06

November

2009

Fan-Fiction of Drama-Llama quality

Posted in : Uncategorized

Fan-fiction time. This is set on Shadow Council, an RP server in World of Warcraft. I run an RP-guild named Pox on the Horde side, and my character,  Shryn’Dael, is suffering from post-partum, the loss of her husband, and a crying baby boy with magical powers.

God, I’m such a drama llama.

The sound of crying woke the Magister from her nap, shearing across her nerves like the sound of metal against metal. How had she birthed something with such vibrantly powerful vocal chords?

With a sleepy moan, she rolled over in her large bed, uncaring of how her blonde hair mussed. Long slender fingers grasped a nearby pillow and pulled it overtop of her long, delicate ears in an attempt to shut out the sound of infant wailing.

It did no good. Flinging the pillow across the bed, Shryn’Dael sat up and rubbed her eyes. What had she said the other day? That it had been easier to love the child before he was born?

So true. Within her, he had been warmth and a reminder of everything good. Out of her, he screamed and wailed and threw fits unlike anything she had ever heard.

Where was the wet nurse? The nannies? Why had no one responded to the child’s cries yet?

Aggravated, the Magister slid from her bed and pulled on a robe, pacing her room. The wailing only increased in frequency and pitch as the babe went uncared for.

It was finally too much for her, and Shryn stalked into the closet that adjoined onto the nursury. She brushed through the fine dresses and battle regalia with increased ire as the volume of the baby’s crying became louder and louder.

Then she stopped, hand out-stretched for the latch on the door. Something she heard through the crying made her skin shiver.

She heard cackling. High-pitched, insane giggling. Not elven, not human, not trollish nor orcish. Not even forsaken. There was something unnatural in the nursary with her son.

The Magister stepped back and shed her sleeping robe, quietly sliding on something more suited for battle. She did not know what was within the next room, and going unprepared would be foolish. It only took moments for her to dress, moments that were punctuated by the loud, gasping wails of her baby boy.

Returning to the door, Shryn’Dael raised the latch and pushed it open. Immediately, her senses were assaulted by blood; the coppery tang of it filled her nostrils, the sight of it splashed against the walls and pooled on the floor, on the bodies of the wetnurse, the nannies.

As she was taking this in, a ball of liquid, flaming fire burst from the giggling corner of the room, striking the Magister square in the chest. Shryn staggered back, crashing against the blood-smeared wall, stars dancing before her eyes.

Even as she recovered from the attack, her fingers were moving, tracing the sigils for warding against flame. As the next ball of fire flew across the room to strike her, it melted away in front of her, absorbed by the magic.

Now, she could see it; a capering, dancing, pea-green imp in the corner, by the window. It chittered at her, its bright red eyes boring into her. It began to channel darkness between its hands, and Shryn immediately pointed a slender finger at the demon.

“I don’t think so,” she snarled, activating a cantrip. Arcane bindings stopped the imp’s spell in its tracks, locking the creature down. It whimper-chittered at her as she warily stalked over towards it.

And, of course, putting herself between the wailing baby and the imp.

“Who sent you?” The words were hard, hard as metal. The imp cringed away from the controlled fury in her voice.

It chittered and pointed at her, and she frowned.

“Do not toy with me. I am no warlock, I did not bring you here!” She extended a hand, twisting it and by extension the magical bindings on the imp.

It shrieked, drowning out and silencing the crying baby.

“N-not you! Him! HIM!” The imp pointed at her again – no, through her, to the crying baby behind her.

The Magister just stared a moment, then released the bindings on the imp.

“Leave. Do not return, on pain of death – no matter how loud he cries for you.”

The imp didn’t hesitate; with a pop, it vanished from sight. The baby behind her, little Kirion, began to cry again.

The dead nurses and nannies would not be able to silence her crying son, comfort him and feed him. New ones would have to be found. In the meantime, he would cry – and the room would need to be cleaned, and protected, against her son’s uncontrollable powers.

Just like Isinwen had needed his powers sealed away. Just like her mother. Her child – hers and Regalion’s – had inherited the power to reach into the demonic plane, bypassing her arcane talents.

Turning to the crib, Shryn’Dael peered down at Kirion, his elven face bunched up and red from his wailing. His tiny, perfect hands waved up at her, and she couldn’t help herself.

She reached into the crib, gently lifting the baby and drew him close, cradling him in her arms. He nestled against her chest, the crying ceasing immediately.

For the first time since his birth, Shryn’Dael held her son in her own arms.

She carried him out of the destroyed nursery and into her suite, ringing the bell to bring servants. If, when they arrived, they were shocked to see her nursing Kirion, they said nothing and instead went quick to clean the mess the imp had left in its wake.

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