The List

        Renold Ward remembered an old joke he heard among the elites in the prestigious city of Dalaran. If you want to get someone killed, send a warrior. If you want someone punished, send a paladin. If you want someone set on fire, send a warlock. But if you want any of those done well, send a mage. 

Well, it was less of a joke, more of a statement of fact. 

His latest task was to clear out Jaedenar, and within it, the dark, twisting corridors of Shadow Hold. A former barrow den to the sleeping night elf druids, it was now populated by cultists, satyrs, demons, and - if the reports were true - perhaps even a dreadlord. He had never encountered one of the famed demons before. Renold had the mad hope that it would live up to its reputation, and do something as shocking as provide for him a worthy adversary. It was not something he had in quite some time. 

The first true test of his resolve was back in the Second War. He was a young mage then, tasked with combating the great orcish threat that stormed in from the Dark Portal. The fledgling Alliance put his talents to great use, and while many fell by his hand, many more were sent to prison in far away Arathi. It was at Hammerfall he spent months guarding the weary, demoralized orcs, until his talents were called elsewhere. Had he not been called away, perhaps they would never have freed themselves. It was always a regret of his to have left that place, even after those many years. Surely, had they a great mage at their disposal, the camps would have held and the orcs would never have seen the light of day. 

Alas, the choices were made and time moved on. The Third War brought more struggles, but he surpassed them just the same. Now, he hunted for something to challenge him again. The black-robed lunatics roaming Jaedenar were certainly not going to live up to his hopes, however. Their paltry shadow spells could hardly pierce the protective shell of frost that covered him. Such was the case with warlocks; in Renold’s mind, they were little more than spellcaster impersonators, mages for when no mages were available. Hopefully the demons, or possibly the dreadlord, would provide greater fare. It would be something to liven up this place of fel-green rivers and mad furbolgs. 

Renold made short work of another two cultists on the way towards the entrance to Shadow Hold. Like so many before, his smiling face and thin salt-and-pepper beard would be the last thing they’d see. However, he did notice something that caught his attention; he killed two, but found a third body lying face down in a small pile of rotten leaves and detritus. Rolling it over with the toe of his boot, he saw it was quite clearly not his handiwork. Rather than frost-burned skin marking his kill, multiple stab wounds marred the corpse. Perhaps they had turned on this one and left him off to the side to rot. It seemed plausible enough. Cultists were not known to be ones of trial and mercy. 

Renold Ward soon saw it wasn’t the only body left behind, however. Just outside the entrance to Shadow Hold was an old, corrupted moonwell, its sparkling waters tainted by the energy of the fel. Floating in its waters, blood seeping from multiple wounds, were the bodies of two satyrs. Their faces were not marked with pain, but rather shock, as if they hadn’t so much as had a chance to pull their weapons. Again, the bodies were marked by multiple, vicious wounds. 

Renold was pleased. There may be a challenge here greater than just a Nathrezim. 

There was no sense in forgetting the basic precautions. Ignoring the bodies, he sat on the edge of the moonwell as casually as one would sit by a fountain in Dalaran. There, he conjured a small number of mana-infused drinks and food to carry in his pack. Small assurances, just in case the mysterious fighter was one of note. Of course, it could all be for nothing, and just be a particularly talented Alliance soldier tasked with the same mission as him. 

        How utterly disappointing that would be.

Once prepared, he began to descend into the former barrow den. Purple and green fires lit the chamber, illuminating the large, cavernous complex beneath the earth. Much to his surprise, it was almost entirely devoid of life. At least now, that is. Bodies of the powerful felguards lay destroyed among their felhound pets, the latter’s otherworldly tendrils severed by surgical strikes from a dagger before finding another pierced their skulls, sending their form back to the void from which they came. 

Not something to scoff at, surely, but far from impressing the renowned mage. A few dead demons! He had slain hundreds in his day. As far as he was concerned, this was child’s play. 

Yet…

As he progressed through the halls, the number of bodies began to become more and more significant. Furthermore, each was marked with the same set of wounds, meaning that whoever this particular assassin was, they were likely working without the help of others. 

His footsteps on the stone in the chamber, echoing with every step no matter how much he tried to quiet them, reminded him that he, too, was very much alone. Worse yet, they echoed in the chamber in a manner that was incongruent to what he was expecting. The mage began to grow frustrated, feeling that with every step he took, the returning sound would not quite match. While still thinking it was his mind playing tricks, he feigned a step and held back at the last moment - and heard an echo from the footfall that never happened. 

Two possibilities. One: the cultists had magically set some obscure trap to confuse and frustrate those who entered the barrow den. Insanity, whispers, and mind-games were often the tricks employed by cultists and demon-worshipers. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

        Two: he was being followed. Far more likely. Far more sinister.

Although his bravado urged him to move without one, he recast the icy armour that surrounded him, protecting him from assault. Still, he was to move forward regardless of the warning signs. He was tasked with clearing this barrow den, and he had to ensure it was complete. His name and reputation meant something to him, and to cower in fear at a few dead demons was not what he wished to carry with him. Renold moved on, undaunted, but with eyes that watched the shadows more closely than before. 

The next room was little more than a thin hallway. A figure twitched in the distance. It was a cultist, wheezing, gasping for breath, a pool of blood spreading wide across the dirt and stone of the barrow den ground. Cautiously, Renold approached to stand over the dying man, knowing there was little he could do for him now even if he wished to. It was a miracle he was alive at all, his face pale from the blood loss. 

“Who did this to you?” Ward demanded, hoping to make the cultist’s life worth something in the end. 

He sputtered blood, the coughing showing great pain. “Orc,” he wheezed. “Quick. He… killed everything. Demons… Cultists… Lord Banehollow…”

“Banehollow?” Could that be the dreadlord? For this entity to eliminate him as well was suddenly a task much more impressive. 

“Left me… to tell… tell you…”

“Tell me?” Ward asked, leaning in close to listen to the ever dwindling voice.

“You’re…” more sputtering. The man was fading. “You’re already dead.”

The man slumped, leaving behind a streak of blood from the wound that clearly pierced his lung which gave his voice that terrible, dreadful wheezing. Renold felt no pity for him. He had sided with demons that wished the world to end, just for a momentary touch of power - and power not even strong enough to save his life. The mage was far more concerned that not only did this assassin know of his existence, but seemed to be waiting for him. This man would have been left to die before he even entered the hold.

Renold Ward added a mana shield to the armour he had already cast. This day had taken a turn he did not expect. Nevertheless, he was not a man to back down nor give in. After all, he was a mage. The powers of the arcane were at his beck and call, and he faced but one assassin.

The barrow den opened to a large, empty chamber. Fires burned in sconces along the walls leading towards the end of the hall, leading towards a single raised platform. Laid upon them were a set of massive pauldrons, a shade of green that would have matched the vile liquid that passed for water in Felwood. All through the chamber were the disemboweled bodies of demons. 

Renold crossed the chamber to inspect them. Thinking back to his time in the Third War, he heard tales of dreadlords. When they were defeated, their physical form would shrink and eventually disappear, but they left behind the imposing shoulder armour they wore. He could only imagine this was what happened here. A whole score of demons, cut to pieces, the same telltale wounds from the very beginning. 

So now even a dreadlord had fallen prey to this fiend. One that evidently knows of the mage. 

A scraping came from the hallway before the chamber. It was unmistakable; the dragging of daggers against stone. It pierced the empty air of the chamber, quieted now except for the flickering of the fires and the heart, beating louder now, of the mage. “You dare taunt me? A storied mage of Dalaran?” Renold called out, his voice clear and confident still, in spite of the assassin’s attempt to terrify him. “I have bested foes the likes of which would set you quivering in your boots, and you think that a few dead cultists would have me begging for mercy? Show yourself, little fiend, and you’ll be awed by the power of a true master of the arcane!”

The scraping stopped. Renold waited. Nothing happened.

Renold left the chamber and returned to the hallway. He gasped, even though he tried to suppress it, not pleased with himself to give the assassin the pleasure of seeing his shock. There was a message left behind for him. In jagged, sharp letters, and in the human language, was a single word: “Grimshank.” 

Something about it stuck in his mind. The name sounded familiar, something from his past... but what? He racked his brain but came out empty handed, the thought so close but perpetually out of reach. However, his options were limited regardless; keep moving forward, out of this wretched barrow den. 

He exited the hallway and turned the corner on the way to the exit. It was there he first saw him. An orc, standing perfectly still, his face passive but intent. There was absolutely nothing distinct about him, the face as standard and unremarkable as orcs could be. There was, however, something in his eyes. A madness, but tinged with pain, and the anger that pain brought. 

Renold did not hesitate. He lifted his staff, spoke the words of power, and launched a ball of fire directly towards the orc - only to watch him fade away as if he was never there, the spell crashing into the wall beyond and sending stone and dirt across the chamber floor. It was silent again, save for the sizzling of the rock that lay scattered across the ground. A few beads of sweat formed on Ward’s brow, and he wiped them away quickly, frustrated they existed at all. He reminded himself of who he was; a master, a champion, a brilliant mage and stalwart hero of the Alliance. There was no reason to fear some trickster who taunted and hid rather than fought.

“Fight me, then! You have a quarrel with me, well, step from the shadows and show yourself!” the mage roared in frustration. “Coward!” he yelled. “Cowardice, this is!”

His voice echoed down the empty halls and chambers. He heard no response. The orc was patient, and would not show himself until he was ready. His efforts to draw him out by questioning his honour were for naught. 

Paranoia was beginning to set upon the mage. At every pebble that skipped beneath his feet, he would pull from his power and explode with arcane energy - only to find that it was nothing more than his imagination. He did it again and again, trying to catch the rogue coming for him, until his energy began to wane. The efforts to keep his shields, as well as continue his searching spells for the assassin, were draining him of his ability to continue. His arcane bursts became few and far between. The rogue in the shadows was patient. It was all too predictable. 

The shield faded for but a moment. He felt a rip across his shoulder, a many-edged blade cutting across him. He hadn’t even the chance to turn before the rogue vanished again. Breathing heavily, he yelled out at the rogue. “The coward strikes! You think one small wound will stop me? I’ve fought countless…” He stopped and saved his strength. His outrage would do nothing. He had to focus. It was a matter of outwitting an orc. A simple task.

Pulling the conjured food and drink from his pack, he scarfed down as much as he could, as quickly as he could. In the next hall, he heard the sound of dragging daggers again. He had to ignore it; he was not going to rush in unprepared. 

The food and drink returned his power. Casting his barrier again, he progressed to the next hall, this time ready to fight this challenger. He was not to be made a fool of so easily.
And yet, as he entered the next hall, there the orc was again. Standing still, a demon dead at his feet. His daggers dripped with blood - one from a demon, and the other his. Above him was a new message. He vanished from sight the moment the mage locked eyes with him. 

Renold brought his full magical prowess to bear, sending the powers of frost, arcane and fire in wild directions, the alternating icy and molten blasts slamming into anywhere the orc may have been hiding. Waves of deadly energy cascaded out of the mage, a manifestation of his anger towards the orc. Eventually, it had come to naught again. Once the fires died, all he heard was the gentle tapping of his own blood dripping to the floor from the wound in his shoulder. Tap tap, it went, a reminder that the rogue had so easily drawn first blood, and there would certainly be more to come. 

He looked to the message now. Written in the blood of the demon that was at the orc’s feet was a single word: “Hammerfall”. 

The memories came like a flood. Dejected, beaten orcs, sent to the internment camps of Arathi. The face of the orc, so unremarkable, so forgettable, was made known by the rest of guards - Ward included. It was the one they could never break. No degradation, no withdrawal from their bloodlust, no punishment or torment could shatter that one’s spirit. His visage remained passive and empty, as if there was no soul left in the orc. 

But there was. And it hungered for blood. 

Distracted, Renold’s shield faded. Again, the orc was waiting, and two daggers bit into each of his arms, digging deep. He howled in pain, dropping his staff to the floor and stumbling forward. He searched for the orc through gritted teeth, only to find he had disappeared again. 

Worse yet, his head began to throb. It was difficult to concentrate, even the most rudimentary spells making him feel as if he was a novice mage testing his skills for the first time. As he stood, his legs wobbled weakly, like the muscles had gone soft or tore. The rogue’s poisons had begun to work in full. It was not the wounds that frightened him most, vicious as they may be; it was that the rogue had robbed him of his ability to fight back at full effectiveness. He was being bled out like a pig.

“It was war,” Renold mumbled, knowing the orc was close. Considering the words were written in the human language, he had assumed now his attacker had picked up at least a workable knowledge of the tongue from his days in the camp. “You destroyed our cities. Killed our people. We did as we had to.”

“You will kneel as we knelt,” came a voice from the shadows. It was deep, calm, and entirely emotionless. Two more swipes of his daggers came at the back of the mage’s knees, knocking him to the floor. Pure agony ripped through the mage.

Ward forgot entirely about overcoming some challenge, or foolish ideals on reputation. His last hope was to summon a portal to safe, secure Stormwind and throw himself into it. He began to whisper the words to summon it, hoping the orc wouldn’t return before it came into being. His hands shook, the spellcasting unsteady. The pain coursed through his body, almost too much to bear. He was moments away, almost able to see the towers of the storied cathedral.

The orc appeared again, right before him. A boot landed heavily on his chest, knocking him onto his back. Renold’s last glimpse of hope and safety faded away. Without a smile nor a grimace, he took out a parchment stained with blood and pierced it with his dagger. Renold watched, hardly able to move, hardly able to think, as he then slid the weapon into his chest and stopped the beating of his heart.

---

Grimshank stood over the body as it went cold. Carefully removing the dagger first, he removed the parchment from the end. He had passed it through the name “Renold Ward”, his blood soaking into the paper just as he had the five previous. Seventeen more remained on the list. Each, a guard of Hammerfall. Each, a target. 

They would all kneel.

The Path Forward

         The orcish courier suppressed a yell as his boot once again became caught in the deep snow of Frostfire Ridge. He was usually prepared for any and all trips, but upon hearing the name “Frostfire” he mistakenly thought “some cold, some hot.” He didn’t anticipate that it would strictly be the former. Unable to even cry out lest he be set upon by whatever wolves and ogres patrolled the place, he wished to deliver his message and return to Azeroth as soon as possible.

Eventually, he spotted the garrison and paused a moment to take in the view. Who was even using these places anymore?

Informed that the recipient of the letter was a storied hero of the arena, he found his way to the barracks. The garrison didn't have as many guards as it used to since the Horde's work in Draenor was over, but it was one of the few places that still rang with the sound of steel and warfare. Inside he found a lone blood elf, covered head to toe in armour in spite of not having a foe beyond a couple dummies laid out to accept punishment. Or, as he saw after a short time, healing. A holy paladin, blessed with the talents to mend the wounded, and here he was using the powers of the light to try to repair old straw-filled bags.

“A healer as an arena champion?” the courier asked. “I thought you were supposed to be doing the killing, not the saving.”

The blood elf turned, dark hair and dark skin flashing a winning smile, save for the one dead eye that marred his otherwise handsome face. “Ah, a visitor. Haven’t had one of those in some time. But let me answer your question with a question; do warriors use weapons?”

“I would think so,” he replied with a snort.

“Why, I agree! So when I heal that same warrior, he becomes my weapon. As the arm swings the sword, I keep the arm swinging.”

The orc sighed. He wasn’t interested in a philosophy lesson. “Fine. Now, I have a letter for an arena champion. But he sounds more like a goblin, and you’re the only one I see…” he said, looking around the barracks and finding it otherwise empty. “I’m looking for a... ‘Nudzolini’.” 

The blood elf raised his long eyebrows, lifting a hand to his chest and standing up straight. “The one and only.”

“Nudzolini,” the orc repeated.

“A proud Sin’Dorei name, albeit an uncommon one. Now, if there’s nothing else you need…?”

The courier turned and walked out after handing the letter he held over to the paladin. He grumbled the entire way. “Thirty copper to travel to a different time, trudge through snow, find the recipient…”

Nudzolini hardly heard it at all. There were more important things, after all, as he had not had a message in what felt like ages. He went through the lengthy process of removing his gauntlets to open the letter. He didn’t mind in the slightest, as they had saved him countless times before. He never understood the priests, mages and warlocks that would go into battle in little more than a robe. It was battle, not ceremony. 

He found the letter to be brief and to the point. It was from his brother, a monk that had taken a far different path in life than him. He had always tried to fix the world’s problems on his own, something Nudzolini found unappealing but admirable. The letter explained that after all his galavanting around the world - and other worlds - he had finally met his match. He had been severely injured - but alive - on a mission in the Shadowlands. Nudzolini suddenly felt terribly worried, but knew that his indomitable brother would find a way through. He kept reading. It was the last paragraph that struck him even more than the pain of hearing about his brother’s fate. 

You’re a champion, brother, it read. Yet you languish in a hovel not even in the same world as the rest of the Horde. Your bravery, your battle prowess, your heart - they’re wasted in the arena. The glories there serve none other than yourself. It’s time you return. Take my place, and bring peace to the world. It needs no more bloodshed. Your games can wait until the true fight is finished. 

Nudzolini folded up the note and carried it to his quarters where he read it again, and again a short time after. He looked to the helms that lined his wall, rewards from his rank earned through victories in the arena. Marks of honour, the tokens of his success, piled up uselessly in the corner. Perhaps he had done all he could do here. Perhaps he had achieved the highest he could go. There were always new challenges on the horizon, and he had never backed down from one before.

That, and the prospect of finding a soul he defeated in the arena in the Shadowlands - and beating them again - sounded like far too intriguing of a prospect to pass up.

---

“And so we leave our memories in the past so they cannot cloud our.. that…” Disciple Kosmas, an Ascended Kyrian, stumbled over his words. “I’m sorry. Could you please find a different place to sit if you wish to speak with me?”

Nudzolini was lying on his back in the Kyrian fields, relishing in the beauty of the landscape and the tranquility of the many bells and waterfalls. Without so much as realizing it, he had rested his feet atop the shoulders of one of the owl-like attendants that supported the Kyrian. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry about that.” 

Kosmas cleared his throat to continue. “Thank you. We clear our memories so to also clear our minds of any attachments that would prevent us from reaching clarity. Humility. Wisdom.”

“So all my memories, they’d just be… they’d be gone,” Nudzolini said, resting his hands on his stomach.

“Yes. For the greater good.”

With the loss of his memories, he would no longer carry with him some of the greatest achievements of his life. All of the victories, the triumphs and even the losses in the arena that had shaped him and moulded him, would all be forgotten. How could they ask for such a thing? Nudzolini pushed himself up to rest on his elbows. “Can’t I just keep killing these Forsworn you seem to hate so much? It seems I’ve got quite a talent for it, if I may say so myself.”

“Your fate here is yours to determine. If you wish to aid us in our battle against the Forsworn, we will be forever grateful. But you cannot ascend without the completion of the rituals.” Kosmas was unflinching. Nudzolini was disappointed. 

The paladin sighed. Motioning towards the mass of Forsworn bodies that lay near them, he gave a wry smile. “What if I double that pile? I bet you I could take out another twelve before dinner.”

The resolute Kyrian frowned and shook his head. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Nudzolini asked. “They are the evil ones, are they not? Back in my days at the arena, when we saw the opposition we’d defeat them and then celebrate. Simple as that. You're missing the point of all this.”

“To the contrary, I believe you may be. While the Kyrian admire your…” out of the side of his vision he looked with sadness at the Forsworn bodies defeated at his side. “While we admire your skills with the mace, and while the Forsworn threat must be defeated in order to further serve our purpose, they are still Kyrian. They’re wayward, failed aspirants that have chosen to follow a foolish cause. We lament their choices. I take no joy in destroying them.”

“Hmpf,” the paladin grunted in acknowledgement. He looked down at his mace, put to what he believed was such good use today. “I feel there’s a lot to learn in this place. It’s a little more complicated than the arena.”

“That it may be,” Kosmas agreed. “But we will be here to guide you, if you so choose our path.”

--

“Another body crushed by this brave new challenger!” yelled Grandmaster Vole, the head of the Theater of Pain. “Can any yet stand against him?”

Nudzolini truly felt alive. A true arena, in the heart of the Shadowlands! Wave after wave of challengers to break and slaughter, and for some reason he was yet to determine, they seemed altogether fine with it. For hours he stomped gleefully through the arena floor, laying waste to challenger after challenger. When one fell, they’d just send more! And more! And more...

As his mace caved in the skull of yet another strange amalgamation of body parts, there was something… missing. Accepting the strange notion of having a grand revelation while in the middle of shattering the knee of an iron-clad skeletal monstrosity, he thought on just what he loved about the arenas of Azeroth or Draenor compared to this. While the theatre was certainly fun - positively joyous, actually - it lacked the honour and pride of his old grounds. Before, the gates would open to find two or three challenges facing off against an even number on the other side, leaving the last one standing as the victor. What was this now? Combatants ran in from all directions. They’d fight those nearest to them with abandon. The sanctity of the old arena gave way to the chaos of the new. 

As much as his brother would detest his choice to battle in the arena as instead of fighting for the goodness of Azeroth, there was undoubtedly a sense of honour there; a duty to protect those close to you and to fight as valiantly as one could. Here, skeletal figures slashed others in the back, only to be broken in two by some larger foe a moment after. This was no place for a paladin. Where was the sense of honour, or duty, of justice? It was just… madness.

That, and there was far, far too much slime. 

---

Lady Moonberry showed the wildseed to Nudzolini with great pride and reverence. She fluttered about, speaking of its power and importance. The paladin struggled to listen. For the most part, he just kept blinking and rubbing his eyes - well, eye, considering only one still worked. The difference between Maldraxxus and Ardenweald was exceedingly disorienting. While it was certainly beautiful here, he felt a greater urge to take what would be an undoubtedly pleasant nap rather than battle and fight. 

“We tend to the wildseeds with- Nudzolini, are you listening to me?” Lady Moonberry asked, concerned. She tilted her tiny head to one side and waved, trying to get his attention.

“Yes! Yes. Of course. The wildseeds. They certainly do have great power within them, don’t they?”

“Indeed they do!” Moonberry said with a smile of pride.

“So just how do we kill them then?”

Lady Moonberry let out a sound which was somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. “When do we what?” She asked in disbelief, hoping she had misheard. She fluttered backwards, an impressive display of coordination. 

“Wrong term perhaps… Would ‘harvest’ be correct?” Nudzolini asked innocently. 

Moonberry’s jaw dropped. “I… they’re…”

“Seeds! Yes, you see, I was listening. I suppose it would make more sense to say you harvest them rather than kill them… incorrect on my part, certainly, but you must understand, I'm new here!” Nudzolini flashed a big smile her way.

“This seed contains the spirit of the great dragon Ysera,” Moonberry explained.

“Ysera! The green one?” the paladin asked. “Well, I must have been absent in Draenor for quite some time. I didn’t even know she died. What got her?”

Moonberry understood that Nudzolini meant no offense. As he said himself, he was new here. He had so much to learn. “Yes… yes, I’m afraid she did pass. As for what took her, I cannot say. However, we will have a play that will explain much of-”

“A play!” Nudzolini exclaimed. He dropped his hammer to the ground and sat down heavily on a log. “A trip from the arena to the stage. How my brother did this, I don’t know.” He rubbed temples, thinking of a way to find his place in this strange land. “Listen. In Maldraxxus, I heard you were having a problem with the Dust.”

“Drust,” Moonberry corrected. 

“Oh! Oh. That makes much more sense now doesn’t it? Now, these Dust-"

“Drust!” Moonberry corrected again.

“Apologies. The Drust. A hammer to the face drops them just like any other, correct?” Moonberry nodded. “Good. In that case, I believe we may yet find some common ground.”

Lady Moonberry sighed, but reluctantly agreed. 

---

The spires of Revendreth at first held a tremendous appeal to Nudzolini. A place of judgement felt so natural for a paladin. That, and the appreciation of class and the finer things felt like a blessing after still recovering mentally from the ceaseless brutality of Maldraxxus. 

However, he hardly understood their position at all. They were judging souls that came to the afterlife… after they’ve been judged to go to Revendreth already? He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. All he knew was they were dignified. Highly dignified. 

Still, he could see himself staying right up until he heard of their fears of the light. It was full-scale abhorrence! Considering his role as a paladin, he did find his combat to be particularly effective - ash ghouls that were already scarred and ruined by the light stood little chance - but it felt strange to be wandering a place of such darkness as a holy warrior. 

That, and their obsession with tea did not suit his sensibilities. Hot drinks were never favoured in the arena; you had little time to drink, and it was likely to burn your tongue. It was ages since he’d had a hot drink, and he had lost all taste for them. 

Furthermore, Revendreth was a place of judgement but not in the manner he wished. He preferred to judge only after first providing an example for those to follow. These here were quick to condemn, but not so quick in proving oneself worthy of administering their decree. That was not Nudzolini’s way.

It wasn’t long before he packed his things and returned to the strange city of Oribos. Each covenant had their faults and their allure, and he knew he was meant to choose. On the return trip, even the dazzling visuals of traversing the paths between the Shadowlands could not distract him from his all-important decision.

---

“Maw Walker,” Bolvar Fordragon greeted. “I am pleased you’ve made your return. I trust you’ve made your decision?”

“Now, wait a moment - I know I’ve seen that armour before somewhere,” Nudzolini said to Fordragon, who did not yet quite know what to make of the strange blood elf. “This is going to sound strange, but it is the Shadowlands after all... Have I… killed you before? Apologies, truly.”

The denizens of Oribos looked about, confused, but Bolvar understood quickly. “I am not the Lich King that you helped to end years ago. Yet I have taken his mantle.”

“Ahh,” Nudzolini said, pretending to understand. He wondered if asking one of the key figures of the connection between Azeroth and the Shadowlands if he had defeated him before was poor form, but these were the questions he had to ask to reach an understanding of this realm. Politicking was a skill not often used in the arena. “But to answer your question, I’ve chosen…”

He looked around the chamber in which representatives of each covenant stood. The stoic heroes of Bastion, the fearless warriors of Maldraxxus, the mystical creatures of Ardenweald and the proud denizens of Revendreth. While he admired the courage of the Maldraxxi, he preferred the pitched battle over the reckless slaughter. Ardenweald’s peace and calm was beautiful and admirable, but he lacked the patience to watch the world grow. Revendreth felt like it could be his home as a place of judgement, matching his ideals as a paladin, but their distaste for the light was a line he could not cross. 

That left Bastion. The thought of abandoning his memories, his heroics, all that he had earned and fought for, was a thought that he struggled mightily with. He thought back to his brother’s words. The glories there serve none other than yourself. Perhaps it was time to move on from that past, and to do as a paladin was meant to; live in service of truth and justice, heroism for others as opposed to heroism for the sake of accolades. You’re a champion, brother. Now it was time to act like one. 

“I have decided, Bolvar Fordragon,” taking note to refer to him not as ‘Arthas the Second’ which was the first thought that came into his mind. “I will be choosing the Kyrian.”

He went to the Kyrian ambassador and pledged himself to their cause. The steward at his side jumped happily into the air, so pleased to see a Maw Walker join them. Nudzolini knew it was the right choice. Perhaps the only choice. After all, the Shadowlands was a place of a second life, and in many ways, it was for him as well. His days in the arena were gone. Now, it was the time for greater things. 

“Now,” Nudzolini said to the Kyrian ambassador. “I’ve heard a great deal of discussion about a particularly strong ‘bell’ of yours.”

Shadow and Light, Night and Day

   

        Blinding powder at the ready.

Poisons applied. 

Weapons sharp. 

Notable locations to retreat. 

Vials accessible.

Mission is clear.

Vikstyn had been running through the same checklist ever since his time with SI:7, Stormwind’s secretive wing of rogues and spies. Of course, he was no longer associated with them now. They rarely allowed those with bones poking through rotted skin and jaws hanging slack to join their ranks.

He had been one of the unfortunate number who were unable to flee when Lordaeron had fallen to the Scourge. To his misfortune, he had only just been stationed in Lordaeron to gather intelligence, as even among friendly human kingdoms the need for spies was critical. When the scourge flooded into the city he fell just like the rest, masquerading as an ordinary citizen, some baker or butcher or some other such nonsense. It felt like a lifetime ago. He supposed it was. 

Soon enough, the Stormwind spy was reborn, turned into a member of the Forsaken. Much to his relief, he could still dip in and out of the shadows as he had in life, just with a notably changed, perhaps less appealing, appearance. With flesh missing and bones protruding, he no longer believed he could pass for the humble Stormwind citizen.

There were notable advantages of being an undead, however. There was the practical; lack of a need to breathe made underwater stealth far easier, and being a part of an entirely new organization meant that all who would have recognized him no longer could. There was also the psychological; whatever emotions of regret or fear he had felt in life, few as they may have been, were all but entirely absent now. 

That, and a personal favourite of his; adaptability. Having lost his eye at the battle for the Broken Shore, he had a goblin engineer craft him a new one. A brand-new, mechanical gadget sewn into his very flesh, allowing him to see in the dark just as well as the light. Considering his line of work, it had proven fruitful on multiple occasions. 

He was sure to put it to use today. 

SI:7 had returned to Lordaeron, now the Undercity, after the attack on the night elf homeland. There was an irony in the situation he found himself in. He died here in service to SI:7 so long ago, and now he intended to bring the same fate to others.

Blinding powder at the ready, he whispered, beginning his checklist again. 

It wasn’t long before the bodies began to pile at his feet. The SI:7 spies couldn’t have known that a former one of their own was in their midst, making the hunter the hunted. They’d spread out in the same formations as he had when he was in their boots, aiming to find the same pieces of information, going after the same kind of targets. It was simply a matter of lying in wait, ambushing them just as they thought they were safe. He knew their every move, the very way they thought.

Poisons applied, weapons sharp, vials ready, Vikstyn would whisper to himself as another member of SI:7 dropped into the Undercity’s viscous green canals, two dagger-sized holes in his back and poison in his veins. 

He noticed a change. The shadows looked less familiar, the room feeling smaller. They were beginning to catch on. Sure, he got the jump on many, but they were the elite, some of the best Stormwind had to offer. Notable locations to retreat. He slipped out into the sewers, waiting until the heat was taken off him. It didn’t sound so bad, anyways. He’d be sure to find a few more Alliance soldiers there regardless. After all, the horns of war were sounded, and this was to be an invasion. There would be no shortage of prey.

---

Everything cold and damp.

The perpetual smell of rot. 

Hammer seems to have wandered off on its own.

Night elves, humans and those big blue ones everywhere.

Aethelbald was truly miserable. There was little going right on this expedition, and they’ve only just reached Brill. He wasn’t sure what was worse; having to smell the strange variety of slimes and potions of the Forsaken apothecaries or having to listen to the barking orders of some human mage who felt she owned the place. This was nothing new to him, of course. Never had he met someone taller than him that he thought was worth his trust. Even the gnomes, often tiring with their exuberance and energy, were preferable to the insufferable piety of the humans and night elves. And whatever the blue ones were called, for that matter. He couldn’t remember, and neither did he care. 

Northeast, the human mage who was leading the expedition, came to stand over him as he slouched on the side of a Forsaken monument to the Dark Lady. He was certain humans always used their height to try and intimidate him, but dwarves were not one to feel insignificant. “Get your gear. We’re moving out and heading to the sewers,” she said dryly. He was sick of her, but the feeling was certainly mutual. 

“The sewers!” Aethelbald said, his blue eyes like the ice of Dun Morogh, opened wide. “I thought it couldn't get worse. Well, yer waitin’ for me. I can’t find my blasted hammer. Just put it down…” he mumbled, searching around. 

Northeast pursed her lips and frowned. She looked like she wasn’t particularly happy about the assignment either, let alone being tasked with watching over a grumbling, complaining dwarf. “Well, find it quickly, and get packing. The orders are given, and we’re heading out. Use those stubby little legs to catch up, then.”

Aethelbald was furious, balling his fists in anger. “Oh, if I had my hammer I’d be-”

“Well, you don’t,” she said. “Find it. The sewers are due southwest.”

With that, she marched off to find her unit and continue the advance, moving to cut off the path of escape for any undead that lost their will to fight as the Undercity was being cleared. The main force - a massive invasion - was being planned for the main gates.

Aethelbald found his hammer resting just on the other side of the statue. He held it tightly, thinking back to the comments that fool mage had made, and trying to tone down the anger that built in him. He wished that the scar he had across his nose would prove to be more intimidating, making him look more like a warrior not to be spoken to lightly as she had, but mages had an arrogance about them that looked past such things. The fact that he got the scar from bumping into a door after a night of a few too many mugs of ale shouldn't’ have made the difference. She didn’t know that, after all.

He set off to catch up to his unit. Inwardly, he wondered how much worse the sewers could even be. 

--

Vikstyn heard the echoing calls from Alliance soldiers forming up and calling for a quick retreat. Avoiding the rogues of SI:7, he spotted a perfect place for an ambush: a dark, quiet spot in the sewers that led towards the main city itself - exactly the place the Alliance would have to travel to close off the exits to the Undercity. It wasn’t long before he heard the first patrols, and using the goblin-created eye he was given, he made short work of the first two soldiers that tried to pass through. The rest fell back immediately, not willing to battle with a rogue who could see in the darkness. 

“Mission is clear,” he mumbled to himself, acknowledging that his new role would be to hold this tunnel for as long as he could, leaving as many casualties behind as possible. With the rest of the sewer line at his back, there was an easy means of retreat. His weapons were ready and his powders prepared. Of course, that didn’t stop him from checking every time he had the chance. All it took was one instance of poor preparation to find himself ripped to pieces by some rampaging worgen or blasted apart by a gnomish mage. Always check. Always. Again and again, and again and again.

Lying in wait along the side of one of the sewer pipes, structures large enough to fit one of the duskbats that carried the undead from location to location, he waited patiently for the Alliance’s next move. For a while, they seemed content to hold their position. Likely, they’d be moving to bring in a mage to brighten the tunnel, nullifying the advantage of darkness the rogue held. In Vikstyn’s mind, he'd already done well. He had already taken out two of their soldiers, and a delay to their movements deeper into the city were admirable for a single rogue. 

Seeing their next move as both limited and obvious, he found it strange when he heard bickering from down the tunnel. What would possibly be worth arguing in this situation?

--

“Well, where’s that mage? Get ‘er in here and clear the damned monster out o’ there!” Aethelbald yelled in frustration. He was almost shocked he managed to find a place that he had hated more than Brill, but here he was. It took all of the powers of the light to keep him from losing his temper when a drop of the strange, viscous slime that permeated nearly everything in the sewers managed to find its way into his long, white hair. 

“I told you - twice now - we sent a runner to find Northeast and bring her here,” a night elf who was given command said through gritted teeth. “She’s down a different tunnel. When she gets here, a few simple spells will brighten it enough for us to see where this one lurks.”

“We’re really waiting for one skinny little undead? We’ve got the full party of the Alliance at our backs and we’re sitting here languishing in a tunnel!” Aethelbald’s voice echoed loudly enough that it could wake the rest of the dead that hadn’t already risen in this place. “Give me two good dwarves and we’d have that tunnel cleared in no time. I don’t want to spend another second in this disgusting sewer!”

“He’s already taken two of our own. We’re not losing a third.” The night elf’s stoicism so characteristic of her people was beginning to wear thin. As were her teeth, as she clenched them as hard as she could.

Aethelbald held up a finger. “One. Rogue. That’s all. If it’s dark, I’ll bring the light. It’s what us paladins do.”

“I order you to-”

“Yeh can’t order me. You must be only this tall to do that,” Aethebald said dismissively, holding a hand up near his forehead. To the shock and bewilderment of the rest of the waiting Alliance party, he walked right down the dark, empty tunnel alone, his heavy boots splashing in the muck. He had no pretense of subtlety. If anything, he was taunting the rogue to try to come at him. 

---

Vikstyn searched for signs of a ruse. He tested his eye, ensuring that it was not broken, and that he did indeed see a single dwarf walking right down the middle. He even so much as passed by two of his fallen companions. The rest were hanging back, the argument having ended in the dwarf seemingly deciding that whatever they were waiting for was taking far too long for his liking. 

Watching the dwarf - a paladin by the looks of it - walk right through his midst, undaunted by the dark or any fear, he wondered if he were mad, a fool or perhaps secretly brilliant. Did they have a mage nearby, waiting to set the world on fire and illuminate the dark tunnels of the sewers? Was it actually Vikstyn who was walking into the trap?

He wasn’t sure. So, he did as he always did. He ran through his checklist. 

--

The Alliance soldiers watched as the dwarf disappeared from view. They had not yet heard any sounds of battle, nor a cry for help - or, ideally, a roar of triumph if the paladin had miraculously defeated the rogue from his position of disadvantage. All they heard was the sound of metal footsteps sloshing through the muck of the sewers and the occasional curse and grumble of the dwarf that was causing them. 

“Not seein’ rogues! Yer scared of a shadow!” he called back to them, his voice reverberating off the cylindrical chamber. “Going to join me, or are we still afraid of the dark?”

--

Vikstyn twisted at the metal eye again, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Back in his training at SI:7, he had learned two very important lessons. One was to not rush in. Rogues were not meant to be the frontline, brash, charging soldiery; that was left for the warriors and paladins, brave fools that they were. A rogue was meant to wait and watch, biding their time until the moment revealed itself. All a fair fight meant was a greater possibility to lose. 

The second was to recognize an opportunity when it presented itself. If you wait for perfection, then waiting is all you’ll do. There comes a time when a gamble becomes necessary, because the odds would never be greater. 

The paladin was in his midst. His knives were sharp, laced with poison. The path of retreat was easy and open. The gamble was his to take.

--

“Look!” Aethelbald yelled back. “Not a single-”

Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was a gift from the light, but the dwarf twitched just in time to cause the knife coming for his neck to catch the edge of his shoulderguards as opposed to finding the soft flesh beneath. Still, it deflected up and across his cheek, leaving a nasty gash that connected to the scar that ran across his nose; a real war wound adding to the false one.

He swung his hammer behind him with full force, hitting only air. He couldn’t see a thing. All that was behind him was the meagre bit of light back at the entrance by the Alliance party, close enough to the beginning of the sewers to still catch some light from the outside. 

“Gah!” Aethelbald called out, half in pain and half to alert the rest of them.

The night elf leader heard the cry of distress. She held up a hand, ordering them to stay. “He’s made his choice. His fate is his own. I won’t lose another soldier for his bluster and arrogance.”

Aethelbald saw no reinforcements coming. He was on his own. But he still had dwarven blood coursing through his veins and the holy light to protect him. He called upon it to heal his wounds. The screaming pain, made worse by a poison that made him wince more than the wound itself, was lessened by the light’s blessing. He knew the rouge was still near, but in the dark he had to rely on his wits and any good fortune he had.

He felt the motion of his adversary rather than see him, a slight gust betraying the rogue’s position. Holding his hammer tight, he swung again, but once more missed. He wasn’t even so much as sure he was close. 

Another moment passed, and he hunkered down and prepared for the rogue again.

“Retreat back to this position!” the night elf called, struggling to the decision not to support the dwarf but deciding it was the only reasonable course of action. 

“What, back down from this coward? Ha!” the stubborn dwarf called back.

Two daggers found his back before he could even manage a chance to react. His heavy plate armour protected him, but only just. They still pierced, digging deeply just beside his spine. He howled in pain and anger, swinging wildly and without direct purpose. Again, it came up with nothing. The rogue was going to bleed him out.

The wounds on his back and face were agonizing. His options were limited. But he was still a paladin; there was always a way to call upon the light when he needed to.

--

Damned dwarves are too stubborn to even die when they’re meant to. 

Vikstyn was sure his second attack would have felled the dwarf, but yet he stood, breathing heavily, angry as hell, and not yet willing to die. Worse yet, he’d healed much of his wounds, and he was showing an abject refusal to retreat. 

Still, Vikstyn was winning. He still held all the cards; his weapons were sharp, vials ready, powder at his side… time to gamble again. He crept forward, the paladin holding his hammer behind him, ready to swing at a moment’s notice. 

The dwarf’s hand suddenly shot forward. For a brief moment, the entire chamber was lit with the power of the holy light. It blinded Vikstyn and revealed his position, not long enough for the dwarf’s allies to charge in, but long enough for his attacker to land a heavy hammer swing onto his ribs. Quickly, he reached for his blinding powder and threw it in the face of his enemy, giving enough time to slip backwards into the shadows again.

--

“Hah! That got ya good, didn’t it now?” Aethelbald taunted, blinking his eyes until the blindness went away. Certainly he had wounded the undead. However, his arms were weak from swinging and the damage that had been done to him took some of the might out of his attack. He knew the blow was far from fatal, and the ragged skeletons that the Forsaken were made of held a surprising hardiness. The fight was far from over. 

He heard the sound of a popping vial, the sort he’d hear from an alchemist. “Agh, what now…”

--

Vikstyn had to hand it to the wily dwarf. They don’t make it this long in life without learning a few tricks. That, however, was why one came prepared. The vial of crimson liquid he always had with him healed the wounds on his death-ravaged form. After a moment, it was like it hardly happened. Still, he had to be wary; this was no easy adversary. 

Coming forward again, he stepped close and ducked the heavy swing from the cursing dwarf, slashing at his leg. It dropped him low. Another hammer swing came, but Vikstyn was quick, stepping backwards and making the act of dodging an artform. Another swing came, and another, but they were slower, tired. It was time.

He stepped forward again, blending into the shadows and appearing behind the dwarf. His two blades swept in from either side, piercing deep. The hammer slipped from the dwarf’s hands, the rattling of the weapon splashing into the muck of the sewer all but announcing to his companions at the end of the line the fate of the brave but ultimately foolish paladin. 

Fading away again, Vikstyn retreated back further than before into the sewers. Without his powder and his vial, he would not enter into another brawl like the one he had. One must be prepared, after all. SI:7 had taught him well.