Felwood Chronicles, Episode Three

Tyranel

Multack grimaces at his remaining rations. A hunk of cheese smaller than his fist, two loaves of bread, half a flask of water, and several stale tubers. This is what I get for leaving so early, he thinks to himself, and breaks a small chunk off the lump of cheese and pops it into his mouth, afterwards consuming half a tuber, two bites of bread, and a gulp of water. He sets the flask down, and buries his forehead in his palm, sighing. Five days since he left, not even a week, and he’ll starve before he gets killed.

Hours later, Multack is silently trekking through an overgrown field of vegetation. To his right is a road, a path which he hopes travelers from the Shadow Council city Jaedenar will travel. He slowly draws his knife from his vest and approaches the end of the outcrop. With plans- if a bit shady- to mug a passing warlock and ‘repossess’ his supplies, Multack is armed with as much as he could get out of the Emerald Sanctuary's supply.

Waiting for nearly an hour before hearing or seeing a thing, the sound of a cart’s movement in the nearing distance alerts Multack of a passerby, most likely with abundant resources at hand. As a cart crewed by four or five visible Jaedenar denizens shambles down the path, pulled by a shaky looking horse and a raptor- most likely the spoils of long-dead victims- Mult notices something grim. Humans, night elves, orcs, trolls, tauren, dwarves, and members of several other races are pulled in the cart. Prisoners. Servants. Slaves.

Gritting his teeth, Multack raises a hand. Sickly, dank green sparks begin to sizzle off it as if embers from a flame. He narrows his eyes and waits until the slave caravan is just in front of him, throwing his knife at the driver of the cart as he comes into range.

Yelling and slumping over, blood pouring from his neck severely- a lucky shot- the raptor and horse stop moving as the orc dies near instantaneously. The other warlocks and Shadow Council legionnaires instinctively leap from the cart, taking positions around it. The warlocks hug the cart, while the warriors circle around them slowly. Multack frowns, but, after a moment, leaves his cover under the dense shrubbery and thrusts his sparking fist at the nearest legionnaire, not stopping to watch his victim’s collarbone melt as he crumples to the ground.

With barely any time to react, the nearby berserkers lunge at Multack a moment too late- he retrieves his knife and stabs the back of a warlock’s neck as he vaults the front of the cart. Leaping into more brush as several arrows soar his way- the warriors must’ve had bows of some sort- Multack darts to his left, and emerges again, throwing a knife at one of the legionnaires darting into the vegetation. A loud thump indicates his fall.

Turning around and grabbing the mace of a berserker just below the bludgeon, he backhands the orc and knees his gut, shoving him to the ground. Out of breath, the orc wheezes loudly as one of his comrades steps on his chest in a dash for Multack.

Leaping into the brush and retrieving the near-dead orc’s weapon, an axe, and his own knife, he finishes the kill and turns around, sprinting left and emerging from the forest. A nearby warlock roars and tackles him, arms beginning to ignite and burn. Multack frowns and head butts the orc, stabbing her gut with his knife and pushing her off, leaping to his feet.

He quickly scans the scene as a berserker charges him. Two warlocks, three warriors left. One of the warlocks, a dark-skinned, tattooed male, begins to chant something. Though he can’t understand the garble, Multack cringes slightly at the ominous words. Tackled to the ground by a legionnaire, distracted by flames licking the warlock’s arms, Mult grunts, and then exhales sharply as the weight of the armored juggernaut crushes his chest.

Swinging his head to the side as a knife plunges into the dirt his neck loomed over just before, Multack clenches his fist. Nearby plants fade and die, before sickly ‘undead’ roots burst through the path, entangling the orc. Rolling away, Multack jabs the orc’s open neck between his helm and breastplate. He looks up to the warlock bursting into flame, earth around him shaking, and fire erupting towards him. He sees the warlock’s silhouette crumble into ashes before the wall of demon fire consumes him, and he blacks out.

---

Creaking an eye open slowly, Multack groans as he tries to sit up, immediately ceasing due to pain. Like hundreds of needles barely penetrating his skin, the aftershock of the hellfire eruption continues to burn away- in a minuscule form. Eventually gritting his teeth and sitting up, he makes his way to his feet, and just now looks around at the carnage.

Plants and trees surrounding the pile of the ex-warlock’s ashes are singed and scorched. The once-wooden cart remains scattered across the path, the entire area blackened by heat. Sighing at the barely-recognizable corpses on the outskirts of the charred blotch, Multack scavenges the area. Bits of blackened and, in some cases, still-flickering cart dot the scorch. Only finding a few throwing axes on the behemoth who tried to impale his throat, Multack sighs and begins to limp back towards his camp.

He stops short as a muffled groan rattles from the ruins of the cart. Craning his head over his right shoulder and eyeing the area, he raises a brow and turns around, facing the cart. Narrowing his eyes at the emptiness of the ruins save several lumps of charred wood and grim bodies, he frowns and turns around again, continuing. Again hearing the sound, he groans and yet again spins around, trotting towards the cart.

Kneeling down and exerting a large amount of energy on flipping the upturned cart over, he blinks at the presence of an only slightly battered night elf woman beneath. Blinking several times to focus his vision, he finally notices a trail in the dirt leading from a nearby singed outcrop of wood. Eyeing the night elf again, he sighs and rolls his eyes, grunting as he picks the unconscious form up.

Lumbering up the hill and leaving the remains of the incinerated slave caravan behind, Multack struggles to keep his footing with the added weight of the blue-robed night elf. Finally reaching his watchful perch in the hills above Jaedenar, he practically drops the unconscious form to the ground and plops down, immediately fumbling for his water flask and pack of food.

Only a small pouch of cheese was destroyed in the explosion, but nonetheless the small lost took its toll. A meal wasted on, what? Saving a night elf slave? Killing a few Jaedenar cultists?

After more or less eating his fill, Multack slipped the remaining rations into his pack and lied back, blankly staring at the sky. It, too, was affected by Felwood’s taint. Yes, it, too, was of a sickly, pale green. Acidic blotches of poison dotted the sky. Elsewhere they might be called clouds.

Opening his eyes to the blue-robed night elf woman huddled in a corner fearfully, Multack blinks himself awake and lifts a brow. Aching still as he sits up, he ignores the pain and makes his way to his feet, shuffling to the now-burnt-out fire pit. Pulling a hunk of cheese from the pack nestled there, he breaks a bit off- more than he’d usually allow himself to eat- and returns to his feet, steadily making his way toward the night elf.
Offering the cheese out and raising a brow silently, the form eyes the cheese, and then Multack, warily, before snatching it quickly and consuming it ravenously. Expression softening in content, Multack returns to the pack, retrieving a hunk of bread, and half a flask of water.

The figure grabs and devours the bread eerily similarly to before, and sucks the water from the flask vigorously, before huddling back into her corner and remaining there, silently. So it was for the remainder of the evening.

---

With the fire again alighting the small alcove between peaks, Multack tosses another handful of kindle and wood onto the stack. Sighing and sitting near the fire, pulling out his knife and a small tree limb, Multack begins to whittle away at the end of the straightened stave, forming an arrowhead. Looking up at the still-shy night elf, huddled in her corner, and raising a brow, Multack rolls his eyes and continues to whittle, “So why were Jaedenar orcs in need of slaves?”

Startled, the night elf’s silver eyes dart at Multack, narrowing in suspicion. Multack sighs and slices off a large shaving from the polearm. “Are you going to speak, or are you content with remaining silent for your stay?”

The night elf remains quiet.

Stopping his work and setting the two items down, Multack furrows his brow. “I see. So you’re going to sit there in that corner for however long you may be here?” The night elf shrugs, and stumbles toward the fire, disoriented. Plunking down across from Multack, she continues to remain silent and stares into the embers distantly. Odd skin tone, Multack thinks, for a night elf.

Perhaps it was the lighting, but the figure’s skin was unusual for her race. Normally, night elves had a purple or blue skin, but this one had an odd pinkish hue, some cross between a human’s skin tone and a night elf’s.

Eyeing her ears suspiciously, he rules out a half-elf. They’re too long to be half-human. She’s a night elf, it seems, just not a common-looking one.

After a while longer sitting around the fire silently, Multack rises and retrieves another small log from his wood pile. Tossing it on the fire, it erupts into sparks and cinders, soaring into the air briefly, and floating down slowly and calmly. He eyes the night elf again. “Can you speak?”

Her eyes dart toward him. There’s a first to everything. He continues, “If you’re able to, can you tell me your name?” She remains quiet. Frowning, Multack clears his throat. “I’m Multack Zaarock, a… plagueshifter,” he almost says ‘necromancer’.

She raises a brow curtly, finally muttering from behind her closely tucked knees. It’s inaudible. Blinking in surprise and satisfaction, Multack tries again. “What’s your name?”

“Tyranel,” she stammers, staring through him coldly, as if he’d done her wrong. Frowning again, he sits down, grabs the pack at the foot of the campfire, and pulls out a slice of cheese, slipping around the flames’ edge and offering it to her. Her gaze jerkily shifts to it, and she stares at it with lust. Grabbing it quickly, she devours the cheese in seconds, visibly disdained when it’s gone.

Nodding in greetings, he sits down. “Are you okay with telling me why you and the others were in that cage, Tyranel?” he asks. Eyeing him again, a bit less scornful this time, she shakes her head after a moment of thinking. Multack sighs and shakes his head. “Get some sleep,” he mutters, and quickly makes his way to the opposite peak, sliding against it.

---

Opening his eyes blankly the next morning, Multack remains stoic for a few moments before his senses kick in. The first thing he notices is pain. The previous day’s escapade had taken its sore toll. Several burns and an ache throughout his being now pleasantly greeted him.

The second is the intoxicating smell of roast meat.

He bolts up, despite the pain, and raises a brow in surprise at the night elf, Tyranel, greedily feasting on a cooked rabbit. Eyes widening, he remains silent for a few moments. “Where did you get that?...” he mutters, and, though his voice is quiet, “Tyranel’s” eyes immediately lock onto him. She narrows her eyes and lowers the rabbit. “I… It wandered into camp,” she stutters. Briefly scanning the surroundings with that little knowledge he’d obtained lately, the sight of faint rabbit prints in the dirt to Tyranel’s left confirms her story.

Easing slightly, but not enough, Multack asks another question to satisfy his shock. “How’s it cooked?” his eyes dart to the fire pit, which has long been extinguished. Sighing sadly, Tyranel rips the rest of the meat off a leg with her teeth, and devours it. Setting it down, she looks back up, “Truth?”

Mult nods. She closes her eyes, clears her throat, and opens them again. “I’m one of the youngest Highborne night elves left. I come from the ruins of Eldre’Thalas. My people are the Shendralar. I was sent, being physically able, to deliver a message to Lady Tyrande Whisperwind of Darnassus. It is of the upmost urgency she receive it.”

Mult blinks in surprise silently. Frowning slightly as he digests the more or less grim message, he sits down. “And how does that relate to the cooked rabbit.”

Scowling as if offended, Tyranel grittily answers him. “I’m a Highborne mage, brilliant human.”

Nodding in revelation, Multack folds his palms and outstretched fingers over his stoic lips. Staring into the dirt blankly, thoughts race across his mind like a darting gryphon. Night elves aren’t magi. Eldre’Thalas is a ruin. What is the Shendralar? The Highborne are returning?

The sound of meat tearing snaps him back into reality. Eyeballing the roasted hare hungrily, Mult stands. “I’m hunting.”