Voidweaver

Dhargo

<Filthy Casuals>

(NOSOTROS) Alexstrasza

Enano Disciplina Prix

Voidweaver

The heavy oak doors of the Priory creaked open, revealing a dimly lit sanctuary. As the party stepped inside, a wave of familiar, metallic scent washed over Dhargo Grobslayer, triggering a vivid flashback. He wasn't in the Priory anymore; he was back in the Netherlight Temple, the rhythmic clang of his hammer against the forge echoing in his ears.

Clang… clang… clang… clang…

The sound wasn't the gentle chime of his old Holy Priest days, but the resolute, powerful rhythm of a craftsman shaping steel. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through the temple's high windows, illuminating the intricate runes etched into his weathered face. He wasn't the same dwarf who'd arrived years ago, a fresh-faced healer, his prayers a beacon of pure, unwavering Light.

Clang… clang… clang…

He remembered the jungle, the stifling humidity, the relentless savagery of the trolls. He remembered the desperate attempts to heal, the agonizing slowness of his prayers against the brutal onslaught. The Light, once his unwavering faith, had seemed to falter, too passive, too slow.

Why did the Light allow such suffering? The question had gnawed at him, leading him to the dusty, forgotten troll library. There, amidst the chilling depictions of blood rituals, he found a different path: Discipline.

The flashback intensified. He saw himself poring over ancient texts, the words resonating with a truth he hadn't known he sought. He understood that the Light was the heart, the compassion that drove him to heal, but the Dark, the shadows he'd once feared, was the mind, the strategic insight needed to anticipate and counter the enemy.

Clang… clang… The hammer blows in his memory punctuated his realization. Discipline wasn't about rigid control, but balance, a dance between two opposing forces. It was about proactively mitigating damage, weaving a shield of both Light and Shadow, anticipating the flow of battle.

"The Light alone is a raging fire, consuming itself," he muttered, the words echoing in the memory, "The Dark alone is a frozen lake, stagnant and unyielding. But together, they are a river, flowing with purpose."

He remembered learning to wield the Shadow, not as a weapon, but as a tool, understanding the enemy’s tactics, turning their ferocity against them. He’d found that by embracing the strategic, calculating aspects of his mind, he could amplify the Light’s power.

Clang… The flashback began to fade, the scent of the Priory's incense replacing the metallic tang of the forge. He gripped his hammer, the familiar weight grounding him in the present. He wasn’t a pacifist anymore, but a guardian, a warden, a conduit for both heart and mind.

The party moved deeper into the Priory, the looming threat of the Arathi defenders of the Sacred Flame palpable. Dhargo's eyes gleamed with a newfound resolve, the memory of the forge a reminder of his transformation. He was no longer a beacon of pure Light, but a shield of tempered steel, forged in the fires of both compassion and calculated discipline. He was the embodiment of the flowing river, the perfect balance between the heart and the mind. He would protect his allies, not by blindly healing, but by strategically preventing their wounds. He was the balance, and he would bring it to this sacred place, just as he had brought it to the forge.