The last thing I remembered was a raid. We were fighting against Garrosh for the tenth time. Or maybe it was a dungeon, seeking out materials for the warlock. My head ached as it tried to recall the last thing I did before I crawled into bed, exhausted. My body was sore, and my limbs resisted their call to use as I tried to rub at my temples. My vision was clear, but everything seemed alien. I wasn’t in my farm, but instead Booty Bay’s inn. I had a few moments to gather my things from near the chair I’d been in, and then the Urge came.
I needed to go to the bank, to go fishing, and to kill some noble in Stratholme. A twinge of pain teased at my temple, and I shook my head. First things first, the bank, or so I thought. I walked on heavy feet, and the sea air brushed through my fur and hair. I quickly redid my braid as I stared blearily at the evening sky. The sun was only a few hours from setting. The Urge pushed again, and I checked the time, then asked around about a fishing contest, only to learn I’d missed it by hours. With a shrug, I turned toward the bank. My bags were filled with a few useful things and many useless things, but the Urge refused to let me be rid of many of the outright silly objects, like a shell that could turn me nude instantly, or a stone that would bathe me in light from Elune. Just wasted space.
I had cloth and ingots, however, and threw them up for auction or into the guild bank, then sorted through which items to put into my personal stores, which were nearly full.
The Urge suddenly left, and I was on my own again, in a strange limbo of emptiness, right outside the bank.
This brief sensation– was it awareness? I curled my tongue as I looked around. Thunder Bluff. Was it really still the Darkmoon Faire’s week? I checked a local calendar and winced. I had missed several months. Just as suddenly as the feeling of being awake came, it left, and I stared dumbly at the calendar.
I was new to the Rebel Independents. They hardly knew me, but invited me the moment I applied to become an adventurer. There were a few people I knew among the ranks– Vallivaleiri and her sister, Rose, and also Malindrake and a few others from the same social circle. I knew also the frightening Kae’elor, who was a part of the guild’s warring party. Each was spoken of with pride by the families they left behind, as though they were already the highest-sung heroes of Azeroth.
And now, I was selected to join them, and when I wrote my father, he replied with fury, said I should have joined a larger guild, one with more glory to be had. He said he was ashamed.
I have yet to hear from anyone in the guild but the two selected by the mysterious troll leader, Fil’ul, to be my companions, and one of them, the rogue, is not to be permanent. None of it made sense.
None of them warned me that adventuring was dungeon after dungeon of exhausting spells and getting home to find bruises on my legs from using so many speed-enhancing spells to keep up.
I wanted to quit. I came so close just earlier today. I had my resignation all written, but as I slipped it into the slot, the letter spat out at me. No matter how I tried, it continued, until a nearby undead took notice: Myrcia, she introduced herself as.
“It won’t mail unless you have the Urge.”
“Why?” I scowled. “The mail worked fine until now.”
The undead shrugged and turned her head to the side. Through a hole in her cheek, I could see her teeth. “The Urge dictates our lives, kind of like the Lich King used to do, but it seems less malevolent.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a voice and a push. It makes us do things, and serves us as a pass to do our jobs as adventurers. When it leaves, though, we turn into less than people, though– empty puppets.”
“Even if we retire?”
“Retiring is no savior. Fil’ul retired three times.”
“Now you get it. Think you could tell the Urge to visit me again sometime? I’m having a hard time recalling my own history, and the Urge can maybe give me a new one.”
I stared for a moment before I fled.