10,000 Years of Darkness 2

This was my contribution to the second '10,000 Years of Darkness' open-rp thread. I did post in the first and those can be seen in the RP stories link. In this one I wanted to try and write something from the perspective of the ordinary people on Azeroth, who will be experiencing a change of leadership. It was my opinion that the demons would not immediately destroy Azeroth, after all, they have a whole universe to conquer, and they have to supplied from somewhere, it seems odd that they would slaughter an entire workforce. Anyway, I never got round to writing anymore then what is here. My original intentions were to lead up to something like a revolution in Westfall, with Iyokus, somewhat broken by his experiences, picking up a weapon and helping. I sort of talked myself out of it though, thinking that they would have no chance against the Legion, even if they had some initial successes. However, thinking on it now, that might have made a good story in it's on right, a brief flare up of freedom. 
I liked the characters and the visuals. 
From the collected fiction of Iyokus Shatterstar 
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Life was harder, but you took it without grumbling. It was the lot of the poor to suffer in this world and complaining about it, as likely as not, only brought down more pain on your head. I learned that lesson at a young enough age for it to stick.
 
Sydcombe, who had run the farm next to our own, was getting pressed by his landowner, Lord Ingsol. His rents were rising, thugs and bandits took what they pleased and old James was reaching the end of his tether as the nobleman did nothing to aid him. We think that Ingsol had wanted to get rid of James and sell the land on, or make some other use of it. The man had no children and was old – stubborn too, and I think it was his refusal to just die that annoyed Ingsol the most.
 
James took his issue to Stormwind, all the way to the Palace. He thought he had a good case, that the King would listen and have to do something. That he was right.
But it is our lot in life to suffer.
The King was far too busy to see some peasant farmer still muddy from his field in Westfall, of course. Sydcombe was pushed in front of some committee stacked full of fat nobles to make his complaint.
But who should be chairing the committee?
Ingsol of course, the Baker they called him, for all the land he owned in the breadbasket regions of Men. James had been laughed out of Stormwind and ordered to pay a fine for wasting the court’s time. My father took him on after he was moved off his own farm, but the old man was broken and did not last the next winter.
 
Keep your head down. Be hard working and industrious. And when that is not enough, and it will not be for the powers that be and capricious and greedy, give prayer to the Light and beseech it for blessing.
I had done a lot of praying these days, for life was harder.
 
The demons still needed food, though they much preferred meat to grain, and my farm had continued without much change to my routine, though my rent had become tribute and was almost my entire yield. They had installed a new governor in a rebuilt Moonbrook, an elf named Asmon, and all the farmers and their families had been rounded up and taken to Sentinel Hill for ‘introductions.’
 
I suppose I thought about fighting back, taking up the axe and defending my own but I admit without shame that the idea did not last long. The monsters that came for me were demons in truth, over ten feet tall and wielding swords that screamed when unsheathed. The one who lead them had a cloak that put an end to all thoughts of rebellion – it was made of faces, stretched and stitched together in eternal expressions of horror. It held a dread fascination to me, I could not take my eyes of it. It was a motley of colours, like the mosaics that I had been charmed by on my trips to Stormwind (I even tried my hand at my own, though that was in days of plenty and peace), men and women, and in tiny heart-breaking squares, children of all races.
 
We were marched to Sentinel Hill, picking up other families as we walked, only three of the demons needed to quell us. I carried my youngest daughter, Cynthia, who was just a babe and yet able to somehow feel the evil of the monsters that pushed and prodded at us.
I must confess now how surprised I had been at their gentility at that point. Yes, my door had been shattered by their arrival, but I had been treated far worse by the bailiffs of the nobles and not one of us was treated to anything worse than a rough shove in the right direction. If anything, we were treated with boredom, I have no doubt that our guards would have rather been out finding more faces to skin than herding meek farmers.
 
We were gathered at Sentinel Hill, and I recognized the fearful faces of my fellows, for we are a tight knit group, small and friendly. Some of the faces seemed to have had it worse than mine, but then, Glover had always been a belligerent boaster and had probably tried to fight one of the devils. His son was helping him to stand.
 
We were introduced to our new Governor, who was a High Elf, handsome as all his kind are, all deep red skin and bright green eyes. He explained at length the new order of the world and our vital role in the new kingdom that was being built. The bravest amongst us grumbled at the talk of ‘tribute’ and ‘masters’, but I was not one of them. I held Cynthia close and gripped Sarah’s hand tightly. I saw the grin of dark delight that swept over Asmon’s face as he heard the growls, and soon enough my worst fears were realised.
We were a farming community, simple men with largely simple problems and we did not take much with leaders. But if we could say to have any, it would have been Aythur Jansen, a big ol’ fella who listened more than he spoke and was as solid as a stone. He was brought up before us, as was Lord Ingsol, not the fat one mind, but his son, the thin one.
 
What Asmon did to them, well it does not bear repeating. Suffice to say that we were shocked to silence, and the things that had once been two men serve as a reminder to this day. There was no pretense at civility there like there had been with the nobles – we had been enslaved, and to step out of line would lead to nothing but death, be it torture by the Governor’s fel magic or toiling in the blackness of the mines, which ate men and spat out gold. 
Life is harder now, and there is no one left to complain to…
 
A new worker joined my farm today. One of those night elves – I thought they had been fairly wiped out to the man (the memories of the demons are as long as their ancient nemesis is seems) but apparently some survive here and there, on their knees of course.
He told me that he had been about to be sent to the Jangelode Mine but had won over the Governor who had assigned him to me. I’m not sure what to believe; the mine is where the demons send those who have raised weapons against them and they are not ones to give out pardons. On the other hand, our Governor is as changeable as the weather and is liable to pick ‘favourites’ – though I’m not sure the Molsen girl has any cause to be thankful for his favour.
But he had the Seal and you can’t argue with that, not unless you want Face and his pack to burn you out of your skin.
Looking at him, you wouldn’t be blamed for thinking that the hoary devil might have already had his fun with the poor fellow. Scarred from tip to toe and missing a finger.
 
Calls himself Quill, he can sleep in one of the outbuildings. 
 
----
I was with my father when Crandel visited us. I hate that man. It didn’t take long for the scum of the world to bend the knee at the throne of the Deceiver and sell their souls for a taste of power. I didn’t know Crandel before, well, everything went wrong, but Father tells me he was nothing much, a bully, a drunk. Not a good man and I can tell it pains Father that he has to be respectful and subservient to a man who’s only grip on power was a stunning lack of morals.
 
The fel had not been kind to Crandel’s appearance; tightening his skin to the point of morbidity and making him look sallow and unhealthy. But under his scruffy, unfashionable robes were oversized muscles, gifted by the Governor for the human’s good service. Crandel travelled without a guard and I knew from personal experience that he preferred to kill with his bare hands.
 
As usual, he leered at me, licking his reptilian long tongue across his thin lips obscenely, in a way that made my father bristle and pull me slightly behind him. He always made me feel uncomfortable in my own skin, like I was something to be owned and that he was the one to own me. I didn’t like being in the same room as him but wanted to hear what he had come to say. However much I hated him, he was interesting, the Governor’s herald.
 
It was not good news, but it never is. I could feel Father getting more and more tense beside me and I moved my hand onto his back, hoping I would be some comfort to him. With mother gone he had so much to bear and he was just the kind of man who would not share it. I had tried to take some, looking after Cynthia and the house, and I prayed that he let me worry about those things.
Crandel told us that the Governor demanded that we, and the other farms of course, increase our production. I wanted to argue and opened my mouth, but Father drew me behind him even further and I silenced myself. It would mean less food for us and we were already going hungry, but there was nothing to be argued, for all his bluster Crandel was as much a slave as we and would not dare to question the will of the Governor.
 
Father was cringingly nice to Crandel as he showed him to the door. The lizard loved it, ‘gifting’ Father with a royal wave of his hand, all the while grinning smugly at me, like he had won something. It was enough for me, and I left.
 
At times, when I wanted to be alone, when Cynthia had pressed me too much, or it became too hard to look at my defeated father, I would go to the edge of our eastern field, sit on the fence and just watch the world. It looked away from the mines, so I could pretend like a child that they did not exist, that Myron had never disappeared into their black maw. Always in the distance there was a black cloud above what had once been Stormwind, that wondrous city that I could hardily remember, now nothing more than a great forge for the weapons of the Legion. The ore that was mined endlessly travelling east to feed that hungry black cloud.
 
As I walked up to the fence, I could see that there was someone already there. It was the new farmhand, the night elf. I thought about turning back, or at least finding another spot to sit. But for some reason I was feeling belligerent, angry. Crandel’s poison had already driven me from my home, and damned if I was going to give up my spot on the fence to some elf!
A pathetic rebellion I know, but it seemed all we were capable of here in Westfall. I’ll admit that it galled me, a youth brimming with indignation, that the Legion kept us all, an entire region, subdued by some four demons and the Governor, an elf warlock. Yes, the rest was done by what was being called the ‘Mortal Legion’, those who had sided with the demons, but they were just men. But what could we do? There were no real fighting men in Westfall, at least none who could hope to stand against their unholy strength or the Governor’s magic. Asmon himself had been the one to devastate any hope of dissidence. 
 
In the Deadmines the remnants of the Defias still skulked. Their leadership had long been cut away by the Alliance, but they had never all been rounded up. They may have been thieving scum, less than coyotes all of them, but they had experience at fighting and mages too. They might have been a start, a core, of the fight against the Legion in Westfall.
Those who had not been tempted out by joining the Governor’s bailiff company had been cornered in the Deadmines, the back tunnel blocked by Face, the front where the Governor unleashed his ritual. He had been happy for people to come and watch, he loved spectacle, and so I had seen what had happened. A torrent of fire, a great river had gushed out of the space between his arms and plunged into the mine. It was so bright, and it lit up the Governor, standing legs wide, like a god, unaffected by the heat that seared us watching. Did the Defias have a chance to scream? Did it hurt? All we could hear was the roar of the flames and Crandel’s laugh as Asmon reached his deadly will into the hideout. 
 
When I was younger, I had fantasized – juvenile dreams looking back at them – of some great hero of the Alliance riding into Westfall on his white charger and slaying the demons, setting us free. A knight-paladin maybe, like Gaebriel of the Lightsworn or an Uther reborn. Or perhaps one of our allies, an alien Draenai blasting them to dust with his magic and not understanding our words of thanks.
Stupid, stupid little girl. There are no heroes here, none had any time for Westfall.
 
We got the news of course, mainly the bad news, which the demons would crow with triumph. The rebel camp in Tanaris destroyed, the fall of Ironforge, the resistance in Northrend – all places far far away. Normally there was a delay of some weeks between us getting the news and us seeing the lines of new prisoners tramping into the mines. Some of them looked strong, even in chains – but you never left the mine, everyone knew that.
 
I chose a spot on the fence some five yards away from the elf and stared at him brazenly. I had seen him working in the fields today from afar, and marveled at his purple skin and his long white hair, all tied back in a shoddy ponytail. But up close was a different matter. He had taken off his shirt, the heat of the day obviously too much, and even crouched over the fence I could see that he was powerful, even slightly intimidating. He was sheathed in scars, hundreds of them crowding every inch of skin of his body and his right ear - the other long and oddly graceful considering the rest of him – was almost completely torn to shreds. I think he purposely ignored me then. Was he trying to scare me off with his appearance alone? Well, I may have been a woman, but I wasn’t afraid of him, no matter how villainous he looked.
 
I turned to look at what he was watching. It was the Brutes. That probably wasn’t what they called themselves but we didn’t know any other name for them, and no one had the inclination or courage to ask them. Two of them were sparring with their long, rectangular, cleaver-like blades, the screams of the swords thankfully not carrying to me. Face and another demon stood rigidly, also watching the fight. The four of them came to the same spot about once a week to fight, or sometimes just to sit, talking I think. I didn’t know why, our farm was some way from Moonbrook where they had quarters and I couldn’t see anything special about the place they had chosen – there were any number of fields exactly like it. I expressed as much aloud, not really expecting any answer, so I was a bit shocked when the elf spoke.
 
‘My guess?’ he said.
I looked at him. I suppose if asked what I imagined his voice would be like, I would have said stilted, otherworldly, and uncomfortable with the human language. But it wasn’t like that at all. His voice was deep and growly, like the voice your father puts on when he plays the bear or the wolf in the stories. And he spoke common flawlessly, the only trace of an accent that of a Stormwind noble.
He turned to face me, his eyes two golden fires surrounded by a face that above all, to a degree that -was- inhuman, was tired.
‘I would say that it’s a place where blood has been spilled, more precisely, where people have fought and died.’ He turned back to the demons.
‘Above everything, the felguard are drawn to violence and battle. Everything starts and finishes with fighting for them; love, law, life…everything. Those four down there can’t be very happy at all. Nothing here but farmers, and you can’t fight farmers.’
As if bored, he turned away from the contest, leaning his back against the fence. As if an afterthought he says:
‘The shorter one will win.’
 
I sidled closer and asked him how he knew all those things about them. I will admit that I was intrigued by him. In two sentences he had revealed more knowledge about Face and his creatures then almost anyone in Westfall was privy to. Maybe I was bored with farmers and farmer’s problems, whatever, I wanted to hear more, even if none of it was true. 
He just scratched at his white stubble – missing the ring finger on that hand – and smiled at me. He told me that he best finish up his chores if he wanted to stay on my farm. I asked him for his name at least and he told me to call him Quill. Maybe he was a writer before?
He doesn’t look much like someone who wrote books. He looks like someone who should have been locked away for a good long time.
I resolved to talk to him. There are no heroes in Westfall, but perhaps there is a nice enough villain.
 
I got it from my father later that there were rumours in Moonbrook that the reason the Governor had ordered a bigger tribute was that some Legion high-up was coming on a tour of the subjugated territories. I can’t wait.
 
Oh, and the short one did win the fight.
Category:Story