The Wolf Within - A World of Warcraft Story

Part 3 - The Scythe of Elune

PART 3

A few hours passed in quiet meditation and contemplation. Of having to bury deep within her own soul and grasp the humanity smothered in her by the worgen Curse. Rosarie was surprised by her own patience and discipline. The session was performed under the close eye of Lord Crowley and several others. Focus, contemplation.

 Breathe in, breathe out.

 Breathe in, breathe out.

 You are a Gilnean human in a wolf’s hide, but you must accept the change that has been bestowed upon you. It is for the good; it was meant to be.

 --

 After she was done, Rosie had a chance to briefly explore the Blackwald. She could not go far, nor did she wish to, as the wood was teeming with banshees brought by the Forsaken. As she was leaving, she’d overheard Crowley talking urgently with a small cluster of worgen about something called a “Scythe of Elune”.  But, she’d supposed, time will come and they will tell the rest.

 Sure enough, once she was back from her small hike, she’d noticed something that she did not before; three enigmatic forms stood in the center, each next to an ancient-looking marble well. She had never seen such creatures before. There were two men and a woman; that much she could tell. But one of them had pale violet skin and long blue hair, twisted into two elaborate braids that fell over his shoulders, behind his pointy, tapering ears. His eyes were the clearest amber, glowing like two twin suns, wise and kind. The other man and woman both had fair rose skin and emerald hair the color of fresh leaves in spring. All three of them wore identical leather-bark-and-leaf attires consisting of a robe, pauldrons, and a leaf-green cloak.

 Night elves, one of the worgen had called them. The original victims of the Curse.

 The woman caught her staring and smiled, her soft cyan eyes twinkling. She beckoned her over with a gentle sweep of her delicate, vine-draped hand.

 Rosarie blinked, glancing behind her shoulder awkwardly. A few of her kind were staring at her curiously, as if noticing for the first time that she’d existed. Crowley was one of the onlookers. Taking a deep breath, she flicked an ear and crept toward the night elf. As she neared, she caught the scent of wildflowers and sap and leaves. The night elf was still smiling, offering her hand. The worgen dully noted the peculiar tattoos on the other woman’s cheeks, inked in green ink to match her hair, which was pulled back into a loose braid, dotted with flowers.

 Slowly, warily, she placed her seemingly-large paw over the elf’s delicate hand.

 “Welcome. You must be Rosarie, right?” The night elf spoke first, her doe-like luminescent eyes studying her. She was slender but tall, with a pronounced, fair complexion.

 Rosarie nodded hastily, canting her head in greeting, “Ah, yes. I’m Rosarie Atherton.”

 Softly, the other woman placed her other palm on Rosie’s paw, patting it. “I am Vassandra Stormclaw, a night elven Druid. I do note that some of your people practice Druidism. I was surprised, as the other human kingdoms lack druidic potential,” she grinned. “But it is interesting. You use Druidism in a different way than us. Although we can teach you our ways, if you so wish.” She gently slipped her hands away, returning them to her sides.

 The blue-haired male had also stepped up beside Vassandra, bowing his head, “I am Lyros Swiftwind, also a Druid of my kind. It is a pleasure.” He smiled, slightly baring his sharp canines.

 The third Druid remained behind his two companions. He was slightly taller, an august form of ageless wisdom. But he somewhat seemed younger than Lyros. He’d introduced himself as Talran of the Wild. The three retreated to their original spots beside the wells, their faces illuminated by the lenient glow.