The Simple Drawing of Lines (SPOILERS)

[Vendross-cenarion-circle]

Randarel, lord of House Vendross, gazed out across the city-scape of Suramar with a grim sense of foreboding. Though the alliance between the Horde and the Zandalari was complete, he could not help but feel that all that the new ruler of Zandalar had done was make a deal with a demon in mortal guise.

“My lord.” One of his guards stood quietly at the door to his balcony. “We have visitors.”

From the look on her face and the disquiet in her voice, Randarel could tell they were not the good kind of visitors. He followed her inside - and found himself faced with about twenty Forsaken. Four of them wore masks and carried Blight-guns. The rest had their hands resting on sheathed blades. Two figures made their way to the front to speak to him, and Randarel was horrified when he recognized that one of them was a Nightborne, wearing the skull-marked chainmail favored by Forsaken hunters. Her face was hidden by her helmet.

Another Forsaken, attired in death-marked robes with an evilly-curved dagger at his belt, spoke now. “Randarel Vendross?”

Randarel did not take umbrage at the blatant disrespect shown in not using his title. These Forsaken didn’t know how to show respect. “I am he.”

“I am Father Shankolin, high priest of the Forgotten Shadow and loyal subject of the Horde.” The emphasis on “loyal” was subtle, but it was there. “And in the name of the Dark Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Queen of the Forsaken and Warchief of the Horde, I am placing you under arrest for aiding and abetting a traitor to the Horde, and sheltering him in your house.”

“I do not allow traitors into my house, sir,” Randarel replied coolly. “Who is this one you speak of?”

“Let us not play coy, Lord Vendross.” Another subtle emphasis on “Lord”. Mockery. Then again, he was unsurprised; this foul thing was a mockery of life. “We know he is here…we have it on good authority.” He turned to the Nightborne at his side. “Isn’t that right, Captain?”

The Nightborne removed her helmet, and Randarel felt sick as he saw her face and immediately recognized her. It was Valya Tiren.

“It is good to know that someone in this poncy town knows where their loyalties lie.” Shankolin met his gaze with a foul smile. “It is unfortunate that you do not.”

Randarel held Tiren’s gaze for a long moment, and she met it without flinching. He felt his heart sink; she was a “true believer” now, dedicated to the mad banshee and her campaign of murder. Despite banishing her from Suramar under pain of death, it seemed she now followed the Forsaken method of making their own rules. “Magister Talashar is a valued friend and ally of House Vendross and of Suramar, Father Shankolin. Can you and your Banshee Queen say the same? Anyone who questions her war of extermination is treated as the enemy.”

“Nonsense. We welcome differing opinions as much as the next bunch, but this is different. Your talk of ‘inevitable’ civil war and your hand-wringing about Darkshore is defeatist pot-stirring, as is the repeated contacts you and that wretch Talashar have had with Alliance dogs at that so-called ‘neutral’ lounge the AAMS puts on. Sylvanas will not tolerate dissent.”

“Neither did Elisande. You saw what happened to her.”

Shankolin looked amused. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that sounded like a threat.”

“As you say, you don’t know any better,” Randarel replied boldly.

“Enough, Randarel,” came a voice from the doorway, speaking Shalassian. “Let us not turn this into a bloodbath.” He looked up to see Menarian Talashar, lowering the hood of his robe, which was worn and dirty. “If it’s me you want, foulspawn, then take me,” he said now in Orcish. “Leave them be.”

“An example must be set, Magister Talashar. Perhaps this will remind Suramar that we are not Elisande - we are far worse, if you cross us.” Shankolin smiled - the smile of a murderer right before the kill. “Wipe them out. All of them.”

“Alright, stop!” Randarel shouted. “You’re going to take Menarian regardless of what I do…and I must think of my family. Take me, and leave my family alone. The magister and I will both go willingly, to face our judgment.”

“Randarel, are you mad?” Menarian said in Shalassian. “They’ll kill me anywhere, either right here or publicly in Orgrimmar. Don’t let them kill you, too!”

“I risked everything standing against one tyrant, Menarian,” Randarel replied in the same tongue. “I will not hesitate to do so again.” He ensured that the magic ring the magister had given him for translation was active before he spoke again. “I ask two things, Father Shankolin.”

“Making demands, hm? Under normal circumstances, I would laugh in your face, but since we’re making nice here…name them.”

“Firstly, I ask that Menarian not be harmed; if we are to be executed, let us face the judgment of the Warchief in a trial. By combat, if need be. And second, I ask that, even if you kill me, my family will not be harmed. They knew I kept Menarian here, but they had nothing to do with it otherwise. I take sole responsibility.”

The priest looked up at the slightly taller form of Tiren, who gave a light nod. “Very well, Lord Vendross. Your family will be spared. Now come along.”

Randarel inclined his head and walked up to Tiren. He reached a hand to the white diamond pendant she wore, using a diamond from the tiara of Randarel’s late wife, Elerina. He wore one himself, as did Menarian and a number of other loyal friends. He grasped the pendant in his hand and pulled hard, snapping the chain from around her neck. “You shame her memory,” he snarled. “Be fortunate I can do nothing to you…but if by some miracle they do not execute me, you will die by my hand. I promise you.” Though she had not looked remorseful before, she had the grace to do so now.

As the guards clapped magic-negating shackles on his wrists, Randarel felt his blood freeze as he heard Shankolin speak again. “Kill them all.”

The blades came out. Randarel whirled on Shankolin, angry and aghast. “You promised!”

The priest still had that horrible, horrible smile. “I promised to spare your family, Lord Vendross. Nothing was said about servants.” He gazed at the guards who held Randarel and Menarian, the latter also now sporting magic-negating cuffs. He nodded curtly. “Take them away.”

[Dawntotem-cenarion-circle]

Kegren Dawntotem had been involved in many revolutions in his time. He had stood with Stormsong against his tribe’s matriarch, Magatha Grimtotem, when she had engineered the coup that ended the life of Cairne Bloodhoof, and very nearly ended his son Baine’s as well; it had been that war that led him to follow Aponi Brightmane and the path of the Sunwalker.

He had stood with Vol’jin in opposition to Garrosh, and had seen the job finished on the time-altered world of Draenor, where Thrall had ended Garrosh’s life - and those members of the Iron Horde whose descendants now belonged to the Horde as part of the Mag’har had stopped Archimonde and freed their world.

After fighting alongside his Highmountain cousins in their war against Dargrul, he had then stood with Thalyssra and her Nightfallen rebellion against Elisande and the “returned” Gul’dan, witnessing all of Azeroth’s elves rising up to support them…but only the blood elves, allies of the Horde, welcomed them into the rest of the world. Kegren had met Randarel Vendross a number of times, and found him to be a decent man in an indecent time.

Today, he stood with Baine in opposition to Sylvanas - an opposition that was far easier to accept than it had been even with Magatha or Garrosh. The ruins of Darkshore and Teldrassil were proof enough of that. And that opposition was now having consequences. Baine had been seized by Sylvanas, and terror now gripped the tribes…wondering if her vengeance would be taken out on them all.

Rumor had it that Mayla, the Highmountain chieftain, had serious doubts about aligning her people with the Horde. Even some who had believed it was the only way forward for their people, like the hunter Tenatsali Windspear, were galvanized by this action. Baine had spoken out against the sickness within the Horde, and the corrupted Tidesage Thomas Zelling had helped him do something about it. Now Zelling was gone, and Baine would likely be murdered, too…if something was not done.

An’she’s Light often gave him comfort when his heart was troubled, but it seemed to Kegren that even he was disturbed by this. Sitting on the great terrace of Thunder Totem, looking out across Highmountain, Kegren was left to wonder: What now? He had largely sat out the conflicts going on in Zandalar and Kul Tiras, had not taken part in any of the blood shed for bloodshed’s sake. What he knew came from those who returned from the front - some, like Lasan’s zealots, glad to do their part to fight the “Alliance scum”. Others, like the archdruid Arihnda Wingmender - who considered her chieftain a glory-seeking idiot - were grim, recognizing that they were tainted by association.

I have sat here amongst my cousins long enough, he thought, watching the world go to hell while I sit wallowing in self-pity. I cannot be apart from this any further. The Earth Mother cries out…and those who can hear her must answer.

He picked up his hammer - large even for tauren standards - and rose to his feet, calling for his wyvern to take him back to Dalaran, where he would secure passage home. Then he would venture to Zandalar, not as a warrior, but as what An’she, and years of war, had made him.

A healer.

[Shankolin-sisters-of-elune (Shankolin)]

Another day, another set of traitors to the Banshee Queen, mused Father Shankolin Blightpath, as he left the Drunken Hozen Inn at Dawn’s Blossom in the Jade Forest of Pandaria. The thought strangely caused his re-attached right leg to ache. It had been doing that a lot lately…

The elf - Caerys, he believed her name had been, though he’d heard someone call her “Anya” once? Maybe it was both - was a bold one to speak out so against Sylvanas with someone like him there. Did she think that all the undead who attended Kanzelry’s little lounge nights were traitors like Kiria Shadowsong? It should have been quite obvious where his loyalty lay - he had come in wearing the garb of the apothecaries of Darkshore, for pity’s sake. Sekhesmet’s old alchemy lab in Tarren Mill had contained some… interesting concoctions he’d been testing during the back-and-forth with the “Black Moon” in that cursed land.

But there was something else on his mind now. A tauren had been here earlier, making a big stink about the Forsaken and accusing the Zandalari of being no better than them because of the atrocities they had committed here in Pandaria. That on its own wouldn’t have been enough for him to bother handling it himself, but the tauren had been carrying an exquisitely-crafted weapon in the shape of the Silver Hand… and a libram marked with the same symbol.

Shankolin had recognized it instantly. That libram had been his, back when he had been the weak, idealistic paladin Saavedro of Stratholme. Even despite the best efforts of the demented gnome warlock Rakeri Sputterspark, of Sekhesket, and of Shankolin himself, the memory of Saavedro refused to die. He deduced that he had got the items from Ord’taeril Ketiron, who had wielded them before Sekhesmet had warped him with the shadow residue he had harvested from Mac’Aree on Argus. So now, while on his way back to Honeydew Village - where mages kept a portal back to the new “portal room” in Orgrimmar - he decided to locate the tauren, take back the items, and destroy them. Killing the beast would be an added bonus. His head would look nice next to Baine’s, once Sylvanas was done with the tauren chieftain…

As he flew over the woods, a rocket of goblin make flew through the canopy and at his steed, a shadowy winged lion thing with an owl’s head, found in Sekhesmet’s collection. The beast became incorporeal, which had the unfortunate effect of sending Shankolin right through it and plummeting to the woods below. After the initial shock, he had the presence of mind to slow his descent before impact, not wanting to become a smear on the forest floor.

As he reached the ground, the hammer in question swung out of nowhere and knocked him backwards into a tree. Dazed, he barely had time to look up before a gold-chased pistol was pointed at his head. “I wouldn’t move if I were you, pal. I put my special undead-killing ammo into this. I’d say you could ask that Taldir gal how it worked, but… it worked too well.”

“Kitrik.” Shankolin recognized the voice instantly. The goblin mercenary had worked for Ketiron during the Northrend war. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Kitrik the Assassin glared at him. “My friend is dead, plague-freak.” Finally, someone who understands that, Shankolin thought. “I have no idea who you are.”

“Your death, in all likelihood.”

“I think not.” A huge paw wrapped around Shankolin’s head, lifting him off the ground. Kegren Dawntotem grinned at him, before clapping on magic-blocking shackles…just like those he had put onto Vendross and Talashar in Suramar. Then he tossed the Forsaken priest to the ground like a bag of meal. “I was not sure if I could make it convincing. I knew you were lurking about. You always do. Trying to find the ‘traitors to the Horde’ by what they say in these neutral settings. Do you really think I would blame the Zandalari for the actions of Zul and his renegades? You are really quite predictable.” He paused. “I owe that man back there an apology, but that will be later.”

Shankolin was astonished. It was a ruse?! “What now?”

“Kitrik will go to release Lord Vendross and Magister Talashar,” Kegren replied. “If you act as true to form as your former master, we suspect we know where you keep them.” He nodded to the goblin, who vanished into the shadows. “You and I, however…are going on a little trip.”

[Loyse-cenarion-circle]

((I really enjoyed reading this thread. Keep it up!)

[Zulimbasha-sisters-of-elune]

Even in this era of preserving souls in stones, races that could live ten thousand years and not age a day, and various forms of the living dead, there were those who still believed in the great cycle of life. People were born, they lived, and then they died. Their spirits would go on to the Shadowlands, and life would go on without them. Anything that disrupted that balance was heresy, anathema. The living lived, and the dead were dead. That was the central tenet to the scions of Zandalar who pledged their lives - and their souls - to Bwonsamdi, Lord of the Dead.

Zulimbasha, priest of death and collector of souls, was no exception.

In recent days, however, having observed the works of the Horde to whom his people had tied their fate, he found himself confronted by people who did not have the same respect for that balance as he did. And to his dismay, that included people who were in much the same profession as himself: Those who tended to the sick and the wounded. For some, their time was not yet come, but for others, Bwonsamdi would call for them, and Zulimbasha would be there to ease their passing to the Other Side. He was sickened by the flagrant disrespect for that balance shown even by people who claimed to serve life, and at the same time amused at the irony that of the people gathered around the fire in Orgrimmar that night, it was Ayo, the “love priest”, who seemed the least offensive. For all that Zulimbasha believed this “Loa of All Names” business was a means to justify debauchery under the cloak of religious faith, Ayo’s seeking of pleasure was in its own way part of the cycle. The act of making love was also the act of making life.

Of course, he would never say so to Ayo himself. The man’s ego was big enough.

What bothered him in particular was not just the tolerance, but the celebration, of undeath in the Horde, even among those who claimed to oppose the lunatic banshee. To be fair, raising the dead itself was not what bothered him; Bwonsamdi animated skeletons and such to do his bidding all the time. But these were shells, empty of the spirits that had inhabited the bodies, and bound to Bwonsamdi’s will. The Forsaken, the death knights, and all like them, still had their spirits bound to their rotting flesh… and what disgusted Zulimbasha the most about it was not that the others allowed these abominations to continue to exist.

It was that they treated these abominations like people. It was utter sacrilege.

We have seen what happens when we do not act against such filth, he thought. Are not the Plaguelands and Teldrassil large enough monuments to what happens when corruption is not stamped out? As he left the “clinic” that night, he had said aloud to himself that perhaps it was time to remind these “Doctas” of just who he served… and that even they could not stop Death. (It was around these moments that he liked to think “Death” with a capital D, as another name for his patron Loa.)

He had gone back to the Necropolis, Bwonsamdi’s temple in the forbidding swamps of Nazmir. And there, while in meditation, he had a visitor. Though he was of about equal height, the visitor was much wider of build, solid, muscular. His face was white, but all the rest of his skin and the horns on his head were as black as the night, and his armor done in gray, with burning scrolls on the spaulders. He wore a Highmountain totem on his back, though he was not of those people; he was one of their cousins, from Mulgore. He carried a huge warhammer in his hand, and a holy libram at his belt.

“What does a Sunwalker of Mulgore wish of Death?” he asked without turning around.

“I have heard you are against the damned having supremacy in the Horde, and free reign over Azeroth,” the Sunwalker replied.

“Dat be so.” He sensed another presence, far darker. Undead…but even in the magic-negating shackles he wore, he could feel the presence of the Void. Zulimbasha’s lips curled in a sneer behind the orcish skull mask he wore - a gift from the Mag’har - as he regarded the figure. He recognized him instantly from Valkia’s description: Father Shankolin Blightpath, formerly Saavedro of Stratholme. Far more than the typical shadow magic the Forsaken priests often used, there was something… other in him. It reminded him of the blood trolls, empowered by G’huun…it was that same kind of corruption. “And what purpose led ya to bring dis monstrosity to Death’s domain?”

“Ahh, but he is not in Death’s domain. Yet.” The tauren surprised him by smiling. And it was not a pleasant smile at that. “Perhaps you and your master could make sure of that. He has died several times already. Perhaps you could make it stick.”

“An odd request, from one who wields da Light.”

The Sunwalker gave a shrug; it made Zulimbasha think of a mountain before an avalanche. “In these times, ‘odd’ is a typical day.”

[Aximand-cenarion-circle]

“Magnificent.”

Admiral Eliphas Aximand stood on the deck of the Kul Tiran battleship Iron Shrike, currently anchored in Tiragarde Sound. Built at the recently-reconsecrated shipyard at Port Fogtide, he had requested it to replace the Springhawk, lost on the way home from Zandalar - and he had been surprised when the Proudmoore Admiralty had agreed. The name had been at the suggestion of her captain, a battle-hardened veteran of the Second War. She was apparently a native of Brennadam up in Stormsong Valley, south of the shipyard, and had taken up falconry whenever she was on leave from her service in the Kul Tiran fleet.

Ever since arriving in this land months before, Aximand had found himself in his element. He had grown up to be a sailor himself, in the village of Southshore on Lordaeron’s southern coast - but he had thought his future would be fishing trawlers and cargo transports. Nowadays, it was all warships. He still had Artimus Devaneaux to thank for that; he had signed up to be the baron’s flag captain when they decided playing pirate was a good idea (a fact that still kept him barred from Booty Bay and other Steamwheedle towns), and had gone official when Artimus was killed. His first real sea war had been on Draenor, running an Alliance flotilla against the Iron Horde. But whereas he had been interested in the sea since he was a boy, Kul Tirans were very much children of the sea. The old joke was that they could sail before they could walk, and having spent a lot of time in Boralus Harbor, he believed it was true.

“You didn’t expect anythin’ else from us, did ya?” That voice came from the upper deck - the Iron Shrike’s captain, Mersadie Kittridge, or “Sureshot Sadie” as her sailors called her. She wore the collared long coat and bicorn hat of a Kul Tiran officer, a long rifle slung over one shoulder; her falcon companion, Ashmara, was perched on the railing next to her. “That’s why you came to us in the first place, innit - you wanted quality. Well, you got it.”

“If I didn’t know any better, Captain, I would say you had a hand in some of the building as well as the naming,” the admiral commented with a grin.

Kittridge gave a slight shrug. “I may not have taken up the job like my parents did, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn anythin’ from 'em. Figured if I was gonna sail her, I might as well know her a bit better than most, aye?”

“Your dedication does credit to your people and your nation. And I have to admit that you’re surprisingly accomodating of being under the direction of a walking corpse.”

Another shrug. “I leave the zealotry to witch hunters and paladins, Admiral. You’re not feastin’ on anyone’s brains, defilin’ their corpses, or spreadin’ plague. Not like the damn Horde. Almost thirty years, and not much has changed, demons or no demons.”

Aximand found he couldn’t disagree. Though he had had relatively cordial interactions with individuals, as a group, the Horde was irredeemable. And yet, the Alliance kept giving them the benefit of the doubt. Varian had given them a lot of rope after Pandaria, and after Vol’jin’s death, Sylvanas was using it to hang them all. And from what he knew of Anduin’s naivety - there was no other real word for it - he would do the same when (and he stressed it was when, not if) Sylvanas was dealt with, and they would go through this whole cycle again.

His anger rose as he thought to the atrocities he had witnessed before Garrosh was dealt with, and again now that Sylvanas was in control. He recalled reading somewhere, a scrap from Genevra’s library possibly, about the definition of insanity being the repetition of the same action expecting a different outcome… that was what it all felt like to him nowadays, much like the Ebon Blade going back to the Scourge. It was like burning down the house to get rid of the termites. Utter stupidity, as far as he was concerned.

“Gettin’ ice on my deck there,” he heard Kittridge say. He realized she was right; his fists were clenched, and the frost aura that naturally surrounded him had increased. He willed himself to relax. “Built to handle ice and snow out at sea, but your kind of ice and snow might be another story.” She was very matter-of-fact, as most Kul Tirans were. He appreciated that. “Cold thoughts?”

“No more than yours,” he replied, as he looked up at her. Her only reply to that was a single nod.

[Tiren-cenarion-circle]

It’s often said that by the time you realize what a bad idea something is, it’s usually too late. For Valya Tiren, former captain of the guard of House Vendross, this rang especially true.

She had been going over the confrontation in the Vendross estate a hundred times a day for weeks since it happened. She had embraced the war willingly because she believed that Tyrande and the rest of the traitors needed to be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly - and she still felt that, particularly as the priestess descended into the madness of the Night Warrior. But in the back of her mind, she also knew that there were indeed innocents in this war, and Sylvanas had killed her fair share of them…and so had she. She had gone around wearing the Forsaken’s chainmail, and more or less associating herself with them, having been “forsaken” by her homeland…or so she thought, anyway. But when the rumors of what had happened to Derek Proudmoore had gotten out, as well as the public execution of Thomas Zelling and the arrest of Baine Bloodhoof for helping Derek escape, Valya had finally seen the line drawn in the sand…and realized she had been standing on the wrong side the entire time.

Mindful of Randarel’s threat to end her life should she ever cross paths with him again, she had maintained a low profile. Abandoning her old gear and wearing simple Zandalari-designed chainmail, she had made a trip back to the Broken Isles - not to Suramar, as she knew she would never be welcome there again, but to the Trueshot Lodge on the western edge of Highmountain. There the Unseen Path - Azeroth’s order of hunters - had congregated, and here, she hoped, she would find some solace away from the killing and the backstabbing.

As she walked into the mostly empty lodge, she was startled by a voice. “I see you and I had a similar idea. I needed a place away from the front to work on my gizmos…and my pals here, of course.”

She was surprised when she recognized him. “Englebert?”

“Guilty as charged.” Captain Englebert Blunderwitz of the Gnomeregan Militia grinned, white teeth showing in his green facial hair. He wore well-fitting chainmail armor in blue and gold, and carried a beautifully crafted double-barrel rifle with a laser scope. Next to him were a number of his mechanical companions - though she only recognized Moby, his mechano-wolf - and noted that he had also added a mechanical panther to his collection. “I see ten thousand years of excitement has not dulled your short-term memory.”

“No, but there are a lot of things that have become dim of late.” She explained everything, glad to finally get it off her chest. And to her surprise, he did not say a word in condemnation…or really anything at all, at least while she was talking. While he was dedicated to his people and to the Alliance, and was completely against what had happened in Darkshore and Teldrassil, he did not judge.

“You seem to be needing an upgrade of sorts,” he said when she finished. “A chance to remake yourself. I know you’re not really going for this whole war business, but I’ve been on a few trips in the South Seas out of Boralus, exploring islands. No doubt someone in Zandalar does the same thing.” He looked her over for a moment. “I’m no fashion expert, but you’re likely gonna want something that’s functional, that looks good, and not at all inspired by either your people or the rest of the Horde. Maybe some of that chainmail getup from Odyn’s vaults, if you don’t mind runes. I could probably get you a few patterns, if you still dabble in working leather.”

“I do,” Valya replied, nodding.

“And you gave up that crossbow Lazhna gave you?”

“I did. I basically shed everything I had used before. Even the gift she gave me, the arbalest she had found in Suramar when she joined the fight against Elisande.”

“Shame, that wasn’t a bad-looking weapon. Well…if you don’t mind techno-looking stuff, I may have something. Come with me.” He went outside, over to his parked vehicle, which looked for all the world to Valya like a giant gnome head, and produced the strangest-looking bow she had ever seen. “I call it the Stormbolt Thrower; I used this all throughout the war here. It’s based on a schematic from Mimiron’s workshop in Ulduar. You could say it’s something of a ‘gun-bow’. Works very simply. Arrow into the barrel, squeeze the trigger on the handle, coils charge up, and…” He demonstrated as he spoke. “Zing!” The arrow, charged with lightning, spat out of the revolving barrel and into a nearby archery target. Then he took it in both hands (careful not to touch the coils) and held it out to her. “I’ve gone back to my guns, as it were, so I figure the best way for it to get used is to hand it off to a friend, eh?”

Valya stared in shock. “Even knowing I may end up using it against your fellows?”

“The possibility exists, but…based on what you said, you’re probably not gonna be back in the thick of it like you have been. And that’s the smart thing to do. We’re hunters, not brawlers. We don’t wade into the fray, up to our eyeballs in blood. Well, maybe the survivalists do, but…” He chuckled for a moment, then became as serious as she had ever seen him. “I believe you’ll use this for good, Captain Tiren, and not for ill.”

“How can you know that?”

“Call it a leap of faith.” He grinned again. “Not a very long leap, either, not with my little stubby legs.”

Though still clearly reluctant, Valya nonetheless took the weapon in her own hands. It was a bit heavier than the weapons with which she was accustomed. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

“I can see why you’d think so. Luckily for you, I have plenty of time…”

[Shankolin-sisters-of-elune (Shankolin)]

Shankolin seethed with impatience as he watched this fumbling idiot who claimed to work for “Death” work his so-called magic - a mongrelized mish-mash of Light and Shadow. Of course, the Zandalari would claim their faith, their Loa, their powers, all pre-dated humanity (or even the elves) by several millennia. They could claim it all they want. Even with their grand capital (and it was a spectacular spread, he had to admit) and their literally upright bearing, the Zandalari were and would always be savages, so far as he was concerned. All trolls were.

This one was no exception. As he spoke, his accent and his smug belief in the “balance” of life and death stirred the whispers, running together in his mind: Breakyourchainskillhimkillhimnow…

“Da power be stirrin’ in ya, mon,” the priest said, voice showing suspicion. “But even G’huun was no match for Death…and ya be nothin’ like G’huun. Listen ta Zulimbasha…da Other Side awaits.”

That was the second time the Zandalari “death-priest” had said the power felt like G’huun, but Shankolin knew it was much older…and much more powerful. And the voice began to become clearer. Break free, end him, end them all…

The priest - Zulimbasha - kept up his chatter, about how peace was awaiting him. But there would be no peace. Not for him, not for Azeroth. He had seen visions in the darkness when the Corruptor had slain Sekhesmet and set him free. He had seen it when he picked up Sekhesmet’s ancient spellblade, now shattered…

No. Much earlier than that. He had seen it in the moment of his actual first death. When that bastard Rakeri had killed him in order to use his flesh to resurrect Sekhesmet in Grizzlemaw, the furbolg settlement in the Grizzly Hills, built within the failed World Tree whose roots had opened the way for Yogg-Saron to escape its imprisonment. In that last fleeting moment before his mind became trapped in Sekhesmet’s subconscious, he had seen visions of the great temples, the faceless…the mountains not made of stone that dominated them.

The Black Empire.

What once was, and would be again. The whispers began to become louder, and louder, even as the Zandalari kept chanting his own heathen incantation to invoke the blessing of his patron spirit. He snorted. What was a Loa to the Old Gods? Even G’huun, an artificial being created on accident by the very ones who sought to contain them, had corrupted (or sent its minions to kill) several of the Zandalari Loa. Rezan, Hir’eek, Torga…they had all fallen.

You know what the future holds! the voice in his head insisted. You know what is to come, and so does she! You will never be worth anything if you continue to shackle yourself to the concerns of mortals. What difference does it make if they plot and scheme and make futile gestures of resistance? Their end comes! You know it! She knows it! It is written! It has been seen! It cannot be unseen! You have seen it! You cannot unsee it!

Tremors began spasming through his body, and the whispers had now become screams. In a burst of pure Void, the chains that contained him shattered, the shockwave knocking Zulimbasha across the ruined courtyard, and the screams came to his lips. Zulimbasha stared in sheer terror as the Forsaken priest began to scream the words in his mind. Words that were not words.

Without another thought, the Zandalari priest turned and ran.