Part 1 of Chapter 1

2007-06-12T15:52:35Z

(**The anticipated demographic for this story is expected to already know about the World of Warcraft and its existing lore. If you don't and wish to research the references in this story, check out http://www.wowwikki.com which is like Wikipedia, but for WoW.**)

World of Warcraft
Morningfire Saga
Chapter 1 (part 1): Blood Ties

"World of Warcraft" theme and concepts (c) Blizzard Entertainment. Story written and (c) ME. All characters are (c) their players.

The rythmic creaking sound of the wooden chair rocking back and forth in patient tempo was the only contrasting sound to the delicate breeze that was causing the taller emerald grass to bend in choreographed waves. The fanning leaves atop the massive, dark hued trunks of the doron trees cast an unpredictable shade over the dell, causing the modest rays of the sun to dance and glisten over the curved roof of the solitary humble cottage tucked back against a shallow rocky hill. Upon that chair was sitting a woman of older appearance, looking to be in her late fifties as humans would measure years, her long flame-red hair having yielded to the years and faded slightly. She pushed the chair with gentle movement of her ankles while looking out across the yard which proceeded into the depths of what was called the Ashenvale forest. Beside the chair, lain haphazardly upon its belly, was an enormous lion whose fur, from nose to tail, was a faded black, giving it almost a shadowy gray appearance. It would not be difficult for one to see, though, that the lion's fur was, in its prime, nearly as dark as a panther's. Though the age of either of the patio's occupants would not be easy to assume, it would be safe to say that the many years of life the two had experienced were filled with adventure and compromise. Their demeanor, however, was not one of definitive happiness, especially in the glassy, green eyes of the chairbound maiden whose attention was finally distracted from the trees to descend upon the cat before her shaken hand followed suit, grazing the bushy mane of the feline at her feet. The cat, in response, opened its remaining eye and raised its head to look up at the woman with inquiry, emitting a throaty purr in acceptance of her affection. After a couple of strokes the woman ceased and slowly raised her palm for visual inspection. Her eyes followed the lines of wrinkles and scars prevalent on her skin. She could easily recall the days when her hands didn't bear these marks. She silently reminisced the years before, when her hands were smooth and gentle; when her touch would soothe. She then tore her eyes quickly away from her palm, she inhaled a deep breath through her nose and shifted her gaze to deflect the threat of memory from invading. With her opposing hand she retrieved a short oaken staff lain up against the porch's banister and winced as she used its assistance to lift herself from the chair, gripping the polished knot at the top of the staff for support as the casual tan full-length skirt she was wearing draped around her ankles. The large feline flexed its shoulders and pushed itself up shortly afterword, its aged joints popping into proper place. With a final look out into the woods, she guided the lion back into the cottage, ignoring the thump of the cane against the wooden patio.
It was pleasing for her to be within the solitude of Ashenvale. None of her comrades knew of her cottage home and that, as she vowed long ago, was the way it was to remain. The interior of her home used to remain undecorated, mostly, she would often remember. Except for the rare occasion, she would frequent her undisclosed home when things in her people's land became too dangerous for her to remain. Now the walls were littered with organized, arcane burned photographs and memorials for fallen comrades, some framed and others appearing aged even beyond the woman looking at them while she slowly made her way into the room. The lion made it a point to dissolve its arthritic movement by assuming its usual place on the large rug while the woman viewed her memoirs. There were those she seemed to pay closer attention to, such as one of an armor-clad man with long dark hair that flowed over his lengthy, pointed ears, an apparent scowl on his face as though unappreciative that his image was being recorded. He looked to be younger though powerful by comparison with his large platemail armor accenting the long blade slung across his back, three tiered shoulder armor seeming to only increase his size. It wasn't at that which she looked, however. Instead she seemed to gaze at the man's eyes, her own warming before lowering to the small bronze plate at the bottom of the frame, in which were etched the words, "Beloved Elairdrin, Rest In Peace."
Another thump of the cane against the wooden floor detailed that the woman was once more in motion, illiciting again the attention of the feline looking up at her. The woman's eyes, however, were not on the lion, instead above it at what the feline was resting beneath.
"It's not easy, is it, Hades?" She asked rhetorically, expecting no answer from the cat while she approached. On top of the short wooden table which had been decorated as a sort of altar resided a photograph that was, to her, one of her most prized posessions. In the picture there were two elven ladies, one of which was her in her youth, a smile on her lips so bright and delightful that it seemed impossible for her muscles to create these days. The other was an elven girl younger than even she in the photograph, yet bearing remarkable similarities. That girl's smile reflected both energy and exuberence; a carefree spirit glowing in her eyes. In the arms of the younger elf was a large, black furred cat that, at closer examination, boasted the likeness of a lion cub. The woman trained her eyes on other photographs on the shrine-like altar, each of the younger elf girl in variation, all accompanied by the lion now resting at her feet though in the feline's younger days. Framing the entire set was an old, strung bow.
"Even after all this time," she said to herself, "I look upon her face and want to apologize to her. To all of them." Feeling tears welling up in her eyes, she abruptly turned away from the pictures and sighed a shaken breath, moving slowly and almost painfully deeper into the cottage, finding no emotional strength to offer further vocal sentiment. The lion did little else than watch her maneuver carefully into the adjoining room with an expression that made him appear as though he were wishing for some way to console the woman.
Once bathed in the early evening sunlight pouring into the window of the next room she set her cane against the wall nearby and settled her hand near the cast iron wood stove to test its temperature. Deciding it warm enough, she opened one of the drawers beneath a countertop and withdrew a box that had attached to its top a single black rose. After opening it she began to fish through different pieces of paper, stopping to read them. Each was a recipe for various meals, and at the bottom of each was written in quill, "The sooner you learn this, the less hungry I'll be. -Elair." She never paid attention to those, it seemed, ignoring them instead to fish for the listed ingredients that the cards instructed for preparation. With a dagger, bowl, and spoon retrieved, she set about following the recipe's guidelines with expert precision. She'd barely retrieved the neccessary spices that were required by the instructions when she felt her eyes sting with the threat of tears. They just seemed to flow freely these days, each one glistened their guilt in the light. With a soft sniff she pushed the dagger down onto the table and placed her palms upon the edge, her ruby red hair falling down around her shoulders to create a tapestry on either side of her face.
She hadn't heard him enter. Even in his boots he'd walked with a feather light step as though cautious and unsure, unwilling to disturb the sole occupant of the dwelling. Hades hadn't heard him, either, for the elder feline had long since fallen asleep. It was to the archway leading into the dining area that the man stopped, allowing his eyes to wander upon the sniffling woman with affectionate concern. He clasped his hands gently in front of him and frowned, lowering his chin as though he understood what she was going through. It wasn't until a soft sigh came from his breath that the woman jolted upright with a start and snapped her attention upon him.
"Oh! Ascharal," she toned, hurriedly wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I know," the man responded in a sullen tone while casting his soft eyes back toward the sleeping Hades. "You should really consider a new guard cat."
"You know I can't," the woman responded, feeling her throat tightening again as she so much as considered replacing the feline that was, to her, the last remnant of her late sister. "He was Seiria's companion, I could never-"
"It was a joke, Aislin," the man's nearly monotone voice interrupted while he looked back to her, daring to permit the corners of his lips to ascend in a meager smile.
"Of course," Aislin responded amidst a forced, trembling chuckle. It seemed like every word uttered, every thought created, somehow anchored her to those whose pictures decorated her solitary home. That was when she decided to change the subject. "How have you been, dear Ascharal? It has been a long time since your last visit."
"Three years since my last visit, my lady," Ascharal detailed, sounding both saddened and angered by the admission. "The last time you told me that, should I ever come back, you would demonstrate the definition of pain."
Aislin's heart sank as he reminded her of the last statement made in his presence. Her eyes turned apologetically to the floor.
"I didn't mean it, Ascharal," she half whispered in her response, lacing her fingers together in front of her robe. "I do not expect you to understand or condone what it is I've been feeling. The guilt runs so deeply I fear it will never lift." She turned her eyes away from him and back to the ingredients that she'd settled onto the table. "Trying to live with my decision that cost the lives of everyone close to me; cost us to lose Silvermoon City and half of Quel'thalas, all because of my stupidity?" Her head moved slowly from side to side. "Bearing that responsibility; having to be constantly reminded of it has all but destroyed me. But that is my punishment: to remember." Ascharal listened to each word without comment. Upon completion, he found himself as he always did, in prayer for so much as a consoling word for the maiden and, as always, there was none. Without preamble she inhaled a deep breath and forcibly fashioned a smile on her lips while turning back around to again face the man. "But you look well after three years. What have you been up to?"
It was only then that Aislin took the time to let her eyes wander upon him. She remembered when she met him so many decades ago. He was just a lad. Unsure of the world yet so confident to overtake it. His hatred for failure matched almost his hatred for noblecy that ran rampant upon their people within the grandoise walls of Silvermoon City. Now his face, though still carrying the same youthful exuberence hidden within the confines of his glistening eyes, bore the hardened, chisled frame of experience and authority. Authority that was boasted in his garb that she hadn't noticed until that moment, met with a blink. From his shoulders draped over his body a blood red coat atop a snow white robe with a gold, rune framed sash hung beautifully down the middle. Across his back, a regal, hooded cloak that matched the hue of his coat, and each fold seemed to be untouched. It was a noble's robe; one that signified dignity and leadership. It was the last thing she'd ever expected to see him don, as was evident by the look of surprise that soon manipulated her facial expression. It was then that she realized that his visit was not due to his desire to see her.
He could tell. That look of surprise was quickly altering into a look that one gets when they've been betrayed. His chest expanded and another sigh flowed from his lungs before he spoke.
"Yes. The purpose for my visit is business oriented," said Ascharal, hoping that somehow his following statement would quell what negative feeling she may be having, "I bring to you good news, Aislin. I bring words of hope."
"Hope?" Aislin repeated, her brows lowering, casting a darker shadow over an already distraught expression.
"Come," the man invited, his robe flowing effortlessly while he maneuvered the modest distance between himself and the single table in the room, withdrawing one of the chairs from its tucked location. "Allow me the time to explain."
Aislin hesitated. She could feel the weak muscles of her jaw tighten from apprehension but she found herself complying, sliding into the chair. Ascharal assumed his place in the opposing seat facing the woman.
The conversation that followed was greatly one-sided. Without great ceremony did Ascharal describe the events that had taken place since the even that had cost the Sin'dorei their home. He detailed how those who were able to flee the Scourge army as they overran Silvermoon City had sought refuge in the underground Forsaken city but were soon turned away and were forced to seek the assistance of the Orcs in Orgrimmar. He detailed how he had led the, as he described them, flock of sheep. That description finally withdrew from Aislin a vaguely sincere smile while she watched him speak. He went on to talk about how the survivors eventually ended up being shunned by most of their Horde allies in fear that the Scourge would follow them so had settled into an abandoned human town in the Alterac Mountains. What Ascharal said next cultivated shock inside Aislin. Ascharal went on to talk about how his leadership of the refugees through their ordeal caused them to unanimously and unargumentatively title him their newest prince and he had accepted. Aislin had always known Ascharal to be the definitive loner. She recalled how, in his past, he would constantly complain about the Sin'dorei and took every chance to get away from Silvermoon City that was offered to him. Moreover his disposition for the city's noble houses was enough to drive him into a fit of rage every time one of the glamorously clad representatives so much as displayed their face within common area. Or, she further recalled, his habit of disappearing in the middle of conversation during the times they had spent together only to be briefly interrupted by the briefest greetings offerd to her by a companion. Now, here he sat before her, elected to assume the throne left behind by Kael'Thas Sunstrider, the Sin'dorei prince whom the elves looked upon to lead them to glory during the Burning Crusade. Outside of that shock, suspicion began to originate.
"I am happy for you, Ascharal," she sincerely commented though not without a look which reflected that which she was feeling, "but what does that have to do with your unexpected visit today?"
Ascharal looked on her in silence for a moment though not from unwant of speech. His mouth hung slightly agape as though an answer was supposed to be there, but they had not made it past the sudden nervous tightening inside his throat. Aislin had forever a way of making him feel like a child about to be scolded for tipping the potted plant and that forced him to try and phrase his words carefully. He wished of her to do something for him and inwardly he knew that it would be difficult to convince her into compliance.
"As.. as I said, Aislin." he began, breaking eye contact to look at the tabletop, "there is hope for your retribution. For salvation from your torment."
Aislin would not deny there was an aire of amusement from watching the "prince" so humbled merely by her presence, though the predominant emotion was not gleeful by any definition. She sat, silent, and waited for him to continue. He, on the other hand, waited for her to inquire as though that would somehow dampen the apprehension that her stare was conjuring. Once realizing that he would be granted no such pardon, he inhaled a breath and began to explain.
"Since the cessation of assault on Quel'thalas from Arthas' armies, the Cenarion Circle of Druids has been researching what could be done to salvage, if not save, what of our kind and our land as they can," he said. "They have discovered a way to open a portal and allow someone back," he paused, "into the past."
Aislin felt her heart stop and her expression altered from one of suspicion to one of shock. He needn't say more for her to understand, though he attempted to reinforce his offer. "You would return with your memories. You could be prepared to prevent what happened."
"I do not know what happened! Where I went wrong is still a mystery," Aislin defied.
He, on the other hand, felt obligated to make an attempt at lessening the sudden tension that had waxed in the atmosphere of the room. With an almost dismissive backward wave of his hand and a falsely disarming smile born on his lips, he scoffed quietly, "You know those Druids and their 'Earth Mother'. Tch."
"That is an utterly ridiculous proposal, Ascharal," Aislin answered, her voice carrying the sound of one freshly insulted. Her eyes descended onto the top of the table and she shook her head, pupils dancing around as if seeking the answer written somewhere in the grain of the wood. She stood up suddenly. "That the Horde would even tempt such powerful magic is.. is.. incomprehensible! Irresponsible! Especially for the Druids!"
Ascharal inhaled deeply and felt his face steel. He had feared this reaction from the woman whom he had expected would harbor a level of fear for magic since the past, regardless of the arcane addiction their kind had always been privy to.
"That you would seek them out and request that they would commit their purpose to this?" Aislin continued. "What were you thinking?!"
"I was thinking that I have a people in trouble," Ascharal responded without missing a breath, his voice turning monotone and almost cold; just the way Aislin remembered it. "Our kind lives on the outskirts of Azeroth, Aislin, scavenging off of whatever scraps the rest of the Horde feels they can provide. The life of alley cats is not the kind of life we proud Sin'dorei should be living. What makes us different from the Wretched now if not only their loss of control of their addiction?" He stood himself smoothly from his chair and bothered not to return his eyes upon the woman. "I came to you not only because your power and your heart are almost legendary, but because I l-" he stopped suddenly and quickly redirected his statement, "you are my friend. I felt that, besides myself, you above the rest would be willing to return and help right what once went wrong."
At that, Aislin's eyes narrowed and her brow descended.
"Then you do truly realize that I am to blame," she accused.
"No! That's not what I meant!" Ascharal attempted to defend himself, but he knew now that he was on the field of an already lost battle. Without further statement he threw his hands up into the air, defeated.
"Fine. If you do not wish to help your own kind and do something to change what life we live now," he looked to the various pictures settled elequently around the cottage, "to change your own life, then perhaps this is the way it should be."
"Get out," Aislin demanded, clenching her jaw. "You come to me seeking help and then flatten me when you do not get the answer you seek? What friendship have we left?" She stared at him with fire in her eyes. "Maybe I should have kept that promise I made when last you left." Feeling painful tears well in her eyes, she spun herself away from him and tried to walk into the farthest room from the table which, unfortunately for her, sat in the middle of the small building. "Just leave, Ascharal."
The mage prince never looked up from the tabletop. There he stood, staring at it for nearly a full minute before he wordlessly turned to the door. Aislin closed her eyes when she heard the slow rythm of his boots against the floor, gaining distance from her. They stopped suddenly once the door was open.
"If it is the magic that worries you," he said finally, emotion absent from his voice, "I feel you should know that the Tauren, Chief Wolftail.. Aldira.. is the one who discovered the spell. I know you haven't forgotten her," he said. "It would be her performing the rite directly and, just for further information," he finally turned just enough to speak over his shoulder, his long hair covering the majority of his face, "I did not seek them out. Aldira came to me."Aislin clenched her jaw again while Ascharal quietly closed the door behind him, signifying the completion of his visit. She was alone again, save for the once napping Hades staring with confusion from the door to her, round-tip ears swivelling. Aislin sniffed once and looked up, her vision clouded by the stinging tears that she had become immune to. Outside the window through which she stared, the sky was beginning to darken from the late evening sun setting.
"I cannot do it again," she whispered to herself, slowly shaking her head. The thought of repeating each heartbreaking moment that another of her companions fell beneath the blades and claws of the undead was nearly unbearable to consider. "No," she told herself, reinforcing her decision with clenched fists. "I will not-"
She paused upon turning around and there, as though she had forgotten them, stood the pictures of her boystrously smiling sisiter, her tenacious late husband, and all of her companions. At the side of the bed, having raised himself into a seated position, was Hades with his black tailtuft moving back and forth in casual rythm, also staring at her. It was only then that Aislin began to realize just how uncomfortably silent her cottage was. Nobody was speaking to her anymore.

(( to be continued! ))