The Blight

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda dreamed of Luskan. The city crouched low in darkness, a great beast with its hackles raised. She ran across rain-slick rooftops with an urgency wrought of some ineffable sense of danger. It drew her toward the distant glow of a raging fire. Opaque smoke hung in the air, stinging her eyes, her throat, her nose. Still far off, Whirda could hear screaming.

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

By the time the escort came to Whirda's door, she had eaten and bathed. She was running through an easy routine with her kukris, focusing on footwork and evasion rather than the usual rotation of grips and lunges she would use against slower opponents, like the goblins. Though her sleep had been restful, the dream felt ominous. The fear she felt hadn't yet faded. It hung fat and dripping over her head like a thunderstorm.

After a brief exchange with Nyx, who now carried the goblin leader's staff, she followed the escort in silence. Along with the dream, her misgivings about the elves had resurged. They festered within her, a blight of her own. Only her memory of the twisted, dessicated wasteland kept her from abandoning their quest altogether. Though not as in tune with the forest as the elves were, Whirda had called the mountainous woodlands of the Spine of the World her home for many years. She would cure the blight if she could—a chance, finally, to do some good beyond the hollow pragmatism of hunting goblin bounty.

The lift took them up, and up, and up. A pair of sentinels guarded an antechamber that could only be Tyrande's. The walls were draped with tapestries, gilded and finely woven, depicting elves in battle, in celebration, even in repose. An image of the lady herself occupied one, resplendent in battle regalia atop her frostsaber, her great bird aloft and swooping. Despite herself, Whirda felt a certain appreciation for the elf queen. She was nothing if not impressive.

Ahead of them, a pair of doors sat ajar. The wisp-glow seeped out through the crack, revealing a pair of shadows within.

The sentinel allowed them off the lift. "Lady Tyrande awaits."

Nyx led the way across the antechamber, and they entered a room more modest than Whirda expected. Not a throne room, but a study, dominated by a great desk of stone and hewn wood, the walls concealed entirely by bookshelves heaped with books and scrolls. Tyrande and her commander, the same one from the previous night, stood in front of the desk, heads bowed in conversation. They looked up when the pair entered. Neither smiled.

"The blight spreads more rapidly than before," Tyrande said, by way of greetings. "More than a league in each direction just last night. In a fortnight it will reach Yggdrassil." Stress etched lines of consternation into her forehead. The bags under her eyes drooped low and dark. She hadn't slept.

Nyx wasted no time in saying, "Tell us what to do."

"It is unlike anything we have seen before," said Tyrande's commander. "There is no literature, no spell of cleansing. Even Mokugakure could provide us no aid." He spat the name of the man in green's home like sour milk. Evidently there was bad blood between Mokugakure and the elves.

"Yes, yes, we know that," Whirda said. "I can't imagine you brought us here just to tell us it's hopeless."

The commander's eyes narrowed. "Remember your place, girl. You are still in the presence of our Lady."

"There is one man." Tyrande spoke to Nyx, curtly ignoring Whirda and her commander. "He lives in the Pale Moors, the place from which we believe the blight originated. He is an expert in the occult and supernatural. If there is an answer—if there is any hope—, it lies with him."

Whirda turned her attention from the commander. "Why can't you send your people to recruit this man?"

"He is much like you, Whirda," Tyrande said. "He has no love for elfkind, nor for the Green. And our alliance with Camelot stretches us thin."

"Camelot?" Nyx asked.

"Though it may be the most immediate, the blight is not the greatest conflict we face. War is brewing between Camelot and the empire. Our allegiance to King Aragorn has been all but forced, and we lend our vanguard to his service."

Whirda accepted Tyrande's explanation with a nod. Though she truly did have no love for elfkind, she knew the elf queen's concern was genuine, her logic clear and unwavering. It fell on them to find the man in the Moors, and convince him to help.

"How will we reach this place... the Pale Moors?" Whirda asked.

"The same way you found us," Tyrande said. "You must return to the Nexus, and from there take the gate of gray stone, directly south. The location of the professor is unknown, but the villagers of the Moors are under his protection. They will know where to find him."

For the entire exchange, the commander had brooded in silence. Now he spoke, his words laced with venom. "My lady, you cannot truly mean to trust these... these girls with the fate of our home. Send me—send anyone else. This will be the end of Yggdrassil."

Tyrande's eyes narrowed. A palpable air of contained fury filled the room. "You forget your place, Toryn."

He cowed beneath her regard. "I apologize, my lady. I do not mean to question your judgement. It's just—"

"That will be all, Toryn." Tyrande turned her back on her commander, speaking to Nyx as he stalked from the room. The door closed behind him, and Whirda couldn't help but smile. "Please excuse him," Tyrande said. "He is overzealous, but I assure you he thinks he has my best interest in mind."

"We will need information," Whirda said, "about the Pale Moors. I would not venture there uninformed."

"Of course," Tyrande chuckled. She turned to the desk and grasped a scroll emblazoned with the seal of Yggdrassil. "I have had our historians compile a compendium of information. Bring this to the archives, and they will provide you with all the information you require."

"We should go, then, right?" Nyx said, looking sidelong at Whirda.

"I guess we should, yeah. Is there anything else, Lady Tyrande?"

The elf queen's expression clouded over. "As I said, Whirda, this man is no friend of elves. You must convince him to help us. The fate of our people is at stake."

"This man," Nyx said. "Who is he?"

Tyrande had already turned away, staring hard at a map of the forests surrounding Yggdrassil, a black splotch dominating most of the eastern reaches. Whirda could see a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "Professor Abraham Van Helsing."