A/N: Welcome to Lux et Umbra, my newest warcraft story. This will be a long story, updated as frequently as I can. I do appreciate criticism, if done politely and properly. I always love to know what's right and wrong with my stories. This story may or may not contain romance, it is not a main point that will be covered in this story, not for awhile at least. Whoever, who knows what will happen in the future. Reviews are love, they make me write faster.
Summary: A human is found by the dragon queen, and taken as her son. A Night Elf raised by Orcs watches as her world crumbles around her, and a Worgen fights to save her home or find a new one. Beneath the earth, Deathwing frees himself from the bonds made by his brethren, and comes to destroy the world that imprisoned him. As the cataclysm strikes, these three adventurers are brought together, for good or evil, to shake Azeroth to it's very core. With the end of one threat, comes another.
The chilling winds of Dragonblight howled, picking up the peaceful snow from the ground and throwing it over hills and valleys. Every person in this desolate land was cuddled up by the closest fire, adventurer to innkeeper. Because of this, there were no people outside to fight the monsters, collect the ore or the herbs.
No one to see the lone figure stumbling through the snow.
The figure walked haphazardly, unable to keep moving in the straight line. The wind masked any other noises around him, and he tripped over a rock hidden by the snow, falling to his knees. One could tell that he was human, and guess that he was a warrior from the armor that clung to his pale, shaking frame. However, if someone was there to see him, they would have been focused on the wound covering his chest.
Unbleeding, the wound gaped open just inches under where the human's heart was beating. There was an eerie glow to the wound, a soft blue much like the runes that covered every inch of a death knight's skin. This was fitting, as the terrible wound had been inflicted by a death knight.
The human gasped for breath, snow masking his vision. He touched the wound with shaking fingers, and let out a sound somewhere because a cough and a moan. The glow shimmered slightly, seemingly fading before coming back even stronger.
"No." He coughed out, and did his best to stand. No human could have found it easy to stand in that storm though, and the human simply fell back down after trying. Grinding his teeth, he took a shallow breath before reaching forward, and slowly crawling up the hill he'd stumbled to a halt before.
Painstakingly slow, he dragged himself to the very top of the hill, vision blurring. The warrior had seen this happen before, seen his fellow troops become infected with the scourge plague by death knight weapons and spells. None of them had escaped their infectors though, none but him. Not, he thought, a bitter smile twisting his face, that it did me any good.
Laying there in the snow, the human looked out as far as he could. And as his vision blurred, and darkness began to claw at his conscious, the human warrior could have sworn that just as everything disappeared, a red flying figure appeared at the edge of his vision.
There was a jarring feeling, knocking the darkness back just long enough for the human to feel talons gripping his body. Then it came back, and he succumbed to the blackness.
Screams pierced the air all around her, and the Night Elf felt like the wind had been knocked out of her by some huge invisible fist. Many of the Horde members in the arena seats cheered, but the cries of sorrow and sobs where overwhelming any joy left there. In the arena, Cairne Bloodhoof stumbled to the ground, and the brown Orc, Garrosh, lifted his axe to lay on the final death blow. Yavimna had seen much death, but she closed her eyes to this one. The sound of blood spraying was undeniable though, as where the louder sobs. She could feel tears running down her own face, and after a moment of hesitation, opened her eyes to look down at what had become of the Tauren.
The body was still, and she swallowed roughly at the sight of it. Many were filtering out of the stands to go down and raise the body up, touch it and spill their tears over it. Yavimna followed them blindly, shoving past the revelers to followed those holding Cairne. Though she was never truly accepted, though raised by the Horde, those around her didn't notice the difference in their skin and ears today. Today they were brothers and sisters in grief, family of the deceased through bond, if not very distant blood.
She followed them out of the arena, but something held her back after then. Stepping out of the flow of mourners, Yavimna watched them pass by with the body raised above them. It seemed that Cairne would be safe, and the Night Elf felt better about heading back into the arena. She did so quietly, holding her quiver down with one hand to stop it from banging around and making noise. The difference in between Orc and Night Elven quivers were vast, she heard. Her proper people made for stealth, not bursting into the room and killing everyone on sight. Even so, those left wouldn't notice her noise over their cheers, so she released the quiver slowly, and moved a bit quicker to her former seat.
Down below her, Garrosh and Magatha were still standing. Yavimna's eyes rested on the Tauren woman, who seemed to be oblivious to her stare. Frowning, she turned her eyes to Garrosh, and kept them there. He seemed to be celebrating just fine with the others, thrusting his axe into the air and shouting battle cries. Sickness washed over her at the sight, and Yavimna started to move back. The Orc's eyes fell on her then, and both Hunter and Warrior paused, eyes locked. For a few seconds the sounds faded away, and there was nothing but the eyes of the man who had killed one of the most wise leaders Yavimna had ever heard of. Her throat thickened, making swallowing nearly impossible, and she wrenched her eyes away from his. They still seemed to be on her, burning her from the inside out as she hurried to exit the arena once and for all.
Gilneas had always protected them, sheltered the people inside that wall from everything that would seek to destroy them. Now though, the wall that had defended them was a threat, something that made escape nearly impossible. The boats were burned, or blocked in by Forsaken ships and gryphons would be shot down, even if the Gilneans had any. The one good thing about all of the cataclysmic events in the last seventy two hours was her new body. It burned with strength, with power that the former human had never known in her entire life.
Straightening up, the Worgen looked around at the path before her. She was hidden in the forest, waiting for a signal from the other Gilneans who had come with her. They were a small ragtag team, there to only to wipe out the forsaken that had crept up behind and taken over their only base point, a small town near the main city. The Worgens and Gilneans were spread out in a circle around the town, in pairs of twos ro threes mostly. The signal was a few minutes late, and impatience was bubbling up inside of the rouge.
Then, suddenly, a small flash of light from her right. The other rogue beside her looked over, and they nodded at each other briefly, before slipping into stealth and creeping forward. They were the first strike, the distractions for the hunters, mages, warriors and other classes to attack. Two guards sat at the front entrance, and the Worgen veered towards the one on the left. Slipping behind him, she sneered to herself, before raising her dagger and plunging it through his back. The forsaken fell without a sound, as did his partner. The other rouge was not there though, and she briefly lost sight of him until his breath tickled her neck.
"Are you ready, Moulyn?" He asked, breathing the words. She faintly nodded, and he slid out of stealth. The two rogues chuckled, before they roared, and sprinted straight into the town. All eyes fell to them, and bows were raised as their battle cry was repeated by the other Worgens.
Yes, this body was strong. it was clear, how she cut down the forsaken with ease. It was stronger though, when blood was slipped. Crushing the skull of an unfortunate woman, Moulyn raised her head and howled at the gleaming moon.