Wednesday, January 4, 2012

First, Finest, and Last: Pitch

This started out as a thread in the WFR forums here. I joined in the parade of posts and wound up writing one for both Pitch and Rheugan, but then promptly forgot about them. In the interest of non-blog-silence, and to motivate me to finish writing these for the rest of the toons I was planning to, I figured I'd finally stick them up here as well. Enjoy!

Keep in mind these are from several months ago, so yes, they are a little out of date now. Sorry. >.>
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His first had been Learah, and it still hurt to think of her. For three seasons he had put up with her whims, the teases and torments she thought up for him. He had figured out pretty quick that she didn't love him, but he had still done his best by her, damnit, and it still hadn't been enough. When the inevitable moment came and she had cast him aside, he had wanted to kill her. Now, he satisfied himself with the simple belief that whatever had happened to her, it must have been exactly what she deserved.

Technically, his first had been a stag, taken in the Ashenvale forest near his brother's house. Discounting all non-sentients, however.... his first known kill had been a naga off the Zoram strand. She had been focusing on Alanon as he fought off her myrmidon guards, preparing to blast the elder druid with some spell that had been coating her webbed fingers in ice, and it had been no trouble at all for Pitch to sneak in behind her and jump on her neck. He had felt so.. detached, even as his fangs met through her throat. It wasn't for another year that he had learned it was the cat, coming to the surface at the moment of the kill, that prevented him from ever feeling anything when he killed. He had had to go wash the blood off afterward, and to this day he still considered naga blood one of the most vile things in existence.

His first had been Alanon, whom he loved with a hero-worship that still hadn't faded after six centuries. There was nothing, in Pitch's mind, that his brother couldn't do. It didn't matter that his own abilities, or lack thereof, kept him from learning all the druidic magic that Alanon had to teach. His brother had taught him everything else he needed to know.



He still considered his finest to be Skyborne. Sure, she had kept him confused and off-balance more times than not, but she had been the first person he'd felt comfortable with since his arrival in Stormwind. She had been the reason he hadn't immediately turned tail and gone back to his home in Ashenvale. And that night in Fells' barn, as she writhed on top of him and his back bled from her nails into the straw, he had finally felt the last of the chains Learah had put on his heart fall away.

His finest had also been his hardest. Ursoc was his god, but he had been corrupted by Yogg-Saron. His salvation lay in his death, and Pitch had faced it like every other challenge in his life- full throttle, no holds barred. The fight had been brutal, chaotic and excessively long, but in the end, as he watched the cleansed spirit of his deity fade into the air, the only thing Pitch could feel was satisfaction.

His finest had been the ancient, weather-beaten druid that had found him when his cat went out of control. The old codger had never given his name in all the months Pitch had stayed with him, but Pitch owed him his life all the same. He'd promised Pitch he'd teach him to "control" the cat. At first he'd been convinced the old man didn't know what he was doing; later on he'd been convinced the old man would kill him. But despite all his doubts, in the end it was he that was in control and not the cat, and for that Pitch would be forever grateful.



His last had been Lark, of course. They'd been at it pretty regularly, hoping beyond hope that somehow Shad's crazy plan had worked, that they would find out the baby she wanted so badly was on its way. Pitch himself wasn't sure what he wanted. He didn't know if he was ready for fatherhood, kept telling himself that he was still too young. But Lark wanted it, and after all they had been through already, he knew he'd give her anything she asked for... because he loved her.

His last had been a flame druid in the Molten Front. Weakened by two of Lark's arrows embedded in its torso, it had been an easy kill. He sometimes wondered if he should feel bad about killing them; it was possible they had simply been misguided by Staghelm, after all, and they were still of his people. But all it took was to see another of the fire druids in its cat form take a flying leap at his mate, and all thoughts of sympathy fled in favor of his protective rage. There was only the next kill.

His last was the Riders, and he still didn't know how that had happened. He had nothing in common with any of them, really, and he had always been on his own before. But however it had happened, he was one of them now, and he would bleed and kill for any of them, no questions asked. That was just what you did for your pack.

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