The Lion and the Serpent - Chapter Eight: Loa

“It’s been Four days, and still no word?” asked Aarian urgently, his head shaking gently from side to side in disbelief.

“If there’s a way then Arador will find it, nobody better at such things than him” Replied Trohad pressingly in appeasement, the pair passing under the iron gate of Westbrook garrison.

The forest of Elwynn was now fully under the cold hand of winter, the short grass coated in icy frost and the once mighty green Oaks were bare and barren. Despite the cold withdrawn features of the land, the area around the Garrison was quite active with the movements of the new Arathorian Residents.

Tents had been set up, along with training dummy’s and combat circles where the northern warriors seemed to be trying to teach their southern paladin cousins how to fight ‘properly’. Red and blue clad figures exchanged archery tips on a mock up archery range, seemingly two hooded Arathorian Rangers keeping tally of the scores. All the while Antirius seemed to be driving a dozen half dressed men around in laps, yelling at the top of his voice form under his wolf-head mask for them to “Hurry up ya lazy dogs! Get those legs working!”.

As the dark magi and chaplain moved their gazes from the improvised training camp and back to the road, they noticed a rider mounting his horse. Seiken’s White stallion stood stoic and silent as its master pulled himself into his saddle, though not dressed in his armour, he still carried his sword and lion fur cloak on his back to cover his simple red cloth and leather garments.

“And just where are you off now eh? Ya can’t keep leaving things to me and Arador ya know!” exclaimed Trohad upon spotting the prince clambering onto his steed.

Seiken cast a vacant moody glance toward the magi who now only stood some five paces from him, a half frown with little caring for his friends protest.
“To my sons grave, if that’s fine by you Trohad. Unless you think I have something better to do while we wait for the rangers?” the prince uttered blankly, pulling on the reigns of his horse so that the stallion neighed and strutted to stretch its legs.

Trohad coughed and bowed his head without reply, having sensed the tenderness of the subject, but most likely wishing not to provoke the wrath of his master.

“Safe journey then Friend, and don’t worry about us, there really isn’t much to do for now...” spoke Aarian, with a compliant and thoughtful smile. Seemingly the master chaplain knew how to better handle a delicate subject.

“I’ll be back by sundown...” murmured the prince, urging his horse into action. The mighty stallion burst into full speed, racing toward the main roadway at full gallop before either Trohad or Aarian could muster a reply.

Haidren was a fine example of his breed, resilient, muscular, powerful and brave. No finer a war horse could be bred than a white stallion of Arathor, raised wild upon the highlands. Though this horse was no youthful steed, he was a rugged, war scarred beast with many years under his saddle. Unflinching in the face of death and loyal to his master, he’d charge into a thousand Orc’s with spears if Seiken asked it of him.

The pair travelled effortlessly along the road, with speed and without hindrance. No obstacles upon the empty road, too cold to travel now so close to winter veil. Passing through the small village of Goldshire before either Stallion or Rider broke a sweat, turning onto the road north, to the abbey of Northshire.

Not a soul did Seiken see until he arrived at the abbey’s walls, where two guards stood as sentry. Though they protected the path with their lives, they let the lone prince pass without question, each saluting once as he passed under the archway and around the walled bend at a trotting pace.

How I once adored coming here in summer as a boy, naive to the world and the coming tides of war... how I spent my time with my father, blind to the truth of his and my lineage. How I dwelt here, as a boy, as a son of Stormwind. Unaware my father was an exile...

Pushing a slow sigh from his lips, he peered around the valley of Northshire. The abbey was quiet, with but two guards at the entrance and no villagers in sight. The clergy must have been deep in their meditation in an attempt to avoid the cold winter day that only the hardy guards and lumberjacks braved.

A brief gust of cold biting wind moved through the valley, chilling all in its path to the bone. Tightening his Lion fur cloak around him, Seiken proceeded, dismounting his horse. Patting the stallion once on its neck, with a subtle grunt in reply, the Prince made his way with slow steps toward the graveyard, his head held low so that his hair partially draped his view.

The small walled graveyard had a solemn silence about it, sat next to the abbey walls. Lines of well tended stone grave stones stood silent. All but for one, an unmarked gravestone, isolated and alone. Its solid surface bore no name, or markings, only a simple iron sword stood upright by its side, impaled in the earth.

Seiken approached, standing at its side in silence. Placing a hand upon the top, a pained sigh escaped his lips as his face curled into one of anguish.

All my life I wanted nothing more, nothing less, than the simple rights of any man. A home, a wife to love, a son to cherish and raise.

He fell to his knees, his eyes tightening as the pain of grieving fluttered through his mind.

It was my fault, I knew you was here... training to be the paladin you always wanted to be. But no, I respected your mother’s wishes and kept my distance, my own son never even knowing his real father...

The grief began to well up like a tidal wave, tightening in the pit of his chest. A lone tear running from his only eye while he struggled to restrain his emotions.

I could have protected you, moved you from here. But no, when Zaraj took power I thought first of Stormwind and travelled with its people to Theramore. Like a fool, I protected the interests of others first, and forgot...

You couldn’t have known he would stand up to him...

A voice?

“Who’s there!?” yelled the prince in surprise, leaping to his feet he looked around, but only to see nobody but the gravestones.

What trickery is this?

No tricks...

The voice came again, strong and unflinching, its tone sympathetic but cruel.

“Do not conceal yourself from me! Declare yourself!” Seiken roared, drawing his sword, silver-strand, with lightning reflexes and ready for battle.

What makes you think I am hiding, oh mighty ‘Lion’?

Riddles, I have no time for riddles...

“Because I cannot see you, obviously! Now, reveal yourself!” he commanded with resolve, tightening his grip on his sword.

I do not hide, nor do I tell riddles... Bane of the followers of Dambalah...

Seiken hesitated, his mind a fluster with confusion. Lowering his sword, he glanced around, with nothing but the cold midday sun to be seen.

How can you hear what I’m thinking?

The same way I always have, I listen to your inner most thoughts. As a thought is kept within the mind, so am I too... ever since that day in Alterac.

What Devilry magic is this!? What foolish cultist or magician dares invade my mind!?

Seiken bared his teeth, his eye narrowing to a glare as he sheathed his sword. All seemed quiet for a moment, but before long what sounded like feline growling and snickering could be heard, an echo among his thoughts.

You think me some simple trickster of magic? Understandable, though let me introduce myself to the one who has carried me so long. My name is Sol’thar, I am Loa.

Seiken coughed, slumping to the ground to sit while his eye glanced around, mirroring the spectacle of him searching his own most inner thoughts.

Loa? You are not a Loa, the Troll spirits dwell in the spirit world and do not latch themselves to the body’s of mere ‘mortals’, especially not us so called ‘lesser races’.

Seiken spoke allowed in his own head, a tone of contempt to match such a preposterous idea.

Hrm, true yes, very true. You raise a good point ‘Mortal’. Though throughout my time with you I have learned you humans are most definatly not ‘lesser’.

The voice growled now, a beast of some sort. An image flashed in Seiken’s mind, one of jaws lined with sharp teeth and dark yellow eyes.

I am however here, a banished Loa, the Loa of Revenge, the Lion spirit. Sworn enemy of Dambalah and his servants, the cloak... on your back.

Jaws, Teeth, a thick mane of fur on a lions growling head. It was a brief image in the dark recesses of his mind. But it was most definatly there, not a figment, not his mind turning mad.

Seiken arched a brow curiously, now sat beside the gravestone with his legs crossed, a hand stroking the bottom of the lion fur cloak laid across his lap.

The cloak on my back?

You are quick to forget your right of passage as a boy Trollbane, the perilous trek through the Alterac Mountains the dwarf sent you upon. And how could you possibly not remember your battle with your prey? The enormous mountain lion with a mane, ...that you wear even now as a trophy, my hide, my banished mortal form.

Seiken continued to stroke the thick feral fur of his cloak, listening quietly, not a thought but the one compelling him to listen.

The Gods banished me to this world, to live eternally as a mortal, outcast by my bitter rivals and kin. To be killed by a young human, and then be bound to him as he triumphed over my carcass.

So, ever since I made you into a cloak... you’ve been hiding in the back of my head for ... twenty five years?

Seiken’s thoughts spoke up, humble and curious.

That is true Trollbane, all these twenty five years.

So you’re some kind of cowardly leech that’s been hiding away all this time? ... Why show yourself now, ‘Loa’?

A snarling growl, it wasn’t amused. The rhythmic beat of an angered pulse sounded, the beast stirred from whether it lingered.

I am no Leech, ‘mortal’, I have aided and guided you when you needed it most... when the Emperor invaded your mind with Voodoo; I defended and saved you with the one known as ‘Gahalla’. In battle I fend off the weakness that is fear, drive off pain, and endow you with courage and strength!

The beast snorted, its moment of anger at an end. Seiken snorted in return. His eyes glancing over the meadow ahead of the graveyard, shifting his gaze from frost bitten oak to ice covered grass. The eerie silence among his mind ending, abruptly.

What you say makes me sound as if I depend on your help. A refugee giving me strength I do not possess myself...

The flash of teeth, a wry grin on the mouth of a feline predator.

I only bolster what you already have... obviously; my only wish is to see you achieve your goals. The destruction of those who harmed your people so... and the fall of the one who gives my great enemy his power, Dambalah’s chosen...

Dambalah’s chosen? The emperor, Tziak? Our aims are one and the same? But, how could you possibly help me?

In my own way, as I always have done... Though now, with your consent and knowledge I can bolster your prowess in battle, shrug off the weakness of pain, and endow you with such fury that would make the empire and any other foe crumble with fear just at the mention of your name...

It skipped a beat; his heart racing with the thunderous beat of anticipation, the allure of these words was enticing, delicate but foreign.

You, you can do all that?

I can, if you let me... embrace your fury, your thirst for vindication, your desire to correct these wrongs.

He licked his parched lips, that thirst and wanting seeming to manifest physically as he swallowed hard. The offer was too good to be true, but... could it be trusted, did it really have his best interests at heart?

I do not trust you... ‘Loa’, I need time to think...

Your hesitation was to be expected, I can wait for your verdict... I have all the time in the world Mortal...

(( I'm I allowed to feel sorry for Seiken? Denied so much?

But still - the plot thickens!

Moar! *pounces on the next chapter* ))