Hm

As if to confirm the instinct, he flailed the axe around in a wild arc. Those who didn’t fall over themselves trying to run away from him were cut down like wheat before the scythe. These weren’t combatants. They were unarmored and unarmed. they were here for a celebration not a battle. They may as well have lined up and waited for their turn under his axe instead of all the running around in panic.

Meanwhile, Hirrus felt the blade sing in his hands. His whole life, he’d wielded mass-produced weapons. It was all store bought or salvage. He had never wielded a weapon specifically smithed for him, custom-made to his height, weight, and strength. It felt like it was crafted with his exact measurements in mind. The length felt natural. In the thrill of battle, he’d often felt that his weapon was an extension of himself. But every time before had been a faint echo of the current sensation running through his arms. This axe was made for him. Literally.

He felt flames crash against his armor, and snarled as the heat tingled his flesh. He whirled towards the source and his red-rimmed vision narrowed to a tunnel with a pair of terrified eyes at the other end. He didn’t feel it happen physically, it was all instinct as the axe flew from his grip, his entire body arching into the motion. It felt instantaneous as the axe left his hands and split a skull in two twenty feet away at the same time.

He sprinted after the axe, feeling rather than seeing as the mob tried to close in around him. Seeing him disarmed seemed to be emboldening them. One of them moved to block his path, but a gauntleted fist shoved the cartilage and bones in their nose up into their forebrain. His hand closed around the haft of his axe before that corpse hit the ground.

The head of his axe traced a wide, red arc through a wall of cultists. The rage overtaking his mind was warping his perceptions; there was no one enemy, there was a swarm surrounding him. An orb of shadow energy glanced off of his arm, and he charged at the source, his shoulder shoving apart the packed bodies to let him reach the caster. A small part of him was aware that his axe was splitting open the skull of an individual, and that one person was being killed by it, but in his mind’s eye, he was striking at a nebulous mass of cultists, disabling an appendage that had struck him.

The world was falling away from him. His body was moving faster and faster, but his mind was slowing. His movements became too fast for his mind to follow. The world became a fuzz of noise. Distantly, he felt warm flesh rolling down his throat. He felt the haft of the axe slide under his hands. There was a strange spinning stretching sensation, and he was aware that he was whirling in circles, his blade hacking wildly in every direction in a storm of cuts, slashes, and parries. There was a continuous rippling sensation in his chest and throat. He assumed it was impact against his armor, but it was so precise and rhythmic. Was he screaming? Laughing? Crying?

Body parts, gouts of blood, and shrieking faces whirled passed his vision, not just tinged in red, but bathed in it. He felt ribbons of skin and flesh slap against his face and hair. Splashes of fire accompanied by abrupt changes of direction. That rhythmic ripple through his torso. His whole being exalted in slaughter, more rage than man. And it still wasn’t enough. He felt like he was in a small boat swept along in a flood, and he was furiously paddling trying to go faster, roaring encouragement into the storm. More. More. MORE. MORE MORE MORE MOREMOREMOREMOREMOREMOREMOREMORE.

His arms burned as fatigue began to take its toll. When was the last time he was tired? More than that, when was the last time he was tired with a weapon in his hand? He was vaguely aware of fighting someone with a weapon. A guard in armor? He was also aware of the familiar feeling of his clawlike fingertips sinking into living eyesockets, so it seemed to be under control. Somewhere far away, it was being handled.

Far away.

Time passed.

Where was he?

He tried to shake his head to clear it, but it didn’t seem to be under his control. There was a distant sensation of having a physical body, but he didn’t know how to operate it. He shook his head again, aware that it was a purely mental gesture. The burning rage within him began to mellow. Senses began to bleed back in. His vision was still a featureless field of red. There was a disgusting slurping sound coming from nearby. He felt wet. He shook his head again, forcing his physical body to respond. He marshalled his will, hardening his focus. Reality came flooding back in.

He was on his knees in a pile of bodies. He was coated in blood. His axe was buried to the eye in a corpse to his right. His body reported a cacophony of burns and abrasions, along with the deep ache of coming to a physical stop after having worked too hard for too long. He looked down at his hands to find that he had been shredding the corpses below him with his claws. Rounded furrows taken out of the eviscerated mess marked where he had slammed his face down into the pile of flesh and made a scooping motion to maximize how much of it was pushed down his throat. He wondered how long he’d been feeding.

He looked around. There was carnage everywhere. He tried to trace a path through it to track what had happened, but it looked like one big continuous mess. He couldn’t even tell the order in which the other piles of gore had been fed upon.

His axe was stained red. He was mildly irritated by the prospect of cleaning it. But it had served him well; it surely deserved the attention. He didn’t want to look down at his armor, knowing by feel that repairs would be expensive and time-consuming. He could feel the places where the plates dug into wounds where they had been punctured. And that was without the shrieking of nerve endings where the armor rubbed against burned flesh. The plating in those areas would be blackened and warped, with the padding below entirely burned away.

Hirrus stood slowly, picking up his axe. He couldn’t see another living thing in the area. Just bodies. Pieces of bodies. Puddles of red where even the thirsty ground of Shadowmoon Valley had drank its fill. The farthest edge of the gore was about a hundred yards away, stretching back towards the camp. But it was a continuous smear of red across the ground from there all the way back to the stage. The fight must have circled back to the stage, because it was littered with bodies and stained as red as his axe.

He whirled his axe once, flicking the blood off the edge. Patches of blood across the cheeks of the axe were already dried. The formerly smooth handle felt rough in his hands from the gore caked along it. The sky was starting to redden. Dawn was approaching. He had been fighting all night long.

Hirrus focused on trying to recall the events of the previous night to see if he could find any specifics, but all his brain reported was a blur of blood and violence. Even just remembering it gave him an unwanted thrill of pleasure as a pulse of adrenaline soothed his aches.

He surveyed the field of battle, planning his next move. There was some movement down by the stage. Hirrus felt his muscles try to tense, but there wasn’t quite enough strength left in them for it. It took him a moment to marshall his will and force his body to take a slow, confident step. Battle was about allocation of resources. His rage was burned out, his body was spent, and his will was almost entirely occupied by not falling over. If he needed to fight again, the biggest resource he had at his disposal was the gore spread around him on all sides. Intimidation was the only way he’d come out of any serious conflict.

“Yes, the, ah, the energy is dissipating now. Things are going to be, uh, a little weird around here for a bit, but after- once the energy spreads out naturally, it won’t pool like that again.”

“Well done. See what we can accomplish if we learn to set aside our differences. Sort of a parallel to the global political situation, eh?”

“I’ve done what needed to be done. If I never see you again, I’ll consider mine a life well lived.”

A robed face peeked around the corner of the stage as he approached the altar behind it. A long eyebrow arched slightly as she watched him approach.

“Hm.”

“Ah! The noble hero approaches!” Malthus noted as he came into view when Hirrus rounded the corner of the stage. “That was quite a display back there. I’m not sure what impressed me more, the bravery or the violence!”

Orinthal was already glaring at Malthus as he came into view, but was unable to maintain it as his attention homed in on Hirrus. “Uh.” Orinthal said.

“We’ve, ah, disabled the altar.” Baemadis cut in. “You were- It seemed like a better idea not to, um, approach you until you were, er, done.”

“That was probably wise.” Hirrus nodded. He looked to Teliise and arched an eyebrow, trying not to let the anxiety show on his face.

She nodded and he felt himself relax. She jerked her chin to the side, and he caught sight of another figure in cultists robes, huddled up behind the stage, hands clutching her pregnant belly as she snored softly. Hirrus gave Teliise a grateful nod.

A feeling swelled in his chest, right next to the new pulse of the Light within him. Pride. Joy. Satisfaction. He did the right thing, and didn’t just survive, but succeeded.

“Uh.” Orinthal began to step around the altar.

“If I see you again,” Hirrus looked up, glanced at Orinthal before locking his gaze back to Malthus. “I may decide to kill you.”

Malthus chuckled. “You know what, friend? That’s more than fair. You’re not the only one I have such an arrangement with.” His chuckle became slightly nervous as he glanced back over the carnage Hirrus had wrought of the cultists. “Though I admit, I feel a lot less confident about my odds with you, eh?”

“That said,” Hirrus looked around to address the whole group. “We’ve completed our mission. I assume that there won’t be many guards in the camp if you all wished to raid the cultits’ library. There might be a handful of gold to be had if you have the patience to dig through a few hundred blood-soaked pockets…” He waved out at the killing field behind him. “Go about your own business; once our objective was completed, our group was disbanded. Good job everyone, and goodbye.” He turned and began to walk away, stomping heedlessly over the body parts scattered over the ground.

“Hey, wait!”

Hirrus didn’t slow down, but had to fight down the urge to speed up.

“Brother!” Orinthal’s hand touched Hirrus’s shoulder.

“WHAT?” The warrior whirled. He’d thought his rage had burned out when he’d run out of cultists to murder, but he was mistaken. “WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY TO ME? WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY HAVE TO SAY?” He grabbed the front of Orinthal’s robe with his free hand, pulling him in close. “You want to tell me that I have a right to despise our father? You want to tell me he hasn’t changed? You want to tell me whatever lies he’s told about me? You want to tell me who claims to have been my friend now? Which people I grew up with are living or dead now? There’s nothing you could say to me that I don’t already know, or don’t care to know.” He shoved the priest away. Orinthal stumbled over a corpse and fell to the blood-soaked ground. “I don’t want to hear it. Father’s deal with Sylvanas is keeping you alive right now. If I see your face again, I’m going to rip it off your skull and eat it.” He turned away and resumed storming off.

“But I saved your-” Orinthal began. But Hirrus didn’t stop. “What should I tell Father?” That stopped him.

“If you’re smart,” He didn’t turn around. “You’ll tell him you’re not a piece to be pushed around the chessboard. That you’re your own man with your own ambitions and dreams, and that you want to live your own life.” He turned his head slightly. “But you won’t do that. Neither did I. Just tell him what he wants to hear. Whatever keeps him happy.” He struggled to keep a waver out of his voice. “Just like usual.”

“I meant-” Orinthal stammered. “I meant about you. Should I tell him you’re… That you exist?”

Hirrus was silent for a long moment. “If I tell you not to,” He turned around slowly and looked Orinthal in the eye. “Would you lie to him?” His tone was grave, but held a sparkle of genuine curiosity.

They stared at each other. It felt like hours were passing between them.

“You’re my brother.” Orinthal whispered. “If there’s anyone I could lie to him for, it would be you.”

Hirrus broke eye contact, looking away with a flinch.

“I’m…” Hirrus trailed off for a moment. “Thank you.”

He turned and walked away. He didn’t stop walking as he entered the cultist camp. He knocked over tents and kicked aside campsites as he kept walking. He paused to retrieve his belongings from where the party had camped, and grabbed the reins of his horse. He kept walking, leading his horse back towards Terokkar.

His mind was wrestling with a difficult problem. He’d put it on hold, but now it needed to be dealt with.

Having a brother.

How do you have a brother? What do you do? How do you feel? What does it mean?

He kept walking. It didn’t help him think, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

The moons were rising again as he stood on the edge of Blade’s Edge mountains, staring out over the pointed rocks and into the dust-reddened darkness of the void. He had no more answers than he’d had when he started walking.

A small voice within himself said he should turn around and start back the other way, but he knew that wouldn’t get him any closer to a solution. It would just be more mechanical motion. Not even a distraction, just something to do to occupy his body while his thoughts rolled around hoping to find something to grasp onto that he already knew wasn’t there.

But a solution to the problem of Orinthal wasn’t the most pressing matter. He could brood on the problem of a sibling for months - perhaps years - and not be presented with a situation that required him to have his thoughts in order on that score. There was something else that he could not delay considering. He turned his thoughts away from Orinthal, and directed them inwards.

That small alien spark of the Light burned within him. It was strange and foreign, but at the same time, reassuring. It represented a moment in time. The man who died at Stratholme was reborn in that moment. Hirrus was himself in a way he had not been in a very long time. His true self had not just punched through the blocks of death and undeath, but had used the opening his rage had cleared to step past his discipline and into the front of his mind. And more than that, it was a version of himself that had been shoved down again and again by the oppressive hand of his father. While he would die before embracing the light, the idea of that spark winking back out was equally repulsive. It represented an idealization of himself. He would not turn his back on trying to be the man he was born to be.

Hirrus found himself in an awkward situation. He was unsure if he could return to the service of the Dark Lady. Returning to the Scythe with his newfound perspective on the subjects of morality and restraint would likely result in a bloodbath. While those who deserved it would find True Death on the edge of his axe, what about the ones who didn’t? To dispense justice was not reason enough to do wrong by others. Evallei, Hedva, Invar, and whoever else happened to be present for his return did not need to be forced to put themselves between him and the various monsters he sought.

At the same time, he knew his father would be looking over the reports on the mission Orinthal returned from. He anticipated that Forsaken Command would do what they felt was necessary to protect the identity of their agents - and likely whatever they felt they could get away with to chagrin a highly-ranked church official. But if anything identified him? While he felt he could trust Orinthal’s word that he would say nothing, Hirrus knew their father too well. To lie by omission was one thing. To lie convincingly to a direct question? There was no way. Even if Orinthal found the strength to lie, their father would see through it.

Even if Forsaken Command didn’t sell him out to his father, what was to say that they wouldn’t be displeased with his newfound sense of justice? Whether out of fear or principle, they might decide he needed to be removed. And if they did, Lesh was far from the most competent Deathstalker, and she was capable of finding him and getting within stabbing distance almost at will. A truly dedicated assassin could likely have his head on a plate before it started missing his neck. And what if they sent the Scythe instead? Well, in that case his odds of survival might be higher, but the cost of surviving might not be one he’d want to pay.

He needed time to reconsider the path his life had taken, plan his next course of action, and stay off the radar of anyone who might be trying to find him. While his mind had lingered over the idea of confronting his former allies or being confronted by his father, it did not erase the possibility that actual enemies would strike at him. He’d just enraged a displaced dreadlord after announcing his name to a valley full of his fanatical cultists. And he’d been approached once by an Infinite Dragon who was circumventing the attention of the Bronze Dragonflight by coming after him for his axe now rather than at the moment when it would be relevant to the course of history. How long before she approached again? How long before she approached with violence instead?

Hm.

His only option was to lay low. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the contacts or skills to know how. The best he could think was to go where no one would try to look for him. This, naturally, made Pandaria-

There was the sound of a footfall behind him.

He didn’t move at first. Whatever it was had the drop on him. If they meant him harm they would likely be able to strike faster than he could turn around. From his location, it wouldn’t even take a weapon. A strong push would send him tumbling against the jagged rocks of the Blade’s Edge, and if he didn’t become wedged somewhere where he could be dealt with at his assailant’s leisure, he would fall into the Twisting Nether.

“Hm.” He remarked after a long moment without a murderous shove. “If you’re not here to kill me, you probably want to speak with me.” He thought for a moment. “That seems to happen to me quite frequently. Am I easy to sneak up on, or am I just the sort of person who attracts the attention of stealthy individuals?” Another long moment passed with no response. “Perhaps I’m just speaking to myself.” After another silent moment, a rhythmic tapping began behind him. He dared to move, his first motion to brace his feet for a push or strike, but when nothing came, he turned around.

It seemed somewhat obvious, after the fact, that Teliise would not want to approach close enough to startle him, but would be more or less unable to communicate her presence. She was patiently tapping her foot. An eyebrow arched slowly. A question.

“I was just considering my next move.” A silent moment passed. Teliise waved her hand slightly, urging him to continue. “I think I need to lay low for a while. Spend some time thinking where I won’t be interrupted by cultists, assassins, or priests.”

Teliise tilted her head slightly and pulled out a small journal. She wrote something quickly and then turned the page. Her eyes darted up, squinting at him before scribbling something on the other side of the same page. She flipped the page back and held up the first thing she’d written.

“Where will you hide?”

“Hm. Pandaria, I suppose. It’s the last place anyone would think to look for me.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. She shifted her grip on the book and the page fell, revealing the second thing she’d written.

“Pandaria is the first place they’ll look for you.”

Hirrus blinked a few times. Teliise started writing again as he recovered from the surprise. She stepped closer so that he could read the smaller writing.

“Anyone who knows you will know you hate Pandaria, and that you’ll think no one would expect you to go there willingly. Anyone who doesn’t will only know that the last place you were before you came here was a monastery there.”

“Hm.” He furrowed his brow. “That is… A good point. I’m not sure if I trust my judgement on a second guess, then. Where would you suggest?”

She smiled as she returned to writing. Hirrus waited patiently for her to finish. He briefly considered getting a pad and pen of his own for the occasions where his garbled speech made him difficult to understand.

“Anyone searching for you who knows you will think you are not clever enough to hide in plain sight. They will scour the ends of the earth to find you before they look in your own backyard. Anyone searching for you who has only intelligence reports to work from will begin their search with every location where you have been previously sent or stationed. They would turn Northrend inside out before even glancing at a major city you’ve never stayed the night in.”

Hirrus nodded, waiting as she flipped the page and began writing again as she developed her self-satisfied smirk.

“A major city where you, as a Forsaken, can blend in. A place no one would think of when thinking of you. Inhabited by a race of people for whom you feel contempt, but never outright anger. A place you’ve never been in for longer than the ride through. A city of bright lights and colors, right in your own backyard. A city where you know someone looking for a sparring partner she can trust to be discreet.”

She smiled as she scribbled the name at the bottom of the page.

As they arrived at the valley that held the Altar of Shadows, the folly of trying to stop the ritual became much more apparent. The valley was filled with cultists. From the look of the encampment, Hirrus had guessed a thousand cultists - more than the five of them could hope to kill with weeks of time to whittle at their numbers, let alone mere hours. Here tonight there were half again as many on top of that.

Security around the outside edge was almost non-existent. It was clear that the armed and armored cultists were on the inside of the crowd, surrounding the Altar. A sort of stage had been constructed next to it, but it could not be raised too high - the Altar of Shadows was embedded in the rock of Outland, and could not be elevated. The valley was full of torches. Some held, others atop poles jammed into the ground. Despite the moonless sky, it was almost as bright as daylight.

From their vantage point, the group could see the stage fairly clearly. It was a small construction, and included a pulpit on one side, and a low table covered in ritualistic implements on the other. Next to the stage was a small tent, and as the group clambered down into the valley, a procession of figures began to filter out of it. The hooded figures moved to the table, settling onto their knees to go over the crystals, stones, knives, and other implements on the table, taking inventory. Their appearance seemed to quiet the crowd somewhat, but not entirely silence them.

“We need to get as close as we can.” Malthus said. “Hirrus, I believe you won’t mind taking the lead, eh?”

“Hm.” Hirrus rolled his shoulders and began to head towards the stage. The outer group of cultists were loosely bunched, and it was easy to pick his way through them. However, as they grew closer to the altar, the cultists were more densely packed; the fanaticism that made them to want to be as close as possible caused them to press in against each other like an undisciplined militia all trying to squeeze through a narrow passage at the same time.

Hirrus looked at the spellcasters who gathered behind him. “Stay close.” He said as he began to wade into the crowd. He started by gently shouldering through whatever gaps he could find between people. After a moment, he was actually forced to nudge people out of his way, glancing back to ensure that the gap created stayed long enough for his allies to keep up. A few well-placed glares kept those who tried to separate them from getting aggressive with his flimsier party members when they had already yielded to the monstrous Forsaken that preceded them.

He stopped about ten yards away from the line of armed guards around the stage. The cultists who had pushed their way up here were packed tightly together, practically a solid block of robes between him and the guards. But being within twelve yards of the stage, with a clear line of sight to the Altar of Shadows, would have to be enough.

“This is as close as we get.” He said to his companions. The air was still full of the dull roar of a restless crowd as the hooded figures on the stage took inventory of their tools before the ritual began. “If we try to get any closer, I’ll have to start forcefully shoving people out of the way. I don’t think we want that kind of attention.”

“Alright, uh, so they should be starting soon- within the next hour. A ritual this, er, complex requires a lot of work, and so they’ll be, um, taking their time rather than waiting until the last minute to start.” Baemadis said, barely audible over the crowd.

They only had to wait a few minutes before the small tent next to the stage flew open with a flourish and a figure in grand, decorated robes stepped out. He was human, clearly highborne, with a strong jawline and a well-trimmed goatee. He was tall and slim with dark hair and piercing green eyes. He stepped up onto the stage with long, confident strides and stood, throwing his arms up as the crowd began a cheer that grew quickly into a roar. His grin spread across his face from ear to ear, showing his clean white teeth all the way back to his molars. He paused at the head of the stairs onto the stage, basking in the roar of the crowd. As they began to quiet, he lifted his arms above his head, throwing back his head as the cheers redoubled in intensity. Though the sound was drowned out, he was visibly cackling, his chest heaving as his mirth grew into a full-bodied laugh.

He turned to face the crowd on the right of the stage and took a bow. Then again to the left. And then to the front and back. Each time the crowd cheered louder. He turned and made as if to step back off the stage towards the tent, but stopped when the noise of the crowd took a disjointed shift, half of them making mocking sounds of disappointment, and the other half mocking sounds of anger. He turned back around and made his way up to the podium on the stage, wiping his eyes. He reached under it and pulled out a small device of apparent goblin make and held it to his throat.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” His voice was greatly amplified, presumably by the device. He looked out over the crowd with that giant maniac grin. “What an incredible turnout we have here tonight! All you folks here to see little old me?” He set his hand to his chest, clearly pretending to be choked up. “And it’s not even my birthday!” He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. The crowd ate it up, laughing and clapping. “Alright, alright. We all know what tonight is. And I wanted to start by thanking the most important person here tonight, without whom, it couldn’t have been possible.” He made as if to gesture off the stage towards the tent, but then swept the gesture around, pointing out to the crowd. “You folks here tonight! Without all of your hard work, diligence, and devotion, we couldn’t possibly be here tonight doing what we’re about to do! Let’s have a big hand! Give it up for yourselves, people! From the bottom of all of our hearts - those of us who still have them - thank you!” The crowd cheered. He lifted his hands and clapped his hand against his wrist, applauding without setting the device down.

“Now,” He said again as the crowd died down. “You all know I’m not one for politics.” The crowd shared a low chuckle. “And I’m definitely not one for speeches.” The laughter was a little louder this time. A few voices made jeering comments that couldn’t be heard clearly in the crowd. “But this is an important event. Historic, you might say.” He looked around, and leaned forward over the podium, pretending to whisper conspiratorially. “We’re gonna change the world tonight folks. We’re gonna do what needs to be done.” He leaned back, raising his voice. “Not for the glory of the Alliance! Not for the honor of the Horde! But for the betterment of all of us!” The crowd cheered. “For the Burning Legion!” A sharp cheer went up. “The Burning Legion comes again, and it will burn our world to its core to eliminate any resistance!” He pointed up at the sky, “See what it did to Draenor? Would you have that fate for our Azeroth? Of course not! You know who would though?” He pointed out into the crowd. “Vol’Jin!” the crowd booed. He pointed to someone else. “The Council of Three Hammers!” The crowd booed louder. He pointed to someone else. “Varian!” The crowd added stomping feet to the boos. He turned and pointed again, this time directly at Hirrus. “Sylvanas!” The stomping began to drown out even the screamed boos, the earth shaking with their displeasure.

There was a brief moment of hesitation that flashed across the man’s face as he took a momentary double-take towards Hirrus, blinking. Hirrus realized that he was not stomping and cheering along with the crowd, and began to stomp his feet halfheartedly, but the man had already moved on, holding his momentum so as not to lose the crowd.

“Those fools!” He cried, and the noise of the crowd intensified. “They were content to tear each other apart for decades, weakening any paltry defense Azeroth may have mounted, but they’ve tried to bridge the gap now!” The sounds of the crowd increased to a frenzy. “Can they stand together against the legion?”

“NO!” Screamed the crowd as one.

“Can they stop the unstoppable?”

“NO!”

“But will they stand down and give up peacefully?”

“NO!”

“Of course not!” his expression turned dark. “They will throw waves and waves of innocent lives between themselves and our peace. They will wage an unwinnable war! Millions will die! The world will bathe in fel fire and innocent blood!” He scowled out at the crowd. “Does that sound like the decision of a sane and reasonable ruler?”

“NO!”

“So we fight!” The stomping stopped in favor of applause, the booing giving way to cheers as he continued. “We fight to save our world! To welcome the Legion to Azeroth without bloodshed! To unite all peoples together in harmony! A world where we don’t need to murder each other over a lumber mill just because one of us has green skin and the other purple! A world where we don’t need to be destroying and rebuilding our walls, our homes, and our livelihoods over a handful of relics in the ground that might help us destroy and rebuild our walls, homes and livelihoods ten percent better than our imagined opponents!” He pointed out at the crowd again. “Because that’s all we are! Imagined opponents! Why do we fight? Because our fathers did? Because their fathers did? Because our fathers’ fathers’ clergy didn’t like how his fathers’ fathers’ king built his house out of slightly more wood than stone?”

He slammed his hand down on the podium, quieting the crowd. “No more! Never again! The Burning Legion will unite us! We will destroy the artificial structures that separate us and come together not as individual races, but as denizens of Azeroth! As people willing to work to craft a lasting peace instead of an endless war. And with that peace, the return of the Legion will not be a senseless day of suicide, but will instead be a glorious day of celebration!”

The crowd’s applause came back in, reaching a deafening crescendo. The man nodded somberly, lowering the device as he wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“Now, I’d love to say that I’m introducing the man you all came here to see, but this isn’t his day this time!” He chuckled and the crowd laughed with him. “For on this day, we will return our slain savior to the world, so he can break the spine of the pointless politics that divide Azeroth. But first, let me introduce the man who needs no introduction, the man whose genius has made all this possible! Eshan! Get on out here!”

A barrel-chested cowled figure in a dark black robe emerged from the small tent. Though he didn’t have the theatrics of the first man, the crowd’s applause was thunderous once he mounted the stage.

“Now, I know you’d love to give a big speech to all these folks, but I understand you’ve got a busy night ahead of you!” The first man turned and faced the cowled figure as he crossed the stage. Eshan just kept walking, not acknowledging the man Hirrus was coming to think of as the carnival barker of the event. The more energetic man flashed his biggest grin, spinning a full circle to follow the warlock as Eshan crossed the stage to approach the Altar of Shadows. There was a long pause as the announcer at the podium turned back towards the crowd. “Good talk, Eshan. Always a pleasure.” The crowd chuckled politely.

Eshan approached the altar and drew back his hood, revealing a bald orcish head criss-crossed with tattoos. Even the announcer grew quiet as the warlock’s somber presence filled the area, demanding attention. He raised his hands, shaking them out of his sleeves, revealing another netting of tattoos over them. He rested his palms on the altar and closed his eyes. After a moment, a grin spread across his face, a grin very much unlike that of the excitable carnival barker. Instead of mirthful glee, it was filled with a confident satisfaction. He held his hand out to the hooded figures still on the stage, who proceeded to wordlessly hand down ritual instruments from the table. He gently set them on the altar, one by one.

It began with a handcount of clear crystals, which immediately clouded and began to glow purple as soon as Eshan set them onto the surface of the altar at deliberately chosen points. Next were a set of twelve fist-sized stones. As Eshan set them on the surface of the altar, they immediately rose into the air above it, hanging at different heights, floating into a slowly rotating arrangement that resembled a constellation. The robed figures handed down a series of implements - wands, knives, and an assortment of gewgaws - which Eshan arranged on the altar before him like a place setting at dinner. Eshan nodded up to his assistants and they exited the stage, returning to the tent. Hirrus could see that the table was not completely empty, though. There were still some ropes - clearly intended for the victim of this ritual.

Eshan gestured, and the announcer barked “Bring out the vessel carrier, that Mal’Ganis can be returned to us!”

Vessel… Carrier?

The robed figures emerged from the tent again, this time carrying a struggling human. The crowd cheered, drowning out any cries or sounds of the struggle. The assistants settled the victim onto the table, and huddled down to the task of securing the ropes. As they stepped away, one of them began fingerpainting eldritch symbols across the vessel’s skin. Hirrus felt an icy chill deep in his chest. There were two things immediately obvious about the intended sacrifice.

First, she was a woman. Short brown hair, nothing covering her but a short slip, leaving her long legs bare up to mid-thigh. She was covered in dirt, but no tear tracks marked her face. There was fear behind her eyes, and Hirrus could even see it from here, but she was clearly fighting it down, snarling around the cloth wrapped around her mouth to gag her.

Secondly, she was extremely pregnant.

Hirrus saw in his mind’s eye a flash of another pregnant woman - more fully dressed, with longer hair and less fury in her face - fleeing from an oncoming horde of undead.

A feeling he had not felt since the fall of Stratholme swelled within Hirrus. Every time he had believed himself to be feeling fear since the day of his life, he was mistaken. Now this was fear. Ichor raced through his veins as his cold, shrivelled heart started to pound.

“By the Light.” Hirrus heard Orinthal behind him. “We can’t… You can’t…”

“This changes nothing!” Malthus hissed, his characteristic joviality gone. “We still can’t allow Mal’Ganis to-”

“Did you know about this?!” Orinthal almost shrieked, heedless of their conversation being overheard by the roaring crowd around them.

“It changes nothing!” Malthus yelled back. The cheering crowd around them drowned out most of their argument. “There’s no other way! If you can’t think of one when you didn’t know it would be a pregnant woman, how do you expect that extra pressure to help? We stick to the plan!”

“You…” Orinthal sagged. “You’re a monster.”

“But I’m right.”

Hirrus turned around. Malthus was staring up at the victim on the stage, brow furrowed, and Baemadis had shame written across his face. Orinthal had a grimace of disgust plastered across his face, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat, resigned to go through with the original plan. Seeing Orinthal’s face - so like his father’s - twisted in impotence and defeat had filled him with such vengeful glee earlier. But not this time. This time, the defeat was not a separation of Orinthal and their father. It was the two coming more into alignment. This is exactly how their father would handle this. Enough fight to be able to say he fought, but not enough conviction to take a stand.

Rage roared up in Hirrus’s gut. He felt his hands begin to shake. How could this happen? Why didn’t he do something? But… The mission was… Hirrus looked down at his hands. They weren’t turning the bluish-grey of the Sha, but he knew that if he were in Pandaria, it would be closing over his shoulders already. He was suddenly aware that he was pushing his anger down, ignoring it, stifling it.

Squandering it.

This was it. This was exactly it. This was the moment. He had made a pact with his rage and this was the moment for him to do his part. Hirrus slapped Malthus across the face, grabbing him with his off hand and yanking him up.

“No.” Hirrus snarled. “Nothing can make this right.” As Malthus recovered from the stun of being suddenly struck, he blinked in confusion, now stunned by the unexpected resistance from his fellow Forsaken. He released Malthus, the warlock stumbling as his feet met the ground again. Hirrus turned towards Orinthal, his face twisted into an expression of utter disgust, contempt, and pity. “You’re just like your father.” He snarled.

Hirrus turned away, not waiting for a response. He reached forward, grabbed the shoulders of the two cultists directly in front of him, locked his elbows, and lunged forward, hurling them out of his way. He stepped into the gap, ignoring the protests as he grabbed the next cultists in front of himself and wrenched them out of his path. And again. He thought he heard Malthus shout something, but it was soon drowned out by the cacophony of complaints as he violently cleared a path through the tightly packed cultists toward the stage.

“Hey!” Shouted one of the armed cultists between the tightly-packed spectators and the stage. “You there! What’s going on?” Hirrus went to push past him, but the guard set his feet and planted a hand against Hirrus’s chest. There was a clank of the guard’s gauntlet against Hirrus’s armor. Hirrus slowly looked down at the hand on his chest, and then slowly back up into the confused and worried face of the guard.

“You have exactly one second to get out of my way.”

“What?”

“One.” Hirrus’s sword flashed up and then back down again. The pained shriek of the guard cut through the surrounding shouts. A severed hand hit the dirt and Hirrus stomped past the guard before any of the others knew what was happening. The first ones who noticed went to their injured comrade instead of pursuing Hirrus.

The warrior approached the stage, planted his free hand on it, and clambered up, bloody sword in hand.

“Hey!” Barked the announcer, suddenly surprised. “Who are you?”

Hirrus took two steps towards the table. The five robed figures turned, shocked. His sword cut through two of them in the blink of an eye, two splashes of guts hit the stage within a second of each other. The third didn’t look up from his task painting the skin of the pregnant woman until it was too late. His head landed in the woman’s lap and the paint on her legs was washed away instantly by the fountain of blood as the body spasmed before flopping down to the stage next to the table.

The remaining two were across the table, out of reach, and began to gather magic in their hands. Hirrus rushed them, bracing to feel fire lash across his body as he slammed into one of them. But no fire came. The man hit the ground with a grunt, and Hirrus stomped down onto his throat. The warrior turned quickly, lashing out blindly at the other ritualist. This time, Hirrus was able to watch as the man formed a spell in his hands, but the energies were sucked away, tongues of orange flames swirling away into one of the crystals resting on the Altar of Shadows. Hirrus’s blind attack slammed into the cultist’s collar bone, shattering it, the impact slowing the blade enough that it didn’t have the force to do the same to the ribcage. Hirrus twisted the blade and wrenched it up and into the throat, cutting off the scream of pain before the ritualist had time to voice it.

Hirrus looked down at the last of the ritual assistants, laying on the stage, clutching at his swelling adam’s apple, struggling to breathe. Another stomp of his heavily armored boot caused nasal cartilage and a prominent cheekbone to crunch. Hirrus added a leap to a final stomp, bringing his weight down into the impact this time. There was a soft cracking sound, and the struggling body went still.

Hirrus turned towards the barker, but he was already gone. The flap of the tent beside the stage flapped once, gone far too fast for Hirrus to catch a glimpse of even a hint of robe disappearing into the tent.

Around the stage, the cultists were screaming. Some of them were trying to flee, and some of them were trying to surge forward, and most of the rest were mucking up the works by staring dumbfounded at the unfolding spectacle before them. The net result was that no one was really moving. Half the guards encircling the stage didn’t know what was going on, and the other half weren’t sure if they should be holding the crowd back or charging the attacker. They were unwilling to charge him alone after such a display, so none of them moved.

Next to the stage, Eshan had already begun the ritual. Crackles of purple and green lightning was arcing between the floating stones in the air. A corona of dark energies was building up around his head and shoulders. The cultist’s hands and lips were a blur as his eyes flicked between the blood-spattered Hirrus on the stage and the ritual tools before him.

Could the ritual be rushed? Hirrus didn’t know. He decided he didn’t want to find out. Hirrus rolled his shoulder once, and hurled his sword at Eshan. The blade struck the ritualist in the chest, causing him to stagger. His words were abruptly garbled by a cough that sprayed blood across the altar. The lightning dancing above the altar faltered, and the floating stones wavered. Eshan got three more words out before falling to one knee, red-tinted foam forming at his lips. The corona of power seemed to waver for a moment, and then seemed to coalesce into his skin. Eshan screamed, red foam spraying out of his mouth as the energies he’d gathered ripped out of his body around Hirrus’s sword as a fountain of white fire. The blade glowed red-hot amid the swirling energies, the glowing outline of the heated metal warping under the power that was unleashed around it.

Eshan collapsed to the ground, a giant hole burned out of his chest, a slightly curved sword with a twisted pommel sticking out of the wound. The crowd suddenly quieted in shock. Hirrus paused for a moment’s mourning. He liked that sword.

Also, he was probably going to wish he had it to help him to not die for the next several hours.

He quickly turned to the table and began to untie the woman. She was staring at him with a mixture of racist disgust and confused gratitude. He freed her hands first, and she rubbed at her wrists, sitting up as he untied her legs. As he helped her off the table, settling her onto her feet, the screaming of the crowd resumed, this time the unmistakable roar of an angry mob. The woman’s eyes when wide and she tried to say something, but Hirrus couldn’t hear her over the noise. When he didn’t react, she pointed over his shoulder.

Hirrus looked back down at the crowd in time to see a fireball roughly the size of a full-grown dragon descending upon him. Perhaps ‘several hours’ was overly self-confident. And perhaps the sword would not have helped.

His instincts kicked in, decades-old training settled over him like an old cloak. Don’t try to shield someone with your body unless your body is bigger than the attack. The fireball dwarfed most of the living quarters he’d ever inhabited, so he wrapped his hands around her waist and twisted, hurling her out of the way. He didn’t see her land before the world was replaced by fire.

Pain enveloped him, instantly wiping out all other sensation. It turns out that fire hurts. A lot. For what felt like several minutes, Hirrus could feel as layer after layer of his skin was seared away. It tore at him like an infinite number of infinitely small hands, each one grabbing a piece of him and ripping it away. He steeled himself against it, marshalling his will and hoping that the flames would burn themselves out before the tiny hands ripped away the last of his body.

Then the pain began to change. It stopped being the ripping of tiny hands, and became the searing tingle of saltwater in a cut. The flames fell away and he could feel his skin growing back over the burns across his body. Hirrus could suddenly feel a distance between himself and the fire. Time seemed to resume its normal speed, and he became aware that the flames had completely destroyed his cultist robes, and had burned away the leather casing for his axe. His hands fell to it instinctively, catching the haft before it could fall to the stage. The blast of fire roared around him, flames licking at an invisible bubble surrounding him. He recognized that saltwater-tingle of pain. It was the healing power of the Light.

The fire fell away, and as the flames finally burned out, Hirrus’s eye was immediately drawn to a desperate face in the crowd. Orinthal’s hands glowed with holy energies, and even from here, Hirrus could see them shaking. Beside him, Malthus quickly grabbed Orinthal’s arms and dragged them down quickly before anyone could tear their eyes away from the spectacle on the stage and notice the power of the Light on the priest’s hands.

The stage around him was blackened and charred. A few tongues of flame licked at the edges of a couple of the boards, but for all the world, it looked like a traitorous cultist had been enveloped by a firestorm and emerged unscathed, a literal knight in shining blue-and-gold armor. There was a moment’s pause as everyone was silently shocked at the sight of him.

He looked to his right, checking where he’d thrown the intended victim of the ritual. She had had the presence of mind to take cover behind the podium, which also gave her some additional cover from the attentions of the angry mob - if any of them were paying attention to anything besides the surprisingly unscathed ex-paladin a few yards to the left. He felt a stab of panic to see a cultist hunched over her, but the panic abated when he saw the cultist was helping the woman into another cultist robe. The helpful individual pulled her hood back and shot Hirrus a grin. Teliise. Where had she come from? When had she arrived? In this moment, it wasn’t important. She was helping. There was no way Hirrus could have protected the woman with strength of arms alone. One stray spell or arrow he couldn’t intercept would mean everything he’d risked had been an empty gesture, and he had been wrong to discard Malthus’s plan. Teliise clearly had the skill to get her to safety. All Hirrus had to do was make sure that he was a much bigger object of focus than two robed women trying to escape the oncoming bloodshed.

Hirrus stepped to the front of the stage, drawing every eye as he sucked in a deep breath.

“CULTISTS!” He bellowed, his voice rolling across the crowd. “I AM HIRRUS CALLABRYN, PALADIN OF THE SILVER HAND. THIS RITUAL WILL BE COMPLETED OVER MY CHARRED CORPSE, WHEN IT RESTS ATOP A MOUNTAIN OF YOUR OWN DEAD!” He cast a glare across the crowd, straightening to his full height. “FLEE NOW AND YOU MAY YET LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER SUNRISE! STAND AGAINST ME AND YOU WILL RECEIVE NO MERCY,” He roared. “ONLY JUSTICE!”

Deep down in Hirrus’s heart of hearts, a small spark ignited. It wasn’t until he felt it that he realized he hadn’t felt it since his death. It was the Light. That spark of Light that had always beckoned him to take it up and become a paladin in truth, not just in name. Hirrus could not guess why it had vanished but he knew why it had returned. He was doing the right thing. He was worthy. He was on a paladin’s path. The man he had been 16 years ago had clawed his way back into the world. His rage wasn’t a monster. It never had been. His rage was emotion. It was his conviction. It was his living self.

He would not take up the Light, though. As in life, it would have been a betrayal of what he stood for. It was right to have that spark in his heart, but it was just as right - if not more so - that he should fight on without taking it up and wielding it. He died with that spark of light in his heart once before, and he would do so again. And again and again until his time on this side of the veil was spent.

Hirrus looked back out over what was likely his final death coming for him. An ocean of enraged faces stared back at him. Hundreds of hands began forming spells to launch at him again. He caught sight again of Orinthal’s face, his eyes as wide, lips flapping in shock. He recovered only enough composure to form one word.

“Brother?”

Hirrus felt his lip peel back from his teeth in a genuine smile. So this is what it feels like. Finally, satisfaction.  He had risked everything because for once he admitted to himself that doing the right thing was more important to him than his reputation, his orders from the Dark Lady, and even his own existence. He had listened to his rage and it had hurled him into a battle the likes of which he had never faced. But it was a battle worth fighting. A cause he would be happy to die for.

How many of the cultists would feel the same? How many would be willing to be next in line to die for this fight once he was among them, cutting them down? How many would fight to their last breath? Enough to take him down? Maybe. But maybe not.

Hirrus felt the red tinge coming in around his vision, and it was different this time. His rage had always been his closest ally and greatest weapon, but it was always tempered by discipline and control. He had always strained his will to ensure that he could still reclaim control of himself. He embraced rage, but at the same time, braced himself against it. But not this time. Against such numbers, his only option was to hurl himself into battle with complete abandon.

Finally, he would be forced to fight with everything he had.

“The bad news is that the, uh, the guys they have working on the ritual are literally geniuses. Uh, I don’t know how they put all this together.” He pointed to a few of the pages of arcane symbols, and Malthus leaned in. “This is incredible work. Just, uh, really solid. Disrupting the ritual with- from a distance is going to be almost impossible.”

“Hm.” Hirrus frowned. “Security seemed lax, but we weren’t trying to approach the big show mid-ritual. That is going to be rough.”

“The, uh, good news is that there’s a way to disrupt the, uh, altar, in order to stop this from happening again. It’ll take some time, so maybe, uh, after dealing with the ritual, we can get it done. The okay news is, uh, the way they’re bringing Mal’Ganis back. It’s a possession ritual. It means it’ll be, er, easy to deal with once it’s done.”

Malthus instantly looked over at Orinthal, who was still squinting at the papers, but said nothing. Baemadis joined Malthus in staring at the priest. After a long moment, Orinthal looked up, confused.

“Well, I imagine you ought to ask your question Orinthal.” Malthus gave him a go-ahead gesture. “The sooner we start discussing this, the sooner we’re done, eh?”

Orinthal frowned, confused. “Why? What question?” He looked back down at the papers. “What is a possession ritual?”

Malthus clapped twice in mock applause, and gestured for Baemadis to explain.

“The, uh, possession ritual is the best way for powerful demons to, erm, affect our world after being defeated.” He gestured at a few of the notes. “One of the biggest parts of returning to the, um, material plane is how they- the demon reforms their body. It takes, um, lots of energy to create a body from scratch. Usually, they reform in the Twisting Nether, which takes time. Sometimes years. Sometimes, uh, centuries. So for, uh, a possession ritual, they just need to put the demon into a sapient host. The demon doesn’t generally have access to all their powers, but he’s nearly undetectable. They have, um, enough of their powers to be an extremely powerful spellcaster, though. Like, uh, historically noteworthy powerful.”

“Medivh.” Malthus added. “He was afflicted by a possession from Sargeras.”

“So, uh.” Orinthal began. “How does this make it easy to deal with? I seem to remember my history well enough to know that it was quite a fight.”

Baemadis shifted uncomfortably. “That was, ah, after years of training. Decades. If we can attack the victim of the possession soon,” Baemadis grimaced. “Mal’Ganis might not, uh, have full control over them. His powers would be stunted, too.”

Hirrus frowned. They were hiding something.

“So, what’s the problem, then?” Orinthal shrugged. “We kill a cultist. Easy.”

“Well,” Malthus sighed. “It isn’t that simple. It’s likely they’ll be possessing someone innocent. Either someone young, or someone with connections that will put them in a good position to be useful.”

Orinthal frowned, scowling down at the research papers. “It’s… I don’t feel right about taking an innocent life, then. Are there any other options? Is there no way to exorcise the demon once the possession is begun?”

Baemadis shook his head. “Not with any, uh, certainty. The amount of energy needed to exorcise a demon has never been, ah, an exact science. It doesn’t help that, um, there’s no way to tell whether or not it was, er, successful. Mal’Ganis could just retreat into his host and lay dormant.” The elf shrugged, ears drooping slightly. “If there was a reliable way, especially for a, um, powerful dreadlord, we would, erm, still have Medivh around, probably.”

“If we can’t interrupt the ritual covertly, why don’t we just attack the ritualists? Wait for them to be distracted with the ritual, hit them hard, and kill them before they finish?”

Malthus grimaced. “The ambient magic of the ritual would likely prevent us from affecting them from a distance. The only way we could deal with them would be to go up and take them on in close combat. As much faith as I have in our Warrior, we don’t know how many ritualists they’ll have. And even if he can take them all on by himself, that’ll leave us in the middle of a giant angry mob of cultists, eh?”

“Even if we survive the, uh, first volley of spells and whatnot, and hold them off until I can teleport us out, that doesn’t do anything about the energy in the, um, altar. If they don’t spend it, they can- will just throw it into another victim, just to avoid missing their window.” His shoulder slumped. “Even if we kill the master ritualists, they’ll still have the, uh, notes and instructions to finish the ritual with novices.”

“Listen,” Malthus set his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “We don’t really have much choice. We can’t interrupt the ritual, and we don’t have time to sabotage the altar. Our options are to kill one innocent life to save countless others, or to throw our lives away trying to charge in and kill all of them before it completes. And, despite any faith we may have in our abilities, or those of our allies,” He nodded over at Hirrus and Baemadis, “We will probably not succeed in interrupting the ritual.”

“But-”

“Orinthal, I know it sounds like the right thing to do,” Malthus interrupted. “To charge into certain death for your principles. No doubt you feel more comfortable sacrificing your own life than that of an innocent woman, but you have to realize.” He looked over at Hirrus again. “We Forsaken have only survived as long as we have because we know that sometimes, failure is not an option.” He looked back down to meet Orinthal’s eyes. “I know it’s… Surprisingly hard to put yourself ahead of someone else. But we were sent here to get results. If I thought we could win, I’d be on board with a full-scale attack, but there’s just no way that five of us can take on an entire town of cultists. This isn’t about saving our own skins, it’s about doing what needs to be done, eh?”

Orinthal scowled back down at the notes, but his eyes were not focused on them.

“Listen, friend,” Malthus lowered his voice. “If it makes you feel better, if anyone asks about your part in this, blame me. Say I coerced you. Say we argued for hours. Anyone whose opinions matter to you will think I’m a monster already. It won’t be hard convince them that a Forsaken Warlock is the real monster, and that you’re just a victim of my manipulations, eh?”

The priest closed his eyes, taking a long moment to think. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is going to haunt me. I’ll be thinking about this night for a long time.”

“It, uh,” Baemadis flinched as if surprised to hear himself speaking out loud. “It will haunt you if we fail, too. If Mal’Ganis is set loose, then, um, you’ll be regretting your choice much worse.”

“I know.” Orinthal shook his head. Hirrus had to look away as the priest’s expression took on a hard, utilitarian look that had made him flinch too many times when it was on his father’s face. “I’d rather have no innocent lives on my head, but if the choices are between one life and hundreds, that’s the way it has to be.” He nodded slowly. “At least it will be done in a few hours. The less I have to dwell on this, the more I can blame it on the situation.” He sighed.

Malthus patted the priest’s shoulder consolingly. “It won’t be easy. But we don’t have time to come up with anything better. Now,” He looked around at the group. “Everyone else can accept what we have to do, right? I’ve been kind of worried about Orinthal more than any of the rest of you, but can you blame me? We Horde have been forced to make our fair share of hard decisions already, eh?”

Teliise and Baemadis nodded. Hirrus shrugged.

“Alright then.” Malthus clapped his hands together, “Unfortunately, we need to let them complete the ritual. We get with the cultists’ robes on and get as close to the victim as we can. Once they’ve expended the energy from the altar, they have no way of replicating the amount of energy they needed for the ritual. We hit hard and fast.” He looked to Baemadis. “You’ll be on crowd control. Blast us an opening and keep throwing magic out to keep them away.” He looked to Hirrus. “You’ll be the frontline. Run interference on anything that gets past Baemadis’s perimeter. If any big threats show up, you handle them.” He looked to Orinthal. “You support in any way you can. Defenses, healing, throwing out some holy fire, whatever we need. “ Malthus nodded down at himself. “I’ll do the deed myself. I can’t in good conscience do all the talking in favor of this course and then push it off on someone else. It’s not my specialty, but I’ll try and make it quick and painless.” He looked back to Hirrus. “Once it’s done, we’ll need to get out as fast as we can. Depending on our positioning, either you cut our way out, or pick up the slack on covering us while Baemadis calls up a portal to get us out.”

“Alright.” Orinthal sighed.

“In case we, um, or I don’t survive,” Baemadis spoke up. “We should go over a little bit about, uh, how we can- could disable the altar for future rituals.” He pointed to one of the pages of notes, covered in arcane runes and a strange diagram that looked like a cup made of woven grass. “This is what the altar’s energy lattice looks like. Orinthal mentioned the ability of the Light to, erm drain the Shadow from the altar. This holds a lot of energy. More than he- one priest could cancel in a night. But we don’t need to drain all of it.” He pointed to another page. “The way the, um, lattice holds itself is solid, but the ethereal borders have, um, resonant qualities. We- uh, Orinthal just has to pulse the Light into the altar at, er, regular intervals.” He pointed back to the diagram of the cup. “The instability of the Shadow being contained will actually, uh, shake the lattice. If it’s set into motion at the, um, right interval, once it gets started, the bottom of the ethereal border will blow out. The altar won’t be able to, uh, pool power like this without being repaired.”

“How long would it take to repair?” Malthus asked.

“There, uh, was only once I know of where a lattice like this was repaired. He- the wizard that built it took a little more than, erm, twenty years. But, uh, that was a much smaller lattice. And, uh, he’s the one who built it originally, so he was, er, much more familiar with its structure than anyone will be about this one.”

“What’s your best guess, then.”

Baemadis frowned. “It depends on a lot of, um, different factors. Considering the ritualists here are, erm, real masters, probably the top of their field, and they have all those, uh, books on the subject in their library…” He paused, looking over a few pages of the notes, the tips of his ears twitching. “I could make some calculations, but, um, the estimate would be something like…” He hesitated. “Three-hundred years? Maybe four.” He looked over the notes again. “Honestly, though, if we can take out the ritualists who did this research, then, er, it would set them back. If we can do that and then, uh, capture their library - either destroy it or steal the tomes I took these notes from - then it could double or, uh, triple the timeline.”

“Wow.” Orinthal looked down at the notes. “They’re that important, then?”

Baemadis shrugged. “These are probably some of the most, uh, intelligent cultists I’ve ever seen.” He pointed down at the notes. “I have no idea how they came up with this information. It’s, uh, mind-blowing, some of this stuff. I’d kill to get these notes back to Silvermoon. If we could scorch the earth on this, it would be like if someone, uh, had murdered Archmage Antonidas and destroyed all his notes on warding magic before he published them. The, uh, Mage Armor spell would still be five years away today, um, barring another prodigy just like him.”

“Hm.” Hirrus frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about leaving with that library intact then.”

“Oh, uh, don’t worry too much about that. There’s not a lot of, uh, lattice points like this. Most of the other places of power are, uh, pretty heavily guarded. This research would be useful more as a, um, conceptual thing to anyone without, uh, a very potent place of power under their control. They’d have to find another location to really, uh, make use of any of it. And if we report this information, anyone who knows of any other, er, ritual locations can keep an eye on them for these cultists to make their way there.” He shrugged. “Obviously, if you- we can kill them during the attack, that’s a big setback. But we can deal with the problem when, erm, we come back to disable the altar.”

“That’s another thing,” Hirrus furrowed his brow. “How do we plan on taking on the altar?”

“We have all time time in the world for that.” Malthus smiled. “That’s the only thing working for us there. The altar won’t have enough power for something like this for a long time. We can form a plan, come at them at our leisure, and take our time. And if our attack is successful, it’ll weaken their position. It’ll shake up their priorities if we completely scrap their master plan. They might just up and leave once the altar is drained of power, eh?”

“Hm.” Hirrus considered. “We should send a letter. If we don’t make it through this encounter, someone will need to come back and clean up the altar, regardless of our success or failure.”

Orinthal nodded. “I don’t like to think about the idea of our failure, but even if just these notes get to the right people, they’ll be much better informed if this happens again. And they can get the word out about what happened, so they can keep an eye out for a possessed spy among the elite.”

“I’ll, uh, draft something up, then?” Baemadis looked around at the group. They nodded, and the blood elf pulled a fresh sheet of paper out and began to scribble across it at impressive speeds.

“Alright then.” Malthus rubbed his hands together. “It always feels better to have a plan, eh? And not much we can do until they get ready for the ritual, too.”

“We could try and prepare ourselves.” Orinthal offered.

“If there’s any preparations to be had.” Hirrus grumbled. “Our plan amounts to being in the right place at the right time, doing our jobs, and hoping for the best.”

“I didn’t hear you offering any alternatives.” Orinthal crossed his arms. “I would think you would be happy that we’re resorting to the simplest possible plan.”

Hirrus’s brow twitched. “What are you implying?”

“You’ve pointed out, complaining, that we’re going to tromp our way into the front row of the audience and be aggressively violent in all directions. I’m implying that such an approach doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d complain about.” Orinthal sneered.

Hirrus pushed Baemadis’s carpet-turned-desktop away, the mage’s scribblings moving smoothly with the paper as the warrior cleared the area between him and the priest. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Hirrus began to stomp towards Orinthal, tilting his head forward to let his brow shadow his features. “Are you insulting my creativity? My intelligence?”

“Oh, so you’ve managed to grasp my intent. Bravo.” To his credit. Orinthal did not back down, pulling himself up to his full height, keeping eye contact with Hirrus.

“Insulting a warrior’s intelligence.” Hirrus said, stopping in front of Orinthal. “You should examine your own creativity.” He slowly straightened his slouch, moving from the same height as the priest to at least a hand’s width taller, forcing the younger man to look up at him. “And perhaps your intelligence when choosing the time, place, and target of those insults.”

Hirrus felt the simmering rage rise within him. The sharpness it added to his awareness made him notice a few things. First, that Baemadis’s carpet hadn’t stopped moving. The mage was still writing, but he was doing his best to look casual as he dragged it - and the precious notes atop it - clear of any ensuing mayhem. Hirrus was also aware that Teliise was missing. Malthus was caught somewhere between moving closer to intervene, or moving farther away to a more optimal range to engage Hirrus in combat if it came to blows.

Orinthal grinned up at the warrior. “What. Are you going to do something about it?” Fear flashed behind his eyes, but none of it spread beyond. Hirrus was reminded of something his father taught him - when you bluff, commit to it.

“You seem to have a terrible memory.” Hirrus said, lashing his tongue noisily, letting the tip of it flick an inch from Orinthal’s nose - a slight flinch, but the steel stayed in the priest’s spine. “I used to be a Knight of the Silver Hand, and you look exactly like your father.” Hirrus lifted his hand slowly, making a fist one bony knuckle at a time. “How long do you think I’ve wanted to put my fist through a face that looks just like yours?”

The flash of fear faded a bit, and Hirrus saw a glimmer of the familiar rage in Orinthal’s eyes. “What do you have against my father? What did he do?”

Hirrus felt his rage swell deep within him urging a million words into his throat at once. Every accusation and argument caught in his throat together, thankfully keeping him from blurting any one of them without careful thought. Hirrus coughed gently. “Does it surprise you? That someone could hate him?”

Orinthal hesitated, uncertainty flashing across his face.

“What sort of father is he, that you would stand up to me?”

“He’s… Family. I can’t let any damned corpse badmouth my father.”

“Oh, so it’s just that he’s family?” Hirrus felt a surge of vindication that joined his rage as it came to a boil. “Then you know what sort of man he is. You don’t need to know what I have against him. You don’t need me to justify my anger. You’re just standing your ground because it’s the right thing to do.”

“No-” Orinthal’s teeth clenched. “I just-” There was a deep pain and confusion on the priest’s face, and Hirrus found it immensely therapeutic to see a face so like his father’s feel that kind of pain.

The corners of Hirrus’s lips curved up as he grinned. “As long as you know, and aren’t just an ignorant brat who thinks daddy can do no wrong.” Hirrus stepped back slightly, letting the unnatural slouch of his decayed spine reassert itself. He patted Orinthal on the shoulder. “I can respect that.” Hirrus turned and walked away.

Hirrus gestured as he spoke, pointing at the tents. “That is one of the larger tents in a central location. The center of the camp was obviously here first, and they would have needed an ample library to put such a ritual together. Of the three larger tents in that group, one of them is obviously the command center.” He pointed to the one in the center. “The central location protects their leadership, and the people moving in and out of it are either walking slowly with an imperious posture, or they’re running like frightened rats. Leaders and messengers, respectively.” He pointed to the one on the other side. “The one to the north looks like an armory. Heavy guard. Very few people going in and out, and the ones who do appear to be disciplined and fit. No thin-limbed scholars. While the other one,” He pointed back to the initial tent. “Almost unguarded - just patrols passing by - and the traffic in the area appears to be the more bookish types.”

“That, ah, makes a lot of sense.” Baemadis nodded. “You’re smarter than, um, than you look.”

“Hm.”

“I, uh.” Baemadis started, but stopped when Hirrus straightened up and began down the path to the encampment. “That, ah, came out wrong. What I meant was that I was impressed with, er, how well you assessed that.”

“Hm.” Hirrus continued down the path.

“No, really, uh, I mean it. I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps you should practice how much you’re going to speak while we’re in the camp.”

“I was planning, um, on not speaking at all, or, ah, as little as possible, while, erm, we were there.”

“Hm.”

Baemadis seemed to get the idea, and the pair approached the camp in silence. Hirrus was somewhat surprised when they were able to enter the camp without incident. There were short watchtowers around the camp with guards posted, but the boundaries of the camp seemed to be fairly loose and poorly-defined. A group of children seemed to be playing in the dirt well outside the farthest few tents. One of the guards looked over the intruders with a glimmer of suspicion, but seemed to lose interest when they entered the camp proper. Hirrus seemed to be moving with enough purpose and intent to look like he knew where he was going, or was at least carrying enough impatience in his body language to smooth over any uncertainty Baemadis could have been projecting.

The camp was somewhat difficult to navigate. There were some clear thoroughfares, but Hirrus and Baemadis didn’t know which ones went the right way. Hirrus’s sense of direction only worked in a straight line, so the pair was constantly crossing between the larger pathways through a number of smaller side paths, and occasionally simply tromped through gaps in between the tents that didn’t appear to have intended to be used as paths. People bustled around like any small town. From what they could gather, they seemed to always be a few tents over from some vendor or another loudly hawking his wares, speaking of pockets of marketplaces within the camp. The people themselves seemed to be unusual only in the integration. Orcs and humans walked alongside one another. Night elves and trolls engaged in civil discussion. Forsaken walked about without any strange looks or pinched noses.

Other than being a little piece of pacifist utopia - and the uniform purple-black robes - it could have been any ordinary town. Had Hirrus been living, he would have had to remind himself of his task to continue working against them.

“Seems, uh, like a nice place.” Baemadis mentioned.

Hirrus considered just glaring at him, but allowed, instead, a “Hm.”

“Are you sure you, ah, know where you- we’re going?”

Hirrus sighed. “Yes. I’m trying not to lead us directly into that middle section of the camp,” he explained. “Just to the edge of it so that we can circle around it and get to that tent that looked to be the right one.”

“We, erm, seem to be moving in a little bit of an erratic pattern, though.”

“Well,” Hirrus shrugged. “There’s not exactly road signs we can follow.”

“Um.” Baemadis stopped walking.

“What?” Hirrus turned, half expecting to see a guard over his shoulder.

The mage was pointing to a little post that had been rammed into the mud on the side of the large path they were crossing. At the top of the post was a collection of tiny wooden arrows, each clearly labelled.

“Hm.”

“So, uh. I guess, um, ‘library’?”

Hirrus furrowed his brow for a moment. “Good work.” He said, trying to force the sarcasm out of his voice. “I was keeping my eyes out for danger, not signs. Thank you for stopping me from making a further fool of myself.”

“Uh, I, erm.” Baemadis hesitated, unsure how to handle the praise. “So, uh, we’ll just go then?”

Hirrus tilted his head. That expression was not altogether unfamiliar. It wasn’t until after his death that Hirrus knew what positive reinforcement felt like.

Following the signs, their progress was much faster and less sketchy. Hirrus knew that using these main thoroughfares was more discrete, but he felt much more exposed than he had when they were cutting through side alleys. While they were less noticeable walking the bustling main street than they had been being the only two people squeezing between tents, there were more eyes on them. The primary benefit was the periodic signs assuring them they were moving in the right direction. Getting to the library quickly was their primary goal, and ambling around blindly from street to street was only going to eat up time they may not have. The sooner they get a handle on what the cult was doing, the faster they could start formulating their plan.

The pair of interlopers finally stopped in front of the library tent. “Alright. I, uh, should go in? If you go in, it’ll be obvious that you’re, um, not there to read. So, erm.”

“I’ll wait out here. Call for me if anyone gives you any trouble.”

“If anyone asks, I’ll, uh, say I’m a new recruit and someone sent me to, um, bring them back some information on the ritual.”

“Good plan. If stuff goes south, call for me to come in. If it comes to violence, it needs to happen in the tent.” Hirrus glanced around at the busy street, full of people moving between the inner area of the camp and the outer recruit tents. “ If we make a big scene out here, we’ll get swarmed too badly to escape.”

Baemadis nodded. “Stay close, then. I, uh, don’t want to be, you know, screaming at the top of my lungs.”

Hirrus nodded, and took a relatively casual stance by the corner of the library tent as Baemadis entered the tent. When no disturbance was immediately raised, he relaxed. Hirrus had been slightly concerned that there would be guards inside, or some draconian policies that would bar them from getting the information they needed. But as the apparent quiet within the tent extended, Hirrus felt his concerns smooth away. Maybe this would go alright.

“Oy! You there! Fallen!” Came a voice from across the street. “Come help me with this. Hup hup!”

Across the way there was an old woman trying to set up some sort of portable vendor stall. She was bowed with age, and though she seemed to be quite spry in how she darted about the folded-up construction, moving pieces into place and setting out wares - mostly potions - but she was clearly struggling with the taller parts of the stall. She was too short to fold the sign into place. She had apparently spotted him because he towered over most of the humanoids wandering the street.

Hirrus shrugged. She was unlikely to cause a scene, but if she had to call out again, it would likely draw attention to him. He was adept enough at avoiding conversation. He was less adept at avoiding being noticed if an old woman was pointing at him and complaining, raising questions about what he was doing.

“There, that part of the sign,” she pointed as he crossed the street. “Just a little too high for these old bones. You seem sturdy enough, Fallen.”

Hirrus grabbed the sign and lifted it up,  letting the legs of it slide into place where the hinge turned and the slot slid home. “Actually, ma’am, we prefer to be called Forsaken.”

She waved her hand at another part of the stall. “If you don’t mind getting that bit, too, it’s so hard to set this up without a second person.” Her eyes flashed and she lowered her voice. “And I wasn’t talking about your race, Callabryn.”

Hirrus stiffened. Tension raced up his spine and his mind raced. This place was too crowded. He didn’t have the skills to kill her without being seen. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

She smiled amiably. “Don’t get your subligar in a twist, Fallen. I thought only paladins fully empowered by the light had sticks up their behinds about formal titles.” She gestured again at the corner of the stall. “Please, though, I do have to make a living. A girl’s gotta eat, you know.” She smirked. “Or, maybe you don’t.”

He moved to help assemble the stall. Who was she? He didn’t recognize her at all. More importantly, what did she want?

In a few moments, the stall was assembled. “Now then. I would like to make you a deal, Fallen.”

“What do you want.” Hirrus tried not to let the panic he felt creep into his voice.

“I’m… Something of a collector. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking to get my hands on a particular item.” She settled in behind the stall counter, and her hand poked out of the sleeve of her robe. For a moment, it was a twisted claw, black with veins of light blue running through it. Then it was a gnarled old hand again. “It will, one day, be something of great importance. If I can get my hands on it now, it won’t be involved in… Certain events. Things will go the way my master wants it.”

“So,” Hirrus began, “You want me to fetch this thing for you so you keep quiet.”

“Oh no!” She cackled. “I’m not offering you quiet. I have no love for this cult, this is just the most convenient time to approach you. And you misunderstand. I don’t need you to fetch something for me. You already have it.” She pointed to the bundle on his back. “That axe is all I require.”

Hirrus frowned. “Hm. I don’t know. I am quite fond of it.” He arched an eyebrow. “What do you offer me?”

She spread her hands. They flashed briefly as blue-black claws again. “Knowledge. I know something you desperately need to know.”

His brow furrowed. “About the cultists?” He looked over his shoulder at the library. “I think your bargaining position may have been better if you’d offered before we got here.”

“Oh no,” the old woman chuckled. “This cultist thing? This is nothing. Oh, sure, it’s important in some respects, but in the grand scheme of our plans, they are just a sidebar.” Her eyes cut up to the wrapped head of the axe poking over his shoulder, and then back to his face again. “This is much bigger.”

He squinted at her. “So I’m involved in some of your bigger plans.” He looked around. “I seem to remember your kind dealing with people involved in your plans with violence rather than negotiation.”

“Ha!” she barked a laugh. “You are no one of consequence.” Her eyes cut back up to the axe. “However, that axe plays an important part in a fight. Perhaps the fight is with someone of importance. Or with someone who goes on to fight someone of importance. Perhaps the axe itself finds its way into the hands of someone of importance. Knowing why we want the axe is not part of the deal.” She smiled, gesturing at the street around her. “I seem to remember your kind dealing with our violent dealings with violence. Since I don’t see any adventurers around, I feel significantly better about handling things this way.”

“So, if I refuse, then what. You attack me? Take it by force?” Hirrus adjusted his stance slightly.

“Not yet.” She smirked. “There’s still time. It makes me question how we used to handle things. We have all the time in the world, literally. Why do we do things the flashy way? Maybe you won’t surrender it now. Maybe you’ll be more inclined to next week? In two years? The day before whatever I’m trying to affect? Perhaps the information I’m offering you doesn’t seem valuable now because it hasn’t gone into motion yet. Maybe once you realize what I’m offering, you’ll be eager to trade for it.”

“Hm.” Hirrus glared. “You know I won’t give you the axe now.”

She shrugged.

“You are planting seeds of paranoia.”

She smiled.

“Every time I think I need to know something, I’ll be wondering if it was what you’re offering.” He scowled. “This does not endear you to me.”

She shrugged. “I’m just making the offer. How you choose to let it affect you is none of my business.” Her eyes cut up to the head of the axe again. “Perhaps it would be most effective to trade for the axe now. That way you don’t make any poor decisions based on what information I may or may not have for you.”

“Perhaps,” Hirrus squinted. “It would be most effective to not antagonize me. I have no interest in this deal. Information has never been as valuable to me as a sturdy weapon.”

“We’ll see how long you continue to feel that way, Fallen.” She waved him away, her hand flashing as a blue-black claw again. “Then if you don’t mind, you’re scaring away the customers. You’ll see me again.”

“Hm.” He turned and tried not to stomp as he crossed back to the library.

“Give my regards to Deathstalker Lesh.” She called after him.

He stopped and turned, but she - and the stall - was gone. He sighed. This was a complication that his life did not need.

---

Almost an hour later, Baemadis exited the library with a small scroll case.

“Let’s go.” Hirrus said as Baemadis approached, falling in beside him as they started back the way they came.

“We, uh, I found, er, the information I found is what I- we needed.”

Hirrus furrowed his brow. “Why are you so nervous?”

“I, erm, should wait. Once we’re back, uh, I’ll only have to explain once.”

“Hm.” Hirrus led them around a guard patrol who didn’t give them a second glance. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s, erm, well. There’s good news and bad news.”

“More of one than the other?”

“That, uh, depends on your perspective.”

“Hm.”

“It’s just, I mean, the, uh, the amount of time we have is not great for what, um, options we have.”

“Hm.”

“It’s not as late- as bad as it could be. But, uh, Orinthal is not gonna like what we, erm, might have to do.”

“Then we should hurry. The sooner we can start planning, the better we can evaluate our options.”

The pair moved quickly, only drawing attention when they had to push through a crowd where a group was congregating for no discernable reason. They backtracked to the spot where Baemadis had pointed out the directional sign, and then cut back along the side routes they had used previously, retracing their steps. It was more important to get back quickly than it was to find a more sensible route back to the edge of the cultists camp closest to where they had approached from. In a few moments, they were back to where they had entered the camp.

“Hey!” came a voice. Hirrus flinched. “Where are you two going?”

Hirrus took a breath to calm himself as he stopped, turning around. Baemadis turned with him, but moved around behind him as the cultist guards approached. “We need to go for a quick walk.” Hirrus said.

“What for?” There were three of them. One with an unloaded crossbow, hanging back, and two with swords on their hips. “Didn’t you boys just get back in an hour or so ago? I swear I saw you come in on this side.”

Hirrus kept his face impassive as his mind raced. “My friend needs to send a letter. We were out checking his mail earlier, but he needed to come back into the camp in order to check in with his mentor before replying.” Hirrus gestured at the scroll case. “With his teacher’s response, my friend wants to send the letter out as soon as possible.”

“Well,” The guard eyed the case. Hirrus adjusted his stance. If they demanded to see the letter, this was going to turn ugly. He planned out his moves through the two swordsmen, trying to calculate if he could trip, disarm, or stun both of them fast enough for him to get his axe out before the crossbowman could load his weapon. “I’ll need to put something in my report about this. What’s the letter about?”

Hirrus eyed the guard cautiously. “My friend and I are relatively recent recruits. He’s been trying to convince his sweetheart to join us as well. She has some concerns about dealing with demons, but what his mentor had to say will put her mind more at ease.”

The guard glanced over at Baemadis, and then back to Hirrus. “And what’re you, his interpreter?”

“The boy is a little shy.” Hirrus shrugged. “He gets nervous around people he doesn’t know. If he tried to tell you his name right now, your shift would be over before he finished stuttering out the third syllable.” He tried to smile.

The guard gave a suspicious look between the pair for a moment before shrugging. “Alright. You boys just make sure you get back before sundown.” The group of guards started back towards their post. “This is the big night, you know.”

“Oh thank the light.” Orinthal sighed with relief. “We didn’t know what happened to you… Two…” The priest trailed off as Hirrus and Teliise came into view, both of them spattered with blood.

Parts of Teliise’s robes were slashed open, the rents in the fabric sagging open, but the pale skin beneath was untouched - save for the scars already there. Hirrus’s armor was scuffed and scratched, with a few scorch marks, but his movement was smooth and even, all of the blood on him was red, none of it the blackish-purple ichor of the Forsaken. Both of them also seemed to be in fairly high spirits.

“So, erm,” Baemadis broached the subject. “What happened?”

“Oh.” Hirrus looked to Teliise, and then back to the group. “Arakkoa. We wandered into their territory, so they were going to kill us all. You three included.”

Teliise nodded, smiling.

“We argued against that strenuously.” Hirrus said. “Fortunately, we were able to communicate in a language they understood.”

Teliise’s shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter.

Hirrus waited a moment for her shaking to subside. “As it turned out, we were able to reach an agreement. As long as we move out of their territory quickly, they’ll overlook the transgression this time.”

The three spellcasters gave almost the exact same dubious look to the blood-spattered pair.

Teliise quickly clambered aboard her hawkstrider, and guided the mount to begin moving again. The three men watched after her for a moment, and then returned their dubious looks to Hirrus.

“As I said.” Hirrus clambered aboard his own mount. “Quickly.” He prompted his mount to follow after Teliise, briefly patting the animal on the neck, whispering. “You did well staying on the ground for me, horse. I won’t forget that.”

“Uh.” Baemadis tried to come up with a subtle way to ask, but failed utterly, eventually just asking. “What really happened?”

“I told you. We had an argument with the arakkoa. But it was my job to protect you three, and her job to get us to our destination.” Hirrus met Baemadis’s eyes, staring for a minute. “If we were unable to do our jobs, the Dark Lady wouldn’t have assigned them to us.”

“Well, I hope we have an opportunity to show such…” Malthus looked Hirrus up and down, taking note of all the scrapes and blood spatters. “Enthusiasm in our own jobs, eh? But really, Hirrus. What happened.”

Hirrus furrowed his brow, looking up ahead at Teliise. He turned back and pointed at Orinthal and Baemadis. “Aren’t you two still alive? Shouldn’t you be more interested in Teliise’s bare skin showing through all the cuts in her robe?”

“Erm,” Baemadis glanced over at her. She had tilted her head slightly, not yet acknowledging that she was the topic of discussion, but definitely listening. “She’s… Covered in blood. And the shredded robe looks like it, uh, happened in a nasty fight.”

Hirrus frowned, looking at Orinthal. “So?”

Orinthal grimaced, his face turning slightly red. “Despite all the skin, it’s… More intimidating than it is attractive.”

“Hm.” For a moment, Hirrus wasn’t sure if he had been dead for far too long to remember what was attractive to living beings, or if he just had really unusual taste when he had been alive. “Nevermind then.”

“Yes, but-” Malthus began.

Hirrus flicked his eyes at the fellow Forsaken in a sidelong glare. “I’m not trying to be intimidating right now because we have a job to do. But if you didn’t notice, I’m also covered in blood, and my armor went through much the same ordeal as her robes. If you want details, ask Teliise.”

“Well, we had a chat while waiting to see if you two would return. I think I’m on board with your plan, Hirrus. We really talked it out, and only sending two people is a much better idea than sending three. Safety in numbers is one thing, but we don’t have time to deal with getting noticed and putting them on alert, eh?”

Hirrus blinked a few times. “Well,” He didn’t want to explain that he had really just not wanted to leave Orinthal alone with Teliise, and more than that, he didn’t want to explain why he no longer had a problem with it. “As long as we’re all in agreement. We are supposed to be a team, after all.”

“Yes, quite.” Malthus nodded. “So, we need to get close, take out a patrol for their uniforms, and then you and Baemadis will venture in to try and see what you can find out about the ritual. You come back, and we’ll have to wing it from there, eh?”

“Right, and, ah, if all else fails,” Baemadis added. “We need to run in during the ritual and, ah, disrupt it physically. If we can kill enough of them, er, the window will pass without them being able to finish.”

“I’m sure,” Orinthal gave a disgusted look at a streak of blood that ran across the shoulder of Hirrus’s armor and into his hair. “If things come to that, you’ll be a major asset to the plan.”

Hirrus nodded, but said no more, turning in his heels to urge his horse to pull up, closer to Teliise than the spellcasters.

They seemed inclined to hang back from the pair, letting Hirrus ride the rest of the night without their inane chatter.

---

The group stopped only once before morning, briefly when the river turned away from their route. Hirrus and Teliise quickly washed - well, less washed and more dunked themselves, fully dressed, into the water and shook themselves off before mounting up again. As they rode away from the river, Teliise picked up the pace, leading them in a full gallop for the first time of the trip. She stood up in the saddle, using the wind of the gallop to dry herself. Hirrus didn’t bother. The water was in under his armor, and likely pooling in the concave parts of the plates. He’d deal with it later. But he wasn’t covered in blood, which would have been an impediment to him getting into the cultist camp.

The warrior was mildly anxious about his ability to talk his way through things if the cultists became suspicious. A year ago, he may have been sincerely concerned. However, the perspective he’d gained recently put his mind at ease. As long as none of the cultists expected him to eat a plate of pasta, he was confident in his ability to remain calm.

They crossed into Shadowmoon Valley uneventfully. However, they slowed their pace immediately, the entire group growing more on edge as the grass and trees of Terrokar gave way to bare rock and green pools of fel fluids. The abrupt increase in tension was physically palpable. Orinthal began riding closer to the group, his concern about the cultists surpassing his concern for the members of the Horde he travelled with. Baemadis stopped reading, and was keeping an eye on his surroundings. Teliise, who normally seemed unflappable, had a slight tension in her shoulders. Malthus even stopped trying to initiate conversation. Hirrus found his hand drifting off his reins and towards the sword on his hip, keeping his hand close enough for a quick draw if one was required.

Teliise was able to lead them around packs of roving demons, most of them feral creatures swarming around the fel energies of the region. She seemed to have a very good sense for them, often steering the group around hilltops to block the sightline. Once, she had to lead them into a craggy ravine to shield them from view on both sides. Due to her skill, no group ever got enough of a jump on them enough to even force them to stop and hide, let alone engage them in combat.

They travelled southwest for a time, staying off of - but close to - the road as it went. Teliise finally brought the group to a halt just as the sky was brightening, preparing for daylight. The land was sloping gently to the south, indicating that they were near to the edge of Outland, but they weren’t close enough to see exactly how far it was. There was a break in the land that left a short cliff where one half of the crack had been pushed upwards by some unknown geological logic.

“Are we here?” Orinthal asked quietly.

Teliise made a noncommittal gesture, and then nodded. The group made a crude camp at the base of the cliff, where it would provide some shelter, but mostly it provided some security. With a wall at their backs, there was a sense of fortification, however justified it may or may not have been.

“Alright.” Orinthal began. “Our first order of business is infiltration. We need to get information, and we need it immediately.”

“We need a couple of things for that. First, we need to get two cultists’ outfits, and we need it done bloodlessly. No swords, explosions, or fire.” Malthus puffed his chest out a little. “Luckily, I happen to-”

“Where, uh, did Teliise go?” Baemadis cut in.

The group looked around. She was nowhere to be found.

“Hm.” Hirrus frowned. “We are really bad at this.”

“Uh. Should we spread out, or, um, wait? Maybe she had to, uh…” He made a vague gesture that communicated searching for a word and not liking any of the ones he was finding.

“There!” Orinthal pointed. Teliise was leaning on her staff, shuffling back towards the group. She pointed at Hirrus and beckoned him forward.

“Hm.” Hirrus nodded, heading towards her. “Keep it down, guys.” He said to the casters, not looking back at them as he followed Teliise back around the corner she had emerged from.

She led him immediately to a quartet of unconscious cultists. Two humans, an orc, and a troll. A few had dark bruises across their faces, and two of them had obviously had their fingers shattered by a sharp blow before being knocked out. She pointed, and mimed a shoulder carry to Hirrus.

The warrior nodded, threw one over each shoulder, and carted them back to the group.

“What did you-”

“Did she-”

“Where, uh-”

Hirrus ignored the trio and dumped the bodies on the ground. “They’re still alive. If you three could see to that for me.” He immediately turned around and headed back to where Teliise waited with the other two cultists.

He hefted the other two over his shoulders. Teliise followed this time, shuffling along with her staff. The pair stayed silent. Hirrus believed this was possibly the most he’d enjoyed another person’s company since he’d died.

“Alright.” Malthus said as Hirrus dropped the other two bodies next to the previous pair that Orinthal and Baemadis were already stripping the robes off. “What happened? Where did you find these?”

“Malthus.” Hirrus said, fixing the warlock with a glare. “If you really think we have time for this, then by all means, go ahead and wait for a response. But we have work to do.”

The warlock matched Hirrus’s glare for a moment, but didn’t persist when the warrior bent to help get the robes off the assembled cultists. Whatever Teliise had done to them kept them out cold. Only one of them stirred as Hirrus slit their throats once they were down to their smallclothes, and by the time he twitched the cut was already completed. Baemadis held up the robes with a frown, realizing that they were all going to be a little baggy on him.

Teliise tossed Hirrus the Troll’s robe, since it was the longest. It hung a little long at the bottom and on the sleeves, but that was ideal. It meant he could keep his armor on without it being seen.

“You should probably leave your weapons.” Orinthal observed. Hirrus nodded, but was somewhat reluctant. “If you show up armed - as these poor fools weren’t - then you may as well walk in shouting questions about the schedule, positioning, and disposition of their guards.”

Hirrus dropped his shield and sword, but instead hefted the bundled great axe again, slinging it over his back. The trio of spellcasters looked at him oddly, but said nothing. Hirrus had to remind himself that they didn’t know what was in the package. He let the robe fall down over his hands, and tucked only enough of it into the sash of the garment to keep it from dragging so low it might trip him. The robe was a dark purple with black patterning sewn in. It had a slightly darker purple mantle, and a sash was sewn into it. It was quite voluminous, which, along with the sash, seemed to indicate that the robes were mass-produced with a design that would conform to the many different shapes and body types of the various races. From the most barrel-chested Orc to the pudgiest pandaren to the slimmest elf could all wear the same robe, provided it was the correct length.

The design struck Hirrus as boding poorly for the idea of a direct assault. If there were so many of them that they were cranking out robes like this, then their numbers might actually be significantly larger than the briefing indicated. Perhaps recruitment was going better than Forsaken intelligence had predicted.

Baemadis looked up at the moonless sky. “Not long. If the moons rise within the hour, we’ve still got a few weeks yet. If, ah, it takes longer than that… Erm… Days?” He wrung his hands momentarily. “I could consult one of the- my books about it to draw up a chart that will determine the optimal, ah, the time when the altar is fully empowered by darkness, corresponding to the moonless period of the night.”

“Well, if you would be so kind, then?” Malthus smiled. “It affects how we’ll be approaching them if we have weeks, or only days, eh? If the ritual does not happen for a few weeks yet, we may have time to study their methods, and see if we can interrupt the ritual subtly, and possibly get a hold of some of their research notes on this power.”

Orinthal sharply looked up from his mount, glaring at Malthus.

“O-Oh, I only mean that we need to know if there’s a way we can shut down this ritual permanently. It will prevent future such rituals. And, barring that, we can at least find out when the next time the ritual will occur, so that the Dark Lady, or possibly your own church, can send another force to stop it again.” Malthus chuckled nervously. “Sorry, I should have explained more clearly that I think a permanent solution to this problem is very much called for, eh?”

Orinthal narrowed his eyes, but returned to tending to his horse. “I’m sure.”

Baemadis set about with his research, spreading out across the ground five heavy tomes and a handful of star charts, periodically holding one chart up, squinting from it to the starry sky. Teliise had prepared a small fire, enough to keep everyone from tripping over their own feet in the dark, but barely more than that. And so Baemadis had instead elected to glow with purple energy, providing himself with light to read by.

Hirrus finished tending to his horse, and took it by the face again, meeting its eyes. “Remember, horse. No flying.” Before letting it wander freely as he always did. Orinthal gave him an odd look as he tied his horse’s reins to a nearby log. Hirrus ignored it, heading to the fire and sitting, taking the opportunity to clean his sword, the rhythmic motion familiar and relaxing. He gave a slight nod to Teliise, sitting on the other side of the fire, but she didn’t notice. She had a journal in her lap and was scribbling in it, completely focused on her writing.

After a moment, Malthus sat next to Hirrus, and elbowed him gently, whispering. “Let’s mess with the human.” Giving him a conspiratorial wink.

“What are you two whispering about?” Orinthal asked suspiciously as he sat on the opposite side of the fire. Hirrus found it momentarily ironic that he found it more comforting to sit next to Teliise than to the Forsaken.

“Oh! Hirrus here was just asking me how I’d died.” Malthus said, his voice full of jovial cheer. “I was about to tell the story-”

“That wouldn’t interest him at all.” Hirrus cut in suddenly. He grinned inwardly, careful to keep his expression his usual dour self. “He doesn’t seem the sort to find value in cautionary tales.” Hirrus was careful to enunciate the words. They weren’t his. His father often used ‘cautionary tales’ as teaching tools, answering a young Hirrus’s questions with long and drawn-out stories that had a parallel to the situation at hand.

Orinthal tilted his head back, staring at the pair of them down his nose. “I am always open to a potential learning experience. Please, Malthus, if you’re willing to tell the story, don’t stop on my account.”

Malthus was barely able to keep the jovial smile from growing into a gleefully malicious grin. His lips pulled back too far, showing a few too many yellowed teeth. The fake smile he held in his eyes, though, seemed to be enough to throw off any suspicion Orinthal may have felt.

“Well, I was an adventurer. Not on the big time, though, just a little on the side. My wife owned a little leatherworking business in Menethil Harbor. My brother and I would go on hunting trips, bringing back skins for her to tan and make into clothes, armor, and boots. It was honest work. Crocolisks in the area made for fantastic boots, and the raptors and spiders provided all the materials my wife needed for commission work. We were even able to corner and take down the occasional wayward dragon whelp, if we were lucky. Even one could keep the business afloat through the winter months, when the Crocolisks were scarce.”

“Of course,” Malthus sighed sadly. “It couldn’t last forever. A crocolisk got a hold of my brother’s leg. He didn’t lose it, and he could still move around, but he couldn’t keep up on hunts, and I couldn’t bring in a big enough haul by myself to keep the business going. We had to buy leather off of adventurers, import it on the trade lines. It cut into our profits. When hunting, I found myself hoping for enough meat to survive the week rather than the leather to keep the roof over our heads.” Malthus stared at his hands for a moment. “I needed a steady job. Something that would bring in a paycheck until my brother recovered. And… There weren’t many jobs to be had. With Lordaeron’s fall, there were refugees aplenty to fill any position, and to do it cheaply. Even if I’d known a trade other than hunting, there were just so many people looking for work who were younger, stronger, better trained, and more desperate.”

“So I enlisted. My wife begged me not to, she said she couldn’t bear to be without me for the duration of the war. She cried over the thought of losing me to the orcs, or undead, or demons. She eventually... “ He blinked a few times, and lowered his head. “She forbid it. She said she’d rather starve in the gutter with me than feast in a castle without me.” He stopped, and stared at the ground for a minute.

Orinthal was leaning forward over the fire, eyes wide. Malthus let the silence hang until Orinthal’s emotional investment in the story drew almost childlike curiosity out of him. “Wh-What did you do?”

Malthus looked up suddenly, his expression half-vacant and lost. “Oh. I’m sorry, I was just…” He ran his hand over his face. “I loved my wife more than anything. Certainly more than my own life. I enlisted. I… I came home in an archer’s armor and handed her a sack of coin. I’ll… I’ll never forget the look on her face. It… She was…” Malthus blinked a few times. The mixture of the low flickering firelight against the dull purple glow of the studying Baemadis made it look like there may have been tears running down his face. His foot absently dragged through the dirt on the ground.

“I picked her up off the floor, kissed the tears on her face, and I swore an oath. I swore on my love for her that I would come back alive. My love would carry me home. No power on Azeroth could keep me away. My soldier’s pay would be delivered to her, and with the bonus for finishing my time in the military, we’d have enough for her to…” Malthus made a soft sound that was almost a sob. “For her to take… Take a 9-month vacation from the shop. Like… Like we always talked about, but couldn’t afford.”

At this point, Teliise had stopped writing in her journal and was listening to the story as well. Hirrus had finished cleaning his sword and was cleaning his shield, but had to admit that he was paying more attention to Malthus than to his shield. Only Baemadis - still buried in his books - seemed unaffected.

Malthus stared at the ground again. He made a soft sniffling noise. His foot absently dragged the dirt at his feet into a small pile, poking into the pile and then gathering it together again. “It was… It was almost a year before I returned. I barely saw any action. And being an archer meant that when there was fighting, I was on the back lines. And most of it was against mindless zombies, pushing hordes of them away from supply lines and refugee camps. I wrote my wife a letter every week. I never got anything back, but I thought she was just… Still furious with me. But when… When I returned…”

“When I returned…” Malthus’s head snapped up, the expression on his face transformed. It was twisted into a look of pain and rage. “I walked into my own home to find my brother in bed with my wife.” He tilted his head, a strangely animal gesture, looking more like a ghoul than a Forsaken for a moment. “Do you know what I did then?” His gaze was locked on Orinthal, the question clearly directed at him.

“Wh-what? What did you d-do?”

“I murdered them both.” Malthus snarled. His foot jerked and he kicked his small pile of dirt onto the fire. In the sudden darkness, He rose to his feet, his silhouette backlit by Baemadis’s purple light. Malthus’s voice dropped an octave and he growled. “I regretted it instantly, but only because as the light faded from my brother’s eyes, it occurred to me that a quick death was nowhere near an adequate exchange for the monstrous betrayal they’d committed together. I began to wonder what could have driven them to do this to me, and realized I would never know, and not knowing why was almost as bad as what they had done.”

A green flame kindled in Malthus’s hand, and he held it up under his face, the flickering green light played across his features, twisting them into a thing of horror. He pulled down the front of his robe, revealing his neck, where there was a rough ring of bruised tissue. “I went to the gallows not knowing if my wife ever truly loved me or not.”

Malthus cast the flame into the extinguished fire, sitting down quickly. The flame re-ignited the wood, and almost instantly the fire reverted to a more natural red. As the red light came back up, Malthus’s expression was his usual jovial self. Not a trace of sadness, rage, or loss. “Quite a tale though, eh?”

Orinthal and Teliise blinked at him, confusion warring with fear in Orinthal’s expression, and warring with irritation on Teliise’s.

Hirrus himself was relatively impressed. That was quite a production. The tale left as many questions as answers, and the sudden mood shift followed by the immediate status quo was a kind of emotional whiplash that Hirrus found more jarring than effective in a good story. You can’t just have a story change that quickly out of nowhere.

“So…” Orinthal seemed surprised by the sound of his own voice into the stunned silence. “What was the moral of that story?”

“Hm?” Malthus furrowed his brows.

“You said it was a cautionary tale.” Orinthal seemed to be regaining his composure. “What was it cautioning against?”

“Um…” Malthus hesitated.

“Seems clear enough.” Hirrus rumbled, “Don’t trust family.”

“That’s a terrible moral.” Orinthal said quickly. “If you can’t trust family, who can you trust?”

Hirrus arched an eyebrow at Orinthal appraisingly. “I spent most of my teenage years asking myself that same question.” Hirrus returned to polishing his shield. “Although… I put the emphasis in a different place.”

“Um.” The group turned, looking over at Baemadis, who frowned at a star chart. “That’s not… Uh. I mean.” He looked up. “We, uh, may have a problem.”

“What?” Malthus asked.

“Well, uh, I’m not sure exactly, erm, to the hour, how long we have. But, uh.” He held the chart up to the sky again. “I’m almost completely certain that the ritual is, uh…” He lowered the star chart, looking at his assembled teammates. “Tomorrow night.”

---

The party was travelling again before the moons rose. Crossing the river in pitch darkness was treacherous, but Baemadis was able to provide sufficient light for the group to cross safely. The sudden time limit was a considerable motivation.

“So what’s the plan?” Orinthal asked as the moons finally rose.

“Well, we need to stop them.” Hirrus shrugged. “By whatever means necessary.”

“Yes, but how do we stop them?”

Hirrus thought for a moment. “I have a suggestion, but it should likely be a last resort.”

“Well,” Malthus chuckled. “I can guess what the plan is, but I’m curious about how you would word it.”

Hirrus frowned, and considered for a moment. “Cultists are notorious for their inability to perform dark rituals after having their limbs rearranged into alphabetically sorted piles.” Hirrus patted his sword.

Malthus laughed. “Well, as long as you leave the alphabetizing to us learned spellcasters, we may have a chance, eh?” He straightened his robe, letting the smile fall off his face. “That said, it should be a last resort. The briefing indicated that this is a sizable cult, and we’d likely be in for the fight of our lives if we tried to take them all at once, eh? So, speaking of ‘learned spellcasters’ what can we do here?” He looked to Baemadis and Orinthal.

“Well, ah, we know what sort of energy they’re channelling.” Baemadis consulted a tome, reading. “The Moonless Nights are suffused with the power of Darkest Shadow, counterpart to the Light.” He closed the book, looking to Orinthal. “The demonic energies of Shadowmoon Valley might, uh, be a bit of an impurity in the, um, shadow energy of the altar, but the basic principles at work should be of the Shadow.”

Orinthal grimaced. “I’m much more learned in the Light than the Shadow. If I can get close enough to the altar, I can channel light energy into it to try and drain the Shadow from it…”

Baemadis immediately shook his head. “The Shadow and the light are, uh, equal. If you could channel enough power to- by yourself to make a dent then, uh, the amount of shadow energy they’d require could be provided by a single shadow priest.”

Orinthal frowned. “Then I will not be much help. A small point of Light can’t dispel an ocean of Shadows. If the ritual has priestly components, I could provide some insight to how to handle them, though.”

“If we had time to study the ritual,” Malthus sighed. “We wouldn’t be hurrying to get there. If we can even get our hands on the ritual, for that matter.” He turned to Baemadis. “But there may be demonic impurities in the energy, eh? We may be able to use that. Differing demonic energies don’t play nicely together. If we could… Ignite them somehow, we could align them more closely with elements of destruction than summoning?”

“That may work.” Baemadis flipped through the book. The tips of his ears flicked in irritation, and switched to another, leafing through it with practiced precision. “That does, uh, depend on the ritual depending on the demonic energies. Considering the state of, uh, Shadowmoon Valley, it might be that the energies are unaligned or, uh, already more destruction-based.” Baemadis gestured to his book as if simply looking at it from horseback in the moonlight was enlightening in some way. “And we have no way of knowing what sort of summoning they’re attempting. It could be any aspect of a warlock’s training. It could even be the darkness of Affliction. Aligning the demonic energies could even be a part of the ritual.”

“So we might even be doing them a favor if we tried to shuffle it on them in any direction. And it does make sense that part of it would be to normalize the input, rendering anything we do in that arena useless.” Malthus scratched his chin.

“So what you’re saying,” Hirrus interrupted. “Is that we don’t have enough information.”

Baemadis nodded. “Absolutely. Almost any amount of information that, uh, we don’t already have would make this discussion vastly more, um, productive all around.”

“Ah, I see.” Malthus nodded gratefully to Hirrus. “We still have a full day. They won’t do the ritual until moonrise, eh? That may not be plenty of time to infiltrate and research at our own pace, but it’s plenty of time for a couple of us to throw on cultist robes and poke around to see what they’re doing!”

“I’m not terribly happy about the idea of posing as a cultist…” Orinthal wrinkled his nose. “What if they ask us to do something… Horrifying in order to prove we’re one of them?”

“Is your church in the habit of stopping fresh-faced monks and asking them to spoonfeed an old man to make sure they’re really one of you?” Malthus smirked. “They’ll likely just try and turn us gently away from places they don’t want us to be rather than make us do a song-and-dance.”

“Well, what if they try and ask us questions?” Orinthal pressed. “I mean, they won’t recognize us, right?”

Hirrus chuckled. “If there are few enough of them for not recognizing us to be a risk…” Hirrus let his lip lift off of his teeth in the upper half of a grin, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword. “There wouldn’t be enough of them.”

Orinthal flinched. It gave Hirrus a very smug sense of satisfaction.

“Hirrus is right. A cult with enough power and resources to raise a Dreadlord has got to have a lot of new recruits. A constant stream of converts, and support from other sects, makes for a lot of acolytes just wandering around on errands. If we can catch the name of one important guy, we can just coast through by acting like we belong and answering any question with ‘So-and-so sent me to do such-and-such’ and apologizing profusely if they persist.” Malthus nodded.

“That does sound, uh, like a safe bet.” Baemadis smiled. “As long as, erm, one of you folks is doing all the talking.” He chuckled nervously. “I’m not, ah, a great liar.”

“We’ll need you with us.” Malthus nodded. “You’ve got the research skills we need. But you won’t go alone. You will need someone to talk you in, who can keep people busy if they start nosing around. And some muscle if there’s trouble.” He looked around the group, and seemed to come to a conclusion. “Hirrus will go, for one. If things turn entirely sour, we’ll highly value the ability to physically throw us over your back and run for the hills, eh? And I should probably go as well, I’ve got a bit of a silver tongue if I may say so-”

“No.” Hirrus cut in.

“What’s wrong?” Malthus blinked, confused.

“You should stay behind.” And keep Orinthal safe from Teliise. Hirrus didn’t finish the thought out loud. “Too many of us will draw too much attention. Fewer is better.”

“If you think you can, uh, talk us out of trouble,” Baemadis added, “Then I agree. It only takes one set of eyes to, uh, keep watch. And it’s, uh, a lot easier on him to get us out of any, erm, hairy situations if he’s only got me to worry about.”

Malthus squinted at Hirrus. “Are you sure you can talk your way through a guard patrol?”

“Yes.”

Malthus waited, but Hirrus said nothing else. “And if someone asks you a hard question? Are you going to be able to come up with a quick answer on the spot?”

“Maybe.”

Malthus waited, but Hirrus said nothing else. “Going to just frustrate them into leaving you two alone, eh?”

“If that’s what works.” Hirrus smirked.

Malthus squinted at Hirrus. “Alright. I suppose if nothing else, it would be a lot easier for just two to slip in and out unnoticed.” Hirrus knew he suspected something else was going on. He would have to find a way to explain later, to keep him on his toes. For now, though, Malthus seemed satisfied to let it go.

Orinthal made a small sound that sounded like surprise. “Where are we going?”

Baemadis looked up at the moons in the sky. “West. Maybe, erm, a little bit towards southwest.”

“No, I mean, where did Teliise go?”

The group of men looked around. Her hawkstrider was still moving with the group, but in their chatter, they hadn’t noticed the mute member of the party was missing.

“Hm.” Hirrus said.

And then, abruptly, his horse was no longer under him. He looked up to see an unusually large kaliri tightly gripping his armor with its talons, beating its wings hard to build altitude with the large Forsaken in tow. He looked down at the ground dropping away, realizing that in the time it took him to assess the situation, he was already too high up to kill the bird. The fall would maybe not be fatal, but it would incapacitate him for too long.

“Hm.” He remarked into the darkness as the wind flew past him. After a moment, he added, “This is inconvenient.”

After a few moments of flight, the bird’s altitude levelled off, and it began to descend. He heard the voice before he struck the ground. “Very good, Keyran, now go, another! Another!” and the voice made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a squawk. Arakkoa. Of course it was Arakkoa.

The landing was hard despite the tall grass, and made harder by the bird trying to push off of Hirrus to leap up into the air again. Hirrus, however, had other plans. As soon as he felt ground beneath him - regardless of its velocity relative to himself - he twisted, lashing out with a claw. The pointed tips of his fingers found purchase in the soft underbelly of the bird and he grasped the spongy flesh tightly, fingertips sinking into the skin. His other hand came around and stabbed blindly into the darkness above himself, feeling the satisfying resistance of his blade meeting bird. He hacked wildly at the dark space where the resistance was, and was rewarded with panicked squawking and a dribble of liquid falling into his upturned face. The squawk was answered with angry voices in the night around him, and he released the wounded bird, letting it flop wildly on the ground, thrashing and lashing out with claws ineffectually scrabbling at his armor as he scrambled to his feet to face the arakkoa he knew were closing in.

He sensed them before he saw them. The knee-high grasses gave away some of the sound, but most of it was drowned out by the thrashing kaliri. He had his shield and sword out before the shadows around him resolved into the slouching shapes of advancing arakkoa.

The first one let loose an enraged shriek before pouncing. Hirrus found it ironic that it had allowed its anger to get the better of it, causing the creature to charge ahead of his fellows. He felt a mild empathy for the birdlike humanoid, since Hirrus’s own anger had caused him so much trouble. The Forsaken wondered, as that first arakkoa’s head rolled across the ground into the path of the downed kaliri’s thrashing talons, if he might have seemed so brash and impulsive to his enemies as the now-dead arakkoa had seemed to him in that moment.

The remainder of the group did not charge blindly. He had expected them to come at him as a group, but instead, they stayed a distance away, still shrouded in shadows, forming a loose circle around him, between fifteen to twenty of them in total.

“Lay down your weapons, Forsaken,” one of them growled. As one, their hands lit up with arcane fires. “And we will ensure your passing is swift and painless.”

“That is a terrible proposal.” Hirrus observed, rolling the shoulder of his shield arm.

“We cannot allow you or your allies to live. You have trespassed on our territory. Your corpses must decorate our boundaries to warn others away.”

Hirrus chuckled. “Well, then I cannot allow you or your allies to live. The individuals I travel with are under my protection. You have threatened them. Clearly, there’s only one way this can end.”

“Bravely said, warrior. Your skull will serve me well as a spell focus.”

“Bravely said yourself, arakkoa.” Hirrus replied, bending his knees slowly, lowering his center of gravity for a charge. “Your beak will serve me well as a toothpick.” He let the lips peel back from his teeth, arching his tongue up slowly to run over them.

Hirrus didn’t like his odds. He was confident that he could shred through them very quickly, but the question was whether or not his initial assault would be enough. If the initial barrage of spells from the group wasn’t enough to take him down, the fight was his. If, even after tearing four or five of them limb from limb, the spells were enough to slow him down, or force him to flinch, he wouldn’t be able to overcome the damage that sheer numbers offered them. If they were stopping to try and talk him down, it was because they weren’t sure which way it would go, either. That meant he just needed an edge. Just one small advantage would push him over into the realm of certainty.

One of the arakkoa made a soft squawk that may have been surprise. “Did you hear something?”

The group looked around.

The one who had spoken asked again. “Where did Lorokax go?”

Hirrus happened to be looking at the one who had spoken, and not the empty space where - presumably - Lorokax had been standing a moment before. The arakkoa who had spoken fell to the ground, vanishing under the knee high grass, a look of terror and confusion on his face right before it dropped out of sight. Hirrus saw two dots of fel-green light - eyes, Blood Elven eyes, in fact - poke above the dark of the grass. One of them flickered in a wink before both of them vanished.

Well. That was the edge he needed, he supposed.

“So.” Hirrus said, addressing the leader of the group. “I’m curious. How many did you leave to guard the blood elf you took before me?”

The arakkoa tilted his head at the question in confusion. He opened his beak to speak and was able to make a startled squawking noise as he was sucked under the grass as the other two had been. The remaining arakkoa made their own confused squawking noises, having actually seen it happen this time.

“Hm.” Hirrus supposed that ‘not enough’ was probably the best answer he was going to get.

The three who had vanished were mostly on one side of the circle of arakkoa. If the leader had been at the 12 o’clock position, the other two were at around 2 o’clock and 5 o’clock. Hirrus wanted to kill as many as possible as quickly as possible, so he charged in the opposite direction from the part of the circle with holes in it, towards 8 o’clock. When he hit the first one, it was looking down at its feet, as though it would be the next victim. It turned out that he was, but not from the direction he expected.

Hirrus collided with him shield first at top speed. The sound was less of a slam and more of a series of sickly crackling sounds. The broken body of the arakkoa hit the ground and bounced twice before coming to a rest. The mage to his left snapped its head to the source of the sound in time to see Hirrus’s sword as it came down in a direct hit to the skull, splitting it open, the feathered creature flapping its talonlike hands wildly as it fell to the ground, thrashing. Hirrus spun instinctively, felt a spell impact on his shield, and he pushed his rage against the spell itself, sending the energies spinning off and away. Presumably the spell would find something else to kill. The strangled squawk he heard shortly after told him it had.

Teliise leaped up out of the grass to his left, her staff whipping out as she flew through the air in a somersault. The staff slid through her hands easily, one end of it braced against her hip as the other end slapped into a hunched arakkoa’s back hump. Her sudden appearance and the skillful way she applied her entire airborne weight to the leverage offered by the length of wood sent the bird flat to the ground with a thud. The elf hit the ground shortly after, disappearing back under the tall grass, with none of the sound that accompanied the arakkoa’s fall. The grass shook suddenly for a moment, and then lay still. The feathered mage did not stand back up.

Hirrus felt a spell splash across his shoulders, the arcane power heating the plates of his armor up to stovetop-hot while the energy that managed to penetrate them seared his flesh with icy fire. He whirled, feeling the red tint come in around the edges of his vision. He fixed the nearest mage with a glare that caused it to falter in its next incantation, the spellfire wavering in its hands.

“Don’t stop now. You’ve already made a fatal mistake.” Hirrus snarled, stalking forward. “Go ahead. Make another. You’ll be just as dead when the sun rises.” His hand came up, his sword swatting an arrow out of the air without looking. Where did the arrow come from? It didn’t matter.

The arakkoa began to redouble its efforts to recover the spell it was casting, but too slowly. Hirrus’s foot smashed into the arakkoa’s knee, shattering the malformed creature’s bones like a sledgehammer against a chair made of woven cane. Hirrus’s sword came down hard onto the creature’s back before it had hit the ground, the force of it driving the broken knee into the ground even harder. The sound the creature made was less of a squawk and more of a sob. Blood poured from the deep cut Hirrus had left across its back, and the warrior was moving on to the next foe before the creature finished blacking out from the pain.

Teliise seemed to appear out of the air next to the foe Hirrus was heading towards, and her staff made five distinct impacts - knee, shoulder, kidney, groin, skull - in the time it took Hirrus to finish closing the distance. She quickly pointed off to the right, and Hirrus’s hand snapped up again, swatting another arrow as he looked in the direction she indicated - the source of the arrows, apparently.

More arakkoa were arriving, the commotion of their comrades drawing them out.

“Good.” Hirrus grinned, his tongue lashing a few times as he felt the red around his vision close in a little more. “Let’s get to know each other, Teliise.”

She shot him a playful grin, and her hand darted into her satchel. She pulled out a piece of paper and - quickly - dipped her finger into the blood that spattered across her face, scribbling onto the blank sheet a quick message she held up for him:

Now you’re speaking my language.

Malthus laughed, the sound like a dead man clapping. “Let’s put some faith in our guide, eh?”

Hirrus looked up at Teliise and tilted his head. “What’s on the road if we kept to it?”

Teliise shrugged, but offered no further response.

Orinthal was displeased with this answer. “I understand the merit to cutting unnecessary corners, but what if one of our mounts breaks its legs? Where would we be then?”

“Well,” Malthus supplied. “We wouldn’t be hungry, eh?” He grinned.

“Watch where your mount is putting his feet.” Hirrus said. “Didn’t your daddy teach you how to ride properly?”

The young man frowned. “Of course he did.”

Hirrus scoffed. “Of course he did indeed. He likely never taught you that riding is a partnership between man and horse. Any trained horse will carry you, but you need to look out for him if you want him to give a damn about whether you get to your destination or not.”

“What would you know about that?”

Hirrus snorted derisively. “I told you. I was a paladin. In my day, a paladin required his horse to charge a line of screaming orcs. Mutual trust is a sizable element of that. It was part of the training.”

“Hmph.” Orinthal turned his nose up. “I suppose some men might see a horse as their equal, and consider it a step up from their birth.”

Hirrus felt his lips peel back in a vicious grin, but he was able to turn away before Orinthal would see it. “Hm.” He allowed himself. He did not say, but thought rather loudly, You have no idea.

Teliise, at the head of the party, reigned in her hawkstrider and clapped her hands a couple of times to get the group’s attention. Ahead of them, there appeared to be an approaching swarm of ravagers - the strange, insect-like beasts native to outland. They had four spiny legs, and a torso that curved upwards from its legs like a scorpion’s tail, its toothy maw at the top of a muscular stalk, giving it a good range of motion for its spiky head and toothy maw.

“This is what happens when you go off the road.” Orinthal complained. “You get ravagers.”

Baemadis looked up from his book, absentmindedly marking his place as he fumbled it back into the veritable bookshelf he’d carried with him. “Actually, um, those are- appear to be Razorfang Ravagers. They, ah, are the smallest breed of Hellfire Ravagers. If we’d stayed to the road, any ravagers we would encounter would likely be Thornfang Ravagers. Much more dangerous. Uh, purple and more muscular. Not quite as fast-moving as this sort, though.”

“Riveting. Truly.” Malthus nodded to Baemadis as the group caught up with Teliise and came to a stop with her. The group began to dismount. Baemadis left his bookshelf packframe on his carpet, and Orinthal hung his own pack from the saddlehorn. Likely to free themselves up for combat.

Hirrus absently considered charging them, mounted, but he wasn’t properly equipped for it. Without a spear or lance, it was just fancy showmanship. He vaulted down off of his mount, making a quick trot out in front of the others as he readied his shield. He let the wrapped greataxe stay across his back. It was unlikely that he’d need it against this sort of opponent, but having it at hand was better than not.

“Well, at least we’re getting a warm-up, eh?” Malthus commented as the assembled casters shook their hands free from their various robes, warming up for the exertions to come. Notably, Teliise limped to the rear of the group, leaning heavily on her staff.

“Razorfang Ravagers are quick, but should be quickly dispatched. As long as their, erm, numbers don’t overwhelm us, we’ll be- should be fine.” Baemadis began weaving magic, directing it inward towards himself, an aura of purplish magic closing around him protectively.

“Considering we were all chosen to - potentially - aid in the fight against a powerful dreadlord, I think we have nothing to fear from the local wildlife, eh?” Malthus considered for a moment, before drawing dark energy inward towards himself, empowering his form with demonic energy.

Orinthal sighed. “I’m looking the other way only because your expertise in this field is helping us stop a greater evil. Don’t think this means I accept your filthy magics as a valid means of self-defense.” The priest, for his part, said a small prayer, beseeching the light to fortify the group.

Hirrus winced slightly at the feel of the light on his body. “Hm.”

The Ravagers began to charge in earnest, and Hirrus broke into a run to meet them. He bellowed a challenge to turn their focus onto him and away from the others as he slammed into the line of slavering monsters. There were dozens of them, possibly scores, their chomping mouths at the same height as Hirrus’s head as they snapped hungrily at him. Hirrus’s shield turned aside a rain of blows from the group before he could set his feet fully and bring his sword to bear as he laid about with it randomly, yelling loudly and thrashing about with sword and shield. While Hirrus was comfortable with eviscerating enemies alone, he knew his role when there were others about. He was one of the toughest adventurers he’d ever met, and doubly so with this group of spellcasters. All he had to do was keep their teeth, claws, and spikes bouncing off his armor and shield rather than puncturing the robes of his companions. Their magic was supposed to do the rest.

Hirrus actually became somewhat worried when there were no immediate explosions. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Baemadis and Malthus furiously casting, pointing from ravager to ravager in quick succession as their lips blurred. Orinthal held his hands ready, focusing on Hirrus, but had not yet cast anything.

The glance earned Hirrus a cruel chomp onto his armored sword-arm, binding it and causing the ravagers to surge in on him. A quick sweep of his shield scattered many of them, though the rest became a flurry of jaws snapping at his head and torso. Most of them scrabbled against his armor uselessly, and he had to lean back to keep his face on the front of his head rather than in bloody strips in a beast’s teeth.

However, his shifted weight along with the weight of the press of hungry ravagers forced him to stumble back. He kept his feet under him, but they surged onwards, forcing him back further. He shifted his stance, forcing himself to the left, effectively circling around the group instead of leading them back into his allies. The change it motion let him see - at last - what his companions were doing.

In lieu of casting large destructive spells, the both of them were spreading afflictions around the group. Some of them had a cloying shadow blackness clinging to them, eating away at them from within. Others had a purple glow searing at their carapace, occasional bolts of purple energy jolting to those who drew too close - and amid the clustered chaos that chased after Hirrus, the press was close enough that the bolts flew between them quickly.

“Come on, then. Whenever you two are done dicking around.” Hirrus heard Orinthal’s exasperated voice.

“I wanted this to be a warm-up, eh?” Malthus called. “Hirrus! Are you feeling the burn yet?”

“S-sorry, I guess.” Baemadis stuttered. “I was, uh, curious about what you all were capable of, so, um, I didn’t want it to end too quickly.”

“Big words, elf. How about you put your magic where your mouth is, eh?” Malthus laughed.

“Well then…” Baemadis began carefully channelling power. Around the edge of the swarm of Ravagers, Hirrus saw blue-purple lightning spread from his hands across his body. Before Hirrus saw anything else, the swarm of ravagers surged forward, forcing Hirrus to turn his focus to his shield, whipping it around wildly to catch the multitude of attacks coming down on him.

“Whoa!” He heard someone shout. He couldn’t tell who. However, as he continued to circle back around the swarm, he could feel their numbers thin. He couldn’t see around the snapping maws of the creatures, but the press of them was less urgent. He intuited that there were fewer pushing in from the back. Hirrus was able to hold his footing against the tide again.

As the swarm thinned, Hirrus was able to see a blaze of purple light through the mass of Ravagers. The swarm seemed to lose cohesion as the numbers seemed to dip below whatever critical number was needed for them to bundle up as a giant mass of slavering maws, and self-preservation began to come into their minds again.

The remaining ravagers scattered, and Hirrus could see Baemadis still infused with blue-purple lightning, purple orbs flying from his hands at a lightning pace, each one blasting a hole the size of Hirrus’s head into carapaced flesh wherever it impacted. When the group broke apart, Baemadis fell to one knee, panting as the electric energy faded. He panted heavily.

“Well.” Malthus remarked. “Remind me not to goad you like that again. I was hoping to have some fun myself, eh?”

A few of the scattering Ravagers whose flight from the battle brought them nearer to the casters sensed weakness, and circled back towards the group, the trio narrowing in on Baemadis. Hirrus instinctively hurled his sword, sending it tumbling in a high arc to cover the considerable distance that Hirrus couldn’t have made on foot. The sword came down on one of them, catching it in the middle of its torso. It must have hit something vital, because a heavy squirt of green ichor sprayed out around the blade and the creature fell to the ground bonelessly.

Malthus waved his hands wildly at the pair of them, and shadowy energies gathered around them, eating away at their carapaces, seeping into the cracks to inflict further damage, but it was going to be too slow. Given that Orinthal’s contribution was to build holy energies in his hands, starting his spell far, far too late for it to be useful, it seemed like nothing was going to spare the mage a vicious ravaging.

Teliise seemed to appear next to the exhausted mage. Or was she there already, but he hadn’t noticed? Her staff came around, and Hirrus learned more about her in those two seconds than he’d learned about any of the remainder of the party in the entire time he’d been with them.

Her strikes were precise. Calculated. She held it like a weapon, her hands a little more than shoulder width apart in the middle of the staff. In one smooth sweep, she caught one oncoming Ravager right below the eye as she brought it around, the impact catching it hard enough to crack the carapace and twist its neck around hard enough to send it flat to the ground.

However, she didn’t want it to look that way. While her balance and footwork were that of a seasoned fighter, she carried a wobble in her shoulders and hips that made it look like she was flailing wildly.

The follow-through from her first strike was made carefully, measured so that the base of her staff hit the ground, driving the end of the wood hard into the dirt. The follow-through also put the point of it in the path of the other ravager. As Teliise abandoned her footing to reinforce the illusion that the swing was an off-balance desperate attack, her off-foot coming up off the ground, the ravager ran full-force into the other end of the staff, the creature’s own momentum impaling itself fatally.

Teliise hit the ground, looked up with surprise written all over her face, and scrabbled away from the bleeding corpses.

Orinthal jogged over to her. “Wow!” he said. “Are you alright?” The worry in his voice brought on by Teliise’s expression of fear and panic.

Hirrus, however, was not convinced. There was more - much more - to this elf than she wanted them to know.

---

The group moved on quickly, before another swarm of ravagers came through - or before the one they’d just fought could regroup and come back. As they passed into Terokkar forest, they eased up on their pace to allow those with living mounts to avoid exhausting them.

Hirrus brooded during most of the ride, and tried to maintain a careful position among the group. He wanted to distance himself from the various spellcasters - especially Orinthal - to try and avoid being drawn into a conversation. He also wanted to stay between them and Teliise, to satisfy his newfound distrust for the strange scarred elf. He also wanted to stay far enough away from her to make sure he had time to react if she tried something. His mind tried to replay that scene again. Had she been standing next to Baemadis before the struck? Or was she far faster and sneakier than he would believe possible for anyone, let alone for a woman with a limp as bad as the one she’d been faking since he’d first seen her.

He had to admit, though. That was a solid attack. The lines of the motion replayed in his mind, and he wasn’t sure he could have pulled off such a smooth attack so deftly, even if he wasn’t splitting his focus to try and look like a fumbling buffoon.

The most obvious tell was her footwork, but there was still something that could not be coincidence. The ravager had impaled its chitinous plates on a blunt end of an ordinary walking staff. She’d set the other end of the staff in the dirt to take the impact of the charge. Why hadn’t the staff bounced off to one side or the other? Or just dug a furrow in the dirt with its other end? Teliise had struck the ground with enough force to bury it in the dirt. It didn’t just plant there by accident. She drove it in in deeply so that it would provide enough resistance to impale the beast rather than being a glancing blow or small hinderance.

Even now, he could see that she held the staff, one end still wet with Ravager Ichor, and the other end had a dusting of red dirt that went much farther than it should have if the staff had landed there by luck, as she had intended it to appear.

Hirrus decided to err on the side of caution, keeping his distance from their guide, and Malthus - having failed to bring Baemadis out of his books for a chat - tried his hand at engaging Hirrus instead.

“So, Hirrus. That was some fine swordwork back there, eh?”

“Not really.” Hirrus let the answer hang, saying nothing further.

“Well, I thought it was pretty well done. Quite admirable the way you charged fearlessly into that many foes, eh?”

“I suppose.”

Pause.

“I can see how you survived the cultists attacks, though. You’re quite good with that shield! I imagine you gave them some good fights. Some maybe worthy of song, eh?”

“Not really.”

Pause.

Malthus frowned. “They came at me in groups, as a matter of fact. I kept throwing magic at them and leading them on a chase until it wore them down enough they let me go. Every attack started near Undercity, but ended with me having kited them across the countryside, sometimes halfway to Ironforge before they gave up!”

“Hm.”

Pause.

Malthus gestured with his hand, indicating for Hirrus to say something.

The silence extended.

“So. How did you deal with your attackers?” Malthus asked, sounding mildly exasperated.

“I didn’t. I was never directly confronted. Attacks came from nowhere, pinning me down in my home. I couldn’t get out. Letters and packages were dropped at my doorstep that exploded in my face with poison, fire, and acid.”

“Harrowing.” Malthus nodded. “The attacks were targeted towards our individual weaknesses. I couldn’t seek help because by the time I got back to Undercity, I was attacked again, and driven miles and miles out into the wilderness, while a similar physical confrontation with you would have been suicide for them.” He scratched his chin. “How did you eventually escape?”

“A legitimate letter came from Forsaken Command, delivered by courier. When I left, they did not attack me as they had before. I imagine Deathstalkers had been dispatched to cover my trip to the city, but I didn’t see anything.”

Malthus laughed. “Well, I imagine if you did, they wouldn’t be Deathstalkers. Quite a skilled bunch, they are.”

“Yes.”

“But you ever try to talk to one of them?” Malthus laughed. “An odd bunch, eh?”

Hirrus furrowed his brow. “Perhaps you should say such things a little quieter.” He leaned towards Malthus, letting a little twinge of anger tint his voice. “As I understand it, they have very good hearing and very long knives.”

Malthus chuckled nervously, managing to not lean way from Hirrus. “I mean no disrespect towards them, of course. I mean, they did sort of save your life, eh? They’re just a bit... “ He paused. “Their job requires a different thought process than normal folk, eh? That’s all I’m saying.”

“Hm.” Hirrus settled back into his saddle, and said nothing more.

After a long pause. “Were you a Deathstalker? You don’t seem the type.”

Hirrus shook his head. “Deathguard. I’ve known a few Deathstalkers, though. If pressed, I might call them friends.”

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean to insult your friends. Just trying to make conversation, eh? I like knowing the people I travel with.”

No doubt to use the knowledge against them if your survivability requires it. Hirrus thought but did not say. Instead, he allowed himself a pensive. “Hm.” He glanced over at Teliise, riding ahead of the group, leading them along a game trail next to a river, supposedly to a ford in the river that would allow them to cross the river without passing through a town where they might be spotted. “Perhaps in some cases, conversation isn’t the best way to get to know someone.”

“What do you mean?” He glanced over at Teliise. “Ah, well, perhaps sometimes physical boundaries present a challenge, eh?”

Hirrus arched his eyebrow at Malthus, “I wasn’t talking about her.” He spurred his mount gently, urging it forward to put more distance between Malthus and himself, instead riding closer to Teliise. She may be an unknown danger, but the danger of allowing a warlock to pry personal information from him through conversation was one he was unwilling to deal with. Also, it would have been painfully annoying.

And if she did become hostile… His mind replayed her practiced stance and footwork as she swung her staff. He licked his upper lip.

Hirrus’s father had remarried shortly before the Culling of Stratholme, with the explicit purpose of producing an heir who would more appropriately carry on his legacy within the church. However, the Culling - and Hirrus’s demise - happened before an heir was conceived. The existence of a young Callabryn indicated that his father had indeed fathered another child. More than that, it indicated that he had survived escaping Stratholme, something Hirrus had never been entirely sure of.

Hirrus tried to shake off the scowl, but his anger was not sated. “This is something of a surprise. I’m not sure if I’m prepared to deal with this…” He waved his hand, searching for the word as though it were hanging in the air. “Conceptually, much less… Physically. In person.”

“You have fifteen minutes.” The Dark Ranger said as she led them up to the portal to Hellfire Peninsula. She handed him a folder. “This contains the remainder of your briefing. Use it as an excuse to dawdle, if you need the time. But the sooner the team begins the trek, the better. They should be waiting for you in Thrallmar. You have a long walk ahead of you with these companions. I advise you do what you can to make it as pleasant as possible.” She gave him a salute. “Shadow Hide You.”

He saluted back more on reflex than anything else. “Beware The Living.” He heard a sarcastic twinge in it that the ranger did not miss.

---

Hellfire Peninsula was largely unchanged since his last visit. It was red and dusty and covered in demons. His horse’s hooves ate the distance between the portal and Thrallmar easily, giving Hirrus time to think.

The remainder of the briefing provided mostly information he had intuited. A cult to Mal’Ganis had arisen in Outland, and was seeking a way to bring him back. Being slain with Frostmourne had not been a permanent death, and had banished him from the material plane for an unknown number of centuries. The cult sought a way to bypass the time restriction, and bring him back now, when many powerful individuals were vulnerable to emotional manipulation. The remainder of his party included a blood elf named Teliise - the guide for the party - the blood elf mage, who was called Baemadis, and a Forsaken Warlock named Malthus. And Orinthal made it five.

Hirrus spent most of his ride brooding, only actively thinking about how to handle Orinthal once Thrallmar came into view. The fact of the matter was that Hirrus was an only child. More than that, he had never known much family. He had loved his mother dearly, and losing her had hurt him. He was an only child whose father was distant and callous. What would it be like to have a brother? What even was a brother? A sparring partner? An ally? A rival? Considering these things as a dead man was confusing. It was only made worse by the suddenness and immediacy. To also have to keep a grip on his own anger while facing down a cult trying to resurrect the being most directly responsible for his death was another complication.

As he rode up to the gates of Thrallmar, he resolved to make as little confrontation of this matter as possible. Stopping Mal’Ganis was the highest priority. If his brother only knew him as an undead warrior tasked with his protection, perhaps the whole operation could go smoothly. More than that, it would give Hirrus time to determine what sort of man his brother was. Was he the perfect son his Father had wanted? Or was he another misfit, thrown away in this gambit? At the end of the mission, he could decide whether or not to approach Orinthal, or to let him go.

Hirrus dismounted outside the inn, and tried to steel himself for what he would encounter inside.

Suffice to say, not much can prepare you for coming face-to-face with a near-doppleganger of your tormentor, sitting at a bar and looking up at you as you walk in the door.

Hirrus knew Orinthal immediately. The wide cheekbones, deep brow, and strong jawline gave him his father’s face. Orinthal’s hair was the same dark shade as his father’s was in Hirrus’s memory, though Hirrus had known his father’s hair was already gray when he’d last seen him. Memory remembered what he looked like when Hirrus was a child, not when he was grown. Orinthal had a similar build to their father; broad-shouldered and tall. It showed Hirrus the things he himself had inherited from his mother - Hirrus’s strong chin had been from his mother’s line, matching that of his maternal grandfather, while Orinthal’s was not so prominent. Hirrus’s hair had also been incredibly thick and heavy, like that of his mother, while Orinthal’s was thinner and smoother, more well-behaved. Hirrus’s eyes had also been from his mother, a stormy grayish tint, where Orinthal’s were their father’s eyes exactly, a striking blue. Whatever features came from Orinthal’s mother were invisible to Hirrus in that moment. It could have been his father a decade earlier than his earliest memory of him. A spectre of the man who had made Hirrus into the damaged creature he was today just as surely as Mal’Ganis and Arthas had their own roles.

Hirrus stared openly, shock keeping all expression off his face.

“No, friend,” A forsaken’s clawed hand patted his pauldron jovially. “I’m afraid that isn’t lunch. The catering for this trip isn’t quite so generous.” Hirrus looked over at the forsaken, momentarily lost between reality and memory. The forsaken’s face was well-preserved, allowing him to give a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s our party member. Quite progressive, eh? A couple of the undead side-by-side with what we used to be? Almost poetic, given our goal, eh?”

Hirrus blinked a few times, and then nodded.

“Why do you stare at me, Forsaken?” Orinthal demanded. “If you think to take a bite out of me, I’m afraid you’ve come ill-equipped for the task. And if you think you could take me easily in a fight, you’d find yourself sorely mistaken-”

Hirrus’s legs hurled his body forward without him consciously giving them permission. Before Orinthal could react, the barstool kicked out from under him. Hirrus caught the young man - young man? He was the same age Hirrus had been when he died - before he hit the ground, spun him into a hip throw that ended with Orinthal’s feet on the floor. The Forsaken spun him around, and shoved him down into a shorter chair at one of the tables. Hirrus’s sword found itself impaled in the wood of the chair’s back, the flat of the blade against the young priest’s cheek. Hirrus grabbed Orinthal’s hands, pinning them to the arms of the chair, and leaned in close.

“Do not, now or ever, doubt my ability, young Callabryn.” Hirrus rasped. “If you think you could come out of a fight with me alive, you’ll find yourself worse than mistaken.” Hirrus’s tongue arched up, running slowly over his teeth, drawing Orinthal’s eyes down to the wreck of the lower half of his face. “You’d find yourself like me.”

“Unhand me, abomination.” Orinthal said slowly. There was very real fear in his eyes, but there was steel in his spine. He didn’t flinch back from the undead horror hunched over him.

Hirrus’s hand flashed up, slapping the priest in the face, causing his other cheek to impact against the cold blade embedded in the chair. By the time Orinthal had recovered from the strike, Hirrus was sitting at the bar, sword at his hip again.

“Why were you staring?” Orinthal said carefully, his eyes had an expression of calculation and irritation that Hirrus recognized instantly.

Hirrus waved the bartender away. “I was a Paladin of the Silver Hand.”

“So? What?”

“You look exactly like your father.” Hirrus said flatly.

Orinthal puffed out his chest slightly. “Thank you.” That was something his father had taught him. Make an insult into a compliment.

Hirrus let it drop, staring at the bar for a minute. His brother had strength. Bravery, even. But he was his father’s son in ways Hirrus never was. Hirrus wondered if it was enough, though. Would his father be happy to have his own little clone? Or would it not be a good enough likeness? Was ‘better’ good enough?

He looked down at his hands on the bar. It had felt right. Roughing him up a little. Establishing dominance. Was that a more natural response to his anger? Or a fraternal instinct? Now that the shock of seeing his own kin was starting to wear off, he wasn’t sure.

“The others are upstairs, meditating or sleeping or combing their ears or whatever. Elf business, eh?” The warlock said. Malthus. Malthus was his name. Hirrus would have to try to remember. “An odd pair, they are. He’s a bit… Unbalanced, and she’s… Well, there’s no explaining her.”

“Hm.”

“Orinthal, please, do us a favor and run up and fetch them, eh? I think I could take the opportunity to have a chat with our new friend and make sure we’re all set to go. You know these Warrior, types. I’ll make sure he’s had some help sounding out the big words in the briefing, eh?” Malthus waved Orinthal towards the stairs.

The priest stood, still wary, and didn’t take his focus off of Hirrus. “Yes, soonest begun, soonest done. The earlier we can leave, the sooner I can be finished dealing with all of you filthy-” Hirrus stood up, and the sudden movement interrupted Orinthal’s insult, but the young man didn’t flinch.

“You’d best get moving, eh?” Malthus advised. “I’m sure we all just need a moment - maybe a drink? - to calm down. Go fetch the elves. As you say, the sooner we leave, the sooner we can all go our separate ways.”

Orinthal paused a moment, to ensure that no further challenge was forthcoming, before snorting derisively and storming off to head upstairs to retrieve the remainder of their party.

Malthus was on Hirrus in an instant, all pleasantry gone as he grasped the seams of Hirrus’s armor to yank him around face-to-face. “What is wrong with you, boy?” He snarled, his joviality gone. “One cut on that boy is worth more coin than your miserable life. If I see you touch him again for any purpose other than to remove him from harm’s way, I’ll hit you with enough demonic energy to make your entire body look like your face below the mouth. Are we clear?”

Hirrus glowered, the rage within him building again already. “Crystal. Now any part of you that you would like to keep should stop touching me immediately.”

Malthus released the warrior, dusting off his hands as he stepped away. “Now, we’re not going to have any problems, are we?”

“I imagine we’re going to have quite a number of them.” Hirrus narrowed his eyes. “But I will try to keep my focus on resolving the ones related to the mission before I turn my focus to anything… Personal.”

“Good man.” Malthus nodded. “Business first. We deal with this problem. We come together against a common foe, eh?” The joviality seemed to leak back into him.

“Yes. Tell me, what did the briefing say about me?”

“Well, it just gave your name, profession, some nonsense about you receiving some special training to adequately prepare you for the mission… Nothing specific. Worried we may know some dirty secrets, eh?” Malthus tested the waters with a playful elbow jab.

“Just my first name.” Hirrus remarked. “Not my family name?”

Malthus blinked. “No. Seems not. Not terribly odd, though. The guide, Teliise, hers is just her first name. Mine as well.” He shrugged. “It seems more odd that Orinthal and Baemadis’s are on there than that ours aren’t.” He furrowed his brow. “That may be worth investigating later, eh?”

“After the mission, I imagine you might be allowed to engage in whatever research you want.” Hirrus shrugged, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

“I might do that.” Malthus smiled. “I imagine it might be enlightening about at least one of our party.”

Hirrus turned back to the bar. “And what do you mean by that?”

Malthus chuckled, nodding towards the stairs. “You’ll find out in a moment.” He waved at the group of living humanoids descending the stairs. “Teliise! Baemadis! Glad to see you in the land of the living at last, eh? I sent Orinthal up to see that you two didn’t sleep through the start of our adventure together.”

“Erh. Yes. Quite.” The tall elf said. He was taller than Orinthal by a few inches, but he was slouching, putting him closer to the priest’s height. Dark hair and wiry limbs, and a true scholar’s build. He had a fairly well-used pack frame on his back, holding what looked more like a bookshelf than a trail pack. “Glad to see you’ve arrived, then… Hyrus? Was that right?” He looked at Orinthal, who shrugged, straightening his much more conventional-looking pack on his own back. “No. Then. Sorry. I’m close, though, right?”

“Hirrus.” Malthus supplied. He urged Hirrus out of his seat. “So we’re all packed and ready to go? The rest of the introductions can take place on the walk then, eh?” The forsaken warlock gathered up his own pack, which looked more like an oversized scroll case than anything else.

Hirrus turned his attention to the second elf, mildly concerned that she had faded into the background in the exchange. Teliise was slim, with toned muscles that fit with his expectations of an overland guide. However, the heavy limp she shuffled with, supporting herself with a staff, threw him off. She looked up and met his gaze, her hair parting to reveal her face. She was covered in scars, though beneath them Hirrus could see she had once been fairly pretty for an elf. Her own pack was a reasonable satchel, but it sagged under the weight of its contents.

The quintet left the inn, and prepared their mounts. Orinthal seemed quite proud of his warhorse. It was a stout mount, covered in plate that looked almost as protective as it was ornamental. Hirrus suppressed the urge to scoff at it. He took his own horse by the reins and pulled its large head to face him. Hirrus looked the beast in one eye, and then the other.

“Listen, horse. No flying on this trip. We stay on the ground. Got it?” The horse made that strange echoing nickering sound it made sometimes, which Hirrus took for an affirmative. “Good.” It stomped its flickering green hooves impatiently as Hirrus clambered onto it.

“Very nice ride, Hirrus.” Malthus remarked, sidling up on a steed that was obviously demonic, a horse half-aflame and horned. “How do you get a… Flaming zombie horse?”

“Hm.” Hirrus declined to answer. “How long do you suppose this trip will be?” He adjusted the wrapped greataxe on his back. “I want to be sure I brought enough feed.”

Malthus chuckled. “How about you ask our guide, eh?” He pointed to Teliise as she slid up the side of her own mount - a hawkstrider - with grace that didn’t match her earlier limp.

Hirrus angled his horse to ride next to her as the group began to make their way toward the gates to begin their quest in earnest.

“Teliise, right?” Hirrus asked.

She acknowledged him with a glance, but said nothing.

“How long do you expect this trip will take?”

She shrugged. She held up five fingers, and then arranged her reins a little and held her other hand up to add four more to it.

“Nine?”

She waved her hand noncommittally.

“Days?” He asked, incredulous.

Her shoulders shook silently, and she shook her head.

“Hours?”

Still shaking with silent laughter, she nodded. The amused grin on her face didn’t extend beyond her lips.

“Will we stop to camp?”

She shrugged, and made a noncommittal gesture.

“Hm.”

Teliise said nothing else. Hirrus suddenly had a sense that this was the most ironic conversation that he’d ever had in his entire existence. Rather than let it rest, he had to complete the circle.

“You don’t talk much.” He observed.

She tilted her head back, and tapped her throat with a finger. The twin scars there were from a wound that, in any circumstance, would have been mortal. It raised his opinion of her considerably that she had survived whatever had inflicted it.

“Hm.”

Teliise said nothing else.

He glanced over at the other three, noting that Baemadis was seated on a flying carpet, his pack laid out so that he could flip through thick tomes he’d brought along instead of paying attention to where he was going. Malthus had sidled up close, and was leaning over, somewhere between reading over the elf’s shoulder, and trying to engage him in conversation. Orinthal was riding his pristine warhorse a bit away from the rest of the group, his eyes carefully keeping the rest of the group in view. He did a poor job of suppressing a sneer when he met Hirrus’s eyes. Hirrus hoped he did a better job of disguising his own disgust and horror at seeing his Father’s face in every line of the younger man.

He looked back over at Teliise. She was watching the road as they travelled, but her hand danced absently over her pack as it hung at her side, outlining what looked to be a small book pressed against the side of the fabric.

He considered, for a moment, the blessed silence, the uninterrupted rolling thump of their mounts’ feet.

Lesh’s cheek muscles twitched in what would likely have been a smile if she had lips. It was comforting to see her dressed in her Deathstalker uniform, as it indicated that she had been sent here on business, and not to try and strongarm a favor out of him.

“High Executor Darthalia sent me to see you off.” Lesh confirmed. “She’s stayed appraised of your situation, but is unfortunately too busy to make the trip herself. She wanted to express regret about the time you spent under attack. If she’d known you had been on the list that was leaked, she would have sent help. She also offers her apologies.”

“Apologies?”

“She’s the one who suggested your name be on the list in the first place.” Lesh paused, tilting her head to draw out the precise memory. “Though it was your loyalty and competence that kept you on the list as long as it was, it was her who put you in that situation.”

“You can tell her I forgive her, if that’s what she sent you for. I appreciate her honesty.” Hirrus took note of a wrapped bundle leaning against the wall on the other side of Lesh’s chair. “Was there another reason she sent you?”

Lesh’s cheeks twitched in what might have been a smile if she had lips to shape one. “She wanted me to deliver a gift to you. As congratulations. To help ensure your success on the mission.” She reached back and offered him the package. It was heavy, long and slim. Hirrus’s mind immediately identified it as a weapon, but he tried not to get his hopes up. The last time he’d seen Lesh, he’d broken through a Worgen ambush’s skirmish line using a dining table. In his hands, ‘weapon’ was an unusually broad category.

He examined the wrappings carefully as he pulled the bundle into his lap. It was wrapped in leather with a strap that would let him sling it over his shoulder to carry on his back. The wrapping was well-tailored leather, concealing enough of the shape, but holding it securely and tightly, such that it would not shift or rub within the casing. Hirrus hesitated as he held his hand over the leather strips that knotted to hold the casing closed. When Lesh offered no complaint, he unfastened the ties, unwrapping it and peeling it off of the item inside.

It was indeed a weapon. A greataxe. Hirrus instantly liked it. Many greataxes are just giant hunks of metal on a stick, unbalanced to the point of near-uselessness, often covered with unnecessary spike, and, on extremely rare occasions, actually sharpened like a reasonable light-damned weapon ought to be. But not this one. This one was simple. A well crafted head on a well-made haft. It was straightforward and functional. Properly sharpened, and he could feel from the way it rested across his knees that it was balanced for combat. It would do what he asked of it, and that was all he required from a weapon.

On closer examination, though, the work of a master blacksmith at the pinnacle of their craft emerged to his eyes. The lateral symmetry of the head was absolute perfection. The curve under the weapon’s single blade was shallow enough that it would be difficult for an opponent to use it for purchase to disarm, but it was sufficient to use as a hook to trip unbalance a foe. The head was wide enough to use as an impromptu shield, and would provide enough cover to shield his head from a hail of arrows, if he trusted his armor to protect the rest of his body. Instead of a full second blade on the back end, the poll of the axehead extended and was sharpened, looking more like the head of an adze or pick than an axe.

The handle of the axe was a masterpiece in itself. twice times down the handle, there was a metal band holding together a splice in the wood, where the type of wood used in the handle changed. The wood was slightly paler, a lighter stock down along the shoulder until about a hand’s-width below where a skilled wielder would grip. Most of the remaining handle was a darker, heavier stock, giving it strength and durability, should the belly of the handle be needed to block a blade. Down on the throat of the handle, a band changed it to wood that was darker still. The bottom grip, and the knob of the handle was all a blackish wood that was heavy as stone. The weight would balance the weapon perfectly. The balance would offer much better control over the path of the head of the axe.

Hirrus hesitated for a moment, realizing that he’d just spent several long moments just running his hands over the weapon. A feeling of discomfort tried to form in his chest, but when he looked over at Lesh, there was no judgement in her expression, and the feeling could find no purchase.

“Thank you.” Hirrus said at last. “This is a fantastic weapon. I shall do my best to do it justice. Who made it?”

“Guillaume Sorouy in Silverpine. She sent me on a number of errands to gather materials. The High Executor bid me to do what was necessary to ensure the axe was of the highest quality.” Her tone held a small amount of pride. “The metal for the head was a challenge, but I think you may appreciate knowing that the weapon you wield is partially constructed from the melted-down armor of an Alliance Paladin.”

“Hm.” Hirrus ran his hands over the blade carefully. He didn’t feel anything special about it. No holy energies or magic. That didn’t mean that Lesh was lying, but it indicated that perhaps the use of a paladin’s armor was more symbolic than functional. “That is good to know.” He met Lesh’s eyes. “Thank you for your part in its construction. I will make certain it sees enough use to merit the effort put into making it.”

Lesh’s cheeks twitched in what was probably a lipless smile. There was a long moment of silence between them.

“Hirrus.” It was the voice of a Dark Ranger with a clipboard. He blinked a few times, looking up. “We depart in a few minutes. Do you have everything you need?”

He looked down at the armor on his chest, the sword on his hip, and the axe in his lap. The familiar weight of his shield still clung to his back. “I suppose I do.” He set about re-wrapping the greataxe to use the packaging as a protective sheath.

He froze when he felt Lesh’s hand on his arm. “Hirrus.”

He slowly turned to look at her. “Lesh?”

“Would you do me a favor?” She asked. There was uncertainty flickering behind her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Don’t die.”

Hirrus nodded, feeling his upper lip curl into the top half of a smile. “That,” he said. “Sounds like fantastic advice. I will strive to do that for you.”

The edges of her cheeks twitched in a lipless smile.

Hirrus looked down at the axe, tying off the wrappings. He didn’t bother looking back up at Lesh. She was already gone, just as silently as she’d come.

---

The portals to the Hellfire Peninsula were the only remaining paths to Outland ever since the shenanigans the Draenic orcs had pulled with the Dark Portal. The Dark Ranger walked with him, and began to brief him on the mission.

“The cult is centered in Shadowmoon Valley. However, they have a reasonably powerful hold over the skies in the area around the Altar of Shadows. They require the power of that place to enact whatever ritual they plan on carrying out.” She began. “So you will be unable to fly in to handle them. In fact, our intelligence indicates that their air patrols cover the entire region, making it inadvisable to fly there, or you will entirely surrender the element of surprise. One of your team members is a guide. She has the fieldcraft knowledge to get the team there, and she knows the way reasonably well.” The ranger paused a moment. “I believe you and her will get along quite well. You both have similar interests when it comes to conversation.” The undead elf allowed herself a chuckle. “The three other members of the team have been hand-picked to interfere with the cult’s magics. A mage, a warlock, and… A priest. Unfortunately, the mages and priests we could spare for the mission were hit hardest by the cultist’s attacks. We’ve been forced to… Outsource a bit.”

Hirrus arched an eyebrow. “Outsource.”

“Yes.” The Dark ranger’s expression betrayed some small amount of discomfort. “The mage was sent from Silvermoon, a blood elf who we have had success employing before.”

Hirrus could feel the scowl cross his face before he’d made the conscious decision to make it. “...And the priest?”

She sighed. “Human.” She confirmed. “We were able to impress the importance of this mission upon some of the more discreet clergymen, and acquired the services of a specialist. During this time of fighting against a common enemy, this is a fine opportunity to develop some trust. The Dark Lady herself has guaranteed his protection, and promised a great deal of restitution to his family should he come to harm. You are to protect him as you would the Banshee Queen herself.”

Hirrus felt the scowl deepen. Deep within his mind, the bottomless well of rage began to simmer. “His family.” He said at last. “What is his name.”

The ranger sighed deeply. “This is… Admittedly, this is a very… Unfortunate turn of events. Please understand that you need to work with him.”

“Tell me his name.” His tone left no room for misinterpretation. It was not a request.

“Orinthal.”

Hirrus felt like he’d been slapped. “His last name.”

The dark ranger closed her eyes, finally admitting. “Callabryn.”

Orinthal had been the name of Hirrus’s grandfather, who had died when he was young. He had faint memories of the funeral. This Orinthal Callabryn was a promising young priest being tasked with a mission that was extremely dangerous, but could potentially be extremely rewarding and prestigious.

Orinthal Callabryn could only be one man:

Hirrus furrowed his brow. “Forcing air through my lungs causes me to become very introspective.”

The pandaren gave him a sidelong glance before he started walking, motioning for Hirrus to follow. “I meant from your sha possession.”

Hirrus tilted his head. “I learned much about the fighting style you monks practice. It is very well-suited to dealing with enemies who behave like feral animals. I must infer that you have another style for dealing with more martially-focused foes, as the mantids are more militaristic.”

The doorman rolled his eyes. “Your anger. What did you learn about your anger?”

“Hm.” Hirrus paused. They approached a staircase that led back up to the catwalks that clung to the walls. “The sha did not turn my anger against me, as I expected. They supplant it. My will was compromised, but because I am so accustomed to embracing my anger, I did not notice until it did something that made no logical sense.” He tilted his head, looking down at the pandaren. “I did not even notice when it was behaving counter to my usual actions. For example, I could have killed you easily.”

The doorman furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

“If I had handled the fight more deliberately, as I usually do, I could have broken through your guard. If I had maintained the strong fundamentals that were drilled into me since youth, I would have had the proper stance to make those strikes hurt. If what was driving me was truly my own rage, I would not have overextended, and you could not have thrown me through the wall.” Hirrus paused. “And I did not notice any of that until afterwards. I may have continued flailing at you like a dumb beast for hours were it not for that bite.”

The doorman sighed. “I meant your anger. What did you learn about your anger?”

“Hm.” Hirrus frowned. There was a long pause as they climbed the stairs. “You want me to say that I learned that if I don’t control my anger, it will control me. But I’d bet I’ve known that longer than you have. You had documentation about my career and history from Undercity, so you should know that.”

“Then why,” The dorman smirked. “Would I want you to say that?”

“I’m… Hm.” Hirrus vaguely remembered something someone had said to him recently. “Knowing about a flaw doesn’t protect you from it.”

The doorman nodded. “I believe you never had reason to care before about controlling your anger. In circumstances where you lose control, you are generally in a situation where your anger is constructive.”

The warrior considered this point. “There have been times when I have been angry and it would not be helpful.”

“And what did you do?”

“I pushed it down.” Hirrus said. There was a pause. “Although, that was not me controlling it.” The doorman gestured with a hand for him to continue. “In such situations, I become uncomfortable and irritable, but I am forcing my rage down. Trying to squelch it.”

“And how do you feel about how those situations resolved?”

Hirrus thought for a moment about a woman who had been reduced to ash for no reason besides Hedva having stepped away from the interrogation. How the warlocks who had murdered her had never felt retribution besides an exasperated rebuke. A pile of ashes he’d buried himself, promising ‘never again’ while even then he knew he could not keep that promise. “Not great.”

The doorman stopped at a door off of the catwalk, motioning Hirrus inside. The small room had few furnishings. A spartan bed - more of a cot, really - with a short dresser at the foot of it. There were some clothes laid out and an armor stand in the corner. Hirrus’s sword laid on a small table by the door.

“Here is where you will be staying. Hopefully the accommodations aren’t too ascetic for you.”

“Hm.” Hirrus mused, unsure if he should point out that it’s nicer than his home.

“Think about what we’ve talked about. We’ll speak again tomorrow.”

---

BETWEEN SIX AND EIGHT WEEKS PASS BECAUSE THIS IS SOME REALLY INTERESTING SPACE FOR ME TO EXPLORE IN SHORT STORIES AND THIS IS NOT NECESSARILY THE STORY I’M TRYING TO TELL RIGHT NOW.

---

Hirrus glared at the burly doorman. Even after the weeks he’d spent, the memory of being kicked down two-thousand stairs painted the pandaren as “the doorman” to him. The last few ashes of a stick of incense fell to the end table between them. Hirrus’s rage bubbled deep within him, but did not overtake him. His training had consisted of the doorman making him angry with various degrees of speed and intensity, and then discussing it with him afterwards. Hirrus found himself thinking of the doorman as two different people. There was the one who was intentionally enraging him, who Hirrus had grown to detest.

Then there was the one who discussed it with him afterwards, who Hirrus could respect. Hirrus felt like he was learning as much from his answers to the pandaren’s questions as he was from the doorman’s own input. It was a teaching method he wished his teachers at the Order of the Silver Hand had employed. He may have led a much different life if he had learned about morality by being asked leading questions and allowed to introspect on the topic, instead of being lectured about it.

“So, how are you feeling?” The doorman asked.

“I,” Hirrus snarled. “Am feeling angry.”

“I see that.” The doorman smiled, but said no more.

“I…” Hirrus’s head began to clear as the incense in the air began to thin. “I feel angry. But I am not enraged.” Hirrus tilted his head. “That’s new.” The doorman nodded down at Hirrus’s hands. The warrior held them up and noted that they were still the color of bone and dead flesh. No sickly grey was creeping up them.

“You seem surprised.” The doorman remarked.

“Yes. I am still angry.” He tilted his head. “Shouldn’t the Sha be trying to creep into me?”

The doorman smiled. “What did you think the results of this would be? We feel no anger? No sadness? No pride? What sort of a life would it be, to be an emotionless husk?” The doorman paused. “No offense.”

“I admit, I expected to be purged of my anger. Not to be…” Hirrus furrowed his brow, searching for the words. “At peace with it.”

“Yes. And that is why you have had to be here.”

Hirrus thought for a moment. “I don’t understand. I’ve always been accepting of my anger. I’ve embraced it time and again. I have had issues with embracing it too readily, but I don’t know what has changed.”

“Ah, that’s where you’ve been wrong this whole time.” The pandaren smirked at Hirrus. “Your issue hasn’t been with embracing it, the issue has been with what you do when you don’t embrace it.”

“Hm.” The warrior considered for a moment. “I see. I have been denying myself my anger. But it doesn’t make sense. How has holding it back has been giving it free reign?”

“It hasn’t been. Take a moment. Consider your time as a thrall under the scourge. I know the memories anger you, but really think. What was being done to you? How did you react to it?”

Hirrus scowled. “I was being squandered. I was being wasted despite my-” Hirrus stopped short. A flash of realization crossed his face. “I was being held back and ignored when I could have done the most good. And I-... Given half a chance, I broke free and turned on them.” Hirrus stared at the Pandaren. “I… I am-”

The monk chuckled. “Yes. You have become what you hate most. If it makes you feel better, you were doing it to yourself, not to another being.”

Hirrus shook his head to clear it. “But then, why has it stopped? I haven’t changed anything, not really. Is it just practice at being angry that I needed? Because I would have believed I’d had enough of that.”

The doorman grinned. “In that, you have only yourself to thank. What have you been thinking about when you meditate?”

Hirrus frowned as much as one can with only the upper half of a mouth. “Life. My life. My unlife. Who I am. The mistakes I’ve made. How I would do those things differently now.”

“Yes, you’ve been thinking about the times you’ve leashed your anger. You’re - for lack of a better analogy - making a deal with your anger. Promising to let it out rather than bottling it up. Anger is not a lever that is either engaged or disengaged. There are ways to let it out besides violence. Now that you’ve resolved to explore them, you don’t react to your anger by fighting it or embracing it. That is what the Sha exploit. You don’t recognize your own anger. The Sha infested it - and you - while you were focusing on ignoring your anger. It was able to reach your mind, stoking your anger, encouraging you to give in to it.”

“Hm.”

“And when you do give in, you give in wholly.” The doorman continued. “And you are so familiar with giving your will over to anger, it is not so different to be giving your will over to the Sha.”

“And even when the Sha are not a factor,” Hirrus mused. “Anger stifles my judgement. It stifles my ability to think and reason. It makes me hesitate.” He stared at the doorman for a long moment. “It has been stopping me from doing what needed to be done.”

The doorman chuckled. “Is it your anger doing that?”

The warrior furrowed his brow. “No. You’re right. It’s me concentrating on holding it back.”

“Yes.” The monk nodded. “What did you do in those situations?”

“I watched. I considered. And later, I regretted.”

“And what will you do now?”

Hirrus considered for a moment. “I will act. I am not a watcher or a thinker. I should stop doing it.”

The doorman smiled and nodded. “Yes. And that is why you are in control now. You allowed yourself to be angry. Not only that, but by now, you should be somewhat desensitized to the memories the incense is showing you. But you are still as enraged as ever. Why is that?”

“Hm.” Hirrus scowled. He was no longer feeling the sudden anger about what happened when a memory began. Instead it was slowly building over the course of the vision. “I’m angry about being forced to relive it.” He hesitated. That wasn’t quite right. Then it hit him. “I’m angry because I can’t change it. I’m angry because I just have to watch myself make a mistake that could have been fixed by acting instead of hesitating.”

“Yes. You ache to act instead of hesitate. You feel the urge to fight rather than rationalize.”

“Justice begins to trump loyalty.” Hirrus nodded.

The doorman grinned. “Well then. I believe you are ready.”

“What? Already?”

The pandaren shrugged. “Well, if we were supposed to give you the perfect spiritual centering of a true Monk, it would take years more yet, but we only needed to teach you how to control your anger. You’ve proved a quick study, but I believe it comes from your subconscious mind more than from you. Your anger wants to be an asset to you just as you want to be an asset to your Dark Lady, and I imagine you have that to thank for your meditations being so beneficial.”

“Hm.”

“I hope you don’t mind if we skip the formality of a ceremony. I have been receiving letters from Undercity requesting that I hurry it up.”

“What?” Hirrus stood to leave, but hesitated. “What did the messages say?”

“They’ve assembled your team. You will leave for Outland within the hour of your return to undercity.”

“Then it’s time.” Hirrus nodded to the doorman. “Thank you.”

“Yes,” The doorman picked up the file on the small table, next to the pile of incense ash. “I think I know you well enough to not expect to hear from you again, but I would appreciate if you would at least consider sending a message about the success of this mission.” He looked down at the file. “All of Azeroth would have an interest in thwarting this if they knew it was happening.”

“It will be stopped.” Hirrus clenched his fist, feeling the thrill of anger within him as it rose. It flashed behind his eyes. “He will not return.”

“I should hope so. I shudder to think if he should return and turn his eyes on this land.”

“I would be worried enough for the lands he is more familiar with. There are more than enough precarious situations in this world that a reborn Dreadlord would significantly complicate.”

“And this Dreadlord in particular-”

Hirrus paused. He was starting to acclimate to the quiet of the room, and he began to realize why the pandaren were staring at him. Not just staring. Glaring. His armor. Hirrus never noticed the noises his armor makes. It is simply something he’d grown accustomed to. Even in life, the gentle clank and rattle was comfortably familiar rather than a noisy din to be concerned about. Hirrus took another step, and - now that he was aware of it - found the noise to be deafening, drowning out all the other sounds in the room.

Hirrus looked around, wincing as even just swivelling from his waist caused a cacophony of rattling chain on plate, and located a spot much closer. By sitting closer, he wouldn’t stomp loudly across the entire room, and thus shorten his interruption.

Hirrus considered carefully how to proceed. Sneaking was not something he was familiar with. He considered how he’d seen rogues do it. He bent his knees and hunched forward, being rewarded by the sound of his armor plates clanking together quite loudly. That wasn’t as effective as he’d expected. He could probably move more quietly like this, though, if the silent movements of rogues were any indication.

The first step was loud. The plates of his armor weren’t just clanking together, but were actually grinding against each other, forced together by his awkward pose. He made the second step slower, dragging out the grinding sound for longer, but not helping the volume. He took another step, even slower, holding his leg more carefully, and he was slightly quieter, up until he went to put down his foot. As soon as his foot hit, the plate caught, and the grinding of metal on metal was momentarily piercing. Hirrus froze, his foot not all the way down. He hung there for a moment as the entire room of Pandaren winced and glared at him. Tension began to build in his calves as he remained awkwardly frozen mid-step.

He heaved his chest in a sigh. It almost seemed drowned out by the clanking of his breastplate with the movement. He straightened his posture and stomped to the open spot he had located. The entire room filled with the cacophony of rattling, clattering, clanking plate armor. He collapsed into a seated position, the sound like an avalanche in the otherwise near-silent room. He could feel the collected pandaren glaring at him. Even the one playing the stringed instrument had stopped and was glaring.

Hirrus let himself settle into position, ignoring their staring. As soon as he was settled, he became silent. Not needing to breathe had its advantages. Eventually, the music began again, and the pandaren turned back, resuming their own meditations. The gentle hum of breathing filled the air. Hirrus could almost pick out the sounds of heartbeats around him. As he grew accustomed to the sounds, it became peaceful. Almost relaxing.

“Sir?”

Almost.

“Sir, you’re doing it wrong.” The pandaren behind him whispered.

“Yes, it’s throwing me off.” added the one to his left.

“Well,” Hirrus rumbled, keeping his voice low, but allowing as much irritation as possible to seep into it. “I am a little bit new at this.”

“You need to breathe.” The pandaren behind him advised.

“No. I don’t.” Hirrus smirked.

“Not like… I mean…” There was a hesitation from the pandaren. “It’s a part of the practice of meditation. You have to breathe to center yourself.”

Hirrus hesitated. It took him a few moment to remember how to intentionally operate the muscles within his chest. There was a soft clinking of his armor as his chest expanded and contracted. It took a surprising amount of focus to breathe for, essentially, no reason whatsoever.

It provided a slight distraction. It was something to focus on. It took several minutes for him to settle into and begin to maintain a regular pace. He almost gave up on it before he realized it was probably the point. As he fell into the pace of it, his mind began to drift. Introspection was not his strong suit, and he found himself reflecting upon the events of the day. He had finally managed to get out of his home without getting murdered. That was an accomplishment. He believed that they had eased up on the surveillance and booby-traps after he stopped trying to simply run for the city. Perhaps one or more of the others on the list had offered similar resistance and required more attention. Then again, perhaps the intervention of the Dark Lady had driven them off. It would not surprise him if unseen Deathstalkers had accompanied the messenger and driven off any attackers to offer him a window of opportunity to escape. Given Lesh’s capacity for appearing unexpectedly and disabling him for extended periods, he could not adequately picture what a less insane Deathstalker would be capable of. Then again, he hadn’t even caught a glimpse of whoever had been harassing him, so perhaps it was more posturing and threatening positioning than outright elimination of his attackers.

Of course, his reward for leaving his home was a trip to Pandaria to mingle with these… People. Hirrus didn’t consider himself a racist, but it was difficult to not stereotype the Pandaren as an aimless, useless bunch. There were some among them who had value. He would venture a guess that the ones he was among right now was perhaps the best population in which to find them. It was the Shado Pan who sought mental and physical discipline rather than the perfect way of serving a cup of tea, or brewing the strongest ale. Even the pair who had harassed him on the stairs were doing so to try and elicit a response from him as mandated by their leader. Would he not do the same for the Dark Lady? It was true that he had come here with the mindset of dealing with the ordinary, obnoxiously irreverent pandaren, when he was actually entering the sanctum of the one group of them who shared some of his personal philosophies.

Hirrus furrowed his brow. Perhaps he was a little bit racist.

He felt himself relax at that. The pandaren around him weren’t here to learn the best way to grow an impractically giant turnip. They were here to learn how to temper their wills against the Sha. They were here to learn how to fight the Mantids and the Yaungol. They were here to learn the same things Hirrus already knew, and the same things Hirrus was sent to learn. It was reassuring to imagine that the pandaren around him weren’t explicitly there to irk and frustrate him. It let him focus more closely on his breathing.

Which was an unusual sensation. Breathing while relaxed? The only times he had ever caught himself breathing was in the heat of combat, when the red haze of rage blotted out his awareness. Any other breath was forced only to pass air through his mouth to speak. Or sigh. Hells. Being relaxed itself was unusual. When was the last time he actually relaxed?

It had not been since his death, certainly. Even if the experience of death itself hadn’t set him on edge for going on twenty years, he had never felt comfortable letting his guard down around his fellow undead. But how long before that? The weight of his Father’s disappointment had long bowed his shoulders. And before that, his Father’s frustration. And before that, his Father’s expectations. So, since he was… Twelve? Ten?

The rhythm of his breathing snapped his memory into focus. He was nine years old. It was the last time… The last day. The last day before...

He felt his mind bodily reject the memory. It was akin to the sensation of his mind separating from his sha-enhanced rage. It was too late, of course. The merest glimmer of the memory would sour his mood for the rest of the day. No matter how he put it out of his mind, it would haunt him.

And yet, the sensation made him think more critically about his rage, and how easily it had taken control of him. Since his death, rage was one of the only emotions he felt that wasn’t dulled to near-irrelevance. Perhaps the only emotion he could still say he felt. The idea that he couldn’t trust it was somewhat eye-opening. His anger had always carried him to victory. The idea that it had been the skill of his commanding officers working around his limitations, or, perhaps, pure luck, was somewhat sobering. He did not question the Dark Lady’s order to learn to mitigate the control his anger held over him, but he did not see the use it in. Now he understood. If nothing else, it was another small thing that justified his loyalty, to know that even when it was among the most questionable orders he had received from his perspective at the time, it was the right call, and a necessary course of action.

He returned to casting his memory over the day’s events. Particularly disturbing had been the “interview”. As if called, the incredibly vivid memory of his last day of life flooded into his mind’s eye. Aided by the drugged incense, it had almost been real. Thinking back on it, it was uncanny all over again, accompanied by the foreign sensation of breathing along with his meditation. It was strange how real the emotions felt, almost as if he had been that same young paladin.

But that man was dead. Long dead, now.

But as air passed through those same lungs, as his mind was quieted by meditation, he wondered. In life he had been similar enough. The living Hirrus was also a terse character. Gruff and long-suffering despite his young age. Additionally, he was a member of a group to which he didn’t exactly belong. The Forsaken war machine was all about underhanded tactics, and well-researched, calculated moves. Neither were his particular style. The difference in philosophy had not bothered him, but it had prevented him from advancing quickly despite his martial prowess.

Was the man he had been truly dead? What significance does death have? True, his body had decayed, and his emotions had cooled (most of them, anyway) but that wasn’t the question. He kept telling himself that the man he had been was dead. But what is a man? Hirrus retained all his memories. His character traits were essentially unchanged; or, not any more changed than a terrifyingly painful and traumatic event. Was that terse young paladin no more dead than anyone who has been taken captive, tortured, and conscripted unwillingly into the labor force of a hostile army?

Death, however, was a sticking point in Hirrus’s mind. No experience could be more traumatic than-

He shook his head. Dwelling on this topic was like fighting an opponent you couldn’t look directly at. He had to keep his thoughts from landing on death, but could not introspect upon the possible persistence of his living self without examining the ideas around the event itself.

Regardless, the man he had been was, strictly speaking, dead. Even if he could be considered the same entity, traumatic events change people. The brain of someone who has experienced trauma is measurably different from someone who has not. Granted, he only had the word of Shadow Priests for that, and he trusted them as far as he could throw them. Generally, that was a pretty reasonable distance, but not near enough to consider them trustworthy sources.

But could he embrace the ideals he’d held to in life? Truth and Justice were incompatible with Forsaken culture, but Hirrus himself often found himself running counter to it already. His were a people of cunning and calculated moves. Hirrus was a blunt instrument manipulated by external forces, or planned around as an obstacle. But what did the potential to stand for his living ideals mean? If he were to hold to his honor, he would have to retain his loyalty to the Dark Lady. Betrayal was unthinkable, and it was not because no other leader would accept him. She was the first leader for whom he had ever felt respect for. He didn’t have any ‘honor as a paladin’ that superseded pure respect. He didn’t have a loyalty to a ‘higher cause’ or a ‘personal code’ that made even the idea of betrayal acceptable. He would not betray Hedva simply because she kept so many Warlocks around.

It was nice to consider the idea of allowing himself to be openly hostile towards the warlocks. He momentarily entertained the idea of finding ways to drive a wedge between them and the scythe. Separating them from the group enough that bringing justice upon them would not be betrayal.

It was probably the most Forsaken-like thought he’d ever had.

But what was the conclusion? Was he supposed to force himself to be who he was in life? Had he been forcing himself not to be? What is the nature of self? What does it mean to have a personality?

Does death matter?

Hirrus’s pandaren escort led him to one of the smaller side-doors, and into a room full of basins, spouts, and clean clothing. Once inside, they set about cleaning their feet. They eventually had to replace their pants, but their furred bodies prevented the action - committed without modesty - from being indecent.

Hirrus looked down at the mantid guts covering himself from the knees down, and decided it was prudent to follow suit. Luckily, he did not need to completely disrobe, but only needed to remove his boots and shin plates. Cleaning his armor was a task he had grown accustomed to when he was alive, and the plates glistened cleanly in moments. He buckled on his shin plates and began to put on his boots when the pandaren woman stopped him.

“No shoes inside, friend.” She said, pointing to a nearby rack. There weren’t many shoes in it, as many pandaren went barefoot. No, I am not making that joke. But just the same, Hirrus got the message, and knelt to put his heavy plate boots into the rack in one of the lower stalls, so as not to unbalance the flimsy-looking piece of furniture. Following the pandarens’ examples, he sat by one of the basins and cleaned the sweat, grime, ichor, and various other gross substances from his feet.

After cleaning his feet, Hirrus felt only slightly unbalanced as he followed the pandaren through the door back into the main hall. His bare feet felt unnaturally light, but he was still encased in his heavy armor. He was used to being uniformly armored or unarmored. It was why he kept his gauntlets on even when performing work that required fine motor control - he felt more confident when he was fully armored, and could depend on the equipment’s strength, or when he was unarmored, and could depend on his body’s speed. Despite his size and musculature, he was quite nimble when unarmored. Given that he could move at a full sprint when fully armored, it shouldn’t be a surprise that when in civilian clothes, he can really move when required to.

“Welcome to the Shado-Pan Cloister.” The pandaren man said, leading him towards the nearby stairs to the catwalks above. “Your time here will begin with an interview with the master your training has been assigned to. He will determine the areas in which you excel, and the areas in which you need the most work. The interview may span many days, and will include the acclimation period to the way of life here.”

“The three things you need to know about our way of life,” The woman added, “Are meal times, cleaning times, and sleeping times. The rest of the day will typically be filled with your individually assigned training schedule. Meal times are at six in the morning, nine in the morning, noon, three in the afternoon, and six in the afternoon. You are not required to attend every meal, but I don’t think anyone has ever missed a meal as long as I’ve been here, except when their training required it. Cleaning times are at seven in the morning and the evening, after the first and last meal of the day. Sleeping times are from Ten in the evening until four in the morning, though turning in early, sleeping in late, or napping through the day are allowed if your training schedule allows.”

“Cleaning time?” Hirrus asked.

“During the cleaning times, everyone works together to clean up the cloister. Wherever you can, you help clean. It promotes discipline, humility, teamwork, and it’s a good time to catch up with others from around the cloister. You never know who you’re going to end up cleaning next to, so it helps you to get to know more than just those who are sharing your training schedule.”

“Hm.”

The led him up into the catwalks, eventually to a door that had been cut out of a giant mogu-sized door. Below him was the larger ‘indoor courtyard’ the entry hall had opened up into. There were pandaren performing basic combat training in organized groups and tightly-packed lines. Hirrus had a momentary wistful pang for his own training. But that was another life.

A different man’s memories. Hirrus reminded himself. Many of the Forsaken only had snippets of their past life, if anything at all. From his time in the Scythe, he had met Forsaken who may has well have been born into undeath for all the memories or experience they had retained. These memories weren’t his. He could just as easily have been utterly without them. They were from another man, whose thoughts and personality were superficially similar to his. They were not his. He was not that man. They just had the same physical body. Well. Most of it, anyway.

As they entered the small adjoining room, there were only three things of note. The first was a lack of windows. A single hanging lamp was the only light source. No exits but the door he came in. The second was the two chairs and end table that were the room’s only furnishings. One of the chairs was padded and comfortable-looking, with a wide seat and thick legs. The other was more spartan, simple wood, with the varnish worn down on the seat and armrests. The endtable was unremarkable, but doing an admirable job of holding up the small stack of papers set atop it.

The third thing was the burly doorman. The muscular pandaren crossed the room as the entered, and settled himself in the padded chair. Hirrus suppressed the urge to curl his lip back in a sneer - a very Forsaken reaction from someone who was just moments ago, forced to remind himself that he was Forsaken. As his escort bowed and left him - closing the door as they left the room - the Pandaren before him gestured at the spartan chair before him. Never one to balk at an order, Hirrus sat.

“Now, I should tell you that our situation here is not entirely strange.” The pandaren began. “There is a historical precedent for what’s happening here, but it has been a long while. We typically give great credence to the lessons of past masters, and given the current…” He gestured with his hand vaguely, as though searching for a word. “Political climate, I believe this will become increasingly common as our people open to the outside world.” He met Hirrus’s eyes. “I believe that your time here will be very educational and useful to the both of us.”

“And what,” Hirrus ventured. “Is happening here?”

“You are being trained. Your training will be complete when your mastery over your negative emotions are the equal to any shado-pan warrior. As you know, this land is-”

“Yes. I know.” Hirrus grimaced, trying to avoid the lecture. “The dying breath of an Old God upon Pandaria makes negative emotions manifest as sentient evil gunk, and you have to control yourself or bad things happen. This is not my first trip to this land.”

The pandaren frowned. “Yes. Well. Our warriors are required to-”

“Yes, yes,” Hirrus’s grimace deepened. If he had a lower jaw, it might be called a frown at this point. “You have to defend your lands without giving over to hate, anger, violence, despair, doubt, fear, or pride. Only with great discipline and training, et cetera et cetera master yourselves to protect your people from the Mantids and suchlike. As I said, I do not require a history lesson.”

The pandaren narrowed his eyes. “Well then. Your leader requires you to be trained in our ways of emotional discipline and control. As such, we shall oblige. Your training will be similar to that of any pandaren trainee, however, it will be greatly accelerated. Given your age, and martial prowess, we will be forgoing all of our usual training, in favor of only those lessons required to help you overcome your emotional nature.”

“Hm.” Hirrus remarked, but said no more. He could not think of a time when he had ever been referred to as ‘emotional’.

“Now, we would usually begin by testing to see which of the Sha has the greatest hold over you. But as I can see - both in the report provided by your people with the request to train you, and in your own eyes - this is not a great mystery. As such, we will be determining to what extent you are already afflicted by it, and how strong your natural ability to resist the Sha.”

“So,” The pandaren began, as he produced a small stick of incense and lit it, placing it on the end table next to the stack of papers. “Clear your mind. Relax. Say the first thing that comes to your mind.” The pandaren held up a small card with a blotch on it. “What does this look like to you?”

“It is a small card with a blotch on it.” Hirrus answered immediately.

The pandaren stared blankly at him. When Hirrus didn’t laugh or grin, the Pandaren elaborated: “What does the blotch look like?”

“A…” Hirrus trailed off as his eyes focused on it. “A fist.” The smell of the incense was reaching him. It was soothing with an unusual edge to it. Hirrus couldn’t recognize the herbal smell, and that struck him as more unusual, given his hobby of practical alchemy.

The pandaren held up another card with a blotch on it. “And this one?”

“A f-”

That sound of rushing water. Laughing people and happy chatter. The smell of tobacco. A gentle wind bringing an errant spray of water to his skin. Fresh, vibrant, pink skin. No more. No more. His skin was cold and blue-gray. The water had dried up long ago. The smell of decay. Creaking bones and the quiet gibbering of ghouls. No more laughter. No more life. All gone.

“Fountain.” Hirrus shook his head. “I… I remember that fountain.”

Not giving him time to think further, the pandaren held up another card. “This one?”

“A… A fire.” Hirrus’s mind clamped down on itself, resisting the urge to flash back. “A city in flames. What is in that incense? I feel...”

The pandaren noded with a knowing smile. “And this one?”

The card he held up was not a blotch. It was a picture. A vibrant picture, and it filled Hirrus’s vision. A crowd. It was a crowd of people, and a crowd of not-people at the same time. A mob that was a mess of limbs and bodies, but he recognized faces. His childhood neighbor’s wife. The town butcher. The man and woman who sold apples in the town square. A dozen others whose faces were only familiar, though he could not tell you where from.

Each of them was a pallid corpse, shambling forward on battered limbs. Undead. Every one was a ghoulish beast.

Chasing a shrieking woman. Not pregnant to the point of inability to run, but close. Adrenaline was carrying her away from the shambling horrors behind her, but how long could her body keep up with her terror.

Instinct. A cocktail of righteous fury, horror, and fear flooded his mind. But not one ounce of that fear was for his life. It was for his speed. For his strength. For his will. He had to succeed. He had to be running fast enough. He had to be strong enough, both of body and of mind. He could not fail. He could not be literally handed a chance to do the right thing and fail. He couldn’t take such a failure. He would rather die here, succeeding in giving a young pregnant woman the chance to escape than live another day as the utter failure he had always been.

Failure. He was a failure. Everyone knew it. Everyone. Everyone. He felt rage boil up in him, joining, rivaling, and then surpassing all else within him.

Not.

Today.

He drew his sword.

SLAM.

Hirrus’s sword smashed down on the end table, biting deeply into the wood. The smoldering tip of the incense burst in a plume of herbs and ashes as it struck the floor. Hirrus settled back in his chair, leaving his sword buried in the table.

“Hm.” Hirrus said, leaning back in the chair and scowling at the grinning Pandaren across from him. Hirrus felt the red tint of his customary battle rage recede from the edges of his vision as he scowled. The pandaren’s eyes flicked down towards Hirrus’s hands meaningfully. The Forsaken looked and his anger subsided as he caught the sobering sight of his hands. The color was leeching out of them, the bluish-greys of the Sha creeping up his forearms. Hirrus concentrated on his anger, not fighting it down, but focusing it. The bluish-greys began to recede as he turned the blind anger into controlled rage, reducing the rolling boil into a manageable simmer.

“Interesting.” The Pandaren observed. “Your training might not be the chore I anticipated if you are so capable of shaking the Sha off.” Hirrus looked back up at the Pandaren, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. “Though it took root in you as easily as I anticipated.” The pandaren began to shuffle about in the cards on the table.

“Do not toy with me, Pandaren. I wasn’t in the mood for games when we started this charade, and your choice of tactics aren’t improving it.” Hirrus snarled.

“Yes, I am familiar with your moods.” The pandaren set the cards aside, pulling out something that looked like paperwork from Forsaken High Command. “This tells me many interesting things about your moods. I could trigger a near-blinding rage in you with a single name, it seems.” The pandaren lowered the paperwork, meeting Hirrus’s scowl over it. “Arthas.”

Memories flooded Hirrus’s mind, unbidden. He heard the arms of the chair splintering as his claws dug into them more than he felt it. He looked down and the greyish-blue was back, halfway to his elbows. “What was in that incense?” Hirrus snarled.

“Arthas.” The Pandaren replied.

Hirrus was more prepared for it this time, and forced his will between his conscious mind and his memories like a shield. Still, the bluish-grey climbed up his arms, inching further up. “This is not as amusing to me as it is to you.”

“And doesn’t that make you even angrier? To be drugged so that your emotions could be tested without allowing you the honor of fighting it? To be forced to relive fragments of your darkest moments?” The pandaren set the paperwork aside, leaning forward.

“Yes. It does.” Hirrus said sharply, marshalling his will to try to force the Sha back down his arms. The pandaren’s smug expression was infuriating, but not unmanageably so. He could feel the incense wearing off and his mind clearing as the Sha energies swirling up his arms stopped advancing and slowly began to creep back down.

“Here’s something that will make you angry.” The pandaren cut in. “I am going to disobey a direct order given to me by your Dark Lady. The instructions I received included details related to the mission you’re supposed to venture out on. I was instructed to give you no hint or indication of what the mission was regarding.” The pandaren regarded the papers on the table. “But I believe it will be more useful in this lesson to play that card. I won’t say much. Just another name. One I am very interested in seeing your reaction to.”

The pandaren stood up and walked to Hirrus, leaning forward until they were almost nose-to-nose.

And the burly monk spoke.

---

SMASH!

The wall to the small interview room burst out into the catwalk, a roaring man launched in a rain of mogu rubble as it smashed into - and through - the railing. He fell the three story drop, surrounded by stony wreckage, into the courtyard, interrupting the combat training of the monks practicing in the open area.

No sooner had he hit the ground, Hirrus rose from the rubble with a single motion, every movement filled with unbridled fury and boundless anger. He roared in challenge back up at the room above, seemingly unaffected by the wreckage that surrounded him, and oblivious to the fact that he’d just been hurled through a stone wall about three feet thick.

Head to toe, he was a bluish shade of black-and-white. As he stood, bluish-gray ooze formed and congealed around his hands, bubbling down into crude organic-looking swords reaching off of his claws.

The burly monk landed lightly in front of him, easily jumping down from the catwalk above. The training monks did not panic or scatter, but simply adjusted to give the pair wide berth and resumed their training.

“You see, now, why you were sent here.” The monk remarked, taking a sturdy combat stance. “Your will is strong, I’ll give you that. And you have more discipline than most trainees. But neither compares to the grip you let your anger hold over you.”

In response, Hirrus charged. He closed the distance and hurled his shoulder at the Pandaren in a vicious tackle. The monk, however, flowed around it, not quite catching Hirrus, but directing his force to one side, sending him stumbling. Hirrus whirled instantly, and came in with his Sha-lengthened claws in a flurry of blind attacks, which the monk easily parried with his bare hands, his furred paws slapping at Hirrus’s hands, wrists, and forearms to set each blow off-target just enough to miss. The enraged warrior leaned against the series of blocks, his attacks becoming more frenzied, the claws flying as the monk simply continued to hold him off with seemingly little effort.

“You should be trying harder to calm yourself. If you were putting as much effort into controlling your anger as you are putting into embracing it, you wouldn’t need to be here.” The monk smiled.

Hirrus brought both his claws across low, looking to gut the smug pandaren. When the pandaren deflected them easily, he lunged, not with his claws, but with his teeth, leaping over the monk’s guard. There was a flash of surprise across the guard’s eyes as Hirrus slammed his upper teeth against the monk’s shoulder, and-

Nothing. He didn’t have a lower jaw to bite down with. Why did he try to bite him? That didn’t make any sense. A single thought crossed Hirrus’s mind.

Who is in here with me?

Hirrus’s will clamped down hard on his mind, finally realizing that he wasn’t the one in control of himself. His rage normally drove him in combat, but now it felt like it was literally driving him. There was a strange sensation of separation as his mind felt like it divided itself. For the first time in his life - or his unlife - his anger felt disgusting. It was not his ally and companion. It was a separate, loathsome entity squatting between his consciousness and his body. It was an enemy. And it was an enemy he was not equipped to fight. Even in his mind, his own rage was his greatest weapon. What did he have to bring to bear when his rage was the enemy? How does one fight one’s own sword?

“Ah, now you’re getting it.” The Pandaren continued to effortlessly hold off Hirrus’s physical body as it clawed and kicked like a cornered animal. Hirrus was slowing down as the Sha possession was no longer being fully embraced by its host. “Someone, please bring the cleansing device.” He called over his shoulder.

Hirrus could only watch from within his own body as the monk’s movements became faster, pushing Hirrus’s body back, but never attacking. The monk seemed to be enjoying this. His fighting style was incredibly well-suited to dealing with this exact sort of threat, Hirrus noted. It was probably intentional. The sha have been haunting this land for thousands of years. It is only natural that they’d have had plenty of time to mold a fighting style specifically to combat those possessed by it. After a short time, a small group of Pandaren began to approach, carrying something heavy between them all.

“Ah. The cleansing device. While this has been an amusing start to your training, I’m afraid other matters press upon my time. If you’ll excuse me.” The pandaren’s fist seemed to appear in Hirrus’s vision almost after the impact of the punch. The sha-infested Forsaken stumbled, giving the Pandaren the opening to disengage, and leap lightly across the room in that weird way the monks seemed to do around here.

There was a communal grunt from the group of pandaren, and a giant slab of stone flew out of the group. It tumbled once in the air and landed on the stunned warrior, instantly slamming him flat to the ground, pinning him with its weight.

The beast that was Hirrus thrashed against it for a moment. It took more than a giant rock to destroy such a resilient body, but the Sha controlling him clawed violently at the stone, fresh scratches joining the marks already there. Hirrus could only stare at the rock directly in front of his face from within his possessed body. How many Sha had been pinned thus? How many trainees had taken the fall wrong, or not been tough enough to endure the crushing? Mercifully, the floor was soft and yielding - probably for sparring - and so his armor did not bend or warp under the crushing force

After about a minute of frantic clawing, the sha within him began to recede. Anger is a very high-energy emotion, and with Hirrus focusing on the strange sensation of the Sha rather than brooding on what the pandaren monk had said to him, the blue-gray pallor over him began to recede, his new grown claws melting away, and his body began to respond to his commands rather than ignore them.

Hirrus waited until he felt absolutely in control of himself. He set his hands against the stone, and began to push. Nothing happened at first. So he pushed harder. And harder. And harder. At length, there was a strange grinding sensation in his chest as the stone began to tip, rolling over his chestplate until the end of the slab down by his feet finally touched the ground. The fulcrum set, he redoubled his efforts, hefting the stone up until his arms were straightened.

“What the-” A pandaren nearby remarked. Hirrus was too focused on his task to look. With his arms straight, he began the harder portion of the journey back up. He felt the muscles of his abdomen scream with the inner heat of exertion as he slowly sat up. He bent his arms as he went, the muscles there burning as well as he held the slab roughly where it was when he had fully extended.

He reached deep within himself for the strength for the next step. He cautiously embraced the rage within himself - now a familiar friend rather than a foreign invader - and bellowed in effort as he shoved with both arms. His abs buckled slightly, but he held them firm enough for the moment of effort he needed. Hirrus shoved the stone away from himself. He didn’t shove with enough force to entirely free himself, but he threw it off of himself long enough to get into position.

With the moment of freedom he’d won, he rolled back onto his shoulders, kicking his knees up to his chest as he stabilized himself with his arms. The slab of rock came back down, and Hirrus caught it with his feet, the force of the falling stone folding him up on himself. His knees came all the way down to his chin (Or, rather, where his chin once was), the slab finally coming to rest atop him. Every muscle in his body was coiled like a spring, and he shouted again, jerking his entire body into motion. This effort was considerably easier than the last, as he had the leverage of his entire body to push off.

Hirrus kicked the slab of stone off of himself, flipping it over to slam down to the floor on its other side. He fought the urge to take a deep breath. He made his way to his feet easily, and looked around.

Several of the pandaren nearby had assumed combat stances. The ones who hadn’t were staring in shock.

“Well.” Remarked one of the pandaren teachers. “That was unexpected.” He gestured at the rest of the pandaren to relax, as it was apparent that Hirrus was not still possessed. “Usually, the trainees ask for help getting out from under the stone.”

“I don’t ask for help when I don’t need it.” Hirrus glared at the pandaren. This had been an enlightening day, but just as frustrating as any day in which he gets involved with pandaren.

“I see. Well. In any case, I believe your instructor blocked out the rest of your afternoon to being under that stone. I suppose you may choose to spend your time as you wish, since you seem to have expelled the sha possession.”

Hirrus narrowed his eyes. “What would you suggest if I wanted to speed my progress as much as possible?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be here.”

“Oh. Well. Given your performance, you seem to be quite physically fit.” The pandaren looked down at the giant slab of rock. “That might have been an understatement. However, you should work on your mental discipline, especially fostering mental tranquility.”

“Which would involve...” Hirrus asked, impatient.

“Sir! You are not supposed to simply fly to the top of the stairs! Climbing them is a part of the initiate’s training!” The pandaren began to bluster at him as he approached. “Climb down immediately and then climb back up the stairs properly!” The pandaren man was overweight - as they all were - but had a strength and firmness to his build. His belly did not jiggle beneath his humble robe, and his biceps held the fabric of the long sleeves taut, betraying the muscle beneath.

“Is there some manner of ambush or trap on the stairs waiting for me?”

“What?”

“A trial of some sort beyond simply climbing the stairs.” Hirrus explained. “I’ve climbed hundreds of thousands of stairs in both life and unlife. If these stairs hold no special challenge, then I see no reason to subject myself to them. It is a waste of time.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you.” The pandaren gestured at the stairs. Hirrus caught a glimpse of the callouses across his furred hand. “But the climbing of these stairs is a tradition. If you wish to train with us, you must climb the stairs.”

Hirrus crossed his arms, glaring. Again, this problem. It had been almost a year since his last encounter with isolated pandaren. The combination of his missing lower jaw and unfamiliar eastern kingdoms accent made his speech too foreign for pandaren to understand. He’d never had any problems with those who had frequent contact with people who shared his accent, be they Alliance or other Forsaken. But those pandaren who were isolated from the visiting Horde and Alliance could not tell if he was mocking them or encouraging them.

His last experience with this had been a frustrating afternoon. That an assignment was required that would take weeks was potentially an annoyance of unfathomable proportions.

The pandaren met Hirrus’s glare, the effect somewhat lessened by having to look up at him. “Loom all you want, sir. If you wish to enter these doors, you will climb down these stairs and then climb back up.”

“I do not have the patience for this.” Hirrus stomped past the pandaren, reaching for the giant wooden doors that led into the monastery. The pandaren smoothly slid between the warrior and the door, a calloused palm pressed against his breastplate.

“For ten thousand years, not a single soul has entered these doors without walking The Two-Thousand Stairs. This tradition will not be breached on my watch. You will enter this door when I am as lifeless as you are, forsaken wretch.”

Hirrus snarled at the Pandaren. “I care for your tone as much as I care for your traditions. Stand aside, or be-”

----

Hirrus’s armor served him quite well on his way down the stairs. The first few hundred had been quite painful, but once he resigned himself to sliding down the icy steps rather than attempting to stop himself to regain his footing, and instead tucked his head and arms in, and straightened his legs, sliding the rest of the way down was like being on a runaway sled - or, perhaps, more like being a runaway sled. It was refreshing and a bit exhilarating, but each of the rapidly-repeating thumps on the plate of his cuirass was another step he’d have to climb back up to get back to where he started.

He took advantage of the trip to reflect on where he had gone wrong at the top of the stairs. Obviously, his first mistake came when the pandaren had mentioned tradition; he should have stopped being so stubborn when such an ancient rule came into play. Pandaren were extremely unreasonable when it came to longstanding traditions. A pandaren would willingly commit ritual suicide if hundreds of others had done so before him, let alone something that would teach a young upstart some humility. His second mistake was allowing himself to be provoked. He had been called worse than ‘wretch’ and it would be far from the cruellest insult that he would suffer. He didn’t have to take it so personally as to escalate the matter to violence. His third mistake was underestimating the pandaren guard. There were plenty of signs already that he was not a flabby farmer. If Hirrus had been more prepared for a fight, he would likely not be in his current position.

His final mistake was a technical one. Hirrus had always prided himself on strong fundamentals when it came to footwork. He allowed himself to grow complacent in recent years, and the monk had capitalized on a sloppy placement of his dominant foot at a critical moment. That was definitely a mistake Hirrus would not repeat.

Hirrus reached the bottom of the stairs after about two minutes. His whole body tingled from the sudden absence of the rumbling vibration of the stairs beneath him, so he lay still for a moment, staring at the clouded sky. It would probably begin to snow soon. Hirrus had observed on the way down that the stairs were icy and perilous already. He should get moving before snow makes them worse.

“Wow! Are you alright, sir?”

Great. More pandaren.

“How far did you fall?” the voice came again as a pandaren woman came into view standing above him.

“It, er, looks like it was quite far.” A pandaren man stepped up on the other side. “Or, maybe not? I am not familiar with your people, sir. Is this… What you normally look like?”

“It was far enough.” Hirrus said, surprised at the waver in his voice. The fall had been more punishing to his body than all but the most serious fights he’d ever been in. It would take him a while to fully recover.

“We were about to start up, sir. Would you care to join us? We were just saying how much more pleasant it is to walk with companions than alone.” The woman smiled pleasantly, offering her hand to help him up.

“Pleasantness is a concern for the living.” Hirrus rasped as he started to stand, ignoring the offered hand. His arm momentarily declined to support his weight, but an effort of will suppressed the limb’s urge to collapse under him. He swayed on his feet for a moment before he started to stomp his way back up the stairs, but his strength was failing him. It was a long fall, preceded by a fight that was more one-sided then he’d like to admit.

“Sir, are you alright?” The woman asked again, following beside him a lot easier than he was used to, given the difference in the length of their legs.

“I just got shoved down two-thousand stairs by a tradition-obsessed fat man.” Hirrus observed, more to himself than to her. He looked down at his feet, noting that his shaky pace was not outdistancing the pandaren up the stairs. “I should be satisfied that I am moving, rather than irritated that I am unable to make you scramble to keep up with me.”

“That wasn’t a polite thing to say.” The male pandaren admonished, also matching his pace. “If you wish to train with the Shado-Pan, you must be more respectful. Especially with regard to a pandaren’s figure.”

“Hm.” Hirrus remarked. “I didn’t expect you to be able to understand me. I was anticipating this to be one of those obnoxious ‘comedy of errors’ kinds of trips.”

“Why wouldn’t we be able to understand you?” The woman asked.

“Well, two reasons: First, my missing jaw, along with my accent, has led to me being more difficult to understand for many pandaren. Secondly, it would be incredibly frustrating for me to be trapped in a two-thousand step conversation with a pair of pandaren who are unable to understand me, but too polite to not pretend that they could.”

“Why is the potential for it to be frustrating the same as a cause for the problem itself?”

“If you’d had some of the experiences I’ve had, you’d understand.” Hirrus shook his head.

“I… See.” The man shrugged. “That seems like a defeatist attitude.”

“A defeatist attitude would be if I had allowed myself to be murdered any of the hundred times attempts were made in the last month. Or if I had stayed down at the bottom of the stairs and waited to be covered by the oncoming snow. I am not a defeatist. Just… Pessimistic.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. But you could try and be more logical. Annoying things don’t happen just because they would be annoying.” The woman reasoned.

“Again, if you’d had some of the experiences I have had, you’d understand.” Hirrus shrugged.

“So, did you really fall down all these stairs? Every single one?” The woman asked.

“Almost. I may have sailed over the first ten or twenty.”

“Huh. You must be a sturdy individual, to have fallen all that way and stood right back up to walk up again.”

Hirrus shrugged. “I do what is required of me. Nothing more. Duty requires that I report to the Shado-Pan for my assignment as quickly as possible. Gravity - and, to a lesser extent, tradition - required that I fall first. That I fell is not an excuse for shirking my assignment.”

“Quite honorable of you, then, to take such punishment and never waver.” The woman remarked.

“Have you ever wavered in doing what is required of you?” The man asked.

Hirrus glared at the pandaren man.

“I was just… Trying to make conversation.”

“You aren’t very good at it, if that is the sort of question you ask.”

“Well, then, what sort of question would you ask?”

“I would not. I do not make conversation. Conversation is made at me. I deal with it as it comes. It is similar to my experiences with magic. I know only enough about it to weather it, and that is all I care to know.”

“Hm.” The pandaren woman frowned.

“Exactly.” Hirrus nodded.

The next fifty stairs were taken in blessed silence. It allowed Hirrus to reflect upon the situation.

“Why are you two climbing the stairs?” Hirrus asked. The pair of pandaren seemed taken aback by his speaking.

“Why do you ask?”

“You both look to be dressed like Shado-Pan already, so I doubt you are initiates climbing the stairs before beginning your training. Are you delivering a report? Visiting?”

“We, too, were given an assignment.” The woman began.

“Yes. We have a duty to fulfill as well. We are supposed to be guiding an emissary up the stairs.” The man added. “We were supposed to determine what sort of man he was on the way up.”

“Ah. And I’m the emissary, but I’m not supposed to know you’re testing me.”

“That was never explicitly ordered,” the man said. “But it was implied.”

“But you’re telling me anyways.”

“You falling down the stairs was a pretty severe interruption to our plans.” The woman scratched her chin. “We did actually plan to pretend to be unable to understand you to better gauge your reactions unfiltered.”

“So, at this point, you’ve failed.”

“Not precisely. We were supposed to determine what sort of man you are. We can do that just as well without needing the deception.” The man pointed out.

“Hm.”

“I mean, I suppose we’ve spoiled it slightly by telling you we’re observing you,” the pandaren admitted, “But by seeing what you want us to see, we can determine what you’re trying not to let us see.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A few more steps in silence.

“This is… Somewhat less helpful than we had hoped.” The woman observed.

“What is?” Hirrus asked.

“The silence.”

“Well, those are things you can add to your notes. Enjoys silence. Dislikes conversation.”

“Perhaps instead, you are being intentionally uncooperative.” The pandaren man observed.

“Hm.” Hirrus said, but declined to elaborate.

“Quite uncooperative.” The woman agreed.

“What are you going to do, throw me back down the stairs?”

“Would you respond to the threat?” The man asked.

“Perhaps instead of a threat, I would take it as a challenge. I’m encased in metal, do not require my organs to be in full working order to continue onward, and, as observed, I am quite resilient. How do you think you would fare if I got the better of you?”

“Hm.” The pandaren man squinted at Hirrus, trying to decide if he was joking.

“Now you’re getting it.”

About a hundred steps of silence. Hirrus enjoyed every second. His body was finally starting to recover from his fall. Not fully, but he started taking the steps two at a time with the same slow, deliberate pace he had held before. The pandaren man was able to match the stride, but the woman’s shorter legs meant she had to take the steps twice as fast.

“Does that make you feel better?” She asked, aggravated.

“Hm?”

“Proving your physical superiority. Does it make you feel better about your shortcomings?”

Hirrus shrugged. “Not really.” But he declined to elaborate.

A few more steps in silence. Hirrus was trying to decide if being evasive was keeping them quiet more efficiently than it would be to simply try and break into a run to leave them behind. Perhaps if he kept pushing himself as he recovered his strength...

“Why, then?”

“Hm?”

“Why,” the woman asked, picking up the pace a little more to catch up. “Are you walking so fast?”

Hirrus shrugged. “With the size of these stairs, and the length of my legs, it’s just easier to take them two at a time.”

“So you prefer to do things the easy way?” the man ventured.

“Not often.” Hirrus looked back, noticing that the Pandaren man appeared to be sweating now, more affected by Hirrus’s pace than he had let on at first. “Only when there is no reason not to.”

“Walking so fast as you are is quite rude. That’s a reason not to.”

“You make the assumption that I care.” Hirrus said simply, picking up his pace a little more. The woman had to break into an outright jog, and the man began to puff a little, growing winded.

“That,” he panted. “is something,” he huffed. “You will need to,” he panted. “Work on.”

“Perhaps. But it wouldn’t do to rob whoever my assignment is with of their script, the way I robbed you two of yours, would it? That seems like it would be more impolite than speeding the trip up a little to get there before the snow starts.”

Hirrus’s legs began to pump harder, and both pandaren started to - blessedly - trail behind him, focusing on keeping up with the tireless undead rather than continue to question him. He had been building the pace as he recovered, and now that he was feeling himself again, he saw no reason to slow down to let their obnoxious interview proceed.

“Hey!” The man called up to Hirrus. “Wait!”

“Why?” Hirrus called back, not turning.

The pandaren was either unable to come up with a reason worth voicing, or he had called out because he was too tired to continue and had to stop. After a few hundred more steps, the sounds of his pandaren escort finally faded, leaving him, at last, alone with only the sounds of his clanking armor and the whistling wind. After a hundred more, a light snow began to drift down. Hirrus looked up off the side of the stairs.

For a moment, it was idyllic. He had been too distracted by his companions earlier to really appreciate the stairs. They were carved into the side of a mountain leading from Townlong Steppes up towards the mountains of Kun-Lai. The view off the side of the mountain was over the steppes, and from up here - he must have been at least a thousand steps up - the view was hazy through the clouds and snow, but he could still see the outlines of the hills all the way to the outline of the coastal cliffs.

Of course, that was when the attack came.

There were only three of them, and Hirrus would not have considered them a challenge in an even fight, but they hadn’t recently been hurled down two thousand stairs. While Hirrus had his wind back, he was still sore and battered. The element of surprise gave them further advantage, as all three landed to surround him. They came down hard, despite their wings. They had obviously dropped from high enough above their prey so that the clicking flutter of their wings would not betray their ambush. Mantids. Ancient enemy of the pandaren.

The largest of the three chittered with laughter as Hirrus looked around. One directly behind him, and two in front. It was a smart move. The one behind would be at a disadvantage, being below him on the stairs, but the two in front would require his full attention even if he were fully prepared, due to them having the same advantage of elevation on him.

“You fool! You think we will allow your kind to cement an alliance with the Pandaren? Your death will be an insult to-”

The budding monologue was abruptly cut off as Hirrus decided that he didn’t have time for this shit. He closed the distance to the gloating mantid and met him with a vicious shoulder tackle, slamming the large insect into the stone wall of the mountain. Hirrus wrapped both arms around the stunned insect, and the pointed fingers of one hand breached the plate that covered and protected the mantid’s fragile gossamer wings. Even a slight touch would damage it. Five clawed fingers thrashing about within the tight confines of the creature’s own shell reduced the wing to shreds.

Setting his feet against the stairs, Hirrus snarled as he hurled the large mantid with a rage-fueled hip throw, his hand coming away with a fistful of silvery wing. The large mantid bounced once off the stairs, the chitin making an airy cracking noise off the stone as the monster spun off the other side of stairs. Enraged chittering immediately began to fade as the one-winged creature sailed off into empty space.

“That was mercy.” Hirrus rasped as he wiggled his fingers, streamers of Mantid wing fluttering away in the mountain wind. “I don’t do mercy twice in one day.”

The remaining mantids didn’t hesitate. They could probably tell that Hirrus was in a hurry to kill them quickly so he could get on with whatever other inane events he was going to have to suffer through today. The first one almost closed the distance across the stairs before Hirrus got his sword out.

Almost.

Hirrus’s parry was hurried, but practice and discipline had drilled perfect form into his arms, and even in his current state, the parry expertly deflected the blow. The angle of the deflection sent the charging mantid stumbling down the stairs. While the oversized insect managed to keep his footing, it still put Hirrus in an advantageous position of being up the stairs from the pair, giving him the advantage of elevation.

The second mantid came up at Hirrus hard, trying to overcome the positional advantage with sheer ferocity. The mantid’s amber-studded blade was as a whirlwind, sending six cuts at Hirrus before the mantid had even set his feet. The weak attacks couldn’t threaten Hirrus through his armor, but they forced him to react, and the Forsaken was unable to punish the poor footing of his attacker before the mantid was able to set its feet.

Hirrus slashed down hard, forcing the mantid to block. The warrior’s strength destabilized the mantid, but due to the height of the monster - a foot or so taller than even the towering Forsaken - the elevation advantage didn’t send the insect to his carapaced knees as Hirrus had anticipated. The mantid’s second, smaller set of arms slashed at Hirrus with feeble claws, unable to scratch his armor, but forcing him to disengage before the claws could find purchase and lock him in place for the other mantid.

Once the other mantid recovered from its stumble, it had immediately taken to the air, but not to retreat. The mantid’s wings carried it up, seeking to reposition behind and above Hirrus. With Hirrus backing away, up the steps, the mantid had to correct its course, staying airborne for a moment longer than it had anticipated.

A moment too long.

Hirrus hurled his weapon up at the flying mantid, willing to give up his sword in order to maintain his positioning. The sword sank into the chitin of the flying mantid just below and behind the mantid’s second set of armpits. The hilt of the sword disrupted the mantid’s wing on that side, forcing it to fold the wing or risk shredding it on the weapon. With the other wing still flapping, the mantid veered to one side before cutting its wing entirely to avoid sailing off the edge of the stairs.

Hirrus was there when the insect fell, kicking its legs out from under it before it landed. The creature’s head smacked against the stairs, and the mantid began to flail its arms, trying to catch itself. For one brief moment, the hilt of Hirrus’s weapon jarred against the stairs, twisting the weapon as it sank into the chitin by another inch, ichor seeping out around it. The creature’s panicked chittering was suddenly a shriek of agony and it flinched violently, hurling itself instinctively away from the source of the pain.

And over the edge of the stairs.

With Hirrus’s sword.

Hirrus, a sentimental man at heart, was quite fond of that sword.

Hirrus grabbed the mantid’s leg before it was out of reach, and set his feet. The creature slammed into the mountainside directly below the stairs, jarring the sword hilt again. The creature shrieked in pain again, and began to thrash, forcing Hirrus to hold with both hands to keep a grip to avoid losing his sword over the edge along with the struggling creature.

Of course, this entailed exposing his back to the other mantid.

The other monster came up behind Hirrus, and swept its sword around in a vicious slash, intending to decapitate the occupied Forsaken. Hirrus’s instincts kicked in, and he hunched his shoulders, letting the strike deflect off of his armored shoulders. The sword came down again, and landed on Hirrus’s shield - still strapped to his back - sending the impact of the blow down to his legs, keeping him from establishing enough footing to pull up the flailing mantid.

The mantid stepped back, bracing for a stronger strike. The moment’s peace was all the warning Hirrus got before the mantid hurled itself bodily at him, using its slightly superior size to hurl the entire group - dangling mantid and all - off the edge of the stairs and into empty space.

The first moment would have actually been terrifying, if Hirrus had been a living thing capable of terror. Even still, it was not his happiest moment. As they began to fall, Hirrus lashed out with a foot and managed to hit the uninjured mantid’s head, disorienting it and sending it into a spin. The Forsaken didn’t spend the time hoping it would be enough of a stall for what he had to do now.

Hirrus yanked on the leg of the still-thrashing mantid he already had a hold of, ‘climbing’ up the creature’s body as they fell. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, and wrenched it viciously out of the insect’s carapace, sending ichor and entrails sailing through the air as the creature shrieked one final time. The Forsaken kicked off of the dying mantid’s body, trying to get enough momentum in the other direction to close the distance with the other, still-spinning mantid he had kicked.

The mantid regained its senses from the boot to the head as Hirrus latched onto its back. The creature weighed its options as Hirrus established a grip on its body, and not a moment too soon. The creature began to flap its wings, and found itself strong enough to support both its own weight and that of the rider.

Hirrus slid his arm around the mantid, holding his sword to its throat. “Return me to the stairs.” He rasped. “And I will allow you to live.”

The creature chittered in laughter. “Allow me to present a counter-offer.”

The mantid unceremoniously slammed itself into the stone wall of the mountain, smashing Hirrus between its weight and the uncompromising stone. As it bounced back from the impact, the creature swooped in an arc and struck again. Hirrus grunted with the impact this time.

And again.

And again.

Hirrus was faintly reminded of the sight of a housefly slamming into a pane of glass, trying to get out of the closed window. Only now he was a giant cushion for the fly to soften each blow.

Hirrus grabbed onto one of the protective plates that would fold down over the creature’s wings. The mantid only laughed harder.

“Do you mean to kill us both? You fool.”

“Hm.” Hirrus hesitated.

Hirrus wrenched the protective plate, and the creature veered in an instinctive flinch against the pain. Its mocking laughter did not abate, though. The plate was not necessary for flight, and so the pair slammed into the wall again before arcing back around for another strike.

Just before the moment of impact, Hirrus dragged his claws down the insect’s wing, interrupting its laughter.

“What? Why!?” It shrieked as they bounced off the wall again, spinning away and down.

Rather than answer, Hirrus jammed his sword into the creature’s other side, drawing a gasp of pain as the sword penetrated the mantid’s other wing, and bit deep into the carapace.

SLAM.

The pair hit the ground hard, the mantid on the bottom now. Only they hadn’t hit the ground proper. They had landed back on the stairs. The creature’s arcing, wall-slamming course had taken them slowly upward, back above the stairs where they’d first fallen from. It was a combination of timing and luck that brought them down on the stairs rather than over the edge. With the plate-wearing Hirrus on top, many of the creature’s body segments shattered like melons between the heavy metal-clad warrior and the solid stone stairs. Bug juice splattered everywhere.

Hirrus took three deep breaths, letting the red haze of battle fade from the edges of his vision. On the fourth breath, he was calmly himself again.

“Whoa.”

Hirrus looked over his shoulder, back down the stairs. He was not terribly surprised to see his former pandaren escort standing there in shock, staring at him despite the mantid organs splattering the two of them from the waist down.

“Did you just get abducted by mantids?” the man stammered.

“It’s not important.” Hirrus said, standing up. He stared down at the shattered corpse, and kicked it off the edge of the stairs, letting it tumble limply into empty space. “Am I higher up than I was when they jumped me?”

“I don’t know.” The woman stared down at the splattered mess on the stairs beneath the warrior. “Why?”

“If I skipped a bunch of stairs, I don’t want to end up getting thrown all the way back down again.”

“I think ascending the stairs is more of a symbolic tradition than a physical one. It’s probably fine.”

“Hm.” Hirrus mused as he stomped his feet, trying to kick the mantid gore off of his boots. After a moment, he started walking again.

Mercifully, the top of the stairs started to come into view around the mountainside before the pair of pandaren tried to initiate conversation again.

The trio approached the top of the stairs, where the burly doorkeeper waited. Hirrus suppressed a scowl.

“Well. Good to see you again, friend. Did you have a nice trip?” The pandaren’s tone was light, but the emotion dancing in his eyes was not mirth, but sadism. It was actually a relief to Hirrus. Unsurprisingly, he was more used to dealing with sadists than the good humored.

“No. I did not.” Hirrus replied flatly.

The pandaren’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the trio’s legs. “What happened?”

Both of the pandaren looked to Hirrus.

“Mantids.” He declined to elaborate.

The burly pandaren continued to stare at Hirrus, saying nothing. Waiting.

“They knew I was coming. They tried to kill me to drive a wedge between my people and your organization. I declined participation.” Hirrus looked down at his gore-splattered shinguards, and then at the bloodied sword on his hip. “I declined somewhat energetically.”

He looked to the other two pandaren, who both tried to start talking at the same time, but didn’t have anything to say that were actual words.

Hirrus gestured to the pair. “They weren’t there when the mantid attacked. But they were there when I landed, afterwards.”

The pandaren raised an eyebrow. “When you landed.”

“Yes.” Hirrus, again, declined to elaborate. This time, surprise that the doorman was perfectly able understand him was as much the cause for his silence as his usual terse nature.

“He- uh.” The male pandaren on Hirrus’s left put in. “He fell out of the sky almost on top of us, riding one of them face-first into the stairs.”

The pandaren’s eyebrows raised. “Interesting.” He looked up at the sky. “Well, the snow will be falling soon. We should get inside.”

The two pandaren bowed deeply. “Yes, sifu.” They said in unison.

“I just convey the message, sir. I can’t tell you anything else about it.”

Hirrus stared at the messenger. Even for a fellow Forsaken, his jawless gaze was… Intimidating.

“I’ll just… Go, then.” The messenger started away. The world spun, briefly, and the messenger found himself on the ground, the warrior standing over him. “Or I won’t. I knew it was one or the other.”

“It has been a… Harrowing few weeks. Indulge me for a moment.”

Hirrus knelt down next to the prone messenger, and held the letter up over the Forsaken’s face. He slid one claw under the flap and tensed, ready to break the seal, carefully studying the messenger’s face.

Nothing.

Hirrus broke the seal, pinched the envelope so that it was held open, and shook it gently.

Nothing.

“Hm.”

“Can I go, now?”

“Yes.” Hirrus didn’t wait for the messenger to stand before slamming the door to his hovel. He tossed the letter onto his table and dragged his cedar chest back in front of the door.

He regarded the letter for a moment. If it was a trap, the trap was in the contents, and not the envelope. Not that it made the trap any less dangerous. He sat down at the table, and pulled the letter from the envelope.

He flinched. He’d been set on fire in too many unexpected ways these last months not to.

Nothing.

The letter itself was fairly standard. Printed on standard white-ish paper, scrawled with some common of ink in a hand that  was of a bureaucrat. Completely unremarkable in every way, perfectly readable, and almost indistinguishable from machined print. There was a seal pressed into the bottom of the letter that matched the one that had held the envelope closed.

It was, naturally, the Royal Seal of the Banshee Queen. Because that wasn’t suspicious at all. This was the third letter he’d received with that seal in the last two weeks. The first one had physically exploded with fel energies when he broke the wax. The second had contained some kind of powdered acid that had left some pretty nasty scoring across his floor. Most of the letters he’d received in the past weeks had been the same - booby-trapped in some way that destroyed all evidence of the letter when tripped. Each trap implied three things about his ‘admirer’. They were an alchemist, a warlock, and a paranoiac.

Thinking of it made him wish he had more properly questioned the first assassin. The troll who had talked his way in the door by pretending to be on official business for the Horde, and then tried to kill him. That was the sloppiest the murder attempts ever got. It was unfortunate, then, that Hirrus had eaten most of the troll, and thrown the rest out to rot. Subsequent assassins were far more elusive, employing only those methods of attack that put them at the least risk. An alchemical firebomb here, the occasional poison trap set up outside his door… Nothing that could be mistaken for an accident, but nothing that put the attacker at risk of reprisal.

Hirrus found it endlessly frustrating. He much preferred an enemy he could fight face-to-face. Or, at least, an enemy he could confront face-to-face. It was perhaps more surprising that he hadn’t earned the ire of someone who refused such a confrontation until now.

He could not contact the Scythe. That they had not mailed him back implied that his letters were being intercepted, or that they were somehow embroiled in this. Their silence did not combine well with what he could divine about his attacker. A Warlock Apothecary? How many members of the scythe fit that description? Four? Five? Perhaps only three, if you tried to count only those wily enough to form such elaborate low-risk plans of attack.

At any rate, if this letter was a trap, then the trap was in whatever orders the letter claimed the Dark Lady required of him. It was a foolhardy move to send such a letter. If he could get the letter to the proper authorities, the forgery would get someone in a lot of trouble. Unlike Hirrus, they would have the proper equipment and knowledge to trace back the source of the letter. Forging military orders like this was an offense that they could not let slide.

He almost declined to read the letter, to take it immediately to Forsaken Command in the city and present it as evidence of a conspiracy. But he couldn’t risk ignoring legitimate orders. If the letter was meant to walk him into a trap, it would perhaps be an opportunity to confront his enemy. It made sense to base his next actions off of the contents of the letter.

Hirrus Callabryn,

You are hereby summoned to Forsaken Command in Undercity. Come at once. This order is by the directive of the Dark Lady herself. An assignment is required of you. This is related to the many attempts on your life made in the last ninety to one-hundred and eighty days. Please bring with you any evidence or information you can provide about the attacks.

In lieu of a signature was the royal seal.

The letter was instructing him to go to exactly where he would go to report the letter as a fake. Hirrus had not expected that. It lent the letter a great deal of legitimacy. He considered his options. The only way this was a trap was if the trap was in between him and the city. He would have to keep his wits about him on the way there, but if it wasn’t a trap, this was exactly the lifeline he had been holding out for. He couldn’t ignore it.

“Hm.”

He gathered what little evidence he had - mostly ashes and bloodstained papers - and prepared himself for the trip.

----

The trip itself was uneventful. No ambushes. No traps. Not even an uneasy sense of being watched. It was not unusual of Hirrus’s trips to the city in general, but it was quite unusual of his experiences the past few weeks. It meant that he didn’t relax once he was underground in the city proper, despite the crowds. The less certain he was of the presence of a trap, the more concerned he was that he was about to walk directly into one.

He arrived at Forsaken Comment, reporting in to the Deathguard on duty, presenting the letter. He almost expected the trap to slam down on his head then, but the guard placidly nodded, and bid him to wait until he could be seen.

A few minutes later, a Dark Ranger arrived, calling him in to receive his assignment.

“Hm.” He remarked, regarding the undead elf. “If this is still part of the trap, it grows more elaborate by the minute.”

“Yes, I understand you’ve been a target for the past few months. It’s regrettable that we did not send for  you sooner, but you were not the only target.” She said as she led him into the briefing room, gesturing for him to sit. “Do you have anything to report for our investigation?”

“Not much.” Hirrus admitted, presenting her with the ashes of the letters that had immolated him, and the bloodied pages of the fake contract the troll assassin had used to get close to Hirrus. “They have been careful. No one has confronted me physically since the first attack.”

“That is unusual. Most of the others were attacked several times. Whoever is behind it is custom-tailoring the attacks to their intended victims.” She sat at the table opposite him, setting a file down. “What is most worrisome is how the victims are selected.” She paused, expecting him to ask. When he obediently remained quiet, she opened the file and continued. “There is a worrisome development we’ve uncovered in Outland. Despite recent events around the Dark Portal, we can still get there, it simply takes more effort. This makes the trouble there more urgent, since it is now more difficult to investigate or interfere with. This is a blind spot we cannot allow. We planned on sending a task force to handle this matter, and were in the process of narrowing down the list. You were on that list, as were all the others attacked. In the past weeks we’ve managed to learn who leaked the list, and, through extensive interrogation, we have discovered that the culprit is the same group we were planning on sending the task force against.”

“Hm.” Hirrus nodded, but said no more.

“These attacks have thinned our pool of agents quite drastically. The agents who survived the attacks are frightened, and more than we need their expertise, we need to provide them with protection. You will be that protection. Unfortunately, after the list was leaked, you were deemed unsuitable for the mission and removed. If they had leaked the list a week later, you would never have known anything was amiss. Given our situation, though, it has been decided - by the Dark Lady herself - that it is worth our time and resources to cleanse you of the faults that make you unsuitable.”

“Hm.” Hirrus frowned, but said no more.

“Your rage makes you a liability for the specific circumstances of this mission. Dealing with this problem is the nature of this assignment. You are ordered to report to Townlong Steppes. We have made a deal with the Shado-Pan to train you. Do not concern yourself with the cost to us. The administration has found it worthwhile, due to the nature of the mission. While you are training, we will be continuing to reach out to other possible victims of the attacks, and finish assembling the team.”

“Hm.” Hirrus grimaced, but said no more.

“Do you have any questions about this assignment?”

Hirrus squinted at the Dark Ranger. “Hm.”

“What?” She met his gaze, unfazed.

“I think I am convinced that this is not a trap.” He said at last. “What can you tell me of the group behind all of this?”

“Nothing. It has been impressed upon me that it is vitally important that you not be told the nature of this group. All I can tell you is that they are in Outland, they are growing in power, and they are of interest to the Dark Lady.”

“Hm.” He frowned. “And I had to be sent to Pandaria.”

“These are, of course, direct orders. Straight from Sylvanas. Were there not other things pressing upon her time, she would be giving them to you herself.” She levelled an expression at him that was not quite a glare. “This assignment is not optional.”

“Of course.” Hirrus straightened his back, sitting up. “When am I to leave on this assignment?”