Rag did not want to die.

He supposed most sentient creatures did not, but unlike most such, he had been blessed with the glory that was immortality.

He could live forever… Provided he was not killed, or literally retconned out of existence.

The latter was unavoidable. He had no recourse to avoid it. Nothing that could be done but march on towards his doom alongside his friends and family.

Avoiding the final curtain for juuust a bit longer.

Doing all he could to try and help everyone survive beyond his death.

Now, however, it was time to face oblivion. Far ahead of schedule.

He knew not how the orcs had learned about him, nor did he understand the full reasons why they were planning to kill him, but plan to kill him they were.

They were preparing quite an elaborate plan too.

They had prepared not only what seemed to be quite a thorough ambush for him later in the day but readied themselves to strike first just in case he tried to escape.

They seemed to expect him to in fact.

The Death Knights placed all around him, and readying themselves for a clash of some kind kinda gave it away.

The anti-teleportation measures they had invoked around the settlement he was in further added to the sense that the Horde's Warchief truly, thoroughly, wanted him dead.

They did not want him to escape.

They wanted to kill him. Very badly.

The only reason he could see they were not springing the trap around him, was that they wanted him to unleash his true dragon form first.

Probably to be absolutely certain that yes, he was a dragon… And probably to use his body in various ways.

The insides of a dragon could be used in many, many beneficial ways. All for the betterment of the Horde and their current war.

He had done so much good for the Horde by bringing Fremde into this world.

And they were going to kill him for it.

He did not truly begrudge them for it. There were several reasons why Thrall might want him dead.

No, it was not the morality of the Horde's planned actions that bothered him.

It was the fact he did not want to die. He wanted, on a level he had never truly understood before now, to live.

He wanted to transform, spread his wings, and soar through the heavens, the way Dragons had been made to do.

He wanted to soar, to hunt, to make love, to travel through time again.

He did not want it to end.

This miracle, that was his life. His body, his glorious and superior form, so far above everything else living.

He wanted to live.

Instead… He ate and listened as the Orcs around him talked.

Some of them probably didn't know about what was about to happen. But he saw the forced ignorance of him that far, far too many of the Orcs had on their faces.

Orcs were good for many things… But acting was not one of them. It was not in their nature to hide contempt and rage.

Somehow, in his numb mind, he wondered how Orcish stageplays would go.

Would they even develop it? Or would they just copy what other races did? Did they have some kind of stage play culture already?

It was an insane, and bizarre topic to consider in one's final hours, but it hardly ended there.

As he looked around at the Orc soldiers, the Death Knights, the Tauren with hand cannons armed and ready, and planning to shoot him at point-blank range with small, handheld artillery, he found himself contemplating all of them in far, far too great detail.

The Tauren holding small artillery pieces was going to be a revolutionary form of soldier. True, for now, they were naught but one-shot flintlock cannons, but in a hundred years, those hand cannoneers would be the bane of any enemy of the Horde.

The Tauren's hands might be too big, and without the finesse to have invented the finer points of technology to make early guns and cannons, but they would most certainly make full use of them after having been shown the way.

Meanwhile, the Orc grunts, which he was ostensibly a part of, were sharpening and readying their swords and axes for the inevitable future combat.

Their shining, silvery weapons were a sharp contrast with their regular uniform, leather straps, fur, with the only real armor they had being the occasional helmet, and the always there pauldron.

They truly looked the part of a bunch of tribal barbarians, the image of steel-clad warriors in black and red plate that had fought beside Orgrim Doomhammer was long, long gone… but what was lost, could come again.

He had done his part to make sure that the ways of the Blackrock Clan would be alive and well in this time. The old blacksmithing techniques from Draenor would be felt alive and well in Durotar.

And here and there, giant, furry wolves prowled.

His own was not here.

He had broken the spell he'd used to enslave it to his will. What he had done to it for the better part of a year was cruel enough. There was no reason to have it around just so it could die with him.

Hours ticked by, the time until the war leader who would come to lead him and the men around him out of camp, running out slowly, but inevitably.

He was going to die. None would die with him. His body would be used for the betterment of the world, for the good of all living.

It happened suddenly and without warning.

One moment he was contemplating his incoming fate.

Then the rock he was sitting on suddenly went sky high, sensing him flying up into the sky as if he'd been shot out of a cannon.

It was, needless to say, not the way he'd expected this to go.

Then, a bolt of blue lightning struck his head, and against his very will, he suddenly found himself transforming back towards his true self, wings, leather, horns and claws, and all, all colored by the most wonderful dark orange imaginable. The best and most spectacular color there was.

He did manage to spread his wings… But that was undercut as a series of small cannonballs, bullets, lightning bolts, fireballs, and 7 death coils all slammed into him, with such force that as they buried themselves into his skin, and actually dug into the flesh beneath, he actually found himself pushed away by the sheer force of the assault, being thrown out, and beyond the camp, hitting the ground with a deafening crash that made the very ground of the Barren shake.

Pain. His entire existence was pain.

Every bit of him hurt. Truth be told, it was the magic that had done the worst damage.

To truly hurt a fully matured dragon with cannon fire, even at close range, you needed either explosive shells or sharp ones.

Still, the sheer volume of metal balls had done their work, and he felt metal having lodged themselves into his scales.

The fireballs and lightning strikes had done their work too, having ripped out chunks of his flesh in garish bits of the rendered hide.

But above everything else, it had been the Death Coils that had done the worst damage. He could already feel the necrosis setting in into the bits they had hit.

He groaned in pain, at any time expecting the second barrage to come to finish him off.

As he lay there, his senses swimming, only the pain clear inside his head, he saw three figures walking up to him.

He tried to sit up, but only one of his legs worked right, and his tail was in the opposite direction to be of any help. His wings beat futilely, trying to raise his body up, and on his feet.

He would die on his feet.

As they got closer, and his vision began to focus, he saw the figures. One was a human in robes, holding his hand up and producing a clear, transparent magical shield just in case he tried a last, defiant attack.

The other two, however, were Orcs.

He recognized the Blademaster as Fremde's hidden protector, but the other one…

There was no mistaking the black plate armor, and the huge, two-handed sledgehammer he carried leisurely across his shoulder.

"So you were a dragon after all." The Warchief said in a cold, hateful tone.

"So… I am… I was from the start… This Orc I pretended to be… Never existed… I enslaved one of your direwolves with sorcery… Made him my thrall… And you never suspected a thing."

Mayhaps he was a bit too obvious in goading Thrall to kill him quickly, but he did not care. He just wanted a quick, clean end to this horrible, horrible pain.

"Is that so? Another crime to add to your list. Just so you know… As we speak, this exact same thing is happening to your kin elsewhere in the Horde. Your influence and machinations ends now. You will all pay with your blood for your crimes."

"I see… Are you… Not curious about our motivations? Do you have no interest in learning our reasons for our actions?"

"No. Not from you at least. Orgrim made that mistake with Gul'dan. He let himself be talked into letting him live, despite all his crimes. I shall not make that mistake."

He lifted his hammer high, and bolts of green lightning began to dance across it. The spirit of the Wailing Cavern. They were close to that place of power.

"Beg for your life if you like… But you will not get mercy from me."

Panic. Despite himself he felt panic. Absolute, total horror at the prospect of his immediate demise. It was so strong that his horrific pain for a moment seemed small compared to that terrible, terrible fear.

"I…" what did he say? What would his last words in this existence be?

Your duty you fool! Remember your duty.

"You should know Thrall, son of Durotan… That Deathwing is Dead!"

Thrall's face was not strucken by shock, though one eyebrow did raise in curiosity.

"I see… At your machinations no doubt. And I should care… Why?"

"You may not… But there will be those amongst your Horde who understands the implications, and what it would mean that Nefarian is now the new ruler of the Black Dragonflight!"

Thrall did not bother with a reply.

Instead, he brought the hammer down and crashing into the earth, straight towards Rag.

Existence ended in a flash of green light.

I


Thrall did not waste time once the wretched lizard was dead.

Immediately the men he'd prepared for this went to work, beginning to take the damn dragon apart, piece by piece.

The eyes were scooped out of the creature's skull and immediately taken to be used in a potion.

Same with a lot of other parts, be they his reproductive organs, his liver, his brain, and various other parts whose names Thrall did not know.

The biggest bit of work though went to his flesh and his hide.

He intended to fashion himself some dragon leather. The wretched beast would pay for getting Grom killed along with so many other, good men, by being used for the betterment of the Horde he had so wronged.

He wasn't sure what he would make out of it. Vol'Jin had declared he would make capes out of all the hide of the one he caught, but Thrall wasn't sure about what he would make out of this one.

Along with the skin, they also took great care to cleanse the parts of flesh that would be fit for consumption from the ones destroyed by their attacks. No reason to let such an abundance of meat go to waste.

And finally, the crowning jewel put inside of an enchanted glass container.

The Dragon's heart.

One of the most powerful enchantment ingredients in the world.

He would not be able to get together what he had planned for that before the war up north was over, but one day… Yes, he knew exactly what he wanted out of it. Something glorious. Something that would inspire all his people.

After all the flesh, hide, and ingredients were removed, it was time for his Death Knights to get to work.

One of them, the strongest he had at hand, stepped forth and began his work.

Slowly, the bones stripped bare of anything else, began to clatter. To move. To be pulled together by an enormous, unstoppable force, back into it's old shape. The form it had back when still living.

Huge, enormous, easily towering over even the biggest of his kodos, the enormous skeleton, eyes like burning, sickly green orbs.

The small mountain of bone stretched out it's long, enormous wings, and though no membranes remained, the sheer size of them was impressive enough on their own.

Of course, unlike the rest, those wings would not remain for long.

They had plans for those useless wings that would not allow flight anyhow.

I


It had been a while since anyone had given Jaina a gift.

She unfolded it, looking over the masterwork of golden leather.

"Um… Thank you. But… What is this?"

"It's called a Poncho. It's a Tauren garment for dealing with rain and weather. Made of fine, golden Dragon Leather. Take it as a sign of friendship from both me and Cairne."

It certainly looked like something a Tauren might make. All leather, and high-quality embroidery along the tazzled edges.

"I cannot believe you wasted dragon hide on this." Lionheart said, exasperatedly.

"It's some of the most durable leather there is. Able to protect even against gunfire. It should be on armor, not traveling garments!"

Thrall took it in stride.

"Well… I wish Lady Proudmoore protected, even while traveling. So with that in mind, it is a good gift."

Before Richard could reply, Lady Fremde, one of Thrall's advisors, butted in and said something in Orcish. Thrall listened to her intently, then chuckled.

"Ah yes, that does make sense. I see now."

What he saw, he did not elaborate on, instead turning towards the great centerpiece before them.

In the middle of the Crossroads, over a hundred Tauren and Orc workers were busy with the final bit of work before they marched.

Hellscream.

That's what Thrall had called it.

Grom would have approved. He had liked cannons, apparently.

The Horde had hundreds and hundreds of cannons, generally, countless smaller pieces, which tended to be far, far more deadly, rather than a few big guns.

Most things that died to cannons, would die whether it was a big piece, or a small one, after all.

However… There was one exception.

An enormous gun, too big to be used by conventional forces, too big that even Kodos could carry it, much less for it to be aimed.

Gnomes could probably produce some machine base to make it work. But they did not have any gnomes around.

What they did have… Was an enormous, undead dragon.

Huge, massive, with bones as thick as old trees. They had modified the wing bones and mixed them with steel and wood to produce a nice extra base on which to mount the Hellscream cannon on.

It looked intimidating. With blue, glowing Orcish runes to strengthen the metal, and cool it to allow for continued fire. Not to mention the sheer size of it. And the fact it was on a giant, skeletal dragon, didn't hurt either.

Of course, looks could be deceiving. As it was here.

Hellscream was far, FAR more dangerous than it looked.

Despite firing nothing but cannonballs, it was in fact, the most dangerous gun ever made. After all, it was "Rifled" as Lady Fremde called it.

All the Orcs' guns and cannons were.

Which meant they were all very, very accurate.

Richard and the rest of her Paladins had NOT been a fan of the Hellscream unit. But she was. She understood the sheer POWER of this thing.

A giant unit that never tired, was ambidextrous enough to reload it's own weapon, could hit something with ease, and was strong and durable enough that it needed serious firepower to bring down.

It was the kind of edge they needed… Needed to defeat Arthas.

Of course, there was a double edge to this unit. Namely that anything Thrall's death Knights could do, so could Arthas, and the Lich King.

Even if they… Destroyed him, it was likely that in the future, the Scourge might have similar units on the field.

An absolutely terrifying prospect.