"Sorry Ma'am, but we're not sending fresh recruits into the Highlands. Orders from the Supreme Commander himself, it's a strategic warfront. Experienced, proven fighters only."
The recruiter spoke with the tone of someone who had given the same spiel a hundred times already, and expected to give it a hundred more times before the day was over.
"I can handle myself," Nzaria growled, leaning forward to place her hands on the wooden desk between them, towering over the man.
She had adopted a form quite similar to the one she's used to infiltrate Highbank, though of course different enough to avoid undue attention: A statuesque female Draenei, with short dark brown hair pulled into a practical ponytail, and glowing violet eyes. This time, her purpose was not to blend in but make people take her seriously, so instead of standard Alliance uniform she was clad in thick articulated plate, with a hefty warhammer and shield strapped across her back. The high collar and enclosed gauntlets also served to conceal her burnscars, in case she needed to keep that identifying mark secret.
"I don't doubt that," the recruiter said, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "But orders are orders. If you don't have a reference for me to put into the paperwork, there's nothing I can do."
Nzaria leaned back, rolling her eyes with a frustrated sigh, drawing a few stares from the bystanders.
The salty tang of the sea filled the air as waves lapped against the docks of Stormwind Harbor, the rhythmic crashing drowned out by the din of voices, the clatter of armor, and the creaking of ships moored at the piers. The sky overhead was a crisp, brilliant blue, streaked with wisps of cloud, the midday sun casting long shadows across the bustling warfront. Seagulls wheeled above, their shrill cries lost in the cacophony of the city.
Stormwind itself stretched beyond the docks in a grand display of stone and steel, towering spires and ramparts standing as a testament to the kingdom's resilience. The white stone walls gleamed in the sunlight, their surfaces smooth from centuries of weathering, interrupted by proud banners bearing the golden lion of Stormwind on a deep blue field. Beyond them, the city bustled with activity: cobblestone streets filled with merchants hawking wares, blacksmiths hammering out weapons and armor, and soldiers marching in disciplined formations.
At the docks, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Soldiers lined up at the recruitment stations, eager to be shipped off to distant battlefields, while officers barked orders, directing shipments of weapons and supplies to their appropriate vessels. Long lines snaked toward the various recruitment desks, would-be soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder as they awaited their turn. Humans made up the majority of the crowd, but she could pick out dwarves and gnomes, their stout forms barely reaching up to the waists of their taller kin, and night elves moving with preternatural grace. The mingling of so many races was something she had only ever observed from a distance; standing among them now, it felt almost overwhelming.
Yet for all its grandeur, the city's security was laughable.
Nzaria had walked straight through Stormwind's gates without so much as a glance from the guards stationed there. The sheer volume of people coming and going through the city seemed to make the sentries more of a formality than an actual deterrent. It had been disturbingly easy to slip into the throngs of civilians, merchants, and travelers, each one too preoccupied with their own business to pay much mind to another armored figure in the crowd.
Which didn't make the impediment any less frustrating.
"Is there anything you are good for?" she snarled.
Long lines preceded each recruitment desk lined up along the length of the harbour, and a few people were giving her dirty looks for holding up the queue, but backed down when she directed a withering glare in their direction.
"I can get you a spot on the next convoy to Westfall, they're taking anyone they can get," the recruiter said, shirking away from her. "I-it's just as important as the Highlands, Stormwind's breadbasket has been hit hard by the Cataclysm and the Defias Brotherhood are acting up-"
"I don't care about the Defias," Nzaria grit out, wood splintering beneath her fingers as she gripped the table. "I am here to fight the Twilight's Hammer."
"I can't-"
"You want ta fight the Twilight's Hammer, do ye?"
Nzaria turned just enough to bring the new speaker into her periphery. Her gaze swept over the figure, assessing him in an instant.
A dwarf, broad and sturdy, a heavy fur collar sat around his neck, likely the pelt of some beast he had slain himself, and a runed hammer rested at his hip, the carvings on its haft old, but well-maintained. His bushy orange beard was drawn into three thick braids, each wrapped in copper rings, while his hair was pulled back into a fourth, leaving the blue tattoos on his scalp bare to the elements. A mantle of feathers was pulled around his broad shoulders, but the rest of his upper body above the belt was bare to the elements, showing off thick muscle and more tattoos.
But more than that, Nzaria could feel him.
Power surrounded the dwarf, unseen but tangible to her heightened senses. It was not merely within him, but all around him, interwoven into the stone beneath his boots and the very air he breathed. It resonated, old and strong, an unshakable presence as much a part of him as his armor.
A shaman, then.
"I do," she drawled slowly, taking his measure. "What of it?"
The dwarf smirked. "Well, lass, I'm on the lookout for strong hands ta take the fight to the Hammer. Not in the Highlands, mind ye, but they've been stirrin' up trouble in Loch Modan for me an' me kin, an' we dwarfs don't take that kind o' thing lightly."
Nzaria narrowed her eyes slightly. "And what would I get out of helping you?"
The dwarf's smirk widened into something closer to a grin. "Besides the joy of bashin' in a few cultist skulls? Well, yer friend there was just tellin' ye how he can't send ye ta the Highlands without proof ye can handle yerself." He shot the recruiter a knowing look, making the man shift uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, I'd say wipin' out some Hammer filth is just the sort o' thing to make a name for yerself. An' if anyone questions ye, there'll be a whole clan o' grateful dwarfs willin' ta back up yer claim."
Nzaria turned, her glowing violet eyes settling back on the recruiter, who suddenly seemed very interested in the recruitment forms in front of him.
"Well," he began, shifting in his seat. "I can't promise anything, it's not up to-" He choked off his words as Nzaria took a deliberate step closer, her looming presence making him shrink back. "B-but I'm sure it would be taken into consideration!"
She let the silence stretch for a long moment before finally pulling back.
'There's no guarantee this will get you to Highbank. The dwarf could be lying, for all you know.'
'You are making no progress here. Even if it doesn't pan out, exploring alternative avenues is unlikely to hurt your chances.'
Her gaze flicked back to the dwarf. He watched her with an easy patience, arms crossed over his broad chest, waiting for her decision. Either he was a master manipulator, or he genuinely believed in what he was offering.
Either way, it was better than standing here arguing with a bureaucrat.
Nzaria exhaled sharply. "Fine."
The dwarf gave a satisfied nod. "Thoradin Redmantle," he introduced himself. "An' ye are?"
Nzaria had already prepared for this. She had rehearsed it in her head countless times since deciding to infiltrate the Alliance. The name she had chosen was simple, unremarkable- just another adventurer seeking work.
Ylna, she tried to say.
The word never left her lips.
A sudden, suffocating tightness gripped her chest. It was as if her lungs had forgotten how to draw breath, her body locked in place, her mind blank. The noise of the harbor faded into a dull roar, a hollow ringing filling her ears. The ground beneath her hooves felt unsteady, as if the very stone of the docks had become unreliable.
Why couldn't she speak?
Panic flared, foreign and unwelcome, but she shoved it down with sheer force of will. She needed to say the name. She needed to lie. That was the plan. That was what she had decided.
She forced her mouth open again, but the word still refused to come.
Seconds dragged on, far longer than they should have. She knew Thoradin was watching her, waiting. She couldn't afford to make him suspicious. If she hesitated too long, he would start asking questions.
So she did the only thing she could.
"Nzaria," she blurted.
The moment the name passed her lips, the invisible pressure lifted. She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers flexing unconsciously, her heartbeat still hammering against her ribs.
Thoradin, to his credit, gave no indication that he found anything odd about her pause. He simply grinned. "Aye, well met, Nzaria. Let's be off, then."
He turned on his heel, his heavy boots thudding against the dock as he started toward the city streets. Nzaria followed, her face an unreadable mask, but inside, the voices in her head erupted in a fury.
'You worthless little fool. Can't you even keep your words straight?'
'What are you doing? Are you trying to ruin everything?!'
'Do you even understand what you've done? What if someone recognizes your name?'
'Perhaps part of you wanted this. Wanted the risk. The thrill of being hunted again.'
Nzaria kept her pace steady, her expression impassive, but she clenched her teeth against the onslaught.
No one in the Alliance knows that name, she reminded herself firmly.
The Twilight's Hammer thinks I'm dead.
And who would ever expect a Twilight Dragon, servant of the True Gods, to be walking around in plate armor, wielding the Light like a paladin?
The logic was sound. The chances of anyone putting the pieces together were next to none. Even if someone had heard the name Nzaria before, they would never associate it with a Draenei standing in the heart of Stormwind.
It was fine.
And it was already out there, no changing it now.
And yet…
She exhaled slowly, the tightness in her chest lingering, an uneasy ghost of the sensation that had overtaken her. This wasn't the first time it had happened.
Every time she tried to call herself something else, it was as if her body simply locked up.
It had to be magic.
Some kind of curse, something woven so deeply into her being that she couldn't even sense its workings. But what kind of magic was it? Was it an enchantment laid upon her during her creation? A safeguard from the Twilight's Hammer, a ward from Aruviel to keep her from running off?
But wouldn't a tracking spell be a far easier safeguard?
She had no answers. Only questions.
Nzaria cast a glance toward Thoradin as they moved away from the recruitment lines, weaving through the crowded harbor streets. If he had noticed her moment of hesitation, he showed no sign of it.
Good.
She rolled her shoulders, shaking off the lingering unease. Whatever the cause of her curse, it was something she would have to unravel another time. For now, she had a new path forward—and she would not allow herself to falter again.
-----
"So, why me?"
The tram shuddered and rattled as it sped through the underground tunnel, the rhythmic clanking of its mechanisms echoing through the metal compartment. The steady hum of arcane energy pulsed from the rail beneath them, crackling faintly in the air, keeping the machine in motion. Every so often, sparks of blue-white light flared along the tracks as the magical current surged, illuminating the darkness of the subterranean passage with brief flashes.
Nzaria shifted against the metal bench, attempting for the third time to find a more comfortable position. It was an impossible task. The seats were clearly designed with dwarves in mind, their proportions compact, their backs short. Humans, at best, could make do with them, but for a Draenei, the design was an outright insult. Her hooves barely fit into the leg space, and her back was forced into an awkward slouch just to avoid knocking her head against the overhead handrails.
She settled for leaning on one arm, the other draped over her knee, giving the impression of relaxation despite the irritation gnawing at her.
"In specific, I mean," she asked in a low, conversational tone, tilting her head toward Thoradin.
The compartment was nearly fully occupied, mainly by dwarfs and gnomes with the occasional human, but the clunking and rumbling of the tram around them as it sped down the underground tunnel made it unlikely that anyone could overhear them. There was also a squad of Alliance troopers spread out across the tram, two at each entrance- she supposed even they weren't stupid enough to leave critical infrastructure like this unguarded.
"Well, ta be honest with ye," Thoradin said, sitting besides her, "I was looking for anyone tha' fit the part. But that armour o' yours caught me eye, an' things clicked from there. It's dwarf make, isn't it?"
Nzaria glanced down. She… supposed she had modeled it after Undonn's, to some degree. His was the only set of Paladin armour she had seen up close.
"It's a long story."
"Aye, I suppose we should talk about what we're going to be doing. I understand yer a Paladin?"
"That is so. I am blessed by the Light with great strength and fortitude, and I am capable of healing wounds, though it is not my specialty."
It was what she had settled on as her cover. A dragon's visage form was stronger and tougher than an equivalent mortal, and she could manage healing if she needed to demonstrate herself as a true paladin.
"Good, good, that'll be useful fer later. Now, like I said earlier, we'll be meeting a couple o' me friends in Ironforge and flying from there to Loch Modan."
"Is there anything you can tell me about what we should expect to find there?" Nzaria asked, keeping her tone deliberately casual. "About the Twilight's Hammer, I mean. You said they'd attacked your family?"
Thoradin exhaled, a deep, heavy sound. He adjusted his seat, resting one thick arm on the back of the bench as he turned slightly toward her.
"Aye," he rumbled, voice tinged with something more than just frustration—something older, heavier. "Me clan's lived on the eastern shore of the Loch since before the War of the Three Hammers. We made our livin' off the land, mostly- copper, iron, a few small veins of mithril, an' a sturdy hold carved into the cliffs. Not the biggest, not the richest, but ours."
Nzaria watched him as he spoke. His tone had taken on a slight distance, as if he were seeing it in his mind's eye, speaking of something already lost.
"But with the Cataclysm…" He shook his head. "The earth split, the waters rose, the land changed. Times got hard. An' then, just when we thought we were startin' to recover, the Hammer came. That was a little over a month ago now. Whole damn lot of 'em: Ogres, cultists in their robes, all mutterin' their dark prayers to their black gods." His lips curled in distaste. "They drove us out of the mines first. Started their rituals, buildin' those damn spikes of theirs."
"You sent for help?" she asked.
"Aye," Thoradin said, voice tight. "Sent word to Ironforge, to Aerie Peak, to anyone who might answer. But Ironforge is in turmoil. With King Magni gone an' Moira takin' over, the Dark Irons sittin' on the Council, politics've got everythin' snarled up. They won't risk warriors over a few lost mines. An' the Wildhammers…" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "They've little love for an Ironforge clan."
'Curious. He appears to be a shaman, and dresses in Wildhammer fashion, but his family are Ironforge dwarfs.'
'Best not to press for details about that. Let them come out naturally.'
"And that's why you came to Stormwind."
Thoradin nodded. "Aye. I needed to find capable fighters."
Nzaria turned her gaze forward again, watching the tunnel widen as the tram rumbled toward its destination. "How many people have you gathered?"
Thoradin gave a knowing grin. "Found you, didn't I?"
Nzaria narrowed her eyes slightly.
He chuckled, tapping his knee. "Two others, waitin' for us in Ironforge. Good lads, ol' friends of mine. Trustworthy. We'll meet 'em before we set off for Loch Modan."
Nzaria frowned, considering his words. "Four of us against an entrenched Twilight's Hammer force?"
Thoradin shrugged. "Four good warriors can do more damage than a dozen untested ones."
She let the words sit for a moment before asking, "And what about your family? Your clan?"
His grin faded. "Most of our fightin' folk died when the Hammer ambushed us," he admitted. "The ones that aren't- well, they'd already been sent off to war before the Hammer came.
Nzaria's tail flicked behind her, her skepticism barely concealed. "Four people against the Twilight's Hammer."
Thoradin gave her a sidelong glance, smirking. "Aye."
The rumbling of the tram started to lower in pitch ever so slightly, and Nzaria could feel their speed slowing down.
"Right, looks like we're arrivin'."
The tram let out a deep, mechanical groan as it slowed further, the hum of the tracks fading into the rhythmic clatter of wheels against metal. A gust of warm, dry air rushed past Nzaria as the tunnel widened, giving way to the vast underground station that marked the Ironforge end of the Deeprun Tram.
The station was carved directly into the mountain, its walls and ceiling hewn from solid stone, reinforced with thick iron bands and great dwarven pillars. Golden braziers lined the perimeter, casting a warm glow over the polished stone floors, their flames flickering gently despite the lack of any noticeable draft. The air here was different- crisper, heavier with the scent of worked metal, stone dust, and the ever-present tang of forge smoke drifting from deeper within the city.
As the tram came to a halt, the passengers around them stirred, some rising from their seats, others shifting their packs in preparation to disembark. The doors hissed open, releasing a wave of movement as dwarves and gnomes filed onto the platform, their voices blending into the ever-present murmur of Ironforge's lower districts. Nzaria rose to her hooves and stretched her legs, before following Thoradin out of the tram.
The dwarf inhaled deeply through his nose and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Ahh. Now this is proper air," he declared, clapping a hand against his chest. "Ye can smell the stone, the fire, the iron- none o' that damp nonsense from down south."
The moment the last passengers stepped off the tram, the gnome engineers swarmed in like a tide of busy, precision-driven insects. Clad in thick leather aprons and brass-rimmed goggles, they scrambled over the machinery with frantic energy, tools clanking as they checked every bolt, gear, and arcane conduit that kept the Deeprun Tram operational.
'It truly is a marvelous piece of engineering.'
'The logistical advantages it affords are enormous. Neither city can be sieged while troops and supplies can be sent back and forth with ease.'
'It is also horrifically vulnerable to sabotage. One Twilight's Hammer Earthbinder could bring the whole tunnel down.'
Nzaria tried to ignore the thought and pressed on.
A mixed crowd of dwarfs, gnomes and humans milled around the platform, in small groups or sitting down on the benches, waiting for the engineers to clear the tram for the return trip to Stormwind or watching the people disembarking from it.
Thoradin strode confidently towards a pair of figures in the latter group, standing out against the crowd of people.
The first was a night elf, a tall woman with purple hair bound in a long ponytail, her face painted with curving red markings across her brow and cheeks. She wore a set of elaborate leather armour and a tabard depicting a great tree over her chest, a mantle of blue feathers around her shoulders that seemed to pop and crackle with energy, but Nzaria's gaze was drawn to the staff slung across her back, radiating with power. Glowing red runes ran in rings along the length of blue metal, while crystals of frost clung to the horn-like protrusions despite the heat, and four claws at the very tip of the staff contained a mote of glowing energy that made Nzaria's stomach pang with hunger.
'This one is powerful. Keep an eye on her.'
The other figure was much less imposing, a middle-aged human male with short-cropped black hair and beard, dressed in practical clothing consisting of a dark green coat, brown trousers and boots. Even so, there was something unsettling about him, that Nzaria couldn't quite put her claw on.
Thoradin greeted the pair with a wave of his hand and a smile, turning to Nzaria.
"This is Lanya Dawnwatcher, a Druid of the Cenarion Circle, and Koltus Hammerhand, a… magical specialist. They are both dear friends of mine. Koltus, Lanya, this is Nzaria."
'Make note of the hesitation. He's keeping a secret.'
Lanya Dawnwatcher regarded Nzaria with a cool, unreadable expression. She did not offer a greeting, nor did she extend a hand, merely observing her. She was tall, even for a night elf, standing well above Thoradin, but she carried herself with no excess movement, no wasted energy.
Koltus Hammerhand, on the other hand, was something else entirely.
His face was carefully neutral, his posture relaxed, but there was something deliberate in his stillness, something calculated. He was trying not to be read, not to be understood, and that made him stand out more than if he had simply presented himself naturally. His unassuming clothing, his practical stance, his complete lack of visible weapons or magical adornments- Nzaria had seen infiltrators before, cultists trained to blend in- she had been trained by them, after all -and there was something about Koltus that reminded her of them.
'Thoradin claims him to be a magical specialist, yet you can sense nothing from him. Curious.'
'Either he is lying, or has learned to conceal himself.'
His eyes flicked over her, quick and assessing. Then, just as quickly, his unreadable mask returned, but not before Nzaria caught a brief flicker of something- hesitation? No. Not quite.
'Nervousness.'
Nzaria filed that away.
Koltus was the first to speak.
"Well now, isn't this a fine gathering of dangerous people?" He clasped his hands together, a small, amused smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Thoradin, I do believe you've outdone yourself this time. Finding a Draenei Paladin, of all things. You truly are a magnet for strays."
Thoradin snorted, arms crossing over his broad chest. "Aye, an' yet somehow I always end up stuck with you."
"Oh, that hurts me, Thoradin." Koltus pressed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. "Truly, the wounds you inflict are far worse than any blade."
Then, his unreadable gaze shifting back to Nzaria. "And what, pray tell, brings a paladin of the Light all the way from Stormwind to our little mess in Loch Modan?"
Nzaria met his gaze evenly. "I go where the Twilight's Hammer needs to be put down."
A perfectly acceptable answer. A simple one.
"A noble pursuit," he mused. "Well, I suppose that makes us the best friends, at the moment."
"Let's go," Thoradin grunted, gesturing for them to follow.
As they stepped out of the tram station and into the heart of Ironforge, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Gone was the clatter of arcane machinery and the hurried voices of engineers- replaced instead by the deep, resonant hum of a city built from stone and fire.
The streets were carved directly from the mountain itself, an intricate labyrinth of stonework, every column and archway marked with the unmistakable craftsmanship of dwarven hands, much like the tram station.
But it was the people that Nzaria paid attention to.
The area closest to the tram station was occupied mainly by Gnomes, but as they moved deeper, Nzaria saw more dwarfs than she had ever seen in one place.
The majority of them were Ironforge Dwarfs, of the clans loyal to the Bronzebeards as one would expect, but there were few Wildhammers in the mix, standing apart from the well-dressed mountain dwarfs with their feathered cloaks and totems, and bare, tattooed torsos. Then there were the Dark Irons.
The Wildhammers and the Bronzebeards stood apart from each other, but it was nothing compared to the naked hostility they directed at the ashen-skinned dwarfs.
'Make note of how nobody moves alone, and nobody mixes clans.'
It was true.
The dwarfs maintained a healthy distance between divisions of clan lines, and not a single soul moved without an escort- save for a handful of travelers, humans and elves merely passing through.
Aruviel had explained to her as part of her crash course on Alliance history that some four years ago, Emperor Thaurissan of the Dark Irons had kidnapped Princess Moira Bronzebeard, who had borne him a son, now a toddler. However, the Princess had for some reason retained an affection for her kidnapper even after his death at the hands of the Alliance, as well as obtained the loyalty of his people. Assuming control over the Dark Irons, Moira had bided her time, until her father Magni had been caught in the Cataclysm, either killed or permanently indisposed of, the rumours were not entirely clear.
But what was clear was that Moira had marched upon Ironforge with an army of Dark Irons, intent on pressing her and her young son's claim to the throne. Leaderless, the Bronzebeards had been hard-pressed to organize a defence against their king's only child and heir.
However, the Alliance would not tolerate a hostile power seizing the government of one of their most powerful member states. King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind had spearheaded an operation that had retaken Ironforge and forced the Dark Iron Queen to the negotiating table. Nobody knew exactly what had been said and done behind closed doors, but everyone knew the end result: Moira's treason would be expunged, but the succession would skip over her to her son. Given that he is an infant, a regency council was established, with Moira as the Dark Iron representative and Magni's brother Muradin as that of the Bronzebeards. However, to avoid constant deadlock and curtail Moira's power, King Wrynn had brought in the Wildhammer clan to act as the tiebreaker between them, a neutral party that ostensibly had no stake in Ironforge politics.
'In practice, Bronzebeards and Wildhammers might dislike each other, but they hate the Dark Irons.'
'Of course, just because they are united in stopping the Dark Irons from getting their way, doesn't mean they agree on what they should do.'
'Nor can Ironforge's armies leave the city, lest the Dark Irons be tempted into another coup.'
A wave of heat washed over Nzaria's face as they entered a vast, central cavern, a fiery glow illuminating it from below. Stone-hewn structures eerily reminiscent of Grim Batol run around the perimeter, extending up along the cupola-like walls towards the ceiling, supported by vast pillars carved with intricate reliefs depicting past glories. A stone walkway ringed the chamber, and a vast stone archway connected through the middle to the other side, dominated by machinery and rows upon rows of great rune-carved anvils, where crews of dwarfs were hard at work, forging armour, shields, weapons, machine parts and more.
Yet her attention was not on them.
Almost unbidden, Nzaria's hooves carried her to the rim of the walkway, her hands gripping the metal railing as she leaned over to look down. A vast pool of magma bubbled and roiled in the depths, great pumps and excavation buckets suspended on chains working to extract it for use by the blacksmiths. The surface churned with a vibrant, glowing intensity, shifting between hues of brilliant orange, deep crimson, and smoldering black as the molten rock ebbed and flowed. Occasionally, fiery bubbles rose to the surface and burst, releasing small tongues of flame and sending ripples of heat shimmering through the air.
A familiar, bottomless yearning arose within Nzaria's soul without warning, an overwhelming urge to hurl herself over the railing to bathe in the liquid magma.
'You would die. You know this.'
Logically, yes. But a part of her was unwaveringly convinced otherwise. The molten lifeblood of the earth would not hurt one of its own.
"Not seen the Great Forge before, eh?" Thoradin asked as he came up next to her, sounding amused.
Only a titanic effort of will averted her gaze from the magma pool and towards the dwarf.
"Can't say that I have."
"Ha! It's quite a sight, to be sure. Now come on, the sooner we get going the sooner we can get to bashing cultist skulls."
Koltus and Lanya had already made their way to an outcropping extending from the circular outer ring over the magma pit, housing numerous large straw-beds, most of them housing white-feathered Gryphons.
As Thoradin and Nzaria approached, the two others had already saddled a pair of the beasts with the help of some of the dwarfs attending to the roost. Thoradin accepted the reins of one of the pair, taking a moment to dig a strip of dry neat from his pocket and feed it to the Gryphon, before hauling himself onto its back.
"We'll go two and two," he said, as Koltus mounted the other beast. "Nzaria, yer with me."
"Are you sure they can handle two passengers?"
"Aye," the dwarf attendant said, a female dwarf with her black hair in a long braid. "These are strong stock, straight from Aerie Peak. They'll bear ye to Loch Modan and back before ye know it."
Nzaria approached Thoradin's Gryphon, but as soon as she got close the beast drew itself up, its feathers standing up as it hissed at her, lowering its head and raising its hindquarters in a defensive posture.
"Whoa there," the dwarf exclaimed as he swayed in the saddle, running a hand along the back of the Gryphon's head. "Easy there, girl. She's no threat."
'They are not fooled. Beasts are never fooled.'
Nzaria did her best to avoid openly gritting her teeth, instead affecting a mask of confusion.
"What happened?"
"Take this," the dwarf attendant said, giving Nzaria a strip of meat like Thoradin had used. "Give it to her as a peace offering, let her get used to you."
Nzaria tried holding out the snack for the Gryphon as she approached but to little avail, the beast backing away from her and spreading its wings in a threat display.
"I don't understand, she's not usually like this," the female dwarf muttered.
"Maybe try this one?" Koltus suggested, patting his own Gryphon. "Lanya can ride with Thoradin."
However, she didn't get any closer to the second Gryphon before it started snapping its beak and clawing at the stone floor, squawking angrily.
"What in Modimus' name is the matter?"
'Say something, or else they will come to their own conclusions.'
"It is understandable," Nzaria said slowly. "My kind are not so common here that they would have grown familiar with us."
"Hrm," Thoradin grunted in dissatisfaction. "We still need to get ye to Loch Modan somehow. We cannae just go on foot, it would take days. Layna, what do you think?"
The elf was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "I'll take care of it."
The druid raised her hands into the air, and Nzaria felt the power gathering around her, the air growing warm and alive. Leaves rustled and swirled upward as if carried by an invisible wind, and faint glimmers of emerald-green light danced along her form.
Feathers, sleek and iridescent, unfurled from her arms, replacing flesh with plumage that shimmered in hues of purple and azure. Her hands elongated into delicate talons, strong and razor-sharp, while her legs reshaped to hooves. A regal beak, curved and sharp, emerged where her mouth had been, and her hair wove seamlessly into a crest of plumage that crowned her head. Her back arched as enormous wings unfurled from her shoulders, stretching wide in an explosion of feathers, and a long, tufted tail completed the transformation, swaying behind her like a banner in the breeze.
"Climb on," the Hippogryph spoke in the elf's voice, lowering its head.
-----
The flight from Ironforge carried them through ancient tunnels carved into the mountain's sides, their rough-hewn walls illuminated by the soft glow of embedded rune-stones. The echoes of their wingbeats reverberated through the narrow passage, a steady rhythm against the cool stillness of the subterranean air.
The crisp bite of Dun Morogh's mountain wind hit her like a wall, cold and clean, carrying the scent of pine and distant snowfall. Below, the vast snow-covered peaks stretched toward the horizon, their slopes glistening beneath the light of the afternoon sun. Ironforge, the dwarven stronghold, was already behind them, its great stone gates disappearing into the mountain's face as they soared eastward.
It was a strange experience, flying not under her own power, but riding something- someone else.
The rhythm of flight felt alien from this position- each beat of Lanya's wings registered through the motion of her body, rather than her own instincts. She felt carried, disconnected from the movement itself. When she had flown under her own power, every adjustment, every tilt of her wings had been her own decision, her own control. Here, she was an observer, reacting to Lanya's choices rather than making them herself.
She didn't like it.
The pair of Gryphons and one shapeshifted Druid headed east, the descent from the high peaks gradual at first, but as they pressed on, the icy landscape gave way to something far more temperate. The snow began to thin, then vanish entirely. White-covered rock and pine gave way to stretches of lush green land, the first true glimpse of Loch Modan's countryside sprawling out ahead of them.
From the air, Nzaria could see the slow transition of the terrain—rolling grasslands interspersed with clusters of trees, winding roads cutting through the landscape like veins. In the distance, small settlements dotted the land, dwarven homes built of sturdy stone and nestled into hillsides for warmth and protection.
And at the center of it all, a vast divot in the ground, mud and puddles overrun with reeds, the very deepest recesses in the rock housing small pools of murky water. Bones lay exposed to the sun, long-necked reptilians with finned limbs that had perished with their home. The outlines of the old shoreline were still visible like a scar, as were the ridges in the sun-baked mud made by the waters of the Loch when they had drained away.
At the northern end of what had once been a lake stood the ruins of a grand stone edifice, dwarven faces fifty feet high frowning sternly as they lay cracked and broken.
The cultists had often spoken of how Deathwing had broken the dam, shattering ancient stonework like glass merely by passing over it, forever changing the entire region with but an afterthought, leaving it to stand testament to the power of the True Gods.
They had considered it a religious experience, the moment they awakened to the true face of the world.
As they crossed the western shore of the Loch, Nzaria saw Thoradin tug on the reins of his Gryphon, guiding it down towards a cluster of small stone buildings carved into the side of the hills. They were sturdy, dwarven-crafted from solid stone, but most of them bore fresh repairs, new stonework standing out against the weathered surfaces, while others had collapsed entirely, reduced to piles of rubble and broken masonry. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, carrying the scent of burning oak and fresh-forged iron into the air, though the settlement was eerily quiet compared to what Nzaria expected from a dwarven hold after seeing Ironforge.
The main gate was pitted and scorched with what Nzaria instantly recognized as shadowflame, but they did not head there, instead angling towards a fortified stone platform built over a good fifty feet of sheer cliff-face. It reminded her of Grim Batol, only in microcosm.
A handful of dwarfs stood guard over the platform, overlooking the main gate with rifles slung over their shoulders, but there was a nervousness to them that compared poorly to the dwarven warriors Nzaria had faced in the Highlands, or even the Ironforge guards.
'These are farmers and craftsmen. Impromptu militia, not true warriors.'
Thoradin's gryphon touched down first, talons scraping against the stone as it folded its wings. Lanya landed with more grace than the others, her hippogryph form barely making a sound as she touched the ground. Nzaria was glad to dismount, the Druid shifting back to her Nigh Elven form the moment she was off.
A broad-shouldered dwarf in battered armor stepped forward to meet them, his face lined with age and hardship. His auburn beard was streaked with gray, tied in a single thick braid that rested against his chest as he nodded at them.
"Thoradin."
"Father," the shaman nodded in return, though his expression was guarded. "Lanya and Koltus ye already know, and this is Nzaria. They've agreed to help us."
He turned towards Nzaria, looking up at her.
"This is Baruk Redmane, my father."
"A pleasure."
"Well, I won't turn away help, not now of all times," Baruk said slowly, but again Nzaria got the sense that there was much being left unsaid. "Let's get your Gryphons to the rookery and some ale and food in your stomachs."
----
The great hall of Redmane Hold was built for function over grandeur- solid stone walls reinforced with thick wooden beams, its vaulted ceiling supported by iron-riveted arches. A massive hearth dominated the far wall, its fire crackling and filling the space with welcome warmth. The scent of roasted meat, fresh-baked bread, and strong dwarven ale drifted through the air, mingling with the ever-present scent of stone and smoldering embers.
A long wooden table, scarred from years of use, had been set for them, heavy pewter plates and tankards placed in front of each seat. The food was simple but hearty: a thick stew filled with chunks of venison and root vegetables, dense brown bread slathered in butter, and slabs of smoked boar. A large keg of ale sat in the center, already being poured into waiting mugs.
It was nauseating.
She knew, intellectually, that this was a good meal- fulfilling, well-prepared, the kind that warriors ate to keep their strength up. The others were eating with ease, Thoradin shoveling food into his mouth between swigs of ale, Lanya eating in slow, measured bites, and Koltus picking at his plate with his usual lack of urgency.
But to Nzaria, it felt… dead.
Life had left it long ago, leaving nothing for her to drain. It just sat there, flat on her plate, not moving, not trying to get away, just… there.
When she did manage to get over her repulsion and put it in her mouth, the taste felt ashen compared to the energy that thrummed inside every living being.
Her fingers curled into a fist against the tabletop, the wood creaking faintly beneath the pressure. She could hear it- the steady thrum of life around her, pulsing, vibrating in the air like a song only she could hear. Every living thing had a rhythm, a beat to it. The dwarves in the hall, their slow, steady heartbeats thrumming through their compact frames. The faint, crackling lifeforce of the fire, still strong but dimming with each passing moment as it consumed the last of the wood.
And then there was Lanya.
The druid's pulse was different- wild, flowing, endless. She wasn't just alive. She was part of something greater, something vast. Even in this stone hall, away from the forests and fields, the connection to nature still pulsed through her veins, an ever-renewing current of life. It was intoxicating.
She grit her teeth. She didn't want to nibble on stale, dead flesh and ground-up plant matter, she wanted to tear into something alive, to feel it struggle, to taste the raw, burning heat of lifeblood fresh on her tongue, to consume its essence until nothing remained.
'You must eat, or the others will grow suspicious.'
With great effort she managed to finish her plate, and then turned down seconds as politely as she could manage.
Koltus seemed to take that as his cue to turn towards Baruk, sitting at the head of the table.
"So, anything you could tell us about the Twilight's Hammer encroaching on your lands?"
"Hmh," the dwarf said, clearly unhappy with the topic. "They showed up in small numbers at first, about two months ago. We thought they were just stragglers from the Highlands, remnants from the war up north. But they weren't stragglers- they were scouts."
Nzaria sat up slightly, listening intently.
"They hit us outta the blue one day," Baruk continued. "Came down from the hills, slaughtered everyone they could get their hands on before we even knew what was happenin'. We fought back, but we were spread too thin. Most o' our warriors had already left for Alterac to fight the Horde, and the ones that stayed-" He exhaled sharply. "-they died that day."
There was a weight to his words, a subdued grief buried beneath pragmatism.
"The cultists took the old mines after that," he went on. "Drove us back here to the hold."
'They took the mines first. Not the hold, not the homes. The mines. Why?'
Nzaria's gaze flicked toward him, recalling the scars on the gates. "And you've been safe here?"
"Oh, they've tried," Baruk admitted, rolling his shoulders. "But this place was built to be a fortress, back durin' the War of Three Hammers. If they want to take it, they'll have to bleed for it."
Thoradin snorted, shifting in his chair. "Aye, and I reckon they probably could storm it if they wanted to, but it'd be a gamble with their current numbers."
Baruk's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he cast a sharp look toward his son. Thoradin, in turn, steadfastly ignored it.
"But they don't need to," the younger dwarf continued, folding his arms. "Not if we sit here twiddlin' our thumbs, until Deathwing himself'll come to finish the job."
Baruk's expression twisted into a glare.
"I hope," Baruk said slowly, his voice edged with warning, "that my son hasn't filled yer heads with some idea that there'll be a dwarven army marchin' in to help ye."
His gaze swept across the table, landing squarely on Nzaria.
"I have barely enough men to hold the gates, let alone send 'em marchin' into the hills on some fool's errand," he continued. "I won't risk the hold on a reckless attack- there's women and children here." He let the words settle for a moment before turning his gaze back to Thoradin, sharper now. "And I wouldn't be riskin' my only son, either, if he had the sense to listen to his father."
Thoradin bristled, his expression tightening. "Da, we've had this argument a hundred times already-"
"And I'd rather have it a hundred times more than see ye dead!" Baruk thundered, slamming his hand down onto the table hard enough to rattle the plates. "Damn it, Thoradin, ye couldn't find more than three people?"
Thoradin's shoulders tensed. His jaw worked for a moment before he spat back, "Ye know we have no coin left to hire mercenaries."
The words hung in the air for a moment.
Nzaria felt Baruk's gaze settle on her again.
So that was the truth of it.
'Thoradin wasn't just looking for anyone. He was looking for someone who would fight for free.'
Nzaria met the old dwarf's eyes evenly.
'Simple words. Let him fill in the gaps. Let him think what he wants.'
"I'll be happy to know that when I go to sleep, there are fewer cultists in the world than when I woke up," she said simply.
Baruk studied her for a long moment, trying to determine if she was lying. He must have found something satisfactory in her tone because he exhaled, shaking his head, turning back to Thoradin.
"Ye don't have the numbers," he said, voice steady but firm. "Four people can't turn back the Hammer, not when they've already taken the mines and whatever else they've been diggin' for. We should wait. Ironforge will send aid."
Thoradin scoffed. "Ironforge is sittin' on its hands dealin' with its own mess. It's been a month now, how much longer would you wait?"
Baruk leaned forward, bracing his thick arms on the table. His deep-set eyes, the same shade as his son's, burned with frustration. "An' what, ye think rushin' in with three strangers is the better option? You'd rather die swingin' than hold the line like a proper warrior?"
Nzaria observed the exchange with rapt interest.
Thoradin bristled. "We ain't got the luxury of waitin', Da. The Elements are screamin' for help."
"The Elements," Baruk spat venomously. "Aye, that'd be the Wildhammer in ye talkin'." He shook his head sharply. "I never should've let yer mother fill yer head with that nonsense."
The words landed like a hammer-blow.
The hall went quiet, even the other dwarfs falling silent.
Thoradin's jaw locked, his expression darkening like a gathering storm. "If ye wanted to keep the Wildhammers out of this family," he said, his tone dangerously low, "ye shouldn't have married one."
'There it is.'
Baruk was silent for a long moment, his teeth audibly grinding together.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice rough as stone. "If ye want to get yerself killed- ye and yer friends -far be it from me to stop ye."
The words landed heavy in the air, but Thoradin barely flinched. He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor as he stood.
"Good," he grunted, rolling his shoulders before glancing toward the others. "Let's get movin'. We've still got ground to cover, an' we won't be takin' gryphons. They'd give us away too easy."
Nzaria stood as well, rolling her neck slightly, loosening her muscles after sitting through a meal that had done little more than frustrate her senses.
"Walking, is it?" Koltus said, smoothing out the sleeves of his coat. "Ah, how I do love a good, long trek through hostile territory."
)
