World of Warcraft®

((I know this vastly out of the order of events, but it's from Cray's perspective so that actually *does* make sense. :P))

Cray's eyes fluttered open. He was on the back of a dragon... in Ironforge. How peculiar. The last thing he remembered was passing out in the Swamp of Sorrows. There was Erelyn -- reassuring him. He could feel blood was still coming from the wound in his head.

Apparently, he'd been rescued by a portal. Suni had come to the rescue, and apparently they had rescued Kordrion successfully. He couldn't recall any of that -- and why was he on the back of this dragon?

Oh, the dragon was Kordrion.

And apparently Cray was strapped to him because there was something wrong with him. Always the last to know, it seemed.... Cray closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip back into blissful unconsciousness. There was too much information to absorb in his wounded state.

He felt as though he'd been returned to the swamp. Reliving the battle...... or, perhaps, somehow, living it for the first time? Again? But now remembered... there was something standing amidst the Void Walkers, surrounded by Light.... he thought he recognized it for a moment... but that couldn't be....

He awoke in his own bed, slowly opening his eyes. He was in Hearthglen, he could tell. He felt his head.... a scar where the Void Walker had struck him but... it was healed? So quickly....

A mage-whisper echoed through his head -- Suni's voice -- wondering where he was. She hadn't seen him go through the portal. Well, that did make sense... since he didn't remember going through the portal. He thought back to the mage, "I'm in Hearthglen, what are you on about?"

It was then he remembered -- Gust! Where was his gryphon? Still in the Swamp of Sorrows? How had he escaped the battle? Was it... no, no, it was still impossible. He stormed into the Presidium tower, heading swiftly to the library. It was not by any means the largest or most useful collection of books in the world, but it was the closest collection at hand. When he returned to his office, he scrawled a not ordering the rest of the Guard to disturb him and began to pore over tomes for an answer. He closed his eyes... just for a minute...

Within moments, it seemed, there was a knock on the door. Irritated, Cray snapped that he was not to be disturbed. Whoever it was did not answer. Cray returned to the book he was looking over....

And moments later he found himself chained to a bed in the medical ward, being watched warily by Erelyn, Lahkin, and Kordrion.

This was probably the strangest day he'd ever had.

It had been a sleepless night, the elderly mage sitting in his small home on the outskirts of Stormwind. He'd spent the night pouring over what tomes he'd been able to bring with him from his previous residence, and what he could aquire from the tower in the Mage Quarter.

Now, he sat at his desk simply writing in a journal.

Not for the first time in my life, I now find myself perplexed... and once again, it is matters of Time that are the source of my puzzlement.

A man of the Pia Presidium, the Holy Guard, named Cray Auchtin, suffers from a malady the likes of which I've never before seen in all my many, long years. Indeed, the best description I can think of it would be the same offered by those more familiar with him than I.

To the naked eye, Cray will occasionally (or rather, somewhat frequently) seem to... flicker in and out of existence. Sometimes his physical appearance will seem unaltered, other times he may revert to a young child. I've not seen him take on an elder state, but I wouldn't be surprised if he either has, or doesn't once before this affliction is remedied.

My initial thoughts drew me to investigate him, search for traces of any spellwork that could cause such a temporal affliction. I performed such a search (incidentally, at the time Cray appeared to be no more than 9 years of age), but discovered nothing but a trace of Light-based magic. Knowing the man is, in current days, a Paladin, I thought nothing of it and moved on.

My thoughts drifted to other possible sources of the mysterious ailment, to which Cray himself seems oblivious to due to its nature, much as many spirits and ghosts trapped in the mortal realm are unaware of the truth of their surroundings.

I myself have a great deal of experience in matters of Time, and the Bronze Dragonflight. Could there possibly be an anomoly in the timeways that could have this effect? I've heard of the Bronze's recent recall of all their number - one would be hard-pressed to find any of the Bronze flight outside the Caverns of Time, or perhaps Wyrmrest. Such an act could be a telltale sign of some Temporal crisis, especially given recent developments in their activity in relation to the battle against the Aspect of Death.

And yet, that doesn't quite seem right. If there was such a crisis, surely there would be more obvious signs? Surely it would do more than this. Why would it affect Cray so... and more importantly, why would it affect only Cray?

No, I believe there to be something more at work here. Something spoken by Kordrion has given rise to lines of thought I plan to pursue... Kordrion spoke of Cray being engulfed in some sort of trap, I believe he said, one that caused Cray to, at the time, vanish in a flash of bright Light. Could it be that the trace of Light magic I sensed was not, in fact, a sign of his affinity as a Paladin, but in fact some malevolent force?

Could such Light-based magic somehow be the source of Cray's Temporal displacement? I've never heard of such use of the Light, or such a source of time-based magic before, but with Magic there are ever new discoveries to be made, and I plan to investigate this to the fullest. There is something at work here, and I plan to uncover what it is.

Her thoughts raced as she tried to gather them about her at their Lakeshire home. Genevra paced incessantly. It was a horrible habit and one that had arisen only recently. She tried to make sense of the things that she saw the night prior within Cray's mind but failed. Something was lacking, for lack of a better word.

There was still something just on the other side of her realm of understanding. She smiled down at her daughter Daisy who only wanted to play, "Mommy's working just now." She hefted the child into her lap as she poured through the books and notes that had amassed as a result of the prior night's encounter.

"Something's holding him back." She said aloud, talking to Daisy, merely because she was there. The toddler babbled up at her obviously unaware. "But the what and the why I could not fully glimpse. It's a risk to try again, but a risk that is warranted."

Cray scampered, with haste he had seldom use in his entire life, away from the barn. Dad was looking for him... and he was angry. Very angry. Perhaps, if the little boy could find some way to blend in with the grown ups.... then, just maybe, he could avoid the fate he knew was drawing ever closer.

He made his way to a tavern in the city of Lordaeron. That was where the grown ups always could be found, doing grown up things and drinking grown up drinks. Papa'd never find him there. He reached the tavern and quickly found an empty chair as far away from the door as he could manage.

This tavern didn't look like it had a minute ago. Cray stuck his thumb in his mouth nervously. No, he corrected himself, grown ups didn't do that. He sat up straight and drummed his stubby little fingers on the table. He was only seven years old, but surely that was old enough to fit in.

And there was a dwarf lady here! He could be a dwarf, if anyone asked. He just needed a drink. Of.... what was it... mead? Mead!

But they did ask, and he came clean immediately. He'd never been one for lying. He'd tried many times, but the truth was always beaten out of him eventually.

The nice man in the robe promised to hide him, if he sat still for a moment. That seemed far better than pretending to be a grown up, after all. And so, he tried. Sitting still was really hard work. Especially because it felt like something was wiggling around inside his head. Curiosity got the better of the little boy, though, and despite trying to sit still he had to look around and ask questions -- the request to stay still was soon completely forgotten and Cray had risen to his feet.

Then.... something wiggled to the surface of his mind. A memory that had yet to pass.

"It's an order, you have to obey it." He remembered his Dad had explained to him about orders, but this wasn't that conversation. This one was near some city in the north, but not one the little Cray recognized.

Cray's answer was obscured -- likely by the little boy's confusion over what was happening -- but it was clear it wasn't what his Papa had wanted to hear. His face twisted and then he spat. The wetness collided with Cray's cheek, and the young warrior's gauntleted hand reached up to wipe it away.

Blinking slowly, the seven year old forgot the strange remembrance almost instantly. Yet he was overcome with a desire to do something he'd never done before. He wanted desperately to play a game, like he'd seen the children in the city do. The dwarf didn't know any either, and the strange tentacled men weren't any fun either.

Cray clambered up onto the chair in the tavern. For a moment he felt a feeling of deja vu, but it passed. All he could recall was arriving at the pub and finding this seat. His father would never look for him here -- not in such an grown up place. He'd have to get something to drink to fit in, though -- he didn't look like any of the toothless drunks that filled the other occupied seats in the inn. He took out a gold coin he'd found and held it up to the barmaid as she passed by.

"What'll it be, lad?" she asked.

Cray wracked his brain for the right word. "Mead?" The barmaid laughed but did not argue. The coin was good, after all.

((Apparently I forgot to chatlog our little adventure in the Culling of Stratholme, even though I SWEAR I told it to.... so this is my best rememberance of what went down!))

Few of the gathered military forces dared to watch the transpiring argument. Warren Auchtin and his son faced each other, but the tension between the two could be felt amongst the whole company. The conversation had started as whispers, but as it grew more heated the two were practically yelling by now.

"The prince has gathered an army outside of the city, what do you think is going to happen? I will have no part in this," Cray snapped.

Warren countered, "You will do your duty."

"I'm not doing this," Cray retorted, "I will not slaughter innocent people to save this land."

"It's an order, you have to obey it." Warren was shocked by his son's refusal -- since Cray was old enough to hold a dagger, he'd trained the boy for war, trained him to be a perfect soldier.

"I don't," Cray replied cooly, "And I'm done doing as you say."

Warren's face twisted back -- enraged. Unable to think of a response, he simply spat at Cray's face. His son turned on his heel and stormed away, wiping the spittle off his face with his gauntlet.

Warren lined up with the other soldiers. "It appears we'll be one short for this battle," he muttered.

...and then the truth of the thing began to unfold.

Warren watched in horror as Uther the Lightbringer and Jaina Proudmoore abandoned Prince Arthas, and yet the Prince continued in his quest.

Cray had been right.

And it was too late to do anything to stop it. And yet... he had to try! Warren pursued Arthas and his team into Stratholme, determined to do something. If he could save anyone, he had to. He owed it to his son, who would no doubt have leapt to action to prevent this terrible injustice. Had he not been driven away.

And so, when the attacks began, Warren began to try to get to the civilians who had not transformed into undead abominations before the soldiers did. It was a race against time was he sure he would lose, but if he could save even one innocent life...

He reached one terrified woman -- grabbing her arm and shouting at her to find a way out of the city. Moments later, though, he found he was the terrified one. Even as he released her arm, she changed into a hideous ghoul of a creature. Warren reached for his sword, but not quickly enough, the monster slashed at him. He dodged, but not fast enough -- the swipe of her claws pierced his armor and his flesh. The sword in his hand flashed out, taking off the ghoul's head.

Warren stared at his wound for what seemed an eternity as the battle waged around him. Realizing that this wound would be the death of him -- and that he might arise as one of these soulless zombies -- should terrify him more.

And yet all he could think of was his son.

I'm sorry I missed this. It sounds like it was a lot of fun.

Gen

The wet spittle from his father's mouth landed on Cray's face with an unnatural heaviness and a cruel heat -- like the man spewed molten iron from his mouth. In truth, it was simple saliva -- Cray knew the weight was far more in the act that carried it and not in the fluid itself.

He shook his head and turned. "I'll never forgive you," Cray thought -- the words, unsaid, searing into his mind. In that moment, he knew they were true. Too much had passed -- too many missed moments, too much anger built up.

After he had left his father, he made haste to the nearest tavern. No one could drive him to drink like dear old pops.

He was about halfway into his third or so flagon of mead when the soldiers arrived.

"Are you Cray Auchtin?"

"Depends," Cray slurred, "On what you want." He was fully expecting some kind of reprimand for deserting. Or worse.

"I have a letter," the woman who had spoken before said, "You should read it immediately."

This was rich. A letter of discharge, hand delivered. Why not simply have the messengers say the words? She extended a folded piece of paper in her hand. Cray took it, wordlessly, and unfolded it.

"To my son..."

With a scowl, Cray folded the letter once again. "I'm not interested in anything he has to say."

"You really need to read it," a robed man who had arrived with the female soldier piped up.

With a glare and a sneer, the drunken warrior refused again. After this conversation proceeded without much progress, Cray finally passed the letter back to the woman. "If you ever find me again," he informed her stiffly, "Then maybe I will read it."

The tavern spoiled, he strode towards the door.

"Cray," the robed man said, "You should know that Uther the Lightbringer and Jaina Proudmoore did not join Prince Arthas."

Cray's eyes narrowed suspiciously for a moment, but then he nodded. "Thank you," he replied. That meant there was still a force he could join. He could find a purpose and a direction without his father's orders... he had to.

Erelyn held out the folded piece of paper.

Cray knew things were a bit off. They'd explained -- sort of -- this... flickering through time he was apparently doing. He hadn't felt it but it explained the jumps -- like his sudden presence in Ironforge -- and lapses of memory. If he understood what was going on.

But that didn't explain the paper. How had Erelyn gotten it? It looked virtually untouched, not like the crumpled letter he'd lost the day the Archbishop found him on the steps of the Cathedral. Like the very first time he'd seen the letter. He didn't need to unfold it to know what it was -- and yet he did. A part of him prayed that it was something else, that he was somehow mistaken.

But for something so nondescript it was very distinct in his memory. He'd know it anywhere. And he was right.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

And suddenly he felt himself yanked. He supposed he must be flickering again -- though why he could feel it now was a mystery. Much like everything else that was going on.

There he was, sitting beside Genevra beneath the Cathedral in Stormwind. Holding the letter. And a crystal he had not been holding before. "Where's Eri?" he asked. He still wanted to know where she'd obtained the letter from.

Genevra did not know -- but she was also not prepared to let Cray go in search for her. She had a plan to stop this flickering. Apparently the situation had gone on for long enough to alarm, well, everyone. And long enough that Genevra could cook up some kind of temporary fix. She talked him through the process a bit before they began -- and then, almost before Cray could process the information -- she started.

It was fast -- or seemed fast. Time was a funny thing, as Cray was quickly learning. She focused on the crystal in his hand. So did he. And then a bright flash of light -- whether it was visible to anyone else or just existed in Cray's mind he couldn't say.

"I will never forgive you." The words echoed in his brain as they had so many years ago.

Another flash. And then.... a pulsing, head-splitting migraine.

Genevra seemed pleased with the success. Apparently, she'd managed to freeze the time rift in his head. Fantastic.

His eyes fell to the letter, now dropped on the table. He was going to have to deal with the headache before he dealt with that.

It had been a week or more of the unending headache. Healing magic helped dull the pain, as did the concoction Kordrion had provided. But the pounding never ceased. Perhaps it never would. Cray was merely learning to function despite it.

The letter remained folded atop Cray's desk in the Presidium office in Stormwind. Almost ceremonially placed, dead center on the surface. It had not been touched at all since it had been placed there.

Cray found himself sitting at his desk staring at it more often than he cared to admit. It certainly didn't belong in Stormwind. It belonged in his quarters at Hearthglen... he frowned and picked up the letter, thinking to transport it. Almost absently, he unfolded it -- perhaps to remind himself that it was, in fact, that note from so many years ago... and, oh, it most certainly was.

"To my son, Cray,

I write to you now, with my last moments, because you were right. Prince Arthas has committed an atrocity against the city of Stratholme.

You have been right so often. Life has been unkind to you, and yet you carry yourself so proudly and so self-assured. I know not where you have learned to be like this -- you did not learn it from my training. It is as though your mother lives in you.

It is my greatest regret that you never knew her. I had always hoped that she had survived the First War and that you might one day meet her, but alas. Hope is not always so. The love we shared held a greatness, a trueness, that one often only hears about in legend. But, when the Orcs came, though, it came between protecting her and protecting you. I chose you. As I always have. It is my duty as a father.

One day, I hope you might know what I speak of -- fatherhood. And love. I hope you will experience the things as I have, and know where I have come from. Both are terrible and exhilarating, with no training or guides to tell you if you are failing or if you will emerge the victor.

I am afraid I am not the victor today. But I did try. I tried to stop this but it is far too late to stop this wheel from turning.

Do not forget what you have learned from me, Cray. Not the lessons I meant to teach, but the ones you have learned. For I am gone and have nothing left to give you."

A single tear threatened to leak from Cray's normally stoic eyes. Somehow he saw this letter with a new light. It had always seemed to be excuses before. Excuses for a wasted childhood, for abuses Cray trembled to think of even to this day. Blaming life itself for what the man had done. It represented everything Cray had despised in the man -- and in his own life. So much of his father was burned into Cray; for Warren was the forge, and Cray the blade that had been forged.

But now.... it seemed like so much more. An apology from a man who did not know how. A humble admission of weakness from a man who prided his strength above all else. A lonely, broken man who had been wholly unequipped for his own life, let alone the life of a child. A man who had once had everything he'd desired, and thought he'd lost it all. When he said he'd tried to stop this, Cray realized, his father was not referring to Prince Arthas at Stratholme. He'd meant... himself. He was blaming himself.

It was the one thing he'd needed from his father that thought he'd never have. The man was not a figure to be angry with... nor was a he a figure to be pitied. He was not a figure at all. He was a mortal, perhaps more imperfect than most, but as mortal as any other. "I forgive you," Cray breathed quietly under his breath.

Without warning, Cray beheld a vision -- memories flooding all at once. The bad... and the long-forgotten good. A history of his own life as he had never before seen it. And then, two blue hands -- belonging to a Draenei, Cray was sure of it -- clasped together before his sight.

When he came to, he was atop Gust; the gryphon was landing at Hearthglen, and there was no pain in his head. The rift must have sealed, somehow.

After dismounting, Cray entered the Presidium tower and headed towards his quarters. He passed Faithe in the halls, and stopped to see how she was doing.

"I'm fine," she assured him in her soft voice -- a well-rehearsed fib to alleviate the oppressive sympathy of everyone around her, Cray was certain. "How are you?"

Cray couldn't help it. He beamed at her. "I'm actually really good." She smiled meekly back at him and kept on her way down the hall, as if unnerved by the sudden shift in Cray's mood.

Faithe walked into the new officer's office where Gentyl was putting things in the new desk she had ordered from Darnassus. She looked around the room and frowned in confusion. "What is this?"

"New officers' office. The Razortalons took over the mage tower. I rescued some of my belongings and some of the books, but I need to hurry and put these up and get the rest."

"I see." She didn't offer to help, nor did Gentyl expect her to. She wasn't taking any chances this was some plot to get her back to Meshqa. "I just saw Cray."

"Did you? How is he?"

"He looked jubilant and he wasn't rubbing his head. I think he may be feeling better."

Gentyl set the inkwell on the corner of the desk and sat back. "That would be incredible news indeed. I'll go look in on him in a minute."

She opened the lower left hand drawer, almost expecting to see Iecia sleeping there. "Iecia! What if she's in the old desk?"

Gentyl darted out of the tower and across the compound toward the mage tower. She highly doubted the Razortalons would understand a sleeping gnome in a desk drawer.

((Just got caught up on this, but this was great stuff!))