The Contagion

[PepsiWhirda]

For a long time Whirda slept, and in her sleep, she dreamed.

She dreamed of Lady Tyrande, far away in her mighty tree, on a balcony overlooking the vast wilderness. The high priestess pressed her weight against the railing, her head bowed, her shoulders slumped low as if bearing a great burden. The moon hung fat and dripping overhead, but for the first time, it brought her no relief. It seemed nothing could.

The Blight was spreading. Fully half of The Tangled Green now dwelt in shadow, the air thick with the fetid, vegetal stench of decay. Patrols vanished without a trace, and the news of those that returned was uniformly grim. Mokugakure in flames, its ninjas scattered to the winds. Scores of Darkspawn roaming in hordes, leaving rivers of stinking sludge in their wake. The cultist orcs of Tlaloc sealed in their temple, offering themselves to their false god one by one.

A hollow pounding emerged from the chamber behind her. Lady Tyrande squared her shoulders and dragged the back of one hand across her face. She turned, her face indiscernible in the darkness.

Despite herself, the high priestess's voice wavered. "Enter."

Shadows swayed through the chamber as two male night elves approached and dropped swiftly to kneel before her.

"High Priestess," one intoned, his gaze rising to meet hers. "News from the patrols."

"Speak," Lady Tyrande said, without raising her head to acknowledge them.

"The realm is overthrown," the messenger said, his soldier's dispassion failing to hide the grief in his eyes. "We are surrounded."

"How long?"

"A day, perhaps. Any defenses we erect rot away in minutes. They are tireless, unrelenting... they need neither food to eat nor air to breathe. What hope do we have against these creatures?" The thin veneer of professionalism melted into an expression of horror.

When Lady Tyrande's chin lifted, the elves recoiled. They scrambled backward to their feet with anguished cries and took flight from the chamber. "Raise the alarm!" their voices echoed. "The High Priestess has fallen!"

Unfazed, the high priestess turned back to the railing. She raised one hand, the skin sloughing away to reveal the white of finger bones, to scratch at the exposed pate of her skull. The skin on her face hung in pallid bunches like candle wax, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—smoldered in the darkness, icy blue.

The horns of war groaned to life far below, filling the air with their sound.

Baring cracked teeth limned with moss, Lady Tyrande began to laugh.

*****

Whirda jerked awake with a strangled cry, throwing one hand forward as if the leering image of Lady Tyrande was a tapestry, easily torn down. She couldn't see her hand, so absolute was the darkness in the chamber. Her heart banged around in her chest like a caged beast hungry for its freedom. Sweat soaked through her leathers and hung in beads on her chest.

All at once, the memories flooded back. The Blight. Lady Tyrande. Nyx, Dobson, and Professor Van Helsing. Ahn'Thrix, the shade-lich, destroyed by the high priestess's holy fire enchantment, his dagger... his dagger.

Whirda ripped the glove off of her hand and ran her fingers along her throat, where the shade's dagger had delivered its bite. She felt the rough texture of scar tissue, running in a jagged line from clavicle to chin. There was no pain. The wound should have been fatal. She carried out her plan understanding it was suicide—understanding it was the only way to ensure the shade died with her.

Whirda frowned, her parched lips cracking. She ran her tongue across them, tasting the bitter tang of blood. Her body ached for moisture. It felt as though she had been asleep for a year, with neither food nor water to sustain her. Her hair hung in lanky ropes down her back, inches longer than she remembered. Her teeth ached, and her mouth tasted like ash and dirt. All of her muscles trembled with entropy as she pushed herself up to a seating position, her back against the hard stone wall of the chamber. Shakily, Whirda staggered to her feet.

It was as if she had emerged from a dense fog. Shadow hung in piles around her ankles like a discarded blanket. As her eyes adjusted to the relative brightness of the chamber, she dragged one foot through it. The shadow shredded apart like cotton and dissipated. Whatever it was, it seemed to have been hiding her—protecting her.

Hunger and thirst overrode Whirda's curiosity. If she did not eat, or at the very least drink, she would not survive long enough to answer any of the thousand thousand questions bouncing around in her aching head.

She took a tenuous step forward, looking for her weapons. Her foot brushed against something solid, and for a moment the keening scrape of metal on stone filled the cavern. She bent down to find not the curved blade of her kukris, but Ahn'Thrix's foul dagger. Whirda grasped it by the hilt and flipped it, by habit, to catch the point deftly between thumb and pointer finger without nicking the skin. Despite herself, she marveled at its craftsmanship. The blade was expertly weighted. She swept it through the air, back and forth, her movements jerky and rigid as her muscles adjusted to movement after spending so long inert. As when Ahn'Thrix had used it in their battle, it left a veil of ash in its wake.

Groaning, Whirda stood and resumed her search of the chamber. Her weapons were nowhere to be seen. Unwilling to proceed without some way to defend herself, Whirda begrudgingly decided to take the shade's weapon with her. Perhaps it would be useful to the night elves studying the blight. She was certain Lady Tyrande would reward her handsomely for her service, a reward perhaps to include a pair of shiny new, elf-forged kukri.

"Nyx!" she tried to shout, but her voice emerged as a horse whisper and racked her throat with pain. Whirda growled her frustration into the emptiness. With the threat of Ahn'Thrix eradicated, it stood to reason they may have escaped. There was no time to search for them. She had to trust the professor got everyone out safely. Perhaps even now he was on his way back. Perhaps, in the vast network of caverns in this gods-forsaken mountain, he was looking for her that very moment.

Emboldened by the thought, Whirda stumbled weakly out of the chamber, one hand dragging along the wall in case she needed support. She has no way of knowing which way to go. There was no wind. The air was a constant temperature. Nothing gave the beleaguered Whirda cause to choose a particular direction, so she did the only thing she could. She kept moving, pausing periodically to create leave markers similar to those she had created in The Tangled Green, before this nightmare began.

The first time she came back across one of her markers, Whirda did not panic. Not until seeing it for the third time did her thoughts turn to despair. She staggered through the darkness, croaking the names of her friends, growing weaker by the second. The tragedy of overcoming so many obstacles, of making it this far, of defeating the shade and surviving, somehow, impossibly, the damage its dagger should have wrought, only to die of thirst and starvation, clouded her judgement.

Gradually, her pace slowed. She lost her footing more often, dropping frequently to her knees with a growl of pain. It took longer each time to climb to her feet. On the verge of delirium, she envisioned the endless feasts of Waterdeep, sitting beside her father at a table so crowded the food had to be served in six-tiered serving platters of polished silver, course after sumptuous course set before them to be devoured.

Minutes passed before Whirda realized she was lying prostrate on the ground. It seemed she had chosen a place to die. The edges of her vision began to darken. She was thirsty... so thirsty. At least the wind was cool on her skin as her life began to slip away.

The wind? The wind!

Summoning from somewhere the strength to crawl, Whirda inched forward. She could hear it now, sighing through the cavern, its susurrus quiet but unmistakable. She turned a corner and saw a shaft of moonlight lancing through a thin crack in the wall. Sallow moonlight filled the room, and the whisper of the wind was joined by the soft patter of raindrops. Whirda rocked to her feet and threw herself into the wall, reaching into the crack with one arm, stretching, reaching.

Through the crack, she could see the dreary landscape of The Pale Moors stretching interminably before her. The rain drizzled down from fat, gray clouds. Far away, the hoofbeats of thunder.

There was only one problem. Whirda couldn't reach. With an anguished cry, she stretched as far as she could, throwing her body hard against the stone. It was too far. Not a single drop of rain landed on her outstretched fingers. She dropped to her knees, defeated.

Whirda rested her forehead over the crack. Outside, so close and yet, for her singular purpose, infinitely far, a tree creaked in the wind, casting its long shadow across the ground. How she longed to be standing there, her face upturned, fat drops of rain landing in her open mouth. It was so close. So close. She tilted her chin upward, trying to remember what rain felt like on her skin. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the fantasy.

The first drop hit her forehead and ran into the corner of her eye. Then there was a second, on her cheek. Then a third. The wind whipped up around her, and soon dozens of raindrops were pelting her face, her hands, running icy paths between her breasts.

Whirda opened her eyes. It was no fantasy. She stood outside, beneath the groaning limbs of the very tree she had stared at just seconds before, from the other side of the crack in the cavern wall. It was impossible. It defied reality.

In that moment, as the rain soothed her aching throat and soaked into her parched lips, Whirda Windstrom didn't care.

[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.

[PepsiWhirda]

*****

Halfway back to Darkshire, her pace bolstered by frequent, short-range teleportation, Whirda heard the sound of shambling feet. She wound her way through a dense copse of trees, shorn clear of leaves, spindly branches reaching toward the ashen clouds. The dagger at her waist leaped into her hand as she bent into a low crouch. The sound grew louder, came toward her.

Whirda looked up, to the elbow where a thick limb protruded from the trunk of one of the mottled aspens. She concentrated, closed her eyes, and in a moment was nestled between the branches. She thought back to when she woke up on the cavern floor, thought of the blanket of shadow that had seemed to be protecting her, concealing her from any enemies who may have entered the lair while she slept.

With her free hand, she began, amazingly, to gather the shadow around her.

At first, it happened slowly. The long, gray-black shadows stretching along the length of the trunk peeled away like the tree was shedding tight clothing. It formed a clump in her hand, almost a tangible thing. More and more shadow swirled around her in tight bundles, conforming to cover her legs, her arms, her torso. In moments, ensconced in her camouflage, Whirda was rendered almost invisible, only the cloudy gray of her eyes peeking between the folds of shadow.

The first undead creature shambled below her, dragging one leg behind it. Its jaundiced eyes gleamed feverishly. Its upper lip had rotted away, to reveal the yellowing teeth underneath. Behind it, another half-dozen of the monstrosities followed. They moved slowly, clumsy in undeath. Even without Lady Tyrande's mighty enchantment, Whirda was confident she could deal with them.

Focusing briefly on the ground behind the last creature—it was easier, quicker, each time—Whirda teleported. She appeared already in motion, the shade's dagger entering at the base of the creature's spine, digging deep to taste brain. Without a sound, the creature crumpled. Whirda caught its weight and lowered it to the ground.

The rearmost zombie turned, saw its fallen companion—saw Whirda—, and, to her astonishment, did its best to fall into a kneel before her. One by one, the other creatures followed suit. Whirda stood perplexed, the blood of the dead creature dripping unnoticed down the blade of the shade's dagger. Silence overtook the clearing.

Abyss below, what is this now? Whirda took an uncertain step back, her finely-honed warrior's instinct taking over. What am I?

A minute bled by in the lengthening shadows of dusk. Then another. Whirda stood rigid, her senses focused on picking up the sound of an approach, the springing of a trap, anything—anything—to explain the behavior of the five undead creatures kneeling before her.

Whirda's voice trembled as she said, "Rise."

One by one, the zombies groaned and creaked to their feet. Eyes long past the point of seeing stared hollowly through her.

Whirda approached the closest creature cautiously, until her face was inches from its own. Still it made no move to oppose her. In the back of her mind, she pictured the nook in the tree that had served as her perch minutes ago, prepared to teleport to safety at any sudden move. She raised the shadow dagger until its point rested just below the creature's chin, expecting that now, finally, it would make a move.

The dagger plunged upward through its chin. The creature fell without a sound, without a struggle. There was no response from the four remaining creatures.

Dark and empty! It's like they think I'm their master. The realization crept up on her. They didn't think she was their master. She was their master. She looked down at the pitch black blade of the dagger of Ahn'Thrix. It seemed the shade's weapon could control the creatures of The Pale Moors, command them to do the bidding of whoever possessed it. At least, Whirda hoped it was the dagger. If it wasn't, that meant—

She had to get back to Darkshire, to find Van Helsing and solve the mystery of her new abilities. The thought of becoming anything like Ahn'Thrix turned her stomach and caused a cold sweat to spring up on her skin. Whatever this was inside her, it had to come out, and quickly. Before it could spread. Before it could consume her.

Whirda remembered the words of Ahn'Thrix. Once the shadow is inside you, it ceases to be a choice. It is an addiction. One from which you can never hope for freedom—from which you won't even want to be free.

Heart pounding, each breath coming in a panicked gasp, Whirda turned from the creatures and ran.

[PepsiWhirda]

The distant walls of Darkshire were a welcome sight indeed as Whirda approached, her thoughts buzzing with fears both real and imagined. She hoped a hearty meal and, if they yet lived, gods willing, reunification with her companions would put a rest to her troubled mind. She felt somehow assured of their continued presence in the Omniverse—perhaps one of the varied and ambiguous advantages of her status as a Prime. Whether they had remained in, or even made it to Darkshire, that remained to be seen. Whirda's skin crawled at the very idea of dealing with Mayor Boone again, but in her companions' absence he was likely the only one in Darkshire with any useful information. She remembered keenly Van Helsing's silent warning, the look of terror hiding behind his eyes when he spoke of the man, if truly he was a man at all.

Night was falling. It seemed the darker it grew, the more comfortable she felt—as if all of her physical maladies were simply fading away. She had always preferred night to day, for the concealment it provided her when she stalked her bounties, but this... this was something different. It felt almost like an attunement. The very air around her rippled and thrummed, the waves coursing into her one after another, washing her pain away.

"Not a step further!" a ragged voice hailed from somewhere above her.

Whirda tilted her head up, forced her lips into a thin smile. "My name is Whirda Windstrom!" she said. "I have returned from the lair of the shade Ahn'Thrix with news of his defeat! I seek an audience with Mayor Boone!"

"Whirda..." the voice echoed. "Impossible."

"You have my assurance, it is quite possible."

"Wait there."

Whirda waited as the clump-clump-clump of boots trodding down stairs echoed through the stillness. She took a step back as the gates groaned open. Light filtered through, outlining the silhouette of a man in heavy armor, holding a spear.

The guard took a cautious step forward. "Show yourself."

Whirda stepped into the light, shielding her face with one hand as her eyes adjusted to its brightness. She blinked away the spots in front of her vision and lowered her hand. "Now, can I speak with the mayor?"

The guard's face contorted in a grimace. He stumbled back, thrusting his spearhead toward her. "You will find no shelter here, creature," he said, retreating through the half-open gate. "Begone, lest the might of Darkshire reign down upon you!"

"I don't—" Whirda began, but the gates slammed shut with a resounding crash, and her voice was lost in the clamor.

"Hey!" she roared, anger quickly replacing confusion. Her chest heaved with inexplicable rage, rage that clouded her vision, raced through her veins like scalding water. She cast her gaze to the top of the wall, pictured herself perched in the crenel between two merlons of rough-hewn stone. Her perspective shifted almost instantly: where before, she had looked up at that shadowy nook, now she felt it beneath her feet, held one hand on that very stone for balance as she dropped to the pathway atop the wall.

She looked left, looked right, her teeth bared and the dagger, somehow, in her free hand. The familiar clump-clump-clump signaled the guard's ascent. As he rounded the corner at the top of the staircase, Whirda flashed into existence behind him. Her kneecap drove into the back of his leg, dropping him heavily to his knees. Her dagger settled comfortably against his throat, the pressure just short of drawing blood.

"I'm not sure you understand me," she rasped, the words emerging from the back of her throat like a growl. "So I will be more clear. My name is Whirda Windstrom. I need to speak with Mayor Boone. You are going to bring me to him." She enunciated each word through clenched teeth as the terrified guard stared forward into empty space, his voice leaking out of him in a whimper.

The guard swallowed, bobbing his Adam's apple up against the edge of the blade. A single drop of blood trickled into his armor. "I understand," he said slowly. "Whirda Windstrom is a friend of Darkshire, there is no question."

"Then what is the problem?"

"You are no longer her." Quicker than she expected, the guard shoved his weight backward into her and dropped to the ground, the dagger passing an inch in front of his face. He rolled forward, came to his knees spinning, and brought his spear to bear.

Whirda stepped back, slipped the dagger through her belt-loop, and showed the guard her palms. The rage faded. "What do you mean?"

The guard motioned with his spear for her to look down.

When she did, Whirda gasped. Black veins criss-crossed her arms, pulsing with the beat of her heart. Her skin was gray, as if the color had drained straight out of them. She looked back to the guard, her expression pleading with him for information.

"And your eyes," the guard muttered. "They're black as night."

Whirda took a horrified step back, holding her arms in front of her face as if seeing them for the first time—and in a way, she was.

"Now," the guard said, his voice wavering, "leave."

Another step back, then a third, and Whirda stood between the stone merlons once more, her heels rocked back over the precipitous fall. As the guard watched, she disappeared with a ripple of residual energy, appearing on the ground thirty feet below. Then, for the second time that day, perhaps for the second time in her entire life, Whirda ran away.

[PepsiWhirda]

*****

Whirda sat far back from the crackling fire, her knees tucked in against her chest and her bevor shifted high to protect her face. She found the light intolerable now. The flames that would once have brought her comfort now served only as a reminder of her affliction. The ripples of her attunement to the darkness seemed to cower, retreating like cornered prey to settle somewhere behind her.

The revelation of the shadow contagion raging inside her had been slow in coming to the forefront. As a nagging suspicion, Whirda had foolishly allowed its power to spread, even enhancing her command of the abilities it granted through frequent teleportation and camouflage. At first it had been fun. She could explain the strange powers away as a perquisite of carrying the shade's dagger, ignore the subtle war it waged on her body, on her very identity. Indeed, that explanation still held a measure of credibility—perhaps it was merely a side effect of the ensorcelled blade, she allowed, although her instinct spoke to a more foul truth.

She thought of the guard's expression when he saw her face. Whirda may not have been well-liked back home, that much was true, but she had never been feared, not by goodly folk, never by those she had risked her life to protect. It was just like in her dream, when Lady Tyrande lifted her face to show the contagion had claimed her as well. The notion brought sent a chill coursing through her. If Lady Tyrande and her mighty tree fell, what hope remained for the rest of her realm?

So distracted, Whirda did not hear the footsteps padding up to her camp. Only when she heard her name from across the fire did she look up sharply, to see a bearded yet undoubtedly familiar face.

"You're supposed to be dead," Dobson said, sitting on the mottled log beside her.

Whirda chuckled, a humorless gesture. "I'm starting to think I am."

Dobson leaned over and wrapped her in a hug. "It's good to see you after all this time."

"How long has it been," she asked.

"You mean you don't know?"

Whirda shrugged. "I remember killing the shade, and then waking up in his lair a couple days ago. Nothing of the time in between."

"So it's true," Dobson said, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Ahn'Thrix is dead."

"Yeah, and he left me a couple of souvenirs." Whirda pointed at the dagger with one hand, and used the other to lower her bevor, to reveal the scar along her throat.

Dobson blanched. "How the hell..."

"Now tell me," Whirda said, indelicately changing the subject. "How long has it been?"

"A year," Dobson said, his eyes still locked on her neck. "More, maybe. Sometimes it's hard to tell when you haven't seen the sun in half a decade. We tried to go back for you, half a dozen times. We mapped every cavern beneath that gods-forsaken mountain, with no sign of you."

That's because these infernal powers kept me hidden. "You tried, Dobson. Thank you. It's more than I deserved."

"Don't say that." Dobson had aged a lot in a year, for certain, but the reediness of youth still lingered in his voice. "Whirda, you're a hero."

"Right," Whirda deadpanned. "It was very heroic, being turned away from the gates of the town I helped to save."

Dobson's face fell. "You don't have to be cruel," he muttered. "If it had been me on that patrol, I would have had to make the same call. I'm guessing whatever this—" motioning at his neck to indicate he meant her scar—"is, has something to do with how you look."

"I'm not a shade, Dobson," she began defensively. She caught the anger she felt at Darkshire begin to well up inside her and forced it back down. "At least, not yet."

"I believe you," Dobson said quietly. "I do, Whirda, but think about it rationally. Who could feel safe—truly safe—with you in their midst, looking like you do."

Whirda said. "I know. You're right. All that's left to do is return to Tyrande. Perhaps she can provide some insight into how I can cure this—this..." She trailed off, panic choking off her words. She took a deep breath, then another. "What of Nyx and the professor?"

"Nyx," Dobson echoed, a smile creeping onto his face. It faded quickly. "She, uh, she's gone."

"Dead?" Whirda's voice fell oddly flat, empty of emotion.

"She, uh, she was in league with whatever that... that thing was, inside her. They escaped before the professor could kill the, uh, demon. Hurt him pretty bad, too."

"Just like he said," Whirda murmured, feeling foolish. "So he's here? Can I see him?"

"Uh, no," Dobson said. "He and Mayor Boone had a... disagreement, of, uh, of sorts, and the professor left."

"Left? Where did he go?"

"I don't know." Dobson looked down. "Look, Whirda... Darkshire's not in good shape. We're packed with refugees from The Tangled Green—the blight is still spreading, by the way—, losing patrols it seems like every day, and they have me in charge of it. I admire your heroism and I will always consider you my friends, but my allegiance lies with Darkshire first."

Whirda cast him a sharp look, but let him continue.

"I can't tell you where the professor is," Dobson said. "But I can tell you this: a trio passed through the town a few days back, talking about the blight. They have some new information. They seem to know how to cure it, Whirda. Once and for all."

"Primes?" she asked, reflecting a moment on how naturally the word fell from her, as if the concept was one she had known all her life.

"Yeah," Dobson confirmed. "I'm expecting them back any day now, hopefully with more news. I think you should wait and hear what they have to say, before you make any decisions. Maybe they can find a way to fix you too."

Whirda said nothing. As Dobson's allegiance was to Darkshire, so was hers to Lady Tyrande. If nothing else, Whirda was an honorable woman. She had accepted this quest, so she had to see it through to the end. The dream of Lady Tyrande-turned-shade rose unbidden to her memory. What would she find upon returning to The Tangled Green? she wondered. And if the blight continued, had she truly completed her mission at all? She had to wait and hear what the Primes had to say.

She nodded, confirming the thought. "I'll stay, Dobson. But not for long."

"Good. I have to get back to the town, but until then, here." He hefted a bag off his back and dropped it to the ground in front of her. "Food, water, blankets. I'll come back at this time tomorrow if the Primes haven't returned."

"Okay," Whirda said.

Without another word, Dobson turned on his heel and left, his slender silhouette fading into the distance. She wanted to call after him, to thank him for what he was doing, but something kept the words inside her. To Whirda, it felt like her humanity was falling away.