Void Land was not a natural world. Strictly speaking, it was not a world at
all, but merely a conglomerated field power and matter that had been slowly
pulled together over the eons from various corners of... well, not of the
world, for Void Land was outside the world. Of the nether, then. For that
is of course what Void Land was - the center of the Twisting Nether.
The Twisting Nether is one of two common realms of existence - reality and nether. (The Twisting Nether was naturally the latter of the two, hence its name, which was attached to it some time a go by some fuddled seer - probably an orc - who vaguely saw it as 'twisting'.) The nether is a vast expanse that exists between the myriad worlds, wherein reality occurs. The nether has no top, bottom, edges or middles, and it is the sort of place where one could wander for lifetimes and never reach an edge (because there aren't any) yet still cover its entire span in a week and a half's hike.
And Void Land was its center. (This is, of course, metaphorically speaking, since physically, it no more has a center than it has edges.)
Void Land was an anomaly in the nether, but that fact did not make it stand out. The nether is full of anomalies, and may in fact, have nothing else in it. What made Void Land stand out is that it was one of the very few places in the nether to be inhabited. This is not to say that the worlds that dotted the nether are not inhabited, for most of them are, at any one time, but the nether itself is rather sparse.
Void Land was not so sparse (hence the anomaly). Its population was even more intriguing. (Not the numbers, of course, the people - if they could be called that.)
Void Land was populated by demons. (Some mortals have taken this information to mean that Void Land is Hell. This is probably untrue. The existence of a Hell would mean the existence of a Heaven, and thus far there has been no evidence of one.)
On one particular day, one particular demon was steadily beating his wings as he soared above the parapets of Void Land's urban areas. Few demons actually used their wings for anything more than intimidation, and in the harsh atmosphere and harsher reality of a real world, it would likely be impossible, but Tichondrius had long ago put his own leathery extremities to use. Tichondrius was always about putting something to use. That was simply the way he worked. In this case, he could always teleport himself, but he found flying to be generally less taxing, even refreshing at times. So he flew.
He bucked and dived towards a purple-colored grove in one of the various World Parks that dotted the landscape - netherscape - and gently alighted on what would appear to be a dovecote. There were of course no doves, as no dove would ever survive in the nether. In fact, most of the elements in the World Parks were fabricated, from the purple plants to the wood of the dovecote, as nothing grew in the nether, and most things pillaged from a world would not survive.
At the far end of the grove, another creature stirred. This was Mannoroth, a great beast of a demon, supported by four tree-trunk legs and sporting a mammoth pair of arms that forever gripped an immense, double-edged blade of some metal substance. He looked vaguely as if someone had set out trying to make a centaur, and for budget reasons, had substituted an elephant for the horse and a crocodile for the man. Mannoroth's kin were officially called Pit Lords, in reference to the caves and chasms in which they once lived. Few actually called them this, for the Pit Lords viewed their ancestral home with pride, and found the term 'pit' to be demeaning.
Tichondrius doubted Mannoroth had noted his descent, for he had made no noise and Mannoroth was facing away from him. Tichondrius himself would have likely noted the subtle changes in the electricity of the air which announced another's arrival, but he didn't think the great Pit Lord one for subtlety.
Tichondrius dropped from the dovecote roof to the ground, intentionally making a noise as his talons scraped the dirt. Tichondrius, like the rest of his race, the nathrezim dreadlords, was skilled at stealth and could have crept all the way up the Pit Lord if he had wanted to. What he wanted today, however, was the large demon's attention, and the fabricated noise attained that for him. The Pit Lord spun around suddenly, whirling his bladed weapon in a wide arc in the space over Tichondrius' head. Had Tichondrius been a foot or so taller, he would no longer be with us, and the story would have ended rather quickly.
Tichondrius now stood directly in front of the mammoth Pit Lord. The nathrezim was greatly dwarfed next to Mannoroth's titanic figure; Tichondrius was seven feet at best, and his companion stood two or three stories. This, however, did not faze the smaller demon, who was used to dealing with being larger - and stupider - than himself. He simply stepped back (in case the big bloke wanted a second swing), and spoke.
"A bit touchy today, aren't we, Mannoroth?" Tichondrius waved his clawed hand as if to say 'down here'. The Pit Lord blinked at the tiny nathrezim in surprise. He had been expecting somewhat of a larger threat.
"Tichondriusss, the dreadlord," the great demon hissed. "I have heard of you."
"And I you, Great One," Tichondrius calmly intoned. "I know much about your... exploits on Draenor."
A low growl emanated from the Pit Lord's toothy maw. "And what exssactly do you know, dreadlord?" He spat this last word, as if it was some grave indictment. Tichondrius pretended not to notice.
"Actually, I'm afraid I know only the generalities - you, ah... empowered the orcs, set them against the Azerothiens, and they failed their task." This was a lie. Tichondrius' spies were everywhere; he knew the orcs' history and Mannoroth's involvement in it better than the backs of his own clawed hands, and had even been present (albeit in disguise) at several of the major battles. He knew of the Legion's recruitment of the orc warlock, Gul'dan; he knew of the horrifically unsuccessful 'Orc Wars' in Azeroth; and he knew of the final, catastrophic defeat of the orcs' last Warchief, Ner'zhul, just days ago on the orcish world of Draenor. Lastly, he knew the dark, coveted secret of the orcs' ferocity - that to create the perfect warrior race, Mannoroth had spilled his own burning blood into the power- hungry orcs' veins. Tichondrius was quite pleased in having found out this last little tidbit, for he had gone to great lengths to discover it.
Mannoroth was staring at him with what the dreadlord believed was disdain - although with a face like Mannoroth's, it could just as easily be nausea, or even joy. When a being was that ugly, it was just hard to tell.
"You know nothing," Mannoroth accused.
"Perhaps you might enlighten me, then." There was a pause.
"What would you like to know?"
This could go on for hours, Tichondrius knew. Though not brilliant conversationalists, Pit Lords were more than decent at being stubborn, and Tichondrius simply did not have the patience to run so many laps around this particular thorny bush. Also, although the big oaf Mannoroth didn't know it yet, neither of them had an overly large amount of time. Yes, he thought, it was time to cut straight to the point.
"I want to know how you plan to endear yourself to Our Lord Archimonde again now that your precious orcs have failed him." It was plain that the statement had caught the Pit Lord by surprise. Few in the Legion even knew that the war had come to Draenor, let alone that it had been lost. The general consensus among the troops was that the 'lackeys war' as they called it was still in full swing in Azeroth, and that their own invasion would be ordered any time now. Tichondrius, however, had not gotten to his place in life without learning how to know what was going on.
Mannoroth had recovered and was asking many questions at once, obviously trying to regain the information advantage having suddenly realized he never quite had it in the first place.
"What do you mean? How do you know about that? How isss it any of your busssinesss? What do you want from me?"
"Calm down, Mannoroth, my friend," the crafty nathrezim said. "We don't want to attract attention, do we?" At this, the larger being looked hastily around; he was unaware that Tichondrius had earlier had the area cleared of any minor demons who might have overheard.
"What do you want?" the Pit Lord tried to whisper. It came out instead as a barely-intelligible wheeze.
"Why, only to serve you, of course." Tichondrius knew he had that elder demon hooked. The fat demon would do whatever Tichondrius asked to keep his defeat quiet. As for protecting the Pit Lord from the wrath of the Legion's commander, Archimonde, Tichondrius doubted if Archimonde would truly act out against Mannoroth. The dreadlord didn't doubt that Archimonde was powerful enough to destroy Mannoroth in battle, but the combat would leave him a drained and easy target for a would-be upstart. There would be scapegoats when news of the events on Draenor inevitably escaped, but whether the great beast knew it or not, Mannoroth was not in danger.
"I was thinking about what chaos would unfold in the Legion's ranks when... ah, if news of the orcs' defeat filtered down. I was thinking, somebody ought to get a sort of armed force together to maintain Our Lord Archimonde's control of what could become a volatile situation. I'm surprised Our Lord hasn't thought of it himself." Actually, Tichondrius didn't doubt Archimonde already had a similar thing in mind. Still, it would look decent enough coming from a pair of middle-class demonic subjects.
"Why don't you sssuggessst it to him then," the Pit Lord snapped impatiently. Obviously he though Tichondrius was looking for a demonic army to lead in rebellion, and Mannoroth wanted no part. While the idea was intriguing, Tichondrius was not enough of a fool to try it.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm only a lowly dreadlord, as you've so eloquently pointed out. I very much doubt a being of my miniscule rank could hope to win an audience with His Greatness. Now, you, on the other hand..."
Mannoroth was wearing an expression of extreme discomfort. He obviously disliked having to decide between letting his 'secret' slip and attaching his name to a possible rebellion, either of which could spell the end of his career - or his life. He shifted slightly, as Tichondrius imagined him racking his tiny brain for a third option.
"Now, now, my dear Mannoroth, don't look so distraught. I'm not asking you for a fortune in gold, am I? Am I? All I'm asking is that you get me an audience with Our Lord Archimonde and help me pitch the idea." Mannoroth shook his scaly mane. He obviously thought the dreadlord intended insurrection. "Listen, I'm not some upstart looking for control of the Legion; I'm a simple, low-level demon who wants to advance his career. Just introduce me as your, ah... assistant, and let me to the talking. It'll be over before you know it."
The Pit Lord tilted back and forth as he struggled to decide. Tichondrius smiled slightly, imperceptibly. He knew Mannoroth would bite. In all fairness, it probably appeared a lesser risk than falling into Archimonde's disfavor. Tichondrius would get his audience, and things would begin to move. All it would take was time...
***
The Twisting Nether is one of two common realms of existence - reality and nether. (The Twisting Nether was naturally the latter of the two, hence its name, which was attached to it some time a go by some fuddled seer - probably an orc - who vaguely saw it as 'twisting'.) The nether is a vast expanse that exists between the myriad worlds, wherein reality occurs. The nether has no top, bottom, edges or middles, and it is the sort of place where one could wander for lifetimes and never reach an edge (because there aren't any) yet still cover its entire span in a week and a half's hike.
And Void Land was its center. (This is, of course, metaphorically speaking, since physically, it no more has a center than it has edges.)
Void Land was an anomaly in the nether, but that fact did not make it stand out. The nether is full of anomalies, and may in fact, have nothing else in it. What made Void Land stand out is that it was one of the very few places in the nether to be inhabited. This is not to say that the worlds that dotted the nether are not inhabited, for most of them are, at any one time, but the nether itself is rather sparse.
Void Land was not so sparse (hence the anomaly). Its population was even more intriguing. (Not the numbers, of course, the people - if they could be called that.)
Void Land was populated by demons. (Some mortals have taken this information to mean that Void Land is Hell. This is probably untrue. The existence of a Hell would mean the existence of a Heaven, and thus far there has been no evidence of one.)
On one particular day, one particular demon was steadily beating his wings as he soared above the parapets of Void Land's urban areas. Few demons actually used their wings for anything more than intimidation, and in the harsh atmosphere and harsher reality of a real world, it would likely be impossible, but Tichondrius had long ago put his own leathery extremities to use. Tichondrius was always about putting something to use. That was simply the way he worked. In this case, he could always teleport himself, but he found flying to be generally less taxing, even refreshing at times. So he flew.
He bucked and dived towards a purple-colored grove in one of the various World Parks that dotted the landscape - netherscape - and gently alighted on what would appear to be a dovecote. There were of course no doves, as no dove would ever survive in the nether. In fact, most of the elements in the World Parks were fabricated, from the purple plants to the wood of the dovecote, as nothing grew in the nether, and most things pillaged from a world would not survive.
At the far end of the grove, another creature stirred. This was Mannoroth, a great beast of a demon, supported by four tree-trunk legs and sporting a mammoth pair of arms that forever gripped an immense, double-edged blade of some metal substance. He looked vaguely as if someone had set out trying to make a centaur, and for budget reasons, had substituted an elephant for the horse and a crocodile for the man. Mannoroth's kin were officially called Pit Lords, in reference to the caves and chasms in which they once lived. Few actually called them this, for the Pit Lords viewed their ancestral home with pride, and found the term 'pit' to be demeaning.
Tichondrius doubted Mannoroth had noted his descent, for he had made no noise and Mannoroth was facing away from him. Tichondrius himself would have likely noted the subtle changes in the electricity of the air which announced another's arrival, but he didn't think the great Pit Lord one for subtlety.
Tichondrius dropped from the dovecote roof to the ground, intentionally making a noise as his talons scraped the dirt. Tichondrius, like the rest of his race, the nathrezim dreadlords, was skilled at stealth and could have crept all the way up the Pit Lord if he had wanted to. What he wanted today, however, was the large demon's attention, and the fabricated noise attained that for him. The Pit Lord spun around suddenly, whirling his bladed weapon in a wide arc in the space over Tichondrius' head. Had Tichondrius been a foot or so taller, he would no longer be with us, and the story would have ended rather quickly.
Tichondrius now stood directly in front of the mammoth Pit Lord. The nathrezim was greatly dwarfed next to Mannoroth's titanic figure; Tichondrius was seven feet at best, and his companion stood two or three stories. This, however, did not faze the smaller demon, who was used to dealing with being larger - and stupider - than himself. He simply stepped back (in case the big bloke wanted a second swing), and spoke.
"A bit touchy today, aren't we, Mannoroth?" Tichondrius waved his clawed hand as if to say 'down here'. The Pit Lord blinked at the tiny nathrezim in surprise. He had been expecting somewhat of a larger threat.
"Tichondriusss, the dreadlord," the great demon hissed. "I have heard of you."
"And I you, Great One," Tichondrius calmly intoned. "I know much about your... exploits on Draenor."
A low growl emanated from the Pit Lord's toothy maw. "And what exssactly do you know, dreadlord?" He spat this last word, as if it was some grave indictment. Tichondrius pretended not to notice.
"Actually, I'm afraid I know only the generalities - you, ah... empowered the orcs, set them against the Azerothiens, and they failed their task." This was a lie. Tichondrius' spies were everywhere; he knew the orcs' history and Mannoroth's involvement in it better than the backs of his own clawed hands, and had even been present (albeit in disguise) at several of the major battles. He knew of the Legion's recruitment of the orc warlock, Gul'dan; he knew of the horrifically unsuccessful 'Orc Wars' in Azeroth; and he knew of the final, catastrophic defeat of the orcs' last Warchief, Ner'zhul, just days ago on the orcish world of Draenor. Lastly, he knew the dark, coveted secret of the orcs' ferocity - that to create the perfect warrior race, Mannoroth had spilled his own burning blood into the power- hungry orcs' veins. Tichondrius was quite pleased in having found out this last little tidbit, for he had gone to great lengths to discover it.
Mannoroth was staring at him with what the dreadlord believed was disdain - although with a face like Mannoroth's, it could just as easily be nausea, or even joy. When a being was that ugly, it was just hard to tell.
"You know nothing," Mannoroth accused.
"Perhaps you might enlighten me, then." There was a pause.
"What would you like to know?"
This could go on for hours, Tichondrius knew. Though not brilliant conversationalists, Pit Lords were more than decent at being stubborn, and Tichondrius simply did not have the patience to run so many laps around this particular thorny bush. Also, although the big oaf Mannoroth didn't know it yet, neither of them had an overly large amount of time. Yes, he thought, it was time to cut straight to the point.
"I want to know how you plan to endear yourself to Our Lord Archimonde again now that your precious orcs have failed him." It was plain that the statement had caught the Pit Lord by surprise. Few in the Legion even knew that the war had come to Draenor, let alone that it had been lost. The general consensus among the troops was that the 'lackeys war' as they called it was still in full swing in Azeroth, and that their own invasion would be ordered any time now. Tichondrius, however, had not gotten to his place in life without learning how to know what was going on.
Mannoroth had recovered and was asking many questions at once, obviously trying to regain the information advantage having suddenly realized he never quite had it in the first place.
"What do you mean? How do you know about that? How isss it any of your busssinesss? What do you want from me?"
"Calm down, Mannoroth, my friend," the crafty nathrezim said. "We don't want to attract attention, do we?" At this, the larger being looked hastily around; he was unaware that Tichondrius had earlier had the area cleared of any minor demons who might have overheard.
"What do you want?" the Pit Lord tried to whisper. It came out instead as a barely-intelligible wheeze.
"Why, only to serve you, of course." Tichondrius knew he had that elder demon hooked. The fat demon would do whatever Tichondrius asked to keep his defeat quiet. As for protecting the Pit Lord from the wrath of the Legion's commander, Archimonde, Tichondrius doubted if Archimonde would truly act out against Mannoroth. The dreadlord didn't doubt that Archimonde was powerful enough to destroy Mannoroth in battle, but the combat would leave him a drained and easy target for a would-be upstart. There would be scapegoats when news of the events on Draenor inevitably escaped, but whether the great beast knew it or not, Mannoroth was not in danger.
"I was thinking about what chaos would unfold in the Legion's ranks when... ah, if news of the orcs' defeat filtered down. I was thinking, somebody ought to get a sort of armed force together to maintain Our Lord Archimonde's control of what could become a volatile situation. I'm surprised Our Lord hasn't thought of it himself." Actually, Tichondrius didn't doubt Archimonde already had a similar thing in mind. Still, it would look decent enough coming from a pair of middle-class demonic subjects.
"Why don't you sssuggessst it to him then," the Pit Lord snapped impatiently. Obviously he though Tichondrius was looking for a demonic army to lead in rebellion, and Mannoroth wanted no part. While the idea was intriguing, Tichondrius was not enough of a fool to try it.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm only a lowly dreadlord, as you've so eloquently pointed out. I very much doubt a being of my miniscule rank could hope to win an audience with His Greatness. Now, you, on the other hand..."
Mannoroth was wearing an expression of extreme discomfort. He obviously disliked having to decide between letting his 'secret' slip and attaching his name to a possible rebellion, either of which could spell the end of his career - or his life. He shifted slightly, as Tichondrius imagined him racking his tiny brain for a third option.
"Now, now, my dear Mannoroth, don't look so distraught. I'm not asking you for a fortune in gold, am I? Am I? All I'm asking is that you get me an audience with Our Lord Archimonde and help me pitch the idea." Mannoroth shook his scaly mane. He obviously thought the dreadlord intended insurrection. "Listen, I'm not some upstart looking for control of the Legion; I'm a simple, low-level demon who wants to advance his career. Just introduce me as your, ah... assistant, and let me to the talking. It'll be over before you know it."
The Pit Lord tilted back and forth as he struggled to decide. Tichondrius smiled slightly, imperceptibly. He knew Mannoroth would bite. In all fairness, it probably appeared a lesser risk than falling into Archimonde's disfavor. Tichondrius would get his audience, and things would begin to move. All it would take was time...
***