Tribulations

 A typical morning in Halfhill was something to look forward to. People took their time to savor life here, so it was quiet when Merada rose for her morning meditations. The air was always crisp and cool, the sun rose early to paint the sky in pastel colors, and the light was never too bright when it came through the window. It made the green hills of the Valley gleam like emeralds, reminding her so much of her birthplace of Nagrand. For that reason alone, the shaman quickly started to savor her time here. Here in the home of the Emberheart Expedition.

At least, she used to.

Now, a typical morning in Halfhill was something to dread. The townsfolk were still quiet, but more from exhaustion after caring for their screaming loved ones as the Sleeping Sickness tore at their minds night after night. For those whose families had yet been spared, the screaming from the afflicted houses was sure to interrupt much-needed sleep. The sun still rose, but no one was in the mood to appreciate its beauty anymore. Certainly not Merada. 

Her morning meditations had been replaced by *waiting*. Waiting for the healers of the Expedition to gather, waiting for supplies to be brought in, waiting for answers to questions she barely knew existed. The sickness had come like an avalanche, slowly at first, then all at once. It had been only a month or two ago when the symptoms started manifesting across the Valley. Zheng Freshide was the first, or at least the first to seek treatment, when the headaches and dizzy spells began to affect his work as the owner of the Four Feathers Trading Post. Then came the others over time. The same symptoms, with no obvious correlation, such as family or occupation, to connect them, so Merada did what she could. 

She wasn’t entirely alone to begin with, either. There was another, a monk by the name of Makuo the Mistweaver, who was helping her. They traded medicinal and cultural knowledge while traveling to treat people. However, Merada had not seen him in some time, at least a couple of weeks, before everything imploded. She feared the worst.

Another name on the list. She shook her head. There was no use in stalling. 

Rising slowly from her bed in the Lazy Turnip Inn, she got ready for another long day. Her head already began to ache, though if it was from the stress or the beginning of the infection, she couldn’t honestly say. The way her fingers trembled slightly as she put on her mother’s things was all hers. As was the weight of the day—and of the dead—that had settled like a boulder on her chest. With each article, a new lingering thought. She paused when she reached for the hunting knife, though. It was well-loved, but it showed its age, requiring regular sharpening and a new grip. There were chips in the blade from use. She should have had it repaired by now, but Merada had relied on it as her sidearm and craft tool since she left, the history a strength she had leaned on since her mother's passing. To repair it felt like a disservice. The wear and tear told a story she wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

Azier, The Living Blade reforged...

But besides the old knife, there was another weapon, one that evoked different emotions. The craftsmanship was exquisite, made with care and an eye for detail. The sheath, crafted from solid kodo leather and lined with wolf fur, was adorned with knitted golden thread, embroidered in a pattern reminiscent of flames. It glittered in the light and drew the eye to the small piece of blackrock ore that was embedded in the center of it. She acquired the blade during a job in Stranglethorn while exploring a Gurubashi ruin. In truth, it was the host of a fire elemental, an ancient being that called itself Azier. Their original calling was to heal the sick, burn away infection and poison during a time when those things ravaged the old empire. However, age had made them weak, more ember than inferno. Now they were stronger, reforged by Dorant Emberscowl and the knowledge of the Blackrock Clan. All for naught, as it seemed, as the Sleeping Sickness was quickly revealed to be magical. More curse than disease. 

Carefully, she pulled Azier free from the sheath. They were quiet, had been since she had handed them over to Dorant, but it was not concerning. It was a peaceful, prepared sort of calm. No doubt that Azier was there, and would answer when called. They were just waiting, like she was. The blade itself was a mix of old and new. The original blade was made of obsidian and required reshaping and reinforcement, both to maintain the integrity of the weapon and to accommodate the new pommel, which had an unusual shape. It was almost spherical, with tiny vents crafted into it that Merada had never seen before in a dagger. In theory, it was meant to help her control how much of Azier’s power she could channel, but she had yet to have the chance to put it to the test. 

This blade, too, had a story, Merada realized. One that was being told in the present time. Something made its presence known in her mind, besides the headache, a piece of wisdom from an elder orc, something that was just now hitting home: 

“Your adventures have only just begun."

“Damn old man.” She cursed quietly in her native tongue before correcting herself. “Spirits keep you in health and long life.”

Before she could talk herself out of it, Merada was down the stairs and out the door of the inn; Her mother’s hunting knife was left behind, and Azier was securely fastened on her hip in its place.