Sitting alone in his chambers in the Nighthold of Suramar, Randarel nursed a glass of Thalassian wine, still feeling the agony from the dwarf wretch’s fireball in his arm despite the mending from the healer in Zuldazar.
Word had reached him that Valya Tiren had been killed by the warlock that the Corruptor and the dwarf had resurrected, using the corpse of Tavira Nightswan. Worse, he had learned that the warlock in question was somebody with a grudge; Valya had been the one who had killed him the first time. He was still not sure what to feel about Valya… but once again, another warlock inserting himself into his life. One who should still be dead, at that; he had watched Valya’s guards throw the corpse onto the pyre with other Felborne.
Blasted warlock chicanery, he thought hatefully. Couldn’t any of these people stay dead? It was the problem he had with the Forsaken, too. Sylvanas was taking them down a path worse even than Elisande, and the Alliance… he had nothing but hate for them after this. To tolerate creatures like that… the problem was, the Horde was the same way. Undead, warlocks, shadow priests…
Perhaps Mayla Highmountain had the right of it. Perhaps it was time to go home, and let the Alliance and the Horde kill each other. Preferably without them.
“Damn them all,” he hissed venomously. With a cry part-rage and part-pain, he hurled the wineglass against the wall next to the doorway, narrowly missing his son Erdanel, who had just come in through the door, and now reeled back in surprise. Randarel was horrified, wondering if shards of glass had cut him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t --”
“I’m alright, Father.” Erdanel was pained more by seeing his father like this than he was by any glass. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there is someone here to see you. A Zandalari priest.” His distaste was clear in his tone as he added, “A priest of death.”
Randarel’s eyebrows rose. What would a death-priest of Zandalar be doing here? Curiosity compelled him to find out. “Send him in.”
“Father?”
“If he’s come to say he’s here to take my soul to Bwonsamdi, well… I’ve lived more than ten millennia, and I’m tired. Which would leave you to take the reins of House Vendross at a most interesting time in its history, my dear boy.” He grinned slightly. “Though if he intended something so forward, he would likely have come to me in Zuldazar. Send him in, please.”
Erdanel was dubious, but bowed his head nonetheless as he made his way out. A moment later, Randarel could literally feel the soul energy around the man before he saw him. He wore an orc skull mask that gave him a fearsome appearance with his tusks. He inclined his head. “Lord Vendross,” he greeted him in accented Orcish.
“Welcome, friend,” Randarel replied, the enchantment in his Thalassian magister’s ring making his words come out to the troll in the same tongue, though his lips did not match the words. “I understand the headgear is part of your ensemble, but might you remove it?”
The priest chuckled. “Ya wouldn’t believe how often I get asked dat.” He reached up and removed the mask, setting it on a nearby table. His face was surprisingly pleasant, for a troll, though the look in his eyes made him seem older than his youthful appearance.
Randarel gestured for him to have a seat across from him in a nearby armchair. As they sat, he asked without preamble, “Are you here to take me to your patron, Master…?”
“Zulimbasha, m’lord. And no. Bwonsamdi has not called for ya soul just yet. Ya have an old and powerful one, and in dis time, I t’ink we be needin’ such souls on dis side first.” His expression was completely sincere. “Ya t’ink my kind, priests of death, go around takin’ souls willy-nilly. Dat’s not how Bwonsamdi works. Dere be a time ta be born, and a time ta die. Some live longer den others, like yaself - ya be sayin’ to ya son dat ya got ten t’ousand years under ya belt?”
“Actually closer to twelve, but most people latch onto the ten thousand because of the Sundering.” Randarel’s curiosity rose. “You seem to have taken something of an interest in me, Master Zulimbasha, and it’s not to claim my soul for Bwonsamdi. I would ask then why you are here.”
“Ya welfare, among other t’ings. I happen ta know da folks who patched ya up. Good people, but bandages can only do so much, mon.” He chuckled. “Ya be known ta us in Zandalar - ya seem ta be genuine in ya desire ta work with us. Even in da swamps of Nazmir, where Bwonsamdi makes his home. Ya been ta da Necropolis?”
“Not in the precincts, no, but I have been to Zo’bal.”
“Ah, close enough, den.” Zulimbasha waved a hand at that. “While his priests be focused on guidin’ da dead to da Other Side, we still live on dis side, and we still gotta keep an eye on t’ings here. Dis war… dere be some in Zandalar who t’ink dat da Horde be no good for us, dat Jakra’zet - curses ta his memory - be right. Word is, da Highmountain t’ink da same t’ing. So do ya Nightborne folk. I be hearin’ about how ya spent most of da time since da Sunderin’ keepin’ ya big starry city under a magic shield. Ya t’inkin’ it be time ta go back ta dat?”
Randarel decided to be honest, since the man had asked. “The thought has crossed my mind,” he admitted.
Zulimbasha vehemently shook his head. “No! Baaaaad idea, mon. Hidin’ don’t do a damn t’ing ta help da situation. I heard about ya ‘Grand Magistrix’, how she and her pets made ya people suck up for powah. Slaves to da Nightwell. Ya want ta go back ta dat?” He reached out a hand, touching the diamond pendant around Randarel’s neck. “What would she say?”
Randarel recoiled, coming to his feet angrily. “You know nothing about her!”
“I know death, Lord Vendross,” Zulimbasha replied calmly. “I be seein’ it everywhere I look. I see it in ya eyes, I see it in dat pendant ya wear… a piece of what once was. Somet’ing ta fill in a hole in ya soul dat ya know can never truly be filled, but ya do it because it makes it hurt less. It makes not havin’ her here hurt less.”
Randarel shook with rage as he sat back down, but he said nothing. It galled him, but the priest was right.
“As I be sayin’, life be a part of what we do just as much as death. I heal bodies as well as guide souls.” Zulimbasha held up his hands. One glowed with Light, the other with shadow. “Da eternal balance. Life… death. Light… darkness. Peace… and war. Here.” He reached out with one hand - the one glowing with Light - and touched Randarel’s bandaged arm. The arcanist stiffened, but immediately felt… relief. The separate glows in the priest’s hands faded as he removed the bandaging the healers had put onto him. The flesh was puckered with scar tissue, but the pain was gone.
Randarel was silent for a moment. Then he looked up and asked, “Why?”
“For a time, I too thought dat it would be best ta hide. But t’ings bein’ as dey are… we be in dis for da whole ride, Lord Vendross. Whether da wound in da world be mortal, or whether it can be healed, as da diamond dwarf says… people like us don’t get ta hide.” Zulimbasha chuckled. “And dat idea came ta me from a Highmountain, I not be takin’ credit for dat.”
Randarel looked confused. “People like us?”
“People who know death, m’lord. Who be seein’ it for what it is.”
The arcanist gave a sad snort of laughter. “Senseless?”
“Inevitable,” Zulimbasha replied firmly. “Whether natural or by someone else’s hand… we see it everyday, and we know not’ing we do can stop it. But at da same time, we also see t’ings dat make a mockery of life and death, and all dat we believe in. Ya know of whom I speak.”
Randarel nodded, his jaw clenching. “Sylvanas.”
“Yes. Da dark priest who terrorized ya before, he has gone to da Other Side… but his Dark Lady, she got plenty more just like him. And dey just be da beginnin’.” His expression took on a fierce intensity. “Da darkness be risin’ from da deeps, and all who stand must stand now. Even ancient and mighty people like ya elves and we Zandalari, people used ta hidin’ in our mighty homes t’inkin’ ourselves safe… we all be in dis togetha now.”
Randarel seemed surprised at the ferocity. “I have my reasons for being so… forceful in my opposition,” he said after a moment. “What are yours?”
Zulimbasha stood, walking over to the door, looking out across the courtyard of the Nighthold and at the city beyond. “Death be my callin’, as it has been since my youth, growin’ up in Zuldazar,” he said after a moment. “When Zul predicted our destruction, just before da Cataclysm, my parents followed him, t’inkin’ he was right. My fa’da was a priest of Rezan, somet’ing I find hard ta reconcile with what he did…while my ma’da was sworn to Hir’eek, da great bat, even blinded herself out of devotion ta him. Heh… both dem Loa be dead now, while I serve Death himself. I often marvel at da irony.”
Randarel nodded. He could see why.
“Dey went on about how Zul said dat Zuldazar would be destroyed, and dat all who lived dere would die. Dey begged me ta see da truth and ta come with dem ta unite da troll people. I laughed in dere faces, said dat Zandalar be my home, and dat death be a natural part of da cycle of life; it seemed even den, Bwonsamdi called me ta his service. Dey left. Dey died. Zandalar endured.” He sighed as he turned back to Randarel. “Yet a Loa with no followers be no Loa. Even Bwonsamdi knows dat. We Zandalari be a proud people, just as proud as ya Nightborne. We have an empire dat has outlasted dem all. Da mogu. Da pandaren. Da night elves. We will probably outlast da Alliance and da Horde too. But Bwonsamdi does not seek ta kill everyone; he seeks merely dat da cycle continue, dat life go on, dat death go on, dat da souls of da dead come ta de Other Side. Da end dat Sylvanas seeks, dat da darkness dat guides her seeks, will end dat cycle. I cannot abide dat.” He chuckled as a thought occurred to him. “It be much like yaself, in a way. Ya have heirs ta carry on ya name. If ya all die, ya legacy dies with ya.”
“Except perhaps in dusty history books,” Randarel agreed grimly. “You think that Sylvanas will lead your people to extinction.”
“And everyone else with us,” the priest replied, nodding. “My own death means not’ing, Lord Vendross; I know Bwonsamdi will have me in de end. But if I be dyin’, I want ta die knowin’ da cycle will go on. Dat it were not all for not’ing. Dat my people be havin’ lives - and deaths - dey can be proud of.” He looked now to the image of Elerina that Randarel kept on his desk. “Do ya ever wonder what she would make of all dat has happened since her death?”
“All the time,” Randarel admitted; as if by impulse, he touched the pendant around his neck. “Especially now. And… it sounds melodramatic, but I find myself counting the days until I can be with her again. Until my mortal remains rest beside her in Tel’anor… and my spirit joins her. On the Other Side, as you put it.” He laughed, a pained sound. “It’s funny. I’ve heard many depictions of what awaits us after death, and yours probably makes the most sense. Yet it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Not really meant to, ta be fair. Not better, nor worse. It just is.” Zulimbasha picked up his skull mask and held it in his hands for a moment. “I been tryin’ ta hide from it all, too,” he admitted after a moment. “I hardly leave da temple dese days. But…”
Randarel could not help but smile a bit, finding it strange to feel solidarity with someone so drastically different. “But people like us don’t get to hide.”