The Quest #1: Winter Trees
A resurrected tale from the time of Wrath of the Lich King.
The following story is based on characters, abilities, locations and experiences that can be found in the Activision/Blizzard MMO, World of Warcraft. Everything related to Warcraft therefore belongs to them as a result, except the bits in here that are mine and I made up. I get how this works.
This story was first published on the now defunct ALT: ernative Chat website, and is based during the Wrath of the Lich King Expansion.
Winter Trees
The snow is grey with ash, burning piles of desiccated, Undead corpses spreading low clouds across the already darkened skies. The Dwarf idly sits digging holes in the snow with booted feet. They are the necessary repetitions of a child waiting for a parent to protect her: she still won't accept that guidance isn’t coming.
The remains of the Alliance 7th Legion force stand quietly to her left, steaming mugs of Hot, Sweet Tea clenched in shaking hands. They steal glances, no-one prepared to broach the moment. Silence clings, words lost after the encounter in the Crypt. Everyone knows how badly the push had gone, the evidence lying away near the Gryphons to the right, neat row of bodies no longer warm.
Wintergarde Fortress smells rank: death and decay far stronger than any that Thassarian’s Death Knight army could ever conjure. The place is as close to a war zone as she'd seen since Shadowmoon, odour forever burned into her brain: death and loss in one of its many forms. She’d assumed that the Undead would be eliminated with ease, but this campaign was already full of surprises.
Cost was rapidly outpacing preparation: the Quartermaster was already out of body bags, casualties forced to lie in a line, faces covered with their own capes. To one side, wrapped in the Dwarf’s own cloak, the impossibly perfect Gnomish body stood out, purple and black silks against the white fur.
At least the snow would preserve her Warlock friend until she returned to Coldridge.
The Dwarf is numb, the weather within far colder than this frigid ambiance. All that remained as a constant was the Gnome’s smell, seductive sulphur burn that became her essence. Moments only she could fracture, soul shattered: present and past overlapping into disorientation. To her left only moments before, she had stood, casting Immolations seemingly without end.
She had found a constant pleasure from spreading heat: liquefying the surface snow, keeping them warm when she'd stand closet to maximise their damage. That wicked smile, sparkling green eyes, sharing understanding without communication, beyond their countless fights, the successful campaigns. They would always return, together, triumphs celebrated at the Slaughtered Lamb with their favourite meal.
Now, the Dwarf would return alone.
Back then they sat for hours, everything and nothing the preoccupations between days, their stuff of friendship. Men's obsessions, their inability to understand everything and anything for convenience, how their need to procreate drove everything and nothing. The enemy du jour, the Legion and how dragons were the root of all evil.
This bond, unbreakable, formed in the steam and lava of Ironforge two lifetimes ago... The Troublemakers. Brilliant yet volatile, the substance of the Earth. Steady and fiery, dependable yet elusive. Friends until their last breaths, and now beyond.
There would never be another conversation between them in this world.
The debrief is complete, and a line of blood-stained Human soldiers file out of the main building. 7th Legion Commander Yorik finally appears, his face ashen, and the Dwarf doesn't stand, even though she should. She is pleased when he walks from the doorway to squat down close, implying that there remains no chain of command he wishes to push. He has lost almost a dozen good men since the sun came up, and protocol is the least of his concerns.
“I am very sorry that took so long, but you know that we need to constantly reassess the situation here on the ground. I've asked for a mage to immediately communicate with Lord Fordring in Valgarde and impress upon him the seriousness of this situation. The next boat back to Menethil is being held indefinitely until you are ready, so you can travel back with the bodies.”
This is a concession to her, the Dwarf knows, and she touches the man’s arm, the briefest of eye contact all she is capable of in thanks. These bodies would normally ship straight from Valiance Keep, but this re-route has a particular aim: arriving closer to Ironforge than Stormwind, to accommodate her particular request, she could at least erase that part of her past where this part of the process for someone else was never completed successfully.
Her promise to Mirrie was almost forgotten, made in youth and seemingly without relevance, until the moment the Dwarf knew there was no resurrection coming. If either was to die in battle, the other would return the body to their family. There was a pension to be settled, monies from their quest here: not much, but enough. Gold to pay for the funeral, to help her mother and sister through the hardest of the winter months in the Valley.
War felt a long way away in the Eastern Kingdoms’ snow, but the Dwarf knew sorrow was never far from anyone's mind.
She looks up for the first time since arriving, across to the small group that went in with her and the Legion. The draenei male, Argus, sits on a crate: his large purple mace wedged between massive thighs, engrossed in what she knows is meditative prayer. She’d often reflected on faith to guide her as it did the Paladins, but no revelation had ever moved her to insight or belief.
Instead she tried to take calm in respecting the Light, what she’d reconciled as intelligent compromise. Next to him, sitting in the snow as she did was the Rogue, one of the new SI:7 intake. He stares intently at the ground, arms wrapped around legs, hugging his body a little too tightly. His leathers were new and therefore insulated, leathers that she herself had overseen the production of: he shouldn't suffer from the cold.
As Yorik turns and heads for the Inn, Randall appears, laboured gait saying all that is needed, tired plated limbs dragging through the snow. The tank who was now her oldest and dearest friend seemed to be more worn by each passing day. His hand extends, an invitation to pull the Dwarf to standing, a gesture she wants to ignore but can’t. At some point there has to be a discussion with him, and it may as well happen now.
“You need to tell me how you feel.”
She closes her eyes and looks for something, anything as a response.
“Numb. I... what do I say? This year can go to the Nether.”
“You just keep your promise, P. Don’t you dare start locking it away, because it will destroy you. All those times you told me, all the lectures and the reflection. You know this is advice that has to be heeded, that you must take. Merrie would do the same. You know that.”
No-one used her name, not any more. She was P, or Boss, or Ma'am to the Alliance. Her identity had been lost, somewhere between Onyxia and Illidan, her own way to distance from the horrors. Mirrie was always the exception, mimicking her father’s distinctive tone, a reminder of their past. Her da, she wanted her da. She needed him to hold her again, wrapping herself in his protective embrace. She’d cry for hours and he’d use Stoneform not to move, to stay stronger than she ever could.
He will do so again, very soon.
She would have remained at Loch Moden too, until that day when Mirrie came and told her about Arthas’s return and his Death Knights, before handing her the invitation from the King himself. Only then had she accepted a intractable truth: death came, but the enemies remained. Those who survived had a debt to pay, to those who had lost their lives. She could not mourn the losses forever. At some point, life needed to go on. It will too after this, but not quite yet.
“I've been asked to ask you, mostly because most of the lower ranked humans are too scared to approach you directly, if there’s anything special they should know about Merrie so the Priests can make sure she’s given the appropriate respect...”
“You know Yari will sort all that, it’s nothing to do with the Humans…”
“Yes, that’s part of the problem.”
“What are ye talking about?”
“You don't know, do you?”
“Stop the riddles, what are ye talking about?”
“You should know that they were together.”
Randall has shifted himself, blocking the view between her and the Rogue so that he can't lip read, and only then does the copper drop. Merrie had alluded to someone she was interested in, but not mentioned a name...
“Since when?”
“You didn’t know?”
“My question at this point is how you knew...”
“I don’t ask, and I’m good at discretion, but he was in her room last night and they weren’t working on First Aid skills...”
Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. The dangerous sprint away from the melee group, his body an indistinct blur as he desperately tried to bandage her mid-fight. His sudden withdrawal after they’d emerged from the Crypt was now completely understandable: Argus had been the voice of dissent on the 7th Legion's tactical decision but she'd expected the rogue to contribute.
He’d stood to the side, away. In shock.
Both had fought so closely behind Randall, who would continue to blame himself for losing threat and not taking the initiative when they could have pulled back. If it weren’t for all of this, Mirrie might still be here, joking that her robes would never keep her warm, however many layers she added beneath them. The Dwarf still rued her own failed trap, also incorrectly placed, that could have bought valuable time.
Sleep-deprived and unfocussed, her sloppiness was only one of their collective failings.
Everyone was to blame for this terrible accident.
No, not to blame. There must never be blame.
“I know you won’t want to think about this right now, you’d say it’s too soon but we don’t have time any more and there’s a build-up of undead at the Wrathgate that needs addressing… but he’d make a good fit in our team. He’s fast and clearly knows his job. He also did more damage than you.”
Anger flares within her: Randall is a cold bastard to be comparing output at this moment. There remains however the strength of friendship between them to maintain integrity whilst still functioning as a unit. As of now, they are only three and without another two their progress would be severely restricted. A five man party in Outland would be essential for effective progression.
The burrows to the east were teeming with the insect brethren of the Silithid she had taken so much pleasure in exterminating what seemed like a lifetime before in Silithus. Everyone needed upgraded gear, or the potential for more casualties became a concern. They had to adapt or die, and this was the only life she either knew or wanted. Argus was also a good fit, Randall already had him in mind before today. A rogue would be a sensible choice for the final spot.
Footsteps distract her away from the practical. There is still more grief to attend to.
“Elune knows I did everything I could, why was it not enough?”
Yari literally drops into the snow next to the Dwarf, exhaustion etched on her Night Elf features, skin almost translucent in the dullness. The first move is reflex, reaching over to hold the Druid, to console as the sobs wrack through her slim body. P won't cry, silently turning her skin to stone as her da had taught, letting her friend's sorrow flow quietly back into the Earth.
This must not be the time for weakness.
Strength comes before acquiescence, the moment when she will stand with Mirrie’s family and say the words, throwing the first clump of soil onto a tiny coffin. So small a body, but so large a heart, to accommodate and inspire so many. Light in darkness, good harnessing evil. The best of all contradictions. A speech she has already written, but never wanted to give.
“I know you did. We all tried, but sometimes... circumstances...”
Both Randall’s voice and assertion waver: the Dwarf knows he's having trouble holding himself in check. His hand rests on her shoulder and she senses him shaking. No-one was to blame, but everyone needed to bear a responsibility.
Their moment is broken by the chain of command.
“The odds sometimes cannot be beaten, however hard you try.”
She'd not expected Fordragon to remain, with the construction at the Wrathgate taking up so much time. Randall was right, there would be a push soon, but not until the pockets of resistance had been dealt with. The Phylactery retrieved from Thel’zan was a vital piece of a far larger puzzle. It was a battle that should have been routine, but nothing was turning out that way in a land where the enemy hid in almost infinite numbers beneath the surface.
Had Bolvar not arrived when he had, their casualties would have been far greater.
In war, sometimes death was the option you had no choice but to embrace.
The Dwarf knows protocol matters, more than aware the gathered troops have all moved to attention. Even Argus and the rogue are standing, conscious of the significance of her visitor.
“Your loss is great, Mistress P, as is the Alliance’s. I would ask you to give this to her family. In time, when I am able, I make a solemn promise to visit them and offer my condolences in person.”
Bolvar hands a pension bag to the Dwarf without ceremony, far more gold than should be the norm. By the feel of the leather there are some gems in the mix, hidden amongst the coin. Fordragon's eyes have seen so much horror, such a small loss should not be his concern. As he appraises the Dwarf, something else is at play. Something clearly personal.
“When I heard you were here, I knew I must come and see you myself, to offer my condolences.”
“You know Mirrie's family?”
“I meant your loss, at the Battle of the Black Temple. Hammermaster Khorman.”
It takes everything she has not to fall apart where she stands. The last time someone had mentioned her husband she had crumbled sobbing into the rich earth, tears of unmitigated pain into the grass around Loch Moden’s shore. She remains motionless, unable to say anything, staring back at a man who until that moment she knew of only in stories. Lonrim’s stories: told to her as she lay next to him, quietly drifting off to sleep. A life away from this grim existence without him beside her, without his words of comfort and support.
“Lonrim saved my life, a lifetime ago, when I was a young man. He helped my family and allowed us to make a fresh start. It seems like a dream sometimes, that we are all so connected in Azeroth’s embrace, that moments like this pull us together and apart so easily. I do not need to tell you how brave a dwarf he was, yet still it compels me. He died a hero.”
To lose her composure in front of a total stranger would normally be unthinkable, the ultimate mortification. She cannot harden either skin or heart again so soon, there is nowhere left to hide, the truth inescapable in its terror. The look on his face is resigned, eyes and face softening, knowing what will follow. Then she is sobbing unhindered into a stranger’s stained plate chest, the blood of her friend still fresh on it as a reminder. He had carried the Gnome from the Crypt himself, and laid her in the snow where she remained.
A desperate question forms, one she finally accepts may remain rhetorical forever.
"Why did you waste your Soulstone on keeping me alive?"
Her words are bitter anguish and Randall reacts, his arm moving to protect. Yari is there too, pulling her gently away from Fordragon, wrapping her coat around them both, trying to shield her from the World. She has no idea how long she weeps but eventually when she stops nobody has moved, many of troops behind him crying themselves, struggling to maintain composure.
They were so young, all of them, and she shouldn't have mislaid her temperament, but losing the ones you loved was a horrendous part of this game they needed to finally accept as inescapable. Sometimes it was alright to grieve. It gave Fordragon a chance to inspire them all.
“To suffer the death of two of your loved ones in such quick succession will be a difficult burden to bear, but your heart is strong. Your shoulders are broad and your resolve unshakeable. You will prevail, of this I am certain. All of you here are a testament to the courage and fortitude of the Alliance. Never forget this. I am proud of each and every one of you.”
All she can do is nod and finally pocket the pension, which seems enough for Bolvar. He moves without ceremony to Randall and embraces him warmly, before turning to further address the troops. As he does, a gryphon rider appears from the East, sweeping low, dropping a package into the snow nearby then arching back into the late morning sky.
The body bags will have been asked for specially, one in particular. The Gnomeregan crest stands out against the strong linen, another concession she quietly notes.
Unwrapped from her embrace, Yari knows her task is clear.
“I will do this. You should prepare yourself to travel. Elune will hold you in her embrace for as long as you need, as she does for me. I too am with you, always.”
The Druid breathes, strength returning to her body, and without another word crosses to the parcel, to help the two Legion Medics already unpacking the contents. The Dwarf forces foot in front of foot, back into the inn, upstairs to her room, but stops outside Mirrie's at the sound of movement.
There is someone inside.
She knows it will be the Rogue before she opens the door. He sits, staring out of the window, the remains of Wintergarde almost beautiful in their desolation. She waits, and finally he turns to face her.
“I had to leave. I thought you deserved time with your grief. I’m sorry.”
She knows the apology isn't for her. It will be for him, and for the Gnome, the time they no longer had, their life that would remain unwritten. It was easy to see why Mirrie would have found him attractive: dark-haired, blue-eyed arrogance and attitude. Economical, precise and ultimately elusive: the perfect Rogue template.
He would have made her laugh at herself, and forget the horrors she’d experienced in Shadowmoon. Of all of them, Mirrie had been the most easygoing and relaxed, even in the face of abject terror. She’d been perfectly suited to her class, as he will be to his. The Dwarf wonders just how much he had invested in their relationship.
There is no time for formalities either, so she simply voices her question.
“Did you love her?”
“We kept each other warm.”
His face is a mask, the convenient default, his eyes harder than the ice that held this continent together. The Dwarf accepts the need to couple, that it is just that for many of the Humans. When your life is measured in such small numbers, connection becomes a necessity and not a dance, no focus on detail. In this land, that was probably an advantage. Mirrie would have forced a rethink of any such preconceptions: her legacy would resonate far beyond these frozen lands, memory alive in both hearts and minds.
“I made a promise, that I would return her to Coldridge. Randall will need to remain to find her replacement. I could use the company, if you wish to honour her.”
She covers her feelings without thinking, knowing that she can assess him best as they travel. Her brain reacts from reflex, and is confidently expecting him to refuse. There is no time for sentiment, because the moment she allows it back into her heart she will be useless, incapable. He doesn't flinch at her bluntness or the request, and it is a surprise.
“How long before we leave?”
“As soon as the bodies are prepared and the rites given.”
“I don’t want to be here right now, and I won’t want to come back unless it’s to be with someone I want to work with. Assuming you return here, then so will I.”
He is up and past her without a word, downstairs to the area she knows he had been given to sleep at the Bar. She takes this as acceptance, and is suddenly grateful.
Only then does the Dwarf realise she has no idea of his name.
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