[Story] Shadow of Conquest

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

Chapter 10: A Mercenary’s Life

The Demon’s Gut was an interesting place, to say the least. Ludrasa had grown extremely familiar with it ever since she started wandering Azeroth, but she never could forget her first visit. Ludrasa was an odd case within the Nightborne, she had long been able to go in and out of Suramar during the ten thousand years that place had remained isolated in a bubble. Her methods had been peculiar, for sure, as most Nightborne believed the world had perished outside of the protective barrier that surrounded their city. Though she was not old enough to remember the world before the Sundering, not by a long shot, her grandparents were. Stories had been told by the elders in her home about the days leading up to the downfall of the Kaldorei Empire, stories that made her deeply curious about what was beyond the veil. Adventurous to a fault, she began to explore the sewers and tunnels below Suramar, and commonly got in trouble with the Duskwatch patrollers in the underside of their world. In time, she found a way out. Freedom through a sewer tunnel, where Ludrasa fled into the world at large. Perhaps she suffered early mana-issues just as any exiled Nightborne would, but there were always ways to break such issues. Would she ever share her secret? Probably not, but it was the way she reached the rest of the world.

Wanderlust carried her to Kalimdor eventually, where she found a young Orgrimmar welcoming an odd race of elves that she’d never seen before. With the trademark illusions of home, she disguised herself as one of these “Sin’dorei” and immediately got to work. Her explorations of the Arcway and odd jobs she did to keep her family afloat had made her into a decent mercenary and a great tracker, something that she noticed Orgrimmar needed a lot of. They came to know her as the “Violet Panther”, a name that got the notice of the Demon’s Gut. Faust was a creature she’d never seen before, and though she hid her surprise well, she didn’t hide it well enough from the proprietor of the Gut. With the exotic smells and strange feeling of the entire establishment, she at least hoped that Faust would take her mild surprise as a reaction to his market, not just to him. She’d learn in time that Faust missed no detail, as he asked her what was behind the illusion she wore.

Faust was the first man to learn of the Nightborne of Suramar, and he kept that between them until it was safe for her to finally break the illusion. Faust owed quite a lot to her and she owed a lot to him, which meant they were practically invaluable to each other. This day was no exception. The human took her and Ora-Ur to the back of the Gut, regaling Ora with a few stories of the “good ol’ days”, “So, here Viola was, barely holding up her illusion as the summoner threw another crawler from the rift. In a fit of brilliance, I uncorked that bottle of mischievous slime and thrust it between her and the beastie, and the slime grew into the form of a young woman! Can you believe that? In the confusion, the critter struck the slime, and it gave Viola a single second to put a bullet between that dastard’s eyes.”

“A slimegirl, now? The last time you told this you said the slime turned into a shirtless version of you and stunned the creature with your ‘rippling majesty’.” Ludra rolled her eye as she heard Faust choke on his words, the man struggled to retort.

“Ah-heh… hah… Right… UH.” He cleared his throat, “What she means to say is that I might embellish a few features. I’m a natural storyteller, what can I say?”

“The only accurate detail in this is that that summoner was a real pain to take down. The rest is a complete lie, including the detail that he was even there.” She looked over at her boss, “He never takes a job unless it’s to a warehouse or with an army of bodyguards.”

“I see.” Ora-Ur shook her head, her pace slowed as they approached the back of the Gut. She now walked in pace with Ludrasa instead of Faust, “It’s not kind to lie to someone you just met.”

“I said the same thing to our mutual friend, Miss Ur. Sure that may have been a decade ago, but who’s keeping track?” He stepped through some curtains, his bedazzled hand waving to them after he entered that room.

Ora eyed Ludrasa with some suspicion, “What does he mean by that?”

“In my line of work, it’s safer to lie about some things before the time is right. Consider this a lesson, eh? Keep your cards until the most effective time to play them hits. That goes for any piece of information you have.” Ludrasa took Ora’s hand, “Now, c’mon.”

Ora flushed red as the elf took her hand, but luckily, she was in Ludrasa’s formidable blindspot. The Gut’s rear end was filled with quite a few rooms, each of them with a different way leading in. A strong steel door, a rather rustic wooden door, a curtain, and then just a bare entrance. Though this meant something to the other Gut-goers, Ora-Ur had no idea what the differences meant until they finally passed through all the curtains leading in. The cloth was heavy and almost held Ora back, a rune on Ludrasa’s hand providing a bit of a barrier for the both of them as they walked through the heavy fabric. When she felt the buzz of arcane in the stone and air, Ora recognized what the cloth was for. They served as heavy magic dampeners as well as collectors, meant to hide the presence of portals in this place as well as to prevent an explosion from damaging too much of the Gut and the surrounding area.

“Welcome to the Bowels!” Ludrasa released Ora’s hand, a gesture thrown to the rest of the fairly large chamber.

“Lady! C’mon, why must you do this to me?!” An unfamiliar voice rang out from above, “It’s the Sanctum! The Sanctum!”

A figure clambered down a set of ladders, a figure that was hard to make out in the fairly dim light of the ‘Sanctum’. A huff marked his landing, as a strange elf strode out from the dim shadows. Pale blue skin, strange lavender eyes, and off putting and almost slimy purple hair revealed that he was not in the least a normal sort, though Ora at least recognized him as a Sin’dorei. Ludra, now being called another nickname, chuckled, “Oh come on, Valentine. It’s not a big deal what I call your stinkin’ portal room.”

“It is not stinky, Lady. I take great care of my portals and this room, and you’d better start respecting that. If you don’t, I just might consider revoking your access!” He stamped his foot, a foot that Ora saw was covered in a very expensive looking boot.

Faust shouted from further in, “Is Valentine complaining about your foul language again? I swear by my lower back pain…”

“Duh!” Ludrasa yelled back, “Find the right portal, yeh?”

“Here I thought you’d finally cleaned up your language! I’ve not heard a single curse from you this entire visit!” Faust looked over, past the portals, “If you promise to stop insulting Valentine’s very pretty and not pretentious portal room, I’ll tell you which portal you want!”

“Fiiiiiine…” She huffed, “I’m sowwy Mr. Excellency. I w-won’t ever say anythin’ bad about your stinkin’ portal room again.”

Valentine rubbed his brow, “You know, if I were not still an exiled Lord of Silvermoon, I would have had you fined for your boorish behavior. Alas, we cannot all be saints, and your skill keeps money flowing through the gut. I will let this slight slide, FOR NOW.”

“Thanks, Vally. Seeya on the flip.” Ludra beckons for Ora to follow her, a devilish smile on her face.

“Exiled Lord of Silvermoon?” Ora pondered audibly, “That would make him a traitor to the Horde, wouldn’t it?”

“The Gut doesn’t exactly care about the exact loyalties of its customers. We’re not political types, you feel me?” Ludrasa stopped as she reached Faust, who pointed down at a rune on the ground.

“Viola is right, Ora-Ur. We do not exactly have the money or patience to care about political agendas in the Demon’s Gut. After all, if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep the land clear of monsters… Or keep a promise I made.” Faust shrugged, “Anyways, if we did become political, I’d be dead within weeks. Either a rival would finally take me out, or the Horde would kill me. Sure, I promised Thrall I’d fight horrors that the Horde didn’t have time to deal with. I promised him I’d do my best to keep the streets clean of monsters, and I’ve kept up my bargain.”

“Thrall is the reason you’re here? I suppose that makes sense, all things considered.” Ora put her only hand on her hip, “I can’t imagine any other leader of the Horde would agree to a human running a business in their city.”

“Maybe Sylvanas would’ve, considering her agreement with the Fogsail pirates… No chances, though. My agenda is simple. I pay people to kill monsters, bring me back their bodies, and find magical items. In exchange, I create stronger weapons and find more work for them, so that one day we might finally take care of all things that go bump in the dark.” He rubbed his hands together, a small spark appearing in the rune on the floor, “It’s a noble goal, albeit an impossible goal. It’s like any police or any peace corps. They fight to stop crime or war, but we’re all aware that these things can’t stop happening. We can just hope to make them rare.” A strong stomp of his boot kicked some dust into the air, a stable gateway forming from the arcane and the dust, “And getting myself involved with the politics of this world won’t do me any good. Hopefully you understand.”

Ora tightened her fist, it being lifted up in solidarity for Faust, “ I get it, human. This world’s politics do no good for anyone, especially people like us. People who don’t fit in the mold.”

“Good, then. I hope this means you’ll be a return customer and employee, Miss Ur.” He stood to the side, a gesture tossed the way of the gateway, “First, of course, that means you’ve gotta make it back from this trip in one piece. Considering what I read, you’ll have to do a bit of work to manage that.”

Ludrasa stepped forward first with her rifle drawn, “Sure you wanna come, Ora?”

The orc looked at the gate, the pain in her stump still felt. With a sigh she remarked, “Oh, why not. I’ve got a few things to work out.”

She took Ludrasa’s hand nonetheless, her hand felt nice in these rather difficult times. Ora had come very far in her journey. There was chaos in this trip and there was great pain in it as well; Ora found that those things can be negated by stability. Ludrasa was the stability she needed, even if the elf was her own eccentric bundle of odd character traits that didn’t seem to particularly fit. A social butterfly who preferred to work alone, who loved neatness and tidiness but found herself typically messy and chaotic, and enjoyed the thrill of the wilds in spite of her Highborne heritage. She reminded her more of the stories of the Kaldorei, rather than the shal’dorei. But perhaps that was the oddity of the Horde, they built themselves on the basis of being so different from the Alliance that it’d be impossible to work together, yet Ora-Ur could see the deep similarities within each group. The divide appeared to be nothing more than an excuse to her, but she didn’t make the rules in this world. She was still unfamiliar with many things about Azeroth, but her unfamiliarity with it all had begun to dim. To take that portal, however, was to accidentally thrust herself in an unfamiliar place.

Azeroth was still an alien world to Ora-Ur, so to stand in a new location unlike the others she had traveled, it might have well been like traveling to another world. This Stonetalon felt like it was going to be more recognizable than it was, but as they passed through the gateway, Ora could only feel like she was lost. The sky was black, the ground was dead, and there were ruins scattered through the wasteland. Her bare feet could feel ash as she tread from the portal’s landing area, her nose picked up the scent of destruction in the wind. She lifted her hand into the air to feel the elemental energy of the region. This was to no avail, as the wind was distant and quiet even though it still pushed through the sky. It was more a labored gasp than the breath of the wilds. This land was sick. And it suddenly became all too familiar to Ora-Ur as she looked back to Ludrasa, who was passively observing the location. She walked up to her companion, “Did you have any idea what this would be like?”

“I had heard rumors of the conflict over here. It was usually muddied thanks to the reports of Darkshore and the skirmishes in Ashenvale, but Stonetalon’s been sick for a while. The Horde and Alliance fought pretty hard over these lands a few years back, during a time when the world was dying due to an elemental upheaval. I don’t know too many details of the fight, beyond the fact that they nearly killed these mountains.” She lifted her rifle to her cheek, her eye looked through a scope, “Stonetalon was a vibrant place, but the factions and the Cataclysm damn near killed it. Seems like nobody came back to heal these mountains, and the whole war that’s still goin’ on didn’t do it any favors.”

“But the Sun, it does not shine. The spirits are distant, fearful.” Ora bent down and took some ash from the ground, “And why is there ash? Why does this place feel like a graveyard, Ludrasa?!”

“Didn’t you hear? The Horde tried to kill hope.” She lowered her rifle, her eye now trained on Ora’s, “Fought the Legion, Sargeras stuck Azeroth like a pig. Her blood started to flow, and it caused an arms race. Arms race that turned bloody when Sylvanas came to the home of the night elves and burned it all down.”

“No…” Ora stood back, aghast.

The nightborne pointed in the direction of the wind, “The wind has been blowing from that direction shy of a year now. The Horde willingly marched on the ancient homes of relatively peaceful people, scorchin’ nature’s bounty and tossing any hope of lastin’ peace into a bonfire the size of a mountain. That bonfire was named Teldrassil.”

“Teldrassil burned?” Ora-Ur shook her head, “Now I get the meaning of the group I worked alongside. Ashbound… Bound by the ashes of the tree they burned.”

“Shocker. There’s another reason why I don’t work too close with the Horde. It disgusts me.” Ludrasa put a hand on Ora’s shoulder, “They say they want peace. They say they wanna survive. But they keep doin’ crap like this. They kill, they destroy, and they allow monsters like Sylvanas to rule ‘em. So many of ‘em stand back and say ‘We were forced!’ but… What sense does that make? If ya’ll want me to believe that ya’ll wanna live honorably and peaceably, maybe your next step is to end the Horde… ‘cuz it clearly ain’t workin’.” The nightborne spat into the ash, “Hell, I don’t know why my people chose to side with the Horde. Guess I never did like the majority of my kinfolk, but they’re my kin, y’know? But we traded one tyrant for another, and decided to repeat the tradition of Azshara. Just burn the things that disagree with you, ‘cuz you don’t care about anythin’ but yourself.”

Ora was at a loss for words. Ever since she came to Azeroth she had been kept far away from the conflict in Darkshore, never exactly learning what the war over there was for. Perhaps she had grown too comfortable in thinking she had Azeroth figured out, that she had begun to understand the conflict between the Alliance and Horde. It felt like the Alliance was a big powerhouse that was trying to get the Horde to capitulate to their demands, and the Horde was a scrappy underdog that had to fight hard to survive. An underdog that got other powers to feel pity, to join its side in its fight. But clearly now, that was not true. At least, not entirely. Perhaps the Alliance still sought the Horde’s end, but it wasn’t for unjustifiable reasons. The Horde had done great evils before, and Ora believed that Thrall had lead them away from the path of Gul’dan. But in this revelation, with the knowledge of the Horde’s other transgressions, she could see the shadow of Gul’dan still cast over the Horde. Thrall nearly succeeded in leading the Horde away, but in the end, there was no use. Gul’dan created a cycle. An inevitable cycle of hatred.

“Ora?” Ludra lightly slapped the side of her face, “You in there?”

The orc was knocked out of her deep thoughts, her eyes fluttered as she realized she had drifted off, “My apologies… The burning of Teldrassil forced me to reconsider what I’m doing.”

“Too little too late, Ora-Ur. You’re with the Horde now, and your only hopes are to save it from itself. See, I’m not a political type, so I can’t really do much about the Horde’s trajectory. I doubt I could do much even if I did get too involved. There’s a purpose in my work more than money and the thrill of it, you feel me? I kill these monsters so people might be spared from ‘em. A little justice in the world can’t hurt, can it?” Ludrasa’s typically sardonic smirks were replaced by a rather resolute smile this time.

“I’ve had you pinned all wrong.” Ora laughed, “I thought you to be a mercenary out for just the money… But you’ve got a code after all.”

“I’m touched, Ora. Hearin’ that from an innocent soul like yours does mean a lot in- “ She’d be cut off.

“In your line of work.” Ora interjected, “Just say thanks.”

“Thanks.” She snorted, “Hate sayin’ thanks, but it unironically fits here. Let’s cut this sappy crap off, though. Got a job to finish, remember?”

“Right, my bad.” Ora gave an uncertain look to the horizon, “Though I don’t know how deep I want to go in this one.”

“Land gives me the heebies too. Best to not think much about it.” Ludrasa looked to the map on the back of their contract, “Says we don’t have much of a walk to reach Ko’hea’s camp, but by now I have a feelin’ they’ve relocated. Gut feelin’. We best find their camp and follow their tracks, find ‘em before night hits. Light’s limited as is with all the black clouds in the sky, I ain’t gonna trust the landscape when it’s impossible to see more than five feet in front of you.”

By the time they left the gateway, it was midday. Perhaps it was enough time to track Ko’hea down, but Ora’s hopes weren’t too high. With the amount of ruins littering the landscape, she did have hopes that they’d at least be able to find cover when night fell. It was strange walking through a land that so deeply reminded her of places she’d been before. The familiarity she felt to this land was due to Shadowmoon Valley, a desolate place filled with ruins of an old war. The sky was dark in that place just as it was dark here, the roads empty and barren, the lands crawling with the scars of conflicts long since finished. The land was a land of resentment and pain, a land which was hostile to those that came to it. A land that did not wish to be bothered by the mortals that had made it so sick. Along the road they walked, Ora-Ur felt the echoes of what Stonetalon had once been. It had been a holy place once. She felt the old blessings of the elements echo through the land, the power of wild spirits atop its peaks. There was a nostalgic feeling of prayer and peace that thrummed beneath the surface of the pain of the Mountains. The land yearned to go back to when it was whole, when it was a land of purpose. When two peoples who now are hated enemies were once great friends, once peacefully coexisting. Shadowmoon knew this feeling, though perhaps its feeling was much deeper than the one Stonetalon felt now. There was a chance for Stonetalon to heal.

Ora wondered if she’d get the chance to heal this sickly land, and if Ludrasa would join her on that mission. Perhaps their journey now was to heal Stonetalon, and the Winds of Fate just had yet to make that clear. Deep within Ora-Ur’s heart she felt that there was a chance. Down the road they went, the trail being watched by both mercenaries carefully. The gutted corpses of new and old war machines littered their pathway, with mechs and steam tanks both shattered in disrepair. Glaives stuck out of stone and wooden walls, the fragments of Horde camps and the blown out husks of Kaldorei buildings found every once and a while along the road. There was much less ruined Horde machinery and buildings, Ora felt, but perhaps it was just thanks to the section of the land they walked in. Elsewhere could tell a different story, that it was a much more even battlefield. That was until they passed by a deep crater, a crater that Ludrasa tried her best to not look at. The spirits in the air were forlorn, the crater holding such negative feelings that it made Ora stop dead in her tracks.

Her breathing grew heavy, her heart sinking. Her close connection to the spiritual aspect of shamanism told her all she needed to know, Ora sunk to her knees as she looked into the depths of the crater. The depths of hatred and conquest stood right before her, “…So many innocents lost.”

“The Horde hasn’t been on good behavior for a long time, Ora.” Ludrasa knelt down next to her, “I-I… I don’t know what to tell you. That the Horde came to Stonetalon for resources? That’s what they tried to spin it as, I guess. No, what they came for was murder. The Alliance and Horde weren’t at war, but Garrosh marched on this place anyways. He killed a holy peace that had lasted for a long time, a sanctity that gave both tauren and kaldorei comfort. This crater is a testament to that.”

“What stood here?” Ora did not look up from the crater.

“… Do you really want to know?” The tone in her voice told Ora that it was probably better that she didn’t know.

“…I don’t.” Ora took a deep breath, “I don’t think I do.”

“Then I don’t think I’ll tell you. C’mon, stand up. We can’t stop at each atrocity committed, now, can we?” She laughed, albeit a bit nervously, “…Right… Eh, ok. Their camp should be just over this hill.”

Ora felt an odd presence just over the hill, but she had been feeling an odd presence the entire time they were here. Stonetalon clearly didn’t have a friendly energy to it, but the feeling she got from the presence past the hill almost felt too familiar. Not the same familiarity of Shadowmoon, but the familiarity of something she’d seen on Azeroth. Ludrasa ran up the hill, only to stop dead in her tracks as she glared down the hill. She waved for Ora to join her, “Damnit. Who knew we’d find the Alliance all the way out here?”

Two humans were studying the remains of the camp, but the odd presence Ora felt was condensed in them. No, only in one of them. There stood a man in mottled green armor, a bow and daggers being his obvious weaponry. He dwarfed the human next to him, but she seemed to hold far more power than him. Her armor was black and red, styled in such a way that it made her appear draconic. Her cloak was great and expensive, and the silver blade in her hand shined with an uncanny glow. Ora didn’t realize that she was being stared at by the woman until she caught her eyes, an intense golden glare now piercing her soul. At first the human bristled, but she observed Ora for just a moment.

She sheathed her blade, “The hell?! Ora-Ur!?”

Who knew that they’d meet Sint Dagon, once again, in a place like this?

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

This’ll probably be my last post here for a while, or ever. I’ve moved on.

Thanks for reading! I have no plans to finish another chapter for this, because it’s original intent was to see if I could successfully write a long scale story. I’m satisfied with the results. Whether or not you are, I apologize.

If you do want to know the conclusion, find me on Discord. Hit me up at Sint!?!?!?!#3073 .

This signals the end of my time in Warcraft, and boy… it feels good to be done.

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

Past Sint is a liar.

Chapter 11: Black and Red

Twin blades were quick to nearly cause trouble, as Aranor was a man of duty. His duty? To kill Horde. And right in front of him? Horde. Luckily, there was someone here who knew better.

“Stand down, Aranor.” Sint put her hand on the man’s chest. He wanted to protest, but he chose not to after he saw the look in Sint’s eyes. Why did it not surprise him to know that Sint was familiar with an orc? His eyes widened as he saw a pair of purple ears poke up from behind the hill, a Nightborne followed the orc closely.

He huffed, “You’re familiar with these Horde?”

“Their loyalty to the Horde isn’t something I worry about.” Sint approached the nightborne and orc with her sword low, her stance not friendly yet not hostile. With a perfect accent, her tones shifted from common to orcish, “When I came out here, I was expecting fewer mementos of my amnesiac days, but here you two are.”

The Nightborne scowled, “I was expectin’ the coincidences to stop by the time we got here. First I meet Ora on the road, then I meet this weird information broker, then he gets us a job, turns out the job takes us here because of Ko’hea, and now you’re here. The Hell’re you doin’ here?”

Aranor walked up, cautious. He squinted at Sint, “Who are they?” He still spoke in common, in hopes these two didn’t speak a lick of it.

Much to his dismay, the relatively fearsome looking Nightborne smirked at him, her common just as good as his, “You could’ve asked us directly. I’m Ludrasa Shieza, Violet Panther of Suramar. I’m sure you’ve heard of me if you’ve been out here long enough.” The mag’har looked hopelessly lost, “And this is my companion, Ora-Ur.” She shifted into orcish, “Say hi, Ora.”

“Hello!” Ora-Ur bowed politely, her long braid of hair being marked out by Aranor as a weak point. Just in case. This Ranger trusted orcs as far as he could throw them. None of them caught him staring.

The Ranger chose to speak in orcish for the sake of breaking the language barrier, as minor as it was. If he was to keep a low profile in his disdain for Sint’s allies, he figured it was better to keep the animosity internal, “Aranor, Son of Roy. Ranger of Stromgarde.” He looked equally at them both, “Can’t say I was expecting to use a language I learned just to beat my enemy to speak to potential friends, but… My expectations for how things should go radically changed when I bumped into our mutual friend here. Speaking of, amnesiac days?” He gave a baffled glance to Sint, “What?”

“Long story, ranger. Let’s just say I spent a few months as another person because a Dark God cursed my brain.” She saw that the answer left Aranor in a state of even deeper confusion, “It’s still confusing for me, trust me. There’s still some things I don’t know about that entire situation, but part of me is lucky that I don’t.”

“Yeah. Warrior isn’t exactly what I’d call a uh… role model.” Ludrasa scratched the back of her head, “She was a bit nuts, if you catch my meanin’.”

Aranor looked between them, “Ok, right… It’s not important. What’s important to me is what two Horde are doing out here? It’s not exactly a place I’d want to be as an orc, with all the night elves in the hills.”

Ludrasa deadpanned, “Didn’t think about that, if Imma be real with ya’. I’ve kinda been runnin’ off the belief that everybody vacated the area until I was told about Ko’hea’s people bein’ out here.”

“Ko’hea?” Sint shook her head, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Guess you weren’t wantin’ to hear that.” The Nightborne procured the contract she’d basically shown everyone at this point, “That means you weren’t lookin’ for her. Y’know that you’re standin’ on the remains of her camp?”

“I did not, no. You see, I’m here for a pretty important reason. A vital mission.” Sint stuck her sword into the dirt, both her hands now placed atop the blade’s pommel, “An old enemy of mine has resurfaced and has been murdering the remnants of humanity in the West. Like a shadowy pathogen he has washed over the land, obliterating these disparate communities.” She looked back to Aranor, “I was lucky to meet him the moment I arrived in the West. Thanks to what we’ve seen, we’ve deduced that the Horde is not to blame for this senseless slaughter.”

“That’s a first.” Ora grumbled.

Aranor’s opinion drastically increased about Ora-Ur immediately, “Aye. Beyond scaring the hell out of me and kicking my teeth in, Sint gave me confirmation that it wasn’t a pointless quest. See, the people I work with have been keepin’ track of these forgotten children of the East, mostly because they provide decent trade partners and are practically our only friends out here. Part of me was scared that Sylvanas finally spotted our refuges, or that she gave up on trying to make this war look like a real war and not an excuse to get her mass murder quota up. No, it’s not her. I don’t know if I’m happy about that, though.”

“Why not?” Ora-Ur crossed her arms, the young orc’s countenance was one that seemed just as bitter as Aranor’s, “I’m happy for you that you don’t have to bother with the madness that is the Horde.”

“I wanted a shot to take her out, if it was her.” He sighed, “But it isn’t. And it’s something possibly worse.” He looked at Sint, “But only she can really say if it is worse.”

Sint was silent for a moment, her eyes looked beyond them all, off into the darkened sky of Stonetalon. She was in some thought, for she wanted to consider all that she knew of both monsters before she gave an earnest answer. She had fought Sylvanas and Blackfist both in the past, though she truly only faced against the Banshee’s forces and edicts, not the Queen herself. She only clashed blades with Windrunner once, and that Sylvanas was a doppelganger crafted by the same Dark God that cursed her memory. Sylvanas was a cruel egomaniac that cared little for anything but her own personal gain, using and abusing each close ally to achieve more strength in death and darkness. She had caused untold ruin to already broken lands, the blood of thousands of refugees and innocents trying to flee war and devastation staining her soul. There seemed to be little rational thought behind her motivations. To Sylvanas, everything was just a stepping stone to kill more, to brutalize more. She spat on anything good and righteous, and it would be her eventual downfall. Her brilliance was wasted on someone as demented as she.

But Blackfist? Sint wasn’t certain if she could consider him Sylvanas’ tactical equal, but the orc’s power certainly outclassed Sylvanas in every form. Blackfist was the epitome of everything Gul’Dan and the Dark Horde achieved, even going so far to reach the realm of the Black Dragon allies the Horde had years before. He was a master death knight, a master warlock, a dark shaman, and a twisted fleshcrafter in one debased package. He had no qualms with allying with all things dark, his vendetta not one to keep himself as the strongest being. His vendetta was against the Light itself. At first he appeared to be only a lackey of the Banshee Queen, when they met years ago. The Black Legion was one of Sylvanas’ personal armies, after all. For him to be her simple goon would make too much sense. Alas, it was not so simple to have him be a sycophant of the Banshee. No, he was his own beast. His goals merely aligned with her’s for the time being, though now it seemed that they had finally diverged. In their greatest and last battle in Northern Lordaeron, Sint was finally able to learn Blackfist’s true vendetta. It was against the Light itself, for he believed it directly caused the downfall of his mentor and the Horde he loved. The Light spat out a defective Horde that came so close to being great, but continued to fail due to its influence.

Blackfist’s willingness to ally himself to the enemies of the Light made him something horrifying. It put him in the same class as the Burning Legion or the Void, he was an existential threat. Though Sylvanas was a great orchestrator and had caused so much suffering, Blackfist’s potential ruination had just begun. Sint spoke simply, “Blackfist.”

“By Elisande’s- I mean… Oh dear! What could that mean? You actually think your guy is worse than the harlot who caused this war to happen? The same Sylvanas who took Gilneas from you?” Ludrasa was concerned, to say the least, “Comin’ from anyone else, I’d laugh in their face. But from you?”

“What’s a Gilneas?” Ora-Ur piped up, “I’ve no notion on what that is.”

“Another atrocity on the laundry list of horrors the Horde’s committed. Gilneas was neutral, kept out of everyone’s problems. Physically built a massive wall to keep everyone out. Didn’t matter. Cataclysm hit, brought Sylvanas in. She wanted more Forsaken, more land. Instead of leaving the living alone, she chose to kill and conquer.” Aranor’s grip on his bow tightened, “If it wasn’t clear from her cleanin’ out the refugees of Lordaeron and raising them as abominations and ghouls, I’d’ve thought her misdeeds at Gilneas would’ve finally gotten the Alliance to wipe her out.”

Ora looked down, “But she lived long enough to cause this war. It sounds like both the Alliance and Horde have a lot of things to answer for, doesn’t it?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth, orc.” The Ranger moved past the others, even to the point of pushing Ludrasa out of the way, “But enough talk. I thought this camp might’ve belonged to the Blackened, but if it was just your contact’s camp, then we’ve both got problems. Your contact decided to camp right in front of the Land of the Goddess, the territory the Silver Battalion cut out for themselves. I imagine the Battalion’s been watching them for a while, but if they’ve moved out in so much haste that they’ve left all this behind, I have a feeling your contact is about to get riddled by quite a few arrows.”

“Really? Ah, damnit. Can you help out with that, then?” A rifle was lifted, Ludrasa glanced towards the direction the valley led to, “After all, I can’t exactly convince angry kaldorei to stand down. I’m not what you’d call a friendly face to them.”

“If it earns your cooperation in taking down the Black Legion, then I will help you.” Sint pulled her sword from the ground, “I cannot waste time on the membership of the Horde if they are unwilling to stop the darkness in their own lands.”

“Hold on, what if it ain’t the Silver Battalion?” Ludrasa nervously laughed, “It could be the Black Legion already, and we won’t need you after all.”

“I don’t see how that changes anything, Ludrasa.” Almost on queue, both Ludrasa and Sint’s expressions changed. Ludrasa’s smile grew wider, Sint’s face turned into a frown, “Unless that means you’d be willing to run away the moment you’re sure that your people aren’t in danger from the Alliance. I’ll let you know, Miss Sheiza, that if you run from this place- I will find you afterwards. Don’t forget that you told me how to find you. And even if you didn’t…”

Ludrasa’s wide grin broke with that, “OK! OK! You’ve got our help. Thought you might’ve been one of the nicer Alliance types, you know… Like Warrior was. Though Warrior was a bit of a wackjob, she was kind. Had kinder eyes.”

“Warrior is not who I am. Whatever you know from that version of me is something you must relearn, for I do not let things go so easily.” She lifted her sword, its tip pointed at the elf’s throat, “You took that contract. You feel the darkness in this place. You will not flee until this is finished. Even then, if the battle is over, I don’t think I’d allow you to go scurry off and hide underneath a rock. Your knowledge of this conflict is much too great just to let you exist as a mercenary. Your talents, your merits, they’re wasted on such a trivial trade.”

“Didn’t ask you to lecture me, Sint Dagon. Last I checked, you have no room to talk. You’ve been runnin’ from your shadow ever since you were thrown into this conflict, kickin’ and screamin’.” The elf pointed her gun at Sint’s head, “Put down the sword.”

“Make me, Panther.” Sint’s eyes almost felt like they were burning through Ludrasa’s skull, the elf’s stance weakened as the confrontation continued onward. It was true that Ludrasa and Ora-Ur had known the true Sint for a small amount of time, as they had only known the amnesiac Sint named ‘Warrior’ up to the point of her regaining her memories. Though unhinged, Warrior possessed a warmth to her that was not matched by Sint. Warrior had spirit, had spunk. She was a wild soul, untamed by the conflict around her. She rushed forward into the future with little concern for what came before her, her enthusiasm to fight and face new challenges was infectious. That vibrant spirit was matched only by her own peculiar kindness, as she seemed to truly care about those who risked themselves for her. She lived in a confusing world, her life as confused as that very world. But she didn’t let it hold her down.

But Sint? Sint wasn’t the complete opposite of Warrior, but it was clear that Sint suppressed the aspects of Warrior that Ludrasa found endearing. Commander Dagon was colder, her emotions kept to herself. She was guarded. She was troubled. There were secrets in Sint’s eyes, as there were things she wasn’t willing to share with anyone, not to mention people she barely even knew. It was no secret that Sint considered Ludrasa and Ora as near complete strangers, as Ludrasa could only imagine how strange the memories of Warrior were to her. She lived another life, albeit for a short time, a life not influenced by the life that came before. Whether or not Sint was influenced by Warrior was another conversation entirely, something Ludrasa couldn’t say yes or no to. She didn’t know Sint before she was Warrior, she hardly knew Sint as Sint. Whoever Sint Dagon was, she was not someone to be trifled with. She was much too serious for that, at the very least. Ludrasa lowered her rifle, “Right… Enough of that. Guess we’d better catch up to Ko’hea before things get more out of pocket.”

Aranor looked at both Ludrasa and Sint, the ranger decided to stand back a bit. He looked at Ora who was not too pleased that a human pointed a sword at her companion, “…Am I the only one who’s feeling weird after watching that?”

“No, Aranor.” Ora looked at him, “But I don’t think you feel the same way as I do.”

“Right, I’m turned on. You’re probably horrified.” He clapped her on the shoulder, “You’ll get used to it. The stories I’ve heard about her all end up about the same. The people she meets eventually rally to her banner…”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re real excited to erect her banner.” Ora rolled her eyes, leaving Aranor behind to get Sint to lower her sword. The orc tapped on the blade, “Think you’ve made your point, Commander Dagon.”

“Good.” Sint removed Rebellion from Ludrasa’s neck, “I’m glad we’re all on the same page.” Without another word, she walked forward, the warrior beckoned for the rest to follow her. Wordlessly, they did. There was no point in arguing with her at the moment, for Sint mind appeared to be set on a plan of action. She was capable of tracking Ko’hea on her own, so their input was relatively unnecessary until they reached the Warguard’s location. Of course, this gave time for Ora-Ur to grumble, Ludrasa to anxiously watch Sint’s movements, and for Aranor to get over himself. Of course, he didn’t, eventually causing him to walk up to Sint.

The ranger spoke, “I don’t believe it’d be us, Sint.”

“What?” She glanced over.

“I don’t think whoever chased off their troll is the Battalion. The Battalion wouldn’t want to chance the Horde knowing where their camp is, and well… “ The ranger leaned in closer, “We’re walking straight for the Battalion encampment. If we keep going forward, we’ll hit the camp within minutes.”

Sint didn’t respond, instead; she looked over her shoulder. Eyes trained on Ludrasa, “Do you think your contact is foolhardy enough to rush a sentinel camp?”

“No. Ko’hea doesn’t like this war. For her to bumrush a guarded Alliance base, well… She’d need a damned good reason.” The elf sighed, rubbing the side of her face, “That or she was tricked to run headon into them, but she’s not that dumb…” She paused, looking at Ora, “Is she?”

“No. I can confirm that the WARGUARD isn’t an idiot.” There was quite an emphasis on Warguard, “It’s like you people have no faith in Ko’hea.”

“I don’t have any faith in anything, Ora-Ur.” Sint turned her attention back forward, “Neither should you.”

Was that a retort on the state of the Horde? Or was Sint just trying to get under her skin? For a moment, Ora-Ur felt as if the little warrior had managed it, to pierce her mostly well-made emotional wall. How did she manage it? Maybe it was because Ora knew the much kinder form of Sint, the amnesiac Warrior, that this state of her was so able to tear through her defences. That, or the human knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t trust Ora. She clearly didn’t like her. So, perhaps Sint was goading her to make a mistake. To prove her right.

It was incredibly sad, now that Ora-Ur had a moment to collect herself. She had naught a notion of why Sint was so different from Warrior, but she could tell that Sint was trying to push her away. Trying to not be the Warrior. There was no real way to tell, however, as Ora could see nothing in Sint’s expression. Her face was just as guarded as the rest of her, a steely barrier that defended her from the prying eyes of those she didn’t trust. Sint’s face betrayed nothing. And so, Ora gave up on finding Warrior in those intense gilded eyes. At least she would for now.

At last, an uncertain silence fell over the group. The ranger with no loyalty other than to violence. The contradictory mercenary of mixed allegiance. The shaman on a blind quest. And a juggernaut who struck fear into all. They were an odd bunch of conflicting personalities. Each of them had their own quest, a quest that just so happened to now line up with one another. One helluva coincidence, a coincidence that a few of them started to worry about.

Well, all of them but Sint. Aranor and Ludrasa could practically feel the ferocious rage boiling from Sint’s body as she led the march through Stonetalon. To the point that Aranor cast a few glances Ludrasa’s way (even Ora’s! Or at least the orc believed he looked her way.) as if to ask if Sint was alright. The ranger was right to be slightly concerned. Up to this point, he hadn’t particularly sensed ANY emotion on Sint. There were a few moments where he swore she was sad, but otherwise, nothing. She spoke flatly, her face never shifted, and she seemed to pursue everything with the same determination. This was different. Maybe it was because of the presence of Ora-Ur and Ludrasa? Aranor knew that Sint had a deep hatred of the Horde.

But it couldn’t be that simple, could it? These two (and their compatriot they were out to save) didn’t seem to be the biggest fans of the Horde. That, and they had some history. History that Aranor was completely lost on, due to his lack of understanding what that whole “Warrior” business was about, but history that he could easily tell was there. Sint knew these Horde, whether she liked it or not. And clearly, she didn’t like it. As Sint further peeled ahead, Aranor decided to satiate his curiosity.

His voice was low as he went to catch Ludrasa’s attention. “I’ve not seen her mad yet.”

“Me neither. Saw Warrior get pissed a few times.” Ludrasa was curt with the ranger.

“Apologies for her behavior, Ludrasa.” He grunts as he hops up over a broken step in the path, “But, I need to know why your presence has got her so worked up.”

“Kay. See, ranger, I don’t know Sint. Well. I do know her, just not much. I spent a few months with her when she had amnesia, but that girl was way different to her. Warrior had no secrets. Warrior had nothin’ to hide. Sure she liked stabbin’ things a little too much, but she reminded me of a little kid. Innocent. And easily angered. Had the damndest pout, Warrior.” Ludrasa cracked an uneven grin as she kept her gaze trained on Sint’s back. A grin that faded as quickly as it came.

“And Sint’s nothing like that. I admire her strength, her resilience, and all the deeds she’s done… but I can’t lie. She’s frustrating.” The ranger grimaced.

And the mercenary took her eye off of Sint, entirely shocked that Aranor said anything like he just did. She snorted, “What? Yer just now figurin’ that she’s awful?”

“She’s not awful! She’s just…” The ranger couldn’t find a better word.

Ludrasa clapped him on the shoulder, mirth still in her voice. “Don’t worry yerself, Aranor. I get yer admiration for her. Back to my story, though. See, one day, Warrior was gone. Last few days I spent with the Blades of Dagon, Warrior finally came back to her senses. A certain light got turned on when her wife called her name.” The elf kicked a pebble as they stopped before a broken bridge, watching Sint leap over the gap in the wood as if it were nothing. “And then, she didn’t say another word to me or Ora. Spoke real cautious-like with the Warguard we’re goin’ out to see. That childish energy wasn’t there anymore. That kindness. That warmth.”

“Mm. I see.” He felt himself frowning. “Do you believe she’s concerned you remember all that?”

“Nah. Doesn’t seem to be a Sint thing to worry about people rememberin’ her havin’ human emotion. I think what really bothers her is that she remembers us bein’ friends.” And the elf’s voice couldn’t have gotten more derisive, “And big scary War can’t have those.”

“Where’d that War garbage come from, anyhow?”

Now that was the question of the hour. What is the deal with the Shadow of War? Aranor’s brow creased as he thought. “I wouldn’t call it garbage, per say. But I… do agree that it’s a strange one.” It was right to bring up. As long as Aranor had known Sint (personally only for a week, maybe less), he had known her as the Shadow of War. Though he knew not exactly where the title came from, he knew exactly what it meant to those who called her that.

She was ruthless. Merciless, even. To some Horde generals that willingly served the Banshee Queen, she made them look like innocent children by comparison. It was not to say that Sint committed great crimes or atrocities, it is just that she seemed to have naught a single ounce of mercy in her body. She left no survivors. She took no prisoners. And it was not as if it were a moral dilemma, it was simply how she was. In all the stories he had heard, the reports he had seen, not once had Sint stopped to question her path. Never had she faltered. Then it hit him. The reason why she was so disturbed by the arrival of these Horde.

“You said Warrior was not like her. That Warrior was innocent. Warm…” He realized that there was not a kind way to put this as he paused to collect his words.

“And merciful.” Ludrasa finished his statement. Aranor glanced at her with surprise (and some suspicion that the elf could read minds), before he caught her looking at him with an amused expression. “It don’t take a genius to follow yer thoughts, ranger. Trust me, I’ve spent ‘nuff time ‘round humans to get where yer minds tend to go. Unhappy places. Extreme places. Ain’t much time fer subtlety in yer shorter lives.”

“Right, right. It just strikes me that perhaps she tried to push away her memories as Warrior? Memories that conflict with her… whole identity.” Aranor looked to Ludrasa, almost expecting her to have a witty retort. Instead, he found her with a thoughtful look on her face. She hadn’t considered this either, perhaps out of short-sightedness or a simple lack of concern. As they both now looked ahead to the furious Shadow of War, waiting for them on the other side of the broken bridge, they came to a near mutual understanding. Sint’s identity was not as airtight as they both previously thought. She wasn’t as resolute in her path as either believed.

It came as a relief to Ludrasa. But to Aranor? The ranger almost felt disappointed.

Ora-Ur passed them both, leaping over the gap with ease. A gust of wind propelled her to Sint’s side, as now both the human and the orc waited impatiently for their two companions. Ludrasa’s single eye flickered back to the waking world, her thoughtful trance broken with her partner’s leap. “Wake the hell up, Ranger. We’ve got a warguard to find and a monster to hunt.”

And Aranor complied, his thoughts derailing as he watched Ludrasa leap over the gap, catching onto the edge and getting helped up by Ora’s strong grip. He thought about making a similar jump, but he saw that Sint was no longer paying attention to the bridge. Whether it was simply because she cared little for the ranger, or she trusted him completely to be able to make the jump, it did not matter. What mattered is that Aranor had to make that leap. Unlike the other three present, he was a mundane human. Arcane, elements, brimming Holy fury… these things did not come to him. All that Aranor had was a bow and a pair of blades. In a world of mages and monsters, a mundane man could only rely on his mind to make his living. So he took some rope from his kit, wrapped it around a serrated arrow, and launched it into the wood. And luckily, the orc saw this. He didn’t expect an orc out of all people to secure his crude grapple, but she did without a second thought. Ora fastened it around a fairly solid stone, even stomping a few rocks from the ground to better ensure his line would hold his weight. With a few tugs, Aranor could feel that his line would hold. The question now is if it would hold his weight. This rope was not meant to carry his weight and the weight of all his equipment, but instead was a poorly made and cheap thing only meant to carry him out of a dire situation. Something about the orc’s eagerness to help took some concern from his mind, though.

If she could leap that gap, she probably could jump to save him if he fell. He wasn’t keen on being humiliated today, so he prayed to Elune and the Light both that his rope would hold. As he leapt, his grip tight on his grapple, he closed his eyes. The rope creaked, it complained, but it held. Then he felt his feet contact with the face of the cliff across the rift. He opened his eyes to see that he had made it and felt as if he was about to cry. Thanks to whatever listened to him in that moment, he was not willing to face death or salvation in an orc’s arms that day. He was not quite certain which would be worse. It was simple enough to climb the length of the rope, and he chose not to reflect on how frayed it looked when he pulled it from the stone. Ora gave him a respectful nod as he rejoined the group.

“Thank you, orc.” That wasn’t something he ever expected to say.

A sheepish expression crossed her face. “I-It was nothing. You would’ve done the same.”

He chose not to tell her that he would’ve probably let her fall. He also chose to think about this later, that maybe he was a bad person for immediately thinking she should fall to her death for being an orc. It made him feel guilty, as she hadn’t done the same for him. “Mm. Y-yeah.” That elicited a quick glare from Ludrasa, as her elvish hearing made it so she could hear them from her vantage point. As long as it had taken him to get to where they were, Sint had stopped the group. Though he could not tell why just yet, he knew it was for good reason. Ludrasa didn’t look too happy, and Sint was alert. Heat still poured from Sint.

Ora and Aranor both walked to stand by Sint as she focused down the road. Lo and behold, they had followed the right trail. A few bodies and clearly Darnassian arrows were littered through the area. “Darnassian arrows, no kaldorei casualties. Seems to be a mix of Horde and Black Legion deceased. The Warguard was chased out by the Black Legion?” Sint’s voice was purely tactical.

“It would seem that way, yeah.” Ludrasa hopped from her vantage point atop a small fencepost. “What I can’t see is where the damn Black Mooners came from. Ticks me off that those demons still can do this to me.”

“Do what?” Aranor needled her. “Can you not track night elves?”

“Not since they picked up the power of the Night Warrior. Thanks fer poking a sore spot!” She snarled out, “Makes me feel bad enough that I can’t track ‘em, but now I’ve got a human jabbin’ at me ‘cuz of it.”

“Awh. Don’t feel bad. I can’t track them either.” Aranor smirked, looking to Sint. “Betcha she can’t ei-”

“I found the sentinel’s trail. I want Ludrasa to come with me. Aranor, Ora, you keep on the trail of the Horde.” Sint’s voice quickly broke Aranor out of his mirth.

“…’course she can…” He grumbled under his breath. The fact Ludrasa began to giggle like an idiot told him that she heard that. Instead of further dwelling on the fact that had been, yet again, shown up by Sint “Shadow of Awful” Dagon, Aranor clapped Ora on the shoulder. “Welp! We’re buddies. Keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious.”

“I have a feeling that we’re not going to need to look too hard.” The orc flinched at the feeling of Aranor’s hand on her shoulder, her previously rich voice turning cold. Aranor wondered for a moment if he did anything wrong before following Ora’s eyes, realizing that she was looking dead ahead.

Ludrasa looked down at both of their expressions, deciding quickly that it was probably for the best that she followed Sint’s lead and left them to whatever it was they were looking at. She also had questions for the little Shadow of War, questions that mostly related to her injured pride. Through some questionable underbrush and under a few trees, she found Sint waiting for her. “Okay, okay, so… How the hell?”

“What do you mean?” Sint’s voice was still decently flat, but Ludrasa swore she saw the corners of the woman’s lips upturning. Just slightly, just for a moment, but she knew that Sint was amused.

“I mean, how the hell do you track literal shadow warriors!? They’re melded with the Night, lady… like…” The elf threw her hands up, lost for words.

“It’s rather simple. You can’t.”

“WHAT?! THEN HOW?!”

“They wanted us to follow them. They never leave a trace, otherwise.”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL F-”

---

Warguard Ko’hea the Vigilant was a simple troll. She fought for her Queen and she tried to spare as many lives as she could. She was strong, after all. Strength allowed her to be merciful.

Perhaps she was not as simple as she liked to think herself as, as she drove her sword through the body of a horrible monstrosity. It was to be a simple mission, so her Queen told her, the Horde hadn’t the ability to handle the instability within their own lands. As a symbol of their continued alliance, Talanji sent her own to clean up the Horde’s mess. All Thrall had said about their issue is that something dark had risen within the confines of the battlefield in Stonetalon, something that he was uncertain he could commit Horde soldiers to in the face of the very violent regime shift from Warchief Sylvanas to the Horde Council. It was a fair enough concern, albeit a rather amusing one to the Zandalari. The Horde barely could keep itself together. It had gotten so bad that they were relying on foriegn aid.

Of course, the Zandalari had needed exactly the same. The amusement was based on that irony, not the sense of superiority they would’ve undoubtedly held before Zul’s uprising. So to come here felt right. The Speaker of the Horde and many champions of the Horde had stopped the downfall of their Empire, it was only right that they gave back. Ko’hea had expected a few Sylvanas loyalists, insurrectionists. She did not expect the malignant foe they now struggled against. As her blade cut through another dark and twisted enemy, she was concerned that they may not stop coming.

The morning had gone like the two mornings prior. They continued to establish their camp and scouted the area. Ruined fortresses were combed through, derelict mineshafts were collapsed, and trails were marked. The landscape had been through hell and more in the last war, and it left plenty of places for a cunning adversary to lay low. Then her scouts located a war camp and ever since, a mass of darkness had swelled in their direction. At first, it looked to just be Horde exiles. Forsaken. Orcs. Trolls.

Then they spotted a Twilight Dragon. Ko’hea had been somewhat familiar with the Twilight’s Hammer, albeit her experience was extremely limited with actually fighting them. The Hammer hadn’t troubled Zandalar too much, though the oppressive presence of a C’thrax like Mythrax and the Blood God G’huun had drawn some of them to their borders. Nothing too troublesome to handle, but that was because the strength of the Twilight’s Hammer was preoccupied. Corrupters of Elemental Lords, Dragon Aspects, and the very world herself. It was no small wonder that the Hammer had caused so much trouble elsewhere. Part of Ko’hea prayed to the Loa that Zandalar would never have to face the power of the Twilight’s Hammer, and that part of Ko’hea was relieved to say that it still was being spared from their strength. Still, she was the reason why. She was one of many shields of Zandalar, defending the homeland from outer threats. And as she looked to the great wyrm circling above them, she knew they needed to abandon their camp.

Maybe the Kaldorei that had been watching them for so long could handle the monstrosity. Either way, it was a problem that wasn’t causing trouble quite yet. The beast was quite content with keeping above the struggle, whilst Ko’hea battled the forces of darkness. It wasn’t just exiled Horde forces, it was forces that hadn’t troubled themselves with the Horde for a long time. Atal’ai. Blackrock Orcs. Ogres not of the Stonemaul variety. And even Fel Orcs. Fel Orcs were definitely something Ko’hea had never seen before, so to see a giant red orc with spikes and extra tusks barreling down at her with the murderous intent of a demon… Well, it was not a pleasant first encounter.

Ko’hea was bigger than the orc, but his strength still rivaled her’s. A few blows were traded between the two of them before she was able to find that she outskilled the brutal fighter, parrying his crude axe and driving a knee into his gut. Out of all things, even the monstrous drake that hovered above them, there was a presence that put a pit in her gut. It was an extremely strange presence that stood at the edge of the battlefield to observe the fight. Something so horribly twisted and dark that Ko’hea wondered if Bwonsamdi himself had come to fight. She could almost hear her Loa snort at the idea that he would trouble himself with a battle such as this, but she also could feel her Loa’s anger at the existence of that presence. It was a power of death, sheer death. A being of such necrotic strength that it choked the life around it.

When Ko’hea finally caught a glimpse of the thing, she was confused. At first, it looked to be like any other Death Knight. Sure the Scourge concerned her and her Queen (not to mention infuriated Bwonsamdi to no end), but it wasn’t new to her. She had met plenty of Death Knights. Even Death Knights of her own race. Why was this one different?

Then she got a better look, as she was able to push through the enemy’s ranks to get closer. A spectral cloak wreathed much of its body in smoke-like fabric, but what she could see beyond was black armor and a mist-like body. This was no ordinary death knight. This thing was a wraith, a ghost. It had no physical body. As if death had become so central to its being that anything even remotely lifelike could no longer exist within its being. A body? A face? These things were too tied to life for them to remain. As it stood there, every ounce of Ko’hea’s being told her to run away. All but the part of her that trained in the Temples of Rezan, that fought alongside the Torcalin order. The part of her that now prayed to Bwonsamdi for power. As a warrior-priest of Zandalar, such an abomination wasn’t allowed to stand.

She could sense that her Loa was happy she came to that conclusion.

As she sprinted to face the leader of this cohort of darkness, she felt her power swell. This was what she was meant to do, right? Fight darkness for her people? Even if it was so overwhelming?

She lifted her blade high, a blazing aura burning around her, only for it to be stopped by the knight’s hand. The wraith flicked her back, turning slowly to face her. Where the being’s face should be was shrouded by a visor, a visor that depicted a ghastly face. Something akin to the folk spirits of the Pandaren. Lowering itself, it seemed to take the stance of a monk. Not any style she had ever seen, but it was something she at least was somewhat familiar with.

“Interesting.” A decidedly feminine voice came from the being’s spectral form.

“Huh?” Ko’hea gripped her sword in both hands, preparing to strike again.

“You are my first foe. Isn’t that interesting?” She started to move around Ko’hea, a predator circling its prey. “In my previous life, the list of enemies I had was long and great. Each day I could wake up with the knowledge that my fists were useful, that I was to fight for my life. It was exhilarating. Then I died. And since my death, I have fought not a single soul.”

“So I am to be your first?” Ko’hea grinned. “AND YOUR LAST!” The troll jumped forward, hoping her sheer size advantage would overwhelm the much smaller fighter instantly. Pushing down with much of her might and more, the Loa-enhanced strike was planned to instantly break the undead fighter’s guard. Much to her excitement, the being made no move to dodge. Instead… She completely nullified the attack by clutching the sides of Ko’hea’s greatsword. The force of the impact drove both fighters somewhat into the ground, shaking the area around them. Such an attack was worthy of splitting through even a Dire Troll’s defenses, but this knight? But a breeze to her. Twisting the blade, she pulled Ko’hea forward, striking the Warguard squarely in the jaw with a kick.

Her plumed helm tumbled into the soil, Ko’hea’s white hair now visible. Brute strength and the pride of Zandalar wasn’t going to carry Ko’hea to victory here. The Warguard needed to think to beat this impossible adversary. What were the weaknesses of the undead? She knew about their physical weaknesses, that Holy Magic and Fire Magic were particularly effective against them. Fel, as well, but she had no ability to call upon such vile magic. What else? Mindless undead were very rigid, they didn’t adapt. Were intelligent undead the same way? Did they fall into set and rigid patterns, in their attempt to appear alive? These weren’t enough. Ko’hea had to focus on their last weakness, the most difficult one to acutely handle. Being a creature unnaturally put back together, their soul was weak. Connecting a corpse back to any spirit, even their own, was a great and jarring weakness. Though this spectral foe was only their spirit and a suit of armor, it was not a far-fetched idea that if maybe Ko’hea shattered that armor that the spirit could be banished. All she needed was to break the seal, even slightly, to make her attempt. Thus, she shrugged off a few pieces of her armor. She gripped her sword in both hands once again. With the added weight of her armor now gone, the Warguard hoped that the new haste to her movements could give her the momentary edge to break the wraith’s guard.

She swung her sword to hit her flank, only for it to be dodged. Then from the other side, quickly making up for her failed strike. This time, the wraith just narrowly avoided the strike. She needed to keep this up. Ko’hea stomped, a blast of holy magic throwing up a few stones. The wraith jumped. “I HAVE YOU!”

Infusing her blade with all the divine strength she could muster, Ko’hea pierced the Wraith Knight straight through her chest. And then, Ko’hea roared, a blast of fearsome magic going through her blade. It was all she had, and she believed it would be enough. As the Light faded, she expected a limp suit of armor to be hanging from her blade. Not a still functioning Wraith, one hand tapping against the flat of the blade.

“It was an attempt, I suppose.” The Knight almost sounded disappointed. “Perhaps they made me too strong to enjoy the simpler things.”

Terrified, Ko’hea tried to get the Knight off of her weapon. There was no need to, as the Wraith seemed perfectly poised to do that alone. She drove her elbow down into the center of Ko’hea’s sword, shattering it in twain as one might do to a branch. Even against Ko’hea’s greatest foe, her blade had held. She had clashed with some extremely powerful foes in the past, but to see this bored knight break it with her bare hands was almost too much. Resolve fading quick, Ko’hea pulled a dagger from her belt, holding her broken sword and dagger up in a flimsy guard.

“This is sad.” The wraith mentioned, boredom evident in her voice. “What happened to your bravery? I broke your stupid toy. Keep fighting me. Entertain me.” In more august company, this would sound as if it were a gladiator’s challenge. The thought made Ko’hea slightly nostalgic as the Wraith came closer, the Warguard understanding that her death was imminent. “Don’t misunderstand me. If you don’t entertain me, you die. Maybe you’ll be better as one of us.”

“One of you? What are you?!” Ko’hea’s resolve strengthened in the face of certain death.

“Ouch. What am I? Why not… who?” The wraith sounded upset.

The troll spat blood to the side, as the wraith’s previous kick had dislodged a few of her teeth. “Oh, no reason. Just you’re an abomination to my religion.”

“So close minded. Nevermind! I’m Yama-O. And what am I? I’m one of the servants of the Dark Lord.” This ‘Yama-O’ quickly bowed at the mention of the Dark Lord. She stood straight afterwards, patting at her chestplate. “For someone who doesn’t even know who the Dark Lord is, you did do a number on me. He’ll be very pleased that I caught another strong spirit.”

“What?” Ko’hea’s stance strengthened, her voice venomous, “You plan on turning me into one of you? On my pride as a warrior of Zandalar, good luck trying.” She held her broken blade out. “I won’t give you the chance to make me an abomination! YAARGH!” Ko’hea belted out another powerful battlecry, her strength coming back to her. This second wind gave her more power than before, allowing her to match the Wraith’s strength. Yama-O was forced to block and deflect each of the Warguard’s attacks, even letting a few slip.

Ko’hea landed a solid punch across the visor of the Wraith, splintering it. Standing back to admire her handiwork, she wiped some blood from her face. The Wraith staggered back for a few moments, “Oh! That’s better. Were you hiding that from me?”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She cautiously watched the Wraith move, “It almost sounds like you’re actually enjoying yourself. That’s… disturbing.”

“Disturbing? I’m finally being given something exciting, troll! You were much too simple before.” Then she lurched forward, her splintered visor still holding. “This, though? PRACTICE IS OVER! TIME FOR-”

“Oh.”

Yama-O’s hand pierced through Ko’hea’s chest. “Too much, then?” The wraith let the troll drop, shock still crossing her face. “Hm. For a second I thought you could handle that. I guess not.” She flicked the blood from her hand.

“…H-how?” Ko’hea’s voice was wet, thick with blood. The wraith had gone through her lung.

“What do you mean, ‘how’? You saw how. You were outmatched.” Yama-O picked entrails from her clawed hand.

“No… How can you be so strong?” Ko’hea wasn’t dead, far from it. A slight glow surrounded her wound, both the regeneration of the trolls and the Holy Light mending the hole. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve fought in many wars, and none of my foes have been as strong as you. And then… you say there are more of you? Just what have I gotten myself into?”

“Interesting. I’m stronger than anything you’ve ever fought?” She seems to consider that for a moment. “Even the Shadow of War? That can’t be right.”

“The Shadow of War? You say that as if I know who that is.” The troll trembles as she starts to rise. “Unless you mean that human… What was her name? Warrior. Warrior wasn’t my enemy.”

“She is now. Or at least, she should be. The Horde and Alliance aren’t on the greatest terms. Never have, never will. And they keep getting their champions killed for it. Isn’t it awful? Their prodigies are taken before they can grow into a proper challenge.” Yama slams a fist into her palm. “But that one? She’s special. She scares my master… And I’ve never been able to touch him. Isn’t that exciting?”

“That little girl scares your master? Where am I? Did someone concuss me or something?” Ko’hea couldn’t believe the words coming out of this undead. She had met Warrior once or twice in her campaign against an unseen army, something that had threatened the Horde from beneath the pages of history at every turn. The Alliance had some stake in that conflict, as she understood that they had finished the fight whilst she held off their foe’s army. That little warrior was a part of that fight, and Ko’hea knew she was tough. But if she was enough to make this Dark Lord wary, perhaps she’d better find her. That is, if she survived this day.

“The Black Legion has faced defeat before by her hand. Though, Warrior? That’s new. She is the eternal adversary to Conquest. She is War. She is Sint Dagon.” Yama crossed her arms. “Though, you have met, so perhaps you understand something. Maybe it isn’t her strength that makes her powerful, perhaps it is her path. Her conviction. It opposes my master’s so deeply that she is his counter. His balance.”

“You’re completely insane.”
“Duh.” Yama lunged, her clawed hands curled and prepared to inflict a brutal beatdown on Ko’hea. The troll accepted her fate, just for a moment, until she saw a brown shape hurl through the air, colliding with the wraith. Though the shape was quickly thrown off, Ko’hea couldn’t believe her eyes.

Ora-Ur, the Fist of the Storming Star, had come straight from her memories to fight alongside her. Well, it would’ve been a near perfect match to the Ora she knew if not for the loss of this Ora-Ur’s right hand. “Stand and fight, Ko’hea. This thing might be better than you, but what about all three of us?”

“Three?”

“Sorry! She’s faster than she looks!” Ko’hea’s eyes widen at the sound of the last voice, the voice of a very clearly human man.

“The Alliance? Damnit! They’re here?” Ko’hea spun around to hold her sword to the ranger, surprise evident in his green eyes.

“Oddly enough, I’m a friend. Ora can vouch, but now’s not the time! That thing’s about to get back up, and by the looks of it, we’ll need to work together to put it back where it belongs. Fiends like that only deserve a quick and decisive death.”

Yama-O stood, hands now curled into clawed shapes. “Good! Let’s dance!”

Ora-Ur lowered herself into a battle stance. Ko’hea strengthened herself, raising both her dagger and her broken blade. And Aranor prayed under his breath for Sint to hurry up.

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

oh i bet you weren’t expecting side content huh

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

Tales of Conquest

Questions in Broken Steel

The mind is like steel. Treated well, it is hard to break. Treated poorly, and it breaks to even the lightest blow. But even well-forged steel cannot stand up to the most monstrous of attacks, things that can split the heavens and boil the seas. That was the dilemma Sint faced now. For years, Sint had known herself as something of an unbreakable wall. In the face of foes greater than anything she could have ever dreamed of, she did not break once. Did she bend? Did she strain? Of course. But none could deny that she still stood strong.

That was until she cracked. The weight of death, responsibility, and her duty finally brought her down. The primal fear she felt when she felt herself slipping was one of the few emotions she could still remember from before she fully broke down, before she awoke without any memories beyond the fact she was a soldier. The seer, Kuraav, was the one to do the deed. He did something that forced her mind to go blank. Something that still continued to hold her memories at arms length.

It bothered her.

The others looked at her with awe and respect, and relief. But she didn’t exactly know why. She could explain why, maybe, but she didn’t understand her own explanation. That feeling in her gut, it was unfamiliarity. It was as if she were a blade broken and reforged, but she was a blade reforged by foriegn steel. Mirrored in the reflection of her old broken blade, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair had grown long and wild, her eyes wide and suspicious, and her face had a scar on it that she wasn’t entirely sure was there before. She bared her teeth, and sighed a sigh of relief. At least she had kept all her teeth.

Sint didn’t remember everything. She didn’t exactly remember what broke her, nor what she did as Warrior. Those months were a haze, but she could feel… An ache in her chest when she tried to think back. There were so many new faces in the Blades of Dagon, now. And there was a new leader. It was no surprise to Sint that they’d choose a new leader, nor was it exactly shocking that they kept him in charge as she recovered. Her brother, her guardian, had come back from the dead to save her life. And not only had he defied death, but he didn’t seem any different. His hands were still warm. His eyes didn’t glow a deathly color. He was alive. And he had completely beaten her on every single level. He was a better leader, a better man, and a better legend than she was.

Perhaps she should retire, if the return of one of her only family members was giving her this much stress. Her brows furrowed, her lips tightened, and suddenly she couldn’t bear to look at her broken sword any longer. Setting it aside, the Lady of Dagon was given a slight reprieve from her thoughts. To her surroundings did her mind wander, and it was no less due to her unwillingness to look any further than her slight curiosity that did pull her away. Stormwind City had long had a place in her mind, both as a home and a reminder, but never did it spark as much curiosity from her than it did now. Mayhaps it was a lack of observation before, but she found herself seeing a great many new things on her return.

Cast in a midday light, the Cathedral Square practically glowed as she watched it. From her vantage atop a roof, there was little in the area that could escape her notice, but so much of it was new to her that she could hardly keep concentration on every little thing. Had the Scarlet Crusade held up residence in Stormwind this long? She couldn’t recall rightly. Especially not all the new groups, unlike the narrow few she had seen before. Nevertheless, all bore some variant of an infamous flame that she had only remembered minutes prior. Not far from them, ever, were the colors of the Alliance. Ostentatious gold and flamboyant blues made them easily visible wherever they tread, those who served the Alliance. Especially those of the City Guard, who always brought the company of simple silver to compliment their rather gaudy heraldry. Of those with the guard, most were plain and ordinary men, but she could spot the rare non-human standing amidst them. How things had changed since Gilneas entered the Alliance. Even in those days, finding anything more than humans and dwarves in the employ of the guard force was an extreme rarity. Some organizations change, some do not. Of the True Red and True Blue, it was easy to see that differential.

Of course, that pair of organizations were far from the only ones she could see. Some familiar, like the Army of the Light and the Silver Hand, and others entirely unfamiliar. Adventurers had always prided themselves on guild-making, and the Guildmaster’s Office was always booming with the news of new and prideful parades of heroes coming together in a common purpose. So to see so many new faces, it was not a surprise. But, a nagging thought itched at the back of her mind. A thought that warned her that she may have known many of the colors set before her, just that her memory’s holes had yet to fill. It was a frustrating feeling to distrust your own mind, especially when her mind felt so lucid. Attempting to divert her concern back to her scenery, Sint continued to stare below. Gaggles of citizens still seemed to feel awe when watching groups of paladins move through the square that rightfully belonged to them, but it was a thought she almost wanted to share. Her mind tugged with slight nostalgia seeing a group of proud Silver Hand Knights walk together down an avenue to the side of the Cathedral, well-maintained armor and perfect coordination in their movements reminded her of days now passed. Days she could hardly remember, honestly.

Sint almost spat as that lingering thought returned, the thoughts of her memory lost. She wondered if Warrior had spent so much time worrying about things she should’ve known, or if that version of Sint easily accepted the blank slate of life she was given, with naught else but an Ankoan blade and her own survival instincts to back her up. If given the chance, Sint wondered just for a moment if she’d ever go back. Accept oblivion and be reborn.

“Such musing does you no good.” A mirthful and accented voice playfully rose from behind her. “Before you ask, no, I cannot read minds. I simply know where that dreadfully upsetting trail of thought you have leads.” This voice was familiar to Sint, though she felt horrible that she did not completely know why. Her mind raced to trace the accent back, the tone of voice, even the candor of speech… And her mind arrived the moment the speaker chose to walk in front of her. A decidedly feminine elf stood before her, much taller than she was. The look in her eyes was not one seeking for superiority, nor was it one particularly seeking common ground, for it was merely kind. Indeed, her entire face was kind. Her eyes were of an almond shape bent into a smiling shape, her bow shaped lips turned into a slight yet warming smile, and her body was held in a certain way that denied any worry of danger that Sint may have held. Between her warm countenance and the shock of white hair atop her head and the elf’s atypical body shape for her own kinfolk, there was no mistaking that it was Sion Findragon that stood before her. A woman that Sint considered her best friend. A pang of guilt filled her mouth as she realized she had almost forgotten her friend’s voice.

“Been a minute, huh, Sion?” Sint didn’t know what else to say. “Sorry I’ve not visited.”

“For you, it may have been a while, but I just saw you yesterday. Or, I saw Warrior.” The elf eyed the broken weapon in Sint’s hand. “…Mm, but she’s dead. I came as soon as I heard that you woke up, apologies for my late arrival.”

“I can’t blame you for taking a while to get here. You’re an important person. Wasting your limited time on some broken steel is hardly a good way to spend your day.” There was a tinge of derision in Sint’s voice, as much as she could actually let in.

The elf spoke with mock outrage, much of her joy breaking through her flimsy anger. “Wasting my time? Maybe with how you speak, perhaps, but I would never dare say you are a waste of time. Though,” She paused, calming herself, “How have you been? The others haven’t been able to find you.”

“Really? Either they’ve gotten rusty, or Warrior taught me how to better hide my tracks.” A small twitch of Sion’s smile alerted Sint that she should probably get to answering her. If there was anything peculiar about Findragon, is that she was extremely impatient for a person who was at least three hundred years old. A resigned sigh leaves her as she looks Sion in the eyes. “If I’m being completely honest, I don’t know how I’m doing. Things are…” Sint waves her arms around, uncertain what to say.

“Confusing?” This elicited a quick shake of Sint’s head. “Painful?” Another. “…Different.” A nod. And this left Sion relatively confused, herself. “Well, that doesn’t exactly give me much to work off of.”

“I know exactly who I am, and what I’ve done. I’m mentally the same Sint, I’m pretty sure. It’s just…” Sint looks away, back to the square. “I don’t recognize everything I should. Your voice, my favorite food, and my wife’s eye color… The list is veritably long and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Perhaps you should see this as an opportunity. To relearn things.” The diplomatic approach that this elf had become infamous for. Sion was an oddity, even among elves, Sint found. Teldrassil had turned much of the residents of Ancient Kalimdor into harrowing spirits of vengeance, leaving naught but abyssal ash and religious hatred in their hearts. The few times Sint had managed to get one of these Black Moon elves to actually converse with her, longform, they provided trite little outside of the thoughts of bloodshed and vengeance. But Sion? Not only had she kept her eyes, but the druid had seemingly kept her sanity. Could Sint blame the kaldorei for their dogmatic and zealous thirst for blood against the Horde? Definitely not, she almost sat in the same box as they did. But, there was a certain loss of clarity that concerned Sint. Like the elves had stopped being people, and had become something… else. Not lower, by any stretch of the imagination, but different. Instead of being the tree which leaves are blown from by the wind, they became the wind, and the wind howled. It raged. Sion kept her heart open, at the very least. “I cannot lie to you, my dear friend, but you were not well before you took the leap and lost your memories. You made drastic choices that you would’ve never made before.”

“I remember a few of them. The battle in the valley, between Deathholme and the Basilisk. I sacrificed how many men for an advantage? Too many, from the sounds of it.” She grit her teeth. “And then the Eye of Necroth… The destruction I held at my fingertips, it was-” Sint stuttered for a few moments.

“It wasn’t good for you, clearly. Considering you still remember them, whilst other more important memories are still left as holes. So now think about how you are. You don’t look like the Shadow of War. You don’t appear as the woman I started to fear for.” The elf sat down, letting her feet dangle from the edge of the rooftop. “That, and I haven’t seen you climb something to think in a while. You did it a lot when we first met, before all of this. But then you were made a leader, and your feet never left the ground.”

Sint didn’t respond, only looking down to the street. It was true, partially, that Sint felt different. Though she couldn’t tell if that was because of her memory, or if it was actually because she had managed to move beyond the things that sank her. Her lips pursed together, Sint kicking her legs as she thought.

“See, now you can relearn yourself. It’s not a chance many get. You know who you are, as you said, but do you know what you are? What are you meant to be?”

“I don’t know. Honestly. And really, I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

[Sint-bloodsail-buccaneers]

another tale. i can get these out really quickly, honestly.

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

Tales of Conquest

Liminal Glow

Within the Cathedral of the Holy Light, it was hard not to have your breath stolen by majesty. This structure held more importance within it than most men could ever dream of. Built out of white stone, beauteous stained glass, and the hopes and faith of man… it was the perfect symbol of the Light’s radiance on Azeroth. None could claim to be more holy than this structure, and none could even dare to oppose its echelon of power. Those who had tried were all dead and buried. And even if they weren’t, they would eventually meet justice. As Sint knelt in silent prayer before the image of a long dead martyr of the faith, she could feel the eyes of justice fall upon herself. Prying, understanding, and soothing all at once, the radiant Light was a harsh yet paradoxically kind presence. The heat and hatred, the warmth and liveliness. Man was not uniquely disposed to feel the cosmic aura of the Light, yet it felt that the places they had built for it were uniquely capable of housing it.

Even the Vindicar did not make the youngest Dagon feel such things. Months ago, she had spoken with her closest friend about the state of her condition in the proximity of this place. At the time, she did not feel so bold that she could stand within these walls, to face the revelations of the Light. Still she did not feel confident in focusing on it, but there was a decided need in it. Sint had leveled her blade haphazardly against the Light and its tenets, declaring that man only had a need for man. There was no good in praying for miracles or seeking truth in the Light, so she had writ large, and there was no good in placing yourself in its hands. The Alliance had done so. Look at what the Alliance had become.

Her anger was misguided, but her reasoning wasn’t completely faulty. The warrior looked up, head no longer resting on her fist. She looked around the cathedral as many milled around within it, passing in and out of these hallowed halls. Glimpses of the clergy, glimpses of the military, and glimpses of the citizenry were part and parcel of what Sint saw before her. Their reasons to be here were also what intrigued her, that and the changes within their faces. It was true that Sint had rarely made an excuse to pray, as she had rather grown disdainful of the practice, but that did not mean Sint didn’t oft find herself standing amidst the clergy within this establishment in the past. Her duties in one of her prior responsibilities required a better understanding of the religion of the Light. Familiarity came naturally in her observations.

When it came to the war against the Legion, she saw almost every walk of life within these walls. Even the few who did not worship the Light dwelled within at times, as if they hoped to collect some of the hopes and dreams of the many who did worship. A younger Sint considered it foolish. The broken Sint who sat in prayer obviously didn’t think so lowly of the practice. She lifted herself up carefully. Her metal leg complained as she did it mostly without the aid of her arm, as she only had the one to operate with. On her feet, Sint noticed that a few of the priests were talking about her. She wondered what they were speaking about. Truly, it wouldn’t take much thought to deem what exactly they spoke of, but there was some hope that they weren’t speaking ill.

The power of the Light flowered within her since she was young, but it was a strength she had always attributed to the human spirit. It was always ironic to her that the power she had shunned so easily was the same power much of her career depended on. To the men of faith, she must seem to be so… self-entitled. So self-absorbed. The Light had granted her such a great gift and instead of seeing it as a revelation from the Light, she treated it as a rifleman treats his gun. A disrespect to those who gave a damn. Really, such sentiment still really didn’t matter to her. What mattered was the bestial flame held within her, a flame she had seen the full power of on just two occasions. The first gave her heart problems. The second took her arm and leg from her. She’s honestly not keen to meet the third occasion, the third likely being her final encounter with the purifying white Light she had come to fear. That coupled with the message her actual ancestors told her, that her soul was being burned up in her vengeful fire, Sint was looking for a way to fix her problem. Maybe that’s why she was in prayer.

The last time Sint was here, she was a woman battered by war and trauma. Now she stood here, weathered and beaten by the very same forces. She remembered how she acted to her best friend, how she had started to push everyone away. Memories absent from her mind, she had even forgotten key things about those she should have cared about. Her path, her brother, her ex-wife were left partially blank in her mind. It took weeks to catch back up. And, things were never the same. Suspecting well enough that she would’ve never likely left Geneva before her stint in losing her mind, Sint could tell you that she was not the same person as the woman who left to Argus and came back a hero. Strangely, though, a beaten and broken Sint felt happier than the battered yet steady Sint of the past. The Sint who came here to reflect on her faulty memory was one who thought she was alone in the world, whether or not it was a conscious thought. The Sint who stood here, looking for salvation from her own blazing strength, knew that was far from the truth.

She smiled.

She must’ve closed her eyes, for she did not see the person that approached. A strong hand landed on her shoulder, causing Sint to return to the current world. A pair of icy eyes peered down at her, being a paladin in a fairly utilitarian and equally cold plate. Such a sight would’ve set Sint off guard before, if not for the fact she knew this woman. Albeit briefly, just shy of a year, Luze DeGrad was a face that had slowly become familiar to her. A face she could easily trust, as well. Though she knew DeGrad from her days in the Alliance military, they had truly begun to know one another in Sint’s final conflict against the inexorable Dark Lord of Goth’gor. The war had gone poorly for the army in Sint’s command, mostly since Sint had begun to lose herself to her power. Burgeoning flame started to eat her mind. Thus, she was sent away from the battle, back to this very cathedral.

A paladin had to learn how to command the Light, no matter how gifted they were as a soldier. Those who didn’t were consumed by failure or by fire.

To avoid that fate, Sint spent some time with herself and with those willing to teach her. Mentors were few and far between for someone as infamous as she was, and she only managed to happen upon Luze in a chance meeting. The Alteraci Knight had been sent South by her father to elicit some Southern aid in his struggle to resettle some parts of Alterac, and thus, she found herself bouncing between institutions of War to find assistance. When she and Sint came face to face in a half-burnt training yard, Luze decided that the Lady of House Dagon was her new project. Luze was a good teacher. A bit rough, very demanding, and extremely physical… but her methods worked. She tamed the dragon within Sint, bringing her back to the ground, and for that: Sint owed her. Such a person was not foolish with the debts owed to her. Sint knew that, and she knew exactly what Luze would ask of her. The fact she hadn’t yet was a miracle in her eyes.

“Hey there, Shadow.” Luze often called Sint Shadow, mostly to tease her about the title of ‘Shadow of War’. “I did not take you as a woman who prays.”

Sint snorted, shrugging Luze’s hand off of her shoulder. There was an ease to her thoughts now that her friend was there. “I really don’t make a habit of it. Most of me likes to entrust fate to my own hands, not to… hopes and prayers.”

The Alteraci folded her arms, slightly nodding. “Prayer is half of my job, so consider this thought strange, but that is awfully peculiar to me.” A withering glare from Sint told the knight that she should better explain herself. Throwing up her hands, Luze complied. “There are many people just like you! Forgive my lack of clarity. I just thought that a military leader would be the type to find some slight comfort in prayer. Knowing that there is something guiding your hand has always comforted most I have come to know.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve always had a strange relationship with this whole leadership deal, so excuse me for being a little odd.” Sint cracked a small smile.

Luze’s eyes brightened at the sight of her friend’s expression. “I was not aware you were even capable of smiling, but that is twice now. What has gotten into you?”

“Usually my mind dwells on the more morose side of things. Today? I’m reflecting. I suppose the reflection has been… comforting.” Sint tapped a finger against her chin, as she was wont to do when she thought, “Though, I wonder if it should bring me such comfort.”

The knight quirked a manicured black brow. “By what do you mean?”

“Well, see… The monster you helped me tame? It still took my arm and my leg. I don’t know what exactly it’ll take next. So, you can see my dilemma.” The warrior put her only hand in her pocket, eyeing the loose sleeve tied up where her other arm should’ve been. “I am looking for ways to dampen it. Today’s given me scarce answers for that problem, but…”

“But?” Luze’s attention was enraptured.

“But, I think I have a place to start from.” Sint closed her eyes once more. “Do you remember what I told you about the months leading up to our meeting? Well, then, I had trouble calling upon the Light. It wasn’t that I couldn’t, nor that it was that my lack of memories had anything to do with it… But it was my mindset at the time.”

“From what I remember, you did not seem to be the happiest person on Azeroth during those days.” Luze narrowed her eyes. “And the only emotion I have felt that affects my casting is anger. I do not see where this is going.”

“I was unburdened, Luze. That, and I was… separated. I was Sint, but I wasn’t Sint. I was in a transition. Perhaps to temper this harsh Light, I need to change. My burdens must be left to rest.” Sint sighed, slightly uncertain whether or not Luze would take too well to this.

“You make it sound like the Light is some meddlesome pest, feeding off of your troubles. Personally, Sint, I think you will have to keep guessing.” The knight shrugged as her icy expression returned to her face. “Such frivolity surrounding your view of the Light is naive. The Light is not like the Arcane. Deciding it suddenly has rules that you can work around will do you no good.”

Sint frowned at that. “Then what do you suggest I do, Luze? I’m at my wit’s end.”

“You need to figure out what troubles you so, and sever it. Only then will you find your balance.” The knight tapped a finger on Sint’s chest. “That, and you must figure out what your relationship with the Light is. Your clear respect for the power you hold is at odds with your lack of respect for its source. The Holy Light is not a power to be studied and abused, Shadow. It is a deep fountain of hope that many draw upon with tremendous force of will, to allow them to stand unbroken in the face of the dark’s adversity. It is not simply bright. It is not simply pure. It is the sun and the moon, the sky and the sea. It is heaven. It is the universe. It is you. And it sees through the troubles in your heart and gives you a tempered edge to handle them. It is all in your hands to see it through, that which the Light guides you to strike down.”

“…The way you make it sound, my foe is not a physical one.”

“Your foe is your heart. Forgive my candid words, Lady Dagon.” Luze took a deep breath, her face carrying a delicately sorrowful look.

“No… no. You’re right.” Sint took a step back, running her hand through her hair, suddenly feeling a bit shameful. Luze was just slightly younger than Sint, but sometimes she carried such an innocent look. Sint was a gruff and tough warrior, whilst Luze was a manicured and almost delicate looking knight. If not for the dents and scratches on her plate, the hefty battleaxe she always had on her person, and the scar on her chin, Luze would almost look like a girl fresh out of the academy. To make her frown… it tugged at Sint’s typically frozen heartstrings. “As usual, you’re right. But really? You had to make the face? Call me Lady Dagon? That’s just cruel.”

The knight quirked up, a grin on her face. “You told me to always use my advantages. What sort of student would I be to deny her teacher’s very teachings?”

“I swear to the Light, Luze-” Sint was interrupted before she could finish that desperate thought.

“Come on, my professor, let us figure out what troubles your heart.”

“Gh-… Argh…” Sint cringed. “…Fiiiine. Just never. Call me that. Again.”

“No promises.” There was a cheeky grin on her face.

Sint was in for another arduous journey, she could already tell. Even if it were only a visit down the street, it would be the most difficult one hundred paces in her life.

[Kohea-wyrmrest-accord]

vomits out another here you go gamers

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

Chapter 12: Malady Blade

Ora-Ur hadn’t known much warfare. Much of her life had been hard, sure, living mostly alone and surviving off of very little. But war? It was foriegn to her. The orc may have survived through the time of the Horde and Alliance’s campaign to deliver Outland from the grips of the Legion and Illidari both, but that didn’t necessarily mean she remembered it. She was both young and far away from much of the fighting, living in Garadar with her mother and mentor. So to hear the stories of grand armies clashing, the powers of creation manipulated and sent between them… it was nothing short of terrifying to the younger Ora-Ur. Now, though? She could see warfare with her own eyes.

It was as terrible as she imagined it. The moment Sint had broken them into teams, she saw the fighting that Sint focused on. ‘Twixt the gloomy treeline and hazy cliffaces, amidst what must have once been a fortress, was a desperate battle. The lines had been drawn, on one side was black, the other was red. The proud soldiers of Zandalar and the Horde were held up within the ruined keep’s walls, whilst the forces of the Black Legion assailed them from any vantage point they could make. A drake circled above their head, a bolt from the beyond striking the stone every few minutes. It was clear that the Horde wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer if the Black Legion kept up the pace, but that was when Ora heard the crazed battlecry of someone she knew.

Watching with awe, she saw a massive troll chase across the battlefield, her blade held high over her head. Wrathful flame licked from her form as great gilded wings stretched from her shoulders. Each step shook the ground, and it was as if her charge had stopped time. Each soldier stalled as they watched Ko’hea the Vigilant extend the long arm of Zandalari law to obliterate a dark monster from the realm. With a swing, the dark skies split open to reveal sunlight, the ground trembled as if it were a groundquake, and all watched with bated breath. Ora expected whatever that sword came for to be naught but smoldering ash, but to see the smoke fade only for a dark figure to be revealed was nothing less than horrific.

Then she watched, paralyzed with fear, as her friend was beaten down. Her heart soared when Ko’hea was able to land a few hits, but then it plummeted into an abyss of despair as she saw the monstrous knight pierce her chest with a single strike of their hand. Why couldn’t she move? Why wouldn’t she move? She had a reckless streak to her, always finding herself face to face with the most dangerous enemy in sight. She had fearlessly tackled a faceless one, she had blocked the attack of a dark and demonic prince, and she had even leapt into death itself to save her best friend. So why now, why now did she stop?

You’re afraid. I was wondering when you’d finally feel it. A mocking internal voice bubbled at the edge of her thoughts. You’ve been going so long and so strong, it was only a matter of time until you hesitated. Hesitation is death, Ora-Ur. And your friend will die because of that.

Just like our mentor.

Ora’s hands tightened. She felt her pulse quicken, her breath growing shallow. Her mouth went dry. Just like our mentor. Her inner voice said again, and again… and again.

And Aranor could do nothing but watch Ora seize up, her eyes glazing over. The ranger knew that look. He’d spent enough years fighting to know exactly what it looked like when someone was in another place, trapped by their own demons. Hopelessness wasn’t exactly the feeling he expected to feel today, but as he saw his only capable ally stall in her tracks, he immediately knew that this Horde group stood no chance. What could he do? He was but a mundane man with no love for the Horde. They had no love for him, either. Would they even bother listening to him? How could they be sure he wasn’t with the Black Legion?

They couldn’t be sure. But he knew for a fact that if he didn’t do anything, they’d be dead within minutes. So Aranor did something brave. Probably the bravest thing he had ever done. Sheathing his swords, he sprinted to Ora’s side, and hugged her. Perhaps he was a complete stranger, and perhaps he had no place in doing that, but it felt right. “Ora-Ur, come back to us. I don’t know where you’ve gone, but we need you. Put yourself together for a few minutes, kill this dastard, and then we can talk.”

He expected to get his head ripped off, but instead he found himself holding a trembling orc. She looked at him with a surprised look, as she had been brought back to the present. “…You’d do that for me?”

“That’s only IF we all survive.” He cracked a toothy grin. “Now, it’s time to save that troll.”

“That’s Ko’hea.” Ora gulped, trying to steady her nerves. “But yes. Let’s.”

Flicking his silver swords out, there was a solid moment of Aranor going completely silent and freezing. THAT was Ko’hea? The troll that was now healing a hole in her chest was the Warguard they came for? “Ora maybe we should rethink- Aaaaand… there she goes.” He watched Ora-Ur practically throw herself with a gust of powerful wind, turning her body into a torpedo of elemental lightning. She hit her mark, crashing into the undead commander like a bolt of lightning. Luckily, her path had been cleared by that same magic, giving Aranor a straight shot to reach her.

He caught up the moment the troll managed to pick herself up. Though she shot Ora a suspicious look. “Three?”

“Sorry! She’s faster than she looks!” He shouted out as he ran. The ground was slick with blood and mud, causing the ranger to slide to a stop. For a moment he was worried he was going to run into the troll, as by the time he had gotten close, he realized she was immense. Bigger than most of her kin, only likely beaten out by the rare dire troll. He cringed as he saw her turn, rage evident in her features. He was about to be bisected.

“The Alliance? Damnit! They’re here?!” She lifted her sword in preparation to end his life, but a moment of quick thinking probably saved his hide.

He stuck his swords into the dirt, holding his hands up so that he didn’t look threatening. “Oddly enough, I’m a friend. Ora can vouch, but now’s not the time!” He wanted so dearly to explain himself to this angry juggernaut, but he saw the undead begin to rise up from the crater Ora-Ur put it in. “That thing’s about to get up, and by the looks of it, we’ll need to work together to put it back where it belongs.” Though really, Ora-Ur and Ko’hea could handle it. He wasn’t much help. With a zealous addition to the end, Aranor felt as if he may have staved off her wrath. “Fiends like that only deserve a quick and decisive death.”

Ko’hea recognized that he was on her side with that final addition, a curt nod given to him as she turned back to face the undead adversary. Said foe had lifted, a decidedly feminine voice coming from its steel shell. “Good! Let’s dance!” Her hands curled into a clawed shape, as if she was going to dash forward and eviscerate them as if she were some sort of raptor, her body set into a strong martial artist’s stance. Ora-Ur did the same, getting into her own sort of battle-stance. That explains why she doesn’t carry a weapon, at the very least. Ko’hea had put together a quickly made battlestance, showing her unfamiliarity with dual wielding weapons.

Aranor wasn’t an idiot. Things didn’t look good for them. He wasn’t too sure how strong Ora-Ur was, but he had a reasonable suspicion that she wasn’t as powerful as the Warguard. People like the Zandalari didn’t promote mediocre soldiers to defend their royalty. That and he had seen how hard she could hit, harder than any paladin he’d ever seen. The Warguard had gotten some sort of second wind, luckily, so she wasn’t as weak as she should’ve been after tanking what would’ve been a deathblow to just about anyone else. And him? What would a few arrows and fancy sword tricks do to a monstrosity like that? And so instead of preparing to kill his enemy, he was prepared to slow her down.

So that Sint could get there and save them. That, or he could get a head start in his retreat.

Ko’hea chose to speak to Aranor and Ora-Ur. The ranger had a feeling it was aimed only at Ora, though. “That thing introduced itself as Yama-O. Says its a part of an order of things just like it. The wraith knight doesn’t seem to have a physical body of any kind. Trust me, I-”

“Wraith Knight? You know what it is?” Aranor piped up, eliciting a dirty glare from the troll.

She spat, “No. I came up with the name while fighting it. Don’t interrupt me, human.”

If not for the sound of metal being broken, Aranor would’ve retorted. His attention was caught only to see a boot crush a golden helmet. That must’ve been Ko’hea’s. Serves her right, he thought bitterly. Then his brain quickly ripped itself from that petty place, as he caught up with the fact that this Yama-O had snapped steel with her hands and crushed a helm with the ease of someone wading through shallow water. He slapped himself to focus, eyes trained on the Knight.

Yama knelt for a moment, forcing the other three to get into defensive positions. The wraith chuckled. They were allowing her to control the flow of combat. It was time to test whether or not they could keep up. She swiped a gauntlet through the mud, splattering it into the face of the lightning-bound Ora-Ur. The orc hadn’t seen that coming, leaving her dazed for a few moments. Momentum took Yama further, as she smelled blood in the water. Ko’hea was still hurting. That second wind wouldn’t save her.

Ko’hea saw the Knight coming. To become a Warguard of Zandalar, one had to be brave. One had to have trained for years on end to steel their body, mind, and soul to become a great warrior and even greater protector. It was no simple role to take. Nor was it an easy one to keep. She so happened to be one of the veterans of her role; the troll’s years being capped off by her title, “the Vigilant”. Bedrock unbreakable, Ko’hea had held up years and years of her allies and recruits. Pillar stalwart, Ko’hea had faced foe after foe to protect a King and now a Queen. Hero unbent, Ko’hea had stood in the face of certain death to rescue hundreds of lives. Now she would be a martyr, dead to the hands of a ghastly foe. That was, of course, if she allowed Yama-O to break her. The knight moved as fluid, each movement coming with ease and expertise, flowing as water would down a stream. As her body met Ko’hea’s, each blow was precise. A flurry flowed like water into cracks in the ground, each and every one almost unconscious. The warguard’s weaknesses were just understood.

Ko’hea swung. Twice she brought down her broken blade to open Yama’s guard, twice were her strikes left in empty air. She brought her dagger up in hopes of catching the Wraith in her feint, but the wraith’s palm struck her dagger out of her way. A quick jab sent Ko’hea backwards, her shoulder left limp from the force of the impact. Yama tightened her stance only to land a flurry of kicks into Ko’hea’s now unguarded flank. The troll weathered the unbridled assault, believing that she finally had captured the resolve to sustain this endless storm of attacks. That was, until she felt an extremely sharp pain in her chest. Hoping the wraith didn’t catch that, Ko’hea did her best to maintain her facade of unbreaking resolve. With a deft swing of her broken blade, she forced Yama to back up.

“Interesting.” The wraith murmured, “You have quite the body, troll. I have a feeling my skewer from earlier was a fluke.”

“I’m beginning to think that it was, mon.” The troll swiped sweat from her brow, popping her limp shoulder back into place. “I’ve stood for years as a guardian of Zandalar. You’re far from the first overwhelming enemy I’ve faced.” She saw Ora begin to bristle, the mud out of her eyes. The orc was planning something, so Ko’hea decided to distract Yama further. “The greatest I ever fought took the combined might of four warriors greater than me to take down, and he still couldn’t kill me.”

“Resilience is your greatest attribute. Could’ve fooled me with that world-shattering strike from before.” Leather and chain protested as the knight balled her fists, “But do you know mine?”

“Speed.” Ko’hea answered.

“Spe- Okay.” She lifted her hands up. “No fun with you.”

“They don’t hire Warguard for fun, abomination.” Ko’hea grit her teeth, squaring her stance. She threw her dagger at the wraith, feeling mildly impressed that she caught it mid air. It, however, was another distraction. Her arms tensed. Her body began to burn. Holding her broken blade’s hilt in both hands, she begins to channel. Distance was held. Other combatants would not prove a problem now. It was between Ko’hea and the wraith, and the wraith had no idea what Ko’hea had planned. As the fire started to burn outwardly, the Warguard started to think if she had any last regrets.

Then, Ora-Ur tackled her, “saving” her from her imminent demise. For a moment, Ko’hea wanted to curse the orc who brought her down. Prevailing over her embarrassment, her reason rationalized that her sacrificial explosion would’ve been stopped if the wraith took her head. “Get your head out of the clouds, Warguard! We need your strength to win this.”

If only she knew Ko’hea’s plan. Well. If she knew, there would be no chance Ko’hea could pull it off. One life for victory. She explodes, she takes the wraith with her. Her soldiers could go on without her. She doubted the enemy would last without Yama-O. She leapt back to her feet, her eyes trained on Ora-ur as the orc crackled with lightning.

Now it was time for Ora’s plan. The orc almost seemed to dance through the mud, each movement made with a fluid grace. Ko’hea had seen better martial artists, true, but now was not the time to doubt her only trustworthy ally in a battle with certain death. Meanwhile, Ora-Ur had planned on Ko’hea following her. To see the troll stand back put a bitter twinge of disappointment in Ora’s mind. No less disappointing than the ranger, who had yet to move at all. It was as if he were paralyzed with fear.

The truth wasn’t far from what Ora believed, though Aranor’s movements were more so paralyzed with indecision. Cowardly was not a word to describe this son of Strom. Aranor was a survivalist, first and foremost. He trusted in his instincts, and his instincts told him he stood no chance and neither did his compatriots. That instinct made him doubt cooperation’s effectiveness. Sint had gone to gather the Silver Battalion. Verily, that would prove to be the wraith’s downfall. So either Aranor ran to join them, or he stalled to make sure the enemy could not flee. Whatever Ora-Ur and Ko’hea thought to get out of this, neither were correct in believing they would be the enemy’s downfall. No, they were the distraction.

Ora-Ur stomped, her foot sending mud and water into the air. The lightning filling her body arced through each drop, creating a cage around Yama. The wraith seemed to be caught unawares by this sudden feat. Though Ko’hea hadn’t joined her to attack Yama-O, perhaps Ora could plead to her to attack now. “Now! While she can’t escape! Hit her with all you’ve got!”

“Amusing.” The wraith murmured.

“Wha-” Ora’s voice caught in her throat as she saw the wraith grab onto her lightning cage, the lightning stopped by a shroud of shadow.

“You have many tricks. So do I. Do you wanna see ‘em? Too bad if you don’t.” If the cage were solid, the wraith was a mist, passing with ease between the bars. Her form completely broke down to escape the lightning. And then, nothing. Between the static discharges from the cage and the raging battle around them, Ora could not see nor tell where the wraith had gone. Then, she felt a weight on her head. A weight that turned into a concussive pain, as the wraith’s boot cracked into her forehead. Yama-O moved above Ora-Ur in that moment of confusion, her foot planted squarely on top of the orc’s head. “Do you like that one? It doesn’t look like you did. Good!”

The wraith did not bother to even return to her stance as she walked to the prone Ora-Ur. She heard some shouts from the side, arrows bouncing useless against her metallic frame. Barely did she even care to notice the growing holy sensation, once again, as the troll made her fruitless effort to win. It was useless to resist the Dark Lord. It was useless to resist Yama-O. Taloned fingers curled to draw in the dark anima in the air. The dark wave sloshed in her palm before it culminated into a ball, a ball she now aimed at Ora-Ur. Another set of shouts fell on deaf ears as Yama lunged, her surroundings fractured with the speed of her move. Hand raised, she was prepared to blow a hole in that weak little orc.

Ora-Ur didn’t know war. But this proved to be a learning experience, as she faced her death so soon. Aranor was right to be afraid. This was hopeless.

“Useless.” A voice. Time seemed to slow.

He seemed rather disgruntled, this heavy and deep voice. “You bear my blood yet you cannot even make a stand against this arrogant spirit.” His blood? Was this one of her ancestors? “You will meet me soon if you do not stand up. Grip onto your greatness, Hynagar. It was my gift to you.”

The world began to grow darker, as Ora-Ur now could see a black gateway standing before her. Erected from monolithic black stones and covered in ancient orcish script, part of her wondered if she had already died. This sight wasn’t unlike the stories she heard of the afterlife. Her mentor told her of the land where the ancestors dwelled, a land set in permanent and serene twilight. Ancient black and grey stonework littered the lands, a great Shadow Moon hanging above head. Though she knew this sounded very similar to the valley of the Shadowmoon Clan, she also had no doubts that this was a sign that those lands were once very linked to the orcish cycle of life and death. This wasn’t right. Her name wasn’t Hynagar, anyways.

Ora was not dead. Not yet, at least. That was when she saw a black fist punch through the gateway, a black fist covered in foriegn armor. Now this… this Ora was familiar with. Maybe this would fool some, but she had made herself familiar with the Horde’s many monsters. Loyalists to Sylvanas, bloodthirsty generals, and just general lunatics were things that Ora-Ur had planned on taking down on her journey to find the answer to Kalandrios’ quest. This was the Mark of Blackfist, the horrifying High Warlord of the Black Legion. The very same Black Legion they were fighting.

She almost felt as if the person behind the voice flinched at her revelation. “I’m sorry, but that’s how you recruit your lackeys? I’m almost disappointed that anyone could be fooled by something so obvious.”

“You will regret this.”

“No. I don’t think I will.”

Ora-Ur opened her eyes and rolled to the side, the wraith’s ball of black magic diffusing into the mud. She used a gust of wind to spin her entire body around, landing two heavy kicks into her foe’s side, each of them empowered by lightning. Yama-O was knocked back a few feet. For a moment, Ora imagined that if she could see Yama’s face, she’d have the biggest grin on her face. When she heard Yama start howling with laughter, she got her answer.

“WOW! You’ve got guts. I love it! Not a bad move, too. The whole spin and kick? Caught me completely off guard.” She clapped. “Shame you have to die now, with the whole refusal you just did.”

“How do you even know that?” Ora shakily stood, holding her forehead as it throbbed with pain.

The knight shrugged. “WELL. You know. The whole Dark Master thing comes with perks.” Her guard completely dropped as her mind jumped away from the conflict. “We’re all linked to him, I think. It’d explain why he can talk into our heads, and we can hear what he says. Right now, he’s yelling at me to shut up!” She cackles. “NAH! Sorry, boss! The fact you sent Malad AND NOT ME to handle War is gonna get you a penalty.”

“Malad?” The orc drew her hands in a fluid motion, water being drawn from the mud to heal her wounds. “Another one of you?”

“The absolute best of us, at that. The first Blade… It’s a shame I’ll never get to see War in action.” There was no doubt in the wraith’s voice, nor was there exactly any humor. ‘Twas not a joke that this abominable thing believed that Malad could handle Sint Dagon. Such confidence bred despair in young Ora-Ur’s heart, causing her to lower her eyes to the ground. If not for the actions of one brave man, she’d’ve likely lost her life to her mistake. Yama lunged to lop Ora’s head off, only to stop midway, as something grappled with her from behind.

“…I see.” He growled between gritted teeth, the voice of a determined man with naught to lose but his life. Swords skills and archery would do little to avail him against such a powerful opponent, to the point that he realized that there was no point in worrying about what sort of trap he could lead Yama into. Aranor knew that Yama would treat anything he did as if it were child’s play. So, why should he worry himself with martial skill or trickery if all he required was his own impressive strength? He was a man of the wild, after all. To shirk one’s strength training in a role like his was a death sentence. With a grip of steel, the ranger held Yama-O in a full double shoulder-lock. “You think of us that lowly, huh? Even our greatest doesn’t stand a chance against you, you think? Well. I’ll just hold you to that.”

The wraith was not amused. “You little coward… You blindsided me!”

“Ain’t a fair fight to begin with. You should’ve expected some trickery, eh?” She thrashed under his grip, but he would not budge. Even a few strikes to his legs did not force him to buckle, the man only further clenching his teeth. “…Just shows how out of your league you are. Maybe we ain’t strong. Maybe we don’t have flashy skills or powers. But we’re better than you.”

“Nonsense! You’re kidding me, right? You actually think that? LET ME GO AND LET’S SEE HOW MUCH YOU’VE GOT ME BEAT.” She flailed against his grip, noticing that he was already losing strength. She’d be able to break free soon, and that would be the end of this foolishness. The troll was struggling to get her power under control. The ranger was only human. And the orc had given up, even if she didn’t believe that she had. This is how the mortals reacted to her power? It was… delicious.

Then she saw the troll’s sword blaze with new life, the fractured half reformed in a brilliant golden Light. Lightning crackled as the orc planted her feet and drew her arms in. Only the ranger defied this strengthened resolve, as Yama could hear his breath sharpen. His heart pounded in his chest. “…You don’t want to die here, do you? Can’t you see that they’ll take you out with me?”

“Don’t make a difference. I let you go, I’m dead anyways. Might as well face death with my pride intact.” Holding on any longer started to seem impossible as Yama kept struggling against him, his hold quickly beginning to shatter. A helmeted head cracked into the ranger’s jaw. Down he went, and so Yama had freed herself. Twisting around with violent energy in her hands, she went for the killing blow on her other adversaries.

With a battlecry, Ora-Ur pushed her hands forward, a torrent of electricity chasing through the air. Silently, the troll ran forward with her burning blade. Yama-O practically shrugged off the storm of lightning and caught the troll’s blade with her hands, wreathed in dark magic. “NOTHING YOU CAN DO CAN STOP ME!”

But, suddenly… the darkness around the wraith died. Ko’hea’s blade cut through her armor like butter. Ora-Ur’s lightning fried the knight’s armor. Much to their dismay, there was no body within that metal, but they seemed to at least beat this malicious foe. Ora-Ur and Ko’hea looked at each other in disbelief, before cheering in absolute relief. Perhaps Yama-O would reform later, but they had defeated her after working together. A sluggish Aranor soon looked up to see them celebrate, his eyes trained on the still standing suit of armor. Was the battle so desperate that those two failed to finish the job, treating this undead enemy as if she were any other mortal fighter?

A bolt from the black struck true, only a fist of stone stopping a deathblow. Shattered and marred by this conflict, a mad monster from beyond the grave only could cackle as Ora-Ur’s stone fist began to crack under her fist, Ko’hea sent sprawling into the mud once more by a shock of black lightning. “Gh-… Aranor was right to stand back…”

“Seems like he’s the only one here with a brain. Seriously? You thought I’d give out underneath that?” She would’ve clicked her tongue if she had one. “Sure it cost me my armor, but I came to a realization. If we kill the Horde’s incursion here and stop word from reaching the Alliance, I get a promotion! I dunno to what, but… I think I’ll have my new armor fashioned after you! Out of you!” The wraith slammed her leg into Ora’s side, before shattering her entire left arm against the orc’s face.

“S-sorry… Grothorn…” Ora vomited from the weight of that impact. “Guess I failed again.” The orc could only manage to get to her knees as Yama-O created a shadowy limb in place of her old armored one. She sharpened it to a point.

“MOVE!” Aranor shouted, to no avail. “PLEASE, DAMN YOU, MOVE!”

The world went white.

Yama-O was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there she stood. A flickering flame danced around her body, white as Elune at her fullest. Her eyes gleamed a golden heat, her body contorted into a violent rage. Not far from her was her blade, white-hot. The ground was scorched. And then, ahead of her, the object of her hatred.

The thing that drew out her fury.

The First Blade, Malad.

[Findragon-wyrmrest-accord]

me again but with another food review

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

Tales of Conquest

Death of the Dragons

The night was always long for Sint Dagon, as she had not slept through an entire night in years. Some nightmare or a sudden noise would jolt her from her rest, without fail, rousing her much earlier than she should be awake. That had changed as of late. She slept even less, but not solely due to an increase of these terrors, but because of pain. Pain in her chest. Pain in her amputated limbs. Her old scars ached, itched, and burned. Her new scars did double that. This night was worse than usual. Waking with a scream in her throat, she lucked out on waking the entire house as the scream went empty, her throat far too hoarse to emit any noise. But she needed to run. Panic. Thud.

She had swung out from her bed in an attempt to sprint, only to land on the ground, stirred at last from this nightly assault. She was in her room, in her friend’s home, in Stormwind. She was safe. Propping herself up on her right elbow, she wished just for a moment that she hadn’t fallen so far away from her leg. There it sat, her right leg, leaned against a nightstand. There she was, opposite to that side of the bed. With one arm and one leg, she could still make it. This piercing pain in her chest told her otherwise, as when she went to drag herself to where she needed to go, it shot deeply into her. Perhaps it was not the most agonizing pain she had felt, but she was tired. So very tired.

She blinked and suddenly sunlight was streaming through her curtains, and a very concerned woman stood at her door. Just as she did every morning. Perhaps Luze was more subtle than Sint gave her, but the prone Dagon could hear her and see her every time. Without fail. Pity was all they felt. Pity inspired a smoldering anger inside of her, as each pair of downturned eyes drove her mood further and further down. Was she that pathetic? She could not sleep for a whole night, not a single one. She could not survive on her own, as her finances had long plummeted, and her support narrowed into a trickle. What power and prestige she had before had left her, as even her own began to fear her. That purifying rage that simmered in her breast had made her a monster, a beast. A ticking time bomb is all they saw.

Not so long ago, she had marched to face her greatest foe. In this dire struggle, she saw her power begin to eat away at her psyche and her body. Strength was provided, in great amounts, but the cost of that strength was telling. Her rage made her blind. It turned her into an animal. Worse yet, when she came out of it, she felt her chest tightening. Her breathing grew more shallow. Exhaustion was a close ally to Sint Dagon in the waning days of her war, as each rampage she went on sapped her strength and ate her vigor. It alienated her as much as it was killing her, but she didn’t know if she could refuse it. The consequences of denying such power in this world could be fatal for more than just her, and she knew it. That’s why the pity hurt as much as it did.

Deep down she knew the consequences of her recklessness, but she also knew that her recklessness saved countless lives. If not for her sacrifices, thousands would be dead. Her health was just the required price to be a savior.

Sint slowly lifted herself from the floor, her strength already drained. A pool of sweat was left behind, the result of her late night exertions. For a moment she caught her breath, letting her heart slow in her chest. She recited names of old storefronts from Gilneas, some of which still persisted to this day in the last true city of humanity. Sure, Stromgarde may stand. Sure, Dalaran still flies high in the clouds. But neither were kingdoms, and one was hardly more than a fortress. It would take time for humanity to reach the heights it held once before. In a sense, that’s why these names calmed her so. Soothed her tempestuous heart. Her breathing finally back on track, she allowed herself to enjoy the last few seconds of silence.

Her voice was much more hoarse than she expected. “Luze.”

The larger woman’s footsteps made Sint believe that she had taken a few steps back, surprised she had been noticed. “U-uh, ahem… I wasn’t expecting you to be awake this early.”

Sint didn’t expect Luze to lie to her, but it was likely just out of kindness. The knight knew not that she had been spotted each and every day since they started to live together, at least it was the most believable hypothesis Sint could come up with, so she had no concept that her charge could detect her. If not for her current situation, Sint would have said this was amusing. Greatly amusing, even. But now? It just made her chest ache. “…Mm. So you say.” Her’s was a measured response, as she was not exactly ready to confront DeGrad’s reasoning behind her worrying. Instead, Sint put on her mask, and turned to Luze. A steely expression, no obvious emotion escaping her. “Since you’re here, get me my leg. Must’ve fallen in my sleep.”

“Rough direction to tumble in, my teacher.” Luze adopted that nickname that bothered her oh so much. “Your body was out to make your morning a challenge, eh?” Her heavy footsteps weren’t followed by the rattling of plate or mail, confirming to Sint that at the very least, Luze hadn’t been awake for long. A slight relief, that. The sun had just risen. “…Do you need any help, Sint?”

Sint’s thoughts had taken her away from the present, a few quick blinks taking her back into reality. Luze’s larger frame blocked out the sunlight as she loomed above Sint. Whether or not the day was young did not seem to matter, as despite her prior musing, Luze looked as if she had been awake for a few hours. Had Sint’s night terrors affected her so? Her long black hair had been straightened out, light makeup placed over her angular features. The Alteraci would never admit to that that she went out of her way to accentuate the sharpness of her face, to give her a much more intimidating look when she glared. Speaking of things that were done to make her more intimidating, Luze wore an outfit Sint never truly would have thought of before she met this knight. Sir DeGrad was a strong woman. That was evident in the way she carried herself, how easy it seemed to be for her to carry the weight of armor. The ease she swung her greataxe, a weapon that was taller than Sint was. But just like everything else about the knight, she quietly had a desire to show that off. And today, it wasn’t as quiet. Luze wore a tight shirt made of nylon, something light and breathable. And well, that accentuated her musculature. And as she stood in front of the Sun, her defined body was given a golden halo. Sint’s heart stuttered for a moment, and to be honest, she wasn’t quite sure why.

“…Azeroth to Sint.” The knight’s stormy grey eyes were focused on Sint, now. “You alright? You looked like you were somewhere else.”

Sint coughed. It was a little embarrassing, to say the least, that she was nearly drooling. “I… I am fine. What’s with the outfit?”

Knight DeGrad flushed red at that question. “Er, uh. It’s, uh. Nothing serious! I guess it does look a bit strange in this weather, but… I was going to ask Sion or Ave to join me on a run.”

“Ave’s here?” Sint reached up for her leg.

“Yeah. Didn’t you call for her?” Luze didn’t stare at Sint while she slowly fastened on her prosthetic. Sint knew Luze still blamed herself for her injuries at the hands of Conquest.

“That I did. Have you heard the reports?” Sint managed to get her leg on in the time, finally regaining her ability to stand. It was a good first step.

“If you’re referring to the Silverpine ones, then yes. That and the rest of the North.” Luze finally was able to look at Sint again as the smaller woman rose to her feet. Some days it was easy to forget that Sint was injured, the way she moved. If not for the fact she handed that leg to her and the lack of the Lady’s other arm, that fluid leap to her feet would’ve told Luze that Sint was in perfect shape. “Ave brought a few with her. Sion’s got a full brief waiting for you.”

“Ah. It sounds like everyone woke up before I did.” Sint’s first steps of the day were always taken slowly. Real foot first, metal one next. The unfamiliarity with walking with a leg that was not your own still confused her senses from time to time, so it was better to take the day slowly than to stumble around like a fool. Still, there was purpose in her gait. There always was, it seemed. She approached her closet to pick an outfit for the day, still feeling Luze’s gaze on her back. Throwing off the rigors of the night, Sint dressed herself for a busy day. A light undershirt, a puffy white shirt to go over that, a pair of tight black leather pants, and her high-heeled boots were the items of choice today. That, and a silver glove. Sint hated to look at her own scars, and she hated that she couldn’t wear her arm today. It, like many things, was just slightly out of reach for her at the moment. She knew that if she asked for it, it would be back in her possession. But she needed to finish a few things before she gave herself the ability to be War again. Just another few days as Sint Dagon, that’s all she needed. Throwing her traveling cloak over her shoulders, she felt adequately covered. Tying her sleeve up so that it would not hang in the wind, she gave a cursory glance Luze’s way. “Good. At least I can rely on all of you.”

“My teacher?” Luze was sincerely taken aback by that statement. It wasn’t typical for Sint to say such things.

“I prefer to stand on my own. I cannot right now.” It sounded so simple coming from her mouth. “That is all.”

“I can’t argue with that. Just… pace yourself.” The knight regarded her with a cautious and concerned look, trying her best to hide said emotions. Sint was much too observant to fall for Luze’s attempts to hide her true feelings. When she was worried, her left eyebrow always twitched. And really, Luze’s face was always mildly cautious. The Alteraci had lived too much of a life to not suspect everything, to guard each emotion, to hide her true motivations. To give her credit where credit is due, she was usually very good at it. But Sint Dagon was rarely one to be bested, especially by someone so noteworthy. Have people hidden their true intentions from her before? Of course. She wasn’t all-seeing nor all-knowing. But Luze? Luze was someone you couldn’t forget. To not be able to read her would infuriate Sint to the ends of Azeroth.

Sint looked directly into Luze DeGrad’s eyes, a searching look now crossing her intense golden gaze. “Are you going on your run now?”

“Why?” Luze gulped.

“I think you want to be present for my briefing.” Sint looked away, breaking the tension. In truth, Sint wanted someone else there. Sion was Sint’s closest friend, but she also tended to know exactly how to chat Sint’s ear off. The elf had the benefit of longevity. Sint did not. To chat for an entire day is an incredible waste, and she’s done it more than twice with that damnably chatty Highborne. That, and she was starting to need an answer. The fire in her soul was burning her to death, and she felt it that morning. Luze was right to be concerned, and that was what troubled Sint the most. The people around her knew she was hurting, but to what extent? They didn’t know. She needed to tell them. “…It’s something important for our campaign moving forward. After I hear the new information from the front, I will make my decision.”

“That’s… ominous.” The knight sounded genuinely rattled.

“So it is.” And for a moment, she felt as if the Gift-Giver of Dragonfire was locking eyes with her. The very same gift he gave was the one that was burning her away. His glare was a challenge to her.

Was she ready to refuse the Gift? Whether or not, she needed to find an answer soon. Her life quite literally depends on it.

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

only been a week, not bad.

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

Chapter 13: Storm Covenant

Gilneas. 10 years ago.

Perpetually gloomy, the sprawling city-scape of Gilneas was always a hard one to truly get a grasp on. It was as if she were alive, this grand monstrosity of stone and rain, as each time Ulren stepped foot forward something had changed. Months prior to his current visit, he met up with one Lord Godfrey to discuss some inane nonsense about the effect Ulren’s people had on the populace, with Godfrey strictly warning Ulren of the consequences if ‘His madness spread’. They met in this very square, which was now ripe with the smell of bread and cheese. It was supposedly a military square. To say that the change piqued this man’s curiosity was… honestly an overstatement. Ulren cared little which changed within the city, only that it did. Gilneas changed. That was just a fact.

Nevertheless, when he felt his stomach protest just slightly at the idea of leaving such a delectable scent behind, the man made a choice that would change his life and so many others forever. Such little choices could have great effects, this he knew, as his faith was surrounded by the imagery of water and rain. A single cloud in the sky could be the symbol of a great storm. A single droplet in a pond could cause ripples much greater in size than itself. One single, simple, little action could create waves that could engulf the horizon. This was the tempest created by choice, a tempest he quite well enjoyed. A tempest that so many on this singular Gilnean road would likely never understand. They were a people of a single mind, his people, so to see them deviate from their paths is something he’d rarely notion. He himself was not one to typically differ from his own goals, but he at least tended to be more… flexible than his kinfolk.

This singular Gilnean road was straight and narrow. It did not wind nor did it bend, it had no flourishes. It was grey. It was stone. It was as it appeared, nothing more, nothing less. That was, of course, if you ignored the rain that always pooled in the cracks and crevices, wearing down the stone. The presence of moss and ivy that added a little green to the drab and gloomy grey. And the story of the road’s creation, although unlikely to stir much in a man’s heart, was likely still a task of many ardors. It was not as simple, not as straightforward, as it seemed. Nothing ever was, not even the people of Gilneas who often dedicated themselves to a simple way of life. If it was single-minded, it must be simple, mustn’t it?

The smell wafted down that pathway and made Ulren snap back to reality, his eyes now focused on the storefront. It had just opened, how lucky! It was a fairly well-designed establishment, with a focus on a fairly rustic and humble feeling, something to make you feel warm and cozy in this rain-drenched graveyard of a city. He went to read the sign. And then he stopped dead in his tracks.

Through a window he saw the face of a man he hated.

Aerick Dagon. What was there to say about that loathsome man? That he had attempted to bury Ulren’s way of life out of weak-willed paranoia? That he cared little for his children outside of his firstborn? Or that he kept making himself a nuisance, treating people like trade-goods, every interaction he took was for the sake of commerce? Aerick had no morals. Aerick had no loyalties. And yet, people loved him. Mister Dagon had spent years building his brand, building his core follower base. He basically bought love and adoration. And now, Ulren had the misfortune of realizing that this fairly cozy and good-smelling eatery was funded by that very sniveling merchant. That dreadful man who bought himself into Greymane’s court, who turned the Dagon Clan into House Dagon of Gilneas.

It’s a shame, since Ulren respected some of the Dagons. At least, he respected some of the older names. Artessa was a personal favorite of his, being one of many reasons his Storm Covenant even existed. They were a stalwart folk chosen by the Grey Sky, born with the blessing of the Light. Even standing here he could see the glint of gold in Aerick’s eye, the holy golden glow of the divine. The very same glint that now focused on him.

“Look who it is! I didn’t think you’d come back to this city, Lord Ethewick.” Lord Dagon feigned respect, bowing his head just slightly. It made Ulren clench his fists in anger when he saw that once again, Aerick’s family was nowhere to be seen. None but his eldest son, Santo.

“…Honestly, I didn’t think I’d return to this hovel, myself. I’ve never been an urban man, and I rather find the gloomy atmosphere upsetting. Alas, my hand was forced.” He lifted his hand, his slick seal-skin poncho moved out of the way. What was likely a harmless gesture to most revealed the longsword always attached to Ulren’s belt, a reminder to Aerick that he was not friendly company.

“I always find your disdain for the gloomy atmosphere of Gilneas proper to be so… peculiar.” Aerick’s face twitched when he saw Ulren’s sword. “Isn’t your little club based around the rain and whatnot? Is it not your thing to be gloomy?”

“We’re not brooding old men, Lord Dagon. The Covenant has no time to sit around and mope in the rain, nay, we quite enjoy the climate. The gloom of the city is its own doing, and I cannot see why any would willingly subject themselves to it.” He looked around, clear disdain painted across his face. He watched the other Lord nervously stroke his thin beard, a petulant look on his face. Neither man liked each other, so it was entirely baffling why Aerick would even bother. “Let us not dance around the issue any further, Dagon. Why are you even speaking to me? I would rather stick you like the pig you are than speak to you as equals.”

“The thought is mutual, Ethewick. I’m merely concerned why you’d leave your den to come and mingle with the people you hate.” Aerick’s frown deepened.

Ulren laughed. “Oh, how narrow-minded of you. I don’t hate the people, I hate the city. And, fair enough, I do suppose I do hate some of you. But why I am here? It truly is nothing that should concern a man of your standing. Very little that which I do is beholden to the greater populace.”

“Oh, so you’re here on behalf of your cult? So then why was your hand forced? You cannot have me believe that you’ve finally started to fold to that little rat’s demands.” Aerick snorted at the thought of Ulren bending to “that rat”.

“Oh, what? You think Gyre’s managed to break me? That’s cute, even for you, Dagon. No. Karth is still utterly useless. No, I’m here to meet with a person of great esteem who reached out to me.” Then Ulren’s face broke from its deepening scowl, a grin now breaking across his face.

“…By the looks of things, this person’s involvement with you would cause me great stress. More stress than I need.” He shook his head, brushing back a few locks of wet hair. “Have fun with your club, Ethewick. Maybe one day you’ll do something worthwhile with your father’s inheritance.”

The sound of steel being freed from its scabbard and a yelp were all that told the people around the men that Aerick had overstepped his bounds. Cool metal now rested against Lord Dagon’s neck as his son scrambled to his defense, a warmaul clutched tightly in the younger Dagon’s hands. “Light above, Ulren! You dare draw steel against House Dagon?”

Lord Ulren Ethewick only glared at the son of Dagon. “Mayhaps this will serve as a reminder for your father that his time is limited. That this world tolerates men like him for only so long, before they are washed away. Lightning and Fury, Santo Dagon. Remember that.”

For some reason, his words were enough to convince Santo to lower his guard. Just a few seconds passed and Ulren lowered his own weapon, sheathing it much to the befuddlement of Aerick. He brought his hands to his throat, now glaring daggers at his rival. “You scum.” Was all he spoke.

Ulren stepped away, his appetite lost. Truly, his inheritance was always what the other nobles threw into his face. Lord Yorick Ethewick, his father, had been a fairly prolific figure. His humanitarian efforts were highly renowned. The Ethewick Officer’s Academy and the Greymane Home for Gilneas’ Children were just a few establishments his father helped fund and promote. When he died just five years ago, many expected Ulren to use his father’s fortune to carry on his work. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to. He donated much of his inheritance to the organizations that mattered. Then, nothing. Ulren was the last heir to House Ethewick, and practically the last member of the family. He had vassals and servants, but the Ethewick estate was mostly treated as a meeting place for his father’s many business partners and friends. Friends and partners that did not transfer to Ulren, nor did Ulren particularly wish for that.

All who paid any mind knew what Ulren was interested in. It was a pipe dream that he’d carry on his father’s legacy of promoting the Gilnean way of life, because all knew that Yorick’s son hated the state of Gilneas. They also knew he was a member of a strange religion, a religion named the Storm Covenant. So it came to no surprise that Ulren turned his estate into a meeting place for the Covenant. Indeed, it appeared that Ulren used his remaining fortune as a way to maintain the Covenant and transform his family home into a monastery. Gyre called him a heretic. Walden and Ashbury paid no attention to him. Godfrey worried only about the effect the Covenant had on Gilnean thought. And Dagon? Dagon saw him as a disappointment. Why? Because Dagon couldn’t use him for his own gain.

Now that Ulren thought about it, he realized how much more Dagon would be disappointed by the end of the day. With some newfound spring to his step, the Judge of the Storm Covenant was out to meet with Aara Dathos, once Lady Aara Dagon. The letter came to some surprise to Ulren, as he didn’t expect to both hear that Aara left Aerick, and that Aara was willing to speak to him. The last they spoke, Ulren was in a drunken haze and said things he probably didn’t mean. It angered her, nonetheless, so when awoke with a black eye he respected her decision and hadn’t reached out since. Aara was a respectable woman. Her family quite literally came from nothing, as she was an orphan who made her own name. A peerless singer, a shrewd mother, and a disciplined soldier were just a few of the things Aara could claim.

And now, she wanted to talk to Ulren over tea.

At the same place Aerick Dagon chose to spend his morning. She told him to meet her in this very place, as now he could read the sign. “Ellana’s Den.” He’d have to ask who Ellana was. The thought passed when he saw her turn the corner. Aara Dathos was a striking figure, even so many long years after the last they spoke. She was nearly as pale-skinned as moonlight in a clear night, her hair glowing like the sun. And her eyes, a stormy grey, like the sky above. She was, by all means, a person of extreme duality by her appearance alone. She was his age and yet appeared the same as she had over a decade ago, proving that some were immovable by the flow of time. Where Ulren had a great black beard years ago, he had shaved the thing down because he hated the flecks of white that had started to appear just a few years prior. And now? His trimmed mustache and goatee were the bone white. It bothered him to no end, considering he wasn’t even that old. Maybe old for a soldier, but nobody lived like soldiers in today’s Gilneas.

She dressed in a nice coat, just as any self-respecting Gilnean would. And so did the person who accompanied her. Or, the child that did. This child was many opposites to Aara. Skin dark and rich. Hair black as the midnight sky. And eyes of shimmering gold. This came as a surprise to Ulren, as if not for the girl’s face, he could’ve mistaken her as a stranger in Aara’s company. But no, this was Aara’s only daughter. The reclusive daughter that had rarely been allowed to see the light of day under Aerick’s attention. Blind and sickly Sint Dagon stood in front of him, brow furrowed just like her father’s.

He could see Aerick blanch and run off in a hurry at the sight of his ex-wife. It made him snicker like a man twenty years younger. Aara saw him after he began to laugh, a look of honest surprise on her face. “Well, that explains why you’ve not made yourself common in these parts. You’ve gotten old!”

“So I have. Making trips from the hills has gotten harder as my bones have grown weaker. Alas, I can barely walk by myself! Woe for an old soul…” He shook his head. “A soul as old as you.”

“Oh, come off it, Ullie. I’m still in my prime!” She put a hand to her chest, an easy smile crossing her face. The smile did not reach her eyes.

“…What’s this about, Aara? We haven’t shared a single letter in over ten years, and yet you are standing here as if we’re still close. Let’s not forget to mention that you’ve brought the daughter that half of Gilneas swears isn’t even real.” He strums his fingers against the hilt of his sword.

“Cutting to the chase already, eh? I guess tea’s not in the picture for today.” The diva shook her head. “Well, I was going to invite you to my last performance. I know we didn’t exactly leave off on the best terms, but I wanted you to be there. You were there for the first, you supported me the entire way.”

“My father’s money did much more than my words ever could. It’s a shame that our work was turned against us, so that pig could see you and force you into wedding him.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Aara, what were you thinking?”

“You were too slow to open my eyes and Aerick was a better man when he was younger. Then we had Santo, he brought home Dengarl, and then Sint came. What was I to do? Abandon my children?” There was a bitter note in her voice. “It’s not like I could leave, anyways. You know how he is.”

Quietly, Ulren took Aara’s hands into his. “So I do. More than most, embarrassingly enough. I still haven’t congratulated you on getting out of there. Strong, brave Aara Dathos. You spat in the face of the entire noble court and sang the entire way out. And it seems you’ve freed more than yourself.” He looked over to Sint, the small and slight girl entirely quiet as he spoke to her mother. “Hey, Sint! I’m talking to you now.”

She jumped when he spoke her name. It bothered Ulren that when she looked in the direction of his voice, nothing shifted on her face. No emotion seemed to escape the girl, even though she clearly jumped at the mention of her name. What life had she lived that she needed to hide herself so well? “…Good morrow to you, Lord Ethewick.” She gave a curtsy. Who the hell teaches a blind girl to curtsy?

The look on Aara’s face was a pained one. A mother’s regret, most likely. “And a good morning to you too, Lady Dagon. I’m sorry to have never made your acquaintance. Your Lord father has never seen eye to eye with me, see, so I’ve just never had the opportunity.” He knelt down so that he’d be easier to hear. Aara stifled a sound of protest as he knelt easily into the mud, forgetting for a moment that her old friend was not a man who much cared for appearances. “Your mother and I are old friends, though I’ve not spoken much to her since she wed your father. Our last conversation must have been before you were born.”

“Is that so?” The girl’s voice was even and practiced. Much too mature for someone her age, much too practiced for someone supposedly born of the Dagon Clan. “My mother has spoken little of you, my Lord. Do forgive me for being ignorant of you.”

“Don’t fret, little Lady. I doubt there’s much to say about me, I’m not a man of much importance. Well, at least to Gilneas proper.” He gave a warm chuckle, unbothered by his friend’s choice to not teach her children about him. “The places I go are places the nobility of this place don’t care for.”

“My father has spoken about you, however.” There was a hard edge in her voice when she mentioned Aerick. “He told me to avoid your… cult.” The girl spent a moment trying to find the right word for it. The air she put on would’ve been cute if not for what he knew of House Dagon. So prim and proper. So… sad.

“Oh, the Storm Covenant? I can only wonder why he’d tell you to stay away. We spend much too much time in the rain, throwing mud at one another. Too much fun for stuffy old Aerick.” He put a mocking tone to his voice, a tone that made the girl smile. Just a little smile. It was enough for him to keep pushing. “Ho-hum, says the Lord of Dagon in his great black tower, frowning each and every time he saw my lads enjoying themselves. It’s not like we cared! We were too busy with revelry to care what such an angry little man thought of us.”

“It’s improper to say these things.” Little Sint Dagon said, her flat and even voice barely able to hide brimming mirth. “Though, it sounds fun. I do see why father forbade me from it, even though my explorations of the city were already so limited.”

“Not much to see.” He said, waiting for her reaction to his fairly crude joke. Her mask cracked, and she giggled like a girl her age should.

The girl laughed for quite some time, even though his joke wasn’t all that good. It was as if it were the best joke she had ever heard, and it was at the expense of her own disability. Wiping her eyes, her eyes slightly widened at the realization that she broke form in front of a noble Lord and her mother. “…My apologies. That was wrong of me.”

“Don’t be a stick in the mud, little Lady. I doubt your Lord father allowed you to speak to anyone who spoke to you like a normal human being. Such a shame! I hope your mother is doing her best to let you live an actual life!” He stood and swept the mud from his legs. It was good that he wore such a water-resilient outfit. “We all have great potential within us, granted by the Light. It’s shameful to stifle any single person’s ability to grow for your own sake! What would the Grey have to say about that!? Nothing! The Grey is a storm! But it would at least hit the bloke with lightning for daring to shirk the glory of the Light.”

A noble lord came this far and knelt in the mud for her. And he told her that every single person had potential. Each person had power. These were words she had never heard, words that always seemed so far away from her.

Lord Ethewick spent the rest of the morning with her, even going so far to buy her some sweets and a pair of pants. It was an odd thing, but it was something he could tell. Maybe nobody else could see it, but there was something within Sint. A fighter. And a natural born fighter hated frilly skirts, just as little Sint Dagon did.

Ulren accidentally told Sint that hating her father was okay. And that living her life was right.

“Lightning and Fury, little lady. Defy the future laid out before you by man, for only the Light can see your destiny. You alone define the path you take, as the Grey gave you the power to choose. Choice, Lady Dagon. Choice is your greatest weapon. Fight for it.”

Those were the words he left Sint with.

Words that she still carried to this day.

---

The Land of the Goddess, Stonetalon. Today.

“Lightning and Fury…” Sint muttered beneath her breath as she climbed a hill, following a path laid out for her by Elune’s Chosen.

“What was that?” The voice of Ludrasa Shieza broke through the silence. “Lightnin’ and Fury? Whas’ that supposed to mean?”

“I forget that your people’s hearing is that good. I suppose it cannot hurt to say. Those words come from the Storm Covenant.” Sint’s voice was not as flat as it tended to be with Ludra, the elf noting the slight twinge of nostalgia seeping into her words.

“The Storm Covenant, eh? That some sort of group?” The elf now focused on Sint as they climbed up the hill, more than she already had been.

“That’s the simplest answer I could give, certainly. But the Storm Covenant possesses much more than being a group. It’s a way of life. It’s a promise.” Sint stopped, closing her eyes. It took her a few moments to search her scattered memories for the words she had long ago put to memory. “…The storm approaching is clad grey in hatred. Be it by heaven or sea, or by heart and soul- War shall ride unbidden with the reigns of devastation. Lightning and Fury. We shall prevail.”

“…Strong words. What do they mean?” The elf had taken an earnest interest in this, much to Sint’s surprise.

The warrior’s sword hand twitched as she thought about it. “Truly, the Covenant has a different meaning for most. But, I always believed it to be a promise that no matter the obstacle, no matter what might stand against an individual, they will forever be able to find a way. It was helpful for me when I was younger.”

“And now you’re war. Unstoppable and ridin’…” She smirked. “Didn’t think you to be the type to think about things like this. Always hit me that you did things mostly… on instinct?”

“Instinct, huh? That’s what you think of me?” Sint started to climb the hill again, hiking slowly up its side. “I did not think that you thought me so reckless.”

“It’s not recklessness. It’s just that you always look so confident. I’ve known this version of you for just what, a handful of hours? And look at you. Everythin’ you’ve said and done has been instant, without doubt.” The elf looked up to the sky, a pensive look on her face. “I suppose it makes some sense that it comes from a human. You live for such short times, you don’t got time to think things through like we do. And honestly, we probably make a fool of ourselves with the choices we do make. To us, we’ve got an eternity. Why rush things?”

“These days, that kind of thinking gets you killed.” Sint’s retort came easy.

The elf didn’t bother to fight against that, because Sint was right. “Took my words right outta my mouth, huh. We’ve got so much longer than you and yours. So maybe forcin’ choices to almost look like instinct makes sense, to me.”

“It’s not instinct.” The warrior reached the top of the hill. “Every choice I make is one I take for my path. I am confident in my goals, thus my decisions are made with confidence.”

“Even when they’re wrong? Like, sendin’ Aranor and Ora out as a team. I may not be in charge here, though I certainly think us lookin’ to you fer guidance is a smart thing, but I don’t think that was smart. They don’t know each other. Hell, Aranor clearly don’t even like us Horde.” The elf began to pester Sint. “Moment he gets the chance, he’ll ditch her.”

“For an elf, you are rather short-sighted. Ironic, coming from someone who used to be blind.” Her words were like steel. “I am willing to put aside my hatred for your people, because I trust that our current adversary is far worse than my feud with you. It is foolish to put yourself before the world, especially when you are out here to defend people. I came to defend my loved ones and my people. For perhaps a selfish mercenary, I can see why such a thought process is absurd.”

“…It’s like that, then?” Ludrasa grimaced. “Thought you were here to kill more Horde.”

“I am.” Such a matter-of-fact answer, though it sent a piercing chill through the nightborne’s body. Praising Sint as she did, it had little effect. Her heart was already set on a goal and nothing could change that.

Naught but death could, and even death seemed to have a tenuous relationship with her. She watched Sint’s grip on her sword tense, though, and looked forward to see what War was watching. Indeed, not far ahead, was exactly what they were looking for. Crouched and barely making an attempt to obscure themselves were a small group of night elves, each of them clad in armor that set them apart from each other. But they weren’t what Sint was looking at, at least not now. She was watching the battlefield, just as they were. And Sint’s eyes were trained on a figure far in the back.

The battlefield was a horrifying one for Ludrasa, as she saw Ora-Ur and what probably was Ko’hea facing off against a dreadful enemy. Ora fell to the ground and just barely managed to fend the monstrosity off. “Sint, don’t you think we should get down there? Sint?”

Whatever she said wasn’t getting to Sint. Neither did the tallest and most elegant of the group of night elves, who had called Sint’s name the moment Ludrasa did. Both the nightborne and the night elf looked at each other in surprise, and both collected a look of concern. The night elf ran forward, closing the gap quickly.

Where Ludrasa was the opposite of graceful, this elf was the embodiment of it. Clad in sleek and form-fitting silver armament, she carried the elegance of Elune as clearly as she carried its wrath. A pair of black eyes looked down at Sint, the dark hallmarks of the Night Warrior crossing the sentinel. The sentinel quirked a snowy brow in concern, placing a slender hand on the human’s shoulder. She was then thrown back a few inches by a stroke of magic. She lifted her blade, pointing it at the figure pacing in the back of the army. “I recognize that one. That one is the one that killed Thuller.”

“Thuller?” Ludrasa glared at Sint. Such a strange thing to expect her to know what that means.

The kaldorei apparently did. “So Thuller is dead, and Toth’arg is confirmed destroyed. The first of many to fall, thanks to you.” Her words did not reach Sint.

Sint’s body began to shake like a leaf in the wind. Her grip continued to tighten, the leather grip of her sword protesting against the force. Then a small shimmer started to glow around her. “I see him and I see red. What is his name?”

“We only know him as Malad.” The night elf looked on, confusion evident in her face.

The answer they both got was a growl, as the typically so composed Shadow of War’s face contorted into a snarl. It was unlike anything Ludrasa had ever seen. Anger. Rage. These things were known to her, of course, but to see them affect someone so rapidly was frightening. At first the shimmer was bronze, then gold… then it started to gather white flames. It was as if Sint was burning in front of them, hot with maddening rage. The ground began to melt. The air grew hot and unbearable. This heat. This sweltering heat. Oppressive, world-shattering. It was War’s hatred. Ludrasa looked back to the night elf. “What do you know about Malad?”

“It has a masculine Gilnean accent. It, however, does not consider itself male or female. Nor does it consider itself human. My battalion has encountered it a few times, as it is the First Blade of the Dark Lord’s army. It thinks itself a death god.” The sentinel bowed her head to Ludrasa. “Apologies for the strange meeting, shal’dorei. I am Sentinel-Captain Tarro Stardew, master of the Silver Battalion.”

“Yer the chick Aranor’s been tryin’ to get us to meet! Good to meet, I guess! Surprised you ain’t tryin’ to skewer me.” Ludrasa threw up her hands in mock surrender.

“We have no quarrel, child of Suramar. I can tell your hands are not stained with ashes, and for that, I shall spare you. Prove otherwise, however, and you shall join the many who painted the Horde crimson with my people’s blood.” She was polite, at the very least, when she threatened people.

“What do we do about her? She’s losin’ it.” Ludrasa jerked her thumb at Sint.

Tarro stepped back. “For now, we watch. We will intervene if necessary. I do not know what troubles her, and this power she displays tells me to not concern myself about it. Such things shall only give my Battalion hardship.”

“Convenient excuse to stay out of her way.” The nightborne snorted, attempting to put some levity into a dangerous situation. She found herself retreating further back, each time a new pulse of magic left Sint’s body. It genuinely looked extremely painful, the veins in her neck and on her forehead evident as she bared her teeth in a deep snarl. The gold in her eyes was flickering white, just like the flames around her, until they simply changed color. The moment they did, Ludrasa swore the world was going to shake apart. The pressure that had mounted shattered, causing the ground beneath them to rumble and break. Sint fell to a knee, but she never once started to yell. Her eyes never averted. This infinite fury was targeted towards one thing, and it made her surrender all else. No tears. No cries in pain. Just a word ending anger, beyond any anger she’d seen.

She didn’t know why, and it didn’t seem that Sint did either. She couldn’t be that mad that that ghost stole her kill, could she?

Such musing was broken as she watched Sint rise from her kneeling position, practically covered in a raging inferno. She lifted her sword upwards, angling it as if she were about to throw it. There was a point when that blade no longer represented a mortal instrument, turning into a pure white javelin of Light. For some reason, as Sint held this near divine weapon in hand, she swore she heard a man laughing. As she tracked Malad’s movements, he grew closer to the fight between the other ‘Blade’ and Ko’hea, Ora-ur, and Aranor who had just grappled the monstrosity. “Sint, wait! What about the others! If you throw that thing, they’d be in the impact!”

“Silence, child of Suramar. Just watch.” Tarro’s voice was reverent.

Ludrasa couldn’t do much else, it seemed, so she complied. It was an awe-inspiring sight, even if it was terrifying. A human, a mere human, grasped the power of the divine. The potential of mortals was beyond anything she could comprehend.

Then she flung that sword so hard that it rended open the dark clouds above. The black moon loomed above them as a white streak was as a comet through the air, striking the ground with the force of a groundquake. Then Ludrasa watched, wordlessly, as Sint dove from the edge of the cliff, her magical power carrying her body to the crater where her sword now struck from. “Damn… she’d make Sargeras blush.”

Said remark did not reach Sint, just like all the words before. For some inexplicable reason, she had felt a rage like no other fill her body. The last she felt such a thing was when she awoke from the stupor that was Warrior, hearing her wife call her name. Such things, love and rage, they were not familiar to Sint. Thus, they always burned far more passionately when they came on strong. Her love was exaggerated. Her anger was blown far out of proportion. But today? It was real. She didn’t feel as detached from this rage as she had from all emotion she felt before.

And she didn’t know why. Perhaps that confusion is what truly broke her composure, why she now rose from a crater of her own making with a blade pointed at a servant of the Dark Lord. The battle no longer raged around them, as each and every fighter within the Horde and the Black legion stopped to see what happened. Even the four who quarreled in the center of the battlefield stopped their desperate struggle. Lightning struck. Fury arose. War rode unbidden with the reigns of devastation.

Sint came by heaven and sea. Her heart and soul now were laid bare.

With white fury, she looked Malad in its masked face, the wraith taken aback by her sudden arrival. “Who are you?”

“My daughter! What a surprise.”

[Moontouched-wyrmrest-accord]

hurk… another

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

Chapter 14: The Shadow of War
The End of Arc 1

Everything went wrong. The people in the West weren’t meant to be found by an enemy. Blackfist wasn’t supposed to be alive. The people from Sint’s past shouldn’t have been involved. And Aerick Dagon was alive.

It didn’t take a genius to take a look at Sint Dagon, body wreathed with white hatred, to know that this was one of the more dire outcomes of the day. Even though she had torn open the sky above, revealing the black moon, all eyes were focused on a different divinity. Elune manifested herself above them, yet the kaldorei could not whisper her name. The orcs dared not seek the comfort of the ancestors. The trolls could hardly recall their oaths to their Gods. Even the solitary soul on the field who yearned for the Light’s radiance could not beg for its warmth, as his eyes were dead set on something more real. More terrible. More tangible.

They had all heard the stories. They all knew her name. Even the two wraiths of the Black Legion stood back. One dropped to a knee, the other clapped its hands. “Marvelous! Simply marvelous. Since the day you were born I knew you were meant for something greater than humanity! Look at her, all of you! We live in the age of gods!” Malad’s voice was thick with pride. “I am proud of you, my daughter.”

Sint did not look at him, her head still downturned. She was oddly still for someone covered with divine heat. The fires around her danced in a festival dedicated to her. Much of the armor she marched with, that mortal black and red, had been scorched and seared away. What remained was the lowest layer of that steel, which had been urged to glow a bright silver as it grew hotter and hotter. Hands once shrouded by claws were now uncovered, Sint’s dark skin a contrast to the blinding fury around her. They clenched into fists, her body slowly returning to motion. She trembled.

“Is that what you see, abomination? Pride? Were you proud when you cast my sister aside like refuse? Was it pride that put me in a gilded cage, isolated from the world until it was undone? Your pride was the thing that killed mother? If it was pride that forced your hand, then I curse pride. I curse hope. I curse the divine and I curse you.” It was not fear or grief that caused her body to shake. To hear one’s father speak again might have driven them to joy, but as all who were present to witness War’s awakening saw… This hatred was not pointed at the Darkness that had swallowed Aerick Dagon. It was pointed at him, at the thing that Aerick became. It sent a shiver down Aranor’s spine to hear someone he respected speak to her father the way she did. Tarro Stardew did not expect her first meeting with Sint to go this way, fearing that perhaps it was a grave error to allow her to find them. And Ora-Ur clutched Ludrasa’s hand, terrified. The elf wordlessly looked back at her, fear in her eyes. Ko’hea stood as she always did, proud of her duty, but she offered a silent prayer to whatever might be listening.

Malad stepped back, with Yama hesitantly following him. The First Blade wasn’t expecting this answer. “…Is this what you thought of me? After everything I did for you? You, a meek little blind girl, you had no route to success! I gave you everything, you ungrateful child. The world had nothing to offer you, as you had nothing to offer it. There is nothing you are now that isn’t because of me!” He lifted his right hand upwards.

“And you never thought to ask me what I wanted.” Her breathing was all wrong, her lungs sounding as if they were ready to pop. “Never once did it matter what your family wanted. It was all about your glory and your gain.” With a horrible first step, the ground shuddered. Azeroth herself felt terrified by War’s awakening. “Power was all that you sought, each and every day you woke. That which the world offered you was not enough, so you took. And you took.” She scaled the crater, each step leaving a searing mark in the stone. “I ask you. Do you truly believe that I had no potential? Or was that an excuse for the life you stole from me, father?” That word, father, was spoken as if it were a curse. Weighty and filled with untold venom, it was almost swung as if it were a weapon. To the point that Malad went to defend himself, his blade appearing in his extended hand. He stood, hoping himself prepared for the onslaught he had brought to this place.

“I ask you this. Did you even love her? Or was mother just another pawn in your pathetic little game?” War did not look at him yet, her head still turned downwards.

“Of course I loved her. I loved you, too.” Malad lowered his guard for a second. “I fought for your future because I believed in you, Sint. Your name, it is the name of a hero.” The wraith honestly seemed to forget that he was meant to be the enforcer of a Dark Lord. His stance softened. “So, it seems I did something wrong. Would you give me a chance to try again?”

She looked up, finally. The gold in her eyes was a fearsome silvery glow, almost blending in with the whites of her eyes. That glare alone was enough to stagger Malad. “Listen to yourself.” A voice that once had traces of song, places where joy could one day return to, had changed. War did not speak with Sint’s voice, though it was clear they were once the same person. Clenched, a fist lifted up. “A man such as you has no right to beg. You held your head so high, so high that even the Kings of this world did not matter to you. A life lived in such disregard for power does not belong in the place you find yourself now. A lapdog to an orc. I am embarrassed to be related to you, scum. Do us all a favor and stand still.” Her clenched fist unfurled, her sword ripped from the ground with an unseen and tremendous force. Rebellion landed in her unclenched hand, soon finding itself embraced by a fist again. The silver Light she had imbued it with before return, replacing the weapon with a shimmering javelin.

Nobody expected another voice to join this familial dispute. “Sint, wait! That thing is your father? You can’t kill him!” It was mundane Aranor who spoke, a man untouched by divinity or magic. Perhaps he was now proven to be the bravest, or most foolish, of the people assembled today. “Perhaps he deserves death, but I can’t let you live with this! Don’t you think you’ve had enough sorrow?”

“Family does not mean anything to me. They are all dead, all of them. I am doing my late father a favor by destroying this mockery of his name. This power… this strength…” She leaned forward, her arms went limp. For a moment the fire died down, the person Sint became almost seemingly curled up in pain. When her other fist tightened, Aranor could only pray for Sint’s safety as this new being struck out. As if the presence of Malad was an outrage to the heavens, she launched herself with the strength of the world. Before she reached it, however, it called out to the Black Legion.

“What are you standing around for?! She’s going to kill me! At least win this battle!” Then, with all the strength invested to it by Blackfist, he met his daughter’s blade before it could bisect Malad. It brought its sword down to its side just barely before she struck, the lash of her blade impacting hard against accursed steel. The force of such a strike would have likely shattered most weaponry and most men, but luckily, Malad no longer was a man. It slid multiple meters before it stopped, a searing mark left in the First Blade’s weapon. Malad knew it could not take another strike like that head on.

Then it looked behind itself, boggling at the sight. Divinity compelled into that slash had been unbidden by its defense, a deep blazing gash in the ground behind it. It would have wept if it still had a face. To be granted such power after so much hard work, only for one of the few in all of creation capable enough to stop it appeared before it. Unsteady, Malad took one step back. Fire lapped at the blacksteel boots it wore, and it could feel the holy pressure threatening to bite through that accursed metal. None of Blackfist’s measures had prepared for this, at least, not enough for his minions to stand up against it.

Was this why the Dark Lord had spent so much time studying Sint, after his death at her hands?

Was it because he had seen this war, once before? As if to answer Malad, time slowed to a stop, the sky growing dark again. This was something all servants of the Dark Lord had grown used to. The Dark Lord’s realm. Shrouded in shadow, Stonetalon faded to black, before a line of crimson candles lit the way to a throne wrought of ichorous earth.

Before the Dark Lord, Malad was rendered merely as Aerick again. Such ascendent strength was nothing to his master. He knelt. “…My Lord. I don’t understand.”

A fog covered the throne, but Aerick could see the colossal form of his master move. His all-consuming voice ripped through the relatively peaceable dark, conquering the shadow and Aerick’s thoughts of safety. His voice alone was a reminder that Aerick’s life and strength were all dependent on his master, and there was no future away from his master’s path. “Aerick Dagon. You had a question.”

“I meant no disrespect, but I never could understand why you spent so much time on my daughter.” Aerick was free to speak plainly to his master, duplicity was never necessary with a being of such power. “I never saw anything but disappointment in the girl, so to see her again, so unlike what she was before… To think that she was the War you were so focused on, it boggles the mind.”

“That is the problem with mortals. Such limited perspective.” The Dark Lord seemed to rest his chin against his fist, heavy armor rattling as he moved. “Where you saw the limits of her physical being, you never saw what she was. It is why you appealed to me. Why any mortal appeals to a God.”

“My Lord?” Dagon looked up at his master, perplexed.

“Weakness. You were a weak little creature, scraping and fighting for tiny pieces of power. You had no knowledge. You had nothing but your duplicity.” The Dark Lord pointed at Aerick. “Then you began to serve our master. And then, me.” There was a slight note of disdain in the Dark Lord’s voice. “You were nothing, and then became powerful. Why is it a stretch that your blood could do the same?”

“She’s surpassed me, my Lord. I stand no chance! It’s preposterous, but ultimately true. How? What let this happen?” Not unlike War, Aerick was outraged.

“The answer is simple. You discarded things that you regarded as weaknesses, whilst she never possessed those weaknesses. Sniveling, conniving, arrogant. You are a common stereotype that managed just slightly to break the mold by bending the knee to your betters, with dignity.” Blackfist stood, his glowing blue eyes never looking away from Aerick. “She is better. She is more than your blood, far more. Do you not see, foolish man? You forced the world to make her into what she is. War is a product of your arrogance.”

Aerick shook his head. He stood with balled fists, fury evident on his spectral face. “…Impossible!”

“Do not make a fool of yourself. Calm yourself, man.” Blackfist grabbed his helmet from where it rested on his throne, the Dark Lord now descending from his seat. “Your battle is not yet lost. After all, I expected her to fall to this. You were bait.”

The dark world broke away and once again, Malad was whole. Shaken, yet whole. It- no… he. He saw the clouds begin to blaze with the same ferocity his daughter was displaying. It took less than a second for the wraith to return to his plan of battle, to hold War off as long as he could before his Black Legion escort won the battle. He expected to see his superior forces running down the remnants of the Horde squadron, only to be surprised to see that his forces were being pushed into a standstill. A few elven glaives were caught in the mud, opening the wraith’s eyes to the fact that the Black Moon finally reached the Dark Lord’s land. Blackfist would be displeased.

Another swipe of War’s blade shook Malad to his senses, forcing the wraith to prepare for another heavy impact. Summoning a dark barrier this time, he just barely saved his sword from being bent in twain by the weapon of the wrathful. The dark was easily broken, like taking a sledge to glass. This could not be kept up for much longer, until Malad looked upon his compatriot. Yama-O was clearly damaged from her fight against the Horde and the human ranger, but she had fight left in her. The only thing was, she did not rush to his aid. It looked to Malad that Yama was waiting for War to kill him, to give her a one on one battle with War.

“You idiot! Stop gawking at me and help me defeat the Dark Lord’s enemy! If we win today, we will be afforded great glory!” Malad called to her, and it almost seemed in vain. The younger wraith rolled her head back and forth, groaning and moaning in thought. Then, something must have clicked in her bellicose head.

“Right. If she can kill you, then she could cream me.” She curled her hands into claw-like shapes. “Not that being killed by her isn’t a dream, but I’m not out to die today.”

“I’m not going to ask what fantasies are in your head, Yama. Just… Keep it reigned in.” Malad lifted his sword, tracking the slowly advancing War. “I want to last beyond this day, as I have strived much too long for power to die by this petulant child’s hand.”

“Whatever you say. I’m just amped to fight someone this strong.” Yama sounded excited, much to Malad’s intense displeasure. He could never understand how Yama-O could be so eager to fight powers that dwarfed her own. “Think she puts up as good a fight as master does?”

“If she does, then we will die.” Malad brought his blade in front of him, lifting it up just slightly. He gripped the hilt of it with his other hand, bringing the sword down into a short guard. “Such a thing cannot be the truth.”

“You say a lot of things aren’t possible. But you thought it was impossible she could even be this tough, and then she is.” The younger wraith probably would have sneered at her if this form had a face.

He steadied himself. “Well. The truth is a fickle mistress. Today, I hope it is on my side, for once in my bloody life.”

Approaching slowly, War’s slow march was greatly intimidating. Akin to a prowling predator, it was impossible to tell when she was going to pounce. The shadow she cast was long and great, as if she were a colossus amongst them all. Her brother had stood a colossus of war, but she was not something belonging to war. She was not the Shadow of War. That name was a lie. It was simply wrong. Beholding what stood before him now was simply done, now. There was no theory. There was no need to think about what his daughter became.

Blackfist was right to do all he did in preparation. If it even mattered now.

War, not the Shadow of War nor Sint Dagon, stood against him here. And it was a result of his own hubris. With nothing else to blame but his own deeds, he steeled himself for the consequences. It did not take long for them to hit. As she neared, he lunged, his blade thrusting forward with quite a bit of might. If he could take her off-guard, Yama could capitalize and send War on the backfoot. Alas, it seemed she was truly inexorable. His blade was easily caught by War’s bare hand, knocked to the side as if it were a child’s plaything.

Yama did her best to try to protect her superior, a flurry of lightning-fast jabs flung into War’s side. And it left her mostly unphased, a snarl on her face. She spun her fist into Yama’s head, sending the wraith spiraling into the dirt. Ora-Ur audibly cursed. “You’re kidding! It took three of us to land a good hit on her!”

“And she still would’ve killed us.” Ko’hea added, dryly.

“I knew it was smart to wait.” Aranor added with a triumphant note, although his confidence quickly wavered. He seemed to doubt the success of his plan ‘to wait for Sint’.

Malad stood, trying to regain his poise. The wraith danced backwards. Using as much noble footwork he could, he tried to maintain the posture of a fencer now, using his sword more as a thrusting weapon than a slashing weapon. To be fair, his blade was slim and simple, much unlike the more gaudy weapons many of the other wraiths used. Only Yama could claim to have something more mundane, as her fists were her only weapon. As War swung her sword in an unruly arc, Malad began to see that this threat was not as grave as he first believed. Although she could kill him with ease, she was flailing like a rampaging beast. Each strike was fast, but the speed was not something he could not adjust to. Blackfist made him his First Blade for a reason, for Malad carried an uncanny trait to understand a person by looking at them.

Sure it took him a moment to read his own daughter, but to be fair, she did startle him by still even drawing breath. So what if he saw her before and disregarded his suspicion due to his doubts? He second guessed himself. A rare thing, but it happened. He would clean this mess up, as it was his duty. After years of burying rivals and rising through the social structure of gloomy, paranoid Gilneas, it was only right that he was able to size someone up and dispatch them. Just usually, he didn’t have to do it personally. Usually that miscreant, Lord Gyre, would do the dirty work for him.

Karth was a continent away, doing whatever the bidding of one of his master’s “allies”. He could not rely on the Malevolent here. He pranced around his daughter’s raging blows, each strike boiling stone and scarring the earth. It was true that he did not wish to be on the receiving end of any of them, as they continued to grow stronger and stronger. Yama watched, waited. It was good that that ruffian could understand when to wait for her superior’s signal. Malad deflected a strike that got too close for comfort, casting a quick shadowstep to get him behind Yama. War was practically frothing as she looked around for him, likely only seeing red. “My my, Sint. You’ve gotten quite proficient with your craft! To think you’d excel at the trade I wanted you to bother with the least. It’s as if you did everything you could to spit on your own father’s hard work.” He gave a curt chuckle. “It’s a shame, however, that you fight like that mongrel. I should have had Dengarl killed, not allowed to taint you nor Santo. But he did, and here I am, suffering the consequences.”

“Uh… boss?” Yama stepped back a few paces, nearly bumping into Malad. There was a clear hesitation in her voice.

“What is it? Do not waste my time.” Malad was in the midst of declaring victory. What could this buffoon have to say- then Malad started to follow the direction Yama was looking. The fiery gash wrought in the earth started to glow brighter as furious blazing walls of fire spouted up. Like the talons of a phoenix, they cast darkness away like a father would his belligerent son. Malad didn’t quite understand until he looked back to War, who stood eerily still near the most recently cut scar.

“What did you say? Kill Dengarl?” Her voice was light, but it was not kind. Unlike the ominous and heavy-handed speech before, Sint seemed as far away as the stars. “My brother. The one who saved my life, time and time again. The one who helped me see the light that never was given to me? The one who died so that I could live?” But Malad had to remember that this warrior was Sint no longer. As her grip tightened on her blade, she turned to face him, both hands now wrapped around its hilt. She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Everyone is dead because of you. I considered that you were just a phantom using my father’s voice… but even a phantom wouldn’t remember my brother’s name.”

Malad could feel Yama tense. She fought like a wild animal, that one, but she also had the senses of one. For a moment, he swore the flames transformed themselves into a skull or a scythe of some sort, though he was wise enough to know it was his mind playing tricks on him. For in truth, he saw what happened. The wall of flame now encircled the three of them. No escape. Either he worked out how to kill War, or both he and Yama would be turned into dust and thrown into the wind.

“You didn’t believe that Aerick was capable of these things? That revered Lord Dagon could not commit such deeds? The world is not a clean place, Sint. Our bloodline is tainted! Look at yourself now, controlled by the very magic planted into the first of our lineage! Why would you come here, other than to serve the whims of the beasts who control this world? Blackfist gave me a chance to break our chains!” He put one foot forward, his fist brought up. “This world is a prison!”

War did not give a response, only lifting her blade into a proper stance. It was clear that this deity was prepared to take his head for his words. Never had he expected to fight in a ring of white flames, a black moon looming over head, battling to the death with a divinity. In truth, Aerick did not expect many things that happened to him over the years. If you asked any of the people present for the battle today if they expected any of this to happen, they would have probably turned you down and called you insane for even suggesting the notion. Yet there they were. Malad prepared to return to his dance, the duelist’s posture returned.

Then, Malad found himself face to face with the warring divinity, her blade coming to take his head. He pushed Yama into the path of the blade. “Malad?!” And then, one moment Yama was there, the next the echo of her screams were all that remained. Malad watched Yama get obliterated from this world, and a deep terror filled him. Something unlike he’d ever felt, even when he died and when he first faced his master. He hadn’t even felt this terror at the thoughts of failing the Dark Lord.

It wasn’t his smartest choice to leap through the molten firewall, but what choice else did he have? War would crush him with ease. The least he could do is attempt to flee. All of his confidence in his power, all of his confidence in his talent, it went to waste. Malad came to this battle unprepared, and was about to die for it. But War did not chase him. As he lay on the ground, forced to discard much of his binding armor due to it being melted together, he had expected to meet the same fate as Yama-O. Yet he didn’t. That fearsome glowing blade did not pierce his chest, that ferocious glare did not burn him. He only found that he was in the company of a few of the Black Legion who remained, who were quickly being pushed back. They had the Horde, they did! This day was supposed to end with the birth of a new Wraith Knight, with the Horde squadron crushed. Instead, Yama-O was vanquished and her entire escort was in shambles. And he nearly faced his true death.

He swallowed what remained of his ascendent pride, feeling very human in the face of the true divine. The power of the Dark Lord may have been his own, but he could not claim to hold a candle to either War or Conquest.

A shout belted from the fire, before it burst. Many of the Black Legion were vaporized by the blast wave, but so too were many of the Horde. Malad looked on, perplexed. He then watched his salvation, and perhaps the true reason the Dark Lord sent him here this day. Both to humble him and to witness his enemy’s downfall. Blindly, War started to swing at the Horde soldiers, and even a few sentinels who had leapt into the fray. He watched as the sentinel leader, a nightborne, and the three who battled Yama-O rushed to stop their ally.

War was untamed. War was unbidden. War came like a true inferno, to burn all the world to ash. Such was her hatred. Such was her fury. And thus, it was her greatest weakness. Sint Dagon was being driven mad by the fire within her, by the War she had become.

“This is Goth’gor’s victory. My lord… I am sorry to have ever doubted you!” And with the death that now seeped into the environment, Malad was able to use it to turn himself into a cloud of misty magic. The First Blade was eager to see his reward for providing his master with victory.

He saw death in that fire.

The death of Azeroth.

The Banished One’s victory.

Blackfist’s victory.

[Halij-wyrmrest-accord]

preemptive bump.

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

whoops

Conquest Part 2: The Coalition of War
Chapter 15: Once in a Lifetime

A blur.

An echo.

A beat.

Shafts of light broke through great and immovable shadows, as if the world of dark had been reborn as a world of light. Sleep, so simple and easy, broken away back to a cruel world of duality. Perhaps it would have been nice to remain in an easy place such as that, a cold yet comforting place, far away from the heat of hatred.

But this sleeping soul could feel the harshness of the real world on their skin, could see the light of one hateful star through cracked lids, and could smell death in the air. These things were free from the depths of a dreamless slumber.

Hands gripped uselessly at the ground as the soul stirred, rising in a haze. What felt like a raging fire burned through their head. The pain was all that kept the soul from returning to oblivion, their mind catching up. They were Sint Dagon. She, only what felt like a second ago, was clutching her head as Dragonfire whipped up into a fury around her. Now she was on her back, body wracked in a similar pain that filled her consciousness when the fires began to take over. The smell of brimstone and burnt flesh wafted through the air, which is what woke her. Groggy, she rose from the makeshift bed she laid on. It was more a bedroll, her head propped up just barely by a log and a pillow.

There was no time to wonder how she got here, what was going on, or even if her war was still ongoing. She was not a prisoner here, at least, things didn’t seem to be near reinforced enough to hold her. Lifting as slowly as she could to avoid any further pains, her vision was able to refocus and pay attention to the details of the room she was in. Surprisingly, it was a room. At first, she thought it was a hollowed out tree, but then caught herself as she knew well enough the signs of treeweaving. Grown by song and kindness, a small brush of trees would be molded into any shape, as a mutual trade between a druid and the ecosystem around them. Then it was likely she was still in the custody of the night elves, but… She shook her head. She slapped her hands against her face to psyche herself awake, jumping as she did. That got the blood flowing, a little.

She reached for a weapon, but didn’t find one. So, she’d have to improvise. Looking around the room for any furniture, she came up empty of anything she could use. That was until she looked back to the bedroll propped against that log. Crude, but it’d suffice. Lacking armor and dressed in the little underneath her battlegear, Sint wrapped a blanket around her neck. She swung the log through the air a few times, testing its heft. Everything was prepared by the time Sint peered through the ajar doorway. Senses still fuzzy and head still throbbing, she could barely make out what she saw through the blinding sunlight. Had she really slept through the morning?

Two fighters stood nearby, both pointy enough to probably be elves. She spoke. “Sold-” Then she caught herself in surprise, her voice notably much deeper than usual. Had she slept that deeply? “Ahem. Soldiers. What’s the situation?”

Taller than her, the first sentry looked down with obvious surprise. The night elf, touched by the Night Warrior, was stained with soot and blood. Auburn eyebrows furrowed. “The healer told the truth…”

The other elf, a high elf, nodded slowly. Calmer than his partner, he spoke evenly. “Lady Dagon, shouldn’t you be resting? Your last battle took a lot out of you.” Betraying the look on his face and the candor of his voice, he started to white-knuckle his sword’s grip.

“I restate the question, though this time, I demand to know what is going on.” She didn’t like the tone of her own voice, but it seemed to convince the night elf to speak. He was clearly more rattled than his partner.

“You don’t remember? Well, let me catch you up. You’re in Halicanaar, a settlement my people had to abandon during the start of the War.” He did his best to ignore the glare he got from his partner. Anxious, he gulped. “The Silver Battalion’s been using it for a moment as a sort of garrison. Though, it looks like we’re going to have to abandon it.”

“Abandon it?” Sint shook her head. “I will not flee from this foe. Give me your sword.”

The high elf’s calm expression broke. The nerves were evident in his stuttering tone. “H-he can’t do that, ma’am.”

“Are you denying me, soldier?” Despite her height, the elf felt as if she were looking down at him. “On whose orders?”

“Someone with good interest in keeping us all alive, including you.” The high elf stepped back, his sky-blue eyes narrowing at her. “You clearly don’t know what’s going on. Do you even remember the Scouring of the Whitebloom fields, or was that all done in a fit of blind anger?”

“The scouring?” Lady Dagon stood back, a colorful glare now cutting through her features.

The elf trembled in anger. Though he stood before such a force of destruction, he did not fear to speak his mind. “You leapt from the sky and defied everything right in the world. It still burns. Those fields still burn!” With that, he grit his teeth, and ran off to defend what remained of the camp. The night elf looked to the side, his abyss stained eyes betraying the internal struggle he was going through.

If Sint’s gut feeling was right, she lost control. Dragonfire finally overwhelmed her senses and turned her rabid. A pit formed in her gut as she felt a sinking feeling hit. It wasn’t the enemy that had these people scared. Nor was it the Black Legion’s fault that she woke up in unfamiliar territory. It was entirely her fault, her problem. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know she was losing control. The hot flashes. The anger that wasn’t her own. Pain in her heart. The spirits of her ancestors. Some divine force had hijacked the soul of her family, and was burning her from the inside. She knew this. But she didn’t know how to stop it, or how bad it got. Something disgusting brewed inside of her. She could feel it. Worse than the black volcano in the Redridge. Worse than the malefic rage of a mad dragon, far worse than the righteous fury that powered the armies of the Light. No. This was not a mundane anger. This was not a divine anger. Though compelled by both mortality and immortality, the thing within Sint was nothing short of world-ending.

And she needed it. These people, this army… they needed it. This horrendous thing that coiled around her heart, that ripped away her sanity. People needed it for the battles ahead.

Her brother came to peace with the fire within, but it was perhaps because he never needed to call upon its truth in combat. Fire was something he was known for, that was a certainty, but he never once invoked the thing that was turning Sint to ash. She cursed. “Damnit… if only he were alive…”

“Milady?” The elf fiddled nervously with the hilt of one of two sheathed blades. “Did you say something?”

“No. Perhaps it’s best that I leave the fighting to the defenders of Halicanaar.” An unsettling burst of energy started to rip away the fatigue that once seeped into her bones. Like a winter chill chased away by the warmth of a much too early summer. Such energy was hard to hide from her voice, which lacked the immediate sensations of someone stirred suddenly from a long and deep sleep. “If what I suspect is true, then I cannot act with a good conscience. Madness has no use on the field.”

“If I may, Lady Dagon?” He seemed to be slowly gathering his resolve.

“You are clearly not under my command. Speak your mind.” She casually gestured for him to speak, certain he’d have little of importance to add. That was because she failed to remember the similar state of the night elves, their patron Goddess’ wrath quite literally painted across their faces.

“Usually, faced with great power, I find myself unshaken. I am witness to so many spectacular things, some that you may even find unimaginable. The time of the Ancients, when the land was filled with endless splendor and magic, freed from the grime of this modern age. Suramar is the last remnant of that which was, and you know of its glory.” The elf drew one of his weapons. “There were those who even made your Guardians look small.”

“But I frighten you?” Sint did not expect to hear this from the elf.

“Is that so shocking?” The kaldorei shook his head, his eyes closed. “Yes. You horrify me, young one. You reflect something that the High Priestess faces, madness at the end of a necessary power.” He then looked at her, his sight both scrutinizing yet horrified. “What haunts me is the voices of the people I have seen lost to great power, but none have ever been as great as yours or the Night Warrior’s. I don’t know where your’s came from, Lady Dagon, but I already hear the dead screaming your name.”

That sent a shiver down Sint’s spine.

“Hail to a new God.” He knelt, offering his sword. “I feel you do not need this, but it is a gift nonetheless. Anta’dorini Talah.”

Let your will be known. She held the elf’s blade as he left, drawing his other to join his comrades in battle. Sint did not urge to join him, speechless, frozen where she stood. It was no secret to the world that the Children of the Stars were the most devout souls in the world. Faith was not something debated within night elvish society, it was an easy fact. Elune, and all things ascribed to Elune, were true. They needed no interpretation. They needed no guidance based on Elune’s word. If there was a night elf that existed who did not believe in Elune, Sint had never met or heard of the sort. Nor had she seen many kaldorei’s faiths shaken. Even the Burning of Teldrassil proved to strengthen their faith in their goddess, even as she failed to protect them in their hour of greatest need. They stood, black-eyed and grey-skinned, paragons of a wrathful deity.

But that one, that defender of Halicanaar, just offered tribute to her as a goddess. He spoke in undeniable heresies to her, even as he wore the battle-garb of his goddess.

“Do you know what Halicanaar was, before it fell?” A spectral voice rose from behind her, gruff and familiar. Sint did not need to turn to know it was Svenrir who spoke. “Now, before we get ahead of ourselves, yes. I didn’t stop your rampage.”

“You were even aware? I flailed like a berserk devilsaur, chewing up everything in my path.” Sint finally let the log in her hand drop, now swinging her new weapon. “Surprising that you kept your awareness through all of that.”

“The power you hold is your’s. What you do with it has little effect on us, at least, not in a way that could harm us.” The man walked to where Sint could see him, standing to her side. He was notably clearer than the last time she spoke to him, his body not made of pure golden energy. It was like looking at a man through a piece of colored glass, now, and if that man was mildly translucent. “In fact, that rampage empowered us. I doubt the Black Legion could threaten Giant’s Landing now, if the Gift-Giver was juiced up just like the rest of us.”

“So then, why? Why did you stand back?” Sint didn’t dare to yet look him in the eye, rage bubbling in her chest.

“To be honest, there was nothing I could’ve done about that.” Svenrir was brutally honest. “I am a spirit. You were outputting enough firepower to outpace a Legion ship. The hell am I supposed to do? Swing my not real axe at you?”

“Fair point.” Sint grimaced. “But you didn’t even say a thing.”

The ghostly warrior knew she’d say that, even though his face showed a bit of surprise. Even expected, it wasn’t something he wanted to answer. He drew in a hesitant breath, also surprised that a ghost could do such a thing. He sat in a chair manifested from golden light. “You know how it is.”

Sint narrowed her eyes. “Do I?”

He rubbed his great black beard, grumbling in thought. “You do. Talking about these things, it’s never been easy. Not for you, not for me, not for anyone in your bloodline. We’re not open people. We don’t talk to anyone about our… troubles.” Svenrir sighed. “It always shocked me that I never met your father. Did I observe him? Of course. He had the gift. He knew he had the gift. But he never reached out. He always attempted to find it in such… faulty ways. Dengarl found it at the depths of despair, as the sole light remaining in his life. You found it after facing a great trauma, the strength of your will ushering in power. Artessa found it through her unbreakable faith. I found it because of a sheer act of bravery, something no other man would’ve done. Every Dagon who has touched the power of the Gift did something great to deserve it. Each of us stood strong through the tides of darkness before we could carry this torch, because we needed to prove ourselves.”

Sint remained silent. Sven paused to allow her to speak, as she tended to have questions for these sorts of things. But Sint’s curiosity was nowhere to be seen. Just silence. The first Dagon chose to keep going. “Your father never did these things. He always tried to cheat it, and he hurt so many to reach it. You. Dengarl. Koda. Even Santo, the boy he doted on.”

“…Brother.” Sint then gave her forefather an urgent look. “Even him?”

“It wasn’t a true father’s devotion. I treated my boys fairly and with a sturdy hand, but never in the way Aerick did. Aerick saw Santo as the way to finally achieve the power he thought was destined to be his.” The spirit shook his head. “You are right to say you have no father, Sint. Even thinking that Aerick is related to me makes me wish I could possess bodies to chase him down and end him with my own hands.”

Sint closed her eyes. “I feel awful for putting so much faith on the shoulders of Dengarl, while Santo died protecting us all. I hope he died without knowledge of this fire… This horrible thing within me.”

“I doubt Santo begrudges you much for loving Dengarl more than you loved him. Perhaps the realization stung at the time, but his heart was in a good place when he died.” Svenrir stood, that magical seat evaporating into gilded mist. “His heart was full of love when he gave his life. Love for his family, for his wife, for his son. For you. For Dengarl. Even for Geneva, a girl his father always insisted was lowly trash.”

Sint lowered her sword in a fluid movement, lifting her chin up and opening her eyes. Where one may have expected a joyous sadness, there was only resolve. “Thank you, Svenrir. I think I know what Halicanaar is. It’s a tomb, and these guardians stand to defend the honor of the dead. What use does the Black Legion have coming here, other than to take me?”

“I can’t say. While you were out, I tried to do my best to keep an ear open. But travel’s a little restricted when the fire is dim.” He jabs a thumb towards the direction of the fighting. “What is somewhat telling, though, is that they attacked the defenders first. They didn’t come for you, at all. Nor did they go for the tombs. Now, you’ve got to get back into the fight. We’ve done our best to renew your strength, now use it.”

Halicanaar wasn’t completely abandoned, Sint could see it. As she ran forward to leave the small encampment that was built around the woven home she was sequestered in, she could see the signs that people still lived here. It had been mostly left to ruin, however, and she could see the scars of recent warfare evident. Buildings were punctured by artillery fire. A temple lay shattered and scattered not far from her, atop a central hill. But, what was most striking, were the remains of the great tomb. She wasn’t aware that the Kaldorei kept crypts like Halicanaar’s great tomb, but it dwarfed even the temple complex of Darnassus in scale. It was built into a mountain, akin to many ancient fortresses of the Highborne, even hewn of the same black stone. Was it possible Halicanaar was one of the few remaining Highborne cities left on Azeroth?

Sigils of the old dynasty were prevalent across the stonework that she could see, though she was certain the tomb went much further and became more ornate the further in she went. Some entrances were buried by sediment or by crumbling stone. It was clear, however, that great pains had been taken to make sure the structure was maintained. Then it hit her that the statues she swore she saw were elves. At least thirty of them stood still, each at a post, well armed and covered in armor.

It gave her the message that the tomb was extremely sacred to these people. Their city lay under siege and over half abandoned, yet they didn’t leave the side of their duty. She gave a nod to them, even if they didn’t see her, to promise that she would break this siege eventually. The bloodied night elf didn’t stand too far away from where Sint had run, surrounded by dead orcs. He was breathing heavily, his sword stained with black blood. “War has come at last. Do you fight this day, to turn this land to ash, or do you come to spare it?”

“I wish to leave this place to its defenders. To fight a war, I require valuable allies, and this place is not their hold.” War observed, seeing how limited the defenses of Halicanaar were. “This is an outpost, a place to keep me far away from the heart of it all.”

“They feared a wrathful awakening. If it is your desire to meet with the coalition, then I shall take you to them.” The elf wiped the blood from his blade by passing it through the crook of his elbow. “I will warn that those within the Coalition do not wish to see you. Their hearts have been hardened to your path, as your wrath harmed many of them.”

“I care not for their hearts. I only care that they are useful and willing to fight.” Sint was frightened by her own voice. The role of a goddess was not one she wished to take, but it felt like it was natural for her to possess the role. “If they cannot fight, then I will fight without them. Conquest does not stand opposed only by them.”

“The path is clear for now, Great War. Let us away from Halicanaar, before the spirits of the old dynasty are roused any further.” The elvish soldier pointed through a line of hanging ivy, where a clear draft was blowing through. “That path shall take us to the Land of the Goddess, where the Black Legion does not dare chase yet. Whitebloom serves as a reminder of what happens if they dare cross over, even if Whitebloom was your doing.”

Sint quirked a cut eyebrow. “They believe Elune is responsible for something I did?”

“Yes. Otherwise, they would have to admit you are alive.” The elf cracked a small smile. “Admitting that you are a true warring divinity would be an admittance of defeat. Thus, they choose to think that you perished in white flames that still yet rage. You hold the advantage.”

War smiled. Sint was uneasy. Either way, the march had to continue. What happened at the “Scouring of Whitebloom” was far from Sint still, and she needed to learn. She needed to remember, she needed to win. The Dark Lord would not conquer her victory that easily.

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

bump because woohohohoohohohohoh

[Sint-wyrmrest-accord (Sint)]

Chapter 16: To Shatter the World

“…Thus ends my report. Halicanaar is taking a beating, but she still sleeps. Regrettably, to get here, I lost a sword. May the goddess forgive my mistake.” Stained in soot and blood, the Night marked elvish warrior gave a half-bow and quickly left the room, leaving a coalition in a strained silence. Formed of sheer necessity after being brought together by fate and war, they all had met on the fateful day of War’s grand rampage. With her downfall, they needed to band together to succeed against the evil they faced. Though, it was questionable what each of them considered was evil.

Tarro Stardew saw evil in every ally she worked alongside. Even her own soldiers had sparks of malice deep within them. They were willing to do anything to avenge Teldrassil and reclaim the power of the Kaldorei on Kalimdor. Dedication such as that should be promoted. But, that very same dedication can drive an elf to great sin. The Wardens sent in secret? Some of the strongest and most valiant souls in all the world were found within that order of jailers. But there it was, they were masters of the prison. Nothing escaped them easy, and if driven to great desperation, they can and will seal a life away for the rest of eternity. The humans from across the sea or born far away from home were predisposed to chaos, so the Sentinel Commander saw, and that does not mean they were meant for evil. Chaos is the heart of Life, after all. But this chaos drove men to be fickle and unpredictable, oftentimes taking even humans off guard. Their minds can be driven to strange and particular places when faced with dilemmas easily solved by an elf, and while sometimes that peculiarity causes a breakthrough, it regularly drives a man to darkness.

The “allies” outside of the Silver Battalion were more obviously evil. The Horde burned away ancient lands in a disgusting display of sheer hatred. The Zandalari harbored the Horde’s genocidal campaign and helped them along in the Fourth War, even fully joining the Horde. But, Tarro could understand that greater evils exist. A lesser evil can be used as a tool against a greater sin. And even if the lesser evil fell, that was a victory for Elune. The mercenaries that the Horde involved weren’t particularly dark beings, though Tarro never had a soft spot for the types who dictated their entire lives based off of the coin they received. Avaricious, but their loyalty tended to be assured in cases like these.

The thoughts of Ko’hea were much less complicated. She watched the elves with great superstition, as if she were looking at an army of foul specters. From time to time, the Warguard prayed to her Loa to lessen the wrath of this enraged cohort.

Ludrasa regarded both suspiciously. She knew Ko’hea was an honest sort, but she still served the Horde. Trusting the Horde was a mistake. The other elf, however, greatly unnerved her. A nightborne was hardly different to a night elf. At least, that’s how it should be. Looking into the darkened eyes of those touched by the Black Moon, however, told the Panther that they were no longer close kin.

Ko’hea and Ludrasa both disliked the report given by the auburn haired Silver Battalion soldier. His voice was oddly detached for how battered his armor was, how slick with black blood his sword was. Instead of asking for a medic or a new weapon to replace his lost blade, he simply begged Elune’s forgiveness. Unsettling. Ever since the Coalition was founded, they continued to uncover Black Legion operations across Stonetalon, Ashenvale, and even Azshara. There was further evidence that the Black Legion acted across the entire world in some grandiose scheme, but the Coalition could not prove that. They were stuck where they were, as their forces were being worn out and pushed back by an endless tide of black metal and dark magic. Halicanaar was the last major outpost they held outside of the Land of the Goddess. The moment Blackfist controlled it, the Coalition’s battle would become hopeless.

That’s part of the reason the soldier’s report disturbed the other two Coalition heads. He spoke how the Halicanaar defenses were being overrun in a calm tone, one matched by Tarro. The uneasy silence was finally broken by that damnable elf, her tone still even. “I must ask. What is your verdict on the matter?”

Ludrasa sneered. “Don’t like how you refer to us basically losin’ the fight as if it were just another day on the job.”

Warguard Ko’hea had a dangerous look on her face. “Hnnn… You know, Stardew, you do seem too calm for the situation we’re in? Are you withholding information from us?”

“No. I simply have faith that the Black Legion cannot claim Halicanaar.” The elf curled her fingers around the handle of her glaive, running the tip of one of her fingers across the sharp of it. “War will not let them have it.”

“War shouldn’t be there. As much as I don’t like her being in the heart of our ops, she’ll just end up gettin’ set off if she’s woken by the Black Legion.” Ludrasa jabbed a dagger into the table they sat around, glaring at the Sentinel Commander. “How the hell can you be so DAMN CALM?!”

“The Dark Lord cannot win this battle.”

Their arguing was interesting to the one who listened in, the one they were so worried about. Although Tarro seemed confident, or at least appeared to have a contingency plan, the rest seemed worried about the future of their war against the Dark Lord. Indeed, as she tugged her hood a little lower, Sint Dagon pondered whether or not this coalition stood a chance even against Malad. That was, of course, if Malad was alive after the so-called Scouring of Whitebloom. Her sole ally in this effort, the auburn haired warrior Silen, rounded the corner to catch her listening in on the council. Silen gave Sint a cloak to hide her easily amongst the refugees of the western men, and Sint’s necklace did well to obscure her immense magical presence. That did nothing to hide her physical presence, of course, so they still did their best to keep away from prying eyes.

Sint gestured for the warrior to join her away from the council’s hall, towards a pavilion where more humans were gathered. The elf nodded and joined her without a second thought. “They do not suspect us.”

“They do not, Lady Dagon. Allow me to inform you where you’ve arrived.” He kept his voice low. “This is the heart of the Silver Battalion’s territory, once a Warden prison. Their forces would train here, but primarily, it served as a place the Wardens kept prisoners they couldn’t transport to Azuna.”

“Considering the location of Halicanaar, it makes sense. The Wardens wanted to keep an eye on the Highborne, and built a prison to catch them if they crossed the line.” Sint frowns. “Though, that begs the question. Did they leave anything behind?”

“No. When we arrived, the tower and much of the prison was completely empty. Some wildlife made homes in the empty cellblocks, but nothing concerning remained.” He gestured to the looming tower. “We’ve left the primary tower mostly alone after our preliminary expedition. There’s a segment of collapsed stairway that leads down, atypical to warden building habits, that concerned us enough to leave it empty.”

Sint eyed the Warden structures, checking if there were any signs of struggle. Though the Silver Battalion had done quite a bit to claim the area as their own, their own fortifications replacing several outdated or ruined Warden battlements, she could still see the original construction beneath the renovations. “Strange that the Wardens built something this large, nonetheless. You’re certain it wasn’t the Watchers?”

“It could have been Watchers led by a Warden, but it makes little difference. If a Warden led, then this was a Warden endeavor.” Silen slowed to a stop, leaning against a wall. “We’ve attempted to contact the Wardens to no avail, so for now, we’ve only been left with the same conclusion we came to for Halicanaar. Abandoned during the Fourth or sooner due to Horde aggression in the region.”

“You’ve had to replace much. To me, that makes it feel like this place has been left empty for much longer than recent history.” Her arms crossed, eyes now wandering. With few friends in a strange land, Sint needed more than just her strength and the support of Silen. These people didn’t trust her, that alone was clear. “How long has the Battalion been here?”

“Our leader has been out here ever since she entered the military, but the Battalion itself? Hard to say.” Silen didn’t have any reason to lie to Sint, so for now she trusted that this was the truth. “Many of us have lived in this place for thousands of years. I have called a stretch of land close to here my home ever since I came into this world. The Battalion as a force has been here for a little over six years, but many of us have been here since the age of Azshara.”

“Long enough.” In her observation, she could see what she could not before. When she marched through the mountains with Aranor Royson, the signs of the Black Legion were few. Where they walked, they found only the Black Legion itself, not what it had wrought across the land. In truth, Sint didn’t suspect that the Black Legion could have done so much. The Silver Battalion camp must’ve once been a small affair, filled only with the ruling echelon of the group. The great tower and the few buildings scattered through this old Warden camp only seemed to confirm that, as the Battalion didn’t appear to employ the use of the underground dwellings of the Wardens. Night elves didn’t usually dig that far into the ground nor did they tend to build with stone after the Sundering, so it showed that they had a relatively limited population.

With the amount of tents and makeshift longhouses built in haste, Sint could tell that this place had seen an influx of hundreds of new residents. Refugees all running from the Fourth War or worse. The phenomena of the men of the west was not lost on Sint. For years she had known that humanity had yet to make much of a mark in Kalimdor, but these western men had lived there ever since the age of Azshara. Indeed, the Kaldorei apparently captured ancient men for purposes lost to time. Those men survived and their descendents still carry on to this day. Men more elvish than human. But men, nonetheless.

“You are considering the refugees, I imagine. For what, Lady War?” Silen stepped around Sint to face her, his night-stained eyes questioning her. All he was told him to revere her, but he was no fool. This elf knew that he could guide this newborn divine, and the woman that he believed to be a god knew she’d be a fool to deny his experience. Even though she was disgusted by the idea of being revered as a god, she knew full well that she needed to carry that title just a little further.

“What else should I consider them as, else other than a potential ally in my march? I am a stranger in an even stranger land. Torn by my very namesake, now being claimed by a dark force. It is not lost on me that this fight is unwelcome and that these people have been fed a truth I oppose. They will not trust me. None in this land will. But they are the best course of action I possess.” Sint clenched her fists. “I did not come here to embroil myself in another battle, Silen. Do you believe me?”

“Of course.” The elf seemed to understand, even if he shouldn’t be able to. “Fate need not understand the course it takes, it simply acts. Even if you did not come to do as you have done, you have acted, and so you must follow this course.”

“You speak as if you understand why I am here.” A seed of distrust embedded itself in Sint’s core.

“Does it matter? For family, mind, or heart? It could be simple bloodlust. What matters is that you have caused the rise of something greater, something that even a blind imbecile could see as clear as the Summer Sun.” The elf gestured around himself. “Even though they do not trust you, you should have seen them all when you were reborn. In a second, you were baptized in a flame of your own making, and burned away the notions of the world. None of us, not even the most ancient of us, have ever witnessed the birth of a God. We all assumed that power was locked away and reserved only for the most reverent beings. Whether it is Elune or another power that grants said strength, that being would be born to great ceremony. Their coming would be foretold. You defied that.”

“I am no God.” Sint almost spat her words out.

“So you say, but none of us believe you. Say what you wish, Lady War, you are what you are. Nothing changes the truth of your being. Society, your own thoughts, none of it matters. At the core of your being, you are divine. You are ceaseless. Even if you die, you will live on. This is what it means to be a God.” He bows his head. “To be a God is to be inevitable, to be greater than us all. And you are that.”

She did not respond, her head filling with a blood-rage unlike she had felt before. It wasn’t fair. Over the years, Sint sought an end to her War. Sought an end to the legacy that she chose to bear. It was hard to reconcile that just a year prior, she was just a simple warrior. How could so much happen in her search to finish this conflict?

The world itself was entangled by war. Perhaps it was not her own, but it was a war nonetheless. She stepped away from Silen, giving no signal for him to follow. Whether or not he followed did not matter. It was to escape this tiring subject of divinity, mostly, that Sint left to walk among the men of the west. They appeared no different than the men of the east outside of their dress and markings. Many of the men wore long braided beards, bedecked with dozens of colorful beads. Some of their faces were colored in fantastical markings, resembling the facial tattoos of the kaldorei. Men and women both tended to wear long skirts or robes, and if they did not, they appeared to be fighters. Their warriors were easy to spot as she observed, for they all shared the same set of markings. A constellation of white stars lined their bodies, a celestial signature that covered them from head to toe. These stars held no meaning to her, but to them, she supposed they were a symbol of great bravery. Or perhaps a symbol of a great burden.

Silen spoke. “Many of them do not speak your common, Lady War. There are a few who do, a few who do very well, and I will guide you to them if you seek them.”

“What language do they speak?” Sint was truly curious. “Is it the language of the elves?”

“It is similar, but not the same. A dialect, some call it. In my opinion, it is its own tongue.” He tugged a hood over his head. “I should not be seen here. My post is elsewhere, and my presence with you might guide others to realize you are here. I can only guide you to the longhouse where the Western Men can speak to you. From there, you are on your own. I must caution you. These humans have been isolated from most outside contact for the better part of their entire history. Their people have been alone, outside of our people and the tauren, for at least twelve thousand years.”

“What are the names I should call out for?” Sint observed one of these star-painted warriors size her up.

“The leader of the Winter Army, Jang Vanor Ddraig, is the one you should seek out. If the Jang fails you, the Jang of Onvik might help you. Jang Luthe Kel’bede. Onvik are the men you see around you. The ones marked by starlight.” Silen gestured to the longhouse not far from them. “Within that building, you will find their Jang. She has the support of many, and it would be fair to consider her the leader of most of the men here.”

“So then, why do you suggest this “Winter Army” instead of her? If she has such a strong claim and speaks my tongue, then it should be no trouble to convince her to fight against a foe that has been systematically attempting to wipe out her race.” Sint looked around. “Not to mention I see no hide nor hair of the Winter Army, if all the men with stars are truly Onvik.”

“I suppose it would be easy to explain it this way. Onvik has been in Kalimdor since before the Sundering. They’re, indeed, the most ancient of any human clan or tribe out in these lands. That means they are human only physically, they are nothing like the humans you know back from the East.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “But the Winter Army? They come from your Arathor. I remember the day their invasion of Kalimdor began, as small as it was in the beginning. Y Angla Vanor, they introduced themselves as. Some variant of your tongue, certainly.”

“They are not here because Onvik does not tolerate them. The Winter Army is not much weaker than Onvik and its allies, but it sees no point in needless conflict when all men of the west are facing their end.” The elf points back to the outskirts of the camp, filled with tents and unkempt forestland. “Those tents are home to a few Winter Army emissaries. The rest will be found through the southernmost tunnel.”

With these few words, Sint needed little else to go on. The Winter Army might be harder to reach, but they seem to be the most reasonable of the groups. Even if some of the Onvik allied clans were open to her plea for assistance, Onvik was fool enough to stir trouble with their neighbors during a war of extinction. Onvik had been here longest, held the strongest army, and knew the land best- but their leadership was untrustworthy. If they could not tolerate this Winter Army, then they would not tolerate her. She gave no parting words to Silen, but she knew he got the message. It was not as if he wished to stick around with her much longer. Suspicion would flare if he was seen so far away from his post with a stranger, especially a stranger with his supposedly missing sword.

Once more, Sint marched along her path alone. A sign sat at the edge of the camp with words written in five or six different languages. Common and Elvish were the ones she easily recognized, but the other’s? An interesting mix of multiple different languages. She could see roots from Taurahe, Elvish, and even Old Arathorian Common within these words. These must have been the languages of the Western Men. She’d have to ask Silen the names of these languages later.

The sign was the name of this camp. Blackgrave’s Retreat, so it was called. A strange coincidence that Sint had known a Warden Blackgrave, albeit for a short amount of time. The rifle wielding Gallyan Blackgrave worked alongside her to help track down a cult before her exit from the Alliance’s Military. When that cult was seemingly vanquished, Gallyan was quick to leave her company. This meant Blackgrave had held a sizable chunk of land once, and commanded quite a few soldiers if the size of her barracks were any sign. The world always felt smaller than it really was when these coincidences appeared. Lowering her hood as much as she could to conceal her eyes, Sint walked among the men of the west, guiding herself towards the edge of the camp. She moved at a glacial pace to conceal her urgency and to hopefully make herself anonymous enough to walk to the Winter Army without notice. It was not lost on her that the Onvik and the others did not make the attempt to speak to the Army, so her breaking from the pack to do so without any signs of authority might throw up red flags to the Kaldorei.

That, and she didn’t particularly look like the Western Men outside of her garb. It was strange, to say the least, to see how little she resembled these people. She supposed living separate from the rest of mankind for so many thousands of years would do that, but she could see the differences as clear as day. Mayhaps it would not be as obvious to the elves, as the elves still were mostly unfamiliar to humans, as it was hard for a man to oftentimes tell apart other beings if their kin were unfamiliar to him. Faces blend together in unfamiliarity. So did similarities. With luck, Sint found herself unbothered by the time she left the side of the Onvik. Walking through the no man’s land was easy.

The hard part seemed to be over. Without urgency, she walked to the nearest set of tents. Two men sat around a bubbling pot of stew, speaking to each other in a language close yet equally distant to common in sound. The words were entirely different, however, and almost alien to her ears. The one furthest from her, ladle in hand, was quick to notice her approach. He watched her with a close suspicion. It seemed they both knew the merit in absorbing the look of someone. In his case, he was trying to guess if she was an Onvik fool come to cause trouble. In Sint’s case, she was attempting to study his culture through his garb, and through his mannerisms. The man moved with an openness, his emotion not guarded closely to his heart. His suspicion was as clear as day, so clear that his companion was instantly able to pick up the tell that something was off. He did not reach for a weapon, though, meaning his sort were not quick to cause conflict. They judged a situation before they jumped to action.

His weapon was not even close to him. She saw their weapons leaned against a nearby tree. A buckler and a spear, next to a fierce looking longsword. “Ishta’nathe!” Shouted the man with the ladle. When she didn’t react, he spoke again. “Ygav vagym?” When she still didn’t react, his suspicion vaporized. “…You are Eastern?”

The other man spoke a few of the words in their tongue to the man with the ladle. He then turned. “Eastern, ya?”

“I am of the East, yes. Do either of you speak Common well?” She was quick to lift her hands from behind her cloak, a small gesture to show she was holding no weaponry.

The one with the ladle nodded. “Most of us in the Angla know a few phrases. I’m fluent enough. What do you want, Easterner? Can’t you see that we’re in the middle of something?” He exaggerated the churning of the pot, even lifting some of the stew up and splashing it back into the mix.

“I won’t keep you from your dinner for long. I just need to know the location of your leader, your ‘Jang’.” She’d get used to the word eventually.

“Wanna meet Vanor Ddraig? That’s a first. Most people steer clear of the old brute…” He huffed. “Good to know someone around here gives a bacra about this all.”

“Bacra?” Sint quirked a brow.

“…Agh, sorry, manners. No cursing around guests.” He gave an awkward laugh. “Name’s Rieve.”

“And I am… Soleil.” The name of her niece would suffice for now. It’s not like the girl was still alive to fight her about it.

“Well, er, Soleil… You mind if we wait until after supper? Ceol and me ain’t had a bite to eat all day, see, so…” He puts on a sheepish grin.

“I do not mind, as long as you don’t take too long. Do not let the lack of urgency in my step fool you like it fooled the elves.” Sint looked Rieve in the eyes. “I need to speak to your leader with great immediacy.”

“Ah.” Rieve almost dropped the ladle. “You ain’t one of the Battalion, eh? Are you…”

The other man, Ceol, whispered a word that Sint did recognize. “…Tyr?”

“You know Tyr, ya?” Rieve looked at Sint. “Well, even if you don’t, you’re the one that can do the white fire thing that burned a hole in the side of this mountain. Right?”

“I know of her, and I act on her behalf.” The lie came easy to Sint, and it was something the other man seemed to believe. At least, he played along. “You call her Tyr? I find that strange. Tyr fell, did he not?”

“Aye, but I suppose that’s a difference in belief. Tyr’s return to shatter the world and save mankind, it’s a bit of a thing in the Winter Army. At first, we all thought Jang Vanor Ddraig was the right fit for Tyr, but he told us that it couldn’t have been true. He was just a great leader, tiding us through the end of days. Holding out for the return of mankind’s shepherd.”

Rieve lifted up his fist, painted completely white. “Then a woman comes from the east, wiping out the forces of darkness that have been hounding us… And she is clad in a silver fury. Javelins of light hurled by her hand broke the earth and drove back evil and the fools who did nothing to stop that very evil.”

“A divine display. I can see why she’d resemble your God to you.” Sint hummed. “But, I will be honest with you. Many of us did not see the Scouring of Whitebloom. Myself included, and my leader is incapable of sharing the truth with us. Did you see it?”

“I was a witness, aye. Half of the people on this mountain were. I’m sure the lightshow was visible halfway across the continent.” He grinned. “The Silver God of War harried the heels of the army of darkness, crushing their leadership and obliterating their forces. But then, out of nowhere, Stardew tried to stop her. So did a few others, to be honest, the same few who now lead this whole coalition. Honestly, Soleil, I lived in Whitebloom. Many of us did at the time, but the destruction was an awesome thing to experience. Corruption was met with justice, darkness could not abide within the realm of the Lawbringer, and so she dashed away any moron who thought they were above her. She was right, they were wrong. Anyone with half a mind saw that and stood back.”

“Why did she stop, then? Why does the battalion still stand?” Sint was appalled by what Rieve said, but didn’t let her emotion reach her face.

“When you can split a mountain open, do you really need to overpower a few fools who got the message? I’m sure she has bigger fish to fry, like this Black Legion.” Rieve took in a deep breath. “Ah! Stew’s done. Nice chat, Soleil. Ceol and I’ll get you to Jang Vanor Ddraig when dusk settles. The Battalion prolly doesn’t want people from War’s camp talkin’ to him.”

“That will be greatly appreciated, Rieve of the Winter Army.” This deception might sting the emissary, but his needs were below her at the moment. She needed to reach Jang Vanor Ddraig. Sint had no plans on lying to the leader of the Winter Army when she arrived, as she knew she had no reason to. If they saw her as the coming of their idolization of Tyr, she would let them do such.

Her course was set to destroy the Black Legion. If this was to shatter the world, then so be it. An army formed of the east and west should be a worthy hammer to break the cycle of war.

[Sintagon-wyrmrest-accord (Sintagon)]

Update! The links are in the first post. Future proofed, baby!