The Blight

[PepsiWhirda]

The fight—if it could even be called that—was over in seconds. Whirda stood blinking in the descending gloom. She surveyed the carnage almost contemptuously: four dozen goblin corpses, warty faces frozen in masks of perpetual shock. A handful of elves filtered through the battlefield, here and there delivering killing blows to the few goblins still grasping some spark of life. Not even the scaled beasts were spared.

"Whirda?"

Only then did Whirda see Nyx standing beside her. The blood mage looked better. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, and she proffered the elven flask with something like a smile.

Whirda shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll conjure my own if I'm thirsty."

"You don't trust it?" Nyx looked suddenly doubtful.

"Just like elves," Whirda growled in place of an answer. They stood in the center of a small clearing, as the graceful creatures dragged goblin bodies into a great heap. None of them spoke. Few would make eye contact with the women.

"What do you mean?"

"They have been tracking me since the moment I entered this gods-forsaken forest," Whirda glowered. "They would have let that goblin take your foot off at the ankle before they stepped in."

"The situation was well in hand." An elf glided up to her, his tunic ornamented with appellations of some high elven regard. He stood with hysterical posture. Whirda could almost smell the arrogance wafting from him.

She strode up to him, anger etching her features, paying no attention to the elven bowstrings drawn taut, arrows prepared to punch holes in her lithe frame at any sign of violence. "Well in hand? Is that what you'd call it. Nyx was almost killed!"

With a wave of the elf's palm, the bowstrings lowered. His features were aquiline, cast in exotic, dusky tones that suggested foreign shores and mixed origins. Not a full-blood elf, perhaps. "But she was not killed, was she?"

"You—you couldn't have known, though. For all your arrogance, elf, you couldn't have known. You should have intervened."

"Our lady Tyrande's orders were specific," the elf said. "We were only to deal with the main force, at a time when engagement was advantageous. A situation which you so graciously provided." He bowed stiffly at the waist, the touch of a smile at the corners of his lips. "For which we thank you, of course."

"You would have watched a girl die to stay true to your orders?" Whirda asked, with no small amount of incredulity.

The elf frowned. "Lady Tyrande is the high priestess of Elune. Chosen leader of the night elves, hero of the War of the Ancients, our savior in the Sundering. I would be a fool to trust my instinct over her wisdom."

"Impressive resume," Whirda said drily.

"Our lady has instructed me to extend to you an invitation," the elf said. "Yggdrassil has many amenities you will not find elsewhere in the Green. Your assistance in dealing with the goblin horde is appreciated, and our people would extend their gratitude."

Through all this, Nyx stood silently behind Whirda. She perked up at the invitation. "We should go, right? We need supplies, and they can tell us more about this place."

"Our libraries are comprehensive in their coverage of the Omniverse," the elf agreed.

Whirda snorted her derision into the night. "We're not interested, elf. If we need supplies, we will summon them ourselves. Your... hospitality isn't needed."

"The Green is an unforgiving place," the elf said. "Where will you sleep? How will you protect yourselves?"

"It's never been an issue before. We'll build our own shelter, if need be." She thought of the man in green, of the place he mentioned during their talk. Mokugakure. If she could find him, she would ask him to take her and Nyx there. Just an hour ago he'd held a knife to her neck, and she still trusted him more than the elves.

"There are those who will seek to kill you."

Whirda barked a laugh. "There are those I would like to see try."

Clearly annoyed, the elf said, "Nevertheless, my friend, I'm afraid the invitation is compulsory. It is poor etiquette to deny Lady Tyrande's hospitality."

"Yeah? Well tell your bitch queen—" Whirda started to say. The arrow whisked past her face, not an inch from her left eye. She looked down to see a lock of pale blonde hair drift to the ground.

"You would do well to watch your tongue when speaking of the lady," the elf said. He had unsheathed his longsword and held it casually, with the confidence of a man whose weapon is an extension of his arm itself. "Or I'll cut it from your mouth."

"I'd like to see you try," Whirda growled, twirling her weapons to reverse grip. "Now, like I said, tell your bitch queen I'm not interested."

"Whirda, don't," Nyx cautioned.

If you asked her later, Whirda would say she imagined what came next. But in the moment, adrenaline pumping, muscles taut with anticipation, she could have sworn the darkness was lifted from the forest. For a moment, as the priestess entered the clearing, it was bright as day.

"Why don't you tell me yourself, Whirda Windstrom."