#Ryk being writesy

[rykhafirehand]

A Fallow Sun

A sense of emptiness, familiar by now, washed over Kaldreth Felmist as he pushed open the gates to his family residence. The creak of the rusted hinge was almost welcome; just about anything would be, as long as it dissipated the oppressive silence of the Ghostlands.

The garden had clearly not been tended in a while. The wild overgrowth was in full bloom, though there was a strange sickliness to the petals, no doubt a lingering effect of the corruption that had swept over the land after the Fall. Slowly, gently, he snapped a rose from the enormous bush that was even now threatening to engulf the only entrance to the grounds. It smelled sweet, despite its… distorted appearance. Though he could only see it by his spectral sight, Kaldreth believed it would appear ashen grey to those who yet possess their vision. He tucked the flower inside a pouch. He would confirm his assumption next time he was in Silvermoon.

So many memories. Every step felt like an adventure to the past, some light-hearted and whimsical, others heavy and traumatic. Each memory tinged with regret, a wish to go back and re-live his life, do it all over again. What if I had never said that? What if I had listened then? What if, what if, what if. There was a bitter taste on his tongue. No matter what he wanted, no matter how many what-ifs he built in his mind, the cold facts were obvious. He was alone, the last heir of a fallen house, a disgraced and disowned child whose accomplishments could never redeem the family he had sacrificed.

Few had even survived the Fall. He remembered the day well, his mother’s sister dragging herself to the estate with her two remaining children, her cloak in tatters. They had failed, she told them. All had failed, and death marched upon the High Kingdom. Runners were sent out, but none returned, and Kaldreth’s aunt passed away delirious and screaming, her wounds putrefying despite the medics’ best attempts. Her youngest, Dalyr, followed her a short while after. The shock of the Sunwell’s corruption, felt by all quel’dorei, caused the child to fall to the ground, trembling and pale. He never wailed or spoke or made a sound as the filth ate away at him from within. His light was snuffed out in the night, leaving behind nothing but a small, shrivelled husk.

Marnos and Valdria were both adults by then, or as close as made no difference. Kaldreth stuck with them, embittered even then by the monumental loss of life he was forced to witness. They joined their Prince together, fought the Scourge and the Legion together, and only parted ways when Kaldreth’s mind broke. During a particularly gruesome assault against a Legion stronghold, his father, Naelis Starmist, was cut off from the rest of their forces. Kaldreth fought viciously to reach him, only to be knocked aside by a barrage of Legion projectiles. He watched helplessly as his father was impaled by the weapons of the enemy, and in a moment of irrational, mindless grief, he drew upon the demonic magic surrounding him. Unprepared as he was, the influx of fel energy scarred him, body and soul.

He could not recall what happened next, only that he had been dragged far from the front lines and to the halls of the Black Temple, howling and raving all the while. There, under heavy supervision, he was taught control; not only of the magics he had unleashed, but of his mind as well. Eventually, he was allowed to join the Illidari and went through the ritual that would forever mark him as a demon hunter.

He never did learn what became of his cousins, whether they had defected or perished with their Prince. All he knew was they had been slain in one of the many conflicts between then and the most recent squabble between the Alliance and Horde, leaving only his mother Arenia to carry the Starmist name. After Sargeras’ imprisonment, he debated whether he should reveal himself to her, attempt to reconnect after all this time. Would she accept him? Would she even recognise her only child?

That choice was snatched away from him. A new conflict engulfed Azeroth almost immediately, and he lost her as well, to Windrunner’s damned war.

Some might say that had pushed him over the edge, and he found it hard to blame them. He began loudly advocating for the Illidari to step in and use their considerable might to pressure the Horde and Alliance into respecting their newfound peace in perpetuity. Some had listened. Many more shook their heads. Eventually, he was politely requested to leave the Fel Hammer and take care of his inheritance.

And now here he was, with the keys to the grounds in his pocket, heir to nothing but a broken house and bitter memories.

***

He ran his thumb over the third key. Neither of the first two would fit the lock to the mansion proper. He swore under his breath when this one too failed to open the door. Same with the fourth and fifth. Finally, with the sixth attempt, he heard a satisfying click.

Kaldreth flicked an ear. There had been another, smaller sound, nearly masked by that of the lock. And now, an ongoing whirring…

He slammed the door open with a swift jab and threw himself to the side, narrowly evading the blast of disruptive magic that scorched the entryway as it passed through exactly where he would have been standing had he been less careful. Fel power surged through him, toughening his skin, and he barrelled through the entrance to smash the contraption that had fired upon him. Some sort of portable Legion cannon, he thought, rigged to release at whoever opened that door. Upon second glance, he noticed some peculiar modifications. He rummaged through the machine’s insides and pulled out what should have been its fel power core. The crystal he found instead was smaller, a deep emerald hue rather than the bright, sickly green of Legion magic. Kaldreth growled deep in his throat. He could recognise the spellwork immediately. Him and his fellow Illidari had been forced to watch nothing but this for years, trapped in a nightmarish stasis and left to contend with only their inner demons. A Warden containment crystal. Whoever set this up must have known-

His enhanced senses screamed at him and in an instant, his warglaives were out. Something had appeared at the top of the stairwell. He could still perceive its trail. His nostrils flared as he caught the familiar scent of demon. He rushed after it, leaping at the last second to avoid triggering a tripwire. He landed atop some elaborate symbol and swiftly rolled aside, bracing for another trap to spring.

Nothing happened.

It took him a moment to recognise what he was looking at. It was not some mystical sigil as he had feared; it was a word, scrawled in Thalassian runes and inked in demonic blood. FAILURE. He glanced down the hallway and saw the walls had been similarly defaced. ABOMINATION. MURDERER. BETRAYER. DEMON.

Kaldreth stalked along the accusing scrawls, carefully rounding a corner. Here, the walls appeared to have been slashed wildly by some great beast, leaving deep gashes in the marble. The door to his parents’ old bedroom was ajar, with a full sentence seared into the pale wood in a blasphemous form of Eredun. COME AND SEE.

The stench of demonic flesh wafted from the room. He took a slow step forward. Then another. Suddenly, he pivoted, bringing his glaive around in a strike that should have split the creature attempting to sneak up on him.

Instead, his strike was parried by a short, wicked-looking blade. His would-be assailant was massive, clad in simple armour and with a tattered leather cloak wrapped around its broad shoulders. Demonic spikes tore through the material and accentuated its sheer bulk. Worst was the face, a skull-like rictus crowned with a pair of short horns and sporting long, razor-sharp teeth.

It’s a mask, he realised while they exchanged several swift blows. And those weapons, the tattoos-

“Who are you?” Kaldreth snarled at the other demon hunter. In response, he received a flurry of wild slashes. “Who are you?” he repeated, matching the barrage of attacks with his own. “WHO ARE YOU???”

His voice grew deeper midway through the inquiry. Dark energies danced along his muscles, wrapping him in shadows. His empty eye sockets blazed with fel. He launched himself forward, pushing the other combatant to the wall. In the fierce struggle he managed to hook both his opponent’s glaives with his own and launched both sets at the wall where they stuck. His hand shot out like a snake, grabbing the other demon hunter by the throat and slamming them against the wall where they remained suspended from their own back spikes. “WHO… ARE… YOU???” he screamed and tore off the metal mask.

The shadows retreated off his form. Kaldreth withdrew his hand like he’d been burned. “I… know you…” he muttered. He could hardly believe it. She had been a willowy, waifish thing once, a servant in the Starmist household and later his father’s personal retainer. The ritual that reforged her into a demon huntress had also leached all colour from her face and hair, turning her bright, copper-red locks to a silvery white. She flexed her muscles, struggling against the spikes holding her in place. “You… served us. Served my father. Your name… I can’t quite…” The hulking figure finally managed to dislodge herself, falling hard to her knees. Her back bled where two of the outgrowths had been torn from her flesh. “Iblys,” she spat. Kaldreth tilted his head. “No, that was not it.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah! Eryn-”

She lunged in a blur. He barely managed to restrain her as she kept snapping at his neck like a rabid lynx, again and again, her sharp teeth coming within inches of ripping out his artery. He held her by the throat with one hand and firmly squeezed her right wrist with the other. Only too late did he realise she had not employed her left arm in the attack. A streak of unbearable pain ran across his ribs and he screamed, his voice echoed by another. His assailant leapt off him and offered a mirthless, savage grin. In her left hand she held a set of wicked fanned knives, the same weapon that had torn his side and-

My tattoos.

She had struck with surgical precision, knowing exactly how to perfectly disrupt the arcane bindings keeping his inner demon in check. He could feel the creature awakening, writhing within him, clawing its way into the forefront of his… their… consciousness. “Now we see who you really are,” she said. “What… what have you done? Eryn’thala! TRAITOR!” His muscles rippled as the bound felguard vied for control over their shared vessel. A scrabbling, shuffling, sniffing noise grabbed his attention. Eryn’thala bared her teeth at him. “Oh, don’t mind that. The felhunter has been trained to track out-of-control filth.” Something heavy thudded against the door. Kaldreth’s head snapped around madly, finally focussing on the demon huntress who gave a hollow laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be respectful with your remains. Eventually.”

Demon hunter and demon both screamed simultaneously. Their body threw itself forward with reckless abandon, vaulting over their enemy, reaching for their warglaives…

She never bothered with finesse. The moment she felt Kaldreth’s weight upon her back, she slammed backwards against the wall, pinning the demon hunter between her demonic spikes. She felt them break as she turned. The desperate creature’s hand was just barely grazing the edge of his weapon, nearly there, nearly, nearly…

Iblys ran her fingers through her erstwhile lord’s hair and pulled roughly. He snarled, blood and spittle flying from between his clenched teeth. There was barely anything of the elf left in his features. “We made you who you are, ungrateful bitch!” he spat. Her face remained impassive. “You would have been dead without us! Maybe you should have been dead!”

She sighed and gripped him by the throat. “Still as much of an idiot as you ever were, Kaldreth. This? This isn’t personal.”

With one swift motion, she broke his neck.

***

He floated. For how long, he could not tell. Time, space, none of it meant anything in this place. There was only pain, the sheer, exquisite agony of his body reforming from the primordial matter of the Twisting Nether. Every sting and every searing moment he used to fuel his hatred, his unending thirst for vengeance against the one who had sent him here.

He could envision her face, as it had been, melting into what it had become. The weak, sickly child turned bitter, broken creature. It would be a mercy, relieving her of that burden. When he came back, he would show her that mercy, the mercy of cracking bones and gushing viscera, he could even imagine her voice as it screamed, screamed, screamed his name in her final moments…

Kaldreth. Ergranthar. Kaldreth. Ergranthar.

He would make her speak his names. He would-

No, this was not his imagination. He could hear her voice. Cold realisation struck as he felt first a tug, then a tormenting sensation of being dragged through the Nether, through every jagged, fragmented planetoid and every flaming core. It all paled before the pain of being torn from one plane to another, and once that agonising moment was over…

I have been here before.

His soul screamed in silence. The crystal! The thrice-damned containment crystal! He could not see anything outside its sheer, polished walls. She knew! Of course she did, she must have been captured with the other Illidari. She knew intimately the unbearable strain of pure stasis.

He suddenly felt something touch the crystal. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Five claws, arrayed around its edges. A gigantic face, outlined beyond the crystal’s surface. Her face.

She gave him an appraising look, communicated even through the veil she wore to hide her eyelessness. Say it, he thought, tell me why you did all this. He felt a strange sensation, as of infinite pressure slowly building up. A crack ran across the smooth surface. SAY IT! TELL ME WHY!

Without a word, Iblys shattered the containment crystal.

***

It was at best a fragment of a world, long lost to the Legion. Above it hung a small, pale yellow orb, barely warm enough to be called a sun. There were a few creatures still skulking about beneath the jagged, rocky surface, but they had long ago learned to leave Iblys and her abode alone.

A loud meow greeted her as she entered the Ashen Spire. Iblys turned her head and smiled with genuine warmth. “Jinx!” she called to the saber cub. It stared at her with huge, fel-green eyes. She picked it up and dusted off its coat, paying close attention to the bright, glowing markings. “Look, you have to keep yourself groomed, or the sigils will stop working. You daftie,” she chided. Jinx purred and pawed gently at her face, then leapt from her arms to nest between her back spikes.

The demon huntress clicked her claws and the braziers lit up with a pallid, sickly glow. She grunted, then peered at the feline cradled along her shoulders. “Well, we do still have an hour or two of sunlight left… and we don’t really have anything better to do, do we?” Jinx responded with a little mrow noise.

Presently, an elf and her pet saber are watching the cold, fallow sun as it sets upon the demon-haunted ruins they call ‘home’.

[rykhafirehand]

Beneath Black Skies

Paathi attempted to slam the door shut, but the heavy latch would not fall into place. The creature’s claw darted through the slit, splintering the weathered wood and attempting to pry open the entrance. The vindicator knew she had precious seconds to act, but the battle had left her drained, tired. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes, calling to the Light that yet shone within her.

Calm washed over her. The briefest of moments lengthened into minutes and hours in her mind, renewing her strength. She opened her eyes, blazing with purpose. Her hand grasped the rusted iron ring embedded in the door, tugging it towards her… then slamming it shut with all her might. And again. And again. She struck until her knuckles bled, until the wood groaned, until the shower of festering black blood and splintered bone ended abruptly. The creature howled as its arm was severed, and Paathi took the opportunity to hurl all her weight at the door, shoulder first. The clash shook the masonry and finally dislodged whatever it was that was keeping the latch from closing.

She was safe, for now.

The shattered limb lay on the floor, twitching and steaming with some unspeakable humours. She prodded it with the tip of her broken sword and winced as a burning pain ripped through her arm. She had been bitten by that beast before finding refuge in this forsaken tower. At least, she thought that’s what happened. Her memory was… blurred.

Yes, the mark was there, on her right shoulder, showing clearly against her marble-pale skin. Two deep pits where the fangs punched through armour and into her, tearing away the protective plates as though they were parchment. The marks were dark, disgusting, the puckered flesh around them already turning a violent purple, throwing her veins into stark contrast…

It is not healing.

The realisation struck her like a blow to the chest. Her body bore remnants of deep wounds, wounds that would have felled anyone, wounds that should have been fatal. The Light had mended every one of them, gash or bite or burn, it made no difference. She had been invincible.

Until now. With every beat of her heart, the pain increased. The vindicator could even see the… rot… spreading. And where it touched a remainder of an old injury, the scarring withered, burst. Her wounds were reopening one by one, forcing her to relive the agony of each and every failure.

A guttural bellow accompanied by a heavy thud drew her attention back to the more immediate threat. Her mind raced, too clouded by pain to allow for another calming ritual. The shattered blade dropped from nerveless fingers as yet another old gash was opened. She grasped the useless limb with her good hand, hoping against hope to stem the flow of blood with the sheer pressure of her exhausted muscles. Blue blood, she noted absently, not the bright shining gold that flowed through her veins ever since she had been forged in the Light.

She clambered up the damaged stairwell. If she could only reach the top, maybe she could activate a beacon. If the Vindicaar was in range, she might just be able to open a teleportation beam. The medics would certainly be able to…

She slipped on the slick stone and slammed her head against the wall. There was a strange clatter behind her as she stifled a sob. Something pale, like shards of milky glass, lay there when she turned to look. Realisation came, too horrible to accept at first. No. No. It could not be. This was not it. This was not her horn. It could not be. The pieces should have been just there, held in place in a silhouette of pure Light as they had been for millennia. Certainly, it had been shattered by a felguard’s mace then, but…

Paathi recognised her own denial. With trembling, bloodied fingers she explored the outline of her right horn, noting the point of fracture, and more importantly the complete lack of the remnants that the Light had held together for so long.

The world blurred. She could not recall climbing the rest of the tower, nor setting down the beacon. The machine pulsed gently, following her heartbeat, but Paathi could not bring herself to look upward. She knew no help could ever come.

Beneath her, shadows stirred. Unnatural howls pierced the gloom, and strange misshapen creatures emerged. They were but reflections, she knew. No more than pawns and playthings of that accursed sky.

Look up.

The command was more felt than heard. She had no more strength left to fight it. The beacon sputtered and died, leaving her alone with the monsters and the bleak, cosmic darkness above. A star blinked into existence, then another, and another. They were not the soothing lights of a serene night sky, however. These were a harsh, burning orange, expressing nothing but contempt for anyone foolish enough to gaze upon them. They filled Paathi with an acute sense of insignificance. You are reckless, they seemed to whisper. Your downfall is your own fault. Nobody will miss you. They will say, she died in some far-off land. They will pretend to care, and then you will be forgotten. You were cold, aloof, distant. That was your own choice. Nobody will miss you.

She should have had some retort, something that might prove the whispers wrong, prove it was all a lie. But she knew, deep within, she had always seen herself this way. The baleful stars simply revealed that truth to her.

Her knees buckled and she staggered. For one brief moment, she held on to the shattered battlements, but they dissolved like mist. As she plummeted to her death, Paathi thought she saw the skies draw open, revealing a single red eye blazing with malevolence.

***

Paathi opened her eyes to find Stardust nuzzling at her hair. The talbuk sprang back and neighed as she pulled herself upright. She must have dozed off and fallen from her saddle. Yes, that made… sense.

She briefly inspected her body for any signs of the strange rot, finding none. Her horn was as it had been for so very long, a string of fragments suspended within the Light. A nightmare, then? It must have been.

Without a word, she mounted back up and pulled her crystalline lute into her lap. She played and played, everything from songs of heroism to heart-wrenching elegies, from ancient tunes she had learned as a child to bawdy ditties from Azeroth’s taverns.

Anything to take her mind off the fact she had not needed sleep in millennia.

[rykhafirehand]

my nam is elf and im blood nite and wen my pals are shiyning brite until dey rly look unwell i stay a bloof i lik the fel

[rykhafirehand]

Phoenix

A cold, harsh wind blew through the keep’s shattered windows. Rykha paced in silence, kicking the dust and filth around. “Bird shit. Really?” she finally growled. “You went through all that trouble, you ruined so many lives, ruined my life, and all you have to show for it is bird shit?”

There was no reply. The Orc grunted and continued to pace, ranting as she did. “And before you, the Bretons, Mauloch bugger the lot of them. And the Imperials. I guess it’s by sheer luck the bloody Redguards didn’t decide they wanted some fun too.” She snarled. “About now is where you’d want to give some glib, extremely clever remark, I’m sure. But maybe, just maybe, I’m tired of it all. Tired of everyone calling us ‘pig children’. Tired of having to scrape and beg and play the good servant before those fops over in Wayrest or Daggerfall will take any of us seriously.”

She snorted, holding back a bitter laugh. “The Covenant? That’s a good joke. All those high and mighty lords and ladies, playing their games, stabbing each other in the back without so much as a by-your-leave, all the while taking good Wrothgar steel and good Wrothgar soldiers and tossing them in the grinder. But hey, at least this time we’re dying for them, not against them, right?” She spat and stomped heavily on the spittle. “But no, clearly that’s not enough. Clearly it wasn’t enough that our clan suffered for refusing to bow to the Bretons. You had to come in and kick us while we were down. I bet it was your idea to poison the chieftain. Thought yourself really clever, I bet. I bet you did! Damned Reachmen!”

She stopped, realising she had been shouting. When next she spoke, her voice was low, menacing. “You know, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore, so I might as well give you the whole story, huh? Bet you’d like that. A little fireside story of how the pig children got slaughtered, won’t that be nice? How Winter came and—” She breathed in deeply. “Well then. Once upon a time, there was a chieftain of a small Orsimer clan, living in the shadow of Wrothgar. His people’s lives were never what one might call opulent, but they managed. Until the call came, the call for the Orsimer nation to unite and return to the mountains, for now, ah-hah! Now the Orcs had a king.”

She spat once more. “And such a king he was! Breaking bread with other kings as an equal, yes. Except of course, one of them was more equal than any of the others, one of them was the High King. And the High King demanded, as rulers so often do, a show of fealty. Orsimer flesh to toss at the front lines of a delusional war. What was the brave king of Orsinium to do? I’ll tell you what he did. He downed an ale, and downed another, and signed the papers that condemned entire clans to extinction.” Rykha stopped pacing and folded her arms across her chest. “But here’s what’s important; there were those who never heeded the call. And especially in those early days, it was a very dangerous decision for those living too close to Breton lands. And so, the bright soldiers came, and they slew and looted, and it hurt all the worse when behind the visor you saw the dark, sad, knowing eyes of some lad from the mountains. You know what those eyes said?” She kneeled and peered thoughtfully at her audience. “Thank Malacath it’s not me. That’s what they thought. Thus, they sold their flesh and they sold their dignity, all for the promise that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be them.”

“And then Winter came.”

“The clan had lost its herds, and its greatest warriors. A wasting sickness came among them, borne of black wings, and the chieftain was hit the hardest. His wives watched him wither away before their very eyes. Once, he had been a match for any warrior, but disease doesn’t know bravery from cowardice, it claims all the same. And it did, eventually. That same day the Reachmen came pouring from the mountain passes. Five chieftains died to their axes and arrows within that week, until none would claim the title anymore. Thus fell Clan Gard, withering just as its chieftain had, until only three remained.”

She rose and began pacing once more, though slower this time. “Three, where once there had been many. A girl, an old wife, and a whelp. With no choice left to them, they braved the mountain, hoping against hope to reach the walls of Orsinium before hunger and the cold did them in.” Rykha’s nostrils flared. “But something awakened in the girl. Half-mad from starvation, she heard a voice on the wind, and followed it. The others thought she had abandoned them, and the old wife cursed her name. But then… the girl returned. Tempered. Determined. She claimed the mantle of chieftain, there and then, and led them to a shelter she had found, carved into the living rock.”

She closed her eyes and stood motionless for a while. When next she spoke, her voice seemed strangely distant. “There, the chieftain spoke to her God, and made an oath. There, she gave a chieftain’s offering. And then only two remained.” Rykha grunted and bared her teeth. “In return she received gifts. Fuelled by the unending fury of Malacath she carried the child to safety, to make a new life in a strange clan. Such was her demand in the bargain. The clan took the child out of fear and respect, for the lone chieftain now bore the mark of the God of the Spurned.”

She brushed away a strand of hair, revealing a set of small horns poking through the skin of her forehead. “There were other gifts, of course. Now unburdened by the trappings of her former life, she became the Firehand. That too had been given by Mauloch, to set ablaze the enemies of his beloved children. Such devastation! And of course, the pact was sealed in a proper Orsimer way; with a weapon.”

Rykha unsheathed a curved, jagged greatsword. Its edge had a strange, evil gleam to it, not quite belonging to any metal known to Nirn. “Crafted in the Ashen Forge, infused with the hearts of seven Daedra, and blessed with a drop of Malacath’s own blood. A symbol of the oath. A reminder of pain and loss. And eventually, vengeance.” She let it clang loudly on the floor as she reached for her hammer instead. “You were never worthy of it,” she growled at the severed hagraven head.

When she was done, nothing remained but shattered cobblestones and a damp patch where the head had been. Rykha paid it no mind. She ran her hand over the carved statue, the pride of her family, her clan. The Wolfen Seat. The throne of chieftains of Clan Gard since time immemorial.

In the gloom, her eyes appeared almost black.

In the gloom, her tears remained unseen.

[rykhafirehand]

Mending What Needs Mending

Perhaps it was the Light's way, thought Marten Weaver as he hitched his plough horse to the heavily laden cart, to send salvation in one’s bleakest hour.

 ***

 She had arrived after the storm, the one that sundered an ancient oak and slammed several of its thickest branches straight through the Weavers’ roof. Luckily, neither him not Emma had been hurt. They hid in the cellar, as they had before, when a pack of ravenous ghouls appeared to ravage their little homestead. They bore it out and rebuilt then; but that was before Tyrras left to join the army. Before they lost Miriam.

 Now they were all that was left, and little Emma was only seven. He could not count on his neighbours to help him either. Most of them had found safer places to live. Despair coiled inside his gut. He knew it had been a mistake not to follow them, but he had been too prideful and stubborn. At first, it had simply been a matter of family pride, of hanging on to the land he had finally reclaimed from the clutches of the undead hordes. Now, there was another reason, the simple stone marker sitting among the hazel bushes behind their house.

He threw himself into the work, hoping that exhaustion might help subdue his dark thoughts. Emma, Light bless her, helped to the best of her abilities, but it was unbearably slow going. After several hours, it seemed as though they hadn’t made any progress at all. Just as he sat down with his daughter to share a bite to eat, he heard the sound of hooves entering their yard. Marten motioned for Emma to remain quiet, and slowly took hold of his axe. You could never be too safe in the Plaguelands, and whoever it was, they had not called out or introduced themselves.

 His heart was pounding as he turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. When he spied the unannounced visitor, he was struck speechless.

 Marten had seen draenei before, but never one like this. Her skin was a pale alabaster white, marked with holy glyphs and uncountable faintly glowing scars. One of her horns had been shattered halfway along its length, yet its fragments remained in place, floating within a silhouette of soft golden light. She had ridden in on a giant, goat-like creature that now stood obediently by what remained of the Weavers’ fence.

 The hilt of a greatsword poked out above her shoulder, but she had not reached for it. Instead, her bright golden eyes found Marten and she inclined her head. Her voice was deep and melodic. “Greetings. My name is Paathi.” “Uh… good day,” stumbled Marten, “I’m Marten. Marten Weaver. What brings a paladin such as yourself here?” Paathi gestured towards the ruined roof. “I believe you require some aid. I would be glad to oblige.” “How- I mean no offense, milady, but wouldn’t your talents be of better use elsewhere? We’re just simple farmers.”

 The draenei turned her eyes from the damage to Marten. Despite its intensity, the gaze felt… kind. “I am vindicator. I go where I am needed.”

 ***

 As Paathi entered the house, Marten could not help but notice how her very presence lit up the corridor. They went from room to room, inspecting the wreckage. The kitchen had it worst; it lay in shambles, with most of the shelving gone and half the pottery smashed to pieces. The counter and fireplace had luckily avoided the worst of it, but some falling masonry had dented and cracked their large iron cauldron. The draenei picked it up, turning it in her hands as though it were barely a quarter its weight. “That was our only cauldron, and now it’s ruined,” despaired Marten when he saw Paathi’s thoughtful expression. She clicked her tongue and looked up at the devastated roof. “I cannot replace the thatch, but the wooden panels should not be too difficult to repair. See? All the rafters yet stand. I shall require a hand with cleaning up, of course.” “… Cleaning up? It will take ages fixing all of this!”

 The paladin tossed the cauldron in the air and caught it with ease. “It will not. Follow me outside. I shall show you something.” She glanced towards the kitchen entrance. “And tell your child to come as well.” Marten turned around, barely catching a glimpse of Emma’s dark locks as she darted out of view.

 He led his daughter to the front yard, where Paathi was rummaging through her saddlebags. She produced a small object that when tapped began emitting pulses of light. The paladin then placed this object on the ground and motioned for the Weavers to stand back.

 A beam of radiance shot down from the skies, blinding Marten. When it subsided, he saw a gleaming golden anvil with an assortment of tools where the beacon had been moments before. Paathi wasted no time, slamming the cauldron atop the anvil and striking it with a glowing crystalline hammer. “Stop!” yelled out the farmer, “You’ll only damage it further!” Paathi seemed not to notice. The paladin dropped the hammer, held the cauldron in both hands, and let a searing radiance wash over it from her fingers. Mortally terrified of the powers on display, Marten nonetheless found the courage to make a grab for his axe and whirled around, fully intent on stopping the strange visitor…

 Clanggggggg.

 “It is done,” said Paathi. Before her stood the cauldron, beautifully smooth like the day it had been bought, the crack running across it filled in with some strange silvery-golden substance. Marten stood speechless as the draenei beckoned him closer to inspect her work, completely ignoring the weapon gripped in the man’s hands. She stepped away from the anvil as he approached and folded her arms across her chest. Marten ran his calloused fingers across the cauldron’s slightly warm surface. “… How-?”

 “My kind has learned to mend many cracks. Metal… metal is easy.” Her usually impassive expression softened as she offered the farmer a soft smile.

 ***

 It was not the end of unexpected wonders for the Weavers. When offered an axe to help remove the thick branches, Paathi waved it away. Instead, she unsheathed her curved blade, bathing the room in light. It shone as though it had been forged from a fragment of the sun, which, Marten thought with childlike wonder, it may very well have been. Whatever its source, the blade made quick work of its quarry, leaving Marten and Emma with the task of picking up the pieces and stacking them neatly against the side of the house. With the branches out of the way, the Weavers went about removing the other detritus while Paathi mended the cracked walls using the same silvery-golden metal as before.

 Marten recalled that he had set aside a few wooden panels in the barn a few years earlier, just on the off chance they might come in handy, and so they did. The paladin wasted no time sawing them into correct shapes and replacing the broken ones along the roof. Evening found her forging new holders for the kitchen shelving. When she sincerely apologised for not being able to replace their shattered pottery, Marten simply hugged her and began to weep. In between sobs, he attempted to explain just how much the help meant to him. Paathi somewhat awkwardly patted him on the head and gently disentangled herself.

 At supper, she produced a crystalline lute and sang in her ancient tongue, songs of hope and joy and a brighter future to come. When offered a bed she claimed to need no sleep and instead went for a stroll, leaving her talbuk mount to guard Marten and Emma as they slept.

 ***

 “Please, take some payment, it’s not much, but…” Paathi waved him away. “You have already given me what you could spare.” And he had. Marten had meticulously gone through their pantry and shared a portion of everything he had. Besides, she had little need of money. “Anything you ask, anything at all! You saved us after all!” Paathi looked over the man’s shoulder, at the girl waving from the doorway. She offered a small wave in return. “The truth. What happened to your wife?” Marten’s smile froze and he grew deathly pale. “I saw the grave last night,” said Paathi, her voice tinged with sympathy. The farmer stared at his hands silently for a while, then spoke.

 “It was in winter, just after our boy had left for Stormwind. There was something evil on the wind, you could almost taste it… Miriam, she… she worked so hard, getting the harvest in, she must have… the spores, they come in from the east sometimes, if the healers get to you quick enough it’s fine. She was feeling poorly, so we called for them, and they did what they could… but the sickness came back two months later, and I knew what it was, I’d seen what it did in Tirisfal… I couldn’t save her, couldn’t… When she was gone, I built a pyre, nearly half our firewood and a full barrel of oil went up in smoke. You know how hard it is to light a fire in the snow? I had to, or else…” His voice grew thick and he swallowed hard. “I thought I saw her rise, in the flames… It… I… I couldn’t…”

 Paathi inclined her head and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. A soft light limned her fingers, and a feeling of peace washed over him. “I understand. You hold on to this land for the memory of her.” “Not just that,” muttered Marten stubbornly, “It’s my place, where I was born and raised. And now with your help, we can go on.”

 The paladin looked at the mended roof. “I have been alive for a thousand of your lifetimes, perhaps more,” she said, and a chill ran down the farmer’s spine. He knew, somehow, that she was telling the truth. “Sometimes we have to mend things before we can truly let them go.  But let them go we must. For our own sake, and that of others.” Marten followed her gaze to Emma.

 “Why did you help us then?” he asked. “We would have had to leave regardless.” Paathi tilted her head. “Yes. You would have had to leave. But would you have?” The word ‘yes’ stuck in Marten’s throat. He knew it would be a lie, and he knew she would know it to be one. He sighed heavily, and Paathi nodded. “Now, should you choose to stay, you have a roof over your head. But remember; a house is not the same as home. And a grave is fit to be neither.”

 ***

 He stood watching, thinking, for a long time, even after Paathi slipped out of view. Then he went inside, made some tea, poured two cups, and carried them to Miriam’s grave.

 He sat silently, sipping his tea, with the other cup placed atop the stone. “Do you remember mornings like this?” he whispered eventually. The wind murmured a reply, but he could not understand it. “We have to mend things before we can truly let them go. I thought… I thought we could pull through, as we always did. I did my best, truly, but in the end… it was for me we stayed, wasn’t it? It was for me you stayed.”

 He sat until the tears dried up and the tea grew cold.

 And then he let it go.

[rykhafirehand]

The End of Everything

“End it all!”

The Seat of the Pantheon disappeared around Paathi as she was forcefully lifted off her hooves. An emptiness, a stillness, a black, uncaring void… no, not quite. A spark appeared. And another. And another. Myriad harsh, pale lights, each outlining the tip of a wicked spear crafted from the coldness between the stars.

She closed her eyes. After millennia of endless strife, she understood this to be her end. The Light that had brought her from the brink countless times could not aid her in this place. Part of her embraced what was coming, though it meant their struggles, their seemingly endless resistance had been in vain.

It happened suddenly, without warning. She felt a quick stab of pain and a chill that shook her to her core. Her blade dropped from nerveless fingers, and with a weary sigh, she gave herself to the Light.

***

She floated, calm, content. Vague images surrounded her, memories of a life long lost, of someone who may have been herself. They seared their way across her vision, leaving behind them trails of crimson and purple and green that burned bright against the darkness, each dissolving first into shards, then smaller particles yet, new images unfolding from each grain of memory in turn. They seemed to form a winding pathway, with no beginning or end, twisting upon itself as the scenes merged into each other. It delighted her, knowing she would have an eternity to pore through them all, organise them as she saw fit, give form to the amorphous mass.

There was no real attachment to what she was seeing, only boundless curiosity. Some scenes she felt a familiarity with, with others it was as though she had only now seen them for the first time. There was no rhyme or reason to the order they would appear in. She was running through the grass, wheezing with laughter. She felt a demon’s claw rip through her gorget, leaving a searing gash in the flesh beneath. Her family were celebrating her graduation while she sat there, tongue-tied, basking in their love. A sharp pain in her side as the doomguard pulled its blade free. A flash of blinding rage. The day she was forged in the Light. The first time she had-

Something made her pause. It had only been there for an instant, but she had experienced a memory unlike the others. It had felt urgent, important. She decided to revisit a few of the more pressing scenes, seeking for clues. Her blood gushed from the open wound in her throat, but the Light was there, knitting her tissue, leaving nothing but a faintly glowing scar. Xe’ra’s words echoed in her mind, telling her of the new life she would have as one of the chosen. The Light that was mending the gaping gash in her side surged through her as her hammer crushed her assailant’s skull. A flash of blinding rage. Xe’ra’s words once more-

There. Twice now she had felt a strangely visceral sense of fury. It was over in a flash, not accompanied by any image whatsoever. She scanned the surrounding memories, found they all had to do with the nigh-eternal conflict between the Army of the Light and the Burning Legion. Curious.

As she zoned in on the missing memories, she felt an increasing sense of foreboding, of lingering dread. The sensation was unlike anything she had felt since she had abandoned her flesh and melded into this place. It was as though the Light itself were asking her to abandon her search, to let go of whatever anger and pain lay locked behind the elusive scene.

This is mine. Her challenge echoed through the space-not-space. It is mine. How dare you deny me access to what is mine? Was she think-screaming at the Light, or her own mind? She could not rightly say, but whatever it was that had veiled the memories from her now recoiled, slithering off and leaving her prize open for her to access.

“Rise, Argus. Rise, my broken world.” The words thrummed with power, and Argus obeyed. This was the world Paathi had given her everything to save, only to see it delivered into the hands of the enemy. A shattered, disfigured giant leaking arcane energies. She knew then, there was nothing left to salvage. Their only hope lay in destroying the very soul of her homeworld.

The battle seemed endless. Many fell to the Unmaker’s scythe or disappeared into the hungering emptiness that fragmenting orbs of pure magic left in the fabric of space. And yet she fought on, with hammer and Light and the unbending spirit of her people. As Argus weakened, she heard Aman’Thul utter an incantation that would forge bonds of time itself and chain the shattered world-soul. As Argus faded, several beacons shot to the skies, calling down the constellar who had once been tasked with protecting the titan’s slumbering soul. They could not be allowed to interfere.

They fell one by one, celestial essence lost to the cosmic winds. One of the last standing aimed a beam of magic at Paathi, and she attempted to block it with the head of her crystalline hammer. She heard a loud, piercing whine. The hammerhead shattered into shards as though it had been made from glass. The hammer… her legacy… the last remnant of her life before the war, before the exile.

A red rage descended on her mind. She charged the constellar, disarmed as she was, pummelling the creature with fists and magic, somehow managing to narrowly avoid her opponent’s whirling blade. She found herself perched on the being’s back, grabbed its inexplicably material shoulder, and twisted. The cry of pain nearly echoed the sound her hammer had made as it shattered, yet she refused to give any quarter. The Light surged through her veins, granting her strength beyond anything she had known before. The strange creature’s flesh parted, its now useless limb torn out of its socket. Paathi leapt off her opponent, took hold of the blade he had dropped from lifeless fingers, and turned it upon its erstwhile owner.

At that moment, the Highfather’s spell failed, and Argus was unleashed once more. Her own world slew her, pinned her to the ground with a spear of crystallised darkness.

Her very essence thrummed with anger. After all that she had given in its name, all that she had abandoned to serve the Light’s cause in the hopes of seeing Argus reborn, the world’s very soul had turned against her. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not the Light’s plan. Then, at the very edge of hearing, she thought she heard a voice.

“… The spark of life still flickers within these mortals…”

***

She felt the air as it entered her lungs once more, she felt her heart begin to pump blood. There was pain, as there always was, but it was dulled by the fires of her vengeance. Her fingers curled around the star-forged blade she had claimed from its slain former wielder. Light leapt from her fingers, igniting the sword’s core, making it blaze with the radiance of a sun.

Around her, other slain champions stirred to life, picking up their armaments of legend. She saw the determination in their eyes, the unyielding willpower that would stand against anything, even Sargeras himself, all to save the soul of their planet from suffering the same fate as Argus. And together, they would prevail. Together, they would avenge the fallen, the tortured, the twisted.

Together, they would slay a world.

***

Paathi felt an emptiness inside her. They had achieved the greatest victory they might have hoped for. Sargeras had been imprisoned, Argus released from his torment. And yet…

She had dedicated her life to the glimmer of a hope that her world might yet be redeemed. That hope had been extinguished on the point of a spear. Her purpose had turned out to have been a lie, the foolish dream of a foolish child.

She paced through the Vindicaar’s corridors, not joining in the revelry. She understood now that she had been shaped by Xe’ra, by the Light, to be nothing but a weapon aimed at the heart of the Legion. With Antorus in ruins and the Dark Titan in shackles, her duty was at an end… and so was any worth her life may have had.

She found herself at the ship’s helm. Beneath them, Azeroth turned slowly. Paathi took a step closer to the crystalline glass. She observed the oceans and the forests, the mountains and the deserts. This was the final titan, wounded and bleeding. The last bastion of hope in an uncaring universe.

She heard a polite cough and turned to see a tall, gaunt figure. She narrowed her eyes. This… felcaster… had aided in the battle against Argus. Though she found his chosen source of power distasteful, she bowed her head in respect. The blood elf returned the gesture and spoke. “You see now, don't you? Why we fight. It isn't for a nation or a faith, or even for the sake of a cause. It is because this world in all its elegance and complexity is worth fighting for. As are those who live upon it.” He swept his hand across his view, as though trying to encompass the immeasurable girth of the planet before him.

Paathi turned to the glass, touching it gently with her fingers. She felt as though something were expected from her, some eloquent retort to complement the elf’s grandiose statement. Instead, she simply tilted her head and breathed, “She is beautiful.”

[rykhafirehand]

Alyssaire’s Travelogue

Dear reader, my name is Alyssaire Shaloriel, and herein shall be documented the accurate and complete account of my experiences as an emissary from the Shal'dorei people to the Horde.

These writings have been compiled (and indeed are still being compiled at this time) from my own personal journal, and will be presented with only minor revisions. Most of this compilation shall be concerned with exploration of the strange shores beyond Suramar and what has in our prolonged absence from our world's affairs been dubbed the 'Broken Isles'. It is my intent to present these unfamiliar lands to you, dear reader, and mayhaps spark a sense of adventure in your spirit, for Azeroth is vast and enchanting, horribly dangerous, yet beautiful beyond words, and what many among our kin might consider common knowledge may not necessarily be correct.

Without further ado, I invite you to join me on my journey. We begin in the illustrious city of Silvermoon, home to our Sin'dorei cousins.

Day 1

I had heard stories of Silvermoon and Eversong from visitors, yet I found it hard to believe they might be comparable to our fair city of Suramar. How wrong I was! If Suramar is the opalescent Moon, then Silvermoon is the radiant Sun; both exhibit grandeur and power, each in its own unique way. I was immediately enchanted by the gilded scrollwork that so delicately adorns the pale marble buildings crowned in gold and red. The fashions of the blood elves follow suit, exhibiting warm hues trimmed in gold, often sporting the golden phoenix that is the symbol of their people.

I have also noted a lack of fear concerning some aspects of magic that could be seen as... questionable. Most notably, our cousins and allies quite commonly practice fel magic and the summoning of demons, which is something Suramar's citizens scoff at. I will admit that I have dabbled in both, and found them effective. I intend to further pursue these studies, for with the fall of the Burning Legion and the banishment of Sargeras, what is there to fear from the disorganised, easily controlled former servants of the Dark Titan?

As we experienced everything the city has to offer, our guide regaled us with tales of its greatest heroes, with a special focus on the exploits of one Lor'themar Theron, Regent Lord of all Quel'thalas now that the office of monarch has been abolished (I shall not bother you with the sordid details of that particular story; suffice it to say, the Sin'dorei had an Elisande of their own). Myself and the other ambassadors are to meet with this remarkable man two days hence at a soirée held in our honour. How exciting! I shall make certain to ask whether there is any truth to the claim that he once, in a fit of rage, single-handedly hurled a heavy gilded bench right into the fountain gracing Silvermoon's palace square.

I shall also make certain to visit Keelen's Trustworthy Tailoring, though I must confess that the boutique's name hardly inspires much trust. Still, it is their fine work that is prevalent among the citizenry, and with the help of their wares I am confident myself and my colleagues should leave the best of impressions on the Sin'dorei nobility.

[rykhafirehand]

The Vision

((Well, here’s more Kasari-related writing. This time in preparation for BfA.))

Something stirred, and was gone.

Kasari had grown accustomed to the peculiar tics of her host body. Its connection to the realm of spirits was strong, stronger even than that of the one she had been forced to leave behind. The blood witch who had once inhabited this flesh had been of the Zandalari tribe, and its very blood thrummed with the might of the loa. Still, the sense that flooded her for but a moment had not come from that lofty connection. No, Kasari knew it from before the transference, before the blood witch Bal'akra had foolishly tapped into the bound spirit within the scrimshaw skull and unleashed her own demise.

Preparations were in order.

***

Some of the ritual components were easy enough to track down in this scorched land. The basilisks had contributed their eyes, scorpids their venom. Blood and bone were more difficult; these days, trolls were harder to track down among the wind-scoured dunes, and none of the other races would suffice. It took a good four days before she managed to lure a whelp out of their holdfast. Its blood was weak, diluted from sickness and starvation, but its bones proved strong.

Preparing the ritual circle was tedious and slow work, but necessarily so. Kasari knew well the dangers of a badly drawn set of protective runes. After all, that had been the mistake Zimta'kali had made when she brought a nameless aberration down upon him, repaying the ancient Hakkari for taking her body and entombing her spirit in an immobile statue. The memory brought a ravenous smile to her lips, while part of her recoiled. She still had access to the old troll's memories, and with them the barest sliver of who he had been. The ghost of a ghost, ever haunting her broken and reforged soul.

Kasari wondered if he had been the one through whom she had inherited the gift she was now attempting to access. His followers had called him 'prophet', yet in life he had been nothing more than a conduit for his vile master's will. Zealotry he had in abundance, and he had managed to deceive himself into believing that the visions of Hakkar's plans were glimpses into the future. But perhaps…

She gently shook her head, heavy braids and dreadlocks swinging with the motion. Whichever it was, the old man, the fallen loa she had devoured in Northrend, the broken thing who had been born into the name she now held, the slithering coils that bound them all together, a complex interaction between them, clarity emerging from chaos… it was of no importance. Her current form held the power of true sight, and could glimpse past the veil that split now from then, yesterday from today from tomorrow, past from present from future. The gift was unreliable, only coming upon her rarely. When it did, however, she made certain to pursue its trail and glean as much knowledge as she could.

With one final gesture, the circle was complete. She stepped within, her bangles clanging in a strange, discordant manner. Kasari held out her scarred hands and traced the outline of a curved handle in the air. For a heartbeat it felt as though reality itself skipped… and there it was. The Soulscythe.

The blade tore open a small rift into the space-between-space. And she listened.

***

A flaming sword, piercing through the side of a slumbering giantess… her cries of anguish echoed by the burning visage above…

Blood such as she had never seen before, glistening and blazing and wrong… a twisted grin, a tuneless humming, whispers behind locked doors… the golden ichor giving birth to a thick river of crimson… blood for blood, death for life, the cycle lurching, shuddering, breaking…

Three watchful eyes had been placed above the altar, yet two are pale and dim and dead… the third yet holds the loathsome mass upon the slab in its grasp… ants, rushing from the wall, rushing at the eye, gnawing and tearing and devouring it… the mass twitching in delight…

A serpent howling in the dark, its once brilliant wings tattered and torn… even now, a pale arm rips out a handful of feathers, splattering the floor with Hakkar's venomous blood… he howls again, and is silenced…

The Dead-God gnashing his teeth as his kingdom is stripped from him… he wraps himself in shadow like a cloak, yet his enemy is darker still… beggared, he is cast from the very summit of his temple… the cracking sound as his skull meets the stones of the plaza below…

***

With a deceptive calm, Kasari closed the rift, unbound the ritual circle, then sat on the ruined remnants of a pillar. The visions would take some time to decypher. Even so, her whole being thrummed with the sense of foreboding… and something else, something she had not experienced in a long time…

To anyone watching, Kasari's grin as she gave herself over to the heady, ecstatic sense of fear might appear like the rictus of a corpse.

[rykhafirehand]

Growing Up

Once, I would have taken a different path.

The Elements I love... who love me in turn... they would have lightened my steps, warmed my skin. They would have given me sureness of foot and keenness of eye, beyond what mortal flesh should be capable of.

Once, I would have taken that path. But not anymore.

My experiences in Draenor have... changed... me. The world of my ancestors, the world where my kind first came to be, had rejected me. I was weak, powerless. Where once I believed the Elements to be my perennial ally, I now understand just how easily that bond is broken, how quickly love can turn to hate.

Thus, I walk unaided. I ascend the peak, trusting but my own strength. The gale winds seek to pluck me from the path and break me upon the jagged rocks below.

For the first time in years, I shiver from the cold.

I know I can stop it all at any time. The Spirits of this world have not abandoned me, I hear their voices all around... I know that should I ask, they would embrace and protect me, warm my limbs and strengthen my stride.

And that is why I can never accept their aid again, not in this. Not like I used to.

At the very summit, I take a deep breath. The snow is already covering my trail. Soon enough, no sign will remain that I had ever been here at all. Such is the fate of all our mortal deeds; we are but one snowflake in the blizzard.

The Elements however are eternal.

They are not simply a tool to be used. Once, I thought I had learned that lesson... but even though my body grew to maturity, my understanding was that of a child.

I see the world with different eyes now, and I can but pray they are the eyes of wisdom. Only time will tell.

There is power in all that lives... and all that is, is alive. We may wield that power for a while, yet we must ever remember; it is borrowed only, never given freely.

Until my return from Draenor I never fully understood the gift that this world, the world where I was born, had given me. I had never known what... home... truly meant.

Now I do.

And as our world teeters on the brink of demise, I understand that I must give my everything to preserve it.

For the Elements! FOR AZEROTH!

[rykhafirehand]

Bloodbinder’s Return

((Yaaaay troll stuff! So here’s a pretty gruesome fanfic about a pretty gruesome character of mine. Because why the hell not. Contains mentions of gore, blood, soul-eating, stuff like that. And yes, I’m fully aware that the character is completely bloody broken, in terms of her power levels.))

Pain brought her to consciousness, or as close as she could come to consciousness in this infernal place. She caught the metallic scent of blood and felt power tear through her, draining her, using her as a vessel, a focus... a tool. She would have screamed, but could not. No-one would care or listen anyway.

Shadows awoke as she did, shades of the past, some weeping, some laughing, all taunting her in her misery. Broken one. Insane. Soulless. Thief. Deceiver. Betrayer of trust. Betrayer of the gods. Betrayer.

Betrayer.

Betrayer.

Emerald flames surged across her vision, strands of pure entropic fire in the void. It felt like an eternity since she had seen their like, an eternity since she had seen anything, since her eyes had been scooped out and her flesh boiled to slough off the polished ivory dome of her skull.

It felt like an eternity since her death.

***

Bal'akra let out a rasping cough, the acrid smoke clinging to her throat. The massive infernal toppled over, its fel flames quenched before it hit the deck. The blood witch observed the devastation it had wrought. Ten Zandalari lives lost... ten less of their tribe, their people, their very species. All because they had followed the Dark Prophet Zul's visions, believed his venomous tongue as he poisoned them with honeyed promises.

"She's taking on water!" yelled out a crewman. Swiftly, a shaman was dispatched to hold back the rising flood and keep the vessel afloat for just a minute longer as the survivors of the demonic attack prepared lifeboats to allow them escape. They still sought to stay with the Golden Fleet, even if their failure would mean a severe punishment. Ships seemed to hold more worth these days than troll lives.

Bal'akra stared at the polished, glyphed skull she held in her hand. She had vivid memories of the twisted thing that it had once belonged to. Their showdown stood out in particular, seeing the madness in the poor creature's eyes as Bal'akra struck her down and devoured her magic. That one had not valued life either. That one...

That one had been more like Zul than the blood witch dared admit at the time.

Someone was shouting, had been shouting for a while. Bal'akra shook herself out of the strange reverie. The first mate was pointing past her. There, the near-headless corpse of the captain slumped over the steering wheel, half his head gone from a blow from the infernal. "Lady Bal'akra!" The first mate saluted briefly before indicating a space in the very last remaining boat. The others were already underway to join the rest of the armada. A row of spearmen held back the enraged seamen, spitting curses at the burly guards who refused to allow them on board of their only chance at salvation. Even as she watched, one of the brutes skewered a worker and tossed the twitching body at the others. She could not see the guard's face, yet she knew it was completely impassive, devoid of lust or enjoyment or rage. They might as well have been carved from stone, with stones for hearts and stones for brains.

This is what Zul has done for us. To us.

She waved the first mate away. That at least provoked a reaction, as his face contorted into a scowl. "My lady, the boat is waiting for you. We must evacuate the ship before-" She gave him a disgusted look. "Before we lose even more of who we were? Before we sacrifice more of our pride? Our people? Our very legacy? No." She turned away, to stare at the slain captain. "Zul may well wish to stay here forever as the world burns around him. He would rather rule over ashes than see the bigger threat." "Lady Bal'akra, what you speak is treason." She felt a strong hand grab her by the shoulder and whirled around, smashing the skull in the first mate's face.

***

The brief flash of red was all it took. She felt the blood splatter her skull and eagerly drank in its power.

It was gone as quickly as it appeared. But it had been enough.

***

He stumbled, clutching at his broken nose. One of his tusks had been shattered, the splinters hanging from a thin strip of flesh. "Leave me!" she commanded, and the officer hastened to obey, but not before giving her a mocking salute, his gaze filled with venom.

As the lifeboat was lowered into the water, one of the workers appeared, begging for help. Bal'akra was no shaman, and ever if she had been she was too exhausted to be of much use. And yet... the crew looked at her with hope, believing she would yet save them all. This was the lie that Rastakhan and his ilk had ingrained deeply in their very souls; as the lowliest of Zandalari was like a god to any other tribe, the priests and magic-wielders were like gods to the worker caste. In their eyes, she was infallible.

Their naive, blind zealotry filled her with hope.

She reached out with her consciousness, attempting to assess the situation. They were sinking from the infernal's impact. Its fel corruption was seeping into the wood, widening the breach with every passing moment. Dead bodies littered the deck, some charred by the demonic attacker, some impaled by the spears of their very tribesmates. Despite her exhaustion, she called upon the spilled blood, drawing out tendrils of sweet intoxicating magic. She whispered an apology to the spirits of the departed, begging them to forgive this desecration. Perhaps it was enough to open a gateway somewhere... anywhere...

A whistling sound tore through her concentration, followed by a loud crash. Stunned, the blood witch watched as their own fleet began firing upon the vessel, attempting to hasten its demise. An explosion rocked the deck and sent the workers flying like ragdolls scattered by an angry child. The ocean swallowed their bodies, their lifeblood... their power.

There is not going to be enough.

The realisation made her tear up. Her people were being slaughtered... and it was their kin who were their executioners. They had trusted her, and now...

Save yourself.

The thought startled her. Her people needed her, were begging for her aid. She was not like the others of her caste, she could see that now. She could-

You cannot do anything here. You can die, and be lost. Or you can live and return to avenge these deaths.

There was truth to the words, and she hated herself for the thought... No, not hers. She stared at the skull. There was... something different about it. An intangible spark danced within the empty eye-sockets, as elusive as faerie fire. And yet she could not avert her eyes. More thoughts flooded into her mind.

Our fates are entwined. I would see us both safe, away from Zul's scheming. I... know of a way. I have walked it before, as have others like me. The path of the very gods themselves.

Warily, Bal'akra opened up her mind to the flood of information. She saw visions of an ever-shifting landscape of such unimaginable beauty that it physically hurt the eyes. She saw pathways that gods had carved in days of yore. And beyond that...

Mortals had touched this realm as well. Not just any mortals either; she recognised the familiar scent of ancient troll sorcery. And blood. So much blood... She whispered a word. "Hakkari..."

They opened the path to birth their twisted god into our world, yes. We can take their magic, use it for our own ends. We can survive. Take what power you can wrap around you and leave.

She saw clearly now. Her death here would accomplish nothing, her name would be struck from all records, never to be spoken again. That was her fate, now that she had dared to speak against Zul and the Zandalari way. She might as well never have existed.

She drew the last of the captain's essence from his corpse. He had been a mighty warrior in life, one of those touched by the unstoppable power of the storm at the command of Lei Shen, and that power yearned to be unleashed once more. Wielding it was the sweetest of ecstasies, the sharpest of pains. A complex net of hair-thin tattoos, usually hidden beneath her downy fur, blazed brightly all across her body. The skull in her hands was limned in a soft red glow as she called upon more and more. She felt her skin part as veins of primal magic tore through the ornamental patterns. Immediately, she unleashed that awesome power and side-stepped into the realm of the gods.

As another blast shook the ship, the drained body crumbled to dust, and with it disappeared the last evidence of Bal'akra's presence.

***

The dank, lichen-covered ruins were silent, as they had been for years now. Fosforescent fungus provided some meagre illumination. The dust and slime along the floor were but a pale shadow of much more unspeakable ichors whose spilling in days long gone had marked the whole temple as a place of evil. A row of massive sculptures in the shape of troll skulls lined both sides of an abandoned corridor, an honour guard for... nothing, for at the end stood a carved archway that must have once served a ceremonial purpose. At first glance it might seem to have been blocked off, but a closer inspection would prove this was not the case. The wall behind it had always been there; it was never meant to be anything as mundane as a simple entrance to another hallway.

A blood-red serpent slithered through a hole in the wall and unfurled its feathered wings. Suddenly it froze up and stared at the arch intently, its tongue tasting the air. A distant thrum seemed to emanate from the empty doorway. As it grew stronger, the serpent noted the tang of strangely familiar magics in the air. The glyphs carved into the archway began to glow, complementing the swelling noise. As it grew to a fevered pitch, the serpent rose and hissed-

With a thunderous sound, the gateway was opened. The backlash of energies scoured the hallway clean of muck and lichen. Where before a winged serpent stood defiant, a sad little pile of bones clattered to the ground.

A troll stumbled through the portal, her forearms lacerated and bleeding. With a feral, terrified look in her eyes she lurched to the nearest statue, holding onto it as though it was her only salvation. A blood-spattered, glyphed skull clattered across the floor. She glanced back at the shifting portal and screamed a word of power. The portal shimmered and collapsed as its magic was untethered from this plane.

Bal'akra crumpled to the ground. A trail of bloody footprints ran from the empty archway to where she lay sobbing and drawing ragged breaths.

***

She yearned to feast on the sweet, heady energies, to draw it all into herself. It would be a waste, however. There was so much more she could do with this blood. Loathing every moment of it, she sacrificed nearly all of her strength to bind the precious liquid's essence to herself, make it part of her very soul.

First came pain. Not the blade-sharp agony she had felt before, but a dull, red throbbing that was so much easier to deal with; physical pain, not spiritual torment. She felt her chest heave- no, not hers. The irregular, gasping breathing was that of her slayer and jailor. She could hear now, the sobs escaping lips that were not hers, the occasional wet, sticky plop as another droplet of blood fell from Bal'akra's lacerated arms to join the small puddle that had already accumulated beneath her. She could even smell the blood now.

Sight yet eluded her. She dared not push herself further, for fear of draining all her energy or worse, alerting the blood witch to her presence.

***

Finally, the terror subsided. Bal'akra attempted to wipe the tears from her eyes, only managing to smear dark, sticky blood across her face. She hobbled over to a circular bowl that had at some point likely been a brazier, but now merely served to gather filthy, slimy water as it filtred through the walls. Still, it was enough to at least wash the blood away.

It would not stop coming. Her wounds, usually so swift to mend, remained stubbornly open. She called to the loa, to ask them what was wrong.

Silence. She shuddered. This place, this temple of unspeakable horrors... it knew but one master, one who wanted his victims torn and bleeding. Here, he had first entered the world and both the material plane and that of the spirits were twisted by his vile presence. Hakkar's stench was everywhere, preventing her gods from mending her flesh.

She tore several long strips of cloth from her dress, using them as crude bandages. If she could get away from the temple, she might be able to heal... she glanced at the disgusting water. Provided infection would not kill her first.

She needed a light to see by. Gathering her strength, she reached into the spirit realm and drew out a fragment of some lost soul, letting it hover above her shoulder. The pale, deathly corpselight was barely any brighter than the illumination provided by the fungus, but it would have to suffice.

The skull still lay on the floor. It appeared miraculously clean, not a single drop of blood marred its polished dome. Bal'akra glared at it suspiciously. No doubt it had quenched its thirst on the crimson liquid, yet instead of pulsing with energy it appeared nearly inert. She picked it up gingerly and opened her mind to its voice again. The spirit bound within the grisly trophy was indeed exhausted and weak. Perhaps exposure to the dreamways or even the soul-leeching dread of the temple itself had finally subdued the creature. Still, Bal'akra caught a sliver of a memory that gave her pause. She sent her magic arcing through the skull, seeking to awaken and restore that memory.

Her sight was blurred and... strange, less a dream and more the faint impressions one leaves upon waking. She drifted through decrepit corridors in search of something, an object of great power that called to her. The image grew progressively darker, and she was forced to give up yet more of her power to keep the spirit along with all its memories from fading away. On and on, through the winding catacombs, past statues and ancient, decayed mummies. Down here, the temple's ornamentation seemed nigh untouched, with gold still gleaming beneath the grime. And there, lying in the lap of a statue to some long-forgotten priest...

Pain forced her to abandon her search. She slumped to the floor, panting. The knowledge had come at a steep price, for both herself and the spirit bound to the skull. This expenditure had been foolish, for now-

She realised she was dying. The temple would kill her, as it had so many who had come to plunder its ancient riches. And if she perished here, all that would await her was Hakkar's eternal scorn. Here, she could not pass peacefully to her ancestors. A mad little chuckle escaped her lips. She had given up everything, abandoned her people, her tribe, her kind, all for the sake of a world that reviled her. And now she was dying.

The artifact...

Bal'akra snorted loudly. Now the creature chose to speak to her. It too knew they were both doomed.

Seek... the artifact... Zimta'kali... blood of thousands...

She opened herself to the images the skull was sending her. An ancient troll, kept alive through malice and magic. Sacrifices to the Faceless God. Knives and altars, a statue in a jungle clearing, the image of a-

Soulscythe...

The images grew more intense. She saw the ancient priest wielding the weapon, tearing through the veil to feed on the torment as his followers sacrificed trolls by the score. The image flickered, and now the city was burning as a veritable tide of insurgents tore the temples apart, slaying any who failed to escape their wrath. The ancient priest seemed unfazed. His scythe traced complex patterns in the air. Finally, with a mighty slash, he tore the veil one last time. This time, the breach remained, shimmering in the air. He handed the scythe to an acolyte who promptly jumped through the newly established portal. The ancient one disrobed, stepping toward the roaring mob with all the dignity of one of the legendary Zandalari God-Kings.

Bal'akra bit her lip. She knew exactly why she had been shown this vision. In any other scenario, she would have refused an offer such as this. She would rather have chosen the peace of death... but in any other scenario, she knew her soul would be safely taken to the halls of her ancestors. Here, it would merely feed Hakkar's endless hunger. "The scythe... it is here? In this temple?"

Yes... I... know... where...

The blood witch drew a deep breath. "Lead me."

***

The corpselight flickered constantly, making the shadows dance and move like demons. Twice, Bal'akra thought she had heard shuffling sounds behind her, but she never glimpsed any other living creature. There were old bones strewn all over the place, sometimes in piles. Some looked as though they had been gnawed on, but their age made it impossible to tell whether this had occured recently or years, decades, even centuries ago.

Occasionally, the skull would whisper the direction they had to take. She delved deeper and deeper into the forgotten ruins, at one point having to squeeze through a narrow crack that was all that remained of a collapsed doorway. The passage it led to was barely any better; debris and sharp rock shards stabbed at her feet until she bled again.

What lay behind the next archway stopped her dead in her tracks. Before her was a deep, murky pool of stagnant water, with no visible way of crossing it. On the other side stood an altar adorned with carved likenesses of the Blood God himself. Even in the low light, she could see that it had been inlaid with gold and ruby. She despaired. This was nothing like what she had seen in her vision.

Swim...

She prodded the surface of the pool with a toe. "Spirits... no. I cannot-"

Swim. Bottom... passage...

A brief clatter of stone made her turn around. She felt more than heard a deep, swift, throbbing rhythm, as though of giant drums sounding off in the distance. It startled her to realise it was only her heartbeat.

The blood witch whispered a word, sending the corpselight to hover slowly toward the broken hallway. She crept after it, always keeping her distance. She was not going to make the mistake of assuming it was nothing only to be ambushed later.

A hand shot out of the darkness, swiping ineffectively at the floating orb. Its owner let out a gurgling groan of frustration. Bal'akra swiftly called upon her magic to tear the creature apart. As it fell, answering groans resonated through the darkness, followed by shuffling footsteps. She could see the glimmer of pale, dead eyes just beyond the circle of light. She knew exactly what the creature had been - barely more than a puppet, a mummified horror whose spirit had been torn from its rightful rest and forced back into its body with the intent of forming a perfect slave for its Hakkari master.

She had retreated to the water's edge now, but the zombies kept creeping in closer and closer. She had no strength left to fight them, especially without knowing how many there were at all.

Swim...

There truly was no other option left to her. She strapped the skull to her belt and plunged into the dark pool before the undead could tear her to shreds.

She swam blindly, refusing to open her eyes. Her hands scraped at mud and she realised she had reached the bottom.

Straight forward. Just a couple yards more. Now up... nearly there...

Her lungs burned and she longed to take a breath of air, musty as it may be. Finally she broke the surface again. Pulling herself from the pool, she rubbed the muck from her eyes and stared in awe at what the corpselight revealed.

This was the portion of the temple she had seen in her vision. Reverently, she ran a hand across the golden ornamentation, untouched by time beneath the layer of filth.

Water... will not stop them. Go.

She broke herself from her reverie. It was true, the zombies would find a way of following her sooner rather than later. She had to move quickly and claim the artifact. She stumbled on as swiftly as she could.

First entrance to the left. Then the second to the right. Past the row of golden masks, down a stairwell that seemed to never end...

And there it was. The corridor she had seen, the statue... the scythe! Its curved handle was of some strange, dark-red wood, wrapped in rough, ancient cloth. The blade was adorned with spikes, glyphs, and the image of a skull. She heaved a sigh of relief and reached for the artifact-

Her hand passed right through it. Her blood suddenly ran cold.

"No. No, no, no no no no NO!" She swiped at the weapon again, to no avail. Someone, somehow, had done... something. Shifted the scythe into another plane, so it could not be touched.

Spirit... world...

She fell to her knees and let out a sob of defeat. At her full power, she might have been able to retrieve the scythe, provided there were no other obstacles hidden behind the veil. As she was... even attempting to step into the realm of spirits would immediately destroy her. She had nothing left to give. She had failed.

At the edge of her hearing, Bal'akra thought she could hear the shuffling. They would find her, and they would turn her into one of them; another monstrosity to prowl these halls, praising masters long gone, attending rites long forgotten. She had failed.

Take... me... together... enough power...

She stared into the skull's empty sockets. Perhaps it was true; by devouring that soul she might have enough strength after all. And it had offered itself freely. She bowed her head. The torment that one was forced to go through... yes, perhaps obliteration was the only peace it would ever know. The blood witch unwrapped the blood-soaked bandages from her hands. "I thank you," she murmured as she drew the last remnants of energy from her victim.

The skull's carvings blazed bright red for a moment, then dimmed for the last time. Bal'akra felt... renewed. She immediately turned her attention to the artifact, dropping the skull to clatter across the floor.

Magic raced through the tattoos adorning her body. As she reached for the scythe, she could now feel its outline, nearly solid enough to grasp. She concentrated harder. Yes, she had felt the coarse fabric of the wrapping this time. Just a little more-

A crackling voice spoke a word she could not recognise. The spell was broken. They had found her.

The undead creature lurched towards her, hands outstretched as if seeking an embrace. She made one final attempt at grabbing the weapon, but again her hand passed right through it. This is it then, she thought. At least I can fall with dignity. And take a couple of them with me.

The blood witch drew herself up to her full, impressive height. Raw magic crackled across her knuckles. She could see others just behind the shambling monstrosity. As the zombie came within a few yards of her, she raised her hand-

"KNEEL!" The word echoed through the chamber. Bal'akra stared in awe as the undead froze in its tracks, then crumpled to a heap. It rose to its knees, its eyes fixed intently on the blood witch. She peered around the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever had roared the command, when it struck her.

It had been her voice.

Panic gripped her. She found she could not control her arm or the swirling vortex of magic that yet engulfed her hand. Ponderously, her body took a step forward, and another, and another. She screamed at it to stop, to no avail. She watched helplessly as her hands gripped the skull she had so carelessly tossed away. Her mouth formed words of power, words she recognised immediately. So much power surged through the tattoos that the skin around fingers no longer her own started to burn and peel away. She felt herself fading away and tried to scream as her soul was torn from her body and entombed within the glowing framework of glyphs.

***

She took a deep breath, enjoying every moment of the experience. It was finished. She lived once again, even if the body was not her own. No matter, she had always wondered what it would feel like to be Zandalari.

"You thought to control me," she whispered to the skull that had once been hers and now held her former captor. "Better trolls than you have tried, and I destroyed them all. You saw Zimta'kali, he whose scythe you sought to wield. He once laid claim to my flesh, much as I did with yours. He thought me banished forever. He was wrong." She laughed, and the way her lungs heaved with the sound made her feel almost dizzy. "I devoured him, made his memories part of my own, then handed what little remained of a once-mighty Hakkari high priest to Bwonsamdi."

She walked over to where the scythe lay. "It was I who retrieved the Soulscythe of Zimta'kali, and I hid it within the realm of spirits." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Perhaps... perhaps part of me knew the havoc I would have wrought, had it remained in my possession." She shook her head as though to clear it.

When next she spoke, her voice was thunderous, a proclamation and a challenge. "No matter. The demons have returned, and this world needs its might once again." Her hand glowed briefly and she grabbed the handle effortlessly. The runes adorning its blade blazed to life, their pale red glow strangely at odds with the corpselight's blue flame. She strode towards the exit, stopping only briefly to reap the life from the prostrated zombie.

"I am Kasari. And in our world's darkest hour, I have returned."

[rykhafirehand]

The Price of Hope

((A fanfic about a buncha my OCs, featuring Grandmother Ishran, Gardrak Nighteye, plus a little cameo by Rykha Firehand and technically @draka-daughter-of-zuura‘s Urs Earthwielder.))

The mountain loomed tall and grim, darker than any Ishran had ever seen in Draenor. Its smooth surfaces should have been bathed in the last light of the day, yet though perfectly smooth, they remained resolutely black. She attempted to avert her gaze, but her eyes were constantly drawn to the dark stone... and the mountain's summit.

She knew what was waiting there. And knowing made it all the harder to make that first step, to ascend the roughly carved steps, to face the truth. Ishran silently scolded herself. She was a shaman. She was Blackrock. Fear was for the lesser clans, the weak mewling babes. This was her vision. The Spirits granted it to her and her alone. They knew she was strong enough.

And thus she took that first step. And the second. And third. In silence, she ascended the stairwell, flanked by razor-sharp shards of pure shadow. The air grew warm, then hot, then oppressively heavy. It did not feel like the heat of a furnace, no; no matter the machinery used, that always felt good and proper and still tied to the Elements. This felt simply wrong. The Spirits were weakened here, wounded by the... thing she could now hear snarling and spitting defiantly.

She rounded the final corner, and beheld the poor deluded creature. Amidst the shadows, a giant she-wolf twisted and turned, snapping at nothing, seemingly fighting against impossible odds. The beast's coat was tattered and torn, gashes marring the once luxurious fur. Her wounds were seemingly self-inflicted, caused by the unholy furor gripping her heart. Even as Ishran watched, the she-wolf tossed herself at the black stone, bringing her jaws together with enough force to shatter it to shards that pierced her muzzle. Dripping blood, the she-wolf withdrew and turned her rabid gaze to Ishran...

No, she was looking past the shaman. The madness seemed to fade, replaced by sudden clarity and an unimaginable, boundless sadness. Sadness for a life thrown away, a home lost, a love abandoned. Ishran knew what the beast was looking at. The final rays of the setting Sun, the fading red light painting the she-wolf's eyes a bright purple... and as the light faded, the dark rock seemed to grow even more menacing, its edges even sharper, its spires twisting like claws to claim the creature as their own...

No. The she-wolf refused to be taken. Her last mournful howl shook the earth, and the beast blazed brighter than the Sun herself.

The mountain erupted. Ishran awoke.

***

As she entered the hovel of Commander Nighteye, Ishran removed her rylak-skin hood. Gardrak sat in his throne, staring at the massive hammer resting across his knees. He sighed. "Ishran." "Gardrak," she replied. There was silence, one that she refused to break. She was a shaman, one of the oldest remaining among the Blackrock. She would be shown proper respect.

Finally, the warrior lifted his gaze. "Why have you come, shaman?" Ishran inclined her head slightly, displeased by the Commander's tone. "To save who and what I can. To protect our clan." Gardrak Nighteye set his hammer aside and leaned back in his throne, seemingly uninterested. His eyes however remained locked with Ishran's, and in them shone the briefest glimmer of... something. The shaman could but pray it was hope. Gardrak waved his fingers. "Go on."

"We have lost here. You know that. Our chieftain slain, the Iron Horde dismantled or... twisted." She spat out the word as though its taste offended her. "There is no hope for us in Gorgrond. Not anymore." The warrior rubbed his eyes with a gauntleted hand. "Your words are wind, shaman. Tell me something I don't already know." Anger flared inside Ishran. "Watch your tongue, whelp. Were your father here-" "He is not here. They are all gone. We are all gone, or we might as well be. Your words are wind." Gardrak's face remained impassive as he spoke the words. He truly believes them, thought Ishran. Even he has lost hope.

She drew herself to her full height, slamming her walking-stick to the ground with a resounding thwack. "There is a way to save our people, Nighteye. One that requires more courage than anything we have faced thus far." He attempted to wave her away, but she refused to be cowed by one such as him. "We must surrender. For the clan."

The warrior's hand flew to the handle of his hammer. Within moments, he closed the distance between himself and Ishran. "Did you sell your soul to Gul'dan? I thought you were a shaman! I thought you valued-" he growled, but Ishran swiftly interrupted him. "You dare! You dare accuse me of such vileness! Me, who have given everything for the clan!" Sparks flew from between her teeth. She whacked the stunned Gardrak on the cheek with her cane, and bolts of lightning danced across the warrior's body, causing his hammer to fly from limp fingers. "You dare raise a weapon against me!"

Gardrak bit back a retort and stared at the ground. Ishran used the ensuing silence to compose herself, then spoke again. "No, I would not have us consult with Gul'dan. We must seek help, and his poisons would bring us but slavery. We must look elsewhere for our salvation." A deep laughter escaped Gardrak. Ishran pursed her lips, wanting nothing more than to strike the whelp once again. "And whose skirts shall we hide behind, shaman? The draenei? The arakkoa? We have damned ourselves, our world. Who is going to spare the Blackrock?"

"The Horde."

Gardrak clenched and unclenched his fist. His expression was unreadable. "The Horde. The strangers from beyond the Portal. No." "We must, Gardrak. There is no other way-" He growled in his throat. "No. It would be like exchanging one yoke for another. The Iron Horde led our clan to ruin, and yet you would have us join with those... invaders?" His voice grew distant, weak, broken. "They, who took Sorya?"

The name still drove a dagger into Ishran's heart. Sorya, her only child... her sweet, headstrong daughter... and Gardrak's mate. She stood at Nighteye's side as the Portal was destroyed, and there she fell, impaled by a spear. She had been well beyond healing by the time Ishran got to her, and that failure would forever haunt her thoughts. She was so young, so strong. She was taken, and I was left to wallow in anguish. It should have been me.

"It should have been you, then?" she asked aloud, her voice rough. Before Gardrak could respond, she continued. "If you wish to die, you are free to do so. Find yourself a goren hole, strip naked, toss yourself in there. Cave your head in with your own hammer for all I care." Her voice dropped to a menacing growl. "But I will not have you send our people to their doom. I would sooner strike you down myself. Do you believe I would derive any pleasure from that? My child loved you once, stubborn and frankly daft fool that you are. I would rather not sully her memory by destroying something she cherished. And whatever else you might be, you are a fighter. You have the chance to serve your people. Do it for them. For Sorya. For the clan."

Nighteye regarded her for a while, his gaze steady. Finally he bowed his head ever so slightly. "Very well, shaman. For the clan."

***

The mountain seemed more foreboding than ever before. The sharp spires that lined Ishran's path coiled and twisted like living things, seemingly reacting to her presence. She could hear the she-wolf's anguished cries, wilder and more pained than they had been in other visions.

Ishran reached the summit, and saw why. Shadowy figures danced silently around the beast, mirroring her every move. They too might have been wolves once, before darkness took them, twisting and corrupting all they had been. Their figures seemed nearly solid, not entirely a dream... yet the she-wolf could neither bite nor claw them. And they never made a sound.

This is what she sees, realised Ishran. This is her delusion. Poor thing.

A shadow-wolf lunged now, and the she-wolf howled in pain as its fangs tore into her flank. Limping she made her way to Ishran, pleading for release, pleading to be saved...

The Sun set. The light faded. The shadow-wolves howled triumphantly.

And the she-wolf was engulfed in flames.

She fought on, knowing her light was fading, knowing that without the Sun, she was lost. And yet she would not give in. Ishran could see beyond the Elements the beast was forced to twist in order to save her soul. The shaman could see now, she was brave, and strong, and so very young. So much like Sorya.

The shadow-wolves snarled now, their rage impotent against the raging inferno engulfing the she-wolf. Darkness was burned away at her touch, yet with every moment her flames were fading. If only Ishran could do something, if only...

She felt a strange thrum coming from the ground beneath her feet. The she-wolf must have felt it too, for she yelped in confusion. The beast's eyes widened suddenly and her tail wagged uncertainly. Then the Earth rose.

Five pillars struck through the darkness, not made of the dark, oppressive rock. They were brown, like Draenor's soil. They almost look like... fingers.

The pillars closed in around the joyous she-wolf, not clawing at her, but caressing her fur, mending her very spirit.

And with a triumphant howl, the she-wolf split the mountain apart. It erupted in a fiery cataclysm, magma flowing from deep cracks in the dark rock. The darkness itself was washed away, falling to shards, to dust. The shadow-wolves struck at the she-wolf's shelter, unable to pass between the pillars. They too were burned away.

After what felt like aeons, the tremors ceased. In place of the mountain now stood a single pillar... no, an arm. An arm made of pure Earth, and in the palm of its hand slumbered the battered, weak, yet content she-wolf.

The sunrise painted the image in shades of orange and yellow, and the she-wolf yawned. She opened her purple eyes and nuzzled at one of the massive fingers. She seemed almost unimaginably glad of their presence.

Glad to simply be alive.

***

Ishran was awoken by the sound of a war-horn. She wrapped herself as best she could in furs and stepped out into the cold, harsh sunlight.

She had to cover her eyes to avoid being blinded. The permanent snows of Frostfire Ridge were not exactly to her liking, but she was prepared to brave them should they bring her people salvation. A youngling almost bumped into her. The girl must have been sent to fetch her.

"What is the hurry, Brekka?" asked the shaman with a hint of amusement. The girl bobbed her head up and down, seemingly uncertain whether she should bow before Ishran or not. "It is the guards, Grandmother. We are surrounded!"

Ishran strode past the child, toward Gardrak's so-called perimeter. They barely had enough healthy warriors to protect their caravan from beasts, let alone establish proper defenses, yet the fool still had them set up makeshift barricades the moment their beasts faltered. That had been happening more and more often recently.

She could see their assailants now; orcs wrapped in furs and blue-dyed leather, riding astride massive white wolves. And Gardrak, still not fully healed after his last encounter with a pack of saberon, brandishing his hammer, getting ready to attack...

"Stand down! Stand down right now, or I swear you'll feel the palm of my hand!" Ishran's voice was amplified by the wind and carried to every one of the Blackrock soldiers. Some dropped their arms on the spot, their loyalty deeply ingrained in their very souls. Others refused; Ishran noted that Gardrak was among the latter. She wrinkled her nose and pulled her rylak-skin hood over her face, then walked purposefully towards him. "Nighteye, are you deaf? I said stand down! Do it right now!"

Gardrak seemed as though he might object, but then snorted and forcefully tossed his hammer in the snow. The others who had held onto their weapons followed suit, and Ishran made her way past them, toward their foe. As she strode past Gardrak, she heard him mutter "They'll kill you, shaman," but she paid the former Commander no heed. The Frostwolves regarded her with suspicion, obviously uncertain what to make of this new development. She spread her arms and bowed her head.

"Greetings, noble wolf-siblings of the Frostwolf clan. By my right as elder shaman of this remnant of the Blackrock clan I greet you and offer you to share our fire and what little food we might spare." She breathed in deeply. The Frostwolves still seemed uncertain of what to make of this. "In return, I beg but one thing. We know now we were deceived. We know now we fought... we died for nothing but lies. Many of us have blood on our hands, myself included. I will not beg for my life, it is yours to do with as you may please. I beg for the wounded and children, spare them. Show them mercy, for the good of both our clans."

She knelt in the snow and pulled back her hood, exposing her neck in submission. The Frostwolf leader dismounted and stepped forward. He seemed to ponder for a while, then offered Ishran a hand. He looked at one of his outriders. "Send word to Durotan. More deserters from the Iron Horde." Ishran heard Gardrak snort behind her and prayed the fool had enough sense not to cause a scene. She accepted the Frostwolf's help and stood up. The male smiled at her and bowed his head. "We will gladly share your fire for a while, shaman. And we will see you and your people safely to Bladespire."

Ishran smiled in response. She felt true joy, knowing that her people would yet live to see the new sunrise.

[rykhafirehand]

Hellhammer, Part 1

So, I promised it and here it is. The first part of my Hellhammer Thrall AU fanfic.

The flap covering the only entrance to Drek'thar's tent was drawn back, and a lithe figure entered. The old warlock glanced at Draka, noted her scowl.  In the evening gloom the only reason he could even see her expression was the flickering, unhallowed glow of her eyes. He knew why she had come, even before she spoke. "He is ill again, Drek'thar."

Illness. That was what they were forced to call what had once been their people's greatest boon. Not ten moons past, the young Go'el had confronted his father, terrified by the insistent voices he heard in his sleep. At first, Durotan dismissed it as a side-effect of the demonic blood they had all been forced to drink... until the youth mentioned that the voices spoke of balance and harmony, not rage and destruction.

Once, Drek'thar was counted among those who could speak to the Great Spirits. Once, he would immediately have urged the chieftain to allow Go'el to become his own apprentice. Once, he had been a shaman. He retained the practical knowledge from that time, knew the herbs of the then verdant fields. The land was barren and dead now, and the Spirits no longer spoke to him.

"My supplies are dwindling, Draka. I cannot say when I might be able to replenish them..." The female growled softly. "He is heir to the clan... such as it is. He must be protected, warlock." She lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper "Gul'dan must not know." Drek'thar nodded. He knew well the need for secrecy; were Gul'dan to learn that the Frostwolf Clan were harbouring a potential shaman, they would be eradicated, erased from history like the Redwalker and Whiteclaw. And Gul'dan had spies everywhere...

"There will be side-effects," muttered the warlock as he handed over a vial of sickly green liquid. Drek'thar knew he had performed numerous atrocities in these past two decades, yet the mere sight of the fel-tainted sapta still turned his stomach. Draka accepted the vial and gave him a sad, forlorn smile. "There always are, old friend."

***

Durotan could feel the glares of the Blackrock as they passed them. Frostwolves had been despised, yet reluctantly tolerated by the Horde even at the best of times. There was no telling what the Blackrock may do to them now that the clans had splintered once again. He had to constantly force himself not to snarl at the hulking, red-skinned monsters who had once been noble orcs.

He and Draka were ushered into a dimly-lit hovel, the dwelling of his one-time friend. Even though Orgrim had slain Blackhand and taken the mantle of Warchief for himself, he seemed to prefer a much less grandiose life than that of his predecessor. The twisted metal throne he occupied looked woefully out of place in this humble abode. Durotan felt a pang in his heart; the hovel stirred memories of a time long past, a time when they could not have even imagined how far the orcish people would fall.

Orgrim shifted in his seat, not even bothering to rise and greet the Frostwolves. His crimson-lit eyes sat like smouldering coals in the shadows beneath his heavy brow. His skin was a vivid green, not red... perhaps there was some hope after all.

The Warchief signalled the guards to leave. They hesitated, and Orgrim snarled. "Do you take me for a weakling? You believe these runts pose any threat to me?" he rumbled. Durotan quickly grabbed Draka by the hand and squeezed gently. She relaxed slightly, but her brow remained furrowed and her lip twisted to reveal her teeth.

They were left standing alone before the Warchief's throne. Finally, Orgrim sighed and rubbed his eyes, obscuring the unnatural glow. "Durotan... Draka... why are you here?" Durotan bowed his head slightly. "Once, you would have greeted us as friends, Orgrim. What happened to you?" The Warchief grunted. "War. Death. Destruction. You know exactly what happened, Frostwolf. Now, state your business or begone."

Durotan closed his eyes. Against his better judgement, he had hoped to get through to Orgrim, convince him that there was another way... "We were hoping to find a Warchief, not a mewling weakling cowering behind Gul'dan's skirt." Durotan stared in a daze as Draka turned to him. "I told you he was too far gone. The fel blood muddled his brain, Durotan. We must leave, now!" Orgrim stood up now, hefting the Doomhammer. "You believe I would let you insult me to my face, then allow you to leave? You spew your bile at me and expect me to..." The Warchief sighed and seemed to deflate. He crumpled back into his seat. "Leave me. I have lost enough without losing you two as well."

Despite Draka's protests, Durotan walked up to the throne. "Orgrim. Brother. All is not yet lost. We can still-" Orgrim shot him a withering glance. "No, brother. I know what you are about to say. We cannot save our people. We are finished, the most we can do is lie down and await death as our world crumbles around us. What do you think I am doing? All this..." Orgrim thumped his breastplate and gestured at his throne, "I do what I must to keep the Blackrock in check. I show them strength when in truth I have none left. They follow me without question... and I keep them away from the other clans. Away from your clan, Durotan." He sighed heavily again. "Gul'dan has left us all to rot, consumed by our hatred and rage."

Draka silently approached the throne and sat herself on the armrest. She placed a hand on Orgrim's shoulder. "It is about Gul'dan that we wish to speak to you, friend." She glanced at Durotan, who spoke. "We have learned of his betrayal, the true betrayal behind it all. We believed the warlocks controlled the demons, that they were a tool in the hands of our ancestors. In truth, Gul'dan deceived us all, even our shaman. He sold us to the demons, mind and soul."

"And you would have us do... what? Stand side by side as we strike down the great betrayer together?" Orgrim locked eyes with Durotan. The Frostwolf held his gaze for a while, then lowered his eyes and shrugged. "Perhaps. If we can manage to." Orgrim shook his head. "Durotan, please leave this place. Perhaps you are right, perhaps Gul'dan sold us to the demons. We cannot change that anymore. We are dying."

Durotan glanced at Draka, who nodded lightly. With heavy hearts, they left the Warchief's abode.

In his throne, Orgrim buried his face in his hands.

***

The Blackrock snarled and spat at Go'el. He knew better than to growl back. His business on this day with with their chieftain alone. Besides, anyone foolish enough to assault him would first have to carve their way through his bodyguards, Grom Hellscream with his mate Golka and their son Garrosh, as well as their retinue of Warsong berserkers. As he reached the home of Orgrim Doomhammer, he stomped his feet, threw back his head, and howled.

A sudden hush spread among the Blackrock. They recognised the challenge cry. At Go'el's side, Garrosh grinned savagely. They waited for a while, and Go'el repeated his cry. This time, Grom took it up as well, then the rest of the Warsong. They stamped their feet until the earth itself shook.

Finally, a figure emerged from the shadows. Orgrim was well past his prime, his hair thin and bone-white, his jowls drooping. His skin was green, tinged with splotches of orange, yet his eyes remained crimson. Though he had a haunted look about him, his voice was still powerful and commanding. "I have heard your challenge cry, Go'el, son of Durotan. What claim do you have over the Blackrock, that you would issue it?" The hulking red orc bared his tusks. "I have decimated your armies on the battlefield. I have given them warriors' deaths, something that was denied my father and mother when you betrayed them to Gul'dan. By right of conquest, by right of vengeance, I declare Mak'Gora."

The old Warchief stood in silence for a while. When he spoke again, it was in a softer, less aggressive tone. "As stubborn as your parents. You believe I betrayed them? They spoke foolishness and were overheard. Do not lay their deaths at my feet, whelp." He unstrapped the massive Doomhammer, pointing the black stone head at Go'el. "Were it not for me, their clan would have been eradicated long ago. You dare call me betrayer? You dare?" "Betrayer. Backstabber. That is all you are, try as you might to justify your actions to yourself," snarled Go'el. His tattooed chest rose and fell as the rage coursed through him.

Orgrim nodded. "Very well then. You will not listen to reason, nor did I expect you to. The demons have sunk their talons in your very soul, monster. So be it." He raised the hammer above his head, his voice once again that of a Warchief. "I accept your challenge. Let us fight by the hallowed rules of Mak'Gora, right here, right now. No armour, and a single weapon." Go'el grunted and removed his gauntlets. He grasped the harness that held his shoulderplates together with a clawed hand and tore it apart with ease. He held out his hand, and Garrosh passed him a brutal, heavy axe adorned with the symbol of the Frostwolves... the axe of Durotan.

"Whenever you are ready," he grunted, grinning savagely at the Warchief.

***

As he removed his own armour, Orgrim felt a surge of something he had not felt in a long time. For decades, he had despaired over his own actions and those of his people, and cursed himself for not being strong enough to stand up to Gul'dan when he could. Here, now... his fate dangling by a thread, aware that he would likely perish in the duel... it all seemed so clear. He stared at the Doomhammer, the weapon of prophecy. Yes. The prophecy.

He stepped into the makeshift ring, bowing his head to the challenger. Go'el was brutish, red-skinned, tainted beyond redemption... or was he? Within those fel-lit eyes burned something else, something Orgrim had last seen when Draka spat defiance against Gul'dan and his cronies, sealing both her and Durotan's fate.

For the briefest of moments, Orgrim felt hope. He poured all his newfound energy into the challenge roar, and heard it replicated by his opponent.

They charged each other.

The duel was much less one-sided than the difference in size between the combatants might suggest. Despite his age, Orgrim was yet nimble, dodging Go'el's attacks and retaliating with lightning speed. Axe and hammer clashed and parted and clashed again tirelessly.

Orgrim dodged a wide sweep and slammed the Doomhammer in Go'el's midsection, then brought it up against the fel orc's jaw with a hard crunch. Seizing the opportunity, the old Warchief yanked his stunned opponent's weapon from his grip and tossed it aside.

Go'el went into a furor. He threw his bulk against Orgrim, attempting to crush the Warchief. An enormous fist hit the old orc in the stomach, hurling him aside like a doll. Black splotches danced across his vision as he struggled for breath. He heard Go'el roar and quickly grasped the nearest weapon... the very axe he had snatched from his opponent's hands. He leapt to his feet just in time to see the hulking fel orc lift the Doomhammer...

A thunderclap shook the arena. In Go'el's hand, the Doomhammer glowed for a moment... then exploded into shards. The young orc seemed dazed, and Orgrim took the opportunity to charge.

He would never know how it was that Go'el managed to react in the split second. His foot shot out, tripping the Warchief and as he fell, the fel orc slammed the shattered hilt of the Doomhammer into its erstwhile owner's back. Orgrim was lifted into the air and brought down forcefully against Go'el's knee. He felt as though he had lost control of his body entirely, as though he was but an observer. He felt his spine snap with a sickening sound, and saw the sharp shard still attached to the Doomhammer's handle poking out of his stomach. It had gone all the way through his body.

Orgrim's vision was growing dark. He spat blood and with his last breath he muttered, "Lead our people... to victory..."

***

Go'el dropped the old orc's body to the ground. The voices were still raging inside his head, urging him on, showing him what to do...

He grasped his father's weapon and heard Grom's signature scream rend the still, followed by cheers. In silence, he walked over to where the Doomhammer's head lay shattered. He could still feel the raw power surging through his body, the lightning burning, cleansing, restoring something that he had thought long dead.

A hush went up around him as he picked up the shattered pieces one by one, holding them in the palm of one hand. You know what to do.

The storm awoke within him once again. Sparks of lightning jumped between the shards of the Doomhammer as Durotan's axe glowed as though it had been just pulled from the furnace. Go'el slammed the dark stone fragments against the blade of the axe with a deafening boom.

In the ensuing silence, the only sound was the occasional plink as the blade cooled. In place of his father's weapon was now a hybrid between axe and hammer, surging with elemental energies. He heard the Spirits rejoice as they dubbed him their champion.

He knew then, he was a shaman. And he would avenge more than just the deaths of his parents. He would avenge their world.

[rykhafirehand]

Memory

So, warnings... well, there’s bloodshed. Torture, mental and physical. All that good stuff. Read at your own disgression (though I reckon it’s worth it).

A light rapping on the door made Warren Wearne glance up from his work. "Enter," he growled. The door opened and a tall, lithe paladin in immaculate armour stepped through. "Tyrras. What a pleasant surprise." The worgen sniffed the air and grimaced. "What have you brought me this time?"

Tyrras saluted and beckoned to a chained figure. The creature's bulk immediately marked it as an orc, though it had not been that which made Wearne uneasy. It was the stench of putrification surrounding the figure, and now he noted the pale blue glow coming from its one remaining eyeball. The other socket was empty, with merely an occasional blue spark flickering in the darkness.

A death knight, then.

"One of our death knights captured this one," proclaimed Tyrras with veiled distaste. "She claims to be one of ours."

Wearne grunted and leaned back in his comfortable chair. "Fighting for the Iron Horde though? That is unusual." The paladin nodded. "She could be lying of course. Which is why we... require your services." He hadn't bothered hiding his disgust at all there, which made the worgen grin, a rather gruesome sight. "Leave us then. I do believe the fetters shall prove quite adequate, and if not... we are surrounded by guards. I need but call out for your valiant lads to come rushing in." He gave the paladin another grin, noting his discomfort. Tyrras merely nodded, then saluted and left, closing the door behind him.

Wearne grunted and rose from his chair. He approached the orc, not without caution. They were brutes and savages, to them violence was the first, last, and preferred resort. "Who are you?" he asked in Orcish.

The death knight made no move. In a rattling, whispery voice she groaned "Arkhara." The worgen repeated the name, garnering no reaction. He sent out a call, weaving the darkness around them both, and still the orc refused to move. There was no resistance whatsoever as he entered the creature's mind.

It was so empty. Where there should have been something, anything, there was but void. Despite himself, the shadowmancer shuddered. He had never felt anything like this, not even in the mindless creatures still plaguing the remnants of Lordaeron. The orc's mind was not merely broken, it had been... erased somehow. Steeling himself, he asked again, "Who are you?"

"Arkhara." The ripples in the void spoke of the creature's truthfulness. "Where did you come from, Arkhara?" A moment's silence. "Azeroth." This too was no lie. "Whom do you serve, Arkhara?" There was no doubt as to the truthfulness of the answer. Her conviction momentarily created a pillar within the void, a single solitary peak, unmovable, eternal. "The Warchief. The Iron Horde." And in a moment, the conviction was gone, leaving an empty slate again. Wearne pulled back, breaking the link. This creature would not lie. It could not lie. It was not even truly sentient.

"How did you end up here?" he asked in a hushed voice. He would have pitied the orc had he not seen her kind on the warpath. "I followed the Warchief. Warlord Zaela oversaw as our troops crossed the portal." "And what were your plans once here?" The orc seemed to ponder the question. Wearne felt he should have kept the mind-link, though he was loathe to attempt it again. That featureless void terrified him. The orc seemed to have come to a conclusion. "I am a soldier," she rattled.

The worgen grunted with annoyance. "You must have overheard something. Anything. What were your plans?" The orc remained impassive. "I am a soldier." Wearne's eyelid twitched. "I have little patience, undead. What were your plans once you entered Draenor?" "I am a soldier."

Wearne returned to his desk, breathing deeply. He was still unnerved by the memory of the creature's mind, and now it somehow defied him? How? How was that even possible? He glanced out the window. The moon was not quite full yet, though its pale light made his hair bristle. It was not a good time to bear the curse.

He snapped around, walking briskly across the room again. "Fine. Fine. You are a soldier. You must have known something was wrong though. You must have known that Garrosh was a xenophobic, evil-minded bastard with the morals of a cat. Why did you follow him?" "I am a soldier. I follow orders."

Wearne bristled. He wanted to howl his fury, but managed to hold it back somehow. "Stay right here," he snarled and stormed off.

Arkhara stood motionless, unblinking.

***

There were strands of what sounded like an argument in Common when the worgen returned, dragging a human in priestly robes behind him. He barked some orders at her, then turned to Arkhara. "This is Ealia. She will make you talk, you- you-" He growled and shook his head. He seemed to calm down slightly, and nodded to the priestess.

The young woman lifted a hand nervously. The light that limned her fingers was faint, but despite that it burned Arkhara's eye and filled her with something like fear.

A strand of that light crept toward the death knight. She attempted to ignore it, hoping it would not notice her, hoping it would go away, hoping-

The Light touched her. Arkhara let out a rattling, liquid-sounding scream.

Hoping-

She was caught in this moment. The flame surged through her, blazing through broken veins, pumping through a heart long since stilled. Hoping-

Hope. She had not hoped in-

She was torn from the ecstasy of pain, shoved back into the dull, cold, emotionless world. She was on her knees, panting and growling slightly under her breath. There is no need for this, she thought. Immediately, she stopped breathing. She was not alive, after all.

She recognised the command Wearne gave next. "Again."

Steeling herself, Arkhara awaited the next assault. Perhaps knowing what was to come would help-

The blaze broke through her defenses, searing her to her core. It tore away at her, breaking her piece by piece for what seemed like an eternity. Blinded, she stumbled...

***

Her foe blazed with a strange radiance, his hands tracing symbols in the air. She knew, without knowing how she knew it, that it would be a supremely bad idea to allow him to finish this incantation. She threw herself forward, feeling the unstoppable strength of the Earth behind her as she brought her axe down, severing the draenei's arms. She let out a triumphant howl. The Light faded, the blueskin's song turned to screams, and she whirled around, cleaving the anchorite in twain with a single brutal blow.

"Khargra!" she turned to the sound of her name-

***

"STOP! Who is Khargra?" Arkhara blinked. She was back, still chained, still being interrogated. The worgen knelt before her, his ugly snout inches away from her face. "Who is Khargra?" he barked again. The memory was fading away... "Who is Khargra, orc?" She grunted, momentarily dismayed by the rattling sound of her own voice, before remembering who she was. "Khargra..." She let out a rattling, choking sound. The worgen recoiled, and Arkhara laughed harder. She saw Wearne give the priestess a signal. "Khargra!" she managed to growl before the Light seared her again.

***

The draenei were aware of the orcs' arrival. Their defenses seemed indomitable... but Khargra had seen her warriors in action. The tide of brown and grey... the united clans surging across the landscape, the brutality of Draenor made manifest. She called to the land, and it answered. The eternal, unbreakable power of Earth filled her, flowing through her arms into the heavy, unimaginably sharp black stone axe she wielded. Beside her, a massive rylak snarled, eagerly awaiting the coming bloodshed.

Her voice amplified by the Spirit of Air itself, she bellowed a warcry and charged forth, the warband at her side. The draenei shield wall held admirably... though it was not enough. With the force of a landslide, Khargra slammed her weapon against one of the hapless defenders, sending her flying. Her warriors and their warbeasts immediately exploited the opening, felling three more before the shields locked again.

The orcs could not be withstood, not with the Elements at their side to complement their natural savagery. The draenei were falling back, their town's outskirts already burning. Khargra laughed as she brought her Earth-empowered axe down on yet another of her foes.

Suddenly, it all went wrong. The power that had kept fatigue away for well over half an hour disappeared, leaving a gaping void. Confused, she called out to the Spirits...

It is out of balance.

It is out of balance.

She might have screamed. The Elements, her constant companions for all these years, the wellspring of her strength... had refused her. Continued to do so.

It is out of balance.

She confronted Earth, demanding answers, yet receiving the same tired old litany. She raged at the Spirit. She grasped at its power, attempting to wrest it from her erstwhile ally...

The axe shattered into shards. One hit Khargra's rylak, piercing the eye of one head. The other lost all control at seeing its mate die, bounding foward and snapping at anything that came in range, friend or foe. It was eventually brought down by a barrage of arrows, still spitting defiance.

The shaman dropped the broken remnant of her weapon and stared with disbelief at the sharp, bloodied shard that had pierced through her hand. She stumbled, her head swimming.

With her last reserves of strength, she bellowed "RETREAT! EVERYONE, RETREAT!"

***

"Enough. We shall continue on the morrow." Khargra's... Arkhara's head swam. She... remembered. It was both unimaginably painful and unimaginably sweet. The priestess bowed her head and turned to leave...

In a split second, the orc made her choice. Some things are worth any pain they might inflict. I must know.

She sprang to her feet. The chains held fast, restricting her movement, but she could still use her weight to her advantage. She hurled herself forward, just about managing to hit the priestess with her manacles, before the joint power of Light and Shadow engulfed her.

***

"You have seen the power my warlocks wield. We cannot lose this war."

***

The power rushed through her, sweeter even than the solemn call of the Earth. With Gul'dan's gifts, the Horde would be unstoppable.

***

Khargra watched Grom Hellscream stride forward, watched him drink from the cup, watched him spasm in torment... then rise, remade, turned into a harbinger of devastation. She licked her lips, vowing to be among the first to experience this ecstasy.

***

Khargra tore the dead human's head from his shoulders in a spray of blood, then bit into its cheek, tasting the blood and flesh. Nothing could sate the hunger that gnawed at her, violence could merely hold it back momentarily. She gripped her warhammer and infused it with the fel that was now her servant and guardian. She slammed it against a wall, sending out shockwaves of sickly green flame, swiftly engulfing the building.

Stormwind burned around her, the dead choking up its canals. The humans were broken.

Who will sate our bloodlust now? What will become of us?

***

"No! You fools! Grim Batol is lost! DRAGONMAW, TO ME!"

The dragonfire raged all over the mountain. Her clan was dying. The fool Nekros...

Still, she would help save some. They would rebuild. The Dragonmaw could never truly die.

***

The fire... was gone. The burning bloodlust in her veins was suddenly extinguished. Khargra felt... weak. So weak, and so old...

She stared at her reflection in a puddle. The glow in her eyes was gone, and she looked so... frail. Broken.

They had sold everything for power, and now that it was gone, they truly knew the price.

She picked up her warhammer. Its weight no longer felt comforting. Instead, she perceived it as... alien.

***

The undead were swarming across the highlands, spewing from a gigantic fortress in the sky. They are going to erase us from existence. All that I have sacrificed... wasted.

She had vowed never to wield the powers of a warlock again. What is another oath, when I have broken so many?

The fel flame engulfed her fingers again. The power surged through her veins, no longer sweet, but demanding, eating away at her very soul.

"My life... for the Dragonmaw."

***

Arkhara awoke in a cell. Immediately she recognised the feeling gnawing at the edge of her mind. They had placed a ward on her, blocking out necromantic magic.

She rose to her full, imposing height. The moon shone through the bars. She could remember... not quite everything. Most things. She could remember Khargra. The mistakes. The betrayals.

Khargra had died in the Highlands though. What was raised by the Scourge... that was Arkhara. An abomination, though one blissfully unburdened by the sins of her past.

They took her marks.

White-hot fury rushed through her. The Scourge had erased everything, her memories, her very sense of self. They had even taken the markings branded into her flesh by the clan elders.

She could never forgive that.

And now this... they thought to hold her with primitive magic like this?

Fel fire engulfed her manacles, turning them to ash within seconds. It left her... weak. So very weak. Perhaps the limited life-force in her body was not enough to feed its unending hunger. Luckily, she would never need it again once this night was over.

She shambled over to the bars of her window. She could vaguely feel where her armour was being kept, the metal having absorbed some of her necrotic essence.

This might even be fun.