Sint had never been to the range of mountains known as "Stonetalon". War took her many places, but never once did it deem it necessary for her to tread within these lands. An odd thought, considering that not so long ago, it was a massive warzone between the Kaldorei and the Horde. If there was any place she'd like to be, it'd be fighting by the side of that ancient people, so scorned by history. The little she had heard of these mountains was almost tragic, too. Once it was a beautiful and sacred land, sacred to both the elves and the tauren. But it had been exploited by scum and villainy, left as a nigh barren waste. The few sections of the mountains that were still green were few and far between, with the ghosts of once beautiful forests all that remained of Stonetalon's past. Derelict fortresses dotted the war scarred landscape, the machines of siege and destruction left scuttled in sand and ash. The wounds of the War of Thorns were felt across it, as the remains of Teldrassil blanketed the mountains just as they did Darkshore and Ashenvale.
Aranor lead her through an old sentinel's trail, through the northern edge of the region. The sky, heavy and dark due to the sins of the War of Thorns, helped little in allowing Sint to see the land below them. No signs of activity, but perhaps that was only due to the darkness hiding them, as sunlight grew weaker and weaker the more they moved into Stonetalon. The closer to the Black Moon that hung over Darkshore, the harder it became for Azeroth's star to shine. To say the least, the atmosphere was heavy. It weighed down this small party of two, leaving a gulf of silence between them as they marched. A silence that she was not too keen on leaving alive. So she spoke, hoping to somewhat lighten the mood. She was close enough to Aranor to speak normally, "What are your thoughts on the Silver Battalion?"
He was caught off guard with the sudden question, as he slowed a bit in his march to think. Not too long after he slowed, however, he responded, "I think of them well. At first, I was worried that I wasn't going to get along with 'em. That it'd be hard to work with 'em." He shook his head, "Nay. They're good company, those elves."
"Truly? I'd heard that many of the Kaldorei had been taken by rage and despair at the destruction of their Crown." Sint said a portion of the common translation of Teldrassil, being 'The Crown of the Earth'. Perhaps the name of the World Tree would inspire bad omens in the wind, something Sint well and truly wanted to avoid. She'd seen enough spirits get riled up by the smallest things… A bonfire of life itself was certainly inhabited by a plethora of lost souls.
"Many have, don't get me wrong. Not everyone in the Battalion has their minds straightened out." He nervously scratched the side of his face, "It's something I'm still not used to. But, ehh… The people in charge have their goals in line. Maybe it's only Tarro, and the others are just bouncing off of her heart."
Sint jogged a little to catch up with Aranor, the ranger's longer strides often inadvertently making him keep ahead of her. Next to him, she smiled, "You think your captain has charisma strong enough to carry the weight of an army?" Aranor looked away, somewhat bashful, leaving Sint with a strong impression, "Though you say nothing in response, you've answered well enough. You've been in good hands."
Aranor stopped, pulling a spyglass from his belt, checking a natural bridge up ahead. He laughed, "And let me be the first to say it, my lady." His words were honest, yet still forced somewhat, "We've been holding out hope that you'd come here."
"You knew I'd come?" Sint put her hands on her hips, shaking her head, "That's hard to believe. Who'd hold out hope for me?"
"Early on in the Battalion's skirmishes, things looked promising. The Horde seemed to be brittle on the fringes, fragile enough to stomp out with enough finesse." Aranor clicked the spyglass shut, carefully putting it back into place, "But as the days went on, resources dwindling, and the end of the fighting in the Fourth War…Well, it's safe to say we started to hope for help. At first we thought we might see aid from the Kaldorei in Darkshore, but there was only a small trickle of defectors and freedom fighters that we saw coming in. Nothing substantial enough to handle the issues we had been starting to face. The issues being your Black Legion, though we didn't know that yet. That and with our supply lines now obviously in shambles due to the dark presence wiping out the few allied cities hidden through Kalimdor… you get the picture." The ranger waved for Sint to follow him, picking up the pace again, "We didn't think the Alliance was going to help. We didn't have any friends out here. So who better to hold out hope on than the woman who defied the King and his Divine Will?"
"I just did the right thing, Aranor. There were a lot of mistakes in the Fourth War, and the one the King was about to ask me to make would've cost us a lot more than land, lives, or time." Sint closed her eyes, a deep frown growing on her face, "It would've cost us everything."
"What happened?" There was an eagerness in the ranger's voice. He was honestly excited to hear what drove Sint to defy the orders of the King, what brought her to her current legendary status. Like many, Aranor hoped for something outstanding. He hoped that some godlike prophecy fell upon Sint's lap, something that drove her to stand stronger than the Alliance ever could. He hoped that Sint did more than defeat something big, he hoped that she'd reveal something to him that would define his and mankind's future. The words she spoke were not the golden truth the ranger so wished for, instead being…
"I went alone into the unknown, and came out knowing that I had committed one of the greatest crimes in human history." This revelation came as they stepped on the bridge, a silence falling between the two.
Aranor's back was turned to Sint, the man's form growing rigid, "What do you mean?"
"We're mortals playing with the tools of the divine, Ranger. The Gods have played their games with us for untold years, their power just too great for any of us to contest. And while many frown upon this, they made us who we are. They made us, everything we stand on, and everything we stand for." Aranor turned, seeing Sint was getting somewhat passionate about this, "And you know what I did, Aranor? I killed one of them, and watched what it did to the things they created and empowered. I saw the spark of hope fade in the eyes of hundreds, as I watched their home crumble into nothing."
"...What?!" Ranger Aranor's expression was hard to read, but his body grew even more tense. There were few words for the man to spare, his mouth hanging agape, little more than croaks escaping it. Words were hard to find when the unbelievable is brought before you, so nearly nonchalantly. No room existed for Sint to lie, but there must've been a mistake. To kill the divine was an impossibility by mortal hands. Always had it been the intervention of other higher powers or by use of the tools the gods left behind did mortals find strength to face against corrupted divinity, for even their greatest triumph, the defeat of one of the Makers in the very heart of the Burning Legion, had been bolstered by the uncorrupted Titans. But she stood there, holding firm, not a hint that she was lying crossing her face. He found his words in time, "To kill a God, 'tis impossible alone."
"Explain his death, Ranger." Sint lifted her sword, its gleam now much more obvious to the ranger, "Explain how we both entered that field, and I was the only one to leave alive."
He hesitated to respond, but he knew all the same that whatever he said wasn't what he believed, "...A Godkiller, then? Know that this doesn't reduce you in my eyes, my Lady. There is a point where men cannot stand aside anymore, and must judge divinity with their steel. We all knew you fought something beyond the Cult and the Black Legion, something obscured by the fog of war. I never knew that the Cult's master was real and moving against you, a deity conspiring to war against mortals."
"Whatever your belief is, Ranger, I live with the fact I slaughtered the lifeline of thousands because he threatened the people I loved. I killed him because he would've taken everything from me, a thing I was not willing to accept. Whether or not he would've spared the rest of Azeroth didn't matter to me when I made my choice to butcher him." She jabbed a finger towards the corrupted landscape of Stonetalon, "Is this the world he envisioned, or is this the world I created? Did my deeds, as the Shadow of War, create this?"
Aranor put his hands on Sint's shoulders, a move that shocked the smaller warrior. She jolted back, Aranor's words calming her just enough, "You cannot know that. And even if you could, you would never find peace in the answer. Find peace in your own answer, in the battle you won. I trust that you made the right choice, because I and so many others believe in you as a person." His hands grew tighter around her shoulders, his expression and tone pleading with Sint now, "You are a hero. Even if you don't agree with me, it is not your choice to make. We trust in you as the hero you've shown yourself to be, and you must continue to be that same hero. We need that. We need you."
A hero. Sint had never been called a hero. In all of her days she only remembered being called an enemy, or an obstacle. She was never trusted, she was always opposition. Struggle was the name she embodied, her path lined with the very essence of hostility. That is why she clutched to the name 'Shadow of War'. For if she was to accept her way of living, to accept that none would ever look at her with full trust or respect, she had to accept the role of being the shadow cast by conflict. Her life was the Shadow of War, nary a speck of hope shining within that mess. But here, a man she hardly knew was pleading with her to believe in him, pleading for her to accept her position as a hero. Shattering her worldview wasn't easy, before it took the very power of the God she killed to break what she believed, but a normal man of fairly normal circumstance had that same effect. No magic, no higher understanding, just faith. Aranor could not claim to know Sint, to know what she's been through, but he can claim that he cares about her. Never once did he meet her before this mission began, but his devotion toward her is something that isn't built out of a true relationship. She had spent so much time as the adversary, as the enemy, and now… She was the hero.
"I don't know what to say…" Her voice was low, but not mired with the typical serious tones she carried. It was a human's voice, not the voice of some demigod of war, just the voice of a homesick girl.
"There's nothing to be said." Aranor takes his hands back, "Sorry for thrusting this on you, so suddenly."
"...No, thank you." She looked down, gripping her arm, "I'm not the easiest person to work with. I'm starting to realize why." She laughs, genuinely, a rare thing, "For years I've been alone. But you opened my eyes, just now. I'm not alone in this. The people fighting with me aren't just here for themselves."
"I can't say that everyone in the Battalion is as dedicated to the cause as me and my people, Lady, but I can say with certainty that the heart and soul of this team believes in it." A broad smile breaks out across the ranger's face, his typically forlorn face now marked by a truly happy look, "And that is all that matters. Tarro believes in her Battalion, most of her people believe in her. Her hope's been dwindling, and your arrival might save her."
The end of the bridge was clouded by a murky fog, a similar fog that fell over much of Stonetalon. Perhaps it was fitting, as Sint had just reached her own bridge, the end of it clouded in uncertainty. This was the last road to the goal she'd been fighting for, for so long. The goal of learning who she really was. The long and winding path had been brimming with adversity, smiles made of daggers, kind gestures made of poison. Betrayal, pain, and death were the only absolutes on her journey, but the journey had reached its end. The end, obscured by fog and shadow, was not yet seen. It had yet to be decided. The metaphor became much more real as Aranor turned, walking forward, only to see that something stirred within the fog. Indeed, as the ranger moved closer, the fog seemed to flow easily onto the bridge. Like a fountain, sickly air poured to oppose their path.
And then, a pair of bright blue eyes appeared within it, a massive figure carrying itself through the shadow. Sint recognized this power, for it was the very same power that she battled against in the War Camp. It was not a subtle chill, however, like the touch of the Scourge. It was an overwhelming stench of despair, the imminent demise of all things born in the form of a giant. Through the mist the juggernaut carried itself, a deep and horrific laugh born from within it. A man's voice, presumably. There was a smug authority carried within the tone of this laugh, as the figure tread to the edge of the fog, still far enough to remain mostly obscured. What she could see was harsh metal armor, a great blade held in the mighty specter's hand, a helm that doubled as a crown. A sight that reminded her of the stories she had heard of the Lich King, but this one clearly was not the same. There were subtle differences that told her that this giant could not be of the Scourge, even though his eyes were the same blue that the death knights had. She saw gaps between his armor, where perhaps flesh and bone should be, or at least chainmail or protective gear. But with this one? There was nothing beneath the metal. This leviathan was purely metal and soul, bound together in an unholy harmony. So then he spoke, a voice that Sint had a bad feeling about hearing again.
"The Shadow of War graces my realm, what an honor." The voice of the Dark Lord boomed from the shadow, terrifying the ranger that stood close to him. Aranor retreated to Sint's side, his bow knocked and pointed towards the goliath. Blackfist kept still at the edge of the bridge, "I hoped you'd come. And look! My wish came true, you came to me and I did not need to come for you."
"I should be surprised to hear your voice, Blackfist." Sint swaggered forward, Rebellion swung over her shoulder, "But I'm not. Seeing the Black Legion again made it obvious you came back, but my question is… Why? You should've stayed dead, there's nothing to gain here. I'm a lot stronger than when I beat you in the Ghostlands."
"That is good. I would so hate to face you at your strength then, for then there'd be no fun in taking my revenge." The Dark Lord stepped forward, lifting his sword up so that he could hold it in both hands, "You killed me, destroyed my every plan. My schemes were thwarted, my armies crushed, and I wasn't even your focus. There was something else, something that was using me to weaken you. Do you know how much that hurt me? I am a dead creature with no concept of physical pain, but the agony I felt when learning I was simply a pawn in another Dark Lord's game, it was immeasurable. Not only was my greatest adversary seeing me as nothing but an obstacle, but there was someone using me."
"Such is the way of the forces of evil, Blackfist. You spend so much time learning to be cruel and manipulative, you see even your allies as targets for such games. There's no unity within your crowd, they all play the same games you do. And some of them are better at it." She smirked, "Face it, you got outplayed."
"So I did. There's no shame in admitting that now, in my position." He slowly approached, his heavy footfalls shaking the stone beneath Sint as he did, "I am a master in these lands. A master both to the legions of darkness and to death itself. Thrice have I died and thrice have I arisen, death only bringing me further and further into power. My first death gave me shame, my second death gave me power, and my third death gave me the world. There will be no fourth, for I have become Death. And I have come to claim my prize."
"What prize could you hope to collect, Xagroth?" Sint pulled Rebellion from her shoulder, pointing it the orcish Dark Lord's way, "You will lo-." Her words were caught in her throat, Rebellion falling from her hand. Sint dropped to her knees, clutching her head, choking on the air.
"You'll find out very soon." And like that, the Dark Lord vanished back into the fog, leaving Aranor completely befuddled at what the hell was going on.
He looked down, to Sint, who was still in the throws of some sort of attack. Blood flowed freely from her nose, as her eyes grew increasingly bloodshot. For a moment the ranger swore he saw steam blowing from her ears, but it was possible that he was imagining things. After a few moments, Sint fell back, a painful sigh rattling from her body. The golden energy that he saw her use now fiercely glowed around her head. Aranor reached out, "Lady Dagon, what the hell was that?"
Sint didn't respond quickly, rocking back and forth on the ground, groaning. The ranger approached, hoisting her into his lap, so he could keep her still. The man brushed Sint's wild hair from her face, looking to see that she was in great pain. But she was managing to push back, at least her power was, as he could see that her breathing had begun to become subdued. Although concerned, Aranor was glad to see whatever just happened didn't put Sint completely out of commission. She drew a hand over her face, breath heavy, sweat freely running down her face. The ranger's job didn't last long, as Sint's hair fell back across her face. This was the most out of sorts he'd seen her yet. Finally she broke the silence, "...Confirmed a theory, at least."
"What?" Aranor found no answer in that statement.
"Heard him speak before." She coughed, "Orcish, but wrong. He's made a magic language…"
"And his name is a spell." Aranor rubbed his scruffy ginger beard, "That's an interesting defense."
"I feel like," Sint said, propping herself up on her elbow, "That if I wasn't as well defended as I am, that that spell could've split my head open." Lowering the hand across her face, only to grunt as even the dimly lit landscape was still too bright, "I'm fine with a migraine, at the very least. Dying for saying that stupid orc's name would not be the way I want to die. No, my death would preferably be in the arms of my wife, as we're both old and happy."
"Ah, that's an ideal way to go." The ranger mused, "Not many get the chance to get a happy ending. A lot of us don't deserve one."
Sint wiped some of the blood from her face, "That's twice Blackfist has given me a cataclysmic nose injury. I swear he's trying to make me lose my sense of smell, and I'm not sure if that's a mercy or not. The fact he uses so much death as a weapon, the stench is going to get pretty bad."
"If he was nice enough to blow your sense of smell, maybe he'd be nice enough to surrender before this gets worse." Aranor helps Sint get back to her feet, letting her hang her arm over his back, "Heh, who am I kidding. Things are already bad enough."
"There's no mercy in that metal shell. I say we give him that same kindness." She raises her fist, "Death."
"A quick death, I hope. I'm not a jailor or a torturer." He helps her across the bridge, making sure to match her smaller strides, "Nor do I claim you to be. An enemy like this, though, draws the worst from within us. Allow me to allay this dark topic, and focus on bringing you to the Battalion camp. We're not far, this bridge marks the last step of enemy territory. From here on out, the elite shall be watching us, their eyes the only arrows knocked."
The Valley of the Dark Lord ended here, breaking way to the land of the Goddess' Chosen.