Losses and Legacies

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Captain Vizka Goldtusk wrung his hands nervously as he paced his cabin; the Seaking was making its way back to Dornogal after investigating the wreckage. Not one of the crew had survived. He had immediately dispatched one of his crew back to the earthen capital to inform their friends.

“Captain.” He looked up as his first mate popped his head in. “Dame Catherine and High Priest Zulimbasha are requesting permission to come aboard.”

Ominous sign, he thought. “Grant it.” He sighed, the pacing continuing. Finally, the door opened again…

Catherine Hildreth’s eye immediately went to the sword sitting on the captain’s table, her expression one of horrified rage, barely contained. “What happened?”

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the quiet nature of that simple question scared him more than her screaming it would have. “Signs of dragonfire - and fel magic.” He looked up at Zulimbasha. “It’s good dat you’re here; perhaps with my skill and yours together, we can see for ourselves.”

The Collector understood at once. “Dere will be an imprint remainin’ on her weapon from her last moment,” he agreed. “Let us see.” He placed one hand on the hilt, Vizka removing a glove to do likewise. With his other hand, the death-priest sprinkled bone dust, chanting low in Zandali…

---

Captain Elizabeth Pellerin sighed as the Pearl Queen pulled out of Dornogal Bay, setting out for Boralus. She glanced at her first mate, Alexander McDonnell, with a tired smile. “Back for home.”

“Aye, Captain,” he agreed. “But how long before they call us again?”

“It’s the nature of the work we signed up for, Alec.”

McDonnell shook his head. “Is it, though? I keep wondering, Beth. Fight a lot, rest a bit, fight a lot more. It’s been almost non-stop since the war.” Most of the crew referred to the Fourth War as “the” war, mainly because for a lot of them, it was their first.

“For some of us more than others,” Elizabeth pointed out sharply, hand resting on the venthyr rapier at one hip. She had gone to the Shadowlands. Most of the crew had not.

McDonnell blanched. “I didn’t mean --”

“No, I know. But…” A movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention - and everyone else’s, as the flying figure buzzed the crow’s nest. It was a dracthyr… and even from this distance, she could tell it was fel-corrupted… and it was about to attack. She realized there was only one who would dare…

---

Vizka’s jaw clenched. “Zaidu.”

Catherine’s good eye widened in fury… and then she began swearing vehemently. The two Zandalari took a cautious step back, letting her vent. Finally, she was still, and took a deep breath. “Who else knows it was the Queen, Captain?”

“Just us.”

“There will be others who need to know. I… will take the news to Donal. Elizabeth was very close to him, and to his grandfather. We will also need to tell Lady Eugenie.”

“I would give this to him,” Vizka suggested, holding out Elizabeth’s saber. “He would appreciate it, I think.”

Catherine had an appraising look, then nodded. “I think you’re right.” She sighed, as she hooked the weapon to her belt until she could bring it to the young man. His time in Hallowfall, witnessing Beledar’s Light, had awakened something in him; his mother, Madeline, had been an aspiring priestess, and Catherine had thought she would have been a good one. Not for the first time, she cursed Taran for every kind of a fool.

“Captain Vizka,” she said finally, “as you are now our… sole naval expert, I would like to add a member to your crew. You’re probably familiar with him, as we’ve just been discussing him. And I believe he has a…familiarity with your ship.”

Vizka smiled, knowing full well that he did. “An expert boarder. I’ll take him.”

“I offer an aid as well,” Zulimbasha added. “Vilaya. She is relentless, and she is ruthless.”

“She is dat.” His eye had a crafty glint. “I can’t help but notice ya both adding your best agents to my crew. Don’t trust me?”

Catherine grinned slightly. “Is there a reason why we should?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “I will accept your minders. They will be helpful in findin’ dese murderin’ scum.”

All humor faded from the paladin’s expression. “Finding them is not enough, Captain,” she said coldly. “I want you to kill them.”

Vizka met her gaze without flinching… and then inclined his head once. “Understood.”

[Heskin-cenarion-circle]

He was silent for a long time, one hand holding the sword, the other gently running his fingers along the anchor sigil on its basketed hilt. Catherine was troubled by the cold glare in his ice-blue eyes, the tightness of his expression. It was as if he… had been expecting it. Finally he spoke, his voice quiet. “Does Lady Eugenie know yet?”

“No. I was planning on going there next. I think… because you --”

“Of course.” The response was curt, as if she had not needed to ask - and thinking on it, Catherine mused, perhaps he was right. He realized the sharpness of his tone, and his expression softened… though he still did not look in her direction. “Have I reached the point in life where those who came before now fade away,” he wondered, “leaving me to carry on without them? That was what sending me to join her crew was meant to prepare me for. And now they’re all gone too. The captain, Mr. McDonnell, the old Tidesage…” He now did look at her. “Is this what we were chosen for, Aunt Catherine? Is this what we are meant to do until we die… just like the captain, and my grandda? To lose everyone we love, to fight forever, and to die knowing others will be left to ‘finish the job’?”

Catherine felt a slight shiver; he had not called her “Aunt Catherine” in years. Though they had not been blood, she had been close to his family practically since she was born; Sir Eran had been her godfather, and indeed her parents had named her for his wife, Katerina. She had been the daughter Eran wished he had, though she certainly was not treated like a sister by his only child. “I don’t know, Donal,” she admitted quietly. “There are times I wonder.”

He was quiet again. She again cursed his father, thinking that his cruelty - even before the Jailer had corrupted him - had been part of what had made this man here (and he was a man now, she reminded herself) what he was now. Fuelled by rage and pain… and Light, it was found. As she had recalled during the meeting with Vizka, witnessing Beledar for the first time had been an awakening for him, but had come as no surprise to her. Madeline was probably the most radiant person she had ever known, and would have been a priestess, were it not for Taran all but chaining her to the house. It was only fitting that Madeline’s son was touched by the Light, too. And now… here he was.

Sir Donal Heskin. It was still taking some getting used to - and she had been the one to knight him.

“There’s more to it, I can tell.” She was brought back to the present. Donal was staring at her. “You have something else in mind for me.”

“I do. I’ve spoken to Captain Vizka, requesting to have him take you on his crew to hunt down Zaidu and the other remnants of the Path. You have a right to seek justice for your captain and your shipmates, and I intend to put him to use in the search. I want someone I can trust there with him. Zulimbasha is sending his personal assassin, Vilaya, for the same reason. After we meet with Lady Eugenie, you’ll meet him in Freehold; he’s gone back to ‘freshen up’.” Her good eye glimmered with a hint of amusement. “It might help that Elizabeth lifted the bounty on his head, so there’s no chance of someone like you coming after him.”

Donal now did smile, just a little. That was a relief. “Perish the thought.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

There were benefits (along with the drawbacks) to have a direct route to Zandalar from Dornogal. It was through Undermine, the chaotic capital city of the goblins of Kezan. He stepped out of the rocket-drill train and took a deep breath of the air - taking in the scents of the sea, the trees, and the evidence of Gallywix’s overmining. A scent of death, he thought, chuckling to himself at the irony.

A familiar figure approached, her bone-white hair matching the bone-plate armor she wore - the frilled skullplate of a direhorn making up one shoulderguard. “Welcome home, Master,” she greeted him in Zandali.

“It does my heart good to see you, Nevasa.” He noticed the look in her eye. “Problem?”

“The Hexlord’s flying scouts think they saw Tekolin Wintershade in Nazmir.”

That got Zulimbasha’s attention. The kaldorei archdruid had disappeared from Amirdrassil not long after the fall of Dalaran. But… Nazmir? “Any idea why?”

“No. But they said he wasn’t alone, either. A small figure, atop a beast of fire.”

Caradell, no doubt. It had been suspected she was the reason for his disappearance. “Have you sent word to Archdruid Underwood or Warden Ravensong?”

“I sent Soji to find the demon hunter. She finds him, he’ll find them. Or the Warden, at the very least. I told her to meet me in Zo’bal if she finds them.”

“Then let us go now.” He waved his arm, coalescing the lingering spirit energies from the rune-carved bones of his robes into a spectral pterrordax. Nevasa, her armor similarly blessed with Bwonsamdi’s gift, did likewise, and both flew quickly around Mount Mugamba and into the swamps. Zo’bal was a shrine to the Death Loa not far from the Necropolis, restored by the efforts of his loyal worshippers.

The Collector detected movement out the corner of his eye. Nevasa saw it too. “DIVE!” he shouted, as what appeared to be a hideous demonic hound with wings of fire zoomed right past them. A smaller figure, also wreathed in flame, leapt from its back… and crashed right into Zulimbasha himself. The spectral pterrordax faded as they plummeted past Zo’bal and into the watery pathways to the Necropolis itself. Zulimbasha hit hard, rolling across the marshy stone, his body afire with agony. Several bones were obviously shattered - how many of them were decorative from his robes, and how many of them were his own, he wasn’t sure yet.

“You will not stop us,” his attacker hissed. “Grandfather will get what he came here for.”

He was here willingly? Zulimbasha’s pain-clouded mind reeled. Had Tekolin been driven mad by what had happened in the Dream? Given what he had lost, he supposed he couldn’t blame him, but… “What… be dat, Caradell?” he asked through clenched teeth.

The kaldorei demon hunter, known even among her allies as the Heretic, smiled coldly. “Everything we ever lost.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Kneeling next to her injured master, Nevasa stared incredulously at Caradell. “Let me be gettin’ dis straight: You intend ta go before de Loa of Death to… what? Get back ya dead family?”

Though her eyes were burning pits of fel flame, the madness still shone within them. “And more besides. He will do what Elune could not: Save the souls recovered from the Maw, and give them back to us. Everything. The tree is not enough. We will save our people.”

“I think not.” All heads looked up to see two slim elven figures standing nearby. The blood elf was taller, and wore the blindfold around his eyes; the night elf had dark eyes with just hints of starlight in them, contrasted by red markings on her face. She wore the traditional armor of the Wardens; his gear was similar to hers, but in the fel-imbued fashion of his kind. “Even I know Bwonsamdi does not work like that. The souls of our people live on in Amirdrassil, and in the weald; what you advocate is no better than the mad Arathi trying to use the Light to reanimate their dead.”

“Spare me the sermon, you moon-blinded fool. You know nothing of what you speak.”

“I know full well of what I speak, Caradell. You think you’re the only one who has ever lost family? Whatever madness Kalimos whispered in your ear, or you suddenly embraced… it ends now.”

Caradell snorted with laughter as she glanced at the blood elf next to her, speaking in Eredun. “You would side with this Warden over me, Poquelin?” He did not answer. She turned back to the Warden. “What then, Ravensong? You take me to your Vault and leave me to rot?”

Without a word, Itzara Ravensong stepped through the shadows, a pair of blades - made for her by Dream-blessed artisans at Poquelin’s request - in her hands. Before Caradell could react, those blades had slashed across her throat. The burning eyes widened in shock, fel-tainted blood spraying from her severed jugular.

“A pity the Maw is closed to all,” Itzara said, the coldness in her tone making even Poquelin wince. “You deserve torment. But your fate is in the hands of the Arbiter… or perhaps, in the hands of he whose temple this is.”

Caradell’s expression was one of disbelief, rage… and finally, blank, as the felflame faded from her burnt-out sockets, and she collapsed in a bloody heap to the stone.

Without a second glance at the dead Heretic, Itzara stepped towards the Necropolis. But then she paused, a look of uncertainty on her face, before she glanced at Zulimbasha. “If he is truly here, I will reach out to him. I think I have shown my respects to your master… or at least, I hope so.”

The Collector raised a hand (at least one arm was not broken), a bit of ethereal energy from his enchanted robes swirling around it, before it floated over to the Warden, around her. “A blessing… for now,” he said.

Itzara bowed her head, and stepped into the precincts of the Necropolis. When Poquelin made to follow her, Zulimbasha reached out. “No,” he said. “Dis part she must do.” The demon hunter hesitated, but nonetheless obeyed.

---

Stepping inside the Necropolis, Itzara kept her blades at the ready, fully conscious of the fact that she didn’t even have a century under her belt, and was having to prepare herself to fight a veteran of the War of the Ancients. If he was truly mad, then he had to be stopped… by any means necessary. It was her duty.

He don’t be here, little t’ing. She could not see the source of the voice, but she could feel it through Zulimbasha’s blessing. He never were. De Heretic, she be seein’ what she wants… or at least, she did, before ya sent her ta me. A cold chuckle. My appreciation, by de way. It’s good ta know even moon-worshippers like yaself show proper respect ta Death.

Itzara’s jaw clenched. “Is he dead?”

Oh, no no no. I woulda seen him if he were. Ya be taken on a wild raptor chase, my friend. Not dat da runnin’ be bad for ya. Gets de blood pumpin’, eh? Heh heh heh.

“I am in no mood for games. What do you want?”

Ohoho! Feisty. No wonder de blood elf likes ya. A pause. De real question be, what do YOU want… and what ya be willin’ ta offer for it?

“I want to know what has become of him… and why. I suspect the trickery of the demons to whom Caradell fell under the sway of, but I must be sure. For his sake, and for mine. And as for what I will offer…” She hesitated. It would likely turn out to be a trick, and she would be trapped, sworn to a foreign god. But she owed Tekolin a great deal, and his fate, for good or ill, was of great concern to her. Better to be damned in the cause of a friend, if she had to be damned at all. “Whatever you need.”

The voice went from mocking to almost… sympathetic. Ahhh… take care before ya commit, little Warden. Dis don’t be somet’ing ya back away from… I don’t be someone ya back away from. And ya may not like what ya find.

Itzara’s eyes narrowed. “I will risk it.”

Silence. And then… laughter. Very well, Itzara Ravensong. We got a deal.

[Rosalynde-cenarion-circle]

Even after all the years the Seaking had called the place home, the sight of a Zandalari ship in Freehold was always a curious one for most people. She certainly thought so - and this was the first time she had ever set foot inside Freehold at all. For all that it was a haven for pirates and other scoundrels, it was still a Kul Tiran town.

As she approached the Seaking’s berth, she saw two humans in heavy armor standing on the deck; not Proudmoore soldiers, but bearing the insignia of Stormwind. One of them looked to be quite young, but carried an ornate spear with the look of someone who knew how to use it; the other a bit older, and battle-scarred. The man they were speaking to was a Zandalari in a long red coat - that was the captain.

The captain’s good eye glanced over at her, and she felt an almost electric shock in her soul as she realized he had been expecting her. To the surprise of his guests, he turned from them and walked over to the top of the gangway. Confused, they followed him. “So here ya be, at last. Da spirits told me to expect ya.”

“The whispers on the tides told me to come here,” she replied. “Though I know not why, I have been guided to you to serve as your Tidesage.”

“And Loa knows I could use one. Da Tidesages of Kul Tiras are good to have on your side - and a bastard to fight against. I saw enough of dat in da war.”

“And I the prowess of the sailors of the Golden Fleet, Captain…”

“Vizka.” He bowed his head slightly, then turned and gestured to a member of his crew - who brought him a dark wooden staff, topped with what looked to be an eye surrounded by tentacles. “Da spirits also say dis appears to have somet’ing ta do with you.”

“What…” The younger of the two humans stared in shock. “That’s Calum’s staff. How did --”

“I found it when we recovered da fallen from de Pearl Queen, young Donal,” Vizka replied. “But I was compelled to hold onto it… until now.” He turned back to the Tidesage. “He was your fa’da, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” she confirmed. “I heard of his passing in the whisper of the waves. The whisper that led me here.” She glanced over at Donal. “He spoke highly of you.”

“He… I never knew he had a family.”

She smiled tightly. “The only person who did was Captain Pellerin. He liked to keep it that way. He had a reputation to maintain as a cranky old man - having a family would detract from that.” She shrugged lightly. “I knew his feelings, and he mine. That was enough for me.”

Vizka nodded approvingly, as he gestured for her to come aboard. “Then I bid ya welcome to de Seaking, Tidesage Granden.”

“Rosalynde, Captain,” she corrected as she stepped across the gangway. “Sister Rosalynde, if titles need be involved.”

“Heh heh… Sistah Rosalynde it is.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Standing quietly on the platform outside the Dead Man’s Tale tavern, Catherine looked out across the port. The Seaking was about to depart… and even the long-time residents of this place kept looking askance at a Zandalari ship in this harbor. Or at people in “fancy clothes”, for that matter…

“Lady Hildreth?”

She turned… and had to admit to feeling somewhat intimidated by the figure approaching, given that he was at least a foot-and-a-half taller than she was, and carried himself with such… lethal presence. “Lord Vendross, thank you for coming.” She glanced at the smaller, lithe figure at his side. “I see you have a friend. The ally from the Illidari that Poquelin mentioned, perhaps?”

Randarel Vendross smiled and nodded. “Sethiro ran into me first, but yes. Master Poquelin has made me aware of things. As it happens, I have some… experience in the matter myself.”

“The late Lord Relsyn. Yes, I know.” Catherine glared icily. “As much as the man was a bastard who deserved what was coming to him, I pray you do not make it a habit of killing former Pathers who end up in my command, my lord.”

Randarel knew she had a point, but nonetheless replied, “This was a matter of honor. I killed his sister when she took my Elerina from me. Were it not for his demonic and demon-loving patrons, I would have got him at the same time. That being said, I hear you.”

“I hope so. Because you know he is also among us, brought back by the efforts of his own counterpart from the Iron Horde. Light knows, I have every desire to send him off to hell myself. But I have a feeling we will need him. So do a number of others whose opinions I trust.” Catherine shook her head. “Not right that he’s still here and Saavedro is not. But the reason Eran trusted me to take over for him was because I could make hard choices. So I keep him around. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. It’s what my duty requires.” Her jaw clenched. “So let me make this perfectly clear, Lord Vendross: You pledged to follow us, which means you pledged to follow me - so if I ever hear that you so much as think of killing him or any of the other Pathers behind my back again, I will kill you myself. As I said, I won’t like it, but I will do it.” Her gaze did not waver at all. “I trust I do not have to resort to that.”

Randarel bowed his head. He did not react with indignation, or make a counter-threat, because he knew she was right. He did not regret the act, but he did regret putting his commander (for that was indeed what she was) in this predicament. “No, Warmaster.”

Catherine nodded quietly… then sighed. “I don’t begrudge you, but… it’s the principle of the thing. You did this without consulting me, Zulimbasha, or Archivist Lengua. If any of these scum are to die, it will be one of us who decides it. It’s bad enough we have to keep an eye on them anyway. We don’t want to actually encourage them to act against us. How we’ll integrate them all, if at all, I have no idea. But we’re trying, nonetheless.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Then I hope we can put that… unpleasantness behind us. You mentioned you’d been made aware of events - I assume that includes the loss of the Pearl Queen.”

Randarel nodded grimly. “Poquelin told us when he met us in Suramar. A terrible loss, all around.”

“Captain Vizka and his crew are about to set out from here to hunt down Zaidu. I’ve made it clear, they’re to come back with his head, or not at all. Meanwhile, I’ve had word from Warden Ravensong; we’ve had our first victory against what’s left of the Path. Caradell is dead.” Next to Randarel, Sethiro bowed her head, mourning the loss of a sister-in-arms, but said nothing. “But Archdruid Wintershade is still missing. She seemed to think he had gone to Bwonsamdi’s temple to… I don’t know, petition him to return his lost family. But the Warden tells me he was never there.”

“You think he has gone mad? Stars know I would have in his place. Very nearly did, in fact.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, yes. But I also fear who could use that madness to their advantage. Caradell took quite readily to the Path. Zaidu is a berserker, and that’s problem enough. The real danger is his former patron.”

“Kalimos.”

“Yes. Which is why I asked Poquelin to try and find your comrade here. I’ve taken on my share of demons, I know how to dispatch them well enough.” She reached up to the scar across her face, from a felhunter’s claws during the Legion war. “But I also know the benefits of having experts. Poquelin is our only demon hunter.”

Randarel glanced at Sethiro, who quietly nodded. “Not anymore, he’s not.” He chuckled. “Strange alliances of late. Demon hunters and Wardens, demon hunters and death knights.” He turned back to Catherine. “What we can do, we will.”

[Heskin-cenarion-circle]

The trail led north to Lordaeron; the Seaking dropped anchor off the Arathi Highlands. Donal took his gryphon along the mountainous coast, setting out for Stromgarde… and he was alarmed to see a number of what looked to be refugee caravans heading in that direction. What could have happened? he wondered. Dame Catherine had mentioned something about an attempted coup against Lord Danath in his absence, but hadn’t been specific. Riding along with him on what looked to be an infinite dragon was the void elf huntress Araen Warpwalker. Before she had embraced Alleria’s path, she had spent two decades trapped in Outland along with the Sons of Lothar. Now all five of their heroes had returned - and all five of them were in Khaz Algar.

When they landed, Donal hid his surprise at the glares pointed at both Araen and at him. Catherine had mentioned something about Danath’s niece and wanting to “embody Thoradin’s example”, which apparently meant human supremacy. It reminded him of what he’d heard the Arathi in Hallowfall say about how their Empire was not nearly as open-minded as they were.

Araen noticed, too. “You saw the caravans… and you see this. It’s not just their neighbors over in Hammerfall… something about us, too.” She glanced over, seeing a number of humans accosting a gnome vendor, making the typical jokes about them and their size… but with an undercurrent of malice. It bothered him to see, and the look on Araen’s face told him she felt the same way.

“Raenie?” Both turned to see a fit-looking man with dark skin and close-cropped dark hair, wearing a red robe. His tabard bore the sigil of Stromgarde, the striking hawk. “Well, well. Good to see a friendly face.”

Araen’s eyes widened in surprise. “Koena? What the hell are you doing here?”

“This is my home, remember.” Koena smiled a little, but it had a tired look to it. His expression quickly sobered. “Thank the Light you’re here. You feel the tension here, don’t you?”

“And we saw it coming in. What the hell is going on, Koena? Is that niece of his making another go at it?”

“Not as far as we know; she’s still locked up in the dungeons below the Keep. But bandit attacks have risen in the last few weeks. Some people are saying it’s the Defias.”

“Defias?” That got Donal’s attention. “This far from Stormwind?”

Koena gazed at the younger man in silent question. Araen saw it. “Introductions, sorry. Donal, this is Father Koena - we were stuck in Outland with the Sons of Lothar. Koena, this is Sir Donal Heskin, a comrade from the new bunch I run with these days.”

“Heskin, you say? Any relation to Eran Heskin?”

“My grandda,” Donal confirmed.

“Ahhh. That makes so much sense. You have that look in your eye.” Koena’s expression was sympathetic. “And a lot more besides… the old battler’s gone, isn’t he? And not in his bed, like we’d all like to go.”

“No,” Donal replied, his jaw clenching to avoid breaking down in public. “That’s partly why we’re here. We’re on the trail of a demon lord and ex-cult leader. His goons killed him.”

“Demon lord, eh? Would that specifically be an eredar? Tall fellow, white hair, red skin?”

“You’ve seen him?”

Koena nodded. “From a distance only, but I’ve seen him, alright. I’ve gone out of the walls several times these past few weeks, ministering to the refugees, and tangling with the bandits. Between Outland and the Broken Isles, an eredar is hard to miss - and an eredar here is even more so. Even with the rumors that the old Prophet has granted amnesty to ‘em. Or at least, to those not still spouting Sargeras’ message.” His eyes narrowed. “I take it this jerk is one of the latter, judging by what you said… or at the very least, on the same level of insanity.”

“Something like that, yeah. Most of his cult has collapsed into chaos, some of them even coming to us. You think he’s connected to your bandit problem?”

The old priest shook his head sharply. “No. I mentioned the Defias, but there are other rumors too - Syndicate from Alterac, even some Scarlets from over the mountains.”

“The Scarlet Crusade again?” Araen shook her head. “Didn’t getting the tar beaten out of them in Tirisfal and Gilneas teach them anything?”

“It’s desperation, Raenie. Same with the others - why the Defias are so far from Stormwind, as young Sir Donal here pointed out… why the Syndicate, who mostly kept to Alterac, are showing up down here. The Scarlets, well, they’re lunatics. It’s hard to pin down what ails those nuts.” Koena sighed. “No, if he’s here… he’s looking to help stir the pot. As if it’s not approaching lid-popping boiling point as is.”

Araen and Donal both nodded in agreement. “Have there been any attacks from Hammerfall? We do have some… friends on the other side.”

“As do I, and no. However, they think we are attacking them.”

“Hence the bandits,” Donal mused. “Defias, Syndicate, Scarlet Crusade… all humans, for the most part. Most orcs don’t see factions. They see one human causing trouble, we all are.”

“That’s my take on it as well, young sir,” Koena agreed grimly. “Though most folks would shy away from a living breathing demon, though.”

“This one is manipulative,” Araen explained. “Sometimes… indirect.”

“Ugh. Worst kind. Striking from the shadows. We had a bunch of that go down in the isles when the Legion invaded. Damned infiltrators… anywho. What do you need from me?”

“You going out to do another one of your ministries?” Donal asked. “We can come along.”

“Generous offer. And I could use more… upbeat company.” Koena smiled. “Sure, why not? Follow me. Need to grab a few things… and I feel you’ve been blessed too, my lad. You heal any?”

“Somewhat. Still… picking up a few things.”

“We all started somewhere. Consider this a little on-the-job training, eh?”

[Poquelin-cenarion-circle]

Poquelin the Accursed stood on a ridge not far from Stromgarde, a sick pit in his stomach as he observed from the ground much of what Donal and Araen had seen from the air. Word had come from Soji, Zulimbasha’s messenger, just after the incident at the Necropolis that the Seaking had gone to the Highlands; he had gone back to Silvermoon via the portal network maintained by the Nightborne in Zuldazar, and ventured across the Plaguelands and over the mountains… and witnessed the plight the folk here experienced.

We go off to fight so our people at home do not suffer, he thought, something that probably would not have occurred to him before; his naturally haughty, self-entitled nature had been greatly tempered by his experiences in the Shadowlands. And yet the suffering at home seems greater than before, if this is any indication.

His thoughts were echoed somewhat by his companion. “The rage here is almost solid enough to touch.” Unlike Poquelin, who wore heavy armored robes, Sethiro Dreamblade relied on the bare minimum, emphasis on “bare” - showing off the darkly-glowing red tattoos on her scaly flesh, as well as her athletic figure. “Not fear or despair… anger. Hate. There is an undercurrent of something here.” The night elf Illidari shook her head. “But not for the reasons we are here for.”

“He’s here, though. Our friends in Stromgarde said as much.” Though the Seaking’s intended mission was to hunt down the fel-maddened dracthyr Zaidu, a contact in Stromgarde reported that he had seen Kalimos himself during his sojourns outside the city gates to minister to the refugee caravans. Father Koena was out and about now, in fact, accompanied by Donal and Araen. The priest had been (naturally) wary of the demon hunters, but had spoken politely to them, aware that they were all there for a common purpose.

Much as Araen had explained, and Poquelin (among others) knew all too well, Kalimos was incredibly manipulative. The Zandalari sky patrols had claimed to see Tekolin in Caradell’s company going to the Necropolis, but Itzara had learned that the archdruid had never been there at all, which led Poquelin to wonder what kind of illusory magic had been at play. Had Kalimos led Caradell there himself, intending for her to die? Had it been a ploy to lead them onto a false trail?

And had Koena, who seemed to have a much less rigid soul than most of his calling that Poquelin had ever met, actually seen the eredar warlord… or had it been another trick? It was a possibility the Accursed had raised to the man himself. To his credit, the priest had considered the possibility. “Given what you have all said of him, it is strange that he would let himself be seen so openly,” he had conceded. “It could well be another trick. We saw enough of the Legion’s abilities to deceive in Outland - and again in the Broken Isles. You were part of that too, yeah?”

“I was… and you raise a valid point. Even we Illidari, with our ability to sense these creatures, can sometimes have our senses deceived.” Another thing he would never have admitted to before his sojourn in Revendreth. He could almost hear Inquisitor Drastiya, the venthyr he’d worked with most there, chuckle knowingly.

Poquelin saw Koena and his escorts approach from the area of Refuge Pointe, and he and Sethiro stepped from their vantage to join them. Before they could say a word, however, Koena suddenly raised a shield over all five of them as a burst of felfire from the air washed over it. Poquelin and Sethiro whirled, their blades in hand, as they saw Zaidu bank sharply around. He hadn’t summoned the flame; he was breathing it.

As he approached to make another attack, however, another burst of dark magic from a different angle blasted into their attacker, who spun erratically in midair and crashed with a sickening thud into the very rock Poquelin had been standing on barely a minute or two earlier. Koena and Donal, both healers, approached the fallen dracthyr, but Poquelin didn’t need the Light to tell him that Zaidu was dead. Hopefully, for good. He hoped one of the things Kalimos had taught him was not about soulstones.

Which begged the question: Who the hell had killed him? Almost immediately, a deep, amused-sounding voice answered that. “I see we’re all here for much the same reason.”

Poquelin’s stomach knotted. Not him. But as he turned to the speaker, he knew it would be. “Corruptor.”

“Accursed,” Urgan of the Black Harvest returned, a grim smile on his face.

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

((Written in the hospital late last month, finally putting it up…))

“This was an internment camp once, young knight. Part of the system ruled from Durnholde by that drunk fool Blackmoore. Years ago, Doomhammer himself, with the son of Durotan at his side, came to liberate this camp. Here was where he fell. Here, Thrall rose.”

Donal listened as the Corruptor spoke, a pensive tone not often heard in the warlock’s voice. “You were here?”

Urgan nodded. “I had been sent here from a camp near Tarren Mill when the raids started. Being what I am, the pain from the malaise we fell into after our defeat was worse.” He snorted. “Probably well deserved, in your view. Your grandfather was one of Lothar’s knights, who sent us to these places. He no doubt told stories of the ‘green demons’ to you, eh?”

“I am not my grandfather,” Donal replied. “And he was not as rigid as that.” His cold blue eyes stared into the Corruptor’s red ones. “Nor are you, I think.”

The orc’s eyebrows rose. “How so?”

“You were Saavedro’s enemy, and Catherine hates you for what you did to him. But you choose not to fight us anymore, and instead work with us. And you speak of your… vulnerability so openly to me, a human. And I hear the truth in it. He would have, too.”

The Corruptor peered at him with an expression almost of… respect. “You are wise beyond your years, boy. Perhaps naive, but… there is a firmness in your conviction.”

“Circumstances hardened me so.”

“Indeed. And it is true… your Warmaster would have my head, if she so wished. Like the traitor Relsyn. But…” Urgan stroked his braided white beard thoughtfully. “Hildreth has learned the cost of rigid thinking, Heskin, in Saavedro’s example. He was so unbending, he snapped. Perhaps… perhaps she was not the only one to learn from that.” He chuckled. “No one is too old to learn, after all. Your grandfather and I are of the same generation, and as you say, his views changed with the times. Perhaps, to survive, we must all show such flexibility in thought. Rigidity leads to brittleness, which leads to breaking. Like our new-old foes here.”

Donal looked curious. “Your hatred for the eredar… it’s not just personal between you and him, is it? He reminds you of what happened on Draenor. How Kil’jaeden manipulated your people. Magra mentioned what she went through.”

Urgan’s expression was one of surprise. “You’ve met Magra?”

“Grandda served with her in the Argent Crusade in Northrend. She said it was a vision, the hand on the sun.”

“Not surprising. Her father, Kalnor, was a shaman with the Bleeding Hollow clan, like me. He exiled himself into Terokkar Forest when the Horde began to form. He saw it coming, I think. She came back just before the gathering on the Throne of Kil’jaeden. She accepted Gul’dan’s gift. Other than Doomhammer and the Frostwolves, we all did.”

“She never mentioned what happened to her father.”

“Died of old age, most likely. Sitting under the olemba trees.” The Corruptor sounded almost wistful. “Worse ways to go, I suppose.”

“Do you regret it? The demons, the Horde, the wars… this?”

Urgan smiled grimly. “The thing about people like me, young knight, is that we can’t focus on regrets. I wield the fel, and all that comes with it. Are there things I wish I could have done differently? Perhaps. Do I dwell on those thoughts? No. I’m too old to change that. This is what I am, blood-soaked hands and all.” He paused, musing. “That being said… there are those eredar who sought to rejoin their people, to grow beyond what Sargeras intended them to be. Kalimos embraced the Dark Titan without hesitation, and still seeks to embody what he represented. He is a berserker in his own way, like his pet dracthyr, Zaidu. I’ve been there, and… perhaps I flinched at giving in too much to it.”

“Use, not be used?”

The Corruptor chuckled. “Not quite. It takes as much as it gives. I am a monster, young Heskin; I do not deny this. But sometimes…”

Donal nodded. “Sometimes there are bigger monsters.”

“And sometimes it takes a monster to defeat a monster. Consider the Illidari.”

“Donal.” Both turned to see Poquelin. “We found him.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Araen tried to keep her loathing in check as she approached the figure in front of her, backed by her allies (and the Corruptor)… but something seemed off. “You’re not him.”

“No, young void-child. I know who you seek, but I am not him.” The figure turned. Red skinned, green eyed, white haired. But there were subtle differences - different hairstyle, shorter beard… and he was wearing draenic attire, a style that had become common in recent days. “I am called Drazhad. I know who you seek, and what you intend once you find him. In that, we share a goal.”

Araen looked him over, again noting the attire. “You’re a Penitent.”

Drazhad nodded. “Drazh’har was my Legion name. They like their growls and unnecessary punctuations… perhaps inspired by Kil’jaeden, who had it from the start. But I digress. You seek Kalimos the Unforgiven, yes?” He snorted. “Fitting name for such a wretched man.”

“He and his cultists killed some of our comrades… friends, family.” She glanced out the side of her eye at Donal as she said this. “We’ve taken down some of his pets, but it seems every time we hear of his whereabouts, it’s a false lead.”

“Deception and illusion were among the many tools we used in the Legion. Kalimos served Talgath, and his minions were renowned for those tactics. Experts at observation, infiltration, corruption. Talgath discovered the orcs on Draenor, for instance, and Kil’jaeden used them to get at the draenei.”

Koena raised an eyebrow. “But you would know how to spot such infiltration.”

“Not as expertly as you imply, human, but yes, I know a few things. He was in the old Horde fortress near here, observing these ‘Red Dawn’ fools. They seem to be looking for something there.”

Araen saw where that was going. “Observing, seeing how to use them,” she said. “But why? With Scarlet Crusaders in their ranks, they’re not liable to work with demons… and with all humans, they’re not liable to work with draenei, which presumably he’d try to hide himself as one of.”

“Plans within plans, Warpwalker,” the Corruptor commented. “The less we’re able to grasp of their goals, the better. It may not make sense to us, but it makes perfect sense to them. Most Legion-influenced cults work that way. The Shadow Council certainly did.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, Araen, he’s right,” Poquelin agreed grimly. “Hell, they’re devious enough even when you can make sense of their schemes.”

“It could also be another trick,” Donal added. “Like the sighting of the archdruid in Zandalar.”

Araen had been thinking that too. She stared at Drazhad, eyes narrowed. “Can you lead us to him?”

Drazhad met her gaze without flinching. Then he nodded. “Follow me.”

As the others stepped forward, Poquelin hung back along with Araen, expression troubled. “I don’t like this,” he muttered in Thalassian.

“Neither do I,” Araen replied in the same tongue, “but it’s all we have.”

“I know. And that’s what worries me.”

Araen sighed and nodded. “Me, too. You think he’s part of the bastard’s trap?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Willingly?”

Poquelin thought on that for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I think he’s sincere about his penitence. But he said it himself - illusion, deception… these scum like to play games. This could just be another move in that game.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Donal had sent word of what they had found in the Highlands, and brought the party back aboard the ship. Vizka stood at the wheel, his eye searching along the eastern Lordaeronian coast. The eredar Penitent was leading them into the ruins of the Scarlet Enclave in the Eastern Plaguelands, a place that had been eerily silent for the better part of the past decade or so.

As he pulled the Seaking up to the dock in King’s Harbor, Vizka could hear the wind whistling through the ruined lighthouse, and repressed a shiver. As a shaman as well as a sailor, he had dealt with his fair share of spirits, ghosts, and the like. But Lordaeron made his skin crawl.

“Death lingers strongly here.” He turned to Vilaya, who stood next to him, wearing leather armor adorned with bones, much like the robes favored by Zulimbasha. “You feel it too, Captain?”

“Aye, dat I do,” he agreed. “Not just any death. Unnatural. Da plague lingers in everyt’ing here. Though I do feel some of what de druids have done.” He let out a shaky breath. “But not here.” He looked to Drazhad, who stood below on the main deck, guarded by Donal and Araen… and next to them, flanked by the demon hunters, stood Urgan, who looked up to meet his gaze. But rather than a mocking acknowledgment, the nod the Corruptor gave him was solemn. He feels it too, Vizka realized. And he spent more time here than I did.

“Captain.” He turned to the Stromgarde priest, Father Koena. A good-looking man, his face full of character, his eyes showing what he had seen. Like Araen, he had spent two decades with the Sons of Lothar in Outland. “What are your intentions here?” he asked quietly, but firmly.

Vizka’s eyebrow rose over his good eye. “What do you mean?”

“You used to work for this demon. The Corruptor serves only himself, yes… but he has as much at stake in the hunt as our companions. And our ‘guide’ is just like him, but claims to seek redemption… perhaps.” Koena’s amber-tinted eyes gazed at him. “You’re much harder to judge. You have not hesitated to take blood money from monsters and demons, and now you help us to hunt him. Why?”

Vizka was quiet, leaving his first mate to secure the wheel, as he descended the steps to the deck. The warlocks and their escorts descended the ramp to the dock. Vilaya walked ahead of him. “I speak to de Loa and de elements,” he said, “but dere was a time… just after meetin’ with my old ‘war buddies’ in Zandalar, those of us who sided with de Dark Lady durin’ da siege, and saw de mak’gora at Orgrimmar. It was just business, I told myself. But de elements stopped speakin’ ta me for a time… and Gonk, my Loa, refused ta offer me his gift. Followin’ my path where I did before, even with de war… dat was not enough ta anger de spirits. But dis was.”

Koena looked curious. “Have they forgiven you your trespass?”

“Dey have. But I had ta be honest with myself, and with dem. When Relsyn said he wanted out, and went ta meet with Hildreth… de spirits followed, and so did I. I didn’t know what Sylvanas wanted until I saw her kill Saurfang - until I heard her scream ta all in earshot dat de Horde was nothing, dat we were all nothing. But Kalimos… I knew what he was. And it was not until I could admit dat to myself, and stand against him, dat de spirits showed demselves ta me again.”

For all the good it did you, traitor.

Vilaya looked up, then hurled herself at Vizka’s legs, causing him to lose his balance and collapse to the dock - just as the felfire blast singed the air where he had been standing. Koena raised a shield over them, eyes searching. Then he pointed in the direction of New Avalon. “There!”

Or perhaps here? The voice echoed from behind them.

Or here? Now from above.

Drazhad, true to his word, saw through the ruse. Calling on his own fel power, he unleashed a rain of felfire near where the priest had pointed. Kalimos shrieked, and broke out running…

…just as a figure leapt from behind him, knocking him to the ground. Before any of them could react, a bubble had been projected around the fallen eredar. All eyes now turned to the figure, adorned in what looked to be jeweled bandages, a pair of energy blades in her hands. Her face was uncovered, and clearly elven… and smiling.

“Estalia?” Araen’s bow lowered.

“Still in the dark, as usual, Araen. I mentioned I would kill you if we met again. Well… that will have to wait.” Estalia Voidshrike smiled cruelly, as a device activated around her and the trapped warlock… some kind of teleportation device. “But we will meet again.” In a spark of energy, she was gone with her prize.

Vizka, who had recovered from the near miss and ran up to join the others, stared in shock. “What de hell was dat?”

“An ethereal gateway,” the Corruptor answered, as surprised as they were. “We saw them all the time in Outland - namely in the Netherstorm.”

“And in some of the halls of Auchindoun, taken over by that ‘Nexus-Prince’ and his lot,” Koena added. “She seemed to be wearing ethereal wraps, but… void-corrupted.”

“I heard something about void ethereals in Undermine,” Donal spoke up. “Could this…”

Araen was staring where her former friend had stood, too stunned to speak.

Vizka sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think we had better return ta Khaz Algar. Lady Hildreth will want ta hear dis.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Catherine Hildreth sat alone next to the fountain in Stormwind’s Cathedral Square, having returned here from Khaz Algar following the news brought by Captain Vizka and his expedition. Though the wretched puppet Zaidu was dead, the puppeteer, Kalimos, had disappeared… and the circumstances described did not indicate he had done so willingly.

The ethereal connection bothered her. Araen and Koena, both of whom had been trapped in Outland for many years, had seen their share of their activities in the Netherstorm. So had the Corruptor, who had travelled beyond the Dark Portal during that campaign. And there had been signs of them recently as well. Then just this morning had come a messenger, in the colors of the void elves, having come from the Telogrus Rift…

Dame Catherine,

As you have instructed, I have gathered information on the evidence of ethereal interference during the recent conflict. A void-ethereal “princess” was reported to be in Azj-Kahet during the last days of Queen Ansurek, and void ethereals were seen in Undermine during the revolution that toppled Gallywix. This has let me to a surprising development: I have recently received word from an old ally from Zereth Mortis, the Enlightened broker Hazir, who has requested a meeting with me in person - “on a new field of battle for you, less so for us”, as he put it.

I request that you gather anyone you may deem appropriate, and return to Dornogal. Someone will be waiting there to bring you to my present location. Everything will soon become clear.

O.

Sighing, Catherine crumpled the missive into her fist, holy flame wreathing her hands to burn the void-touched missive to dust… then stood to return to her house and collect her gear.

---

The following day, she arrived in Dornogal, accompanied by Araen, Koena and - reluctantly - Urgan, as the “experts” in the matter. Waiting for them was the solidly-built, rot-faced form of the draenei death knight Khorag, wearing Zereth-inspired armor, a matching hammer held against one shoulder. “Warmaster,” he greeted her with a solemn nod. “Things have… proceeded since the monster hunt.” He nodded towards the entrance to the Council tower, and began to walk up towards it.

Catherine and her escorts followed the death knight, and she was quietly amused to notice a hint of apprehension on the Corruptor’s face. Though he’s not the only one, she thought. Inside, not far from the portal to Stormwind and the teleport pad to the roof, was a broker translocation gate. The missive had mentioned a broker.

Without hesitation, Khorag stepped through. With only a moment’s hesitation themselves, Catherine and her escorts followed.

Portals had become almost commonplace these days, but Catherine always felt her stomach flip every time she went through them - and the broker ones were worse. But it all soon cleared up…

…and she found herself staring at a vision of hell.

“What…” Urgan stared in shock. “This is almost worse than Argus.”

“Much worse,” came a voice in front of them. Three figures stood waiting. One was another draenei, living this time, with pale skin, contrasted by a black-and-red checkerboard coat adorned with what looked to be chess-piece designs - knights on her bracers, rooks on her shoulders. She wore an amused look on her face. Next to her was a void elf, with white hair and a purple tint to his skin, also contrasted somewhat by the white, red and gold of his own Zereth-inspired regalia, which better matched the tabard he wore, embroidered with pandaren script, the sigil of the Lorewalkers proudly on his chest. At his other side, opposite the draenei, was a broker, whose containment suit marked him as one of the Enlightened, those who had broken from their cartels to study the ways of the First Ones in Zereth Mortis.

Behind them rose a great settlement, which looked out of place here for how… intact it was, compared to the shattered rock that floated in the skies around them. Catherine realized that it was a broker structure, one that she had not seen since the Shadowlands… and she wondered how by all that was holy it had come to this unholy place. “Where are we, Ord’taeril?” she demanded of the void elf, who had been the one to speak.

“The last vestiges of sanity in a dead world, my lady,” Ord’taeril Ketiron responded. “Where one group of survivors of this world have reunited with their brethren to end their exile, and confront the doom that caused it.” He raised his arms, smiling. “Welcome to the home of the K’aresh Trust. Welcome to Tazavesh.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

The two draenei stood on either side of the Lorewalker as they walked along the docks of Tazavesh, looking out towards the eco-domes set up in the distance. “The look on their faces, especially that uppity warlock. Worth it. Absolutely worth it.”

Ord’taeril looked with a hint of amusement to the brilliantly-attired shaman. “If I didn’t know any better, Osadia, I’d say you’re hearing the voices too.”

“And you would be correct, my good sir. The spirits still commune with me, even here. Though they definitely think the environment leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I am concerned with the company the Warmaster is keeping,” Khorag said bluntly. “The priest is an unknown, but the Stromgarders are as prone to zealotry as the ‘Red Dawn’. Warpwalker has other patrons, and we can’t say for certain if the infinites truly want to see us succeed here. And the Corruptor… we know all about him.”

“Our cheerful corpse raises a valid point, no?” Osadia’s face showed her amusement, but her eyes had a flicker of coldness to them. “Not exactly the kind of people you would want behind you.”

Ord’taeril’s eyebrows rose. “I notice you’re not questioning me, Khorag. I made it a point to avoid Uldum and Pandaria during the last war because of the void presence, my experience on Argus having… concerned me as to my chances of falling to madness, as Estalia seems to have done. In fact, given how loose a cannon Lady Alleria is, I’m surprised you trust any of us at all.”

“Because I know you, Lorewalker Ketiron. Our work together in the Shadowlands, particularly in Zereth Mortis, has assured me of your worth. As I hope it has assured you of mine.”

The Lorewalker bowed his head. “You raise a fair point.” He glanced at the shaman, and was surprised he was able to keep a straight face. The flamboyant gear she wore was just so out of place here. “And you, Osadia?”

The draenei shaman grinned. “If I did not like you, I would not be here, hmm?”

The death knight snorted. “As if that’s stopped you before. You didn’t seem to like the Forsaken all that much in Darkshore, and you still went there.”

“Two valid points in one conversation, Khorag, well done! Next, you will surprise me by telling me you know how to read.”

Khorag chuckled. “Not everything about Zereth Mortis just worked with the push of a button, Osadia. Give me some credit.”

“Hmm, fair enough.” Osadia’s cheerful demeanor faded completely now, her expression all business. “The question does stand, Lorewalker: can we rely on our new friends here? Hazir is getting us in with the Trust, surprisingly for a cartel-less broker, but this is his home too… and the work they are doing is important. A chance to bring life in a world of lifelessness.”

“Like the Consortium eco-domes in the Netherstorm,” Khorag agreed. “And the Cenarion Circle’s work in the Plaguelands.”

“Exactly. Can we trust that their hunt for the demon lord and his ethereal-wannabe kidnapper will not jeopardize that work? We took a great risk coming here ourselves. Let us not be the ones who cause it to go completely to waste.”

Ord’taeril sighed and nodded. “I agree, Osadia. But Catherine is a friend and ally, and I must trust that she knows what she is doing. She has not done us wrong before.” He glanced at Khorag. The enemy of the enemy can still be the enemy. It was a belief the death knight had expressed to Catherine, and the Lorewalker found he could not disagree. His father, Taeril’hane, had been one of the Corruptor’s many foes, and the Corruptor had - briefly - risen to lead the Modas, the very people who had killed Taeril’hane in the first place. That history still lingered.

“The influence of the Void is strong here,” he said finally. “Caution must be our watchword in all things. As with our foes… so with our friends as well.”

[Poquelin-cenarion-circle]

Poquelin felt a shiver that penetrated into his soul the moment the portal effect faded, stepping through the gateway from Dornogal to Tazavesh. It was different from going to the Shadowlands, but the construction was familiar enough. It was the vision of hell in front of him that led to the shiver… a feeling he had not experienced for years, not since he had followed Kael’thas and the others to Outland to join Illidan all those years ago, when he had seen the heavens opened to the Twisting Nether.

Teren…

His ears perked up at the sound of the voice, even though he knew he was alone… save for the ethereals and brokers at work before him. His hands tightened on the hilts of the blades at each hip. The others had already come to join the battle against the Shadowguard even as they hunted for Estalia and Kalimos, as well as to aid Ve’nari’s initiative to reestablish some semblance of life on this broken world, much as the Consortium had done with their own domes in Outland’s Netherstorm. So far as he knew, those domes were still there; he had not been back to Outland in a long time.

But he was sure there was no one here, right this moment, who could know of him… and doubly damned sure that if there were, they would not know that name.

Teren… you have come so close. So close indeed.

“It figures,” he muttered to himself. “Barely a minute out of the portal and I’m hearing voices. Damn me.”

You are already damned, Teren. You have embraced the fel, become as much demon as hunter. But even in Outland, you heard the call. You just answered Illidan’s call first. The tone took on a sympathetic sound, and he faintly realized that the voice he was hearing, altered subtly but still recognizable, was his own. The shiver returned. There is still a chance, however.

“I am no warlock, to dabble in whatever forbidden magics tickle my fancy. I have done enough to myself.”

A thin chuckle. You cannot fool yourself, Teren, no matter how much you try.

Poquelin gritted his teeth. “That is not my name anymore. I can never be that man again, save perhaps in death. And I am loathe to experience that again so soon.”

As well you should be. But no matter. The one you have come to this blighted place for is here, as is his captor. And when the time comes… you will know the path to walk.

Then suddenly, silence.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Poquelin felt genuine fear.

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

The Corruptor followed the group - Poquelin, Araen, Ord’taeril and his draenei friends, and Catherine, guided by the Enlightened broker Hazir - to an area not far from Eco-Dome: Primus, where an ethereal gateway waited. The demon hunter halted, his head tilting this way and that as if he still had eyes (tracing around the construction of the portal, Urgan was sure). After a long moment, he nodded. “The trail ends here. They went through.”

“Went through to where?” Catherine demanded. “I’m not exactly in a trusting mood here. These people aren’t prone to leaving signs saying ‘shortcut to hell’, you know.”

Urgan chuckled. “Considering we weren’t given much warning before we came through from Dornogal, I’m inclined to agree.” His smile became somewhat more malicious. “But risk is part of the cost of leadership, Hildreth. And since you’re not willing…”

Walking right past the others, he stepped through the gate.

---

For someone as accustomed to portal magic as he was, Urgan found the trip… rather unsettling. He shook his head slightly to clear it, then looked around. Behind him, the others also began stepping through. A cold fury glinting in her good eye, Catherine grabbed the braids running down the Corruptor’s shoulders with one hand, her sword held in the other, the tip touching his throat. “If you ever question me in front of my people like that again, I will have your head on a spike on Stormwind’s gates, you hear me?”

“Just offering my form of encouragement, Warmaster,” the warlock replied, a maddening smile on his face. “Come now, we are all allies here, are we not?”

Ord’taeril put a hand on her shoulder. With a snarl, the paladin lowered her blade. “Keep pushing me, you double-dealing bastard.” She shoved him away, looking around the chamber.

“This does not look like K’areshi architecture at all,” Hazir commented, having decided discretion was the better part of valor and not bringing attention to the confrontation. “I do not recognize the markings here at all.”

Urgan took a look around and realized the broker was right. And he did recognize the markings. “You wouldn’t,” he said evenly. “Because it’s draconic. We’re somewhere back on Azeroth.”

“Indeed we are,” Ord’taeril agreed grimly. “This is the vault under the Azure Archives in the Dragon Isles. I’ve been here a number of times with Archivist Lengua.”

“And it’s only because of that, considering the company you’re keeping, that you’re still alive.” The group turned. Flanked by two dracthyr and an elven figure with blue scales on her face, Lengua was an imposing figure - the Zandalari regalia and the draconic gauntlet over her right fist adding to the effect. Her red eyes glared for a moment at the Corruptor, who merely smiled in response. “You come seeking the mad one and the eredar. You come at an inopportune time. The Shadowguard have made an awful mess here - plundering artifacts, and trying to corrupt the blue defenders.”

Urgan glanced at the elven figure, recalling who she was, and who she was tied to. And then realization dawned on him. Void corruption being used against blue dragons. He recalled hearing what had occurred in Azj-Kahet after the fall of Dalaran…

“By the Nether,” he breathed. All eyes turned to him. “Esheregos. He is already touched by the Void. If the Shadowguard are turning dragons, Voidshrike may be trying something on their behalf - and using Kalimos to do it. Is he here?”

Lengua’s eyes widened. “He is… Titans preserve us. Void and fel together… what could she be doing?”

“Whatever it is, it must be halted.” Urgan looked around, all mocking expression gone from his face. “You all know me. You all hate me. I accept that. But for all that I revel in conflict… we have all seen K’aresh. Most of us have seen other places like it. Outland. Argus.” He held up his hands. “These have seen much blood coat them. They have grasped for power for as long as I can remember. But I have also seen what grasping for too much does.”

Araen, silent up to now, nodded cautiously. “I was on Draenor when it became Outland. I saw what Ner’zhul’s hubris had done. I would rather avoid living through that again.” The void elf huntress turned to him. “What do you propose, Corruptor?”

“Alone, I was able to defeat Kalimos, but his essence endured, and he returned to plague us all.” He looked around. “Light, Void, elements…” He nodded to Osadia. “Necromancy…” Another nod to Khorag. “The arcane, and draconic power… I think together, we can make it permanent, and put a stop to him - and his ally-or-captor - for good.”

“And my uncle?” the elven figure asked quietly. “If he has fallen beyond our ability to save him?”

The warlock’s burning red eyes met her shining blue ones. “I think you know the answer to that, young Rianagosa. And you know it will have to be done, for his sake and for all others’.”

Rianagosa stared back at him. Then, she closed her eyes and bowed her head. “For the flight.”

Catherine did not like the idea of the Corruptor, her mentor’s hated enemy, rallying her people. But at the same time… he was right, and she knew it. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Archivist, do you know where Esheregos is?”

“It will take somewhat longer for those of you without wings, but there are ways. I only hope we are not too late.”

As the others moved ahead of him to follow the Archivist, Urgan smiled quietly to himself. He suspected that Estalia was acting on Kalimos’ behalf - that he was trying to claim power, and that the kidnapping in the Highlands had been an act. Then again, Kalimos had been fooled by his former comrade, so perhaps she had fooled him too?

No matter. The wretch would die all the same. And he had meant it when he said that perhaps with his power combined with his “allies”, it would be permanent.

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

As they proceeded deep within the Azure Vault, under assault by Shadowguard ethereals, Lengua felt a sense of foreboding that had nothing to do with the warlock lingering at the back of the group. She had felt it before, when Dalaran had been destroyed by Xal’atath, and again when Esheregos had left to return here after he was recovered from below Azj-Kahet. But it was much stronger now, and part of her wondered if the Corruptor’s question to Riana - about what to do if her uncle had fallen too far to save - would be answered the hard way after all.

“Hold.” Poquelin stepped forward. “I sense him. The fel power is twisted with void energies, but he is close.”

Lengua turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Puppet, or puppeteer?”

He shook his head. “Hard to say, Archivist. Eredar are notoriously manipulative, but as their initial fall to Sargeras proves, they are also easily manipulated.” He hefted his warglaives. “We will find out soon enough.” He suddenly shivered, and a hiss of what sounded almost like pain came out from between his teeth.

The suddenness of it got Lengua’s attention. “What–?”

“I… am somewhat more sensitive to the Void than my looks may suggest,” Poquelin admitted quietly. “It’s been… since I first arrived in Outland, with Kael’thas and his people. I thought, when I swore to Illidan and became what I am, that it would change, that it would fade in time, but…” He shook his head. “I was glad not to have gone to Argus, from what I’ve heard.” He sighed, and straightened. “Apologies, Archivist. I’m ready to proceed.”

Lengua had a lot of questions, but simply nodded, and watched the demon hunter walk ahead of her. “Whatever comes next, Archivist… know it was meant to be,” she heard one of her dracthyr escorts whisper in their native tongue. “He has a fate ahead of him, and he is not the only one.”

Lengua’s head tilted. “And you know this how, Tremas?”

“You think because I have adopted this form that I do not stay in touch with my brethren?” Tremas, an infinite dragon who had shepherded a number of people (including the void elf huntress behind him), asked with a chuckle. “We are all of purpose here.” Next to him, the bronze-scaled warrior, Iyannadormi, simply rolled her eyes. She had been one of Tremas’ recruits, and it was actually because of her that he became a dracthyr full-time (pun only somewhat intended), with the blessing of his leader, Eternus.

The fact that he had been through time - they both had, as had Araen - in such a way before made Lengua wonder just what lay ahead… and who would go forward.

“By the Light,” she heard Catherine gasp, and her attention returned to the chamber ahead of them. The evoker’s eyes widened in horror at the sight before her…

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Araen stared in horrified rage at the sight she beheld with the others. Estalia was there, and she was not alone. It seemed the suspicion of the parts being played was true: Kalimos was front and center, Estalia at his side. She recognized Mariel Surrette as well, a Forsaken dark ranger known for being particularly cold and ruthless, more so than her vengeful brother, Jonathan… who was bound, looking very worse for wear, along with a number of other brutalized Forsaken, those of his men who had tried to flee, guarded by their former comrades now under Mariel’s direction. They were kept at the feet of another contained figure… Esheregos, who appeared to be connected to some kind of ethereal device, piercing into his hide.

With them were a tauren in the regalia of a Primalist, and the antlers at either side of the great beaked stone helmet he wore indicated he was from Highmountain. There were also three ethereals, an arcanist and two warriors - Pactsworn, minions of the Nexus-King. And next to them… Araen’s blood ran cold as she saw the seemingly washed-out color of the man’s robes, and glanced immediately at Tremas. He saw it too, and looked troubled. Not all of us follow Eternus’ lead, and seek a peaceful way, he had told her in Pandaria. There are still those who seek to bring forth Murozond, no matter the cost. “Crosis,” she heard him whisper.

Their attention was brought back to the scene before them. The eredar was shouting. “What do you mean, not enough?”

“This is not enough. I think that should be clear enough even for you.” The infinite dragon immediately looked up… and over at Araen. Directly at Araen. And then he smiled. “But this will do nicely.”

Kalimos spun around, eyes wide with fury - especially when they saw the Corruptor. “YOU!” he screamed. “ANACH KYREE!”

“Attack!” Catherine commanded, as she shield-checked one of the charging ethereal warriors, deflecting his spear thrust. Araen nocked an arrow, and lined up with the first target she saw - the Highmountain Primalist. But to her surprise, he looked at her, gave a slight shake of his head, then looked at Kalimos… and shifted into ghost wolf form.

“A bit of hope, no?” Osadia commented as she hefted a pair of axes. “I did not fancy our chances with him.” Charging ahead, the draenei shaman whirled with a dancer’s grace, her chessboard-inspired coat whirling with her movements as she met the other ethereal warrior (this one with a sword) blade-for-blade.

Araen turned and saw Estalia attempting to sneak away, the infinite agent along with her. Tremas noticed as well. “Take her,” he said quietly. “I will deal with my wayward brother.”

Araen nodded and put up her bow, then drew her spear. “Estalia!” she shouted. “You cannot run from me forever, so why bother trying? Turn and face me, if you’re not a coward!”

Estalia turned, blades in hand. “The coward accusing me of cowardice. How rich. Very well, ‘sister’ - if you want to die, I will oblige you! Band’or shorel’aran!”

Warpwalker and Voidshrike - both lived up to the names they had taken. As befitting the patience of a hunter, Araen’s movements were careful, precise, and near impossible to pin down, almost like she was blinking from one place to another, like a mage. Estalia was a wild fighter, wanting nothing more than to thrust her twin blades into her opponent, shrieking with determined fury as she struck.

“What’s the matter, Araen? No attempts to appeal to our friendship, the long years in Outland?” she taunted.

“My friend is dead, and you killed her,” Araen replied calmly, as she ducked and parried another series of wild strikes. “No friend of mine would ever willingly work with those seeking to destroy our world.”

“What use is there in trying to defend it? Azeroth, Outland, K’aresh, Argus, Telogrus… THEY’LL ALL BURN ANYWAY! Why bother?! What is the point of it?!”

Araen saw an opening, and though her heart burned with anguish, she took it. “We are of purpose,” she said quietly, a tear running down her face as she swung the haft of her spear, knocking both of Estalia’s blades from her hands… before spinning around and finishing with an impaling strike.

Estalia’s eyes went wide in shock, looking down at the speartip in her gut. She grasped the haft as she sunk to the floor, Araen kneeling next to her. “All… all we saw,” she said, blood running from her mouth. “All we did.” She put her hand onto her former friend’s cheek. “Araen?”

“I am here, Estalia.” Araen put her hand over Estalia’s. “I always was, my sister.”

“Sister…” Estalia smiled sadly. “Alas.” She sighed. “Vendel’o… eranu…” Her hand fell.

Araen bowed her head, tears running down her cheeks. “No,” she whispered. “I would have to forget, too… and I can’t.” She looked up as Tremas approached… and was silent. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. It was as it should be. So why did it feel so wrong? “Your ‘brother’?”

“Gone,” he replied grimly. “And so are Kalimos and Surrette. The others are dead. This is a… most inopportune time. Events are in motion.”

“Events?”

Tremas saw Riana approaching her stricken uncle. “Not now. I will explain all, Araen… but for now, we must stand witness. The warlock’s question will have an answer. And what must be, will be.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Visibly struggling to maintain her composure, Riana knelt next to her stricken uncle. “What have they done to you?”

“The infinite…” Esheregos’ voice was strained. “Kalimos… wants to… change history. Prevent…” His eyes darted to the Corruptor, who stepped forward.

“I killed Kalimos on Argus during the last battles there,” Urgan explained for Riana’s benefit. “His essence travelled to Azeroth before the rift opened by Illidan was closed, and was contained by Aldos Relsyn until he was resurrected. His first action was to spite me for it - turning me into a pet for his amusement.” His teeth ground.

Riana, young though she was, could piece it together well enough. “The infinite traitor. He must be trying to help him change history, stop his defeat on Argus. But to what end? The Legion would still lose anyway.”

The Corruptor shook his head. “Perhaps not, young dragon. If the infinites change history - they’ve tried numerous times, trying to kill Arthas before he became the Lich King, or kill Medivh before he opened the Dark Portal, so on - it could lead to a Legion victory in that timeline. It’s been seen before.”

“He is right, Rianagosa,” Tremas confirmed grimly. “Kalimos’ fall on Argus is a confirmed fact. If he is able to change that, it will have an effect on the future. One being’s life or death has far more profound an effect than even we realize.”

Riana looked back to the torturous device, and the three dead ethereals. “What were the Shadowguard trying to do?”

Esheregos’ voice, though full of pain, was also full of anger. “Siphon me.”

Riana’s jaw clenched. The Black Blood had gone deeper than she realized then. “How do we help you?”

“Mnnh… too late… for that now.” Esheregos gazed at her. “Release… me.”

Riana realized just what he meant by that, and recoiled in horror. “No.”

“You must.”

“No! Bad enough to lose my parents, but this… no! I will not!” She did not add - she didn’t have to - that Esheregos had been the one to kill her father, Iskanigos, and had lived with that regret ever since. She never wanted to feel that… and now she was being asked to?

“Riana…” A huge talon reached out and gently touched her forehead. “Release me. Please. Tired… so tired…”

Riana’s fists clenched, and she turned to Urgan. “I suppose you’ll want to do the honors and gloat about it?”

To her surprise, the Corruptor shook his head. “This is your burden, child,” he said, in a sympathetic tone that even he was surprised to realize was genuine. “You must bury your own.”

That brought the tears she had been suppressing, and she looked away from the warlock. “Master Tremas,” she said quietly, “a blade, please.”

Tremas nodded his horned head, and unsheathed one of his daggers, holding to her hilt first. As she touched it, she briefly saw flashes of events, and looked sharply up at him. The expression on his face was clear: Later.

Gripping the handle tightly, Rianagosa approached her dying uncle.

Esheregos closed his eyes with a contented sigh, though he was left with one last regret before the blade struck home: that he never knew the name of the magister who had adopted who he thought was a boy orphaned by an Amani attack, and showed him that mortals also had compassion…

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Gabriel Underwood stood quietly on the balcony of the Silver Feather in Bel’ameth, looking out across the great glade around Amirdrassil. He had received a messenger from Stormwind, telling him that Dame Catherine and Master Zulimbasha were bringing a contingent to meet here, somewhere calmer, away from the chaos on K’aresh. Having seen it briefly for himself, he had no desire to do so again.

“Shan’do Gabriel.” He looked up to see Itzara Ravensong standing in the doorway. “They’re here.”

Gabriel nodded, and headed downstairs with the Warden. It was quite a party. With Catherine were Donal, Koena, and Ord’taeril. With Zulimbasha were Poquelin, Urgan, and Vizka. They were joined a moment later by three dracthyr - Lengua, Iyanna, and Tremas - and by Riana, shifting from her dragon form to her more “comfortable” visage, though her expression looked anything but comfortable. In fact, they all looked rather downcast.

Gabriel looked to Catherine, a concerned look in his eyes. “Tell me,” he said gently. And, with the aid of the others, she did. When they were finished, he bowed his head. He had not known Esheregos well, but knew he was a loyal friend and ally to the group. He was silent for a long moment, then asked, “What will be done now? I presume that was the purpose of this gathering.”

Catherine gestured to Tremas, who stepped forward. “I understand you were looking for a colleague and ally, Archdruid. Tekolin Wintershade. I’ve recently received word from my brethren in the infinite dragonflight that they are planning another ‘study group’, as was done in Pandaria. Iyanna and Araen here were both part of that.”

“I remember hearing of it,” Gabriel replied, nodding. “Is Tekolin part of this new group? Where?”

“Yes and no,” Tremas replied. “He is indeed there, but he is not one of those we have sought out for it. Indeed, like Kalimos and his attempts to alter his own fate, his grief and anger at the loss he suffered here at Amirdrassil, when it was still blooming within the Dream, has led him to madness.” He looked around. “This tree is of the Dream, but imagine if it were corrupted by its dark opposite.”

“The Nightmare? But…” Itzara narrowed her eyes. “Your flight is going back to the Broken Isles. To the Legion invasion a decade ago.”

“Indeed so, Warden. Much like Pandaria, my colleagues believe we can learn from the conflict, how it was fought, who fought it, why, where, and with what tools. The potent weapons used by the great heroes are of particular interest.” Tremas - who had shifted into his visage, with a long black beard streaked with white and a bald head crowned by the same horns as in his dracthyr form - clasped his hands behind his back. “Because of our ties to both targets, Eternus’ agents have asked me to reach out to you all to find volunteers to join them in the past, to ensure that all events go smoothly, and to prevent the corruption of the timeline.”

“And those involved?” Gabriel had a feeling he knew the answer, but it bore asking.

Tremas knew what he meant, too. “Kalimos must not survive, because in the proper timeline, he didn’t. Our agents will ensure that his present self, who is working with one of our fallen brothers…”

“Crosis,” Araen spoke up.

“Yes, that is his name… we will ensure that Kalimos and Crosis are dealt with in a manner that does not effect the events there, or the present here. Speaking for myself, I will not miss either of them if they end up dead, and I don’t think my brethren will either.”

“Nor will we,” Catherine muttered, and the others all nodded.

“As for Archdruid Wintershade…” Tremas sighed. “If those volunteers we rally here can find a means of retrieving him without harming him, I doubt there will be any complaints, either from Eternus or from Nozdormu and his flight. But if it comes down to it, if there is no other option available… you may have to kill him.”

“I was afraid of that.” Gabriel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What do you and your flight require from me, Tremas?”

“We suspect that Archdruid Wintershade may be - or if not yet, may become - corrupted by the Nightmare, and he will thus be… blended in with the timeline in a manner that will make it difficult to find him. If I can get an image from my colleagues of the current state of their study group, I will call on you; perhaps your druidic magic will be able to help us pinpoint him, as well as your familiarity with him.”

Gabriel inclined his antlered head. “For Tekolin, and for preserving what we know, I am at your disposal.”

[Joshmaul-2753929 (Joshmaul)]

Walking quietly through Bel’ameth, Tremas was discussing the coming work with Catherine. The paladin looked distinctly uneasy. “You’re actually wanting volunteers this time, not volunteering them on your own?”

“In this case, Warmaster, yes. Before, we were just looking for those who… well, let’s just say, their timelines coincided. Here, we’re making sure the timelines go with as few bumps as possible. The idea of doing this is bound to create some bumps - Araen, a void elf, being in Pandaria before void elves existed, for instance - but bumps can be navigated. Roadblocks cannot.”

Catherine nodded. “And Kalimos has the potential to be one hell of a big roadblock.”

“Very much so, especially with Crosis supporting him. It is because he intends to change the history that makes him so.” Tremas gazed thoughtfully at her. “I know you don’t trust us, Catherine Hildreth. You’ve seen the works of our flight before.”

“A couple of times.”

“Murozond is an established fact, that much is known. His death during the Cataclysm is also. Nozdormu himself has acknowledged this. But as Eternus teaches us, time is set in sand, not stone. It’s why we - and our bronze kin - use hourglasses as our symbols.”

“‘Like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives,’” Catherine muttered, remembering an old quote.

“Indeed.” Tremas sighed. “I cannot go back this time myself. The decision I made to permanently change my form, from drake to dracthyr, has more or less grounded me in this time and form. But I am still of the infinites, still a claw of Eternus - and my comrades will still aid me. And you, if you are willing.”

Catherine’s eyebrow rose over her good eye. “Do we have a choice?”

“Of course. You can choose not to allow any of your people to go through, and I will help Eternus find agents my own way. But I would prefer the willing over the willed. Our encounter with Nozdormu, realizing that we were trying to force him against his own will to become Murozond, when it would happen anyway, has shaped my belief in that.”

The Warmaster stared at him for a moment, then gave a slight nod. “You are more than meets the eye, Tremas.”

“I have my moments.” Tremas smiled, and inclined his head. “There is one I would like to meet with, while you speak to your people to see who is wanting to go through. I know one who will very certainly do so, but… I’ll leave you to discover that.”

“Bah. You dragons and your cryptic chatter.”

“As you humans might say, it’s more fun that way.” Tremas grinned slightly. “In the meantime, however, I must venture to the battlefield, but in the present day calm. There is someone we encountered earlier that I think might be receptive, especially given the quarry…”

---

Even Tremas had to admit, Highmountain was cold.

As big as the place was, though, he found who he was looking for relatively easily, even amidst the stones, which matched the colors of the robes he wore. “I sensed your coming,” he said. “You were in the vault.”

“I was. I saw you leave. I knew you would.”

“Did you, now? How?”

“You are of purpose, Mokkan Bloodtotem, and your time to die was not then.” He looked to the big tauren, the span of his antlers nearly as wide as a drake’s wings. “I come to you not as an enemy. We have a mutual foe, the one you abandoned in the vault. What he is planning must be stopped.” He paused. “I offer you an opportunity.”

The great head turned, the helmet covering his features sculpted in the visage of the fallen Incarnate Raszageth, sparking with elemental lightning. The silence was almost deafening, even in the mountain winds on this cliffside, overlooking Thunder Totem. Finally, Mokkan spoke. Just two words. “Go on.”