A Cure for Madness (Part 3)

Woo, really flying along now. Back to third-person writing. Background on this one is fairly simple, actually; in the oracle glade there is a tree, shaped like a bear. You can get a quest in which it sheds a piece of its bark, on which is a message, which you then deliver to the biggest bastard in Darnassus, otherwise known as Archdruid Fandral Staghelm. Before that, there is a quest in which you kill harpies, prompted by the death of messengers (If I recall correctly). Combining these two and removing any parasitic attachment to the lore-character mister Staghelm, we have this new event on Itharian’s trip. Increasing levels of “giving a crap”, for people who don’t know him, is a fairly notable event. Formatting’s been a bitch today…


Itharian’s gaze lingered on the weird bear shaped tree, staring at it strangely with moonlight licking off the red and silver of his armour. Striking a match, he lit his lantern and walked off down the path, the mist encircling him as he set off back towards Darnassus.  

The harpies that were still awake around the oracle glade croaked loudly on his right, but the blurred silhouettes of the bird-like humanoid creatures were crowding around another shadow, where slithers of light were bouncing off what appeared to be a blade, piercing through the mist in the process. After a moment of consideration, Itharian uncharacteristically decided to divert from the path to assist the likely otherwise doomed fighter in the night, sliding his sword free. The embattled curses of a struggling night elf echoed through the forest as he approached, squinting through the mist to see the clear outlines of the harpies properly just as the elf fell to the ground. Having not particularly expected the plated swordsman, the harpies were separated from their lower halves before they could finish the battered elven girl lying defeated in the undergrowth. 

Clad in a set of deep green scaled armour, the elf was in a bad way, with many harpy claw cuts into her arms and legs, and a few seem to have cleaved even through the armour itself. Not wholly unexpectedly to himself, Itharian was fairly convinced that he was too late. She was panting, a hand grasping the bark of the tree she had come to slump against, her eyes dipped to the floor as she was expecting to be finished off by squawking harpy; she hadn’t processed that they had been dealt with until Itharian cleared his throat. She looked up, surprised, blinking at him. He stood there, all but covered in blood from the dismembered harpies, but with the expression of a man with not a care in the world, causing the elf to look slightly uncomfortable as he offered her a hand. She shook her head, rapidly, sliding down the tree; at which point Itharian took note of the quickly growing pool of her blood in the grass. She grasped her sword, spluttering, and offered it to Itharian; “I’m… Finished.” 

Naught but a twinge of emotion touched his expression, his storming haze of bizarre and otherwise incoherent thoughts preventing him from even staying focused; but he frowned. Taking the hilt of the blade, carefully, he raised an eyebrow; “What were you doing out here?” She looked up as the light started to fade rapidly from her eyes, smiling weakly, “Delivering… A message, to the Cenarion Enclave…” After saying this, she fell into the grass with a squelching sound; she had passed out. Itharian frowned; she must have been in horrific pain, and just as he considered leaving, he turned his head to look at the unconscious elf. He placed his foot on her neck; “What is it elves say?” he mumbled to himself. He shook his head, thrusting his foot down and twisting, snapping the elf’s neck; “Find peace in the embrace of the goddess.”

Grasping both the elf’s sword and her message, which had been inscribed into a sheet of bark, he set off back toward Darnassus with his conscience clear. It was merciful compared to the pain she would endure if she woke. 

He would deliver the message, and then he would return the corpse to the elves for whatever ceremony they did to honour their dead. Perhaps he would attend it – or perhaps he will have forgotten all about it. He had a job to do, and he was struggling to keep his mind on anything else.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s