When they found the old shaman the Dirge had expected a fight, this was an orc shaman that had taken part in all four wars, a veteran, one present when the orders to burn the tree were given by the Banshee Queen, one that had carried out those orders without question. Or that is what they had been told.
Ilistria had moved into the hut, slashed at the old shamans shoulder drawing blood, expecting him to put up a defence, but there was none. The orc had instead muttered something about having foreseen this moment, knowing he would meet his death, here, by one of the Dirge.
He looked defeated, he looked to regret the sins of his past, he had held out the pendant, uttered his final wishes for the trinket to be buried in memory of his dead son, Yandra had taken it from him.
Ilistria eyes had met the orcs briefly as she told him to kneel, watched him drop to his knees before her.
This was not an honourable death, nor was it one she took pleasure in. She had taken countless lives, seen the last moments in each, in some it was shock, in some it was pain, in some fear and in some it was relief. Each death was different, each one she remembered. Once she had dwelt upon them all, once she had wondered about each person she killed, wondered who they had really been. Some she had killed had been innocent of any crimes, this one was not, his actions had resulted in the deaths of innocents, those that burned in the tree had no chances to give last wishes, no chances to say goodbye, they burned in pain and suffering. And this orc by following orders had allowed it to happen.
Her blade came down fast and hard across the back of the orcs neck, detaching head from body in one clean strike.
An execution, quick and painless, too good for this orc Ilistria had thought as she picked up the head by the hair. The kaldorei he had killed had not died so quick, or painlessly. They had suffered. Had she been alone she may have made the death slower, part of her wanted that, but part of her still had honour, The orc had to die for his crimes, and she would not let the savage part of her win, she would not become what she hated most.
She had walked from the hut as Yandra had performed the remaining orders. The kill was empty, and without satisfaction. But it was one less orc. Blood taken as payment for the crime, vengeance and justice for those murdered. This orcs death would just be another face she saw when she slept, one more face among the countless many.
I like this guild
I like u 
I like them both.
Both⌠both⌠Nods Both is good.
Wildheart Point, Felwood
Vashava stood, watching Felwood with a glass of manawine, as the night ticked away. A smile crossed her usually taciturn face, as she recalled that nightâs events. She had expected open warfare, that Shalâdorei and Kaldorei blood would be wasted while a vital Highborne relic lingered, unclaimed or worse, stolen by dark forces. Yet⌠this had not come to pass.
The day before, the Dirge had freed a Highborne spirit in KelâTheril, who had been tortured by a corrupted druid. He told them of an ancient relic he had crafted: the Keystone. It has been intended to work as a shield against the demons in the War of the Ancients, but had been moved to a fortress in what became Felwood. Come the Sundering, and the Keystone was lost, and the spirit was trapped on Azeroth, unable to pass on. The corrupted druid, known to the Dirge as Adrissa Moonglow, sought this Keystone.
The Dirge had sworn then to see this relic recovered, and returned to the spirit, so he and his fellows could pass on into Eluneâs light. That same night, they also received word that Shalâdorei, likely the Moonlight Melody, were intending to cleanse a Moonwell in Felwood. Unable to stand by and allow heretics to run amok in their lands, the Dirge set out with two goals. Find the Keystone, and stop the Shalâdorei.
As it turned out, they had no need to stop the Shalâdorei. When they arrived at the Moonwell, it was still corrupted, the Shalâdorei absent. So, the Dirge cleansed the Moonwell themselves, and ensured that it would not be tainted by foul heresy. With that done, the Dirge set out to find the Shalâdorei.
Following tracks, they followed the Shalâdoreiâs trail and found that it was, indeed, the Moonlight Melody. The lone orc mentioned in the missive was a tell-tale sign. And they were not alone. They were working with the Order of Oronaar, erstwhile âalliesâ of the Dirge, fighting a great, corrupted, demonic manifestation.
Vashavaâs smile grew wider. Ah, and then the choice was clear, was it not? Fight now, and likely lose badly, and risk the mission to retrieve the relic, or otherwise âaidâ the Melody and the Order. The Melody, working with the Alliance⌠some would find a letter about the matter most interesting. And the Order, failing to call on the Dirge when dealing with a matter in Felwood? Such a betrayal⌠and the Dirge would be magnanimous about it. They would be understanding. Outwardly.
So, she gave the order to help the Melody and the Order. Conveniently ensuring that her troops, for the most part, were at the rear of any fights. When they found the Eredar who was leading this demonic horde, by chance he already had the Keystone. As his defeat drew near, he dropped the Keystone. And the Dirge had snatched it up at once. It had been twisted by fel magic, but Ayleris Greenshadow, one of the Dirgeâs demon hunters, now kept the Keystone safe, and disguised it from prying eyes with her own fel aura. They would cleanse it as soon as possible.
Of course, there had been some damage. Greenshadow had been afflicted by a delusion spell, and had taken some nasty wounds, but her nature ensured that this was not as difficult to overcome than had it been Vashava herself. But every goal had been achieved, with no losses, and minimal long-term damage.
And now⌠Vashava sighed contentedly as she looked over Felwood, and took a long sip of manawine. Everything, she mused, as she savored the drink, had gone according to plan. Magnificent.
A great event today alongside the [PCU] Eternal Sisterhood - Dawn of the Eternal Night đ and the [PCU] Draenei RP - Order of Oronaar đ, if youâre looking for Nightborne or Draenei RP, then theyâre the guys to go to! And also, a thank you to Arcaraan and Lazaares of the Order for organising it all!
Screenshots edited by Frostvine.
Ilistria sat by the lake in Ashenvale inspecting the hat she had taken off the goblin from the earlier raid the Dirge had made against them.
The Dirge had learned of the presence of the group using an oil platform in Northern Stonetalon polluting the area and no doubt being used to supply oil to Horde forces.They had employed a new tactic of attacking from the air and it had taken the goblins by surprise, the battle had then progressed to the ground but after a time of fighting the Dirge had gained the upper hand and the group had surrendered to the Dirge.
Ilistria had claimed the trophy hat from a rather mouthy goblin that others seemed to refer to as Blondie. She did not really want the hat, but he had seemed attached to it so it amused her to take it from him, Something he cared about and taking something off a goblin that a goblin cared about seemed satisfying to her.
She would keep her new trophy hat along with her shrunken orc heads and severed ear collection.
Druids of Teldrassil, Children of Muâsha.
Justice shall be yours!
I love these cruel and ruthless knife earsâŚ
Though they can never be forgiven for taking the hat. 
During their campaign in Felwood, Yandra had found an old tome of seemingly druidic origin in a barrow den. She had retrieved it and carried it with her since. It must have been ancient, for the scripture was faded and near unintelligible. Yandra was desperate to have it restored. Surely, it held a lot of invaluable knowledge about druidism - just what she needed in order to further advance her studies.
The Harbinger had not wished to interfere with the restoration of the tome. Chronomancy was simply too powerful and ran the risk of ruining it completely. Instead, she had urged Yandra to find an experienced druid to aid her.
The Dirge of Teldrassil had visited Feathermoon Stronghold last night, where Yandra seized the opportunity to go looking for someone to help. Alas, ongoing festivities occupied anyone who looked remotely promising.
After an uneventful search, Yandra returned to her brethren. She sighed, gently brushing her hand across the tomeâs cover. Her ears suddenly perked as she felt someone approach her. It was Ilistria. She looked back at Yandra through the narrow slits of her hood. It made Yandra feel somewhat uneasy. She thought herself very different from the Darkcrest, and was not certain of what Ilistria thought of her.
âWhat are you reading, sister?â said Ilistria plainly.
Yandra extended the tome towards Ilistria, nodding. She told the Darkcrest of how she had found it a while back and how she wished to read it in its full glory one day.
âDoes it have illustrations? Only the good ones have them.â said Ilistria as she flicked through the pages.
Yandra blinked at Ilistria, somewhat taken off guard by the question. She could not help but snicker. She showed Ilistria illustrations of various druid forms and rituals. She swore she could have seen Ilistriaâs eyes squint slightly, perhaps indicating a smile under her hood.
The two landed on a page which Yandra had found particularly interesting. Druids in ursine forms, wearing various markings on their furred shoulders. Each one different from the next. Yandra had slowly started warming up to the Darkcrestâs company, unable to stop herself from blabbering endlessly about what meanings the markings could represent. However, she suddenly paused as she felt Ilistriaâs unblinking gaze fixed upon her. Yandra shrivelled up again.
âYou have not claimed any markings of your own, sister.â said Ilistria, still studying the young druid. âWhy is that?â
Yandra scratched the back of her head nervously, âWell-⌠I suppose I have not done anything noteworthy to earn them yet, I supposeâŚâ She swallowed. âFurthermore, I have only mastered the form of the crow, not much else. Also-âŚâ She paused, her gaze fell to the floor and she shut her eyes tightly. âI fled at Teldrassil.â
Ilistria was silent for a moment. It felt like an eternity. After a while she finally spoke, âAnd yet you have fought since, with us.â
Yandra flinched. She had expected to hear something entirely different. She peered up at the Darkcrest, confused.
âMaybe your time has come. As far as Iâve seen, you have earned them.â Ilistria returned the tome. Yandra clutched it, holding it tightly pressed to her chest and bowed deeply.
âThank you, sister.â
Feneath and allies; Rossarian and Frostvine were tasked by the Harbinger to scout the ruins of Stonewatch Keep, a dilapidated keep on the fringe of Redridge Mountains, in search of a Arrakoa that had left its hovel. The party soared over the keep with them in the form of birds and he atop a hired Stormwind gryphon. Fenaeth broke formation as he landed just outside the keepâs doorway and entered for a brief look. The keepâs hallway reminded him of Winterspring as a sharp cold breeze was constant through the winding halls of the keep. Feneath felt for the wall to guide him as the torches of this place were long since snuffed out, even with his innate affinity for the dark he did not want to be caught off guard by a nesting animal that made these halls their own.
Feneath was about to leave after this brief search but a sudden uproar of voices rang through the keep, a mixture of grunts and yells indicated a struggle. The Night Elf readied his sword and continued into the keep, his breaths becoming heavier and more rapid as he fought both the chill and fear. As he made his way through the winding corridors shrill voices echoed throughout Feneathâs head like a sharp bell clanging against its lip and each voice rhythmically exacting and damning the Night Elf. These voices were familiar and far more desperate than the ones coming from the keep. Fenaeth banished the thoughts that tormented him by focusing at the task at hand, although the words were becoming nigh impossible to ignore. This was not an unusual phenomenon for him as in times of fear and battle, voices of the past would sound themselves.
The struggle atop the keep persisted and Fenaeth followed the cries of it. The frigid air no longer irritated the Kaldorei as he made his way up the stairs, both the exercise and the thought of suddenly breaking one of the brittle wooden steps and falling straight to the bottom tempered his adrenaline. That, and the struggle he had of his own. Finally reaching the balcony he saw two visages fighting, one adorning a red and white mantle which seemed familiar to him and the other was unmistakably that of the Arrakoa. Feneath stumbled to the doorway as though he had already been in battle, he gripped onto the door frame and leaned against it, neither of the two had noticed him yet.
âMalabryn! Youâve doomed us all!â bellowed a despairing voice in his mind.
He finally entered the fray, his mind was addled and he disregarded his instructions given to him by the Harbinger as he attacked the Arrakoa directly. Rossarion and Frostvine flew over ahead and soon joined the melee.
Amberpine Lodge, Grizzly Hills, Northrend.
Vashava stood, wind swirling around her, watching Conquest Hold in the distance. Just in front of her, a steep drop down into a gully and the lumber mill lay, no railing between the drop and her. Yet her robes remained un-moving, her hair still. Magic thrummed around her, shielding her from the elements, as she gazed upon Conquest Hold unflinchingly, her mind whirring. In one hand, she held a letter, in the other, a glass of manawine.
She had been voted Commander of the Alliance Forces in this operation, and on her shoulders lay the responsibility for success. A heavy weight, but one shared. Her fellow commanders were intelligent, capable, spoke freely and at the ready, as were their forces. They knew their tasks, their strengths, and the overall plan. A plan that she mulled over even now, thinking of possibilities, probabilities, tactics and counters. They would have victory, together.
Of course, the Horde had brought it on themselves. They had rejected the peace offered to them, and so had chosen the path of war. So be it. The Alliance would end their threat, and see peace and security return to these lands. Vashava took a sip of manawine, and turned, returning to the Lodge. Maps, reports, stock-lists, all had to be consideredâŚ
The Dirge of Teldrassil have travelled north, to participate in the [PCU/Conflict RP] Cold Front: Grizzly Hills (09/06 - 15/06) campaign! If you want to join the Dirge (or the campaign for that matter), jump on a ship and head to Northrend!
Grizzly Hills. They had finally arrived and ridden upon saber back to Amberpine Lodge, where part of the Concordat had made camp. After unloading and settling, the Dirge was ordered to scout. Yandra and Azshandra were assigned to scout the west. Both of them stemmed from Winterspring and felt familiar with Northrendâs climate. Even though Yandra had never visited in person before, she thought she had seen Vordrassil within the emerald dream.
The two ran through the woods by foot. Yandra had removed her headdress, picking up speed and letting her hair flow in the wind. She chuckled with glee as she raced through the scenery alongside Azshandra. Yandra had longed for this sense of freedom and for a moment, she had almost forgotten what grave business they were here for. Soon, she would halt in her tracks. The kaldorei eyed some sort of ruin, it looked old and not at all of elvish design.
âWhat are those?â said Yandra.
âA ruin. One of the troll kind by the looks of it.â said Azshandra.
âPerhaps it is best we stay off the road.â said Yandra, headed towards the trees. Though, she suddenly came to another halt. She pointed forth. âSister-âŚâ
Azshandra looked to where Yandra was pointing. Azshandraâs eyes widened. She quickly rummaged around her belt for a scroll, unraveling it to reveal a map. âConquest Hold.â she read and scoffed, âWhat a fitting name for such an ugly thing.â
âA Horde settlement if I ever saw one.â said Yandra, shaking her head. âLet us get a closer lookâŚâ With haste, the two snuck into the woods, nearing the spiked walls. Hidden in the shadows, the elves eyed the crude fort with disgust, their ears twitching to the commotion inside.
âI intend to scout it from the skies.â said Yandra firmly, preparing herself to change form.
Azshandra looked back at Yandra, her black eyes wary. âThen be careful, sister. Fly high and do not intervene.â she said.
Yandra gave a nod in return, offering an uncertain smile which she hoped would come across as confident. In the blink of an eye, she turned into a crow and took to the skies with a powerful beat of her great wings.
Yandra circled Conquest Hold from above. Her keen gaze widened, as the Hordeâs numbers were larger than she had anticipated. She flew nearer, now also spotting Kaiâs avian form in the distance. It made her feel more at ease, as much as she could in the enemyâs territory anyway.
Suddenly, she heard the booming voice of a draenei at the gates. The druid took a sharp turn, landing atop a spiked pillar by the entrance. She could not believe her eyes. The Order of Oronaar had approached the stronghold, their large frames seemingly miniscule in comparison to the sheer amount of orcs, trolls and blood elves who were now approaching them. Imagination or not, Yandra thought she could sense the Hordeâs bloodlust from where she was perched. It made her shudder.
The draenei spoke of some peace treaty. As much as Yandra would like to see it accomplished, she knew it was but a foolish dream. Nature would never rest with the two forces fighting their useless wars over and over. It would only flourish when either side had been wiped out.
Yandra had been so busy studying the ongoings below, that she suddenly jumped when she noticed a pterrordax having landed next to her. Licking its razorsharp maw, it studied Yandra, who was yet in her crow form, with its hungry eyes. This was no regular pterrordax from Unâgoro, she thought. Not only would it have been very far from home, but it was currently morphing into a sabertusk, looking as if it was prepared to pounce!
Yandra croaked at the beast in distress, her pale eyes bewildered. Though, she gathered enough focus to send a prayer to Aviana, summoning forth a strong gust to wipe the sabertusk off the pillar. Confused and unprepared, the sabertusk slid off the perch and down the edge! Yandra looked for the beast, finding it as a pterrordax again. But not for long. It fluttered into a landing and folded its leathery wings, shifting to its true form. A troll.
He tried to communicate with Yandra in a rough version of Common, âLittle bird, we are same.â
Yandra looked back at the troll with disgust, not responding. She was insulted, she wished to reply in fact, but she could not. She wasnât advanced enough to speak when shapeshifted. She snobbishly turned her beak the other way, focusing on the interaction below again. Though, she kept warily peering over at the troll every so often. To her surprise, he did not seem to wish to advance on her anymore.
âWhy you come here, little bird?â The troll studied Yandra through his wooden mask, âYou count numbers, you can go now. Then, we meet in field. You stay, they shoot.â
Yandra clicked her beak, agitated. About to try at a reply, she was interrupted. The Horde bellowed out for war! The ground shook under their heavy boots as they charged at the draenei!
âGo, little bird.â said the troll plainly. Yandra had a feeling this wouldnât be the last time they met. She took his advice and fled, flying back to Amberpine Lodge with haste.
Ilistria stood in the chill morning air looking out from the wooden platform at the lodge. Through the mist in the distance her keen elf eyes could see the looming Horde fortress of conquest hold. A scar upon the land.
The reports had come in from last night, a large Horde force were massed there, that much was clear. The Draenei had insisted on playing the game of trying to get peace, a foolish waste of time, The Horde did not want peace, the Horde was here for only one thing, the same thing they always wanted, landâŚsuppliesâŚand war.
Skirmishes had broken out during the previous night as scouts were sent out. While Ilistria had been to the north on another mission, Briarthorn had contacted her on the rookstone. Two orc scouts spotted, Briarthorn had requested permission to engage them informing her that they outnumbered the orcs. Ilistria had told him to engage and not pursue.
The orcs had fought hard, and two members of the Dirge had received bad injuries, but the orc scouts although escaped had received equally if not worse injury in the process. An acceptable outcome if not the best she thought. The healers would need to mend them, everyone would be needed over the coming daysâŚ
Ilistria looked over her shoulder at the lodge. It was no fortress, not like conquest hold. It was defended on one side by a near vertical drop, but the other three sides not so much. Two bridges led across the fast flowing river below, one to the south, one to the north. Ilistria and Vallender had spent some hours during the night laying traps to the south, if the horde tried to attack that way they would have to go through them. But it would not stop a large force.
The bridge at the North was a choke point, if they could hold that then the lodge could be held too most likely, for a time at least.
Ilistria paced a little along the platform. Above all else her key concern was making sure the Harbinger was protected. She was not only in command of the Dirge but the commander of the entire force sent here now. That made her a primary target. She knew the Harbinger was quite capable of looking after herself in and out of battle. She also knew no one was invincible, she had seen things from both sides during her life, she had acted as a protector for people of importance, but she had also acted as an assassin, tasked with taking out people of importance.
The Harbinger took risks, lots of risks, even last night almost riding alone between camps, until Ilistria had advised her she could not go without an escort. She was Highborne, she was old, she was powerful and she sometimes assumed herself untouchable. That was unlikely to change, Ilistria knew that, but she was in a position to lessen the risks the Harbinger took. She would have to ensure she was protected at all times, after all the surest way to lose a game of chess was to lose the most powerful piece to the enemy. Ilistria was going to make sure that did not happen.
It was the second day of the Grizzly Hills campaign. Darkcrest Ilistria and Frostvine dragged a horribly burned, addled and barely conscious Feneath over to the tents at the encampment where the Concordat had made their sanctuary. Feneath was outnumbered by at least three trolls and an Elven mage, beset on all sides the novice warrior could not fight and defend himself against such odds. His Shanâdo, Azshandra Moonrage, was teaching the novice warrior who had spent his whole life as a Druid tending to nature in the serene harmony of his homeland. This battle was nigh death for the Elf and his injuries and state of mind reflected that. His head was placed gingerly on the fur mat in the tent by his caring allies, as much as the Darkcrest was savage and cruel she showed as much concern when her soldiers fell defeated in battle. Frostvineâs kind demeanor was obvious to anyone at first sight of the Druid, it was she that reclaimed the lone warrior from the clutches of the Horde and although Feneath would never know this in this dazed stupor he did know the Dirge would not leave him for death. Fenaeth fell instantaneously to sleep as soon as his heavy head felt the ground beneath the fur mat, his mind was going numb and empty, like a blank canvas with which no paint would bring life to the blank, infinite white sheet.
The visage of a tall, aged Night Elf hummed and nodded his head in approval.
âGood, Malabrynâ, boomed a calm, tranquil voice of the Night Elf who lingered on the word which echoed throughout the grove. Another Night Elf, who bore a remarkable similarity to Feneath, breathed out an exhausted chuckle. The young Night Elf wiped his brow and on one knee rooted to the ground he observed his work: a small, wilted sapling had a healthy green brought back to its dying grey leaves. The expression on the young Elfâs face was one of pride and some amount of disbelief which were clearly emotions rarely visited upon the Elfâs visage, whatever he had accomplished was something he could take a rare moment to be proud of.
Within that same thought, images of pyre and despair filled the canvas of Feneathâs unconscious. Screams rang out from all sides, Kaldorei of all ages, all physical aptitude being torn apart was the new picture painted in Fenaethâs mind. It was the same dream that haunted him but this time Feneath was lucid, able to move in the dream as one would in reality. Every detail of that fateful night was captured without distortion or blur as though an artist had immortalised a horizon that he had looked upon for an eternity, with endless time spent on each sun ray that gleamed and dawned in the distance. The Kaldorei had only taken a few steps in his dream when a desperate voice spoke directly to him, the voice seemingly had nobody asking it, the sound loomed around his ears pleading for an answer to a question, with such misery and hopelessness in its cadence that even if Feneath replied it would of matter very little. The question of âwhyâ fluttered around Feneathâs ears repeating on itself like water lapping against the shore, Feneath focused and tried to listen for the end of the question which was murmured past the first word. Feneath shut his eyes tight, truly focusing on the madness he bore witness to. For a long moment all went quiet. The disparaged voice then began as a whisper and when it finished the sentence it asked, it was a full-throated shout which both shocked and frightened Feneath,
âWhy did you doom us all?!â
Somewhere in the Twisting NetherâŚ
Vashava stood on the broken rudder of a ship, the only thing between her and a drop into the infinite void of the Nether. She had been forced to overcharge an Evenesce spell with unstable energies in order to escape imminent death, and had ended up blasted into the Nether. Better than immediate death, that much was true, but not much better. Demon howls rang out every so often, a constant reminder of the dangers of the region. But she was not alone, nor unprotected.
She had come across an ally in the gnome Gelris Tosselspark, of the Assemblage of Uld, who had also ended up blasted into the Nether, although not through and choice of his own. Had they not ended up being sent to the Nether at the same time, and in roughly the same location, they may never have come across one another, but Elune smiled down on them it seemed. They had ended up on a rock in the middle of no-where, more detritus of a broken world or spell floating in the Nether, but had found shelter in an old sunken ship.
The ship itself was of Azerothian make, and looked to have ended up here due to some magical mishap, perhaps a telemantic cargo, or naga spellwork. It didnât really matter, she and Gelris had made camp in the hull, and had spent the ânightâ in conversation and in their work. Theyâd started with stories of each others lives, and Vashava had spoken of her past all those millennia ago and theyâd conversed about immortality and mortality. But, in the end their minds had turned to their method of escape.
Between them, they had the magical and engineering knowledge to get out of the Nether. Vashava carried with her, at all times, a Dimensional Ripper of her own design, whilst Gelris had many tinkering items of his own. Once sheâd opened up the Ripper for Gelris to work on, she left him to tinker and create the engineering elements of the escape device, whilst she had come outside.
Here now she stood, watching the magnificence of the Nether, of true power, roiling and crashing all around her. To escape, she would have to draw power straight from the Nether, and taste a glory she had not tasted since the days of the Kaldorei Empire. But, if she and Gelris were to escape, the Modified Ripper would need vast amounts of power, and she was the only one of the two who could channel that power.
The risks, the hubris, the return to old habits⌠would she be able to control herself afterwards? Did that matter. At least one of them would get home, even if she herself ended up turned to dust by the powers she sought to harness. Raising her hands, she began her chant, and the energies of the Nether began to coalesce around her, answering her command.
It was when Casden and Yandra were headed back to Westfall Brigade Encampment when it happened. An orc came running up the road, looking bloodied and battered. He was fleeing. Yandra stood frozen in her tracks for a moment, until Casden had shifted to his worgen form and begun battling the orc.
She snapped out of it, changing into a crow to ravage the orc with her talons. Though, this one was powerful, not standing down even when outnumbered. Another pair of men would soon join the Dirge, seeking to help out in ending the threat.
The orc sought to grasp Yandraâs throat and she let out a distressed croak. She felt her eyes rolling back into her skull, gasping for breath as darkness began blurring her vision. Though, she could not fall now. There were still things she wanted to do and achieve. She could not die to an orc of all things. It would be a mockery.
Yandra gathered focus and opened her piercing gaze. Her eyes had always been a pale silver, but recently they had started to shift in color. There was a faint hue of amber in them, and now an advancing rage. The young druid felt her bones crack and her frame grow. She had taken the wildkin form and shed any sense of her former self. A primal fury drove her now. She grasped the orc around his neck in turn by her great ursine paw, sinking her claws into his throat. The tables had turned, now it was the orc who would suffer.
She remembered little of the fight when it was over. Her memories felt as parchment stained with water. It was difficult to make out what they depicted. She only recalled a nasty crunch and an awful smell. Still, she felt as if she knew what had been done. She looked down at her hands. They were trembling.
Yeah theyâre cool.