The Desk of Field Marshal Celuur

“Colonel, behind you!” I turned, and an orc was barreling straight towards me. I raised my mace and it smashed through his skull with the full force of my body behind the impact. He drops to the ground. Beside me, the almost feral grin of another undead draenei flashes at me before dispatching her own enemy.

The manner in which I fell into the 1113th is a whirlwind even to me. I was dimly aware that, with the liberation of the Ebon Blade, we were each beginning to divide ourselves along former faction lines. And while I could work with an orc or elf if ordered to, I found myself resenting it each time. The Highlord had assigned all of us to return to our factions as a returning Hero. In Acherus, we were all brothers in death. Outside, we were individually enemies or allies once again. And the breathers hated us either way. It is a depressing requirement to fight for a group of people that would gladly see you hang from the rafters. It matters not the way we came into being. We could shout from the tops of mountains that we were mortally violated and puppeted by an evil creature, and yet the crimes we committed stuck more to us than to him. I can hardly blame them. Were I in their place, I’d hang me as well.

“Orders?” I looked down at the diminutive Gnome behind a desk, outside the Slaughtered Lamb. She gave me a withering look.

“Yes, orders! See? Right here. ‘Initiate Celuur, transfer from Acherus Central to the 1113th unit, Knights of Menethil, rank Private, effective immediately.’ What’s the problem?” I blinked at her in mild surprise. Major Fannie Frostsprocket was unusual, even for a gnome. A Death Knight, or more precisely a ‘frost-Lich,’ who had a myriad of papers around her desk and was almost constantly moving.

“I am sorry, madam, but I have no orders. I serve no man.”

“Good,” the frost-Lich turned her attentions back to the desk, “the Highlord is no man, and General Marsille is a woman.” I sighed, exasperated.

“Look. You cannot make me do this. I have other matters to attend to.” The Lich looked up and peered directly into my eyes. I almost stepped back. “Oh? And what, precisely, are these other matters?” I opened my mouth to retort, but the glint in her eyes stopped me. A long moment passed between us, and my mouth closed. She looked down and continued with her work, satisfied. “Your drills begin tomorrow. See you at Death’s Breach!”

A Colonel’s patch on my uniform, I raised my mace, with my armor bloodied and the rotted flesh of ghouls and geists hanging off of me. The small totem that sits on my shoulder is still and unmoving as my torso flourishes around. Swing. My mace whistles, and the head of a Plague Beast rolls away like butter. Swing. The body of a cultist cleaved; I vaguely remember him from his own days as an ambassador to the Cult. Swing. The pathetic excuse for a Death Knight crumbles beneath my weapon. Swing. All around, the forces of the Verdict come down upon the Scourge. High up, the battle is taken to the enemy. The swings come like clockwork. Every little concern I had, of paperwork, of formation, or the gap in the lines and the concerns of my shamanistic former colleagues simply background noise to the pounding urge inside me for vengeance, for retribution and justice against that which made him what he is. Each swing punctuated by the final gasp of undead creatures. As they fall, I step a hoof over them and reach for the next. And then, the swings stop. An eerie silence over the Citadel, and the absence of - anything. A dull quiet piercing the heart of the undead. I looks up, amazed, to feel as free as I do now is to feel almost alive - truly alive, like I had been once before. The memories of the many centuries past hits me, my life and undeath flashing before my eyes, before a voice returns to my mind; one that I hadn’t heard for so long. "Come. Sleep. Hibernate within the walls. Lay down your weapons, and let the dead be dead." The voice stirs, constant, commanding and soothing. I looks around almost in a panic, before being drawn into the citadel. To sleep, to be done with vengeance and pain tempts greatly. I began to move without thought deeper into the Citadel, my mace hung loose, the swing no more. Behind me, the totem on my shoulder jumped, and pulsed against me, and I looked up abruptly, and stops. I turned, and began to walk out of the citadel. My movement was sluggish, and hampered by the drag of invisible resistance, as others around me succumbed to the pull. I felt the voice physically tug me back, yet my hooves treaded forward, plodding slowly, pulling away with every fiber of free will that remains. The urge to lie down in true death overwhelmed, but something else kept me treading outward. The Lich King is not the only evil left to fight against. And I have resisted the call of the Scourge this long already. By force of will, I shall do so again. But never will I return to the citadel, as I might lay down to sleep for eternity. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

I need not relate the events thereafter. There are dozens of Death Knights of varying experience. I was one of the many at Light’s Hope. Ten thousand against three hundred… and then the horror, the realization, the release. Some Death Knights returned to the Scourge willingly. Some went mad. Many of us joined the Ebon Blade, but none of us could find peace. I spent weeks sitting in the Plaguelands, pondering my own existence. I contemplated ending my unlife regularly but something prevented me. Perhaps that survival drive which had kept me at least alive through Argus, and Draenor, and now here. Well, alive is a subjective term. Having wallowed for a good amount of time I journeyed to Stormwind to pledge myself again to the Alliance. I still smell the rotten produce flung at me, the names, and threats from people who would not dare come at me with an actual rope. Then I went to the Cathedral. I sat there, for days in equal measure cursing and praising the Light and the Naaru for what had been done to me. The human priests did not know what to do with me, and so avoided me. Paladins regularly accosted me, at which point some other Ebon Blade knight wandering around the Cathedral would feel so enraged on my behalf that they had to engage the Paladin in fisticuffs right there. I did not care what they said around me. I wanted desperately to just commune with the Light, and find some glimmer of hope. Weeks went by, again, and nothing. I did not move. Lost, and hopeless, I became angry and bitter. I treated those who were kind to me with derision, and those who were disdainful to me with arrogance. In short, I was a fool. Thousands of years of life and still I could act like a child.

“What are you still doing here?” I heard a voice ask. I was sitting on the stone floor of the Cathedral, my eyes closed in meditation. I need not look up to know that a Priestess was concerned, still, for my presence. “I am counting my Talbuks.” No response came. I cracked open an eye, and looked up. “You are still here,” I said coldly. The Priestess huffed. “You don’t have to be so rude! We could’ve kicked you out a long while ago.” I snorted. “The Light demands Charity.” She snorted back at me. “Charity you take advantage of.” I had no response, and so simply sat in silence. She sighed, heavily, her robes rustling with the movement. “I’ll go get you some water then, shall I?” I made no response. She moved off. I remember clearly trying to cast my mind back to my days as Farseer, when I could See the Light within me, and tap into it. I remembered the call to the Naaru, something I had avoided for so long, and suddenly a memory surfaced of Doraam, laughing with glee, having cast his first healing spell. I ran forward and hugged him tightly in front of all his Anchorite masters, so very proud and in love. It felt bitter to me then, but something in that memory stirred a reaction in my mind, and a sudden rush of warmth came over me. A glimmer of Light, even less than from my days after Shattrath, appeared before me and covered my forehead. It was so impossible to be there that I had no control, or design over it. But it was there. I stood in shock, and smiled for the first time since I first entered the Plaguelands! “Here you go, I got you some – what the hell are you doing?” I turned abruptly to the Priestess, who took one look at the sigil floating above my forehead and dropped the glass of water. The feeling faded, and I was left with that emptiness again. But I knew that the Light had not abandoned me completely, and that one day there was still a chance I may find my way back to the embrace of the Naaru. I ran forward, and embraced the Priestess tightly. She yelped, and I was immediately surrounded by Guardsmen. After a moment, I released her, and she took several steps quickly back. There was nothing that would spoil my achievement, and I vowed then to restore my usefulness, and control the hate and rage the Scourge had left within me.

Control. That is essentially what my life has always come to. Control enough to leave my mother behind, control enough to save mourning my brother and lover’s death til later. Control to have patience in the Light, control to find it again once it was gone. Control to seek out the raw elementals of the world, and to find communion with them. Control to become Farseer. And control now, to keep the darkness and evil buried inside. The Scourge may hold no control over me, but I hold no illusions that I could ever be anything more than the monster I am. Control over the burning desire to torture and kill given to me by my undeath keeps me from slipping to a point of no return.

After the experience in the Cathedral, I returned to Acherus. Strange it may seem that I decided to return to the realm of undeath after an experience with the Light, I reasoned that this was the beginning of my new liberation. It seemed fitting that this be where I continue that progress. I sat on the roof for more hours than I can count; probably more days than I can count. The whistle of wind through the bones of the Acherus guard gryphons barely registered in my ears as I sat and contemplated my next steps. Though dead, I felt at certain points that I had managed to achieve a state of sleep again, where all thought shut down for a time. It was during one of these pseudo-sleep states that I felt a blunt, wooden whack on the top of my skull. I yelled out of shock, and launched myself into an attack position. Looking for my runeblade, I found only an empty scabbard. Before me stood an old Kro’kul, in simple robes, a belt weighed down by totems, and a crystal staff in one hand, my runeblade in the other. He simply stood, blinking, without fear or anticipation, staring at me. I thought I could feel the connection he held to the elements, and then reminded myself that this was impossible, and must just be my imagination. In any event, the living creature didn’t belong on the rooof of the Dread Citadel. “Return my blade, old man, and leave this forsaken place.” I growled, with my most intimidating glare and voice. Lesser Death Knights had even cowered when I tried to intimidate. The Kro’kul simply stared at me. A moment passed. “You do not belong here!” He stayed silent. We looked at each other for an eternity, him simply gazing into my face, and me attempting to push him off the side with my glare. Finally, I relented and sat down again. “What do you want, Umbraan?” I asked, feeling once again defeated. The old Farseer sat down in front of me, mirroring my posture. He spoke to me, in draenic, which I hadn’t heard in so long. “I didn’t realize that undeath imbued a person with a flair for the dramatic. ‘Leave this forsaken place?’ That’s a bit much even for you,” Umbraan said with amusement. “Thank you for your much needed criticism. Return my blade, now.” “No.”

I glared again. “What are you doing here? Truly?” Umbraan set out a totem in front of him that sprang forth a small fountain of water from a bowl. “You have not visited me in many months. I felt that if the Prophet would not come to the Exodar, I should bring the Exodar to the Prophet.” I snorted. “My apologies for not being social. I have been quite busy being dead.” “Undead.” “Same thing, old man.” “Not quite,” said Umbraan, “I have met few corpses with such biting sarcasm.” “Let me introduce you to Acherus, Umbraan. A flying graveyard filled with depressive, angry, sadistic and twisted corpses.” Umbraan tutted at me. “For all your training, you seem to not see the difference in your nature. You are undead. Your soul, your essence, is still here. On this plane. Connected.” I looked up sharply. “My connections died the moment I did.” “Then how do you explain the Cathedral?” Celuur blinked, and fell silent. When no more was forthcoming from the shaman, he asked. “How did you know about that?” Now it was Umbraan’s turn to snort. “I am Farseer. Seeing is what I do.” I, despite myself, gave a hollow sound that could have once been a guffaw from a living person.

“You didn’t come all this way to make a social call, old man.” Umbraan’s eyes glinted.

“Are you assuming that, or are you Seeing that?” My eyes narrowed at the Broken man now grinning mischievously at me.

“That was low, Shaman,” I growl. Umbraan simply laughs, which turns into a small coughing fit. Despite myself, I go to move out of automatic concern. Umbraan holds a hand up, and I stop. Wondering why I even moved to begin with, I sit back down. “It is getting worse, then.” Umbraan simply nods, and finishes coughing.

“You cannot hold up here forever, doing nothing.” Umbraan finally said. I winced internally.

“Umbraan, I’m tired. I’ve been pushing on, pressing on, ever since Argus. I’ve lost my bonded, my family, my purpose, only to regain it and have it snatched away along with my life. And, even death won’t let me go. Can’t I just rest?” “What is it your Highlord says? ‘All is not lost, not yet?’ A wise man, for a depressive, sarcastic corpse. There is more for you.” I said nothing, realizing that it didn’t matter what I said, and that Umbraan would believe whatever he wanted to believe. Umbraan pulled around his bag, and took several items. As he handed them to me, I gasped to myself. My own totemic belt, and a mace I thought had been lost when I died in the Plaguelands. “How did you…” “The shaman have their ways. And as for this…” Umbraan regarded the runeblade for a moment in his hand, which had been left forgotten next to him. With strength his small body shouldn’t have had, he took my runeblade and threw it clear off the edge and out of side. I stand in anger, and start towards it before realizing it is far too late to retrieve. I look at Umbraan in shock and anger. “A mace is more suited to you anyway. Now, sit. Drink the sapta. We have much to discuss.”

It does not matter if you are Broken, or the holiest of holy. The Scourge care not for your faith, or your virtue. The tenets of all you hold dear mean nothing when your soul is ripped in a necromantic fury by minions of the Lich King. Arthas. A name so reviled on Azeroth. But it always stuck with me that this creature of such magnificent force was once Ner'zhul. It would seem that there was nowhere I could escape the malevolence of orcs. I spent my early days as a Death Knight in deep training at Acherus. There the rage and hate of the newly-Scourged is cultivated and twisted into pure devotion and dependence on the King. His very word whispers to your bone across any distance. His gaze and reach was without limit. And oh, how I reveled in it! My body, already so used to the feel of death and shadow, accepted this new darkness with a gleeful ease. I became so willing that, should the King have lost control of me in those early days, I would have pledged myself to him freely. I served with the Cult of the Damned for a time. A liaison between the breathing agents of the Scourge and Acherus. I killed countless, directly and indirectly. But the Cult taught me good Common. And then Acherus was sent out to assault the Scarlets at New Avalon. Many of the Ebon Blade have little memory of the horrors they committed under the banner of the Scourge. I cannot claim such luxury.

"Thassarian!" I called out to the human across the farmland just outside the southern tavern. "We have waded in enough muck and filth. Are you through with me yet?" Thassarian laughed coldly. "Don't like dirt?" he called back at me. I snorted in mild derision. "I have training with Lady Alistra. She has promised us a priest today." I grinned at the Death Knight. Thassarian laughed again. I stepped towards him across the deluge. My plated boot hit against something beneath my feet. Almost tripping, I looked down. The head of a young woman, a teenager perhaps, lay ripped from her body in the mud, surrounded by the corpses of what was probably once her family. I looked at it for a second before kicking it away from me and continuing forward. "Alright then, head on back. First, go over to the chapel. The Dark Master wants us to each interrogate and kill one of the Argent prisoners there." I nodded assent and walked over to the small chapel, already on fire from our assault. Knight Commander Plaguefist was already there, the bodies of several Argent prisoners already hanging from the rafters. Cages had been set up, and others were held inside the building. He swaggered between the cages, rattling his runeblade along the bars. The prisoners inside each hunched away as he approached, deathly afraid of the fate that awaited them. Plaguefist looked over at me and sneered. “Come to get your hands dirty? Thought you cult types didn’t like to debase yourselves with the likes o’ us.” I returned his sneer with a blank look. “For the Scourge I would do anything, Commander. You want me to kill a prisoner? Let me at him.” I pulled my runeblade from my back. Plaguefist snorted, before pointing at the building. “Pick one of them in there,” he said. I walked inside, ignoring the look that Plaguefist followed me with. Once inside, I looked around. The building stank of bodily waste and odor. Several humans sat huddled together. A Draenei stood against the wall, shackled to a Dwarf. The Draenei looked directly at me, and covered his face before sliding down the wall to a fetal position, and sobbing openly at the sight of me. I walked towards him, my blade raised, ready to interrogate when I heard a frail human voice coming from the huddled mass of limbs. “Oh, sir, I told yers not to go alone, didn’t I…” I looked over. Gazing up at me was a youthful human face, a man barely out of childhood. Images flashed unbidden in my mind; a meeting in Light’s Hope, the Argent Peacekeeper telling me to wait, my hand patting his shoulder as I turned and walked away. And here he sat, my prisoner.

I stared at him for what felt like an eternity, unsure how to react. My mouth opened, but no sound issued from it. The peacekeeper hung his head dejectedly. “You remember me,” I said finally. He laughed; not a laugh of amusement, but a cold, hollow sound that shouldn’t have come from such a young man. “Course I do. Didn’t see many Draenei coming my way. Don’t s’pose I seen many Draenei undeads neither.” His words angered me for some reason. I stepped forward, and raised my blade to his throat, ready to rip his soul from his body. The tip of the sword hovered over his Adam’s apple. He shivered with fear, but held his head firm, and kept looking at me. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly. I glared at him. “For what happened to yer,” he added. “Do not be sorry, human. I have been delivered into greatness and life everlasting!” I responded, almost automatically, but with more uncertainty than I was comfortable with. “Thought you Draenei types lived a long time anyway. Me mum met a few of your types… spoke well of yer…” My sword lowered listening to his frightened words. I began to take a step back, when I heard the cruel voice of Plaguefist yelling. “I don’t hear screaming agony in there! Lost your stomach?!” I looked at the Argent Peacekeeper. He swallowed nervously, and abruptly stood, his hands held out to his sides. “You better do it then.” I was frozen still. “Get on with it… he’s ‘bout to come in ‘ere anyway…” I still could not raise my weapon. His face turned to one of pleading. “Sir… please… if you don’t, it’ll just end badly for me anyway.” I heard Plaguefist’s muttering outside, and his plated boots beginning to clang into the building. With a last look at the Argent man, I pulled my arm back and thrust my blade deep into his chest, and felt his soul pull from his body, leaving a lifeless shell of flesh and sinew behind. A ghost of a relieved smile flickered across his face – his death had been quick. As Plaguefist entered the building, I turned abruptly and stalked out, my cape billowing behind me. I tried to hide the look of confusion on my face, but he still glared at me suspiciously. I ignored him, and move as quickly as I could towards Acherus. As I walked, I heard a voice within my mind whisper into my heart of darkness. “All… must… die!”

I stalked through the halls of Acherus, my mind elsewhere. The Lich King had taken himself to Death’s Breach to oversee what would hopefully be the final operations against the Scarlet infestation. The part of me that remembered worshipped of the Light scoffed at the youthful races and their militantly organized zealotry. The whispers in my mind pushed me to consider it all a mercy - deliverance from tithing and endless worry over their immortal souls.

Such a strange world, Azeroth. The Exodar landed on top of a set of generally abandoned islands. Azuremyst Isle.. the new home of the Draenei. There is something to be said of crash-landing. In the reconstruction, no-one cares if you are Draenei, Broken, or the Prophet himself. All pitch in. We stepped out onto the lands and found the land in disarray. Our fault, of course. Nobundo had his shaman go out and commune with the elements of this world. Compared to Draenor, the elementals here were filled with raw power, constant storm! I imagine the elements of Draenor were the same before the corruption. And then there were the Night Elves. First they thought us demons - understandable, if a little insulting. And then fear was replaced by snobbery. "A Night Elf would never have destroyed the lands like this.." one said to me. Bah. They were not fleeing the Legion in an interdimensional vessel! I would like to see them do better. But they are a noble, decent people. I suppose. As I communed with the elements, and tried to soothe them with my brothers, we set about fixing the land as best we can, before we were called to the Exodar. It served as our salvation, now it would serve as our citadel.

Velen stood atop the Vault of Lights, looking as calm and serene as he always did. Nobundo stood next to him, and surrounding him were two Humans, one of whom was Admiral Odesyus, two Night Elves, a Dwarf, and a Gnome who must have been the new envoy from the Gnome King. Gnomes are most curious creatures. He wobbled back and fro, in a constant state of movement. This Gnome seemed friendlier than the traitor on the beach. Beneath Velen's platform, Draenei and Broken gathered to listen to his words. "My brothers, we have endured a long journey. Centuries of being refugees, searching for a home." Velen paused, and took in a breath of air. The tension was palpable; every eye fixed on his face, waiting for his next declaration. "We have found an Alliance of races who revere the Light as we do! A race of Vindicators and Anchorites, Exarchs, Mages and Warriors, much like ourselves. An Alliance who fights the Legion, and all the evil of their land, and our own! “My brothers, they have traveled through a portal to Draenor, and fight the corruption we fled! I declare today that this, Azeroth, is our new home, and that we Draenei are proud to join this Alliance!" His voice rose to a crescendo as he finished, and once he was done the Draenei cheered! Velen continued. "My brothers, my sisters. Go forward and serve the Alliance. Travel this land, and do what you must to give aid. Make the name of the Draenei ring true and brave across this world."

And go forth I did. I traveled the land, and made the name of the Draenei known, as Velen commanded. My first visit to Stormwind with several of my brethren brought strange looks indeed, but soon the humans came to accept us, and they even began to make use of the Exodar. For the first time, we were a part of a society again. I felt happy again, despite the problems of this world we had a place in it, and allies who would fight for us. And I had a purpose. I had a station, and a heritage to uphold. As I traveled I sought the elements of the world and spent many days communing with them, bathing in their power. Seeing across the land. I even saw the orcs, though they were stained filth to me then, as they ever will be. And then I saw the Legion's creation which grew even too big for them. The Scourge, hordes of undead rising from the ground to consume the land. I saw the fields corrupted by their taint, the plague that spread across the air to kill all it touched. And I knew my destiny lay there, against the Scourge. I saw myself in the Plaguelands, and so it came to pass. A dry wind beat against my face, the elements powerless to protect me against the power of undeath permeating the air. The sky was dark, burnt orange. The ground was the same, the earth dead. Decay filled my nostrils. I knelt down, and picked up a fistful of soil and let it fall through my fingers. Dry and dead, like the rest of this place. Even the Plagueblooms had trouble growing. I turned and walked into the chapel. Light's Hope, they called it. A place that felt secure. Above, a necropolis recently arrived to replace the departing Naxxramas. Nearer than the last, the Scourge were getting bolder. I knelt before the altar in the chapel, and prayed for a moment. I turned to an Argent Peacekeeper. "The threat is most present to the northwest, yes?" He looked at me as though my tendrils had grown heads. I imagine few Draenei had come this far, preferring to return to Draenor and assist the Alliance there as soon as possible. "That's right, er, sir. Plaguewood, we call it now. Used to be a town. Now it’s crawling with ‘em. Undead, I mean." I grimaced, and replaced my helm. "Then I ride to Plaguewood." His eyes widened. "You can't go alone! It’s suicide! Look - there's a team going out in a few hours, you should wait, yeah? " I chuckled quietly, and patted his shoulder. "I feel I must go alone. May the Light embrace you, friend." I turned and walked away. To this day I do not know why I went alone. It certainly wasn't "Farsight" on my part. Just simple pride. As a shaman I spent my time alone, and was confident in my ability to stay alive. I did not anticipate the Plaguewood being what it was. As we approached my elekk grew frightened and reared. I dismounted, and sent him back. He ran, quickly, back towards the Chapel. I gathered my cloak around me in a vain effort to shelter myself against the evil pressing in. The ground was coloured purple, decayed and coated in plague. I looked and saw skeletons, ghouls, creatures of undeath swarming the area. I placed my totems, and fortified myself with the elements. Something of the elements was missing, though, and my totems were weak. And they attracted attention. A ghoul started towards me, and I easily dispatched it. That one ghoul attracted another. Soon I was swarmed in ghouls, clawing and gnawing at any part of my body they could reach. I kept some at bay. I called a totem to slow my attackers, and turned to run. I ran, slowly, dogged by the injuries sustained. And from afar, a skeletal mage threw a bolt of frost towards me, which caught me from behind. I fell to my knees and cried out. I called out to the elements for healing, but I was soon beset by many Scourge minions. The limitlessness of the Scourge hit me in that moment and I knew this enemy was unlike any other; that which weakens us, makes them stronger. Death literally becomes them. As I fell flat on my back, the Scourge leant forward for the kill, but then stepped back. I called out to the Naaru, in an act of desperation, and felt their warmth covering me. I turned to my knees and began to crawl as fast as I could. Suddenly a sharp pain went through my leg, and spread to my hoof, and right up my spine and tail. I screamed out, and looked behind me. A large, runed sword, covered in the ice of undeath, was pierced through my leg. Attached to the sword was a human man with strange markings across his face, and skulls adorning his plated armor. He grinned at me and pulled his sword from my leg. As pain shot through me again, he kicked me swiftly in my side, putting me on my back before him. I called to the elements for help, but I so weak and there was no answer. I looked this man in the eye, and breathed heavily, restraining my yelps of pain. He continued grinning, and placed his sword against my chest. He opened his mouth, and from it issued a deep, echoing voice, like nothing I had heard from a human mouth before. "All shall serve the one true King," he said, before his sword pierced my chest and through my heart. Blood gurgled from my mouth as my body convulsed, and my vision blurred. Before I lost my vision I saw his sword glow within my chest. He pulled the sword from me, and I convulsed again. My last thoughts were of Doraam, Versuun, my mother, Nobundo, and the Naaru - in that instant, everything important to me flashed before my mind, and then my eyes closed for what I knew would be the last time. So I thought.

"What do you want, stranger?" Nobundo said, gruffly. He was outside of his hut, tending to what looked like a small garden of mushrooms. Near him was a small statuette, reminiscent of Mag'har totems. It was glowing, and every few seconds jumped and wiggle about. I knew this was the place. "I have sought you, wise one, for knowledge!" Nobundo's face looked directly at me, and examined me for a few seconds. He huffed, and went back to potting a mushroom. "And what could I teach a would-be Vindicator of the Light? Oh yes," he said, as my jaw dropped a little, "I know who you are. Celuur of Mac'Aree, son of the traitor-mage, lost those who are dear to him." He stopped his worked, and turned to face me. "I took great pains to study you, to learn your history. I knew you would come, to learn. You are to be my finest pupil." I gaped at him. "Really?" I breathed. "Hmph. Of course not!" He returned to his work again. "I am Farseer. Seeing is what I do." He rose, and turned to go inside his hut. My mind began with anger at his attitude towards me, and then panicked, as though if he went inside he would never come out again - and I would lose my chance of any salvation. I called after him quickly. "I am Kro’kul too!" I paused, the first time I had named myself, and he paused also, but did not turn to me. "I am! I feel the Light in me, but much of it is gone.. yet something tells me there is another way! You found it, yes? I want to learn, sir, please teach me… I have nothing else..." My sentence petered out and I looked to the ground, waiting for a response. After a moment in eternity, Nobundo spoke. "I have a class. Three Kro’kul, and one Draenei. If you join us I will have a class of three Kro’kul, one Draenei and.. whatever you decide to call yourself. Tomorrow evening. I give you one chance only. Do not appear, do not return." He went inside. I stood there for a few moments, gaping at the doorway, before vowing that I would indeed be there. And I would take my first step to become a Shaman of the Draenei people.

And so I attended the classes. The Broken looked at me with envy, the Draenei looked at me with disgust. Both resented me. The Draenei woman was an interesting addition to the group. Her name was Aluumna. She was not Broken, nor like me - she was perfectly healthy, yet she studied this path as fervently as if it was her only choice. Which for the Broken and I, it was. It took a long time of study, meditation and contemplation, but finally, the elements answered us each in turn. What a fantastic feeling that was, to feel the primal, raw energy of the elements coursing through us. My moment came studying alone, on a mountaintop near the Elemental Plateau. I was ready to pack it all in, and throw myself from the edge, when suddenly the wind whipped through me, and the air itself spoke to me. I ran from that mountaintop overjoyed. As our little group spoke to the elements, our bonds formed then. Aluumna no longer looked at me or the other Broken with disgust, the Broken did not glare at me with their jealousy. We were separated no longer; we were Shaman! Our path continued, and as the years passed we each gained some command of the elements. We created totems, and used them to our advantage. And I could heal again! The power of nature answered my call and did the work the Light once did. I still prayed every day to the Naaru for their guidance and love. Soon the people of Telredor looked at us few shaman without the scorn they once did, though they still did not trust us. For my Broken brethren, they were even less trusted, but they were finally accepted, if grudgingly. The Prophet Velen left them little choice in the end. And as the years had passed, a final test was left to me.

Nobundo had kept the other shaman and I separated from Telredor for several weeks, in a period of seclusion and meditation before our final test. One by one each shaman left with Nobundo for the test. Days passed between each test, and once a shaman left the seclusion, they did not return. I had no idea if they passed or failed. I was the last to take the test. Nobundo came to me, and nodded. I rose and followed him slowly, without word, to his hut. "Drink the sapta." Nobundo offered me the vial, and I drank. Immediately the elemental spirits of his totems became visible to me, and I smiled at them. "Now, gaze into the fire, and inhale the smoke. Breathe deeply, and let go." I did as he told. The smoke burned my lungs, and I fought the urge to cough. My eyes teared and vision blurred. The world span around me, and I fell back into a pillow. My eyes closed. Then, I was soaring! High above the skies of the Zangar Marsh, I could see the Telredor structure, and people working there. The air whipped across my disembodied spirit. I looked further, and saw over the Peninsula, and the Fel Orcs constructing their settlements. I swooped around the Citadel and headed south, towards Shadowmoon Valley, and breathed in the destruction. I felt the grief of the elements torn from the world by Shadow magic, and the agonized heat seeping from the scorched earth. My journey continued and I saw… everything! Around me I gathered the elements and rained a storm upon a spot of Felfire, extinguishing it. I experienced the fleeting joy of the earth given a reprieve from the burning. And then I was in the storms above the manaforges of Netherstorm. Since the elves had come with the Elf-Demon, they had taken up structure within the Tempest Keep - the Keep! My presence flew towards it, and I saw the shining light of a Naaru, hiding at the base of one wing. And then it came to me - in a flash, I saw the plan of Velen, and the gathering Draenei readying to retake the Exodar, and flee this place! In that instant I bolted upright, and I was back in the hut, with Nobundo. "Is it true?" Nobundo chuckled gruffly. "And the others, have they seen this?" "They have. This was part of your test." "We were kept away from Telredor so we would not learn of it from the others." Nobundo nodded. "To see if we could See the truth of it for ourselves" Nobundo nodded again. Then he spoke. "In the vision quest, you can learn the truth of all things connected to you. Where are the other Shaman?" he asked. I answered without thinking. "They are at Telredor, helping prepare." I looked at Nobundo for confirmation, though I already knew it to be true. He smiled at me. "Rise, Farseer Celuur, and join your people."

Farseer. My title, my purpose! I had not had one since "Trainee Vindicator" and even that was self-appointed. I felt proud of myself, and held my head high among my people on Telredor, even when they gave me those side-ways glances that the Broken were so used to. I felt, for the first time since Argus, that I had real purpose, and a chance at survival. A chance to rebuild my life. I was happy, at peace. I communed with the Naaru and the elements alike, and found redemption in them both. And then we retook the Exodar. Blood Elves. If I despise anything as much as orcs and Eredar, it is blood elves. They sabotaged the Exodar, of course. Nothing for the Draenei could be simple. As we travelled, our engines gave out, and we found ourselves hurtling towards a world we had never seen before. The Exodar tumbled through the Twisting Nether, and entered the skies of this strange world. Pods ejected from the Exodar, and were scattered across the land mass below. The Draenei who survived the freefall found their new home, with the great Exodar lodged deep into the earth, grounded permanently.

For months, the mood was depressed. No-one laughed, children wouldn’t play. Often you would hear people huddled in corners, crying, enraged, in despair. Few families were left intact. Everyone had lost someone. I felt that loss keenly. Soon, the mood lightened. People talked to each other, and laughter could be heard again. Though it would ebb for a time when our people - the Eredar, that is, caught up to us. As always, we narrowly escaped. And the mood would lighten again.

I never laughed. I spoke to few people, and only when necessary. I hid myself away in a corner of the Exodar, and worked hard in the Eye when I had a shift. We named ourselves Draenei. "Exiled Ones." I sometimes wondered whether it would have been best to simply give in to the will of the others, and learned all this Sargeras had to offer us. Then images of Doraam lying dead, killed by his own father, would run through my mind, and I ceased to wonder. My desire to be a Vindicator died. In its place was a dull, empty aching. I felt the Light had betrayed us all, left us outcast refugees, running from our own people. Not even the presence of the Naaru persuaded me otherwise. The Naaru. Bah. Each of my Exiled brethren had visited a Naaru at least once. And once they felt the Naaru’s warmth, that was when the mood lightened. The Naaru had buoyed their spirits. I had not seen one. I cared not to. Until a day aboard the Eye forced me.

The crystals are hot. The smell of the air stale as the walls themselves glow with power. I was beneath a panel, replacing several crystals, when I sat up abruptly, and bashed my head against the top of the panel access.

"Agh!" I exclaimed, and rubbed my head. I pulled my hand away from my tentacle and saw blue blood trickling down my hand. Cursing myself, I made my way down the corridors to an infirmary, where I walked inside. Behind a desk sat a Draenei woman, harried and frazzled. I walked up to her and waited patiently. She gave me and my horn a quick glance, and frowned. "Name," she said. "Celuur," I replied. From the corner of my eye I noticed a man turn quickly at the sound of my name, but I paid no heed. "If you could fix me up quickly so I can get back to work?" "Take a seat in an empty bed. If you can find one." She returned her eyes to her work. I sighed and pushed past, and found an empty bed and pulled the curtain around it. No sooner than I had sat down upon the bed did the curtain open again and in walked an old Draenei. Very old, with long, flowing robes of the brightest colour, and a beard that came far down from his face. I gaped openly at him. "Ah, Celuur, yes... I see you have a problem with your horn, there. Allow me to help." As he spoke, he raised his hands above my head and a bright light shone from them. I felt the wound close, as the Light passed through me. It was an intoxicating feeling, having been willfully absent from the Light for so long. I bowed my head deeply in reverence to the man before me. "I thank you, Prophet Velen." Velen chuckled, and sat down beside me on the bed. "No need, my son." I cast my head, seeming unable to look the Prophet in the eyes. Velen continued, "I have watched you recently. You have been quiet, reserved. Kept to yourself." I scoffed. "Why would you watch me?" I asked. "There are so few of us now that I watch all the Draenei closely. And you refuse to heal. Why have you not visited O'ros?" "Is that his name?" I said sarcastically. "I don’t need to visit a Naaru. The Light holds no comfort for me, now." Velen appraised me with an even eye. "If you would do anything, Celuur, do this. Visit O'ros, and pour your grief to him." I looked at Velen, and considered refusing. It is hard to refuse anything to the savior of your people, though, and so I nodded, quietly. He smiled gently, and patted me on the arm, before leaving me behind to sit and think. Once I left the confines of the medical bay I wandered the halls of the Exodar for a while, not returning to work, but replaying that encounter with Velen. My hooves took me to the base of the Exodar, where I heard the chimes of O'ros. I hesitated, unsure of myself, but the chiming drew me ever closer. As I approached, I felt the Light radiating from him, and I turned towards the Naaru. I laid eyes upon this creature of magnificence for the first time in my life, and I dropped to my knees. I heard the voice of O'ros inside my head, the soothing warmth of this benevolent power coating my being. Right there, and then, I openly weeped, ignoring the Hand of Argus guards around his chamber, and all of the frustration I had felt, all of the despair, was lifted from me. I felt renewed with purpose, and given reason for life. To honor the memory of Doraam, and not spite the sacrifice my brother made for me by ignoring life around me. I swore, then, I would devote myself to the service of the Light once more. But this time, I did it without innocence, and in the names of of my fallen family.

Some time later, our vessel, Oshu'gun, came to arrive on a world that it seemed would hide us from the twisted Man'ari. We landed in a place the natives called Nagrand, and we named the world "Draenor." Orcs, of course, were the natives. How trusting we were, how foolish! The orcs were a people of peace when we arrived - shamans, to be sure, without anything really to do with the Light, but peaceful they were, and we tried to establish a friendship. Then the Eredar found us. It is ironic that our people, once corrupted, became the corrupters themselves. "I can do it! I can, I have shown you!" "You have, Celuur, you can wield the powers of the Light. Bravo! So can many of our people. We just do not have the time to train you as a Vindicator now." I sighed in frustration. The Triumvir was surrounded by Vindicators running to and fro, gearing for battle, and gathering themselves in the centre of Shattrath City, waiting to be deployed. And he was refusing me admittance to the Hand of Argus. I had been trying for years. "Then let me fight! You need every one that you can have!" I glared at him with resolve. He laughed at me. "Yes, we do, but not as a Vindicator." He paused, and really looked at me for the first time. "I’m sorry, Celuur. I know you have the noblest of intentions. But we are at war. Orcs attack us daily. And if we were to admit you, we would want keep you safe, being untrained. And that would distract us from our duty. Do you understand?" I looked away. "Very well, Vindicator. I understand. May the Naaru bless you in battle." My voice was bitter. If the Triumvir had noticed, he didn’t mention it. He just smiled benevolently and turned away, barking orders at his troops. To be a Vindicator one requires a strength of faith completely unshakable. I had lost so much of my faith after the exodus that I spent many years on Draenor in prayer, meditation, and service to the Naaru, trying to rebuild. And then, as I felt ready to train again, the orcs were transformed. Their shamanistic ways turned to those of the warlock, corrupted by our own people. I was pulled out of my musings by a terrible clang from the east of the city, followed by the terrified screams of children in the lower city. I looked over, and saw a dark red cloud spreading across the horizon, with orcs leading the charge. I could hear their warcries, and in that instant they came. They stormed through the city as though it were paper. I charged forward, intending to meet them with my Draenei brethren in battle. Though, in moments I had fallen beneath falling rubble, not getting the chance to test my blade against them. As I fell, I saw the red cloud covering the air, making it thick. Choking, I passed out. When I awoke, I found more than the city destroyed by the orc's bloodlust.~ ~ ~Is it by cruel design that the Draenei must suffer tragedy time after time, never able to rest when the threat of corruption lingers around each corner? I imagined many things would lead to the downfall of the Draenei. Sargeras himself, or the Eredar returned to claim us. I never imagined that the orcs would be the instrument of the Eredar against us. They fell so quickly to the Eredar! The bloodlust was all consuming, their thirst for evil immeasurable. The orcs ripped Draenor apart with their reckless sorcery. Their demonic portals spawned across the world. Shadowmoon Valley suffered the worst of it. There, Gul'dan raised volcanoes that exploded Fel lava, and demons roamed freely. Netherstorm was in pieces, the Tempest Keep left abandoned and suspended. Nagrand was untouched, but unsafe. The Draenei made their way into the deepest parts of the Zangarmarsh, and built Telredor. Many of our people who were struck down in Shattrath by that red cloud found themselves changed. Some of us mutated and devolved into creatures of ugliness. And all of them infected with demonic energies, severing their connection to the Light. Never had our people been cut off from the Light like this before. We are so infused with Light that its sudden absence drove many insane. The Draenei who escaped this fate feared these new creatures, hated them. Never mind they had no choice! They were kept apart, and those who did not die from the madness formed their own shelters, lost, unwelcomed by their own brethren. Kro’kul, they were called. Broken. Most were either Broken or not but a few escaped the full extent of the damage. Some of us retained our physical forms, and even the call of the Light, to a degree. Useless, nonetheless. I was one of these. Broken, but not Broken enough to belong to them. Caught between the Draenei and Kro’kul.

Chapter 1: ARGUS Asking a Draenei to retell the story of his life is almost like asking a tree to remember when it was just a sapling. Childhood and youth become whispers in the recess of the mind, the memory fades throughout the centuries. Only the key events of life still stand out after so long; eventually those too will fade with age.

From my youth, only one series of events truly stands out.

~ ~ ~

"The School of Anchorites is still available, perhaps you should reconsider." Mhelaa called from the back of our home. My mother, the mage, begging me to become a Priest, of all things. I sighed as my facial appendages twitched in frustration. "Mother, we have been over this. I am bound to the Vindicator’s call." Suddenly, from behind, my brother Versuun clapped his hands around my shoulders. "Let him be, mother, he wants to be like his father and me!" Versuun said brightly. He’d just qualified as a Vindicator himself, and was aching to be assigned. He wore his Hand of Argus tabard already, pride emanating from his face. I shrugged him off with an indulgent grin just as my mother walked in with food. She never conjured food, preferring to prepare it herself with her own hands. It tasted better for it. "Yes, and look how he ended up. Dead! I wish you two hadn’t chosen paths that place you right on the front lines..." "Our mother, the mage," Versuun said dramatically. Mhelaa clucked at him and put the food on the table. "So, Cel, will you be seeing Doraam later?" I blushed - unnoticably, I hoped. My brother, though, had keen eyes and almost fell over laughing. "Be nice to your brother. Go on, both of you. Be off! Come back in a few hours, I have important work to attend to." Versuun stood, and stretched his arms. "A meeting of the Hand has been called anyway. Best not to be late!"

~ ~ ~

Doraam... it has been so long since I thought of him. I used to dream that we would start a family. He was an Anchorite which, frankly, put me off the idea from the moment I met him. Two Anchorites in a family seemed almost too Holy. So many joyous memories of afternoons spent walking amongst the temple gardens, fishing in the lakes of Mac'Aree and studying together under the shade of crystalline trees. So many memories, eclipsed by the events of that day.

~ ~ ~

"Doraam!" I called. He was sitting at a bench in the middle of the city, hair long in two tails draped across his shoulders. His Anchorite garb blew in the strong breeze, creating almost a glow as his robes whipped about. As I approached I saw his face was dark, worried. Concern creased his smile, and I was filled with a feeling of dread. "Doraam, what troubles you?" I sat down beside him and grabbed his hand in mine. It was clammy, and shivering. I held it tighter. He looked at me and I saw panic shining from his eyes. It caught me so off guard I tried physically to pull away. He held my hand tightly. "Do you trust me, Celuur?" he breathed. His eyes darted across the city. "Of course, Doraam, what is this about?" Doraam's eyes searched my face, intently examining every corner of it for what I can only imagine was falsehood. He then cast his face downward, and began to stammer out words that would change my life forever. "The Triumvirate.. some – creature! - Sargeras, he called himself - offered them unfathomable knowledge and power! Two have accepted his offer already..." Doraam cut off, and looked around again. I said nothing, despite my many questions, simply squeezed his hand in reassurance. He continued, almost breathless. "But Velen - he has seen! He has seen what shadow, what evil would consume us, and has been given an offer of escape! This.. being of pure Light - Celuur, to see Velen describe it! - we are to escape.. today!" My mind reeled with the images Doraam’s tale conjured in my mind. I knew of Velen, one of the wisest of the Eredar. And Doraam was part of his order of Anchorites. I trusted the word of them both, but still.. the concept was almost too much for me. "Cel, we must leave with them. Velen has told those he trusts to gather people. We are to meet at the mountain peak, tonight." Doraam whipped his head around, almost in a panic. I had never seen him in such a state, yet I know he spoke truthfully, even if I did not completely understand. "I must go. Pack lightly. I shall see you tonight. Trust no-one…” We stood and embraced. I kissed him lightly. As he began to pull away, I called after him, trying to reach him with my hand. “Dor! Are you certain? This sounds…” “Yes, Cel! Please, go!” He broke into a run towards his home. I stood for a moment, paralyzed with fear. And then we left, each of us almost running in separate directions to our homes.

~ ~ ~

“Forward! Into the city!” An answering roar came as the Sha’tari defenses swelled outwards from the outskirts of Shattrath heading deep into occupied territory. My mind was filled with the smells and sounds of my surroundings; I was struggling to separate the reality playing out around me from the memories burned into my mind.

“Let me fight! You need every one that you can have!" He laughed at me.

"Yes, we do, but not as a Vindicator." He paused, and really looked at me for the first time.

"I am sorry, Celuur. I know you wish to honor those who came before you. A noble ambition. But we are at war. Orcs attack us daily. And if we were to admit you, we would all wish to keep you safe, untrained as you are. And that would be a distraction. Do you understand?"

My mace hummed as my runes activated, sending a whirl of ice around me as I charged into the marketplace. With each swing, I felt the life seep from the orcs I made contact with. With each death my resolve grew stronger and darkness spread from beneath my hooves to envelop the enemy.

“For Auchindoun!” I heard a soulbinder cry out as she took down any I sent her way. She had somehow stayed near me since we left the staging areas. Though we were certainly nothing alike, perhaps she found a familiarity in my undeath that made her comfortable enough to fight alongside me. The corner of my eye caught on vendors I had not seen since the first attack on Shattrath – the one of my memory, from so long ago. I had not saved them that day. I hurled myself to the left and shadowy tendrils lifted their attackers into the air, suspended and gasping for breath. My soulbinder and I made quick work of them.

For what felt like eternity I stared at the vendors. ‘They should be dead,’ I thought to myself. Of all of my experiences as an undead on Draenor so far, this was the strangest. It caught me off-guard. ‘These people should be dead.’ Was it possible for the destinies of a whole people to be changed so radically? Part of me thanked whatever force had led me to propel myself on a one-way mission through the Dark Portal.  Perhaps none of the pain my people had suffered need never happened.

Yet how could that be? I would remember it. All the draenei that came back through the portal would still bear the scars of those terrible events, as would the ones on Azeroth. Which events are real? If we change fate, here and now, what becomes of those of us who lived it before? Are our memories and experiences just a dream? A possibility that never came to pass?

All of this whirled through my brain. I could feel the glances of the unknown soulbinder on me between her kills. I am certain that my freezing in place for even a moment was confusing to her, but perhaps she realized that I needed that time and protected me from the oncoming orcs. I decided that my musings could wait – temporal philosophy is for the dragons and mages, not for the soldiering dead. I turned back around and held my mace high, preparing to strike down the next wave that approached my vendors. ‘They will not die today,’ I told myself.

I swung my mace down on the skull of a particularly short orc and heard his bones crack open. It was a satisfying blow. Shadow continued to build beneath me and I reached out my hand to pull a group of orcs towards me. Then I saw who stood in the middle of that group.

“I was pulled out of my musings by a terrible clang from the east of the city, followed by the terrified screams of children in the lower city. I looked over, and saw a dark red cloud spreading across the horizon, with orcs leading the charge. I could hear their warcries, and in that instant they came. Storming through the city as though it were paper. I charged forward, intending to meet them with my draenei brethren in battle. Though, in moments I had fallen beneath falling rubble, not getting the chance to test my blade against them.”

There was no rubble surrounding the man who swung his hammer in a circle, light flaring out in all directions. There was no precision in the swings, but there was a passion to continue living that kept the orcs at bay. I stared at him, and my arm fell limp to the side. The soulbinder looked at me directly for the first time before turning her head to follow my gaze. I heard her gasp. Despite the colour in his face and the light emanating from his body, the man in the group of marauders was most unmistakably me.

I couldn’t move. I just stared. ‘This is not my fate,’ I kept saying to myself. I was meant to be broken.

"I am Broken too!" I paused, the first time I had named myself, and Nobundo paused also, but did not turn to me. "Yes, I am. I feel the Light in me, but much of it is gone.. yet I feel there is another way! After a moment in eternity, Nobundo spoke.

“I have a class. Of three Broken, and one draenei. Tomorrow evening. I give you one chance only. Do not appear, and you shall not return."

I was meant to die at the hands of the Scourge.

The Death Knight grinned at me and pulled his sword from my leg. As pain shot through me again, he kicked me swiftly in my side, putting me on my back before him.

I called to the elements for help, but I so weak and there was no answer. He continued grinning, and placed his sword against my chest. He opened his mouth, and from it issued a deep, echoing voice, like nothing I had heard from a human mouth before. "All shall serve the one true King," he said, before his sword pierced my chest and through my heart.

I was meant to find myself free of the Lich King’s evil and to take the fight to his doorstep.

“Orders?” I looked down at the diminutive Gnome behind a desk, outside the Slaughtered Lamb. She gave me a withering look.

“Yes, orders! See? Right here. ‘Initiate Celuur, transfer from Acherus Central to the 1113th unit, Knights of Menethil, rank Private, effective immediately.’

And yet, there I was. With Light flashing around me, and orcs bearing down on me. I saw an orc charge forward, behind him – me – with a long dagger in his hand. I raised my mace and readied myself to charge – but I didn’t move. I stood, frozen like I had chained myself to the ground. The soulbinder sprung into action, but it was too late. I cried out towards my younger self as the dagger was plunged into his back. My back.

I looked on without moving, horror creeping through me that I had just let myself die. There were no words forming in my head, no thoughts that I could grab on to and try to rationalize what was happening in front of my eyes. I watched my own life seep  away. The soulbinder easily took care of the orcs. I found myself slowly able to move. One hoof in front of the other, walking over to myself as blood gargled from that familiar face. I remembered how it was to die painfully. The first time I was alone, and denied my soul’s release. This time would be different. I knelt in front of the man who had been so eager and desperate to prove himself. The man who had lost so much and still been filled with optimism and hope for a future in the Light. The man I used to be. He looked up at me and gasped, the effort of his chest heaving causing more blood to empty onto the stone beneath.

He reached out his hand to me, and I took it. I looked him in the eyes; he looked so confused as he looked back into eyes that had once been his own. We just stared at each other and stayed there, while the battle raged on around us, until the light in his eyes – my eyes – went dark. For him, his soul was released. I could feel it leave on its next journey. There would be no second service for this man who got his wish to fight against the Horde and protect his people.

I should have been jealous or comforted – I should have had some sort of feeling at watching myself die in the way I desperately wished I had. Perhaps those feelings will come. At that moment, I only had one thought.