It was bound to happen >.>
"Dame Auriferous?"
"Yes; she's overseeing operations based in Tranquillien."
Galen Silverdawn felt his heart sink into his shoes. Tranquillien was deep in the Ghostlands, those parts of Quel'Thalas long given up for lost to the Scourge. At its border, the silver trees of Eversong yielded to twisted cariacatures of themselves. Nowhere was it more pronounced than the milky river Elrendar, only a few minutes away; on one side, the golden leaves of Eversong, on the other, the gnarled skeleton trees of the Ghostlands. Galen steeled himself and pressed his fist to his chest.
"Of course, Lord Bloodvalor. I will go at once."
The dark-haired man smiled and returned the salute, and a line of concern creased his brow. "Galen."
"My lord?" The silver-haired paladin looked up at the blood knight-lord who issued his orders. For him to say anything beyond his acceptance of the mission was unusual. What he had to say must be important.
"The Ghostlands are a den of evil and temptation for us. Take care that your mind remains clear and calm, and consider especially the thirst, for it has been known to trick the minds of even the most iron-willed warrior." A soft smile touched the older paladin's face. "Auriferous can wait until the morning."
He felt slightly insulted, but realized quickly that Bloodvalor spoke only out of concern for one of his knights. He dipped his head in respect.
"Yes. Thank you, my lord."
The champion inclined his dark head and Galen was dismissed. He walked back through the Royal Exchange to the inn, ignoring the flirty innkeeper and going up to his bed before the vintner could speak. It was just as well; Galen disliked the winemaster and the way he told bawdy stories about his retreats with Lord Saltheril.
The next day, he struck out for Tranquillien, moving with focused purpose. He ignored the dragonhawks that moved through the widely-spaced trees, and dealt with the occasional springpaw if it ventured too close. He mindfully avoided the Dead Scar to the east. The earth there was scorched with the Plague of Blight, and no living thing lasted long against the ravenous Scourge that stalked its length. All the way up through Silvermoon City it stretched, a broad swath of destruction carved by Arthas' undead march from Deatholme in the southern Ghostlands.
Galen knew that even further to the south lay the Plaguelands, which separated the blood elves from the Forsaken stronghold of Lordaeron. The Blight was still horribly in evidence there, or so Bloodvalor had told him. Galen had slaughtered many humans in his time, but still felt sick at the thought of watching people, human and elven alike, die and rise up again to do the bidding of the Lich King. The being who had formerly been Arthas Menethril controlled every undead Scourge telepathically from his throne in his icy stronghold in Northrend. Galen took a cold satisfaction in killing the ravagers of Quel'Thalas. He liked to pretend that each rotted corpse that crumpled at his feet was one part of Arthas dead, one part of the Lich King that was no longer able to fight.
The waters of the river Elrendar crept lazily through its banks, lacking the hurried youth of a stream, not yet a meandering giant at the sea's edge. The bridge over it was quite passable, but Galen paused at the hollow noises his booted footsteps made against the Ghostland trees. His eyes adjusted to the constant dusk, which blanketed the land even during the day. Shadows made eerie, grasping shapes, and Galen was unsettled by the bladed darkness and the glittering eyes of toothy things in the weakened scrub that yet clung to life. He had not yet set foot on the opposite bank, but already he felt the thrum of his magic addiction growing more insistent, as if the evil things at work in these groves were already pushing at his willful control.
Some of the eversong trees had escaped the death that so many of their kind suffered, but changed instead into mighty, dark giants whose branches hung like vultures' wings over the bone-white trees underneath. Instead of succumbing to the Ghostlands' plague, they embraced it, losing the lingering blessing of the destroyed Sunwell forever. He strode forward into the withered forest, dimly phosphorescent toadstools lighting his path.
Even the lightposts were bent and gnarled by the dark energies that commanded nature there, the same energies which starved the animals of Light, the same energies which allowed, even encouraged, the harboring of the undead Scourge. Lamps were lit by faerie fire, a ghoulish blue glow that did nothing to diminish his apprehension.
Tranquillien was not far and he reached it without mishap, although he had expected a savage onslaught of horror from the moment he set foot in the Ghostlands. He saw numerous dead and undead things lying in heaps, having taken the brunt of the swallow blades wielded by Guardians. He was grateful to the blood elves that worked to keep the roads in this death trap safe, for he was not eager to begin his questing here exhausted from battles already fought.
The town itself was not more than a few elven buildings in various states of disrepair, but the rough wooden wagons and carts of intrepid vendors were circled in various places, their owners clinging to a tenuous life in the encampment. As he neared, he was horrified to see the Forsaken walking freely about the hamlet, and more confused by the fact that the blood elves he saw paid them no mind.
The Forsaken were those undead who remembered their lives before the Plague of Blight that obliterated Lordaeron. They were largely human, although he saw at least one that had been elven in life, and he knew that Sylvanas Windrunner, their Dark Lady and undead queen, had been a blood elf before Arthas killed her. All Forsaken were fiercely loyal to Sylvanas, who had helped them throw off the mind control of the Lich King.
As he neared, a warlock looked to him with eagerness in his posture, his blonde hair gathered up into a ponytail at the back of his head. "You! Have you come from Silvermoon?"
Galen was affronted by the man's lack of respect, and waited a moment before replying. "I am."
"Then the road through is safe?"
"When I passed through, it was indeed safe," Galen replied quickly, sensing that this warlock was eager for information, and hoping that it might buy his way out of the conversation at the earliest possible time.
"The High Executor will be so pleased!" the arcanist said happily, and upon learning that the paladin was on his way to the service of Dame Auriferous, tasked him with delivering the news to the High Executor Mavren.
"Sir Warlock," Galen interrupted, cutting off the torrent of speech that continuously poured from the blood elf's mouth. "Why are the Forsaken here?" The presence of undead, even those that had managed to wriggle out from under the telepathic thumb of the Lich King, was disturbing and unsettling to him, and he demanded an answer.
The warlock sobered, brushing a lock of hair back over his shoulder. "The situation is grimmer than many realize. Had you no idea, paladin, of the brutal sway the Scourge hold over the Ghostlands? The Forsaken despise the Scourge as much as we do, and their aid is sorely needed to reclaim our lost ancestry." He hefted his staff in his right hand, and then sighed heavily. "Of course no one in Silvermoon breathes a word of how desperate we are for help."
"Knight-Lord Bloodvalor sent me to aid in any way I could, Arcanist...?"
"Vandril." The warlock's face softened, and Galen saw how the strain creased his brow only as it relaxed. "Thank you, paladin. We need all able-bodied sin'dorei to come to the aid of their people."
Vandril pointed the way up the hill to the command post, a round building where several rangers lingered outside, discussing the best way to attack groups of starving ghostclaw panthers that hunted the citizens. An undead warrior was sitting on the steps, and next to him, a Forsaken priest leaned against the wall. He paid them no mind; no matter how the Forsaken were helping to retake Quel'Thalas, it would not make any difference. They were undead and not to be trusted.
High Executor Mavren, he found, was also an undead, his blue-tinged skin half-eaten away, with glimpses of greyed bone showing through. He took the news thankfully, seeming not to notice Galen's discomfiture, and sent an elven runner with a message to Silvermoon.
Dame Auriferous stood in the middle of the room. She was stunningly beautiful, as all sin'dorei were, with the glowing green eyes of her people and thick, glossy auburn hair. She wore the traditional red of the blood elves, a reminder of all those that died in the Second War, and Galen wore his own red tunic and cape with similar sentiments. Never again would the zombie masses overwhelm them.
"You arrive quickly, paladin," she purred in a silky voice, one that spoke of creature comforts normally bypassed in a holy warrior's training. "We found the dead messenger with your conscript only last evening."
He took her in with both eyes, making no secret about his perusal of her curves. She had a body made for pleasure, and Galen had no doubt that many had experienced its delights. Her skin was pale, almost green in places, and Galen felt his libido stumble. Only repeated lapses in control of their magic addiction caused such color in a blood elf.
"I stand ready to cleanse the Scourge from our lands," he said, saluting her with his hand over his heart.
"Oh, the Scourge are not our immediate concern," she said, sounding mildly distracted.
"But it is good that you have arrived so quickly," she continued, "for I fear the Darnassians are ready to make their move."
Night-elves from the continent of Kalimdor. A flood of hatred surged through him, an ancient racial fire that was taught him at his mother's knee. He grit his teeth together. "How many are there?"
"A scout was able to bring back a count of twenty or so in a small group on Shalandis, to the west. They seem to be gathering strength for an initial skirmish." Her voice became tense with a discerning anger, and she clenched her fist, the green fire of fel-energy flaring in her eyes.
"There must be plans in their camp. Bring them to me and I'll reward you handsomely." Silver jingled in a purse at her sash, but there was a promise of seduction in her eyes, and Galen's lips quirked in a smile. "I look forward to it, my lady," he replied suavely.
He turned and swept out of the outpost, barely glancing at the undead outside, and walked out of Tranquillien toward the western coast.
The going was easy enough, and there were many Scourge that attempted to waylay him as he traveled the broken road over the Dead Scar. He dispatched them swiftly, his face souring as one of them splashed messily on his boots. With his sword, he cut them in half, carving his own path through the Dead Scar, and swearing to each one he felled that Quel'Thalas would have justice.
The swim to Shalandis, an island off the murloc-beset coast, was more trying, as his mail kept dragging him down. Only several moments along the beach, hidden away, provided him an opportunity to recoup his lost energies. He crept into the kaldorei camp, his skin prickling and heart racing. The night-elves went about their business, some restringing their bows, others sharpening blades. He wanted to charge blindly ahead and kill them all, slitting their purple throats before any had the chance to raise an alarm. It would be foolish, but the more he considered it, the more appealing it became. He crept forward, crawling ahead low in the grass, trying to formulate an order of attack. Suddenly, a movement at the edge of his vision made him pause.
To his horror, he saw a night-elf, her slender body fading into view as she dispelled her shadowmeld. Her silver-lit eyes were paired with a cruel smile. "Kill the defiler!" she screamed, and Galen leaped up, thrusting his sword through her chest, and delighting in the way the green light from his eyes lit her dying face. "Filthy night-elf bitch," he swore at her as he shoved her body off his blade onto the grass, and turned to face the other kaldorei that had come too late to her aid.
The men used staves and cudgels, and were no match for his sword alone, but the arrows and magic shot at a distance by the women were enough to give the edge to the brawny night-elf men. One landed a crushing blow to Galen's unarmored temple, and he was dazed for a moment, and then felt an arrow's tip burn his sword arm. He turned, throwing his other hand to cover the wound as it seeped blood, and the men brought all their weight behind their staves into his back. He made a strangled yell at the blinding pain, and fell to his knees, unable to breathe or even think beyond the constant blows that battered him from all sides. A dagger-tip found its way between his shoulder blades, and as he doubled over, one of their booted feet connected with his ribs, leaving him collapsed in the soft grass. He waited for the death blow.
It never came. A shield of light blunted the falling staff, and arrows bounced off it as the maddened night-elves tried again to kill their captured blood elf. Galen heard their outrage, and he tried to lift his head and find his benefactor, but found himself lacking the strength. He saw the dark red of his blood staining his hair as it fell over his face, and it took the fight out of him. The priest, whoever it was, could not save him; he was still losing blood too badly.
As if in response to his dwindling thoughts, a golden spell settled over him, the familiar cooling of healing magic numbing the bruises and arrow wounds. He sighed softly as the pain faded under the priest's magic, and then slung the shallow-bit dagger out of his back with a shake of his shoulders. A gasp wheezed out of him when the blade fell free, but the priest was already healing him again, and this time, the dagger's ugly mark was closed as well.
The night-elves stood back as their dead blood elf stood up, having realized that the shield thwarted all their efforts, but never having the sense to look for the priest who kept the shield up. He could not see his savior over the burly men, but he called out, "My thanks, priest!"
"Thank me when you've killed them all, paladin!" came the reply in a hoarse female yell; she was at some distance away to avoid detection. The night-elves turned their heads toward her, and Galen took advantage of their distraction to decapitate two of them from behind the shield.
To her credit, the priest never let the shield drop for more than a few moments, and any blows that landed while the shield was down were quickly healed. She was a good healer, and with her help, he laid waste to the kaldorei, leaving their bodies crumpled in broken heaps around him. He spotted the one with the dagger sheath at her waist and spit on her dead face as he walked to take the plans from the tents on the other side of the island.
With the scrolls firmly in his possession, he walked back to find his priest and give his thanks. As he crossed the clearing, he heard a soft cough from one of the hollow tree trunks at the clearing's edge. He turned, and found the priest sitting inside the tree. Her long white robe was muddied at the knees, and she seemed to be propped up. Within a few strides, before he could even make her out clearly, he knew why; her mana was totally exhausted. She had no smell of magic about her at all.
Except...for that magic. He was brought up short as he approached the tree and recognized the faint magical aura that pervaded her body. The Plague of Blight, a magical disease which caused undeath. It was faint, but there, hovering about her like a moth. She surprised him by having no smell of death about her at all, no odor of decay, as he had expected from being so close to one of her kind. She smelled faintly of seagrass, a sweet, sandy smell, not at all unpleasant. She smiled at him weakly, and he knelt next to her, determined not to let his thanks go unpaid.
She was beautiful, or had been, in life, with fine features and full lips made grey-green by her changed blood. Her pupils had long ago vanished with the Blight; only featureless black orbs occupied her eye sockets now. Her hair must have once been brown or blonde, but it was now a shock of teal that stood up and out from her head. Her skin was an appalling ashen white, and her bones, dove grey, showed plainly at the elbows and near her wrists.
Galen wordlessly took a skin from his bags and offered it to her, watching as she pulled the cork out and drank of the refreshing water greedily. The smell of magic returned to her slowly. When she offered the skin back to him, he raised his hand to wave her off. "You need it more than I do."
"Thank you, paladin." Her voice was sweet and soft, and she tilted her head back, resting it against the wood. He realized with a start that she was the undead priest in Tranquillien
They were natural enemies, or at least, she was his natural enemy. But was he hers?
"You followed me from Tranquillien." His statement held a ring of accusation, and she nodded in reply.
"I was the scout who found the camp," she murmured, her voice gaining strength. "They sent you alone, and I knew that wouldn't be enough."
"I have confidence in my skills as a warrior," Galen said defensively.
"I had confidence in my skills as a healer," she snapped back, "But my mana was totally drained. If you'd been killed, there would have been nothing I could have done." She looked down at the half-drunk skin, clutched in thin white fingers. "And then the night-elves would have won." The sounds of evening filled what would have been an otherwise awkward silence.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Galen said finally. She was having a strange effect on him; he felt obligated to soothe her and make her feel better. It was strange for him to feel such concern for anyone, much less an undead. For a brief moment, his arrogance and self-importance fell away, and he was concerned for the feelings of another sentient human being. "You saved my life. For that, I am eternally grateful." He paused.
"Even to an undead." His reckless mouth tore ahead, and the words were out before he had the sense to stop himself.
She smiled. "Just because I do not live does not mean I wish others to die, paladin."
Galen was inwardly surprised. He had expected a vindictive nature, or something at least mildly hateful, but she was a well-spoken priestess, gentle and self-deprecating in spite of her skill. "You must not call me 'paladin'. I should be addressed properly," he said haughtily, with a heavy wink.
A ghost of a smile played at her lips. "What shall I call you, then?"
He took her hand from her lap, seeing that she did not have the bone-spike phalanges of some undead. Her skin was smooth and chilled, and felt like marble as he pressed his lips chastely to the back of her hand. "Galen Silverdawn, at your service."
Her smile grew wider, and no cracks erupted in her decaying skin, as he had half-expected they would. "Tamsin Hartwell, my lord," she replied, inclining her head demurely.
Galen smiled at her and ran his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance."
Tamsin was at once coquettish and shy, her black eyes both direct and evasive. The mystery of her was intriguing. Galen was beginning to discover that the Forsaken, or at least, this Forsaken, was not quite what he had made them out to be.