Onaron
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Visions of the pastThe vision begins as it will end – in a flash of light. Onaron finds himself staring into his own face, but it is changed. Younger somehow. It is a few moments before he realises that he is, in fact, his father, and the face that he stares into is his youngest son and namesake. Glancing around him, Onaron recognises his family room on Draenor. Oren, his eldest, is there too. He tries to remember. There is something he is forgetting. Somewhere there is a… a what? A glade? A female talks kindly to him, he… Onaron is disorientated and finds that he must use a near-by wall for support. Another moment of realisation – it is not his mind that is shaking, but the walls themselves! One son looks up at him in fear, the other outward in defiance. There is an explosion. Onaron finds himself on the ground; his youngest has fallen next to him. Oren maintains his footing as Onaron climbs to his feet, simultaneously pleading and giving orders, “Come! Come, we must leave.” Onaron remembers the plan – escape. Looking over the shoulder of Oren, Onaron can see rows of vindicators standing stalwartly on the walls of Shattrath. The ‘dwelling of light’ earns it’s name, for these proud Draenei are silhouettes against the fires of the orcish assault. Onaron the younger looks past his brother and thinks that, their forms thinned and wavering in the haze, those noble defenders look like ghosts already. “Come Oren, we’re leaving.” Oren doesn’t move, “No; not while they are there.” Oren is looking exclusively at the vindicators. He admires them; and though Onaron also follows the path of the Light, he does not win Oren’s reverence. Onaron moves to his eldest son, grabbing his shoulder. He too takes a moment to marvel at the stalwart defenders of Shattrath, but turns his attention quickly to his ward, “We are leaving, Oren. And you are coming.” Oren makes to protest, but his father shakes him, “Those brave souls are going to die to allow our escape; we will not repay them by walking into the blades of the orcs.” At this Oren cannot respond. He glances angrily at his father, and then back to his heroes. As his father drags him out of their abode, his eyes fixate on the black shapes moving against the flame, burning the vision of the last defenders of Shattrath onto his very soul.
The streets are mostly empty. As an anchorite, Onaron the father was needed to stay longer than most. He is a gentle man but now he drags his sons, one with each hand, through the meandering alleyways of their home. Onaron the younger comes willingly, but Oren maintains a steady resistance. If they leave the traditional way they are likely to be discovered by the enemy, and so another path had been devised. Onaron takes his children below the surface of the city, into the tunnels that remain dirty to maintain the cleanliness above. Onaron’s crisp white robes quickly become mottled and garish; the attire his sons wear follow suit. The trio dart through canals and passageways. Onaron has never been down here before, but he has memorised the way from instruction, and if he guessed correctly the exit should be right… around… here.
Onaron and his children cease moving. Their passage to freedom is there – a large vault like door intricately designed and fashioned to relieve the tunnel of any water build up. It was supposed to relieve the city of this small family as well, but they are prevented. Sniffing the door and examining it with crude hands is a wiry orc soldier. A scrapper. Loose bits of leather hang off odd fitting clothes forming a shamble carapace. A rough and rusty shard of metal serves as a gutting implement which the orc holds firm in his left hand, the latter of which bears the beast’s weight as he examines the gate. Though Onaron’s outer form is still, inside he is reeling. He does not know the intricacies of these passageways, but he was fairly certain that if there was an orc was poking around here, Shattrath was well and truly sieged. What did that mean? Were more orcs skulking around near them? Was this one alone? Did this door no longer offer salvation, but evisceration from unseen enemies on the other side? And what of…? His mind stops. He looks down to his youngest son who stares back, trying silently to pry his father’s hands off of his. Onaron was unaware how hard he had been squeezing and immediately relents, tending instinctively to his son’s hurt. A moment later and he is looking toward the orc once again, though his horror now is reserved for Oren who has marched forward to challenge the green skinned murderer. The orc notices the Draenei too – though his face does not fill with horror as Onaron’s had; but rage. Pure, tangible and surging. The thing can’t seem to stifle a cry that fills it’s throat and spills out into the cavern; shrill and rough. It charges forward; it’s blade, though dulled from the filleting of many before, is borne with a strength that makes even it’s relative bluntness trivial. Before it can strike Oren dead, however, the cavern is filled with an intense light. The orc flies backward, striking the door that previously occupied it’s interest. Oren looks up, expecting to see the righteous visage of his father, but instead sees a stranger’s face. Aurelon had originally intended to stay behind, but found himself shepherding a small group of anchorites after discovering them huddling in their temple. They had been too stubborn to leave with the rest - it had been easy to trust the walls of Shattrath while the orcs only marched and not sieged. Now Aurelon strode to the large door; this last gate between their home and their lives. Kicking the dead orc aside, he deftly activates the seals, allowing the door to open and the refugees to exit. He catches Onaron by the collar as he begins to walk through whilst ushering his children, “Lead them to safety.”
Onaron looked momentarily confused, “Are you not coming?”
Aurelon shook his head, “There may be others to come through here before I seal the lock.” Before Onaron could reply, he finds himself on the other side of the great door, one son still holding one hand, the other empty and cold. The other anchorites look at him in the dimness and he stares blankly back. The last few moments had happened so quickly he was still catching up. The first sensation of the present was his empty hand – it began to search blindly for the missing son, finding it’s target before his head had caught on to the plan, “Come, Oren.” This time he was offered no resistance, though Oren followed only physically. The others cleared a path before they too followed. Onaron did lead them to safety; a relatively easy task given the complete lack of orc on this other side of the door. During the journey, Onaron’s namesake looks over at his older brother who’s serious eyes seemed to shine in the darkness with a light all their own. The world suddenly shifts, though no one else seems to notice. A feeling of de ja vue sweeps over Onaron, and when he looks back up at his father, he realises that he is a memory. They all are. The dimness of the passageway becomes utter darkness and for the briefest of seconds, Onaron is both everywhere and nowhere before settling back into his own body. His eyes are unfocused and sore as, slowly, a blue shape begins to come into focus, “Father?” Umbrua smiles at him, “Sleep, Onaron. You are not yet finished dreaming.” He recognises the trees of Elwynn Forest before he leaves the world once again, staring now through illuminated, serious eyes…
…the dream continues...
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