The strident cacklings and fetid echoes worming their way through the moldy stone of the Undercity quieted as its ruler's firm step echoed along the outer ring. Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady of the Forsaken, strode purposefully towards the Royal Quarter and her de-facto dais. Traces of annoyance lit the burning embers of her eyes, briefly visible beneath the dark folds of her hood. The few tradesmen remaining in the Apothecary district shuddered to see that glow and quickly bowed to their mistress as she passed.
Sylvanas tossed her chin high, a brief flick of her eyes all the acknowledgment bestowed on the reverent gestures of her people. By all accounts they were a pitiful band, reduced to scrabbling in the ruins of Lordaeron's twilight underworld. Between Varimathras' coup and the war in Northrend, her forces were barely half of what they once were. Her mighty generals, all burning with the lust to extinguish life, were now barely a handful. Her dark rangers and banshee sisters too were decimated from the Northrend campaign.
She felt a sneer threaten to curl her darkened lips as she approached the entrance to the Royal Quarter. Hulking Kor'kron orcs had replaced her slavish abominations throughout the city, ostensibly for her own safety. In truth, the Warchief no longer trusted her, or the motives of her people. Their shapes swam through the virulent air of the Undercity as they enforced their brand of order on her domain. She had quickly grown to despise their green skins and the foul sound of their tongue perverting the murmuring halls of death.
Thrall or Garrosh, it makes little difference, she growled. Both are fools. Let them think me leashed if it pleases them.
"My lady, Bragor awaits us."
Her burning eyes focused on the sin'dorei following just behind. Ambassador Sunsorrow had paused, a soft viridian glow illuminating the distaste on his features. The blood elf had been in her service long enough to become accustomed to the sights and smells of the Undercity. However, the grunting hordes of their occupiers still managed to wring vestiges of sin'dorei hauteur from his schooled features on occasion. Elven notions of superiority ran deep. She still could feel its ghost when forced to deal with lesser races.
"We mustn't keep our Kor'kron commander waiting," Sylvanas said dryly, her voice reverberating hollowly. Of all the orcs in her city, her special distaste was reserved for the Kor'kron commander Bragor Bloodfist. At the new Warchief's insistence, he sat at her left hand in place of Varimathras, and nothing could be done in the Undercity without his approval. He and his Overseer Kraggosh were the nooses tightening around her neck. The message was plain.
Behave or else, she snorted mentally, ascending the stairs and entering the dark hallway to her throne. Fools! Arthas himself could not force me to do his will forever.
At least here, in the innermost halls of her domain, the royal dreadguards continued their silent mission. Their hunched and rotted frames lined the walls, swords eternally at the ready. They were allowed to remain as the sole concession to her authority.
Turning the last corner, the raised dais of her throne came into view, replete with her few remaining advisors and the huffing mob of Kor'kron soldiers. To the right of the moldered green stone was her loyal banshee sister Sharlinda, floating close to Aleric Hawkins, courier to her Deathstalker minions. To the left, in a large patch of scoured stone, stood her problem…the Kor'kron commander Bragor Bloodfist.
He was an older orc, his ochre skin scarred from numerous battles. His graying hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, heavy sideburns just brushing the tips of his garish red-plated armor. His massive spiked war axe rested on his hip, within easy reach of flexing fingers. His face twisted in a sneer as she approached. Sylvanas lifted one eyebrow regally, her incandescent eyes flicking towards Sharlinda. The banshee's ghostly face looked worried.
"About time," Bragor snapped. "You and your…creatures," the orc glared at the Deathguard ringing the room," have new orders from the Warchief."
Sylvanas allowed a smile to drift over her lips, and raised a hand for a quick salute. Bragor's eyes darkened angrily at her mocking gesture.
"I had no idea the Forsaken had been conscripted into the ranks of the Kor'kron," Sylvanas drawled. "However, given your innate ability for failure on a grand scale, I cannot help but be pleasantly surprised at the insight of the Warchief. As always, we of the Forsaken are ready to serve the mouthpiece of the Horde." She gave a slight bow, relishing the angry snort from the orc.
"You are too lippy by far, Dark Lady. You should remember just who gives the orders for the Horde." Bragor pulled out a tightly rolled parchment, flicking it open with a quick motion. Sylvanas swept up the dais, taking her accustomed spot just over the Commander's head. The orc glared irritably at her intricate boots over the top of the missive.
"Will you be favoring us with a display of your learning prowess?" she asked archly, keeping her face carefully neutral. Bragor gave another snort.
"Warchief Garrosh would like me to remind you, Lady Sylvanas, of your tenuous position within the Horde. Your meddling with the plague only proved you to be a true creature of the Lich King's. Without our support, you would be torn apart by the Alliance. Without our sanction, the forces of the Horde would unite to destroy you. Therefore Garrosh wishes for you to prove your loyalty to both to him, and the Horde."
"Have I and my Forsaken not done everything the Warchief has asked?" Sylvanas asked, carefully pitching her hollow voice for maximum sincerity. She spread her hands wide. "All we have done is defend ourselves. We did not ask for this curse."
"The blight, Dark Lady, is not defense," Bragor growled. "Putress' actions…"
"Were not of my design!" Sylvanas said sharply. "He and the traitor Varimathras acted on their own. Your former Warchief believed my words."
"Thrall is gone. It is Garrosh who speaks for the Horde now, and he doubts your sincerity." Bragor shifted back to the parchment. "Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, the Horde requires your service. War is coming with the Southern Alliance Kingdoms. It is your duty to advance our interests. Since the Steamwheedle cartel refuses to allow ships of war within their ports, you are to secure a landing area for our forces."
"Where would that be, pray tell good Commander," Sylvanas said drily.
Bragor smiled and tossed the parchment at her feet. Stenciled on the uncoiled paper was a map of southern Silverpine, stretching towards a cross-hatched wall and the crudely marked areas beyond.
"Gilneas." The orc spat the name. "The foolish humans walled themselves up after the Second War. However, with Azeroth's recent great upheavals their wall has collapsed. This land will be perfect to launch an invasion of the South. You will begin mobilizing troops immediately for dispatch to the remnants of the Graymane Wall. Garrosh expects you to have claimed victory over the region within a month."
"My forces are not recovered from the Northrend campaign. It will take time to recall them, and longer to train those not pressed into service before. I assume we will be simply act as guides to members of the assault?"
"You are the assault. The Warchief does not care to reinforce you at this time." Bragor rolled his shoulders and shrugged. "If you die to a one throwing yourself at the forces of Gilneas, well, at least the issue of loyalty will be solved." He smiled, his sharpened teeth gleaming in the dull light of the throne. "And there will be no deployment of the plague; on this point the Warchief was quite clear. Any use of the plague on the Gilneans and you will be without Garrosh's protection. We of the Kor'kron will of course be going along, to ensure the assault goes as he wishes."
Sylvanas fought to hide the fury from her face, and curled her fingers into the icy skin of her arms to remove the temptation of taking up her bow and simply slaying the annoying orc.
I understand now Sharlinda's worry. This will decimate us.
Her banshees understood the problem well. The Forsaken was entirely composed of those taken in the first waves of undeath unleashed by Arthas' bloody campaign. Without the vital secrets of the plague originators, her researchers could only replicate the horrific deaths. Raising new Forsaken was beyond them. And so her forces dwindled with each campaign, while the Horde continued to demand more from her and her people. Assaulting Gilneas, even with use of the plague, would leave them crippled. Gazing into Bragor's bloodshot eyes, Sylvanas felt her fury coalesce into a frigid ball of hate. Garrosh wanted them weak and under his thumb. The living could not understand that she and her people would never bow to them. They hadn't asked to be condemned to this prison of half-life; always reminded of the beauty lost forever to the Lich King. For their sins, the living would die, choking on their own liquefying organs while her people celebrated. But firstly…
"We bow to the Warchief's wisdom, of course. That one so young is so gifted in perception…The Forsaken will of course begin our preparations to secure the land of Gilneas for the glorious Horde." Sylvanas bowed, the edge of her dark hood covering the burning fury in her eyes. Bragor shrugged and snapped his fingers. Two of his guards rapidly fell into step as he stomped down the dais. He paused briefly at the hallway, glancing back at the small group.
"I will send word of your agreement to the Warchief, after I visit Kraggosh in the Apothecary. I would hate if some…miscommunication resulted in more work on the plague after Garrosh specifically ordered you to prepare a strictly military assault."
Sylvanas waited until the orc was out of sight before turning towards her advisors, the crimson gleam of her eyes boring into their faces. The sharp squeal of her boots on the floor betrayed her anger as she paced back and forth on the dais.
"Sunsorrow," she snapped. "I want Lor'themar's reaction to this. What has that idiot buffoon of an orc ordered him to do and why."
The ambassador bowed. "Immediately, Dark Lady." His eyes narrowed in concentration, his fingers moving languorously. A swirling blue portal opened before him, glittering with the shimmering sunlight pouring over the far-off Silvermoon City. Sunsorrow saluted quickly, and vanished through the portal.
"Aleric, pass word to your leader. I want information on Gilneas. Pester that fool Bauhaus. There may be some Gilneans within the Forsaken."
The skeletal rogue bowed and vanished into the shadows. Sylvanas cast her eyes around the dais. Other then her own Deathguards and Sharlinda, she was alone.
"My lady," Sharlinda breathed, her ghostly shape wavering in the slight breeze. "Your orders?"
"Our options grow slim," Sylvanas said grimly. "If only…" She trailed off. Her Grand Apothecary had been beyond brilliant. Putress had assembled the Blight, tested it in a rich variety of situations, and proved its brutal effectiveness on both the Scourge and the hated living. She firmly believed he would have dealt the Lich King a death blow if given slightly more time. Curse the meddling red dragons for halting its spread before the Wrathgate! And as an added insult, he had to be sacrificed to shift the onus of blame, and his precious notes hidden. He had simply been a tool for their revenge, but Sylvanas wished events had played out differently. Her eyes hardened abruptly. Regret was a waste of time.
"Get word to the Apothecaries that their Lady wants them to redouble their efforts. We must have the plague ready to deploy at a moment's notice. If that ogre-faced twit Garrosh expects us to die for his glory, he cannot complain about the manner in which we do it. And gather our sisters. I will not approach this campaign with those Kor'kron idiots' fists around our throats."
"There may be news, my Lady," Sharlinda said hollowly. "Word reached us today that your loyal ranger Marrah is returning to the Undercity."
"She was stationed in the ruins of that vrykul castle in the Fjord. Why is she returning to the Undercity instead of reporting to Vengeance Landing?"
Sharlinda shrugged her ethereal shoulders. "The word passed through the rangers was that she must speak with you, my Lady."
Sylvanas tilted her head, fingertips drumming lightly on the curve of her bow. Marrah returning without orders could prove interesting. Information on the remaining members of the Scourge in Northrend was still sketchy after Arthas' death. She twirled on the dais, stalking towards her silent chamber at the rear of the room.
"Bring her before me as soon as she arrives."