A Defiler's Direct Attention
( The events below occurred off-screen during a guild event that I DM'd for The Sanctum; this is meant to explain why Dinthoqaf was not present during it. I also apologize in advance if this is a bit hard to read as it's been a bit since I've written like this and I'm trying to get back into the habit. )
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The Sanguine flowed with a primordial excitement as action was abound on this night. Varethuun, The Vile Shadow, and Nezzok, The Collector, had taken teams into Silvermoon City’s bowels to hunt down and eradicate two blemishes on the Sanctums otherwise potentially ‘grand’ reputation thus far. Each abomination was masquerading around as members of his Flock, killing, fucking, and eating (not even necessarily in that order) their way through whatever corner they were able to hide in and finally had been pinned down. With irritation that it’d taken so long to do so, Nezzok demanded to take the thing out that pretended to besmirch his otherwise fantastically lacking personality and Varethuun, well, his alter self was literally just killing and eating to the point of grotesque opulence.
Dinthoqaf had every intention of being there, but something else had drawn his attention and was forcing him to pass on orders while he took control of The Nameless Host to route an issue with encroaching Twilight Blade members. They had amassed in the ruins of Caer Darrow, former home to The Sanctum during their many years in Lordaeron and while they had moved to The Crimson Sprawl, to anyone with enough ingenuity and tact, there may have been traces left to find of what had been. Traces The Defiler would not be allowed to be dug up and potentially put to bear against himself or simply used to reinforce Xal’ataths forces.
Thoughts that came to cycle through his mind as anger began to rise as he steps through the slip of Void and Shadow from his Magistrative Office to the highest peak upon Caer Darrow herself. A slow inhale through his nose brought in the scene of lingering plague-rot, stale wind, and decay. “Oh, how good it is to be home.” He mutters as he surveils the area before him. Three tiers of fortifications lead from the ruined fort to Scholomance’s foundation in the basement, a place his people took control of at one point between heroes emptying out the Cult of the Damned till recent. Numerous -Other- Cultists littered the place, trying to repair what was required while others dug, cleaned, and excavated buildings and ruins, trying to find anything of value.
A thrum strings across the strands of The Sanguine, a prelude and calling to The Nameless Host that their Defiler was calling them forth. Men and Women all across the whole of Azeroth who had been baptized in his blood were beckoned forth as blackened holes opened, inviting each in when they were ready. Armor was donned, robes pulled into place. Staves, Wands, Swords, Shields, Clubs. Each individual had their weapons of choice, but they all felt this pull and tug on their heartstrings. Their Master beckoned, and while it was no command, they would answer the call as loyally as any knight for his vassal.
A stillness comes to the air. No winds blow, no birds chirp, no fish (dead or undead) churn the waters as numerous black holes open across the landscape surrounding The Keep and her valuable innards.
“Lo and Behold, Children of the Sanguine! Your Defiler calls upon you once more to serve, to aid in pushing the volatile forces from our lands and to protect what once was ours and is due to be again! Do not fret my Sons and Daughters, for those of you who fall today shall be made immortal, eternal, and do not fret for those you may leave behind. Your children and children’s children will be taken well care of, for the actions of today define the success of our tomorrow! For what we do here and continue to do elsewhere helps to carve the future for which we all crave! Carve free the blight of The Twilight’s Blade from our old home and show them the resolve of your Faith and the strength of your Will!”
A mental message sent to all as Dinthoqaf had learned long ago how to turn their Faith into a literal force, power, energy… whatever one may wish to call it, into a power source to be taken and used. For as he stood upon the peak looking down upon the portals suddenly flooding out his Nameless, he’d pull his right arm into his clothing just to push it up through the lapel so it would fall to his waist, exposing his bare flesh to the diluted sun above. Porcelain-tinted skin soon curdled, turning a putrid purple as swells and growths began to mutate the skin. Creases and folds grew, and the sound of moistened meat tearing could be heard as these growths began to manifest as numerous eyes across his torso and down his arm. A position of meditation was taken as he raised up this mutated limb to his face, his own set of eyes closing as all the others darted this way and that, looking at something not physically in front of him.
This however was for good reason as he now was seeing through the eyes of all of his children down below. The Sanguine, a powerful and ancient magic made to force him into will at one point, turned into a weapon of convenience that allowed him to guide and steer, but not entirely control, those who came to worship and follow. A rule made for himself and why Faith was so important: these people had to choose to let him guide them, to show them the tides, and it was up to them to go with it or go off course. The Nameless Flock did as their God requested, and while they all did it in their own unique little ways, his will be done.
Hundreds of citizens across the entirety of Azeroth came spewing forth like hydrants, pouring over unsuspecting Blades. Magic spells fired, arrows and bullets rained, and Blades, Maces, and Shields clambered and sang as they met with other metals and bodies. Today was a battle of The Cults. The Sanctum of the Forbidden versus The Twilight's Blade and today; Dinthoqaf would make sure he walked away the victor.
( While not quite to the degree of The Sad Man's Parade, I thought it'd be a fitting example of the Nameless Flock pouring out from their portals to join the fight. )
The eyes upon his body fire back and forth, zipping about as if he were on some sort of high-end drug. Each movement pushed him through the masses to see how each stream of followers was doing, and when one was cut down or killed, it would snap to the next closest. Akin to a pianist’s fingers, Dinthoqaf the Defiler strummed the minds of his people, playing to their senses to help them avoid certain spells, to guide their next feat. The battle started off well, but surprise was an element they were losing as bottlenecks in this fort would work both ways when it came to ground forces. However, The Nameless came from on high, the vantage, and they knew this place intimately. When fighting began to stall, The Sanguine would guide their lines to pack along the defensive walls to loose arrows, rounds, and spells into the Twilight Host till they would falter. Though as easy as it would sound, the battle raged and the front line would ebb and flow.
Minutes turned into hours, and those who grew tired had to swing around to rest as fresher bodies joined the fray. He should have brought some of the Inner Sanctum with him for this, but clearing Silvermoon of the Dopple Guests required their full attention. No, the Nameless could do the job, even with the lack of efficiency of his elites, it was doable with his guidance. Fighting came to a standstill however, as both forces were learning how to use the environment to their benefit. Ruins made for hard targets to hit from a distance, and the Blade used it well. The Nameless host was a mix of citizens and soldiers, not all of whom were fully trained as The Blade might have been.
Frustration began to set into The Defiler as what should have been an easy victory stalled as something else began to push back. The people, this -force- he felt was not just The Void or the Twilight Host of Xal’ataths group, no… this was.
The Defiler’s concentration broke for a moment as a realization brushed against his thoughts. A wicked laugh dared tickle his consciousness, one he knew.
Anger flared as he realized why this fight was stalling. Dorn, fallen Ascendent of The Sanctum, had taken these Cultists and twisted them to his own ends. This was no longer a group sent to scavenge left to operate on their own, but sent here to elicit an appearance from The Defiler himself, and he walked right into it.
Another wicked laugh dug in, louder this time. “Oh Father, how long it has been since you and I got to have a little chat. I knew if I came knocking, you would come to answer the door personally, I’m so glad to know that you and are still so familiar with one another…” The voice trails off, taunting in its tone. “… I hope your Flock enjoys the gift I gave and left for them. I saw the looks upon their faces as they fled, oh how gleeful it was to watch my creations run off. It has given me the briefest glimpse of what it must be like to be yo-…”
“Dorn; so this is what it has come to, hmm? Begging for Daddy’s attention like some child, hoping to be noticed by knocking over the table lamp? For one who was held in such high regard, it almost makes me pity what you have become, so engrossed in demanding my attention. How very childish… it seems Dennis truly has rubbed off on you. Now be quiet, child; it’s time you remember why your vessel was used for ingredients, and your resurrection was declined in full.”
The Defiler’s mouth opens and a dark miasmic haze begins to flow forth down the mountainside into the courtyard below. The Nameless baptized within it, soaking it in, breathing in its fumes, took to a whole new fervor. Orcs, Tauren, and Ogres came to the foreground cutting into the group like a well-honed axe edge, cleaving units apart as the more lithe Nameless Host began to rip them to shreds. Their strength grew, their speed increased, and those with intimate knowledge of spellcraft began to feel more fuel filling their fires.
“Faith and Trust Dorn, something you could never quite grasp in their entire concept.” Now it was Din’s turn to mock.
Faith moved mountains, held and pushed back seas, and dug deep of the canyons of the world.
Forces began to push into the Scholomance ruins to ferret out any excavative forces as the others tumbled down the hillside. More and more pushed through, leaving their homes and cities behind till bodies were climbing over one another just to sink a blade into an enemy of The Sanctum of the—no, ‘Their’ Defiler. The fervor of battle soon came with the copper tinge of blood on the air. Bodies were piling up and despite the zeal below, his people were still people, their minds kept intact, and they’d move their fallen to the side while paving the way forward with their enemies.
A howl of anger as the tides suddenly surged and the Blade lines collapsed. Not one of them got to leave this place, and by the end of it, Dinthoqaf had gently descended the peak he commanded from. The Nameless flock was tending to theirs. Magic schools of all types were working to aid those as best they could who were wounded. People who lost limbs would be taken care of, prosthetics made for those who desired them, healing made for those who didn’t. Some races wore their wounds as badges of honor, merit, for the cause of The Defiler and his Sanctum. Those who were too far gone were being wrapped and tended to for transport back home by those who knew them. Their kids would be taken care of until they became adults, guaranteed lodging, food, and education within the Sanctum’s Academy, as was his promise to each Nameless for their service.
Those who teetered on the edge though, where simple magic required more, needed more. Some of them called to him as he inspected the field of battle, some begged openly for help as they didn’t wish to die and others prayed to the Sanguine for help, to him. Prayers he would try to answer as such an outpouring of their faith deserved an answer in turn. Those who had passed would help fuel the magic for this as The Sanguine was pulled from those who were no more. Blood began to churn and run through the cobblestone pathways here, circling about his feet.
Dinthoqaf kneels into the growing pool of crimson, fingers dipping into its contents as his lips mutter. For those close enough to hear, the syllables would be alien and foreign, and the air would grow thick in protest to their efforts to be made tangible. Azeroth protested their use, and the more he’d chant, the more the air began to reverberate in response until finally, he’d stop, and the blood would race outwards to the worst of his followers. Large wounds began to stitch with The Sanguine, leaving bright red scars as blood became flesh, mending organs and skin as if they were but ideas upon a canvas given birth.
The Sanguine, a shackle for him once, now the greatest gift and tool turned to help him and his.
Thanks and appreciation began to fill The Sanguine and the air about them. Cheers of victory, claps and screams, weapons to shields rang. Many of them saw this as some massive victory, but something far smaller in the grand scheme of things, simply because Their Defiler had been present.
To Din, this meant something else entirely.
Dorn’s powers were growing. He was learning how to use his own version of The Sanguine and while his host did not seem to have a choice in the matter, it would still make the fight that much harder going forward…
The Sanctum would need to stand at the ready.
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