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redisaid · 9 months ago

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Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

#sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #fanfic #count me surprised to be this intrigued by a post-shadowlands premise but ok here we go

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omgkalyppso · 8 months ago

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So I really enjoyed the Orc Heritage Armour questline. After getting into dragonflight and Alexstrasza, Kalecgos and Khadgar kind of acting like they'd never met Borgakh (again), being welcomed and greeted by Thrall / Go'el and his family was so fucking delightful.

I'm going to post the screenshots from the final cutscene first and then a few more things with commentary below the cut.

Be warned it's long. You can press J to skip it on desktop if you open and change your mind.

Tbh, having not played dragonflight I thought they were about to throw Eitrigg into the Nathanos role and this was going to be related to world quests. I'm glad it wasn't. Eitrigg's history makes me uncomfortable.

I care them.

While I kind of wish they'd let Drek'thar cast from his wheelchair, it's also interesting to think of him having some mobility.

I know some people really don't like Aggra, but I have and do, and I found this delightful. A circle completed.

All the little moments with Durak were very sweet. Very grounding after other story elements in the main plot have gotten so convoluted and absurd.

Thank you, Rexxar, for also recognizing a title (Huntmaster). I was really thrown when Khadgar was back to calling you Adventurer and not either Champion, Hero, or My Friend — too open ended for people new to the game!! ^^;

I go back and forth with the Countess from the Court of Harvesters and Huntmaster titles when I run around with Borgakh because while I still hate shadowlands for what it did to the various in game religions (and the orcs especially since I'm biased) I think these titles would mean a lot to her. To be acknowledged and given the promise of authority / contribution / significance wrt Countess, and to be acknowledged by her peers wrt Huntmaster, which is also tied up in my favorite expansion and all the seeds of Horde and Alliance working to a better future together.

When it came to choosing a clan, I imagined Borgakh sharing a look with Aggra about how it was "obvious" that now, given the choice, that she would follow Thrall / Go'el anywhere. But unlike how it presents the player character as having never belonged to a clan, Borgakh has been for Years, headcanoned as part of the Warsong clan. I felt it added depth and weight to her struggles.

And then not only did Thrall / Go'el have The Weakest pitch for joining his clan (undoubtedly because they knew he and the Frost Wolves were going to sweep anyway), but I got to the choice screen and imagined the question for Borgakh as being, "But would I give up a core part of my identity for you?"

She is still part of his Horde, and she would die for him and his family, but I decided to keep her a member of the Warsong clan.

Borgakh has had maxed cooking in this game for like, ever. And that the final trial was to prepare a meal as an offering for her ancestors was something I really enjoyed. That the cookbook included a spicy as hell recipe from the Warsong was a bonus and reaffirmed my enjoyment of maintaining her membership with her clan.

I really appreciated this. After shadowlands? Bring me back to the uncertainty and faith of the past wrt what happens after death and the peace and connection with those lost and those who remain.

That this quest began with the premise that the orcs felt disconnected from each other and their culture and clans and this gathering and a new ceremony to replace the old coming of age ones that an orc could take part in regardless of age was very sweet. I have so many more screenshots of all the smaller npc's and things they've said in case I want to revisit it either for myself or for fic writing in the future. Loved it.

Thank you if you read my rambling.

#long post #world of warcraft #borgakh

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shadez-art · 2 months ago

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This one's inspired by a scene I wrote. In my fic, the Legion captured Illidan during the Tomb of Sargeras raid. This is when Khadgar finds him.

I've just been in the mood to draw these two lately (especially Khadgar, if you couldn't tell). And it's been a long time since I've drawn any fanfiction scenes.

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lostywrites · 3 months ago

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Summary:

The Hidden Ones encounter a mysterious traveller from Azeroth. Recognising an opportunity to forge new alliances and expand their influence, they appoint Basim Ibn Ishaq, a devoted disciple, as their representative.

In a realm where ancient lore and magic are as tangible as the air he breathes, Basim must rely on his wits, skills, and newfound connections to fulfill his mission and unlock secrets that could change the fate of both worlds.

A Warcraft/Assassin's Creed Mirage crossover fic. Set before the events of Dragonflight and Valhalla.

Playlist

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9

Chapter 10 - The First Ones

Khadgar let out a soft sigh as he leaned back. “I’ve always admired their resilience. Always in search of opportunities to grow and make our world a better place to be in. And you, Basim, have significantly contributed to this mission.”

Basim, aiming to sound modest, replied, “Much of it wouldn’t have been possible without Wrathion’s support.”

“True, but you’ve tackled much of the heavy lifting. That’s exactly why you’ve earned your spot here in my private hot spring,” Khadgar said in jest. Then his voice lowered, a more personal note creeping into his tone. "And Roshan, how is she managing all this?"

A slight smile played at the corners of Basim’s mouth as he picked up on the hint of concern in the mage's voice. “Why the sudden interest? Is this why you invited me here? Hoping to dig a little deeper about Roshan?”

Khadgar chuckled, a flush creeping up his neck, visible even in the steamy air. “Well, she is an impressive woman, commanding respect and admiration. It’s hard not to be,” he cleared his throat, “impressed.”

“You should speak with her more.”

“Ah, but my command of languages isn’t as polished as yours, Basim. I fear I might just embarrass myself trying to communicate.”

Basim’s laughter echoed around the warm space, blending with the murmur of the hot spring. “Perhaps, but I suspect Roshan would find your efforts more charming than foolish.”

Khadgar's face brightened, though a hint of uncertainty lingered in his eyes. “If she ever gets a break from her work at the bureau, I'd be thrilled to have her visit my workshop at the Violet Citadel. I've been doing a bit of tinkering myself, and given her passion for explosives...well, it's something I've developed quite a knack for, too.”

“It seems like you two have quite a bit in common, and it could be a great way to break the ice. You should extend that invitation, then.”

“Perhaps I will,” Khadgar considered, his expression thoughtful as he relaxed further into the warm water. His smile persisted, softened by a contented sigh.

#basim ibn ishaq #assassin's creed mirage #warcraft #fanfic #archmage khadgar #roshan bint la'ahad #wrathion #aethas sunreaver

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liarian · 2 months ago

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Hi!!! I come today with a new chapter of my LionTrust fic Shattered Memories.

We have Khadgar's PoV this time! <3<3

Hope you like it!!!

#lia's writing #fanfic #world of warcraft #khadgar #anduin lothar #warcraft

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sergeant-angua · 3 months ago

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all the khadgar fics on ao3 are for the 2016 movie. i KNOW y'all wanna fuck that old man, where are you hiding

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irishk0rn · 1 year ago

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Family is more than beliefs

Never abandon or ostracize your family, no matter how much you yourself were from your own.

Hello, everyone! Just a quick fic I got an idea for while writing. I want there to be a fix it with Turalyon and I decided to give him a bit more dynamic for who he is.

I will post about his headcanoned story later! For now, happy reading!

Context: Arator is a trans man

Content warnings: transphobia, homophobia, internalized trans and homophobia

“You cannot continue to treat your son this way.”

Turalyon chose not to acknowledge his old friend, Khadgar. His mind was too occupied by his own, clouded thoughts and judgment. It was ironic, for a paladin such as himself.

The mage frowned. “Turalyon.”

The paladin slammed his papers, which had been occupying his hand, down on the desk in front of him. “What?”

Khadgar didn’t flinch. “Are you listening to me?”

Turalyon pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled through it. “Look, Khadgar, I’m not as concerned with Arator right now. We have demons to fight,”

Khadgar gave him a look and crossed his arms. “I would think your son or partner is the most important.”

Turalyon stood up. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to treat Arator how he is. Your son.”

“My son, who was my daughter.”

The mage grimaced. “And that is a thought you should never allow him to hear. Just talk to him, at least. It’s…” Khadgar took a deep breath. “It’s eating away at him, thinking you could hold any contempt for him.”

Turalyon sighed. “Fine.”

“Good.”

But Turalyon didn’t. He got distracted, he told himself, but really, he didn’t want to see Arator. It brought him so much anger — but why? Arator was… happy, as far as everyone else was concerned. Not even Alleria had taken Turalyon’s side.

The next day, Khadgar came to Turalyon’s office in the Vindicaar again. He looked frustrated, a look that was not often exhibited on the mage.

He crossed his arms. “You didn’t go talk to him,”

Turalyon didn’t look at him. “I got… distracted.”

“Don’t lie. It will piss me off more than I already am and I don’t believe you want to see that.”

The paladin stood up, a glare hanging on his face. Khadgar glared back with the same viciousness.

“Why do you care so much, Khadgar? Arator made that choice. I do not have to like it.”

I’m disgusted by it.

Khadgar tensed, like he could read his mind. Could he? Turalyon wasn’t very in tune with the powers of mages.

“And me, Turalyon?” Khadgar moved forward, placing a hand on the desk and rounding the corner of it.

“Do I disgust you?”

Right. Khadgar is this way, too.

“Well, I— I didn’t know you, then. I only knew you as Khadgar.”

Khadgar frowned. That was beginning to be his default expression with Turalyon. He didn’t like that. “Why does it matter?”

Turalyon stammered, his words dry.

“Arator reminds me a lot of myself. Only I didn’t have parents to support me. Be what I didn’t have, what a lot of us didn’t have. Alleria already is.”

“I will… think on it.”

Khadgar groaned. “You are impossible. Why?” Khadgar pressed, moving closer. “Why, Turalyon? Why?”

“What do you… mean?”

“You know what I mean. Is it the Light? Is it because it goes against the Naaru?”

The paladin looked down, silent. Angry tears pricked his eyes, and for the first time, Turalyon’s body found what a tremble felt like. He slipped back down into his chair, his hands on either side of his temples, and remained quiet.

Khadgar’s expression softened. “What happened to you?”

Turalyon let the tears fall. He remained unresponsive to his friend, even as the mage approached.

Khadgar frowned at him. Not with anger, but pity. “Turalyon?”

“I’m so lost, Khadgar,” muttered the paladin, before he took several moments to breathe. The lumps in his throat clawed their way through his neck and sat.

“So, so lost…”

The mage pulled Turalyon into an embrace, a tight one. The archbishop let out a choked sob into his shoulder.

“It’s okay, who you are. It’s okay,”

Turalyon looked up.

“Do you fancy men? That’s great. Both? Great, too. Not wanting to be one? Fantastic. It’s all okay,

“But don’t make Arator feel like it isn’t.”

Turalyon nodded and closed his eyes, pulling back from Khadgar. He wiped his face. “I’m going to speak to him.”

Khadgar smiled at him. “That’s the spirit.”

Turalyon got up.

A few minutes later, Turalyon was in more comfortable clothes, with a tunic, trousers and boots, and light chainmail over the tunic. He sought out Arator on the Vindicaar, as it was later in the evening when he did.

He heard talking, one of the voices he had come to know as Arator’s. The other was undoubtedly his aunt, Vareesa.

He paused outside where they were for a few moments.

“Maybe I should conform, Vari. Maybe I should just be his daughter…”

Turalyon frowned.

He could hear the sadness in Vareesa’s voice. “No, Arator. You be who you are and you don’t let your father get in the way of that,”

Turalyon chose this moment to walk in, as Arator explained to his aunt that he, quote, only wanted his father’s approval.

The exarch took a deep breath and strode over to his in-law and son. “Arator!”

Arator jumped up. “Father! I, er, I wasn’t… expecting you.”

Turalyon couldn’t speak, he just pulled his son into a tight hug and closed his eyes. Arator let out a noise of surprise, not hugging back immediately. He seemed confused about the situation.

“I’m so, so sorry, my son,” Turalyon said, pulling back a bit to look down at Arator. “I’ve been terrible.”

“Father, you haven’t, I understand, I… get that treatment a lot.”

“No— no! That does not make it okay, especially not from me… as your father, it is my job to be there for my child.

“I wasn’t there when you were young, and going through these things, and I can’t say I understand very well— but, I will be your father now. I’m sorry.”

The half elf smiled weakly as a tear stung his eye and made its way down his cheek. And another. And another.

“It is better late than never…”

Turalyon hugged his son again. “I wish I was never late.”

It wouldn’t undo the past, but it would shape the future. Arator felt confident, as a man, and he learned to be his own kind of man, even separate from Turalyon.

Alleria and Turalyon parted ways romantically, but continued to be partners and parents to their beloved son. Alleria began a relationship with a woman named Calia Menethil, who was a wonderful stepmother to Arator.

Turalyon began his first relationship with a man, a draenei.

The issues on Argus were far from over, but they were dealt with united and strong, rather than apart and broken.

The end.

#world of warcraft #wow #irishkorn #irishkorn fics #khadgar #archmage khadgar #turalyon #high exarch turalyon #arator the redeemer #vareesa windrunner #alleria windrunner #fix it #fix it fic

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kiunlo · 1 year ago

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so anyways for my WoW girlies: I wrote a fic in which my orc death knight loses an arm in battle (he's fine he'll reattach it later lol) and khadgar picks it up off the ground and starts making a bunch of arm-related puns and jokes about it LMAO it's called Disarmed because i'm sooo hilarious

#ash's personal tag #khadgar #world of warcraft #my writing #wowposting #grokkar #orc #orcs #death knight

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rangerzath · 4 months ago

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Tagged @wondrouswendy Sorry for the slow reply but thank you for tagging me!

How many works do you have on AO3?

I currently have 17 works that include fics, podfics and comics!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

219,813

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I'm deep in the Remedy camp with Control and Alan Wake. However, I've also written for World of Warcraft and SWTOR, though my SWTOR writing is not up on AO3.

4. Top five fics by kudos

Remind Me Of What Is Gone - Medivh/Khadgar, a World of Warcraft fic

Love is a Gift, Never To Be Squandered - Tess Greymane/Vanessa VanCleef, a World of Warcraft fic

No One Left to Love - FBI Alex Casey/Saga Anderson, an Alan Wake fic

Morning Routine - Zachariah Trench/Casper Darling, a Control (2019) fic

An Eye Opening Experience - Zachariah Trench/Casper Darling, a Control (2019) fic

5. Do you respond to comments?

Of course! I feel it's the least I can do for people taking the time out of their day to both read and leave a comment on my works!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Dreams Are Such Fragile Things. This story was written for my friend @wondrouswendy's birthday because she wanted angst. It shows a hidden scene after Trench and Darling broke up.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Love is a Gift, Never To Be Squandered. In this story Tess and Vanessa are together, but there are a lot of complications and past bias in the way. Communication can be a hard thing for some characters. In this stories ending everyone finally gets the have the conversation they should have had at the beginning.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I've been fortunate enough to not experience this. NO one should experience this.

9. Do you write smut?

I wish. Alas I do not have the skill.

10. Craziest crossover?

I don't write crossovers however I do write stories that crossover/intersect with @wondrouswendy's fics.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Luckily I haven't. Again this should NOT happen to ANYONE.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, I've been fortunate enough to collaborate on several stories and now comics with my friend @wondrouswendy

14. All time favourite ship?

Trench/Darling forever

15. What’s a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My Podfics. I've started several of them and unfortunately they take a lot of time and I have a lot of other works on my plate.

16. What are your writing strengths?

When I'm writing, I try to think about the characters with realistic expectations in mind. I dislike reading a story that ruins my immersion so I try to keep that in mind when I'm writing my own stories to avoid that.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing. I have a hard time translating my thoughts to tangible words. I have great fleshed out ideas and can even verbally describe them. However when I sit down to write it all out, everything becomes difficult.

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

Like all things there is a time and place for it.

19. First fandom you wrote in?

Naruto I think?

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

You're Listening To America Overnight. The America Overnight concept from Control was one of my favorite things in game. I find it fascinating to think about how the FBC has a radio show to both find and report altered items and AWEs from the unsuspecting public. The world building of this immediately pulled me in and inspired me to write my own scripts of these shows as well as creating my own Control OC who is the host of my version of America Overnight.

Script writing is different than writing a full story. I hadn't attempted it before AO but I've been enjoying these bite sized stories that really make you think, did that really happened?

I know I'm late to this game and I think all my friends have already been tagged. So if you're seeing this and you haven't been, tag you're it.

#zath's writting #zath personal

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skymagpie · 3 months ago

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Khadgar and Shazi bit from my fic (because I am debating if I should post it)

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mischievouswritingblog · 2 years ago

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Prompt Fic: Heroes and Villains

Prompt: defending them against everyone, even when they’re not there to witness it

Author’s Note: Playing with a headcanon I have for after Khadgar returned from Outland.

The Fic can also be found on AO3 here.

-o-o-o-o-o-

There was a loud, heavy ‘thud’ that hit Modera’s desk. It pierced the silence like a gunshot. She jumped, her muscles tensed and the arcane crackled at her fingertips. Her eyes shot up and caught sight of Khadgar.

The Archmage had finally moved back to Dalaran. He had to take some time to recover upon returning to Azaroth. Varian was more than happy to have him stay in Stormwind Keep during that time. Things weren’t so simple as crossing over and returning to how things were. Khadgar and those that went with him had years to adapt to Outland’s gravity. Varying amounts of muscle atrophy and having to fight for scraps, leaving many malnourished.

Khadgar was healthier now. He was filling out, and he shaved off that ridiculous beard. Modera suspected it was seeing the statue of himself in Stormwind that might have pushed him into doing so. Khadgar was glaring at her, his jaw set into a grimace. Modera’s eyes flitted down to the book that he had slammed on her table.

It wasn’t all that big. The Kirin Tor did well in guarding their secrets. Modera recognized the cover and the title in a heartbeat. She had a hand in its creation, after all.

“What the hell is this?” Khadgar asked, though he already knew the answer.

“It’s a book.” Modera answered bluntly.

Khadgar’s glare shifted into a look of disappointment. “Modera, really?”

“You walked right into that one--”

“It’s about Medivh, Modera.” Khadgar added, cutting her off. “No, not even that. It’s a strange mockery of him! He wasn’t in league with Sargeras. He was possessed!”

“Khadgar…”

“And him bewitching Garona Halforcen? Hypnotizing her to kill Llane?!” Khadgar paced back and forth. “Him taking advantage of me? That’s only the stuff I can stomach saying right now!”

“Khadgar!” Modera raised her voice. When Khadgar stopped his pacing and looked at her, she continued. “Look, I know things in that book make you angry. I’m sorry. But this is just how it has to be. Medivh was troubled, dangerous--”

“I gave you all a detailed report about what happened!” Khadgar said.

“Which was tainted by your own feelings for him, Khadgar.” Modera pointed out. “It was very obvious that you held very strong 'affections' for him.

Khadgar’s face grew hot as he flushed a deep red. “That’s...! Yes, I did. I loved him, but--”

“You were too biased. The council couldn’t accept it.” Modera explained.

Khadgar took a moment to recollect himself, taking a breath. “Yes, you’re right, I was biased. But what’s in that book are flat out lies. Whoever wrote that used my report as the bare bones for it and changed things.”

“It’s all for the greater good, Khadgar.” Modera said. “Look, Aegwynn was a loose cannon. She took something that wasn’t hers and wove it into her own child. Medivh wasn’t trained by us like you were, and look what happened.”

“How many times do I have to say this? He was possessed, Modera.” Khadgar ground out.

“How can you be so sure? Just because some deteriorating tower showed you some illusions?” Modera asked. “You have to understand, you might not have been thinking so clearly on matters.”

“Don’t.” Khadgar’s voice was as firm as stone and he pointed an accusing finger at Modera. Until that point, it had been much softer, lighter. Part of it from exhaustion from years of fighting and trying to survive. But Khadgar found that fire once again after reading that damned book. “Don’t you dare try playing that game with me. I’m not that boy from back then. I’ve grown and I can think for myself.” Khadgar took a moment to let the words sink in for Modera. “I knew Medivh, I knew him better and any of you ever could. This has nothing to do with the truth. I know that much. I want to know why this was written. Why drag Medivh’s name through the mud? Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

Modera gave a tired sigh. She leaned back in her chair and broke eye contact as she mulled over what to say. She knew she was being callus, she often had to be. If anyone, given his relationship with the fallen guardian, Khadgar was owed an explanation.

“We needed a villain.” she finally said. “You have to understand about politics, Khadgar. History is written by the winners. Sometimes, you need a villain to help put people at ease. The Council of Tirisfal and the existence of The Guardian are all confidential information.”

“And a system that eventually failed.” Khadgar added, his brow furrowed. There was a feeling in his gut, a growing unease. “So, you made Medivh into a boogieman, is that it?”

“He made for a very good cautionary tale, Khadgar. A hedgemage, someone who flaunted his magic at frivolous things like parties, looking for approval.” Modera said, recalling the meeting held as The Council of Six discussed how to approach the book. “When that wasn’t enough, he was swayed by Sargeras. Using one of his parties as a sacrifice to appease his dark master--”

“That’s enough.” Khadgar growled. “I’ve read it, I don’t need you to repeat it.”

“The point is, Medivh works as a great example for young students on why to follow the rules the Kirin Tor gives them.” Modera said. She could see that Khadgar was not satisfied with that answer. It was all she could give. “Look at it this way. He still serves a purpose, Khadgar. Medivh may be dead, but at least he can make up a little for his failings by providing this final service to us.”

“Modera, that’s disgusting!”

“It’s not that different from how we elevate flawed people into heroes, Khadgar.” Modera countered. “People need examples to live up to or avoid. Anduin Lothar has been mythologized, as were you, after you left through the Dark Portal.”

A chill crawled up Khadgar’s spine. He wasn’t a stranger to people making assumptions about him. He remembered how people used to think he was this incredible, wisened wizard. When in truth, he was really a young man who was way in over his head. Khadgar felt uncomfortable when he saw his own statue in the Valley of Heroes in Stormwind. It felt so wrong. It wasn’t really him; it was the idea of him. A standard that he never could live up to.

“That’s just the nature of heroes and villains, Khadgar.” Modera said. “You just happened to live and see your own legend with your own eyes.”

Khadgar was silent, but Modera knew that look he had on his face. The wheels in his head were turning, trying to work out something.

“Don’t even think about trying to ‘set the record straight’.” she warned him. “Khadgar, you’re a good friend, so I’ll give you this warning: If you try to write anything about this matter, it won’t be published. Dalaran has very strict policies. I need you to let this go.”

Khadgar locked eyes with her, but said nothing. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. In the end, she was right. There was no point in continuing this argument.

“Hold on to your memories of him.” Modera said, there was no malice in her voice. If anything, Khadgar could have sworn he heard a hint of pity. “It’s not a great situation, but take some comfort that at least one person still knows who he really was.”

Khadgar turned around and made his way towards the door and left.

-o-o-o-

Foreword: “Respectfully kiss my staff of power, Modera.”

Khadgar couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was petty; he knew that, but he had learned from the best. It was true, there was no chance of this book being published by any printing company in Dalaran. However, if it was one thing that Khadgar had learned from his time with Medivh, it was that there was a much bigger and wider world outside of the city of mages.

Little did Modera know just how many friends Khadgar had made during his lifetime. He knew a few goblins and even some friends in Stormwind that gave him plenty of options.

Khadgar smiled to himself as he wrote. Going over his memories of his time in Karazhan and with Medivh. He recalled how the man was sometimes like a living storm. Other times, he was full of warmth and affection. Khadgar promised himself he would approach his and Medivh’s stories as honestly as possible. Modera was right, Khadgar was here to see his own legend, and he could reject it.

-The End-

#World of Warcraft #Warcraft #Medivh #Khadgar #RavenTrust

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