Notes1: I did the Vol'dun incursion on my blood elf hunter going on...almost a week ago, I think, which is the basis of inspiration for this particular story.
I have always wondered, quite confused at that, why people were so up in arms over the possibility of playable vulpera. I'm far from a furry (I just like to draw them, and all but one of my original fiction on the USB drives they're usually supporting characters to a majorly human cast), but...come on, why is the line being drawn at vulpera when it should've been done so at pandaren, worgen, or even tauren at the very earliest?
In my opinion, the inclusion of vulpera being targeted by Alliance makes sense, seeing as (A) Vol'dun is a Horde zone, (B) most vulpera NPCs Alliance encounters consist of pirates in southern Tiragarde Sound, and (C) the vulpera were paid to perform delivery services for the Horde in the interim between the Temple of Sethraliss and the incursion questlines. Given how aggressive certain sections of the Alliance have become following the Burning of Teldrassil (see: the worgen and the night elves), I wouldn't put it past them to go after the vulpera (who are, technically, neutral entities, unlike the Zandalari prior to their permanent emergence into the Horde post-Battle of Dazar'alor) for assisting the Horde (the Alliance's enemy) the same way they went after Zandalari exiles, which, again, are neutral entities that have had their ties cut from the Zandalari Empire due to their crimes. The Purge Squad (which was the former name of Alliance NPCs in the Assault on Vol'dun, although you can still see it on them live) is doing their job no differently than how Jaina, the Kirin Tor, and the Silver Covenant purged the Sunreavers - and by extension the Horde - in Dalaran: by removing them, the enemy, completely (even Genn himself says Vol'dun is a wasteland the Horde is not capitalizing on, which is ripe pickings for the Alliance and thus all the more reason to take the advantage).
There are more fires tonight, higher and burning brighter than they have the past couple days. Not a very smart idea, Kiro had told them—several times, in fact, but the sun was riding low then and when he finally saw that the Alliance wasn't intending to push deeper into the dunes for the rest of the day he stopped sparing glances at the western horizon and allowed the mages to spare a bit of their magic within the camp. It would be a few days before the transport from Dazar'alor arrived.
"Why not?" Nisha asks him, when he comes to sit by the fire. "We have reinforcements. Let's push right back. See how they like it!"
"Let's not push our luck now, we have enough problems going for us as it is," Meerah warns her, but it comes out more nervous and fear-laced than firm. Kiro doesn't blame her. There is blood, old and mud-brown, splashed across Nisha's blades, and on the snout of the sethrak bone helmet that sits in her lap. Except now there's a new addition to her ensemble that hadn't been there before, during the time the Speaker of the Horde and Vorrik helped push into the Skycallers' Spire and slay the Emperor Korthek: a necklace, made from very thin twine that drops all the down between the swell of her breasts, with pieces of gold button giving color to the pointed teeth and claws.
Kiro didn't ask what happened in the gulch earlier, when the fighting finally died down. He hopes Meerah didn't, either; it's hard to tell, judging by the way she's looking at her.
Nisha harrumphs and shrugs. "Let 'em try," she grumbles. She takes out a rag from a pouch hanging off her belt with one hand, pops open the cap of the waterskin with the other, and applies it to the rag. Kiro wants to grimace, but he bites the inside of his cheek instead, only watches long enough to see her begin to painstakingly scrub the blood off the blade.
Meerah does, and looks away. First at the fire. Then behind her, where Dolly and Dot are grazing at the hitching post. There are other campfires burning now, more than what would have been allowed on any other given day; and there are Horde, too, mulling about, drinking and eating, keeping a watchful eye on the dunes from all four corners of the hideaway. Blood elves with arrows knocked in their bows, eyes glowing dimly in the shadows of their hoods. Orcs and trolls and tauren—Mulgore and Highmountain—huddled around the fire in red and grey armor riddled with steel spikes or standing watch by the crates with goblins tinkering their crawler mines or patrolling the area from far away in their shredders.
Kiro's ears perk and twitch, snatching each and every vibration of sound in the air. Talking is one thing. This, however—the hammering and sizzling of steel being reforged on thermal anvils, the buzzing of saws being fine-tuned, the shifting of the sands into vague humanoid forms at the behest of negotiating shaman—all this is so….
Different, he wants to say. It's all too loud, and loudness meant drawing attention from unwanted eyes. The Faithless may be all but wiped from the face of the earth, but there are Alliance still unbound: despoilers, incinerators, vicars, voidcasters, on land and in the air with their goblin-like flying machines and their hardy, weathered gryphons that were surely, surely supplied from Kul Tiras. They had just as much technology and magic as the Horde if not more so. They probably know they are here, out in the open with only the canyon walls at their back to protect them. He's certain that, if they felt like it, they could tear open a portal and cross the vast swathes of sand and scrub with one step and come out swords drawn and magic ignited in the next.
But they don't come. Evening deepens to dusk, and dusk gives away to night.
The fires continue to burn.
Food is being passed around the campsite, instantly cooked by alchemical potions that have at one point or another decimated a good chunk of the krolusks and vultures off the west coast that rings in the Sanctuary of the Devoted (yet if there's any hint of too much akunda's bite or lighter fuel in the meat, Kiro can't tell). At one corner of the camp a pair of grunts, orc and troll, beat on a set of drums, murmuring incantations in their native tongue under their breath. Next to them, a lanky Zandalari mon rattles his fetish from its long beaded chain over a pot of blue-black fire, head bowed low, the gold rings on his large upturned tusks glinting light. Even from this angle, Kiro can see that it's carved in the facsimile of Ol' Bwonsamdi; he's been seeing those a lot lately, especially once word reached Vorrik that Mythrax had been slain and the aberration beneath Nazmir was purged before it could escape its prison. Perhaps he was over-analyzing things, as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary for a troll and his loa.
A breeze stirs from the west, caressing the fur underneath his clothes. Despite the warmth of the fire, Kiro shivers.
"Here, Kiro," Meerah says. She holds out a plate of fried meat and leafy greens for him to take, which he does with both paws and a murmured thanks.
Nisha nods her head at him. "You're quiet tonight. That's not like you."
Kiro shrugs, tearing off a piece of meat between his claws. "It's nothing," he says, pops it in his mouth, chews with his molars.
"Not with a face like that." Nisha sighs. "Relax. We're fine. So long as the Horde's here, those Alliance rats won't make it over the dunes out yonder."
"Oh, no. It's not that."
"What is it?" Meerah asks, concerned. "Nisha's right. Something's on your mind."
"It's nothing bad, if that's what you mean." Thoughts of Alliance retaliation dancing in the background of his mind notwithstanding. They really aren't going to make one last attempt tonight. Not for a while, if the Warchief has anything to say about it; there have been more Rastari soldiers coming in droves across the swamps than he's seen in his whole life, and this time it's not about delivering criminals into an exile where death awaits them. "It's just," he pauses to swallow, "something I've been thinking about as of late."
"And that would be…?" Nisha ventures.
Kiro sets the half-eaten meat (leg, thigh, breast? it's one big, shapeless mass) down on his plate and looks around. Still the same scene, and still the same people. The caravans are secreted away in the niches of the canyon walls—a precaution, in the worst case scenario the Alliance got bold and successfully managed to cross all of Vol'dun from the Shatterstone Harbor. Too many had been lost when the 7th Legion came over the hills, and their only means of self-defense from years of bartering and scavenging severely dwindled to whatever they pick up off from the bodies of those that did not escape in time.
The vulpera flag stands, however, stands out in the open, right in front of Jena's wagon on the outcropping of rock that sticks out like a hyena's fang in the midst of the sand-covered red and black rock. The red tails dangle from the uppermost points of the flag, a ritual custom performed on the deceased at their request. To give their friends and families good luck and show them the way to good fortune, even in death.
His gaze is slow, steady, studying the area as though seeing it for the first time, and it doesn't go unnoticed by Nisha and Meerah. When he speaks, his eyes linger on the red and black battle standard of the Horde proudly facing the wastelands right beside the flag of the Voldunai. "I was thinking...maybe we should join the Horde."
Meerah looks at him, stunned. Even Nisha has stopped eating, her reaction not as severe but no less understated. They stare, digesting his statement, let it run through their minds. It lasts all but a few seconds, but it feels eternal to Kiro. It feels as though he's dropped a goblin-manufactured bomb on them and they are survivors of the aftermath, cycling through the shock.
The two of them open their mouths to speak, and it's Nisha who beats Meerah to it first: quiet, calm, and collected, but still laced with a hint of disbelief: "You want to leave the dunes?" she asks.
"I'm not saying we should," Kiro replies.
"But that's what it sounds like. Whatever happened to 'the dunes have everything we need?'"
He grimaces, feeling like a kit again who's caught red-pawed with something he shouldn't have. "I've always said that, that's true. But the dunes weren't enough to keep some of us alive." A vulpera walks by, offering drinks and asking if anyone needs a refill. He waves the fellow over and accepts a mug from him, as do Nisha and Meerah. He puts his snout up to the rim and takes a sniff. Dark brew beer, the bartender said, pressed straight from a place called Booty Bay. Kiro takes a sip, runs his tongue over lips stinging faintly of citrus. "Money can't save us from Alliance artillery."
Nisha sniffs contemptuously. "Anything can be broken down if you have the mind for it."
"Sands, Nisha, I've heard the stories," Meerah speaks up, sipping bleakly from the mug from both paws. "You've heard of Drustvar, right? All the way west of the Sound? Some of the Voldunai were saying the Alliance has an Army of the Light filled with—oh, what was the word?-yes, draenei. Lightforged draenei, and they have these...these big things called warframes that are, like, ten times more powerful than the shredders here. Not just warframes, but barriers and cannons and all sorts of firepower at their disposal." She stares into the fire, and perhaps it's the way the light plays off them but Kiro has never seen a more haunted, worried expression on someone, anyone, until the Faithless attacks. It does not suit her; the sight sets his heart to chill. "Did you know they have a ship that can fly across the stars? The Alliance?"
"A ship that flies in the air?" Nisha scoffs. "Can't be any different than what the goblins have."
"It's true, though! I even asked the Honorbound that brought it up, and a couple of them told me they were present when the sword came down. They said it was called-"
"The Vindicaar?" Kiro posits.
"Yes! How'd you know?"
He smiles humorlessly. "You ought to know better than to ask that, Meerah. These ears can't help but catch everything."
"So I'm sure you've heard just what it's capable of. How strong it would be if they were to actually use it."
Kiro hums. He's heard of the war in the stars. Only bits and pieces, but enough for him to put the very basic threads together to form the narrative as simply as his understanding of the world would allow it. The Titans have walked Azeroth before, long before any one of them were even considered a germ of thought, and of the demonic forces that have assaulted it throughout the ages with each fiery, dynamic entrance. To no avail, of course, but they were a persistent lot, bound together by a singular goal. Sargeras would not be stopped until he got what he wanted.
But he was. Kiro can't imagine just how, but somehow the Vindicaar played a part in whatever became of the Dark Titan. And whatever that had consisted it, the red star in the sky is a result. "I'm sure it is strong, but I've yet to see it in action."
Nisha barks harsh, sudden laughter. "You're crazy if you think any of us wants to, Kiro!"
"She's got a point there," Meerah agrees. "Even if they're not using it, they're still recruiting people. Purifying them, all across Kul Tiras." She frowns. "Who's to say they won't try to purify us here, in Zandalar?"
"I don't think they'll get that far."
"No, but anything's possible," Nisha interjects. "You know that, too, don't you, Kiro? It's not like we want to fight their damn war. We were doing fine before the Speaker and the Zandalari came along."
"But without them, we would've been slaves on the market," says Meerah. "Worse, we might not even be alive right now. If anything, I'm grateful that we met them. Who knows what Korthek would've done to us?"
"Look: Korthek might have had the Alliance beat in trying to release an ancient monster from slumber, but that's about as different as it gets. We're good, honest people, you and I, and Kiro and everyone else, too. We're scavengers; people pay us to do the dirty work so they don't have to. Why should we have to be punished for performing services for a group they don't like?"
"That's why I think, if we're going to see this out to the very end, alive and more or less in one piece, it would probably be for the best if we take our chances and throw our lot in with the Horde," Kiro says, and this time he doesn't hesitate taking a long, aching pull from the beer. It'll kill him later, give his head and guts one helluva problem in the morning, but that's alright. There will be other days for him to regret his rash behavior. When he's finally done, he caps it off with a sigh and wipes his mouth with the back of a paw. "We can only do so much with what we have, and the war can turn bad at any given moment. I want to see if there's anyone I can talk to regarding long-term benefits and protection as compensation for all the help they've given us. Under their protection, we could afford to stand a lot more against their war machines as well as anything else that's in their arsenal."
"You could always ask the Warchief, or whoever's the next step down," says Meerah.
Nisha nods, and bends her low to tear a chunk of meat with her front teeth, spraying grease and juice across the plate. "Saw that tauren guy with the big antlers walking around a while ago. Could see if you can get him to pass the word up the chain. Maybe you'll get an answer back. I hear the Warchief expects nothing but loyalty to those who prove their worth."
"The Warchief," Kiro murmurs. Yes, the vulpera and the Devoted sethrak have done that, haven't they? They could not stop Mythrax from emerging out of Atul'Aman, but they managed to oust one of the Zanchuli as a traitor to the Golden Throne. Most of the others that moved against the King are gone, as well. All that remains, he recalls with a grim, crystal clarity, are the Alliance and their newfound allies in the Kul Tirans.
Surely Warchief Sylvanas will see they are more than just mere nomads. Surely this would all be enough.
Kiro nods. "Yes, I think I'll do just that. Anything that will protect us from what's to come, I'm more than willing to throw my lot in with."
"For the right price," Nisha says. "Nothing comes for free." She stares at the piece of meat between her claws, makes a face, and, before Kri can stop her, tosses it off to the right where the hyenas are lounging. They nip and growl at each other, but it doesn't last for long when one of them, the outline of a head and neck, stretches out and snatches it in its jaws.
Kiro frowns. "No, it doesn't." There's not much left on his plate. The greens are gone, but there's a small piece of meat left, growing cold and hard, and he's half the mind to throw it in the fire. Instead he sets it on his lap and gazes upon Meerah and Nisha meaningfully. "Are you two okay with this? I can't guarantee I'll be able to secure admittance into the Horde, much less acquire extended protection from these incursions while they last."
"I don't think anyone would blame you for bringing it up," says Meerah. She sips the last of the brew and puts the cup down next to her, eyes unfocused and heavy. "Gotta do what you think is best for us."
"Well if you'd ask me before, I'd say you'd be a fool to waste resources on a pointless war," Nisha tells him, swirling the beer around in her mug. "But after today? After what the Alliance did to our caravans, our supplies, our people? It's personal now, Kiro. No way in hell am I going to let those thugs forget that. Count me in." She throws the liquid into the flames and leans back, nonchalant, as they hiss and spit and crackle at her.
Kiro sighs and runs a paw through the tuft of fur between his ears. "Right then. I'll speak to Lasan first thing in the morning...and go from there." Sleep dawns on him then, sudden and swift. He shakes his head, not caring if it's because it's been a long day or the alcohol is already going through the process of knocking him flat out cold. If he's lucky, he'll wake up and realize all the troubles that have plagued the Voldunai since the Horde landed on the shores will have been just one big food-and-booze-fueled dream and they'll have the caravan packed and ready to go for another day of picking old ruins, hawking their wares, and pointing the latest influx of exiles south toward ablution and salvation.
Kiro holds up his dish and, with two claws, picks up what little is left of the meat slab, turning it over. It's cool to the touch, hard, and far too overcooked to be tender.
For a brief second, he considers throwing it to the fire.
He thinks better of it and eats it.