Selkath (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} selkath) wrote,@ 2008-01-30 21:30:00 |
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A New Nattative - A New Story
I have decided to write something about Trell, and Warcraft, and, after some thought, I thought that I'd explain something of her past in the process. So, here's the beginning, but I haven't edited the story yet, so it probably seems odd in places. Enjoy! (There's also a totally unrelated comic at the bottom.)
---
Trell ran through the forest.
Every rustle caused by her feet touching the ground seemed to echo through the wood, loudly, as if there was no way, no way at all to avoid the notice of the great, mindless army swarming behind. As if there was no way to get back to the Rangers, to their army, in time to warn them that the army had decided to strike. She no longer wore the white silk robes slashed with blue that identified her as a healer: they were bothersome, and, with such small numbers left, anyone that could run was used as a scout. She had replaced them with a dark blue vest, with the sign of Quel'thalas in gold, though faded, displayed on the chest, and pants and boots of the same color, slashed with washed-out tones of gold, as well. The flashy, new, gilded armor that had been in use only months before was no longer in existance. The war had exhausted everything, decorative clothing included.
The lightest noise behind Trell, perhaps a small animal running across a stick, or a bird shifting in a tree, made her speed up. Not looking over her shoulder, she ran as hard as she could, pushing herself to her limit and over, her oddly black hair coming loose from being bound in the ponytail that she had hastily tied with a short piece of string earlier as it flopped from one of her shoulders to another. She had to get to the Ranger-General before the Scourge started from their outpost. She wanted to shout to the Rangers' outpost, in the vague hope that they would hear her, but that could be as dangerous as it could be helpful. If the flying members of the Scourge, the Scourge's scouts heard her, they would carry word back to their army, or kill her on the spot. And then, then it would be too late for the Rangers. Too late for Quel'thalas.
Another shuffle came from behind, a leathery sound, like the sound of a bat's wings folding came from behind her once more, and then again. A chill went through Trell: it had to be one of the Scourge's scouts, the bat-like, plague-carrying creatures that served no purpose but to hunt down the scouts of the opposing side, to kill them, to make them part of Arthas' army. Make them wandering, dead creatures like the rest of them.
Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Trell saw a dark shape swoop silently behind her through the trees, its silhouette obvious on the backdrop of a bright and ominous red sky, creating a mood full of terror even without the knowledge that a huge, ever-growing army was marching slowly towards the City of the Sun, to destroy it and decimate it entirely. Again the leathery sound came, and this time, Trell could clearly tell that it came from that creature. It was, indeed, the creature that she had feared, a Scourge scout that was on her trail. The channeling staff that Trell had slung over her back suddenly seemed heavy, the light blue crystal on its end glowing with a dim inner light. Still running as fast she could push herself, she pulled the staff from her back and swung it around, whirling it to her side. The leathery sound came louder from the Scourge scout, signaling that it was closing in.
Channeling Light into her staff until it began to glow, brightly as a beacon, Trell whirled, stopping dead and thrusting the staff into the air. The Scourge creature, which had been speeding up in its attempt to attack her, tried to stop as best as it could, but, with the extra momentum caused by its dive, could not pause. Trell let loose a smiting blast from the glowing staff as the creature rammed directly into it, bursting into flames and burning horridly. Trell had already turned and begun moving towards the Ranger outpost again as the creature fell into ashes. If there was one advantage to having a priest as a scout, then the powers that priests had to combat the Scourge were most certainly that.
The woods began to thin, and soon Trell was running through an open stretch of the startlingly beautiful Valley of Quel'thalas. On any normal day, the sight was enough to stop in their tracks even someone that had lived there all their lives. If it were not for the ominous red sky, the Valley would have been the perfect image of tranquility - the beautiful, flowering trees, the shining, ever visible river, the numerous waterfalls that crashed near-silently over cliffs, and the flowing, elegantly curving structures built by the High Elves. Those structures had been abandoned weeks before, with all of the elves fleeing towards Sivermoon, towards the only safety to be found, and the only direction it was possibly to run in - north, away from the Scourge Armies. Away from Arthas. Away from the Undead Plague. On any normal day, it would have certainly been a sight to cause a pause. Today, Trell was focused only on running, notifying the Silvermoon Army, the Rangers, that the Scourge were on the move, that they were coming, burning through the woods with their tainted dark magic and fires, coming towards the Sunwell.
Trell tried to not let her mind venture towards the topic of the Sunwell. As a High Elf herself, she should have been hopelessly in danger without the well of magic, but she had, from the time that magic had been taught to her, learned to meditate and avoid the deadly addiction that would consume the High Elves if they did not have their Sunwell. Trell knew that Arthas and the Scourge wanted that Sunwell, wanted the Sunwell to ressurect Kel'thuzad, the horrible man that had learned too late that power was gained for a price. A price of evil. If they got to it, they would ressurect the man, and they would then destroy the magical well that had, since the beginning of Quel'thalas, kept most of the High Elves - those that could not meditate - alive. And that was most of them. Those of the High Elves that were not slaughtered and turned into mindless slaves for Arthas would die simply from the magic addiction that would lure them into bad directions, make them Wretched, slaves to their addiction and nothing else.
In the distance, Trell saw the blue-and-gold flag, matching in color her outfit, but brighter, the only remotely new thing that there was in use in the war, flapping in the light wind above the Ranger outpost. Breathing heavily, Trell pushed herself even farther, running with even more quickness than she had before. Soon, she skid into the encampent, and a loud call, and imitation of a Dragonhawk call, passed through the area. It was a sign that the camp's watchers had seen her, and were signaling to the inner camp that the person approaching was of no danger. A young boy, his own long ears flopping limply as he dashed up to her, inquired, "Scout - eh, Healer - Trell! Do you bring news? Sylvanas was expecting something today. A gut feeling, she said... Come straight to her. She's in the big council tent." The boy nodded and gestured in the direction of the tent. Exhausted and breathing raggedly, Trell nodded and walked quickly in the direction of the Ranger-General's tent. It was time to tell Sylvanas what was coming - the end.
---
It's roughly drawn (I didn't even bother to type in the caption), but it's a joke, so what did you expect?
And here's another neat thing! Click and head down to the Warcraft Music Player. It's got all your favorite Warcraft tunes!
I have decided to write something about Trell, and Warcraft, and, after some thought, I thought that I'd explain something of her past in the process. So, here's the beginning, but I haven't edited the story yet, so it probably seems odd in places. Enjoy! (There's also a totally unrelated comic at the bottom.)
---
Trell ran through the forest.
Every rustle caused by her feet touching the ground seemed to echo through the wood, loudly, as if there was no way, no way at all to avoid the notice of the great, mindless army swarming behind. As if there was no way to get back to the Rangers, to their army, in time to warn them that the army had decided to strike. She no longer wore the white silk robes slashed with blue that identified her as a healer: they were bothersome, and, with such small numbers left, anyone that could run was used as a scout. She had replaced them with a dark blue vest, with the sign of Quel'thalas in gold, though faded, displayed on the chest, and pants and boots of the same color, slashed with washed-out tones of gold, as well. The flashy, new, gilded armor that had been in use only months before was no longer in existance. The war had exhausted everything, decorative clothing included.
The lightest noise behind Trell, perhaps a small animal running across a stick, or a bird shifting in a tree, made her speed up. Not looking over her shoulder, she ran as hard as she could, pushing herself to her limit and over, her oddly black hair coming loose from being bound in the ponytail that she had hastily tied with a short piece of string earlier as it flopped from one of her shoulders to another. She had to get to the Ranger-General before the Scourge started from their outpost. She wanted to shout to the Rangers' outpost, in the vague hope that they would hear her, but that could be as dangerous as it could be helpful. If the flying members of the Scourge, the Scourge's scouts heard her, they would carry word back to their army, or kill her on the spot. And then, then it would be too late for the Rangers. Too late for Quel'thalas.
Another shuffle came from behind, a leathery sound, like the sound of a bat's wings folding came from behind her once more, and then again. A chill went through Trell: it had to be one of the Scourge's scouts, the bat-like, plague-carrying creatures that served no purpose but to hunt down the scouts of the opposing side, to kill them, to make them part of Arthas' army. Make them wandering, dead creatures like the rest of them.
Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Trell saw a dark shape swoop silently behind her through the trees, its silhouette obvious on the backdrop of a bright and ominous red sky, creating a mood full of terror even without the knowledge that a huge, ever-growing army was marching slowly towards the City of the Sun, to destroy it and decimate it entirely. Again the leathery sound came, and this time, Trell could clearly tell that it came from that creature. It was, indeed, the creature that she had feared, a Scourge scout that was on her trail. The channeling staff that Trell had slung over her back suddenly seemed heavy, the light blue crystal on its end glowing with a dim inner light. Still running as fast she could push herself, she pulled the staff from her back and swung it around, whirling it to her side. The leathery sound came louder from the Scourge scout, signaling that it was closing in.
Channeling Light into her staff until it began to glow, brightly as a beacon, Trell whirled, stopping dead and thrusting the staff into the air. The Scourge creature, which had been speeding up in its attempt to attack her, tried to stop as best as it could, but, with the extra momentum caused by its dive, could not pause. Trell let loose a smiting blast from the glowing staff as the creature rammed directly into it, bursting into flames and burning horridly. Trell had already turned and begun moving towards the Ranger outpost again as the creature fell into ashes. If there was one advantage to having a priest as a scout, then the powers that priests had to combat the Scourge were most certainly that.
The woods began to thin, and soon Trell was running through an open stretch of the startlingly beautiful Valley of Quel'thalas. On any normal day, the sight was enough to stop in their tracks even someone that had lived there all their lives. If it were not for the ominous red sky, the Valley would have been the perfect image of tranquility - the beautiful, flowering trees, the shining, ever visible river, the numerous waterfalls that crashed near-silently over cliffs, and the flowing, elegantly curving structures built by the High Elves. Those structures had been abandoned weeks before, with all of the elves fleeing towards Sivermoon, towards the only safety to be found, and the only direction it was possibly to run in - north, away from the Scourge Armies. Away from Arthas. Away from the Undead Plague. On any normal day, it would have certainly been a sight to cause a pause. Today, Trell was focused only on running, notifying the Silvermoon Army, the Rangers, that the Scourge were on the move, that they were coming, burning through the woods with their tainted dark magic and fires, coming towards the Sunwell.
Trell tried to not let her mind venture towards the topic of the Sunwell. As a High Elf herself, she should have been hopelessly in danger without the well of magic, but she had, from the time that magic had been taught to her, learned to meditate and avoid the deadly addiction that would consume the High Elves if they did not have their Sunwell. Trell knew that Arthas and the Scourge wanted that Sunwell, wanted the Sunwell to ressurect Kel'thuzad, the horrible man that had learned too late that power was gained for a price. A price of evil. If they got to it, they would ressurect the man, and they would then destroy the magical well that had, since the beginning of Quel'thalas, kept most of the High Elves - those that could not meditate - alive. And that was most of them. Those of the High Elves that were not slaughtered and turned into mindless slaves for Arthas would die simply from the magic addiction that would lure them into bad directions, make them Wretched, slaves to their addiction and nothing else.
In the distance, Trell saw the blue-and-gold flag, matching in color her outfit, but brighter, the only remotely new thing that there was in use in the war, flapping in the light wind above the Ranger outpost. Breathing heavily, Trell pushed herself even farther, running with even more quickness than she had before. Soon, she skid into the encampent, and a loud call, and imitation of a Dragonhawk call, passed through the area. It was a sign that the camp's watchers had seen her, and were signaling to the inner camp that the person approaching was of no danger. A young boy, his own long ears flopping limply as he dashed up to her, inquired, "Scout - eh, Healer - Trell! Do you bring news? Sylvanas was expecting something today. A gut feeling, she said... Come straight to her. She's in the big council tent." The boy nodded and gestured in the direction of the tent. Exhausted and breathing raggedly, Trell nodded and walked quickly in the direction of the Ranger-General's tent. It was time to tell Sylvanas what was coming - the end.
---
It's roughly drawn (I didn't even bother to type in the caption), but it's a joke, so what did you expect?
And here's another neat thing! Click and head down to the Warcraft Music Player. It's got all your favorite Warcraft tunes!
