Merry Christmas! Happy Newyear! Sorry this wasn't out earlier, but I was enjoying the holidays. This chapter has not yet been proofread, so forgive me a few errors. I've put a lot of art on my site, and I think you'll enjoy. I'm thinking of getting a Deviant Art account. Anyway, I've drawn several pictures. They are as follows:

1. A picture of Ember and Fenuine. They're slightly older in this picture, just leaving childhood and maturing into adults.

2. A picture of Nathanos meeting Vaiden for the first time

3. A picture of Admiral Proudmoore begrudingly cuddling a sleeping Kallah

4. A picture of Kallah introducing Nobundo to Thrall

5. a CHIBI NATHANOS (That's right. Chibi.)

Merry Christmas! Please enjoy this chapter.

PS: The Bold, Itallic, Underline, and Page Center buttons are all acting whacky.

Good Will
(Theramore)

The instant they arrived, Jaina was buried in several tons of shaggy wolf. Nobundo stumbled backwards, slightly alarmed by the beast's sudden appearance. At second glance however, the creature did not seem to be hostile. It was currently giving the trounced sorceress a big, slobbery lick. "Math!" Jaina protested, trying to shove the giant canine off of her. The Frostwolf gave a short bark of laugher and danced backwards. The Lady Proudmoore grunted and propped herself up indignantly. Math sat down, his tongue lolling laughingly out of his mouth and his eyes bright.

"Oh sure, sure, laugh it up fuzz ball," she grumbled. And then, remembering herself, she looked up at the Broken draenei. "Nobundo, this is Mathghamhuin, my Frostwolf. Math, this is Seer Nobundo, of the Draenei." Math blinked, and seemed to notice the Broken dranei for the first time. His ears perked up at once, and he closed his mouth and tilted his head to the side. Curiosity was manifested so clearly over his canine face that Nobundo had to give a small smile, and he looked to the Lady Proudmoore.

"Another bit of culture exchange, I presume?" he asked knowingly. Jaina laughed and nodded, pulling herself to her feet.

As she did this, Math approached the draenei and began to sniff. His tail flicked through the air thoughtfully and the scents he detected made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The shaman certainly smelled unnatural in many ways... And yet at the same time, he smelled quite natural in many others. The duality of the Broken draenei's nature was quite puzzling to the Frostwolf. Still, the mistress seemed to trust him, and Math could detect no hostile intentions...

"Math was a Winter Veil present. He's quite scandalous," Jaina was saying.

Finding the results of his cursory examination of the draenei satisfactory, Math began to swish his tail happily and allowed his tongue to loll again. The expression was so comically innocent that the draenei had to give a light chuckle. The old shaman eyed the Frostwolf a moment, and then lifted a three fingered hand and presented it to the wolf. Mathghamhuin blinked his yellow eyes and sniffed curiously at the proffered limb, and then nosed it lightly. He received a pleasant pat on the head for his good will.

"I'll have the servants quickly prepare a room for you," Jaina was saying, moving towards a door. "I have several on hand for diplomats, and I hope they'll suit your tastes."

Nobundo just nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. From the moment he had first arrived in the sorceress's quarters, Nobundo had sensed something peculiar. He could not exactly place his finger upon what he detected, but he was absolutely certain that he, Jaina, and Mathghamhuin were not the only ones within Jaina's quarters. It appeared that there was another being, in one of the adjoining rooms. Lest he was mistaken, this being was currently spying on them.

"If you would just wait here a moment, I'll fetch them and inform them of your presence."

"Take your time," Nobundo answered softly, his senses probing towards the thing he sensed. "Your hospitality has already been quite refreshing..."

Jaina blinked, noticing the far-off look of the Broken shaman. Although he was busy scratching Math's ears in the most delightful of fashions, Jaina recognized that the shaman was concentrating on something else entirely. In all the short time she had known the draenei, she had never seen him zone out in such a fashion before, so she could not contribute it to senility. Something about the area had attracted his attention, but what?

It took her a moment to figure out this puzzle, but then the sorceress's eyes widened as she recognized the most likely source of the old shaman's distraction: Kallah.

Nobundo could sense Kallah. And why should he not? The Broken draenei had been able to sense Jaina's very meager connection with the element of water. Kallah was from a very notable bloodline of powerful shamans, and Thrall had taught her many of the art's fundamental principles. The little girl could already call small bursts of lightning.

Jaina hesitated about leaving the room. Although Nobundo was a reasonable and fairly tolerant being, and although she doubted he'd go snooping around her rooms, she had only met him that very morning. It was not yet the appropriate time for him to be made aware of Kallah's existence. Still, she couldn't remain here and not fetch the servants. As the sorceress turned and walked out the door from her quarters, she hoped her positive impression of the shaman was correct.

Nobundo looked at the door as it closed behind his unusual host, and then turned his eyes to one of the side rooms of her quarters. The door to that chamber was very slightly ajar. It was dark inside, and Nobundo could see nothing within; he was certain, however, that something was watching him from the other side. It would take only a gesture of his hand, a tiny breeze of wind, to open the door and expose whatever was on the other side. Still, he did not do so. Jaina had been extremely accommodating and open. She'd introduced him to her dog. If she was withholding the identity of someone dwelling within her quarters, then she probably had a good reason for doing so.

After a moment, he lowered his hand from where he was scratching Mathghamhuin's ears, and rummaged around in the satchel he always carried at his side. His fingers closed around a crystalline artifact and he looked at the object he had found. He nodded to himself, and then slowly approached the door.

Math stood as he realized the draenei was getting dangerously close to the mistress's pup. He walked swiftly after the strange man, prepared to drag the two-legged away should he try to enter the little one's room. Nobundo patted the Frostwolf's head reassuringly, and slowed as he reached the door. He halted a few feet away from it, when his instincts told him that the canine would allow him to proceed no further. The shaman looked down at his satchel, his deformed hand still wrapped around the object he'd found in its depths. After a moment of contemplation, he laboriously sank to one knee, pulled the crystalline spirit totem from his satchel, and placed it definitively upon the ground. His glowing blue eyes flicked to the partially opened door. The shaman could almost make out a small silhouette amoung the shadows, and when he looked at it, it retreated slightly. Nobundo smiled lightly, reassuringly. He leaned over and, with a nudge of his arthritic knuckles, sent the totem sliding across the floorboards. It bumped up lightly against the partially opened door. The silhouette returned.

There was a long, still silence.

Kallah was used to hiding when people visited her mother. Most of the time, she just stayed in her room. She would be very quiet and careful not to make any noises. She had many fun hiding spots all set up, and it had become something of a game to her.

But Kallah had never been in the situation where some-one she was hiding from already seemed to know she was there. It did not help matters that Kallah was Jaina's daughter, and with that lineage came a lot of responsibility- a responsibility, that is, to heed the whims of curiosity. It was thus that Kallah found herself squirming in place, trying to restrain herself from pouncing upon strange cylindrical object beside her door.

Nobundo seemed to notice this, and politely looked away. Tiny gloved hands nabbed the totem so quickly that he might have missed them even if he had been watching. The door closed with a dull little smack, and the old shaman chuckled.

"It is a totem," he offered to the entity behind the closed door. "Shamans use them to channel elemental energies. You may have that one if you so desire. That particular one is an Earth Totem."

No answer came. After awhile, Nobundo stood and moved to a less conspicuous location. He'd ask Jaina about the entity later, when the sorceress was more comfortable with him.

The Lady Proudmoore returned surprisingly quickly, and was happy to show him to his rooms. They were considerably more lavish than he was used to, but he did not protest against his host's judgment. To do so would have been rude.

(Cont.)

Jaina sighed as she left Nobundo in his new rooms, her mind racing rapidly as she tried to come up with some means by which she might keep Kallah undiscovered. The most logical course of action would be to take Kallah to her father, but this particular strategy was not exactly viable. Thrall was in Silithus overseeing the war front at the moment, and Kallah wouldn't have been any safer from discovery while in his care-

Speaking of Thrall…

As Jaina entered her private quarters, her eyes immediately darted to a simple blue gem on one of her many shelves. Ordinarily, this gem was rather dull and unreflective. At the moment, however, it was glowing brightly. The sorceress sighed and rubbed her forehead. The gem was one of a pair; the other was in Thrall's possession. Hers was currently glowing because the orc Warchief wanted to speak with her. Which meant that something interesting was going on in Silithus.

Taking Kallah to Silithus certainly wasn't an option… No, what Jaina needed was a babysitter. Someone who could be trusted. Someone who would keep her identity and heritage a secret. Someone who would brave death to save her if she was in danger…

(A day later)

Which is how Daelin Proudmoore found himself standing upon his small sloop with Kallah racing back and forward to peer over the edges all while she was exclaiming, "A boat! A boat!"

He wanted to cry.

For Daelin, it was to have been a day of rest. He was going to take his small boat out to the northern shore of Dustwallow Marsh. Some time ago, he'd found an exceptionally pleasant fishing spot out among the rocks that bordered the dangerous shore. The only down spot of the region was that the fishing spot was not very accessible by boat. To reach it, Daelin had been forced to tie up his ship and carefully climb over several slick rocks. Inevitably, he had decided that this was not relaxing enough to constitute a proper fishing spot. Rather than giving up, he had endeavored to create a small secluded dock on which he might sit and conduct his fishing at leisure.

Today was to have been a day of rest. A day of leisure and quiet contemplation. He would have gone out to that fishing spot with his pole and a jar of bait, and he would have sat there all day, leaning against the slick rocks, letting his cares slide away… When Jaina had inquired about his plans for the day, he had quite happily told her that he was going out on a fishing trip. In retrospect, he should have noticed the devilish gleam in her eyes as she assessed his person. "I see. Is your fishing gear already on board then?" Daelin had answered 'yes,' without even dwelling on the nature of the question.

He'd never seen it coming.

As Kallah went to race past him again, her gray cloak almost coming off in her excitement, he grabbed her by the shoulder. She eeped almost fell, and then looked up at him with a big smile on her half-hidden face. "A boat!" she cried enthusiastically. He looked at her for a long moment.

"A sloop," he corrected.

She blinked. "A sloop?"

"No member of my family has the right to call any sea-worthy vessel a 'boat.' If you see anything floating on the water, and don't know what else to call it, ask me."

"A… a sloop," she repeated. "Are all bo-… um… Are all those sloops?" she asked, looking around and pointing at the ships around her.

"No. That's a sloop. Those two are ketches. That's a yawl," he said with sharp points. And then he grabbed her hood and pulled it lower over her face. "And get down. I don't want anyone to see you."

She blinked, sitting down right where she was standing and looking up at him in bewilderment. "How come?" she asked.

"And be quiet. I don't want anyone to hear you," he snapped. "Sit on your hands and don't move or say anything until I tell you to." She frowned but did as she was bade, watching him walk to and fro, checking the ropes and sails, and making alterations to what he saw. She tried to peer over the edge of the boa- sloop to see the other ships around her, but it was difficult to do so without getting off of her hands. After awhile, she settled for just looking around at the ship, trying to mark its definitive features.

The sloop was small- much smaller than the large ships Kallah had modeled and sailed across her koi pond. It had only a single mast, from which two triangular sails hung. Despite her desire to obey her grandfather, Kallah had never been on a boat before.

Jaina and Thrall had somehow managed to hide Kallah for years. They'd hidden Jaina's pregnancy and the little one's birth. They'd hidden her room, and her meals, and her clothing. They hid her playtime outside. They used invisibility potions and other tricks so that they might take the girl with them on forays out into their cities. But because of their excellent protection, Kallah had lived a very sheltered life. She had never been to the docks, nor seen a boat up close. Her mother had taken her to the ocean before, but only at night, when Jaina was certain they wouldn't be overseen.

Being out on the docks during the day, on a boat, with boats all around her, and seagulls in the air, and the shouts of sailors in the distance, and the smell of the ocean all around her… Well, it was rightly distracting. By the time Daelin had cast off and was steering the sloop away from the docks, Kallah was squirming as if she were in physical pain. He purposefully did not look at her, staring stolidly out at the ocean, his hands gripping one of the sail's boat's many ropes like steel vices.

At last Kallah could not take it anymore. She slipped off her hands and crawled up to the edge of the sloop and peered over the edge. The water rushed by below her, whirling in strange patterns in response to the graceful ship's passage. The sun glinted off the azure waves, making the ocean gleam like some type of gem, and she gave a light gasp.

"Kallah! Down!"

She jumped and quickly scrambled back to the ground, looking in the direction of the harsh command. Her grandfather wasn't even looking at her, wasn't even turned towards her. She frowned and sat sullenly on her hands again, staring down at the boring floorboards beneath her. In all honestly, the Admiral had pulled the rudder up and was steering the ship by sail alone, just so that he would not have to interact with Kallah. Sailing in this manner was not easy, and so demanded his attention. It gave him something to think about besides the little girl who'd been thrust into his care.

When Theramore could no longer be seen past the marshy trees, he finally heard a little voice ask, "Can I please get up now, Grandpa?"

For a moment, he entertained the thought of saying no, and then his conscience (a somewhat neglected part of his brain, an observer might note) decided to make itself heard. He looked around, hoping that some Alliance ship was still within sight, but none were. After a moment he nodded. "Alright. You can get up."

Before he was finished with the first syllable, Kallah had sprinted to the side of the sloop and was looking around with wide, appreciative eyes. Daelin wondered whether or not he was allowed to find this behavior endearing. She wandered around the small ship, looking around in all directions and marveling at the endless expanse of ocean stretching out on one side of her. At last she brought her attention back to the ship itself, and wandered over to have a look at the various ropes that held the sails in place.

"Don't touch them," her grandfather's voice ordered sternly, coldly. Kallah had no desire to accidentally break the sloop, so she did as she was ordered. A part of her wondered, however, why her grandfather was in such a bad mood.

With Kallah so preoccupied, Daelin was able to partially ignore her for the first stretch of the journey. After staring at the ocean for awhile, he began sailing on pure instinct, and his mind wandered…

"Grandpa?"

The Admiral blinked and looked down at Kallah. She was gazing up at him inquisitively with her hands behind her back. He was just about to roughly ask what she wanted when something occurred to him. Kallah had never been on a boat before. The sloop's railings were only a few feet in height, and the ship rocked and jumped as they sailed over the ocean. Yet here she was, standing without even holding on to anything, as if she'd been born at sea. He regarded her a moment, and when he spoke his voice was much softer than he originally intended.

"Yes, Kallah?"

The little girl bit her lower lip and looked down for a moment, before lifting her eyes back to him. "Why don't you like me?" she asked hesitantly.

His gaze lingered on her a long moment, before he lifted his head to look back out at the ocean. "I didn't have you sit on your hands because I dislike you, Kallah."

"… Then why?"

"No one knows about you, Kallah. They'd wonder why I had a little girl on my ship if they saw you."

"Why shouldn't they know I'm here?" she asked in confusion.

"Why does your mother make you hide when people visit her? Why do you always have to wear a cloak, and only go out at night? Why have you never seen a boat up close before?"

Kallah frowned, not knowing the answer to any of these questions. "… Why?" she asked after a long moment.

"Because if people knew about you, they would hurt you."

Kallah blinked, her eyes widening. "Why would they do that…?"

"You are half orc and half human. And orcs and humans don't get along well- aren't supposed to get along well."

"What are orcs and humans?" the little girl asked after a long moment. Daelin perked up and then spun around to stare at her in disbelief. She looked up at him innocently, eyes curious. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again, uncertain what he could possibly say about this. Rather than answer, he secured the sails, and then went to the back of the sloop and sat down at a bench there, putting the rudder back in the water.

Kallah was confused by all of this, and hesitantly followed him to the back of the boat. He looked up at her, and then patted the bench beside him. The gesture was so casual that Kallah simply had to comply, and she plopped down on the bench, looking curiously up at him. He seemed to be thinking hard about something. One hand just rested on the rudder, occasionally tweaking it. The other stroked over his chin and mustache thoughtfully.

After a long time, he looked down at her. "A long time ago," he began, "before you were born, before your mother was born, when I was just a lad, there was a man named Medivh…"

And with that, he proceeded to tell her the old stories of the first and second wars. He told her about the orcs, and how they had invaded the world and fought with humans. And slowly, after he had thrown in description after description, he saw the truth begin to dawn on her. When he finished his tales they sat there quietly for awhile. The sun was high in the sky.

"So…" Kalah said slowly, "is… is that why you don't like my daddy?"

Daelin nodded. "That would be the reason," he agreed.

"But Daddy isn't like that at all! He is nice and kind, and plays games with me, like playing Ogre or… Dragon, or, or looking for pictures in clouds!"

Daelin looked down at her. "… Those stories were from a long time ago, Kallah," he said with great difficulty. "Things change. But sometimes, people can't forget what happened. Can't forgive. You're half orc, so humans are going to see you as a monster. And you are half human, so orcs are going to see you as a… monster… If people knew about you, they'd hurt you. That's why your parents keep you a secret. They want you to be safe."

"So you made me sit on my hands because you wanted me to be safe?"

He nodded somewhat reluctantly.

"Oh." She thought about this for awhile, and then quite suddenly hugged him. He lifted his arms reflexively away from her, and looked down at her in mingled disgust and affection. "Thank you, Grandpa," she murmured. Daelin grimaced and then lowered his arms again, resting a hand upon her little back. In the end, Kallah was just a child. She had done nothing to deserve his hatred.

(Silithus)

Jaina first teleported to the Alliance and Horde legions camped just outside the great gates of Ahn'Qiraj. The second she arrived, she was nearly blown away by the sheer volume of cheering that filled the air. The entire camp was awake and celebrating. The vast amount of booze available in her relative vicinity was enough to stagger the sorceress- mostly because the liquor was forbidden on the premises. The lady cast a mana shield on herself just to avoid getting injured by any drunken partiers, and slowly made her way through the camp, looking for the source of the commotion.

She could guess, of course, what all the excitement was about, but Jaina was the type of person who required some type of physical proof before she'd believe something. The Alliance and Horde who saw her began to open up a broad path for her to walk through, and many bowed or raised a mug of ale in toast her. She smiled, shaking her head at the soldiers' antics. When she at last came to the center of the camp, she found a band of ragged adventurers there. One was holding up a bloated and very dead-looking eyestalk, and waving it back and forward for all to see. As she approached, the revelry suddenly died down. For a few moments, there was utter silence, as hundreds of eyes turned to her.

Jaina's eyes focused on the eyestalk, her expression thoughtful. Even without reaching out her senses, she could detect the sheer evil emanating from the disembodied appendage of the dead god.

One of the adventurers finally stepped forward- a great orc armored in thick sheets of plate. "C'Thun is dead, Lady of Theramore. His presence has been sent back to the void from which it came; Ahn'Qiraj and all its inhabitants are at last defeated!"

There was a roar of approval from the revelers. A smile slowly spread over Jaina's face, waiting for the noise to die down again. When it was quiet enough that she could be heard, she spoke: "I am quite eager to hear this tale, but I am certain your party needs rest. Sleep, eat, and drink. You have deserved it." Then she turned to the revelers. "And find some fireworks! Crack open a barrel of dwarven ale, I'm certain you have one! Let the world know that the wretched Old One is finally dead!"

The answering roar of approval could be heard for miles away.

It took several minutes to find a Horde officer of sufficient rank who was still sober enough to tell her where Thrall was located. In this manner, she found that the Warchief was not within the bi-faction camp, but rather back at Cenarion Hold, conferring with the leaders there. She thanked the officer for this tidbit of information, and quickly teleported away to bring him the news.

At last, Jaina spotted a familiar figure standing atop a slight ridge. The sun was setting behind him, and he cut a handsome figure against the warm red and violet glow of the sky- at least from Jaina's perspective. He looked as comfortable in Ogrim's black plate as a normal man would look in a nightgown. His mane of black hair had been groomed lately, and his braids draped over his shoulders and chest, each almost as thick as her wrist. One of his hands stroked thoughtfully over his scruffy chin. His eyes were focused on something in front of him and, coupled with the set of his mouth, indicated that he was greatly amused. The only aspect missing from the image was the Doomhammer, for which Jaina felt another small ping of regret.

Jaina shook her head to clear it, realizing she'd been staring at him for a good half a minute. She idly hoped no one had noticed her love-struck fixation. The sorceress gathered her thoughts, remembered her reason for coming, and then quickly hurried up the ride to his side. "Warchieftain!" she called. "Thrall! I have great news!" He blinked and looked at her, and grinned.

"I was wondering what was taking you so long," he conveyed in jest. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No! No, I just checked the camp in front of Ahn'Qiraj first," she explained.

"You certainly took your time," he said lightly, still grinning.

"But that's just it!" the sorceress cried, "C'Thun is dead!"

He blinked and nodded slowly. "That explains things, then," he said slowly.

Jaina blinked, intrigued by the thoughtful expression on his face. "Explains what?"

"Well," the Orc said slowly, and then gestured in the direction he'd been looking earlier. "Do you see anything familiar?"

Jaina did look, and she blinked as she noticed that a giant sandworm wrapped luxuriously around the Cenarion Circle headquarters. A part of Jaina's mind wondered how she had possibly missed this, even with how exciting her news bout C'Thun had been. In light of fact that she'd missed something as glaring as a worm that stretched over a hundred feet in length, the sorceress decided to scrutinize the situation more carefully.

A few druids were scattered here and there, hesitantly healing burns and cracks in the worm's carapace. A small group was gathered near the head of the worm. Several druids appeared be casting some type of spell on the giant creature. One was healing the arm of a human hunter-

Jaina's eyes riveted on the wounded hunter. Quite suddenly it occurred to her that the man was no human- rather, he was one of the forsaken. There wasn't a bit of rot about him. The man's gloved fingers were whole. Dark lines bordered his eyes, but his pale face was perfectly intact. His brown hair was not stringy and limp, but thick and feathery. Nowhere about him could she see an edge of exposed bone.

It took several long moments of sizing him up for sudden recognition to dawn on Jaina Proudmoore. The forsaken before her was so radically different from the hunched monstrosity she'd met in the past that she'd barely made the connection.

"Blightcaller?" she wondered aloud. Thrall nodded in confirmation. "But what is he doing here? Shouldn't he be in the Eastern Plaguelands?"

"I wondered the same thing. The worm is Ouro, the battle-worm of the Qiraji." Jaina lifted a brow, and looked at him.

"So… You think he was there helping with the death of C'Thun."

"I had imagined he must have been fighting in Ahn'Qiraj. Now that I know C'Thun is dead, yes, I suspect he was at that event. He was burnt by acid, and had many small wounds that obviously came from Qiraji pincers," the orc elaborated. "The ranger showed up just after noon, flanked by two companions and the worm. The druids were up in arms ready to fight off an impending invasion. They were quite surprised when he demanded healing for himself and for Ouro. I had to get involved and speak on his behalf, and point out that he had obviously been fighting against the Qiraji."

Jaina chuckled lightly. "I'm certain he was confused that you helped him."

"Oh, not at all. He's a cocky one. He acted as if he'd expected it," the Warchief noted with a slight chuckle. "The druids still weren't wholly convinced- still aren't. They were going to refuse to heal Ouro, but then the worm just started moaning and crying and flopping about like a child with a stomach ache. At last the tauran couldn't take it any more, and went out to heal the poor thing."

Jaina had to laugh.

"After that, the elves decided to let it into the city so that they might keep a better eye on it. The only thing I'm worried about is that Nathanos might actually just set Ouro loose for the sheer joy of it," he noted with a smirk. "Fandral Staghelm's been trying to get some information out of him, and both are so utterly annoyed with one another that it's amazing they can keep talking. Nathanos is irritated by the questions, and Fandral is irritated by the vague and evasive answers of someone he considers an unwanted guest. I half expect one to just leap up and attack the other."

"From what I remember of Nathanos he was very volatile, so I do not doubt your assessment. He hasn't said why he's here or what his purpose is?"

"He's said nothing."

"And his companions?"

"One's insane. The other is a mage and teleported away when he realized questions were going to be asked of him. It's driving Fandral mad."

Jaina nodded. "I could try talking to him."

"I wouldn't see why he'd speak to you when he won't speak to Fandral."

"Ahh, but you fail to reflect on the most important aspect of this situation. Nathanos is not supposed to be here. And I can teleport."

Thrall thought about this and then acknowledged that it was worth a shot, so Jaina made her way down to where the Forsaken was standing.

"I grow sick of your games, Forsaken! Answer me at once, or you will find my people considerably less accommodating."

"As I told you," Nathanos interrupted lazily, "The defenses are of no concern to you."

"I will decide what is of concern to me!" Fandral responded sharply, his violet skin glowing red with rage. "Bind the worm with roots. Our undead friend is remaining here until I learn exactly what I want to know about C'Thun!"

"Ah!" came Jaina's voice suddenly. Both Fandral and Nathanos looked to her immediately. The latter appeared to perk up immediately, his dark eyes focused intently on her; the former looked relieved by the interruption, but his vexation got the best of him.

"Well, Proudmoore, what is it?" he snarled.

Jaina lifted a brow at the night elf leader, but then smiled. "You've obviously never met Nathanos previous to this occasion," she said a little mirthfully.

"You know this Forsaken?"

She nodded her head. "Furthermore, I can tell you what he knows. Ahn'Qiraj's defenses have been breached, and C'Thun is dead." Fandral's eyes immediately widened. "Considering Nathanos's possession of the sandworm, we believe he was in the party that slew the old one."

The druid that was working on healing Nathanos finally finished mending the Forsaken's arm, and swiftly departed. Nathanos rubbed his previously injured wrist and rotated his shoulder around to get the kinks out of it. "I told him the defenses weren't his concern," the ranger said casually.

Fandral looked between the two, and then focused on Jaina. "Are you sure this is true?"

"I saw proof of the deed myself," she answered. "In the morning, I will send troops to scour the ruins, just to double check. C'Thun is dead."

The elf looked uncertain about what to think or do. He had waited for this moment so long… So many nights he'd prayed, thinking of his son… At last he settled on the most his most readily accessible emotion, and turned to Nathanos in irritation. "What the nether is wrong with you? Was it too difficult to just tell us this?"

The Ranger shrugged, leaning back against Ouro's carapace. "Would you have believed me?" he inquired. "I have no proof of the deed, and I'd just come out of the desert with the Old God's prized worm behind me. If I told you I'd killed C'Thun, you'd just ask me more annoying questions. And you still wouldn't believe me until you had proof. Word of C'Thun's death would get here at the same speed, whether I told you of it first or not."

Fandral stared at him in disbelief for a long moment, mouth opening and closing. At last he turned to Jaina in exasperation. "Do you want to deal with this?" he asked almost pleadingly. The sorceress laughed and patted the night elf on the arm.

"Get some sleep," she encouraged, before walking past to him. Nathanos was ignoring them now. He'd reached over and was soothingly stroking Ouro's antenna. The worm was grumbling contently. Jaina regarded the two for a moment before coming up before the ranger. He ignored her, but she didn't let his callous behavior get to her. "Salutations," she began.

The Ranger Lord turned to her, and was amused to find himself looking down on someone for a change. Nathanos was a good six inches taller than Jaina, and he savored the feeling of height. "Greetings," he responded unceremoniously.

"If I were unwilling to teleport you and you had to manipulate me to do so, would you want to go to the Undercity?"

"What?" He blinked at her, uncertain if he had heard her correctly.

"Well, it didn't seem that you liked answering straight questions, so I thought I'd ask a convoluted one and hope for the best."

Nathanos lifted a brow. "I see that…" he allowed, "But people normally start with the straightforward questions."

"Well that would have gotten us nowhere. I'd have asked if you wanted me to teleport you, and you'd ask why I thought you needed a teleport, and I'd say because there's nothing to do here, and you'd say you could travel by foot, and I'd say it'd be hard to bring Ouro, and you'd say you'd manage, and we'd all avoid the fact that you might- just might- want to get back to the Undercity. And in the end I'd give up, and you'd be stuck in Silithus with a giant worm and no means of getting to the Eastern Kingdoms any time soon."

"Either that, or I was just annoyed with the egocentric elf," he protested, somewhat offended by this excellent assessment of his character.

"You may claim that you do not suffer from chronic plot avoidance but we all know you do."

"Chronic plot avoidance?"

"All the world's a stage, and all the people in it merely actors. So, the Undercity?"

Nathanos stared at her for a long moment. At last he formulated a reply that went as such: "Could you give me a few minutes to decide if I hate you or not, first?"

"Take your time."

Silence.

"Alright, I'll let you do teleport me to the Undercity. But I won't like it," he said at length.

"Really? I'd expected you'd decline. Hmm. Well then, do you have any idea where we could find your companions?" she looks around.

"I suppose I couldn't convince you to leave them here?" he asked hopefully.

"Plot avoidance."

"But a plot implies everything's already written out for you!"

"If you could avoid it, could it possibly be pre-written?"

"But then doesn't "avoiding the plot" actually become the plot?"

"No. And when the plot is avoided, things tend to slow down and never go anywhere. It's a sign of a bad author."

"So you say that the Light is a bad author?"

Jaina caught sight of a strange necromancer adorned in pink feathers talking to Thrall. She figured she'd located the insane member of the ranger's party. "Nathanos, you're in charge of your fate. Not the Light. You're the bad author." And with that she started heading in Flower's direction.

The poor Ranger Lord could only stare after her.

(The Undercity)

Detheroc suffered from a bout of momentary hesitation before it occurred to him that he didn't require any magical abilities to defeat Sylvanas. He had roughly double her mass, and was equipped with wings, teeth, claws, horns, and a full suit of plate armor. Sylvanas was dressed in light leather armor. Her only weapon was a short throwing dagger. In addition, the Banshee Queen had been revived only moments prior to his arrival, and was bound to be weak.

He gave a dark, smug smile, and then moved to meet her head on, his claws grasping eagerly at the air.

Sylvanas came up to him slowly, almost languidly. The corners of her mouth twitched as a smile lazily worked itself over her pale lips. Her white eyes blazed hungrily. Anger and frustration built up in her chest. Hatred, loneliness, malice, cruelty- all welled up inside her- stronger, stronger. The smile was not smug or satisfied; It was the smile of an axe murderer who tasted a kill in the air.

Detheroc grinned and took a fighting stance, readying himself for her attack. With Varimathras down, this would be far too easy.

But the Banshee Queen stopped just outside of his reach. Shudders rippled along her arms, and a vein stood out on her forehead. Although he was slightly taken aback by the sheer fury she seemed to contain, Detheroc thought nothing of it. Her anger meant nothing. He could still-

The Black Lady took in a deep breath.

Varimathras bit down on his own arm and covered his ears.

Then she screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Her banshee wail rippled from the room, cracking stone, sending dust flying. Several hundred feet above her, windows in abandoned Lordaeron shattered. Euquin and the guards outside her tomb were all jarred awake. The screamed echoed out into the Undercity, and bounced off every wall, creating a horrible racket. The psychic reverberations ripped into Detheroc's skull, flaying his mind like a meat grinder. It continued for nigh on thirty seconds, until the enemy dreadlord knew nothing of plots or schemes or Burning Legions- nothing but the tearing pain that threatened to blow his cranium apart.

When it stopped, there was silence. There was silence. Silence. Disbelieving silence.

Then a low roar began to build up, shuddering through the earth and rippling slowly up into the air. A roar, a tide, a wave growing higher and higher, and higher.

"Do you hear that?" Sylvanas whispered as she watched Detheroc writhe, his body bent double in pain. There was no way the demon could possibly hear her, but the words gave her such an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that she could not leave them unspoken. "That's my city. It hears its queen. It knows its matron. And none of it willever be yours. Not your pawn. Not your card. Nothing but yourgrave."

Her dagger plunged down. Again and again, tearing, maiming. A few to subdue. Then the wings to debilitate. And then the fingers, digit by digit, joint by joint. The feet, the teeth, the horns, the groin, the ribs, one by one, the eyes, the ears, inch by inch.

Varimathras watched quietly. He was pressing his own wounds closed with his shattered hands. He didn't move much; not only would doing so have further damaged his ribs, but any twitch on his part bore the risk of attracting Sylvanas' notice. He didn't really want to remind her of his presence while she was busy butchering his brother. So he remained quiet, and watched.

She tore into Detheroc with the fury of a woman possessed- like she were no saner than a ghoul or abomination. Blood splashed her face and clothes- it dripped from her hair and coated her fingers. Only by will did she retain a grip on her gore-slicked knife, and he was certain that she cut her fingers a few times in the process. As for Detheroc, he fought against her like a wild animal, desperately trying to get free. His efforts were in vain. The Banshee Queen clung to him like a leech, stabbing over and over again, in any manner that might cause grotesque amounts of pain. The knife shot upward in a beautiful arc, blood flying in an elegant fan, and then down, and up, back and forward.

When the Dreadlord could no longer fight back, a twenty foot spread of floor was pasted with gore, and his blood was splattered on every single one of the tomb's many surfaces. Sylvanas stabbed him a few more times for good measure and then released her pin on the demon. What was left of him lay very still.

She sat back on the balls of her feet and breathed in and out heavily. Her eyes lifted to the walls and roof, and a peaceful smile slowly spread over her lips. She chuckled once, and then looked lazily over at Varimathras. The dreadlord in question couldn't repress a shudder. Her smile opened into a toothy grin and she stood and came over beside him, still clutching her dagger.

Silence.

"You look lovely in red," Varimathras noted weakly.

"You think so? It is quite a change from my usual black…" she mused, holding out her clothing so that she might look at it.

"Well, it is a very lively color…"

Sylvanas looked back at him with a dark, quiet smile. Then she knelt and carefully gathered his upper torso in her arms and pulled him into her lap. The dreadlord winced, touching a hand to his protesting ribs. To his surprise, the Dark Lady shifted slightly to account for his wounds, and was carefully not to touch any of them. He blinked, puzzled by this behavior, and looked inquisitively up at her. Either Sylvanas was being gentle to increase the shock value of later violence, or she was showing him genuine concern.

He hoped it was the latter.

Blood dripped down from her hair and pattered over his chest and hands. Varimathras' eyes shifted involuntarily to his hair, and he felt his throat go dry with desire for food. He grimaced, shook his head briefly to clear it, and turned his eyes back to hers.

The Dark Lady lifted a brow, a smirk still dark upon her face. "You actually are. You are throwing yourself on my mercy. Even after seeing me tear him apart."

"To be honest, I am terrified," he said hazily.

"You seem calm to me," she noted.

"Blood loss," he explained with a dismissive wave.

"Most people panic when overcome by blood loss."

"Well… you see… I am sort of torn between shitting myself in blind panic… And becoming aroused at the sight of you covered in blood…" he answered truthfully. Her eyes widened.

Silence.

And then she suddenly threw her head backwards and burst out laughing. The sound was so different from her scream- so rich, so pure, so beautiful- even in all its blackness. She lowered her head after a moment and grinned down at him. And then, to his amazement, she lowered her head and kissed him full on the mouth. His eyes flew open and he shuddered as he tasted blood on her mouth. Her lips moved tenderly, caressing his with utmost affection and gentleness.

The dual nature of that kiss, innocent and erotic wrapped in one, overwhelmed Varimathras. He moved his hand from the wound in his stomach, and let his blood flow freely. As he had hoped, he blacked out before he had the chance to do anything stupid.

Warlocks weakened the doors to the tomb and mages bombed them with powerful energies. Priests ripped apart shadowy spells. Rogues worked at the lock and hinges, as warriors attacked the doors as a whole. When they finally broke through, they found Sylvanas standing there. She was drenched in blood and was currently engaged in pulling her quiver onto her back. When she finished, she tested her bow string, and then looked at the swarm of her people as if seeing them for the first time.

"We're going on a witch hunt," she said conversationally. "I want every undead who serves a demon before me dead." She pulled on her throwing knives with a jerk. "I want every apothecary and every deathstalker before me in a matter of minutes. Two or three priests are to attend to Varimathras, and preserve his life and health by any means necessary. Two are three warlocks are to attend to Detheroc and ensure that he never walks on Azeroth or any other world again. And someone is to find me a druid who will heal anything that pleases me."

For a long moment, no one moved. And then a deathstalker came forward and knelt- and another, and another. Everyone began to move; priests and warlocks going in droves to do the work she asked only a small number for. Apothecaries and deathstalkers pushed through the crowd to kneel before their matron. All was quiet as Sylvanas pulled on the rest of her armor and weapons. All was reverent.

The Dark Lady- savior, queen and goddess- was back.

AVPR was a terrible movie. End of Story.

YARG!

(Remember to look at me art!)