Los textos del primer concurso global de creación literaria han sido seleccionados. Después de leer casi 17 millones de palabras, nuestros jueces han escogido al ganador del gran premio y a 7 segundos lugares. Date un momento para disfrutar las ideas creativas de las historias ganadoras.
El ganador del gran premio visitará las oficinas centrales de la empresa para conocer a los escritores de Blizzard Entertainment y almorzar con ellos. Además, recibirá una réplica de la espada Frostmourne. Los siete segundos lugares recibirán copias firmadas del Diablo Archive, Warcraft Archive, StarCraft Archive, y Warcraft War of the Ancients Archive.
In the Shadow of the Sun
Lor'themar stared at the letter upon his desk. The envelope's broken seal glinted strangely and seemed somehow to reflect his gaze through its deep violet wax. He sighed and lifted the parchment again, ignoring the ridiculous introduction and scripted lettering meant to flatter. It was upon the second page, subtly cached within a number of meandering sentences, that Aethas Sunreaver had announced his visit.
It was phrased nonchalantly, but Lor'themar now had seven years of practice in these matters and had become quite good at teasing apart such political communications. Halduron had been unimpressed. "Not even a request," his old friend and colleague had said, scowling. "He's just decided to show up, has he?"
What Halduron had not known was that Aethas had, in fact, requested audience with the regent lord several times over many months, and, uneager to confront him, Lor'themar had deliberately ignored his pleas. More recently there had been a good excuse, but Lor'themar still physically winced to think upon the events that had transpired at Quel'Danas. They, and their consequences, were still far too near.
He let the page fall back onto his desktop. Aethas had bad timing; Lor'themar had planned on traveling the day after the archmage would arrive, and he doubted he would feel compelled to postpone his original plans. That was Aethas' loss.
Lor'themar sighed. The parchment slid through his fingers as once had the long wooden shafts of Farstrider arrows. He had a good idea of what Aethas was going to ask when he arrived, and he still did not know how he wanted to answer.
Days later he stood among the red-and-gold draping in the front court of Sunfury Spire, Halduron and Rommath flanking him on either side. On his way down Halduron had stopped him, proffering a small bundle of soft crimson wool. Taking it, Lor'themar had held it up as it unraveled, beholding a regal golden phoenix upon its bloody red field: the Sunstrider tabard.
"No," he said curtly, shoving the garment back at his friend.
"You should wear it," Halduron pressed. "You are in charge, you know."
"I am the regent lord," he answered, striding forward. "Not the king."
"You may as well be," Halduron called after him. "There is no one else to take your place."
Lor'themar did not look back. The truth of Halduron's words nipped at his heels, sharp and unrelenting, as the ranger-general followed him to court.
For now, at least, Lor'themar clothed himself in the green of the Farstriders. Once Rommath would have protested and cited it unseemly for the regent to show favor toward one branch of the Thalassian leadership versus another. These days the fight had drained from the grand magister, pooling away in little eddies that left him hollow. Even now he stared vacantly into the hall, leaning so heavily onto his staff that Lor'themar could almost see him tremble as though he stood on a sheet of ice. For all the thorn in his side that Rommath had often been, Lor'themar could only find pity within his heart for the ailing mage. Kael'thas' final betrayal had left Rommath the most cold and barren of all.
The air in front of them shimmered, flashing violet—the unmistakable mark of magic. A moment later a swirling, bluish gate appeared, hovering impressively above the hall's pale ceramic tile. Aethas materialized through it, stumbling clumsily as he stepped into sight, his own awkward mannerism tarnishing the regality of his spell.
He regained his composure quickly, sweeping his robes around him as he straightened. Lor'themar could not help but notice how silly he looked; the elegant rich purple mageweave of the Kirin Tor clashed horribly with his coppery hair and refused to drape properly across his slender frame, making him seem like some small child playing at filling a grown man's place. Lor'themar only thought briefly of whose place that had been before he remembered and, shrinking from the memory, violently drowned the thought in his mind.
"Welcome home, Archmage Sunreaver," he announced, and he could still surprise himself at the skill with which he portrayed authority.
Aethas flashed a nervous smile and seemed even more absurdly young than before. "Thank you, Lord Theron," he answered, bowing graciously. "Would that I were returning to stay."
"Of course," Lor'themar replied, arranging his face to appear distant. "Your correspondence has familiarized me with the intent of your visit. Come this way; my advisors and I will hear your appeal."
Ordinarily Lor'themar would have led them all to the stately meeting hall at the north end of the palace: a chamber decked in cerulean and jade overlooking the sea. This day, though, shone clear and sharp as a shard of glass, and through the colonnade the isle would be visible across the channel. To avoid looking at it, Lor'themar seated them all in an alcove to the east of the main court, facing instead the tiled and sun-shadowed rooftops of Silvermoon City.
Aethas started without a moment's hesitation.
"I am here on matters of utmost importance—ones that concern us all. I am quite sure you are aware of the growing threat in Northrend. The Kirin Tor wish to address it."
"Arthas has always been a threat," Halduron interjected evenly. "Why come to us now?"
Aethas shook his head. "It's not only Arthas, anymore," he said. "It's Malygos as well. Krasus—Korialstrasz—has informed us of Malygos' intent to end all mortals' use of magic, once and for all."
"And the Spell-Weaver would do that in what manner?" Lor'themar asked.
"By killing us all."
"I see," Lor'themar answered, sitting back into his chair. Seven years he had dealt with naught but death. Aethas' words lacked impact.
"The Kirin Tor oppose him," Aethas added.
"Naturally," Lor'themar replied.
"I want to formalize our involvement with the Kirin Tor," Aethas stated firmly. "Many members of the Kirin Tor would consider it not only prudent, but imperative, that the magi of Quel'Thalas and the Violet Citadel again work side by side, as we have for many years in the past."
Aethas' irritation shone plain on his face, a scowl deepening at the corners of his mouth and between his brows. The voice of dissent had not been Lor'themar's. Turning to the speaker, he said, "I asked the regent lord. Not the grand magister."
Rommath laughed, a low, bitter sound that rattled and shook in a mouth unused to mirth. "Well then," he answered; his voice was sharp with acrimony. Its sudden keen edge put Lor'themar on his guard. "Let the regent lord deign that I am fit to speak."
"I daresay we shall hear your opinion eventually in any case," Lor'themar said, schooling his wry tones as best he could. "It may as well be now."
Rommath's eyes glinted, brilliant chips of jade, even in the well-lit room that should have dimmed their glow. "I daresay you are not wrong, Lor'themar," he replied, never shifting his gaze from Aethas' face. His voice recalled, to Lor'themar, a coiled snake in the grass: low and fierce and merciless.
"Tell me, Archmage," Rommath began, "did Modera send you with a statement before you left? Your words drip of her false diplomacy. At least she dares not set foot here herself. She has that much of sense, I see."
"Modera agrees with me on these matters, yes," Aethas answered stiffly, thankfully wise enough not to rise to Rommath's bait.
"She agrees with you," Rommath mused, "or, rather, you agree with her, for I doubt they would send you here to speak on their behalf had you half a mind of your own."
"Damn it, Rommath." Aethas' patience snapped. "Do you have any useful criticisms to voice, or are you content to sit and insult me?"
"You are blind," Rommath replied evenly, assuredly. "They fear to face both Malygos and Arthas, and rightly so. They seek aid beyond their own capacity—and to whom have they always turned regarding matters of the arcane? Oh yes, to us. The humans of the Kirin Tor will swear up and down that you are indispensable to them, that your skills are invaluable. The moment you become inconvenient, you will be discarded." He cocked his head to the side, one long ear twitching almost imperceptibly as his eyes slid first to Halduron, then to Lor'themar. "Ask them. They know. But not as well as I."
Aethas stared blankly back at Rommath. "Quel'Thalas and the Kirin Tor have been allied for nearly two thousand years," he said. "Since we joined formally with the Horde, things have been strained, but—"
Rommath laughed again, loudly this time, mocking peals that rolled like angry waves on a stormy sea: sharp-peaked and cold.
"Since we joined the Horde," he repeated. "Oh yes, of course. And do you, Archmage Sunreaver, remember exactly why we were forced into such a pact?"
Aethas did not answer, but looked Rommath straight in the eye, unflinching.
"A false accusation," began the grand magister, "and a monumental betrayal." His eyes glittered with seething anger that nearly a decade had failed to quell. "In Dalaran," he continued, "beneath the ever-watchful Violet Eye."
"The Kirin Tor had nothing to do with—"
"I assume you mean," Rommath interrupted, "that the Kirin Tor did nothing. Did nothing to prevent it, did nothing to stop it. And instead," his voice began to rise, "left us to rot in the prisons beneath a city many of us called home as much as ever we did Silvermoon. A city our own crown prince had served as faithfully as his own homeland for longer than a human lifetime. A city we fought and died for, and at the request of the Kirin Tor. A city within whose walls they would have watched, in silence, as we all swung from a hangman's noose. Their city."
"The Kirin Tor find themselves under new leadership," Aethas answered, and Lor'themar felt that his controlled tone spoke well of the young archmage.
"That is a lie, and you know it," Rommath replied. "Rhonin Redhair may be their figurehead, but Modera and Ansirem remain on the Council. These are the same people who happily turned their eyes away when Garithos sentenced us to death. They can all rot in hell." He laughed cruelly. "At least Arugal suffered a deserving fate."
"For someone who claims to care so little, you seem to be rather well informed, Grand Magister," Aethas said.
"Which would be one of the reasons I am the grand magister of Quel'Thalas, and you are not, I would think," Rommath retorted. "And as grand magister I will tell you this: I will never send my magi to service in the name of the Violet Citadel. If you want official support in Northrend, Archmage, you will have to convince the regent lord to overrule me."
Lor'themar's fingers twitched against the smooth table top as his mouth hardened. Rommath had walked a thin line, and overstepped it.
"That is enough, Rommath," he said coolly. "You do not possess the authority to issue such ultimatums. It will be my decision whether to send our forces to Northrend—and if I so choose, you and your magi will follow orders.
"Now," he said, standing, "it is clear that to continue this will result in nothing more than petty bickering, and by all means, if the two of you wish to go on in such a manner, feel free. I, however, do not care to waste any more of my time. I would hazard the ranger-general feels similarly.
"I have business in the south," he continued, "and I had planned on leaving tomorrow. I do not think I shall disrupt those plans. You are welcome to stay, Archmage, but I may be gone a number of days."
Aethas did not reply, but he was not such a skilled diplomat as to successfully mask his irritation; it shone through in his face clear as a clarion call. Lor'themar was more than content to let him be upset. He turned to leave.
"There are those who will go to Dalaran whether you will it or not, Regent Lord," Aethas' voice called out across the room. Lor'themar paused and turned to face him as he continued. "Give me at least the blessing to speak on behalf of the regency of Silvermoon, and I will see to it that the interests of the sin'dorei are protected."
Rommath snorted in response, but thankfully said nothing. For a moment Lor'themar considered Aethas, but the younger elf was in no position to bargain. They all knew well that Aethas' skills in statesmanship were far outclassed by the other men in the room.
"I shall have a servant show you to your quarters, Archmage," Lor'themar said.
Aethas went graciously enough, sparing one or two black looks in Rommath's direction. The grand magister appeared resolute, implacable as a mountain, but Lor'themar could see the sway in his step, the lines of exhaustion that resettled heavily upon his face the moment Aethas was beyond sight. Carefully he noted Rommath's fragility; his will could be bent.
Once, in the past, Lor'themar would have called it ignoble to even consider using such a thing against another. Now he recognized its necessity.
Alone now he sat by the window in his office, a place in which he spent more time these days than his own home, and recounted the afternoon's debates in his mind. Absently he twisted a long roll of the curtain between his hands as he stared across the Spire's gardens, hearing Aethas' determined voice in his head. There are those who will go to Dalaran whether you will it or not. Lor'themar could not deny that truth, but privately he agreed with Rommath's disdain. How could he trust Aethas to faithfully represent Quel'Thalas when he already cloaked himself in the dress of the Kirin Tor and used their stamps upon his correspondence? Aethas was committed to these Nexus Wars; that much was clear. How many others would he convince to follow him? And how far was he, as regent lord, obliged to protect his people when they forged into ambiguous territory?
The cloth stretched and began to fray beneath Lor'themar's ungentle attentions. Had he noticed, he would have found it a fitting metaphor for the state of his convictions these days.
"I'm not sure," Halduron confessed to him later that evening. He had found the regent lord still sitting in the window staring sullenly into the sunset. One glance had sent him wordlessly to the liquor shelf to generously fill a tumbler for his old friend. Now the ranger-general sat across from him, deftly rolling a swatch of bloodthistle with practiced ease.
"I believe his intentions are honest," Halduron continued. A quick snap of his fingers lit the end of the bundle with a small flare. He inhaled deeply and sighed, hooking his arm around his knee and sending a gust of pungent smoke into the darkening sky. "I just don't know how far we can trust honest intentions, even among our own people."
Lor'themar stood and went to the table to refill his glass. "I worry that if we give him authority to act on our behalf that he would—intentionally or not—promise something from us that I am not willing to give." Lor'themar paused and looked toward the carved ceiling. "Then again, if enough elves follow him to Dalaran, he will end up their de-facto leader anyway, and I am loath to have him acting as such without obligation to the cro—Silvermoon."
"It would be better if Rommath were not so stubborn," Halduron mused. "He lived in Dalaran for a long time—he bears the archmage title himself, you know. He has enough experience with the Kirin Tor to know how to handle them, and enough loyalty to his country that I believe we could trust him. He would be an ideal liaison for Aethas."
Lor'themar smiled faintly at Halduron's words. "I do believe it's a red-letter day," he said, "to hear you speak well of Rommath."
"I never approved of that business with M'uru, or the formation of the Blood Knights, no," Halduron admitted. "But that is behind us now, and we have no more reason to doubt him. If he had been going to betray us, he would have done it when Kael'thas…." The words drifted and froze in Halduron's throat. "Well," he added finally. "He would have done it then."
"So what do you think?" Lor'themar changed the subject and returned to his seat in the window. "What should we do about Aethas and the Violet Citadel?"
"Aethas already considers himself a member of the Kirin Tor," Halduron replied. "And I can think of a number of others who would be pleased to bear that mantle again, as well. If the Kirin Tor want to admit blood elves, we can't stop them from doing so."
"No, we cannot," Lor'themar answered. He was silent a moment before he continued. "However, it is my instinct that we should eschew official involvement in the Nexus War. Aethas should report to us periodically, and we should give him a clear set of boundaries. But those elves who wish to offer their services may do so under the banner of the Kirin Tor—not Quel'Thalas."
One corner of Halduron's mouth twisted up into a sardonic smirk, and Lor'themar pretended not to notice the melancholy in his friend's eyes. He rolled the stub of bloodthistle between his fingertips. "I daresay you sound less like a ranger and more like a king every day, Lor'themar," he remarked quietly.
From where he sat, Halduron could not see the way Lor'themar's fingers tightened around his glass.
A number of days later Lor'themar, atop his hawkstrider, picked his way through the northern foothills of the Eastern Plaguelands. He winced to look at the land; he was an elf, and, moreover, a ranger—a child of the open woods, of clear water and golden leaves. The sight of the cracked, foamy soil and withered trees of eastern Lordaeron twisted his heart and nearly physically made him retch. Such would be the fate of Quel'Thalas if not for the magisters' and priesthood's unrelenting vigilance.
Lor'themar looked behind him. Three Farstrider honor guards followed, taken at Halduron's and Rommath's insistence.
"By all means," Halduron had said, "you shouldn't be going at all—I thought for sure you'd give up this silly notion when Aethas decided to drop by. But I can see that nothing I could say will stop you, so you're at least going to take an escort. Don't argue." Rommath had wanted to send a few of the Blood Knights; that was out of the question. "Their presence will only incite," Lor'themar pointed out. Even more than my own surely will, he added silently. Fortunately Rommath had not pressed the point.
At last the ridge he sought came into view. At a glance it would seem just another jutting projection on a low, rocky face, but he knew better. He drew his mount into a sharp turn, picking out a path where the untrained eye would have found none, and set up at a quick pace. There was no point in stealth; the scouts would already have seen them.
As he expected, about halfway up the winding trail two figures seemed to materialize from behind the rocks. Their swords clashed as they barred the way, the sound echoing violently into the eerie stillness of the Plaguelands.
"Who would come to Quel'Lithien?" one asked.
Lor'themar looked down at him evenly.
"Don't be an idiot. You know who I am."
The other looked him straight in the eye.
"That doesn't mean you are welcome, Lord Theron."
Lor'themar unsheathed both of the long swords he wore across his back. The two guards' knuckles whitened around their own weapons, and he saw one of them twitch his fingers slightly, readying the signal of attack to the myriad others who were surely hidden throughout the terrain. Silently the regent lord tossed his blades to the ground, then loosed his bow and quiver and dropped them, as well. He motioned for his guards to do the same, and when they had done so, he raised an eyebrow.
"Is that convincing enough of my honest intent?"
The first Lithien scout spoke again.
"Tell us why you have come."
"I have news for Captain Hawkspear and High Priestess Skycaller," he said. "Regarding…." He cleared his throat. "Regarding Prince Kael'thas."
The guards considered this a moment, one briefly glancing at the other, but for the most part their eyes never left Lor'themar's—eyes still blue and untainted, he could not help but notice. At last one jerked his head toward the ridge.
"Fine then," he said, "the ranger lord can decide what to do with you. Follow me."
The other snapped his fingers and, as Lor'themar had predicted, half a dozen more Lithien scouts jumped out from various gullies and fissures in the rock to collect the arms he and his guards had left in the dirt. It had been many months since Lor'themar could remember feeling so vulnerable or out of place, but doubt was a luxury he could not afford.
At the top of the trail, nestled among the boulders and fading brush, the Quel'Lithien lodge rose in front of them. The fine wood had faded and pitted, undoubtedly due to the ravages of the plague, and the Farstriders had camouflaged its beams with rotting foliage. Lor'themar's stomach pitched strangely as he looked upon the structure, and he tried not to think of the days when its surroundings had been green and his visits greeted with delighted shouts, not angry blades. Those days were lost.
He handed his hawkstrider over to one of the scouts; she collected it and set off to the stables, leaving him with a suspicious glare. One of the rangers who had stopped him on the trail had run ahead into the lodge. As Lor'themar watched, the scout returned, trailing two elves he had not seen in several years.
Unexpectedly his heart quailed to look upon them, and he set his teeth, squaring his shoulders. He stood, motionless; he would neither stare nor let any of the myriad emotions he felt seep through in his face.
"Lor'themar Theron." High Priestess Aurora Skycaller's voice was measured and not a little unkind. "I must admit I am surprised to find you here."
"You have some nerve," Renthar Hawkspear said cruelly, "to show your face. I should have a dozen archers turn you into a pincushion."
The words stung even as he expected them. He let them roll across him and settle in the dirt at his feet.
"I have news," he said simply, "that you should know."
"You couldn't have sent a letter?" Renthar sneered.
"Would you have read it?" Lor'themar answered, and the small twitch at the corner of Aurora's lip and the deepened scowl across Renthar's face told him that no, they would not have.
"I have not come all the way from Silvermoon out of caprice," he said at last. "Will you hear what I have to say, or shall I turn around and leave?"
Renthar and Aurora eyed him wordlessly, then both turned and walked into the lodge. Lor'themar followed, painfully aware of the numerous pairs of high elven eyes watching him as he passed.
The Farstrider outposts scattered across the Eastern Kingdoms had never been lavish, but Lor'themar could not remember when Quel'Lithien had ever looked so austere. A number of the walls were scored deeply from some sort of blade; the dark stains trod into the floorboards were surely blood. Yet the elves clearly took pride in the lodge's keeping; the curtains, though worn, were carefully hemmed with even stitches. The ancient map of eastern Lordaeron nailed to the wall had been heavily annotated but in elegant script, with not so much as a single blot of ink upon its yellowed parchment. Looking upon these things, Lor'themar felt a strange hollow grow inside of him, as if he had rediscovered a forgotten lover's letter. He had lived the life of a Farstrider scout, in a past that seemed so distant now as to be nothing but a dream.
"In here," Renthar said, jerking his thumb toward a small room behind the stairwell and banging the door open with a vehement shove. "Close it behind you," he told Lor'themar without looking back.
Lor'themar took his seat across from Aurora. Renthar swept several scraps of bloodied leather armor off the narrow table before sitting next to her, and it almost made Lor'themar smile vaguely, the way they stared him down like judges at a tribunal.
"You said you had something to say." Renthar's voice cut the stillness. "So say it."
There was no point in delaying.
"Several weeks ago a number of the Sunfury forces returned to us."
Renthar's and Aurora's eyes rounded with incredulous disbelief. It gave Lor'themar a smug, but hollow, satisfaction.
"I'll be," Aurora said softly. "I cannot say I ever thought they would."
"So then." Renthar's eyes glittered strangely—he almost reminded Lor'themar of Rommath. "Are you here on the prince's orders to offer us an official apology?"
"I might be," Lor'themar answered, "if he were still alive."
If either of the high elves in front of him had looked shocked before, it paled before their expressions now. Lor'themar watched in silence as the color drained from both their faces.
"Explain." Renthar minced no words. "Explain, damn you."
With a feeling akin to the one that sat in his stomach before rushing into a fight, Lor'themar began outlining the events of the recent months. He had not entirely anticipated how difficult it would be, how painful, to relay the story in coherent words and sentences strung together as a timeline, especially in the presence of two people who so thoroughly despised him. He drew the words from his throat, one by one, sometimes forcefully; he had to spit them across the room for fear they would instead be swallowed and lost. When at last he had finished, he blinked once, as if waking up, and a long silence settled between the three of them. Lor'themar had often heard that the sharing of tragic events could help ease their pain. In this case he found it untrue.
It felt as if a lifetime of moments had passed before Aurora's voice, ringing heavy and dull, finally broke the stillness.
"The Sunwell is thus returned to us," she said, and turned her face to the window.
"Yes," Lor'themar answered.
They said nothing.
Lor'themar was fairly certain he knew what thoughts would be running through the high elves' heads, if any of their former hopes had matched his. Despite the differences that grew between them now like briarthorn, he felt certain that they had. In prior days they had all marched and trained and danced under the same banners of red and gold, all worn the same phoenix device upon their chests in service. And, when the last dust of battle had settled on Quel'Danas and the Sunwell had shone majestic and proud once again, he had stared into it with the same paralyzed expression that now etched itself into Renthar's and Aurora's faces, and he had felt nothing.
"I wondered," Aurora spoke again, and the sound of her voice startled him, "why the pangs of the addiction felt so eased, lately. I figured that I was simply learning to ignore it, at last."
"The magic in the Well is different, now," Lor'themar said. "It may take a while for some to adjust."
"Some, yes." Aurora reached her hand up and seemed to grasp something that Lor'themar could not see, twisting it between her fingers as she might a long ribbon. "I am a priestess of the Light. I know this magic."
"It was a great gift," Lor'themar heard himself say. Aurora looked sidelong at him, and he knew his lack of conviction had not gone unnoticed.
"If the prince is dead," Renthar suddenly said, "then who wears the crown of Quel'Thalas?"
"The crown is unclaimed."
Renthar narrowed his eyes. "And if someone were to lay such a claim?"
"There are none alive with any right to it."
Renthar looked him right in the eye. Lor'themar matched his gaze and would not be cowed. Renthar Hawkspear could doubt him in any way but this one.
Aurora spoke again. "I suppose this is what you came to tell us of."
"Yes," Lor'themar answered.
"Then feel free to leave," said Renthar.
Lor'themar closed his eyes. "There is one more thing." This would be the hardest.
"Is there?" Renthar's voice was flat. "Well?"
"Since the Sunfury returned to us," Lor'themar began, "and our position in the Ghostlands is more…secure…the Farstriders are finding themselves stretched a bit less. They—I—would send you regular supplies."
Lor'themar had become accustomed to the mockery of those he could not please, but he had not fully anticipated the pointed sting that Renthar's laugh elicited. Even Aurora's face, normally so controlled and serene, the face of a priestess, colored deeply with undisguised contempt.
"Six years we rot here, thrown out of our homes at your behest because we refuse to suck magic from living things like so many vampires." Renthar began to rise from his seat, leaning across the table, truly shaking with rage. "And now you want to offer aid? After all we have been through you come now? After what the Horde did to us in the name of that bastard human who called himself ranger? How blind do you think I am, Lor'themar? I should kill you. I should kill you and send your head to Sylvanas myself!"
Even through the ringing in his ears, a small, rational part of Lor'themar latched onto a word of Renthar's and held fast. Ranger, he had said, and not just any—a human ranger. As far as Lor'themar knew, there had only ever been one.
"I thought," he began slowly, "that Nathanos Marris died to the Scourge."
Both Aurora and Renthar turned slowly to look at him, faces carved and cold like ivory dolls. For the first time since he had arrived for this confrontation, Lor'themar heard his heart hammering in his own ears, the lump in his throat making it difficult to swallow.
Aurora spoke first.
"He did," she said. "He was raised to march among them."
Lor'themar stayed silent but fixed his eyes upon Aurora. There was something else here, something lurking like a shadow in the corners of the room, and he would know what it was before he left.
"He did not stay Scourge," she said.
"Sylvanas did always take a strange pride in him," Renthar muttered, looking away. A long silence stretched before he spoke again. "It should not be much of a surprise that she would call him to her service.
"'We come in the name of the Champion of the Banshee Queen.' That," he added, "is what they said when they arrived. 'You have something that belongs to him.'" Renthar turned again to face Lor'themar with eyes as hard as lapis. "We held a copy of the documents detailing Marris' acceptance into the Farstriders. They took it by force, and slaughtered any of my rangers who happened into their paths. Forsaken, Lor'themar. Sylvanas' people. Your allies."
Lor'themar could not speak; he did not trust his voice not to shake.
"Once I would have gladly laid down my life at the behest of the ranger-general." There was an unbearable bitterness in Renthar's voice. "We are no longer her people. And nor are we yours."
"Renthar," Lor'themar began, "for all our differences, you know I would not have—"
Renthar laughed, long and clear and sharp as a dagger.
"You send us here to be lost, to be ignored, and then dare to be shocked when we suffer? No matter what the curses that accompany you to hell, Lor'themar, they will never be sufficient. I know whose troops sit in Tranquillien, Regent Lord. I wonder how many of your own, sin'dorei rangers, they have killed beneath your very nose on Thalassian land. Deal with the devil as you please. I can only hope that one day the devil will come for you.
"Now go," he said quietly. "Send supplies as you wish. I will return the bearers' hearts to you wrapped in their own tabards."
Lor'themar stood, though he could do naught but turn and leave. They had caught him off guard, and the walls around him no longer seemed real, no longer held the assurance of solidity. He saw Aurora stand, a ghost of pride, and stare him down, chin high and defiant. Neither she nor Renthar spoke another word, and for the first time the sheer force of their hatred hit him hard in the chest.
He had no reason to combat it. He could, perhaps, offer his palms in penance, but they would only spit upon them, and in truth he could not find it in his heart to fault them for such. If he had held any hope of atonement before—and perhaps he had—the Plaguelands' desolation had smothered and snuffed it, as it did all that lived and dreamed. These bridges had burned long ago, his own hand setting them to flame.
All three of his guards sat waiting in the front room, half a dozen quel'dorei Farstriders surrounding them with arrows notched in their bowstrings. He barely even turned his head. He simply walked straight outside; his rangers followed silently.
In the yard a Quel'Lithien scout held the reins of their hawkstriders, and another carried their weapons. He took his things, swung into the saddle, and turned back to where Renthar and Aurora stood watching. The impulse seized him to say something, anything, to bridge the gulf that stretched between them, but whatever words he intended dried and crumbled to bitter dust in his mouth. He turned his hawkstrider away and did not look back.
As they were winding upward through the Thalassian Pass several hours later, it began to snow. They passed through the gates that demarked the southern boundary of Quel'Thalas with hardly a glance. Once their arches had soared, golden and white, leaping out of the rocks themselves and cascading to the ground like a waterfall of marble and amber. Arthas had laid them to waste, as he had everything in Quel'Thalas. Dark banners of the Scourge still hung high from the ramparts, though the mountain winds had by now riled them into little more than sinister ribbons. None of the elves had ever bothered to try to remove the banners, and Lor'themar would not do so now. Their tatters whipped in the flurries, snapping and popping above their heads like oak branches cracking under sheets of ice.
"Lord Theron," one of his escorts called, "you are missing your cloak. It would be wise to wear it in such weather."
Lor'themar answered only with his silence. He did not imagine he could be any more frozen than he already felt. The snowflakes drove into his face, needle points of cold, and rubbed his skin raw.
Halduron and Rommath awaited Lor'themar in Silvermoon upon his return a few days later. So did Aethas, he noted with more than a little chagrin. When Halduron looked at him and said, "Well?" Lor'themar simply shook his head. Halduron raised his eyebrows as if to ask what did you expect? and Rommath did not meet his eyes. Unexpectedly Aethas was the one with several questions.
"How did they react to you?" he asked. Lor'themar turned to stare at him.
"Six years ago I threw them out of the homes they had fought for every bit as fiercely as anyone in Quel'Thalas today," he answered at last. "How do you think they reacted?"
Aethas winced and sighed.
"Vereesa Windrunner is married to the new leader of the Kirin Tor. She is not fond of me, or those I represent. I had hoped…because you were a ranger…" He shook his head. "I thought maybe you could help us bridge that gap. I suppose not." He shrugged.
The scowl that appeared on Halduron's face at the mention of Vereesa's name did not escape Lor'themar. He turned to Aethas. "You suppose correctly," he said.
Later that afternoon he relayed to Halduron the details of his trip to Quel'Lithien in between gulps of whiskey.
"Of course they were going to treat you with contempt. You always knew that," his ranger-general reprimanded him. "Honestly, I don't know why you bothered to go at all."
"You would have done the same," Lor'themar answered, and Halduron frowned.
"You know me too well," he said at last. He slouched in his chair and stared out the window.
"They didn't know about the Sunwell," Lor'themar said. In the light, the amber liquid in his glass shone for all the world, like the fount of which he spoke. "It was right that I went."
"Whom are you trying to convince, here?" Halduron asked, bemused.
"Halduron," Lor'themar said quickly, "do you remember Nathanos Marris?"
"Of course," he answered, frowning. "But what does he have to do with any of this?"
"Aurora told me he was raised as Scourge, then freed by Sylvanas," Lor'themar replied. "He is known as the Champion of the Banshee Queen."
Halduron leaned back in his chair, balancing on its rearmost legs and resting his palms behind his head. "Funny, that," he said. "Sylvanas was always championing him. Kae—er…some…were not keen on letting a human train with the Farstriders. Myself included."
"The rangers at Quel'Lithien were attacked by a group of Forsaken in the name of the Banshee Queen's champion," Lor'themar said finally. He drained his glass of its contents and set it on the desk. "A number of them were killed."
The front legs of Halduron's chair came down to the floor with a sharp bang, and though Lor'themar did not look over, he could sense Halduron's eyes boring into him.
"Wasn't Nathanos in Renthar's company?" he asked. Lor'themar nodded. Halduron continued. "Why would he want to attack Quel'Lithien?"
Lor'themar shrugged. "Quel'Lithien had a copy of the Thalassian registry where Sylvanas gave her final word admitting him into the Farstriders. Apparently he wanted it."
"So he sent his subordinates to attack them? Over a book?" Halduron's voice filled with disbelief.
"That's what they told me."
"Are you sure they weren't lying?"
"It occurred to me," Lor'themar admitted, "but if ever Renthar Hawkspear was anything, it was principled—which is why he opposed Rommath's teachings on the arcane tapping in the first place, of course."
"And I can't imagine Aurora ever being dishonest a day in her life," Halduron added with a sigh. He went on to ask the question Lor'themar had been dreading.
"Do you think Sylvanas knows?"
Lor'themar shook his head. "I don't know. But that's not the important question."
"No," Halduron answered. "The important question is, if she did know, would she care?"
"And if she does know, and does not care." Lor'themar covered his face with his hands. "They were her rangers."
"They were yours when you exiled them," Halduron said quietly.
"Actually, they were yours," Lor'themar snapped back. He bristled a moment in fury, but then his shoulders sagged. Renthar's words echoed ghostly in his head. You sent us here to be lost, to be ignored, and then dare to be shocked when we suffer?
"I never wanted to see them dead," Lor'themar said at last, cringing to hear the plea in his own voice, "but I could not afford to lead a nation divided…."
A heavy hand on his shoulder made him lift his head.
"I know," Halduron said, placing a refilled tumbler in front of him. "Get a hold of yourself." His voice was gruff, but not unkind. "We always knew it was a risk to trust the Forsaken. But who else ever offered to fight for Quel'Thalas at all?"
Lor'themar lifted his glass. The afternoon sunlight shone through it and turned its contents a rusty red, like the soils of the Plaguelands.
A few days later Lor'themar sat at his desk dully recounting his notes from the various meetings with Aethas. He would have to give the archmage a definitive answer either today or tomorrow. He had an idea of what he was willing to do, but he was almost certain Aethas would not be satisfied. No one ever was. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and glanced toward the whiskey on the shelf. A knock on the door disturbed his thoughts.
"Yes?" he answered.
One of the couriers hastily bowed and addressed him.
"Lord Theron, there is a person of some importance waiting to see you."
Lor'themar frowned. Halduron and Rommath would have come themselves, and Aethas probably too, at this point. Had Liadrin returned from Shattrath? If so, she could wait.
"I am not available," he replied flatly.
"My lord," said the courier, "the Banshee Queen will not wait."
Lor'themar felt his heart sink like a stone to the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and hoped his face did not appear as pale as it felt. He rose to his feet.
"No," he said quietly, "of course she won't. Show me to her."
The courier turned on his heel, but not without one uneasy glance at the regent lord. Lor'themar steeled himself as he followed.
He took the minutes that they spent walking to the front hall to collect himself, to remember his presentation. During the years he had now spent ruling Quel'Thalas, he had found it to be very nearly a physical action the way he had to draw the mantle of authority about himself. He could feel the change, right down to the tips of his fingers. It had gotten easier, of course, as time had passed, but where Sylvanas was concerned, it seemed all his careful diplomacy and guarded authority shrank and failed before the force of her presence.
Halduron and Rommath joined him silently as he walked the hallway, and this time Halduron did not try to convince Lor'themar to wear the Sunstrider tabard. The ranger-general wore a hard face. Rommath was more detached; he had met Sylvanas before and knew what to expect, but his horror was distant and impersonal, unlike Lor'themar and Halduron's. To them, Sylvanas' fate was a wound ripped raw again every time they looked upon her, and its pain had yet to dull.
In the hall where she stood, the light seemed to fade; it was not that it dimmed or dulled but that it collapsed and sunk into the space she occupied, coalescing instead into her eyes—not blue like the quel'dorei she had once been, or even green like the sin'dorei, but red like the flame of a funeral pyre. Their glow threw the pallid skin of her pinched face into even more horrific relief. She did not come alone, of course. A number of what Lor'themar assumed were Royal Dreadguards accompanied her, their blackened blades no less cruel for their condition.
They awaited him in silence. All Lor'themar could hear as he walked into the hall was the echo of his own footsteps, and even that seemed to fade unnaturally quickly in the presence of the Banshee Queen. There was no point in showing her to the meeting hall as he had Aethas, no point in doing anything but addressing her as she stood. She had no patience for such formalities.
"What brings you to Silvermoon, Sylvanas?" he asked.
She fixed her gaze upon him.
"I have just returned from Orgrimmar," she said. Her voice scraped against the walls. As her mouth moved, Lor'themar could see the skin around it crack and peel like a snake's, as if it were made of brittle parchment.
"Arthas has dared to strike at the heart of the Horde."
Lor'themar's mouth went dry, and a great tide of unease began to rise in his chest as he realized what was coming next. Sylvanas paused a moment, scrutinizing his face for a reaction. He clenched his teeth but remained quiet.
"The attack was successfully repelled," she continued at length. "But Arthas is only toying with us—we must bring the war to him. Warchief Thrall at last sees what we have long known." Her eyes glittered with a dangerous eagerness. "The Horde prepares for war. And the sin'dorei, Lor'themar, comprise a portion of the Horde."
Her words fell upon him and clattered to the floor like stones. He knew what she was asking, had always known that this day would come. And yet, as he stood in the hall, suddenly conscious of how its grand space swept up and above him, swallowing his presence, he found himself unable to respond.
"Lor'themar." Sylvanas' words shattered around him in impatience. "We go to destroy Arthas—once and for all."
Slowly, Lor'themar shook his head.
"I appreciate that you and Warchief Thrall wish us to join you on the initial front in Northrend. But we are stretched too thin. We have already received a similar request from the Kirin Tor, but I cannot in good faith send our forces north. Since the events at Quel'Danas—"
"This is not a request, Lor'themar," she interrupted. "You will send troops—they will accompany the Forsaken."
"Sylvanas," Lor'themar said quietly, "we have just fought a civil war. What can we possibly have to give?"
She held his gaze, unrelenting and without compassion. When at last she spoke, the words hissed between her teeth in cruel phrases.
"Have you forgotten who is responsible for the state of Quel'Thalas in the first place? Who is ultimately to blame?" She searched his face for a reply, and when he gave none, she continued. "Well I, at least, have not! My vengeance will not be denied, and you will give what I demand of you: the sin'dorei rangers and magi, as well as the Blood Knights in which you all seem to take so much pride."
"We do not have such things to give, Sylvanas."
Her flaking lips curled into a contemptuous sneer.
"Then you can hide from all the world like a beaten dog if that is indeed your will, Lor'themar. Though if you believe anything can come from it, then you are a fool indeed. Do you think Arthas will be content to ignore you whilst you wait here and lick your wounds? Do you think I will tolerate such cowardice? I would warn you: those who do not stand with the Forsaken stand against them. And those who stand against the Forsaken will not stand long.
"For a number of years now my people have stood guard in these lands, and it is by my hand that you have any place within the Horde. You will aid us on the shores of Northrend, or I shall cease to aid you in Quel'Thalas."
Lor'themar swayed upon his feet as if buffeted by a gale. In the south, near the Plaguelands, where the Scourge still ran raw across the Dead Scar despite every effort, they could not afford the loss of Sylvanas' troops. He had not lied to Aurora and Renthar when he had said that their position in the Ghostlands was more secure, but he was not so naïve as to think it could be held by Thalassian forces alone. Without the Forsaken, Tranquillien would fall. And what, then, would follow?
For the second time since he had returned from Quel'Lithien, he heard Captain Hawkspear's words in his memory.
We are no longer her people.
If he were honest with himself, he could not deny that he had known it all the while. His mouth tasted acrid, as if he had just chewed a swatch of kingsblood.
"Send my exhausted people to find more death in Northrend, or risk losing Quel'Thalas to the Scourge once again." From far away he heard his own laugh, and it sounded more like one of Rommath's. "There is no choice here, Sylvanas."
The Banshee Queen eyed him dispassionately.
"I will expect your forces at the Undercity in two weeks, Lor'themar," she replied. "I will not be disappointed in this."
"Yes, my lady."
She turned to leave.
"How can you do this?" Lor'themar registered the desperate anger in Rommath's voice with a sort of dull surprise; the grand magister seemed still to believe somewhere that Sylvanas could be made to negotiate.
"This is blackmail!" he continued, trembling in his fury, the knuckles of his fists paling as he clenched them around his staff. "It was you who pleaded to aid us in the first place! We never asked for your assistance; you gave it of your own free will! How can you call yourselves our allies in one breath and hold our lands for ransom in the next?"
Sylvanas considered him a moment, somehow managing to look down upon him though he was taller than she.
"You were never required to accept my offers," she said. "You chose to. All I ask for now is the will and power to defeat our greatest foe." She shifted her eyes to fall upon Lor'themar. "I could ask for more, if you like."
Rommath did not try to conceal the hatred in his face.
"Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Sylvanas?" To his own ears he sounded defeated, bereft of will or passion. Discuss, he had said; a little voice taunted him. As if there could ever be any discussion with the Banshee Queen.
"No. I am finished here, Lor'themar," she answered.
"Shorel'aran, Sylvanas," he said. Her eyes flashed at the Thalassian farewell, and she said nothing more. Lor'themar watched her go with listless interest; he looked only because there was nothing else to see. He felt cracked and brittle as blades of grass in a frost.
Lor'themar turned to leave and noticed with distaste that Aethas Sunreaver had appeared at some point during the meeting. It vexed him that the mage would have seen him so debilitated in the face of the Banshee Queen, but he had little strength to concern himself with pride. Even through his daze, his mind already ran with lists of tasks. He was familiar with war. Halduron would summon Captain Sunbrand and Lieutenant Dawnrunner. Rommath would notify the magi; he could also represent the Blood Knights while they sent word to Liadrin. He thought—eyes darting back to where the archmage stood, mouth agape—that Aethas would indeed have his chance to prove himself. Lor'themar wandered down the hallway as if in a dream.
He stopped and turned to the speaker, trying to tame his face, to appear attentive or interested. In truth, he was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to return to his desk and be alone, to busy himself with necessary, mindless tasks and forget for a while what had transpired here, and what it meant.
Rommath would not, as usual, let him have his way.
"Lor'themar," he called again as he caught up to the regent lord. "You cannot seriously—we don't—"
"You heard her, Rommath," Lor'themar interrupted. "We go to Northrend or we lose the Forsaken's support—and likely the rest of the Horde's, as well. So we go." He turned to leave again.
"There are still soldiers in the infirmaries from Quel'Danas!" Rommath continued. "We have not even held a proper service for the dead—by the sun, Lor'themar, we barely even know what happened there, or why!"
"We do not have a choice, Rommath; do you not understand that?" Lor'themar began to anger. "We aid Sylvanas or we quite possibly lose all of Quel'Thalas south of the Elrendar River!"
"So let it go!" Rommath shouted back at him, and Lor'themar's eyebrows rose in shock, a lance of fury piercing his chest. Slowly he turned once again to Rommath, catching sight of Halduron's equally startled face as he did.
"Let it go?" His voice started to rise. "Do you know how many elves—sin'dorei and quel'dorei alike—died to defend that land? How many continue to die? And you say I should just let it go? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"They would rather have died in vain than have given their lives just so you could turn into nothing more than the pawn of some…some demon in the name of their sacrifice!"
Lor'themar gaped. Rommath returned his glare, not in anger or contempt, but in a kind of wild desperation that he had not previously seen in the grand magister. He had an agitated look about him, with eyes widened and dark hair falling tangled across his shoulders, almost like some hunted creature. During all of Lor'themar's time as regent—though he and Rommath had argued on many counts—Rommath had never lost his composure or poise. Now, though, he practically shook. Out of the corner of his eye, Lor'themar noticed that a small crowd had gathered. He had no wish to cause a scene.
"Don't fall to her threats," Rommath said softly, and Lor'themar realized in horrified awe that he was pleading. "She will only use you."
Lor'themar clenched his fists in resentment. "If playing the pawn for now is what I must do to ensure the ultimate survival of my people and Quel'Thalas, then it is what I must do, Rommath," he stated. "And I will do it, and you will obey my orders. Do I make myself clear?"
"And how long do you think you can play this kind of game?" Rommath searched his face, imploring.
"As long as I need to," Lor'themar answered, unflinching. Rommath had run up against his obstinacy, and the regent lord would not be easily bested. He straightened, lifting his chin as he remembered Aurora had done, and stared Rommath down. Rommath stared back for a moment, but he could not match Lor'themar. His whole body seemed to sag. He closed his eyes.
"Another leader of the sin'dorei once said something very similar to me, Lor'themar," he said softly, looking away. "I did not argue with him then; indeed, at the time, I thought him right."
Lor'themar's blood ran cold.
"We buried him on Quel'Danas," Rommath said.
Lor'themar did not answer. He would not—he could not—think upon the implications of Rommath's words. For a long moment there was silence, until, at last, Rommath turned away.
"I will notify Magister Bloodsworn and Lord Bloodvalor of your decision, Regent Lord. I will report back to you with their preparations." He left without another word, his shoulders strangely hunched as if against a cold wind.
Unable to quell his roiling emotions, Lor'themar stared blankly at the magister's receding figure until it disappeared around a corner.
"Lor'themar." Halduron's quiet voice startled him out of his reverie. He turned to his friend only to find the ranger-general looking at him strangely, as if seeing him for the first time. Lor'themar suddenly wanted to shake him, to yell at him to stop looking like that.
"What are the regent lord's orders?" he asked. Lor'themar stared, but Halduron was not being facetious.
"Send word to Farstrider Retreat and Farstrider Enclave," he answered. "Tell them what has been decided."
Halduron nodded, leaving him with a final, unreadable glance.
Lor'themar turned to the various servants and palace guards milling about, one dark scowl sending them scurrying back to their respective duties. When he looked up, he could not suppress a gasp of exasperation as he saw Aethas Sunreaver had not departed with them. Lor'themar eyed him contemptuously.
"You should be pleased, Archmage."
Aethas started in surprise.
"So you will support the Kirin—"
"The Kirin Tor can do whatever they damn well please—it is no concern of mine," Lor'themar snapped. "But seeing as any number of sin'dorei forces will be heading north shortly, I expect a portion of the magisters will likely end up on your doorstep. You will be well placed to aid them, Aethas. Now go find Rommath. I am sure he will have much use for you."
Aethas frowned. "I do not think this will end well."
Abruptly Lor'themar turned on his heel and faced him. The archmage's words had struck a deep nerve.
"It will end how we will it to."
Lor'themar left him there, standing alone beneath leaden banners of red and gold.
What I told Aethas was a lie, of course. My will, in fact, means little. I can pretend my power is real, but in the end, there is nothing honest here. Either you can wash your hands of it, play the martyr, be victimized, and accomplish nothing, or you can fight and victimize others in your turn and thus become the very thing you battle. If ever I once rationalized my choices using any other logic, I have certainly come to see the fatuity of such claims. Captain Hawkspear was right: I deal with the devil indeed, but the Sunwell may never have been restored had we not sunk to levels of atrocity. He and Aurora can sleep soundly knowing they have never compromised their ethics, but if they deny that they prosper in the wake of those who have, then they delude themselves as much as any sin'dorei ever has.
Here I find myself frighteningly close to stating that the ends justify the means. The day that I would dare take that perspective, one would only have to turn me upon the ruins of the Magisters' Terrace to demonstrate the folly in such a claim. This is the line I walk, finally understanding that the actions I take in necessity are nonetheless indefensible. Those truths can never be reconciled, but sometimes I can hold them both side by side and accept their individual validity. Such a revelation might be called profound if I were ignorant enough not to realize that I am only learning what Kael'thas, and Anasterian before him, and every other who has ever been tasked with honest leadership, has also learned in his or her own turn. I do not think it can be taught. All we do is walk the road we are given with such dignity as we can muster, each to our own glory or demise, and pray that there yet remains something of our own hearts when all is said and done. By the sun, I hope that there will remain something of mine.
[Signed] Lor'themar Theron
Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas
in the year 6937 [Thalassian calendar]
The Baron's Bird por Andrew Moeller (Warcraft)
Summary: The Blackwater Raiders are trying to loot and pillage Stranglethorn Vale, but they are foiled by the region's troll tribes. The pirates' leader, Baron Revilgaz, grows increasingly vexed by both the catastrophic situation and his unruly parrot.
The baron tapped his foot impatiently. After several moments the deck shook violently, followed by an ominous humming sound. Revilgaz broke into a toothy grin as a gentle breeze began to lick at the slack sails. Within minutes the breeze picked up into a strong southerly gale.
"The bats are tumbled in the wind," Crazz cried happily, observing through his looking glass. "They're backing off!"
"Fleet Master Seahorn!" the baron yelled triumphantly. "Take the helm and bring us about; we sail south!" The baron's parrot fluttered down to perch on its master's shoulder. "It's going to take more than a few mangy bats and fire bombs to make the Blackwater Raiders abandon ship!" Revilgaz boasted.
"Abandon ship!" the parrot echoed in the baron's voice. Several nearby crewmen reflexively leapt over the rails.
"If you do that one more time," the baron growled, eyeing the bird coldly, "I'm going to have parrot for dinner."
Into the Void por Benjamin P. Reeves (Warcraft)
Summary: Dwarves from the Explorers' League set out to investigate the saronite mines in Whisper Gulch, with devastating consequences.
Janner nodded dumbly and walked away, wiping at his brow. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Not wanting to take the switchbacks back down through the gulch, he made his way over the winch-lift. Two young squires quickly appeared, and for a couple of coins, they manned the winch. Janner felt the usual stomach-turning sensation as the lift eased out over empty space. He looked at the shadowed cleft of the gulch, but for no reason he could understand, the sight of it sent shivers running up and down his spine.
Janner turned to watch the cliff face to ease his mind. In the dying light, tiny chips of saronite buried in the stone winked at him like a thousand staring eyes, beetle-green and shimmering.
Why We Fight por Jason Matthew Rodriguez (StarCraft)
Summary: Private Warden reminisces after losing an idealistic young comrade during a Dominion mission of "moderate importance."
Ward sat on the lower bunk listening as the names of the newly deceased rolled by through the air. He was watching as two new fresh faces cycled into the room, replacements for those lost the day before. It was always nice to see new faces, guys excited about their jobs; it just wasn't easy taking the fact that men had to die. He was used to it, but never used to it. He carried every one of them on his shoulders.
"Farenzo, Julian. Federline, Markus. Fisherton, Johnathon...."
Warden sniffed the air, lowering his head. "Yeah, kid. Glad you're resting now. Maybe I'll see you soon." He looked up, watching another wide-eyed recruit making the walk to replace the now empty bunk that had belonged to Fish. "I'll make sure this one knows about you."
The Intrusion carried onward into the darkness of space, ready to secure another world, another line of resources. Charlie Warden sat, ready, prepared. He waited for the next fight. He hoped to preserve another life. He was a 20-year veteran of the Marine Corps. Most of all, he remembered.
The Flag of the Black King por Erik Sabol (Diablo)
Summary: Having wandered aimlessly for some time, Lachdanan searches for absolution after slaying his ruler, King Leoric.
"And what are you expecting?"
Lachdanan considered the question carefully. "A fair judgment," he said. "And my salvation. I trust now that you have heard my story; you do not consider me a coward, traitor, or murderer."
"You are correct in your assumption," the voice replied. "You are not Lachdanan the Damned, the Weak, or the Traitor."
Lachdanan's spirit soared. He beamed a smile to the heavens and fell to his knees. "Then you will grant me my salvation?"
"Alas," the voice said, "I cannot. Your soul belongs to the Black King."
Lachdanan opened his mouth to speak but found no words. His breaths were short and quick, and his eyes welled with tears. He collapsed to his knees and pleaded with the voice in the sky.
"But I was saved," he whispered.
"I deem you Lachdanan the Forsaken, unfit for salvation," the voice said. "Another casualty under the flag of the Black King."
Where Loyalties Lie por Michael Edmund O'Reilly (StarCraft)
Summary: Sam Piers, a Confederate marine, is recalled to crush the growing Dominion forces in his sector. The plan is set and the mission begins, but the marines of the Epsilon Squadron fall right into the Dominion's trap. Piers' comrades die in the ensuing slaughter, but he survives only to lose his memories during neural resocialization at the hands of his enemies.
"No. I like this one. This scumbag's too good to waste."
I can't see who is talking. He's big and, I'm betting, ugly. I want to punch him as he drips his syrupy voice into my ear.
"Your brain must be frying like an egg right now, but try to keep up. It's a brave new sector, and the Dominion needs good marines. Even Confederate psychos like you, my friend."
I don't have the strength to curse him. I black out.
Flashes of waking and sleeping. A series of nightmares, painful memories. I feel such terrible things in my brain, as if the cells are exploding like bombs, and there are so many of them. Moments ago I understood what was happening to me. I can't remember now. Can't remember much of anything. I ought to be scared, terrified, but before I feel any kind of loss, I'm given something else. Happy memories are torn away, but others are forced onto me, not better but not worse either. It's as if I'm being slapped with one hand, caressed with another. Not unpleasant, just strange. I can't tell if I feel different because there's no frame with which to compare. As far as I know, I am this way and have always been so.
And in the back of my mind, there's a feeling that this isn't the first time I've experienced this. Once, years ago, I was here before.
The Last Days of Crank Fizzlepop por Sean Riley (Warcraft)
Summary: Crank Fizzlepop is an enthusiastic young inventor hoping to win his fortune and the heart of his beloved. But things take a turn for the worse as his dreams begin to exceed his realities.
Crank Fizzlepop's Diary
It is quickly becoming clear to me that there is no justice in this world. None at all. Tragedy, unrelenting horror: that untalented and contemptuous little sneak, with no sense of vision or imagination whatsoever. Yes, Merriton Hoppithwet has once again taken the Grand Prix! And with what, with what, I ask you? Why, with improved clothes-washing technology! I do not even joke. His invention was an improved wringer that washed and wrung dry clothes in a single motion.
Where is the vision in this? How could they award it to that when my invention promised prosperity, improved communication, and peace on Azeroth?
So what if my device suffered a minor malfunction during the presentation? So what if the birds became vicious and pecked one of the onlookers half to death? So what if it was a judge? The second showing went off without a hitch! You have to look at the greater perspective!
Kuma's Song por Tzu-Mainn Chen (Warcraft)
Summary: Kuma, a tauren warrior, accompanies Horde forces as they fight the Alliance in Alterac Valley.
A human lay below him, staring up, fear in his eyes. His chest was shattered; Kuma could see white bone poking through the broken flesh and armor. The human was small and smooth faced. A boy. Blood bubbled on the boy's lips as he whispered something over and over again. And although Kuma could not hear the words, he somehow knew that it was a plea.
He lowered his weapon. His veins filled with ice.
"Help," he croaked. Kuma knelt down and reached for his hand, and the boy jerked it back, his eyes rolling around in their sockets as they searched for mercy. "Please," Kuma whispered. "Help." This time, he took the human's hand in his own. "Help."
He repeated the one word over and over again. No one heard. The slaughter continued all around them.
"Victory!" someone roared, and others took up the cry. Kuma looked up and saw Galvangar cut down the Alliance banner. The boy's hand trembled once more in his own, and when Kuma looked down again, the boy was dead.