That Damn Role Player

We’ve all taken up study of the blade. It seems so strange to me, learning to hold it to take a life rather than for the simpler tasks which I am used to. I am glad you are not here, sister. I do not think I would like seeing the look of war upon your face.

The word is strange. War. Combat for survival against another race. Ever we have tried to live peacefully with the other races we met along our great journey. Even the orcs. I remember that day three summers ago when we heard that fever swept through the village of orcs not far from here. You, Aloor and two others took potions and supplies to aid the weakened tribe. You were so gentle in your assessment of them. You described their gratitude as “gruff”. I do not think even you could find such kindness in your heart now.

I do not know how much you have heard in the Temple. Perhaps a great deal considering that is where Prophet Velen resides. But there is no kindness towards the orcs now. They defile our dead, they sack and slaughter our people mindlessly. They murder children and babes in the womb. They desecrate our holy places. And still we know not why.

All of the children and injured of Anlenor have been sent to the safety of Shattrath. How long they will remain safe there is uncertain. It seems lately there are more injured than healthy. We fear we will have to abandon our home soon.

I do not know if I will be able to write again. Things have changed so much. I miss the gentle summer evenings listening to the song of the river and the night birds. No more do they sing. The sounds of the night now are terrifying or mournful. I care not to listen any longer.

Please stay safe in Karabor.

Your loving sister,
Yaaniesa

Nauloera touched the paper of the letter gently wishing she could be with her sister. Though she had no way of knowing what the situation was like in Anlenor now. The letter had been written nearly two weeks ago.

Nauloera knew more about the war than she cared to. Wounded from the nearby settlements were coming in to the Temple daily and the stories they carried with them were filled with horror and death. Nauloera worried constantly about her sister and those she left behind in Anlenor, but travel was restricted to military messengers and evacuees being relocated to safer havens and her skills as a healer and medic were far too badly needed here at Karabor.

She folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket before returning to the infirmary to help care for the injured there. Despite their best efforts, the smell of death and sickness permeated the room. Even the afternoon breeze they allowed to waft in through the windows could not cleanse the suffering of those who had already faced the vicious attacks of the orcs.

The odor of burnt flesh mingled with blood seemed to follow her where ever she walked. Even in the once tranquil gardens, she could not escape the smell of death. Though the sight of some of the wounds sickened her worse than the smell. Flesh that seemed to be burnt, yet the wound was surrounded by a terrible green, nearly black, area that rotted away the flesh if it was not cut from the body. The first of these wounds that Velen saw left his face ashen with grief. Nauloera eventually learned such wounds were created by fel magic. Dark bolts of corrupt power that injured the body and poisoned it slowly if they were not killed outright.

She tried to numb herself to the pain and suffering she witnessed. Even now, as she changed the bandages and whispered prayers of healing over a badly injured soldier who would not likely make it through another night, she tried to shut down her heart. Even with as many deaths as she had already seen, she could not. Each death, each wound, each cry of pain or whispered plea for release, left marks upon her soul and heart. Every night, when she finally retired to her small room, she wept herself to sleep, knowing tomorrow would be another such day of suffering.

“Nauloera! Indriina!” Nauloera looked up at the senior Anchorite as he rushed into the room with fear and determination in his eyes. “We have to prepare the wounded. They are being evacuated.”

She gasped and stared at him, stunned for a moment as other junior Anchorites began flooding into the infirmary, chattering and shouting instructions to each other. She shook herself and quickly finished the bandage she was working on before rising to throw herself into the scramble to prepare the wounded for travel. If they were being evacuated, Karabor would not be safe much longer.

As she rushed about the room gathering supplies and barking instructions for her specific patients, the senior Anchorite, Endaarel, came up beside her and gently took her arm. “Nauloera, I need to speak with you a moment.”

She nodded and followed him to a small room off the side of the infirmary. “Do you have special instructions, Anchorite.”

He shook his head, his expression grim. “No, Nauloera. I have news of Anlenor.”

Nauloera felt her heart begin to race and a lump of dread formed at the base of her throat. She wanted to speak, to run away from him, she knew she did not want to hear this news, but could not force her body to respond.

“There is no gentle way to say this.” He paused taking a deep breath before continuing. “Nauloera, Anlenor… it was attacked. Three days ago. There… there was nothing left.”

She felt her hands begin to tremble but could not stop them. She heard a vast roaring in her ears but could not silence it. The world around her grew dark and the sight of her sister weeping when she left their peaceful little village flooded her vision. In the distance she could hear someone sobbing. She blacked out before she could recognize the voice as her own.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 10th, 2008 at 8:00 am and is filed under IC: Nauloera, In Character.You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.