Golion was perched upon his throne, and every member of his council was dead silent. In two days, Golion had murdered his lieutenant, Brutus, for secreting away eggs of his clutch. He had annihilated most of the dwarves in his mountain, and had secured the Warglaives of Azzinoth from the rotting corpse of Illidan Stormrage, he and his warlocks having ransacked the monolithic place of worship.
But what angered the Warlord, was that Jaz'renthi and half of his Detention Block had escaped.
Golion tightened his fist, digging great divets from his throne, his talons scraping away the stone. Ebberon, his other lieutenant, had released Jaz'renthi; doing away with every lock and every protective spell in the Detention Block. Every single prisoner had been released, all dangerous to his plans.
The sound of the opening doors drew each of the councilmen's eyes to the portcullis, as two Blackrock Orcs dragged Ebberon. The lieutenant was chained in his human disguise, the magical restrains preventing him from returning to his draconic form.
Ebberon was forced to his knees, and Golion rose from his throne. The chained man bared his teeth.
"Your plans will never succeed," hissed the lesser Dragon, as his former-master descended the steps, "You'll never manage to destroy the Wyrmrest Accord." The Dark Lord laughed, and the councilmen's bones were chilled from the sound.
"I will do more than that," proclaimed Golion, "I shall become the Dragon-King! And when that's done… I'll breed out every other flight, until there are only Black Dragons."
Ebberon's eyes widened in terror as the council murmured, wondering if their master had gone mad. Golion hooked his talons under his former lieutenant's neck, and gave him a dishonourable discharge.
The assorted men and women screamed in terror as the Lord of Blackrock ripped Ebberon's head from his shoulders, a fount of blood flowing onto the mighty stone floor. Golion licked the blood from his lips, as he tossed it to a nearby Orc.
"Put it on a pike," ordered the Undead, "And let it be a warning to all who would double-cross me." He walked out onto his balcony, as the council dispersed murmuring their discontent. A warlock followed Golion onto the balcony.
"Milord," inquired the warlock, his head bowed, "With Jaz'renthi gone, it is only a matter of time before all know of us." The Magmawyrm rolled his talons across the stone banister.
"Transport my clutch," he ordered, "And prepare the rest for the aging. They must be hatched tomorrow." The warlock's head snapped up.
"Lord Terrorwing," whispered the warlock, despite his master's dislike of his true identity, "If we age the eggs any further, we could kill the hatchlings." Golion laughed, a cruel sound.
"Then I shall have my army," responded the Lord, "Dead, or Alive."
Vyndakian sat in Moonglade, beside the body of Jarn'dor. It had been a week since he had rescued the Druid, and it had been one hell of one.
A few days previous, he had begun to regain some of his previously lost memories. And he remembered something about the Blood Elf, Kaoru. After some investigating, they had discovered that Kaoru was his daughter. The only true family he had.
But Kisha'rowyn, his mate, did not take well to it. They had fought, and Kisha'rowyn had left him.
Vyndakian closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered about it was that he had thrown a package at Kisha'rowyn's feet. In that package, was the ring he planned to propose to her with.
Jaz'renthi surfaced from the floor below, forcing Vyndakian from his thoughts. She sat down, squeezing Jarn'dor's hand. The Druidess had returned a few days ago, and the Death Knight had made peace with her. The two were bonded by Jarn'dor, who was stuck in a permanent sleep.
"Any change," asked Jaz'renthi. The Elf shook his head sadly.
No one had seen the sleeping druid inside the Emerald Dream, but still he slumbered. Vyndakian yawned, having not slept in days.
"Go get some sleep," said the Druid, "I can watch him for a while yet, Mon." The Death Knight nodded gladly, sinking into a slumber. In moments, he was passed out in his chair.
Jarn'dor sat down in the rolling fields of Purgatory. For days he had sat, and talked with the being who called itself Death. While he had claimed to have been born at the beginning of time, Jarn'dor had never seen or heard of him except in human fairy tales.
"Those tales are usually right," Death had answered, "Surprisingly, the ravings of lunatics and madmen usually are." The Druid shook his head, focusing inwardly. He had tried multiple ways to escape, but it was clear that this plane existed separately from his home and the Dream.
"This place is meant for minds," The cloaked figure had explained, "when their bodies are still alive. No one has yet managed to return." Jarn'dor snorted in his meditation. He'd find a way to get home.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention back to Purgatory, as Death walked across the grassy fields. From what the Troll had seen, Death was all bone, preferring to wear a black cloak than let his aged skeleton shiver in the light breezes. The killer had explained that for eons he had been a "delivery boy," of souls, escorting them to the afterlife. Despite the Druid's unending questioning, Death wouldn't reveal what awaited them.
"It is for you to discover," he had replied repeatedly, much to Jarn'dor's dismay. The scythe-wielding man sat down beside the Druid. He set down his weapon, and the druid good see tiredness in his empty eye sockets, one that was as tangible as the bones Death was made of.
"Still trying to find a way home," asked Death, even as the Druid opened his mouth to tell him. He nodded in response.
"There is no escape from Purgatory," replied the Reaper, "No one has managed it." Jarn'dor growled.
"Der must be sometin'," begged the Druid, "Anytin' I can do at get back home." The skeleton shifted next to him slightly.
"My friend… There is one, but the stakes are very high." The Troll leapt to his feet, looking down at Death.
"What is it, Mon," he inquired excitedly, "Name it and it be done." The skeleton chuckled, his bones rattling.
"You must fight me," replied Death, "But the stakes are this: You win, you may return home. If you lose, you must replace me as the Usher of the Dead."
Golion furrowed his brow as eggs were carted past him, taken from the Molten Core. While he could not distinguish his eggs from the others he had stolen, his Warlocks apparently could. While he disliked the demonic-mages, he had to trust them here; his own children were at stake.
Once his eggs had been taken away, the warlocks began to engrave rings of power into the ground, etching strange runes and enchantments upon the great power lines. A Blackrock Warlock walked up beside him, and Golion bared his teeth.
"The journal did not call for this," seethed the Dragon. He had personally secured all the artifacts for the following spells, and he had studied Medivh's Journal. The aging spell they were about to use had not alluded to circles of power, or any sort of inscription for that matter.
"Lord Ragereaver," replied the Orc, "There are many eggs to age, and then they will be aged to maturity when they are hatched. These circles will only aid us for keeping the spell in check."
Golion snorted. He was unsure of what was about to happen, and he knew that these Warlocks would try and alter the spell. But he had his own little concoction planned.
As he had collected the artifacts, he had also collected biological materials from the most powerful beings he could find. It would only be a few moments longer until he could put them together.
The Warlocks quickly finished their circle, stepping back as Golion began to inspect it. While the circle was not his plan, he had instructed for the materials to be placed around the Core, taking the geothermal energy and absorbing it to fuel his spell.
A mighty chant rose from all of the Warlocks as they began to weave their spell, the eggs already growing and hatching. It was not long before Golion saw the first hatchling die, even as it grew to maturity. The Magmawyrm stood at the edge of the circle of power, and began to weave his own spell.
Once his words began to join the Warlock's the spell changed. The materials, now charged with the Molten Core's energy, flew to the very center of the circle of power. Soon, a mighty behemoth of bone and flesh began to take shape.
"Yes," roared Golion, his words drowned out by the hum of energy, "YES!" The mighty mass of flesh roared, as it stood upright. The mighty beast was cobble together of the most powerful parts he could find; the heart of a mighty Eredar Prince, the skull of Illidan Stormrage, and the body…. The body he had take from various kills, most of it Ebberon's.
The Magmawyrm grinned as his monster rose to its full, titanic height. The Warlocks trembled in terror, but were unable to flee, trapped by their spell.
"Must…Hear and obey," spoke the creature, its powerful bass voice rumbling the Core. Golion chuckled, even as the Warlocks began to speed up, their spells coming to an end.
"You are the Master of these Dragons," roared Golion, the behemoth nodding slowly, "You answer only to me!"
"Master…What is my name…?" Golion looked around, as Warlocks began to break away from their spells, the fully grown corpses of his Dragons leaping to life, roaring.
"You," commanded Golion, "Are Coresmasher, General of the Terrorwing Dragons!" The behemoth roared its name, as stalactites from the massive caverns crumbled. Warlocks and Dragon's alike were pinned by the mighty stones, screaming as their blood painted the ground.
"Your first task," ordered the Patriarch, "Is to take my children, and destroy these Warlocks. Leave no one alive inside this Molten Core!" Mighty wings flared out from Coresmasher's back, kicking up mighty winds. The Warlocks began to flee as the Dragons and Magmawyrms began to feast on them, devouring the demon-casters in single bites.
"Coresmasher smash," roared his mighty creation, as Golion exited the mighty hatchery, grinning at the sounds of chaos and destruction.
Vyndakian snored himself awake as Druids rushed to hold down Jarn'dor's body, the corpse thrashing around on its bed. Jaz'renthi stood to the side, his brows furrowed in worry. Vyndakian rose from his chair as the lead Druid managed to hold down the Troll.
"What's going on," inquired the Death Knight, even as Jarn'dor's body stopped twitching.
"He started thrashin'," replied Jaz'renthi, as the Druids dispersed. She dove by the bed, taking the now still hand in hers. Vyndakian stood by the bed, looking down at the Troll.
What the fel was going on?
Jarn'dor was slammed backwards as Death twirled his scythe. They had been at this for hours, and the Druid had barely managed to stay alive. This Reaper was more powerful than Vyndakian and Zi'bal combined. His long, sweeping strikes flowed together elegantly, like a stream.
The Troll forced his magic into the earth, and mighty roots burst through the earth. Death cut through them as they weaved a web, trying to entangle the skeleton. Soon the two were engaged in hand to hand combat, the Reaper with his scythe, and Jarn'dor with his fists.
They danced around each other for an age and a half, until Death sliced open Jarn'dor's arm. The Druid careened backwards, as the blood on the Scythe began to vanish, eaten by the wicked blade.
"I have lived for eternity," spoke Death, "You shall not defeat me." Jarn'dor rose, as the two leaped back into battle, dancing around each other.
Vyndakian watched as Jaz'renthi held the quivering form of Jarn'dor, his friend twitching and writhing occasionally. The Death Knight was unsure of what was happening, or if his friend was still even alive.
Jaz'renthi cried silently. She had thought he was dead for so long, she couldn't bear to lose Jarn'dor now. Vyndakian watched the Troll hug her lifeless mate. He was just glad that the beating of his heart assured he was alive.
Golion laughed as he stood in his chamber, watching from his platform as Netherwing Dragons, Twilight Dragons, and his own Terrorwing Wyrms flew around Blackrock Mountain. The latter made of nothing but bone and magma.
It had hurt the Patriarch to watch these hatchlings die, and then raise them again, but it was necessary. It had given him the army he needed to defend Blackrock. For a time.
The sound of the portcullis drew his attention away from the skies, as an Orc walked in, Coresmasher lumbering behind. The latter had adorned himself with the skulls of the demons his first kills had turned upon him, wielding a mighty axe made of the bones of a Dreadguard.
The Orc was dressed in the guise of a Warlock, and had been the only one not inside the Molten Core.
"Wiigarg Felmourne," mused Golion as the Orc bowed at his name, "You are one of the few left still loyal to me. You shall take the Netherwing and Twilight Dragons, as well as half of my Wyrms to Northrend." Wiigarg looked up.
"Lord Ragereaver," spoke the Orc, "Will you not join us?" The Magmawyrm shook his head.
"I must remain here for a time, until we are ready to safely hatch my eggs. We will have them all think I am dead, until it is too late." Coresmasher roared.
"You smart Master," spoke the behemoth, "Me go to cold land too?" Golion shook his head.
"No, my child," chided the Warlord, "You shall remain here. We will smash any of those who come to disrupt us." At the word smash, Coresmasher laughed in glee, clapping its massive hands like a small child.
"Milord," spoke Wiigarg, "I am already inside the Bloodraptor Clan… If you wish it, members can be dealt with." The Magmawyrm laughed at this, shifting and become Obsidion Terrorwing.
"No," roared the Dragon, the Flesh Behemoth cowering in his mighty presence, "I alone shall have the pleasure of wiping out the clan." With a swoop of his mighty wings, the Patriarch joined his children, flying out into the night.
Jarn'dor was slammed to the ground, catching the blade of Death's scythe in-between his hands. The skeleton pushed downwards, the blade inevitably moving closer and closer to the Druid's heart.
Time seemed to stop, and Jarn'dor thought of Jaz'renthi. He remembered when he had nearly lost her, when Death had almost claimed the woman he loved. Memories of the two of them flooded his eyes, and the love and passion he felt for Jaz'renthi flooded him.
He would see her again. And it would not be in the afterlife.
Jarn'dor began to push back on the scythe, to Death's surprise. In moments, the Druid was standing, and Death found it hard to push back against him.
With a mighty heave, Jarn'dor snapped the blade in two, slashing Death's skull open. The figure fell to his knees, now holding a stick, as Jarn'dor brought the blade down on his skull.
Jarn'dor's body began to thrash again, and even Vyndakian found it hard to restrain him. Jaz'renthi watched from a distance, as the Druid's body began to still. His mate reached for his hand, grabbing the limp limb.
Vyndakian listened, as the Druid's heart beat, and the pause seemed to stretch on for an eternity. For a moment, the Death Knight thought he had expired.
But then it started to beat stronger. And Jarn'dor's eyes opened.