Friday, January 7, 2011

Catching Up With The Light

Fuubaar sat atop the big, flapping, smelly birdlion.  The Wildhammer Dwarves loved these things.  Fuubaar found them tiresome.  It wasn't that the birdlion - sorry, gryphon - was a poor method of transportation, just... give her a drake any day.

Still, she had to admit, she admired the way the Dwarves handled the beasts.  They careened carelessly around in the sky, chucking hammers as if they were Greatfather Winter in some sort of crazy, Winter's Veil blacksmith giveaway.  Fuubaar suspected she would like such a twist to the traditional holiday.  It sort of resembled how she used the Light to bless people.

She also respected the way they held their ale.  There wasn't a one of them that didn't suck down a pint before taking to the skies.  Yes, Dwarves, especially these Dwarves, were her kind of people.  The namby-pamby Night Elves could have their forests. 

The thought of ale triggered a yearning in the Paladin as she flew over the hotly contested areas of the Twilight Highlands.  Her hand fished down into her breastplate and reemerged with a leather covered flask.  She popped off the cork that was shoved in the top, and it flipped to the side, still held to the container by a tie.  Tipping her head back, she downed a hearty drag of the biting liquid within.  A familiar warmth raced down her throat and into her gullet, settling her mind once more.

She'd been dealing the best she could.  Fuubaar had thought that, once the Lich King was dealt with, she'd be afforded some kind of peace.  She'd been wrong.  It had all gone downhill.

First, she'd thought her husband dead in the Citadel.  Months had passed and she'd gotten a bit reckless, joining a cult, playing the role of double agent.  Who could blame her?  Of course, things had spiraled out of control and she'd found herself defending Stormwind from a deluge of angry elements.  Then he'd appeared - with her undead father to boot! - in the Park in Stormwind, only to be snuffed out by a gigantic, stupid, metal plated dragon-thing felbent on destroying Azeroth.  In the name of all that was holy!

She threw back another swig of the bitter liquid.  It would not do to dwell.  She had to live in the now, not it in the past.  There was no time.  Azeroth was falling apart. 

As she flew over what remained of Thundermar, she saw two figures attempting to hold a road from Horde forces below.  A tell-tale bolt of shadow flew from the fingers of one, and glowing green leaves of healing passed from the other.  Apparently a druid and a warlock, then.  They were quite overwhelmed, and as Fuubaar watched she contemplated swooping in to the rescue.  Problem was, she felt a bit drunk.  Her thoughts were slowed and she wasn't sure how much help she'd be anyways.  She wasn't sure of anything lately. 

Indecision played in her favor.  Below, the two stout members of the Alliance were polishing off the last of the raiders.  Seemed they were just fine on their own. 

She watched the two figures celebrate by sauntering over to a nearby keg and filling some broken mugs they dug out of a ruined dwelling.  There was something about the way the Warlock moved; they way he carried himself.  Stop it, Fuu, he's gone.  She chided herself.  And his last act was to save you.  How do you repay him, by drinking you life away?  She took another deep drink.  Shut up, self, she thought back. 

Her flask felt light.  Might as well go below and join in the celebration, she decided.  And as she began spiraling her smelly, feathered mount downward, she still couldn't shake the feeling that there was something familiar about that Warlock.

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