Snippets (Hopefully-Daily Free-Flow RP Bits!)

Cenarion Circle and Sisters of Elune
61

For all those that refused to acknowledge Calia or the Desolate Council, there were those who had never trusted Sylvanas from the start, and had even less reason to do so when their corpse was violated to serve in her armies.

Kirenna Summerlight was one such. Leaning against what was left of the wall on the southern side of Brill, the reluctant dark ranger gazed up at the silhouette of the old capital of Lordaeron in the morning gloom. With the establishment of the Council, work had at last begun to clear out the mess made by the blight bombs set by Sylvanas that turned the place into a charnel house, the skeletons of the dead - many of them Horde soldiers - still wandering the plague-mists surrounding it. It reminded her of when the work had begun to resettle Silvermoon, some years back.

She had gone to Suramar with her best friend, Nor’taeron Sunblade, to fight for the combined elven forces that liberated Suramar from Grand Magistrix Elisande and the Legion that controlled her. They had then offered help to House Vendross, where Lord Randarel and his circle had thought her a Blood Knight along with him - and as Nor’taeron was a Blood Knight Master, they thought she was too, and called her “Master Summerlight”. But for all that she was into the righteous fury of close combat along with her old comrade, she was not a Blood Knight. She was a Farstrider.

Or at least, she had been. The arcane bolt that had ended her life - from the fingertips of Lord Randarel himself in a fit of rage - still pained her, even now. The fact that she could still feel a mortal wound was a torment she would endure for a long time - for she had become a dark ranger, pressed into the service of the Banshee Queen. But that did not mean she had to like it. Kirenna had never trusted the Forsaken, and believed that the real Sylvanas was dead, this meat-puppet that wore her flesh being an abomination.

And now, like Sylvanas, she was an abomination as well. So was Lord Randarel. The irony of that fact was not lost on her. Nor was it lost on the fact that she had turned to what some might consider Scourge during the war in the Shadowlands; she wore the skull-marked chainmail of the Maldraxxi, which made her feel at times almost like a turtle in its shell. She had shed the hooded leather of the dark ranger the first opportunity she got; she had worn it during the Fourth War and the early part of the conflict in the Shadowlands, but once she aligned with Maldraxxus, she had shed it like a snake sheds its skin. That thought was fitting, too, given that her chosen weapon was a sethrak polearm, with a crystalline sickle at each end. She had cut through many Mawsworn with it, aided by the beasts she had found in Stormheim during the Legion conflict, both of which had stayed with her in this foul state.

“If you stand there long enough, you might root in place.” Kirenna turned at the sound of that voice. An undead human with purplish-tinted hair, wearing well-stitched leather and a pandaren monk’s rank cord around her waist. She smiled. “Lost in thought?”

Kirenna snorted. “Hard not to be, now that we actually have time for thinking.” She gazed back up at the dome of the Menethil palace, which would now have a Menethil in it for the first time since the death of King Terenas. “How did you cope with it all, Euphrati?”

“One day at a time,” Euphrati Velade replied with a slight shrug. “Meeting the pandaren helped too. It gave me a wider perspective beyond the narrative that Sylvanas and her toadies tried to craft for us.” She stood next to the taller, armored figure. “And the narrative that fate crafted for me, being the daughter of a sadist.”

Kirenna remembered well the crimes committed by Euphrati’s father, Sekhesmet of Stratholme, and his deranged former student Saavedro, or Shankolin as he had become. Both were long dead, though it was rumored Sekhesmet had surfaced among the Mawsworn. Saavedro had been imprisoned by the Stoker of Hate in Torghast, and on his liberation had been sent by the Arbiter to Revendreth. He would have a lot to atone for.

Then again, don’t we all? she mused.

“What I wouldn’t give for that kind of guidance right about now,” Kirenna said aloud, sighing. “After Orgrimmar, Velonara had said she served both of our peoples - the people we were born to, and the people we were raised to. Words sound so simple…”

“Believe me, I get that,” Euphrati agreed. “The pandaren are quite fond of words. But often it’s the spirit behind them that gives them meaning.” She chuckled. “They’ve made me philosophical. Go figure.” Noticing the dark ranger’s forlorn expression, she put a hand on her armored shoulderguard. “We can’t always make our home where we want, so we make it where we can. It’s all we can do these days. Plenty of people wondered if we have a purpose - whether it’s the ‘everyday’ Forsaken like me, or the dark rangers like you and Velonara - after Sylvanas betrayed us. Some have stubbornly refused to accept the reality, and believe she will come back to us, and we’ll have vengeance on the Alliance because it’s all Wrynn’s fault, it’s all Greymane’s fault, so on and so forth. For the rest of us, we must look to whoever is willing to hold out their hands to us.”

“Like Calia?”

“Like Calia. She’s the sister of the traitor prince, the Menethils are weak, she’s not one of us… you hear all the grumbling. But she knows who and what she is, and she still risks herself for us. Think about that for a second, Kirenna: she is willing to truly risk herself to ensure our future. Sylvanas never did anything like that. What she did, she did for herself and her own desires. The Dark Lady used us as tools. The Pallid Lady sees us as people.”

Kirenna gazed at her with a mixture of amusement and admiration. “You really have gone kind of native with the pandaren, haven’t you?”

Euphrati chuckled. “Can’t really enjoy the food and the beer as well as the living can, but other than that…”

62

Elizabeth Pellerin took a deep breath of the bracing mountain air and finally felt relief in her soul. No more Mawsworn, no more roaming around in a place where the living had no business. The transport from Stormwind arrived in Boralus Harbor, a welcome sight after the grim darkness or blinding light of the Shadowlands’ realms. Everything here felt balanced, where it should be. Maybe she was biased - after all, this was home.

Waiting on the dock were two figures Elizabeth recognized instantly. One was Alexander McDonnell, her first mate on the Pearl Queen; the other was Henrietta, one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting. It was the latter who greeted her first. “My lady,” she said formally, bowing.

Elizabeth glanced at her first mate, noting his expression. “Something to add, Mr. McDonnell?”

“No need, Captain,” he replied, grinning. “The look on your face says enough.” Like her, he had served since the Second War, and knew well her dislike for the flubdubs of nobility. Her mother, the Lady Eugenie, had encouraged her to be more self-reliant, which is why she had backed Elizabeth’s desire to serve in the fleet.

Henrietta looked stricken at the man’s informality. “You will address Lady Elizabeth with more respect.”

“He can address me how I damn well wish to be addressed,” Elizabeth snapped impatiently. “I’m not a bloody Ashvane or Stormsong, Henny, putting on airs.”

“My lady, language! We’ve talked about this --”

“And she’s ignored you the entire time,” McDonnell replied, the grin still there. “Now get lost. We have things to talk about, and we might use that language you hate, ‘Henny’.”

Henrietta glared at him. “Lady Pellerin will hear of your insolence, harbor rat.” With a snooty raising of her nose, she sulked off.

“And will probably ignore you, too,” Elizabeth muttered. She sighed. “Why do we continue to put up with that infernal harpy, Alec?”

“Putting on appearances, probably,” McDonnell said with a shrug. “You know how it is, Beth. Nobility always has to look rich and snobbish, just to prove they’re better than everyone else. Not that the Lady Eugenie really needs that much help to be better than where she started, but still…” Elizabeth smiled at the respect in her first mate’s tone when he mentioned her mother. The crew knew her almost as well as they knew their captain, because like Elizabeth, Eugenie did not act like she was above them. She was “one of the crew” during her occasional visits to the ship, which earned her their unqualified respect.

It was a different story for Elizabeth’s father, Lord Francis, who often ranted that he was cursed because his firstborn was a girl. Not that it had mattered for very long; when Elizabeth was an infant, he had contracted an infection brought on by a treatable injury that he had refused to have looked at because the healer brought to him happened to be female. “I am a lord of Kul Tiras, and I am not about to submit to being some wench’s little plaything,” Francis had said. He had died in agony a week later, and Eugenie became head of the house (which some had said was just a formality, since she was the one keeping it running anyway), raising Elizabeth alone. With a bit of malicious humor, Eugenie had had her idiot husband buried at sea, as he had always been afraid of it.

“I’d hoped we were beyond such things by now,” she said as they walked along the harbor back to the ship. “My father has been dead for nearly fifty years, and we’ve stood and proved our worth to the Proudmoores and all Kul Tiras by our deeds rather than all this… play-acting.”

“We’re not fond of it any more than you are, but that’s what we’ve got to work with.”

Elizabeth snorted. “You don’t believe that load of bollocks any more than I do.”

“No, I don’t, but that’s what your mum will say.”

“Alec, are you saying my mother is…” Elizabeth gasped dramatically. “Predictable? I’m shocked and appalled.”

“See? You like the play-acting just fine.”

Elizabeth halted, mock-glaring at him. “Mr. McDonnell?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Shut up.”

The first mate was grinning. “Aye aye, Captain.”

63

Standing on the edge of the cliffs just outside Arom’s Stand, behind and above the monument to Arom Waycrest, Inquisitor Gabriel Underwood looked west across the landscape of Drustvar, his tousled brown hair and heavy coat fluttering in the icy breeze of the mountaintop. It was before dawn, the aurorae competing with the stars for illuminating the sky; the eerie dancing lights reflected from his glasses, and gave the red highlights of his attire an almost purplish tinge. Soon, the sun would drown out all the lights, including the braziers and torches in the nearby town.

Gabriel would often come up here at about this hour to greet the new day… and to think. Ever since returning from the Shadowlands, he had a great deal to think about. He had been knocked unconscious by the Stoker of Hate during that confrontation in Zereth Mortis, and had been ministered to by Zulimbasha. The fact that he was still here and not put up as a grotesque sacrifice to the Zandalari death god made him seriously reconsider everything… well, almost everything… about his former foes. He began to see it from Lucia’s standpoint: As a whole, probably unsalvageable… but individually? That was a different story.

No doubt they think the same thing about us, he mused. A thought that would never have occurred to him before now.

Thinking about Lucia made him reflect on the loss. She had died to save Sir Eran, whose life had been saved by her blood, and her curse - so Donal could still have his grandfather, for however long that needed to be. Fortunately, she would be in a better place; Lucia’s soul had been sent back to Ardenweald, to stay this time. Gabriel had witnessed her flight from the Heart of the Forest, together with the spirit of her father, Eidan (or Aydrun, as the fae had been calling him). Apparently the fae had taken to calling his daughter “Loosey”. That thought brought a pained smile to Gabriel’s face.

With Pelagos installed as Arbiter in Oribos, the souls could go back to where they needed to, and none would ever be sent to the Maw again. The Arbiter had been adamant about this: No one deserved to suffer that fate. And having seen it himself, Gabriel readily agreed with that… up to a point. Certainly he would have loved to see Sylvanas suffer in eternal torment, and there were plenty - on both sides - who would have wholeheartedly agreed. But what was, was, and there would be no changing that now. All that could be done, had been done - and so, he had gone home.

Which left him to wonder: What now? The Heartsbane Coven was more or less destroyed, diminishing the witch threat in Drustvar. There was an armistice with the Horde - one that would be temporary, of that he was sure, but it was there nonetheless. But the thought kept occurring to him: There would always be evil that threatened Kul Tiras and the world beyond.

And evil wore many faces.

64

Kelty Sparkleblast materialized in Dalaran, responding to the urgent summons she had received, “regarding our mutual mentor”. She went straight up to Eregesh’s rooms and found a gnome in Kirin Tor robes… someone she had never expected to see again. Mainly because she was sure he had been dead for years, killed by the Corruptor while investigating a lead in Northrend, just prior to the warlock’s own demise in Icecrown. “That’s impossible…”

The gnome turned, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. “Hello, Kel. It’s been a long time.”

“Caedus?” Several expressions crossed her face - disbelief, confusion, a hint of joy, before going to white-hot rage. “You mean to say you’ve been alive this whole freakin’ time?! And how about the boss, did he know too?”

“Who do you think saved me?” Caedus Netherfist smiled. “It’s not every day you find out you’ve been trained by a dragon.”

“Oh, so you knew about that too?! I only just found out about it, and then he told the entire Kirin Tor!” She grasped him by the shoulders, partly to assure herself he was real, and partly to get up into his face; the frames of their respective glasses almost touched. “Why didn’t you freakin’ say anything?”

“He asked me not to.”

“Oh, so that makes it okay, then! Jeez, how many freakin’ secrets are bein’ kept in this town? I’m of a mind to just throw down and start arcane-bombin’ this place.”

“Kelty…”

“And I’ll sheep the whole Council of Six and shave 'em bald, and make a big blanket out of the wool, wrap them up in it, and toss ‘em in the freakin’ Maelstrom!”

“Kel.” Caedus’ voice took on a hard tone. “Cool your jets before you explode. I know you goblins are into explosions and all, but… Mimiron’s cogs, you’re nuts.”

Kelty glared at him for a long moment before taking a deep breath, centering her thoughts. “You sent the summons?”

Caedus nodded. “I heard about him finally revealing himself, and wanted to check on him… he swore me to absolute secrecy when he found me in the tundra. I was curious to see what changed his mind. He’s gone, Kel… and I don’t think he’s coming back. Not to Dalaran, at any rate.” He held out a note to her. Adjusting her spectacles, Kelty began to read.

A claw mark in blue ink was placed on the page next to the cursive letter at the end.

Kelty looked up at the table in front of her. Sure enough, the diadem - which the old man had been wearing the last time she saw him - was sitting there on the table, right next to his staff, a runed artifice adorned with a pair of horns that would not have been out of place on a tauren… or a dragon. “And he says he took the little one with him,” she said, breaking the silence. “Just to the Nexus, though. But from there… I wonder.” She looked over at her old colleague. “What do you want to do?”

“Leave him be, as he more or less laid out here,” the gnome replied. “I think it was all an effort to prepare himself for whatever lies ahead for him and his flight. He’s setting aside the mage in favor of the dragon.”

“He’s a blue dragon - aren’t blue dragons and mages the same thing?”

“You should know by now, Kel, that two truths are possible.” That was one of Eregesh’s favorite lines, often repeated to the two of them both when they had been apprentices, and even now as archmagi. “He’s setting aside his old mask now, and embracing his true self. Why now, only he knows - and probably all other dragons with him.” Caedus grinned slightly. “But you know what they say about meddling in the affairs of dragons…”

Kelty couldn’t help but laugh. It was an old, tired joke, but an appropriate one in this case.

65

It had been nearly a decade since Sir Eran Heskin had taken his young grandson, Donal, as his squire. Long ago and far away, or so it felt to him. The lad had accompanied him to a number of battlefields - the Broken Isles, Kul Tiras, the Shadowlands. Now the boy was not so much of a boy anymore, but had grown to a man. He was tall - taller than Eran had been - and thinly built, strong but not bulky. And he had reached an age when he began to chafe somewhat under the well-meaning but… confining gaze of his grandparents, his only real family remaining now. Eran was not sure what to do… he wanted Donal to be safe, but he also wanted to allow his grandson - his heir, if he was honest - to follow wherever his dreams took him…

Walking outside his home in Cathedral Square, Eran spotted a familiar figure under the statue of the Lightbringer. “Good morning, Lorewalker Ketiron,” he greeted the other. “Thank you for coming.”

Ord’taeril Ketiron turned, and inclined his head with a smile. “My pleasure, Sir Eran.” He was attired in armor inspired by the patterns and geometries of Zereth Mortis, a testament to the effect the place had had on the void elf. While Eran found most of these patterns confusing or silly, Ord’taeril wore it with regal dignity. “What can I do for you?”

“You’ve had some… transformative experiences in your life, wouldn’t you say?”

Ord’taeril chuckled. “To put it mildly.” The Lorewalker noted the concern in the knight’s face. “Trouble at home?”

“Not exactly. It’s just… well, the past few years, what he and I have seen and done, I wonder if my life is truly meant for him, you know?”

“You’re trying to convince him to not become a knight? I know you think he’s not… built up for it.” The Lorewalker had been a frequent visitor since the return from the Shadowlands at Eran’s request, adding tales from the Lorewalkers’ repertoire to Donal’s education, and watching his combat training.

“No, but… I want to show him that there are other ways. But I have no idea how without alienating him. I find I keep reliving what I did with Taran, being so distant from him… perhaps it was that which turned him against me. I don’t want that to happen to Donal, either by keeping too much of an eye on him… or not enough.” Eran laughed helplessly. “I have no idea what to do.”

“Your heart is in a good place, my friend, and I don’t think he will fault you for being protective, especially in light of all that’s happened. And I don’t believe Donal is in danger of falling down the same path as Taran. His spirit is stronger than that. Plus, show me a teenager who has never had a rebellious tendency in his life.” Both men chuckled at that. “But… perhaps it would be an idea to open his horizons. Not everyone can be a knight, nor do they have to follow in the footsteps of their forebears.” He paused, thinking. “He’s good with a blade, you’ve shown him that, and he’s quick on his feet… he seems to prefer having weapons to hand, not much into the unarmed combat aspect of the monks’ training.”

“The fact that he listens to instruction at all is surprising enough. As you say, kids at that age…”

“Indeed.” Ord’taeril stroked his thin beard thoughtfully, trying to articulate the thought on his mind. “When it comes to his future - and forgive me if I am overstepping here - you cannot be his only teacher, Eran… and he cannot hide behind you forever.”

Eran was proud enough to bristle at the implication, but not so proud that he didn’t realize Ord’taeril was right. “What are you proposing, Ord’taeril?”

The sounds of a bell from the harbor caused Ord’taeril’s head to turn… and he smiled. “How well does your grandson like the sea? Enough to, say… take a trip?”

Eran’s eyebrows rose as he saw where Ord’taeril was going. “Send him off with the Pearl Queen, you mean?”

Ord’taeril nodded. “Captain Pellerin takes no nonsense, but she will defend a member of her crew to the death. It’s not as if he is not built for hard work, but… perhaps something on his own, without you there. All he has seen and done beyond Stormwind has been with you - perhaps limiting his perspective, knowing that you would always be there to defend him. But you will not be here forever.”

Eran nodded grimly. “If it were not for Lucia, I would not be here now.”

“Exactly. Think of the actions he has taken - like when he took his blade to Taran after the skies opened. He did that to protect you. You have become his world, Eran, especially with so many people having been lost in his life. He is not prepared to live without you, no matter how normally rebellious he might be for his age. For him to find his way in whatever awaits us, he must learn how to stand alone - because at least one time in our lives, and often far more frequently than that, we must stand alone. There are some things that can only be faced so. You know this.” Eran sat down quietly on the bench next to the fountain, looking down at the cobblestones. Ord’taeril gently put a hand on his arm. “As I said, if I am overstepping, forgive me. But you did ask my counsel.”

“I did, and I thank you for it,” Eran replied sincerely. “I’m just wondering how best to act on it without… tearing a rift between us.”

“There’s only one way to find out, my friend.”

66

Zulimbasha the Collector sat cross-legged in the courtyard of the Necropolis in Nazmir, a place he had remained in for the better part of the past three years - ever since the war for the Shadowlands had at last reached its close. The only visitors he had had in that period had been the two people who had worked closest with him - his apprentice, the blind Darkspear priestess Silna, and his enforcer, the vulpera shadowblade Vilaya. Silna had largely remained at home on the Echo Isles, occasionally travelling to Orgrimmar when needed, and bringing any news she thought relevant.

This piece of news would be no exception.

“Master.” He looked up, his eyes glowing from under the orc-skull mask the Mag’har had given him some years back. Silna stood in front of him, an expression he would have to describe as curiosity and confusion on her face. “You have visitors from… far away,” she said in Zandali. “Very strange visitors.”

Zulimbasha’s head tilted. “Strange how?”

As if in answer, Silna looked up at the sound of wings flapping. So did the Collector - considering the sound of those wings was indeed quite large. It was a dragon, a young blue. On its back was what looked to him like some kind of elf - but there was something about her that was different. As the passenger dismounted, the drake shifted into a smaller form, also elven in appearance.

Zulimbasha rose, removing his mask so that they could see his face. He gazed at the two elven-looking figures - one he obviously knew was not actually an elf, and the other… he was fairly sure wasn’t either. Also a dragon, maybe? But why was she riding on another drake’s back…? “What be da meanin’ of dis?” he asked in Orcish, in a calm but firm tone.

“Apologies for dropping in like this, High Priest Zulimbasha,” the dragon-elf, with a shock of blue hair, said with a slight bow, “but I am here on business. I am Rianagosa. I’m not sure if you remember.”

He did, now that she mentioned her name. “Ya were just startin’ ta grow outta ya whelpin’ stage in Ardenweald, runnin’ around wit’ dat mage… Eregesh, wasn’t it?”

“Yes… Eregesh raised me after the Nexus War in Northrend, more than a decade ago.”

“I take it ya be here at his behest, then.” His gaze shifted to the other figure. Her head particularly made him sure this was no elf - her eyes were burning red coals, her face adorned with what appeared to be scales, and a pair of back-curving horns protruded from her red-streaked black hair. “Somet’ing ta do with ya friend here?”

Rianagosa nodded, and raised her arms. A much larger dragon landed behind her, before also shifting into a more comfortable form. His hair and beard were somewhat wilder than they had been when Zulimbasha had last seen him, but the death-priest had no trouble recognizing him. His jaw dropped. “Wh… whaa… how?”

“A pleasure to see you as well, Zulimbasha.” Esheregos, better known to mortals as Eregesh, looked amused. “I see my niece has reached you well enough… and with our friend there as well. Good.”

Zulimbasha was left shaking his head. “By da spirits, how many other dragons have I met…?” He composed himself, albeit with some difficulty. “Well, no matta. Ta what do I owe da pleasure?”

Eregesh glanced at the two behind him. “Have we had formal introductions yet?”

“I was leaving that to you, Uncle,” Rianagosa replied.

“Fair enough.” He turned to the strange figure. “Lengua, if you would…”

Lengua grinned slightly and nodded her head. In an instant, she was something else entirely - a bipedal draconic figure, at least as tall as Zulimbasha himself, who stood at the height of a tauren. She had dark scales and a pointed snout, her eyes seeming to burn redder. She wore chainmail armor of black, red, and gold, and a mane of scales ran like fine down on the back of her golden-crowned head. The talons on her hands and feet, and the tips of her wings, were sheathed in metal. Her tail ended in a spear-tipped flail.

Even Silna reacted, able to feel the power of the stranger even if she could not see it. “What…?”

“My friend here is known as a dracthyr,” Eregesh explained. “Her people were soldiers of an ancient war, created by Neltharion before he became Deathwing, and locked away and forgotten, guarded by… overzealous members of my flight. The Timeless One has vouched for them, under the guidance of Ebyssian and Wrathion, two sons of the Earth-Warder who have proven resilient against the corruption that tainted their great-father.”

“The threat they were created to face has risen again,” Rianagosa added. “The primal power of the elements themselves, seeking to unmake all who have been touched by the Titans - including us.”

“Our ancestral homeland, beyond the sea to the north, is under threat,” Eregesh continued. “We have been drawn back there by the Beacon of Tyrhold, and the Dragonqueen is calling upon those who stood with us in years past - including against Deathwing during the Cataclysm - to join us there.”

“De Dragon Isles?” Silna had heard the tales - as had her mentor. “I had thought dem only myth.”

“So did most of us, young priestess,” Eregesh admitted with a hint of amusement. “Virtually none of my surviving flight, including Lord Kalecgos, had ever been there. No one has since the War of the Ancients, ten thousand years ago. But Alexstrasza has spoken, and it will be so.” He turned back to Zulimbasha. “Which brings us to the point of all this.”

Silna realized what he was asking. So did Zulimbasha, who glanced at the dragon-mage in silent question. He had not said a word all throughout.

Eregesh understood. “The dracthyr did not ask to be shackled and lost, Zulimbasha. Ancient though they may be, they are children in many ways, lost souls in need of guidance. You’ve developed a knack for guiding the lost. Who better to show this one the way?”

“My guidance tends ta be for da dead, Eregesh. Ta guide souls to de Other Side.”

“Perhaps, but you have also guided others in this world as well. Silna here is example enough of that. And you’ve shown enough compassion to those you would normally have sent off to the Shadowlands yourself - like Lord Vendross, or that dark ranger you met a while back.”

The Collector was astonished; the only other person who knew about Kirenna was Silna, and she would never tell anyone. “How did you know about dat?”

Eregesh grinned slightly. “I have eyes, my friend.” His expression sobered. “And I have the feeling that while your healing talents will be needed, your ‘true calling’ may come into play here as well… for a storm has risen, and there are those who choose to stand with it than against it.” He put a hand on the death-priest’s shoulder. “It is time to leave the temple behind for a time, Zulimbasha - but go with greater confidence this time. For you do not go alone.”

Zulimbasha’s gaze went to Lengua, who nodded, that grin still evident (and if he was honest, somewhat scarier-looking) on her draconic features. He then glanced at Silna, who knew instinctively his attention was on her. She too gave a single nod.

Finally, he placed his mask back on, and the eye sockets glowed with eerie light. “Where do we begin?”

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67

Kelty Sparkleblast stood on the southern lip of Un’Goro Crater, the deserts of Uldum at her back, gazing down at the elemental madness below, looking sick as she saw the elemental unrest once again rearing its ugly head in the land… and feeling rage boiling her blood as she thought about why she was here - and who had been called with her. Caedus Netherfist stood next to her, taking in the sights more dispassionately than she did.

Because he’s the teacher’s favorite, she thought bitterly. These past couple of years, during her old mentor’s isolation, she had brooded over the decisions he had made - particularly to reveal to Caedus his true self so long ago, and only when he left, just after the Shadowlands war, to reveal it to her. She was being deliberately snubbed, she was sure of it. The latest news - that he had sent his niece to Zulimbasha with the news from the Dragon Isles, and not to her - was the last straw.

Goblin and gnome looked up as one at the sound of wings flapping - two pairs. They landed on either side, and shifted their forms - one a grizzled-looking elf male, the other a slender female. Both had shockingly blue hair.

Eregesh looked into the crater and smiled, spotting two familiar figures. One was Zulimbasha, the other his new dracthyr ally. He could tell even from up here that she was sporting Zandalari armor along with her draconic chainmail. Not far away, he also spotted a couple of Deathsworn, along with their own dracthyr ally, the healer. “They seem to be doing well.”

“Three years and you never write, and now that you’re here, that’s all you got to say,” Kelty quipped, though her face did not show the humor. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at Caedus. “To me, anyway. Part of that secret handshakin’ you’ve been doing since Northrend?”

Eregesh was able to detect what he worriedly sensed was hate in his former student’s voice. “I had to oversee Serys and Lengua’s indoctrinations myself, Kelty. The clarity granted me during my sojourn to the isles led me to these decisions. Caedus had direct connections to Sir Eran, and Silna was directly tied to Zulimbasha. You will not be left out, don’t worry about that. Baron Kitrik is preparing to contribute his vessel, the Assassin’s Treasure, to the coming expedition; your powers will be a welcome addition to his preparation.”

“Gnomes, pirates, and dragon-people made by Deathwing,” she grumbled. She had overheard the dracthyr conversing in Orgrimmar, and had heard them mention the “Earth-Warder” and his former name, Neltharion. “You seem to be chatty with a lotta folks… except me. Kinda hard to wanna work with you if you’re not gonna trust me.”

Eregesh turned, his expression a mixture of surprise and a hint of anger. “And what on earth gave you that idea?”

“Considering you sent Riana to find the death-priest and bring this pal of yours to him, and go to meet him… while you’re also workin’ with Caedus and goin’ to Stormwind with another one of them dragon-guys. And not a damn word to me. You’ve been leavin’ me out of a lot of stuff, ‘boss’.” Kelty again pointed at Caedus, her hand shaking with rage. “He knew what you were for a decade before you even had the nerve to tell me, and then right before you left, you blabbed it to the entire friggin’ Kirin Tor. Even your little goodbye note, givin’ me your headgear - ‘don’t misuse it, you’re not a Darkmoon Faire party wizard’… all of you people lookin’ down your friggin’ noses at me. And then you call me out here like I’m a pet at your friggin’ beck and call.”

Eregesh was astonished. “Kelty, what is this? I --”

“No. Screw you, and all your pals. You dragons always thinkin’ you’re better than us until you need us to save your hides.” Hate dripped from every word. “We should have killed all you blues in the Nexus War… and the rest of your stinking kind in the Cataclysm.” Kelty removed the diadem from her head and threw it into the crater below. Then, without another word, she was gone, teleported away.

Eregesh looked at where she had been and let out a shuddering sigh. “Caedus.”

“Yes, Master?”

“Find Chaiya. I know she’s sided with the Tushui now, ever since she married Lorewalker Puretide. Warn her.”

“I should go with him, Uncle,” Riana said grimly. “It might be quicker.”

Eregesh nodded. “Go.” As they left, he turned back down into the crater. He could see both Eran and Zulimbasha fighting against the elementals, and Serys and Lengua and their other allies with them. At least that part was working out well. But Kelty… she worried him.

She’s right, too, he thought, with a hint of guilt. I did go around her - partly because I didn’t want her to be… overexcited, and possibly do something that would make our dracthyr friends into foes. I will have to make it up to her in some way. But how?

Kelty reappeared in Orgrimmar, grief and rage causing her to shake while she stomped out of the portal room, into the Valley of Strength… and to the Broken Tusk Inn. She would not play a role in whatever Eregesh - Esheregos, she corrected, knowing that the man she knew was nothing but a lie - had planned. The Dragon Isles sounded like a scholar’s dream, and yet she wanted no part of it. Certainly not if it involved him. “Friggin’ dragons,” she muttered. “Let 'em all go back to their islands. I hope whatever they set loose burns 'em all to hell.”

As she sat at the bar, downed a stiff drink, and asked for another, a voice from the upper floor made her look up. “That could have gone better, but then again, I can hardly blame you.”

Kelty had no trouble recognizing the speaker. Certainly not when he descended the stairs. “The hell you mean?”

“Don’t be so coy. You know who I am. And while my reputation may be… less than upstanding with the mewling, sentimental pedants that run the Horde of late, I still have my means. I have not been idle - I’ve seen for myself what is happening out there, in Un’Goro and elsewhere, and I know what the dragons want. They screwed up. Again. And now they want us to clean it up. Again.”

Her eyes had narrowed to slits. “Go on…”

“I know you don’t want to play a part in cleaning up their messes, but you would be a fool to deny yourself this opportunity. The very cradle of dragonkind? A land of ancient knowledge and magic that was so well hidden, even the Dragonqueen could not find it again until now?”

“And so you’re here to help me, is that it? Yeah, I know who you are… what game are you playin’ here?”

“The only game that matters, Archmage: Power. You understand it well enough. Mage, warlock, shaman, priest… power is power. Where it comes from ultimately doesn’t matter. It’s who wields it, and how. You’ve tired of being the pet of an uncaring Kirin Tor, of a duplicitous dragon-mage… with all their rules, and commands, and expectations.”

“That’s rich, coming from you, lordin’ it from on high. And if you’re thinkin’ of asking me to bow to you, the answer is no. All the people who’ve gone to work for you have a tendency to end up dead. I’m not that stupid.”

“I know you’re not. Which is why I’m not expecting your obedience. Merely… whatever aid you might be willing to give an old fel-slinger like me.”

Not too long ago, Kelty would have refused. But anger at her circumstances, a lust for knowledge, and plain and simple curiosity ultimately won out. “Say I agree to give that aid, Corruptor… what would you give me in return?”

An evil smile creased the face of Urgan of the Black Harvest. “You need but name it.”

68

Late in the evening at the Nyleara estate along the eastern shore of Quel’Thalas, Arrthur Nyleara sits in his study. With a fletching knife he works at the shaft of an arrow smoothing and evening it out so it would fly straight and true. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. With a smile he looks up. “Come on in, Lady Starseeker-Nyleara.”

The door pushes open as Trekka enters. “How did you know it was me?” She says with a look of confusion on her face.

“I know my family well, little dragonhawk. Your sister knocks much more softly and your mother doesn’t knock at all. But that doesn’t change how happy I am to see you. So, what did you need?” He asks with a warm smile and a slight tilt of his head.

Trekka pushes her hair back a bit before speaking. “Well… I know we haven’t talked much since the wedding… and I kinda needed some… Do ya wanna go hunting?” she finally stammers out.

Arrthur sit silently for a brief moment, his warm smile growing larger and brighter before he excitedly jumps up. “Absolutely!” He takes his bow off the mantlepiece. He also grabs a spear that was leaning against a nearby wall and tosses it to Trekka. “I imagine that’s still your speed, aye?”

Trekka catches the spear with grace and ispects it closely. “Aye… You kept it after all these years?”

“Of course I did, Now let’s get going. And we can talk about whatever it is you need to after we get back.”

Trekka’s ears stand on end. “How did ya-…”

“I know you well. And remember that I’m always here for you.” Arrthur says placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

Trekka smiles as a tear forms under her right eye. "Thanks, Dad. I needed to hear that.

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Gently was the package set down on the table once the door was firmly shut on the low conversations throughout the hall. Friannula had this office to herself but for a brief time. Alas, It would have to suffice.

The package a courier handed to her was small and non-descript. But the tag had another anagram as a false name.

Ah, that explains it. Cousin is on the move again.

Friannula carefully opened the box to uncover a small yellow gem just big enough to rest in the palm of the hand. It was humble workmanship, but to the trained eye beautiful indeed as it slowly began to glow in her hand.

In her other hand was a note hastily written in dwarven on a torn scrap of paper.

“Only because it was you who asked.
-G”

This will do nicely. She thought, as she returned the gem to the box, where it began to dim. And duly burned the note in the brazier.

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Magra, daughter of Kalnor, awoke in the hovel she lived in with her father in the woods near Veil Shienor in northeastern Terokkar Forest, and went to seek her father. She was of the age of majority, she was strongly built… and she was bored out of her skull.

The old man still wore his wolfskin robes, the wolf’s skull still adorned with its hide as it rested on his head, while he sat by the fire. The spirits of the elements had stopped answering his call some time ago, but he remembered enough to make a simple campfire. Despite his entire livelihood denied him, he looked as serene as the lakes, illuminated by the glow of olemba cones. He looked up at her. “You want to go back.”

How did he know? she wondered. Hiding her surprise - she hoped - the young orc nodded. “There is nothing for me here.”

“There is everything for you here. Food is plentiful. The trees shelter us. The arakkoa, surprisingly, keep their distance. But that’s not enough, is it, little one?” Kalnor snorted, at himself rather than at her. “Not so little anymore. No. You want to fight.”

“Yes, I want to fight for my people. Fight the draenei and all the others who want to kill us. What I don’t get is why you don’t.”

“Because it’s not about the draenei, Magra. At least it’s not for us. The spirits have shown me that much, before they ceased to speak to me. Even though they shun me, I know enough. Kilrogg is blind in both eyes, guided by superstitious dreck. So is most of our clan. Most of his shaman have been loitering around Ner’zhul and that rodent who clings to his robes. Though I have often wondered who is really the master, Ner’zhul or Gul’dan…” He shook his head. “And look at what has become of us. Ever since we began making war on the draenei, our flesh has turned from the color of healthy soil to that of tainted blood.” Patches of brown still remained in some spots on both of their bodies, but they had largely turned green, both of them. “But that is no matter now. You are a warrior, not a dreamer. You want to fight. And so you shall.”

Magra’s jaw dropped nearly to her chest. “You… you want me to go back to the clan?”

“No, I don’t,” the shaman admitted, “but what I want does not matter. I have seen that you must. Before they turned their faces from me, they granted me a vision. A vision of you. You will indeed go back to our clan, and fight under the banner of the Deadeye - and of this ‘Horde’ he now serves, too. I saw you fighting this foolish war against the draenei… but I saw you fighting other wars too. Good wars, against real enemies. One in particular… you fought under the banner of a raised hand, graven on the face of the shining sun, in a land of ice and snow, under twin moons and rippling skies. That is the last thing I saw before they turned away from me.”

Magra did not doubt her father for a moment. Though she chafed at this hermit’s life they led, he had been her entire world, ever since they had left when she was an infant; her mother had died bringing her into this world. “You could go back too,” she said. “If the ancestors have truly abandoned us, what Ner’zhul and Gul’dan offer could be good. For all of us, but especially for one like you.”

Kalnor smiled patiently. “The spirits showed me what Ner’zhul and Gul’dan offer, and I want no part of it. But you…” He began to wrap a traveler’s cloak around her shoulders, crafted from talbuk hide by his own hand. “I will only say that the path you are about to tread will bring much pain. Yes, for those who will fall before your blade… but most of all for you.”

Three years passed.

Magra, daughter of Kalnor, stands with her clan at the summit of the mountain north of the Citadel, having spent these past couple of years fighting against the draenei as part of the Horde. As her father had said, Gul’dan had since usurped Ner’zhul as the one with the power - not only over the former shamans, or “warlocks” as they were now called, but also, she suspected, over Warchief Blackhand himself. The Horde had assembled at Blackhand’s command before the final march on Shattrath, the draenei capital. The master warlock held a cup carved of bone, the rim adorned with runes.

“This is the Cup of Unity,” Gul’dan said to the assembled clans. His voice was raspy and low, but it carried. “This is the Chalice of Rebirth. I offer this to the leader of every clan, and he in turn may offer it to anyone in his clan whom he wishes particularly blessed by the beings who have been so very, very good to us.”

Magra’s heart leapt into her throat. Though she was hardly a distinguished figure - just another warrior in the ranks, albeit a woman and thought lesser by most of the men (though, she noted with pride, they made sure not to say so in her earshot) - she hoped Kilrogg would allow her to partake of this blessing. To everyone’s surprise, it was not the Warchief who stepped forward first to partake of Gul’dan’s gift, but Grom Hellscream of the Warsong. She saw what the glowing green liquid did to him, and to his warriors. As she watched the Warsongs, and then Blackhand, his sons, and his clan partake, Magra felt her mouth begin to water.

She saw Durotan and the Frostwolves refuse, and looked at them like they were stupid. How could they reject this, when it had such results?

As the cup finally rose up to her lips, she could almost hear her father’s voice in the back of her mind. You’ll find out soon enough.

Eight years passed.

Magra, daughter of Kalnor, shivered in the snow in the mountains of Dun Morogh, huddled behind the siege lines outside the dwarven capital of Ironforge. Her burning red eyes glared up at the mountain city; though the dwarves could not get out, the Bleeding Hollow could not get in either. And Doomhammer had just left them there, the largest clan in the Horde, just to sit and watch, to make sure the stunted hairballs and the even-smaller rodents to the west - “gnomes”, she’d heard they were called - didn’t manage to join the Alliance.

The war was going on to the north in Lordaeron, and they were being made to sit here and rot! It was madness! They had been at the forefront against Stormwind, and should have been so with Lordaeron. Was Doomhammer punishing them? She had privately rejoiced when she heard that he had killed Blackhand; the previous Warchief had been a glory-seeking fool. But the Bleeding Hollow had embraced the fel gift fairly readily. Did Doomhammer suspect their loyalty was to Gul’dan? Doomhammer himself had not partaken, claiming to be unworthy of the gift.

Again, she heard her father’s voice in the back of her mind: What if he was right?

Twelve years passed.

Magra, daughter of Kalnor, sat in the mud in the courtyard of an internment camp in the Arathi Highlands, beyond an ancient wall separating the plains from the forested foothills. Her burning red eyes were tightly shut as she fought against the constant pain she felt. She has been here for nearly a decade. Most of the clan had returned to the Blasted Lands after the siege collapsed. She and a number of others had not, caught up in the mad retreat across the Eastern Kingdoms after the sieges of Lordaeron and Quel’Thalas had failed. They had been among the first to be captured and held at Durnholde, at least until the camps were built.

Stormwind had not been an easy nut to crack, but it had cracked. Lordaeron was thought to be no different. Yet these humans were tough, determined foes, and this time - together with their dwarven, gnomish, and elven allies - they had prevailed. Ever since Stormwind had fallen, Magra had begun to feel doubt. It had been a mere trickle through her mind during the siege of Shattrath - the blood of Mannoroth burning fresh in her body, she was too caught up in the bloodlust to really notice… or remember, for that matter - but ever since Stormwind, it had flooded through her brain. What they had done to the draenei, what they had done to the humans, the dwarves, the gnomes… had not been worth it.

She opened her eyes, glaring across the courtyard at the shivering, whimpering form of Urgan, a former clanmate and acolyte of the Shadow Council. Doomhammer had killed most of the Council when he had overthrown Blackhand, and those who had survived, like Urgan, were barred from using their powers. The warlocks suffered the withdrawals even worse than the warriors did. And they deserved it, so far as she was concerned. This one especially. She remembered his sneering contempt at the gates of Ironforge. “The humans could not withstand us,” he had said. “How can these stunted freaks?”

He had gone back to Draenor with Kilrogg after the siege failed. And then he and others had come crawling back, and ended up here. Fat lot of good his pride had done him. I hope you suffer, you backstabbing son of a pig, she had thought when he was brought in. If I had any pride left in me, I would kill you myself. Yet she didn’t have any pride left to her. None of them did. They were all children of pigs now, content to live in slop. That feeling of euphoria she had felt after partaking of Gul’dan’s “gift” - had it been twenty years ago? It sometimes felt longer, and other times felt like yesterday - had long since turned to ash.

Yet things had changed. Rumors had spread. The humans talked like the orcs weren’t there, and the orcs heard everything. Doomhammer had resurfaced and was leading a new Horde to liberate these accursed camps, together with a young blue-eyed warrior said to command the trees and the earth itself. Blackmoore, the drunken “son of a traitor” the guards gossiped about, had dispatched his knights here. A glimmer of hope rose in her scarred heart. Were they coming here?

Her father’s voice, clearer now, could be heard. The sun has set upon our people… but soon, it will rise.

Nine years passed.

Magra, daughter of Kalnor, rode quietly into Terokkar Forest from the southern edge of Hellfire Peninsula. She had not been here in thirty years, and yet it felt as familiar to her as if it had been yesterday. Even in spite of everything.

The blue-eyed shaman had been called Thrall, the former “pet” of the hated Blackmoore, and was revealed to be the son of Durotan and Doomhammer’s chosen successor. The new Warchief had led them across the Great Sea to Kalimdor about six years ago, and they had made a home for themselves there - and new friends as well. The noble tauren, the cunning Darkspear trolls… and, in the ruins of Lordaeron, the Forsaken. Having undead who glorified in their rot made her skin crawl. It reminded her of Gul’dan’s “death knights”.

The red haze had finally been lifted just before Hyjal, Grom Hellscream redeeming himself - and their race - for that night on Kil’jaeden’s Throne all those years ago. Her eyes had gone back to their usual iron gray. As the years had gone by, her hair had turned the same color. She still wore the old traveling cloak, wrapped around her neck and running down her back. It was well-worn now, thirty years of war, insanity, and imprisonment having left their mark on the garment… and its wearer. A scar, the kiss of a dwarven battleaxe during the siege of Ironforge, creased her right cheek.

After a period spent in Lordaeron fighting the Scourge, she had gone north to Quel’Thalas. The elves, now called “blood elves”, wanted to join the Horde. She had not been here during the war, and while much of it was ruined, what was intact was quite beautiful, a land of eternal autumn. She had heard that a group of blood elf pilgrims were preparing to set out to the south, to go through the now-reopened Dark Portal to Draenor (she refused to call it “Outland”), and decided to accompany them. When she had arrived in Hellfire Peninsula, the sky had taken her breath away. It was not red and tainted, like the land, but flowing with energy and open to the heavens. But as she processed the change, she began to wonder: Were some things still the same? And so, after seeing her pilgrim friends (and friends they were, to her surprise) off to Falcon Watch, she had gone south, to Terokkar.

Much of Terokkar had changed, she heard. Around the same time Shattrath had fallen, years back, the Shadow Council had tried to seize Auchindoun, resting place of the draenei dead, and summoned a creature within it that had blown the place to hell, turning the land around it into a bone-strewn moonscape that today was known as the Bone Wastes. Yet this part of it was as familiar to her as the windswept Barrens and the rocky canyons of Durotar… it had not changed a bit.

Veil Shienor was still there, that outpost of Skettis on the edge of the woods, and the arakkoa still active within it. She drew her warblade as she approached an area near the veil. The old hovel was still there, too. Near to collapse, but still there. She could see a campfire in front of it, still burning. Her breath caught in her throat as she approached.

Kalnor looked like he had not moved from the fire since she had left him there, all those years ago. His body was thin and wasted with age, what remained of his hair hanging in clumps, and the wolfskin robe and wolf-head helmet rotted, the shreds clinging to his body. He did not look injured, that she could tell, but old and sick. His back was up against the doorframe, and as he looked up at the sound of movement, she could also see he was blind. “Little one.”

She did not bother to ask, aloud or to herself, how he knew. “Yes, Father, I am here.”

Kalnor smiled and nodded. “I have been waiting for you.” He looked back down to the fire… and then his head drooped. Magra did not have to be a healer to know that he was dead. She was not sure what had guided her back here, but somehow she knew he was still here. Where else would he be?

There is everything for you here, she remembered him saying, as clearly as it had been but a moment ago. Food is plentiful. The trees shelter us. The arakkoa, surprisingly, keep their distance. But that’s not enough, is it, little one?

“Would that I had seen what you had,” she said aloud. “How things might have been different.” Stabbing her warblade into the earth, she gently moved his body - he weighed so little now - into the hovel. Then she grasped her blade, and slashed through the supports, collapsing the structure on top of him. Sheathing the weapon over her shoulder, she picked up a piece of wood sticking up out of the fire, and hurled it into the pile of rotting wood and hide. “If the spirits have truly returned to us,” she said, “may you return to them.”

Several months passed.

Magra, daughter of Kalnor, stood in front of Light’s Hope Chapel, having returned from a “rest period” in Quel’Thalas to find all hell had broken loose. Naxxramas had disappeared from the skies over Stratholme, and a new necropolis, Acherus, had disgorged an army to seize the chapel. They had failed because of the power of the Light within, and the death knights - left behind by the Lich King - were now the Knights of the Ebon Blade, pledged to bring down the lord of the Scourge.

Tirion Fordring had declared a new order that day too, and she saw the banners go up around the chapel. And when she got her first good look, her heart seemed to stop for a brief second.

A graven hand on the face of the shining sun. Just like what her father had seen.

Kirenna Summerlight, a Farstrider she had met in Quel’Thalas, saw her and crossed over to meet her, a smile on her thin face. “Bal’a dash, my friend.”

“Aka’magosh,” Magra returned, bowing her head. The elf was a lot thinner in build, but about the same height.

“You’ve heard the news?”

“About the death knights and such? Kind of hard to miss.”

“Uh uh, that’s not what I mean. Fordring’s sent word out to Stormwind and Orgrimmar. We’re heading up there to take this fight to them.”

Magra’s eyebrows rose. “Up… where?”

Kirenna’s head tilted, as if uncertain if she was serious. “Northrend, Magra. I’m heading back to Orgrimmar to hitch a ride on the zeppelin up there. I’d dress warmly if I were you. Lot of ice and snow where we’re headed.”

Again, just like her father had seen. “Are you prepared for this, Kirenna? And I don’t mean because it’s so soon since your Prince met the fate of all traitors. Arthas will get what is coming to him, I am sure of that… but are you truly prepared for what it might cost?”

Kirenna bit back a retort, knowing from their interactions that the one she was speaking to had also been through hell. “Everything worth doing has a cost,” she said quietly. “Whether we’re willing to pay it or not, it will always be collected.”

Magra smiled as she put a hand on the Farstrider’s shoulder. “It is so.”

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It had been what felt like an eternity since Urgan had last stood within the bounds of Gul’rok, his home village on the edge of what was now the Bone Wastes. With the fel orcs more or less cleared out, the ruins were eerily silent. That was what he wanted - a place so far removed from the hubbub of the recent wars, it would give him peace and quiet to think. What was further away and yet still as accessable as Outland?

The Corruptor gazed out north into the boughs of Terokkar Forest, the night illuminated by the soft glow of the magic-imbued cones of the olemba trees, collecting his thoughts after his sojourn into the Dragon Isles. Much to his distinct lack of surprise, his new little friend from Dalaran had disappeared not long after the whole conflict against Raszageth - and now, her more powerful and more terrible “siblings” - had begun in earnest. His suspicion was that Kelty had gone over to the Primalists. So many had, even those not native to Azeroth at all; shamans especially, but mages too. But he was not concerned at all - in fact, it could be a potential boon. As the years had gone on, he had found blind adherence to any “higher power” - the ancestors, the elements, the Legion, the Titans, the Old Gods, the Light, the list went on - to be counterproductive, and found the Primalists’ idea of overthrowing the Titans’ arrogantly self-imposed order… appealing, he had to admit. Of course, the Incarnates and their Primalist goons were probably getting string-pulled by some higher power themselves. It was usually the case with most of these “world-ending” cults. The Lich King (and later the Jailer) had been behind the Cult of the Damned, the Old Gods behind the Twilight’s Hammer…

Thinking on rule by higher powers, rumors had spread about how the orcs were embracing their former clans again. There had been a push - mostly by Eitrigg, the human-loving moron - to revive the old tradition of the Kosh’harg festival. The Corruptor sneered at the sentimentality. He had been to his share of Kosh’hargs back in the day, but had not reveled in it. He had been born to the Bleeding Hollow, which had a tradition for savagery and superstition combined with isolation; they had resided mostly in what was now Hellfire Peninsula, as well as here in Terokkar. The chieftains ritually gouged out one of their own eyes to receive a vision of their own death, and so they led - and fought - without fear. Indeed, it was with some irony that a spell favored by the warlocks of today was still known as the “Eye of Kilrogg”, honoring the chieftain that Urgan had served during the first two wars with the humans. Even having to hide behind the facade of being a grunt in the ranks, those had been good days, he had to admit. Until they had lost the war, and ended up spending the next decade or so living under the iron boot of Aedelas Blackmoore. That was probably the only thing Urgan gave Thrall any credit for - he had killed the drunken bastard and broken the camp system.

Kilrogg’s son was the chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow now, but so far as Urgan was concerned, Jorin was a pathetic weakling who had spent most of the past few decades hiding behind the skirts of Greatmother Geyah. “Geyah, Durotan, Thrall… and now Thrall has two brats with that smug witch he ruts with,” he mused aloud to himself. “Will the bloodline of the Frostwolves haunt us until the end of time?”

“That is probably the least of your worries.”

The Corruptor froze. That had been spoken in orcish, but with a heavy vrykul accent… one he recognized. He turned, seeing a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a rune-encrusted hooded robe. His right hand was a crude blade of orcish metal; his left held a staff. Long braids ran from under the hood, flowing alongside a multi-braided white beard that ran nearly to his waist. “Helbrand!”

Helbrand the Wanderer nodded as he carefully used his bladed hand to pull back his hood. The light of the olemba cones flashed across his face, and a hint of bone could be seen before his runic illusion reasserted itself. “You look well, Master.” He peered around the ruined village and the woods that surrounded it. “So different, and yet… familiar. You stand in the ruins of where you came from and still wonder if you can ever go home again. I have felt that every day since I first encountered you in the fjord. When you taught me of the fel.” He chuckled. “Yes… and many other things.”

“How the hell did you find me here?”

“Let us just say… you are known.” The Wanderer shrugged. “It will not matter, you know.”

Urgan’s eyebrows rose. “Matter?”

“Your schemes, your plans, your vendettas… they will end the same as before. You brag openly about how your enemies are dead, and you are not, and yet… you have so few to flock to your banner. You demand loyalty, and yet inspire only fear. Fear drives people away. Sometimes into the arms of your enemies.”

“You came to me in the cause of vengeance,” the Corruptor pointed out.

“True.” Helbrand’s right hand had been destroyed by Saavedro of Stratholme during the Northrend war years before, and Urgan - together with the blood elf Linavil Shadowsun, one of his apprentices - had taken the injured vrykul in, given him his replacement, and taught him the orcish tongue and the gifts of fel magic. Stormheim had proved to others that vrykul could wield the fel, but Helbrand had used it before Skovald’s lot even knew of the Legion. “Yet that one was not enough. You sought out so many afterward. You still do. Your obsession with the Oncoming Storm was the cause of your end, and why I had to safeguard your soulstone. You do not have such an assurance now.”

“You would forsake me?”

“You always need an enemy. I do not. This is only the second time I have left Northrend, the first being to deliver your soulstone to the Black Harvest. I have remained, wandering alone in my own land. I have contented myself with that, until, perhaps, my time comes. But I have also watched, and listened, with the means you taught me - and through the ways you choose to reject.” Helbrand held his gaze for a long moment. “You pride yourself on the title they give you. Your pride will be your downfall. And next time, no one will return you to this world. You will die, alone, with only oblivion to await you.”

The Corruptor smiled coldly. “We’ll see about that.”

“Yes,” agreed the Wanderer. “We will.” Without another word, he was gone. No flash of energy, no illusion, no fanfare - just gone.

Urgan was left staring where he had stood, and then snorted derisively. “Fool,” he muttered. At that, he looked up, hearing a sound coming from the woods outside the village.

The sound of laughter.

73

War made strange alliances, Kodrak Thundersnow mused, sitting with a bowl of hot soup around the communal pot in Iskaara, a place that felt very home-like to him.

That thought had first occurred to him in Pandaria. Having fought against the Zandalari in Kun-Lai, he never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would ever actually fight alongside them. It had been the Pandaria campaign, ironically, that had inspired the events that led to that meeting. His father, Huraga, was an old veteran who upheld the memory of Durotan, and he saw Garrosh as being a throwback to the old days on Draenor. And he died for it, killed by the Kor’kron during the siege of Orgrimmar.

Kodrak found himself at the receiving end of the ire of another warchief’s fanatics during the recent war. Like his father, he had not hesitated to show what side he was on, and it was not that of the lunatic in Orgrimmar. While on patrol near Warfang Hold in Stormsong Valley, he had been ambushed by one of the banshee’s zealots. The assassin had taken his right eye. Kodrak had taken the wound with good cheer, which had wrong-footed his would-be murderer. “No victory for Sylvanas today, worm,” he had said with a grin, before taking said worm’s head and crushing it under his boot like a ripe melon.

When he returned to the hold, the healer he encountered was a Zandalari death-priest. The devotees of Bwonsamdi creeped him out at the time (still did, if he was honest), but the fellow had been a decent sort, mending some of the injuries he had sustained in that ambush. He had apologized for saying he could not fix the eye. Kodrak had laughed. “I’m not worried,” he had said. “I can still see better with one eye than most could see with two. And given what happened to the other guy, I got the better deal!” The priest started laughing with him… and that had started his friendship with Zulimbasha.

After the war in the Shadowlands, when the expedition was sent to the Dragon Isles, the Collector had called for his allies to join him as “Heralds of the Other Side”. Kodrak had caught up with him in Valdrakken, and the priest had been glad to see him. “I expected ta see ya here earlier, fightin’ da good fight,” Zulimbasha had said. “Ya orcs like ta give dem blades of yours a go, eh?” He had indicated the axe Kodrak carried on his back, an heirloom inherited from his father. He was now the sixth generation of his family to carry it.

“Come on, Zuli. We don’t all swing axes at everything that moves while screaming ‘For the Horde!’” He had thought about it, then shrugged. “Some of us just happen to be really good at it.”

Zulimbasha’s head had tilted. “Even you?”

“What the hell do you mean, even me?” Kodrak had demanded, looking almost offended… before grinning widely. “Especially me!” Zulimbasha couldn’t help but laugh.

Now, as he slurped his soup, Kodrak mused on the new allies they had made, the dragons and their kind, particularly the dracthyr. He had met Lengua not long after he had caught up with Zulimbasha, and was struck by both the heat of the evoker’s red-eyed stare… and the intensity of her desire to learn. It reminded him of the days growing up in Alterac, full of both fire and doubt, like every young orcling was… just like the other young pups there and in the Valley of Trials in Durotar today. “Dese dracthyr be powerful, but unguided,” Zulimbasha had told him. “We do what we can with Lengua, but dere be many more like her… and da quest for purpose might be leadin’ dem ta dark places.”

Kodrak had nodded. “Like these Sundered Flame nuts that we’ve heard about.”

“Exactly. Not da kinda people we want as enemies. Especially not da ones with such extraordinary gifts. Dey have much ta teach us… but dey also have much ta learn. Findin’ da balance be da tricky part.”

“Tricky’s one word for it. Terrifying might be another.”

“Aye,” the Collector had agreed. “But you and I both know dat conquerin’ fear don’t mean not recognizin’ it be dere. It be recognizin’ it, and facin’ it with eyes front, chins up, and weapons in hand.”

Kodrak’s mailed fingers had run through the lightning-charged fur of his wolf companion, Stormcloud. “And friends by your side.”

74

Extract from the writings of Lord Eldred Valmy, exiled warlock-engineer of Gilneas and chief scribe of the Lordaeron Deathsworn:

Everyone has been raving like giddy schoolchildren about these Dragon Isles, and setting foot in Valdrakken for the first time, I can see why. Especially old Eran Heskin. I’d heard he got a taste for Titan lore during the war with the Lich King, and never gave it up. Having been to Northrend a few times myself, I have to confess to a sense of familiarity. Damn near everyone I have spoken to on both sides has. Valdrakken in particular seems to combine the aesthetic of Wyrmrest Temple and Dalaran, with certain elements of Suramar - yet it’s not an unholy mishmash. It works.

Right now, the primary focus of everyone’s efforts is the “Forgotten Reach”, the northernmost part of the isles. It’s here that these dracthyr who’ve popped up in Stormwind of late (and Orgrimmar as well, from what I’ve heard) supposedly came from. Creations of the Worldbreaker, so long ago that there is no record. Or is there? Some among the dracthyr seem convinced there is some sign of their origins in this place. Others are less concerned with that idea. They are more desirous to find out what their future looks like; if their past was hidden from them, there must be a reason for it. Or so these folks say.

Personally I wonder how much of this is genuine apathy about the “big question”, and how much is an act meant to hide their uncertainty not only about their past, but how it will affect their future. These dracthyr are both ancient and powerful, but they are like orphaned children in many ways. Lost, forgotten, and in need of guidance. I remember when the one we have in the ranks, Serys, was introduced to us. It had taken the old man’s grandson to show the truth. Everyone in Stormwind in particular has a burr up their backsides when it comes to all things dragons. After Onyxia, I suppose one can’t blame them, but… if these dracthyr wanted to wipe us out, they would have.

It does beg the question, however. We know they were created by Deathwing - or Neltharion as he was at the time. We have no idea what they were created for. And at the moment, neither do they. Vague memories of a forgotten war, nothing more. Some are quite eager to find out the truth in the Reach. I wonder if some things might best be forgotten.

The irony of it, a warlock worried about “forbidden magics”. Yet I cannot help but feel uneasy. Too many questions, and the answers are either too vague… or potentially too terrible. The major worry is the dracthyr. Not so much whether or not they’ll find what they’re looking for… but what will happen when they do.

We may find out sooner than we expect.

75

He knew who it was he was facing; the Zandalari leather armor, the bone-lined knives at her belt, and the hate-crazed eyes told him everything. Without any shame at all, he turned and ran. He didn’t get ten paces before one of those knives flew like lightning, pinning his skull to a nearby tree. Even a Forsaken would find getting a knife the size of a ballista bolt tip going through his brain to be fatal, and his body sagged like the dead weight it really was now. The rotted flesh under his head gave way, and the now-headless corpse collapsed onto the ground.

“The quest continues, hm?”

She did not deign to look at the speaker as she climbed part of the way up the tree, yanking the blade out of the trunk (causing the head to bounce off its former body and roll a ways). “Always more souls escaping their rightful fate.”

“And what fate would that be, Vilaya?”

Vilaya turned to look now. “You know what that fate is, Eldex. Don’t play stupid.” She had a sneer of contempt in her voice in an effort to hide how intimidating she found his appearance. Years ago, just after the vulpera had joined the Horde, Eldex had been attacked by one of the wolves of the Barrens of Kalimdor during his explorations. After recovering from the surprise, he had been able to dispatch the beast. Moved perhaps by its spirit, or some elemental call only those like him could hear, he had taken the carcass back on his wagon to the Crossroads, where orcish crafters had the pelt made into a robe for him, reinforced with dark metal armor. The wolf’s fully-pelted skull became a helmet, giving him a fearsome look. The orcs had taken to calling him the “Foxwolf”, and it had stuck.

Eldex removed the wolf-skull helmet and held it under the crook of one arm; his other hand rested on the hilt of his Zandalari warhammer, given to him by the exiled witch doctor Valkia’jin when she was killed in Uldum, during the campaign against the Black Empire. His clear blue eyes gazed with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Your disappearing act has people worried, Vilaya.”

Vilaya glared at him. “You seem to have found me well enough.”

“I have only been able to find you because I know your ways best. Zulimbasha began to wonder what happened after you arrived in the Dragon Isles; you then disappeared and never came back.”

“The people I’m after aren’t in the Dragon Isles, Eldex.”

Eldex sighed. “You’ve been called the Deathseeker… but whose death are you truly seeking? Hm? Leftover Forsaken loyalists, because of Zulimbasha’s disgust with them? Alliance warriors, because of the ‘fox hunts’ in Vol’dun?” His eyes narrowed. “Or is it your own you’re looking for?”

The vulpera assassin’s fists clenched. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No? In case you’ve forgotten, Vilaya, I am also a vulpera, and have been in the crosshairs of all the same enemies you have. You seem so bent on being like Nisha… but Nisha will not live forever. Indeed, the fact that neither of you are dead now is actually surprising to me.”

“Why, because we’re not afraid to fight, like you?”

A flash of lightning rippled across Eldex’s eyes. Vilaya took a step back, realizing what she had just said, and who she had said it to, that fear she had suppressed now evident on her face. “You may test that assumption at your convenience,” he said coldly. His expression and tone softened. “Like Nisha, you’re reckless. You’ve convinced yourself that this is why you were brought from the desert. But Zulimbasha, for all that he is devoted to Bwonsamdi, is still mortal, like us, and he has the same concerns. He is worried about you. Especially now.”

“Why now?”

The Foxwolf took a deep breath, not sure how to drop this particular bombshell, then decided to go ahead. “There’s been discussion of a formal joining of forces. Of Zulimbasha’s Heralds, and of a group that calls itself the Lordaeron Deathsworn.”

Vilaya’s eyes narrowed. “They’re Alliance, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are.”

“And Zulimbasha is okay with this?” Her rage was starting to build.

“The leader of the Deathsworn, a cursed human named Heskin, was concerned that we in particular would oppose it. But Zulimbasha believes us a fair people. These Deathsworn did fight in the war with the Horde, including in Zandalar, it’s true. But they are not killers for sport, like the fox hunters from Gilneas. And even in Zulimbasha’s own ranks, he’s had Forsaken. Those who remained true to honor, instead of following their Banshee Queen. Like Kirenna, who’s gone back to Tirisfal to help her people rebuild. Do you want to go after them, too?”

Reluctantly, Vilaya shook her head.

Eldex gently put a hand on her shoulder. “I trust our friend’s judgment here. He is not any more keen about it than you are. But with what we have seen, he believes we must set aside the past, and look to the future.”

Vilaya looked over at the headless loyalist. “I suppose no more of this, then.”

“Not actively, at any rate.” The Foxwolf smiled. “Should we run into any known traitors while we’re in the field, well… that’s between you and them.”

76

Jonathan Surrette’s chainmail coat clinked as he moved purposefully across the plaza in front of Drak’Tharon Keep, in the Grizzly Hills of eastern Northrend. He had just returned from a scouting mission to the isles. He saw two figures, both of comparable size, both in robes - one in a fel style, with burning skulls adorning the shoulderguards and the staff in his hand, and the other in the deep purple favored by certain Tidesages of Kul Tiras. He knew no circumstance in which such a man would choose to work with them, but this one in particular was a few eggs short of a Noblegarden basket. “The way is open, Lord Corruptor. These ‘Zaralek Caverns’, opened by the fire Incarnate. They go below.”

Urgan of the Black Harvest nodded, a malicious smile on his face. “Good. A little diversion into the earth will keep them busy. For now. Let them push themselves against the wall of shadowflame ahead.”

Jonathan seethed. “Why this waiting? These dragon-loving fools will probably break through these new threats like they did the Storm-Eater. Should we not be rid of them now, while they do not expect it?”

“In a hurry to get burned by the Great Ones’ fire, corpse-man?” the Kul Tiran said, white teeth gleaming in his maniacal grin, which could be seen clearly through his shrouding hood and his thick mustache. “The Void crushes people who rush. Crushes them like ripened fruit. Ohh, I’d like to see that. It would improve your face quite a bit.”

“A bit much, Brother Galedeep,” the Corruptor said with a hint of amusement, before he turned to his ally. “But he’s right, Jonathan. Even from Valdrakken, I could feel the power in there. Shadowflame. The corrupting touch of the deep earth. The void lords’ little ‘gift’. Let the seekers rush forward; we will see from their steps how to proceed.”

Jonathan shook his head. It sounded like nonsense to him, even though he had seen the power himself. “I don’t see why we should be worried. The Old Gods are dead.”

“Indeed so, Jonathan - but so is Deathwing, yet his influence continues. The two preening egotists fighting for his throne. The old fool seeking to rein them in. And the dracthyr… ah, the dracthyr. A power we can potentially use. One in particular.”

Jonathan knew who he meant. “The Collector’s pet.”

“The very same. She is conflicted and impetuous. She has gone ahead without her new friends to seek her own answers in the dark. I will venture to Zaralek myself, see if I can’t find her. Perhaps I can… give her some guidance.”

“Zulimbasha has probably warned her about you, Lord Corruptor,” Jonathan pointed out. “She may not be as malleable as you think.”

“You may have a point there, Jonathan,” the Corruptor conceded. “But these dracthyr respect strength. Zulimbasha is strong, I will give him that, as are his new friends in the Alliance. It’s just a matter of proving our own compared to that.”

“They will interfere,” the executor warned. “Especially Heskin. He’s so pure, he probably bleeds white.” He saw the look on his face. “You want us to delay him and his lot? I can find the demon hunter. We can go on the path.”

“If at all possible. But there will be another problem to deal with. Their patron.”

Jonathan looked confused for a moment… and then it clicked. “The blue dragon.”

Urgan nodded. “His lost goblin friend - our lost friend, if I’m honest - is still out there somewhere. Probably down below with the other Primalists who have not been killed. He is probably as concerned about her as he is about his pet dracthyr.” He turned to Galedeep. “That will be your job, Brother. Find her. But do not harm her. Instead, use your gifts to… open her mind, and set her on the task. If anything, she will keep him busy. If we’re lucky, she might kill him, or at least weaken him enough for us to finish him.”

The mad Tidesage chuckled. “Ha! Child’s play. Her mind is nothing to mine. Mine is as the tide-forged rock!”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the Corruptor said, repressing his amusement. “Go with the tides, Brother.”

As the Tidesage all but skipped off to his waiting steed, Jonathan shook his head. “Is dealing with him wise, Lord Corruptor? Nevermind that he’s a Kul Tiran who was probably slaughtering our kind before this… I mean, look at him! He’s a gibbering lunatic!”

“He may be a gibbering lunatic, Jonathan, but he’s our gibbering lunatic. Consider who we are. Outcasts. Exiles. Renegades. ‘Criminals’, according to the small-minded fools who rule the lands. We cannot be choosy about the tools with which we work. And besides… he fits in with how the world truly works.”

Jonathan looked incredulous. “How?”

“Consider the Eightfold Path, Jonathan. Fear. Treachery. Pain. Hate. Rage. Destruction. War. Death. These are the only constants in the world. It has been so on Azeroth since the Black Empire. It has been so on Draenor, both the broken remnants of the real one and the time-corrupted parody, forever. Peace is the lie told by those who fear the truth of existence: Disorder, misery, and chaos. Only those who accept this can truly prosper.” The Corruptor grinned. “What we think of as madness, I consider an acceptance of the truth. His beliefs have set him upon the Path. And once on it, we must always go forward.”

Jonathan looked uncomfortable at the suddenly zealous tone in his patron’s voice. “I’m not sure about how I fit in there…”

“No? You do not believe you embody any of those virtues? I think I know you better than that. I think you know you better than that. Your hate, your rage, your pain… they fuel you, and lead you to the other steps. Indeed, your death is what brought you to them in the first place. You swore vengeance against the Alliance for using you as cannon fodder in Andorhal, all those years ago.” The Corruptor put a hand on his shoulder. “You are the embodiment of the Path in your own way, Jonathan. So is Brother Galedeep. And the demon hunter, the professor… and others. And I, in my own way. I am not the first to walk the Path. Nor will I, will we, be the last.”

77

Though he had never set foot in the Veiled Ossuary in his life, he felt a familiarity. He had felt it all throughout the isles, especially in the Azure Span, but most especially here. For this is where the dead came to rest, in the time before they came to the Dragonblight. In the time before the Sundering. In the time before Neltharion’s betrayal. Many of the dead whose names were listed here were from that “before” time.

Some of these names were newer, too, added or updated since Kalecgos had come. Malygos himself, killed by the champions of Azeroth. Sindragosa, killed by Deathwing, raised by the Lich King, and then destroyed again. Tarecgosa, who gave her life to stop the traitor Arygos. Several others killed in the Nexus War. Old Senegos was gone now too, finally giving in to his old age - though at least, he thought wistfully, he had been able to come home.

Though young, only a little over five hundred years old, he felt much older, and standing in this ancient place made that feeling all the more acute… especially now that ten thousand years of neglect was being corrected. Kalecgos had made it his mission to bring his flight - his family - together, marking a new beginning beyond the isolation and paranoia that had been the hallmarks of Malygos. But as they looked to the future, they looked to the past as well. It was in that spirit that he rested a hand on one of the newer stones in the room, using his arcane power to inscribe a name that was absent.

Iskanigos
Deceased - Killed in the Nexus War

He had debated marking his brother’s epitaph as “killed by kin”, for that was what had happened. He knew this because he had been the kin who had killed him. It had been a long battle over Coldarra and the Borean Tundra, and a long chase into the mountains. He was convinced that Iskanigos, mad with rage and grief at the death of Malygos, had been going to Ulduar… answering the call of Yogg-Saron, whose foul presence had rooted all throughout Northrend.

He had killed his brother… and, exhausted and famished from the long, unending battle, he had feasted on his flesh. That fact still sickened him. He had never told anyone, not even his lord Kalecgos. And especially not his niece…

You are not the first to get a thrill from murdering your kin, Esheregos. I see it all the time. He could hear the Corruptor’s mocking voice in his head from that meeting in Valdrakken. The warlock had been in the Storm Peaks at the time, had seen the battle, and had witnessed the act. How will poor little Rianagosa react when she finds out that not only did you orphan her, you feasted on her father’s corpse before ripping his horns off as a trophy?

Esheregos - or Eregesh, as most knew him, the name he took in his visage - felt a shudder in his bones. He had been able to do nothing but stammer about how he had exhausted himself in the chase, and say that he had told his niece the truth… but not all of it. A lie of omission is still a lie, Esheregos, Urgan had pointed out. And it’s made worse for the lied-to when the omission is intentional.

“Damn that fel-blooded scumsucker,” he snarled aloud, his hissing whisper nonetheless leaving a mild echo in the empty chamber. “Why does the voice of reason have to be a monster like that?”

He had considered telling her himself, to remove that ammunition that the Corruptor could use against him… but Riana was gone, having ventured with Lengua into the Zaralek Cavern. Sir Eran had gone in after them. Perhaps I should too, he mused. I cannot simply sit in the archives anymore.

“Your spirit is troubled?”

Eregesh turned, seeing a man in deep red robes, with fiery red hair and piercing green eyes. To most people’s perspective, he would be a blood elf, but he knew better. “As it has been for years, Zaran,” he admitted. “Since the Nexus War. More so now that we are here.”

“You are not the first to say so.” Zaranastrasz, agent of the Dragonqueen, looked somber. “Feelings of regret have been prevalent in everyone since we arrived. Even those of us who were nowhere near old enough to know this place existed outside of legends, the stories the old wyrms used to tell us when we were whelps.” The two dragons had been close friends for a long time, sharing a Visage Day. It had been Zaran who had suggested he go to Quel’Thalas all those years before. “You always prided yourself on your self-discipline, old friend. But even you have your limits. We all do.”

“Even the Life-Binder?”

“Especially the Life-Binder. Do you think a compassionate heart means a light one? She carries more than her own burdens, Esh. You know that as well as I do.”

Eregesh shook his head. “She makes it look so… easy.”

“She does,” Zaran agreed. “The grace of our Queen is a wonder to behold. But it is as much a visage as the mortal form she wears.” He shook his head. “I have often feared, with all she has lost in these recent years, that she would succumb to madness. Not like Deathwing, no. But…” He trailed off, leaving the thought unspoken.

But Eregesh understood. “Like Malygos, you mean. Like how he thought the way to protect magic was to kill mages. You think she might consider that the way to save life is to destroy any who don’t uphold her vision of it.”

Zaran nodded. “And like the Nexus War, it would split us.” He looked away for a moment, pain evident in his face… and then his features hardened with resolve, and he gave a sharp jerk of his head. “No. She has lost much, but hers is a soul too open for such cruelty. I must have faith in her.” He chuckled. “Damn, now I’m getting in on the doubts and regrets too.”

“I would worry more about you if you didn’t. Yours is a flight that protects life; you must wonder if what we have done, and what will be done, is what needs to be done to uphold that charge. The oathstones shine once more, but…”

“But,” Zaran echoed, nodding. “They say anything spoken before ‘but’ means nothing. I sometimes wonder…”

78

“I don’t like this…”

“Doesn’t our master have a line about timid men and timid jobs?”

“You don’t really think him your master, do you, Rakeri?”

“Of course not. You don’t think I got into his mess because I was swayed by his arguments, do you?” Professor Rakeri Sputterspark snorted. “This ‘Path’ of his sounds like a good idea, but he’s hardly the person to lead the way along it. You know that, and so do I. He may have more experience, but I have the sharper brain. And so does this gentleman we are here to meet.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Didn’t his lot end up nearly selling us to the Legion?”

“Didn’t your lot end up nearly selling us to Azshara?” The mechagnome warlock smiled coldly. “You learned from your mistake, Septimus. And so has my friend here. I am confident this will work… and also, remember that I have an inside track.”

“The Wanderer has no more love for you than he does for the Corruptor.”

“A risk, to be sure,” Rakeri admitted. “But one worth taking. Timid men, timid jobs. On that, at least, the orc and I agree. And necessity often breeds desperation.”

Septimus Galedeep was silent, considering this. Rakeri, who viewed most humans to be idiots, had nonetheless formed an alliance with the mind-damaged Tidesage not long after they met in the Shadowlands. For all that he was insane, the Brother had a sharper mind than most people thought, even if his grasp on lucidity was tenuous at best. But when that grasp held, as it did now, he was incredibly capable.

To his credit, the Corruptor also acknowledged this, but only to use it for his purposes. Rakeri, much to his own surprise, developed a genuine respect for the man, and his willingness to adapt. Stormsong was a failure, and the Old Gods were repulsive to him, so he sought to make his own way on his path of madness. Most considered the man a broken, babbling idiot, but Rakeri recognized the intelligence in him. He had a healthy respect for what could happen when a mind was broken, and how to apply it to make the fools of the world suffer.

It surprised him to find a kindred spirit in such a man, but he had experienced such a thing himself, years before, in Northrend, when he had been “decursed” by Mechazod. The Corruptor - indirectly through his old apprentice, Linavil Shadowsun - had helped foster his own new beginning, as he was now attempting to do for Brother Galedeep… and again for this dracthyr evoker he’d found in Zaralek. The evoker that they, the mechagnome and the Kul Tiran, had helped to capture… with no input or aid from the Corruptor, who had nearly gotten himself killed by the one he had begun pursuing.

It was Urgan’s obsessions that kept getting him into trouble, Rakeri mused. Saavedro had killed him in Northrend years before. Ketiron had nearly done so again in Tirisfal. And now so had this Lengua character in Zaralek. Rakeri had learned from his own mistakes - after his death on the alternate Draenor, and “hitching a ride” in the mind of his sister Marennia, he’d had a lot of time to think - and did not intend to repeat them. Oh, he still despised Stormwind, their preening Watch, and their smug sense of superiority over races who had ruled empires when their race was still beating rocks together in the hills of Arathi. But he was making a point not to broadcast it this time. They would get theirs soon enough.

Like Galedeep, Rakeri thought the idea of the Eightfold Path had merit - having seen his share of chaos and death over the years, he too thought it was best to embrace it, rather than oppose it. But also like Galedeep, he had doubts about the man leading it.

Necessity breeds desperation. He had not spoken those words lightly. Certain measures had to be taken.

Rakeri and Galedeep arrived in Tel’anor, the mausoleum-city of the Nightborne outside Suramar. A statuesque figure - pun slightly intended - stood among the tombs, fingers tapping against his thigh. “You were always one to spit in the eye of sanctity, my teacher,” the man said without preamble, and in Eredun.

“As are you, my student,” Rakeri replied evenly in the same tongue. “You are not exactly the most beloved of people in this land these days. Especially by the family of the occupant of that particular plot.” He chuckled as he switched to Common. “One thinks, when I suggested we meet here, that you chose this exact spot on purpose.”

“One would be correct.” The man turned to face his guests as he switched to his native Shalassian, the ring on his hand - used by Nighthold arcanists - translating his words for them, and their words for him. “I see you bring a friend. A rather large fellow, too.” His head tilted slightly. “And somewhat damaged by the Void.”

“Indeed. But he is a reliable ally, for all that.” He looked up at the Tidesage. “May I introduce Brother Septimus Galedeep, Tidesage of Kul Tiras. Brother Galedeep, Lord Aldos Relsyn, formerly of the Nighthold of Suramar, now of the Council of the Black Harvest.”

Rakeri had met the fel arcanist in Oribos during the Shadowlands war, not long before he encountered Galedeep. He was an exile, often hunted by the Nightborne for his crimes during the war - and those of his elder sister, Spellfencer Alira Relsyn, who had been one of Elisande’s executioners. She had been the one who killed the occupant of the tomb next to which he stood… the Lady Elerina Vendross. Elerina’s husband, Lord Randarel, had killed the spellfencer in revenge, during the siege of the Nighthold. By that point, Aldos had escaped; the Grand Magistrix was a lost cause by then, as was the Legion, though the power they had granted was potent enough. Rakeri had been the one to give him a few pointers in its “finer aspects”.

“A Tidesage. Ahhh. That explains it.” The Nightborne’s long eyebrow arched upward. “You were of House Stormsong?”

“I was. Then I decided tentacles were not my thing, and left the shrine as Pike and his purists cleaned it out.”

“You say tentacles are not your thing, and yet you wield the shadow. A curious stance to take.”

Galedeep shrugged. “I like to keep things in balance, lord. It just confuses the bastards.”

Aldos chuckled. “We all have methods to our madness, do we not?” He glanced at Rakeri. “Now that we’ve been through the pleasantries - to business. What do you want of me, Professor?”

Rakeri simply smiled.

79

Mengyao Snowsteel rose early each morning, gazing southward up towards the Kun-Lai Mountains, admiring the way the sunlight reflected from the snowcapped peaks… and then went to work in his forges. Usually it was fishing equipment, household tools, and the like. But it kept him busy. His pregnant wife, Shiyama, often rose with him when she felt up to it. Like him, she loved to work with her hands, and imminent motherhood did not dissuade her from it.

One day, however, it was Mengyao who did not feel up to it. He had been ill for some time, and Shiyama had no idea why. Nor did the healer, who ministered to him. Something he ate? Something he touched? A chill from traveling across the mountains to One Keg for supplies? Neither Shiyama nor the healer knew. One morning, she rose early, as usual, and worked her forge, as usual… trying to distract herself from what she knew as coming.

Mengyao died that afternoon.

The following morning, Shiyama rose early, looked up at the mountains, and went to work. Some who went past her forge swore they could hear water sizzling on the anvil - her tears falling onto the hot metal. And yet, she worked.

More than seventy years on, Shiyama Snowsteel still rose early in the morning, gazing southward up towards the Kun-Lai Mountains, admiring the way the sunlight reflected from the snowcapped peaks… and then went to work in her forges. Now as then, it was fishing equipment, household tools, and the like. But it kept her busy, even at nearly a century old.

Much had changed in Zouchin of late. The attack by the Zandalari had made a tremendous impact, one that was still felt a decade later. The Burning Legion wiping out the monastery on the Peak of Serenity two years later had been a scare as well, enough to convince her son, Zhao-Ming - born not long after Mengyao’s death - to leave Pandaria for the first time. He was gone for a good five years after that. She was not too worried about him, though. He was a Shado-Pan - he had spent most of his life either on or beyond the Wall, and she was confident he could take care of himself. After all, she had crafted his sword for him, more than fifty years earlier, when he was accepted into the order by Lord Zhu’s father. Her steel did not break. She made sure of that.

Just as she picked up her hammer, she heard voices. “Greetings, honored one, I - oh! It’s you, Shado-Master! Welcome home! Hmm? Oh yes. Just where she always is at this time.”

“I had a feeling.” He was an intimidating figure clad in heavy plate armor, and the Zouchin protector had a distinct look of reverence as he escorted him to Shiyama’s forge.

“Scaring the guards with your big bad Shado-Pan look, are we?” Shiyama gave him a look of mock annoyance. “Listen here, Zhao-Ming. I’ll not have you throwing your weight around, acting like you’re the Emperor returned to us. You are not so old to be immune from getting your tail spanked.”

The protector was aghast at such disrespect, but Zhao-Ming was grinning as he unwrapped his Shado-Pan headscarf, the scars around his milky-white right eye creasing with merriment. “And well I know it.” He turned to his escort. “Let that be a lesson to you, young one - you can have all the titles in the world, but your mother always outranks you.” He laughed as he gave the protector a gentle pat on the shoulder. “I’ll take it from here.”

“As you say, Master Snowsteel.” The protector bowed deeply, and returned to his rounds.

Shiyama noted his armaments. “I see you still have it. And that beautiful bit of work you brought back from the Isle of Thunder.”

“Of course. The only time I will part from them is when I’m dead. And probably not even then.” Zhao-Ming chuckled, then sobered quickly. “They have seen much use of late. It’s been a very interesting time.”

Shiyama nodded as she finished what she was working on - a small shield, Zhao-Ming noticed - before heading up into the house for some tea. “Something about dragons, you said, when you returned to Stormwind.” Though not a member of the Alliance - his allegiance was to the Shado-Pan and to Pandaria, nothing more - Zhao-Ming had often worked with them since the parting of the mists. Part of it was motivated by the Zandalari; the trolls’ joining the Horde, which had a reputation for doing much like what Garrosh had done (both before and since his demise), made the partnership easier to justify.

“Aye. Their ancient homeland, on lost islands far to the north. These ‘Primalists’ trying to destroy the works of the Titans - including the dragons.” Zhao-Ming accepted the teacup gratefully. “It’s ironic. We used to think of the turtleborn as renegades, reckless wanderers. Now I seem to have picked up that desire to travel.”

“I’ve noticed. It was different when you were away on the Wall, because you were still here in Pandaria. But going beyond…” Shiyama shook her head, chuckling. “Thank the spirits I’m too old for that sort of thing.” She sipped from her teacup. “What brings you back now? Are you done?”

“No, not yet. Taking time away, and escorting some friends out here. A fellow I met in Stormwind is retiring, and has chosen to stay here in Pandaria. He’s taken up with Zhangren and Chaiya, and their little one.” He smiled slightly. “And… I believe you told me just before I left that you wished you could meet a dragon. Would you like an opportunity?”

Shiyama’s eyebrows rose at that. “You brought one here?”

“On the contrary. He brought me here.” With a smile, Zhao-Ming finished his tea and rose. Shiyama did likewise before she took his outstretched hand, and he gently guided her down the stairs, and out just beyond the village. “There he is.” He indicated a tall, slimly-built figure in blue robes, standing in a clearing.

Shiyama glanced at Zhao-Ming with an amused glint in her eye. “My son, I may be old and slightly foggy in the brain, but my brain is not that foggy. That’s an elf, not a dragon.”

“I am many things, or at least that’s how it may seem to some,” the elf replied with a smile. “You may want to step back…” As she watched, the elf was suddenly gone with a slight burst of magical energy. In front of her was something entirely different, and much more dragon-like. “Is that better?”

Shiyama’s eyes were wide, as she carefully walked forward, her hand gently touching the ice-blue scales. “How did you do that?”

“I have many gifts, Mrs. Snowsteel,” replied Esheregos, a twinkle in his eye.

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The edge of his coat rustled along the edge of the jolly boat as he stepped onto the stone quay in the Port of Zandalar. It was a quiet night, as the nights were these days, since the war ended. It had been years since he had been back home, and he was eager to see a place a bit more solid than Freehold for a change.

Zandalar forever. Not just pretty words.

The last time he had come this close to the Bay of Kings, he had been floating in it, when the Golden Fleet was reduced to golden splinters by the Alliance during the siege of Dazar’alor. He had been lucky - an eye that had never properly healed thanks to one of those splinters, and both tusks broken off from the shockwave of the bomb. His captain had got it worse. The poor fool was cut in half - lengthwise. The golden hilt of the captain’s broken sword provided the decoration that became his trademark, and a monocle wedged into the dim eye socket gave him an air of… dignity, or refinement, one might say. His scarlet-and-gold regalia was contrasted by the grayish-green of his skin and the forest green of his hair, but matched somewhat by the gold-plated weapons he wore at each hip.

“Oi! You dere, mon! Stop!”

He looked up, the eyebrow over his good eye rising slightly. It was one of the city guard, and from the look and sound of him, one who had not been on the job for very long. “Yes? What can I do for you?” His voice was both deep and mellow.

The guard looked him over, seeing the coat and all the trimmings, and put on a hard face. It made the youngblood look more theatrical than intimidating - ironic, given the theatricality of his own garb. “What be your business here?”

“This is my homeland. I wasn’t aware I had to declare my business to visit my homeland. Have things changed so much?”

“Sneakin’ off a jolly boat in de harbor don’t help ya case none, pirate scum. Dis be Zandalar. I be sworn ta protect it from filth like you.” His spear lowered level to the man’s chest. “Come quietly, or die where ya stand. Up ta you.”

The eyebrow rose again. “First, I am a privateer, not a pirate. A pirate is a thug with a hat. A privateer is a free-born son of de sea who lives by a code, goes where de wind takes him, and hopes for steady work. Which sometimes includes killing pirates.” His expression grew cold. “Second, I served Zandalar long before you were born. In fact, I’m willing ta bet that de last time I was here, you were one of those street rats chasing saurids in de Zocalo. So don’t be gettin’ high-and-mighty with me, boy.” Then he grinned. “And third…” One of the weapons at his hip was immediately in his hand - a curious combination of pistol and axe. He knocked the spear aside with the axeblade, and then fired the pistol into the young guard’s kneecap. “No, I don’t think I’ll be going with you.”

The guard collapsed, screeching with pain. The long-coated figure snorted. “Oh, walk it off, you big baby. You’ll live. And maybe learn something from de experience, hmm?”

“What in da Loa’s name be --” Two more figures, much more seasoned-looking, approached. The one who had spoken had a look of recognition. “Windcaller Vizka?”

“Captain Vizka nowadays. Good ta see you, Sho’jin. Been a long time since Pandaria.”

“Indeed. I heard ya went freelance after de siege.” Sho’jin’s eyes went to where most people’s tended to. “Da gold tusks suit ya.”

“Well, thank ya kindly. It makes da name work out, especially over in Freehold.” Vizka Goldtusk - for that was indeed the name he went by - shrugged lightly. “As for de rest, well, you can’t really serve in de fleet if there’s no fleet left ta serve in.”

“Didn’t stop ya from takin’ your ship.” Sho’jin looked down at the injured guard, still bawling. “Will ya get a grip, mon? It’s not like he shot ya in da head.”

“Probably should have,” Vizka muttered. At Sho’jin’s sharp glance, however, he smiled. “Unpleasantness aside, I’m supposed ta meet someone here. Are we gonna make trouble out of dis, or just write it off as a… misunderstanding?” A flicker of lightning in his good eye made clear he was prepared for the former if need be.

Sho’jin got the hint. So did his companion, who answered, “No trouble, Cap’n Vizka. We all be young and stupid once, ya?”

Vizka inclined his head. “Indeed. A good day to ya, friends.” The two guards hefted the injured youngblood (whose young blood was pooling in the stones) while he proceeded up into the Grand Bazaar, to the Spirits Be With You inn. There, the two he was waiting for looked up - one a goblin in Forsaken chainmail, the other an actual Forsaken, wearing red-rimmed shadowghast chainmail. A bow and quiver of similar make could be seen over her shoulders. “I have ta say, of all de places you wanted to meet me, I’m surprised you chose here. Neither of you are very popular among my people.” His eye went to the goblin. “Especially you, Seela. Still running around with de undead dinos you picked up during de war?”

“And a few others I got from Mariel’s brother,” Seela Skullscrapper agreed, inclining her head at the tall Forsaken next to her. “He won’t be needing 'em anymore.”

“Or much else, for that matter.” Mariel Surrette looked amused. “And you’re one to talk about feeling welcome, Captain. If you’d run into sailors from the rebuilding navy, rather than the city guard, you’d probably have a considerable body count by now. Or be dead yourself.”

Vizka shrugged. “Probably. But enough what-ifs… why have you called me here?”

“Why else?” Seela replied, grinning. “Business.”

The captain’s good eye narrowed. “Go on…”

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She blinked as the portal effects faded, and knew immediately that she was not standing in Stormwind. For a start, the place was way too open for that; she was standing on a beach, and it seemed to be about sunset. And there was a tingle in the air that seemed… familiar.

Where the hell am I?

She looked out on the water, and saw the familiar spires of the Temple of the Jade Serpent across the channel. She had seen it on occasion when she had come to Dawn’s Blossom, whenever the AAMS had their weekly “lounge night”. But that led to greater questions. The portal she took was to Stormwind… what on earth was she doing in Pandaria?

“You are of purpose, Araen Warpwalker.”

Araen spun, her crossbow - a Thalassian design in the shape of a bird of prey - in her hands, quarrel set, finger on the trigger. “How the hell do you know who I am?” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. There’s an aura about you… about this place.” She studied the figure in front of her, appearing elven, but… like the color had been washed out of him, and the gear he wore. “You’re a dragon.”

“Very perceptive.” The man inclined his head. “I am Tremas, of the infinite dragonflight. And you are of purpose, Araen Warpwalker.”

The infinite dragonflight. She had heard of them during the Northrend campaign; they had a thing for attempting to alter past events to their own advantage. She felt a slight shiver. “Care to translate for those of us who don’t speak riddle?”

“My meaning is perfectly clear for those who have the wit to hear it,” the infinite dragon replied, his tone dripping with condescension. “Perhaps the voices in your mind are confusing you?”

Araen smiled coldly. “The voices in my mind are telling me to pump you full of holes. Oh wait. That’s my voice. Start talking before I kill you.”

Tremas smiled right back. “Kill me, and you will be trapped here forever. Care to chance it, void elf?” He clasped his hands behind his back. “We have come to an… accord of sorts with our bronze counterparts. Eternus has guided us to this place and time - the conflict instigated by Varian Wrynn and Garrosh Hellscream - to gain a perspective on… events of tragedy, and their consequences. There will be no change here. All will go as it did before.”

Araen’s eyebrows rose. Following two decades trapped in Outland, she had settled in Dalaran as part of the Silver Covenant during the war against the Lich King, and travelled with Vereesa to Zul’Aman to fight her people’s ancient foes and their new backers, the Zandalari. She had not seen the conflict in Pandaria. “Why bring me here?”

The dragon’s smile widened. “Why not?”