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.
Showing posts with label To Serve the Light. Show all posts
Showing posts with label To Serve the Light. Show all posts
Thursday, March 6, 2008
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.
To Serve the Light (Part 6)
A firm hand on her shoulder drew her gently away from Taylor’s prone body. How much time had passed she wasn’t sure. She watched listlessly as the cloaked figure knelt beside Tay, examined the bloody wound, and the knife. Placed his outstretched hands over the wound. Murmured something over Tay’s still form, words she could not make out over the rain.
A light sprang to life. Starting at the man’s hands, but soon spreading out to encompass Taylor’s entire form. As Wyn watched, the light seemed to sink into Taylor, illuminating him from within. There was a silent explosion of light - then all went dark again. Wyn blinked, blinded by the sudden darkness.
There was a soft gasp. Then movement. The cloaked one rose, holding Tay in his arms. The hood had fallen back, and a flash of lightning revealed Sir Bernhardt’s stern face.
“Let’s get this one out of the rain, Stelhamor,” he said gruffly. “He’s weak, and lost a lot of blood.”
He moved quickly, Wyn following in something of a daze.
_____
She followed him back to the keep, where he carried the unconscious youth to the healers’ wing. As he placed Taylor upon one of the empty beds there, and murmured instructions to the menders there.
And when he spoke with the guards, and had them take her once again to the familiar holding cell, she went without argument.
In the darkness, she sat alone. And thought on what she’d seen.
A light sprang to life. Starting at the man’s hands, but soon spreading out to encompass Taylor’s entire form. As Wyn watched, the light seemed to sink into Taylor, illuminating him from within. There was a silent explosion of light - then all went dark again. Wyn blinked, blinded by the sudden darkness.
There was a soft gasp. Then movement. The cloaked one rose, holding Tay in his arms. The hood had fallen back, and a flash of lightning revealed Sir Bernhardt’s stern face.
“Let’s get this one out of the rain, Stelhamor,” he said gruffly. “He’s weak, and lost a lot of blood.”
He moved quickly, Wyn following in something of a daze.
_____
She followed him back to the keep, where he carried the unconscious youth to the healers’ wing. As he placed Taylor upon one of the empty beds there, and murmured instructions to the menders there.
And when he spoke with the guards, and had them take her once again to the familiar holding cell, she went without argument.
In the darkness, she sat alone. And thought on what she’d seen.
To Serve the Light (Part 5)
Wyn blinked. Voices from far away. Hazy shapes. She blinked. What happened? She tried to think, even as she felt movement. The murmuring voices came closer, almost understandable through the haze. Angry voices.
She blinked, trying to make sense of everything.
Slowly, things became clearer. Wetness. Rain. Her head hurt. Dizzy. And someone was shouting.
"Don't do it, Lars! Don't!"
"Shut it, dog. Filthy dwarf deserves a lesson... properly servicing her betters..."
Tha... thas nae soundin right... The haze was parting, fading. Why... I cannae move...
"Don't...don’t you touch her! DON'T!"
...Tay...
"Shut up, ya love-sick pup!"
Sounds of a struggle. Impact. A moan of pain. Tay's voice.
Within her, something flared to life. Blearily, she struggled against the weight holding her down. Something... someone slapped her across the face.
"Oh no, you're not going anywhere..."
But the slap did nothing but stoke the fire in her dwarven heart. Blinking, she tried to focus. Disjointed images flashed before her through the fog - she struggled to make sense of them:
Lars, sneering down at her, pinning her to the ground…
…Lars holding her bound arms down above her head with one hand, brandishing a knife at her with the other…
…Taylor struggling with the other two…
…Taylor breaking free, grabbing Lars…
…Taylor and Lars, wrestling…
…the knife, impaling Taylor's chest…
…Taylor falling back, a look of utter shock on his face…
…the disbelief in Lars’ eyes…
"NOOOOOOOO!"
Looking at Tay lying there, dagger sticking out of him, something exploded. The fires of rage burned away all thought, all hesitation. A red haze fell over her vision. She rose to her feet, the shreds of her bonds falling away from her hands. Lars stared for a moment, blanched, then fled, knocking over the remaining lantern in his haste. Possessed of rage, Wyn moved to follow.
A whisper of sound stopped her.
“…Wyn…”
She blinked, turned, saw Tay sprawled on the muddy ground. Calling to her weakly. The red haze fell away, as suddenly as it had risen. She rushed to his side, kneeling in the mud.
“Ach, Tay…” her hand went to the hilt, but he stopped her.
“…no…Wyn. I’ll ble… bleed out…” blood seeped out of his mouth, his nose. His breathing was shallow, gurgled.
“Tay, we need ta get ye ta th’ healers…”
“… too.. late… too… close…” He coughed weakly, gasped at the pain. Wyn winced, rain and tears mingling on her face as she tried to support him, steady him. Helpless.
“Tay…”
He tried to smile, managing only a bloody grimace she could barely make out in the dark. “… sorry… Wyn… I… I guess… Mar… in… was ri… ight… we… we had… a… bad… end…” He went limp.
“Titans blast ye, Tay… donnae ye be givin up…”
Desperately, she pulled the dagger out of his chest. In the darkness, she could feel the warm blood flood outward – she pressed down on the wound to staunch the flow, pressing down hard. She cursed that they neither of them had been armed. Even boiled leather could have helped to prevent such a clumsy attack.
“… ‘always be prepared fer th’ werst,’ th’ ole man always said… damn…”
The lightning flashed, then. It lit up his face for a brief moment. She looked down. His empty eyes gazed back up at her.
“No… no… NOOOOOO!”
A scream of primal rage and pain pierced through the night. A voice filled with equal parts of fury, anguish, and loss.
Wyn didn’t realize – the voice was her own.
She blinked, trying to make sense of everything.
Slowly, things became clearer. Wetness. Rain. Her head hurt. Dizzy. And someone was shouting.
"Don't do it, Lars! Don't!"
"Shut it, dog. Filthy dwarf deserves a lesson... properly servicing her betters..."
Tha... thas nae soundin right... The haze was parting, fading. Why... I cannae move...
"Don't...don’t you touch her! DON'T!"
...Tay...
"Shut up, ya love-sick pup!"
Sounds of a struggle. Impact. A moan of pain. Tay's voice.
Within her, something flared to life. Blearily, she struggled against the weight holding her down. Something... someone slapped her across the face.
"Oh no, you're not going anywhere..."
But the slap did nothing but stoke the fire in her dwarven heart. Blinking, she tried to focus. Disjointed images flashed before her through the fog - she struggled to make sense of them:
Lars, sneering down at her, pinning her to the ground…
…Lars holding her bound arms down above her head with one hand, brandishing a knife at her with the other…
…Taylor struggling with the other two…
…Taylor breaking free, grabbing Lars…
…Taylor and Lars, wrestling…
…the knife, impaling Taylor's chest…
…Taylor falling back, a look of utter shock on his face…
…the disbelief in Lars’ eyes…
"NOOOOOOOO!"
Looking at Tay lying there, dagger sticking out of him, something exploded. The fires of rage burned away all thought, all hesitation. A red haze fell over her vision. She rose to her feet, the shreds of her bonds falling away from her hands. Lars stared for a moment, blanched, then fled, knocking over the remaining lantern in his haste. Possessed of rage, Wyn moved to follow.
A whisper of sound stopped her.
“…Wyn…”
She blinked, turned, saw Tay sprawled on the muddy ground. Calling to her weakly. The red haze fell away, as suddenly as it had risen. She rushed to his side, kneeling in the mud.
“Ach, Tay…” her hand went to the hilt, but he stopped her.
“…no…Wyn. I’ll ble… bleed out…” blood seeped out of his mouth, his nose. His breathing was shallow, gurgled.
“Tay, we need ta get ye ta th’ healers…”
“… too.. late… too… close…” He coughed weakly, gasped at the pain. Wyn winced, rain and tears mingling on her face as she tried to support him, steady him. Helpless.
“Tay…”
He tried to smile, managing only a bloody grimace she could barely make out in the dark. “… sorry… Wyn… I… I guess… Mar… in… was ri… ight… we… we had… a… bad… end…” He went limp.
“Titans blast ye, Tay… donnae ye be givin up…”
Desperately, she pulled the dagger out of his chest. In the darkness, she could feel the warm blood flood outward – she pressed down on the wound to staunch the flow, pressing down hard. She cursed that they neither of them had been armed. Even boiled leather could have helped to prevent such a clumsy attack.
“… ‘always be prepared fer th’ werst,’ th’ ole man always said… damn…”
The lightning flashed, then. It lit up his face for a brief moment. She looked down. His empty eyes gazed back up at her.
“No… no… NOOOOOO!”
A scream of primal rage and pain pierced through the night. A voice filled with equal parts of fury, anguish, and loss.
Wyn didn’t realize – the voice was her own.
To Serve the Light (Part 4)
It was noon before they were released from their special drills. Normally, they'd have gate duty, or be given leave to return to their non-militia duties for the rest of the afternoon. But no, not for them. Sir Bernhardt had assigned them "special" duties for the duration of their punishment.
"Special" indeed. Such as mucking out the stables. With small flower-garden trowels. It was unpleasant work at the best of times, but now, in the rain... they also had to contend with fidgety and unhappy horses. It took forever to complete the job – by they time Sir Bernhardt deemed the cleaning passable, allowing them to make their way to the baths, the sun was well past setting.
The smell of wet hay, wet horse hair, and wet horse crap. While they could neither of them smell it any longer, both knew it clung to them. Even after all the scrubbing and soaking, it was like an unseen cloud of foulness hovering over them. As foul as the mood of the young dwarf.
She was still muttering as they made their way back home. Taylor finally told her crossly to stop griping. "We're in enough trouble, ye daft dwarf. Why ye want to get us into more with yer cursing the ole man out, eh?"
" 'Tis a bloody arse-rag he's bein, is why," she grumbled darkly, swinging her lantern with unnecessary violence. "An' fer wha? Fer tha' dirty, nae good Dun Modr scum? 'Tis a liar an' a cheat tha' one's bein, plaguin me brother fer money he's nae entitled ta."
Taylor nodded. "Yea, I know, Wyn. Ye told me before."
"Aye. An' 'twas HE tha' was startin all th' trouble, aye? Callin me a 'stupid whore's get pretendin ta pound metal,' an' offerin ta 'pound th' fiery bitch inta bliss' an' all tha' blather," she growled, face getting red again at the mere memory of the insults.
"Yea, I remember Wyn. Rude bastard he was, and grabby too." He frowned, unconsciously crackling his knuckles.
"Th' bloody, dirty pig," she growled as they continued walking. " 'Twas th' LEAST he was deservin, wha' he was getting! Th' disgustin bastard. 'Twas needed, teachin tha' bloody bastard ta be mindin his manners, an ta be respectin th' goodfolk o' Menethil."
They turned the corner, and nearly walked straight into a small group.
"Filthy dwarf, keep out of the path of your betters." Wyn was shoved, hard, and went sprawling.
Harsh, derisive laughter.
"Shaddup, Lars," Taylor warned, eyes hard as he helped her up.
As usual, Lars ignored the warning. Full of himself, was Lars - one of a handful survivors who escaped Lordaeron's fall. Some claimed he was some fancy paladin's son, born and bred for war. Others held him to be some street-born criminal's by-blow, raised in conflict and intrigue. No one knew for sure. In any case, his skill with the sword was better than most full Guards, much less his fellow militia. Only two had ever bested him - one of them sir Bernhardt himself.
Lars hated dwarves. All dwarves. But especially this upstart female.
"You shut up," Lars mocked. "Filthy dwarf-lover. Does her beard keep your balls warm while she… erk!"
Lars got no further. Taylor moved, driving his fist into the other man’s stomach. The lantern in his hand tumbled to the ground as he clutched his torso and gasped. As Lars struggled to catch his breath, the two others rushed forward, tackling Tay.
With a furious roar, Wyn scrambled up and joined the fray. In a blind rage she ignored everything else around her, focused only on the two enemies before her, intent on smashing their faces into the muddy earth.
As she grappled, something collided with her head.
The world faded away.
"Special" indeed. Such as mucking out the stables. With small flower-garden trowels. It was unpleasant work at the best of times, but now, in the rain... they also had to contend with fidgety and unhappy horses. It took forever to complete the job – by they time Sir Bernhardt deemed the cleaning passable, allowing them to make their way to the baths, the sun was well past setting.
The smell of wet hay, wet horse hair, and wet horse crap. While they could neither of them smell it any longer, both knew it clung to them. Even after all the scrubbing and soaking, it was like an unseen cloud of foulness hovering over them. As foul as the mood of the young dwarf.
She was still muttering as they made their way back home. Taylor finally told her crossly to stop griping. "We're in enough trouble, ye daft dwarf. Why ye want to get us into more with yer cursing the ole man out, eh?"
" 'Tis a bloody arse-rag he's bein, is why," she grumbled darkly, swinging her lantern with unnecessary violence. "An' fer wha? Fer tha' dirty, nae good Dun Modr scum? 'Tis a liar an' a cheat tha' one's bein, plaguin me brother fer money he's nae entitled ta."
Taylor nodded. "Yea, I know, Wyn. Ye told me before."
"Aye. An' 'twas HE tha' was startin all th' trouble, aye? Callin me a 'stupid whore's get pretendin ta pound metal,' an' offerin ta 'pound th' fiery bitch inta bliss' an' all tha' blather," she growled, face getting red again at the mere memory of the insults.
"Yea, I remember Wyn. Rude bastard he was, and grabby too." He frowned, unconsciously crackling his knuckles.
"Th' bloody, dirty pig," she growled as they continued walking. " 'Twas th' LEAST he was deservin, wha' he was getting! Th' disgustin bastard. 'Twas needed, teachin tha' bloody bastard ta be mindin his manners, an ta be respectin th' goodfolk o' Menethil."
They turned the corner, and nearly walked straight into a small group.
"Filthy dwarf, keep out of the path of your betters." Wyn was shoved, hard, and went sprawling.
Harsh, derisive laughter.
"Shaddup, Lars," Taylor warned, eyes hard as he helped her up.
As usual, Lars ignored the warning. Full of himself, was Lars - one of a handful survivors who escaped Lordaeron's fall. Some claimed he was some fancy paladin's son, born and bred for war. Others held him to be some street-born criminal's by-blow, raised in conflict and intrigue. No one knew for sure. In any case, his skill with the sword was better than most full Guards, much less his fellow militia. Only two had ever bested him - one of them sir Bernhardt himself.
Lars hated dwarves. All dwarves. But especially this upstart female.
"You shut up," Lars mocked. "Filthy dwarf-lover. Does her beard keep your balls warm while she… erk!"
Lars got no further. Taylor moved, driving his fist into the other man’s stomach. The lantern in his hand tumbled to the ground as he clutched his torso and gasped. As Lars struggled to catch his breath, the two others rushed forward, tackling Tay.
With a furious roar, Wyn scrambled up and joined the fray. In a blind rage she ignored everything else around her, focused only on the two enemies before her, intent on smashing their faces into the muddy earth.
As she grappled, something collided with her head.
The world faded away.
To Serve the Light (Part 3)
The rains came - an unending torrent of unforgiving water, falling on the miserable heads of any unfortunate enough to be caught outside. It rained for weeks, flooding the swamps and bringing the murlocs dangerously close to the city walls. The greybeards, safe indoors with their mugs of ale, their cozy chairs by a cheery fireplace, would later remember it as one of the worst winters Menethil had ever seen.
And one foolish, angry dwarf would forever remember it as the most important, most significant winter of her life.
But not at that particular moment.
_____
"AGAIN!" he shouted mercilessly at the rain-drenched pair.
Wearily, they once again went through the drill, attacking the wooden figures with their "axe" and "sword." They had been out all morning, every morning, for the past three days, drilling in the rain and mud and muck. In full battle dress. The heavy mail creaked, weighing down their already-exhausted limbs, but still they pressed on, doing their best to ignore the misery and pain.
As they continued to drill, as the sheets of rain poured down, it never occurred to either of them that none of the other volunteers had been subjected to such harsh discipline and training. Then again, most of the others had "real" jobs in and around Menethil. The elder Stelhamor, for example, was the primary weaponsmith for the town. While the younger Stelhamor was a competent apprentice-classed blacksmith herself, there were others in town just as gifted, yet less capable in fighting. Thus, she and a handful of others militia volunteers found themselves more and more often at practice, training, or even patrolling the town.
And honestly, Sir Bernhardt kept them too busy to speculate much. As he intended, really. After all, he had plans for some of them. Especially these two. And it wouldn't do at all for them to learn of those plans too soon.
Menethil has enough able-bodied volunteers for the militia, for now. We have the means and the resources to defend ourselves against most casual attacks, and can hold our own long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Ironforge. But in the conflict to come, we will need more than just competent sword-swingers to keep our families safe. What we will need are trained, disciplined warriors, dedicated to a just cause, one greater than themselves. We will need defenders, willing to face the horrors and dangers that normal civilians should never have to face.
We will need true champions, true of heart, mind, and soul.
Too many were lost in the past war. Those brave souls are gone, never to return. Today, true stalwarts are few and far between. The only thing we can do is forge them anew; new heroes to stand tall against the coming tide.
He watched the pair struggling in the mud and rain, as they worked themselves into exhaustion and beyond. They had promise, these two - the dwarf stubborn as a badger, and the human with a streak of mischief wider than the doors on a barn. He had high hopes for them. If they didn't break first.
"PICK UP THE PACE! YOU'RE GETTING SLUGGISH THERE!"
The rain continued to pour down mercilessly, as the pair struggled on.
And one foolish, angry dwarf would forever remember it as the most important, most significant winter of her life.
But not at that particular moment.
_____
"AGAIN!" he shouted mercilessly at the rain-drenched pair.
Wearily, they once again went through the drill, attacking the wooden figures with their "axe" and "sword." They had been out all morning, every morning, for the past three days, drilling in the rain and mud and muck. In full battle dress. The heavy mail creaked, weighing down their already-exhausted limbs, but still they pressed on, doing their best to ignore the misery and pain.
As they continued to drill, as the sheets of rain poured down, it never occurred to either of them that none of the other volunteers had been subjected to such harsh discipline and training. Then again, most of the others had "real" jobs in and around Menethil. The elder Stelhamor, for example, was the primary weaponsmith for the town. While the younger Stelhamor was a competent apprentice-classed blacksmith herself, there were others in town just as gifted, yet less capable in fighting. Thus, she and a handful of others militia volunteers found themselves more and more often at practice, training, or even patrolling the town.
And honestly, Sir Bernhardt kept them too busy to speculate much. As he intended, really. After all, he had plans for some of them. Especially these two. And it wouldn't do at all for them to learn of those plans too soon.
Menethil has enough able-bodied volunteers for the militia, for now. We have the means and the resources to defend ourselves against most casual attacks, and can hold our own long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Ironforge. But in the conflict to come, we will need more than just competent sword-swingers to keep our families safe. What we will need are trained, disciplined warriors, dedicated to a just cause, one greater than themselves. We will need defenders, willing to face the horrors and dangers that normal civilians should never have to face.
We will need true champions, true of heart, mind, and soul.
Too many were lost in the past war. Those brave souls are gone, never to return. Today, true stalwarts are few and far between. The only thing we can do is forge them anew; new heroes to stand tall against the coming tide.
He watched the pair struggling in the mud and rain, as they worked themselves into exhaustion and beyond. They had promise, these two - the dwarf stubborn as a badger, and the human with a streak of mischief wider than the doors on a barn. He had high hopes for them. If they didn't break first.
"PICK UP THE PACE! YOU'RE GETTING SLUGGISH THERE!"
The rain continued to pour down mercilessly, as the pair struggled on.
To Serve the Light (Part 2)
"Disgraceful," the old man growled at the muddy pair before him. He was pacing, as he often did when berating recruits. "Fighting. Again. Both of you. And besotted by drink. Again."
The younger of the pair had the presence of mind to look to the stones in shame. But the other still stared up defiantly, unbowed by shame. Bolstered by dwarvish pride and anger. Her one good eye blazing with indignant rage. Her other eye too swollen, or no doubt it would be blazing too.
"What are you looking at, Stelhamor?" he barked at that one, glowering. Grudgingly she looked away, turned her gaze to the stone floor as well.
"We're not training you louts to beat yourselves silly in barroom brawls! We're training you idiots to serve and protect the good citizens of Menethil. That does NOT include you lot assaulting the citizenry..."
"Tha' Dun Modr scum, he was nae o' Menethil..."
"SILENCE!" Bernhardt barked, making Stelhamor wince. "Now, as I was saying, that does NOT include you lot assaulting the citizenry OR the traveling merchant folk who pass through our gates. Do you two understand?"
The guilty pair nodded slowly.
"Now then, if I had my way, I would be throwing you both out those gates, and seeing what a few weeks of living with the murlocs did for your dispositions. Sadly, we are short-handed, and I do not have that luxury. Instead, the only choice I have is to make good soldiers out of the both of you."
He stopped directly before them and peered directly into their bleary eyes. Even Stelhamor shivered at the coldness in that gaze.
"And that's exactly what I intend to do."
Outside, the thunder rumbled the promise of rain.
"Get some sleep. Dawn is in four hours. You'll be up before then." He walked out and slammed the cell door behind him.
The younger of the pair had the presence of mind to look to the stones in shame. But the other still stared up defiantly, unbowed by shame. Bolstered by dwarvish pride and anger. Her one good eye blazing with indignant rage. Her other eye too swollen, or no doubt it would be blazing too.
"What are you looking at, Stelhamor?" he barked at that one, glowering. Grudgingly she looked away, turned her gaze to the stone floor as well.
"We're not training you louts to beat yourselves silly in barroom brawls! We're training you idiots to serve and protect the good citizens of Menethil. That does NOT include you lot assaulting the citizenry..."
"Tha' Dun Modr scum, he was nae o' Menethil..."
"SILENCE!" Bernhardt barked, making Stelhamor wince. "Now, as I was saying, that does NOT include you lot assaulting the citizenry OR the traveling merchant folk who pass through our gates. Do you two understand?"
The guilty pair nodded slowly.
"Now then, if I had my way, I would be throwing you both out those gates, and seeing what a few weeks of living with the murlocs did for your dispositions. Sadly, we are short-handed, and I do not have that luxury. Instead, the only choice I have is to make good soldiers out of the both of you."
He stopped directly before them and peered directly into their bleary eyes. Even Stelhamor shivered at the coldness in that gaze.
"And that's exactly what I intend to do."
Outside, the thunder rumbled the promise of rain.
"Get some sleep. Dawn is in four hours. You'll be up before then." He walked out and slammed the cell door behind him.
To Serve the Light (Part 1)
It was the Boomstick's song contest, and they sat at a table together, listening. Some were some moving songs, some were funny songs - all offered by brave souls willing to stand on the stage and sing before the gathered throng. Then it was her turn to share a song - or rather, chant, as her singing voice was (as her father had always teased) enough to make dogs and small bairns howl in pain.
It was a battle chant. A warrior's chant. One taught to her during her training days.
_____
Feeling your anger, feeding my hate
hurt, anger, raging; the pain to abate
vengeance a hunger, never to sate
already too late
already too late
How many the tears one person must cry
anguish and heartache, 'til rivers run dry
How many the wounds one person must try
to wither within as heart starts to die
Feeling your hatred, feeding my pain
over and over; endless refrain
angry words linger, driving insane
just more of the same
just more of the same
How many the times on person must try
reach out from within, clenched first to black eye
How many the scars one person must hide
don't bother to speak, it's all just a lie
Freeing the anger, freeing the rage
leave behind heartache; compassion uncage
forgetting the past, coming of age
just turning the page
just turning the page
So many the times one person must try
falling, still striving, pain slowly subsides
So many the scars one person defies
reach out from within; your heart soars the skies.
_____
"Sir Bernhardt was teachin me tha' chant," she told Skalagrim afterwards as they sat together drinking. She grinned softly at the memory of those days. "He made me chant it in time ta me axe strokes. In th' rain. An' pernounced perfectly, in tha' blasted human speak, too. Ach, 'twas a sore trial, that!"
"I dinnae know yer training was so harsh!" he exclaimed, looking awed.
Branny colored and laughed.
"Do ya still feel such hate an' rage in yer heart?" Skalagrim asked her softly after a moment.
The question surprised her. "Ach, nay lad. Nay," she answered with a rueful grin.
And she remembered how long it had taken, before she had understood the lesson of the song.
It was a battle chant. A warrior's chant. One taught to her during her training days.
_____
Feeling your anger, feeding my hate
hurt, anger, raging; the pain to abate
vengeance a hunger, never to sate
already too late
already too late
How many the tears one person must cry
anguish and heartache, 'til rivers run dry
How many the wounds one person must try
to wither within as heart starts to die
Feeling your hatred, feeding my pain
over and over; endless refrain
angry words linger, driving insane
just more of the same
just more of the same
How many the times on person must try
reach out from within, clenched first to black eye
How many the scars one person must hide
don't bother to speak, it's all just a lie
Freeing the anger, freeing the rage
leave behind heartache; compassion uncage
forgetting the past, coming of age
just turning the page
just turning the page
So many the times one person must try
falling, still striving, pain slowly subsides
So many the scars one person defies
reach out from within; your heart soars the skies.
_____
"Sir Bernhardt was teachin me tha' chant," she told Skalagrim afterwards as they sat together drinking. She grinned softly at the memory of those days. "He made me chant it in time ta me axe strokes. In th' rain. An' pernounced perfectly, in tha' blasted human speak, too. Ach, 'twas a sore trial, that!"
"I dinnae know yer training was so harsh!" he exclaimed, looking awed.
Branny colored and laughed.
"Do ya still feel such hate an' rage in yer heart?" Skalagrim asked her softly after a moment.
The question surprised her. "Ach, nay lad. Nay," she answered with a rueful grin.
And she remembered how long it had taken, before she had understood the lesson of the song.
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