Scourge - 9.1 C,D,M (Patreon)

"Want Dad." Lianne whined, not for the first time, as she angrily threw their bedding across the uncomfortably unfamiliar room. "Want Dad! Where is Dad?!" Tiny fists struck Calia's leg as Lianne ran out of ammunition with which to vent her frustrations. "Mom bring Dad back! Want home! Dad home!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't." Calia whispered, falling to the floor and embracing her daughter. "I can't. He's gone."

"Not gone! Want Dad!" Lianne wailed, her darling little princess screaming desperately.

Not for the first time, Calia couldn't help but wonder if her rash decision to go to Gilneas rather than Aerie Peak had been a mistake after all. Crowley sheltered her, gave her all the luxuries afforded to her station, lavished upon her amenities and exotic foodstuffs rare even in the palace of Lordaeron, but... he refused to aid her. Refused to give her audience with the king.

Each time she had asked, he said it wasn't the time. That with the war at the wall, the king's attitude towards the refugees, the inability to create a safe story for her, he could not reveal her to the king without backlash.

It was true that, circumstances being what they were, he could perhaps be right. A powerful lord harbouring a foreign princess had connotations that even she, having never been trained to rule like Arthas had, could see. But if he had passed her to the king immediately, removed her from his presence without hiding her like she was part of some scheme...

In that light, his assurances that he would ensure Gilneas found support for Lordaeron rang hollow. He made no effort beyond that which was needed to keep her in a gilded cage. She knew not what it meant for her, for what purpose he gave her comfort, only that he did not mean to aid her.

"I'm sorry," she croaked, her throat tight with emotion, "he's gone. They're all gone."

Her father, who had always seemed like he might rule forever as Lordaeron's greatest king. Arthas, her darling little brother who had shone so brightly and held nought but honour and duty in his heart. And Harman... her husband, who had protected her from the monstrous Daval Prestor and his machinations when she had been made his thrall.

Remembering how she had argued with her father, hated the duplicitous and unnerving man, only to turn into an obsessed and fawning child experiencing her first infatuation towards him due to the necklace she had been made to wear, made her skin crawl.

If he had sought more of her, she knew in her heart of hearts, she could not have resisted.

He had not, but Harman's presence became a balm when she was released from Prestor's thrall. His careful watch over her, not allowing her to give up her hobbies and desires to press for the suit to be accelerated, something she was so thankful for. Harman had truly, truly, only wished what was best for her. For the princess she had been, and not the future broodmare of that monster's spawn.

Calia sobbed, pulling her dear daughter born from love tighter to her. The girl her mother had called a mistake, that she had been denied the chance to raise because of the scandal of a princess falling for a man of low birth.

What felt like hours passed, the flickering gas lamps on the walls – unfamiliar, so unfamiliar and strange – hiding the passage of the sun from her as Lianne slowly tired herself out. Eventually, Calia's daughter fell into a fitful slumber, and she tucked her gently into bed.

Soft blankets of fine wool, rather than the silks and linens to which she was accustomed. Just another part of her residence here that reminded her daily that this was not Lordaeron.

Water flowed from taps as if they were in Dalaran, the privy washed away her waste with water rather than needing servants to empty the chamber pots. Those few people she encountered spoke so differently it was jarring, despite their politeness. It was a life of luxury she was offered, but it was not her home. It was not her kingdom.

Lianne's kingdom.

"I love you, my little princess." She whispered, placing a kiss on her daughter's forehead before standing and wiping her eyes.

All her life she had followed, lived as the dutiful submissive princess. From the moment of Arthas' birth she had known he would be king, and she would never be queen. A truth that had suited her well; she was not a woman of ambition, she did not desire power, she was happy with her lot in life, privileged as it was. Only against Prestor had she protested, only in the aftermath had she rebelled and followed her heart.

It was the suffering and horror that she had experienced that forced her to change, to go against those that had ruled her life. Now her people suffered, had been suffering for many a year; all across the kingdom, even before the Plague, discontent had risen, culminating in the Cult of the Damned which only begat more suffering.

Safe in the capital she had not known, not understood, not cared to do either. It had not been her place. But she could remain ignorant no longer; Southshore had not burned, like Strahnbrad had, but it had been sacked all the same.

Lordaeron needed strong leaders, people to challenge what had happened and bring about change so that they could all move forward.

But all the leaders she knew, all the men of her life, were gone. "It is just us now. Two princesses all that remains of the proud line of Menethil..." Nails dug into her palms. "Remember, our line has always ruled with wisdom and strength..." She was to be queen now. It was not a privilege, it was not a boon, it was a duty. One she had to fulfil not just for the honour of her family, but because her people, her kingdom, needed their queen. "I remember your words, Father. Even if they were not meant for me."

Her hands trembled. "If Crowley will not aid me... then, then I will find my own path." Though it went against her way of life, she was done waiting for others to make decisions for her. If she wished to see her daughter inherit the throne that was her birthright, she would have to be strong.

She had chosen Gilneas because, for all the skill of Aerie Peak, they did not have the men to defend her people. Too far, too isolated, too small in number. Stromgarde lay distant and beyond frozen mountain passes, Ironforge and Stormwind farther still.

Whatever cost King Greymane demanded of her, she would pay. Long had Gilneas coveted Northern Silverpine, land so close to Lordaeron's capital; she would surrender it freely if she must. Hillsbrad, so distant yet rich, could be given to their protection. The Church of the Dawn offered supremacy in matters of the Holy Light. Should the coffers be recovered, repayment of all costs of the internment camps...

Her father could have done better, were he here, but he was not. It was up to her to take his place, to put right what Arthas brought to ruin, to undo the harm caused by undead and orc alike. Just as she could never be her father, Lordaeron could never be the same again.

"Sleep well, Lianne. Mama has work to do."

-oOoOo-

The waters of the Tiragarde Sound's western inlet churned as the masses of storm-blessed steel that made up the Anglepoint Seagate opened. A hundred bells tolled in turn; in the towers of town and gate, on the shore in the hands of dockworkers and sailors alike, and on the ships themselves. Yet even above the endless ringing, the chanting of the Tidesages cut through.

"The tide rises, the storm comes; shelter all in the mother's song." Lord Stormsong's voice was the wind itself calling out from the prow of the Wavebreaker. "Mother, Mother, wind and wave, guide us through storms and across seas until home we come again."

A silver bell, emblazoned with the anchor of Kul Tiras, of the Proudmoore Admiralty, sang out beside him in the hands of his granddaughter. "Wind and wave, guide Aunt Jaina home!" Finnall yelled, leaning over the parapet to wave at the golden-haired scion of Kul Tiras who stood so close behind Lord Stormsong at the prow of the flagship of the navy.

Behind the behemoth of the Wavebreaker, second and third rates followed. All in order and their sails full with wind blessed by the Tidesages; the might of Kul Tiras sailed forth.

And all around them, bobbing in their wake, were the hundreds of tiny vessels who had followed Jaina here. A hundred vessels fleeing Gilneas, fleeing Lordaeron, fleeing the continent. And more lay on the horizon.

"We go to sail, we go to sea, we dream of home and the day we leave again. We dream of shelter, we dream of tide rising and falling in peaceful days; Mother, Mother, the tide rises, the storm comes. Blessings be, Mother, Mother, guide us home, guides us through storms and across seas until home we come again."

The least of the great ships, thirty ships of war and twenty transports, laden with all the supplies and wealth that James and Priscilla could scrounge up to go with them.

Yet it felt scarcely enough. Daelin's right hand tightened around the wrist of his left behind his back, the blood throbbing in his ears as he forced himself to watch as his child, his beloved Daughter of the Sea, sailed away on a journey she had begged him not to follow.

Kat laid a hand upon his arm, her other occupied with holding back their granddaughter as she tried to press even farther over the railing of the Anglepoint Seagate. "She will return home, Dear." Kat said confidently. "Our daughter has grown so much since she left home, and all that we could spare goes with her. Loyal men and women who do their nation proud."

"I should be going in her stead." Daelin said; he could scarcely feel his hand anymore. As he watched the ships speed away, heading to join the great mass of Lordaeron's Lake Fleet before continuing their journey, he felt he could see dragons in the sky. Fire. Fire screaming down to claim another child from him. "We barely even know her. She is my daughter, but how long... how long will it be till home she comes again?"

His voice creaked with emotion. It had been too soon after they lost Derek that she went away; though Dalaran was safe, though she came home each year till she became enamoured with her prince, he could only ever wish she had remained with them.

But she had left, gone away, and sometimes it felt she was as lost to him as Derek had been.

Many pirates, and every orc that dared to sail the seas, had suffered from his restlessness in the wake of her departure to Dalaran. Only Tandred and Kat brought him home, to teach his second son – his only son – to sail.

"You know she would have been stifled here. She could not hear the tides, but magic was her calling. Always." Kat said, smiling wistfully as she recalled a happy memory. Surely one of the times Jaina magicked a sculpture out of ice to show them; maybe even the one where they were all alive, together, with Derek amongst them. "Dalaran has been good for her. She is so sure of herself now."

"Dalaran tried to take our family from us." He grunted back quietly, aware of the presence of the mother of his granddaughter – his once would-be daughter-in-law – behind them. "Without even giving reason why."

Kat sighed and rested her head against him. "They did not know, and now... now we do. A prophet seeking a Proudmoore, but finding the wrong one; we shall have to try to find her father for her."

He grunted noncommittally. The prophet sent his daughter across the sea, the prophet sent his granddaughter to him, the prophet said he could not chase after her lest he die and Jaina... and Jaina be unable to ever return home again.

Perhaps he should thank them. But he could not bring himself to.

The bells rang, the tones different, as a new song began. "Mother, Mother, the waves crash, the wind howls. Shelter us all in the song of storms, shelter us all in the waters of the sound. Blessings be, blessings be, upon thee; shelter all and welcome all to the waters of the sound."

In tired and desperate clumps, some with broken masts and jury-rigged sails, the flotilla of small ships bobbed their way beyond the gate. Towards safety against the storm; be that of the Maelstrom that loomed beyond the horizon and spat howling winds towards them, or the darkness that rose upon the continent.

Daelin knew he should greet them, join Waycrest in welcoming those who sought shelter upon their isles. But he could not bring himself to take his eyes off of the Wavebreaker.

His ship, his daughter, and all he could do was pray to the Mother of the Tides that she came home again.

"That's enough, Finn." Klinar chastised tiredly. "Don't you want to go practice with your uncle?"

"But Jaina!" Finnall protested, looking torn; then worried as she looked at her mother further. "Mother?"

"She just needs rest, Granddaughter." Kat said, rubbing the half-elf's golden head. "Don't make too much trouble for her and she'll be right as rain."

Daelin allowed himself to smile, seeing Jaina standing on the quarterdeck of the Wavebreaker and holding a hand up to wave to them. "Derek would be glad to see you wish our sailors well." He said, remembering how his son had thanked Jaina unfailingly when she had sung the songs of departure and return for him. "Sing and ring away, Granddaughter. So that home our family shall come again."

"Dael!" Kat hissed at him, amusement warring with exasperation in her voice.

"Okay!" Finnall said loudly, lifting the bell again and yelling out. "Come home again, Jaina! Across wave and sea, till home you come again!"

Picking his granddaughter up, Daelin placed her on his shoulders. As he had done for Jaina as a girl, to watch the ships going to sea. "Ahoy, ahoy, sweet Daughter of the Seas. Ahoy, this child be mine. The Admiral's girl, his whole entire world, for as long as the stars do shine." He sang softly, tears pricking at his eyes. "Ahoy, ahoy, we be watching the sea, waiting for the sight of sail, till home you come again."

-oOoOo-

"Take the anchor stones to the sixth array, Netherguard Keep is already waiting for them!" Modera directed with the full authority of the council, pointing the labourers at the pile of rubble which had once been kept deep beneath magic-constraining wards. "On the double, the Scourge has breached the causeway markets!"

The vault was almost completely empty, the storied treasures, less volatile relics, and priceless artefacts that had been held for study long since dealt with. Now it was only those that proved themselves... difficult that remained.

Modera winced as she watched the brave volunteers who had refused the order to evacuate heft the heavy stones and carry them towards the teleportation array. It had been prepared specifically for them, with a dozen mages on the other side waiting to receive them and place them securely under containment once more.

But that was little comfort for those who would suffer the consequences of carrying the fel-infused remnants of the original Dark Portal with little more than enchanted gloves to protect them.

"Ma'am, with those and the skull gone, that's the last of the list." Foreman Cannings said, holding his sheaf of papers after ticking off the stones. "But the boys found a cache of dragon eggs, all sorts of colours, hidden away under some kind of stasis... don't think we–"

"Just get them to an array; stasis be damned, we're not leaving anything behind that we don't have to." Modera snapped, uncaring about the way the foreman frowned. Most did not consider dragons sapient beings like mortal men and women, just great beasts of the sky. Truthfully she had thought of them little, until she had pressed Antonidas to explain Gwyneth's words weeks ago; learning Krasus was Korialstraz the Red explained much about the 'elf'. "Beasts or not, no creature deserves that fate."

The foreman nodded. "Aye ma'am, I'll see to it."

Not everything could be taken, some items simply could not be moved. Others were too dangerous to do so, and so they were to destroy them, preventing the Scourge from claiming the legacy of Dalaran. No matter the results of this war, they would have lost much.

Modera set about tearing apart the magic on one of the corrupted elven runestones, turned into one of the orcs' foul Alter of Storms, cracking the surface. Their very nature defied magical transport and, as they had learned on Caer Darrow, could be turned to dark means. The monsters bound and birthed by the stone within Scholomance had claimed many lives before they were done with the place.

And would have claimed more, had they not taken what they could and fled before Arthas' army crossed the lake to reach them from Andorhal. Prepared as they had been, it had not been prepared enough.

A roar shook the ceiling, dust falling from the masonry as the magic of the city creaked under the onslaught. For a moment Modera thought to shut her eyes, to view the occurrence through the Violet Eye of the citadel as was her right as councillor, but she knew what she would see.

The crashing of stone upon stone, the shaking of the earth, told the tale well enough. Another of Runeweaver's inscribed towers had broken under the onslaught of the Scourge's frost wyrms.

In the world of which Gwyneth had told them, of the future they could – should – have prevented years ago, it had been archmages who were the weak points. Mortal men and women forced to bear the brunt of Antonidas' ritual scattered around the city where they could be picked off by the undead one by one and weaken the reach of the magic.

By far the swiftest, and simplest, implementation of a ritual of this sort. One performed in desperation. Given warning, given the certainty of its efficacy, more effort had been poured into the working.

Modera had mapped the city, divining the perfect layout for a redundant array with the least expenditure of resources, Ansirem had translated the formulation into runes to be inscribed upon towers at those locations, and Antonidas taught all he could to utilise the relic that bound the great ritual together.

Which was three. Runeweaver, Sunreaver, and Cedric. To her shame, the skill needed to cast the ritual lay outside of her specialty and she could not maintain it for long enough to be of use.

Still, they had held, across seventeen days of casting with countless lesser mages assisting, they had held. The leylines were bent towards their efforts and the whole of Dalaran had been turned into a trap for the undead while they spirited away all the artefacts that they could.

Continuing through the vault, Modera dispelled, disenchanted, destroyed, and occasionally unleashed what little remained. A blazing fire elemental was summoned from its immutable binding and corralled outside, pointed in the direction of the Scourge and given free rein to return to its home plane upon the completion of its task or its destruction, rendering the artefact it was contained in worthless.

Mage hunter relics, stolen from the church in the past when the Holy Light was near at war with Dalaran, burned in mundane fire as they could not be teleported to safety. Piece by piece, she and her assistant mages ended all that remained in the vault.

It was a tragic end, but a far lesser one than it could have been, than their oldest allies in Quel'Thalas had suffered; Dalaran would rise again in time.

"Modera!"

Frowning, Modera turned towards her fellow councillor. "What is it, Elise? You have your own tasks."

"And mine are finished." She said, brushing her hair over her shoulder with a smug flourish. What a waste of effort to bespell it to arrange itself so perfectly. "All of the civilians are away, all that remains are the combat forces holding back the undead. And that part of the plan doesn't involve me so I'm here to help you finish."

Elise put a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. "After all, you're the one who fell behind schedule."

This was not the time for– Modera clamped down on her anger. "As you say, Elise. Complications in vaults delayed me, however only one task remains." One that was, perhaps, the most disgraceful and dangerous of them all. "Come with me, you shall save me from endangering any of my students." She said, not hesitating or giving the woman a chance to refuse. " Aldamort, Koreln, you as well."

Down steps they went, into the depths of the vault. Past points where regular relics had ever been stored into specialised chambers of bare grey stone that seemed almost plain, save for the faint impressions of weather-worn runes carved into each and every surface.

They each served one purpose, and one purpose alone; to contain the unique and dangerous item held within.

One of them had been taken to make up the core of Antonidas' ritual, another had been spirited away first thing for fear it was the target, and this last... "Archmage Dosantos, are the preparations finished?"

The young blonde archmage and ward keeper looked up from her work on the pedestal that held their target, the scowl on her face she had worn from the moment she heard her orders still present. "They are, Archmage Modera. I am ready to unseal Atiesh... and..." She hissed through her teeth. "I almost have a method to purify the staff! Why cannot we wait a few more–"

"You know why." Elise interrupted her. "The council has ordered this done, and it will be done. The staff which opened the Dark Portal cannot fall into the Scourge's hands."

Her scowl not abating in the slightest, Archmage Dosantos turned away. "I understand, Archmage. I may despise it but I understand."

"So long as you do." Modera said, moving up and taking a position in the array laid out upon the floor, and the others followed suit. The stone door closed shut behind them.

It was not as immense as it could have been, but as Archmage Dosantos began her work, the true intricacy of the seals upon the befouled Greatstaff of the Guardian were revealed. Work that she could have undone herself, given time, but not easily, not as delicately as was needed.

Each of them began their preparations for what would likely be a fight. Elise conjured water and earth elementals, as befitting her specialisation in conjuration, while Modera overlaid upon each of them a glimpse into the future. Mere moments, but enough to give warning against an incoming blow. Aldamort and Koreln's choice of defensive barriers were far more normal, but effective nonetheless.

The sound of rushing water quickly gave way to the buzzing thrum of the Arcane and the very lights of the chamber began to fluctuate as Archmage Dosantos touched upon the leylines empowering the seals. All in tune with the ebb and flow of the great river of magic that the chamber lay within.

"Maintain the bindings on the demon while I unlock the platform fully." She said, holding up an arm that bore a swirling array of Arcane patterns towards the plinth above which Atiesh floated. "These wards were not meant to be undone without the presence of a Guardian, and–"

Feathers drifted through the air as a raven flew across the chamber, landing directly beside the plinth. Within the wards. Where it promptly began shifting and distorting as it rose into the shape of a man.

"What on–" Koreln hissed, taken aback and almost losing focus.

"It is good, then," the man said, shoulders rising from beneath a cloak of feathers, "that a Guardian is present." He slammed his staff, an exact mirror of that which floated atop the plinth, into the ground and the wards, all of them, vanished. "Time is short, brave defenders of the Violet City. Even now the endless Scourge brings forth a weapon which will see your defences rendered obsolete."

"You fool, you've unleashed–" Archmage Dosantos screamed as she stepped forward in a panic. "– the demon, you've let the demon out! We have no way of–"

"Monster." Elise growled, her water elementals surging forward to attack the prophet – only to collapse into puddles as they were banished back to their plane.

This was no trick, there was no illusion, as the outburst of magic from the ending of the seal would have destroyed any such thing. Before them stood the Last Guardian, the creator of the Dark Portal, the Avatar of the Burning Titan, and so much more.

"You are Antonidas and Jaina's prophet, aren't you?" Modera said, the pieces falling together in her mind. She made no move to attack, to subdue the danger before them. "You tried to warn us... but we did not listen. Not in time."

Archmage Aldamort looked at her curiously, intent upon her words. The actions of the council must have seemed fortuitous in the weeks before Arthas' return.

Seeing Medivh here, she understood why Gwyneth had never informed them of the prophet's identity and had merely said that he was on their side. Telling them his identity would not have made them trust her, or him, further; the exact opposite.

Just the same, her complaints over his fondness for cryptic warnings rather than speaking plainly were made clear as well. He would understand how prophecies worked, their vagaries, distant warnings, ominous words, and persistence fit the expectations for divination. How all prophecies formed and came true – something Gwyneth had not understood.

The Guardian bowed his hooded head, his features shrouded in shadow. "I am he who gave warnings unheeded to the archmage, and twice more where the Daughter of the Sea might hear." He reached out to Atiesh, the staff vibrating violently – and then a foul flame burst forth. "Unheeded they might be, another fulfilled my task in my stead. A mutual acquaintance of you and I."

"Modera, fight him!" Elise hissed, attempting to bend the wards of Atiesh around to entrap the Guardian. "He is the monster who opened the portal! He is why we–!"

A purple hand tore out of the staff and a scream along with it, a howling demon ripped from Atiesh as Medivh worked. Modera watched on cautiously – Gwyneth... Gwyneth had claimed him to be on their side, and she would not distrust her now.

"A title deserved, if any were." Medivh said, the demon spitting foul words as it was torn from the staff and thrust above the plinth. Separated from Atiesh, the demon screamed, and as the seals returned at a speed that was terrifying it was bound in place and caged. "More so than the title I was gifted at birth. You need not fear, I hold no claim to this staff any longer – that belongs to another, one far more deserving of our trust." His lips quirked faintly beneath his hood.

Koreln looked lost and disturbed, Dosantos looked confused and yet also reverential. Aldamort, however, seemed to share Elise's opinion.

"Strike now! Before he takes the staff to the Scourge!" The man roared, throwing a fireball in an enclosed space–

Swiping her hand, Modera cut off Elise's addition to the assault, adding a polymorph for good measure as the woman screamed her hatred, and watched as Aldamort was thrown back into the wall. He had attempted to dodge, but a wall of force that filled half of the room made short work of her precognitive boon.

"We cannot fight him. Not here, not now." Modera said, meeting the Guardian's eyes. "And we owe him some trust for his warnings."

"You cleansed the staff." Archmage Dosantos whispered, seemingly oblivious to the one-sided attempt at a fight.

Elise bleated furiously and charged towards the Guardian, only to be caught and held back by Koreln. Wise of him to prevent her attempt at suicide; there was a limit to hatred of one man who had been controlled by demons.

"Do you swear that the staff shall not fall into ill hands?" Modera demanded. "Upon all that you hold sacred, do you so swear, Prophet?"

"I swear on the graves of my dearest friends." He bowed his head once more. "Llane and Lothar, whom I did not deserve. Upon the child who brings me hope for the future, I do so swear."

Modera nodded and stepped aside, clearing the path towards the entrance. "Upon the name of your daughter, then. That I shall trust."

The cloak of raven feathers, so alike that worn by the Speaker of Ravens, the ability to turn into a raven, just as Gwyneth did to escape Dalaran. A man from across the sea, having a short affair during the First War, with a minor witch of Gilneas and leaving behind a magically powerful daughter who knew the future when he vanished – died – around the end of that war.

"Go, deliver the staff to the one who deserves it most."

Medivh paused, tilting his head quizzically as if he were amused. Did he think no one could discover his secret? "I shall, Archmage. Farewell."

His form melted away into that of a bird, and he flew through the door and out of the chamber, leaving them with the sounds of Elise's baleful bleating.

"You let him escape." Aldamort accused her hatefully. "The council will hear of this."

Snorting, Modera turned to leave. "I'm sure they will." All that was left now was to fight the last battle for Dalaran, that they had been preparing for since the very beginning.