Aquarius

[Irontoe]

Kalimdor, 10 years before present day–

The dwarf sighed in relief. The feel of water coursing through his fingers at long last felt like holding his wife's hand after years away from her. At first it was only a trickle, but as he clawed at the soft, porous stone with a pick, the flow strengthened to a spray that carried pieces of the rock face away with it. The icy river sloshed around his legs and rushed down the snow tunnel behind him, carrying away wooden support beams and pylons. P.T. Irontoe, dwarf, shouted excitedly "We've 'it paydir', lads!" before he let himself be swept laughing away with flow.

When he burst into blinding daylight, he reached up and snagged a rope spanning the diameter of the tunnel mouth and heaved himself out of the water to the safety of the edge of an aqueduct. Dwarven workers cheered as the Great Forge's Chief Aquarius whooped and giggled in glee and shook the water out of his massive beard.

The raging torrent tearing away down top of the arched stone aqueduct quickly drowned out the sounds of King Magni's finest work crew. Irontoe reveled in the deafening roar while it lasted, knowing that it would eventually slacken to a steady flow that would provide thousands of people in mountainous Winterspring with pure water free of the pervasive taint. Plumbing the depths of the Hyjal foothills had taken almost a year so far, but now the maddening backtracks and and the repeated failures encounter over the course of construction and digging dwindled and faded in his mind to nothing. This was the best moment of any engineer's life: to see his diligence pay off and his own creation work spectacularly. This was what Irontoe lived for.

– – – – –

By dusk, the fires of the work crew's celebratory bonfires towered into the darkening sky, and flames licked the bottoms of the highest branches of the magnificent, snowbound Kalimdor oaks overhead. In stereotypical fashion, the dwarves had raided the ale wagon as soon as the aqueduct was declared sound; they now boozed and danced and sang vulgar ballads in various stages of undress.

Irontoe soon retired to the alcove created by a second-tier arch of the aqueduct laid flat against the face of a cliff overlooking the camp. He leaned against the brick and felt the thrumming rhythm of the river in his bones, finally pulling a simple bone pipe and a dab of Lordaeron tobak from a pouch at his hip. He paused to read the name carved on the curved stem for what seemed like the thousandth time since he had left home: Porcia. It was a gift from his wife; she carried a matching one from him, but never had occasion to light it. He let out a heavy sigh, ran his thick forefinger over the inscription, then struck a match.

"I'll be 'ome soon, love."

[Irontoe]

The soft yellow light in the alcove above was lost in the flickering illumination of the bonfires in the camp, where drunk dwarves stumbled toward pallets and flopped to the ground with a drunken groan, usually some distance before they reached them. The next day would be another day of work – reinforcing the tunnel into the cliff against nature's onslaught, repairing floodgates, sealing leaks in the mortar – but for all intents and purposes, they were finished. The few married workers could go home to their loved ones, unmarried ones would stay perhaps another month before they were relieved.

For the first time since the expedition arrived at Kel'Theril, no sentries were posted.

– – – – –

Irontoe glanced up, puzzled. He could have sworn that there had been something there. He went back to his pipe.

There it was again! Just out of the corner of his eye, high up and outside the alcove. He stood, and, checking his grip on a protruding brick, leaned out over empty space to investigate. What he saw almost made him let go.

The water, still sloshing outside of the channel as it exited the tunnel because of its great volume, was... alive. There was no other way to describe it. It spilled outside of the aqueduct and gurgled and writhed along the side, snaking and splitting like spreading ivy across the brickwork toward him. Inside the watery vine floated shining motes that gave it a ghostly white glow. He thought it must have been the most wondrous thing he had ever seen, yet it filled him with an inexplicable dread at the same time. He managed to tear his eyes away from the thing for a moment to look towards the camp.

In the light of the low-burning bonfires, he spied dark figures sprinting silently down a wooded hill toward the tents. He tried to call a warning, but at that moment a liquid tendril reached out from the wall and touched his left shoulder.

– – – – –

One dwarf who wasn't quite consumed by his stupor pried open bleary eyes and peered around at his companions. And at the wraiths who were cutting their throats.

– – – – –

Irontoe faintly heard the warning shout go up, but could do nothing. He felt a biting chill in the tissue around his rocky shoulder; his lungs, his limbs, seemed to freeze; he choked once before his throat too seized up. The liquid tendril probed his shoulder, tentatively at first, then more urgently and forcefully. It narrowed and lengthened, worming its way into the fissures. Suddenly, the entire mass of living water funneled into the single tendril, which itself drained into his shoulder.

When the last drop soaked into the stone, Irontoe went limp, releasing his grip on the protruding brick and toppling into thin air. The last thing he saw before the snow drift engulfed him was a massive fireball arcing toward the aqueduct.