World of Warcraft®

((Finally getting around to this again, though it's still not finished. Go figure. These next two pieces I had to wing a bit, as I don't remember the ingame conversations verbatim. Enjoy!))

"...the guards're not as disciplined as they used to be, so you might be able to face them outright. But if Agar does what he says he's gonna do and calls on the rest of the Horde, you'll have to use the wyverns. Tell them that, okay, Kordrion?"

The other human nodded, eyes darting back and forth as he watched for more guards. The distraction of Kordrion’s talbuk stampede had taken up most of their attention, but both knew it couldn't be trusted to luck.

"What about your family?" Kordrion asked.

Lahkin stuttered. "T-tell them I’m okay. That I love them. Go now! Before someone catches you!"

Kordrion grinned. "Don't worry. I'll just introduce them to my death-defying manuevers! Or throw a talbuk at them. Whatever."

Lahkin snorted, but the rogue had already melted back into the shadows. He watched Kordrion for as long as the human remained in his sights.

Only moments later, a tired blood elf came in the building from the other direction, dusting off his armor. He flung a fist into the magical barrier in frustration, green eyes glaring through at Lahkin. Then he was gone, growling something about lost supplies and grouchy warlocks.

“Just maybe we’ll get out of this, Plinth,” Lahkin said. When the orc didn’t reply, Lahkin turned and knelt beside him. He pushed clumsily at the Mag’har’s neck, trying to find the pulse, then gave up. “Some healer I make. Can’t even tell if someone’s dead or not. Plinth! Wake up!”

With more prodding, the orc finally groaned, peeling open his good eye. “You make enough noise to scare an elekk from its graveyard.”

“You’re not an elekk, and this isn’t a graveyard,” Lahkin retorted. Plinth didn’t reply immediately, looking past him.

“Your human friend. I heard the conversation. Which way did he leave?”

Lahkin lowered his voice. “Out the back. Why?”

“Oh, surely not,” hissed the orc. “Idiot! There are—“

What there was or wasn’t, Lahkin didn’t hear. Wind like screeching knives suddenly whipped into a frenzy about the back of the building. Below it, he heard a yelp that sounded like Kordrion’s, and a growl he would recognize from anywhere. Felfire licked the edges of the door frame, all that Lahkin could see from his angle.

“Kord!” he shouted, slamming both fists on the barrier. The magic sparked angrily, burning him, but Lahkin just smacked it again. “Kordrion!”

Indecipherable growls and yelling. The wind continued to howl, sweeping into the building with enough force that a blood elf running to help was blown back the other way like a pile of toothpicks, along with whatever research equipment had not been bolted down.

There was nothing he could do. This was his fault, for being caught, for not being more careful, for not taking care of himself... Lahkin punched the barrier again, with enough force to open the gash on his arm again. Lahkin winced and stepped back, staring as the blood welled up and dripped to the floor.

Of course...

Lahkin sat down. The spirit world was still open to him, though it was fading as the potency of the Oshu’gun dust in his blood was fading. Without thinking, Lahkin closed his eyes and plunged in, swimming through the spirit waters with no plan except to find Kordrion.

To find him, and somehow get him help...

*****

The human’s story was ludicrous, but Dustwing couldn’t deny the validity of the maps being drawn out before him. The night elf rested his chin on his palm, looking over the plans, trying to spot any mistakes that the others hadn’t already spotted.

An assault seemed the most logical way to go. If Kordrion’s condition was anything to go by, another stealth attempt to make contact with Lahkin or break him out would only end in disaster. How the rogue had survived was a miracle, and certainly everyone was asking him how he had dragged himself all the way from Halaa to Telaar with that many broken bones.

“It was Lahkin,” was all the rogue would say. “He carried me back.”

“If Lahkin carried you back, why isn’t he here now?” had been Ulthryn’s reply. “Unless you mean to say he carried you all the way here, then walked all the way back to Halaa without even leaving a message for the rest of us?”

Kordrion had no answer to that, because there simply wasn’t one. Dustwing shook his head. Whatever had happened, Kordrion was here, Lahkin was not, and from what Dustwing had seen from his own scouting, the rogue’s information on Halaa was good.

“If these tallies are right, our best window of opportunity would be in a week,” said Dustwing. “Their supplies will be running low, and we will have had enough time to gather a sizeable force. Any later, and the Horde will have bolstered their numbers.”

“In a week? Lahkin could be dead by then!” Ulthryn was furious. As he and the others argued over the timing, Dustwing turned away from the conversation. Whatever they decided, he would go by.

Or would he? The unease in Dustwing was growing, but it was more than just that. He felt Ulthryn’s anger. He no longer wanted to sit back and watch the world go past him. To think of Lahkin hurting, dying... It summoned up long laid aside emotions, images...

The gap between them closed with a snap. Kildrad bowled into several gigantic infernals, barely noticing their fiercely blazing fire, the burns he acquired. All that mattered was getting to his son.

He heard another scream, a death scream, and he knew it was too late...

“Dustwing?”

The night elf shivered as he came up out of the memory. He turned to glare at the human, softening as he saw it was Civette.

“I have to leave. Give this to Kordrion, will you?” Her eyes were wide with worry, bloodshot with the strain of caring for the invalid. Dustwing nodded as she passed potion ingredients into his hands and told him how to mix it. He barely paid attention—he had made a variety of the potion before—and only just remembered to nod again as Civette thanked him and headed down the ramp. He didn’t look twice at the others as he gave his orders, in a sharp, clipped voice that would’ve made the old Dustwing—the Lieutenant Wildmane—proud.

“Get some rest, all of you. We gather in Telaar at 6 bells on the eighth day of the new moon. Come prepared. I want three whole units, one of healers. Move out.”

Ulthryn still looked rebellious, but Dustwing didn’t pay it another thought as he mixed up the potion for Kordrion. Something had returned inside of him. The old night elf no longer felt so old. He was ready to face Halaa, and leading others into battle, again.

Lieutenant Wildmane.

No...he was Lieutenant Dustwing now, for better or for worse.

*****

Lahkin probed through the murk. The spirit world was heavy in shadow now, as his connection to it weakened. The walls of his prison shifted and moved like the walls of Taelanas’ house had when he had been drunk, when before, everything had been crystal clear. Lahkin felt dizzy as he plowed ahead, wondering vaguely if it was possible for spirits to vomit.

Kordrion’s spirit burned brightly ahead, flickering like a flame caught in the wind. Lahkin expected to see Agar’s spirit dancing along with it, but the rogue was oddly alone.

He had heard them fighting just a moment ago! Lahkin paused in confusion.

Like the snap of a beartrap, the world burst into stars, shards of brilliant spirit matter flying in all directions. In the dance of color, he lost view of Kordrion, as well as the black shadow coming at him from the left…

"Fancy meeting you here," Agar’s voice echoed. Lahkin turned to flee back to his body, only to find the scintillating spirits in that direction, too. "How many prisons do I have to weave for you, Little Talbuk? The Horde is on its way, and I won’t have you interfering."

Prison? Weave? Lahkin threw himself at the multitude of colors, only to be rebounded back. Agar was laughing, and the spirits screamed at him like a thousand banshees.

Real people! Lahkin quailed. Being tortured!

No, no, they weren't real, Lahkin realized. Or at least, not entirely real. Half-spirits, maybe. Shards, like the ones warlocks used in incantations. Their frenzied spinning wasn't conscious, either. Patterned.

Predictable...

Lahkin watched the shifting colors, ebbing and flowing. Gaps appeared and then disappeared just as quickly. Lahkin counted, and when the time was just right he sprang.

He was almost too late. He felt a head-splitting pain as the hole closed on top of him, and he wriggled and squirmed until it stopped. Was he through? It was hard to think and not feel, as a spirit would.

Why...is it so hard this time?

There was no time to think, anyway. He let the world wash over him, reacting by instinct rather than cunning. He found Agar--and Kordrion too--just as the Mag'har threw the rogue from the cliff. Kordrion flipped in midair like a cat, but the fall was too far. The crack of bone echoed faintly, Kordrion's spirit fluttering wildly as its grip on mortal life weakened.

Stay here! Lahkin shouted out to it. Oh, stay here! Don't let go. I'll find someone--something--to help you. He didn't know if Kordrion would hear.

Someone else did. The talbuk was nearby, and while Lahkin couldn’t see it, he could feel it. Untouched by Agar’s fetters, it stood stock still like a fawn hiding in a grove. When Lahkin called out to it, it tossed its head, then froze again. It was just as afraid as he was.

You can’t! Lahkin shouted at it. You can’t just stand there! People need you! I need you!

You are me... The talbuk’s voice seemed faint.

Do something!

...and I am you.

Several things happened at once. Agar realized his escape from the spirit cage and flew at him from the side. The talbuk leapt towards him from the other. Lahkin collided with both, and slid...sideways, was the only way he could describe it. His hooves stood on solid ground, nostrils wide to snuff the night air.

Human. The scent was pungent, full of danger, but Lahkin remembered also his purpose for being here. He leapt down into the valley, crossing over to the base of the Halaa plateau. The human creature lay broken on the rocks there, limbs twisted at odd angles.

Darkness swooped overhead, like a bird of prey. The talbuk shivered. Lahkin fell to his knees quickly, reaching around and nudging the creature into place on his back. It clutched him with its strange claws, and he had to fight the instinct to get up and run then and there. The talbuk bleated in alarm.

Down came Agar’s shadow, up came the hooves. Two hits, then Lahkin was away.

The grass flew by on either side of him, tickling his knees. At first it was instinct, but then...

Lahkin drove harder, tossing his horned head. The winds, still fiercely whipping around Halaa, now answered to his call. It was like a dance, and the air seemed to chortle as he asked it to turn around and harry the orc.

The talbuk turned to the west, the wind now back at his heels, driving him on. The animal recoiled as the Broken village came into view, but Lahkin pressed forward anyway. Past the bridges, up to the top of the hill and the biggest of the dwellings, with a swish that the Broken barely seemed to notice.

The human had somehow managed to hold on. Lahkin kneeled again so the creature could slip off him and gently to the ground. As the human looked up at him, Lahkin’s conscious thought swum up to the surface and remembered what he wanted to tell it.

“Death-defying maneuvers, huh? Mine are better!”

*****

((Glad you're continuing it! It's a good read! :D))

(( Very well written! I'm enjoying it quite a bit. ))

((Thanks, guys! :)

Just to ward off confusion--this IS the same post I left off on, as I switched places with this scene and another. There's a new posting up above.))

The old troll shaman sat back against the flag post in the middle of Halaa, smoking his peacebloom thoughtfully. Dawn was just around the corner, and the garrison was tense. Reports had come back that Telaar was planning yet another attack on this day, and the Mag'har had called on the Horde to answer it.

Which was peculiar in and of itself. Usually the Mag'har paid little interest in the fighting between the Horde and the Alliance, thinking it childish while around them demons and dragons and worse tried to rip apart the land. Some of the Mag'har even counseled peace.

Peace. What a funny idea. The old troll chuckled. Everything was funny when he smoked.

That was partly why he was here. Reportedly, two of the Mag'har had gone farther than just counseling peace, and had taken steps to create it.

The troll shook his head. How could they think Hellscream would not have noticed? It was funny, in a morbid sort of way, how the Warchief had reacted when he heard the news. Some of his peons were still deaf, and quite a few of his advisors didn't dare show their faces in public.

So what would happen to the two hapless Mag'har when they finally arrived in Orgrimmar? The troll just laughed, letting it escape to the sky along with a trail of peacebloom smoke.

*****

“So, we meet again.”

Dustwing slowly raised his head. Divyrr stood against the wall of Telaar’s town hall, head cocked and smirking.

“We do indeed,” Dustwing answered coolly. He set his fletching aside and stood up.

The night elves stared at each other, eyes narrowed, and suddenly Divyrr laughed. The bigger night elf detached from the wall to come over and pull Dustwing in a rough embrace.

“Ha ha ha! Good to see you, old man. Glad you’re still breathing, after all that.”

Dustwing laughed humorlessly and pushed Divyrr off him. “More than I would be if it hadn’t been for you, Blacktalon.”

Divyrr snorted, waving it off. “Just call me Divyrr, please. So what’s this assault you have planned? I thought you had sworn off civilization and war forever.”

Dustwing looked away. “I guess I was wrong.”

“So that’s it then? A frickin’ five year long absence, and now you’re back and causing bloody trouble again.”

Dustwing glared at him. “Bloody trouble that I see hasn’t failed to attract you.”

“Feh. You haven’t changed a bit. And damn it, here I was hoping.” Divyrr smirk widened. “Let me in on it, will you? It’s been far too quiet back at home. Not that you’d like to hear about that.”

“No,” said Dustwing. “Tell me.”

Divyrr seemed taken aback, but told him. The day passed by more quickly as Dustwing listened to stories of his nephew and the remains of his family, but rarely did he offer anything in return. He would never admit it to Divyrr, but even with the mantle of lieutenant again on his shoulders, the pain was too great to face.

With the surly warrior at his side, Dustwing moved like gnomish clockwork, carrying out tasks memorized from long years of warfare. His weapons and armor were cleaned and repaired, and his hippogriff sported a new coat of armor. After so many years of going around covered in road dust and mud, he practically shone.

“Looking like a right shiny-assed paladin, now. You should visit Delylaa like that. She’s not as bad as she used to be, but she still misses you like fel, you know.”

“No,” said Dustwing. “The Argent didn’t understand my choice, then, either. And nor would she.”

“So you’ll keep on letting your family think you’re dead but still fight on the behalf of another. Gorram it, I don’t know who’s messed up in the head more: you, or me for keeping your Light-damned secret.”

“Mm.”

Divyrr's armor needed decidedly less cleaning up, and by the time the sun rode low in the sky, the two night elves sat on the edge of Telaar. Divyrr's stories had worn themselves out, so now they sat in silence, facing the direction of the Halaa plateau.

The Pia Presidium and their allies began to arrive as evening fell in full. Divyrr kept his mouth shut, for which Dustwing was eternally grateful, as the lieutenant stood and greeted each soldier in turn. Narnicka and Genevra were there, too, the former looking particularly grim. A palpable anger surrounded Lahkin’s father like a cloud, and even Divyrr tread carefully around him, not wanting to trip the hidden switch to make that anger explode.

Narnicka would need it for the battle.

The scouts came back a candlemark after sundown. Sure enough, Agar’s call to arms had been answered. Each of the bridges was guarded with Horde mercenaries, the usual garrison reinforced with their healers and warriors. Drake- and wyvern-riders had been spotted in the air, on scouting runs of their own.

Dustwing relayed his plan to the Pia leaders, who relayed them in turn to their soldiers. Divyrr groused as the assault force slowly formed up. Finally, Dustwing sent the all clear down the line, and they were in the air.

“Just like old times,” called Divyrr from the back of his sleepy white gryphon. “Hundred gold says I kill more Horde than you, old man!”

Dustwing only smirked, and leaned close the head of his hippogriff, murmuring instructions. The attack force split into several groups as they came over the Southwind Cleft. Some of them flew for the wyvern outposts, others swooped down on Halaa from above. Divyrr led a contingent of soldiers for Garadar to make sure no forces would be incoming from that way.

Dustwing, on the other hand, had something else planned. “Croesan, the scouts said there’s a small group of Horde leaving Halaa and heading north. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I’m going to find out. Cover me, won’t you?”

The blind paladin agreed, and the two riders climbed high until even Oshu’gun was visible on the horizon. Dustwing drew his flight path far out from Halaa, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention.

“There they are,” he muttered, spotting the several figures moving along the road. “We’re outnumbered, so we’ll have to be careful they don’t spot us.”

Unfortunately, at least one already had.

“Croesan! Your left!”

The chunk of lava shot through the trees, a flock of native birds diving in all directions to avoid it. Croesan’s gryphon spun weirdly in place as it was hit, white feathers leaving a trail through the air as it began plummeting.

Dustwing’s hippogriff cawed in dismay, and Dustwing didn’t have to urge it on as it dived to catch the paladin. His weight combined with Croesan’s was just a little too much for the hippogriff to handle, and the ground flew up to meet them. Dustwing pulled his feet out of the stirrups, crouched and ready for the coming blow.

Flump! Dustwing leaped off the animal’s back just before it landed, bringing up his bow to catch the next spell. Croesan wasn’t moving. Dustwing took up a defensive stance over him, gritting his teeth as he faced his attackers. The hippogriff stumbled away.

“Not again…never again…”

Two of the Mag’har in the group barely seemed alert. The night elf put an arrow in one easily, then dodged to the side as a troll sent another lava burst winging his way. He was about to nock a second arrow when he paused, gaping.

A wild talbuk tore out of the bushes, charging right through the Horde. It caught the surprised troll shaman on its horns, throwing it off the road. As the still standing Mag’har raised a hand to touch it, the animal swung around to face Dustwing. He could see it quivering despite the distance between them.

Behind him, shouting and the multiplied clash of metal on metal heralded the beginning of the battle for Halaa. Croesan needed his help, but so would the attackers. There was no time to lose.

Dustwing shouted a prayer to Elune, and raised his bow.

*****

((Finally getting around to finishing this.))

A day passed, maybe more. The talbuk’s senses were strange, and it didn’t count the hours as Lahkin would have were he a human.

Was he still human? Sometimes it was hard to tell. He wasn’t a talbuk, and he wasn’t THE talbuk. He was just hitching a ride: his spirit joined with the other Lahkin’s—maybe it was the talbuk who was really the human.

Or an orc.

As they picked their way across the Nagrand plain, the other Lahkin whispered to him stories about his childhood, short though it was, and their shared family. How the orcs had come to Durotar, how Rymus had found his father Narnicka as an abandoned boy on the coast, and had taken him in despite the outrage of the other orcs. How their fathers had grown up together, trained together, fought together, and then eventually parted ways once Narnicka returned to his own people, bearing the lessons of his shaman upbringing.

And Cyrus…

Lahkin thought his uncle’s losses sad, almost, but the talbuk assured him that life and death was just another part of the cycle. You were born, you died, and your spirit returned to its home, with new purpose, new teachings.

“There’s more to knowledge than stuff learned from books,” the other Lahkin told him. “You live, you hurt a little—or a lot—and then you know. The spirits are always talking to you mortals. Raise your ears; you’ll hear them. They guide their loved ones. In my death, I now guide the Sagewind. And you.”

Put in those terms, it wasn’t so bad after all. And Lahkin wondered about Cyrus, about being a death knight, frozen in time without death, and how that was perhaps more abomination than anything his uncle had ever actually done.

Where was Cyrus now? Still in Northrend trying to break the cycle of death, with Dustwing filling him full of arrows?

“Sometime, you must go back to them.”

It was comforting, this world of grass and sun, and the ebb and flow of the spirits constantly washing over the talbuk’s senses. Lahkin’s worries were apart, distant, and he almost forgotten himself without them.

But even in the spirit world, things changed. The cycle pressed on. And while Lahkin could remain out of it for a little longer, here in the warm smell of earth and seeds, eventually he must return.

To the pain. Possibly to his death. The skies over Halaa were growing dark.

The talbuk body shivered as it turned to face the war-torn plateau, tawny coat flickering as if the muscles under his skin were shooing flies. It was a human thing to shiver in fear—a talbuk had more practical means of dealing with it—and Lahkin felt the connection between them begin to fray. Cold stone under his hands, the shivering of a solid building being struck by rains of fire above, shouting of war chants, expletives, and even his name…

Interposed on the scenery of Nagrand, he saw out of half-lidded eyes as Plinth was hustled out of the cell by Horde mercenaries. With the talbuk’s knowledge, their growled Orcish made sense. Hellscream. Treason. Penalty of death.

And he was too weak to get up to stop them.

No!

The talbuk reared and bugled, and Lahkin was pulled from the split-world into its. He did no good as he was in Halaa, weak and wounded, but out here with solid hooves underneath him…

Lahkin sprang away, thought and instinct merging into one impulse. The battle came up thick and dark ahead of him, shapes twisting in and out of the spirit world as Horde and Alliance fought and died and got up again. Pivoting his body like a dancer, the talbuk skirted the skirmishes. His goal lay away from the others, senses arrowing through the spririt world’s fog to find the two Mag’har.

A small knot of Horde surrounded Plinth and Ushand. They weren’t that far away from the battle, and the whole group swung sideways as something dived from the sky above them. The talbuk’s instincts screamed to drive the winged predator away from the herd; Lahkin redirected it, turning its ire to the “herd” itself. The talbuk’s body tensed and bunched as it lowered it horns and charged. At least one body deflected off its boney faceplate, landing heavily off the road. He circled back, ducking the horns again.

“Little Talbuk! Little Talbuk! Stay your wrath!”

The voice woke him up. Lahkin brought up his head, planting his hooves as another human-like shiver swept through his body. The predator had landed, and had become…two? No, no, it was a night elf leaping from the back of his hippogriff, his human half remembered. A night elf that was familiar!

Dustwing looked more furious than Lahkin ever remembered seeing him. He thought of a mother bear defending her cubs, but then again also, a cat playing with its quarry. The night elf’s hands worked mechanically smooth as they nocked and fired the bow, dropping Horde around him.

“Little Talbuk!”

The animal wheeled in place again, this time facing the wounded Mag’har. Ushand stumbled into him, grabbing one of the horns on the talbuk’s neck to steady himself. The earth shaman frowned into his eye.

“Now you understand,” the orc growled urgently low. “You have seen, and you’ve followed the legacy in your spirit. There must always be a shaman to channel the elements. The balance—”

The talbuk bugled again, tossing its head as it begged to charge another threat. Dustwing was coming closer. Ushand grabbed Lahkin’s horn and pulled the talbuk back with a gruff laugh. “How often you wish to catch things on your horns! Already the fire has chosen another… No, these tangles of deceit are not for you, Little Talbuk. Run free and run far. Bring the balance back to the Elements and both our peoples.”

Dustwing shouted, letting lose another arrow. Ushand groaned and staggered, in the same motion reaching forward to shove Lahkin away. “Don’t forget us, Lahkin. Light-wielder…orc-kin,” the Mag'har whispered, and collapsed.

The instincts won. Blinded by anger, the talbuk swept around and charged again. He saw Dustwing crouching in readiness, dagger in hand—he felt the impact, a sharp pain in the soft spot of his faceplate—

And suddenly he was back in the cell in Halaa, with Taelanas leaning over him and looking worried.

*****

He didn’t remember what got said or done. In a blur, more people pushed their way into the tiny cell room. Alarm calls were still blowing, orders were still being shouted. His mother, his father, Ulthryn—their faces were swept along in the sea of others. Someone tugged on him hard, and he smelled the tingly scent of portal magic. Then it was sunny, and bright, and smelled of apple trees rather than research equipment. He was somewhere in Stormwind.

Lahkin got hustled along. People asked questions, but he couldn’t hear them, let alone put together an answer. It hurt somewhere deep behind his eyes and heart, like someone had taken a knife and split him in two. He picked out a tabard he recognized and bobbled along after it like a child. Someone noticed. Someone stopped him long enough to stitch his wounds shut with Light magic, and another took him home.

Hours later, in the blessed solitude of his own room, Lahkin closed the curtains and blocked out the light with a pillow over his head.

In the silence, the confusion and the loss finally spilled over, and Lahkin began to cry.

*****

((One or two more installments waiting, but for now...raid. :P ))

It had been a few weeks. The wounds taken from the fighters were healing. Kordrion could stand unassisted now. The rogue was a little paler than he had been, though the pain had no effect on his impish smile. He and Lahkin had become fast friends. Everywhere one went, the other followed. And if one ignored the differing hair colors, they were hard to tell apart.

“Just a few inches shorter,” remarked Lahkin one day, patting Kordrion on the head. The rogue glared at him.

“Just a few points stupider,” Kordrion then replied, returning the gesture.

“Hey!”

Despite their shared grins, Lahkin didn’t feel the mirth. He was out of the danger finally, but the uneasy feelings lingered. Was this why Dustwing was so grumpy all the time? Lahkin wondered.

A month after the assault, Lahkin found himself back in Nagrand again, looking down on a familiar plateau. Dustwing stood beside him. The night elf had never really spoken about what had happened, though his mood swings from patient and wise to cranky and accusatory were more marked. It was like he was at once trying to shove Lahkin away and pull him in closer.

Lahkin just ignored it. He didn’t know what else to do, and he wasn’t sure he cared. He knew Dustwing had known nothing about the friendship formed between himself and the two Mag’har, but still he could blame him for their deaths.

It was easier that way. Easier…than blaming himself.

Or it had been.

“This is my fault,” Lahkin whispered, breaking the long-standing silence. Dustwing looked up at him, scowling.

“You did what you thought was right.”

“But it accomplished nothing. No peace. They only died. Because of me. Because I was an idiot.”

Lahkin flinched and closed his eyes as Dustwing gripped his shoulder firmly and turned him. He kept expecting Dustwing to give him a tongue lashing, so he was surprised when the night elf only continued pulling him along. When they didn’t stop, Lahkin opened his eyes. “Where are we going?”

Dustwing didn’t answer, leading him up out of the plains. Lahkin smelled it before he saw it. The harsh tang of felfire, but muted. There had been a Burning Legion outpost here long ago, but now, only the abandoned demon structures stood in the blackened landscape. Their twisted metal was dull in neglect, sagging, decayed.

Dustwing stopped and took his hand from Lahkin’s shoulder. He walked out into the wreckage gingerly, his feet stirring up greasy black dust with every footfall.

He knelt, and gestured Lahkin closer. The youth came forward reluctantly.

“We can never know what our actions will bring,” said Dustwing quietly. “The one who first invited the demons onto Draenor did so because he truly believed good would come of it. You can see the results in this place, and the many others like it still left on this world.”

Lahkin closed his eyes and sank to the ground. Dustwing reached over and grasped his hand emphatically, tugging it down into the dirt. Lahkin grimaced at the strange tingly feeling of the fel-tainted soil, and tried to pull away.

Dustwing held tight, and whispered. “But even the fiercest of fires cannot destroy that which is good.”

Lahkin opened his eyes as Dustwing continued to move his hands, brushing away the powdery char. Lahkin saw green. Not the sickly green of fel, but the pure clean green of a seedling plant.

Lahkin looked up, to see Dustwing watching him intently, a half-smile on his face.

Lahkin closed his eyes tight, placing his hands on either side of the plant as he continued to brush the debris from its roots. His vision blurred, and he bowed his head so Dustwing couldn’t see his face.

The old hunter didn’t speak as Lahkin cried a final time. He again didn’t speak when the human rose to his feet on his own, turning away. His face showed sorrow, but on top of that, thought, and his stance was straighter.

Taller. Stronger.

“You are a man, now,” said Dustwing softly, and Lahkin looked at him in surprise to see the old hunter teary-eyed.

On catching his expression, the night elf laughed in self-derision, getting to his feet and brushing the ash from his clothes. The dust plumed with no wind to carry it away, softly falling back onto the uncovered plant. The moment was broken.

But now Lahkin could smile. He knelt again, cleaning the leaves, packing the soil a little tighter around the plant’s roots so it wouldn’t wash away in the next rain. Dustwing’s smile grew.

“There will be more of them,” Dustwing said as he straightened, looking about. “Next spring, I wager this place will be covered over.”

“Maybe not that much,” replied Lahkin quietly. Dustwing looked at him. The human got to his feet for the last time, sweeping the landscape with his eyes.

Without a word, he walked out. Dustwing followed. Neither spoke as the pair returned to Telaar, and finally, to home.

There was much to think about.

((Great stuff - I really enjoyed following along on this story. Excellent job!))