PS: Yes. I am quite aware Zuljin does not have a heavy accent. That is intentional. A: He is not an island troll, and thus does not necessarily need to sound like a Jamaican. B: He's one of the most intelligent trolls to ever live, so I think he's allowed a degree of grammar.

PS: No, I do not condone swearing. Swearing used within this merely follows the thought path of the character- not my own.

PS: Yes, I know some of my characters are going to have bizarre responses to some things, adverse to their normal character. Hopefully this will not conflict with their character, as it is an intentional thing, brought on by forces working in the background- forces that will not be revealed to you till later on.

PS: No, PS is not standing for poststage note. It's standing for prestage note .

Main Charecters: Zul'jin, High Elf, Kel'Thuzad, Ketala, Sylvanis, Varimathras, Keever, Mahi Mahi, Zul'vii, Thrall, Jaina. (I'll certainly add Illidan, Tyrande, and Furion later on. And, of course, Arthas will be introduced, even if he is a butt hole. But for now, I've got enough leads to go with)

Prolouge: It all begins with the Cast... Unfortunately, some of the cast has been omitted for the intent of keeping his chapter below 9000 words.

The Forest Troll
(End of Reign of Chaos)

The Troll groaned lightly. He was so weak… he lifted an arm, the limb shaking and feeling as if it were made of heavy stone. Slowly, the three-fingered hand moved down to his side, just below his ribcage. There, he felt it. Warm, rust-smelling liquid lapped gently over his fingers. Puckered skin rose on each side of the deep wound in his side. He could feel the edge of the rib above it… could feel the broken muscle and flesh within it. There was so much pain…

But his mind was already immune to pain. In self defense, it had shut down perception of pain. Now all he could feel was numbness…

The forest troll squirmed lightly, his mind trying to force a reaction. Force him to live. Force him to get up. Force him to do SOMETHING. But he was all numb and leaden. He couldn't move but to twitch awkwardly.

That was odd. Around the blood he felt an almost… foam-like substance. Puss. So the wound was infected. Amazing that he could think so clearly, as if he were entirely detached from his dying body. His life's blood was streaming over the ground… It was infected by the claws of that monster he'd been wounded while fighting.

It wasn't rightly fair. He'd escaped so much. He'd succeeded so much where defeat was inevitable. He'd escaped the insane tortures of elves and humans alike… He'd survived with his band of trolls and taken refuge on nearby islands, evaporating into nothing in the mind of the Alliance. Preoccupied with their victory over the horde, preoccupied with the remaining war bands of orcs, the elves and humans had never once taken it into their minds to see if he'd survived. To see if he made it back to his people and escaped with them.

And he'd survived through all that conflict, survived that war, and managed to live all this time…

To die now?

His delicate ears picked up an elfin voice and elfin words. Elves? No, how could that be? There were no elves on his island. There had been no other people on his island but his forest trolls, at least not until the ghouls had arrived and attacked. At least not until the battle in which he had received the wound he was now dying from. Was his mind playing tricks on him?

No, he distinctly heard an elfin voice, coming nearer. Having been in conflict with high elves so long, he recognized quite a bit of their language- he was one of the few trolls to ever bother trying to learn it.

"Why a troll? Of all the F""""""God-blasted Hell-infested S""""-eating creatures on this F""""""" gargantuan earth, WHY A TROLL? A troll!"

The last thought he, Zul'jin of the forest trolls, had before he was consumed by blackness, was that he had never heard an elf use that many swear words in a sentence before (And 'troll,' being the equivalent of an elfin swearword, didn't count).

High Elf
(Continued)

The forest troll, Zul'jin, gave a deep, guttural moan of pain. His slender, three-fingered hand automatically went to his side- and found nothing. He twitched violently, lifting his head and staring down at his side. His armor and shirt was ripped open at the correct spot, and soaked with blood, but there was nothing left of the diseased wound but a thin brown scar. He traced it with a finger, confused and surprised. It took him a moment to come to the conclusion that, as he had no reason to fear bleeding to death, he might as well get up and figure out what the hell was going on. His side still hurt- there was no denying that- but it was more like the hurt of a really bad bruise. It took him a moment to gather his long legs under him, and after that to stand up, but he managed it, using a hand to steady himself against a tree.

Whoever had helped him, had also built a fire. And yet… He sniffed the burning embers and examined the tree next to him. Familiar. Not a tree that grew on his island.

He was on the mainland.

But who would bring him here? And for what purpose? He needed to get back to his island, to see if anyone survived.

Slowly, Zul'jin stood on his own, and he walked over to the fire, looking down at it. Whoever had built it was forest-wise. Stones surrounded the flame, keeping it from spreading to the surrounding forest. Something occurred to Zul'jin, and he examined himself feeling for any weapons. No tomahawks… no battle axe… even the dagger he kept up his sleeve was gone. A troll rescuer would not have taken his weapons. Zul'jin might have been a forest troll, might have been of a race of primal savages and cannibals, but Zul'jin was an extremely intelligent creature. His orange eyes flamed.

The elfin voice. The elf he had heard talking had saved him. Upon reaching this resolution, he was greeted by a voice behind him, speaking in troll.

Well… 'greeted' was too kind a word. More like acknowledged.

"I see you're not a carcass yet, troll. Have your wounds healed?" He spun around, moving into a defensive stance. Before him was a female elf. She was almost ordinary. Almost. Her hair was dark purple, and she was easily as tall as he was. Before one disregards that comment, one might compare the standard 5'7 Elf Female to an 8 foot tall male troll. Apparently this bothered him, for the first thing that came out of his mouth was,

"Never seen a half elf, half ogre before." She turned flame red and her hand instantly went to her blade hilt. Apparently she wasn't bothered by killing the thing she had just saved, for the blade sang out of the sheath and hacked down at him. It took his lightning reflexes to get out of the way, and he picked up a rock from the fire, hurling it at her head. He was astounded when the blade whipped around and deflected the heavy rock with ease. She glared at him over the fire, her arms tense, holding the blade down at her side.

He glared back, anger in him festering, fueling his adrenaline. He was still weakened from blood loss, but he was a skilled fighter, and everything in him screamed that she was an enemy. She was a high (pun possibly intended) elf, and she deserved to be hacked asunder.

"Give me an axe, elf," he crooned sinisterly, "and you'll find your sword has not so much use to it!" Her unoccupied hand clenched into a tight fist and she stood up straight, willpower and anger contesting with one another.

"I," she began, her voice laced with bitter sarcasm and hatred, "was not sent to kill you, hellspawn. I healed your F"""""" wounds. You could bloody show some damned gratitude." He cackled, peering at her over the cowl of cloth he always wore around his face.

"You certainly didn't do it out of your own free will, half ogre" he remarked, smiling in a leering, taunting fashion. "And you definitely don't look like you enjoyed it."

"Who the hell would? Ya smell like s"""" and have the texture of diarrhea."

"At least I not be a slut, half ogre!" She lunged at him, dropping her sword. Her hands sought his throat as they tumbled down the hill behind him. Her fingers tightened on his windpipe, angrily attempting to choke and throttle the life out of him. He attempted to push her away only to find that the elf maiden/warrior WAS as strong as an ogre. Maybe stronger. He proceeded to struggle with her, trying to hit her and kick her off. But, un-phased by the series of blows she was receiving left and right, she continued to hold on. His vision started hazing, his hearing dimming and the pain in his neck starting to fade as his lungs screamed and heaved for air. He couldn't afford struggling anymore- he was suffocating.

Before the elf managed to extract the consciousness (or life) from him, her hands suddenly released their death hold, just resting on his neck, and she looked at something out of his range of sight with big eyes. She grabbed him under the arms and yanked him up onto the river bank with a harsh command to not move. Then she jumped off of him, sprinting off into the forest.

Zul'jin sat up, choking and holding his throat. He wasn't about to listen to an elf.

But something butted him in the back and he turned around to see a massive half-demon crocolisk sitting there, smiling at him, its pointed teeth slick with demonic venom. "Oh s"""," he murmured as the crocolisk's jaws opened and it snapped at his head. It was stopped inches from his face, by the elf dive-bombing into it. However, if it hadn't already been clear to Zul'jin that this strange elfin warrior was not entirely elf, it was clear now. There were golden, tendril like wings stretching out from her back, and she had attacked the crocolisk by air. Immediately, Zul'jin jumped up and backed away. He was entirely useless in a fight against the beast. Without a weapon, still dazed from being strangled, and against a demon possessed mammoth crocolisk, he was as good as scrap meat. Still, instinct told him running would only lead him into another monster; curiosity told him to stay there and see if the elf could handle such a powerful foe.

The crock roared, tossing and turning as the elf grabbed it around the neck, struggling in the mud for a moment. One of its clawed feet reached up, raking open her leg as she proceeded to get a perfect grip around it neck. Toothed jaws nipped her hair and yanked and she yelped, some of her hair getting pulled out. The demon possessed creature gave a powerful lunge and jumped on her lower body, its claws ripping into her abdomen. However, the elf had apparently found whatever grip and bones in the monster's neck she was looking for. She gave her arms a powerful wrench, snapping the creature's neck, and the demon-possessed crocolisk went still. The elf gave a hiss, shoving the creature off of her and groaning, holding the wound in her side. She stumbled to her feet, sloshing in the mud a moment, and then collapsed on the river bank, crawling up to a tree, her eyes closing.

Zul'jin eyed her a long moment, thinking to himself. Being an intelligent and rational (if slightly mad) creature, he was not as prone to acting out of pure rage and instinct like his brethren. Then again, Zul'jin did have the reputation for being the most cunning, brutal, and cruel troll to ever lead the troll war bands… Slowly he took a step toward the elf. Then, making up his mind, he walked over to her, examining her shining wings and her demon poisoned wounds. It was then he made the most random and least prejudiced decision of his entire life. He was curious, he had no idea what part of the Eastern Kingdoms he was in, and he needed to know what had happened to this world- and to his people. He did not want to help the elf- he had to. He had no other choice if he wanted to get back to his people.

Zul'jin picked her up unceremoniously and dragged her some way from the river. Her skin was hot to the touch, but not in a feverish way. It was more like the heat of a paladin. He figured she didn't need to be moved to a fire, so he knelt down and examined her wounds. Surprisingly, there were no bruises on her from his punches. Her hair was quickly growing back before his eyes in the patch that had been torn out by the crockolisk. The poisoned wounds in her side, however, did not seem to want to regenerate so quickly.

Finally, in an effort to stop the bleeding, Zul'jin united his cowl and wrapped it tightly around her wounded waist, and laid his hand over the wound, applying pressure. After around 15 minutes, she stirred, lifting her head. Her elvin eyes opened and she looked up at Zuljin and made a face.

Zul'jin was not a handsome creature. True, forest trolls were generally considered more appealing in appearance then island trolls. Thick, hard muscles rippled under their skin, and they did not stoop as much as island trolls. They were slender, tall, and unlike island trolls, their thick hair never thinned with age and they sported no facial hair.

Zul'jin's frame alone was a rarity. Rather than being heavy muscled, he was lean-muscled and sinewy. His fingers were long, slender, and powerful, his body slender and lean. His chin was pointed, his face slender and almost, almost elfin in shape.

But his skin was distorted, puckered, and bumpy, like a victim of fire or a skin disease. His eyes were like frog eyes in that they had no whites, and were almost as ugly as satyr eyes with red-orange irises. His tusks were both stunted, almost to the size of elfin fangs, having even been rotten some, he was covered in spider webbings of old scars, and his ears were ragged at the tips.

"You're damn ugly, you know that?" she said darkly.

Zul'jin grunted "You don't exactly look like a flower yourself." She grinned, spitting blood out to the side, and sat up slowly, looking down surprised at where the cowl was wrapped around her wounded side. She eyed him critically, half between a smirk and a scowl.

"Why the hell would you try to stop me from bleeding?" He assumed a mock-innocent tone, highly lacing it with sarcasm,

"Why, the thought of you dying stuck a delicate vibe in my heart." Her eyes narrowed and she snorted.

"You just don't know the way out."

He grinned, showing teeth which- though they had been taken good care of since the troll had learned hygiene would keep them from rotting- still had horridly stunted tusks.

"That might be, elf, but I still wasted my own cowl to keep you from dying, you disgusting elf."

"If that's your problem, take it back. You can suck the blood out of it, you cannibalistic worm," she said, and she untied the bloody sash, throwing it at him. He cackled, shoving it in the stream and getting most of the blood out of it. Then he looked back at her, wringing it out.

"What, exactly, are you? You cannot be an elf. You're as tall as one of the ancient elves… the ones I've read about in some of your elfish books-" she blinked, turning her eyes directly to his and staring at him.

"Elfin? You can read and speak elfin?" He grinned evilly, nodding lightly.

"Night elves, your people call them. You are as tall as a night elf, with the same color hair, but your skin is pale like a high elf. You're slender, like a high elf, but strong like a night elf. And you also have wings. Plus, you regenerate at an alarming rate. What are you?" She eyed him suspiciously a moment, but seemed to make a concession, as she was going to have to travel with him.

"I am an elf angel, an Avarial. The Demigod I serve sent me to watch over you, as stupid and bizarre as that might sound." The troll was dead silent a moment, and then burst out laughing, cackling madly, and she glared at him, looking ready to strangle him once more.

"An elf- and elf Angel? You, who can swear better than an orc?" He kept giggling madly and she grinned at him in a feral way.

"Why, thank you." He stopped laughing after a moment, grinning back evilly. Then he stood up, stretching his arms.

"I want my weapons, woman." She scowled lightly.

"Why should I give them to you, troll?"

"It seems to me that you're my guardian angel, not my jailor." He grinned down at her. She glared vilely, but she knew he was right. With a flick of her hand, the axe appeared in midair, the blunt end falling and hitting him in the head. He gave a sharp growl, rubbing his head and grabbing the axe before it fell to the ground. He glared at her and snorted, strapping the axe to his side. HE caught the bundle of throwing tomahawks as they materialized over his head, and tied them to his back.

"Are you satisfied?" she asked darkly. He gave a nod, picking up his cowl and getting the last of the water out of it before tying it around his face and neck once again.

"Are my people all truly dead?" he inquired as he did so.

"Yes," she said, without any bitter hate whatsoever. He glanced at her and then went back to tying the cloth.

"What was it that slaughtered them?"

"The Scourge, a race of undead monsters."

"Undead? What has happened since we departed from this world?"

"More than you can imagine," she said and then paused. "The Horde was ultimately defeated."

"I'd figured that."

"The Alliance entrapped the orcs in prison camps, where, suffering withdrawal from demonic blood, they became lethargic. Grom Hellscream led one of the few leftover bans of free orcs, but Ogrim Doomhammer actually went off to live as a hermit." She watched Zuljin lift a brow. "Thrall, son of Durotan, was taken captive by a human as an infant. Raised as a favorite slave, he was educated, and developed a good military mind. He escaped and met up with Hellscream and Doomhammer. Eventually, he freed the horde.

"Led by a prophet, he brought his people to the far-off continent of Kalimdor, home of the Night Elves. Meanwhile, in Azeroth, the humans began to die of a plague and began to be raised as undead. The Demons, having lost the driving force of the orcs, were now commanding the undead. Arthas, son of the human king, led a mad rampage against the undead… and eventually became one himself. Jaina Proudmore, daughter of Admiral Proudmoore, set off on her own. Using her powerful but young abilities, she managed to lead a large armada of her own people away from Arthas and Azeroth. Led by the same prophet, she too sailed for Kalimdor. There, both Thrall and Jaina made an alliance with eachother, and with the Night Elves, and they drove the demons and scourge from Kalimdor."

Zuljin eyed her, lips parted. "The Alliance… AND Horde?" she nodded.

"But many of them die each day. Hatred does not die quickly. The new Horde is composed of Darkspear trolls, orcs, tauran- mighty bovine creatures- and the Forsaken- a group of free undead.

Zul'jin was silent, watching her, soaking this information is. Then he asked, "Why would an orc and a human band together?"

"For their own survival." The elf smirked lightly. He nodded after a moment and then changed the subject.

"So, what am I supposed to do about all this?"

"Good question, troll, but you can't go back. You no longer have a people to go back to." He bristled, growling lightly. "So, you might as well come with me. You've got no where else to go. You don't even know where you are right now."

No, he didn't, but he wasn't about to confirm that.

"I know we are in the eastern kingdoms."

"Good. Then you know you are an ocean away from the relative safety of the Horde. How do you propose to get there without me?" His hands clenched tightly.

"How do you propose to be welcomed into Horde lands with open arms?"

"Oh that's easy, Zul'jin. I'm Half Night Elf, Half High Elf, and I'm traveling with a Troll. I must be a Mercenary." She grinned evilly at him. "Now come on, we have some serious hiking to attend to." Zul'jin sneered and grumbled to himself, mocking her darkly.

"And where, may I ask, are we going?" he inquired as she smothered the fire and put it out.

"An abandoned temple. It will increase my powers so I can easily create a portal to Kalimdor."

"Oh," he said venomously. "Goody."

He was beginning to regret stopping her from bleeding to death.

Elemental/Human
(End of The Frozen Throne)

The litch, Kel'thuzad, look silently down at the bundle of blankets before him. The tiny child swathed in them was silent, looking up at him with chaotically whirling eyes- changing from storm-like yellow, to frosty ice, to flame ridden red or blueish rain. Oddly enough, the small creature looked at peace, innocently gazing up at the monstrous litch before it without fear or distress. The litch tilted his head to the side, flame-blue eyes glowing softly in his sockets, idly wondering why the creature did not fear him. Any normal human child would shriek at his mere scent. This babe was slightly different in its lineage- as it was part elemental spirit- but that still did not explain its lack of fear. Maybe elementals had no fear of death. Tendrils of magic and ice leaked from where his legs would be- if he had still possessed such limbs, his skeletal torso and arms hovering the proper distance above the ground, and his tattered mage cape fluttered behind him.

The litch king, bound and one with Arthas, was pleased. This creature would be a beautiful weapon against demon and living-kind. But, both litch and litch king reasoned, it was far too young to become a proper servant of the undead now. They would have to wait until the child matured fully. This presented a problem: the child could certainly not survive on its own. Humans could raise it... But Humans tended to be suspicious of anything that was not human. A child with mysteriously changing eyes was no exception.

Some of Arthas's remaining personality showed through, and the litch king remarked that perhaps Kel'thuzad should raise it. The powerful servant of the litch king was not able to scowl in reaction to the litch king's 'command' (His soul and mind weren't his own, so he couldn't exactly dislike what the litch king bade him do). However, he was, ironically, one of the few undead capable of mirth. He laughed softly, amused.

"As you wish, my master," he said obediently, and 'knelt' beside the child. It made no protest as his claw-like fingers cupped around it and picked it off the ground. It tilted its head to the side, looking silently up at him, one of its tiny hands wrapping around his thumb. Despite himself, Kel'thuzad found himself giving a vague skeletal imitation of a smile (Which basically consisted of him baring his teeth). Bewildered by this impulse in himself, Kel'thuzad mentally went over what could have possibly stimulated such a response. Nothing came to mind.

"One day soon, little one," he murmered, watching the tiny child in his arms. "One day soon, you will know the glory of the Scourge... and you will fight for the will of the Litch King..." Kel'thuzad stood, looking at the remains of the destroyed Plagueland village. His troops were already siphoning gold from their small mine and hacking at the rubble to piece together a camp- a bastion of power in the Plaguelands. "But for now, you must grow strong, and for now I can be lenient with you. Let us find you something suitable to eat... And something to keep you warm..."

The blankets around the child were wet and slightly charred, so the litch sent out a few ghouls on a scavenger hunt. They returned with some useless, but dry, timber, some blankets that had not been caught in a fire, and a reasonable stock of human food and drink. At the litch's command they started a fire and scampered off to their normal menial tasks, and the litch sat before the fire. The child's tiny heart-beat, steady, slow, and persisting, was an irritant in his mind, and being near the fire was bothersomely hot. Still, he bore the irritation and, when all else failed, soaked a cloth with warm milk and let the tiny child suck on it. As he did this, he unwrapped the wet cloths from around it, revealing that the child was female. The litch smiled to himself, remembering the banshee queen Sylvanis, who he even now fought against at the boundry between the Plaguelands and the Undercity. He wrapped the new blanket around the small child and tilted his head to the side, watching it eat.

It was a frail, helpless creature, and he found himself watching it entranced. Its throat moved as it drank, its eyes closed and eyelashes soft upon its cheeks. He no longer cared for beauty. What entranced him was the fact that such a weak, helpless, flawed creature would fight so valiantly, so adamantly for its freedom. He could not understand the strength of humans. They were petty creatures, fighting over small grievances and caring for nothing but their own lives- as he, Kel'thuzad, had once been. They were driven by angry zeal to do inhumane acts, as Arthas did. Yet they banded together in times of war, took up arms, and their frail, flaw, easily ruined bodies fought tirelessly in battle. Adrenaline gave them strength. Passion gave them fuel. And they fought on and on and on to protect their greatest flaw- their freedom. And, more often than not, they won it. It defied all logic, all sense, that such soft, petty creatures could time and time again protect and save their freedom, their flaws, even against such all-mighty forces as the demons and the undead. It was as if all their flaws and freedom made them better then those races which HAD no flaws.

Her heartbeat was getting persistently irritating. It didn't fluctuate for anything. A ghoul's toe joint had gone flying past her head as it scampered away (Ghouls did not tend to hold together in the best of manners.) She hadn't blinked, hadn't even been phased as the litch effortlessly deflected the disgusting extremity. It wasn't like she was oblivious or retarded either, as she regarded everything with an undying curiosity. It was almost as if her tiny, half human knew he wouldn't hurt her. It was as if she knew he'd take care of her; and on top of that, she wasn't frightened of him in the slightest measure.

"You need a name," he said, regarding the child impassively as he thought for a moment. "Ketala Fiheriae," he dubbed her. "Servant of Ice."

Banshee
(Onset of World of Warcraft)

Sylvanis sat on the ledge bordering the walls of her 'throne room'. She was carefully tending her bow, cleaning it, inspecting the wood, polishing it, carefully examining each arrow and tossing away a few she felt were of inferior craftsmanship. One of her pointed ears twitched lightly as she picked up the sound of Varimathras's cloven hooves. She did not look up, however, even as he entered the throne room and came up to her. He bowed low, subserviently, one of his clawed hands to his chest in respect.

"My Lady," he said eloquently, not looking up at her. Sylvanis turned her attention to him and then shoved herself off the ledge, landing on the stone floor.

"Report, demon," she said softly, her voice laced with acid darkness. He stood, offering her a scroll, which she took and examined.

"The litch, Kel'thuzad, is taking the Plaguelands. Even now his forces sweep through those lands, crushing out pockets of resistance, and turning the entire landscape into a massive bastion of the litch king's control." Sylvanis sneered, nodding as she went over the map and notes.

"It is a diversion. Kel'thuzad and his master are trying to take my attention off Arthas and divert my strength to defending our base. By all rights, we should get up and move this very night toward Northrend!" She whirled around, gathering her quiver, shouldering it as she dropped the scroll unceremoniously on the ground.

"Dark Lady, be reasonable. That would leave us without territory, and with Kel'thuzad's army right behind u-" He cut off, being slammed into the wall with a dagger four inches into his shoulder. Sylvanis glared down at him, one hand at his throat, her nails digging into his skin and drawing blood. Varimathras's eyes widened and he cowered. "M-my lady- I didn't not mean to contradict-"

"Do not question me, Varimathras. Your advice may be welcome, but your dissent will not earn you peace from me. Remember who is master and who is servant." She looked down at the dread lord, who was averting his gaze from hers in a subservient way. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he swallowed hard. Sylvanis had long ago proved to Varimathras that vague humanity and pure, dark vengeance could work together to create more power than he had ever imagined. Varimathras had betrayed the Nathreziem to get Sylvanis to spare his life. He knew he would never have the courage to betray her. He respected her...And he knew full well his life rested entirely on her good humor. Sylvanis did not fool herself- Varimathras was an awesome asset to her power. But if he were to disobey her, she would kill him without the least bit hesitation. In fact, Sylvanis would kill him, right here, right now, if she felt the slightest desire to do so.

Satisfied by the demon's terror that he had learned his lesson, she pulled the blade from Varimathras's shoulder, and turned away from him. He turned his head to look back at her, and then put his mouth to his own wound. His saliva triggered the blade wound to seal as he drank in his own putrid blood. Then he gathered his feet under him and followed Sylvanis docily the short distance back to her scroll, which she picked up.

"I know full well that Arthas has the advantage. We cannot abandon this city. Thus we will have to work on eliminating Kel'thuzad. Killing him would be the greatest blow to the litch king's power that we could make in a single stroke." She turned, handing it to him. "Elaborate the plans for our defenses. Bring them to me when you have finished." She paused, looking off and thinking to herself silently. Then she smiled darkly at him. "I am going to give a few... visitors permission to come to our city. I suggest you stay out of their way. After all, they will only tolerate us to continue their demon-hunting campaign." Varimathras frowned.

"Outsiders? I could..." She eyed him dangerously, and he swallowed, making a small subconcious bow of his head. "I believe our forces could handle the Scourge without relying on outsiders..."

"This is a group that draws off the highest warriors from Horde and Alliance both." Varimathras froze.

"The Argent Dawn?"

The Banshee Queen nodded and smiled. "Keep out of their way Varimathras and do not start any quarrels with them." She turned and looked directly athim. "Do not dissapoint me Varimathras. I cannot afford to lose my chief counsel member, whether by their hand or by my own." Varimathras nodded obediently.

"I understand, Dark Lady." A soft, realistic smile touched her lips.

"Good. Now get out of my sight," she said with bitter amusement. He nodded, turning and heading for the exit. "Oh, Varimathras?" he turned, looking at her.

"Yes, my lady?"

"You look hungry. There should be plenty of prisoners still in the apothecarium that haven't been fed anything... abnormal... yet." Varimathras allowed a small, dark smile. It was an ironic thing, actually. Varimathras had once said to Sylvanis 'My lady, you become more and more like one of our kind each passing day.' While he saw this as an improvement in her power and cunning, it also made her cynical and angry. The more elfin she was, the less she was angry and the better her temper would be.

As long as her temper was good, Sylvanis would not take his life for petty problems. In essance, his survival relied upon how 'good' she was as opposed to how 'evil.'

Demon
(Continued)

The ironic thing was that Varimathras was loyal to Sylvanis. This began with having to fake loyalty to her to keep her from slaying him. But she was skilled, understanding how his mind worked. It wasn't till later that he realized she was a minor psionic, able to charm others like a Banshee possesses them. She knew when he lied, when he decieved, and she didn't like it. He killed for her, proving his 'loyalty' over and over again. Eventually it became more than just faking. Demons did not want him. They might offer to spare his life in return for him betraying Sylvanis, but he had commited too many grieviences against the Nathraziem. He knew their promises would all be in vain. And if he killed Sylvanis, not only would the entire demon race be out for him, but the Forsaken would have countless blades with his name on them.

Sylvanis was, awkwardly enough, his salvation. She held the key to his death and his survival. He was not safe away from her people, for he was hunted by demons. He was not safe amoung any other people, for he was hunted for being a demon. The only side he could possibly trade to would be Arthas, but the litch king had no real soul, no real life left within him. Sylvanis, as of yet, could still smile. With Sylvanis, there was still the small guarentee that she would not kill him without being provolked. Arthas would have no such inclination to spare his life after he had outlived his prime usefulness. Slowly, Varimathras had learned what it meant to be loyal- truely loyal. It stemmed from a sence of self-preservation, but it had evolved into fear, awe, respect, and loyalty.

There was nothing more he had to fight for but his own life. Sylvanis's good humor and her life ensured the longtivity of his own existance. Thus he bound his life to hers. He would defend Sylvanis to the last- just as he would defend his own life.

Varimathras walked into the prison just as an undead apothecary left. he smiled, moving up to a human female, and stroaked her chin tenderly. She cried hysterically for a few moments before succumbing to his demonic taint, almost like a seduction. Her sences went numb, and he bit into her neck, savoring the sweet taste of blood- something he was not allowed to near for long, extended periods of time. Sylvanis did not not let him indulge himself very often, so he made this feeding last. Ironic, he thought, that he now did this for nourishment rather than pleasure. Even more ironic that he'd made it so his victem felt no pain. Of course he did it to keep them from struggling and wasting their precious blood, but it was ironic all the same.

Undead
(During World of Warcraft)

PS: Keever is actually found in the Undercity. He's found in the room in the Apothecarium with all the prisoners. He can be found talking to himself in the third person, and turning a drowsy human man into a toad; a squirrel; a rabbit; and, finally, an exploding sheep.

Keever giggled to himself, watching the human male develope pipustles that leaked acidic fluid. It was a pity this plague needed to be induced directly into the blood stream. It could easily kill both undead and humans. They needed a more massive poison to expose the enemy with, something airborn that the Forsaken could keep from getting.

"Yes, yes, yes," he murmered, "Keever likes this. Keever must report it to others." Keever's voice was strictly telepathic, being that he had no lower jaw. Or lower throat for that matter. He had a strip of blood vessles and sinew and muscle, and he had a tounge that drooped down from his upper jaw. He was an undead, a minion of Lady Sylvanis, and an Alchemist. Then he gave his mutated equivilant of a frown, the tip of his tounge curling up and touching his teeth. "But why Keever give them the glory of finding airborn version of disease? They no give credit to Keever. They hate Keever." He pondered for a moment, skeletal hands tapping on the bars of the former human's pirson, watching the man slowly dissolve and die, and finally stop emitting acid. "Keever keep research to self to find poison? Might work... Dark Lady be angry?" he mused to himself, tugging the edges of his maroon-colored hair. Said hair was one of the only things that wasn't prone to falling off. Or out.

"Hey."

The undead lifted his head, looking at the new female that had been brought in as a specimen. She was rare in the Eastern Kingdoms, having mostly Night Elf lineage. However, as she was not human and had a subtly different anatomy from that of a human, she was currently useless to the apothecaries. They needed human test subjects. Without a human, they might as well just use a squirrel or a rat. Or possibly eachother. Her pale purple eyes were watching him with curiousity rather then fear. As all the other prisoners were crying and praying, this was a surprize to the undead. The corners of his mostly missing mouth twisted into a sneer, his tongue and throat muscles twisting and tightening.

"Keever thinks half elf would make splendedly pretty abomination," he taunted, his eye like a yellow coal.

"Erhm... thanks?" Keever tilted his ugly head to the side, decayed maroonish hair whispering over his skin.

"Half-elf say thanks? Keever no understand. Not afraid?" he murmered to himself. "Fool if not afraid."

"...I'd... really prefer if you didn't give me anything designed to maim, kill, harm and or otherwise destroy me." The undead looked at her, chuckling lightly, his throat muscles secreting some blood.

"Why Keever do that?" he cackled.

"I don't know... but I'd just prefer." Bewildered, the undead just eyed her. She was silent a moment, and then she slowly stepped over her cell-mate's body. She had learned to tolerate death and undead- she'd had to tolerate them to survive. Keever watched her curiously as she came up to him. She lifted a hand tentativly to his skeletal one, touching his pointed fingers. "I could talk with you if I remained alive, though. It must get lonely here." Keever grumbled lightly. "And the other undead don't seem to treat you very well." He sneered at this, grumbling to himself.

"Treat Keever like is... stupid... like can't understand." She nodded, moving her fingers tenderly over his decayed hand.

"Not stupid... Just different." He giggled, a hand shooting forward and gripping her throat, yanking her painfully against the bars.

"NO," he insisted."Not stupid. You think Keever not know? You think Keever not understand what you trying to do? Keep pleas for life to yourself. You care nothing for Keever." He threw her away from him, standing up and turning to leave.

"Well," she said, unphased, "You are the ugliest thing I have ever come across, but that can be tolerated. Despite how you talk, you sure as heck aren't stupid." He paused, eyeing her, and then left. Keever returned to his personal quarters, sitting down at his desk and leafing through a magic book. Beside him was a magical device found within the head of certain constructs. These golemns emited a toxic vapor that- if enhaled directly not far from the creature's head- proved to be lethal. Unfortunatly, this poison diluted quickly in air, but a poison was a poison all the same.

Mahi Mahi (Not the fish)
(Continued)

Keever was about as relaxed as a dead guy with some type of personality disorder, no throat muscles, and a severe irritation with not being able to open a magical box could be, when suddenly The cat hopped up onto his desk, sniffing his arm curiously. Keever started, surprized, and glared at The cat. The living- oh how he hated the living. Keever growled lightly through his decayed, half missing throat and sneering upper lip. Then he returned back to his studying, examining the magical device that he held in the other hand.

After some time, Keever grumbled to himself... He could NOT figure out how to open-. The cat meowed, nosing the box, and said box suddenly sprang open, unfolding into a smaller layer. Keever jumped, looking from it to The cat. He snorted at The cat, sneering again, but set the device down. It was now in a state he could break down... he would finally get his hands on that poison...

Human
(End of The Frozen Throne)

Demons ripped apart the seams of the world. Undead tore through defenseless villagers, cannibalizing their carcasses. A prince killed a king and sent a race into chaos. Orcs ran into the room like beasts, drooling blood and saliva. These mammoth green monsters stormed in, surrounding the one stable figure in the entire whirl. The Admiral stood at the base of it all, fending off undead and demons and orcs alike. And then a Mok'nathal's axe ripped into his back. A troll's staff cracked against his blade. In the distance, a Far Seer's lightning bolt punctured through his chest. Then the mad orcs backed off as a Human girl, a tiny slip of a creature a bit over five feet tall, ran forward to her father's dying body. He sneered as he saw her, knowing why he was dying. He knew the orcs had slain him...

Because she helped them in. The horror his eyes filled her with made her turn away, as she asked, weakly, why he wouldn't listen to her. She looked up to see the Mok'nathal- gruff but compassionate, nodding his head lightly in respect to her. The orcs were not beasts but beings in green skin. And the Far seer parted his lips as if he desired to say something. But the girl looked back at her father.

The Admiral was no longer there. A demon had replaced him, and it grabbed her, clawing at her, biting at her. The undead poured in, slaughtering the orcs and humans. They came to her, biting her flesh, ripping her apart, as demon and undead vied for possession of her dying body.

The Dream continued much this same way, until it was suddenly broken by Jaina Proudmoore sitting bolt upright in bed and screaming, shrieking at the very top of her lungs. Her eyes contracted to pinpoints and she whipped her head to the side, vomiting. Servants who heard her knew what was wrong. A Nightmare. The sorceress had gone through the same nightmare, every night since her father's death. Sometimes she had it twice.

When the weak and trembling Jaina Proudmoore, stubbornly rubbing tears from her eyes, slowly returned to slumber, her mind was already frantic and on edge. Another nightmare might have driven her mad right then and there. But instead she dreamt a memory... a vivid memory...

Dream
(End of Reign of Chaos)

Jaina hefted her staff, looking down at her camp. They were the survivors- those who had fought valiantly to prevent Archimond's ascent to the World Tree. They would return to Theremore soon, the island they had claimed as their own, and begin construction of their citadel. The Horde, Alliance, and Night Elves had formed a tenuous pact… hopefully it would last. Which reminded her… She needed to speak with Thrall… She needed to make sure that her people would be able to live safe and unmolested by the Horde. She would have to go alone, with no escort; she needed to be positive of the Horde's intentions. Jaina sucked in a breath, steeling herself against all the prejudices she'd ever been fed in her life.

Instead, she remembered Thrall's face when he realized that Grom had spread the blood curse to his people once more. She remembered Thrall's inner turmoil, remembered him begging her for any way he could save Grom without killing him. She had helped him, half bewildered. She'd never known that an orc could humble itself so entirely. He could not be a monster- not when he was so filled with life. He was almost… almost human.

Ironic, as from what she knew, the man who had raised him had been an advocate of the gladiatorial combats and had forced Thrall to compete. How could an evil man raise such a polite and intelligent creature? Thrall's finesse in battle was unmatched. More surprising was that his finesse in the normal languages, both in speaking them and in writing them, was almost unmatched.

Then, slowly, she started down the path to the orc camp. She notified the guard of where she was going to be, and insisted that no one be sent to follow her. To be assured she would be left alone, she teleported directly outside of the orc camp. Nervously she raked through several strands of her hair. Then, hardening her eyes and composure, she approached the camp. The guards looked at her a moment before letting her pass, bowing lightly. Jaina smiled softly and nodded back.

Jaina "I've come to speak with the War Chieftain. Tell me, if you would, where is he?" Both gestured to the War Chief's tent, and one of them offered in a guttural, barely distinguishable form of common, to escort her there. She was silent a moment and then nodded, following the orc into the camp.

Orc
(Continuation of the Dream)

Thrall was looking over the defensive plans for his territory, pondering to himself. He was startled as his wolf gave a sharp growl, back arching. Thrall looked immediately at the wolf and slowly eased the Doomhammer into his hand. He turned, watching the door, silent. "Warchief? Miss Jaina, the Human Sorceressis here to speak with you." The Orc War Chieftian blinked and frowned. He reached over and gently stroked his mount's back, soothing the massive animal companion. Then he turned, pushing aside the tent flap and looked down at the guard and the small sorceress. Jaina smiled weakly up at him. He nodded to the guard, who returned to his post, and then crossed his arms over his chest. The silence stretched for a moment and then he prompted her,

"You wanted to speak with me." Jaina nodded.

"I wanted to talk about... the safety of our individual peoples. To be entirely truthful- the safety of my own people." The orc looked at her a moment and then nodded.

"You want to be certain that I will not turn on you once this is over with..."

"Not so much that... I think... you are an honorable being... but will you stop your people from turning against us...? There has been... a long, long hatred between our two people. It would be... a change for the better, I think... if we could compel our individual peoples to cease that hatred..." Despite himself, he smirked lightly.

"Life is never that easy, Miss Jaina. But yes, it must begin with someone. We might as well try a truce now."

"I merely wanted to hear it from you." He blinked, lifting a brow. "Formalities are one thing. Hearing it directly from a leader is another." The orc tilted his head to the side as his massive mount came up beside him, sitting down and eyeing Jaina evilly. "

"We're constructing watch towers all along our western boarder. We should be able to stop any large disturbances from reaching your camp from that direction." Jaina blinked and her eyes widened.

"Augh, I completely forgot- The guards should be able to handle small things, but if there are any demon groups reforming around us-..." She tore nervously at her hair, looking tense and lost. The orc regarded her a long moment with obvious distaste.

"You surprise me, sorceress. Against Archemond you proved to be a skilled tactician. And now you are already planning poorly?" She blushed scarlet, but decided to speak anyhow.

"All I know of tactics I learned from listening to my father's stories as a young child. You must forgive me if men do not often boast of how they set up guards, but rather how they made stunning moves in battle. I am not a leader or a warrior. I am a mage. I'm trying to fill those rolls, but I'm sorry if I come short in a few categories." This seemed to be a soothing explanation, for the distaste quickly evaporated from Thrall's countenance. "Oh, if only my father could see me now... being beat out in tactics by an orc. He'd have a fit." She lifted her head, looking up at Thrall. "Fortunately, that prophet taught me something about forsaking pride. You have any advice on what I should do? I must warn you, at least half my men are drunk already." The orc War Chief found a grin on his face as he nodded.

"Indeed, Miss Proudmoore. I would be happy to educate you. Perhaps you can help me with a perplexing problem involving Infernals-"

"Just dump water on them, they go out like a light." He blinked and then turned a weird blend of red and green. Jaina grinned, covering her mouth. "It seems, Master War Chief, that you have evolved to such a high level of tactics you are now incapable of stupid, but workable, ideas. I, the irrepressible human, will aid you in the indevour of recovering such skills, if you would grace me with your infinite knowledge of the finer points of sustaining a camp." The red faded as the grin returned to the orc's face.

"You've got to learn to watch your mouth, little sorceress. A less intelligent orc would think that derogatory."

"Indeed. Are you a less intelligent orc?" He gave a light laugh, and gestured to his tent. She smiled and came up to him, following him inside. The wolf growled and she stopped short, looking at it. She lifted a brow and then growled right back. It, in turn, arched a brow and looked from Thrall to Jaina. Then it let out a yip and its tongue lolled out of its mouth, its tail wagging. Of course, it was now Thrall's turn to lift an eyebrow.

"I think he likes you."