((Mainly for myself to keep track of RP things because he's now Netherias on WrA so bear with me 😂)) -Was gathering souls to release his Eredar master Il'rethar from the scepter in order to slay the Dreadlord Hal'Nazris. -Souls alone were insufficient, brought a blood mage to his cause in an attempt to combine the power of the anima with souls in order to free Il'rethar. -Blood mage vanished, but Neth found out he was working with a yaungol on the side to empower his blood magic. -Neth tracked down this yaungol, Sung-Bo, and forced him to use the Mind's Eye (an astral plane where the most serene monks may project themselves and others) to release Il'rethar. -Il'rethar was released and the Mind's Eye tracked Hal'Nazris' location. Il'rethar killed Hal'Nazris and consumed his heart. -Neth attempted to backstab Il'rethar and slay him, taking the power for his own now that the Eredar was weakened after battle. -Neth failed, and consuming the dark heart of Hal'Nazris made Il'rethar unstable so the Eredar fled to Argus. -With the derelict power left in the scepter, Neth has been studying interdimensional pocket rifts, particularly one linked to Xoroth. -Uses condensed essences of destruction to power his chaotic spells by siphoning them through this Xorothian rift. Accidentally summoned a fiend that ripped his jaw off, now wears said fiend's head as a helm that helps him speak. -Searching for the fabled Bonescythe of Xoroth said to be powered by a core of pure havoc and chaos so that he may end Il'rethar once and for all. -Joined the ranks of the Royal Apothecary Society so that he may combine their research with his to reach Argus. -Reunited with an old friend/enemy, a Timewalker who propositions that the Society must fail and Neth must keep them distracted lest the Dark Lady become too powerful. -Neth agreed tentatively, hoping to bargain and force the Timewalker to allow him to see his slain wife and daughter again. And that's where we are now...I think.
Stretched thin at the advance of the Legion into Azeroth, the Farstriders sought the aid of mercenary groups to assist in a looming threat in the Ghostlands. The once abandoned fortress of Deatholme has been infiltrated by a demonic presence, although intelligence has been hard to come by, what we do know is that a warlock named Nog’gurund, indebted to the Legion, is working on funneling in an invasion force from Deatholme to overwhelm the Ghostlands. If they are successful, we will be overrun with most of our troops, and most of the Horde, focused on the Broken Isles. Our intelligence revealed that the Ironwolf Company was successful at stopping this advance, though the methods on how such a small group stopped such a large force remains nebulous, we are safe, at least for now.
Calm set over Tirisfal Glades, even in the midst of the havoc caused by the Legion’s incursion on the Broken Shore, the auspicious gloom continued to haunt the land like a constant lullaby of melancholy. An abandoned house in the corner of the hamlet of Brill, once home to nothing but a large foyer and an array of cobwebs, now became the haven for Netherus and the mighty scepter of Hal’rethar. From breaking into Hal’Nazris’ vault with the help of Vynillin Windshadow and Eviarra to retrieve the scepter, using its power to prevent Nog’gurund’s advance in the Ghostlands, it still remained largely an enigma. It was here in this abandoned house, shoved in the corner of Brill, that Netherus continued his study on the scepter, in an attempt to unravel its hidden power.
“What shall we do about the rest of the Ironwolf Company, about Eviarra? She had turned on you in the past.” Akrakazul, a hulking felguard stood with his massive arms crossed across his slate gray chest.
“Forget about them, forget about her, we have the Blood mage and the scepter. We have what we need.” Netherus paced around the intimidating scepter locked tight on a fel infused dais at the center of the building’s foyer.
Akrakazul nodded, shifting his large legs and wrapping his massive hand around the handle of his battle axe. Netherus glared into the center of the scepter, swirling within it a torrent of demonic energies, and the hellish glare of two eyes locking with his. The Forsaken hovered his hand over the font of power emanating in front of him, shutting his eyes he could hear them, the voices of slain innocents, the wailing of souls scorched from existence by its hostage: Il’rethar.
Akrakazul turned his head, “Master?”
Netherus awoke from his trance, the demonic horns emanating from his helmet surged with fel fire, then in an instant, they simmered leaving nothing but black scorch marks in its wake.
“Leave us,” Netherus commanded, turning to the felguard.
Akrakazul had no choice but to obey as Netherus conjured a small portal to the Nether, sending the demon away until he had need to beckon him again. The scepter echoed in Netherus’ mind, almost as if his consciousness had been invaded by whispers of hatred and scorn. The warlock fell to one knee, bowing his head.
“My lord, I am yours to command.”
Almost reactionary, the scepter surged with green flame, in its epicenter a vortex of fel energy churned. Runes etched in Eredun surged over the scepter’s crest in a haunting arch, flaring in offshoot patterns at Netherus’ submission.
“But I need more power, I need–”
A beam of fel energy burst forth from the scepter, slamming Netherus in the chest. Flying back onto the decaying wooden floor, Netherus’ body writhed in pain. After the beam made contact, its concentrated energies sprawled across the Forsaken’s figure, infesting him. He felt its warmth, its addicting pull wrench every twisted nerve as it traversed his veins. Even the fabric of his maroon robe began to warp, the once tightly knit material began to instantly decay and rot into a twisted green. The demonic helmet he drew power from began to disintegrate as it was ripped apart, particle by particle. Netherus clawed at his face, his long putrid nails scraping his already decayed flesh as he felt his skin follow suit in the corruption. Scrambling for relief, Netherus grabbed a cloth hood from the corner of the room, although it was swaddled in cobwebs, he threw it over his face in an attempt to halt the fel taint; however, it continued unabated. The once docile cloth hood sprouted twisted horns that bent back appearing as two lunar crescents on each side of the warlock’s head. From the base of the hood, two large spikes sprouted downward, and a mask of concentrated fel began to form over Netherus’ face. Suffering in agony, Netherus threw his body against the wall, as the mask completed itself with two eyes infused with pure fel. As small demonic flames swirled atop his hood, they danced back and forth conjuring an iron crown of thorns that began to spin clockwise, as if it had a mind of its own. Finally succumbing to the scepter’s power, Netherus collapsed on the floor.
The duskbats continued their primal prowling of the plagued lands of Tirisfal Glades. The hounds continued hunting decrepit rats in an attempt to sate their never ending hunger. Even though the creatures of the Glades continued as normal, something had changed. Perhaps the land itself, in the wilting of twisted Briarthorn, in the subtle ripples of the ponds bordering Agamand Mills, perhaps it knew that there would be no turning back.
Epilogue: Miserere
Huddled in the corner of a haphazardly constructed building, the orphaned Blood Elves displaced by the Legion’s initial attack on the Ghostlands hoped for a better future. Although not necessarily overcome with the trauma of a Scourge invasion like their elders, the optimism of these children still shone through. It was because of this that Lady Lynaderre, or as the children called her, Lady Lyn, tended to their every need. During the Scourge invasion of Quel’thalas, Lynaderre had lost everything, her mother, her father, her baby brother, but in some cruel twist of fate, she survived. It could be said that, even with the ever-enduring glow of her auburn hair, that the guilt of being the only surviving member of her family plagued her still, and perhaps, was the very reason she found herself here at a makeshift orphanage ensuring the future of her people. For her the Light was a guiding principle, it was the absolution she needed for surviving that onslaught, it was her vocation. Though she was not the most devoted student of Holy magic, she adhered closely to the Light, and around her neck, a pendant infused with a holy essence to which she clutched in times of trouble to grant her hope, to grant her purpose.
“Lady Lyn, I wanna play outside!” cried one of the little girls.
“Now Lilli, what did I tell you? It’s night outside and you don’t want one of those lynxes to get you.”
“Aww, but it’s always night out.” Lilli frowned, her puffy cheeks drooping as her bulbous green eyes shifted to the floor, and her seemingly oversized ears curled downward in outright sadness.
“Rawr!” Lyn curled her fingers and snarled at Lilli, grabbing her in her arms, and nibbling at her ear.
Lilli shrieked and started laughing, “Stop it, stop it, you’re not a lynx!”
“Well, you don’t know that,” Lyn let Lilli fall back to her feet, there was something about a child’s laughter, perhaps something evolutionary, or perhaps something artistic, that soothed the soul. Was it their innocence? Or their ability to be so happy no matter the situation? Lyn had almost wished she was this young when she lost her family, her obliviousness could have let her see a ray of light in a black tempestuous sky, even if such a light never existed, she would have the wonder and whimsy to imagine one.
One of the young boys, Drae’than, huffed and crossed his arms in the corner of the hardly furnished orphanage. “I’m bored.”
“Now Drae,” Lyn said in an endearing tone as she walked over to him.
“Nuh-uh, I’m a big Sin’dorei now. I know you aren’t a lynx. I could go beat one up right now.”
“Oh, will you? Now that you can properly pronounce Sin’dorei, I think Mr. or Mrs. Lynx would be very afraid.” Lyn couldn’t help but giggle, she loved giving Drae’than a hard time.
“Well first I’d bop him on the nose, I’d bop him real good. Then he’d cry and give me his lunch money.”
Lyn knelt by Drae and ran her hands through his silky long hair, “Drae, let’s not bully the lynx, ok? There’s no need to hurt anyone.”
“Well, if it was a Mrs. Lynx I wouldn’t bop her because she’s a lady and I know better, but that Mr. Lynx would be in a world full of hurt.”
“You couldn’t hurt a mana wyrm, Drae. And us ladies can take a hit.” Lilli interjected as she frolicked in between the two, puffing out her chest. Lyn just watched, hovering her lithe hand over her lips to hide her enjoyment.
“Oh really?” Drae asked antagonistically.
“Yea, I’m going be big and strong like Lady Liadrin with my own big pretty sword!”
“Well it probably won’t be that cool, whaddya gonna call it anyway? Stinky girl sword?”
“No, the whiny boy sword and it sucks up all the tears you cry.” Lilli stuck her tongue at Drae and ran as he chased her throughout the orphanage.
The other kids, while entertained with Lilli and Drae, spent time etching drawings on the floors with crude chalk and playing with little ragdolls. Lyn walked out of the room to the front room of the orphanage. It was here Lyn had hoped to see somebody, willing to adopt one of these kids and show them a better life. What had they done to deserve such tragedy, such suffering? Still appalled by how well they dealt with the loss, or perhaps their inability to register it, Lyn’s heart broke every time one of them asked where their Mommy or Daddy were. Some of the older kids, Drae included, would rudely retort something along the lines of they were abandoned, but Lyn knew that it was a coping mechanism, that deep down age forces you into reality, to accept things you would otherwise just wish away.
Lyn opened the front door of the orphanage, hoping to get the scent of fresh air she so desperately needed. The moon hovered above the white trees that appeared to be an army of alabaster sentinels rooted in place. Although there still was a scent of decay and loss, it was fresher than she had hoped. The Legion’s ravaging of Tranquillen had displaced many Blood Elves, and killed tons more. The buildings were blasted apart in fel fire, the people were experimented on, cut up and sewn together by some maniacal mad demon. Lyn shuddered trying not to fixate on the horror, she instead focused on how she funneled as many children as she could out of the warzone and into some sort of sanctuary, or at least the illusion of one. Sanctuary, much like home, was a concept, meaning it could be a torch carried by people or an individual, it was not entirely bound by a location. Lyn knew she would much rather have her family back than the house she grew up in.
As she turned to walk back into the orphanage, an ominous wind howled through the braches of the bone-marrow tinted trees. The shifting braches snapped and cracked as they collided with each other, as a force of habit, she clutched the pendant around her neck. Then, she heard it, a wheezing as if some haggard voice was struggling to leave desecrated lungs, as if some audible gust of air was being forced through a thin pipe, it was horrid, it was—a figure.
As she turned, her eyes fell upon a hunched creature cloaked in a tattered shawl. It appeared to be some withered figure, leaning on a large ornamental staff.
“Can—can I help you?” Lyn asked as her arms crossed her chest, an odd chill entered the air as the figure hovelled closer, not saying a word.
“If—if you’re here to adopt we need to take you inside, and—and there’s a background check.”
Again, the figure wheezed, marching forward hunched and decrepit.
Lyn began to fear for her life, her hear started beating, its pounding reaching up into the base of her throat “You—you can’t come in.” Lyn spat out, standing her ground as the figure paused directly in front of her.
The figure cackled as it threw back the shawl, straightening its back and grasping Lyn by the throat. Lyn gasped as the spindly figures of the creature wrapped around her neck, her hands managing to keep the pendant in her clutch.
“Il’rethar demands more souls,” the creature spoke, clad in some fel haunted hood. Its mask appeared to have some face of its own, complete with a set of demonic eyes burning with a bright green flame.
The fel monster tossed Lynaderre from its grip, sending her through the front door of the orphanage. Splintering into thousands of pieces, the door was completely obliterated and in its wake Lyn, barely conscious, scrambled her hands on the floor looking for the pendant that had disappeared from her neck. The monster walked forward, its amice igniting with fel flames. The large staff now visible, appeared to be some sort of demonic scepter. Lyn gazed to the backroom, she could hear the children in panic, but was relieved that they calmed down almost immediately. She taught them well, and she knew that Drae’than was in the back, protecting his friends, his family.
“Netherus. That is what they call me, all of those creatures out there. All of those blind fools. I was not always this…horror. But they fail to see that, tell me Blood Elf, what do you see?”
Netherus bent down to Lyn’s body, running his skeletal hand over her once pure face, now cut and sliced by splinters of wood.
“I see, I see, a monster. A monster who will fail, a monster who–”
Netherus ran his hand over her mouth, “there there, my dear, I will tell you what you see. What you see is the harbinger of the new Burning Crusade. That which my master has ordained at behest of the Legion. And what you will see, oh what you will see before your death, is the ritualistic harvesting of all those young souls you failed to protect.”
Suddenly, Lyn sprung to her feet, pendant in hand, and shone the light in Netherus’ face. The warlock stumbled back, planting his scepter into the floor to prevent falling to the ground. “You will not succeed here, demon! The light prevails, the light—”
Netherus unfurled his fingers and in his palm conjured a fel flame, as it lingered around his fingertips he snapped them. Suddenly, demonic fire surged around Lyn’s feet. She let out an unholy moan as the flames climbed her legs, instinctively she threw the pendant under the backdoor, as she felt her flesh melt. Netherus cackled as he witnessed the flames methodically deconstruct her, leaving her once powdered white skin to char and crimple. The flames progressed as the skin on her legs peeled and crisped, bearing the view of tender pink flesh underneath. As the flames danced around her body, she threw her head back letting out an agonizing scream, they continued licking her face, leaving her lips to blister and pop, forcing her body into a spasm. In the throes of a seizure as a result of the immolation, her twitching wrists and arms forced her to the ground. Lyn wheezed and hyperventilated, unable to pump oxygen through her scorched lungs. What had singed her, not only scorched her on the outside, but the inside as well. She was paralyzed and comatose, her scarred face pressed against desecrated wood.
“I will keep you alive if not only to bear witness to your failure.” Netherus launched a bolt of chaos into the backdoor, blasting it open. The room was dark save for a light in the corner held by a young boy. The gathering darkness outside blocked the nearby window from letting in any ounce of moonlight. Netherus wheezed as he approached the boy, who was clutching the pendant and a wooden toy sword, a herd of crying orphans huddle behind him.
“We’re not scared of you!” the young boy under his silken blonde hair triumphantly proclaimed.
“How disillusioned you are, little boy.” Netherus outstretched his hand, as much as the boy tried to resist, he was paralyzed with fear. The pendant quickly flew into the warlock’s palm.
“Your light goes out.” Netherus crushed the pendant in his palm, the room went dark save for the flickers of fel flame on his amice. In the throes of illuminated flashes of green and black, the children screamed. Netherus grabbed the boy by the throat and held his hand over his open mouth. Curling his fingers, the warlock ripped the soul from the young boy’s body as he felt it go limb in his grasp. Netherus watched as the once young and innocent face sunk in, the eyes going hollow and the skin turning gray. He grinned, as the once youthful gold of the boy’s hair decayed, falling out leaving him bald. Like a deflated suit of rubber in his grasp, Netherus threw the empty husk of a body against the wall. Lyn watched in horror, charred and left to die.
“Drae’than!” She screamed as the words stung her chest on their way out.
Netherus planted the scepter in the ground as beams of fel latched onto the children, sucking their souls form their body. Many of them attempted to resist, but the chaotic energies of the scepter threw them around the room, slamming them against the walls. From the outside of the orphanage one could see the face of a young girl plastered against the single glass window, her face, once a beacon of purity, quickly morphing into a hollow horror full of black empty holes for eyes and a dislocated jaw. In an instant, the cacophony of screams came to a chilling halt, the children fell from the air in which they were suspended, their emptied bodes falling to the wood with a monstrous thud. Netherus turned to exit the backroom, scanning over Lyn’s scorched body.
“You—you’re…” Lyn couldn’t muster the words, her lungs failing her, and the pain of her cooled burns and welts was beginning to take over.
Netherus cackled nearly exiting the orphanage before he heard a small voice.
“Lady Lyn,” a voice cried and sobbed, standing over the now ripe corpse of her caretaker. Lyn’s last words to her a brooding, “Run Lilli, run…”
Netherus turned to the little girl and approached her, hovering over the corpse of Lady Lynaderre. Though consumed by demonic power, the look in Lilli’s eyes triggered something in Netherus, he remembered Evangeline. He saw in Lilli, the promise of fatherhood he had failed to uphold. The image of his little girl hanging from the tree, bound by coarse rope, assaulted his mind. Instead of tears, instead of sadness, anger broiled in his core.
“Any last words, little girl?“ Netherus spat out, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger tucked into his belt.
Lilli raised her hands, curling her fingers, and gnashing her teeth. “Rawr!”
In his head, Netherus could hear himself pulling away, he felt a macabre wake of compassion boiling from somewhere deep, though long buried.
“Forgive me, Evangeline.” He muttered before he unsheathed the dagger, and in a quick motion, slit the little girl’s throat. She fell on top of Lyn’s corpse, her verdant blood pouring down onto the damaged floor of the orphanage.
Netherus turned his back, and never looked back. The emptied building of horrors rested, isolated, under the eternal twilight of the Ghostlands. And at his departure, those screams, those innocent lives, they planted themselves in the soul of his being, what shadow of it he had left. And much like the loss he felt when he was alive, much like the pain of seeing his wife violated and murdered, much like the pain of seeing his little girl hung before his eyes, much like the hopelessness, he buried it deep, never to be seen again, never to be graced by the light of day.
Hal’Nazris sat upon his twisted throne, horns protruding out of his pale forehead like a malevolent rock formation. The rivers of fel fire and demonic smoke swarmed the area of the remote space boulder. This twisted land was one he called his own, a chunk of some planet’s desecration scorched by Sargeras’ legions in ages past. The Legion saw no functional use for such an insignificant portion of a planet, leaving it to drift alone in the Nether. Yet, from this seat of power, Hal’Nazris oversaw the work of his minions on Azeroth who worked to undo the planet. He had taken notice of his failures and shortcomings, the work in Tanaan had been undone. The Bladeborn had bested his chess piece, not once, but twice, and in the end his servant, Netherus had failed him. The Dreadlord would leave nothing to chance this time, no more mistakes. As his long nails clawed across the obsidian armrests of his sinister seat, two Dreadlords appeared in a burst of fel smoke, scattering dark winged creatures with their arrival.
“Ah, Sephravarr, Malynar, how goes the intrusion of Azeroth’s southern continent?” Hal’Nazris feigned interest in these lowly Dreadlords enough to hear their spiel, as he was more concerned of his next guest, a guest that would face eternal imprisonment.
“We are operating slowly as to not draw much attention to our presence, my Lord. The Pandaren are especially keen to the energies of their land so our deception must be more careful.” Sephravarr spoke keeping his head bowed.
“The attack on the Monastery has left them at high alert, they know a danger is looming they just do not know that we are among them.” Malynar continued, eyeing the other.
“Good. Keep them on their toes and when the Master commands the final invasion we will strike with full force.” Hal’Nazris began to tap his wicked claw against the black stone of his seat, anticipating their departure.
“However,” Sephravarr began, drawing the ire of Hal’Nazris, “we should be prepared for any operations made against us. From our invasion we know that these Shado-Pan are seasoned warriors, and even more, those who aided them-” The Dreadlord was cut off by Hal’Nazris’ rage.
“Silence! I know of whom you speak, a band of creatures who have consistently been a thorn in my side. I have made preparations to ensure they never meddle in my plans again.” The Dreadlord crossed his arms, glaring at the two before him.
“My Lord, it would seem that your willing to rely on this Forsaken puppet has failed. Perhaps a new approach is recommended.” Malynar spoke in confidence.
Hal’Nazris launched from his throne, wings unfurled as he crashed down in front of them.
“You doubt me!? I have given you purpose. I have given you work where the others have turned you away. You lowly rabble are stains upon the Nathrezim and I took you in.” Hal’Nazris traced his menacing claw across Malynar’s pale face.
“With the final invasion drawing ever nearer, I will not fail. I have a weapon unlike any other.” Hal’Nazris cackled as he lifted his arms and a stone pedestal arose from the center of his corridor. Upon this pedestal sat a green orb, pulsating with fel energies.
“Defeated and slain on Azeroth, the soul of this demon lay dormant. But now, I will bind him back to this world once more and we will be one!” Hal’Nazris snarled as the orb cleared to show a crimson skinned Man’ari Eredar, floating in suspension.
“Soon I will return to Azeroth and complete the binding, Ilrethar will return. The power we will reap as we are joined will know no bounds.” Hal’Nazris turned to other two who bowed subserviently.
“Of course, my Lord.” Sephravarr spoke, both unnerved at their Lord’s plan.
“I care not what happens on Pandaria, contain them, but do not let them disrupt my ascension. Begone!” Hal’Nazris dismissed the two as they vanished into the Nether.
As Hal’Nazris gazed into the orb he felt a spectral essence nearby, one that drifted in from the Nether.
“Ascendant Lord, that was what you once were, you return to me now as a failure, Netherus.” The Dreadlord did not turn to face the spectral creature who was grasping at his throat as if he were being eternally choked.
“The stifled chill in the Nether, you feel it. The inner torment, the lack of peace, of stability. Yes, the disorder.” Hal’Nazris managed a chuckle as he turned to the apparition of Netherus’ soul singed with a fel taint.
“You tried to recant me, reject me, but your service is never ending. I will recycle you again and again.” The Dreadlord paced around the spirit, licking his fangs in anticipation. Hal’Nazris held out his palm injecting fel energies into the spirit, restoring the beings’ corporeal form. As Netherus regained his putrid flesh, he collapsed onto the black rock, gasping for air he did not need.
“It is a hallucination, your mind has been warped to believe you need air from when you were living. I delight at the torment.” Hal’Nazris continued to pace around the Forsaken, towering spires of obsidian overlooking them in the distance.
Netherus rose, his knees shaking, hardly able to stand. “No more, Hal’Nazris. I have failed you twice, send my soul away.”
The Dreadlord cackled, “I have learned my lesson, pawn. You were not the puppet I wanted, but the one I needed at a specific moment in time. Let us say a more appealing option has shown itself.” The Dreadlord grinned manically, brandishing his sadistic fangs.
“The more you interfere on Azeroth, the more you risk being destroyed.” Netherus spat out, arced over in pain.
“Foolish little insect, has it not become clear to you? We cannot be stopped. We cannot be defeated. We cannot be slain. We become and unbecome, only to become again. To scorch your planet and relish in the anguished cries of your innocent. Do you need proof?” Hal’Nazris wrapped his hooked claws around the Orb, prying it from the black pedestal. The weakened Forsaken shook at the Dreadlord’s approach as if the orb itself permeated a haunting aura that crept beneath his skin.
“Behold, Ilrethar the Wrathful!” As Hal’Nazris turned, the orb seared green and flames poured forth, dancing on the darkened rock. Netherus fell to his feet as the flickering flames maneuvered around him and formed a conglomerate fire giant behind him. The massive font of fel fire roared, outstretching its massive arms and displaying its broad chest. The flames surged in the being’s face, melting into the wall of fire to create glaring eyes that beamed down on Netherus like the heat of a blazing sun. Netherus collapsed holding his head, clawing at the skin on his scalp, hoping it was just a nightmare. The colossal figure vanished, flames dissipating as the Dreadlord looked on with a smirk of satisfaction.
Hal’Nazris cackled as he bent down, his pallid face near the Forsaken’s. “I fear this is just the beginning for your pitiful little world. But you, you have nothing left to lose, nothing left to gain, and that is why I will keep you here. To exist without a purpose is to not exist at all, I have killed you. Inquisitors! Bind him in the crystal and send him to the pits of Azeroth’s depths. I have no more use for him.”
Two skeletal demons adorned in black robes floated out of the darkness. Their bony horns skewered through the fabric of their hoods, twisting out of the sides of their skulls like a warped bull.
“We serve our Lord,” they chanted in unison as they slowly swirled around the Forsaken, conjuring chains of fel flame. The chains roared from the ground, strapping Netherus hard against the black rock, snapping his spine. The blistering pain of the heat radiated throughout his body as his flesh began to smolder with the flames touch. As the Inquisitors raised their arms so too did the hellish chains, mocking them in a sadistic mimesis. They jerked back, keeping Netherus tight in their grip, but waving back and forth in the air with hellish fury. As the chains bound him tighter and tighter, wrenching his body like a demonic vice grip, the deep demonic chanting of the Inquisitors forced a green crystalline structure to form around him. Hal’Nazris could see that he had drained the hope from this vassal, he would serve as nothing more than a trophy to mock the very planet he would imprisoned upon: his own. After Netherus had been imprisoned, the summoners conjured a portal and sent him through. Hal’Nazris crossed his arms, tracking the crystal’s movement through the green and black rift.
“Well done,” the Dreadlord spoke as he returned to his throne. The Inquisitors followed him, drifting eerily atop the cursed land below them.
“You have plans for us?” They asked, their skeletal faces bearing a wicked smile.
As Hal’Nazris’s wings reclined against his back, he sat in his throne, raising his head high and resting his forearms on the armrests of his sanctum.
“Ah, your Eyes have granted you earnest foresight.” The Dreadlord was amused with these demons, specifically these Twin Inquisitors he had enlisted.
“The Eyes know you want us to employ them. To seek what should not be sought. Not Ilrethar, no, no. Another one. A puppet to replace your former.”
Hal’Nazris stroked his chin, his sinister talon, mocking the color of the void itself strode along his ghostly white skin. “Xyranoch and Kelithor, you have not given me reason to doubt your abilities thus far. The legion of demonic eyes you spared me in Tanaan were more than useful.”
“We know this, Lord. What will you have us do?” As always, the Twin Inquisitors spoke in unison, hauntingly so, their victims died with the same consanguinity.
Hal’Nazris leaned in, his elbows resting on his twisted, fel plate armor. “I assume you are not familiar with an incident we had in Dustwallow Marsh concerning a specific Orc clan?”
The Twin Inquisitors turned to one another, sensing a mutual recognition of each other’s presence would demonstrate their confusion.
“We had our eyes upon a warlock of great power, one who sought to end a clan and their shackles to the elements. He grew in power, so much so that I had sought to contact him. However, before I could make my move he disappeared. Legends from the clan speak of a great battle taking place in the Feldeep, a twisted cavernous labyrinth where the Orc warlock would harvest souls. After which, the clan claimed victory and this warlock disappeared.”
“You would have us search for this one, my Lord?”
“If he is dead, the fel energy that had tainted his soul will still linger. Find him, bring him to me and I will grant him a chance at vengeance. Once he is at my side, we will restore his Feldeep to be more powerful than ever and we will infiltrate Azeroth in preparation for the final invasion.”
“What is the name, my Lord?” The Twin Inquisitors howled the question as they outstretched their palms, unfolding their skeletal fingers.
“Nog’gurund.” The Dreadlord reclined in his throne as the Inquisitors hissed into the Eyes that formed in their palms. The lidless eyes soared into the Nether, bent on discovery, bent on unearthing this being for their sightless masters.
Hal’Nazris gazed upward from the scorched rock he called home. Above him soared countless vessels, blacker than ash, fueled by fel and ruled by disorder. He could hear the anguished cries of countless beings wreak havoc upon the vast emptiness of the Twisting Nether from the engines of these massive machines.
“Azeroth will not survive,” The Dreadlord cackled as he closed his eyes and saw the undoing of countless worlds upon a tyrant’s throne.
The gentle breeze swept through Redridge Mountains, carrying granules of small rock throughout the air to land peacefully onto the blades of grass in the valleys below. The fish were plentiful, hopping vivaciously throughout the bodies of water as they were snagged one by one by artisan fishermen. Nathanael Morton sat by the lake, holding his wife Elana in his arms.
“I cannot believe this is truly happening,” he spoke softly to his wife as she lay in his arms. Elana played with a blade of grass in her fingers, twirling it back and forth.
“Well you better believe it, Mr. Morton. I did not come all the way out here you for it not to,” she flashed a smile and pulled him close, laying a soft kiss on his trembling lips. His hand caressed down her body, over her enlarged belly. He kept his hand there, feeling the warmth of life from within and the fire of passion coming from his wife’s lips.
“You are going to be a wonderful father, Nathanael.” He looked into her eyes and then looked away, as if troubled.
“I want to be, but what if she doesn’t like me? I mean I can be a know it all sometimes, slightly rude and--”
Elana cut him off, “You will be an excellent father, just because you are knowledgeable about magic does not make you a know it all. In fact, I’ve found you to be quite humble.”
“Oh really? How so?”
“Well every time I beat you in chess you admit defeat rather quickly.” Elana spoke, attempting to mock Nathanael’s voice, but could not contain her laughter.
Nathanael shook his head, “Ok fine, she will get the know it all trait from her chess champion mother then.” He looked at her and smiled.
She looked at him, as if having some sort of revelation. “You know, sometimes I forget how lucky we are, Nathanael. Us both coming from poor families and--”
He stroked her face with his hands, “That was our past, Elana. What matters now is our future.”
Nathanael placed his lips on her belly, giving it a hopeful kiss before they laid back on the grass and watched the clouds go by.
He felt it. Her breath. Her heartbeat. She was alive. She had to be.
Netherus cradled himself with fetid arms hugging his bony knees to his chest.
He felt her lips on his skin. Tender. Warm. Devoted.
He dragged his bony nails through his scalp, tearing at his skin and causing thick blood to run down his face.
He felt the silk texture of her palm as she cupped his face.
He dragged his nails down from his head and down his cheeks, a small puddle of blood gathering beneath him.
He saw her eyes that spoke of Heaven with a glowing allure that drew his soul from its abyss.
He drew his hand forth, glancing at the fel infused veins that ran throughout him.
He held her close, close to the beating heart that once made him human, that once made him feel the precious gift of love and life.
He grimaced and locked his jaw as he brought forth his other hand, trembling.
When he was a person. When he existed. When he was not some…aberration.
He shoved his nails into his wrist, puncturing the skin and tearing at the veins.
She was alive! She had to be! Her breath. Her heartbeat. He felt it!
He withdrew his nails from his skin and lowered his head.
She was gone and there was no bringing her back.
Netherus rose as he wrapped his trembling fingers around his staff and walked out to the overlook on the Throne of Kil’jaeden. He stood tall as he walked towards the edge to stand near his Master, Hal’Nazris. The dreadlord stood with arms crossed as he motioned outward over the platform.
Netherus inched closer to behold an army of demons assembled before him, seeing massive fel abyssals and bloodthirsty fel stalkers alike. He clenched his jaw and raised his staff. The demons roared in harmonic havoc. Hal’Nazris raised his claw to his chin, grinning maniacally.
In the distance, a demonic portal with what appeared to be a shimmering image of a monastery. Netherus slammed the bottom of his staff onto the rock under him, grimacing in hated and anger.
“Elana!”
Netherus fought back tears as he turned his back and walked away. Hal’Nazris chuckled as he turned his head, eyeing his servant.
He was no longer a Forsaken bound to a singular vessel through which to express his hatred.
The lunar presence of a full moon in Shadowmoon Valley illuminated the pristine fields of Elodor. Even the mighty shadows cast in the moon’s heavenly wake cascaded across meadows of grazing Elekk and wolf packs. Shaz’gul stood nearly empty, few of the Shadowmoon Exiles under command of Rul’kan, began moving back to their ancestral home. In the aftermath of Ner’zhul’s desecration to the Shadowmoon’s ancient ways, the Shadowmoon orcs attempted to reclaim contact with their ancestors and embrace their lost shamanistic ways. The Burial Grounds reeked of tormented and twisted souls, crying out in agony and lamenting over their eternal imprisonment. Terrors and fiends from the Void still lurked deep within their halls of ancestry, called forth by Ner’zhul’s dark magic; however, they were not alone.
Even in the wake of the Fel Horde’s creation, some Shadowmoon clung to Ner’zhul’s teachings: power unlimited for those who could channel the void and speak for the dead. Elder Ta’ragg Voidmoon continued to abide by Ner’zhul’s prophecy deep within the Burial Grounds, channeling remnants of the Dark Star to ensure his calling of the void to be complete. His followers twisted and tortured Shadowmoon ancestor spirits to fuel the Void’s power, his plan was simple: call forth the most powerful being from the Void and usurp Gul’dan’s Fel Horde and create a new Horde in his name: the Umbral Horde.
“Your torment only feeds the Void, brother! Submit your soul to them and release yourself from this prison. You can make the Shadowmoon more powerful than ever!” Ta’ragg Voidmoon continued to twist the ancient Shadowmoon spirit, grimacing under his dark purple hood while channeling void magics into its essence.
The ancient stone pillars near Ta’ragg’s altar were witness to this torment. The skull piles and chunks of bone for Shadowmoon rituals were tossed haphazardly around the stone. What once was a resting place in the caverns below Shadowmoon Valley, in a crypt below Shaz’gul, was now being consumed by the never ending Void. Some of the old stone structures and parts of the cavern were swallowed whole, resulting in a dark nothingness. Only the most resilient of souls resisted the Voids pull. Terrors and abominations of darkness haunted the grounds, chasing and defiling resistant souls.
The spirit fell to its knees, pleading to the Elder: “This is not our way, Ta’ragg! Stop this madness! Do not follow in Ner’zhul’s footsteps, you have the power to change--”
Ta’ragg thrusted his arm forward, conjuring a void siphon that choked the spirit, draining its power to send to Void.
“I do have that power, foolish Seer! I have the power to succeed where Ner’zhul failed! I will breed a new Horde in worship of the Dark Star! The unrelenting Void will cover this land and on top will be the Shadowmoon!” The spirit began to fade from existence, pleading with his torturer to stop his madness.
“Please Ta’ragg, you must--” The spirit faded away, consumed by a nearby void portal. The Elder bowed his head to Darkness, as if it was living. He heard it call back, yet it still hungered.
“Eat your fill, but remember, there are plenty more souls to consume outside of these Burial Grounds.”
The darkness reverberated in response, growing and expanding over the stone altar. A chilling voice echoed from the darkness, sinister and malevolent in tone.
“I am ready. My hunger is sated for now. Begin the ritual, Orc. Call me forth into this world. Unleash me!”
Ta’ragg gripped his wooden staff, bowing his head to the darkness. He turned to the stone halls of the Burial Grounds and called for his Void Seers to position themselves accordingly. The seers rushed in and grabbed sharpened chunks of bone, biting their bottom lip they shoved the bone pick into their skin and wrote incantations and symbols in blood. These ancient inscriptions would assist in the ritual and the summoning of the Void Revenant into this plane of existence. With the creature’s power on the side of Ta’ragg’s followers, they would be unstoppable. The Seers circled around the altar, grasping jars of ancient remains closely in their hands. Ta’ragg stood by the altar, lifting his staff into the air.
The Seers began tossing the ashen remains onto their Elder as they chanted in unison: “Kil ogg nakazz ko nuk kazum, Nhul’zorash. No ro’th ag gul dogg.”
The Elder held his staff higher as the crescent moon atop his staff flared with shadow. Bursts of void energy erupted from all sides, dissipating ancient pillars and enarly consuming the Void Seers. A shadowy appendage reached out from the darkness, its fingers long and lanky, its elbow bent and misshapen. It roared with an echo of eternal darkness that could be heard from across Shadowmoon Valley.
“Nhul’zorash.”
Suddenly a blast of energy came from beind the Elder, his Seers were assaulted with some sort of dark magic. Ta’ragg turned from the Void Revenant coming forth to see a figure adorned in a golden crown. He looked to his seers who were writhing on the ground in fel flame.
“Who dares interrupt the ritual!? I command the Void itself!” Ta’ragg raised his staff channeling dark energy, launching it at the figure. The figure countered with a blast of fel energy that disrupted Ta’ragg’s spell.
“You have yet to see my true power, fool! Nhul’zorash, throm il!” Ta’ragg turned to the shadowy appendage and began to siphon Void power from it.
“No! What are you doing? You dare steal what I have to offer, foolish Orc!” The darkness echoed in resentment.
The figure in the back stood, arms crossed “You have no command over that entity Ta’ragg. Admit that your vision will never come to pass. You lead your people to further ruin.”
Ta’ragg focused intently on attempting to drain the Void Revenants power before he could come all the way through. “How would you know!?”
From behind emerged a handful of fel orc summoners, the figure opened up his palm and conjured a green eye. “I know, Ta’ragg. Make your choice. Join the Legion or die here to the very Void you try to command. I have given you the opportunity to save your clan. Take it! Do what Ner’zhul never could.”
“Never! I will never chain my people to your poison!” Ta’ragg continued to drain from the revenant when suddenly the shadowy appendage grasped him and began tightening its grip around him. Ta’ragg screamed in agony as he felt his life force being drained from him. The monster on the other side began to chuckle in amusment at the Orc’s torment. The figure began to its back, the fel orcs following suit. Ta’ragg looked to his seers who were scarred from the fel fire, he looked into their now hopeless eyes and felt sorrow.
“I will join you!” Ta’ragg spit out as he felt his insides being crushed, the seers looked t him and shock.
“Elder Voidmoon, you cannot be considering this. Ner’zhul leads us down the path to worship the Dark Star.” One of the seers spoke.
As the dark appendage began dragging Ta’ragg into the void he spoke; “And I will lead us down a new path, one that guarantees our rightful set of power--”
Just as he was about to collapse, the fel orc summoners channeled siphons of fel fire into the void, causing the monster to roar in pain. The appendage retreated back into the void and dropped Ta’ragg to the ground. The encroaching void began to shrink, leaving what it once consumed back in its retreat. The fel orcs continued channeling as the figure approached Ta’ragg.
The Elder was hacking, grasping his throat for air: “What is your name, Stranger?”
“I am Ascendant Lord Netherus and you must still prove your worth. Come with me Ta’ragg and bring your Seers. I have some spirits I need back from the Void.” Netherus cackled extending his hand to the Elder.
The orc rose to his feet, grasping the Ascendant Lord’s hand and rallied his Seers around him. Netherus motioned to the portal behind him, Ta’ragg and his followers silent. They knew what they had done, what line had been drawn and now crossed over. Nonetheless the Seers followed their Elder in hopes that his promises came to pass and the Shadowmoon would be given the power they so deserved. As they walked through the portal, Netherus turned to his fel orc summoners.
“You know what must be done.”
They saluted the Ascendant as he vanished through the portal with Ta’ragg and his seers. The summoners continued channeling fel energy into the Void. A shadowy appendage crept out of the darkness, highlighted by wisps of fel flame. The darkness in the Burial Grounds became tainted, what once was shadow was now mixed with hellish fire. A fel fire and shadow conglomerate emerged from the darkness, its head covered by a silver crown and its wings purple and green.
It flailed its arms in hysteria: “I am nothing! I am everything! What have you done!?”
The Revenant began shifting between forms of void and fel. The fel orc summoners continued their spells, hoping to subdue the monstrosity.
“You cannot contain me, you cannot contain us! I am, we are, Nhul’Zorash!”
The howl of doom boomed throughout the Halls, rattling Shaz’gul itself. Even the shadows began to recede, fleeing from the terror unleashed on its land. The Elekk halted their grazing and fled and the wolves followed suit. The once tranquil moon over Shadowmoon Valley ceased its serenity, as it flared green in the night’s caress.
((A short write-up regarding what Hal’Nazris and Netherus find out about the orb))
The skies of Tanaan flared with green energy, as its essence was continuously blended with that of the Twisting Nether. Under its blighted stars lay a dark mountain, overlooking the enigmatic jungles where the most savage of apex predators lurked. It was upon this dark mountain, the Throne of Kil’jaeden, where Hal’Nazris waited. Green objects descended from the sky to the Throne’s summit, circling the Dreadlord.
“Ah, yes. Right on time.” Hal’Nazris grinned, looking to the Ascendant Lord at his side. The eyes continued to circle around them, hinting at something of urgency.
“What news do you think they bring, Master?” Netherus asked.
“I anticipate the Eyes have found our target and more.” The Nathrezim swung his arms, ordering the Eyes to hover behind one another in a single file line.
Netherus stood by, eyeing his Master in slight envy over his ability of command. The Dreadlord motioned his claw forward as the first eye hovered towards him. The eye floated to mathc his gaze, expanding and showing something. Hal’Nazris ran his sharp claw against his pale chin. “These are Titan children, Mogu. This orb was a weapon used to dethrone their Thunder King by an envious servant of Lei Shen.”
“You speak as if you know Pandaria’s inhabiants well.” Netherus spoke quite eagerly, curious to how Hal’Nazris knew so much from an image.
“The Pandaren were clever, hiding themselves from the Legion’s inevitable wrath. We knew they could not hide forever. After their cowardly continent emerged from hiding, we were able to learn about them and what races existed there. Who could be manipulated easily, and who could not.” Netherus grinned as his Master continued to scour the Eye for any more information.
“It appears to work off of dark anima magic; through projecting the corrupt blood into another the wielder of the orb may dominate the other’s mind.”
Hal’Nazris flicked his wrist and ordered for the next Eye to levitate forward. Twirling his claw around the Eye’s spherical shape, he caused it to expand only to display a Pandaren with a group of Blood Elves fighting a mercenary crew.
“Yours, Ascendant Lord?” Hal’Nazris asked smugly.
Netherus approached the Eye, gazing into its body to see the conclusion of the battle. Netherus bowed his head in disappointment, seeing the tragic fate of Captain Ro’kash.
“Do not despair, Ascendant Lord. It appears some lived.” Hal’Nazris forced his sharp claw to point into the Eye’s body. As Netherus viewed the scene, he saw that the survivors were slaughtered by some Warlock who apparently worked for whoever hired them.
Netherus appeared furious, “Do not worry, Master. Ro’kash and her crew are not gone from us. Not yet.”
“I know what you will attempt to do, Ascendant Lord. Do you think any of those Shadowmoon converts still know the way to contact the dead? Do you think any of them have the power it will require?”
“We shall see.” The Ascendant Lord turned his back to his Master and conjured a portal.
“Where are you headed?”
“The Shadowmoon Burial Grounds. There I will find one of those Orcish elders to bend to our will. I care not for how many of their Ancestors they must forsake. Our plans will not fail. Not this time.” The Ascendant Lord disappeared into the portal.
Hal’Nazris stood with his arms crossed as another Eye approached him. It expanded to reveal the orb being transported by Shado-Pan into a Monastery.
“I’d say a visit is long overdue.”
The Dreadlord cackled, dismissing the Eyes as they faded back into the Nether. The chaotic flares of the sky above highlighted the edges of the treacherous mountain.
From above a lake of fel fire, Hal’Nazris ordered the hastening of more fel conduits. He would not rest until the orb was in the clutches of the Burning Legion and all of Azeroth and Draenor were bathed in flames. The jungles fell nearly silent, save for a cannon barrage here and a clash of armies there.
Tanaan had seen constant havoc since Gul’dan’s desecration, but this night heralded an ominous calm, perhaps the last world or any other would ever know.
((Thanks to Vairal for granting me permission to use his character ideas for this write-up and allowing me to bring life to his D20 NPCs. Another thanks for speaking with me to try and capture how he envisioned them.))
Captain Ro’kash dashed through the jungles of Tanaan, her iron clad crew behind her. Gul’dan’s Fel Horde lackeys were fast on their tail. Mounted on their savage fel wolves, their blighted claws were heard tearing through the withered shrubbery on the forest floors. The night enveloped the suffering jungles, its silent torment echoing across all of Draenor.
“Gor’tak, Mar’thad! On my six!” Ro’kash shouted.
The two orcs listened to their ex-captain, a title stripped from her when she would not accept Gul’dan’s fel blood and follow his New Horde. Gor’tak was a large orc, clad in Blackrock armor in all except his head where he brandished a leather eye patch. His hair was gray, styled in the classic ‘mohawk’ fashion. He always would talk about he wanted his victims to see a nice hair cut before they took a barrel of lead to the face. Mar’thad was a younger Orc who idolized her Captain to no end, and proved herself as an excellent technician amongst the Horde. There were many times where Mar’thad’s ingeniuity saved Ro’kash and her crew. With the wolves pursuing them, a hulking Bleeding Hollow Orc led the charge to Ironhold Harbor. Bruut was ferocious, a blood thirsty monster who would rip enemies limb from limb.
Ro’kash knew she could order him to shred their hunters, but she valued his muscle and raw strength to much: “Ahead. I see water ahead!” Bruut howled as he thrusted his large body forward, sprinting through the gloomy jungles of Tanaan.
Gor’tak continued to run behind the Captain lauching sprays of hot lead at the Fel Horde pursuers: “Eat it, traitors!”
Mar’thad laughed at Gor’tak’s enthusiasm, always looking up to him as an older brother, she tossed a handful of true iron grenades into the forest. The small explosions created a smoke cloud and caused smaller trees to fall to the ground, stopping the Fel Horde’s pursuit momentarily.
Bruut reached the harbor and pointed out into the water: “The crew is waiting, Captian.”
Bruut tapped on his back to wake up a sleeping Goblin: “Hey! I was sleeping ‘ere you big oaf!” The Goblin smacked Bruut on the head.
“Knock it off, Shortfuse!” The Captain barked.
Techno-Medic Shortfuse came across the Dark Portal with the Blackfuse Company and Garrosh Hellscream. While many of his associates were responsible for weapons such as the Iron Star and massive artillery, Shortfuse was good at one thing: injections and revival through high voltage electricity. He felt that shamanism was unreliable and ‘dumb’ and that his medical advances would fuel the Iron Horde’s injured to go straight back into battle. Since he was never fully valued for his passion, he decided to align himself with Ro’kash and her crew where his talent would be recognized. The Goblin looked ashamed:
“Yes, Cap’n.” Bruut leaped from the cliffs onto the docks where many of the fleeing Iron Horde had entered to accept Gul’dan’s new gift. Oblivious to the situation, many continued dragging weaponry and caging enslaved Thunderlord beasts into Iron cages. Ro’kash, Gor’tak and Mar’thad followed Bruut and they made for their Iron Destroyer. They did not have time to board the ship properly and instead used Bruut as a means to board their vessel.
He gripped Shortfuse’s head in his hand and tossed him like a football: “What the–! Hell!!!??”
The Goblin went flying, and luckily, landed on the deck of the ship. Bruut ran to the edge of the Harbor and bent known, opening up his large back as a stepping platform. The three orcs ran up his back and jumped, propelling themselves forward to barely grasp the ship’s edge. Bruut looked behind him, the trees were falling quickly. A fel iron cannon was being rolled through the jungle and it would not be long before it fixated on their ship. Bruut took a nose dive into the water, swimming as far down as he could. The massive behemoth nearly touched the bottom of the sea floor before he swan back up like a rocket and found a side door on the ship. Straining his enormous muscles, he pulled the door open. Ro’kash thought to herself, if Koramar was able to keep Skulloc on his massive ship, why couldn’t Bruut be on hers? Luckily the design she requested was readily available and the bloodthirsty monster had the space he needed: below deck, waiting to be unleashed.
Shortfuse was dazed as the other odd numbered crew members cheered the Captain;s return: “Shut your traps and man the cannons!” Ro’kash barked.
Mar’thad mounted the crow’s nest and used her binoculars to scout the beachhead. “Captain, fel fire cannon aiming on our location!”
The lower deck became noisy as Bruut became rowdy: “Bruut no like cannons!”
Gor’tak headed to the front of the ship and took a knee: “I’ll buy us some time.”
Gor’tak pulled out a long Blackrock sniper rifle and eyed down the scope. His Blackrock plated finger, bouncing on and off the trigger has he mowed down a series of fel orcs. He stopped to whip out a cigar, taking a heavy puff.
“How the hell did ya learn to shoot like that?” Shortfuse exclaimed, running up to his flank.
Gor’tak flicked the ashes of his cigar on the deck: “By being the very best goddamned Orc there is. Now can it!” Gor’tak continued letting his finger be trigger happy, shooting any orcs who looked as if they were supporting the cannons.
“Captain, I hope you got these cannons ready to fire back.” Mar’thad called down from the Crow’s nest.
“Well, shit.” Gor’thak mumbled, dropping his cigar as a large barrage of fel fire cannonballs came raining down.
“INCOMING!” Ro’kash howled.
Shortfuse hopped on the wheel, using his small body to pull the large iron construct: “Turn ya piece a’ garbage!”
The first three hit the water beside them, causing waves to erupt and splash on the deck. The front of the vessel dipped into the water, and sprouted back up. The fourth however, came in contact with the main sail, causing the iron snap.
“Mar’thad!” Ro’kash called up as the crow’s nest was sent flying into the water.
As Mar’thad plummeted to the depths, Bruut opened his side hatch and caught her: “Bruut, protect.”
He hoisted her back up to the main deck, she was still extremely dazed from the impact. A trail of fel fire was left blazing against their main deck.
“Get these damn swabbies to extinguish the fires! We aren’t payin’ ‘em for nothin’!” Shortfuse exclaimed.
“Or you can just piss them out you little green fuck.” Gor’tak laughed to himself, amused. Shortfuse looked unimpressed, and in classic Goblin style, rolled his eyes.
The crew scrambled, tossing water on the fires and trying to keep the ship afloat, the fire was singing through the iron as if it were paper: “Cannons fire!” Ro’kash commanded. The cannoneers turned and launched a barrage back at the beachhead, they were finally distancing themselves, but surely their ship could not continue much further. The ship’s cannonball barrage clouded the beachhead in dust and smoke, costing the fel fire cannons their visibility.
Mar’thad caught her breath, “Good thinking, Commander. They won’t fire blindly over their own harbor.”
“This is why I don’t listen to you about smoking.” Gor’tak flicked his cigar ash on the deck and pointed over the clouds of smoke and dust.
Several fel fire cannon balls hit at their location, the last thing Ro’kash could remember was Bruut wrapping his arms around Shortfuse, Mar’thad, and Gor’tak, reaching his hand out for the Captain before they sank under the waves.
The waves rushed across the rocky coast, Bruut relinquished his hold on the three as he looked out to the water for the rest. He saw crew members swimming back, 20-25 at the most, but where was the Captain?
Bruut lowered his face in sadness and turned his back to the ocean: “Bruut think Captain is gone.” Mar’thad kept her gaze on the ocean, her knees locked to her chest with her arms.
“Pity.” Gor’tak spat out, rapidly patting his armor for his next pack of cigars. Shortfuse flicked out his rest, shoving on his mechanical needles into his veins, replenishing some fluids lost when his head mage contact with debris.
“Where do ya think we are?” Shortfuse asked, biting his lower lip hard as he pressed the needle in deeper.
“Damn Goblin, need eyes too? We’re in Gorgrond. Nowhere else more barren and cavernous. Shot a Saberon out here when I was still young. Good times.” Gor’tak pulled out a damp cigar and tried to light it, failing.
Murmuring some sort of expletive he grabbed Shortfuse’s massive ear and used it to dry his cigar: “Eh! Watch it!” The goblin snapped back.
Gor’tak grunted, continuing to puff.
“We got no ship and no Captain! And these crew members who are just as clueless as ever! Did Ro’kash even say who she wanted to step up?” Shortfuse asked patrolling around the three.
“Bruut be Captain.” Everyone looked at the large orc blankly.
“Yea buddy, you go do that.” Shortfuse replied sarcastically.
Bruut be Captain!?” Bruut jumped up, looking extremely excited.
“Didn’t know the Bleeding Hollow rituals made you a fucking retard.” Gor’tak mumbled under his breath. Bruut frowned in disappointment.
“Me.” Mar’thad said timidly.
“You volunteering?” Shortfuse snapped back.
“No, she told me.”
“Yea, yea, and how am I supposed to trust ya? What if ya said you were Kil’jaeden with tits or something? I can’t trust your word!” Bruut made a very disgusted look upon hearing those remarks.
“Get a log. The Goblin needs to hump something.” Gor’tak sighing as he peered over the ocean.
“I’m just sayin’ is all!” the Goblin spouted out in defense.
“She told me! I am not lying, Shortfuse! And I think I could do ok as Captain. I learned a lot from Ro’kash.” Mar’thad stood up, her chain linked armor soaked and cursed with the smell of the ocean.
“Oh, you’re standing now! Real scary! You must definitely be–” Shortfuse was interrupted by a steeltoed kick to the groin.
“Right in the Juggernuts!” the Goblin fell over.
“Shit, guess you’re the Captain then.” Gor’tak smirked.
“Bruut hungry, Bruut want Juggernuts.” Gor’tak gave the hulking orc and a look of extreme disappointment, tossing his arms in the air in a sort of ‘what the actual fuck’ kind of fashion.
The cavernous deeps of Gorgrond were cold and unforgiving. Losing her crew, her ship, and her friends, Ro’kash was alone. She had nothing. No weapons no food, and she could hear the slow tapping of insectoid legs stealthily skittering across the rock. If starvation did not get her, the spiders sure would. Even worse, if she ran into those Pale orcs she knew she would be done for. The Iron Horde tried their best to distance themselves from those creatures. Ro’kash placed her back against the stone wall, sighing as her black hair fell down her shoulder. The water and brine nearly washed her face of war paints, something the Warsong always prided themselves on. How she always wished she could have been like her mother and father. She wanted to be fond of raiding, pillaging, and looting, and she was, but not from land. There was a certain allure to the sea, a sort of warrior’s call to those wishing to place their legs in unfamiliar territory. For those who would trade the legs of the beast for a hull of iron. The thought of being at the helm of another iron vessel pleased her and the thought of being in possession of another soon calmed her nerves enough to get her to close her eyes.
“Ro’kash, you wallow in self-pity. Take the seas for yourself.”
Ro’kash flashed her eyes wide open and readied her fists: “Who’s there?”
She heard the skittering again, only quicker, faster. Maybe she was going insane, maybe she was on the brink of complete madness, or maybe the spider’s got her with some damn venom before she even noticed. She relaxed her shoulders and unclenched her fists, keeping her eyes and ears alert.
“Return to your crew. They are without a Captain and I can give them a true Captain.”
The voice trailed off and became and echoing cackle. Ro’kash rose to her feet and raised her fists again. She walked into the darker reaches of the cavern, tracking the voice.
“Yes, come closer Ro’kash. Or is the Iron Captain too afraid to embrace her true destiny? One of power and conquest.”
The voice echoed once again but this it felt closer, almost as if it was crawling up her spine. Ro’kash turned around and swatted at her back, something fell off and skittered into the darkness. As she turned back around, she saw a green light in the distance. It flared and crackled, hinting at the presence of a fure. As she turned the corner, she saw Pale Orcs hung from stalactites by coarse ropes. Their necks cracked and broken, their jaws tilted to the side as their bodies twirled.
Ro’kash assumed they were fresh: “Show yourself!” she barked into the darkness.
“As you wish,” the voice echoed through the caverns as the Pale Orc bodies turned black and flared with green. They unfastened their nooses and looked at Ro’kash, twisting their necks back in place. They hissed and moaned at her, causing her to back up against a wall. “Is this some sort of game?” Ro’kash asked, masking her fear.
“Ziel Rakkas!” The voice barked as the Pale Orcs backed off. From the shadows stepped a figured adorned with a golden crown and a staff augmented with a fel crytstal. His robes were green and gold, tracing the pattern up his robe, Ro’kash noticed his black and decayed jaw. She locked eyes with his light greens that simmered flame.
“Who are you? What are you?” She asked.
The figure approached her: “An ally.”
He handed her a vial of green liquid, “Drink. Secure the future for you and your crew.”
Ro’kash pushed him away assertively, “I know what this is, odd for some non-Orc to be spouting Gul’dan’s nonsense in the back of some cave.”
The man cackled: “I do not work for Gul’dan. With this power, you could rule him. I offer you this not as a means of slavery, but as a means of emancipation. Use it to free yourself of the limits set upon you by this world and arise more mighty than ever.” He held the vial back out to her.
“No! I will never drink that poison!” She smacked the vial from the man’s hand; he quickly snagged the vial and held it back up.
“Very well, former Captain. Die here, alone. Let your crew suffer at the hands of Gul’dan. If you do not take a stand against him they will certainly fall into his grasp. Fighting fire with fire is the only way.” He set the vial next to another on a rock in the cavern.
“Your choice.”
He cackled, conjuring a demonic portal and stepped through. Ro’kash tried to see into the portal, to catch a glimpse of anything that would be telling; however, the portal vanished as soon as the man did. She thought of Mar’thad, the young Orc she saw so much of herself in, the Orc who stood by her side, the one she chose as Captain. No, she was not ready to throw that burden on Mar’thad. Ro’kash looked to one of the vials and snatched it, quickly downing the contents.
The voice entered her mind: “You will find your crew due South on the coast of Gorgrond, whether they see you like this is your choice, the effect is temporary for now. Guide them to the Horde base in Gorgrond, disguise yourselves as refugees and ask for safe haven in Azeroth. Then you will seek out work for your crew and perhaps a deal that will give you another ship. You will be working for a very rich man, I can assure that, Captain.”
The voice faded. Ro’kash growled and roared: “It will be done! I am and always will be, Captain!” she dashed through the caves, leaving trails of fel flame in her wake.
“An odd choice, Ascendant Lord. I expected a different choice to be your first offer, one more, predicatble?” Hal’Nazris stood by a fel crystal conduit on the Throne of Kil’jaeden, arms crossed.
“I knew she would take the vial and I know what she will do after.” Netherus opened his palm and summoned a green eye. He tossed it in the air as it floated between him and his Dreadlord Master. It expanded and within its body it showed a naval battle with a group of Blood Elves.
“But how?” Hal’Nazris asked, impressed by the Ascendant Lord’s plotting.
“I’ve set them on a path they will not deviate from. They are after wealth and power and naval vessels. Not many can accrue that amount of wealth to throw at a band of Iron Mercs. Except…” Netherus twirled his finger around the eye, causing it contract and expand, showing a lone Blood Elf.
Hal’Nazris chuckled: “Dismantling from within. I applaud your efforts–”
Hal’Nazris stopped and peered into the eye. “What is this?” he caused the eye to expand more. Netherus looked confused unable to see what caught his Master’s eye.
“He is holding some sort of orb.” Hal’Nazris studied the eye carefully.
“What does it mean, Master?” Netherus asked, bowing.
“It means the orb will soon be in the hands of the Legion, Ascendant Lord. It is only a matter of time.”
Hal’Nazris’ claws filled with fel energy as he summoned several eyes: “Go! And locate the Orb. I want to know where it came from and why it is sought after, and then I want it in my possession!” the eyes dispersed as they flew away into the skies of Tanaan, ultimately disappearing into the Nether.
“This could be the opening we needed, Ascendant Lord.” Hal’Nazzris spoke, crossing his arms again and unfurling his wings.
“To dismantle the Bladeborn?”
“No. something much much bigger.”
Netherus eyed the Nathrezim curiously.
“To herald the Legion’s return to Azeroth, to begin the invasion.” Hal’Nazzris cackled as he walked behind the fel crystal, Ascendant Lord in tow.
An army of towering Abyssals stood in a large canyon, awaiting the command.
