The Blight

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda ducked out of the archives and into the adjoining hallway. She almost ran headlong into Tyrande, who waited just past the doorway. Pulling up short, she brushed wisps of hair from her face and regarded the elf queen.

"That, uh, librarian said you wanted to see me?" she said.

"Indeed," Tyrande said. "I believe I can do something to aid you in your quest. May I see your blades for a moment?"

Whirda took a step back and positioned with her weight on the balls of her feet. In her experience, a question like that never came without a sinister motive. "Why?"

The elf queen showed her palms. "Apologies. In addition to leading the elves of Yggdrassil, as you may know, I am also a priestess of some renown. There is an enchantment—a temporary enchantment—that would serve you well in the Moors."

"My blades haven't failed me yet, Lady Tyrande."

The idea was tempting. Whirda had experienced enchantments before, certainly; they were commonplace in her line of work. But to surrender her weapons, even for a moment—to leave herself vulnerable in the catacombs beneath a tree housing hundreds, perhaps thousands of deadly warriors. It would be a betrayal of every precept her mother had worked so hard to teach her.

"Our scouting party's blades hadn't failed them, either," Tyrande said curtly. "The Pale Moors are crowded with undead, enemies on whom blades can't score even the weakest hits. You're not as strong as you once were, Whirda. It would be foolish to deny this gift."

Whirda hesitated, but her body rocked forward to evenly distribute her weight. Whatever threat she felt passed with the elf queen's words. Still, she fought for a reason not to agree. "I grow stronger every minute. And I will have Nyx with me."

To her surprise, Tyrande chuckled. "Whirda, this enchantment will allow you to split undead flesh as easily as snapping a twig underfoot. It will allow you to bring holy fire to bear, to burn their corpses, else they rise again at your heels—to smite lesser undead with a single blow, and leave only ash in your wake."

There was no logic in Whirda's argument, and she knew it. She flipped her blades and palmed the flat edges of steel, handing them to Tyrande pommels first. "All right, I accept. If only to make my passage quicker through the Moors."

"A wise decision," the elf queen said, accepting the weapons. She held them gingerly, closed her eyes, and incanted a short prayer to a deity whose name Whirda didn't recognize. Her palms glowed, faintly at first, then with blinding intensity. Whirda stepped back, throwing up a hand to shield her face.

When the light faded, her weapons looked the same. Whirda took them from the elf queen to find their weight hadn't changed.

"Repeat after me," Tyrande said. "Aina kala.

Whirda repeated the words, and white fire sprung from both kukris' bolsters, quickly limning the two foot blades. It gave off no heat, but left the tangy pungency of elf magic thick in the air.

"And to dismiss it, hauta.

"Hauta." As soon as the words left Whirda's mouth, the holy fire faded.

"Now," Tyrande said, already walking away. "I must go. There is much, regrettably, to which I must attend. Should you need me, speak to my sentries and they will give you my location. Do you know when you will be departing?"

"Today," Whirda promised. "As soon as possible."

"That is well," Tyrande said, and disappeared around the corner to the lift.

Whirda hefted her blades with a faint smile. "Aina kala. Hauta." The fire spread, and winked from existence. Shaking her head bemusedly, she walked back into the archives.

[Nyx]

As Whirda opened the door, she was greeted by the sight of a rather dishevelled Nyx. She had demolished what remained of the pile of tomes, and had arranged some of them around the desks, each of them open at a specific page. Nyx was leaning over the middle desk, hands on either side of a pretty hefty book, studying it intently. Her staff was slung across her back.

Before Whirda could open her mouth to speak, Nyx interjected. “I know what we're up against, and you're not going to like it.”

Whirda cocked a brow, moving closer to the table. Her eyes began to scan the books on the table – they all seemed to be left open at choice pages. Each of them featured a more detailed description of the blight than the last. “What are they?”

“In Ferelden, we called them darkspawn,” Nyx began, straightening. She held her hands behind her back and began to pace slowly, remembering. “They look like men, but their flesh rots away from their bones. They resemble walking corpses, and they destroy everything in their wake.”

“Like the blighted lands,” Whirda suggested. Even the memory of that place seemed to weigh her heart down with sorrow.

Nyx nodded. “I could teach you everything I know about the darkspawn, but I fear that the rules they play by have changed since they appeared here, and to do so would only waste time.” She paused, and her red eyes flashed up to meet Whirda's. “However, there is one thing I am certain of: the only way to end a Blight is to slay its Archdemon.”

“Archdemon?” Whirda repeated.

“Back in Ferelden, an Archdemon was an Old God that had been found and corrupted by the darkspawn. They tainted the Old God's flesh, manifesting them as an abhorrent beast – a dragon. The Archdemon would lead the horde in their assault.”

“I see. This isn't a typical world, though – do any Old Gods even exist here?” Whirda enquired, folding her arms across her chest. Nyx was right, she wasn't liking this turn of events.

Nyx smiled weakly. “I don't know. I've searched these tomes for any mention of deities, but I can't find anything. None of the historians seem to know anything about religion when it comes to the Omniverse – they only know what they were familiar with back home.”

“Much like us,” Whirda added.

“Because this world is so different, I honestly don't know what this Archdemon will look like, or even if there is an Archdemon. One thing I am certain of is that someone, or at the very least, something, is manipulating them.” Nyx ran a hand through her hair, her eyes seeming distant as she recalled. “The darkspawn are not intelligent creatures. At most, they are capable of basic animal cunning and instinct. Something is directing them.”

“We just need to figure out what. Maybe the Professor can help us figure that out.”

Nyx nodded in agreement, then focused her attention on Whirda. “What did Lady Tyrande want?”

“She wanted to give me this.” Whirda unsheathed her blades, holding them out. “Aina kala.” The holy fire set her blades ablaze, much to Nyx's surprise. “Hauta.” The fire faded.

“You let her enchant your kukri?” Nyx teased.

“The elf queen said it would allow me to 'split undead flesh as easily as snapping a twig underfoot'.” To her credit, Whirda did a stellar impression of Tyrande Whisperwind. “And from what you've just told me, it sounds like we could use all the help we can get.”

“You're not wrong there,” Nyx said airily, moving to close the tomes she had strewn across the room, and neatly pile them back up. “We have a long journey ahead of us. Are you ready to leave?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

As the pair prepared to leave the Archives, Whirda couldn't quite shake the feeling that Nyx had changed – she just couldn't quite put her finger on how.

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda's apprehension about Nyx, and the blood mage's newest revelation, clung to Whirda all the way out of Yggdrassil. They took a more linear path south through the forest. A day's travel to the Nexus, where they would rest before entering the Moors. Thoughts about her dream hung thick and dripping in her gut, a blight of her own. On their right, the sun dipped low in the sky.

Darkspawn. The news from Nyx was troubling. Whirda had dealt with demons before—cunning imps, hulking baloths, even those who commanded the elements, fire and ice, ground and sky. But this was different. Tyrande spoke of war. Nyx spoke of an army. It was unlike Whirda to march beneath a banner. She was not a mercenary, not a sword-arm for hire, disinclined to choose sides in a conflict she couldn't understand. Everything about this world dragged her inexorably toward an alliance, like a doomed man to execution.

They walked, flanked by a trio of elves on each side. The escort would accompany them as far as the gate. The elves sat astride lean white horses, immaculately groomed, roped with muscle, fine leather saddles gilded and supple. Not beasts of burden, but war horses. The mounts were bred for battle, trained to run rampant through combat, not be relegated to a slow trot through the forest.

"Couldn't even give us horses," Whirda grumbled. "Fate of the forest at stake, and we're proceeding on foot."

"Our people are at war, Whirda Windstrom," the closest elf, a slender archer with white hair pouring from beneath his helmet, said. "We have very few resources to spare."

"Then why not an escort of four, and mounts for the ones plodding toward certain death?" Whirda narrowed her eyes.

"We do not question our lady's wisdom."

"Right, right, you're just mortal instruments, I get it. Yours is not to question why, and all that. Just seems a little ungrateful, if you ask me."

"Whirda," Nyx scolded. "Ever think you're the ungrateful one?"

"I'll express my gratitude from atop a horse," Whirda bit back, but she was smiling when she said it

"You could just make one." The elf arced a brow, like this was an obvious response.

"Make one?" Nyx asked.

Whirda stopped short, caught up in realization. "The osprey, from the Nexus. The message I sent you. Dark and empty, how could we be so stupid?"

"I don't—" Nyx said. Her eyes widened as she came up beside Whirda. "Wait, the bird? You made that?"

Whirda nodded. "I thought we could just do that with small things. You know... clothes, food, items of necessity. You mean we can make horses, just like that?"

"You can do that and much more, Whirda Windstrom," the elf said sententiously. "Try it."

"See if I don't," Whirda growled. She closed her eyes and held both hands in front of her, focusing on the image of Cascade, her favorite horse growing up as a child. One of the few fond memories she had of her father was his stable outside Waterdeep. She spent hours astride those horses as a child. It was her favorite way to escape from the pomp and circumstance.

All at once, a great globule of shimmering Omnilium filled her view. She stepped back, dropping her hands to her sides. The Omnilium dipped low, barely brushing the ground. The air veritably hummed with energy as the godstuff did its work. At Whirda's side, Nyx copied the movements, creating her own slightly smaller orb.

A few minutes later, Cascade stood in front of her. Well, not Cascade, not possibly. Almost twenty years had passed since she last laid her eyes on her father's prized steed. The old Cascade would be dead now, or nearing death. What Whirda saw was an exact duplicate of the horse in its youth. Taller than the horses of the elves, with a broad back and rippling light gray fur. The horse pawed the ground, bucking its head nervously. Whirda skipped up alongside him, running a hand through his thick mane. Almost at once Cascade settled, regarding her with glinting black eyes.

"I think I'm starting to like this place," Whirda said, smiling.

[Nyx]

The elf had suggested that Nyx and Whirda try summoning their own mounts.

Nyx thought back to the giant cats she had seen the elves ride – sabers, if she recalled correctly from the accounts given in one of the journals she had read about the blight. She desired one for herself. She focused on what she desired, and let the Omnilium do the rest.

It shimmered and whirled, a few minutes later coalescing into the form of a Nightsaber.

It stood slightly taller than the horses the elves rode, but smaller than Whirda's horse. It dug its front paws into the ground and stretched, letting out a roar-like yawn as it did so. As the beast opened its eyes, the elves quietly gasped and whispered among themselves.

“What are you...?” she began, stepping in front of the Nightsaber as it straightened itself. It regarded her solemnly with crimson eyes, much like hers. Nyx also took a moment to appreciate how dark the beast's fur was – it was jet black. “Oh... You're like me...” she murmured, extending her hand to rub its head. It eagerly inclined its head to meet her touch, with a rumbling purr.

As Whirda spoke, Nyx became aware that she was already beginning to mount her companion. The blood mage quickly followed suit, climbing atop her Nightsaber. As she settled herself upon its back, she leaned forward and whispered, “I'll call you Thanatos.”

Once Whirda was settled on Cascade's back, the pair continued their journey.

As they rode through the forest, Nyx couldn't quite shake the feeling that they were talking about her. She heard hushed whispers from behind her, and they set her nerves on edge. She guided Thanatos a little closer to Whirda's great horse, then whispered, “Can you hear anything?”

Whirda regarded her with a bemused expression. “Like what?”

“Elves?” Nyx suggested.

Whirda shook her head. “Not since we started moving again.”

Nyx nodded, doing her best to wear a relieved expression. “Good, me neither. Thanks, Whirda.”

She guided Thanatos into peeling away from Cascade, her mind racing. If she wasn't hearing elves, what was she hearing?

'Please don't tell me they've followed me here...' Nyx murmured in a barely audible whisper, her mind racing. She saw a series of flashbacks: the Blighted Lands, the Templars closing in on her, the incident with the staff in the Archives... Then, a few new memories. Ones she couldn't quite recall. They weren't of specific events, per say, but she distinctly remembered hearing voices.

Back in Ferelden, she had attributed those to the Harrowing. The demon had begun teasing her even before she had used the Lyrium (a very potent and dangerous mineral, known to cause grievous physical and psychological harm to those who touch it) involved in the Harrowing. The voices had persisted after she had shown she could resist demonic possession.

Nyx had kept her mouth shut for fear of being executed, but she began to panic as she remembered where she was. She was in the Omniverse. If this land was going to do anything for her, it would be to raise further questions, not answer them.

[PepsiWhirda]

Aided by the speed of their new mounts, Whirda and Nyx reached the gate just as the sun was dipping below the trees. The sky was a mass of dusk-tones: pewter gray, crimson, and pink, transitioning to royal blue. An inky black stain crept in from the west. The wind soughed through the trees, bearing the moist, tangy pungency of an impending storm. They would comp in the Nexus to escape the weather.

The journey through the forest had been uneventful. Whether dissuaded by the presence of the elves, or off pillaging and plundering elsewhere in the realm, no goblins or men in green interrupted their progress. Whirda rode ahead of the group and dismounted in front of the polished metal archway. The Omnilium swirled lazily at its center, waiting to carry them back where everything started.

Nyx, dozing in her saddle, jolted awake egg as her great black cat padded to a halt. "Are we there yet?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She saw the gate and grinned sheepishly. "Ah."

At Whirda's feet, the directional marker she had conjured a day and a half before still pointed toward the distant treeline. She patted Cascade on the nose as the elves rode up beside Nyx. The wind now flecked them with a fine mist.

"This is where we leave you, Whirda Windstrom," the blonde elf said. He drew his hood tight around his cowl and nudged his mount into a spin, until it was facing the way they had come. His kin followed suit.

"Can we take them with us?" Nyx asked hopefully, indicating Cascade and the nightsaber.

"They will follow you through the gate, yes," said the elf. "But do not trust them to appear the same on the other side. Creatures composed of godstuff will appear as whatever counterpart exists to them at your destination. If no such counterpart exists, they will not complete the journey."

The wind picked up, lashing Whirda's cheeks and forehead. "Will ours make it to the Moors?" she asked, shouting to be heard.

"Yes!" The elf's horse flared its nostrils and pawed the ground as a bolt of lightning split the sky in two. "Take care, Whirda Windstrom. The fate of elfhome rests with you."

"Don't remind us," Whirda grumbled, the words lost in a bellow of thunder. Cascade lifted his hooves off the ground and whinnied his fear into the pelting rain.

"You have our gratitude!" the elf called. "Farewell!" He urged his warhorse into a canter. Canter to gallop, gallop to charge. Whirda watched the elves until they disappeared into the trees.

"Ready?" Whirda hollered, holding firm to Cascade's reins and throwing herself over his muscled back. The rain picked up, ice cold and biting.

"As I'll ever be!" Nyx replied. "Let's do this!" The nightsaber leaped forward at her command, tendons flexing, sleek, rain-soaked fur glistening in another flash of lightning, and was gone.

"Right behind you," Whirda mouthed, suddenly unsure. She couldn't shake the feeling churning in her gut. Her dream, Nyx, the blight, war. Whatever brought her here—whoever—was dragging her toward events far beyond her control.

In the end, Cascade made the choice for her. The finicky horse reared at another thunderclap, Whirda clinging tightly to his back, and tore off through the gate.

Whirda came to consciousness much the same way she always did, except someplace different.