[Horde] Chapter Two: Session Twenty-Three
September 13th
The scene opens with Varok cradling Dranosh’s lifeless body in his arms. Eitrigg, the commander from across the sea that had returned, attempts to comfort Varok, expressing that he should be given a moment.
Eitrigg gestures to the others in the tent, indicating they should leave, and his eyes meet Arthak’s for a moment before leaving. The rest of the party also follow with Arthak, and a soldier approaches Eitrigg. He asks if there was any sorcery seen, but the soldier says if there was an assassin of some sort they had eluded everyone.
Eitrigg mentions to Arthak that Varok was going to send word to his clan that Dranosh had returned when he collapsed. He gives Arthak his condolences. Arthak tries to reply, but he looks lost.
A black-haired, half-blind, broad-shoulder orc that was with Eitrigg expresses the situation makes no sense given how young Dranosh was. He’s confident something had happened. He says Dranosh was a proud warrior, and the orc is clearly indicating he will seek retribution should he find out what happened.
However, Eitrigg tells him to calm himself, and mentions that perhaps it was the disease from Dranosh’s childhood that had claimed him.
Arthak is still at a loss, and he turns to go back into the the tent. The broad orc goes to stop him, but Eitrigg says that Arthak and Dranosh were like brothers, and tells the orc to let him console his uncle.
Arthak falls to his knees next to his uncle. For a few moments, Varok says nothing.
Varok: “...how could this happen?”
Arthak: “...uncle. This is… this is my fault.”
Varok snorts. “This is no time for your fatalism, boy.”
Arthak: “It’s not. The sword… asked me if I would give anything for its power… I didn’t know what it meant… for my people I’d give anything… I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know this…”
Varok: “Dranosh… my only son. My heart. Lies dead at my feet. And you come to talk to me of sorcerous blades and foul magicks… Get out.”
There’s a pause.
Varok: “I said get out… NOW.”
Arthak stands, looking at Dranosh, and leaves. Outside, people had started to crowd around, but Azgadaan and several others had urged them away.
Eitrigg is giving orders to prepare funeral arrangements as they are moving on the morrow. There is very little time, but he says they will drink in Dranosh’s name.
Arthak addresses Eitrigg, and requests he send someone to find him when it’s time for the funeral. Eitrigg says he will, and Arthak and the others go back to the Broken Blade camp.
Lantresor asks Arthak if what was said was true, and Arthak nods. He then tells Lantresor he needs to speak with him in private. Lantresor nods, and follows.
Lantresor: “What is it?”
Arthak: “News of the Burning Blade. The sword has been given to Jubei’thos. He should be taking control of the clan now. But, um… the warchief was unwilling to lose his shadow, and to avoid conflict, I offered a compromise. I offered your services as Jubei’thos’s replacement, conditional upon your agreement, of course. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to consult you beforehand. I had to say something quickly, otherwise they would have come to blows.”
Lantresor takes a breath: “Arthak, I served your grandfather. As his student for a great many years, and now I followed you. Do you know why I’ve done that?”
Arthak: “I thought to ask but I… no.”
Lantresor: “Master Samuro. He walked with reverence for the spirits. Equal parts a bringer and taker of life. His wisdom was beyond even his own ancient years. Not a day went by where I was not taught a new lesson. He knew how to see potential. The same potential he saw in myself when I was younger than you are. You walk with that same reverence, and weight. It’s a thing that should be respected, and to be nurtured. I chose to follow Master Samuro, and you, but I’ve not chosen to follow Blackhand.”
Arthak: “I know.”
Lantresor: “Once perhaps he was an orc of honor. Perhaps one who walked with the same weight of wisdom, but it’s clear he cast that aside long ago. That is why I will not do this. My blade will not protect that which does not deserve to be protected.”
Arthak sighs, and agrees, then explains he offered himself as a replacement.
Arthak: “You’re right about his nature, but he is one of the things holding the Horde together. He is needed alive. For now. So I respect your choice, and thank you for your loyalty.”
Lantresor: “And what of your clan?”
Arthak: “I will talk to the warchief. Perhaps I can persuade him to let me hold on to the Broken Blade while also serving as his bodyguard.”
Lantresor: “You already know the answer.”
Arthak: “I can still try.”
Lantresor: “When he rejects you, what will your plan be?”
Arthak: “I have a few… the vanguard title is something I might be able to use. He gave it to me, but it’s also mine to give away. If offering it to his sons is enough to either allow me to hold on to the clan, then that is my first thought. If that doesn’t work… then I’ll do what I have to.”
Lantresor: “Beyond all else, Arthak, one cannot be in two places at once. One cannot lead while also shadowing a leader.”
Arthak: “I know. So if that’s the case, then the other option is most likely I ask someone else take my place in the clan.”
Lantresor: “These people came because of you, Arthak. I do not know what will happen if you walk away.”
Arthak: “Neither do I, but I… someone must be Blackhand’s shadow.”
Lantresor sighs. “This is a path I do not believe I can follow you, Arthak.”
Arthak: “I see…”
Lantresor: “I am no leader. But neither do I have any desire to aid you in the defense of this warchief.”
Arthak: “Then what would you have me do?”
Lantresor: “The truest path is sometimes the one you see written upon your heart, not the one that is laid before you. And oftentimes, the most difficult to traverse. But I cannot refute you for your choices. I am a blade of the past, as your grandfather was. This… there is little room in such a place for one such as myself.”
Arthak: “My heart is gone. I refute my choices.”
Lantresor puts a hand on his shoulder. “Our hearts never stop beating until our bodies lay cold. It’s never too late to strike a new path. You will do what you must. Even if you must do so alone. I will await your decision. But regardless of what you choose, regardless of which path you take, it has been a privilege serving the Broken Blade alongside of you.”
Lantresor leaves Arthak to his thoughts with the setting sun.
0:42
Arthak goes to speak with Go’el, but he’s blocked off by snarling, angry frostwolves due to the influence of the sword. A Frostwolf warrior goes to fetch Go’el for him.
Go’el tries to comfort him, but Arthak says it was his fault.
Go’el: “It’s easy to blame ourselves in these cases…”
Arthak: “Easy. And correct.”
Go’el: “How do you mean?”
Arthak: “After you left, Shaspira made it clear she knew what I’ve--we’ve--been up to. She knew.”
Go’el: “That I’m not surprised.”
Arthak: “Neither am I, but… I can’t say everything, or I don’t think I can, but there is a task she needed me to do. There’s a task that needed to be done to avoid the difficulties that would come in the future knowing what she knew. I accepted the task. Accepting the task also required accepting this.”
He shows Go’el Frostmourne.
Go’el: “That blade is.. Unnatural.”
Arthak: “It’s what killed Dranosh.”
Go’el: “How?”
Arthak: “Magic of some kind. It’s the instrument for which Shaspira wanted me to do. I picked it up and it asked me a question. What would I give for its power? To help my people, I told it I would give anything.”
Go’el: “So what will you do now?”
Arthak: “What I must. I can’t take it back. I can’t stop it. I have to make it worth it. That’s what I have to do.”
Go’el: “This is a dangerous path you’re walking down, Arthak. Whatever it is she asked you to do, there has to be another way. Someone else that can do it. Something else that can be done.”
Arthak: “There were others who could have done it. But it was better if an orc did it. And I volunteered. Because I was worried about what would happen to my clan, and yours, and others. I thought if I walked away then, at some point what she knew would be used to hang me, and many others. I thought I was making the best choice I could. And now Dranosh is dead, Go’el.”
Go’el: “I fear he will not be the last.
Arthak: “Kinslayer…”
Go’el: “You had no way of knowing this, Arthak.”
Arthak: “My intentions don’t change the outcome. Everything is choice, and I made mine. I need to know. You can speak the language of the Legion, right?”
Go’el: “Yes, I understood what she was saying.”
Arthak: “Can you tell me?”
Go’el: “I cannot be sure who she was speaking to, but it was clearly one of her masters. They were speaking of an object, that blade I assume was it. He seemed insistent that she accept it and do what must be done. This task that you’ve been given, I assume.”
Arthak: “Is there more?”
Go’el: “He saw us, and recognized she had company. There was more I’m sure, but none that I heard.”
Arthak: “Very well, that’s… something. It tells me some things. Lantresor chose not take the position of Blackhand’s shadow. I’m… going to go speak to her about what has happened.”
Go’el: “What do you hope to accomplish from that?”
Arthak: “Use what I know, or think I know, to garner what small advantage I can, and maybe find a solution to the problem with Black Hand.”
Go’el: “Arthak, it’s not too late. Forget this business. Your people need you. Return that… thing to her. Let Blackhand choose someone else to protect him. Lead your clan. Your people. We are entering a time of chaos and strife. But I already know you aren’t going to do that.”
Arthak: “I’ll do what I can. What I have to. Thank you.”
Go’el: “Just don’t let it destroy anything more than it needs to.”
Arthak: “I will try. Me doing this has bought your clan protection at least.”
Go’el: “I can certainly hope.”
Arthak: “I got that promise, for what it’s worth. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you and the Frostwolves.”
Go’el: “And what of yourself?”
Arthak: “I’m not sure I can be helped.”
Go’el: “Not if you don’t allow it.”
Arthak sighs, and bows his head for a moment. For a moment his shoulder shake, but he stills them, and looks up again. “I’ll try. But too many of those I care about already rest upon my conscious. I have to go. Thank you.”
Go’el bids him farewell, but Arthak senses that there are some unsaid words that neither of them could find.
0:58
Arthak heads back to meet with Shaspira, and he is lead back by one of her soldiers to her private quarters. The door opens, and for a brief moment Arthak sees scarlet and immaculate and soft-looking sheets and rugs.
Then Shaspira steps out, and bows to Arthak, bidding him a good evening. She had dismissed the soldier.
Arthak asks her if she heard.
Shaspira: “I hear many things. To what do you refer?”
Arthak: “My cousin.”
Shaspira: “What of him. Dranosh Saurfang, correct?”
Arthak: “Yes. He’s dead.”
Shaspira: “Oh. Quite the tragedy. What, pray tell, happened?”
Arthak: “Unclear. He was speaking with my uncle and collapsed suddenly. Around the time of our last meeting, as it happens.”
Shaspira: “I see.”
She gestures with a blackened, clawed hand to follow her as she starts to walk.
Shaspira: “I… I would certainly hope you aren’t implying I had something to do with it.”
Arthak: “No. I’m not. Maybe avoid being coy, as we were before.”
Shaspira: “Direct as ever, Arthak. Very well then, what do you need?”
Arthak: “Frostmourne is responsible.”
Shaspira: “And, if it was?”
Arthak: “It was, and if it was. In regards to the task you have for me, there are things I would like to discuss further. In light of my cousin’s death, I’ve had time to consider some things. Before you ask, I have no intention of backing out, but in light of circumstances, we need to discuss… our working relationship from here forward.”
Shaspira: “Hm. In what fashion?”
Arthak: “I am… you didn’t know what the sword was capable of. I believe that. I also believe you did not know what would happen to my cousin. I also believe the plans have changed, haven’t they, Lady Shaspira?”
Shaspira: “Plans are constantly changing, Arthak, but yes, certain aspects have.”
Arthak: “And this sword is the key to that, isn’t it?”
Shaspira: “What are you playing at, Arthak?”
Arthak: “Ner’zhul is a test. A test of the weapon’s properties, and if it can do what needs to be done.”
Shaspira: “An interesting theory. I fail to see the relevance of these questions.”
Arthak: “What Ner’zhul is killed by Frostmourne, that won’t be the end of him, will it? As you mentioned, with his magicks, death is not the desired outcome. I should have caught on to that.”
Shaspira: “Of that, you are correct.”
Arthak: “So I’m to be his jailor, not just his killer?”
Shaspira stops, and gestures to Arthak with a long finger.
Shaspira: “If that is the case, then I trust you’ll adapt. You’re right about one thing, Arthak, and that is that this was not my plan. My plan adapted to accommodate this, and your agreement to take this cup is appreciated. I can assure you you’ll be duly rewarded for your part in this. But what I cannot tell you is the answers to every insignificant question you have to ask me. If the sword is a test, then you are to test it. That’s simply all there is to it.”
Arthak: “Agreed.”
Shaspira: “Is there naught else you wish to accuse me of this evening? I have important matters to attend for tomorrow morning if there are no further inquiries.”
Arthak apologizes for seeming accusatory, as that was not his intent. Shaspira muses that his tongue is still new to her, and accepts his apology, but turns to leave.
Arthak again apologizes, and expresses their goals are the same for the Horde. They want it to grow strong.
Arthak: “In light of that, we have worked together to some mutual benefit. Perhaps such a thing should continue.”
Shaspira: “I hope it would. You have been a great asset to the Horde, and you have done much to assist myself and your people. Moving forward, I hope that would continue.”
Arthak: “As do I. So. At the moment, I am in a position to take up the role of the warchief’s bodyguard.”
Shaspira: “That’s curious.”
Arthak: “It was necessary to consolidate the Burning Blade.”
Shaspira: “The leader of which you dispatched when I arrived.”
Arthak: “And whose leader I put in place through my design.”
Shaspira: “A clever move.”
Arthak: “But that’s put me in a position to take his place as Blackhand’s shadow. So. Tell me. If we’re to be working together, is my position better served at the head of a clan, or in the shadow of the warchief?”
Shaspira: “I’ll ask you the same. What position do you feel you would better serve the Horde.”
Arthak: “There’s a reason Jubei’thos was eager to leave his position.”
Shaspira: “Curious. The orcs are a strong, militaristic race. Why would the leader need someone to protect him?”
Arthak: “As the warchief it’s his right. But. Prior challenges in a Mak’gora have had a cost to the warchief’s health.”
Shaspira: “I’ve heard so much about these mak’goras, I hope to witness one in the future. I’ll tell you this, Arthak, you’ll be of more use to the Horde as one of their chieftains, but you’ll be of more use to me if you were to shadow this warchief. He’s a curious individual, and I will say one will not know more about him than his own shadow. I’m not here to give you answers, simply options.”
Arthak: “Options are appreciated. I’ll leave you to your evening. I got what I wanted.”
Shaspira: “Good evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”
They then part ways.
1:18
Arthak is alerted to the swift burial of Dranosh. Many turned out, though Varok speaks to no one.
September 14th 1:24
Arthak goes to speak with Blackhand after not really sleeping that much. Garrosh is already there speaking to Blackhand along with Zaela. The door closes behind them, leaving two guards.
One of the guards greets Arthak, asking if he was there to meet with Blackhand, as he was waiting. However, he was speaking with Garrosh and Zaela currently. However, just then, the door opens, and Garrosh invites Arthak in, as “what they are telling the chieftain will likely be dispensed to him soon enough.”
The room itself is open, with a large section that opens upon the tents below. On the map at the center of the room, there’s a huge red smear on the map, and the head of a mok’nathal that Arthak recognizes. It’s Garlok.
Garrosh is clearly pleased at the trophy, and Blackhand stares at it for a long moment. He then grabs the head, and brings it to his face.
Blackhand: “It has her eyes… and his jaw.”
He then throws it to the ground and smashes it beneath his boot.
Blackhand: “You’ve done well, Hellscream. Now tell me. What of the other half-breed. Gul’dan’s agent.”
Garrosh: “I regret to inform you she was already dead when we arrived. There was… rather little to bring back.”
He drops a single lock of hair on the table. Blackhand’s eyes dart down to the hair, then back up to Garrosh.
Blackhand: “I see. Very well. Unfortunate, but the invasion must continue. You’ve done well, Hellscream. Return to your clan.”
Hellscream thanks him, and goes to leave. Garrosh gives Arthak his condolences.
Garrosh: “Dranosh was a true warrior. He deserved a warrior’s death. Not what happened in that tent.”
Arthak thanks him, and congratulates him on the victory, and Garrosh leaves with Zaela.
Blackhand: “He was just the first of many enemies that will fall. He was a fool to stand against us. I should have killed that misbehaving child before she had the chance to breed with that ogre, but that is taken care of. We have the future to look forward to. No sense dwelling on mistakes of the past. Well, Arthak, have you an answer?”
Arthak: “Lantresor has respectfully declined the position.”
Blackhand: “I understand. So you will take up Jubei’thos’s position?”
Arthak: “Doing so will require giving up my position as chieftain, yes?”
Blackhand: “Were that not the case, Jubei’thos wouldn’t have left my side.”
Arthak: “And what of my position as the vanguard?”
Blackhand: “That is something indeed. It is still your right to lead our people to their destiny, but it would not do to be far from my side.” He rolls his neck, cracking his back. “So I suppose I will join you at the head. You and I will step through that portal, the first boots to lay on the land that will be ours.”
Arthak: “Warchief.”
Blackhand: “Yes, Arthak?”
Arthak: “There’s another possibility. One which may be more agreeable to you, perhaps.”
Blackhand raises an eyebrow expectantly.
Arthak: “I have built the Broken Blade from nothing, literally. And I believe that without me at its head, it’s likely the clan will fracture, which is something I am loathe to see happen. But I have also promised the offer to be your bodyguard. That is a promise.”
Blackhand: “One that you made willingly, and in response to you offering the pristine privilege of leading the Burning Blade to my former bodyguard, yes.”
Arthak: “Then, I will suggest that if I cannot keep a promise to you, it’s only fair that you cannot keep a promise to me. If you would release me from my promise, I would be willing to grant the title of vanguard to one of your choice. Perhaps one of your sons. Or Garrosh Hellscream.”
As Arthak makes the offer, Blackhand’s face contorts into rage as he processes the situation.
Blackhand: “Yes. That is your right, isn’t it?”
Arthak: “And it is your choice, warchief.”
Blackhand: “You are far too clever for your own good, Arthak Saurfang. Get out of my sight. If you’re lucky, perhaps there will still be some glory when you pass through that gate.”
He waves a hand dismissively at Arthak, and turns his back on him.
1:47
Meanwhile, while Arthak is with Blackhand, some orcs make their way into the Broken Blade camp. They recognize the clan: it’s a smiling face with bare teeth with one black tooth.
It’s the clan that Blackhand’s sons are from: the Black Tooth Grin clan.
Meanwhile, Remnii had started to help Azgadaan out of his armor using remove curse.
However, two of the Black Tooth Grin soldiers approach Sorak, telling them to come with them. They say that he has been requested for an audience. Sorak meets eyes with Kroll, but the Black Hand Grin orcs tell him to come as well.
The only thing in common with the other orcs they are grabbing is that they are all mag’har. A great deal of the Frostwolves are being taken as well. Sorak’s sister is among them.
Go’el seems to be going with them. His expression isn’t a happy one.
Arthak exits the citadel just in time to see the mag’har being lead away in droves. Arthak runs back to his clan, and gives Lantresor the sparknotes version of what happened.
Lantresor: “So you’re still our chieftain?”
Arthak: “I forged a new path.”
There’s a smile, and Arthak gathers him and a small number of others to follow the mag’har. He gets ahead, and he catches Go’el’s eye so that he would come with them.
Nyxxa sneaks along unseen.
There appears to be a large crowd at the head of the courtyard. Power seems to radiate from the area. There are two rumbling mounds of stone at the center. The center of the circle is all mag’har, while green orcs surround them.
Gul’dan is here, as well as Shaspira.
However, then they realize the mounds of stone aren’t stone. They are two massive demons, with brutal looking glaives. Their heads seem to be awash in felfire. One of them has a blackish-green skin coloration, and the other a deep violet.
Remnii had seen them before. One had slain a naaru, and the deep violet one looks very familiar.
Remnii and Azgadaan stay to the back, not approaching the crowd.
Sadras and her and Sorak’s mother meet up with Sorak, and Sadras asks what this is about. Sorak says it seems to be time to drink the blood.
The dark green one laughs, and speaks in eredun: “Well, well, well…. If it isn’t Shaspira. The White Tyrant herself.”
Shaspira: “Ah, yes, Azgalor. I thought I had smelled your arrival. A pleasure of you to join us. I’m glad you weren’t so late as missing the invasion.”
Azgalor: “I’m glad you weren’t so busy reading books you were able to attend to your duties. Tell me, Shaspira, whose bright idea was it it send Archimonde’s Horde to the front lines--”
Suddenly, Shaspira gestured with a single hand, and the pitlord is lifted a few inches off the ground. She clenches her fist, and then thrusts it downward. The pitlord is forced to its knees, and its face is brought to the ground so Shaspira can stare into his eyes.
She then spits back in eredun: “You can say whatever you wish about myself, Azgalor, but never desparage our Lord Archimonde in my presence again, or I will ensure you have a very, very difficult trip back to the Twisting Nether. I’m friends with a great number of individuals, and I will make sure that the years it takes it reform your pathetic body are the most agonizing in existence. As for what I’d do after? I hear that annihilan bone dust is a potent aphrodisiac for imps. I imagine we’ll see if that’s correct.”
The other pitlord is just laughing as Azgalor is released, and Shaspira just turns and folds her hands back in her sleeves like nothing had happened.
One of the Black Tooth Grin whispers in Gul’dan’s ear, and he nods.
Gul’dan: “Brothers and sisters, I gather you because the Horde marches today. But we will march as a single unified fist. We will be unbreakable. Our strength insurmountable. But we can only accomplish this if we do so as one. Forty years ago, the first of our people accepted the greatest gifts that our allies were able to grant us. The power to defeat our foes, and to claim our dominion over this land. Hail to Grommash Hellscream, the bravest and first of our people.”
Cheers go out, and Grommash nods in approval over on the side.
Gul’dan: “Today we gather for a final pilgrimage to where that sacred pact was formed. Where that strength of conquerors was firsted by. You, my honored brothers and sisters, will be the end of the one legacy, and the beginning of another.”
Shaspira: “With all do respect, Gul’dan, we have little time before the promised hour. Such a pilgrimage will take valuable time.”
Gul’dan: “My Lady, you are correct, but there is--”
Shaspira: “There is another way. Azgalor, come here for a moment, and Magtheridon.”
The other pitlord, Magtheridon, brings his glaive up and drives his blade into the ground, ripping a deep chasm into it. Azgalor takes a few tentative steps toward Shaspira, and she beckons him closer. He steps a bit closer. And then closer.
And then in a flash, she slashes the corner of his face with her gnarled, blackened claws. A few drops of green blood drips from him, and Shaspira freezes it with a wave of her hand, and it drifts into the trench. She then flicks both of her wrists, and there’s a ripple in the sky above the trench, and a tear in reality tears through.
She begins to draw the fel energy through, drawing it into the blood until the quantity expands to fill the trench. Then with a few more moves of her hand, she molds two ends of the trench into two basins, now filled with the blood, with the blood-filled trench running between them.
Shaspira: “Hm. That will suffice.”
Gul’dan blinks. “Well then, I suppose our pilgrimage has ended. Come now, one and all!”
He produces an immaculately crafted cup that was wrought from the horn of some sort of creature.
Gul’dan: “The Cup of Unity. What Grommash Hellscream began, we now end.”
Tentatively, the first couple of orcs move forward. They take the cup after Gul’dan fills it, and drink. They skin almost pulses, and they grasp their throats, but they seem invigorated instead of in pain. Within less than a minute, their muscles swell, and their veins bulge, their skin turning green. And the cup is passed to the next group. And the next. And the next.
Kroll whispers to Sorak in Kalimag: “My journey has come to an end. Guide them. The earth comes to aid those who wait.”
Go’el: “Wait. Honored one. Gul’dan. Some of these people are survivors of the red pox. You know this. You know what happens when they drink this gift.”
Garrosh nods: “I know first hand what happens. The fact I’m standing here is something of a miracle.”
For a moment, things halt.
Orc: “How are we to tell those who had the red pox?”
Go’el: “My grandmother once led the people there. I am familiar with many of those who were there. If you allow me to--”
Gul’dan: “Not so fast, chieftain. You and I both know the Frostwolf clan has a penchant for hiding things from the Horde. For example… how long were you planning to hide the fact you and your ilk are still practicing shamanism?”
There are some hushed voices.
Gul’dan: “Yes! Indeed! Some members of the Frostwolf clan have continued to worship the spirits even after they betrayed us! Yet this, we are willing to forgive. For we are conquerors. We have defeated every enemy against us, and this too shall be defeated. You’ve shown us a great deal, chieftain Go’el, son of Durotan. Tenacity, cunning, and that even the spirits can be bent to the will of the Horde. Step aside.”
Go’el grits his teeth and clenches his fists, but he steps back.
Garrosh: “Gul’dan. I was once afflicted with this. All remember. You remember how I attempted to imbibe. Will you allow me to tell you those who were survivors of this pox? They are great warriors, and our members are reeling after the loss of the Champion Dranosh. We need every warrior we can get for this coming invasion, do you not agree?”
Gul’dan agrees, and Garrosh urges him to allow him to point out the survivors. Gul’dan’s brow furrows, reading the crowd, and then he agrees.
As more step forward, Garrosh steps forward, finding Jorin and Zaela, and they continue to pull other survivors from the crowd. Jorin sees Kroll, and double-takes.
Jorin: “Well unless my eye is deceiving me… of all the old faces I expected to see. Is that you, Kroll?”
Kroll: “Unfortunately it is. The years have not been kind to my face.”
Jorin: “We’ll all be joining you in the realm of aging, but today will not be the day the pox claims you.”
He grabs Kroll by the arm, and lifts it.
Jorin: “Here. Kroll. Formerly of the Shadowmoon clan. He survived with the rest of us.”
Kroll: “Honored one of the clan. I was also of Shadowmoon. I humbly ask if I can serve the Horde as I am, survivor of the pox.”
Gul’dan looks at Kroll. “I remember you… yes I remember you. Very well. Come.””
Kroll follows, and Gul’dan fills a horn and hands it to him. Then he fills another.
Gul’dan: “You will serve us another way.”
Kroll: “In what way?”
The orcs begin to take the horn from Kroll as well as Gul’dan.
Another old orc approaches Kroll. He’s hunched and cowled. Kroll recognizes him faintly. He has a scar on his chin, and heterochromatic eyes. He takes a sip from the cup, and Kroll recognizes him as another pox survivor. However, before Kroll can say anything, the orc starts to cough, and spits up black blood as his insides are burned from the inside out.
In his dying breath, he says: “I die free.”
Kroll tries to recompose himself, and Gul’dan mutters about a troublesome fool.
Meanwhile, Lok’ra puts a hand on her children’s shoulders, and apologizes she can’t protect them from this anymore. They have to take the same curse their people had to bear.
Sadras and Sorak are the last two.
Sorak approaches Kroll, and Sadras goes to approach Go’el.
Kroll: “My lord, these two have been with the Broken Blade. I have traveled with them. I fear there is a taint I have spread to them.”
Gul’dan turns to Kroll. “And yet they are young and strong. If such a thing has happened, they will survive, I am certain.”
Kroll: “I am not speaking of pox. You see. The claim that you had said. The taboo that had been performed by the Frostwolves. I am a shaman. And I have spun them over the past few weeks. Their bodies irreparably changed by the spirits.”
Gul’dan: “You are a sentimental old man. That much is clear. But as I said, I believe the Horde will be willing to forgive breaking the rules. After all, the three of you should be congratulated for bending the spirits to our will. What are you names?”
Sadras and Sorak say their names.
Gul’dan: “And Kroll. The three of you, too, are to be congratulated. Come, one and all, let us congratulate them on bending the spirits to their will after they betrayed us.”
The crowd cheers.
Gul’dan: “Come then, drink! Prove your loyalty to the Horde! The two of you represent the end of a legacy. Let us toast to a future our legacy shall hold together.”
He puts the horn in Sadras’s hands.
Sadras looks at Sorak and Kroll. “It’s alright. Like the Frostwolves say. We hunt together, or we die alone.”
She then raises the cup in Sorak’s direction. Sorak taps his against hers. And they drink.
The liquid is hot. It’s thick, and sour, and flaming. It burns their throats, and the heat spreads from their chests to their stomachs and washes over their bodies. It’s like fire, but it isn’t painful. It’s like a burning freedom.
Their skin is now green.
Sadras gives Sorak a sad smile, and she takes his hand and lifts it into the air with a shout of “FOR THE HORDE”.
The crowd cheers in exaltation.
2:50
Its short order before the Horde begins to march. Magtheridon stays back at Hellfire Citadel, but Azgalor marches with the Horde. Periodically, other demons pop in and out, and Shaspira also marches herself.
During the march, Sorak reaches out to the elements and tries to strengthen his connection to them. It’s a tad harder than it used to be, but not much. It could be overcome with training and focus.
Meanwhile, with Remnii, Velhari, the fallen vindicator, smirks at Yrel as she approaches. She greets them, then addresses Remnii, requesting she come with her.
Remnii asks where she is going, and Velhari said that “her lady” prepared special accomodations for her. Remnii looks at Yrel, wordlessly telling her to be calm, and agrees to follow.
Azgadaan approaches, expressing he’s intending on accompanying as Remnii is with him.
Velhari: “All due respect, my lord Azgadaan, I’m sure the Lady Shaspira is willing to accomodate you. However, you will not accompany Remnii. Her Lady Shaspira has requested her personally. Though you are welcome to come aboard the Vitiator.”
Azgadaan: “That’s what I meant.”
Velhari relents, leading them both in. They teleport aboard the Vitiator, and all eyes are on Remnii. Velhari stops in front of a door, and gestures to it, expressing that’s where she’ll be staying for the trip, and she is to make herself comfortable.
Remnii thanks her, and enters.
The door closes behind her. It’s not going to open.
Velhari asks Azgadaan who he wants to see, and Azgadaan said he would speak with Lady Shaspira as he hasn’t meant her yet. Azgadaan takes a moment to “primp”.
Azgadaan: “How do I look?”
Velhari: “You look fine, my prince. I’m sure she will not judge you given you’ve been… spending time with the locals.”
As they enter, Shaspira greets Azgadaan, asking what she could do for him.
Azgadaan mentions he would like to come aboard for the trip. Shaspira said she could arrange guest quarters near Aracyra, as she had mentioned he found her gifts to be agreeable.
Azgadaan said they were… he lost his words, and Shaspira chuckles, telling him there’s no need to be nervous.
They make some smalltalk, and Shaspira muses she had heard of Azgadaan’s help he had given Arthak.
Azgadaan: “Yes, he seemed like a prosperous young orc to… guide.”
Shaspira: “Indeed. A worthy find. I trust your father has not given you any trouble?”
Azgadaan: “Ah, no.”
Shaspira muses that’s good, as eventually children need not be restricted by the shadows of their fathers. Eventually they wish to grow.
Azgadaan offers to help her if she needs anything, and she thanks him, then tells him to focus on gathering strength.
He asks her if she has some information on where they are going, such as where they are landing, but unfortunately Shaspira does not have that information. After all, the current nature of things is a bit unpredictable, but she hopes to alleviate that.
Azgadaan also asks if she knows where he can find info on biology. Namely, he’s having trouble magically. Shaspira is a bit… confused, but then states the Vitiator is a research vessel, with several physicians and literature he can utilize.
3:17
A young eredar physician comes by Azgadaan’s room later to check up on him, and she asks what the problem is.
Azgadaan explains that he lost the ability to use a certain spell, and now he can… well. He suddenly just summons a weapon.
The young eredar is a bit startled, then mentions that such things are common in young eredar, especially one with his pedigree. With practice, he could ensure that this one didn’t just… disappear, but he wasn’t in any sort of danger.
Azgadaan continues to explain none of his spells are of a nature the Legion “likes,” and the other eredar hastily says the Legion uses all forms of magic in their numbers. Unless he was channeling Light or something, he had nothing to worry about.
Azgadaan asks if she had ever seen a demon channel Light, and she mentions she hadn’t, and she doubted they would try, unless they ripped it from a naaru or something, but she hadn’t seen them do that either.
There is more awkward conversation, and she introduces herself as Kazihaa, and reassures him he isn’t falling apart before she leaves.
Azgadaan heads to the kitchen.
3:25
Meanwhile. Remnii is locked in a room. It’s rather homey. Much more than she had been expecting. However, there is a strange macabre mixture of things aboard an eredar vessel. A nice bed with white sheets. A simple rug with violet intricacies. They are draenei objects. Not eredar. Even the furniture looks plucked straight from Shattrath.
Laid out on the bed is a dress. A very nice dress, albeit somewhat old. A white dress that fades into shimmering violet. It slings off of one shoulder, and it appears there are some crystalline stones enchanted to linger near the shawl as she moves it.
?width=437&height=676Remnii notes in the side room there is a place for bathing as well.
She looks at the dress, and casts detect magic. She senses some minor magic around the stones near the dress. Just mild transmutation magic, which is likely what allows them to float. However, the dress itself isn’t magical.
She puts the dress on. It isn’t a perfect fit, it hugs tightly, but not uncomfortably so. It’s also perhaps an inch too short, but it’s of amazing quality.
She then settles down to meditate, but a voice calls out from the door.
Shaspira: “Are they listening?”
She strides through the door, having spoken in draenic.
Shaspira: “Those naaru of yours. Do they hear you?”
Remnii: “Across the universe everything is subjective, but I would like to think so. At the very least, I feel grounded. Thank you for the shower.”
Shaspira: “I imagine it’s been a while. I see the dress fits.”
Remnii: “If it was pulled from this planet, it was certainly a good find. I’m much taller than most.”
Shaspira: “Oh, it’s much older than that. That was Nuuri’s dress.”
Remnii blinks, taking a reflexive step back.
Shaspira: “Oh yes, it belonged to your mother. I got to thinking as you were traipsing around the wilderness, I do wonder how much you really knew about your mother.”
Remnii: “Woefully little.”
Shaspira: “I’m not surprised. What did he tell you about her? What did he say? Did he even tell you how she died?”
Remnii: “I was told… I was told she died giving birth to me.”
Shaspira: “That’s much easier, isn’t it? But really. When his people rose up against his own, do you really think that childbirth would be the thing to claim her? Of all things? Even deprived of any substantial medical knowledge, how often do you think birth complications happen with the draenei or eredar people? She gave birth once. She could do so again just fine. But you never once considered your father might be lying to you, did you? How many things do you think he kept from you?”
Remnii takes a shaky breath.
Remnii: “I… I cannot tell you for certain. How many.”
Shaspira: “Well let me inform you of a bit more. Your mother didn’t die during childbirth. She died trying to kill me. Oh yes. She was wearing that when she died. She almost succeeded, as it were. Almost.”
Remnii subconsciously clutches at the dress.
Shaspira: “It’s very, very easy to assume that your people, chosen by the naaru, are without fault. You’ve never known. Unfortunate really. I thought it fair that you were told the truth. The acts that such people are willing to commit. Your mother took a great deal from me. A great deal. Though she didn’t take my life, she nearly ruined it. Took me the better part of 15,000 years to recover. But here we are. And now, she is dead, and I’m alive. And then there’s you. I have a feeling the next few days will be very enlightening to you, Remnii. And I hope you can learn a great deal about your mother. About your father. And about yourself. And who knows. Perhaps that dress won’t need to be the last thing you wear. I’d hate for you to share your mother’s fate.”
Shaspira turns, her tail swishing behind her, and she goes to leave. She takes a moment to glance back, scoffing to herself, and then leaves with the door closing behind her.
Remnii stands for a moment, taking one of the floating crystals and running her thumbs over them.
Meanwhile, after Azgadaan tries to do anything in the kitchen, the wyrmtongue staff politely bar him because he’s not very good at what he’s doing.
---
3:53
Kroll approaches Sorak, looking to ask for forgiveness, but Sorak immediately stops him.
Sorak: “Kroll, it’s not the end of the world. Our connection remains.”
Kroll: ”That was my greatest fear to lose the connection to the elements. I knew my fate would be sealed if I partook, but…”
Sorak: “Have you met Go’el or Drek’thar? Both partook of the blood. The elements are forgiving. They didn’t turn from us, we turned our backs on them.”
Kroll also apologizes for bringing Sorak and Sadras under greater scrutiny, and Sorak chuckles.
Sorak: “The attention was there. I may have been exposed in the first place. We weren’t punished for continuing our ways. That is… the best possible outcome.”
Kroll: “There is life. And there is hope.”
Sorak: “We adapt, survive, and ideally survive long enough to…” He trails off.
Kroll: “I’m unaware of what plans they have for us, but as long as you believe that, well, you may need to lead this sooner rather than later. If I must say so, that’s an excellent shade of green. That… I mean…”
Sorak: “Too soon, Kroll. Too soon.’
He laughs, clapping him on the shoulder.
Kroll: “I’m envious. Well… not quite green.”
Sorak: “I will punch you, Kroll.”
Kroll: “I’ve earned this. Pass my regards to your sister. I’m not afraid of her. I mean. Not at all.”
Sorak: “She will actually punch you.”
Kroll: “I know.”
Shaspira visits once every day and a half or so. Aracyra also stopped by once. It’s pleasant, and primarily small talk. Aracyra asks if she can brush her hair, and Remnii agrees only if she will let her brush her’s. Aracyra is surprised.
(Aracyra also visited Azgadaan every day, and they went for walks)
The first two times Shaspira visits are very much like the last, though no new revelations are dropped.
However, the final day arrives.
4:05
September 18th
The great gate, the Dark Portal, looms ahead. It has a huge entrance between it, though that’s currently just an empty space. Embedded into the side of the canyon are thousands of orcs. Looming overhead of the gate is a massive serpentine skull.
%3Ffb&key=522baf40bd3911e08d854040d3dc5c07Large statues of cowled figures guard either side, vaguely feminine in form.
As Nyxxa moves, she hears the footfalls around her begin to change. Instead of dirt, they are walking on stone. Sorak and Arthak also notice this.
However, something is off. The road is paved, but it crumbles at their footfalls.
It’s bone.
As they look around, there’s the skull of a draenei pressed into the ground. The entire path to the Dark Portal is paved with bones.
Arthak hurries to find Yrel, and he finds her kneeling at the edge of the path. Raluhi is nearby as well.
Yrel: “What is this?”
Raluhi: “This is… what I did not want you to have to see. I was here once. In those cages. I would be… another one of these. Another step. If I had not fled. If I was not a coward. The orcish tongue.. They call it the Path of Glory. A testament of their triumph over the intruders that tried to take their home. Their victory over us.”
Arthak: “Sparing yourself this fate is not cowardice.”
Raluhi: “I hope so.”
Yrel puts a hand on the skull, and takes a step onto the path.
Dornaa also sees the skulls, but she seems to be alright when Nyxxa checks on her. She said the important thing is that they aren’t suffering anymore.
Nyxxa is speechless for a moment, then nods.
Dornaa thanks her for worrying.
Meanwhile, Arthak checks on Lantresor, who seems alright, but simply states: “My mother may be among this number. A sobering thought.”
Arthak: “Then she is… either past the point of any pain, or perhaps has the chance to see you now.”
Lantresor: “Perhaps. Perhaps indeed.”
The last day, when Shaspira visits, she comments that she hopes her friend was consoled by the words Remnii sent her, implying she had known Remnii had sent Yrel.
Shaspira: “Today’s the day. I trust you’re prepared. Because I believe the two of us shall walk for the remainder of the way. It’s not far.”
Remnii nods. “So it shall be.”
Shaspira: “If you will.”
She gestures for Remnii to follow, and she does. Azgadaan was also informed by Aracyra, who tells him he should get ready. Azgadaan puts his armor back on (though he locks the helmet in another room so it doesn’t attach).
He sees Remnii for the first time in five days. She’s wearing a nice dress and is showered.
Aracyra comments on the lack of the helmet, and Azgadaan comments he likes his hair flowing. She thought she pulled it all together, but drops it for now.
When they land on the ground, they find themselves standing in the middle of the path of bones.
Shaspira [in Draenic]: “I wonder… how many friends do you think we’re treading upon right now? You’d best watch your step. You wouldn’t want to harm them.”
She doesn’t give her time to respond.
As they approach, the gate looks even bigger than it looked from a distance. There is a massive demon with orange-red skin as massive wings folded standing at the head. There is a huge sword planted in the ground, and he is watching the crowd carefully. He makes eye contact with Shaspira.
Rend and Maim with their chosen Vanguard are climbing the stairs, along with Shaspira and her entourage.
The demon greets her, informing her everything is order, and the ritual will begin when the moons align.
Embedded into the stone of the pillars are cages upon cages upon cages. There are still bones in many of them. However, on the opposite side, Remnii sees three luminescent beings: the naaru. Each of them held in stasis around the Eye of Sargeras, and Ner’zhul is maintaining the enchantments. M’uru is there, and is the least damaged. His body is still maintaining its light.
K’ure, on the other hand, is… wrong. Something is damaged. He is somewhere in a more darkened state.
K’ara, the last, is the worst off, a being of darkness.
As Shaspira turns, they look upon the gathered Horde--all waiting to strike.
Shaspira: “It will begin soon. Another world. How many worlds will your people lead to destruction? How many worlds will fall before your father decides to give up and answer for his crimes? Let this game of cat and mouse come to an end. Perhaps this will be the last one. A momentous occasion, Remnii.”
The rest of the party is near the front, with the Frostwolves and the Broken Blade.
The chieftains have gathered at the front, from clans great and small. Arthak steps to the front as well. They divide themselves, some closer to Shaspira and Remnii, and others closer to the naaru and Ner’zhul.
Blackhand then steps forward. “Brothers and sisters of the Horde, the time of our greatest conquest has come about us. We have exerted our strength over our world. We have conquered every foe who stood against us. The breakers were broken. The primals cast back into antiquity. The aarakkoa’s wings clipped, the saberon declawed, and the ogres that were foolish enough to stand against us were laid low and brought down. Those who stand amongst us from those we’ve destroyed are wise. There is a great wisdom in joining that which would spell your end. Now you too can share in our glory. And of course, our most dangerous foes, the draenei.”
He gestures at Remnii.
Blackhand: “Though they attempted to wrest our world from us, we did not allow them. And like so many who stood before us, they too were broken. The promised hour has come. The stars in the sky which one sought to lead us to our destiny 40 summers ago, has come again, and this time the path is clear. This clear, our world, was but the beginning. Ours is a destiny of conquest. Victory or death. Blood and thunder. Raise your blades together, for this will be the moment of our greatest victory. The hour of our triumph. The hour of conquest.”
Gul’dan: “Our people have worked long and hard to make such a destiny possible, and each and every one of our Horde is responsible. Take pride in the conquest that is to come, for every step along the way was built by our hands.”
Shaspira: “This is the first step towards a path of greatness, not only for yourselves, but for all who stand with you. Today is the day that a Horde truly capable of unstoppable conquest is born. Stars will burn before you. Anyone who stands in your way will be crushed, and those with the wisdom to bend the knee will join or die. Yours is a people of conquest, but ours is a people of victory, and together, unified, there is nothing we cannot accomplish. This is the hour of the Horde. But this is the day of the Legion. Our Legion. The Horde shall be as the tip of a spear. And together or enemies have no chance. “
Blackhand: “Dal’rend, Maim, as leaders of the Vanguard, you are poised to be the first blood your blades will spill. The two of you will do the Horde proud.”
The chants reach out, started by Rend and Maim: “FOR THE HORDE. LOK’TAR OGAR, FOR BLOOD AND GLORY.”
The sky starts to darken, and the moons have slowly passed into the canyon, and those in the very front of the massive groups look through the gate.
Shaspira: “The promised hour is now. Gul’dan.”
Gul’dan nods, and looks to Ner’zhul, telling him to do it. Ner’zhul raises his hands, and purple, spectral magic flickers around his hands. One by one, they are thrown through the open poral, one of his hands toward the Eye of Sargeras. The Eye close at hand, the naaru start to align in a perfect triangle as they rotate around the shape of the closest moon.
There is the sounds of glass shattering, and windchimes being strangled.
A beam of energy from the moon launches itself through the center of the three naaru, passing into the very center of the gate.
Where once stood nothing but empty space, energy like ripples across water, the portal begins to form.
Finally the shimmering power that stands in the midst of the gate becomes opaque, the naaru cannot be seen beyond it. It’s instead a roiling mass of energy.
Gul’dan and his warlocks step forward, channeling their fel energy to stabilize the portal.
And in that moment, Ner’zhul with his back turned, Shaspira’s eyes meet Arthak’s.
“So it’s finally time for them to make their move.”
A voice rings in Arthak’s head. The world around him grows dimmer, and it’s just Arthak and Ner’zhul, his voice in Arthak’s mind. However, he doesn’t turn toward him.
Ner’zhul: “I should not be surprised you’re the one they sent. And how perfect that Frostmourne would appear on the promised day. Perfect. Simply perfect.”
Arthak moves in almost slow motion as his step seemingly takes 1000 years. He gets the feeling Ner’zhul can hear his thoughts.
Arthak: “You knew this was coming.”
Ner’zhul: “I’ve seen many, many things, Arthak. An infinite number of possibilities. An infinite number of ways this story comes to an end. The wheel of fate has been cast off its spokes a long, long time ago. But you, you were not the one I expected to wield that blade. Many have called that blade their own. And it has only brough ruin.”
Arthak gets a flash, and he sees a frozen wasteland in his mind’s eye. There’s a single man standing atop a glacier, and wielding the same blade. He is shielded by steel armor, and there is an army of unliving corpses below, as the ground breaks, and a great, skeletal beast erupts from the ground and roars.
A kingdom burned, and a man with a long white ponytail thrusts the sword through a younger men, who cries out “Father, why!” before he turns, a scar across his nose, toward crumbling statues.
And finally, Arthak sees himself, wandering alone. Bodies all around. Members from different clans, including those of the Broken Blade.
Ner’zhul: “Any who take up that blade are fated to damnation, Arthak. As I said. The wheel of fate… has been off its spokes for some time. Come, Arthak. Fulfill what they told you to do. End the cycle. Shatter the wheel of fate. And then maybe yet, hopefully, my fool, my misbegotten friend…”
Arthak gets the sense that as soon as his foot hits the ground, this is over, yet he is in full control of when his foot hits the ground. To a degree.
Ner’zhul: “Do it. Shatter the wheel.”
Arthak: “For the Horde, Ner’zhul.”
Ner’zhul: “For the Horde? Yes....”
Arthak’s foot hits the ground, and he walks up, nodding to Shaspira, grabs Ner’zhul, and turns him around.
He swings in, and Frostmourne cleaves straight into Ner’zhul’s neck. However, it doesn’t go all the way through, his head now half-off, and blood spurts out. His face contorts in pain as his eyes roll forward again. He then smiles.
Ner’zhul: “Let us shatter the wheel.”
And then Arthak blinks, and suddenly his blade is cutting into Ner’zhul’s head, but that isn’t the only thing. The blade is plunged into the side of the Eye of Sargeras.
The eye begins to crack, and then explodes between Arthak and Ner’zhul. Simultaneously, Ner’zhul reaches out as it explodes, and there’s a pulse that shunts through Arthak. However, it isn’t a harmful spell.
Arthak doesn’t resist, and suddenly Frostmourne feels much, much heavier, and Arthak feels very, very weak. He goes flying backwards, over the first part of Rend and Maim’s group, before landing.
Frostmourne is still embedded in Ner’zhul’s neck as he also goes flying back, through the portal, and he and the sword disappears.
The portal shifts again. Everyone is confused, but Gul’dan calls for them that the time is now to charge.
The portal begins to shift and transform again, and something is forming in it. As the power begins to shift and change, they can see something form.
