Smores over Felfire

The wolves were completely surprised by Tyrogen’s assault and, as such, took a while to recuperate, regroup, and attack. This gave me plenty of time to prepare for my own contribution to the battle.

It’s a shame I don’t have much to work with, I thought to myself, focusing a shadow bolt in one hand and a simple immolation spell in the other. But then again… why would I bother impressing a bunch of dogs?

One rather gaunt wolf started to creep behind Tyrogen while the others struck from the front. I could sense it’s frustration, fear, and desperation. It didn’t want to fight, but felt it was forced to in order to survive. I smiled a little as I focused on my target. Be glad then. I thought, Because you don’t have to fight any more.

With both spells prepped, I triggered the immolation spell first. In seconds the air around the wolf combusted, setting its hair alight. It yelped in pain and started to run away, but collapsed moments later, its life snuffed out by the flame.

There’s something oddly poetic about that…

I stepped into the clearing and started to follow Tyrogen’s wake of whirling death. The occasional wolf snarled and attacked, but a steady stream of shadow and flame kept their attacks focused around the chainmail-wearing madman. The wolves slowly began to stop attacking as we walked closer to the small cave they seemed to be centered around.

As we slowly fought forward, I began to sense a strange source of magic, both natural and fel, from something in the cave. Odd…

“Tyrogen!” I yelled, over the growls of the wolves and the warrior’s mellow baritone. “Start making your way toward the cave, I think I’ve found the source of the wolves’ trouble!”

Tyrogen made no noticable indication that he heard me, though he did alter his course so that he was walking more directly toward the cave. I picked up a branch and some tattered clothing off the ground and made a makeshift torch so we wouldn’t be blind deeper in the cave.

Fortunately, we didn’t need to go far.

The magic began to grow closer, a little slower than walking speed, but definitely moving. The wolves seemed to sense this, and started backing away, almost as if they were frightened of it themselves.

I placed a hand on Tyrogen’s shoulder to stop him – in hindsight, I was lucky he didn’t whip around and take that hand off – as I began prepping another immolation hex.

Moments later, another wolf, this one almost twice as large as the others, dragged itself into the torchlight. This was undoubtedly the source of the magic… but it wasn’t of its own doing. It looked at us with an odd mixture of fear and piteous wretchedness… like a horse with a broken leg…

I placed the torch on the ground behind us as a half-hearted deterrent to the predators at our back and began to probe the effects on the wolf. The fel magic is inside the natural effect… a corruption of growth, but not decay… I pushed further, but unfortunately, as you would guess, my expertise with nature-based magic is minimal at best.

“Oi, Teris! What’re you doing to the den mother there?” Tyrogen was looking back at me, a look of concern and confusion on his face.

“How do you know this is the den mother?” I replied.

“Simple, look behind it.” He jerked his head toward the back of the cave. As I narrowed my eyes and concentrated, I started to make out small frantic movements, like those of pups…

My eyes widened. I knew what the effect was now. “It’s forcing the wolf to birth at a drastically high rate.” I stopped myself to think it through. That explains the corrupted effect… no natural magic would allow this to happen… so it had to be modified. And what better way to change nature-magic than with fel?

I closed my eyes and began channeling for one more immolation. As I opened then, I locked my gaze on the den mother who, as if knowing what I was going to do, simple lied down and closed it’s eyes.

Be at peace… know your den will right itself with time.

And then came the flame.

Tyrogen began humming again shortly after walking into the forest. His sword was already out and shield hanging from his arm, well secured, but not at the ready. I stood roughly 5 feet behind him and watched the trail behind, knowing that wolves, in a desperate situation like this, would likely swarm us when they felt their homes being threatened.

“So… you’re a mage right?” Tyrogen abruptly questioned, apparently thrown off by the silence of the woods around us. “Fire from your fingertips, Ice from your mouth, and lightning from your arse?”

“Not quite. I’m a warlock.” I said, waiting for the inevitable comeback.

“S’the same thing.” Tyrogen replied. “Like how a paladin is just a warrior like me who isn’t strong enough to fight on his own… he needs the light for backup.” Tyrogen smiled a little his own joke and, likely, was thinking about how to fight the light itself.

“Warlocks, priests, and mages are vastly different disciplines, with priests and warlocks being the most alike.” I shot back. Tyrogen glanced back at me, confusion clearly etched on his face. “Let me explain: A mage’s power springs from his mind while warlocks and priests are from another source. The more learned a mage is, the more powerful they become. Conversely, the stronger a priest or warlock’s willpower grows, the better they can channel their magics. When a mage attempts a spell or technique that they do not fully understand, they explode.” I shook my head sadly, “It’s not a pretty sight, but it’s by far the most merciful of the ways spell casters go.”

“That’s the most merciful way a caster goes?” Tyrogen repeated incredulously.

“Quite. When a priest attempts something outside of their realm of ability, it simply doesn’t happen.” I paused, letting that sink in. “Think about it Tyrogen: If your whole life has been devoted to the light and all of a sudden you’ve been told in the middle of a battle or other trial that your faith was not strong enough, what would that do to you? If you are lucky, you come out of whatever trial you’re in alive, re-think your motives, and move on with only the memories of those you failed to haunt you. If you’re not so lucky, you’re last thoughts are that of abandonment by your faith right before you’re cut down where you stand.” I carefully stepped over a well-picked-over corpse left by the wolves., “Unfortunate, but not the worst.”

“Let me guess: Warlocks have it worst.” Tyrogen rolled his eyes and continued his slow march forward.

“You sound like you’re already convinced I’m biased.” Tyrogen said nothing as he cut through a nearby bush. “Let me make something clear for you: For both the mage and the priest, if they failed utterly in their tasks, they would both die. That’s it. When a warlock over-extends himself, they lose themselves utterly. They still live, breath, eat, and sleep, but they are merely watching their body do these things, utterly helpless to challenge whatever has possessed them.

“Wait… what?” Tyrogen whipped around, sword down, but clearly ready to strike. “You’re saying you’re possessed?”

“No friend, I’m merely saying that because of my… profession, I’m at risk of being possessed should my fel ambitions overtake my willpower.” I could feel his uncertainty slowing in growth, but not abating. “Let me explain: a mage looks outward to study and refinement of his understanding to increase their powers. A warlock must fortify their will, their soul, in order to pull more complex and powerful techniques from the fel powers that be. Some warlocks, including myself, take the slow and steady path to power, which keep us safe from the dangers of possession, corruption, and spiritual death. Unfortunately, for every one of us who play it safe, two choose the easier path… leading to their own demise.” The air became damper, the sweet scent of decay began to grow stronger into a stench of death as we approached to wolves’ den. “And that is why so many warlocks are ‘evil’ in Azeroth. Because they lack the restraint of a true fel-weaver.”

I could have explained the nuances of my trade further, but Tyrogen wasn’t listening any more, he had already tuned me out in anticipation of the battle to come, totally forgetting his anxiety and uncertainty. Sword at the ready and shield held aloft, he began a slow jog out of the woods into the clearing ahead.

Then the slow job became a brisk run.

Then a sprint.

I smiled, knowing we had the upper hand as the stench of those who had come before us masked our approach. The wolves would be surprised and it would take them a few moments to recuperate.

I think it’s time Tyrogen saw that I’m not just another fireball flinging madman. I thought, hands wreathed in a darkness that seemed to consume ambient light. But something a little more… terrifying.

“Sirs! May I have a moment of your time please?”

We had just turned around to walk back to the encampment, swords cleansed and wolves flung over our shoulders, when a slightly overweight human jogged, or rather jiggled, out to meet us, his eyes darting back and forth along the perimeter of the woods. He seemed to be in his early thirties and, though a little rounder than most, seemed fairly strong. He was simply dressed in what seemed to be thick farm clothes and an unassuming beret.

“Can we help you sir?” Tyrogen said, eying the huffing newcomer with what seemed to be worry mixed with mild annoyance.

“I’m here. To help you. Actually,” He said between gasps of air. We opted to hold off further questions until he caught his breath. “I’m a merchant who, until recently, was one of the few people who had access to the chapel’s well-known wine reserves. You seem to be men of action and, by the…err… cargo you have, it looks like you plan to rid us of a number of problems.” He produced a scrap of parchment on which he had scrawled a few figures. “Here’s my proposal: you give me whatever odds and ends you can in your adventures – be they scrap armor, shiny jewelry, or simply things that you don’t think you can use – and I’ll pay you 60% of the profits.” He smiled widely and waited for our response.

Looking over the notes he scribbled, I could tell he knew what he was talking about. But… he’s asking for a lot of money just to be the middleman… we could probably do better… or we could do it ourselves… I looked up at Tyrogen, who in the space of fifteen seconds had gone from eagerly peering over my shoulder to sharpening his sword. Looks like I’ll be dealing with this myself…

“I have a few questions for you… what was your name again?”

“Ah, apologies sirs. I forgot to introduce myself! My name is Cid Dorran of the Stormwind traders guild.” This introduction was accompanied by a slight bow. “And your names?”

“This is Tyrogen of the Black Phoenix,” I said, gesturing to the man who was, at the moment was shadowboxing with his sword and shield. “My name is Teris. Now back to the questions. Why do you charge so much for simply taking all our goods? What could you possibly offer us that none of the other merchants here have?”

“Ah! A very insightful question sir! Excellent indeed! Here are a few things that these bumpkins cannot even compete with.” Cid began to rattle off figures, statistics, and guarantees that he promised should we accept his offer. Tyrogen was getting more and more antsy with each “And furthermore” which meant, at least for me, that it was time to move on.”

“Cid, I’m going to speak plainly and I hope you would return the favor,” I interrupted. “I’m a man of action and, frankly, the ins and outs of trade bore me as well as my very well-armed and anxious friend here. We are going to be doing a great deal of work here and do not want to be burdened with coming back and forth to your stall with pounds and pounds of gods-know-what. So here’s the deal I’ll give you: You deal with our finances and make sure we have enough to get what we need to survive and you can use the rest to grow our, your, or anyone’s wealth as you see fit. Should we find that you are attempting to cheat us, things will get quite uncomfortable for all parties. Deal with us well, and you will find a great deal of wealth through us. Agreed?”

Cid, through this mini-speech, alternated from happy, to miffed, to scared, to skeptical, to happy again. After the offer was formally pitched he simply stood, staring at me, and quietly weighed the profitability of our proposal. Finally he asked “Would it be acceptable to agree for a provisional basis? I don’t know what your plans are outside of the valley…”

“That’s fine Cid but you have about 5 seconds to decide before we move on to-”

“It’s a deal!” he blurted out, reaching over my shoulder and taking the wolf from me. “I’ll be sending one of my assistants out to assist in transporting your goods from site to site so you will be as lightly burdened as possible. Good day sirs! I look forward to working with you in the future!” And, after taking Tyrogen’s wolf from him, he happily tromped off in the direction of the chapel.

“So… are we done here?” Tyrogen said, a touch of impatience in his voice.

“Yes,” I replied, mind still thinking about what just happened. “I figured you’d be happier with this arrangement though Tyrogen, this way we don’t have to run back and forth between a camp and the fight.”

“Eh, if it came to that, I’d just leave the baggage where it fell.” Tyrogen said while stretching his wolf-bearing shoulder. “It’s not like a dead wolf can maintain my armor.”

I smirked a little, a plan slowly forming around our new merchant ally, “I wouldn’t go that far Tyrogen. I just might find a way to do just that.” And without another word, we walked back into the forest.

“Tyrogen… what? Just Tyrogen? No surname or title?” I asked.

“You know of any other Tyrogen?” He shot back, standing slowly and straightening his now-slightly-twisted tunic. “No? Then my name is all I need!”

“Oh aye” the dwarf pipped up, “All’ll larn to fear Tyrogen the…. Tyrogen!” He giggled a little at his own joke, turned, and went back to mending those who needed him.

“In any case,” grumbled the warrior, “If you must have something, then I suppose ‘the black phoenix’ will do.” He looked at me and, correctly interpreting the confused look on my face, went on to explain. “It was a sort of nickname I had when I was growing up. My friends were all obsessed with their little group… the “red fire front” or something like that.” He grinned a little at the recollection. “We were kids and words were never our strong point… except for Sal, but then again -”

“Not wanting to be rude, but is there a point in this?” I interjected. “There’s a lot of work to do here and I’d like to get it done sooner rather than later.”

“Oh… well, I never really ‘got along’ with some of the others, but I was a good sword,” continued Tyrogen, looking only slightly put out. “So I was nicknamed ‘black phoenix.’ Phoenix as it kept with their whole… fire… thing… and black because I wasn’t ‘one of them.’” Tyrogen made little quotation marks in the air, which was mildly amusing as one wouldn’t expect a sword and shield madman to attempt at being politically correct.

“OK then Tyrogen, what do you say to dealing with the wolf problem? You make a bit of coin selling the meat and skins to the merchants here as well as -”

“Wolves. Got it. Not quite the epic fight I would hope for, but a good warm-up nonetheless.” The warrior brushed past me and began making his way out of the chapel with me right behind him after a moment of confusion. We walked a short way to the edge of the woods, waiting for the hungry wolves to approach, or at least reveal how many will begin this fight. Tyrogen breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, his sword and shield dropping lowering and his weight shifting back on his heels. Then, slowly he began… humming?

Is… is he singing to himself? I shot a glance at the warrior, anxiety growing as his humming got louder. I know you’ve got to be a little tweaked to enjoy being in the middle of a fight, but this… this is -

Tyrogen’s eyes popped open, his sword and shield raised and weight shifted back to the balls of his feet. The faint singing had apparently drawn the attention of a number of wolves and, as expected, they saw this newcomer as a fresh meal. Tyrogen’s right leg slid back to stabilize his stance and, as his sword dropped to a tail-guard, he began to smile.

And then the wolves leapt.

As a child I never went to the theater, or even to a minstrels’ show, since I was needed to help with the farm work.  But from time to time some of the girls in my area would practice folk dances during the occasional gathering and I would quietly admire the grace of their act. A leg sliding in front, an arm arcing to the night sky, the midriff spinning quickly while the eyes close to protect themselves from whirling hair. But never in all those nights have I seen this kind of dance. My jaw dropped as the black phoenix deftly sidesteps a wolf intending to chew out his ankle, catching another on his shield, and puncturing a third with his sword. The canine on the sword yelps and recoils, falling with a dull thud and begins to hobble away. The shield-riding wolf begins to climb over mouth frothing slightly in anticipation of tearing out Tyrogen’s tantalizingly close throat. But instead of a quick kill, the wolf soon found himself inverted, as he is catapulted from atop the shield to atop the ankle-biting wolf in one fluid motion. Tyrogen rights himself, resets, and pounces on the two confused dogs. A thud and a squish later, there are two dead animals, one with a broken neck, one with four inches of iron in his throat.

After a moment, the warrior speaks, “That was bracing!” His smile goes from a glorified grin into a full face-filling shine. “I love how they even coordinated their attack! I haven’t had the chance to do that in a while! The kobolds are harder to kill, yes, but their attacks are disjointed and easily seen through. “These were much less effective, obviously, but they a single hit would have hurt! Every spot they aimed for was flesh, not mail.” He continued in this vein for a few moments as I shook off my amazement.

Tweaked or not, he is an amazing fighter. Perhaps we have something here…

“Well, I hope you’re ready for more Tyrogen, because there is still much more left.” I said, picking up one of the wolves and slinging it over my shoulder. “Now lets go see if we can find a skinner to take care of these for us. With the way I see this going, we’re going to need some help with them.”

“Eh, why’s that?”

“Because at this rate, the whole outpost will be eating well tonight.”

The beginnings were innocuous enough: we were besieged by the Horde, the Black Dragonflight, the Burning Legion, feral animals, and hundreds of other factions… so it would make sense that picking up a sword would be the best way to achieve a degree of notoriety in this war-torn world. I never found myself much of a “fighter” per se, I was much more interested in magic. Demonic magic specifically, however, was something that I understood fairly well. I don’t know if it was chance, fortune, destiny, or something else, but fel magic always seemed the most “natural” to me. And so, with my rudimentary training finished, I journeyed to Northshire Abbey.

The walk to Stormwind’s favored abbey was long and uneventful, and given the tumultuous times… that was a blessing. My family had no money, being a family of farmers from Westfall, so the journey was by foot, by highway, and depended heavily on luck to be successful in the end. To be honest, if I had encountered any resistance along my journey I would most likely not be here today. But with the gods’ blessing, or perhaps… through a lack of their attention, I arrived safely at Northshire abbey.

As I approached the chapel, the only stone structure within miles, I was struck by the degree of poverty the area lived in. The merchants had but wagons and make-shift tents. The residents seemed to be selling what wares they could find – fruits, flint, tinder, and twine – in an attempt to find some sort of living for themselves. There is something very much wrong here… I thought. But who would attack such a tiny settlement as this? What profit lie here?

“Long live King Anduin,” says I, saluting the soldier outside of the chapel.

“And prosperous be his reign,” replied he, returning my greeting. “What business have you here? We don’t have much of a need for more peasants, as there are more than enough of those here.” He gestured to the rather destitute-looking merchants to his right, who were trying their hardest not to look eager at the prospect of new business.

“I’m here as a spellweaver, not a merchant.” I stated conjuring a small sphere of black fire.

“Hmm… more fodder for the front, eh?” muttered the guard. He eyed the burning ember, clearly uneasy with its proximity to his person. “Well we have plenty of work for your kind.” He gestured for me to extinguish the flame, I obliged. “Walk with me, I’ll show you around the abbey.”

Unfortunately, the tour was rather depressing. Behind the abbey was a small and poorly maintained stable and a view of a small vineyard with what seemed to be a gang of brigands, identifiable by their blood-red bandanas.

“As you can see, we have a lot of work here.” The guard grunted. “Kobolds have taken over the mine, wolves run rampant in the woods, and the Defias gang has started moving in.”

I looked into the woods west of the chapel. “Why not deal with the wolves first? They’re closest and by the looks of them,” pointing at a pair of malnourished canines, “they don’t look like they would put up much of a fight.”

“You don’t think we know that?” Spat the guard, “But whenever we move in to extinguish one problem, the others attack!” We pull guards from their patrol to deal with the kobolds, the wolves terrorize the merchants. We attack the wolves, we find a peasant with a knife in his back. We fight back the Defias, the chapel is raided.” He stopped and breathed deeply for a moment to regain his composure. “No. what we need are freelancers like yourself.”

I slowly looked back toward the guard since it didn’t seem likely for the wolves to attack with him around. “How many other ‘freelancers’ have been here?”

He grimaced, shifting his weight from leg to leg. “A good few… mostly fools with makeshift bucklers and clubs. Nearly all of them have died trying to take the mine. But there has been a few that still live in the chapel.” He turned to lead me inside “We’re lucky to have a few genuine priests around, they can’t raise you from the dead, but they can keep your heart beating.” A moment later, we were inside the chapel which, predictably, was not in the best-kept condition. The makeshift infirmary was but a few steps to the right of the entrance, probably so people could be taken in quickly.

“Wot’s wrong w’this un’ Merk?” A dwarf in bloodstained brown robes said, looking up from what could only be his current patient.

“Nothin’ yet master dwarf,” The guard replied, “but since he’s interested in helping I figure it might be nice for you to see him before he’s disfigured… and for him to see his room for the next few months.”

“Thas’ what I like aboot ye Merk. Yer such’a bright lil ray o’ sunlight.” The dwarf locked eyes with me, muttered something in dwarvish, and nodded curtly. “Tho someun’ who’s been dancin’ with th’ demons will prolly need all the encouragement ye’ can muster.”

I sighed. Typical. I come to help and all I get is a backhanded greeting. I suppose it will have to do for now though. “What’s his name?” I asked, pointing at the human that the dwarf was working on. “He looks more-or-less stable.”

“Ha! Stable he says.” Interjected the human, “I was just coming in for a quick patch-up! These wolves have no defenses when compared to a sharp blade and a stout shield!” The warrior jumped to his feet striking a bit of a heroic pose in doing so. But mere seconds later he wavered, stutter-stepped, then plopped right back down against the wall, causing a nice clanging noise as his shield hit the stone. “Though… perhaps it isn’t wise to move so quickly after sitting for an hour.”

I like him. A thirst to prove himself is a powerful motivator. “So what’s your name soldier?” I said, extending my hand to help him up.

He looked up at me, an odd glint in his eye. “My name is Tyrogen.”