(( This story was originally published here on the Sisters of Elune forum August 5, 2009. I wanted to attempt to write the newly introduced achievements system into the universe, and in doing so created one of my favorite threads. ))
"The Shield Book" ((Story))
“Pardon me, madam: is this the Shield Book I keep hearing so much about?”
The gnome looked up at Ambrose. “You mean you don't have one yet? I think you're the last person on Azeroth to get one!” She chuckled kindly.
The book had been one of those instant successes, racing to the top of the Stormwind Herald bestseller list and knocking off that torrid, tell-all biography of Jaina Proudmoore. As far as anyone could tell it didn't have a title and nobody had taken credit as its author. Booksellers claimed that crates of the Shield Book, as it came to be known, had just magically appeared in their storerooms one night and once the first copies made it out into the wild no shop could keep it on their shelves.
Colquitt turned the book over in his hands, watching the light sparkle off the shining yellow and white crest on its cover. “How much do they go for nowadays?” he asked.
“Same as they always have: six, ninety-five.”
The mage contemplated a moment. “Would you take five gold for it?”
“Not on your life,” said the gnome shaking her head. “I've got no say in it, anyway. See, the crate the things come in is labeled: a six in gold paint, a ninety-five in silver paint. I heard once about a dwarf who tried to sell them for less. Had an amazing day, especially once word got out.” The woman leaned in close. “But now he's the only one I know who doesn't get a new shipment every night. Cut off his rack to spite his pinion, if you ask me.”
Ambrose thought a moment more, shrugged, and pulled seven golden coins from his coinpurse. The merchant opened her strongbox and picked up a small stack of pre-counted silver coins to give to the mage. Colquitt took them, thanking the gnome, and dropped them into the slot on the back of a small mechanical cat stamped “Breanni Fund” that was sitting on the counter. The cat emitted a sound not unlike a meow and its whiskers twitched back and forth in a very unnatural regular rhythm.
The gnome looked up at Ambrose. “You mean you don't have one yet? I think you're the last person on Azeroth to get one!” She chuckled kindly.
The book had been one of those instant successes, racing to the top of the Stormwind Herald bestseller list and knocking off that torrid, tell-all biography of Jaina Proudmoore. As far as anyone could tell it didn't have a title and nobody had taken credit as its author. Booksellers claimed that crates of the Shield Book, as it came to be known, had just magically appeared in their storerooms one night and once the first copies made it out into the wild no shop could keep it on their shelves.
Colquitt turned the book over in his hands, watching the light sparkle off the shining yellow and white crest on its cover. “How much do they go for nowadays?” he asked.
“Same as they always have: six, ninety-five.”
The mage contemplated a moment. “Would you take five gold for it?”
“Not on your life,” said the gnome shaking her head. “I've got no say in it, anyway. See, the crate the things come in is labeled: a six in gold paint, a ninety-five in silver paint. I heard once about a dwarf who tried to sell them for less. Had an amazing day, especially once word got out.” The woman leaned in close. “But now he's the only one I know who doesn't get a new shipment every night. Cut off his rack to spite his pinion, if you ask me.”
Ambrose thought a moment more, shrugged, and pulled seven golden coins from his coinpurse. The merchant opened her strongbox and picked up a small stack of pre-counted silver coins to give to the mage. Colquitt took them, thanking the gnome, and dropped them into the slot on the back of a small mechanical cat stamped “Breanni Fund” that was sitting on the counter. The cat emitted a sound not unlike a meow and its whiskers twitched back and forth in a very unnatural regular rhythm.
Thanking the merchant, Ambrose ambled casually toward the fountain courtyard in the center of Dalaran. The young man found an empty bench across from a pair of trolls to whom he gave a half-hearted smile before turning his attention to the book. Casually flipping through the pages his eyes caught some of the more amusing legends. “Going Down,” for instance, was one of the first items in the book he heard about when he spotted a flyer in Shattrath City some months back. It seems people were organizing parties to jump off the Scryers' Tier together. Colquitt chuckled, imagining the consternation of the Magistrix at such displays of frivolity.
Opening the book to its title page Ambrose saw the outline of a human hand. A small explanatory icon in the corner showed a featureless humanoid placing his hand onto the page, so the mage laid the book open in his lap and followed suit. The paper jumped up to contact his palm like a pair of magnets brought close together. A faint purple glow emanated from the page which, Colquitt discovered, adhered tightly to his hand. Just as panic started to set in the energy receded and the paper fell gently back to the open surface of the book.
The mage swallowed, glancing around to see if anyone in the courtyard had taken notice. The trolls seemed to be engrossed in one another, and for the first time Ambrose noticed their bare feet touching. Turning his attention away from Horde mating rituals back to the book, Colquitt gingerly turned the page by one corner, careful to avoid the outline. The next page of the book showed the featureless example figure tearing the handprint from the tome. Eager to comply the young man ripped the page out of the book, tossed it gently into the air and incinerated it with a twitch of his fingers. He turned to the next page with a smirk of satisfaction that instantly changed to a look of curious wonder
This book property of AMBROSE COLQUITT
“How in the devil…?” Each leaf of the book left the mage's mouth gaping wider. It knew he had achieved eightieth circle. It knew he was an Exalted Brother of the Kirin Tor. It knew of his less than illustrious tour of duty in Wintergrasp. For fel's sake it knew what the Greatfather had left for him under the Winter Veil tree! Ambrose stared at the book half fascinated and half terrified.
How does it know? And how many of my secrets does it know?
The young man slammed the book shut with a loud pop that echoed around the courtyard and managed to even get the attention of the trolls. He thrust the book into his backpack and stood before he realized he didn't know what to do next. Certainly someone already had considered the risks, right? People who were smarter than Ambrose Colquitt had already examined the situation and had obviously determined there was no danger. He was yet again worried over nothing.
If you've learned anything in your travels, it's that half the world's problems would be solved if people simply talked to one another.
Shouldering his pack Ambrose marched quickly toward the Silver Enclave and the portal to Stormwind.
Opening the book to its title page Ambrose saw the outline of a human hand. A small explanatory icon in the corner showed a featureless humanoid placing his hand onto the page, so the mage laid the book open in his lap and followed suit. The paper jumped up to contact his palm like a pair of magnets brought close together. A faint purple glow emanated from the page which, Colquitt discovered, adhered tightly to his hand. Just as panic started to set in the energy receded and the paper fell gently back to the open surface of the book.
The mage swallowed, glancing around to see if anyone in the courtyard had taken notice. The trolls seemed to be engrossed in one another, and for the first time Ambrose noticed their bare feet touching. Turning his attention away from Horde mating rituals back to the book, Colquitt gingerly turned the page by one corner, careful to avoid the outline. The next page of the book showed the featureless example figure tearing the handprint from the tome. Eager to comply the young man ripped the page out of the book, tossed it gently into the air and incinerated it with a twitch of his fingers. He turned to the next page with a smirk of satisfaction that instantly changed to a look of curious wonder
This book property of AMBROSE COLQUITT
“How in the devil…?” Each leaf of the book left the mage's mouth gaping wider. It knew he had achieved eightieth circle. It knew he was an Exalted Brother of the Kirin Tor. It knew of his less than illustrious tour of duty in Wintergrasp. For fel's sake it knew what the Greatfather had left for him under the Winter Veil tree! Ambrose stared at the book half fascinated and half terrified.
How does it know? And how many of my secrets does it know?
The young man slammed the book shut with a loud pop that echoed around the courtyard and managed to even get the attention of the trolls. He thrust the book into his backpack and stood before he realized he didn't know what to do next. Certainly someone already had considered the risks, right? People who were smarter than Ambrose Colquitt had already examined the situation and had obviously determined there was no danger. He was yet again worried over nothing.
If you've learned anything in your travels, it's that half the world's problems would be solved if people simply talked to one another.
Shouldering his pack Ambrose marched quickly toward the Silver Enclave and the portal to Stormwind.
Colquitt sat in a high-backed leather chair in a lavishly appointed waiting room. Bright sunlight streamed through a pair of paned glass windows, and a slight breeze fluttered a pair of blue and yellow pennants atop a nearby tower. The mage sipped at a small glass of brandy he’d poured from a crystal decanter on a gleaming silver tray. The entire effect, in fact, was so relaxing that Ambrose had just started to nod off when the door opened.
“Mr. Colquitt, I am Baronet Axson Wishock. I am sorry for the wait.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all,” replied the mage while stifling a yawn. “I greatly appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
“Certainly. When a Champion of Stormwind needs an audience, we make time.” The tall thin man accepted Ambrose’s hand in greeting. “And again, my apologies, but this meeting will need to be mobile. Won’t you walk with me?”
The mage nodded, taking one more sip of brandy before setting down his glass and picking up his copy of the Shield Book. Ambrose’s host smiled broadly when he spotted the cover.
“My son and I just completed an aerial survey of Stranglethorn this past weekend.” Wishock placed his hand on the mage’s shoulder, guiding him into the tower’s circular stairwell before leading him downward. “You know, that book has been a lightsend for us parents. My son, well, like most teenagers he gets into his fair share of trouble. Things were getting worse, though. He was getting caught up with the wrong kind….” He paused, turned, and looked up at Ambrose with a sincere smile. “Then the Shield Book came along. It gave us something in common. Now his grades are picking up and he really has a sense of ability, of accomplishment.” The thin man shook his head as he continued their descent. “Listen to me, going on. I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to talk about books. How can I be of service to you, Mr. Colquitt?”
“Well, I hate to say it, but this book is precisely what I’ve come to discuss with you; specifically the security risk it may or may not pose.”
The baronet wheeled around with the practiced and disarming expression of a consummate politician. “Security risk? Mr. Colquitt, what danger could there possibly be in a simple book?”
“Believe me, there is much more danger that you might believe, and let’s be honest: this is no simple book.”
Wishock’s smile eased as they emerged from the tower into a small flagstone quad. “What, specifically, are your concerns then?”
“I must confess that I have no specific concerns as of yet. I only purchased my copy earlier today. There is some form of magic at work,” Ambrose said, turning the book over in his hand as if examining it. “It’s able to determine our histories, our triumphs… what else can it divine? What secrets? And, most importantly, to whom can it communicate them?”
The thin man said nothing for a long moment as they walked, his black polished shoes clicking their way across the courtyard. “If there truly is a threat, Champion, then I charge you to root it out. You may avail yourself of the full faith and credit of this office to do so.” He retrieved a small card from an interior pocket of his jacket. “Take this to my clerk on the fourth floor of the southeastern tower. He will emboss my signet for you.”
With a surprised expression Ambrose accepted the card. “I… thank you, thank you very much. In the meantime, however, the books-“
“Shall stay as they are,” interrupted the baronet. “These books are wonders for morale here on the home front, Mr. Colquitt. I will recommend no action without further evidence.”
The mage nodded. “I understand, and let me be the first to say I hope I’m wrong about all this.”
The pair reached a large, gilded door that led to an interior area of the palace. Two burly guards in lion’s head regalia and with polearmed axes stood to either side. The politician stopped and offered his hand. “I hope you’re wrong as well, Mr. Colquitt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my next appointment.”
Ambrose shook hands heartily and held the card up. “Of course, of course. Again, my thanks. I won’t let Stormwind down.”
Wishock said his goodbyes and passed through the golden door. Once it closed he summoned a page from an anteroom. “I need ten minutes of Lord Shadowmore’s time today.” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “See to it and return to find me in the Malachite Room.” The page swallowed, nodded, and took off running down the hall.
“Mr. Colquitt, I am Baronet Axson Wishock. I am sorry for the wait.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all,” replied the mage while stifling a yawn. “I greatly appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
“Certainly. When a Champion of Stormwind needs an audience, we make time.” The tall thin man accepted Ambrose’s hand in greeting. “And again, my apologies, but this meeting will need to be mobile. Won’t you walk with me?”
The mage nodded, taking one more sip of brandy before setting down his glass and picking up his copy of the Shield Book. Ambrose’s host smiled broadly when he spotted the cover.
“My son and I just completed an aerial survey of Stranglethorn this past weekend.” Wishock placed his hand on the mage’s shoulder, guiding him into the tower’s circular stairwell before leading him downward. “You know, that book has been a lightsend for us parents. My son, well, like most teenagers he gets into his fair share of trouble. Things were getting worse, though. He was getting caught up with the wrong kind….” He paused, turned, and looked up at Ambrose with a sincere smile. “Then the Shield Book came along. It gave us something in common. Now his grades are picking up and he really has a sense of ability, of accomplishment.” The thin man shook his head as he continued their descent. “Listen to me, going on. I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to talk about books. How can I be of service to you, Mr. Colquitt?”
“Well, I hate to say it, but this book is precisely what I’ve come to discuss with you; specifically the security risk it may or may not pose.”
The baronet wheeled around with the practiced and disarming expression of a consummate politician. “Security risk? Mr. Colquitt, what danger could there possibly be in a simple book?”
“Believe me, there is much more danger that you might believe, and let’s be honest: this is no simple book.”
Wishock’s smile eased as they emerged from the tower into a small flagstone quad. “What, specifically, are your concerns then?”
“I must confess that I have no specific concerns as of yet. I only purchased my copy earlier today. There is some form of magic at work,” Ambrose said, turning the book over in his hand as if examining it. “It’s able to determine our histories, our triumphs… what else can it divine? What secrets? And, most importantly, to whom can it communicate them?”
The thin man said nothing for a long moment as they walked, his black polished shoes clicking their way across the courtyard. “If there truly is a threat, Champion, then I charge you to root it out. You may avail yourself of the full faith and credit of this office to do so.” He retrieved a small card from an interior pocket of his jacket. “Take this to my clerk on the fourth floor of the southeastern tower. He will emboss my signet for you.”
With a surprised expression Ambrose accepted the card. “I… thank you, thank you very much. In the meantime, however, the books-“
“Shall stay as they are,” interrupted the baronet. “These books are wonders for morale here on the home front, Mr. Colquitt. I will recommend no action without further evidence.”
The mage nodded. “I understand, and let me be the first to say I hope I’m wrong about all this.”
The pair reached a large, gilded door that led to an interior area of the palace. Two burly guards in lion’s head regalia and with polearmed axes stood to either side. The politician stopped and offered his hand. “I hope you’re wrong as well, Mr. Colquitt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my next appointment.”
Ambrose shook hands heartily and held the card up. “Of course, of course. Again, my thanks. I won’t let Stormwind down.”
Wishock said his goodbyes and passed through the golden door. Once it closed he summoned a page from an anteroom. “I need ten minutes of Lord Shadowmore’s time today.” The boy’s eyes grew wide. “See to it and return to find me in the Malachite Room.” The page swallowed, nodded, and took off running down the hall.
The many-faceted cobalt blue lenses of the goggles lent Ambrose a decidedly insectoid appearance that turned more than a couple of heads as travelers made their way between Stormwind and Goldshire. He pulled the humming contraption off his face with two small *pops!* and rested them against his forehead. Nozz had assured him that the goggles were simple enough for even a human to use and should be able to detect most traces of arcane energy. In fact, the mage had practically blinded himself when checking them out by conjuring a simple loaf of mana bread. All he needed now was a proper test subject.
Colquitt spotted his target wandering aimlessly in a small pasture just off the main road. She stood, contentedly chewing on her lunch and gazing into the woods beyond. “Yes, yes, perfect!” said the mage as he flipped through the pages of the Shield Book looking for the right– ah! There it was: "To All the Squirrels I’ve Loved Before." Ambrose laid the book open atop a fencepost and placed a small rock in the crease to keep the correct page open. He lowered the goggles over his eyes and took a couple of steps backward before focusing again on the target of his little experiment.
“I… *ahem*… I lv ymm,” he mumbled under his breath. There was no indication of anything from the book. Perhaps he’d done it wrong.
“I… I love you,” Ambrose whispered. Still there was no reaction from the book, though the test subject lazily turned her head toward the young man with the odd glasses.
Colquitt sighed, resigned to his fate. “I love you!” he cried, voice echoing through the treetops. The ewe cocked her head before bolting away from her blushing suitor.
“Creep,” said a voice from behind Ambrose as an elderly gentleman passed by on his way to Stormwind. The mage started to object but his attention was grabbed by a plume of energy that erupted from the Shield Book. Through the enchanted goggles the arcane essence curled up from the page like the slender ribbon of smoke from a burning stick of incense. This smoke, however, began to gather into a hazy sphere about two feet above the open book. The ball grew steadily, reaching the size of a g!##@fruit before shooting off to the north.
The ball traveled quickly, though Ambrose was able to barely keep up with the benefit of a couple of well-timed blink spells. There could be no doubt: the magic was heading for Stormwind, and Colquitt wasn’t shocked. “I’ll of course lose sight of the ball once it gets out over the open sea,” thought the mage, “but there should be no reason I can’t perform the experiment again on Northrend itself.” The globe of energy passed through the granite outer wall of the city and emerged on the other side a second later. “I’ll just need to find a suitable area with a relatively low background–”
The ball drifted into the inner wall of the keep, just below the gryphon roost.
Ambrose stood on the high bridge, staring through the blue prisms in disbelief. Certain he must have seen something wrong the young man walked back to the outer gate and carefully picked his way down the hill to the moat, all the while never taking his eyes off the spot where the energy had vanished.
“Hey, pal, something wrong?” A fisherman looked back at the gape-mouthed mage, but Colquitt waved a perturbed and dismissive hand. Minutes passed while he watched through the cobalt lenses, not daring to blink his eyes. Then, just barely visible, another wisp of energy zoomed across the lake and into the wall.
Ambrose pulled the goggles off his eyes and let them fall around his neck. “Yes, something is very wrong,” he sighed.
Colquitt spotted his target wandering aimlessly in a small pasture just off the main road. She stood, contentedly chewing on her lunch and gazing into the woods beyond. “Yes, yes, perfect!” said the mage as he flipped through the pages of the Shield Book looking for the right– ah! There it was: "To All the Squirrels I’ve Loved Before." Ambrose laid the book open atop a fencepost and placed a small rock in the crease to keep the correct page open. He lowered the goggles over his eyes and took a couple of steps backward before focusing again on the target of his little experiment.
“I… *ahem*… I lv ymm,” he mumbled under his breath. There was no indication of anything from the book. Perhaps he’d done it wrong.
“I… I love you,” Ambrose whispered. Still there was no reaction from the book, though the test subject lazily turned her head toward the young man with the odd glasses.
Colquitt sighed, resigned to his fate. “I love you!” he cried, voice echoing through the treetops. The ewe cocked her head before bolting away from her blushing suitor.
“Creep,” said a voice from behind Ambrose as an elderly gentleman passed by on his way to Stormwind. The mage started to object but his attention was grabbed by a plume of energy that erupted from the Shield Book. Through the enchanted goggles the arcane essence curled up from the page like the slender ribbon of smoke from a burning stick of incense. This smoke, however, began to gather into a hazy sphere about two feet above the open book. The ball grew steadily, reaching the size of a g!##@fruit before shooting off to the north.
The ball traveled quickly, though Ambrose was able to barely keep up with the benefit of a couple of well-timed blink spells. There could be no doubt: the magic was heading for Stormwind, and Colquitt wasn’t shocked. “I’ll of course lose sight of the ball once it gets out over the open sea,” thought the mage, “but there should be no reason I can’t perform the experiment again on Northrend itself.” The globe of energy passed through the granite outer wall of the city and emerged on the other side a second later. “I’ll just need to find a suitable area with a relatively low background–”
The ball drifted into the inner wall of the keep, just below the gryphon roost.
Ambrose stood on the high bridge, staring through the blue prisms in disbelief. Certain he must have seen something wrong the young man walked back to the outer gate and carefully picked his way down the hill to the moat, all the while never taking his eyes off the spot where the energy had vanished.
“Hey, pal, something wrong?” A fisherman looked back at the gape-mouthed mage, but Colquitt waved a perturbed and dismissive hand. Minutes passed while he watched through the cobalt lenses, not daring to blink his eyes. Then, just barely visible, another wisp of energy zoomed across the lake and into the wall.
Ambrose pulled the goggles off his eyes and let them fall around his neck. “Yes, something is very wrong,” he sighed.
Lord Lenox Shadowmore did not strike an imposing figure. Well into his sixties, his closely trimmed beard was more salt than pepper and had been for years. He was thin but by no means frail, wrinkled though not wizened.
He was always at his desk before anyone else arrived and left after everyone else had gone; word among the younger agents was that he simply never left. Nobody would dare call him senile to his face, and no one dared to do it behind his back, either. Everyone inside the organization knew that he would find out. Rare was the person who apologized to Lord Shadowmore; most never got the opportunity.
A pair of oil lamps sat on the corners of the old man's desk, illuminating the impressive stacks of books and paperwork. In a case behind him were a series of thin leatherbound books; most had brown covers, some yellow, a few orange, and all were kept behind a thick glass door secured by a massive iron padlock.
“Axson, tell me this is very important and worth my time.” Shadowmore didn't bother to look up as the baronet entered.
“We're about to have a security breach on Condor, your lordship.”
“Then neutralize the threat. Why does this require my attention?”
“We can't simply bury this one, my lord. He's a Champion. He's an Ambassador. For light's sake he's even got the eye of the dragon queen. He'd be missed, sire.”
Shadowmore laid down his quill, opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a pipe made of carved ivory. He took his time packing the dried herbs into the bowl, letting Wishock stand in silence as he produced a sliver of wood, removed the glass cover from one of the lamps, held the punk in the flame until it caught and held it to the end of the pipe as he puffed. “Who is this man?”
A clerk burst into the chamber from a side door clutching a book bound in garish red leather. “Lord Shadowmore! It just turned, can't be more than an hour old.”
Lenox dropped his pipe and stood, snatching the book from the panting girl. “Alert Tifton to ready a strike force and report to me within the hour.” He opened the thin book and read the first page. “Tell her to prepare anti-magic measures. Small team. This operation must be taken quietly.” The clerk finished scribbling her notes and walked hurriedly out the same door.
After glancing at a few other pages the old man closed the book and showed the cover to Axson. The baronet read the gilt name on the face without needing to. “Your Champion is a confirmed threat to Project Condor and will be eliminated before sundown.”
“My lord, we can't–”
“We can and we must, Mr. Wishock. That will be all.” Shadowmore picked up his pipe and watched as a bodyguard materialized out of the gloom to escort the baronet away. As the door closed the old man fished a delicate key from a chain around his neck, unlocked the glass-enclosed bookcase and filed the red book on the top shelf. “My apologies, Mr. Colquitt,” Lenox muttered, relocking the cabinet.
He was always at his desk before anyone else arrived and left after everyone else had gone; word among the younger agents was that he simply never left. Nobody would dare call him senile to his face, and no one dared to do it behind his back, either. Everyone inside the organization knew that he would find out. Rare was the person who apologized to Lord Shadowmore; most never got the opportunity.
A pair of oil lamps sat on the corners of the old man's desk, illuminating the impressive stacks of books and paperwork. In a case behind him were a series of thin leatherbound books; most had brown covers, some yellow, a few orange, and all were kept behind a thick glass door secured by a massive iron padlock.
“Axson, tell me this is very important and worth my time.” Shadowmore didn't bother to look up as the baronet entered.
“We're about to have a security breach on Condor, your lordship.”
“Then neutralize the threat. Why does this require my attention?”
“We can't simply bury this one, my lord. He's a Champion. He's an Ambassador. For light's sake he's even got the eye of the dragon queen. He'd be missed, sire.”
Shadowmore laid down his quill, opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a pipe made of carved ivory. He took his time packing the dried herbs into the bowl, letting Wishock stand in silence as he produced a sliver of wood, removed the glass cover from one of the lamps, held the punk in the flame until it caught and held it to the end of the pipe as he puffed. “Who is this man?”
A clerk burst into the chamber from a side door clutching a book bound in garish red leather. “Lord Shadowmore! It just turned, can't be more than an hour old.”
Lenox dropped his pipe and stood, snatching the book from the panting girl. “Alert Tifton to ready a strike force and report to me within the hour.” He opened the thin book and read the first page. “Tell her to prepare anti-magic measures. Small team. This operation must be taken quietly.” The clerk finished scribbling her notes and walked hurriedly out the same door.
After glancing at a few other pages the old man closed the book and showed the cover to Axson. The baronet read the gilt name on the face without needing to. “Your Champion is a confirmed threat to Project Condor and will be eliminated before sundown.”
“My lord, we can't–”
“We can and we must, Mr. Wishock. That will be all.” Shadowmore picked up his pipe and watched as a bodyguard materialized out of the gloom to escort the baronet away. As the door closed the old man fished a delicate key from a chain around his neck, unlocked the glass-enclosed bookcase and filed the red book on the top shelf. “My apologies, Mr. Colquitt,” Lenox muttered, relocking the cabinet.
(( For almost two years this is where the story ended. After creating a version of Ambrose over on Wyrmrest Accord to check out the community over there, however, I got my inspiration for where the story should lead next ))
“Are you ready, young one?”
The mage lay supine, an unmarked tombstone pressing into the small of his back though he could not feel it. Ambrose opened his mouth to speak, yet neither word nor breath passed his lips. Old habits died hard, even after you were dead. So how was the spirit healer talking to him? Can spirit healers talk?
“Of course we can,” the hollow voice responded in Colquitt's head. “Few ever stay long enough to hear our words. Now is not the time, young one. One day we will tell you all, but now it is time for you to return. Are you ready?”
The human looked up at the ethereal being and nodded.
“We will always catch your soul as it drops into the abyss. We will always be here.”
Ambrose felt his body drift, ever so gently, like an autumn leaf tumbling to the ground, the gentle rocking a loving and soothing motion. The mage was practically lulled to sleep, and he'd just begun to close his eyes when he felt the pressure of the ground. Gradually he opened an eye and was met with a dazzling and painful display of blue and green - colors so bright he at first thought they must be Lunar Festival fireworks. Rather than the sound of explosions, however, Colquitt recognized the chirping of shirefinches and the rustling of trees in the wind.
Opening his eyes once again the blurry vista sharpened, and Ambrose realized where it was he lay, a place he'd visited an embarrasing number of times: the Elwynn cemetery. He sighed and every part of his body ached with stiffness. Groaning, the mage tested his muscles and with effort pulled himself into a sitting position. He saw the unfamiliar blue and purple robes he wore and noticed the elementary wooden staff that lay at his side. “What the…,” he began to say, but cut himself short when he heard the hoarse rasp of his own voice. Clearing his throat and coughing Ambrose began to get to his feet, only to pitch forward and catch himself awkwardly on his forearms and elbows. Had he been drugged? Poisoned, perhaps? What was the last thing he-
Shadowmore. The smirking face of Lenox Shadowmore, grinning like a hyena. So this was how he planned to deal with the threat to his precious Shield Books, eh? Well, Colquitt would be happy to show him just how he'd crossed the wrong mage.
If only he could get to his feet. Fel, what had that old weasel done to him?
“Are you ready, young one?”
The mage lay supine, an unmarked tombstone pressing into the small of his back though he could not feel it. Ambrose opened his mouth to speak, yet neither word nor breath passed his lips. Old habits died hard, even after you were dead. So how was the spirit healer talking to him? Can spirit healers talk?
“Of course we can,” the hollow voice responded in Colquitt's head. “Few ever stay long enough to hear our words. Now is not the time, young one. One day we will tell you all, but now it is time for you to return. Are you ready?”
The human looked up at the ethereal being and nodded.
“We will always catch your soul as it drops into the abyss. We will always be here.”
Ambrose felt his body drift, ever so gently, like an autumn leaf tumbling to the ground, the gentle rocking a loving and soothing motion. The mage was practically lulled to sleep, and he'd just begun to close his eyes when he felt the pressure of the ground. Gradually he opened an eye and was met with a dazzling and painful display of blue and green - colors so bright he at first thought they must be Lunar Festival fireworks. Rather than the sound of explosions, however, Colquitt recognized the chirping of shirefinches and the rustling of trees in the wind.
Opening his eyes once again the blurry vista sharpened, and Ambrose realized where it was he lay, a place he'd visited an embarrasing number of times: the Elwynn cemetery. He sighed and every part of his body ached with stiffness. Groaning, the mage tested his muscles and with effort pulled himself into a sitting position. He saw the unfamiliar blue and purple robes he wore and noticed the elementary wooden staff that lay at his side. “What the…,” he began to say, but cut himself short when he heard the hoarse rasp of his own voice. Clearing his throat and coughing Ambrose began to get to his feet, only to pitch forward and catch himself awkwardly on his forearms and elbows. Had he been drugged? Poisoned, perhaps? What was the last thing he-
Shadowmore. The smirking face of Lenox Shadowmore, grinning like a hyena. So this was how he planned to deal with the threat to his precious Shield Books, eh? Well, Colquitt would be happy to show him just how he'd crossed the wrong mage.
If only he could get to his feet. Fel, what had that old weasel done to him?
With no small amount of struggle Ambrose found his footing and clambered up the small hill to the high road. Looking up the slope toward Stormwind he quickly dismissed the idea. “Shadowmore is certain to have the guards on alert,” thought the mage. “I need to get someplace safe and consider my next move. Someplace far away, like Shattrath.” By force of habit he reached for the small pouch at his belt where he normally kept a supply of teleportation runes, chuckling bitterly when his hand found nothing. Colquitt patted down the pockets of his robe, searching for his hearthstone and coming up empty. “Now that's just fighting dirty,” he muttered under his breath.
“Only one thing for it, then,” thought the young man, and he started down the hill toward Goldshire. He was grateful for the wooden staff that had been laid next to him in the graveyard, using it as an ordinary walking stick to steady himself on the cobblestone road. A pleasant exchange with Edison Farley in the Lion's Pride Inn netted Ambrose a new hearthstone, which he instinctively cupped between his hands and spoke into. “May? Are you there?” he asked before remembering that the new talisman had not yet been paired with that of his beloved. With a wry smile he tucked the enchanted rock into a pocket and returned to the streets of Goldshire.
What next, though? Stormwind was still out of the question. The guild hall was inviting, but he dismissed the thought; if he was in trouble, he'd not bring that upon his closest fiends, at least not yet. Running out of ideas Colquitt's eyes fell upon the road to Northshire Valley. He'd been meaning to go by and thank Khelden for sending him that tome on psychic enchantment. Now was a better time than most to do so.
The walk to Northshire went quickly enough as the young man's legs regained their strength. Hurrying toward the abbey, Ambrose was stopped at the entrance by the Marshal. “Hail, mage, and welcome. We're really struggling to keep the worgs at bay this afternoon, and are asking all able-bodied individuals to dispatch their limit of six at once.”
The request caught Colquitt off guard. “Worgs? Hmm, well, yes, I suppose even the war against the Lich King doesn't stop the forces of mother nature.” McBride opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ambrose raised his hand to cut him off. “No worries, my good man. I'll have these worgs dealt with before you can say, er, 'Can you help us with these worgs?'”
Clapping the marshal on the back the mage strode proudly to the edge of the forest and sized up a pack of the wild dogs. “One well-placed flamestrike ought to do the trick,” he mumbled, extending his arms into the correct positions. With a sweeping gesture fire rained from a point a few meters above the ground; at least, it should have, but the worgs snuffled about unharmed baring their razored fangs. “Huh, must not have had the correct angle there,” Ambrose thought and again positioned his arms, being much more deliberate this time. Sweeping with more force than was advisable the mage again attempted to cast the spell, but again was greeted with a calm silence. Three, four, five, a dozen times more he tried, arms flailing like ribbons in the wind, all to no avail. Teeth clenched Colquitt stomped his way into the abbey, accidentally elbowing the Marshal aside on his way up to see the mage trainer.
Bremen was discussing the basics of mana theory with a slender kal'dorei as Ambrose burst into the room. “Khelden, is there some sort of damping field in place today? I'm not able to–”
“I beg your pardon, adept. You will wait in the anteroom while I talk with our sister here.”
Colquitt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, forgive me Khelden, but you would not believe the kind of day I'm–”
The trainer extended a palm and a gout of fire burst forth, sailing past the wide-silver-eyed elf and stopping just shy of the young man, sending him staggering backward. “You will respect your brethren and masters, adept!”
“Khelden, it's me: Ambrose!”
“I don't care if you're Archmage Haylon Vargoth in the flesh - you. will. wait.” Bremen returned his attention to the increasingly timid looking night elf.
Breaths quickening in panic Colquitt bolted out into the anteroom and leaned heavily on the stone railing, squeezing it as tightly as if he were trying to crush it into gravel. Something was very badly wrong.
“Only one thing for it, then,” thought the young man, and he started down the hill toward Goldshire. He was grateful for the wooden staff that had been laid next to him in the graveyard, using it as an ordinary walking stick to steady himself on the cobblestone road. A pleasant exchange with Edison Farley in the Lion's Pride Inn netted Ambrose a new hearthstone, which he instinctively cupped between his hands and spoke into. “May? Are you there?” he asked before remembering that the new talisman had not yet been paired with that of his beloved. With a wry smile he tucked the enchanted rock into a pocket and returned to the streets of Goldshire.
What next, though? Stormwind was still out of the question. The guild hall was inviting, but he dismissed the thought; if he was in trouble, he'd not bring that upon his closest fiends, at least not yet. Running out of ideas Colquitt's eyes fell upon the road to Northshire Valley. He'd been meaning to go by and thank Khelden for sending him that tome on psychic enchantment. Now was a better time than most to do so.
The walk to Northshire went quickly enough as the young man's legs regained their strength. Hurrying toward the abbey, Ambrose was stopped at the entrance by the Marshal. “Hail, mage, and welcome. We're really struggling to keep the worgs at bay this afternoon, and are asking all able-bodied individuals to dispatch their limit of six at once.”
The request caught Colquitt off guard. “Worgs? Hmm, well, yes, I suppose even the war against the Lich King doesn't stop the forces of mother nature.” McBride opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ambrose raised his hand to cut him off. “No worries, my good man. I'll have these worgs dealt with before you can say, er, 'Can you help us with these worgs?'”
Clapping the marshal on the back the mage strode proudly to the edge of the forest and sized up a pack of the wild dogs. “One well-placed flamestrike ought to do the trick,” he mumbled, extending his arms into the correct positions. With a sweeping gesture fire rained from a point a few meters above the ground; at least, it should have, but the worgs snuffled about unharmed baring their razored fangs. “Huh, must not have had the correct angle there,” Ambrose thought and again positioned his arms, being much more deliberate this time. Sweeping with more force than was advisable the mage again attempted to cast the spell, but again was greeted with a calm silence. Three, four, five, a dozen times more he tried, arms flailing like ribbons in the wind, all to no avail. Teeth clenched Colquitt stomped his way into the abbey, accidentally elbowing the Marshal aside on his way up to see the mage trainer.
Bremen was discussing the basics of mana theory with a slender kal'dorei as Ambrose burst into the room. “Khelden, is there some sort of damping field in place today? I'm not able to–”
“I beg your pardon, adept. You will wait in the anteroom while I talk with our sister here.”
Colquitt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, forgive me Khelden, but you would not believe the kind of day I'm–”
The trainer extended a palm and a gout of fire burst forth, sailing past the wide-silver-eyed elf and stopping just shy of the young man, sending him staggering backward. “You will respect your brethren and masters, adept!”
“Khelden, it's me: Ambrose!”
“I don't care if you're Archmage Haylon Vargoth in the flesh - you. will. wait.” Bremen returned his attention to the increasingly timid looking night elf.
Breaths quickening in panic Colquitt bolted out into the anteroom and leaned heavily on the stone railing, squeezing it as tightly as if he were trying to crush it into gravel. Something was very badly wrong.
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