The ocean roared and crashed against the rocks below Westguard and the cliffs behind the keep were still broken and collapsed after Zenruid’s defences were triggered, damage the shaman had intended to fix while he was there; resettle the earth and stone, at least for to ensure the integrity of the keep’s foundations. The purpose of the silver bands that graced each of Mosur’s wrist on the insistence of Janderius hadn’t been explained. Originally when they were produced he’d thought they were some form of handcuffs. Disgraceful, he’d thought.
He lifted his hands and straightened his fingers. The shaman’s breath slowed as he began getting the elementals to pull the broken earth back together and repair the damage caused by the druid’s bombs. Mosur stood still for several minutes breathing slow and even while coaxing the elementals forward.
He’d yet to fulfil his end of the contract with Byre, that could be causing some difficulty. He owed the elementals, yes, he hadn’t forgotten but he didn’t think they would ignore him completely. The longer he tried the quieter he suddenly realized everything was. He stopped his attempt abruptly and clasped one hand over the other. No, he could try, Mosur walked over to the edge of the cliff and dug through the pocket of his robes until he found the cool metal laced totem set with a smokey gem. Sitting quickly, he stuck the totem’s prongs into the ground in front of him and relaxed his shoulders once more. He exhaled, calming himself and tried again for anything, a small tremor, a slip of earth, the summons of a young elemental, anything.
He hissed between now bared teeth and dropped his head to the butt of his hand. Grinding his palm between his brow a long frustrated groan escaped. The frustration and anger faded a quickly as it had come. He opened his eyes and the shaman’s clenched teeth faded into a frown. Yes, he could pull out each totem and try to call to each element but he knew. None would answer, none could hear him, and he already knew the frustration and despair that would cause. He’d done that before. As if the thought suddenly struck him like lightning he jerked the totem up and stuffed it out of sight.
He closed his eyes, he’d started breathing faster without realizing and now tried to get it under control. He tried to jump ahead and to reason with himself before memories and emotions could start to put weight on his shoulders.
The waves below swelled and crashed against the base of the reaching cliffs and the wind buffeted coming in from the ocean, sea salt air blowing inland, but even with all these sounds it was quiet, quiet and empty. It wasn’t the same he told himself quickly, it wasn’t the same but that didn’t stop the past from rushing back in to crush him.
The Light, it barely flickered at his call, there was no strength behind it.
He could barely feel it.
It had all but deserted him.
He hadn’t saved any of them. He didn’t even protect the one person he’d been asked too.
Not even his.
And now the Light itself turned its back on him.
Thick heavy air dampened their clothes during the day and the evening’s chill cut to the bone at night. The camps were sparse and separate, especially in the beginning. Roving bands of orcs and the possibility of death weren’t even the things that registered to the then priest.
Screams in the night. Echos that weren’t real but were too recent to be forgotten. Women screaming, that sound had echoed across Shattrath and into the surrounding area for anyone nearby to hear, the only sound that came with the memories. He wasn’t the only one who the Light had turned its back on; there was word of others across the marsh.
Barely even recognizable as draenei.
Sickly, emaciated, their bodies decaying and at a terrifying rate. Their arms swole, their hooves chipped and cracked finally sloughing off and leaving them with stumps more akin to the feet of an elekk. Their eyes a terrifying white and their tails nothing more than small nubs. Their minds withered and forgot, they complained of terrible pain, they cried out for death. Nothing, not even the most skilled of their arcanists, their priests, their caretakers could do anything to stop or reverse the terrible effects.
His chest hurt, he knew the signs, they’d had a female in their camp who had shrivelled in front of them in only a couple weeks. Reports from every camp spoke of the same and similar illnesses, survivors who had escaped Shattrath, the Light Lost. Mosur was sure after losing everything else this was his fate.
The fear crept up his back, an emotion brought on by the memory, his ears burned, he had been so afraid. He was supposed to be a healer and he found himself unable to commune or direct the Light. It was terrible, terrifying. Mosur had taken it all for granted, his abilities that had come so easily, he had been so cocky, so confident and then it…it was all gone. There was no comfort in the Light, he was alone, and he was empty.
The memories and feelings were a quick rush occurring in only an instant but that emptiness echoed throughout him again. The deep-seated despair was shoved to the side in an attempt to reason with himself. This wasn’t the same, he needed to be logical about it. This wasn’t permanent…but the silence, now that he noticed it, was crushing and he felt the same emptiness and solitude. He ached even though he told himself there was no reason to.
Again he took for granted what he had.