Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

Forsaken Forborne	By : Sealink Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 6853 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
"Dame Auriferous?"
"Yes; she's overseeing operations based in Tranquillien."
Galen Silverdawn felt his heart sink into his shoes. Tranquillien
was deep in the Ghostlands, those parts of Quel'Thalas long given up for lost
to the Scourge. At its border, the silver trees of Eversong yielded to twisted perversions
of themselves. Nowhere was it more pronounced than the milky river Elrendar,
only a few minutes away; on one side, the golden leaves of Eversong, on the
other, the gnarled skeleton trees of the Ghostlands. Galen steeled himself and
pressed his fist to his chest.
"Of course, Lord Bloodvalor. I will go at once."
The dark-haired man smiled and returned the salute, and a
line of concern creased his brow. "Galen."
"My lord?" The silver-haired paladin looked up at
the blood knight-lord who issued his orders. For him to say anything beyond his
acceptance of the mission was unusual. What he had to say must be important.
"The Ghostlands are a den of evil and temptation for
us. Take care that your mind remains clear and calm, and consider especially
the thirst, for it has been known to trick the minds of even the most
iron-willed warrior." A soft smile touched the older paladin�s face.
�Auriferous can wait until the morning.�
He felt slightly insulted, but realized quickly that Bloodvalor
spoke only out of concern for one of his knights. He dipped his head in
respect.
"Yes. Thank you, my lord."
The champion inclined his dark head and Galen was dismissed.
He walked back through the Royal Exchange to the inn, ignoring the flirty
innkeeper and going up to his bed before the vintner could speak. It was just
as well; Galen disliked the winemaster and the way he told bawdy stories about
his retreats with Lord Saltheril. �
The next day, he struck out for Tranquillien, moving with
focused purpose. He ignored the dragonhawks that moved through the
widely-spaced trees, and dealt with the occasional springpaw if it ventured too
close. He mindfully avoided the Dead Scar to the east. The earth there was
scorched with the Plague of Blight, and no living thing lasted long against the
ravenous Scourge that stalked its length. All the way up through Silvermoon City
it stretched, a broad swath of destruction carved by Arthas� undead march from Deatholme
in the southern Ghostlands.
Galen knew that even further to the south lay the Plaguelands,
which separated the blood elves from the Forsaken stronghold of Lordaeron. The
Blight was still horribly in evidence there, or so Bloodvalor had told him. Galen
had slaughtered many humans in his time, but still felt sick at the thought of
watching people, human and elven alike, die and rise up again to do the bidding
of the Lich King. The being who had formerly been Arthas Menethril controlled
every undead Scourge telepathically from his throne in his icy stronghold in Northrend.
Galen took a cold satisfaction in killing the ravagers of Quel�Thalas. He liked
to pretend that each rotted corpse that crumpled at his feet was one part of Arthas
dead, one part of the Lich King that was no longer able to fight.
The waters of the river Elrendar crept lazily through its
banks, lacking the hurried youth of a stream, not yet a meandering giant at the
sea's edge. The bridge over it was quite passable, but Galen paused at the
hollow noises his booted footsteps made against the Ghostland trees. His eyes
adjusted to the constant dusk, which blanketed the land even during the day.
Shadows made eerie, grasping shapes, and Galen was unsettled by the bladed
darkness and the glittering eyes of toothy things in the weakened scrub that
yet clung to life. He had not yet set foot on the opposite bank, but already he
felt the thrum of his magic addiction growing more insistent, as if the evil
things at work in these groves were already pushing at his willful control.
Some of the eversong trees had escaped the death that so
many of their kind suffered, but changed instead into mighty, dark giants whose
branches hung like vultures� wings over the bone-white trees underneath.
Instead of succumbing to the Ghostlands� plague, they embraced it, losing the
lingering blessing of the destroyed Sunwell forever. He strode forward into the
withered forest, dimly phosphorescent toadstools lighting his path.�
Even the lightposts were bent and gnarled by the dark energies
that commanded nature there, the same energies which starved the animals of
Light, the same energies which allowed, even encouraged, the harboring of the
undead Scourge. Lamps were lit by faerie fire, a ghoulish blue glow that did
nothing to diminish his apprehension.
Tranquillien was not far and he reached it without mishap,
although he had expected a savage onslaught of horror from the moment he set
foot in the Ghostlands. He saw numerous dead and undead things lying in heaps,
having taken the brunt of the swallow blades wielded by Guardians. He was
grateful to the blood elves that worked to keep the roads in this death trap safe,
for he was not eager to begin his questing here exhausted from battles already
fought.
The town itself was not more than a few elven buildings in
various states of disrepair, but the rough wooden wagons and carts of intrepid
vendors were circled in various places, their owners clinging to a tenuous life
in the encampment. As he neared, he was horrified to see the Forsaken walking
freely about the hamlet, and more confused by the fact that the blood elves he
saw paid them no mind.
The Forsaken were those undead who remembered their lives
before the Plague of Blight that obliterated Lordaeron. They were largely human,
although he saw at least one that had been elven in life, and he knew that Sylvanas
Windrunner, their Dark Lady and undead queen, had been a blood elf before Arthas
killed her. All Forsaken were fiercely loyal to Sylvanas, who had helped them
throw off the mind control of the Lich King.
As he neared, a warlock looked to him with eagerness in his
posture, his blonde hair gathered up into a ponytail at the back of his head. �You!
Have you come from Silvermoon?�
Galen was affronted by the man�s lack of respect, and waited
a moment before replying. �I am.�
�Then the road through is safe?�
�When I passed through, it was indeed safe,� Galen replied
quickly, sensing that this warlock was eager for information, and hoping that
it might buy his way out of the conversation at the earliest possible time.
�The High Executor will be so pleased!� the arcanist said
happily, and upon learning that the paladin was on his way to the service of
Dame Auriferous, tasked him with delivering the news to the High Executor Mavren.
�
�Sir Warlock,� Galen interrupted, cutting off the torrent of
speech that continuously poured from the blood elf�s mouth. �Why are the
Forsaken here?� The presence of undead, even those that had managed to wriggle
out from under the telepathic thumb of the Lich King, was disturbing and
unsettling to him, and he demanded an answer.
The warlock sobered, brushing a lock of hair back over his
shoulder. �The situation is grimmer than many realize. Had you no idea,
paladin, of the brutal sway the Scourge hold over the Ghostlands? The Forsaken
despise the Scourge as much as we do, and their aid is sorely needed to reclaim
our lost ancestry.� He hefted his staff in his right hand, and then sighed
heavily. �Of course no one in Silvermoon breathes a word of how desperate we
are for help.�
�Knight-Lord Bloodvalor sent me to aid in any way I could, Arcanist�?�
�Vandril.� The warlock�s face softened, and Galen saw how
the strain creased his brow only as it relaxed. �Thank you, paladin. We need
all able-bodied sin�dorei to come to the aid of their people.�
Vandril pointed the way up the hill to the command post, a
round building where several rangers lingered outside, discussing the best way
to attack groups of starving ghostclaw panthers that hunted the citizens. An undead
warrior was sitting on the steps, and next to him, a Forsaken priest leaned
against the wall. He paid them no mind; no matter how the Forsaken were helping
to retake Quel�Thalas, it would not make any difference. They were undead and
not to be trusted.
High Executor Mavren, he found, was also an undead, his
blue-tinged skin half-eaten away, with glimpses of greyed bone showing through.
He took the news thankfully, seeming not to notice Galen�s discomfiture, and
sent an elven runner with a message to Silvermoon.
Dame Auriferous stood in the middle of the room. She was
stunningly beautiful, as all sin�dorei were, with the glowing green eyes
of her people and thick, glossy auburn hair. She wore the traditional red of
the blood elves, a reminder of all those that died in the Second War, and Galen
wore his own red tunic and cape with similar sentiments. Never again would the
zombie masses overwhelm them.
�You arrived quickly, paladin,� she purred in a silky voice,
one that spoke of creature comforts normally bypassed in a holy warrior�s
training. �We found the dead messenger with your conscript only last evening.�
He took her in with both eyes, making no secret about his
perusal of her curves. She had a body made for pleasure, and Galen had no doubt
that many had experienced its delights. Her skin was pale, almost green in
places, and Galen felt his libido stumble. Only repeated lapses in control of
their magic addiction caused such color in a blood elf.
�I stand ready to cleanse the Scourge from our lands,� he
said, saluting her with his hand over his heart.
�Oh, the Scourge are not our immediate concern,� she said,
sounding mildly distracted.
�But it is good that you have arrived so quickly,� she
continued, �for I fear the Darnassians are ready to make their move.�
Night-elves from the continent of Kalimdor. A flood of
hatred surged through him, an ancient racial fire that was taught him at his
mother�s knee. He grit his teeth together. �How many are there?�
�A scout was able to bring back a count of twenty or so in a
small group on Shalandis, to the west. They seem to be gathering strength for
an initial skirmish.� Her voice became tense with a discerning anger, and she
clenched her fist, the green fire of fel-energy flaring in her eyes.
�There must be plans in their camp. Bring them to me and
I�ll reward you handsomely.� Silver jingled in a purse at her sash, but there
was a promise of seduction in her eyes, and Galen�s lips quirked in a smile. �I
look forward to it, my lady,� he replied suavely.
He turned and swept out of the outpost, barely glancing at
the undead outside, and walked out of Tranquillien toward the western coast.
The going was easy enough, and there were many Scourge that
attempted to waylay him as he traveled the broken road over the Dead Scar. He
dispatched them swiftly, his face souring as one of them splashed messily on
his boots. With his sword, he cut them in half, carving his own path through
the Dead Scar, and swearing to each one he felled that Quel�Thalas would have
justice.
The swim to Shalandis, an island off the murloc-beset coast,
was more trying, as his mail kept dragging him down. Only several moments along
the beach, hidden away, provided him an opportunity to recoup his lost
energies. He crept into the kaldorei camp, his skin prickling and heart
racing. The night-elves went about their business, some restringing their bows,
others sharpening blades. He wanted to charge blindly ahead and kill them all,
slitting their purple throats before any had the chance to raise an alarm. It
would be foolish, but the more he considered it, the more appealing it became.
He crept forward, crawling ahead low in the grass, trying to formulate an order
of attack. Suddenly, a movement at the edge of his vision made him pause.
To his horror, he saw a night-elf, her slender body fading
into view as she dispelled her shadowmeld. Her silver-lit eyes were paired with
a cruel smile. �Kill the defiler!� she screamed, and Galen leaped up, thrusting
his sword through her chest, and delighting in the way the green light from his
eyes lit her dying face. �Filthy night-elf bitch,� he swore at her as he shoved
her body off his blade onto the grass, and turned to face the other kaldorei
that had come too late to her aid.�
The men used staves and cudgels, and were no match for his
sword alone, but the arrows and magic shot at a distance by the women were
enough to give the edge to the brawny night-elf men. One landed a crushing blow
to Galen�s unarmored temple, and he was dazed for a moment, and then felt an
arrow�s tip burn his sword arm. He turned, throwing his other hand to cover the
wound as it seeped blood, and the men brought all their weight behind their
staves into his back. He made a strangled yell at the blinding pain, and fell
to his knees, unable to breathe or even think beyond the constant blows that
battered him from all sides. A dagger-tip found its way between his shoulder
blades, and as he doubled over, one of their booted feet connected with his
ribs, leaving him collapsed in the soft grass. He waited for the death blow.
It never came. A shield of light blunted the falling staff,
and arrows bounced off it as the maddened night-elves tried again to kill their
captured blood elf. Galen heard their outrage, and he tried to lift his head
and find his benefactor, but found himself lacking the strength. He saw the
dark red of his blood staining his hair as it fell over his face, and it took
the fight out of him. The priest, whoever it was, could not save him; he was
still losing blood too badly.
As if in response to his dwindling thoughts, a golden spell
settled over him, the familiar cooling of healing magic numbing the bruises and
arrow wounds. He sighed softly as the pain faded under the priest�s magic, and
then slung the shallow-bit dagger out of his back with a shake of his
shoulders. A gasp wheezed out of him when the blade fell free, but the priest
was already healing him again, and this time, the dagger�s ugly mark was closed
as well.
The night-elves stood back as their dead blood elf stood up,
having realized that the shield thwarted all their efforts, but never having
the sense to look for the priest who kept the shield up. He could not see his
savior over the burly men, but he called out, �My thanks, priest!�
�Thank me when you�ve killed them all, paladin!� came the
reply in a hoarse female yell; she was at some distance away to avoid
detection. The night-elves turned their heads toward her, and Galen took
advantage of their distraction to decapitate two of them from behind the shield.
To her credit, the priest never let the shield drop for more
than a few moments, and any blows that landed while the shield was down were
quickly healed. She was a good healer, and with her help, he laid waste to the kaldorei,
leaving their bodies crumpled in broken heaps around him. He spotted the one
with the dagger sheath at her waist and spit on her dead face as he walked to
take the plans from the tents on the other side of the island.
With the scrolls firmly in his possession, he walked back to
find his priest and give his thanks. As he crossed the clearing, he heard a soft
cough from one of the hollow tree trunks at the clearing�s edge. He turned, and
found the priest sitting inside the tree. Her long white robe was muddied at
the knees, and she seemed to be propped up. Within a few strides, before he
could even make her out clearly, he knew why; her mana was totally exhausted.
She had no smell of magic about her at all.
Except� for that magic. He was brought up short as he
approached the tree and recognized the faint magical aura that pervaded her
body. The Plague of Blight, a magical disease which caused undeath. It was
faint, but there, hovering about her like a moth. She surprised him by having
no smell of death about her at all, no odor of decay, as he had expected from
being so close to one of her kind. She smelled faintly of seagrass, a sweet,
sandy smell, not at all unpleasant. She smiled at him weakly, and he knelt next
to her, determined not to let his thanks go unpaid.
She was beautiful, or had been, in life, with fine features
and full lips made grey-green by her changed blood. Her pupils had long ago
vanished with the Blight; only featureless black orbs occupied her eye sockets
now. Her hair must have once been brown or blonde, but it was now a shock of
teal that stood up and out from her head. Her skin was an appalling ashen
white, and her bones, dove grey, showed plainly at the elbows and near her
wrists.
Galen wordlessly took a skin from his bags and offered it to
her, watching as she pulled the cork out and drank of the refreshing water
greedily. The smell of magic returned to her slowly. When she offered the skin
back to him, he raised his hand to wave her off. �You need it more than I do.�
�Thank you, paladin.� Her voice was sweet and soft, and she
tilted her head back, resting it against the wood. He realized with a start
that she was the undead priest that had lingered outside the command post. Why
had she trailed him? They were natural enemies, or at least, she was his
natural enemy. But was he hers?
�You followed me from Tranquillien.� His statement held a
ring of accusation, and she nodded in reply.
�I was the scout who found the Darnassian camp,� she
murmured, her voice gaining strength. �They sent you alone, and I knew that
wouldn�t be enough.�
�I have confidence in my skills as a warrior,� Galen said
defensively.
�I had confidence in my skills as a healer,� she snapped
back, �But my mana was totally drained. If you�d been killed, there would have
been nothing I could have done.� She looked down at the half-drunk skin, clutched
in thin white fingers. �And then the night-elves would have won.� The sounds of
evening filled what would have been an otherwise awkward silence.
�Don�t be so hard on yourself,� Galen said finally. She was
having a strange effect on him; he felt obligated to soothe her and make her
feel better. It was strange for him to feel such concern for anyone, much less
an undead. For a brief moment, his arrogance and self-importance fell away, and
he was concerned for the feelings of another sentient human being. �You saved
my life. For that, I am eternally grateful.� He paused.
�Even to an undead.� His reckless mouth tore ahead, and the
words were out before he had the sense to stop himself.
She smiled. �Just because I do not live does not mean I wish
others to die, paladin.�
Galen was inwardly surprised. He had expected a vindictive
nature, or something at least mildly hateful, but she was a well-spoken
priestess, gentle and self-deprecating in spite of her skill. �You must not
call me �paladin�. I should be addressed properly,� he said haughtily, with a
heavy wink.
A ghost of a smile played at her lips. �What shall I call
you, then?�
He took her hand from her lap, seeing that she did not have
the bone-spike phalanges of some undead. Her skin was smooth and chilled, and
felt like marble as he pressed his lips chastely to the back of her hand. �Galen
Silverdawn, at your service.�
Her smile grew wider, and no cracks erupted in her decaying
skin, as he had half-expected they would. �Tamsin Hartwell, my lord,� she
replied, inclining her head demurely.
Galen smiled at her and ran his thumb over her knuckles.
�I�m delighted to make your acquaintance.�
Tamsin was at once coquettish and shy, her black eyes both
direct and evasive. The mystery of her was intriguing. Galen was beginning to
discover that the Forsaken, or at least, this Forsaken, was not quite
what he had made them out to be.
xXx
AUTHOR�S NOTE: This is my first Warcraft fic, and I intend
to write several more. Concrit welcomed, although I prefer that you NOT review
with concrit; just email me or message me and I�ll be happy to chat. The
characters are very roughly based on the priest I play (Auchindoun) and my
tank; I would never have thought to explore the tension between Blood Elves and
undead without that important seed. I have only joined the fandom recently and
I hope I haven�t mucked things up too badly.
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Forsaken Forborne