#eredari

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 5.5 pt. 6

Two days. The siege of the Nighthold had taken two days, and now on the dawn of the third it would finally end. Naahma’s hooves felt like lead as she advanced on the teleporter; above them she could hear Gul’dan chanting, and it made her stomach churn. For Draenor. For Azeroth. For my home and children, you will die.

The warlock stood within a column of energy on a vast open dais; behind her she was vaguely aware of Percy freezing at the realization of how high up they were, and Reeta whispering a spell that—oh, that would be useful, it felt like an extended-radius gravitational slow. At least they couldn’t die by falling off the platform. Judging by the maddened look in Gul’dan’s eyes, he wanted to cause their demise directly; when he spoke, his voice felt like a saw through Naahma’s mind.

“Ah, yes... the heroes have arrived. So persistent, so confident... but your arrogance will be your undoing. Have you forgotten your humiliation on the Broken Shore? How your precious High King was bent and broken before me, and your mighty Warchief was stuck in the belly like a helpless piglet? Will you beg for your lives as he did, whimpering like some worthless dog? Your pathetic armies will fall to dust. In the end, death will inherit this world... and she will be waiting.” Gul’dan’s gaze slid over the Forsaken, and he smiled. “What a pity.”

“No.” Crusader Bladesworn’s voice was a horrified croak; as he stepped back, what Naahma could see of his eyes were wide pools of glowing yellow, and the wave of protectiveness it spurred in her made her growl.

Gul’dan’s smile grew, revealing even more fangs than Naahma thought possible. “Illidan’s husk will make a fine vessel for my master, and your world will burn—”

“Not if you burn first!” Light lanced down as Tanryn charged forward, rushing Gul’dan’s energy barrier. It didn’t even crack; she rebounded, shaking her head, and turned to the rest of the group. “C’mon, I bet we can…oh.”

Portals shimmered into existence all around the dais; Naahma only took a moment to register what looked like the entire Burning Legion pouring through them before leaping into the fray. The one upside of the Legion’s preference for massed assault was that it meant she couldn’t possibly miss. She felt the teleport they’d ascended by start to reactivate, but only realized that reinforcements were arriving when a burly elf Blinked past her and gutted an inquisitor. Thank the Light.

“Flamedancer, you’re far from your temple!”

Oh, no. She leapt to cave a fel lord’s skull in, twisting in midair to see where the horribly familiar bellow had come from.

There, in the midst of the fray, Tanryn was trying very hard to keep an Eredar focused on her, dodging around him and slamming her mace into his joints. He was older now, scarred and missing his facial tendrils, but Naahma recognized him. He’d almost been a friend, once. She felt the fire within her leap out of her skin in arcs of heat; unthinking, she wove her way across the battlefield towards him, leaving a trail of flame and charred corpses in her wake. Her voice rang out above the din as she lapsed into the dialect of their crèche. “I dance for Azeroth’s glory now!”

He snorted, swatting Tanryn’s blow aside.  “Foolish traitor, turning your back on the true rulers of this universe! You fight in vain, knowing that Sargeras will conquer all—”

Naahma swept in around Tanryn’s guard, whipped around the Eredar in a swift circle, and drove her fist into his kidneys. Lava erupted from her bare skin, eating a hole into his flesh; as he turned to strike back, she danced out of his range. The mace he carried could flatten her, and her best defense was simply not to be where it was. “Sargeras led me long enough!”

“You--!” Whatever he was going to say was eclipsed by a roar of pain; Tanryn had shattered one of his knees, and as he dropped she called down a gout of holy fire to finish the job. Naahma spared a moment’s attention to nod gratefully before striking down an imp that had been about to attach itself to her ankle.

“That barrier—”

Another wave of demons charged them, erasing Tanryn’s words. As Naahma moved (stab, kick, fling out an arc of fire, dodge incoming barrage), she called back, “Legion first!”

Her communication stone buzzed to life, and Reeta’s voice snapped through it. “The portals are down, we don’t have to worry about any more of ‘em!”

That still left a lot of demons. Even with the rest of their forces fighting alongside them, a quick glance around the dais showed nearly as many casualties on both sides, and Gul’dan’s felfire rain was much deadlier when you hadn’t grown up with it. Percy was focusing on a spell entirely too close to the oncoming impact; fear gripped Naahma’s heart as she charged across the battlefield to shove her out of the way. “Move!”

Violet eyes went wide with panic. She wasted precious seconds glancing up before she managed to scramble awkwardly to one side. Naahma’s impact knocked her over; she yelped with shock, but fell clear of the blast zone. “Naahma—” A shimmering shield of fire wrapped around her.

It was the last thing Naahma saw before her vision went green. Felfire cascaded over her, and every inch of exposed skin drank it in like rain. She only kept her balance by sheer stubbornness, and took in a shuddering breath to inhale the fumes. This, this was power, pure fel energy coursing through her like her own blood. She could do anything like this; she could destroy the world like this. Kil’jaeden would be pleased.

The fire finished seeping into her bones, and she smiled. He will weep this day. She tapped her communication crystal. “I am doing the fire. Gather up and shield yourselves.”

Three separate domes of Light sprang up around the dais; as she watched, more appeared. It seemed that the other healers in the army had gotten the message as well, and the Legion’s forces instinctively recoiled from the Light searing them. As soon as they were gathered in tight enough groups, she took a deep breath, shifted her weight, and started to dance.

It wasn’t a real dance, of course; for such a small area, it was closer to the first few steps of a larger figure. With the first step, felfire sparked over her skin, a crackling outline over her horns. With the second, she flung her arms wide and slammed her tail down onto the stone; several spines snapped off painlessly, and she whirled to fling them into the joints of an advancing demon. With the third, the first bolts of felfire started to rain down. Demons screamed in pain, taken by surprise, and the army swept in for a counterattack.

Slowly but surely, the tide of the battle began to turn. Naahma had almost been drawn into a state of tunnel vision when Gul’dan’s horrible grating voice rang out. “Must I do everything myself?”

And then the infernals started raining down, and she was utterly unprepared for one to land in front of her and knock her into a support column. At first there was only the impact, and then there was agony. Bone cracked as her horn took the brunt of the blow, and she felt it splinter. Moving was an impossibility; for long, terrible moments, all she could do was lay there, try to breathe through the pain, and watch as Gul’dan turned his full attention back to the ritual. In another moment he’d shield himself again, and their opportunity to strike would be lost.

“Pitiful. Is this all the opposition you can muster?”

No. No, I have to—we have to fight… But there was blood on her face and she couldn’t get her hooves under her; the pain radiating through her skull brought a wave of dizziness when she tried to move, and so she had to settle for pulling herself into a seated position and flinging fire at anything that got too close. She could still hear Gul’dan chanting above the melee, and it made her snarl. “Someone shut him up!” Belatedly, she realized she’d spoken in Eredun.

“On it!” A blond blur in a purple tabard sprinted past her, gutted a doomguard, nearly decapitated a felguard, and dropped to one knee to dodge an Eredar’s strike; she had just enough time to register that Leo had thrown something with sharp edges before the felblood was moving again.

Gul’dan roared in pain. She lifted her head, gaze glued to the spreading patch of fel-tainted blood dripping from his shoulder. She’d poisoned Leo’s daggers herself, and it seemed the formula she’d devised really did work on everything; the orc’s arm hung useless, and he wobbled on his feet.

As she looked around, she realized there were far fewer infernals—and far less rubble—than she’d thought. The reason soon became clear; one took a single lumbering step towards her and immediately vanished, pulled back through the Twisting Nether by a trembling Persicaria. When she saw Naahma sitting upright, she called out, “Are you okay?”

“I will live!” Oh, yelling hurt. She leaned back against the column, blinking, and risked adding, “Focus on Gul’dan!”

“I’m trying…what’s Khadgar doing?”

Percy sounded confused, and so Naahma squinted at the center of the dais. A human in robes and a gathering of winged and horned Illidari were clustered around a crystal and doing something; there was a figure inside it, and its giant wings were rustling. A demon? Or…

In front of Gul’dan, a portal was opening; the netherwind blowing from it brought a scent of sulfur and an unimaginably powerful presence. As she watched, the edges wavered and crinkled, starting to fold in on themselves. The first hint of torsion in the matrix set off a chain reaction; Gul’dan cried out in horror as the portal faded out of existence.

And then the crystal shattered, and something—tall, hooved, horned, winged—stepped out and lunged for him. Gul’dan screamed, but the sound was short-lived; fel energy rippled through him from his assailant’s hands, consuming him from the inside out. As the thing turned away from the warlock’s ashes, Naahms saw that he was smirking. “You have seen what I’ve seen. You know what we face. Now…follow me into the abyss.”

One of the Illidari stepped forward; Naahma counted four arms before she realized demon and then shivarra. “We await your orders, my lord.”

So, this was Illidan, then. She’d honestly been expecting something more elven, but she’d seen more severe fel mutations—and she couldn’t be anything but thankful that his first act had been to see that Gul’dan was well and truly obliterated. Alurenor…Draenor, you are avenged. This world will not be another Argus today.

There was a furious screech from Reeta and a flood of enraged-sounding Thalassian; Naahma blinked at the sight of her crackling with arcane lightning while her husband and Thammuz pulled her back. Evidently there was some history there. Carefully, each movement aching, she risked trying to pull herself into a more or less vertical position. Blood coursed down the side of her face, and she grimaced. “You alright?”

“Just stay right there, um—miss.” With blood dripping into her eye and the pain in her head, she hadn’t registered the advance of a shal’dorei in the white robes of a priest; his hand on her arm was gentle, but the look in his eyes was not. “You can talk to your friends after I’ve checked your wound.”

A single drop of her blood landed on his sleeve. It was bright, glowing green, and she felt her stomach drop. I’m an Eredar. He’ll raise the alarm; the entire army will know, I’ll meet the same fate as Gul’dan, there won’t even be ashes for my children to weep over.

pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6

Well. That had gone...better than she’d dreamed, in all honesty. Apparently, the group she’d fallen in with really didn’t care if she was an Eredar in disguise, so long as she was sincere about fighting the Legion. The priest was still giving her odd looks and she had a feeling that giving Crusader Bladesworn any reason to fight her would end very badly, but aside from that, it was going remarkably well. Her skin breathed much better without the illusion over it, and nobody had yet made any horrified comments on the demonic form it revealed. (She supposed it helped that Percy was glaring viciously at anyone who looked like they might.)

“So how much of what you told us was bullshit?”

They’d stopped for a rest halfway up the longest single flight of stairs Naahma had ever seen, and Tanryn was inspecting a scrape in the paint on her shield as she asked the question. She almost looked nonchalant aside from the steel glinting in her eyes, and it made Naahma wince a little. “None. Parts I did not say, but I did not lie.”

As multiple pairs of elven ears angled in her direction and Tanryn gestured for her to continue, she took a deep breath. Now or never, if I’m to get them to trust me.

And so she told them everything. Growing up on Argus in the creches, being assigned a lowly role as a temple dancer and what that meant (hoofbeats that turned aside volcanoes, dancing the flames into submission, always and ever praising the glory of Sargeras). How she’d been approached by Kil’jaeden’s troops for her looks (”there are not being many pure Eredar, and it is easier to make a similar thing into the right image, when you are casting illusions”) and sent to Draenor. How she’d wanted, at first, to bring glory and honor to her line.

How she’d taken her first steps onto grass, clean and fresh and alive under her hooves, and nearly sobbed with the joy of it. “And so I knew from then, I could never...” She shook her head, unable to find words.

“You chose Draenor.” Crusader Bladesworn’s face hadn’t moved, but there was something like understanding in his eyes.

“...I did. And...” She shrugged, a little helplessly. “The rest, I have told you. My children, my work, my lovers. They do not know what--what I am.”

Thammuz stiffened, lifting his head. “You should probably tell ‘em, since the Legion seems to know you’ve picked the side of the angels. They might be in danger, too.”

Her tail thudded against the stone, thin spines rattling. “I know that! But--they are draenei, they can have that protection. The Prophet here will guard them.” And Heraan and Naagrath are very good at hiding. “Already I have hurt them, I will not do it again.”

“I told y--”

“Take it from--” Reeta cut herself off, blushing, and gestured at Percy. “No, you first, sorry. But seriously, tell ‘em, lying to your loved ones doesn’t help.”

Percy sighed, gesturing to Naahma and then to the rest of the group. “Sorry, but this is important--guys. She thinks the Legion followed her to Draenor when she didn’t report back after however many centuries, and that’s why that whole thing happened.”

“They are cruel and obsessive and vindictive, Persicaria, they really would hunt me--”

“Bullshit.” Rythien hadn’t spoken a word while she’d been telling them about Argus, but now his gaze was focused on her, ears pinned back like a cat. “Is your name Velen? Nope. So stop beating yourself up over your ex-boss being a raging bag of dicks. What happened wasn’t your fault, and if anyone tries to tell you that it is, I will light them on fire.”

Percy smirked up at him. “Get in line.”

“Excuse me? You’re forgetting the masters of holy fire here, me and Aya--”

“--have got no range whatsoever, so my offer still stands.”

“Do as you are told, and great honor will come to your line.”

Honor. Glory. A place in the spires of Argus, instead of scratching an existence out in the caves below. No longer would she be Naahma, one of hundreds of temple dancers, but Naahma the flameweaver, Naahma the Left Hand of Kil’jaeden. Her brothers and sisters would have higher postings, and Naahtariel would be exalted among the broodmothers.

It had taken months of preparation, but finally she was deemed ready. This mission--deep cover, infiltrating the exiles on the planet they’d fled to--would be unlike any other. Her facial tendrils coiled and uncoiled, the only sign of nerves she permitted herself. The space beyond the portal showed green ground and a blue sky spangled with stars; it would spit her out in a deserted part of the planet, leaving her to make her own way to civilization.

“You will succeed.” Heraan didn’t smile, but his eyes shone with pride.

She took a slow breath. “Of course.”

Naahma was sitting on the bench in front of the Cathedral Square fountain with her knitting (a potentially dangerous thing, so close to so much Light, but it was soothingly quiet and didn't burn as much as she'd thought) when she heard it. Stormwind's town crier had a voice that sliced through the evening's chatter like a blade, and his words chilled her blood.

"The Burning Legion has returned to Azeroth! By order of the King, all those wishing to face them at the Broken Isles must report to the docks tomorrow morning!”

No. Oh, no. Her needles fell to her lap from fingers that suddenly couldn't grip them. The Legion can't be here. Not here--I was supposed to be safe! We were all supposed to be safe! Blood roared in her ears, almost but not quite drowning out the shocked exclamations from the people nearby.

Just as her own shock started to fade, cold dread seeped into the spaces it left behind. My family. My girls, Ruulnor--Heraan-- She had to make herself take deep breaths. I brought this on them. If I hadn't betrayed the Legion, they wouldn't have come here, everyone would be safe--I did this. I did this.

Clenching her knitting needles in one fist, she got jerkily to her hooves and marched forwards. The steps of the Cathedral felt like lava under her hooves, but she forged up them with gritted teeth, tail switching hard behind her. Her skin felt hot and too tight; the fire seething under it threatened to break forth at the slightest nudge. She forced it down; as long as she used none of her innate magic, she couldn't be "read" as anything other than another draenei, and she wasn't quite so desperate as to court death.

The human priest on duty looked up at her with a mild expression that turned to a raised eyebrow at her attire. That was fair of him; she supposed her short dress was a little too short for human sensibilities. "Welcome to the Cathedral of Light, madam."

She nodded in greeting. "I come to pray."

The stones burned and she swore she could feel the very air trying to suck itself from her lungs, but she knelt with her eyes closed anyway. The Light had no reason to listen to her, but if anything--anything--could keep her family safe...

Naahma is a traitor.

She is a traitor, and she cannot bring herself to feel badly about it. Somehow that feels worse.

(She thinks Argus must have been beautiful once.)

She should have served the Legion. She had been raised, trained, bred to honor nothing higher than Sargeras and his teachings of power. When she takes that first step onto the exiles’ planet—onto Draenor—her conviction crumbles to dust in the first gentle breeze (a breeze that doesn’t sting, that doesn’t carry the smell of sulfur or roasting meat or hot metal. she wants to fill her lungs with it forever).

If it had looked like Argus—like the hot, dry, broken expanse of steel and black rock and sparse stunted plantlife she had grown up on—she thinks it would have been harder. But Draenor is lush and peaceful and nobody stabs anyone over the last scrap of food, and Argus is so very far away. It is easy, here, to relax. To sing, to dance, to find friends and lovers and company and a career.

(The first time she discovers she is pregnant, she is terrified. When Naahari blinks eyes that have not a single trace of green, and her tiny tuft of hair proves to be blue instead of red, the fear begins to fade. By the time Ruulnor is born, she can hold her tiny son in her arms and smile.)

For two glorious centuries, she doesn’t need to choose. Her children love her, her ex-lovers are distant but pleasant, she has a job she enjoys, and she’s in contact with Heraan enough to suit them both. Naagrath’s separation from her is an empty space she tries to ignore.

And then the Horde rises.

And then the Legion comes, and suddenly there is no time to choose anymore.

(My children. My home. My love. You will not have them!)

But oh, it hurts, and oh, she had not expected the pain.

On one side her children, her friends, and a world she has come to know and love and would not see broken and aflame. On the other…

(She remembers her sisters and brothers. She remembers dancing in the Temple, flames following her every movement and gleaming off each flash of gold. She remembers Heraan’s smile and the tiny nick at the top of his crest where he once hit it on the cave ceiling.)

(She remembers Naagrath, who will never see her mother again, who will grow up hating the exiles and wishing for their destruction. She remembers her green eyes.)

None of it stops her from kneeling in front of the Sha’tari, pledging her axes to their cause. Her family will hate her anyway, and surely Heraan is no different. None of them will understand. Argus never needed her. Draenor does.

She walks a razor’s edge, but she is used to it. It’s only another lie, after all.

And so she turns her back on her people to serve exiles she knows would kill her if they found out what she was. There is pain, there is always pain, but there is no fear. There is no room for fear, and so she smiles and does not shrink from battle.

(It’s taken her two hundred and fifty years to realize that she could never afford to.)

Perhaps it was wrong of him, but he appreciated the solitude. The scratched-out cave he shared wasn’t truly large enough for him and the child growing larger every day, and he knew it would only get worse as she got older. He poked at his campfire with a shard of iron and sighed, settling onto his haunches and tail to inspect the small animals strung on a spit above it. I should be grateful just to have her, and I am, but…oh, it would be easier if Naahma were here. We would rate a bigger cave, for one thing—perhaps we could even live in the Temple.

He huffed, the breath stirring an errant strand of red hair. I don’t even know how this business on the exiles’ world has been going, because of course nobody tells me, I’m just a scout. She hasn’t even been in touch, when I know we’ve sent plenty of potential contacts over for her to get word back. If something’s happened to her—

Hoofbeats on black stone interrupted his train of thought; his head snapped up, fel-bright eyes narrowing, as the newcomer approached. “Who goes there?”

The Eredar woman stopped just inside the circle of light cast by the fire, arms folded over her chest. Like him, she was nearly naked in the heat; unlike him, she wore not even the thin bands of leather or token pieces of platemail that marked a frontline fighter. He took in the runes and sigils tattooed on her arms and thighs—a warcaster, then. As he opened his mouth to demand identification, she beat him to it.

“Your precious Naahma has betrayed us.”

Quickly, he schooled his face into an impassive mask. “And who are you to make such claims?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You truly don’t remember me? I am Naahli.”

Naahli, Naahli…oh. After a moment’s pause, he nodded. “Of course. Speak.”

Her tail thudded against the ground, punctuating her next words with a steady beat. “She was intended to prepare the way for us, to convert the exiles to our cause and gather information. We heard nothing from her for years, and when we finally began our glorious conquest—without her—she reappeared.” She let out a hiss. “She slew Anthuun, my partner, and several of our converts. I gather that she’s done the same at our other camps, but nobody seems able to catch her. She’s thrown her lot in with the exiles! She is a traitor.”

No. Had his tail not been supporting him, he might have fallen over; for a dizzying moment, it felt as though the earth spun under his hooves. How could she—why—she’ll be—

Naahli smirked, the expression showing just the tip of one sharp white fang. “Never fear, Heraan. She will be dealt with. Our main offensive is in place, due to march at any moment; we will scour the exiles from existence, and their world will be ours. And you will, of course, take part in this glorious event.”

He glanced at her. “I’ve had no orders yet.”

“You do now.” Her smirk spread into a triumphant, malicious grin. “Your mission is to find and slay the traitor Naahma daughter of Naahtariel for the glory of the Legion.”

After a moment in which he felt his own heart stutter so hard he wondered that Naahli didn’t hear it, he bowed his head—a gesture of respect that also served to hide his face. “It would be…an honor.”

“Naturally.” She tilted her head, frowning at the fire. “It appears your dinner is ready. It’s stopped squirming.”

It felt too normal, too banal—but she was right, and he straightened up to bellow, “Naagrath! Food!”

Her frown deepened. “That little brat is still living with you at seven? You should have had her sent to the broodmothers years ago.”

His ears laid back delicately. “She is my daughter and your sister’s daughter. Blood of your blood.” And she’s all I have of Naahma now.

“Daughter of a traitor.” She sniffed, turning to leave. “You are fortunate that I have more important things to do than linger. Be ready to leave on my summons.”

He nodded once in acknowledgement.

Barely a few moments after she left, the skittering of smaller hooves on gravel announced the arrival of a much more welcome presence, and he felt the weight in his heart lift a fraction as Naagrath scampered up to the fire. “Dinner, papa?”

He smiled at her, reaching out to wipe blood—not hers—from the corner of her mouth. “I hope you’re still hungry, little warrior. “

She nodded enthusiastically; as she tore ravenously at the hot meat, he took the opportunity to look her over for any new injuries. She was too thin for her age, but then so was he. So were all of the Eredar who didn’t have the fortune to earn a place in the great twisting spires. A few scrapes shone at her knees and elbows, her crest was scratched, and her dark skin was turning darker where her tail had been bruised, but it was nothing that would need to be bandaged. Her hair—as black as her mother’s—had come undone from the careful plait he’d put it in that morning, and the shift she wore was somehow even more stained than it had been. He frowned and ripped off a mouthful of his own meal, swallowing it before speaking. “I hope you won that fight.”

“Mm-hmm!” Even with her mouth full, she grinned hugely at him, showing off her small fangs.

“Good.” He ate in silence, mind too full of half-formed plans to speak aloud. When the skewer was clean, he met his daughter’s gaze again. “Naagrath, how would you like to go on an adventure with me? You’ll have to be very sneaky and very, very quiet.”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes! When can we go? I can be the best at sneaky and quiet, just like you—you’ll see!”

He got to his hooves, stamping a few times to flex his muscles. “As soon as possible. Get your things; we’ll make a stop or two along the way, but we need to move quickly. Don’t leave behind anything you’d really miss.”

She blinked at him. “Huh?”

“We’re not coming back.” Before her face could fall, he added “We’re going to find Mama.”

She sprinted past him into the cave, and he sighed. I hope this works. But…I need to find her, I need to find out why—I can’t let her die. I just hope she listens to me, that she still loves us. Naahli’s words came back to him, and he shook his head. I wish I couldn’t believe that she’d betray us, but from what she told me of the exile’s world…of Draenor…well. I don’t know if I can blame her.

The next day, with Naagrath in his arms and all that they owned strapped to his back, he stepped through the portal and onto fresh grass.

Romance is...discouraged, in the Burning Legion. Loyalty to Sargeras comes before all. And yet, when Naahma was a tiny eredar spawnling, she had a deep crush on Baelmon, the son of one of the guards in her family compound. He gave her a whole rat head! It had to be love.