“We don’t have time,” Syllandrial said from just a little down the broken path. “They’re going to be upon us any moment. If we don’t make it to the lines-”
“We’ll make it to the lines,” Geraleth said definitively. “So much of our night elven history is written and stored in this very place. We almost lost it to the elements, and we’re certainly not going to lose it to the Forsaken!”
It was true what he said about the elements nearly having taken it. The devastation of the cataclysm had nearly obliterated Auberdine, save for a scant few buildings that remained damaged but still upright. To Geraleth’s great relief, his former home was slanting terribly and looking nearly ready to topple, but it stood. He hurried inside as his priest companion waited in the doorway, nervously checking behind her as the ever closing cloud of blight came towards their position. Her patience drifted as Geraleth aimlessly threw old furniture and rubble out of the way, searching for whatever he had left here.
“Geraleth,” she said. “The mist is almost at our feet…”
Unfortunately for Syllandrial, Geraleth cared not in the slightest. He was a night elf, the same as her. If they needed, they could meld into the darkness and wait for any Forsaken patrols to pass. The knowledge contained here was worth far more than the risk to their safety. Although Geraleth wouldn’t tell her, he considered it worth far more than their lives. “Go without me then!” he called out, buried in a mess of wood and debris. “I can’t let them…” His voice trailed as he spotted a corner of a scroll rising out of the rubble as if it were a drowning man calling for help. He rushed to it, seeing it was one of many pieces he hoped to find.
“Quiet!” Syllandrial snapped.
The druid looked away from his work just briefly, wondering why the priest had called for silence considering he hadn’t spoken a word. For a priestess of Elune, ones so normally stoic and reserved, she was acting very strangely as of late. That was just one of many odd occurrences he had seen in her. It was something he would certainly take care to learn more of at a later date - seeing as all information to him was a gift not to be squandered - but there were more pressing concerns. She slipped out into the night a short moment later, leaving the druid alone with the collective memories of a whole people. Great events, terrible tragedies and empowering triumphs were stored within these scrolls.
He carried as many as he could. While he wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Syllandrial left, he knew it was enough to put himself in danger. It was especially clear since he heard voices not far from outside the decrepit building. It was surely the undead. He had read the reports from night elves near the Forsaken lands. The scouts had written the undead speak in their own, hacking, terrible language. They refer to it as Gutterspeak, a name befitting the wretched sounds that composed it. The voices outside were certainly not the harmonious, smooth tongue of the night elves.
In spite of his hatred for them, Geraleth dared not risk the scrolls. Keeping to the shadows and using the Darkshore terrain he was so familiar with as cover, he slipped past the Forsaken that were at his door. He watched them pass by his home. There were four; two warriors accompanying two additional soldiers carrying blight canisters. They sprayed his home and the land around it, not knowing of the treasures that were just inside.
Geraleth resisted the urge to call upon the stars and the moon to obliterate these monstrosities. To do so would risk himself, and by extension, his precious cargo. Still, it was an appealing prospect. To him, the undead were baffling creatures, anathema to everything he believed in. He carried these scrolls so the night elf people could learn from the past, both from their heroics and their times of sorrow. These monsters have learned nothing. A people made into horrors by plagued grain, a corruption that brought their kingdom to its knees, and now they use their blight in just the same fashion! How had they not learned? How had they forgotten what made them to be as they are? The idea of having such an event befall his people and then turning it on others was something the druid could hardly comprehend.
Geraleth turned away. To dwell on this was pointless. There were those that sought to better the world through restoration and peace, and there were those that sought to corrupt and destroy everything that was good in this world. He closed his eyes and grimaced as one of the undead laughed as a piece of his roof fell apart. They were fools. If only they had listened to the teachings from the world, the stars and the past, perhaps they could have lived in harmony.
It was a fleeting dream. Turning to head towards the night elf line, he lamented the choices of the monsters that were taking even more from a land that had given so much. Silently, he vowed they would face retribution. From everything he had read and learned, there are very few that have escaped the hand of justice, even if it takes years, decades even. The night elves are long-lived beings, and they are not one to forget.
Slipping through the trees, each step careful and deliberate to avoid being found by the undead, he stopped as he heard the most terrible of sounds. A scream tore through the trees, bone-chilling and dreadful. Had the banshee queen arrived on the field of battle? If that were so, then Geraleth would be in grave danger. Yet, something compelled him to investigate as the scream sounded oddly familiar.
As he approached, he heard the sounds of battle. Increasing his pace, he followed the sounds to a small skirmish. It was Syllandrial! She was engaged in combat with an undead horseman with the assistance of a human warrior not far from her side. Even from a distance, Geraleth could tell the warrior was injured, although not as gravely as the many undead bodies that littered the ground around him. Calling upon the wilds, small flowers came up from the ground beneath the warrior’s feet, sealing his wounds and providing relief from the pain.
Syllandrial, however, was in a much greater, albeit less physical, predicament. He watched in horror as his ally - his friend! - turned to shadow, her very form becoming dark and twisted. Tendrils shot from her back as her feet lifted her into the air, something that to Geraleth was a mockery of the natural beauty, peace and tranquilly that he had known Darkshore to be. To see a night elf, and a priestess at that, corrupt herself in such a way was appalling, and it disturbed the druid to the very core.
Darkness fired from the priestess’ fingertips towards the last remaining undead, pummeling the target while he tried to rise up. Even from a distance, he could see into her eyes. It was hardly her. There was only madness.
Suddenly, after having dispatched the cavalryman, she turned towards the warrior. Her body began to grow with shadow energy again. She truly had gone mad! She was thinking of attacking the warrior that had come to the aid of the night elves! Springing into action, he rushed towards the priest, tackling her before she could release the devastation onto her ally. He tackled her out of the air, pinning her to the ground and putting a hand over her mouth to silence her spells. She thrashed and wailed, but eventually her skin shifted to the purple of the night elves as the calm and stoicism of the priesthood returned to her eyes.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Get a hold of yourself!” Geraleth yelled at her, still grappling with the shocking nature of her actions. He had sensed something different in her, but would never have imagined this. “You had almost attacked a member of the Alliance! He’s travelled all the way to Darkshore to fight for the Night Elves that you are sworn to protect!” The power she sought came from a dark place. In the histories, he knew that night elves have dabbled with great, powerful darkness before. It had almost brought their entire civilization to ruin.
“The powers you’re reaching for…” he started before quickly checking to ensure that the scrolls were still at his side and not torn while he tackled the priest. He thought briefly of finding some that applied to her, but realized that their time here was short. “You must be more careful. You used to be a priestess of Elune, Syllandrial! That meant something to you!”
“I still am,” she said. “I always will be. But these monsters… it’s going to take something greater to defeat them. To defend our homes, Geraleth! Look at the devastation they’ve wrought…. I cannot see Darkshore turn into another Felwood. I won’t let it.”
Felwood, the druid thought. He had spent many years in that place, struggling to contain and reduce the corruption within it. The animals, the plants, the very land itself, tainted and wretched. It would take the work of many druids to return it to what it had been. To think that Darkshore could turn to a place such as that was nearly unthinkable. Yet, as he saw the blight being spread and the terrors that had already arrived, perhaps it was not so far from reality.
A small flower caught his attention just beyond the priest. A peacebloom, of all things. Without another word to Syllandrial, he walked towards it and knelt at its side. It was so small, so delicate. Yet, somehow, amidst all the warfare, the blight and the elements, this small piece of life had found a way to not only survive, but thrive. He dug his hands into the soil and removed it delicately, placing it into one of the remaining bags he had at his side. Even out of the dirt, it would thrive as long as it was close to the druid.
Such a piece of beauty felt out of place in this landscape, now. A broken down meatwagon was just down the path. The bodies of the undead lie in pieces. The cavalryman… only the word 'annihilated' properly applied to what Syllandrial did to him. He looked to the sky, at the brilliance of the stars that bathed the landscape in its cool, nighttime light. The night elf priesthood of old would call upon the moon goddess Elune to provide them with assistance in warfare. Has that changed now? Looking at the undead’s broken form, he had never seen a night elf use such savagery. They had been tactile, relentless hunters, but never butchers.
He looked closer. Where the warrior had been, the space marked by a few small flowers that had bloomed from the druid’s healing, were a few droplets of blood. The human was still wounded. Moving quickly into the trees, Geraleth sought to find him.
---
It wasn’t long before he heard the human’s voice. Following the sound, he crept up closely hoping not to alert any undead to not only his presence but the warrior’s as well. Much to his surprise, he was face to face with a blood elf - but not engaged in combat. Instead, they seemed to be…
Arguing?
Eventually, the two turned away from each other and walked back to their lines. The blood elf in which he was speaking whistled once, loud and long. For reasons he couldn’t understand, Geraleth felt a chill run down his spine as if his life had been in danger just a moment ago. He searched the trees, but found nothing.
Cautiously he approached the warrior, immediately casting spells of healing upon him, seeing his arm had a deep gash that bled freely down his side. The warrior, an older soul by human standards but a child in comparison to Geraleth, gave him a nod of thanks.
“I hope you’re just here to heal me, not to lecture,” the human said.
“I'll only speak if you wish to hear of the past, the stars, or of the bounty of nature,” the druid responded.
“Perhaps another time,” the warrior replied with a smile. “I’m Boricar.”
“Geraleth,” he said, extending his hand to the warrior who took it in his with a mighty grip.
“Your friend… is she alright?” Boricar asked about the priest.
Geraleth took a deep sigh. “Not all of us have learned the dangers of tampering with evil magics. Not even our people, who have been so damaged by them.” Boricar nodded in agreement. “Why did you not challenge that blood elf?”
“We came to a mutual agreement that enough elven blood had spilled today.”
It was Geraleth’s turn to nod. “A moment of wisdom in a time of chaos.” The druid reached into his bags, pulling from it the peacebloom he had uprooted earlier. “This flower has survived much. In its own way, it’s seen its fair share of warfare as well. I hope for you to find a place to plant it. To help to renew this land, you’ll find it may help to renew yourself.”
The warrior looked briefly perplexed, unsure what to do with the flower. Still, he extended his hand, and with surprising gentleness for a fully-plated warrior, he took it in his palm and walked to find a place to plant the flower. Geraleth was sure he would never see any of the undead act in this manner. It would have been blighted or trampled by the undead had they gotten their way.
When Boricar’s back was turned, Geraleth retreated back to the front lines. He had learned much today on the nature of knowledge. Wisdom was not a gift inherent in age. He had seen his own people lose their way, yet he would also see a people so young find truth so quickly. When this war was over, he would write of what he’d seen this day. After all, while someday he would return to the earth, the next generation would be the ones to read the histories. He hoped that they would learn from the mistakes of this day. He hoped that Darkshore would not become another Felwood.