War on the March. A sight to behold in these days where even war cannot be clear. Ages long ago, when armies clashed, there was a side of good and a side of evil. A war was to bring these ideals together, to see them clash, to see which one was deserving of a place in eternity. From Empires to Swarms, there was nothing like a war from an eternity long since passed. These days, however, things were not so clear cut. Great atrocities could be justified, forgiven, and forgotten in the name of ideals. Swaths of ancient land could be burned and stolen, with no consequence beyond a border dispute. The very essence of life could be perverted, and that could be waved away because of some leader's bold ideals of peace. Sint never lived in an age where clearcut war was a guarantee. Every day she marched, she had to question if what she was doing was right.
And now, looking upon the terrified faces of the armies of the wicked, she recognized that she was right. The aberrant, the monster, the abhorrent, the malicious… they all loathed her face. No longer did they see a potential pawn to be subverted and converted, no longer did they see a future ally in the battle against those she defied. They saw the truth in Sint's face. Death. It was not by chance that this had happened, Sint had fought each day to carve her name into the annals of Azerothian history. So what if her war was not the war the rest fought? So what if her war was hidden, spoken of only in hushed tones? If they spoke at all of her deeds, then she has succeeded. All that she had done, all that she will do, she could feel safe in knowing that nobody will forget them.
Nobody will forget her sacrifices, her hardships. No soul would be allowed to dream of a day where Sint Dagon never existed. And if they even dared try, she'd march on. She held Thuller's corpse in a tight grip, holding him over the edge of the cliff that Toth'ag's warriors were standing beneath. They knew she didn't kill the Overseer, as no cut and no struggle was visible on his corpse. Nay, they saw the mark of a shadowy hand tightly gathered around his neck, the very life ripped from his body. Perhaps she was trying to remind them that sometimes, evil's greatest foe is itself. Those who hunt for power tend to devour their own to get what they want, especially when they don't get exactly what they wanted. She knew not if the new Black Legion answered to this wraith, but power alike its own was what gave her a worthy battle against that possessed soldier. If this was their new leadership, this fear was going to wash over them as a plague.
She glanced down to the masses, her head held high, "This is your payment for your duties. Effort well rewarded." And without another moment's hesitation, she dropped Thuller's body into their midst. They scattered like roaches, fearful of both her and the potential that the wraith might return. But no wraith came as they left, no, it was a man of flesh and bone. Appearing like the night itself, Aranor of Stromgarde finally joined Sint within the now deserted War Camp. To say that he was astonished was an understatement, as the look of sheer dumbfounded awe stuck on his face was hard to miss. Sint met him with a smile now one tooth smaller.
"Insanity, Lady Dagon. Absolute insanity." He shook his head, a short laugh coming from him, "Not only do you find these heathens, but you beat them into submission. Alone!" He kneeled, head bowed to her, "I, Aranor, Son of Roy and Battlesworn of Strom, dedicate myself to your blade and will. By Arathor's Bond do I become yours to command."
"Rise, ranger." Sint placed her hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with his, "You know as well as I that I cannot lead you to the next battle. My first command to you is to bring me to your Battalion, so that I might meet your leader."
"Can't you slay them all on your own?" He was incredulous, "Our foes have fled, riding each cardinal direction, from you. If they fear you alone, then you alone can eradicate them."
"If only that were true, Ranger. I am neither wise nor am I certain of victory, but I am certain that facing them alone is nothing short of suicide. My path must be seen through, I am not keen on dying before then." Sint took her hand back, pointing to the temple on the ridge, "You have not seen the enemy we face, nor have you seen the power they command. I may be able to challenge them, but I…"
"You need help." Aranor's face grew less hopeful, ever still inspired by Sint's deeds," Just as I called for help, you require it still. Then in my debt to you, my lady, I will bring you to the Silver Battalion. Though, first, can we search this camp? There may be clues to our opponent hidden within, things that our foe might have left behind in their hasty retreat." The ranger glanced to the temple Sint pointed out, "That would be a good place to start."
"Agreed." Sint sheathed Rebellion, jogging back to the temple on the ridge. Its placement gave it a great view on the great stream of fire emanating from deep within the chasm, with many machines and stations set around the rift's edge. Within the temple itself was a conduit, similar to something Sint had seen before, and the research notes of those who studied the Echo of Fire. Written in a dialect of orcish Sint had never seen before, she couldn't make out exactly what they found. But what she could tell, from all the machines and ritual implements around the rift, is that they must've found something. Aranor kept looking through the research station, while Sint approached the great fire that drew her here in the first place.
It was a hard memory to recall, even if her brother did eventually return from the grave. Someone's death was always hard to reconcile with, but she had long since stopped mourning for a man who still lived. The fire whispered to her, the closer she got. And as soon as she stood at the edge, she saw a massive figure descend from the sky. A mighty drake of vermillion flame flew downwards, his splendor nigh unmatched by anything Sint had ever seen. Beautiful ornamentation, jewelry of so many cultures, and the sheer wonder of a dragon… this must be Kumostraz in his true form. The drake lowered himself, flying within the midst of the rift, looking to Sint with a curious hum.
"I wonder if the Ranger can see me." He shook his head, "I guess if he could he already would have, so that's a moot point."
"Gift-giver, I hear voices within the fire. And, I feel stronger that I'm near it." She sat, looking up to him, "Do you know why?"
"I do not. Your echoes were something I never expected when I gave the gift to you, as they were something that I didn't see until after my death." The dragon's voice was much greater now that he was in his true form, "Your brother was the first. You were the greatest."
Sint felt a small panic run through her, as she suddenly realized that looking to flame felt as if she were looking upon the face of a family member. Though so much had been revealed, she still worried that she was losing her mind. It was as if it was calling her to embrace it, as a sister might hug a brother. No longer did she look at the dragon, "I feel as if I should… enter it."
"Leap into it. Find power within the echoes left behind." Kumostraz began to fly upwards, "I cannot guide you as well as I wished, but if we are to learn how Dragonfire has evolved, you must take the first steps."
"I will not take that step, not yet." Sint stood, stepping away from the edge, "My path must be assured to succeed before I make such a leap."
"Then make your journey, and make certain it is the right thing to do." Kumostraz faded into the fire, "I shall remain here to defend your legacy. Though I am but a spirit, this font of power gives me enough strength to manifest myself, even if for a short period of time. Return soon."
She nodded to the pillar, even though Kumo likely had already faded back into the realm of spirits. Whether or not he saw her, she felt it was enough. Pushing both her cape and her hair somewhat to the side, she turned back to the temple, finding Aranor sifting through the contents of the Black Legion's research lab. He had collected a few items to the side, stuffing a few papers and whatnot in his satchel while he moved. It was impressive to see how a Ranger collected evidence, details. She herself couldn't make too much use from this research, but Aranor saw hidden details that she'd likely never make out without some assistance. It's not that she didn't pay attention to the finer details, it just was that Aranor was in a different class altogether. His senses had been fine tuned over the years to find the most hidden mote of information, to pick up on even the coldest trail. The things he picked up seemed random at first, a few vials, a notepad, some discarded pieces of chalk… but Sint started to see what was happening. There was a reason the lab seemed to be in such a state of disarray.
Thuller must've tried to destroy this research before the beak-masked wraith took his life. What Aranor seemed to be doing was setting things back into place, attempting to rebuild what the lab looked like before the Overseer tried to erase his work. Small traces of residue fit the bottoms of the mostly intact vials, a place on the shelf that lacked dust was where the notepad fit, and even the chalk found place in the center of the temple, Aranor able to make out the smallest traces that some sort of ritual circle was drawn in the middle of the room. His efforts were greatly impressive to Sint, but she wondered if he was going to be able to figure anything out from the recreation. Even though Rangers were meant to be some of the greatest trackers on Azeroth, they weren't all-knowing.
He stepped back after a while, "Don't think I can completely recreate the scene. A lot of the stuff here's pretty smashed up or just completely missing." Some of the residue was stuck on his hands, something he corrected by wiping off on his coat, "I can't say I've seen a setup exactly like this before. I've trailed enough cultists to know that this is a powerful ritual setup, but I'm not one hundred percent sure what. My mind guesses they were trying to harness that big pit of fire for energy to do something, maybe summon more monsters or open a portal to connect them to the rest of their forces?"
"I don't think so, Aranor." Sint said, walking through his recreation. She looked to each item, guessing what the missing objects could be, "I'm a bit of an expert on all things occult, and what this is telling me is that it was some sort of siphon rig. But the specific type I'm thinking of requires four tools placed equidistant around the room. Problem is, we're missing two."
"What is the purpose of such a ritual, Sint?" Aranor looked to the two remaining tools, a small obsidian pyramid with qiraji etchings and a dagger forged of a metal that was hard to look at for too long, "Nothing around here suggests a vessel to hold that much power."
"Well, the vessel wouldn't be a tool. It'd be a person." She sees Aranor's surprise evidently on his face, "They'd be ushering the gift of Dragonfire onto a new person, if successful."
"That's bad, isn't it?" The ranger steps to the side, "It's definitely bad."
"Extremely. Dragonfire doesn't contradict dark magic like the Light does. Reasonably, it could be granted to this new Black Legion's Dark Lord to grant him tremendous power." She tapped her finger against her chin, "It wouldn't be anywhere near the level of strength Dragonfire grants me now, but it'd certainly still boost whatever existing power they possess by a large margin."
"Bastards… " He rubbed his beard, "So what do we do?"
"Nothing yet." Sint watches Aranor's expression carefully, seeing that the man was already thinking about what she said. After a few moments, she chose to speak more of what she meant, "I feel I can trust you with this, Aranor. But you alone, for the moment."
"Speak your peace. If it's something you wish to keep confidential, I will keep your secrets." He nodded, "I am a man of a few morals, after all. Not many, but enough to keep myself steady."
"I want them to come back for it." Sint said, in hushed words, looking to the rift again.
"What?!" Aranor reached out, "That's… Somewhat brilliant, actually. You know they want it, so they will come back. And we'll know it."
"We do not know much of them, Aranor. If I can predict one of their moves, then they will begin to become much more clear to us." She looks to him, a somewhat crooked smile on her face, "We will catch them."
"...Right." He saluted her, "I like the idea, but there's one thing. We'll have to wait for them to come back, if we want to catch 'em." There was a momentary pause, "And, well… You know we can't stay."
She turned, heading towards the temple's exit, "That does not matter. When they come, I will know."
Aranor watched her leave, his eyes just locked on her. There was something within the man that was screaming for him to be careful around her, the same feeling he got whenever he was deep within enemy territory. Perhaps this is why so many came to fear her, for she was a true predator. There were some intuitions, some feelings, and a plethora of other things that she did that sent off dangerous energy. At first, he had felt a little betrayed seeing that one of his icons, the Shadow of War herself, was a small and somewhat cute girl. The beauty of that first impression was lost on him now, now that he saw her as what she really was. Appearances were nothing, it was all on how someone wanted to be seen. How someone carries themselves. Perhaps the ranger could see a time when Sint did not walk with the weight of the world on her shoulders, when she didn't have to exist as a giant among men. A time when she laughed and smiled, a normal girl. But then again, he also could see that perhaps that day never existed. Had that shadow, that weight, had it always walked with her?
As he saw her stop and turn, beckoning him to come with her, he let his thoughts go. If he was to guide her to the Silver Battalion, he needed to lead. Now was not the time to question the very nature of the person he put all his trust in, for that time had long passed. Everything he needed to know was cemented in his oath to her, by the very Bond of Arathor itself. Only a coward breaks a bond, and only a fool makes such a bond so eagerly. He was tied to what he did, even if it turned out to be a troubling choice. Such was the nature of the few morals he clung to, in hopes to keep himself human in the dark times he lived in. Aranor pulled his bow from his back, running forward to rejoin Sint. Their journey was going to be short, but time was of the essence.
"My Lord." The voice was hesitant, even though that voice held so much strength. A spectral being such as this one had little to fear, especially among the races of Azeroth, but it still trembled at the sight of their master. It was an odd feeling, to still tremble as if they were still alive. Both flesh and bone had long since been torn away from them, but the feelings of life never truly died. Fear was chief among them, the fear of facing true death, or a fate far harsher. Both things were in their master's hands, their master being one of the few beings in all the world that could end them.
"Malad." His voice was of a thunderous and earthy quality, as if it was born from the land when it quaked. A deep chasm of senses came from the way he said the wraith's name alone, deep pride evoked chief above all. Hard to perceive in the deep shadow of his tower, the massive form of the Dark Lord of the Black Legion moved as a ghost through the room. He stopped before the light could reach him through a window, "It is good to see you back. I didn't expect you to move so quickly to leave Toth'ag, part of me was worried that you could be stopped by our foe."
"Your will was carried out. Cowards such as Thuller should never be allowed to lead, as you said." They clicked their metallic fingers together, "A problem that you rectified."
"Well said, Malad." The Dark Lord stepped back, moving to lift something from an obelisk in the back, "I would like you to look through my eyes to see your next goal."
"Do you wish to hear my report?" The knight looked down their beaked visor to see what the Dark Lord had for them.
"Tell me." The Dark Lord said, his hand reaching through the weak sunlight to hold out an orb resembling an ogron's eye. Malad had never seen the Dark Lord's full form, only pieces from their memory of being created, as well as his hand each time he reached from the shadows he lived in. The Dark Lord's hand was immense, for he could easily hold his Eye in his palm, where Malad required both of theirs to hold it. Anything the Dark Lord did was immense, his steps alone causing Malad to shiver. It was a mercy that the Dark Lord allowed any to stand before him, the wraith almost feeling that if he chose to, he could be unstoppable to any mortal man on Azeroth. A hand wrought of the most powerful metal, plunged into the most wretched forge. A fist of blackened steel. A fist of mercy to darkness.
"Toth'ag still stands, but those who you once commanded have fled it. They are unworthy of you, my Lord." The wraith cradled the eye close to themself, "The Giant's Flare still persists within Giant's Landing."
"Hm. This was a victory, after all. Weeding out the weak from an army that is meant to be unstoppable." His monumental form moved back into a sitting position at the end of the room, "Though it still does trouble me that War is on the march."
"Prithee, master, why does this one trouble you so?" The wraith lifted the eye, showing a vivid image of both Sint and Aranor hiking through the mountains.
"She is power incarnate, my Knight. There are things that she has accomplished within her short lifetime that put many heroes and myths to shame. That flare within Giant's Landing? It's a fraction of the power she can output." The Dark Lord's voice sounded rather neutral about such a foe, "I do want that strength for a reason. I cannot let any like her ever challenge my power."
"That is wise." The wraith looked back to the eye, "I would hate to see your power challenged. Those with power sometimes are still unworthy of licking the boots of their betters, people with ideals such as your own."
"As you say." The Dark Lord leans and rests his chin against his fist, "Though the world is far too complex to expect all minds to conform to one goal, to one cause… They must at least follow an order." His ghastly blue eyes strike back to Malad, "Is it unreasonable for me to expect the lesser to follow my command?"
"If that is unreasonable, then I have no place in this room, my Lord." The wraith focused on the eye, "My existence relies on your command. The weak exist to serve beings such as you, so high and unstoppable, so great and mig-"
"If I told you to lick my boots, they'd already be spotless." The Dark Lord grumbled, "But your insight is fine enough. Look into my vision, see your next step."
"Your will is mine, my master." Malad spoke softly, peering deep into the now pulsating gem. The Dark Lord empowered these jewels with an unknown power of sight beyond sight, an ability to look beyond both land and sea. No obstacle could be denied by the Dark Lord, but as Malad looked through the eye, they found themselves incapable of seeing anything but a blinding gilded light. When the wraith looked up, he saw the Dark Lord standing within the shadow.
"You have seen what I have seen, I assume." The Dark Lord waved to the orb, "Nothing but light. Infuriating, isn't it? To be denied sight that you are so used to having, so used to having as an assurance." He reached his hand out, the orb floating back into hand, "We are now going in blind, as each soldier has for thousands of lifetimes."
"Master, so what if she blinds us? If she has allies, if she is removed from them, perhaps then we have sight of their actions!" Malad stands, lifting their arms to the sky, "All cannot be obscured from your sight."
"As you say, but that does not assuage my concern much. War is decided by leaders, not by the pawns they control. I was a footsoldier, once. I knew what it felt like to fight in battle, to hate my masters as they hid behind the lines." The Dark Lord pointed to Malad, "As the years have gone on, as I have fought and bled, I have seen the very essence of war laid out before me. So a soldier may bleed and die, his effort deciding whether his leader's stratagem is a success, but the leader inspires and brings those orders to heel." A single thunderous step breached the weak light, the wrought black steel of an iron overlord's heel slamming into stone that hardly could hold him, "It is we who drives the chariots of the future forward, we who grind the weak against the wheels of time." Another step brought deep fear into the dead heart and soul of Wraith-Knight Malad.
Before the beaked specter's eyes stood a colossal juggernaut of death and despair, an inexorable conqueror of light. No living eye glared down at the frightened form of Malad, the dead Dark Emperor of the Black Legion much greater than the spirit ever imagined. Monolithic. Monumental. Merciless. Fine metal armor stretched for what seemed like leagues across the Dark Lord's form, black and a deep dark red marking the very composition of his being. The Dark Lord was unlike anything Malad had ever seen, much larger than an ogre, yet still smaller than an ogron. Broad like an orc, as imposing as the most black-hearted eredar lord. Eyes of a stillborn star, striking dead light through the very essence of Malad's being. He was a chasm of horror before Malad, his voice even more immense now that he saw the true form of his creator. As the already weak light dimmed before his true form, the Dark Lord spoke, "I am not Lucen. I am not Bor Alsgabar. I am no Iren, no Halij. I cannot claim the strength of Sargeras, nor the corruptive power of N'zoth. But I can claim something higher than each of these conquerors. I will kill Sint Dagon, and my Shadow of Conquest shall fall over all the land."
Malad stumbled backwards, in awe of his master's words, "No man, no law, no divine authority… Nothing will stop me from stamping my legacy into the very eternal annals of not only this world, but each world that remains within this blighted reality." Malad could not tell whether or not they could hear their heart pounding, even without a heart, or it was simply the tower shaking with each step of their lord. The Dark Lord, mountainous in comparison to the knight, looked forward through the window of his tower. Then, Malad could feel it. The air grew warmer, but not in a caring and hopeful kind. It was a sickly warmth, of rot and the supreme deathly heat of a dying star. As if the Dark Lord was forging the very essence of reality into a blade, a shadowy weapon that dwarfed Malad in scale formed within the stagnant air of the tower. As the Dark Lord moved, the blade forged in hand, finished by the time he stopped. Both a sickle and a blade, the weapon seemed to be inspired by the takes of many cultures on what Death's weapon might look like, imbued by a little touch of war. It hummed with angry red power, the metal itself seemingly built out of vertebrae of Titans. The Scourge would truly find inspiration in this conqueror's edge.
Standing on his balcony, the Dark Lord ushered Malad to join his side. He pointed his sword out into the corrupted countryside, twisted metal buildings sticking out of the diseased soil like boils and blisters. The Dark Lord laughed, "I will not allow such trifles as an inability to see stop my conquest, my knight. Grakghul stands above my vision come true, a city born of the inspiration of my people's greatest leaders. See the belching draconic forges, twilight devastation inspiring them. The Twilight's Hammer was my people's idea, something that brought the great orcish horde to this land. They were the backbone of the military that crushed mankind, but they were scorned by those who claimed the old ways could save the soul of our almost victorious people." He shook his head, "Foolishness. They shunned power because they couldn't handle the reality of victory. And look at what power grants us. Look to our armories, great and massive, filled to the brim with the strongest weapons ever built in orcish inspiration. They are of the Blackrock clan, and of the Scourge. The Blackrock were the greatest clan of orcs, leaders and powerhouses in their own rights. Without their arms and armor, the Horde would've never stood a chance. And to the Scourge. Could you believe that the Scourge was built from the orcs? Ner'zhul was the first Lich King, the Shadow Council becoming his first Lich. Even the first Death Knights, the first great undead champions, were orcs." His sword lilted to point to an immense arena, "And you cannot forget Hellscream. You cannot forget Bladefist. You cannot ever forget the name of Blackhand. These were the finest warriors among the orcs, heroes embodying the sheer strength and willpower of our entire races' history. Their battles forged an ultimate warrior's path for the orcs, something the fools that lead them now forget in the name of human peace." Finally the Dark Lord lifted his sword high, pointed to the sky and to the tower around him. He yelled out, his voice booming to the black city beneath them, "To the city and to the tower I stand upon, is the legacy of the forger of orcish destiny, Gul'dan! To his memory I yell my name, the inheritor of the Shadow Council and the Glory of the Orcs! I am Blackfist, the Blackened, the High Warlord of the Black Legion, and now! Dark Lord of Gul'mar and to the world, to MY GOTHGOR!"
The city cried out their leader's name, as he finally revealed himself to them. The Black Legion believed their creator dead, but he now stood stronger and greater than ever believed before them. Xagroth Blackfist rose from obscurity, living an impossible and hard life that lead him here. Unlike so many in his shoes, he did not learn the kindness of life through struggle. He did not learn the beauty of pain and victory, he only learned the harsh heart of life and death through his countless battles. A callous and iron-heart was forged in the flames of endless slaughter, teaching Xagroth a maligned truth. If there was to be a world united, it would be united in endless struggle. A people never grew, never found truth, in peace. Peace was a lie, there was only war and the conquest that came after it. History was to be built by a Dark Lord, who's boot would stamp hope and destiny out for the rest of eternity. He rose from the ashes of a hated clan, a hated order, a hated master. From the remains of an old and evolved evil, holding the reigns of a new form of his people's creation. The Scourge, the Twilight's Hammer, the Dark Horde… They were now united as one.
The Black Legion rose again from a hateful city in an abandoned land. Crawling chaos was to gnaw across the world, across the stars, a new Burning Legion. The bane of freedom was held in an iron-borne dictator's hand, pointed to the heart of Sint Dagon. The Shadow of Conquest rose to contest the Shadow of War, a challenge unlike any set to Sint before. Blackfist knew he was not a divine entity who almost brought Azeroth's ruin, he knew he was no forgotten king who fought unbelievable odds for centuries and threatened to destroy the spark of humanity… He was but an orc who tried to rise to the legacy of Gul'dan. An orc who transcended mortality and flesh, bound by his own choices and truth. He stood in no shadow, for his was the shadow that now was cast across the land. He already knew the armies of the failed Horde and the fracturing Alliance strove to come against him, already sending their pawns to die upon the anvil of the future he would forge upon their bones.
He wondered if Sint knew he was here, knew that he had come. Her greatest mistake was not making sure he was dead. Perhaps his life was to haunt her for the rest of her's.