Guilt and Truth

Reynald was a Witch Hunter in Warhammer: Age of Reckoning.




I

I'm writing about my life in an ill-lit, dirty cell by candlelight. I won't be living much longer. The best part of the situation is that I have the freedom- the absolute freedom- to tell the truth. Not the self-serving platitudes, the after-the-fact philosophies that we all adopt to our circumstances. But the truth.

The truth is never a pleasant thing, reader. Look inward upon yourself, and make peace with that fact. A witch hunter homily on judging not, certainly worth a laugh to the cynical.

But it's the truth. And that's all that matters in the end. Stop reading now if you don't believe this.

~~~

I am Reynald. I am the son of a minor duke in the Empire. Which dukedom doesn't matter, they are much the same when it comes to that kind of thing. The Emperor at Altdorf knows my father; and while he is but a minor figure in the Empire, my father is respected as one who can be relied upon to give one a no-nonsense view of things. This is probably the one thing I share in common with him. Or perhaps I'm more like him than bears thinking about.

I was the youngest of 4 sons. My older brothers were much more engaged in holding the reins of power than I was. Perhaps being so much younger, I was indulged more.

When I came of age, I begged my father- who I would only see occasionally- to take my place in the dukedom. He really didn't have anything left for me to do that my brothers weren't already doing, however.

One day in the main town of our dukedom I saw a free company passing through. The cavalrymen were a grand sight to see; little is more romantic to youth than soldiering.

So I asked my father for the right to petition for a free company that I would raise from the townfolk across our district. Being noble-born, I could purchase the title of Colonel in the Empire; I could equip and pay for my own regiment. My father assented.

That year raising the regiment was the finest of my life. Recruiting, equipping, supplying and training the ill-disciplined rabble consisting of mostly poor townfolk and country peasants, molding them into a reasonably competent fighting force. I took outcasts in, including prisoners given one last chance to redeem themselves. Those that adapted to the discipline did well enough; those that didn't were drummed out. A few incorrigibles were hung.

I played the role of Colonel to the hilt. I had several uniforms in different styles that I would wear on different occasions. I was respected by and large; those with a title and money generally are, at least to their face. What was said behind my back I can only surmise- a boy-soldier at play- but that mattered not. Why would it?

Then came the time for fighting.

We moved up to the front. The location doesn't really matter now; for all I know the front is still there, at that precise place. A land torn by war, deserted by normal folk. Everyone there was either wishing they were elsewhere, or, if they hadn't been there long, looking forward to battle.

I looked forward to the fighting with a passion. From my camp near the orderly rows of tents where my soldiers were, I looked out upon the landscape at sunset. Across the broken farmlands towards the enemy.

And that night, my life changed forever.

Through the darkness, the beating of Goblin drums could be heard, and the shrill skirling of flutes. The enemy was near; I left my tent to call my officers to me, when it hit me- an overwhelming sense of dread. It staggered me. I was seized with a panicked fright. My body-servant had finished placing my cuirass on me and had saddled my horse when the flares burst in the sky, adding an eerie orange glow as tendrils of light slowly fell...

In front of my gathering regiment, I panicked. I vaulted up into my saddle, and instead of leading the fight, I wheeled and galloped away, confused shouts raised in the night behind me. In my panic, I nearly rode over a sentry. A gun discharged behind me as I rode fast away from the
starting battle. I felt a sharp pain in my left leg, though I kept on riding.

I rode up to the sentries in a nearby village and fell out of the saddle, unconscious.

I awoke in a bed a day later; a man in the brown finery of the witch hunters sat next to me, and would not answer any questions that I had. My leg had been struck by a fusileers's bullet; I had lost a lot of blood, but would survive.

That wasn't necessarily good news, it turned out. It was a wound from one of those that I had failed. I thought of little else.

I was transferred to a town via horse litter, under guard. Nobody was talking; I couldn't find out what was going on. I asked about my regiment. Nothing.

Then my father entered the room I was being held in.

I knew it was bad because he wouldn't meet my eyes at first.

What he said during that visit really didn't stick in my mind. Only the fact that his eyes shied away from mine when he came into the room.

It turns out that my regiment was lost in a savage attack shortly after I had inexplicably fled in the night. My father said he was working out a deal. There was to be a court marshal.

I couldn't respond to all of this; I was in shock. Father didn't ask about anything. I couldn't think of anything to say.

I was a coward. What could I say?

The day came when I was ushered into a small room at a tavern; 3 impassive Empire officers heard facts read to them about my case. When it came time for me to speak, I had nothing to say. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Describing a fear deep in your body that caused you to abandon your men would not have went over well in any circumstances.

I was found guilty and was to be remanded over to the intelligence service indefinitely. This must have been the deal that my father had spoken about, to avoid the gallows. Two witch hunters escorted me out of the building. I favored my injured leg as we walked to the stables.

"What is to happen now?" I asked.

"Why, you're going to learn to be one of us milord," said one, then nothing more. The other grinned. The silence stretched past the point of being uncomfortable.

As we rode out of town, my thoughts were tangled.

I was to be a witch hunter.


II


Witch hunters, people call us. That's a small but dramatic part of our job. Most of the time we're engaged in watching the watchers- making sure local bailiffs are doing their job, enforcing order- and keeping the population in line for the Emperor. We call ourselves the internal security service, or just the service. 'Witch hunters' is a much more dramatic name, and we're fine with that. Our reputation does half of our job for us.

It's the war effort that causes much of the strain. Sure, there are standard criminal cases, but our main job is to keep the people focused on who their true enemy was. Or, depending on your viewpoint, focused on the external threat, to avoid internal dissent.

My trainer was a man named Halden. He was grey-haired and thick-bodied, and had been a witch hunter for many years. He was looking forward to retirement when I was partnered with him. He was not a man who I would have naturally made friends with, but he treated me better than most others in the service.

Halden also had the look of what many thought of as the buffoonish, petty civil servant- he was careless in his grooming habits and his dress. The kind that were the butt of jokes in many a tavern (when there were no witch hunters around, of course). The service was despised by more numbers than those that respected it (or should I say feared it); corruption was not unknown, as in all areas of life. No one liked having their business scrutinized.

I understood that perfectly.

He cared not that I had been a nobleman. That fact seemed to poison others' opinions of me more than anything, sort of a payback in a strange way. A certain pettiness that said, 'you are one of us now, how do you like it?' As much as witch hunters were laughed at behind their backs by some, the nobility were reviled much more widely. Much of this was simple envy, resentment of a hard life transferred to those that knew little of such things. I was the victim of many slights and pranks. And of worse.

Not from Halden. I assume this assignment was no reward for him, either. But he showed me who to talk to, and what to look for when talking to them. How you could tell much about a person from just observing them. Early on in this training, I didn't care. One day while he was going over the finer points of gaining information, he stopped talking. I looked at him.

"Reynald. Routine is the cure for adversity. Embrace it, it will get you through."

"What if I could care less?"

He looked at me, then stood up and pulled out his pistol.

My eyes widened.

He handed it to me, butt-first.

"Might as well save all of us the trouble then."

I looked into his eyes the longest time. I eventually broke his gaze and looked away.

"Rationalize the truth, Halden? Why?"

"The truth?" Halden snorted. "Is that what you think I've been training you to get to?" He laughed harshly. "The truth- what have you done with it, lad?" He looked at me with that piercing gaze of his. "Truths and falsehoods alike are as common as leaves. What you make of them, that's what counts."

We stared at each other. Eventually, he put his pistol away.

I thought about what he said all night. I understood the message applied to my training, but that it was really aimed much closer to the bone.

What had I made of it?

That night, I decided I'd try.


III


Halden, the agent who taught me well, was a shrewd man. His unkempt image and general demeanor caused others- both in and out of the service- to underestimate him. He was often pegged as a time-server. He took advantage of this. Believing you know your opponent when you really don't leaves you at a clear disadvantage.

I saw him conduct interviews with people who clearly thought they were his superior. He subtly played on this and used it to trap them. Then he came on hard and pushed them. I saw many a suspect crumple under his examinations.

I learned from this, and applied it to my situation.

I was known as Your Highness within the service, for obvious reasons. I played to this to a certain degree towards those I despised. To the general populace I was known as the Limper, due to my leg injury that never quite healed properly. Once again, I played to this, emphasizing this characteristic for dramatic effect when conducting certain interviews. Many were the tales I spun about how I had received this wound, often dramatic or mundane- but never the truth, of course.

That wouldn't do. I had better uses for this condition than telling the truth about it. Convenient? Perhaps. Useful? Yes.

I questioned and interrogated many people after becoming an agent. Most were frightened, which was sensible if not terribly helpful to their case. Many were obsequious, almost embarrassingly so; often simple working people and peasantry were like this. One had to learn to weed out what people would tell you because they thought that was what you wanted to hear. Some witch hunters- typically those who were less skilled, or simply lazy- would take much of this information at face value. Many a man or woman would turn in their neighbor for imagined or invented reasons, just to get the attention off of them. Particularly if that neighbor was someone that they didn't like. And particularly if someone was joking or complaining about the way things are being run in the Empire.

This is why witch hunters have a bad name with much of the populace. Easy accusations, quick arrests and hearsay trials. Informers taken at face value, motivated by pettiness, vindictiveness, or greed.

There are those witch hunters like Halden that want nothing to do with this way; but they use it as a tool to get to the truth they are seeking, just the same. Fear is a motivator; it is a complicated world. Smile at this simple phrase, and think it convenient. But it is the reality we have to work with.

Feel superior and aloof from this mess behind the shield of your own beatific inaction. Those that judge and do nothing else hold forth the purity of being irrelevant to the world. Theirs is the victory of doing nothing. For if you act, even justly, you add to the mess, because nothing is pure.

Would that I were afforded this view, this fantasy purity. To truly believe that would be to ease the mind.

But it would be false. The truth? What have you done with it.


IV


State your name and where you live.

I am Norbert Strong, your Grace, I live in the town of Felde.

{stony smile} I am not to be addressed as 'your grace'. 'Sir' will do. What is your occupation?

I am a teamster, a waggoneer, your gr- Sir.

Good. For the record, state where you were in the evening 3 Saturdays ago.

I was at the Blazing Sun Tavern Sir, and after that I went home. You can ask-

{interrupting} The Blazing Sun Tavern?

Yes, Sir. I often go there Saturdays to meet with-

From what I understand, you go there more than that.

{scattered laughter from the room}

Y-yes, your- Sir. I'm a simple laborer, and go there, uh, I go to be with friends and-

I understand, Norbert. You work long hours, and go there to drink. With friends.

{pause; Norbert looks uncomfortable}

That eve...aside from the usual banter with your friends, did anything happen of note? Did any other guest attract your attention?

{a pause} Yes, yes Sir. There was Nate, the town crier, that night he was-

I've spoken to Nate, Norbert.

{uncomfortable silence}

{casually} Anyone else?

Yes, Sir...{fidgets}

{sharply} Well?

{suddenly} Aldus, Sir. It was Aldus.

{pause}

What do you mean, Norbert? It was...?

What I mean, I meant that Aldus was the one who said it. Sir.

{pause; the quiet grows}

Norbert.

Yes Sir?

{deliberately} What did Aldus say, and to whom? Pretend this is the first time we are speaking to each other.

{abashed, reddened} Sir, Aldus is the one who said he'd sooner see the Emperor in Hades than-

Yes, go on.

I- I'm sorry, Sir. I mean sorry for saying it.

We all understand, Norbert. It wasn't you who said it. Go on.

He said he'd sooner see the Emperor in Hades than send any more lads to fight.

{silence; the room is quiet}

Thank you, Norbert. You may go. Bring Aldus out, if you please.

{a small man sits in the recently-vacated chair; he looks impassive}

State your name Sir, and where you live.

{pause} Aldus. Of Salzenmund.

What do you do, Aldus?

I am a town councilman of Salzenmund. Or was.

{smiles humorlessly} Very good. Did you say, 3 Saturdays ago-

{interrupting} I said it.

{quickly} Repeat it. For us.

I said I'd see the Emperor in Hades before I'd send more Salzenmund lads to be bled white in this infernal war.

{puts foot up on a step; leans forward upon his knee with both hands} Explain to me why you said this.

{observing his interrogator} That must be your good leg.

Sir, what was-

{continuing} They call you the Limper.

{silence}

I said it because, Sir, I was drunk. In my cups. Thoroughly soused.

{nervous laugh turns into a cough at the back of the room}

{straightening, his cloak flowing down around his legs once more} Are you drunk now, Aldus?

I assure you I am not.

I have three others who will attest that you said what you said, but since you have conveniently admitted to us what-

Do you want to know why I said what I said?

Aldus, I don't care.

I said it because my godson was killed in the fighting-

I said, Sir, that I do not care.

That is the problem with the lot of you. And why it goes on.

Sir, I assure you, this is not the place to debate foreign policy; look what it gained you. Guards, please take Aldus back to his cell. We can move on to the next case-

Have you never done anything you were ashamed of, Sir?

{startled silence}

I am a fool and a drunkard, but I admit it. I'll face the penalty. But my godson was worth more to me than my comfort, and I'll not send any other man's son off again. What of you, Sir? Limper?

{the guards hustle Aldus back to his cell}

{the silence carries on, as the Limper ponders his thoughts}

{Jaema steps up and speaks in a brusque, firm voice} The next case. Calling Martin of Grimmenhagen to the stand, in the name of Emperor and Duke, and of the Town Council.

{the guards present Martin to the proceedings, and the procedure returns to normal with Jaema leading a sharp and merciless interrogation, erasing all thoughts of Aldus and the Limper}


V


Jaema, a fellow witch-hunter. Self-assured, poised, deadly. So alive. Very good at what she does. And does it with a personal flair. I sometimes would just watch her. I often did, when she was asleep. You cannot lead a false life and not have it show in your sleep. I would toss and turn restlessly at night. I'd often get up and stare out a window. Jaema slept like a cat; like everything else she did, she immersed herself in it, enjoyed it. She rested deeply, with a smile upon her face.

I can't decide if I'm horrified or if I envy her greatly.

I tell you about her, because she saved my life.

~~~

We were in Grimmenhagen, investigating a handful of minor cases. We split up to get the interviews done in a more timely fashion. Most of the people we would talk to were alarmed enough to be questioned by one witch hunter. Two at a time was reserved for the hard cases.

My last case of the day was a woman who was reported by an informant for 'general suspicious words and actions', which was pretty much four fifths of our cases. The particular informant who had reported this case was one I knew; he was not the typical petty nobody that eked out a bit of coin by turning in those they didn't like. Informants were often worse than those whom they informed upon, but we were looking for disloyalty, not spitefulness. Half the citizens of the Empire would be guilty of the latter, were it a crime.

The upper classes would be completely decimated.

The woman was of middle age and ran an apothecary shop. I entered through the front door, setting a little bell ringing above my head. No one was within the public area; the smell of herbs was strong. There was the sound of footsteps, and then she appeared through a doorway behind the main counter.

I removed my long gloves- a typical move to give me time to size up my case, and to emphasize my occupation. I strode into the shop with my usual limp.

The woman smiled at me from behind the counter.

I knew right away something was wrong.

My hand instinctively went to my pistol- it would have taken too long for me to draw my sword. The pistol was easier to put into play rapidly.

Then there was a brilliant glow, and I came to my senses laying face-up upon the wooden floor, unable to move.

The woman walked around me, and laughed. A cold, harsh sound.

Intense fear ran through the marrow of my bones; I had a brief vision of galloping wildly away in the dark on horseback, blood soaking my boot.

She knelt down next to my head. Her plain wool dress rustled against the floorboards. She looked intently into my eyes. I couldn't speak.

"You've been Touched, you have," her voice said in a strange melodious tone. "The Touch has been upon you for years." She drew a knife from a sheath strapped to her lower leg as she spoke to me. "Not many have survived the Sorceress's Touch." She stared into my eyes, knife in hand. "All these years, it was not you. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, more of a dip of my head. I felt peace spread through me.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then raised the knife.

Then, a pistol shot and shattering glass. The woman hunched her back; her head whipped around to look over her shoulder. Blood dripped onto the floor next to me.

Jaema crashed through the door, sword drawn, yelling in a fury as she charged. She had finished her rounds early and sought to join me on my last case. She had seen through the shop window and had fired her pistol into the witch's back.

The glow once more- this time not as intense- and after a minute, Jaema leaned over me, breathing hard, her blood up.

"Reynald, are you hurt?"

"No," I said weakly. "The witch?"

"Blinded me. She's gone." Fury danced in her eyes at her quarry escaping.

As she helped me out of the shop, I game a short laugh. Jaema looked at me in wonder.

"How many times do we find an actual witch?" I asked her.

She looked at me ruefully, shaking her head as I leaned upon her shoulder.

But that was not the real reason I had laughed.

The real reason was that I could live again.


VI


I lay in bed in the room at the inn, gazing out the window, watching the glow of the setting sun dim. Jaema was out there, attempting to track the witch. When she had left, I saw the color in her cheeks- the hunt was on. She was in her element, a Goddess of Wrath, accoutered for battle, as she smiled at me before closing the door. That smile was full, attractive, and feral.

I was weakened by my encounter with the witch; yet my mind soared, brimmed with thoughts. I had not thought this rapidly in years. I knew that I was not guilty of cowardice, after all of this time. The enemy had cast some glamor upon me, to which I succumbed. And yet this personal knowledge would not change one thing for me. The incident was years ago, and who I was to everyone was set in stone; the Limper, a fallen noble's son who spent his life trying to redeem himself.

But I knew the truth. That made all of the difference in the world.

As I gazed out the window in thought, soft glowing blue lights appeared in the darkening sky, waxing greater as the sun disappeared. Curious, I watched them swirling in the heavens, slow, sinuous movements of plasma...

...and then, all at once, I was standing in the Inevitable City.

I had never been there, of course; I simply knew it was that place. What other place could it have been, really- the monstrous black stone architecture, the open sky above full of the chilling blue corpse-lights of Destruction.

I stood in a courtyard, facing a table where 3 enemy sat. One was a large barbaric man clad in furs; scars showed upon his face and arms. His eyes glittered with malice. Next to him a dark elf woman, clad in a clinging gray dress, her eyes dramatically yellow and unreadable. And next to her was a goblin in leather gear. He grinned at me like a fiend.

Upon the table at which they sat was an urn. In front of each person was a pair of pebbles, one black, one white.

I knew at once that they were to judge me.

Next to their table stood an orc, looking curiously nonthreatening without his armor or the various weapons his kind usually carried. He spoke to those seated at the table. And though I could not understand his tongue, I sensed the tone. He kept looking at me, gesturing towards me. I knew he was the prosecutor. And I could guess what my crimes were.

And when he fell silent, somebody cleared their throat next to me. I turned and it was Halden, the man who had trained me to be a witch hunter. The man who had trained me to think.

Halden had retired years ago, and now he was dead, died peacefully in his bed from what I heard. I had visited him once at his modest farmhouse. You see, he became a farmer when he left the service with his modest pension. He had told me, 'raising crops and livestock is a more honest living, my lad. To create rather than to destroy, that's for me in my twilight.'

The fact that he was dead now did not impinge at all upon the almost hyper-reality of the situation. I cannot explain; it all seemed to fit together, anyway.

I looked at him and he smiled back, dressed as he ever was in his witch hunter's regulation finery, shabby as ever. He winked at me.

I knew I was in good hands. And that Destruction did not condemn others out of hand. Anyone at that table would have less of a chance in the Empire if they were in my shoes.

Halden spoke to those at the table at length, in their tongue. I had not the knack of knowing Chaos Speech, but understood enough of it to piece together what he was saying.

"...follow orders...duty...all understand...just as you do."

They looked at Halden as he spoke, the occasional flash of a glance to me. He was playing upon their duty to Destruction; I had but done what they were asked to do in the great struggle with Order. Whether on the battlefield or rooting out subversives and spies, it was all the same. To do one's job well was what counted; therein lay honor.

When he finished, he walked back to me and I clasped hands with my mentor.

"Dear Halden...what have you done with the truth?"

He smiled at me, remembering that day many years ago when he had asked me the same thing. We held hands for a long time.

"You didn't forget my advice for quitting the game, did you?"

"No, friend, not at all."

He nodded, then turned and walked out of the courtyard. He seemed to fade as he reached the door.

I turned back around and watched as the three seated figures conferred in low tones with each other.

"Excuse me," I said.

They all looked up at me.

"I'd like to say the truth, now."

Even though I spoke in my tongue, they seemed to understand.

"I am guilty- as guilty as each of you are, of the same crimes."

Silence filled the courtyard.

"What I have done over the years has been of my own volition. We are all locked in this war, not of my making, not of your making, and each and every one of us-" I looked in each of their eyes- "all of us decide what we will do. Orders work only when we follow them. We all think what we will of each other, of the ones who do not do what we would do. But it all comes down to each of us, our own actions, what we do. This is not mitigated by the fact that there would be consequences for doing otherwise. I did what I did, just like you; but I do not blame others for this, though I may despise them. I was good at what I have done, though I have not enjoyed it; the same can be said for yourselves, perhaps. Judge me."

They stared at me. I could think of nothing else to say.

The orc behind them said a short sentence, and then the three picked up their pebbles.

Slowly, one by one, each dropped a single pebble into the urn.

The orc stepped up and reached in the urn, and pulled out a white pebble.

"Guilty," he said. I knew that word.

The human's dead eyes bored into mine. Dead eyes.

The orc reached in again, pulled out another.

A black pebble lay in his palm.

"Innocent." I assumed that was the word.

The goblin grinned mirthlessly at me.

The orc then reached in and pulled out the last pebble.

I took a deep breath.

Another black pebble.

"Innocent."

The dark elf's eerie eyes were steady upon mine. I thought of the witch.

The moments stretched out as I stared at the pebbles, laying upon the table.

The orc said, "You- free. Now."

I sat bolt-upright in bed, heart hammering.

I looked out the window. The sun was rising. There was a clamor out in the street below. I threw off the blanket and opened the window, leaning out. The town crier was calling out:

"The witch is taken! The witch is taken!"

As I leaned upon the sill, I noticed 3 pebbles there- 2 black, one white. I felt an energy, a force emanating from them, a surety of power.

And after a while in deep thought, I knew what I was going to do.

~~~

Jaema had caught the witch. I knew that she would catch her if it was possible. She relentlessly tracked her down, not even pausing to sleep. Blood loss from the superficial pistol wound had enfeebled her quarry, and had caused the witch to attempt to hide rather than flee far.

I walked to the Grimmenhagen jail, a black pebble clutched in my palm.

I was allowed access to the cell area. I am a witch hunter, of course. Two guards stood near the cell where the witch was. She was a disheveled, bloodstained mess, hands shackled, gagged to prevent and spell words from being spoken, sitting on a cot.

One guard spoke as I approached. "Limper, she's not for you. She'll be burned soon enough, no fear there."

I raised my fist, uncurling the fingers to open my hand; the pebble glowed on my palm. I knew not what would happen; yet, I knew something would happen. I was certain.

And suddenly, the guards were immobile. It was as if time was frozen.

The witch stared at me. The eyes reminded me of the dark elf sorceress who had judged me.

I took the keyring from a guard's belt and opened the cell.

I removed the shackles from the witch, took the gag off, and then I just stood there.

"I thank you," she said in a quiet voice.

"I thank you," I said back.

Her eyes searched mine, and after a time she nodded. She then limped by me and took a cloak from one of the immobile guards, wrapped it around her. I knew how she felt.

At this moment, 3 men entered the hallway, an official and two town militiamen. They looked stunned seeing the witch before them.

She whirled the cloak around her, and in a flash disappeared.

The guards started, and were mobile once more. A shout was raised. Then all turned to look at me.

~~~

"Tell me," Jaema said.

And so I told her the tale, from the cot of my very own cell. She had had glimpses of the background before, and knew my thoughts were not like hers on all matters. She had respected me as a witch hunter for the talents that I had exercised in our cases together. This made it more important than ever for her to try to understand. I could see it in her face.

I talked a long time, in a low tone.

She listened well; I could tell there were times when she wanted to say something, when emotion ran strong. But she let me finish the story.

When it was over, she looked guarded, thoughtful; and before she left, she kissed my cheek. There was so much I wanted to say, apart from what had happened; but she would not, could not hear it. Jaema was a witch hunter; she was what she wanted to be. I understood that. In a way, so was I.

As she waited for the guards to unlock the cell, she turned to me and said in a low voice: "I'll miss you."

And so I finish this writing. I have not long left to live, as my crime was high treason to the Empire.

~~~

Today is the day that I go to the gallows. A guard unlocked my cell door and tossed in my witch hunter's hat onto my cot. "Might as well dress right today, Limper." He cackled as he left and bolted the door.

I picked up the hat; a note was tucked beneath the band, in familiar handwriting:

'A memento for you'

Folded within the paper was a black pebble.

I smiled.

Now I prepare to walk away from it all, when they come to open the cell to hang me. I'm glad that I listened to Halden all those years ago, and tucked away some coin in a hidden place for emergencies. That will be the start of a new and authentic life. There are many isolated hamlets that have been deserted because of the war; I've seen many where no one lives now. Perhaps I'll try my hand at farming, like my old mentor did.

I'm done with it all.

I'd lost myself, now I've found myself.

Incident at Raven Hill

Inspired by an actual incident at Raven Hill at the end of 2008 in WoW.

Mor'ladim slowly stalked the grounds in total silence, a massive glowing sword in its skeletal hand. Encased in plate armor, its glowing red eyes sought out the living. It had walked these grounds for many years in the same pattern, only pausing to slay anything it encountered in its path. The lesser spirits infesting the area could not hold a candle to Mor'ladim's might; its monomaniacal focus was legendary among adventurers who only whispered its name in well-lit, noisy taverns. Mor'ladim and death had much in common; to the people of Darkshire, they were one and the same force.

~~~

"Who do you think he is?"

"Is? Was, more's the like of it. Statue's all pitted and weather-worn."

The two grave-robbers were leaning on their shovels in Raven Hill Cemetery, vests undone, sleeve rolled up. They were gazing up at a statue, resting temporarily from their exertions.

"Must have been a mighty mage, or a priest, with a robe like that," the woman said, studying the corroded plaque at the base. She frowned, unable to make out any letters.

"History's not my strong point," the man said dismissively, looking for another grave to violate.

"Oh but it is, Charles," the woman said in a low voice, groaning as she shouldered her shovel and followed. "History is what we live upon."

"Harrumph!" said Charles. He said that a lot.

~~~

Eldoren the Druid did not much care for human graveyards, and yet here he was, on another quest that the rather gloomy people of Darkshire had sent him upon.

As a Night Elf, he'd been treated well enough, but the inhabitants of the town had a guarded, edgy way about them. And half the population seemed to be guardsmen, striding slowly among the buildings, torches in hand.

Raven Hill Cemetery was a large graveyard north of the road that led to Westfall. It had fallen into disuse, and was well upon the way to being fairly described as 'ruins'. The whole of Duskwood was like that, Eldoren thought, carrying his staff in one hand as he looked for any movement among the shadowed tombstones. Why would the people of Darkshire want to stay, anyway?

Rusting iron fences bordered the large grounds that were covered with leaning, weathered tombstones; the occasional mausoleum stood, cold marble nearly luminous in the moonlight. Cenotaphs, underground ways, large webs scattered among the trees...

There. Another Rotted One; or was it a Flesh Eater? Slowly shambling among the graves. He'd seen plenty of them, as well as Bone Chewers. Skeletal Fiends and Horrors- perhaps former victims of the aforementioned shamblers- dotted the graveyard, animated bones possessed of some strange undead magic, making their eternal night-time rounds. 'How could there be so many Flesh Eaters after all these years?' Eldoren spontaneously thought. He concentrated upon his target; it was getting too close.

Eldoren cast Starfire; a pillar of white light descended upon the Flesh Eater, wracking the creature with nature magic. It started to lope towards the Druid, whom cast a Moonfire spell and then hefted his staff. The creature, damaged by magic, tore at the Night Elf; he dodged the attack, and smote the creature down with his staff until it lay twitching upon the ground.

Suddenly, thick strands of sticky web enveloped his legs. Stumbling, he turned to see the looming presence of a Carrion Recluse spider, its green bulk moving with swiftness towards him, mandibles clicking. Eldoren cast Wrath, the blazing bundle of energy splashing against the arachnid, but the spider struck with its clawed legs, slamming the Druid against his leather-clad chest.

A blur of motion, a yell, and the singing of a heavy sword as it hacked into the body of the spider startled Eldoren. By the time the spider expired, it was obvious that his savior was a mail-clad Paladin. He bowed to the man.

The Paladin chuckled in a high-pitched voice and ran off through the night, hopping as he gained speed.

Eldoren raised an eyebrow and shrugged philosophically. He cleared the sticky strands still clinging to his legs with great difficulty, searched for loot, and then looked around the area again.

~~~

"Notice the scratches upon the grave there. Probably a weakened Flesh Eater was worrying at it. Means this one's fresh. Well, fresher than others. Fresh means more likely to have some loot. Grace?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You're not listening again," Charles said in a self-important voice.

Grace rolled her eyes. "Yes, Charles."

"Harrumph!" Charles glared at her as he started to dig.

"What supports all of these Flesh Eaters, anyway? That's always bothered me. There can't be enough flesh left to go around here."

Charles pointedly ignored her.

Grace looked over his shoulder. "Charles," she said in a preoccupied voice. "How fresh is 'not dead yet'?" Charles paused in his labor, staring at her. He then followed her gaze.

~~~

Eldoren moved through the trees to another section of the cemetary, one where no webs were in evidence. Might as well cut down on that risk anyway, he thought. He paused, seeing the pale figures stumbling among the graves in front of him.

Footfalls sounded to his left, and as he turned he threw up his staff two-handed to block a shovel that was swung in a furious overhead blow. Eldoren steadily walked backwards as a rain of shovel blows fell about him that he could barely parry. Two grave robbers attacking him!

The furious melee temporarily let up as a wild laugh sounded, and once again the form of a mail-clad Paladin intervened in the fray, sword flashing in a wild circle. The female grave robber shouted as she ducked the whirling blade.

Just as this complicated 4-person battle was settling into a rhythm, a looming armored giant form interrupted with an earth-shattering voice:

"ALL OF YOU MORTALS SHUT UP! THIS IS A GRAVEYARD, FOR THE LOVE OF MOLOCH!"

The four said mortals turned to look at the towering red-eyed horror advance upon them, huge glowing blade in hand. Four jaws dropped.

"Harrumph?" said a grave robber in a very nervous manner.

The Paladin giggled in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.

Sounds of blows, desperate struggling, and cries of despair rang throughout the dark graveyard. A lone figure ran full-speed to leap over a half-fallen iron fence and ran down the road, never looking back. This place is crazy! Let the citizens of Darkshore do their own desired deeds!

Back in the graveyard, all was silent. The huge armored form resumed its patrol through the grounds.

Several Flesh Eaters came to investigate; they found what they usually found.

The Murlocs

I'm sure there are a good amount of World of Warcraft players out there besides me who hate the Murlocs. It got me thinking about the premise behind this story.



Gramm the warrior rode hard into the Lakeshire on his magnificently caparisoned mount, scattering humble citizens and young adventurers alike along the boardwalk facing the scenic lake. Clad head to toe in dark iron plate, all angular projections and rippling waves of crafted metal across his chest, he pulled his helm off of his head and squinted up at the afternoon sun while his charger reared high upon hind legs.

He was a magnificent sight, attracting admiring stares from many in the lakeside town. But he seemed not to notice.

"Boy," he called out to a lad next to the inn. As the lad hurried up to him (though not too near that horse pawing the air with its front hooves), the warrior tossed him a gold coin. The lad's eyes widened at the object in his palm.

"A tankard of the tavern's best ale for me, and keep the change," the warrior's deep voice commanded. The lad stood staring slack-jawed at him for a second, and then took off running as fast as his legs could carry him through the door of the inn, nearly bowling over a startled fisherman who was just leaving.

The lad returned a minute later, a brimming tankard clutched in both of his hands. The Warrior, who had been surveying the vista across the lake, took it and quaffed the ale down in one long, gulping draught. Wiping his mouth upon the back of his glove, he hurled the tankard into the lake, and then spoke, to both everyone and no one in particular:

"Today is the beginning of the end of the Murloc race."

~~~

After the warrior had rode off to the east of town along the lake's shore, a small group of townfolk gathered to gossip.

"Seem's he's taken a vow I reckon," said a blacksmith.

"I seen him some years back when we wasn't so high an' mighty," a fisherman said. "He passed through here lookin' worse for the wear."

"Do tell!" exclaimed a clerk. "Perhaps he will rid us of the aforementioned amphibian actors."

"The what?" said an old man.

"The Murlocs," said the clerk, somewhat crossly.

"Oh, the Murlocs, of course," the old man muttered. "That reminds me. I better get going. Work to do, you know."

The clerk scowled at him.

~~~

Gramm rode along the shore of the red sandy landscape. 'Blasted grit,' he growled, rubbing his eyes.

Redridge was a geographic outcrop of reddish sandstone near the Elwynn Forest. It was not known for its tourist appeal. Tribes of orcs and gnolls plagued its upper reaches, and of course, there was the Murlocs.

Murlocs, Gramm said in a silent snarl.

Gramm was a jaunty lad years ago when he came on foot, adventuring in Redridge. He left with a scar along the ribs that ached in rainy weather, and the taunts of other warriors ringing in his ears.

It was that damned tribe of creatures in their lakeside huts,Gramm thought. I was merely in search of plunder and renown-

They are a plague upon civilization!

He scanned the east after topping a rise.

There. The huts.

I'll start here, Gramm thought grimly.

He rode ahead, loosening his sword in his sheath over his shoulder.

He dismounted and tied his horse to a bush behind a rocky outcrop, then strode forward, unsheathing his sword.

The sword was a long, dual-edged hand-an-a-half blade that glowed with a silvery glint, even in broad dayllight. Wrested from the loot found in a mage's tower, it had served him well for a year now, always keeping its edge.

A honking bellow went up from the huts. Small colorful finned figures scuttled to and fro, clutching sticks and nets.

Gramm laughed at them. He was a renowned warrior now, very skilled and well-equipped. He advanced into the small tumbledown hamlet.

An eerie high-pitched horn sounded behind him. He turned, seeing a Murloc blowing through a large shell.

A stick glanced off his shoulder.

It was actually a javelin, but it was harmless. Gramm walked forward among the huts with their piles of fishbones, wrinkling his nose in disgust-

Nets flew from several huts, entwining about his legs.

As Gramm slashed free of the nets, a swarm of the multicolored beasts jumped upon him, stabbing with knives. He kicked one, crushing the life out of it, and hacked another in half. But the others were gripping his body now, their knives seeking chinks in his strong armor-

He felt the sting of drawn blood.

He roared and tossed Murlocs left and right with his free hand, stomping them into the dust with his boots. He sliced them to quivering bits with his blade.

More high, thin horn calls were sounding nearby. He looked around and saw several groups of Murlocs running towards him with their peculiar loping gate.

Gramm straightened into a warrior's fighting stance and hefted his blade, awaiting them. The stings where the daggers had found him were burning a bit; his muscles felt leaden, arms tiring of holding his weapon.

When the flurry of nets wrapped around him, he reacted slowly this time to slash them, fumbling as the javelins arced through the air at him.

~~~

The old man walked along the shore, complaining to himself about his aches and pains, the uneven landscape, and the climate. He leaned upon a walking stick as he moved carefully.

"Heard them horns yesterday," he muttered. "Should be over."

Rounding an outcrop of rocks, he came within sight of a Murloc hamlet. A pile of Murloc corpses lay near one hut. He imagined the hamlet's treasure chest stuffed with coin, armor, a glowing blade-

He shook his head and walked away. He was no fool to get any closer.

"Here we are," he said, finding the trail of hoofprints. He walked around the rocks until he heard the whinny of the horse.

"Now now, stallion! Here's some nice apples for ye. You like apples, I'm sure!"

The horse stared at him, nostrils flaring. But it had not eaten nor drank in a day, and was eager for the apples the old man proffered.

The old man gradually came closer and won over the warhorse. Not much later, he led the animal back to Lakeshire, leading him around behind the blacksmith's shoppe.

"There's some good gear here," the blacksmith said, looking through the saddlebags. Horse, tack, gear, call it 2 gold pieces."

"Worth much more!" The old man groused.

"Of course it is. I can sell him to a shady character I know. We don't want questions being asked, or angry relatives showing up. Would hate to lose a going concern, you know."

"Going concern?" said the old man.

"The Murlocs," replied the blacksmith.

"Oh, the Murlocs, of course," the old man said.

A Dwarf and his Keg

Dunborne is a Dwarf Engineer in Warhammer Online. Yes, he is over the top.



The squat engineer, dressed in a greasy blue padded jerkin, bent over the grenade turret, spanner in hand. A tall, regal-looking but somewhat nervous Elf stood behind him.

"Now jest like I tole you when we were lookin' for that Gavin Sherer, 'anytime them camp officers send ya out ta find some human what's lost his way, might as well start lookin' fer the body in the grass, 'cause you'n me both know that Norsca be fulla the clueless'. And was I right? Was I right, laddie? Didn't we find him trussed up like a plump sausage in that spider den? HAH!" A raven lighted out of a nearby pine tree, flapping wildly for the horizon at the explosive punctuation of the Dwarf's story. "More'n half the people they send me out ta find have met their Maker." The Dwarf unscrewed a bolt with a grunt.

"Master Dwarf," the Archmage said, unconsciously straightening his fancy robes with nervous fingers, "we seem to be awfully close to the brigand camps..."

"Basket of food, crate of swords, now- the keg a whiskey," the Dwarf said with an alarmingly white grin that split his oil-streaked face. "That there camp seems ta have a keg next to the big tent. See how it has a guard sitting next to it. Now THAT is whiskey or I'm a Goblin!"

The Elf nodded his head in a convulsive birdlike spasm.

"Now ye might not have much experience with whiskey," the Dwarf turned to the Elf and laughed, a booming sound that rolled over the grass, startling a deer in the brambles. "'course ya don't, bein' whatcha are. Stick with me an' it'll all be well..."

The Archmage in his impeccable robes looked worriedly as He saw a brigand sentry staring at them in the distance, his mouth hanging open. The sentry turned and strode quickly towards the camp of tents, built around a central fire.

"This be a Mark IV Grenade Projector, mass-produced in Ekrund by Dwarven craftsmen," the Dwarf said in an over-loud voice. "I call her Henrietta. She be a sturdy piece a machinery, but they've always had issues with a smooth feed in fast-operation mode!"

The Elf cringed at the Engineer's deep rumbling voice as he belted out a series of technical improvements that were needed. As the sentry reached the central fire and tossed a thumb over his shoulder towards them, he saw heads turn in their direction by those gathered around the fire.

"Lord Dunborne! It appears that we have been noticed-"

The Dwarf snorted loudly and with such force that the Archmage readied a heal. "I be no lord, laddie," the Dwarf said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, rearranging the grime located there. "Talk to them fancy-pants merchants what sit in the mountain-fortresses and issue proclamations all day long without puttin' in an honest day's tinkering like your hands-on Engineers do..."

The Elf was alarmed now to see a group of brigands gather at the fire, preparing their weapons as the gazed incuriously at the two interlopers.

"Now, as I was sayin'-" Dunborne shot the Archmage a black look for the interruption- "that the Mark IV's biggest issue has been the longish fuse required a the ammo. What good is a grenade turret when your enemies are aswarmin' all over ya and it's projectin' rounds that lay there in the grass for precious seconds before explodin?" The Dwarf rapidly unscrewed grenades and tossed out short fuses as he bellowed out his mechanical version of The Way Things Should Be, a practical philosopher with black crud under the fingernails.

"You're- you're taking out the fuses?" the Elf said in an alarmed voice. He gaped at the approaching brigands, grins on their faces, weapons at the ready.

"OK laddie! Ready them heals now!" The Engineer slammed shut the launcher cover and flipped the main switch. The turret buzzed and spun, acquiring targets. The Dwarf hefted his black-powder rifle, squinted down the barrel fiercely and jerked the trigger, the huge roar of the buckshot round causing the brigands to cower back as they were showered with hot
bits of bolts and shot.

The Elf waved his arms in a frenzy, blue energy swirling around him, as the grenades clunked out of the short stubby barrel of the launcher, tumbling into the crowd-

There was an immediate huge series of explosions, brigands vanishing in the blasts as the grenades exploded nearly as soon as they left the barrel. The launcher fell over onto its side, turret spinning wildly. The clouds of choking gray fumes covered the suddenly-silent field.

"AHAHAHAHA!" the Dwarf emerged from the thinning smoke, covered in soot, tunic ragged from shrapnel hits. He hefted the whiskey keg on his shoulder, turned the stopper, and craned his neck so that the flow of brown liquor ran directly into his mouth.

"You're- you're INSANE!" the Elf sputtered. "Never have I seen such a crazed display of-"

The Mark IV Grenade Launcher buzzed loudly on the ground, its feed tray clicking as it attempted to feed more shells.

The Elf shouted in fear and ran as fast as his dignity and flowing robes would allow him across the field.

"Elves," Dunborne said, wiping his mouth with his filthy sleeve. "Well, it worked agin. Time to add another keg to the wagon, Henrietta!" The Dwarf sat down the keg with a grunt and started to lovingly disassemble his Mark IV.

Gore-Crows

A tale inspired by Lord of the Rings Online.



Rory huddled deeper into his cloak.

Through the flames of the campfire, he watched the scary old Dwarf speak.

"You may think you're far from the Shire," the squat, bristle-bearded figure said, "but you don't have much farther to go before you..."

He turned his gaze towards Rory, sending a shiver down the Hobbit's back. The old Dwarf wore an eye-patch.

"...see amazing, unearthly...things."

The full moon rose over Adso's camp along the road to Bree. An owl called from the nearby woods. The group of travelers- mostly Hobbits- were sharing the warmth of the fire with the disturbing Dwarf, who was far, far from his home in the mountains.

The stout one-eyed storyteller went on.


Roric Heathertoes, called by everyone in Stock Rory, son of a local baker, had decided to go on an adventure. His knapsack and cloak, old family hunting bow and dagger were all he had besides the clothes on his back. He'd show those stodgy Hobbits that he could do more than deliver loaves of bread! Old Rory had some vinegar in him!

He wasn't far from the Shire, but he was starting to think that he might be taking this too far. Sleeping on the ground, snagging your clothes on bushes, poorly-prepared meals...


"You there!" The Dwarf said hoarsely, snapping Rory back to the present. He blinked at the finger pointed directly at him, wavering in the heat of the fire.

"You think you've seen the world, little one? Ready to go home?" The one-eyed speaker snorted. Rory shifted very uncomfortably on the log he was seated on.

"South of Breeland, there be the Lone Lands," he continued. "Many odd things happen there, past the farthest inn. You've heard a wargs, boy?" The Dwarf's eye gleamed in the firelight.

"Or the...gore-crows." The speaker stopped; only the crackling of the fire could be heard. The listeners sat, frozen. The silence went on so long that Rory opened his mouth to ask-

"GORE CROWS, YES!" the Dwarf sputtered wildly, and Rory recoiled, sliding off the log to fall upon his bottom in a patch of weeds. "Foul winged carrion messengers of the Enemy. The Enemy, aye. I won't name 'em. You know who I mean." The Dwarf lit his pipe and blew smoke-rings, his eye crinkling with the small smile on his face.

Rory got up in a huff and marched off a ways to the edge of the firelight to bed down for the night. That dratted Dwarf! Why did they all listen to his ravings! He shook out his wool blanket that his aunt Ida had made for him, and lay down. He took a long time to fall asleep.

~~~

He wandered up the Greenway and explored the ruins of stone walls and towers there; the wolves howling at night were alarming and reminded him of the talk of wargs.

He visited Bree and bought a helmet that seemed to slide around on his head a bit too much. He debated heading back to the Shire, but decided to head south, towards the Lone Lands. He wanted adventure!

~~~

"Rory, just keep on. You need to just keep on, and it will be alright."

Rory walked south along the road, the land rising ahead of him, the large mass of Weathertop upon his left. He straightened his helmet, licked his lips, and he kept on.

The Forsaken Inn was a pleasant memory of 2 wonderful nights sleeping in a bed, and several meals. The cook was very good, almost good enough for Stock! He almost had headed back towards Bree, but had decided that 'this was your moment, and you'll not come this far again, Hobbit!' So Rory was walking down the road, bow in hand, pack on his back, that ill-fitting helmet-

He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, and he whirled around, arrow in hand, drawn from his belt quiver.

Nothing. Or something perhaps in the treeline to his right.

He walked on slowly at first, then gaining speed; he sang a drinking-song, and took a draught out of the bottle in his pack as he walked, good ale from the inn. As he sang, he knew that something was watching him. Cold sensations flashed up and down his body, but he kept on as if nothing was out of the ordinary. If everything seemed normal, perhaps it was. No.

He marched along with a swift gait, gaining a rise and cresting the hill-

And he threw himself into a set of bushes to his left, nocking his arrow.

"Steady, Rory, steady..."

A grotesque flapping black thing flew over the rise, Rory's heart leaped-

The bowstring hummed, and the bird was plucked from the sky by the arrow in a puff of ink-black feathers.

"I'll be a Took!" Rory exclaimed, rushing over to where the bird lay. "A gore-crow!" He laughed. "Naught but a creepy bird. Now why did I think they were MUCH bigger!"

Rory affixed some flight feathers to his helmet, beaming all the while. He started scanning the skies eagerly, fingering his bow.

"Wait 'til the Hobbits at the Golden Perch hear about this!"

Gore-crows!

~~~

Travelers along the great road noticed it even if they did not voice it to anyone- the gore-crows were becoming scarce in the Lone-Lands. Good news!

A few even noticed the little Hobbit running about, helmet rattling on his head, bow in hand. And smiled.

~~~

Forli the Dwarf trudged along the road, east through the Lone-Lands. He looked forward to seeing Gloin and his kin once more, and he was in dire need of a new sturdy set of Dwarf-boots, his feet were aching after a long day upon the road-

Forli heard a swish and then a wild yipping sound. He threw himself flat in the dust of the road.

A squawk to his right, and a Hobbit breaking into a run from the brush to his left, clutching a bow, an oversized helm rattling around upon his head with a fringe of black feathers.

"Well met, storyteller!" the Hobbit cried as he ran by Forli in the dust. As the Dwarf rose to his feet, resettling the pack upon his back and grumbling while beating the dust off of his clothing, the Hobbit re-appeared, clutching a gore-crow by it's feet, holding it upon high, grinning.

"I see you've been at work, young master," the Dwarf said somewhat crossly.

"Wait until Stock gets an eye-full of the gore-crow cloak I'm making!" said Rory excitedly. "Adventures are wonderful things!"

Suddenly, a wave of cold passed over the two figures; the sun darkened, and all of the sounds around them of the natural world ceased. As if in a trance, the two figures turned.

Behind them rose a large and foul reptilian beast, bat-like wings beating silently in the air, with a sinister tall figure perched upon its back in flowing robes, dark as the blackest night.

"Where are my scouts?" said the figure in a low, hissing voice.

"Now that," said Forli in a subdued voice, speaking to the gape-mouthed Hobbit next to him (who's helmet had blessedly slipped down over his eyes) because he was never one to miss the moment, "is NOT a gore-crow."

Aluric Hadaul's Tale

Aluric is a character from Vanguard: Saga of Heroes.





I

All places are different, and yet all places are the same. It has taken me a lifetime to learn this truth.

In my youth, I wandered the hills around Derogar's Post as many a young restless Varanjar has done, and will do. The yellow plains stretched far away, even when seen from the highest hill. Halgarad, home of clan halls and the Jarl of my people, was a day's walk away. Dakhnarg, home of the Vulmane, lay further away to the south. Half Giants were a not uncommon sight, making even the brawniest hillman warrior look small. Far, far to the west lay the rest of what other peoples far away called Thestra. The occasional caravan came and went, but most of my people were content with the hills, the plains. The clans.

But youth has its own impulse, questions that those who are older smile at or shake their heads.

"Why are clans so important? Aren't we all Varanjar?"

"You sound like a drunkard in The Stone Mug. Now that is a 'clan' for you!"

My father was a trader, away often. My earliest memories are of imagining myself riding on horseback across Thestra with him, though he had little time for such things. My love of travel more than likely comes from his example. Mother was kind, soft-spoken, particularly so in the rough-and-tumble world of the clans. From her I received the love of learning, Druidic Knowledge, and of speaking when you knew it was time to speak. Eventually learning that...

We were of the Hadaul clan.

Hadaul is an ancient game among the Varanjar, and our clan has from early times been judges and devotees. The game is not so common now as it once was, and the clan is not one of the foremost. And clan position is often one's destiny among the people of Halgarad.

It was mine.

The Young Hunter's Tale - Shadowglen.

[This is a series of tales inspired by events while playing World of Warcraft.]



The young Hunter's last day in Shadowglen dawned brightly; scattered sunbeams penetrated the canopy of leaves high above, illuminating the little village nestled against the hills near Aldrassil.

He stood, his face burning red as the people of the village turned out to wish him well on his journeys. Unused to the attention, he was a quiet lad, more used to his own company than that of others. He smiled awkwardly, his golden eyes upon the ground in front of him; he was a tall Night Elf, clean-shaven, gripping his ashwood bow in one hand, his other hand resting on the back of his Nightsaber cat, his constant hunting companion.

He was given small gifts as he walked through the people whom he had known from infancy, the village that had raised him as an orphan after his father, a Hunter of some renown, went off to the continent of Kalimdor and was lost there; his mother had died of grief a year later; he had been very young, and only had vague memories and dreams of the faces of his parents.

He placed the offerings of food and the copper coins into his satchel. He walked to the road that led away from home and to the rest of the world.

Beside the road was Elthania, the old woman who had taken him into his care after his parents were gone. She leaned upon her walking stick, the heaviness of age bending her back, but her smile was bright and happy for him; he went to her and took her frail body in his arms, holding her close.

She broke their embrace and stepped back a pace.

"Elune has blessed me this day, to see you as a fine man off to see the wide world."

He smiled. "Elune blessed me years ago, Elthania, with a fine mother when I had lost my flesh and blood."

Her smile widened; he felt warm inside, yet sad, knowing that he may very well never see her again.

She bent down slowly, picking a bundle up off the ground at her feet.

"This is for you, my son. I have kept it all these years for this day. It was your father's, long ago, when he was young."

Curious, his heart beating, he unwrapped the rags in his hands, to reveal a large fighting knife, angled forward, heavy yet balanced in his hand as he hefted it. Sunlight glinted off the burnished steel; the blade had an edge like a hatchet. The wooden handle was worn smooth from use. 'Father held this', he marveled.

"Elthania..." he started to say.

"Go now. Any more words would make me want to keep you here. You are too old now to be nursed, you know."

The young Hunter stuck the War Knife of Stamina in his belt, and embraced his foster mother once more, his eyes closed, heart aching.

"Elune be with you, my son." Elthania turned and shuffled back up the street towards her cottage, turning away just in time to hide the trickle of tears that coursed down her face as she left the young man who she had raised as her own.

He called a blessing out to her, then turned away, his throat tight with emotion. He looked up at the road's path, winding gradually upward towards the pass leading to Dolanaar, and hence on to Darnassus, the capital of Teldrassil, and the heart of the Night Elf nation.

"Come, Furtig!", he said, and his large cat fell in beside him as he strode briskly up the familiar road, leaving behind Shadowglen, his world, never to come back this way again.

The Young Hunter's Tale - Ban'ethel Barrow Den.

The Druidess wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her forearm.

The dark cave was lit only by occasional torches in holders along the wall. In front of her upon the stone floor was the body of a Gnarlpine Defender, lay sprawled in death. She crouched, searching the body for any items of use.

She had been moving in circles in this maze of darkness for an hour now; she searched for the fourth and final Relic of Awakening- the Sapphire of Sky- to bring back to Athridas Bearmantle in Dolanaar. The fetid air, the foul monsters guarding the cave, most of all the oppresive gloom- all weighed upon her spirit.

She stood, gripping her staff resolutely, and whirled around in a half-crouch, ready to swing- she had heard a small sound behind her.

An old Nightsaber cat came up the corridor behind her, its left ear shredded with an old wound, its eyes showing that it was friendly to her and no threat. Following it was a Hunter, bow held at the ready, arrow on the cord; a young Night Elf, looking as tense as she was.

"Blessed Elune", the Druidess said softly, and cast the Mark of the Wild upon the Hunter and his cat. He bowed to her, and they spoke words of greeting.

"I am seeking to release the Druids held in the Emeral Dream, and only lack the Sapphire that is hidden within this maze." Being fiercely independent, she would not ask for aid, though in truth this barrow was oppressive...she had always been strong, and proud.

The Hunter nodded slowly, stroking the fur on the back of his great cat, who looked uneasily around the darkened surroundings. He spoke.

"I have heard of the Emerald Dream. None should have to spend eternity here..." His voice lowered. "The Gnarlpines have claimed this den for their own for too long."

She told him she was seeking a small cavern where the Relic should be found. It was unspoken, the fact that they would both seek it. The Nightsaber cat nuzzled her hand, and she scratched behind its one good ear. She felt confident now.

They moved along the darkened corridor; the cat prowling ahead, them behind. It seemed like an hour before the cat came back to the Hunter and gave a low growl in its throat. The Hunter nodded silently to her, and nocked his arrow once more.

They stepped out of the corridor into a wide cavern, dim smoky torchlight showing a foot-bridge leading over a chasm to another cave. Two Gnarlpines paced back and forth at the far end of the bridge. The Druidess nodded to the Hunter, indicating she would take the right-hand creature.

The eerie green fire of the bolt of nature magic called Fury struck the Gnarlpine, and a split second later, an arrow buried itself into the shoulder of the other guard. The creatures rushed over the bridge; the Druidess shouted a Word of Power, and the harsh white glow of Moonfire leapt from her target like a shaft of vengeance up to the top of the cave; as the cat tore at the other guard, and the Hunter thrust a large knife into its body, the Druidess slammed her staff into her weakened foe thrice, and then all was still.

They walked over the bridge slowly. As they neared the opening in the cave wall, three Gnarlpine Shamen appeared at the entrance, chanting alien words of sorcery. They were caught in a field of energy; the Druidess called upon Elune in a clear loud voice, and the spell was broken, and the fight was hard but brief, staves and knives and teeth flashing in the death struggle, ending with the death of the Shamen, one throwing himself off the edge of the chasm before oblivion took him.

The Druidess bent down, entering the small doorway into a round chamber. A totem stone glowed in the corner, illuminating a sturdy metal box upon the floor. As she opened it and gazed down at the gem, she smiled for the first time in two days.

Afterward, when she stood triumphantly in front of Athridas Bearmantle with the Relics, she realized that the young Hunter that she had parted ways with as they left the Barrow Den had never told her his name.

The Young Hunter's Tale - The Pools of Arilthrien.

The young Hunter knew that it would be any time now.

He kept pushing the knowledge out of his mind, putting it off. But the signs were there.

Furtig, his Nightsaber hunting companion, was old. He kept falling behind as they wandered through the forest, and he would have to wait for him to catch up.

This day he waited, and Furtig did not appear. He slowly walked back the way he had came.

The old Nightsaber cat lay upon the ground, his head upon his paws. His shredded ear twitched when he saw his master, but he did not get up.

The Hunter sat down next to the great beast, ran his hand over his coat of fur, and remembered:

Growing up as a child, riding on the back of the hunting cat who was his father's oldest pet...learning how to hunt, his feline companion stalking ahead of him, flushing out prey for him to shoot...the hunt on which a giant spider attacked him, and Furtig seizing the creature, dragging it off of him, allowing him to put an arrow into it.

The old cat raised his head, his eyes vacant. He turned his head and licked the Hunter's hand.

As the afternoon lengthened, he still sat next to his pet, stroking his fur, singing in a soft voice the songs of adventure from his childhood.

Over the land he went to find
His destination true,
And by his side his faithful pet
Wandered with him too.

He felt the old cat stop breathing, and he cried, burying his face in the shaggy coat. His last link with his past, to his father, his childhood, but most of all a friend- was no more.

The next day, he buried Furtig where he had died, using his knife and his bare hands to carve out the hole in the ground. It took a long time.

When he resumed his journey to the capital, he felt strange without the great cat at his side. He hummed as he walked to ward off the silence, the loneliness.

Once the one that led me here
Spoke of farther lands,
I heard and followed in my youth
Now alone I stand.

He was on his own.

The Young Hunter's Tale- Darnassus.

Darnassus, the capital of Teldrassil, was not like the crowded warrens of Kalimdor or Azurath. Dwellings were built into the ancient trees that towered into the sky. Wooden buildings clustered in the trade district, and the impressive Temple of the Moon stood at one end of the city. Ponds dotted the central area.

Into one such pool the young Hunter awkwardly cast his fishing line. Having recently learned the trade, he thought it wise to be able to catch his own food as well as hunting it.

Clear laughter rang out behind him.

He turned to see a young lass dressed in leather, a Druidess by the looks of her, fishing pole in her hand, smiling at him.

"You have not fished before?"

His face flushed. "I'll admit to this being my first time."

"It shows, Hunter. Watch me, and learn?"

He nodded to her and observed her cast expertly into the pond, move her bait around in the water, and suddenly pull in a grouper, thrashing on the end of the hook.

He was watching her, though, and missed all the finer techniques of her skill, in favor of enjoying the movements of her lithe form. Such is youth, regardless of race, or time, or place.

Her name was Jassilis. As they fished- she expertly, he poorly- they talked of what brought them here, to the capital. Youth and the desire of adventure seemed to walk hand in hand under the bright sun of Teldrassil on this day.

She was an expert fisher; for every fish he caught, she hauled up several, to his rueful observation. He told her that he typically spent his time improving his leatherworking skills.

"Oh- a leatherworker!" She gazed down at her worn leggings. "I have been in need of a new piece of armor for a while now..."

His face reddened, and he vowed to make her a better pair this very day. She smiled and protested, but he would not take no for an answer. He gathered up his pack, and telling her he would return, he set out for the city gates.

He roamed the wooded shore of Wellspring Lake, hunting deer. He struck down three fine does with three expert bowshots, and set about skinning the hides, using the magic passed down for millenia to cure the hides at a touch, and then he began to sew the leather, fitting it in the well-known pattern that he had done many times.

He returned the next day to the capital, and he was surprised to meet her at the Warrior's Terrace. He took the leggings out of his pack, and handed them to her.

She smiled and laughed, and started loosening her belt. His face burned red and he turned his back while she changed into her new armor.

"It is wonderful!" she exclaimed, standing proudly in her new garment, giving him a dazzling smile, and she hurriedly told him that she was late for an engagement , and turned and ran off between the marble pillars.

He started to call her back, his heart sinking. Instead, he waved and yelled "Fare well" as she disappeared down the broad avenue leading towards the Cenarion Enclave.

He sat upon the magnificent stone terrace, lost in thought, a conflict of emotions welling up inside of him. He sat there still as sunset came upon the ancient unchanging capital, the shadows lengthening across city.

The Young Hunter's Tale - The Veiled Sea.

The young Hunter sat on the grass on the heights above Rut' theran Village, watching the sea.

The village was at the extreme south end of Teldrassil. It faced south over the Veiled Sea towards the great and wild continent of Kalimdor, a land that had drawn many an adventurer, and would draw many more.

The sea. The young Hunter had heard of it, and now he looked upon it for the first time. He watched the waves wash rhythmically against the shore of the sleepy little village, as they had for millions of years. It was hypnotizing. Overhead, gulls cried as they wheeled in the sky, looking for fish.

The ship made its way to the dock. He picked up his bow and his pack, and strode down the path through the town and out onto the pier. A few others awaited at the end of the dock for the large sailing vessel to halt. Rut' theran had a Gryphon station, but, like others, he lacked the funds for the flight by giant bird. And so, the ship.

He stepped up the gangway to the vessel along with three others. As he found a place along the railing to set down his gear, he studied his traveling companions.

And an odd assortment they were. A tall Night Elf Warrior, shield slung over his back, was a journey-companion with a Human, a Rogue dressed in dark leather armor, bald pate shining in the afternoon sun. He had seen Humans before, but this was the first time he had seen one up close- the man had a sly look about his face, and a brace of deadly fighting blades at his belt. He made the young Hunter feel unsettled.

The third was a Dwarf Hunter- squat and powerful, with a full beard- who traveled with his pet bear. The young Hunter had only heard tales about the master craftsmen and skilled fighters of Ironforge before this day. He was the natural focus of attention from the others. He spoke in a curt, booming voice:

"Name's Hurten, and a curse on all boats! A Dwarves' feet belongs on solid rock!"

The Elf Warrior said that his name was Moonwarden. The human just smiled as if to himself, but later on his companion called him Remi. The young Hunter spoke his name, and said that this was his first voyage by sea.

"Ya will get use ta it lad", the Dwarf said gloomily. "Just stay near the rail acase you be ill!" The bear snuffled and pawed a mop-bucket on the deck.

The Human spread his cloak out upon the deck, and his companion and the Dwarf played at dice. The young Hunter walked along the railing, looking up at the billowing sails, trying to stay out of the way of the crew as the ship got under way, moving out into the Velied Sea.

The trip was a brief one, Kalimdor being separated from Teldrassil by essentially a strait. As the afternoon lengthened, a rocky shore with gloomy pines became visible to port. Darkshore, as this coast was known.

The young Hunter gazed at the land that meant many things to him- adventure, danger, mystery...life. He already felt he was changing inside, as if a door was closing behind him, yet splendid gates were opening ahead. Strangely, he felt the urge to tell someone about his father, and what this journey meant to him.

Up ahead, the docks of Auberdine appeared. As he went to retrieve his gear, he heard the Dwarf growl, which was answered by a near-roar by his bear.

"I'd a known it. The boat leavin' for Khaz Modan leaves about now from the same docks ahead! I need ta make that boat!"

The ship pulled up to the long pier stretching out from the shore. Across on the far side of the pier, another ship was docked, yet the sails were being unfurled, in preparation for getting underway.

Remi, laughed. "A silver piece says that Master Dwarf shall miss his ship! What say you Moonwarden, and you, Sir?"

The Warrior Elf grinned and took up his bet. The young Hunter shook his head smiling, saying his coin was in short supply.

Hurten look ill-humored about the wager, but then again, he seemed to always be ill-humored, perhaps.

As soon as the ship pulled up to the dock, the Dwarf shouted out to his bear and leaped powerfully onto the dock before the ship had even stopped. Stumbling a bit, he ran towards the other ship at the end of the pier, his short, powerful legs moving his body along as fast as he could. His bear lumbered after him.

Remi and Moonwarden laughed and cheered, yelling out comments to either move faster or slower, depending upon their wager. The young Hunter stepped onto the dock, watching the Dwarf run in the distance.

The ship suddenly lurched away from the dock as the anchors were pulled up. Hurten kept running grimly, but it was over- he ended up plopping down upon his bottom at the end of the pier, chest heaving with exertion, as he watched the ship sail away. His bear came up and sat next to him, the duo looking comical, both sitting, their legs splayed out in front of them.

Remi applauded and demanded his coin from Moonwarden, who passed it over with a wry look. The Hunter smiled and nodded to them, and walked down the dock towards the village of Auberdine.

As he stepped upon the shore of Kalimdor for the first time, his heart thumping in his chest, he turned around and waved at Hurten the Dwarf still sitting on the pier in the distance, chewing his beard in vexation.

Reynald's Tale

Reynald is a character from World of Warcraft. This is his life story.



I

"Reynald, it is time."

The boy came out of the doorway, looking uncertain, alone.

The careworn lady in the frayed dress smiled slightly, walked over to him and took his hand, leading him away from the cottage and towards the awaiting wagon. The driver sat, looking at the boy sadly.

When the two of them reached the wagon, the lady bent down and kissed the boy's cheek.

"I'll miss you, dear. But you will be cared for in Stormwind- you'll even be within walking distance of the Cathedral of Light!"

The boy said in a quiet voice: "did they know my father there?"

The lady's eyes softened.

"You know he was a fine carpenter. Someone working for the Cathedral bought a piece of furniture your father made, and admired his work. This man says there is a place for you to help around the household of Light there...he sounds like a fine man."

The boy had heard this before, but nodded, wanting to be reassured.

The next thing he said burned right through the lady's heart;

"Can I come and visit Pa and Mother's graves? And you, Elora?"

Her eyes brimming with tears, the lady knelt down and hugged the boy tightly, and spoke.

"Yes, when you grow up into a fine man, you can come visit me, and we can visit them as long as you like."

She let the boy go, and stepped away from him. The wagoner, taking goods into the capital city, helped the boy up into the bed of the wagon, sitting upon bags of vegetables and grain.

Elora waved as the wagon slowly drove off, the boy waving back at her.

Sometimes, the kindness of one person can change a life. Elora, a poor farmer's wife, had spoken up for the boy who had been orphaned by the Plague. Instead of making him an adopted farmhand as others wanted, she pushed so that he could get away from the poverty of the tiny hamlet. She had known the boy was different; she had seen him telling stories to the other children. And so when the request for another piece of furniture had come, she had written back to say that the good carpenter was dead, but that his young son, who had promise, had survived the Plague that had carried off his family. The man, a minor official with the Cathedral, asked the household steward if there was room for a pot-boy or a floor-scrubber. The answer was yes.

Elora had planted the seed.



II

Steward Aldon looked up from his ledger; the noon bells pealed
outside.

He got up from his beautifully carved desk in his office in Cathedral
Square and walked to the window and looked outside. The Brothers
walked by in their somber robes while the City Patrol, resplendent in
their silver and blue plate, watched the square. A few servants of the
Light came and went from the Cathedral. Orphans played next to the
fountain.

Aldon was nearing the end of his career. Many years he had
been in charge of the buildings in the square, keeping them clean and
provisioned; he was proud of his job, though few really noted him or
felt him part of the Cathedral. He never really cared about that; service
to the Light came in many forms. What he did care about was the
dilemma he faced currently- his son.

His son worked under him with quite a few others. He had got him a
job as a minor clerk, but showed him no favoritism. "Tom," he had
said on the day he had given him the job, "I've helped you all I can. It
is up to you now how you fare." Young Tom had always saw himself as
becoming a mighty Paladin, fighting the Horde in the name of the Light.

Truth be told, Aldon knew, he was more suited to figuring sums, like
he was. And now he had a decision to make.

Every year, the Steward, by tradition, was able to name one of his workers to attend the Cathedral as a student Priest or Paladin. The fact his son worked for him- an expected thing- made speculation about who would be named to go to the Cathedral rather short. The Steward would name his son, gossip said.

But Aldon knew it would not be the best choice to make. He loved his son, but understood he would not make it through the Cathedral's training. His son had a future, but a different one than he expected.

He had overheard his son speaking one day to another, boasting that he would be a Paladin soon. It troubled him. He had talked to Duthorian Rall, a Paladin who had seen long service in the Cathedral. Duthorian had looked sympathetic, and told him that he must pray to the Light on it.

Aldon had gone that eve to pray in the Cathedral. When he had arrived there, he saw a boy standing in the dim candlelight- and recognized the orphan whom he had employed, the son of the man who had made the finest desk in Stormwind for the Stweard. The boy had his eyes closed, head bowed. He backed slowly out of the Cathedral and went back to his bed.

Reynald had been assigned as a cleaning-boy, scrubbing the flagstones, washing the stonework, sweeping the dirt from the concourses. The boy was quiet but dedicated to his duties. Aldon remembered the day that the Horde Rogue had been slain upon the Cathedral steps- while the others talked excitedly about what had happened, Reynald had been scrubbing the stains of death off of the stones.

Aldon returned to his desk and found the paper he had already signed. He wrote the name that he knew he must write upon it. He then called a messenger-boy in and had it taken to Lord Grayson.

He knew his son would never understand, that his wife, a good woman, would be angered. But he couldn't in good conscience keep one from what they deserved for the doomed chance of another, even if the other was his son. He would speak with the boy this eve, and tell him he was welcome to stay as a clerk, and that perhaps he would be Assistant Steward soon. He would tell him he loved him, and that one day he would understand why a young man with a lame leg must have courage of a different kind than most, a harder courage to face.

He looked forward to retiring.


III

Reynald learned many things at the Cathedral; not all of what he learned was taught on purpose.

He grew up, being trained in the Way of the Light. He got along with most of his fellow students. Very few of them were from the same commoner's background as he. Many were the sons and daughters of servants of the Light, city officials, or well-off merchants. Some of the highborn students looked down their noses at those of common stock. He hardly noticed, because that was not important to him.

He did note that while his teachers taught him respect, there was not always respect for those not of the Light. Often the guards would send people on their way who did not belong in the Square.

Reynald often spoke to Duthorian Rall, a Paladin whose duties frequently brought him to the Cathedral. He was a smiling, friendly man that Reynald looked up to.

"Duthorian...why are people sent away from the Square by the guards?"

Duthorian thought. "Lad, people can come see the Cathedral when the Brothers open it up on holy days."

"But...if we are serving the Light, shouldn't we serve the people as well?"

Rall chuckled. "Well young lad, to be properly trained, you need to follow your instructors, not have every hedge-Mage that wanders the City performing simple tricks for coin filling your heads with distractions! And also...the Way of the Light is not easy for everyone. Mayhaps the Brothers don't want you thinking of other things, before you've been trained well."

Reynald thought that over, and decided Duthorian Rall had a point. Perhaps it was his commoner roots, but he still felt that the Light would serve better being closer to everyone, hedge-Mages or farmers included.

One day his class spent the day at Lake Everstill in Redridge; they had hiked out to the lake from the City, it was a grand adventure. As they were sitting upon the docks, watching the fishermen, he heard a shout from the shore.

"She's gone under! Help!"

Reynald kicked off his shoes and dove in the water, without a thought. He had learned to swim in the Canals in Stormwind, when the weather was hot and the waters cool. The lake was colder still; it was a shock to his body.

He saw the girl sinking in the water ahead of him, thrashing blindly. He grabbed her, still struggling, and swam for the surface.

She was his age, with fiery-red hair, dressed in commoners clothing. She coughed up water as he watched her, concerned. She looked up at him.

"Good job, lad," said Brother Sarno, laying a hand upon his shoulder. His classmates teased him as he strode back to the dock, putting his shoes back on.

"Catch a fish, Reynald?"

"Just a wharf raggamuffin by the looks of it!"

Reynald blushed and laced his shoes up. When he had walked back to the shore, the girl was gone. He was curious about her- why had she been in the lake if she couldn't swim? Was she a local fisherman's daughter? Did she run off for some reason?

Years later, he would meet her again. And he would remember Duthorian Rall's words.

The Fall of Feladan; a tale from the Age of Lamentations

A tale from the historical background to Horizons.



The Withered Aegis was on the move. Having taken Rachival, the city of the Gnomes, Torrin Macalir's forces of terror and evil turned slowly south. They despoiled the land, and Blight grew not only upon the earth, but in the hearts of all of the races of Istaria.

In the forests of Elvenkind stood Feladan, home of the Elven Council. The city was magnificent then, full of ancient trees, cascading fountains, and aglow with the light of thousands of magic lanterns. The Council consisted of many magnificent Elven lords, all accomplished in their various fields, master craftsmen and renowned warriors. The King was the traditional head of the Council; his powers much diminished from olden days, yet the King was still a powerful symbol to the Elves.

The King at this time was Andomyrr, a warrior past his prime, though in his day he was a renowned commander, and had brought peace to the Elven forests. Andomyrr had of late ignored the troubling signs of the Withered Aegis, for he loved the hunt, and, after days of tracking beasts in the woods, would return to a great banquet that would last into the night. It was said that the King never failed in bringing back meat of wild boar or great stags which he had personally slew. In doing so, losing himself in the woods for days on end, King Andomyrr sought to forget the fact that he had no son. For his marriage was barren.

His Queen was Celenia, an Elf maiden of unearthly beauty. From all over Istaria, she attracted those who made pilgrimages for the mere chance to gaze upon her face. Songs were composed in her honor, and the Elves looked upon her as if she was a goddess from the ancient times. Beautiful she was, yet her heart was troubled; for she could not give the King, who loved her, the thing he desired most- a son or daughter. As the King had started to grow older, he grew restive and stayed away on the hunt. The Queen suffered to know that he could not bear that they were childless. Though she was revered by all, joy was not in her heart.

Another of the Council was Halgoras, famed warrior and companion-in-arms to the King. Halgoras had fought in many a battle next to his lord, and was never far from Andomyrr's side. Though he was a fighter in his soul, he saw within his King and Queen, and knew how they suffered; one, alone in her room, the other, prowling the woodlands restlessly. Halgoras had been through blood and fire next to Andomyrr, and never spoke of what he saw to him; but he did speak to his Queen, once.

They were in the Hall of the Council one day. Halgoras, due to leave with the King on a hunt soon, took the Queen aside to one of the many green gardens nearby. He showed the Queen a wren's nest which had fallen to the path, the eggs dashed against the ground. He looked up, and pointed to a small bird singing strongly in the sunlight upon a branch.

'All is not lost, Milady. The little one has lost something of itself, yet it sings in the sun. It knows the happiness of its true nature cannot be taken away.'

As the Queen looked upon the singing bird, there awoke in her heart a warmth that had not been there in many a year. She turned and smiled to Halgoras, and she saw a proud warrior sworn to his King, yet alone and serene; for he had never taken a wife, such was his dedication. There awoke in her heart an acceptance of life, and she became happier, with Halgoras as her inspiration.

The Council worried about the Withered Aegis, for finally word had come that foul things were about in the land. The Elves had not the forces to oppose this evil alone; Men had sent some aid, yet they too eventually retreated back to their lands to protect their homes.

One day upon the hunt, the King and Halgoras came upon a troop of Skeletal Warriors; they and the King's Guard cut them down, and returned to Feladan. The alarm was sounded. The King gave orders for the common folk to head towards Tazoon for refuge; bitter were the tears on many Elven faces as they left behind their beautiful city for the last time. The Council was to be relocated; yet the King would not leave.

Many were the arguments of those illustrious members of the Council to have the King go into exile with them; yet nothing swayed Andomyrr, who, approaching the autumn of his years, saw no honor in living at the grace of the generosity of Men or Dwarves. He ordered his Queen to go with the Council, as he ordered the city's defenses with Elven warriors who fought what they knew was a delaying action to save their people as they escaped to safer places.

Celenia, sensing something in the King's heart, begged him to return to her after the battle. He charged Halgoras to see her safely to exile in Tazoon, and set out the the northern edge of the city.

The Withered Aegis had sent Skeletals and Zombies by the thousands through the forests; Elven scouts had slain them by the score, but still they came on. The land was Blighted by the foul march of the Undead.

At the edge of the city, Elven warriors stood in their ranks with their battle-banners, legacies of many a successful battle. Yet a pall was on their hearts, for they saw the enemy in all its numbers bearing down upon them. Huge, shadowy beasts full of unearthly magic reined fear down upon them, Wraiths and other unspeakable entities swarmed upon the Elves, who fought hard and long, giving and receiving no quarter. And their King was in the forefront of the battle, his greatsword flashing like a scythe, cutting down everything in his reach.

Yet the fight went ill. The Elves were pushed back into their city, yelling in despair as Skeletals bearing torches fired the fair trees, and zombies smashed the magic lanterns. Many a stalwart Elf fell dead, fighting for the fair city that was being defiled as they died. Soon, the King alone was left, pushed back into the Council Hall. A cloaked figure stood in the doorway.

'Who is it?' cried the King, raising his sword.

'It is I, Sire', answered Halgoras, 'the Queen is safe with the Master of Scouts and his men, on their way to Tazoon.'

The King grasped the hand of his old friend and looked into his eyes. Halgoras had made the last decision of his life; he left behind him Queen Celenia, the only woman he had ever loved from afar, left behind a life with her to be by the side of the man who he had served all his life, even though he had disobeyed an order to do it. The King saw all of this in his eyes, and they squeezed each other's hand tightly.

The final fight came at last. Evil creatures roamed the city at will, casting the Blight upon all that had been fair. A troop of Zombies threw open the doors to the Council Hall to see two Elves awaiting them, greatswords drawn. Andomyrr gave a great cry and hewed through them with a whirling blade; Halgoras defended him, hacking off limbs raised to strike his King. The Zombies were slaughtered, yet Skeletals took their place; fell Wraiths entered the Hall, and after much struggle, the King lay dead upon the floor, mighty Halgoras standing above him, slaying all who came hear the body of his lord. As foul magic struck him, the last word on his lips was the name of the Queen.

The City was aflame, black figures rushing about in the dark, as the Blight started to grow upon everything.

When the Queen, now in exile, learned of the fate of her husband and her friend, she wept bitterly. When told that their brave deeds would be remembered forever, she said in a voice full of emotion:

'Bravery and honor and duty, yet not love...I have lost the only two who matter to me.'

Celeria shut herself away from everyone, until one day, after hearing birds singing in her garden, she lay down upon her bed and refused food and drink, and died after a time.

The Elves to this day have much to mourn; Feladan is a fearsome place of Blight; the trees are stumps, the lanterns dark, and the birds are gone, singing no more for now.



[This story was originally published on the Horizons Vault Website.]