TO: Staff Sergeant Gorag Knucklehead, Horde-Subsidiary Relations, Orgrimmar
FM: Major General Rasek, Gor’Watha Warband, Stonard
SUBJ: ORDERS
Staff Sergeant Knucklehead,
Gor’Watha Warband requests specific orders from the Horde regarding the situation in the Blasted Lands. We have taken the liberty of sending scouts to the location as soon as the call was made in Orgrimmar.
I personally went on site to investigate and draw my own conclusions, but I’m afraid without clearance from higher ups, we are limited in how close we can get to the Dark Portal and are unsure of what we are allowed to share beyond our own ranks.
A brief meeting was held between myself, one of my generals, and acting warchief Dar’garok of Clan Stormfist to determine the origin on the Orcish threat, but the only conclusions drawn were wild. Our voodoo mama believes there may be other planets or parts of Draenor only recently granted access to our portal on Azeroth, and that was one of the less wild theories presented.
We are currently stationed close to the front, in Stonard, and awaiting orders. My troops are ready to aid the warchief however he needs.
Authorized by:
Rasek
Major General
150645 OCT 15
TO: Major General Rasek, Gor’Watha Warband, Stonard
FRM: Staff Sergeant Gorag Knucklehead, Horde-Subsidiary Relations, Orgrimmar
SUBJ: ORDERS
Major General Rasek,
Your warband has not been forgotten. Unfortunately, direct Horde troops are given priority status in these situations, especially those serving in the vanguard. At this time, there is no inside information available to you or your troops. Everything must remain classified to prevent panic among both our men and the civilians who rely on us.
For now, I would suggest focusing on keeping the Alliance out of our hair in the Blasted Lands and beyond the immediate area. We cannot afford to keep track of their every movement with the Orcish threat coming through the portal, but we cannot assume they will simply turn their eyes away from us, either. It is highly recommended that your scouts stay active with their reports, which must be submitted to Orgrimmar pending any unusual discovery.
It is also noted that your warband does not fully embrace the inclusive values that keeps the Horde united. Not allowing the blood elves into your ranks sets you and your men apart, and makes it easier for the higher ups to cut you from their overall plans.
My personal suggestion to you is to get in touch with groups that could help clear your image, and put you back in the position of being privy to classified information and combat roles. There are two new additions to the Horde I recommend: Kael’than Embershield heads a preservation and reclamation unit within Silvermoon called the Bladeborne Concurrence. I believe it’s entirely elves.
The other is a group of rather fanatical Forsaken, though their devotion to Lady Windrunner is to be expected among their kind, I suppose. Drakalys Tidemourne should be of use to the warband in this matter. Look him up while you’re in Stonard.
Any further orders will be relayed as necessary. Your actions are appreciated as always.
Lok’tar Ogar.
Authorized by:
Gorag Knucklehead
Staff Sergeant
Rasek tucked the letter into his breast pocket, behind the letter from his wife, still unread. Truth be told, he was more impressed than worried. Juzmik, usually known for his reluctance to put their men on the front lines, had beat him to the Portal, and was already scouting before the major general even had his feet on the ground.
The men were ready for another fight; that much wad clear. They wasted no time fitting their raptors for the spongey ground of the swamp, and more than once nearly ran headlong into packs of heavily armed orcs with blades drawn and teeth bared.
“You’d be proud, chief.” He sighed, patting his pocket for a cigarette. If there was one thing he couldn’t imagine, it was facing a threat of this magnitude without Yarbo at the head, sword over his shoulder, shield in hand.
And yet there they all were at the precipice of the unknown, staring down the maw of a new Orcish war machine, and though Rasek knew he was surrounded by good men and women who trusted him with their lives, he never felt more alone.
He waits at the mouth of a bridge with a hand on the pommel of his sword. It is steady and his eyes are sure, but his right hand, his good hand, shakes with fear and anticipation. His fingers twitch and grab at the short-barreled gun strapped to his hip.
“Might not work”, the smith told him, wiping grease from his hands in his beard. “Barrel that short, could go anywhere. Best of luck to ye.”
It’s been years since he’s been here. Northrend was his calling; his escape from memories that wash over him like a river on a spring morning after the rain, but here he is. Tyr’s Hand, the foothold of reckoning, yawning at the sea to the west and Acherus, the floating tomb, to the east.
He steps forward with some hesitation, smiling and making a joke to the crusader next to him. “Look alive, boys!”, and they spare him courteous laughter to hide their own unease. They are here to relieve the men and women before them, stationed in this hell hole for nearly six months. They want to go home to their families. They are tired.
He watches them as they load onto the cart: Dead eyes, sunken cheeks. They look at the ground more than each other and speak very little if at all. Their swords are rusted. Their armor is stained with blood. He wonders why they came out here at all.
And beyond them, the death knights who held them patrol. They are more jovial than the living, and eager to meet the replacements. Heavy boots on the stonework, click click click. Weeds and brambles catch at his cloak as he makes his way to them, chin up, knuckles white. His right hand grabs at his gun.
He smiles at one and offers a low bow, cloak draping over his shoulders. This one is a troll, nearly eight feet tall if he had to guess, with white paint caked on his face and eyes like blue flames that curl up around his rust-colored hair. The troll does not return his courtesy.
“Greetings, Ebon Knight!” The troll smiles, rows of gravestone teeth. There is blood between them.
“Greetings, paladin. To what do I owe the pleasure?” No accent. He is articulate and careful, each word crisp and new in his throat. Common is not a language he is used to, but the metallic din of his voice makes it clear and bright.
“We’re here to replace the Silverwing Unit. We’ll be here for four months, likely, before another comes… another…” He looks down at the old knight’s hands. A lock of silver hair, carefully tied with a velvet bow. He strokes it as the crusader speaks, eyes locked on him.
“Another?”
He can almost feel the troll smiling. Is this what they do? He’d worked with death knights before, up in Northrend, but they were always so focused. There was real work to be done there, not like here, so close to their base. Not here where things were still quiet and dying. Is this what death knights do when they’re bored?
His fingers twitch. His pocketwatch notifies him of the hour. Click.
“Another… unit comes and replaces us.” He tries to look away from the ribbon, the lock of hair. He remembers running his hands along her back, along her hips, thighs cheeks arms. He remembers tying her hair back as she washes her face in the morning. Her accent, so strange to him, and the whip of her tail when he annoyed her.
The old knight stops, his thumb on the ribbon, head tilted to one side. “Is something the matter, paladin?”
His fingers twitch. Did they know? Did HE know? How could he know? How could anyone but him reach back so far, back to the armies of the scourge, back to the frozen plains of Icecrown that threatened to swallow them all? Great sheets of ice that blocked out the sun and curled around them, as if eyes in the land itself were keeping tabs.
Yes, that was it. He must have seen them, long ago, holding hands as they marched towards the citadel. Their breath frozen in the air, her hair tied back, the sound of her hooves against bone and rock. Click, click, click. He must have heard him talking about her in his sleep. He must have seen it in one of their damned soul wells. They must have gathered around it, mocking him, mocking his pain.
The paladin’s eyes dart to the axe strapped to the troll’s back, glowing softly with rime and flickering runes, blue and green.
“Does this bother you?” The troll held up the lock of hair, silver catching the dim light of the Plaguelands, velvet deep and black. He smiled. “It came from a girl I met some time ago. Beautiful. Draenei. I couldn’t understand a word she said, but when she begged me to end her life it sounded sweet, so sweet. Too sweet to work quickly. You know how it is.”
His fingers twitch. “May not even work, laddie.” The dwarf’s voice echoes in his head alongside her subtle laughter. The knight sets his feet on the ground, tapping the back of his greaves against rock. Click.
They were surrounded. It was a joke. Bringing them all out here to guard, what? A ruined land? The decrepit bastion of cruelty and unending hunger the death knights call home? No, the paladin reasoned, it must be for something else. It must be a game.
He steps forward, hand on the gun at his hip. They’ve brought them here to toy with them; to ease their bloodlust through other means. What better way to torture a man than to leave him here? The dead eyes of the Silverwing Unit. Their blood stained armor. Already he could feel the dust clouds filling his lungs, clogging his throat.
The old knight smiles at him, lock of hair in his hand. “May work, laddie. All ye need is good aim.” The dwarf is in his head, showing him how to shoot the gun. His father is holding the gun on their farm, steady aim at a fox getting too close. “All you need is a steady hand.”
He pulls the hammer back. Click. The barrel is too short, but he’s so close. So close. He can feel her hand in his. The knight crouches lower, hand on his axe. Someone behind him shouts, but there’s a ringing in his ears he can’t replace. Eyes like a wild beast, teeth lined with blood.
The paladin steels his jaw. His hand is no longer shaking. He can smell her perfume right behind him, her thick accent like tinted glass tickling his ear.
“It will always work. All you need is a steady hand.”
No one would notice. It was a small hole, just a few centimeters, and when he wore his full suit it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. But he knew it was there, and he rubbed at his gauntlet as if his hands could transcend metal and sooth the pain beneath.
At first it was just that: An annoyance, a twitch to add to his others, but it was just the one. When the second came, he began to get nervous. Then the third, and then they all started to smell.
He was dead, yes, but he tried to keep himself in check. He was in a constant state of rotting and not rotting, like a corpse that had been hung from the rafters and dried with the herbs. This was new, this sort of decay. Pus began to ooze from the little holes, and he found himself wrapping his arms with linen before putting on his armor. He could feel his skin stretch and break and leak again every time he swung his sword.
The geist beside him watched curiously, sitting with its hands in its lap, its chest moving silently with the breaths it didn’t need to take. His minions were always so well behaved. They were tools like any other, like his mind, and they needed to be trained, sharpened, and kept in shape. If he neglected them they’d be like Ezzran’s, picking pockets and growling at people as they passed.
Sarjen took a deep breath. The geist mimicked him. They watched one another for a moment, judging the other, weighing their strengths against one another, before the geist shrank back down and focused on the floor in front of him.
He’d dedicated so much time to his tools. His sword was always sharp. He read and re-read the runes on his body and on his weapon. He went to the soul forges in Acherus on a weekly basis, just to make sure everything was as it should be. He had disease flowing through his veins where the blood had clotted and dried. Desire for suffering and the death of living creatures had replaced his desire for food and drink, leaving him focused, dedicated, cruel, and of course efficient.
Some men worked with the blood of their enemies. Some men drank the blood of their enemies in the thick of battle, tearing off chunks and moving to the next man before their first victim was done screaming. They bathed in the gore and glory, working themselves into a frenzy until they were nearly untouchable.
Some men worked within the icy tombs of their bodies. They were colder than the rest, with steamy breath regardless of the heat, and when they touched the water it hardened beneath their fingers. They could put their thumbs in a man’s eyes and watch him scream as they froze him from the inside out.
Men like Sarjen were different. He delighted in the torture of others. He knew how their bodies worked and what they would react to. Give them bread and watch their skin turn black as they choke on it. The look of realization and horror, betrayal, wordlessly begging as their bodies began to shut down gave him shivers like nothing else could. The time spent stitching up his little geists and ghouls was his way of clearing his head, and when they were trained they were delicate, precious like sculptures.
But the sores… the sores were there.
He’d never fully understood the blood drinkers. He’d missed something they could see, and to him it felt weak, far off. Needing to kill to stay sane was bad enough. Needing it more to stay whole? He couldn’t imagine. His mind was too full already.
Sarjen held his stone out to the geist. The creature took a careful look at its master before taking the stone, holding it between his knees like a prize. He’d been so proud when he’d finally trained one how the stone worked. His precious ghouls would chew on them, scream into them, throw them around when he wasn’t looking. The geists were cleverer, and more easily trained. This one sat watching, as if he’d sensed the tensing in his master’s muscles.
The creatures weren’t as alive as the death knights, as Juzmik would say. They could move and speak and obey, but they were reliant on the will of their masters. The ghouls didn’t seem to mind whether they lived or died, but the geists were quicker to dodge and slower to respond to an order that would mean their lives. It worried Sarjen, not to sacrifice a tool but to see one look back at him with fury when he sent them into the thick of death.
This one looked at him that way now. It curled its blackened fingers around the stone and crouched low, shifting slightly to face the knight. Sarjen rubbed the tips of his fingers against the palm of his hand.
Geists were quick, but untrained. They were extra bodies, a distraction that clawed at your enemy to keep them off balance. They were not meant to live beyond a few battles, and they certainly were not meant to be stronger than the men and women who controlled them.
The creature lunged at him, shrieking, his hands contorted into claws. Sarjen ducked to the right. His greatsword cut through the geist’s leather easily, tearing open its abdomen, breaking through the bones in its ribs and shoulder. Congealed blood and half decayed organs spilled out onto the knight’s armor as the geist fell to the floor, the rest of its horrible shriek caught with blood in its throat.
“Where’s ya little weird ting?” Juzmik hefted his pack over his shoulder. It was considerably bigger than Sarjen’s and about half the boy’s height, but he carried it as if it weighed nothing at all.
Sarjen’s fingers twitched at his side. He’d left Orgrimmar as soon as he’d disposed of the body of his geist, which gave him little time to adjust. The Jade Forest was new to him, to everyone, and he was still relying a weapon that was no longer there. It had left him slow. Thankfully, Juzmik was so happy to be in his company again that he hardly noticed. The absence of the geist was the first missing thing he’d noticed all day.
Sarjen sighed, his breath catching the heavy air of the forest and curling up like smoke. He was colder now, and his body felt stiff, but the sores had stopped leaking, and where they once were torn the skin had hardened to black that didn’t protest when he moved.
“I left him behind.” The knight pulled ahead of his friend, the question already leaving a sour taste in his throat. His tools were his life, and a few years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to let the sores grow and grow until he was nothing but bone and rot and disease, but things were different. He couldn’t let Juzmik know what had happened. He had to be normal, be okay, be strong and in shape and not going anywhere.
So the ghouls went, the geists went. His tools and grime beneath his fingernails and the bread soaked in poison were gone. He’d been pressed against the ice that confines all of his brothers and sisters, beating his hands against it, screaming, begging to be let free, unable to breath or drown and unwilling to sink. When he opened his arms to it, it took him quickly. Rime coated his fingertips. Frost clung to his armor, melting and freezing and melting again in the humidity of the new continent, and Juzmik didn’t notice anything was wrong. That was what mattered. He was fine, and Juzmik could never think otherwise.
He had let Juzmik pick their lodgings. It was his best bet at the time, with Easy and the boy leading their covert landing on the new continent. If he’d let Easy pick their base, he would have stuck a flag in the middle of a battlefield and challenged the world to come tear it down, and while Juzmik was a bit softer than he cared for, the village of Sri-La was accommodating enough and relatively peaceful besides.
It reminded him of Revantusk in all honesty, which made him more comfortable and homesick than he particularly cared for. As such, he spent the majority of his time in a small apartment in Halfhill that served as both a living space and an office. It had an excellent view of the quaint little garden belonging to his neighbor, and the town itself was so busy despite its size that he was hardly ever bothered by the inhabitants, who were more worried about the hawkish troops with their hands on their weapons than they were about a glorified clerk with thinning hair.
Still, as long as Sri-La was their landing point, Rasek was expected to be there to push things ahead from behind, so to speak. While the majority of the soldiers rushed to the Shrine of the Two Moons and had fallen in love with the careful majesty of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, the major general stayed behind to welcome the new troops, direct them to where they needed to be, go through his paperwork, the logs, and the payroll without much interference from the Alliance.
Sri-La clung to the wall of a massive cliff face on the northeastern shore of the continent, no less elegant than many of the of the other towns in the area and certainly more so than Halfhill itself, but it was out of the way and offered little beyond the way of fishing and perhaps a place to rest for someone who’d gotten lost on the road to elsewhere, so it remained relatively untouched by the flurry of activity that blanketed the region from the top of the cliff to its western border.
However, with the bulk of his papers left behind at his meager office, if Rasek finished his work early he was left with little to do. He stood at the edge of an empty deck with a fishing pole at his side, having harassed the Pandaren usually sitting there into wandering off and leaving him some peace, patting at his vest in search of a cigarette.
A young woman poked her head out the door and looked him over quickly before sighing and ducking back indoors. He could hear her speaking to someone in her native tongue, followed by another sigh. The Pandaren were amiable enough, but they didn’t like him crowding their space, and when they invaded his he made such a commotion that even with his generous rent he was becoming too much of a bother for the quiet little village.
Rasek shrugged and pulled a cigarette from his inner breast pocket. They’d likely try to bump his rent at the end of the week, which was fine. The more excuses he had to officially move his station to Halfhill the better. Even that shrine the boys had been fawning over would be a welcome change.
He found a single match left in his matchbox, bittersweet since he’d need more soon, but good enough to satisfy his nicotine cravings for now. He struck it against the side of the box, and as soon as the head burst into flame a gust of wind picked up from offshore and extinguished it, leaving Rasek with a terrible frown on his face and his pointed teeth nearly biting through the end of his cigarette. He attempted to throw the wasted match into the ocean to teach it a lesson, but it fluttered helplessly in the breeze and bounced off the helmet of a troll wandering along the beach beneath him instead.
“Oi!” Rasek called out, leaning over the banister and waving his hand. The troll looked up at him without a word. He was dressed head to ankle in dark plate, the deep cobalt blue of Northrend, with holes in the helmet for his tusks as well as a decorative set of darkened Drakkari bones on either side of his helmet. Fur poked out from the top of the breastplate and the bottom of the helm, which would have left any regular troll sweltering in the balmy warmth of the Jade Forest, but for a Death Knight it was just another layer of protection.
“You eh, you got a light?” The major general asked, his toothy grin failing to hide his ambition and desperation. The knight below him shook his head.
“No sir. I have no need for one.”
“Oh right, eh. Ya ya, don’t smoke, do ya?”
The knight shook his head. Rasek sighed and took the cigarette from his mouth, tempted to chew on it but unwilling to ruin his last cigarette, and tucked it behind his ear for safe keeping. The troll in plate did not move. Was he waiting for orders? Rasek eyed him rather awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say. The knight stared back.
“Sarjen eh, why don’t ya come up here an eh, have some company, ya?”
“Yes sir.”
He spoke with a clarity that made Rasek uneasy, and while he was never the best at hiding his emotions, he did his best not to be seen as unnerved by it. He wasn’t concerned about Sarjen’s comfort, but he was unwilling to let someone like that have any sort of power over him, even if it was by accident or something as small as the quality of his voice. It was so deliberate; careful yet dangerous, like speaking to an elf that was actually capable of grabbing you by the neck and squeezing until your head popped. His footsteps on the wooden stairs were just as deliberate. Rasek ran his tongue across the front of his teeth.
Sarjen took his place next to his superior officer, a head taller than the younger man and with broader shoulders, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes straight ahead. When he stood still, he was so quiet he seemed not to even breathe. Indeed, Rasek looked at the man’s chest to see if it was moving, which is was.
“Sooo…” He began, “Ya like it here, mon?” Sarjen was one of the unlucky few who had been stopped by the regular guard closer to Grookin Hill. Darkspear Trolls were not viewed favorably in the Horde these days, and Garrosh hadn’t invited them to join the rest of the loyal forces in Pandaria. Sarjen was no doubt capable of taking care of himself in regards to pencil pushers and lackeys, but he was also a dedicated soldier, and when faced with the possibility of being reported for disobedience, he faltered. As a result he was stuck in the Jade Forest until they could figure out why he was there in the first place.
“It is warm.” The knight’s voice was tinny and deep, rough and grumbling like two rocks being tumbled together. Rasek couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“Warm ya, but eh, de mon like you don’t get warm, do ya?”
“We do.”
“Oh?” Rasek shifted sideways to give the man another look. “Prolly cuz ya got all dat shit on ya. Prolly could just wander round shirtless an nobody ain’t say shit, eh? Juzzy prolly get a kick outta it too.” He smiled again, a hint of cruelty playing at the corner of his lips that he meant to seem playful. Sarjen neglected to answer.
The young woman poked her head outside the door again, narrowing her eyes at the pair and clicking her tongue before ducking back in. Rasek turned to look at her briefly before flashing his friend another smile.
“Dey don’t like us too much, I tink.” Sarjen shook his head. “I hear tings like eh, dey got all de Trolls workin togedda up in someplace in de nort’ bit, ya? Drakkari, Farraki, Amani an Gurubashi AN de Zandalari all cutting heads togedda an givin hell to dem fur tings. Ya hear dat too?”
“Yes sir.”
“Sometimes I tink eh, like what if we had joined wit de Amani back when dey was regroupin? I wanted to do dat ya know. Dunno if joo was wit us den, maybe, was like eh, a year ago maybe, maybe more. I wanted to be wit my bruddahs an sistahs tryin to take back what were ours to begin wit, but de whole ting ended ‘fore I could get anyting to move on our end. Ya know what dat’s like, Sarjen? Wanting to run off an help de rest a ya mon like dat an not bein able to?” He peered at Sarjen, trying to read the glow of his eyes from behind the shadow of his helm.
“No sir.”
“No? Neva?”
“No sir.”
Rasek popped the cigarette back between his lips and began patting his vest for another match, as if forgetting the events that transpired just moments before. His face twisted into a scowl as he checked and double checked his pockets, grumbling to himself about fuck this and fuck that while Sarjen watched him struggle with his habit.
“Perhaps the woman in the inn has a light for you.” The knight offered, nodding once at the doorway the little Pandaren kept ducking in and out of. “She seems rather interested in you anyway.”
“Ya tink?” Rasek ran his hands through his thinning hair. “Dey keep on me like flies on shit, s’if I don’t pay em enough to get some fuckin privacy round here.”
Sarjen said nothing. Rasek gave him a look of reproach and turned to the open doorway of the inn. He gave the knight a lazy half-salute and stepped away from the edge of the deck, resigned to asking favors of the nosy, chatty woman who ran the place but not attempting to hide his dissatisfaction.
“Ey eh.” He stopped and turned back to other Troll, who turned in kind and cocked his head to the side, listening. “Tell Juzzy him idea to stay here were shit an I hate him for it.”
Sarjen nodded and turned his back to the major general, who stepped inside to begin haggling for a match or matches and maybe a couple more cigarettes. As soon as he was alone, Sarjen let his shoulders slump and a raspy sigh escape from the back of his throat. Crossing paths with Rasek had never served him well. The major general was in a foul mood more often than not, giving him humiliating messages to send to Juzmik or berating him for his so-called exotic tastes, and of course this time was no different.
Still, the boy wouldn’t return from the shrine for a few days yet, maybe a week or more if he were held up somewhere, and that gave Rasek plenty of time to give him another idiotic message to deliver or change his mind. It might even trump the one he’d already given, or annoy Juzmik less, or even be good news, if the sun suddenly rose at night and the fish rose from the ocean on wings of seaweed and flew away like birds.
Sarjen contented himself to listen to the innkeeper deny Rasek another pack of cigarettes and attack him with a flurry of insults. The sea breeze picked up once again, carrying the cries of nearby gulls and the low cooing of a hozen running around in the sand below, the smell of salt and decay filling his dull senses. Somewhere in his memory, a wiry young scout was sitting on a deck just like this one, kicking his legs over the side and humming to himself.
Sarjen leaned against the rail and smiled to himself. He rather liked it here.
The gates of the Vale were open to everyone. The northern shrine had been occupied entirely by the Horde, its thick golden walls casting a long shadow over the outer terrace with the sun at its back. The edges of the pillars on all sides seemed to sparkle, creating a soft, warm aura around the building that was almost comforting.
Sinja kept her head down as she hurried inside. She had been told not to attract too much attention; an untrained priestess in her tribal clothes could run into a lot of trouble on the new continent, so she adopted an air of modesty that didn’t quite suit her and tried to be as unimpressive as possible.
She wore a long, stiff golden robe that clung to her shoulders and trailed to the floor, the edges embroidered with delicate flowers and leafy vines. Beneath it she had only her beads and her loincloth, so she held it closed tightly around her, only her bare legs and feet peeking out as she shuffled through the crowd. A small golden comb was nestled into the wispy strands of her blood red hair, holding a messy bun together at the back of her head. Ezzran had given it to her. She had no doubt it was taken from the body of a local.
A quick look through the inn proved nearly useless. The only other troll she found was a hugely pregnant Frostmane woman she didn’t recognize, who yelled at her in a dialect she only barely understood and shooed her from the room. She knew the warband was keeping its head nearly as low as hers, but she expected to see a few tabards or at least a recognizable face.
The second level yielded a bit more. A paladin was seated across from a bubbling fountain, combing his hair with his fingers and seemingly lost in thought. He looked at her as she approached; his soft features filled with curiosity and barely disguised contempt. The commander of the Phoenix Highguard made no secret of his disdain for her people, but he smiled as sweetly as he could and greeted her pleasantly enough.
“Gor’Watha?” The name sounded like a disease on his tongue. “I don’t know where they’re stationed, hopefully not anywhere nearby. I’ve seen a few of them milling around in the library, probably stealing. I can’t imagine any of them can actually read those scrolls, maybe one of the mages, but not those scruffy degenerates always running around.”
He waved his hand dismissively as Sinja opened her mouth to protest. She’d been taught to read at an early age by her mother, memorizing the words on the tablets of Bethekk so the head priestess would be more inclined to take her on as a disciple when she came of age.
“Oh relax, I’m just kidding. It’s usually your darling General Rasek and that other one with the mask, you know the druid or whatever with the birds on his robe, the one who’s stealing my little Kelikei, you know him? And some woman in rags, I mean honestly. I don’t know their names. They all sound the same to me. If you people used less clicks and got some last names it would be easier, but no, it’s like you’re making it difficult for the rest of us by pointedly being uncivilized.” He gave her an exasperated sigh. “Is that all? Run along now; I’m quite busy.”
Sinja sneered at the elf as he turned back to the fountain, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. He wouldn’t have noticed her again for all the gold in the world, like throwing a rock in a river and watching the water swallow it up without ever breaking pace. The priestess comforted herself with the thought of Zul’Aman rising again, and hurried off in the direction the elf pointed her to with a sly smile on her lips.
The library was really no more than a tall, dimly lit room packed to the ceiling with scrolls and tablets and books, ranging from ancient to notes penned earlier that day. Zul’Gurub had no libraries, nor did Revantusk, nor Orgrimmar. This library was only slightly bigger than the ones she’d seen in Silvermoon, but it impressed and intimidated her just the same. A stocky Pandaren looked at her over a pair of half-moon spectacles and ushered her to the far corner of the library, where a single squat desk sat covered in a mound of paper. He told her an ill-tempered troll had paid handsomely to be allowed to use it at all times. Rasek. She could wait here until he returned.
The bench behind the desk was so low her knees were almost to her chest, and the desk itself was far too small to contain to overflow of orders, notices, scraps of information and useless flyers that decorated the general’s “office”. She picked through some of them with only mild interest. Most were in Orcish anyway, which she couldn’t read as well as her native tongue and had no desire to learn.
One letter was set off to the side, the corners ragged and stained with blood. The ink was blotchy and messy, most likely written in a hurry and not under the best of circumstances. The only letter she could make out from the signature was “G”. One of Juzmik’s scouts no doubt.
“ADDRESSED TO: General Rasek – Gor’Watha Warband
LOCATION: Shrine of the Two Moons
BODY: Sentinel camp. S. Karasang.
Fortified. Near waterway. Riv. Between camp & sunwkr. Can move in from sea.
Scout rounds every 2.5 hrs w saber. Req. orders.
--G ---“
Sinja looked up from the letter, surprised by approaching footsteps. They weren’t heavy enough to be the Pandaren from before. Someone light on their feet but relaxed, letting their guard down, perhaps preoccupied. Rasek.
She folded the letter in a hurry and tucked it into her robe, closing it tightly over her breast and ducking behind an overflowing shelf just in time for the general to return. His eyes were glued to the stack of papers in his hand, and he slid into the tiny chair without looking in her direction. Sinja nearly breathed a sigh of relief when he addressed her.
“Whatcha want?”
“I—I was um.” She stepped out from behind the shelf, worried that the blush on her cheeks would give her away.
“Whatcha want?” He glared at her over his papers, recognition and annoyance in his eyes. Her acquisition of Ezzran hadn’t made her many friends in the warband, and Rasek’s stare was a cold reminder of that.
“I was lookin for uh… where we was um, s’pposed to be um, stayin?”
“Down de stairs, take a left, lil panda bitty standin at de ting dere. Zae’s in de back room screamin bout cupcakes or whateva; ya see ‘er if ya go all de way down.” He turned back to his desk and his mess of papers. For a moment Sinja thought he’d notice the letter missing, but when he said nothing she thanked him and rushed out of the library as quickly as her robe would allow.
S.Karasang. She didn’t know where it was, but if night elves were attempting to create a foothold there, Ezzran would want to know about it. He’d want to eat. And most of all, he’d be pleased with her for bringing him there.
Sometimes when I am at sea I think of how different it would be if I had the boy in my care. Always sick off land. My father would have called it a flaw in his character; a weak stomach meant a weak will, but I’d rather that than a weak mind such as his.
Yes, Juzmik has his weaknesses as any boy does, but his innocence and determination overshadows all of them. I know the way he blushes when I mention something he hasn’t done, or something I did in my youth that interests him even in the slightest. He believes he should have done it all by now, and still so young. I believe he’s 20 now. What I would give to have that youthful optimism.
The rail is slick beneath my hands. I have been warned not to wear my plate above deck to prevent my drowning; something that made me laugh but I heeded just the same. It wouldn’t do any good to get lost at sea, not now. I wonder if the sailor understood my amusement.
He seems the typical superstitious naval type: He stands with his feet pointed outward, even on land (I remember him from the dock). His broad shoulders and arms are corded with thick muscles, and he’s usually just in a pair of simple linen trousers. Shirtless, thank the Loa. He explained his tattoos to me when I asked. A pig and a chicken on the feet are for good luck, as it turns out. They encourage a sailor to float if they happen to go overboard, or if the ship sinks.
The particular fears and fancies of sailors don’t change with the times as the rest of society does. When they are out on the sea for as long as they are, their whole world becomes the little stretch of wood, their crew, and the seemingly endless blue and green of the merciful and terrible ocean. Even the most educated man can succumb to childish terrors when he is out on the water.
In order to keep myself from falling prey to these ridiculous notions, I have taken to looking over the navigator’s maps. They are extremely accurate, though his handwriting leaves something to be desired. Any other man would have to have the names of the stars and constellations memorized already to effectively use the maps, though perhaps that was the idea. It’s difficult to replace someone if no one else can do their job, isn’t it?
I have tried speaking to him on several occasions, but he is as quiet as I am, and greatly disturbed by my condition. A corpse on board is bad luck, which is why no living soldier will serve on a Forsaken ship, and why I am generally avoided by the majority of the crew.
No doubt my handsome friend puts himself at risk of alienation by asking me to take precaution. I am paying them, but if I make the entire way I am putting the ship at risk by being “unlucky”, whereas if I drown they are paid regardless and unburdened by my person.
In hindsight, I should have paid half at the docks and promised the other half upon landing. The only thing I can do now is watch my back.
Women were sure to be the death of him. Not the ridiculous mounds of paperwork, the logbooks that needed to be checked and double checked, the pressure of appearances that he worried about more than almost anyone he knew, his duties as a soldier, a son, and a best friend, the smoking OR the drinking. Women would be the poison in his food at the end of a long day.
His girl was set up in the biggest room he could get on short notice. He hadn’t been able to collect her himself, but he was promised that their modest apartment in Silvermoon would remain locked, untouched, and most importantly unsold while they were staying in the Shrine of the Two Moons. Zaezha had been allowed to take her young raptor with her, as long as they lied about how obedient it was.
She was still lovely despite her growth over the past six months. Rasek was told that pregnancy meant big tits and a woman who glowed with maternal pride and happiness (aside from the baby thing, which was really just an afterthought). He was not told she’d be a constantly hungry, crying, whining wench who demanded ridiculous things and refused to share a bed with him on the grounds that he “thought she was ugly”, which was untrue as long as he kept his eyes off her stomach.
She did have her good moments. When she was feeling herself she was the picture of everything she was before the whole baby mess: Funny, devoted, fun loving and adorable with that sweet giggle and the innocent batting of her eyelashes.
But for now, most of the time, she was one more thing to look after. He had to visit her and bear the brunt of her hormonal state without understanding a word of the horrible, garbled Orcish and poured from her mouth like a fountain, and then he went off to finish the rest of his duties with a thank you to the Loa on his lips.
He had no idea where Yirna was staying. He assumed it was somewhere in the Shrine, but he never saw her unless she wanted him to. She’d walk through the library and stop at his office, saying it was on the way. She’d be haggling with some merchants by the landing when he’d come in from Orgrimmar, and without being informed of his arrival, turn and smile at him before he’d lose sight of her in the crowd.
She was as beautiful as ever. Bright, golden eyes contrasted well with her light skin, and her lips were always turned in a pout that only served to make her seem like a woman lost in a dream. Her hips swayed when she walked. Even the bones and scraps of mail and heavy leather sewn onto her robes couldn’t make her uncomely. She was the picture of a talented young shaman, and Rasek often found himself thinking about her long after she’d left.
But that was another time. She’d left him for rocks, or so he thought. He’d gotten that stupid tattoo afterwards, and spent months embarrassing himself in his childish despair. He had Zaezha now, Zaezha had her baby, and that was that. But Yirna’s hips, by god. They wouldn’t leave him alone.
Neither would Zinki, as it turned out. She was far too young for him to have any interest and flat as a board besides, but she giggled and told him how funny he was, and how smart he must be and aren’t his daggers so cool.
Kids! Six or seven years make a big difference when one is still a teenager, but that was Zinki. Rasek wasn’t so much annoyed by her as he was by her brother anyway, as he liked the compliments. Oh, where’s my sister, who’s seen my sister? Have you talked to her today? Did anyone go with her? Does she have a boyfriend? Did someone touch her, what happened? Where’s my money, where’s my sister, where’s my fucking brain, I’m Kael’thas Sunstrider, I’m a real rogue, suck my dick Rasek blah blah blah.
The major general pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back a bit before remembering the low Pandaren seats were made without backs. There was too much work to do to get distracted by women now, but they always seemed to be there regardless, tugging at his mind (and his pants, if his mind is to be believed) and keeping from getting things done. On top of it all, he’d lost the damn letter regarding the sentinel camp in Karasang. He’d have to go through the Left Tusk logs to find the scout named G—before sending anything back, which annoyed him more than anything. He’d have Juzmik come up and do it for him if he wasn’t sure he’d get another flood of questions regarding his stupid sister.
But the letter, yes. He didn’t just lose things. His desk was a mess, but it was an organized mess that he could easily plunge his hand into and come up with exactly what he was looking for. A misplaced letter was something for him to worry about, and so he did. The sparse librarians claimed to know nothing. The only people seen hovering around his desk were people he knew about, which to the rogue suggested it had been a friend who’d taken it. He wasn’t frustrated by a breach of trust, since he rarely gave that to anyone anyway, but he was frustrated that someone managed to steal something from HIM, a man who’d made most of his initial gold through theft.
He must be slipping. Maybe it was those long nights bent over his papers, squinting at Sarjen’s tiny handwriting next to an extremely dim lamp, or maybe it was being out of the line of duty for so long. Yes, he could feel the softness of his stomach where once there had been nothing but muscle. He pretended it didn’t exist, but blushed and cleared his throat anyway.
It was probably those damn women. Yirna for occupying his thoughts, Zinki for dragging him around, Zaezha for being so fucking demanding, Zaezha again for worrying him, his mother for her failing health, Tiombi for her new closeness to Yarbo, Keli for her weird thing with the elves, Athena for probably eating babies or whatever, Urukal’s plethora of sisters just for existing, and Ezzran’s little trophy on top of them all. She’d been there the other day, snooping around the shelves behind his desk.
Rasek rubbed his chin and groaned quietly to himself. He’d been an idiot not to question her more when he saw how nervous she was. She must have snatched it up and run off with it, the little tramp. He’d go to Easy right now and ask—no, demand to know where it was, yes, and then he could get his work done and get some damn sleep.
No sooner had he stood up then the thought of the letter left his mind completely. A troll stood in the doorway of the library, her long, blood red hair trailing over her shoulders, framed by the golden glow of the bank behind her. She was dressed in her usual robes and smiling, not making a sound despite the bones in her ears and on her wrists, coming towards him with that same seductive sway that used to keep him up at night.
“Ya busy, Rasek?” Her voice was liquid honey, sending a shiver up his spine that he couldn’t suppress no matter how badly he wanted to. All he could do was shake his head and stare, drinking in her beauty like it was the first time he’d ever seen her.
They were gonna be the death of him. The absolute death of him.
The stink of death and fel was in the wind. It covered the ruins of the city like a thick blanket, digging at the land itself with hooks as deep as dwarven mines and sharp as an orcish blade. The isle will see the sunrise before we do, and when it hits the gates it will lose its warmth and be nothing but a reminder that the day has come, and our home is not yet rebuilt.
Bran had been old when Arthas carved a blackened path through the elven forests, and he was older now, in strength as well as years. He was still hardy, and he still did his duty, but the hope of seeing his city rebuilt and the disdain he held for his own people dwindled and grew respectively as time went on.
In Goldmist Village he’d been Brainbraithe, a scrappy boy with a good eye and a lack of sense. In the Farstrider’s Retreat he was Aderion, quiet but capable, not fit to command but dedicated to his people. But here with his back to the ruined walls, the cold stone and morning dew seeping through his leather and wool, he was simply Bran, an old man with an old companion and a history hardly worth mentioning.
He turned his gaze from the eastern door to a moth eaten divan shoved against the wall, where a young troll lay in a heap, sleeping soundly. His breath was deep and rhythmic, soothing and soft, the only truly peaceful thing among the wandering wretches and necrotic silence of Dawning Lane. The boy stirred in his sleep as Bran moved closer, resting his back against the edge of the divan and his head against the arm.
He was a quick learner with a good heart, touched by the rift between their races but willing to overlook it, to which the ranger was quite pleased. He’d faced the boy’s tribe as enemies before, but that’s all they were: Men against the Horde. The boy had taken his pledge and was no longer his enemy, simple as that.
Bran dug a slender wooden pipe from his leather bag. It was carved from the same white wood that grew like gnarled hands under the blue-grey sky of the Ghostlands, fed by the pulse of the ley lines and the bones of his people. The head was that of a man with a prominent nose and a turban around his forehead, his hair and beard encircling his face like a shroud, and the stem itself was long enough for a man to keep his hand at his chest while he held it and smoked. Bran began to pack the bowl with bloodthistle from a green canvas bag, singing to the boy in a low voice while he worked.
“Far across the shadowed glen
From sanctum east we turn again
Through living wood and rivers cold
Ride men and women, rangers bold
A kiss of sun for maidens fair
Whose souls have left their bodies bare
A dagger pierced their beating hearts
And crushed them ‘neath the Prince’s arts
Our arrows for our brothers dead
A vengeance for our forest bled
Arthas hear a ranger’s cry:
“We come for you, the Sin’dorei!””
Juzmik’s eyes flickered open at the sound of a match head struck against stone. His nostrils filled with the sweet, musky smoke of bloodthistle and he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“’s it morning?” He asked, voice thick with drink and exhaustion from the night before.
Bran nodded, his eyes no longer on the boy or his pipe. The sun had begun to peak through the eastern gate to Sunstrider Isle, bathing the statue of the huntress of the dawn in its light. What once would have been a testament to the power and beauty of elven society stood only as a cold monument to the death and ruin that had overtaken them. Indeed, the huntress’s bow was broken, and vines and wretched clung to her like snakes around mice.
“Yes, Juzmik.” The ranger spoke softly, exhaling a stream of colored smoke through his nose. “It is morning, but it is not yet dawn.”
