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.

“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.