Grim Views

A small dwarven bunker recently constructed in the scar between the Badlands and the Bronzebeard dwarf territory of Khaz Modan…

A blood-colored sun rose over the mountains of the Badlands. As light pierced the cleft carved by the Cataclysm, the entrance to the bunker flashed white on a soot-black environment. Glittering armor indicated where guards had been set on the outside to watch for attackers. Far, far above, watching from the face of a cliff, sat Kazarak Bloodskull, the Darkspear shaman. He had been waiting for his opportunity to strike, and the spirits told him it would come soon. Through the eye sockets of the trophy Zandalari mask he cast his far sight upon the scarred landscape below him, watching, waiting for his target to arrive.

Years past, following the Siege of Orgimmar, Kazarak had been sent on a mission of diplomacy on the behalf of his new Warchief, Vol’jin. His group was tasked with speaking to the local military units of the Alliance and Horde, to spread word of the ceasefire. Though they sent word of their coming, an Alliance outpost occupied by men and women with a history for brutal tactics set a trap for the Horde diplomats. They were lured in, and their throats slit, Kazarak’s included. Though they were piled in a mass grave and condemned to be picked apart by carrion, Kaz returned to life by the grace of the Spirits, and in his mind only one goal would be considered. He returned to the outpost, this time with his weapons in hand. But the cowards had already fled, or been recalled by those who were supposed to control them. Kaz spent years tracking them down, one by one. He gathered their heads and would leave them at the entrance to Stormwind City along with a note. They always said the same thing, “Enemy of Peace.”

Now, Kazarak had tracked another of them. A dwarf by the name of Morig Leadfist. The man had earned blood money all his life, but Kaz was still able to trace where the money came from, and where it was going. Morig had bought himself a place with a group of borderland mercenaries called the Band of Soot. They made this bunker using cheap labor. Cheap, because it was forced upon captured peons from New Kargath. After construction of the bunker, they were all executed, naturally. Kaz mourned their loss, and promised their spirits rest as soon as he claimed justice against their killers. Today, at sunrise, the new recruits would arrive in a caravan from Khaz Modan. Morig would be on it, as would numerous other mercenaries and unsavory types. Kaz planned to kill them all.

As if on que, the timely dwarven caravan, comprised of three carts packed with a dozen troops each, pulled by two hulking mountain rams each, arrived just as the sun lit up the cart path in the scar. Using his enhanced senses, Kaz narrowed his vision in on each cart, until at last he found who he sought. Morig Leadfist, in the flesh. He clomped his way out of the middle cart, a spiked mace draped over a mail pauldron. As the new arrivals approached the bunker, unpacking gear from the carts, Kaz shifted his form into that of a spirit wolf, and padded his way down the steep slope into the scar below. In his ghostly form, he would be nearly impossible to spot until he got in close. By then, it would be too late for his foes. After several minutes of descent, Kaz at last made it to the bottom, and sprinted for cover in the rocks along the side of the cliff face. Two dwarves were chatting in their native tongue while moving crates from the third and final cart, the furthest down the road from the bunker. These two were out of sight from the rest. Kaz moved in quickly, drawing an axe and a mace as he did so. By the time the dwarves turned around, his weapons were raised, and it was too late to call for help.

Kaz called to the spirits of earth with a silent command, ushering in a dust storm. The cloud of dust was enough to limit vision for a normal person. Kaz, however, used the wind to sense and feel his way. As the dwarves barked angrily in their stout and simple language, Kaz picked them off one by one, making his way in between carts unseen before striking. When at last he found his target, Morig was feeling up a female dwarf, who seemed accepting of the man’s advances. Kazarak frowned angrily behind his mask. Not only was the man a disgrace and a dishonor, but he did not even pay attention as his comrades were slaughtered around him. He, who was too busy scoring a piece of ass to watch for his allies. It made Kaz sick. He struck like a viper, smacking Morig in the back of the head with his mace. Hard enough to knock him out, but soft as to not kill him yet. The female opened her mouth to bellow a warning, but Kaz tossed a knife into her gaping maw and took off for the next target as she gagged to death on steel.

The remaining dwarves had had the brains to gather in a formation resembling a defensive line. Half of them smelled so drunk, Kaz didn’t need the wind’s guidance to tell, even from a distance of several dozen yards. The officers were barking over the rippling wind Kaz had summoned for cover. The grunts of the band were watching Kaz’s position too carefully for comfort. He thought quickly and came up with an idea. First, he called upon the spirits of air, using a totem as a focal point. Once there was enough power to serve its purpose, he tossed it, using the winds to guide the totem to the center of the dwarves’ line. They stared, baffled at the totem. And just before an officer could warn the fools to move, a thundering boom echoed through the scar in the earth.

The totem had generated enough force to knock the dwarves over. It was chaos for them, and a target-rich environment for Kazarak. He darted into the fray, weapons flying through armor and flesh with ease thanks to the melting power of fire and the shocking power of lightning. The dwarves fell again, this time for good. All except one, a warrior adorned in heavy mithril armor. He carried a massive shield that covered his entire body, and wielded a halberd, which he threatened Kaz with as he approached quickly, despite his burden. Kaz ducked toward the dwarf’s shielded side, avoiding the halberd as it came down where he had just been standing. The dwarf barked some taunt, and Kaz returned the favor with a swift, lava empowered strike to the shield. It glowed bright red under the immense heat. By now, the dust had settled and the pair could see each other clearly. The dwarf’s helm was modeled after a titan’s face, or at least, what a titan’s statue normally looked like. His shield was decorated with the image of a dragon, and dwarven glyphs had been carved into it, which began to lose their shape under the extreme heat of Kaz’s attack.

The shaman stepped back as the halberd swung again, this time giving him no room to sidestep. He capitalized on the swing, ducking back into the fight with a heavy stormstrike, clipping the polearm in half and sending a jolt up the dwarf’s arm. The dwarf shouted some curse and charged the troll, shield first. Kaz dodged to the side, and clipped the dwarf’s legs with an extended leg, sending him plummeting into the ground. There, Kaz plunged his axe into the back of his helmet, and poured the essence of storms into it until the dwarf’s head vibrated from the electricity. Twitching, but clearly dead, the warrior was left behind to rot in the dust as Kazarak strode back to where he had left Morig Leadfist. The shaman sheathed his weapons, and produced rope with which to tie the dwarf’s hands, and a large bag to stuff him in, which he also tied. Whistling sharply, Kazarak awaited the arrival of his mount as he secured the dwarf in his bag and lifted it partly over his shoulder. A groan from one of the fallen mercenaries took Kazarak’s attention. He spoke in the Common tongue, which Kaz had limited knowledge of, “Help me…please.” The dwarf clutched a shallow wound at his neck, from which blood poured across the ashen ground. Kaz lowered the bag from his shoulder and stepped toward the injured man, regarding him passively from behind his off-putting Zandalari mask. The dwarf reached out with a bloody hand, and said again, “Help…me.” The shadow of Kazarak’s rylak drew closer as he crouched down, drew a knife from his belt, and slowly lowered it into the dwarf’s heart. The dwarf pleaded with him through every agonizing second, asking, “Why? Why?” Kazarak replied in his slow voice, impeded by the injury sustained in Pandaira, “You…ask for help. Only death…can save you…from me.” Then he plunged the knife deep into the dwarf’s chest, withdrew it in a swift motion and returned to his captive.

Morig was why he truly came, but it was not to kill him. For tomorrow, Kazarak would stand before the Grim and be judged by the Inquisitor. Kazarak wanted, no, needed to show him that his will was great. That he was a Grim by heart. He would bring this captive as a display of why he chose to fight, and how he chose to go about fighting. That would show them exactly the sort of man he was. The sort of man he had become.

Kazarak perched himself over the center of Thunder Bluff, on the large totem pole in which the Tauren based their flight services. The troll held an odd purple heart to his ear. It beat faintly, and sometimes in between the beats, he could hear the spirit of the dwarf he had cut it from speak. Tonight, it was rather quiet, but he listened nonetheless. His hunt had ended in a dead-end after that dwarf in the Badlands had fallen to his axe. He had somehow escaped Kazarak’s notice during the attack, but he had known Morig Leadfist, so Kaz had hoped he might learn of the whereabouts of the remaining two targets from his spirit. So far, the dwarf had told him little and less. When he had first begun his hunt two years ago, Kaz had tracked one human that had remained in Pandaria following the ambassadors’ deaths. She had been easy to track. The caravan she’d joined up with left a trail for miles on a main road through Kun’lai. When he finally found her and the new party she had found herself in, he butchered them all without remorse. Even though they had nothing to do with it, they were the enemy. And they were in his way. The woman had lost her leg to one of Kazarak’s spirit raptors and was bleeding out. He asked for her name. She had given it, holding on to the hope she might survive if she did as asked. He asked her if she remembered him. She had said yes. He asked if she was sorry. She nodded. He had told her it didn’t matter. Then he put his axe in her skull.

Hers was the first heart fetish he had crafted to track the remaining targets. The girl had known where some of them intended to travel, and she knew all their names. He had made a record so he could find them by name. Some of them were assumed names, but enough of the targets knew one another well enough that the trails had remained for him to find. Now all that remained were a human named Braddock Stone, and a night elf named Twinsnake. Stone was a businessman in Stormwind, having made himself rich off the rebuilding efforts for the former Stormwind Park. He had himself a cozy home in Stormwind that he stayed at regularly, but currently he found himself in a summer home Kaz had yet to get a location on. All this he had learned from asking around, listening to conversations, and bribing those who knew the man from less than respectable business deals. Twinsnake, on the other hand, remained an absolute mystery. All he knew was the elf was a huntsman, and always wore a shawl to cover his face. The elf had been a terror for everyone on the base they shared, always watching their every move and barking at them with insults and threats if they stepped out of line. He had served as a personal escort for Braddock, who had been their leader. If anyone were to know how to find Twinsnake, it was Braddock Stone. So he was the next target.

A whisper from the heart sent a shiver through Kazarak’s ear: “My deepest regret…is I never got to feed my ram Nessy that night…” Kaz sighed. The dwarf’s soul had been spouting nonsense for days. Spirits drifted further away from material desires and information the longer they had been apart from their bodies. After a week and half, Kaz had nearly given up hope the heart would be of any use to him. Just as he considered destroying the heart outright, he heard a clop of hooves behind him. He stood and whirled about to face the new arrival. Unsurprisingly, it was a Tauren. A young man, at that. He wore an average tracker’s garb of dirty leather and carried a large burden on his back, wrapped in a brown cloak. He huffed and puffed as if he had climbed all the way to the top of the totem. Kaz knew him, but not well. He was the son of a Sunwalker called Quaran Goldfield, who had been an old war friend of his. The kid bent over, panting still. Kaz regarded him from behind his wolfskin hood. “Nagoda Goldfield, is it?” he questioned calmly.

“Indeed,” the boy panted, “Well met, friend Kazarak. My father spoke highly of you, and of the rest of Team Six, of course”

Kazarak remembered Team Six fondly. Before the Siege had turned them against their leader, Team Six had been an elite squad of soldiers sent on dangerous missions for the Horde. They had a representative from every race. Kaz had been their troll, and Quaran their Tauren. He kept in touch with them, but not regularly. They had all grown distant in recent years. Kaz replied, in his typical ragged, slow speech, to Nagoda, “And how is your father? We have not spoken…in some time.”

Nagoda’s panting ceased, and he frowned deeply. He slung the bundle off his back and unwrapped it while Kaz waited patiently. As the bundle unfurled to reveal a large stone sledge bearing the marks of the Sunwalkers, Kazarak’s heart sank. Nagoda sniffled, but managed to say, “He’s dead. This is…all I have left of him. The rest burned away at his funeral pyre.”

Kaz stepped forward to the kneeling Tauren and bent to give the boy a heartfelt hug. “I am…truly sorry. He was a friend. Tell me, if it is…not to painful, how did he die?” Nagoda wiped a tear from his eye, and replied, “You heard about the death knight who attacked the village down by the lake, I assume?” Kazarak nodded, and Nagoda continued, “The death knight responsible was taken prisoner. Brinnea Velmon.” He seethed at the name, and continued much more angrily, “She escaped her execution, and my father gave chase, following after her all the way north to Winterspring. There was another warrior alongside Brinnea Velmon that fought all the hunters that followed Father. He killed them. All of them! Even Orgog was with them, and he died too! No one ever beat Orgog.” The Tauren cradled his head in his hands. Kaz’s scarred face wrinkled with displeasure. Not only had Quaran fallen to this warrior, but Orgog as well, another member of their Team Six. Orgog had been a fearsome warrior, never bested by anyone in a one on one battle. Yet somehow, another warrior had bested him as well as all those following Quaran. This man seemed a true terror.

Nagoda went on, “No one else was able to find the after that. There was a lead on the warrior. Some blood left behind at the site of battle. The alchemists told me it was a Forsaken. And witnesses from the execution said he was garbed all in black, and carried a huge greatsword.” Pausing, the Tauren looked Kazarak in the eyes. “My friend, these undead savages…they must pay! If anyone can find them, it is you. My father told me you spent years hunting targets you had only met once, and that you found more than half of them in the first year alone! And you were the only one who ever came close to beating Orgog. You are my only hope of finding them. And… you are a Grim now, are you not?”

Kazarak looked down at his tabard, which bore the mark of the guild in question. “I am, Nagoda. Why?” he wondered. The Tauren replied, “The Grim were responsible for overseeing the execution. It was them the death knight called for when she slaughtered our people. You are one of them now. Answer her challenge! Find her, and give her the death she deserves. Her, and the black swordsman with her.”

Kazarak did not take long to think it over, “I will do this. The Horde is…endangered by their lives. I will end them. When it is done…I will bring you their corpses.”

((Kazarak remembers one of the 34 traitors he had killed in the two years of his hunt. This is a tale I wrote during MoP, prior to the RH-TN merge.))

Quiet and the smell of decay greeted Kazarak as he stepped off the rickety wooden ramp leading downward from the goblin trade vessel. Looking back through his Zandalari ritual mask, the shaman had to admit to himself that Ephraim had acquired a sizeable ship. Though the goblin was small of stature, his taste in machinery was akin to Kaz’s, the larger and more threatening, the better. Kaz tugged at his crimson direhorn’s reins. The beast followed faithfully, carrying his burdens upon its spiny back. Kazarak preferred his animals pre-trained, but when he had found this young primal beast on the Isle of Giants, he chose to raise it to his own specific desires. It obeyed only him, and was vicious when unleashed in combat, just as its master was.

Kazarak gave a gesture of farewell to the slight figure on board the vessel. Loraine returned the gesture with a wave of her bony hand. Kazarak bounded up onto the direhorn’s back and slapped the reins with a loud crack like a pair of whips. The beast took off at a quick pace. Normally it was his mount for long distance travel, but his raptor had been slain in a recent skirmish in Stranglethorn, so this was his only mount for the moment. He didn’t have to travel far. New Avalon was just up the hill.

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Sleep had never been so restful for Jesse, but like all good things, it came to an abrupt and uninvited end. A boot to the ribs brought his senses back to his body, his survival instincts fully aware of his surroundings before he even had time to assess the situation. Before he pounced on his assailant, knife in hand, the figure who kicked him spoke, “Don’t be stupid, kid. You know I’d kill you before you could get that thing in my throat.” The man stood with a lantern in hand, dangled close to Jesse’s exposed face. Sweat poured from his brow at the fire’s kiss.

“A rude awakening, I was having a good dream for once,” Jesse gestured for the man to move the lantern from his face. As it neared the looming figure’s own head, the light revealed him as an undead. His eyes reflected the firelight with an eerie golden glow, and his pale green skin was covered in rot marks and maggot holes. His toothy grin was grime green and rot yellow. His own bloody father.

“We have little time for pleasant dreams, son,” Darin said in is rasp of a voice. “Ripclaw smelled some fresh meat by the shore. We’re going hunting.”

“Food meat or people meat?” Jesse asked his rotting corpse of a father as his dressed in his faded leather combat fatigues.

“Eh? There’s a difference?” Darin asked sarcastically. At a sharp look from his son, Darin chuckled, a sound which reminded Jesse of a cat regurgitating. “Live people. Caught sight of him, but he bolted for the blighted area to the north. We’re cornering him, same as the others.” Jesse remembered the others his father referred to. A small ship full of elven fisherman had come too far south, the current overtaking their frail vessel. Like mice hiding in a hole, they scurried into the blight to the north, in the shadow of the Ebon Hold. Darin and Jesse had taken either side of the blight and forced the unfortunate Sin’dorei into a corner from which they could not escape. They would have gone down fighting, but Darin was too sadistic to let them die quickly. One look at Darin’s undead wolf and its bloody muzzle was all the reminder Jesse needed of that night.

“None of your sick games this time. This one dies fast.” Jesse’s icy blue eyes tore into his father’s lantern-like yellow eyes with a glare that meant he was serious.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” Darin said with a minor chuckle, “Lost your appetite for killing?” Jesse did not reply. His swords sheathed and gear prepped, he was ready to move out. He yanked his hood over his head and masked his face.

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Kaz’s direhorn panted relief as its master saw fit to slacken his legs from its flank. The beast sniffed hungrily at the dry grass and a patch of mushrooms nearby. Kaz tugged at the reins to make the beast stop before it ate anything poisonous. He then dismounted in a swift motion and unpacked his weapons from the direhorn’s back. Two spears with raptor feathers tied to the end were attached to his back. Two axes with ridged blades made to slice through bone were imbued with wind and fire as the hilts slipped into his two-fingered grasp. The elements sharpened the scene around him. He focused the keen senses on the entrance to the blight far back the way he’d come. A lone figure approached on foot. He wasn’t making much effort to be sneaky, despite his roguelike outfit.

Kaz shifted his far sight to the other entrance in the direction of the Chapel the paladins called home. A pair of hunters approached from this side. One undead, one wolf, (although the creature also seemed to have a deathly aura about it). Kaz grinned behind his mask, his tusks spreading further apart at the gesture. “Time to spring the trap.”

The hunter and his canine companion came into range first. The wolf bolted at the troll in a blur of fur as its companion took aim with a sinister barbed crossbow and fired at their query. The bolt moved quickly, but Kazarak had been expecting it. He ducked under the bolt as the wolf lunged at him. Its jaws clamped down hard on metal. An axe was jammed in its filthy maw. Kaz grunted as the undead creature struggled to break his axe. Kaz poured the power of the storms into the blade, and moved it horizontally out of the beast’s mouth, taking its lower jaw with it. The wolf didn’t as much as whimper as its face was torn in half. Kaz’s focus shifted ever so slightly to where the hunter stood. Another bolt hurtled at his forehead. With a tug of the wind, Kaz deflected the bolt and sent it into the ground.

The wolf sprang up at his throat, trying to dig into his flesh with its upper teeth. It managed to get blood all over Kaz’s face, but the rest of it was halted by a spike of earth which impaled it through the torso. Even then, the beast struggled to catch its prey. A persistent dead thing, but dead nonetheless. Kaz could safely focus on the two humanoids. The rogue was trying to flank Kaz, so he shifted his position to keep both foes within his line of sight. The elements told him where they were, but would they know as much? Kaz looked away from the crossbowman just as the undead had another shot lined up. The bolt was flying straight at the shaman’s back, but the wind told him what he needed to know. He sidestepped and let the bolt fly at the rogue, who expertly sliced it out of the air with a curved blade.

Kazarak tugged again at the element of storms, and sent a bolt at the rogue, who threw his blade before him to catch the bolt and send it into the ground harmlessly. He had certainly fought shaman before. But none like Kazarak, that much was certain. Kaz whirled as another bolt flew past, and the rogue followed suit. Their blades clashed in a song of steel on steel. The axes found no flesh, but only sword and dagger as the rogue parried every expert strike and cleave. Kaz forced the human to back up, but could not foil his skillful defense. Kaz kicked at the man, forcing him to back off. Then he brought his axes above his head, and brought them down with the fury of the storm. The rogue did not have time to step aside, and took the shock through his blades. His body collapsed as the lightning coursed through his body, shocking every organ and every vein.

Kaz recoiled and sidestepped as another bolt flew at him. This one did bite into flesh, but only that of the rogue. It sunk deep into his chest, nearly hitting the man’s heart. He collapsed to the ground, his weapons scattered and muscles numbed. Kaz faced the undead as the hunter’s crossbow was reloaded. Kaz summoned another bolt of lightning. As the crossbow bolt left the barbed weapon, the lighting chased it back the weapon it launched from, and from there spread through the undead’s frail frame. The metal bolt flew aimlessly off course as the undead spasmed uncontrollably. Kaz closed the distance quickly and sent his influence through the earth below his foe. It rose to clamp the man’s arms to his body, pinning him in place. Kaz knelt beside the huntsman and removed the mail helm covering his rotting face. The troll recognized it, just barely, as Darin McSkelek, a former soldier of the Alliance who had perished after the events at the base in Pandaria. After Kazarak’s death. Kaz chuckled despite himself. “Seems…we were both reborn, human,” he said in the Common tongue. The hunter struggled under the heavy earthen hand. He snapped at Kazarak sourly, “Let me out of this and fight me like a man, you coward! I can take you with just my hands!”
Kaz shook his head. “You’re a madman, McSkelek. The world will not miss you.” He lifted his axe and drove it down into the raving undead’s skull.

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Jesse gasped for air. The bolt must have struck a lung, given how hard it had become to breathe. His fingers bent around the handle of his pistol. He witnessed his father’s death, but he could still save himself if he played it smart and bit back the screams of pain. Jesse pretended to be dead as the troll turned back towards him. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his arm. He shouted in surprise and watched a spirit raptor rip his right forearm off, taking the pistol, and his last hope, along with it. He didn’t bother looking at his left arm as he felt a similar tug on that side. His icy eyes, once so full of conviction, gazed in horror at the troll who had killed his undead father.

The troll strode casually to Jesse’s fallen body, clearly in no hurry. Jesse though he heard some words spoken, but his ears were ringing and his vision began to fade blurrily. A hand shook him roughly, and he felt his mind sharpen in clarity. Water filled his wounds and caused new flesh to grow over the stumps of his arms. He was still too weak to move, but at least he was alive, for now. “Your father…was a murderer. What are you?” the troll spoke roughly and slow from behind his Zandalari mask. Jesse pondered where the man had learned the Common tongue, but was too wary to ask and too afraid to care. “Tell me…where your camp is, and I’ll let you live. You like?”

Jesse nodded shakily. “They-they’re in the old houses in New Avalon. We killed some bandits who were living in them and scavenged for food. They’ll be expecting us back; you could probably sneak in wearing that man’s armor.” He tried to point at his father’s corpse, but realized his hands were gone. It was odd, he could have sworn he felt his finger pointing, yet it wasn’t there. The troll loosened his grip, and Jesse fell to the ground. He lay still as the sound of scuffling and metal creaking came from the direction of Darin’s body. The wolf still struggled on its earthen spike. Jesse wondered if the troll would just kill the beast or leave it to tear itself apart before it finally lost control of itself.

As the troll mounted up on a direhorn, Jesse managed to lift his head and say, “I’ll kill you for this someday! Ya hear me, pal? You’ll get yours! I don’t care if I have to bite your head off, I’ll fucking kill you!” The troll made no reply, but whipped his beast with his reins and tore through the blight at a quick pace. Jesse rested his head on the soft dirt. At least now he could get some sleep. Maybe he would have that dream again. Better times always waited for him in his dreams.

[[ I enjoyed this. Perhaps one day Jesse will come back with some robot arms! ]]

((Darn it Khorvis, how did you read my mind?))

((Written from Brinnea's PoV))

Waves lapped against the rocky shoreline down below. Stars twinkled in the night sky high above. A brisk wind lapped at the tattered grey shroud wrapped messily around Brinnea’s shoulders. A somber shadow lie across her face, uncovered by the hood flowing freely in the breeze. Her icy gaze was cast out at sea. The first tendrils of sunlight rising above the horizon sent the stars into hiding, and dimmed the light of the moon. It was quiet here, in the newly rebuilt district of Stormwind. It was a place of contemplation and prayer to honor the departed. She thought it fitting to remain here while awaiting word from the General. There was plenty of departed to recall. Even a prayer or two found its way to her lips. Sitting at the edge of the stone circle, she could see the harbor district, the lighthouse island, and far out to sea, where the multicolor light of the rising sun reflected beautifully. It felt peaceful. From the training in meditation she had received from the monks on Pandaria, Brinnea could tell that this place was by far the most spiritual part of the city, even rivalling that of the crypts below the cathedral.

Yet it was not enough to shed the doubtful clouds from her stormy mind, nor warm the frozen tundra of her heart. There were people here. Eyes in her back. Her survival instincts – the only ones that seemed to work anymore – told her that lingering in such a place, weaponless, was a terrible idea. A sense of danger trumped the tranquility of the space. She felt an outsider. An aura of displeasure surrounded her from the onlookers. They despise you, a voice told her. You are an enemy, or a symbol of the wrongdoings that brought them to this place of peace. You don’t deserve to rest fitfully. Try as she might, the voice could not be silenced. Brinnea abruptly stood from her bench and flipped her hood up, shading her face from the beauty of the rising sun. Following a downward path, she set out on a walk down the stone-covered beach of Stormwind. The feeling of wariness and distrust slowly faded as she shied from view of the city. Yet her guilt still haunted her at the back of her mind.

Fists clenched, teeth gnashed, and face contorted in a snarl of frustration, Brinnea let out a roar of anger and slammed her fists into the hard-packed sand. Where she made contact, earth gave way in place of frozen crystals, which shattered, leaving behind a chilled crater, with the Death Knight in the center. She remained in her spot, eyes and face now drooped in sorrow. She curled into a ball, hugging her knees up against her slim chest. The heightening sun’s rays blinded her. She squinted as her eyes welled up with tears. She lay her forehead against her folded knees and hid her hooded visage from the light. In the dark, she saw visions of them. Tauren, orc, troll, and others. Many more. All of them mutilated, head severed and bloody. Some had clearly been bitten with eyes, noses, ears, or other parts sheared off. All of them stared at her lifelessly, in horror. There was no fight left to push them back. They swarmed her, and the whispers followed.

Why did you kill us?


Why do you hate us?


Please, have mercy!


Give us a chance…


You heartless monster!


Let me go!


No, no…!


I have…a family…spare me…


They called to her, a chorus of pleas and curses. It was deafening and blinding all at once. The images blurred together into a mist that swallowed her up. The whispers grew louder and louder until she felt herself being crushed under the weight. Then, slowly, they faded from her. The fog drew back from her vision, and the weight eased. Only one image appeared before her. A woman of great beauty, with waist-length red hair, bright blue eyes, flawless pale skin, and a heroic figure garbed in a paladin’s robe.

Mother.


‘Why are you crying, Brin?’ the phantom asked with great concern. Brinnea lifted her head from her lap, allowing light to flood her eyes. The phantom sat on the water, nearly invisible in the light of the sun. Brinnea rubbed cold tears from her freckled cheeks and replied with a weary voice, “I don’t know if I can go on like this.”

‘What do you mean, little one?’ her mother’s ghost asked, love and care dressing her face. Another voice, one belonging to a younger Brinnea, replied in the Death Knight’s stead, ‘Am I bad? Is that why Daddy tried to hurt me?’ The scene on the water faded, making way for a dimly lit camp in the woods. Three figures sat around a fire: her mother Maria, the eight-year-old version of herself, and her older sister, Christa, who was a young teenager at the time. Maria placed a strong but gentle hand on the younger child’s trembling shoulder and said, ‘No, you aren’t bad. And your father doesn’t hate you. He’s just…lost and confused.’


The young Christa frowned deeply and scoffed, saying, ‘What he did was unforgiveable. Owen’s been gone for almost a year, but none of us are still hung up over it! He had no right to treat us like that.’ Maria turned to her eldest, replying sternly, ‘Young lady, that is no way to speak of Owen or your father!’ The young Brinnea said meekly, as Christa huffed and looked away from their mother, ‘Is Dad really unforgiveable? Did he make a mistake that bad?’ The Death Knight’s eyes widened with realization. She knew the words that came next, and mouthed them as she heard them from her mother’s ghost.

“Nobody is unforgiveable. No matter how many mistakes you make, no matter how bad the things you did were, you can always make up for it.”

The vision dissipated like a raincloud as the sun’s rays pierced it. She was fixated on her mother’s gaze before the scene vanished from view. The determined and caring look in her mother’s eyes that night, and the words of hope did what she had thought was impossible. It had lifted the storm in her mind, even just a little. And her frozen heart felt a bit warmer. A flicker of hope had been lit within her. She held on to it, and didn’t let go.

The earth beneath her trembled and rose unnaturally to surround her huddled body, locking her in place. She felt a presence before she ever saw anything coming towards her. A ghostly wolf, the spirit form of a shaman. Its eyes were two different colors, one blood red and the other piercing blue. It approached from the sea, padding across the waves as only a shaman would. Its form changed into that of a male troll, becoming solid as he stepped onto the beach. He regarded her from behind a scarred Zandalari mask. Two axes were in his hands, but he held back rather than striking. Brinnea looked him in the eyes, awaiting a sign of attack or some word to indicate his intentions. After a brief inspection of her by the troll, he spoke, voice gruff and raspy, “Brinnea Velmon. You…do not hide well.”

Brin sighed, replying, “I’m through with hiding.” She noticed as the troll stretched his back a symbol engraved on the tabard he wore. A red cloaked skull figure with twin daggers resting on a black background. The symbol of the Grim. Her eyes narrowed as she continued, “A Grim. Took you long enough to reply to my message.” The troll cocked his head, saying, “I am new…to this hunt. But you…took less time to find…than anticipated. All who report seeing you…claim you are…proud and unwavering. Yet, here you sit. Huddled and defeated.”

“People change. We don’t have to do this. No one needs to get hurt because of this. Not you, and not me. We can walk away from this and end the bloodshed. Isn’t that what you Grim want? Peace?” Brinnea regarded the troll with a sturdy demeanor, despite her obvious disadvantage. He snorted at her notion of peace. “That sort of peace…is a fantasy. Only your death…can prevent my people’s suffering.” He tightened his grip on the axes, but remained firmly planted.

“If that’s what you’re here for, why haven’t you attacked already? Why even talk to me?”

“You are a…powerful and clever opponent. Any attack…would be anticipated and countered.”

“What then?” she asked curiously, “What is your plan here? Talk me to death?”

The troll’s face twitched eerily as if he were grinning madly behind his mask. “No. I merely delayed you. For this.” He tossed his axes to either side of her body. Each blade glimmered with elemental power, and sheared a gash in the sand on each side. The gashes grew, until they met beneath her feet. By then, Brinnea had gathered her runic power for a powerful storm of crystals, which weakened and shattered the earthen mold around her into tiny pieces. She leapt away from the gash, though it felt as though it grabbed at her very soul with invisible tendrils. She rolled, regaining her feet as the shaman cast a hurricane spell to pull her back to the strange portal in the ground. She froze her feet to the ground, seeping her frost deep into the beach. The Death Knight called to the troll over the galeforce winds, “I don’t want to fight you, but I won’t allow you to take me, either!”

He lunged, axes flashing into his hands in a burst of wind. Unable to dodge due to her planted feet, Brinnea triggered her blood runes, tugging at the blood within the troll’s veins. She forced his arms to pause before landing his attack, then she covered her hands in frost and pounded his chest hard enough to send him flying back onto the beach. His portal faded now that his axes had been removed from the ground. The troll growled in annoyance at his trap being foiled. Brinnea’s boots of frost cracked and fell to shards around her boots. “Walk away,” she said sternly, empty hands at her sides. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You are a creature…of murder,” he replied, “It doesn’t matter…what you want. You will kill…or die.” Then he lunged. Brinnea forced his body into the rock face of the cliff to her left with a shadowy hand. His axes triggered a pair of giant boulders to fall free of the wall A chain reaction of cracks weakened the side of the wall, and several large rocks fell loose. One, greater in size than Brinnea and the troll combined, fell towards them both as smaller chunks bounced painfully off their skin and armor. The shaman stumbled from his impact with the wall. He would be unable to get out of the way in time. Brinnea gritted her teeth in defiance. She gathered all her power into a fist and met the boulder in midair, crystalizing the inside with freezing runic power. Combined with his tremendous undead strength, the boulder shattered into small bits, showering the beach, and the troll below. Though he might be bruised by the impact, he was at least alive.

The Death Knight landed roughly, sprawled out on her hands and knees. Her attacker still girded himself for a fight despite having been saved from his own self-ensured demise. Brinnea regarded him sadly, until she heard human voices far behind her. Apparently some of the guards had noticed the results of their fight. The troll made a tsk noise and shifted into his wolf form once again, while saying, “This isn’t over.” He raced back across the water, out of sight in the sun’s light as Stormwind guards rounded the corner of the rocky cliffside.

The lead guard addressed Brinnea, “Are you alright? What happened here?”

Brinnea cast her gaze out to sea once more. She spoke to the guard calmly, “Nothing. A landslide, and nothing more.” The guards were surprised, as if expecting something worse. The head guard replied with uncertainty, “Do you…require an escort home, miss?”

“No, I’ll find my own way back.” She carried on down the beach wordlessly, leaving the dumbfounded guards to stare across a beach marred by melting crystals of ice and bits of rock.

Kazarak was submerged in water, choking on the blood of dead sailors and soldiers. Using the water around him, he hurdled himself up into the air, catapulting his body onto the wreckage of a sinking ship. It was marked with Alliance and Gilnean banners, he could see, but he could not tell where the crew of the ship had gone. In an attempt to take out the Death Knight Brinnea Velmon, he had snuck aboard the vessel she had chosen and waited below decks to strike when the time was right. He knew they were headed to the Broken Isles to fight the demons, and he would use the fight as a distraction to bring her down. However, the first sign of battle had been a fireball through the hull of the ship, which had nearly crushed and incinerated him. Only a quick reaction and use of the elements had saved him from a fiery end, but he had lost consciousness long enough for his prey to slip away.

Kazarak spotted the remnants of the Horde fleet down the beach, and deigned to join the fight there, rather than try and infiltrate the Alliance army to search for the Death Knight. He shifted form into a ghostly wolf and padded his way swiftly across the waves. He arrived with the Horde host just in time to join the charge up the beach. He weaved through the line of demons, delivering powerful strikes to their legs and torsos as he ran by. His aim was to bring down the demonic runes powering the portals that brought their reinforcements. Only then could the Horde take the beach. With the fury of the Maelstrom, he struck one down as the rest of the Horde joined in bringing the portals down. He looked across the sea of Horde, searching for his Grim brethren, but there were too many to discern the sigil from the crowd.

Warchief Vol’jin called to his people to advance into the heart of the Broken Shore, and Kaz followed, moving with the body of the Horde troops. The thunder of boots on the ground and warcries taken up all around him was deafening and invigorating. It took a special kind of battle to bring out this sort of excitement in Kaz, and he was prepared to soak in the blood of his enemies until none of them were left standing.
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Following the retreat of Fordring’s killer, Kaz and the Horde forces had taken a position on the cliffs overlooking the Alliance’s battlefield to cover the skies and bring down the portals through which an army spewed forth. Wave after wave of demons washed over the Horde forces, forcing them back again and again. Every time Kaz felt the tide of battle shift in their favor, another line of the Legion’s lapdogs came forward to quash his hope. A call to retreat to the cliffs was sent out to the troops. Kaz grimaced as he nearly took the full brunt of a felguard’s charge. He sidestepped, but a second too late. The demon’s axe cleaved through his shoulder and he felt his arm go limp. His axe clattered on the rocks at his feet. Growling in pain, he fell back to the cliff as three felguards surrounded him, each readying their axes to finish him off. With one foot nearly dangling off the edge, Kaz saw no way to escape. Baring his teeth behind his Zandalari mask, he ran forward, leaping over the axes as they swung at him.

With all the strength his wounded throat had left, he bellowed, “FOR…THE…HORDE!” A bolt of lightning met his axe as he plunged it into the head of a felguard. A burst of air struck the second off the cliff. The third swung his axe around for another strike, only to get stuck on a pillar of earth which rose from the ground at Kaz’s call. The troll swung a swath of lava from his axe, burning the demon’s legs. Then he drove his axe into its skull. Another wave of demons was already heading his way. He was cut off from the Horde troops. A horn bellowed above the din of battle, and he watched as his comrades began to flee back to the shore. He spotted Sylvanas, with a wounded Vol’jin on her mount. Kazarak panted, his arm throbbing in pain. He noticed the wound was oozing green corruption, and acting quickly, he amputated the arm with a swift strike from his axe. The pain was extreme enough to numb his entire body. Demons were heading his way, but he could not flee now. All he could do was tug himself toward the cliff, and tumble off the side.
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Brinnea’s heart sank as the Horde fled the battle in the cliffs above. “Without the Horde, we’ll be overrun!” she overheard King Greymane shout. Esmerra was glaring up at the cliffs angrily. Brinnea could tell her anger was directed towards the Horde, who were supposed to have their back in this fight. Though Brin felt the sting of betrayal as well, she did not linger on it. The Alliance forces were fleeing to the incoming airship as a wave of demons bared down on them from the great spire ahead. As the Death Knight turned to run for the ship, she spotted a figure rolling down the side of the cliffs. A troll, wounded and oozing blood along the rocks as he fell. She was close to the rock wall, but the rest of the Alliance troops were fleeing. She told Esmerra, “Get to the ship! I’ll meet you there!” and tore off running for the troll. He’d been abandoned, just like the rest of them. He deserved a chance to survive this, and get home alive. Brinnea slid to her knees, grabbing the troll by his one arm and draped him over his shoulders, holding his legs in her other hand.

As more demons approached, she slipped through the shadows, taking the form of a phantom to travel fast and avoid the Legion’s attacks. She managed to catch up with her comrades and climb up the rope ladder to the vessel’s deck with the troll still on her back. Then, a massive demon grabbed the ship, nearly sending all of them over the side. She shouted defiantly, grabbing the edge of the ship with one hand, and holding on to the troll’s arm with the other. It seemed like an eternity, holding on for her life as the ship fell to the earth. Then, all of a sudden, the demon’s grip loosened, and they pulled away. She yanked the troll onto the deck of the ship and sat with her hands on her lap. The weight of an intense fight lay on her. Though fatigue was a distant memory as an undead, she still felt something akin to tiredness in her as they departed from the Broken Isles. Esmerra found her by the edge of the ship. The pair embraced. Esmerra had tears in her eyes. “The High King. He fell. I saw it happen; he saved us!” She sobbed quietly. Brinnea held her close, lending as much comfort as she could.

“This was a decisive loss,” Brin said sadly. “The Legion is more powerful than ever. We have to stay strong, or we’ll all lose.” Esmerra sniffled and nodded. Her eyes drifted to the troll. “He needs medical attention,” she said, her sadness and fear gone in the face of her will to save another. Her hands glowed with the force of nature and she treated the fallen man’s severed arm. Brin hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at the troll on the ground, but now she stared at him with wide eyes. On his chest was a singed tabard, black, with the mark of the Grim upon it. The same shaman that had attacked her in Stormwind. A hand drifted to the sword at her side. She watched the troll closely for any sign of consciousness, ready to strike at any indication of a threat. The propellers of the airship beat constantly and rhythmically. Many miles still back to Stormwind, to tell the people their enemies still came. With the dread of seeing the people’s downtrodden faces and the suspense of the Grim’s eventual awakening, this was going to be a long ride.

When Kazarak awoke, the first thing he was aware of was the pain. Though his right arm, or the stump that remained of it, had been bandaged and treated, it still throbbed agonizingly, sending waves of sharp pain across his weary body. His armor and tabard were nowhere to be seen. All his supplies, bags, weapons, and his mask had been taken from him. He wore a vest and pants that had been fitted to his size perfectly, but they were void of any items or recognizable features to tell him anything useful. For all he knew, a troll could have stitched them, or a gnome, or any number of mortal races. Next, he noticed his remaining arm was shackled by the wrist, and chained to his legs. He could stretch out enough to stand if he moved carefully, but any attempt to do so resulted in a biting pain in his arm. Shoulder, he reminded himself grimly. That arm is gone so you could live. Don’t let your mind drag you back to the past.

Prior to having awoken, his spirit had drifted from his body, as it was accustomed to whenever he lost consciousness these days. In the spirit world, he’d seen darkness unlike anything he’d ever witnessed before. It seemed even on the other side, the Legion’s presence was felt by all. The spirits had either abandoned him there, or were hiding from him as if he were tainted. Hell, maybe I am. The demon’s poison is subtle sometimes. My life may be forfeit already. Time will tell. Kaz didn’t intend to wait until time told him bad news. He called on the element of wind and blew cold air from his mouth to chill the steel that bound him. He could feel the chill biting his wrists and ankles after a few minutes. The fatigue made his connection to the elements foggy and distant, but he managed to shatter the cuffs with enough effort.

He slowly lifted himself to his feet, adjusting to his new center of balance. Nausea erupted from his innards, and he doubled over, coughing up whatever had been in his stomach. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall his last meal being so recent. Whoever had taken him prisoner wanted him alive. That didn’t reassure him to stay and wait until they came and found him awake. Kaz regained his composure and wobbled clumsily to a barred door at the far end of the cave. He pressed his ear to the door, in part to listen to what was happening outside, and also to rest his already tiring body. From behind the door, he heard muffled boots scuffling along a rock floor. He sniffed the air, and recognized the distinct scent of humans, and some worgen. The elements could heighten his senses this way, but he would have given much to have the senses of a druid at that moment. A shapeshifter with enough practice could tell how many foes were behind the door by smell alone. He could discern only that there were many. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts, and all the power from the world around him he could muster. Then he drew his leg back, and kicked with the fury of the storms, blowing the door open. Kaz nearly fell over with the effort. He grimaced. That much power should have blown it off its hinges. He tried to change form into a ghost wolf, but found his spiritual powers would not respond. He bolted out the door, and hid behind the open door, looking towards his right, where the door offered him no cover first. Guards stared at him, hands on their swords. The Gilnean sigil sat proudly on their chests. Kaz clenched his teeth and growled with effort as he peeled off the door and scrambled in the opposite direction. The guards shouted at him to stop. Kaz replied by tossing a sloppy burst of air back at them. He knew it didn’t hit anything based on the lack of pained grunting.

The direction he’d run in was littered with humans wearing rags being treated by priests dressed in darkly covered robes. They all gaped at him as if they didn’t know he had been there in the first place. A woman in a black leathers wearing a gold-trimmed Gilnean tabard stared at him with deep brown eyes full of not fear or anger, but concern. He ignored them all and bolted past, calling on the winds to keep him upright. His vision started to grow foggy and bloody dribbled from his mouth, but he never stopped running.

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A lone night elf sat on a pile of demon carcasses in the middle of a crisp, fel-scorched Westfall field as the sun began to set. The wind was picking up, spreading fel ashes down the hill her kills had been laid upon. Two glaives, twins, sat shining in the dimming light of the sun, buried in the flesh of the most recent demons killed. The Azeroth sun was warmer than she remembered; it gave her comfort where in Outland and Mardum she had felt cold and alone at all times. It was good to be home. Only a week had passed since Maiev, the Warden, had released the Illidari from their prisons. It had been a long isolation. But not nearly as long as the imprisonment she had suffered for the crime of protecting her people. Still, Shanoris despised having her freedom taken from her. She swore she’d never set foot in another prison.

It had been a fight through hell just to escape the last one, and the fight hadn’t stopped since. Westfall, Dun Morogh, Hillsbrad, Tanaris, Azshara, and the Barrens. They were all different from what she remembered. Even more so now that the demons were raining down on them. It was like the War of the Ancients all over again. It delighted her. It made her feel purpose again. An odd thought, the world teetering on the brink of destruction, not knowing if anyone she loved was still alive, and here she sat, waist-deep in demon blood. She felt alive.

“Aaaagh!” Shanoris’ pointed ears twitched at the sound. She sensed one of the local farmers had fallen to the ground, holding his wrist, which was apparently broken. He backed off slowly from what appeared to be a troll. She grinned happily. A new hunt. It’s been a while since I hunted troll. She sprang off her pile, scooping her glaives from the flesh of the dead in a swift motion. She sprinted, a blur in anyone else’s eyes. She got behind the troll. He had a hatchet in his hand. His only hand. The man’s missing an arm, and wobbly besides. She licked her lips. I might be able to have some fun with this one…

She tossed her glaives, one after the other, to land between the troll and the human. The armed man whirled to face her, clumsy with exhaustion. “A…Demon Hunter?” he asked in Darnassian, which surprised Shanoris. She’d never met a troll that spoke the same language as her. She smelled elemental energy about him, as well. Curious one, isn’t he? She thought playfully. “Haven’t gotten the news yet, savage? The Illidari walk amongst you once more!” she offered him a mocking bow as she spoke. The troll spat blood on the dead grass. “You’re full…of yourself…more than…you’re full of fel.” He spoke slowly, but not as if he were a simpleton. More like a man with a throat injury. She noticed the remnants of damage in his vocal cords, and not just physical. Very curious.

She leaped into the air with a flip, her foot brought down on his upraised axe. It fell from his grip, only to be scooped up by the elf. The troll backed up warily. The wind picked up about him. Aww, how cute. He needs the air to keep himself upright. She tossed the axe in the air, catching it by the head of the shaft, then tossed it again. She kept that up to taunt him, daring the troll to try and take it. “I don’t think this belongs to you,” she said, as if scolding a child. “Tsk tsk tsk, what a nasty boy you’ve been! Stealing in the middle of a war, from a man defending his home. Somebody needs to teach you a lesson in proper manners.” The troll reached his hand out, tossing a ball of fire conjured from thin air. Shanoris sidestepped lazily, allowing the spell to set the nearby ground ablaze. She stamped it out with a few swift kicks. The air shifted, trying to take the axe from her. The troll charged forward to meet it as it fell from her hand. Shanoris grinned cockily, then kicked the axe to the shaft bashed the troll in the chin, nearly knocking him completely off balance. Shanoris ducked behind him before he could regain his feet, catching his ankle with a foot and swept his leg out from under him. He crashed into the ground, and lay spread-eagled, stirring slowly.

Shanoris picked the fallen axe off the ground and handed it to the bewildered farmer with a cheeky smile. “I believe Sentinel Hill would be a bit safer than out here,” she said. “But, my farm…,” he stammered. “You can rebuild it. But you only have one life. Run along now. You can fight again another day.” Reluctantly, he ran off. By then, the troll was only on his knees. “By Elune, what in Azeroth happened to you? You’re a mess!” The troll snarled at her in response. Then he tossed a spear of earth from the ground at her. She spun, grabbing it, and threw it back at him. He dove out of the way, but it glanced his ribcage on the left side. He charged at her again. She grabbed his tusk and tripped him, ripping it off roughly before planting him face-first into the ground. She examined the tusk, a short stub of troll ivory, roughly cracked by her quick display of force. She flexed her biceps where the fallen troll could see her. “Not as scrawny as I look, huh?” The troll’s hand crackled with electricity. “Fuck…off…” he said feebly. Shanoris raised an eyebrow. A root rose from the ground and pinned his hand down. The electric crackles ceased. The rest of his body was tried up with entangling roots.

“Enough! Both of you!” a young voice called in the Common tongue. Shanoris turned. A beauty of a human girl was running her way, joined by at least a dozen armed escorts. Judging by the billowing black cloak whipping in the wind behind her, she must have been some sort of nobility. She had hair almost as silky smooth and jet-black as Shanoris’. Almost. “Leave him be, he’s sick and injured from battle. He needs rest!” the lady said in a demanding, yet gentle voice. The elf tossed his tusk up in the air and caught it. She replied, “He was hurting an innocent man when I found him. Doesn’t seem he wants to rest.”

The lady looked at Shanoris and then the troll. “He’s a prisoner. My prisoner. I won’t see him harmed while he’s still recovering. He lost his arm fighting the Legion, and he deserves respect for his sacrifice.” Shanoris’s face twisted into a grin as she faked a laugh. “Hah! An honored prisoner! My mistake, milady. I didn’t realize how important this savage was to you.”

“Call me…savage again!” the troll threatened, writhing beneath the vines. “Call me that again…and I’ll--“ his voice cut off into sputtering, hacking coughs. Shanoris scoffed. “You’ll what? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you choking to death.”

The lady released the vines, and her guards picked the troll up gently, but kept a steady grip in case he tried something. Shanoris could smell their nerves. Even wounded, they were afraid of him. I’ve stumbled on a rather fascinating individual. He must have quite the reputation among the Alliance if even wounded and crippled, they fear him. “What is your name, Illidari?” the lady asked her. “I saw how you fight. I was impressed. Shanoris felt the praise wash over her. She thrived on it. The elf walked over to her glaives with all the grace of a dancer and picked them up, fluidly strapping them to the harness on her back. “Shanoris Fargaze,” she presented herself like a work of art to be beloved. “Illidari, hunter of demons, slayer of men in more ways than one!” She dipped into another mockery of a bow. “At your service.”

The lady smiled, amused. She replied, “Lady Esmerra Blackmane, of Gilneas. Shanoris Fargaze, how would you like a new job?” Shanoris said, “I’m listening.”

Chains clinked as Kazarak shifted restlessly. He had tried to get some sleep to restore his dwindling energy, but his body had rejected the notion for hours now. He sat up with some difficulty, him with one hand and chained as he was. He knew his best bet for restoring his health would involve meditation into the spirit world. While conscious, his body could only spare so much effort to heal, but if his spirit left his body, it would be able to focus wholly on the task. And I might manage to find aid on the other side, he thought to himself in the silence of the cave-cell. He assumed a seated stance, one hand placed in his lap, palm open. His eyes fluttered shut with a hint of reluctance. His last trip into the spirit world was less than pleasant, but he could feel his connection return to him, and he couldn't very well sit by and do nothing.

It took time, but he felt the familiar weightlessness of leaving his body behind as darkness brightened into the monochrome, whirling vortex in which lost souls drifted. There were many human souls wandering, their faces nearly incoherent, as if they were part of some faded painting. Kaz ignored them. His soul phased through the caves, out into the dark sunlight of Westfall's spirit land. He looked to the sky; the swirling abyssal path to the afterlife was flooded with souls departing the world. The demon's work. He lifted his hand into the air, and sent a pulse of light into the vortex. It carried a message that could only be heard by the intended recipient. In moments, a new light appeared, and descended to his level. A huge wolf, black as night, with eyes red as hot coals. They bared down on him with a look of rage. Kaz had grown accustomed to that, when dealing with the mighty spirit of Lycan.

WHY HAVE I BEEN SUMMONED? the spirit barked impatiently. Kaz kneeled. "I humbly...ask for your guidance. I seek..." he paused, thinking of who to send word to. A name came up, at the back of his mind. And a message. His best bet...would be to find him in the spirit world. Thank you, High Inquisitor. "...I seek the one...called Ashenfury."

I AM NOT TO BE DISTURBED BY MERE TRIFLES. I KNOW YOUR CONDITION, WHY YOU ASK FOR HELP. YOU HAVE SHOWN WEAKNESS. YOUR RESOLVE SLIPS. PROVE ONCE MORE WHY I GRANTED YOU NEW LIFE ONCE. The great beast leaped up and away, a black storm of fur. Kaz quelled his anger. The spirit's judgement was law to a reborn such as he. His life was a small strand in a thick weave the spirits had crafted. One tug in his own direction could lead to nasty consequences. Unconsciously, he rubbed the scar at his throat. Here, in the realm of spirit, it revealed itself for what it truly was. A gaping hole he'd cast his hopes into. All his desire to right the wrongs that had led to his downfall. It was just hollow now. The spirit was right. My resolve is all but gone. My wounds have drawn my mind through the gutter. My failure, my imprisonment. I must clear it all. I must let it be my teacher and guide. I will become stronger, and my enemies will fall. And the beast shall feed...

He concentrated with all his mind and spirit to discern the one called Ashenfury, sending his spirit to search for his, wherever it may be.

Ashenfury stood upon the pyre and surveyed the carnage below with Grim satisfaction. The once white fur of his snout and breast was blood soaked. To his side a single spirit wolf lounged resting its head on crossed arms. Smoke from the encampment billowed over the ledge and engulfed the pair in a moment of darkness.

The possessed wolf choked and closed it's eyes. He felt the wind on his face and saw a piercing dot of light in the vast black. The single star pulsed and a shockwave flowed over Ashenfury's spirit like an ocean wave. As it did he heard a single word. A warm familiar word like the name of a dear friend lost to time.

And the moment passed. Before he could come to terms with the coveted knowledge the demon had regained control. The wolves retreated down the pyre. A new singular goal drove the relentless pair. To silence the interloper; The Avatar of Lycan. Even a mortal is too much risk of disrupting the fleshhound's preparation for the reign of the bloodthirster.

After the pair had departed the whimpers of a lone spirit wolf could be heard coming from the smoldering ruins left behind.

Termok had a winning hand and Felrig knew it. The guards had been playing poker in front of the prison cell for several hours. The corridor was dark and quiet save for the short dragonwax candle burning on the crate acting as a makeshift table. Just dark enough that Termok was able to palm another loose coin for his steadily growing pile.

Felrig watched Termok pull another pot to his side of the crate. Now it was Felrig's turn to deal. He put Turmok's discards at the bottom of the deck and made a big show of shuffling before dealing out the crooked hand.

The long steady candle flame wavered as a draft blew through the dungeon. The guards hastily halted their game and stood at attention. Several cards fell from Termok's sleeve and flitted to the ground. Felrig broke his composure and began shouting about throwing Turmok in one of the cells for being a cheat.

A soft rhythmic tick-tap of clawed paws approached the pair as the well disciplined soldiers' argument spiraled into violence. Felrig stood yelling over the dying Termok as he lay bleeding out upon the crate. He breathed in to hurl another insult but before the words could leave his lips a maw of darkness closed around his neck.

The candle flame slowed it's dance and steadied once more.

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The door to Karazak's cell began to rattle. The sound grew louder as the door shook and banged against the frame. Growing louder now clawing and ancient chanting could be heard. As the cacophony reached unbearable volumes it suddenly stopped. Then slowly, almost comically, the door fell inwards as if it had no hinges and merely needed a push. It landed with a loud clang that echoed throughout the tunnels.

The hallway was pitch black save for two glowing embers hovering above the ground. The red coals blinked at Kazarak and began to approach. The stench of death filled the cell as a massive ghost wolf stepped into the rays of torchlight filtering in through the bars on the outside wall.

The wolf's fur from his snout to his shoulders was jet black. A sign that the possession may have already gone too far. It opened it's mouth and as it did so blood flowed freely from the maw onto the floor. It ran along the stones and spread within the cell.

After some moments the wolf broke the silence. Without moving his jaw or altering the flow of blood a deep bellowing laughter filled the room. An ancient laugh filled with anger and hate followed by the voice.

"Lycan has grown weak to send such feeble avatars to the physical plane."

With that, Karazak was awoken from his meditation. He barely had enough energy to be surprised by his newfound circumstances but he managed.

The voice roared at Kazarak, "Why does the avatar of Lycan seek my vessel?!"

Esmerra had been sleeping peacefully in a makeshift cot when she was awoken by a rough hand shaking her by the shoulder. Her eyes opened to see the demon hunter Shanoris kneeling beside her with a smirk barely illuminated by the fel green flames where her eyes once were. “You’re awake?” she asked Esmerra. “Good. We’ve got company. Some sort of demon spawn in the cells.” Esmerra jolted upright.

“Rouse the guards! Tell them to get the people out the back way. The rest are on me,” she issued commands faster than her brain could formulate them. Her father’s insistence that she learn how to lead made perfect sense now. He knew this was her destiny, where she belonged. No time to focus on that now, though. She yanked her cloak over her shoulders as she changed form into a spectral worgen, the celestial bodies’ magic flowing through her like the flow of power through a wire. She raced to the cells, guards scrambling to follow at her heels.
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Kazarak’s spirit had returned to his body so abruptly, he almost couldn’t tell that he was back in the physical world until he felt the twinge of pain in his stumped right arm. The wolf facing him was similar in look to Lycan, only Kaz could feel the difference. This wolf was corrupted by some demonic force, and intended to end him. He stood carefully, chains clinking. His body shifted into that of a three-legged grey wolf, neck scarred red, and red and blue eyes staring the other wolf down. The shackles crashed to the ground as if the flesh they bound had vanished. The shaman barked back to the other wolf, “I am no avatar…but I will not…go down easily.” He bent the rock beneath his stump to give himself a false limb, and bared his teeth, ready to fight for his life. If this is a test, I will not fail. Fate has other plans for me!

The camp erupted in a great commotion. As the guard raced to the cells they were surprised to see an emaciated white wolf sprint through the rushing crowd into the cell's shadowy entrance. Esmerra flexed her shoulders and sprang forward. Before she landed she was struck squarely in the side by another wolf. Esmerra skidded to the stop and pulled herself up. The wolf was gray and healthy. It kept moving forward now snapping at the heels of Shannoris attempting to slow down their pursuit.

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Ashenfury's eyes brightened illuminating the room in a soft red glow. Lycan must be desperate to have touched this mortal. He raised his hackles and snarled. Before he could strike the thin white wolf slid through the doorway, stumbled, and bowled the trio into the far wall.

Ashenfury sprang from the dog pile and sniffed the air. A lineage of hunters was near. A trap! He turned around to finish the interloper before fleeing but between them stood the sickly spirit wolf. The only portion of the vessel the bloodthirster hadn't broken.

The possessed wolf closed it's maw, lowered it's head, and backed out of the blood covered cell. When all that could be seen were his eyes he closed them slowly and slipped away into darkness. A strong odor of void ozone wafted from the shadows. The remaining spirit wolf's brown eyes met Kazarak's and stared into them as it faded. Leaving him alone in his cell.

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Ashenfury paced around the ruins of the encampment he had razed before seeking the interloper. Either the mortal was truly not an avatar of Lycan or he was a coward. Either way if he sought to wrench control of the vessel from the bloodthirster then he must be killed. The demon was not expecting to have been unmasked or to have raised alarms. Stealth was never his strong suit though.

The half living vessels he had left behind to be possessed had their necks broken. Some of the ears had been eaten. This was undoubtedly the doings of the vessel's wolf. The untamed. It too must be broken. No more interference.

He searched the entire grounds. His rage grew as he found one corpse after another where he had left souls tormented and on the verge of being weakened enough to accept a host. The bloodthirster will not be pleased. The demon lord's elite guard could no longer cross over from the void. The first stage of the invasion had to be postponed until more vessels could be procured.

The demonhound knew he would have to proceed carefully if he were to kill the mortal without falling into the demon hunter's trap.

[[ Dang, I didn't expect the Demon Hunter to sense Ash. It makes perfect sense though! We'll have to make another opportunity for the interview in the future. Don't be surprised to see paw prints and hear demon calls while being stalked by the wolf pack =) ]]

Kazarak was alone again in his cell. Alone not for long by the sound of approaching guards. This is my chance! He sprang out of the open cell, over the bodies of slain guards, their blood staining the playing cards scattered about the rocky floor. Those approaching came from his way to escape, but he had a plan. He shifted back into his troll body and smashed a hole in the floor with the power of the earth…
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Shanoris rounded the last turn alongside Esmerra, already knowing what was around the corner. Her senses were more refined with her sight gone, and she had spent countless years sharpening her every instinct until she could map out the lay of a landscape before any other could even see it. The troll’s cell door was knocked in, the wolves were gone, the guards were dead, and the prisoner was nowhere to be found. Dust was settling over the corridor. Esmerra growled angrily at the sight of the dead guardsmen. She kneeled over their bodies, her form shifting back to human. “Termok and Felrig. They always drew guard duty together. Though they often bickered, they were good friends, and loyal retainers. Their families will be crestfallen,” she said it all with the dignity and level voice of a noble, never allowing her speech to waver. But Shanoris could sense her emotions. She was deeply troubled, and angry besides. It was a wonder she could keep it all bottled up.

The night elf turned her focus to the living guards, who investigated the deep hole in the floor across from the corpses. One of them said, “How did he make this so quickly?” Another replied, “’E’s a shayman, that one. Like as no’ dug it wit’ magic.” The first guard said, “I thought it was pronounced ‘sha-man.” As they babbled on, Shanoris had an odd thought. If he dug himself out, we should still be able to hear him digging down there. And that dust, it isn’t coming from the hole… Frowning, she closed her eyelids over the burning sockets and activated her spectral sight. The corridor was alight with the heat of the guards, and Esmerra. But the wall drew her attention. Just inside a layer of rock, the outline of the troll lay flat, waiting. Shanoris opened her eyes and yelled, “He’s in the wall!” Her glaives flashed into her hands.

The wall exploded, showering all of them with rocky shrapnel. Shanoris shielded Esmerra with her body. Why am I wasting my time with this? she wondered. Just instinct to protect the second prettiest in the room, I suppose. The troll bolted up the hallway, calling on the air to knock the remaining guards out of his way. Shanoris thought to herself aloud, “He’s certainly in better health. I’ll get him back, and break his legs this time.” Before Esmerra could argue, the elf was already sprinting off after the escaped shaman.
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Kazarak had been a hunter when he was younger. Spent hours upon hours a day waiting for his prey to make a mistake, to come into range of his bow, and then he let momentum do all the work for him. Sometimes the large beasts of Stranglethorn were aggressive, and were as likely to charge him as run from him. When they did that, he would flee for a time, leading the beast to think it had the upper hand, only to spear the animal without ever needing to thrust his weapon himself. The elf now followed him into the night air of the town Moonbrook. The streets were empty, no one to stop him. But he didn’t run. He stopped long enough for the demon hunter – not even out of breath with the effort of chasing him – to catch up and face him in the town square. Kazarak faced her, rage burning in his eyes. The elf predictably snickered as she dropped her glaives and said, “Round two? You asked for it, pal.” And so the prey wanders into the trap, thinking itself the hunter.

The elf charged at him, light on her feet. He tossed a burst of air at her, but she dodged it. He flicked fire all around him, but she leaped over it. As she brought her foot down, expecting to land on his head, he rolled away, taking the form of the wolf, and padded his way to her weapons. She was just behind him as he spun, assuming his physical form, and scooped up one of her glaives. He kept her back with a quick swing, and pressed her, forcing her away from the other weapon. His earthen prosthetic limb responded to his pull, and he lashed out, striking at her chest. She blocked, and backed up again. Kazarak wildly, and yet expertly kept the demon hunter at bay. All he had to do was wait for one mistake, and he would put her down for good. The opportunity arose when she tripped over a misplaced crate. The elf looked shocked, as if no one had ever gotten the better of her like this before. Kazarak sliced at her midsection with her own glaive, but the weapon never made contact. Her image vanished like an apparition. Kaz grunted, suddenly off balance. Before he could regain himself, he was kicked and disarmed. Then the glaive struck his earth arm, shattering it with fel fury. He was on his knees now, looking up at the elf who was smugger than ever. “You thought you could keep up with me? We demon hunters pride ourselves on being faster than the eye can see: a blur when we need to be. Eyes are such useless things; wouldn’t you agree?”

Kazarak drew the elements all around him. The demon hunter backflipped as earthen missiles struck all around the troll. Second trap failed as well. She’s too perceptive to be tricked. “Very well,” he said as he stood once more. Weariness was starting to weigh on him again. His time in the spirit world had allowed his body to recuperate somewhat, but his full strength was still lost to him. Harnessing the elements as much as he had had taken a toll. No doubt the elf saw that as well. “You are…a worthy foe, elf. No more games. We end this…now.” The wind picked up, lightning crackled around him, the earth quaked, fire flickered to life in the grass around him, and storm clouds boomed overhead as rain fell down around him. All his energy was focused on gathering the maelstrom of power that surrounded him. His eyes crackled to life with fire. “You cannot dodge this.” The elements coalesced into a ball of pure energy, which he hurled at the elf. She slid away from it, but it changed direction unnaturally. She sprinted away, but it followed closely on her heels. That will chase her for hours before it dissipates, he thought to himself as he exhaled sharply from exhaustion. The blast now had a mind of its own, and would chase the elf until he landed, or unraveled. That left Kaz free to flee. Some kills are harder than others. Best wait for the right time to strike than get myself killed pointlessly.

He used what little power he had left to cast himself into the air, hiding his trail as much as he could from the demon hunter. She would lose his scent to the rain, and no tracks would be left in the dirt and grass. He landed roughly, but he didn’t care about his hurts. He ran and ran until he reached the river, then he let the current wash him south to the land of his birth. At last, he was free. His eyes flickered shut as tiredness overcame him once again.

Shanoris stood in the town square listening to the quiet patter of rain. She could hear the deep impressions of footsteps... no, an animal. The same beast she had sensed nipping at her heels when the demon came. The steps were leisurely and leading her towards the river. She could hear the rushing water no doubt louder because the storm was upstream for the moment.

She could hear the guards finally catching up but still far behind her. The steps paused for an instant and then she heard the beast run full sprint towards the flooded river.

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The guards carried out their orders faithfully splitting their effort between the civilians and the escapee. Amazingly the dragonwax candle was still lit and at the end of it's wick. A bead of wax flowed from the plate, along Termok's forearm, and ran down the crate's side to end on Felrig's twitching finger. The rain began to fall and the candle flame went out.

[[ Felrig's body is now missing from the rubble ]]