WARCRAFT – A WORLD APART

aka

"A DREAD OF WINGS"

by SuperMudz

None noticed the wings that disappeared above the ancient, abandoned cathedral – it's destination was not there, but just somewhat beyond.

The dreadlords had gathered, in the darkness, in the gloom, in the heat of unearthly fire, and in the shadowy slopes carved out by the bones of Ogres. Mok'shunn, they said – and the council was become.

He paused above the height a little – spotting his brothers, waiting for the last of them to appear. Vortoth was a little concerned about the lack of numbers, where his brothers were to flock over this world in a brood that consumed the light and sky – they had only these agents. Singly, some few of them had been destroyed, met and out-matched by numbers or aggression. Immortal though they were, the mortal wizards of this world had been gathering their power from ancient sources, and had been taking foolhardy risks that nonetheless gave them potent weapons with which to combat the demons who were their rightful masters.

He discarded a bone he had held between his claws, with the last of the escaping essence of a certain lieutenant Mandros. He had toyed with the soul, allowing it to know its fate with the last of its anguished spirit, giving it sensation with a gift of fire, and then taking it back with pain. He breathed on it like a flame, making it grow, and then devoured it - except for one last vestige which he allowed to escape. He laughed at it. It would never grow again. It would live the rest of eternity simply struggling to exist, pressed by even the slightest of darknesses to exert with great torture to survive, yet as a soul, it must – or it would never be again.

Just the thought of it, gave him power that tingled in the smallest fleshes of his spine. His wings had taken him across the universe, and finally here, to Azeroth. But the time of dreadlords in this world was coming to a close, the curtain was being drawn once more, and they would have to flee to the outer shadows, the blasted and ravaged worlds of their conquests, already empty and parched with famine.

And so they had gathered to discuss it – because their war had failed, and their leader, lord Archimonde the demonlord, had fallen to the wretched Night Elves. Impossible though it had seemed, the singing creatures of the leaf and song and ancient well of power, had thrown them back with the aid of mortal allies.

Fire blazed along his claw for a moment. It greatly offended him – and yet a dreadlord was like a spider in his plans, though he would hate, the spinning of webs never ceased while there was prey. And already his mind, centuries old, was forming new plans he would share with his brothers.

He took pleasure in it – the killing, the manipulation, the sweet succour of souls as he devoured them. And he felt fire within his heart, glee, thinking of the great titan Sargeras, how he had leaned down to listen to their sweet whispers – teasing him of the great truth of things, that was beyond even his great sight.

How the dreadlord had laughed at their deception, feeling both terror and joy at escaping destruction, and becoming of one of the being's honoured agents instead. And Sargeras had grown in darkness and true power, all the while the dreadlords hid their smiles behind their wings.

For while they deceived, they spoke nothing that was not true. Even had Sargeras seen it in their dark and corrupt hearts – that darkness and that corruption were beautiful, because they were a part of creation, a part of the cosmos, and the tistan that had so hated them and once put out his hand to destroy them, could not deny that.

It had been their greatest achievement, but no less than its due. And now they worshipped the god, because he fed them, and gave them conquest, and his power was greater than all else in the cosmos. Even his brothers did not stand against him, he who was their warrior - else they had fled too far, long ago.

So delicious.

(***)

"I have brought a gift." Melandros said, as he and the last of them approached. And they saw then that he had gathered human villagers. Gagged and bound, their eyes wide with terror, but apparently they had already reached the point of quivering attention, instead of wild thrashing. Excellently prepared. It was always a small mark of pride when one did not even need to hypnotise their prey, but were allowed to feed on their terror and pain as well as substance. It was the most honest loyalty there was, he laughed to himself, clicking nearer on his hooves.

But he would restrain himself – now was not the time to be a poor guest, and Melandros had called this council.

"Have we all gathered, then?" the question was asked.

"All that remain." He himself replied, having watched for this reason.

"What of Varimoth, then? He may keep to his shadows, but he was summoned as well."

"Slain," the dreadlord hissed, his mouth fuelling fire in his contempt. "By a wastrel mortal wizard." And said no more of it. The others were agitated and embarrassed. Dreadlords were difficult to discomfort, but they had pride as well. These foolish weaklings, attempting to trap and manipulate the fires of magicks of immortal demons and things grander than they – it was a mockery. On that one point they were agreed with fallen Archimonde.

"And Halfume? He as well? His artifacts were to be of use."

"He is leaving already – by a different route. He will meet us on Draenor, I believe."

"Ah." And this response was more pleased.

"We must leave, ourselves, soon."

"Are we then to consider this invasion.. a failure?" Asimos asked, licking his tongue about his fang, no doubt thinking of some tender morsel he had left somewhere.

The dreadlord smiled. Melandros had obviously prepared his speech, preparing them for their departure. "No, my brother. Rejoice, for the mortals do not know what has been wrought, even this many years from the war."

"But brother! They will soon succeed in igniting the Well of Eternity's light and sealing us away from this world! Either we must flee, or we shall have no more reinforcements, no escape, and even we the dreadlords, will be hunted down by the mortals and the mortal's children, without number!"

Another stepped forward. "And the orcs are no longer our allies. Even now, many of our kind has met their axes and spears and shamans in battle – they are no longer the tools they were meant to be. They have betrayed us." And his eyes shone a dreadful yellow that none there were able to name.

"Yes, my brothers – and that is why we are here. We cannot prevent the wretched kaldorei from restoring this world's most potent defenses – and we no longer have an ally in the Orcs or the long-dead Medivh to summon us here. However, this is but a temporary set-back."

"Our designs have succeeded. Our children, the Orcs, have settled on the planet. The most difficult part, the invasion, is over. Now they will grow. They will not spurn us forever, there will be those among them that will long for us again. The planet itself is torn asunder, at war with itself. There will be plenty of opportunity for us to return."

The dreadlords met this news with a glad murmur. This world was rich with life, and they hungered to make it theirs.

Melandros laughed.

Vortoth was musing upon this. He was not as certain of Melandros' plan – but… there was still time yet. Perhaps time enough to put other plans into action. So he did not speak of his thoughts to his brothers, but retreated into the darkness even as his elder, stronger brother spoke of their departure. He would return with a flurry of wings, he was gone.

Melandros ceased at that moment to pretend he had not noticed Vortoth, or his secret leaving, and chuckled a little at the others, although they did not all understand.

"I believe our brother had spoken of the matter with his act. Let us end this meeting, and finish our designs, then it will be time to leave this marvellous world."

The dreadlords turned to look at their captives. Before they would go, they would feast.

THE END