Bloody, But Unbowed

        The Highmountain tauren, Ronok Loneoak, stood as an imposing figure. Totems strapped across his back, war-paint across his face, he looked every part the stoic warrior. He spoke words of honour and pride, yet also of camaraderie and the bond of soldiers that can only be forged in battle. In many ways, he was the pinnacle of what the Horde aspired to be. The warriors under his command pounded their chests and roared in agreement and approval as he laid out the plans for battle, ready to fight and die under his command. A sethrak army guarding a field of Azerite crystals was just over the horizon, and Loneoak meant to take it.

Invictus listened to his words of inspiration and courage, and felt nothing.

As the rest of the Horde warriors went to ready themselves for battle, collecting their weapons and armour, Invictus and two other Forsaken sat in the sand. Their lifeless eyes stared into the distance, lost in thought and quiet contemplation. Invictus picked at a piece of mottled skin on his arm, turning to little more than dust in the unforgiving desert of Vol’dun. Is that how a Forsaken dies, then? Their skin retreats from their bones, and somewhere along the way, they simply cease to exist? 

The undead on his left seemed to be musing over the same. Her name was Sydney Townsend, an accomplished rogue. She opted to keep the name she had in life as she believed her goals were much the same; the protection of her son. He had followed Arthas into Northrend as a footman, lying about his age in order to enter the military. When the bells began to ring their alarm of an undead threat to the great city of Lordaeron, she stayed, desperately hoping for her son’s return. Her wish was granted, but not as she had hoped; he came back as a mindless ghoul of the undead scourge, having fallen under the powers of Arthas. 

When she saw him, shambling and half-rotten, a living horror masquerading as her son, she didn’t shy away from him. She hoped there was still a shred of humanity within that form. That hope cost her her life, as a swipe from the wicked claws of the ghoul tore open her jaw. Now, her mouth hangs loosely to one side, leaving her barely able to speak. Her only wish is to find and kill her son, putting him out of his misery. A mother, longing for the death of her own child… a fate too cruel to contemplate. A fate that belongs to a woman who says she used to paint landscapes. She thought the mills in northern Tirisfal were pretty. Death made her swap her brushes for daggers. Invictus could only shake his head at the waste of it all.

Looking to his right he saw Layton Abrams, a man of the cloth in life and a man of the cloth in death. He says every use of the light burns his skin and sends a wave of pain coursing through his body. The thing he loved the most in life, betraying him, even rejecting him in death. 

His last moments were of Lordaeron falling. He stayed to shelter the sick and give them peace before they, too, were taken by the scourge. A devotee of the light, ever faithful until the end, yet it abandoned him just the same. He used to preach about the gifts of the light from the pumpkin patches as the sun set. Now iron rods prop up his left side, ever since the ghouls tore him to pieces and left a gaping hole where his ribs had been. A life of love and peace turned into an undeath of pain and misery. Invictus wondered what they had done to deserve such fates.

When they were raised as Forsaken, all three had rallied under the banner of the banshee queen. They shared in their pain and suffering, finding a place in the world. As their leader rose to prominence, they took pride in seeing what they could still be, even in undeath. Yet even she abandoned them. Their paragon, turned to terror and evil. The one presence the Forsaken had that understood their plight, lived their experience, and fought tooth and nail for their place in the world, had betrayed them. What, then, did they fight for now? Everything that meant something had been taken.

Loneoak took notice of the three undead soldiers that had not prepared for the battle ahead. He had noticed they had hardly fought in the previous engagement, and he would only suffer more losses in his troops if his fighting force was not at full strength. His massive form moved to loom overtop of Invictus, blocking the harsh desert light. “May I sit with you?” he asked. The undead only nodded. 

“What happened in the last battle?” the tauren asked, referring to the first skirmish with the sethrak. Invictus knew what he meant right away. 

“It wasn’t cowardice,” he explained, his raspy voice made worse in the dry desert air. “It’s not that we couldn’t fight. As we moved towards them, I called out the warcry of our people. Victory for Sylvanas!” He raised a bony fist into the air halfheartedly, letting it swing down by his side. “It’s the first time I’ve called it since.”

The tauren nodded. He didn’t have to say it. It was a moment of severe shock for the Forsaken as their leader denounced the Horde and disappeared. 

“Hearing the words, the fire in my heart - if it’s indeed still in me - went dim. The others, they saw me. They saw my sword arm fall. I believe they felt the same.”

“The others - what’s their story?” Ronok asked. “I’d like to hear how they came to be and found their way to the Horde.” As Invictus explained, recounting their tales, Loneoak listened intently. Then, he asked how Invictus found his end. The undead told his story.

---

In life, he was a city guard for the kingdom of Lordaeron. He wore the white and blue of the city with tremendous pride, believing in the values of duty and honour that were required of him. While days and weeks passed with little action, he didn’t much mind; he had a task that was given to him, and he would perform it admirably. That task was simple. Protect the city from any threats that may occur. 

Those threats became all too real when the undead scourge descended upon them shortly after the traitorous prince Arthas murdered his father and brought death to their very doorstep. 

The city mustered as strong of a defense as they could, as pointless as it was. Refugees fled in waves, but many were cut down before they could be evacuated, adding to the ranks of the undead. Soldiers and guards tried desperately to protect their retreat, only to find their untimely end as well. The more cowardly ones, losing their nerve, removed their armour and hid amongst the fleeing civilian populace. 

But Invictus was no coward now, nor was he then, as a human with a name he had since forgotten. 

Standing on the front lines, he battled countless ghouls, suffered the assaults of monstrous nerubians, and witnessed the horrors of rickety meat wagons lobbing the corpses of his former allies into their ranks. Yet he battled on, undaunted and unbroken. 

In the midst of battle, he watched as an abomination, a hulking mass of stitched together bodies given life through unholy means, tore a swath through his fellow soldiers. With no concern for his own safety, he leapt atop the monster, hacking into dead flesh and bone. The abomination roared in pain and anger, swinging a savage meathook from a misshapen arm grotesquely attached to its shoulder. It hit him square in the back, time and again, as he stabbed and swung at the undead monstrosity. His last sight was seeing the great monster fall as the bloodloss and wounds turned his world to blackness.

He awoke later in a shallow grave. Undead, similar in appearance to those that had torn him and his city to pieces, were now greeting him to see if he maintained his free will. Soon enough, he was counted among their ranks. After some time, he abandoned all he had known in his past life to serve the Banshee Queen, even so much as forgetting his old name and taking a new moniker. He recalled a poet friend of his, once writing praise of the determination of the Lordaeron soldier, recounting their struggles against the Horde. “Heads bloody but unbowed”, the poem spoke in tribute. The poem was titled “Invictus,” and he took the name for himself. He still whispers the words of that poem to himself before entering into battle. 

Fighting for Sylvanas took him across his world and others, across time and space, battling demons and beasts the likes of which he could hardly imagine. Now, with her gone, his people were without direction. It felt like their second chance had fled with her.

--

Ronok Loneoak shook his head, unsure of how one even responds to such a story of pain, loss, and heroism. The tauren were a patient race, and for a time, they just sat in the sand and stared, just as the undead were before. 

“The undead woman, Sydney,” he said at last. “Her story is a tragic one, but she herself is not. Her love for her son is so strong, she battled the Lich King’s power to fight for his well being. She is unconquerable.”

He pointed his huge hand towards the second undead, the priest. “And him. His faith is so strong that he accepts the pain it brings him to continue the path he believes in. He is truly dauntless.”

“And you,” he said, putting a hand on the shoulder of the undead, a demonstration that the sensation of cold and rotting flesh did not bother him. “A brave warrior, already having proven that no sacrifice is too great. A champion, strong, and heroic. You, my friend, are indomitable. I’ve come to admire the Forsaken. What you should know is your strength comes not from loyalty to a queen, but from an iron will. An abject refusal to bow to fate! Each one of you has looked death in the face, held firm, and told it ‘no’. Fight not for her. Fight for yourself. For your people!” The tauren stood up and extended a hand to Invictus, who took it and stood with him. “You are a warrior. Now rally them to your side!”

Invictus found that fire in his belly again. He looked down to the tabard that he wore across his chest. The symbol of the Forsaken, and all they represent. “Abrams!” he called to the priest. “You will not stand idly by as these soldiers of the Horde fall to this rabble! Pick yourself up from the sand and follow my lead!” He turned to Sydney. “And you! As long as your daggers are sharp, you fight with me. Do you hear me? Not for Sylvanas - for us! For our people! Fate has tried to shatter us once again, but together - arm in broken arm - we will rise together and stand against it! Come, soldiers. We fight with the Horde.”

---

A short time later, the massive tauren led the charge into the sethrak camp. Invictus was right by his side, leading the charge with him. Raising his sword once more in pride and determination, he found the other resolute, determined members of the undead and called out to them. “For the Horde!” he yelled. With renewed vigour, he stood tall and felt the words more than he ever had. “Victory for the Forsaken!”

 

Purpose

        After the World Tree was set aflame, she was on the front lines - she would dare say she was instrumental - in cowing the Undercity in an attempt to bring Sylvanas to heel. You’d think one would be pleased to switch plague and desolation for the rolling hills and gentle meadows of Stormsong Valley, but soldiers were not meant to languish in a quiet, calming place like this. The bumblebees and pretty butterflies were an affront to her skills as she watched over town hall meetings in backwater Kul'Tiras.

She almost didn't tend to the latest signal fire coming from a nearby town. To settle petty rivalries

between grain farmers felt so beneath her, but there was sadly little else to do. Riding on a steed provided to her by the people of Boralus, she headed towards Brennadam.

        The pillar of smoke she saw billowing into the sky from just over the hills, however, told of a very different story from her expectations. Perhaps there would be some action after all. And with that action comes heroism, and with heroism, payment. 

The Alliance to some is a calling. For Northeast, it’s a means. She had tried mercenary work in the past, only to find it to be dangerous, unreliable, and fraught with betrayals and backstabbing. A soldier for the Alliance, however, could reap the benefits of a powerful, wealthy regime. The armies of Stormwind were perpetually at war, and while they loved to tell their tales of heroism and virtue, she would be there for what truly drove soldiers. Not love of the king or pride in one’s faction, but personal advancement and a heavier purse. It’s not her fault that pillaging and plundering tended not to find their way into the rousing songs and calls to arms that the military wing of the Alliance so proudly sang. 

Of course, what she was doing for the Alliance was still right, by the standards of the priests and paladins that would espouse their virtues on the rest of the military. After all, she was rushing to save a village that by all accounts seems to be on fire at this very moment. She would ride in, stop the fires with a wave of her staff and a blast of cold and be the hero of the day - even if she detested frost magic. The difference between her and the blessed fools of the light is that while they would raise their hands to salute, she would extend hers out for payment. Just as the farmers of Westfall didn’t till the fields out of the goodness of their hearts, she simply needed to earn her living. An act of goodness is still good, even if it comes with a benefit. 

Travelling over a hill and finally coming into view of Brennadam, she discovered that perhaps that payment would have to be more than she was anticipating. The entire town was being ransacked, under heavy assault by forces of the Horde. Goblin bombs had been set off around the major buildings, spreading chaos just as surely as the flames. Orcish thugs and troll skirmishers had overwhelmed the town’s defenses, ransacking the streets and killing indiscriminately. 

Fortunately for Northeast - and for Brennadam - it was a market town, a hub for trading, goods, and food. A town of wealth. A town, in her mind, worth her time to save. That, and when it's Horde troops, she could bring out the fire that burned within her soul and sought release at every waking moment.

A goblin tinkering with a bomb on the outskirts of the town was the first to feel her wrath. Absorbed in his work, clanging away with a wrench and hoping to fix his makeshift explosive device, he didn’t even notice Northeast had cast a simple spell to ignite the fuse. He was blasted to pieces by his own device.

Two female trolls witnessed the death of the goblin mechanic. Thinking they could sneak behind Northeast and get the upper hand, they flanked the mage as she walked into town, heart calm and pulse steady. However, these were no rogues. Their movements were obvious, and Northeast saw through their plan clear as the bright skies in Elwynn. Casting a barrier of pure flame around herself, it easily deflected the spears that inevitably came her way. Before they could ready a second wave, a pillar of flame engulfed the first, not even giving the troll a chance to scream, let alone run. The other, terrified at the prospect of such a grisly end, fled immediately. A ball of fire from the mage’s hands hit her square in the back. She screamed, trying in vain to pat out the flames, alive, but barely. Northeast could see there was little fight left in her after the first blast. It wouldn’t be worth casting a second and wasting her energy to put some troll out of her misery. 

She wrinkled her nose. The smell of burning flesh was always an unpleasant one.

As more Horde fell in heaps of ash in her wake, the defenders of the town began to rally. Small groups of adventurers had begun to join in the fray as well. A warlock casting powerful shadow magic was aided by a draenei hunter working impressively in tandem. A gnome slipped in and out of the shadows, tinkering with the goblin explosives, defusing them before their deadly payload went off. Paladins healed the wounded and swung mighty hammers at those Horde that dared remain. It wasn’t long before the invaders had to bid a hasty retreat.

“You there! Mage!” called a man from a group of hardy Kul’Tirans, three foot soldiers and two riflemen. “The Horde stole a cache of gold from the town treasury! They’re escaping out of the western exits - we’ve got to catch them before they regroup with their forces and pilfer all what we've worked for!”

“How much have they taken?” Northeast asked. 

The man, clearly the captain of the small band, raised his helmet slightly off his head to get a better look at the mage. “Does it matter? It’s the town’s treasury! These people worked for years to build that up for themselves! Come on, then!”

For Northeast, it fit the bill of a task worth completing. A good deed, and an assurance of a reasonable payment. Surely they would provide for her a hefty sum if she returned the treasury to the town. She looked at the man and nodded. “For the Alliance!” she said with the vigour of one who truly meant it.

The soldiers and the mage hurried in the direction of the stolen loot. It wasn’t far out of town before they caught up with the band of Horde thieves, slowed as they were by the weight of the treasury. They had clearly piled gold into a mining cart they found in the town, and were gradually pushing far away from the guards and danger. It was slow, methodical work, but they had made good progress - right up until they had reached a bridge with a steep incline. The two orcs that had taken the brunt of the pushing were clearly exhausted, although still being rebuked by the undead that watched over the operation. Two trolls stood as sentries as a blood elf, bow in hand and lynx at his side, scanned the landscape.

The captain urged them to duck low, just behind a hill. They watched the band, counting their soldiers and coming up with a plan of action. They outnumbered them seven to six, but the orcs were clearly at a low ebb of their physical strength. To Northeast’s amusement, the undead appeared to be a priest. A former holy woman, turned undead, and now a thief. She quietly wondered what mental leaps the monster took to reconcile stealing from a town as an act of good or justice with the light she so cherished. She thought that rightfully it belongs in the hands of the Horde, perhaps? Sylvanas has greater need of the riches, maybe? Just as she always knew; the morals of soldiers, light bound or otherwise, were malleable. 

“Mage - do you follow?”

She had realized the captain had been discussing a battle plan, and she had missed the entirety of it while musing on morality. Fortunately, time did not seem of the essence. The Horde had managed to get the cart stuck on the lip of the bridge, unable to properly lift it over. 

“Loud and clear, cap’,” she said. A mage’s job was simple almost undoubtedly; stay at a distance, and set the world aflame. 

“Are we ready then, boys and girls?” the captain asked. “We’ve got to take this back - for the people of Brennadam! For the Alliance!” The captain roared in fury, charging towards the Horde. The riflemen followed, planting at a distance as the two other swordsmen flanked their position and drew the attention of the defending soldiers. 

The orcs immediately fled, doubling back somewhere, likely where they had left their weapons to more easily push the cart. The trolls let loose their spears, one finding the heart of a rifleman before he even had a chance to fire. In response, the last gun-wielding Kul’Tiran fired a bullet right at the head of the more accurate troll, killing him instantly. 

Northeast came over the hill, finding the blood elf in her sights. His lynx was already clawing at a swordsman as he tried desperately to ward off its blows with his shield. The hunter had managed to land a few arrows in the Kul’Tiran’s leg and arm as the beast worked with him in tandem. Unfortunately for the blood elf, he didn’t see the massive ball of fire that came straight towards his chest. Terrible screams of agony came after it struck, enough for the lynx to panic and turn towards its master. The swordsman took his chance and plunged his weapon deep into the animal’s flank in his final act of bravery as he, too, succumbed to his wounds. 

As Northeast made short work of the other troll, the priest was locked in combat with the captain and the remaining swordsman and gunner. Bullets bounced harmlessly off a barrier surrounding the priest that proved impenetrable to their attacks, as the undead assaulted their minds and ravaged their bodies with a mix of light and shadow. Just then, the orcs reappeared over the horizon, brandishing axes and shields and heading towards the gunner. A lucky shot found flesh and felled one of the orcs before the other charged in and hacked into the Kul’Tiran. 

As the priest sent another wave of shadow energy into the mind of the captain, causing him to fall over and howl in pain, clutching at his skull, the battlefield suddenly felt very empty. The blood elf was a charred heap, its pet lynx leaving a trail of blood as it went to die by its master’s side. The Kul’Tiran riflemen had both left this world, one with a spear through his chest and the other hacked apart by orcish axes. An orc and a troll lied motionless with bullets in their heads. The captain looked to be breathing his last in an undoubtedly painful way to be sent to the afterlife. 

Northeast sent another ball of fire out towards the priest. This one shattered the shield, the remaining blast setting her robes alight. As she tried to bring up another barrier, the last remaining swordsman thrust, his blade piercing the rotting flesh of the undead’s stomach. It sent the priest to her second death. The attack on the undead left the Kul’Tiran open for assault from the remaining orc, however. An axe dug into his shoulder, and the man fell in a heap. 

The orc charged the mage, the final two combatants in what turned out to be a brutal and bloody battle. Sending out a wave of frost magic, the orc’s feet became frozen in ice that had suddenly cut across the field, sweeping out from the mage. As her hands were brimming with fire, she had a moment to look the orc in the eyes. He must have known, then, what was to happen to him. His fate was being delivered to him in the form of a ball of flame. He did not beg, nor weep, nor protest; just stared, defiant until the end. What drove a being to such heights of loyalty and courage? What compelled someone to stand up to death, look it in the eyes, and meet it without trepidation? Perhaps she was wrong when she had thought about the plight of the soldier. This one was stealing gold, yes - but it wasn’t the gold that brought him back to the fight when he just as easily could have run. It was duty. Honour. Courage. That’s what brought his return. 

And just the same, it was those admirable traits that set the events in motion to have him now staring eye to eye with a mage as she sent the fireball that would obliterate him. This one did not die instantly, yet he did not scream as the flames overwhelmed him. In the moment before his death, he raised his axe one last time. Honourable, irrelevant futility.

It was quiet after the last orc fell. Not even birdsong broke the silence as the animal life had fled at the start of the battle. Only the crackling of the remaining fires, caused by her own hand, made it any louder than a tomb. All alone, she walked to the cause of the fight in the first place; a mine cart full of gold and gems. The deposited wealth of a whole town. 

It was more than she had ever laid eyes on in one place, truly. She’d have to return to the village just to get citizens to cart it back for her. And then what? What would they do with it? Save it further, placing it at the bottom of a treasury for it to serve no purpose other than to gloat to the other towns that lacked the same success? Perhaps some of those citizens, hauling back the gold, would have sticky fingers as well. It would hardly even go to the right places! What justice was there in that? 

She considered just how much she could do with that gold. The enchantments on her robes and staff… lavish rings and necklaces of power… a swifter steed, to arrive at tragedies like the village before they got out of hand, and allowing her to be better suited to defend them? Perhaps if her abilities were better augmented she would've saved the lives of the unfortunate souls that gave their all for Brennadam. Would it not be better suited to be in her possession? Had she not earned it anyway? If it wasn’t for her, the village would have fallen completely. It was not only the best option to take the gold for herself, but the righteous and just thing to do. 

She looked over at the still smoldering corpse of the undead priest. Such a perversion of her followings, using what was meant for good and turning it to evil. With this gold, she could fight against such dishonest actors. Northeast simply needed the means to do it, and that means lay in a cart right before her feet. 

She sighed deeply and made her choice.

Using what remained of her reserves of power, she called forth a meteor to strike the earth just before her. Dirt and debris shot into the air, and a small crater was made from the destruction. Carrying handfuls of the gold to the crater, she placed them deep into the earth. When she had carried the whole of the treasury over, she covered it with the dirt it had churned up. Now, there was one final matter. She set the bridge aflame. As it collapsed, the mine cart went with it, tumbling into the river below. Any proof of her actions went with it.

---

She returned to Brennadam, looking weary and battered. Soldiers and civilians came to her, asking what had transpired. Finding a small gathering of people around her, she told her tale. 

“We came upon a group of Horde fleeing the city. Bravely, we charged into the fray, hoping to slow their retreat. The Kul’Tirans that fought that day…” she looked to the sky, closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m afraid they’ll not return.” A wail came from the crowd, a grieving widow. “They fought bravely. They fought for this village. They are to be honoured for their sacrifice.”

“And what of the Horde? What of the gold?” came a voice, shouted down for the callousness of asking a question of money after such a traumatic event. 

“They crossed the river just as we arrived. They managed to bring our treasury beyond the bridge as we battled, causing many Horde casualties. Unfortunately, they burned the bridge behind them as they passed. We were unable to apprehend them, although I can promise you we slaughtered all those that covered the retreat. I’m sorry... I failed you.” Northeast hung her head, causing a few of the citizens to give her pats on the back, thanks, and well wishes. 

A member of the guard stepped forward. “You did what you could, defending this place. For that, you have our thanks.”

Northeast nodded solemnly. “I appreciate that. But for now, I wish to return to the battlefield. I’d like to pay my respects. If I may, could I borrow some sacks used for storing grain? If there are any mementos of the fallen, I would like to collect and return them.” 

“Of course, anything!” replied the guardsman, asking another to come back with the bags.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be on my way, then. I wish I could have done more for this… injustice. But this world is not always full of good people.”

Warmth in the Cold North

            Jica pulled her cloak higher up around her shoulders and tucked her head down deeper. The biting winds of Northrend were already a stark contrast from Azuremyst Isle, but the frozen, glacial air of Icecrown was something different altogether. It seemed fitting for the land of the dead; endless, empty plains of windswept snow and ice, the landscape dotted with imposing black metal structures that looked like they had never seen the light of a simple fire in all their existence. Her lone comfort was her direwolf, Mouse, a hulking grey beast that had become her closest friend. She knelt down and held her close, hoping to share in some of her warmth in the attempt to find the way back to the forward base camp of the Argent Crusade.  

She had already been out for hours. Even for a hunter, it was difficult to travel in Icecrown. Winds would obscure footsteps and the snow and cold deadened most of the smells and trails used for tracking. She was running on instinct, and an instinct that was using fewer and fewer clues as the night was beginning to threaten to overtake the day. Her greatest hope was a hill just a short distance from her. Hopefully from that vantage point, she could find a direction towards the base camp, towards warmth, towards home. Mouse went dutifully up first, reaching the top and looking over the edge. The wolf crouched low and slowly retreated, a sure sign of warning. 

Jica followed suit, crouching and carefully moving towards the crest of the hill. She had already defeated many scourge today, and the prospects of fighting more with fingers so cold she could hardly draw back the string of her bow seemed especially daunting. Nevertheless, she had to know where her enemies were so as to not get ambushed on the road. Carefully, she leaned forward and looked over the edge.

A small party of skeletons and other shambling, undead monstrosities were repairing a broken down meat wagon. Had it been the morning and the start of her hunt, she would have riddled them all with arrows before they even knew she was here, but after a long day of hunting, it seemed hardly the time. However, something caught her eye and forced her to stay for a moment longer. Hiding behind a bubbling cauldron of green ichor, she thought for a moment she saw someone. But not a wretched undead; she thought she saw a gnome. 

Leaning closer, she tried to get a better look. Jica took one step forward, planting her draenic hoof on the very apex of the hill. However, it wasn’t a rock or snowdrift she stepped in, but rather a thin layer of ice. She overbalanced, tumbling down the hill and landing right in the midst of the undead. Mouse, much more surefooted, lept from the hill in support and howled its challenge while she got her bearings. Where had her bow even landed? 

The skeletons had begun to recognize the prey in their midst and converged on her as she scrambled. Desperately, Mouse charged and hacked at her attackers, but time was running short. She had mere moments to find her weapon and defend herself against the coming onslaught.

She slid behind a discarded wheel of the meat wagon to catch her breath and regain her composure. Unbeknownst to her, that’s right where a demon was already waiting. A strange, ever-shifting void, shackled in her existence by two bracers on what one would have to call its arms. It began to walk - shifted, rather - towards her. There was little she could do; Mouse was already fighting beyond her sight and her bow was nowhere to be seen. She braced for whatever the demon’s assault would be.

And yet it moved just past her.

Confused, she watched its path. The voidwalker instead was moving towards an undead that was coming towards her from behind. Releasing void energy from its body, it managed to get the attention of the monster that seemed to suddenly forget Jica’s very existence. Lucky once, she stumbled upon further good fortune as she spotted her bow just where the voidwalker moved past. Jica sprinted towards it, taking it up in her hands and immediately firing arrow after arrow into the undead that was attacking her strange, blue saviour.

“Memzon!” she heard a voice call out. “Where are you? There are enemies about! Have you forgotten your master’s voice? Where is that big dumb blueberry? No matter! I’m more than enough without you, demon!”

Nocking an arrow, she stepped around the wheel to see Mouse tossing around a skeleton like a freshly caught meal. Just beyond, she saw the gnome that had caught her attention in the first place. Great bolts of shadow energy ripped from his hands, slamming into undead creatures and sending them spiralling away. With a flick of his wrist, flames engulfed another as a black-robed cultist writhed in agony and retreated to safer ground. 

“Bask in my magnificence!” the gnome yelled, his voice squeaky and high. “I am a master of demons, commander of shadows! You, just a mere band of bones and flesh!” 

Jica looked to the voidwalker, knowing it must have been under the gnome’s command. Did she just hear a demon sigh?

“Feel the power of shadow and flame!” he called further. “May the… hmm.” The gnome paused, putting his hands on his hips. “I think we got ‘em all. Memzon! Where have you gone?”

Jica put the arrow back in her quiver. Her companion came dutifully at her side again, rubbing its head up against her leg like a kitten would its mother. She raised a hand in greeting towards the gnome that very well may have saved her life. “Thank you,” she said. “I saw you from above, and I slipped-”

“I am Balfamelek!” the gnome yelled, his hands outstretched and firing small jets of flame from the ends of his fingers. “Gnomeregan’s finest son! Slaughterer of the undead, commander of demonic forces!” With a flourish, he bowed deeply. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She desperately resisted the urge, but couldn’t help chuckling. She knew the inhabitants of Azeroth would bow to those they showed respect to as a way of showing they’re not above them. But for one of his height to bow…

His voidwalker turned, reading Jica’s expression even if Balfamelek didn’t. In an otherworldly voice, it stated, “She believes you are short.”

“Nonsense!” Balfamelek declared. “Short in stature, perhaps, but high in standing!

“Of course,” she agreed. “My name is Jica. I’ve been hunting the scourge, but… it seems I’ve lost my way. Would you know the fastest way to the base?”

“It just so happens that I do! Allow me to escort you. Stay close - it’s dangerous here. Fortunately, you have the greatest warlock this world has seen at your disposal!” He began to walk further east. “Come, come!”

On the way back to the base, Balfamelek - Balf, he said she could call him - kept looking back to Jica, ensuring she was close by and safe. In fact, he looked back probably more often than he needed to. “Are you alright? Are you hungry? I have some conjured bread from those… mages…” he said, saying the word with clear disdain. “They’d be useless if it wasn’t for their food. However, I will admit they do make good strudels!”

“I’m quite alright,” she said with a smile. She pulled her cloak up tighter again. “Perhaps just a little cold.”

He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got just the thing for that! A far better conjuring than those filthy mages can ever produce.” His hands waved in front of him, faint green lights swirling around his fingers. Suddenly, from nothing, a small stone pulsing with energy lay in his palm. “A healthstone! It should keep you nice and warm. Mages have their food, but I’ve got the best cookies.”

“Cookies,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be happy to take one.” She reached to take it from his palm, but at the last moment she saw a shadow descending from above. A skeletal form of a great bird was diving towards them, sharp, diseased claws making it clear its intentions to tear the gnome to pieces. Thinking quickly, she went for an arrow instead of the gnome’s offer, and in one fluid motion let it fly from her bow right through the maw of the beast. It twisted and shrieked, falling in a heap and sliding through the snow, right to Balf’s feet. 

“Blasted voidwalker!” he yelled. “How did you not see it coming towards me! What purpose is there in summoning you if not for protection!” Suddenly realizing his outburst was making him look quite the fool, he looked sheepishly back to Jica. “But thank you. I suppose that makes us even.” The danger having passed, he gave her the stone.

--

It wasn’t long before they found a path leading back to the camp. It would be a while yet, but they were on the right track, and the two found they were quite enjoying each other's company. Balf would tell bombastic stories of heroism and courage, almost surely exaggerated, and Jica would tell him of life on the Exodar. According to Jica, it wasn’t the first time she’d gotten into trouble by slipping off a cliff’s edge, and Balf smiled knowing his little legs and long robe had made him trip in similar circumstances more than he’d care to admit. 

“I’ve slid off a fair few perches myself, you know,” he said. “Landed right in the waiting arms of a whole band of orcs! But don’t you worry - I taught them a thing or two about the great Balfamelek! They were running home sooner than they could yell their silly little battle cries.” 

“Really?” Jica asked, eyes wide. “A whole band of them?”

“A whole one of them,” his voidwalker added in. The voice sounded even stranger considering it was making a joke. “You fell from a hill. Your knee hit the orc’s skull. You knocked it out cold.”

Jica nearly burst out laughing, but held it together to spare Balf’s feelings. “You know, you remind me of one of your kind I’ve heard a lot about. A powerful spellcaster! I believe his name is Millhouse-”

“-Manastorm,” Balfamelek finished. “He wishes he had the talents I have! Here,” he said. “I’ll prove it to you!” Quite a distance away another group of undead were working around a hastily created blacksmithing station. A hulking abomination presided over the workers, a number of skeletons hammering away at iron tools and weapons. Obsessed with their work, they hadn’t noticed the pair. “I bet you I can clear that whole camp without a scratch. You just watch! Don’t even so much as lift a finger!”

“Oh, you don’t have to prove anything to me. Really. I believe you! I saw the way you handled those monsters back there.”

“I must show I’m more than just talk!” he said, holding up his hand and allowing it to briefly become engulfed in flame. With tremendous confidence, he strode right up to the undead camp. “Memzon! Come! We’re going to need you to take some of the hits!”

The “shoulders” of the voidwalker seemed to lower in disappointment. “I don’t like this place,” it said in its echoing, demonic voice. 

Holding no pretense of subtlety, Balf walked right within sight of the undead. “Greetings!” he called out as he announced himself to the monsters by sending a blast of shadow energy at the first skeleton, blasting away its ribcage and sending it reeling. “And hello!” he added, causing a great burst of flame to overwhelm another. “Today, you’ve met your end, vile fiends!”

The abomination yelled out before lumbering towards him, rallying a number of other skeletons close at hand to his side - ones they had not seen from a distance. Suddenly, he was gravely outnumbered. 

Gnomish hands flying this way and that, spells burst forth with tremendous energy. However, it was clearly beginning to tax the spellcaster, and sweat was beading on his forehead in spite of the brutal cold of Icecrown. “I… bring… chaos!” he said between heavy breaths. “I… am… unstoppable!”

In spite of his powers of destruction, one skeleton managed to sneak around behind him wielding a dull, savage cleaver. It lifted its bony fingers, meaning to cleave the gnome in half. Balf turned, far too late, to see his attacker not a foot from his face. 

An arrow tore right through its skull just as it went to bring down its arm. Her pet charged into the fray, knocking down one skeleton and clawing at another. 

“I would have had it!” Balf called out. “But I do appreciate the assist! And now that I can concentrate on my main target…” He crouched low, building up his full power, and fixed his eyes on the abomination that was moving towards him. Even though it towered over the gnome, he did not so much as shy away from his attacker in the slightest. “The powers of chaos, subservient to me!” he yelled as a bolt of green fel fire ripped from his fingers and blasted a hole right through the abomination. It toppled over, its massive frame shaking the ground as it fell.

The fight over and fully exhausted, Balf fell back in the snow and breathed deep. The cold air was tough on his lungs, causing him to cough and wheeze. Jica sat with him, lying back and looking up at the sky that had since turned to night. Even in the depths of Icecrown, there was still tremendous beauty. The sky was lit up with the mysterious aurora of the north. Jica thought it looked breathtaking. “The colours,” she said. “It looks like some of your spells.”

The warlock turned and smiled, but was too exhausted to offer a comment on how even the power of Azeroth shied in comparison to his. They waited a moment for both to catch their breath, enjoying the wonderful display nature was providing them. The healthstone he gave her kept her warm, and she held it close.

“We should be heading back,” she said. “I think I can see the signal fires from the camp off in the distance.”

“You’re quite right!” Balf replied, having regained his energy. 

“I can make it back on my own. But thank you, sincerely. For everything.”

“Of course! And…” the gnome looked down at his feet. “I’d like to admit I don’t think I had everything under control when I attacked that camp. Thank you for helping me.”

“Of course,” she said with a smile and a laugh.

“We make a good team, you know.”

“We do,” she agreed, and with a nod of thanks walked off towards the distant lights.

“I’m heading there too. If you’d… if you’d still like an escort,” he called at her back.

Jica turned back and flashed him a grin. “Better catch up, then!”

“And if you’re still going hunting again tomorrow…”

“...then I think I could use the company.”

They walked back to the camp together, side by side. Jica found she kept looking back at the gnomish adventurer the same way he was looking back at her after their first battle at the hill. Even in spite of the cold, icy region of Northrend, she found there was a warmth in her heart.

 

Not Even Death

When Lethelon Dawnrest walked into the Razor Hill inn, his smile was the lightest thing in the room. Of course, there was little competition; Grosk, the innkeeper, a rugged, scowling orc kept it drab and dreary deliberately, thinking the darkness would cause his patrons to drink more and worry about keeping up appearances less. That, and maybe they’d miss a few of the smudges on the glasses. However, that did little to stifle the sparkling visage of the blood elf warlock in the slightest. His jetting chin held a grin that reached from ear to ear.

“Harrietta Bentham!” he said, sitting at the table of a Forsaken sitting upright and rigid at an uneven table. “How lovely to see you, as always!”

Harrietta frowned, hearing her old name - the one she had chosen prior to her death - said instead of the new one she had taken. Normally she’d correct him, taking a few shots at his pomp and circumstance he brought with him on every occasion. In fact, that’s why she chose this inn; she thought it could deflate his ego. However, today something bothered Harrietta, and even though the skin in her face didn’t comply with her emotions anymore, she made it clear something was on her mind. “Sit down, and please, just this once - speak softly.”

Lethelon pulled out a chair, noticing that his demeanor had caused a few glances his way. It was something he was used to, but he did note it was more than usual today. “Well, with this place as lively as it is, how will you hear me over all the chatter?” he said mockingly. The place was indeed eerily quiet, even with the presence of a fair number of orcs, typically a boisterous people. “Innkeeper!” he said, snapping his fingers at Grosk who was busy using a dirty rag to spread the filth on a dirty glass in a half-hearted attempt to clean it. He came over quickly, his eyes darting to the back of the inn.

“What do you want?” asked Grosk, showing his typical charm and hospitality.

Lethelon ran a finger along his chin. “Hmm. You know, I’m feeling like living on the edge today, perhaps. Give me something strong, I’m thinking! Something even a tough old orc like yourself would scoff at!” Inspecting his fingernails, he couldn’t help but add, “After all, if I can control fire and fel, what is ale to me?”

Grosk only grunted. Harrietta frowned even deeper than before. Normally, she found his elven arrogance amusing, even endearing, and to be fair, as an undead she had to take the friends as she found them anyway. For him, she was one of the few that could put up with that same arrogance. That, and her appearance - so unseemly to many - bothered him not in the slightest, considering he was a conjurer of any number of ferocious and wretched demons. Unfortunately, Harrietta could not afford to suffer Lethelon’s eccentricities as she always had. 

When Grosk returned to the table, he leaned in close to the blood elf, doing his best attempt at whispering an orc could hope to achieve while he laid the ale he brought with him on the table. “Listen to me, warlock,” he said, his breath causing Lethelon’s noise to twitch, “if you can manage to keep your voice down, I won’t charge you today. Consider yourself lucky.”

“A free drink!” Lethelon said, his long eyebrows raising. “In that case, I’ll take one for the lady as well. And perhaps a cactus apple surprise, if you have one. It’s the one orc delicacy I’ve found myself fond of. Or at least, able to tolerate.” Grosk walked away without another word, although his mind’s eye was clearly picturing cleaving the arrogant wretch in half. “Now,” Lethelon said, obviously struggling to keep his voice down, “I believe it’s time you tell me what it is about this bar that has kept everyone in this strange, catatonic state.”

“The one at the back of the bar,” Harrietta replied. 

Lethelon started to lean to see around her.

“Not so obvious!” she snapped. Lethelon tried again, this time with subtlety. 

At the back sat an orc, his lower half covered almost entirely in plate. While he seemed not to be carrying a weapon, the size of his arms and chest implied that he hardly needed one. His bare skin was covered in so many scars it appeared there was hardly a part of him that wasn’t wounded. The patches that weren’t were covered in dark tattoos over the dark brown skin of the orc. It marked him as a Mag’har, hailing from the alternate timeline of Draenor where the orcs were untouched by demon blood. Yet he needed no such blood to inspire fear. The stranger had an aura of menace that hung around him like a dense fog.

“And who might that be?” Lethelon asked as Grosk returned with food, drink and a scowl. The blood elf ran a finger around the rim of the glass, letting a green fel flame briefly trail in its wake. The unmistakable smell of the smoke from the demonic energy briefly filled the air around the two, causing the undead’s eyes to open wider in anger and frustration. “Apologies,” the elf said, raising his finger from the glass. “Old habits.”

“Really, I’m going to need you to settle yourself. That’s…” she turned back, just a touch, to ensure the stranger still sat where he did. “That’s Doomscream.”

Lethelon snorted. “Doomscream? Had Grom simply beaten him to the punch on the surname?”

“Idiot!” she said, too loudly for her own comfort, and she quietly chastised herself for her outburst. “Have you really not heard of him? He ran with Hellscream side by side. When the Lightbound draenei began to impose their will on the rest of the world, he was one of the leaders of the resistance. He was one of Hellscream’s fiercest lieutenants! They say when they would flank an enemy in battle, they’d hear a roar of doom and one of hell, and all those that followed the light would tremble in fear.”

“An orc who yells,” Lethelon said with a laugh. “So, an orc! I believe I’ve met plenty enough.”

“Keep. Your voice. Down,” Harrietta warned. “This is no ordinary orc. Something… something happened to him, it seems. Seeing the light - this brilliant source of power that seemed on the side of righteousness, of justice - slaughter any that dared to stand against it, well, his sense of right and wrong just… broke. He’d slaughter anything in his path. Soldiers, healers… civilians. I heard he went through towns after he and Grom would defeat their guards and just… it was carnage, they said. The things I was told, I can only hope they’re exaggerated.”

“Again, this just seems like the action of any- hold on. I thought orcs only spoke of honour. Where’s the honour in slaughtering those that can hardly put up a fight?”

“You don’t understand,” Harrietta said with a shake of her head. “There’s a hatred in him. Even since he came here, and got off that world. There have been reports that he hunts any that wield the light. Priests, paladins, he’d massacre them.”

“Well, I am a warlock, don’t forget. Perhaps we’d find some common ground.”

“He rips them apart, Lethelon,” she said, her face stone, her raspy voice desperately struggling to express her seriousness. “Any that dare use the light around him, after he’s seen what it’s done, he…”

“Go on, then.”

“He tries to tear it out of them. He’ll hack into them, trying to ‘free’ them from the light that’s corrupting their souls. Just cut them to ribbons...”

“Doesn’t like the light. Probably why he came to these dusty old ruins,” he said, his hands held up to better express his disdain for the place. “We could be in Silvermoon, you know. A single portal, and we’re dining in decadence!”

She leaned forward. “If you can’t keep your voice down, you’re not going to be seeing Silvermoon ever again. Either of us. I’ve already died once. I didn’t like it much. I doubt I’ll like it much the second time around, either. So, please, kindly shut your mouth.”

“Well,” Lethelon said, putting on an overly dignified expression and holding his hand to his chest like a slighted noble, “I’ve never been so insulted in my life! Now, if this… Doomscream, was it? If he’s such a rampaging, light-hunting monster, how is it they haven’t put him in chains?”

“We’ve been in combat over one thing or another since I’ve been born. Well, reborn. Do you think all the warchiefs we’ve had over the years would ever be willing to throw away a weapon like that? One that can defeat a whole garrison? Even if it means he’s defeating the whole garrison, even more than he has to,” she muttered. “The Horde is entering the Shadowlands. They’ll need everything at their disposal. They can’t afford to lose him.”

“From what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’ll meet plenty of old friends there!”

Behind Harrietta a chair scratched across the wooden floor. Every patron in the bar suddenly became exceptionally interested in their drinks and stared down at them intently. Harrietta slid so far down her chair she nearly fell out of it.  

“Why, Harrietta, you are somewhat of a ghost, yet you look like you’ve just seen one. And I thought the undead resisted fear!” The warlock laughed and slammed down his mug of ale on the table. After that, however, he paused. His hand moved to an enchanted dagger he kept in his robe, as he heard the unmistakable sound of plate-clad feet stomping slowly in his direction. 

“What have you done?” muttered his friend.

“Relax,” he said with an awkward chuckle that revealed he realized that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew. Now that the orc was standing and coming progressively closer, he was much, much larger than he had anticipated. Muttering a few words as fast as he could, he summoned his imp to his side. 

The orc walked calmly up to him, placing a massive fist on his table and leaned in close. In a cold, dead tone he spoke softly to the blood elf. “I don't like noise,” Doomscream said. "Battles are loud. I come here for quiet. And you've been very disrespectful."

The blood elf’s eyes darted to his imp, and the tiny demonic creature began to weave his hands one over the other, creating a small ball of fire. Before it had a chance to release it, a heavy boot came stomping down on top of it, sending it back to the nether from which it came. 

Holding up his dagger, Lethelon began to rapidly speak powerful words of fire and chaos, hoping at least to stun the orc for a moment. However, the massive Doomscream was too quick, and grabbed the elf by the throat and closed his windpipe. “I should kill you now, just so I can find you in the Shadowlands and kill you again! Do you think you could hide from me there?!” he roared in his face. He squeezed harder, the elf’s face turning slowly blue. Harrietta and the other patrons stood paralyzed with fear. “You’re not as loud as you were with my hand around your throat!”

He loosened his grip and grabbed a knife that was meant for Lethelon’s meal. The tiny thing would have looked almost comical in Doomscream’s hand were it not for the situation. Holding it just above the warlock’s chest, he yelled louder than before, showing his namesake was not said in vain. “Should I see if there’s any light in your heart?”

Coughing, Lethelon tried desperately to remind the orc what he was doing. “You’re threatening a member of the Horde!” he wheezed. “I’ll see you in chains for this!”

Doomscream grabbed him by the jaw that once held that arrogant smile. “You’ll not tell a soul if I rip out your tongue!”

“Alright! Alright!” Lethelon wheezed, panic and fear etched in every part of his face. “Please, just let me go!”

Grabbing him by the front of his robes, Doomscream lifted him up from the table and threw him across the bar, the blood elf’s body clattering into glasses of half-finished ale and cold, leftover meals. Although still breathing, Lethelon hardly moved. Doomscream took the seat at the table that the elf was formerly sitting in and looked at Harrietta with eyes wide in fury. “I heard what you said of me,” he said calmly. “Those rumours? It’s only what those who bore witness dared repeat.” He leaned closely. “Before you judge me, know this. The light took more from me than you could understand. I will make it pay for every drop of blood it spilled on Draenor. That,” he said definitively, “is my justice. My retribution. My purpose. My honour as an orc and a Mag’har!” He rose up and began to leave, the bar in stunned silence behind him. He turned back for just a moment. “Not even death will protect the light from me.”

Harrietta waited until he was gone before she rushed to her friend’s side. Immediately, she waved her hands over Lethelon’s broken form and performed her spells of healing. It burned her every time, but she still would use the light. She just prayed Doomscream did not return to discover she was a priest.