- Joined
- Sep 2, 2012
- Messages
- 25
The Burning Memories of Eversong Woods
The tavern of Goldshire was a quaint but welcoming place with a fireplace and drink that warmed the souls of weary workers. The mothers and wives of Elwynn Forest have claimed that drinking has long been the curse of the working class, for it left their husbands with little inhibition and even less gold. For those men that were prone to violent outbursts upon completion of a flagon of mead, the Stormwind guards would beat sobriety back into them. But God help those that fall victim of drunken Stormwind guards, for such a spectacle was a sport to be watched by citizens and guards alike.
Recent attacks upon traveling merchants and their caravans in Westfall and the uprising of the People's Militia have spread some sort of union of unity and ignorance among the people of Elywnn Forest. New faces were judged with the presumption of guilt before innocence. Those deemed "suspicious" were denied service or lodging. The Defias Brotherhood seemed successful in striking fear as the people disguised it as ignorance united. For the truth was that the people were terrified at what could be a random looting of their households at the dead of night or an innocent stroll through the forest turning into a bloody scavenging of life. Thus, there was some sort of warmth through collective ignorance. Of course, illusions are just merely illusions at the end, and united ignorance can only go but one way that is division.
Perhaps that division was well-experienced on the night of the 2nd moon, when two elves dressed in red cloaks entered the tavern of Goldshire. The tavern that was once vibrant in cheerful music and rambunctious laughter and the clink of glass slowly turned silent. The eyes were gazing at the ears.
"Blood elves?"
"Wot is their kin doin' in Elwyn'?"
"Shouln't they be famish'd by the lack of magicks?"
The whispering continued even after the elves sat themselves down at a vacant table in the middle of the tavern. Perhaps this behavior was perceived as effrontery by those lacking inhibition. A couple of these men in ragged tunics stood and confronted the elves.
"Yor kin ain't welcome here."
"Leave elf! Yor elv'n ears not cap'ble of hearin' sound? Oy! Ar' you deaf?"
The female elf coolly turned her head to the man and replied, "We are the Quel'dorei. We have no affiliation with the blood elves. Nor do we wish to be perceived as affiliated."
The man attempted to reach and grab the elf's ears by the fist. He was thwarted by the male elf who held the wrist with a grip which surely felt unholy as was painful.
"We do not wish to quarrel. Leave us be," he disclosed quite dangerously as the man cringed in agony, his face contorted with pain, rage, and embarrassment. The elf abandoned the wrist and began to speak softly in Thalassian to his companion.
The two men returned to their tables, and everything resumed as it once was, save the fact that now there were two elves in the tavern of Goldshire. There was still much gossip as the commoners rudely discussed Elven lore and the history of Quel'Thalas with as much contempt as there were falsities. Not much can be expected among the uncultured working class of Elwynn Forest.
Perhaps not more than an hour passed since the arrival of the elves when a Stormwind guard entered the tavern. Upon spotting the two elves, he beckoned them to follow, and the elves left without any words or a glance.
However, a small, dark purple orb was left on the table. Smaller than a fist, the purple cloudiness within the orb swirled.
A row suddenly emerged at the bar counter as the sound of shattering glass preceded enraged voices and the cracking of wood. The two men who had confronted the elves earlier slammed, smashed, and exchanged blows with each other until they knocked over the table, where they too fell over, on which the orb did rest.
Of course, the men did not notice the orb or if it shattered nor did they notice that the world around them begin to blend and swirl into violet cloudiness. The man with the upper-hand raised his fist and struck down with enough force to effect unconsciousness. However, the metallic shock and vibration from the collision that rang throughout his entire body, encased in armor and helmet, was enough for him to fall over and come to his senses.
They were in the edge of the wilderness. Nothing could be seen past the hill.
"Men! This is no time for quarrel among our ranks!" A voice boomed.
The two men in dissipated rage turned their heads to the source of the sober voice. The source of the voice belonged to a beast of a human standing so tall and wide that he blocked the sun. Clad with full armor and a Lordaeron tabard, his hands were clasped in front of him wrapped around the hilt of a massive claymore in which the blade was sheathed into the ground.
"Get back to your posts!"
The Captain pointed his blade to a scout tower positioned near a lumber mill. The two men hastily and awkwardly stumbled to the tower.
"Where ar' we?"
The answer was given as bells began to ring with urgency.
"The enemy is here! On the Eastern hill!"
"Tight formations! Enable no orc to pass Eversong!"
Horror crept into the expressions behind the iron helmets of the two. They were on a battlefield. They froze as the sounds of rattling armor assembling beside and behind them and the unsheathing of swords pierced their ears. In the distance, on top of a small hill were seen the orcs in a long line facing them. First it were the raiders that charged with blistering speed, their long swords glinting with the sun, and their wolves' fangs bared menacingly. Death seemed to ride alongside them; His scythe reflecting the hollow eyes of His murderous intentions. The grunts charged from behind; the land shook with the combination and sheer number of feet that slammed into the ground. The final horror were to be seen in the sky. Red dragons so terrifyingly enormous that huge portions of the land were overshadowed.
The two men were unsure whether it was because of the charge that their leg armor rattled or whether it was their own actual legs that were shaking. All they knew was that sensibility was taking over, and as the orcs' batallion were about to collide with Lordaeron's several platoons, they broke ranks and fled.
As fast as they could flee with heavy armor, they could not outrun the flames. The woods were being bombarded by fiery rain. They could no longer run. Surrounded in flames, they stood back to back collapsing into a heap of defeated metal. And then, they were engulfed in it.
Searing pain, the agony of the soul burning as it clings to survival, they scream. And as they open their scorched eyes with humanly defiance, they see in the sea of blue and orange, the mutilation and decapitation of soldiers, some as young as 17 whose cries no longer sound like the brave adults in which they disguised themselves pledging their service to the nation:
"Pride for Lordaeron.. Victory for Humanity.. Such is the purpose of The Alliance. We shall drive the Horde back to the spawning depths of their filth and take back Azeroth!"
Burned into the ashes of history, it was nothing more than blind honor and pride that engineered the construction of the Youth Platoon of Lordaeron. The illusion of victory, the illusion of Destiny! These were the ideals that encased the spirits as an aura. The body may fail, but dogma never dies.
Within the agony of the flames, the two men perceived arrows rain upon the blackened battlefield that is Eversong. Torrents of arcane magic hurled between the burning trees, orcs torched alive by Elven magic, perforated by the rain that did not cease, the cries of death lingered as an echo.
The skies began to be filled with other creatures with wings, eagle heads, and a lion's body. The gryphon riders flew onward to assault the dragons with their magically enchanted Wild-hammers.
The orcs that were commanded to move forward and engage were left confused as their own fears took hold of their bodies. Their comrades around them would burst into flame and fall motionless. Others would scream mighty warcries as the arrows dug deep into their flesh, and as they struggled to press forward, their bodies failed, collapsing.
Their retreat was a disorganized mess of broken formation. Dragons fell to the ground with massive ground-shaking thuds. Orcs scrambled past dead bodies some tripping over armor or an intact root. As they attempted to make their escape, the Western hills were lined with Calvary from Lordaeron. Like the raiders, the knights charged the fleeing orcs cutting off their escape. The handful of the survivors of the Youth Platoon lay crouched as the knights passed them mercilessly, without care, with only one intent.
And as the knights were fading into the distance, there was a parley between the messengers of the shaky human-elven alliance. The two men heard this from the female elf's mouth:
"In the defense of our kingdom, ancient Quel'Thalas and in part, Eversong Woods, you dispatch a suicide squad in which you call the Lordaeron Youth Platoon? For what good purpose? To delay the orcs' advance? Is your race comprised of fools, human? What has resulted in your delay tactics has been the destruction of an ancient land by dragonfire. Where were the gryphon riders when the dragons were first sighted? Now our lands lay forever scorched by human incompetence. This will not go unnoticed or forgiven by the Convocation."
The burning intensified, and the pain the two men were experiencing was unfathomable. Blinded by another rain of dragonfire, all senses were relinquished. As their flesh slid off, they were mere skeletons in armor. The dead bodies on the battlefield rose as skeletal warriors. Alongside their other undead comrades, they marched on top of what once was blackened land, now blighted. The blight crept forward as they marched forward.
"The Undead shall advance no further!"
Fire erupted once more such that the blight could no longer proceed. However, the two men along with the legions of undead advanced into the flames. Scarred and charred but to no avail, the invasion of Silvermoon was swift and merciless. Elven soldiers fell to the tide and joined the tide. All things living were to be purged. The city fell to self-inflicted flames.
And the cold, maniacal laughter of a once-holy prince reverberated throughout the city. So cold the voice was that when it touched the minds of the two men, sanity teetered on the edge. When it seemed as if it were to topple over the edge into a dark oblivion, a male, elven voice was heard, and whiteness washed over the mens' senses:
"We are the Quel'dorei. Our city of Quel'thalas has prospered for generations withstanding legions of enemies. Our true fall is perhaps within our pride and arrogance. For generations we have prospered.. for generations we have thought to prosper more. We and our lands have suffered the flame of war, and then we were forced to self-inflict it. Now we are scattered without a home. Some of our brothers and sisters have sought a greater purpose: revenge they call it. But the revenge is only a ruse for a greater evil; we elves are addicted to magic, and only those in power possess it. My brethren have succumbed to it unable to thwart the addiction but to be led by it, and by those who possess it.
Vendel'o eranu.. For I did call myself the Sin'dorei, but I have forsaken that pride. Now I just wish to find a place that my brethren can truly call home."
As the voice faded away into a tragic silence, the white world around the two men swirled into a purple cloudiness. When they awoke, they found themselves on bundles of hay outside the tavern of Goldshire. Their faces numb from the bruises inflicted by each other, the two looked at each other, and a mutual respect was formed.
As the sun began to rise from the East, in the distance, two silhouettes with red cloaks rode on horseback. The two men watched as they rode into the sun their silhouettes already becoming distorted with the summer's heat.
NOTES
"The mothers and wives of Elwynn Forest have claimed that drinking has long been the curse of the working class, for it left their husbands with little inhibition and even less gold."
-Variation of the Oscar Wilde quote: "Work is the curse of the drinking classes."
- Quel'dorei = high elves
- Vendel'o eranu = help me forget
- Sin'dorei = children of the sun (Blood elves)
The tavern of Goldshire was a quaint but welcoming place with a fireplace and drink that warmed the souls of weary workers. The mothers and wives of Elwynn Forest have claimed that drinking has long been the curse of the working class, for it left their husbands with little inhibition and even less gold. For those men that were prone to violent outbursts upon completion of a flagon of mead, the Stormwind guards would beat sobriety back into them. But God help those that fall victim of drunken Stormwind guards, for such a spectacle was a sport to be watched by citizens and guards alike.
Recent attacks upon traveling merchants and their caravans in Westfall and the uprising of the People's Militia have spread some sort of union of unity and ignorance among the people of Elywnn Forest. New faces were judged with the presumption of guilt before innocence. Those deemed "suspicious" were denied service or lodging. The Defias Brotherhood seemed successful in striking fear as the people disguised it as ignorance united. For the truth was that the people were terrified at what could be a random looting of their households at the dead of night or an innocent stroll through the forest turning into a bloody scavenging of life. Thus, there was some sort of warmth through collective ignorance. Of course, illusions are just merely illusions at the end, and united ignorance can only go but one way that is division.
Perhaps that division was well-experienced on the night of the 2nd moon, when two elves dressed in red cloaks entered the tavern of Goldshire. The tavern that was once vibrant in cheerful music and rambunctious laughter and the clink of glass slowly turned silent. The eyes were gazing at the ears.
"Blood elves?"
"Wot is their kin doin' in Elwyn'?"
"Shouln't they be famish'd by the lack of magicks?"
The whispering continued even after the elves sat themselves down at a vacant table in the middle of the tavern. Perhaps this behavior was perceived as effrontery by those lacking inhibition. A couple of these men in ragged tunics stood and confronted the elves.
"Yor kin ain't welcome here."
"Leave elf! Yor elv'n ears not cap'ble of hearin' sound? Oy! Ar' you deaf?"
The female elf coolly turned her head to the man and replied, "We are the Quel'dorei. We have no affiliation with the blood elves. Nor do we wish to be perceived as affiliated."
The man attempted to reach and grab the elf's ears by the fist. He was thwarted by the male elf who held the wrist with a grip which surely felt unholy as was painful.
"We do not wish to quarrel. Leave us be," he disclosed quite dangerously as the man cringed in agony, his face contorted with pain, rage, and embarrassment. The elf abandoned the wrist and began to speak softly in Thalassian to his companion.
The two men returned to their tables, and everything resumed as it once was, save the fact that now there were two elves in the tavern of Goldshire. There was still much gossip as the commoners rudely discussed Elven lore and the history of Quel'Thalas with as much contempt as there were falsities. Not much can be expected among the uncultured working class of Elwynn Forest.
Perhaps not more than an hour passed since the arrival of the elves when a Stormwind guard entered the tavern. Upon spotting the two elves, he beckoned them to follow, and the elves left without any words or a glance.
However, a small, dark purple orb was left on the table. Smaller than a fist, the purple cloudiness within the orb swirled.
A row suddenly emerged at the bar counter as the sound of shattering glass preceded enraged voices and the cracking of wood. The two men who had confronted the elves earlier slammed, smashed, and exchanged blows with each other until they knocked over the table, where they too fell over, on which the orb did rest.
Of course, the men did not notice the orb or if it shattered nor did they notice that the world around them begin to blend and swirl into violet cloudiness. The man with the upper-hand raised his fist and struck down with enough force to effect unconsciousness. However, the metallic shock and vibration from the collision that rang throughout his entire body, encased in armor and helmet, was enough for him to fall over and come to his senses.
They were in the edge of the wilderness. Nothing could be seen past the hill.
"Men! This is no time for quarrel among our ranks!" A voice boomed.
The two men in dissipated rage turned their heads to the source of the sober voice. The source of the voice belonged to a beast of a human standing so tall and wide that he blocked the sun. Clad with full armor and a Lordaeron tabard, his hands were clasped in front of him wrapped around the hilt of a massive claymore in which the blade was sheathed into the ground.
"Get back to your posts!"
The Captain pointed his blade to a scout tower positioned near a lumber mill. The two men hastily and awkwardly stumbled to the tower.
"Where ar' we?"
The answer was given as bells began to ring with urgency.
"The enemy is here! On the Eastern hill!"
"Tight formations! Enable no orc to pass Eversong!"
Horror crept into the expressions behind the iron helmets of the two. They were on a battlefield. They froze as the sounds of rattling armor assembling beside and behind them and the unsheathing of swords pierced their ears. In the distance, on top of a small hill were seen the orcs in a long line facing them. First it were the raiders that charged with blistering speed, their long swords glinting with the sun, and their wolves' fangs bared menacingly. Death seemed to ride alongside them; His scythe reflecting the hollow eyes of His murderous intentions. The grunts charged from behind; the land shook with the combination and sheer number of feet that slammed into the ground. The final horror were to be seen in the sky. Red dragons so terrifyingly enormous that huge portions of the land were overshadowed.
The two men were unsure whether it was because of the charge that their leg armor rattled or whether it was their own actual legs that were shaking. All they knew was that sensibility was taking over, and as the orcs' batallion were about to collide with Lordaeron's several platoons, they broke ranks and fled.
As fast as they could flee with heavy armor, they could not outrun the flames. The woods were being bombarded by fiery rain. They could no longer run. Surrounded in flames, they stood back to back collapsing into a heap of defeated metal. And then, they were engulfed in it.
Searing pain, the agony of the soul burning as it clings to survival, they scream. And as they open their scorched eyes with humanly defiance, they see in the sea of blue and orange, the mutilation and decapitation of soldiers, some as young as 17 whose cries no longer sound like the brave adults in which they disguised themselves pledging their service to the nation:
"Pride for Lordaeron.. Victory for Humanity.. Such is the purpose of The Alliance. We shall drive the Horde back to the spawning depths of their filth and take back Azeroth!"
Burned into the ashes of history, it was nothing more than blind honor and pride that engineered the construction of the Youth Platoon of Lordaeron. The illusion of victory, the illusion of Destiny! These were the ideals that encased the spirits as an aura. The body may fail, but dogma never dies.
Within the agony of the flames, the two men perceived arrows rain upon the blackened battlefield that is Eversong. Torrents of arcane magic hurled between the burning trees, orcs torched alive by Elven magic, perforated by the rain that did not cease, the cries of death lingered as an echo.
The skies began to be filled with other creatures with wings, eagle heads, and a lion's body. The gryphon riders flew onward to assault the dragons with their magically enchanted Wild-hammers.
The orcs that were commanded to move forward and engage were left confused as their own fears took hold of their bodies. Their comrades around them would burst into flame and fall motionless. Others would scream mighty warcries as the arrows dug deep into their flesh, and as they struggled to press forward, their bodies failed, collapsing.
Their retreat was a disorganized mess of broken formation. Dragons fell to the ground with massive ground-shaking thuds. Orcs scrambled past dead bodies some tripping over armor or an intact root. As they attempted to make their escape, the Western hills were lined with Calvary from Lordaeron. Like the raiders, the knights charged the fleeing orcs cutting off their escape. The handful of the survivors of the Youth Platoon lay crouched as the knights passed them mercilessly, without care, with only one intent.
And as the knights were fading into the distance, there was a parley between the messengers of the shaky human-elven alliance. The two men heard this from the female elf's mouth:
"In the defense of our kingdom, ancient Quel'Thalas and in part, Eversong Woods, you dispatch a suicide squad in which you call the Lordaeron Youth Platoon? For what good purpose? To delay the orcs' advance? Is your race comprised of fools, human? What has resulted in your delay tactics has been the destruction of an ancient land by dragonfire. Where were the gryphon riders when the dragons were first sighted? Now our lands lay forever scorched by human incompetence. This will not go unnoticed or forgiven by the Convocation."
The burning intensified, and the pain the two men were experiencing was unfathomable. Blinded by another rain of dragonfire, all senses were relinquished. As their flesh slid off, they were mere skeletons in armor. The dead bodies on the battlefield rose as skeletal warriors. Alongside their other undead comrades, they marched on top of what once was blackened land, now blighted. The blight crept forward as they marched forward.
"The Undead shall advance no further!"
Fire erupted once more such that the blight could no longer proceed. However, the two men along with the legions of undead advanced into the flames. Scarred and charred but to no avail, the invasion of Silvermoon was swift and merciless. Elven soldiers fell to the tide and joined the tide. All things living were to be purged. The city fell to self-inflicted flames.
And the cold, maniacal laughter of a once-holy prince reverberated throughout the city. So cold the voice was that when it touched the minds of the two men, sanity teetered on the edge. When it seemed as if it were to topple over the edge into a dark oblivion, a male, elven voice was heard, and whiteness washed over the mens' senses:
"We are the Quel'dorei. Our city of Quel'thalas has prospered for generations withstanding legions of enemies. Our true fall is perhaps within our pride and arrogance. For generations we have prospered.. for generations we have thought to prosper more. We and our lands have suffered the flame of war, and then we were forced to self-inflict it. Now we are scattered without a home. Some of our brothers and sisters have sought a greater purpose: revenge they call it. But the revenge is only a ruse for a greater evil; we elves are addicted to magic, and only those in power possess it. My brethren have succumbed to it unable to thwart the addiction but to be led by it, and by those who possess it.
Vendel'o eranu.. For I did call myself the Sin'dorei, but I have forsaken that pride. Now I just wish to find a place that my brethren can truly call home."
As the voice faded away into a tragic silence, the white world around the two men swirled into a purple cloudiness. When they awoke, they found themselves on bundles of hay outside the tavern of Goldshire. Their faces numb from the bruises inflicted by each other, the two looked at each other, and a mutual respect was formed.
As the sun began to rise from the East, in the distance, two silhouettes with red cloaks rode on horseback. The two men watched as they rode into the sun their silhouettes already becoming distorted with the summer's heat.
NOTES
"The mothers and wives of Elwynn Forest have claimed that drinking has long been the curse of the working class, for it left their husbands with little inhibition and even less gold."
-Variation of the Oscar Wilde quote: "Work is the curse of the drinking classes."
- Quel'dorei = high elves
- Vendel'o eranu = help me forget
- Sin'dorei = children of the sun (Blood elves)
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