Masticus had not been given orders. They did not take orders. Their submission to Xal'atath had been--and would continue to be--an act of deception, of long-term strategy. She would misstep, trip, as all voidkin often did when they grew beyond their means, and Masticus would be right behind her to take the first bite when her guard fell.
In the meantime, the consumption and cultivation of raw power was the only prerogative they followed. With the Harbinger's self-indulgent war raging against the Azerothians, there had been no dearth of overconfident fleshlings overassessing their capabilities in the Voidstorm, and Masticus intended to collect on that bounty. Part of playing the role of a subservient agent was attending to one's own needs whilst appearing to attend to the needs of the self-assumed superior. So when the opportunity to hunt priority targets was proffered to the domanaar under Xal'atath's command, Masticus quickly made themselves known as They-Who-Would.
A list was given: One of notable foes, flies in the ointment, and other would-be disruptors of the Harbinger's grand plan. Not all were Azerothians; many who composed the list were lesser domanaar that held vision similar to Masticus, but lacked their tact and cunning, those who assumed out-and-out rebellion would somehow be their shield, or spark greater unrest amongst their kin. Simple enough boxes to tick, but sparse offerings for true consumptive gain.
One target did, however, appeal to them. Innocuous enough at a glance, an Illidari was included amongst the other mortal victims, though lower in urgency against the immediate threat of several clerics and clergymen. Many of Masticus' brethren had disregarded the elven slayers as little more than another cadre of cheap conjurors. The dying embers of the Dark Titan's war against the void, a pale shade of the existential threat that was his burning crusade. Masticus felt similarly, but knew that each Illidari was more than they appeared--a two-for-one meal, a potent mortal serving with endless, refined potential in their harnessed demon souls, each entity exercising the other into a perfectly marbled cut.
Once they had committed enough chores to avoid arousing suspicion, Masticus began to fact-find. The collected intelligence of the domanaar, begrudgingly shared amongst each other, outlined the hunter: A stoic sort, with little in the way of connections that would serve as vulnerabilities, and a history of violent acts that stretched so long that it bored the domanaar to contend with it all. What Masticus did not see, however, was any mention of mental resilience. The fiery tempers and impulsive spirits of the Illidari often left their minds vulnerable in the heat of action, with the exception of those bound to demons of greater vision. This one read like some kind of brute, a barely controlled beast you pointed at your foe when subtlety was unnecessary, the kind of simpleton that was easily mentally dominated.
Masticus simply had to wait for their opportunity.
--
That chance presented itself within mere days--a measurement of time the domanaar had never particularly cared for, but had made an effort to understand to improve their efficacy against the fleshlings. Masticus' position as "cleaner" had afforded them to-the-second intel, and they were delighted to be informed that the Illidari had been spotted entering the Howling Ridge via portal. Even the pathetic voidkin that had aligned themselves with the mortals could not fight their natures and acted as two-way streets for information, betraying each side actively and readily, hoping that favour curried would save them no matter who won.
Masticus quickly caught the Illidari's trail, slipping from shadow to shadow, trading their physicality for pure nothingness so as to avoid detection by the hunter's cursed vision and hyperactive senses. The man incinerated an invading wave of Xal'atath's fodder just outside the Ridge, and then assisted a small Ren'dorei scouting party in clearing an area for research nearby, his short series of tasks culminating with a raucous fight against a voidbeast on an isolated butte of the Voidstorm.
Once the dust had settled and the blood ceased to flow, the Illidari took a seat on the lifeless earth, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees, his posture rigid and still as he gazed off into the expanse of Predacea's crumbling landscape. He stilled to near-immobility, his breaths faint and heartbeat slowed as he took in some view of the Voidstorm that Masticus could not divine.
In that moment of peace, the domanaar struck. The first spell, one to dilate time in a small area by warping space itself, enough to buy themselves an opening for the second incantation which was significantly more complex.
As quickly as space warped around the Illidari they saw the hunter begin to respond, though only faintly and agonizingly slowly, within the bubble of twisted spatiomancy. The joints in his clawed fingers began to tighten, the slightest of creases began to manifest between his eyebrows, and his lips part a millimetre, the birth of a furious scowl that would not reach its expressive conclusion. Masticus knew their own spellwork; it would be half an hour or more before the demon hunter's reaction would even have him facing the domanaar, and much more then before the elf could reach them.
The second incantation completed, and Masticus felt themselves shift, their consciousness displaced, thrust through the time-bending orb and into the mind of the Illidari. They crashed through the outer layers of their prey's mind, quickly blowing past the layers of conscious thought, feeling the first crackling spark of rage that itself was only just igniting under the space-warping trap.
With an aggressive push Masticus broke through the meagre psychic resistance and felt the warm pressure of the subconscious bubble up around them, the surface-level thoughts vanishing as a dark silence took their place.
--
Cavernous, serene. Did this Illidari have no thoughts or mental impetus beyond the electrical impulse of his senses? Was he truly as shallow as Masticus had assumed? What a delight to find that true, they mused, reaching out through the depths of the Illidari's mind knowing there would be more there, even buried. Every mortal had weaknesses--a memory to abuse, a fear to be manipulated, a thread to be pulled--Masticus just had to find it and snap him from within; then it was naught but the feast.
O? What treads here? A beastie of void, spurred to split-wide the psyche of Bearer Mine?
The sudden voice nearly severed Masticus' connection to the Illidari, their concentration briefly flickering between the outside world--the demon hunter's fingers had now left his knees--and the mental interior. They refocused and the silhouette of the elf's bound demon presented itself to them; decidedly reminiscent of an Ered'ruin, but vague and uncertain in the metaphysical plane.
Silence yourself, demon. Your captor has already lost this exchange. Be grateful for the freedom of oblivion that I will gift to you once I conclude my work here.
A pause. The demon did not respond, and Masticus took the opportunity to project their will outwards, expanding their influence as both threat and order.
In fact... you will assist me. You will lead me out of this meaningless void towards something that will hurt him.
There was another pause, and then garrulous, bellowed laughter.
What confidence! What gall! O Beastie of Void, presumed slayer of Bearer Mine, it would please me greatly to lead thee to thy treasure.
Masticus snorted, the demon soul's tone and verbage both annoying the domanaar deeply. They trusted the bound demon as much as any other being, which was to say not at all, but they also understood that demons cowed by the Illidari were nearly always in constant opposition to their host; a rivalry they intended to take advantage of.
Despite their reservations Masticus followed the demon soul through the emptiness for some time, the creature having fallen silent after its earlier explosive reaction. Flickers of thoughts and memories occasionally echoed around them, all seemingly equidistant, just beyond reach.
After some time, the demon paused, his form wavering and crackling as he reached some sort of psychic destination. Masticus expanded their influence again, attempting to find whatever it was the demon had intended for them to find here. It was colder here, more vast, even more empty.
Masticus' contempt flowed outward, the mental equivalent of a seething breath. Just more nothing. The demon had wasted their time.
What is this nonsense, you worm? Do you seek to delay me? To save this mortal scum? Such feeble behaviour is beneath you.
They felt the demon swell with a kind of indignant pride as he blustered back.
O Beastie of Void, loathe me not. I have ferry'd thee to thy desire, the very truth of Bearer Mine's being. Thou sought a thread to pull, and a thread--nay, THE thread--thou shall have! Lo, scry hence!
Masticus' senses slithered outward in the direction of the demon's beaming satisfaction, and they beheld the alleged "truth," as though their guide had stepped out of the way of their vision.
Unlike the vague metaphysical forms of the demon and Masticus themselves, the manifestation was crystal clear. It was in the shape of a kaldorei boy, slight and on the edge of gangly. Closer to a silhouette than an image, sharp but only visible by an outer rim of light, as though it was facing away from something intensely bright and flickering. It stood tautly, unmoving, fists clenched.
For a lingering moment Masticus beheld the shade with confusion, their will projecting outwards once more, slithering about the otherwise-empty space, trying to fill it with their dominance, grasp it within a veil of their command.
Masticus' focus was broken by a sudden <<THRUM>> that washed over their projection, a paralyzing wave of raw sensation that forced back their tendrils of will and shocked their mind, disorienting them but failing to eject the domanaar from the mental plane. They hissed as they felt their presence creak and twist.
Masticus beheld the small shade once more. It looked the same, but with one distinct addition--they could feel as much as see its eyes. Dead eyes, uncaring eyes, hungry eyes, glintless and flat. A sensation washed over them, one they were unfamiliar with, one that left them in a standoff with the shade that held in silence for a breathless moment.
And then it took a step forward.
Pressure weighed on Masticus' psyche, not so much that they could not resist it, but the sudden sensation flickered their perception between interior and exterior once more--the Illidari's head had mostly turned, twitching rapidly as his body's inherent magical defenses and velocity forced his body to painfully accelerate against the slowing spell--and they responded with the essence of their own contempt, thrashing out at the hunter's mind and buffeting the shade.
It paused in its stride, rattled and creaked like a rusted automaton, and then pressed forward again, through the psychic attack, another footfall inching it closer to the domanaar.
Masticus hissed furiously as they strained, ramping up the mental assault, their body in the waking world arcing with energy, expanding and contracting as the spell intensified to transmit more power into the metaphysical battlefield.
You think you're very clever, don't you, demon? How pathetic you are to side with the Illidari, your very jailkeeper! I'd not known the Legion to be so truly spineless!
Suddenly, the demon's image became sharper. A broad smile, an aggressive projection of a wild, rapturous joy.
You know nothing.
The poetic lilt and turn of phrase vanished, his words flat and tersely enunciated. It startled Masticus, and the shade inched closer as a result.
My hate for this man is greater than any hatred the entirety of the Great Beyond has ever known. Stars that have been born and died across eons have burned with less intensity than the flame of contempt I hold for him.
My only goal is his death. I watch his every move in silence from this miserable prison, longing for it, thirsting for it. A thirst that I pray, desperately, in the Dark Titan's name, to be quenched.
The demon's smile remained through his words, his visage little other than the manic expression and a pair of horns.
And yet... my hatred of him is nothing compared to his hatred of me. Of us. And even... of you. You and yours remind him of us, in your callousness, your wanton violence, your selfish hunger. And while perhaps unsatisfying... it is enough.
BEGONE, YOU FAILURE!
Masticus' patience reached its end and they lashed out at the demon, a significant psychic attack that scattered its form. They knew full well there was no destroying the fel soul without destroying the Illidari, but domanaar were prideful beings, incapable of tolerating such slander without reprisal. They grimaced as they felt the demon's projection reform on the opposite side.
Why do you think it was so silent in here? Memories so distant, subconscious thought so smothered. Do you think him a simple being? An insect, a crustacean?
The demon soul threw his arms wide, gesturing about as Masticus pushed back against the encroaching shade, realizing they were beginning to lose ground faster as another footfall sent a shockwave across their mindscape.
My poor Beastie of Void... you landed in his hatred. You are amidst it. This vast, limitless darkness is but the eye of that storm, and in its very centre... the thread you sought to pull.
SILENCE, DEMON!
He IS his hatred! He IS his revenge! He IS his justice! O, GAZE UPON THE TRUTH OF BEARER MINE, BEHOLD THE DEPTH OF HIS LOATHING, AND DESPAIR!
The small shade began to approach faster and faster, each step steady and determined, its small fists shaking as it strode towards Masticus. They pushed back against it, roaring as they leveraged every drop of power they had ever consumed, blasting the entity with a psychic attack that should have killed the mortal outright, the kind of assault that would leave brains bleeding and conscious thought shattered.
Masticus' assault reached its apex, a blinding, deafening wave of psychic energy that drowned out the echoing laughter of the demon soul and fractured their own vision of the metaphysical plane, briefly leaving all before them blank and white.
There was an extended breath of silence, the sounds and pressure abated, and then
--crick
crack--
the serene space shook and splintered, and one of the shade's tiny hands--now lined with vile claws--burst through, tendons arched. Masticus' counterattack was cut off by the small hand encircling their throat, and their cry was cut off by an electrifying flood of sensation.
Their mind exploded with pain, a searing hate that set every nerve aflame, jumbling their thoughts, interspersing their own memories with split-second glances at the Illidari's litany of violent acts that the domanaar had found so dull not days prior. For a fractional moment that stretched into infinity, Masticus thrashed about in the storm of torment, and then was bluntly excused from the Illidari's mind, violently shoved back into the material plane in full.
The domanaar immediately emptied the contents of their "stomach," doubling over and ejecting a font of pearlescent dark sludge on to the dry earth, which was followed by a gout of felflame that tore forth from their lips, scorching their face as they coughed it out.
But more followed.
Masticus cried in pain and shock as the green blaze poured from their thorax seemingly without end, their body beginning to warp and distend heinously as the life-consuming conflagration rapidly spread and grew within them, sparks flickering out through their central mass in gouts as they expended every defensive spell they had to smother the rampaging spark.
Masticus struggled along the cracked ground, their form continuing to bulge and distort grotesquely as the fel flame re-propagated and spread itself over and over, too vicious, too endlessly hungry to be snuffed out by the inky interior of the domanaar. They spun around to face the Illidari, scrabbling backwards along the earth as the same sludge they had spit up begin to dribble out of their eyes and abdomen, boiling and frying as fel fire expelled alongside it in equal or greater measure.
The demon hunter immediately ignored the command and took a step forward, his taloned foot kicking up a small cloud of dust as it hit the earth.
That same sensation, the <<THRUM>> that had announced the shade's approach, travelled through the ground and across the domanaar's body. That same strange feeling Masticus did not understand and a peal of rage tore across them and their eyes shot wide, their mouth opening into a primal shriek of confused and self-righteous rage. In a flash they whipped their right arm forward and it became a brilliantly sharp spine, the tip glinting as it tore towards the Illidari's face, aimed right between his cursed eyes.
The demon hunter did not move as the spine terminated its journey mere centimetres from his face. The two opponents held for a second, and then the impaling limb began to crumble away into dust, starting from the tip and working its way back.
Masticus coughed and spasmed as their body began to burn away, no more defenses left to stop their form from turning to tinder, and dwindling life left within to consume. They grimaced furiously at the Illidari, who regarded them plainly, distantly, from above, watching the domanaar crumble into ash and detritus.
Their gazes met, and in their final moments Masticus realized; for all the differences in appearance between he and that hateful shade, the look in his eyes, the dead, flat hunger... it was the same.
--
Caedun entered the sanctum, his features hidden but eyes and scowl clearly visible beneath the shade of his hood. The cloak wasn't a preferred addition to his sparse clothing, but it reduced his impact on the citizenry of Silvermoon and made the guards less prone to wasting both his and their time.
He approached the front desk, catching his hood on either side with his thumbs and pulling it back, his hair bouncing back into place as it took its preferred upswept state.
"Ahh, Mr. Caedun," Sedalle greeted him sweetly, looking up from the paperwork on her desk and resting her cheek in the crook of her thumb and forefinger, "I'm was so happy to hear you'd fulfilled one of Mr. Bloodsworn's contracts! He's been ravenous for your support."
The secretary gave him a dark and salacious smile, the words and expressions causing the demon hunter's sharp nose to crinkle in response.
"It was not intentional," Caedun insisted, reaching into a small satchel on his belt and producing a container of sin'dorei make on her desk, "the domanaar came for me, for whatever reason. This is a portion of its remains, for verification."
"And the anguish, Mr. Caedun?" Sedalle inquired, picking up the container and rotating it in inspection.
"I did not have the implements to collect it," he dryly answered, eyes widening slightly, "nor would I do so if asked. Your master's methods are repulsive."
"Hmph! Stingy, and a killjoy. I have no idea what Mr. Bloodsworn sees in you," Sedalle opened a drawer and produced a small pouch of gold that she slid across the desk to him, pursing her lips and frowning at him playfully.
"Half the usual fee for you again! You'd make a killing if you played nice with us, Mr. Caedun! There's much more available to those who intentionally fulfill the contracts, rather than by halfhearted happenstance."
"I am aware," he rasped in response, snatching and dropping the bag of gold into his pouch, and then turning to leave.
"See you soooon!" Sedalle tittered behind him as he walked out, pinching his hood between his fingers and pulling it up again. He quickly smoothed his hair underneath it and made sure the hem rest on his horns, rather than getting caught on them.
As he wandered out into the quiet alleys of the Row's edge, he was once again left with little more than meaningless coin, unanswered questions, and a lack of satisfaction in a job well done.
He snorted away the doubts, turned on a heel, and head out into the city to find the next impetus.
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During TWW I screenshot a lot of moments in the campaign that I thought would be fun with my characters' inputs and voices but I never got around to drawing them. Trying to rectify that with Midnight, you can thank Jonas Everdawn's withering stare for inspiring me.
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Furnished, stylish, 2nd floor 1 bedroom/1 bath apartment for rent in the freshly-reconstructed, up-and-coming Silvermoon Heights neighbourhood. Be part of Silvermoon's grand rebirth and the Sin'dorei's new age of prosperity, in the heart of our grand city's freshest, trendiest neighbourhood.
Spacious 923sq ft interior includes open-concept dining/living room, modern kitchen and lavatory utilities (including imported Valdrakken oven w/ hood ventilation), and abode-wide magical lighting, in mixed spellfire and luminary glass modi. Heating provided via two brand-new "One Touch" spellhearths, present in bedroom and living room.
Grand entryway includes resplendent northeast-facing bay window with view of interior courtyard park, and supplies central area of house with consistent natural light and airflow.
During these challenging times our esteemed Alliance guests are welcomed with open arms, but will require a Sin'dorei representative of good standing to co-sign and submit the application.
Building features include:
Concierge Service
Gym
Pool and Hot Tub
Amenity Room
Mount Stabling and Care (Biological and non-abberant mounts ONLY. Please note that there is a SINGLE stable included per-unit; additional stables will require a 50g/month fee and are subject to availability.)
Enchanted equipment charging and secure storage (NO weaponry permitted.)
Designated storage locker per unit
Pet friendly (Non-abberant pets ONLY. Definition thereof is left to the building manager's per-pet discretion.)
Don't miss out on this incredible opportunity for comfort and security in the finest city in Azeroth and beyond!
ABSOLUTELY NO ILLIDARI. NO EXCEPTIONS FOR THOSE OF SIN'DOREI DESCENT.
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By happenstance he was in Ironforge when the radiant request went out and saw the change in Kai's expression when Liadrin's voice rung in the heads of Azeroth's noble and valourous. The young human had simply nodded at him, as if they both understood what had just occurred, and left with haste. It was the sickening wave of energy, a mingling of brilliantly searing light and sickly-sweet shadow, that he had felt instead.
In short order the news of Silvermoon's plight passed to him and he strode outside, staring north from the mountainous peaks of the dwarven city's gate with the other gawkers. In his own way he saw the column of light and the obfuscating orb it collided with, a blinding wall of magic that made his lip curl twice-over for its doubly offending sources and its ostentatious intensity. Privately, amidst the cold winds and murmuring crowds, he closed his eyes and let out an exhausted sigh before he turned on a heel and made for the aerie.
--
Even with favourable winds and low traffic, the flight to Light's Hope had taken hours. Finding a gryphon which would tolerate a demon hunter passenger that was also stalwart enough to not be spooked by the threat over Quel'Thalas had proven a challenge, and even then the old, scarred bird had barrel-rolled several times in an attempt to dump Caedun during the journey--a stern reminder of his preference for a nonliving steed, when necessary.
Light's Hope itself was askew, stripped of its contingent of Paladins and the Dawn's finest, all called to the battlefront with little consideration for the rampancy of the Scourge. More crucial time was spent incinerating ghouls and zombies alongside the Ebon Blade; a pleasant-enough way to reconnect with allies from the Broken Isles, had there been time for it.
When the latest surge of undead had been put to rest he set off immediately with little other than a day's rations, his march swift and pointed, contrary to his mood. The rest of the Plaguelands ignored him, either out of imperative or concern, as he made his way towards the narrow mountain pass that separated Lordaeron's rotted remnants from Quel'thalas.
--
He was no stranger to the Ghostlands, particularly in recent times, having scouted the edges of the forest for demonic presence while keeping a low profile to avoid conflict with, or agitation of, the Farstriders. Yet this time, as he slipped by the checkpoint and its tower, he realized that he did not sense them--the presence of the rangers and their guardsmen--usually strong in number due to the risk of their border. When he realized this he abandoned his stealthy approach and made his way down to the road and in to the guardhouse, calling out in his rough-but-serviceable Thalassian, to no response.
Only a short distance from the checkpoint he understood why, as a sickening sensation washed over him, drawing a twitch of annoyance from his permanent scowl.
He had glimpsed the fruits of Silvermoon's labours, work that had been done to heal the Ghostlands, to make it "Eversong" again. Now, though, it had become certainly worse than a haunt for struggling Scourge scraps. He could taste the void magic in the air, he could feel the ill intent of its wretched beings and willing servants, and he felt... nothing.
On cue, the creatures and casters sensed him in turn, and a cavalcade of aberrant freaks and murmuring mages trod towards him on the same road, picking up speed as they eyed their target and began to slaver at the opportunity to consume.
Normally in those seconds before contact he felt the draw to study, to plan, to visualize how he would strike before he did so and execute within that framework. As they ran towards him he drew a blank, shift his jaw, and obliterated the skull of a Twilight's Blade cultist with a simple jab the moment they entered his range. He felt no compulsion to sprint forward, to meet their charge, to tear them asunder and roar over their remains. As each monster, each cultist approached him he tagged them one-by-one with simple, splitting blows that either killed them on the spot or wounded them so grievously that they would not be rising.
He shook blood off his knuckles and stood quietly for a moment, unsure of how to feel, but a rising chorus of growls and curses got in the way of his considerations and he continued to walk forward, slowly, down the road. Felflame licked from his skin and began to swirl around him, crackling and sputtering into a swirling torrent that would consume the voidlings and their ilk without further intervention.
In Pandaria, he had been blazing vengeance, a storm of hate and fury, a wild bloodthirsty beast that had turned predators to prey.
In Azj'kahet, he had been a searing dagger, a tool of precise excision, a man on a personal crusade against those who--regardless of reason--had taken another home from him.
In Quel'thalas, it was not personal, or just, or vengeful.
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