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Visions
Jun 19, 2006 21:30:10 GMT -5
Post by brayden on Jun 19, 2006 21:30:10 GMT -5
Brayden tossed and turned on the small pallet he called a bed, nestled in the corner of an Ironforge inn. Normally sleep came easily, but not this night. Not the past four nights. Something was keeping him awake, but nothing he could place a finger on. Just…something. No matter what he tried, sleep evaded him. And he was tired. Bone tired. Everytime he lay his head on the pillow, his eyes bolted open and his body fought rest.
Much was on the young warrior’s mind. “Maybe it’s just loneliness,” the faithful lover thought, his mind drifting to the room he and his fiancée once shared. Before her duties took her far away. Her sabbatical, she called it. Whatever she wanted to call it, she was gone. Perhaps never to return. She’d certainly been gone long enough to most likely not be coming back. She was still alive; he could sense that. But she was gone from him.
“Maybe it’s just worry,” the young warrior thought, his mind drifting to his friends. Catrily had fallen into the bottle again, something she did with an unnerving frequency now. Arkelathel and Toy had more or less disappeared, and Alishe was dealing with something big, even if Brayden wasn’t sure quite what it was. His friends in the Boomstick Gang, and his guildmates in the Wildfire Riders came to his mind, and he worried about them as well.
“Maybe it’s just me,” the scared little boy in him thought. Bludgeoned, beaten, set afire, blasted with magical energy, all of these were a part of everyday life for him. “And for what?” he often thought. “No matter how many times we kill them, they come back. It never ends.”
With a grimace and a painful grunt, the young man rose from the pallet and wandered downstairs to the inn’s common room. “What do you have to help people sleep?” he mumbled to the innkeeper, too exhausted to form coherent speech.
“No’ much, lad. Jes’ some stout. Always takes th’ edge off fer meh,” the grizzled old dwarf responded with a chuckle. The dwarf’s eyes widened when he saw the handful of gold coins the young human placed on the bar.
“Give me ten of those stouts. I need enough to knock me out. Haven’t slept in four nights,” Brayden said through the nearly constant yawns. The dwarf plopped a tray down on the bar and loaded it with ten precariously stacked mugs. “Thank you, barkeep. I’ll return the mugs in the morning,” the young man said as he dragged his feet up the stairs back to his pallet.
He was on the last of the ten mugs when sleep finally took him.
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Visions
Jun 19, 2006 21:30:52 GMT -5
Post by brayden on Jun 19, 2006 21:30:52 GMT -5
Brayden opened his eyes to find he was outside Ironforge, standing in front of the great citadel in his smallclothes. “This has to be a dream,” he mused aloud. The world did seem empty to him. No one dueling outside the gates, no noise from inside the massive stronghold. The sun shone brightly, and the dreamer wandered around, enjoying the peace that never exists around the dwarven capital.
He found his way to the airfield above the city. This view always left him breathless. Dun Morogh was most beautiful from up here. Abruptly the sky darkened, and he heard screams coming from the gates below. He sprinted over to the edge of the mountain and peered over.
The courtyard below him was a milling mass of chaos. Dwarves and gnomes in their smallclothes feverishly fighting an unrelenting force of undead, desperately trying to keep the invaders out of the city itself. But they were fighting a losing battle. For every dwarf or gnome that fell rose again soon afterwards, and joined the invading force. Brayden closed his eyes to hold in the tears that he couldn’t stop.
When he opened them he was standing on the portcullis of Stormwind’s gates. He saw humans fighting with everything they have, trying to push back wave after wave of undead. He saw General Marcus Jonathan fall, and rise with a sickening light in his eyes as he cleaved through the men that he just moments before was defending. He watched in horror as the undead juggernaut swept into the city and to the keep itself. He rushed behind them, desperately trying to get warning to the boy king before it was too late.
As he passed through the city’s Old Town, his dream shifted and he was standing in Darnassus, then Orgrimmar, then Thunder Bluff, the same scene playing over and over in front of him. In his mind he knew this was all happening at once; that every major city was being attacked simultaneously. The dream shifted again and he was in Lordaeron City, watching the Forsaken fight valiantly against undead invaders, and it dawned on him.
Arthas.
The young warrior sat bolt upright on his pallet, shivering fiercely despite the heat of the forge. “Oh Light…” the young man breathed. “Light save us all…”
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Visions
Jun 19, 2006 21:48:09 GMT -5
Post by brayden on Jun 19, 2006 21:48:09 GMT -5
Brayden had been busy these last few days. Healing from the debacle at Tyr's Hand and doing the little errands Tarquin had asked of him. The Riders were all abuzz trying to solidify alliances and prepare for the coming invasion, but Brayden didn't think they were truly aware of what was about to happen.
The images flashed through his head. Stormwind falling, its citizens rising to become mindless servants of the bastard knight Arthas. The Forsaken holding back the endless waves Scourge, simply by virtue of their own undeath. You can't starve someone that doesn't need to eat, and weather means nothing to the dead. The humans would hold out for a time, but eventually the supplies would dwindle, and every warrior slain becomes an enemy at the hands of the Scourge.
Frustrated, the young warrior brought his mighty blade down upon his table at the Pig and Whistle, slicing it cleanly in two. "Why don't they listen to me?" he wondered aloud. He then realized the mess he had made of the table, and groaned. "Tarquin's going to kill me..."
The warrior wandered downstairs to see old Christoph Faral and Aedis Brom exchanging stories again. Always the same ones, of course. The weathered old fighters always told the same stories, apparently oblivious to the fact that they had already told them a thousand times. It brought a sad chuckle to Brayden's face. He looked to the two men sadly, patted each of them on the shoulder and thanked them for their service to the good folk of Azeroth. Brayden bought them each a beer, and toasted long life and victory.
He wandered over to Reese Langston, the gentleman that Tarquin had hired to man the bar at this tavern that doubled as a headquarters. "What kin I git fer ya, son?" the barkeep asked with a smile.
"Just a quill, some parchment, and an inkwell, Reese. I need to write some things down," Brayden replied, barely keeping the tears from his voice.
" 'ere ya go, boy," the barkeep said as he slid the writing materials over to the young fighter. "Anythin' else?"
"No, thank you, Reese," Brayden answered as he turned to head back upstairs.
The boy warrior sat down, at a different table this time, and spread the parchment out on the table. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and began to write.
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Visions
Jun 19, 2006 22:13:28 GMT -5
Post by brayden on Jun 19, 2006 22:13:28 GMT -5
Let this document serve as my final wishes and requests, in the unfortunate event of my demise. My sword, I wish to be given to Catrily Rusah. May she find the strength in it that I have. My shield, I bequeath to Azka Reynolds, though she knows not the use of it. May she find protection in it, as I have. May armor I wish to be buried at the ruins of my home, the wizard's city of Dalaran. My body, should it fall to the Scourge, I wish to be burned, so that I do not rise as one of them.
To my guild, I leave the sum of my gold, to the benefit of those who have taken me in and given me a family again.
Enclosed are letters to several of my guild members. Letters that should only be read after I am gone.
May the Light shine on you all, and may we find victory in this our darkest hour.
The following people have borne witness to the legality of this document, and have affixed their signatures.
Signed,
Lord Brayden Vansen, of Dalaran
The warrior looked at the paper that now held his final will and testament, and rubbed the tears from his eyes. Steeling his voice, he called down to the tavernkeep. "Reese, could you do me a favor, please?"
"Anythin' ya need, son."
"Could you come up here for a moment, please? And bring Elly with you."
"Elly! Master Brayden has need of our services. Come up 'ere, lass," the barkeep shouted as he strolled up the stairs.
The young warrior stood and bowed deeply to both Reese and Elly, pointing to the parchment on the table. Reese read the document stoically, nodding as he grabbed the quill and signed his name with an elegance in his script that surprised Brayden. Elly's eyes widened as she read it, and she also scribbled her name on it with a quivering hand.
"Thank you both, my friends. With any luck, this will not see the light of day for a long long time."
Reese gave a smooth bow to the young warrior, with a knowing light in his eye. "Shoulda figured it, by the way ya act, son," he said with a chuckle.
Elly wasn't as smooth with her curtsey, bending awkwardly at the knee. "My pardons, my lord."
"Elly, please, don't treat me any different. Remember, no one knows of my birth, and I'd like to keep it that way. Personally, I despise nobility, and I'm glad I was sent away as a child. But this document is legal, and as such must bear my full name and title. All I ask of you two is to not tell anyone. Not a word. Promise me," the young warrior asked with a different air about him now, one that said he expected to be listened to.
"Ya 'ave my word, my lord," Reese said with a teasing laugh. "An' ya 'ave Elly's too, when she stops ogling the striking young lord."
For the first time in probably three weeks, Brayden laughed.
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