02-15-2017, 02:16 AM
(Year 618, 14 years before the campaign's start.)
Two hulking wrathguards drag Erraa through the dim hallways, towards the tribunal. The place in which she was more than certain would be her death. The sorceress was broken. Her left eye had swelled nearly shut, and bruises and lacerations covered her violet skin, coloring it intermittent changes of darker purple and bright blue.
"I am more than capable of walking to my own execution," she spits, cold venom in her voice.
Crack.
The wrathguard to her right strikes the eredar woman with a swift, heavy backhand. Her cheek stings with pain and drips with blood drawn from the spiked black gauntlet upon her assailant's hand. She knew the gauntlets well. These men were the elite force of Supreme Overlord Archimonde - the Desecrators, they were called. Agents of the Defiler himself.
"You don't deserve the honor, eidthi," the man who struck her said. Though they were of the same race, the wrathguard were different. Though magic flows through the blood of the eredar, some are born without a talent for magic. There is no room for weakness in the Burning Legion, and an eredar without magic is weakness. Such creatures have two options: die a monster, or live as a weapon. They are transformed with powerful magics; their hooves transformed into fiendish claws to enhance mobility, their tails lengthened for balance. Additional horns grow on their heads for protection and offense. They are turned into lithe, dangerous killers, and make up the bulk of the defense force for powerful eredar.
Erraa slowly crawls her way back up, but the Desecrator snatches her arm up in his clawed hand once again, and the pair continue to drag her. The closer they get, the louder the din of the crowd becomes.
Everyone loves a good execution.
The wrathguard drag her into the fel light of the open chamber. The antechamber was massive and circular, with many tiers for the audience to gather. The lower tiers were full of lesser demons - wyrmtongues, imps, lesser gan'arg and mo'arg. The upper tiers housed many other demons, from succubi and shivarra to ered'ruin and other eredar. Beholders float through the air above the highest tiers, watching down on the scene with barely-contained glee.
The highest boxes of the chamber held those who had called for this event. Lord Archimonde himself leaned back in a blackened throne, resting his elbow on one of the chairs, and his chin subsequently on his hand. On another platform nearby, a pit lord - Magtheridon, who had struck the killing blow on the naaru slain on Draenor during the Battle of Tempest Keep. The furniture had been removed from the box to accommodate his large girth.
And, on a final platform, her mate. Lord Jaraxxus. His arms crossed his massive form, his bright red skin contrasted to the massive, black-armored robes that cover his form. His ridged brow is formed in a scowl, his yellow eyes burning with disdain. To his left, standing a few inches shorter and a few feet back, was her son. Prince Azgadaan.
Her blackened heart sank deeper into her chest. She knew her life was forfeit. But her boy did not deserve the pain of watching his mother slain before him. Though she had sold her soul to the Dark One so long ago, alongside her love, her peers, and Lord Archimonde and Kil'jaeden themselves, she felt nothing but despair for how this would affect him.
If only she could speak with him. Tell him why she did it.
But it was far too late for words.
The Desecrators drag her out into the antechamber, across a thin silver bridge. The metal was twisted and corrupted, like all of the land and constructs of Argus. The land itself was altered forever when the dark pact was made, and this ancient place of justice was no different. They came to the end of the bridge, which concluded in a small, circular disc. It was suspended in the air, seamlessly connected only by the rest of the corrupt silver. A blackened violet crystal inlays the center of the circle in a pattern that was once beautiful, but now only showed how much everything had changed.
And below the disk, a yawning chasm of swirling blackness. Faces, twisted and tormented, swirl in and out of existence in the inky shadow. The Dark Below. A land of tortured spirits and death - a place more twisted than the Twisting Nether, darker than the Void. Colder than the Great Dark Beyond.
The wrathguards release the woman, who collapses to the disc with a clank. Her knees scream out in pain. Pitifully, she makes her way to her feet. The demonic audience laugh and jeer in a smattering of languages - eredun, common, orcish, and many others that she couldn't understand with her head spinning. And yet, she picked up the same word in every single one.
Traitor.
And in the end, they were right.
"E̷rr͟a҉a of ͝Ho͏us̶e͏ ͠Jara͝xxus͠,҉"͞ Archimonde's voice booms out over the crowd, and the mutterings silence themselves. The atmosphere crackles with tension.
"You͞ sta̵n̸d ̡ac̶c̴u̸s͞ed ͝o͏f H͟i͟g͜h ͝Tre҉a͡son.̸ Of ͞ín̷terr̴u͘p̶t́i̸ng̀ ҉the i͘nc͏a͟nt̕a̸t̛io̵n̡s t̵h͠a͜t ̡w҉o͜ul̵ḑ h҉av̢e a̸l͟low͟ed t̢h͞e̴ Legion to̕ ̵sen̡d͡ ͜a͞d҉d̶itional re̸in҉f̶o͠rc̷ém͜énts̀ t̨o Dr͟a̢eno͟r̷ t͠o̶ ̕i̸n͢te͜r͝cept ́t͟he͞ ̷Naa͞r̴u and͞ t͡h͞e̛ir di͘men̴s̛ional ͞s̨hip͘.͞" His voice booms through the amphitheater, echoing across the once-hallowed halls.
"̀O͠f͡ ̸al̴l҉o͞wi͝n͢g ̷V̛ele͘n the T̀r̨a̛itor ̧ţo͞ esc̨ap̧é ̡o̸ųr ̀gr̴a̧sp, ̵o͠n̷c̸e͢ a̸g̶a͝in, ͜an̸d̷ ͡d͟e͜n̸ying̕ ́u̶s̀ th͘e ̴chance to e̕limi̛ńat͏e ́not͜ o͝n͘ly ̡òn̷e o͞f ͜our̡ ͞gr͞e͏a͝tes͜t ͜àdv͜e͝ŕsa͘rie̴s,̨ ҉bu͞t t͝wo̴ ̛of͜ his ̶l̴iǵhţ-́cu̴rs̴ed̸ N͞a͟a͏r̀ù ͟pets.͝ Do͘ ̷yo̵u ̵h̶av̷e͘ a̴ny͠th̴i̧ng ͡t͢o ̷sa͡y͢ i̴n ͞y͠ou͠r͞ de̡fe͜ǹse, wor͢m̨?͜"̷
Erraa stands tall on shaking, beaten knees. "Not a single word. I did exactly what you stated, Lord Archimonde. I intercepted your forces, and allowed the Exodar, the naaru, and the traitors to escape."
The crowd murmurs to themselves in response. The woman's body was broken, but from the look of determined acceptance was far from extinguished from her violet-pink eyes. She brushes a strand of messy, blood-caked white hair from her face as she met the Defiler's eyes with defiance.
"Th̛en ̕yo͞úr ̢f̡a͢te͡ is͠ s̷ea͡l̶e͝d,"̨ Archimonde says. He raises a hand in the air casually, two fingers gesturing down towards the dais upon which she stood. His hand begins to crackle with red electricity, as raw, deadly energy courses around his fingers. The two wrathguards take a couple of steps backwards, retreating from the dais and the doomed woman.
"WAIT!" boomed the voice of another. Jaraxxus holds a hand towards the scene before him. All eyes turn to the eredar lord. The foul energy coursing through Archimonde's hand subsides for a moment as he turns his gaze towards his lesser.
"̷Wha̵t is t̀he m̛e҉a͡n͞in҉g ͠o̴f ̛t̀h͢is̴, ̧J̕aŕa͞x̕xus?"͝ Archimonde asks, his voice unnervingly cool and smooth.
"My lord, if you would permit it, allow ME to deliver the punishment," he says, his eyes darting down towards the woman below. "She is of my house. Exacting the Legion's punishment is my own responsibility."
Archimonde watches the eredar lord for a moment before gesturing down towards the dais.
"͟V̡ery͡ ҉wèll̡.̨"̢
Lord Jaraxxus takes a step forward before turning his head to the side to address his son, standing behind him. "Watch very closely, Azgadaan. Understand the wage of treachery. Witness the fate of those who cross the Legion's might. OUR might."
He steps forward and leaps off of the balcony he stood on, floating slowly through the air. His black cloak and cape billow through the fel winds as he gently falls towards the dais. He lands softly on the dais, behind Erraa. He slowly turns towards the woman that he had once swore to spend his life beside, in another life.
"So it's come to this, then," she says to him, almost with a chuckle.
"Why?" he asks, the word a sentence all itself.
"You already know why, soran," she says with a soft smile.
Jaraxxus spits off the edge of the dais, into the Dark Below. "Do NOT call me that, eidthi," he says. "You betrayed the Legion. You betrayed your family. You betrayed ME."
"You know I did nothing of the sort, Jaraxxus. But enough talk," Erra says, attempting to stand as still as she can. She closes her eyes, smiles, and holds her arms out to either side. "End it."
Jaraxxus clenches his fist for a moment before holding his hand out to the side. One of the wrathguards places the black blade he carries in Jaraxxus's hand. He strides towards Erraa, blade held tightly in one hand. As he does, Erraa shouts out something - something in a tongue unknown to many. It was more akin to the eredun spoke so many years ago. A pure, unroiling speech.
It was the language of the draenei.
"Chronakai-" she begins. Her words are interrupted as the black blade thrusts its way through her heart. Jaraxxus plunges the blade through to the hilt, holding her body close. His face is stoic, but his yellow eyes burn with fury and sorrow.
"...Kristor..." Erraa sputters. A small stream of blue-purple blood leaks from the corner of her mouth.
He does not blink as the light leaves her eyes. Her body goes limp in his arms.
He pulls the sword from her chest in a swift, jerking motion. Erra spills off of the dais and falls down, down into the Dark Below. The inky black shadows swirl and roil, seeming to reach out as her body splashes down into the shadows.
Her body vanishes within seconds. Jaraxxus watches until she fades from sight. He throws the sword off to the right side in silent rage. The weapon clatters across the disc and sails off, joining his wife in the abyss. Jaraxxus whirls around and storms away, down the tarnished silver bridge. The wrathguard reaches a hand out towards his discarded weapon as it flies off. Jaraxxus grabs the wrathguard by the neck. "If you want it so badly, go and GET IT." He casts the wrathguard off of the bridge, who screams as he falls into the abyss. The remaining Desecrator snaps to attention as the crackling rage that is Jaraxxus storms past him. He did not meet the eredar's burning gaze as he seemed to probe for a reason to cast him into the abyss as well.
Jaraxxus leaves the atrium across the bridge, retracing the last steps of the woman who was once his soran.
Two hulking wrathguards drag Erraa through the dim hallways, towards the tribunal. The place in which she was more than certain would be her death. The sorceress was broken. Her left eye had swelled nearly shut, and bruises and lacerations covered her violet skin, coloring it intermittent changes of darker purple and bright blue.
"I am more than capable of walking to my own execution," she spits, cold venom in her voice.
Crack.
The wrathguard to her right strikes the eredar woman with a swift, heavy backhand. Her cheek stings with pain and drips with blood drawn from the spiked black gauntlet upon her assailant's hand. She knew the gauntlets well. These men were the elite force of Supreme Overlord Archimonde - the Desecrators, they were called. Agents of the Defiler himself.
"You don't deserve the honor, eidthi," the man who struck her said. Though they were of the same race, the wrathguard were different. Though magic flows through the blood of the eredar, some are born without a talent for magic. There is no room for weakness in the Burning Legion, and an eredar without magic is weakness. Such creatures have two options: die a monster, or live as a weapon. They are transformed with powerful magics; their hooves transformed into fiendish claws to enhance mobility, their tails lengthened for balance. Additional horns grow on their heads for protection and offense. They are turned into lithe, dangerous killers, and make up the bulk of the defense force for powerful eredar.
Erraa slowly crawls her way back up, but the Desecrator snatches her arm up in his clawed hand once again, and the pair continue to drag her. The closer they get, the louder the din of the crowd becomes.
Everyone loves a good execution.
The wrathguard drag her into the fel light of the open chamber. The antechamber was massive and circular, with many tiers for the audience to gather. The lower tiers were full of lesser demons - wyrmtongues, imps, lesser gan'arg and mo'arg. The upper tiers housed many other demons, from succubi and shivarra to ered'ruin and other eredar. Beholders float through the air above the highest tiers, watching down on the scene with barely-contained glee.
The highest boxes of the chamber held those who had called for this event. Lord Archimonde himself leaned back in a blackened throne, resting his elbow on one of the chairs, and his chin subsequently on his hand. On another platform nearby, a pit lord - Magtheridon, who had struck the killing blow on the naaru slain on Draenor during the Battle of Tempest Keep. The furniture had been removed from the box to accommodate his large girth.
And, on a final platform, her mate. Lord Jaraxxus. His arms crossed his massive form, his bright red skin contrasted to the massive, black-armored robes that cover his form. His ridged brow is formed in a scowl, his yellow eyes burning with disdain. To his left, standing a few inches shorter and a few feet back, was her son. Prince Azgadaan.
Her blackened heart sank deeper into her chest. She knew her life was forfeit. But her boy did not deserve the pain of watching his mother slain before him. Though she had sold her soul to the Dark One so long ago, alongside her love, her peers, and Lord Archimonde and Kil'jaeden themselves, she felt nothing but despair for how this would affect him.
If only she could speak with him. Tell him why she did it.
But it was far too late for words.
The Desecrators drag her out into the antechamber, across a thin silver bridge. The metal was twisted and corrupted, like all of the land and constructs of Argus. The land itself was altered forever when the dark pact was made, and this ancient place of justice was no different. They came to the end of the bridge, which concluded in a small, circular disc. It was suspended in the air, seamlessly connected only by the rest of the corrupt silver. A blackened violet crystal inlays the center of the circle in a pattern that was once beautiful, but now only showed how much everything had changed.
And below the disk, a yawning chasm of swirling blackness. Faces, twisted and tormented, swirl in and out of existence in the inky shadow. The Dark Below. A land of tortured spirits and death - a place more twisted than the Twisting Nether, darker than the Void. Colder than the Great Dark Beyond.
The wrathguards release the woman, who collapses to the disc with a clank. Her knees scream out in pain. Pitifully, she makes her way to her feet. The demonic audience laugh and jeer in a smattering of languages - eredun, common, orcish, and many others that she couldn't understand with her head spinning. And yet, she picked up the same word in every single one.
Traitor.
And in the end, they were right.
"E̷rr͟a҉a of ͝Ho͏us̶e͏ ͠Jara͝xxus͠,҉"͞ Archimonde's voice booms out over the crowd, and the mutterings silence themselves. The atmosphere crackles with tension.
"You͞ sta̵n̸d ̡ac̶c̴u̸s͞ed ͝o͏f H͟i͟g͜h ͝Tre҉a͡son.̸ Of ͞ín̷terr̴u͘p̶t́i̸ng̀ ҉the i͘nc͏a͟nt̕a̸t̛io̵n̡s t̵h͠a͜t ̡w҉o͜ul̵ḑ h҉av̢e a̸l͟low͟ed t̢h͞e̴ Legion to̕ ̵sen̡d͡ ͜a͞d҉d̶itional re̸in҉f̶o͠rc̷ém͜énts̀ t̨o Dr͟a̢eno͟r̷ t͠o̶ ̕i̸n͢te͜r͝cept ́t͟he͞ ̷Naa͞r̴u and͞ t͡h͞e̛ir di͘men̴s̛ional ͞s̨hip͘.͞" His voice booms through the amphitheater, echoing across the once-hallowed halls.
"̀O͠f͡ ̸al̴l҉o͞wi͝n͢g ̷V̛ele͘n the T̀r̨a̛itor ̧ţo͞ esc̨ap̧é ̡o̸ųr ̀gr̴a̧sp, ̵o͠n̷c̸e͢ a̸g̶a͝in, ͜an̸d̷ ͡d͟e͜n̸ying̕ ́u̶s̀ th͘e ̴chance to e̕limi̛ńat͏e ́not͜ o͝n͘ly ̡òn̷e o͞f ͜our̡ ͞gr͞e͏a͝tes͜t ͜àdv͜e͝ŕsa͘rie̴s,̨ ҉bu͞t t͝wo̴ ̛of͜ his ̶l̴iǵhţ-́cu̴rs̴ed̸ N͞a͟a͏r̀ù ͟pets.͝ Do͘ ̷yo̵u ̵h̶av̷e͘ a̴ny͠th̴i̧ng ͡t͢o ̷sa͡y͢ i̴n ͞y͠ou͠r͞ de̡fe͜ǹse, wor͢m̨?͜"̷
Erraa stands tall on shaking, beaten knees. "Not a single word. I did exactly what you stated, Lord Archimonde. I intercepted your forces, and allowed the Exodar, the naaru, and the traitors to escape."
The crowd murmurs to themselves in response. The woman's body was broken, but from the look of determined acceptance was far from extinguished from her violet-pink eyes. She brushes a strand of messy, blood-caked white hair from her face as she met the Defiler's eyes with defiance.
"Th̛en ̕yo͞úr ̢f̡a͢te͡ is͠ s̷ea͡l̶e͝d,"̨ Archimonde says. He raises a hand in the air casually, two fingers gesturing down towards the dais upon which she stood. His hand begins to crackle with red electricity, as raw, deadly energy courses around his fingers. The two wrathguards take a couple of steps backwards, retreating from the dais and the doomed woman.
"WAIT!" boomed the voice of another. Jaraxxus holds a hand towards the scene before him. All eyes turn to the eredar lord. The foul energy coursing through Archimonde's hand subsides for a moment as he turns his gaze towards his lesser.
"̷Wha̵t is t̀he m̛e҉a͡n͞in҉g ͠o̴f ̛t̀h͢is̴, ̧J̕aŕa͞x̕xus?"͝ Archimonde asks, his voice unnervingly cool and smooth.
"My lord, if you would permit it, allow ME to deliver the punishment," he says, his eyes darting down towards the woman below. "She is of my house. Exacting the Legion's punishment is my own responsibility."
Archimonde watches the eredar lord for a moment before gesturing down towards the dais.
"͟V̡ery͡ ҉wèll̡.̨"̢
Lord Jaraxxus takes a step forward before turning his head to the side to address his son, standing behind him. "Watch very closely, Azgadaan. Understand the wage of treachery. Witness the fate of those who cross the Legion's might. OUR might."
He steps forward and leaps off of the balcony he stood on, floating slowly through the air. His black cloak and cape billow through the fel winds as he gently falls towards the dais. He lands softly on the dais, behind Erraa. He slowly turns towards the woman that he had once swore to spend his life beside, in another life.
"So it's come to this, then," she says to him, almost with a chuckle.
"Why?" he asks, the word a sentence all itself.
"You already know why, soran," she says with a soft smile.
Jaraxxus spits off the edge of the dais, into the Dark Below. "Do NOT call me that, eidthi," he says. "You betrayed the Legion. You betrayed your family. You betrayed ME."
"You know I did nothing of the sort, Jaraxxus. But enough talk," Erra says, attempting to stand as still as she can. She closes her eyes, smiles, and holds her arms out to either side. "End it."
Jaraxxus clenches his fist for a moment before holding his hand out to the side. One of the wrathguards places the black blade he carries in Jaraxxus's hand. He strides towards Erraa, blade held tightly in one hand. As he does, Erraa shouts out something - something in a tongue unknown to many. It was more akin to the eredun spoke so many years ago. A pure, unroiling speech.
It was the language of the draenei.
"Chronakai-" she begins. Her words are interrupted as the black blade thrusts its way through her heart. Jaraxxus plunges the blade through to the hilt, holding her body close. His face is stoic, but his yellow eyes burn with fury and sorrow.
"...Kristor..." Erraa sputters. A small stream of blue-purple blood leaks from the corner of her mouth.
He does not blink as the light leaves her eyes. Her body goes limp in his arms.
He pulls the sword from her chest in a swift, jerking motion. Erra spills off of the dais and falls down, down into the Dark Below. The inky black shadows swirl and roil, seeming to reach out as her body splashes down into the shadows.
Her body vanishes within seconds. Jaraxxus watches until she fades from sight. He throws the sword off to the right side in silent rage. The weapon clatters across the disc and sails off, joining his wife in the abyss. Jaraxxus whirls around and storms away, down the tarnished silver bridge. The wrathguard reaches a hand out towards his discarded weapon as it flies off. Jaraxxus grabs the wrathguard by the neck. "If you want it so badly, go and GET IT." He casts the wrathguard off of the bridge, who screams as he falls into the abyss. The remaining Desecrator snaps to attention as the crackling rage that is Jaraxxus storms past him. He did not meet the eredar's burning gaze as he seemed to probe for a reason to cast him into the abyss as well.
Jaraxxus leaves the atrium across the bridge, retracing the last steps of the woman who was once his soran.