.
The dwarf raised her arm slowly and looked at the contraption warily. It looked almost like a fancy vambrace. A very bulky, very flashy, jewel-encrusted vambrace. Almost.
“You’re sure this thing works?”
“By my calculations, it should,” the gnome confirmed, as sure as any gnome ever is about their latest (and greatest) feat of engineering greatness. “By its very nature, felsteel has a bit of demonic taint – hence that eerie green glow – but theoretically, if coupled with the properties of…”
“But will it work?”
“Well… most likely. I mean, it IS a prototype, after all. But the principles of Addy’s research into the arcane, holy, and demonic properties, both inherent and acquired, of these alien metals and alloys is sound, and Nik’s early experiments have thus far given credence to her postulations… and…” she ground to a halt in the face of a dwarven glare, then added quietly, “…well, it should work. At least for a while.”
“How long?”
The gnome bit her lip. “I’m… I’m not sure, really. But… but if the sensors detect a sudden increase in demonic energy, it will send the signal out. I’m sure that part of the system works, anyway,” she added reluctantly. After a moment of silence, her formerly eager and proud face collapsed into panic and woe. “Are you sure you don’t want Addy…”
“No.”
“But if my cousin finds out…”
“Then she’d better not find out,” was the dwarf’s laconic reply.
More silence.
“I still think that you should…”
“You owe me this, Abigayle Fruzzleknot,” the dwarf growled harshly. “All those debts you owed, when the Brigade got into troubles, and you too proud to ask your cousin for help. Goblin lenders, no less. Do you remember when they caught you in Darkshire?”
The young gnome winced. “I remember…”
“Then keep your tongue still,” the dwarf snapped, eyes cold. “And keep your ear open for that signal. If it sounds, you know what to do.”
The gnome nodded reluctantly, and watched as the dwarf donned her masked helm and left the cluttered workshop behind.
“How’s that different from any other gnome contraption,” the battered figure muttered under her breath. Then in a clear voice, added in common, “I’m sure. Strap it on.” She pushed up a sleeve and held out her left arm.
The young gnome frowned down at it. It was clearly the arm of a battle-scarred veteran, and grimy with accumulated dirt and blood and sweat, but that isn’t what caught the eye. No, it was the twisting, unnatural brand, the demonic symbol flowing sluggishly with greenish fire, that drew her full attention. Even with the powerful protection of the goggles, she felt a slight twinge of nausea looking at it for too long.
“This may cause some momentary sensations that you may find unpleasant,” the gnome cautioned. “Try not to move.” The dwarf only grunted.
Taking a deep breath, the gnome reached out and struggled with a rather large, heavy contraption of metal, augmented with various flashing jewels which seemed to light up from within. This was clamped around the swirling brand, encasing and enclosing it completely, then bolted shut. With a frown of concentration, the gnome focused a thin stream of fire from her fingers at the seam, sealing it completely, then inscribed the metal with small, concise, arcane runes of warding.
“Done,” she said finally, removing the pinkish goggles with a tired sigh. She wiped sweat from her brow with a handy rag, unaware of the thin streak of grease she left behind in the process.
The dwarf raised her arm slowly and looked at the contraption warily. It looked almost like a fancy vambrace. A very bulky, very flashy, jewel-encrusted vambrace. Almost.
“You’re sure this thing works?”
“By my calculations, it should,” the gnome confirmed, as sure as any gnome ever is about their latest (and greatest) feat of engineering greatness. “By its very nature, felsteel has a bit of demonic taint – hence that eerie green glow – but theoretically, if coupled with the properties of…”
“But will it work?”
“Well… most likely. I mean, it IS a prototype, after all. But the principles of Addy’s research into the arcane, holy, and demonic properties, both inherent and acquired, of these alien metals and alloys is sound, and Nik’s early experiments have thus far given credence to her postulations… and…” she ground to a halt in the face of a dwarven glare, then added quietly, “…well, it should work. At least for a while.”
“How long?”
The gnome bit her lip. “I’m… I’m not sure, really. But… but if the sensors detect a sudden increase in demonic energy, it will send the signal out. I’m sure that part of the system works, anyway,” she added reluctantly. After a moment of silence, her formerly eager and proud face collapsed into panic and woe. “Are you sure you don’t want Addy…”
“No.”
“But if my cousin finds out…”
“Then she’d better not find out,” was the dwarf’s laconic reply.
More silence.
“I still think that you should…”
“You owe me this, Abigayle Fruzzleknot,” the dwarf growled harshly. “All those debts you owed, when the Brigade got into troubles, and you too proud to ask your cousin for help. Goblin lenders, no less. Do you remember when they caught you in Darkshire?”
The young gnome winced. “I remember…”
“Then keep your tongue still,” the dwarf snapped, eyes cold. “And keep your ear open for that signal. If it sounds, you know what to do.”
The gnome nodded reluctantly, and watched as the dwarf donned her masked helm and left the cluttered workshop behind.
Fallen (Part 1)
A tattered figure limped along the hilly edges of Thelsamar.
By height and stature the patrollers knew it to be a dwarf, from the worn, miss-matched armor of otherworldly and clashing designs, one but recently returned from the Outlands. The figure acknowledged them with a polite nod, but did not remove the covered helm, nor pause to chat.
The stranger walked out to one particular tree, marked only by large tree, and two small headstones. Armor creaking, the figure removed the heavy helm and knelt slowly, head bowed as if in prayer, long unkept hair curtaining the stranger’s face. After a long, frozen moment, one gauntleted hand dug a shallow hole beside the two markers and emptied into it the contents of a tightly clutched bag. Covered the hole again. And wept, shoulders shaking in silent grief.
Respectfully, the patrollers gave the dwarf a wide berth. This was a private grief, not to be shared or intruded upon.
Eventually, the shaking slowed, stopped. Tore a gauntlet off and clumsily wiped tears from weary eyes. Few would have recognized the grim face under the grime.
Mother. Father. What remained of her brother, before his turning, his willing betrayal. Would anyone know to return her remains here, once she finally fell? No, probably not. After a moment, she struggled with her bulky pack, dug deep within it, searching… there. Folded carefully, colors a bit faded but still intact, was a long-cherished tabard, bearing the emblem she’d held close to her heart. The tabard of the Guardian Elite.
She clutched it in her hand a moment, then dug yet another shallow hole. Buried it beside the rest of her family. Complete, now – or as complete as it would ever be, she supposed.
The figure looked up to behold the beauty of the moonrise over the water. Spring was in the air. Time of change, and renewal. Once it would have stirred her heart. Now, it was just another season.
In silence she collected her things – battered armor, tattered soul, and the shattered remains of her honor, and walked back North, the way she had come.
By height and stature the patrollers knew it to be a dwarf, from the worn, miss-matched armor of otherworldly and clashing designs, one but recently returned from the Outlands. The figure acknowledged them with a polite nod, but did not remove the covered helm, nor pause to chat.
The stranger walked out to one particular tree, marked only by large tree, and two small headstones. Armor creaking, the figure removed the heavy helm and knelt slowly, head bowed as if in prayer, long unkept hair curtaining the stranger’s face. After a long, frozen moment, one gauntleted hand dug a shallow hole beside the two markers and emptied into it the contents of a tightly clutched bag. Covered the hole again. And wept, shoulders shaking in silent grief.
Respectfully, the patrollers gave the dwarf a wide berth. This was a private grief, not to be shared or intruded upon.
Eventually, the shaking slowed, stopped. Tore a gauntlet off and clumsily wiped tears from weary eyes. Few would have recognized the grim face under the grime.
Mother. Father. What remained of her brother, before his turning, his willing betrayal. Would anyone know to return her remains here, once she finally fell? No, probably not. After a moment, she struggled with her bulky pack, dug deep within it, searching… there. Folded carefully, colors a bit faded but still intact, was a long-cherished tabard, bearing the emblem she’d held close to her heart. The tabard of the Guardian Elite.
She clutched it in her hand a moment, then dug yet another shallow hole. Buried it beside the rest of her family. Complete, now – or as complete as it would ever be, she supposed.
The figure looked up to behold the beauty of the moonrise over the water. Spring was in the air. Time of change, and renewal. Once it would have stirred her heart. Now, it was just another season.
In silence she collected her things – battered armor, tattered soul, and the shattered remains of her honor, and walked back North, the way she had come.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
To Serve the Light (Part 14)
Focus.
She puzzled over it all that night. And all the next morning as well. Even the nightly punishment on the practice yard later that evening failed to drive the confusion away. It nagged at her, worrying at her mind like mice at sacks of grain. Persistent, unending gnawing. Leaving an empty sack full of holes.
Focus.
So, was it a question of focus, then? What was she focusing on? What should she be focusing on? Or rather, what did old Bernhardt want her focusing on?
Her mind grasped the most obvious thing.
The bloody poem.
By dim candle light, she thought about the words she’d been mindlessly chanting for the past several weeks, turning them over and over in her mind. Despite herself, the words seemed to resonate within her. Rage and anger, pain and loss, hatred and vengeance – these were things she understood all too well. They were the fuel that stoked the fires of her fierce dwarven heart, bolstered her spirit and gave strength to her axe-hand.
…but not what I’m ta be focusing on, I’m thinking…
Wyn growled in frustration and blew out the light. She was going over the words in her mind again, still searching for the answer, when sleep finally found her.
_____
Her sluggish dwarven mind finally made the connection, early the next morning.
The books…
All the scribe-work old man Bernhardt had her doing. The reading, the meticulous and painstaking copying. All this time, she’d thought it was all just a devious method of discipline, of keeping her occupied while also separated from her fellow recruits. But maybe they were something more, all along.
Wyn frowned in dwarvish ire. But… if THAT’S what he was wanting… why not just SAY so? - she thought in frustration.
Fuming quietly, she made her way to Bernhardt’s study.
She puzzled over it all that night. And all the next morning as well. Even the nightly punishment on the practice yard later that evening failed to drive the confusion away. It nagged at her, worrying at her mind like mice at sacks of grain. Persistent, unending gnawing. Leaving an empty sack full of holes.
Focus.
So, was it a question of focus, then? What was she focusing on? What should she be focusing on? Or rather, what did old Bernhardt want her focusing on?
Her mind grasped the most obvious thing.
The bloody poem.
By dim candle light, she thought about the words she’d been mindlessly chanting for the past several weeks, turning them over and over in her mind. Despite herself, the words seemed to resonate within her. Rage and anger, pain and loss, hatred and vengeance – these were things she understood all too well. They were the fuel that stoked the fires of her fierce dwarven heart, bolstered her spirit and gave strength to her axe-hand.
…but not what I’m ta be focusing on, I’m thinking…
Wyn growled in frustration and blew out the light. She was going over the words in her mind again, still searching for the answer, when sleep finally found her.
_____
Her sluggish dwarven mind finally made the connection, early the next morning.
The books…
All the scribe-work old man Bernhardt had her doing. The reading, the meticulous and painstaking copying. All this time, she’d thought it was all just a devious method of discipline, of keeping her occupied while also separated from her fellow recruits. But maybe they were something more, all along.
Wyn frowned in dwarvish ire. But… if THAT’S what he was wanting… why not just SAY so? - she thought in frustration.
Fuming quietly, she made her way to Bernhardt’s study.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
To Serve the Light (Part 13)
“Again!”
She raised her weighted practice hammer, suppressing a wordless growl of frustration.
Bloody hammer is TWICE the weight of a true warhammer! ‘Tis e’en heavier ‘n da’s smithin hammer. Th’ TWO HANDED one, fer foldin sword-steel! An’ I’m supposed ta be wieldin th’ bloody thing wi’ one hand? In th’ bloody pourin rain?
In th’ bloody dark?
‘Tis nae trainin, this. ‘Tis bloody TORTURE!
“Put your back into it, Stelhamor!” he barked, tone stern, unyielding. “And don’t forget the chant, this time.”
Gritting her teeth, she took her stance against the practice dummy again, swinging the much-too-heavy hammer and chanting in time to her strokes. Her voice was harsh, ragged with the same seething anger that fueled her blows, one after the other.
The words of the chant flowed easily enough, now. Even the foreign humanish accent no longer felt so alien to her dwarven tongue.
“Focus!”
Her eyes narrowed, and her strikes came faster, stronger, her chanting becoming louder, harsher. The frustration transformed into rage, that familiar burning power, giving her strength and purpose. She took all that all that energy, directed it into a single vision – the wooden practice dummy shattering to a million pieces, pulverized by righteous dwarven wrath.
“Stop, STOP! You’re not focusing!”
Her swings came to a halt. She lifted the clunky visor of her helm and glowered fiercely at the dark figure that was her tormentor. “What?! I AM bloody focusing!”
Bernhardt shook his head grimly. “No, you’re not. At least, not focusing on what you SHOULD be focused on.”
“What? I’m takin my rage, and harnessing it! Just as you said I should!” She bit back resentment, even as she caught it trying to run away with her dwarvish brogue yet again.
“Yes, but what were you using it for, pray?”
She blinked, confused.
He sighed. “Enough for now. Tend your equipment, tend your sore muscles, and get some rest. We’ll start again tomorrow.”
She stared a moment in disbelief as he turned and walked away. “Then what the bloody hell SHOULD I be focused on?” she shouted at his back, above the downpour.
The old paladin stopped. Glanced at her over his shoulder. “Ah, now THERE’S the question,” he replied cryptically, a gleam in his eye. Then turned away again, making his way for the keep.
Leaving her standing in the rain. Alone.
Now wha’ th’ bloody hell…?
She raised her weighted practice hammer, suppressing a wordless growl of frustration.
Bloody hammer is TWICE the weight of a true warhammer! ‘Tis e’en heavier ‘n da’s smithin hammer. Th’ TWO HANDED one, fer foldin sword-steel! An’ I’m supposed ta be wieldin th’ bloody thing wi’ one hand? In th’ bloody pourin rain?
In th’ bloody dark?
‘Tis nae trainin, this. ‘Tis bloody TORTURE!
“Put your back into it, Stelhamor!” he barked, tone stern, unyielding. “And don’t forget the chant, this time.”
Gritting her teeth, she took her stance against the practice dummy again, swinging the much-too-heavy hammer and chanting in time to her strokes. Her voice was harsh, ragged with the same seething anger that fueled her blows, one after the other.
The words of the chant flowed easily enough, now. Even the foreign humanish accent no longer felt so alien to her dwarven tongue.
“Focus!”
Her eyes narrowed, and her strikes came faster, stronger, her chanting becoming louder, harsher. The frustration transformed into rage, that familiar burning power, giving her strength and purpose. She took all that all that energy, directed it into a single vision – the wooden practice dummy shattering to a million pieces, pulverized by righteous dwarven wrath.
“Stop, STOP! You’re not focusing!”
Her swings came to a halt. She lifted the clunky visor of her helm and glowered fiercely at the dark figure that was her tormentor. “What?! I AM bloody focusing!”
Bernhardt shook his head grimly. “No, you’re not. At least, not focusing on what you SHOULD be focused on.”
“What? I’m takin my rage, and harnessing it! Just as you said I should!” She bit back resentment, even as she caught it trying to run away with her dwarvish brogue yet again.
“Yes, but what were you using it for, pray?”
She blinked, confused.
He sighed. “Enough for now. Tend your equipment, tend your sore muscles, and get some rest. We’ll start again tomorrow.”
She stared a moment in disbelief as he turned and walked away. “Then what the bloody hell SHOULD I be focused on?” she shouted at his back, above the downpour.
The old paladin stopped. Glanced at her over his shoulder. “Ah, now THERE’S the question,” he replied cryptically, a gleam in his eye. Then turned away again, making his way for the keep.
Leaving her standing in the rain. Alone.
Now wha’ th’ bloody hell…?
Sunday, April 29, 2007
To Serve the Light (Part 12)
Sleep was often long in coming, in the following weeks. Every day was a struggle with books and lectures and lessons, confronted by foreign ideas and philosophies. Every night was another struggle, as she wrestled with the alien thoughts and musings crowding her mind. Not to mention the sore muscles and bruises – old as he seemed, she’d been reminded yet again that Bernhardt was still quicker than lightning with a sparring weapon in hand.
Still, the mundane aches and pains were almost a welcome distraction.
The combination of lack of sleep and strange thoughts rattling around in her dwarvish head left her tired, irritable, and perturbed – all of which added up to a very grumpy dwarf. It was just as well she was isolated from the others, for their sakes. After all, it wasn’t like she could take out her ire on old man Bernhardt. Not unless she wanted another chance learning what an anvil felt like, anyway.
Or worse, he’d assign her more copy work.
_____
“You’re not focusing, Stelhamor,” the old man chided. “Your conviction is lacking; your resolve is weak.”
Panting for breath, Wyn struggled back to her feet. She swayed ever-so-slightly, but clenched her jaw and steadied herself through sheer contrariness.
Bernhardt shook his head. “Pitiful, Stelhamor.” Before she could even tighten her grip on her hammer, the old man exploded into motion.
With a wordless growl she managed to raise her shield to block the first blow…
…and found herself flat on her back, blinking up at her tormentor in bewilderment.
He sighed, then knelt to help her up. “That’s all for today, Stelhamor. Take yourself off for a hot soak – you’ll be too sore to move, else.”
She nodded glumly.
_____
Even with the soak, and marinating herself in herbal salves overnight, she was extremely sore the next day. Without a murmur of complaint, she limped into Berhardt’s study for another day of book learning and lectures.
The fire burned cheerily in the fireplace as she made her way to the familiar cramped desk. But Bernhardt stopped her.
“You’re over there today, Stelhamor,” he said gruffly, steering her towards the large cushioned chair by the fireplace. “No quills and inks for you – just a bit of reading.”
She eased herself into the chair gingerly, slight frown of bewilderment creasing her brow.
“Here,” he said, handing her a thin leather-bound book, indicating an open page. “Read this one. Memorize it. Engrave into that stubborn stone slab you call a brain.”
Wyn looked down at it. Her frown deepened. “Poetry?”
He ignored her indignation. “Memorize it. By tonight.” With that, he left the room.
What the BLOODY hell?! Bad enough ta be having to read all this blathering drivel, but now he’s having me memorize POETRY?
She glowered down at the page, then reluctantly applied herself to the task at hand. Murmuring under her breath, she read to herself and the empty room.
“Feeling your anger
Feeding my hate…”
Still, the mundane aches and pains were almost a welcome distraction.
The combination of lack of sleep and strange thoughts rattling around in her dwarvish head left her tired, irritable, and perturbed – all of which added up to a very grumpy dwarf. It was just as well she was isolated from the others, for their sakes. After all, it wasn’t like she could take out her ire on old man Bernhardt. Not unless she wanted another chance learning what an anvil felt like, anyway.
Or worse, he’d assign her more copy work.
_____
“You’re not focusing, Stelhamor,” the old man chided. “Your conviction is lacking; your resolve is weak.”
Panting for breath, Wyn struggled back to her feet. She swayed ever-so-slightly, but clenched her jaw and steadied herself through sheer contrariness.
Bernhardt shook his head. “Pitiful, Stelhamor.” Before she could even tighten her grip on her hammer, the old man exploded into motion.
With a wordless growl she managed to raise her shield to block the first blow…
…and found herself flat on her back, blinking up at her tormentor in bewilderment.
He sighed, then knelt to help her up. “That’s all for today, Stelhamor. Take yourself off for a hot soak – you’ll be too sore to move, else.”
She nodded glumly.
_____
Even with the soak, and marinating herself in herbal salves overnight, she was extremely sore the next day. Without a murmur of complaint, she limped into Berhardt’s study for another day of book learning and lectures.
The fire burned cheerily in the fireplace as she made her way to the familiar cramped desk. But Bernhardt stopped her.
“You’re over there today, Stelhamor,” he said gruffly, steering her towards the large cushioned chair by the fireplace. “No quills and inks for you – just a bit of reading.”
She eased herself into the chair gingerly, slight frown of bewilderment creasing her brow.
“Here,” he said, handing her a thin leather-bound book, indicating an open page. “Read this one. Memorize it. Engrave into that stubborn stone slab you call a brain.”
Wyn looked down at it. Her frown deepened. “Poetry?”
He ignored her indignation. “Memorize it. By tonight.” With that, he left the room.
What the BLOODY hell?! Bad enough ta be having to read all this blathering drivel, but now he’s having me memorize POETRY?
She glowered down at the page, then reluctantly applied herself to the task at hand. Murmuring under her breath, she read to herself and the empty room.
“Feeling your anger
Feeding my hate…”
Saturday, April 14, 2007
To Serve the Light (Part 11)
“Now, fighting with a hammer is different than using a sword or axe,” Bernhardt explained loudly, in a tone of long-suffering patience. “There’s no point, no edge, and no blade. Some liken it to the mace, as both rely on bludgeoning force.”
Wyn grunted as she continued to attack the wooden figure before her. Her tormentor droned on, and she tried to focus both on her target and his words. She knew better than to ignore the lecture.
“The hammer is not a weapon for the impatient, Stelhamor. You can’t cut or pierce, to bloody your opponent and weaken their resolve. Fancy twists and flashy moves won’t help you. All you have is the weight of your hammer, the force of your will, and the strength of your convictions.”
Her father’s voice rang strongly through her memory. Th’ weight o’ th’ hammer, th’ force o’ yer will, an’ th’ strength o’ yer convictions, lass. All yer havin when standin afore th’ anvil, shapin red-hot metal ta th’ visions in yer head, he’d told her, on more than one occasion.
A sharp smack interrupted her reverie. “Pay attention, Stelhamor.”
She rubbed her head, where the small pebble had hit. “Yes, sir,” she muttered sullenly. Where in the bloody hell was he finding that down here? she wondered.
Bernhardt nodded at the dummy. Sighing inwardly, she resumed her measured strokes. Over the clacking of wood on wood, Bernhardt continued. The words were familiar to her – after a moment, she realized they were in the same vein as all the copy work she’d been doing of late.
Damn, more of THIS blather? But she grit her teeth and set herself to endure.
“As you should know, Stelhamor, the key to using a hammer is focus, persistence, and patience. With each strike you must focus your will, to transfer the strength from your arm through the face of the hammer and into your target. But one must be careful as well, for focusing too much force means sacrificing speed, which can be deadly against a quick-footed foe.”
“Also, each individual strike by itself is capable of transferring only so much force. While one good strike can be enough to fell an opponent, such opportunities may not present themselves. More often than not, a hammer-wielder must rely on attrition – outlasting the opponent by dealing more damage over time than one takes.”
“At the same time, the user of the hammer must judge the opponent, his intentions and convictions. Each blow – is it a feint, a ploy, or real? For what reason does he stand against you – greed, rage, fear? How does he judge you – obstruction, annoyance, enemy? The correct assessment of your opponent and his convictions is the key to victory.”
“For this reason, it is imperative for the warrior using the hammer to always maintain concentration and focus, balancing speed against strength, power against patience, and attack against defense.”
“Now, maintaining concentration and focus can be difficult, especially for the untrained. It is a matter of distancing yourself from that which can distract you. Emotions such as rage, for example. It’s a common tactic for experienced warriors to use insults and mockery to effect the concentration and conviction of the weak-willed. A warrior without unwavering conviction is dead. Remember that, Stelhamor.”
_____
Later that night, lying sleepless on her bunk, she heard his words again. Felt them pounding against her mind with the same incessant cadence as her hammer against the training target. She knew there was some deeper meaning hidden within them, something Bernhardt was saying without saying. But she didn’t understand it, didn’t comprehend it, didn’t – couldn’t – accept it.
The way the bloody old man goes on and on, ye’d think fighting was all about thinking and thinking, like a pair of old greybeards talking philosophy over the smoking pipe or something!
She snorted in derision, then turned to her side, trying to drive the alien thoughts out of her mind. Gah, all this scribbling copy work is making my mind all daft. What I’m needing now is sleep.
Wyn closed her eyes.
Sleep was long in coming.
Wyn grunted as she continued to attack the wooden figure before her. Her tormentor droned on, and she tried to focus both on her target and his words. She knew better than to ignore the lecture.
“The hammer is not a weapon for the impatient, Stelhamor. You can’t cut or pierce, to bloody your opponent and weaken their resolve. Fancy twists and flashy moves won’t help you. All you have is the weight of your hammer, the force of your will, and the strength of your convictions.”
Her father’s voice rang strongly through her memory. Th’ weight o’ th’ hammer, th’ force o’ yer will, an’ th’ strength o’ yer convictions, lass. All yer havin when standin afore th’ anvil, shapin red-hot metal ta th’ visions in yer head, he’d told her, on more than one occasion.
A sharp smack interrupted her reverie. “Pay attention, Stelhamor.”
She rubbed her head, where the small pebble had hit. “Yes, sir,” she muttered sullenly. Where in the bloody hell was he finding that down here? she wondered.
Bernhardt nodded at the dummy. Sighing inwardly, she resumed her measured strokes. Over the clacking of wood on wood, Bernhardt continued. The words were familiar to her – after a moment, she realized they were in the same vein as all the copy work she’d been doing of late.
Damn, more of THIS blather? But she grit her teeth and set herself to endure.
“As you should know, Stelhamor, the key to using a hammer is focus, persistence, and patience. With each strike you must focus your will, to transfer the strength from your arm through the face of the hammer and into your target. But one must be careful as well, for focusing too much force means sacrificing speed, which can be deadly against a quick-footed foe.”
“Also, each individual strike by itself is capable of transferring only so much force. While one good strike can be enough to fell an opponent, such opportunities may not present themselves. More often than not, a hammer-wielder must rely on attrition – outlasting the opponent by dealing more damage over time than one takes.”
“At the same time, the user of the hammer must judge the opponent, his intentions and convictions. Each blow – is it a feint, a ploy, or real? For what reason does he stand against you – greed, rage, fear? How does he judge you – obstruction, annoyance, enemy? The correct assessment of your opponent and his convictions is the key to victory.”
“For this reason, it is imperative for the warrior using the hammer to always maintain concentration and focus, balancing speed against strength, power against patience, and attack against defense.”
“Now, maintaining concentration and focus can be difficult, especially for the untrained. It is a matter of distancing yourself from that which can distract you. Emotions such as rage, for example. It’s a common tactic for experienced warriors to use insults and mockery to effect the concentration and conviction of the weak-willed. A warrior without unwavering conviction is dead. Remember that, Stelhamor.”
_____
Later that night, lying sleepless on her bunk, she heard his words again. Felt them pounding against her mind with the same incessant cadence as her hammer against the training target. She knew there was some deeper meaning hidden within them, something Bernhardt was saying without saying. But she didn’t understand it, didn’t comprehend it, didn’t – couldn’t – accept it.
The way the bloody old man goes on and on, ye’d think fighting was all about thinking and thinking, like a pair of old greybeards talking philosophy over the smoking pipe or something!
She snorted in derision, then turned to her side, trying to drive the alien thoughts out of her mind. Gah, all this scribbling copy work is making my mind all daft. What I’m needing now is sleep.
Wyn closed her eyes.
Sleep was long in coming.
Friday, April 13, 2007
To Serve the Light (Part 10)
“Catch.”
Wyn looked up from the thick tome she was trying to decipher, and caught what was thrown at her. She frowned down at it a moment. “A hammer, sir?”
“Yes.”
She held it up quizzically. It seemed to be an old wooden mallet. Not much more than a squarish wooden block attached to a stout wooden handle, it had obviously seen a lot of use in its day.
“An’ … and what am I supposed to be doing with it, sir?”
“You’ll be training with it, Stelhamor.”
Only training kept her from dropping the “weapon” to the ground. “Ye wan’ me ta train wi’ a bloody meat tenderizer?”
“You’ll train with what I say you train with, recruit,” Bernhardt reprimanded sternly. “Now, mind your language or you’ll be wielding a rusted old pot instead. Won’t that be a sight on the practice field, hm?”
Wyn glowered but held her tongue.
“Now, get your gear, and get to the cellar.”
“Cellar?”
“Yes, Stelhamor. The cellar. You’re not training with the others, remember? But there’s no use having your meager weapon skills atrophy. Retraining you would barely be worth the effort. Now move, before you find yourself holding a wooden spoon.”
Gripping the hammer tightly, she scuttled for the door.
Wyn looked up from the thick tome she was trying to decipher, and caught what was thrown at her. She frowned down at it a moment. “A hammer, sir?”
“Yes.”
She held it up quizzically. It seemed to be an old wooden mallet. Not much more than a squarish wooden block attached to a stout wooden handle, it had obviously seen a lot of use in its day.
“An’ … and what am I supposed to be doing with it, sir?”
“You’ll be training with it, Stelhamor.”
Only training kept her from dropping the “weapon” to the ground. “Ye wan’ me ta train wi’ a bloody meat tenderizer?”
“You’ll train with what I say you train with, recruit,” Bernhardt reprimanded sternly. “Now, mind your language or you’ll be wielding a rusted old pot instead. Won’t that be a sight on the practice field, hm?”
Wyn glowered but held her tongue.
“Now, get your gear, and get to the cellar.”
“Cellar?”
“Yes, Stelhamor. The cellar. You’re not training with the others, remember? But there’s no use having your meager weapon skills atrophy. Retraining you would barely be worth the effort. Now move, before you find yourself holding a wooden spoon.”
Gripping the hammer tightly, she scuttled for the door.
To Serve the Light (Part 9)
Outside, the familiar clang of blade against blade filled the yard under the grey skies, followed by the familiar shouts of Sir Bernhardt’s lieutenants. The militia was now short two promising recruits, and so the training for the remaining young would-be protectors of Menethil Harbor had been intensified. That meant more training sessions for all of them.
All save one.
Wyn was not out with the group of recruits. Instead, she was indoors, toiling away at a different kind of training, honing a different kind of skill. Hunched over a cramped desk piled with books pushed over to one corner, her strokes were not the sweeping strokes of an axe against a training dummy, but the clumsy strokes of a pen. Instead of the clear sound of blades slicing through air, her world was filled with the soft scritching of pen nib against parchment.
Scribe work. She hated it. But rather than give way to her ire, she clenched her teeth and tried to focus on her strokes.
“You’re not carving the letters into wood, Stelhamor,” growled a voice softly from the window. “Don’t waste the parchment.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied.
“Yes. Yes sir. Not ‘aye,’ Stelhamor. You will speak properly in this room, remember.”
“Yes sir,” Wyn repeated.
Three weeks. For three weeks now, she’d been under the “special supervision” of Sir Bernhardt. Punishment for the loss of two prized recruits. The mayor and Sir Bernhardt had agreed to it, as it seemed the regular brand of discipline did not seem to be all that effective. Isolation from the other recruits. Pen scribbling. Copy work. Language lessons. All things she’d most hated about her time as an initiate at the temple in the Mystic Ward.
As if she weren’t already feeling horrible enough for her actions.
Taylor was gone. Alive and well, from what she’d been told, but no longer in Menethil. Sir Bernhardt said he’d been sent to Stormwind, to recover under the care of his aunt at the Cathedral She had tried to say goodbye before he left and to apologize, but there was a distance between them now. After one awkward meeting, they had found it easy enough to avoid each other.
And now he was gone.
“Focus, Stelhamor. Don’t just copy that text. Read it. Understand it. Memorize it.”
“Ay… yes sir.”
He nodded absently from the window, still watching the training below. Brow furrowed in concentration, the dwarf focused on the words, murmuring under her breath as she copied them down.
Unseen by all, Sir Bernhardt indulged in a small smile.
All save one.
Wyn was not out with the group of recruits. Instead, she was indoors, toiling away at a different kind of training, honing a different kind of skill. Hunched over a cramped desk piled with books pushed over to one corner, her strokes were not the sweeping strokes of an axe against a training dummy, but the clumsy strokes of a pen. Instead of the clear sound of blades slicing through air, her world was filled with the soft scritching of pen nib against parchment.
Scribe work. She hated it. But rather than give way to her ire, she clenched her teeth and tried to focus on her strokes.
“You’re not carving the letters into wood, Stelhamor,” growled a voice softly from the window. “Don’t waste the parchment.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied.
“Yes. Yes sir. Not ‘aye,’ Stelhamor. You will speak properly in this room, remember.”
“Yes sir,” Wyn repeated.
Three weeks. For three weeks now, she’d been under the “special supervision” of Sir Bernhardt. Punishment for the loss of two prized recruits. The mayor and Sir Bernhardt had agreed to it, as it seemed the regular brand of discipline did not seem to be all that effective. Isolation from the other recruits. Pen scribbling. Copy work. Language lessons. All things she’d most hated about her time as an initiate at the temple in the Mystic Ward.
As if she weren’t already feeling horrible enough for her actions.
Taylor was gone. Alive and well, from what she’d been told, but no longer in Menethil. Sir Bernhardt said he’d been sent to Stormwind, to recover under the care of his aunt at the Cathedral She had tried to say goodbye before he left and to apologize, but there was a distance between them now. After one awkward meeting, they had found it easy enough to avoid each other.
And now he was gone.
“Focus, Stelhamor. Don’t just copy that text. Read it. Understand it. Memorize it.”
“Ay… yes sir.”
He nodded absently from the window, still watching the training below. Brow furrowed in concentration, the dwarf focused on the words, murmuring under her breath as she copied them down.
Unseen by all, Sir Bernhardt indulged in a small smile.
To Serve the Light (Part 8)
“Well?”
Bernhardt sighed wearily and rubbed at his eyes once again. Dawn had come and was hours past now, and yet the old paladin had not yet found time to rest. No time, not now. Time enough to rest later, laid out upon cold stone slab. Time for work, now.
“Recruit Cordell is recovering in the infirmary,” Bernhardt replied quietly, rubbing his tired eyes with one hand. “He’s asleep. Probably for the best.”
“And the dwarf?”
“Recruit Stelhamor is also in the infirmary, getting her injuries checked. She was clouted on the back of the head. The healer was worried about a cracked skull, or bleeding.”
“Not the gaol?”
“I judged Stelhamor’s injuries serious enough to have her moved. I did interrogate her once Cordell was settled. Had the men round up a few of Lars’ crowd to cross-check her account. At first their stories were all varied, but under interrogation we soon got to the truth. We’re holding them in the gaol.”
Silence.
“So you believe her story? By your own reports, she’s been a problem recruit.”
“Yes. I know my recruits, and despite her discipline problems, Stelhamor is one of my best. She wouldn’t do this.”
“Are you sure about that, Sir Bernhardt?”
The old paladin nodded. “Yes sir. I’m sure.”
The mayor sighed. “We’ve still lost a recruit, possibly three. And Lars was one of our best swords.”
Bernhardt snorted. “A good sword, yes, but his heart was dark. As for Cordell, it’s still too early to know.”
“And the dwarf?”
A harsh, grim smile. “Just leave Recruit Stelhamor to me, sir. Just leave her to me.”
Bernhardt sighed wearily and rubbed at his eyes once again. Dawn had come and was hours past now, and yet the old paladin had not yet found time to rest. No time, not now. Time enough to rest later, laid out upon cold stone slab. Time for work, now.
“Recruit Cordell is recovering in the infirmary,” Bernhardt replied quietly, rubbing his tired eyes with one hand. “He’s asleep. Probably for the best.”
“And the dwarf?”
“Recruit Stelhamor is also in the infirmary, getting her injuries checked. She was clouted on the back of the head. The healer was worried about a cracked skull, or bleeding.”
“Not the gaol?”
“I judged Stelhamor’s injuries serious enough to have her moved. I did interrogate her once Cordell was settled. Had the men round up a few of Lars’ crowd to cross-check her account. At first their stories were all varied, but under interrogation we soon got to the truth. We’re holding them in the gaol.”
Silence.
“So you believe her story? By your own reports, she’s been a problem recruit.”
“Yes. I know my recruits, and despite her discipline problems, Stelhamor is one of my best. She wouldn’t do this.”
“Are you sure about that, Sir Bernhardt?”
The old paladin nodded. “Yes sir. I’m sure.”
The mayor sighed. “We’ve still lost a recruit, possibly three. And Lars was one of our best swords.”
Bernhardt snorted. “A good sword, yes, but his heart was dark. As for Cordell, it’s still too early to know.”
“And the dwarf?”
A harsh, grim smile. “Just leave Recruit Stelhamor to me, sir. Just leave her to me.”
To Serve the Light (Part 7)
Bernhardt sighed and rubbed his eyes. Light, he was tired – so tired! – of trying to deal with this mess. But they were his recruits, his responsibility. All of three of them. If I can salvage any of them from ruin, after this.
The one might be salvageable. The other, most likely lost. And the last, well... the last was anyone’s guess. In his time, he’d seen strong, proud warriors, men and women both, shaken to their very cores by the journey into the Twisted Nether, and back again. The Light had graced him with the power to call to wayward souls back from the beyond, and to heal the physical wounds – but time alone could heal the wounds left upon the spirit.
Ah, no use to worry now. The boy has not even awoken yet. Better to attend matters I can deal with now.
He’d had his men gather the runners, and they’d been questioned thoroughly. Despite their differing stories, Bernhardt was experienced enough to ferret out a likely tale from the lies they tried to weave. He was fairly sure what had happened, and now needed only confirmation from the three main participants of this travesty.
Of the three, only one could he question, right at this moment. He sighed.
“Stelhamor.”
__________
She stood stiffly as he came into the cell. “Sir! Is Tay…”
“I’m asking the questions here, Stelhamor,” Sir Bernhardt cut in, his voice harsh. “Tell me why, Stelhamor. Why did this happen?”
Anger sparked immediately within her eyes. She didn’t care about any of that right now. She only cared about her friend, and his welfare. “Taylor…”
“NO!” he roared, for once his anger a very real, very powerful thing. “Answer me, and answer now. Tell me why you’re standing here, covered in the blood of a good recruit? Tell me why I shouldn’t clap you in chains now? Why we shouldn’t try and execute you for murder?”
“Murder…?” she whispered hoarsely. Dwarven ire faded instantly, drained even as the blood drained from her face. Dread and fear took residence. “But… but ye brought him back…?” her voice had a pleading note to it.
“ANSWER ME, DWARF!” Bernhardt commanded.
Deep within, anger stirred a moment. Was quelled by despair and guilt. Slowly, haltingly, Wyn told her tale.
The one might be salvageable. The other, most likely lost. And the last, well... the last was anyone’s guess. In his time, he’d seen strong, proud warriors, men and women both, shaken to their very cores by the journey into the Twisted Nether, and back again. The Light had graced him with the power to call to wayward souls back from the beyond, and to heal the physical wounds – but time alone could heal the wounds left upon the spirit.
Ah, no use to worry now. The boy has not even awoken yet. Better to attend matters I can deal with now.
He’d had his men gather the runners, and they’d been questioned thoroughly. Despite their differing stories, Bernhardt was experienced enough to ferret out a likely tale from the lies they tried to weave. He was fairly sure what had happened, and now needed only confirmation from the three main participants of this travesty.
Of the three, only one could he question, right at this moment. He sighed.
“Stelhamor.”
__________
She stood stiffly as he came into the cell. “Sir! Is Tay…”
“I’m asking the questions here, Stelhamor,” Sir Bernhardt cut in, his voice harsh. “Tell me why, Stelhamor. Why did this happen?”
Anger sparked immediately within her eyes. She didn’t care about any of that right now. She only cared about her friend, and his welfare. “Taylor…”
“NO!” he roared, for once his anger a very real, very powerful thing. “Answer me, and answer now. Tell me why you’re standing here, covered in the blood of a good recruit? Tell me why I shouldn’t clap you in chains now? Why we shouldn’t try and execute you for murder?”
“Murder…?” she whispered hoarsely. Dwarven ire faded instantly, drained even as the blood drained from her face. Dread and fear took residence. “But… but ye brought him back…?” her voice had a pleading note to it.
“ANSWER ME, DWARF!” Bernhardt commanded.
Deep within, anger stirred a moment. Was quelled by despair and guilt. Slowly, haltingly, Wyn told her tale.
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