Finnaeus stood on a cliffside in the Howling Fjord, the biting cold winds of Northrend biting against his skin and sliding underneath his armor. It would have been prudent to shift in to his worgen form, considering the fur would ward away the frosty air, but he would not relent to the comfort. The cold was a fair price to pay to keep the reminder that he was human first, worgen second.
The sea below him thundered against the cliffside, sending salty sea spray up almost to the pinnacle of the cliff. He could feel the mist from the waves on the bigger crashes, bringing with it the smell of the ocean. It brought to mind the day Finnaeus brought Claire to the coast line and proposed marriage. It was a beautiful proposal, marred only by the incessant cries of the gulls that hovered over the water. She would later joke that they were laughing at her for making such a terrible mistake in marrying him. The joke originated in a playful flirtation; the punchline, however, showed only cruelty when it turned out she was right.
The thought of Claire caused the now familiar pang of heartbreak and loneliness that felt colder to his soul than the wind to his skin. His seemingly perfect life behind the Greymane Wall ended brutally and swiftly, leaving him without his family and without a home. It seemed so long ago that he sat, huddled and alone, on a Night Elf ship carrying him to Darnassus. It took him a long time to repay his debt to them, fighting through Ashenvale all the way to Feralas, loyally following in lockstep the nation that saved his life but gave him no home. He found no comfort in the Howling Oak; he found no solace in joining the Worgen pack that took up homes in Felwood. He yearned for Gilneas, his heart bursting with the pain and ache of holding his wife and daughter again. He longed for the days when his affinity with nature meant tending the crops, not healing the maimed from the war or turning into something feral. But what he wanted could never come back.
Finnaeus squinted when he saw a ship rolling against the seas, battling the churning waves and approaching Valgarde. A tightness gripped his stomach. That ship would arrive with some resources for those remaining in the keep, while then departing with those seeking warmer weathers and an end to their tours of duty. Some of those departing brought word of the Eastern Kingdoms, of the wars that raged, the devastation wrought by Deathwing's return. Curiously, some spoke of a renewal project in Caer Darrow, home of the dread Scholomance, a project led by those that put aside faction and war to do something good. While Finnaeus intially bristled at working with the Horde, he caught himself wondering what it would be like to be among those people, working for a common goal. It had been so long since he was a part of something worth living for. He stood at edge of a great unknown, with no purpose and direction, wondering if he should step onto the ship and take the chance at starting something new. The thought frightened and excited him.
Finnaeus lowered his gaze away from the ship and closed his eyes. The darkness and loneliness needed to be lifted. But lately, it was all he knew.
"Am I ready to go back?" he whispered. "What shall I do, Claire?"
It felt foolish to ask, but this was the land where the dead found no rest. If an answer would come, surely it would be here.
The sea thundered below him. The cold wind howled by him. He shivered.
He would get no response today. With a sigh and sadness he decided not to venture back. Finnaeus stepped off of the cliff, letting the air billow around him, and then contorted into a storm crow. His wings caught the wind, and he soared over Valgarde. Whatever sign he was waiting for would come. Hopefully, Finnaeus mused as he flew, he would be ready when it did.
The sea below him thundered against the cliffside, sending salty sea spray up almost to the pinnacle of the cliff. He could feel the mist from the waves on the bigger crashes, bringing with it the smell of the ocean. It brought to mind the day Finnaeus brought Claire to the coast line and proposed marriage. It was a beautiful proposal, marred only by the incessant cries of the gulls that hovered over the water. She would later joke that they were laughing at her for making such a terrible mistake in marrying him. The joke originated in a playful flirtation; the punchline, however, showed only cruelty when it turned out she was right.
The thought of Claire caused the now familiar pang of heartbreak and loneliness that felt colder to his soul than the wind to his skin. His seemingly perfect life behind the Greymane Wall ended brutally and swiftly, leaving him without his family and without a home. It seemed so long ago that he sat, huddled and alone, on a Night Elf ship carrying him to Darnassus. It took him a long time to repay his debt to them, fighting through Ashenvale all the way to Feralas, loyally following in lockstep the nation that saved his life but gave him no home. He found no comfort in the Howling Oak; he found no solace in joining the Worgen pack that took up homes in Felwood. He yearned for Gilneas, his heart bursting with the pain and ache of holding his wife and daughter again. He longed for the days when his affinity with nature meant tending the crops, not healing the maimed from the war or turning into something feral. But what he wanted could never come back.
Finnaeus squinted when he saw a ship rolling against the seas, battling the churning waves and approaching Valgarde. A tightness gripped his stomach. That ship would arrive with some resources for those remaining in the keep, while then departing with those seeking warmer weathers and an end to their tours of duty. Some of those departing brought word of the Eastern Kingdoms, of the wars that raged, the devastation wrought by Deathwing's return. Curiously, some spoke of a renewal project in Caer Darrow, home of the dread Scholomance, a project led by those that put aside faction and war to do something good. While Finnaeus intially bristled at working with the Horde, he caught himself wondering what it would be like to be among those people, working for a common goal. It had been so long since he was a part of something worth living for. He stood at edge of a great unknown, with no purpose and direction, wondering if he should step onto the ship and take the chance at starting something new. The thought frightened and excited him.
Finnaeus lowered his gaze away from the ship and closed his eyes. The darkness and loneliness needed to be lifted. But lately, it was all he knew.
"Am I ready to go back?" he whispered. "What shall I do, Claire?"
It felt foolish to ask, but this was the land where the dead found no rest. If an answer would come, surely it would be here.
The sea thundered below him. The cold wind howled by him. He shivered.
He would get no response today. With a sigh and sadness he decided not to venture back. Finnaeus stepped off of the cliff, letting the air billow around him, and then contorted into a storm crow. His wings caught the wind, and he soared over Valgarde. Whatever sign he was waiting for would come. Hopefully, Finnaeus mused as he flew, he would be ready when it did.
