The Travels of Thelarwen

Cute and Quiet. Makes a lot of hand gestures, a bit like Yoda, but less green.

Topic/Postby Gergel » 13 Sep 2015, 19:42

The Jungle.

I do not count the days, but I recognize weeks as they pass by. First by ship, then on foot. The journey to Booty Bay is utterly uneventful. The weather is fine, wind is at our back, the ship shoots across the waves at excellent speed with its sails billowing. I notice the goblin crew moving with doubled enthusiasm. Clearly we are nearing the home port.

And soon we pull into the large harbour. The captain tosses me a small bag of gold coins. Such an unusual gesture of gratitude from a goblin must mean that I have been working far more vigorously than expected. The money does indeed come in handy in the port. I can purchase a new pack, a few supplies and a bit of food. Then the presence in my head drags me towards the jungle. I do not even have time to repair my battered and punctured armour.

Go. Move. Hurry.

One would almost believe that it is in a rush to get to wherever we are heading now.

The "wherever" is apparently in the deepest, darkest, most secluded part of the jungle. I move through bushes and around massive trees. My traversal consists more of climbing up or sliding down than actual walking. Unpleasant plants impede my progress. Vines I can cut through, thorny bushes only scrape against the steel around me, the darts shot from within the blooms of beautiful orchid-like flowers ricochet off or fall down harmlessly. Once something huge, green and slimy engulfs me and attempts to swallow me whole. Even as its digestive juices attempt to deal with an iron overdose, winter comes early to it. Frost magic permeates my body and armour. The giant flesh-eating plant withers and falls apart.

Animals are no better. The deeper I go, the more snakes I see slithering around. Some attempt to bite me and only end up with broken fangs as a reward. Others figure it to be a good idea to strangle me. I am a death knight with a compulsive need to regularly cause pain and torment to living creatures. The constrictors find this out the hard way. If they are less lucky, I rip and slice them apart before they even manage to attack me. If they are more lucky, they might get their coils around me, which I then tear apart.

Then there is the occasional big panther or an ape. Interestingly, these higher life-forms often tend to take a good look at me, then decide that discretion is the better part of valour, and slink away back into the jungle. The ones that do decide to try their luck, find it running out rapidly.

Only birds and insects do not seem to be interested in me.

My armour is covered in unmentionable substances and in a terrible shape. Bent and twisted from the attacks, as well as my ordeal at the bottom of the ocean. Punctured by murlocs, gouged by claws, compressed by snakes. Corroded by acids, rusted by water. Still, it must make do until the end.

I am not allowed rest. The spirit - as Niljan had called it - in my head is hammering against the back of my skull almost constantly now. It yearns to be free. I sense a hidden anger and hatred. I suspect it wishes to exact revenge on who or whatever had stripped it of its power and forced it to hitch a ride with a mere twice-mortal death knight. Its desires drive me forward towards an unknown destination. At least we are completely and utterly certain of the direction.

The ground underfoot becomes wet. Soon we wallow through a muddy bog. My boots start sinking into mud.

Ice. Hurry.

I could not use the Path of Frost to cross an ocean, but a swamp is somewhat easier. Water and mud freeze under each footstep I take. Instead of crawling through ooze and slime, I am able to walk on top of the terrible stinking and sinking surface.

I glimpse a hydra in a black lake through the twisted trees. It either does not notice me, or decides to ignore me. I return the favour with gratitude.

Finally the swamp turns into a bog, which in turn returns to being a jungle. Travelling is slightly easier, but only slightly. The passenger in my head still urges me along constantly. It feels as if it is suppressing my compulsion and pain. Perhaps a promise of a reward to come, or perhaps a way of keeping me intent on moving.

The jungle grows sparser. Massive trees diminish, smaller trees spread apart. Walking is easier and faster. I encounter a river, which I cross on a raft of ice. As I step onto the other shore, a gargantuan crocolisk torpedoes out of the water. Its jaws close on my legs and midsection.

I offer a silent thanks to the Argent blacksmith who forged and repaired my armour. Even in its weakened state it offers enough protection that I am not immediately bitten to pieces. Steel plates creak frighteningly under the pressure exerted by the crocolisk’s jaw muscles. The creature does not have any more time to increase its damage. I stab it directly in the eye with the twin blades of my sword. A necrotic surge turns the crocolisk’s brain into mush. The jaw relaxes, I pick myself up and press deeper into the following jungle before the creature’s comrades have a chance to continue where the first one failed.

It is the next day that an overwhelming feeling of jubilation floods all of my senses.

We stand in front of a stone statue of Trollish design. The carvings have been erased by time and moss, but the sense of recognition I feel from my passenger is unmistakeable.

Path. Up.

There is indeed a stone-paved road which leads through a gap between rows of trees. There are vines and bushes everywhere. I might have missed it if the voice in my head had not warned me. Now that I have noticed it, I can follow fairly easily.

There are more of these statues. I see a few un-eroded pictures of what look like dreadful battles, beasts and rituals. Strange huge rock formations stand here and there. Each has a face hewn into it, every one more grotesque than the other. We are getting close to our destination.

And then, once we push through the next bush, we meet a troll.

Evil magic radiates from its gigantic hulk. Where Mulai and the murloc hunters had been bulked by training, hunting and a healthy diet of murloc, this creature seems to consist solely of twisted muscle which has been enhanced by unnatural concoctions and dark voodoo. Bony spikes have ripped out here and there through its tattooed skin. The very skin itself has ripped apart in places, exposing black glistening muscle.

It does not attack me.

The giant troll falls on its knees before me. It bows deep until its forehead touches the pavement in front of my boots. I do not understand the rumbling words it says, but I believe it is praying to the being I have carried here from across the world. Its deity.

Amulet.

I open my backpack and hold the amulet in my hands. The claws, fangs, fish bones and resin seem to vibrate and hum with power. Small purple sparks crackle between its various pointy parts.

Gauntlets.

My gloves fall to the ground. I hold the amulet in my bare hands. The trollish monstrosity has lifted its head but is still kneeling before me. It holds out its arms, both larger than my entire body. Its huge fingers touch the far edge of the amulet. For such a massive thing, the way it feels the amulet is incredibly delicate.

Tips of murloc teeth pierce the troll’s skin. I would have assumed - no, I can see from the wounds in its body that its skin is incredibly thick and tough - but each of these tiny punctures draws a speck of blood.

In this instant I glimpse several normal-sized withered trolls staring at us from ahead on the path. Priests of the deity in my head, no doubt. They begin a low chant. There is no time to examine them. My hands move on their own. The being that rides me now moves them purely through its own will. I touch the points of the murloc-claw lattice on my side of the amulet, they prick me, draw blood.

Then, a massive, agonizing, overwhelming surge of power through me. I scream towards the sky. The troll roars in unison. Something unnatural flows through my head and body and out through my fingertips. The feeling I am left with is of devastating loneliness and emptiness. As if I had known the touch of divinity - and lost it forever. My legs falter. I fall on my knees, then on my hands. I want to vomit, but nothing comes up. Ground swirls and comes up to meet my face. There are dull metallic clangs and scrapes as my entire body convulses on the ground.

The troll is in little better shape. It is still on its knees and holding the amulet, but it is rigid and twitching uncontrollably. The ugly face twists and seems to reshape itself. Black eyes mist over, go gray, then green, then settle on deep glowing purple.

"I will be free."

The voice is slow, low and terrifying. It comes from the troll behemoth’s mouth, but it is not uttered by a mortal tongue.

"You have done well, tiny thing. One step remains. Stay here. I will go up. I will be free. And then I return..."

Its purple eyes are full of pure malevolence.

"... With your reward."

I am still on the ground. My bare hand touches the blade of my fallen sword. Its runes glow blue and cold. Its steel, unmarred by water, blood, acid, pressure or monster bones, shines in my eyes. It is my runeblade. A part of me. A fragment of my very soul.

For a brief moment I glimpse the face of Niljan.

"Rememba dis: bad dings happen if da amulet get broken."

"Da moment when da spirit move from ya, da amulet need ta be safe!"

She wanted me to keep the amulet safe. To keep the spirit safe.

Did she? This... horrible thing before me. Did Niljan truly want it freed?

Did she, in her wisdom, give me a hint that would aid me in case I did not wish for this dreadful presence loosened on the world?

The possessed troll stands up slowly, turns and tries to walk up the path. It is being puppeteered by something that is clearly unfamiliar with the strings needed to move this new body. The creature sways and stumbles.

My hand grasps the blade of my sword. It slices into me. It drinks my blood. Then the blue runes flash red and in return a surge of power floods into me. My vision should be red, but instead it is blue-white. Despite the pain, fatigue and dizziness which still overwhelms me, I am ready for battle. I hardly even notice that I have leaped to my feet and grasped the hilt of my sword. There is a roar, whether from my throat or the trolls or both, I do not comprehend. The huge troll’s face twists in surprise and then anger.

"Puny fool. No matter. The quicker you will die."

It swings at me. I duck under the clumsy arm and close in. There is no time to do battle. Already the other trolls are yelling and closing in. I must end this in a single instant with a single stroke. The entire being of the entity Thelarwen Lockworth is behind the thrust of my runeblade.

The tip of the sword runs through the troll’s neck. Its two blades slice past either side of the windpipe and spinal column. Arteries and veins are ripped apart. There is a crunch when the sword penetrates between two vertebrae and severs a big part of the spinal cord.

A horrible, inhuman cry rises from the throats of every troll I see. It is their turn to fall on the ground and lie there twitching and gasping. The massive troll sways from side to side. There is no more danger of being crushed by its blows. Nothing controls its limbs anymore. Time seems to slow as it teeters on its heels. With a dull resonating thud, it lands on the ground on its back. My sword is still sticking out of its neck. Blood pools underneath it, but the thing in its head is still keeping it alive, though it should already be in death throes.

Its bloody lips snarl. "You... You have accomplished nothing! I will be free and then you will know such agony that even your undead masters could not dream of."

The burning pain I had felt before is now just a dull ache in every single nerve in my body. I climb the fallen troll’s chest, grasp the hilt of the sword that had been pulled from my hand, and yank the metal out with a squelch. Black blood oozes down the twin blades. I think I have a snarling grin on my face when I swing my sword to cut down every single troll priest in the vicinity, many of whom have not yet even managed to recover from the blow they had been dealt through their deity.

When I look at the fallen god’s face, I see a touch of fear in it. It gurgles through the dying throat of its host.

"I... was wrong. I wanted to kill you. I see my faults clearly now. Please... help me... Save me, and I will reward you... beyond your imagination. I swear this."

One hand of the troll still grasps the amulet. I step on the fingers with my boot and force the palm open. The amulet lies there, still glowing with purple sparks.

"Just... let me enter you... once again. We will go... up... to the altar... There I will be free... and you will have... whatever you can dream of..."

Wisps of purple seem to ooze out of the dying troll’s eyes and stream towards me. I feel my mind being invaded.

"Never. Again."

I draw the cold power of a Mind Freeze spell into the palm of my free hand... and use it on myself. The pain in my brain is like a giant icicle being rammed through my skull. Whatever shred of power the god-entity had tried to use against me is pushed back with a nearly-visible force.

"You cannot... kill me! I... will be back... Some day. It is... inevitable! Serve me now... in this moment... Take the amulet to the altar... and be rewarded. But if I... return... without your help... I will have my... vengeance!"

I insert the tip of my sword between the amulet and the troll’s palm, lift the little thing and drop it in the middle of the creature’s chest.

"Rememba dis: bad dings happen if da amulet get broken."

"No! Think... of what... I could do... for you! Money!... Power!... Armies!... Strength... to kill... any enemy!"

Its life is fading. I must act now.

"I can... give you... back your life! I can... bring back Susan!"

"She. Is. Dead."

I stand on the troll’s chest. I lift my sword high above my head with its blade tips pointing straight down.

All of the strength of my body, my soul and my sword goes into this blow. My runeblade strikes the amulet in the center. The unnaturally resilient construct of bone, sinew, tooth and resin shatters, but the sword just keeps going through the troll’s sternum, heart and lungs all the way to the hilt.

There is a humongous roar of power, terror and energy. A tremendous blast of wind radiates out from around us. It rips huge jungle trees out by their roots. It tosses the corpses of troll priests like rag dolls. Stone statues shatter into a myriad of shards and scatter forever. Purple fire shoots out of the dead troll’s eyes and mouth, dances in the air and is whisked away by the wind.

Then it is calm again.

There is just myself, my blade and the huge corpse under my feet. It seems to visibly shrink and deflate. Something nasty bubbles all around it and seeps away into the ground, where, I suspect, nothing will ever grow again. The fragments of the amulet are dull and dead. They, too, liquefy before my eyes.

It is over.

I can go back to my own life again.




Epilogue.

I have been away for less than a year, but the world has changed enough to be barely recognizable.

The Burning Legion is invading. Demons are everywhere. My sword and skills have not been needed this much since the fall of the Lich King and the Scourge.

The Argent Crusade has been dealt a terrible blow. Highlord Tirion Fordring is dead. Many, too many, of my comrades-in-arms have lost their lives upon the Broken Shore, trying in vain to halt the demons’ advances. I wonder if I should have been with them. Maybe I would have turned the tide. Or maybe I would have died alongside them, another nameless corpse in fel-seeped battlefield.

Strange new tidings move in the word-of-mouth of the Crusade. Some say the time of the Crusade is over and that we will join the Silver Hand. Some say this, and that only paladins would be accepted. Time will tell if I still have someone to call my comrades.

I ask about Florence Silsbury. No one has seen her in many months. I visit the places where we used to go together, where I knew she liked to spend time, but Florence is nowhere to be found.

I ask about Sven Chambers. He has been missing for even longer, ever since I was last in the civilized lands. There are no news about him.

Once I notice Lilandris and Aroona in the distance. I leave them to their doings and travel the other way.

I carefully inquire about Adrenus. Our intrepid adventurer has often been seen dragging yet another hapless group of adventurers into strange, wondrous and terrifying adventures. But he has not been seen for several weeks either. I hope he did not find that ultimate battle against some half-demon half-ogre half-troll half-silithid half-tuskarr half-mogu half-dragon undead lightning-enchanted one-eyed one-horned flying purple people eater.

My armour is in shambles. The things I have battled during my travels have taken their toll. I go to see Adrian Jaxon, an Argent armourer in whom I have placed much faith and trust.

Adrian looks at me and covers his face with a palm. "I didn’t think I’d see the day when you come to me with your armour in so bad shape that even I can’t really do anything to help. And you are still ali... undead... in it. Sheesh. Well, on the other hand it just goes to say that I make damn good armour."

He pokes a finger into one of the many new holes. "Yeah. Don’t think there’s any more value in this except scrap. I’ll need to start from scratch. Awesome. As if I didn’t have too much work on my forge already, what with the demons and whatnot." He grumbles but I know he is a good man and will aid me selflessly.

While he ponders about the forge, I look around the storage area. Adrian has collected and created many interesting items over the years. Most of them weapons and armour, of course, but I also see intricate iron flowers with actual veins etched into their leaves and blooms, horseshoes (including a giant one that could fit a pit lord), cooking utensils, locks, hinges and so on and so on. One display catches my eye. An armour stand is set up just next to the door to the forge. On it sits a full set of black-and-red plate armour. The metal seems to be unpainted. The red stripes appear to be inside the very metal itself.

"Adrian. What is this?" I inquire.

"Oh, that’s just a prototype. When I first got my hands on that strange fel-iron-without-the-fel from the weird Red Portal that appeared a few years ago, I thought I’d see how it can be shaped into armour. Well, I kinda-sorta miscalculated a bit. That alloy is so damn strong that I can make plate that’s half as thin as our common steel, yet a quarter tougher. But with that suit I made the plates to full normal thickness. Oh yeah, it’s strong as hell, probably can handle an elekk falling on it, but it’s way too heavy. Hardly anyone can move in it. So it’s sitting here, reminding me to use the Draenor iron properly."

"May I try it on?" I ask.

"Yeah, but..." Adrian laughs, "Yeah, you’re way strong, you could actually manage to take three steps in it."

He gives me my privacy as I remove my old, broken armour and slip into the draenic iron armour. Adrian is correct, the pieces weigh considerably more than steel or saronite. Yet the fit is almost perfect and as the pieces have been built according to normal Argent specifications, all the hooks, catches and fastenings are in the accustomed places. The helm allows me a fairly good field of vision, even compared to my usual one. It takes far more effort than normally to move in the armour.

I flash back to my youth when the farm girl I used to be first tried wearing the plate of the Argent Dawn. It took me weeks and months to learn to wear it. I think I can manage to do this again.

"Adrian."

He appears from his forge and eyes me up and down with an expert look. "Wow. That’s pretty good. Hey, you did manage to take three steps in it!"

"I would like to wear this armour," I nod to him. Plates creak in an unfamiliar way as I move.

"As in, this ungodly pile of iron? You nuts?" He sighs. "Of course you’re nuts. Think you can actually move and fight in it?"

"Yes. I must train and build up my strength, but I am certain I can make use of this."

Adrian grins. "Well, if you’re wearing this thing, we can send you up against a dozen pit lords and you’d hardly get a scratch. And no one but no one will be able to give you a hug strong enough to lift you off the ground, ha-ha-haa!"

The blacksmith pokes me here and there. "I’ll have to adjust this and that and the other thing and this bit here. Should take me a few days at most. Stick around."

And so I do. We test out the fit several more times. Each time it feels more natural than before. It even seems slightly lighter, but that is merely me becoming accustomed to it.

While Adrian works on one piece or the other, I carefully engrave and etch Argent insignia into the plates. Rumours about the future of the Crusade are not good. And this black metal reminds me of the past. So I create the insignia of the Argent Dawn, instead of the newer ones of the Crusade. Adrian notices this, no doubt, but does not comment. He also is a remnant from the old days.

In the end I put on my new set of armour that fits me perfectly. I help Adrian around the forge, lifting heavy metal pieces and swinging a massive hammer as he directs me to build pieces of what look like siege engines. This sort of work builds my strength rapidly. Working inside my new metal shell allows me to grow fully accustomed to it. When time comes to battle demons, I will be ready.

After several weeks pass, I am ready to travel back to Stormwind. Perhaps I will sit in a quiet spot near the Blue Recluse again, see old familiar faces or someone new. Perhaps those I care about will return to me.

Only time will tell.
What kind of sick individual burns a book full of perfectly good dark arts?!
- Darkscryer Raastok
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Gergel
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