Bormor stood over the Forsaken's remains heaving with relief and exhaustion. The battle was his, but he had to work for it. Sweat gushed from his brow with the last ticks of corruption leaving his body.
When he fell into the mud, gasping for breath, he thought how much he hated the Wetlands. Drenched, sultry, every sort of wet. But worst of all: filled with death. That was never more apparent to him than at that very moment. His armor feeling heavy, and his doubt feeling strong.
He muttered old words to Dwarven Gods knowing he'd hear nothing back.
He should have died. This truth wasn't lost on him. The warlock – he was more powerful and more cunning, but to his demise… just a little more frail. Warrior perks. This too wasn't lost on him.
Bormor thought the attack was bizarre and erratic, because it was. The Horde, when off the battlefield, could exercise just as much civility as the alliance. Their commitments were to kings and warchiefs, not killing for sport. Those who acted without honor did so on their own accord. And in this matter, the warlock showed no hesitation.
He was casted recklessly without heed to the destruction around him. In fact, Bormor wasn't sure the lock was after him at all. He might have just been in his way. But what then was he after?
The earth singed and trees broke in the onslaught. Destruction lay all about him, and there he went limping away as usual. The lone survivor surrounded by death.
Menethil Harbor was just beyond the mists, maybe a mile or so. There he would meet his friend. So, with one bruising step at a time Bormor headed east getting back to the road out of the fen. There he'd find a warm bed and even warmer ale. He sighed longingly at the thought, I'd kill that damned warlock a dozen more times for some ale.
It was with that thought that Bormor heard the unmistakable snap of a soulstone; like the sound of all the world's glass shattering at once.
Bormor turned and wasn't shocked to see the pile of cloth and bones now stood with a purple glow and a devilish grin. "A soulstone," Bormor said. "always a bloody soulstone."
The warlock hacked and coughed with what might have been laughter, and then immediately, the first curse stabbed into Bormor's chest like a knife. He didn't have a chance and he knew it, but he'd be damned if he fell without a fight. Bormor, ever stubborn, ever battle ready, clenched his jaw and assumed defensive stance to ward off further attacks.
Sounds like warped glass whizzed by him bouncing off his armor and shield as his feet slugged through the muddy earth. "I've got to reach him," he thought, "I've just got to reach him." Screaming spells went across the swamp and Bormor trudged on avoiding every cast he could. But they were coming too quickly.
Fire erupted around him scorching his flesh. Bormor screeched out in pain and a mocking laugh. "That one landed good, lad!" He had been immolated, and had that spell hit anyone else in Azeroth, they would have fallen. But this was Bormor, The Undying¸ if he was breathing, he was fighting. Keep going Bormor, just a bit closer, just… a… bit… closer!
Despite the pain, the burning flesh, and his twisting insides, Bormor had his wits with him, and just in the nick of time he brought his shield in front and in a bright gleam sent a shadow bolt back at the Warlock knocking him to the ground – that was all the time he needed.
With bright red fire, Bormor's eyes raged and his shout shook the land beneath him. He charged.
Now, a warrior's charge for many is a mighty thing to behold, and not something many can master. They move at stunning speeds to crush their target. But one at the helm of Bormor, son of Doupi, is something murderous.
All the forces of fury gathered in Bormor's vein, and like the gleam of sunlight off of a blade, Bormor dashed across the muddy land against his foe. Just as quickly, his sword cleaved from around his shield to strike at the undead wizard.
"One shot should do it," that's all he could think of, "just one shot." He swung quickly with the last bits of his power. Any point of contact would mortally wound the warlock. The rush of victory doused his pain, and he thought quickly that he might survive this after all. "One shot should do it."
But something went wrong. Bormor lost sight of his target behind his shield. He swung blindly and his sword met not cloth and bone but the hard fel-iron of a demon's axe and it gave no ground. Bormor shot back like a stone into the sloppy mud. His sword at his side and his shield on his chest.
A felguard towered over him dripping demonic saliva onto his shield pinning him down with a metal boot. The warlock bent behind the demon and laughed insidiously, because that is what evil warlocks do.
Bormor became desperate. He searched his surroundings for some advantage – a way to gain his feet and strike at his enemies, but there wasn't any. The weight of his shield was enough to keep him pinned. He was beat. There in the wretched land he hated so much. Maybe it's best, he thought, that the gift be taken from him there: the land of his fathers, Khaz Modan.
But his defeat didn't siphon the warrior's rage. Laying helpless before the pacing lock only enraged him more. Hunched and skulking, the demon master approached and in a guttural voice spoke the common tongue.
"Well, hello… little Bormor."
He kneeled over the dwarf's face exposing rotten teeth and tattered flesh. The Warlock hissed like a snake. "You don't even remember me do you, little dwarf?"
"Sorry, laddie" Bormor coughed, "I see lots of corpses."
The warlock's rotten lip curled. Bormor thought for a moment his jaw might come off when he spoke. "You have indeed. And I wonder, how many of them you made. Hundreds? Hundreds and hundreds AND HUNDREDS. But you're just little. A little, little dwarf."
The warlock's tone leapt back and forth from maniacal to complacent. "How many mortals have you ended, Bormor?"
"No as many as you think I have, but I'd settle for just one more…"
"Ha. HAHAHAHA. I'm sure you would. It's been easy for you. You, YOU don't have to play by the rules. Chopping and slashing and bashing without risk… without consequence. Your FATE…," the warlock spat. "I'm going to change that, little dwarf."
"Stop callin' me little."
"But you are so small."
A moment passed while Bormor starred deep into the dusty eyes of his foe and saw something familiar like the hum of an old tune, but it wasn't pleasant. It was cold and creaked up his spine like spiders moving too quickly in the dark. There wasn't any time to doubt. He became suddenly horrified and he panicked.
Kill him, Bormor. Kill him now, he told himself struggling beneath the weight of the demon and reaching for his weapon.
The demon roared and the Warlock laughed.
"Today makes twice now you've killed me, little dwarf. You will not have that privilege again."
Fear gathered in the dwarf's throat. "Well, you've got your chance then. You've got me down. Have at it."
The Warlock laughed a raspy evil sound that covered Bormor in his foul breath. "I have. You are beaten… lovely just to say it. Bormor the Undying warrior is beaten. I am delighted to deliver you to your fate …"
Bormor's insides twisted in pain and the breath shot out of him. He was broken. Here he would fall into the muddied earth of his ancestors. Here his soul would be devoured by not a stranger of the horde but by a fellow. It was not peaceful or painless. His eyes closed. His hearing lost and all he thought of was the small engraving on the inside of his shield as he went into the darkness.
"You cannot die."
Bormor found himself awake and on a hard table in a wooden room. He could hear sounds of a crowded bar coming from the doorway, and the unmistakable smell of brew. He couldn't see too clear, but he didn't care. Somehow he was alive.
Herrkin's blond hair and youthful face should have been a sight for sore eyes, but they weren't.
"What took you so long?" Bormor spoke with a rasp and dwarvish accent as thick as stone.
Herrkin laughed - Herrkin always laughed. "Oh Bormor, such a softie you are. So concerned for others. I'm doing quite well if you care to know. I'll catch you up."
Bormor's eyes rolled.
"I got into port last night and felt like death - nearly died at sea too! Feet, I tell you mate, we were FEET from the Maelstrom – from being sucked down to the belly of the earth. You know what that's like? Bloody invigorating. Nearly dead I was… But like yourself," Herrkin chuckled youthfully, "I've proven remarkably difficult to kill. Ol' Tapoke at the front door could grudgingly vouch on the fact as he so learned earlier today. Edgy bloke that Tapoke."
Bormor starred unimpressed at Herrkin. "Are you finished?"
"Well, I could tell you about the knights that chased me off the docks in Theramore, but I guess I'll save you the laugh."
"Good."
"Though I will say this – keep clear of that innkeeper's daughter. And no matter how convincing she might be, her father isn't dead… And neither is her husband."
"You're like a child. That's enough. I feel like hell."
"As you should. And I don't imagine you'll be feeling better anytime soon."
"I'll be fine. Time is all I need."
"Maybe more time than you think. In fact, even I thought you were dead."
"I'm sure," Bormor said with sarcasm. "You should be thankful you've haven't got the burden to bury me!" Bormor looked around confused. "Where are mah things? Damn it, Herrkin, you've got me propped up here in naught but bandages."
"Settle, you're like a little angry tree tunk. Your pack is upstairs and your armor is at the smith. Yeah, that's going to cost you more than you're willing to pay. I promise you that – tourist prices or some nonsense. Anyway, it will be ready in the morning."
"You didn't take anything from me?"
"Only the gold."
"Damned harbor towns – cashing in on every soul to pass through… The mornin' you said? I suppose… we could stay the night then. I feel…"
Bormor trailed off in thought. How did he feel? It hadn't even occurred to him to check his wounds. But he was alright enough to stand which was good – walk even. But something irked him. His thoughts were foggy. And he could see things in his head. The demon – the last spikes of pain before he fell unconscious – the warlock.
"Yes," Bormor said coming to. "We'll stay. We'll need the time to plan."
"Plan? Plan for what? You finally going to a have a go with the Barmaid? You know, now that you say something, she did ask about you earlier."
"Shut it, to plan our route. We're not going Southshore."
"What – what do you mean?"
"Plans have changed. We're going to Tirisfal."
"Ha, the hell we are."
"It's not up for discussion, laddie, we're going to Tirisfal."
"You're mad, Bormor, you need to calm down. Hell, you need to get more than your knickers on. What business have we got in Tirisfal? What business does anyone have in that damned place besides undead and things even worse?!"
Bormor starred at Herrkin sternly. The dwarf was short but damn if he wasn't intimidating as hell. "Are you bonded to me or what boy? Damn it, I say we're going to Tirisfal and by my last breath we're going."
Herrkin starred at Bormor and the playful expressions left his face. His pride took a hit and he conceded.
"Right then," Herrkin said begrudgingly. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Because of the Warlock. Where is he? Did you kill him?"
"Kill him?" Herrkin laughed. "That warlock? You mean the one that put Bormor The Undying on his back? Are you mad? I never even left the Inn. In fact, I didn't notice you were late until she carried you in."
"She? What do you mean SHE? What the bloody…"
It was then Bormor realized they weren't alone in the room.
She played with magic, he could sense it. She stood perfectly still within a slim shadow. Bormor had to guess if she was even breathing. He looked up at the dark skinned druid awestruck.
She was thin and tall as all the Night Elves were. She wore a single braid of long green hair that fell over her shoulder and brown leather robes. Small stained tattoos curved upward around her cheeks and eyes.
She was delicate. She was beautiful. But at the same time she was terrifying. Her face looked down on Bormor's little body as he stood there feeling naked, partly because he was, but mostly because she made his feet wobbly.
Bormor suddenly became shamed and suspicious. He couldn't speak, but questions filled his head. This woman, this druid saved me? Why me? Why her? He bowed his head. Just a few moments ago, he stood there before a race nearly as ancient as his own barking like a wild dog at his comrade. Foolish. He felt damn foolish.
He turned to Herrkin, and spoke in much quieter, reserved tone.
"Have you got a room yet, boy?"
"Why, you need a nap?
Bormor walked towards Herrkin and stopped just before him staring at the ground.
"I said, have you got a room?"
"Yes, third one up from the right."
"We'll talk more of our errand tomorrow."
Bormor limped towards the door.
"Well, are you off then?" Herrkin was shocked and embarrassed for his friend. "Just like that? Bormor, what are you…? She saved your life, mate, and you're not going to even thank her?!"
He stopped at the doorway and turned back to the Druid. Bormor was many things as a man. He was rude, short, stubborn; all things dwarvish, but he was never ungrateful. He looked again into her glowing eyes with humility, and he saw wisdom brought from the other side of the world and for the first time in his long life he felt as small as he stood. He bowed his head in thanks, turned, and left the room.
"Sorry for my friend, he isn't much for words."
"He is tired," spoke the druid watching Bormor leave.
"You've got a gift really. I can't believe you healed him so quickly... I've seen lesser wounds kill a man and you – I couldn't have done what you did."
"The magics of a Warlock are the deeds of the most unnatural. My magics are nature's, and she is highly skilled."
"Right. Odd, though, that a Warlock would have wounded him so. There was only one?"
"Yes, Forsaken and well trained in his art."
"Are you sure? Not, you know, more attacking him. Maybe from a distance and you didn't see them?"
"Do not doubt me, young paladin."
"Young!," Herrkin shouted. He blushed like a spring rose. "You flatter me, but no. Um, no ma'am. And it's not that I doubt you. It's just - Bormor, see, he can't be killed."
The druid starred down curiously at the Paladin. "There are none now of this world that are immortal by nature." Her words were cold and her tone bitter. "Therefore those who continue past their time, do so… unnaturally."
"Ha, well, right you are Madam Druid. Please, don't take my words literally. But Bormor is singularly the most battle hardened warrior I've ever seen. I mean it. Don't tell him I've said it of course, but seriously, and I hope you believe me, the dwarf can't die."
"That may be, but all of us have an end and your friend came dangerously close to his."
"Yeah – but – something is off; not right. Seriously, how difficult could it have been?" Herrkin said shrugging.
"Most capable are those who take energies from other worlds. I would not underestimate any wizard that wields power foreign to ours."
"I suppose."
"But less concerned I am with the Warlock's capabilities and more with his methods."
"What do you mean?"
The druid stayed silent for a moment and her thoughts well-kept behind her shinning eyes.
"I would like very much to speak with your friend when he feels well enough to do so."
Herrkin laughed.
"He's not much for conversation. I'm sure you saw that."
"All the same. I will be staying nearby."
The Druid moved fluidly walking towards the doorway. She had lowered her head to pass through.
"Right - Thank you again for helping. He ugh, isn't much for words but I'm sure he's most grateful for it."
"It was my pleasure and my duty."
"When should we expect you?"
"Mid-morning. See to it that you do not start your journey north before then."
"I will."
"Very well. Elune be with you."
"Wait, madam druid, forgive me. I am not well educated in the ways of the Kaldorei - But would it be too much to ask for your name?"
The Druid laughed and enjoyed his attention.
"My name is Cestella Nightwood. You may call me Ceste. Be safe, little paladin"