[Lomenár] By Firelight

Lomenár's reaction to the events that followed her capture and torture by some cultists from The Twilight's Hammer during the campaign in Ashenvale back in 2011.

Lomenár watched the dance of the flames as she lay by the fire. They swirled and crackled, sending showers of golden sparks up towards the sky – like small fireworks. A soft wind made the leaves in the canopy ahead rustle and Lomenár closed her eyes briefly. It wasn’t like the cold and icy clear music of her home, but it was still a harmony to the tune of freedom that she knew. This was where she belonged. Free. Sleeping beneath the starry sky or underneath the protective canopy of the trees. She sighed softly, opened her eyes and resumed her staring into the fire.

Her thoughts began to wander and focused briefly on the events of the night past. They skipped over the attack on Zoram’gar and zoomed in on the moment when a twilight dragon had dived right at her, trying to rake her with its claws. Lomenár could still feel the phantom touch of warm blood spraying across her face and chest as she had severed the dragon’s head from its neck with a scissor cleave of her blades. It had felt good… so very good. She had felt the same feeling of belonging then as she did now.

But that feeling hadn’t lasted very long. She had been captured by the dragon rider, brought to an island off the coast of Ashenvale and there she’d been tortured. She shivered as she remembered the cultist leisurely carving the symbol of the Twilight’s Hammer into her skin. Lomenár looked down at the fresh scars, still glowing an angry red, which covered all of her stomach. She would bear that mark for the rest of her life. She could live with that.

Her fingers touched her face briefly. It felt swollen, and she was glad that she didn’t have a mirror close by. She figured she looked hideous. Black and blue bruises all over. But she could live with that too.

Next her memory decided to linger on the moment when the cultist had crushed her knees. He had worn boots of plate mail… her knees had been fractured into thin splinters, crushed into nothingness… She stared a long while at her legs. They lay at an odd angle, but she couldn’t move them properly. She had tried when she first got there, but had given up when she’d almost fainted from the pain.
There was a distinct possibility that her legs would never mend right, that she’d become a cripple for the rest of her life. What then? She would probably never be able to walk and run again, she would have to live off the charity of the Order members, and she would be stuck forever to one place.

She would never be able to go hunting with Isil again. She would never be able to run and play in the snow with Isil and her cubs. She would never be able to stalk silently and swiftly through the ice cold landscapes of Winterspring or through the lush and colourful forests of Ashenvale. She would never be able to strike at her enemies from the distant shadows… she would never be able to track down the cultists and extract her revenge.

Another memory came to her then, a memory from long ago. From her time with the Sentinels. She remembered the reason why she had left them. She’d been depraved of the freedom her spirit craved. The Sentinels were bound by rules and laws that Lomenár’s spirit could not abide. She needed her freedom… without it she was like an animal caged against its will. Without her freedom she would slowly wither and die. It would be a long and painful process… not a life worthy of a huntress. Not at all. And the same thing would happen, should she lose her legs. She could not live with that.

“I don't think anyone's currently pitying you, Captain. You've got enough pity for yourself already.”
The words had cut… and deep at that. They created wounds no one else could see. Wounds beneath the skin. Her Brothers and Sisters… people who were kin... people she had believed would understand. But they didn’t. They thought that her decision was made out of self pity. Why were they unable to see?

Her decision was practical. If she lost the use of her legs and became a cripple… it was the same as a death sentence. But the kind of death living as a cripple would bring would be a slow one… and a painful one at that. She would waste away, ever so slowly, until there was nothing left but an empty shell… and then, after hundreds of years, she’d die.

The most practical and merciful option, if she lost her legs, would be to end it as swiftly as possible. You didn’t keep a wounded animal, with no hope of ever healing it, alive… you gave it a clean and merciful death. And that’s what she wanted for herself as well… If she was depraved of the freedom she needed to live, what would be left to keep her alive? Nothing! Why couldn’t her “Brothers” and “Sisters” see and understand that? Had their connection with and understanding of Nature been severed somehow? Their way of thinking, the way their minds worked… it was truly a mystery.

Lomenár watched as a tiny salamander crawled among the glowing embers. His charcoal coloured scales streaked with red flames. He scurried here and there, stopped for a moment and rested on a piece of hot coal. He was free to go where he wished; free to live the life he wanted.

Another salamander came hurrying up to the other. They played together for a while, sending sparks flying every time they jumped from ember to ember. Friends… Yes, she thought she had had those as well. But apparently she’d been wrong. Her so called “friends” didn’t understand, didn’t -want- to understand. They had yelled at her… accused her of cowardice, made her feel guilty, they tried to force their own unnatural beliefs upon her, they didn’t respect her… they were blind, like newborn kittens. And they mewled and blundered about just like newborn kittens as well. They had no understanding, no compassion, no loyalty… nothing. They were blind.

The resentment and bitterness coursed through her veins like burning tar and together with the shooting pain her broken knees produced it set her whole body aflame. She lay writhing in agony for a few moments and as her body crumbled under the searing pain she kept her gaze locked on the dancing flames in the fire pit.
“So this is what fire feels like… this is what it feels like to be a flame… to feel your body writhing and dancing along with the heat…” Her voice was barely more than a hoarse and cracked whisper. But there was no one there to hear her anyway. She was alone.

Once the worst of the pain subsided and her mind cleared from the haze she shifted into a more comfortable position. She would think nothing more of her “friends” back at the Grove. She would await Theraluin’s return – hopefully he would bring Elrren… and hopefully Elrren would be able to mend her shattered legs…