Disclaimer: As always, the Warcraft universe and all media involved belong to Activision-Blizzard. This story is a fan's fictional idea using their universe to tell a story, and it is shared as a non-profitable source of entertainment. Never pay to read this story, ect. Ect.
Legend: (Though I try my hardest to keep the formatting clear, here is a formatting key to glance at)
-All narration, speech.
-Thoughts/reflections. A written letter or missive.
-"Speech in non-Common language." "Speech from a past memory, vision, or flashback."
Summary:
There is the Ranger, Thomas the Swiftblade, who leads the shattered remnants of the Sunfury blood elves from the ruins of Netherstorm.
The Underdog, Baelin Drekthac, also called the Small Dragon, who has earned his place to live amongst the savage Jotunheim vrykul and dreams of winning access to Ymirheim through Valhalas.
The Beacon, Sir Malthon Eyenhart, the paladin who seeks redemption for his brothers and sisters in the Light left in the ruins of the Scarlet Onslaught and elsewhere.
Finally, there is the Fallen, Sin de Rath the Mad, a lone warlock who has accepted the task of leading the disparate qiraji Battleguards from Ahn'qiraj to safety.
Standing against them is Ghat'Nothos, The Always Watching, a Lovecraftian-themed old god who has come to Azeroth at the peak of his power with the death of his brothers C'Thun and Yogg'Saron and continued entombment of his three other siblings. In a single stroke, the entirety of Azeroth's factions and heroes are thrown into disarray and turmoil, leaving the planet's fate in the hands of four men and those they command.
Final clarification:
The setting is roughly one year post-Fall of the Lich King.
Similar to Wheel of Time, Hyperion, and even the Avengers movie, this story follows the perspectives of four protagonists of equal importance, each independent of the rest. Following the prologue, each chapter will be devoted to following individual characters, rather than jumping about. Because of this, it is inherently difficult to keep the story in chronological order. Thus, know that it won't be told chronologically. Where everyone is at the end of this chapter is where they are when Ghat'nothos appears; following that, it is on me to ensure that characters A and B meet two months later, not two weeks for A and two months for B.
Also similar to Wheel of Time, this story will be Very. Very. Long. Chapters will be book length (5-15k words each), and the total (tentative) length two books at 1,000 pages each. 200 pages of the first is already written.
*A strong background knowledge of all aspects of the game and lore of World of Warcraft (Classic to Wrath) is recommended for the reading of this fic, though it shouldn't be necessary.
Dedication: War of the Sightless is dedicated to, and I mean this honestly, to all the fans that have reviewed and even just viewed my stories – from the first few, written when thirteen years old, and all the insightful reviews on how to improve, to folk like Erika Likes Fire whom found my strengths and helped hammer at my weaknesses. This includes the very disparate and amusing bunch that began, oddly, with that funky story called Ladies, Ladies, Ladies full of debauchery, demons, and such lovely lust and have followed my stories since. And to that same group, I have also devoted Sin and his fateful pseudo-harem of qiraji and co.
Secondly, War of the Sightless Eye is also devoted to JJ, my friend. Though you have not and will not read this story, I appreciate having someone to bounce ideas off of and give feedback on the twists and snares I have planned for this. And, occasionally, point out flaws.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the relationship between Thomas and Sarrine is dedicated to my Countess. You were every bit that made your namesake great and then better still, but in the end, it is her same flaws that left us where we are now.
Prologue
Dawn
"It is a small matter to control the mind of the weak... for I bear allegiance to powers untouched by time, unmoved by fate. No force on this world or beyond harbors the strength to bend our knee... not even the mighty Legion! We span the universe, as countless as the stars!" -Harbinger Skyriss
"In the time before time, when the world was still in its infancy, a battle between a Titan and a being of unimaginable evil and power raged on this very soil. The prophecy is unclear about whether or not the Titan was vanquished in this battle but it illustrates that a Titan fell." -Geologist Larksbane
"After thousands of years of slumber, the old god, C'thun, has awakened and is quickly regenerating his power. Once he has reached full potential nothing will be able to stop him." -Unknown, on the urgency to invade Ahn'Qiraj before C'Thun finished his recovery.
X Ranger X
In an effortless motion, Thomas pried his dagger free from the remains of the massive mana beast, then settled into a low crouch atop the corpse with his hands on his knees. The Sunfury around him were speechless now, unable to even motivate themselves to attack him. Grimy, exhausted, half-starved elves that looked too frail for their armor and uniforms.
The pink and purple lightning of Netherstorm forked across sky in otherworldly flashes, but when the thunder reached them, it was impossible to tell if it quaked the hovering land mass or if that was just its sundering drift. The anxiety that the very ground beneath your feet might split and crumble away at any second was a constant presence in anyone's gut, with the unknown of falling into the Twisting Nether just behind.
From his position over them, not even out of breath from the quick fight, Thomas announced dispassionately, "With Kael'thas dead and the remaining Sunfury clearly defeated, I'll give you two options. The first is, you stay here – waiting until an Alliance or Horde party swings by and finishes you off or another one of these big nether-monster spawns gets you in a fit of ironic justice, given that you're the cause of this blighted rift."
He slapped the scaled, mana-dripping hide of the grossly deformed and bloated Phase Hunter for emphasis. They needed no further reminder of the many blood elf lives it had claimed in its rampage before Thomas' sudden appearance. He continued, "The second, you follow me. I'll take you safely from this mad, accursed land and back to Azeroth, where you might find normal lives once again. If you choose to follow me, I'll hear no questions from you, no complaints, and you'll follow my word to the letter. Only then can I assure your safe return."
The human rogue stood finally, balanced well on the corpse, and jumped down before them. Filling his armor with muscle, as a healthy man ought, he seemed unnaturally large beside their thin forms. Standing among them now, he looked into their haunted, fel green eyes with purpose, eventually shrugging.
"I care naught for your choice. If your bloodgem addiction is more precious than your lives or you are confident in your own ability to get out safely, do what you will. I will hit all the manaforges and Sunfury bases with this offer and then be off. The choice is yours."
He pushed forward, and the elves parted without resistance to let him go. Glances were made as they wondered at his offer, but silence was the only response. Until one woman piped up shrilly, the desperation heavy in her accented voice, "Why would you help us? How can we know to trust you?"
Thomas turned his head towards her, stopping his walk. His expression was hard. "I told you, I won't be answering questions. Follow or stay."
At the end of their crowd of warriors, Thomas finally made it clear, and he set upon the dirty road that led to the only bridge off this particular landmass. Behind him, he could hear the shuffling of the people moving, the sudden clamor of them murmuring and arguing. Some sprinted off to their tents, salvaging what they were to take and what to leave, and others disputed openly.
Thomas heard it all, piecing it together by sound without looking back. Treading the otherworldly purple dirt and rocks, he was suddenly reminded of the forests of his youth, his shoddy ranger training, and how much he loathed Netherstorm and what had been done to make it. He stopped finally at the bridge, noticing again that it was quiet now without the massive passing of the siphoned mana beneath. The storming sky filled any silence though.
A group of six travel-ready elves descended first, with looks of determination on their angular faces. At their lead was a woman, timelessly youthful as all elves were, and she stared right into his eyes as they approached. Thomas nodded once to her, acknowledging the decision, and she nodded back.
Behind those six, he could see more were already following in a sluggish, patchy horde of crimsons and blues. Seeing it, he inhaled slowly and breathed out, keeping his mind clear and level. They were actually following him. Some would stay, but this many decided to trust their very lives in his hands, expecting him to make good on his promise of safety.
Thomas, Thomas... he chided to himself, keeping doubt from his face. He took another reassuring breath. You know what you're getting into. What it entitles. Save these people.
XxX
Hundreds flocked to Thomas' call. After the long wars and suddenly found leaderless, the blood elves were disarrayed. They feared death, longed for home, shivered with thoughts of being away from the broken Netherstorm, but most of all, they wanted hope. Hope that after the long trials, after the wars and alliances, marching across whole worlds, that at the very end there was rest – that they would be somewhere they called home, not lined up at chopping blocks.
Thomas promised that, and so they came.
Only this disparate few hundred, five or six, remained of the legions that had followed Kael'thas. They all stood behind Thomas with wide eyes and proudly lifted chins, awaiting his word. All of them were soldiers or once soldiers, all of them had marched through all the hells and high waters, and all of them were prepared to do it again.
At the last bridge, the great goblin one that separated Netherstorm from Blade's Edge mountains, Thomas looked back at the many faces fixed on him. He nodded once to them, his own pack over his shoulder, then gestured them onward with his head. He took the first step, and they followed.
X Underdog X
It was hot in the Underhalls. Too many bodies, too much excitement. It left the air stuffy and filled with the unwashed scent of the burly barbarians. Vrykul, they were called. These giants made of muscles like stones, twice a human's height. Uncouth, savage, cruel...
Violent.
Baelin Drekthac roared like an animal as he smashed his wrist into his opponent's, winning an open spot, and with his right fist, he buried it as deep into the stomach of rocks as he could. The vrykul wheezed and bent at the waist, but his bloodied lips remained curled up as his own fist retaliated, forcing Drekthac to block and get knocked back.
"Ayy! Whelp!"
"Look at em stand!"
The crowds hollered and cheered and jeered as they always did. They were a rowdy bunch (that made them Drekthac's bunch), and composed solely of vrykuls. He was the only human they tolerated to stand among them. That wasn't a funny exception though; he had started in the cages, challenging the biggest and meanest, and only through the Underhalls tournaments did the vrykul began to accept him. They honored strength, respected it, and once it was proved that Drekthac's victories weren't just some strange, reoccurring flukes, they eventually honored him – in their own way.
Wiping blood and sweat from his mouth, Drekthac stepped to the side as his opponent did. They both were bruised and bled, and still the call hadn't come for weapons to be dropped inside the ring. Both bellowed as they stomped back in to continue their brawl.
The vrykul craved blood and shows of strength. In the Underhalls, the loser never lived to see the sun rise. Drekthac was a champion there, the one the bets were placed upon, and he had won himself many things through the tournaments. His home, even, had come from some greybeard who couldn't back his taunts.
The roaring crowds were composed of men and women, but it was no high class gladiatorial arena. Men openly fondled their women, usually ripping the loose shirts in the process, while others flashed their monstrous, bouncing tits in hopes of luring the night's champion into their beds. The lowest slave-whores and gutter goods were chained fully nude where observes could have their fun while still watching the ring.
With both hands around the giant's right leg, Drekthac's teeth gritted and he pulled with everything he had. The crowds were already going wild, seeing him do it before. So had his opponent, yet Jaogen could only flail for a second before he was flat on his back, then roll aside with a shout when Drekthac kicked his temple.
Behind them, there was the heavy clatter of metal on stone. The weapons had been dropped. It was time to finish. Jaogen looked up too, eyes furious, knowing one of them would have to die before they could leave the ring. Now, if Drekthac had been a lesser man, he might complain that the hosts only dropped vrykul sized weapons. Clearly, as a human, he was disadvantaged.
Yet, Drekthac thought as he hefted up a two handed vrykul axe in one fist, he had already proven himself their equal. And sometimes even their better.
Jaogen's final defense was pathetic, earning only jeers and scorn in his final moments before Drekthac took his head in a mighty blow. The crowds cheered and went wild. The bedwarmers threw down their tops, shaking their chests to give them ample bounce, while one even dropped her skirt for a view at her dark-curled mound. The men jeered and struck the women for offering themselves to the Whelp.
Drekthac took it all though, dropping his axe and spreading his arms for a victorious roar. Blood had splattered his naked chest, legs, and face, and everyone loved the look. He looked at the bedwarmers exposed and the whores, one whore even cheering while a man was buried inside her – with a mug of ale in hand, the man cheered too around his deep drinks and casual thrusts.
They cheered for him, and Drekthac took it all, satisfied with the response to his strength and victory.
Turning finally, he looked at the hosts while the noise began to dim, and he demanded, "Who dare steps inside the ring next? Who will stand between the Dragon and his prize?"
Laughs and cheers, at the Small Dragon – usually referred to as the Whelp. The lead host stood without his drink, slamming his armored wrist into the thick wooden rail. "And so the human lives again! But now one more will clash muscle. One more will ensure that this Whelp is deserving of his skill and strength! And should he live again, he will have his prize! A confirmed virgin, caught from the snow just this morning!"
Cheers and jeers met the announcement. Virgins were high treats for this crowd, and Drekthac felt no different. Clearly, this slave would be a small race for him to enjoy, though often the brutes remorselessly tried their way with small races for fun. Not many girls lived the first night. Starkest among the jeering though where the bedwarmers, knowing that their easy-spread thighs would hold none of his attention with this prize.
The crowds parted though as the final challenger shambled through. Every night concluded the same way in Underhalls tournaments. In this home of the vargul, hosting tournaments in their halls meant they could take up arms yet again too. Each night, the champion must face and defeat one vargul before the night was through.
Silence greeted the fallen hero, as it always did. Vargul were contradictions in vrykul society, as the resurrected slain of those defeated in battle. All competitors of Valhalas were honored for their bravery and courage, no matter the outcome, yet with their defeat, all respect for their strength is lost. It made a strange reaction among them.
Standing in the ring now, the vargul planted his sword into the ground and roared with all the might he had left. As always, Drekthac never shamed the fallen warriors. Picking up the axe again, he set the end down and returned a roar of his own, accepting the challenge, and then they began.
As defeated warriors, one might assume the vargul to be weak – hardly a challenge for the average vrykul – yet it was the opposite. To even be allowed to enter Valhalas, one must have been a proven champion and great warrior. Knowing that, and despite the disregard to the defeated's strength, it was rare for vrykul to enter themselves into the tournaments in hope of claiming the title champion. Most, like Jaogen, were contestants, not competitors, who entered only to oppose the champion in combat – be it for blood feud, unsettled disagreements, or even the hope to win while the opponent was tried from prior matches.
The tournament was held around once a week, with only slave-pits or blood combat for the other nights, yet Drekthac always undertook trial for champion. He claimed his freedom through it, his place in the Jotunheim vrykul, his home, and more. Like everyone that showed up, he craved the blood and combat, and recognizing that, the vrykul further acknowledged his place among them.
The howl belonged to an animal, and the crowd shrieked their thrill. The vargul's blade had taken Drekthac right through the stomach, splattering blood over those behind in the crowd. But Drekthac didn't wait for his body to freeze or feel the pain, didn't let the wound cripple him. Howling, he kept his momentum forward, sliding forward down the sword with his hands above his head, and the vargul's eyes were wide when he realized the predicament.
The rotting arms went above his head, releasing the sword, just as Drekthac brought down his heavy axe. It cleaved through the wood bracers, through the iron bones, down just past the shaggy, balding skull and split the vargul down the middle from the shoulder. The undead warrior thrashed for a second, stumps for arms reaching towards him, so Drekthac lifting the axe up from the dripping, oozing ichor of its torso and let it fall again, finishing the split.
The crowds roared again, cheering and screaming, while Drekthac felt a rising swell of wooziness from his wound take him. He shuddered on his legs, dropping the axe, and then ripped the sword from his gut, scoffing at the blood that splashed out. A flesh wound. He turned back to the crowds, foregoing his usual victory cry as it would antagonize his wound, but he watched them cheer for him and chant his name.
Dragon.
Dragon.
Dragon.
His hand pressed over the front dripping hole in his stomach, and Drekthac looked up to the hosts again, waiting for their announcements. He lost no poise, refusing to slump or show weakness, and the pain didn't penetrate his raging adrenaline and boiling blood. He still panted from the fight, stretching the wound with each breath.
The leading sponsor stood again, a mocking smirk curving those thick lips. His fists beat down into the rail, gathering everyone's attention. Gardjon was his name. "Behold the champion of the Underhalls! The Whelp once again proves himself against a course of weaklings. And now the prize he's so tirelessly fought for!"
The crowds cheered as one of the other hosts dragged a rope forward, pulling the captive to the railing. As she came into sight though, the crowds immediately shut up, dying to only a very quiet murmur, and they looked to Drekthac for his reaction. His eyes only narrowed, making sure that the ropes indeed were tied to her and that she was meant to be his prize.
Growling, he demanded, "Is this some kind of joke?"
Gardjon picked up his mug of ale, smiling as he tipped it over for a long drink instead of answering. Everything was deathly silent now, besides the captive's sounds of weak struggle. Slamming his empty mug down, he leaned over the rail and gestured at the woman. "Why the face, Whelp? You can fuck her and eat her. A fine two in one!"
The other hosts laughed, as did their followers also in the box. The crowds around Drekthac looked to him and kept quiet when they noticed he did not join in. His eyes remained narrowed, lip curling up, and he began to step towards the high box. "I was promised a virgin, Gardjon! Instead you bring me this?"
On the ledge, a blue skinned Chill Nymph pulled at her bound hands. Her large eyes looked between Drekthac and Gardjon, knowing her fate rested between them. A half-elf, half-horse girl – that was to be the Underhalls champion's reward. The insult was obvious to everyone. As a broadcasted fuck prize, it could be no more insulting if the hosts had brought a plain horse.
Drekthac looked at the nymph again, seeing her wide eyes so desperate, and a dark feeling settled in his gut. His rage, on the decline after the fight, returned in a mounting fury. To Gardjon, he bellowed, "While I win favor in trial by combat, you sit on your scrawny ass and drink like you are some hero, and to a true champion, you have the gal to deal pigs as prizes? I declare challenge! In one week's time, meet me in the ring, Gardjon the Feeble! I will have your head for this insult, coward!"
The shouting antagonized his wound, but the pain only amplified his rage.
"Afraid to challenge me now, are you?" Gardjon asked, smile strained. His eyes were hot with rage at Drekthac's own insults. "Feeling unsteady on your stick legs, human?"
Drekthac knew better than to rise to the challenge. With his wounds, he wouldn't stand much of a chance against any real warrior. Knew better than to rise to it, but his rage wouldn't stand for it. Throwing his free hand back to the slain vargul, Drekthac declared, "I won't have his blood be dishonored by mixing with yours."
Complete and utter silence. Not even a breath broke it. To insinuate that Gardjon was lower than a defeated warrior... The host sputtered first, then with a loud roar, broke the rail separating him and Drekthac. The human refused to flinch. Pointing at the night's champion, Gardjon hollered, "You dare, Whelp? You dare equate me to that broken, slobbering trash? I will pull your heart from your chest, wear your entrails as a necklace, wipe my ass with your skin! Show up here again, and all of Icecrown will echo with your fickle, human cries!"
Grabbing the nymph in his two hands, Gardjon threw the whole woman over the rail and into Drekthac. Cursing, Drekthac caught her mid-flail and braced his strong legs for the sudden weight. The girl cried out at the impact anyways, having hit him hard, and he set her aside, hissing furiously at the flaring pain from his wound.
"Go ahead and fuck your cattle, you sniveling child!" Gardjon shouted. "It is more than you humans deserve anyways! You probably couldn't pleasure her anyways with your, what, nine inched cock? Or is that too gifted for a human?" He spat at Drekthac, then turned and stomped from the pits. The other hosts slowly followed, glancing back at Drekthac.
With one hand on the back of the nymph and the other covering his bleeding wound, Drekthac looked at the crowds around him. None of the exposed women had suggestive looks, and all the men had faces of stone. Even the chained whores were looking away from the proceeds.
Eventually, one man lifted his polearm and slammed the butt into the stones with a loud thump. He did it again, at a measured pace, and then again. Another man joined by stomping in time with the polearm, and another with his fist against a pillar. A voice shouted, "Dragon!" to the beat.
All at once, the crowd took up the beat and chant, vibrating the entire Underhalls with each pound, and shouting, "Dragon! ...Dragon! ...Dragon!"
Drekthac's chin lifted at it, and he saw the respect returned in their eyes. The women smiled, and the men lifted their ale and beers. This crowd didn't care about race, about loud words or flashy armors. They came to watch the strong slay the weak, and they respected the strong. They came to watch him, the champion of the Underhalls, and they let him know.
Bending down, Drekthac grabbed a dagger (nearly a sword with its size to a human), and he cut free the whimpering nymph's hands. When she looked at him, he said, "Let's go."
The sniffling woman followed as he walked forward into the crowd, hand still over wound. Vrykul hands slapped his bare back and shoulders, roaring praise in Common and Vrykul. One thrust a full mug in his hands, and Drekthac gratefully drank, to their increased cheer. With a look to the nymph, he accepted another cup and handed it to her, gesturing for her to drink. She needed it more than him.
With the last of his, he splashed it over the wound, thinking the alcohol might keep at bay at least some infection, then smiled as one of the bedwarmers slid up to his side as he slowly moved through the crowd. She bent so he could kiss her, and his hand gladly fondled her for a brief moment before the crowds yanked her away, growling at the open affection for the human.
The usual jealous reaction of the crowd, and Drekthac saw the woman wink from where she had landed on her ass.
Finally, he took the nymph's wrist in his hand, and together he led her up the intricate halls from the pit back to the surface. The temperature dropped as the noise dimmed, until they reached the icy, howling winds at the entrance, and Drekthac released her wrist. She followed him back to his longhouse.
XxX
The nymph kept quiet as Drekthac bandaged his wounds. When he finished wrapping himself, letting the enchantments begin their healing work, he moved to his fire pit and set upon lighting one up. It was ice cold inside, though the nymph was clearly impervious to it. She had yet to move from where he left her, just at the end of his ramp down inside.
He filled a pot with water and hung it over the crackling fire, then found a filled pail and dropped a rag inside to soak. Wringing the rag out, he finally began wiping the blood off his skin, turning to her as he did. "You can relax. I'm not going to rape you or eat you."
The woman looked at his face, still with silvery tears making lines down her pale cheeks. Her hands dropped from clasped before her chest to hanging lower, over the girdle that separated elf from horse, and she took two nervous steps towards him. "Um... I'm... That is, my name is Leyanna."
He nodded at her. "I'm Baelin Drekthac. You can call me Drekthac, or just Drek if we're alone. Out there, you'll hear my title Dragon or the variants Small Dragon, Whelp, and so on."
Slowly, the frost nymph approached, obviously hesitant, and she looked down at the bandage – already seeped through with blood. "You were... impaled, the hole on both sides. Are you alright?"
After scrubbing the last of the blood from his face, Drekthac dropped the rag into the pail and washed it again to clean it. He smiled at her question. "I'll be fine, but my well-being should be the least of your concerns, Leyanna."
"I don't like it when living things are hurt," she admitted, stopping before him. He had to look up to see her face, with the horse-height. "Also, I am your... slave. If you are to die or be killed, I think what happens to me after will be very not good."
"Well, you're right on that. Very not good at all," he said, smiling slightly, then wincing when he accidentally pulled on his wound. Her eyes tracked his movement, and her lip quivered slightly at his flinch.
Finally, with her hands rubbing each other in unease, she asked, "Drek, how did you end up here? A human living with these... these ugly barbarian brutes!"
"With the vrykul?" he repeated, scrubbing his back now gingerly. There were some fresh cuts there still. He looked into her eyes, smile small. "Because I'm not much different from those ugly barbarian brutes. I fit in well here." Leyanna said nothing in response.
When he finished cleaning himself, Drekthac took the pail outside, dumped the bloody water, and scrubbed it clean with snow. The rag was already stained. Inside again, he closed and barred his door, then walked past the nymph to his fire, starting to put in the ingredients for a stew. He assumed she didn't like meat, but she'd have to just eat around it.
As he did, Drekthac finally said, "I'm sorry, by the way, for how I regarded you in the Underhalls. That bastard was using you as a harsh and humiliating insult against me, and I needed to show that I was angry. There weren't any... say, nice thoughts in my mind at the time."
Leyanna smiled for a brief moment before the look dropped. "It is good you don't think of me as a pig then. I think a horse would be more appropriate."
Unable to help himself, Drekthac found himself laughing, but quickly his hand came to his wound. "Ow, ow, ouch. Hahah, thanks for that."
Frowning and ears falling flat, Leyanna stepped closer and placed her hand over his wound. "Oh, let me. I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was making a joke." Her hand gained a green light, and nearly immediately, Drekthac felt the pain beginning to diminish at a slow pace. Before long, her breathing had become audible and the light died out, but the wound had reduced to a dull throbbing, as if he'd already had a full night of rest. "My healing magicks aren't that good, I'm afraid, but I hope that helped."
Drethac thanked her, but he sighed as he returned to the stew. "You nymphs are too kind. I don't like having one of you captured here, at the hands of one of us. You don't deserve it."
After a silent moment, Leyanna mentioned softly, "You say that you are the same as them, but I think you're wrong."
"Turn around for a second," Drekthac told her, throwing the last of the potatoes into the bubbling stew. Blinking at him, she did, turning her whole body away and not looking. "The champion of that trial today was to win a virgin. I competed in hopes of winning a woman for my bed, and if you were any other race, one more suiting to my tastes, I'd already have taken you onto that bed for my prize."
His palm camp upon her soft-furred rump and his thumb to her vulva. She jumped, head turning, while his finger pulled open her slit for the glimpse of a pale pink inside. "I just won't fuck this." His hand left her, and she quickly turned back around, cheeks tinged with color and expression displeased. "I know that you have a more elfin form you can take too, but I plan on getting rid of you, letting you go back free, and I heard that nymphs and dryads have weird ideas of attachment. I don't want you coming back because I seduce you once."
"Y- You're going to let me go?" she squeaked, still blushing.
Drekthac nodded as he cut in the meat. "Of course, eventually. I just don't want to let you go only for another plunder party to catch you."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Leyanna shouted, and her slender arms hugged him tight. The wound reminded him of its presence, so with a grunt, Drekthac pushed her off him.
"Until I'm healed and Gardjon's head adorns a pike outside my door, you aren't going anywhere though, so you better get comfortable first." He tasted his stew and nodded finally, pleased. It would be better if he waited for the contents to soak, but he was too hungry, and so filled two bowls for them. "Eat up. We both will need the strength."
X Beacon X
After patting down the dirt, he leaned against his shovel and let the icy wind cool the sweat on his brow. He wanted at the least a headstone to be made, something for the world to know just who was buried here, yet in present Northrend, that was impossible. Briefly, his mind flashed the image of her body – hacked and slashed to bits, blood staining everything red, and atop her shoulders a messy stump where the head should have been.
Damn you, Mal'ganis. Damn you to hell.
Remembering her would always bring the Dreadlord to mind, and right now, remembering that demon returned his mind to the remaining Scarlet Onslaught trapped way up north, off the coast of Icecrown. The Dreadlords might have corrupted his brothers and sisters, strayed them from their cause, taken from him so many great friends and now the tough broad Brigitte Abbendis, but he refused to damn the rest to their deaths.
They were all brothers in Light.
"Sir Malthon! Sir Malthon Eyenhart!" a voice called, and he looked up from Brigitte's grave.
All around them was the broken, burnt ruins of New Hearthglen. The Horde had done the worst of it, too wrapped in the memory of the Scarlet Crusade at the Monastery to think of vying for peace. With Mal'ganis' whispers though, even with his concurrent goal of Arthas, he doubted that Abbendis would have accepted such a partnership anyways.
To the runner, he asked, "What is it, lad? Speak up now."
The boy caught his breath, nodding, then straightened himself. "I bring word from a Commander Jayce of the Scarlet Onslaught. He's got a full score of survivors, at a camp a few miles north of here. When we encountered some of your men, he recognized your name and asked if amends could be made. He offers to pledge his men under you, if you grant one request."
Malthon took a breath, glancing down at the grave again. One hand touched his golden beard, stroking it once as a small memory of Brigitte's disdain for facial hair this long touched his mind. "Do you know who lies here, boy?"
"Um, sir?" the messenger asked, looking down at the mound. There was no headstone to give it away. "I'm afraid I don't, sir."
The aged paladin sighed softly to himself, then stretched his back and returned his attention to the boy. "Your High General, the woman Brigitte Abbendis, lies in this grave. You boys left her corpse here to rot, headless and disregarded. Now, tell me what old Jayce requests."
"Uh, erm, right," the boy started, looking at the grave again with wide eyes. He didn't drop to his knee and pray for her spirit. To Malthon, he said, "Far to the north, up near Icecrown Glacier, there is a town of ours. Men, good men, are trapped there, without means of sailing or flying out. The commander requests that you rescue them and promises that you'll have his men and those from the Onslaught Harbor under your command."
May the Light preserve you well, Brigitte. Hopefully far from that mad fool you called father. "Tell Jayce that my men are already set upon the rescue. We leave at dawn, if he'd like to join us."
"Milord," the messenger acknowledged, bowing his head and saluting. He hesitated a second, looking at the grave again. On his own volition, he bowed his head and saluted to it, then turned and began running back. Malthon smiled, watching him go.
So, they were off to north, away from their means of leaving this wretched land. The Light would preserve them though. He felt it already guiding his spirit, much like it had when his wanderings took him right to the camps of the men presently under him. Just as it had in taking him back here, to lay Abbendis and all the other dead to proper rest.
North.
X Fallen X
"Well, you are certainly far from home," Sin de Rath said by way of greeting.
He was in deep Silithus, more than a few miles from the Scarab Wall that began Ahn'Qiraj. Yet, before him was a qiraji Battleguard, the very feminine humanoid that was one of the qiraji warriors. Strange that she and her kind had skin, as opposed to every other kind of qiraji, and thus covered up with long, hanging clothes and a short breastplate. Her face was veiled below the glowing teal orbs that were her eyes, and from the hip-less pants she wore, he could see where black, chitinous carapace began to replace skin down her legs, where they ended in exposed talons.
At his voice, the qiraji woman stopped her desperate flight, facing him and hovering. Her insectoid wings beat fast, keeping her upright as she stared at him. He knew what she'd see: a hooded warlock with dark tan skin, purple robes darker than her pink, a worn staff with a green crystal head. No demon was with him currently.
She didn't attack though, which said something had changed with her kind since C'Thun's death. Sin decided to give her a chance. "I don't know what had you in a hurry, Bugsy, but I've got some food and water if you want." He held up a skin for emphasis.
The qiraji hesitated, eying with her squinted eyes the skin, but slowly hovered forward when he gave it a shake. When she was close – enough for her hidden scythe to cleave him or for him to destroy with a spell – they both paused, tense and suspicious, and he smiled when the moment passed. His other hand removed his hood, showing dark hair cut short and his welcoming smile.
However, Bugsy, as he referred to, held up her sleeved arms, revealing the pointed red nubs and her clear inability to grab the skin. His eyebrow raised. "Well, that's... inconvenient. Want me to drop the veil and pour it in for you?"
Bugsy stared at him, no expression, no response. He realized she couldn't speak, though she might still understand him. "Alright, you need to work on moving from mind-controlled telekinesis to the Common tongue. I saw Sartura speak just fine, so don't act like it's not possible."
From behind that veil, a terrible and inhuman shriek rose and, in his mind, nearly broke his ears. A second try was quieter but no more help, and he waved off the attempts. "Enough. Work on it on your own time. For now, nod if you want me to move the veil, and shake if you don't," he said, giving example for the actions. "And land, if you would. All that buzzing makes me think a massive bee is only moments from giving me a heart attack."
Bugsy gently touched the sand and stooped forward on bent knees, then slowly nodded her head. Sin's lip turned up in a smile. Well I'll be. A friendly qiraji. Slowly, he reached up to her face and got his finger hooked under her veil. He was actually very curious as to what he might find beneath.
Her teal eyes remained fixed on him as he pulled the veil down and from her face. He did notice, from how the veil came free of the spiked, bug-eyed, and antenna-mounted frame around her face that all that was a headpiece, rather than physical traits. Then the veil came off, and he discovered her face.
Like the legs, black chitin began to form starting at the neck and crept up into thick slabs for the lower face of her face. Her mouth was a vertical split in the armor, but through thickness and curve it reassembled lips perfectly. She opened and closed her mouth, breathing in light pants, and Sin was drawn into watching with fascination.
He didn't stare for long. He brought the skin up and fit the end between her lips, then tilted it up to pour it in. He watched how her lips settled over the end and she swallow in deep gulps. From the eager way she went about it, he realized how thirsty she must have been. In this desert, that was to be expected though. He let her finish the whole skin.
Sheer curiosity had him wanting not only to leave her face uncovered, but the rest of her. Just how human was she? How insectoid? His eyes glanced to her breastplate, then down further to the band that held up her harem-esque pants. Instead, he found some wrapped bread in his pack and asked if she was hungry.
Bugsy nodded slowly but when he held up the food, her red nub touched his hand and stopped him. She shook her head then. Looking down though at the warm, hard object touching him, Sin saw the black line along the outsides that was the scythe and could whip out like a sheathed sword.
He moved the bread away, considering her actions. "So you are hungry, but... you cannot eat bread?" She nodded. Sin frowned, wrapping it again and tucking it away. He thought about insects and what they might eat, but the only one that came to mind was bees – so perhaps she needed some sort of nectar, or maybe just softer food in general.
Did she have teeth? Could she not chew? Oh, he was very interested in her now.
"I guess we'll wait on that, Bugsy. So besides dying of thirst and hunger, what are you doing out here in the desert?"
One of the red-nubbed arms pointed south, exactly towards the ruins of Ahn'Qiraj. Her wings lifted her from the ground again and she drifted in that direction. Sin frowned, remembering that she hadn't been heading in that direction herself. "You are looking for something then. Something for Ahn'Qiraj – or perhaps your kin there?"
Bugsy nodded quickly, letting him know he was on the right track. He kept trying. "I remember there was plenty of water there, and likely whatever it is you eat. Are you looking for an object, like a weapon or..." She was already shaking her head, and he remembered her arms could not carry things. "Information then? You can't speak, but the telepathy... No? Perhaps a person?" She nodded again, and his eyebrows rose.
Now the game was getting fun. Sin had half a suspicion that the heat had overtaken him without his notice, and his mind was constructing this fantastic illusion of interacting with the once enemy and conversing. "A specific person, like one of your allied cultists?" A hesitant shake, then a nod, and another shake. He smiled. "If you're unsure, you can shrug, like this. But perhaps you mean that you are looking for anyone, cultist or otherwise, right?" A nod. "That means you need help?"
Finally, Bugsy nodded quickly. Sin rubbed his chin, remembering he'd need to shave again as soon as he was away from the desert. In a final gander, he asked, "Could I be that help?" Bugsy nodded again vigorously, and a small sound escaped her parted lips, as if she were excited. Something about the situation made Sin smile, and he felt himself nod. He was here in Silithus for a reason, but... frankly, it wasn't truly important he get it done immediately.
This was far, far more interesting than the check-up on cultist activity.
Rubbing his chin again, Sin said, "I'll help you, Bugsy, but we better have some method of communication. This 'yes' or 'no' will get very tiring."
Abruptly, she flew right at him, landing where they were almost touching in a quick movement. Reflexes almost had him blast her from the sky, but he withheld it, just barely. Bugsy's unveiled face was thrust up nearly into his, pleasantly feminine apart from the headpiece and black chitin, but his eyes stared into hers as they bore into his. Those teal, pupil-less orbs. They drew him in again, captured every fiber of his attention, and seemed to be getting larger and larger and...
Her forehead touched his. Sin's mind exploded with visions, memories, attached with communication that was entirely alien to him yet understood. He was inside Ahn'Qiraj again, the population weak after the havoc wrecked by all-flesh-men. His sisters were bunched and regrouped, a few hundred yet so few compared to before.
Another memory, a few green-all-flesh-men with axes saw his sisters, and with loud mouth-sounds, they began running for her sisters. They fought, they died. The green-all-flesh-men were stronger, but the sisters were many and barely managed to win the fight. Confusion, fear. They wanted to be safe.
More all-flesh-men, these ones purple, and more of his sisters died. More fear. The nest moves further away, hoping to not be found again. Less sisters are with them now. None are worthy to reproduce; no queens.
Brothers come. Arguments. They want to leave, to attack the all-flesh-men again. His sisters argue that the queen is too weak for expansion, that they are not worthy to be queens yet. The brothers are mad. Betrayal. More fighting. Brothers and sisters die. Brothers are stronger. Sisters flee.
Nowhere safe. Brothers kill sisters if found. Cannot stay at Home. Cannot leave Home. Confusion. Fear. Fear. Fear. They need help. Someone needs to help them. Someone from Outside needs to take them Outside. The Outside all-flesh-men need to show them how, how to expand without resistance and death.
Sekara is chosen.
Abruptly, the stream ended, and Sin found himself back at his body. He stumbled back away from Sekara, hand going to his head. His skull throbbed and pounded at the invasion, and he gasped for breaths. Sekara. Her name is Sekara, and those were her memories. She had... planted them within his mind, made him see, made him know.
"I'm human, not all-flesh-man," Sin grunted as the effects began to subside. Sekara only stared at him, waiting. His hand moved away finally, and he frowned, considering her position and request. "You want to migrate from your hives. The whole bloody lot of you want to live somewhere else, and you want me to show you where it would be safe to."
He shook his head to clear the last of the haze, then stood up straight, gathering himself. Looking into her eyes, he said, "I can lead you, take you place to place and such, but if you want a safe place to live, you're going to have to get in line. The whole world is war and hell, and you lot under C'Thun were only one of many expanders, as you'd call it. Best you could do is join a big faction like the Alliance or Horde, but even if you could manage that, they are tearing each other to bits at any chance."
He took a deep breath, glancing at the sandy plains around them, then looked at her again. From her memories, he recognized she was afraid. He sighed, thinking the matter through. He knew what he could do, but it was not a decision to be made lightly. He had to absolutely sure of it, knowing it would change his whole life.
It would be dangerous too, even if he was certain he could trust the qiraji Battleguards. Would he really drop everything and change his whole life for this race of bug women that once tried slaughtering the whole known world? Looking at Sekara, seeing her fear, he felt that he just might. He always wanted to help people, to make a difference, and had taken a dark path to accomplish that goal – and managed without ever losing himself.
Despite the wacky chance meeting here, despite the apparent ease of things, he knew what would happen when he made his decision. Finally, he shut down his repeating doubts, realizing that he really didn't care. It wasn't like he had any specifics plans for his future anyways; it might even be fun.
"Alright, listen here, Sekara. Instead of trying to settle down somewhere, you can stick with me. I've traveled the world, I know what ways are safe and what aren't. You'll have to take up training for combat again, but we can move around as a light army. And if the chance comes we find a place that won't be molested by someone else, you can settle down again. You would be under my leadership for this, but... I think, from your memories, that what you guys want. Someone to replace C'Thun and lead you again."
Sin de Rath the Mad. That's what they'd call him for this. The human that anointed himself leader of the qiraji battleguards. Well, whatever. They would just be jealous that he got to lead around an army of women dressed like harem girls.
Sekara gave no real answer to the proposal though, only a nod and another gesture towards the ruins of Ahn'Qiraj. Sin followed.
XxX
At nightfall, Sin stopped them for camp and to rest. They shared another skin of water, and with Sekara's approval, he made the bread soggy before letting her slurp it down. She grimaced at it, but food was food. The cold quickly began to set in as they ate, until Sin was considering starting a fire. Wood would be impossible to find around here, but as a warlock with spells involving flames...
He decided against it in the end, just setting up a bedroll and unfolding some blankets. By the Light and Shadow, he hated sand. Sitting on the edge of it though, he saw Sekara was unmoving from where she had eaten, merely sitting down ungracefully with her legs before her. It took a moment to recall the bowels of Ahn'Qiraj, with his brief time in the armies before his abrupt death, but he remembered that it was warm and humid there.
How did this Bugsy sleep? Could she even handle the cold nights outside the hive? They were still a few miles off from the Scarab Wall, and he was not fond of traveling at night here, where he might stumble into a cultist camp or encounter one of Silithus' many predators.
"Hey, Sekara," he started, turning his gaze from the red moon back to where she was slumped in the shadows. "Are you going to be alright with the cold?" He caught the shrug she gave and frowned. He drawled, "You don't know? That's not exactly a reassuring answer. I don't have any spare blankets, but... well, this bed can hold two, if you think it would help."
She stared at him, eyes a shining green on her shadowed face. The offer made him think though. Between the large, pincer protrusions on her shoulders and the wings, he wasn't quite sure how to fit them under a blanket. Also, if these qiraji women handled cold like humans did – or worse, as he suspected – he'd need a way to keep them well in the multiple day exodus through Silithus, to Un'Goro at the least.
The fliers were fast, at least. He wondered if they might utilize the silithid hives along the way...? It was be long, hard marches to hive-hop each day, not to mention the silithid resistance.
He snapped from his thoughts when he noticed Sekara was standing before him, waiting. Sin's lips quirked in a slight smile. Leaving his soft boots on the sand, he pulled back the blanket and laid at the far end of the bed. He offered his hand to her, then remembered the red nubs. However, after a moment's hesitation, she extended her arm to him, and, nearly laughing, he guided her to the bed, arm in hand.
Sin de Rath the Mad, he'd be called.
Once she was seated though, he ducked under one of her wings and reached around her to her feet – those smooth-shelled, two-toed talons – and brushed away the sand and dust before setting them on the bedroll. He was glad to not feel any discomfort touching the limbs. Though, when he leaned back again with his hand on a shoulder-pincher to get around, his stomach did flip with queasiness when the extra limb twitched under his hand.
They sat beside each other awkwardly for a moment. She remained sitting up – not trapping her wings beneath her – and glanced at him, expressionless behind her veil. Sin sighed, propped up on one arm and rubbing his chin. "Promise you won't try grabbing me with those pincers on your shoulders and I'll let you get atop me."
Her silence was the worst of it, Sin thought to himself as they clamored around in the attempt to work a position out. What she was thinking over the predicament or what might be more comfortable, what she thought of him, whether or not she was going to hack him to shreds in the next moment – he had no way of knowing.
Finally, he was flat on his back, and the qiraji rested atop him, wings giving a brief flutter before going still. Their eyes met for a moment, but he quickly reached down to find the blanket. At least her wings folded down and close to her body, letting him get the cover over them, and once he did, the silence made its ugly appearance again.
Sekara's skin was warm, he noticed, though the chitin where it touched him was cool. As their eyes met again, he noticed that she never blinked. She had eye lids and brows, and her gaze could narrow, but never did they shut fully – he assumed it had something to do with eyes that weren't wet. Presently, the narrow cast of the teal orbs made it look like she was laughing or amused, though he highly doubted either.
As they stared at each other and the silence bugged him, he cut in with, "So... let's try the whole mind-talking thing again, but without the psychic rape this time. Can you connect us where we can just... talk?"
He felt the hard presence of her breastplate slide up his chest as she lifted up, and she gave a slow, hesitant nod. Her head moved right before his, close enough to kiss, and their eyes locked again. He felt the mental tug this time, just as her eyes tried drawing him in. He let himself fall into them, watched them grow bigger and bigger in his vision, and finally felt her forehead touch his.
The world fell away as he knew it, and he closed his eyes, watching from within. Except it wasn't watching – there was no sights. Foreign sensations touched his mind, light as a breeze, and then the presence gave a small push, touching him (that was the best he could describe it to himself) and when it did, thoughts consolidated in his mind that were clearly not his own.
Human.
It wasn't words, not like the kind spoken between people. But if one were to think of 'desert' without saying the name in his mind, it was the same effect. Sin smiled at it, realizing it was Sekara speaking to him. Unable to perform the same trick, he settled for soft whispering in response, still with his eyes closed.
"Hello, Sekara."
Much gratitude from me. The barrage took him a second to piece together, and he realized he could translate it different ways. She shared a feeling of thanks, coming from her. Much gratitude from my sisters. A feeling of thanks, coming from the qiraji Battleguards.
"You're welcome. Tell me, can I trust you and your sisters?"
Her fear colored her thoughts like a person's expression when he spoke. We need help. We need Outsider. Lead us, and we will follow. We will listen to Outsider faithfully. We are faithful.
Sin grimaced at the rush of thoughts. He could piece together the meaning before putting exact words to it, but his mind wasn't efficient at wordless-thoughts the same way she was. He needed the words.
"My name is Sin de Rath. You can call me that instead of Outsider." Her thoughts touched him in acknowledgment, yet he felt it had closer ties to an image of his face than the words of his name. How utterly bizarre. "There is... so much I want to ask you, but we would be up all night before I could be satisfied. I'm very curious about you and your kind. I'll keep it short though. Do you sleep? Are you comfortable like this?"
I will not die of cold. I will rest like this. The 'this' was an odd mush of her position atop him, the bed he lay upon, the blanket over them, the cold air separated from her body, and the warmth she could feel from him. Ask questions, and Sekara will answer Sin de Rath. Sin de Rath may know everything of the Family so Sin de Rath may trust my sisters. Do not trust the brothers.
"Yes, I remember the brothers, those we call qiraji Gladiators. To say this now, do not trust any all-flesh-men that are not me. They will kill you in fear or in hate." He paused, getting his arm around her lower back. She was so very light atop him, with a weight belied by her size. "I will try to keep you and your sisters safe, Sekara, but for now, let us sleep."
Before separating their mental link, she mentioned, We will trust Sin de Rath. Sekara will be your servant. Servant – the complete and total submission and obedience she attached to the word surprised him. It was something equated to almost mind-control, like the will of C'Thun that she had been subjected to before.
Was that her trust in him, or was it something closer to the drone-mentality of insects? Sin couldn't know, but he felt sure she would do anything he asked. He grimaced at the thought, but whatever her choice, he did not have to seize advantage of it.
Her forehead lifted from his, and Sekara repositioned herself lower, where she could be more comfortable with him. He looked down at her, making sure the antennas of her helmet wouldn't take out an eye, and tightened his hold over her. He felt strangely protective of her.
Sleep well, Sekara.
X Unknown X
It is said that it takes great power to materialize oneself on the physical plane. When it comes to power, "great" has always been a relative word.
In the far north, a meteor pierced the veil of the sky. Purple flames escorted its path, painting a flickering dot against the ghost lights of Northrend. It's path was directly downward, unnatural to any astronomers that studied similarly falling objects. Not even warlocks could direct their infernals so linearly. It ripped through the low hanging, fluffy clouds, seen to be a massive black chunk with its violet wreaths.
When the universe was young, they had been its masters. Creatures born from tears in the fabric of space, their blood the ether of the Twisting Nether. "Maturity," "growth" had not been a concept when they gained awareness of themselves, of the changes around them that they could cause. There was no "empathy" or "emotions" to drive them then. Existence was not a struggle of "survival," "discovery," or "pleasures." Existence was Chaos, to rise against the empty stagnation that always was. They were the accidental life.
On the icebound steps before the prison-city Ulduar, the meteor made its landing. It dented the snowy earth with its impact, yet the rippling shockwave of its touch was not one of physical force. Like sonar, a perception strengthened the waves, driving them further and further, listening to every crevice and feeling every object touching the surface of this planet. It could feel the lives native here, created here, and those Down Below, imprisoned and chained in their ever-dreaming states.
They did not fight. The futility of slapping two rocks together was of similar nature, and equally meaningless. They did not communicate either; they were all born of Chaos, of the same motivations and existence. Does water tell other water that it will be wet? Communication, language, words, the sounds of tongues or images of minds – such came into existence when the universe breathed life into others. Others also born of a volatile, symbiotic universe.
Other meteors ripped through the sky, directed down in the same manner. In a ring outside the current crater, they slammed down, and from the smaller impacts, humanoid shapes rolled out. They stood to their feet and slowly dragged their way towards the rim of that they had surrounded. Their faces peered down to what was within, but not with eyes.
Such a simple world, the one called Azeroth. Yet through the same accidents that had birthed them all, the young gods came to make the planet in their image after the old gods had decided to do the same. Conflict was inevitable, and the five who came to master the world found themselves defeated. Then the false god who called himself Destroyer found defeat there, from the offspring of gods both young and old. The same children that destroyed the physical bodies of two elder gods.
Ghat'nothos sniffed the icy airs around him. The spilled blood of a god reached his nose, and his lips peeled back in the mocking image of a smile. How ironic that The Lucid Dream would fall here, to the people of his making. He could feel the delicious anguish of the land from the spilled blood, the final spite of a fallen god. Gnashing its maw, he also felt the corpse of a second god decomposing with great agony into the soils of this wretched world. Two gods had fallen on this planet, without Usurper intervention.
So the mortals could handle, barely, the might of a god still weak from throwing off the shackles of his prison. They could win, given time to gather their strength and recruit to them beings of greater power... Let them boast the same against The Always Watching, in the full of his strength. Let them boast the same when the first strike is against them.