I've been somewhat delayed in the writing and posting of this, so I'm sorry about that. Should be moving on swiftly to the chat with Feldad and the subsequent activities.
Demon Gate Interlude
You navigated the winding mountain pass, your keen eyes taking in the details of the landscape. Ahead, the remnants of an old settlement come into view, now a temporary camp for Fel Orcs.
You took station on top of a fallen tree, high up on the last ridge over the settlement. IT was a rocky perch, but Haomarush and Sesk stood beside you, supported easily by their command of the Elements while you had to steady yourself on the branches as you grasped your sword in one hand and your banner and braid flapped in the wind. You saw stone ruins, a low wall, huddled huts in seemingly random placements and a few tents of dark skin and fur. There were cages too, many of them empty and others with strange beasts within.
The red-skinned folk below were clear though, the Fel-blooded warriors quite distinct. Their skin was a deep, unnatural red, stretched taut over rippling muscles and in places broken by scale or bone spurs. You notice the grotesque, uneven mutations that mar their bodies—spikes jutting from shoulders, extra eyes blinking from foreheads, and twisted limbs that seem barely functional. These were aberrations that spoke of hasty, unrefined tampering with Fel energies, likely the work of inexperienced warlocks. Haomarush was somewhat the same, his horns uneven and his left side heavier with spikes and black fur than his right. Sesk though had received the Fel directly from Gul'dan, a master of the process, and apart from his horns and tusks, his form was free of aberrant addition.
The camp itself was a cacophony of chaos, with little sign of the discipline you were accustomed to. Fel Orcs brawled amongst themselves, weapons clashing and guttural roars filling the air, while warlocks and sorcerers wove their dark magic, their eyes glowing with malevolent light.
"It's a disgrace." spat Haomarush. "This would have never been tolerated under Master Jubei'thos."
"Recognise anyone?" Sesk asked.
"Aye." Haomarush replied, "Redjaw and Brolic, look there, they've spotted us too."
You followed the Blademaster's gaze and saw two more of your kind, blademasters too, standing still in the tumult and looking up at you.
While the others ranged from bright red with Fel tattoos to a ruddy umber, these two Blademasters had clearly received a greater infusion of Fel energies than the others. Both were squat, backs bent and spines and spikes erupting from their shoulders, their eyes balls of vibrant emerald fire. One bore a greataxe and the other a ringed glaive, but at this distance you couldn't tell much more.
"Who are they?" you asked.
"Redjaw was Warsong, Brolic is Burning Blade, both are Quickened. They were disciples of Rahjak in the wars, then split from him when he abandoned the war." Haomarush explained.
The Quickened, those orcs artificially aged before the Horde's invasion of Azeroth, had often been assigned to older warriors for learning. Such was the method Haomarush had used himself in his clan where Quickened massively outnumbered his veterans. Rahjak meanwhile was a skilled Blademaster you'd last heard wandering in the Barrens as a bandit, one of the Deathseekers who searched for worthy opponents. You wondered if your father had gathered him with the others in his war on the Quillboar.
"They look Blackrock." you remarked, for both Blademasters had skin the color of dry blood, a blackish ochre instead of the red of the usual Fel Orc colouring.
"Some quirk in the way whoever gave them the Burning Wish, I suppose." Sesk replied.
Amid the disorder, you see creatures both free and tamed, creatures that should be familiar but are now grotesquely transformed. Fel Horses paw the ground restlessly with clawed feet and snap at the air with fanged mouths. Fel Wolves prowl the periphery, their eyes glowing with an eerie, green light, their bodies swollen with unnatural muscle and their backs rent with spines. There are even Fel Boars, hulking and grotesque, their forms twisted by the Legion's death magic. The sight is perplexing, a testament to a new, horrifying development in the use of Fel energies, leaving you both intrigued and wary.
Is this some site of experimentation by the warlocks? Orcs didn't ride horses, generally speaking, so it seemed unusual that they'd even been included in the experiments. But there was more, you looked over a number of demons in the camp too, following their masters or standing sentry. While certain powerful demons could sustain themselves independently, the natural energies of the world tended to try to push them back into the Twisting Nether. Here though you saw imps and voidwalkers, as well as unseen servants and felhounds, as were common among many warlocks, but you also saw greater demons.
Great beasts standing upright and looking with cruel intelligence, you saw demons of the Mo'arg race, Felguards with greatswords and crimson armour, and even an Ered'tarshesite, a Doomguard, with great wings and great curling horns. They shouldn't be here, not in these conditions, and you frowned.
But perhaps experimentation was the reason again. Each demon bore a black iron collar around their neck, inscribed with demonic runes that seem to pulse with a dark light. These collars, you realised, must be binding them to this plane, a crude but effective way to maintain control over their chaotic nature. It would be weakening them, perhaps, enough for them to maintain their existence at a lesser strength and not be expelled by the world, but in battle might they just throw off the collars and run free and terrible? It reminded you of the Searing Collars of your clan, designed to give junior warriors and acolytes an artificially stronger connection to the energies of destruction.
In the heart of the camp stood the Demon Gate itself. It was a crude thing, riven columns of dark stone held together by chains, metal bands and wooden supports. While the Dark Portal far to the south had been a great marvel, this was something constructed in haste and with poor masons. It was still enormous, large enough to fit a dragon through and with a single great arch with many connecting pillars and tributary structures where warlocks could channel their power.
The portal itself drew your gaze, like a stone cast into a dark pool you starred into it, caught in a black oily energy that seemed to go on forever.
You drew your gaze away with an effort. That was the call of the Twisting Nether, you supposed. You'd never felt it like that before, but your father had spoken of it, an unknowably vast realm of energies and emptiness that warlocks could sense when they trafficked with demons and rituals.
Instead your gaze turned to the black chains that seemed to be being drawn into the portal, floating in the air and bobbing about, drawn twitching by unknown currents, as if caught in a spectral wind.
"We know at least what happened to the humans." Sesk said.
Indeed, you had seen it too, blackened skeletons piled at the portal's foot. Obviously it hadn't been enough, you could feel the energies of the gate fading away somewhat, the sacrifice insufficient for whatever connection the warlocks had aimed to make.
"Your will, Warchief?" Haomarush asked, "You forbade sacrifices, will it be death for them?"
The warlocks had seemingly slain their own allies, renegade mages and sorcerers from the Syndicate's ranks. That did not strictly go against the writs you'd issued to your orcs to not molest or trouble the humans, and the specific instructions you'd given Haomarush and the Demonsword to forbid their previous practice of sacrifice. It was a pedantic question though.
"We shall see." you replied. It was more complicated than that.
As you stand at the edge of the Fel Orc camp, your mind drifts to the broader events that have led you to this moment. The history of your people is marred by foolishness and tradgedy, by betrayal and ambition. Your people sold their souls to demons, knowingly or not. At first you might have been sympathetic for no doubt many had no true understanding of what they would do.
"How was it, when Gul'dan offered the demon blood?" you asked. "Did he call the clans before the Throne of Kil'jaedan and just offer it, or did he go among the clans first? How did you both come to take the Burning Wish?"
While most Orcs had drunk from the Pitlord Mannoroth's blood, some more directly than others, others had warlocks directly infuse their flesh with magic, becoming Fel Orcs.
"There was a Kosh'harg festival in Nagrand." Sesk spoke after a time, "Ner'zhul came, with his apprentice Gul'dan. Ner'zhul spoke to the chiefs and the other shaman, spoke of the Beautiful One and his promises, while Gul'dan went among the shaman and spoke of power. The Elements had already abandoned us, or were in the process of doing so."
"Yes, I wasn't there but I remember telling of it, there were many threats then and the shaman were weakening. There was talk of sacrifices and rituals in ancient places." Haomarush put in.
"They went to Oshu'gun, though Ner'zhul counselled against it. After they came back the Red Pox spread through the clans and the Shamans could do nothing. Many began to seek out Ner'zhul for his wisdom, blamed the Spirits. Some stayed faithful, I suppose, but if you make a sacrifice and the Elements do nothing, what good are they? Or so Gul'dan said."
You knew the rest of it from there, Gul'dan had secretly gone among the clans and taught their shaman his death magic, inducting them into his Shadow Council. But Gul'dan, while charismatic, would have never been accepted as the leader the Burning Legion needed the Orcs to have, so instead the call went up for a Warchief, and Blackhand had been acclaimed. The Orcs had drunk the demon blood and soon the Dark Portal was open and war carried to another world.
"But you both, why did you choose the Fel?" you asked.
It had been a choice for all the Orcs. Some denied that, said your people had been tricked, but you knew that to be false. It had been years of plotting and planning, years of war until the final corruption and the assault on Shattrath city. There had been countless atrocities and massacres against Ogres, Gronn and Draenei, the Arrakoa and the Saberon, all enemies to be felled before Gul'dan could create the portal to Azeroth.
It had been a choice.
"In truth, I did so because many others were doing so, and because I sought greater power and strength. It was simple for me. I slew who Gul'dan bade me slay, and became one of the strongest Blademasters in the Horde for it. The Fel may do nothing for skill, but it gives a warrior strength indeed." Sesk said. "I never cared for the particulars. Some worshipped demons, for my part I held faith only in the strength of my arm and the edge of my blade."
You looked to Haomarush.
"I did worship demons." the other Blademaster responded, and you wondered whether you'd thought to hear shame in his voice. "I was younger then, perhaps I followed the customs of others rather than deciding for myself, but the Elements had abandoned us. If the Spirit of the Forest does not serve, you seek the Spirit of the Mountain instead, it's hardly unusual. Jubei'thos was perhaps more traditionally faithful, but it was a powerful narrative. My master would speak of it often. Sargeras, who made our people in his own image, made us for war. It is one reason I offered you the Mak'gora, you understood our purpose… We were made to break armies and worlds, ever since Grond himself. It is a sacred duty and so when emissaries of the greatest army in creation came to us and offered us a place in their ranks, to throw down the corrupt and the debased, we took it gladly."
It was a common narrative among your people. You perhaps had a somewhat more militant perspective on it, but many acknowledged that the lord of the Burning Legion, Sargeras, had once been the Champion of the Forgers who had created all things. There had been a schism though, Sargeras concluding that it was necessary to destroy that creation to prevent its corruption by dark forces.
Powerful races had joined to the Dark One's campaign, from monstrous Annihlian to the powerful Man'ari or the subtle Nathrezim. They had been changed, corrupted by the Burning Crusade, but the purity of Sargeras' desire was still there, that was the Burning Wish that your father had once offered you.
You considered Haomarush's words. Why was he different from the Orcs below? They had the same red skin, the same monsterous form.
You looked down, looking further, searching your soul.
You can't help but feel a deep scorn for them. To you, they are cheats—warriors who have taken shortcuts to power, bypassing the rigorous discipline and honour that true strength requires. Their chaotic camp, their undisciplined behaviour, all signal a lack of the very qualities that once made orcs feared and respected across worlds. They wielded power they hadn't earned…
But no, that wasn't the way. You refused the thought. That was arrogance, and such scorn was dishonourable. You made to purge it from your heart…
Instead you would temper it. Who were you but a coward and a grasping rogue yourself, if you were to fall so quickly into such arrogance? The Light taught the Three Virtues, Respect, Compassion and Tenacity. You had sworn to practice them if you could and this was no time to forget them. You forced yourself to consider the perspective of those below instead. Was it fear that drove them? A lack of other options, or perhaps a twisted sense of honour? You try to imagine the desperation that might lead one to such a dark allegiance, the allure of immediate power in a world that offers few chances for true strength. Not all were suited to your path, or had the opportunities you'd had. Your father had offered you much, if you'd been born in different circumstances would you have trodden the same path you did now?
Most importantly though, Nagaz and his companions had claimed allegiance to the Burning Blade. That was likely a lie, but the warriors below were still your kin, bound by blood and shared history, even if their paths have diverged.
"The Old Ways." you breathed, ignoring the questioning glances from your attendants. Orc should not war with Orc, so said the Unnamed Warchief.
You tasted it on the air, the Fel. To these Orcs it was power and chaos, but within that it was freedom, it was the power to change their fate. You might have looked to it once, sought to gain strength artificially to make up for your stunted size. To take the Fel was submission to one's own will, rather than honouring the wills of others or of the ancestors.
It was so strange, yet so familiar. How many times, when you were younger, had you wished for power, wanted to honour your clan and prove yourself worthy of your father?
You turn your thoughts inward, contemplating the nature of the Fel itself. To anyone of magic affinity the corruptive energies would be easy to sense The air around you hums with its corruptive energy, a palpable force that seems to reach out and graze your soul. You shudder slightly, sensing the malevolence within it, but you force yourself to look deeper. The Fel is not merely a source of corruption; it is a powerful, intoxicating force that beckons with the promise of transformation.
You close your eyes and let yourself feel the magic more acutely. There is an undeniable allure to it, a raw, primal energy that stirs something deep within you. It is the same as looking at a great beast, roaring and stamping upon the plain, or the sight of a forest fire, engulfing all it touches.
You feel the power of destruction, but also the revelry of the creation that follows, the power to make a portal or to sustain a demon in battle. The Fel was not the entropy of Death Magic, it was not the power of necromancers or Death Knights, nor the madness of the Twilight's Hammer, seeking for the insanity in the shadowplaces of the world.
The Fel was like the blow of a hammer upon anvil, the fibres of steel rent and remade in the furnace, or the caustic bite of an acid upon the runework of an engraver.
It was a strange realisation, but wasn't that the same as you'd always had explained to you? Your father had spoken of it many times. You'd been suspicious then, but in truth you realise that perhaps he'd been right. You found the Light to be comforting, but to the undead it was a searing, aloof, blinding and hostile force.
From the few sessions you'd had with Kardris Dreamseeker you also knew there were different interpretations shamanic practice. Your father had been angry that you'd sought her out instead of asking him your questions, but now you saw it a different way perhaps.
You smiled a little.
You remembered the beams above the commonhouse at Razor Hill. They were carved with something, you couldn't remember what. The buildings had been constructed from the ruins of Kul Tiran ships, which were the finest sources of timber around when Durotar had been settled. You sought the Firechild, but then you remembered flailing about with your sword trying to defeat it. To go from that to binding Myzrael in only a few years seemed so strange now.
The Firechild had inhabited a lightning-struck tree, but would it have gone differently if you'd sought the spirit of a forgefire? Would such a spirit have been more obedient, more well trained in the ways of mortals? One might seek the Spirit of Water in the fresh streams of snowmelt off the mountains, or in the brackish bogs around the north bank of the Southfury.
You breathed again, tasting the air as it passed through your nose, holding it in your lungs before you exhaled slowly. Yes there was fire there, ash too and the slight stinging that could twist in your chest before you let the breath go. But there was more now you could sense.
Was this why your father had followed the path of the Warlock? You knew much of the theory, it had been required for you growing up. You knew in theory how to summon demons or to marshal the Fel, though you'd never actually practiced it beyond a few times when your father had persuaded you before he'd sent you away.
"They are secondary." you finally said, drawing yourself from the meditation. "I must speak with my father and they have no hope of denying us, regardless of our purpose."
You made your way back down the ridge, rallying the warparty and heading up toward the camp.
You couldn't just kill them all, that would never serve. You might just bring down the mountain on them with Myzrael's help, but that would place you in exactly the same position you'd been in at Dreadmist Peak, with the danger of the Warlocks turning to summon greater demons in their desperation. You could call up the Demonsword to lay siege to the camp, but getting enough of the clan here would take weeks and would only lead to a bloody and unwelcome distraction, for you had much to do.
They were clan, you decided as you walked. They'd introduced themselves as Burning Blade, and you would not tolerate dissention or disobedience from clan members in this way. They would have your respect, but you would have them return it.
Whether they regarded themselves as a clan or not you didn't know. Nagaz, that treacherous warlock, had claimed to have been dispatched by your father to Alterac, but you knew that for a lie. Sometime after you'd spoken to Haomarush and a few of the other Demonsword Clan, who'd named the group of renegade warlocks as the 'Argus Wake'. It was a peculiar name. You knew Argus as the name of the Draenei homeworld, for like the Orcs were aliens upon Azeroth, the Draenei they were not native to Draenor.
You'd considered it as you walked. While Vark would sometimes remind you that you thought too much, you felt the need to weigh the matter carefully. You walked forward, up a long earthen causeway tracked into the hill the Fel Orc camp had been built on top of. You walked barefoot again, feeling the need to strengthen your connection to the Spirit of Earth as Myzrael roiled and fitted in her slumber beneath the Earth.
It might be that Nagaz and the others were simply renegades, as the goblin, Darkstorm, had been, or that warlock you'd slain with Vark and Kartha.
What had his name been? Shadowsword? Banesword? Something of that ilk. It wasn't important…
You'd slain Darkstorm years ago, but you knew there were many such groups, either unsatisfied with your father's leadership or completely sundered from your clan and still worshiping the Legion. Nagaz's group had addressed you fluently in the Demon tongue, which spoke of social acceptance in whatever community they commonly spoke it.
That could not be here, this was a camp. But then where had Nagaz come from and how had he come to be here in Alterac? Surely none of the human nations would have protected him? Or had he simply kept to himself, his little cult staying at the fringes of Alterac and the mountains, perhaps linking up with Varimathras?
The ground was cold, but your sword warmed you as you walked, slowly and carefully up the track. Above you stood a crude gatehouse of stone and hacked wood, surrounded by a palisade that went along the ridgeline. This hadn't been a fortress or a city, you knew, but perhaps it was once an outpost of the Blackrock, before Jubei'thos had been slain or Haomarush led his people away after the Scourge attack to give them the discipline of their society now.
You were growing closer now.
"Do you intend to just walk in?" asked Sesk.
"I see no reason why not. I've come to use that portal to speak to my father, and Redjaw and his demons won't prevent me." you replied after a time.
No warrior behind you, nor the blademasters at your sides objected. It warmed your heart, and you felt your pride swell as your warband strode forward. You caught Haomarush grinning out of the corner of your eye.
The Chief turned toward you, the emerald fire that had replace his eyeballs roiling and flaring. Then he turned to Mazath, "Come, boy, is not a bold Warchief a glorious thing?"
Mazath had been with you when you'd walked into the Revantusk Village, so he at least was prepared for it.
Horn calls went up as you approached and you saw a flock of lesser demons take wing above the camp. There were heads poking out from the battlements and then swiftly drawing back.
"Sesk, clear the way. Do not kill if you can avoid it, but do not allow us to be impeded. We have work to do." You ordered.
The Blademaster took a single step and as he did, utterly disappeared from view, his form fading into the wind. You saw only the rush of air as the Blademaster advanced, flying up the track.
You'd almost thought you might see the gatehouse explode, bodies flying, but no. Sesk reappeared on the battlements, his tall form and the banner on his back clearly visible, and then after a minute or so the gates opened and you walked through.
Within the courtyard you saw the demons rallying, weapons drawn, warlocks were there, looking nervously toward your party and groups of warriors and aspirants readying themselves.
Nagaz was in their centre, passing a hand over his hair as he looked at you and fumbling with his eyepatch.
"Rally your warlocks." you ordered. "Bank the fires high and ready your reagents. I have come to speak to my father."
