Wes awoke that night drenched in a cold sweat. There hadn't really been time to process the losses in Northrend, thanks to the Scourge invasion, and it showed in her subconscious every so often when she tried to sleep.
The dreams were always the same. Her ex-wife -- or occasionally someone else she was close to, like Alexandria, Lexy, or Perynn -- would be in mortal danger, and she'd be nowhere to be seen. Doing something important, sure, but never there when she was needed. She'd return from a battle, or campaign -- once even a raid -- triumphant, high spirits dripping from her lips as she cheered and celebrated with the rest of her comrades... but it always ended with the same conversation. A hand-wringing so-and-so forced to shatter the evening's joy. To break the news that while she'd been gone, something terrible had happened. When she wasn't there, she had lost someone else.
Weslynne pinched the bridge of her nose in the darkness, a silent curse bubbled up from the pit of her throat as she tried to will the memory from her mind. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and her body creaked and crackled as she pulled herself upright, and shuffled over to the window. It was nearly dawn this time, at least, and the sun had already begun to bleed through the tallest of the weald's trees.
So Weslynne did what any Paladin would. She pulled on her britches, donned her leathers, laced up her boots, and grabbed her travel pack. The best cure for a rattled, racing mind was hard work, and there was plenty to do.
The crisp Drustvar air kissed her face as she walked, and Wes tugged up her hood against it's advances. She tore off a hunk of jerky with her teeth as she headed into the forest, enjoying breakfast on the go -- and the last bit of comfort she'd brought back from her most recent trip to Stormwind.
It took the old knight a few hours to shake the bitter feelings her dream had left behind, but walking was good for that. The forest was beautiful, and over the past few weeks of exploring, she had come to know it very well. These were her stomping grounds, now. This was home turf.
By the time Wes reached the foot of the ancient tower, her jerky was all gone, and the blazing sun had climbed high into the sky above. Wes unslung her pack in the shadow of the tower, setting it aside, against the stone, and taking a knee beside it.
It was a wonder, she thought, that such a place could still exist after so long. So often when settlements died, or people abandoned a place, mother nature would move in behind them and make everything hers once again. This... wasn't quite that. The tower seemed to coexist with the growth, standing beside the vines and branches, rather than succumbing to them.
Weslynne slipped an old, leather-bound libram from her pack. Once she'd begun to get the hang of the subtle differences between Drust, and Vrykul scripts, Wes had started to pouring over the memorial tree. There were carvings -- just like the epitaph she'd read -- all the way up the old oak. Everything from poetry to philosophical musings. Thoughts on the Light. On how people should treat one another. It struck her as familiar. The kinds of notes a Paladin might inscribe in their libram alongside their interpretations of the holy scripture.
She began to thumb through her own libram, finally opening it to the last marked page. Translating the script from the bark had been rough, intensive work at first, but she'd relished the challenge. With every word it got easier and easier, and soon Weslynne found herself wrestling not with the translation, but the philosophical teachings the owners of this tower had left behind... and it was easy to get lost in the mystery now that so much of it was unfolding before her.
"Bright one," a woman's rich voice sounded behind her, snapping the Paladin from her introspection. Weslynne's hand immediately fell to the butt of her sawed-off 10-gauge, and in the span of a breath, she had whirled on the sound with her weapon drawn.
Before her stood a colossal spectral figure, wearing a helmet adorned with antlers, a mixture of animal pelts, and what appeared to be... armor of enchanted bark. At the figure's flank sat a ghostly hunting hound at rapt attention. The exact kind of dog that'd harried her company's steps the first night they found the tower.
"I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you wan-"
Weslynne scowled in frustration as the Horned Knight cut her off, but that frustration swiftly morphed into confusion as the spirit spoke.
"I wanted to thank you."
The paladin scratched the back of her head, nails catching on the freshly-shaved portion of her undercut. Wes felt somewhat silly with the shotgun still in her hand after hearing that, so she eased the hammer back into place before holstering her firearm.
"For what?"
"For tending to my grave. For bringing Light to this place after it languished for so long in decrepitude, and darkness. Your Light woke me from my long slumber, Bright One, and -- though I mourn the fact that my followers no longer keep vigil here -- I am happy to be awake at long last, for I have work to do... and I have you to thank for that."
Weslynne's mind raced, and she nearly let the Libram fall from her hands. Nearly.
"So wait. You're the spirit we fought, and... this is your memorial?"
"This is my final resting place," she confirms. "...but it is no mere memorial. This tree was a celebration of my life. Of my teachings. Of the good I tried to do in the world." The Horned Knight's hand falls to her hunting hound's head, and she absent-mindedly scritches behind it's ears as she gazes up at the tree. "... of the good I tried to leave behind for others."
Weslynne babbled for a moment, flipping back a few pages in her libram. She clears her throat in an attempt to wrange her wayward tongue.
"Creating, rehabilitating, rebuilding, and healing should be considered sacred charges to those blessed by the Light."
Weslynne places a particularly heavy emphasis on that last word, and there's a pause as she peers at the spirit. "You -- or your followers -- wrote this, right? It references the Light, but this tower is clearly far older than the Church, an-"
"The Light is a primordial force," the spirit interjects once more. "It existed before we creatures of flesh and blood and bone ever deigned to walk this planet's surface, and it will continue to exist long after we have become dust, and she has found a new use for our remains."
The Horned Knight placed a hand on either side of her helmet, and tugged off. Tightly braided hair cascaded down around her shoulders as it came free, revealing the stern, weathered face of a dusky-skinned human woman with tired eyes, and sculpted features.
Weslynne simply watched in awe, clearly unable to fully grasp the depth and breadth of the ideological chasm that stood before her.
"Do you have a name?" She finally managed to stammer, peering at the spirit and her dog. "I have... so many fucking questions -- if you've the time to answer them?"
"I am, or perhaps more accurately, was Emma Cleyre. The first -- and now last -- of the Wildsworn, and I was bound here for this exact purpose. So ask your questions, Bright One. Ask until your eyelids grow heavy, and your voice becomes horse, and I shall do my best to answer them."
