The Contagion

[PepsiWhirda]

*****

Later, after the storm had passed and the sun peeked over the gray horizon, Whirda tried it again. And it worked.

She focused on a patch of earth maybe ten yards away, beneath the low-hanging boughs of a mottled tree. She closed her eyes, pictured the spot, imagined what it would be like to stand there, instead. There was no sensation; her legs didn't move, but when she opened her eyes, she had moved. Teleported, it seemed, simply by picturing a place she could see.

Next, she imagined Darkshire. The spot just outside the town's gates, where the shadows were cast long across the hardscrabble, where Dobson had been ridiculed by the very men he fought so loyally to protect. She closed her eyes. Her heart palpitated at the thought of Dobson. She hoped he was safe, hoped he, and Nyx, and the professor, had found some way to escape the horrors of the shade's lair.

Nothing happened. She remained beneath that same tree, The Pale Moors stretched out flat and interminable before her, the silhouette of the mountain at her back. Perhaps it only works for short distances, she reasoned. Resigned to the long walk back to the town, she squared her shoulders and plodded forward.

Replenished by the rain, her pace was quick, and soon Whirda wandered through the streets of the same abandoned town in which they had left the unconscious Dobson, while he recovered from the wolf's bite. There was no sign of the howlers, but the damage wrought by their battle so long ago was still apparent. Two of the buildings had collapsed into heaps of rubble, and ancient, reddish-brown stains still marred the cobblestones. Not for the first time, Whirda wondered how much time had passed since her battle with Ahn'Thrix.

With a moment's concentration, Whirda teleported atop the roof of one of the sturdier looking buildings. I can definitely get used to this. There was only one explanation for her new found ability. She thought of Ahn'Thrix, vanishing during their battle only to reappear elsewhere in the chamber. Teleportation was not a new concept to Whirda, but the ability usually came with years of dedicated training. Once again, she ran her fingers along the scar on her throat. She remembered the feeling of the shade's dagger—the dagger now hanging from her belt—, replacing her blood with cold shadow. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but it made sense.

What does that make me? Whirda didn't feel any different. Weak and hungry, certainly, but the chill of the shadow was long gone. Am I a shade now too?

Questions to be answered another day, she resolved, teleporting back to ground level and resuming her journey. The path ahead was clear, and only another day of travel would find her at the gates of Darkshire, hopefully to be reunited with her companions. When she had recovered her strength, she would return to Yggdrassil with the dagger of Ahn'Thrix and news of his defeat. That is, if Yggdrassil still stands. The dream of Lady Tyrande, corrupted and eerily similar in appearance to the shade, remained firm and vivid in her memory. She only hoped she wasn't too late.