reality deviant: The scenes from the previous were actually an excerpt from this chapter, as you'll soon see. Length-wise, this is still the prologue, so it'll jump around like this, but starting next chapter, each person gets whole chapters devoted to only one. As for the Cthulhu mythos, I've considered it, but I haven't read the works myself yet. I don't know if I will, though Sin de Rath's part in this hits close to it.
Note: On capitalization, since it jumps around in game sometimes (val'kyr/Val'kyr, warlock/Warlock), I've standardized it as race and class as lowercase, and organizations as upper. For example, Narelle is both a night elf warden and a sentinel, who is part of the Watcher division of the Sentinels. Sekara is a qiraji warrior and one of the Battleguards. Call me out on if it seems like I mix this up somewhere.
Prologue
Dusk
X Fallen X
"Alright, time to talk, Sekara. You've been antsy all day, and you're starting to worry me," Sin said finally. His companion swerved towards him in a quick motion and stared with her unreadable eyes. The whole day since they woke, she had moved in quick bursts, completely unlike before, and her head turned side to side ceaselessly like she was searching for something. The drawing and wave of her scythe-arm in a futile gesture was the final straw for him.
The qiraji woman flitted up to him then, landing close, and her head touched his in a quick motion, eyes wide. Sin felt the mental link form between them again, but rather than the gentle conversation of last night, she forced upon him memories again, with desperate thoughts.
A feeling blossomed inside his chest, something vaguely familiar. Far, far to the north, something had come, something... something like... Another memory slammed into his head, and Sin saw C'Thun, felt the old god tearing into his mind to levy commands. There was a certain sense of presence from the great master-queen-controller, and abruptly Sin connected the feeling with the presence from up north.
Last night, he was in the arms of Sin de Rath. Warm, safe, resting. Master-queen-controller-but-not came with abrupt presence, to the far north, and master-queen-controller-but-not demanded he come to obey. His brothers and sisters must go north and obey. Fear. Strong fear. He doesn't want to obey, he wants to live safe. The master-queen-controller ruined the Family. They should not expand. The brothers will join master-queen-controller-but-not. The sisters must be warned, must know that Outsider Sin de Rath is coming.
Fear.
Fear.
Fear.
Save us! Sekara screamed into his mind with her thoughts, and she tore her head away from his, breaking the link.
Sin gasped, clutching his head at the throbbing pain left behind from her implants. It was like maggots burrowing through his skull. "What... the fuck?" Master-queen-controller. C'Thun. Old gods. "There's... There's another old god? By the Light and Shadow, no! Where did it come from?" Sekara stared at him, her fear so obvious now. They had already passed the Scarab Wall.
With a growl, Sin forced himself forward without waiting for his head to clear. His hand came to her back beneath the wings, and he pushed her forward. "Let's go. We need to reach your sisters." He worked them to a moderate run, heading up the slopes to the temple and hive. Sekara kept pace easily.
XxX
When Sekara urged Sin to descend into the hive, he began to hesitate. He remembered the organic catacombs with warm, damp air and its musky scent, crawling with silithid and qiraji. His feet slowed to a stop at the threshold, memories tearing to the forefront all at once. Monsters of immense size, spitting acid and death from their chattering maws, springing from the ground and walls in sudden ambushes...
Armies clashed and ripped each other to shreds. Men were pulled away, limbs cut away by sharp mandibles and jaws, and bugs exploded as powerful spells impacted their bulging bodies. Everyone ran forward to the masters of these bugs in the desperate vie for victory, knowing the fate of Azeroth rested on their shoulders.
Gladiators smashed into their lines, throwing men aside, while Battleguards swooped over and decapitated allies with frightening ease. Arrows took some from the skies, but they weren't human. Those apparent unarmored bodies took spells and bolts like they were steel and flew off, hidden in the hive. They weren't human!
A noise, a tremble. Sin turned quickly, summoning up a powerful wave of shadow, but too late he realized it was beneath him. A silithid burst from the ground, bloated and hideous, and its gnashing jaws reached his throat. Pain, trauma – Sin saw his blood spurting around the pink strands of his neck as the bug pulled it out, then fell to the dirt. He tried moving and felt painful twitches of his body. His strength couldn't be mustered, and suddenly the warm air began to feel very... very... cold...
The trance broke when something tried pulling his hand. Sin started violently, and he saw the two nubs of a Battleguard's arms trying to pull at his hands. The scythes! They'd cut him apart in seconds! He threw his staff up, summoning demonic flames and the shadows of the void, about to end the bug's life in a millisecond.
He froze with the staff inches from Sekara's face. The green and purple illuminated that veiled face, the teal eyes wide with worry. Not human worry, he realized, but qiraji worry. He knew the expression from Sekara's memories. Yet, there wasn't fear. Not for her own life, not at his sudden explosion, and her eyes didn't leave his face.
Breathing hard with sweat creeping down his forehead and neck, Sin severed the spell he'd gathered and quickly aimed his staff away from her. He fell to a knee, trying to regain control of his breathing and heart. Still Sekara tried pulling him forward, down back into the hive that once claimed his life.
With weary eyes, he stared at the companion and suspected her again. So eager to drag one human into the enemy's domain, alone, with only veiled words and unproven promises. She could be leading him right into a trap, and he'd never know. Not even with a soulstone could he escape, either. They'd eat his corpse at worst, but at best, they'd catch him before he could make it back out.
Only a mad man would go down there alone. Only a mad man.
His aching mind throbbed again, and foreign memories jumped up again. Sekara's strong fear, her desperation and trust in him, the feeling of the old god to the far north. The world was not a safe place anymore, and everything she had given of herself told him she was willing to trust him to see both her and her sisters through it.
"Sin de Rath the Mad," he growled, standing up again. He was glad to be without his demons though, knowing the lack of control that Sekara's mind tricks were doing to him would make matters very dangerous for a warlock. He needed control, needed enough mental mastery and fortitude to resist the effects of the Battleguard's mind link.
In his mind, his emotions were cloaked in shadows. It was a trick taught to young warlocks to help master demons, to not lose themselves in the battles of dominance. He felt safer in shadows, knowing it was his place, and that he joined the creatures of night that also made it their refuge.
He had no way of knowing if Sekara or the Battleguards could be trusted apart from her implanted memories. Despite it all though, he took a step forward, past the hive's threshold, and committed himself to whatever horrors waited beyond. Time would tell if Sekara was genuine or if he really was mad.
XxX
"Are you alright?" Sin asked, dismissing Drooshon with a wave of his hand. The felhunter stopped its hostile advance towards Sekara and vanished.
Between him and the Battleguard was the fresh corpse of a Gladiator. It had snuck up on Sekara with surprising subtlety as she led them, and with no time to properly warn her, Sin had jumped on it with powerful attacks, summoning Drooshon in the process. With it dead now, Sekara nodded to him and turned in the air, wings beating fast.
Before continuing down the halls, Sin noticed the fast approach of something else from down there. He saw pink clothes on a flying figure much like Sekara and recognized her as a Battleguard, another one of those that he had come to help lead. Also noticing the woman, Sekara abruptly flew forward to meet her, and Sin followed at a slow trot.
The flyers did not slow as they came closer though, and Sin's brows furrowed. He broke into a full run when he saw Sekara's arm swing up into its mantis-style scythe and attack the other Battleguard. The second qiraji gracefully swung under, kicking at Sekara, then finished her spin to continue in Sin's direction.
He paused, frowning, while his hands tightened their hold over his staff. She could just be coming to meet him, but with Sekara's hostile reaction, he knew something was off. Perhaps warning him of the coming trap? Or perhaps the 'sisters' had joined the 'brothers' in Sekara's absence with the arrival of the new old god.
With that ear-splitting shriek of hers, Sekara darted after the Battleguard. Sin knew he needed to make a decision before either was close enough to kill him. To blast from the air Sekara or the new girl or both. Something struck his memory then, and he found out how to know which to trust.
"Sekara, STOP!" he bellowed, throwing all the authority and command he used over his demons into his voice. His lip twitched as, despite her agitation and restlessness, the woman that once called herself his fully devoted servant stopped herself in the air.
Well, it didn't make much sense that this other Battleguard would concern herself with his safety anyways.
Thrusting his staff forward, Sin unleashed a twisting spiral of shadow, then muttered a short phrase and dragged the crystal end from the ground to a sharp jab into the air. Flames erupted around the Battleguard, and her smooth flight jerked around at once – enough for her to not dodge his shadow spell.
The flaming insect woman was knocked back, and she fell from the air into the organic wall. Her body hit a glowing pocket of orange, popping it like an eyeball and spilling bright ooze over her ignited body. The Battleguard wasn't dead yet though, screeching with obvious agony, and he waved Sekara forward as he approached the detained sister.
Rather than come right for him, Sekara flew past the Battleguard, and with a sweep of her arm, decapitated her. Graceful in the air still, she turned to him and approached at full speed. Sin's eyes narrowed as he prepared himself for a sudden betrayal, yet Sekara dropped too low for the usual sweeping attacks and slowed just before she would collide with him.
For the last few feet, Sekara touched down to the ground. She ran the final steps right to him then nearly bashed her forehead against his. The link formed quickly between them as it usually did. Sin both relaxed himself, lowering his staff from its vertical block against her chest, and then readied his mind for her unavoidable assault.
But rather than thrust memories against his psyche, Sekara only sent thoughts over. Sister was with new-master-queen-controller-but-not and brothers. Would not listen that Outsider Sin de Rath has come for lead-safe-away-home expanding. Sekara wished to protect Sin de Rath from hostile sister. Deep sorrow and regret from me at betrayal. Sekara promised sisters could be trusted.
In the shadowed mind of a warlock, Sin found the bludgeoning thoughts easier to take. "It's alright. Thank you, Sekara, for not betraying me. Have all of your sisters turned to the old god?"
The all-mind was not complete in hostile sister's mind. Many sisters still wait for Sekara, but there is much fear. If Sin de Rath does not come soon, they will choose servitude to new-master-queen-controller-but-not. They will follow the... old god. Sekara- I want sisters to be Sin de Rath's servants. I like Sin de Rath.
What Sin's mind translated as 'Sekara' and 'I' from here had two feelings. The name was her face, her body – much like her regard for his name – yet other times she'd regard herself, something within, something... like the part of her that wasn't the servant. Sekara's will.
Somewhat experienced with the strange sensations now of her mind and talk, Sin managed to take it all with a sense of calm. "Then let us hurry, and by the Shadow, let your faith in me be well-founded."
X Ranger X
"Alright, everyone listen up," Thomas said, crouching down with the two dozen or so that offered themselves to help lead the masses. "Down this ridge is a demon base called Forge Camp Anger. Their forces are facing one way though and that's inland. Once we get past there, it's a clear shot nearly the rest of the way, and we'll be feasting in the Ruuan Weald by tonight."
Their eyes remained fixed on him, clearly eager for him to cash in on the promise of food. Shipments had stop coming to Sunfury bases years ago, with conjured foods only temporary sustenance and only Netherstorm's mana-beasts to eat otherwise, and they were down to their last rations. However, their exhaustion was obvious by how they didn't show much concern over this demonic hurdle.
"I've got a plan for how we can get by, but it's going to take some help to get all of us through. First we are going to need priests. There's a way on the outside of the forge camp that's hidden from sight, right at the edge of the world. To get to it though, we are going to need to climb on one of the spines and jump – with the help of the priest's levitation – onto a lower one a few yards below. I think we can manage it in groups of ten, with the priests leaving last.
"To do this completely unnoticed though, we are going to need a distraction. Find whatever rangers remain with you elves and send them to me. We will go first and sneak to the other side of the camp and wreck enough havoc to have their eyes all turned forward – and away from us. Once everyone is down, it's a clear run between the spine-wall and the cliffs of the camp for us, and we can cross the plains free of ethereals right into the forests, and that's the elves' domain."
Clasping the shoulder of a nearby Bloodwarder, Thomas said, "Hear that? You'll be back to the trees again, when we get through. Now, if you have any questions about this, ask now. Otherwise, get me those rangers."
"Will you really let us go free when we're through the Dark Portal?" one woman asked, grave. Her dead eyes were unflinching in their stare when Thomas looked over.
His nostrils flared as he stood from his crouch. "Those are not the questions I'm answering... but look around you, Bloodwarder. There's hundreds of you, and the men trust this group of you, not me. If we get through, I do not have the strength to stop any of you from just leaving or from killing me."
The woman stood as well, a silver haired and tan skinned warrior in heavy plate armor. With the eyes on her, she removed her gauntlets, throwing the metal down, and undid the buckles up the side of her armor before throwing it over her head. She knelt again to undo her boots and leg plates, then finished standing up, barefoot and wearing only the tight cloth underarmor.
"Many of us Bloodwarders started as rangers. You will have my bow."
XxX
"Go!" Thomas commanded quietly, waving his arm to the south. Around him, the rangers ran past, all blended with shadows to where he could see crusted earth through their bodies. Standing, Thomas drew and fired, taking a searching pursuer in the eye, then sprinted after the elves, calling the shadows over him as well.
He covered the rear, ensuring that no demons would reach them first. They all would fire while moving, but as they neared the spine wall, three of the elves stopped entirely, calling magic to their nocked arrows. The tips gathered flame, and they each aimed high. The exploding shots screamed high above them.
Thomas watched as the demons looked up, trying to find the sound, and then the arrows hit the ground far behind them with loud explosions and rings of flame. The war horn resounded with blaring insistence, calling the demons back to the lines. Gurgling and grunting, they turned from the pursuit and sprinted back to where the arrows had landed.
Standing from where he had crouched to be invisible, Thomas gained the eyes of the shooters and nodded to them. They nodded back, and together the group of them continued running to the the cliffs, where they found the lower ridge already packed with the refugees. They slid down to rejoin them and received quiet cheers.
Thomas made his way back to the lead of them.
XxX
The music and celebration was distant from his perch, though Thomas was sure everyone in the forest could hear the commotion. Perhaps it wasn't best to rest at the edge of the Ruuan Weald. Peering into the thorny canyon, his eyes could make out the shapes of ogres. So far none had noticed his army residing above them.
Once he finally gave the word that they could stop and make camp, the elves had thrown themselves into the construction, suddenly rejuvenated. Their enthusiasm and spirits had raised with every step through the forest, until some had raised song as they marched. Elven song seemed somehow natural in the woods, normal as the chirping of birds.
He left them to themselves though, escaping to the thorny cliff and climbing down a spire. For hours, he had sat at that edge, precariously balanced over a long fall and watching over the ogre territories. They were the only threat out here, with the elimination of the Wyrmcult some time ago. His thoughts preoccupied him the whole while as he watched the sky darken to the Outland true night and heard the elves come to life behind.
Game had been caught, berries and fruits foraged, and fresh water drawn from nearby springs. For the first time in too long, the blood elves found joy. They ate full meals and bathed away months of grime. Like the phoenix they had taken as their symbol, they were reborn, and they had no qualms against letting it show. They deserved it, Thomas felt, and so kept away.
As he watched from ahigh, something made his lips turn up in a brief, fleeting smile. He said softly, "If you've come to put an arrow in my back, you may find yourself disappointed."
Silence and a passing breeze followed the comment, until a woman's voice said, "It's true then. You have received ranger training."
There was six of them, the closest already standing on the spine behind him. He spoke without turning: "Only one human has ever been trained to be a ranger, and I am not him."
"Yet you perceived me from twenty paces," she insisted.
"Thirty paces, and the oaf with the chicken breath since the treeline," he clarified.
He could hear them shifting around, probably to stare at the man in question. A soft, masculine laugh followed. The woman spoke again, voice hard, "You were trained. You cannot deny you've played the Game of Foxes."
Thomas himself laughed, pushing himself up to a crouch on the rock limb. He faced them now, seeing bows in hand yet no arrows nocked. "It was a game of touch, the kind for children to play. Humans aren't allowed to be rangers. I was taught nothing."
"You don't work shadows like a rogue, and you left no touch in the forest. Those eyes of yours are human, but I witnessed your shots with a bow. No human performs like that – no elf performs like that – without ranger training. I bet if we were in the forest right now..." She left it hanging.
Thomas' lips quirked in a smile. "Do you want to play, elf? To tussle with foxes? You want to see how I measure up against full rangers as a human?" The woman's green eyes were narrowed, wary, while the five behind were very lax. She was a redhead with her hair pulled back in a bun, wearing tight leathers that didn't creak – the joints were cloth – and a stern expression like the rogue trainers Thomas had been disciple of. "I will play, but you will find I am no fox."
One of the men stepped forward, a lean blond sporting an amused smile, and he stayed the woman with a hand on her shoulder. To Thomas, he said, "We are not here to judge you, only to confirm. If your training saves the lives of our people, then each of us are glad for it, and you're ability... we haven't seen its like since the Windrunner's."
The redhead though pressed, "We'd like to know who broke their oath to train you though. It is a simple curiosity."
"Again with questions," Thomas sighed, giving her a flat stare. "You want proof then, blood elf? Rangers are known for their affinity with nature. Take from me my mana, all of it, and see how well I use it to touch nature."
She glanced to her companions, who shrugged, then looked back at him with a furrowed brow. Raising her hand, she pulled at his core, withdrawing his mana to feed her carefully contained addiction. Barely a blue wisp escaped his chest and vanished. Her eyes went wide, and she stuttered in astonishment, "Im- Impossible!"
"I couldn't tell even the direction of the wind with my mana reserves," Thomas informed them simply. "Even if there had been a ranger willing to break his oath, to devote himself to training a human, I could never join the ranks of you. I'm as vanilla as humans can get. Now relieve yourselves of the sanctity of your order and go rejoin the festivities while they last. The time to march will come again, and we will have to leave the forest."
Slowly and without another word, the rangers withdrew, and Thomas sat again at the edge. His eyes narrowed as he watched the ogres again, while his thoughts turned inward. He hadn't tried being subtle; he'd actually been quite open about his abilities when he led them against the demons. Despite it all, he'd forgotten the elven pride regarding their rangers.
The conversation though reminded him of his younger years, always spent in the forests. The chases through the woods, the games of shadows and sound, paranoia and childish fun. He'd never been fast enough, never quiet enough, always reaching and reaching without ever grasping that fantastic skill and expertise. Humans couldn't be rangers, was the empty promise he'd always received.
Wherever you are, you better not get yourself killed before I come back.
X Beacon X
"You sure you're in the right place, crusader?"
Malthon looked over his shoulder to the gruff innkeeper. Already he could sense Jayce's response to the welcome. The Scarlet forces, either Crusade or Onslaught, weren't known for reason, nor were they regarded warmly by anyone outside their close circles. With his hand laying an alleviating touch on the paladin's wrist, Malthon greeted the Wintergarde man:
"Peace, friend. I promise you'll have no trouble from us in our passing. Just looking for a few more horses for our men, then we will be far to the north."
The keep gave them a cockeyed stare, but Malthon was sure he noticed the lack of tabard over his polished breastplate. Behind them were sixty men, most mounted, and a mix of Argent Crusade and Scarlet Onslaught tabards with other unclaimed. Hanging at the inn door was a burly fellow with a stout club, easily the keep's bruiser, but by the stares of other citizens and some soldiers, it was clear the keep was only the voice of the common opinion.
No blame or judgment upon them. History had given no reason to trust the Scarlets, and even the Argent soldiers were becoming only a necessity of the past. The righteous fury in their hunts of the undead, the eagerness of such long bloodshed and wars, painted a dark mark over the nobility of paladins. He hoped one day to see them restored as holy soldiers and hands of the Light, both in action and in men's hearts.
"You got gold?" the keep asked finally, spitting tobacco juice onto the ground carelessly. Jayce's coiled tension was obvious.
"Indeed, friend. Lives hang in the balance, but we will pay honest prices for all our needs," Malthon told him.
"Not too sure what your idea of honest is, but go see Skinny Jec, over that hill and to the right. Big shop with the bleeding mare. He'll get you your horses." With a disregarding wave, the keep backed up, as if to let them pass.
"Blessings upon you." Malthon waved them forward, nodding thanks to the innkeeper.
As they began moving in the direction, the innkeeper spat again and mumbled a curse. Malthon paid him no mind until the man called out, "Hey you paladin. Where you heading in these damned lands? We hear the king is dead."
"Icecrown Glacier," he said, noticing the flinch from some of the listeners. "A few towns of men have been left without hope in the chaos. We hope to reach them in time, Light willing."
The keep scratched his ear, looking at the bruiser and raising his brows in gesture. The tough gave no reaction, but the innkeeper rounded back upon Malthon suddenly, so he raised his hand to halt the men again. With a final black spit, the keep said, "The trouble be mostly done around here, but Northrend is the land of creeping rime, as they say, and it takes good men to stand in it. The way its told, up north the war isn't rightfully over, and I respect those that try and make things better up there."
Still scratching his ear and not meeting Malthon's eye, he mumbled, "Don't go to Jec. He'll cheat you blind and give you swaybacks and glass ankles. Go down the hill, last shop at the north end of the wall. Hetzen's stable. Good man with fine horses and fine prices, can't miss it."
Malthon clasped his shoulder in passing. "The Light blesses those that do what they feel is right. Thank you, friend, and may your days be lived out safely."
As they strode away, Jayce looked back with a dark glare. "He intentionally tried to lead us to a cheat! Peasant ought to be hanged for trying to impede men on mission of this magnitude."
"Can you blame him?" Malthon asked calmly. "Listen to yourself. You treat those without the Light's blessings with contempt and a presence of violence if they don't bow like you're a king. Against such superiority, they can feel only fear and hate. What you all seem to forget is that we are mere servants of this world. We are the hands of the Light, to shine the way for the people, and we have been blessed with power to fight if our hands are forced."
"Those mild manners and slow actions are what let the Scourge roll over us in Lordaeron. Let the people walk all over you, and what's to stop the enemy from doing the same?" Jayce demanded. His face was thin and composed of sharp angles, though perhaps of handsome disposition, and presently his intense, dark eyes were fixed forward, glaring at the ground. Black hair was tied back in a ponytail.
"And without allies behind you, how far did you get?" With a smile, Malthon added, "Perhaps you'll understand in time, old friend. Provided you stand by your word not to act without my permission."
That had been his one term for the Scarlet crusaders' addition. Knowing their inclination for (usually) overzealous and fanatical action – and with Jayce's reluctant admission that the Scarlet Onslaught might have gone too far in their methods – Malthon had the score them and Jayce swear oaths to not act out without his approval, for as long as they rode with his paladins. Only because of their old friendship as Knights of the Silver Hand together did Jayce agree.
"I care more about my people than my pride, Lord Eyenhart. We are with you until the day your leadership hinders that goal." Jayce glanced at him as the hill leveled out, turning left down the road that touched the wall. "May that day never come."
"May that day never come." Malthon repeated. After a pause, he exclaimed, "Bah, 'Lord' makes me sound old. We were friends once; call me by name."
"You never did put much stock in military discipline, did you?" Jayce mentioned with a touch of reproach.
From behind, their one gryphon screeched obnoxiously, and both men glanced back. Just a proud bird being stubborn, they saw. To the red-armored paladin, Malthon admitted, "For soldiers I did, but not brothers. Come, let us get our horses and be off."
Land of the creeping rime, the keep had said. The phrase held a certain aptness that fascinated him.
X Underdog X
"Come on," Drekthac encouraged, mouth wide with his grin. "Just say it. He's a complete and utter bastard." He set down his mug, leaning forward intently.
Leyanna's blue cheeks were dark with her blush, and her eyes tried looking anywhere but his. When she wasn't chewing her lower lip, it was trembling with the effort. Finally, she started with a stutter, "He's... he is... H-he..." Drekthac's eyes gleamed with amusement. Finally, her eyes met his, and she gasped, "He's a complete and... and utter bastard!"
With a bellow of cheer and laugh, Drekthac smashed his mug against hers, then tipped it back to drink. The almost maroon faced nymph quickly hid her face behind her frothing cup and drank in a long serious of small sips. His eyebrows rose when she gently set an empty mug down, fizz running down her lips and chin.
"See, that's not so hard," he told her. A quick and guilty smile passed her lips as she looked back at him. He still beamed at getting a nymph to curse. "You can be damned sure that anyone who wants to rape you, or eat you – or even both! – is a downright bastard, and you should have no hesitations in calling him out over it, you got that?"
"If one of my sisters heard me, I'd die of shame," she exclaimed, but those pink eyes of hers hardened. "He does deserve it though! Smelly, mean-faced, ugly, flower-trampling, brute-handed..."
She struggled with a word to finish with, so Drekthac supplied, "Goat-fucker?"
"Goat-fucker!" she agreed with a shout. Drekthac roared again, slapping his knee as he laughed and drank. Realizing what she said, Leyanna's blush returned in a rush, and she covered her face with her hands. He still made out her smile and giggle.
Filling her mug again, Drekthac said, "I'm not so sure I should let you go free now. Your sisters would run you out of the glade for sure with that mouth."
Leyanna gave a small groan at the thought, quickly gathering her ale and drinking again. After she set her cup down, she pointed her finger at him accusingly, "You no good, foul-mouthed ogre-man! You are the reason we don't allow outsiders near our glades."
"Afraid we might let your true selves show?"
"No, that you might corrupt us to your brand of barbarism!" She pouted, then realizing she still had drink on her face, she wiped it with one hand and burped.
"Ah, but a good woman needs more than a pretty mouth," Drekthac argued, peering over at her with his dark eyes. "Has to have that passion, that fire, deep inside her, and if it never shows, she'll just get boring. It will be a lot more fun if you curse with me."
"But I thought you didn't want me to be your woman," she said, with a hint of question. A touch of rose remained with her cheeks from the alcohol now.
"Doesn't mean I won't see you off as a lean, mean, tongue-lashing machine when you go," he said and winked. "Plus, I have to deal with all your sass until then; might as well have it my kind of sass."
"Oh yes, that will be me. Leyanna the Stonehand, gruff and tough and ready to crack some bear skulls. Don't mess with her, she'll tan your hide with tongue or hoof!" She folded her arms before her and gave him a cute glare.
Drekthac laughed again and filled both of their mugs again from the casket. "If that were the case, I doubt I'd let you go at all. Nothing like a dainty whip of a nymph bruising her way through a town of vrykul. The Whelp and his fire-breathing woman: Leyanna Oakensteed."
Unable to help it, Leyanna giggled and drank again while rolling her eyes. When she set the mug down, she admitted, "I am glad, you know, Drek, that I got to meet you. If you weren't living here, I'd like to come back to see you again."
"Now that's the drink in you talking," Drekthac downplayed, waving her off.
Leyanna leaned forward intently. "I'm serious! You aren't at all as mean as you pretend. And that Gardjon deserved a good thwacking for what he did."
"So you'll help me stick his head outside my door in a couple days when I kill him?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. Leyanna hesitated, opening her mouth and closing it again, and he smiled softly. "Don't push yourself. I'm not downright evil, but we live in different worlds with different morals. At our very center, I love violence, and you are utterly repelled by it."
Leyanna frowned into her cup and pouted again. "A big meany, that's what you are. Even bears just need a good thump on the noggin to calm down. Only the mortals races enjoy being bullies."
"I might get you to curse, Leyanna, but I'll never try to have you favor bloodshed and combat like us. I never want you to understand the thrill of it."
The serious remark had her stare at him intently for a long moment. The alcohol had obvious influence over her, but surprisingly the nature girl was no light-weight. She still could think and act clearly. "Is that why you want me gone so soon?"
Drekthac stalled by drinking. After, he slammed his mug down and grinned broadly. "I want you gone, lass, because you're here eatin' my food, drinkin' my ale, takin' my space, and what do I get for it? Certainly not a tumble in the bed. Not some company for the cold nights. Sooner you're out, the sooner things go back to normal."
Leyanna immediately pouted.
They drank and spoke for hours more, deep into the night, before they were nearly falling out of their chairs. Drekthac managed to call it quits there. By that point, Leyanna was in her elven form from a prior dare and helplessly drunk. Had it been anyone else, he might have taken her to his bed and tried his chances, but even at his worst, he refused. Gently, he lifted the shape-shifted nymph and carried her towards the straw bed she slept in.
On the way, Leyanna mumbled, "You'rrrrre wrong, ya'no. Yoouu are so... wrong." Drekthac smiled at her slurs, but she continued, slowly trying to poke his chest as he carried her. "You care about... about muh. Care about muh and you're dun wanna show it. You're a good man, but... but fierce. Like a dragon!"
"You are so wasted," Drekthac told her.
"I am so wasted," she agreed, bursting into a giggle as he gingerly laid her down in her bed. His wound wasn't entirely healed, so he was sure to be careful. When he tried drawing away though, Leyanna quickly grasped his drake-skin vest in a tight grip, pulling him back. "Nuh you don't. Yooouuu... You said yuh wanted company at... at... at, um, night! So yoouu are staying here... Maybe no tumbling though, cause I might barf."
Drekthac looked down at her, seeing the nubile nymph so scandalously dressed and vulnerable. Just that loose, metal girdle covered her modesty, and essentially... her chastity. In this form, she was of prime interest to him. Shaking himself from the quick temptation, he told her, "I doubt I'd be able to hold myself back." He touched her cool blue forehead with his palm and muttered, "Sleep well, Leyanna."
She mumbled back, eyes already closed. Fighting the heavy drudge of alcohol with practiced ease, Drekthac turned away and made his way to his own bed.
XxX
"It is good to see you so well despite your prior wounds, Dragon. I hear you have blood match with Gardjon in two days hence," a mellow voice greeted from the side.
Drekthac didn't bother looking, knowing already who was there. A radiant val'kyr, of pale and transparent skin. She would be sporting white, feathered wings with the usual eyeless smooth helm, the small, bird-shaped breastplate, and bottoms that were outlawed from public view in all major Alliance cities.
"And I hear val'kyr don't take to casual acquaintance with individual warriors, Freydis," he returned, taking a long sip from his water cup. His head still pounded, but he refused to start a day with a heavy drink. Leyanna refused to rouse from where she had passed out, but he'd left three cups by her bed for when she woke.
The morning air was crisp and freezing, and the sun shown beautifully in the colorful sky of lights, with the snow reflecting all of it. There was a crunch as Freydis left the air and touched the ground with her feet, like the vrykul she once had been. "Perhaps it is your hubris over-assuming my returned presence."
He smiled, taking another refreshing drink, then finally glanced over at her. "Shall we go inside and let you rest your wings a bit, grab some food? Might not need it, but you still taste. It's been too long."
Her own lips quirked in betrayed amusement, but she declined with a curt shake of her head. "I'm afraid time presses, even for me. Are you well though? I see you are upright, which is good, but with Gardjon's insult, have you received trouble lately?"
"I'm fine. Eager for the match, in truth. Bastard has been a thorn since I got here. It will feel good to have it dislodged," he told her, leaning against the rail that separated his raised property from the short drop.
The val'kyr nodded. "I wish you good fortune and glory in the coming battle, and I expect to hear the Dragon's roar from our halls in Ymirheim. Also, I congratulate you for another great victory in the Underhalls tournament... You know, your name has been called for the next Valhalas. You would do well to enter this time and stamp your name across the vrykul histories, forever remembered for your greatness."
"Phaw!" Drekthac grumbled, turning away. "This again. I said I'd think about it, Arbiter."
"I merely want your greatness properly recognized. From me, Dragon, who assists in overseeing the tournament – know that if you fought there like you do in the Underhalls, you will win it all. The Gates of Ymirheim will open for you, and glory and women will be yours. And I will be there, in the Val'kyr Halls, waiting for you too." One large hand engulfed his shoulder. "You have lived no simple life, human who stands among vrykul, but you are not the type to be content with complacency."
After a brief squeeze, her hand moved away. Drekthac noticed his cup was empty and sighed, turning back to look at her face. "You've been a dear friend to me in this great experiment, Freydis. After the impression the vrykul left upon me with their honor and pride, I knew it might be possible for me to live here, but without your interventions and advice when I first stood as a slave fighter in the pits... I have a great debt to you, and I trust you."
"And I wish for you to stand as great as you should. Reconsider Valhalas, Baelin, and undergo a true challenge. I will sponsor you."
A brief silenced settled in following, until Drekthac asked, "Is Ymirheim truly all that they say? A city of champions, every man and woman a victor of Valhalas, where strength takes precedence to race, size, and history? Where once accepted inside its gates, they welcome you as a comrade and brother for all time?"
"With a bit more of a vrykul edge to it, but essentially, yes," she answered, smiling. Ymirheim, one of two cities that the invading small ones couldn't trump no matter how big or strong their armies were. Jotunheim was the other, but there had been no open war here like the one that had spilled oceans of blood outside Ymirheim's gates.
Finally, Drekthac decided to cave in for her, if just an inch. "Give me your word that you'll join us for my victory feast over Gardjon. I'll have an answer for you then."
The val'kyr spread her wings and gently lifted into the air again, signaling it was time for her to go, but she vowed, "I will be there, Dragon, but first you must win. Remember that Gardjon will fight with less honor than most."
"It's the Underhalls, darlin'," Drekthac reminded with a wink. "There is no honor there."
X Fallen X
He was mad. Definitely sun-touched, village simpleton, fresh from C'Thun's breast mad.
One hundred qiraji Battleguards were stretched out before him, hovering in their huge assortment of colorful harem-cloth, tanned skin, bug parts, and narrow, bright teal eyes. Every single one of them faced him, with not a single layer of protection but a thin robe and Sekara beside him. The worst of it was the noise. A hundred wings beating furiously into a tremendous buzz that was amplified by the tight organic walls around them in the cavern. It was like being an ant in a nest of bees.
At least he didn't look pants-shitting scared. Barely, he clung to the warlock shadow trick and kept his emotions under control, and somehow the hood masking his face from view gave him some relief. He had the appearance of aloofness, which might make him seem a bit more credible than a simpering coward. He felt sure though that Sekara was shoving her memories of her time with him in all their heads anyways, so they'd know the truth of him despite it.
The psychic exchange went on for some time, Sin found. At first it was maddening, and then eventually it grew boring. He found a mushroom-shaped protrusion from the wall and sat, laying his staff across his legs. He wished he had some idea of what they were discussing or arguing about, though he felt sure if Sekara had linked with him during this, his mind would have been ripped to shreds by their way of communicating. He just hoped that the way some peeled out their scythe-blades and retracted them was an idle action, like scratching one's chin. Yes, that made sense.
He estimated it was an hour in when Sekara finally turned away and flew to him. He stood up with his staff in hand as she landed and gently brought her face close to his, building up the link until the final moment it solidified when her forehead touched his and his eyes closed. With the familiarity of experience, he better recognized the jumbled steps of its establishment, making it overall easier.
Her foreign thoughts floated up into his mind: We are ready to follow Sin de Rath.
That was it. All the waiting, and she was ready to break the link with just one sentence. Sin's hand stopped her, and their foreheads remained touching. "That's it? You were discussing this for at least an hour."
The all-mind has been established. The sisters are loyal to Sin de Rath. All sisters are your servants. Strong pride colored her thoughts. How odd that he recognized it more like a facial expression than a tone of voice. Books upon books could be made involving study of the qiraji communication alone.
Again though was that word servant. It was a word only in his mind. From her, it was the collective wills in his hands. Their bodies, their actions, their everything was entrusted into him to control. The suggested possibilities trailed the thought like camp followers after armies. Everything they knew was his to know, his desires theirs to fulfill... like they were his own hands, and all of them together one entity. One entity – himself.
Sheesh, wasn't he just supposed to be leading an exodus of them from here? Or was he truly replacing C'Thun?
"And the old god?" he pursued. The all-mind, he assumed, was something like a consensus, a unanimous agreement between their minds. To take an hour to reach it, he assumed there must have been heavy debate centered around who to give themselves to.
Master-queen-controller built us to greatness but also led us to ruin. Some thought master-qu... Some thought new old god might build us up again, but ruin is sure to follow new expansion from all-flesh-men. We believe Sin de Rath's... constant migration will be best for the sisters. If the old god comes for us, the all-mind will not be easily broken, and we will fight.
Light and Shadow, Sin knew he better be fully aware of what he had gotten himself into. He just inherited an army, one that the known world despised and a new old god would be interested in taking. A fully devoted army of warrior women, made by C'Thun, that trusted him to keep them safe.
And literally, he could do whatever he wanted with them. Become a traveling lord and his caravan of harem girls. A general on the march against the new old god, seeking to redeem the qiraji. A hermit who hides with them under a rock. The coward that abandons them in Un'Goro to fend for themselves. By Sekara's description, they would do anything he asked.
Sin needed a plan. He may be mad, but he would see things through, as he promised. To Sekara, he asked, "Can any of your sisters talk like Sartura?"
The quick thought of affirmation didn't need to be translated. Sekara lifted her head from his and turned to face the buzzing horde. Just before the link broke though, Sin felt a strange bubble of warmth – affection? satisfaction? joy? – sneak through her thoughts. There might be some insectoid hive-mind going on between them, but there was certainly some sense of individuality in there.
A few seconds later, three Battleguards broke from the mass and approached. They stopped before him and Sekara and hovered. He felt it was impossible to tell them apart with their faces so veiled, but their clothes were two blue and a white, to separate them from Sekara's pink. Inclining his chin towards them, he asked, "You can speak Common?"
"Yes, Sin de Rath," the white hissed. Her voice was quiet and reluctant, and it was clear she struggled with the words. "Ressact is the best at tongues, but Nzeeka and Soutine have the ability." Her nub gestured at the two others.
Thank the Light, Sin thought to himself, relieved. He found her accent interesting though, detecting how she was converting the screeching voice Sekara demonstrated to intelligible words. The hiss, he felt, was inevitable to remain coherent. "Alright, Ressact, Seraka told me you've agreed to following me out of this den and through the desert."
"And to wherever Sin de Rath tells us to follow after," Ressact agreed.
He nodded. "I need information first, about the qiraji. This organic hive you live in now, is it something you can recreate elsewhere, to live safely despite weather?"
"No, Sin de Rath. The silithid are our builders. A queen could construct a hive too, but we are young, unable to reproduce. However, Sekara showed us your blanket to keep away the cold. I think... humans are like the qiraji, and your survival methods can keep us alive like it does your race," she answered. Her words grew bolder as she continued speaking.
That confirmed to him that Sekara had implanted her memories in their minds, at least. For the exodus, he felt he might not have been too far off with the caravan idea. Tents, blankets, and supplies would be needed to ensure their survival after hive-hopping through Silithus. With their wings though, he doubted each could carry much weight.
"What is your requirement on eating? Is it just soft foods and liquids, or must you feed on specific qiraji foodstuff?"
"We are natural omnivores, but Battleguards have no jaws or teeth to tear food."
Sin smiled slightly. Now he was able to get somewhere, and without the harsh headache Sekara would force upon him. "So food, drink, and shelter are standard and easy. And if Sekara is example, it all comes out the same way too. How do you take injury though? Can a wing regrow if its ripped off?"
"Yes, around three weeks to regrow a wing to functional levels. If we lose one, we can fly with only three while we wait, but with two wings we can only flutter briefly, like long hops. We shed and regrow carapace too." For the last, she tapped the black marks visible on her legs. "The silithid spun our clothes to look like humans, but we can take them off, if you prefer."
"Keep them on," Sin told her, biting his cheek as they flushed. He couldn't deny his curiosity for them though. "Perhaps if we have time later, I'll tell you about the human's ideas of modesty. For now, what about the helmets and breastplate, and those pincers on your shoulders?"
"Armor," she said simply, pulling it off her head between the nubs for example. Like he had seen with Sekara, black hair was tucked underneath, and she put the helmet back on. The pincers flexed forward and back next. "These are vestigial limbs, from before our Change by our former master. They are attached very weakly and fall off without much pain. They do not regrow."
"Do any of you know magic? Healing spells?" he asked.
After a moment of silence, Ressact said, "We do not. We fight with our arms and regrow if we are hurt. That is the extent of our ability."
Sin had to make sure his questions remained on topic, though he was bursting with curiosity. Did they love and hate? What do qiraji do with spare time? Were there relationships or only the Family? Morality? Hobbies? Attraction? Ambition? Just how human were they? But none of it mattered to their survival, so he abstained.
He followed with: "You are independent of the silithid, correct? We don't need to take any along with us, right?"
"We have adapted with them, but we are independent."
"And is there anything we need to take then? Something besides food and water that I don't know about?" Ressact shook her head like Sekara would. "And you are all ready to leave right now?"
"Any time Sin de Rath asks, we are ready," she told him in that soft voice.
"Good." He paused then pensively, and faced the entrance to their cavern. "But first we are going to need some supplies, maybe some carrying power. I've got a gamble in my mind, but I know where we can find both."
Out in the desert, there were the natural beasts, the silithid hives, the night elf watchers, and... the cultists, eternally trapped here by the night elves. Many would have died at this point, years since the defeat of their armies and master, but that would leave tents, bedrolls, and other necessities in abundance. The remaining cultists too would be wearied yet desert hardened, strong and tough as leather, and most of all, they would be desperate to leave.
The elves would never let the qiraji Battleguards leave, and a troop of this size would be near impossible to pass unnoticed. But with the right strategy and man-power, and a little help from dark hands... Abruptly, he remembered Sekara mentioning that the old god had called upon the qiraji to rally to him. The brothers – the qiraji Gladiators – would eventually make their own break for freedom, without the protection of the Scarab Wall to hold them in. Would they risk taking the remaining queen too, or would the old god have that covered?
Turning to face the buzzing horde again, Sin de Rath smiled. Perhaps being sun-touched came with a load of fun. "Alright, we've got a lot of work to do, ladies. I'm going to need eyes, hands, and mouths. I'm going to need you with me, Ressact, but you two, do whatever mind-trick you can to start teaching some of the others to speak Common. If any of you can manage stealth, I want you to start observing the brothers. Get a silithid to spin you clothes that will help you blend in.
"Sekara, you are with me too. We are going out to the cultists camps to recruit some help. No one meets an all-flesh-man without me present, you got that? The rest of you, we're clearing this place out and moving to the next hive, but first we need to blind some watchers. For now, gather whatever food and drink you can still fly with."
Sin snapped his fingers and pointed at Ressact, "Quick question, how close do you need to be to speak telepathically with a sister?"
"The eyes are the windows," she said, and Sin's lips pursed with thought.
"Messengers then," he concluded. "I want the five fastest girls you have with us. Prepare yourselves, cause I doubt the opening to leave will last very long. When the messenger comes, you leave immediately – and fly high, girls, where the brothers can't touch you. Now let's move."
XxX
"Stand your guard, men!" the leading rider bellowed. He threw himself from his snow white tiger mount and drew his doubled ended glaive, twirling it into a stance. His mount bared its fangs and crouched beside him, also ready to fight, while the five other companion night elves followed suit and stood ready with their weapons poised towards Sin.
Outriders of the Cenarion Circle, the Watchers of the qiraji following the War of the Shifting Sands. Sin had fought with them when the gates of Ahn'Qiraj reopened, and he knew that the night elves were warriors with centuries of combat experience. It showed in their ability, and no matter Sin's own strength, he knew better than to take them lightly. Even if he could win out, it would not be with the lives of all seven Battleguards behind him.
However, Sin wouldn't be cowed by their abrupt appearance. This was danger that he accepted with his decision over Sekara's plight. Well, it was time to live up to his new found title anyways. "Now you see here," he started, indigent. "These robes are purple. Warlock purple, not the Twilight maroon." The mad title, that was.
"You stand with the qiraji, human – those that we are oath-bound to keep contained within these very gates," the wary leader returned. His smooth, elven voice was laced with hard steel.
"Fine job you've done with that, considering that silithid hives cover half of the land in this forsaken desert." Alright, Sin, calm the cheek a bit. Even an elf's patience can run thin. Be rational. Hah! "Believe me, I know exactly how this looks to you, but hear me out first. I was one of those that went down the ruins with you again C'Thun. I'm the last person who wants a repeat occurrence."
"Speak then, warlock, but know we will not turn from our oaths on mere words. They will not pass into the desert." The man had a level head on his broad shoulders, at least.
Hoping it would not later return to bite him in the ass, Sin said, "The qiraji have been split by civil war. The brothers- ah, that is, what we call the Gladiators, they want to continue expanding outward, and the Battleguards simply want to be done with it and live in peace. So the Gladiators started killing the Battleguards hoping to bully them into it, and since they are stronger, the Battleguards have to choose between being wiped out or falling in line.
"But that's all insignificant now. Last night, a new old god made an appearance, and he's calling in everything that once served its predecessors. Very soon, you Watchers are going to have a large exodus of every remaining Gladiator and probably silithid storm out these gates in their mad rush to reach this new god."
"Elune preserve us," a female Outrider gasped, while the leader's lips thinned. He said, "Even if what you say is true, warlock, you have not explained your hand in the events, nor why you lead these Battleguards."
"Isn't it obvious?" Sin demanded. "We are getting the hell out of dodge. The Battleguards asked for my help with the Gladiators, and now with this old god, they know it will just demand they try to war again – which is what they are trying to get away from. So I've got the Gladiators flushing us out, you Watchers trying to keep us in, an old god trying to lay claim on them, and a whole race of insect girls that I am only barely understanding that expect me to take them safely from C'Thun's bloody tomb to wherever the hell we end up."
Sin slammed the butt of his staff into the sand, marked with a cold fury, and a thrum of power rippled outward. The shadow-laced wind had the night elves brace themselves against it, as a show of power. "Now you listen here, friends. You can fight us here, you can try to stop us as you are oath-bound to do, but consider carefully that if you don't win here, my message of this old god is lost, and the warning will not be passed where the watchers can sufficiently prepare for the coming storm of Gladiators. Then we get round two of this damn war, on top of whatever else that old god has prepared for us.
"But no matter what your choice is here, we are leaving. Me and every one of my Battleguards are leaving here alive, even if it means carefully incapacitating you so that the message can still be received and we don't damn the world in a stupid "oath-bound" scuffle!"
"You are mad," the man accused. His glaive trembled in his hands, whole body tight with tension.
Sin barked a laugh. "You are damned right I am. Sin de Rath the Mad. Tell your superior who sent this message, and remind him that if there is a new old god, the first to know will be the spawn of old gods. If he listens to reason, tell him that every blade will be needed in the far north, when the Gladiators are dealt with."
While the leader stared at him with indecision, another Outrider asked with a troubled voice, "Where in the north might this old god be?"
Sin looked to Ressact. After a moment, the white-garbed Battleguard muttered, "Far north."
He looked back to the Outriders. "We don't know. Now, will you go with my message, or will you try to stop us from leaving?"
Still straining for an answer, the leader demanded, "Give me one reason why we should trust you, warlock. Proof that you aren't just trying to carry the qiraji out so they can start anew somewhere else and start a whole new war again."
"I'll give you nothing, Outrider, for that's all I have to offer. My neck still hackles with apprehension and suspicion that at any moment these Battleguards may turn on me and cut me to ribbons. However, I didn't promise them a nest; I promised them safety, and by the Light and Shadow, I am going to manage it."
With a growl, the leader thrust his glaive into the sand, and he glared darkly. "Sin de Rath the Mad, we will carry your message, but don't think we will forget our duties in fear. Your every movement and action will not pass unnoticed or unscrutinized. Keep that in mind as you try and play puppeteer of the qiraji, and if you prove the puppet, then we will sever the head from the beast – and the body will follow. Riders, mount up!"
Sin watched as the Outriders mounted and left, glancing back as they went. He exhaled with a sudden relief, leaning against his staff. A second later, he turned to those he had taken as messenger. "That was faster than expected. Tell the sisters to move immediately to Hive Regal, in the east. Fly high, stop for no one, and return to me immediately when you have settled in for the night."
One of the messengers turned and flew back into Ahn'Qiraj.
X Beacon X
In the shadow of the titan's broken bridge, Malthon peered from the final frozen ridge into the deep expanse of gold. Crystalsong Forest was a valley, he knew from the maps, yet the far mountains weren't visible from that vantage point. His attention turned to the east, where the gold became a corrupted mass of violets and pink. Some matter of arcane that had ruined the land.
The better part of two hundred mounted paladins fanned out behind him and Jayce. Since the day they passed through Wintergarde, they had found dozens of scattered Scarlet Onslaughts camps as they continued north. The men squatted at their fires with no purpose or idea of where to go. Knowing they needed speed, Malthon accepted any that had an able horse, while commanding the rest to head south and reoccupy New Hearthglen. A dear friend of Malthon's left to oversee them, knowing the guidance would be needed.
Two hundred mounted knights, each one in command of the holy Light. He headed a very potent force now, Malthon recognized, and he was glad for the stout brothers and sisters for this journey. To Jayce, he said, "This is the edge of the safe world. Beyond here lies the mysteries of Crystalsong and the land of creeping rime. We will need to constantly be on our guard."
"And you will be our light through that creeping rime," Jayce acknowledged, grasping the reigns of his steed with tense hands. He knew what lied before them, standing on the cusp before the great forest. "I think even the men realize that the Light is different within you. You stand as a beacon, even among us."
They continued to stare out while the sun finished rising above their heads. Malthon said, "I'm thinking illusions. We'll see things that aren't there – or maybe even are – that will try to lead us astray, into traps and madness. We will need mental fortitude to keep our vision tunneled and focus singular, away from elven mysticism."
Jayce took a drink from a hip flask, frowning pensively. He drank water, always water. "What about rangers or forest wardens? That magic yonder unsettles me, and maybe it unsettled some of the dead with it."
With a thoughtful hum, Malthon pointed west, to the frozen wall they were to descend into the valley. "We could try to skirt the forest, maybe avoid everything."
"If I remember the map correctly, there's a ruined elf town a few leagues down also pressed to the cliff wall. That's the last place I'd want to brave in this land."
Malthon sighed and closed his eyes, muttering a quick prayer to the Light. When his blue eyes opened again, he pointed north, directly into the heart of the forest. "We'll push through all the way to the river, then cut west along it and follow it all the way to the Scourge's dam. Maybe five days if we push our horses to reach the end, twice that if we employ any sense of caution."
"Five days including running through the night and leaving anyone injured behind. We'll have half our men by the end, from horse accidents alone," Jayce snorted. He liked the idea of remaining longer in there no more than Malthon himself did.
"Ten days," Malthon concluded with a troubled voice.
Jayce glanced back at their troops, then faced Malthon with his horse. "We could turn back, you know. Cut through Dragonblight into Borean Tundra, then head north through the jungles of Sholazar Basin. It will take maybe a month longer, but we can avoid the worst of Crystalsong and Icecrown both and reach the harbor from the south."
"There is more than just our brothers at Onslaught Harbor to consider for this journey. We'll continue here. Paladins do not shirk from danger, especially when there are lives on the line."
Jayce's smile was grim as he nodded, and he lifted his reigns in readiness. "Then lead us, Sir Malthon Eyenhart."
Malthon raised his hand for everyone behind them to see and waved it forward. He flicked his own horse's reigns, the charger named Crown, and started down the slope into Crystalsong Forest. Jayce, on Icelance, remained with him.
XxX
"High General!" the runner shouted, though quietly. No one dared to attract outside attention. He stopped before Malthon and saluted. "High General, an urgent message from the nightwatch. Your presence is demanded at the south end, immediately if you're able, milord."
"I'll be there, lad," Malthon nodded to him, though why the paladin acted like a boy eluded him. Malthon was his brother as surely as another. "And I'm not your High General."
The man blushed and glanced downward, but with another salute, he turned to head south, back to his part of their scrawling camp. Malthon flicked the last of the water from his hands and grabbed a towel beside the basin he had erected. After wiping his face, he grabbed his mace and shield, electing to remain shirtless, and departed from his tent in the direction the paladin had wandered towards.
He threw the strap of his sheath over his shoulder and slid the mace behind him, resting against the skin of his back. As he was fixing the straps of his shield, he noticed the progressing waves of salutes from his men when he passed. Refraining from smiling in either amusement or exasperation, he merely nodded back to them. They might want him as their High General, but he wouldn't act the part. He walked shirtless among them the same he always would with his brothers.
The Crystalsong air was musky and scented like a Lordaeron fall. He could see the twinkle of stars peaking through the branches of the trees that surrounded their camp, while the gurgle of the great river was drowned out by the murmur of the camp. Looking out from their fire-lit camp, he could see motes of mystic light flitting among the trees, the occasional burst of arcane in the far distance that outlined the trees between. No one trusted themselves as safe here.
When he reached the southern end of the camp, he found the group of nightwatchers pointing out at something in the forest and made his way to them. They spooked at the sound of his boots when they noticed, but grew visibly relieved when they noticed who it was. Nodding to them, Malthon asked, "What's this about, men?"
A man with close cropped hair and an equally short beard puffed out a breath. "I know the deceptions of this forest, milord, and I know not to take anything we see to the heart, but there be something following us, milord. A woman, clothed in sheer moonlight. She's been taunting us and inviting us out, all playful and seductive. Had this been a regular army, I feel we might have needed to haul back some hotblooded boys from going out to her."
"A ghost of a very distance past, is my guess," Malthon said, staring out into the blackness. Nothing moved apart from the motes of light. "Until she starts sending arrows that can pierce flesh, you've nothing to worry about."
"Of course, milord," the man said, bowing his head. With a sheepish smile, he added, "It's just, I've never respectfully turned down banter with a woman, and she be a finer tease than a shy farmer's daughter. I suppose I'm thankful she only speaks the singing elven tongue and not Common."
Clasping the man's shoulder, Malthon said, "Just be smart about it. If she ends up visiting your tent tonight, I can assure you she's not there for a tumble."
"I'd never," the man declared softly. "I enjoy the banter and exchange of words. I would never give my body outside a rightful marriage."
With a smile, Malthon nodded and released his shoulder. With another caution and a parting word, he turned to leave them.
"Malthon."
Malthon stopped as the eerie, feminine hiss floated against his back. Turning his head, he saw the men had wide eyes, and they turned to look out into the forest again. "Malthon... Eyenhart." A throaty chuckle followed the voice, coming from an indiscernible direction.
"That'll give a man some spooks," one of the paladins mentioned with a sigh. They all had their hands on their weapons, tension obvious.
A second watchman shook his head. "Nonsense. She likely just heard the name when we told the messenger to send him."
Malthon snorted though, throwing his hand up and casually continuing his way back to his tent. "Don't let the forest get inside your head, men. And watch your tongues hereon." He didn't let them know his own suspicions. If she recognized the name given to the messenger, she knows they were asking after their superior. And now she knows what I look like.
X Ranger X
"Ah, but if it isn't some tiny snacks, scurrying about for Dralach'ah to feast upon."
The pit lord was massive and armored, slowly turning its double-ended weapon about like a windmill. It's flaming eyes were lit with pleasure, the toothy mouth spread into a smug smile. They could see it was a maw full of fangs when it spoke. It showed no fear for the few hundred elves though, eying them like the morsels of meat it boasted them as.
Still turning about its weapon, Dralach'ah continued with his confident drawl: "I wonder how many of you will die before you can pierce my armor, puny elves, and how many before you can kill me... If you can kill me at all."
The Bloodwarders and rangers drew their weapons, standing tense at the forefront of the last of their people. They were not ready for such a fight, did not have the skill to see it in their favor, but they were the last line of defense for them. The Sunfury remnants, since their time in the Ruuan Weald, had gained hope and life, and now faced this pit lord with eyes of fear and defiance.
But then Thomas dropped his cloak of shadows standing between Dralach'ah and the blood elves, a dangerously flat expression on his face. A bow and quiver were over his shoulder, while his usual daggers were sheathed at his side. His armor was black leather, snug and soundless, and cloaked with orange clothes to help blend with the terrain around them.
Unslinging his bow from his shoulder, Thomas announced, "Not a single drop of elven blood will touch the soil this day, Dralach'ah, but it will feast on yours." His hand found an arrow and fitted it to the string, then drew back with casual aim.
Dralach'ah rumbled a deep, baritone laugh. "And one human expects to challenge Dralach'ah? Come then. I will show you your place, for the eyes of all to see before my blade feasts upon them."
Thomas smiled, though it was a tight, dangerous expression too. "Perhaps you are relying on your doomguards to aid you if your fight goes dire. A full score of them, to trap and butcher me and my elves while we are unaware. Well, they are already dead."
"What- ARGHH!" Thomas loosed his arrow the instant the demon opened his mouth, right into one of the flaming eyes. Dripping glowing, fel-green ichor and corrupted blood, the pit lord ripped out the arrow and bellowed, glaring at where Thomas was running forward.
Thomas rolled under the first swipe of Dralach'ah's polearm, then sidestepped from the overhead blow that smashed into the ground. A great crack split the dirt and sent debris flying around it, along with spilling dust to either side from the wind of the blow. It was in one such dust cloud that Thomas disappeared. Dralach'ah growled and slashed through the dust, dissipating it, yet his weapon touched nothing – and the cloud vanished to show no one there.
Whirling around on clumsy feet with suspicion, Dralach'ah found himself too late. Thomas was already jumping onto his back, then running up the spined hump to the armored torso. The polearm slid back in a precise blow to impale Thomas off its back. Thomas barely caught it in a parry with his dagger and was thrown off by the force. Dralach'ah grunted triumphantly and lifted his frontal feet up for a heavy blow that would split the human in half while he was still dazed on the ground.
As the weapon descended though, Dralach'ah saw Thomas' body vanish in a puff of shadows just before he cleaved the ground. Immediately, he felt feet stomping back up his back, and this time he was unable to send him off before Thomas had fixed himself onto the demon's shoulders, holding on by a horn. The dagger plunged into the remaining eye, to the furious roar of Dralach'ah.
"You think I need eyes to kill you, human! I'll peel the skin from your body before I am through!" Dralach'ah taunted as he thrashed about, trying to buck off he rogue. The flat of his weapon came up to swat Thomas off, but he managed to climb away, keeping atop. The pit lord couldn't be goaded into bashing his own head, Thomas found.
"You're weak," Thomas told him moments before hooking the end of his dagger under Dralach'ah's jaw and ramming it upwards, through the soft spot and into the skull.
"And you are made of flesh, puny rat!" Dralach'ah gurgled around the dagger. Abruptly, the pit lord's whole body engulfed in green flames in a demonic immolation aura, and Thomas found himself in the heart of it.
Thomas escaped though, landing before the hundreds of watching elves in the duel. All could see his body cloaked in purple shadows, like a silhouette, yet it was nothing like the shadowed stealth he often demonstrated. With a raspy grunt, the pit lord waved his weapon forward and sent a tremendous, flaming meteorite from the sky to crash against him. The spell passed through him like he was a living shadow, though the ground it touched burned with unnatural flames and corruption.
Thomas strode forward, unharmed, leading the eyeless demon to cringe and step back. Dralach'ah demanded, "What are you?"
"The Shadow." He vanished in another plume of black smoke.
The immolated demon roared as Thomas reappeared on its back, already clutching onto a flaming spike, and the dagger drove into its neck. Thomas ripped it out and did it again, and again, while Dralach'ah shook and roared, too panicked to take the rogue from his back. Thomas felt his hold over the Cloak of Shadows fall and the flames lick his skin again, but he was relentless. He continued stabbing, then tried sawing off the head in a brutal decapitation.
With a roar of might, Thomas pulled at the head while the now silent Dralach'ah began to pitch to the side, falling limp. With a sickening tear, the head came off, and Thomas landed on his feet with it in his left hand and dagger in the right. The head alone was near the size of his torso. Seared and singed where his skin showed, Thomas let the elves bear witness to his triumph, then threw the head aside to the smoldering corpse.
"...Damn," one male Bloodwarder muttered, impressed, while a female exclaimed, "By the Sunwell!"
Paying them no mind, Thomas gestured west. "Let's go. We will reach the next forest by nightfall."
XxX
There was a dozen of them this time, most already in the trees with him. Thomas felt no need to say anything, perched north of their camp to look for any Horde scouts or wanderers that jeopardize his elves. He himself was laid out in the branches of one great tree and knew the closest blood elf ranger to be crouched one tree over at the same level, staring at him.
There was near total silence as they moved, though by now they knew to expect his awareness. Looking over, he found the silver haired woman that had first stripped her Bloodwarder armor and declared herself ranger. At the eye contact, she asked, "How fare your wounds?"
"Superficial annoyances," he told her, grudgingly. He lightly debated insisting upon his no question policy. "Why have you all left the festivities? This will be the last forest for weeks, until we reach Azeroth once again."
"They celebrate your name down there," one man piped in, reclined on a low branch with his bow resting unstrung over his knees. "The Shadow. Thomas the Swiftblade. There were some mentions of Deliverer as well."
When Thomas snorted dismissively, an upbeat girl from a tree on his right insisted, "We thought to keep you company." Some blond with a ponytail, likely far older than her voice suggested. She, like the rest, carried her bow with her – strung and hooked over her shoulder.
If he remembered correctly, one ranger was missing from the complete thirteen – whether she was back at camp or too hidden from his senses, he had no way of knowing. He recalled the separation he wanted to keep from them, keeping this a simple escort and then leave them at its end. He felt the efforts decay though, recalling the loneliness of his insisted solitude.
Solitude he preferred in forests, yet the forests were too far and in between. These broken, unnatural lands didn't offer the same company, no matter where he seemed to go. He figured these rangers around him would understand that feeling the best. He didn't continue the conversation though.
Far below, one man muttered in Thalassian, "We're probably bothering the fuck out of him. Might be some kind of social outcast."
Another huffed a laugh and returned, "He'd still kick your ass, Loraeoth. In a fight or the Game of Foxes."
The elven voices tinkled like music to Thomas' ears. It brought fond memories back to him, especially in the serenity of the forest. One woman though, low with the other two in a sort of trio, piped, "Let's play. Like the Shadow said, this is the last forest, and I haven't played since before... Prince Kael'thas and the Scourge."
"There's better ways to have fun, Sarrine," the blond male to Thomas' left said, then demanded softly, "And speak Common here. It's impolite."
"Like you are one to preach formalities with suggestions like that!" Sarrine returned, laughing. "It's our safe way of communicating anyways. Ahem, who else is with us?"
"Leave us if you must, but do not drag attention from the Horde." The redhead this time, who had confronted him at the Ruuan Weald.
Half of the blood elves slipped down from their trees to the forest floor, some of them nearly bubbling with excitement. The redhead and the silver haired girls remained in place, though the blond man at the low branch dropped down with them. As they moved, the redhead, resting with her back to a tree's trunk at a similar height, asked, "How did you know about those doomguards today?"
"I saw Dralach'ah before he saw us," Thomas mentioned absently as he watched the elves began to consolidate at the floor below his tree and string their bows. He wondered at the game being played with so many, with these rangers. Already sparked with nostalgia, a debate began in his mind.
Seeing his attention, the silver haired woman explained, "It is the Game of Foxes they are about to begin. I am still unsure if you know the game or not, but the purpose is to use every bit of skill you posses to hide and move about the forest and find the others without being found yourself. Touch them without knowing you are there and they have lost."
Thomas remembered the blood pumping thrill, the mental strain and paranoia, the quick runs from shadows and the hunting of fox trails. The laughter as he rolled over the grass with his friend in a brawl when he had lost. The struggle in his mind ended very quickly, and he felt the last bridges of his separation burning as he slid down from his own branch – drawing the attention of every eye as he did.
Landing at the floor among the other seven elves, he said in Thalassian, "I will play too."
X Unknown X
"Silence, silence!" King Varian roared over the clamor of his attendants and council. When their eyes were upon him once again, he commanded slowly, "Play the message again, mage."
The grizzled man nodded to his king, placing the bowl in the center of the chamber once again. His hand glowed white with magic, and then the image rose from the bowl of the dwarven scryer that had sent the alarm.
"Requestin' immediate aid from Stormwind! The Council of Three Hammers has fallen! Some assassin, somethin' unnaturally powerful to take down all three of them an' the guards. Things are in a right panic down here. Best word we have is only one attacker, someone pirouettin' about in a grey cloak. Be on the lookout if it comes yer way, an' keep your best at hand at the present."
The dwarf mage hesitated, looking beyond the sight of their scry. They could see the haunted cast of his eyes, the furrows still etched in his brow, and then he shook his head, looking back to them. "Tensions are still holdin' between us and the Dark Iron, just barely. We all lost here... but we haven't any unity, and there's fear that folk'll be eruptin' into a riot soon, if any tension comes hot. Our marshals and commanders are policing the city as best they can, but we request that King Varian steward for us until a new council can be elected."
Another pause. "An' from me, Rohan Blackforge, I wan' tah add somet'in'. There's been no word from High Tinker Mekkatorque yet, but my scrying has shone the gnomes in a panic. I fear... I fear this is more than an attack on the dwarves, or on the Council. Something dire seems in motion. I can't rightfully say this in any sureness, but your king might be next. Protect him, friends. Protect him, or else we'll have no one to look to on this side of the world."
XxX
Someone else should have been doing this work, but she had been the closest agent. Amber Kearnen rounded the thick oak tree and ducked under the protruding root, slamming down her rifle Claire as quietly as she could. Her right eye's optic-enhancer scanned the area, finding nothing on zoom or heat sense.
A sharpshooter in a game of Cat and Cat with what might be the assassin of the Council of Three Hammers?
Amber lifted her heavy weapon and threw it behind her again, latching it to the hook, then sprinted forward under stealth. She had no reason to question her orders, and every reason to see the enemy's head splattered over the grass.
Between steps, she heard the crack of a tree branch to the right, and she looked over, eyes wide. She saw nothing, and a click of her optic showed no heat either. To her left she looked, about to continue running, yet she froze when she noticed faint heat on the ground, in clear steps. She crawled over, still carefully wrapped in the shadows, and inspected the tracks, following them forward.
For a hundred yards she ran. Occasionally the tracks disappeared, but with the direction clear, it was quick work to find new sets, and the heat was growing warmer and fresher.
Amber rounded the tree where the the tracks turn west, towards the city, seeing both heat at the center and the peel of grass and dirt where the heel had turned – it must have been moving quick – and then she dropped to a knee and threw down her rifle from her back to her hands.
"There you are, you slimy bastard," she whispered as she saw a cloaked figure loping through the woods alongside the road. Her optic locked onto it, giving both thermal and zoomed vision of her target. It was another hundred yards from her, and gaining every second.
Distant meant nothing once she knew her target. Sucking in a breath and holding it tight, she braced her weapon, lined the sight, and found the target's head in her aim. Without hesitating, the instant she had all adjustments corrected, she squeezed the trigger.
The bullet would split its head like a watermelon before the loud crack of the gun reached the enemy. Amber watched with grim satisfaction as a bullet-sized tear opened in the back of the grey cloak, and blood spurted forward in effect. Her elation fell, however, when she noticed that the creature was not downed. Nor did it stop.
Opening her normal left eye, Amber noticed almost too late the black magic heading her way. She rolled to the side, just as the cloud splashed down at her position, and she watched the ground hiss away as if from acid. Gritting her teeth, she looked down the path again, only to find her target missing.
Shit! Amber, you fool!
She wrapped the shadows around her again, tight as she could, then touched the button on her bracelet as she moved away. "This is Agent Kearnen. The enemy has been spotted in Elwynn Forest. Bastard is tough – took a shot from Claire like she tossed a pebble. Prepare for its arrival, if I can't stop it here."
Amber continued watching for the enemy, scanning all directions. After a few seconds, a smooth voice whispered through her earpiece, "Amber, this is Rell. We are all clear on this end. It will be alright to hang back and follow it to the city. We'll stop it at the gates."
Scowling, Amber stopped at a tree, crouching down to take watch. Can't follow it if I don't have sight of it! she thought to herself, angry for losing track of it in the first place. Seeing no signs of heat save for a single deer, and no tracks, she stood to keep on – only to find herself shoved back, slamming into the tree.
She gasped out her breath at the impact. Amber tried to push forward and move to face her attacked, but she found herself pinned. Looking to her chest, where she had been struck, she groaned at the sight of a thick, oily tendril piercing her armor. She had been impaled to the tree.
Following the path of the limb, Amber saw the cloaked figure creeping from around the tree, having been behind it. She squinted at its face, trying to identify the enemy, but after a few disconnected seconds, her eyes widened in shock. Against the pain, she roared and lifted her rifle, pulling the trigger. Incorrectly braced, Claire shattered her shoulder and jumped out of her hands, yet the deep-impacting slug sent the creature reeling backwards, hissing violently, and the limb impaling her slid out.
Amber noticed with sick fascination that rather than something narrow-pointed like a tentacle, it was a hand that had stuck her. Something was wrong with the joints of the arm though, letting it squirm about freely without bone structure, and the nails and fingers must have been like thorium to have so easily passed her body armor and ribcage.
It had already seen her through stealth, and between the hole in her chest and her disabled arm, Amber knew she didn't have a chance of getting out alive. Even point-blank, the creature shrugged off the bullet and healed itself with a spiraling swell of black magic.
She touched the button on the bracelet again, gasping as best she could, "Got ourselves... a real freakshow, Rell. Give it... hell for me... It looks like... some kind of... Er-ah!"
"Amber!" Rell Nightwind shouted over the communication. "Amber, what's going on? Are you hurt? ...Amber! Light, no! AMBER!"
XxX
"Look, you know that I have often spoken for the orcs since the events on Mount Hyjul, years ago. However, this new warchief... Garrosh, leads them not with the honor that Thrall had before. Under Garrosh's Horde, we cannot rule out the possibility of one of his assassins, maybe partaking the blood of another great demon," Lord Dasen McAnole argued, following the second viewing of the message.
"I agree with Lord Dasen," one of the lady's concurred. "Given the silence of our Darnassian allies, we can only assume the worst. Clearly, something is targeting Alliance leadership, and the Horde must remain a prime suspect. Regardless of the hands behind the attack, however, their intentions are clear: Conquest. Our first action should be rallying our armies as we begin our counter-intelligence and aid our dwarven allies."
"What?" Varian demanded. "Our soldiers still bleed from wounds inflicted in Northrend against the Lich King! They have not had a day of rest since their coming home, and our officials still struggle to finish administering their hard earned pay. You would have me rally them to arms yet again over a threat we don't know exists yet?"
One of the senior lords present, a survivor from the razing of Stormwind, nodded. "I agree with the King's sentiments. We should begin with the operations of SI:7 and keep our commanders and generals prepared for war, but for the love of the Light, let the men rest until we are sure this threat calls for a total rally of our armies. Westfall only now begins to recover from the toll of the war up north. The 7th Legion is more than adequate for now."
"Halt, in the name of the King!" a voice cried near the entrance of the keep. Varian silenced the council when he noticed the guards near the entree to the throne room begin to move.
"Protect the King!" one of them shouted, while his partner cried rally, "To arms! Intruders in the Keep!"
The nobles immediately broke into panic and rage. The veterans, including a lady sorceress and a former knight-paladin, drew arms, starting for the long hall. Varian was inclined to agree. He told the assembly, "Guardsman, escort my son and the nobles out through the secret passageway. We will address this... intruder."
The typical "Yes, milord," was overcome by Dasen's deep outcry of, "My King! None here doubt your prowess in battle, but consider our position at the present! If the golden lion falls here, who do the people of the Alliance look to? Leave with us!"
King Varian paced over to the entree, while Anduin Wrynn and Lord Dasen lingered behind despite the urging of the guardsman. The King saw the gathered shapes of his finest soldiers facing off against a single figure. In brief moments, that one figure slew man after man in fluid motions, unhalting in his progression towards the throne room. Clearly, that was no ordinary assassin. His fists balled, anger sparking.
Varian inhaled deeply, then turned away from the spectacle and marched over to his son. Anduin was a boy no longer. "Father," the blond started, hesitant, but Varian kneeled and took his hand in his gauntlet.
"My son, there is nothing I would not do to get back those years my captivity stripped of me from spending time with you. In my absence, however, you have grown into a fine man, and I see both courage and wisdom still growing fast within your heart. I will not run from this battle. Should I fall here, the crown and responsibility of Stormwind, her people, and all of the Alliance falls to you. Now go, do not falter. We will buy you time if we cannot win out."
Anduin hesitated, tightened his hold over his father's hand one last time and nodded. Lord Dasen said nothing at the proceeds, merely saluted the King and left with Anduin, intent on watching over the prince. Varian watched the guardsman close the passageway's entrance behind him, then drew his sword Shalamayne and rounded upon the entree hall.
The veteran lords moved with him as a private escort, as did the final defense of royal guards. The wolf inside Varian began to grow restless, hungry, and he knew he was once again assuming the name Lo'Gosh. "For Stormwind!" he snarled, and those with him hollered in turn:
"For Stormwind!"
X Chapter End X
