Author's Note:
Well hi there! Thanks for stopping by!
This is my first attempt at fanfiction- although I've written my own fiction before. This prologue opens up during the battle of Mount Hyjal (warcraft 3 storyline), but the rest of the fic is based in the AU developed by Weiila in her "Diplomacy" (if you haven't read it, DO IT NOW - one of the best Warcraft fics on this website, for sure: .net/s/4308643/1/Diplomacy ) - i.e. pre-Cata and with an Orgrimmar-Theramore alliance via the marriage of Jaina and Thrall. This fic doesn't concern itself too much with them, though, but I simply prefer Weiila's story as a background to the events that I envision will unfold in this one. Plus, her universe is just so... engaging.
This story is labeled as romance, and yes, I'm a sucker for cross-factional relations, but I'm planning to keep the romance to a minimum here.
Also, I'm very minimally familiar with the WoW verse, having played it for a week or so. I've tried to do my research on WoWwiki, but if you notice some glaring errors, do let me know.
P.S. Yes, giant dryads exist.
P.P.S. All authors love reviews, but I love constructive criticism the most, so please feel free to nicely tear this story apart.
P.P.P.S. This is a re-written version of my prologue. It doesn't alter the overall plot of the story, but it sets up the future events a bit better and the writing is a bit more polished up.
Hope you enjoy :)
Prologue: Mount Hyjal
Rapshak moaned. His ears buzzed in pain, the pressure feeling as if cement blocks were pushed into his eardrums. The sounds of battle that seemed to have become the standard of his existence in the past months grew sparse, distant. The orc opened his eyes and had to blink a few times to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him. All he could see were blurry shadows.
He frantically searched the ground for his axe, not sure what he would do with it without his vision, but as his fingers felt the battered leather of the handle he gripped it desperately. Shadows danced around him and his mind swam, but the familiar weight of the weapon gave him some reassurance and he struggled to stand, supporting himself with the handle.
Suddenly, a more defined humanoid figure began to emerge from the blur of white. Rapshak peered at it, squinting, but it loomed larger and larger, without ever giving him a hint of what it was. He panicked. What if it was an enemy? Another senseless ghoul, or worse, a felguard? With his head still cloudy, his fighter instinct, that natural habit that allowed him to survive so many previous encounters with death took over. He tried to swing his axe at the figure in a threatening manner, but having lost his source of support and having no strength to stand on his own, he collapsed face forward on the ground. A strong scent of burnt vegetation filled his nostrils. Well, at least he had one sense left intact.
Rapshak heard a voice, distant and completely incomprehensible. Then he felt his helmet come off and a warm touch on the back of his head. He winced at the idea of death by an unknown hand, the ultimate dishonor of falling to an unseen foe, but he had no more energy left and his mind was growing more delirious by the moment. He hoped that his death would be quick, at the very least. Maybe his helmet was off for a better access to his neck for chopping? His delirious mind somehow managed to refute that – the Burning Legion wasn't into mercy killings.
With a final effort, he tried to push himself off the ground, to face his opponents as a true orc should, but at this the shadows around him and the burnt scent in his lungs all collapsed in on themselves and the world went black.
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He awoke sometime later. He blinked. A dirty, fatigued, and bruised High Elven face stared at him from above. Its lips moved.
Can you hear me?
The words were still as if far away, but he could understand them now. It was Common, and he learned plenty of it on these recent campaigns. The sounds of battle were also more clear now, the moans of the wounded and the shouts of command drowning out the starkly sparse clangs of weaponry. His mind was still too foggy to determine what that meant, but the absence of fighting simply seemed strange to him, almost unnatural, given how habitual it has become over the past weeks.
"Can you hear me?" the elf repeated, peering into his eyes. "I think he is coming to," he said, turning to the side. The elf's hands gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. "Can you hear me? Answer me!"
"Unghhh," he moaned. His throat felt dry, but his tongue moved with surprising ease. He searched for words, but he was still too groggy to speak a foreign language.
"Yeah," he finally croaked in orcish.
"Praise the Light," the elf sighed with relief. "Are you hurt, brother?" he asked in Common, peering at him once again. The elf's touch felt good on his shoulders, soothing. His mind was clearing slowly and he coughed weakly.
"Uh... I... what?"
The elf stared at him patiently. "You speak Common, right?"
Suddenly, reality crashed into Rapshak like a brick. His mind came to grips with the situation and he realized that the battle was over – the sparse sounds of fighting he could hear were most likely due to a few demonic stragglers making an annoyance of themselves. And if priests were out tending the wounded, then it could only have been a victory for the makeshift alliance that the Horde has found itself part of in the past weeks. His thoughts raced as he considered the idea. This was their last stand – if they won, was the Burning Legion no more? Did they – did he – actually survive the onslaught of Archimonde himself?
He looked at the elf's face above him and realized he didn't respond to him, but the priest's look was understanding. Clearly, Rapshak was not his first patient.
"Yes," the orc said, in Common this time, "I do."
"Are you hurt?" the elf repeated, smiling tiredly at Rapshak's recovery.
He tried to think. He didn't recall anything serious – some grazes here and there, but he remembered how he considered himself lucky as he was teleported to the night elf base with just a few scratches. Still, he flexed his muscles just to check, and sighed with relief at their obedience.
"I don't think so," he finally replied.
"Good," the elf stated and rose, his generally tiny figure looking gargantuan when observed from the ground. The priest turned to the side, where his assistant stood and nodded. "Let's go find some more live ones." With that, they hurried off.
Rapshak continued lying down for a moment. His body felt considerably better, the tingling of the priest's magic leaving a pleasant warmth. His strength also seemed to have returned, at least in part, and he raised himself up on one arm to finally observe his surroundings.
Carnage surrounded him. Corpses, of all shapes and colors lay strewn on the ground. Patches of ghouls here and there, a fallen abomination, a group of orcs. A Human sorceress lay still a few yards away, her skin a pale sickly green color that he learned was associated with death among her race. The ground was black, and so were the trees that once stood so proud and beautiful. He used to admire those trees, as foreign as they were to him. His friends would catch him staring at the forest on occasion and would joke that he should have become a shaman. It has been some time since he was last made fun of in this way – partially because there was rarely any time for tree-gazing, but mostly because all of his friends were dead.
The forest was now a collection of charred carcasses, smoldering in a dark, choking haze that filled the battlefield with what on a better day may have been interpreted as fog. Rapshak could smell more than just the smoke, too - there was a familiar stench of burnt blood, a smell that made his stomach turn after his first battle with the Legion. It wasn't particularly pleasant now either.
Despite the overwhelming presence of death, figures hurried about. Priests and troll witch doctors mostly, but any who could do basic healing could be seen: sorceresses, shamans, even dryads. Some of them were carrying the wounded back into the haze, where he heard shouts of command. No doubt they were setting up a camp for the wounded there – after all the losses they kept suffering, the process was almost a ritual by now. He remembered helping to bring the wounded in, night after night, until he gave up washing the blood off his armor. Plus, the purpleskins didn't give him nice looks when he "corrupted" their "sacred rivers" with the filthy leather.
Damn, purpleskins!
The events of the battle suddenly came to his mind. The onslaught of the human encampment, the hurried retreat with the those purpleskin archers covering their way. The dizzying teleport to the orcish camp, the explosion of landmines and the unstoppable tide of the Legion pushing them back from both entrances. He remembered Thrall's bellow of a command to retreat, as he and Jaina Proudmoore stood there side by side in the magical field that she was summoning. And he remembered that panicked purple face with its glowing eyes. The young girl, probably just old enough to be put into the battle lines, both of her legs bleeding, being dragged away by angry ghouls that were ready to rip her apart. He vaguely recalled the chaos of his axe swings as he launched himself at the undead, oblivious to Thrall's commands and the intensifying hum of the teleport magic. And he barely remembered his last-second jump into the magic field, with the purpleskin girl slung over his shoulder and the ghouls biting at his heels. At their base, those creepy moon wells seemed to have healed her well and Rapshak later saw her back in the fray, but under Archimonde's final onslaught they were separated, and then that flash...
He stood up, his legs now firm enough to hold him up and scanned the battlefield.
We won, came the realization as he watched over the quiet stillness of the conflict's aftermath. It's over. The war is over.
He shook his head to get the thoughts out of his head. The truth was inevitable, but he was not yet ready to deal with the consequences of victory. He was afraid of them, possibly more than he was afraid of death.
The war isn't over, he said to himself, not while there are still lives to be saved.
It didn't sound convincing, but he forced himself to believe it. There were many wounded fighters out there and he would start by finding out what happened with that young purpleskin he saved. Rapshak didn't really know why her in particular, but it would have been a shame had she died and it gave him something to start with at any rate.
Isn't that a bit egoistic? he asked himself, but only shrugged in response. Amidst the chaotic scene of healers running back and forth, this seemed like a worthwhile enough mission: find the young purpleskin, get her back to the camp, then see what's going on. Right.
Picking up his axe, partially out of habit and partially because it became his only source of solace and emotional strength after the death of nearly every friend he knew, he ran off into the smoky haze, muttering curses to himself about how every one of them purpleskins looked exactly the same.
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To a civilian, the chaotic collection of bodies that littered the smoldering slopes of Mount Hyjal would appear a tragic sight. To Rapshak, it was a story waiting to be read. His eyes darted from body to body, reconstructing the events of the battle. He remembered being separated from the purpleskin troop after a group of abominations burst through a line of human knights, ripping them and their horses to shreds in the process. He and the grunts retreated, covered by the spears of their troll allies, but the ghouls that poured in from behind the abominations cut them off from the purpleskins. Rapshak shook his head, remembering their proud hesitance to retreat. The damn creatures were even more proud than the orcs – at least the Horde warriors knew when it was wiser to preserve life and when it was best to sacrifice it heroically. The purpleskins were seemingly content with simply throwing their lives away.
As Rapshak hurried down the slope of the battlefield, he noticed quite a few priests doing the same, ignoring the moans from the wounded around them. He soon realized why. The further he went, the more bodies he saw. He started to reach the area where the battle line passed hours ago and here the moans were sparse and the bodies were already adopting their morbid pale color.
He soon spotted the first fallen abominations, heaps of disfigured elfs and humans lying around them. All sorts of foul stenches entered his nostrils, but having been fighting the undead for weeks now, he hardly noticed.
Finally, he began to see purple. Archers and their bows were scattered among heaps of ghouls, some of the undead creatures stuffed with black-tipped arrows, making them resemble porcupines. Further on Rapshak saw a row of slain nightsabers, their riders lying mangled in the distance. No doubt the huntresses charged madly into the enemy after having their mounts shot down under them. For fragile females that they seemed to be on the outside, those damn purpleskins were fearless to the point of insanity.
Rapshak looked around him. If the girl fell in battle, it must have been somewhere here. He walked back towards where most of the archers were, but they all lay motionless, their eyes extinguished. A few looked similar enough, but he didn't think they were her, although it was difficult to tell. The bodies began to peter our – replaced now by the tall, lanky troll corpses, and he began to doubt himself. Maybe he missed her? Maybe he didn't recognize her face amidst the bodies he inspected? Some of them were pretty messed up, possibly by those damned scavenger ghouls...
"Ungh," somebody moaned. He turned to the sound. There was one last heap of purple bodies a few paces away, and he raced there. A bleak pair of those creepy silver eyes looked at him through the dim haze of the smoke and the evening's darkness. A young, pale, and sickeningly purple face looked at him weakly. This seemed familiar. Or was it just because it was the first one he found alive? He examined her and saw a dark stain on her abdomen. It was a fang cut, from a ghoul most likely, deep and still bleeding. The ground around her was soaked with blood and whether it was hers or not, it was clear that she lost much of it already.
Forcefully tugging his shirt sleeve, he ripped it out, and bandaged her wound as best he could. The bleeding didn't stop, but there wasn't much else he could do. He looked over the rest of her, making sure there were no other wounds. A mutter escaped his lips. There, on her thighs, were two large rips in her leggings – clearly the same as the wounds he remembered on the girl he hauled back to the teleport field.
"By the Doomhammer," he said aloud to himself in orcish, shaking his head, "If you survive this, you'll be one lucky girl." Her purple lips curled into a weak smile in response.
Spirits damn her! He kept forgetting how quick these creatures were at picking up new languages. He was hoping he'd find her unconscious so he wouldn't have to talk to her, but he guessed it was better than finding her dead.
"Alright," he sighed as he tried to gather her up into his arms, but was stopped as her arm shot up with surprising speed for a wounded person, grasping the back of his neck forcefully and drawing him in, closer to her face. Her eyes peered at him, their light flaring up for an instant, and she whispered, almost inaudibly, taking pauses to breathe.
"Did... we... win?"
She spoke in orcish, with a bad accent, but he understood her and that scared him. He remembered how he could not could string a word in Common for the priest, and here she was, about to pass out, and still speaking to him in his own language.
He grunted with annoyance. The last thing this purpleskin should have been doing is talking.
"I wouldn't be here if we didn't," he replied sternly. "And I wouldn't be asking any more questions if I were you. You can ask all the questions you want once you're well. For now, you better shut up."
She didn't respond, the light of her eyes fading distinctly, seemingly exhausted by the effort of speech. She was still breathing, though, so he took that as a yes, and picked her up. Even limp, she was almost weightless in his bulky arms. Rapshak looked around for a healer. A horse-like shape moved about in the smog up the slope and the orc hurried in that direction.
As he approached it, the shape took a more concrete form of a dryad. Rapshak sighed inwardly and steeled his nerves – the creatures unnerved him more than any other forest-dwelling purpleskin did. As if that wasn't enough, this dryad was enormous, towering over the orc by many feet. Her body was the size of a Keeper and her legs, which for most dryads resembled those of fawns, were more like that of a mare. Rapshak has seen these in battle on occasion, and the spears they threw at their enemies with such grace and ease made their troll allies gape in awe. Nevertheless, however much the orc disliked these creatures, it was probably best that he get the girl to a healer of her own kind. He walked on and the dryad noticed him, turning her horse-like body towards him.
To Rapshak's surprise, the creature did not look at the girl in his hands. Rather, she stared at him, her brows furrowing and her face displaying an emotion the orc had absolutely no clue how to interpret. The bright silver light emanating from her eyes beamed straight at him, making him a bit nauseous.
"This fighter is badly injured," he called out to the dryad in Common, preferring not to call the purpleskin in his arms a "girl" to one of her own kind. "She needs one of your healers, quickly!"
The dryad smiled in response and Rapshak blinked at her confusedly. He had heard that creatures like her were known to be a jovial race, but he has never experienced this himself. In fact, they tended to be fairly rude to the races they called "the outlanders." Yet the smile was the least shocking thing Rapshak was going to receive from this dryad.
The creature finally looked down at the girl hanging limp in his arms. Then, she lowered her head and her front legs bent somewhat, bringing her lower to the ground. Was she... bowing?
"Ride on me, brother," she called out to him, her voice bright and joyous, like the light of the moon dancing in the water of a river on a clear night. Her knees fell to the earth and her rear legs buckled as well, lowering her back to be mounted.
Brother? Rapshak's mind reeled as he stared at the dryad, his mouth unconsciously falling open. Not only has this creature just offered to be his mount – and he has never seen anyone, not even a purpleskin elf on the back of a dryad before – but she also called him brother. The word in Common was unmistakable. Since when did they treat orcs so well?
The creature seemed to mistake his confusion for something else and laughed, the ringing of her voice stifled by the thick smog around them. So this was how their kind truly was. Amidst death, destruction, and terrible loss, she was able to laugh. It irked Rapshak somewhat and he did not fully understand why.
"It would be faster to reach the camp this way," she explained, a melody of laughter still filling her voice, "and she needs to see a real healer. I cannot help her."
Rapshak continued to stare, completely shocked. He held strong against the waves upon waves of the most vile creatures the Legion sent against them, but now he was entirely disarmed. The dryad laughed again.
"We are not a weak race," she stated. "I will be able to hold your weight. Let me carry her and make sure you hold on tight, but be wary with the hand placement or I might have to kill you!"
She giggled merrily at the last comment and sent a brief gaze at her torso. Dryads wore scant clothing and although the equine part of their bodies were quite off-putting, the upper portion seemed normal enough.
Rapshak swallowed and forced himself out of his stupor. He came to save the purpleskin girl and the dryad was right, she needed urgent attention. The creature moved fast, he knew, and she would know where the healers were located in the purpleskin camp. Still, she could just carry the girl herself, he had no need to go with her. He cleared his throat.
"There's no need," he told her, "You can bring her to the camp yourself."
The dryad laughed again. This was starting to become annoying. She tilted her head and looked at him strangely.
"Well, now, I already offered you the ride," she replied. "I'd say it would be rude of you to refuse."
Something in her tone told the orc that she wasn't really asking.
Oh what the hell, he said to himself, giving up. This is already way too weird.
He approached the dryad and cautiously handed off the girl to her. Despite her thin-looking limbs, the creature held her without effort. Rapshak paused awkwardly for an instant, but the dryad's encouraging gaze finally made him do what he never even contemplated doing. Swinging his right leg over the creature's back, he straddled her and then carefully lowered himself until he was sitting firmly on her back.
The dryad instantly sprang up, almost causing the orc to tumble off onto the ground. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around her waist. She laughed merrily again.
"Good choice," she told him, giggling.
And with that, she cantered off, leaving Rapshak holding on for dear life.
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If cross-factional cooperation ever existed in the world of Azeroth, it was in the wake of the Mount Hyjal victory. As the wounded were brought back to the camp, there was little segregation by race. One could see orcs hauling humans, humans hauling orcs (much more difficult), and trolls dragging in night elves. In those few hours all of this seemed normal.
Nevertheless, when a dryad carrying an orc on her back and an injured night elf in her arms appeared out of the smog, many eyes stared and many jaws dropped. The sight was definitely something very new.
Rapshak could feel the eyes fixated on him, even if most observers quickly rushed back to their tasks. He also noticed the angry gazes that other purpleskins sent at the dryad, but as he and the creature rushed by, the anger in their eyes seemed to dissipate into something resembling confusion and they would step back, as if in respect. The dryad herself seemed unperturbed, weaving amongst the traffic to her side of the camp.
They passed by the burnt out ancients as they entered a city of tents, some still being pulled up. It was strange to see the purpleskins pitching tents, but with the forest burnt out, they had few other options. The dryad turned left, sprinting for the large tent in the corner of the encampment. She pushed the flaps aside and rode in with Rapshak still sitting on her back.
Hundreds of glowing silver eyes peered at him. The inside of the tent was huge and Rapshak wondered for a second if it seemed spacier on the inside than it did on the outside. It was narrow, but stretched very far and its high ceiling, tall enough for the dryad and Rapshak to not crouch was supported by several beams along the length of the tent. All along its walls were straw mats and many were filled with the injured, some bandaged and asleep, some still moaning out in pain. Purpleskin men – druids, he guessed – hurried around the tent, helping the wounded. There were females in the tent as well, assisting the druids and comforting those in severe pain.
Many of the druids and nurses stopped in their tracks at the sight of Rapshak on the dryad's back. Some of the wounded also turned their heads in his direction.
"Se'adhna! Falore!" cried a voice in Darnassian and Rapshak turned to see one of the females rushing towards them. He first thought she was going to accost him, but the female instead ran to the girl in the dryad's arms and kissed her on the cheek. The dryad said something quietly in Darnassian. The female's eyes shot towards Rapshak and her face formed the same expression the dryad's did when he first saw her.
"You brought her back," the female said in Common, smiling at the orc. "Thank you, brother."
What is it with these purpleskins today? Are they that crazed from their victory? Rapshak thought about asking, but the female already turned away to receive the girl from the dryad and carried her to one of the empty mats. A druid rushed to her side.
He sighed with relief, now that his part was done. Whether the girl survived or not was now no longer his responsibility, or his business. It seemed that the dryad senses that and kneeled to allow him to step off. He did and turned to her awkwardly. She looked back at him, still smiling, and as much as he was still unnerved by her horse-like body, hoofed legs, and white shining eyes, he could not but smile back. The damned dryad's mirth was extremely contagious.
"Thanks for the ride," he told her jokingly. She laughed in response, his pleasure at the sound making him wonder if he joked just to hear it again.
"Take care of yourself, brother."
The dryad stood up again and extended her arm in an orcish fashion. He hesitated briefly, but he already had too many surprises for the day to be completely shocked. He returned the gesture, grasping the creature's forearm. Her grip was firm, even if her arm was like a stick compared to the bulk of his muscles.
He bowed slightly and turned to leave, pushing the tent flap aside to exit.
"Wait!"
This time, it was orcish. Rapshak shuddered, still not habituated to having his language spoken by this race, but turned to the female that left the side of the girl he brought in and was walking towards him. He raised his eyebrows at her questioningly.
"What is your name, friend?" she asked once at speaking distance.
Name?
"To let her know," the woman said, pointing at the girl. Something told Rapshak that this wasn't the only reason that she asked for his name, but he couldn't really tell why or where that suspicion came from.
He paused for a moment. To him, this was an impersonal thing. Go find the young purpleskin, see if she is alive, if she is, bring her back to the camp. Even with dryad and all her smiling, there was still a huge gap between them and the orcs. True, they fought side by side today, but tomorrow would be different and only the spirits knew what it would bring. This wasn't the time to make things personal.
"Rapshak," he said, watching her take in an unfamiliar name. "My name is Rapshak."
Then, before any of them managed to unnerve him even more, he left the tent.
Despite the strange behavior from the purpleskins that day, Rapshak was suddenly in a good mood. Yet as he looked out at the camp and the jubilant cheering that was starting up, especially among the younger fighters, his spirits fell. There were just too many things he was not ready to deal with, now that the war is over. He wondered if he was being selfish. He understood the significance of this day, the preservation of the entire world from the paws of the Burning Legion. And yet, his personal troubles loomed larger, now that the danger of destruction was gone.
He sighed. The war was not over yet, not for him. Still the wounded were being brought in, still there were things to be done. And once that was finished, there was a world to rebuild. In his time as a soldier, he wrought much destruction. Perhaps it was the time to make amends for that.