I honestly just couldn’t help myself writing for Ferranne again... and probably went a bit overboard. Oh well. 1444 words.
The second wave of what was now being called the Pandaria Campaign had begun, with ships moving out from harbors along the Eastern Kingdoms toward this still very unknown land. The fleets were a bit out of the ordinary for the forces being sent ahead, however.
This was not mere reinforcements. These were expeditionary forces. Everything was needed. Supplies, crafters, surveyors. Bases of operations were needed along with all of the supporting pieces of infrastructure. In many ways the fleet appeared less about establishing a foothold and more about settling the new land.
An idea which considerably irked some of the more conscious passengers of the fleet. Whispers and discussions of the right to embark on inhabited land in such numbers, wonders of what made it any different from invasion. There was a lot of time ahead of them in the journey from continent to continent, with plenty of time to mull over the complex issues at hand.
Ferranne, however, was bored of discussing it and tired of thinking about it. There seemed no point to it. There was no changing the direction of the Alliance or the Horde, their decisions now set in motion like landslides unleashed after a storm. The ground underneath both sides had been weakened for years. He had expected something like this to happen eventually.
He never expected himself to be caught up in such, however. For a while he had prided himself on staying out of such large conflicts, but in the wake of the Cataclysm, it was difficult not to see war itself as another natural, primal force. He had failed to bring life to so many places, to preserve it in others, always finding destruction one step ahead of him. He finally had begun to wonder if there was any use in fighting it.
And that was how he found himself on this bulky, swaying mass. He had been enlisted to help with things he had honestly lost track of by now. Mending the injured, scouting the unknown, tending to the land for some project, even helping to restore what he heard called a "jade forest". It was honestly all a blur that he had just agreed to for no real reason. He just didn't see a purpose in saying no anymore.
Soon enough, he found himself on a supply ship with a job suited to both his druidic talents and his increasingly reclusive preferences. Possibly the most boring thing in the Alliance fleet, there wasn't much to do or see on the ship. Lagging behind the main force and distantly flanked and followed by escorts, it wasn't likely to see any action at all during its long journey and its crew mostly kept to itself, used to long journeys ferrying things they never had to even look at.
But what for most would be an exercise in boredom, for Ferranne was instead peace. He considered himself lucky to be assigned to such a ship. His task was menial at best, but suited him. All he had to do was ensure that everything in his compartments was safe and tended to, half of which took care of itself. The massive cases of botany equipment, herbalism tomes, and other paraphernalia in the lower compartments were barely even his concern. The compartments were reinforced and the containers would not budge even in the worst of storms. For those to be endangered, the ship would have to be sinking. Instead, the real bulk of his work was directly above him in the rear deck.
Laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he stretched out on a large rug in one of the smaller compartments where he had stashed his few belongings and just let the time pass. In some ways, he felt like he was in a time capsule, no longer part of the world or time itself but just existing in a bubble. Some part of him whispered that it was no real way to live, not for long, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. This job was all he needed for the time being.
Getting to his feet, he climbed halfway up the stairs, pausing with practiced balance when the ship tilted with the waves. Proud to have at least kept his sea legs all these years, he waited out the rocking of the boat and strained to listen. Voices and footsteps were always going back and forth above deck, but were distant, kept mostly to the fore of the ship. Beyond that was the same slow hush of water and creaking wood. The rear deck was, as usual, left alone.
Stepping up the last of the stairs and to the deck, his eyes were greeted by a flood of light from the windows stretched all along the rear of the ship and a blur of a new color, different from the endless brown of wood below deck. Instead, all around him was green.
In pots and windowboxes and hanging bowls were plants of all sorts, littered across the entire rear deck. Very little else occupied the room save for some small tables and stools. This was his real job, the real reason a druid like himself was assigned to a supply vessel. Not just to babysit boxes any deckhand could keep an eye on, but instead to ensure that all the crates of soil samples, pouches of seeds, and carefully secured plants made it to their destination. For the duration of his journey across the ocean, this was all that really mattered to him.
The large windows let in as much light as possible and he would open different ones to control the flow of air. There was no lack of sun for most plants in the deck, but when a few looked to struggle he would move them outside, to another set of boxes on the top deck. Carefully rotating them over time, they would all get the attention they needed.
His talents as a druid were barely even needed, his knowledge of herbalism and botany more than enough to ensure his seaborne garden could thrive. It was almost encouraging to be back to basics, to not feel so reliant on the nature magic that he had been struggling so much with ever since awakening from the dream. While magic had felt off to him, almost out of range some days, nothing could take away the simplicity of gardening, even on a boat.
A flash of yellow caught his eye. The sun came through the window and hit a windowbox of goldthorn, illuminating it as if to bring attention to the curling in its barbs. That was definitely a difficult one. Goldthorn needed something more like marshland to thrive. Fresh air and sun wouldn't be able to solve as many problems as it did for the others, even if it didn't need the exact same environment.
He gave himself a few long minutes to think, absentmindedly pushing fingers through his hair. It just needed a little more moisture in the air, more humidity. Thinking first to put it near the engine room, he knew that would just starve it of sunlight. Thinking of what compartments were below him, a possibility flashed through his mind and instantly made him smile.
Carefully pulling up the goldthorn's box, he carried it down below deck, watching each step on his way lest the ship lurch and send thorns right into his chest. He brought it to a small room in the back, one where a pipe that safely carried away steam from the engine passed through. The room was essentially just a mechanical access point, something only ever used in case of repairs. The side of the pipe had a small release valve where sometimes it would let excess steam out to ensure there was never too much pressure, making the small enclosure very humid.
He normally hated being too close to the room, but it was perfect. The humidity. The space. It even had a nice enough window to provide enough sun for the goldthorn. His stubborn little charge now had a much better home.
"Well now at least someone will enjoy all that steam." He said aloud, carefully petting at a low hanging bramble.
Noticing the way the sunlight came into the back compartment, he briefly wondered about the time. Sunset would be in an hour or so, but that was all he could surmise. He had already lost track of how much time had passed on the ship, how many weeks it must have been.
Stepping backwards from the small room, he decided none of it mattered. For however long it lasted, this was enough.
@pinxiedust told me about a character she’s working on and I couldn’t help myself. 894 words.
Ferranne braced himself against the gust, batting away at loose leaves and twigs as they caught in his hair. His latest experiment was wilting before his eyes, shedding the foliage that had given him so much hope over the last week.
He watched as another trail of leaves fell from the stalks and vines and were scattered to the wind. He could only sigh at the sight. For the third time in the month he had been there, he watched all of his work literally die right in front of him. He couldn't bear it any longer.
Dropping to his knees, his fingers gripped the earth, clawing into the dirt as if to clutch at someone's shirt. Why? The only word in his mind was that same constant, burning question.
Why had all of his efforts been for naught? Why was he able to do absolutely nothing? Why could he not bring life back to this place the way it had meant to be?
It was nothing like the other places he had heard of. The Plaguelands of the Eastern Kingdoms this was not. There was no rot or scourge to fight and steal away life from the land. Nor was this the Barrens, where far more stubborn druids than himself were seeking to supplant desert with life.
But this was Ashenvale. Here there was still so much life around him. There was nothing to stop it, nothing to fight it. But here the simple rules he learned in his youth, the very things he had known to be immutable were somehow not true. That life would always find a way.
The ground shifted under his hands, sinking away from him. His heart sunk as his eyes burned. The dirt was unstable. He could feel the whispers course through his fingers, the voice of the forest as it rejected something against the natural order.
He hated to admit it but he knew it was true. He had cheated. He had rushed, used whatever he could call on to move dirt and coil vines to keep it there. Despite everything he knew would fight it, he had his ideas still to shape the land how he saw it.
How he remembered it.
Surely this was how it should be. He had seen it with his own eyes. He had walked it in the Emerald Dream. It had to be true. It was the only memory he had. How else could it be? What else could be right but that perfect image he had dreamt?
In the corner of his eyes, he saw a wisp appear from behind a tree. It almost seemed lost at first, seeming to examine everything around it before taking off in a flash of light towards him. As it flew past, the ground under him shook once more. Getting to his feet, he quickly backed away, understanding all at once.
It was his answer, though one he didn't want to admit to himself. It never would have worked. The plants there would never have everything they needed, struggling to eke out an existence on uneven ground where the water would not naturally flow. Even if the ground settled, everything else around it would suffer trying to keep the balance.
The wisp knew. It was restoring that balance.
Standing with his shoulders low, he brought his eyes to the spirit and nodded. "I thought it was worth trying."
The breeze carried the faintest sound to his ears, that of distant chimes. Even without words, he heard. The wisp seemed to nod back before disappearing, flying with the wind as quick as it came.
Looking around, his vision was double. Even as he saw the holes, the gaps, the scars left behind by the cataclysm the Destroyer; he could still see that dream. The visage he spent so many years within still lingered, taunting him with glimpses and pulling at him with regret.
And that was the answer. He could guide and tend life, but he couldn't move the earth, he couldn't add what simply would not be there again. What he knew was how things should have been, but not how they would ever be again.
The hole in his heart ached as the countless years spent in the dream flooded back, his vision now showing a cruel reflection of himself. The gaps and holes were at once so familiar, resonating with his own past, with time that could never be reclaimed or filled. So much time spent looking at something that would never be…
The land itself whispered a harsh lesson to him, but true for more than just the earth beneath his feet. There was no going back.
To mend his beloved Kalimdor, and himself, he could not just fill. The things he sought to fix could not be undone. All he could do was hope to cultivate something new.
All at once the weight of everything pulled at him at once. Letting out a heavy sigh, he rolled his shoulders and wondered. Maybe there was another way. A better way to weave life back into the world.
At that moment, he didn't know what that way was or where he could learn it, but he knew it was out there. It had taken hold in some untouched part of his heart and tugged.
