A Call For Heroes

"Can you hear that? Can you taste it in the air?"

It was dark and the snow swirled in silver drifts. Behind them the jagged spires of His Citadel rose, bitter spines silouetted against the Northrend night. The small warlock looked to her dark companion, the silent Voidwalker her oldest friend.

"It is a call for Heroes ..."

A gentle hand reached up, touching bracers crafted of magic.

"And I am sure Heroes will answer that call. The famous, the infamous, those whose fair hair is so perfectly tossled by the wind, the slice of their blades the cue for a minstrel's song.

"But I can't help but think of sweet Wynilla, of bold Takumi, of fiery Inflagrante, kind Uinen and valiant Gia, and of Chelydra who took a chance on us so long ago when he asked us to join his Veritas family. They may call us common, and we may be, but commoners like ourselves, we are the world's heart, we are its soul. While our names may not be sung in the halls of Stormwind, those who are only do so because upon our shoulders they stand.

"As for us? Its been too many years. We have seen the temples of princes. We have stood beneath the Liche King's throne. But no matter how cold the snow is here, how white it may be ... its never quite right and I can't ignore my heart any longer.

"Mezzy,

"It's time to go home."

Nellisynthia Nellastatia of Kharanos

Somebody's Father

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

The woods were cast in a forever twilight, the warmth of the afternoon sun somehow kept at bay, painting the shadows of cold leaves in far too many shades of gray. They had paused, come to a stop, here in the woods of dusk. A few steps away the great dreadsteed whuffed and paced, the glow from his hooves, the fire of his mane, the only dance of color, reds and saffron, as evening threatened in deep dark pastels through the silk shrouded trees.

"Have we ..."

She spoke in whispers, as one might in that last kind of respect. And as she did she looked down to her closed hand, feeling the bite of metal within. It should have been a cold feeling, the metal against her palm, but she couldn't comprehend it as anything but heart's blood warm.

"Have we forgotten so much Mezzy, in our striving against the Dark, in our holding against the Lich King and his Scourge, against the broken undead? Before the hearths of Valgarde, in the taverns of Valiance Keep, in the great halls Dalaran, they raise their goblets in triumph upon the heralding of our victories in Icecrown Citadel. The toasts ring out bold and strong when frozen bones, accursed sinews and the steel of the walking dead have been sent to their final rest. Have we forgotten, however, exactly what it is we are doing?"

At her shoulder the great Voidwalker kept still. Silent, a swirl of magic and dreams bound by carven metal bracers, it was always hard to determine if he truly heard, if he truly understood. She hoped, and sometimes, sometimes that just had to be enough.

"In Darkshire, in the warmth of their commons, Miss Trelayne is probably lining up the tall pewter steins, the crystal goblets of wine, to speak so well of us, to celebrate the lifting of their curse, for we have just slain the spectre of the undead Mor'Ladim."

Slowly she unfolded her hand, to look down upon the small ring she held.

"Mor'Ladim. A dull echo, a contraction of who he used to be. But someone needs to remember, Mezzy, someone does, that his name was Morgan. That he had a daughter. That her name was Sarah."

"And this is her ring."

The warlock bit her lower lip, as if, as if the slight pain was important, necessary. To remind herself that she was still alive, that she could still feel.

"Have we forgotten, in our lust for victory, in the brutal reality of this snow bound conflict, that the armies of the Scourge were not raised from whole cloth? That they did not spring like sparks from fel fires or fall from the sky like dying stars.

"Have we forgotten that each and every one of them were once one of us?

"That they were once our brothers, they were once our sisters. Daughters and mothers, sons and fathers, our husbands, our wives, our soulmates.

"That the shattered bones that lay at our feet we once called friend."

Slight fingers closed over the slim hoop of metal. Protective.

"I cannot find any reason to celebrate tonight, Mezzy.

"For is this something to be done for glory, for pride and accolades ...

"Or is it last thing we can do for those we have once cared for, because we have no other choice?"

Slowly she turned, to mount her patient dreadsteed.

"Like now.

"To place a simple golden ring upon an ill treated gave.

"To place the token of a daughter's love."

"No."

Her words were quiet, quiet and soft and final.

Gently she lay the paladin's sword upon the paladin's grave, his gift, her reward. Gentle fingers slipped over its silvered carvings, evoking a shimmer of sparkles from the magic held within. Leaving it behind, leaving it at rest.

"There's been enough death for one day."

Atychiphobia

The sound of surf and ice, the gentle rustle of nets being retied, of hooks and fat blowed up fish buoys being set for the next morrow, these are the sounds of the village as night descends. The glowfish glow, and the hearth in the sunken tavern dances orange and yellow, the occassional pop and snap accenting the white-bound solitude.

Against that, against the welcome of refugees, if two could be alone in that, they were. Small hands rubbed and warmed at the fire. Cobalt and blue shadows swirled at her shoulder, frustrated, talons of dark magic snapping at the air, not understanding and not knowing what to do when there's no Scourge to protect her from, where there's no dragon to be saved.

"What was I supposed to say, Mezzy?"

Teeth pressed her lower lip until it paled as the little warlock hugged herself tight.

"I didn't lie. It's the truth, this is where we rest, and we can easily busy ourselves with the intricacies of walrus mail and the shuffling of our supplies twixt here and Ironforge.

"But how could I tell Mister Chelydra, whose looked out for us all these years ...

"That I just can't figure out what happened, how it could happen ...

"And how broken it feels."

Green eyes closed, tight, a long silence following.

"Do you remember ...

"Do you remember the first time we stepped into Nefarian's castle, into Blackwing Lair, to face the chaos that was Razorgore? When we learned the spirit healer's first name? How long it took, how hard we worked, how absolutely impossible it felt.

"And yet we never gave up.

"Do you remember ...

"Do you remember the blood of Karazhan, that cut us so deep we were torn asunder? And yes, it made things harder, it stumbled us greater than any Naga or Demon Prince ever could.

"And yet we never gave up.

"We did see the Naga fall, her fel schemes broken, we did look down upon a fallen prince in his temple."

Wiping her arm across her eyes the small gnome nodded her head, sure and even.

"Turtles, I've said, always know where they are going. And they might be slow and sure but they never ever stop. No matter what. Sometimes, sometimes I think Master Inflagrante calls forth his words of power not because the hour is late, not because we are tired and worn, but because he knows some of us just won't stop, we'll shake off the blood and the dirt, mend our broken bones and wrap bandages about our arms, and keep on going, knowing that we can triumph and that you can't get there without trying as hard as you can. That's not the question, the only question is when."

A moment, and the warlock steeled herself, as if her own words might cut her like the undead claws or the frost called down by a Liche King's mage.

"And last night, with Her life held by us, with Her calling for our aid ... we left her for bones and sinew, left her for Arthas Menethil to claim her brave soul and raise her shorn of all she cared for into his service. "Not because we lost or were beaten ...

"Because we gave up."

Eyes close tight then, her words colder and as torn as her spell woven armor.

"I could live with losing, having tried and tried and tried. That's how you learn, that's how you temper a blade; and you know, the more difficult it is, the better it feels when you can look to your friends and say not that evil has been slain, but that we ... we ... triumphed. Together.

"I have heard our valiant cohorts speak of Putricide's falling and how bitter a conflict it was. How many times they stood and fell and stood and fell. It has been said that the valiant is proven by hanging on but one minute longer, by trying that one last time.

"They are true heroes."

Eyes close, quiet.

"So what does that make us. Roo and I, You and me, Mezzy?

"Hearing Her cries and turning our backs?

"Are we simply not good enough? Are we the other folk, the not as strong, the not as skilled? That if we cannot fell a foe in a single over powerful blow that the gauntlet is not worth taking up, that it is simply too hard for us?

"I know ... in my head, that can't be true. And I would hope our friends believe in us as much as we believe in them.

"But in my heart, as I listen to the fire snap and try to figure out what happened, that's exactly how it feels."

The warlock looked into the fire for a long, long time.

"Being beaten is bad enough, but being beaten before we even start?

"That's not the Liche King, Mezzy.

"That's us."