//------------------------------//
// Woes of the Road 
// Story: My Little Naaru: Warcraft is Magic 
// by Freescript the Bard 
//------------------------------//

	
“Absolutely not!”
Vyncerin frowned. “Nixaera, I know working with the Horde is not going to be pleasant,” he sighed, expecting her to react in this way.  “But right now, the situation is extremely tense between the factions. With the Lich King dead, there is no cause for the Alliance and Horde to collaborate, and we could be on the verge of conflict.”
“Do you call what transpired at the Wrathgate a ‘verge!?’” the draenei death knight shouted back in her echoing voice. She slammed her fist into the stone wall next to her, cracking the quarried stone and startling the nearby dock workers of Valiance Keep. “It was a massacre! We lost more soldiers to the Forsaken’s meddling than we did to the scourge! This is a mistake!”
Shaking his head in exasperation, the paladin palmed the gold-lined warhammer on his hip as insurance if the draenei did lose control. “The Horde lost just as many as we did at Angrathar. To pin the act of one rogue faction of Forsaken on the warchief is irresponsible, and the one at fault is rotting headless in a shallow tomb, slain by the Banshee Queen herself.” Vyncerin continued to lecture. “If you had any sense, you would welcome their aid. Light only knows what lies beyond the portal.”
Nixaera glared at him. “Why are you so adamant about having them accompany us? On which side do you stand, Vyncerin?”
“I stand with the Argent Dawn,” he replied, returning the death knight’s gaze. “And the Argent Dawn stands with the Light. I would have thought you would as well, as you did before you were risen from death.”
“Do not mistake me; Lumaera is gone,” Nixaera hissed. “I will not stand by the Horde while they continue to associate with the damned and the corrupt.”
Vyncerin glanced over at the three newest members of their company; the three Horde selected by Thrall, Garrosh, and Sylvanas. One, an orc warrior by the name of Harag, one of Garrosh’s lieutenants. Of the lot, this individual more than others made the paladin wary that Hellscream’s son had little faith in the Alliance, and sent a high-standing warrior to keep track of the enemy. Thrall’s envoy was Jazla, a shaman that was more associated with the Earthen Ring than the Horde. The last- perhaps the source of Nixaera’s rebelliousness -the Blood Elf, Mebrin, a warlock apparently renowned for his magical affinity.
“The elf?” Vyncerin asked ambiguously.
“Those who call upon demonic magic are not to be trusted,” asserted the death knight.
Rolling his eyes, the paladin turned away from Nixaera. “Then do not come,” he said. “If you won’t tolerate those in our company, then you will remain here. The Horde may not be your allies, but this undertaking will only happen if we accept their cooperation. I will not let your attitude hinder this joint mission.” He walked away toward the Horde envoys, leaving the draenei with his ultimatum.
Nixaera watched her friend leave. She turned her gaze to Mebrin, who was pointedly looking at her with a flat scowl. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him out of my sight. She started off after Vyncerin.





This was a bad idea.
Sherisse hated traveling by sea with a burning passion. The smell was rancid, the bread was stale, and, worst of all, her small gnomish stomach churned with the bobbing motion of the deck. Her low center of gravity helped very little. She tried to cure herself with holy magic, but it was a only a short period before she had her head over the ship’s rails again.
The priest was miserable.
A hand on her shoulder beckoned Sherisse to lift her head up to see who it belonged to. To her surprise, she stared up at the teal-skinned face of the troll shaman. “Ya got some bad voodoo in ya insides, gnome?” Jazla asked with a fanged smile.
Sherisse nodded. “You could… say that.”
Jazla chuckled lightheartedly. “We Darkspear be accustomed to da sea. It gives us fish to eat and waves to ride to other shores. Ya gnomes be accustomed to da iron halls of ya cave cities, Gnomeregan an’ Ironforge. Ya don’t know da taste of da sea air, or da movin’ of da waves like we do. Da trolls thrive from da sea, da gnomes from da earth.”
“Please don’t say waves,” Sherisse lurched as the troll spoke, turning an unhealthy shade of green. “It disturbs my metabolic process.”
“Although,” the shaman let out another chuckle. “Even some’a us trolls get da seasick. There’ll be no helpin’ from ya holy magics. However…” Jazla waved her hand over Sherisse, muttering phrases in her native tongue. Her three-fingered hand glowed with swirling green energy that made the gnome’s insides tingle. “It just take da right mojo for da job.”
Sherisse was uncertain at first, but found that the moving of the ship no longer bothered her or her bowels. Whatever spell the shaman had used, it had cured her seasickness. “Wow! Thanks!” she chirped.
Jazla nodded. “Think nothin’ of it, little one. Just be comin’ back when ya feel da sickness returnin’.”





Arthas was becoming very impatient. Three days of travelling by foot (hoof?) with nothing to eat aside from what they could find by the sparsely-used road, his only companion a strange stallion who Arthas decided had been taken by madness long ago, and taking only small periods to rest and recover. The journey took its toll on his aching hooves and disheveled mane, and was slowly eating away at his sanity.
Medivh, on the other hand (hoof?) seemed none too bothered by the rigorous travelling. It seemed to Arthas that the unicorn was becoming even more energetic and lively as they walked. Attempts to converse with him was only met with either an ambiguous answer or a lengthy monologue on a random species of plant he spotted on the journey. At one point he spoke for three hours on a kind of thistle that was apparently very rare and sought after by certain professionals.
At that particular point in time, Medivh was still rambling on about a bird he had seen an hour ago. “...though they look more alike to a species by a similar name and the same family that exists in the northern reaches of the continent, you’d be surprised to find that they are of two very different genus. It was not classified as such until a wide schism in their dietary and nesting habits was observed by renowned orithologist--”
“How much further do we need to walk?” Arthas interjected. “For three days I’ve followed you on this coarse excuse for a road, and you’ve not given a single mention to where we are going. Nor have we encountered anyone else travelling along this path. Please, for my sanity, how much longer is this trek?”
Medivh stared back at the stone-gray stallion as if he’d just been offended. “My word, so impatient!” he harumphed. “Haven’t you heard the proverb, young one? ‘Getting there is half the fun!’”
Arthas sighed in frustration. “So where is ‘there?’”
“I have no idea!”
The words made Arthas stop in his tracks, his jaw hanging wide open. For three days, this addled pony had no clue what their destination was. “What!?” he exclaimed. “Then what is the point of all this!? Are we rubbing our feet down to stubs for nothing!? What sense is there in that!?”
“Sense…” Medivh chuckled despite the rage of the larger pony. “Indeed, what fun is there in making sense?” Before Arthas could respond, he continued. “I suppose I do owe you an explanation. You see, I have a gift, given to me by powers unknown to even the wisest. My gift, Arthas, is sight.”
“So you have eyes,” Arthas glowered. “My congratulations.”
Medivh laughed heartily. “You misunderstand, my prince. My eyes see more than what appears to be, or what is in truth. I can look at any one object and see it’s place in times past, and it’s destiny to come. For the bird I was describing previously, everything I told you was what I saw within the bird; it’s history. The reason we are following this road, my dear prince, is that I looked upon it and saw that it’s destiny was to carry us to wherever it may go.”
Arthas’ face softened, but his glare held. Of course, he thought that Medivh had contracted some form of indescribable madness, and that his words had little weight. But as he glared at the smaller stallion, Arthas saw something odd in the elder eyes. Something behind this old stallion’s eye belied a mind that was wise above madness… and perhaps to the brink of it.
“Very well,” he grunted. “Continue. Wherever we’re going, we should get there as soon as possible.”
“Excellent,” Medivh chirped, turning back down the road and resuming his walk. “Now, where was I? Their dietary and nesting habits were observed by renowned ornithologist, Peckerhoof, who was the first to catalogue this difference in the two species…”