A/N: I love World of Warcraft, and (although I've never played it) I love Final Fantasy 13. So I wrote this story...initially as a really long one-chapter. Then it got bigger than I intended, some of the transitions looked awkward in just that one document, and so I split it up. There are three chapters of this done so far, and, hopefully, it'll be no longer than five chapters at most.

Dedicated to my good friend and fellow WoW player, "Mr. Wil". You know who you are.

1.
No More Warlords

Her hair was a bright shade of pink that was seen more on a gnome than a human, and her clothing was some of the most garish Armi had ever seen, but for some reason the young woman always stayed out of sight and so far removed from the mind that half the time she had forgotten she was even there.

But she knew how to fight, how to hold her own, and there were instances when the opposition would fall wordlessly to the ground, the only sound escaping their lips as the life fled from their eyes a sigh or a mangled gasp. Then she would be on the next pack of gun-toting goblins and axe-wielding orcs, darting around like a night elf melting into the shadows. If not for the peculiar sword she used, Armi would've mistaken her for a rogue, and rogues reminded her of Wrathion.

She didn't look intimidating, nor did she look the type to heroically leap in, cave the floor beneath her feet into spider web cracks, and cleave everything in two like a whirlwind. That weapon didn't look very big or heavy, either. She was there and, at the same time, not there, an ephemeral presence that did not belong.

Armi scanned the wide, spacious chamber. Where did she go? She was just here a few minutes ago, when the group consisting of Alliance and Horde adventurers ventured down the stairs and witnessed the fight between Thrall—no, not Thrall, he went by the name Go'el now (because didn't he say once that he didn't want to be called 'slave'? Armi thought he mentioned something of that vein after his wedding in Hyjal)—and Garrosh, their weapons clashing and sending orange-red sparks flying. Mace and axe. Doomhammer and Gorehowl—or rather, a facsimile of Gorehowl, with bluish-purple growth on the head and wandering yellow eyes that reminded her uncomfortably of Cho'gall—and the power of chaos won out against the purity of the elements made twisted by the cruelty of Dark Shamanism.

With how fast that lady moved, she could've struck Garrosh down from behind while he was occupied. Or destroy that creepy heart that was hanging over their heads, pulsing and oozing smoke. Armi had seen her toss an arsenal of magic that would've caught the attention of the Kirin Tor in a less combative time, and the impacts of some of those spells were powerful and pretty damn explosive.

But nothing of the sort happened, and she was nowhere to be found.

Maybe it wouldn't be enough. Or maybe she didn't think it would be a good idea to get in between them. But it was a good thing she didn't do anything, because once Thrall had been disposed of Garrosh went on the offensive, calling forth his Warbringers to delay the adventurers and his Farseer wolf riders to mend their wounds while he harnessed the power of Y'Shaarj itself to overcome them.

Now with the Heart of the Old God a congealing puddle on the floor, Garrosh was lying prostrate before the former Warchief, snarling and just as angry (if not more so) as he was before the arrival of the Alliance and the Horde rebels.

Well, if she's waiting for him to be on his last legs, now's her chance.

"Can't find her, either?" A green-eyed high elf approached her, followed by a muscular quilen chiseled from obsidian and garnet. He regarded her coolly, although his dark brows and goatee made him always appear wary.

Armi shook her head and stroked the quilen's mane, smiling as he pressed into her touch. "'Fraid not. You'd think she'd stick out more."

"I thought I saw her under the balcony," said Mishka, nodding toward the back of the room.

"Is she?"

"No. Banchou can still pick up her scent, if that's any consolation." The quilen's ears pricked, hearing his name

"She's like a ghost," said Armi. "One minute she's there and the next she's gone, even when you think she's standing at the edge of your periphery."

"She looks real to me. She doesn't have the transparency spirit beasts and ancestral spirits have."

"Would Banchou be able to sniff her out, if she was?" What did spirit beasts and ancestral spirits smell like, anyway? Other than the Forsaken and the undead remnants of the Scourge reeking of decay, chemicals, and peat moss. Maybe potpourri?

"He could probably tell there's something or someone there. But smell her? If he could, he would've noticed by now." Mishka reached over and scratched him beneath the chin. Banchou raised his head and nudged her hand, nose twitching loose chips of granite.

"Who do you think she is?" Armi asked. "A mercenary like us?"

Mishka shrugged. "That's what it looks like. Or she's an Alliance soldier who's not wearing the tabard. If she is, she didn't say."

"Maybe she's a Blacktalon agent?" Whoever Wrathion threw his weight to his comrades would follow him to the letter, unwavering in their conviction. While the dragon had specifically told her he would pledge his allegiance to the Alliance following the skirmishes in Krasarang, there were whispers among the rebels that he was actually supporting the Horde. Sneaky guy, that Wrathion, and strange, but that didn't necessarily make him a bad person.

But Mishka shook her head. "She's not wearing the standard uniform. What she's wearing is…well, it's like having blood elves and goblins collaborating on a design that married the concepts of easy movement and technological advancement while trying to look cool and awe-inspiring. Does that make sense?"

Armi put a finger to her chin and tried to remember the woman's clothing. White flak jacket and a single green spaulder, green shorts, a loose-fitting belt around one leg with the kind of pouch you'd see rogues wear to stash an accouterments of poisons, smoke bombs, and throwing weapons. Along with her vibrant hair was a long red cape that flowed like a scarf caught in the wind…and rogues never wore capes. Unless they were goblin sappers who pretended to be some sort of "superman" and flew around on their jetpacks, crazy bastards.

The whole ensemble didn't look like something a tailor or blacksmith would make. It had to be a full set made of light armor (cloth and leather), medium armor (mail), or heavy armor (plate). Nobody, as far as she knew, mixed and matched. It had to be a mix of light and medium armor made from an assortment of smelted ores and flexible cloths and leather, and if she were a true warrior she would be decked out in plate and carry a huge weapon. And yell a lot, like Armi did, to inspire and rally her comrades to heights of frenzy.

She thought of demon hunters and discarded it as quickly as it had come. They were certainly light on their feet, but the woman wasn't blind and didn't bear any tattoos signifying her as one, and she most certainly didn't dual-wield warglaives or transform into a demon. Or drink from the skull of an orc warlock. Illidan Stormrage she was not.

"Yeah, I get you." Wait a minute. "What about her weapon? Have you seen it?"

Mishka sneered. "If I still had my gun, I would weep! Who would be crazy enough to forge a blade using the grip as a hilt?"

"Is that what it looked like?" Seriously?

"It did! I saw it up close, when we were fighting the Paragons. It's an actual barrel! It even has the trigger!" Mishka clenched her fists. "I want to know the wise-guy that came up with that! What was he trying to accomplish, turning a sword into a gun?"

Armi shrugged, and the chain lining the inside of the suit of armor jingled with the motion. "Well we've seen a lot of things that weren't possible before." Like a mana bomb amplified by the Focusing Iris that turned everyone that didn't escape in time into arcane dust. Or mechanical golems that operated on a liquid that looked suspiciously like blood; oh, and the biggest one was powered by the Thunder King's negative emotions alone. "So maybe it's possible?"

"It can't be!" the high elf exclaimed. "It can't be because not once have I seen her hold it like a gun! She holds it like a sword, so if it looks like a sword, swings like a sword, and breaks like a sword, it's a sword!"

"What are the chances a draenei made it for her? Out of all the races, they're the most technologically advanced."

"But what would the draenei achieve in making a weapon like that? It's not like the blade will shoot lasers from its point by pressing the trigger! And if my eyes aren't failing me, I saw a magazine attached to the grip! A ma-ga-zine! What's the point of having that if there isn't a barrel to expel the bullets from?"

"I don't know! I haven't used a gun since Deathwing exploded!" Armi backed away, holding up her hands defensively. Sensing her sudden movements, Banchou stamped his paws and rose on his hind legs. He barked once, fell back on all fours, and shook himself.

Mishka whirled around and looked every which way. "Well, when I find her I'm going to give her a piece of my mind—!"

A loud gunshot rang. Armi and Mishka, along with every adventurer, Stormwind soldier, Orgrimmar grunt, and faction leader present, recoiled. Some shouted in surprise. Banchou dropped low to the ground in front of his mistress, ears flattened and lips pulled back in a snarl. Armi reached for the hilt of the axe slung behind her back. Mishka whipped out the bow from its sling, knocked an arrow against the drawstring, and aimed it at the opposite end of the room where the sound originated from.

Her jaw dropped open. "What the…?"

It was the pink-haired lady with the mismatched outfit and glaring red cape. She was standing on top of Garrosh, one foot planted on the back of his meaty neck, and in her hand was the strange sword. Except it was no longer a sword, for while it had the same red on black scheme upon its gleaming metal, it now sported a Light-be-damned barrel.

Oh, and it was smoking, too, pointed at the back of Garrosh's head, where a pool of blood was spreading on the tiled stone floor.

King Varian Wrynn, Go'el, and Lord Taran Zhu of the Shado-Pan stared at her, speechless. Just like everyone else, as a matter of fact.

"Holy crap!" Armi gasped, mouth ajar and eyes wide open. Her hand fell to her side.

"No. Way," said Mishka. Realizing that they were not in danger anymore, Banchou relaxed and straightened his posture, tail wagging curiously.

The woman lifted the gun—no, not just a gun and not just a sword but a, a, a gunblade—and flicked her wrist; and with that simple motion the gun split and folded on itself and became a sword again. She moved it behind her back and placed it into a holster that Armi and Mishka did not see before. Then she leaned back, crossed her arms, and stared down her nose at the three men gathered around the newly-made corpse. "A trial? Really? And you think that's going to solve everything? Don't make me laugh. I just spared you all the trouble of putting up with this brute and his regime for the rest of your lives."

Neither man nor orc nor pandaren said anything. Varian blinked and shook his head, lost in a daze. Go'el glanced down at Garrosh, up at the woman, and then at Varian. "…Did that just happen?"

"…I think that just happened," Varian mumbled.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know."

The woman gestured at the ever-increasing puddle. "Go ahead and touch it. Lick it and tell me it doesn't taste like copper. Go on, I'll wait." She turned to Taran Zhu. "What about you? You want to try?"

Taran Zhu started, then regained his composure and glared at her. "No, I will not. What were you thinking, killing him like that?"

"What was I thinking? Oh, I was thinking I could put an end to—what was his name again? Ah, Garrosh Hellscream. I was thinking of putting an end to Garrosh Hellscream right here and now because you couldn't make up your damn minds. How does that sound to you, fluffy?"

"My name is Taran Zhu," he grounded out, "and I'm not fat, I'm big-boned and proud of it!"

"Yeah, cool, whatever. And tell me, Taran Zhu, what were you thinking, taking this monster to court? The vote of public opinion will be all for executing him, but what would your Celestials think, huh? They'll probably say something like 'a dead person can't learn things like strength and wisdom and hope and fortitude' or 'you need to understand and accept who he is right now so you know what can be changed in the future'. Or something to that effect. Am I wrong?"

"You don't know that!"

"I think you and I know better than to follow a god blindly. I know; I've worked with them before, and my gods weren't as forgiving or as kind as yours."

"How dare you blaspheme the Celestials!" Taran Zhu growled.

"Blaspheme? No, I don't speak blasphemy; I speak common sense. For all you know the trial would've been a lesson in disguise for everyone involved, including Garrosh." She looked down at the body, and her face grew hard and cold. "But some people don't have the capacity to change let alone listen. If you had spared him, I can guarantee he would do his damnedest to escape and get his revenge on you, and then history would repeat itself."

"We were going to decide who would kill him, anyway!" said Varian, almost complaining. "I-It's not like Thrall and I—"

"Go'el," stressed the orc.

"Go'el and I were going to fight over it! Hell, everyone here had a reason to want to see him dead! Jaina, Vereesa, Vol'jin, Baine, that, uh, one blood elf with the eyepatch—"

"IT'S LOR'THEMAR!" said elf in question shouted. Sylvanas threw her head back and cackled.

Varian snapped his fingers. "That's right! I could never remember your name. Anyway, we each share a common goal to deal with Garrosh personally, but with a trial we could settle on a proper punishment without causing any more unnecessary bloodshed." He frowned deeply. "Not like that that's ever going to come to pass, miss."

"Then one of you guys should've made a move when you had the chance," she said, and quirked an eyebrow at them. Taran Zhu shook with barely restrained rage. Varian glowered petulantly. Go'el sighed and ran a hand down his face.

"Right, that's over and done with. Now if you'll excuse me." She hopped off the orc that was once Garrosh Hellscream and strutted past the trio. As one, the Alliance and the Horde watched the woman walk toward a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. Some of the adventurers gave her a wide berth.

Then she stopped. "Oh, I almost forgot! Is there anyone here who knows someone by the name of Wrathion?"

Armi perked up. She grabbed Mishka by the shoulder with one hand and jostled her while she waved at the woman with the other. "Oh! We do! We know Wrathion!"

She approached them at a casual gait, but Banchou shot like a rocket after her and met her halfway across the room, barking. She didn't stop, but she glanced down at the quilen that circled her from behind. He nudged his nose against her hand, looked up at her with his mouth partly open, then looked back at his master and friend. This time the lady did smile, an upturn of her lips, and placed that hand on the back of his head.

"He's a brave beast and a valuable companion," she said to Mishka. "He'll protect you no matter what."

The high elf blushed. "Oh! Well, uh, thank you. I train my pets to be tough like that. Wary, too. He doesn't catch on with everyone right away, but I figure he can tell you're not a bad person."

"I see. But I wonder if he'll be able to protect you from Wrathion? With a name like that, I don't expect him to take news of my transgressions lightly."

Armi frowned. "Well, he did ask us to kill him…but that doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"

The woman nodded. "No, it doesn't. Anyway, there's somewhere I have to be so I want you two to tell him what happened here. Oh, and give him this." She opened her pouch and dug out a letter. "If you're unable to find him, give it to one of the Blacktalons."

Mishka grabbed hold of the envelope and had Armi turn it over. In its center was a wax seal. Her eyes narrowed. "You're an emissary from Silvermoon?" she asked in a quiet, conspiratorial voice, but the note of incredulity was hard to miss. She tapped a finger on the seal.

Although she did not smile, the woman's eyes reflected as such. "Oh, that? It's not the Icon of Blood, but it does look like it, doesn't it? Just make sure this gets to him. He'll know what to do."

Armi looked up from the letter. "Don't worry, we will—"

The woman was gone.

"How the hell does she do that? I wanna know!"

"I think this is more important than whatever magic she uses," Mishka said. Taking her by the arm, she motioned Armi to turn around and face forward. King Varian was standing before Vol'jin, engrossed in conversation. She put a finger to her lips, and they listened.

By the time they were done and mages from both sides opened portals for the group of adventurers to pass through, Armi was cringing. "Wrathion's not gonna like this."

"We might want to make a stop at the stables and bring all my pets with me," said Mishka. "You know, just in case he decides to kill us ten times over."

"He wouldn't do that, would he? I mean, we're his personal champions!" And agents of destruction, forged by Wrathion's will 'to change the face of Azeroth forever'. "We helped him make a spear, eat a dead king's heart, and tailor these fabulous cloaks! What would he gain out of murdering us?"

"A much-needed catharsis, for one."

Armi nodded. "He'll understand. He has to. I mean, Garrosh is dead! That should definitely ease the fiery cockles of his angry, draconic heart!"

"SHE DID WHAT?"

Armi snatched Mishka by the wrist and ran for the door. "RUN AWAY!" She shoulder-tackled through it, flung the high elf down the steps, and threw herself over the porch just as a gout of fire burst through the opening and set the wooden panels alight. There were a few surprised shouts and sounds of glass shattering.

Mishka staggered to her feet, face glistening with sweat from the heat. "Banchou!"

The quilen emerged from the flames, none the worse for wear and shaking himself of the soot coating him from bearded chin to sculpted paw. Behind him, one or two patrons tossed water onto the porch and stamped it out with their feet until all that remained was curls of smoke. The pandaren lingered at the threshold, shaken but unharmed, and Armi was glad for their safety. She got up and followed Mishka and Banchou into the tavern.

Wrathion trembled, breathing heavily and staring at the wall. In one hand was the letter, crumpled up in a ball. In the other, blood trickled down his palm from where he held his ceramic mug, pieces of it lying around his feet. His claws were extended.

Armi approached him, slowly, cautiously. "Hey," she began. "Do you want a hug?"

"NO, I DO NOT WANT A HUG!" he roared, whirling on her. He lashed out, and the air from his claws whistled by her face. To her surprise, she didn't flinch. "What I want is that bitch strung up by the neck like a Winter Veil ornament! All the months of hard work, of gallivanting across Pandaria, the Isle of Thunder, and the Timeless Isle, was an absolute waste! IT'S ALL HER FAULT!" He grabbed a sack of grain leaning against the wall and threw it across the room. Tong, the waiter, calmly moved his head to the side as it crashed home and burst into a cloud of fine powder.

"Wouldn't it be better this way?" Mishka asked. "The Horde will finally have a Warchief that won't screw them over, and Varian's okay with that."

"You don't understand! Both of you! I did everything in my power. The whole world was his, and he needed only seize it! Oh sure, there would be another year of fighting, there would be enormous casualties trying to take Thunder Bluff—"

"Wait, why Thunder Bluff?" Armi asked, but Wrathion ignored her.

"But the rest of the Horde would've caved eventually! That idiot Wrynn could've united the whole world under the Alliance banner, and now it's RUINED!" He kicked a stray glass cup, sending it flying across the floor. Tong hopped over it without looking. He bowed and presented a tray of three glasses and a dish of water. Armi took their drinks. Mishka laid the dish on the floor for Banchou, then turned and accepted the glass from Armi with a nod of thanks.

Armi offered the flute to Wrathion. He grabbed it, knocked it back, and threw it on the floor. It smashed into a brilliant, diamond shower. "That idiot. 'High King', indeed! Should've taken the throne room myself, like Auntie Onyxia. Get things DONE."

"Don't mean to interrupt your soliloquy, bud," Armi said, "but whose side were you on? Mishka and I kept hearing you were backing the Horde."

"What? Oh, I was. I thought Hellscream's victory was assured before he turned half his Horde against him. So after our adventures with Lei Shen and his merry band of mogu, I changed allegiances."

"You mean this whole time you were supporting the Horde?" Mishka exclaimed. "Garrosh and his Kor'kron? You told us you were for the Alliance! Why would you want to root for the guy who was dead set on world domination and committing mass genocide on every non-orc race? Are you insane?"

Wrathion harrumphed. "Oh, don't look so surprised! I am a black dragon. My loyalties are my own. But that girl…ooh, that wretched girl! It's because of her that my carefully laid plans are in disarray!"

"But aren't you glad that Garrosh is, you know, dead?" Armi asked.

"Of course he deserved to die…but not like this! Nothing is turning out the way I wanted it to!" He sighed harshly through his nose, expelling twin furls of dragonfire. "You remember what she looks like, right?"

"Um, yeah? What about her?"

"Do you know her name? Where she lives?"

"I'm not getting involved!" cried Armi, taking a step back.

"You do, don't you?" He persisted, stepping forward.

"No! She left after she told us to find you! We didn't ask what her name was, either!"

"Damn!" Wrathion snapped his fingers and began to pace back and forth. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!" He spun around and knocked the tray from Tong's paws.

Like a bolt of lightning, he struck the dragon-prince across the face. "Enough!" he roared.

Mishka jumped, nearly dropping the glass. "Oh hot damn!" she uttered under her breath. Armi's eyes widened to the size of china plates. Banchou raised his face from the dish, chuffed disinterestedly, and went back to drinking from the dish.

Wrathion stared at the bartender, his hand on his cheek, aghast. "You…you hit me! A prince! The last black dragon! You—"

"Talk, talk, talk!" said Tong, jabbing a finger against the boy's chest. "Always you speak! Never do you listen! You ignored the lessons of Pandaria! Look upon my fur, young one. Darkness and light are etched into it, black and white. It is wisdom, a balance in all things material and immaterial. When the last emperor hid our land away from the world, he also preserved the homeland of our ancient enemy, the mantid. Do you know why he did this? He did so to keep the land whole. Living with the mantid for ten thousand years has made us both strong, and the same can be said for your Alliance and your Horde. They are not strong despite one another. No, they are strong because of each other. You mistake your greatest strength for weakness. Don't you see?"

Wrathion's jaw moved, working to find the right words. All he could say was, "Y-You're just a waiter. A waiter! I'm a prince, dammit! I want to protect this world!"

"As do we all, but you are young yet. Young and very foolish." Tong picked up the tray and dusted it off.

Wrathion stamped his foot. "If there's anyone that deserves to be called a fool it should be the King for allowing the Horde to continue to exist! But the biggest fool of them all is that girl for getting involved in the first place!"

"Is that so?" he asked, as he carried the tray to a counter behind the bar. Setting it down, he turned around and stared at the dragonling. "Tell me. How much time do you think we have before this great storm hits us?"

Wrathion swallowed thickly. "I don't know. It's hard to say, but if I had to guess it would be in the next couple years. And that's being generous."

Tong hummed. "And you were going to peruse the might of both the Alliance and the Horde to counter it. Am I correct?"

"Yes." His brow furrowed and his teeth clenched. "But now that they are divided, we have no chance of weathering it!"

"Young prince, there are other ways of standing united without resorting to violence and domination. But the girl is right; there will always be people in the world that will refuse to change, no matter how many times you tell them to. The Celestials may disapprove of her action, but I believe they will understand why she did what she did."

He opened a door from the side of the stairway and pulled out a broom and dustpan. He walked past Wrathion, set the dustpan down, and began sweeping up the broken glass. "What's done is done," he said. "You cannot change that."

Wrathion growled. "No, I cannot. But I will promise you this: I will stop at nothing to prepare this world for the battle to come. Next time, I will leave nothing to chance. And next time, if that girl—whoever she is—gets in the way again, I will personally remind her who she is dealing with!" He went over to the door, stopped, and before their eyes he turned into a black dragon whelp. His little wings struggling to keep him aloft, he turned around and, in a ridiculously high voice so unlike the deep timbre of his human form, screeched: "NO ONE, AND NOTHING WILL INTERFERE!" Then he flew out and into the sky.

Armi and Mishka watched him go until he became a speck and was no longer visible.

Finally, Armi said, "You know I can never take him seriously when he does that."

"Yeah, me neither," said Mishka. "He certainly looks cute like that, but he could use a lot more work on trying to look deadly."

Behind them, Tong clucked his tongue. "He destroyed my inn and didn't leave a tip. He is not very nice." There was a clatter, and he looked up to see Banchou holding the empty dish in his mouth, staring back at him with his tail wagging. He chuckled. "You want more? Well, alright. Give me just a few and I'll refill it. After all, you and your friends saved Pandaria. Consider it on the house."