What You've All Been Waiting For: The Blizzcon Ticket Contest Winner

And now for something completely different.

(With apologies to the cast of Monty Python.)

Yarr! It be Talk Like a Pirate Day!

Fortunately, I won't be typing this entire post in pirate-speak, so you all can consider yourselves spared.

First of all, I have a confession to make about the contest. I lied about part of it. In the original post, I said I'd be keeping the goody bag, and in the following post, I replied to a comment saying that there was a plan for it, and that I wasn't selling it. So here's the truth.

The winner is getting the goody bag.

I know a lot of people are going to cry foul, and say that I'm just trying to make myself look like the good guy, blah blah. Go ahead. Be my guest. Other people will want to know the reason, because let's face it, it was kind of a jerk move on my part to say that I'd be keeping it, and now I'm giving it to the winner.

Call it a social experiment. I wanted to see this contest get entries from some people who cared more about the event itself and not the little toys, the ones whose reward isn't the prize at the end, but the journey it took to get there. Because of it (at least, in my opinion), I got many fantastic submissions, and received one story that I felt stood out above all the rest.

Now, a lot of people sent me emails asking me if they could enter for a friend, sister, brother, or parent because for whatever reason, they wouldn't be able to make it, or were trying to win so that their friend could go with them. I was okay with that. Our contest winner today was one of those people.

It's always nice to see someone doing something for someone else, especially a sibling. Growing up, I was technically an only child, but my cousin was probably the closest thing I had to a brother, and when we got along, it was great... but when we didn't... sheesh. Now, admittedly, we were younger, and it's different when you're older than, say, twelve, but it still warms the heart. I'm kind of a softie. Don't tell anybody.

So congratulations to Anujaresh from the Lightninghoof server, who entered for her brother, Creoncoeus. For winning this contest, Anujaresh gets the goody bag, her brother gets to pick up the ticket, and both of them will get a Footsteps of Illidan loot card as an added bonus. Way to go, Anujaresh! Hope you're ready for your story to hit the limelight, because here it is.



The cauldron bubbled softly, boiling without heat. A young high elf woman knelt nearby, watching with rapt curiosity as the master worked. Pale blue smoke rose from the quietly roiling surface, and brushed the small ziggurat’s carved stone ceiling before fading from sight. The alchemist turned his eight eyes to a worktable, idly tapping the claws of his two-fingered forelimbs against the cauldron’s rim.

“Little Bug...”

The elf looked up expectantly, awaiting command.

“Have you seen my constrictor grass?”

She smiled, and quickly stood. “Yes, Naz’rabak. You left it in the study. I’ll get it.” Pausing only long enough for the Nerubian sorcerer’s nod of approval, she darted swiftly down the hallway and up a short staircase. Naz’rabak was by no means wealthy, but his craft afforded him considerations—such as this sizable living space—that most Nerubians did not possess.

The elf strode into the room beyond, tucking a stray white hair back into her carefully pinned bun. Soft leather boots and rich black rugs protected her fragile skin from the icy cold floor, and a silver-silk robe draped gracefully from her shoulders. It was important that she look distinguished and clean: the viziers were wary enough of Naz’rabak’s choice to keep an elf pet, and it would not do for her to fulfill the ragged, barbaric image they held of her race.

The sorcerer’s study was lined with books and scrolls, most personally owned by her master, some on loan from the legendary archives of Azjol’Nerub. Many had been scattered across work-shelves and even the floor—she clucked her tongue in affectionate rebuke for her master. But there was no time for reorganization now, and her brilliant green eyes fixed on a small bundle of crimson herbs. Careful to avoid tipping over an ink bottle and its accompanying cup of spider-leg quills, she picked up the bundle and hurried back to the lab.

“Thank you.” Naz’rabak didn’t take the proffered plant, and instead gestured her towards the cauldron. “You try, Little Bug. Two sprigs, if you please.”

Her heart fluttered in excitement: the Nerubian had invited her before to practice basic fel magic and alchemy under his supervision, but the experience still thrilled her. Careful to avoid sprinkling the potent spores on her pale, sun-starved skin, she broke two branches and tossed them in. The potion gurgled happily, and turned a brilliant purple. Naz’rabak nodded. “What’s next, Little Bug?”

“Whispervine,” she responded without hesitation. “Dried, but not crushed.”

“And then?”

“Kal’noren’s Third Incantation.”

“Very good.” He patted her shoulder—his taloned fingers were longer than her forearm. “I’ll carry on from here. You may watch if you like.”

“Thank you.” She bowed graciously and curled up on a pillow several feet away, her attention still fixed on the sorcerer’s work. Naz’rabak was unorthodox but brilliant, and for twenty years had treated her with nothing but gentle kindness. Little Bug, or ‘Anujaresh’ as her bestowed name was pronounced in Nerubian, barely even remembered her parents, too young when their Northrend expedition was destroyed and the survivors brought back to Azjol’Nerub for experimentation. Anu was the last of the kidnapped test subjects still alive; the others had been distributed to scientists with less...restraint. Naz’rabak’s choice to merely study her was unusual, his eventual fondness for her unheard of. Such a young race, the high elves: primitive and ignorant, but with great potential if they could only be taught their proper place.

Naz’rabak clicked quietly as he worked, muttering to himself. “How is your finger?”

She glanced down to the silk-wrapped digit Naz’rabak referred to. Two days before, he had cut away a fingernail to examine it with more aggressive techniques than he dared use so close to her living skin. She shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt much anymore, and the nail is growing back already. Your regenerative ointment works well.”

“Good. I’ll unwrap it soon, to make sure it’s free of infection. I’d like to study your healing process, too.”

Anu nodded, utterly impassive to the whole affair. Her entire purpose here was to be studied, to aid her master’s research. Still fascinated by the brewing potion, she unconsciously brushed a hand over her hair: it had been a dark brown many years ago, before Naz’rabak accidentally bleached it white during one of his tests—permanently. An unused cauldron caught her reflection in its polished bronze surface, and brought a smile to her lips: the new color was rather pretty.

“Seer! Seer!”

Both sorcerer and pet looked up at the frantic voice. “In here,” he called.

The scrabbling of spider legs preceded the newcomer’s arrival. “Seer!” A grey Nerubian, paler than her master, clung to the doorframe. This one was of the same caste as Naz’rabak, but younger, and thus of lower status. “You must come quickly!”

The sorcerer clacked his mandibles in irritation. “And just what is so urgent that you felt the need to burst into my chambers, unannounced?”

The messenger cowed, but only slightly. “Something has happened, something grave! Anub’arak himself is about to speak, and he requests that all seers be present.”

Anu’s master stiffened in surprise. “Anub’arak?” What could possibly be so dire to demand the Nerubian king’s personal appearance? “We’ll be on our way shortly. Little Bug, get yourself ready and bring me my cloak.”

Anu dashed off to do as Naz’rabak commanded, slipping past the visitor without a word. She scarcely noticed his look of contempt. “You’re bringing the rat?”

“It is not your place to question my decisions, spiderling.”

The messenger ducked his head. “My apologies, Seer.”

“Good. Now go; I’m sure you have others to notify.”

-

Anu followed closely at Naz’rabak’s ‘heels’, a hood pulled over her head and yeti-fur gloves on her hands. The underground city was warmer than the ice-covered land above, but only moderately so. Naz’rabak needed no clothing at all, but as befitting his station, he had donned several items of black and silver. Anu was grateful for this—his silver-stitched spellcloak in particular—as it made him easier to distinguish from the many other Nerubians hurrying by. Few gave her a second curious glance: this was far from the first time Naz’rabak had brought her out in public.

They followed the general flow of the populace, and eventually emerged into a vast audience chamber. Only those of moderate or high status would be permitted to attend the announcement, all others forced to rely on second-hand information—even this immense space could not hold the entire population of the city. Naz’rabak made his way to the location allocated for Nerubians of his class, midway between the back wall and the positions of highest honor on the floor. Anu folded her legs beneath her and drew out a writing tablet and quill. From this position, she would not be able to see the speaker, but her master hadn’t brought her along to gawk—it was her responsibility to transcribe the speech should Naz’rabak wish to study it later.

The many attendees chattered amongst themselves, only half the dialects comprehensible to the elf. She allowed her gaze to drift to the ceiling: Nerubian stonework was truly incredible, and few surfaces were left uncarved. The gothic archways here displayed a scene of conquest: the destruction of a Taunka settlement, punishment for the bull-men’s audacity in sending an emissary to establish trade with the Nerubians. And over there was a tribute to the first Nerubian to summon a demon, well over ten thousand years ago. Anu straightened in pride to be associated with such power and nobility. The auditorium was relatively new, and so displayed little mention of the mythological Faceless Ones, or the terrible, unnamed gods that had orchestrated the creation of the ancient Aqir. Such nearly-forgotten legends were rarely spoken of outside the priesthood.

A hush suddenly swept over the crowd and Anu pulled her attention back to the present: doubtless, Anub’arak had entered. He began without preamble.

“You have heard rumors of strange happenings on Icecrown Glacier. The time has come to inform you that these rumors are true: a being of great power has invaded our realm and declared himself lord.” The audience stirred with indignant rage, but silenced as their Ruler again spoke. “Do not be anxious, my people: this ‘Lich King’ will be dealt with, as we deal with all threats to our sovereignty! We will teach this newcomer fear. We will teach this newcomer humility. We will meet him without mercy or hesitation, and show him what it means to anger the mighty empire of Azjol’Nerub!”

-

Three years later

Anujaresh slipped quietly into her master’s study, a tray of food in hand. Naz’rabak often forgot to eat these days.

The Nerubian irritably scribbled over a cluster of dark runes in his journal. “No, no, no!” he hissed.

“Master?”

He seemed not to hear her, angrily turning through pages of notes with his long, clawed fingers. “The viziers ask the impossible! Arrogant twits!”

“Master?”

“Maybe...maybe with a more powerful reagent... yes, that might salvage it... But what could be more potent than--” Anu laid a porcelain-white hand on one of his six knees. “What?!” he snapped.

The elf ducked her head but did not flinch. Despair clung to the sorcerer’s limbs like webbing; she knew the outburst had not been intended for her. “You must eat.”

Sorrow in his many black eyes, he patted her head in apology, but brushed away the tray. “The soldiers need it more than I do.”

“As you have often said, the soldiers are a stopgap, one that will soon fail. It is the seers and their magic that will claim our victory. Please.”

He sighed, a hollow sound, and took a simple mushroom from her hands. Meat was in short supply, as most living animals had long since fled before the Scourge. “Thank you, Little Bug.” She bowed and placed the tray on a shelf, hoping that he might eat more later.

Something cracked in the distance, muffled to a low thud by earth and stone; it would soon be time to evacuate to deeper, safer regions of the city. Naz’rabak had thus far resisted the warnings, insistent that he would never be able to carry all the books and reagents necessary to his continued work. Anu did not attempt to influence his decision; what possible insight could a lowly elf offer to any Nerubian, let alone Naz’rabak? He would make the right choice, whatever it might be.

Anujaresh turned to leave, a dark blue robe swirling around her ankles. She had almost reached the hall when the sorcerer quietly called her back. “I am sorry, Little Bug.”

She tilted her head, confused. “What for?”

He closed his journal, and heavily set it aside. “You have been an enjoyable student, as much as any seer could ever hope for, and a valuable servant. If Azjol’Nerub falls...”

“It will not fall!”

He gently waved her to silence. “You should have been with your own people, not trapped here to suffer our fate.”

Her lip trembled. “I would choose to suffer your fate if it means not leaving your side, master.”

“I know, Little Bug.” His mandibles spread slightly in a sad smile. For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Anu waited patiently until he finally straightened, as though having reached some decision. “Meet me in the lab in two hours’ time.”

-

With great trepidation, Anu stepped carefully into Naz’rabak’s laboratory. The air smelled of herbs and magic. The sorcerer looked up, and gestured her closer. “Take this,” he commanded, handing her a cup of a concoction she did not recognize. “Drink it. Quickly—it’s quite bitter.”

For a brief moment, she considered disobeying, and envisioned the cup’s contents ‘accidentally’ spilled across the floor. But she knew that tone: in this matter, he would tolerate no defiance. She set the cup to her lips and drank.

-

Her head hurt. A thousand insects buzzed in her ears, and leeches turned somersaults in her stomach. And she felt cold...so very cold... Anu’s eyes snapped open, but quickly closed again at the brilliant, unfamiliar light of a rising sun. The ground beneath her was frozen hard, but at least free of snow.

“Lass? Can ye hear meh?”

She moaned, at first confused by the unintelligible sounds.

“What in the name o’ Bronzebeard is she doin’ out ‘ere?”

“She musta traveled a long way—maybe there’s an elf colony out there some’ere.”

“No, look at ‘er clothes! They barely been touched!“

“Shh! She’s waking up!”

Anujaresh forced her spinning mind to process the foreign words. Common. Yes, that was it: a clumsy language that her master had insisted she learn. Her lips felt thick, numb with cold. “Wh-who?” Braced for the pain, she opened her eyes once more.

Four short humanoids stared down at her, all with pink skin and thick, braided beards. “Lass,” one of them asked. “Are ye alright?”

“I...where...Naz’rabak?...*click* ak ren’sho *click* kal...”

The dwarves looked quickly between one another as her words dissolved into the Nerubian tongue. “Ye been mutter’n them sounds in yer sleep too, but I’m afraid we can’t understand ye. Me...me name’s Brass, Brass Stonefoot. We’re with the Explorer’s League, landed on the shores o’ this continent not three weeks ago. Me and these boys were jus’ out takin’ a quick huntin’ trip, lookin’ fer breakfast, an’ we find an elf instead! But don’t ye worry: we’ll take care of ye, and get ye back te Quel’thalas if that what ye be wantin’.”

Her master’s words tumbled from memory: “You should have been with your own people, not trapped here to suffer our fate.” She sat bolt upright, frantically scanning the horizon. The mountains were wrong, all wrong! Her fingers clenched into the icy dirt...and with a heart-stabbing shock, found the tell-tale spiky prints of spider legs. No... NO! Tears began to roll down her face. How far must Naz’rabak have carried her, that she couldn’t even recognize the landscape? He knew...knew that she’d never willingly leave, so... The taste of the bitter sleeping potion welled in her throat, and she nearly threw up.

The dwarves were saying something, but she could no longer hear them. He was out there, somewhere, heading back to Azjol’Nerub to take his place alongside those condemned to die. Without her. I can still catch up to him! I can follow him back! Even as the thought formed, though, she knew it was futile: only a few hills away, the frozen ground turned to rock, and without her master’s trail, she’d never find her way. Anu looked down at the blanket that had kept her warm until the explorers found her: it was a black spellcloak, stitched in silver. Naz’rabak’s.

The tears froze to her cheeks. The wind had ripped her hair from its tidy knot, and now it blew about her face like snow. She fell back to the ground, and wept.

-

15 years later: Present Day

Dark waves thundered against the iron-framed prow of a Forsaken battleship, kicking an icy mist across the deck. A lone sorceress clutched the worn railing. Her robe billowed about porcelain-white wrists, and her chin met the frigid wind with a haughty tilt. The felhound at her side whined unhappily.

“Hush,” Anujaresh chided her pet, tossing him a soul shard. The demon hungrily devoured the treat and nuzzled her leg for more. She scratched his scaly head. “It won’t be long now.”

Indeed, the white peaks of Northrend had already appeared on the horizon; Anu swallowed a burst of trepidation. It had taken so long for this day to come, so many years spent among her birth-race, bearing the names of ‘liar’ and ‘lunatic’. Undead armies, cities of spiders—who could believe such nonsense? A mirthless smile tugged at her lips, the memory of Arthas’ march on Quel’thalas still fresh: no one was laughing anymore.

A fresh spray of salty ice buffeted the ship, and Anu pulled her master’s spellcloak tighter about her shoulders. Those years were over. Today, she stood a trained warlock and apothecary, respected across Silvermoon and Orgrimmar, perhaps even the equal of a Nerubian seer. At long last, her steps would again tread the snow-covered continent, and cut a path to whatever might remain of Azjol’Nerub.

The wooden floor creaked beneath her boots, purple sails whipping in the wind as the Forsaken crew struggled against the bitter elements. Other ‘adventurers’ waited on the lower decks, stitching fur and wool into clothing once designed for a warmer climate. More Horde ships battled the waves to either side; even the blue-gold of the Alliance could be seen amidst the thickening field of icebergs. Anu smiled coldly: the Lich King’s days were numbered.

Much time had passed, but if Naz’rabak was still alive, she would find him. The Spider Lords would rise again. The humanoid races would band together and shatter Icecrown. It was all so simple, so inevitable, the end of a terrible era.

And yet, an unwelcome thought teased her mind. Disturbed, she wrapped her arms about her chest, and tried to ignore to the silent words that drifted over the jagged cliffs of Northrend:

...perhaps...the war is just beginning.