My Little Naaru: Warcraft is Magicby Skyblaze FreescriptChaptersPrologue: Cries of the LightWoes of the RoadTemper of the ProphetPrologue: Cries of the LightPrologue: Epilogue Vyncerin breathed out a pent-up breath. The cold made this exhale a visible white cloud in the frigid air of the Icecrown Glacier, travelling from the gap in his helm out into the wind. But the meditating paladin did not see this, far too focused inward to the calm of his mind to concern himself with the sight of his own breath. In his state, he did not notice the icy bite of the breeze, nor the distant sounds of celebration in the camp that lay yards behind him. The paladin’s mind ventured deeper and deeper within itself. So deep that he no longer felt the chill of Northrend, nor heard the wind against the mountains, nor saw his condensing breath. Clear from all emotion, thought, and feeling, Vyncerin floated freely in the void his mind had become. In this state, so detached from the physical world, he felt the Light and all its energies; its soothing presence in his form and being, and the power it gave him. Within this clarity from thought, he prayed to it, asking for its guidance and eternal wisdom. While all paladins are taught that the Light is omniscient and hears all prayers from its devout, to have the Light itself answer is incredibly rare. In his travels, Vyncerin had only heard of three souls who have spoken with the Light: Highlord Tirion Fordring, commander of the Argent Dawn; Uther Lightbringer, the hero of Lordaeron; and more recently, the immortal prophet-leader of the Draenei, Velen. Vyncerin frowned. Lumaera would have scoffed at him for thinking about this. The Draenei paladin had once explained to him that the Light wasn’t an omnipresent force, but a school of magic whose teachings stemmed from the race of energy beings known as the Naaru. Lumaera offered a theory that the first order of human paladins received their knowledge from a wayward Naaru contacting them through a telepathic link. She and Vyncerin were constantly at odds over this, and often their debates nearly led to swordplay as mediation. But no longer. Not since she had died. The paladin shook his head and mentally chastised himself for getting distracted from his meditation. He refocused his mind and re-entered the trance. Once again in a pensive numbness, he prayed to the Light once more, asking for guidance and wisdom. ... To his surprise, the Light answered. Vyncerin found himself floating over a great forest, comprised of pale and violet trees. He tried to move his limbs, but found he had no limbs to move. For a few moments, he panicked, wondering if he had died, or if a malevolent warlock had put him under a spell. He struggled with his will, trying to return to the conscious world. Peace, little one. No harm will come to you here. Blinking, the paladin ceased his struggle. The voice did not speak in any form that could be called a language. Rather, he heard a high chiming noise, like small bells ringing in haphazard chorus. It soothed him as a warm embrace would. Somehow, he understood the meaning behind them, words forming in his mind of their own accord. They spoke truth, and he knew it. He was safe here. Where am I? he asked the voice calmly. What is this place? Watch, it answered. Before Vyncerin could reply, his vision shot across the forest, which he now recognized as Crystalsong, and over the mountains. Further his sight went, over the basin of Sholazar, the Borean Tundra, and finally to the island of Coldarra. He saw the Nexus, and the monolithic beam of arcane energy cascading into the air from it. But his flight did not pause there. It continued past, to the west of the continent of Northrend, out over the Veiled Sea. Vyncerin was puzzled by this; there was supposed to be nothing between Northrend and Kalimdor according to the Night Elves, just empty sea. He raised this inquiry to the voice, but received no answer. To his surprise, his vision slowed near a small island, barely the size of Goldshire in area. The only features on it were patches of golden grass and a small tree with a gap in its roots. Vyncerin’s puzzlement returned, wondering why he would be shown something so insignificant. Perhaps its small size explained why the Night Elves left it out of their account. The island couldn’t even be used as a viable port. Look closer, paladin, the voice insisted. The chiming voice was extremely persuasive in nature, and Vyncerin had no intention to disobey. Upon closer observation, he noticed a small light coming from the gap in the tree’s roots. He had seen this light before, he realized. The light was similar to the portal in Rut’theran village that allowed access to the Night Elf city of Darnassus. But there seemed to be nowhere this portal could lead with the limited range such portals were constrained to. Vyncerin’s sight suddenly shot through the portal. Everything went dark, as black as the blackest night. Through the pitch dark, Vyncerin heard a rumbling voice yell in a horrific launguage, whose words jumbled themselves into comprehension: Rise! Rise and tear this world asunder! … Help me, little one! Help me! Apse was a very happy dwarf. Of course, any dwarf would have been as happy as he was, with a belly full of strong ale and a heart full of song. To add to his happiness, the commander of the undead legions of the Scourge, which had claimed countless live and committed countless more atrocities, was dead. The Lich King was dead! Why, it would be a crime not to celebrate a momentous occasion! Celebrate Apse did... to the point of being half-carried by his lupine companion, Fengur. The albino wolf always seemed to know when his master had indulged one too many pints, and always helped the dwarf around afterward. As some would joke, Fengur was the perfect drinking buddy. “Ah, Fengy... hic! ...yer always the best o’ friendsh,” the dwarf slurred as he leaned on the wolf. Fengur growled flatly in response. Apse gave his companion a look. “Ya know, I swear yer makin’ fun at me shometimes.” “He was complimenting your ability to hold a keg and a half of ale and still speak lucidly,” spoke the fluid voice of the Night Elf next to him, who was tasked with his care. While Elunedra found this to be a tedious task, she felt more than pleased to help one of her fellowship. “Only half again?” Apse responded incredulously. “I’m losin’ my edge.” Fengur stopped abruptly, sniffing the air, his ears flicking back and forth. Apse, however, continued on his path of momentum, and slid off the wolf and into the snow. Before the dwarf to could stagger to his feet, Fengur broke into a run, plowing the hunter’s face back into the snowbank. The wolf scampered off with a few curt yips of excitement. Elunedra looked on, puzzling. “He says he heard something odd,” the druid translated as she helped Apse to his feet. “Come, let us give chase.” Nixaera’s Log Four days after the defeat of the Lich King When Elunedra and Apse found Vyncerin, the poor soul was propped against the rock, shivering and muttering incoherent things to himself. It was a whole Azeroth day before he regained coherency and lucid speech. He recounted to us his vision, of the island portal and the hellish voice in the darkness. When he spoke of the other voice, the one that spoke in chimes, it was as if he were describing an old friend. I know the of the voice well, as did Vynce. It was the telepathic chimes of the Naaru language, one I had lived by nearly all my life, and he experienced in Shattarath City in our exploits through Draenor. Of everything Vyncerin recounted, the desperate voice of the Naaru is what concerns me most. Naaru are immensely powerful beings; not even the greatest warlocks of the Burning Legion- short of Archimonde and Kil’Jaeden -could smother their holy power. For one to be in such distress as to contact a mortal makes me wonder what sort of cruel force could cause a Naaru to become desperate. Whether by fate or chance, the Naaru’s telepathic message had reached Vyncerin the Protector. Perhaps the Naaru knew of the paladin’s reputation and rank, and leadership of a small band of heroes. Heroes that were vital in the Lich King’s recent defeat. Or perhaps the distressed being had fortune’s favor. We set out tomorrow for the island. I sincerely hope this is worth my time. ”Is it... over...?” “At long last, my son.” “I see... only darkness... before... me...” “My son... wake...” “...wake...” “Wake, you thrice-damned fool! The ditch is no place to be resting your head!” His eyes snapped open, only to be shut again by the piercing glare of the sun directly overhead. He rolled his body over to avert his gaze and salvage his eyesight, but managed to bump into something that jerked back at his touch. “Watch yourself, oaf!” the same raspy voice that awoke him exclaimed. “Any further and you may as well have flattened me!” Turning his head and eyes toward the speaker, the awakened individual wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the creature that addressed him. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was a deformed miniature horse. However, the equine creature wore an oddly maroon-colored coat, and its mane was charcoal and styled in such a way that it resembled crow feathers. On its forehead rested a spiraled horn, though it appeared too blunt to be a natural weapon. He noted that someone had painted the bust of a raven on either flank. “Well? Are you going to stare at my ass all day, or are you going to compose yourself?” He almost jumped when it spoke, not expecting this almost bestial being to have some form of sentience, let alone a command of fluent speech. Looking up into the... were its eyes yellow? ...face of the creature, he quickly mumbled, “My apologies,” and stood up... ...Then fell right back down. “Quick tidbit of news for you; quadrupeds stand on four legs,” the being quipped with a chuckle. Four legs…? he questioned himself, puzzled. Looking back at himself, he was surprised to find himself in an unfamiliar body. In form, it was similar to the creature: four legs with hoofed feet, a smaller equine body, and a brand colored onto his flank. However, his own coat was a neutral, almost stone-gray color, and his tail was pure white and wispy, such that it moved with even the slightest breeze. The image painted on his rear looked like a viciously pointed golden crown. Something told him this was very wrong; that whatever he had become is not what he should be. This body was a strange alien thing. It fit him like a glove with four fingers. “You look surprised, my young prince.” The equine creature’s voice stole his attention from his strange form. After a moment of staring, the stallion suddenly chuckled. “Oh, I see. I would feel the same had I been in your place. Not very pleasant, is it?” The disembodied soul shook his head dismally. “No, it is anything but…” he trailed off as something the other equine said sparked in his mind. “What did you call me?” Tilting his head, the maroon stallion peered at the other. “Why, I do not believe so. Have I said something wrong?” Carefully, the gray being rose to his hooves. “You called me a prince.” The creature did not reply immediately. He looked at the other stallion with a scrutinizing gaze, peering, it seemed, straight through his body. “...curious,” he mumbled. “Tell me, do you recall anything from before?” “No,” he answered. Is that odd? he pondered, That I have no memory? “Curious indeed,” the stallion replied. “Would you like to know your name, my friend? Not that names matter besides, but it would help if you had some identity.” The gray equine thought about this. I don’t really need my name, he surmised, considering the offer. But, perhaps for politeness’ sake… “Yes.” “Very well, Arthas,” the stallion replied, speaking the name in roundabout. “I was once called Medivh, but for your sake, I shall adopt it once more. It is my pleasure to be formally introduced.” “Likewise,” Arthas answered. “It is nice meeting you, Medivh.” Author's Note This project was a little motivator to help me get out of my writing funk. Criticism would be awesome, praise would be appreciated. ANY reader ideas, either by comment or PM, will be considered (and more than likely implemented). Woes of the Road“Absolutely not!” Vyncerin frowned. “Nixaera, I know working with the Horde is not going to be pleasant,” he sighed, expecting her to react in this way. “But right now, the situation is extremely tense between the factions. With the Lich King dead, there is no cause for the Alliance and Horde to collaborate, and we could be on the verge of conflict.” “Do you call what transpired at the Wrathgate a ‘verge!?’” the draenei death knight shouted back in her echoing voice. She slammed her fist into the stone wall next to her, cracking the quarried stone and startling the nearby dock workers of Valiance Keep. “It was a massacre! We lost more soldiers to the Forsaken’s meddling than we did to the scourge! This is a mistake!” Shaking his head in exasperation, the paladin palmed the gold-lined warhammer on his hip as insurance if the draenei did lose control. “The Horde lost just as many as we did at Angrathar. To pin the act of one rogue faction of Forsaken on the warchief is irresponsible, and the one at fault is rotting headless in a shallow tomb, slain by the Banshee Queen herself.” Vyncerin continued to lecture. “If you had any sense, you would welcome their aid. Light only knows what lies beyond the portal.” Nixaera glared at him. “Why are you so adamant about having them accompany us? On which side do you stand, Vyncerin?” “I stand with the Argent Dawn,” he replied, returning the death knight’s gaze. “And the Argent Dawn stands with the Light. I would have thought you would as well, as you did before you were risen from death.” “Do not mistake me; Lumaera is gone,” Nixaera hissed. “I will not stand by the Horde while they continue to associate with the damned and the corrupt.” Vyncerin glanced over at the three newest members of their company; the three Horde selected by Thrall, Garrosh, and Sylvanas. One, an orc warrior by the name of Harag, one of Garrosh’s lieutenants. Of the lot, this individual more than others made the paladin wary that Hellscream’s son had little faith in the Alliance, and sent a high-standing warrior to keep track of the enemy. Thrall’s envoy was Jazla, a shaman that was more associated with the Earthen Ring than the Horde. The last- perhaps the source of Nixaera’s rebelliousness -the Blood Elf, Mebrin, a warlock apparently renowned for his magical affinity. “The elf?” Vyncerin asked ambiguously. “Those who call upon demonic magic are not to be trusted,” asserted the death knight. Rolling his eyes, the paladin turned away from Nixaera. “Then do not come,” he said. “If you won’t tolerate those in our company, then you will remain here. The Horde may not be your allies, but this undertaking will only happen if we accept their cooperation. I will not let your attitude hinder this joint mission.” He walked away toward the Horde envoys, leaving the draenei with his ultimatum. Nixaera watched her friend leave. She turned her gaze to Mebrin, who was pointedly looking at her with a flat scowl. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him out of my sight. She started off after Vyncerin. This was a bad idea. Sherisse hated traveling by sea with a burning passion. The smell was rancid, the bread was stale, and, worst of all, her small gnomish stomach churned with the bobbing motion of the deck. Her low center of gravity helped very little. She tried to cure herself with holy magic, but it was a only a short period before she had her head over the ship’s rails again. The priest was miserable. A hand on her shoulder beckoned Sherisse to lift her head up to see who it belonged to. To her surprise, she stared up at the teal-skinned face of the troll shaman. “Ya got some bad voodoo in ya insides, gnome?” Jazla asked with a fanged smile. Sherisse nodded. “You could… say that.” Jazla chuckled lightheartedly. “We Darkspear be accustomed to da sea. It gives us fish to eat and waves to ride to other shores. Ya gnomes be accustomed to da iron halls of ya cave cities, Gnomeregan an’ Ironforge. Ya don’t know da taste of da sea air, or da movin’ of da waves like we do. Da trolls thrive from da sea, da gnomes from da earth.” “Please don’t say waves,” Sherisse lurched as the troll spoke, turning an unhealthy shade of green. “It disturbs my metabolic process.” “Although,” the shaman let out another chuckle. “Even some’a us trolls get da seasick. There’ll be no helpin’ from ya holy magics. However…” Jazla waved her hand over Sherisse, muttering phrases in her native tongue. Her three-fingered hand glowed with swirling green energy that made the gnome’s insides tingle. “It just take da right mojo for da job.” Sherisse was uncertain at first, but found that the moving of the ship no longer bothered her or her bowels. Whatever spell the shaman had used, it had cured her seasickness. “Wow! Thanks!” she chirped. Jazla nodded. “Think nothin’ of it, little one. Just be comin’ back when ya feel da sickness returnin’.” Arthas was becoming very impatient. Three days of travelling by foot (hoof?) with nothing to eat aside from what they could find by the sparsely-used road, his only companion a strange stallion who Arthas decided had been taken by madness long ago, and taking only small periods to rest and recover. The journey took its toll on his aching hooves and disheveled mane, and was slowly eating away at his sanity. Medivh, on the other hand (hoof?) seemed none too bothered by the rigorous travelling. It seemed to Arthas that the unicorn was becoming even more energetic and lively as they walked. Attempts to converse with him was only met with either an ambiguous answer or a lengthy monologue on a random species of plant he spotted on the journey. At one point he spoke for three hours on a kind of thistle that was apparently very rare and sought after by certain professionals. At that particular point in time, Medivh was still rambling on about a bird he had seen an hour ago. “...though they look more alike to a species by a similar name and the same family that exists in the northern reaches of the continent, you’d be surprised to find that they are of two very different genus. It was not classified as such until a wide schism in their dietary and nesting habits was observed by renowned orithologist--” “How much further do we need to walk?” Arthas interjected. “For three days I’ve followed you on this coarse excuse for a road, and you’ve not given a single mention to where we are going. Nor have we encountered anyone else travelling along this path. Please, for my sanity, how much longer is this trek?” Medivh stared back at the stone-gray stallion as if he’d just been offended. “My word, so impatient!” he harumphed. “Haven’t you heard the proverb, young one? ‘Getting there is half the fun!’” Arthas sighed in frustration. “So where is ‘there?’” “I have no idea!” The words made Arthas stop in his tracks, his jaw hanging wide open. For three days, this addled pony had no clue what their destination was. “What!?” he exclaimed. “Then what is the point of all this!? Are we rubbing our feet down to stubs for nothing!? What sense is there in that!?” “Sense…” Medivh chuckled despite the rage of the larger pony. “Indeed, what fun is there in making sense?” Before Arthas could respond, he continued. “I suppose I do owe you an explanation. You see, I have a gift, given to me by powers unknown to even the wisest. My gift, Arthas, is sight.” “So you have eyes,” Arthas glowered. “My congratulations.” Medivh laughed heartily. “You misunderstand, my prince. My eyes see more than what appears to be, or what is in truth. I can look at any one object and see it’s place in times past, and it’s destiny to come. For the bird I was describing previously, everything I told you was what I saw within the bird; it’s history. The reason we are following this road, my dear prince, is that I looked upon it and saw that it’s destiny was to carry us to wherever it may go.” Arthas’ face softened, but his glare held. Of course, he thought that Medivh had contracted some form of indescribable madness, and that his words had little weight. But as he glared at the smaller stallion, Arthas saw something odd in the elder eyes. Something behind this old stallion’s eye belied a mind that was wise above madness… and perhaps to the brink of it. “Very well,” he grunted. “Continue. Wherever we’re going, we should get there as soon as possible.” “Excellent,” Medivh chirped, turning back down the road and resuming his walk. “Now, where was I? Their dietary and nesting habits were observed by renowned ornithologist, Peckerhoof, who was the first to catalogue this difference in the two species…” Temper of the Prophet “It is indeed of elvish origin,” Elunedra concluded, examining the roots that arched over the cascading pink-tinted magical energy, meeting at the top to form the base of a great tree. “However, the magic is not the same used on the portal connecting Rut’theran and Darnassas. This one is arcane in nature and...” Her hand brushed the roots again. The druid’s eyes widened in awe. “This tree is old... impossibly old... older even than Nordrassil was...” Vyncerin paced anxiously in a wide circle around the tree, which was being examined by Jazla, Mebrin, and Elunedra. The company of eight had arrived at the small island after a day’s sailing from the port of Valiance Keep and set up a small encampment. They immediately set to work examining the tree with every method available, from the mundane examination of the soil in which it grew, to the magical inspection of the portal itself. Mebrin paused in his study of the energy itself. “Unfortunately, she’s correct,” the blood elf reported. “The workings of the spell are ancient. I would go so far as to say it predates the schism in the elvish races. This tree and the portal within were likely created by the Highbourne before the Sundering.” “So it’s a damned old tree,” Apse spat from his seat near the camp. The dwarf reclined and let out a harrumph. “Can we skip to the important bit?” “Every detail counts, dwarf,” Mebrin reminded the hunter. “Even the trivial ones.” Apse rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we just have a stroll through and see what’s on the other side? What’s the harm in it?” “Because, moron,” Nixaera growled from the opposite side of the camp. “We want to be sure we can stroll back out. If it’s really as old as they say it is, the sister portal may not even be standing. We would walk right into oblivion, our atoms scattered into dust within the cold between spaces.” She settled back into her seat and resumed reading her book. “From what I’ve heard, being ripped apart for eternity is less than enjoyable.” With a frightened look, the dwarf put a hand to his forehead. “Sorry I asked, then.” Vyncerin sighed dejectedly at the morbidity of the death knight, however true it was. The paladin continued his pacing, but paused at the spot Mebrin was working from. “Is it possible to determine if the portal is safe or not?” he asked the warlock. “We could always throw the dwarf in and see if he comes back,” the elf laughed quietly as Vyncerin inwardly groaned. “In a more serious mood, without proper equipment, there is no way to know through magical means. If we had a exo-dimensional leyline probe, we could not only detect if there was a sister portal, but also discover if the destination is environmentally safe.” Vyncerin only needed a glance at their meager equipment to know that their variety did not include such a highly-specialized piece of arcane equipment. However, his gaze lingered longer on the crates marked with the crest of Gnomergan or the various goblin trade cartels. “Perhaps if magic can’t help,” the paladin muttered. “Technology can.” He turned back toward the camp. “Sherrise!” There was a tug on the human’s cloak. “I’m right here,” the gnome priest said from below his eye height. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you needed a probe of some kind?” Gesturing to the crates of supplies, Vyncerin nodded. “We need something that can determine if what’s on the other end of this portal is safe... or if there is another side at all,” he explained. “Could you see what you can scrape together from our equipment?” “Can do, boss!” Sherrise gave a small salute and scampered over to the crates. Mebrin watched the gnome curiously. “A divine engineer?” the elf mused. “If this is true, then I have truly seen everything.” “Believe you me, elf,” Vyncerin said, moving away to continue his pacing. “Even after several years of service with that gnome, she will continue to surprise me until the day I die.” Nixaera’s log, Seven days after the defeat of the Lich King Sherrise is a very talented gnome. As both a battle healer and an adept engineer, she has played an invaluable role in the campaign against the Lich King. Alone, she kept our small band of five alive against an ambush numbering several dozen Scourge soldiers, and still had enough of a magical font to revive Apse’s wolf, who had fallen in the fray. On the front of technology, she has several patented inventions, including a mechanical water siphon that purified the water with holy magic. I have no doubt she can create just the device we require. The blood elf continues to be a constant worry for me. In my experience with the Burning Legion aboard the Exodar, anything that demons touch, even remotely, is destined to be corrupted by the foul will of the Legion. This elf may not appear to be such a danger, but his descent into demonic madness is inevitable. I’m certain of it. It was a mistake to bring him. Those who command dark powers are not to be trusted. “Finally,” Arthas groaned. “Civilization.” As their journey reached it’s fourth day, the two companions sighted two small stone towers, apparently on either side of the path. Arthas began to make out small details as they approached, such as figures moving between the parapets and an arched stone bridge over the path that connected the towers. The stone-gray stallion felt his pace pick up, eager to reach the towers. Medivh simply matched his pace, allowing himself a small chuckle at Arthas’ enthusiasm. Enthusiasm that quickly fell when Arthas was near enough to see a dozen equine quadrupeds dressed in golden armor lining the path with various weapons at their sides. Their gazes were nervous and wary, as if they were expecting something to go awry. Arthas slowed his pace, advancing more cautiously. These were guards that had recently had a negative encounter, and were likely to be less than friendly to himself and Medivh. “Is something the matter, Arthas?” Medivh asked from beside him. “Not a moment ago you seemed very eager to finally see other ponies.” Ponies... Arthas mulled over the word. It was familiar, but he could not remember where he had heard it. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he voiced. “Those guards up there look to be on edge. Is there something dangerous around here?” “Oh, undoubtedly!” chirped the maroon stallion in an uncharacteristically joyful tone. “I’m surprised we weren’t jumped by bandits earlier; this road is infamous for being raided by brigands. Thankfully, it isn’t trade season, and what do we have worth stealing, eh?” Arthas was gave the smaller stallion a surprised look. “It didn’t occur to you to mention this to me at some point!?” “I didn’t think it was important.” Medivh continued on, leaving Arthas behind a few paces as the gray stallion hesitated in dumbstruck shock. “Besides, we encountered nothing of ill intent, so why worry about something that didn’t happen?” Shaking himself of his perplexed state, Arthas quickened his pace to catch up to Medivh. “I still think you’re absolutely mad.” “Well... you aren’t wrong.” “Halt! Who goes there?” The pair froze as two halberds crossed in front of their path. They had been too occupied with their own colloquy, the three guards that had walked out to meet them went completely unnoticed. While Medivh remained unfazed by the sudden blockade, the sharpness of the guard’s voice caught him suddenly, and his hooves skidded a few inches when he stopped just short of the polearm weapon. The guard that had spoken was on the opposite side of the halberd barricade, looking the pair up and down. “I said, who goes there!?” he repeated. “Yes, yes, we heard you the first time,” replied Medivh cheerily, as if he was having a perfectly normal conversation. “My name is Magus Secret Keeper, and this large fellow at my side is my personal bodyguard, Stonewall. We are traveling this road, and would very much like to pass, if you please.” Arthas gave Medivh a confused glance. Why didn’t he use our names? “A magus? Really?” the white-coated guard said, not sounding very convinced. “So, ‘sir magus,’ exactly where are you bound?” Medivh made a noise that sounded like he had been struck. “I hardly think that is any business of yours, ‘Sir Shieldhoof,’” Medivh scoffed, putting a dripping jeer on the name, despite the fact that it was previously unmentioned. The unicorn’s face held a cold expression, one that betrayed a wrathful mood. “I think, if you had any sense, you would allow us passage, before you regret hindering our progress.” A rustling sound from the trees overhead foretold to Arthas that the wind was picking up, and continued to intensify at an unnaturally rapid rate. He glanced around, suddenly very skittish. If the three guards noticed the change, they made no sign of it. “I don’t recall telling you my name,” the guard, Shieldhoof, said with no small amount of suspicion. “Guards, take these two border-jumpers into custody. I won’t have any more of their--” Suddenly, the air around them exploded in a wild tempest. Arthas covered his eyes with his foreleg to keep away the stray dust that buffeted him. His wispy white mane and tail flapped violently, and he had to brace himself to keep the wind from staggering his footing. What foul manner of wind is this!? he asked silently. ”I am Secret Keeper!” Medivh’s voice thundered with impossible volume. ”Magus of the Raven, the Prophet, the Last Guardian, the Accursed! You WILL let us pass, or face my unrelenting wrath!” As fast as the tempest came, the wind calmed and died to a stop. Arthas lowered his foreleg to see that the three guard-ponies had dropped their halberds and were looking at Medivh with looks of pure shock and horror. In truth, he too felt wary of the maroon stallion, despite being his companion. There was a power about the short-tempered ‘magus,’ and all present learned that this scrawny unicorn was not to be trifled with. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind?” Medivh prompted in his normal cheery disposition. “We would like to be on our way.” As Arthas watched the three guards scramble from their spots to clear the way, he made a note to himself not to invoke the temper of his companion. Author's Note Comments and criticism are both very welcome.
Prologue: Cries of the LightPrologue: Epilogue Vyncerin breathed out a pent-up breath. The cold made this exhale a visible white cloud in the frigid air of the Icecrown Glacier, travelling from the gap in his helm out into the wind. But the meditating paladin did not see this, far too focused inward to the calm of his mind to concern himself with the sight of his own breath. In his state, he did not notice the icy bite of the breeze, nor the distant sounds of celebration in the camp that lay yards behind him. The paladin’s mind ventured deeper and deeper within itself. So deep that he no longer felt the chill of Northrend, nor heard the wind against the mountains, nor saw his condensing breath. Clear from all emotion, thought, and feeling, Vyncerin floated freely in the void his mind had become. In this state, so detached from the physical world, he felt the Light and all its energies; its soothing presence in his form and being, and the power it gave him. Within this clarity from thought, he prayed to it, asking for its guidance and eternal wisdom. While all paladins are taught that the Light is omniscient and hears all prayers from its devout, to have the Light itself answer is incredibly rare. In his travels, Vyncerin had only heard of three souls who have spoken with the Light: Highlord Tirion Fordring, commander of the Argent Dawn; Uther Lightbringer, the hero of Lordaeron; and more recently, the immortal prophet-leader of the Draenei, Velen. Vyncerin frowned. Lumaera would have scoffed at him for thinking about this. The Draenei paladin had once explained to him that the Light wasn’t an omnipresent force, but a school of magic whose teachings stemmed from the race of energy beings known as the Naaru. Lumaera offered a theory that the first order of human paladins received their knowledge from a wayward Naaru contacting them through a telepathic link. She and Vyncerin were constantly at odds over this, and often their debates nearly led to swordplay as mediation. But no longer. Not since she had died. The paladin shook his head and mentally chastised himself for getting distracted from his meditation. He refocused his mind and re-entered the trance. Once again in a pensive numbness, he prayed to the Light once more, asking for guidance and wisdom. ... To his surprise, the Light answered. Vyncerin found himself floating over a great forest, comprised of pale and violet trees. He tried to move his limbs, but found he had no limbs to move. For a few moments, he panicked, wondering if he had died, or if a malevolent warlock had put him under a spell. He struggled with his will, trying to return to the conscious world. Peace, little one. No harm will come to you here. Blinking, the paladin ceased his struggle. The voice did not speak in any form that could be called a language. Rather, he heard a high chiming noise, like small bells ringing in haphazard chorus. It soothed him as a warm embrace would. Somehow, he understood the meaning behind them, words forming in his mind of their own accord. They spoke truth, and he knew it. He was safe here. Where am I? he asked the voice calmly. What is this place? Watch, it answered. Before Vyncerin could reply, his vision shot across the forest, which he now recognized as Crystalsong, and over the mountains. Further his sight went, over the basin of Sholazar, the Borean Tundra, and finally to the island of Coldarra. He saw the Nexus, and the monolithic beam of arcane energy cascading into the air from it. But his flight did not pause there. It continued past, to the west of the continent of Northrend, out over the Veiled Sea. Vyncerin was puzzled by this; there was supposed to be nothing between Northrend and Kalimdor according to the Night Elves, just empty sea. He raised this inquiry to the voice, but received no answer. To his surprise, his vision slowed near a small island, barely the size of Goldshire in area. The only features on it were patches of golden grass and a small tree with a gap in its roots. Vyncerin’s puzzlement returned, wondering why he would be shown something so insignificant. Perhaps its small size explained why the Night Elves left it out of their account. The island couldn’t even be used as a viable port. Look closer, paladin, the voice insisted. The chiming voice was extremely persuasive in nature, and Vyncerin had no intention to disobey. Upon closer observation, he noticed a small light coming from the gap in the tree’s roots. He had seen this light before, he realized. The light was similar to the portal in Rut’theran village that allowed access to the Night Elf city of Darnassus. But there seemed to be nowhere this portal could lead with the limited range such portals were constrained to. Vyncerin’s sight suddenly shot through the portal. Everything went dark, as black as the blackest night. Through the pitch dark, Vyncerin heard a rumbling voice yell in a horrific launguage, whose words jumbled themselves into comprehension: Rise! Rise and tear this world asunder! … Help me, little one! Help me! Apse was a very happy dwarf. Of course, any dwarf would have been as happy as he was, with a belly full of strong ale and a heart full of song. To add to his happiness, the commander of the undead legions of the Scourge, which had claimed countless live and committed countless more atrocities, was dead. The Lich King was dead! Why, it would be a crime not to celebrate a momentous occasion! Celebrate Apse did... to the point of being half-carried by his lupine companion, Fengur. The albino wolf always seemed to know when his master had indulged one too many pints, and always helped the dwarf around afterward. As some would joke, Fengur was the perfect drinking buddy. “Ah, Fengy... hic! ...yer always the best o’ friendsh,” the dwarf slurred as he leaned on the wolf. Fengur growled flatly in response. Apse gave his companion a look. “Ya know, I swear yer makin’ fun at me shometimes.” “He was complimenting your ability to hold a keg and a half of ale and still speak lucidly,” spoke the fluid voice of the Night Elf next to him, who was tasked with his care. While Elunedra found this to be a tedious task, she felt more than pleased to help one of her fellowship. “Only half again?” Apse responded incredulously. “I’m losin’ my edge.” Fengur stopped abruptly, sniffing the air, his ears flicking back and forth. Apse, however, continued on his path of momentum, and slid off the wolf and into the snow. Before the dwarf to could stagger to his feet, Fengur broke into a run, plowing the hunter’s face back into the snowbank. The wolf scampered off with a few curt yips of excitement. Elunedra looked on, puzzling. “He says he heard something odd,” the druid translated as she helped Apse to his feet. “Come, let us give chase.” Nixaera’s Log Four days after the defeat of the Lich King When Elunedra and Apse found Vyncerin, the poor soul was propped against the rock, shivering and muttering incoherent things to himself. It was a whole Azeroth day before he regained coherency and lucid speech. He recounted to us his vision, of the island portal and the hellish voice in the darkness. When he spoke of the other voice, the one that spoke in chimes, it was as if he were describing an old friend. I know the of the voice well, as did Vynce. It was the telepathic chimes of the Naaru language, one I had lived by nearly all my life, and he experienced in Shattarath City in our exploits through Draenor. Of everything Vyncerin recounted, the desperate voice of the Naaru is what concerns me most. Naaru are immensely powerful beings; not even the greatest warlocks of the Burning Legion- short of Archimonde and Kil’Jaeden -could smother their holy power. For one to be in such distress as to contact a mortal makes me wonder what sort of cruel force could cause a Naaru to become desperate. Whether by fate or chance, the Naaru’s telepathic message had reached Vyncerin the Protector. Perhaps the Naaru knew of the paladin’s reputation and rank, and leadership of a small band of heroes. Heroes that were vital in the Lich King’s recent defeat. Or perhaps the distressed being had fortune’s favor. We set out tomorrow for the island. I sincerely hope this is worth my time. ”Is it... over...?” “At long last, my son.” “I see... only darkness... before... me...” “My son... wake...” “...wake...” “Wake, you thrice-damned fool! The ditch is no place to be resting your head!” His eyes snapped open, only to be shut again by the piercing glare of the sun directly overhead. He rolled his body over to avert his gaze and salvage his eyesight, but managed to bump into something that jerked back at his touch. “Watch yourself, oaf!” the same raspy voice that awoke him exclaimed. “Any further and you may as well have flattened me!” Turning his head and eyes toward the speaker, the awakened individual wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the creature that addressed him. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was a deformed miniature horse. However, the equine creature wore an oddly maroon-colored coat, and its mane was charcoal and styled in such a way that it resembled crow feathers. On its forehead rested a spiraled horn, though it appeared too blunt to be a natural weapon. He noted that someone had painted the bust of a raven on either flank. “Well? Are you going to stare at my ass all day, or are you going to compose yourself?” He almost jumped when it spoke, not expecting this almost bestial being to have some form of sentience, let alone a command of fluent speech. Looking up into the... were its eyes yellow? ...face of the creature, he quickly mumbled, “My apologies,” and stood up... ...Then fell right back down. “Quick tidbit of news for you; quadrupeds stand on four legs,” the being quipped with a chuckle. Four legs…? he questioned himself, puzzled. Looking back at himself, he was surprised to find himself in an unfamiliar body. In form, it was similar to the creature: four legs with hoofed feet, a smaller equine body, and a brand colored onto his flank. However, his own coat was a neutral, almost stone-gray color, and his tail was pure white and wispy, such that it moved with even the slightest breeze. The image painted on his rear looked like a viciously pointed golden crown. Something told him this was very wrong; that whatever he had become is not what he should be. This body was a strange alien thing. It fit him like a glove with four fingers. “You look surprised, my young prince.” The equine creature’s voice stole his attention from his strange form. After a moment of staring, the stallion suddenly chuckled. “Oh, I see. I would feel the same had I been in your place. Not very pleasant, is it?” The disembodied soul shook his head dismally. “No, it is anything but…” he trailed off as something the other equine said sparked in his mind. “What did you call me?” Tilting his head, the maroon stallion peered at the other. “Why, I do not believe so. Have I said something wrong?” Carefully, the gray being rose to his hooves. “You called me a prince.” The creature did not reply immediately. He looked at the other stallion with a scrutinizing gaze, peering, it seemed, straight through his body. “...curious,” he mumbled. “Tell me, do you recall anything from before?” “No,” he answered. Is that odd? he pondered, That I have no memory? “Curious indeed,” the stallion replied. “Would you like to know your name, my friend? Not that names matter besides, but it would help if you had some identity.” The gray equine thought about this. I don’t really need my name, he surmised, considering the offer. But, perhaps for politeness’ sake… “Yes.” “Very well, Arthas,” the stallion replied, speaking the name in roundabout. “I was once called Medivh, but for your sake, I shall adopt it once more. It is my pleasure to be formally introduced.” “Likewise,” Arthas answered. “It is nice meeting you, Medivh.” Author's Note This project was a little motivator to help me get out of my writing funk. Criticism would be awesome, praise would be appreciated. ANY reader ideas, either by comment or PM, will be considered (and more than likely implemented).
Woes of the Road“Absolutely not!” Vyncerin frowned. “Nixaera, I know working with the Horde is not going to be pleasant,” he sighed, expecting her to react in this way. “But right now, the situation is extremely tense between the factions. With the Lich King dead, there is no cause for the Alliance and Horde to collaborate, and we could be on the verge of conflict.” “Do you call what transpired at the Wrathgate a ‘verge!?’” the draenei death knight shouted back in her echoing voice. She slammed her fist into the stone wall next to her, cracking the quarried stone and startling the nearby dock workers of Valiance Keep. “It was a massacre! We lost more soldiers to the Forsaken’s meddling than we did to the scourge! This is a mistake!” Shaking his head in exasperation, the paladin palmed the gold-lined warhammer on his hip as insurance if the draenei did lose control. “The Horde lost just as many as we did at Angrathar. To pin the act of one rogue faction of Forsaken on the warchief is irresponsible, and the one at fault is rotting headless in a shallow tomb, slain by the Banshee Queen herself.” Vyncerin continued to lecture. “If you had any sense, you would welcome their aid. Light only knows what lies beyond the portal.” Nixaera glared at him. “Why are you so adamant about having them accompany us? On which side do you stand, Vyncerin?” “I stand with the Argent Dawn,” he replied, returning the death knight’s gaze. “And the Argent Dawn stands with the Light. I would have thought you would as well, as you did before you were risen from death.” “Do not mistake me; Lumaera is gone,” Nixaera hissed. “I will not stand by the Horde while they continue to associate with the damned and the corrupt.” Vyncerin glanced over at the three newest members of their company; the three Horde selected by Thrall, Garrosh, and Sylvanas. One, an orc warrior by the name of Harag, one of Garrosh’s lieutenants. Of the lot, this individual more than others made the paladin wary that Hellscream’s son had little faith in the Alliance, and sent a high-standing warrior to keep track of the enemy. Thrall’s envoy was Jazla, a shaman that was more associated with the Earthen Ring than the Horde. The last- perhaps the source of Nixaera’s rebelliousness -the Blood Elf, Mebrin, a warlock apparently renowned for his magical affinity. “The elf?” Vyncerin asked ambiguously. “Those who call upon demonic magic are not to be trusted,” asserted the death knight. Rolling his eyes, the paladin turned away from Nixaera. “Then do not come,” he said. “If you won’t tolerate those in our company, then you will remain here. The Horde may not be your allies, but this undertaking will only happen if we accept their cooperation. I will not let your attitude hinder this joint mission.” He walked away toward the Horde envoys, leaving the draenei with his ultimatum. Nixaera watched her friend leave. She turned her gaze to Mebrin, who was pointedly looking at her with a flat scowl. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him out of my sight. She started off after Vyncerin. This was a bad idea. Sherisse hated traveling by sea with a burning passion. The smell was rancid, the bread was stale, and, worst of all, her small gnomish stomach churned with the bobbing motion of the deck. Her low center of gravity helped very little. She tried to cure herself with holy magic, but it was a only a short period before she had her head over the ship’s rails again. The priest was miserable. A hand on her shoulder beckoned Sherisse to lift her head up to see who it belonged to. To her surprise, she stared up at the teal-skinned face of the troll shaman. “Ya got some bad voodoo in ya insides, gnome?” Jazla asked with a fanged smile. Sherisse nodded. “You could… say that.” Jazla chuckled lightheartedly. “We Darkspear be accustomed to da sea. It gives us fish to eat and waves to ride to other shores. Ya gnomes be accustomed to da iron halls of ya cave cities, Gnomeregan an’ Ironforge. Ya don’t know da taste of da sea air, or da movin’ of da waves like we do. Da trolls thrive from da sea, da gnomes from da earth.” “Please don’t say waves,” Sherisse lurched as the troll spoke, turning an unhealthy shade of green. “It disturbs my metabolic process.” “Although,” the shaman let out another chuckle. “Even some’a us trolls get da seasick. There’ll be no helpin’ from ya holy magics. However…” Jazla waved her hand over Sherisse, muttering phrases in her native tongue. Her three-fingered hand glowed with swirling green energy that made the gnome’s insides tingle. “It just take da right mojo for da job.” Sherisse was uncertain at first, but found that the moving of the ship no longer bothered her or her bowels. Whatever spell the shaman had used, it had cured her seasickness. “Wow! Thanks!” she chirped. Jazla nodded. “Think nothin’ of it, little one. Just be comin’ back when ya feel da sickness returnin’.” Arthas was becoming very impatient. Three days of travelling by foot (hoof?) with nothing to eat aside from what they could find by the sparsely-used road, his only companion a strange stallion who Arthas decided had been taken by madness long ago, and taking only small periods to rest and recover. The journey took its toll on his aching hooves and disheveled mane, and was slowly eating away at his sanity. Medivh, on the other hand (hoof?) seemed none too bothered by the rigorous travelling. It seemed to Arthas that the unicorn was becoming even more energetic and lively as they walked. Attempts to converse with him was only met with either an ambiguous answer or a lengthy monologue on a random species of plant he spotted on the journey. At one point he spoke for three hours on a kind of thistle that was apparently very rare and sought after by certain professionals. At that particular point in time, Medivh was still rambling on about a bird he had seen an hour ago. “...though they look more alike to a species by a similar name and the same family that exists in the northern reaches of the continent, you’d be surprised to find that they are of two very different genus. It was not classified as such until a wide schism in their dietary and nesting habits was observed by renowned orithologist--” “How much further do we need to walk?” Arthas interjected. “For three days I’ve followed you on this coarse excuse for a road, and you’ve not given a single mention to where we are going. Nor have we encountered anyone else travelling along this path. Please, for my sanity, how much longer is this trek?” Medivh stared back at the stone-gray stallion as if he’d just been offended. “My word, so impatient!” he harumphed. “Haven’t you heard the proverb, young one? ‘Getting there is half the fun!’” Arthas sighed in frustration. “So where is ‘there?’” “I have no idea!” The words made Arthas stop in his tracks, his jaw hanging wide open. For three days, this addled pony had no clue what their destination was. “What!?” he exclaimed. “Then what is the point of all this!? Are we rubbing our feet down to stubs for nothing!? What sense is there in that!?” “Sense…” Medivh chuckled despite the rage of the larger pony. “Indeed, what fun is there in making sense?” Before Arthas could respond, he continued. “I suppose I do owe you an explanation. You see, I have a gift, given to me by powers unknown to even the wisest. My gift, Arthas, is sight.” “So you have eyes,” Arthas glowered. “My congratulations.” Medivh laughed heartily. “You misunderstand, my prince. My eyes see more than what appears to be, or what is in truth. I can look at any one object and see it’s place in times past, and it’s destiny to come. For the bird I was describing previously, everything I told you was what I saw within the bird; it’s history. The reason we are following this road, my dear prince, is that I looked upon it and saw that it’s destiny was to carry us to wherever it may go.” Arthas’ face softened, but his glare held. Of course, he thought that Medivh had contracted some form of indescribable madness, and that his words had little weight. But as he glared at the smaller stallion, Arthas saw something odd in the elder eyes. Something behind this old stallion’s eye belied a mind that was wise above madness… and perhaps to the brink of it. “Very well,” he grunted. “Continue. Wherever we’re going, we should get there as soon as possible.” “Excellent,” Medivh chirped, turning back down the road and resuming his walk. “Now, where was I? Their dietary and nesting habits were observed by renowned ornithologist, Peckerhoof, who was the first to catalogue this difference in the two species…”
Temper of the Prophet “It is indeed of elvish origin,” Elunedra concluded, examining the roots that arched over the cascading pink-tinted magical energy, meeting at the top to form the base of a great tree. “However, the magic is not the same used on the portal connecting Rut’theran and Darnassas. This one is arcane in nature and...” Her hand brushed the roots again. The druid’s eyes widened in awe. “This tree is old... impossibly old... older even than Nordrassil was...” Vyncerin paced anxiously in a wide circle around the tree, which was being examined by Jazla, Mebrin, and Elunedra. The company of eight had arrived at the small island after a day’s sailing from the port of Valiance Keep and set up a small encampment. They immediately set to work examining the tree with every method available, from the mundane examination of the soil in which it grew, to the magical inspection of the portal itself. Mebrin paused in his study of the energy itself. “Unfortunately, she’s correct,” the blood elf reported. “The workings of the spell are ancient. I would go so far as to say it predates the schism in the elvish races. This tree and the portal within were likely created by the Highbourne before the Sundering.” “So it’s a damned old tree,” Apse spat from his seat near the camp. The dwarf reclined and let out a harrumph. “Can we skip to the important bit?” “Every detail counts, dwarf,” Mebrin reminded the hunter. “Even the trivial ones.” Apse rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we just have a stroll through and see what’s on the other side? What’s the harm in it?” “Because, moron,” Nixaera growled from the opposite side of the camp. “We want to be sure we can stroll back out. If it’s really as old as they say it is, the sister portal may not even be standing. We would walk right into oblivion, our atoms scattered into dust within the cold between spaces.” She settled back into her seat and resumed reading her book. “From what I’ve heard, being ripped apart for eternity is less than enjoyable.” With a frightened look, the dwarf put a hand to his forehead. “Sorry I asked, then.” Vyncerin sighed dejectedly at the morbidity of the death knight, however true it was. The paladin continued his pacing, but paused at the spot Mebrin was working from. “Is it possible to determine if the portal is safe or not?” he asked the warlock. “We could always throw the dwarf in and see if he comes back,” the elf laughed quietly as Vyncerin inwardly groaned. “In a more serious mood, without proper equipment, there is no way to know through magical means. If we had a exo-dimensional leyline probe, we could not only detect if there was a sister portal, but also discover if the destination is environmentally safe.” Vyncerin only needed a glance at their meager equipment to know that their variety did not include such a highly-specialized piece of arcane equipment. However, his gaze lingered longer on the crates marked with the crest of Gnomergan or the various goblin trade cartels. “Perhaps if magic can’t help,” the paladin muttered. “Technology can.” He turned back toward the camp. “Sherrise!” There was a tug on the human’s cloak. “I’m right here,” the gnome priest said from below his eye height. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you needed a probe of some kind?” Gesturing to the crates of supplies, Vyncerin nodded. “We need something that can determine if what’s on the other end of this portal is safe... or if there is another side at all,” he explained. “Could you see what you can scrape together from our equipment?” “Can do, boss!” Sherrise gave a small salute and scampered over to the crates. Mebrin watched the gnome curiously. “A divine engineer?” the elf mused. “If this is true, then I have truly seen everything.” “Believe you me, elf,” Vyncerin said, moving away to continue his pacing. “Even after several years of service with that gnome, she will continue to surprise me until the day I die.” Nixaera’s log, Seven days after the defeat of the Lich King Sherrise is a very talented gnome. As both a battle healer and an adept engineer, she has played an invaluable role in the campaign against the Lich King. Alone, she kept our small band of five alive against an ambush numbering several dozen Scourge soldiers, and still had enough of a magical font to revive Apse’s wolf, who had fallen in the fray. On the front of technology, she has several patented inventions, including a mechanical water siphon that purified the water with holy magic. I have no doubt she can create just the device we require. The blood elf continues to be a constant worry for me. In my experience with the Burning Legion aboard the Exodar, anything that demons touch, even remotely, is destined to be corrupted by the foul will of the Legion. This elf may not appear to be such a danger, but his descent into demonic madness is inevitable. I’m certain of it. It was a mistake to bring him. Those who command dark powers are not to be trusted. “Finally,” Arthas groaned. “Civilization.” As their journey reached it’s fourth day, the two companions sighted two small stone towers, apparently on either side of the path. Arthas began to make out small details as they approached, such as figures moving between the parapets and an arched stone bridge over the path that connected the towers. The stone-gray stallion felt his pace pick up, eager to reach the towers. Medivh simply matched his pace, allowing himself a small chuckle at Arthas’ enthusiasm. Enthusiasm that quickly fell when Arthas was near enough to see a dozen equine quadrupeds dressed in golden armor lining the path with various weapons at their sides. Their gazes were nervous and wary, as if they were expecting something to go awry. Arthas slowed his pace, advancing more cautiously. These were guards that had recently had a negative encounter, and were likely to be less than friendly to himself and Medivh. “Is something the matter, Arthas?” Medivh asked from beside him. “Not a moment ago you seemed very eager to finally see other ponies.” Ponies... Arthas mulled over the word. It was familiar, but he could not remember where he had heard it. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he voiced. “Those guards up there look to be on edge. Is there something dangerous around here?” “Oh, undoubtedly!” chirped the maroon stallion in an uncharacteristically joyful tone. “I’m surprised we weren’t jumped by bandits earlier; this road is infamous for being raided by brigands. Thankfully, it isn’t trade season, and what do we have worth stealing, eh?” Arthas was gave the smaller stallion a surprised look. “It didn’t occur to you to mention this to me at some point!?” “I didn’t think it was important.” Medivh continued on, leaving Arthas behind a few paces as the gray stallion hesitated in dumbstruck shock. “Besides, we encountered nothing of ill intent, so why worry about something that didn’t happen?” Shaking himself of his perplexed state, Arthas quickened his pace to catch up to Medivh. “I still think you’re absolutely mad.” “Well... you aren’t wrong.” “Halt! Who goes there?” The pair froze as two halberds crossed in front of their path. They had been too occupied with their own colloquy, the three guards that had walked out to meet them went completely unnoticed. While Medivh remained unfazed by the sudden blockade, the sharpness of the guard’s voice caught him suddenly, and his hooves skidded a few inches when he stopped just short of the polearm weapon. The guard that had spoken was on the opposite side of the halberd barricade, looking the pair up and down. “I said, who goes there!?” he repeated. “Yes, yes, we heard you the first time,” replied Medivh cheerily, as if he was having a perfectly normal conversation. “My name is Magus Secret Keeper, and this large fellow at my side is my personal bodyguard, Stonewall. We are traveling this road, and would very much like to pass, if you please.” Arthas gave Medivh a confused glance. Why didn’t he use our names? “A magus? Really?” the white-coated guard said, not sounding very convinced. “So, ‘sir magus,’ exactly where are you bound?” Medivh made a noise that sounded like he had been struck. “I hardly think that is any business of yours, ‘Sir Shieldhoof,’” Medivh scoffed, putting a dripping jeer on the name, despite the fact that it was previously unmentioned. The unicorn’s face held a cold expression, one that betrayed a wrathful mood. “I think, if you had any sense, you would allow us passage, before you regret hindering our progress.” A rustling sound from the trees overhead foretold to Arthas that the wind was picking up, and continued to intensify at an unnaturally rapid rate. He glanced around, suddenly very skittish. If the three guards noticed the change, they made no sign of it. “I don’t recall telling you my name,” the guard, Shieldhoof, said with no small amount of suspicion. “Guards, take these two border-jumpers into custody. I won’t have any more of their--” Suddenly, the air around them exploded in a wild tempest. Arthas covered his eyes with his foreleg to keep away the stray dust that buffeted him. His wispy white mane and tail flapped violently, and he had to brace himself to keep the wind from staggering his footing. What foul manner of wind is this!? he asked silently. ”I am Secret Keeper!” Medivh’s voice thundered with impossible volume. ”Magus of the Raven, the Prophet, the Last Guardian, the Accursed! You WILL let us pass, or face my unrelenting wrath!” As fast as the tempest came, the wind calmed and died to a stop. Arthas lowered his foreleg to see that the three guard-ponies had dropped their halberds and were looking at Medivh with looks of pure shock and horror. In truth, he too felt wary of the maroon stallion, despite being his companion. There was a power about the short-tempered ‘magus,’ and all present learned that this scrawny unicorn was not to be trifled with. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind?” Medivh prompted in his normal cheery disposition. “We would like to be on our way.” As Arthas watched the three guards scramble from their spots to clear the way, he made a note to himself not to invoke the temper of his companion. Author's Note Comments and criticism are both very welcome.
