The Order of the Black Heart (Warcraft 3)

[torroar]

anyone willing to beta what I've got at the moment for the next chapter?

 

[torroar]

Note: Unbeta'd, subject to rewriting as needed like always.​

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Thirteen
New Paths and Old
A Warcraft III AU​

An Oasis Within The Barrens

With the sun long gone, the shining moonlight of the night made an eerie glow upon the dusty plains of the Barrens. It illuminated every small tree, and cast strange and twisting shadows amongst the various oases of the land. Vegetation was rare, but around these small blessed pools, life flourished. Near the side of one particular oasis, just within the farthest confines of its scraggly vegetation, smoke rose into the air.

A skinned boar lay slowly turning over a fire. Juices dripped from it, sizzling when they hit the flames one after another. Thick slabs of marbled meat had been cut and rubbed down with seasoning before being carefully placed along a sturdy wooden rack. Over to the side lay the boars hide, already stretched out in the middle of the tanning process. In the shade of one of the trees was a single unfurled bedroll, half-opened. The only thing guarding the perimeter of this small camp were a dozen stakes, each with the still dripping head of a snarling Quilboar.

Through the underbrush of the oasis came the sound of snuffling. The dead Quilboar heads were the only ones who saw a bear poke its muzzle through the brush. It walked forward into the small clearing, its thick and shaggy fur easily turning aside the bramble as it continued on its quest. Leathery pads brought the ursine creature closer until dark, curious, and hungry eyes were but a few inches from the boar carcass. Though much had been cut away, a large amount of meat still remained on its thick bones. For a moment, everything was still.

Then with a single large chomp and a casual toss the bear moved its food away from the fire. Thumping over, it had scarfed down several warm mouthfuls before the clatter of falling wood made it look up. Wreathed in the shadows was the startled occupant of the camp, fuel for the fire forgotten at their feet. The two looked at each other, the moment almost frozen in time, before the bear made the attempt to take another bite of boar.

With a muted growl the original hunter of the boar shoulder checked the interloper, one hand clutching at the weapon slung along their back as they went. In response the bear reared back to stand and swipe wildly with its claws. Yet none of the intended strikes managed to hit the target, but before the bear could further react its opponent had responded.

A slice of moonlight briefly illuminated the pass of a gleaming axe before it disappeared into the darkness. Roaring in pain, the bear fell onto its side as a thin stream of blood dripped down from its stomach.

A cry of outrage came from the darkness. The bear rolled to stand once more on its four legs and looked to the source as the hunter did the same. Bursting from the shadows of the night came a hulking man, furs covering his shoulders and head. What was far more pressing were the two wicked edges along the enormous axes that he carried. Both swung forwards at the same time, forcing the hunter to roll beneath the blow and rise up from behind.

The larger single axe flashed forwards, a harsh whistle following its movement through the air. Clanging against one of the fur covered man's axes, it held there as the two ground their weapons against one another. Then the larger man's second axe began to chop to the side and below, forcing the hunter to disengage and leap backwards. Less than a second passed before they crashed into one another again, axes flying.

There were no words, no calls or blandishments, only the quiet grunts of effort as they strained against one another. The man's bronze skin was scarcely seen in the light before he was shoved back, the whistling axe scoring a cut along his forearm. Growling, he advanced in turn, twin axes becoming a whirling dervish that strained and then broke through the defenses of his opponent. Though the hunter possessed a frame corded with taut muscle, his opponent was a towering fighter that was both taller and wider with squat and thick muscle. Cast to the ground, the hunter merely skipped twice to the left before to the widened eyes of the man came a flickering trio of his foe, each dancing and leaping through the air.

It was at this moment of time that the bear re-entered the fray, bowling through the mirror images, claws and fangs ripping and tearing. Two of the images faded, while the third was clipped and sent blood flying. A spray of black blood splattered across moonlit ground. The dual-wielding man halted abruptly, his eyes bouncing between the blood and the one it had spilled from.

"Misha! Back!" he said in a harsh bark.

The bear growled and made to attack again.

"Misha!" the man growled again.

Finally the bear gave a whine bowed its head in subservience. The hunter straightened.

Slowly, warily, both warriors side-stepped into the moonlight outside of the shade of the oasis. The moonlight bathed both, and so it was they finally got good looks at one another. Both breathed hard from exertion, chests heaving as they sucked down air. Long faded scars covered both, though several light cuts and wounds had been opened up across each other's bodies.

The hunter's skin glistened with sweat, their jet black hair wild and unrestrained. There was no emblem, no markings on their green flesh. All that they wore was a simple rugged pair of tanned hide pants, with not even shoes to cover their feet. A barrel chest heaved, but there was not even a trace of weariness in the whole of the muscled frame.

In contrast the larger fighter wore various pelts woven into a single set of clothing, a snarling wolf head covering the upper half of their face. While the hunter was amazingly thin for one of their race, they still possessed more muscle than a human man twice over. The fighter instead was simply thick. Forearms larger than some torsos almost imperceptibly flexed as the hafts of the twin axes which remained raised creaked.

Both stared at the other silently save for their own hard breaths.

The moment stretched on, before after a short sigh the hunter lowered his axe to the dusty ground of the Barrens with a muffled thump. Perhaps, in another time, the thought of doing such a thing first would have been unthinkable. Here, it wasn't worth it, as there was no pride to save. The twin axes soon found their way toward the earth as well.

"It has been a long time since I have seen one of the Warsong. Though the last time I did so I remember fighting alongside them, not against," the fighter said with an eyebrow raised in question.

"That…was a long time ago, son of the Mok'Nathal. I am Warsong no longer," the hunter replied, their voice flat.

At this the fighters eyes widened.

"That is…improbable. The Grom Hellscream I-," he attempted to say.

The hunter cut their arm through the air.

"Hellscream no longer. Warsong no longer. I am no one. Nothing, save for my duty."

The orc shook his head, his face twisted into something between satisfaction and sadness at his fate.

"Hmmph."

When Rexxar, son of Leoroxx, had gone against the pacifistic wishes of the Mok'Nathal to join the Horde and walk upon Azeroth, he had been disowned. Divorced of family and clan. It was not a pleasant existence to have.

A large hand clasped a scarred green shoulder, causing Grom to look up at Rexxar's face. If one were to look past the scars and scrabbly features and squinted hard they might have seen what could be charitably described as a kind expression.

"Tell me your tale, Grom, and let my company beat back the stifling dark of the night."

A few minutes later found the two resting on the logs that the former Chieftain of the Warsong Clan had retrieved. Neither spoke, the warriors focusing much more on the delicious haunches of meat they feasted upon. There would be time for words after their empty bellies had been filled. Also sitting near the fire was the now resting bear which was focused on consuming its own portion of the meal, a set of bandages now covering its stomach.

A loud burp from the orc signified his readiness to speak, to which Rexxar looked up and nodded.

"I am damned. I have been for a very long time," Grom began, all emotion scoured from his voice.

His audience stilled to listen.

"Through my foolishness, many have died. To prove my worthiness as Chieftain I led raids deep into ogre lands, and for my pride my wife died," the orc spoke softly, knuckles popping from the pressure of his clenching fists.

Then, with not prompting, he laughed. It was a sickly thing, a dark chuckle which brought a small chill to Rexxar's bones.

"I called her weak, and left her to bleed to death. I called myself strong, and damned my clan."

Dark eyes found Rexxar's, and within them the half-ogre watched tortured memories play themselves out in the suddenly silent orc.

"It was me who drank first, and most deeply, of Mannoroth's blood. I corrupted myself and our people willingly."

Rexxar said nothing, though the small tin cup he had brought to his lips found its way carefully back down to the ground.

"Thus, the bloodlust which consumed our people and led to things like S-Shattrath, and that damned Path of Glory-" and at this Grom stood, roaring to the skies.

He raised Gorehowl, and for a moment he contemplated simply throwing it towards the stars so that perhaps the light of those distant suns would finally burn the oceans of innocent blood which coated the blade away. But the moment passed, and the iron cage of will which had defined him before he had ever passed through the Dark Portal surrounded him once more.

"Paved with the bones of the dead, never to be buried honorably or sent to their ancestors," he finally managed to snarl.

The Mok'Nathal which had once fought at the Warsong Clan's side during the Second War…did nothing. The man had no wish to interrupt something which had clearly been building for some time in the orcs chest. So he watched as Grom slammed back down onto the log, his grip of Gorehowl slackening, and said nothing. He watched as the orc lifted his free hand and stared down at it, perhaps remembering the waves of blood that had been splashed upon it.

"All my fault," Grom whispered.

But then his hand tightened into a fist, and Rexxar was surprised to see a small amount of fire enter the orcs eyes, a fire that had not been present at all up until that point.

"But Thrall would save us. He brought back the shamans we had turned out backs upon, and returning the spirits to our people. The same souls that I damned, he saved. For that, the entire orcish race owes him a debt of gratitude that can never be truly repaid."

For a wonder Rexxar detected the pride which drenched the praise for this 'Thrall' personage. The Mok'Nathal had never heard of him, and even though the fact that the name Thrall was simply another for slave, he trusted the orcs judgment enough to try and withhold his own. Unfortunately Grom caught the look in the half-breeds eyes and glared hard enough to twitch Rexxar's instincts towards one of his axes before he realized what he was doing.

"He does not deserve your contempt, Rexxar, and I will tell you why."

The sinewy orc splayed his arms wide and allowed his face to twist into a mocking grimace.

"He did not know of how I damned our people, and when I did tell him, do you know what his response was?"

Rexxar opened his mouth but his words were swallowed by Grom's own earsplitting yell.

"HE FORGAVE ME!" the orc bellowed as he shot to a standing position.

The sheer volume would have bowled over a lesser man, but as it was Rexxar was only nearly flung off of the log he sat upon. The various animals of the oasis let loose with their own cacophony of panic as the wild yell of the man named Hellscream echoed across the Barrens. Four legged animals sprinted from the brush and scattered while birds erupted from the tree tops.

"ME! Oh, the shame and horror in his eyes when I told him of my crimes. Of the crimes of our people! Of Blackhand and Doomhammer, of Durotan and Kargath, of all the orcish 'heroes' that I had weaned him on after his escape from the human camps. He trusted me, and in return I nearly broke his faith in his own people!" the orc ranted, chest heaving as he paced back and forth.

"For the first time the blood haze has lifted from my eyes, and it is only now that I know I am damned. There was never any blood curse like we let Thrall believe, only a price which we gladly paid! But still he forgave me…" Grom continued, only faltering towards the end.

For the first time, Rexxar decided to interrupt.

"Then why are you here, and not with this 'Thrall'? Why do you forsake your name as Hellscream and your position as Chieftain?" he asked while pulling another morsel of meat from the leg he held.

At this, Grom growled, and Rexxar was abruptly reminded of the screaming greenskin who had waded through blood and bodies which reached up to his knees that the half ogre had fought with on another continent. It was a noise which had reduced the footmen and even some knights of Stormwind to puddles of fear.

"Because I could still smell the stench of demons amongst the camp in which I had been prepared for Thrall to end my life. Because all my time under Mannoroth's chains has made me a bit more sensitive to the presence of demons," and at that Grom's lips peeled back to a snarl once more, "like a dog smelling its masters."

Rexxar's eyes widened at the words, and Grom nodded at his look before a dark rage appeared in his eyes.

"After all we had been through, all we had done, and all Thrall had done to save us…some wretched bastards remained convinced that they could continue their worship and usage of demons from under his nose!" the orc growled.

"If it had not been for me, they would have remained there festering in the flesh of the Horde until who knows when. But…I was there. I could practically taste the taint in the air surrounding them. Some, I had known for years. Others? From other clans. But they were still warlocks all the same," Grom continued.

The former chieftain paused then to take a deep swig from the flask of water propped up against the log. To Rexxar's surprise however he did not expand on the previous topic and seemingly switched to another entirely.

"Thrall would not punish me, he could not bring himself to do it. Not when I embarrassed myself before him," and before Rexxar could do more than raise an eyebrow the orc continued, "with the snot running down my face to intermingle with the tears. The Doomhammer should have fallen upon my head the very instant I finished my tale but it didn't."

Grommash Hellscream was not proud of many things, but one of the latest things he was definitely not proud of was the way he had wept on the floor of his Warchief's hut. His remorse and shame had swallowed much of his pride, but he could still be embarrassed for crying like that. But that was fine, for in the depths of his despair and the thunderous rage of Thrall at learning of the demonic taint still flowing from the fingertips of some of the orcs under his wing a solution had been found.

"If he would not," Grom spoke, his voice now oddly quiet, "then I would be the deliverer of my own punishment. Thrall bandied the word redemption about but it is unlikely that I will ever be able to face Mannoroth and slay him. No, no I decided to take a small line from Kargath's own policies no matter how distasteful the rest of them were."

Then the orc tilted his jaw up, and Rexxar nearly gasped at the sight of the tender green flesh of Grom's lower jaw. As the Warsong Chieftain, an incredibly painful process had been undertaken to tattoo that same flesh black. But now not a spot of that ink remained. As Rexxar continued to stare, Grom let a hand rise up and rub the newly 'clean' skin.

"It is only at Thrall's behest that what you see now is not a mess of scars considering that I tore that layer of flesh away with my bare hands. He struggled mightily to heal the damage, then nearly killed me in outrage for doing the action at all," the orc said with an almost empty chuckle.

"So you abdicated your position as Chieftain. Then…willfully turned outcast?" Rexxar asked carefully.

Gorehowl found its way to Grom's lap as its owner laid the weapon flat, fingers tracing the grooves.

"Thrall could stop me from killing myself, and he was correct that it would be a waste of my life," the orc said as ran a finger down the edge, drawing back almost instantly as the skin was cut.

Rexxar shivered slightly at the look in the gaze that Grom levelled upon his weapon.

"But he cannot...cannot…stop me from using it up. Especially not for such a worthy cause as mine..." the orc murmured.

It occurred to Rexxar at that point that perhaps the revelation of being completely free of demonic taint and control and then living without it for however the orc had…might have broken something. Enough at least to bring one of the fiercest and most strong willed orcs in history to pull away entirely from the Horde and his Clan.

"What cause is that?" Rexxar asked, his voice equally soft.

He then watched as Grom gripped Gorehowl's edges once again, hard enough to turn green knuckles white.

"When Thrall and I searched for…and found the demon serving wretches that hid within the Horde, we mirrored the work of another orc many years ago. Much like Doomhammer," and then an unrestrained smile found its way onto the grim orcs lips, "we purged the warlocks in the Horde's ranks!"

Rexxar smiled as well. He had joined the Horde and had fought along the Warsong only after Doomhammer had slaughtered the Shadow Council and as many warlocks as could be reached. Only after Doomhammer swore to change the Horde into an honorable gathering once more had one of the sons of the Mok'Nathal found his way into their ranks.

But then the joy began to drain from Grom.

"We could not afford a panic, not then, not with so many of those unaware surrounding us. We had to move in secret, killing in the night. I could feel them, and so they could not hide," he said with a small hint of satisfaction even as he began to frown in earnest.

Fingers began to tap back and forth across Gorehowl's body as the orc thought back to that night.

"Some realized their companions were falling, no doubt through some form of their dark magics. They feared for their lives, and rightly so…and then they fled. With their followers behind them, through portal or on foot, they ran."

Rexxar made a small noise of realization as the truth of Hellscream's quest became clear to him.

"And you followed. That is your proclaimed duty, and your self-imposed penance," the half-breed said.

Grom nodded as he tapped a single finger down the length of Gorehowl. With each tap along that razor sharp edge another drop of blood was drawn.

"Neeru Fireblade. Jug'kar Grim'rod. Yarrog Baneshadow. Klass Metalfist. Al'arr Darkhills. Traitors all of them," the orc spat their names like the sewage they were. "So long as they and the rest of their misbegotten ilk who fled live, I swore a blood oath that I shall not return to the Horde. Only then can I begin to try and collect the paltry scraps of honor that remains to me."

There was silence for a scant moment before Rexxar stood, drawing Grom's eye. Then, before the orc could do any more than blink, one of Rexxar's own axes found its edge driven across the half ogre's palm to send a splash of blood sizzling into the fire. Then that massive hand was thrust over the fire as one warrior stared into another's eyes.

"A nobler hunt I have never seen nor heard of. I would join you on your quest to restore your honor and slay these demon slavering creatures who wear the guise of your people…if you would have me."

For a moment, there was silence.

"The quest was meant for me alone…but I will not deny anyone the chance to slay such beasts as them!" the orc said with a savage grin.

Hand grasped hand, and blood mixed with blood.

The hunt was on.

-----------------------------​

Deep Within The Deadmines Of Westfall

​

"We'll strike here, here, and here. Make sure that the traps are laid down correctly and we can all come home tonight rich," a man rasped harshly.

The leather of the man's gloves creaked as he stabbed a finger down at a massive parchment map strewn out across a large oak wood table. All around, men and women nodded approvingly or spoke to each other in whispered tones. None would actually disagree with the plan, after all, they always worked no matter how dangerous they seemed these days.

Though they were not part of any true nation's military or a particular mercenary group, they were dressed in fine equipment indeed. The best steel in Azeroth made up their weapons, the most expensive hardened leathers and armors that nobles could purchase girded their frames. Nothing about them was truly standardized, each preferring his or her personal choice of weapon and gear. Some held crossbows, others axes, some a multitude of daggers. Others still carried no weapon at all but the powerful magics they could bring to bear.

Not all mages came or went to Dalaran.

However, one thing marked them all, something which symbolized their purpose, their mission, their allegiance, and boldly stated it to all who knew of their organization.

A red mask.

The man who stood at the head of the table, Edwin VanCleef, was the one who had decided that they would raid one of the latest Stormwind convoys carrying arms and armor for a resurgent army. He grinned madly from behind his own red mask. Once a simply bandana he had used to cover his mouth and nose from the dust and grime of his work as a stonemason, it was now a symbol of his people.

The Defias Brotherhood.

Every drop of Stormwinder blood spilled was like ecstasy for him. For their betrayal, for their crimes, not only just the House of Nobles but the whole of the city of Stormwind would be made to suffer. Perhaps, one day, even the whole kingdom…

But then there were the sounds of screams, and every head at the meeting whipped upwards at the sight. Hands fell to weapons, even as one they turned to face the door. Even as they did so, the screams raised in intensity, as well as the sound of alarms going off.

"What is going on!?" Edwin growled, even as he slammed the door of the private alcove open.

The anger in his face gave way to complete and utter shock.

The Deadmines were aflame.

Hundreds of Defias ran back and forth, screaming, as vast gouts of flame crashed down upon them. Torchlight was utterly replaced by the vast columns of flame being spewed by swooping monsters, wings sweeping back and forth. VanCleef stared, the blood draining from his face, the scaled beasts roaring with glee as they slaughtered his brothers and sisters. The cavern was enormous, it had to be to support the Defias pirate ships, yet not it was allowing for what could only be one thing to assault his home for more than a decade.

Dragons, he mouthed silently.

One of the larger beasts crashed down onto one of the ogre enforcers, tearing into the enormous ball of fat and muscle with glee. So fast were the dragon's jaws that barely any blood escaped before the whole of the ogres body was chewed up and swallowed. Then the beast turned its gaze onto Edwin and his top commanders.

"Food," it snarled rearing back and blasting a wide cone of flame towards them.

Only years of reflexes saved the Defias founder's life as he just barely ducked out of the way. Wood splintered and cracked as the immense heat and pressure slammed into it, even as those who had not yet exited the doorway were scorched into blackened skeletons before even half of them could begin to scream. In less than ten seconds the top operatives and commanders of the entire Defias organization were slain.

Scrabbling onto the rock and gravel of the cavern floor, Edwin struggled to get to his feet and run. Even as he did so he could feel the gaze of the beast upon his back.

"Dragons. Bloody dragons?!" he whispered incredulously to himself as he continued to run.

There was barely any time to think, but he found the time as he leapt over burning scaffolding and collapsing framework. The beautiful skeleton to the juggernaut that he had slowly been building for longer than his daughter had been alive in secret was utterly engulfed in dragon fire. It seemed like the flames were licking up the walls and consuming the ceiling itself. All his work and all his plans were burning in the caverns as more dragons than he had ever seen in his entire life poured from the tunnels and from the opening which lead to the sea.

He had no idea what madness had engulfed the world these past few months, but now it seemed to have finally erupted here. At first they had scoffed of the reports of actual walking dead from the other side of the continent. But then things had gotten worse, and worse, and then all of a sudden Lordaeron was gone. Then Quel'Thalas and much of their more unscrupulous contacts for certain artifacts and scrolls, and then it seemed like there were demons coming out of the Light's bunghole there were so many of them.

It was hard to believe, so far down in the south, but now the Defias had monsters of their own demolishing everything in their home base. Edwin snarled at the thought even as he saw some of his men successful get a spiked net around one of the smaller drakes. Blades flashed and the roaring beast was soon squealing as it was liberally cut apart. The Defias wouldn't be taken by these animals without a fight, Edwin thought to himself angrily.

But then four more drakes came upon the scene and unleashed themselves upon the unsuspecting Defias who were cut apart. The net was broken, and the only injured dragon in the entire cavern shook itself for a single moment before returning to the fight. A million different things ran through his mind, but finally a single thought he'd had earlier came bursting to the fore.

"Vanessa!" he cried aloud.

The thought had come unbidden, but now it consumed him. For standing near one of the cavern pathways which led to his private chambers was his little girl, frozen in fear with one hand on the wall. Her small teddy bear which was one of the few mementos left of her mother and his wife was clutched in a death grip while her small floral dress was billowed back and forth by the gusts created by flapping dragon's wings. There was no time for further ranting or thinking as the man changed direction towards his daughter. All around him the Defias died, but his thoughts no longer stayed on them.

Vanessa VanCleef opened her mouth to cry out, only to have her eyes widen in surprise when a slim yet strong hand of creamy skin found its way around her face. Edwin could only pump his legs harder as his daughter was pulled back into the tunnel, her arms flailing. A burning gnoll nearly bowled the man over as it screeched and ran for the waters below only to find a dragon landing on it seconds after the master of the Defias skirted around it.

Finally reaching the tunnel, the master stonemason rounded the corner at a dead one sprint, cutlass held at the ready. His fury guttered out to be replaced with fear, however, when he was forced to a halt at the sight in front of him.

A half dozen massive scaled bipeds stood in the wide tunnel, their heads scraping the ceilings. He had no idea what made up their armor, but their enormous halberds looked sharp enough to cut diamond. Each one was more than three times his size, but it was not them that he focused in on, but the woman dressed in a ridiculously luxurious set of silk robes that was currently holding his daughter in a harsh grip if the weak struggling of his daughter was anything to go by.

She smiled, the woman, when he stopped.

"Hello," she said demurely, as if she was not holding a hand over his daughters mouth so hard that he could already see the bruises forming.

As if she was not surrounded by six monstrous scaled creatures.

As if the whole of the Defias Brotherhood was being slaughtered like cattle in their home.

"Get your hands off of my daughter," he finally managed to say.

The woman looked at him, tapping her free hand against plump lips, before finally shaking her head.

"Hmmm….no. No, I think not," she said calmly.

Edwin growled, yet the moment he took a step towards her the two forward most creatures swung their halberds down to bar his way. Their answering rumbles shook his bones. A veteran of the First and Second War, Edwin could only speculate on whether or not he'd be able to cut through all six of the guard creatures and rescue his daughter.

"You see…in any other set of circumstances I would be perfectly willing to let my toys play with one another for as many years as needed," the woman said, her smile growing in size.

She raised a single delicate finger and one of the hulks knelt, its arms outstretched and palms open to receive the still wriggling body of Vanessa VanCleef. The little girl who had not even seen her first decade of life squealed only once before fingers bigger than her arms and legs closed around her, trapping the human in a cage of flesh and scales. Her little fists beat uselessly against the monster which stood again to its full height, secure in the knowledge that the girl held no ability with which to escape.

The woman sighed sadly while rubbing both of her now free hands to some semblance of cleanliness.

"Alas, when one must prepare for an unceasing Legion of foes, one cannot afford a resource and time drain such as the Defias. What I need is an army of trained and armor clad mortals, not a smattering of disgusting barbaric cat's paws," she said while shrugging.

As Edwin watched she appeared to stretch and pop her back, even as she kept a single open eye on him. The ridiculousness of the situation finally peaked. The Defias were being utterly destroyed, his daughter was in the hands of…whatever those things were, and he still didn't know who the hell this woman was!

"Who…are…you?!" the elder VanCleef snarled.

The woman cocked her head at him before throwing it back and laughing.

"Do you truly not recognize me, Edwin?" she said with amusement.

Then he watched, stupefied, as a swirl of magic surrounded her. In less than a blink, the woman who looked like a noble was gone…replaced by a dusky skinned woman that the Defias had presumed dead a long time ago. She had been a beloved leader, one of the original members, a woman who had been part of the Stonemasons as long as Edwin. In fact, she had been the first to push for aggressive responses to the House of Noble's treachery. So much so that early on she was tragically killed in one of the initial attacks on Stormwind's bastard rulers.

Few of the modern members knew her name, but Edwin did.

"Vanessa?!" he whispered in surprise.

It had been her that he had named his daughter in honor of. For the fiery and quietly assured woman who had lambasted the House of Nobles for refusing to pay them for all of their hard work, who had been one of Edwin's dearest friends. Who was supposed to be dead.

'Vanessa' shrugged. Where before there had been a delicate silk dress, there were now the hard leathers of one of the first true Defias bandits. Old faded scars that Edwin barely remembered were present once more on her face, and the large calluses on her hands remained just as well.

"In a manner of speaking," the woman said in a much huskier voice.

Yet before Edwin could speak again, 'Vanessa' interrupted.

"Considering I killed the woman early on and took her place, I suppose you could say that I was indeed 'Vanessa' for a time."

Edwin felt something cold trickle down his spine.

"What-," he managed before being interrupted by another flash of energy which ended with the woman once more in her 'original' form.

In response to his incomplete question, she laughed. Again. But where before each time she had done it had infuriated him further, this final peal of amusement was much…darker. Almost inhumanly so.

"Do you know how easy it was to convince the House of Nobles to not pay the Stonemasons? Harder than you would think, and if anything I would say that pushing you stupid humans to attack one another and put on silly little red masks was easier," she said with laughter in her voice.

"Who are you!?!" came Edwin's strangled response.

The woman looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Now…why on earth would I tell you that?"

Edwin made to respond, only to release a small bloody gurgle. His eyes trailed downwards to see the pale skin of the woman's arm as it slammed its way through his chest. Behind him the faint sound of a beating heart could be heard before an inhumanly strong hand crushed it. Slowly his eyes rose to see the unchanged expression of the smiling woman, now splattered with his blood. Far behind her, he could see the screaming visage of his daughter as she struggled to get through the immovable fingers of her captor, but he could not hear. Slowly his senses died, with hearing being the first. For a moment, he struggled to move, to fight, to run, to do anything, but it was no use. The woman withdrew her arm, and Edwin VanCleef fell down to the ground, dead.

It would be a mercy, as it turned out.

For the human shell of the dragon Onyxia grinned madly as she turned back to her drakanoid bodyguards. With the Defias removed and her own agents cutting so much of the fat which the kingdom had accumulated things were well on the way towards providing a bulwark of mortal flesh to blunt the assault of the Legion while their betters prepared. She needed a strong Stormwind for that, and as such needed to reverse more than a decade of work in far less than that time.

Reptilian eyes gazed up at the silent child who seemed dumbstruck by what had just happened. She would not gain the chance to do anything about it, however, for once more did the 'human' woman known as Katrana Prestor snapped her fingers.

Giant clawed fingers closed completely and without hesitation.

Blood dripped down to the floor, accompanied by a small teddy bear.

Katrana Prestor leaned down to grab it with one hand. It would make a nice little donation to one of the orphanages back in Stormwind. In the meantime, there were still a few dozen Defias left to kill…and it had simply been too long since she had allowed herself a little…fun.

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Gelbin was getting tired. In any other time or place he would find it a novel experience. Throughout his entire lifetime he had very rarely been pushed to such an extreme level of exhaustion without allowing himself to sleep. Oh, how he missed sleep. But he could not, not while the lower third of Gnomeregan was aflame and filled with disgusting squealing savages.

If you had asked the High Tinker a few months ago what it would take for a foe to claim even an inch of Gnomeregan, he would have smirked. He would have told them that it would require hundreds of millions of foes, wielding technology at least on par with Ironforge and a vitality and general toughness of ogres and orcs. They would have to be brilliant tacticians and combatants, and would have to possess the same sort of inviolable power that wondrous Quel'Thalas had commonly been believed to possess. Such was the extent of gnomish pride in their home and intelligence.

He would not have said hundreds of thousands of loin cloth wearing creatures wielding clubs made simply out of bone or rock. A good many simply using their fists. The vaunted technology of the tinkering gnomes had been smashed to pieces and left as scrap as the mad creatures swarmed upwards. It was unprecedented. They had been seen coming by deep earth scans. There had been preparations, refurbished defenses, cannon emplacements, mines, robot defense teams, and everyone had known.

No plan survives contact with an enemy whose rocky skin was hardier than some metal alloys, or the brutish strength of a being much larger than the creatures had any right to be. Classified as 'troggs', the swarming creatures had swallowed the bottom third of Gnomeregan in a tide of sparking wires, broken metal, and broken hearts. Never before had the gnomes faced such a foe, not even in the Horde. Worse than that, they were alone.

The armies of Ironforge had streamed forth to the Wetlands and the Loch, and the army of Stormwind was far to the south and would be too slow in reaching them. Besides, the gnomes may have had their pride shaken, but it was not yet destroyed. They were determined to defeat the trogg menace on their own so that their taller allies could focus on the demonic threat fully without fear of reprisal. As such they had locked their outer doors, determined if nothing else than to keep the troggs back from even thinking about attacking Ironforge.

Gelbin wiped away some of the strange mixture of soot, blood, and sweat which had become the regular coating that many of the front line gnomes possessed. His spider tank continued to battle beneath his expert ministrations, but time and constant battle was taking its toll. Twin machine guns spat hot explosive rounds into the troggs, while the razor tipped edges of the legs were used as four deadly spears. A dozen troggs died in a few eye blinks, but only ever more came.

The High Tinker gazed out across the embattled entrance to the very inner center of Gnomeregan, and wept at the sight of so many dead gnomes, their little bodies trampled beneath rocky trogg feet. The bottom third of their beloved city had been lost, but the gnomes were determined not to lose any more ground. As High Tinker, Gelbin had authorized the usage of untested and exotic technologies, and it was all that was holding the monsters back. Lightning cannons, laser gatling guns, explosives aplenty, and even a few disturbingly powerful chemical and radiation specced bombs that had been 'borrowed' from Sicco Thermaplugg's private chambers, anything that the gnomes had which they thought might help, they used.

Some were more useful, and others, like the ridiculous 'chicken beam' that turned rampaging troggs into equally sized, equally rocky, and equally furious sized chickens, seemed a bit less useful. But the gnomes would not surrender. Not in their very home. Not here, not ever.

Gelbin's spider tank smashed a few more troggs into gravel before he was forced to fight for his very life personally when a larger trogg somehow managed to leap atop the chassis and attack the cockpit directly. The little gnome leapt away as a bone club bigger than his biggest wrench smashed down directly onto the controls to reach into one of many secret compartments. A single tap, and a lance of energy struck the High Tinker. The trogg which had been intent on smashing him stared as the gnome disappeared and then reappeared back at the command post of the gnomes which was for the moment too heavily fortified even for the troggs to break.

The leader of the gnomish people leaned back as several attendants swarmed him, knowing that in a short while he would have to return to the battle. His only hope was that his best friend Sicco was having a better time of things than him.

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Capital City of Lordaeron

"Do you ever think that maybe somewhere down the line we went wrong?" a black robed woman asked as she sat atop the roof of a slightly burnt out house.

Her companion, a similarly robed man sitting next to her, shrugged as he gazed down below. Beneath the two ran a horde of ghouls, aimlessly going through the winding streets of the decrepit corpse of the capital. Long fallen nearly three months ago, the city named after the nation it led remained full of swarming undead and their attendant members in the Cult of the Damned.

"What do you mean?" the man finally asked.

The woman rolled her shoulders as she looked out across the undead 'citizenry' that King Arthas had sent to 'repopulate' his precious home in life.

"With the demons. They've practically overtaken the campaign at this point. Even the Order of the Black Heart is being reorganized."

The man threw a stone down and watched as a ghoul turned so fast to follow the noise that one of its dangling eyeballs finally flew free before whipping his head back up in astonishment.

"Wait, what? I hadn't heard anything about that!" he boggled

The woman threw a stone of her own before responding.

"Oh absolutely. With the demons running the fight it seems like the King is finally getting back to ruling his people. The Order is being split up across the kingdom to run things. I heard that Sir Gavinrad is being given command of Durnholde Keep and is to keep order over Hillsbrad."

Her companion stared at her before lying to look at the stars.

"So that's it then? We let the demons do…whatever it is they're here to do, and sit back?"

The woman gave a small lilting giggle before nodding.

"That's right. The Scourge won. Now we get to sit back…and relax," she replied happily.

For a few moments the two simply remained there in silence, gazing out across the city as abominations and ghouls ran through the streets and geists leapt from rooftop to rooftop. High above the city flew frost wyrms in abundance, surrounded with flocks of undead or plagued gryphons. For those twisted members of the Cult of the Damned, it was a beautiful day indeed as the sepulchral scent of the Scourge began to sink into the very stones of the capital. Thus they barely noticed the light thump of geists feet atop the rooftop they rested upon.

They did notice however when it came closer. The geists were supposed to keep jumping and moving, and it was rare that they would approach any of the Cult without being called.

"Go away little thing, go…find a piece of rock to play with or something," the woman said waving her hand at the creature.

When comparatively enormous green fingers wrapped about her wrist, she attempted to shriek. The man turned, his eyes suddenly wide before a blade found its way into his skull, before three fingered hands slowly let his body drift to the ground.

Zul'jin said nothing as the woman slowly began to suffocate under his grasp before letting her drop back down to the roof. She attempted to scrabble, even as more forest troll rogues peered through their sack clothes and rags which had let them pass into the city of the dead with ease. When she attempted to scream she found the wicked blade of the last Amani warlord at her throat.

"Now den," Zul'jin chuckled as he leaned in close, "ya gonna tell me allll about what ya gone and heard 'bout dis…Orda of da Black Heart…"

A few hours later, a geist bounced onto the rooftop, and nearly tripped on the abundance of torn black cloth. Instead, it just barely managed to right itself, free its tangled leg, and keep bouncing away. There was nothing of interest on that roof, only the scent of blood hours old.

There wasn't even any meat to poke at.

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Western Plaguelands, Hearthglen

Throughout the ruined town of Hearthglen were hundreds of tents, all a mishmash of colors and heraldries from myriad nations. A faded green and gold anchor for Kul Tiras, red fists of Stromgarde, and even the rare grey of Gilneas were present. But by far, the largest numbers of flags were the once proud blue and gold of Lordaeron. Cook fires sent columns of smoke to impact harmlessly into the sickly yellow haze that filled the sky, the meat cooked to charring to destroy any rot or maggots.

Though some wore threadbare rags, the vast majority of the people were surprisingly armed and armored. There was little uniformity though, most people wearing patchwork creations of leather and metals in various colors, but there was a small number of men and women wearing full plate armors, their weapons gleaming in the dark. As they walked, many watched with great reverence and fervor at their saviors as they strode among them.

Said saviors were the last remaining remnants of the Silver Hand, the Paladin Order of the Alliance, left in the land. Men and women, humans and dwarves, they walked resolutely throughout the camp, passing on blessings, healing wounds, murmuring encouragement, and warily watching the perimeter of the camp for any sign of the fearsome undead. Many were of Lordaeron, though once and a while one could catch sight of a few dwarven paladins of Ironforge.

The most fortified position in the town was of course, Mardenholde Keep, ancestral home of the Fordring family. Atop its expanded battlements and four towers flew the flags of all the refugees found there, flint-eyed archers and gunmen keeping vigil over the town. Any undead that shambled out of the darkness would find itself cut down by arrow or bullet before it could even be seen by any of the refugees in the town.

Much of the town had been ruined from the various assaults by the undead, only beginning to be rebuilt as more and more disparate fighters, priests, paladins, and citizens streamed in out of the yellow haze that was the Plaguelands. The newest construction was a large mage tower that proudly displayed the purple eye of Dalaran. Some of the greatest protections the town was now afforded came from its residents, the many veterans of Dalaran's desperate fight making use of their arcane might to preserve their newest home.

Striding up to this tower was a muscular man, his greying hair falling down past his shoulders across battle-scarred armor. An absolutely enormous warhammer, covered with dried blood and countless notches, was slung along his back. Though his tabard was faded and had been patched dozens of times, the faint blue and silver fist emblazoned upon it was clearly recognizable. Beyond his armor, beyond his weapon, beyond even his fierce expression, what most noticed about him was the aura of Holy power that surrounded him.

Accompanying him was another man, his hair grey as well. Yet in contrast, he wore a simple set of scale-mail with thin studded leather pauldrons and pants made of the same material. He did not possess a great warhammer, and instead only bore a simple sword and shield, a dark hood covering the majority of his face in shadow, the rest covered by a small bandana. Yet, he was no less prominent than his companion, the Light surrounding him almost palpable, far more so than his larger fellow.

Others trailed behind them in a scattered line; two wiry men wielding staffs that glowed with faint power, one with the powers of the Light, the other with the powers of the arcane. A blue armored paladin with rich red hair, with one hand covered by a thick leather glove while the other remained bare. Finally, behind them all came two others who held dark fires within their eyes.

As they approached, the two purple robed mages guarding the entrance looked to each other and nodded. One stepped through, and returned moments later with a crimson haired man, a genial smile on his face.

"Ah, Saidan Dathrohan…and…his many friends?" he said, strain entering his voice as he took in those who had followed the man.

Saidan snorted.

"What's the issue Rhonin? You told me to bring the most trusted people I could, those that were mightiest in the Light and Magic. So I did," he said, amusement in his voice.

Saidan Dathrohan was the last known living founder of the Silver Hand. Two had fallen into undeath, two had disappeared. Gavinrad the Dire had been raised by the Scourge along with Uther Lightbringer, while Turalyon had disappeared beyond the Dark Portal. Tirion Fordring had not been seen since his exile. As the last of the Silver Hand, he was the greatest hope that all those who had gathered in Hearthglen looked up to as a paragon of the Light and their most powerful defender.

Standing opposite him was the current Grand Magus of Dalaran, Rhonin Redhair, one of the most powerful survivors of the fall of Dalaran, who had brought with him one of the largest surviving contingents from the legendary mage-city.

"Yes. Well, we were sort of assuming that it would be less people than…this," the mage said.

"That's the issue?" Saidan said, a hand falling to his hip.

"That and you haven't introduced any of these people," Rhonin replied.

Saidan nodded, interest flickering in his eyes. He turned and gestured to his gathered companions. As he introduced them, each nodded in turn.

"Ah, my apologies. I have brought with me the mighty High Wizard Arellas Fireleaf for his powers over the arcane. You emphasized that the Light would be greatly needed, and so I gathered Highlord Mograine. I also brought the priests Fairbanks and Isillien, both have greatly impressed me," he said.

Rhonin raised an eyebrow as he very pointedly looked at the two remaining men who had not been named. At his look, Saidan grimaced.

"This one," he said gesturing at the man who had accompanied Isillien, "insisted-" he began before being cut off by said paladin walking to the forefront.

"Where is my daughter, mage? It has been a week since Dalaran fell and I have not seen her since you arrived. Where have you taken Brigitte?" he said harshly.

Rhonin looked at him, nonplussed.

"You must be the elder Abbendis, then?" he said calmly, getting a curt nod in response.

"She volunteered to be one of the guards, Saidan had all the details. She and Taelan Fordring have been helping us greatly since our arrival. There is nothing to worry about whatsoever," he continued.

At the mention of the Fordring scion the remaining unknown man stiffened. Turning rapidly, he made it three steps before the great paw of Saidan fell upon his shoulder and clenched down like a bear trap.

"Not today, friend," he said softly.

The two held an unspoken conversation, desperation coloring the smaller man's movements. Everyone watched in bemusement until Saidan's hands clamped around both shoulders and bodily steered the other man back to the forefront. Rhonin watched curiously.

"And this is…?" he asked.

Saidan merely shook his head.

"Someone more powerful in the ways of the Light than me. I trust him with my life. Is that not enough?" he said, a challenging note evident in his voice.

Rhonin raised both hands in placation.

"No, no it's fine, I suppose. Well, you'd best all come in. You may wish to steel yourselves; this will shock all of you."

With that, they walked through the doorway and down into the depths of the tower. As they walked, they gazed at the pristine walls, the steady corruption throughout the Plaguelands not penetrating into the inner sanctum of the wizards of Dalaran. As they walked, the more sensitive amongst them looked up, feeling the comforting warmth of the Light grow and wrap around them. Saidan inhaled deeply and looked suspiciously downwards, an action mirrored amongst the rest of the paladins and priests.

Eventually they passed beneath the earth, and found themselves in a large stone room, numerous torches cheerfully illuminating what would otherwise been a dark and gloomy place. There were several comfortable beds, though none were currently occupied, Instead, standing shoulder to shoulder near the back of the room were several hooded figures, each clad in dark grey robes.

Standing guard near them were the aforementioned Brigitte Abbendis and Taelan Fordring. Strangely, Brigitte did not appear particularly vigilant, and instead stood at almost casual ease well within range of their charges. Both had pleased expressions on their faces, though the younger Abbendis went beyond such to the point that her face glowed with rapturous happiness.

Upon seeing her father, the young paladin nearly broke her position, choosing instead to simply call out to him.

"Father! I am so glad you are here! The glory of the Light truly is wonderful!" she said brightly.

The elder Abbendis frowned, breathed deeply through his nose, and unsheathed his sword and shield, startling many in the room. He growled and glared at his daughter with condemnation.

"I smell the stench of the undead in this place, daughter. Why have you not slain them?" he said furiously before whirling on Rhonin, a thunderous expression in place.

"Is this why you have brought us here, to be slain by your undead masters?" he snarled.

Saidan's expression hardened, his own warhammer sliding into his hands as he stood between the paladin and the mage whose hands had begun to spark with magical flames.

"Listen to yourself, Abbendis. His 'undead masters'? What idiocy do you speak? I trust the Grand Magus of Dalaran has an explanation for this," he said, pointedly looking at Rhonin.

Rhonin nodded, his still glaring back at the Abbendis who had been joined by Isillien and Doan, their hands glowing with searing Light and arcane might respectively. Before he could speak, the wild-eyed priest spoke.

"Indeed, calm is needed here my friend. Why, it could even be a gift?" he said, dark humor in his voice. Despite his words, threat still emanated from his every movement.

As his companion turned his hard gaze upon him, the priest continued.

"Perhaps we have been brought here to cleanse some mighty undead beast, a Lich or Death Knight, hmm?" he said with a smile.

"Many of the mages of Dalaran joined the Scourge, we all know this, I demand to-," Abbendis began to rant before being interrupted by several voice at once.

"How dare-" Rhonin began.

"Abbendis!" Saidan said, scandalized.

"Wh-" began another voice.

"Stop."

This last word silenced the room, the power and authority inherent in it permeating the air. They all looked, heated as they were, to the back of the room towards the same figures that were being argued over. Both guards had approached the new group, and had left their 'prisoners' relatively free. The tallest among them was who had spoken. Then, before their eyes, the broad-shouldered man began to chuckle.

"I told you Rhonin. You should have just gotten it over with and brought me out in the beginning," he said.

Rhonin shook his head resolutely, magic still burning in his hands as he kept half of his attention on the still seething Abbendis.

"I promised the old man to keep you safe," he said stubbornly.

"We are not children to be coddled boy," the figure responded.

Saidan, and his mysterious companion, both stared at the man as he spoke.

"It can't be…" whispered the masked one. At the sound of his voice, Taelan's head whipped towards the source.

Saidan gripped his warhammer so tightly that the wood creaked as he pushed to the front of the group, approaching to the hooded man who walked forwards at the same exact pace.

"I know that voice. I also know that man is worse than dead. Take. Off. That. Hood," He said, biting off the last few words. A nimbus of Holy Light surrounded him as he spoke.

The man complied immediately.

Large hands reached up and gently pulled down the hood revealing the quietly amused face of Uther Lightbringer, former Silver Hand and Black Heart.

"Hello Saidan," he said to the nearly saucer-like eyes of the paladin.

His eyes rose to meet the similar expression of the masked man as behind him his three companions removed their own hoods revealing a dwarf and two humans; a man and a woman.

"Hello Tirion," he spoke, the younger Fordring letting out a strangled noise immediately afterwards.

The room exploded into pandemonium.

0o0o0o0oo0​

Western Plaguelands, Hearthglen

"Hah….hah….so….finally satisfied?" came a weary but strong voice.

Tirion Fordring marveled at the speaker. Once more, he summoned up the greatest blast of the Light he could manage, praying and sweating and nearly swearing. It built up beneath him until it seemed that he would explode, burning through his veins and across his bones. With a roar of effort, he unleashed it, only to watch as it splashed across and into the body of Uther Lightbringer and his companions.

They did not hiss, or retch, or burn or any of the myriad things that undead did when faced with the awesome might of the Light. Indeed, Uther breathed it in like fresh air, basking in it as if it was sunlight. All had been stripped to their smallclothes, dignity a small price to pay as all those that had been present in this same room ten days ago had performed endless tests to prove just what the now dead Antonidas had set out to prove. Recent wounds that had been scattered across their bodies evaporated as they were healed, not hurt, by the power of the Light.

Tirion opened his mouth to speak when a searing lash of Light erupted and struck across Uther's chest, burning the flesh severely. Following this spikes of arcane energy. Before another strike could erupt, he whirled in anger to face the perpetrator.

"Again," came harsh voice of Abbendis who stared Tirion right back in the eye. Behind him Doan and Isillien readied themselves once more.

Unlike the two founders of the Silver Hand, Abbendis, along with his close compatriot Isillien had been possessed of almost laser-like focus at trying to prove that Uther was truly an agent of the Scourge, of the undead. They had demanded practically barbaric tortures to prove this, and despite the protests of Rhonin and Tirion, Uther had accepted almost immediately.

The Lightbringer seemed almost eager to suffer any indignity, any pain, and any torture, all in order to prove that he had been truly freed from the control of the Scourge. Following along with him were three other death knights, test cases from Antonidas as he had studied the usage of the Crown of Will that was being looked and picked over by every high ranking Dalaran wizard in Hearthglen.

Thane Korth'azz, a dwarf of a minor Khaz Modan holding that had become one of the first non-humans to join the Silver Hand. Lady Blaumeux, one of the few Gilnean's to refuse the call to hide behind the wall. Sir Zeliek, a man who, just like Uther, still possessed the powers of the Light to heal wounds and sear his foes. The incredible faith and fortitude of all four had proven inviolable despite the harsh treatment they had received from their captors.

Beyond them, near the doorway leading into the chamber and the stairs leading out, Brigitte Abbendis and Taelan Fordring stood guard, looking at each other and into the room with every roar of pain. Taelan looking longingly towards the back of his father who summoned up another blast of Holy energies, while Brigitte looked at her own father, a conflicted expression on her face.

Taelan looked to her then.

"Brigitte? You seem troubled, well, more so than usual," he said softly, flinching at another cry of pain from the Lightbringer's companions.

The young woman flicked her eyes to him briefly before returning to look at her father.

"I…spoke. With Uther, I mean. Before…this," she said quietly.

Taelan's eyes widened.

"W-what!? We were ordered not to speak to them! Why?" he asked in shock.

Brigitte shook her head slightly.

"I…I wanted to…kill him? To taunt him at least. I thought that…" she trailed off before shaking her head. "It doesn't matter right now. But…I spoke to him. I demanded to know all the secrets of the Scourge and he…he offered them freely. There was no need to torture him."

Taelan gave a shallow frown and a controlled wince at the harsh yell of Uther which sounded out once more. Yet before he could offer condolences or another smattering of words he was forced to lean back at the sudden piercing stare that Brigitte leveled upon him. An almost feverish light burned in her eyes, enough to bring a slight chill to the young Fordring's spine.

"But we know the truth now! The traitor Arthas may be powerful, but he could not match the greatness of the Light! Uther wields it even now, him and Sir Zeliek are proof that the power of the Light is unmatched even by the Scourge! They…he-Arthas, all of them, they tried to corrupt them but with the might of the Light not even the chains of the Scourge could hold them down!" she whispered fiercely, desperate to keep her voice down as not to disturb the ongoing 'examinations' in the room they still guarded.

"Lady Blaumeux and Thane Korth'azz can no longer reach the Light though…" Taelan pointed out softly.

Brigitte cut her hand through the air.

"Not the point. Lord Uther has proven that the control of the Scourge can be broken. The Light burns strongest in him and Sir Zeliek, but that only shows how powerful they and the Light are! Even if they could not return the Light to those two, they could still shatter the chains! But instead of utilizing their strengths and powers, what do we do?!" she asked as she came what felt like dangerously close to the young man in an acidic voice.

Taelan only stared as he took a single step back from the fervent young woman in front of him. With no response forthcoming Brigitte gave a guttural noise of disgust before turning away and retaking her post on the opposite side of the door from the confused young man.

"Nothing!" the woman hissed to herself. "Uther Lightbringer, free of the Scourge, and what do we do with him? Do we let him lead our troops to the strongholds of the Scourge or use the intelligence gained from being forced to wait at the traitor Menethil's feet? No. My father," she ground out the word, "is too busy focusing on the past to see the present!"

Taelan raised his hands to gain her attention.

"To be fair, if we're wrong in any way-" he began before having to rapidly step back as the young Abbendis appeared to teleport her face close to his own.

"It's. Been. A. Month. A month of interrogation and torture for every waking and sleeping hour of the day! My father and Isillien take a single meal and then come right back down here. They barely even sleep! The Scourge headed south but now that they've accomplished whatever it is they set out to do, they're returning! Any progress we could have made, perhaps to penetrate back west towards the Capital or to reach the coasts…gone forever! We've only just barely reconnected with Tyr's Hand and even that is a challenge."

"Well-"

"I agree, young Brigitte," rumbled Saidan Dathrohan from behind them.

Both guards jumped in the air before scrambling to return to their positions as the paladin gave a short laugh.

"Peace, young ones. I mean no harm," the man spoke before looking towards Brigitte.

Instead of responding both young man and young woman stared resolutely ahead as if they had not just been incredibly lax in their duties. For a moment the paladin looked between them with a hand on his hips before giving a light chuckle.

"There is no taint in Uther, nor those he rescued. Despite your father's paranoia and that of his personal companions, I cannot justify this continued treatment."

Another pained grunt from Uther punctuated his statement and brought a grimace to the elder paladin's face.

"No, no this ends now. It will take time for the people to trust Uther and his freed knights, and for however much distasteful I find the idea of these…'death knights' that poor Korth'azz and Blaumeux have become; I will not hate the individuals," Saidan said with a resolute nod.

The heavy clank of the man's plate armor caused all the individuals deep within the room to look up, but what gave them pause was the growing expression of anger on Saidan's face. Though the holy warhammer slung along his back remained out of his hands, the continued clenching of the paladin's metal encased fists reminded all looking that while Uther Lightbringer had been one of the most gifted with the light, Saidan Dathrohan had been one of the most physically powerful.

The two free 'death knights' remained standing with their backs along the wall. Near them, Sir Zeliek glared defiantly at their interrogators.

"In your quest to verify the truth of our freedom there awaits a noble goal at the end, but your actions and treatment of Lord Uther strains even my patience and forgiveness!" the holy man growled.

When he made to say more, a large hand rose up as Uther stood wearily to face the ones who had spent the last month trying to prove that he remained a servant of the Scourge.

Though I grow weary of this as well, if this is what it takes to satisfy them, then so be it, thought the Lightbringer.

Nothing in the world would ever compare to the horror of being under the control of Arthas, and so he stood once more to face whatever strange arcane or priestly tricks remained to reveal the truth. Eyes brimming with the power of the light found those of Saidan who had forced the attention of the room upon him. For a moment, the red armored man said nothing.

Without a moment's hesitation or a given signal an enormous burst of the light enveloped Uther and his companions, blooming forth from Saidan's hand. As it had the very first time a similar maneuver had been performed a full month ago…all four freed warriors were unharmed. Saidan nodded.

"We're done with this. They have proven themselves fully, and I am satisfied. There shall be no more of the farce I let this become."

"Well I am not satisfied, and I refuse to-" Isillien began before being forced to stop as Saidan loomed above him.

"You. Are. Done. Here," the founding member of the Silver Hand boomed.

For a moment, it almost seemed as if the matter would come to blows…before the moment passed. Saidan watched through slightly narrowed eyes as the three men who had so thoroughly unleashed themselves against Uther for the past month slinked away. Then his gaze turned upon the silent Tirion.

"Why did you say nothing Tirion?" he asked calmly.

The elder Fordring looked down.

"I have no right to say anything. I am not of the Silver Hand. I have no authority here. In fact, I don't even know why I am here," he finally replied to the raised eyebrow of Saidan.

"I would wager," Uther spoke up causing them to look at him, "that it has to do with the fact that in these times…it seems that old prejudices have no place."

Saidan nodded.

"It doesn't matter, what happened before. Forget the trial. The Light could not be stripped from you then, and I don't really care. The Horde left these shores a while ago, we need to focus on the now. We need the powers of the Light, and if that means forgetting that you gave refuge to an orc, then to hell with it I'll forget that you gave refuge to an orc!" the man exclaimed.

It was a heady statement.

"I…regret, the actions undertaken that day," Uther spoke up, standing once more. Behind him the other former paladins began to redress.

"Honor is something to be treasured in the darkness that the Scourge have brought upon us. If anything, I should no longer bear the powers I thought to strip from you at the conclusion of the trial," the Lightbringer said, to the widened eyes of Tirion.

Saidan looked between the two and nodded.

"He is not wrong. The two of you have some…exceptional circumstances indeed. Uther tore the powers of the Light from you, Tirion, yet the folly of mortal men could not pull the Light from you. Arthas drowned you in darkness Uther, and yet the power of the undead could not strip the Light from you. Nor you, Sir Zeliek," the man said with a look towards the only other wielder of the Light in the room.

Sir Zeliek merely lowered his head.

"Faith…is all that saved me, my Lords," the man murmured.

Human, dwarf, man, woman, former and current paladins all bowed their heads in respect.

"Faith indeed," Uther murmured before clearing his throat and causing Saidan to look up.

"Yes, Uther?" the man asked curiously.

The Lightbringer coughed once, before nodding.

"Now that we have been…hmm. Cleared…would you be willing to meet with the others?" he said calmly.

Saidan's eyes narrowed.

"What…'others'," he said flatly.

Uther looked at his friend a lifetime ago straight in the eye.

"The other death knights that Antonidas freed."

 

[Grimmair]

Great to see that this story is still alive, chapter is great and I personally liked the interaction of Grom and Rexxar the most.

 

[torroar]

Appreciated. I spent a lot of time trying to write that part and not make it terrible

 

[Necron_Lord]

FUCK YEAH, ZUL'JIN FOR THE WIN.

 

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Fourteen

Dark Sun and Bright Moon

A Warcraft III AU​

New Silvermoon (Refugee Camps)

​

"Kael, please! Let us-"

"No! We are done! I am done! This is your fault, you and the rest of humanity's!"

"What are you-?"

"Your precious love has destroyed my home, Jaina, destroyed my people!"

"Kael, how could you-"

"I see now how correct my father was to distance our people from the Alliance, from humanity. Look at what has been wrought! Dalaran can burn for all I care!"

"Kael!"

A vicious rip of his hand, a portal opening to a blackened wasteland that made his stomach churn, darkness in the distance where once a mighty city should have stood. He practically ran through, ignoring the cry of Ja- the human sorceress as the portal closed behind him. The dead earth cracked and crumbled around his greaves as he walked, vision blurring as he stared at what had become of…everything.

Ash.

Death.

These and the non-existent bones of his people were all that had been waiting for him, not even ghosts left behind by the devastation. Yet still he could hear them.

"Why did you abandon us?" screech the voices.

"Betrayer!"

"Why did you not come?"

The voices swirled around him, shrieking at him even as he fell to his knees, gloves scrunched tight over ash-blasted ears.

"Too busy trying to lay with the pathetic humans, son? Too busy to help your people in their hour of need?"

"No, no father I swear to you I-

"Failed? Yes, yes you did. My body was broken upon the field, but at least I fought!"

"I would have fought, I, I still can!"

But no response came. The voices wailed in his ears, but even they quieted as he walked ever closer towards the end.

He knew this part.

Slowly, trawling through the dunes of ash, he followed the earth as it tilted down.

No. No not again!

He came to the grey sea, and looked down. The swirling pool of ash gently moved beneath his gaze.

Something moved beneath the surface.

No!

Closer, he walked.

NO!

His people rose from the pool. Rotting, eyeless, they grasped and wailed blindly. Men, women, children, an army made from the dead. Leading them was Arthas, laughing all the while as he rode atop an abomination stitched together from everyone he'd ever known. Belo'vir, Vandellor, Liadrin, all the magisters…and its head was that of his father, one eyebrow raised imperiously even as it wobbled closer.

"Come to fight, son? Come to serve your people? Good, come and serve in death!" the late Sunstrider laughed.

Then his mouth opened and a swarm of flies and maggots-

"AH!" Kael'thas Sunstrider screamed as he tore off the ragged sheets from his cot, an unconscious burst of mana causing a flash of flame that almost immediately guttered out.

The last of the Sunstrider bloodline hauled himself up from the scratchy wool and straw that served as his bed before stumbling and falling to his knees. His arms clutched his stomach even as a wave of bile forced its way from his throat and splashed onto the dirt. The elf continued to retch until his stomach had fully emptied all its contents.

"Lord Kael'thas? Are you unwell?" came a voice from behind him.

Kael raised a hand for silence as he continued to kneel, though he eventually stood after a few moments. He turned to face what he assumed to be a spell breaker, though the only thing that revealed the woman's chosen profession was the lightly held double-bladed sword. There was none of the customary armor or shields, and the normal shades of crimson had been replaced with the green and browns of the Farstriders. Furthermore, the bright red eye mask was not present, a dark grey hood and facial wrap covering all but her dark eyes.

"I-I'm fine. Just…nightmares," he replied weakly.

The woman cocked her hip, placing a hand on it.

"You don't look fine," she said with a deadpan.

It was true. His once luxurious blonde locks had grown matted and tangled, fair skin now stretched gaunt. Large dark bags of purple hung under his eyes, and the rest of him was far thinner than he had looked since his childhood. Even the tips of his ears drooped ever so slightly. The very real draining effect that surrounded the former Sunwell clawed away the lifeforce of almost all who approached it. Coming as close as he did had left him in a coma for weeks. It was only short time ago that he awoke at all.

He waved her off.

"I will be," he replied with a steadier voice that hardened, "I must be."

The spell breaker tilted her head before shrugging.

"If you say so. Anyway, I came to get you for a reason," she said.

Kael perked up as he looked at her.

"Is it-," he said before being cut off with a slash of her hand.

"Yes, the Lady will speak with you. It has been difficult to find a moment in the meantime of organizing, well, everything, and she apologizes for her inability to speak with you since you woke up," she said flatly, even the communicated apology was said near emotionlessly.

Kael simply nodded, but inwardly he felt deeply uncomfortable as he followed the woman down the path.

He had woken but a week ago, but despite his current weakness and apparent near death for venturing close to…whatever it was that had taken the Sunwell's place, he had still managed to walk amongst his people.

What he found had left him both pleased and disturbed.

Over a fourth of all his people had been saved by Windrunner's gambit, far more than would have lived if they had not fled with her. For that, his gratitude was more than enough to crush the small twinge of irrational pride that had risen within him at the thought of turning coward against the Scourge that had ravaged and finally destroyed their home.

But there was a constant niggling voice in the back of his head whenever he thought of who had been saved. Who had been worthy to flee on the fleet of the High Elves?

Not the majority of the Magisters Council, the most powerful spell casters the High Elves had possessed.

Not the Noble Court, whose members had been of the richest, most powerful, oldest bloodlines stretching back to before they had crossed the seas.

Not…not his father, the King of the High Elves, who had led his people in an age of unrivaled prosperity.

Of course he understood some of it, from what he had learned from the common folk he had heard that his father had fallen against Arthas himself in combat before the city itself fell. A large amount of the Magisters Council had accompanied him. But the nobles, most of whom were dead now, why had they not left on the ships? Wouldn't they have forced their way in, even if Sylvanas had not wished their presence? Their influence and wealth alone should have…

Kael shook his head as they picked their way through the dirt path.

That way lay dark thoughts, thoughts he refused to entertain. Unfortunately there were others that pushed in to fill his mind, pertaining to the 'Savior' of elves.

One part of that concern was because the word savior had been spoken with specific reverence, and furthermore the fact that Sylvanas was continually referred to in the same manner that the spell breaker had used.

'The Lady'.

He had been told of how his father had foolishly removed her from the position of Ranger-General. At first he had protested on the late kings behalf, but after a short and heated speech by the priest he had spoken to he had retracted his statements. Later he had been informed of how Lor'themar had been her replacement, and even now had retained his position.

So what position of authority did she hold now? None officially.

But that doesn't seem to matter, does it? He mused as they walked and finally crested the rise to see the current home of all his people.

Windrunner Village had been a goodly sized town before, but now it was strained past bursting. A massive tent city sprawled out from the town, stretching across the newly named Ghostlands. The name still tingled on his lips when Kael spoke them, but it was accurate. If you stayed quiet, people said you could still hear the whispers of the dying on the wind.

Kael shivered. They walked down and across the village, through the tent city, and as they did Kael could not help himself as his eyes found themselves drawn to the encroaching woods surrounding the settlement.

The dark Ghostlands were far more welcoming than the alternative of what had become of everything to the south, or what had become of the Eversong Woods to the north. Or rather, the Eversong Wasteland to hear it told properly. Here there were still some animals to hunt for food, and all things considered the Scourge didn't seem to care about infecting the sea with the plague.

The fleet haphazardly hung along the coast like a protective shield, lacking the docks required for their numbers. Of all the things to survive their home, the proud fleet of Quel'Thalas remained almost entirely unharmed. It had been on one of those ships that he had in fact awakened on before being escorted to his partially private home on the hill.

In the distance stood Windrunner Spire, a long tendril of the tent city grew from the village up to the ancestral home of the Windrunner dynasty. As they went along, Kael felt the eyes of his people on his back.

It was not a welcoming feeling.

They were wary of him, of his absence in their most dire hour. More than that, they were cold. Not maliciously, or against him specifically, but in general manner. There was a grim atmosphere to all they did, whether it was fighting Scourge stragglers or merely going about their day as he passed. Kael didn't think that he'd seen a smile from any of his people since he'd arrived, even amongst the children.

Kael's morose thoughts fell away as a set of elves, dressed similarly to his escort, appeared. One whispered into his guide's ear, only to lean back upon her nodding.

"I'm sorry, I must leave you now Prince Kael'thas. The path continues on ahead," she said as she turned to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Another band of mindless undead, but they've got an abomination with them," she replied even as she began to hurry away.

"Undead-wait! I can help, let me-," Kael began.

"No need!" the woman said even as she progressed into a full sprint, followed closely by the other elves.

So it was that the Prince of Silvermoon found himself standing alone, the Spire standing tall before him at the top of the hill. It was an entirely novel experience. For the past few centuries of his reasonably long life, albeit not too old given normal elven lifespans, he had spent much of his time either in the Sunstrider Spire or in Dalaran. Surrounded by the constant hum of magic, of life and spells being used casually for everything. Furthermore, he often had guards. More than a dozen, most of the time, and when he was bereft of them he had been at the least surrounded by his peers and friends both human and elf.

Dark wisps of rage still curled around his heart on thoughts of the former, though they drifted away as he approached the Windrunner Spire proper. Below, he could see the rapid and frenzied construction of docks for the fleet of Quel'Thalas, hundreds or perhaps even thousands of elves working furiously. Ships too damaged to continue function had been cannibalized, while woodsmen had gone out into the dangerous Ghostlands to fell tremendous amounts of timber from the northern Ghostlands, where not even Scourge tread in large numbers. It was, to be sure, an impressive display of organization, but the problem he found with it was one that rankled at his royal hackles. It was the blue and silver colors that they wore.

Oh, it was only in headbands, or small cloths wrapped around arms, but many now proudly wore the Windrunner tabard. It was a phenomenon that stretched beyond the civilians. He had spotted no less than twelve rangers and spell breakers wearing the same as they patrolled through the camps on his way here. It wasn't…it wasn't right. He was here. In his heart, he knew he was not the King, and that such a thing would always remain the title of his father. He would forever be but the Prince of Silvermoon. That was what he had said to himself when he had first heard and processed the death of his father. But such convictions had begun grinding away at him when he saw all of…of this.

"Prince Kael'thas," a voice broke his train of thought, and made him look up.

He could not help but stare slightly at the guards assembled before him. He recognized none of them, which was to say he couldn't recognize them. Their faces were completely concealed, every part of their flesh covered in the mail and armor of what looked like modified Royal Guard attire. His hackles rose again at the sight of the Windrunner sigil emblazoned on their chest plates. The one who had spoken stepped forward, and inclined his head. Over two thousand years of royal upbringing helpfully pointed out in the back of his head that it was a tad too shallow than he, as Prince, deserved.

"You are awaited by the Lady. I am to escort you."

The not-quite-a-Royal-Guard then turned about and began marching up one of the winding staircases of the Spire, without so much as a 'please follow me' to Kael. A quiet fury trickled down the Princes spine as he nonetheless followed. The rest of the blue and silver armored guards clanked slightly as they reset their ranks, facing outward with blades held at the ready. The climb proceeded entirely in silence, neither elf feeling particularly conversational at the moment. Instead, Kael took the chance to once again look down on his people, and at the sprawling city. Because from this high up, yes, that was simply what it was. But it none of the curving and artistic contours of Silvermoon, none of the hallowed archways and glorious winding streets.

No. It was all so…stark. Military. The logical conclusion of a military base continually growing outward with ever increasing lines and quadrants and walls of defense. Civilian and military purpose blended together into a jerky yet sturdy mixture. The residences looked like barracks. The markets like armories. Perhaps it would be better to say that it was the other way around. Walls of wood and piled stone were still being shaped, but it had none of the grand sweeping design of his home. It was all utility and defensibility, built for one purpose and one purpose only: combat and war.

It horrified him. Did no one see what was happening, what had become of his people? All the infinite facets of the High Elves were being carved and ground into a single point, like an arrowhead from a block of stone. And no one seemed to care except him.

"We are here, Prince Kael'thas. I shall announce you."

The guard strode through doors of stone draped in banners of blue and silver, only to return a few seconds later.

"You may enter," and here the guard bowed a more appropriate distance and depth.

Darkness was the first thing to enter his mind when he stepped within, though it only took a moment for is eyes to adjust. No, instead it was just very…very dim. Another step forward, and then he felt it. A pull he had only ever felt once before when he had nearly thrown his life away at the broken and irrevocably destroyed Sunwell. The draining, though it was infinitely lesser than before. A half-hearted tug with all the strength of a babe rather than the godlike ripping he'd experienced before. Still, it was enough, and he brought his magic to him, and readied for…something. He didn't quite know what.

"Ah, so you feel it," a sepulchral voice said dully from farther in, "I had hoped otherwise…but you journeyed near the epicenter. Well, at the least I think you are strong enough to resist it, yes?"

It was true, actually. Though it took more than a minor application of his will, the hungry pulling at his very being slipped off of him, though it did not disappear entirely, and its effects left his body. But the hairs on the back of his neck refused to go back down.

"Sylvanas? What…happened to…?" he stopped speaking, for at that moment he finally saw the now-revered Lady Windrunner as she pushed past the dark blue drapes of her inner rooms to greet him in the foyer. "By the sun…"

"No," the grey…the ash skinned thing said back to him, hair turned a similar color if only slightly lighter, "I don't think the sun had much to do with it at all."

Twin pits of pure void and darkness seemed to draw even the faint light around them into themselves, into oblivion. Almost invisible golden sclera glinted at their centers, flashing with what might have been amusement.

"No," Sylvanas Windrunner said again, her voice echoing oddly like from the bottom of a recently unearthed grave, "Not the sun."

Her head tilted slightly, and lowered slightly.

"Greetings Prince Kael'thas, welcome to my home."

"What are you?" his voice betrayed the disgust he felt looking at her.

Sylvanas shrugged.

"I am what becomes of one when at ground zero to a Sunwell as it undergoes its own destruction."

"Are you-,"

"Undead? No. I still breathe. I still require food and drink…albeit far less than ever before. I still…bleed."

Her voice caught oddly on the last word.

"I don't understand."

"I don't really understand it myself, not really," she said truthfully.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0​

It was the worse pain she had ever felt. It was the worst pain the world could create and then some. For only a brief moment she had thought to escape the repercussions of what had been done to the Sunwell, but it was not to be. For denying the undead and their masters their prize she had to suffer some sort of reprisal. Only, her thoughts had been of some demons or undead finding her afterward, broken, and alone, and tearing her to scraps of broken bone and meat. Instead, it was the Sunwell itself that decided to punish her for slaying it.

The fabric of reality had not just bent when the grandest and most powerful font of Arcane power in the Eastern Kingdoms had been obliterated. It had been ripped. It had been broken.

She, as it turned out, just barely happened to occupy that bare sliver of distance between complete and instant extinction as it was at the very Sunwell itself and the island around it and the inexorable vacuum of destruction that stretched out not just into Silvermoon but beyond into the Eversong Woods. Or perhaps she just had the will to survive. Or it was chance, or any other number of things. She couldn't know. What she did know was what she felt.

A burst of white hot pain, of the yawning chasm of void suffusing her very being. It felt like she had been, was being, was going to be, simply pulled and savaged into a trillion motes of dust. Excruciating pain marked astral highways of pain throughout the cosmos of her tortured body, mind, and soul. Everything hurt, everything died, lived, and died again as stars erupted and collapsed and erupted again. Her mind shattered again and again and again, she knew it did. She went insane and went around and around again in an endless cycle. It was one thing, to say and do what she had formulated as a desperate last gambit. It was another to experience it.

Turning the Sunwell against itself to destroy it and everything around it utterly had been a vengeful masterstroke of sabotage and hate against the Scourge and their demonic masters. Only the Sunwell could destroy the Sunwell. Even if the Scourge and the Burning Legion had dipped their bodies and artifacts or whatever else they had planned, it could only have tainted the Sunwell, turned it to their own purposes. No, they could not have destroyed it. But neither would the High Elves allow them to possess it for their own purposes. By the Sun it hurt though, to go through with it. But the pain was nothing, nothing, compared to what she experienced there.

The oceans swirled and crashed, the air screamed, the earth buckled apart, fires cascaded into being and disappeared just as quickly. No, the Sunwell had not enjoyed its death, and it made sure that everything around it suffered in equal measure. The world had merely responded. In between them, part of them, separate from them, buffeted on all sides by such forces, lay her living corpse as it was tossed back and forth. After a time, she came back to herself. She had not wanted to, but something made it happen. Some unconscious will dragged her back from the endless void and left her there, washed up on the beaches of Quel'Thalas, alone. The silence in the world was omni-present, completely and totally.

Awareness brought with it pain, but pain brought only more awareness. Every movement was torture, but nonetheless she dragged herself upward. Her bow, her daggers, everything but a few scraps of cloth was gone. Either to the depths of the ocean or…whatever it was had been created when the Sunwell was turned inward. Likely simply destroyed utterly. She had limped her way about, looking…she didn't know what. But then, then she discovered it. An undead Abomination, barely alive, only its ridiculous bulk keeping it from falling into death once more.

All at once, the yawning ache inside of her grew stronger, and before she knew what she was doing, she was draining the dark magic powering the being into herself. The pain eased, if only slightly, and the abomination simply ceased to be. She did not know how she did this, but it was not the last time. All along the coast were Scourge too broken to move but not broken enough to be fully dead once more. She put an end to it, and each time filled herself. For a time, at least. The hunger always returned, but she grew practiced with it. The hunger dulled, and she gained control. Again, she didn't know how long she did this.

But she learned from the High Elven ship which found her that it had been days since the destruction of the Sunwell. At the same time, she learned of what they had begun to call her, to regard her as. The one who saved the High Elves from the foolishness of the Sunstriders, of the nobility and the proud magisters. Over one knee she had broken the pride of the High Elves, and on the other, she had propped them up with a zealous fervor to survive and continue on. It had not been what she had wanted, but it was better than her people all being dead.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0
​

The sun had gone down by the time she finished her tale to the increasingly bewildered Prince. Even now his mind struggled to come up with a way to identify what the Lady Windrunner had become. She was at the least outwardly an elf, if changed to a startling and disquieting extent. She still spoke their language, she still smiled and sighed, shrugged and acted as one of the living would. But there was always that aura of other about her that he simply could not ignore. She acknowledged the strange swerve of public attention on her, and away from the Sunstriders, but when he brought up the possibility of turning the High Elves back to the Sunstrider way, he was surprised when she refused him. Or rather, why she did.

"Did you not think I have tried to do exactly that? The moment my Striders found you, I have made efforts to do so. But the people…they view me as some kind of mythical savior, for some reason. I may be the sole survivor of the Sunwell's destruction, but they see my appearance and bow and scrape," she shrugged helplessly.

"But surely there must be something we can do," Kael hissed.

"I don't know what to tell you Prince. As it is, the Quel'dorei have foisted the burdens of leadership upon me and Lor'themar. If you wish to join us-,"

"Join you?" he stood, a sneer making its way onto his face. "You've just let my people rant and spit on my name. On my fathers name, and after but a short time after my return you just…give up?"

Sylvanas narrowed her obsidian colored eyes, though she did not stand herself.

"I have been busy, oh distant Prince. Some of us did not have the luxury of waiting in Dalaran while Quel'Thalas burned!"

"How dare you!"

"How dare I, how dare I?!"

Now she did stand.

"How dare I preserve over a fourth of our people when the Sunstriders and Magister Council would have dragged us all to death for pride in Silvermoon's wards and walls? How dare I organize, save, guide, protect, fight for, nearly die for time and again, for the people while the nobles dithered about in Sunstrider Spire?!" she growled, and the strange echo behind her words grew stronger, as did the insistent and deadly pull on his very being.

"You think I wanted this, any of this? The people made their choice, and even with the fact that I do not sleep, barely require food or drink, I am run ragged with protecting the people and keeping them safe, building a new settlement for them all. I offer you the chance to help lead your people and you spurn me?"

"You would deny me my rightful role as Prince!"

"Don't you mean King," Sylvanas drawled.

"No. My father was King, and I am Prince. Out of respect for my father I have determined to remain Prince forevermore, that no King shall be named of the Sunstrider line until the vengeance of our people is complete," and it was only after saying such did he realize that he had told no one of that until now. And yet the people had still only called him Prince.

"I would have you take on a role of leadership, but I can guarantee you Kael'thas that if you think to simply announce yourself that the people will fall in line you are wrong. I take no pleasure in that, but it is the truth," she raised her arms as if in surrender. "But if you don't want to help us help the quel'dorei, you can go."

Stone possessed more emotion than was on Kael's face.

"You would throw me out. Me. Your Prince."

Sylvanas gave a ghost of a chuckle.

"Haven't you heard, Kael? The only noble bloodlines left are the Windrunner and Sunstrider. And there are quite a few of us left than you."

"I would have your help in preserving what is left of us. But I do not require it," her teeth clacked shut on the last word.

Kael was silent a moment more before turning away towards the door. Neither said anything, even as the implications and repercussions of this meeting were clearly running through their minds. Kael stopped at the door, and turned slightly to look at her, swathed in the shadows of her residence.

"What am I to call you Sylvanas. The Lady? Ranger-Lord, Ranger-General? Or perhaps Queen Windrunner?"

"Call me what you like, Prince Kael'thas. I swore an oath to the quel'dorei, and I am to serve them as I ever have."

"This is not over."

"No…no it is not."

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0
​

Moonglade​

​

The horn called out, and nature responded. It boomed across the land, resonated in every leaf and every rock. For a single instant, all was still, before those who slumbered awoke. The Emerald Dream was pulled from their eyes and bodies, and sleep ended while energy once more began to thrum through their bodies. There was a difference between the energies of the Dream and the breath of life in their bodies. Still, it was…unusual. Unexpected.

Unscheduled.

Nonetheless, rock and tree parted before them, and with jaw cracking yawns the inhabitants of the Barrow Dens began to stretch and crack fingers. Joints popped as they began to walk forward, through the tunnels, and out into the light once more. One, the greatest of their number, was granted a special place of rest all his own, and so he was not accompanied by cheerful if wary peers as so many others were across the land. He was alone, and yet was not quite so bleary that his antlers would scrape across the ceiling as he tromped forwards. The sight that greeted him was glorious, however, more than enough to make up for being so rudely pulled from the dream.

"Tyrande! My love!" Malfurion Stormrage called out to his one true love, who despite the tightness of her features smiled all the same.

They met in a loving embrace, and her lips crossed his own for the first time in a thousand years. For a wondrous moment there was naught but Tyrande, but the moment could not last. She withdrew first from him, and her features settled into one he knew unfortunately well. It was the same sort of face she had worn so, so long ago…when the Legion had walked the world. It should not have been, and yet…

"Why have you awoken me, Tyrande. Why has the Horn been sounded?"

"The Legion has returned, my student," a booming voice reached him.

Malfurion turned, and immediately bowed his head.

"Cenarius…"

The son of Malorne stood proud, holding his own named horn lightly in one hand.

"It cannot be true, the Legion, returned?" Malfurion murmured, horror in his voice. Yet even as he said it, he knew it had to be true. Why else would Cenarius awaken them?

"Indeed. Even now, their servants stalk into Ashenvale…though they are hunted."

At this, Tyrande whirled, surprise evident in her features.

"What? When? My Sentinels have said nothing of this!"

Cenarius studied her, then turned his gaze on a nearby raven which hopped from branch to branch nearby.

"I have prevented your Sentinels from finding them, if only to see the truth of a certain matter. Should their pursuers prove false, I shall destroy them all myself. As it is, know this. The rest of the druids must awaken, and the Sentinels made ready for war once again."

Both of the night elves nodded fiercely. If Cenarius said it was so…then it was so.

"Malfurion, I grant you my horn. Go, rouse those of your brethren who did not hear the first call. Tyrande, I leave the Sentinels to your own discretion. But," he said as both began to move, "Know this. The…greenskins and pinkskins. These beings which call themselves orcs and humans, are not to be touched."

"Cenarius?"

"For now, Tyrande. But remain ready."

The demigod watched them go, and only after they were a sufficient distance away did he raise his barriers once more. Not even Malfurion, greatest of the druids, would be able to pierce such blocks. He…and his guest, were alone. The raven flew to the ground, and in a quiet wash of magic, arcane magic which made Cenarius's lip curl, the last man to be called Guardian stood fully if slightly stooped on his staff.

"I thank you, noble Cenarius, for your mercy."

"Hmmph. Even the night elves faced worshippers and servants of the demons in their own ranks. The fact that the one you speak of feels so hatefully of his kind which would do the same as Azshara grants you some credit. The taint of demons is only recently cleansed from him, and so know this," Cenarius loomed, "Should this 'Grommash' do anything less than utterly destroy his demon worshipping brethren, I shall wipe these 'orcs' from Kalimdor down to the last."

"I understand," Medivh nodded. And he did. They could not afford another demonically empowered Horde, not now. "I shall take my leave then."

Cenarius watched the little raven fly away to its own machinations, and turned towards his own. The forest blurred around him as he shifted his very presence across the land of the night elves to where the one who would decide his people's fate on the continent camped, unaware of the being who watched him for any other sign of treachery.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0
​

Ashenvale Forest

In the small clearing, Grom ripped another bite out of the plainstrider jerky he and his companion had made before entering the forest in pursuit of one of the Burning Blade's leaders. Metalfist had run hard, and had run fast. Apparently he had been in charge of the raiders aligned with the Legion. Still, there was no chance he would escape from the former Warsong Chieftain, even without Rexxar's tracking abilities. They tromped and crashed about in this virgin land, uncaring of what they destroyed, exactly like the Horde of old they so desired to recreate.

Grom would not stand for it. First Metalfist, then the others. If he could, he would not grant them warriors deaths, but it was all he knew how to deal these days. It would have to suffice.

"Grom," Rexxar nodded to him as he walked into the camp, accompanied by not just the bear Misha but a particularly large boar that the beastmaster had picked up from somewhere. "We are being watched."

"I know," Grom said easily as he sharpened Gorehowl. "The masters of this forest are none too happy with Metalfist…and us."

"The Night Elves are a reclusive people, but strong. They do not enjoy intruders," Rexxar responded. "In all my years in this land since the end of the Second War I have only encountered them thrice. All three times was because I had intruded on their territory and was turned about and told to leave."

"So why haven't they done it here and now?" Grom asked, looking up from his axe for a moment.

Rexxar shrugged.

"I don't know. Rest assured, I have the scars on this old hide to prove that they are no spindly guardians of Quel'Thalas."

"Hmmph. If these Night Elves think they can stop me from fulfilling my duty, they are welcome to try."

"They have a mighty god spirit you know."

"I recall, Rexxar. This…Cenarius, you called him."

"Aye."

"I don't think he would be able to stop me either."

They lapsed into silence after that, the only sounds being the grinding of the whetstone. Only the sharpest of weapons for the Burning Legion and their worshippers, Grom thought as he hummed an old war song to himself. It was a song about an orc who had only died after he'd slain every single one of his enemies in life despite the most mortal of wounds. He felt it appropriate.

 

[Finagle007]

I wonder just what happened to Sylvanas... at least she still lives. And it's good to see the Horn sounded by its' rightful owner, as well.

 

[Ashynarr]

Wow, really looking forward to see how this progresses from here on out. I don't think I could craft an alternate universe quite as detailed even if I tried for months.

 

[Deathwings]

"I don't think he would be able to stop me either."

Click to shrink...

You're pretty good Grom, but not THAT good, not without an injection of Demon Blood at least.
Still, it's nice to see him redeeming himself WITHOUT having to die.

 

[Cyanios]

Grom is going about axing questions I see.

 

[ChaosTheVoid]

Yay! Slyvanas is alive. I don't really know why but she's my favourite WOW character. Hmm... Has she taken to drinking unholy magic to date the addiction?

 

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Fifteen
Bones and Blood
A Warcraft III AU​

Central Wetlands

The Necropolis thrummed with power as it lazily floated above the sprawling base beneath it. Far below, a mixture of Scourge and Legion architecture sat together, though it was becoming more and more apparent that the Legion was the dominant force amongst the two. The strange floating glyphs and machines of demonic design steadily pulsed as demons were summoned armed and ready to be thrown against the weakening forces of the Alliance in the southern fourth of the Wetlands. All kinds of demons had been summoned and assembled, including even some lesser Pit Lords who stomped back and forth, their bellows audible even from the observation deck of the necropolis. But they were of no concern.

Frostmourne's tip did not quite penetrate the rock floor, even as its monstrous wielder leaned ever so slightly on it. Hands covered in thick metal laid atop the pommel, while blue flames gazed from within a mostly concealing helmet. The only other inhabitant of the necropolis at that very moment in time was a single member of the Cult of the Damned and a surprisingly dry and clean zombie holding various papers on its person.

"Report," commanded the first among all of the Lich King's servants.

The cultist bowed deeply before grabbing the thick sheaf of paper from the waiting servitor's unmoving hands. The man had been a clerk in life, and now he served a similar purpose in undeath. Pausing momentarily to cough and clear his throat, the black cloaked and hooded man straightened his back and began peering down at the scrawling text.

"Ahem, yes, my King. Unearthing of tertiary grave sites in Lordaeron is nearing completion, while our servants have just begun working on the secondary sites marked out in the Alterac Mountains. A small bounty of orcish corpses were discovered in Alterac Valley-,"

"Another clan?" the death knight interrupted.

"Ah, no my lord. Sigils and burial talismans indicate the Frostwolf Clan's presence…but they must have left with the rest of the Horde several months ago."

"….continue."

The cultist cleared his throat again.

"Yes, well, Dalaran is now well and truly exhumed, though grave sites are still being discovered around Hillsbrad. Southshore, for instance, has provided several generations of bodies for usage. Stromgarde is providing numerous servants as well, and the martial spirit suffusing that Kingdom's people is now being put to use for the Scourge. Ah," the cultist rechecked the page, "it seems that the Scourge shall get even more usage out of the Amani than we thought before."

At that, the death knight finally turned his head slightly.

"The vast majority of the Amani died in the destruction of Quel'Thalas."

"Ah, yes, my King, but they left behind many ancient settlements in the Hinterlands. Besides the many Wildhammer bodies for usage left to us by Lord Azgalor, we have unearthed numerous troll graves in the area. Not enough to fully replenish what was lost in Quel'Thalas, but the latter should hardly matter at this point. With the demons doing so much of the fighting, we have been able to re-raise our fallen across the vast majority of our past battlefields. The Scourge is stronger than ever," the cultist simpered.

King Arthas did not actually need to breathe anymore, so the fact that he took the extra care to let loose an audible grunt caused the cultist to shy away slightly.

"King Arthas?"

"An ever stronger dog," the King sneered. "This is not what the Scourge were meant to be. I tire of this endless babbling, Jason."

"You know my name…?"

A gimlet eye speared the cultist practically through the heart.

"Should a King not know his subjects?" Arthas asked archly. Then his expression, what parts of his face could create one, sneered. "No, this is not what the Scourge are meant to do, to be. We are more than this. I am aware of how our numbers grow, yes, we are exhuming every corpse in every Kingdom we have conquered, our numbers grow larger than ever, our Liches and my Black Hearts increase in number and strength, but it is wasted here."

"I don't understand."

"You are not required to understand, clerk, only to obey."

Far, far in the distance, the infuriating ships of Kul Tiras once more unleashed a barrage which tore apart the latest offensive. At least it was only demons being pulped and ripped apart by cannonballs and gunfire before they could even reach the defensive lines of the Alliance. There were always more demons to come spitting out of the Twisting Nether.

"…yes my King."

"As to my orders…leave. I have business to attend to."

The cultist left, as did the zombie, leaving Arthas alone at last. Frostmourne did then slam into the floor, and from the cracks and crevices left in it by a solid foot of the runeblade's passage came a creeping wave of ice. As cold as the heart of Icecrown itself came the creeping mass of dark magic and frost, surrounding and covering not just the observation deck of the Necropolis but in fact the entire structure in its entirety. Dark green glyphs, good strong Scourge glyphs of power activated, creating a shimmering curtain of necromantic energies to wash over the whole floating building. Power thrummed throughout the whole structure, as the power of the Lich King itself were channeled into that one place. Not for attack, or destruction…but for defense. Concealment.

Privacy.

Arthas nodded once it was done and began to walk towards the central chamber, from which all had been barred save for himself and Kel'Thuzad. The stone doors ground in their sockets to allow the King to enter to be greeted to a macabre scene to horrify any of the living with waking nightmares for the rest of their lives. The lich barely acknowledged his presence besides a half-hearted 'My King' and at any other time such an insult would require a nightmarishly thorough execution, but not now. After all, the incredible energies that danced between the palms of the floating skeleton could ruin everything if the utmost concentration was not used.

Hundreds of chunks of meat lay about the room, skeletons both whole and incomplete in various stages in several states. From hooks on the ceiling were multiple corpses, hung limply, their lives long gone, though their powerful green blood still dripped to the floor from some. It had taken them over a dozen vivisections simply to get to this point, but now, finally, here they were. Arthas removed his helmet and placed it at the foot of the door, and grasped Frostmourne with both hands, focusing and building up the power within himself. At the center of a large stone slab, heavily muscled limbs splayed over the edges, the look of shock on the thing from its sudden death still evident despite the inhumanity of its face.

The Doom Guard had never seen it coming.

Green light filled the room from a dozen magical orbs, and where their light struck, meat moved. Bones twitched. Skeletons shifted. Blood ceased to fall, and remained within the body, coagulating and rotting into something far more disgusting than what it had been before. But it was not enough. Something intrinsic about the Doom Guard, the only 'whole' demon in the room, would not allow the powers of the greatest Lich of the Scourge to affect it. Pieces, chunks, but never a whole body.

It was a state of affairs that could not be allowed to continue.

"We are no dogs…" Arthas sneered beneath his breath. "We are masters. All who would die shall serve the Scourge. Even," he raised Frostmourne high, "demons!"

With that, eldritch blue light exploded forth from the runeblade, and joined with the dark green ribbons of power flowing from Kel'Thuzad.

The one bottleneck between Scourge and Legion was the utter inability of the Scourge to raise demon corpses. Something about the interaction between necromancy and fel energies had thus kept the Scourge from being able to truly buck their leash. It rankled the King of Lordaeron. It irritated the Majordomo of the King of Lordaeron. It infuriated the Lich King. So all three forced their powers to the fore in the greatest single concentration necromancy on Azeroth had ever had, all only possible due to the unyielding hatred of Azgalor keeping him fully focused on the Alliance to the south and the current disappearance of the Dreadlords.

They strained, they grunted – those that had lungs – and they strained again. Pathways of magic, avenues of animation, invasions of power into the very fabric of the demon, all this and more they tried. They did not require sleep, and so did not need to pause in their efforts. Far in the distance, in Lordaeron, minor legions of skeletons simply ceased to move, and clattered to the earth to the utter surprise of the forest trolls who had not known how to pass by to regroup with their warlord. In the Ghostlands, various groups of wandering Scourge were left sluggish and drained, transformed into targets for opportunistic Farstriders. To the living of Northrend, the skies above the Icecrown Glacier were lit up in a terrifying display of lights and power.

The bits and pieces of dead demons could be used to craft basic skeleton warriors, the more magically inclined could create skeleton mages, while any meat could usually be used for abomination construction, but it wasn't enough. When the rare times came that the full powers of the Scourge could be channeled into raising one of the fel beasts, it was only ever temporary. The whole of the being needed to be under the control of the Lich King, their body and soul, not just the former. Furious might channeled ever more power, the Lich King already more than nourished from its servants rebuilding across the northern Eastern Kingdoms.

Arthas nearly buckled from the exertion, but the knowledge needed to be gained. He did not know just how long they worked, for time barely seemed to pass at all, but eventually…finally…the Doom Guard's corpse began to twitch as a whole…

====================================​

Terenas Harbor, Tirisfal Glades

Captain Falric gazed out into the open sea, as motionless as the undead creature he was. The first death knight ever raised by King Arthas, shortly followed into service by his best friend in life Captain Marwyn, was also one of the most powerful. Perhaps, perhaps rivaled by the traitor Uther. But Uther and his traitorous death knights were of no concern, hiding in the wilderness as they were. The auspiciously named Terenas Harbor was a new construction, but there was much that the tireless workers of the Scourge could create when uninterrupted for several weeks and months. Just a short jaunt north of Garren's Haunt, and further north still from Brill, and finally was Lordaeron City. But it was here, at these docks, that the Lich King had seen fit to deliver unto the most trusted servants of King Arthas a great and wondrous bounty.

The ships that pushed through the morning mists were deathly silent, as was only proper. Dozens of the transports came across the waves, their oars rising and falling in perfect unison, though some were propelled entirely by the magic powers of the Scourge itself. Upon his senses he could feel over half a dozen Liches upon the transports, former Kirin Tor sent away to Northrend almost immediately upon falling to the forces of Falric's lord. So many, gone, and only now returned. Marywn led them, and as ever the two most faithful Captains in the King's service were perfectly aware of one another due to their own granted blessings. The boats were of a savage design, to be sure, nothing at all like the proper décor of the Scourge, but they were new, and so would likely learn in time. Largest amongst the boats was one that actually appeared to have portions of stone upon it, and its great bulk actually crunched against the docks as it came to a stop.

Falric chose to ignore the damage, knowing that the mindless servitors of the docks would repair the damage posthaste. He instead chose to focus his attention, and that of his company, upon the great ramp which slid out and down onto the wood and bone docks themselves. First, of course, came Marywn and a smattering of his best soldiers, marching in formation until they joined with Falric's own forces. His friend in life and undeath nodded curtly.

"These are them?" Falric asked, only somewhat rhetorically.

"These are them."

A giant of blue flesh thumped onto the ramp, both two toed feed bare. Falric gazed unflinching at the muscular goliath, armed and armored in rune emblazoned armor that had been freshly made in the foundries of Icecrown itself.

"He was made one of our brothers?"

"We are all brothers in death. Still, the Lich King granted him such boons out of acknowledgement of his own position."

Falric tilted his head in thought.

"From the lowliest drudges to the highest of Kings, all serve the Scourge," Marywn murmured before calling out to the descending beast and its own equally huge guard. Taller and far more powerful looking than any Amani or Gurubashi, they snorted and grunted and gabbed to themselves, but silenced at a single slight movement from their leader. "Would you not agree, oh King of the Drakkari?"

Frost King Malakk had fought long, and hard, and ever more desperately as Zul'Drak was torn apart and desecrated around him in an effort eerily similar to that of Zul'Aman though the savage Drakkari had not known it at the time. In the end, he had fallen at the hands of another King who served the Scourge and its eternal master. In the end, the Drakkari could not as a tribe count themselves amongst the living save for a few aggrieved survivors who had fled deep into the central wastes. In the end…

"Aye. All serve da Scourge, even da Drakkari…"

"All serve da Scourge, even da Drakkari…" came the echoing calls as the whole of the tribe began to disembark from the great fleet that had ferried them from Northrend onto the shores of Lordaeron.

=====================================================
​

Abandoned Frostwolf Hold, Alterac Valley

​

Grand Marshal Garithos, in life, had been a very large man. His bulk was made almost entirely of muscle, from a harsh and unyielding exercise and training regime that had begun ever since he had failed paladin training for reasons he never did comprehend. Said reason was rather simple, given that Uther Lightbringer had found the younger man's unending spewing of vitriol against all non-human races including their own allies in the dwarves, gnomes, and elves, to be utterly droll and intolerable. Garithos was never told this, and so did not know anything more than his rejection from the Silver Hand. Regardless, he fought, he trained, and fought again.

When the Scourge overran his homeland, he managed to cobble together a smattering of resistance forces and had charged into the heart of the Scourge held lands in order to exact vengeance. A week's passing found him and a dozen other survivors from that ill-thought course of action fleeing into the Alterac Mountains. Undead pursuers forced them to take refuge in a surprisingly hidden valley, where a long-abandoned orcish hold provided valuable shelter. Even in this, he ensured he received twice as many rations as his other 'soldiers' as was befitting his station as a noble and as their commander.

As such, his meat was of reasonably high quality.

Zul'jin knew none of this, as all food tasted of nothing but ash these days regardless of its source. Still, he continued to chew on what had been the bicep of Grand Marshal Garithos, rolling the meat back and forth in his mouth as he stared into the low flames of his war camp. Life had gone all strange since Zul'Aman fell. Since over ninety percent of the Amani were dragged up to Silvermoon and then subsequently lost. Returning from a hunting trip only to find his beloved Zul'Aman in flames, the frantic search for and rallying of any survivors he could find…he still had nightmares about that day. Anything the High Elves could ever have done paled before that. They could never have taken his home from him, but the Scourge…

"Taka, you finish reading dem human reports?" he looked over at one of the nearby trolls who was propped up on an ancient log, putting aside the beefy arm. He couldn't bring himself to eat right now. "I wanna know everything dis guy knew about da Scourge."

The smaller Amani clicked her teeth as she gazed down at the scrawling words on the pages of the dead human commander's diary.

"It'd be easier if I had some better lighting, Warlord," she flipped another page and squinted at the words. "Also, dis Garithos can barely spare a minute ta talk about actual important things. Look at dis," she tapped one particularly long paragraph with one scarred finger, "the whole thing here is about how useless dwarves are for building proper stuff."

Zul'jin growled. The younger troll gulped and hastily got back to reading. All around them the warcamp bustled with dimmed activity, though it wasn't for the usual reasons. These days, only in battle against the Scourge could the Amani – what oh so very few remained – get their blood up. Food was ash, alcohol was worthless as drink, and the passion of their people had been sucked away from them. Some had gone mad entirely in the darkest days the Amani had ever lived under, more so especially once it was confirmed that the bastard abomination Arthas had managed to capture and drain the energies of the Loa from the great forest gods themselves. The Amani had lost their gods, now and forever, and the shame was overwhelming.

Tired eyes gazed out as the last Amani warlord took stock of his people. Zul'Aman was gone. The Loa…were gone. What weapons and armor they had was scavenged or just what they could carry as their home was taken from them and desecrated. The only thing the Amani had left at this point was hate. Hate had become their gods. Their sustenance. All the old troll could do now was go out fighting, go out bringing down as many of the Scourge as he could. They had nothing else. No allies. No…

Taka barely noticed when her warlord rose, absentmindedly bringing his arm of human with him.

There was little need for stealth at the moment, the valley was secure enough. As long as the Amani weren't discovered coming and going, they could remain there indefinitely. Zul'jin mused on that point as he wandered about the hold. And it was a Hold, of the distinct orcish style. During the Second War he had never fought alongside the Frostwolves, but he knew who they were. A group who had not agreed with the Horde's goals and had been banished because of it…or something like that. He'd always been more focused on attacking the High Elves than thinking about things like that.

"Da Horde, huh?" he mused as he ran his fingers over a banner which had fallen against the wall. The blue and white cloth was ragged, battered by the elements, but still remained.

As he padded through the hold he passed by his fellow trolls, all nearly as exhausted as he was. Some were currently treating wounds, others were sleeping, while some few almost wept as they beseeched spirits who were no longer there. Which was one of the saddest parts about it all, really. The Shadow Hunters and Witch Doctors were powerless, utterly so. Some had spoken of trying to connect to the Loa of the Drakkari, especially since they seemed to be slowly revitalizing the hold into a more permanent home for the Amani, but those calls had gone unanswered as well.

"Where did you go?" he asked the wind when he had reached the top of the hold and gazed down at the rest of the snow swept valley.

He'd heard of the 'new' Horde. Old Doomhammer had popped up out of nowhere and died almost as quickly, but not before passing on his mantle to some hot shot shaman who seemed to want nothing to do with the way of the 'Old Horde'. At least the Horde that Zul'jin had joined. So the warlord had turned his eyes away, and remained focused on purely Amani matters. Only now, after his civilization was less than charcoal, did he wonder how things could have gone if he had rejoined them. Would the Horde have taken the Amani across the sea, wherever it was they had gone, and thus preserved more of his people than he himself had been able to?

It was incredible what watching nine tenths of your entire people being killed and raised again as servants to be turned to ash could do to one's mentality. What seeing, hearing, and feeling down to one's core that the very gods themselves had been taken by the Scourge. Zul'jin gazed down from the lip of the hold's roof, and wondered if falling from that height would kill him. Without the Loa, the regeneration inherent to the troll race was failing the Amani. Wounds that should have healed in days remained even now. All the Amani had left was Shadra, and she wasn't keen on responding to their call, especially after what happened to the others.

He stood there feeling the bone chilling wind run into him again and again for hours, and only turned when he heard Taka scrambling up onto the top of the hold.

"Taka."

"Hey, warlord. So…looks like dis Garithos at least marked some targets towards the end here."

"….I be waitin'…"

"We got…" she flipped through the pages, "Some new docks they built, some kinda super school for dem necromancers n' lich tings in 'Scholomance', and a big bad base up in dat human city Stratholme. A coupla other human towns which got taken. Whatchu wanna do warlord?"

Zul'jin was silent.

"Warlord?"

"Here's what we gonna do Taka…"

=================================
​

Jaina stared at the mirror opposite her, and frowned at her appearance. Her body was…she was exhausted. The sheer act of using the Book as she had was…

"How did…hmm…" she said almost silently as she fingered the lock of hair with her hand.

She hadn't actually noticed anything was wrong until today, had no idea when it had changed. But changed it had. It couldn't have been that she was getting old, no, her face and body wasn't suddenly gaining wrinkles and sagging like the mysterious spell that had been unleashed upon the long lost Khadgar. Everyone knew what the mad Guardian had done to him before being slain, so for a heart stopping moment she had wondered if this was to be the toll that the Book would take on her. Hours of self-examination had proved that not to be the case. She had changed though. That was undeniable.

Staring back was the same Jaina as always…except for the multiple streaks of strange white-grey that had replaced her usual blonde. That and the almost undetectable glow from behind her eyes. Even so, she poked and prodded at herself, unwilling to simply let it go. A knock at the door would have made her jump if it were last year, but after fighting the Scourge and leading her people across the sea and deep into this land…well.

Perhaps some things about her had changed.

"Yes?" she called.

"My lady, you asked to be reminded of the time when-," her chamberlain began.

"When I was to once again meet with the Horde. Right. We're supposed to go looking for the Oracle today…" she said the last beneath her breath. "Thank you!"

"Of course, Lady Proudmoore."

The Archmage hummed as she gazed at her staff as it floated in the air. A week with the Book of Medivh had changed it tremendously from the rather humble staff of before. The green head crystal had been carved with new runes and both glowed with arcane light that could grow to blinding if she so wished it. All the way down the staff were improvements, a changed core, improved outer shell with additional magic that she hadn't even known existed before reading even a small fraction of the Book.

"If I'd had this in Lordaeron…" she choked slightly when she grasped it with both hands and felt the power thrum through it, nearly vibrating in her grip.

The moment passed, like it always did. Like the nightmares faded after being up for a few hours. She shook herself and set her shoulders. No weakness, only strength. If that was what she needed when dealing with the Horde, then that was what she would do. A few moments more saw the rest of her outfit put on, and her newly improved cloak with Book-derived enhancements sweeping across her shoulders. Her staff clicked slightly on the ground as she left the room and descended into the courtyard.

Jaina's Rest had started as a temporary military base, but over time had simply grown far beyond its initial scope. Secluded off from the beaten path, inside a small canyon area, with flowing water and good soil, it had only been logical for it to expand the longer they waited and stared at the Horde across the way. It had its own logging mill, a blacksmith, barracks, even a church for goodness sake. The walls and their cannons were the result of the dwarves who had travelled across the sea with her setting up a workshop alongside the few gnomes. Perhaps she was a bit biased, but the woman for whom the settlement had been named – even if she had greatly protested it at the time – considered Windshear Hold, apparently due to the name given unto it by Cairne who actually knew the local names for things to be a bit more chaotic and less defensible.

Then again, maybe that was just old prejudices running up again.

"Lady Proudmoore! Attention!" Duke Lionheart bellowed at the attending knights and footmen.

"At ease, Duke. No need for that. Are the soldiers prepared?"

The paladin saluted once again.

"Aye, milady. We are ready."

Jaina nodded before raising her staff in the air, summoning power forth. It was so much easier than it had been just a week ago…

Bright blue circles appeared from thin air and began to cycle, and from one blink of an eye to the next they were gone.

 

[Finagle007]

Arthas nearly buckled from the exertion, but the knowledge needed to be gained. He did not know just how long they worked, for time barely seemed to pass at all, but eventually…finally…the Doom Guard's corpse began to twitch as a whole…

Click to shrink...

Uh-oh. Archimonde will be furious when he learns about that...

 

[Ashynarr]

Ohh, I see we're seeing the looks change of post-Theramore!Jaina without the accompanying MURDER! mindset she reasonably developed towards the Horde. Also, this might just be my own bias but I'm really looking forward to getting back to the free Death Knights and how they're doing.

 

[jwolfe_beta]

Ohh, I see we're seeing the looks change of post-Theramore!Jaina without the accompanying MURDER! mindset she reasonably developed towards the Horde.

Click to shrink...

More to the point, her forces and Thralls should be in much better shape then in canon when the Legion starts invading. They haven't been at each others throats and Cenarius told the Night Elves to stand down for the moment.

Hell depending on what happens with Grom's quest, Cenarius might even live in this timeline.

 

[torroar]

Uh-oh. Archimonde will be furious when he learns about that...

Click to shrink...

Well it's not like they're going to run around talking about it silly.

 

[Finagle007]

Well it's not like they're going to run around talking about it silly.

Click to shrink...

No, but it will leak, if only when non-undead spot the undead demons...

 

[torroar]

Well, I got plans. You'll see man. S'alllll good.

Or is it bad.

Scourge are bad, Legion is bad...

hmmmm

 

[Ashynarr]

Scourge are bad, Legion is bad...

hmmmm

Click to shrink...

Everyone is bad! No one is good!

Except Chen. Chen is good.

 

[jwolfe_beta]

Except Chen. Chen is good.

Click to shrink...

And Vol'jin. Though he's mostly badass as opposed to good.

 

[Ashynarr]

And Vol'jin. Though he's mostly badass as opposed to good.

Click to shrink...

Hell yeah Vol'jin is badass, he makes me proud to be Horde again /o/

 

[jwolfe_beta]

Hell yeah Vol'jin is badass, he makes me proud to be Horde again /o/

Click to shrink...

Unfortunately he won't be showing up for several months if that aspect holds true. He only arrived after Durotar was founded in canon.

But who knows what will happen in tOotBH. Aside from torroar that is.

 

[Evillevi]

This is an incredibly piece of fiction Torroar. While I can't say much for the fact taht I didn't play Warcraft in any capacity, the interactions between characters is engaging in the very best way.

 

[jwolfe_beta]

Hell yeah Vol'jin is badass, he makes me proud to be Horde again /o/

Click to shrink...

Unfortunately he won't be showing up for several months if that aspect holds true. He only arrived after Durotar was founded in canon.

But who knows what will happen in tOotBH. Aside from torroar that is.

Click to shrink...

Actually correction. In chapter 10 he is shown to be in the Orc camp.

To Jaina's dismay, she saw Cairne and Vol'jin in the back of the crowd, attempting to get through. She wanted to tell them no, she could handle it, but there was no way her voice would reach them.

Click to shrink...

Odd thing since the search engine didn't show him when I search for his name. Go figure.

 

[torroar]

Well thank goodness this is a Warcraft AU