Stories for Your Very Own Warcraft Character: May 2021

The Bearer of the Dead

A lone night elf walks the path from Darnassus to Winterspring day after day. To both the Alliance and the Horde, her presence is closer to legend than reality. The reports of her existence are only fleeting and obscured by the blinding snowy plains in Winterspring or the strange shadows cast by the demonic presence in Felwood. Even in once tranquil Darkshore, shadows have been playing tricks. The Horde's presence there, even when pushed out by force, still lingers in discomforting ways.

Those that have claimed to see her have all said the same. Some of the good-hearted members of the Alliance offered aid, as she appears emaciated, laboriously moving along her path fraught with exhaustion. She stands shorter than the average night elf, thin even by the naturally slim stature of her people. Supposedly, she carries something heavy with her she will not leave out of her sight, even for a moment. Whatever it might be, even those that claim to have seen her can only so much as speculate.

The rumours became stranger as weeks went by. Some have claimed to see her use druidic magic, but only fleetingly. That alone was enough to dissuade a number of smirking guards who heard adventurers claim to see her - a druid slowly walking from destination to destination when they know what variety of beasts they can embody to quicken the pace.

Over the months, the reports became increasingly rare. Those that thought they saw her for a moment themselves blamed it on a lack of rest or some trick of the light. Eventually, the lone walker was forgotten, just one of the many stories and fables of the world of Azeroth that fell away to obscurity.

However, the story was much more than myth. The walker is very real, walking her route in perpetuity, her path and purpose known only to her. This is the tale of Ariane Mossweaver, the Bearer of the Dead.

Ariane allowed herself the privilege of a small campfire along the beaches of Darkshore. She wouldn't look south; to see the ruins of the once thriving, joyful place of Auberdine levelled by Deathwing's fury and savaged again by the Horde-supported undead forces was too much to bear. The focus for her still lay on yet another tragedy.

Across the water burned the still-glowing embers of Teldrassil, the whole island still lit in the fires which fed on the tree-city of Darnassus. No boats carry anyone across anymore. It's all but cut off, alone and isolated from the rest of the world. Her people live as refugees, scattered throughout the human kingdoms, or desperately fighting for territory in what used to be exclusively night elven land.

She placed her meal on the campfire. She felt uneasy. Even the sight of fire make her heart beat faster.

The means to reach Darnassus were much more difficult since the attack. Her only method was to confiscate the boats the refugees travelled by to flee the conflagration. Some of those boats lay scattered on the beach, and were relatively undamaged. As a druid, she could have taken the form of a sea lion, easily traversing the waters, but in her mind she had to take the form of a night elf. Her mission was one she deemed so important to her people that to take another form during its duration wouldn't give it its proper honours.

After having travelled across the water to the abandoned port of Rut'theran village, she walked towards the heart of Darnassus itself. Sometimes, she almost forgot what transpired here, and for a brief, wonderful moment she would think she was about to come upon the beautiful, stunning growth of trees and the proud city of elves that inhabited them, a people that did not conquer nature but instead lived alongside it. A world of stunning hues of green and purple, lush and quiet, a bastion of serenity and beauty.

Instead, she walked to devastation. When she blinked, she could still see the horrors. Her eyes, black now through her priestess' ritual, had the images flicker in her mind at every quiet moment. Memories would wash over her anew every time she entered Darnassus.

"Mossweaver!" a fellow druid called. "The fires are taking the Craftsmen's Terrace! If we don't-"

A great bough of the Howling Oak finally shattered, falling upon the desperate druid, silencing her calls for aid. For a moment, Ariane envied her. It seemed almost a mercy to not have to witness this devastation further. Yet there were many more calls.

"Ariane! Ariane, quickly!" a priestess called, holding the body of a fallen night elf. Blood covered the once pristine robes that marked her as a priestess, splotches of red marring the pure white. "The Temple Gardens were struck, and the injured require aid immediately!" The priestess placed the body on the ground and started to tend to the night elf's wounds, although to the druid it was clear the efforts were far too late.

She ran off towards the Temple Gardens as instructed. As she approached and crossed the bridges that led to that section of Darnassus, she hesitated. The druid crushed by the oak called for aid in the Craftsmen's Terrace - was this the more desperate need?

In front of her lay bodies scattered by the destruction of the Horde's catapults. Just ahead a huge stone slammed into the ground before her feet, right where she would have been if she had not waited a moment to consider her options. Flames shot from the trees ahead, the gardens so quick to catch alight. A place of such peace and calm, immediately hitting a fever pitch of panic. The gentle purple hues of Darnassus were so abruptly replaced with the reds and oranges of burning pitch, the night sky's stars obscured by billowing smoke. Everything that was Darnassus felt like it disappeared, all in a matter of moments.

A weak cry for help came from beneath a burning tree. A night elf extended a hand towards her, severely burned by the flames. It woke her from her musings, and returned her to the world of panic that was all around her. Rushing to her side, she called upon the forces of nature to heal her wounded sister. Skin regrew where burns had run rampant, and new life coursed through her veins. "Thank you, sister," was all the night elf could muster before pushing herself up and fleeing for the portals.

To her right, another victim breathed his last, just out of reach of Ariane. Had she made the wrong call? Could she have saved him first, and come back for the woman after? Was that blood now on her hands for a poor decision? Further, could she have been of greater use in the Craftsmen's Terrace? How could she know?

It was a thought for another time. Soon, another victim of terrible burns recovered enough by her healing magic, but for every one she healed, two more would cry out. She saved a priestess next, hoping she could heal the others. But for every one she helped, her energy waned. The choices of who to save became more desperate. Some had to be left. She couldn't bring herself to look at them. Tears left trails through soot that covered her face. Having to choose who lived and who died was a burden almost too difficult to bear.

Eventually, she found her energy so depleted the realm of nature could no longer answer her call. She gasped for air that was so heavy with smoke it hardly replenished her. She stumbled towards the next, but found she could do little more than comfort her in her final moments. Although it pained her greatly, she knew she could be of no more use here, not now, not in this state. She fled for the portals out of this wonderful home turned savage hellscape.

She took a final glance back to see the Temple of the Moon still standing. Where was Elune to save them?

It was quiet in Darnassus now. A few small fires smouldered underneath the ruins, the remnants of the Horde's attack still simmering. Gone were the voices of night elves and the songs of birds. Their home became a grave.

She did not wish to remain here long. She walked until she found the first body she could find. It was so terribly charred she couldn't identify it as a male or female. Her druidic magics allowed her to wrap the body in roots, covering it in enough amber to keep it together for transportation. It was a grim business, but a necessary one. Reverently, she placed what was left of the body in a pack to carry with her. Inside, she placed a few small items, whatever she could find that had not yet burned, as reminders of what Darnassus once was.

Why did this night elf have to die here? And why was it this person and not her? If she had stayed just a moment longer, found just a little more energy...

She shook her head. Those thoughts served no purpose, even though they plagued her every waking moment.

With great effort, she lifted the body and began to walk out of the city. Behind her lay many more bodies in various states of death. She swore she would return for them, too. But today, this was what - who - she could carry. And so she started her journey back to Winterspring. A journey she had made many times before, and will make many more times ahead.

She brought the body across the water with her. She carried it across Darkshore, through the mountain passes of Felwood, and up to Timbermaw Hold. Furbolgs that would've attempted to stop most travellers were friendly to her, having earned their friendship in what felt like a lifetime ago. They learned quickly that she had no interest in causing them harm.

Finally, at long last, she would reach Winterspring. The cold was welcome, as the strain from carrying the weight that far was always incredibly taxing. Allowing herself a moment of reprieve, she'd stare out across the grand, empty landscape, the glint of the sun off the snowy hills making it difficult to see. Fortunately, there were many places of empty, open space for what she needed. Picking a spot was not difficult.

Shifting into the form of a bear, the only moment during her journey she'd allow it, she dug into the cold earth. The sharp, powerful claws struggled against the frozen dirt, but eventually she formed enough of a hole to place the body within it. Making sure to practice each action with great respect, she took pieces of Darnassus out of the pack and placed it with the body: a few leaves that managed not to catch fire; a piece of wood from one of the buildings in the terraces; a single, flawlessly crafted arrow found near the body.

As with every burial, she paused to think of who the night elf was. What were their struggles, their successes, their hopes. Each death was a tragedy. When considering the difficulty of her undertaking, most would undoubtedly think that the effort for each individual would be too great. Ariane could not think that way, however. Each was a living soul, and each deserved at least a proper burial. Of course, with each body laid to rest, the familiar sense of pain would come. The endless "what-ifs" and "why not me" that haunt those that survive. At least through her tireless mission, she could find some form of solace.

Morphing back into her night elven form, she spoke a short prayer to Elune to guide this soul in the afterlife. It was why she brought the bodies here, all the way to Winterspring. Every night elf is familiar with wisps. They are ancient spirits, deceased night elves who remain one with nature. However, Ariane saw no means for the souls of the night elves slaughtered at Teldrassil to become wisps, as the natural world of the island was set aflame. She needed to bring the bodies to a land where they could, hopefully, find peace in nature once more. Darkshore's elements still raged from the Cataclysm, Ashenvale is still suffering from the affects of war, and Felwood is a ruined shell of what it once was. Even Moonglade was the land of the druids, not a graveyard. The closest she could think of was the endless, cold plains of Winterspring - desolate and empty, but nature nevertheless. She had hoped that the spirits of the elves would see the change from unbearable heat to cold as a pleasant one.

If it worked, she was not sure. Wisps are strange, otherworldly creatures of which many questions are left unanswered. But she had to continue trying, just for the possibility of success. So she buried the body, covering it with snow, and said one more prayer to Elune to guide this elf in the next life.

She could not fail them twice.

The work complete, she set off once more, along the long path back to Darnassus. The journey was long and arduous, but if she could help the souls that reside there, it was worth the difficulty. Such was the duty of the self-styled Bearer of the Dead.

She knelt down and removed some berries from her pack she collected in Darkshore, just enough food to continue her travels. Allowing herself a rare reprieve, she sat and looked out over the landscape. Night had fallen now, and the sun set over the icy hills, the light of the moon giving the snow an eerie glow. It was beautiful. While not the most vibrant of places, she was pleased to bring the elves here as a final resting place.

As she looked out, a single light danced in the sky in the direction from which she left. It rose higher, meandering back and forth as if lost, shifting this way and that. She blinked, and lost sight of it. She desperately hoped she had not imagined the strange light, but hoped that, just maybe, a wisp was born from the body of one of the deceased she brought here. If it was just one, she would still feel all her efforts would be worth her time. Yet there were so many more to go.

She packed her bags and carried on.

Perspective

Tanielle gripped her hammer tightly, her whole body tense. Over the past months she had grown fond of her strange night elf companion, and to see him locked in a life-threatening ordeal and her being unable to intervene was almost too much to bear. Her hands glowed with the powers of the holy light, desperate to provide him with aid, but she resisted. She was asked to not step in under any circumstances. The ritual was of great importance to him, and he had been searching for this beast for what felt like ages. But the draenei were a patient people, and she believed in his ability.

Vardal Oakenshadow circled the leopard ahead of her, it's eyes glowing a misty, otherworldly blue. It seemed to fade in and out of existence, as if it wasn't entirely of this world. A spirit beast, he called it - an ethereal being that was the embodiment of the natural realm of the unforgiving lands of Northrend. It darted in, swiping with razor sharp claws, but found only empty air as the nimble elf sprung backwards to avoid the attack. He lowered his body to the ground, long hair hanging low over his fire-ravaged features, a wound from which he never fully recovered. The imperfection painted him as a fierce figure, and both he and the great cat each found respect in the other.

It lunged again, missing the mark once more as Vardal leapt over its paw, sliding across the dirt and springing back up before the animal had a chance to correct itself. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the extended fight - almost more of a dance, seeing as how neither had landed a blow on the other - was an exhausting ordeal. The cat sprung forward, this time closer than before as the night elf began to slow, breathing heavily. Tanielle took a step forward, struggling to hold herself back.

And then as abruptly as it began, it was over. The cat dipped his head down in deference to its new master. In return, Vardal did the same. The relationship between hunter and pet was more akin to mutual respect than ownership.

"Never in doubt," he said to Tanielle with a wink from the unharmed side of his face. "This powerful animal will be a great asset when we take the fight to the Lich King."

Tanielle looked over her shoulder. Even in Sholazar Basin the Lich King's presence was strongly felt. The towers of Icecrown Citadel loomed on the horizon, grim black spires breaking the veil of peace that fell over the otherwise tranquil tropical forest. The corruption spread like a plague, reaching the northeast region and threatening to push ever outward. Soldiers of the Scourge, shambling, undead monstrosities, turned the land from vibrancy and life to one of death and desolation. "Yes," she said softly. "Another to fight the evil of this place. It feels like there is so much of it." She sighed. "Just seems to go on forever."

Vardal raised his long, elven eyebrows in surprise. "And here I am thinking you're a paladin. I thought you were meant to see good in everything."

"No," she said firmly. "I mean to make the world good, and to do that means a purging of evil. Retribution," she said, lifting and dropping her hammer into her palm like a gavel. "But when there is as much evil here as there is, it feels..." She closed her eyes. "...so daunting. Impossible. This land feels all but lost."

Vardal ran a hand through his hair, shifting it to the side that wasn't shaved. "I can't say I agree. I almost feel like we're seeing two lands when we look at the same place," he said with an easy chuckle.

She opened up her hand to the north, towards the blighted region, since dubbed the 'Lost Lands'. "How can you look out at that and feel that evil has not gripped this place?" Even from a distance the difference was notable. Lush greenery gave way to death, a very tangible split through the land itself.

In response, he opened his hand up in much the same way, but to their west. "And yet..." He looked out upon a nearly untouched wilderness, full of wonder and beauty. Distant waterfalls promised peace and calm, while gently swaying treetops covered the land in quiet shade. It was tremendously beautiful - as long as one did not look north. "You know, Tanielle, I believe this may just fall to perspective. A part can be damaged and still yet allow the whole to be beautiful." He tilted his head to the side to more clearly show the scars and burns he carried on half his face. "Am I not living proof?" he said with a wink.

She blushed, just slightly. "You have your charms, I'll admit."

"I certainly do. Now, lets pack our things. We have a long road ahead of us, and Grizzly Hills awaits."

"Grizzly Hills?" she said incredulously. "Our guild awaits us near Icecrown. We should find them-"

"It'll be weeks, still. We have time. You said you struggled to see the good in Northrend." His new travelling companion, the leopard, came to his side and nuzzled up to his hand, already well acquainted. "I mean to change that. A change of perspective, as I said. After all, isn't it better to have something worth fighting for?"

There is not a soul alive that could look upon Crystalsong Forest and not be awed by its beauty. The land itself has turned to crystal, giving the entire landscape a pristine, shimmering purple hue. During the hours of the morning sun, the light catches each glimmering surface and casts the place under a kind of calming glow. There are few places in Northrend - or the whole of Azeroth, for that matter - that have the peace and serenity that Crystalsong Forest has. Very little moves. All is quiet.

One of the few figures breaking the silence and stillness were the night elf and draenei, and of course the leopard that now was along with them both, that had just climbed over the mountain range that separated the forest and Sholazar basin. They gasped for air from the difficult trek through the mountains, having eschewed the use of the gryphons the Alliance had brought to Northrend upon Vardal's insistence. He said it was better to hike, and to see the land for what it was.

Vardal looked over at Tanielle expectantly. "Is it not as stunning as I had described? A whole forest, frozen in crystal - truly a sight to see, no?"

Tanielle bent down and picked up a piece of the glittering landscape that had blown up to the cliff-side peak they stood upon. She held it in her fingers, inspecting the piece with the distinguished eye of a draenei, a people who well know the value of crystals. "Peculiar..." was all she said.

Vardal shook his head. "That can't be all you think when you see-"

"Oh, no, it's beautiful - truly, it is," she interrupted softly, giving him a smile. "And as with all things, the light only serves to make it all the more entrancing. But... how? I've never seen anything like this in all my days."

The night elf hesitated. He knew how it came to be, and unfortunately it didn't much support what he was setting out to do. Nevertheless, she asked, and with Tanielle being ever the inquisitive type, she was likely to find out one way or the other. "Some time ago, the black dragonflight fought with the blue. The resulting bursts of magic left a residue behind, coating the forest. Now it's the crystal you see today."

It was Tanielle's turn to shake her head in disappointment. "So even this beauty is born out of pain and warfare."

"It's a matter of perspective," says Vardal. "All you need is to change how you see this place. 'So even out of pain and warfare, beauty can be born.'"

She looked back out at the magnificent, purple-tinted trees and the undeniable sense of peace that fell over the landscape, frozen in time. A quiet breeze passed over them, relieving them after the long, difficult hike up to the perch from which they viewed the land. Eventually, she nodded. "In the darkness the light appears brightest. A change of perspective, as you say."

"There's the paladin in you," he said, petting the leopard that came up to his side. "Come, then. We have much more to see."

---

There's a change in the air when one enters the Grizzly Hills. The smell of pine from the lumber camps mixes with the freshness of the water from the glimmering streams. Deer dance through the tall trees, prancing through the thick vegetation. Eagles stand triumphant in their perches, their calls echoing across the brisk Northrend air. Such tremendous forests are truly a night elf's dream. For Vardal, it was a simple choice to make his home here during the Alliance's expedition north.

"We're almost there," he said, passing by Amberpine Lodge, the Alliance's base camp in the Grizzly Hills. A few of their guards nodded their hellos, recognizing the hunter as one who brought back meat and pelts to help them survive the cold nights. This land had no shortage of beasts large and small.

They leapt over streams and walked through the vast, rich landscape, humbled by the great shadows cast by the mighty trees above. Finally, Vardal stopped walking, both of them enjoying the bountiful wilderness but ready to reach their final destination. They came upon a strange collection of trees. Three pines, closely spaced in a triangle, wrapped their lower branches together to form a makeshift roof. The trunks of the trees, and the boughs on the outside of the triangle, formed walls. Soon, Tanielle realized this was Vardal's home. Inside were a small amount of supplies; a few furs to combat the cold Northrend nights, a healthy supply of arrows, and miscellaneous tools.

"How did you make this?" she asked, staring in wonder at the strange architecture.

"Druids - they're a helpful lot, and they seem to make good friends of the trees. It might not be Darnassus, but it's home," Vardal said with an unmistakable sense of pride. He noticed Tanielle hadn't given her thoughts on it. "What do you think?" he asked, nervously.

She paused for a moment. "I think it's beautiful."

A week went by with Vardal and Tanielle passing the days fishing in the nearby streams. They learned of each other's cultures and heritage, telling of the trials of the night elves and the tragedies the draenei had faced. They swapped stories about heroic deeds and comical misadventures. Vardal would speak of his favourite places around Teldrassil, and Tanielle would talk about the beauty of Draenor. It was quiet and peaceful, the two greatly enjoying the other's company.

Yet time caught up with them both. Soon, their guild would be meeting at the base camps surrounding the Lich King's citadel, and the great threat that loomed over their heads was to be dealt with directly. With reluctance, but knowing the importance of their duties, they packed their things and left the quiet home Vardal had made in the Grizzly Hills and made their way towards the cold, unforgiving land of Icecrown. They both knew the trials ahead would be of great difficulty, and the time of peace and tranquillity for them both will have passed, for a time. But when they looked back at the small, twisted boughs that composed Vardal's home, they knew that the good places in the world were those worth fighting for.

---

There was no protection from the wind and cold of Icecrown. Snow drifted across the ground, biting at any skin that lay exposed to the elements. The grand shadow of the mighty citadel, it's cold bluish metal standing imposing above them, blocked all hope of sun and warmth from their position beneath it. Their guild was with them now, the quiet solitude of the Grizzly Hills having long passed them, exchanged for the bustling community of warriors, magic wielders and healers that composed their raiding party. Diminutive gnomes went about tinkering with strange mechanical devices while dwarves taunted the races that were more accustomed to warmer climates.

In the distance, flapping banners of the Argent Crusade marked where the combined forces of the Alliance and Horde had pushed the undead monsters back. The final task lay ahead of them now, and the group readied themselves for the battle ahead in any way they could.

"Now, this place," Vardal said, seeing patches of snow discoloured by the blood of those fallen in the fight against the Lich King, "this place I struggle to find the good in. There are no great forests here to look out to. No majestic creations of nature. This is a land without hope or mercy."

"No," Tanielle agreed. "But look around you. We've come together - all of us - to fight against this evil, and to purge it from this place once and for all. That togetherness," she said, taking his hand in hers, "is what makes us strong." She added one final comment before setting out for the citadel. "It's all just a matter of perspective."

Full Circle

I am Drathgar Blackheart. Throughout my life - and subsequent death - I have been many things. Soldier. Worgen. Death Knight. A man, made into a killer, made into a monster, and twisted yet further beyond that. I have committed atrocities in the name of the Lich King's Scourge. Under the curse of the worgen I have done just the same. What I consider myself to be now I can hardly say, but through my travels I am trying to understand what I've become. To find closure, if not peace. It's how I've found myself to be where I am now.

Gahrron's Withering, they call it. A wretched place in death, once a joyous place in life.

It looked little different from the other ruined farms of the Plaguelands. I walked through the rows of desiccated corn, dried husks where once vibrant life grew to sustain a whole city - the once thriving nearby city of Andorhal. Through the crops, assailed by wails of the spirits that now haunt this place, I searched for one particular corpse; the farmer's unfortunate wife. I did not have to search long. One remembers these things, often far too well.

The body was cold and grey, her face mercifully obscured by dirt to spare me the unpleasantness of looking upon my own handiwork. I laid down my sword and went to one knee beside the corpse and held out my hands in front of me. On each were dozens of rings. I searched for one of hardly any value; a simple, bent silver circle unadorned with gems or jewels. I removed it, placing it upon her gently and reverently as the ghosts sang their cries of lament around me, hungering for my blood and thirsty for vengeance. I could hardly blame them.

Upon removing the ring and returning it to its rightful owner, I felt no lighter mentally than physically. This work was not to be done for catharsis, but duty. I have taken from these people. Death does not absolve me of what I owe, and I will return what I've taken.

Leaving the body behind, I went to the farmhouse. The door was clawed by jagged fingernails, leaving traces of blood on the wood, covered in scratches as it was by restless ghouls. The air inside smelled stale and old, the stench of a place left empty and in disrepair. No living soul had been here for years. No living soul was in it now.

I laid my sword down on their table, a colossal, battered hunk of metal made from the blades of swords meant for smaller men. When recruited into the Gilnean army, I told them that a man my size would need a bigger blade, so the blacksmiths forged me this - a sword of swords, wielded now by a monster of monsters. At the time, it was the bluster of youth that came up with the idea. That courage and brashness stays until the blade first sheds blood.

With my hands free I searched the house. I came upon a single candle. Good enough.

Pulling from my pack a piece of parchment and an ink well, I sat at the table and allowed myself to transform. It was only times such as this I allowed myself to take the form of a human, albeit a dead one. The written word was the one piece of humanity that still gripped me, and I allowed myself this one indulgence. The rings, so many of them on each hand, made writing difficult, but not for a moment did I consider removing even one. Once I set to writing, the words would always flow quickly anyway. There were always many thoughts to sort through.

Third day in the Western Plaguelands;

Gahronn's Withering. Once, this was a bustling farm used to bring grain to the nearby city of Andorhal, run by Del Gahrron. A quaint, picturesque farm, the type old soldiers talk of settling down in. The Scourge care little for such things, however.

When the plague started to spread, Gahronn boarded up the windows as best he could. He dug trenches to form defensible positions. His farmhands were allowed to stay in his own home, hoping that through strength in numbers they'd be able to hold off until whatever threat gripped the land subsided. As the plague spread, his farm was one of the last holdouts in the waves of undead that began to overtake the lands of Lordaeron, turning it into the Plaguelands as it's known today. Making a final, desperate attempt, he fled from the farm to Andorhal to recruit any soldiers still alive to hold on and defend his property with him. Knowing the road would be dangerous, he left behind his wife, Gloria, and his daughter, Andrea.

He found the city to be well past saving. Abandoning his attempt, he returned to his farm. But upon his arrival, he found his humble farm ravaged by the undead. The bodies of his wife, daughter, and any that dared stay to help protect them, torn to pieces.

He lives in Hearthglen now, fighting on behalf of the Argent Crusade. The poor soul clings to memories of what once was and hoping that if he kills enough of the undead it would somehow purge the guilt he feels for having left them. He's a good man at heart, but a broken one. The loss was too great, and the man now carries a reckless death-wish of his own, signing on for whatever battle he can to usher on the meeting with his family in the afterlife.

It was I who killed his wife and daughter.

I took a moment to rest my hand. Perhaps it was a moment to give rest to whatever is left of my soul.

I have come back to return the wedding band I had taken from Gloria Gahrron upon her demise. It brings me as much peace as it would her husband. But the rings on my hand weigh heavy, and while I'm already damned, I'll damn myself further if I fail to return them.

The wailing of the ghosts outside became too much to bear. Calling for my gryphon, a once majestic beast now just bone and sinew, I flew to my next destination. I ran my thumb across the rings on my hand. So many of them still.

---

Never in my life or death had I seen such pure, unadulterated hatred than when I fought the defenders of the Scarlet Enclave. I was the embodiment of what they built their lives around destroying; a relentless, savage machine of war and brutality, sapped of thought or emotion by the embrace of death and the Lich King's grasp. They fought with every ounce of strength they had, as sure in their convictions as any could be. Both men that met me on the battlefield, in spite of all their vigour, fell the same as the rest. A wound across each of their torsos that nearly cleaved them in two spelled their fate.

The shambling corpses that surrounded me, resurrected in the Lich King's name and still wandering endlessly near where they fell, wore the tabard of the Scarlet Crusade. The bright white and red garment was stained with dried blood and gore, a mockery of the purity it once strove to represent. So ruined were their bodies they could hardly prop themselves up to stand and fight again. Still, the faces, worn by time and death as they may have been, were immediately recognizable. One remembers such things.

As a death knight trained in blood magic, I felt some perverse pleasure in sapping what life and strength remained from them. It fed me further, healing whatever wounds they managed to deal to me. Monstrous, truly. If I could see myself now from when I was a bright-eyed youth in Gilneas, signing the papers to join the army...

The rain began to pour, but no amount of water could wash away the massacre that took place here. I was glad I could dispose of them quickly and that the battle was short. I wanted to tell myself I wanted to swiftly move on from such grisly business, but in truth, there's only so much essence of life one can steal from the already dead. While I tried to suppress the thought, I wish they had more life to give.

No matter, regardless. Fuelling my thirst for blood was not what brought me here. Rather, it was the two rings on my left finger, each the same; a golden band with a small red ruby in the centre, the signet ring of some order of the crusade in which I'm unfamiliar. I laid them down on each corpse. I have no respect for the Scarlet Crusade, but it does not matter. I took these rings after I slaughtered these men, and it's my calling to return them now.

A small house sat not far away, half burned down by Scourge soldiers. The rain fell through the spaces where the fire tore open the roof, but it provided enough shelter to remove the parchment from my pack and begin to write. Before I sat down, I caught a glimpse of myself in a puddle in the house. A long, white mane. Eyes glowing the soft blue of death, like the discoloured skin of the drowned. I watched my reflection as I transformed into my human form. I felt no greater recognition of what stood before me then as I did a moment before. Splashing the puddle away, I took up a pen and sat down.

They say that becoming a soldier changes you. You join the military a boy, and become a man. One could say that was my first transformation. I joined with the same high-minded eagerness as all the rest. Ideals to change the world, make a name for myself, reach heights of glory! The moment you first see battle, the brutality of it, the savagery, those thoughts melt away.

Fear gripped me in the first battles. I feel no shame in admitted it. So when Arugal came, promising us such great power to be able to defend our homeland, I was eager to accept. The tales of the great kingdom of Dalaran falling to the Scourge struck fear into all of us, and the thought of becoming something greater, something truly capable, was far too much to ignore. Enlistment in the military saw vast potential and sudden shock and despair. The curse of the worgen came down upon us next, and it felt no different. It wasn't long before the worgen form began to overtake me. The second transformation.

A friend of mine, Lord Harford, convinced me to flee. To leave Gilneas, to return when it was under no such dire threat! Of course, we couldn't have known the Scourge was so close at hand. I was foolish enough to think I could hold them off for him to flee and still survive myself.

The third transition was upon me, as my corpse was raised into service of the Lich King.

I looked back to see the puddle had taken form again. I dared not look at my reflection.

I sit now on my fourth transformation. Undead, cursed, and given free will again. But to what end? Free will to know what I have done? I left two more rings tonight, but they brought me as little solace as any before. In truth, the Scarlet Crusade is hardly different from me. They had changed too. They began as something good, something pure - many of which were members of the Knights of the Silver Hand! They, too, changed to something terrible.

Do they feel regret? Do I?

The next destination was not far. I returned my parchment to my pack and set out.

---

Whatever the building was - an infirmity, maybe - I recognized it immediately. One remembers places like this. It was what caused my fifth transformation.

A pine of bones lay just behind. They were charred, brittle black dust all that's left of what once were good, noble souls. Buried here, in the piles of bones, was Lord Harford. Whatever terrible hold the Lich King had on me, Harford was the one that pushed it to breaking - to give me a return to my free will, for better or worse.

It was Lord Harford I helped escape Arugal's grasp, only for him to fall into the hands of the Scourge. I considered him a brother. I died protecting him. And then, here in this dirty old tent in the Scarlet Enclave, we met again - only for me to be ordered to put him to death. He asked what they had done to me. I felt he should have been more specific about who "they" happened to be, considering how many times I've changed.

If I didn't kill him then, I would have been buried with him. He knew it just as well as I did. He told me to kill him so I had a chance to survive. A man I died saving, only to sacrifice himself so I could be saved. A full circle, albeit an odd one.

I held his ring in my hand. A sign of royalty, marking him as a Lord in our lands; a jet-black gem, the colour of Gilneas. It was ornate and beautiful, the most valuable of my mementos. The value meant nothing to me beyond the duty of returning it, however. Sadly, the miscellaneous pile of charred bones did little for identifying which was which, robbing me even of that. I laid it atop the pile, seeing no greater option nor a means to identify him. And so with the job done, I returned to my parchment and my old form.

I cannot say why I took the rings. My mind was not fully my own. I have remnants, vague memories, subtle notions of why or how, as if I was watching my body act. And so I wonder if I feel regret.

Can one regret actions done when not of sound mind? Yes, I slew these people. Viciously, violently. In the worgen form I had similar violent outbursts, and a man - or monster - of my stature tends to see pain in others that come as a result of anger. Yet is my form as a worgen truly me? Were the crimes I committed my crimes or that of the Lich King?

I will return every ring, regardless. They were not mine to take. Yet the number does not dwindle. For every slaughtered soldier of the Horde, I take their rings as well - but to keep, rather than return. Yet, if one day the Horde and Alliance are to make peace, and the war between us all comes to light as a grand delusion, will I make the return to the same lands and place the rings upon their bodies as I had here? Will I make the same arguments, trying to absolve the sins I have done by claiming I had been tricked into a war and told it was just?

I don't know how that will be. But what I do know, is that until the end of my days I will continue returning these rings - and adding others. My hands and my heart will continue to grow heavy, even as the latter hardens more with each passing day. This is my task, and I will continue it with vigour until my second, final death - my last great transformation.

Ironbane

"We'll run out of space in the stables if they keep at this rate, brother. This new shipment - four clefthoofs? There's hardly space for three, let alone enough to feed them." Gavrok shook his head in disbelief as another ship came to shore upon the Iron Docks. There had been many as of late, as the demands for war were ever increasing, and the docks were filled with ships transporting weapons, armour, and in this case, massive beasts to be used for battle. "We used to have a bond with these animals. Now they beat them. Taunt them. They say it makes them angrier, gives them a temperament that's better for battle. I don't know how much longer I can stand for this."

"And what would you have us do, then?" his brother, Marnoch, asked. He had heard this line of thinking many times before, but it always ended in the same way. They were stable hands, a cog in a vast war machine. There was little they could do but follow.

"I don't know. But I grow tired of stepping out of the way." He stepped down from crates full of weapons and armour and made their way to assist in bringing the animals to the stables. At least there, the animals were under their protection for a time.

The first of the clefthoofs was making its descent down a narrow ramp from the latest ship's cargo hold as they arrived. Chains were wrapped around its neck, being pulled along by the dock's leader, Koramar. It was reluctant, swinging its head to try and loosen the hold the chains had on it. "Hurry up, beast!" he called out with his characteristic fury. A Warsong commander, Koramar had little patience for the animals under his command. "Now!" he called again as the clefthoof dug in its heels and refused to continue down the ramp. Losing patience, he stopped tugging on the chain and picked up his spear.

"Last chance, beast," he spat. A half-hearted tug on on the chain did little to move the clefthoof forward. He raised his spear, ready to make the clefthoof move, even if it meant slaying it and having it tumble from the docks into the waters below. However, just as his arm moved to strike, a heavy hand grabbed the end of the spear and held it in place.

"Treat the animals with respect, and they'll treat you in kind," Gavrok said, slowly releasing the spear. He picked up the chains and gently guided the animal forward, the clefthoof now steadily moving along with him down the ramp. "Lead gently. They will follow."

Koramar tilted his weapon towards Gavrok. "Listen closely. Hold my arm back from striking again, and you'll find your head on the end this spear! You will pay for that insubordination!" he yelled at Gavrok before turning back towards the ship to yell at the rest of the dockworkers that were not moving at a speed he found acceptable.

Marnoch came to his brother's side, taking one of the chains and helping to guide the clefthoof. There was worry on his face. "You're playing with fire taunting him that way. Koramar is volatile. You should take care around him."

Gavrok didn't respond, but rather gritted his teeth in frustration and moved the clefthoof along faster. They reached the stables and hastily made room for the new animal, ashamed that they had to house such a magnificent creature in such a cramped space. Clefthoofs, elekks, rylaks, all penned in places far too small for their imposing size. He could hardly shut the door to the latest clefthoof's pen, having to shift the creature to the side just to move the gate. He slammed it in anger, rattling the metal and causing the animals to stomp and growl. "How can you call yourself an orc?" Gavrok suddenly yelled at his brother. "To let yourself be disrespected like this! To let us follow this disgrace! This," he said, holding up his hands to the stables. "This is an insult! The eyes of the beasts burn red with hatred! Their bodies are covered in steel as we prod them into a fury - is that who we are now? What Horde is this that we follow? And you serve them like a coward! If it was you that came forward first this animal would have been gutted on the docks!"

"Call me a coward? Am I that different than you?" his brother fired back, stepping forward to him to meet him eye to eye. "I'll ask again, brother - what would you have us do, then? Hmm? What can we do?"

They paused, fists balled in anger, breathing heavily. Gavrok closed his eyes and forced himself into a calmer state. "I know. We can only do what we can. Let's feed these beasts and be done with this for the day."

They finished the rest of their tasks in silence before retiring to the barracks. But the question stuck in both of their minds; what could they do?

---

Gavrok met his brother at the crates the next morning, meeting the sun as it glared off the thin layer of water on the ships and black metal of the Iron Docks. Marnoch had heavy bags under his eyes, showing he had not slept after last night's confrontation. Gavrok felt he likely looked much the same. Nevertheless, they greeted each other as they always did. There was no grudge between them. Brothers always, they were quick to forgive. "Another day, then," Gavrok said. "I can only hope Koramar forgot our... disagreement."

"Knowing that one, he'll take it to the grave. Or ours," Marnoch added solemnly.

"We'll deal with it when we have to," Gavrok said, nodding towards the stables and starting off in that direction. However, when he arrived, he sensed something was off. He sniffed the air, noting it was different than the usual pungent smell caused by large animals in a tight space. There was something else. Something he couldn't at first recognize. "Do you..."

"Yes," Marnoch said. "I smell it too. Blood."

Pitchforks used for clearing the barn were stacked along the outside. They each picked one up and held it tightly, creaking open the door. The Iron Horde had enemies in Draenor, and the first thought was that of a potential sabotage. To their relief, the first pens were clear. Steeltusk, a massive elekk and a favourite of Marnoch, stirred restlessly. Faultline, a particularly ornery clefthoof that answered only to to Gavrok, had the unusual action of snapping its teeth at the cage as he walked by. They crouched low. Something was desperately wrong.

Gavrok saw it first. He dropped his pitchfork, his jaw falling along with it. A spear was plunged through the heart of their newest clefthoof, blood and gore splattering the walls of the enclosure. Such a mighty, proud beast, put to death in such a manner that was nothing short of revolting to the two stable hands.

A note was attached on the end of the spear, and Marnoch went to read it. It was clear, even before they read it, who left it behind. The spear was the same as the one Koramar had used to threaten the beast as it came down from the ship yesterday.

Pulling the note from the spear, Marnoch read it aloud and scowled. "It reads, 'Lead by force, and you make them follow.'" He crumpled the note and threw it to the ground. "That's it, brother. I've had enough. It's time."

"Time for what? To kill that coward?" Gavrok said with fury. If that was what he proposed, he would be with his brother in a heartbeat.

"No. To escape from here. With them," he said, raising a hand towards the rest of the animals. He moved along the cages and began to open them one by one. "We'll release them all. Guide them out of here. It's their only hope. And perhaps ours, as well."

Marnoch put his hand on the latch to the cage next to him "We'll be killed, brother. You know this as well as I do."

"Perhaps, yes. But this is no life here. A life without honour is not a life worth living." Marnoch moved to Steeltusk next, the colossal elekk stirring and restless. "I will see you on the outside," he whispered to it. He looked to his brother next. "You said yourself we cannot keep being a part of this. I asked what we could do. This is it."

Gavrok moved to Steeltusk's cage. "It's more than likely a death sentence for us both," he said. Then, he opened the cage.

At the brothers' prompting, beasts flew from the cages along the docks, breaking through stacked crates and equipment. An occasional dockworker would try to slow the beasts only to be thrown aside by a clefthoof rearing its head or Steeltusk's mighty charge. It was chaos, immediate and brutal. Somehow, above it all, they heard the voice of Koramar calling orders.

"We have traitors in our midst!" he yelled, the strong voice of the Warsong carrying across the docks. "Iron Horde! Slay them! I want their heads!"

Grunts grabbed rifles and levelled them at the beasts, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off the metal plated beasts, the great protective armour they had placed on the animals working against them now. The brothers ran alongside the herd, using them to shield themselves against the onslaught. Iron Horde that ventured too far into their path were trampled and slaughtered, one finding itself gored on the end of the tusk of the great elekk before sliding off into the docks.

Koramar watched in disbelief. "That's enough! They will not leave these docks, even if that means we have to burn this whole place to ash! Zoggosh!" he said, calling at his second in command. "Prepare our cannons for firing! Ready the gronn!"

Towering over the horizon was the prize of Blackhand himself, the mighty gronn, Skulloc. It was a testament to the strength of the Iron Horde to have captured these creatures and set them to service. Massive and powerful, the creature was a living siege engine unto itself, having cannons strapped upon its back. All the gronn had to do was point in the right direction. "Fire!" Koramar yelled above the fury. "Fire, now! Kill them all!"

Cannon fire blasted the docks, sending splinters of wood and debris flying in all directions. A rampaging clefthoof was hit head on, exploding in blood and gore. Cannon balls ripped through the wooden planks of the docks and splashed into the water as the brothers pushed themselves to the brink. A dockworker, braver than the rest, managed to find a clear shot on the brothers as they slipped in and out of the stomping feet of clefthoof and elekk. His aim under the crashing of cannonballs and shaking ground was off, however, and it ricocheted off the armoured plating of Steeltusk directly into the tusk of Gavrok, breaking it off and forcing him to tumble to the docks. Through sheer luck, a cannonball ripped above his head just as he fell, sending the attacker flying. Marnoch followed in after and was quick to pick up the rifle the dockworker dropped after he was struck.

"We're almost there, brother!" he called out to Gavrok. Steeltusk was far ahead of them now, and he stormed through the gate they had placed to keep them in, shattering it to pieces. "Stop for nothing!"

Another cannonball slammed into the docks ahead of them, showering them in water and splinters. Another clefthoof was struck, its pained roar echoing. Still, the brothers pressed on, but Koramar's gronn had found its range.

Their luck finally ran out. A cannonball tore through the docks, and landed a direct hit on Marnoch, catching him below the knee. It severed it completely, causing him to spin and be thrown across the dock. "Marnoch!" Gavrok yelled, seeing his brother fall. He rushed to his side. Blood poured freely from the wound. "Brother, I..."

Marnoch shook the dizziness from his head and met his brother eye to eye. "Hand me that rifle!" he said, pointing to the gun he took from the dockworker that fired upon them. "I'll hold them off as long as I can! Now run!"

"I cannot-"

"Run!" he said again, with whatever vigour he could muster. "Survive. Live to bring death to these Iron Horde!" He saw the hesitation in his brothers eyes. He met his gaze directly. "What choice do you have?"

Gavrok knew he was right. He quickly retrieved the rifle and began to flee. However, he turned back to his brother one final time. "I was wrong to call you a coward," he said. Using a straggling elekk as protection, he ran alongside it out of the gates. Behind him, he heard the sound of Marnoch's rifle being fired until the gronn found its accuracy once again. After another volley of cannon fire, the gun fell silent. But Marnoch's stand was not in vain. Gavrok exited the gates Steeltusk destroyed, and fled the Iron Docks.

---

Gavrok fled on foot until he reached exhaustion and collapsed upon the ground. He awoke coughing and wheezing, his lungs on fire from the dust and fumes of the docks mixed with the great exertion of his escape. Much to his surprise, he found the great elekk, Steeltusk, and his prized clefthoof, Faultline, standing dutifully at his side, grazing upon whatever grass they could find in the desolate landscape. Pushing himself up, he replayed the events in his head, hardly able to believe they happened. He ran a hand along Steeltusk's flank and thanked it for the opportunity it gave him. He only wished he could share the moment of joy and relief with his brother.

Anger swelled within him. He would not even have a body to bury. "I hope you two are ready," he said to the animals. "We will bring vengeance down upon the heads of the Iron Horde." He laid his fist on the ground, thinking of his brother who gave his life so he could have just a chance at escape. He thought of his brother's last moments and the direction he gave him. "From this day forward, may no member of the Iron Horde find rest while I am breathing. May Koramar's head be placed upon my spear when we next meet. And may I leave this life knowing that those wretched docks will burn. They will know me. They will know fear! From this point forward, I am just Gavrok no longer. I will be known as Gavrok - Ironbane!"

Mechanically Inclined

“Zug zug,” Tootzlezz whispered with a shake of his head. “What is that supposed to mean? ‘Zug zug,” the gnome mocked with his shoulders up and brow lowered in his best attempt at appearing as an orc.

“Quiet!”, the night elf captain scolded. Duriel Moonfire was as quick with the draw of her bow as she was with her reprimands, and the gnome had earned many. She had suffered his incessant chatter long enough, and she feared that his high pitched squeak of a voice would alert the Warsong that were right beneath their noses. “Have you ever fought a Warsong? Their cries alone will be enough to make most soldiers cower.”

Tootzlezz flashed the priestess accompanying them, Qor’léille Mooneye, a grin. He had become friends with the unusual night elf when he was sent here to both assist the elves and to garner support for a push back into Gnomeregan. She had to stifle a smile in return. She took the same view on life as the gnome; an endlessly inquisitive nature for all things, and a decidedly lighthearted perspective on it all. While it allowed the gnomish rogue to flourish in his community, it made her somewhat of an outcast among the typically stoic and stalwart night elves. With their group of Duriel Moonfire and her two huntresses, Mooneye and Tootzlezz were the only ones that seemed to find any joy in much of anything.

Still, they both had a job to do, and the captain had just spotted their target. “There,” Duriel said with a nod to the north. “The shredder.”

Just ahead, under the pale moonlight of Ashenvale, stood a monument to the Horde’s destruction. A goblin shredder, a mechanized, efficient means of leveling acres of night elf forest. The Warsong orcs have been battling with the night elves here since the third war, using these monstrosities to wreak havoc on the landscape in the name of fueling their war machine. Formerly under the leadership of Grom Hellscream, they slaughtered their beloved demigod Cenarius and laid waste to their forests. They’ve been fighting tooth and nail ever since.

Immediately, the huntresses under Duriel’s guidance flanked left and right, encircling the shredder and taking note of the peons chopping lumber by hand. While they were no fighters, they would alert the warriors to the night elven presence. As silent as the night, they went to work eliminating the threat. Tootzlezz and Mooneye followed their captain right through the centre of the camp, knowing full well the huntresses would have done their work.

Duriel crouched low underneath the giant metal monster, it’s blades covered in sawdust and debris, catching just a glint of the moonlight off its razor sharp tools. The sight could have been strangely beautiful with the metal gleaming in the soft moonlight had its purpose not been so terrible. “Hop up, then,” she said to Tootzlezz and Mooneye. “Get to work quickly. We don’t know how long -”

Horns blared from the barracks not far to the south. They had been spotted. Already the fearsome cries of the Warsong were ringing through the air, and the sounds of war drums and stomping feet were fast approaching. The captain drew the huntresses in from the flanks, taking up their bows and vowing to give as much time to the priest and the rogue as they could. Their task was decidedly different from that of the huntresses.

Mooneye put out her palms and boosted the nimble rogue into the cockpit of the shredder before hopping up there herself. She climbed just as easily as him. Even from her earliest days in the priesthood, she refused to wear the typical garb of the long, flowing robes of her order. Instead, she opted for tighter fitting tunics. A loose fit would be terribly dangerous around machines. After all, she was one of a rare breed of night elves; a priest that dabbled in engineering. She saw it as a skill that embraced the mechanical to counter the grim effects of the Horde as they rampaged across the forests of Ashenvale. Because of this interest, she took a liking to the members of the Alliance that shared her affinity. When Tootzlezz was sent to Ashenvale to garner support, they quickly became close friends.

“A number of levers, gauges, and - bingo,” Tootzlezz said with a grin as he fiddled with the shredder's wires and mechanisms. “A big red button! Goblins - never known for their subtlety. Well, we know we can blow it up if we need to, at least. How’s it looking down there?”

Mooneye, meanwhile, had opened the compartments underneath to find a typical goblin mess of frayed wires and misplaced gizmos. “It’s everything you’d expect,” she replied. “Pass me an Arclight Spanner!” Cutting some wires, trimming others, and tying what she could together, and borrowing the decidedly gnomish technique of hitting things with force when they weren’t working, eventually she managed to get the engine started. “There we are!”

The Warsong battle cries were closer now. Their captain and her companions were firing arrows to find their distance and ward off the first waves that began to enclose on their position. “You’re running out of time, just destroy the thing and be done with it!” Duriel called up to them.

“There is a big red button, after all… But...” Tootzlezz said slyly.

“But, a number of levers…” Mooneye said, flicking oil out of her stark white hair.

“They’re never stable. Turn them all up-”

“-and it’ll overheat.”

"Not to mention it’ll get nice and far away from us.”

“Mooneye! Gnome! We are running out of time!” Duriel called with urgency as she planted an arrow into the arm of an orc at an incredible distance.

Together, they fiddled with the dials and levers until the shredder was facing towards the orcish barracks. Every method of increasing speed they could muster they turned up to the maximum and leapt from the cockpit of the shredder onto the ground below, just as the orcs were closing in. The orcs watched in shock as the shredder moved with an incredible swiftness through their camp, knocking piles of lumber and sending peons leaping out of the way. A rampaging, out of control machine was more than enough of a distraction for the night elves to flee back into the forest and out of sight. Their work was rewarded by the tremendous fireball rising into the air as the harvester slammed into the barracks wall, its reckless goblin technology overheating and bursting just as predicted.

Silently, not taking any chances of alerting any Horde scouts, the five returned back to Silverwind Refuge to regroup. The moment they were through the gates and to safety Duriel began to reprimand them both - quite a shock to the gnome and priest, seeing as they both expected praise. “What was that stunt?” she scolded them, maintaining her standard night elven poise while still clearly full of fury. “Sending a shredder rampaging off? You’re fortunate we’re breathing!”

“Are we?” Mooneye countered, white eyes transfixed and not for a moment backing down. “We looked at the shredder and assessed it. It was an acceptable risk, and we did it without an issue. It’s the reason we’re breathing. They had to retreat to prevent their whole barracks from burning to the ground!”

“Plan went off without a hitch,” Tootzlezz added, earning him a glare from them both to let him know it was not the time for his intervention. “Not a hitch, not a one,” he muttered while shrugging his shoulders.

“Your trinkets,” the captain said, pointing to Mooneye’s pouch of miscellaneous gizmos and gadgets, “can be left here next time. I’m not letting you endanger this war party again!”

Mooneye pulled back her shoulders and straightened her back. “You are in no position to tell me how to fight the battle for this land. If these ‘trinkets,’ as you call them, will send the orcs back, then so be it.” They stared eye to eye until Duriel finally left, summoning her huntresses to follow her.

Tootzlezz strolled up beside her, kicking his feet and whistling one long, low tone. “They really don’t like the tech, huh? If you ask me, I think our little plan went magnificently!” he said with a flourish. “And you make quite the apprentice!”

“Apprentice?” the night elf said with a laugh. “Just because you’re a gnome doesn’t mean you’re the better engineer.”

“Well, perhaps we can both become a little stronger in that regard…” His voice went quieter and he leaned closer, prompting her to bend down enough for her long elven ears to be near his. “I do have a proposition for you. You’ll learn much about the gnomish ways, and - quite frankly - I think my work here means you might just owe me one.”

“I’m listening,” she said, but stood up to her full height again. “But if you wish to ask for my assistance you can do so not as a rogue, but as a friend. You do not need to whisper to me. What is said here can be said in front of the rest of the rangers.”

“Very well! Have you heard of our great city, Gnomeregan?” Before she even had a chance to respond, he dove into a grand description of magnificent feats of engineering prowess, technology the likes of which the world could hardly comprehend, and a stunning world of whirring machines and flashing lights. “But sadly, it has been lost to us. An invasion of troggs - monstrous little rock-dwelling, stubby, annoying-”

“On with it!”

“Yes, yes. We’ve lost the city. But we seek to reclaim it. To tell you the truth… it’s much of the reason why I’m here. To scout for allies and to earn their trust, to hope they’ll come to Gnomeregan and help us claim what is ours!”

Mooneye nodded her head. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

Tootzlezz was taken aback. “Well. I didn’t think that would happen quite so quickly.”

“You had me at technology,” she said with a smile. “That, and I think you’re right. You have helped us. For what you’ve done for my home, the least I could do is help you with yours. We leave tomorrow.”

Without another word, she picked up her things and went to find a place to rest until their travels the next day. Tootzlezz just stood there, a gnome in a land of night elves, unsure if the conversation that just happened really occurred the way he heard it. After a few suspicious looks from the rangers, he took off to find a place to rest as well.

“There are other gnomes here?” she said in amazement, looking at the towering contraptions of wire, metal and miscellaneous parts that she wasn’t entirely sure were even connected to any one thing.

Tootzlezz looked down, the normally eccentric gnome suddenly dour. “When the radiation was released, there were many who could not flee fast enough. They’ve lost their once great minds, thinking any that enter the city are the trogg invaders. It’s a kindness to put them down, but a sadness just the same.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine…”

“It’s why I called you here. It’s more than just liberating the city. It’s… sometimes an act of mercy.”

The group they joined - two gnomish casters and a hardy dwarf warrior - entered the city through a door in the shape of a giant gear. Mooneye found herself awed by its tremendous size and scope. The careful planning of the city was so different from her home in Darnassus, where nature dictated much of the direction in which the city grew. She was so busy marvelling at the wonders, she very nearly got herself killed. Fortunately, the dwarf grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him. “Careful, lass!” he called. They had stepped onto the platform of a giant elevator leading them into the depths of the city, and she had very nearly missed it, narrowly avoiding what would have been a great and terrible fall.

“You’d be surprised how many we’ve lost to elevators over the years,” Tootzlezz noted. Mooneye had discovered long ago that no matter how much the gnomes detested the goblins, they both shared a reckless abandon in their use of technology.

It was one of many fascinating things she discovered in her travels through the city. Discarded pieces of machinery, workshops of half-completed projects, schematics for baffling but confusing new pieces of weaponry or convenience or sometimes both. It was a treasure trove for the mechanically curious, and if it wasn’t for the numbers of troggs, radiation-mad gnomes and haywire robotics littering the place - admittedly, a significant problem - it would have been paradise. The dwarf grew weary at the constant wait for inspections by the overly curious, strangely clad night elf priest, but it was part of the deal in her venturing out here - she could explore as she wished.

Still, they had a job to do. They fought their way through the exceedingly confusing passageways and meandering tunnels of Gnomeregan, a place where even maps seemed to do more to confound the user than assist. Tootzlezz and Mooneye cared not in the slightest, scouting for intriguing inventions and innovations along the way. But eventually, after hours of searching (and a number of snack periods of conjured food provided by the party’s mage) they fought their way to the usurper of Gnomeregan.

“Mekgineer Thermaplugg,” Tootzlezz said through gritted teeth. “Tinkerer turned traitor.” He turned to the rest of the party, putting an arm out to block them from entering the final chamber. “Listen. Much of what we’ve seen has been his doing. He’ll be quick with a bomb and he’ll be under the protection of -” Tootzlezz peeked around the corner to see the self-styled king. “-an apparently very large, very dangerous machine.” He turned to Mooneye. “Sound familiar? Remind you of something in Ashenvale, perhaps?” he said with a wink.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” she said back.

“Whatever he throws out, I’ll be there to disarm it. I’m quick enough. The rest of you, focus on taking out his suit. Mooneye - perhaps wait until after his machine is broken before taking notes on it?”

Mooneye stifled a laugh, not to alert the Mekgineer. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Split wires, undetonated explosives and miscellaneous pieces of smoldering metal were scattered about the floor. Right at the centre sat the destroyed mechanical monster Thermaplugg used to lord over the ravaged gnomish capital. Seated around it were the five that defeated him, bloodied and battered, but victorious. Tootzlezz had fought brilliantly, sprinting from mine to mine that Thermaplugg had tossed onto the battlefield and cutting the necessary wires at every turn. Only then would he dash back to the traitor and target any weak spots Mooneye could decipher from a distance. Still, the victory rang oddly hollow. As the towering giant of metal fumed and the bombs that Tootzlezz couldn’t reach exploded and smoked, the traitor managed to escape into the many tunnels of Gnomeregan - weakened, but not defeated.

The liberation of Gnomeregan would not be had that day. It wouldn’t be for years.

Mooneye held her hands out to boost the gnome up to sit upon the destroyed robot. Quite the same as with the shredder, she pulled herself up and sat with him, surveying the destruction and damage. “I thought we had him,” Tootzlezz said, eyes down.

Qor’léille Mooneye nodded. “I thought so, too. But the battle was not for nothing.” She pulled from her pack a series of schematics, plans and gadgets. “We’ve learned much from here, and we’ve dealt a great blow to the powers that have taken your capital. With every battle, we grow stronger. In Ashenvale, when we took down the shredder…”

“Quite the fight, that was!” Tootzlezz added.

“It was. But it did not defeat the Horde. It did not even send them out of Ashenvale. Not even out of their lumber camp. But it was a step. We must fight. Every day if we have to. The road is long, my friend.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Tootzlezz said. “But still… it’s difficult to watch Gnomeregan in this state. I really hoped we would have succeeded in destroying him today.”

“You’ve taught me much, you know,” Mooneye began. “You and the whole race of gnomes. But allow me to teach you something, something that the night elves understand fully. Few victories are total. One must show patience and resolve. We are not a young race, and we have seen both the joys of victory and the sadness of defeat. But we know we will succeed, in the end.” She looked him right in the eyes. “Patience. That’s what it’ll take. For Gnomeregan.”

“And for Ashenvale!” Tootzlezz agreed.

She put an arm on his shoulder and looked out at the marvels of the city. “One day, my friend.”