War of the Sightless Eye

by Sub-Zero879

Far more old gods exist than those chained beneath the surface of Azeroth. The deaths of C'Thun and Yogg-Saron can be ignored no longer; the time of reckoning has come. An Epic, of the trials and last stand of an army of Vrykul, Sin'dorei, Argent Paladins, and Qiraji - and the four men that lead them. The game has changed.

21. Chapter 19: New Hearthglen

Chapter 19

New Hearthglen

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X Ranger-General X

In his life, Thomas had seen all the things he had been promised as a child. Adventurers, heroes, they left into this grand world of theirs, and they would find places of beauty, of exotic fae, of enchanting forests and devilish, burning mountains. They would encounter and triumph over terrible villains, and they would find themselves rescued by the kind hands of ancient deities.

Thomas had traveled arid, endless deserts, and he had trekked mountains so high the very air lost its essence for breath. He'd fallen out of battlefields of scores of enemies, slain men who truly deserved death, and he had rescued damsels and children in droves. He had been invited into a queen's bed chamber, overlooking soaring hills and dense, towering forests in its remote sanctuary. He had knelt before kings and lords of every land, been given their blessing and praise. And their hate, before his dagger snuffed their malevolent essence, depending on where he was.

Through harems of mind-numbing incenses, groped and betrayed by the dozen soft hands of women in scandalous, exotic garb. He had fought the mind-enslaving of succubi, of shivarran nobility, and he had danced in halls of bone, fire, and shadow. He had lived his life as a hero, lived it indeed!

But his story, it had not ended yet. Through woodlands and familiar forests, he met with, befriended, and lived as an elf. His current chapter, with the Exilee, it was different from before, yet he could not say anything had changed. His will remained its own, his purpose unchanging, and only the faces around him changed, except his constant companion Buck. Leading an army of elves or delving the mana-shattered lands where earth met Twisting Nether – what fanciful element truly changed?

Yet, through it all, the past never blotted out Thomas' view of the present. He had seen such beauty, both in land, art, and even flesh, yet it never numbed his eye to what he might behold after. Such was the case now, stepping sideways through the warm, musky breeze of Elwynn's forest, feeling the soft, familiar grass press beneath his light boots.

Around him stirred trees, the leaves trembling with a sound unlike anywhere else in this world or another. Thomas knew this land well, even with his long absences from it, just as he knew when to stride back and lift his foot over an unturned root without looking to avoid a tree. His attention was unwavering, his eyes fixed before him, as he side-stepped around the clearing.

A woman danced at the center. It could be called nothing else, the contortions and changes of her state of body. As a blood elf, the woman was of exceptional beauty – her body slender, fit, and feminine, with a face of refined, aristocratic features with high cheek bones, a rosebud mouth, the blond racial eyebrows that roofed eyes of radiant green.

On this day, Sarrine did not dress herself as a ranger, though that was their purpose here. Her outfit remained far less constricting than leathers, offering no protection, yet it revealed much of her form and shape to ready eyes. She had chosen it for him, to allow him view of her, and she danced her exotic show in full display.

The snug, cloth articles remained thin, sometimes sheer, upon Sarrine's body, offering tantalizing hints of what lay beneath. With each turn of her body, the looser hanging veils whispered in the wind, touching Thomas' ears in the song of her motions, pleasing each of his senses as they could touch. Her scent, her sight, her sound, her touch, Thomas knew them all and felt urges to move, to desist his subtle change in position around her.

Despite all distractions, his attention was set on more than body. The motions were important, every detail, from the rate of breath intake to strain on limb. This dancing elf displayed an awareness and control of her body, mastery of its motions, and slowly branched into examples of control of her space. The body became a tool of motion, rather than the supplier, and still her dance complicated further. How far could she press herself? To what extent could her personal control reach?

Flexible, nubile flower, this woman was, and soon the deep bends at the waist were assisted by palms against the grassy floor, and Sarrine gently flowed into her first handstand, her body arched in perfect balance for a fleeting motion as forces shifted from end to end, and she touched down without an interruption to her flow.

She was an image in the moonlight, pale and lovely, dressed so boldly, so slyly. Every detail of her, from personal feature to restless motion, seared into Thomas' mind.

Crow's stand and lethargic, controlled somersault. Bridging backwards and lifting her feet up still, then rising on one palm. It was excellence. Grace was the field of elves, for all men to envy. What had taken Thomas years had been mastered in hardly a week.

An idle flick of his wrist sent a dagger whistling towards the dancing elf. Like adding drums to a melody of wind, it gave her a new tempo, something quick yet fluid, and Sarrine jumped from a hanging form, balanced on one foot, to a kick up to a one-handed stand, with her legs crossing to avoid the path of the blade. It struck the grass behind her, and Thomas threw again.

With a push, Sarrine spun in the air, yet before her motions could finish, a third dagger followed the second into the air. A land like a fall, collapsing on her leg to low – and under the second dagger – only to somersault only part way to escape the third. Grace, uninterrupted. Thomas felt a pleased, intrigued grin touched his face.

It was acrobatics, as Thomas had been taught by Merridan. Then, he had been given more than a few thumps and pricks from the practice daggers, but Thomas had learned in the end. Total mastery of the self, of spacial awareness, of both the limits of the body and the limitless ways it can express itself. And the rangers had taken to it like fish to water.

It had began with Genveera the Swan approaching him on their first day of rest. She asked to move as he did, recalling his tussle with the warlord. Hardly into the first lesson of acrobatics, the entire force of Ashblades committed themselves to the same training, even Jerath. Merridan had offered input and advice, but without eyes he could not study the form of his students with the same efficiency.

Six nights after, the Ashblades could demonstrate the motions with great success. This was their last night in the forest, as the army prepared to move the following morning through the portals to the Great Dragonblight. Thousands of miles, crossed in a single instant. Now, after acquiring mastery, Sarrine had asked for Thomas to personally check her technique.

She met him wearing a simple robe, quietly removed to reveal her current wear. Then the dance had begun, and Thomas entertained his elven lover in the game of steel and form. Now, the tempo quickened again, where Thomas jumped back to avoid a returning dagger. Sarrine had scooped and thrown it still without losing poise or flow.

Their exchanges passed without progress, though wounding was antithesis to their goals here. Thomas himself left his dark hunt to join her in the clearing in visible sight, and he also committed himself to the same fluid motions and personal control to avoid being stuck by blade point, rather than speed and anticipation.

Closer their motions pressed, until the toss of a dagger grew less favored than physical confrontation. Yet in the first strike, Sarrine found herself outclassed as many did when fighting the Shadow. Thomas disappeared in a black cloud, reappearing at a distance with a dagger in the midst of a throw, and then he vanished from there to behind, tripping her with a push continuing her own motions, sending her flat on her back.

Sarrine's dance stuttered and crumbled, and she struck quickly with her dark ashblade, hoping to nick his side. Thomas remained in the path until he vanished in another cloud of black, Shadow-Stepping to just behind her again, and the scandalously dressed elf found herself pinned and helpless in his arms.

Slender Sarrine writhed playfully for a time, before huffing a loud sigh. Her green eyes sparkled in the moonlight as they beheld his grinning face, and she mentioned in Thalassian, "It is no fair, how you can move through shadows. No one can catch you."

His smooth-shaven cheek nuzzled her flawlessly soft one, before whispering, "If my fights were fair, I doubt I'd still have breath in my lungs."

He could hear the sound of Sarrine's tongue briefly wetting her lips and the quick swallow as his breath touched her long ear, poking out of her shoulder-length blond hair. She questioned weakly, "Can your trick be... ah, taught?"

"Mmhm," he hummed, now only a hairs breath from the sensitive skin of her ear. Quieter still, he admitted, "But not by me."

"Then- ah!" Sarrine gasped as his teeth grazed the spongy flesh, breathing around the gentle grip he had. His lips dragged along it. Sarrine's skin, already so exposed, erupted into gooseflesh beneath his hands, while she uttered, "Oh, oh, by the sun, Thomas."

"Hmm?" he questioned without words. With a lasting flick of tongue, he separated to ask, "More questions?" His mouth resumed its teasing place.

"Don't start what you won't finish." The dangerous growl came as a surprise, nearly comical from the dainty elf. But he could feel the hungering tension seeping into her limbs, building a very physical reaction waiting for him to pass a certain threshold.

His hands, formerly locking hers behind her by the wrist, dragged down over her skin to her lower back, then lower. Velvety cloth interrupted the shivering flesh with such rarity. "Who is the instigator?" he questioned after a nibble, breathing warm breaths over her highly sensitive ear. "Who dressed for only one occasion?"

"Haven't a clue, nnmph," she started, groaning as his hands cupped and kneaded her buttocks. Breathlessly, she finished: "what you're speaking of." The tone was content and satisfied.

Callused hands reached up again, over the dips of her arching back, through the small between shoulder blades, then under her arms to her front, dragging only the sides of her chest and down. As his hands wandered, he reminded, "It's our last night in safety, the last in the woods and privacy. And playing at war has made brief escapes oh so few in number for us, hasn't it?"

"Mmm, undoubtedly," she groaned. Her blond-crowned head lifted from the nape of his neck to press a firm kiss against his lips, only to pause and scrunch up as his hands did something she found... interesting. Fingernails dug into his shoulders as she hissed, "Thomas..."

His fingers picked at the fringe of the cloth that covered her chest, worming under to reach along soft, heated skin for a teasing moment. He curled them out again. Sarrine's narrowly clad hips ground over him, pressing their pelvises together, while her light breaths puffed against his neck again, where her head had retreated. Quietly, she demanded, "Unveil me."

His hands returned to the thin cloth for her breasts, inching under again and finding the room to slide the straps from her shoulders, but he paused to question, "You are sure?"

"Burn you, Thomas!" Sarrine cried out, though still soft for their proximity. "You wind me up and then shed doubts. If you want me, if you want this, then take me! Light, I'm yours Thomas, for as far as you want. But if you are still testing waters, slow as eastern winds, and this is your idea of seeing if you want me, without release, then give me an hour alone in a brook to deal with this myself!"

By the end of her rant, Thomas was laughing, and he comforted her with a kiss. "I want to be sure this is more than physical, but you make a slow pace nearly impossible."

With a narrowed gaze, Sarrine said, "Over two weeks and you are yet to do more than kiss me; I say you've had you're success. I've had to resort even to wearing this to try to urge you further."

"It's working," he mentioned, kissing her pouting lips and having his hand slide up from her exposed stomach, finding first the hardness of her ribcage and then the softness of her thinly clothed breasts. Sarrine's radiant eyes shut as she inhaled, then sighed.

Her eyes cracked open again as she mumbled, "You are just unapproachable sometimes. The great Shadow, the Deliverer, our salvation and hero, the Ranger-General. I feel like just another in a line of suitors for the king's affections."

Thomas stopped his ministrations, leaving his index and middle fingers pressing chastely at the valley of her cleavage. "That's the illusion I've been hoping to break down," he admitted. "I'm just another adventurer, one who is very good at what he does. You could just as easily find me in a daring party of five delving into the Shadow Labyrinth, or piping from a tree branch in deep woods."

The green eyes flashed. "You pipe?"

Thomas winked. "When I can. Don't tell anyone else."

"I used to play the harp in Silvermoon. On my off-duty days, I was often invited to play at the Bubbling Brook for tips... Back when the inn still stood, I mean."

"I believe I and everyone else knew that, from how you go about on your bowstring in idle moments." Sarrine blushed, pale cheeks darkening in the moonlight, and Thomas laughed softly. "Truly, however, I want to remind you that it is the Exilee who built up that persona of me. I was just an adventurer who saw sickly elves preyed upon by Nether fiends, and I offered to guide you as I might any endangered traveler. The massive scale of who agreed to it frightened me, and I wondered how soon I'd find a Kael'thas-branded dagger in my back."

"The rise of a King. We all are witness," Sarrine mumbled, and soft fingers touched his cheek wistfully.

Thomas' jaw flexed at the notion. "I will die with a reaching legacy, Sarrine, but that will not be my final chapter. I refuse to let it. If that is what you foresee for me – for us – then take your leave now. I have ancient lairs to delve, hellish fiends to lay low, and hapless to rescue. I have lands to explore and wars to tip the scales of. I would have you there with me for that, but my ambitions, my skills, do not extend to lordship in any part."

The young elf smiled at him, though her inner turmoil was obvious. Still cupping his cheek, she jested, "Haven't you heard? I'm your Ashblade now, to stand behind you and defend you for an age to come. I will be with you wherever you go."

"And would you stand beside me, Sarrine? Could you do that too?"

That pretty face turned shy, but he caught the flash of a thrilled grin, biting her lower lip briefly. "I could try. Will you catch me when I stumble?"

"Only if you do the same for me."

"That is the work for Commander Raeloth and Genveera, and your Merridan too."

"For the Exilee. But I am also a man, and times will come when I act stupid and boorish, or for all my sight, I'm blind to something just before me. So Sarrine, will you tug the great Shadow by the ear and reprimand him when it becomes necessary?"

The blood elf laughed. Hand behind his head now, she tugged him down for a kiss. Whispered breath mingling with his, she said, "What a day that would be. Make those few to spare me the pleasure." Rubbing noses with him, she giggled and added, "Not that any better could be expected from a man."

Thomas caught her lips with another kiss. The taunt meant less than the implications, that she could better see him as a man rather than hero. A flick of tongue added heat to the kiss, and they fell back into their game.

XxX

Not a blade of grass rustled, nor shadow stretched, nor night crawler disturbed, yet a mellow, amused voice greeted in Thalassian, "Are you sure about this, Jack?"

Thomas did not stop when detected, lurking forward in the perfect shroud of silence, yet his body remained visible for any to trace against the dark of the woods. Merridan remained kneeling in the heart of the open glade, sheathed in natural shadows and radiant with the hanging moon.

Standing behind his mentor now, Thomas admitted, "I am not without the ability to improve. However, not many can offer me the chance. My rangers, even Jerath, do not know how to deal with one who lacks innate magic."

Buck inhaled deeply through his nose, then huffed a short laugh. "I was expecting another scent after your... personal oversight of that darling lady."

"I care for her. I'm keeping it slow, without the physical, until I'm certain she sees Thomas, rather than "The Deliverer,"" Thomas replied, following him into the Common tongue.

Still kneeling, blindfolded head erect and serene, Buck replied, "A valuable woman that would be. It would do you much good."

"Yeah, and where's your lady?" Thomas sat himself beside the elf, far less regal as he sprawled himself out, feet forward and arms back to lean. "Nearly twenty years now and hardly an interaction."

"My life has been far longer than yours." The reply was simple and short, and it was clear Buck saw it as an answer. Thomas huffed again, without arguing, and they sat in silence together. It broke when Merridan mentioned neutrally, "I will blind you, Thomas. You are good, one of the best and all without mana, but you are no Jack of that trade."

"It worries you, then?"

"Much worries me, old friend. The Sightless eyes of our foe, however, forebode dark tidings of what might come. You have come to appreciate all fives beautiful senses, unlike most of your kind, but you must be prepared to live without even the most glorious, wonderful one of all."

How beautiful the white moon was, speckled and bright above them. The night elves revered it as a goddess, and he could understand why. He thought of Sarrine and her beauty, that of Nagrand and the floating landmasses spilling endless streams of water. All the beautiful things he'd seen in his years of adventuring.

Gone.

Most men did know know beauty beyond that. The clever, the scholarly, knew beauty in ideas, in knowledge and exploration. Others knew art in music, in language. For Thomas, he knew he would not be without, should he lose his sight. He knew beauty in sound, in the throb and thrive of the world around him. He knew beauty in smell, from the fragrance of the elixir Sarrine used to treat her hair to the scent that was simply her.

He knew beauty in taste, in flavors. From sweet fruit to salty sweat, he could appreciate the world through the least regarded. And what was a world without touch? From flaky bark under fingertips, to the measured force traveling through his legs and tendons when landing from a high fall, and the silken touch of a woman, and pleasure...

The world would not be lost to Thomas. He could navigate a sightless world, nearly without flaw. Vision was a precious tool, and the gift of it was immense, but Thomas knew, knew it would not be a handicap.

"Do it."

And the world went black.

Thomas immediately reached through the world through sound, and he could feel by current of wind that Merridan had vanished from his side. No panic rose as his eyes blinked open and closed without avail. He left them shut finally and focused, forcing the shadows to bend around him despite the similar flaw in his opponent.

A thump, a whistle.

Thomas jolted aside, finding a dagger to throw, then hurled it towards the origin of the sound. Of course, no one would be there now, but it added noise pollution, masking his presence further as he ran a degree aside from the origin, and with straining ears, he thought he heart the thumping of an accelerated heart rate. A hunter was in the midst, body flushed with blood and tense for violence.

A boot scraped deliberately over the ground, drawing attention to its low point only feet from Thomas' position, and then his main dagger clanged as it hit that of his foe's. By sound, wind, thought and imagination, Thomas engaged his blind foe. He relied on pattern and knowledge of the bodies motions, focusing on the full image of how his opponent still stood.

For a moment, a juke threw off his perception, and Thomas kicked back several steps. His bow slid from over his shoulder to his hand, and he fired off an arrow without hesitation. A loud, excite voice exclaimed, "Aha!"

There was no hit, but the Ranger Lord had not expected a clean shot coming. Merridan's voice, echoing from two locations, admitted, "So you are not such a blind sheep after all! You have trained for this?"

Thomas hesitated, straining to recall how to throw his voice. Sliding around a tree he found – by angle and reach of its roots – he voiced, "Ware the wolves, little shepherd. For even the guardian may be hunted."

Thomas moved, and so did Merridan. Excitement flooded his body, with taunts and memories playing out in rapid streams. He waited for Buck to show his hand, only to dive aside gracelessly to just barely dodge a returning arrow. With one touch of his palm to the ground, he pushed himself to turn in the air and threw knife while landing on his boots in a low crouch. There was a ting of metal deflecting metal and a rich laugh.

"You forget the duty of the guardian is to be hunted, little cub, and he is so carefully ready for it!"

Thomas met Merridan again, and they danced.

XxX

Her headache was a searing, throbbing inconvenience upon waking. Tired eyes of dulled viridian split to slits, staring at the soft pink cloth of her tent's roof. No longer would her eyes glow under persistent illumination, this long since her last feed upon bloodgems. Light, but it felt like her body was dying.

With an aching hand, Genveera found her hair and pulled strands before her, checking for color. The bright, golden locks appeared faded and lifeless to her vision, but it was there. She sighed, letting the hair fall to her chest, and then forced herself to sit up. Hardly halfway into the motion, a rush of blood to her head turned the throbbing to drilling, and she hissed, freezing in place.

Light, she needed to feed. She could not operate at her best like this. The Shadow... he relied on her, so she needed to be her best.

Pitching forward, the pain became a sickness, and Genveera turned to puke, spitting up only a small mess. Her innards churned unpleasantly. Even her skin felt like bugs were crawling just beneath, scratching with their small legs and pushing with their bulbous bodies.

Wine, she thought to herself, with all else blank. Finding the ornate, thin-necked bottle, she took it up and drank from the stem. It might have been a fine batch, but her sour tongue and burning mind were numb to all but the cool liquid sliding down her throat, beginning to settle in her turbulent stomach.

When she finished drinking, Genveera let the empty bottle fall to the ground, and she sat back on her bed, palming her forehead in attempt to rub out the pain. The rangers, and certainly the Shadow, would smell the alcohol from her for the next few hours. She cursed to herself for thoughtlessness, but it could not be helped.

Who still carries bloodgems? she wondered. Zerin would. Shady, ambitious, greedy scum unworthy of being called sin'dorei, but he'd be a Light-send if he had some gems in reserve. If she could buy him out, through any means, she'd remain alert and...

Geveera noticed her hand, dancing with a new spell of magic, and her lips were moving to a familiar chant. Fear seized her heart, and she cut the spells with a quick snip. Not now.

Tugging her fingers towards her ranger's uniform, she commanded the clothes onto her body, dressing her, and she stood to let her boots slip on. The yearning and tearing within her body had not subsided or even diminished, but Genveera could operate despite it, for now. Finding her bow, she took it, her quiver, and her sword and left her tent.

The sun had only just broken the horizon, she noticed. The sky was a grey-blue, but the clouds above were rich with golden edges around the dark cotton. Already, their camp was in motion, with sin'dorei hustling about their tents, carts, wagons, and so forth, preparing for the great march. Today, they would travel by portal to the Great Dragonblight, in Northrend.

Northrend. Not even old elves like her had been that far north. There was nothing for the living up there, nothing but proud dragons, troll remnants, and the ruins of a thousand dead civilizations – and that was before the Lich King parked his ass up there.

The Exilee saluted her in passing. Genveera debated throwing a glamor over herself, knowing what she was doing now, but she did not trust herself with magic at the moment. A glamor spell gone awry could be devastating for herself, at that moment. The Shadow... The Shadow would-

Zerin was where she expected him, carefully attending several pots and cauldrons of smoking liquids. He isolated himself from the camp by remaining at its edge, and supply crates surrounded him to block view from those who weren't specifically looking for him, which she was.

Crossing a threshold, between his wagon and the supply boxes, Genveera alerted him, and Zerin looked up sharply, his green eyes wide. A seedy elf, with black hair and a scratchy goatee. His long eyebrows drooped at the sight of her, however, and he demanded, "What is it, Duskfury? You agreed to leave me to my business."

"Indeed," she said, and her hand threw up a veil behind her, blocking them even from passerby's. Zerin remained suspicious, for good reason. Throwing a sound-blocking weave around them as well, she said, "Today, I am in need of your business."

"Yeah?" Zerin remarked cruelly, beginning to step between her and his potions. "What is it this time? Perhaps another elixir of infertility, to prevent you from being knocked up by your precious "Shadow?""

Genveera debated reminding him of her authority and power over him now, but she refrained, keeping this business and quick. She would need to return to Thomas before long. "Bloodgems. I know you have a stock, you decrepit slimeball."

Zerin laughed. "Ah yes, the fucking addict comes to the slums for her precious fix. Well too late, "Swan," I sold the last of them a week ago for ten gold pieces and the best head of my life. You have nothing that can compare."

Genveera dropped her bow from her shoulder and knocked an arrow at full draw in a fraction of a second. With the silver-tipped head aimed directly at his eye, she said with equal indifference, "I know that was not all of them, Zerin. You will show me your stock, or else you die and I find it myself."

His eyes bugged, hands shooting up in attempt to pacify. "Blighted fucking darkness, Genveera, calm the fuck the down!" Genveera stepped closer, the arrowhead looming nearer. Zerin backed up, yelping, "Alright, alright! I have some! Just stop aiming that at me, fuck!"

She eased back on the arrow, and then holding it under a hooked finger of her left hand, she found a pouch at her waist and tossed it to Zerin. "I'll take all that gives me."

The rat scurried carefully for the pouch, and he opened it to peer inside. Immediately, he made a choking sound, pouring out gold pieces onto a palm. He begin muttering spells beneath his breath, so she told him, "It's all real. Soldier's pay was administered last week, and the Deliverer's second has her own payroll."

Seedy Zerin dropped the pieces back into the pouch, and he tugged the string tight, tying it before slipping it into a pocket of his robes. Stepping back, he turned to find one of his chests, and he dug about it, eventually coming up again with a smaller chest in his hands.

Holding it onto his palm, with the other hand placed over the lid, Zerin turned a dark, sly look her way. "There is more to the payment. I want her, Duskfury. I want her in full."

A bubble of laughter took the Swan, and she couldn't even find the drive to threaten him with her bow again. "You think I, or anyone, has control of her, you sex-addled lynx-shit? She would sooner sever your cock, and your head, than lower herself to you."

"But-"

"But nothing!" Genveera hissed coldly, and she pulled back on the arrow again. "You give me the gems I paid for, and you live. That is our deal."

Vicious triumph came to Zerin's eyes as he pulled open the lid of the chest. "Behold, whore, the rewards of your fucking labor. Let this be our last transaction, you vile, wretched witch. Come for me again, and I tell your Shadow of our deals!"

One lone bloodgem remained placed carefully atop the purple felt inside the chest. It was a scrawny, miniscule thing, barely enough for one feed. Genveera's chest clenched tightly in panic.

"You think you are the only addict to come swinging knife or spell and demand my stock? This camp has fucked and doped itself to shit over these since our rescue, and now you all kill over scraps. Enjoy your purchase, now goodbye!" He tossed the gem her way, then snapped the lid shut.

Genveera quickly eased her arrow off and caught the gem like it was precious gold – yet it was more than its weight in gold, she knew. Light, for so much coin, she had hoped... but no, he was genuine. A slimy bastard, but his words were true. This might very well be the last bloodgem within the camp, and the price for it was fair. Fucking...!

Genveera took it and left, throwing down her veil and spells. Zerin spat at her back.

XxX

Thomas nodded to Ysanna and Lorin. The two portal masters began their work, taking their time to chant together and gather their magic, touching ley lines and gods knew what else. It was not quick work, the summoning of portals, yet when they finished, two wide windows shimmered into existence, betraying white land and blue sky beyond through its murky depths.

First through were Ashblades, Jaden and Dor'rath, and only upon their return did the rest of them travel through, with Thomas, Raeloth, and Genveera at the lead. Merridan and Lord Dasen followed, then did the rest of the body of the Exilee.

On the opposite side of the portal was a view much as they expected. Thomas squinted his eyes against the glare of both the sun and the sun against the snow, but once he adjusted to the brightness, he turned about to study the new land they had traveled to. A jump from Elwynn Forest to Northrend, in but a step.

Already, his perception of sound told him of the massive wall to his left, but it was only when he turned look that he realized exactly what it was. His mouth went dry at the sight. The others noticed it as well, some gasping, but all were soon to stare.

With golden ramparts and alabaster stone, it must have been a megalith of absolute imposing size. The stretch of the ruins certainly suggested that. From report, Thomas had heard it addressed as... Wyrmrest Temple, home of the dragons and throne of the Dragonqueen. From fifty miles in any direction, the tower could be seen, it was said. Now, at best it was maybe ten.

The entire Wyrmrest Temple, fortress of the titans, had been demolished – tipped over and crashed for what had to be half a mile of stone rubble. The portals deposited them at the foot of the destruction, what must have been the base of the keep, while the entire way north it was just piles of stone.

Turning from the dreadful sight, Thomas saw Merridan adjusting his blindfold. His mentor had a stern, sober look about him, clearly detecting the mood. Reaching behind him, Merridan slid out one of his elven blades from the crossed sheaths tucked behind his belt. Thomas felt the same concern, but he was no longer the one to act anymore.

"Send out scouts," he told, in Thalassian, the men around him, while facing Raeloth directly. "Jerath and Flaerie, I want you to watch from any high ground, see if anything is moving, be it threat or a lone traveler. Commander, I want the scouts going further, to record the area for several miles out at least. Send any who can manage stealth for a deep reconnaissance, to meet up with us in two days, where we plan to camp."

The Exilee were turning to him, eyes still wide at the shattered symbol of the dragons' power. Thomas kept his spine straight and chin high, with arms going behind his back. Total poise. "Let's move, men. We have entered a new land, and a war zone at that. We need information, we need details of terrain. Everyone will be working out here."

Commander Raeloth finally nodded, and he sucked in a deep breath. To the trailing officers, he hollered, "You heard the Ranger-General! Move your asses! I want a score of scouts sweeping deep, and I need are best-running rogues out on recon. You, Captain, send the Azure and Moonside cells to our command tent. I want Captain Maloree and Donvorei there waiting!"

"Sir!" the man saluted, then hesitated. "Where will the command tent be located?"

Raeloth's glare was withering. "I am the bloody command tent. Now move!"

Thomas kept the smile off his face. The former captain, Raeloth, had done extraordinary things with his men before encountering Thomas. It was clear how he held his men disciplined and alive through the tribulations of Netherstorm. Elves usually operated smooth and calm. Raeloth, in combat, had a preference to spittle-spraying tongue lashing, similar to most human commanders. Thomas appreciated the familiarity.

Well, the Exilee wanted their war. Hearing the tall, green banners flapping in the icy gusts, Thomas noted that they were getting it.

"Shadow!" a man's voice called from atop the ruins of the temple.

They looked to see Jerath balanced upon the crumbled stones, with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. As the only fully bearded elf, he still attracted strange looks from some of the Exilee, yet all knew of his place as an Ashblade and one of Thomas' most respected rangers. The blond haired man pointed to the southeast. "There is a city on a hill, around thirty miles that way. It's occupied."

Thomas followed Jerath onto the ruins, his feet swift and steady over the wobbling and rolling stones, until he found a balance beside the elf. Shielding his eyes too, he peered far off, spotting the specks of buildings against the glare of the sun. He asked, "Friendly or foe?"

Jerath grunted. "White banner with gold-grey sun or star on it. It looks human though." Thomas' glance at him was incredulous, knowing how distant the city was and to see its banners, yet he started at the change to Jerath's eyes. They were gold, with large black pupils, like that belonging to an eagle. He'd seen that spell before, used by Merridan.

Muttering to himself, Jerath raised his hand for a spark of blue magic, and then he hummed deeply. "Paladins, moving in scores. I'd recognize that armor and those capes anywhere. They are friendly, Shadow, to you if not us."

Eagle Eye, a ranger trick for seeing clearly at impossible distances. Thomas could admit to a slight jealousy, but the emotion was fleeting as he assured himself in his own eyes, trained for clarity and distance unmatched by nearly any other human. The thought reminded him of the previous night, when Merridan had blinded him, and he felt the same unease about losing his sight.

"Commander," Thomas addressed loudly, "we march for the city. There we can find more information on the position and force of our enemy, and if we are lucky, we can find allies for this assault. Tell the scouts to meet us there." Raeloth saluted, passing on orders. "Flaerie, what do you see?"

The brown haired woman was several paces further north along the ruins of the temple, and she was staring off to that direction, quiet. At the question, she announced in her quiet voice, "I see a wasteland, sir. Nothing alive, nothing moving. Just icy death and shadows."

Appropriate to Northrend, by report. They returned to the snow, and Thomas noted they were still bringing in their long column of peoples. He nodded to Raeloth, and the commander ordered their march. The scouts saluted and began to spread north.

XxX

"Northrend... This is where he warred, so soon after his return. Now I am here, Merridan."

"King Varian did much good in his time, my lord. In this land especially, he trusted, for the good of all, when he had no reason to, and he was spurn for it repeatedly. More than a war hero, the King was... a King. There are few greater tragedies than the fall of the Golden Lion."

"Yes, I read all the reports. The Wrathgate fiasco, and Garrosh Hellscream, yet even after he allowed Saurfang the body of his son. Such a large shadow to fill, Merridan. So achingly large... But we must look forward, to the present. Can you feel the land? The way it groans and cries in agonies and unspeakable evils... The Scourge was only a wound, and now a vile disease festers it and rots what remains."

"I feel it, my lord, and Thomas can only kill the poison. It will take another hand, one of right and Light and law, to heal it."

"I understand my duties, Merridan. The time will come when it comes."

"...Last night, I spoke with Thomas again. He is the very same, nearly unchanged for all that has happened. Once again, I implore you to tell him, to let him move with an informed mind. He can be trusted to the same magnitude as myself."

"..."

"I plead, my lord."

"...I swore, Merridan. I swore on his very bed of death, under his last breath and with my promise his last hearing. You would have me break that vow?"

No hesitation. "I would, my lord. For him, I would. He would understand."

"He may... He may have understood, but I cannot dishonor his death so, Merridan. Please, I am no less pained by this, but you must understand the significance of why."

"Soon, he will wonder why I have devoted my whole self to the preservation of one elder noble. Soon, he will come to me with questions, and I will not lie to him."

"Forgive me for this, Merridan... But until you show him your eyes and what you have become, I will no longer consider this topic. Now leave me to my thoughts."

"...Yes, Lord Dasen."

XxX

Deynora's eyes swept the stone ramparts of the walled city as they entered the gateway, peering into the pale face of each man and woman stationed there. Those were hard faces, of men in war, and of women who had lost. The reminder of the times was not needed, but it kept her in perspective. The greatest shame was when the townsfolk knew the war, not just the armies. It reminded her of Quel'thelas, after the invasion of the Scourge.

Like the rest of the Ashblades, she kept close to the Ranger-General. Once through the gate, she noticed Thomas approaching a mounted lord, but her attention turned to the humans around them, combing for threats. Her bow remained over her shoulder, arm through the space between string and wood – though the rangers were no longer uniform in appearance, they all carried their bows in this manner, even Thomas.

It was easy to drop the bow into her hand and fire an arrow – hardly a second of time, though the humans would not know that. To her right, during her inspection, she saw the hands of Dor'rath twitch towards his bow, and then his dagger, until he forced himself to settle by hooking his thumbs under his belt.

That man, always so seedy, and a loud mouth too. Like her, he knew a specialty outside of the core, outside of ranging, yet the difference left them contrasting stark as sun and moon. He was a rogue, versed in thieving, lies, deception, and mixing with the vilest of slums. She was a magister, one of the highest ladies from her academ, and she followed formalities, deliberance with every action, and the mannerisms of the higher class. Hers was a pristine and clean world, with ranging her escape from it. His was a dark and broody one, where the woods was his refuge from pursuit and cloaked daggers.

Their dress reflected their differences too, though her eyes continued to the wall again and then back towards the keep of this human town. His leathers were dark greens and shadows, and the full cloak Dor'rath surrounded himself in was dark on one side and light for the out, to be switched for the situation and camouflage.

For Deynora, her style had fuzed the loose robes of the magister with the tight mold of her protective ranger leathers. Robes could snag in the woods, so she kept the leather pants of darkened crimson and earthy browns, and over them, her stiff coat stretched and flared out only so far as her thighs, with her belt over them. In a crouch, the furthest the bottom stretched from her body was only an inch. She wore no cloak or hood, for the confidence of reinforcing spell work allowed her to skip the arsenal of daggers Dor'rath had hidden. A crimson mask bunched loosely on her chest, raised to her face only when she performed assassination work.

Her thoughts returned to Thomas only when he began speaking, to track the tensions and moods of those that surrounded them.

"Thank you for the haven, lord. The Exilee promises you watchmen and defenses for the duration of our stay. I am Thomas, Ranger-General of this force, with Commander Raeloth at my side."

Now the lord: "Greetings, Commander, Ranger-General. I'll admit to not expecting an army of blood elves to be roving about the lands still, but you're a welcome sight in these days. My name is Herrad Goutsting, Lord of only this city here, New Hearthglen, and steward for Lord Malthon Eyenhart. Forgive my ignorance, but I have never heard of the Exilee before. To whom is your allegiance?"

"Independent of Horde and Alliance," Thomas admitted. "But the world is at war, and all must help where we can. This is an Argent Dawn settlement?"

A flick of her eyes showed Deynora that the lord was rubbing the stubble of his chin pensively, and he hummed from atop his charger. With eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion, he questioned, "Under what rock have you been hiding, friend?"

Fortunately, the Shadow was quick to notice changes like that, and he reacted easily, "We have traveled a long, tiresome distance, and only today reached Northrend from elven portals. I believe we both have information that can be shared to mutual benefit."

The lord nodded. "I understand, but the world should already know that the war with the Lich King is long over, and that in the midst, the surviving Knights of the Silver Hand had joined with the Argent Dawn to form the Argent Crusade."

Deynora felt her ears twitch upwards with attention, and hers was not the only head to face towards the lord. Raeloth put their hopes in a question: "Over? And the traitor prince, who sacked our homes and committed such atrocities to both our peoples?"

There was a righteous, satisfied smile on the aged paladin's face. "The Lich King is dead. Our many, many love ones who were lost have been avenged."

It came unbidden, and none could say who had begun it, but from each and every elf in earshot, their voices rose in a unanimous roar. Deynora's was among the cry, and she could detect it from Dor'rath beside her and a dozen others she recognized. It was a victory roar, one of emotions and hurt, vengeance, and even one of sorrow.

The humans started at the cry, of course, but Deynora could see the understanding on their faces. These were men of Lordaeron, weren't they? They knew the elves' hurt, even if racist, bigoted assholes like Othmar Garithos existed. Surprise was most prevalent, as apparently the death of the Lich King was a known thing, but to the Exilee, who have been stranded on Outland, this was news, and it was vengeance, and it was sweet!

Among the raised arms and raised weapons of their roar, she could not see Thomas, but the human let them have their celebration, knowing what it meant to them. He was a good man, that Thomas. They all were thankful to their Deliverer.

It took some time for them to settle, as those in the far back informed those who hadn't heard of the news, and the cheer would begin anew again and again, but when it settled, she could again see Thomas, in the front with a new bearing and confidence. The kindly paladin had a smile at their reaction, seeming to find heart in their elation.

Of course, he did not yet known of the fate of the southern world, away from Northrend. Let him have his moment, for they would soon rip that away from him. The world was not kind enough for any lasting happiness. So Thomas told the lord, also requesting to break the news privately so his men could rest, and Herrad granted his request, leading Thomas, Raeloth, and Genveera towards the keep. A stout band of defenders kept near the lord, while Deynora and the other Ashblades matched the same for Thomas.

Raeloth left word to an officer of how he wanted them distributed, and he left Captain Maloree in charge of the arcane guardians and wagons. As they approached the stone ramp of the keep, Deynora noticed the subtle hand gesture from Jerath, and she came to his side, straining her ears for the breathless whisper he was sure to use – Jerath had a strange set of skills, even for a ranger.

"Progress?"

Deynora noticed Meyanna pressing to her left, opposite of Jerath, and she was listening in too. That made Farron the one just adjacent to her, lurking before the inseparable trio of Sarrine, Loraeoth, and Jaden.

Seeking to imitate him, Deynora exhaled too lightly even for her own ears, "It is impossible to juice the spell how you wish. Maloree and the Grand Warlock agree."

Meyanna cursed under her breath, one soft boot scraping the stone, but she kept the frustration from her face. Just how skilled was that redhead? Deynora noticed Farron lean in for Meyanna to repeat the news. Where was Velanee, who also conspired with the former Bloodwarders?

Jerath pressed, "Is it enough?" Despite Deynora barely picking it up, Meyanna turned from her conversation eagerly.

Deynora inhaled and exhaled once first. "He will not be able to enchant even a single arrow, but it is enough for tricks."

The bearded ranger – how ridiculous was that! – nodded. "Good. He is intuitive, and so will manage with it more than us with all our power."

"With this," Meyanna said from the other end, just as faint as Jerath, "we will truly be oath-breakers."

"Meyanna, your respect for tradition is admirable, and your honor eclipsing, but the world is so changed you can hardly call our old oaths still binding," Farron mentioned from the side, conversationally as opposed to their conspiratorial undertones. "Our race has evolved from the proud high elves we once were, and our kingdom and land, to which we swore, have been razed and taken from us. We are no longer Rangers of Quel'thelas; we are the Ashblades of our Deliverer, Thomas Swiftblade."

Proud Meyanna seemed to quake at the suggestions, and her bold conviction seemed absent, yet she said, "I understand the necessity, but the play of words and terms and clause does not change the betrayal of the heart of the words we swore. This has my support but not my confidence."

"You are a brave woman," Farron continued, and he caught the redhead by the arm, pulling her aside to continue their conversation. Relaxed Farron and upright Meyanna – the match was predestined, yet the irony remained the juiciest bit of gossip for the sin'dorei since the meetings of Thomas and Sarrine.

Velanee replaced the pair, striding at Deynora's left from a place undetermined.

The keep was not complex within, but Deynora could recognize the strategy to its closely packed walls, its alcoves, and the spiral pattern it sent invaders through before they could advance. The dark stone remained lit from the measured torches.

The silver haired lady said to her then, "Without mages, you hold the highest advantage here, Deynora, but remember that the human paladins often work as spell-breakers. In aggression, keep subtle and deceptive in your weaves, for the blunt will be smashed apart without hesitation."

"I know my work."

Velanee nodded, then glanced at Jerath with her striking, clever eyes. The gold bearded man nodded without words, and Velanee left them, making distance without notice. She stopped beside Dor'rath, and Deynora knew the rogue would be receiving a similar encouragement for synergy between his two trades. Last would be Saela, the priestess-ranger, who's primary mission was the preservation of Thomas' life in critical times.

Before the silverhead got that far, they had already reached the final chamber of the keep, where a long wooden table laden with maps, reports, and commands was stationed. The men within the chamber saluted but quickly turned back to their work, hardly mindful of the sudden presence of over a dozen blood elves.

"I assume you don't carry any good news," the lord said as he stopped at the head of the table, peering at the maps only briefly. "Your mention of war was not the one up here, was it?"

"I'm afraid not," Thomas returned, but his eyes were fixed to the map. There was no greater tool than it to display where the known centers of the enemy were. "Can you accept hard truth standing, or do you wish to sit?"

The paladin grunted. "I haven't left the war yet, lad. Lay it plain."

Deynora and the other Ashblades waited tensely. Thomas spoke indifferently: "Darnassus has been razed. Ogrimmar has been razed. Thunderbluff has been annihilated. The Exodar has been shattered. Silvermoon City has been razed. Dalaran has been taken from the sky. The undead Lordaeron has been razed. Ironforge has been razed. Stormwind... has been razed. In only a few days, friend, the greatest powers of the world have been taken and destroyed."

The skitter of bugs could be heard in the sudden silence of the room. An aide dropped his reports, spilling papers over the floor.

Several long moments later, Lord Goutsting demanded quietly, "By whom?"

"We call them daemons," Thomas said, still intent upon the map. "Black skinned fiends, from where we still do not know. We do know, however, that they have concentrated in Northrend, and they send their strongest minions, whom we call the Sightless, through portals to strike the rest of the world. The bastions of defenders are very few now."

"Impossible!" one of the officers shouted, and his heavy gauntlet slammed into the table. "They have appeared only recently, and we have contained them to Northrend. There is no way they possess the strength and numbers to successful siege, impregnate, and raze the greatest capitals of the world."

The lord had shadowed eyes then, Deynora saw, and he paced from the table to face the painting of a valiant human on the wall. The others within the room turned to him, their eyes wide and hopeful, demanding word and confidence from their ruler. Instead of inspiring them or denying Thomas, he muttered gruffly, "The fighting here has been tough, friends. Not even the Scourge proved individually as terrible as what has sieged our walls these last weeks. Even our finest paladins can be dragged off into the night."

He turned, and they could see the violent light sparking near his eyes. The paladin was filled with power, and his rage was clear. "Say it again, Ranger-General of the Exilee. Speak truth and tell me the world has fallen without us, and that we are alone in our defense in these ravaged wastelands."

Thomas looked up, somber. "I witnessed the ruins of Stormwind with my own eyes. However, lord, you are not alone here. Rebels like us remain, to bolster what ranks we can. We march now northward, to take the fight to the daemons and to slay their terrible master, no matter his make."

Lord Goutsting shook his head. "You will have to march without us. New Hearthglen must hold until Lord Eyenhart returns from the north."

"Assuming he still lives," Raeloth put in cynically. He remained stoic through the looks shot his way. "When did you last receive word from him?"

"He has no messengers, but though his band was small, it comprised entirely of paladins, hundreds of them. Your five-hundred soldiers would sooner fall than any of that force."

Deynora glanced at Thomas, but the Ranger-General seemed unperturbed. "Not if the Sightless daemons got the jump on them first. If the same that claimed Stormwind comes for him, none will survive. Frankly, lord, we have been preparing for exactly this threat, and we can only hope our best constructions and work will pay off."

None missed the uncertainty in his voice, subtle though it was. Deynora's mind flashed images of the proud city of Stormwind, razed to ash and rubble, and the thoughts merged with that of Silvermoon after the Scourge invasion, knowing her ancestral home was in ruins yet again. Could just their five-hundred stop whatever had done that?

"The Light will watch over him," Lord Goutsting promised, and he addressed the map again. "And you, brave souls. The enemy holds no base or camps, but we have determined a few blighted holes that they return to more often than usual. If you still need a taste of their fangs and acid, those will be a fine start. Otherwise, we can chart a course to avoid them so far as Crystalsong Forest, if your elves are willing to face such a place."

Thomas and Raeloth spoke at nearly the same time: "We'll hit them all-" "We'll avoid-"

They stopped and glanced at each other. Raeloth's long, charcoal eyebrow rose. "It is not like you to incite danger, Shadow."

Thomas shook his head, leaning over the map again. "We need to get our blades bloody. Nearly every Exilee out there is hungering for a fight, and I want them disillusioned to this foe as quickly as possible. Bodies that explode? Tentacles morphing out of black-skinned bodies? We don't know what any of that actually entitles yet, and I'd rather we see it in controlled assaults than be surprised in a desperate pitch. Lastly, I am not inclined towards letting any of these bastards live, so long as I have a choice in it."

Golden haired Genveera glanced at the present humans before muttering in Thalassian, "Will you risk our lives for their punishment?" Deynora felt indifferent from their conversation, knowing she did not care which way it ran. She assumed it was the same for all the Ashblades since accepting that mantle.

Thomas did not budge from the map, but he returned in Common, "You heard my reasons already, Genveera. I am trusting the two of you to ensure the rational exceeds any vengeance, but I will not cringe when the two coincide."

"Fair enough," the blond replied tersely. Deynora did not let her personal feelings show then either. Bloodgem-addicted whore. She'd have Genveera replaced in a heartbeat if there was one better suited to her place of leadership.

Like Merridan.

The commanders went to work on charting their course, discussing the traits of the enemy and passing tips on how best to approach and combat them. Deynora was glad to notice that the human paladins, though of Lordaeron, were far from the bigots of Garithos and not at all hostile to their presence. It was as Thomas had said, and the world had moved on from the vampiric corruption of the sin'dorei.

Soon, the meeting was adjourned, with plans set to march at first light. The Ranger-General promised himself to their wall for the night, in case of an incursion, in addition to a full score of nightwatch. Lord Goutsting proved grateful.

In this walled city, the threats against Thomas' life were few, and so the Ashblades left only a minimal watch for him – a single Blade – and allowed the others to rest. Velanee took first watch, freeing Deynora to find her own place to set up a cot. Once it was established, she left to find company.

Though it felt only a few hours since the morning march, the sun was already low against the horizon as Deynora left the barracks. This far north, she assumed that was just how the sun moved in Northrend, but the long shadows and orange-pink sky with biting winds left her with the same readiness for nightfall. The daemons, she suspected, would be stirring soon. Her uniform and weapons had not been discarded.

"Lo, 'Nora," a warm voice greeted from the side. She'd recognize it, and the drawling accent, anywhere. "Care for a game of dice?"

She faced the rogue, Dor'rath, with flames licking her arms and eyes. The threat was clear, though her lips had a haughty smile as she exclaimed, "No, I am not up for being cheated of my pay already. But call me "Nora" again, and your manhood is forfeit." A flick of flame touched near his boots.

The dark man was seated on an upright barrel with another before him carrying a cup and several dice, with several humans in armor surrounding him. He had a wide grin at her show, while the humans appeared disturbed. A touch of the cup scooped all the dice up in a swipe, and he rattled it in a show of swapping hands. "Easy, easy, Deynora, it's just a game. The paladins here don't gamble, but all enjoy seeing the hands of luck fate distributes to each. Care to see your luck?"

"There is no luck," she sniffed, and the flames winked out all at once, leaving them in the deepening shadows of the world again. "Only calculated odds and the finite variety of factors, all changeable by your slight of hands. I am looking for better company, like the troublesome trio. Do you know of their whereabouts?"

Dor'rath glanced at the humans around him. "See what I work with? All strict, all stern, and not a lick of fun in these parts. I tell you boys, soldiering as humans has all the perks." Blighted Dor'rath. His twinkling green eyes glanced her way, knowing her riled. "Lovely Sarrine will be playing coy with the Shadow, I bet, while her two pups will follow. The Shadow himself is pacing the walls, wanting a look at the coming of the daemons."

One of the men, a hardened, scarred paladin by look and carry, asked, "Why do you call him that, your Ranger-General?"

Deynora raised an eyebrow at Dor'rath, waiting for his answer, while the rogue only glanced towards the wall in question with his lip up in a half-smile. "You will come to see soon enough, friends. Night is here, and the realm of shadows only grows. These daemons think us vulnerable in the dark hours, but they will come to learn. They will."

It was acceptable as both vague and enigmatic. Deynora nodded, satisfied, and progressed further into the town of New Hearthglen. All around her, she could see sin'dorei mingling with humans, at the blacksmith, at the walls, at the stables and training courtyard. The Exilee had regained their life.

Captain Maloree, Commander Raeloth, and other executive figures passed her attention as Deynora moved, but though their titles and positions were greater than her own, she felt none of the tensions or urges to behave within her station. She was an Ashblade, personal guard of the Shadow himself and reported only to him. That left her free. It was a good feeling.

"Deynora," a feminine voice greeting from the side, and despite herself, she smiled at it. Saela Dawnheart simply had that uplifting presence about her. Turning, Deynora saw the blond priestess-ranger approaching in full uniform. Like her, the ranger raiment was stylized after the robes she had wore in her alternative profession.

"Where are you prowling off to?" Saela asked when they stood across from each other.

"To find the Shadow's heart-throb and her merry band, but any company would do. I find I can't sit still these days."

Saela nodded, and her green eyes flicked around them, touching upon the many elves in motion. "It's the same for most of us. I just saw Jerath fletching an arsenal of arcane arrows. I doubt they are all for him too."

Just what were that man's skills? He seemed the every-man's ranger, yet his skills exceeded every single one of them, even the Shadow himself, though their Deliverer had a few more tricks than the bearded man. Deynora began to wonder yet again exactly how old Jerath was and who had trained him.

"The rations will be distributed soon," Deynora mentioned. "I can't decide if we should find our part or keep my stomach empty for the coming night."

"Everyone is a little warmer with food in them," the chipper girl put in. "Let's go."

As they moved through the city towards the central supply line, where Captain Maloree had stationed it, Deynora noticed another of their number, an Ashblade called Jon'ah. The man was bent over a bench with tools in his hands, inciting her curiosity. As a ranger, Jon'ah was sub-par, and in their games together in the forest, he was likely the most selfish and self-serving man she'd ever encountered.

Though he remained distant from all of them, Saela greeting him in passing, and Jon'ah grunted back a reply as he continued whittling at something. Deynora shared a shrug with Saela, though the impeccable woman hardly noticed the oddity.

They received their rations, and Saela suggested they eat upon the wall, where they too could watch for the coming threat. They kept their bows across their laps as they ate, peering at the frozen land as much as at each other. The shadows out there crawled together, amassing.

XxX

Farron laughed lightly, saying, "Leave them be, Meyanna. They may be kids, but they are skilled rangers each, especially Miss Longray."

The stern redhead kept her gaze narrow as she watched the three pass by in their intimate conversations. "The troublesome trio is an appropriate title. Their immaturity incites ruin, and if her actions damage the Shadow...!"

"Working together, there are none more dangerous than those three," Farron mentioned, watching her with a level gaze. His smile remained fixed, to Meyanna's disdain. "Their bonds are strong, and their experience together worth remark. Besides, Sarrine is a pleasant girl. Innocent, but honest. Name one more suited for the place."

"Velanee."

The complete certainty and quickness of the reply surprised Farron. He blinked at her, then at the trio again. "Huh. It seems you have me beat, yet Sarrine made a move, while Velanee did not. You could sooner complain it's not Miss Dawnheart – or Miss Duskfury, for that matter."

"Not one of us would tolerate Genveera taking a personal place at the Shadow's side. That woman is a disgrace."

"She has a sound head on her shoulders though, and she has the most experience in leading rangers, with the exception of perhaps Jerath. Ignore her personal flaws, Meyanna, so long as they do not interfere with our work. We... all fed from bloodgems, and many took to that dope worse than others."

Meyanna remained silent, and in time her attention wavered from the trio to the fields of snow beyond the wall they stationed themselves at. Farron watched only her, knowing what she might be seeing. He watched the tightness appear at the corners of her beautiful eyes, and the tension that flexed her cheeks as she battled down unease and worry. They all felt prepared, yet they all felt concerned.

"Come here," Farron said to Meyanna.

She looked his way, seeing his calm expression and open self. That man would never recognize a serious, or even dire, moment. She scoffed, "I am not yours to command about, Farron. Get a grip over what's happening out there."

His lips tugged into a slight grin, but he sobered his expression. "I understand well what is happening. Now come here and sit with me, and keep me company as we watch the shadows of the world come to claim our lives once again."

Meyanna sat with him. Burn her, but she did – and she welcomed the feeling of his arm encircling her back as they turned towards the fields of snow and approaching darkness.

XxX

"How far are they now, five-hundred yards?" Thomas asked rhetorically, watching the dark void creeping closer. "Let's make a little game of this. Lord Goutsting, you are certain that is the enemy? We cannot make out a single detail of them."

The human paladin nodded, his expression grim. "That's them alright – the vagueness is a trait, some spell coating their skin to distort their appearance."

Thomas nodded to the rangers around him. "Target practice, anyone?" He drew an arrow and calmed himself, pulling it into the correct position and the precise distance. He took his aim, then loosed. The arrow shrieked off, streaming with a trail of white motes.

They all watched it hone down, eventually striking through one of the dark shapes in the formless mass. With a whistle, he exclaimed, "A fine set of arrows, Jerath. I haven't seen one of its like before, at least without channeling spell work."

The bearded man nocked one and drew back as well, taking his own aim. Upon firing, they watched the silver mark flew first up, then down, and it took the same moving shape through the chest again, only inches from Thomas' own. He grunted. "You were right on identifying that one as Sightless."

The creak of aged wood being pulled drew all of their attention, and they saw the blindfolded Merridan there with his own bow – black and recurve, but longer than either of them held. The Ranger Lord fired, and all watched the silver arrow streak off with its white trail.

Fascinated, they saw it touch down also on the same figure, yet higher – it's throat? Head? - but then it stumbled and fell, the three illuminated arrows vanishing as the figure was trampled over. Coy, Merridan asked, "Did I hit?"

"Elves," one of the paladins breathed out, jealousy and amusement obvious, unable to realize all present rangers could hear him.

Thomas didn't bother wondering at the abilities of his friend; it was to be expected at this point. He asked instead, "How do you know where to aim to fell them?"

"That is a mystery I myself do not have an answer to," Merridan admitted with a shrug. "But I do know that their chests are protected from simple damage, and whatever dark heart that beats there is no longer a weakness to exploit."

Looking down the line for rangers, Thomas saw Jerath, Merridan, Genveera, and Flaerie to his left, while Velanee, Sarrine, Loraeoth, and Jaden stood at his right. The other Ashblades would surely arrive before the daemons reached the walls, but he announced, "You heard the Ranger Lord. Now let's have at them."

He drew an arrow, and the sound of eight others followed suit. Volleys began to rain down upon the dark mass, many of them glowing with whatever fiery or icy enchantment the rangers added to their arrows. Immediately, the horde began to pick up speed as their numbers began to fall and thin.

Shortly into the assault, as its effectiveness was proven, Lord Herrad Goutsting said in a reverent tone, "The legendary rangers of Quel'thelas. Just how could the Scourge have overcome you?"

There was a pause in the firing, while one arrow streaked visibly off course. Only Merridan did not take it back up immediately, though even Thomas was listening as he continued his next shot. The high elf answered, "Treachery, my lord. Though the Scourge's numbers appeared limitless and their abominations would take dozens of bolts to fell each, they could not have advanced into our forest past our Elfgates. Yet, one of our own, who's name has been blighted and stricken from our history books, turned sides and gave access past our gates for Arthas' forces. I can proudly say we ruined their force in the attack, but for each of us that fell, so did their numbers grow, and that Scourge machine was left unstoppable by our men."

The lurking shadow over the snow broke before one hundred yards, and its edges vanished off into the snow, until there was no longer a clear force. Thomas exhaled when he noticed, ceasing his bow. He did not want to ask if that was all, but he felt a sense of disappointment at not being able to see the enemy up close – still, the victory was encouraging, and it reaffirmed that this foe could be triumphed over.

Merridan did not feel such reluctance, and he questioned the lord at the break in the enemy's line. Herrad shook his head, "I suspect that is all we will see tonight, and I thank you for your work, as our archers would not have managed such accurate or deadly shots and not nearly at your distance. From what you've told me, I fear that what we face here is only a preemptive force for their main body. Testing pockets of resistance, wiping away civilian populations and basic militia."

Jerath had a frown. In accented Common, he mentioned, "I counted only six Sightless. Is that typical to an attack?"

Lord Goutsting shook his head. "In small excursions. For that size, I would have guessed between twenty and thirty."

Thomas checked his quiver, finding only half of Jerath's arrows remaining. His obvious motions attracted the others to do the same, while he said, "Then the night is not yet over. Jerath?"

"Nothing," the bearded man exclaimed, peering out intently over the snow. Thomas' own look said the same, but the suspicion did not leave his gut. "Wait..."

Thomas set and arrow and pulled, aiming suddenly downwards, to eighty yards. He fired when Jerath did, both of them streaking towards blank snow – and stopping in the air before the ground. Two shapes flickered into sight, roaring. He had seen it too, the slightest impressions of footfalls in the snow, of an enemy under shroud.

"Again!" he shouted, firing a new bolt, while the Ashblades and Genveera scrambled for their own targets. Thomas had hardly released two more before he roared, "Cover!"

The trained rangers dropped to their knees, ducking behind the stone covers atop the ramparts. Lord Goutsting ordered the same for his own men, just as something crashed into the wall, trembling the stones. Dark thorns shot where they had been standing, followed by a glob of some liquid passing over them into the town.

Thomas stood to fire another shot, then ducked just as more thorns deflected off the stone walls. He cursed. The entire wall shook again, while a sound like a snapping tree reached their ears. Grim, Lord Goutsting announced, "They've reached the gate! To arms!"

"Shadow!" a voice bellowed, and Thomas saw the other Ashblades crouched behind them, now their full force: Saela, Dor'rath, Deynora, Jon'ah, Meyanna, and Farron, all holding their bows with arrows nocked.

"Light's blessing, Ranger-General!" Lord Goutsting shouted, then stood and sprinted down the ramparts towards the gate. His shield rose to block whatever was sent his way, while his defenders rallied to him and his orders.

Thomas' eyes found Raeloth's. "Commander, I want the guardians waiting at the gate!" The entire wall shook again, as whatever organic siege-engine was hammering them hit again. "The walls are mine!"

Raeloth dove forward and leapt clear of the wall, managing the twenty-something foot drop with practiced ease. There was no arguments from him, knowing their duties in this battle would be separate. He would have to trust Thomas to work with the mages and archers as well as his rangers.

There was a loud shriek, just before a dark shape landed onto the wall from the outside. Talons scraped off the stones in search of halting its momentum, and then its hulking body hit the far dividers of the wall, and its head turned their way. Thomas dropped his bow and Shadow-Stepped behind it, burying his dagger in its black back.

The carapace hardly parted for his weapon, but Thomas tugged back, sending the creature jumping to two legs and rearing like a horse. It's shriek was deafening. Solid thumps rocked its body, and Thomas knew rangers were pelting its underbelly.

With a shout, he turned the body aside and had it crash against the stone again, prying his dagger free. Claws raked his way as it flailed, but Thomas hardly managed a step around it when a spear left its back in a thrust to his chest. His dodge was clumsy, and he got clear only to fall prey to the next swipe of claw, sending him back with a sharp sting across his belly.

Soft-soled boots scrapped across the stone ramparts as Thomas slid to a stop, and he sprinted back just as the creature found its feet again, tensed and low like a panther. That had been no spear, he realized, as the black shaft snapped his way again. One of its tentacles, with three others on its back, keeping low like folded wings.

From the colorful lights dancing above them in the night sky, Thomas could make out the sockets of where the thing's eyes should have been. He faced the Sightless creature with a new grimness.

Its head blew off.

Thomas started at that, skidding to a halt to avoid the spray of blood, and he watched as the now headless body was thrust from an invisible force over the edge of the wall, towards the snowy plains again. He could hear the sickening sounds of the creature's body twisting and exploding, committing it to memory.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder and thrust Thomas behind the stone divisions of the ramparts, and he heard Merridan's angry voice shouting, "Don't fight them, you imbecile! You are the Ranger-General! Lead!"

Thomas grasped his bow when Merridan thrust it at him. His lips drew thin, watching his friend continue engaging the foe, but he shouldered his weapons and reassessed the wall. The Ashblades remained around them, some fighting from cover, and the others holding at his back for defense. Further out, he could see their regular elven archers and mages attempting to fight, and several were clearly dead, riddled with black thorns or revealing only a gruesome half of a body.

"Cover!" he roared in Thalassian, darting towards the archers. "Attack when you are clear, damn you!" The Ashblades fanned around him in their protective circle, keeping pace. He added, "Shields up, mages!"

Their was a telling crack from beneath them, and all but the rangers stumbled atop the wall. The gates had been breached. A hundred voices rose up in defiance from the ground, yet even that was overcome by a high-pitched whirling sound and deep hum. The arcane guardians were powered and ready.

From his peeks between the stones, Thoams saw a Sightless taking aim from the ground, and he Shadow-Stepped to the fool standing up and open as he drew an arrow. Yanking the archer down, Thomas yelled at the wide-eyed blood elf, "Behind cover while you load!" A new glob of acid passed over them, and the elf stared at it in shock. "This is combat!"

Throwing the cloak of stealth over him, Thomas looked over the edge, gauging the enemy again. Only five remained outside the city now, with the others cramming into the narrow tunnel. Fireballs and icy bolts glanced off their carapaces, however, while most of his archers were missing their shots. Even those that hit only deflected off.

"Archers, magisters, GET DOWN!" he hollered, feeling his voice going hoarse. They weren't appropriate for this foe. He hardly glanced at the Ashblades before yanking his bow down and drawing an arrow. In five seconds, Thomas had let off three shots. The Ashblades followed suit, piercing the carapace of the enemy, until the fiends collapsed in violent eruptions of acid bombs. Once the last one fell, with nearly a dozen arrows over its screaming form, Thomas jumped from that end of the wall to the other, overlooking the infiltrated town.

A fierce smile formed over his face. Below, a score of arcane guardians – not even half of what Donvorei had produced – were leaving a mess of the thirty or so Sightless that had made it inside. Even the explosive finishes were soaked by the mana shields around each guardian, leaving their metallic bodies untouched.

One lost its shields as several Sightless leapt onto its massive body, yet still it systematically crushed each, unyielding, with minimal damage done to its form. Around Thomas, he noticed archers and rangers assist in bringing down the last of the Sightless, while Lord Goutsting's paladins filled the gaps between the guardians, using disciplined and trained techniques to slay a Sightless and escape its death.

In short order, the battle finished, with the losses minimal. Thomas did not join in with the victorious cheer and celebration, and the Ashblades noticed. Even Genveera questioned, "Shadow?"

Thomas turned from the scene below to look down the ramparts again. He saw Saela and several healers working with the wounded and fresh, recoverable dead, but his attention set upon the nearest mage. He chose Common for his lurking fury:

"You, magister!"

The blond blood elf blinked at him, and she hurriedly curtsied her purple robes. "Ranger-General."

Catching the attention of the most of their forces, Thomas approached her and demanded, "You are a magister of Quel'thelas, are you not? Have you not trained for decades, if not centuries, of your lifetime to the intricacies of magic and the arcane world?" When she nodded, reluctance obvious, he snapped, "So where were the wonders of your craft? I watched you smother the daemons with flames like waving a cloth at a dragon! Useless, pathetic, pitiful spellcraft! You alone should have left them in smoldering smithereens!"

"M-My lord," she stuttered, "I- But you see-"

"And you!" Thomas cut her off by turning to an archer at the next stone divider. "Where you firing arrows or were you tossing sticks? When I was twelve bloody years old I fired more accurate, more powerful shots than an elven fucking archer! Am I that great, or has something else happened?"

"My bow, sir," the man returned quietly, his eyes falling to the stone floor.

Thomas took a step towards him. "Speak up, soldier. Tell me why your arrows hardly grazed the enemy we are about to commit ourselves to."

From behind, the elven magister yelped, "We are weak!"

Surely flames ignited in Thomas' chest, and he spun back to her. The poor lass looked like a frightened doe, but he did not let up. "Weak? I just spent the last month ensuring that you would not be! You feasted like queens and kings, traveled at easy paces, without demand of late night watches. You were free to train yourselves to health, to get back in touch with who you were. You are a soldier, and you knew we moved for war. Why are you weak?"

The green eyes remained wide and she stammered herself into silence, losing whatever confidence she had built with his attention elsewhere. The archer spoke up again – still quiet, but still collected: "My bow is simple wood, my lord, and my uniform is hardly a step above simple clothes."

The satisfaction grew in Thomas as he faced the man again, and he cut back on his bite. He knew already what the issue was, but it pissed him the fuck off that no one had thought to bring it to his attention before they entered a battle.

"Simple wood? What does that matter to an archer of Quel'thelas? Say it, burn you."

The man still could not meet his intense gaze as he explained, "Elves have the same physical limitations as humans. It's our enchantments – in trinkets, garb, and medium tools – that made us great, to compliment our expanding skills. Those Sightless daemons have shells harder than steel. No regular wooden bow and arrows could pierce that, no matter how skilled the shooter."

"And my staff... it was lost in Netherstorm," the woman added lamely from behind Thomas. He remained facing the archer.

Thomas nodded curtly. "So why then was this not brought to the attention of Captain Maloree or any of our officers in charge of the armories and arms distribution? We have the finest enchanters in the entire planet present, with all the supplies we could ever need, and my men are shooting rough-hewn sticks with rags on their backs! And my fucking magisters volunteered to fight without the most basic, necessary tool needed to channel spells worth a dime!"

"Apologies, Shadow," both the archer and the mage returned, with many others echoing it down the wall. The Ashblades were silent figures around Thomas.

He scoffed at it, pointing down at the half-dissolved body of a dead elf unable to be brought back to life. "Apologize to the dead, who might still be here if we had crushed the enemy as we should have."

Without further preamble, he turned from the assembled host upon the ramparts and began to make his way towards the ramp down. He noticed the attention of Commander Raeloth on the ground, and the man nodded to him. Thomas held onto his rage until he called a meeting with his officers.

X End Chapter X -woops

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AN: "woops" fully intended and is story official, as far as my actual WotSE document is concerned. My game plan for the Thomas-Sin side was simple: One chapter getting Thomas in place, one chapter getting Sin there, then one more where they meet. Short, simple, sweet. Then I saw I was at 14k words and barely into New Hearthglen for Thomas and realized how far the chapter was from where it needed to go. I think I understand how Robert Jordan felt writing all Wheel of Time books post-book four.

Anyways, as of yesterday, I finished writing the rest of Stage Two: March and will now be posting it relatively quickly. It finishes how I hoped and sets just the right mood to parallel-supplement-contradict that of Drekthac-Malthon's conclusion. I'm as excited as ever for Stage Three: Campaign. The qiraji and Balinda are going to receive some extra importance if all goes well, and they are my favorite scenes to write.

On a side note, I really, really, really, really want Hilda, Snow, and Lysora to meet. I doubt it will be feasibly possible, but the possibilities truly do intrigue me.