A wind howled through the narrow pass, lifting the heavy traveling cloak of the lone traveler. A small figure, he stood out in contrast to the dark, glommy atmosphere provided by the dark rockfields around Medivh's tower. Hooded eyes watched the dead moving around the base of the tower, categorically ignoring them, as if they pose no threat. He had stood watching the eddies of power around this place for the past hour, appearing to any traveler, had one come through this barren land, as a stone statue.
He wore simple clothes, consisting of an assortment of earthy tones, ranging from the greens of shrubbery to the dark browns of scorched earth. His cloak was heavy, one used by someone who travels often and knows the rigors of the nature well, and had a hood, which was always draped over the creased features of the ageless man. His boots were made of tooled leather, well padded and looked to have been made for more rigid weather than was custom in the southern reaches of the Eastern Kingdoms.
He stood erect, his posture carrying with it the authority of a leader, as well as a foreboding atmosphere. His eyes were completly white, as if he was blind, but it was not so.
As he surveyed the tower once again, he thought he saw a figure, different from the others, watching him. He quickly focused his gaze towards the balcony, but as soon as his eyes settled, the etheral shape had dissapeared. He grunted to himself, annoyed that what he sought was not here. He reprimanded himself for ever spending precious time coming to look at this place of the dead. What he sought was of use to the living, not those deceased. As he began turning, another detail caught his attention. To his side, about a dozen or so paces to his side, was a small amulet lying on the ground. As he bent to retrieve it, a vision passed though his mind, causing him to instantly recoil from the object.
His completly white eyes stared at the small silver amulet as if it would attack him; in a way, it had. He stood, paused between crouching and standing, his hand flexed by his side. As if overcoming his fear, he then quickly bent down the rest of the way and snatched the object off the ground, placing it in an inner pocket of his shirt.
The Old Sage then began walking east, out of the grey lands and into the dark forests that lay to the east of Stormwind, not once looking back at the tower.
(( Let's introduce the product of over 3 months of thought and work in Austria. 3 months and I'll be back with ya! ))
Haha, I can't promise anything, but I decided to make an effort to get back into this
Yeah, gonna add onto it whenever I can.
---------- Post added 2010-11-07 at 11:55 AM ----------
The torch did little to lighten the the pitch black night. The low overcast of the day had stucks throughout the night, denying the light of both the stars and the moon. A chill wind had picked up and was now howling through the trees of Duskwood, making their usually still leaves rattle and shake, giving an eerie feel to the night.
Deast muttered under his breath, silently cursing the night. He hated being posted close to the gloomy eastern reaches of Duskwood, close to the Pass. It always gave him a chill when he stared into the valley of boulders that marked the entrance to the sisnister place. It felt all too much like looking right into the maw of a beast; a beast that sheltered the cold embrace of death. Tonight was no exception. He felt as he always did when he was this close to the Pass, a small feeling of dread remained with him at all times. He muttered another curse as he stood watch, his cloak tight around him to try to keep warm.
The warden was in no way a small man. He was powerfully built, with square shoulders that gave shape to the cloak he wore. A long sword hung limply at his hip, and a battleaxe hung beside it on his over-belt. He checked the sword, lifting it an inch out of the scabbard, to make sure it was quick to draw.
Deast, slowly paced, back and forth, patiently waiting for the first vestiges of morning that would give a dull grey light to the dark woods of Duskwood.
As he paced, Deast thought he heard a sound. Immediately alert, he quietly pulled his sword out of the scabbard. At the same time, he slowly began lifting the torch over his head in order to spread the feeble light that it provided.
"Who goes there?" he called out into the night, not because he thought someone was there but merely because it was protocol.
Silence answered his call. Deast stood, watching intently his surroundings, trying to discern any shape that would appear odd or out of place. As his caution began to wane, another sound, closer, caught his attention. It sounded like a padded footing, trying to stealthily approach its victim. Deasts grip on his weapon tightened as he lowered himself into a defensive crouch, offering a smaller target for whatever the approaching threat was.
As the seconds went by, the wardens mind raced with all sort of wild thoughts imagining what the unseen predator was. He reeled in his imagination, telling himself to not delude himself with outlandish concepts. Often, the imagination had a way of making reality seem more dangerous that it actually was. All of a sudden, out of a tall bush to the left, sprang a beatly wolf, its gullet opened wide to expose a prodigious amount of fangs. A savage growl escaped from its throat, anticipating the kill to come. Deast began wheeling around, preparing to impale the beast when, all of a sudden, it stopped abruptly, its cry suddenly becoming silent.
Deast stared in disbelief. The wolf was frozen in place, levitating above the ground a few feet from the warden. Deast slowly relaxed his muscles, allowing himself to uncurl from his crouch and stand tall, keeping his gaze on the wolf at all times, not knowing if the weird spell that kept him at bay would suddenly dissapear. As he began taking a step towards the wolf, a deep, gravely voice came from behind him.
"A terrible night to be out."
Deast turned towards the sound, almost stumbling with the speed at which his body moved. He immediately squeezed the hilt of his sword of one hand at he lifted the torch with the other, trying to illuminate the somber figure that stood not ten paces behind him.
"Who are you?" Deast asked, his voice belying the fear that he felt in his heart. He felt the urge to run from the figure, but he ignored the feeling and stood his ground, keeping the sword point leveled towards the man.
"A trivial question," he responded, "and not one to which you need the answer."
The figure slowly began walking towards the wolf, still frozen in middair, going around the warden in a wide arc, as to not raise his suspicion. He inspected the beast, touching it's coarse fur here and there before turning once again to the warden, who stood stone still, his eyes following the hooded figure.
Once again, Deast spoke, "What are you doing here?"
"That is a better question, warden." he said, his gravely voice giving Deast a chill; "And," he continued, "it is one I am able to answer."
M+ Dreaming Hero Title -- Updated April 16
M+ Dreaming Hero Title -- Updated 16 April
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