The group of shrieking children that rushed past Symmathan all bore smiles as they ran past him. It was enough to draw a wide grin from him as he turned to watch them. Undead and Farstriders, it looked like with the ‘undead’ making imitation clawed hands and the ‘Farstriders’ shooting leaves to fight them off. One of the ‘undead’ ignored the leaved and the children shrieked, voices rising as the small Farstriders scattered and ran.
Shindu fallah na! Shindu fallah na!
Words he’d heard several times before. In combat and from children at play, even several jokes. They repeated it again before they went farther down the road.
“Shindu fallah na!”
The last words sounded wrong, almost like he’d never heard them before. But he heard them today. His fingers twitched and he reached for the bracelet at his wrist. He stopped walking as the world slowed down around him, rising up like a whirlwind. It blinded him, deafened the sounds of the forest. He knew where he was on the pathway, could count the number of steps back to Silvermoon. But the world grew empty of substance as his hand clenched tightly at his bracelet. Panic and terror began to rise upwards as the smell of rot and smoke filled his nostrils. “Shindu fallah nah!” He’d never seen this kind of assault before. Not in the many centuries he’d served. Smoke stung his eyes like a swarm of mosquitos, blood ran down his dirtt streaked face. It was chaos around him, disorder and death that mixed with the anguished cries and yells of lives cut short. Pain from countless wounds didn’t register as he saw another one of his brethren fall. He knew all of the faces of those that had fallen.
And they all knew him. Coming back from beyond to swipe clawed and bloodied hands. All coming back for him. The throbbing, dull sound of his muscles screaming in protest was drowned out by his loud , harsh breaths as he exhaustedly climbed up a wall. Above the risen he was able to catch his breath as they gathered. They had already taken his pet and they wanted him to join them.
The world abruptly changed as he fell, back hitting the ground hard enough he drew in a sharp breath. A loud sound filled his ears as he reached up to grab Nadim’s soft fur instead of the rotten flesh of the risen. Bright light made the back of his eyes sting as the noise grew louder, filling his ears up.
Nadim purred as he laid on his chest, kneading Sym as he cleaned him.
Safe. He was safe now.
The hordes of undead were years and years in the past. The undead had broken through.
And they were gone.
Nadim purred loudly in his ears. His tether to reality.
When he was a child the trees were so big that Sym was certain they could touch the sun. He spent his childhood climbing the trees and wandering. He always credited an avoidance for academia for his love of Quel’thalas’s forests.
But in truth there was nothing that surpassed it. The way the sunlight would stream through the trees and the wind caressed the grass alongside the road. The whispers of the creatures in the forest disguised as rustling grass and leaves crunching beneath his feet. The cold water in the rivers and the mana wyrms congregating around pools and crystals. The deep shade of green and the smell of the cold, crisp morning air. When the forest was silent it drew a feeling of reverence and peace. To see it green and healthy was to be at at peace. He loved it all. From the crunching of leaves beneath his boot, the flowers, the bugs, the leylines. Nothing compared to Quel’thalas, nothing. If there was ever a living embodiment of Quel’thalas then Symmathan would have been the most zealous devotee to carry out her will.
Centuries of service in the Farstriders had cemented his devotion. No matter the politics that went on or how her people changed, the scars and blemishes, it was as beautiful and full of mystery now as it was when he was a child.
Even if much of it was tainted with sadness and pain. Like the dead scar or the countless ruined villages in the Ghostlands. So much so that in some places he could smell sweet rot still- or maybe he simply dreamt it. The days after the third war had ‘ended’ were a blur of frenzied work and undead. No matter how many that had been cut down they rose up. Again and again and again, there were so many. Still were in more dangerous places. All of which he knew.
The most dangerous places in his mind were the ones where the forest had grown wild and was subtly warped by the echoes of the past and dark magic that lingered. Spirits still walked despite efforts to put all of them to rest. It drew a sharp pang in his heart whenever he saw one. They didn’t deserve this fate, no man woman, or any of the children did. Hw mourned for them all in silence, left countless offerings to try and appease them. But none of it erased the violent manner in which they had passed on.
He felt like that would be something he saw until he passed on, regardless of how hard he tried to send them to rest.
It had been days since he’d delivered his report and no matter what trails he followed deep in the woods. They all lead nowhere. Each clue he had found raised more questions than he had before.
The grey mold itself served no real purpose unless they were just aiming to destroy…right? It was only caught by plants and plantlife like the treants. But how did a human catch it? It lingered in his mind. He was not a practitioner of magic beyond the basic spells and crude druidry he knew. He did however, have an idea.
The least good place to go in Quel’thalas was a along her border where a small stretch of twisted and warped wood grew. It had been left alone for some time. It had been to long since they had enough time to inspect that small patch and see what lurked inside.
A deep breath. The morning air was cool, smelling of moss and the smell of rot was ever present here. Tree and plant alike were covered in dew. It had grown bright but the sun had yet to climb from the horizon into the sky. The sound of mana wyrms as they lazily explored the pool of mana nearby belied the tension of the Farstrider in the tree above them. For hours, the farstrider had been in his hiding spot, wrapped in the magical cape. It served to break up his outline, blending against the tree.
Barely an hour past the dawn and still the farstrider had a day left to go before he would call it a bust. It had taken only minutes to find the spot he would spend hours in but once he had found it he forced his muscles to relax. Hands rested on his bow, one arrow held loosely and the rest in his quiver. It had taken days to get to this point, countless hours hunting and searching, following the smallest hints. Several, maddeningly, lead nowhere. Centuries upon centuries of Farstrider discipline, orders, and persistence did not allow Symmathan Brightarrow to stop.
Something had been driving the treants mad, the treants turned from healthy and green to rotting terrors spreading invasive disease to other plants and wildlife. The source was mold. Some sort of curse had been added and it warped whatever it touched. It would eat away the treant’s bark, hijacking their body as it grew inside of them, turning them into mold spreading horrors. What it didn’t hijack it killed. The plants would rot from the inside out and the rot would try to spread. Several acres of trees had to be burned with magical fire and the land requiring extensive ‘purging’ to ensure that nothing remained. Other farstriders had been tasked with killing the treants, burning the infected, and purging the land. Sym had been tasked to find the source and stop it, whatever ‘it’ was.
– “She is a harsh mistress. Beautiful beyond words that the elven mind can offer. Cold, demanding, and more than once I know what she demands of me is to much to ask. But I love her so. From the trees, to the rivers, lakes, forests and animals.” He had told Windsong. The Diviner had cocked a white-grey brow at him. “It’s called indoctrinated Sym. That’s what it is. You loved it and they taught you to love it so much that nothing you have to do for it is wrong. I love Quel’thalas Symm- but I know some of what I do is plain fucking wrong.” He knew better than to challenge Windsong. They both knew just how far he would go for Quel’thalas. “I’m not saying it’s wrong Sym. But that’s over eight centuries of this. Eight centuries and everytime they ask you to do something you bend over backwards, you do the cruel deed, and walk around like a puppet. The only time you’re you is when you have a day off. You’re a killing machine for the glory of Quel’thalas. The only difference between us is that I acknowledge what I am and do.” – Windsong was a hard friend but she had known him for longer than anyone else. It was often her words that delivered the truth and he replayed that interaction in his mind. Three hundred paces away there remained the ruins of a house. Plants grew where elven life once flourished as the house slowly rotted away, leaning as far from the sun as it was able. He gave it less than half a decade before the house collapsed.
Right onto the doors that lead to the basement beneath it where a mad chemist’s laboratory had been set up. Containers of the cursed grey mold lined the shelves, experimental tools. Papers, notes on the mold and how it had been molded by magic had lain where it was easily read. Originally an experiment to restore a tree but what had happened after that the notes offered no clue and the writing became less sane the more he had read. He didn’t know the magic that had been used, didn’t understand the poisons. The basement showed signs of being used recently, dusty prints on the floor.
And after he had put everything in place, slipping out to find the most appropriate spot to wait. A soft crunch sounded nearby. Reflexively his fingers twitched against his bow. The whisper of the arrow slipping back into position as his eyes searched was almost silent. During his silent watch the sun had reached its zenith, giving more than enough light to see the scrawny man that was making towards the ruined home. Muscles protested as he drew his bow.
Human and moving without a care, as if he thought nobody knew he was there. Seconds were all he needed to aim and the sound of the arrow as it flew was beautiful. Another was drawn, aimed, and let go. The first arrow cut through the pants and into the achilles tendon and he tumbled down into the doors of the basement, Sym would have sworn he heard it sever from where he was. The bow was abandoned for the shortsword at his belt as he closed the distance between them. The second arrow missed but there would not be enough time to attempt to flee.
Jumping into the basement after Sym noted the unnatural grey shade in their eyes as he swung his sword. – Sym’s words elicited almost no response from the man. They had crawled back as he entered the basement, not even crying out as he swung his sword. It was like watching a bug seeking shelter. They didn’t raise a hand to defend themselves, didn’t speak. They just stared.But it was the eyed that got Sym, those bloody eyes.
Sym shuddered. Unnatural buglike eyes with a unnatural shade of grey. They didn’t dilate and he saw grey moss in their hair. Was he infected with the moss? Or was he the source of the mold and spreading it? “I need answers human.” The human remained silent, had been after pleas for mercy and their family fell on uncaring ears. “You don’t have to answer why, of course. I don’t care.” He did care. He cared so much he began to pace, pulling out several small vials of white liquid and set them around the basement. “Why are you spreading this- this garbage?” In HIS woods. HIS lovely woods, it enraged him. No answer.
But the greyish mold on top of the human’s head began to twitch. Hiding his disgust Sym shrugged. “Alright.” At the table he adjusted the papers, one eye on the man. The papers were taken, stowed in a sealed bag. The papers he’d seen provided more information than he’d gotten from the man. His gloves were tugged off and tossed onto the floor. Those would have to do.
As he shut the doors to the basement he let out a sharp whistle, calling for his lynx companion. As Naddy bounded up he moved his hand in quick, careful gestures.
The white liquid in the vials was magical fire. The Magisters had made it in an attempt to start cleaning the dead scar. When their efforts proved futile there the Farstriders took it, seeing the use in cleaning areas that were not suffering permanent corruption. Smokeless and invaluable in helping to save areas that had to be cleansed.
The mold and the human were to dangerous to touch, let alone bring back. But he had more of an idea of where to search now for the possible source of all of it. A low groan sounded inside of the basement as fire exploded from the vials. A living creature would have screamed, banged against the door as it fought to live.
But whatever the moss had done to the human, it was not alive anymore. “Naddy, come. We have papers to deliver- and a source to find.” He didn’t leave just yet, however, watching the magical fire purge the house. It would take an hour for it to die and several more before he could make his report.
Tyleril Silversword 