Title: Hunter "Reasons"
Description: "Sylvanas and Rexxar stumble upon a treasure trove, specifically a weapon that hasn't been seen in years."
Notes1: This turned out to be a lot longer than I had expected, but that's part and parcel for wanting to get involved with worldbuilding. I'm surprised managed to get this out quickly, although that might have something to do with the schedule I have been given for this week and next.
Notes2: Lucario, I know you're only commenting because of Brightwing. Frankly, my opinion of her has soured because of you and I really don't give too much of a shit about her anymore other than playing her to level 10 when I feel like it (which isn't often because I want to accommodate to my team or counter the enemy accordingly); it's kind of hard to do that when a new hero's out every three to four weeks (two, in Zarya's case). Just thinking about bringing her back in the story only serves to remind me that you'll be there for her the instant she's mentioned and not for the enjoyment of reading and nothing more. No, I didn't hate your comment, but you can tell how much of a bitter taste it leaves in my mouth. Go to the HotS subreddit if you want to talk about Brightwing; there's a thread about that scrapped model buried somewhere in the pages. I've said it before, I'll say it again for the LAST TIME: This is a story about Sylvanas, not Brightwing. Get that through your head. This is why I don't really take requests anymore.
Notes3: And lastly, to all my readers, but to Lucario: Don't even think of arguing in the reviews section, especially in "How Does That Even Work? Among Other Such Things". I lurk around the archives and check the reviews, so don't think your comments go unnoticed. I don't care who you are or what kind of temperament you have. If you so much as carry out your petty squabbles there and not in PMs or whatever the fuck you prefer (as I've been mindlessly repeating for who knows how long), I want you gone. No questions asked. I don't like having to explain my case in these notes (as you should know), but it doesn't leave me any other choice.
Notes4: Now that I've hopefully gotten my point across (again), beware of slight Legion spoilers for the Marksmanship Hunter artifact acquisition questline if you haven't done it, although this is more of a formality because I'm certain by now everyone knows what happens.
Notes5: The "611" line isn't a typo. It's the Nexus equivalent of 911 because the letter N is listed on the number 6 on telephone keypad.
Notes6: Some of the weapon and armor designs mentioned therein are based off drawings of mine that I have done throughout the years, from way back in middle-high school up until a couple months ago. Only one of these, a character sheet, has been uploaded on my DeviantArt page to kind of showcase it, as the rest are hiding in one of my bedroom drawers collecting dust in their folders.
Notes7: P.S.: I am a "Miss Phoenix", not "Mister".
No one would have expected the pile of weapons, armors and trinkets housed away in a secret room would cause so much trouble. The Nexus had a way of making a mess of things.
Professor Fardon, a silver-haired, whiskered scarecrow of a man belonging to the esteemed Association of Varied Histories, Timelines, and Universes of the Nexus History Museum, had led the expedition into the ruins of Galadhos once word had reached him that the Border Patrol and the Realm Knights finally cleansed the area of lingering corruption left behind by the Darkness. Very few people in the Association were capable of fighting prowess, so with permission granted by the Board, Fardon hired five Heroes with two express purposes: to sense and track for possible remnants of shadowtaint, and to purify.
From the League, he selected Thrall, Tyrande, and Zeratul. He had to pay a hefty sum for Rexxar's services (he would much rather be alone, he told him, but a little adventure into the wilderness didn't beg to hurt) and managed to just wheedle Sylvanas enough to get her to tag along. He was shocked she agreed so quickly and readily; he wondered earlier if it had anything to do with how…friendly Leoric was being toward her. It was almost as if he was lonely and didn't want her to go.
Or maybe he wanted to use her as a partner for some nefarious scheme of his, like literally raising the dead from the graveyards for the umpteenth time. Or maybe wage war against the Church of Darkness, where the likes of the Lich King, Diablo, and the demons of the Burning Hells congregated.
Yes, that had to be it. The other option, the first option that came to mind…he shuddered. No way in the Anchors!
He put his focus towards the chamber. The Kingdom of Galadhos was an ancient civilization, harking back to a time when the Anchors had not yet fractured and the realms seamlessly conducted trade via the Erewhon Gates. It had also existed in a time when—and he had to remind himself this particular was a matter of particularly heated debate—the first case of the transition was said to have taken place. The truth was lost, and perhaps it would remain lost forevermore. What time did preserve, however, were the racks of double-bladed staves, open crates of battery caches and geothermal clips for guns of all shapes and purposes, and armor more advanced than protoss creation and clashed with today's less streamlined design. There was even a cabinet that, with the firewalls disabled and the password cracked, contained boxes of nanite pills that contained anything that could be molecularly reformatted and decompressed and reformed again upon use.
He didn't have to tell the Heroes to do a clean sweep of the room. Zeratul had a knack for shadows, and once Thrall and Tyrande communed with their respective spirits and gods to purge the shadowtaint he had slipped in, checking for anything they may have missed. Sylvanas ducked in after him, bow knocked and ready, aimed and waiting while Misha the bear snuffled the air and pawed at the ground, blinking curiously. After a few minutes had passed Zeratul returned, uncloaked, and gave the all-clear. Fardon and his crew gathered their gear and stepped inside with the rest of the group.
The trouble began when Rexxar crossed the threshold after everyone else. His jaw unhinged and the eyes behind that peculiar wolf mask of his lost focus and became glazed. A low insectile drone escaped him, followed shortly by a string of drool that spilled down one corner of his lips.
Everyone stopped, turning around or looking over their shoulders. Sylvanas took one glance at him, scoffed, and rolled her eyes. Zeratul cocked his head to one side. "Friend Rexxar, are you alright?" he asked.
"Egads, I think he might be suffering a stroke!" cried Professor Fardon. "We have to take him to the clinic immediately! Quick, someone call 611!"
"No, Professor, I believe this is much worse," said Thrall, who was snapping his fingers right in Rexxar's frozen face. There was no response.
"How can it be worse than a stroke?!"
"Because it's the same look I've seen on the faces of greedy Horde soldiers that think it's a good idea to ambush Darnassus in the middle of the night for spoils," Tyrande sniffed.
"What on earth would make you think greed is synonymous with a serious medical condition?!"
"It's not just greed they're talking about," said Sylvanas. "He's inflicted with what an advanced case of stupid."
"St-Stupid?" Thrall stammered, whirling on her. "Sylvanas, you must understand! This condition…not all hunters are afflict—"
"Just look at him!" Sylvanas waved at Rexxar, who was just now snapping out of his stupor. He was taking some tiny, bumbling steps here, arthritic steps there, arms reaching and hands wandering, caressing, fingering the treasures. "Does that look like the face of common sense to you?"
"He can't help it. He needs to get it out of his system!"
"Which explains why half the special forces were going unarmed on the majority of our raids…all while our hunters wielded weapons they couldn't be assed to pick up off the ground! That's not the kind of pop psychology you give to your people when you have a klepto for a Champion!"
Thrall opened his mouth to speak, Doomhamer raised for emphasis. "And don't say he's a collector!" Sylvanas added, prompting him to snap his jaw shut. "He doesn't even live in Orgrimmar! Where's he going to put all that stuff, anyway?!"
Thrall pursed his lips and flared his nostrils. The grip on the maul whitened. There was a metallic bang, and he cast a worrying look at Rexxar, who was prying open the dented double doors of a cabinet his fists made. Misha squeezed her head between his meaty forearm and peered inside, only to pull back with a gasp as a flood of contents spilled onto the floor. She grunted and stuck her neck out, nudging the butt of what appeared to be a sniper rifle with her snout. Rexxar blindly put a hand out and gently pushed for her to move aside, and when she did he got on his knees and dug through the pile.
Sylvanas sneered. "Like a beggar dumpster diving for scraps of meat. How pathetic."
"We can't have him touching that stuff!" said Fardon, wringing his hands anxiously. "Think of all the millennia of dust and historical data he could be wiping away! Oh, Light, if he mishandles something and accidentally damages it…Ahem!" He cleared his throat loudly. "Master Rexxar, please, I must insist! I understand your…enthusiasm…but by all means rein it in! Who knows what we could uncover?" He went to approach him. Misha spun around and growled, lunging forward and swiping a paw.
Zeratul yanked him back and both felt the rush of air where her claws passed. "Ho there, Professor! It would not be wise to disturb him as he is!"
"But the artifacts—"
"If anyone should touch him, it should be us," said Tyrande. "You are ill-equipped for this kind of situation, and it would not do for you or any of your peers to get injured by a hired hand. Think of the fallout the Board and the Association would have to deal with."
Fardon's shoulders slumped. "No. No, you are right…but be that as it may, I want to minimize the amount of potential damages as much as possible! Spaces knows we can afford to glean a wealth of knowledge from all this." And perhaps, he thought with both hope and great doubt (the latter winning over the former), the Association might strike gold and uncover something about the transition's origins. He sighed. "Right then," he said, and turned to Thrall. "Since you are from a similar sector as Master Rexxar's, Warchief, I believe you can bring the most sense back into him—"
"Hey! What are you talking about over there?" Rexxar snarled. He put his back to the pile and spread his arms out. "It better not be about my loot, you hear? This is mine! But if you're not, then by all means speak up louder so I know you're not plotting against me!"
"Rexxar, we are doing no such thing," said Thrall. "Be at ease, brother."
"You're only my brother if you're not thinking of pulling a fast one on me!"
"And I'm not."
"That's what they all say, Misha," Rexxar told his bear, who craned her neck up at him. "Remember that when you reincarnate into a person." Misha groaned, the sound bouncing off the walls like a bus horn on the open highways.
"Pray tell, Beastmaster, what would you do with these armaments?" Tyrande asked. "We did not bring any compression capsules and carry-on bottles of Hammer-Space with us; this would be too much for you to handle! Surely other people would benefit from this."
"We don't need any of that techno mumbo jumbo! Not when I have Misha to haul them back to the rendezvous point. I did bring bags with me, you know. It's not like I'm running around the Nexus nearly bare naked…and we'll just leave it at that!" He grinned mischievously. "Unless—"
"No no, that's fine," Tyrande said, holding up her hands. "That's…That's fine." She cast a pleading look at Sylvanas.
Sylvanas heaved a silent, world-weary sigh. Really? But she swallowed back the instant rebuttal and straightened her back, squared her shoulders, flexed her ears up and ramrod: the bearings of a leader truer than an elf who failed at Basic Strategy 101 and an orc who failed at Going Through Tough Times With Bigger, Meaner Orcs and Rational Decisions Overall. "You can't take any of this stuff. They belonged to the Association the minute we revealed the wards, dispelled them, and overrode the codes on the door. Besides, you already have your axes, your crossbow, and your…ahem, loyal friend." Misha chuffed, glared up at her challengingly; she didn't back down when Sylvanas flicked her eyes on her. "What more do you want?"
"Everything," he rumbled.
Sylvanas shrugged. "You'll have to take it up with the Board and the Association."
"I'm pretty sure there are some loopholes I can jump through. The rules don't state I can't use, say, Terran armor or a tank, the Worldstone, or even sacrificial blood magic."
"This is true, but it's their word against yours. Besides, take a good look; most of these designs clash with your big, beefy, mountain man image. What use would you have with nanotechnology? What about chronomancy? Not even the Realm Knights have the means to control space and time let alone a lesser rift, so what makes you think you'd gain anything out of it?"
"Who says I'm going to dabble in any of that? I just need them!"
"For what?"
"For, uh, hunter reasons!"
Sylvanas rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, the hunter reasons. Even if something does not fit on you and does not belong to you because either you were not trained in the specific arts or how to effectively wear it akin to a second skin, you must still have it under the pretense of 'because I said so'. Isn't that right? I didn't forget anything?"
"No, you're right. You are a hunter yourself. Somewhat."
Her ears twitched. "'Somewhat?'"
"If you were a real hunter, you'd take what's yours. Well, if you had any. This is mine." Rexxar swept an arm toward the pile. "I claim this because I'm alive. You're undead and have no stake in it except for that thing. Baby's first edge. You've got down to a T."
Sylvanas curled her upper lip, exposing a row of fangs. "Edge? You call this 'edge'?" She gestured at herself, the chainmail bikini and leather leggings complimenting the cool blue tint of her skin, the shoulderpads fitted with hollowed skulls and falcon feathers, the purple hood etched with Thalassian calligraphy and the stitched, tattered cloak flowing down her back. "This is the Forsaken motif!"
"But if you were a real hunter, you'd have the essentials down. Leather or mail armor made from the skins of your kills, a preferably loyal animal companion to hunt at your side and to provide you with company…and no magic. Nothing, zilch, nada. The magic is here, here, and here." He pointed at his head, his nose, and his heart. Misha grunted, and Rexxar sighed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Your senses are just as magical if not more so than mine or hers. Any of these folk, really. Let's get real, not even the priestess sees herself a hunter. Am I right?" He regarded Tyrande quizzically.
"In the beginning I was—"
"In the beginning. Not anymore. It's all about punishing in the name of the moon, Elune, the Naaru, whatever you magical girls spout about these days. I hear performing your duties in the name of love and becoming the devil is all the rage."
"My goddess is not the kind you speak of!" Tyrande exclaimed, burning with embarrassment and indignation. "She is certainly not a Naaru and I am certainly not a Japanese schoolgirl! Well," she added, scratching her cheek, "perhaps there is a possible variant who is indeed such a person, but as I am now, first and foremost, I am officially designated the Chosen Priestess of Elune. I leave the magical girl business to the girls themselves; I am well past that age, anyway!"
"You're a priestess who wields a bow. You pray to your goddess, who may or may not be the moon itself, and use Her powers. Oh, and you're a woman. Good looking one at that, I might say." Rexxar breathed deeply through his nostrils, held it, let it out slowly. "Magical girl," he enunciated. "Woman, what-have-you. An angel in white, not yet a devil."
Zeratul raised his brows. "I am afraid I do not understand."
"Wonderful poetry in action," Sylvanas deadpanned. "But back to our point: You're a real hunter because the weapons and armor have to compliment your image. Is that not so, Professor?"
Fardon blinked, taken aback that he was addressed. "Why, uh, yes, that is usually the case. It is as you said: you are a hunter, a dark ranger, because of your 'motif'. Lady Tyrande is both hunter and priestess as befits her cause, as is also the case for Masters Thrall and Zeratul. An image must be reworked if you accept something outside your norm and make it into your own without drastically changing not only your ideals but your outward appearance."
"As it should be. None of these things, Rexxar, would suit you."
"Of course they would! With a little elbow grease, leatherworking, and some Jeetilopolis ingenuity, I can make anything work! Like," Rexxar scurried to the pile, fidgeted, plunged his hand into the pile and yanked out a double-barreled rifle with a scope and a massive, circular magazine protruding underneath the trigger, "like this! Or this!" He tossed the gun aside and pulled a smaller pistol with a single barrel and what appeared to be battery cells in place of the slide.
"That's something a goblin or gnome might use."
"Who says it has to be just guns? You can dual wield! Gun and hammer!" A maul with a rectangular head. "Gun and sword!" A sawblade that whirred at the press of a switch on the pommel. "What about gun and axe? You don't see those every day, now do you?!" With a bit of effort he hauled a double-headed axe emblazoned in glyphs, half of which were rendered indecipherable by the numerous nicks, notches, and splotches of rust and congealed shadowtaint.
The slit of an eye peered open, glared at the assemblage one by one, and a voice as low and fathomless as the seas of aether sustaining the Anchors announced: "AT LONG LAST…I, ATARAXAS, HAVE BEEN REBORN! DO NOT MISTAKE MY CURRENT FORM AS A SIGN OF WEAKNESS, IMMORTALS. THE HEART AND SOUL OF THIS HEATHEN WILL PROVE MALLEABLE TO MY CAUSE—"
"Meh, not interested," said Rexxar, and carelessly tossed the axe over his shoulder. As hard as he could, right into the cabinet; the force of its impact caused the doors to slam shut and reactivate the antivirus start-up process.
Ataraxas howled in muffled rage. "UNLEASH ME AT ONCE! I WILL BE DENIED NO LONGER!"
"That's great," the Beastmaster replied offhandedly, and then regarded Sylvanas once more. She stared back disinterestedly. "Still not convinced, huh? That's fine; you don't have to be a Hero of strength, skill, and will. Sometimes just skill is all you need. Something basic. Something…earthly. Innermost. All that good Zen stuff. Like, er," he studied the pile again, "you can take something like this, see," he pulled forth a green and gold longbow, "and make it your own. Synthesize it, empower it, attune it, bless it, curse it. Weapons, armor, they're an extension of your body, your self. Without them, you are incomplete. You are—"
"A goddamn idiot, for one. You are speaking to the Banshee Queen, not a common foot-soldier! And I have more years under my belt than before your grandfather was considered a thought in the circle of life! Know your place, you—Wait a minute." She paused, taking a good look at the longbow. "That's…That's Thas'dorah!"
"'That's Dora'?" Rexxar repeated, studying the weapon. "Isn't she that little girl with the talking map—"
"Thas'dorah, mongrel, not Dora the Explorer!" Sylvanas stamped her foot and gesticulated wildly, grabbing the outer curve with both hands. "This is my sister Alleria's! The Windrunner family's legacy! What is it doing in the Nexus?!"
Rexxar shrugged. "Hell if I know."
"However it came to be in Galadhos, I sense a great power emanating from within," said Tyrande.
Zeratul nodded. "Indeed. It has been beyond worlds. Strange that it has not been touched by the shadowtaint."
"That, my good friend, would be a testament to its resilience!" exclaimed Fardon. "Who knows how long Thas'dorah has been locked away in these ruins, untouched by corruption? Perhaps with Lady Sylvanas' blessing," he approached gently, "it would be possible to study it?"
"Not a chance," she snarled, whipping her head around at him. He squeaked and backed away from her, right into Thrall.
The Warchief eased him aside. "This is great news, Sylvanas! Seeing your sister's weapon here must mean that she is out there somewhere in the Twisting Nether. She might even be in the Nexus thereabouts."
"Yes, as a long forgotten corpse comprised solely of bones." Sylvanas scoffed. "Sever your hopes. It's been twenty-five years."
"Even if that is so, this may be all that remains of her. You should hold onto it."
"I don't need to be told twice. No one is going to lay their hands on it unless I give my express permission, and before that they must prove to me they are worth their salt, their pepper, and their garlic they can carry the weight of the Windrunners upon their backs! That especially goes for you, Beastmaster," she sneered at Rexxar. "There's hardly a Windrunner that walked Eversong with Thas'dorah and was accompanied by an animal."
"There's always a first," said Rexxar.
"It won't be you, and it certainly won't be Mishka and that quilen of hers." And no matter how much of that nonsense she spouts, Sylvanas thought, she will never find Alleria. Her hopes are all in vain. "Now, if you would be so kind, Beastmaster, let go." She hissed, and tugged Thas'dorah toward her.
Rexxar's eyes widened behind his mask, and then he tugged back. "Hands off, sister! Finders keepers, loser's weepers!"
She made a scandalized sound, pulled harder. "You dare!"
"Yes, I dare!"
"You son of a bitch!"
"That phrase is a badge of pride, woman! I wear it like so!"
"You don't have much to wear to begin with!"
"You're no better!"
"Rexxar, let go!" Thrall called, and made to rush forward. Misha got on her hind legs and roared at him, causing him to back down. There were startled shouts from the crew behind him. "Please, brother! That is not yours!"
"This stuff is mine!" Rexxar announced. "ALL MINE, and you're not going to get a single cent out of it!"
"But the historical value!" Fardon began, pleading.
"Fight me for it if you want it so damn much! C'mere, old man! Surely you still have some spring left over!" He glared at them, and Fardon stumbled and retreated into the huddled safety of his men and women. "That's what I thought!"
"Last time, thief," Sylvanas warned, voice soft and dangerous, "Let go, or by all the Pits in Darkness I am going to paint these flagstones red with your blood and decorate the Shire with your bear's intestines!"
Rexxar leaned his face right into Sylvanas', the feverlight in his eyes shining mad and greedy. The edges of his mouth crinkled as he grinned, and when he opened his mouth she could smell meat on his breath. "Never!" He smiled widely at the fury pulsing in her own gaze.
Off to the side, Tyrande's ears twitched. A sensation not unlike a hand bracing her shoulder probed the back of her mind. "Zeratul, do you feel that?" she asked, bringing her bow to bear.
He studied their surroundings. In the cracks of the floor, along the nooks and niches in the walls, and even seeping through from the secured cabinet, dark vaporous smoke emerged, bubbled, spread like spilled oil in creeping rivulets, then streams, and now growing into deep, thick, serpentine lines. He activated his warp blade. "Everyone, fall back!" he told the crew. "Darkness gathers!"
Their reactions were frightful and instant. "Corruption!" "Malevolence!" "Run, before it taints us!" "Peace before violence! Don't let it take us!"
"By the Spaces! Would you look at that! Thas'dorah's glowing!" said Fardon, and so they saw that indeed it was. Between the tug of war Sylvanas and Rexxar were engaged in, the longbow had taken on an eerie magenta sheen that peered beneath their hands and bloomed like a star and covered it in its entirety. Neither realized the vibrations starting to rattle in their grasps.
"What…What is that?" Thrall asked.
"Astounding! G-Get your camcorder out, Clarke!" Fardon waved for the man to hurry up. "What we're seeing is the unraveling of space-time itself! A lesser rift, created by forces more potent than the Powers, more cosmic and unyielding beyond our comprehension! Why, for all our knowledge, it could be formed from thoughts and feelings breaching throughout dimensions, searching for Thas'dorah, calling for it, just like telepathy—!"
There was a sudden, muffled boom, as though a bomb had gone off, and an unearthly, windy screech rose with startling speed and crescendo. It rent the air, shook it senseless. It may have come from the rift. It may have come from the shadowtaint. Whatever it was, it caused Thas'dorah to rip itself free from both Banshee Queen and Beastmaster, and they watched as it flipped end over end toward an inverted, spiraling mass of folded aether taking up part of the wall.
Then it entered the rift, and in seconds it spun itself in a counterclockwise motion and closed upon itself. Where the portion of the wall had been slowly reformed itself from the aether, molecule by molecule, recreating every bump and chipping, scratch and weathering as it had appeared beforehand, before the taint and after upon cleansing. It was as though it had never been touched.
The shadowtaint paused, simmering.
Damning silence hung, everyone, including Misha, staring at the wall. Even Ataraxas had gone quiet in his protests.
No one moved. The camcorder struggled to stay aloft in the air in Clarke's hands.
Sylvanas spun on Rexxar, stunned and horrified.
He shrugged. "As I was saying, finders keepers. You shoulda just let go and, you know, let bygones be bygones. By the way, you're still not taking any of my stuff—"
Sylvanas screamed—a long, piercing, bloodcurdling scream that shook the walls and the floor. Thrall and Tyrande and Fardon and his crew cringed and covered their ears, some falling to their knees or collapsing, trying to block out the pain. Misha moaned and Zeratul squeezed his eyes shut. "YOU BASTARD!" She dropped her bow and reached for her dagger. "YOU BASTARD, YOU BASTARD, YOU BASTARD!" In one fluid motion she drew it forth and lunged at Rexxar. He managed to let out an avian croak before she was on top of him and had him on his back, the blade buried between his eyes.
Then again. And again, and again. "THAT WAS MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! WHERE IS IT NOW, ASSHOLE? WHERE. IS. IT. NOW?!" Blood splashed against her face and hands, but she did not relent. Sylvanas kept on going.
The shadowtaint erupted, and the speed of its advance ramped up, covering everything in black and brown rot. Between the blood roaring in her ears, what sounded like Thrall yelling ("We have to leave! NOW!"), Fardon complaining ("The artifacts!" he wailed), Zeratul ushering for Misha to follow him ("Your master will be…alright. We'll meet him at the Halls!") and Tyrande making an exasperated sound ("Elune help us, and Elune help you, Sylvanas!" she sighed), Ataraxas cackled. "YES! YES! GIVE ME MORE! GIVE ME MORE! IT MATTERS NOT HOW FAR YOU FLEE OR HOW MUCH YOU BOTTLE IT UP—IN THE END, WE WILL NEVER HAVE ENOUGH!"
Somewhere, in another time and place, on Niskara….
Herald Xarbizuld was in trouble. The doomguard paced back and forth, considering the situation. The elf was gone, wounded though she was. There were furrows in the dirt that were crusting over in fel energy as a result of the Light the soldiers had used. The bodies of his fellow compatriots—scores of imps, felstalkers, a pair of infernals, and a trio of inquisitors—were just now finishing up disintegrating into the Nether to reform, although with this much fel in the vacuum they would return in no time to fortify their defenses…not to mention endure a thorough thrashing from their superiors.
The next best course of action would be to make the announcement for any able-bodied demon to step forward and board a ship…that is, as he now recalled, if there were any left in the docks; if there wasn't a ship on standby on Argus or pulling back from the ruins of Nathreza, then they would all be congregating above Azeroth near Thal'dranath. A shame that their initial offensive strikes around the world were suppressed. It was just as well they were able to latch onto the Temple of Elune and eke their influence across the rest of the Broken Isles. Soon, he thought. The Alliance, the Horde, the Archmage in his floating city, the Nightfallen, the Wardens, the Highmountain tauren and the Dreamweavers and the Valarjar, anyone that opposed them, their numbers were finite. They could not stand against the Burning Legion forever. Not even their sacred artifacts would be able to withstand the might of their foul magicks and countless numbers.
So it came as quite the literal shock when a thunderbolt slammed right where he had stood, knocking him flat on his tail. His head bounced against the ground, and for a while he lay there stunned and confused. When he regained his bearings and stopped seeing double, Xarbizuld shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears and gently picked himself up with a flap of his wings. "Argh! What was that?" He was absently aware that he should have expressed more concern at the possibility that some brave fool from the Grand Army of Light wanted to sneak in one last ambush, but there was nary a stench or presence of Holy power radiating around him. Would it not make sense to eliminate him while he was alone and vulnerable?
His question was answered when he beheld the elvish longbow lying in the bowl of a small, smoldering crater. Carved from wood the color of gold and inlaid with emerald stones, its string drawn taut to a fine, invisible line. He recognized it for what it was.
Cautiously, he approached it. Bent his knees and extended an arm, hesitating for the briefest of moments before quickly closing his massive hand around the riser.
He had expected it to burst into flames and consume him whole, leaving nothing but ash. He had expected the Light to suddenly burst through every pore and orifice until he exploded and there was not so much as a shred of consciousness to will himself back to life.
Nothing of the sort happened. It remained a longbow, bereft of its power save for a lingering, sulfuric stench of raw arcane energy.
Xarbizuld brought it up to his face and sniffed in deeply. Held the breath in for a beat and exhaled.
He grinned, and the seeds of a plan began to germinate.