Deviations in Writing

Writing was no fluke for me. Ever since I was a child, I had a wicked imagination and a desire to be creative. This did me little good back then... and it serves only as entertainment for myself and a few friends right now... but writing is something that is built into my very soul.

This site is always in a constant state of flux. Call it, "shit happens" because you never know when I will change my mind about the design, or even what I put up here.

~ Laura

Long after Vashj’s lieutenants lay dead, much longer after his run-in with the Priestess, Coyotl stalked the mountain range that divided Mulgore from the Barrens. Though night had long fallen, the earth beneath his paws was still warm and pleasing. It made him want to sleep, but then what didn’t make him want to sleep?

He picked his path with care, feeling the prickle of thorns bite into his paws which only served to strengthen the memory. It wasn’t often he thought of his childhood, simply because he lived in a perpetual state of ‘now’. It pained him to plan in advance, to sign his name upon promissory notes of attendance; much less prepare himself. Tomorrow would come eventually, he’d care about it when it became today.

But Thrysta reminded him of his youth. The Forsaken touching his flesh, sinking past the thick fur, to feel the scars hidden from view. The irony was not lost on him.

Coyotl took himself back to the scene of his youth, to the cave he’d claimed at his own when he was in his teens. Much like then, he approached on feline paws, scenting the air to make sure all was undisturbed. It had been years since he had last visited his shelter in the mountainside, long before he committed himself to his path and seeking training in Moonglade. The cave overlooked the southern region of the Barrens and while it wasn’t the best of views he enjoyed it nonetheless.

Nestling down on the ledge, Coyotl let his mind drift back into his youth.

He had been named Niyol Bloodhoof at birth, the only child of Kanti Skychaser and Oya Bloodhoof. A true child of the village, many took pride in watching Niyoh grow and helped where they could. Kanti was a cherished elder, a respectable shaman who aided all she encountered. Oya balanced her gentle spirit by being a protector, but he was distant and frequently called upon to aid in war efforts.

Niyoh discovered early on that he was beloved by many. He used this knowledge to his advantage by dodging scoldings by appearing to be the angelic child, massive blue eyes and all. It worked. It always worked. He never pushed too hard or found too much trouble that he couldn’t later rectify, until he found his cave. His mother knew of its existence, but he never told her the location. It was his place of solitude, a fact she respected. And it remained his haven for many months, until the one day he approached and scented someone upon the air.
A night elf. In his cave. His sacred place.

Even looking back on it now, Coyotl didn’t linger on the memory of what happened; his mind seemed to drift clear over it in fast-forward, acknowledging only the light of day to night and once more to day.

Niyol’s absence worried the village. A handful of scouts set out through the night searching for him, calling his name. It followed him through his ordeal, echoing off the mountain ridges. They had gotten close—within a mile—once but he evaded them. Only once the sun had risen again and Niyol got a look at himself in a spring, did he return to his village.

His mother had discovered his druidic path when he was a small child. He relished in shifting into a feline and pouncing through the village. He rarely took the form of a bear, only when they were trying to further his abilities. He was a cat at heart, it was how the village knew him.

When he stepped into the village as a bear, two nearby scouts simply stared. Niyol limped, with his front left paw drawn up toward his chest. His fur was matted and bloodied, and a quillvine had wrapped around his right rear leg. Someone shouted for Kanti, who came running from their tent. She aided her son as best she could, getting him to lay down and trying to check his wounds which were deep and many. Buried deep into his skin were thorns; it looked as though he’d rolled his body within a vat of quillvine and attempted to shift. They were deep, and even using a hook crafted from a harpie’s claw, Kanti was unable to get them out on her own.

She sent word to Thunderbluff, asking the healers to send one with deft fingers, who would be able to aid them. One answered the summons, a Forsaken who wore a mantle of white.

Knowing the task would be long and painful, she asked Kanti to give them privacy. Niyol and the Forsaken were placed in a tent on the furthest outreaches of the village, where fewer would be disturbed by his agonizing cries. The priestess had nimble fingers and seemed not to notice the bite of the thorns into her own flesh. Each was plucked and discarded into a bowl, the wound cleaned as best as the priestess could and then healing aided by herbal compounds.
Though she never asked, Niyol could see the questioning in her eyes. It was persistant, or perhaps it was guilt laying heavily upon his mind.

“I had an itch,” he finally stated, in a near-shout. It was a clumsy lie, but the burden of holding in the truth was oddly released. The Forsaken woman merely inclined a brow.

When she made her way to his left front paw, she coaxed loose the tight fist he’d made of it and discovered a claw. This was the only time she paused. Canting her head, she delicately moved one finger and counted each bear toe upon each bear paw. No, the brutally removed claw came from another. Meeting his gaze, the Forsaken woman slowly nodded and set the claw aside, rather than discarding it into the bowl. After she left, Niyol kept it hidden under a paw whenever a visitor came to check on him.

No more incidents of its type happened to Niyol, who was deemed Coyotl when he came of-age. It was fitting for the village’s mischievous child and he bore it with mirth.

It was a memory that hadn’t surfaced since he had hung the claw within his cave. He didn’t look at it now, but had seen it on his cursory glance within the cave to acknowledge its existence.

Shifting upon the warm rock, Coyotl rested his head upon his paws and closed his eyes. He silently blamed Thrysta for the resurgence of the past, though she was but a victim of circumstance. When her talons had raked against the scars, the memory had bloomed.

It had also twisted. For a moment, he had recalled it with her burrowing the thorns into his flesh.

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Night was falling upon the Ghostlands, the sky becoming a rich field of violets, streaked with crimson violence. It would have been a beautiful sight to behold, if not for Kelyna's chosen location to view it from. Standing no more than a hundred yards from Deatholme, the woman stared forward at the Scourge's domain with a look of intent on her stiff features. Along the length of the Dead Scar, Scourge shambled near-mindlessly upon the destruction rent by Prince Arthas and his minions; their destination the same as before: the ruins of Silvermoon. It was as though that single imprint had been left on their rotted minds. Invade the Sin'dorei, overwhelm the guards and provide ample distraction so that the Prince could get Kel'Thuzad's corpse to the Sunwell and resurrect the fallen one.

Even now, years after the event the Scourge continued down the beaten path. Some now turned toward Kelyna, recognizing her life as something that needed to be ended. Those that attempted to shuffle their way toward the mage found themselves torn apart by flame and arcane blasts.

She remembered the chaos Arthas had brought to their lands. Though she was but a child during the war, she deeply felt its effects in her formative years. As a mere girl, she watched as addictions to magic deepened by those around her; a cousin sank so far as to become one of the Wretched before Kelyna's eyes. Even as her particular talents emerged, pointing her along the path of the arcane, Kelyna understood that there were boundaries that had to be obeyed. She refused to lose herself, and insisted that she would be in charge of her art, rather than the other way around.

The war had devistated her family. Many died, and others were lost to either politics or addiction.

In the case of her husband, both. The man proved to be weaker willed than she had ever imagined. Yes, he'd been a convincing orator and found doors opening to him all over the city. He and Kelyna soon found themselves living in the magistrate section of the city; a place Kelyna soon grew distasteful of. Many times she'd found herself frequenting the Murder Row, thinking the people there were at least honest with themselves and those around them. In the Court of the Sun she experienced only backstabbing and vicious lies spread; not to mention opulent rooms dedicated simply for the feeding of their addictions. There were those who made sure Kelyna's husband was well entrenched in his vice, and they found a favorable ear and speaker for their message.

He could never face the fact that Kelyna left him and Silvermoon due to his own weakness. But deep within his heart, he was not surprised the day he came home and found her belongings missing. That had been months ago, and he'd only seen her once in that time: today.

Within days of the pact signed between Thrall's forces and the Sin'dorei, Kelyna had decided to put herself as far from Silvermoon as possible. She informed Quithas, her teacher, but not her own husband, and left for Orgrimmar immediately. Looking back on her flight to Orgimmar, Kelyna relived her feelings of dread during her childhood. She had little exposure before to the Forsaken, and their presense still rattled her. The orcs and trolls who filled Orgimmar unsettled her, but the tauren and their bond with the earth brought a feeling of peace to her. Why she didn't continue toward Thunderbluff was questionable, but it was in Orgrimmar she settled.

Returning to Silvermoon City was the last thing on her mind. It wasn't until Uthel'nay—her new teacher—asked her to deliver a letter of importance to Quithas that she'd even considered the trip.

All of this was boiling in her mind as she stood in the Dead Scar. The last few hours replaying in her mind. How her husband had found out that she was in Silvermoon, she wasn't sure. But he tracked her down before she could get to the translocation orb and make her way toward the Undercity. His grip was tight as he took hold of her arm, his eyes glistening with anger. The 'conversation' was largely one-sided, Kelyna having little she wished to say to her husband.

He reminded her that her place was at his side, that he had an image to keep. Who did she think she was? How could she simply abandon him like that, without a word? He worried, night and day, about her well-being!

The entire time Kelyna kept herself silent, and watched as the man went from pacing the room to sinking into a plush lounge. His voice went from raging to sullen, and his eyes began to lose focus. Without realizing it, Kelyna had allowed herself to be used by him, to be worked into a fury that caused her to radiate in arcane energy, which he was then using to feed his addiction. It took everything she had to keep from transforming him into a pig, but instead Kelyna rose from the chair he'd pushed her into and walked away from him for the second time in as many months.

Kelyna's path led her not toward the translocation orb, but rather outside of the city and into the Dead Scar. Scourge were decimated as they crossed her path, her mind focused upon her husband's words.

"You aren't the woman I married, Kelyna."

You killed her with your addiction.

"You are cold... feral, like a wolf hiding in my wife's skin."

Wolves are loyal, protective. I see nothing wrong in those traits.

"... bloodthirsty! Where did this merciless spirit come from?!"

From watching you, and all I love, tear their lives apart.

One thing was for sure in her mind, if those around her did not want to fight their way to an improved life, she would do it for them. She would sink into the feral instincts in her heart, accept the message that bloodshed was needed to bring the life back to the Sin'dorei, and join Thrall's forces. Both in Azeroth, but beyond the Dark Portal as well.

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