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The Sick Frostsaber Empty The Sick Frostsaber

Post  Myre on Mon Jan 25, 2010 6:42 pm

"A Frost Lily is the only item that will help save your Frostsaber. An extremely rare and potent Herb said to only be found in the deepest reaches of Northrend, but one with a fragile beauty that would surpass any other herb found in Azeroth. I wish it were easier, My friend, but the extreme cold in Icecrown has affected your Mount beyond my ability to cure her. You'll either have to find the Lily, or put the Saber down humanely."

These words rang in the Shaman's cold ears as he treaded across the Snowy grounds of Winterspring, Kalimdor, heading towards the Cartel's haven of Everlook. Myre rubbed his gloved hands together and then placed them in his heavy robe's pockets. Even after many adventures in Icecrown, and a growing affection for the biting chill, the cold still made him feel ill.

A Rare herb, found only in the warring territory of Northrend. Myre's only option to cure his Frostsaber's sickness (or so the Trainer had told him). It seemed impossible. He wasn't even totally sure if he had heard of this herb before. He wondered if any other herbalist had. It seemed to have gone unnoticed by the public...Surely, if something that beautiful had been discovered by an adventurer, the knowledge would have come to Myre's ear eventually.

Still, there was no choice...The Winterspring Frostsaber was a gift to Myre back in the old days, before Covenant, and before the incident that took Myre's voice. When he still was 'officially' an Ambassador of the Alliance.

Myre had ventured into Winterspring alone as a way to contact the lone Night Elf, Rivern Frostwind, who trained Frostsabers in the north of the area. After many chores, feedings, and work, Myre had earned the respect of Rivern, and was granted his own Mighty Frostsaber as a personal gift. Myre was not eager at first, but the Saber had been so beautiful and strong, They quickly bonded.

The two went as far as the frozen throne, before this happened...the cold diseases of the rotting dead that crawled around Icecrown had affected his Saber, and left it in a state of agony that was only lessened by Rivern's expert care. Left without his trusted companion, and unable to put down a beast so strong, Myre felt there was no choice.

He fastened his pouches and pulled on the gryphon's reins as he flew to Stormwind harbor, his weapons prepped for battle and his mind set on his task: Obtain the Frost Lily and get it back to his Saber as fast as possible.


Myre remembered how much he hated the sun.

After hours spent in Northrend venturing around the frozen continent, and even more time lamenting over his Frostsaber's life in Winterspring, Myre had little personal time with the sunlight, and had forgotten how thankful he was for that.

'Stormwind harbor is too bright...' he thought as he shielded his eyes from the rays and headed for the docks. The place was bright, warm, and bustling, everything that Myre despised in his company. If he could only get to Northrend, where it was cool and quiet, sated...

His steps were heavy and metallic, the Draenei's warm robes traded in for his armor. Large, mail leggings and a tunic covered by an even heavier Robe that almost covered his hooves. Blue and black designs arced across each piece in art designed by the Shaman himself. The whole armor seemed to link to each piece fitfully, with all the lines connecting at the neck, seeming to point towards the large scarring line across Myre's throat.

He huffed silently as he placed his helmet on, hiding all but his dark hazel eyes. The boat had arrived, and Myre had no plans to stay in Stormwind Harbor any longer than was required. He paid his fee, and boarded onto the ship's deck, not caring to find an empty room and instead sitting against the corner of the deck and setting his bags beside him, letting his arm hang lazily against the railing and staring at the entrance of the boat with a patient impatience.

As the ship rocked slowly from side to side, awaiting the final passengers, Myre's thoughts turned darker, as he closed his eyes and recalled the words Rivern had told him:

"You have two weeks, maybe three. She won't be able to survive longer than that, if you're lucky..."

'Frost lily' the Shaman thought, as a blue strand of mana slipped between his fingers idly.

A crumpled piece of paper lays strewn and forgotten on the floor. Written with excellent handwriting in deep black ink. It starts:

"Those who can speak, are blind. and those who aren't blind, can't speak. It's a sad truth, one you should do well to remember."

Posts : 62
Join date : 2010-01-17
Age : 25
Location : Bel Air, Maryland

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