[N-Story] Reunion at the Uldum Accord

[Ralrush-steamwheedle-cartel]

(OOC explanation: I thought of this when I saw notes about N’zoth’s encroachment into Uldum. Don’t ask me why, but the Uldum Accord seemed like an interesting possibility for former enemies to come face to face. Not to hug and sing kumbaya or an unrealistically optimistic reunion like that, but to really face each other like adults and discuss the hard, uncomfortable details of letting bygones be bygones.

_ _

This is open for at least three Alliance players to join; that’s why I left the initial description of the Alliance soldiers so generic. Now that I’ve posted this in public, it’s no longer my story - this is for anybody to shape from here, whether that be continuing from Uldum in the current time, or expanding on what happened on Outland. Fellow Horde players could join in too; I don’t know how they could fit, but it doesn’t matter what I know - the beauty of open RP is that anybody can contribute to the narrative and create something new. I’m interested in seeing how the community reacts to this story prompt.)

———

Damp. Everything in Outland’s swamps that night was damp. Damp in what way didn’t make much of a difference in a damnable place like south-central Zangarmarsh; there were too many ways to count, and the result was the same. The air was damp from the humidity. The bodies were damp from sweat and tears. And everything - yes, everything - was damp with blood at the Twin Spires Ruins.

The ruins were quiet, though - far more quiet than one would have expected for such a hotly contested strategic point. The dead don’t speak, and on that night, the dead certainly outnumbered both the living and the undead.

A single gasp was heard to punctuate the silence as a spear tip cut off the breath of the Alliance area commander. Rush had charged with such force that over half of his spear’s blade pierced the vindicator’s plate as well as the quilted cloth beneath, finding its way through the Draenei’s lungs. Even the jungle troll was surprised, though that was partially due to the force with which he cast both himself and his opponent to the moist ground with the charge. The spear’s shaft broke, showering them both with splinters and mud. With the fall of the vindicator, the heaviest part of the fighting was over, for when Rush stood up defensively, he realized that everyone else was dead.

The usual panic of the battlefield subsided in seconds as he realized that both flags had fallen. Spinning around, he failed in his search for either piece of cloth, finding only corpses littered about in the mud, in the bushes, on the stone steps leading into the ruins, hanging over the railings and benches in the area. There were no captives, there were no comrades, there were no runners to send word back to the camp, and there were no wagons to plunder to refund the cost of the expedition; there was only loss.

Somewhere in the piles of bodies, Rush saw what he was looking for: the Horde field scout, laying face down on a stone walkway leading toward the stairs. Stepping over the battlefield detritus adding to the dampness, he hurried over to the young orc and rolled the body over, finding a pair of eyes devoid of life. In vain, Rush tried shaking the scout awake but to no avail. “Damn,” he muttered while letting go of the corpse. The orc looked too young to be there - the scout had claimed to be sixteen years old, but Rush suspected that the boy had lied and used a forged ID to enlist early. The scout wasn’t the first youth whose dead body Rush had held in his arms, nor the youngest, but the adrenaline crash after such a horrendous melee left his nerves frazzled.

Blood boiled in the jungle troll’s veins as he stood, becoming so hot that he almost fell into an enraged fever as he pulled out his backup weapon. Angry for the young scout to the point of tears, Rush stomped back over to the vindicator commander, machete in hand. The older Draenei warrior scooted away on the ground, holding a hand up defensively.

“I surrender-“

The Draenei’s words were cut off along with its head which rolled to the side after a quick slice of the machete. As Rush should have expected, the act of revenge provided him absolutely no solace or satisfaction, leaving him empty of all except his anger and the severed head of a man who’d tried to legitimately surrender. His rage unspent, he turned his attention to the actual necropolis up the steps where he’d noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Hopeful at the prospects of survivors, he rushed toward the steps only to catch a glimpse of blue and gold tabards hobbling inside one of the tombs in the graveyard. Not friendly survivors, but in his futility, Rush sought any possible source of release for the fury pumped out by his heart.

Just to make the point that the conflict wasn’t over yet, Rush returned to the headless vindicator and gripped the rim of the breastplate, lifting the armored body like it were a bag of groceries. Dead commander in one hand and machete in the other, he ascended the steps with murderous intent - either the enemy soldiers he’d spied, or himself, he didn’t care anymore. He could hear their voices speaking urgently inside one of the alien structures housing more dead bodies, but even his traditional Darkspear superstition about halls of the dead couldn’t give him pause now. Arcane lamps in the halls of the communal crypt cast a violet light over everything, giving the area an unnervingly foreign aesthetic. Under that disconcerting aura did he arrive at bolted doors leading into one of the chambers within the crypt, one within which he could hear the hushed conversation inside. Not in the mood for negotiation, Rush dropped the vindicator corpse and punched the middle of the doors roughly. Chain links and bits of plate flew as he punished his gauntlets against the door, snapping wood against bolts as the two double doors bent inward. Over the whispering of the occupants, he raised a foot and set it down hard on the floor, slamming all his weight forward when he shoulder-checked the doors, breaking the barricade on the other side and flinging doors open so roughly that they swung all the way in and hit the walls.

Another short hallway was blocked by a single person, though obviously not one of the soldiers. Wearing the tabard of a medic rather than that of a soldier, the lone person stood in between Rush and another room wherein he heard chanting, hands outstretched. “Stop!” they said frantically and without escalation. There was fear in the medic’s eyes, though not for their own safety knowing that they were considered off-limits. The fearful reaction betrayed a protective instinct - as well as the presence of soldiers under medical care in the room beyond.

The attempt to halt him only angered Rush even more, and he snorted derisively. “Go,” he replied while continuing to walk toward the final room at the end of the crypt, his fury burning him inside as long as he felt like the battle wasn’t yet settled.

The medic tried sidestepping to block him. “No, listen to me!” The medic turned around, pushed their back against Rush’s chest, and tried walking backwards to hold him back, but they might as well have just tried to push over a tree. “Stop, stop, you need to listen!” they pleaded, nearly slipping on the floor when the jungle troll continued moving forward.

By then, Rush was seething, feeling the painful throb of vengeance denied for every minute in which his blade began to dry. “Outta my way!” he bellowed, even daring to lay his hands on a uniformed medic, taking the non-combatant by the arm and moving them to the side of the hall.

Refusing to give up, the medic clung to his wrist and tried to follow him. “Please, you’re making a mistake!” they pleaded again, attempting to wedge their body in between him and the final doorway. “May the Light fill your heart with its beauty and guide you stop!”

Rush ignored the pleas and held a defensive stance, poking through the doorway with his weapon first and himself when the area was cleared. Inside was an inner sanctum of sorts, mostly empty and unused save for the trio of Alliance privates inside. All three of them wore blue and gold tabards stained red with blood; like Rush, they were covered in the life essence of both themselves and others, but unlike Rush, they couldn’t regenerate without medical attention. His wounds were slowly closing up, but theirs remained fresh, and all three of the Alliance soldiers had arrowheads and other implements of war which had been removed from their bodies and tossed to the floor. They were all hurt and in poor condition, but there were three of them against him alone; the odds were relatively even such that he didn’t feel guilty over what he was planning to do.

At least, not until he noticed that they’d continued kneeling at an altar and refused to defend themselves when he’d entered.

All three battered, bloodied soldiers knelt at the altar, unarmed and unwell but incredibly focused on the weird chants they were engaging in with their eyes closed. Rush stepped closer to get a better look at what sort of trick they were pulling, but they didn’t react; all he could see were three injured privates, two of whom looked far too young to be on a battlefield. One of them opened an eye when the medic’s pleas grew louder, examining the Horde soldier looming at the doorway of the chamber. Casual and unafraid, the upstart private rose, though with much difficulty due to wounds, to meet the Darkspear warrior face-to-face.

“Please, don’t!” the medic asked the bizarrely calm private. “It’s already over, there’s nothing for anybody to gain!”

Finally pushed beyond a limit by the medic, Rush turned and snarled. “I gotta dead scout on my side who was barely old enough to swing a sword,” he replied roughly. “Don’t tell me when it be over!”

Tugging on their identifying tabard in visible distress, the medic tried to move in between the two soldiers from opposing factions. “Can’t you see what you’re about to do, then?!” the medic asked. Rush turned his head away for a split second, but the medic noticed his avoidance of eye contact after that comment. “Don’t become something you’ll hate one day, son! Go home!” they begged.

Once the medic had said that out loud, Rush couldn’t look the Alliance private in the face without realizing how young they were; lying about one’s age to enlist was, apparently, a universal behavior among brash teens. The private, however, appeared undaunted to a degree with the jungle troll could only envy, and the medic was brushed aside by the seemingly foolish youth.

“I’m ready,” the private said, refusing to give Rush either the mutual hate he wanted, or to recoil in fear.

Falling to their knees, the medic unsuccessfully tried pulling the young Alliance recruit away, but the unfilled crypt chamber was so small that Rush still could have reached his target. Despite the lack of space, despite the only exit being blocked by a Horde soldier, despite being unarmed, despite looking so shabby that even standing must have been as painful as restraint was for Rush, the Alliance private wouldn’t back down. Devoid of anger or fear, the inexperienced private who didn’t seem to have ever fought before just stared at Rush with an almost beatific look on their face. Their acceptance, as well as Rush’s rage, would have made ending all three soldiers an easy task, and the medic would simply have to perform their burial duties.

But the recruit’s eyes stung Rush too much. They weren’t the same color as the young orcish scout’s, but there was that ignorant bravery only possible for a teenager, an attitude Rush could only remember from what felt like a long time ago, present in those eyes. The medic may or may not have wept in expectation of the worst; Rush wasn’t listening anymore. The reminder of what he hated was enough.

“No…you not.”

Choking on hate until his throat hurt, Rush fought against himself and loosened his grip on the machete. Turning the object around between his fingers, he gripped the blade and held the weapon up to the Alliance private who’d risen to meet him; the other two were still praying quietly, either oblivious or indifferent to the fact that they very nearly died. Lacking in proper caution, the youngest of the three took the machete by the hilt, their calmness only receding to make way for confusion. Rush was sure that his own expression was so marked with rage that his intentions would have been unreadable.

“What am I to do with this?” the private asked, more curious than cautious.

This time when Rush felt his displeasure spike, the feeling was that of a dull, disappointed ache rather than outright fury. Curling his lip in disgust at the question, at himself, and at the whole ordeal, he turned away, giving his back to the injured private. He’d already begun to walk away when he decided to answer.

“If we ever meet again…then you’ll know,” he replied, leaving the medic to gasp and hug the altar while chanting more bizarre, alien prayers of gratitude to whatever idol was in there.

His adrenaline crashing, Rush felt actual physical pain in the pit of his stomach with every step he took out of the tomb. The stench of death had begun to settle over that edge of the swamp, reminding him of just what he was walking away from. With both factions’ battle standards lost, all he could take with him was the severed head of the Alliance commander and the corpse of the Horde field scout. Avoiding the gaze of the scout’s two dead eyes so he wouldn’t change his mind, Rush lifted the young orc’s body and hung it over his shoulder, trying not to think about how small the youth was. He could only hope that he didn’t encounter any fungal giants on his way back…and that he’d made the right choice.

———

Seven years later.

Dry. If anything could be said about Uldum, something that almost anyone would agree on, it was the lack of humidity. Even on the banks of the Vir’naal River, so close to a source of potable water, the air felt dry.

Rush left the site of the new watchtower, away from the settled area but close enough to the city of Ramkahen to see its spires across the river. For the whole week since he’d arrived, he’d been put on patrol duty by the Uldum Accord. The work was necessary, for sure, but he’d seen so little action that he almost felt guilty as he began his scheduled break. All the same, he held to that schedule, taking a sack full of food and water and finding a suitable grove of palm trees near the river.

Sitting down alone, he took his helmet off and watched the river flow for a while before eating. Quiet moments like that were rare in such a line of work. He was under no illusions that those moments would last for long.

[Alunaria-moonglade]

(Remarkable writing, Ralrush. Thank you so much for sharing and for the inspiration)

[Dulvarinn-moonglade (Dulvarinn)]

During the Burning Crusade:

Midnight. He did not know for how long he had been unconscious. Judging from the stinging pain in his abdomen it was perhaps a matter of mere moments. The humidity of Zangarmarsh suddenly made the battlefield seem eerily silent. Dulvarinn took it as an indication that death had prevailed over the dying. The troll had hit him with a clean thrust that had knocked him to the ground. His hands carefully followed the pain and the warm and wet sensation made it apparent that he was still bleeding. Already now the cool mud beneath his back already felt unpleasant. He exhaled slowly to regain his composure, turned his head and immediately spotted the lone machete-wielding troll walking towards the Draenic temple with grim determination.

Dulvarinn narrowed his eyes and tryed to sit, but halted due to an intense feeling of nausea from the pain. He whimpered and closed his eyes. When Yriel had convinced him to join the Cenarion Expedition he had been determined to expect the unexpected. However, little could have prepared him for the sheer carnage of warfare. He was no warrior. Haidene had teasingly called him ‘Peacebloom’ ever since their very first meeting, while Elerethe had referred to him as T’lara rather than Thero’shan.

– ‘An’da, An’da!’

Dulvarinn opened his eyes. Ithiluna? It could not be. Her call had to be a figment of his imagination. For the past year he had to no avail been investigating ways to restore the Dead Mire, while praying that his beloved wife and daughter were safe in Winterspring. The realization that Ithiluna had entered her sixth year of age in his absence had been heavy on his heart. With the blessings of Nordrassil sacrificed, time was precious as ever. Age would now consume all kaldorei in time. It could not be now. He had promised them that he would return home. It was as if he could almost feel the benevolent smile of his beloved Haidene.

As he concentrated to focus his mind the sensation of the vast network of mycorrhiza beneath him that connected the gargantuan Tel’rian Mushrooms became apparent. The words uttered and the minor gesticulation was only a physical manifestation of the spiritual request to the very land. A soothing and green haze slowly surrounded his body and the pain eased at once. Up. He struggled to get up on his knees and breathed heavily. Up. He had to get up. He had promised them that he would return home. The road ahead awaited.

⸻

During the Battle for Azeroth:

Noon. He had been walking for a couple of hours. With the rythmic movement and slightly sore legs from trekking followed a pleasant feeling of serenity. The tarid desert of Uldum seemed complementary to the lush vegetation growing along the Vir’naal River. Having followed the local advise that a paste made from Whiptail and Sand Root would create a scent to keep the Riverbed Crocolisks at a distance, Dulvarinn enjoyed relative solutude while walking. Shaded by a palm tree he stopped to enjoy a well deserved sip from his water skin. While the keg of sap from the Bittersap Cacti was still fermenting beneath the dunes of Thistleshrub Valley, he listened to the flow of the river and took a deep breath.

– ‘An’da, An’da!’

Dulvarinn opened his eyes. Almost eight years had passed since he had conducted Ithiluna’s afterlife ceremony by the Honeymoon Well in the Moonglade. There had been nothing to bury. The fate of Thal’darah Grove had reduced the novice druid of only nine years of age to ash. At least her mother was now there to guide her. No perished child should walk alone amongst the stars. While Haidene never did awake from her comatose state from the Hederine Curse, he knew in his heart that she had sensed the fate of their daughter. With the verdant staff in hand he continued to walk in silence for some time. The silhouette of someone resting beneath a small grove of palm trees appeared in the distance. The road ahead awaited.

[Ralrush-steamwheedle-cartel]

Ral’rush had eaten half of his meal without even breathing, and he took a brief rest from the portable treats a Ramkahen grocer had sold to him…a pack of strange bell peppers stuffed with rice. So focused was he that his situational awareness melted away in the midday heat, and he rested beneath the palm trees in such an oblivious mental state that the watchtower overseer would have reprimanded him even when off duty. Though a food coma hadn’t quite set it, he barely even noticed the lone hiker traversing the beaten path right near the patch of date palms.

On tired legs which Rush and anyone else stationed in Uldum would sympathize with, the traveler gradually drew nearer, near enough that the off-duty sentry should have paid a little more attention than he was. The man’s footsteps bore the sort of even yet slower pace brought on by the arid climate; a sort of forced patience which not all would prefer but would eventually accept to conserve energy. Even when the figure’s features became apparent, Rush didn’t stir; the verdant staff of a tender of the wilds might have triggered his fight or flight response a few years ago, but not anymore.

If there was anything which did pull Rush straight out of his post-meal drowsiness, it wasn’t the traveler’s attire, nor was it the man’s skin or hair color. His pace was unaggressive and his demeanor was unassuming, projecting no ill intent through body language. Nothing outwardly apparent about the stranger should have unsettled the off-duty soldier lazing about a riverbank on a quiet day, and yet, when the traveler drew near enough for the pair to look each other in the eyes, Rush found his greetings trailing off into a mumble and his heart rate rising.

Even if he’d been granted more time to think about it, he wouldn’t have quite been able to put his finger on the exact cause. There was an old familiarity there, like unknown knowledge buried in the back of his mind, shining in a dark cave. The night elf gentleman who’d simply been passing by noticed the jungle troll, too, and the brief spark of familiarity filled Rush with the same nervousness he felt when walking through cemeteries or listening to Hallow’s End campfire stories.

Instead of responding intelligently or defensively, Rush just stared for longer than was socially appropriate, frozen in place and wondering why he felt like he was seeing a ghost.

[Dulvarinn-moonglade (Dulvarinn)]

– ‘Ishnu-alah,’ said the druid in a polite tone.

He was still a bit uncomfortable around trolls as the cultural differences made it all too easy to be involuntarily crude. However, Zen’tabra had been kind enough to teach him the basics of troll interaction. That it was considered impolite for non-trolls to speak in Zandali unless formally invited to do so.

As their eyes met he felt a sudden side stitch which made his hand reach for the area above the diaphragm. Slightly puzzled he maintained his gaze on the troll. Judging from the scars and armor quality this was clearly a seasoned warrior and Dulvarinn knew just how fierce even the inexperienced trolls could be. Often had he concocted troll’s blood potions for his adventures, but their name was merely derived from their imitating effect. The veins in this troll thrummed with true regeneration.

– ‘If only a traveller could have the patience and endurance of a palm tree.’

[Ralrush-steamwheedle-cartel]

Ral’rush remained seated in the sand, gripping the wrapped bell pepper and staring inappropriately at the druid passing him by. Another wave of dread filled the jungle troll’s mind as the traveler greeted him politely, disturbing Rush enough such that he merely intended to return the greeting without actually speaking out loud. In any other case, such a strong sense of fear would have provoked him; no matter how enlightened he liked to believe he’d become from traveling the world, he knew what he still was. At his root, he was a creature motivated by fear more than anything else.

In this case, however, he maintained the self-control he’d worked on for so many years - helped not in small part by the fact that the green-haired man walking by appeared so casual, so lacking in presumptions, that Rush had no logical reason to react. While he found himself able to hold still, he also found himself unable to focus well. He tried to wipe away the moisture collecting on his hairless brow with his free hand only to remember how dry the air was in Uldum; there was no humidity as he’d expected, and Rush came to realize that while he was firmly grounded in his body, his mind had wandered to another place. Perhaps the same place, in the back of his mind, where a sort of familiarity shined through the shade of a cave mouth.

Quite unintentionally, Rush stirred in his spot, slowly rising to his feet much in the same way his mother had taught him to rise for a funeral procession even if the deceased was a stranger. He failed to notice how he’d moved from a sitting position to a standing position, unaware as he clung to his bell pepper and stared at the traveling druid.

When logic failed him, instinct tried to take over. He’d spent years trying to fight against such responses, and the result was that neither drive could claim complete victory. Just as his legs had propped him up on their own volition, so did his voice speak without any real intention to drive it.

“I remember…I know you,” Rush stammered in a garbled, inarticulate mash of Common and Orcish despite not truly remembering anything clear.

[Dulvarinn-moonglade (Dulvarinn)]

– ‘Indeed?’, said the druid with a subtle smile to cover his growing uneasiness: ‘Perhaps we have met during the Lunar Festival? Elune knows that many visitors arrive to the Moonglade during those nights.’

[Ralrush-steamwheedle-cartel]

(OOC: I live! I logged in a few days ago to see the response so I could get to work.)

Struggling to control his facial expression and restrain his movements, Rush mouthed a few silent words before his voice succeeded in making itself heard. “Lunar…Festival?” he asked, stupefied by the change in topic. He visibly shook his head while trying to regain his bearings. “No, I not been to Moonglade,” he replied warily, his spine still tingling with a ghostly sensation even when he’d realized that the man standing before him was real.

The dryness of Rush’s skin conflicted with the sensation of damp humidity, but he now understood that the sensation was all in his head. Standing nearly slack jawed in the shade of the palm tree, he felt like a Mudsprocket merchant grasping for keys with greasy fingers. “Not here…in a…swamp?” Rush continued, asking more than telling. “I think I know you from…some place with stagnant water.” He winced after his own statement, noticing how little sense it made even to him.