Conquest of the Horde

-Endling-

Endling sat in a corner of the tower of the Lost Minded, clutching her right hand and pressing against the wall. She held her hands against her head, her false breaths slow and deep. Voices of reason cried out, but found themselves swept away in her worried mind.

'Don't worry yourself'

'I don't want her to hurt'

'Save your energy'


Endling reclined back against the stone, holding her right hand up, fingers tracing over the seared imprint of a symbol of the holy light, burned deep into the flesh. Still burning, rather. Still aching. She shivered, finding her gaze lingering on the charred brand- Hurt! Hurt, indeed! When already worse scars festered. She hid the imprinted hand away, leaning against her legs and trembling once more.

In silence she sat still and rigid, listening to the faint conversation of those in the floors above; How pleasant they sounded, how pleased they were- she felt blame fall upon her for how quick she was to draw away from them. She was shunned by no one but herself, driven away by unanswered questions from within. Surely they found her skittish behavior a nuisance, regardless. The tremors, the constant burning flame- an unliving picture of suffering had no real place amongst them.

Endling rocked herself slowly, jumping as the usual creaks of floorboards echoed from above. After they died down once more, she was still and silent once more.


With some measure of meditation and fear she lifted her gnarled wooden stave, looking over the poorly fashioned staff. Her hand clenched tight on it's grip, closing her eyes in preparation as holy light pulsed into the object, sending more crackling fire through her body. Again- Another burning strike. Again- A concussive, dazing pain. Again, and she dropped the stave, hand flexing slowly, the bandaged palm that held it now freely bleeding black ichor as it had many times before.

She found herself drifting, in and out of her trance-like daze of 'sleep'. With some effort she managed to pull herself up, only to collapse against the chair beside her with a grunt of discomfort. Suppression. She gripped her stave, forcing herself back upright with a gasp of pain as the seared hand was pressed against the rough wooden staff. She stood for a moment, testing herself- Ever so slowly her legs grew weaker and weaker, until they began to buckle underneath her, forcing her down into the chair.

More voices upstairs- She hadn't expected anyone to stir this late. She glanced about, quickly beginning to wrap her bleeding hand. With a nod she pushed off from the chair, inwardly cursing herself as she heard the wooden legs scrape against the cobbled floor- She would duck into a shadow-filled corner of the tower bridge, trying her best to remain unseen as she waited out the fatigue of her actions.

Suppression. Endurance. She needed these, if she were to keep herself within these walls.


She lifted her head back up, leaning against the brick wall and listening to the others as they carried on above.

"Who's a good Snuggles? You are!"

A Small Sanctuary

Endling trekked once more through the tainted land of the Eastern Plaguelands. She had traveled this road many times before; despite her withdrawal into society she always found herself coming back to this place.

The chapel was nearby—It would be easy to simply slip off the trail and into the abandoned church, and never be seen or heard of again. For a moment she would stop as she came by that familiar dirt path, overgrown with what few weeds could still muster strength to grow in the plaguelands. In the distance that lonely church could be seen, panels beaten by weather and nearly splintering to pieces, a broken steeple reaching up like a hand grasping for salvation. The windows were shattered and the boards behind them smashed in by gnarled claws; the sole remnant of the faith once held within an altar, with the blood of the caretaker spilled upon it. It was a pitiful remainder of the faith, but it was one she still clung dearly to.

She shook her head, bundling her cloak tighter around her as the northern wind chilled her bones-- she couldn’t stop here. This was her last chance. With a shuddering sigh of remorse she bowed to that lonely chapel and limped onward, balancing herself against her cierge as she trundled forth. She had been injured long before her journey into the plaguelands had even begun; a wrong word in the wrong crowd, and she was being driven out from Tirisfal on threat of death. It was by pure luck she ended up finding refuge amongst the Argents at the bulwark, but even now she gave a wary glance back, fearful of some hell-bent pursuer to have chased her this far.

No such trouble yet, though. The Light was surely watching over her, it seemed; perhaps her journey was not in vain after all. She had traveled through Kalimdor and the kingdom of Lordaeron to arrive at this destination, but hope outweighed all the other emotions which surged through her at the moment. Was she seeking power? No, not quite, nor was it a fortune or fame. Validation was the only thing she sought, and the nearer she drew to the Ghostlands the more her inner turmoil swelled.


‘Useless’

‘Weak.’

‘Wretched.’


She tried to drive the voices away, but still they returned. They came accompanied with each time she had been patronized, held back, so tenderly discouraged by her allies. The glares of disgust and anger from her former members of the faith were things she had, by this point, become accustomed to, but the mocking patronizing voices of her friends she could not shake from her conscious. Each placating word seared her mind, and their gentle voices were twisted into seething taunts. It was one thing to be unable to help, but entirely different to be willing and spurned. Each time she was left with lingering thoughts, though; was she really so weak? Was she a burden to them? She often removed herself for the night to think over this, and each time she only found affirmation in her mind.

She couldn’t continue on like this. She would no longer be a dead weight to her friends, or be cast aside for their conscious. She glanced down to the marked map as she entered the gates into the darkened woodlands of the Ghostlands of Quel’thalas, moving onward down the cobble trail with renewed resolve. She would either return to the Ashrunes as a proper priestess, or not return at all. Upon the map she held was a hermit’s home—a man formerly renowned of the church in Silvermoon, now withdrawn after the elves’ descent into corruption from the demon’s magic. She had resolved to march to the man’s door, and plea for his guidance; perhaps one as strong as he could show her back to the path of the Light from which she had been cast aside from.

Finally she came upon the home, buried against the mountainside atop a hill. She stood bracing herself for a short moment, before simply charging uphill, disregarding the pain and dropping her cierge as she made it to the door. Her hand collided three times- Knock! Knock! Knock! Before she withdrew, her whole body tensing in anticipation.

…Nothing. She glanced over the derelict home, taking a step back. Despite the apparent age and abandoned look there was indeed a light in the room above… She approached the door once more, only for it to be pulled back after another tap at the wooden surface.

“What do you come here for, Forsaken? Tranquillien surely knows better to send one of your kind for me.”

“I am… n-not of that village, Sir. I am a p-priestess of the Holy Light. I have been told that y-you are a fellow man of the faith.”


“Was a man of the faith, you mean.” He replied harshly, letting the door pull open. He was an elf showing some kind of age- or stress-, clothed in a modest robe and with uncombed silver hair draping over his back, seeming to be in no urgency to make himself presentable. “Silvermoon may still know me as a divinist, but I know them no longer. They can keep their ‘allies’ and their demons, and I will keep my distance.”


Endling would just stare back at the elf in return, a cold chill running over her. “I-I am a p-priestess of the Light.” She continued once more, at the urging of the man. “I have c-come here in search of g-guidance.”


The divinist would step back from the door, brow furrowed. “I’m not certain if I should laugh or pity you, Forsaken. The Light has abandoned you, just as it has the rest of my kin. Leave. There is only misery for you here.”


There was a quick blurr of motion, and Endling found herself staring into the wooden door once more.

“No.”

A Desperate Prayer

On the doorstep of a derelict home stood one figure, braced and waiting.

‘Abandoned.’

“No.”

‘You have been abandoned. Your friends, your faith—they are all nothing. Accept it and leave.’

“N-no.”

Endling’s eyes would open, hoping to see that the elf had returned, or perhaps that he had not answered the door at all. Hesitantly she would knock once more, the elder’s voice replying from within, muffled from the distance. “I said leave! I can do nothing for you.”

Endling drew away and staggered back, letting her body fall back against a support on the porch. Had she come all this way for nothing? She had gone so far, risked her whole being— if the Light had saved her in Tirisfal, why did it not grant her plea now? Itching questions came in droves, blocking out her thoughts as she found herself curling against her knees, eyes shut. To open them and be anywhere but here—in Orgrimmar, or Silvermoon, even Lady Reigen’s tower! Anything to not be faced with such failure would surely be a comfort.

She fell forward onto her knees, hands clasped in prayer. ‘Oh, strength and protector, where are you now? How have you brought me to this journey’s end only to be cast aside! Did you not protect me through this journey? Did you not answer my prayer then?’ her thoughts continued on in frantic accusations, pleading for some kind of signal of reason, but none came. Night had even begun to fall by this point, but she could care less of the path home. With a shuddering sigh she began to calm herself, staring down to the marble floor of the porch beneath her. Slowly the antagonizing voices began to calm, until one singular one remained.

‘The Light gives, and the Light takes. This is something you have always known. Should always have known.’

She only mustered a nod, a finger tracing tenderly over her palm. Beneath she could still feel that burning sigil, as if it was wrapped in beneath the bandages as well. It was not, of course- it hung around her neck instead.

“There must be a purpose, though.” She murmered against the voices within, falling to her hands and knees, hands clasped, pleading.

‘What purpose could there be? You were raised, as well as many others. Your purpose ended with the Lich King.’

“T-this second chance… is not meaningless. There is a r-reason.”

‘The only reason was hatred. The only meaning is suffering.’

“Then l-let it be so. M-may it be that I suffer, so that others must not. Let this pain... have meaning.”


There was no response. She saw only darkness before her, the shadows blocking out the rest of the world around her as night descended. She remained there, huddled against the floor in silent prayer, waiting. As they night drew on she heard noises of the restless dead all around, rising up to wander in the night, hunting eagerly for their unfortunate prey. From behind she could hear footsteps. Perhaps a ghoul had wandered through- perhaps this was the end that the light would grant her for her troubles…

It was not. A hand came down up on her shoulder, withdrawing as the kneeling priestess sprung back, turning to find the divinist before her once more. In his hand he held a candle, staring down to her with a pensive look, one of worry and pity. He rubbed at his glowing eyes, clearly fatigued from the day. Nonetheless, he took a deep breath, addressing her. “You… have been out here all this time, haven’t you? It’s been hours…” his frown became deeper as she replied with a nod. “I see, then.”

Endling found herself staring up to him, unable to push herself to speak. Eventually the elf did so for her, a hand jutting down before her. “…Please, come inside. My conscious is weighty enough without another being placed upon it.”

With some hesitation she took his tender hand, rising up slowly as not to put much pressure upon her wounded foot. She would bow to him, following him silently into the home. “I’m not certain I can do much for you.” He told her, walking to a staircase as they entered in, leaving her to find a spot to rest, “But perhaps I can try.”

Endling gave another nod, watching him ascend the staircase, dropping onto a padded couch and letting her weary body collapse onto her side.

She would try as well.

Ambition

The dim morning light crept into the den of the small elven home, the restless night fading slowly to day. Outside the home the undead denizens of the Ghostlands trudged through the fields mindlessly, ever vigilante for unlucky prey which strayed too far from the guarded path. They had no need for sleep; they were little more than machines of death and destruction, bound to wander the wastes until an adventurer or time itself wore them down to a motionless husk.

Within the hermitage another undead stirred, her weary eyes pulling away from the cushions of the silken couch before her. Much like the undead outside, she could not sleep either. She felt at times she could dream, though, even if such a notion was only her own imagination wandering as the time dwindled on throughout the lonely night vigil she was forced to keep. She ‘dreamed’ of many things; of friends, of family, all faded and little more than faint memories, fleeting from her grasp as soon as they came to mind. The only real memories were so recent, by comparison—of the Dawnsends and their tower, of Thragash and the Ashrunes.

Perhaps… did any of them wonder to where she had departed?

Did they miss her?


She frowned, a pang of regret felt within her. She was selfish not to make mention of her travel, even if one might attempt to stop her. Sir Thragash must have been worried…

She snapped back to reality, and peered up from her thoughts as footsteps came from the steps above. Endling quickly scrambled upright, hastily combing back her hair to look presentable. She had not had a chance to apply her ointments or change; it all became rather evident to her the closer the elf came, and she closed her eyes tight, hoping not to repulse him and send him away.


“I apologize for my attitude yesterday.” said the divinist, his tone attempting to mask any true emphasis or feeling. He was businesslike, curt and straightforward despite his concern from the previous night. Nonetheless he was comforting, in the least.
“I am Mehin Evancrest,” He began, taking a seat some distance away as he poured a cup of tea. “You have come here in search of guidance, you’ve said. Can you elaborate to me why?”

Endling bowed her head, nodding slowly in response. “I… am lost, Sir Evancrest. A d-daughter of the Light cursed, and weakened. I am a h-healer by trade, but… this blight upon my body and soul…” she would close her eyes, trailing off in thought. She would eventually bow her head, exposing her bandaged hands towards him.

“Mm. I see…” he murmered, rather perplexed by the sight. He eased forward in his chair, taking Endling’s hand, eliciting a gasp of pain from the Forsaken. “You’re burnt.” He remarked, glancing up to her. “Quite badly—what is the meaning of this?”

Endling shook her head, eyes clenched shut. “N-no, Sir. I am a wielder of the L-Light, not the flame.” She opened an eye, feeling him drawing away. “Is s-something wrong?”

The elf went almost silent at this, a gentle hand still holding onto her own as he stared down to the bandaged hands. “This is… the Light, then? This is your doing?” he stammered after, looking at the charred flesh exposed by gaps in the bandages. “From the Light… You may profess yourself to be weak, but these hands show me otherwise. You seem to have endurance, my friend. Endurance, and a large dose of madness.”

“I exist to serve.” She replied, bowing her head, hands still outstretched towards him. “If y-you… think me mad, then I can leave. I do not w-wish to burden you any longer.”

“No. No, it’s fine.” He replied, a hand ushering her back into her seat as she began to rise. “Hold- please. Sit.” His voice was quick, urging almost, and quickly he carried on. “If it is training as a mendicant you seek, then I am afraid you know all which I may impart to you. You are no acolyte—of that I am certain.” He continued on, eyes still locked on her hands, brow furrowed.
He would stand upright, peering over the Forsaken as her eyes finally rose to meet his. He shook his head, shifting his weight slightly as he eased back into his chair. “However… there is something else that could be done.”


Endling’s merely quirked a brow, rising back upright and hiding her bandaged hands from his gaze. She bowed her head once more before him, urging him on.

“What are you prepared to do for your faith, Forsaken? To what lengths are you devoted?” he asked searchingly, leaning forward with the support of an arm.

“I will do all for the Light. Anything t-that it wills.” She replied, tensing up some.

“Would you give your life for it, should it come to it?”

“I have already done so once before.”

He stared at her from behind his spectacles, jaw clenching. His look was pensive, inspecting, seeking any fault he could find upon her countenance.
“Have you ever considered anything beyond your duties as a mendicant?”

“L-Like one such as you, Sir? No longer, no. That is n-not a place for one who is afflicted as I.”

“Humility is a virtue, good lady. Weakness is a fault. Which one you possess, only you can say. I am offering you something you will not find in Silvermoon, or in the Undercity. If you have truly lost your ambition, then you may leave. If your faith is as true as you say, though—if you are indeed willing to sacrifice your being for the light… perhaps there is purpose for your journey yet. Your resolve is strong, I can tell— but this is a choice which is yours to make, not mine.”

Endlings body shuddered at the thought. Was such a proposal even possible? She didn’t know. She only stared back, a tense silence enveloping the pair.


“The Light is my strength.” She proclaimed, voice strong with determination. “With it… I shall not falter.”


“So we shall see.” He replied, bowing his head to her in return.

Respect

Endling lay back upon an elven couch, staring up as night began to descend on the humble hermitage she resided in this night. She was truly grateful for this slightest comfort; to brace against anything besides a stone wall, or the soil of the earth was almost to be compared to a warm embrace by this point. She cast her thoughts away from these things, though—there was much more to ponder this sleepless night.

Endling slowly rested herself amongst the silken pillows. A high divinist… it was surely not something she had arrived in search of, nor was it something she had ever considered. To her these figures were ones only found within the annals of history and the faint news from the seemingly distant lands of the capitol. They were great, and perhaps this is why she found such reservation in the idea; she was never an aspirant for greatness, after all. It was best to strive for your greatest potential than to overreach and fall flat. To be a mendicant and a confessor was something she had taken pride in, and never had she thought herself suited for any other position. Perhaps before she might have been more open to such a suggestion… but the war had seen to it that those possibilities had been dashed. She continued to feel over the searing mark, staring into nothingness as the night passed by…


The undead found herself wrenched back to reality with a heavy crash to her right, immediately springing upright and clinging dearly to the cloak lain atop her. She turned to find a stack of books set into a tower on the table before the couch, other tomes falling into a pile strewn all around it. Mehin stood over the heap, dusting his hands off.

“There we are.” He said with a smirk. “These are dated, but I surely doubt Silvermoon’s newer authors have penned finer. Before you lies the entirety of my collection of dissertation and prose upon the Light and the tenets encompassing it. I’ll make the assumption for now that you already are familiar with many of these, though…” The elf furrowed a brow, pulling a book up into his hand and flipping a few pages in. “If one is to master the Light, one must be versed in his tenets.”

“Respect… T-tenacity and compassion.” Murmered Endling in reply, bowing her head as the elf peered over his tome to her.

“Quite. We will begin with respect, as is common practice. It is as if we are starting all anew, isn’t it? The Light teaches awareness of the self and the universe, but the connection as well. We are all connected, and when a brother of any faction or nationality is harmed, it in turn harms us all. Conflict is common in our days, but to be fair there has always been conflict. These are the facts of the world we live in.”

Endling only nodded along, retracing the words of the tome in her mind; she had taught others of the tenet before… it felt somewhat peculiar, hearing them recited to her now.

“In these times of bloodshed especially, respect to the enemy is particularly hard to come by. Trolls practically live to dishonor their foes after battle, just as the Forsaken do. In times of hatred we must ensure that even our foes are laid to rest in proper fashion, just as our own allies must be.”

Mehin would glance up once more, nodding to her in acknowledgement.


“I… a-am well read when pertaining to the tenets, Sir. I a-apologize for a lack of… enthusiasm.” She replied, bowing her head quickly.

“Understandable, Lady Endling.” He said, closing the book with a snap. “But even those knowledgeable to the teachings of the Light should reflect upon them again periodically. Knowledge taken for granted often fades from the mind, lost in such self-assurance.”

Endling bowed her head once more, staring at the ground. “I understand.”

Mehin nodded, adjusting his spectacles as he set the book back down on the table. “I will leave these tomes to you until I can make arrangements for a matter of practice.”

“Practice…?” she inquired, a glowing eyes darting up to him, brow raised. “I… d-did not believe one could truly ‘practice’ t-the virtues, Sir.”

“That is true; perhaps we shall call them trials, then.” He replied, leaning back in his chair as he peered across to her. “A test of your faith, and your devotion.”

The undead would adjust her cloak, sitting upright and staring back silently. Proving devotion? One could not do that through action. Actions could be misleading or shallow—she kept her thoughts to herself, though. This man knew more than she, and her reverence for him implored her inner thoughts to silence themselves.

“Respect is not simply something shown to company; a bow and kind words are indeed welcome, but there is much more. Do you respect the orcs, Lady Endling?”

“O-of course.” she said, nodding her head quickly. “They… h-have been so kind to me. Sir Thragash and the others…”

“Then you seem to be on kind terms with them, in the least. To respect them as a people though, you must honor their traditions. The orcs do not hold the same burial rites as we, for instance—in fact, they do not bury their dead at all. I believe, then, that this should be your task; to serve the orcs and their culture. To respect not only them, but their people and their ancestors.”

Mehin gave a curt nod, glancing over to a bookshelf. “There are documents on such methods in one of those tomes as well, surely.” He would shrug, beginning to rise. Endling watched the elf like a hawk, utterly perplexed. Was that all?

“The orcs are not quite as fond of the teachings of the Light, of course. Not every priest would be willing to forgo the Light’s own teachings for those of the Horde’s spirits.”


With that the elf was gone, heading back upstairs to his own study. Endling peered behind him for several minutes, expecting the elf to come back down to instruct further. After some time without result she would turn her attention to the cluttered table before her, timidly reaching out and retrieving one of the heavy tomes for her perusal.

He wasn’t much of a teacher; it was a good thing she read and reflected upon such topics often, otherwise she might have been truly lost. His methodology was peculiar, but she had no one else to turn to. She would place her trust in him, and serve the Light as she could.


One could smile and smile and still mask malice though. These trials meant little to her.



Perhaps in time she would see things differently.

Reverence to the Spirits

Endling had traveled far from Silvermoon over the last two days; All the way across the ocean’s span back to the red lands of Durotar, where she had begun her journey for enlightenment. She had foregone her usual journey on foot upon her instructor’s bidding; though travel by zeppelin held less significance to her, she understood the matter required her timely presence. She would not keep such a ceremony for her own reasons, whether it was a gesture to the light or not. On the way she had stowed tomes of orcish lore in her light luggage, reading through them meticulously in search of further knowledge for her upcoming 'trial'. She was to assist in a pyre for a fallen grunt, as her instructor had commanded. While it seemed callous to call such a thing a trial, she did not give question to his bidding.

She walked from the gates of Orgrimmar with cierge in hand, following behind the small trail of orcs marching on towards a platform of wood raised the previous day. All around it warriors bearing flame stood, staring straight ahead in silence, brows furrowed in concentration on the rites at hand. Upon the wooden slab lay the body of a fallen grunt, arms crossed over his chest in a firm salute. His features were hardened from battle; looking upon the fallen youth as they arrived Endling could have sworn that his battered body might try to rise up at any moment to call for aid, or awaken to let out a cry of battle. Only the rough linen-covered gash that ran deep into his chest shed light onto his true fate, a streak of scarlet red running through the dull colored bandaging.

Alongside the others she would approach, laying tribute upon the pyre, and saying prayers to the memory of this fallen brave. Her thoughts turned away from grief momentarily as she mounted the stairs of the pyre, turning to thought as she took in the sight before her. The warrior seemed young—perhaps even around the age of Sir Thragash, or younger. His expression was fierce even as he lay upon the pyre, and his hands clutched at weapons which they no longer held.. She would glance back after setting her meager tribute before the body, not wanting to keep the mourners any longer. She slowly eased her way back into the crowd, trying in vain to merge into the mass of green behind her. Once the tribute was presented there was a shout from up in the crowd, the orcs bearing flame stepping forward and letting their torches fall upon the pyre. Heavy drumbeats began to peal out across the clearing, the pyre going up in an infernal blaze in a flash as the kindling was set alight.

From within the mass another cry rose up—a chant this time for the fallen man, as if cheering on his procession to the afterlife. From the chanting crowd came a single Orc clad in the robes of a spiritualist; a pyremaster, as she had read. His deep rumbling voice echoed out louder than the rest, permeating the chant and slowly overwhelming it as the other orcs followed suit. The Lok’vadnod; a song to honor the memories of the fallen warrior. The voices amongst the crowd were not sorrowful, but instead full of mirth and energy. She bowed her head, accompanying the solemn chant with her own voice as she came to find the melody amongst the crowd.

The orcs were truly a people to be respected. In Lordaeron she had attended many funerals alongside the church; all of them were morose, filled with anguish and regret. She had no doubt that these people mourned for the fallen upon the pyre no less, but within the voices of the mourners she felt a spirit wholly different from what she had known. He was not a ‘good man’ in life, but a ‘mighty warrior’. There were hardly any attempts to hide his faults, either- they sung for his memory, not for their own comfort. It was evident that these were people who truly knew death, and sacrifice. For them the destruction of war and the loss of life was not a far off tale amongst the returning soldiers, nor a song of glory in a safe tavern, but instead a daily procession in life.

As the slow, mournful hymn carried on the grunts from the gates of Orgrimmar bowed their heads as well, able to hear the echoing melody from the short distance away. Amongst the deep voices of their brothers and sisters though they could hear a faint other, light in tone and carrying only grief.



As the pyre waned the orcs paid their final respects, saluting and dispersing. Without word they made way back to their homes, though some remained knelt alongside the family of the slain, offering their promises of aid to the bereaved. Amongst the now sparse group Endling remained, her eyes coming up from the red soil and focusing on the pyremaster who now had ceased his chant, turning to the remainder of his duties. Endling tentatively approached the still burning pyre, bowing to the pyremaster as he began his parting rites to the body.

“M-may… I assist, sir?”

The wizened orc glanced back with a curious eye, before bowing his head. “Dabu, stranger. You have helped this man already. You may leave.”

“I-I was sent by-”

“You were sent, and now you will return. You have done your part, and now I will do mine.”

Endling stared on at him hesitantly, edging back and bowing once more, quickly departing amongst the last of the crowd. She rubbed her head, combating the thoughts within her head. She had expected... more. She understood this missive, but she found herself lost amongst the meaning of it all. She gingerly rubbed over her palm as she passed out from the gates of Orgrimmar, sighing inwardly.

It wasn't too late to return to the Ashrunes...

Suddenly the comforting sun was replaced with shadow, a zeppelin passing overhead. Her hands clenched, body tensing as she forced herself on towards the dock.

There had to be reason within it all somewhere.

A Psalm of Healing

It had been a fast travel; not a moment had passed before she had made her return to Silvermoon before she found herself summoned to the side of Sir Evancrest, strung along once more for another 'trial'. He had wasted little time in explaining anything to her, but she found herself too fatigued from the trip to question his abbreviated description.

Respect for the enemy. As the solemn pair of Endling and Sir Evancrest made their way out of the Ghostlands and back into the plaguelands she reflected briefly upon this thought. Only a few years ago she had dreaded this place; still did, now that she cast her thoughts to it. Once or twice she had been forced to march past it, though by now it was but a husk of what she remembered. A faded and torn flag, crumbling bricks white bricks; the small hamlet seemed completely abandoned and left to rot amongst the corroding land of the dead.


She trailed just behind Mehin as they entered into the gates of the abandoned outpost, staring around warily. It had truly been abandoned by all; there wasn’t even a sign of the scourge in the tiny village. Bones lay dormant around the yard, scarlet armor littering the ground in broken scraps of metal and torn robes. Alongside them as well she spotted the occasional scourge drudge. It was obvious that they had not given this land to them without a fight, but as it was for so many before them there was little hope in stopping the oncoming machine of war.

“Pay your respects, and then we may leave.” Said Mehin, standing against the gate, rubbing sweat from his brow. Endling would bow her head in return, approaching the different buildings. She would gather what remained of the bodies within, taking them out front of the keep to bury them. Each one was given a small ceremony of its own, as they deserved. She knew that at heart these people were devout, and perhaps even kindly. Their vision was clouded by false doctrine and desperation though-- perhaps at another time they might have been brothers and sisters of her church. Perhaps at one time some of these deceased were.

Slowly the surrounding village was lain to rest, leaving the foreboding barracks for last. As she stepped within memories rushed back upon her, and almost compelled her to leave. Just as methodically though she began her clearing of this building, stopping only as she came to the prison within the cellar. She would take a seat in a corner quite familiar to her, staring up at the slivers of daylight which parted the darkness in this tiny jail. Her hands eased her sleeves up, running along the scarred flesh beneath, finally resting upon the shackles which hung upon her wrists. Upon them was a Lordaeron crest, marked in bloody red.

“For your case there is no need of judgment. For your mockery of the Light and humanity…”

“And for your collaboration with the undead scourge.”

“The Scarlet Crusade’s ruling… Is death.”


A chill ran through her body recalling the words of the executioner. She very well may have died here; a part of her would always remain. She slowly rose back up, searching through the rest of the keep. Amongst the fallen bodies she did find one recognizable. The man was but bones now, but his armor was committed to her memory. With hesitance she knelt beside the skeletal warrior, resting a hand on his chestpiece. Years ago she had stumbled upon armor such as this. It was battered and strewn across a clearing, and it’s owner lay injured amongst it. The image of this gauntlet was burned into her memory, though not in this dormant state.

She had done enough reminiscing of this place already, though. With some difficulty she would lift up the broken body, walking out with it. She set it before the rest of the tombs, and began to dig.

As the plate-clad body was set to rest Endling began to pray, Mehin lowering his gaze to the ground as he listened on to her.

“Oh Holy Light, before you today I seek forgiveness
Not unto me, though I implore it still, but upon the souls of these misguided children.
For you they have given their lives, young and old, and for you they have so zealously sought.
Seeking the Light in total darkness, and being led astray by destructive flames of the world.
Though impassioned, though lost, they were yours in life and even now in death.
I commit their bodies this day to the ground so that they may be set at rest
And implore you that their transgressions may be eased from their burdened souls.”


She bowed her head quickly and sunk to her knees, carrying on her silent prayer as the evening sun passed overhead on its slow path through the clouded sky. Mehin nodded, walking alongside her as he observed the humble markings lain out amongst the field of bodies now resting over the grounds of the outpost.

"That is enough, Lady Endling."



As night began to set they would make their way back to the hermitage; behind them they left a pair of shackles, fear, and a spirit released of his regrets.

Tenacity

Endling cautiously entered back into Sir Evancrest’s hermitage, her burdened bookbag held in her arms. Awaiting her was the elderly divinist, reclined in his chair with arms folded.

“I… apologize for my tardiness, S-Sir.” Mumbled Endling, bowing her head in reverence.

“No need for apologies, Lady Endling.” He replied, motioning her towards a seat, the undead quick to obey. “I do apologize upon the inconvenience of time, but preparations were required before I could properly assign your trials this time.” He said, rolling his shoulders as he sat upright and leaned forth to fetch a book from the large pile upon the table.

“The tenet of our concern today is Tenacity, though I’m sure you were well aware.”

He received a quick nod in response.

“Indeed. Tenacity is something which cannot be readily exemplified by words, like respect and compassion; more often it is action—or lack thereof—which defines it. The ability to endure hardships and suffer misfortunes and remain faithful; that is true tenacity. Faith in the face of adversity.”

“I… h-have seen much adversity indeed.” She replied, rubbing her burnt hands gingerly. “What more… c-can be given to me, Sir?”

“We all have limits, Lady Endling.” He replied, skimming through a page absently. “And to prove yourself we must test your own. I have made arrangements with the Warsong Expedition in Northrend, and have chartered a military zeppelin bound there. You will be serving as a true medic.”

“A-a warzone?” she asked, visibly concerned. “But… I c-cannot.” She replied, head bowed. “I cannot s-support the war, sir.”

“Then you would rather the soldiers of the Horde perish for your clean conscious?” he asked probed. “Your presence does not determine how many are slain—it determines how many may live to return home once more. You alone cannot stop the war, but you can ease the pain for many.”

Endling shuddered at the thought of an active battlefield. She would tuck her knees close, arms wrapping around them.

“I understand, Sir.” She replied meekly. “I w-will do as you say.”

“You will do as you wish.” He replied promptly. “Faith cannot be forced; it can only be brought upon from within. What I say can do nothing for a heart unwilling. Your own reservations are not indicative of the Light’s own, Lady Endling. Fear, discomfort—these are all things which must be overcome for the Light. One cannot speak tenacity when he has not known true adversity.”

Endling nodded once more. “…I understand.”

The elf looked across to her, expression softening. “This is a world at war, Lady Endling. Rarely will decisions bring only good. In such times we must raise our banner behind that which we believe to be right, and support it—even against those who claim the same, and embrace the Light as we do. You may wish for peace, but it is folly to stand idle then while others suffer.”

“You… are right.” She said, sitting upright, taking a book from the pile. “I was wrong t-to question.”

Mehin only bowed his head in return, standing and leaving, his brief lecture done. Endling stared down onto the page before her, eyes absently gazing upon the print.

Her thoughts drifted away, seeking refuge in the silence now provided. War… was indeed a terrible thing. When she was alive she had thought the same, but for a different reason. She recalled mourning and providing service for the dead which were found after the orcs and their escape from internment—but did the fallen prisoners not deserve the same? Knowing Sir Thragash and the other Ashrunes now, her lack of concern towards those camps was abominable.

Perhaps Sir Thragash was amongst the prisoners in one of the camps she had come to tend to before. She could only hope otherwise.

Endling let out a sigh, hanging her head in confusion. Innocents on both sides… yet, at least she could help spare some from an early grave. Perhaps if she was on the battlefield she would not have attended that funeral pyre…

She shook her head, focusing on the tome. It wasn’t worth sparing a thought to. When she finally left this home and returned in earnest she could provide the Ashrunes with the protection she had set away from those soldiers.




When day broke Endling left out from Evancrest’s home, bound directly to Silvermoon. If she was to make her post she would have to arrive at the docks in due time; it was another day of travel ahead of her, first by boat and then by zeppelin upon arriving in Northrend, bound across the continent to an isle of conflict being debated between the Horde and Alliance. The rough ground beneath her sent tremors of dull pain over her, Endling wincing as she landed upon a jagged cobblestone.

She paused—pain? She glanced down, tapping her foot against the rock again. She shrugged wearily, trudging onward. It was probably nothing. If she were to feel pain then perhaps this act of penance would be a true one.

So far to go…

Proving Ground

Bitter wind swept over the beleaguered zeppelin as it made its way to dock at the Horde base camp in the aptly named Isle of Conquest. Endling was quick to rise, shivering frigidly as she rushed inside the keep. From here she found herself immediately swept away, led to the ad-hoc infirmary set up for the wounded soldiers fresh from the field. She was told ‘Go’, and nothing else by the commander, who quickly ran back out and into a waiting mass of grunts.

In the distance battle cries were roused up from amongst the droves, and drums of war rang out from across the jagged landscape. The thunder of cannons replied, accompanied by a valorous trumpet call; this was indeed a warzone. Endling wasted no time in shedding her light baggage by the door, snatching her medicine bag as she came alongside the first soldier she could wade through to from amidst the chaotic infirmary assistants and strewn bodies. Across the row she could see several different injuries—burns, stabs, missing limbs, and a druid even seemed to be standing as an attendant to a man afflicted by poison.

She knelt before a Tauren, holy light seeping out from her bandaged hands and onto the gash which ran along his chest. She chanted slowly under her breath, receiving a gentle nod from the brave in return. Methodically she worked her way down the line, seeking out those with the gravest injuries first. In this infirmary no one asked for her own well-being; no one told her to rest, or even seemed to care that she was an undead at all. She was an equal in this chaos, a healer and nothing more. Once or twice a Tauren might furrow his brow upon sight of her, but his worries swiftly eased with the Light’s healing touch.

Whenever there was time to rest it was short lived; continually more poured in off of the battlefield, dragged in by the more able-bodied of mendicants. As the hours droned on she even saw the commander from her first moments inside this keep lain out onto a mat before her, as well as many of his troops. Lamenting cries rose up with each group returned—not for those who were injured, but for those who could not be brought back at all.

Even amongst the hardened orcs she saw signs of faltering in their stoic expressions as they saw friend and family return as little more than a weapon or, even worse, only by the words of an injured ally. She sat by as rituals for good health were performed and listened through many a story of war from the injured veterans, as well as tales of their home—her attempts to comfort them through their suffering rang on deaf ears, though. They were either aware of their upcoming return to the field, or were uninterested in leaving without either victory or death. The elders claimed they sought both; to die in a hero’s glory, and ensure victory for the Horde. Though bleak, she could only bow her head in respect before moving on to the next patient. Each wound she tended strengthened her resolve; that she would not rest idle in the remaining days in this keep. Perhaps she would be able to keep some of these mats empty…

No time for thought. A cry rang out as the infirmary doors swung upon once more, a few more soldiers lain out for care. Endling rushed to the closest, falling wearily by his side.

“R-rest.” murmered Endling, resting her hands on the injured orc before her. He immediately attempted to rise, roused from an unsteady slumber by the healing magic pulsing over him. His hands gripped for shield and blade which were not there, face contorting into anger.

“Let me rise, corpse! The Alliance run rampant—This is no time to lie idle!” growled the grunt, pushing himself upright and knocking the undead back. Endling would sit back, head lowered. It would be but a moment…

There was a dull thud as the man fell back onto his back, a hand resting just above what remained of his right leg. The orc stared up at the ceiling, expression frozen in one of rage and bewilderment. He opened his mouth to speak, but could manage nothing. Wordlessly Endling eased forward once more, continuing to minister to his injuries.



The further into night, the less that trailed in. Retrieving the injured was too dangerous without visibility. Endling meanwhile made her way to the barracks she had been assigned to for her stay, flinching back as her feet ran against the rough rock of the floor. She cringed in pain, letting out a gasp and falling against the wall beside her.

“You did well today, Forsaken.” Rumbled a voice from behind, the undead finding herself positioned upright as the large hand of a tauren rest on her shoulder. He had been serving the injured as well—a shaman.

“T-thank you.” She murmered, yelping as she found a blur of motion pushed before her weary eyes. They took a moment to refocus, settling on a ragged pair of boots.

“I see your discomfort—take them.” He replied, nudging the shoes towards her, dropping them in her hands. “If you seek to follow our unit tomorrow you won’t last long stumbling over rocks, or if you drop down from exhaustion. Go rest.”

Endling stared up to the larger being, nodding wordlessly as she sank back into the shadows of the already dimmed barracks, pulling her trembling body onto a bunk to sleep. She was indeed weary from such exertion today, yet there were stranger feelings still within her. She ran a hand along her chest, furrowing her brow; the feel of the coarse fabric beneath her fingers…

She shook her head, resting it back against a soft pillow. A sigh of relief escaped her as her shivering bones were braced against the padding beneath, and without further thought she tugged the sheets above her head to encompass her in the darkness of another night of sleepless slumber.

Beacon

“RISE!”

Endling was jostled back to awareness by a loud shout rising up from within the barracks, echoed further down. The sound of a beating shield sprung her out of bed, the undead wrapping her cloak right and slipping on the boots lain out beside her bed. Without a moment to spare she filed out behind a group of Horde soldiers, bracing her cierge as she set out into the biting chill of the North once more.

“Move out!” cried the raider leading the unit, spurring his mount ahead. The orcs would brace a moment before charging on behind, the soldiers a cluttered mass as they streamed down the cliff side.

“Keep up.” Grunted the tauren from the infirmary, nodding to Endling as he charged on behind. The undead did her best to follow, forcing her steps to come faster and faster, before she found herself in a painful sprint trailing behind the main force. Each step sent a pang of anguish up her body, but she ignored the discomfort for the moment; she had a much more important task at hand.

“To arms, brothers!”

“The Horde are upon us! Give no quarter!” came the dual cries of battle amidst the clatter of the rushing armies. Tactical cries rang out from the commanders as their units met, but Endling could make nothing of it. She stared wide eyed into the fray, hands held out as light streamed down onto a grunt, bringing him back upright as he was cleaved by a blade. Already she could hear bodies falling, as well as gunshots from the back of the Alliance brigade.

It was a brief moment, but it was one of complete terror. There was too much for her to process—the swing of blades, the clatter of shield and steel—had he been struck, or did he deflect that strike? She could hardly tell amongst the fray.

Then, as if torn back from a dream, it was over.



“FALL BACK!” cried the Alliance commander, his group rushing back down the cliff face, save a few which lay dead on the ground before the advancing Horde.

“We have them running! Give them hell!”

Endling winced—from one to another. She seized up her cierge to dash alongside the others, already heaving and praying for a moment of respite. Ahead the Alliance unit had regrouped and had begun to fire upon the oncoming rush, riflemen joining the ranks of the enemy from behind to strengthen the fire. Shields of light and earth began to form up, deflecting many a bullet, though every so often an advancing grunt drew back out of the charge, falling to a knee as the crack of rifle and bone resounded in a pair.

Endling only ran on, focusing on the group ahead. Another would have to tend to him. At least he would live. Around the unit dirt and flame rocketed into the sky, the shadow of a plane passing overhead and the roar of an engine deafening the field of battle for a moment. Soon enough they converged once more—back and forth the two sides ran, each growing and sinking in number continually.

Finally there was a period of rest. The raider leading the unit raised his flag, a war horn resounding from the other side of the precipice. The other raiding parties seemed to be advancing as well.

“Gather your bearings and prepare for another push! If we give them the chance the Alliance will be at our necks again by the afternoon.”

Endling knelt in place, trying her best to piece together enough endurance for another sprint. She could only stare wordlessly up, seeing the others who simply stood, or drank from their flasks.

“Break’s over.” yelled the raider, yanking an unlit torch down onto the drum by his side. “Rest of the field’s moving, so are we.” and with that, took off. Some of the group—the priestess included—scrambled to follow, giving chase behind as the orc led off into the resuming fray. As they mounted a hill leading down into the chaos below the full sight came into view. Above the skies were streaked with contrails and smoke, and occasionally forms could be discerned waging their own war in the clouds. Beneath them open battle raged, the sounds of hectic conflict resounding over the battlefield. As she stood momentarily mortified she found herself yanked aside and pulled down by a tauren, a burst of shrapnel coming not far away.

The tauren looked down to her, eyes narrowed and mouth opening as if to scold her; but it was too late to exchange words. Already the group had met resistance from the Alliance again, the cry of gunshots meeting them as footmen charged head on into the group. Amongst the chaos Endling kept her stave outstretched, eyes squinted from the debris being kicked up in the battle. On and on into the field of battle they pressed, occasionally changing hands for the gravely injured and the fresh legs from either the infirmary or the docks. Many fell, and some did not rise; even with a group assisting there was no guarantee of survival during this warfare. No matter how many precautions were taken some of the unit were left in that field, never reclaimed as the day grew old, and night began to set in.




The sun had long ago set by the time they began their journey home. As they departed the mendicants began to heal the warriors, girding them for their journey back to the hold. Endling amongst them trailed behind, panting raggedly and struggling to keep up. As she prepared another spell though she found herself knocked down, a man clad in dark leather bounding up from the shadows behind her.

For a split moment things moved slowly. The man’s angered eyes, the glint of his dagger as it was pulled back above her. He had been alone, separated so close to the Horde’s defensive line… He had nothing to lose, and all to gain was to take another to the grave with him. Words of vengeance were uttered, perhaps even a murmering proclamation for the light; she could not tell, her mind focused on the approaching blade.

Then he was sent flying off, an axe embedded in his side. The orcish raider paced to the forsaken, offering a hand to her.

“Get up, friend. There is still a ways to go.”

Gentlehands

Endling sat beside a bed in an argent infirmary, head hung low in thought as the body laid out just beside her chair heaved gently from sleep. This was one of the last tasks which Mehin had assigned her... but, something did not set well with her. She rubbed a hand up her arm, almost entranced by the feeling of the silken fabric against her skin. Again in this time of silence her thoughts turned to the High Divinist and his training...


She had no issue with what was asked of her-- no, merely more a dissension why. To do pure deeds alone did not make one better, only so much that they had pure intentions as well. Under this elf... she did not feel that. To him it was all a test. The men she had saved on the battlefield were the equivalent of those long dead bones she had lain to rest days before. In turn, her own pain at the hands of the Scarlets was something used only as a lesson. But could one truly call this pure? Even now as she sat tending to this dying man she wondered if he had been told of her purpose here.

She is coming here seeking to prove herself. she could imagine the words of a guard, or Mehin himself. She hoped that the man was unaware. She hoped that her presence was not one of process to him, but that of genuine care.


She had been brought to this chapel by Mehin, who had arranged-- arranged, even; to say it in such a way!-- her stationing on the deathbed of this man. He was not one the light could truly save, only prolong.


"It is in restraint of our abilities that we may give this man compassion." echoed Mehin's words in her mind.
"For to exercise our power is to continue his suffering; I will leave you to this, Lady Endling." he said curtly, turning about to walk back out. Endling slowly drifted behind him, calling to him as he reached the abbey gate.

"You mean... for me to simply watch him die?"

There was no response, for the Divinist had taken his leave.


Endling sank back into the abbey, retiring to the room requested. In here the candles burned dim, and the heaving figure of the injured man lay outstretched upon the table, wracked with disease from the virulent Plaguelands. His eyes narrowed as her own pierced the darkness of the room, but the human was too weary to react. Even as Endling came alongside him the most he could do was cough and continue his ragged breathing.

"Greetings, sir." she began, bowing and sinking onto a stool by the bed. "I will not burden you with conversation; but if you desire anything, please make it known."

The human managed a faint nod in return to her, his head slowly coming back to rest on the billow beneath him. Endling leaned forth, easing up the blanket to cover the rest of the man.


This had been a day ago; now Endling sat with a man on the brink of death, caring for his final needs in terms of food, drink; even the reading of a book, should he request such things. The unnamed crusader was oddly accepting of her presence, even if she was undead; perhaps it was simply the she was companionship during this time of anguish for him.

"Miss..." grumbled the coarse voice of the man, struggling to turn to face her. She quickly stopped him, standing to be in view from his bed, bowing in return to him. "Don't need to do that..." he laughed weakly, voice straining.

"Only pleasantries, sir." she replied, hands folded before her as she awaited his request.

"Well, I ain't got too much longer for those, I'm thinking." he said, struggling to pull himself to a sit up some with the aid of the priestess, another pillow set under him to prop himself up. "Funny, y'know. I was a soldier in the Alliance 'fore this. Used to be splittin' the necks of you deaders. Funny that it's one of your kind keepin' an eye on me now."

"No person is black and white, crusader." she replied, taking his hand. She winced a bit at the touch of the calloused hands, absently feeling over it as she continued. "I... am a mendicant. The battles of the factions of the world do not hold sway over such matters. If there is one weary or wounded, the Light will give them rest."

The crusader replied with a grumble, crossing his arm as he looked the undead over. "I get'cha. I didn't mean anything by it, miss."

Endling bowed her head once more to him, helping him adjust himself in his current position.


Perhaps this was not what she had been searching for, then. Rather-- not this purpose. She sat back, folding her hands over her hymnal as she diverted her gaze about the small improvised shelter. Her thoughts trailed back to the Divinist, his home, his great wealth of knowledge... there was something missing from him, though. The years of change had brought down his spirits, and his kindly nature seemed to give way to anger much too quickly.

It was not for his 'proof'' that she had come here; it was for her own.


"What'cha got there, anyways?"

"A hymnal, sir."

"Can y'read it? I figure now's about an appropriate time as ever."

Endling shifted her gaze down to the book, staring at it pensively. "The pages are worn, and torn out. But they are vivid in my mind. If it pleases you, I could."

The human only nodded briefly, a flash of pain coming across his face for a brief moment before descending into a fit of coughing from his illness. Endling would open her ragged book, selecting a page which held only a title and the opening lines of text.

From the shelter came song, and so it remained for some time, echoing out of the makeshift infirmary and into the silent hills of the plaguelands. Then, nothing.


Endling left the infirmary in silence.

Journey's End

Endling's footfalls resounded in the lifeless valley, stretching from the Eastern Plaguelands to the Ghostlands of Quel'thalas. Her mind swirled with questions and uncertainties, and her feet ached from her travel, the dull discomfort reverberating within, driving her on with each awkward step. Through the mist of the tainted land her cierge shone, as if a guiding light in the darkness. As she came to the corner from the main road and the branching path leading by the hermit's hill she stood and braced herself against the post in silent thought.


I am Endling. I am Forsaken. My name is lost to time, as is all I once knew. My homeland is overrun by blight and destruction, and though I am human-- I am human-- I am not welcome among them any longer, for I am cursed. I am twisted, a corrupted beast of my former self. Those I once knew are forgotten to me, but that is all for the better- for those who yet live would revile me, and those not rested in the earth are cursed as equally as I.

I have no home nor people, for even those of this wretched condition shun me from them. I am a child of the Light, but I am seared by its comforting touch. Its fiery singe and the chill of the absent wind are all I have known for years, and as my senses return they bring with them only more and more pain. Each quake of my bones brings me to discomfort and dread, crying tears which cannot come, mourning for dreams long dead or dying.

The Light is my relief. Through my curse I may yet bring life. I suffer so that others might live, burn so that others may not share my fate. The Light still hears the cries of its afflicted child, be it through my reverent prayer of silence or my pleading psalms upon the heavens. The Light shall still hear me, for while the cursed have turned from its blessings, I have not. My way shall be hard. My way shall be wrought with suffering, in isolation even amongst my allies. Through me though many will be in health, at rest, at peace, though.

I need no more than my own resolve to seek this path, though. I require no praise nor title of status to shield me from what I truly am. Shall I be called divinist or priest, my faith shall always remain the same. Shall I demand respect, be treated alike, or reviled, my works will not stray from the path of the Light.

I am Endling, a child of the Light. That is all I shall ever be.


Endling eased herself off the post, her cierge creaking as she supported her weary frame upon it once more. She began her journey anew, back from where she had last departed a month ago. From the path she strayed, her stave digging down into the earth as she ascended the hill just below the hermitage. Night had begun to set, and she wasted no time in coming to the door of the home and seeking entrance.

Knock, knock, knock.

Slowly the door was brought open, the visage of a robed elf standing before her. “I expected your return much sooner.” stated the man, his glowing eyes staring her over as he motioned her within, stepping back to allow her passage into his home.

“I realize, Sir.”

Mehin nodded curtly, sitting on a couch as the priestess did the same across from him. “Much to do, Lady Endling. Another trial, and then our studies...”

“I have actually come to speak with you about that matter, sir.” Endling replied, her softer voice rising up over his for a moment. “I believe... that I have gained what I sought from your teachings. I require no more.”

Mehin adjusted his spectacles, his eyes staring into her own. There was a mixture of confusion and uncertainty on his face, brow furrowing in frustration as he thought over her words. “You wish to leave? After all we have done? After what you have endured?”

Endling bowed her head to him in return. “I have received all that I wish to have, Sir Evancrest. Such strength, such knowledge... If my trials are good works then why should they cease for your books? What more may I learn?”

“Anyone may earn strength.” he quickly replied. “Will you be as the masses though, or above? Your name known, trusted in the faith and not cast aside by your affliction?”

“If I am trusted I would rather it be by action rather than by word. I wish no greater status, lest my duties be thought of as beneath me. You seek a leader in me Sir Evancrest, but that leader is not there. I am but a follower, a supporter. I know my place well.”

Mehin stood, running a hand through his hair. His book dropped from his hand, the elf pacing behind to the rest of his tomes. “You have thought through this decision, I see.” he said, crossing his arms, brow furrowed as he cast his eyes about the shelves. “There is so much knowledge left untapped. So much...”

Endling peered back at him, remaining silent as he leaned his head against the shelf. After silence had taken the room for a minute or so she spoke once more, “Sir... there will be another whom you may teach. One which truly seeks your path.”

“I doubt that, Lady Endling. The world is one slipping into sin. The children of the sun are not as reverent as years past... In time, all that will remain for my legacy is this study. Ages of knowledge, imparted to no one.”

“The Light's blessings are not measured through how much a man knows, but what he does with that knowledge.” Endling replied. “Your full teachings may not have been imparted unto me, but you have done more for me than any book may. May you not take solace in that, sir?”

Mehin drew in a breath and craned his head back to see her, a slight smirk coming across his face. “It is... better than nothing.”



When morning rose Endling stepped out of the hermitage, turning and bowing to the elf standing in the door frame. Mehin returned the gesture, shifting his stand some as he stepped back into the home. “Be well then, Lady Endling.”

“Be well, sir. And good faith.”

With that she turned once more, the divinist staring off behind as she gradually vanished from sight down the hillside.

-Endling-

Year after year, it was always the same.

December drew near, and with it the merriment of winter. When she was a child she never understood why they chose the winter for the festivities and family meetings; it was frigid, oppressive, and in her case there was rarely any celebration to be had under her own roof. It wasn't until she began to grow older and had been taken in by the church that she realized the true appeal. To join together around the hearth and recount the days of happiness and triumph, warming oneself by a crackling fire in the company of loved ones. Outside the wind might howl, and snow pour down to blanket the land-- but none of that mattered inside. All that was truly important was within.


Endling knew that now more than ever. As the years after her new life began passed, there was no such comfort where she went. Nowhere she lay her head would be alongside friends nor family; indeed, often the allies she had sought their own kin during this time. In a way, she sought her own too.

The chapel in the plaguelands. As many times as she had renounced its refuge, again and again she sought to shelter herself there. To her it was a lonely relic, abandoned and left to fall to pieces by those that once cherished it. She felt a certain kinship with the sentiment, always biding her time there in prayer or in making what little repairs she could to keep the chapel from simply falling to rubble over time. When the chill of winter did come she would simply huddle in a corner, and seek solace in prayer until her sorrows had finally surpressed themselves and the winter storms had passed.

This year was like no other. Friends come and go, fading in and out. Endling once more found herself alone, and so began her sojourn to the chapel once more. She was drawn back, as she always had been-- to seek solace in a fellow remnant of the Light.

Travel was not kind, but then again it seldom was. Winter's bite seemed to already have descended, and the northern wind chilled to the bone. Each gust caused a shiver to run down her spine, a pang felt as her slim form braced itself against the wind. Slowly but surely though she did make her way to the chapel of Light's Hope, a small respite in her travels. She was welcome here, though few had time for speech, and she was much too reclusive to inquire of the others. She simply retreated to a corner until daybreak, and ventured out once more then.

Though, strangely, she was not alone. Alongside her she saw Argents pass, sometimes with an escort and other times simply a small group on patrol. As she came upon her familiar chapel she found herself stopping in her tracks, staring out at the sight before her in a sense of confusion. The weathered building was not as she had left it-- indeed, instead it had inhabitants of its own now. Argents had reclaimed this place as a haven along the roads to the Elven lands of Quel'thalas, and proudly flew the argent banners alongside the building. As she approached she found herself greeted by the guardsmen there, led in.


It was not what she had expected; perhaps it was better, though.

As she inquired to a guardsman as to lend her assistance she felt a tap on her shoulder, a young man standing before her, his arm stretched out firmly with a envelope in his hand.

"A letter for you I believe, miss. Arrived here just yesterday-- we were pretty confused. Guess they thought ahead."

With a perked brow Endling would take the letter, easing aside from the crowd as she tenderly tugged it open.