Osha'gun

[moonshadows]

 

After several hours of hard riding, the shining slopes of Osha'gun come into view and the rider of the lead wolf raises one arm to bring the group to a stop. The leader leaps lightly from the enormous frostwolf, not hampered at all by the black plate armor or the massive warhammer with the five-foot haft, and kneels to touch the soil. Most of the other orcs bear shamanistic trappings, but one burly Mag'har stands out. The wicked axe and evil-looking warbow strapped to his back don't set him apart nearly as much as the black raptor he rides.

The green-skinned orc in the black plate armor stands up.

"Problems, Warchief?" the raptor rider calls.

"Hard to say from here," the Warchief replies, swinging easily back up onto the white wolf. "We need to get closer."

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The shamans spread out at Osha'gun's foot, probing the soil, tasting the air, conferring with the spirits. Especially conferring with the spirits. The Warchief is prominent among them, quietly checking in with each orc or Mag'har, listening with respect to those older and wiser in the ways of the spirits. The Mag'har with the raptor is tending the cooking fires, glancing every so often at his Warchief. Shortly after midday, the Warchief calls a halt and seeks him out.

"Any luck yet?" he asks, passing over a haunch of meat and a slab of hearty bread.

The Warchief takes both with a nod of thanks, head bowed for a moment to silently thank the spirit of the beast for its flesh. "Yes and no. We think we can get the spiritual landscape separated from the physical one, and Osha'gun should be more than big enough to hold it, but..."

"The ship can't be repaired?"

"The ship can't be repaired. It's been far too long, there's no way to get it moving under its own power." The Warchief chews thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Daran?"

"Hm?"

"I need a sheet of parchment, something to write with, and Arikara."

The Mag'har lets out a warbling call and the raptor runs lightly up. A few moments of rummaging in saddlebags and he hands his Warchief the first two items. While the Warchief uses the raptor's flank as a writing surface, Daran whistles - and the air flares red around the windserpent that fades in from nowhere. The Warchief finishes writing and looks the letter over before folding it three times and offering it to the Vengeance-spirit.

"You know who to take it to," the armored shaman says softly.

Arikara dips her red-scaled head in a nod, bites the parchment, and fades back out of the world.

"Who-" Daran stops short, not sure he's asking the right question, but the Warchief grins.

"Your sister," she says, clapping him on the back, "and her husband."

The Mag'har shakes his head, braids bouncing. "You're bringing him here? You're crazy, Mika."

She grins at him again. "That's no way for a Champion to talk about his Warchief, Dranosh son of Ryxl."

He grins back and ruffles her short, blonde hair. "It is when his Warchief's being crazy, Mikanna daughter of Thrall." The grin fades. "You think he'll come?"

Her grin fades as well. "I hope so. I don't know of anyone else who could do this."

==================================

The wards scream silent panic into the minds of the lord and lady of the keep as Arikara phases into solidity in front of them. He waves one hand to end the alarm while she reaches out for the parchment the windserpent offers her. Message delivered, the spirit-beast leaves the way she arrived.

"How unusual," he murmurs, peering over her shoulder as she opens the parchment and reads.

"To my Champion's sister's husband. I need your help. Please reply at your earliest convenience. Mikanna." She looks up at him. "What do you think?"

He takes the parchment carefully. "Needs my help, hmm? I'm intrigued. Particularly as she used neither my title, nor hers."

"She's asking a personal favor."

"Mmm. Where is your brother now?"

She lifts her face and closes her eyes, listening to something he can't hear. "...Draenor."

His eyebrows arch up in surprise. "Indeed. Tessa, my love, find Rainbird and tell her we'll be gone for a few hours."

She goes on hoof-tip to kiss his cheek. "As you wish, my Kal'shan."

As she turns to go, however, he grabs her wrist and pulls her back into his arms. "You call that a kiss?" he growls menacingly. Before she can answer, his lips are on hers and she melts against him, one hand in his hair while the other loses its grip on the parchment. When he breaks the kiss, she is slightly flushed and dazed-looking, and he smiles tenderly at her. "Much better."

With a wicked little laugh, she runs her fingertips over the fel tattoos on his chest. "Should I try it a second time?"

He shudders slightly at her caress. "If you do, Draenor is not where we'll be going next."

She laughs again and darts from the room, hooves echoing on the stone floor. After a moment, he grins and gives chase.

 

==================================

 

Arikara lifts her head from the sprawling tangle of limbs. Immanent arrival, she says silently. The ghostly-pale wolf whines, and the frostwolf licks her.

"Come on, Mika," Daran says cheerfully as he de-tangles himself from his raptor, her wolf, and the windserpent.

The ghostwolf yawns, scratches one ear with a hind foot, and stands up to become a blonde half-orc with bright blue eyes. She has put Doomhammer's armor aside for the moment in favor of a blue-trimmed tunic and loose trousers. Behind her, Daran Ironheart yawns and rubs his eyes. "At least they waited until dawn?"

It's not long before a darkly violet sphere forms in the air, becomes six, and opens into a tightly-contained portal through which the former Lord of Outland steps, followed by his Champion. Both are garbed in rich purple embroidered with green runes and trimmed in gold thread, evoking the tattered standards once used by the Illidari. As the portal closes, one of the Mag'har shaman walks up close enough that her presence cannot be ignored, but is not intrusive either.

"Thank you for coming," Mika says, one hand outstretched in welcome.

"Your message was...intriguing." he clasps her forearm in a warrior's greeting.  "You, speaking only for yourself, need my help?"

"I don't know of anyone else who could possibly accomplish this," she says somberly. "Draenor is dying. Nagrand is crumbling. The Mag'har will not leave if it means abandoning the spirits and the ancestors. We can separate the spiritual landscape, bundle it into Osha'gun, but..." She shrugs. "The ship cannot be made functional. It would have to be transported to Azeroth some other way. You're the only one I know who has both the power to create such a massive portal, and the skill to do so without shattering what remains of the land."

He turns towards the glistening mountain and eyes it thoughtfully. "I need to consider this. I will return shortly."

With one powerful motion he leaps into the air and his wings open with an impressive snap. The orcs and Mag'har who had still been asleep awaken to his shadow passing overhead as he soars towards the broken naaru ship. Mikanna watches him fly for a few seconds, then turns to his Champion.

"He'll do it," the half-demon says without preamble. "You stroked his pride just enough. Nicely done," she adds with a grin.

"Demon." The Mag'har shaman has edged closer and now glares at Tessa, whose smile turns pointy.

"Half-demon," she corrects cheerfully. "My other half is orc."

The shaman spits. "What orc would do that with a demon? Pah."

Tessa only grins wider as her half-brother and his Warchief exude cold anger.

"Matron Drakia," Mikanna says crisply, "I would take it as a personal favor if you would not speak that way about my Champion's mother.”

The Mag'har woman squirms uncomfortably under the younger shaman's gaze. "Your pardon," she grates out. "I did not know that Ironheart had a daughter, much less that her daughter had taken up with..." she gestures to the speck circling the mountain rather than finish the sentence. "Why is he here, anyway?"

"I asked him to come here," the Warchief says, as though that explained everything.

The former Lord of Outland returns as swiftly and dramatically as he'd left, plummeting from the sky to land neatly in the center of the potential confrontation.

“I hope you know where you want that thing to go,” he says to the blonde orc. “I’m going to need to know where to put the other end of the portal.”

Mikanna’s face lights up. “You’ll do it, then?”

“I’ll do it.” He smirks, looking at Drakia. “You hate me. Don’t bother trying to deny it. You hate me, and you hate the idea of being indebted to me for this. That by itself is almost a good enough reason to do it – knowing that every time you look at your sacred mountain, you will remember how the Lord of Outland saved it from falling into the Twisting Nether.”

The brown-skinned shaman sneers at him. “At least you’re not trying to claim that you’re doing it out of kindness and generosity.”

“Of course not. I’m doing it because everyone will know I’m powerful enough, and skilled enough, that the Warchief of the Horde came to me to ask for my help. I’m doing it because it will be a legendary feat to make the mages of Dalaran gnaw their livers in envy, and future generations of mages wish they could be as good as me. And I may possibly be doing it as a personal favor to my Champion’s brother’s Warchief out of respect for her personally – if you can bring yourself to attribute such an unselfish motive to me.” A final, cold smirk at the older shaman, and he turns back to the younger one. “I will need to work with your people, both here and at the site of placement. This is not a spell that can be undertaken lightly.”

Mika nods. “Anything you need, Lord Stormrage. I will be in your debt for this.”

The smile he gives her holds no malice, or even superiority.

 

==================================

 

Tessa feels her lip curling as she watches the giant, crystalline entity float in the center of the makeshift camp that has sprung up safely outside the boundaries of the land that will be transported along with the ruined ship. No matter how many races have told her in awed tones that the naaru are beings of Light and forgiveness and understanding, she can’t bring herself to believe it. There hasn’t been a race yet that didn’t react to her father’s people with fear, distrust, or even darker emotions.

Beside her, Daran elbows her lightly. “C’mon, A’dal wants to see you.”

“I doubt it,” she mutters, but she lifts her chin defiantly and walks towards the towering crystal…thing…with confidence she doesn’t feel.

The naaru emits a shimmering aura of sound and light designed to calm any living thing that comes near; Tessa blocks it automatically and eyes A’dal warily. How does something like this communicate?

Hardship results in thorns/Delicate flower blooms/Neither is wrong

Tessa blinks as the complex overlay of concepts is sung at her mind. A’dal not only knows that she distrusts…him?...but is assuring her that such distrust is a valid response to what she has experienced in life, that he knows it is a defense meant to protect the more gentle nature it hides, and that she is right to have such defenses?

The light ripples, the sound cascading in a gentle chuckle.

You were unaware/ We are aware/Music so discordant/Now harmonious/Sings your name

The concepts this time include a landscape she has seen in Illidan’s mind, only from the other direction: Shadowmoon Valley. She frowns, puzzling out the overlay of meaning.

“You know I fixed him,” she says softly. “You knew back then that he was broken, and you wanted to see him fixed, and you’re glad that he’s back now that he’s not broken anymore.” She looks up at where a face would be, if naaru had them. “Why?”

Orchestra without a conductor/Music cannot progress

As the overlay separates into images and concepts, Tessa finds herself in awe of what she’s been told. She knew about the demons who’d supposedly defected from the Burning Legion to serve her Kal’shan, of course, but she’d assumed that they were merely biding their time until they could take him down for Kil’Jaeden. Now, it seems, she was only half right – the other half of the Illidari demons were loyal enough – or scared enough – that years later, they refused to abandon their posts. After all, in the Legion it is well-known that dreadlords typically came back from death angrier than ever. A’dal’s hope that Illidan would be able to bring some sort of resolution to that mess is anticlimactic compared to the realization of how powerful her Kal’shan is in the Legion’s eyes.

“I’ll tell him,” she promises.

One burden added to a pile/Aid not of benefit to you /Key to a door unlooked for

The giant crystalline light show was asking for her help. This ought to be good. “I’m listening.” 

==================================

“…and they tried to get the demons out by promising them freedom if they’d only give back the ship, but the demons refuse and don’t give a reason.”

Illidan turns and peers over the edge of the floating island, down to the shining entity in the middle of the camp. “The demons who were imprisoned in the Arcatraz were not any who answered to me. Is there any reason they would even listen?”

“You have a reputation,” Tessa says, running one hand casually down the outer edge of his wing. “You did claim what remains of this world as yours, and dreadlords are known to not stay dead.”

He chuckles at that. “Pity no one ever told me that.”

“I told you,” she replies, mock-wounded. “…eventually.”

One black eyebrow arches, amused. “In any case, they were Legion. Why would they respect my claim?”

“Because they can’t go back.”

“…what?”

She shrugs. “They can’t go back, it’s been far too long. They’d be killed. They’re stuck between the Legion’s wrath…and yours.”

The Lord of Outland regards his Champion thoughtfully. “You know the Legion better than I do. Could you get them to vacate the Arcatraz?”

“Easily,” she says crisply. “Where do you want them?”

He stares past her, towards the distant haze of Shadowmoon Valley. After a moment, his lips curve into a dry smile. “Warden’s Cage,” he says in a soft hiss. “Let them think about what could happen if they displease me.”

Tessa goes on hoof-tip to kiss his cheek. “As you wish, my Kal’shan.” She does not make a motion to leave, however.

“What have I told you about that, my Champion?” The growl is more amused than menacing, and she grins wickedly back at him.

“Shall I try it again?” she asks in a husky whisper, caressing the inner membranes of his wing with one hand while the other traces the whorls of his fel tattoos.

A growl is the only verbal answer she gets. The small tree whose roots keep the floating island together provides a delightful patch of shade.

Later, he smiles lazily at her and plucks a blade of grass out of her hair. “You might want to put on something less grass-stained,” he teases. “I don’t know how intimidating you’ll look as you are now.”

Tessa just smiles into his collarbone. “Mmmm, but I’ll smell more intimidating this way. Got your energy all over me.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Glad I could help.”

 

==================================

 

The wards around the Arcatraz are impressively complex and speak strongly of years of paranoia. They do not, however, extend into the Twisting Nether and Tessa admires them as she skips right by. A quick dip into the thoughts of the imprisoned residents reveal that the leadership is split between a wrathguard named Soocothrates and a shivarra named Dalliah – who hate each other. It’s not hard to find the wrathguard and make him “remember” a messenger from Dalliah asking him to meet her. It’s even easier to follow him to her private sanctum.

“Did you call on me?”

The look on the other demon’s face is priceless. “Why would I call on you?”

He sneers. “To do your heavy lifting, most likely.”

She sneers right back. “When I need someone to prance around like an over-stuffed peacock, I’ll call on you.”

“Then I’ll commit myself to ignoring you,” Soccrathates rumbles patronizingly.

“What would you know about commitment, sheet-sah?”

The shivarran slur enrages him. “You’re the one who should be-“ The bigger demon breaks off, looking around suspiciously. “Wait…we have company.”

“Very good, Wrath Scryer.” Tessa steps out of the shadows, clapping slowly. The effect on the two demons is startling, considering that each of them is twice her height.

“Have you come to kill Dalliah?” The wrathguard asks eagerly. “Can I watch?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Dalliah screeches frantically. “Kill that worthless dullard instead!”

“Silence.” The word slices through the air as Tessa dons an aura of power and indescribable menace. Both demons drop to one knee and bow their heads. “Much better. I’m not here to kill either of you.”

“You are not from the Burning Legion,” Soccrathates growls suddenly, and intent to harm flares in his mind.

“I said silence!” Tessa flings one hand out and a glowing band appears around his head like a magical gag. Dalliah smirks, but does not say anything. “I am not from the Legion. I am here to find out why you have repeatedly refused the naaru’s offers of amnesty in exchange for relinquishing this ship. Dalliah, you may speak.”

“We’re not fools,” the four-armed demoness hisses. “If we return to the Legion, we are sealing our own deaths.“

“And who says you have to go back?” One hand flicks, and Soocrathates’s gag vanishes. “You may speak.”

“Where else would we go?” he growls sullenly, exchanging a wordless look with the shivarra.

“I see.” Both demons turn back to Tessa, suddenly terrified. They’d forgotten that thoughts are not private if one of the Nathrezim is nearby. “You fear to accept the offer of amnesty because this world – or what’s left of it – has been claimed by another. Hadn’t you heard the news of his death?” she asks sweetly.

“We’re not fools.” The wrathguard echoes Dalliah’s earlier statement.

“What kind of trick question was that?” Dalliah screeches. “Dreadlords don’t stay dead.”

Tessa smiles. “So, you acknowledge Illidan Stormrage as the rightful liege of this world and bow to his authority? How splendid.” The smile widens, showing off pointed teeth. “He’ll be so pleased to hear that.”

“What-“ Dalliah is cut off.

“-he’s back?” Soccrathates finishes.

The smile Tessa gives them is nothing short of terrifying. “Who did you think I served? He wants to see you. Both of you. Right now.”

Before either demon can think of a response, darkly-glowing balls of violet energy whirl out from Tessa’s hands and the portal engulfs them.

 

==================================

 

It's been years since the Lord of Outland surveyed his domain from the air. His nose wrinkles as the clean air of Nagrand gives way to the acrid fel fumes of Shadowmoon Valley, and the fel runes glow dimly against his skin. Now that he is aware of such things, he can feel his body absorbing the ambient energy from the air.

Tessa was right. It does taste like sweaty underwear.

"I HAVE RETURNED. ALL THOSE WHO ARE STILL LOYAL TO ME, ASSEMBLE AT WARDEN'S CAGE!" His voice and image are projected across the entire valley, reflecting off the crystals to the south to reach the floating landmass large enough to have been mined hollow.

He slips into a cloaking spell before the echoes even die away. He has no illusions that the sky will be unchallenged, not with how the Dragonmaw clan had been decimated before his...death. No doubt the Netherwing will not be pleased to see him, yet another bitter crop to harvest from the seeds he'd sown when he was less stable. Hopefully, they are feeling equally non-confrontational. Illidan chuckles darkly at the idea of the Lord of Outland trying to avoid confrontations, then presses his lips into a determined line. If there's a dreadlord among his loyal troops, he won't have a choice.

"If there's a dreadlord who stayed behind," Tessa said, unusually serious, "use the bladestorm on him right away, before he has a chance to escape."

"But-"

She shook her head, cutting off his protest. "If there is, there will only be one, he will be in charge, and he will not be loyal to you. He will either be a spy for Sargeras, or he will have ambitions of taking your place. In either case, if you let him escape, the Legion will know that you have returned." She reached up to cup his cheek with one hand. "I know you don't like using the bladestorm in cold blood, but it's the only way - unless you'd rather eat him."

He shuddered. "Not really."

As he gets closer to Warden's Cage, he locks his wings and glides, circling silently to survey the area. Mostly satyrs, inps, shivarra, wrathguards...one or two doomguards, no infernals, no succubi, and no dreadlords. It looks like they'd been using Warden's Cage as their base; not a bad move, considering the fortifications and their reduced numbers. He lets his path take him to directly above the space kept open in anticipation of his arrival, then folds his wings and drops like a stone.

The assembled demons freeze, startled into silence by his sudden thunderous landing. As he rises to his full height, wings spreading slightly for maximum effect, a dreadlord steps out of thin air right in front of him - as though challenging Illidan's dominance with his own stature.

"My Lord Illidan," the dreadlord says, "I am pleased to see y-"

He never gets a chance to finish. One taloned finger points unwaveringly at the other demon, who sways on his hooves and then crashes to the ground.

"I said all those who are loyal to me," the Lord of Outland snarls, quivering with the rage that fueled his attack.

The dreadlord still lives, his body unharmed, but Illidan knows that the thousand blades forged of his own pain have shredded the demon's mind all the way down to the Terminal Boundary, piercing it. The dreadlord lives, but his mind is shattered and bleeding out into the Void. He will be unable to consciously revert to his astral seed in order to report Illidan's presence, and while his body will revert in death, it will be a hollow shell. The only way to safely kill a dreadlord is to kill the mind.

"Now then," he continues, forcing the growl out of his voice. "who among you has provided leadership in my absence? Aside from that one," he adds, pointing to the felled demon.

The assembled demons shuffle nervously. Two satyrs step forward, followed by a wrathguard and shivarra. They hold no overreaching command, but they are generally accepted as authority figures to their own kinds. Illidan talks with them, and with the rest of the demons, getting a sense for what they have been doing for the last several years. The general consensus is tentatively pleased surprise that their lord is both more stable than he had been, and still a force to be reckoned with. It's not long before Illidan smiles tightly and gestures his troops back.

"We are about to have company," he says mildly.

The two doomguards drag the body of the dreadlord off to one side, where several imps promptly use him as a collective ringside seat to whatever comes. Everyone else backs up to form an open area in front of their master, who gestures imperiously. The darkly-glowing violet spheres whirl into being and wink out, leaving an enormous wrathguard and an equally impressive shivarra on their knees before the Lord of Outland. Tessa backs up quietly until she is half a step behind her master and to his left, the position of a loyal servant - or bodyguard.

"Who is this that you have brought me, my Champion?" One hand on her shoulder casually announces his favor.

"Doomsayer Dalliah and Wrath-Scryer Soccorathates, my Kal'shan," she answers crisply. "They led the former inmates of the Arcatraz and refused the naaru's offers of amnesty out of respect for your dominion over this world."

"Is that so?" His glowing gaze measures the two demons who, uncharacteristically, are silent. Being brought before him seems to have cowed them significantly. "It just so happens that my loyal forces are in need of leadership." The hand that is not on Tessa's shoulder points to the comatose dreadlord, then gestures the four sub-leaders forward. "Allow me to be blunt," he says as the sub-leaders kneel to either side of the two from the Arcatraz. "You two and those you command will either come to an agreement with my forces and integrate with them, or you will not leave this place alive, your floating fortress will be purged, and I will deliver it as a gift to A'dal."

Wrath-Scryer clears his throat uncomfortably. "May I ask your intentions for this world, Lord Illidan?"

Silence. Even the imps cease their chattering.

"The draenei and blood elves have made arrangements to leave. The Horde and Alliance have abandoned their strongholds. The Broken are being evacuated, and even the Mag'har are planning to abandon this world to its fate. The Burning Legion has long since turned its attention elsewhere. I will not say that this world will be either a paradise or a good stronghold from which to launch an assault, but it will be a safe place for those who only wish to live out their days unnoticed."

"So...you will not be leading us, my lord?" Dalliah's grating voice sounds almost pleading.

"I will not. With most of the other races leaving this world, there is no threat here that requires my attention. However, I do not wish to simply abandon it. I will arrange for communications between myself and whoever I place in charge, but I will not be remaining here."

"I have made my decision, Lord Illidan," Soccorathates rumbles. "I swear myself, and all who follow me, to your service."

"As do I," Dalliah says hurriedly. "I swear myself, and all who follow me, to your service."

The smile of satisfaction looks oddly out of place on Illidan's face. "I accept your oaths," he says warmly. "Now, discuss things with your fellows and work out a chain of command while I have a word with my Champion."

The imps scatter as Tessa approaches the body of the dreadlord. She kneels by his head, fingertips fluttering on his temples as Illidan crouches next to her.

"Anything?" he asks quietly.

"Mm." She pulls her fingers away and leans into his touch as he caresses her cheek. "He wasn't here on orders from the Legion. He was gambling that your reputation would keep everyone else away and let him entertain his dreams of domination. The others mocked him, felt that staying was suicide. He had no descendants, and only three living relatives. His astral seed is..." she trails off, calculating. "He hid it nearby, he didn't want to risk being out of commission too long."

"What do you suggest?"

Tessa smiles up at him, then draws a dagger and slits the Nathrezim's throat. Blood gushes, the demon gurgles and chokes, then goes still. The body fades out, leaving behind its armor. "There's very little mana near where he put his astral seed. He'll slowly starve to death, and his relatives won't suspect a thing."

"Excellent work, my Champion." He pulls her to her feet and beams at her. For a moment, he considers taking her right here, in front of his loyal forces - but he restrains himself. Such sights are not for their unworthy eyes.