His dreams had been strange. Full of fire and darkness - he shied from the latter but the former - he embraced that easily. In the day his head hurt, his mind itched with faint whispers and the tattoo he had gotten in Pandaria sometimes burned. So did the new mark, directly below it. He couldn't see that one, hadn't seen it and the fact that something was wrong often disappeared from his mind as easily as it came.
Distractions from his unsettled mind were easy to come by. Worry over Lyn - who had left to investigate the moment the words "cult activity" had been heard alongside "whispers". The conclusion was inevitable really, and he didn't feel left behind - investigating people wasn't his forte. Old and magical objects? That he could do.
There was the unsettling thought he didn't want Lyn to win that flitted through. Why wouldn't he? Of course he did.
His head ached. Visions of destruction hovered at the back of his mind and that - that was what he wanted. Or didn't. He rubbed at his forehead, banishing the thoughts from his head. Lyn was away - but Ash was here and even better - Coraline was visiting their new home at Flynn's estate.
Innocent blood.
He only wished Mae'syr were there. The two girls had hit it off. Maybe a little too well. But it made him happy, seeing them play. He sought the girl out, finding she had wandered onto the grounds. "Coraline," he called softly.
"Yes uncle Lyren?" She blinked at him, her eyes big and wide and innocent. The whispers in his mind were louder when he hesitated. The mark below his tattoo burned. He had ignored too many opportunities so far.
"Come here for a minute," he said, gesturing her forward. There was a dagger in at his waist and loud voices in his head. He had let them in.
She tilted her head, curious and trusting as she walked up to him. "What is it? Is uncle Lyn back yet?"
He flinched, had to shake his head to ward off a sudden surge of unease-no-don't. He held out a hand toward her. "Give me your hand. Uncle Lyn isn't back yet but when he is - he'll be furious. You should - "Â
Oh. That hadn't been what he meant to say, that wasn't what the voices wanted. "You should stand still a moment," The fire mage said, his voice shaking.Â
Ash, Ashenvald, where as he? But he had made the bond muted days ago, some instinct knowing it wouldn't lead to what they/he wanted. A small hand was put into his and he smiled, briefly.
Her forehead was crinkled in concern. "Why will he be mad? Did I do something wrong."
"No, not you," he soothed, gripping her wrist gently and turning it over so her palm was facing up. His other hand unsheathed the dagger. "Stay still a moment, honey. This won't take long."
"Uncle Lyren?" There was fear there now and the whispers were soothing and all encompassing. He pressed the dagger to her wrist, about to cut -
"What the hell is going on here?" That was Ash, that was bad/good - and that was a suddenly blast of cold, digging into his skin and around him, around the dagger. It hurt, the way ice always did, and slammed into him, taking his breath away.Â
And his consciousness. The last thing he remembered was cold - and the whispers in his mind, unfulfilled.
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A steady snow had been falling all night in Frostfire Ridge. By the time the sun peaked through the obsidian spires that gave the mountain range it's home, the bodies of two travelers were mostly concealed beneath it. But the next traveler to take this road would likely notice.Â
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It was getting harder and harder for Duroxas to think straight. His hushed conversation with Tammany had only confirmed that there was more to this madness than mere sleep deprivation. But he couldn't even spare the mental energy to try and think this through logically. There were only a few things on his mind as he trudged right back out of the horde base he'd just arrived that - How much he wanted to merely fall over in the snow and sleep, and this sense of.... need. Need to do something. To satisfy some urge.Â
There was something he needed to do.Â
Something was being demanded of him.Â
"Hey!"
Duroxas stumbled as he stopped his dazed treck, blearily blinking up the road to try and discern the identity of the rugged old voice that had called him. Was he alone? No... There was someone else next to him, and something smaller on four legs trailing behind, but only one other person. That didn't explain the several other voices that murmured encouragingly in his head.Â
"You lost!?" The old orc wheezed over the snow. "You'll find nothing but death going out too far tonight! The snows are already beginning to- Hey, are you even listening!?"Â
His companion, an orc woman, placed a gloved hand on the orc's cloaked shoulder. "Don't waste your kindness, elder, we haven't much farther to go. Save your breath."Â
But the warlock heard nothing of their conversation, and said nothing as he raised a hand charged with flames that trembled from both excitement and the cold. This is what was being demanded of him.Â
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Duro slept more soundly that night than he had in months once he'd returned to the base he'd left from. Pleasant dreams of his wife. His daughter. Of charring an old orc and his daughter to kindling.Â
The harsh sound of a bristled brush against metal vibrated against the outer walls of the outpost that currently housed Alec and Alphaeus. Every so often the warrior dipped his dirty tool into a bucket of slushy water only to return it to the rough surface of his spiked shield. Alec sat perched on a short stool, his brows creased and wavy hair in more disarray than what was considered normal for him. Green eyes were locked onto the rich crimson liquid that stuck to the chips and crevices in the surface of his bulwark, glancing occasionally to the odd symbol that had appeared on the back of his hand. He wanted to be upset with himself, wanted to feel sorry for what he had done, and yet he didn’t. Closing his eyes he let his body keep its rhythm while scrubbing, but as he expected darkness to fill his vision from closed lids, other images took place instead.
~
“Just sell me the damn ore!” Alec’s hands fell heavy against the blacksmith’s counter. He had been trying to haggle with the man for what felt like hours and still the orc refused to give him a reasonable price.
“Will you go away?! I’ve already given you a number and it ain’t goin’ any lower! Take it or get the hell outta my workshop!” The large Frostwolf jutted his tusks at Alec in frustration before turning away to tend to his forge.
Later that evening the elf had run into the same orc outside of the outpost, he was carrying a fresh killed boar over his shoulder and a grin on his face. At seeing Alec he gave him a friendly wave, “No hard feelings, huh? Come by my shop tomorrow and maybe we can work out a de-” The blacksmith didn’t get to finish his sentence, Alec’s large shield met the man’s face. Just as the orc began to get his bearings he was met with another hard slam, the sounds of bone crunching and a pained, angry cry heard over the snowy hills.
It took much of the elf’s physical power to keep the orc down, he certainly wasn’t just laying in the snow surrendering, the black smith had several times tried to nick Alec with a skinning knife. It did little good against the thick armor that his assailant wore, a stern scowl accompanied by lively green eyes being the last colorful thing the Frostwolf had seen. His true last vision being that of one of the spikes sharpened on Alec’s shield embedding itself into his eye before ultimately crushing his skull enough to leave him lifeless in the growing snow drift.
Panting and feeling oddly justified, Alec kicked up the snow to cover as much of the blood around the body as possible then quickly made his way back toward civilization.
~
His eyes snapped open, hand hovering over his work while trembling. Never before had he lost his temper in such a manner, never before had he killed someone that hadn’t been trying to kill him first. So why was he so pleased with himself?
