Naria tried to name the emotion she was feeling, as she gazed at the handsome, sleeping Highborne Druid that was Laronar Stormclaw. Their latest mating had been as passionate as all the others, but it had also been quite different. The unbridled desire for each other was still there, but given the Legion invasion and the grief Laronar was clearly still dealing with after losing his best friend, things had turned from lustful to emotional, especially after he’d admitted that he’d missed her. She hadn’t had enough breath to reciprocate the words, but she felt confident he understood that she’d missed him as well.
Now, here she was again, passionately entangled in the potent, explosive aftermath of their sexcapades. She’d taken other lovers since their last time, of course, even a few from other species, but none had been as…generous as Laronar, and she found she rather liked how…devoted he was to making sure she peaked so many times she lost count. Her body still felt comfortably numb.
His only real downside was his smoking habit, in her opinion, and that had been what broke them apart last time. Naria had taken the initiative and tried tossing out an entire jar of his crushed herbs, but Laronar hadn’t reacted with anger. He’d simply gone to the trash receptacle she’d tossed it into, dumped it out, and then sat there, realizing that his herb was too full of glass shards to use, or smoke. It had been ‘utterly irretrievable’ in his words, and after that, he’d refused to even look at her, let alone touch her. He’d eventually told her that he needed time to forgive her for what she’d done, and Naria had then left, as she’d still felt right about her actions, and if he was going to value psychedelic plants over her, she would find someone else. Laronar had just given her a sad smile, when she’d announced she was leaving, and then returned to all but ignoring her.
The whole situation still irritated her, but since then, in the intervening years, she had learned about and started to understand just how sacred herbheads held their precious stashes. In retrospect, had she given him more than three days to cope, he probably would’ve come around. It wasn’t like he didn’t have even more jars of the stuff in caches around Kalimdor.
With a sigh, Naria extricated herself from Laronar’s grip, but the druid was properly asleep, and from the look of it, deep within the Dream, likely doing what he could to help cleanse it. She stepped outside and into the hidden grove within Val’sharah, near where the edge of the forest met the shattered shores of Azsuna. The camp was a usual mix of druid and Sentinel dwellings, hidden cleverly by the druids, and complete with a Moonwell.
Naria stepped into the well absentmindedly, and began washing herself. It was a full minute before she noticed someone else in the holy waters with her. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
The woman smiled like a Nightsaber, her silver eyes unabashedly rolling over Naria. “It’s no intrusion. I can see why my brother likes you. Naria, right? I’m Alaria.” A slight frown crossed her face as Alaria realized what was, even now, probably polluting the well waters, and with a soft prayer to the Goddess, holy Light cleansed the well of all contaminants.
Naria smiled and thanked her. “I hadn’t realized Laronar had a sister…in fact…I was told his siblings had perished.”
Alaria nodded. “We each thought the other dead for quite some time. But we reunited recently. He never mentioned having a woman though.”
It was Naria’s turn to nod. “We reunited…a few…days? Ago. He saved me from the Nightmare within the Dream, and we’ve been together since.”
Alaria smirked at her. “That certainly didn’t sound like your first time together last night.”
Naria turned a dark shade of purple. She hadn’t even considered the others around them, and their exceptional hearing. “Ah. Yes. That. Well. Um. It’s uhh, it’s been a while since we…yea.” Her cheeks went even darker, and she sank into the waters.
Alaria was unfazed, but her smirk had widened considerably. “Oho! An old flame relit…right in time to face the Legion again.” A slight, indeterminable expression crossed her face. “I…should go prepare. It was nice to meet you, Naria. It smells like my brother is awake anyway. Stay alive, hmm? He needs a good woman in his life.”
Alaria hit her with a Blessing of the Moon then, and sauntered away, completely nude and not seeming to care about the subtle looks she drew from male and female alike as she went to her tent. Naria sank even deeper into the cleansed well, hiding below the rising arcane vapors as she shuddered from the awkward encounter and murmured, “Fffuck…” She let Laronar be for now, not desiring to smell like his herbs, or bring up old unpleasant memories.
About fifty yards away, Laronar Stormclaw was managing his bedhead and enjoying an early evening toke, as he looked out over the Broken Isles. Green flame burned across Azsuna. He swore quietly as he exhaled, and murmured softly, “Elune, Mother Moon…if ever there was a time to end this pointless feud…it’s now.” His ancient amber eyes shifted to the largest source of green on the horizon: Thal’dranath, better known as the Broken Shore, upon which sat an ancient Temple of Elune. Apparently, some powerful human mage had turned it into a tomb for an Avatar of Sargeras at some point, utterly defiling the space and making it the ideal point for a new portal to the Twisting Nether. It was the source of the Legion’s latest portal, through which the endless ranks of the Legion marched, flew, or otherwise ambulated.
Laronar’s amber eyes suddenly widened as, for the first time in millennia, he finally got an answer from the Ancient power his people had prayed to for longer than even his considerable span of years.
It came in the form of a vision. Laronar saw the Temple of the Moon, embattled both with fighting off demons in the sky and Nightmare abominations on the ground. Another vision showed him Sentinel Priestesses all across the Broken Isles, as they attacked each of the races that called them home. The message was clear, to Laronar. The Goddess was stretched thin, and whatever aid she intended to offer would not amount to much. Laronar expected this, as most major powers had limits, though they didn’t like admitting that, and it was rude to bring up. All he needed, was something simple, but powerful, that would work with the Stormclaw.
His perception warped, as he found himself within what appeared to be an isolated mindspace. It was small, simple, but likely the best Elune could do, given who he was, and what their bond was like. It was a simple, nondescript glade that mirrored, judging by the flora, the forests of the Ashenvale. A shining Moonwell sat before him, and above, burning impossibly white amidst a ring of parted dark clouds, was the Moon herself.
Laronar was simply…in awe, as he realized that he could feel it. All he’d lost. All that had been taken. Just for quoting the White Wolf. It didn’t matter that, at the time, he’d agreed with Goldrinn, that he was a child of the Wilds, not the Moon. This level of punishment was…excessive, and though he tried not to think about it, it was impossible.
“You know…in an age long past…I wanted to be the first male Kaldorei Priest. I know you remember that. But you remained silent to me. And I came to prefer running shirtless through the woods to kneeling uselessly at the steps of a Temple that rejected me.”
Elune was eerily quiet, but Laronar knew, in his soul, that they needed to resolve this issue between them if he was to ever wield her power. “When I returned to my people, after training as a Druid, I still prayed. Most every night, with Shandris. Yet still…whatever warmth and insight she and the others felt…I did not. I felt nothing, heard nothing.” He directed his eyes upward then. “I was foolish to quote Goldrinn. I was too young to understand that my people are and have always been, a balance of what is natural, and what You have given us.”
Finally, Elune spoke, the words reverberating through his essence, The White Tiger has taught you well…and in turn, Goldrinn and those who follow him have learned to harness their savagery properly…you have done well. My child. Laronar.
He blinked, and realized a tear was running down his cheek. How long had he waited, prayed, dreamed of hearing Her speak his name. Or just speak at all, really. “Will…you make me whole again?” He asked quietly.
That time is not yet here, scion of the Stormclaws. In my children’s darkest hour…you must shine bright enough to remind them of the Light. But this is not yet that time. The Demons must be stopped. The Fel Titan must not claim Azeroth…you have reached out to me, genuinely, in this desperate time…what do you require?
Laronar thought only for a moment, before he responded with a mental image of a wise and ancient spirit he had long desired to master the form of. With a slight hint of what seemed like amusement at Laronar being Laronar, the druid felt his form begin to change. Antlers sprouted from his skull, spreading width wise, like a Tauren, his torso went from absurdly chiseled and muscular, to rotund, flabby, and covered in feathers. Glowing primal runestones humming with orange energy hung from his neck.
His arms were similarly flabby now as well, no less muscled, in fact, he likened the muscles within them to a bear’s, but they were also covered in long, glossy black feathers that, in the light of Elune, had a slight forest green tint to them. As he became one of the Moonkin for the first time in literal ages, his still amber eyes widened, as between the curl of his antlers, he felt an orb of power appear, a gift from Elune herself, albeit a small one. Laronar bowed his head in respect and thanks, as Elune’s light gently pierced the sparking Fel-green tinged clouds that were now seemingly ever-present around the Broken Isles.
Finally, after thousands of years, he’d made actual progress with the most important ‘spirit’ to his people. With some shifting, he found he still had his bags, and from within the one that held his artifact weapon, he drew the Stormclaw. Magically, it resized itself to fit around his feathery bear paw, and his Moonkin body shuddered as the electric power of the artifact merged with his essence. Around him, he sensed his people rousing themselves. The night was young, and those already fighting likely needed a reprieve. Isoraen Nightstar stepped up beside his old friend, eyes wide, and with a nod shared between the two Moonkin shifted druids, Laronar hooted, “Let’s gooooo!”
Thal’dranath - The Broken Isles
Vehlar Stormclaw wiped his soul-filled katana free of ichor, as he dispatched another Felguard. All around him, his fellow recently freed Demon Hunters were doing the same, alongside, of all forces, the very elves who had imprisoned most of them for millennia. Vehlar had never been caught by them, a fact he often reminded them of, but in the face of the Legion’s latest invasion, one they were woefully unprepared for, they could not justify locking him away again. Compared to the other Demon Hunters, he was sharper, faster, and had literal eons of experience with his craft. The few bodies of their forces that littered the ground were of newer hunters Vehlar did not recognize, though as the fighting ended, Priests of Elune, still a weird concept for him, revived them from the edges of death, to rejoin the fight. The male priests were every bit as useful as their female counterparts, and so long as they and the Wardens remembered the need for the Demon Hunters once this war ended, Vehlar had no objections to fighting alongside his people’s Goddess.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Vehlar’s grimace deepened, then. The end of the war was a long way off, however. Every few hours, a new titanic sized threat stomped through the portal bearing the promise of death and loot. In the catastrophically failed invasion of what the mortals called the Broken Shore, they had lost their Warchief, their High King, and no small number of their aircraft and fleets. Apparently, some Deathlord had managed to pose as the Alliance’s Spymaster, leading their forces to think they had a chance. The brief cooperation between world superpowers ended in tragedy and furious distrust, so much so that the King of Gilneas was apparently now actively hunting the acting Warchief, Sylvanus Windrunner, in retaliation for her cowardly retreat from the shore, that had left the surviving Alliance forces on the brink of death, and had forced Varian Wrynn to sacrifice himself. Every Demon Hunter had felt the explosion of his soul, and understood what Gul’dan had done to him. There would be no rest within the Shadowlands for Varian Wrynn. Almost all that he was and had ever been, had been detonated by the foul orc warlock from another timeline.
Despite their losses, there were victories as well, mostly from the Demon Hunters. The newly appointed Illidari Slayer had managed to commandeer an Inquisitor class dreadnought, upon which the Illidari were keeping their best chance against the Legion safe. Their main, and subtle, focus now was to reacquire Illidan Stormrage’s body, call his soul back from the Twisting Nether, and then finally finish this fight. This was, in the opinion of Vehlar and his contemporaries, their best chance to save Azeroth.
A murmur went through the company of mostly elves, as they finally reached their target. The ‘Black City’ as it was being called, was a newly raised encampment of the Legion, deployed by one of the thousands of massive flying spaceships that the Legion traveled the void with. In the center of this new outpost was their target, a Nathrezim known as Malificus.
A veritable army of stumbling and clearly controlled Argent Crusade Paladins were marching to the Dreadlord’s command, for no other apparent reason than it deeply amused him. Some columns were walking like geese, others were dancing awkwardly, in the Human style, whilst marching, and some were just marching backwards. Vehlar thought it bold of them, to be goofing off in an area still contested by the denizens of Azeroth.
One of the Wardens who was ‘co-leading’ the group with Vehlar, by pretending she alone was in command, turned away from the sight and addressed them. “The situation has changed. There are valuable captives, in addition to the forces we expected. We’ll need reinforcements to wipe out the Demons and save our people.”
Vehlar shook his head, and double checked their noise muffling spell. Still intact, still undetected. “There’s no need.” He rasped in his unused baritone. “We can free the prisoners, and they will be our reinforcements. They are Paladins. They’ll be quite useful against the Demons.”
The Warden tilted her head, and refreshingly, to her credit, she didn’t dismiss him outright. “They will be tired from their enslavement, Slayer. You’re sure of this?”
He nodded his hooded head. “Our Priests are strong. With the Mother Moon’s Light, the Paladins will find their strength…and their Retribution.”
The Wardens shared a glance, and then nodded. “Very well. We will break their Mind Control, the Priests will empower and heal the Crusaders, and the Sentinels will work with you to hold off their remaining forces until the Paladins are ready.”
A smile broke Vehlar’s usually stoic visage. “We are in agreement. Let us purge this ‘city’ from our lands.”
The group moved swiftly, passing without a trace as they took positions around the ‘city’. Then, suddenly, commotion erupted as the Argent Crusaders found themselves free. Most, before a single blessing imbued them, leaped for the nearest Legion spawn with a weapon, and killed its wielder. In a flash, Vehlar’s hunters and the Sentinels were riding into those around them. Light suffused the paladins, who cheered with their rescuers, and joined their efforts.
But, no plan survives contact with the enemy. As strong as their start was, the Legion had reserves that stretched to infinity. And their portal to this world was not far away. Multiple powerful Fel Lords appeared from within caves and buildings, charging easily through the crusaders. Legion Inquisitors floated behind them, creating spectral chains around the fallen crusaders, ending their short-lived freedom.
The Dreadlord himself was particularly active. Wherever he aimed his corrosive spells, Sentinels burned, while the few Demon Hunters who dodged did their best to flap away on borrowed demonic wings. For his part, Vehlar slid right past them, and carved through a mob of imps tearing into a downed Argent Paladin like a deadly dancer. Wherever he struck, dead demons and puddles of bubbling Fel blood were left behind, and his target was clear. The Dreadlord smirked, letting him come, though as he got closer, Malificus’ eyes widened.
There were whispers among his people, of a certain kind of Illidari, veterans of their abominable raid on Nathreza who apparently had stolen quite a few of the Nathrezim’s tricks. But…there was one they feared. In their tongue, he was Kil’rak. The Devourer.
Malificus pointed at Vehlar murmuring “Panic…” In his ancient tongue. The Night Elf smirked, and behind him, a pair of Fel Guard dropped their weapons, and hugged each other tightly, before letting out a high pitched and distinctly feminine shriek. Vehlar dashed forward, burying his soul-eating katanas into two Inquisitors, once more freeing their prisoners. Malificus snarled, and made the ground beneath the crusaders and the irritating Demon Hunter bubble with death and disease, but Vehlar roared at them to jump, and the stunned paladins did so, even as he dashed forward.
His form became a blob of shadow that rapidly rose above Malificus’ perch, where, in the air, a pair of very familiar shadowy wings expanded, as the shadows coalesced into a fully demonic figure. His grin was like a Satyr’s, as was most of his transfigured form, but there were elements of Nathrezim as well. Malificus sensed demonic souls within his blades, but instead of fighting their wielder, somehow, they were helping him. It seemed the Hunter had fed them often enough that, despite their imprisonment, the Satyrs within were now allies of his, after so many centuries. They probably couldn’t even remember their own bodies, after being swords for so long.
The blades ate into him as he caught them on his claws, and the Demon Hunter sneered at him. “Too arrogant for a weapon…too easy to kill…” The elf spun into a blade dance then, a showy but common technique that many Demon Hunters used to disorient their prey. Malificus was not so easily fooled though, and he caught each sweeping strike on his claws.
As Vehlar slid out of his attack, Malificus laughed triumphantly. “Weak. No amount of souls shoved into a weak blade can harm me!”
Vehlar smirked under his hood again. “Your nails would disagree.” The Dreadlord looked down at his unholy pedicure, to find it ruined. Shadow was eating away at his remaining nail, and he panicked, counterspelling the darkness. When he looked up again, Vehlar was gone. He let out a shout as bolts of shadow and flame hammered into his body. He responded with a barrage of shadow bolts in return, but Vehlar was already gone.
Malificus snorted flame, and roared. A hand composed of shadow magic automagically shot towards the Shadowmelded form of Vehlar, whose transformation had now run out of power. Malificus threw him full force into his allies below, floating into the air as they scattered from the force of the impact. “FOOLISH MORTALS! You cannot rival a true Demon!” He raised his ruined fingers to the sky, as dark Fel infused clouds gathered with surprising quickness. “PERISH!”
Malificus brought his hands down angrily, and though the thunder rumbled, no lightning came. Bolts of white blue plasma were burning through the Fel green, and a deep chuckle came from the pile of slowly recovering elves and paladins below. It was Vehlar, naturally, but the Dreadlord could tell he wasn’t nullifying this attack.
Sounding not at all unlike a horn from Warsong Gulch, a call echoed out from the edges of the city. “HOO HOO HOOOO!” A swarm of Night Elves crawled over the ridges around the city, and from its recesses, melting out of the shadows. Malificus decided it was time to retreat. As he had that thought, a bolt of lightning struck him with what sounded like the booming roar of a large feline, and as Malificus saw the source of the strike, he burned the image into his mind. Demons were nothing if not vengeful, none moreso than Dreadlords. He would exact his vengeance on the antlered chicken and the Demon Hunter, but for now, he disappeared in a swirl of shadow, leaving the demons to their temporary deaths. Any victory these mortals won here was meaningless. The demons would reform in a matter of hours, and retake their city.
With the fleeing of their leader, and the slaying of the Fel Lords, the rest of the demons fell quickly to the elven ambush. Vehlar stared at the massive Moonkin striding towards him, unbothered by the few remaining demons trying to attack him. Magical starbolts pierced their skulls before they got close. The druid transformed as he walked, and Vehlar shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve not seen that one before…brother.” He inclined his head, as the two clasped arms.
Laronar smirked, “I managed to draw upon it, in this time of terror.” He chuckled, as his brothers ‘gaze’ was all but locked on the slightly retracted Storm Claw covering his right hand.
“That relic…bears familiar magic…” Vehlar murmured, as his ‘eyes’ stared at it hungrily. “It feels like…our parent’s magic…or something close to it.”
Laronar nodded. “It’s actually a family relic I managed to find in Pandaria. Since then, I’ve spent quite a while repairing it. And no, it won’t work with your Arcane and Fel nonsense.”
Vehlar gave him a grim smirk. “Magic is not so immutable as you assume. I’ll outlive you. And when I do…it will become mine. But I can wait.”
Laronar ignored his truthful jab, as their forces began retreating from the Black City, towards Dalaran. Already, fresh demons were glowing on the horizon, swarming their position with numbers that they could not handle indefinitely.
The magi of Dalaran had informed each of the ‘Order Halls’ that had sprung up in the disastrous wake of Azeroth’s fourth conflict with demonkind. Thanks to Gul’dan, somehow, the demons were pulling in literally infinite reinforcements, some from other timelines. The goal, therefore, was not to fight them in a line like the War of the Ancients, the main focus would be collapsing the demon’s portal, and severing the connection completely.
Most of the orders agreed to this plan. The Illidari Slayer did not. Their goal was solely Illidan Stormrage’s body, and finding out where Gul’dan was keeping it currently.
The Nighthold - Suramar City
“The Nightwell…for your lives.”
The rasping voice of the Legion’s herald, a deformed monstrosity that vaguely reminded Grand Magistrix Elisande of a similar creature she and her Highborne had once examined in ages past. Before the shield rose. Before their beloved Queen doomed everyone not in her immediate circle to fiery death.
“I…will need time to…speak to my people. The Nightwell is…everything to us.”
The tusked monstrosity pulled its fat lips up into a passable smirk under his hood, his beady demonic crimson eyes burning with anticipation. “Three days…and then the Legion will annihilate this last pathetic shard of your shattered city.”
The apparition went silent, and after a beat, her Arcanists and Magisters started arguing.
“We can’t capitulate so easily to the Legion! They’re Demons! We know what they do! They will poison the Nightwell, and our people with it! Just like they’ve done to the Temple of Elune. The Legion doesn’t make allies…they make servants!” Thalysra’s impassioned words broke the silence first, but Elisande knew that her ideals were unrealistic at best.
“What would you have us do!? Fight them? We know how that went last time. We don’t have the numbers, we don’t even have the Pillars any longer! If we fight, we will die immediately. If we bend the knee…our people will endure.” Advisor Vandros countered, with sobering but sound logic. Elisande agreed, a fight with the Legion would only end one way.
Thalysra wasn’t done though. “What of the rest of Azeroth? Someone repelled the Legion before. We know there are other inhabitants of Azeroth who yet live in this era! We should reach beyond our shield to what remains of our kin! We need allies.”
Advisor Melandrus, usually Thalysra’s ally in her positions, spoke then. “In just three days? For all we know, the remnants of our people despise us for hiding here all this time, in luxury and safety. What little we know of them suggests they’ve turned to nature without the Well of Eternity. They likely abhor our magical prowess, at best, and at worst, will covet the Nightwell for themselves. Allying with them, or the lesser races, will go as well for us as it did for that…strange old mage who appeared during the Old War…what did he call himself…Krasus! That was it. He insisted on involving savages to fight alongside our noble host, and chaos ensued. The world broke. No, Thalysra, the only choice here is to endure…to treat with the Legion and hopefully retain as much of our autonomy as we can.”
Thalysra countered, as Elisande knew she would, and she barely paid attention to the First Arcanist’s words as she began casting a spell of future scrying.
“I am surprised at you, Melandrus. Giving up without so much as a Message sent? We could appeal to the Moon Guard, at least. Surely they have others they can contact.”
As Elisande finished her spell, and Melandrus agreed to at least contact the Moon Guard in their nearby stronghold, her voice cut through the chatter with authority. “It will not matter. In every future…if we fight the Legion, we will die. Suramar will burn…and the Legion will take the Nightwell anyway.” She turned to her advisors. “The only path here…is submission. Prepare the city. I don’t want this agreement being ruined by some overeager upstart who doesn’t understand what we face. Everyone in this room, does. We all lived through the Old War. We know what the Demons are capable of…but we never got the chance to parlay last time. We will give them access to the Nightwell…and bide our time for the right opportunity.”
And as she ordered, so it was. The shield that had stood for ten thousand years around Suramar suddenly fell with little fanfare or fighting, but immediately, the forces of the Legion began entering the city. To those watching in Dalaran and elsewhere…it was unnerving to see no signs of conflict, or fighting. The demons were seemingly being welcomed, and within hours of the shield falling, the Council of Dalaran declared Suramar to be an area of immense danger.
Gul’dan easily bent the Nightborne to his will. They were so eager to survive, that many eagerly gave up everything for the power the Legion promised, as so many had before them. Thus, the elite magically powerful citizens rose, while those without power were crushed under the burning Fel boots of the Legion, and their own Duskwatch officers. Rebellion fomented immediately amongst the lower classes, but it was too little too late.
The Fel Orc gazed upon his prize, Illidan Stormrage’s body, suffused in the magics of the Nightwell, as he became the ideal Avatar for the Fel Titan, his lord, Sargeras. This was the Legion’s ultimate plan, and Kil'jaeden's own command. Azeroth would not fall to their numbers, so, it would be burned, personally, by Sargeras himself, to ensure that the planet never fell to the powers of the Void.
