Interlude: Moments in War (Patreon)

Burx hadn’t had an easy life.

Plucked from obscurity in the camps and kept by the Agamand as something between a guard dog and be-loathed pet.

His name had been ‘berk’, an insult he found out from his brief passing’s between the house and the labor camp where a kindly old orc whispered to him the secrets of their tongue.

‘Berk is an insult to them yes, but it sounds like Burx, no? To us that is one who is sturdy, doesn’t wail or whine when danger comes, someone with a stiff jaw. It fits you well, young one.’

Since then, he had taken to the name, even if only in his own mind. Any efforts to assert himself in the home left him at best, battered or covered in waste and worst, left outside in the rain and cold, as well as wounded.

A stiff jaw wouldn’t help him if he died, but some days he had thought to welcome it.

Death had always seemed restful, but fate had never been so kind.

Until the day the Drakkari arrived.

They came with great ceremony, with songs and shrieks that echoed across the mountains, in ships that loomed as large as those of the Horde of old!

The humans tried to fight, but all their shining steel and black bullets could do was amuse the giants who rained down fire and fighters from the sky.

Burx had seen the militia men burnt and broken with contemptuous ease and could smell his owners house burning.

When Devlin tried to flee with him, intent on using Burx like a guard dog, he did not wait. He grabbed the boys head and snapped his neck. Then, took up the fool’s mace and freed himself.

What followed was done almost in a daze, maybe it was a vision from the ancestors, maybe he was just drunk on the fumes of alchemical flames.

He wandered outside, bloodied and deaf to the quieting fighting and roaring flames. He ignored the captured humans and the trolls investigating the camps.

He found the first Troll he could, barely aware of their startled expression as he tugged on the metal collar around his neck.

It was pathetically feeble, but he did not care, and neither it seemed did the troll, as a sort of disgusted horror spread across those sharp features and was directed at the fearful humans.

The next thing Burx knew the troll was grasping the heavy black metal and there was a strange squealing, screaming sound followed by a thrum as they ripped his collar off.

Burx had never felt so light, and he had never stood so tall as when he collapsed against the troll sobbing and howling, because for the first time in his life.

He was free.

_____________________________________________________

Sylvanas_Windrunner remained austere within the elegant carriage taking her through Eversong.

“We are speaking not of savage orcs, but trolls, do you think they would leave us be?”

“That is not even a question, these are not Forest Tribes so we needn’t be concerned.”

“A troll is a troll, shall we repeat the mistakes of the Second War a second time?”

“Mind your tone and recall that we all agree to withdraw from that farcical Alliance.”

“Some under justified protest, I would note!”

“If we are to sally forth south and render aid, we should ensure we are duly compensated. The Eye of Dalaran, or perhaps the Book of Medivh?”

“We have barely begun to recover from the Second War, we cannot afford such an act, not with the Amani skulking at our border.”

“Another shameful failure that should be remedied.”

“A fine thing for your family to speak of failure-”

Even as she resisted the urge to massage her forehead at the memory of that disastrous council meeting. “I swear to the sun, I must be losing my mind for I am certain history is repeating itself before my eyes,” She muttered to the two men across from her, each reclining against the plush gold cushions.

Lor'themar_Theron hummed, “Is there not a Human saying to that effect about repeating a failed course of action and yet expecting a different result?”

Sylvanas snorted, “What would you have me do, slaughter the fools among them?”

Halduron_Brightwing chuckled, “It would make our lives easier, no?”

“Do not tempt me, I already want to bludgeon the fool that let these beasts pass, speaking of whom,” She cast her gaze upwards at the elegant, domed structures of Sunsail Anchorage.

Pristine marble and blue sapphire roof’s resting comfortably on cobblestone streets of ele3gant and intricate star-like patterns.

In the distance and along the coast she was surprised to see as several frigates clearly taken out of storage and being prepared for use.

The journey to the lords house was surprisingly swift as they pulled up outside the central hub of the anchorage and were politely welcomed outside the oval structure. Though Sylvanas was disappointed to be greeted by Lord_Saltheril Sunsail.

The preening redhead bowed graciously, “Truly we are honored to receive your, honored Windrunner, and your retainers too of course. The house of the Sun shall do all we can to fulfill your every need for so long as you are our honored guests.”

Biting back her first question, Sylvanas pulled back her blue hood and nodded to the smaller elf, “I am honored to be received with such grace and dignity. Never let an ill word be spoken of your manner young lord, for we are humbled by your grace and by your beautiful home.”

Preening shyly, the youth ducked his head, “The house of Sunsail thanks our beloved Ranger General and if it pleases you, my elder brother shall return… Now it seems.” He chuckled.

Sylvanas had already heard the heavy foot falls approaching as the much larger brother strode into view and dismissed his guards with a wave.

Broad shouldered and tan in a way only sailor became, with dark red hair that matched his younger brothers in length and severe, long feature Tirathon cut a far more intimidating figure than his brother.

“Ranger general, lieutenants, my apologies for my belated arrival, the dock is rather busy this day, but I trust my brother greeted you warmly?” His tone was anything but warm, however it did not seem to be malic directed at her and Sylvanas could hardly be said to care.

“He did, however I am certain you know this is not a social call, your lordship,” she said, bother Haulderon and Lor’Themar bowing respectfully at her back.

“Indeed not,” The man answered, glaring out at the coast. “I would have called the patrol ships back to chastise them for their failures already if we had the means to replace them.”

“But the council only maintains enough upkeep to manage trade and pirates,” She filled in.

Tirathon’s expression darkened but he nodded, hands clasped behind his back, “I am restoring what I can to good use with our families’ funds. Trade with the South has granted us the funds to do that much; still this is a discussion best had indoors and over tea.”

‘Away from prying ears,’ she mussed, before nodding and following the man inside, “I do not suppose your trade has granted you access to any goblin coffee, has it?” she asked, more out of habit, that question always threw the stuffier families.

The younger brother however beamed, “In face we do, a shipment arrived just last month, I shall have the staff prepare a batch.”

‘Well, that’s my second pleasant surprise today,’ she mused, as the sprightly noble left their company, while Tirathon led them through the dimly lit, martially decorated house.

Blades and beast heads adorned the walls, even a troll tusk could be seen on display; it was not a surprise, like the Farstriders and Rangers, the navy had never quite lapsed into peace as the mages had. There was always something or someone to fight on the open seas, which was perhaps why Tirathon was more sensible than the insulated magisters.

Still, would it be enough? Merely fastening their belts and arming themselves?

She would ferry any volunteers she could South but that would be but a handful.

Yet until the council saw reason there was little else could do but brace the nation as best, she could.

Sylvanas was not one given to prayer. But if she was, she would pray her efforts be enough, pray the council is convinced before Vereesa comes to harm and most of all, pray that it all be unnecessary.

But fate was rarely so kind.

_____________________________________________________

Precision and planning were not often things sung of in the tales of bards and poets.

Oh, one might dedicate several stanzas to the swing of a master’s sword or the scheming of a clever but heroic thief.

But rarely would more than a single sentence be dedicated to matters like carefully managed food stocks or the building of a dam.

To Krag'jin, who like his kin rode upon the back of the long lived Giant_Sea_Turtle across the western coast, bathed in the morning suns light this was a shame.

It was thanks to he and his Shadowglen factions forbearers precise planning that their ancestors had survived the fall of the Amani Empire and with it their place as the state of Zul-Ashar.

It was the forward thing and careful plotting of his own forebearers that predicted the oncoming invasion of the Arathi Empire and led them to securing as many of their number as they could in the mountains.

Keeps, halls, forts and home alike were crafted as a refuge for the nation of Mac-Asha, from which their own descendants had watched the ill fated stand of King Montgomery and the fall of Gaval_Mochto a cursed ruin.

Who cursed it none can say and the Shadowglen certainly would not be sharing.

Krag’jin cast his musing from his mind, returning to the moment as a particularly strong, and chilly breeze washed over him. His dark leathers did more to guard against spells and axes than they did the cold, but the stinging scent of salty air was more pleasant to him than a trial.

Of course, his good mood my have been bolstered by the day’s success.

The lighthouse and humble docks of North_Tide's_Run was now a smoldering ruin and the Alliance assailed by ogres he had hosted through the winter over several years.

They were not subjects, but they were happy to be directed at places to raid and pillage that would spare the Shadowglen the work and with the Alliance likely distracted, there was little fear of reprisal.

If all went well, they and a smattering of local Gnolls would play merry havoc with the North; no9ne among them were fool enough to try their luck against Fenris Keep and Krag’jin was hard pressed to blame them.

‘Still, it shall be enough, even if the Drakkari lose, the humans hold on this place grows ever weaker, Gilneas cowers behind its wall and Lordaeron shall be too weakened to strike back.’ It was a hasty plan, by Shadowglen standards, but one mused on for the last six months, as Drakkari shared tales of their land, people, and stratagems.

Besides, it was clear no one cared much for these forests anymore, Gilneas was proof of that!

Yes, despite more than enough blood and names shed, lost or stolen over the generations t suggest otherwise, it seemed that the humans and even other trolls cared little for the hardy, rugged forests.

This was just fine to Krag’jin and his people; they knew the land could be worked and ruled well in the right hands, ‘Our own survival says that much if nothing else.’

The War-Lord was drawn from hi musing as a voice whispered on the winds, ‘Alliance vessel from the North, sailing in haste!’

‘The Drakkari must have let one slip away,’ he answered back, before raising his arm and flicking his fingers through a simple code.

Within moments Krag'jin smiled as magic washed across his being, suffusing his lungs with divine blessings.

His mount dived deep below the surface, the salty water breathing to him like air, his kindred following suit and soon enough the depths were filled with troll on turtle back. Hooked spears and axes shone with old enchantments and new runes, gifts from the Drakkari and their Nerubians.

The mighty jaws of his

‘Everything comes down to precision,’ he mused, watching as the distant Alliance frigate sailed South in a hurried manner. No doubt desperate to reach Fenris Keep or Kul’Tiras.

That could not be allowed to happen.

Not if they wanted the Keep as weak as possible when the Drakkari arrived, to ensure the Shadowglen could safely claim their prize while the Ice Trolls bombarded the coastal defenses.

The ship was nearing, and his mount snapped its jaws, “Yes my Ka’bak, its time,” he cooed.

Clinging to aged leather saddle, Krag'jin and his forces surged towards the ship, writhing tides, jaws of steel enchanted weapons at the ready.

When they struck, it was sudden, brutal, and precise. Strong jaws tearing through wood, while hooked weapons dug in deep, their magic blistering and warping the wood, weakening the hull.

The shouts from up above were muffled, but soon enough their work was done; ensuring that another Alliance frigate would join its fellows at the bottom of the sea.

Drifting to the surface amongst driftwood, Krag'jin watched his fellows’ gathering supplies from the sunken ship and finishing off any stragglers.

“We have done fine work this da!” he called, earning a cheer, “Now let is gather any surviving supplies, and return home, Tal’Vass, is waiting!”

His kin raised steel and staff heigh into the air and roared with glee, redoubling their efforts to ensure they could return to their hidden mountain homes soon.

Snatching up a barrel of gunpowder, Krag’jin looked to the looming mountains in the South-West, his mind calling to him images of home. Their intricate mountain paths, the mighty rivers and dams that let the Shadowglen secure themselves and their number not just against invaders but starvation.

It was a fine place, a fine city, but there was no end to the appeal of escaping this delicate dance that necessitated turning a bind eye to https://wowpedia.fandom.com/wiki/Olsen%27s_Farthing, let alone the https://wowpedia.fandom.com/wiki/Sepulcher. Or constantly needing to negotiate Gnoll and Ogres into the role of buffers and distractions without losing their accords.

Precision and planning had taken them far and if the Shadowglen had anything to say about it, they would go farther than ever before.

‘If all goes well, I might have cause to use Gaval Moch as more than a secret storehouse.’

It was a nice thought at least.

_____________________________________________________

Thoras swung the trained sword through the air, each slash and swing of the blade making the candles dance, making his own shadow looming, and haunting as he clashed against his imaginary foe.

He was only partially drawn from his practice when the trailing hall doors swung open, casting the dark stone chamber, lined with weapons, armor, and held aloft by petrified wood pillars in the brighter lights of the keep.

“Ah Galen, come to join me for some training?” He called, as the younger man slipped into the room, his thin ashen hair tied back in a long braid and his riding armor on.

“Actually, father I-”

Thoras tossed him a trained sword and rushed the younger man, their crimson armors cast in stark and menacing light by the candles. Thoras landed the first blow with a clip to Galen’s side forcing the boy to hop out of the way.

“Fathe-” Galen barely blocked the second strike, or the third and when Thoras saw him scampering back, catching his breath and making it harder to swing as he ducked between pillars he lashed out with a fist.

It was a hard blow, right to the side where the armor connected, the leather strained under his armored fist and Galen gagged as he slammed into a wall before hitting the ground.

“Come on lad, you can do better than that, you should have tried to break through my guard, not scamper around like some fae duelist,” he chided.

Galen lashed out with a hasty swing of his blade, forcing Thoras to lean out of the way, and his bid to bring his blade down was countered by a fierce tackle, not to sending him crashing to the ground but to knock him aside.

Galen raced passed him and spun around, teeth set and eyes ablaze.

“There now, got some fire in your belly, show me what you can do boy!”

Their fight lasted for another hour before Thoras declared their training done.

Now he leaned against the wall, admiring his beloved and recently sharpened Trol'kalar. His son sat on a nearby bench, face still drenched from the goblet of water he poured over himself.

“I actually came to speak with you father” Galen finally said.

“Well spit it out boy, we don’t have all night,” he chuckled.

Sucking in and letting out a low breath, Galen continued, “This plan of yours, to raise a host and march North, I and others are wary of it.”

Thoras frowned, “Oh?”

Galen licked his lips and pressed on hastily, “This has been a hard few years for us father. The Witherbark are always scheming, brigands and ogres grow bolder by the day. We are still reclaiming Tol’Barad and work on our fleet is just beginning in earnest thanks to preferencing Lordaeron and Stormwind. Several of the nobles’ houses and even some of the commanders and I fear marching North into a winter war is a waste of resources.”

“Is that all, Galen?” He intoned but did not wait for him to continue instead calling out with a mighty boom, “I am disappointed in you, my son. With our bloodline should come gallantry, not this sort of handwringing!”

Galen scowled and rose to his feet, “I am thinking about the good of the kingdom father, the Alliance-”

“Is our ally, we must help them, you expect me to leave old Teranas in the lurch?” Thoras snapped.

“Hardly father,” Galen hastily retreated from him, “But surely few platoons made up of Spellweavers, Troll Hunters and some Cavalrymen would be enough to fulfill our obligations?”

Thoras waved his blade through the air, watching the metal shimmer, “We are the family Trollbane my son, and you think is to sit on the sidelines?”

Galen sucked in a breath, “I will gladly accompany a smaller force into battle with the blade if it meant you would remain here and lead the kingdom.”

Thoras snorted, “Trol’kalar is to be wielded by the king, not a prince pretending to be a warrior.”

“I am not pretending, you are!” Galen snapped, “We need a king! We need a king who puts his nation before Lordaeron rather than acting as a piddling client state! A king who doesn’t just surrender our money and our people to bottomless pit that is Stormwind’s coffers! We need a king, not a warrior father-”

“That’s enough!” Thoras snapped and he saw Galen brace as if expecting a strike, “I will not stand here and watch my son shame our proud lineage son. We are Trollbane’s, our people art of Strom, we are the strongest, fiercest, warriors in the land. We shall survive a few simpering merchants and speckles of gold fleeing South. But we shall die as a people, a nation if we stand aside and led these barbarians plunder our allies while not doing everything in our power to help!”

“I-”

“Enough of this!” He snapped, “If you are so overflowing with nervous energy invite that Lieutenant you like so much to your quarters and get it out of your system. But I expect you to be ready to march when I am!”

The door swung open with a resounding boom and a runner knelt before them, “My prince, my liege, word from Ironforge!”

“Ah fantastic!” Thoras cheered, striding out of the training room, and snatching up the missive, barely aware of Lieutenant_Valorcall sliding in as he left, the door slamming shut behind him.

In the dimly lit chamber, Galen glared at nothing, his gaze shouldering, baleful and bitter in equal measure he snatched up his goblet and launched it into the wall. The sound of shattering glass echoing across the stone as Valorcall shifted to his side.

“It went poorly I take it?” the man offered sympathetically, clapping Galen on the shoulder.

Galen let out a heaving breath and ran a hand through his sopping wet hair, “I have not an idea what I was expecting…”

“Do you wish for a whisper of good news, my prince?”

“Anything at this point, and maybe a healer too, I believe he fractured another rib.”

The lieutenant scowled and nodded, “I shall fetch one, but as for the news, Ariana_Thesslocke told me she agrees with your assessment as do many other Stromgarde_Defenders.”

Galen nodded, “That makes her, the Stromgarde_Snipers_Company and a smattering of nobles, not that it means much with things as they are.”

“It is something,” His companion said as he made his way to the door, “Whatever you do, I will be by your side, Galen.”

Then he left, the door swinging shut gently, but if one were to glance inside, they would see a small smile on Galen’s lips.

_____________________________________________________

“And thusly, we commit our beloved brother to the Earth. But regret him not, for his soul fades into radiance, his energies shall become one with the Holy Light.

Lo and behold the eternal glory of the Light, that which’s grace is as endless as its power; through this holy union, all things are possible.

Pray only to The Light, pray fervently to The Light, and you shall be rewarded with miraculous illumination.

Pray not to false idols or for miracles born from naught but desire; for the Lights truth is found in you good works.

Know, that all we among its glory bear a duty to foster its holiness within ourselves, and to share it with the world.

Thus, stay steadfast in your dedication, refute all evils be they hate or greed or apathy.

And please, join with me in song, to honor our fallen brother.

Uther Pendragon, the Lightbringer.”

Sally Whitemane strode purposefully through the halls of the monastery, her head held high and her steps with purpose, hand clutched tightly around her holy stave as she acutely ignored the gazes of the trolls.

‘Think not on what thoughts fill the minds of the wicked, nor fear their sinful touch, for all is purified in The Light.’

Still her frown grew at that thought, as each step along the pristine blue and gold carpet, through nearly bronze hallways grew heavier.

Trolls should never be in the monastery.

Uther the Lightbringer should not lay dead in a tomb.

And Sally Whitemane should not have had to oversee his funeral!

She held back a sigh, ‘But it is as I told the flock and the faithful. Prayer and desire alone shall not make the world holy or bring about miracles. It is we who must bring The Holy Light into this world, so much that it burns out all that is dark and vile.’

She did not falter in her steps, nor did she let her eyes linger as she passed by the armory. Once a bastion for training and equipment, now the only place entirely barred to them and under fortified guard by trolls, beast-men, and snake alike.

Her mind drifted back to the funeral, she had stayed much longer than intended, to comfort the bereaved and organize what she could. Everything needed to be perfect, for Uther but also for their peace of mind.

Any efforts to circumnavigate his death were for naught, at least for now, but she knew some would ignore that reality, even as her sermon begged they seek other resolutions. Uther’s own favored scriptures claimed the same, but even that would not be enough for some.

‘I will be having many of the clergy fall asleep in prayer before they realize we must do more here and now before we can hope to have him restored to us… If ever.’

Shaking away that thought, her family’s namesake flickering in front of her face, she came upon the library. No longer the domain of Brother_Korloff and students of lore, it was now heavily trafficked by the invading heathens.

‘They claim we can still visit if we wish, but they observe every script and tome for enchantments and dangerous ‘spells’!’ The sheer gall to compared prayers to The Light as mere spells had made her want to find a ladder, reach up and throttle their Grand Prophet!

Unlike the armory, or even dear Uther’s funeral, there was only a small number of guards permanently in the long library, their dark visage cast in crimson light by the hanging braziers. Shelves of books built into every wall, while displays and banners showed art and artifacts.

The walls within were more rounded than the sharp angles seen in the rest of the monastery, owed to its much older nature having once been a humble church, before generations of work remodeled and expanding it.

Slad’Ran, one of the heathen prophets. Strangely stout by Drakkari standards, he still stood at nearly ten feet, with slicked back pale purple hair, and scaled robes in a dark shade of blue, lined with gold trim and bronze accents.

His tusks were not as gargantuan as some she’d seen, least of all the barbarian kings, but his features were slim and sharp, akin to a snake. A fact which lined up well with all she had heard from the survivors of his battle with Brother Korloff.

The troll had been looking through a bark covered tome and looking upon the stain glass windows when she approached him, causing him to close the book gently and turn to face her.

“Honored, Priestess Whitemane,” he said with a nod, book held against his chest, “Please do not take offence if I say, I hope the last rites went as well as can be expected.”

Sally Whitemane was a talented, devout priestess and a practical woman, but a righteous heart still beat within her chest and so she could not help her answer.

“Would that we could have mourned our beloved brother in private, but we made do,” Her tone bordered on bitter and something akin to sarcasm and she briefly feared a flash of anger.

However, the troll merely clicked his teeth together, something that took her a week to realize was not actually a threat but how the ‘thought’.

Finally, he answered, “You are an intelligent one, so I will not insult you by claiming to the contrary or acting as though you do not know why we made that decision. Instead, I shall simply ask if there is anything you should need, I imagine we are going to be seeing much of each other before this war is done.”

‘And that thought does not fill me with joy,’ she mused, still not wholly sure ‘why’ the trolls had even chosen her, let alone spared she and her kin. Yes, in the past trolls had shown some regard for healers, to protect their own no doubt, but she could not shale the thought they, or perhaps their hulking king desired something else from the people, or her.

Pushing such thoughts aside, she glanced to the stained glass window the troll had been studying. It was a lovely piece, woven motes of green glass framing the sun, while ‘vines’ and ‘flowers’ grew in its abundance.

“I had heard you had taken to studying here, one among your… Followers, even claimed you wished to speak with me,” She answered, resisting the urge to toy with her staff to let loose her nerves.

“Ah, yes,” The troll said, opening his book again and revealing to her a vaguely similar sketching, “This almanac is a copy one a historic tome held by the Amani. It talks of their holy festivals, in particular the Summer Sun Solstice. I was merely comparing the pair.”

“There is no connection,” Whitemane said bluntly, “Likely some Amani saw our artistic efforts and made a feeble copy.” That was one of the many standards and well-known answers to such insinuations, in the old days of the Arathi Empire such an insinuation would have one lashed, now such thoughts were merely impolitic.

The troll chuckled, “Maybe so, but this temple would need to be quite, quite ancient for that to be so.” He tilted his head to the side and clicked his teeth again, “This is an old place though, not the building but the land, an excellent spot for communing with distant gods I am thinking.”

Her lips thinned, “It is a holy site of The Light, no idols or self-proclaimed deities can be found within these walls or upon this sanctified land.” She ignored the way he glanced at the historic displays and pressed on. “The monk Tobias of Tirina achieved his first communion with the Light on these hills and shone brighter than any star in the sky. A signal it was here, that the faithful and the flock would find succor and safety in a still dangerous and untamed world.”

Rather than interrupt, the troll seemed genuinely intrigued, humming, and clicking his tongue, those dark snake like eyes watching her intently.

“Fascinating, I would love the chance to hear more of this. I wonder, ah,” He stopped himself and seemed to search for words. “I confess Priestess, I had hoped to avail myself of your people’s philosophy and history and did desire your guidance in that, if you or one of yours had the time to spare.”

‘We have nothing but time; though I shall not send one of my flock or the faithful into your hands,’ she thought while sorting through the rest of his words.

Leaning a little more heavily on her staff, Whitemane answered, “What do you seek to gain from this? The power of The Light will not wane if you know our slaloms or history.”

The troll shook his head, heavy earrings jingling, “This is not for war, it is for understanding and education. To chart the birth of a faith, to see and understand its ideals and what has been shared, taken, or lost…. It is a fascinating thing for a scholar and my patron, the mighty Loa Sseratus is indulgent to the scholarly of mind.”

“Wait,” she held her hand out flat, confusion and the need to divert his attention driving her forward, “Gods, or Loa. You have used both words in this conversation alone and many times before. Why do you not simply choose one?”

Slad’Ran looked almost comically surprised, eyes wide and fangs clacking together as he seemed to struggle with the question a moment before nodding.

“Oh, I see, I would have assumed you would know, as your lands are so close to the Amani’s but it seems not.”

‘Close?’

Slad’Ran was unaware of her confusion and pressed on with a sort of zeal she was accustomed to seeing among priests or scholars asked a question they rarely had the chance to answer.

“You see, Priestess Whitemane, the being we trolls worship are what you might call… Extra-Planar beings. Some can exist within the world, but usually at their detriment,” he added, light dancing between his fingers to show the world and stars in simple form. “Most, however, reside outside and beyond it but at still native to it, born from the world or residing in the spiritual planes that surround it, invisible but everywhere.”

He held up a single finger and leaned forward, before thinking better of it and just nodding, “These are the Loa, native divines. The gods however, hail from beyond.”

His hands went wide, and a cloudy illusion filled the space between them, of a cosmos alight with stars and shadows, as strange phantom faces drifted across the Great Dark.

“Gods are akin to Loa, but they hail from other worlds and dimensions, places far more distant and alien than we know. Because of this, they are often strange and subtle in their manner. No bonds bind them to our Pantheons, but they are revered and given offerings all the same and offer their boons in return.”

He closed his hands with a clap, the smoky illusion vanishing between his hands as the Drakkari smiled, “That is why we distinguish between them, it is akin to long distance family or foreign allies to use a mundane comparison.”

“I see, thank you,” she said slowly, and she did see, which was not ideal for she should not seek an understanding of the faithless and heathenistic.

The troll grinned, flashing his large fangs, “Consider it repayment for your tale of Tobias of Tirina and tis temple. Whatever our differences. The chance to study something so different than what one has ever known is quite a privilege, though…” he added, more gently in that slick, slithery tone, “I imagine it is not appreciated from your perspective.”

“It is not,” she said bluntly, before motioning to the window that started this conversation, “Still, if you are curious about the glories of The Light, I can spare time to educate you.” She ignored the trolls seemingly bemused expression and accepted his nod as cause to continue and spoke.

“This window commemorates the life and deeds of one, Bishop Hylan; who, over two thousand years ago codified the first of the Churches doctrines into the first Holy Book. He carried it with him always until parting with it on his deathbed, granting it unto the hands of the Church. To honor his efforts to illuminate the world with The Holy Light, a feast day was organized by the empire to commemorates the anniversary of his birth at the peak of Summer. To quote the old emperor, ‘when the light shines brightest in the hearts of men’.”

She ignored the speculative look in Slad’Ran’s eyes and the fact his marker still rested on the blasphemous page and pushed forward, leading him to the next window.

_____________________________________________________

Nazgrel didn’t hate his circumstances, he had never had the energy to hate. Even though his was not so stricken by malaise as so many of his kindred, hunger, labor, and the cold stripped him of his motive.

He resented how humans ate fine feasts in heated forts while he and his kin subsisted on stews and huddled in the cold.

He disliked how loudly and joyfully humans cheered on their orcish fighting ring, even if he was glad to learn to fight, if for no other reason than a break in endless tedium.

He could even be said to hate humans, but not his circumstances.

Humans would be what they were, and Orcs would be what they were.

He had not the power to change this destiny, nor seemingly did anyone else.

Then the Drakkari came, filling the camp with dread and terror, he had never seen.

All of them were forced into their ‘lodges’ before things truly began, but it did nothing to hide the growing terror.

Nazgrel watched with his fellows as knights raced out and spearmen lined the walls, while their priests and casters became frantic.

Then they heard it, over the shouts and gunshots, the sound of a mighty thump, a massive blow of flesh against wood, once, twice, there was no third for the gate split apart.

Great warriors, feathered beasts and robed figures poured through the gaping wound in the fort, while others climbed up the walls. Steel struck, bones were shattered, and he heard some elders whisper, “Spirits” under their breath, like his mother used to do.

For a time, he had almost feared these howling monsters would come for them too, or simply replace the humans. But when the slaughter was done, a quick inspection of their quarters saw the trolls, the Drakkari, opening the way for them into the forts and houses once ruled by the humans.

Now, the sick were being tended to, food and meat dispensed and some, like Nazgrel found a new energy suffuse them. Only a handful perhaps, but each one all the stronger for fighting off the malaise or a life in bondage that afflicted most of their kind.

Nazgrel knew the Drakkari must see it that way too. For when he approached the local commander with a wood axe he ripped from a stump and offered to fight, there was no jeering amusement of dismissal. Only steely estimation.

Finally, the giant in ornate armor of iron-tree bark clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You will need a finer axe than that, young one. Come with me and we shall see you equipped as a Legionary should be.”

Now he stood, side by side with Orc and troll alike; having marched across fields of ash and planes of grass, they now gathered outside the city of Lordaeron.

‘And soon we shall see it fall,’ he promised.

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NOTES:

And that is that! Wow, this was honestly quite a fun chapter to write. It gave me the chance to explore several characters and scenes I had wanted to for ages but had no time to and even help better set up some stuff to be introduced next chapter.

Thanks to all those whose suggestions led to this and for whose who supported the idea, I hope it proved and enjoyable read and if you have any questions, comments, or feedback, please feel free to share them.

I’d also like to thank Pillowsperky for helping edit two of these scenes and helping with Uther’s sermon and generally letting me bounce ideas of them.