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roman-writing · 4 years

Text

you search the mountain (1/4)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 11,570

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

“Thorns on my breasts, rain in my mouth, loam on my bare feet, rough bark grazing my back, I moaned for them all. You stood, waist deep, in a stream, pulling me in, so I swam. You were the water, the wind in the branches wringing their hands, the heavy, wet perfume of soil. I am there now, lost in the forest, dwarfed by the giant trees. Find me.”

— Carol Ann Duffy, from Forest; Rapture, 2005

To the surprise of no one, it was raining in Boralus. An icy sleet rushed down from the mountains, pelting civilians in an inescapable barrage. It coated the rooftops. It clung to the eaves. It made treacherous the cobblestone streets. And though it was mid-morning, the watery sunlight could not pierce the heavy bank of cloud that washed over the harbour, so that it felt like dusk. Any rational people would have sequestered themselves inside for warmth, but it seemed that Kul Tirans were utterly immune to the cold wet misery of their capital city. Or perhaps they had merely forgotten what it meant to be dry.

A crowd was gathered on the westernmost docks, sheltered by the inlet. Red banners bearing a crest of scales slapped wetly against their pillars. Dockworkers had halted their usual bustle of activity. Casks and crates and other break bulk hung suspended in the air by creaking ropes. A shark had been strung from a hook and gutted on the quay. The fisherman still held a bloodied knife in his hands, but his attention was turned upon the massive ship tethered to the pier.

The ship was a hulking mass of timbers. She was broad and lavishly decorated. Her sails were tightly furled lengths of new white canvas. Her mainmast bore two flags, which snapped in the wind. The longer pennant was red and streaming and far more prominent than its foul-anchored counterpart. She was the pride of the Ashvane merchant fleet, and she was -- to be frank -- quite horrid to behold. Ugly, even.

Not that Sylvanas would ever say that aloud. Certainly not when she was surrounded on all sides by Kul Tiran sailors and stevedores, all of whom were nudging each other and murmuring their appreciation of such a saucy vessel. Whatever that meant.

What shelter there was to be found on the docks was next to useless. The wind slanted the rain at an angle that slashed beneath any eaves, no matter how deep. Sylvanas’ long ears twitched, flicking off a few drops of rain to very little effect. She reached up to tug the hood of her cloak more firmly in place. The Kul Tirans on the dock gave her a wide berth, or otherwise pretended that she did not exist.

Beside her, Nathanos leaned forward to mutter. “With all due respect, my Queen: remind me why we are here?”

Sylvanas did not take her eyes off the ship. Wordlessly, she nodded towards just above the hideously gilded stern windows. Officers stood atop the poop deck, glittering in all their finery. Three figures stood at the very fore of the ship’s congregation, clearly identifiable even from this distance. Lord Stormsong clutched his staff, tall and dark and glowering in his mitre of office. Lady Ashvane held a possessive hand on the ship’s rail, her fingers glittering with a glut of gem-studded rings. And between them both stood the Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore. She was straight-backed and grey, as though carved from pale iron. Her militant greatcoat cut a sleek dagger-like figure through the curtain of rain.

"Is this really worth it?" Nathanos asked in a low tone. "We already have the Zandalari Navy."

Sylvanas waved him away. "We are still negotiating that treaty, I'll remind you."

"And if it fails, I shall eat crow."

"Don't say such tempting things, Nathanos. I might sabotage the treaty for fun."

He sniffed, clearly unimpressed by her threats. "You are dodging the question."

Sylvanas watched the quayside. Her eyes glowed a dull dangerous red, seeking any hint of Alliance representatives or spies. She found none. Nathanos and her rangers would have alerted her of any such Alliance presence in Boralus at once. Still, she scowled. "The Alliance is circling over this place like a well-fed vulture. Foiling them is its own reward. And besides," Sylvanas added dryly. "One always needs more friends."

“With friends like these you’re more likely to end up with a knife in your back.”

Sylvanas hummed a thoughtful note. “Situation normal, then.”

Indeed, Lord Stormsong and Lady Ashvane watched their Lord Admiral with openly hawkish expressions. Katherine hid her limp well -- an old war wound from some wayward grapeshot, or so Sylvanas was told -- but there could be no doubt that she appeared wan. Her shoulders were hoisted straight back and proud, but her gloved hands trembled somewhat.

Nathanos did not sound amused when he said, “From what I understand, the previous Lord Admiral had his youngest son tried and hung for treason.”

At that, Sylvanas arched an eyebrow and cast a curious look over her shoulder. “What manner of treason?”

“A certain band of orcs were shipwrecked on the coast of Kul Tiras on their way to Kalimdor. The boy dared to offer them aid, and kept it secret from his father.”

“Not very well, apparently.” She turned back to studying the ship ceremony. There was whiskey being poured into tankards now. “And the Lord Admiral in question?”

“Sailed west after the orcs who killed his eldest son. He was eventually slain by Thrall and Rexxar, and subsequently succeeded by his wife and only remaining Heir.” Nathanos inclined his head towards Katherine Proudmoore aboard the merchant ship.

“Hmm,” said Sylvanas.

Katherine Proudmoore was lifting the tankard of whiskey into the air. She drank deeply from the cup, before passing it first to Lord Stormsong, and then to Lady Ashvane. When the tankard was back in her hands, she poured what remained onto the deck of the ship, while Lord Stormsong chanted some nonsense about the Tides. The sailors and stevedores on the docks began to cheer, voicing their approval of a newly blessed ship.

“Does our esteemed host currently have an Heir?” Sylvanas mused aloud, lifting her voice just enough to be heard over the din.

Nathanos shook his head. “None that has been announced to the Great Houses. They would need to be confirmed by a majority vote before they could succeed the Admiralty.”

Sylvanas had her arms crossed. She tapped the fingers of her clawed gauntlet against her opposite arm. They clicked against links of chainmail. She could not feel the chill through the veil of undeath that hung over her, but weather like this always reminded her of other places; Northrend was too close to the lingering cold. Finally, Sylvanas said, “Find me one. A lesser cousin, perhaps. Anyone with the name ‘Proudmoore’ attached to their lineage, even peripherally.”

For a moment, Nathanos made no reply. When he spoke, it was in a low hiss. “I had hoped to dissuade you from this course, my Queen. This place is on the brink of civil war.”

“Excellent. I always did love a good challenge.” Sylvanas said dryly. The crowd was beginning to break up now that the ceremonial ship launching was for all intents and purposes complete. The three Great House leaders had stepped down to the quarterdeck, out of sight from the quay. Sylvanas herself turned and began to stride back towards the city centre. “Now, please tell me you’ve found someplace for us to stay in this miserable backwater that isn’t thoroughly damp.”

Nathanos did not say anything. He did not need to. The look on his face was answer enough.

Sylvanas twisted her mouth to one side as though she had bitten into a sour lemon, and she growled, “Fantastic. The weather shall drive me away before the god-awful people do.”

“Then I shall pray for a rainy season.”

“Don’t you know?” Sylvanas tsked. “It’s always a rainy season in Kul Tiras.”

Three days later, Sylvanas was being escorted by a steward into Proudmoore Keep out of the downpour. The guards flanking the great doors of the Keep were dressed in heavy oilskin jackets beneath their livery. Their kettle hats, which Sylvanas had previously thought were purely for show rather than utility, kept the rain off their faces.

She had arrived at the Keep alone, much to the annoyance of Nathanos and her rangers. She had told them they could circle the Keep if it made them feel better about it. There was no doubt in her mind that they were probably prowling the grounds before she even set foot inside without them. But the invitation from the Lord Admiral had specifically been for the Warchief of the Horde, and not for sundry others. Sylvanas was not about to jeopardise this mission before she could even get a chance to speak with the military leader of Kul Tiras.

The moment the great doors shut behind them, the steward held out his arm. "Your cloak, my Lady?"

Sylvanas considered him coolly before she pushed the hood away from her face and unclasped the cloak from her pauldrons. The fabric dripped into his arms when he took it and handed it over to another servant, who whisked it away into an unseen cloakroom behind a set of doors.

The steward seemed not to mind the wet at all. He did not even deign to wick it from his tailored suit. "If you would follow me, please."

It was a long walk through the vast warren of corridors. Proudmoore Keep was designed to withstand an invasion, should the harbour be overrun. As Sylvanas discreetly studied the various hallways branching off in different directions, she roughly calculated how many souls could be housed here during a siege, and for how long.

Not that that information would be relevant. Not so soon, anyway.

Eventually, the steward led her to a nondescript doorway, which bore an iron anchor in its wood grain. He knocked, and from within came the sharp order, "Come in!"

Before opening the door however, the steward passed a critical eye over Sylvanas' appearance. She had left her bow and quiver behind, but there remained tucked into her boot a wickedly curved silver skinning knife. A gift from another life. His lips thinned at the sight of the hilt peeking out from her calf.

Sylvanas glared at him, and her eyes burned crimson. "Do not even think of it," she said coldly.

Despite their difference in size -- Sylvanas was tall by her people's standards, but Kul Tirans seemed a cut above the usual humans she had encountered in the past -- he silently came to the conclusion that one knife was not worth the effort, for he sniffed in disdain. Still, he turned and opened the door for her, even going so far as to bow at the waist as she passed.

An attempt had been made to soften the omnipresent grey stone by the addition of thick rugs. It did very little to make the room more cosy. A dull fire snapped in a black-scorched fireplace, and a wrought-iron candelabra dripped wax from the ceiling. Sylvanas had been in dungeons as accommodating as Proudmoore Keep. The Kul Tiran sense of interior design was cut from the same cloth as their choice in homeland, it seemed.

The Lord Admiral was seated in a high-backed armchair before the fireplace. Beside her was an identical chair, and between them a low table, which carried a tray with a tea set. A thin tendril of steam wound its way from the teapot's spout. The rain-lashed windows were dark, their corners beset with a light mist. Katherine's greatcoat was gone, revealing her shirtsleeves and waistcoat. A warm woolen blanket had been draped across her knees.

Katherine glanced up from a book she was reading. Her half moon spectacles gleamed in the dancing firelight. "Ah. It's you." She marked her place in the book with a length of ribbon, setting it on the table beside the tea set.

When Sylvanas tucked her hands behind her back and inclined her head respectfully, the Lord Admiral gestured sharply towards the other chair. "None of that bullshit. Sit. Please."

The last sounded tacked on and half-remembered, as though they hadn’t the time for such pleasantries. A woman for whom wasted words were a sin, then.

Crossing the room, Sylvanas sat. For a long tense moment, the two studied one another in a quiet broken only by the crackle of the fire as a log slipped across the embers. Then, Sylvanas said, “I would comment on the delights of your fair city, but I have yet to find them. The weather is atrocious, and the people inhospitable.”

If anything, Katherine seemed amused by this observation. “Quite right. Tea?” she asked. Her hand hovered over the handle of the porcelain teapot. “Or are you even able to consume food and drink in your…” She fished for the right word. “... unique condition?”

Rather than answer, Sylvanas nudged a cup and saucer closer to the teapot. “No milk.”

Katherine poured two cups accordingly. She hid the slight tremor in her forearms as she lifted the heavy teapot, but Sylvanas noticed regardless. Sylvanas said nothing. Instead, she took the opportunity to silently note the heavy lines etched into the Lord Admiral’s face, her narrow shoulders, her general pallor. When Katherine handed over a saucer and cup without milk, Sylvanas took it with a simple murmur of thanks.

“So, tell me,” Katherine began, and though her body appeared frail, her eyes and voice were sharp enough to cut. “Why are you here? Did you hope to convince me of something in person in a way your envoys could not?”

“That was the plan, yes,” Sylvanas said dryly.

Stirring milk into her own cup, Katherine tapped the little silver spoon against the porcelain rim. “I hardly think sailing a warship into my waters will convince me to open the borders to the Horde.”

“A single frigate is hardly a threat to the might of the Kul Tiran fleet.” Sylvanas sipped at her tea. It tasted muddy, like everything else. “Unless, of course, your storied Navy is far less powerful than I have been led to believe.”

Katherine grunted a wordless note into her own cup. It sounded like the midway point between a snort and a laugh. She lowered the cup to its saucer, and held them close to her chest in both hands. “Go on, then, Warchief. What message do you have for me that your emissaries did not have the balls to deliver themselves?”

Sylvanas’ eyebrows rose. There was a gentle clink of porcelain against the wooden table as she slowly set down her tea. “Very well,” she murmured. Then, leaning forward in her seat she met the Lord Admiral’s unflinching gaze. “You are a widow with no remaining children. Your peers already plot against you. Your good health is quickly fading. You are in need of a powerful ally to steady the ship, so to speak, and I am a very patient woman with all the time in the world thanks to my ‘unique condition’.”

Despite her best efforts, Sylvanas could not keep the slight sneer at bay when she said those words. The longer Sylvanas spoke, the more stony Katherine’s face became. Her jaw clenched, and her blue eyes narrowed. When Sylvanas had finished, Katherine tongued the inside of her cheek and then took a long sip of her tea. “When I encouraged you to be blunt, I did not mean that blunt.”

Sylvanas shrugged, an unapologetic lift of one shoulder. “Then you should not have asked.”

Katherine pursed her lips into a thin line. Another sip of tea, as though to calm herself before she spoke again. “I respect your honesty, even if I do not appreciate its implications. The truth is never easy to bear. But you cannot deny that your people and mine, we have a history. Even were I to accept your offer of ‘stability’ and whatever that entails, there would be severe internal resistance to an alliance with the Horde.”

“Small steps first, Lord Admiral,” said Sylvanas. She leaned her elbow upon the armrest, but eased off slightly when she felt her armour begin to scrape the supple leather. “We can talk open borders now, and formal ties later.”

“My people will not see the difference. Not quickly enough for me to be of any political use ‘later’, as it were. As you’ve already said, my position is -” Katherine held up her teacup as though drinking to good health, “- precarious at best. I cannot risk seeming weak now, of all times.”

Trying to seem blithe, Sylvanas said, “Then you leave me little choice but to seek out alternative arrangements with your peers.”

Sylvanas’ ears tilted back in surprise, when Katherine let out a bark of laughter. She was still laughing when she went to pour herself another cup of tea.

“By all means.” Katherine poured a dollop of milk into her cup before drinking from it. She smiled at Sylvanas over the rim, but her gaze was humourless. “You may think me a stubborn old crone -- and you wouldn’t be half wrong -- but I know Lord Alfred and Lady Priscilla very well. They would be even less inclined to hear your petition than I am. Though if you do end up asking them, be sure to do it before I die. I so rarely get a laugh these days.”

With that, Katherine added another hearty little chuckle. Sylvanas had to school her features and stop her ears from pinning straight back in irritation. Her clawed gauntlets dug into the armrest. This time she did nothing to stop them from piercing the material. “Last I heard, there are four Great Houses of Kul Tiras, not just three.”

“And so there are.” Beneath the blanket, Katherine’s foot began to bob in time with the tapping of her finger against her teacup. Abruptly, both stopped. “You’ll find Lucille Waycrest a paltry ally, I’m afraid. The culmination of the Drust incursion has left her region to the mercy of the other Houses. She does the best she can, poor girl, but she inherited a fractured House.”

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “In my experience, desperation can lead to surprising ends.”

Katherine brushed aside the implication of that statement with a shake of her head. “I cannot stop you from personally speaking with anyone, but your ships are still not welcome in Kul Tiran waters. There will be no open borders to either the Horde or Alliance while I draw breath.”

“Then I suppose our conversation is finished.” In a clink of armour, Sylvanas rose to her feet.

Katherine did not follow suit. She remained seated, cradling her cup of tea. Peering thoughtfully up at Sylvanas over her half moon spectacles, she cocked her head to one side. “To say it has been a pleasure would be a lie. Nevertheless, I am glad to have met you, Warchief.” Then she waved Sylvanas away. “Now, be a dear, won’t you, and have the steward bring an old woman another blanket.”

When Sylvanas swept from the room without another word, the steward was waiting for her outside. She stormed right past him down the halls back the way they had come. He had to trot to keep up with her, despite his own long-legged stride. Sylvanas did not speak until they had reached the cloakroom, where the steward disappeared inside to retrieve her cloak. She tapped her foot against the stone tiled entryway.

The steward reappeared and she snatched her cloak from his hands. As she was fitting it back into place, she snapped, "Take your Lord Admiral another blanket."

The steward blinked in confusion, but immediately rushed off towards Katherine's study to do as he was bidden. Sylvanas tugged the hood of her cloak over her head and snapped her fingers at one of the guardsmen to open the doors for her. The pair of guards did so, heaving at the heavy iron-bound doors until they groaned open just enough for her to slip through.

Outside, it was only twilight, but it looked to be nearing dense night. It was still pissing down with rain. Sylvanas glowered out at the icy downpour, but did not slow her steps as she descended the sweeping staircase from Proudmoore Keep.

Before she could reach the second set of stairs, Nathanos and two of her dark rangers appeared at her side. The rangers dropped a few paces behind, shadowing their footsteps with watchful eyes, coal-bright.

Nathanos' coat did not have a hood. Somewhere he had procured one of the kettle hats and livery sets worn by the Proudmoore guards. "How did it go?"

Sylvanas glanced sidelong at him. "You look ridiculous."

"I gladly suffer for the sake of your safety," said Nathanos dryly. "Now, how did it go?"

Her brows drew sharply down. "She is a stubborn old crone," Sylvanas growled. Her frustration was exacerbated by the squelch of water in her boots. "I quite like her. It is a shame she will not last the next five years. Otherwise, we might have reached an understanding. And what do you have for me?"

In answer, Nathanos lifted two fingers. "Lord Aldrius Norwington. One of Daelin Proudmoore's second cousins, and by all accounts a rich old toff with little interest in politics. But he and his wife are beloved by the Navy. She was a Captain of Marines and he served as a Rear Admiral for a number of years before retiring."

"I assume there's a catch?" Sylvanas asked.

"He is old. Older than the Lord Admiral. And his son died at sea not long ago. He and his wife, Elena, have been in mourning ever since."

"Hmm." They strode towards Unity Square, swiftly making their way towards the inn that Nathanos had secured for them earlier that week. Sylvanas could see sheets of rain in every pool of light from the flickering poles that lined the streets. "And what is the second option?"

Nathanos glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice before answering. "A daughter."

At that, Sylvanas stopped in her tracks. She stared at him incredulously. "A daughter?" she repeated. "I thought the Lord Admiral had no other children."

"She had three. The youngest was a girl by the name of Jaina. From what I understand, the girl was somewhat magically gifted. Katherine and Daelin had an altercation regarding how she ought to be trained. In the end, Katherine smuggled her off to a Drust Thornspeaker by the name of Ulfar.”

“And her current whereabouts?”

Nathanos shook his head, and his kettle hat sent droplets of rain scattering about. “Unknown and presumed dead. Killed during the Drust incursion a few years back. Though her body was never recovered.”

For a long moment, Sylvanas did not reply. The drum of the rain drowned out other noises, so that the sounds of the harbour could only just be heard from the nearby dock districts. Light spilled from the windows of houses, restaurants, and taverns, along with the sounds of merriment from within. Only a few others wandered the streets in this part of town. Mostly Proudmoore guards, the occasional lieutenant on foot, or even a nobleman's carriage bearing some lesser House's coat of arms.

Finally, Sylvanas turned away from the inn which they had been heading towards, and instead strode off in the direction of the docks. "Nathanos, see that our rooms are cancelled for the evening. Anya, arrange for the first ferry to Drustvar. I want us there by daybreak."

Whereas Anya inclined her head and then seemed to melt into the shadows, Nathanos sighed. He made no movement. "The likelihood of finding her is very slim. And even if we do manage to miraculously stumble across her corpse, it will be too far gone for her people to accept her back into proper society."

"You misunderstand me. I mean to find her alive. And failing that, we will procure someone suitable to serve as a nephew to this Norwington fellow. Now," she swung her gaze towards him, her eyes burning through the late afternoon gloom. "I believe I gave you an order, Blightcaller."

Removing his kettle hat, he swept it to his decrepit heart and bowed. "I live to serve the Dark Lady."

Sylvanas watched him with a scowl. When he straightened and departed to do as she commanded, she called after him. “And get rid of that outfit before we leave!”

The only good thing Sylvanas could say about Arom's Stand was that at least it wasn't raining. Instead, it was snowing. The hills were surrounded by steep mountains, which already bore their white winter coats. Sylvanas could just make out their ridges in the distance through the scattering of snowfall.

The town itself wasn't much in and of itself. An open stable and rink, where a few horses huddled together for warmth. A mere handful of ramshackle buildings precariously perched together so that they seem to lean towards one another -- not unlike the horses. It was mid morning, but already the lanterns hung over each doorpost were lit, shedding pools of warm yellowish light through the drifts.

It had taken them the morning to get from the little docks where the ferry had unceremoniously dumped them. At least they hadn't been forced to hike the whole way. Sylvanas was willing to suffer few indignities these days. Walking through miles of snow was not one of them. She had scarcely waited until the ferryman was out of sight before she summoned skeletal horses from the earth. The bones had leapt from the ground with an eagerness that had momentarily shocked her. As though the land of Drustvar were hungry for life beyond the grave.

Now at Arom's Strand, the supposed heart of the noble witch-hunting Order of Embers, she saw only one person walking about. And that was a man who staggered out of what appeared to be a shabby little tavern to piss into the snowbank.

"Charming place," Sylvanas muttered. Her skeletal horse stamped a bony hoof as if in agreement.

“Seems like work is slow,” Nathanos noted.

The haughty timbre Anya’s voice was unmistakable as one of the rangers behind them replied, “They must have run out of witches to burn.”

For all that, Sylvanas spied a few tokens strung over the doorways. Bits of bone carved with scrimshaw and bound in leather strips. Kul Tirans were sailors, through and through. And sailors were a superstitious lot.

The man out the front of the tavern was fumbling with the drawstrings of his breeches once more, tying them firmly in place. He had not seemed to have noticed their presence, for he stumbled back into the tavern without any hesitation. The door slammed shut behind him.

“And apparently they’ve run out of wits as well,” Anya added.

“But not drink,” said Nathanos.

That earned a brief titter of shadowy laughter from both Anya and the other ranger, Velonara.

Slipping her feet from the stirrups, Sylvanas dismounted. The moment she stepped away from the horse, its form collapsed in a rush of dry bone and dust, which marked the pale snow. She ignored the antics of Nathanos and her rangers, as well as their sudden sharp attention upon her when she started wading her way through the snow towards the tavern.

"We should gather any intel before you go in alone, my Queen," Velonara said.

Sylvanas did not stop. Nor did she turn around to glance at them. The snow came up to just below her knees. She grunted as she all but kicked a path for her calves. "If I want to be coddled, I will tell you," she said. "Otherwise, you are to wait for me outside."

Behind her, Nathanos made a disgruntled noise, which was not parroted by the rangers, though Sylvanas did not need to look around to know that their expressions would be blankly unimpressed. They did not question her further, however. And by the time she reached the steps leading to the tavern, they had vanished.

Sylvanas took a moment to knock her armoured ankles against the topmost step to loosen any remaining snow before approaching the door. Unlike the inns and taverns at Boralus, this establishment lacked the sound of lively laughter and conversation, of feet stamping along to the rhythm of a fiddle while patrons drunkenly sang along to the chorus of their favourite sea shanties. Here, the windows were blackened with soot, barely leaking through the firelight from within.

When she opened the door and stepped inside, every patron turned to regard her with a steady gaze. There were not many of them. A mere five, and that included the barkeep. More witch's tokens were strung up along the rafters alongside the cobwebs. Bits of bone and thorn wound together. Even a little wicker effigy had been affixed over the fireplace beneath the sun-bleached skull of a deer. Steps wound up the opposite side of the room, leading to what she assumed were the barkeep's accommodations. The barkeep himself had his feet propped atop a cask of ale behind the counter. His apron bore a series of stains all along the once white linen. He tilted his hat back to get a better look at her.

The other four all wore dark-washed tabards with a flame-like symbol woven into the fabric with copper thread. Three of them nursed chipped tankards of ale. The fourth was a red-haired slip of a girl who held a knife in her hands, its point digging into the wooden benchtop. After a long moment, they all turned away from her. They returned to their own closed circle of conversation, taking up every last seat at the bar. Their voices were hushed murmurs and rumbles.

Sylvanas strode straight up to the end of the bar and leaned her elbow against it. Her voice cut through their soft-spoken phrases like a claw through hide. "I am looking for members of the Order of Embers. That's you, isn't it?"

One of the men, a tall burly human with bushy black sideburns, set down his drink. "We might be."

At that, Sylvanas gave their tabards a pointed glance. His colleague, a great hulking woman with shoulders like a shipwreck and a scar running down her left cheek, rolled her eyes.

"Enough of that, Sterntide." She jerked her head towards Sylvanas. "Joan Cleardawn. Marshal of the Order.” She gestured towards the others in turn. “This is Sterntide. Notley. And Mace. Not many strangers come 'round these parts nowadays. Have you gotten lost?"

"No," said Sylvanas.

Sterntide, for all his gruff demeanor, motioned towards the barkeep for another drink. When the barkeep pulled out an extra tankard for their guest, Sylvanas shook her head curtly. "Nothing for me."

She drummed her clawed gauntlet against the wooden bartop. Beside her, the slight red-haired woman named Mace fiddled restlessly with the knife in her hands. She scraped little carvings into the scarred wood. From this angle, Sylvanas could just make out the beginnings of an animal skull, though which kind was yet to be determined. Certainly, there were some very sharp teeth involved.

Sylvanas looked away from the carvings. "I was told your Order still keeps in regular contact with the Drust," she continued. "I am looking for one of their kind. A Thornspeaker."

The other man, Notley, slight of build but still fiendishly tall -- a trait of all Kul Tirans, it seemed -- leaned over his drink to get a better look at her. Sylvanas did not move in the slightest, despite how close he drew. He smelled of ale and woodsmoke. There were twin falcon's feathers affixed to the edges of his cloak. Finally, realisation crossed his features. He leaned back in his seat.

"Undead," he remarked. "Don't know why your kind bother. No Thornspeaker can help you, you know."

Sylvanas frowned at him. "Nevertheless, I would speak with one."

"Why?" he asked.

None of their expressions seemed overtly hostile upon learning what she was. Wary, to be sure. But not hostile. Not even remotely surprised. As though the dead frequently walked into their frozen hamlet, which barely warranted a mark on a map.

Briefly, Sylvanas considered her chances of getting away with a lie. This crowd did not seem easily deterred, however. "I am looking for someone," she finally admitted. "One of the Thornspeakers everyone thinks died in your Drust incursion some time ago."

Sterntide grunted into his cup. Lowering it, he wiped foam from his moustache with the back of his hand. "You one of those, aren't you?"

Sylvanas' eyes narrowed dangerously, and her ears lowered just a fraction. "I do not follow."

"Had a group of hunters out here last fortnight, wanting to go trawling through the Crimson Forest." Sterntide gestured emphatically with his tankard, sloshing a bit of ale onto the bartop. "I told them, I said, 'Don't do it. That forest is protected. Eat you alive, it will.' They didn't listen." He waved his free hand dismissively, then raised his tankard of ale back to his lips. "Haven't seen them since, poor bastards."

Cleardawn joined in as well. There was a dark furrow in her brow, and the scar on her cheek creased when she spoke. "Some bloody idiots heard there was an ancient Thornspeaker born of the Wild God, Athair, living in these parts. And off they trotted to the mountains, hoping to bring it down with silver arrows. Got themselves ripped to bloody shreds by the Drust ghosts at Gol Osigr." She snorted, shaking her head.

Mace stabbed her knife into the bartop so that it stuck in place, its hilt quivering. "You know, I saw a hunter selling broken arrows down in Corlain last month? Claimed they'd been pulled from that Thornspeaker's bloody hide, and that they could fell any beast, living or dead. Sold them for their weight in gold to some sad sack of shit from Boralus, too."

Sylvanas had not come here for tall tales, but it seemed she would be subjected to them regardless. She almost wished she had taken up their offer on a drink. And that alcohol still had any effect on her whatsoever.

"I am not looking to sell pieces of the Thornspeaker off for gold," Sylvanas said. She stopped rapping her fingers against the bartop, her palm splaying out across the gridwork of carvings all across the wood grain. "I only wish to talk."

The wary expressions returned.

"What for?" Notley pressed. His free hand stroked along the fletching of a quiver at his hip, though his bow was nowhere in sight.

"Yeah, and why not?" Sterntide added.

Sylvanas had to stamp down the urge to roll her eyes. "Do you know, or don't you?"

Silence. And then -

"Gol Inath," Mace whispered. She had taken up the knife once again, and was nervously digging a sprawling array of antlers from the skull carving. "The High Thornspeaker lives at Gol Inath."

The moment the name of that place was spoken, a wind buffeted down the chimney, and the fire flickered and snapped. Sterntide spat over his left shoulder. Notley fidgeted with his arrows. Even the unshakeable mountain of a woman, Cleardawn, cast a nervous glance towards the hearth.

For her part, Sylvanas lifted an eyebrow. "And how do I find Gol Inath?"

"You don't," Cleardawn said darkly. "It finds you."

"How very unhelpful," drawled Sylvanas.

"Watch your tone," the barkeep growled. It was the first thing he had said since her arrival. His doughy face was ghostly pale, his expression hard as wrought iron. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know shit."

Straightening somewhat, Sylvanas grudgingly kept her tone neutral when she said, "Can you at least give me a hint? A general vicinity, perhaps?"

She tried to catch the eye of the members of the Order of Embers, but they were all looking towards Cleardawn, as if waiting for her answer, or perhaps for her permission before they spoke out of turn. For that matter, Cleardawn was watching Sylvanas with serious eyes. "I don't like sending strangers off to their death," she explained. "It's not very host-like, see?"

"I think you'll find it's all far too late for that." Sylvanas gestured to herself with a humourless smile.

Even so, Cleardawn shook her head. The smile disappeared, and Sylvanas could feel the ire growing in her chest like a living thing. Before she could open her mouth however, Cleardawn sighed.

“Follow the old silver mines west down the cliffs." She pointed towards the western-most wall, which bore a brace of gutted hares that were tied up by their feet. "From here, you can see the great tree at the centre of the Crimson Forest. That's where you're headed. Mark me, stranger." Cleardawn leaned her bulk against the bartop as she fixed Sylvanas with a hard look. "The way may seem easy. But it isn't. Tides preserve you."

Inclining her head, Sylvanas murmured, "I shall not keep you from your cups any further."

When she turned to walk away, they did not immediately strike up their conversation again. She could feel their eyes upon her, and she distinctly heard Sterntide mutter under his breath, "Poor sod."

Sylvanas stopped in the doorway, her fingers upon the handle. She was craning her neck to study a tangle of briar thorns that had been placed over the entryway, strung with other smaller tokens. “I thought your Order was founded to combat witchcraft,” she mused aloud. She reached up to gently turn one of the tokens between her fingers. It was the yellowish fang of some indeterminate animal. A large cat endemic to the area, perhaps.

“Aye,” said Cleardawn from the bar. “But the best way to fight witchcraft is with witchcraft. Take one with you, stranger. May it protect you, where your arrows can’t.”

Running her thumb along the blunt edge of the tooth, Sylvanas stood silently for a moment. She did not know what compelled her to do it, but she tugged the token free. The bit of twine that tethered it in place snapped. It was heavy in her palm, like a lodestone. Closing her fingers around the token, Sylvanas pushed open the door and stepped outside.

“Cheerful lot, aren’t they?” murmured Anya’s voice.

Sylvanas glanced over to see three pairs of eyes glinting at her from the shadows of the tavern’s eaves. She worried her thumb against the tooth’s blunted point, thoughtful. “I want to see the map again.”

Those eyes blinked owlishly. Then, Nathanos stepped forward. He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from the breast pocket of his coat, and handed it over. As Sylvanas unfolded it, she gestured for the other two to gather round. Together, they stood out of the way of the first story window of the tavern.

“We will divide Drustvar into scouting regions. Gather information. Find me this lost heir to the Proudmoore line.” Using the tip of the tooth, Sylvanas pointed to eastern coast of Drustvar. “Anya, you will take everything from Carver’s Harbour to Fletcher’s Hollow. Nathanos, you have the mountains all the way to Gol Koval. Velonara, take Waycrest Manor to Corlain. Which leaves…”

The fang hovered over the southwest peninsula of Drustvar. The map there had no markings titling it apart from a small town named Falconhurst at the inlet south of the Crimson Forest. The forest itself was a blank mass of branches. And at its very centre a massive tree. The locals who had penned this map had not dared to put the tree’s name to paper. As the fang circled round the tree, it seemed to push away from the location as if magnetically repelled.

“I for one do not like this plan,” said Nathanos. His statement was met with grave nods from both Anya and Velonara. “It’s too risky. We are stronger together.”

Folding the map back up, Sylvanas carefully traced the creases in the parchment between her pinched fingers. “We are also slower together,” she said. “And we have a great deal of ground to cover.”

She was fixed by three nearly identical glowers of disapproval.

Sylvanas glared right back. "Oh, I'm sorry," she growled. "Did this become a democracy when I wasn't looking?"

Anya huffed. Velonara rolled her eyes. Nathanos, for his part, held out his hand for the map. Sylvanas slapped the piece of paper into his palm.

"You have your orders," she said. "Now, follow them. We will meet back here in a week. Do try to refrain from any notions of rebellion in my absence."

"I for one make no promises," Velonara said.

Meanwhile, Anya added, "I distinctly remember your original platform being founded on the idea of rebellion, in fact."

"Spare me the sass, you two," sighed Sylvanas. "I thought death was supposed to be peaceful."

Jerking his thumb towards the other two, Nathanos said, "And you still kept these jackals around?" He tsked and shook his head in a reprimanding fashion.

Velonara made a rude gesture with her fingers, while Anya jostled Nathanos with her very bony elbow. He bore the injustice with a grunt of discomfort.

"Just as well you three aren't left alone together," Sylvanas muttered, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I'd come back to find the rest of Drustvar in flames."

Anya tried for a look of wide-eyed innocence, but on her impish face it only made her appear more devious. "And let Ashvane and Stormsong have all the fun?"

Sighing, Sylvanas tucked the fang into a leather pouch at her waist. "No inciting a civil war until we're well and truly ready to profit from one. Now," she waved at them as if trying to swat a swarm of flies in the air. "Go."

They went, but not without mocking little bows in her direction, each accompanied by a murmured, "For the Dark Lady."

With a shake of her head, Sylvanas waited until they had set off before making her own way around the outside of the tavern. Behind it was a stone walkway that traced the edge of the sheer cliffs that Cleardawn had spoken of earlier. A falcon was perched atop an outcropping. Its head was tucked beneath its wing, but it rustled its feathers and peered blearily at her when she stopped nearby. It chirped at her. A length of dyed leather was bound to one of its legs, and a scattering of rodent bones lay beneath its perch.

Sylvanas ignored the falcon in favour of looking over the cliffside. The snowfall had lessened. Only a few small white clumps drifted through the air now. Somehow it felt warmer up here than in the miserable rain of Boralus; the blanket of new snow and cloud acted as a layer of insulation. Even if Sylvanas had not been Undead, she would not have needed the luxury of a heavy cloak.

Dug into the slope were the abandoned silvermines, their rail carts barely visible from beneath the cliff's dramatic overhang. The lengths of steel seemed to shunt to nowhere, and with a crane of her neck she could just make out that segments of the rail line had been shorn off and carted away, cannibalised by the locals for alternative use. The snow sank slowly downwards, far below, and from this altitude Sylvanas could see the point at which the air grew too warm and turned it to rain. A mist clung to the tops of trees that seemed caught in a stasis of autumn.

Even from here, the enormous tree could be seen. It loomed through the mist, a sprawling colossus of nature. Its twisted limbs were bare and skeletal through the fog, like a mythological being that had been petrified in place, struck down by some rival god in the very midst of battle. A path cut its way from the silver mines down to the forest's edge, but there it stopped dead in its tracks, overgrown with wild underbrush and tangles of briary roses that had long since lost their blooms.

Something rapped against her wrist. Sylvanas' head swung round sharply, only to find that the falcon had hopped down from its perch and ambled towards her along the stone railing where her hands had clenched themselves into fists. The bird was toying at a tarnished buckle of her vambrace.

"Plucky little thing," Sylvanas muttered. Then she waved it away, and turned aside to begin her descent.

The cliffs were broken only by a single steep slope at the edge of Arom's Stand. It was clearly marked as the road to Corlain by a lonely lantern that shed its dim light onto a signpost beneath it, scrawled in a blackletter script that had faded with age. It took longer than she would have liked to traverse the switchbacks through the silver mines. Her only blessing was that the further down she went, the more the snow receded, until she could stride unencumbered across the path.

The ground here was marked with the grooves of merchant's carts that had traveled for years across these roads, heavy-laden with goods from Corlain. Mud congealed along the tracks, and puddles gathered in the ruts. The melted snows were a fine drizzle that misted the air, obscuring vision so that the mountains faded behind her into haze-riddled shapes.

When Sylvanas reached the treeline, she paused. The road curved well around the Crimson Forest, giving the woods a wide berth. She lingered between the two. Her eyes scanned the canopy, where a raven watched her in turn with a steady gaze. After a moment it took flight, its strident cry sending a flurry of smaller birds scattering in its wake. She squinted, but even her heightened senses could not pierce the veil of shadow that clung to the underbrush. The woods were thickly-woven, their branches a loom that threaded together, offering no clear path forward. A hunting knife would do little in the way of hacking through that dense thicket. The broadest axe would struggle.

The cries of the raven were fading into the distance. When Sylvanas took her first step past the trees, the weight of the fang in her pouch seemed heavier, tugging at her belt with every footfall. She ignored it and ducked beneath a branch, pressing onwards. Overhead, the dense canopy began to weave together as she ventured further into the woods, until what meagre sunlight Kul Tiras had to offer could not be found in any trace.

Steadily, her eyes adjusted. Her ears pricked at any wayward sound, alert and on guard, though she kept her bow strung over her shoulder rather than firmly in her grasp. Sylvanas had spent many years of her former life traversing deep woods, and often she would dwell upon those memories still, memories of better times, some of the best in her life. If asked, she would consider herself an expert, but this was like no forest she had encountered in the past, alive or dead.

A forest was alive. It breathed. It teemed with all manner of creatures. It had a rhythm. This place had none of those qualities. It was absolutely still. Neither breath of wind nor life. Mist clung to her ankles when she walked, disturbed by her movements, only to settle back into inaction in her wake. She was a disturbance. An unwelcome guest at a funerary rite.

Where at the entrance to the forest, the enormous tree at its heart had towered above the others, now Sylvanas could see nothing of it. Any vantage point, any reference had vanished like smoke. She carried no compass; she had dead reckoning and had never found the need for one in the past. Something told her that even if she had thought to bring one however, it would be of little use here. Cocking her head, she continued southwest.

The forest offered very little in the way of landmarks. The landscape here had a repetitious quality. Same colours. Same sounds. Same patterns. Once Sylvanas could have sworn she heard the rustle of something in the distance, but it was beyond her vision.

Eventually she came across a distinct clearing. It was presided over by a black and twisted ash tree -- the victim of an old fire, no doubt. Even its roots still appeared scorched. While the other trees had regrown over time, this little glade remained untouched. As she drew near, Sylvanas paused. In the centre of the clearing a wicker man had been erected. It was a larger copy of the one Sylvanas had seen at the tavern in Arom's Stand. A group of superstitious hunters must have put it here to guard them while they slept.

Sylvanas took note of the surrounding area before pressing onwards. With near silent footfalls, she stalked the woods. The most she came across in terms of living creatures were a few unwary hares with grey coats, and the sporadic raven that croaked balefully at her from the trees. Nothing larger let itself be known however. Normally, she would have expected to stumble across the path of deer, or wild boars, or even predators that had little fear of humans in such untouched areas. But not here.

Hours passed as she walked. The space between the trees were beginning to darken as evening approached. Sylvanas glanced around, then froze.

The old flame-blackened ash tree stood, stark as a pillar, not a stone's throw ahead of her. Slowly, Sylvanas approached it once more. A wary hand strayed to the bow slung across her shoulders, but she did not draw the weapon yet. She stopped at the edge of the clearing, her fingers just grazing the handle of her bow, waiting.

The wicker man was slumped against the stick that held it upright, utterly unchanged from when she had first been here. Instead of hands, it had bear claws bound to its wrists with coils of thick flaxen rope, the kind one might use on a ship's deck. Its head had the length and shape of a wolf's skull, but for the set of antlers coronating it like a crown. The skull was tilted down and to one side, as though its maker had pushed its face away.

Had it looked aside like that before? Sylvanas cast her mind back, but could not be completely sure. Perhaps this was a series of camps, created by hunters or whoever else dared traversed these woods.

Sylvanas lowered her hand from the bow. She drew the silver hunting knife from her boot, and scored the withered bark of the tree. Then, sheathing the knife, she continued on her way.

Night was swiftly upon her. In the darkness, the woods grew vast and deep. No starlight could reach her here. Not even rain. The patter of gentle rainfall had long since vanished during her wandering, but the mist remained. In life, her night vision could never have rivaled those of her cousins across the sea in Kalimdor. In death however, Sylvanas needed very little by way of light to see. Even so, there was nothing to be done about the dense vegetation that obstructed her at every turn. In some areas, the woods grew so thickly together that she had to squeeze her way through narrow gaps between trunks, and the sharp branches would snag upon her clothing, as if attempting to drag her back.

A few more hours. She was sure she was gaining ground on her final destination, when she saw it.

The ash tree. Black as basalt. The mark Sylvanas had left in the bark was bleeding like a wound with a substance too dark to be sap. And in its bare spiny branches, a dark shape lurked with arms outstretched.

In a single fluid motion, Sylvanas drew her bow. The fletching of an arrow was brushing her cheek, ready to be fired, but she paused. She relaxed the bowstring, lowering the weapon just slightly. A wary step forward. Then another.

The shape was unmoving. It dripped onto the ground. Quickly, Sylvanas put away her bow and arrow, and pulled flint from her pocket. A moment later she was lifting a torch towards the tree.

A wolf had been flayed and perched in its branches, as though stored there by a shrike. Its ribs were cracked open, its belly slit, its head was missing, and its entrails spilled onto the forest floor. All but its heart, which had been staked onto the chest of the wicker man in the clearing.

With a soft grunt, Sylvanas studied the wolf a moment longer. She removed the glove from her spare hand with her teeth, and reached out to touch it. The blood of its offal was still warm. A fresh kill.

Scowling, Sylvanas wiped her fingers clean, put her glove back on, and strode into the clearing. The wicker man was looking straight ahead now, a watchful guardian of the empty grove. For a fleeting instant, she considered setting it alight with the tip of her torch, but some whispered misgiving stayed her hand. The urge to at least turn its head aside once more was too great however, and she nudged the skull with the toe of her boot so that it would not watch her while she made camp.

When she had a small fire going, she pulled out a piece of parchment and retraced her steps. A few strokes here and there with a bit of charcoal from the fire, and Sylvanas had a makeshift map of where she had gone through the Crimson Forest so far. Or at least, where she thought she had gone. Everything in her body, every last scrap of experience told her that she had been travelling southwest the entire time. There were very little hills. The hills were flat for the most part, broken only by gentle slopes here and there. From memory she charted the gullies, and came to the conclusion that she must have gotten turned around at one end, so that she continued back down her path towards the ash tree on multiple occasions.

The magic of this place would be muddying her sense of direction. That was evident. Her first course of action from here would be to find a river or stream. If it were fresh, it would be fed from the glaciers to the east. She could follow the water away from its source, and in the direction of Gol Inath.

The fire was burning low, simmering to its bed of coals. For the first time in Kul Tiras, Sylvanas' clothes were at last starting to feel dry. She counted her luck on that front, at least. Unless there was a truly torrential downpour, she would be spared wet clothes for a while yet.

In the dead of night, the noises of the woods were hushed but present. The ravens had faded in the wake of owls and the chirp of nocturnal insects. A few moths danced dangerously close to the flames, and the whine of some bold mosquitos ventured near, only to find her a poor meal indeed.

Slowly, her hands grew heavy. Her wrist slumped, and the bit of charcoal dragged a ragged path against the parchment in her grasp. Sylvanas blinked against it, straightening her posture. But a few moments later, and her shoulders sinking down once more. The fire flickered limply against the weight of the night air, until even the stray sparks were pushed down into the flames.

Sleep should not have been possible -- Sylvanas could fuzzily recall the last time she had experienced it nearly a generation ago -- but she closed her eyes, and it claimed her regardless.

She was standing at the summit of Icecrown Citadel. The wind whipped her long cloak into a frenzy around her ankles. The balls of her feet were balanced at the very edge of the frozen fortification, and when she looked down, nothing but darkness awaited her below. Her foot lifted. She stepped forward and off the ledge. And when she fell -- down, down -- she was not met with the slam of ice and rock, but with the feeling of something catching tight around her neck and yanking, so that she dangled from the Lich King's lair like a trophy for all to see.

Sylvanas wrenched awake with a gasp. Her chest heaved, lungs working for breath that she no longer needed. She started to reach up to touch her neck, but something crumpled in her fists. She looked down. The parchment she had been using for a map was now a mass of black -- smeared from every edge and ragged corner -- and in her other hand the charcoal had been worn down to a nub. She threw the parchment and charcoal aside. The fingers of her gloves were grimy with dark ash.

At her feet, the fire had burned down to a bed of pink and white coals. They shed a feeble scarlet light onto her surroundings. And across from the coals, the wicker man cast a looming shadow against the trees. Its skull was turned directly towards her, and the hollow sockets of its eyes gleamed in the dying light.

Scrambling upright, Sylvanas kicked dirt over the coals until they were smothered. Then, she snatched up the quiver and bow from the ground where she had left them within arm's reach. Fastening them across her shoulders once more, she glowered at the woods. They stood impassively. She aimed a last glare at the wicker man, which seemed to stare back at her.

Sylvanas bared her sharp teeth and hissed softly, “Stay out of my head.” Then she kicked the skull back to the side to stop it from looking at her, and strode from the clearing.

Dawn was not far off. An hour or two of brisk walking, and the trees seemed to lighten in colour somewhat, so that the low-slung mist that pervaded the forest brightened. She stalked through it viciously, her eyes burning as tendrils of fog swirled around her feet.

She headed dead south. A completely new direction today. At least if she went too far and somehow passed by Gol Inath, she would wind up in Falconhurst. From there she could gather more intel from the local farmers and trappers, before heading back into the forest.

The gullies in this direction grew steep. More than once, Sylvanas had to gingerly pick her way down the slopes, or risk making enough noise to alert every predator of her presence from here to Corlain. She knew now that there were wolves in these parts. Even if the only one she had seen so far had been killed by unknown hands.

Nearly the whole day she walked. Never pausing. Never relenting. She sought a water source -- there must be one; there must -- but even the most meagre of streams eluded her. Eventually she abandoned caution. She pressed through the trees with a recklessness that would have gotten her scolded by her mother as a child learning to hunt for the first time.

Whereas the day before the woods had treated her with a cold indifference, today they seemed guarded. As though she were being observed by a massive crowd of people who muttered in disapproval about her presence. Once or twice, Sylvanas could have sworn she saw something moving at the corner of her vision -- an enormous shape slouching between the trees. Her ears would cock forward in search of any noise, and her head would whip around, only to find nothing. But always the unpleasant feeling lingered. Of being watched. Of a hand reaching through the dark to grasp her shoulder and wrench her round.

After hours and hours of trekking, Sylvanas clambered up a steep incline, then went stock still.

That damn ash tree. Again. The wolf was still there. Its entrails were gone. Bloody smears were dragged along the ground from the base of the tree. Something must have come along and eaten the offal. And of course, the fucking wicker man was there, too.

Swearing -- not bothering to keep her voice down -- Sylvanas scowled up at the tree. It was growing dark again. A whole day. Wasted.

She fumed. She paced the clearing. She pulled the fang from her pouch and rubbed it between the fingers of one hand. Then, she dropped down on her haunches in front of the wicker man to glare at it, close enough that her nose was but a finger-breadth away.

"I am growing rather tired of this game," Syvlanas growled.

The wicker man of course made no reply.

That night she dreamt of Frostmourne. The blade plunged beneath her ribcage while she knelt in a field of golden flowers. And when she slumped to the ground, she was drowning in a sea of petals. They got into her mouth, into her throat. They filled her lungs until she choked on golden blooms.

She awoke panting for air, and her initial bout of panic seethed into fury. Coils of her banshee form curled from her body like black smoke. The fire she had built a few hours ago spluttered when she rose to her feet, shadows gathering close around her. The wicker man watched in stolid silence.

Sylvanas snarled something wordless, the noise echoing. Her hands were clenched into trembling fists. The fang dug into her palm until it began to pierce the glove of her clawed gauntlet. Without thinking, she hurled the little witch’s token at the wicker man in a fit of anger.

The fang never reached its intended destination. No sooner had it left her hand, than it fell back at her feet, as though it had bounced against an invisible wall, or been buffeted back by an unseen wind.

Sylvanas blinked. Slowly the anger boiled low in her stomach until it was just a metallic taste on the back of her tongue instead of the wild thing that gripped her jaws. She reached down, hesitated a moment, then picked up the fang from the ground. Turning it over thoughtfully between her fingers, she looked between the fang and the wicker man. Then, she tore a thin strip of cloth from her cloak. She used her knife to bore a hole through the thickest section of bone, and looped the fabric through until the fang hung from a knot.

When she held it up to the wicker man, the fang pushed away at the end of the length of cloth like a pendulum.

“Well, well…” Sylvanas murmured. She pulled her hand back so that the witch’s token hung normally from her grasp. “It seems I have a compass after all.”

If Sylvanas had thought the Crimson Forest an untraversable warren before, her mind was not changed now. In one hand she held the makeshift compass aloft like a lantern. It would swing wildly about with every step, always pushing away from the heart of the woods. The further she ventured, the more the fang strained at the end of its strip of cloth, as if trying to drag her back to safety. And with every step she ignored its warnings, pushing ever inwards.

Her ears pricked at the first sound of trickling water, and not long after she came across a stream. It was small enough for her to step across, but she felt triumphant nonetheless. Any change in scenery was welcome. Especially if it meant she didn’t have to cross paths with that wicker man again.

The next time she did, she would stuff it full of arrows.

As time went on, the sensation of being watched only intensified. The ravens ruffling their feathers upon high branches were eerily quiet. Something rustled through the underbrush, the sounds animal-like at first, only to prove itself a breeze when Sylvanas inspected the source more closely.

And then the fang began to spin in circles, like a needle skipping over a track. Sylvanas glanced down at the slope beneath her feet, looking around to get her bearings. Another little hillock protruded from the ground not far off. And another beyond that. It was then that she realised they were not hills at all, but roots that had been grown over with earth.

Stuffing the fang back into its pouch, she continued to climb. The roots levelled out, and gradually the trees began to thin. She could see patches of sky riddled with a scarlet haze from the light of the setting sun slanting through the atmosphere. The fog slithered along the ground here, flowing past Sylvanas in slow ripples. The sound of rushing water grew louder and steadier. She hastened her step, her hand straying to the bow, drawing it from her shoulders.

In the epicentre of the forest, Gol Inath sprawled. Waterfalls flowed beside it, feeding pools of water that shed the mist that pervaded the woods. The colossal tree’s bulging twisted limbs were bare and grey. So broad was its trunk, a hundred men could not hope to encircle it. And at its very base, a pointed stone arch had been built, fragments of stone staggered along the path leading to it like a series of broken tombstones to a monument.

The air here was heavy. The taste of it lingered on the back of her tongue like the tang of copper. Cautiously, her eyes scanning the clearing for any hint of movement, Sylvanas stepped forward. The path to the enormous tree was clear, but every instinct urged her that this was a lie. With every step closer, she waited for an attack to come, until she stood directly before Gol Inath, peering into its hollow trunk.

The space beneath the archway was a black beyond black. She could just make out stairs leading down into the ground beneath the tree. In the stones above the entryway, runes had been chiselled. They glowed with a spectral blue light that pulsed with a slow steady rhythm, as though they were breathing.

Sylvanas lifted her foot to take that first step inside, when a voice echoed around the clearing, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

In a blur of motion, Sylvanas whirled about, nocked an arrow and pulled it back, ready to fire. She aimed down the shaft of the arrow, but nobody stood behind her. The clearing was empty. The only other noise was the series of waterfalls, which splashed against rocks and gnarled roots.

“I see you are no different from the other hunters, then,” said the voice again. Its owner sounded weary, feminine, and slightly bored.

Sylvanas shifted her grip upon the bow. Then, warily, she slackened her bowstring. She lowered the weapon, but did not put it away, her fingers holding the arrow steady. “I am looking for someone. I was told you trained her. Assuming you are the High Thornspeaker, of course.”

Silence. When the voice spoke again, it seemed to come from a different angle, and Sylvanas’ head snapped around to follow it. “It’s rare I receive new pupils, though not completely unheard of.”

“Not recently, no. You would have trained her years ago.”

This time, the silence seemed contemplative. Curious, even. A breath of wind stirred behind her, and when Sylvanas turned around once more, a tall figure stood beneath the stone archway of Gol Inath. A sickle-shaped staff was clutched in one clawed hand that appeared to be made of the same wood as the staff. The woman’s face was obscured by an antlered skull with teeth far sharper than a deer ought to have. Her broad shoulders bore a fine mantle of woven feathers and leaves, dark as the forest itself.

“Strange,” said Ulfar, her voice a wine-black murmur beneath the mask. “You are not a member of the Order of Embers, yet you bear one of my tokens."

The fang was a steady weight in Sylvanas’ pouch. “One of the Order gave it to me as a parting gift.” Sylvanas lowered her bow fully, then placed it and the arrow over her shoulder. She studied the glowing runes carved into the skull’s antlers, similar to those carved into the archway. A multitude of tokens and charms wrought from stones and thorns and animal bones were clustered at Ulfar’s belt, or hidden among the folds of her clothing. Sylvanas nodded towards them. "They told me you were the High Thornspeaker, but they failed to inform me you were also a witch."

Ulfar’s hand tightened around her staff, and the skull swung round. The fathomless sockets of its eyes stared at her in a menacing way. "I am not a witch," came the hissed reply.

Raising her hands, palm up, Sylvanas said, “Peace, Ulfar. I meant no disrespect.”

Ulfar cocked her head to one side in a curious tilt. “Your information is outdated, stranger. I am not Ulfar. He is no longer with us. I am his successor.”

Sylvanas frowned. “Then what should I call you?”

“Jaina.”

title from:

“In my body you search the mountain for the sun buried in its forest. In your body I search for the boat adrift in the middle of the night.”

— Octavio Paz, from Counterparts (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)

#jaina proudmoore #sylvanas windrunner #sylvaina #drust au #drustvar #world of warcraft #wow #roman writes #finally getting around to this bullshit au which has been haunting me for over a year now

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