Lok'tar ogar… Victory or… death.
It is these words that bind me to the Horde…
Anguish Fortress. Aptly named, and eerily silent. A blanket of suffocating calm sits over the home of the wise and spiritual Shadowmoon Clan. There was an almost tangible tension in the heart of every seer that could not trust his visions, every mother that feared for the lives of her sons, and particularly and especially Ner'zhul, whose tension and anguish far dwarfed any felt by his clansmen. His family.
The grand shaman sat upon his throne within the great ziggurat overlooking the whole of the city, alone in the darkness and quiet. He was deathly still, save for the occasional deep breath, his eyes shut in deep thought, and his sandy brown knuckles paling further with his tight grip on his staff as he wonders how in the world it came to this.
"Damn them…" he mutters aloud to himself, the frustration of his voice scraping against the walls of his chamber while the rest of his voice echoed. "Damn Grommash. Damn Velen. Damn the Draenei… Damn the Stranger!"
With his burst of ire, he slams the butt of his staff against the etched stone beneath him and stands, stalking forward and stopping beneath the beam of moonlight shining in from the square of open space in the roof of the fortress, staring hard straight up into the endless night, at the stain of blackness on a sea of dark blue, a single haunting blemish on an otherwise perfect sky.
"Damn them all to endless torment. But most of all, damn you for existing…"
It was ancient decree that this blemish should touch nothing more than the sky it is frozen against. Ner'zhul remembers the stories. The carvings on the walls he was shown, of ancestors long past having their bodies desecrated by the unnatural work of this Darkstar... He remembers the exact words he was told by his chieftain as his fierce yellow eyes looked down upon him.
"The evil that lies within that star, that being… is more terrible than you could ever imagine, Ner'zhul.
A sneer tugs across Ner'zhul's face as the other side of his conscience reminds him what else he has to lose…
Only three days prior…
It began around the same hour, close to the stroke of midnight. Ner'zhul was wrenched from his slumber by a loud sound, sitting upright and squinting into the thick darkness around him. He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled toward his staff, and had set his hand on the mystical relic when another loud sound immediately pushed away all of his drowsiness. Screams of terror, and scream of war. The former from his people, the latter not.
Ner'zhul's eyes widened, and he left his tent, noticing several things at once. The smoldering remains of a nearby dwelling vented awful smoke up to the sky, totally decimated by a flaming projectile. North, the sturdy wooden gate of the wall surrounding Shadowmoon Village had been shattered by an armored gronnling, behind whom a troop of orcs marched in. The moment he saw them, Ner'zhul's heart stretched in his chest, sinking in despair and rising in alarm all at once.
The soldiers were clad in dark, heavy armor, unlike anything he has known the orcs to wear to battle, marching in unfamiliar formation. Perhaps the most disturbing of all, at least to Ner'zhul, were the masks that several of them wore. Shaped iron plates that obscured the entire face, save for two unevenly-cut eyeholes. All those who wore these off-putting masks also had only one hand, the right. Their left arms ended in long, curved blades.
Ner'zhul watched, stunned and confused as those soldiers without masks stormed the village paths attacking anyone who couldn't get away in time. No one was killed, not even those who fought back as well as they could. The Shadowmoon Orcs were simply subdued and forced toward the center of the village. The masked Shattered Hand soldiers were the ones to physically break into the living huts, ruthlessly throwing frightened mothers and crying children out of their homes and subduing them as well.
"Stop!" Ner'zhul yelled out, slightly relieved that this seemed more a show of force than a true attack, but still confused and awfully concerned at the implications of this invasion. "What madness has Hellscream brought here?!"
Ner'zhul himself was approached by two unmasked soldiers with their weapons at the ready. The weary shaman was prepared to step down without a fight if it meant his people would be safe and he would receive answers as to why this invasion was occurring, but another scream from far off reached his ears, and he froze, turning his head toward the awfully familiar voice.
At the nursery, close by to the sacred ziggurat Anguish Fortress, a Shattered Hand shock troop roughly dragged a woman by the hair out of the large hut and across the ground, the wails of frightened infants behind them. One look at the woman's long crimson locks and the look of pain on her pale face set Ner'zhul off, and any hopes for a completely bloodless resolution smoldered to dust.
"Rulkan! Release her!" Ner'zhul roared with rage, swinging his staff at the two troops approaching him and sending them flying away with a shredding gust of wind. The same power of air continued to aid Ner'zhul, allowing him to glide northward toward the nursery and land close to the soldier assaulting his wife.
Ner'zhul extended a hand, a second away from melting the orc in his armor, but before he can call the power of fire to his aid, he suddenly finds himself gasping for breath. His hands move to his throat in surprise, finding that a metal chain had found its way coiled around it, and struggled briefly to try and tear it away before the chain is yanked and Ner'zhul is thrown off his feet. Before he can even attempt to rise, a heavy boot slammed down against his back.
Ner'zhul managed to pull in shallow breaths, looking up into the soulless, jaundiced eyes of Kargath Bladefist himself, holding the chain that binds him in his good hand. The chalk-pale orc sneered down at the elder shaman before turning his head to another powerful, familiar voice.
"Bring them!"
Kargath hauled Ner'zhul to his feet and dragged him along with all the rest of the Shadowmoon Orcs to the center of the village. The captive Shadowmoon orcs, women and children, even, had been forced to their knees, their Shattered Hand and apparently Warsong captors positioned behind them, weapons ready to execute on command. Rulkan knelt before the large central bonfire of the village, with the blade of Gorehowl beneath her chin, and with Grommash Hellscream as her executioner.
"What is the meaning of this, Hellscr- Nngh!" Ner'zhul was silenced by a brutal knee to the side from Kargath, cringing and gritting his fangs as he stared at the brash leader of the Warsong clan.
"You might have heard, Grand Shaman," Grom rumbled casually, yet loudly, so all present can hear him, quirking a bald brow as well. "I rule this land now. The whole of this continent. With many of the Orcish clans united under one banner, strengthened by iron and fire."
Ner'zhul appeared enraged and ready to speak out again, but his eyes gaze about at many of his clansmen, including his mate, knelt still and shivering, fearful of these things which were not foretold. Ner'zhul knew that his defiance would spell doom for his entire people, and this thought was all that kept him from answering to Grommash's bold declaration.
Hellscream squinted at Ner'zhul for a moment before speaking further. "You were summoned. Twice," he said. "Once by the traitorous Gul'dan to embrace an existence of cursed slavery, and again by my prophet, to embrace our true destiny. Your people were quiet. Durotan, at least, had the stones to soundly reject my offer. What do you have to say for yourself, 'Grand Shaman'?"
Ner'zhul stared silently at Grommash for a long moment. "Your ways, and the ways of your 'Iron Horde', Hellscream, are not our ways."
"Is this not what you wanted, Ner'zhul?" Grom asked. "Unity among orcs? You preach your 'visions' every spring and every autumn at Kosh'harg, and now that they are finally realized, you become a coward."
"This was not my vision!" Ner'zhul growled. "You talk of unity, Grommash, yet here you come with blades to the throats of my people! Unity by force is tyranny!"
"Believe it or not, I like you, Ner'zhul," Grommash commented with a nod. "It was you who taught me to care for my people. My people. My orcs. The Orcish race deserves nothing less than greatness universal… On this, and all worlds. That greatness in this world comes from the domination and destruction of others who are beneath you is of no consequence. We are orcs. And thus, as a gesture, for your part in shaping who I am now, I extend to you an offer that you cannot ignore, Grand Shaman. One last time. Join me. Accept true greatness. Realize true unity for the Orcish race."
Ner'zhul looked down from Grommash to the woman in his clutches. Rulkan's eyes were filled with wild emotion, many of them shared by the Grand Shaman himself: alarm, anger, fear, despair… Grommash spoke once more, and the elder shaman's eyes return to his.
"Or. Reject the Iron Horde. Declare yourself less than an orc, and watch your entire clan be executed, one by one, starting with this one." Grommash's hand twitched, and Rulkan grunted as she was nicked under the chin, letting a small trail of blood slowly trickle down her neck.
Ner'zhul closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He knew what he had to do, and was ready to do it. For his people. But even so, something in Ner'zhul's heart broke in that decisive moment, and an overwhelming dread hung over his face. "The Shadowmoon Clan… will join your Iron Horde, Grommash Hellscream."
Ner'zhul hoped to see satisfaction on Grommash's face, but his expression was unchangingly critical. The Warchief looked around at the trembling, rigid, brokenhearted members of Ner'zhul's clan, his family, and sneered in disgust. "And what, Grand Shaman, does your Shadowmoon Clan have to offer? We have all but routed your citizens with little effort. You have more mothers and children amidst your ranks than you do potential warriors. And you yourself, Ner'zhul, have a crippling weakness…"
Grom gestured down to Rulkan. Ner'zhul sighed heavily. "We are a spiritual people, Grommash. We as a clan, our seers, our astrologers, are wise beyond the years of many orcs. What we lack in military strength, we make up for-"
"Stop," Grommash ordered flatly. "Your words are intolerable… In my Iron Horde, nothing makes up for a lack of military strength. Blackhand and his lieutenants are my top tacticians, and the Blackrock clan has proven the most adept at honing the Iron Star technology. Kargath and his soldiers are not only fearless and merciless, they are crafty and stealthy, and there are no greater slavers, torturers, and interrogators than among the Shattered Hand. Kilrogg and his berserkers are the perfect shock troops, and the venoms with which the Bleeding Hollow coat their weapons would leave any opposition reeling. What good are stars and visions against steel and powder? Make a worthy offering… or you people shall die."
The pit of despair left by the breaking of Ner'zhul's heart widened, and the weight of Grommash's price immediately began to hang heavy on his shoulders. Desperately, Ner'zhul turned his eyes to the stars, hoping for an answer, and he sees one.
"…Give my people a week, Grommash. Only a week. And by then, you will have our offering." Ner'zhul said, his sullen eyes looking back at the Warchief.
"Because I like you, Grand Shaman, I will give you three days," Grommash retorted, raising Gorehowl away from Rulkan's neck and tossing her aside to the dirt. The other would-be executioners began to relax their weapons just a tad, and Kargath roughly uncoiled the chain from around Ner'zhul's throat, which allowed him to finally take a full deep breath. "But if I return, and your offering is not satisfactory, your village will be ravaged by flaming slag. And your survivors will be ravaged by cold iron. Lok'tar ogar, Ner'zhul."
The Iron Horde soldiers and executioners stayed their weapons and released the captives before forming up and beginning to march out the way they came. Ner'zhul did not watch them, as his people did, and instead went to Rulkan's side.
Present day…
Ner'zhul knew then what the price would be to save his people. And he stares up balefully at his savior, roaring out in defeat with a hatred borne from utter desperation. "What, then, if not 'stars and visions', Grommash?!" he yells up to the air. "You will have your answer!"
Ner'zhul grips his staff tightly as he exits the base chamber of the village's ziggurat and begins to ascend towards the crown, unable to even look at his village and his clansmen for the shamefulness of what he is about to do. On the pinnacle of Anguish Fortress, the Grand Shaman stands tall against the night winds, and slowly raises his staff toward the Darkstar.
"Ner'zhul!" he hears a yell, just as he is about to begin calling upon its power. The Grand Shaman frowns and turns his head, staring at Rulkan, who has a look of shock and sorrow on her face. "Ner'zhul, we knew what you were thinking. I didn't want to believe it, but I just knew. Please, stop this, Ner'zhul! This is everything that our ancestors warned against!"
"I have no choice…" Ner'zhul sighs, his staff humming with power as he begins to commune with the Darkstar. "Rulkan… What else can I do, but this? Hellscream will find us if we flee, and he will be merciless. I almost lost you, Rulkan… You and all the village. I cannot let that happen again! The Darkstar is our salvation!"
An icy anguish creeps over Rulkan's face. "Ner'zhul… I would rather have died at Grommash's hand than to see you become this." The coldness that chilled Rulkan's voice only furthers the brittleness of the elder shaman's weary heart, and he is silent, simply staring at his wife. Seeing that he has nothing to say, Rulkan takes a breath and continues as the humming gets louder and the air around begins to fill with the empty energies of the Void.
"Ner'zhul, if you go through with this… I am done. With this, and with you. By playing with this forbidden void magic, you will change from the man I loved, and I won't stand for it. I will leave you and the village, and take those who agree with me."
"You are asking me to choose between you and the clan."
"I am asking you to choose between what is right and what is wrong, my mate!" Rulkan responds loudly, her eyes wet with tears of frustration. "If you delve down this path, there is no turning back! The elements will forsake you and your heinous sin! The ancestors will despise you! Is this what you want?! I will not ask again, Ner'zhul… Don't do this…"
The weary Grand Shaman stares at his mate for a very long time, his soul tugging between his own thoughts and her words. "Rulkan… I love you."
The pale orcess's face seems to soften as she watches Ner'zhul begin to lower his staff, opening her mouth to speak once the butt of his staff touches the floor of the pinnacle. She freezes solid in horror, though once she sees the void energies seeping out across the stone starting from the point where his staff touched. These dark energies quiver and rise from the stone, beginning to take a twisted form.
"I only hope that one day, you can learn to forgive me…" Ner'zhul finishes, gazing back at the faceless apparition of the void he's just summoned. It was much taller than Ner'zhul, and appeared to wear dark and dire armor, tattered brown cloth and spiked, half-rusted plate armor on its head and shoulders. For all appearances, it was a head and torso with long, gangly arms and a fount of void energy beneath it in order to keep it suspended. Behind it were dark purple constructs of energy that took the shape of tattered wings.
"Nhallissssssh… answerssss…" the being speaks in a haunting echo of a voice.
When Ner'zhul turns his head back to look at Rulkan, he can see nothing but hatred in her teary eyes. Rulkan slowly shakes her head at him before turning and fleeing down the ziggurat. With nothing left, Ner'zhul turns to face Nhallish. "My people need the power of the Void. The power of the Darkstar. Nhallish… Lend me your strength, and it shall multiply."
"Assssk… and you shall reccccccceive…" comes Nhallish's emotionless whisper. He extends a claw toward Ner'zhul's forehead, and the Grand Shaman's life flashes before his eyes a split second before he is touched, and everything goes dark.
Hours later…
Where dawn would grace the sky on any other part of Draenor, the air remains dark and gloomy above and within Shadowmoon Valley. Not far from Shadowmoon Village, at the ancient ancestral burial grounds for the clan, Ner'zhul stands before the large Ancestral Totem set in front of the mouth of the dreary catacombs. At Ner'zhul's side stands a slender, gloomy woman with the aura of the Void staining the sclera of her fierce orange eyes, and a short, whithered black streak in her otherwise venomous purple hair. A Void-touched dagger is gripped tightly in her hand.
Ner'zhul's own appearance had changed a bit as well. His already-pale fleshed had paled further, and his dark hair has tinges of Void corruption, tinting it purple. The staff he carried in his hand no longer shone with radiance, but seemed instead to steal the light from around it, making it seem as if Ner'zhul and those around were standing in a slight haze of darkness.
The most significant changes were in his face. He'd painted an eerie semblance of a skull over much of his face, adding a large dose of menace to his typically calm and approachable appearance. Ner'zhul's green eyes, which were once filled with warmth and wisdom, had turned a cold, blank white. Physically, Ner'zhul was now blind. But with the power of the Void coursing through his body, dark magic allowed him to see the energy of the world around him, to see with a far greater perception than he ever could with mortal eyes.
The Grand Shaman turns from the Ancestral Totem and looks at those that had gathered behind him. Grommash, his Warlords, and the tattooed stranger who brought this all to pass. Behind Ner'zhul stone-cold visage lies a seething hatred for each and every one of them. That, and a still-burning desire to protect his people, are all that are left of the former Ner'zhul.
"We're waiting, shaman," Grommash says, a hard frown on his face as he stares at Ner'zhul.
With a snort, he lifts his dark staff in the air, watching the crystal within urn to life with power over death, and he roars, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground and releasing it. An intense pulse of powerful Void energy slowly edges down the rattling staff, eventually sinking straight into the ground beneath.
A few moments pass, and the ground heaves and lurches once before it all starts to happen. Perfect graves all around them burst with flashes of dark energy, the ground violently tearing itself apart. From these graves first come wailing in agony and roaring in anger and pain, followed by the source of these cries. Slowly but surely, bones that once laid inert in their graves begin to rise, forced by magic to take skeletal forms, to rise and to slowly approach Ner'zhul. Each desecrated skeleton was charred black and tainted purple with the energy that reanimated them, the soulless sockets of their eyes filled only with violet fire.
"Sadana," Ner'zhul rumbles, nodding to the woman beside him.
Grinning, she turns, and with a roar of effort, drives the dagger in her hand into the Ancestral Totem, which immediately begins to rattle and glow dark as well. The Warlords, and all those present, turn their eyes to the sky and watch as a swarm of spirits begin to emerge, terrified and confused at their unwelcome calling, flowing randomly throughout the air like bees without a queen. Sadana rips the dagger from the totem, leaving a glowing wound, and raises her dagger toward the frightened swarm of spirits. The energies from the dagger seize the spirits' incorporeal bodies, and they wail and roar in anguish, forced by Sadan to flow in one direction, a violent whirlwind of spirits floating above the burial grounds.
Ner'zhul aims a hand to the west, and on cue, the earth just next to the burial grounds explodes, several giant, worm-like shapes rising from the upheaved earth and shrieking to the heavens. When the dust settles, these shapes are better seen, enormous creatures with sharp, bone-like pincers on its face and along its fleshy sides, no visible eyes, and pale violet flesh that pulsed with each heartbeat. The largest of these worm-beasts bursts from the earth right behind the Ancestral Totem, screeching loudly at the orcs.
Satisfied with the looks of surprise he sees on the faces of his guests, Ner'zhul walks forward to retrieve his staff. As he rips it from the ground, it leaves a glowing hole, out of which begins to rise a fount of dark power, eventually fading into being as Nhallish, the first void creature summoned with the power of the Darkstar. With a silent raise of his hand, other void abominations fade out of the shadows, revealed to have been positioned nearly everywhere in the area, merely unseen.
In the span of several minutes, Ner'zhul and his apprentice had turned a once peaceful, sacred place, into the spawning grounds of an undead army. With his forces behind him, Ner'zhul peers down his nose at Grommash, extending his arms.
"Well, Hellscream? Is this offering satisfactory?"
Grommash only responds with a smirk.
"Lok'tar ogar: Victory or death.
It is these words the bind this world to the Iron Horde, for they are the most effective and absolute of truths to any who can call himself a warrior.
We rend flesh and spill blood gladly for the Warchief. We are instruments of the Warchief's desire. Weapons of the Warchief's command.
From this moment, until the end of time, we live and conquer –
FOR THE IRON HORDE!"