First Light III

How does one talk about endings?  Can I even begin to describe the feeling of being hunted by Alterac, endless skirmishes with the trolls and ogres, or the darkness that both preceded and followed those days of rage?

I don’t know.  I really don’t.  I can try, and hold this as a record of that attempt.

Sarah Winslow passed the middle of the next day, feverish and chilled despite the roaring fire I built.  She had begged that I cut the ogre’s spear to pull it out, but after the first of her screams and the splatter of blood that came with even handling the tip that had pushed through her I adamantly told her I wouldn’t.  I wrapped and bandaged around the spear the best I could, and she lay on my travel blanket, on her side, facing away from the fire.  Eventually, the coppery smell of her blood mixed with the sticky, sweet smell of the poison the Witherbark trolls had been using for as long as I’d known.

I sat there, numbly listening to her incoherent moans and rambling, breathing in the poison’s aroma.   I knew she hadn’t a chance out here in the middle of nowhere, and we both waited for her to simply pass.  Finally — and in my darkest hours, mercifully — she went quiet I marked her body for grave detail.  I couldn’t bury her alone, but we could come back.  She deserved at least that.

The snow was so deep that I had to walk Tatum, and it took me four days to get back to our main camp, or what was left of it.  Even from miles out you could see the columns of smoke.  In the time I was gone Alterac had moved against what little organized resistance there was in the western Highlands.  In less than a week, over this past winter, that organized resistance was mercilessly crushed, butchered, or enslaved.  Those of us who survived it had no choice.  We quietly, and quickly, began to leave the territory or filter into what remained of Stromgarde’s holdings.  Our war, it seemed, was over.

First Light II

My experience has taught me that it is a matter of will that sees us through life.  These moments — and I think we all recognize them — that come to define us are all about will.  Those who have that will, that inner strength, make the decision to continue on, knowing what it will cost them, and those that don’t fall stagnate or simply fade.  Is my survival about will?  Is Stromgarde’s failing about a lack of quality?  Maybe time will tell in regards to both, hm?

Forty minutes.  Forty minutes and my lungs screamed, my legs felt like stone, and my face burned.  The sound of battle had died some time ago, and even Pipit — who ran ahead and then returned, bounding over snow drifts — seemed to strain to retain the trail.  Finally, I stopped, and leaned against a granite outcropping at the bottom of a steep hill, staring upwards into the hard, blue sky as I struggled to catch my breath.  Pipt stopped too, his tongue lolling, his ears up and alert.  For a long moment we stared at one another, and then he jerked, his ears flat and his body tense.

“Help!”

Up the hill.  I craned my neck and drew my bow, struggling with the string through my gloved hands.  Pipit burst up the hill, struggling against the incline and the icy granite.

A heart beat, and then a single, gaunt figure appeared at the top of the hill, dressed in layers of winter clothing.  I strained to make out a face, and nocked an arrow.

“Alice!” the figure screamed, and I recognized the voice.

“Sarah!”  Sarah Winslow, One of the foragers.

“What-” I began, but the bellow of an ogre drowned me out.

Sarah jumped and began to slide down the hill, balancing on her hands and her feet.  The brute appeared at the top of the hill swinging a throwing spear and roared again.  I drew back and sighted, but the beast glowered down at Sarah and gave the spear a delicate toss.

I fired, and the arrow caught the ogre in the chest, burying itself in muscle.  It screamed in rage and pain, and stared down at me in surprise.  It’s eyes narrowed, and it started recklessly down the hill towards me.

I fired a second time, and again the arrow buried itself in the ogre’s chest.  It didn’t slow down.

I cursed and aimed lower, burying my next shot into it’s knee.  It stumbled, and I shot again, slicing the arrow into the ogre’s other leg.  With a howl, it lost its footing and pitched forward, rolling down the uneven granite hill and into a tree below.  The brute groaned, and I took final aim, this time sighting down the arrow towards its head.

Only when the ogre lay dead did I notice the growing slick of red blood on the icy hill.  It wasn’t from the ogre.

Tatum

Tatum is an eleven year old mare Alice acquired from an Alterac noble in the western reaches of the Highlands a few years ago.  The horse comes from a long line of Alterac steeds that were bred from the famous Balnir stock before the Second War.  Tatum even sports the traditional gray coat of her ancestors.

First Light I

I’ve always thought that life was divided into a handful of moments; a series of challenges or choices one must make.  It is how we react to those moments — these personal trials of character — that determine how others see us, and, perhaps more importantly, how we see ourselves.  For a long time, when I looked in the mirror I didn’t exactly like what I was seeing.  It wasn’t the new, hard life I’d found myself living.  I’d gotten use to the gaunt, skinny build and the ragged, knotted hair of living on the run.  It was my face.; all bruised and old and feral.  The face staring back at me was that of a stranger; of someone who lived life on a razor’s edge, who fought for a hopeless cause, and who left everything behind for the cause.

I think I spent those years in the Highlands wondering if I’d made the wrong decision.

The first clang of battle came early, carried on a frigid easterly wind.  I had just finished packing as the first rays of sunlight crept above the wintry crags in the distance, casting everything in the deepest of orange hues and angular shadow.  The camp itself still seemed to sleep, oblivious to the drone of metal on metal, and even the fire had died to a few hot coals that held hard against the frigid Highland winter air.  Still, the sky was empty of clouds, and the day promised to be a bit warmer than the last few weeks.  Winter, it seemed, was taking the day off, and absent of hard weather the sound would carry for miles.

“Pipet.”

The hound raised his head and tensed, straining as his ears perked.

Another clang.

I dropped my pack into the snow, and he bolted upright, all angles and energy, ready to explode.  I checked my inventory, noting my blades, my bow, and my quiver.

“Let’s go,” I said quietly, and began the slog through the knee deep snow towards the sounds.

Letters III

Dear Ren,

I hope this letter finds you well.

We thank you for the supplies.   We should be secure to ride out the winter now, although several of the lads have gone missing while foraging.  I’m going myself in the morning to see if I can pick up their trail.  Highland winters can be harsh, and even as daft as some of these people are we all know that without shelter they’re liable to freeze to death within a few days.  Thankfully, the weather has been good, despite the series of snow storms that have rolled through in this last month.

As for the Tal Shanre, I’m no mariner, but one of the girls in the tavern in Southshore is the daughter of the port authority there. I wrote my husband, and he worked his charms with her.  Her father has agreed to talk with his counterparts in Menethil, Boralus, and Stormwind.  Officially, the ship will be listed as missing, and should the Night Elves and Goblins choose to cooperate it’s likely that we’ll know if, and when, the ship reaches any port outside of Northrend.  That, I’m afraid, is the best I can do.

I should note that none of our cargo, nor any of our people, were on board the ship.

I also thank you in reference to our plight.  I suppose with the center of human power now to the south it is difficult to consider the utter ruin tat has propagated here.  One would think that Stormwind would be more considerate given the resources Stromgarde bestowed upon the kingdom to reclaim its lands from the orcs and rebuild it’s capital.  Such, sadly, is the way of things.  Bollocks to it all, though.

Good luck with your search,
Alice

Pipit

Name: Pipit
Class: Hyena
Tree: Ferocity
Source: Scarlet Tracking Hound, Scarlet Library

Can you get away with calling a hyena a tracking hound, as Blizzard did in the Scarlet Monastery instance?  We’ll see, eh?

Pipit is a four year old hound that Alice acquired after the sacking of her home.  He is specifically trained to keep pace with the hunter and her mount, a gray mare named Tatum, as well as serve as sentry and tracking animal.  She rarely travels without him, and he has quite readily adapted to her more transient lifestyle.

Letters II

Greetings Ren,

Please excuse the lengthy delay in replying to your letter.  As you advised, I attempted to locate the Tal Shanre, but the vessel has either been lost or has left the the Menethil and Highland area.  I’m enclosing a handful of letters from the dock master in Menethil, as I’m sure you’re interested in what has happened to your former shipmates.  I hope they prove more useful in your hands.

We managed to secure some supplies from Hillsbrad in recent weeks, but it certainly won’t be enough to see us through the winter.  We sent out a handful of men and women to forage, but another blizzard has rolled in, and it looks like a raid on the ogres at their outpost to the east may be in order.   Still, any help you could offer would be appreciated, and we could certainly pay.  Enclosed, alongside the letters, is a list of equipment and other supplies we’ll be needing.

As for the lack of reinforcements, it is as everyone here has suspected.  Stromgarde lies mostly in ruins, and even the dwarves are having a difficult time to the south.  One wonders exactly what the leaders of the Grand Alliance are thinking these days.  Even a regiment would make a difference here.

Such is the way of things, though.

I hope this finds you in good health,
Alice

Alice’s RSP.

A bit on the short side this rather plain looking woman has intense green eyes and black, curly hair cut abruptly at the shoulder.  She is pale, but vigorous in disposition and appearance.  She wears her armor in layers, mixing leather, clothing, and chain, giving her the appearance of bulk despite whatever figure may be under all that gear.  Her bow, unstrung, is held against the heavy, hooded cloak on her back, secured by a quiver full of arrows.  Her swords, matching blades, are strapped against her right hip in their scabbards behind a heavy pouch that is held in place by a wide leather strap that runs diagonally across her chest.

All and all, she appears to be a woman used to travel.

Letters I

To the first mate of the Tal Shanre,

I suspect the recent poor weather brought on by winter conditions forced you miss the signal fires for the rendezvous.   The sudden blizzard has held us up as well, but we managed to light the fires for the third and fourth meeting times.  Still, no ship.

It’s vital we have these supplies and maintain this supply route.  With the fall of Dun Modr and the Forsaken presence in Hillsbrad the flow of supplies into Arathi by the Alliance has trickled.  The war up north hasn’t helped either.  It seems we’re all but abandoned down here as it is.

Last time we talked you said you’d ask around about reinforcements for the Stromgarde garrison in the city proper and at the Pointe.  Any news at all?  A bit of relief for the military would certainly take some pressure off of those of us in the western reaches.

Regards,
Alice Bleichert

Introduction

They’ve called us “war babies.”  I suppose it makes sense given that it was my generation that was not only born in the terrible time of the Orc invasion of our lands, but who paid witness to the rise of the dead and the collapse of humanity’s northern lands.  We are, in a sense, book ended by conflict and destruction.

The thing I wonder, in the philosophical sense, is whether or not there is some sense of order when all of this is finished.  Certainly, there was order in my youth, and even a righting of the ship in terms of prosperity.  In an era where rivers of blood flow I wonder if there is any going back for my generation.  Are we doomed to fight on forever, even should we defeat our enemies?  I like to think there’s a home and order and a future of peace for me when Alterac is expelled from the Highlands and all is right in the wider world.  Is there?