a small snippet of a much longer piece from the roleplay days. archival.
Shandala all but stumbled as she walked with the aide into the back wing of the stronghold. The building was so different than the ones in which she had lived, their wooden beams and rustic archways were not as ornate as the ones she knew in Quel’Thalas, but were noble and somehow majestic for all they were not ostentatious.
The aide smiled as she led her into a small suite of rooms, “This is where you will be staying for a time, Shandala. With me,” The smile was warm and welcoming and the little girl basked in it, nodding with a grin as she looked about the room, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “Feel free to look about as you will, there is nothing here that can or will harm you.”
The aide was hard pressed not to laugh as the child immediately shot to the corner by the fireplace, where her jewelry tree sat, its many pendants and rings twinkling with mystical light upon which the firelight of the hearth played, a natural attraction and merriment to a child.
“It’s beauuutiful…,” The young girl sighed, her hands reaching out slowly to lightly touch the gleaming strands of pearl, hematite, crystal, and mithril in turn. Shandala’s hand stopped upon the one item that was not glowing with some manner of soft light, and she closely examined the delicate box chain with its coin pendant. Turning to the aide, she asked, “This one is different… how?” The aide smiled as she crossed the room to stand by Shandala, lifting the necklace in question from its resting place into her palm, “I would think it odd that you pick this one from the many, only I have long since discovered the many ways the universe works to bring what is to be.”
Her gaze softened as she knelt by the child to speak more quietly, “This is The Medallion of Hope, Shandala.” She turned the pendant’s face to the child, allowing her to see the image struck upon it, “There is a legend, so old that we know not its beginning, nor who first spoke of it. It says that once upon a time, there was a creature who lived within this world as a physical manifestation of the hope all sentient beings bear.
A great, winged bird, not unlike our Hypogrifs in some ways, but whose plums were more colorful and held every shade and hue known to the eye.” She smiled at the rapt attention the girl gave, then continued, “It is said this creature circled the world endlessly, flying high and free. And the wind made by its wings contained that which nourished and sustained hope, for it first touched the creature and then, drifted down to Azeroth itself, to curl and blanket all things with its touch.”
The little girl asked in hushed tones, “It has a name, this bird?” Her eye lingering in wonder on the image on the coin’s face. “Yes, though the word has no meaning in our tongue, nor in any other of which we have encountered,” The aide lowered her voice, whispering, “It was called a ‘Fenix’, also the Firebird.” At the unspoken question in the child’s eyes, the aide grinned and murmured, “Why a bird of fire, eh?”
Shandala’s nod brought a chuckle from the woman as she nodded in reply and continued,”It is said the Fenix lives many thousands of years, never setting foot to land and eternally gliding to keep hope alive within Azeroth. And only when many souls have lost hope completely does the Fenix’s other aspect become discovered.”
By this time, Shandala’s eyes were round as the moon and her absorption in the tale seemed somehow to draw the aide closer, they sat together by the hearth, heads almost touching, both gazing at the medallion as the aide spoke on, “When a soul loses all hope, this lost is reflected in the Fenix itself… one brilliant, rainbow feather is forever lost.”
The aide fell silent, turning her eye to the fire and after a time, murmured softly, “Much hope has been lost over these many years…” A small, warm touch upon her arm broke the aide’s revery. She started, and looked down to find the little girl’s hand lightly stroking her arm and turning to her, worked to set the smile back to her face, “When the Fenix can no longer fly for such loss of hope in the world, it turns to its one and only nest in Azeroth. The place is unknown, though many have sought it over the centuries.”
Handing the medallion to the child, the aide shifted to face her before continuing, “When it reaches it, it plucks from its body what feathers remain and makes of them a mound upon which it settles. There, upon its nest, it grieves for that which is lost and its grief is expressed as tears of fiery amber.”
Shandala’s face reflected her emotions as she built this image in her mind. The aide, seeing it, spoke more quickly, “The amber fire ignites the remaining feathers, which in turn ignite the Fenix itself, and all burn as one until nothing is left but the amber, that, upon the pile of ash has settled into a single orb…” To the aide’s surprise, the little girl actually gasped and began to weep quietly.
She reached out for her, and pulled her close, rocking her slowly, “Shhh… shh… wait, little one… the story is not yet full told,” Cradling the child, she continued, “The orb is a seed, Shandala, or I suppose more correctly, an egg. When the Fenix can no longer fly, it gives itself to The Fire, and is remade… reborn.” The aide smiled down to the little girl and gently wiped away her tears, “Do you see? Look. Look at the pendant. What is the image you see?”
Shandala hiccuped slightly as she held the pendant up and looked at it, “There is the Fenix. It it flying up to the sky.”
The aide nodded, “Look more closely, child. What else do you see?”
The little girl looked again and, after a moment, said, “There is fire. And the sun.”
“Very good, Shandala. But tell me, where is The Fire, and where is the sun? And where is the Fenix in relation to them?”
Shandala was silent a moment and then, in a voice laced with understanding, whispered, “The Fenix is flying up from The Fire, and toward the sun!”
“Yes, Shandala, yes.” The aide hugged the little girl tightly a moment, then gently set her back to the floor, “You see, the Fenix does not really die, just like hope does not really die. The Fire of its tears is the same fire that is hope, that which lives in all of us, and never truly dies, but sometimes, we lose our way to find it, to feel it.”