Dame Paynifier Ahalin

Something Important

Purplish muck oozed up into the crevices of his hooves.  Each step brought the scent of water, mold, and rot to his nose.  Easily he found purchase with his cloven feet, and balanced himself carefully with his tail as he climbed the hillside.  Stopping to turn; he took in the view of the Zangarmarsh.  Blue and purple mushrooms, many with some sort of colorful phosphorescence, rose overhead and as far as the eye could see.   Their glows reflected in the murky blue shallow lakes and coulees.  A faint warm mist fell from the ever grey sky, causing his cloak to cling damply to his armor.

It reminded him of his childhood, what little joys he had found, while exploring the edge of the marsh near Shattrath.  The stories of elders about sailing the great sea it had been, and the strange, dangerous, native plants that once thrived - oh, and still lurked - eager to snatch children who strayed.  He shook his head slightly, clearing the memories and turning from the view.  He was not here on any innocent, childish exploration today.  This was his first dangerous mission alone; his mentor had sent him here with a serious purpose, and he was determined to prove equal to the task.

Looking up the hill side, further above, highlighted by the bloom-like glows of the mushrooms was the dark mouth of the old system of caves in the hills north of Shattrath.  Eaten out years ago by the seas the marsh had once been.  Not ten or so years ago these caves had been overrun with the sort of bog plant monsters the elders told tales of.  Now, though, he had found no sign of the creatures.  The sporelings in the area told tales of an old vindicator that chased the bog monsters out a few years ago, but the little fungi always had a very sketchy understanding of the Light, and those in its service.

A few of the purple creatures harvested their favored glowing mushrooms lower in the foothills, near the warm pond below.  As he climbed, he noticed none higher up near the caves.  All was eerily quiet up here, just the squelch of his hoof steps and the endless pitter pattering of water finding its way through the canopy of mushrooms.

Too quiet.  He endeavored to silence his steps, choosing the spongy blue fungal growth to walk upon.  He approached the cave with all caution.  It smelled strange - damp, yes, but not as it should.  The air seemed oddly clear of common mold, and sweet perhaps?  The words of his mentor echoed in his mind, “Something has taken root deep in the caves…”   His teacher had been speaking of the Legion and their new powers with Vindicator Zatrell before he was given this mission.  Was this a demonic trick?  A sweet, seductive smell?  His tentacles quivered as he took in the cave air.  He breathed out quickly, and uttered the cleanse spell in case of poison.   Perhaps worse than demons, were the old tales of the beguiling spores that could infect a mind to violent madness.  He covered his mouth and nose with the cowl of his cloak.

His light was hardly needed when he entered the cave.  The glow of the colorful mushrooms lit the caverns where they grew on the cave floor and cracks in the walls.  How deep and far back did they go anyhow?  He drew his crystal blade, and it gave a pinkish light as he continued into the dripping dark.  “...find it, and bring it to the Light.”  That was what his mentor had requested of him.  His mission; his chance to prove himself.  By himself.  

He heard a crackle and stopped suddenly.  No, it was nothing he’d stepped on.  Cautiously he removed the cloth from his face, and tentacles twitching, caught the scent of a new smell.  Something burning - char, smoke; along with the strange sweet, cloying, scent of before.  The crackle of fire echoed in the cavern.  What manner of creature or person would have a fire down here?  Nothing native to the marsh, that was certain.  He tilted his head, and listened.  A chanting?  Something with a honeyed voice repeating alien words of power.  It was not guttual enough to be orcish, though he’d never actually heard any orcish rituals before; however, it wasn’t Eredar, either.  He had the crystal blade balanced easily in his grip, ready, though his palm felt damp.  Sticky.  His nervousness annoyed him, or was it the heady, sweet, smell?  He tried to focus on moving quietly down the tunnel, so as not to disturb whatever it was.

He could see ahead into a round chamber.  Aglow with the flickering orange light of a fire; he could see a tall, dark shadow of a humanoid projected against the wall, and the surrounding shadows of horned and spiked implements.  It was chanting, maybe in a female voice, something, he could not make it out.  Flattening himself to the wall, he took a breath and tried to get closer without being seen or heard.  Finally, he could see around the bend, and into the cavern proper.

A dark hooded figure held a grimoire covered in the skin of something.  The person was tall, but shorter and massing less than he.  It wore either a horned helm, or had horns itself, for the points caused the hood to tent over them.  A dark skinned hand, probably a brown orc, turned a page in its - her - tome.  Strange symbols decorated the page.  Some seemed familiar, yet contorted and alien.  Piled on a makeshift old driftwood shelf were trophies, devices, and objects of the Legion.

An orc warlock, like the villains from the stories, like those that had broken this world.  He’d never have a better chance.  He could end this now.

Lunging forward, he prayed and called on the Light, yet it was like everything was moving in marsh water, haltingly slow.  Already the figure turned, dropped her spellbook, and moved swiftly out of the way of his attack.  He whirled around at the new angle to approach, certain of his training and the Light, but once again his pink crystal blade met only air and a muttered foreign curse.

Dark eyes burned deep in the hood, flickering orange in the firelight, and the woman drew, swiftly. She had the confidence of someone who knew their blade, and had killed with it.  More than he.  Much more; the air of an old warrior.  Though, orcs have short lifespans.  Short and bloody.

The sword itself was a surprise to him.  Apexis crystals, forged and fused into a white, glowing, blade.  The shape was that of the swords favored by the humans who came through the dark portal years ago.  Such a thing was expensive - rare - and he wondered who she’d killed for it.  Letting out a wordless cry, he moved on her again, and she deflected the blow with the sword lazily.  Not daring to stop, he tested her up, down, and slipping to this side and that, his hooves dancing easily around her.  Her crystal blade met his own each time with a singing clink, and each time more forcibly, demonstrating an unnatural strength behind the blade.  Shifting his stance, he went for her left, and met with a strange buckler forcing his blade to the side.  A red disc, with lights and pathways to channel a magical current of energy.  He had no time to contemplate it; through his armor he could feel the sting of her strike at his momentary distraction.

She continued to watch him, like how a warp stalker watches prey, testing and playing with it before the kill.  

“Stop toying with me!”  He cried out,  “The Light will judge you!”  He called the light down upon her, and here, finally, was a break in her defenses.  The opening between that eerie crystal blade and strange blinking shield he needed, and went for it.  At the same time as he moved to strike, his pink blade like light itself, he knew she must be baiting him.  Still, it was his only chance, he needed to end this now, as she was clearly his better, and he might not get another chance.  He called to the Light and prayed as he awaited the counter attack on the opening he had left her in turn.  It did not come.

The Light filled him as he called.  It lit the entire chamber around them, and he felt its glory, power, and a musical, massive rush of energy.  It was indescribable, euphoric, and it burned!  His pink crystal blade was not blocked by shield or sword, but neither did it strike the warlock.  It shattered as a backlash of energy shot through it.  He felt the shards of the blade, like tiny bits of glass, ripping into his exposed skin and face.  The Light traveled up his sword arm and through his body, blinding him and throwing him back into the wall of the cavern.  He crashed into a brazier of incense as he came to a final rest.  The surge shocked him, and he now knew a terrible truth.  He’d made a horrible, fatal, mistake.  He’d done everything wrong, failed his mentor, and the Light.  He was utterly unworthy of the trust and mission he had been given.

He tired to see, but all there was to be seen was the bright figure before him.  Huge, glowing, winged, and terrible to behold in its fury.  He tried to get up, but could not feel his hooves, or anything except the sting of his crystal pocked skin.  The glowing blade of his opponent was raised, and slowly the Light dimmed and collapsed into the woman in front of him.  As it did, it revealed not an orc, but a dark-skinned human, her short black hair shot with silver.  Tall for her race she was, but had been made to seem moreso when hooded by the gold crystal circlet that hovered over her head like a halo.  The three yellow crystal points of the magical protective headgear marked it as a design popular in Shattrath a couple of handfuls of years ago.  The dark cloak simply matched her black tabard that was emblazoned with the sun shape the denizens of Azeroth who were dedicated to hunting evil wore when they came through the Dark Portal.  She was clad in golden armor, decorated with the shapes of dangerous beasts from her homeworld.  It was a style commonly worn by human vindicators and warriors.

Her eyes glowed, and finally, sword ready, she spoke to him in his folly and defeat.  “Are you going to beg for your life?”  Curiosity, amusement, consideration; all were in her calm, warm, voice.  It completely confused him in his state, and while moving his tail out of the incense brazier’s smoldering remains, he stared at her, hopelessly, and stuttered.  “I…  I made a horrible mistake.  I accept what the Light brings.”

The Light left her eyes, but not entirely.  The dark brown eyes still remained lit in the flickering firelight of the cavern.  “More than one mistake.”  She observed, standing over him.

He kept his silence, misery did not begin to describe his shame.  She did not leave him long to contemplate his litany of mistakes in his head, but asked in a brisk tone of one used to answers, “Tell me, why are you attacking me, unprovoked, in this cave?”   Was she a vindicator?  Why was he fighting her?  What was she doing here?  There were many questions he did not dare voice in his position.  He was undeserving to ask, and took a breath to answer hers, “I… my mentor said something had taken root here, and I was to find it and bring it to the Light.”

She mouthed the words “taken root” and then made a grunt, maybe it was in amusement, because all she said aloud was, “Cute.”  He failed to see how that word fit the situation.  Maybe it made more sense in the native tongue, or she was being facetious.  Was she going to kill him?  The sword sheathed, but somehow her menace did not abate as she demanded of him,  “Why did you assume your master sent you to kill an evil thing?”

He’d been so stupid, but answered her truthfully, “I overheard him speaking to another vindicator about the Burning Legion prior to being given the mission.  That they had new powers and tricks, and I thought they wanted me to find them here.”

She nodded there, clearly interested in that topic, and never taking her dark eyes from him, she moved to the shelf and took a demonic device from it.  The evil power, he could now tell, cleansed from it.  “That is true,” she continued speaking to him, “and you are fortunate.  I could have easily mistook you for an Eredar come seeking vengeance.  And unless you learn to govern your pride, well, it could be a tough call.”  The truth stung, more than the crystal shards in his face.  She tossed the device towards him, an easy toss that he fumbled slightly as he caught.  He could read clearly the marks upon the item - it had come from Argus itself.

“Are you alright?”  She asked, but did not wait for any answer, as she called the Light, and he felt its grace fill himself again.  This time gently, cleansing, singing, healing, and the pains he had, but been unable to name, vanished.  Save for his shame.  That came rushing back to him as the Light finished its work.  “Hrm, may scar a little.  I never was much of a healer.”  The woman offered in a poor apology.

“I’m sorry, thank you…” he blathered stupidly, still feeling like she deserved some explanation, but really, there was no excuse, “I… thought he meant.. no.. I wanted it to be a challenge, a quest, a mission I could do on my own.”  His shame filled the damp cavern like a thick cloud.  It sounded so stupid, and so arrogant to hear out loud.  He’d never thought of himself as arrogant, but in his doubt, his eagerness to prove himself, he was.  Finally, he concluded, “I wanted a chance to do something important.”

She simply looked at him with the same patient look one gets from an elekk when you speak to it.  One is never sure if the animal understands or not, but it seems sympathetic.  “Maybe you have, Brother.”  She spoke quietly, and sighed, looking over her shelf of assorted Legion paraphernalia.  “Help me pack these things,” came the command, as a master to a student.  He must of looked confused, but found he could stand, and help pack the various demonic trophies into a provided sack for travel.  The woman retrieved her tome - libram - and tied the dusty, old, leather bound book to her belt with golden cords.

“We are going to meet with your master,” she explained.  “‘Go to the cave north of the city and tell the old human paladin in the bottom of it to come out and meet with me…’ it is not a glorious task, as slaying an evil at the bottom of a cave, but perhaps we can make it an important task, nevertheless.”  There was a pause, and she continued, kicking out the fire with steel and Light called foot protections, “If you learn anything of this: do not ever trust vague, prophetic, hero mongering, mumbo jumbo.  Knowledge will guide you to right action.  Always.”

It wasn’t like being a vindicator in the stories; if only he’d asked what his mentor wanted.  What about the Prophet, and the Narru?  Certainly their mysterious words should be heeded.  The advice shocked him a little, and he felt like he was waking up, as he hefted the travel sack over his shoulder he asked, “Who are you?”  The question long overdue.

“Dame Paynifier Ahalin, Knight of the Silver Hand.  If human titles matter in a cave in the Outlands.”  She quirked a wry smile and asked him, “and you, Brother?”

“Xalhotir, a student of the Aldor.” He answered, and asked, unable to keep the awe and bafflement from his voice, “Why are you here in this cave?”  It was hard to gauge her age, humans did not live much longer than orcs, but the silver in her hair, and the scars and lines upon her face made her look venerable.

She paused, and her expression set to something harder, then she answered, “A fine time for you to learn the value of curiosity.  It is a long story, and matters little now.  Come, lets go.  I will need your escort to the terrace.”

He looked at her blankly, he knew, but what was she talking about?  She was a vindicator, of course she would be welcome.  The woman fished into her cloak and brought forth a wallet of alien badges of causes she must have championed in her short human life on her homeworld, and beyond.  She offered an explanation with a wry, apologetic, smile, “I’m with the Scryers.”  A badge that he did recognize - a Scryer of some respect - dangled from the wallet before she shoved it back into the folds of her traveling cloak.

Escorting a Scryer to meet with his Aldor masters seemed like the least of his sins today, so he simply answered, “Yes Dame,” and followed her out of the caves, out of the dark, and into the light of the purple blue marsh, back to the ruins of the grand capitol city.  She never looked back.