World of Warcraft®

((The last writing challenge (link here: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/1764413386 was a moderate success in that it received several replies, and that was without advertising the thread's existence in any way, shape, or form. I said before that I'd post more of these threads weekly if I thought they would become successful, and I can certainly see that happening.))

((Let's make this edition twice as good as the last. Thanks to all the RPers so far that have posted their stories here on the forums, and I look forward to seeing what you all can come up with next!))

((So without further ado, I give you your subject: Redemption))

((Happy writing!))

I didn’t tell the druid why. I only told him that I’d know what was appropriate when I saw it. In the end, I chose the bush crowned with tiny white flowers. Its rich green leaves were drawn to several dangerous points like sharpened lances, with stems dotted bright red from plump berries filled with poison.

From here, I can see my bedroom window. A good place for a daily reminder.

I dig. I plant. While I sweat and bleed into this task (my arm barely brushed a few leaves and is already gouged – I hope Malfos doesn’t notice), I contemplate.

I … may even be praying.

Funny. I can remember that night very clearly in the Hall of Mysteries, where many of us gathered waiting for Mass to begin. Something about the room made the light burn bluish-purple, casting strange shadows in which I whispered things about you. And yet I barely remember you. I can't recall your orientation, nor your place in the stars, save you were the first and there were plans for more ...

I have knelt before false powers, I have culled the weak, I have insulted, injured and betrayed my friends. Through whatever twisted sense of humor Fate has, I have been forgiven for many of these things. In a rare moment, even offered a small measure of redemption.

But this …

I judged you not worthy of experiencing the world, even if through such an imperfect, weak and cursed form as this. I judged you as nothing better than a tool, a means to an end.

I tamp down the last few clumps of soil. As I stand up, the old scar reminds me of its presence, a white flare from hip to hip. I bleed some more into the earth, then drink the liquid from the small vial I've brought along - liquid bright red, just like the berries.

As the scratch marks fade away, I know that for something like this, there should never be - there can never be - redemption ...

The elven rider dismounted and led his weary horse to the shack. Like a little dead tower, it stood, decrepit and shambling, in a secluded patch of woods by the Thondroril river. And like the Plaguelands, it held only death.

But it wasn't cold, empty death. Draaeth had come to realize that death was not something to be afraid of, a dark-cloaked reaper waiting to snatch you from a lover's arms. Death was really just a doorway. In some ways he envied the young Forsaken girl who had taken up refuge with him.

Kidnapped, he reminded himself. You kidnapped her.

Details weren't important. Now she was safe, with him.

When he pushed open the hut door, he found her asleep. Draaeth started a fire - for him, of course, since she couldn't feel the warmth. There wasn't much she could feel, and that saddened him.

He pushed the blanket up to her chin and sat on the cot beside her, pushing away a lock of blonde hair. Even in undeath, her face held a certain innocence.

And this was how they lived. He would leave at dawn for the hunt - though now, he hunted zombies instead of game, most days. He would come back, they would talk or play a game, and then it would be his turn to sleep. She would watch; she was a good lookout, and she'd never failed to alert him when a stray spider-ghoul wandered upriver, or when a Nerubian scout happened by. The traps outside didn't take care of everything.

The girl wasn't the answer, but she was the best he could do. She took away the sting of loneliness, and she reminded him that mistakes weren't worth crying over. You just had to press on. This girl was a bandage for his old wounds. Of course, those wounds were the unhealable kind, much like her own blighted flesh.

He couldn't make up for that day, when the Scourge had descended on his home and killed every last living thing. He couldn't make up for the fact that something, some terrible thing inside him, had driven him away from his family. He told himself it had been for money, for more opportunities, a better life. But it didn't matter: he'd still lost the two people he loved most in all the world.

But he could help now, even if it was just to prolong the existence of this one Forsaken girl.

There wasn’t much to be said when it came to this man. He was young among the crowd and easily influenced by the firm voice of someone who seemed much more powerful than he felt he could ever be. He had fallen into this trap before and yet he never learned. Many would use his naive sense of self to their advantage and abuse the poor man, he was nothing but a pawn. The Twilight Cultists would use him to infiltrate his home town, swaying him with the incantations that flooded his head.

The man couldn’t help but blend so easily into town as he always had, he was used to that pit of loneliness that constantly sank into innermost portions of his gut. He had purpose! He had reason! He would show them the way, the way Cho’gall had paved ahead. As he set the devices among side streets and alley ways, he heard the voice of an angel. An unfamiliar paladin had brought together a mass in the streets and at her side a young priestess. The man’s deeds were sinister and it ate away at him, he knew there was something wrong with what he was doing. Regardless, he finished his task and moved back into the crowd, finding a spot beside a rather portly and heavily bearded man.

There was salvation, salvation in the words that this woman shared at the makeshift altar. Words of wisdom, hope, glory, victory over evil. He was captivated, completely and utterly entranced by the power that her biblical monologue held. Entranced and intrigued this lowly man would ask her for her forgiveness and beg for her salvation. Although these words were foreign, they flowed freely from his lips like the fresh cry of a newborn.

He repented there on his knees for quite some time, confessing his lack of morality, his need for guidance. This woman would lead him to a better self worth, purpose with divine means. He found redemption and he would later deliver it’s reckoning onto Hyjal where the Twilight had set up camp.


(Is it bad that I actually want to develop this now that I've written it? D: )

((No, Aiona, it's not. :P That's half the fun of this. Thanks to all the posters so far. Hopefully if I have time I'll be able to get my own story on here soon...))