[Story] Winter Veil Postcards 2

[[ The other 6! They are kind of depressing this time around… sorry XD ))


The stormcrow beat his wings once, twice, to maintain his height. Where once the flying had been swift and treacherous, its shifting thermals and sudden jets of hot air, it now took some effort on Ornasse’s part to stay aloft. Though it had not been long, not even by human measurements, the forests of Hyjal had moved to reclaim themselves. The servants of Ragnaros had been banished, sent back to the realm of fire, and green growth sprouted over the charred ground.

Like all of the battles in his long life, this one would soon fade to little more than memories, perhaps with a scar or two to go along with them. Though his time in Hyjal had been different; Kelanori had been there. She was the beacon of hope that drew him home across these burning meadows each evening. Though he protested her staying, there were probably fewer places more safe than an ancient’s blessed shrine, and he had the selfish luxury of seeing her every day.

And the worgen, the very strange worgen who had followed him home from that nightmare. Ornasse had expected her to leave by now, returned to her pack or wherever it was that worgen went. For a time it seemed that she had, he would find her huge paw-tracks in the mud leading out of the town. But each night, if he looked, he could find her eyes glowing bright and blue in the night, like two wisps. She was watching, keeping them safe. He felt strange about it, but Kelanori didn’t seem bothered.

The druid alit on a crooked log, pausing to rest his wings. He was not so young as he once was. Tendrils of bright green vines covered the charred bark, drawing from the nutrients of the dead wood. From death, came life. It was the way it had to be. It was growing fast, aided by the work of the awoken Ancients, and the druids who remained behind. Farahlor was growing fast too, he thought he could already see himself in the child’s features. Who would he be? What would he become? In truth he had no idea how to be a proper father. He had been absent for all of Tathariel’s youth, and it was only by some miracle that she didn’t hate him for it. Things with Farahlor would be different.

There was nothing Vassanta could possibly want for Winter Veil. Her life had come a long way from the time the Exodar screeched to a crash in Ammen Vale. Most of it she could never have imagined, certainly not finding happiness with an elf, of all things. And hyenas, they didn’t even have those on Draenor, though Vassanta thought they would do well on the Bone Wastes.

Though she didn’t want anything for herself, she wanted to buy something for Jaeyn. If she asked, he’d probably say that he didn’t want anything either. He had a whole collection of good bows, and several impressive polearms. He had Dog, the faithful nightsaber who had remained by his side for many years, and Tumbles the bear they’d raised from a cub. Unless Jaeyn suddenly decided that he wanted a kid, Vassanta figured they both had everything they could possibly want.

Still, she had an idea for something he might like, and she made an excuse about needing new shoes to go into Shattrath for the day. She didn’t even -wear- shoes on her hooves, though some draenei did. Jaeyn touched her hooves often enough to know that, but he didn’t ask questions. Maybe somehow he knew her real motives.

The streets of Shattrath seemed busier than usual to Vassanta, and she noticed more blood elves than usual. She made a sour face. She’d thought they’d finally all left the city for good. As long as they kept to their own part of the city, they were tolerable — barely. She made her way down to the market in Lower City, jangling her coins as she went.

One of the stalls held an assortment of toys, mostly carved of wood, though some were soft and stuffed with wool. The one that Vassanta was interested in was neither — a boxy metal thing with a crank on the back. It was, the shopkeeper assured her, a rocket bot. When wound, the contraption would walk and sparks would shoot from the cannons that formed its arms.

Perfect, Vassanta said, and handed her coins to the toymaker.

Soranasha paused, her quill dripping two spots of ink onto the page. She frowned down at it, sighing quietly. She’d have to redo the entire thing. Master Andarthir was very fussy about having spots and smears on his pages.

She rose and moved to the little window that overlooked the dense forest below. For safety — his own — Andarthir had never told her exactly where they were, but she knew it was somewhere in Kalimdor. Soranasha could smell the sea, and on clear days she could see it, a vast grey line on the horizon. But today was not clear, today the air was crisp and tiny snowflakes danced on the wind. She remembered snow, from the time before. It never actually snowed in the city; the bubble kept out all of the rain and bad weather. But if you went out beyond into the countryside, you could see it. They took a carriage out once, the wheels getting stuck in the deep drifts, and they ended up walking instead. One of the boys had put snow down her robe in the back and she had shrieked in surprise. How cold it had been! How she wished she could feel it again.

Sometimes she wondered about the others, whether they ever thought about her at all. She thought of them, though she didn’t remember the names of the boys anymore. Maybe her memory was beginning to go. That happened sometimes, in time the decay would claim it. She wondered if it was better to know how long she might have left, or not. In the end, it didn’t really matter anyway. She picked up her quill again, and started a fresh page.

The scent of the green pup-whelps was long gone from Stormpelt’s nose, of course her nose was not half of what it had been before. Still, she had not seen track nor camp of them in almost an entire month now. For a time, she had watched the purple pup-whelp, the one who was like Leaves. Unlike Leaves, he was alone and no one ever came to see him. Stormpelt thought he might simply need a Grub Grub of his own for company. But then one day, she didn’t see him anymore, and she could not find his track no matter how long she searched.

Leaves said that the green pup-whelps didn’t belong in the forest, and she should fight them should she see any. She had looked forward to this, eager to prove her worth to her new master, but the opportunity had never arisen. Each night, she kept watch over the village in case any should try to sneak in. The ones with stinging thorns did not shoot at her any longer, they were accustomed to her presence. Leaves had told them she would not harm anyone, though they still watched her with mistrust in their eyes. It was a look that Stormpelt knew well these days.

She sat back on her haunches and took out Grub Grub, still cold and groggy. The forest was colder these nights, and though it did not bother her any, it made the bloodworm sluggish. She sought shelter in caves or beneath branches to try to stay warm and dry. Slowly, the bloodworm stirred, its mouth searching over Stormpelt’s paw for food. Instead, she showed Grub Grub the gift that Berries had given to them both: a little cloth pouch sewn with a ribbon. Carefully, she opened the bag and put the bloodworm inside. Grub Grub was sure to stay safe and warm in there.


He saw them when he went to find a mage. They were sitting on a step in front of a building, across from the inn. Her, and Aeramin. There was another man with them, one that Sath’alor didn’t recognize. He’d expected it, but that didn’t make the shock of actually seeing it any less. The ranger pulled his hood further over his face and hurried past. They didn’t notice him. He was a ghost.

He considered going back, saying hello, saying that he knew. But what good would it do? Better that she move on and be happy, even if that meant that he wasn’t part of it. He was trying to do the same, but he found it more difficult than he’d expected. This new place would help. None would know him there, and there were new people to meet, new cats to befriend. The mage charged him an outrageous price for the portal, but Sath’alor paid it.

Sath’alor asked to go to a forest, and the mage had obliged. It was a riot of green, and seemed to stretch forever. The natives — short and hairy creatures — assured him that cats lived in the area. They used a strange word for them, but when Sath’alor mimed claws and roaring, they seemed to understand what he meant.

Though he didn’t know the forest well, he found a high place overlooking a stream to make his camp. Tomorrow he would begin searching for a new friend.


Theronil had been right, if the rumors were true. They’d left Dalaran just in time. Isandri heard the rumors in the library, and at the counter at the inn, down in the market. They couldn’t -all- be wrong, and they all said the same thing: the sin’dorei were no longer allowed in Dalaran. Those who had surrendered were locked up, and those who hadn’t… it seemed too horrible to even consider. Thero’s brother was still there, unless he’d moved and not told anyone. Though she had her own differences with Teniron, she knew how important he was to Theronil, and she feared his reaction if he should lose his only remaining family member. Were letters even being delivered? Or would they use them to find her and arrest her, too?

Most of her friends had come to Shattrath, but that only made her feel more guilty. Why should she feel relieved when so many others were suffering? And what if she -hadn’t- listened to Thero? The thought of it made her shudder.

The gifts were wrapped in bright gold paper, with red ribbons, but the sight of them made Isandri want to cry. She thought of the people who had bought gifts for their family and now would never get to deliver them. It didn’t seem fair. Someone had to do something. But she feared that it would only lead to more suffering, for everyone involved.


One Response to [Story] Winter Veil Postcards 2

  1. dragonfly103 says:

    Aww Sora! Poor Sath too. 😦

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