(( This story took place about a month ago now. Iāve just been that terrible about getting it out. Previous post is Verdancy: Prologue.
CW: Some graphic violence, Void Stuff, minor character death ))
āBe sure to bring this delightful trinket with you to Pandaria, gardener. Iām sure it will serve you well there.ā Atherās roughshod baritone was met seconds later by the displeasure in Julrienās reply.Ā
āYouāre hilarious,ā he smirked, launching a fistful of freshly revived soil at his comrade. Bits of earth bounced harmlessly off Atherās moss-trimmed vest, just as Julrienās reaction had, so he ventured on: āWe canāt all get by on edgy pot-shots, you know. Some of us actually want--āĀ
A larger fistful, this time with a bit of finely hewn mulch, spattered the front of Julrienās tunic. It was met with gritted teeth that slid into an easy grin as he waved about the soil knife still loose in his grasp. A recent purchase of beautiful Dwarven craftsmanship, the ātrinketā had replaced many of his usual tools, and had proven invaluable in their downtime at Silithus.Ā Ā
āWill you two shut up already? Iām tryinā ta pretend mānot surrounded by children,ā Lauresā annoyance drifted like the desert nightfall through the mouth of their tent. She added the heavy toss of her plate boots against its stretched-hide wall for emphasis, which was of course followed by Lucanās unmistakable laughing sigh.
āThe same goes for you, ya pig-witted prat,ā the half-elven woman snapped, and Julrien could feel her exasperation from there. It was not unusual for the temperamental Laures to take out her frustrations on her twin, just as it was not unusual for there to be plenty to frustrate her. Lucan, for his part, was a deep well of patience, ever gentle as he pushed back.Ā
āYouāre cross ācause āo the early summons this morninā,ā he spoke softly, his Westfall Common accenting the Darnassian they tended to use at camp. āāCause āo how youāve been sleepināā¦ā Because of how theyād all been sleeping--or not, as it were, Julrien inwardly agreed. Ather grunted beside him, edging away with his back to the tent while the Sinādorei listened on, his own weariness remembered.
āLucan! Just let it go, will ya? Iām fine!ā
Laures was in no mood for gentle talk. Of all of them, she had come closest in their trials to achieving affinity beyond the flora with which they worked; as such, she was as spirited as the nightsaber whose tattooed paw prints marked each side of her neck, and just as difficult. A heavy silence fell over them, drowning out the crackle and quiet laughter at neighbouring campfires and the distant--constant--clash of stone and steel. Every so often they could feel the swell of the Source at work, their magic welling up from the deep secrets of the earth and its Emerald counterpart in tandem. It was the nature of their work, that connection that spoke its inimitable truth and bound them all to the knowledge. Julrien felt it in that silent moment, listened to its whispers as heād been trained to do.Ā
It came as it always did, like sunlight flowing to the tips of his fingers, shot through with ivy tendrils sown in his veins. It used to leave him giddy, intoxicated at the sensation and long after it had passed. It still did, to an extent, though heād grown used to the vitality of it all in his time with the others.
But there was something else to it this time, some subtle difference he couldnāt quite place. A voice, like Lauresā, echoing her words⦠Let it go⦠let...go⦠let-... Sylvan ears perked, Julrien kept his focus inside himself, listening hard in hopes of determining what exactly he heard. It was Laures, until it wasnāt. He recognized it changing, felt his chest tighten as aching familiarity crept into its timbre. There was the ghost of grinning teeth in it- their tender pull at the dip of his hip bone, the inside of his wrist; he was sure he saw a smattering of freckles along an upturned nose⦠felt it pressed into his neck as he strained to listen, still...Ā
He was scarcely able to breathe by the time Atherās sudden movement drew him to the present. Behind them, he could at last hear the strangled cry wrenched from Lauresā throat. It took him a moment to recognize the subtle change within had somehow found its way without, falling like great shadows over the open space of their encampment. It couldnāt be⦠here?
But it was everywhere. Behind him, screams raised the fine hairs at his nape, his bare forearms icy in spite of the desert air. There was no wind. It was the absence of it all that moved on them. The Void. They were under attack, and yet as he and Ather tore back the leafy canopy draped over their tent, it was only Lucan they saw inside. Lucan, with his fist clamped tight about his sisterās windpipe, squeezing with an untold rage, even as he stood calmly in the act.Ā
Lauresā eyes flew open, glassy and wide, pleading with them not to hurt him, as she made another valiant attempt to find her footing and gain some leverage. The hunting knife at her belt was well within her reach, and yet she hadnāt taken it, couldnāt, Julrien knew, bring herself to end this sudden horror at the expense of her brotherās safety. They were well past that though. Ather had already taken it upon himself to intercept, heavy-handed as ever as he grasped Lucanās arm with a force to rival that around Lauresā neck.Ā
āLeave off, Lucan⦠this is not what you want,ā he growled at their comrade, seeming in that moment to tower over them all. Julrien was quick to take advantage of the diversion, only a second or two wherein Lucan--but it wasnāt him, not really--glanced up at the demand. Laures gave a half-hearted shake of her head, hindered at once by even more pressure at her throat, until she all but hung from Lucanās grip.
āLet her go,ā Julrien hissed, face turned towards Lucanās pointed ear as he pressed the serrated edge of his soil knife to the underside of the half-elfās chin. Lucan, for his part, remained impassive, unblinking at the dark clouds flooding his gaze. He glanced from Ather to the Blood Elf tucked in behind him, unmoved. āWhy do you resist us?ā he--they--asked, making a mockery of Lucanās gentleness. Lucan was undoubtedly viewed by many in their group, as well as the larger body of Druids, as soft, even simple. His all-too-Human appearance, and downright cherubic features aside, set him apart along with his sister, who communicated her value through clenched fists and a wicked tongue. Lucan used neither, preferring to defer to louder personalities in most matters. But those in their unit knew him to be the very best of friends: loyal, unassuming, and gifted when it came to soothing both ire and injury. Julrienās racing heart seized, the chill wrapped around it like a fist as he watched Lauresā red face turn ashen. Lucanās voice went on: āWe are already here, as we always have been. You need only let us inā¦ā
From there, it all happened so fast. First came the sickening crack of bone, silencing the strange sibilance spilling from Lucanās tongue and wrenching from him an anguished, all-too-familiar cry. Next came the rush of stricken air that flooded Lauresā lungs. She spun, gasping and sputtering, away from her brotherās limply hanging limb, which Ather released as soon as she was free. From there, it was easy for Julrien to draw upon the entangling vines of their ken. The soil knife fell to the earth, shifting along with their meager bedding and few, small comforts from home as the thick verdancy split the ground beneath their feet, slithering between them to wrap Lucan in a stranglehold of their own.Ā
Julrienās fingers still curled into his palms, still trembled with the effort of keeping this⦠version of Lucan⦠in restraint, for long seconds afterward. He exhaled for what felt like the first time since rushing into their modest tent, slumping against the wall with a kick of a heavy, straw pillow. Atherās steely silence in the wake of his violence had him gritting his teeth, especially set against the twinsā pained wheezes and whimpers. But one look at Laures, and he knew better than to get into it then.Ā
āLaurā¦what happened-ā he began instead, seeking backstory for the unlikely scene. A toss of his head swept sweat-dampened locks over his shoulder as Julrien started towards their friend. Laures, for her part, uttered a cracked, āMāfine,ā alternating between gasping and gaping at the face of her twin held fast by coiled greenery- and something else entirely. It was hideous, this likeness of their half-elven comrade. His saucer eyes no longer held the golden fields of Westfall in their depths; amber irises were eclipsed by darkness as they darted from the towering Ather to the rustling door of the tent. His mouth...at first it was contorted in agony, only for a slow, seething smile to split his lips, exposing too many teeth to the dim light of their oil lamp. Everything flickered, the lamp, that grinā¦Ā
The wind had returned, carrying the sounds of pitched cries and clashing weapons, and with it the unmistakable stench of⦠charred hides? There was only a second when Julrien could swear he heard it, a voice of warning, as familiar as the vacant spot in his mattress. It rang in his ears, urgent under the cackling of Lucanās stolen voice:
RUN.
But he was too slow to react; they all were. An explosion sounded mere yards away, rocking the encampment as it fed on nearby azerite and blew through the neighbouring tent. The trio were flung to the far wall as the flames roared to life, flashing gold and sizzling into slick blackness beneath. Julrien choked on the scream that ripped through his chest as his hold on Lucan, his magic, burned through his tendons. The strong vines heād summoned, brimming with Light and Life, languished in his grasp and, and in their stead, the deep well of nothing threatened to swallow them all.Ā
Such a heavy burden⦠Soon you will seeā¦
Atherās fingers felt like claws dug into his shoulder as he shook him from his daze, but Julrien could no longer make out his words. He gagged, bitter ash in his mouth as he registered the colours bleeding around him. Thick, dark tendrils burst through the flames, spreading like oil over everything theyād worked for, slowly devouring the Life at his fingertips until he couldnāt hold it any more. He could no longer hear Ather, just as he could no longer see where Laures went, but Lucan--their gentle Lucan--was everywhere at once. His head tipped back...his flailing limbs, grasping and wrenching and filling Julrienās sight. His laughter... dripping madness like ichor, down Julrienās spine--
Our time has come⦠Let go and be freeā¦
His world shook, swirling around him in fire and shadow. He couldnāt tell whose hands were on him anymore, couldnāt breathe a word of what he felt as the cackles and crackling faded into his own unsteady pulse. Run, the voice had warned. And he should have- they all should have run from this place. It was a festering wound, a sickness they were not equipped to deal with. His world shook and he shook with it, writhing as it threatened to feed on him like every one of his tangling vinesā¦
...until the very moment his mentorās palm struck his cheek. A moment passed, and another, and eventually he could sense the solid ground once more. Ather held him from behind, and he felt the desperate press of Lauresā nails in his forearm. Thoridathā¦their leader stood over him, taut brows belying the stern line of his lips.
āWe are out of time,ā he confirmed, taking just one step aside and jutting a calloused digit in the direction of the portal. Ahead of them, the camp was ablaze with chaos. The Earthen Ring scattered, with enraged elementals bearing down upon their numbers, and the Cenarion crew were scrambling to aid. But Thoridath could not risk their little group; what remained of them had to make it through to the other side, if they ever stood a chance at curbing the assault. āI have Lucan,ā the Kaldorei added hastily, and Julrien swayed a little beneath that fervent gaze. He finally nodded, pulling free of Atherās grasp.Ā
One arm hooked around Lauresā, dragging her forward as they all darted after the Arcane rift. As they neared its shimmering borders, and the promise of safety on the other side, he couldnāt help but pause and chance a look back. Behind them, in the charred remnants of their tent and pieces of their belongings, Julrien could still make out the slender figure of Lauresā twin. The half-elf faced the great Sword of Sargeras, his mutated body trembling with horror⦠with glee⦠or some terrible blend of the two. Ather saw quickly towards pulling a struggling and shrieking Laures through, as it suddenly became all too clear that this was the last they would see of her twin.Ā
Julrien alone lingered, one hand poised to help his friends even as they disappeared through the portal, the other clenched hard at his side. Thoridath, true to his word, had moved towards Lucan, arms outstretched as he seemed to speak to him, the way one might speak to a frightened animal. Lucan, if he heard him at all, did not respond, instead lifting a pair of blades in malformed hands, the āfingersā too long and too monstrous to be recognized. Before Julrien could call out, before his fear could bubble over into words at all, he watched as the soft soul of his friend who once held golden fields in his eyes⦠plunged each of those daggers into their depths.
Someone slammed into Julrien then, with an impact he felt in the centre of his chest. He didnāt see Lucan fall, didnāt catch even a glimpse of Thoridath through the violet-black murk and scorched soil. As he sank backward, there was nothing but liquid flames trickling through to iridescent light, and the scent of sunflowers tickling his nose.Ā
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