That elf ambassador had wondered what had become of the orc who had threatened his life if he did not kill the worgen "visitor" to the AAMS lounge, expecting him to show up to make good his threat. He hadn't, of course - because for one thing, the Modas were a joke nowadays, their leaders faded into whatever shadows had spawned them, and no one took their threats seriously. And for another, the orc in question was...indisposed.
Stepping from the back of his plaguebat, Father Shankolin Blightpath straightened his robe before descending into Tarren Mill's old inn, where Sekhesmet had resided when he was the assigned shadow-priest of this particular "parish". It would be where he himself would set up shop, when and if the Forsaken were able to return to Lordaeron. It was, he mused, as good a place as any, even with the lands beyond Thoradin's Wall becoming a warzone. One that he had visited many times.
"Good morning, Corruptor," he said, malicious amusement in his tone. "Up for a little chat?"
"Do I have a choice?" The high-and-mighty Corruptor did not look particularly imposing, stripped out of his finery and wearing only a worn shirt and ragged trousers; runed restraints, locked around his neck and wrists, nullified his potent fel magics. Killing the bastard would not have been all that satisfying...Shankolin wanted him to suffer first. For all that he preferred to move on from the past, this was one thing he could not let go just yet.
"Not really," Shankolin admitted cheerfully. "Actually, I've discovered some interesting new information out of Orgrimmar lately. You know about the leftovers from the Iron Horde on the alternate Draenor, right? How Eitrigg went with some 'champion' or other to court them into the Horde?"
"I'd heard the rumors."
"Well, you might be interested in this." The Forsaken shadow priest waved his hands, weaving shapes in shadows...and revealing the muscular figure of an orc. His hair and beard were braided, and his face and arms adorned with tattoos. But the shape of his face, the glare of his eyes, were instantly familiar. He was pleased to see the warlock's eyes widen in utter shock. "I admit I prefer you this way. Green suits you. Still...what might have been, had you been less willing to sell your soul to the Legion, hmm?"
Shankolin had known the possibility could exist of doubles coming to Azeroth from the alternate Draenor. The fact that there had been doubles of the orcs' most feared chieftains - Grommash, Blackhand, Kargath - had led him to that belief...though there were some who did not have doubles, but...others. Grommash did have a son, but it was not Garrosh. Durotan and Draka had a child...but it was a daughter, not a son. That daughter, Geya'rah, was the leader of these brown-skinned "ghosts".
Still, he had been surprised to see that his most hated enemy had a double, too - and utterly shocked at how different this double was. This other, this "ghost", did not accept Gul'dan's bargain, even when the rest of his clan had drank from the cup when the Iron Horde was on the brink of defeat. It made the priest think about the vision of his own "possible futures" he had experienced years ago, the Forsaken death knight from another time - whose name he, in his present form, had ultimately adopted.
The Corruptor seemed to be ruminating on this, too. Shankolin chuckled as he waved his hands, dispelling the shadowy illusion. "He knows about you, too," he said, causing the orc to look up. "I wonder..." With another chuckle, he made his way out of the dingy laboratory, leaving his prisoner in darkness.
Yes...always possibilities.
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"Ahh, Kul Tiras! Take in tha' brisk mountain air! Reminds me o' home, indeed it does. Kinda reminds me o' Northrend too, come tae think of it." The Ironforge dwarf glanced at his travelling companion with an amused glint in his ice-blue eyes. "Ah bet yer tryin' no' tae shiver in yer boots just lookin' at th' place."
"I'm fine," the other replied shortly, though with a hint of a smile on her face, and her accent not nearly as thick. While his eyes were like the ice on a mountain lake, hers were like pools of lava. "The mountain fire in my veins is a natural insulation. The heated armor helps too." She chuckled. "Not all of us have the ear o' the weather, shaman."
"Ah don' exactly have th' ear o' th' weather. If'n ah did, d'ye think ah would be appreciatin' th' chill? Besides, me name is Snowhammer, after all. Kinda like a name with 'Ember' in it would be a dead giveaway o' their preferred element." Rocangus Snowhammer shook his head. "Y'know, it's kinda funny...ten years ago, you'n'me would be at each other's throats, an' yet here we are chattin' like ol' pals. Proof that even with a sword in 'er heart, Azeroth has a sense of humor."
Embervina Doomlight agreed with that, thinking back on just how strange the path of her life had been. It had started back home in Blackrock Mountain. Her parents, Aongus and Feera Doomlight, had found the Light in the dim halls of Shadowforge City. So had Embervina, though she preferred the feel of a weapon in her hand. She had never expected the curse of Thaurissan to be broken. But then Moira Bronzebeard was brought to the mountain, first as the captive of the Emperor, Dagran Thaurissan...and then as the Emperor's wife.
Then the Emperor was killed by Magni's agents. And everything changed.
Now, years later, Dagran and Moira's son, Dagran II, was poised to become the first ruler of a united dwarf-kind since Modimus Anvilmar. And now the Dark Irons worked side-by-side with their Bronzebeard and Wildhammer cousins in the Alliance, serving as engineers, architects, even soldiers.
Embervina herself had seen action against the Iron Horde on Draenor. It had been during the initial foray into Tanaan Jungle that she had claimed her hammer, a Blackrock weapon that still burned with the fire of the foundry that made it. She was still plagued by nightmares of the botani and their plant-monster minions, mulching her comrades and infesting the draenei rangers in the woods, when she had gone with Thaelin Darkanvil to Gorgrond. Then she had gone to the Broken Isles as part of the Silver Hand, and found another forested hell - Val'sharah - that was even worse. She still wondered often how she had not gone mad in that place.
And now, she was on a ship on its way to Kul Tiras, to fight for the Alliance. She still couldn't quite believe it, thinking again that, not so long ago, the Dark Iron clan had been among the rancid stewpot of races and groups that the Alliance had called "the enemy". As servants of Ragnaros, who was himself a servant of the Old Gods, they had been lumped in with such wackos as the Twilight's Hammer. (It hadn't helped that Slaghammer had been revealed as a Twilight agent in full view of the Council of Three Hammers during the Cataclysm, either.)
She could see in her mind's eye what could have been had Ragnaros not fallen, had the curse not been broken...or if blind fools like Grimstone had their way and returned the clan to slavery. Ironforge and Shadowforge alike would be charnel houses of war and death. She would have killed Rocangus, or he would have killed her, and no one on either side would have thought it odd. Instead, she was chatting with him on a ship arriving in the chilly waters of Tiragarde Sound.
If Azeroth has a sense of humor, she thought, then the Light is downright whimsical.
"I'm fine," the other replied shortly, though with a hint of a smile on her face, and her accent not nearly as thick. While his eyes were like the ice on a mountain lake, hers were like pools of lava. "The mountain fire in my veins is a natural insulation. The heated armor helps too." She chuckled. "Not all of us have the ear o' the weather, shaman."
"Ah don' exactly have th' ear o' th' weather. If'n ah did, d'ye think ah would be appreciatin' th' chill? Besides, me name is Snowhammer, after all. Kinda like a name with 'Ember' in it would be a dead giveaway o' their preferred element." Rocangus Snowhammer shook his head. "Y'know, it's kinda funny...ten years ago, you'n'me would be at each other's throats, an' yet here we are chattin' like ol' pals. Proof that even with a sword in 'er heart, Azeroth has a sense of humor."
Embervina Doomlight agreed with that, thinking back on just how strange the path of her life had been. It had started back home in Blackrock Mountain. Her parents, Aongus and Feera Doomlight, had found the Light in the dim halls of Shadowforge City. So had Embervina, though she preferred the feel of a weapon in her hand. She had never expected the curse of Thaurissan to be broken. But then Moira Bronzebeard was brought to the mountain, first as the captive of the Emperor, Dagran Thaurissan...and then as the Emperor's wife.
Then the Emperor was killed by Magni's agents. And everything changed.
Now, years later, Dagran and Moira's son, Dagran II, was poised to become the first ruler of a united dwarf-kind since Modimus Anvilmar. And now the Dark Irons worked side-by-side with their Bronzebeard and Wildhammer cousins in the Alliance, serving as engineers, architects, even soldiers.
Embervina herself had seen action against the Iron Horde on Draenor. It had been during the initial foray into Tanaan Jungle that she had claimed her hammer, a Blackrock weapon that still burned with the fire of the foundry that made it. She was still plagued by nightmares of the botani and their plant-monster minions, mulching her comrades and infesting the draenei rangers in the woods, when she had gone with Thaelin Darkanvil to Gorgrond. Then she had gone to the Broken Isles as part of the Silver Hand, and found another forested hell - Val'sharah - that was even worse. She still wondered often how she had not gone mad in that place.
And now, she was on a ship on its way to Kul Tiras, to fight for the Alliance. She still couldn't quite believe it, thinking again that, not so long ago, the Dark Iron clan had been among the rancid stewpot of races and groups that the Alliance had called "the enemy". As servants of Ragnaros, who was himself a servant of the Old Gods, they had been lumped in with such wackos as the Twilight's Hammer. (It hadn't helped that Slaghammer had been revealed as a Twilight agent in full view of the Council of Three Hammers during the Cataclysm, either.)
She could see in her mind's eye what could have been had Ragnaros not fallen, had the curse not been broken...or if blind fools like Grimstone had their way and returned the clan to slavery. Ironforge and Shadowforge alike would be charnel houses of war and death. She would have killed Rocangus, or he would have killed her, and no one on either side would have thought it odd. Instead, she was chatting with him on a ship arriving in the chilly waters of Tiragarde Sound.
If Azeroth has a sense of humor, she thought, then the Light is downright whimsical.
((OOC: Yes, I know we don’t have Zandalari yet; I made her one before we got word we’d get them. Race change when they come out? You better believe it.))
For as long as she could remember, Vol’dun had always been described as a hellhole. But she had never expected that she would see it first-hand. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that, within moments of returning home to Zandalar for the first time since leaving with Zul and his followers during the Cataclysm, she would end up on her way here. Yet here she was. She was still debating whether that was tragic irony, or poetic justice.
When she had stepped off the boat from the Echo Isles in the Port of Zandalar, she had been known as Valkia’jin the Spiritseeker, Zandalari shaman, who had worked alongside the Amani and the mogu in the pursuit of Zul’s vision of a united troll empire. But when General Jakra’zet’s goons spotted her in the port, she was labeled a murderer, a traitor, a faithless coward, a Horde-lover - and for Jakra’zet, whose Sandfury tribe was virtually wiped out by the Horde, that last charge was death…literally. But not immediately. No, Jakra’zet was fond of the idea of making his enemies suffer. Hence, Vol’dun.
She knew that there would be repercussions for her decisions - whether Rastakhan’s guard would punish her for following Zul on his mad quest, or Zul’s fanatics would attack her for killing her father, Warlord Zul’kor. And then Rastakhan had vanished, presumed dead…and Zul and his lot took control of Zuldazar. And now she was here.
And in the eyes of her people…she was nobody. She was nothing.
Even the exiles here kept their distance from her - now that they had, more or less, given up trying to kill her. Because, even though she was banished from her people and left to probably die in this barren sand-heap, she had been allowed to keep her gear…and for raggedy trolls living in ruins, she had made for a tempting target. A new weapon and new clothes for those who had known nothing but hardship? Who could pass up such an opportunity?
So she added their blood to the blood of her father on the head of her hammer.
Life had become relatively routine after that. Try to live off the land. Maybe get lucky and see what the vulpera might be willing to barter. Avoid getting caught in sandstorms. Keep an eye out for krolusks. Be mindful of sethrak attacks - especially nowadays, with some “emperor” taking control and whipping them into a frenzy. She especially knew to steer clear of the old temple of Sethraliss because of that. A lot of them were also huddling around the abandoned pyramid buried in the sands, too, not far from the exiles’ enclave.
And first and foremost, pray for the day that Zul and his scum would be rooted out…after which maybe, just maybe, she could go home. It was a long shot, but then again, she had believed Zul’s prediction that the Cataclysm would destroy Zandalar, and that she would never see it again…only to be proven wrong when the Horde sought them out. She had expected to see ruins and suffering the moment she arrived in Zuldazar with Father Shankolin, the former paladin-turned-Forsaken shadow priest. She had been careful to hide her feeling of shock when she had seen the great pyramid of Dazar’alor, solid as a mountain, and seeing the Great Bazaar buzzing with activity as if nothing had happened. Zandalar had suffered during the Cataclysm…but it was still there. They had rebuilt. Life had gone on.
Zul was wrong, she had thought. And if he was wrong about that…what else was he wrong about?
At least here, she had plenty of time to think about that question.
((OOC: Re-editing this one due to the forum foulups…))
Orcs were no strangers to war, and certainly were not too fazed by the idea of fighting amongst one another. Their race had evolved through conflict, a fact that rang true no matter the machinations of those who would tamper with time magic. Yet in these possible futures, events, places, and even people could be very different.
So it was for him. He had not drank of the cup at the Throne of Kil’jaeden, either before Garrosh had intervened, or after the Iron Horde had been laid low. He considered his chieftain, Kilrogg, to be a weakling for giving in so easily to the warlock’s honeyed lies. He had stayed true to his Warchief, Grommash Hellscream, even when the end seemed all but certain in the halls of Hellfire Citadel. It had been the heroes of Azeroth who had ensured that Draenor would be free. Or so they had thought when they went home.
That had been a mere twinkling of an eye for the Azerothians, and yet it was thirty years ago for him, for his people, and for his world. Living amongst the Mag’har in Gorgrond, he had wielded awesome power and was a fearsome figure among his people, but it was because of his connection to the elements (he did not dare call it “control” or “mastery”, for even one such as him could do neither of those things) rather than any dark bargain.
He had also learned to make the Lightbound tremble at the sight of him. Some among his people still remembered his duel with Exarch Velenkayn, a particularly fanatical draenei in an army of zealots. The exarch had come too close to be able to safely call upon the elements…so he had shattered the stone head of his hammer on Velenkayn’s helmet, stabbed the broken haft of the weapon into his chest, and then snapped the foul Light-wielder’s neck with his bare hands. Then he had taken the broken handle of his own weapon, and the bloodstained breastplate and shattered crystal warhammer of his enemy, and had the crafters - survivors of the Blackrock - forge them into weapons. One axe with a wickedly serrated edge, forged in orcish style; the other crafted of the broken crystal from the warhammer.
Then the other Horde, the one from Azeroth, had come back. To call on the Mag’har to repay their debt, they said - the debt of honor for taking Hellfire Citadel and stopping Gul’dan’s mad schemes. When their fate appeared to be sealed, the green orc from Azeroth had activated the strange artifact and brought most of their people, their war gronns, their mounts, and their war machines to the red plains of Durotar.
And then the whispers had started. The stares from people in Orgrimmar, either fearful or hostile. The muttering whenever he walked by, hearing them whisper “Corruptor”. He had been confused by this. Then he had gone to this “lounge” in the jungle of Stranglethorn, hearing it was a regular gathering place for “regular folk” in the Horde. And there, he had learned why.
There was another. Another him. One who had drank from the poisoned chalice. One who reveled in the fel. One who killed not to defend his people or protect the innocent, but because he thought it was fun.
Even as his mind reeled from this revelation, he kept thinking to himself: That could have been me.