I will not give them the part that hurts! The thought pounded behind Beryl’s stoic, closed in face. Her appearance of calmness was betrayed only by a fierce, quick gnaw at the inside of her cheek and the twitching toes attempting to bury themselves into the sand of the parade floor. The soft sound of the bishop’s gentle voice did little to ease the anguish flowing from his words. He pointed towards the damnable measuring rod and waited, his impatience punctuated by a frown barely perceptible under the concealing cowl. Beryl dragged her unwilling form towards the rod and then stood and swayed next to it. As tall as she willed herself, an inch of the rod could still be seen above her head. Her mother’s sharp intake of air played counterpoint to her father’s muttered oath.
“You are too small my dear. How could a second year paladin initiate be so short and not get noticed?” The bishop’s question was answered by the presentation of her boots and the wad of rabbit hair that had been cunningly tucked in them to raise her heels that golden inch. The paladin trainer, Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, dropped them in front of her and saluted the bishop before returning to his place in the formation. She glanced through shuttering lashes towards her once classmates’ faces and noticed the avid curiosity on some, pain for her on others. The betrayer had a small smirk on his. She glanced down again at the ground in front of the Stormwind Cathedral of Light and banished her hot tears by another judicious nip inside her cheek. This is how Death feels her heart cried.
Beryl had always been smaller then her siblings. Growing up in Westfall she had practiced fighting with her towering brothers to earn their grudging respect for her tenacity and skill. The next to youngest of a paladin family, she never contemplated not becoming one. Her mother used to coach her on the paladin rules of order, stressing the importance of conformity to the codes of alignment. She remembered her armorer uncle explaining why paladins had to keep their weight in range and could only come in set sizes. “Plate does not grow, so neither can bellies” he used to laugh as his skilled hands worked on another piece of it. She had nodded and stared at his measuring rod with awe. As the years came on her and the rod top dropped below even her younger brother’s head yet left hers still lacking that inch, she resolved not to let that keep her from her dream. The year before she was to apply for apprenticeship she began to pad her boots. Mail was forgiving and she promised herself it was not cheating; she would gain that inch before she graduated into plate.
She made it through the tests and was second in her class by the end of her first year. The first in class, Rathas, befriended her and they spent happy days training together. Rathas was looking to the Protection Order and she to the Holy Vows as their final destinations. His skill in math was limited and she would tutor him by candlelight. He used to take her for picnics near the great shipyard of Stormwind and point out the ships sailing for the barracks they would travel to someday. She promised to die for him if necessary and he swore to always protect her. The sweet heady days of that year dissolved into the terror of this one. The king was back, the war growing closer, and she had made first in class as the dead of winter cast shadows on men’s minds and hearts. Beryl’s careful explaining of number theory escaped Rathas’ ability to comprehend and he would ball his fist in frustration. Finally he grew distant and stared at her with a measuring eye as her unfettered skill with math raced ahead of his. His (perhaps not accidental) push against her as they piled out of the classroom knocked her to the floor and slid one of her too large boots off. Rathas had almost cackled as he saw the padding in it and ran to get the instructor. And now she stood and watched as her bare toes glowed in the fading light.
The bishop formally released her from the vows of a Paladin in a few short words. The mail was stripped off her back and a rough homespun robe shrouded her form. Sandals framed her small feet and her hair hung loose for the first time in years. The marks of previous warrior braiding danced shadows through its russet tones. Until, and unless, she got accepted by another class, it would go unfettered proclaiming her civilian status. She crept silently behind her brooding parents as they strode home.
Her father took her for the Priesthood trials and watched with pained eyes as she failed the Shadow, Discipline, and Holy tests. She passed the math and magic ones but prayers to a god that had deserted her rose unwillingly from her heart. Her mother wrote to her uncle and found a place for her in his shop in far off Dalaran. She shuddered as she ascended the plank to the ship and found her old friends also on board. Led by Rathas they were heading to Wintergarde Keep. Beryl spent much of the trip on deck, relishing the wind in her hair and taking solace from the sun playing with the tops of the waves. Her despair lifted enough to almost allow for a smile when she saw the Howling Fjord. All the battle outside the gates lit her eyes with anticipation and the sounds of war made her step higher. She was made for this and someday, somehow would find a way to put her hair up again and done battle attire. That promise to herself was sorely tested when she was relegated to riding pillion for the next stage of her journey. Civilians did not ride astride.
Dalaran flew above the land in splendid isolation from the vagaries of the weather. Flowers cascaded from the garden beds and there was enough green around to soothe the soul. The massive gardens encircled the towers and shops of the city. Her uncle’s armory flanked one of the largest of the city and the doorway looked out at the fountain framed within it. As the days passed Beryl learned to take pleasure in the calculations behind cost calculations, pricing, and making change. All were dependent on numbers and the flow of the logic soothed her. When work permitted Beryl would go sit at the fountain and toss coins in it. She would bow her head as she breathed a wish on the coins, and close her eyes to better hear the golden sound of their splash. Outwardly serene, her thoughts roiled within and some of those wishes frankly involved death and destruction. None of them had been granted, which was good for the intact skin of many an enemy combatant. Someday, somehow she thought and breathed on another coin as she tossed it. The silence after she threw it caused her eyes to fly open. The coin was suspended by an icy cloud above the fountain waters. She spun around and saw the Portal Trainer, Celindra, standing there exercising her mage powers on the coin. Beryl smiled and reached for the errant disk then laughed as it began to spin just above her reaching fingers.
Close your eyes and hear that coin again. Gather the coin to your will and tether it and pull it to you. Celindra laughed as she challenged Beryl. Laughing at the concept, Beryl closed her eyes and listened for the coin. As her concentration narrowed down, the soft movement of the air around the spinning coin targeted it for her. Her hands reached out and felt the warm of the sunlight and moved in the trained gestures of someone who braided their hair in darkness for many years. She felt the light beams flow into the pattern and imagined tossing them around the coin then pulling it towards herself. The light warmed coin almost burned her palm as it landed in it. Beryl laughed again at Celindra moving that coin to her as a joke, then stopped as she saw Celindra’s face. Was that awe or pride or something else lighting the mage’s eyes. The coin slipped through her hand to land into the fountain with a splash. She stood silent as Celindra shook herself then nodded at Beryl. I knew there was a mage hiding behind all that loose hair. Anyone who loves numbers the way you do must feel the magic behind them. Beryl shook her head at Celindra and whispered Do not tease me so. You did that and very well too. I’ve not seen that trick before oh mage of wonder. Celindra smiled and stated she could not braid the sunlight, only a mage of great power could do that and hers was limited to control of portals and other small magics. That coin might have been an inch above your physical reach, but with mage training your reach will be increased ten fold. Consider it little sister and come see me in the mage tower when you are ready. Beryl stood silent as Celindra bowed and returned to her portal duties.
Inventory time came and went, orders were sent off and received over the next few days. Beryl tried to concentrate on the work but her mind kept going back to the dancing coin. The gardens and daily walks did not soothe her anymore and her sleep was punctuated by dreams of magic. She spoke of what had occurred to her uncle and nodded when he told her to follow her heart. On her day off she wandered to the mage tower and stood staring at it for a long moment before knocking on the door. She was ushered upstairs to a portal that carried her into an octagonal room with windows looking into raw nether. The streams of energy darted past the window, chasing each other in rioting spins of color and form. She gasped in wonder at the display then bowed deeply to the trio of inhabitants in the room. Celindra stood respectfully beside the legendary High Elf Mage Maith’hal and Archmage Madera of the Kirin Tor. The three of them started to smile at Beryl then rushed her and hugged her, laughing in her ears as they did so. She felt overwhelmed and almost dizzy from the unexpected warmth of their greeting.
Madera pulled her over to the massive tome that recorded the names of all mages of the land. Handing her a quill she bowed and pointed at the last page. Beryl straightened up and then boldly wrote her name. As the ink impregnated the parchment a green glow enveloped Beryl. The light faded leaving her clad in mage initiate wear and her hair piled on her head, partially contained in a silver net shroud. Let the training commence now…. the words of the ArchMage followed Beryl down the stairs as she strode towards the sunlit classrooms below. She started skipping as she heard the first class would be on the math behind the nether flows.
Beryl collapsed the first two years of training into a four month span, swallowing theory and gulping down all the glorious math that animated the forces mages used to focus their spells on. It was similar to Paladin spells but based on higher equations all tied directly to the concepts of Chaos Theory and energy flows. At first the booming blatancy of Fire attracted her, causing her hands to ignite and hair to wave in scintillating displays of flame. Then the Arcane attracted her, with its immense utility spells and mastery of the science behind theory. Finally the quiet certainty of Frost won her over. Less flashy then the other two disciplines, Frost was based on the very forces that animate life and channeled through Water mastery. Her final spell book contained a heavy Frost mixture, leavened by the potent utility of the Arcane. She could freeze an enemy in place with a glance, and then fire a quick Arcane Blast off to make sure they stayed put. The duels between mage initiates would light the skies over Dalaran and punctuate the night with sound and fury. Beryl’s mix of spells usually left her winning the duels, although she quickly learned to respect the massive damage dealt by those that followed the Red Road of Fire. Ice Block became an instant cast to handle those waves of flame, as she waited out their mana pool. When the class went on field trips she would sometimes put Focus Magic on a Fire Mage and bask in their reflected critical hit rating. The mages loved those trips and came back in triumph bearing banners from enemy camps and exotic furs and spices. The judicial placement of a few Priests in the group staved off the possibility of some coming back limping or in Spirit Form. Beryl really appreciated that since the one class she kept failing at was in rolling bandages for first aid. She promised herself to always take good care of her healers, only their faith and skill stood between her and oblivion.
Too soon the last class was done, new robes cunningly created and mage gems placed in newly pierced ear lobes. They stood in formation to receive their first orders as a working mage. Some went to Stormwind to the great library, others to outposts, some to active Keeps, a talented few were selected to go as assistants to war mages assigned directly to battlefields. Beryl stood and cheered as her friends received their orders, each bowing as they faded into a portal taking them to their destiny. One by one they left and the large room became increasingly vacant. Finally there remained the instructors, the ArchMage Alturus and Beryl. She stared at their silent faces then involuntarily glanced around for a measuring rod. The High Mage laughed and told her she was being assigned to Dalaran as mage for the Silver Covenant. The honor of that assignment left her breathless. They were at the forefront of the battles and took suggestions rather then orders, and those only from the King himself.
The next year flew by, full of battles, planning, and studies in higher theory. When she had a chance she would portal home to visit her parents and pore over forgotten tomes in the archives of the Great Library. Her father and mother smiled to see their problem child so happy and absorbed. Her brothers learned to appreciate her delicate touch with Frost, first in duels, and then on the battlefields. The Silver Covenant lost its initial wariness of the new mage and grew to depend on her abilities to soften enemies from a distance. Her studies found a lost skill based on weaving light and water. It created massive charges that could either scald or freeze an enemy based on their armor. She called it FrostFire and spent some time teaching it to other mages. Elemental Mages embraced the new talent and many a Frost and Fire Mage was saved from dying under the crushing blows of enemies immune to their chosen builds. It was particularly spectacular during the battles to retake Ice Crown and the Borean Tundra. The provisioning runs to the Molten Core melted under FrostFire into training runs for beginning warriors flanked by Fire Mages utilizing the new spell.
Spring came round again and the portents cast in the Cathedral called for a massive push in the lands around Wintergarde Keep. Many were called there to aid the coming battle. The plans were to rid the land of the Scourge corrupting it. Beryl received her orders to go assist with a great shout of joy. Her brothers and parents were there, as was her uncle. She would get to see them and stand in battle beside them finally. The flowers bowed in the wind and their perfume reminded everyone that gathered in Dalaran to see the army off of the purity and hope they fought for. Beryl gathered a few posies and tucked them in her hair to carry the dream with her in a tangible form. She strapped her war chest to the back of her Nether drake and looked back at Dalaran for a second before flying off. I will die for you my city was her fierce promise. She shuddered a second as the distant horns of war sounded, then mounted her drake and flew off towards Wintergarde.
The barracks at the Keep were overflowing with people when she arrived. She started to stand in the provisions line but got grabbed by her mother and taken off to a set of rooms in the Inn her parents had commandeered. Her uncle was there and laughed about how her mother had bargained his services in shoeing horses with the innkeeper for these rooms. Her mother suggested he go earn those comfortable rooms down in the stable and everyone broke out laughing when he grabbed up two of her brothers and dragged them off with him to help. The sense of family did a lot to lighten every one’s moods on the eve of battle. They ate together that night and promised each other to keep safe and slay lots on the morrow. Each pledged their life, their skills to the King and to each other. Surrounded by all the plate wearers, Beryl looked down at her mage silks and laughingly told them she was depending on their metal to hide behind. They all suggested she better learn to bandage then and she nodded and muttered their plate might get a bit chilly surrounded by ice. Her oldest brother grew serious and pledged to protect her. She winced as she remembered Rathas swearing that, then finally buried that hurtful memory behind the new ones that made her smile. Life was full of family and honor and battling for good. It had no room for long gone dreams with no substance. She bounced upstairs to help her mother put up elixirs and battle potions then headed to bed.
The morning brought mist and moans from over the walls. The Scourge were lined a hundred deep on the fields and busy with their plague wagons and catapults. Her mother handed everyone a packet full of journey food and elixirs, kissing each person’s cheek and whispering of love, life, and hope. They left the inn as a group and only split up on the assembly ground, each to their chosen place to stand with head high. Someone whispered to Beryl they could tell her family, all shared the same russet hair and glowing, battle ready eyes. She looked around and was struck by the apt description. It did not matter they were Paladins and she a Mage, they were all warriors in the battle against evil. United against a common foe, all were the same. She never felt as close to her family as she did right now, as they faced the real possibility not all would return from battle. Her gaze noticed Rathas standing in a group waiting to escort the King. She snorted over that, he still was scheming to be number one she thought. She shrugged it off as irrelevant and then faced forward and stared at the shambling horrors behind the gate. She went through her spell book and set out the potions she would need in order. A roar from the crowd brought her attention back to the crowd around her.
The barrack door opened and the pennants and banners of the army came forth. She saluted them and stood at attention. Varian Wrynn strode out and stood facing the troops. He pointed at Beryl’s father and called him to stand beside him as the King’s Own Paladin. There was a short silence that fell to an immediate deafening roar as the troops cheered for the King’s choice. Beryl noticed that Rathas did not cheer but rather glowered from his spot behind in King’s contingent. He never changes. The absence of the pain on seeing him surprised her for a minute. The King leaned over to his chosen Paladin and whispered. She faced forward and then startled as she heard her name called out by her father. Beryl, the King worries about you keeping up with us on those short legs, so he has kindly offered you the use of a horse we liberated last week from Karazan. Her father laughed as Midnight was brought around and presented to her. The King smiled at her and called her to his side as the King’s Own Mage. The burning of her ears did not prevent her from hearing the crowd shout its approval.
The gates were opened and they poured out following the banners of the King. A dry roar stirred the hairs of her head and then swept them back as the wind cried forlornly around her. She glanced sideways and blanched. A reddish cloud so dense it obscured the stars and reduced visibility in a massive wall of dust was rushing toward her. The wind was strong enough to move sand dunes and was obliterating the road as the heated ground continued to fuel its fury. Waves of fractured air tilted the landscape and danced in haloed haze, half obscuring the creatures fleeing in front of it. Death rode that cloud, and even the very demons had prudently taken heel and run from it. Her small hands fluttered around her head as Beryl drew the shroud up. She flowed to give alarm to the gate guards. Her father strode rapidly toward the gates, dagger and sword already unsheathed and thirsting for blood. From the looks of the horde fleeing in front of that wall of red death, there would be blood enough for many..
The crier alerted, she stood back watch for a rogue as they rotated in slow circles slaying the demons intent on reaching the safety of the town gates. So frenzied was the fear animating the evil ones that their customary careful charge had turned into a full melee. Dust roared around her as she swiveled to keep her back mate safe. Claws racked her cheek as she spun, and then a sharp cut off snarl and spray of demon blood assured her of the rogue’s protective presence. Similar fighting teams were assembling and breaking into the tangled knot of storm-dazed demons around her. She chortled as her back vibrated to some silly rogue ditty being sung behind her. She started to strut in time with it, adapting the harmony to her fighting spell forms and laughed as she sensed disapproval from the team to her left.
The Scourge attacked in one massive slathering horde through the dissolving web of demons they had driven in front of them. Their fierce rush divided the army into clumps. The King’s Own Warrior next to her blinked, put her behind him and starting slaying them one after another. His shoulder bleeding from an unguarded thrust, he faced the last three with deep exhaustion. He raised his weary head to the clouds and roared his Warrior mantra to the heavens. Her small voice joined his and to his shocked dismay she stood beside him facing the last few with quivering limbs but set face. He glowered at her then looked back toward the demons’ charge ready to die as long as she was kept safe. He found her spell blade a worthy companion; she struck low, as he swung high. One died, then another, the last sprayed blood around them in its death throes as she danced joy and honor satisfied to a bemused god looking down from the sky. The Warrior buckled and then collapsed on the sand, his own crimson life force staining his armor and flowing in death dealing tendrils from his frame. He growled to her that she must go on without him; he would cover her tracks as she fled home. He kissed his mighty weapon and prepared to face death with honor, blocking the passageway home with his own body.
She ran to her pack, and dragged out magic salve, bandages and ointments. She knelt and plied her craft, stopping bleeding, healing where she could, applying dressings where her small skill allowed. He passed out somewhere in the middle of it and woke to a night sky, the comfort of a fire and broth being spooned into his mouth. The smell of death no longer surrounded him, only gentle hands and a soft voice whispering of rest and quiet. He drifted in and out of dreams; once shaking awake to hear her challenge a bandit, smiling as she slew the man with an ice lance, then fading back into restorative sleep. He honored her pride and did not ask her why she wore a dressing on her own left arm; she honored his by not mentioning the battle. Their shared laughter at matching wounds evolved their companionship into oath bond friendship – sealed with a small nick on each of their hands, then mingled in a tightly joined clasp of small grimy fingers into massive warrior fist. She marched proudly beside him as Midnight carried the wounded Warrior back through the gates – quietly steadying his swaying form when needed.
She smiled at those she passed, and laughed with them as they rejoiced in another triumph against the evil forces that challenged their world. The fountain in the town square spurted high in the air, dancing with the sunbeams that caressed it, coaxing the water droplets to rise higher. The sun warmed her face as well, and she danced with it and the fountain to the delight of those around her. A passing minstrel strummed a refrain on his zither and soon the square was full of people all moving in the ancient praise language of flying feet and waving arms tamely called dance. Her heart dropped its cares and she flew to join the others in a song of happiness and hope. After the dance ended she bowed to all. With light step she went off to bathe and take a long delayed respite.
Beryl got called into the infirmary the next morning to help bolster the spirits of those that had fallen in battle. The spirit healers had indeed worked overtime. For everyone that limped back through the gates after the victory ten rode the death spirit back. As she moved from room to room her bright smile and chatter lightened hearts and brought laughter to the wounded resting there. She worked down one corridor and up another. The last room she was assigned was near the exit and she hurried a bit as she contemplated dinner with her family. None of them rested here thank the gods. She looked forward to comparing notes with her brothers and teasing them as they bragged on exploits. She opened the door and walked in to face the glowering face of Rathas. He had fallen in the first part of the battle and was deep into blaming everyone around for their errors that caused him to stand in fire. He looked at her laughing with the others in the room and swore. You promised you would die for me. You lied and failed just like you failed at being a Paladin. His angry words calling her an ex-paladin shut the room up and every one’s eyes swiveled towards Beryl. She smiled and stated I did not lie. I kept my oath and died for you a long time ago. And frankly, once for you is more than enough! The others broke out into loud laughter as she marched out of the room and headed to dinner, family, and her beloved mage math tomes.
Tsuchur 