To Visit the Den
Green, so much green. But not lush greenery, quite the opposite. Sickly, stomach churning green of fel magic. It had long since seeped into every single fiber of the valley, tainting every inch of the air the water and soil. The only things that dared exist here were the demons, the vile spawn of the Twisting Nether that brought all this disgusting transformation.
An elf man, sitting high a top an ancient, decrepit temple lifts his head and looks out over the valley. Well, he seems to look out over it. From behind a thread bare black bandage plumes of glowing green flame creep out from his eyes. He's had these 'eyes' for millennia, a gift from the master of all these demons below him. All he can see are the loose, glowing forms of the fel spawn and their magic. But he doesn't need to use much imagination to see how terrible this place must look to the recent invaders.
Forces from Shattarath, from Azeroth itself are gathering in small fortresses and will be at his gates soon. This he knows, but right now doesn't care too much. He lets his mind float free of the present and retreat into a distant past. He remembers running in vibrant green forests, his feet swift and silent over the leaves and moss. The weight of his cloven hooves fades away. His great wings twitch a bit before becoming still as stone, as if he were shrugging them off. He lowers his head so he can no longer feel the weight of the giant horns protruding from his forehead.
He remembers days that few others outside his birth race do, days when he spent countless hours running about the endless forests with his twin and his love. Without thinking he reaches into his belt and pulls out a fragile, slivery flower picked from a plant that went extinct after the Sundering. In his mind mutters a word he dare not say out loud.
Tyrande
Instantly a whirlwind of images flashes before his mind's eye. He makes them come to rest on her face alone. He breathes the tiniest sigh; even thoughts of her have long since stopped being a comfort. A moan breaks through his long and still finely attuned ears. Not a moan of pain, but a call of pleasure from one of the temple concubines. With a great harrumph he tucks the flower away again and lifts his head. Of all the things that could have pulled him form his reverie, it had to be that.
The woman moans again, louder now. He knashes his teeth as a name floats up on her voice.
"Oh, Veras."
If his horns didn't block his way he might have started banging his head on a stone by now. The male blood elves Kael had given him for his Illidari council just had to have that private brothel, and they just had to put it on an outdoor terrace right within earshot of him. And that demoness, that Shivarri, she seemed to do everything in her power to encourage his male subordinates to have at these human, elven, and demon women.
A louder cry from the concubine and a very unflattering grunt from Veras signaled the end of their encounter, finally. Those fine, night elf ears continued to serve him terribly as they picked up the rustle of Veras redressing, the giggle of the woman he had just stated himself on, and the banter between him and Zerevor, who was about to have a go at that same girl.
An audible growl escaped from Illidan. Hearing the sounds of love making brought back memories he desperately wanted to be rid of. Memories of seeing the woman he loved better than any other in the arms of his own twin brother. It also conjured images of what that brother of his must have certainly done to her not long after. Illidan smacked the side of his fist into a nearby stone. Not particularly hard, more as an attempt to banish these horrible images. More giggling and a disgusting sucking sound reached his all too sensitive ears.
"Errgh!"
He clenched his teeth and covered his ear holes. He reared up and stomped his great hoof on the stone floor. It sent a warning tremor rippling through the façade of the temple. A few of the undistracted demoness' below felt it, and turned their heads up towards the top tier, knowing their unstable master would soon reach his breaking point. A squeal and gasp from another woman followed by a delighted call of, "Gathios!" was that breaking point.
Illidan unfurled his wings, gave one great pump to lift the whole of his weight into the air, then left himself drop down, creating a thud and vibration that could be felt not only by every single inhabitant of the Black Temple, but by many creatures with their feet on the ground all throughout the valley.
"ENOUGH!" he roared.
To anyone else that single word may have been ambiguous but every single being in the temple knew exactly whom it was directed at. In no time Illidan heard the gathering of clothes and the scrambling of bare feet that signaled the end of this latest orgy. He stood there breathing heavily for a few moments, then heaved a long exhale and settled back down on one knee again.
He was at peace, untroubled by any thought for but a few minutes, then his torturous mind started up again. He tried to distract himself by planning for the inevitable attack on his citadel. He was a brilliant man no doubt, and should have been able to handle the intrusions into Shadow Moon with ease if not for this half of his mind that could not stop thinking about two things, two defeats, one on the field of battle, and one in matters of the heart.
Tyrande
He was a brilliant man. And back then he was stunningly handsome too. Both he and his brother had well built, toned bodies, with the same shade of light purple, glistening skin. They had the similar facial structure to fine high lines and well-defined jaws, and exotic almond shaped eyes. But Illidan had amber colored eyes in contrast to his brother's typical silvery ones, and at the time many believed it meant that Illidan had the greatest of destinies before him. He had been quite proud of his hair too, long, silken, gleaming strands of onyx black hair. With his sultry amber eyes, his well-formed face, his luxurious locks, his graceful gait, his incredible talent for magic, and of course his then dazzling smile, he had made nearly every Highborne maiden and many a priestess swoon.
He had been brilliant, handsome, talented, and powerful. If anyone could have given her a perfect future, it would have been him. So why his brother? Illidan clenched his teeth yet again. He had been all those things, but now he was only powerful. He was still a genius, but a genius warped by madness. His looks, hah, long since gone. His amber eyes were gouged out thousands of years ago to make way for these green balls of flame, so disgusting that Azshara and her handmaidens, who were used to seeing Xavier and his freakish orbs, recoiled from him.
Then his years as a demon hunter changed him further, finally his journey to Outland brought him to the skull of Gul'dan, which brought him great power, but also a pair of half rotted demon wings, a set of horns that weighed down his skull, and worst of all these great, clumsy, clomping, cloven hooves. His skin had turned sickly and pale in hue, his chest, with muscles and veins bulging long since adorning with fel green runes.
He wasn't someone she'd want anymore. He knew that, one fact he didn't try to deny. But why didn't she want him before all that? She called him a braggart, said he was playing with things he could not control, doubted him constantly. After certain events she hated him, was disgusted with him, was probably happy to never see him again. And yet she haunted his every waking moment. It wasn't at all fair for her to have this sway over him for so very, very long and for him to mean less than nothing to her.
His mind flitted back to the admiring gazes he used to catch daily. The whispered compliments, the constant innuendos, the occasional female daring enough to cope a feel. Since the removal of his eyes, the only looks he got were ones of fear. He heard a giggle, and for a second wasn't sure whether it was from the concubines on the terrace or the maidens in his memory. A whispered phrase in ancient Night Elven answered his question.
"I wonder what he does every night, beneath Elune's pale light."
"It's a wonder she herself doesn't descend to steal him away from us."
"If she ever does descend, mark my words, it'll be her daughter Azshara and that man she takes back with her."
A half smile played at his lips. It tugged the corner of his mouth, he gave into it and left his face take on the proud, confident expression he wore then. Back then, just for a laugh, he would wait until a group a of younger girls started staring at him and whispering things they thought he couldn't hear. They had to be young, not yet sure of themselves, this just didn't work on elder ones. He'd wait until they were more absorbed in their gossiping, then amble up, his eyes locking onto what had to be the shyest one. He'd get within inches of her; give all of them a chiding but playful look, taking in their frightening, blushing faces. He'd say something about not chattering so loud, then lower his face to the shy one's and let the tip of his nose touch hers. Once she was sufficiently red in the face he would turn away, grinning from ear to ear.
He smile grew a small fraction on recalling his brother's one disastrous attempt at this. The one time he made a raging ass out of himself, not only in front those young maids and his brother, but also Tyrande as well. For a moment Illidan had worried that she would suffocate from laughter.
Suddenly he felt bored. That didn't happen often. The memories of all that insane fun had quickly sucked away his minimal interest in his surroundings. A sigh from one of the concubines below told him that he wasn't the only one wishing they were somewhere else. Or in her case doing something else. It never ceased to perplex him how these women could only be happy when either tormenting men or pleasuring them.
He heard the jingle of their adornments, the rustle and swoosh of their scant silk outfits, he could hear them playing with their hair, falling back on pillows, even rubbing ointments over their skin. Any other man would have been quite thrilled to hear these sounds. He felt very little aside from a bemused curiosity. The actions of women creatures over the centuries he had lived never seemed to change. Then again, males hadn't evolved much either. At least females endeavored to care for themselves, he had long told himself. Males seemed to care for that less and less as ages passed.
Still the sounds of the little seraglio drifted to his ears. And still the memories of the women the ancient cities of the moon drifted by his eyes. Between these two times he began to wonder when was the last time he touched a woman. Was it Tyrande? Had to have been. Though the moment that stuck out most was the time he was visiting another Highborne mage. She invited him into her chambers as she was preparing for some ceremony. He remembered lightly touching her shoulder, exposed by her low cut dress.
Illidan leaned over the edge of the terrace slightly, as if being gently pulled by some magical line. He sniffed the air, and coughed a little. Thick perfume wafted up from the succubi, and would have made his eyes water if they still could. The demoness' naturally smelled of dank, sulphurous fumes and tried to cover this with heavy cinnamon musks. Not the first time a woman over used perfume. The elves and humans were smarter about it. They wore lightly scented oils, and used their lilac perfumes sparingly.
Illidan's wings moved, unfurling a bit, catching some of the wind despite their gaping holes. He sniffs again, this time mentally filtering out the cinnamon fumes and concentrating on the more pleasing scents. He hears the chime of a concubine's foot charms, as she wanders away from the majority towards the end of the terrace. Illidan's fel eyes focus in her, showing him the magic running through her blood outlining her naked form. The magic alone tells him she is one of the blood elves, a distant descendent of the mages he trained with all those years ago.
There's no conscious decision to take off, his wings simply open and pump him into the air. As he becomes aware of flight, he glides down to the seraglio terrace and quietly perches on the outer wall, not an easy thing to do. He lands quietly enough and far away enough that none of the concubines notice his arrival. His focus remains in the elf woman who wandered away from the rest, lazily leaning on the terrace wall staring out at the vile scenery.
Illidan can just make out her expression through the lines made by the magic in her veins. No doubt she's wishing to be back in Quel-Thalas, or if not there, some other more charming area.
As she turns her eyes away from the sickening view she finally spots him, the Lord of Outland; perched on the wall not ten feet away, staring straight at her with those unseeing eyes. She gasps, and thus draws the attention of all the nearby courtesans, whose stunned reactions soon alert the whole harem to his presence. Shock and surprise quickly give way to interest and ambition. Many of the concubines begin to move in on him, all seeking to gain the favor of their ruling lord.
A curl from his lip and a guttural growl tell them this is not their lucky day. They carefully take some steps back, giving him plenty of room. He rears up and readies his wings for flight again.
"Come; Massssster. Sssssurely you did not come here at lassst only to teasssse usss?"
The Shivaraa, Mother Shahraz; the one who dominates the temple seraglio. She had been trying to tempt Illidan into coming here since her own arrival. Until now he had not dignified her with so much as a glance. He turned his back to her and spread his wings.
"Teasing was not my intention. I happened to land here in my reverie. Do not think you hold any favor with me."
"I find it sssstrange, that you sssshould land here while lossst in your thoughtsss. What exactly were you thinking ssso very hard about, Masssster?"
The concubine's faces twisted with devious and triumphant smiles. Illidan wasted not a second in retort, he couldn't afford to.
"Nothing to which you are privy."
His wings caught a new gust of wind and he was lifted back to his place on the top terrace, without so much as a glance back at the women. Many of them turned away and retired to their plump pillows again, but the blood elf woman who had drawn him down stayed transfixed. There was a blot of silver floating down towards her on the wind. She had seen it flutter un-noticed from his belt has he flew away.
She snatched it form the air and examined it, some rare flower, dry and fragile with age. She remembered briefly some lessons in children's school about the Sundering, and about some of the important plants and animals that went extinct. This she could swear was a bloom from a plant known as Elune's Heart. It had only grown in the forests around the banks of the Well of Eternity.
This blood elf was only 100 years old, and not even her great great great grandparents would been able to say they once saw these flowers blooming. This one in her hand might be the only one still left in existence. Thought she knew very little of her lord's past, she surmised that that the only reason he would keep this so close for so long was that it connected him to someone. Someone whose memory was so near and dear to him that he wouldn't even partake in the guiltless pleasures offered to him daily, merely as an asset of his status.
She sat down on the hard stone floor, and began summoning the inherent arcane talent of all blood and high elves. With a few small words she sent the bloom through a portal to the top of the temple. Illidan sensed the magic instantly and his fel eyes snapped to the spot where the tiny portal opened up.
He was stunned when he heard sound of the dry petals falling to the floor. He reached for the spot where the flower usually rested, and found it empty. Quickly he snatched the bloom from the floor and cradled it in his massive, clawed hand. It smelled ever so faintly of rare balm, a scent it had picked up from the elf whom had sent it to him. Again he was stunned.
A concubine has found it, realized it was his, realized how important it was, and instead of blackmailing him, or trying to force him to show her favor to get it back, had simply ported it back to him with thought or care of reward.
His shock then faded. From the succubi he would have gotten that reaction no doubt. But the elves and humans had memories and experiences that would compel them to act in such a way. To act for simple purpose of doing good. Good, evil, traits present in all mortals. The duality that few saw and even fewer acknowledged.
Again he wore the faintest of smiles, and held the bloom to his face. Its natural scent had long since vanished, but he remembered how the forest used to choke on their thick sweet smell at night. He tucked his memento away again, more carefully this time, and looked out over the seraglio. He quickly identified the one who had sent him the flower, the notable drop in her magic stores was a dead give away. He watched has she feigned fatigue, and excused herself to one of the more private rooms to rest.
He opened his wings once again and rose on the winds, this time climbing higher and circling about the opposite side of the temple, then swooping low and approaching the window of the private room from a steep angle. A roundabout way to avoid being noticed by Shahraz and her minions. He pumped his wings to hover at the sill and placed his awkward hooves on it, trying to find purchase on the smooth stone, oh, how he missed having toes sometimes.
Finally he found some balance and could stop flapping his wings like some partridge. Unfortunately he found his horns were too wide for this window. He growled softly and twisted his body, putting one hoofed leg down on the floor, then twisting more and scrunching up his wings to get the rest of him in. Now he was standing the room with his head hanging out the window. He turned his head trying to get his horns to fit through the widest point. They did, only just. He was beginning to regret not just teleporting in here and risk the demons sensing it.
Finally he had his head in and turned around to see the elf woman with her head buried in pillows. He wasn't sure if she was aware of the humiliating way in which he entered, but wasn't to keen to find out. He tightened up his wings and kneeled down again, trying to keep his face gentle. He very softly touched her leg. She lifted her head form the pillows, her eyes squeezed shut and her ears flopped over. She looked like a cat woken from its afternoon nap far too early.
He brought his finger to his cracked lips, motioning for her to stay quiet. She nodded, and he reached for the hiding place in his wide belt. He lifted the flower, held it up a little and smiled to her, mouthing the Thalassian words for
"Thank you."
She smiled slightly and bowed her head. He then mouthed,
"Why?"
Her smile dropped away and she turned her eyes to the floor, fiddling with a locket around her neck. That was all the answer he needed. She continued playing with her own memento, now lost in a similar sea of thought that had engulfed him. He examined the locket through her fingers.
Tiny pulses of magic showed him the distinctly high elven design. He surmised that who ever she was thinking of had perished in the Scourge invasion. Like so many of her kind she had left the wasted land she once called home, hoping to find greener pastures here on Draenor. This could not have been the kind of green she had been dreaming of.
He opened his mouth and started to whisper a few words of Thalassian but he felt her fingers come to his lips, silencing him. Her expression told him that she wanted nothing more to do with this, that this had awakened too many painful memories. A sardonic smile came over his face. For this moment they were almost too similar for his liking.
He bowed his head and teleported back to his place on the top most tier. The demons had sensed that and flocked to the room where the elf lay. He could hear their annoyed voices as they prodded her 'awake' and grilled her. She firmly denied knowing anything.
A small sigh escaped Illidan as his lifted his head to the vile, twisted valley again. He could smell the fumes of weapon forging off in the distance, and could just see the blue bursts of spells being practiced. Heroes were coming to end him. He had crushed many heroes like them for centuries, but now, just for a spilt second, a shadow of doubt stirred. He could almost feel the chill of death pressing down on him. It reminded him of the death knight he fought in Northrend.
His fury swelled again and he slowly stood, unfurling his wings and drawing his twin blades. They were coming for him, and he was more then prepared for them. Despite his anger and his sudden lust for battle, another fractured part of his mind mused for a moment on the peace one last defeat might bring.