Massive Nerd

(Read the previous entry here or refer to the Fiction Index for a full listing.)

Corrigan sat in his cell, shocked by what he just heard. This woman, this Warlock asking for his forgiveness? Baring her soul as if some sort of kindred spirit?

She was responsible for his capture. Leave forgiveness for the Priests. Paladins deal in Retribution.

His mind seemingly made up, Corrigan tried to get some rest. Normally, Corrigan could capture a few fitful hours of sleep. Tonight, even that was denied him. He was constantly awakened mere seconds after drifting off. He could not remember the nightmares, but the terror stayed with him. After several nightmares, he no longer wished to rest.

So Corrigan waited. They would be coming for him.

In time, after what Corrigan assumed would be daybreak, he was given a breakfast of bread crusts. Was it Sylphine? She did not speak, so he had no way of knowing. Were there other Warlocks tasked with feeding him? Did he even care? Should he?

The day passed, like any other. Occasionally, exhaustion would overwhelm Corrigan and he would drift off to sleep, but the nightmares were still there.

His evening feeding drawing near, Corrigan heard the familiar sound of footsteps, but not the soft ones he was used to. Somebody new was coming to his cell. His world shattered with a screech. Rusted metal grinding against itself. The door to his cell was open.

"Rise, Paladin."

Corrigan remained sitting. "Come make me, Warlock."

"As you wish, boy." The Warlock raised his palm and there was a brief glow to his hand. Corrigan was overcome with revulsion. He was choking in his cell and knew, just knew that he had to get out to live. Scrambling out, he found himself on his knees before the Warlock, gasping for breath.

"That wasn't so difficult, was it? Now, will you come along willingly, or should I persuade you some more?"

Corrigan hated the thought of submitting. Even worse, though, was the idea of being manipulated into doing what his captors wanted. One way or another, he was going to follow the Warlock, it may as well be on his own terms.

They left the cells behind. The halls beyond were bathed in torchlight. Corrigan could never have dreamed in his previous life just how happy he would be to see an actual torch. The hallways twisted and turned, actually leading farther down. In time, Corrigan found himself in what looked like an apothecary's laboratory. The Warlock led him to a table at the far end of the lab, used his power to restrain Corrigan and strap him down. Confident that Corrigan would not be going anywhere, the Warlock departed.

"Make this easy on yourself and submit now, Paladin."

Corrigan must have been exhausted to the point of delusion. He could have sworn the shadow in the corner was speaking to him.

"I promise you will not like what follows. This is your last chance."

The shadow moved. It unfolded itself, gaining a vaguely human form, but somehow off, like a bad reflection in dirty water. "What... are you?" Corrigan asked.

"What am I? Boy, I am a fragment, a whisper, an echo of what you could be. Submit yourself willingly now to become the host for my master and you will possess power previously unknown to any mortal."

Become the host for my master. What madness was this... thing... speaking. Suddenly, Corrigan remembered a discussion with his old mentor, Rondrey. The Legion.

"I will never submit to you or your master, DEMON. My faith in the Light is strong."

The Shadow Demon chuckled, "The Light? Where is your light now? If the Light favors you so strongly, let it strike me down right now!" The demon paused, raising his hands, as if physically reaching for the Light itself. "No? Too bad for you."

Why had the Light abandoned Corrigan when he needed it the most? Even here, outside his cell, he still could not feel its warm glow, always in his heart.

"This is your last chance, boy."

"Do what you will. I fear nothing you or your kind could do to me." Corrigan lied. For the first time in his life, he was truly alone, and he was terrified.

"Your choice. You will submit to me before my work is done. It is not a question of 'if,' merely 'when.'"

The Shadow Demon drifted to the door. He had legs, at least in form, but apparently felt no need to actually use them. He touched the door with his hand and it was opened from the other side by the Warlock guard from earlier. The Warlock stepped aside to allow... something into the room.

"Paladin, allow me to introduce you to my associate, Shaamon."

Corrigan was momentarily dumbfounded by the beast in front of him. Larger than any dog he had seen, with skin thick like leather. The size of the beast alone would have been striking, but its dominant feature was the two tentacles protruding from its back.

A Felhunter.

(Read the previous entry here or refer to the Fiction Index for a full listing.)

Bells.

Again with the bells.

Although, this time, Corrigan could not only hear them, but see them as well, for the bells were tolling within his skull.

After what seemed like hours, the pain subsided to the point where Corrigan dared open his eyes. He opened his eyes to nothing.

Panic instantly struck Corrigan. Light save me, I've been struck blind! Raising his hands to his face, Corrigan realized that he was not blind. Rather, he was enshrouded in total darkness. He was incapable of seeing anything more than a finger's length from his face.

Lost, confused, numb and alone, Corrigan lay on the floor. As feeling slowly crept back to his extremities, he began to wish it had not. Corrigan had no idea how long he was out, but every muscle in his body ached. Attempting to stretch his legs, he found the walls of his cell too close to extend them fully. After some small exploration, Corrigan discovered his cell to be no longer than five feet on any side.

Gathering his strength, Corrigan rose to his feet, but not fully. The cell was too tight in that direction, as well. Slumping back to the floor, Corrigan thought back to the events leading to his capture. Who was that Warlock? Was he even a Warlock? To his knowledge, Warlocks did not possess the power necessary to put down a Paladin in a matter of seconds.

After a seemingly endless time, Corrigan heard something. A light sound, almost a shuffling. As it grew closer, Corrigan realized someone was walking toward him. "Who's there? Why have you imprisoned me? What do you want with me?" Corrigan's pleas were met with silence. "Answer me!" Still, silence. The footsteps paused momentarily, and Corrigan heard his visitor place something on the ground. Slowly, the footsteps began moving away. "No, wait! I am a Paladin of the Silver Hand, you cannot imprison me like this." Alas, his words fell on deaf ears.

After his anger subsided, Corrigan moved towards the bars that made up one wall of his cell. Feeling around, he found a small bowl just outside. The bowl contained a broth of some sort, weak and cold. Corrigan gulped it down greedily, not realizing how hungry he was until the liquid was gone. The meal came nowhere close to satisfying him.

Corrigan began to search his cell, looking for any hope of escape. His search did not take long, as his cell consisted of nothing more than a stone floor and cieling, three stone walls and a barred gate of some sort of metal, iron most likely. The stone was smooth, with no flaws to be found. The iron was rusted, but still far stronger than Corrigan. The search also revealed no mattress, no straw, not even a place to relieve himself. He had been stripped of sword and mail, with only his under-pants covering him. Corrigan could only hope his stay would not be long, as it was definitely going to be unpleasant.

In time, sleep took him.

And so, the next several days, weeks, months passed. Corrigan had lost all sense of time. He could have been down there for hours or years. The time passed uneventfully. His jailer came and went, never making a sound but for his steps. After the first several visits, Corrigan gave up communicating. They kept him fed, but just enough to keep him alive. Water, bread, broth. Once his broth contained a piece of turnip. It must have been an oversight.

Left alone in the dark, Corrigan spent his time with the only activities available to him: sleeping and praying. Sleep came in fits. If he was not awakened by the vermin sharing his cell, it was the dreams. His malnourished mind was giving him bizarre, hallucinatory nightmares. He would wake with a start, but be unable to recall anything.

More distressing than his fatigue, prayer was equally unfulfilling as sleep. Despite his repeated efforts, Corrigan was unable to reach the Light. He was unable to plead to it for help. He was unable to draw strength and resolve from it.

For the first time in his life, Corrigan was truly on his own. He decided to make one last attempt at communicating with his captor. As his next feeding approached, Corrigan weakly called out. His voice had grown raspy from his tiredness and long silence. "Please. Speak with me."

Nothing.

He tried again on what he presumed to be the next day. "If you do not say something, I may die from madness."

Again, nothing.

At the end of his wits, Corrigan found himself actually sobbing when he was next visited. "If you will not speak, at least light a torch. Bring me a light so I may know the world still exists beyond these bars. I can take no more." Rather his words or his emotions got through, Corrigan heard the visitor hesitate, even if only for the briefest second. He could not let this opportunity pass. "Yes! A light. A torch, a candle, an ember, even. Return my sight, and I can carry on." The visitor stood there, silent as ever for a long moment, then turned and left.

Believing he had gotten through to the jailer, Corrigan anxiously awaited his next feeding. Bashing his head against the wall began to seem like a promising option if he was disappointed. In time, the footsteps returned. He was given his meager meal, but the footsteps did not leave. He heard a match strike, and a small candle was lit.

Even the tiny flame was too much for Corrigan's eyes. It took several minutes for them to adjust. A figure was seated outside his cell. Small, slender, perhaps even feminine. As his vision slowly grew sharper, a face came into view. A face with piercing green eyes.

"You! You're the woman from the city. You lied, you led me here. You're responsible for my torture."

"I am not responsible for your torture, Paladin. That has not even begun yet. I also spoke no lies. My sister was being held captive. I merely traded your life for hers."

"Then why help me now?"

"I may be outside these bars, but I am no less a prisoner here than you. I harbor no love for the ones who put you in here, and could no longer ignore your helplessness."

"So, you now have pity for me?"

"No, Paladin. Much like yourself, I am alone here. I have freedom of movement, but no companionship. They could decide at any moment that I have outlived my usefulness."

"Why now? Why not when I first called out?"

"I feared for my life. If I were caught speaking with you, I could find myself in the next cell. However, tonight, they are performing a ritual of some sort, preparing for your treatment on the morrow. I would like to bear my soul to you, Paladin. I have wronged you and would like your forgiveness. My life has not been an easy one."

"Very well, woman. It seems you have a captive audience. Speak, though you will not be likely to find forgiveness from me."

"My name is Sylphine, and this is my story..."

(Read the previous entry here or refer to the Fiction Index for a full listing.)

Bells. Again, Corrigan wakes to the sounds of bells tolling. This is not the single, small bell from Northshire Abbey, however. This is the glorious melody of the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind. Every morning for the past week Corrigan has woken to their sound.

Every morning since he became a Paladin.

Halfway through his morning prayers, Corrigan was interrupted by a knock at the door. "You may enter." A young squire, no older than fourteen years stepped in.

"S-Sir Corrigan. Sir Duthorian Rall wishes to see you."

"Thank you, boy. Please inform Sir Rall that I will be with him at the completion of my morning devotional."

"Does Sir feel it is wise to make an officer wait?"

"I am sure a Paladin as tenured as Sir Rall will understand my wish to speak to the Light and ask it for strength. Now, deliver the message, if you please." The squire nodded and set to his task.

After completing his prayers, Corrigon donned the plate of his order and quickly made his way to the main hall of the Cathedral, where Duthorian was awaiting him. Duthorian was a veteran of many campaigns, and had earned his station in Stormwind. However, one look at the man made it clear that he was ready to defend the city, its people and his Faith at a moment's notice.

"Sir Rall, you wished to see me? I hope you do not mind me finishing my morning prayer before coming down."

"Not at all, Corrigan. Far too many forget the importance of dedication to the Light these days. I am happy to see a young Paladin such as yourself knows what is truly important in life. However, it is also unwise to make a superior wait. While I understand, Hiighlord Bolvar may not."

"Highlord Bolvar... Fordragon, Sir?"

"None other. You are to take this intelligence report from the Northern Continent to him. Our enemies appear to be stirring. I cannot trust this to a simple squire, as high station always attracts dark powers with prying eyes."

"Yes, Sir!" Corrigan took the report and made his way to the Keep with all possible haste. Sir Duthorian's words troubled him, but now was not the time to ask questions. He did not want to make the Highlord wait any longer than necessary.

Of course, Bolvar Fordragon was a busy man. After waiting for his chance at an audience, Corrigan was sent off with nothing more than a "Thank you, Paladin. That will be all."

On his way out of the Keep, Corrigan paused to view an altercation. Two guards were restraining a woman, yelling, screaming, kicking and fighting, while their captain tried to reason with her.

"You MUST let me see the Highlord! I need his help."

"Highlord Fordragon is far to busy to give private audience with a commoner. If you require assistance, please see the city watch."

"Don't you think I've BEEN to the city watch, you dolt? They're not willing to help me, NOBODY is! She's running out of time!"

Corrigan's curiosity and sense of duty got the better of him and he stepped forward. "Captain, may I be of assistance?"

"Be my guest, Paladin. I've heard enough of her shrill voice for one day. Men, escort the lady outside the Keep. Sir, she is all yours."

After stepping back into the city, Corrigan turned to the sobbing woman, "What is the problem, ma'am?"

"Finally, SOMEONE in this city who cares about common people. You must help me, Sir, they've taken her!"

"Calm down. Who has been taken, and by whom?"

The woman looked up into Corrigan's eyes. Looked up with eyes of the most radiant green Corrigan had ever seen, a green so shocking that it did not seem possible for a mortal to possess them. "Sir, kind Paladin. It is my sister. She has been abducted by Warlocks. They have taken her to the Slaughtered Lamb tavern. I fear she may come to great harm at any moment. There is no time to waste, you must help her!"

Again, Corrigan's head was filled with questions. Again, time was a factor, and he was prevented from asking any of them. He just had to trust this woman, who would concoct such a story if it were not true? "Wait for me at the Cathedral. I will return with your sister, worry not."

Corrigan ran across town, to the Mage Quarter. He knew the Slaughtered Lamb, if only by reputation. It was said that dark mages practiced their crafts within its walls. They were allowed to remain untouched, as there was no proof of any wrongdoing. However, if they truly had abducted a girl, the time for action was at hand.

Corrigan stepped into the tavern and looked around. The common room was empty, but he could see a passageway descending before him. Step by cautious step, Corrigan made his way down, listening, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. Twenty paces down, Corrigan started feeling queasy, surely something sinister was at work below. Further on, Corrigan heard a noise behind him, almost the hiss of a snake. Turning his head, Corrigan looked back to find nothing.

Upon turning back around, Corrigan found a large, hooded figure standing mere inches from his face. The hood was drawn so far forward and the passage so poorly lit, that nothing but a dark void was visible within. Before Corrigan could draw his sword, or even cry out, the figure whispered a single word.

"Sleep."

Instantly, Corrigan's vision blurred. Within seconds he was falling to the floor. He blacked out before he made contact.

(Read here for a little backstory on our hero.)

The bell tolled. The rooster marked the rising of the sun.

Morning. This is the eleventh day. Corrigan rose from the table. He collected the massive tomes in front of him and carefully placed them on the librarian's desk. I should wait for Maris to wake and thank him for his time. However, I am anxious to be off.

Today I take my vows.

Corrigan stepped from Northshire Abbey for the first time in over a week, and was greeted to an unexpected, if welcome sight.

"Ten days and nights of meditation, contemplation and education into the ways of the Order of the Silver Hand. And ye still look as stupid as the last time I saw ye."

"Father! I was not expecting an escort back to the Cathedral."

"Lad, if ye call me 'Father' one more time, ye'll be the first Paladin to take his vows with a staff up his backside. After today, I'm yer teacher no longer."

"Yes Fa.... Rondrey."

"That's better. As to my being here, I have some final questions for ye before the council tests you."

"A final lesson? I welcome your test."

"Good, then let's be on our way. Stormwind is not far, but the walk should be long enough. First question: What is the Silver Hand's greatest foe?"

"Easy. The Scourge."

"Lad, how did ye ever make it past yer first year of studies? True, the Scourge is our biggest currently active threat. However, their former masters, the Burning Legion always has been and always will be the greatest threat, not just to our order, but all of Azeroth. They sent the Orcs. They sent the Scourge. To this day, they still try to infiltrate our organizations. Until they are defeated, no life on this world, or any other will be truly safe."

"How can the Legion infiltrate an order like the Silver Hand? I thought they could only possess those who are willing."

"That's partially true, lad. Even the most powerful demon will have difficulty taking an unwilling host. It would require a complete overwhelming of the host's spirit by force. After such trauma, all that would remain is a soulless husk. None of the demon's power would be available to it. It would not be worth the demon's time and energy to gain a worthless sack of flesh."

"Then the Order is safe. No Paladin would give themselves willingly to the Legion."

"Don't be so sure, lad. Every man has his weakness, his breaking point. The Legion is nothing if not patient. Ten thousand years they've been trying to take our planet, what's a few more to them? They're waiting. Waiting for the right person at the right time."

"What difference does it make?"

"Simple, lad. The more devout the host, the more holy, the more full of Light, the stronger the corrupted spirit, the stronger the demon would be. They want someone so pure of heart for their own, they will search for another ten thousand years, if that's what it takes."

"Someone like you, Rondrey?"

"Nah. Not me. True enough, I've served the Light faithfully in my years. I am, however, not without my faults. I have not even served as a Priest my whole life. I do love my ale, as well."

"Bah! I do not know how you can cloud your mind with drinks like that. You'll never catch me looking for knowledge at the bottom of a mug. But, fine, if not you, then who would be a better host?"

"Someone born of honorable people. Someone who has dedicated their life to the Light. Someone so completely devout, that to corrupt their soul would be an accomplishment like none before."

Rondrey stepped in the middle of the road, staring Corrigan in the eyes to drive home his point.

"Someone, lad... like you."

This is a story.

A story about a story.

A story about a story which is part of a larger story.

Several months ago, back on Hardcore Casual, I started a project, Create Your Own Azeroth. I worked with several other blog authors to create a branching, choose-your-own-adventure-style story based around the World of Warcraft world.

For those of you who have not read the story, it begins here.

The project went well and was a great success. Unfortunately, due to several authors going dark, I suspended the project.

However, there is more story to tell.

Starting in the near future, I will be continuing the adventures of our hero, Corrigan, as well as others.

In order to preserve cohesion of the story, I have chosen one path of CYOA as canon:

Prelude, by myself
The Libram, by Syrana
Untitled, by Skipper
Stand your Ground, by myself

Now, this does not mean the other chapters are not worth reading. They definitely are. Honestly, I don't feel this was the BEST path through the tale, story-wise. However, this was the best to continue with the story. Corrigan's survival rate was... below average.

Again, I highly recommend reading through ALL the paths from the beginning.

A word of warning: In keeping with my more casual method of blogging here on Massive Nerd, as opposed to Hardcore Casual, these posts will not be on any set schedule. When I have one ready, I'll post it.

Of course, I can't just leave everyone hanging. I have to tease a bit:

The first story will reveal the secret of Sylphine's identity.