| abstract
| - I was reading a book and there was a tavern called 'The Tree of Bone' and I was flooded with this image of a tree made on bone, with skeletons piled up all around it, and I just had to write something to accompany it. It is set just after the end of the Third War, some 8 or so years ago, and the current whereabouts of Traff is something I may write about in the future. My attempt to extend the mythology and folklore of the World of Warcraft. From the collected fiction of Iyokus Shatterstar In the War of Ancients a Pit Lord died. Ordinarily this would have been the end of it, for many of the fel commanders had met their doom in that dread time, but fate had decreed that the story was not to finish there. For the Pit Lord, Cantellus the Reaper, fell at the roots of a young silver birch. As all mystics know, the silver birch is the bane of demons, its bark oft used in rituals of binding or banishment. The Kaldorei have long used arrows with birch shafts in order to slay the foul creatures. The wood is as poison in their fiery veins. This young tree, called Sith’celador – the White Heart Spear – did what was in its nature, roots binding and trapping the great demon’s spirit, coiling around his cyclopean skull and preventing the twisted soul from screaming back to the Nether. But Sith’celador was young and brash, and Cantellus was old and hoary with evil. His black soul corrupted his fibrous prison, the wood of the birch ossified and bleached, over centuries transforming it into a tree of hate, watered by the blood of the living. Proud Sith’celador was consumed and Baldelar entered the world, the Tree of Bone. Below follows one tale from the Chronicles of Baldelar... *** She glared up at him, eyes twin furious stars, as he pared his nails with his hunting knife. Fortunately, they had gagged her some hours ago and Traff did not have to endure anymore of her shrill, badly-accented nagging. She was a pretty one though. She had rich lavender coloured skin and her ears were smooth curves that flared back from her tightly bound blue hair. He had been forced to stop the two brothers from having their fun with her more than once. The burly mercenary reached out and stroked her hair, the girl wrenching her head away from his touch, her eyes narrowing in disgust. Such a shame, he thought, that he needed her so much. Though there was something about these night elves. They were beautiful, there was no doubt about that, but it was a predator’s beauty. There was the sense that under their smooth skin were muscles coiled, ready to explode into action. Light but he had come to hate these Kaldorei savages! He and the brothers had been in Kalimdor for a month now, and what he had thought would be a quick job had turned into a series of endless dead ends. First, after taking the commission from the milk-eyed man, they had travelled to Darnassus. The information they had been given was sketchy at best, and Traff had been advised to seek further guidance from the elves themselves. That had been a shit piece of advice. They had got to the city easy enough, the client’s gold didn’t have to stretch very far to book them all passage to Auberdine, and then it had just been a short hop on those weird looking horse gryphons to the capital. It was there that their troubles had begun. Traff nursed his knuckles, it had been something of a rude awakening to realize why the elves were called –night- elves. To be fair, none of them were really had too much difficulty with darkness, their professions not really in domain of day – but to live every hour without seeing the sun? It had frayed all their tempers, and when the Hooper brothers got annoyed, other people quickly found out. There had also been the attitudes of the elves themselves. Traff, at the start in the company of the two brothers, would go out at the dusk of every evening, and try to catch the eye of one of them, start a conversation so he could hopefully lead it into talk of the Tree. But the tall bastards would ignore him! He didn’t consider himself too shabby looking, nor impolite, but he couldn’t hardily remember a time when their freakish glowing gaze flicked down to look at him when he greeted them. It was enough to make a man a mite annoyed. Bray quickly learned that studied indifference did not equal a lack of awareness. They had been in Darnassus for about a week, and they had got nowhere, either the elves didn’t speak a word of common, or they were just above talking to humans. The Hoopers were getting antsy. Traff knew they were not really the types for this kind of work – breaking a man’s legs while the other rifles through his pockets, aye, fair enough, trying to get a arrogant creep to talk to them…no, not so much. When the fourth elf brushed past them without so much as a word, Bray(1) had reached the end of his very short tether. He had let out a quiet curse, and before Traff could grab him, and spun round and roughly pulled on the elf’s shoulder, a grim frown on his face. That had not gone down well with anyone. Apparently the elf had been some kind of holy man, his green robes with leaves and vines tied through it a sign of his station. When the sentinels had finished their almost silent but brutal beating of Bray, Traff had thrown him into Gene’s arms and ordered them back to their rooms. It was that or kill them both. It was damn hard being the brains of the operation. The breakthrough at a time when Traff least expected it. He had been tired, weary to the bone with the endless rebukes and silent, contemptuous looks. The night elves didn’t really have taverns, but there were gardens where they served wine, and even if they wouldn’t talk to him, they would take his money. There he had met Tith(2), an old elf who drank far more than was usual for his kind and whose eyes were dim with pain. Traff had been greeted in Common by the purple haired elf and it had not been long before his employer’s gold was being put to good use, keeping the Kaldorei’s tongue well lubricated. It had been difficult not to ask straight away, but Traff was good because he was a thinker, he teased story after story from the slurring mouth of Tith, offered meaningless sounds of encouragement and condolences, their encounters stretching out to weeks, afraid of pushing the ancient elf too far and losing his only source of information. Then, after Tith had rambled about his own sorry fall from grace, he had struck, feigning a casual curiousity about the myth of the Tree. Astranaar and then Felwood. He had left the pitiful man to his slow suicide, collected the brothers and had left Darnassus that very night, riding with all haste towards Ashenvale and the town of Astranaar. They had met a very different welcome their, wide-eyed curiosity and, they had been shocked to find, a cautious helpfulness. It seems some Common had filtered through even to here, and they were able to find a huntress willing to guide them through the forests. Traff had tried to convey the impression that the three of them were human explorers, interested in exploring the lands and culture of their new allies. Fairleaf had been practically giddy with excitement upon hearing that, she was clearly proud of her lands and keen to show them off to the visitors. The matter of payment had been a sticking point. Traff had wanted to pay her in gold, but she seem didn’t seem interested, her silver eyes alighting on the twin hunting knives at his hips. It wasn’t that the Kaldorei didn’t understand the concept of money, it was just the she had pretty much no need for it. She hunted for her own food and traded the pelts and meat to the community in return for those few items she couldn’t fashion herself. The mercenary wasn’t quite ready to give his prize knives though. They were a dragonbone hilted, mithril bladed set, perfectly balanced and exact twins to each other – Traff had looted them from the body a nobleman who had charged at the wrong orc and was not about to give them away to some animal-skin wearing savage. Of all the people to pull him aside and talk some sense into him, he had not expected it to be Bray, the man was not known for his subtlety. But as had he had hissed into Traff’s ear, it wasn’t like he would be parting with them for long. He grinned at the memory and looked down at his captive. No, it had not been long at all before the knives were back in his hands. In the end it had been Gene who had allowed their charade to continue long enough to evince a little trust out of the beautiful Fairleaf. He had an easy smile and the kind of rough-edged good looks that some women found appealing. He would spend hours chatting to the elf and waiting for her broken common replies. Sometimes even Traff was taken aback by his outrageously flirtatious comments and barely-veiled innuendo, but the Kaldorei seemed either oblivious to or completely uninterested in his advances. Bray just watched it all in a sullen silence, hardily saying two words to anybody. They spent a couple of days trooping around Ashenvale, dutifully trying to look suitably impressed at what Fairleaf showed them – Traff considered most it Light forsaken ruins and was not about to invest the time to try and decipher her eager attempts at explaining their significance – but after a night of pleading and Gene’s most forlorn look, they were on their way to Felwood and the grove that hid their goal. That was the thing about Gene’s smile, Traff reflected; he could look you in the eyes, shake your hand with the most open and honest smile you’d have ever seen, and at the same time stick you in the guts. When Fairleaf had communicated that they were on the outskirts of the Silent Grove Traff had given the signal. Gene had asked another of his inane questions – something about nymphs no doubt – while Bray had nudged his horse closer to the pair. Unseen behind them, Traff had readied a length of rope and dismounted. Perhaps they had underestimated the senses of the Kaldorei, or not been as convincing in their deception as they had thought, for she had turned to face Bray at the last second, before he had leapt from the saddle to barrel into her. Her hand was on the hilt of Traff’s knife before Bray could crack his elbow into her cheek and Traff could start tying her wrists behind her back. And now, here they were. Traff had sent Bray and Gene into the Grove with their axes many times now, even getting exasperated and going himself twice, but each time the trees seemed to fold the trail back on them, branches catching their clothes, their hair, roots tripping them, and after a harrowing breathless time, they found themselves on the edge of the tree line, no closer to their goal then an hour before. It was as the bitch had kept blabbering about before they had gagged her. The Tree was for the dead, the living could not come across it. Somehow it was keeping them away. Traff spat, his saliva thick and brown, a function of the snatch he regularly chewed, staining his gums black and bleaching his teeth. Light…he hated sorcery. Time was running out, their supplies were running low (Felwood was no place to forage, they had soon discovered. The deer that they had caught had been full of maggots whilst alive and its meat was a bilious green) and if they dawdled too long, surely someone would question Fairleaf’s disappearance. Traff sighed loudly, the two brothers lifting their heads to glance at him. They would be no use to him – they had been fighting over the last skin of wine for the past day and Traff didn’t expect any bright ideas. He winced as his hand slipped and watched the welling of blood from the small knife cut on his knuckle. He was silent as the blood beaded into a drop and slid down his finger. Then his gaze alighted back on Fairleaf. It could work, she said as much herself He leapt to his feet, filled with the energy of action after weeks of drifting lethargy. ‘Bray, Gene, stop yapping around and grab yourselves your axes and the bag. ‘I have an idea.’ The two brothers only stared for a moment, before scrabbling to obey, kicking dirt into the fire. This was the Traff they remembered – the thinker. The burly mercenary quickly pulled Fairlead to her feet and dragged her stumbling and resisting to the tree line. The Hoopers fell in behind him. He ripped the gag out from her mouth and leered at her, a glint of excitement in his brown eyes. She launched into a tirade of Darnassian curses, but Traff ignored them all. ‘Only the dead can approach the Tree eh? Took me a while to get there but here we are…’ He unhurriedly pulled one of his treasured knives from its sheath and pressed it against the lavender skin of Fairleaf’s wrist. A quick yank and it was done, her rich red blood welling to the surface in a flood. Her eyes open wide, full of accusation, despair and pain and then…they cloud. Her face goes slack and she rotates in place, her head cocked as if she can hear something. Traff is engrossed by her transformation. He is jolted into action when the elf darts forward into the trees. ‘After her! We cannot afford to lose her now!’ Without checking to see if the Hoopers are following, he runs after Fairleaf. And is astonished. Where before every step through the trees had been contested, a battle through sharp pointed limbs and gnarled roots, now, it is as if a road had been laid before them, and he runs unhindered by bark or branch. He looks behind him to find both Gene and Bray keeping pace, the branches weaving together only a step behind in their shadows. Suddenly, it is not a long run, the three men find themselves in a clearing. And are utterly struck dumb. How to describe what they see? First there is the silence, only their desperate breaths and the wheezes of Fairleaf as she now crawls forward. Not another living being is heard, not the song of birds not the rustle of vermin. Traff takes a single step forward and hears a crunch. He looks down. Filling the entire clearing, from tree line to Tree, is a carpet of bones, bleached white as if cleaned, not a hint of flesh to be seen. The three hired thugs stand amongst the fragile remains of thousands of tiny birds and mice, shrews and rats. Small animals too weak, too far in Death’s icy grip to make it any further. Their gaze jumps about, here and there great humps break through, the skulls and arcing rib cage of larger beasts, piling up, the larger and larger they get the closer they get to the vile presence dominating the clearing. Bears and wolves, owls and deer and Traff realizes with a grimace, humanoid remains too. But it is it that commands their attention. Squat and wide, like monstrous thighbones fused together, cancerous growths bulge from its trunk, growths that are in fact humanoid skulls, the empty eye sockets seeming to leer with avarice hunger. The branches that sprout about a man and half’s height up are a grotesque ceiling to the clearing, letting in only a dim, weak light that bleeds colour from the world. At the edges, where the men stand, the thin white tendrils resemble fingers and hand, reaching towards them, as if to consumer them. The Tree of Bone welcomes its visitors. Framing the trunk, a few strides distant, two immense grey, ribbed pillars thrust from the layers of bone, curling gently backwards, one forming into a sharp point, the other broken off about an arm’s length from the top. Traff pauses in his approach. No, not pillars…horns…By the Light…what manner of creature has the Tree consumed? Has it even claimed a dragon(3)? Oh tread carefully Traffon…tread carefully indeed… Fairleaf has reached the bottom of the Tree, having clambered past jutting ribs and femurs and now rests her back against it. No one says anything as they watch her breathing slow – the expression on her face bothering each more than they will ever admit. For she looks not in pain, not afraid, but happy, relieved as a thistledust addict looks after getting a fix. The oppression of the clearing holds them in thrall until she breathes her last and Traff knows it will be left to him to break the silence. He takes a deep breath, they are going to get out of here as soon as possible. ‘..G-gene,’ Traff gets a grip on his wavering voice, ‘Gene, grab your axe, go cut us a branch so as we can get back to a sensible place far away from her.’ The Hooper brothers look at each other, a long quiet moment passing and then the younger of the two nods and hefts his heavy woodsman’s axe. Bray follows not far behind, seemingly unwilling to let his brother to far from his side. Gene takes a wide stance next to a particularly low lying branch, perhaps as thick as an orc’s upperarm. He looks again at his brother and then to Traff, who nods firmly, ‘Lets get it done here.’ The first blow makes a sound uncomfortably like the chop of a butcher’s cleaver, but when Bray leans forward to examine the branch, he can’t see a single mark. ‘…Tree of Bone my ass…’ he murmurs under his breath before nodding at his brother to try again. Gene rolls his shoulders and tilts his head from side to side before trying again. It is another powerful blow, but only the barest of lines has been scored. The killer growls and launches into a third cut. There is a sound of shredding metal and then a thud. And then the younger Hooper shrieks. The heavy axe head is buried in Bray’s forehead, having bounced awkwardly off the branch. Gene collapses at his dead brother’s side, who it seems, with his dying thought has angled himself to fall next to the Tree. Gene keens quietly, fingers fluttering over Bray’s slack features, delicately touching the join of metal and flesh. He stares up at Traff, his eyes wide, lip trembling. ‘It was the Tree Traff…it moved…it moved!’ Traff is dumbstruck. He was watching the branch as Gene struck it. And it had moved. Like a thick, albino snake, the branch had shifted, angling the plane of its surface so that the axe would bounce off towards Bray. The Tree had murdered Bray! Just as this realization burns its way through Traff’s brain, there is an almight crack, the sound of a man’s neck breaking and the branch Gene had been attacking falls to the bony ground. Even Traff, yards away has to shield his face as splinters of white are flung towards him. ‘Gene…we need to get out of here.’ Traff winces as he notices a splinter in his hand, he doesn’t want his blood spilt here. ‘Gene?’ A wet gurgles is his only reply. Gene’s hands are at his throat, gouts of blood dripping from between his fingers. A shard of bone from the branch was fired free when it snapped, its jagged edge impaling itself in Gene’s neck. Traff does not notice the blood that drips onto the bone carpet slides like water off a duck’s back down, towards the thirsty roots of the Tree of Bone. The silence descends like a shroud and Traff is completely alone. His breaths are shallow and erratic. The Tree hungers for his blood, to trap his soul. He can almost feel its gaze on him. In his hand he holds the bag tailored with wards that the client had given him to house the cutting he has asked for. Traff winces as he picks up the shattered branch and throws it into the sack. He stares at his hand, the colour leaving his face. The splinter…it has [i]wriggled[/i] under his skin. He flees and the Silent Grove makes no effort to hinder his flight, a path opening up before him, leading straight back to the horses and their camp. All the while, he is sure he can hear a deep, mocking laughter. Three weeks later, near to the Abbey in Northshire, the man known as Traff has died, piece by piece, the shard of Baldelar making its slow way to his heart. The body of the man known as Traff, however, remains alive. (1) The Hooper brothers were a constant source of amusement to Traff, largely because of their abject failure to live up to their parents hopes for them. Traff had personally met three of the brothers, Gene, Bray and the much younger Chiv, whose full names were Generosity, Bravery and Chivalry, and knew at least five more; Honesty, Industry, Compassion and Moderation with Wisdom, the eldest, being something of a legend in his own right. Killers and thugs all. (2) Tith’s full name is Atithus, and he was one of the cabal of druids who with Staghelm attempted to regain the Kaldorei their immortality. The subsequent corruption and failure of Teldrassil has seen its reflection in Tith’s own fall to the inebriated state that Traff came across in Darnassus (3) The ‘pillars’ that Traff mistakes for a dragon’s horns are, of course, the tusks of the Pit Lord Cantellus, the Tree of Bone wrapped around his evil skull. Dragons have been long wary of Baldelar and are not likely to fall to its insidious pull – most probably because there are so few things in the world that can mortally wound a dragon.
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