On my blog is information on commissioned writing pieces. I am brand new to putting it all out like this, so this is a rather dipping-toes-in-water experience for me. I have two pieces on this blog as something of examples, a little later I will post some character profiles of my own to give examples into that, and I will create a new blog with created maps/histories attached to them.
Inevitably, this profile will be used for the purpose of laying the groundwork for commission writing endeavors. I’ll get some organization set. In the mean time, my messages will be open here as I organize some sources/pieces of writing to reference for any interested parties.
A scent filled the air that was all too familiar to Vhoorl. The time of year dictated the passing of life. He muttered it under his breath. When life blooms, when life wanes. Over and over as he made his way through massive trees, all with their branches pointed to the heavens above. The twin Azerothian moons were barely visible in cracks shown between the leaves that drifted downwards like a parachuting rainfall.
This time was different, though. Often the scent of the decaying matter below the pads of his paws was commonplace, but the world was changing. Horrors lurked at every corner -- some wore red, and others blue. Some of them slithered with a snake-like body, or had tendrils made to crush and seep into the skull with sickly whispers.
He would never admit it, he was worried. At times, he would venture to say scared. War was raged for longer than he had seen thus far after Gilneas’ evacuation. Some were against Greymane’s stances once again, others cried out for blood-soaked vengeance. And here we was, looking for his answers. He was called to the woods once again, and there was a sense of urgency.
Though he knew the intention long before he wandered here. It caused his shoulders to be tense. He felt exhausted walking through the trail he had usually during his pilgrimage even though his step was usually hasty and certain. Death lingered in the air far more prominently than it ever had.
He knew the day was coming. The previous year, he wondered if would happen the next. And the year before that, the pattern was still intact. This year, he never knew it would be months, much less weeks away. His ears caught the distant sounds of shuffling bushes. When he glanced in the direction of the sounds, he saw gray-hooded figures walking the opposite direction of him.
The clearing was being emptied. Acolytes were being dismissed, protectors of the Whispering Woods were dismissed as well, their instructions to train given. Their prayers said, incantations of the wards around the forest all renewed, and faith tested once again.
He pushed aside the final set of bushes which crunched with their own decay. There was a flat land with brown-and-yellow grass all about, and before him lay a massive tree. One that tripled the size of the Greymane Wall. A carved face was on the front of the tree, appearing as a wise figure. A set of eyes, mouth, eyebrows, and nose were on the face. None of it moved, for it did not speak outright -- it spoke through the mind.
Guardian, It said, you have arrived.
“I ‘ave, Elderwood.” Vhoorl swallowed his sorrow, not braving to feel grief at what was happening. His spear on his back, appearing made of wood and bound with vines -- but glistened with that of a honed edge -- was removed. He stabbed it into the ground and knelt, using the support from his weapon to keep him steady as he lowered his head to the ground.
Sadness unnecessary, The voice said in his head, we all pass, we all must move on from life at some point.
“I know, Elderwood. It isn’ easy, though. You were all--”
Disregard thoughts: I am not all you have, Guardian.
“Per’aps not,” He said, his gaze still lowered. “It does not… resonate well with me still. What did this, Elderwood?”
There was a pause. His mind was clear, not invaded once by the warmth of the powerful entity before him. Vhoorl seemed a bit confused after seconds passed. When it seemed to too long, he broke his pattern and looked up. The sight was hard to see.
Simply six months back, the massive Elderwood’s bark was full of a shiny black color. Now it had lightened, appearing gray as time passed. A thin skin underneath parts were bark were chipped away showed the vulnerability of the being’s old age. The carved symbols that covered Elderwood’s bough were all failing, too. Whatever once could be read from their very body was hardly legible anymore.
Elderwood was leaving this world to go to the next before Vhoorl’s very eyes. It pained him to have to see it. Though he was confused where silence came from.
As soon as the silence started, words formed in his head once again, Elderwood’s regard for tradition forgotten as much as the rebellious Wyrmsbane had.
Confusion abound: I do not know Guardian. Relief surrounds: all must die even death itself. The sounds of shuffling through dirt was heard below the worgen man. Then, creaking and cracking. The snapping of a tree, as if a whirlwind had ripped it in half. Vhoorl winced, realizing it was the very roots of Elderwood crumbling.
He tried to observe the features of the carved face on the entity. As if he could make out an expression of pain or discomfort.
“What is your last wish, Elderwood?” Vhoorl asked, bowing his head once more.
Another pause, though not as long. There was more creaking and slithering through dirt before the sounds stopped altogether. Then, their voice came once more.
Worried: my fear lay that more blood must be shed. Concern growing: your loyalties are well-placed, your people have chosen proper allies.
There was another pause. Vhoorl let Elderwood think. It made him remember this wait before words grew more prominent over time. He thought it was because his orders grew more complicated. Gilneas, for near all of Vhoorl’s life was isolated. Because of this, his faith could not do their deeds outside of the walls of the great city-state.
Ever since Vhoorl’s freedom, he received a rather important task. To travel the world and find similar natural locations to Elderwood’s Whispering Woods. To find their guardians, their scholars and devotees and speak on the Whispering Woods, so that they may aid one another.
Passing reminisce: do you recall Loxopetl, Guardian.
“I do, Elderwood. The killer of my family, the defiler of our woods.”
Wary warning, there are more, Guardian. Elderwood’s voice never had emotions. Often, they used the start of a sentence to explain tonality to some reason, or an observation that explained the intention of their words. It was a dry male voice that spoke in the minds of all. Volume could increase for some effect, though there was little appeal in a human regard to Elderwood’s chosen sound.
Though when Vhoorl heard the words, ‘wary warning,’ he recalled the rareness of such things. The last time Vhoorl was ‘warned’ it was because he was being punished, nearly executed for treason by his faith’s standards for killing a blasphemous guardian who sought to destroy Elderwood.
“More Loxopetls, Elderwood?”
Strong affirmation: yes guardian. Clarifying: there will be tricksters, defilers, warmongers, those flared with so much hatred they will seek to undo life itself. Encouragement: you are among my chosen to carry out the defense of this world, guardian.
Vhoorl laughed quietly, making light by stating, “We’re a small little mound in Gilneas, Elderwood. We’ll… do what we can. Even if small, even if we must sacrifice.”
Amusement: truth comes from your maw, guardian. Unwavering hope: I will never truly die, even when my bark fades and I feed the surrounding land.
More of a pause. The creaking continued. When Vhoorl visited, it signaled the last of those to do their pilgrimage. Even in death, Elderwood performed his usual ritual during the pilgrimages. He fed the surrounding land of the Whispering Woods. His roots spread life and meant the seeding of knowledge into the dirt itself.
Spirits reveled usually, sometimes ethereal cheering was heard echoed through the woods. Though on this night, they fell silent.
Proud: I am pleased with your rise, Guardian.
“The cursed guardian,” Vhoorl mused humorously.
Chastise: you were never cursed, Guardian. Your conflicts and trials, perhaps, but not you, Guardian.
Vhoorl wanted to do as he usually had done. Make things a bit more difficult. Joke, laugh, even to such a divine entity. Though he concluded he would not, humorously, Elderwood chimed in anyways.
Frustrated: though your rebellion…
Another pause. Elderwood concluded their thought in Vhoorl’s head.
Joking intent: perhaps that was your true curse.
Vhoorl smirked to the ground. He commented, “Never me, Elderwood. Though if a rebel can protect these woods…”
Hesitant reassurance: then revolt away, Guardian. Continuing: just no tears for me, a prayer instead.
“Final orders?”
Confirmation: final orders. No exceptions. Reminder: when life blooms and when life wanes. Come to me still, for this is merely a stage.
Vhoorl began speaking under his breath. He touched under his tunic. It was a foreign language, ancient. There was a time he stumbled with it and refused to learn it. After all, it was a language of a people who denied his father and him entry, even despite their desperation to be a part of a faith that mattered so very much to them.
Years later, Vhoorl was here. He knelt before the very deity whose life faded rapidly. The bark of them cracking off, roots breaking and leaves falling. The face start to fall off as well. As much as Vhoorl, Elderwood saved his family.
Their souls wandered the Whispering Woods, though with a ultimately terrible side-effect. Their eternal afterlife was secured after a diabolic deal with a trickster was thwarted by Vhoorl and Elderwood’s dedication. Though they had no recollection of their son.
He was told that time may restore them. Whatever plagued their souls was great and took much from them, including memories of their life. Vhoorl did not trouble himself so much -- he wanted them safe, and they were.
His words were smooth, he tried far harder to not impose his accent upon the syllables of the language. When he was done, his eyes opened and he looked over Elderwood once again. The roots that were below him were not moving. The voice of Elderwood did not echo through his head. There was nothing. The woods fell entirely silent.
Vhoorl stood up, using his spear to pick himself up. He pulled it from the ground. He turned then, and hesitated. He was not dismissed. The voice did not come to say what they usually had, ‘Dismissal: go, Guardian.’ Quick, simple. Some leaves fell in Vhoorl’s mane. It caught his attention and made him snort in frustration through his wet nose.
He looked to a random spot in front of him as he left the woods, trotting away steadily. With focus, he started to become human. Fur leaving his body, fangs disappearing, claws fading.
The moment he started to leave the clearing where Elderwood now lay, lifeless, there was a presence that started to follow him. A shimmering blue light. He thought heavily on it -- a sprite playing games or a spirit too curious for their own good. He forgot about it and continued to walk out of the woods, focused on leaving.
Though the presence came back. It was stalking him like a predator. He grew concerned it was something more. He reached for his spear and once it was pulled out, he shouted.
“Who’s there? I’m guardian of these woods, no fockin’ games!” He then spoke about the same words in the mystic’s tongue, and scanned where he heard the shuffling from.
From behind a tree, the shimmering outline of a spirit showed itself. A womanly figure, with long hair. There was another nearby. Vhoorl’s grip loosened on his spear, he was convinced it was a real spirit.
All he heard that made him drop his spear and then fall to his knees was a gentle woman’s voice uttering emotionally.
It was always said by the elders among Suramar, “If the night skies vary, mark the end of times.” It was not the end, at least not yet. The barrier stood, and as far as everyone was concerned, the world did not exist beyond the walls and magical barrier. All that truly existed was Suramar City. This was no less true for Cathiir, a child with his shelter under the bridges of Suramar. He seemed to be debating something, shaking his head frantically, and to those passing by it may look as though one child was pressuring another to do something he did not want to do.
They would have been right.
“Come on, Cathiir, drink it! We need to get a little extra food – oo, oo! And something pretty like last time!” Elodine, a young girl, was hopping about, holding a bottle of arcwine with merely a single drink left in it. “It took me a long time to find it, Cathiir, come on!”
“No, Elodine, no! That stuff makes me feel woozy, I can barely focus and I– I–”
“And you do that cool thing? Come on Cathiir, please?” She pouted at him. Cathiir crossed his arms and turned his back to her.
“What happened to the ring I got you, huh?” He turned his head slightly, a prominent, childish frown on his face. The sort that adults would warn them would stick if they kept it that way.
“I told you, Sildor wanted it so we could be here longer.” Her pouting somewhat ceased. She knew well enough it would have disappointed Cathiir, he never liked giving in to Sildor’s demands – though he was the unofficial landlord of the homeless around their parts of Suramar. All had to pay their piece, or else they would have to find their own space.
And he did not hold that back. “I’m sick of Sildor taking our stuff! I’m going to get caught at some point, Elodine! Those guys will catch on!”
There was a silence between the pair for a while, Cathiir with his back turned and arms crossed looking as a rock, and Elodine with her arms to her side trying to think of the right things to say. It was not selfishness that motivated her, but the right words to say to make Cathiir realize their situation.
Homeless and hungry. Perhaps what Elodine did not quite realize was how reliant Cathiir would be to the arcwine with each use. She heard adults talk, though. Some of the nobles had fallen from grace and ended up looking malnourished and akin to walking skeletons – what remained of their flesh and skin sagged. They grew paler, and hair more brittle. For a moment, she observed Cathiir, but was not convinced from the view she had from behind. So she laid a hand on his shoulder and tried to swing him around. He turned to her, arms losing their unending knot and frown dissipating to that of shock as he was face-to-face with her.
The purplish tint to his skin was still there, except with a slight tint of red to his cheeks, as well as his dark locks that he had directed to go down his back. A couple of stray strands wandered to his face. Elodine stared at him with what she believed was the finesse of an experienced medical professional. In truth, her eyes were just squinted and her tongue left her mouth in a sort of contemplation.
“What?” Cathiir was getting worried. “Elo, what?! What’s wrong?” She did not answer, and it clearly only frustrated him more. After a final exclamation of her name, she twitched her pointed ears and looked him right in the eyes.
“Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing. I just– I wanted,” she looked away, turned, and sat on her bedroll. “It’s nothing Cath. Just… you’re right, it isn’t a good idea. We’ll find some other way, right? I can just… figure something. Something safe, right?” She laid on her back, and had stopped dwelling on the subject. Except for one bit.
“I’m sorry, Cathiir.”
~
He kept saying it was all nothing to be concerned about. That was, until the barrier fell. Thousands of years it had held – Cathiir was not even alive for one-thousand of those years. He was barely five-hundred years old.
His father (who had adopted him) had been alive before the barrier even existed. As Cathiir stood on the balcony to the large manor his family owned, he stared up as the sky slowly became exposed.
Daytime. There was a sun, and clouds. Birds flew about, confused at the opening of new land. Animals scattered far in the distance where the border of the barrier had been, terrified by the display of magic. It hit him all at once why his father had been so busy.
The advisers and the Grand Magistrix herself had to have been aware. Though they could do nothing. Some days had passed after Cathiir witnessed this most wonderful and fearsome display and he was told by the other young shal'dorei that ‘demons’ were about, patrolling, and executing dissenters.
Public execution.
Cathiir was not entirely ignorant on what a demon was. Stories were often told by others, his father included, of the horrors invoked by the War of the Ancients. Destructive aliens bent on the submission of the world, the recruiting of malicious like-minds, and encouraging desperation among the masses.
It had only been a week when Cathiir felt the desperation sink into his stomach. He was sitting in his family’s manor, and a thought rolled through his head. The advisers to the leadership of Suramar who disagreed with the Legion’s siege and wanted to revolt were executed just the same as commoners. Though here his father was, sitting, eating among them.
He was a sympathizer, and all had known. Cathiir felt the desperation, but he wondered if his adoptive father felt it even more. He had not spoken much to Cathiir or Milaes, his sister. Cathiir felt as though his training into lordship and to be a protector of the family was placed on pause – all to surrender to the end of the world.
He had nothing to distract himself with, and so that panic set in more and more. It was night – which notably, was a harder time for him. There were real stars in the sky, put onto a grand display. Moons shining along with them, and a darkness that could not be replicated by magic, even. He had suddenly left the house, his father and sister asleep, and wandered through the streets. His feet held all of his thoughts, and he guided himself nowhere – it was all as if he was being piloted by memories.
He left the sprawling manors, went over bridges with intricate gardens and statues, away from the pens of exotic animals, as well as the vineyards were arcwine was made. He wandered until he went were the dark was familiar to him. A large bridge connecting two parts of the city, he had gone underneath and lingered. There was a small nook that was empty; he had known it was empty for some time.
He sat down, legs crossed, and leaned his head on the stonework. There was scattered litter here and there; papers, some bottles, and even a rotting shadefruit in a nook parallel to him. His head lowered and lowered until he looked into his own lap. The gravity of the situation seemed to, at first, hit him so hard he felt the wind leave his lungs. He slammed his fists into the hard ground, leaving scuffed marks on his knuckles.
Then, just like that, it left him. It all faded when he convinced himself of the reason why he had arrived here. He was in such a daze he had forgotten.
He was waiting for someone to arrive. He was waiting for someone so he would know the best course of action. Though for a while, all he was left with was memories.
And for now, it would do.
~
It was the dead of night. The bustle of homeless shal'dorei quieted, and Elodine had been asleep.
Cathiir laid in his bedroll, eyes up at the bridge above them. He stared at it and tried to count as many discrepancies as he could. It… was not a long process, truthfully. Almost no cracks or even points, it was entirely smooth. Though he started to become good at noticing them nonetheless. He was not about deluding his time-wasting distraction, but rather, give practice to what he was about to do.
If he could notice the problems with even a perfect structure, he could notice the problems with a horribly flawed plan.
He could not sleep because it ran through his mind again and again. Feeling too confident was always a concern of his, but not of his companion’s. Or at least so she seemed. He sat up and stared at the bottle of arcwine that was beside him. His hands reached for it and grabbed it by the neck. He struggled to get the cork loose, but it inevitably came off.
Instinctively, he sniffed into the bottle, and immediately darted backwards. It was pungent for sure. A strong beverage. Though Cathiir could smell it had exactly what he needed in it. With a hand pinching his nose, he downed the remaining drink it, and immediately felt the surge of power.
Though he also felt the nausea. He quickly laid the bottle down and stood up, taking breaths as he had practiced time and time again. He muttered words in shalassian, gestured his hands, and his form started to disappear, completely. The moment he disappeared, he felt the strain in his mind. He had to focus to keep the spell intact. He walked around a bit, and observed his hands to ensure he stayed invisible. It did not break, not even slightly.
He recalled a point where he looked as a floating display of rippling water. He came to learn it was the lack of focus that caused his spell to distort him instead of entirely conceal him. As he stepped around, and felt as though he was ready, he stopped, and sighed out.
That was when a voice came out of seemingly nowhere. A girlish voice, “You know, if you keep breathing that loud they’ll find you for certain!”
It was Elodine, who, well, was as awake as he was. The surprise of this caused Cathiir to twitch, then lose his focus on the spell entirely. “Elo!” He quietly said.
She simply giggled, and stood up. “Whoops – oh come on, you weren’t going to walk there all sneaky.” She placed both her hands on Cathiir’s shoulders, and with a big smile, she said, “Now then, let’s go, I’ll keep watch. And this time, I promise: Sildor won’t get anything! I’ll hide everything well!”
Cathiir nodded at her. “Good, because if you keep giving up all our best stuff, he’ll start wondering how I do it.”
Elodine nodded in response, then suddenly leaned in to peck his lips. She let go of his shoulders, and stepped passed him. “ For good luck. Let’s go, while you were staring at the bridge the owners got a couple of hours of rest – hurry!”
Cathiir was a bit red in the face, and of course, sporting a tipsy demeanor to himself. Though he followed Elodine nonetheless. While she was thinking of all the wonderful things they could manage… he chose to concern himself with alternate plans if it all fell apart. Potential escapes, and especially how he could get her away if anything went sour.
Though for once… although it may have been the alcohol speaking… he felt as if it would all be fine.
