Tasla's Winter Tale

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Stoen
Seneschal
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Tasla's Winter Tale

#1 Post by Stoen » Sat Dec 01, 2018 8:59 pm

Then
She felt the heat on her skin. Burning, sizzling, alive. If the old dwarf in front of her felt it too, he did not show it. Instead, his crinkled, dark face radiated strength. He was a Pyromancer. He mastered the flame. A single snap of his fingers could turn her to ash. She was a child. Untrained. Of yet no worth to the great elemental lord whose glorious return their Dark Iron clan would one day usher.

“Tasla,” spoke the Pyromancer. He uttered no last name for she had none.

She knew better than to reply. Her head remained bowed in submission. This was the ritual. As her parents had once both bowed to begin their training, as would the daughter. She knew her parents were dead. She did not know in what war. It did not matter.

There was no emotion to his voice. He spoke monotone facts. “You have expressed a wish to join the ranks of the Dark Iron legion,” continued the old man. “To let the flame give you the strength you need to slay your enemies. To one day die in service to the empire.”

“Yes,” she replied. Her voice echoed the intense she felt around her. She was not afraid of the fire. She would be an instrument of Ragnaros. She would be a roaring flame that laid waste to all that dared challenge the might of her people. The humans, the Gnomes, the traitorous pale dwarves that refused the Lord’s light. They would all burn.


Now
She felt the chill in the air. Northrend. This was where they had send her. It mattered little, she supposed. There was a war going on, of course they would not send the new recruits straight to the front lines. They had told her that they had send some more experienced soldiers from Northrend to the front. She would replace them in the cold north. She had accepted that. It was the way things were now.

“Oi!” spoke a slurred voice behind her. She did not turn her head, nor did it come as a particular surprise when the drunk dwarf sat down next to her. “Wha’s yer name, lass?”

“Tasla,” she replied. There was no last name. It didn’t matter.

“That’s a swell sword ye ‘ave there!” he exclaimed, pointing at the sword next to her. “Does it ‘ave a name?”

He was not wrong about the quality of the sword. Folded Dark Iron heated in the flames of the elementals and hammered into perfection at the Dark forge itself. Fiery enchantments still danced on top of it, shimmering across the entire blade and lighting up the runes around its edge. It did not have a name though. It did once, but that was in the past. Where once it had been a glorious weapon for a decorated warrior of the Dark Iron clan, it was now just a sword. She shook her head. “No, she replied. “No name.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Nice sword, is all. Me uncle had a smithy. Could name aw th’ metals, he could.” The dwarf seemed to trail off momentarily. He took another big swig of his mug before resuming. “Dunnae ye want a mug, lass? Keep yer warmth in this ‘ere cold.

She shook her head. “I’m okay,” she lied.

He seemed a bit perplexed by this. A dwarf refusing ale. He looked at her. “Are ye nae cold? Ah can see yer breath, lass.”

She looked at her hand for a moment. The chill had paled them. She sighed, closing them together as she looked into the horizon where the foreign land was slowly coming into view. “I am,” she admitted. “It doesn’t matter.”

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