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Damned If I Do, Damned If I Don't (Warcraft)
🕑 Added 2023-06-07 18:10:16 +0000 UTCOkay, where do I even start?
Well, I was fiddling with my Dark Son fic for the past few days, trying to cure the first iteration's ails. However, the harder I tried, the more I realized it just... wouldn't work.
While having a hundred-thousand year old celestial protagonist seems cool, it makes sensible storytelling extremely difficult.
For the few people who read these pre-rambles of mine, you might remember me saying I wanted him to interact with the main cast—Anakin, Ashoka, Obi-Wan and the rest. The thing is, how the hell do you keep a uber-powered munchkin on the same planet for a hundred thousand years if he's dead set on getting the hell off?
As you know, I came up with the idea of him being imprisoned, but as I wrote the backstory for how he got there, more and more cracks started appearing. Like, he's so strong and knows the future; no matter what reason I come up with, it just felt convoluted.
I tried pretty hard to make it work, deleting and rewriting a bunch of stuff, but it kept feeling like trying to shove a round peg into a square hole.
I don't know... I'm realizing more and more that 'overpowered from the start' is just not good for storytelling.
On top of that, the sci-fi was giving me headaches.
The more I delved into Star Wars lore, the more things I found that bugged me. The sheer abundance of super-intelligent AI is one of the biggest culprits. By definition, a human being can't write about something that exceeds their understanding, making a 'realistic' portrayal of a magic universe filled with machine-brains essentially impossible.
This is one of the reasons why I long considered fantasy to be the superior fictional setting when compared to sci-fi.
So, what's my point? Where am I going from here on? Fuck me if I know.
Anyway, here's a warcraft fic, written in first person—a 'first' for me, tee-hee.
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I was born the son of a blacksmith.
Though, just from saying that, I’m feeling the need to clarify. I wasn’t born the son of an armor- or weaponsmith, but the son of a plain-old village blacksmith, operating out of a small little settlement named Westbrook, bordering the lands of Westfall.
He - my father - was a man named Jeb, ordinary in every sense of the word. Like most peasants, he’d inherited his trade from his father, and his father likewise inherited his trade from his father before him—and so on.
With that much history behind it, out craft sounds far more noble than it really is; it included little more than mending plows and hammering out horseshoes. Frankly, in all nine years of my new life, I’d never touched a sword. Sure, there was the odd hunter’s knife that needed oiling or sharpening, but it was hardly the same thing.
Regardless, the point I’m trying to make is that my background is completely ordinary—as common as dirt, even. In Westbrook alone, sporting a population of between one- and five thousand, kids like me were a-dime-a-dozen…
…but maybe that’s not entirely true. Well, before I get into that, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Arne, no surname. Although if I were to introduce myself in a formal setting, it would be as Arne, son of Jeb the smith.
From what I heard, my mother gave me that name. Apparently, it’s from her side of the family—at least that’s what my Father tells me.
She’s dead, if you hadn’t guessed it yet.
Now, what else is there? Ah, my elder brother Erik.
Hmm, but I feel like I’m putting the cart before the horse… It’s not a pleasant topic, but I’ll have to clear up a few things about Jenna, my late mother, before I can talk about the rest of my ‘family’.
Jenna was a prostitute.
Now, as you might imagine, that identity of hers complicates things for me. A lot.
I don’t know for sure how my Father got involved with her-… No, what am I even saying? He had extra money, urges he wanted to satisfy and a lack of impulse control—at least that was my guess.
Though, having known the man for nearly a decade, there wasn’t much doubt in my mind.
It’s really a long, messy story and we’d be here all day if I were to tell the whole thing. That being said, giving a concise summary isn’t much easier… Well, there’s that I suppose—the part most relevant to my current situation.
When he’d done the deed, my father was already married. Her name was – is – Lily. She’s my stepmother.
I wouldn’t blame anyone for finding the situation confusing, since I’m also not quite sure how I ended up in this household. I mean, what woman would be willing to take in a child her husband had with a prostitute?
Someone hearing my story for the first time might assume Jeb – feeling pity for his illegitimate child – pleaded with her. However, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that being true.
The man’s dislike of me was intense and I had the scars to prove it. In fact, it’s already a miracle he hadn’t permanently rid himself of me.
After much deliberation, I’d come to the conclusion Lily was responsible for me being taken in, despite common sense dictating otherwise.
Anyway, there was also the issue of my parentage being questionable—I mean, if a prostitute does end up getting pregnant, it’s doubtful whether she’d even know the father’s identity.
I certainly remember hearing such remarks growing up. However, they started to dwindle over the years—the reason being my uncanny resemblance to Jed.
He had a rather distinct appearance; curly, dirty blond hair, amber eyes and skin a shade or two darker than what you usually find around these parts.
The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree—that much was obvious to everyone, including the man himself. I think he disliked me even more because of it. Whether it was because he had no way to deny his misdeeds, well… I could only guess.
That should be enough to lay a foundation for understanding my life until now. Still, I can’t help feeling there’s so much left unsaid.
I mean, the fact that I’d lived a life before this one is pretty important as well. But hey, what do I know? Compared to fiction suddenly turning into reality, reincarnation suddenly doesn’t seem all that absurd.
At first, I didn’t have a clue what was happening or where I was. However, realizing that I’d been reborn was enough for me to start experimenting. I mean, who wouldn’t?
Magic was the first thing on my to-do list. I’d remembered all sorts of stories where the protagonist – having started training in their crib – became extremely overpowered.
To my great disappointment, not only did that not happen, but I couldn’t even detect a shred of anything mystical inside myself.
However, if becoming a genius mage wasn’t in the cards, then I’d at least get access to some kind of system. Yes, I was sure of it. After all, if I reincarnated into a fantasy world, there was no way I wouldn’t receive any benefits… right?
Unfortunately, reality is often unforgiving, and no matter where a person found themselves, it seemed hopes and dreams alone didn’t amount to much.
As days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into years, I had no choice but to recognize my situation for what it was. I was a peasant – the illegitimate child between a smith and a prostitute – and there was absolutely nothing special about me.
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Now, I hadn’t quite abandoned all hope, at least not at first. My head was still stuffed full of fantasies. Maybe I’d have some kind of fortunate encounter—a wandering mage or knight, impressed by my unusual maturity and intellect, deciding to take me as their apprentice.
If the stories were to be believed, not only could it happen, it was incredibly likely.
In retrospect, that logic seems rather absurd, but I don’t blame myself for thinking that way. At that point, I didn’t have much of an understanding of how the world worked.
See, people here didn’t attach any special meaning to children. I mean, there were just so many of them. Remember that part about kids like me being a-dime-a-dozen? Yeah.
Honestly, the absurd amount of urchins littering the Westbrook annoyed even me—you couldn’t swing a stick in the streets without hitting a couple of the little devils by accident. And no, I don’t feel any guilt for my dislike of them. You’ll see why later.
Anyway, the point is that the population pyramid in these parts had a very wide base. For that reason, kids weren’t really seen as having much value. No, that’s not quite right, it would be more accurate to say people thought they were entirely worthless…
…but even that isn’t going far enough. Honestly, they didn’t even have a value of zero. Their value was actually in the negative. They were like a rat-infestation in Westfall, busying themselves with whatever mischief their tiny little brains could come up with.
I mean, just consider the situation for a moment. They had no parents - or if they did, it didn’t matter anyway - they were living off the streets, struggling just to feed themselves and they were entirely uneducated, unable to even read or write.
There were no employment opportunities either. Don’t get the wrong idea though, it wasn’t because they were kids. Rather, what farmer, craftsman or shopkeeper in their right mind would hire the little bastards? You would have better luck with a troupe of chimpanzees—at least they wouldn’t burn your property down after looting it.
Regardless of the reason, the point I’m trying to make is that nobody gives a crap about a bunch of peasant kids. If a mage, knight or priest were to train someone, it would be their own sons. Given the need to pass down their family name, it’s basically killing two birds with one stone anyway.
The Stormwind Guard were extremely selective as well, at least that’s what I’d heard from eavesdropping and asking a few pointed questions. It made sense though—they could afford to be. I mean, who wouldn’t be interested in joining? Not only did they train and educate new recruits, they fed, clothed and provided them with warm beds.
It was a sweet deal if you could get in. For kids like me, that was simply a pipe-dream. I mean, before even taking their entry examination, applicants needed to secure a veteran’s recommendation—a soldier who’d served for at least five years. And only a single recommendation could be written each year.
As for who veterans usually recommended, well… it isn’t that hard to guess. Aside from their own descendants, they’d sell extra recommendations to anyone who could afford to pay.
This wasn’t exactly legal, but the kingdom mostly turned a blind eye. After all, if their recruits had wealthy parents, well… that was hardly disadvantageous to them.
Anyway, I’m rambling at this point. What I’m trying to say is that ‘upward mobility’ wasn’t even a concept for most common folk, including myself.
In the end, without a clear path forward, I was left wondering what to do with myself. Even if I ran away to join a caravan heading to Stormwind City, what would that accomplish? I had no prospects to speak of.
Left with no other options, I could only remain in Westbrook for the time being.
However, that didn’t mean I whiled away my days doing nothing—not that it was an option anyway. Usually, I’d be helping Jed with his work, but if he didn’t need me, I’d be doing chores around the homestead or running errands for Lily.
During the latter part of my routine - when I’d be around and about town – was when I did my information gathering. It was during my trips to and from the Westbrook market square that I developed an understanding of where, or more importantly, when I found myself.
However, before I talk about that, it needs to be said my knowledge of the setting was extremely limited. While I played the game during my previous life, it was only up to the third expansion pack.
I had absolutely no clue what happened after the Lich King’s defeat, although I do remember something about pandas and giant evil dragons. However, even before that point, I had basically had no clue of what was going on—a lore nerd I certainly wasn’t.
Anyway, a while back, I discovered the identity of Stormwind’s current king: Llayne Wrynn—a name I didn’t find the least bit familiar. However, the crown prince Varian Wrynn was a different story.
Further investigation yielded the name of the king of Lordaeron—Terenas Menethil. And his son, Arthas Menethil, three years old at that time.
I didn’t quite know how to feel about that revelation.
On one hand, relief wouldn’t have been out of place, given I had time to prepare for… everything. On the other, how exactly was I supposed to do that?
It almost felt like getting more time to study for a test, excepting for the fact that I had no metaphorical textbooks, or even stationary for that matter.
Continuing with that metaphor, even if I found some ‘textbooks’ - taking in consideration my absolute lack of cheats or even talent – what did it even matter? If I managed to learn how to swing a sword, well… so what?
If I can put things into context, the only reason physical classes in the game were able to compete with magical ones was for the sake of game balance, not because it made sense.
Sorcerers literally didn’t play by the rules. It was like… damn, I’m struggling to come up with a good metaphor.
Well, how about this one? If I can put things in terms of card-games, me learning how to become a knight was comparable to getting good at poker—fine and dandy if I’m preparing to face other poker players.
The only problem was, a warrior fighting a mage was like a poker player going up against someone who played solitaire. No matter how good you were, how were you supposed to beat four straight flushes? It simply couldn’t be done.
Over the years, I kept wracking my brain, trying to come up with some kind of solution to my many problems. However, the only conclusion I reached was this—in a few years, when shit started hitting the fan, I'd be well and truly fucked.
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