A/N: Sorry about the big block o' text, I couldn't think of a way to break this up into two chapters sensibly. Thanks for sticking with me!

Nerothos was pleased.

Little more than a day ago he'd been a tortured prisoner, convinced he had failed in his task, bent only on escaping to the nearest Shadow Council holding to lick his wounds and plot bloody retribution. Now he was free, and it seemed his mission was less unsalvageable than he had believed.

Callista muttered a curse at his side, and he glanced down to see her yanking at the cork to some decrepit-looking bottle she'd had the gan'arg fetch for her. It was so old that the venomous green potion inside had begun to congeal around the stopper. After a few more vicious tugs she gave up, drawing the long dagger that hung at her side and lopping off the bottle's neck savagely. It ricocheted off one of the dusty shelves and shattered.

Vathregyr had been a fool, he mused, watching her. A fool to betray him, a fool to trust that bitch Sarlah, and a fool to underestimate the mortals who had slain him. Nerothos hadn't seen the battle, but he knew the Tothrezim well enough to guess what had occurred. Vathregyr was a formidable creature, but he liked to toy with the victims he killed. Little enough risk in that with the half-dead specimens he usually acquired, but the gnome and the troll had been very much alive, and dangerous in their own frail way.

Callista sniffed at the shimmering liquid and made a disgusted face, but must have deemed it acceptable because she sloshed what was left in the hacked-off bottle over the wound in her shoulder. Her breath hissed as she inhaled sharply, but when the potion boiled off the ragged claw marks had been replaced with shiny pink scars. She noticed him watching her then, and her features shifted into the same cautious, bitter expression she'd regarded him with ever since she'd learned of the gnome's death. "If we're going, then let's go."

"Certainly," Nerothos said, gaze edged with amused satisfaction. She didn't trust him, but he had no intention of harming her, so long as she continued to be so very useful. "Bring us to High Mekgineer Charin, gan'arg."

Darmog grunted and skittered nervously out in front, checking back over his shoulder every few steps. Nerothos bared his fangs a little and he stopped, hunching his shoulders beneath his cowled robe and hurrying on.

Callista jogged to Nerothos' side and slightly in front this time, fel light flecking her pupils as she stared stonily ahead through the dusty air. Outwardly she was calm, and had been ever since that outburst when she'd burnt his arm. She might've fooled another mortal, but the dreadlord could feel the emotion roiling off of her as easily as he could feel the sting of the air on his seared chest. Loss, mostly, and anger. A profound sadness. Guilt. Self pity.

All of these but the second he found deeply annoying. Weak, mortal feelings. Excellent manipulative tools, but unfamiliar and vaguely unsettling for a demon to experience, even vicariously. Nerothos flicked his wings in irritation, spreading them a little before quickly furling them. The warlock had already agreed to his terms, and he much preferred her angry.

Which was why, the next time she inadvertently met his eyes, he held her gaze longer than necessary.

She didn't look away, as he knew she wouldn't, and her grey, spell-lit eyes narrowed slightly.

"Is something amiss, warlock?" he purred, just sardonically enough to be infuriating.

"No," she said, in the icy tone that meant "everything." She looked away then, rubbing dully at the new scar on her shoulder.

It was idiotic, really, how much stock mortals put in one another. They were such transient, naïve, fragile things. Vulnerable enough without shackling themselves to others of their kind. The ghost of a sneer crept onto Nerothos' face. "Vathregyr has done you a service, killing your gnomish pet. It is beyond me why you cling so pathetically to these foolish attachments."

He felt anger boil up in her as she returned his sneer, the fel glint in her eyes dying as she lost focus on her seeking spell. She was clever enough to know when she was being baited, however. Her gaze flicked away from him to the cracked stone of the arch they were passing through, and when she looked back her face was set in a scornful expression, touched with something that might have been either pity or disgust. "Yes," she said. "I suppose it would be."

He would've growled at her presumption – feeling sorry for him, as if he truly cared why! – but he suspected that he was now the one being goaded. Instead he smiled. "This newfound sentimentality is most unbecoming, warlock. Next you'll be spouting some trite little sermon on the power of affection." His lip curled mockingly. "That theme was already tired when the Legion was young, and if there were ever any truth in its stale husk I daresay your friend would be living still, instead of a bloody spatter on the walls of Xoroth."

Callista scowled at him with black contempt. She knew that Nerothos was only trying to infuriate her (for what reason she couldn't comprehend), and she was torn between the desire not to humor him and the hot anger that had seethed within her ever since she'd learned of Tun's death. A secret part of her was pleased that the dreadlord was forcing a confrontation. She wanted to be angry, because of all the myriad emotions that churned in her breast, anger was the only one that didn't hurt. "Maybe I will give that sermon," she snapped. "While I'm preaching, will I still have to listen to your self-absorbed blather?"

Nerothos laughed softly, speeding up a little to loom over her in the way he knew she found unsettling, then clicked his tongue in faux disapproval. "You should always listen to your elders, warlock. You might find it edifying."

"Oh, really?" she said, savoring the anger that burned in her chest like molten lead, "and which part of my association with you am I supposed to find enlightening, exactly? The part where your plan failed and I had to drag your sorry hide out of a cell? Or the other part where that happened?"

Nerothos smiled wickedly at her jab, white fangs glinting in the flickering torchlight of the passageway. "Ah, but you did come for me, didn't you? You chose to ensure my safety, at no inconsiderable risk to yourself, while you sent your poor little gnome to a merciless death in a battle far beyond his skill."

Callista bristled visibly, narrowing her eyes. She wanted to refute his words, to protest that that wasn't how it had been at all, but what he'd said was only what she felt in her heart to be true. Her acidic retort died on her tongue, and her knuckles whitened on her clenched fist.

"It is better to be necessary than to be loved," Nerothos continued, looking cruelly amused at her reaction. "Fortune favors the cunning, while the honorable and the brave are crushed beneath its wheel. Which is why you needn't wallow so extravagantly in guilt, warlock; it is unconscionably self-centered. A swift death is the fate of all creatures too guileless and weak to persist in an indifferent universe. Your friend was doomed by his very nature."

"You don't know the first thing about his nature, or any other creature's that isn't as twisted as yours," Callista said spitefully.

"I have seen hundreds of lifetimes of your people, warlock, and known thousands of mortals across scores of worlds. Whose judgment could possibly be more qualified than mine?"

"You're a demon," she said, face once again shifting into that queer scornful, half-pitying look. "If you had any idea what it meant to be like us, you'd be something else."

She had said it in a way calculated to be galling, but she meant it anyway. At the deepest core of their beings, demons were nothing like mortals. Callista had felt it herself, in the brief moments between the initiation of her enslavement spell and the total subversion of a demon's will, when its mind was still in close contact with her own. The burning hunger for chaos, the insatiable corruption that drove the Legion to tear a swath of destruction across numberless worlds. A demon could never know peace; it could never be content. It could never even imagine what that might feel like any more than Callista could imagine putting a thousand civilizations to the flame on a whim. In a mortal, such an irresistible drive would be called madness, but demons were all that way. It would almost be pitiable, if they weren't such loathsome creatures.

Nerothos' eyes narrowed imperceptibly, but his sardonic expression never flickered. He laughed unpleasantly. "Tell yourself what you must to justify your deluded existence."

"I'd rather be deluded than an everlastingly miserable fiend," she snapped.

He smirked, tilting his horned head in mock curiosity. "Tell me, how is that working for you?"

Unable to think of a response that wasn't a transparent lie, Callista shot him an acid look before snapping her head back around to face front. Darmog's brown-robed form trotted along in front of her as constantly as always, carefully ignoring his two companions as he navigated the twisting labyrinth of stone corridors. It still made her neck prickle to turn her back on Nerothos, but Callista had had enough of their conversation. It was far too frustrating, arguing with a creature whose every expression was premeditated. She could never tell if her barbs were doing her any good.

Nerothos let the matter drop, satisfied that the warlock was now thoroughly seething and not caring much for the topic himself. Her pity, which had not been entirely feigned, nettled him more than he cared to admit. Presumptuous creature. She couldn't even grasp the truth of her own existence, let alone his.

Nerothos' gaze lanced around the dusty stone of the corridor, noting the lack of the usual bustling crowd of gan'arg that congregated near Vathregyr's stronghold, proof of the disruption caused by the Tothrezim's death, and he smiled toothily. Chaos provided unlimited opportunity, for one who knew how to seize it.

"By the way, warlock," he purred, waiting for Callista to eye him balefully over her shoulder before continuing, "when we pass through the great gates, you will see a doomguard with a golden cuirass. Enslave it for me."

"Do I get to know why?" she asked, purely in the interest of being difficult.

Nerothos' smile became even more unsettling. "I think the reason will become most evident."

Tun sat wearily against the rough-hewn wall of Vathregyr's chamber, watching as Na'rii channeled a vortex of elemental flame against the icy barrier he'd erected in the doorway.

In hindsight, he realized that barricading the only exit may not have been the wisest of actions. It had been a satisfying dramatic gesture, and had served its purpose (Tazlik had quickly become very obliging once he'd realized he was trapped in a stone box with two irritated magic wielders), but the wall of enchanted ice had proven harder to dismantle than he had expected. Back at the Academy, he'd seen fire mages sear through similar constructs in only a few minutes. Na'rii's purely elemental flame, however, seemed much less effective.

He watched as the scarlet tongues of fire crashed and broke against the glittering wall, creating a great cloud of steam but doing surprisingly little damage.

It was odd, really, he mused, since shamans and mages actually wielded the same flame. He supposed that the arcane energies mages mixed with the fire in order to bend it to their wills might have something to do with it, or perhaps it was that fire mages, focusing on only one element, were stronger in their limited domain than a shaman who dealt in several. It would make an interesting thesis, if he ever got back to Stormwind alive.

For now, however, they were stuck.

Tazlik paced sulkily back and forth across the narrow corridor, mechanical hand whirring restlessly as he muttered what Tun assumed were curses in the demonic tongue.

Na'rii flopped down at the gnome's side with a huff, flexing her two-toed feet in frustration. She could only work that spell for so long, and she wanted to conserve her energy in case they found something nasty on the other side of the ice. "How long did ya say that block would take to vanish?"

Tun shrugged. "An hour at the most, I should think." It was difficult to tell, really. Rate of spell dissipation depended greatly on the magical properties of the environment, and if such a study had ever been done on Xoroth he was sure he didn't know about it.

Na'rii scowled absently, toying with the string of bear claws she wore around her wrist, and Tun knew that she was thinking of Kar'thol. He wondered where Callista was now, and if she was alright.

Callista, as it happened, did not feel very alright at all, but at least she was too distracted to think about it much.

She clenched her fists, feeling the exhilarating surge of power through her veins as the doomguard's resistance snapped under her magical assault. The demon bellowed earth-shakingly, golden armor gleaming in the sickly light of the felfire barricade that separated it from its tormentor, but its will was no longer its own.

Nerothos flung aside the body of a felguard he'd eviscerated, dark blood dripping from his claws as he turned his attention to Callista and her new minion. "Seal the gates," he commanded.

The doomguard snarled at him and planted its thick hooves mulishly, unwilling to take an order from an enemy it wasn't forced to obey.

"Now," Callista snapped, encouraging it with a painful squeeze of the bonds across its mind.

The doomguard's face twisted murderously, but it turned and stomped back towards the enormous rune-etched gates that divided Vathregyr's fortress from the rest of Xoroth.

Role finished for the moment, Callista turned to survey the rest of the cavern, heat from the semi-circle of cursed fire Nerothos had raised to protect their backs roasting her neck. The last time she'd visited this place it had been seething with activity, loud with the chatter of mo'arg and gan'arg and the clang of infernal machinery. Now it was eerily still. The machines were silent, killed by the destruction of the forges that powered them. And the hordes of gan'arg were nowhere in evidence, though occasionally she saw the shine of pale eyes from beneath a workbench or a dark crevice in a half-constructed fel reaver. They had all scrambled for cover once it became evident that Nerothos' intentions were something other than peaceful.

Darmog poked his cowled head tentatively from the fel cannon he'd been crouched behind, emboldened by the silence.

Nerothos' gaze lit on him instantly. "Bring me Mekgineer Charin, gan'arg."

Darmog shrank a little, regretting having emerged from his hiding place, and his eyes flicked to the dreadlord's bloody claws. "Right away," he muttered, ducking his head and scurrying towards the back of the cavern.

Callista felt a sudden burst of enraged hatred as the doomguard lashed at the magic that held it, but she sent another stinging surge of power through its bonds and it relented. She turned to watch with suspicious eyes as it paused in front of the towering gates and began to speak in a strange language, its voice a rumbling bass that she could feel in her bones. The gates, which had only been ajar to begin with, snapped shut, and the intricate runes that writhed across its every surface began to glow with an ominous light. The doomguard ceased its speech with a snarl, and the gates flung out a sudden shock of power that raised the hairs on Callista's neck and made the air taste like static.

Nerothos smiled, pleased, the felfire-glare on his face sharpening his already angular features. "When you can no longer control that creature, destroy it."

She nodded tersely, kicking aside a spanner dropper by some panicked gan'arg as she moved to peer out the open end of the horseshoe-shaped barrier of flame.

Nothing stirred. Gan'arg and mo'arg had little love for combat, and most of Vathregyr's troops were still scouring Xoroth for the renegades who had disrupted the magma forges. She wondered what Tun had made of this place, such technological mastery turned to such twisted purpose, but quickly stomped on the painful thought. Grief could only harm her here.

"What now?" Callista asked, the brittle edge back in her voice. The doomguard struggled again, and she squashed its efforts vindictively. Fel magic always came more easily when she was angry, though it was harder to control the collateral damage. That was fine with her. There was little on Xoroth that she was interested in preserving.

Nerothos moved to her side, his keen eyes catching movement at the far side of the cavern, and she felt a sudden coolness on her back as one of his wings blocked the heat of the flame.

"That depends entirely on how wisely the High Mekgineer has chosen his allegiances," he said, an undercurrent of menace in his voice that was not directed at her.

Narrowing her eyes at the prospect of more combat, Callista sent a silent command to the doomguard, causing it to spring into the air and circle near the high ceiling like a grotesque bird of prey.

She watched as Mekgineer Charin and his entourage wended their way around the detritus of the abruptly abandoned workshop. In addition to the High Mekgineer himself, she counted two other mo'arg and a trio of felguards, brutish muscle who must've reevaluated their loyalties after their master's death. Darmog trotted along in front of them, looking uncomfortable as usual to have been thrust to the attention of creatures more dangerous than himself.

Callista tensed warily as the group came to a halt several paces away. Darmog quietly slunk out from between the two sides, edging back to his fel cannon to watch the confrontation from a safe distance.

Charin eyed them with an unreadable expression, artificial eye glowing a deep red in the metallic half of his face. "I was wondering if you'd show up," he said abruptly, voice a rough growl.

Callista didn't think this a very auspicious greeting, but Nerothos seemed unalarmed, wings settling comfortably against his back. "I was detained by circumstances beyond my control, as you are no doubt aware."

"Aye." His piercing mismatched gaze swept over Callista, causing her to stiffen. "I heard your little rendezvous didn't end so prettily. Though you fared better than the Tothrezim in the end." He smiled nastily then, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

"As if there was any doubt," Nerothos purred. He tilted his horned head, smile gaining a dangerous edge. "I trust you have suffered no change of heart since our last discussion."

Charin narrowed his one natural eye at the implicit threat, and the felguards tensed, thick fingers tightening on the hilts of their weapons. Suddenly he gave a cruel, barking laugh. "Sarlah's worse than that cur Vathregyr and always has been. If you haven't lost the guts for it, then neither have I."

Nerothos pierced him with a hard look before smiling in cold satisfaction. "Then it is agreed," he said. He waved a claw imperiously, extinguishing the flames that roared at his back before continuing. "Speaking of Sarlah, where is that sniveling servant of hers?"

Callista relaxed a little at this sign of accord, and the three felguards flanking Charin and his assistants allowed their hands to stray a little farther from their weapons. She motioned at the doomguard, and it swooped down to land heavily at her back. None of the demons so much as twitched at its appearance, not even when it raised its broadsword and plunged it through its own neck, crumpling to the ground with a thud. Keeping the creature subdued had become far too exhausting.

"You mean Tazlik? I'm told he's barricaded himself into Vathregyr's old workshop. He must've caught wind of something he didn't like," Charin said, grinning unpleasantly. "Need a word with him?"

"Yes, actually, that would be most advantageous," Nerothos said.

Charin waved a hand (such as he had; his arm had been replaced at the elbow by a prosthetic that resembled a bladed drill) at one of his mo'arg lieutenants. "Take a few of the gan'arg and some torches and cut him out of there. You, too," he said, jabbing his drill-arm at a felguard.

The two demons did as they were bid, pausing only to yank a pair of squeaking gan'arg out from under a lab bench and grab a set of welding torches before making their way to the back of the cavern.

"Now," Charin growled, making a dismissive gesture at his remaining servants, "regarding the logistics of this little operation…"

The demons dispersed around the room, bullying gan'arg into resuming their various duties.

Callista, sensing that she was no longer required and fighting a nagging headache from her enslavement spell, wandered over to perch on one of the black metal embellishments on the fel cannon Darmog had claimed. She wanted to keep an eye on the conversation without getting too close to High Mekgineer Charin, whose half-mechanical gaze unsettled her. Resting her chin in her hand, she leaned against the cold iron side of the fel cannon, focusing carefully on the activity around her to keep from brooding. Idle, it was hard to keep her mind from thoughts of her friend that were best left buried.

Darmog skulked around the back of the fel cannon and she addressed him suddenly, more to distract herself than from any real desire for conversation. "Are you coming to Outland?"

The gan'arg looked somewhat startled, but he angled his head up towards her, shrugging sulkily. "Eh. Can't stay here, can I? They've seen me with you lot, I'm pegged for a traitor now too."

"Oh." Pause. "Sorry, I suppose," Callista said, more or less meaning it. She was sure that Darmog had come up with any number of vile concoctions for the Legion in his role as alchemist, but on his own he didn't seem like such a bad creature, for a demon.

He hunched his shoulders in another shrug, looking at her suspiciously. "All these worlds look the same to us anyway." Then he tilted his head thoughtfully, muttering to himself as much as to Callista. "Though I hear there's fewer higher-ups on Draenor now. You mortals and that nutty half-elf keep pickin' 'em off."

Callista snorted. "That's the spirit," she said dryly. Now there was a cheerful thought. She wondered what the odds of Nerothos letting her go on the other side of the portal were (assuming they even made it that far), and decided that they weren't good. Wouldn't that be ironic, to survive Xoroth and then be killed by her own people for poor taste in company.

She plunked her chin into her hand again, watching as a pair of fel reavers clanked and rumbled their way across the cavern. She almost wished that Sarlah would show up, so she could do something besides feel sorry for herself.

Na'rii hopped nimbly back from the frozen barrier, staring distrustfully at the three green tongues of flame that suddenly bit through its glittering surface. "Looks like company, mon."

"It's about time," Tazlik harrumphed, nearly stepping on Tun in his rush to reach the barricade. "Light-addled mortal fools," he added, muttering under his breath.

Tun yelped, jerking his feet out of the way before jumping up himself. "Hey!"

Na'rii took a second step back, more than willing to put Tazlik between herself and their "rescuers," as a tall, roughly rectangular section of the blockage dissolved. A mo'arg, similiar to Tazlik save for the wicked-looking mechanical pincers it sported instead of hands, stood framed in the hole. A black-armored felguard loomed at its back, and two gan'arg peered around its bowed legs with tentative curiosity.

Tazlik snapped something irritably in demonic, which Tun translated as "What took you so long!" Probably with a fair amount of abuse thrown in.

The strange mo'arg responded with something that sounded like an order, face pulled into a permanent leer by a crude row of stitches sewn across its cheek.

"What ya be doin', demon?" Na'rii demanded, scowling at Tazlik's misshapen back.

He turned to peer down at her through his green-lensed goggles, expression a little flustered. "My presence has been requested by the High Mekgineer. Which means your silly little errand will just have to wait." He delivered this last part smugly.

"Hey! What do ya think – ," Na'rii's protest was cut off as the felguard stepped between her and Tazlik, prodding the mo'arg impatiently with the butt of its axe. The hulking demon glanced down at her menacingly but seemed to find the two mortals irrelevant, turning and stalking after the mo'arg with a scornful grunt. The gan'arg scuttled along in its wake as Tun and Na'rii exchanged an uncertain glance.

"What was that about?" Tun asked warily, watching the demons' retreating backs.

"Dunno, mon, but we better be goin' after them," Na'rii said with narrowed eyes, tugging at his arm as she began walking swiftly to catch up.

Tun sighed and broke into a jog as well. He didn't see how this could possibly end well, but what else could they do?

They followed the group of demons back up the sloping passageway and into the enormous cavern that comprised the main part of Vathregyr's stronghold. It seemed even more expansive, somehow, now that they were no longer viewing it through the bars of a cage. It was far less bustling, however. Most of the activity seemed concentrated in the center of the space, where a small group of mo'arg and unhappy-looking gan'arg were trying to move a scattered collection of fel reavers, cannon, and other accessories of war towards a distant arch in the wall to their right. These were far outnumbered, however. The majority of the demons simply lounged against tables or tinkered aimlessly with odd mechanical devices, most purposeful action fallen to anarchy with Vathregyr's death.

Tun stepped disgustedly around the body of a mo'arg with a ragged circular hole in the middle of its chest, careful to keep a close eye on Tazlik and his escorts. If they were to become lost here, he wasn't sure what would happen to them, but he was positive it wouldn't be pleasant.

They slowly worked their way across the cavern floor, dashing through the center between a huge cartful of fel iron bombs (pulled by a two-headed void terror with dripping jaws) and a pair of fel cannons. A mo'arg with a bundle of lashing metallic tentacles for an arm glared at the two as the void terror snapped viciously at them, almost fouling the lines that harnessed it to the cart, but it didn't seem inclined to pursue.

It was only once they were through the slowly-forming column of military supplies that Tun was able to see Tazlik's destination. A pair of demons stood near the imposing set of runed gates that marked the limit of the Tothrezim's fortress. One of them was a large mo'arg with an eerily-shining false eye and a bladed drill attached at its elbow, and the other, he noted with a jolt of surprise, had to be Nerothos. Unless there were two dreadlords running about Xoroth with a broken horn and a missing chestplate.

"Well, there be the big nasty," Na'rii muttered with mixed emotion. "Now where be the little one."

Tun ignored her words, eyes already searching the wide space for some sign of his friend. He didn't see her near Nerothos and his grotesque-looking ally, but his line of sight was so cluttered with partially constructed hunks of fel reaver and tables piled high with arcane crystals and spools of wire that he might not have noticed her there anyway.

"She be sittin' on that fel cannon wit' that little demon," Na'rii said after a moment. She was a great deal taller than Tun, and could see over the obstacles more clearly. The warlock had spotted her at almost the same moment, and was looking at her with an expression that Na'rii found exceedingly queer.

Callista slid numbly off the fel cannon, gaze riveted to the troll and the small brightly-robed figure that trotted beside her.

It couldn't be.

Fate wasn't that kind, not here, not to her. She left one hand resting on the solid piece of artillery, fingers digging into the hard metal as she tried to reconcile what she was seeing with her eyes with the things she knew to be true.

"Hey, I thought those mortals were dead," Darmog said, peering around from behind her. There was a hint of injury in his gruff voice, as though affronted that they should be living when he'd been told otherwise.

Callista tore her eyes away from the approaching figures at the sound of his voice, glancing down at him blankly.

Darmog shuffled back warily, not sure what to make of her expression. "What in the Nether's wrong with you?"

She stared at him for another fraction of a second before bursting into a peal of laughter, causing the gan'arg to skip backwards in startlement as she leaned against the cannon for support.

"Nutty human," he muttered.

"Callista?" Tun said, slowing to a halt in front of her. He couldn't stop a grin from splitting his face, though there was concern in the expression too; the warlock's face was streaked with gore and he could see new-looking scars through a pair of bloody rents in the shoulder of her robes.

"You're not dead!" she gasped in between bursts of laughter, hauling herself up a little further on the fel cannon.

Tun wrinkled his nose, puzzled by her exuberant reaction. He was glad to see her too, but emotional outbursts were very unlike Callista. "Were we supposed to be?"

She wiped her eyes, breathing deeply as she tried to calm herself. "Yes, actually. Azlia told me… ," her eyes narrowed abruptly at the memory, and she muttered something under her breath that sounded to Tun like "really will cut her tongue out," before her expression cleared and she looked back to him, smiling genuinely. "I…you're alright!" She suddenly dropped to her knees, pulling him into an impulsive one-armed hug before releasing him.

"What happened to your arm?" Tun asked with a frown, tipping his round chin towards her shoulder as she sprang back to her feet.

Callista made a face, sticking a hand through the neck of her robes so she could wiggle her fingers out the holes in the fabric. "Doomguard tried to use it as a pincushion. What happened to your face?"

Tun poked experimentally at the swelling below his eye, wincing at the sting. "An infernal hit me with a wall."

She grimaced a little in sympathy. "You win."

Na'rii had been standing a few paces back during this reunion, keeping a weather eye on Nerothos and Tazlik's convocation of demons, but now she stepped forward. "What they be sayin', warlock?" she asked, jerking her head suspiciously towards the group. Tazlik had launched into a long-winded monologue in demonic, and he kept jabbing his mechanical claw at the mortals in an accusatory way that Na'rii did not at all appreciate.

Callista startled a little at first, truly noticing the troll for the first time, but she followed her gaze with a shrug. "Oh, they thought Tazlik barricaded himself into that room on purpose, but now he's trying to blame it on you. I wouldn't worry about it; I don't think his word's much good around here anymore."

Tun looked a little sheepish at that, running his fingers through his mop of green hair. "Er, well, it really was my fault."

Nerothos' head turned then, and he regarded the mortals with eyes narrowed in contempt. "If your unseemly little display is quite finished, warlock, there is business to attend to."

Callista adopted a skeptical expression, crossing her black-robed arms and ignoring his slur, for once. "What, listening to Tazlik screech at you? That's not business, that's a wretched nuisance." She hesitated, noticing that Tun was looking at her pointedly, and sighed. "He's telling the truth anyway. It was an accident."

"Was it now?" Nerothos smile was entirely sardonic. "How very fortunate."

Callista eyed him with a doubtful, sideways look. She recognized that expression. The dreadlord was up to something, and she wasn't at all sure she cared for whatever it was. She moved closer, ducking around one of his wings to gain a better view, as Tun and Na'rii trailed her, the gnome coming to stand at her elbow while Na'rii simply peered over the shorter woman's head from a prudent few steps back.

"I told you," Tazlik said indignantly, scowling behind his green-tinted goggles. "Those careless fools - ,"

Nerothos waved a razor-edged claw lazily, silencing him. High Mekgineer Charin watched impassively from his position opposite Callista, the bladed drill that composed his left forearm spinning idly.

"It is of little substance anyway," Nerothos said, stretching his wings a little so that the shadow of them fell across the mo'arg. "Have you informed Sarlah of what has occurred here?"

A fair number of the mo'arg and gan'arg who had been milling about idly had paused to gawk at this confrontation (from a safe distance away), and Callista noted their interest suddenly become a great deal more pointed at this question, despite the almost careless tone in which Nerothos had delivered it.

Tazlik blinked haughtily. "Of course I haven't! I've been trapped in a box with a pair of crack-pated mortal swine!" His metal claw snapped impatiently. "Which is why I fail to see the point of this discussion; you are detaining me from - "

A wet-sounding gurgle cut into his speech.

Tazlik's eyes rolled down to stare with something like incredulity at the black claws protruding into his throat, until Nerothos clenched his fist and yanked. The mo'arg's body crumpled heavily to the floor, metal hand clanging as it struck the stone, and Nerothos shook the bloody mess from his hand with a disdainful air.

There was a moment of uneasy silence.

"Idiot," High Mekgineer Charin pronounced gruffly. His drill gave a high mechanical whine for emphasis, though it was unclear who he was referring to.

"Did ya know he was gonna be doin' that?" Na'rii hissed into Callista's ear, yanking sharply on the back of her robes. Tazlik had been going to help her find Kar'thol; she was not at all amused by his unforeseen demise.

"No," Callista said, twisting away from her grip with a jerk. The motion caused her to knock into one of Nerothos' wings, and he raised a brow satirically at her, looking fiendishly pleased at the spectacle he'd wrought.

One corner of her mouth lifted skeptically as she stared back. "You don't at all think you created a self-fulfilling prophecy just then?" Nerothos had been convinced that Sarlah had no intention of letting them leave; if he was wrong before, he certainly wasn't now. Tazlik had been her creature, and his execution was a direct challenge to her authority.

"No," Nerothos said, eyes bright with cruel amusement. "And a necessary risk, in any case." He looked away from her then, staring out over her head, and Callista turned suspiciously to follow his gaze.

A hundred pairs of eyes, ghostly pale or burning with fel light or red with an artificial glow, looked back at her.

She tensed warily, but the gathered mo'arg and gan'arg made no untoward move, simply gaping at Nerothos, Charin, and Tazlik's still body with varying proportions of hostility, curiosity and fear. A small motion caught her eye, and she glanced down to see Tun looking just as uncomfortable as she felt, hands half raised in preparation to weave a spell. Na'rii crouched at his side, lean muscles coiled like a spring.

"Listen well," Nerothos said, and though his voice was the same steely purr as always, his words pierced to the edges of the cavernous room. "Your master is slain, and his lieutenants side with me. Should you hold any foolish intentions of defiance in hope of Sarlah's return, I suggest you abandon them now." He smiled dangerously, and lifted one hand to display claws still glistening with Tazlik's blood. "Silence is acquiescence. You have harbored the Lady's foes, and should she triumph you will all be accounted traitors, and given neither quarter nor pardon."

A ripple ran through the crowd of demons, and even the most hostile faces gained a tinge of calculating fear at his words.

Callista, who had had a rather nasty spell ready on a hair trigger, relaxed fractionally. She had been afraid that the mo'arg and gan'arg would simply mob them, but now she saw that that was unlikely. Most of these creatures held little loyalty to either side, used only to obeying the orders of whatever demon seemed strongest and promised them the least harm. And at the moment, that demon appeared to be Nerothos.

He waited for the disturbance to die down before continuing. "The gates are barred, and the gatekeeper destroyed. There will be no escape, save through me." He smiled coldly, spreading his reddish-black wings to their full width. "Serve well, and your loyalty will be rewarded on Draenor. Incur my wrath, and suffer final dissolution." His expression became sardonic as he folded his wings once more. "I suggest you choose carefully."

He turned away then with a dismissive motion, making some remark to the High Mekgineer. A low murmur rose from the crowd of demons, but when Charin's servants began moving among them, growling orders and chivvying them into movement, none protested.

"What did he say?" Tun hissed, pulling discreetly on the sleeve of Callista's robe to bring her down to his eye level. He'd gotten the gist of it, he thought, just from Nerothos' tone and the reaction of his audience, but he'd rather be sure. He didn't speak Eredun.

When she bent to whisper back, he saw that the wariness on her face was tempered with just a little amusement. "Nerothos just declared himself lord high dictator of the cavern. No one's arguing."

Na'rii made a scornful sound, straightening to peer restlessly around the immense room.

Tun just nodded, forehead wrinkling in a thoughtful frown as his gaze darted to the place where Nerothos and Charin stood in conference. Callista seemed content enough to follow these creatures' plan, but he wasn't so certain. Tazlik had been an ally, of sorts, and Nerothos had turned on him without remorse. What made her think he held the rest of them in any higher regard?

The dreadlord's head turned suddenly, skewering Tun with a knowing, amused look that caused him to avert his eyes quickly. He didn't care what Callista thought. That Demon wished no well on any living thing, and he would prove it before this was over. He was sure of it.