Chapter three, Retribution

"What in the name of the spirits is going on?" Ag'tor Bloodfist asked, dark eyes watching in disbelief as wyvern after wyvern landed in his small encampment.

In the background the flight master of the camp just gaped, shaking his head. There weren't roosters enough for these many wyverns. Most of them had to simply curl up on the ground once they had landed. Although the winged creatures could speak, they seldom did so normally – but now there was a low, growling choir of complaints at this rude treatment.

The other orcs in the camp (all four of them) had also come closer to watch this spectacle, gazing at the gathering troop in wonderment.

"I evaluated the situation with the blood elf Rimtori," Dor'ash said, half turning and waving at the still incoming men and women. "This is the result."

Ag'tor lifted a hand, pointing finger stretched. It wagged about as he counted the soldiers, lips moving silently.

Finally, he grinned in a most nasty way.

"I like it," he said.

He probably didn't even notice that Sarah wasn't there, although she had visited the camp together with Dor'ash just half a day before.

As soon as everyone had landed, the various soldiers gathered in a half circle around Dor'ash. They weren't trained to work together, at least not all of them – he couldn't speak for those Jonathan had called to action. It would do, however. Not one of them moved without confidence, and he knew he could trust his own allies. The Forsaken looked no less ready to fight.

Jonathan shuffled up to stand just a couple of steps to Dor'ash's side. They exchanged a look, and the pale grey lips of the mage grimly stretched. This battle was personal.

Giving a small nod, Dor'ash then turned to everyone else to explain how far away the elves were, and that they would walk rather than risk the wyverns getting shot down with magic. Looking at the flying lions, they might not be up for playing along anymore, either.

He was almost finished when a shout from above made him and everyone else look up. Nobody but Dor'ash recognized the call well enough to growl in exasperation, though.

Two more wyverns swept across the sky, both of them of the very large kind. The ones that could carry the weight of a full grown tauren. Deran was back. And he wasn't very kind to his partner, by the looks of it.

Dor'ash caught Fuzzik's eye as the bear stared down, over the edge of his wyvern's wing. If ever an animal had looked traumatized by fear, that was it. The wyvern didn't look thrilled either, but somehow it managed to land, clumsily running a few steps on the ground before collapsing. The flight master ran over to the two of them, muttering disbelieving curses. Unconcerned with that, Deran dismounted his own wyvern and stomped over, past the soldiers who curiously moved aside. He drew himself up in front of Dor'ash, who glared daggers.

"If the murderess Nebula is still alive, I have a duty to my brother to see her dead," Deran coldly said.

Far behind him, Fuzzik tumbled off the panting wyvern as the flight master finally managed to untie the two beasts from each other. The bear lay still, gasping loudly with his huge maw hanging open and claws digging into the grass and earth.

Deran just stood there, square teeth bared.

For a very weak second Dor'ash considered turning to Jonathan and tell him 'It's his fault Sarah was captured by blood elves. I'm going to look the other way for five seconds.'

But, well, murder is murder. No matter what instrument you use for the killing blow. As a shaman of the Frostwolf clan, Dor'ash had better morals than that.

Regrettably.

"You almost got all five of us killed back there," he said in a dangerously low voice. "Now my friend is the prisoner of a band of renegade blood elves, because of your poor choices."

Deran coldly glared back and folded his tree-trunk arms.

"Are you saying that I am wrong in seeking to avenge my brother's death?" he asked.

Gritting his teeth, Dor'ash had to admit that he understood that anger. Was he not about to do the same thing, in essence? However…

"I don't condemn your philosophy," Dor'ash said. "But here's the thing. No matter what you may have heard, I was there in the Wailing Caverns when it happened, and Sarah didn't kill your brother. Damian brought it upon himself, and she had nothing to do with it."

The next few seconds were the stupidest moment of Dor'ash's entire life - that's saying something considering all the things he had gone through in his travels with Sarah, and still had ahead of him.

Deran blinked.

"Damian?" he blankly said. "My brother's name was Duncan."

Dor'ash stopped breathing.

A snicker was heard in the background, from somebody standing at a safe distance. Jonathan cast one glance up at the shaman's face and took several steps backwards. The trolls and other orcs were already recoiling, urged by raw survival instincts.

"Oh." Deran rubbed his neck with a sheepish expression. "I suppose the person I heard it from got it wrong. I'm terribly so-"

Dor'ash backhanded him across the face so hard that he was thrown off his hooves and crashed on the ground. The impact was so great that everyone in the audience felt it in their feet.

"Go get yourself killed," Dor'ash hissed through his fangs. He had to force himself to just stand there; one motion and he would have gone over and choked the blazing fool. "I hope your bear fares better, because he's obviously the only one of you two who has an ounce of working brain!"

Some of the Forsaken slowly clapped their hands, a rattling sound. Dor'ash was about to snarl at them. Deran pushed himself up on one hand, groaning, and started to say something.

Then Fuzzik stomped forwards – still a little shaky on his paws – and whacked Deran over the head so hard that the tauren fell back and didn't get up again. Knocked unconscious.

The camp fell silent.

What the bear had just done was a really amusing, mute way of expressing the message, 'you idiot!'. However, nobody laughed – because it was certainly not something that any normal bear would do.

Realizing his mistake, Fuzzik recoiled from Deran. Then he carefully peered up at Dor'ash, whose eyes had turned to slits.

Now that he looked closer, Dor'ash noticed that the bear's ears were a little longer than they should be. He also recalled the odd amount of understanding he had seen in those dark eyes in the Valley of Spirits.

"I hope that you are a tauren, druid," the orc said.

But a tauren would have no reason to look so frightened at being caught.

"Oh boy!" a hoarse voice in the background said. "Plum jelly dessert!"

A choir of sharp, unpleasant chuckling answered this statement, but the Forsaken weren't the only ones regarding this twist with sadistic interest. Even the other tauren had no kind eye for a night elf spy, especially one who followed one of her own kind around in disguise.

Fuzzik's claws nervously scraped the ground, but fully aware that he was surrounded he made no attempt to escape. Only stared up at Dor'ash.

It was a brief, inner struggle, and Dor'ash wasn't sure if he did the right thing. As the leader, he had to keep the others' faith in him intact. But…

He thought about the naga, and Hyjal, and that peculiar human paladin, now emissary of Theramore, Thomas Southstone. Alliance and Horde didn't always count, there were situations where those terms even were filthy.

These thoughts passed quickly, and Dor'ash shook his head with a snarl.

"The elf protected me as I tried to save Sarah earlier," he said, loud and clear. "I owe him that much, so leave him be."

"Ah, but we have no reason to be grateful to him," one of the Forsaken warriors said.

Surprisingly, Patrick Hartwell raised a hand in a halting sign. The agreeing murmurs from the other undead instantly ceased.

"You heard master Coldbane," Patrick said. "The night elf helped one trying to save our little Sarah. That's not something you see every day."

Dor'ash gave the undead man a sharp look. A warlock showing mercy?

The look Patrick gave Fuzzik, however, was one that rather said something along the lines of 'What an interesting bug. I will have to dissect it in my lab' than anything else. The druid turned his big, rounded head away very quickly.

"And she will be furious when she hears about that, mark my words," Jonathan cheerfully added.

Some knowing, hoarse chuckles were heard, but nobody took their eyes off the bear.

Dor'ash turned and looked at Ag'tor. After a moment of glaring, the warrior shrugged with a mighty clang of crimson armor. He obviously didn't like it, but could respect a debt repaid as well as any other honorable orc. The people under his command would let the night elf go without a fuss.

Stepping aside, Dor'ash waved impatiently at Fuzzik.

"Leave before I change my mind," the orc snapped in Common, to make sure the druid understood.

The huge, furry head sunk low, so far that Fuzzik's nose almost touched his paws in a silent sign of gratitude. Then he loped forwards, rushing past Dor'ash and the orcs and trolls who moved back to let him pass. The heavy stomps crunched against the ground, until a flash of light covered the druid and he shrunk. A cheetah replaced the bear and continued across the open landscape at far greater speed, its golden fur, beneath the black spots, matching the grass.

Dor'ash turned around and ordered the troop to get going. To his relief they all obeyed without question, though one or two shrugged or lightly shook their head in disbelief.

It would take much longer to get there since they did not have mounts. Knowing how far it was, Dor'ash grit his teeth. He tried not to think about what those elves possibly could want to do with a Forsaken prisoner, and all the time they'd already had to do it. Might they just mean to harvest the magic in Sarah's body, or use her for some arcane experiment?

He wrestled those thoughts aside. She was alive last he saw her, and she was a true survivor. That hope, he would hang on to until the end.

After a little more than an hour's march he ordered a halt for a brief rest. The Forsaken had no problem, but Dor'ash and the others would if they walked all the way to the coast and then leaped into battle without pause.

There was another reason to stop, too. One of the trolls was a shaman, and on the request he sat down and narrowed his eyes at the rolling hills ahead of them. Dor'ash would have used his own far sight again, at this distance it would not have been as much a strain as in Orgrimmar. However, he knew he needed to keep his head cool, and he didn't know what to expect from the elf camp. It was difficult enough not letting the worry for Sarah boil over, if he saw her in a bad condition it may throw him off balance.

The rest of the group sat in the grass or leaned against trees, watching the troll as moments passed in silence. Finally he spoke, mouth the only part of him that moved.

"Dere be a group of dem standing by a small ruin, up on a hill stretching out towards da sea. Pretty dangerous for little elfies. Hm." The troll's lips moved, rolling against his own tusks. "Dey be lookin' mighty agitated 'bout somethin'-"

"Aha!"

The hoarse shout snapped just about everyone around, and the troll shaman straightened up, blinking with an annoyed grunt.

A few steps away one of the Forsaken stood, hands raised towards the sky as if reaching for something. The pose caused the wide, dark blue – almost black – robes to slide down the raw bones of his arms. His fingers bent, one foot moving behind the other and he crouched as if putting all his meager weight into pulling something down.

Dor'ash cast his gaze upwards and saw what looked like a cluster of black threads. The Forsaken warlock let out a hiss and made a tearing motion with his entire body. Whatever that thing up there was, it followed his motion as if he had held it, tumbling down to hover between his skeletal hands.

"Caught a live one," he said with a triumphant grin.

He turned around, and as he spread his hands a little further the black threads moved apart just a bit. Enough to see that within the cluster of twisting lines was a floating eyeball, wrapped in a green glow. It threw itself back and forth inside its tiny prison, perfectly expressing rage.

The sight of this warlock using a completely new kind of spell to capture a spying eye was a (somewhat worrisome) marvel in itself, but it couldn't keep attention away from the truth. The warlock, too, shook his head and the grin turned to a grimace.

"They know we're coming," he said. Unnecessary, really, as everyone had already realized it.

The warlock held the dark yarn prison towards a nearby Forsaken in black armor. The other undead drew a dagger from seemingly nowhere, and stabbed it right through the threads, at the eyeball. Leaving no trace except for a green flash, the Eye of Kilrogg disappeared and so did the binding magic.

Dor'ash decided that this was not the time to ask about that trapping spell. Instead he turned and nodded at the troll, who sunk back down on the ground and fastened his gaze onto the hills again.

"Now dey're all shouting at each other," he said after a few moments, with some smugness in his voice. "Looks like da girl with black hair is da loudest."

"Must be Rimtori," Dor'ash said, pursing his mouth. If the elves fled, they really had nowhere to go unless they really had the aid of the naga, or made a break for the mountains. But Hyjal did not really invite to climbing, and other than that there was only the ocean. Still, it would take some time to catch them. At least, they would be insane to use mage portals to flee to any major cities. They had to know that they were wanted dead or alive.

The troll remained silent for a few seconds.

"Dey be calling others," he finally said. "Rimtori's goin' up to da temple. Either dey plan somethin' or dey prepare ta defend demselves." He paused. "I ain't seein' any trace of da dead girl."

Dor'ash considered for a moment. His heart sank at Sarah being nowhere in sight, but she might be anywhere. He had to keep hoping.

"We move forwards and spy again in a little while," he decided, "we still have some ways to go. If they plan a violent spell, we are out of range, but we shouldn't stand still and wait in case they plan on running."

The troll shook himself back to his body and climbed to his feet, then they all continued onwards as per Dor'ash's order. No more magical, spying eyes got within sight, but everyone cast their gazes around all the time in the search for them.

After a while they paused to let the troll take another look at the situation, and he reported that the elves were converging by the temple. By his report, it sounded as if they planned on trying to defend themselves rather than fleeing.

That suited everyone just fine.

No need to sneak, since the elves knew of the approaching enemies. Still, as they marched on and the abandoned tents got within sight, everyone's senses were on high alert – especially the magic users, watching out for any sign of a massive magic attack or anything of the like. But apart from the chill wind, there was nothing.

The elves had not moved from the hill, still standing by the temple. They had arranged themselves in a few rows, weapons drawn. Silently, they watched the approaching troop, like a wall of red clothes.

Their numbers were not great – somewhere between twenty and thirty of them. So, in that matter the two opposing sides were fairly evenly matched. However, Forsaken don't go down easily, and everyone else was a whole lot bigger than each one of the elves.

At Dor'ash's signal, the Horde troop stopped by the foot of the hill, and the orc continued a few more steps forwards with only Jonathan at his side.

Dor'ash fastened his shield on his arm, but instead of reaching for his weapon he dug his free hand into a bag at his belt. From there he drew out several totems, which he quickly threw down a few steps ahead. As they stuck in the ground, a blue glow immediately snaked up around them. No violent spell would reach him or Jonathan.

"Magus Rimtori!" Dor'ash roared, drawing his war hammer. "Show yourself, traitor!"

Jonathan and the others shouted approval. Some of the elves tried to sneer, but most of them stared down the slope with jaws set tight and weapons held in stiff hands.

Then the lines of elves parted, and a female blood elf, dressed in a beautiful golden and red robe, stepped past her allies. Before, Dor'ash had only seen her from above, and not gotten as close a look as this.

Like all her kind she looked more brittle than attractive in Dor'ash's eyes. Yet, the air of power surrounding her very motion, and her long black hair did lend a clue to how she had managed to charm Belgrom. She stopped in front of her troops.

"What is this?" she called, smirking defiantly. "Did the mighty Horde finally decide to send more than just one or two rats at the time?"

"I needn't speak of your crimes," Dor'ash replied. "Surrender yourselves to the judgment of the Warchief, and you may at least live for a few more days."

"Pah." Even at this distance he could clearly see her long, dark eyebrows quirking. "And you, orc, who are you?"

"You try my patience, little elf!" Dor'ash snarled.

Behind him, his friends and all the Forsaken let hear a nasty growl. Jonathan grinned as he scanned the line of elves, and more than one of them quickly looked away when they happened to meet his gaze.

"Oh, but I only ask, you see…"

Rimtori reached into a pocket in her robe, withdrawing what looked like a small glass ball, which she let rest in her palm. Her smirk widened as she continued.

"… because if your name is Dor'ash, there is somebody here who cursed you to the Nether and back for leaving her behind."

The lines of elves parted again just beside Rimtori.

Dor'ash's hand clenched around his war hammer so hard that his skin turned pale green. A strange sound escaped Jonathan, and he sharply straightened up.

Sarah staggered past the elves, drawing herself up beside Rimtori. The leather straps normally obscuring her missing nose and eyes had been removed, and hollow eye sockets stared down at the orc and Forsaken mage. Yet even though she appeared 'alive', there were more things screamingly wrong with her than just that she peacefully stood in front of a bunch of elves.

Her bony arms dangled, mouth mindlessly hanging open.

There was no need for an explanation. Dor'ash could tell by pure, painful instinct just by looking at her, even from this distance.

That body didn't house a soul anymore. It was only a shell, a marionette.

Judging by the hissed curses, Jonathan saw it too.

The other Forsaken uneasily muttered, the two sides of the conflict frozen in this moment of triumph for Rimtori.

Dor'ash eyes were set on her, yet he didn't move. Couldn't move, or he would descend in the blind rage she wanted of him, the rage he forced to keep under control. She wouldn't do this if it wasn't a trap, trying to bring all of them, especially the leader, off balance.

That was what his sense of logic said.

The rest of him wanted to tear off Rimtori's arms and feel the slow break of her ribcage under his fingers while she begged for mercy in ragged gasps.

And she smiled, dared to smile, wiggling her fingers above the ball she held. Sarah's body staggered down the slope, an alarming, red glow flaring up around her limp hands.

Dor'ash growled, deep in his throat. It was a challenge, and one he had to accept for Sarah's sake. Couldn't let her body remain like this.

"You still have a heart," Jonathan said, voice harsh but tone even. He too understood this. "Shall I?"

Squaring his jaw, Dor'ash shook his head at this sudden show of empathy.

"It's my fault," he growled. "I should take responsibility for her."

"Hm." Jonathan gazed at Sarah's body with an unreadable expression. "As you wish."

Rimtori wriggled her fingers again. Sarah disappeared with a twinkling sound, only to reappear many steps closer to the base of the hill. Her arms rose, the magical glow intensifying as she prepared to cast the spell. The totems would ground her magic, but that was not the point. This was only a show of power from Rimtori's side, a way to torture her enemies.

Dor'ash threw his war hammer.

A strange choice, certainly, but he simply couldn't bear asking the elements to destroy his Sarah. The heavy weapon crashed into her chest with a sharp crunch of breaking bones. The red glow instantly died.

She fell backwards, shoved by the momentum, and tumbled to the ground with the hammer's head embedded in her chest. Not a sound ever left her lips, and she didn't move again.

A dead item.

The enraged shout of support from his troops left Dor'ash cold, but he turned back towards Rimtori with his eyes burning with hatred.

She stood, arms raised, insane, wide grin on her face. The ball rested between both her hands, held towards the sky, and tiny, black bolts of lightning crackled around the elf's arms. The same mad grin reflected on her follower's faces – that crazy look of people hanging on to just the slightest possibility that they may yet turn the tide-

Dor'ash's rage drowned in an icy shower of realization.

"You Forsaken! Back! Back!" he roared, spinning around. Some of them were already recoiling, but he just knew that it was too late.

Jonathan howled and his staff clattered over the ground.

Whirling back towards him, Dor'ash stared for a precious second as the shadowy form of a man writhed out of Jonathan's chest. It clawed desperately at the trashing body it was being sucked right out of, but its long, slender fingers went right through. A fine face, twisted in horror and pain, mouth open in a silent scream. Those weren't the features that – literally – stood out the most, however. Part of Dor'ash's mind had just enough wit left to be dumbfounded at the truth suddenly revealed before his eyes, but he had no time to think about something so pointless.

The Forsaken behind him were screaming. War cries and heavy footfalls let him know that the breathing part of his troop made a desperate dash towards the elves, but without the undead they were dangerously outnumbered. Snarling, he rushed forwards too while calling on the elements. If they could just stop Rimtori-

A few steps away from the magus' feet, the ground suddenly buckled. The motion was so small that Dor'ash didn't notice it at first, but he and everyone else sure saw it when a root shot up through the decaying grass. It moved with a life of its own, whipping at Rimtori like a furious snake. A shriek escaped her and she staggered aside, the transparent ball falling from her hands as her shattering spell died. One of the other elves cried out, his hands glowing red – but just before the fireball set it aflame, the root clumsily slapped at the dropped orb and sent it tumbling within reach for Dor'ash.

He scooped up the ball and dropped it in a pocket without taking the time to consider whether or not that was a good idea. Risking a glance around Dor'ash saw Jonathan fall over, while the other warriors and magic users dashed past on either side of him. Gurgling noises escaped him as the shadow of himself sunk back into his body. Almost as if it mimicked him, the burning root slumped down and stopped moving.

In the very brief pause, Dor'ash's furious gaze met Rimtori's fearful, defiant one. She turned and fled towards the ruins, and her followers closed up to protect her flight.

Dor'ash tore his gory war hammer from Sarah's remains without thinking. Yet his roar drowned in the hoarse shrieking of the Forsaken. Thin, hooded shadows rushed the hill, past the breathing members of the Horde with astonishing speed. They threw themselves at the elves – slashing with weapons, clawing at eyes with their bare hands, all the while screaming like banshees. They had not tasted true fear for a long time, and they did not appreciate the experience.

The elves buckled under the onslaught, but they may have been able to handle the maddened Forsaken. However, orcs, trolls and tauren were just behind the undead, weapons ready. Two blue, ghastly shapes also dove into the fight, ripping away with ethereal claws while murmuring calmly all the while. It seemed that Patrick and whatever other warlock was in on this had managed to keep their heads cool enough not to call on any bigger demons to join in the battle. There just weren't enough space, although the Forsaken's outrage certainly called for bigger, spikier hands. Other small demons joined too, imps, void walkers and at least one succubus, called by the desperate elves who had the chance to stand in the back and summon their pets.

Dor'ash took note of that only briefly, then focused completely on his own adversaries. His hammer fell on an elf's head, smashing the pretty face in an explosion of gore. Another elf from the side, sun flaring over her falling sword and Dor'ash shifted his shield to meet it – and a huge, hairy creature slammed into the woman, crushing bones under its giant paws. She died a gruesome but quick death.

Fuzzik looked around, bloody froth swimming around his yellow teeth. Well. That explained the violent, helpful root.

"You again."

Nothing else made it out of Dor'ash's mouth, because he could not come up with anything else. Instead he turned around and raised his hammer in search for the next unlucky elf. They were almost all gone now, but desperately fighting to the last man and woman. Knowing there was nowhere to run, only the ocean and sharp rocks far, far below.

In a just world, he would have been the one to kill Rimtori. Yet Azeroth seldom played fair, and it didn't today either. Just as he sent one of the last elves to the ground, scream fading as the handsome man clutched for the icicle piercing his chest, Dor'ash glanced up and saw somebody else finish it all. One of the undead swordsmen rushed forwards while Rimtori put all her focus into a desperate volley of fireballs, trying to keep one of the trolls and the tauren away from her. She never had a chance, and when she saw the Forsaken he had already ran his sword right through her.

She fell, screaming, and it was over.

Some of the elves still remained at that point, but what did it matter then? They died within the minute, and (although such a plane didn't really exist within his faith) Dor'ash grimly hoped that they followed Rimtori straight to hell.

All over.

He stood in the shadow of the temple, covered in blood. It struck him, suddenly, that some of the gore on his hammer was from Sarah's body. The weapon slid out of his numb fingers and thumped against the ground.

Spirits. Ancestors.

Jonathan sat on the ground, staff leaning against his shoulder. Still as a statue, face expressionless. But his yellow, unblinking eyes were definitely set on that miserable, crushed heap on the ground, further down the hill than any other bodies.

Did the undead truly feel love, even a shadow of it?

Looking at Jonathan now, it seemed possible.

Two of the Forsaken went around with daggers in their hands, checking on all the elf bodies and stabbing each one in the throat for good measure. One or two squeaked out one last gasp before finally dying like that.

"Wounded, gather down there," Dor'ash heard himself say, and saw his hand wave towards the bottom of the hill.

People got up, some supporting themselves on others, and made their way down to the designated spot. Forsaken and living alike. There were casualties, but Dor'ash's tired gaze saw only four unmoving forms apart from Sarah – three of them Forsaken, the last, one of the trolls. The latter groaned when one his kin prodded him, however. Thanks to the undead throwing themselves headfirst at the elves with such rage, the amount of survivors was a welcome surprise.

Grim silence enclosed everything, save from growls and groans from the wounded. A sort of after-battle shock, this quiet air. Relief at being alive and patched up would come later, yet the things that had happened here were disturbing to say the least.

A big, dark shape moved in the corner of Dor'ash's vision and he looked around.

Silently he watched as Fuzzik padded towards him, and most everyone standing nearby looked on as well. The fake bear no longer tried to hide the intelligence in his eyes, walking slowly with thick slobs of saliva still glistening around his mouth and blood staining his fur.

"'ey, the dessert is back," one of the Forsaken said, but even he sounded drained. Only a scattered few chuckles were heard in agreement, too.

Despite his lethargy, Dor'ash raised his eyebrows when the bear stopped a few steps away, and a magical light covered the huge body. The glowing shape stood up on its hinds, shrinking and thinning. A moment later the light faded, and a male night elf dressed in leather armor stood before Dor'ash. The blood now covered his arms up to his elbows, splattered onto his gear and his face – both freshly bright red and old, dark splotches. The thick, red-tinted saliva glistening around his lips didn't make him a more pleasant sight.

"Beg your pardon," he said, and to Dor'ash's detached surprise he actually spoke Orcish, with a thick Darnassian accent that made the rough language of orcs sound pretty bizarre.

Holding up a hand, the druid wiped his mouth on his upper arm. It was definitely the most awkward motion Dor'ash had ever seen an elf perform, but he could understand it considering how gory the druid's hands were.

Finishing that, the elf looked at his hands for a brief moment but then seemed to shrug to himself, as if surrendering that cleaning himself would take too long in this situation. Instead he turned back towards Dor'ash, who seriously had begun to wonder if this man was an outcast amongst his own kind. His actions until now certainly did not seem very elfish at all.

"I was most touched by your mercy, shaman," the peculiar druid said, bowing from the waist with his slimy palms pressed against each other. "May I offer mine in return?"

Dor'ash regarded him for a moment, deep down knowing that he should be laughing at something so bizarre. But he felt no inclination to even smile.

"You made that root attack Rimtori, didn't you," he said.

"Yes," the elf said with a nod. He straightened up. "I have no love for the undead, but your companion was slain because of my friend's mistakes."

"Hm."

Dully, Dor'ash wondered what Sarah would say if she knew that a night elf had helped avenge her death.

"Why are you following a tauren around like that?" he asked, more because he knew that he should investigate this, than really caring.

"Deran and I met a couple of years ago while fighting corrupted furbolgs," came the reply, calmly with no trace of offense. "He never realized that I was not a real bear, and I accompanied him out of curiosity. It has been that way since. I never intended any harm, or to spy. As he said when you met, I have refused to enter your cities."

The mere idea that a tauren would make a mistake like that should have been laughable, but Dor'ash fostered no high thoughts about that particular calf. It would not surprise him if it was true.

Shrugging, he looked down towards the makeshift healer camp at the foot of the hill.

"Nobody harm the elf, you hear me?" he shouted.

Although he noted more than one disappointed expression, the overall reaction was a silent or murmured acceptance. They had all seen the bear fight.

"Can you heal?" Dor'ash asked, returning his focus to the once again bowing elf.

"I have been a bear for very long, but those skills are not lost to me."

Saying so, 'Fuzzik' started towards the gathering wounded, absentmindedly rubbing his hands against his worn pants to get rid of most of the blood. Dor'ash watched him go for a moment, but then went to sit down on a rock. His head throbbed, he needed to think but didn't want to. Needed to make plans for securing the area, assemble the least wounded as guards in case there were more elves nearby, send out scouts to make sure the troop could stay here for a while and recover. But he figured, it could wait for two minutes. If the sound of battle had not called forth an army of other malevolent creatures hiding in the bushes, there had not been any close enough to hear it.

Yet, making those plans would have been more pleasant than the images invading his brain now that nothing distracted him – of Sarah's crouching, dead shape swaying, moving like a puppet with Rimtori pulling the strings. Damn that elf woman to the level of hell where Mannoroth's spirit writhed.

Before, he had never really been able to think of Sarah as actually dead. But there had been no soul in that body, every instinct and sense in him had just known it. That blasted elf had ripped it right out, like she had almost done with Jonathan.

So far gone into these dark thoughts had he sunk, that he did not feel the intensifying stench of death until a sharp fingertip tapped his shoulder plate. He looked around to see Patrick.

"Master Coldbane, may I see that orb you picked up?" the undead man asked.

"Hm? Oh, that one."

Dor'ash shook his head to clear his thoughts as he reached into a pocket and drew out the glass ball. He did not look too closely at it, but as he dropped the orb into the warlock's hand he noticed a small, pink glimmer inside of it. Patrick cradled the small ball in both hands, turned it over and finally held it up against the bright blue sky.

After a moment he chortled and muttered something in Gutterspeak. Then he turned towards Dor'ash again, offering the orb.

"I believe I found your friend," the warlock said, the rotting corners of his lips allowing him to smile unpleasantly wide.

Blinking, Dor'ash took the strange item back and held it up in front of his eyes. There was definitely a pink stain in the center of it… no, not a stain. He squinted, and as he did the small blur seemed to grow bigger, becoming clearer by the second.

Still small, and faint, but definitely a human woman. She looked straight out at him, and waved. Dor'ash frowned, but at the same time hope flared up in his heart.

"Sarah?"

She nodded.

Even in life, Sarah had not been a pretty girl. Could not have been even by those human standards Dor'ash only had a vague idea about. Hollow eyed, wiry and with hunching shoulders, she looked every bit a woman who only had known dreary, hard work for all her short life and only would have had as much to look forwards to.

Still watching him, she placed her hands around her mouth and seemed to shout at the top of her lungs. No sound made it out, though.

"I can't hear you," Dor'ash said, shaking his head.

She let her hands drop and shrugged. Difficult to say if that was a helpless or annoyed motion. Dor'ash turned his head and looked at Patrick.

"Is there anything you people can do about this?" the shaman asked, pointing at the orb.

"I would certainly like to attempt it." Patrick rubbed his chin. "That was a nasty spell she used, I would prefer if we knew how it worked so that we could counteract it in case anybody else invents or know of it." He looked towards the ruins on top of the slope. "It was not the spells warlocks use to create soul gems. I have never seen anything quite like it. But of course, the important thing for the moment is to get Miss Nebula back into her body."

He glanced at Sarah's body on the ground, then waved his hand dismissively at Dor'ash.

"Worry not, master Coldbane, we brought a couple of experienced priests along. They should be able to piece her back together." He held out his hand. "In the meantime, may I study the orb some more?"

"Of course." Dor'ash handed the ball back to Patrick.

He did not see Sarah's soul pointing at the warlock, wildly shaking her head. She ceased the moment Patrick's glowing gaze turned to her, and waved instead.

Dor'ash stood up from the rock and headed towards the camp. As leader of the expedition he could no longer ignore his duties. Hope gave him more energy.

He didn't hear Patrick's murmur, as the man gazed at the orb in his hands.

"Fascinating."

Inside of it, the miniature Sarah folded her arms and grimaced.

"Yes, yes," Patrick muttered in Gutterspeak. "I'll save you." Then he chuckled when she tilted her head in a skeptic motion. "What? Don't you trust me?" He tapped one fingertip against the ball, and Sarah put her hands over her ears. "You behave now, little sister. You understand, don't you?"

Sarah twisted her head in another direction.

"Good…" Patrick murmured and turned around to find his accomplices.