The armies of the Burning Legion were indisputably the most destructive force in the cosmos. Ruthless, bloodthirsty, and unending in number. But even that is not enough to lay waste to every world.
No, for those worlds whose inhabitants were of enough sophistication to mount meaningful resistance, some level of strategic guidance was necessary for the Legion to succeed in any reasonable timeframe.
Invasion Commander V'xa provided this guidance. Such was her dominance that she could manifest and maintain command links to steer her subordinates even in the absence of a command pod - even from the very front lines, from which the more arrogant and self-preserving of her ilk shied.
This combination of aptitude and will saw her instrumental in the ongoing conquest of worlds; Xoroth, Val, the Aldrachi homeworld â and countless others with names now lost to obscurity.
But by the time she was recalled to Argus in the wake of the disastrous Third Invasion, Antorus had fallen. Their very homeworld invaded by the forces of Azeroth. Ironic.
With no leader, no structure, and no remaining hope of fulfilling the Legion's mission, V'xa ignominiously secreted herself away in the fringes of what remained of her ruined homeworld to consider her next move.
She did not have one. If the Burning Legion had failed, then everything she had done in its service was for naught. A million, million lives wasted, and the cosmos consigned regardless to Void.
Contemplation gave way to despair, and despair gave way to apathy. By the time she was found and recruited by Arzal'kal's rebels, she had fully withdrawn. Merely going through the motions. She was simply not there.
In her final bid for anything approaching an apt end, she called to the Light. Let this primal force that the Exiles brought back to Argus scour her from this miserable, doomed reality.
Eyes drifted open, vision blurred, mind sluggish. The world that was coming into focus was not one she recognised. She flexed to move, sinew and bronze scales atwist. Great wings unfurled, spanning almost the breadth of the cell she occupied.
The pieces were still there, at least. She was still Dracthyr. An evoker, no less. An apex dragonkiller; pride of the weyrn. Though - the weyrn - which weyrn? Somehow this thread of memory eluded her. A simple fact. Focus. Recall â
The sound of the walls collapsing around her broke her concentration, compounded by nothing less than The Great Dark Beyond expanding beyond sight, adrift in an infinity.
And aloft in the stars with her was a dragon. Of a size nearly to rival the Aspects, and with shimmering dark scales the likes of which she had never seen. Black, not like Father, but like the very abyss in which they were suspended.
âI am afraid it is that time again.â
She knew that voice, but she did not know this dragon. Though was it friend or foe? How â
âDoubtless you have questions. You always do. But you, as ever, are best suited to answer.â
Another figure emerged, filling into existence from blue light and black sands. The figure of another Dracthyr, clad in the same shimmering scales as the dragon. But this one was hurt. Mortally struck, a wound ran through their chest, through which the other side could be seen.
But their face betrayed no pain, only resolution. Their face - her own face - begged trust, and a hand was offered out to her.
And what else was there to do but to take it?
Everything that this Dracthyr had been flowed into her - back into her. This had always been who she was, after all. The invisible hand of fate; rectifier of history's mistakes. Death would have been an absurd reason to have stopped.
âI am myself again, Chrono-Lord.â She announced, her voice reverberating, echoing. As it always had. âI will continue the work.â
Newly-blackened talons rent through the fabric of the ether, a portal opening in their wake. A glance over her shoulder was enough to confirm Deiosâ acknowledgement, and she cast herself back through the timeways.
So much more was yet to be done to bring about the true timeline.
The Dawnhollow line enjoys significant prestige in Silvermoon. Val's father earned the bulk of it, the celebrated Magister Latrodectus, heroic warmage of the Quelâdorei, risen to prominence relatively recently amid the Second and Third Wars. There are many- elves and men alike- who would be dead now if not for his valour.
Val came of age in these times of volatility. The pride of House Dawnhollow. She had inherited much of her fatherâs talent: an exceptional mage in all respects, level-headed and capable in battle, proven in the Second and Third Wars, the one promising scion to succeed him as head of the house.
Had it not been for the destruction of the Sunwell, that is.
Arcane withdrawal had affected all in the family, but none so severely as Val. She wasted gradually, holding firm at first, but soon becoming barely able to stay conscious for more than a few seconds at a time, and then not at all.
Desperate, and with all the backing the House could muster, the Magister had his ailing daughter sent to a shielded Dalaran, early in its stages of reconstruction, in hopes of receiving treatment that a stricken and overwhelmed Silvermoon could not provide. A fortune in coin was spent on keeping her clinging just barely to life, comatose and withered.
To her carers, it seemed a lost cause. Until a miracle occurred: The Sunwell was reignited, and her vigour with it. Even if her body would never fully physically recover from the ordeal, Val was conscious again and her mind sound. She could walk, she could talk, and she could cast.
Her father, overjoyed, immediately began plans for her return. Preparations were made for a grand and extravagant gala. But Val, who had never supported Silvermoon's withdrawal from the Alliance after the Second War to begin with, reacted predictably poorly to the news of her people's new identity as Horde.
She did not return. What should have been a celebration for the ages became one of the greatest embarrassments of the time amongst the Silvermoon nobility. And utter heartbreak for her father, who, despite having the means, could not bring himself to force the matter.
He would forgive her one day, she hoped, when Quel'Thalas returned to the Alliance. Then would they be properly reunited once more.
The second contest and it is for Asura characters, one character will also be selected. You just need to leave a comment. It will be made in a new style.
(And I will also add that if the winner does not respond within a day, another person will be chosen)
Not long following the disastrous Maguuma campaign, a Pact scout failed to report back from duty in Draconis Mons. Months passed with no word, no report of her turning up anywhere.
Lena was presumed dead, memorialised alongside the other casualties of the expedition.
Of course, she didn't die. Not exactly. She hasn't been forthcoming with the details, but she has certainly changed since her reappearance. There's a distance behind her brightness, now.
And connection with nature has become almost palpable. No longer does she need rituals or signets to effect magic - life near-on blooms in her wake. Nor has she appeared to age a day since, to any who knew her before.
She travels now to the blasted ruins of the world, attempting to arrest the destruction of nature wrought by the endless wars fought on Tyrian soil, and bring growth and life back to the wastes left in their wake.
I'm probably going to start posting just screenshots soon, once I figure out how to make them prettier in games without gpose... probably nvidia has something.
âWith respect, Magister, this extends well beyond recklessness. You canât expect us to just watch while you condemn yourself to certain death for the chance itâll produce a useful result.â
Scholar Myrra was a patient one, Val mused. She had to have been, to have deigned to join the Prioryâs ranks at the bottom, despite her ability. The basis for the Asuraâs attachment to her she didnât quite understand, but it was certainly being brought to the fore now. Not quite the right time or place, in her readied ritual circle.
âIâm not expecting you to watch, Myrra. In fact Iâd prefer it if you didn't.â Valâs voice came calm, with the warm comfort of a mentor. Serene, despite everything. âItâs not likely to be pleasant viewing.â
âLockwoodâs already looking into a talisman to hold the spell. Deldrimor craft. Thatâs bound to work.â Then she added, with emphasis: âWithout killing you?â
âMagic of this maleficence cannot be tamed by any object, no matter how well-wrought. Without attended control, it would pose catastrophic risk to any around it, its bearer especially. And if it fell into the wrong handsâŠâ She trailed off. âIn any case, the decision has been made. This is my Hunt.â
The Asura opened her mouth to argue - though weeks of this back-and-forth had already led to this point. The ritual was already on the cusp of completion, with no small commitment of resources and irreplaceable relics already drawn and depleted in preparation.
âWe shall call this spell Theidelisa-Vallewellynâs Agony.â Val said simply. âLet this now be the first and final time it is ever cast.â
-
As it ripped into her bark and seared itself into her soul, the malicious magic took root, carving and fanning out in furious lines of rot. The scars drew themselves in perfect symmetry across her features; the mark of Deathâs very design.
And even with her every safeguard to arrest it into stasis, the pain persisted. It bled through, in never-ending, sanity-testing waves. But it would become familiar in time. An acceptable cost, for this edge against the endless armies of the Elder Dragons: through necromantic contagion, Val would be able to infinitely bestow this horror in its original potency.
Born into the last golden age of the Quel'dorei, the young Aria had everything to look forward to. While they were not wealthy, her family's prestige ensured her access to the finest education.
House Dawngrace were scholars and artists, beyond skilled in arcane craftwork. Practiced and cultivated over centuries, nigh-on millennia, theirs were enchantments the likes of which the mortal races could only dream of.
Aria would be next, of course. The darling of the House, and so studious besides.
But the march of the Scourge took everything before she was of age to even hold a rod: Her family, her home, and her future. All cast to ash, buried in the Dead Scar.
She survived. The only one. And the injustice of it dwelled in her, carved its way into her very being. They had done nothing to bring on such destruction. Aria herself had done nothing more than dare to be born.
And if the world would not grant justice to her people, she would find it herself.
---
Rejected by the Blood Knights - too young, and too emotional, besides - it was all she could do to try and train herself in the ways of war. To hone her mind and body for the trials of combat.
The junior Farstriders gave her some time of day. And though through relentless training did she grow into strength, her viciousness and disposition made her unpopular - impossible to work with, almost.
Then the Sunwell reignited, and the sheer potency of her connection to this divine source was made bare. With the righteous power that suddenly became her right to wield, nothing was left to stop her.
And if the martial orders of Silvermoon would not take her to vengeance, she would find it herself.
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