//------------------------------//
// Prologue: Cries of the Light 
// Story: My Little Naaru: Warcraft is Magic 
// by Freescript the Bard 
//------------------------------//

Prologue: Epilogue

Vyncerin breathed out a pent-up breath. The cold made this exhale a visible white cloud in the frigid air of the Icecrown Glacier, travelling from the gap in his helm out into the wind. But the meditating paladin did not see this, far too focused inward to the calm of his mind to concern himself with the sight of his own breath. In his state, he did not notice the icy bite of the breeze, nor the distant sounds of celebration in the camp that lay yards behind him.
The paladin’s mind ventured deeper and deeper within itself. So deep that he no longer felt the chill of Northrend, nor heard the wind against the mountains, nor saw his condensing breath. Clear from all emotion, thought, and feeling, Vyncerin floated freely in the void his mind had become. In this state, so detached from the physical world, he felt the Light and all its energies; its soothing presence in his form and being, and the power it gave him.
Within this clarity from thought, he prayed to it, asking for its guidance and eternal wisdom. While all paladins are taught that the Light is omniscient and hears all prayers from its devout, to have the Light itself answer is incredibly rare. In his travels, Vyncerin had only heard of three souls who have spoken with the Light: Highlord Tirion Fordring, commander of the Argent Dawn; Uther Lightbringer, the hero of Lordaeron; and more recently, the immortal prophet-leader of the Draenei, Velen.
Vyncerin frowned. Lumaera would have scoffed at him for thinking about this. The Draenei paladin had once explained to him that the Light wasn’t an omnipresent force, but a school of magic whose teachings stemmed from the race of energy beings known as the Naaru. Lumaera offered a theory that the first order of human paladins received their knowledge from a wayward Naaru contacting them through a telepathic link. She and Vyncerin were constantly at odds over this, and often their debates nearly led to swordplay as mediation.
But no longer. Not since she had died.
The paladin shook his head and mentally chastised himself for getting distracted from his meditation. He refocused his mind and re-entered the trance. Once again in a pensive numbness, he prayed to the Light once more, asking for guidance and wisdom.
...
To his surprise, the Light answered.





Vyncerin found himself floating over a great forest, comprised of pale and violet trees. He tried to move his limbs, but found he had no limbs to move. For a few moments, he panicked, wondering if he had died, or if a malevolent warlock had put him under a spell. He struggled with his will, trying to return to the conscious world.
Peace, little one. No harm will come to you here.
Blinking, the paladin ceased his struggle. The voice did not speak in any form that could be called a language. Rather, he heard a high chiming noise, like small bells ringing in haphazard chorus. It soothed him as a warm embrace would. Somehow, he understood the meaning behind them, words forming in his mind of their own accord. They spoke truth, and he knew it. He was safe here.
Where am I? he asked the voice calmly. What is this place?
Watch, it answered.
Before Vyncerin could reply, his vision shot across the forest, which he now recognized as Crystalsong, and over the mountains. Further his sight went, over the basin of Sholazar, the Borean Tundra, and finally to the island of Coldarra. He saw the Nexus, and the monolithic beam of arcane energy cascading into the air from it.
But his flight did not pause there. It continued past, to the west of the continent of Northrend, out over the Veiled Sea. Vyncerin was puzzled by this; there was supposed to be nothing between Northrend and Kalimdor according to the Night Elves, just empty sea. He raised this inquiry to the voice, but received no answer.
To his surprise, his vision slowed near a small island, barely the size of Goldshire in area. The only features on it were patches of golden grass and a small tree with a gap in its roots. Vyncerin’s puzzlement returned, wondering why he would be shown something so insignificant. Perhaps its small size explained why the Night Elves left it out of their account. The island couldn’t even be used as a viable port.
Look closer, paladin, the voice insisted.
The chiming voice was extremely persuasive in nature, and Vyncerin had no intention to disobey. Upon closer observation, he noticed a small light coming from the gap in the tree’s roots. He had seen this light before, he realized. The light was similar to the portal in Rut’theran village that allowed access to the Night Elf city of Darnassus. But there seemed to be nowhere this portal could lead with the limited range such portals were constrained to.
Vyncerin’s sight suddenly shot through the portal. Everything went dark, as black as the blackest night. Through the pitch dark, Vyncerin heard a rumbling voice yell in a horrific launguage, whose words jumbled themselves into comprehension:
Rise! Rise and tear this world asunder!
…
Help me, little one! Help me!





Apse was a very happy dwarf. Of course, any dwarf would have been as happy as he was, with a belly full of strong ale and a heart full of song. To add to his happiness, the commander of the undead legions of the Scourge, which had claimed countless live and committed countless more atrocities, was dead. The Lich King was dead! Why, it would be a crime not to celebrate a momentous occasion!
Celebrate Apse did... to the point of being half-carried by his lupine companion, Fengur. The albino wolf always seemed to know when his master had indulged one too many pints, and always helped the dwarf around afterward. As some would joke, Fengur was the perfect drinking buddy.
“Ah, Fengy... hic! ...yer always the best o’ friendsh,” the dwarf slurred as he leaned on the wolf.
Fengur growled flatly in response.
Apse gave his companion a look. “Ya know, I swear yer makin’ fun at me shometimes.”
“He was complimenting your ability to hold a keg and a half of ale and still speak lucidly,” spoke the fluid voice of the Night Elf next to him, who was tasked with his care. While Elunedra found this to be a tedious task, she felt more than pleased to help one of her fellowship.
“Only half again?” Apse responded incredulously. “I’m losin’ my edge.”
Fengur stopped abruptly, sniffing the air, his ears flicking back and forth. Apse, however, continued on his path of momentum, and slid off the wolf and into the snow. Before the dwarf to could stagger to his feet, Fengur broke into a run, plowing the hunter’s face back into the snowbank. The wolf scampered off with a few curt yips of excitement.
Elunedra looked on, puzzling. “He says he heard something odd,” the druid translated as she helped Apse to his feet. “Come, let us give chase.”



Nixaera’s Log
Four days after the defeat of the Lich King

When Elunedra and Apse found Vyncerin, the poor soul was propped against the rock, shivering and muttering incoherent things to himself. It was a whole Azeroth day before he regained coherency and lucid speech. He recounted to us his vision, of the island portal and the hellish voice in the darkness. When he spoke of the other voice, the one that spoke in chimes, it was as if he were describing an old friend.
I know the of the voice well, as did Vynce. It was the telepathic chimes of the Naaru language, one I had lived by nearly all my life, and he experienced in Shattarath City in our exploits through Draenor. Of everything Vyncerin recounted, the desperate voice of the Naaru is what concerns me most. Naaru are immensely powerful beings; not even the greatest warlocks of the Burning Legion- short of Archimonde and Kil’Jaeden -could smother their holy power. For one to be in such distress as to contact a mortal makes me wonder what sort of cruel force could cause a Naaru to become desperate.
Whether by fate or chance, the Naaru’s telepathic message had reached Vyncerin the Protector. Perhaps the Naaru knew of the paladin’s reputation and rank, and leadership of a small band of heroes. Heroes that were vital in the Lich King’s recent defeat. Or perhaps the distressed being had fortune’s favor.
We set out tomorrow for the island. I sincerely hope this is worth my time.







”Is it... over...?”
“At long last, my son.”
“I see... only darkness... before... me...”
“My son... wake...”
“...wake...”

“Wake, you thrice-damned fool! The ditch is no place to be resting your head!”
His eyes snapped open, only to be shut again by the piercing glare of the sun directly overhead. He rolled his body over to avert his gaze and salvage his eyesight, but managed to bump into something that jerked back at his touch.
“Watch yourself, oaf!” the same raspy voice that awoke him exclaimed. “Any further and you may as well have flattened me!”
Turning his head and eyes toward the speaker, the awakened individual wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the creature that addressed him. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was a deformed miniature horse. However, the equine creature wore an oddly maroon-colored coat, and its mane was charcoal and styled in such a way that it resembled crow feathers. On its forehead rested a spiraled horn, though it appeared too blunt to be a natural weapon. He noted that someone had painted the bust of a raven on either flank.
“Well? Are you going to stare at my ass all day, or are you going to compose yourself?”
He almost jumped when it spoke, not expecting this almost bestial being to have some form of sentience, let alone a command of fluent speech. Looking up into the... were its eyes yellow? ...face of the creature, he quickly mumbled, “My apologies,” and stood up...
...Then fell right back down.
“Quick tidbit of news for you; quadrupeds stand on four legs,” the being quipped with a chuckle.
Four legs…? he questioned himself, puzzled. Looking back at himself, he was surprised to find himself in an unfamiliar body. In form, it was similar to the creature: four legs with hoofed feet, a smaller equine body, and a brand colored onto his flank. However, his own coat was a neutral, almost stone-gray color, and his tail was pure white and wispy, such that it moved with even the slightest breeze. The image painted on his rear looked like a viciously pointed golden crown.
Something told him this was very wrong; that whatever he had become is not what he should be. This body was a strange alien thing. It fit him like a glove with four fingers.
“You look surprised, my young prince.” The equine creature’s voice stole his attention from his strange form. After a moment of staring, the stallion suddenly chuckled. “Oh, I see. I would feel the same had I been in your place. Not very pleasant, is it?”
The disembodied soul shook his head dismally. “No, it is anything but…” he trailed off as something the other equine said sparked in his mind. “What did you call me?”
Tilting his head, the maroon stallion peered at the other. “Why, I do not believe so. Have I said something wrong?”
Carefully, the gray being rose to his hooves. “You called me a prince.”
The creature did not reply immediately. He looked at the other stallion with a scrutinizing gaze, peering, it seemed, straight through his body. “...curious,” he mumbled. “Tell me, do you recall anything from before?”
“No,” he answered. Is that odd? he pondered, That I have no memory?
“Curious indeed,” the stallion replied. “Would you like to know your name, my friend? Not that names matter besides, but it would help if you had some identity.”
The gray equine thought about this. I don’t really need my name, he surmised, considering the offer. But, perhaps for politeness’ sake… “Yes.”
“Very well, Arthas,” the stallion replied, speaking the name in roundabout. “I was once called Medivh, but for your sake, I shall adopt it once more. It is my pleasure to be formally introduced.”
“Likewise,” Arthas answered. “It is nice meeting you, Medivh.”