REPOST: Burning dead lands.
Posted: Mon Nov 24, 2008 10:26 pm
(( This is being copied over from the old Grim site so that I can link it in my bio. Feel free to comment, but the story is long past. ))
Yichimet's wolf-eyes saw more than his Shu'Halo eyes could lately. For instance, Snowfeather's hoof was radiating powerfully amidst the huge gathering of Grim in Brill.
He nuzzled her with his snout, but was afraid to give himself back over to his physical body. In that form, his mind, like his eyes, grew clouded. It also helped him avoid the pulling feeling coming from the corner of Kalimdor. Somehow, being a wolf lessened the urge to sprint for the dense trees of Ashenvale and beyond.
When the giant mass of Horde warriors strode off for the Plaguelands, Yichimet whimpered briefly and pawed after them. Dirt and rocks stuck in his pads. The land around was dead. That should mean something to him: dead land, a broken heart, Earthmother's hands shaking. He shook his head quickly to clear it.
A celebration. Yes, a celebration: friends given responsibilities. Fireworks and icestorms and explosions. And none of it even half what he had seen: the raining hellfire like leaves from the branches, demons sprouting like fruit and dropping to the ground, torturing elven bodies first, then claiming the rest of the world:
Purple legs, golden heart. Ivory carving of the moon becomes the moon. Under the common light. Break, broken stag, open, opened rib, blood to smear your face. Eyes have no meaning.
When he woke from the Vision, the black field clearing from his eyes, Yichimet was alone in the dead land. He sniffed the air, whimpering again, and bolted after his brothers and sisters. Something tugged at him from the ground. He felt its pull, imaging a roiling mass of fire and malice bubbling under the crust of the earth, and he ran harder, hardly skimming the ground with his paws.
And ran into a long-ear.
Yichimet called to his friends with his spirit in what sounded to him like a sane message, but that meant nothing lately. The eyes of the Kaldorei burnt, consuming fire with fire. Its teeth grew and shrank, grew and shrank, into picks and fangs and daggers. First its legs were eight, then twelve, then two again. The Frostsaber under its groin grew wings, shed its skin, snarled with a gaping void of a mouth. Laughing, the once-Kaldorei pointed.
And when Yichimet found his friends, it turned and ran, once again a blur of purple skin and white fur.
He was confused and lost among so many people. He trembled on touching the dry, dead road. More explosions of magical power, steel crunching bone and withered flesh. For mere seconds in the next hour and a half, Yichimet came into his mind and knew the people around him: the Butler calling for caution, for a re-group; Yichimet in his own body again, watching Maledictus' perfect speech and rage; a gnome breaking in two from the swing of so many of his comrades' weapons.
The roiling feeling under the ground became too much at last. Yichimet's spirit cowered with his body. The pull was too much. His clouded eyes turned to the Tree, to Teldrassil. Words left his mouth. They may have been words of farewell. He looked at Snowfeather with tenderness, and then pushed his spirit and body through the astral channels towards the Calling of his Vision.
* * *
The trees grew thicker and thicker the deeper Yichimet went into the woods. His ghost paws padded silently on the layer of pine needles and dust covering the ground. He sprinted across clearings and hid for minutes, shivering and whimpering, under the cover of trees. Still he was pulled in a direction he ought to recognize but could not.
Even his wolf-eyes had clouded over. From the ground, flaming tusks sprouted and bled blue ichor. Curling tendrils reached up from the tainted mud. Voices whispered, distanceless, piercing his eardrum with their thundering quiet:
Krast torin sto torin. Taegoson brom dor draek gi toro.
Another:
Grima gar-modi ghael-baros.
More and more voices in crashing waves of soundless sound poured through the woods, then were gone. He howled at the moon and growled, first at nothing, then at the tree in front of him. Slowly it became something else: a face he recognized. A broken horn, a near-toothless grin. Just as suddenly it was gone.
The dense green trees slowly thinned out to a forest less lively and much darker. Had he been himself, Yichimet would have delighted at the game running through the forest. He was thirsty, and found a sizable creek to drink from, then rested on a mound for a moment, shivering against the chill air. He found that he was hungry too, and again sprinting and hiding in the trees he made his way to the waves that crashed in the distance. After catching a fish, he settled down with it between his paws and ripped into it, growling.
Later, while naping near the carcass, a flutter of noise rose in the tree above him and he looked up. An owl sat in a branch with something tied to its leg. Somewhere in his mind Yichimet knew that he should know what this meant, but he could not call it up. Instead, he barked and scrabbled at the tree, scaring the owl away. It called from a distance, a low and sad sound. He settled again, circling in the grass, and napped for some more time.
* * *
He awoke to a nightmare. The sound of a bow being drawn tight and a whispered command snapped him awake, but when he saw what he faced he cowered. It could have been nothing but a demon. Its purple skin grew snakes from its scalp. Its limbs were elongated past the point where they drug on the ground. It had no eyes, only gaping holes of light.
An arrow suddenly pierced his leg, and instincively, Yichimet let go of his spirit form and called a frostshock at the thing. Its companion was a jumble of wings and light, but he ignored its screeching swoops and swung his hammer, connecting with the creatures head. The thing collapsed to the needle canvas and the screeching demon flew off. Yichimet, terrified, wasted no time and called his spirit form back into being, fleeing as quickly as possible. He ran away from the pulling, as much as it hurt him, and soon was lost in the woods. Ahead, through the trees, he could see a strange, shining structure and could hear mutterings in languages he should understand.
He curled up next to a tree and buried his snout in his paws, whimpering and shivering.
Yichimet's wolf-eyes saw more than his Shu'Halo eyes could lately. For instance, Snowfeather's hoof was radiating powerfully amidst the huge gathering of Grim in Brill.
He nuzzled her with his snout, but was afraid to give himself back over to his physical body. In that form, his mind, like his eyes, grew clouded. It also helped him avoid the pulling feeling coming from the corner of Kalimdor. Somehow, being a wolf lessened the urge to sprint for the dense trees of Ashenvale and beyond.
When the giant mass of Horde warriors strode off for the Plaguelands, Yichimet whimpered briefly and pawed after them. Dirt and rocks stuck in his pads. The land around was dead. That should mean something to him: dead land, a broken heart, Earthmother's hands shaking. He shook his head quickly to clear it.
A celebration. Yes, a celebration: friends given responsibilities. Fireworks and icestorms and explosions. And none of it even half what he had seen: the raining hellfire like leaves from the branches, demons sprouting like fruit and dropping to the ground, torturing elven bodies first, then claiming the rest of the world:
Purple legs, golden heart. Ivory carving of the moon becomes the moon. Under the common light. Break, broken stag, open, opened rib, blood to smear your face. Eyes have no meaning.
When he woke from the Vision, the black field clearing from his eyes, Yichimet was alone in the dead land. He sniffed the air, whimpering again, and bolted after his brothers and sisters. Something tugged at him from the ground. He felt its pull, imaging a roiling mass of fire and malice bubbling under the crust of the earth, and he ran harder, hardly skimming the ground with his paws.
And ran into a long-ear.
Yichimet called to his friends with his spirit in what sounded to him like a sane message, but that meant nothing lately. The eyes of the Kaldorei burnt, consuming fire with fire. Its teeth grew and shrank, grew and shrank, into picks and fangs and daggers. First its legs were eight, then twelve, then two again. The Frostsaber under its groin grew wings, shed its skin, snarled with a gaping void of a mouth. Laughing, the once-Kaldorei pointed.
And when Yichimet found his friends, it turned and ran, once again a blur of purple skin and white fur.
He was confused and lost among so many people. He trembled on touching the dry, dead road. More explosions of magical power, steel crunching bone and withered flesh. For mere seconds in the next hour and a half, Yichimet came into his mind and knew the people around him: the Butler calling for caution, for a re-group; Yichimet in his own body again, watching Maledictus' perfect speech and rage; a gnome breaking in two from the swing of so many of his comrades' weapons.
The roiling feeling under the ground became too much at last. Yichimet's spirit cowered with his body. The pull was too much. His clouded eyes turned to the Tree, to Teldrassil. Words left his mouth. They may have been words of farewell. He looked at Snowfeather with tenderness, and then pushed his spirit and body through the astral channels towards the Calling of his Vision.
* * *
The trees grew thicker and thicker the deeper Yichimet went into the woods. His ghost paws padded silently on the layer of pine needles and dust covering the ground. He sprinted across clearings and hid for minutes, shivering and whimpering, under the cover of trees. Still he was pulled in a direction he ought to recognize but could not.
Even his wolf-eyes had clouded over. From the ground, flaming tusks sprouted and bled blue ichor. Curling tendrils reached up from the tainted mud. Voices whispered, distanceless, piercing his eardrum with their thundering quiet:
Krast torin sto torin. Taegoson brom dor draek gi toro.
Another:
Grima gar-modi ghael-baros.
More and more voices in crashing waves of soundless sound poured through the woods, then were gone. He howled at the moon and growled, first at nothing, then at the tree in front of him. Slowly it became something else: a face he recognized. A broken horn, a near-toothless grin. Just as suddenly it was gone.
The dense green trees slowly thinned out to a forest less lively and much darker. Had he been himself, Yichimet would have delighted at the game running through the forest. He was thirsty, and found a sizable creek to drink from, then rested on a mound for a moment, shivering against the chill air. He found that he was hungry too, and again sprinting and hiding in the trees he made his way to the waves that crashed in the distance. After catching a fish, he settled down with it between his paws and ripped into it, growling.
Later, while naping near the carcass, a flutter of noise rose in the tree above him and he looked up. An owl sat in a branch with something tied to its leg. Somewhere in his mind Yichimet knew that he should know what this meant, but he could not call it up. Instead, he barked and scrabbled at the tree, scaring the owl away. It called from a distance, a low and sad sound. He settled again, circling in the grass, and napped for some more time.
* * *
He awoke to a nightmare. The sound of a bow being drawn tight and a whispered command snapped him awake, but when he saw what he faced he cowered. It could have been nothing but a demon. Its purple skin grew snakes from its scalp. Its limbs were elongated past the point where they drug on the ground. It had no eyes, only gaping holes of light.
An arrow suddenly pierced his leg, and instincively, Yichimet let go of his spirit form and called a frostshock at the thing. Its companion was a jumble of wings and light, but he ignored its screeching swoops and swung his hammer, connecting with the creatures head. The thing collapsed to the needle canvas and the screeching demon flew off. Yichimet, terrified, wasted no time and called his spirit form back into being, fleeing as quickly as possible. He ran away from the pulling, as much as it hurt him, and soon was lost in the woods. Ahead, through the trees, he could see a strange, shining structure and could hear mutterings in languages he should understand.
He curled up next to a tree and buried his snout in his paws, whimpering and shivering.