10,000 years before the Dark Portal Opened
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Loreth'aran – Western Coast of Kalimdor
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Vehlar Stormclaw looked upon the darkened night sky, once more eyeing with envy the Kaldorei who rode upon the backs of green dragonkin throughout it, beneath Elune's light. Though many were drakes, there were a few pairs who had been bonded as partners long enough for the green dragons to mature to their full, impressive size. He had no idea how their riders stayed upon half-corporeal mounts, but nobody seemed to care that riding an ephemeral dragon should be impossible. After months of being stuck in this city of dragon-lovers, who had completely ignored the warnings from himself and his younger sister of what was happening to their civilization, Vehlar was ready to leave.
Alaria did not wish to, however. One of the younger teens, a rider with an equally young drake, barely big enough to ride, had started a whirlwind romance with the novice priestess, and she had hidden her grief within the newfound feelings of bliss. After seeing their mother impaled before her eyes, Vehlar couldn't really blame her. The boy in question, for both of them were barely more than thirteen seasons, seemed polite enough. What the dragon riders lacked in noble blood, they made up for, at least, with proper manners.
He'd seen no reason to stop them, as anyone with eyes could see the magnetism between them. He spied the pair below then, walking through the city below, strolling in the moonlight without a care in the world. The boy's drake was carrying his sister as they walked. Gentleman indeed. Vehlar assumed his parents would not have minded. They had enjoyed the legends of dragons and myths and magical storm-calling claws. Dragon riders would've held the same appeal, but he had little time for old stories. The arcane had always been more interesting to study, not to mention more relevant to their society.
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His face darkened, as he recalled the sight of the Doomguard flying away with his yet impaled mother, unwilling to test his might against the mage that had come to save the younger female. Vehlar had chased the monstrosity, but not before it eliminated an entire crowd, and stable of Nightsabers, with a single spell. He'd almost caught up to their father, for he and Laronar had been in the process of fleeing. Then, his idiot sibling had fallen and knocked himself out.
The demon had moved to strike, just as Vehlar had finished firing the bolt of arcane power at its back after blinking into range. Just as his father had leapt in front of the blow. Just as the kitten Storm had torn out its throat. It had all happened in the same instant, but both he and the Stormsaber had been too slow.
He had, naturally, gone to retrieve his brother, only to find Storm snarling at him. A much larger pair of amber eyes had appeared in the foliage then, and a voice belonging to an entity that bore natural power he could only imagine had bid him to go. It had assured his brother's safety and survival, and thus, he'd left. He assumed whatever being had taken an interest in his amber-eyed kin would send him after them, but they never saw Laronar again, after that.
Vehlar had no idea what fate would befall his brother, and after he'd run back to where he'd stashed his traumatized sister, he did not mention him. Those taken by forest deities never returned. It was a fate his brother had earned, in Vehlar's opinion, with all his tromping through the forests. He told their sister only that he'd been too late to stop the Doomguard. Then, he'd gotten her as far away from Eldarath as he dared with a blind teleportation spell.
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"Musing again, Magi Stormclaw?"
Vehlar turned from the window to look at the speaker, arguably the one person in the entire 'kingdom' that he could stand talking to. Mostly because he spoke of something other than dragons. Yes, they were lovely, impressive, and after ten interactions and attempts at polite conversation, Vehlar realized they were all the elves here could speak of with any certainty. This was further evidenced by the fact that, upon learning he and Alaria were Highborne of Eldarath, they'd treated them with the same respect they gave to their Prince. Vehlar was so very ready to leave this strange, isolated island.
He'd learned what he could of course, though in the long run, it had simply been that dragons were not, in fact, mindless beasts. They were actually quite intelligent. Almost as smart as elves. Perhaps even more so, for they possessed true immortality. "Yes, Prince. I was merely recalling the war…Lord Ravencrest needs all able fighters. The Demons…they outnumber us a thousand to one. And those are low estimates."
The Prince, Toreth, had the same aesthetically pleasing build as the rest of their race, though like his people, he lacked the pale blue skin that marked one as being, potentially, Highborne. He gave Vehlar a sad smile that irked the mage on an instinctual level. It was the kind of sad smile you gave to a child who asked to wield a sword that was four feet too long for him. "I have spoken with our elders, and they assure me that the Dreaming Mistress and her allies are devising a countermeasure to the threat. We have nothing to worry about, my friend! My home is welcome to all refugees, and we are glad to aid our kin. So relax. Open a book. Leave the war to noble Ravencrest, and his house. Long has that been their area of expertise. I'm sure we will find a suitable use for your own magical talents, in time."
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That too was another reason Vehlar wished to leave. The dragons, especially the elder wyrms, knew more about spellcraft than he would likely ever hope to understand. They had also refused to share their knowledge, claiming their mastery required the innate power granted to their race by the Makers, as well as knowledge of the Draconic tongue, something they were also unwilling to share. When he asked who the 'Makers' were and where they might be, each of the wizened scaly behemoths had wordlessly smirked, and gestured towards the stars. He'd since avoided speaking with them.
Vehlar turned back to the window, and spied his sister in an embrace with her dragon rider, sharing a kiss that was as unfailingly polite as the rest of this bloody island. He made a decision then. He needed to leave. If dragons and the favor of the Goddess could not keep his sister safe, nothing could. His people needed him.
"I am afraid that I have to disagree, Prince Toreth. Your draconic friends have granted you all the Arcane knowhow you would ever need. On the battlefield however, my skills are sorely needed, for our mages pale in comparison to the Eredar Sorcerers of the Legion. They are being overrun." Vehlar turned back to the Prince then. "At dusk, I intend to depart. I believe my sister will be safe here, especially when one of your own has so…devotedly…taken to her personal well-being."
The Prince gave another nod. "If that is your decision, then rest easy knowing we shall keep her safe. Fight on without the distraction of her well being. Our young Nog'are and myself will make sure she survives this conflict. I'll have the proper supplies packed on a boat for you by tomorrow. From there, I'm afraid you'll have to walk. We've no Nightsabers in these parts."
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The next evening came mercifully quick. It was a short row in a short boat to properly civilized shores, and from there, the young mage was able to muster enough strength to teleport himself to Suramar, or rather, the part of it that yet stood, shielded by Highborne Magi like himself. As he arrived in what the locals had dubbed the 'Nighthold', he saw the besieged elves had come up with an actual plan in the few months he'd been gone.
A certain Lady residing in and around Suramar had distracted him when he'd initially headed towards Zin Azshari, and he'd lingered in the beautiful Suramar because of her. Then…the world had ended, and he'd helped the nobles within the parts of the city that yet stood coordinate with Ravencrest's forces. Every few hours, they could send massive arcane bolts towards whatever spot needed it most on the front line.
He spied the figures he was eagerly looking to speak to, thankfully alive still, on the edge of the well of water that was, even at that moment, being constructed. "High Magistrix. Lady Ravencrest. It is good to see you both still live."
The High Magistrix looked him over, as if trying to remember who he was, and why she should care. The Lady Ravencrest however, had gained a much longer lasting impression of the noble-blooded mage from Eldarath. As evidenced by the darkening of her cheeks. "Vehlar…we thought you dead. We received little word from Eldarath…the scryers say it has been razed to the foundations, the walls crushed. Only Elune's temple still stands, and that was covered in blood."
Vehlar nodded. "It is as you say…I arrived in time to save only my sister. She yet resides in Loreth'aran, amongst the dragon riders."
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Finally, the High Magistrix chimed in. "Ah, of course…the young talented mage called Stormclaw…you were the one who suggested our plan would require the aid of a Pillar of Creation, no?" Vehlar nodded, though he had been half-joking when he'd mentioned such a powerful artifact. Only Azshara had access to them, or rather, that was what he'd assumed. The woman gestured to the structure below them. It resembled a pool, and even had water within, but it was still being constructed, as several magi were hard at work engraving runes around the rim and within the stonework. "Well, we recovered one. With the Eye of Aman'thul, our shield will never waver. The Demon hordes will be powerless to break through. I offer you the same chance I offered the Lady Ravencrest. You are both welcome to survive this apocalypse with us, beneath the shield's safety. As I recall, your spellcasting abilities had much potential."
Vehlar glanced at Illysanna, and then shrugged with perfected nonchalant vibes, and a blank expression. "Thank you, truly, High Magistrix. I appreciate the offer but…Lord Ravencrest has done much for me. I can't abandon him to this endless war in good conscience."
The High Magistrix's eyebrows rose, in mildly surprised shock as she glanced at Illysanna, and then she blinked her silver eyes. "Of course…you do not yet know…I suppose word probably hasn't reached a remote place like the dragon rider 'kingdom'. Lord Ravencrest has fallen. By way of assassin no less. Not by a Demon either, but an elf from the palace under Captain Varo'then's own orders, an assailant from the shadowed house of Nightblade. A clear message from our kin in the capital, they are allied, willingly with these Demons. It was this event that caused me to take a…firmer stance against the Demons, and the Highborne who brought them here. Suramar stands alone now, the last city of our empire. Soon, the only city, anywhere. I ask again, will you two join us?"
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Illysanna was doing her best to keep composed, though her eyes had begun to sparkle, the result of tears mixing with the light of her eyes. They hadn't yet fallen down her cheeks though. Her warrior's training wouldn't let them well up that much.
Vehlar's eyes flared, as he too struggled to keep his emotions in check. He had liked Ravencrest, and believed that the general's unflinching bravery and knowledge of strategy would somehow see their people through this apocalypse. The Magistrix glanced between them for a long, awkward, moment. Then, she waited. It was easy to forget that these two were still young, and thus prone to such emotional displays. Given the current ending of the known world, the High Magistrix could forgive them. Just this once.
Then, suddenly, the mage's composure returned. He met the Magistrix's gaze, and a chill went up her spine. There was something…primal, in the anger there. A true fury that burned with the passion only hate could give. "Thank you, High Magistrix, but I will Not stand by while Demonic hordes from who-knows-where tear my world apart. I will not abandon Azeroth. Someone has to try to stop this. We are Kaldorei. The masters of this world. I'll not relinquish it so easily."
The High Magistrix's eye twitched, but her own composure was flawless. "Very well." She said in a low tone as she turned to regard the well of water before her. "You have every right to decide how to perish in the manner which best suits you. We will not meet again. Die well, scion of the Stormclaws." With a wave of her hand, the two young elves were teleported from the Nighthold, to the edge of the opaque light blue shield that yet engulfed this part of the massive city, and saved it from heavy siege attacks, and foreign intruders.
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Vehlar blinked them through to the other side, as it was made to keep people, demons, and everything else out, not in. Though, given the number of refugees streaming in, or trying to, he wondered if it would be big enough to sustain a near immortal population for a significant length of time. Illysanna made a scandalous hand gesture towards the shield, and then looked at Vehlar with a familiar intensity. "Did you mean what you told her?"
He slowly raised an eyebrow, and nodded. "Of course. Though, I admit, I was rather…irritated…at how she so casually brushed off your father. After all he, and all the others, have given to keep these pompous magocrats safe. It was mostly bravado in there…we are likely going to die. Unless those endless hordes stretching to the horizon have shrunk, recently…"
She shook her head. "If anything, they've grown more desperate. Those strange outsiders with that fantastical story, you recall? They've all but allied us with the likes of Earthen, Tauren, and even Furbolgs. The strange thing is…it's working. Desdel Stareye took command when my father fell, and the conflict turned as you might expect it would…for a time. I thought Lord Stareye was completely incompetent, but the latest reports actually sound…hopeful? We're driving them back, at least." She glanced at the shielded city again. "I came to try and gain us yet more magical aid, but it seems the Highborne must always protect themselves first, and the rest of the world be damned."
Vehlar scowled at the shield as well. "I rather like this world. It's full of power, mystery, and I admit, Eldarath was only beautiful because the forests made it so. More importantly…it is my home. I refuse to let some…Fel-spawned invaders have it without a fight."
Illysanna grinned at him. "You know, Black Rook Hold still stands…do you recall how best to penetrate its magical defenses?"
Vehlar chuckled. "Why yes, I do recall the teleportation circle you showed me." He pulled her close then, and gave her a kiss that was downright lewd, not caring, as he whisked them away. Compared to the spell to reach Suramar, this was nothing. Being closer to the Well also helped.
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Several Hours Later…
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When the two lovers were finally long exhausted after making up for months spent apart, Vehlar was deep in thought when he finally sensed his partner stir. It often took her a minute to regain her senses. Or forty. She yawned, stretched with a satisfying crack, and then smirked at him, and his wandering gaze. "You mentioned the power this world has to offer earlier…I know of a method to obtain such, or rather, I know of one who might know the path. Though the power given isn't exactly…of this world."
Vehlar tilted his head. "Then where does it come from…?" His eyes widened a second later. "You mean...!?"
Illysanna nodded. "There is rumor amongst the spellcasters. Of Kaldorei in service to the Demons gaining new power. Some have suggested that we might find a way to turn the Demon's own Fel strength upon them, if this strength can indeed be taken. The Fel is just as effective against other Fel users as it is on those who only know the Arcane."
Vehlar frowned. "You would forsake the Well?"
Illysanna stared him down, her expression hardening. "I would personally blow it apart, if it meant stopping the Demons, and saving our world."
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Vehlar stared at her in disbelief. "You're mad, woman! The Well is what made us who we are. Without it, especially in the manner you envision, there likely wouldn't be a world any longer…though with the Eye of Aman'thul I expect Suramar might be fine…maybe."
She sighed, and climbed from her bed, speaking as she dressed once more in her armor. "Think, Vehlar. I know you and every other spell tosser are besotted with the Well, but what has it done for us really? Without it, as you saw, the Moon Guard was powerless. Those closest to it were turned mad enough with their own self-importance to summon in Demons to our world, and then think they would not be betrayed by them, in the end." She gestured to outside the Hold then. "I've spoken with that pale outsider. Krasus. He told me the Demons he's familiar with always have one fate in mind for those foolish enough to ally with them. They reward the worthy by turning them into abominations, and slay the rest. Besides, as long as the Well stands, they can always be brought back in."
Vehlar glared at her. "Then we hunt down all of them, and keep them from ever returning."
She returned his glare, chuckling grimly. "And what of those we miss, because they hide so well? It only takes a few to empower a portal to whatever realm these monsters come from. It doesn't even have to be near Zin Azshari. Rumor has it they've tried opening others, to better flank the host. Give up on the Well, Vehlar. Its power is limited."
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He stood and dressed as well now, in a robe far less tattered, that he'd thankfully left here on past visits. "Why not use both? Combining the Fel and the Arcane could prove more powerful than either."
Illysanna shrugged. "My…contact… claims that the two magics are opposing forces. He said 'their streams should never be crossed'. Whatever that means."
Vehlar thought for a moment on her words. "Opposing forces, hmm? Your 'contact' is well-versed in spellcraft, then. These are magical terms he speaks with. Who is this mysterious figure anyways? Who among us would have the gall to try to harness the Fel?"
She smirked at him. "Who do you think? Illidan Stormrage."
Vehlar pinched his brow, and sighed. "The one who drained who knows how many Moonguard just to empower his spells? I would hope he's stopped, now that the Well's use is returned to us."
She shook her head. "If anything, he's gotten more desperate to outshine his brother's lauded 'Druidism'. But this study of the Fel is recent. Even with other races helping us, it's clear that we're outmatched. Illidan may be callous, even a murderer by some standards, but he knows how to fight the Demons. No sacrifice is too great, if it means stopping them...I've seen their ranks stretch to the horizon, Vehlar...and this is, by all accounts, a small fraction of the Legion's true might. Sacrifice is inevitable, against such an enemy."
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Vehlar glanced out the window of her room then, and sighed at the destruction around the Hold. Even now, he could see the green flames of their enemies in the distance. Which was odd, he thought, as the damned mist had obscured everything before now. It seemed to have vanished. "Fine. We should speak with Stormrage…but first, come look. Is the mist gone? Did one of our people find a way to dissipate it?"
Illysanna looked as well, and the two raced to the top level of the fortress, staring in disbelief at the massive thunder of multicolored dragons soaring through the cloudless sky. For a moment, hope returned. For a moment, the need to take up such corrosive, volatile Fel magic seemed like it might not be necessary. Neltharion was, in a word, glorious. As were the thousands of wyrms, dragons, and even drakes following in the black one's wake. Dragonkind was at its peak, and finally, the ancient wyrms had emerged from their ancient redoubts to face the foe. Vehlar and Illysanna had a front row seat to the spectacle, as they murmured quietly about hope.
For a moment, they had almost had victory...and then the black dragon tore up the battlefield, and murdered his kin, as well as demons and defenders alike in a display of madness that only highlighted how insane the massive black dragon was. The blues were turned to dust, and a fierce wind scattered the other dragonflights as the mad Earth Warder raised a volcano, and ordered both sides to kneel to his awesome power. At the end of this madness, the black dragon seemed to be tearing apart with elemental energies, and he flew off, presumably to fix that. The two elves shared a look then, sighed, and descended from Black Rook Hold to start looking for Illidan Stormrage.
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Several Days Later - The Ruins of Zarkhenar
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Vehlar looked around the small group of Kaldorei who now huddled within the ruins of the once-prosperous Zarkhenar. He was not impressed. They were all thin, exhausted, and dark blurple crescents were under every eye, but then, he looked no better. The dragon's aerial drama had, rather than saving their world, given the demons a chance to relentlessly continue their assault, despite the newly mountainous region to the east, that separated these ruined lands from the Night Elven capital.
Eventually, the forces fighting almost constantly for the defense of the world had managed to halt the advance, but in the course of the fighting, the Priesthood of Elune had lost their newest leader. She was young, as young as he was, but any who'd seen her had noted the almost always present silver aura of Elune's Light that marked Tyrande Whisperwind as one of the fickle Goddesses' favored. And now they'd gone and lost her. The situation had never been more dire. The elves who weren't dying futilely on the front lines had begun desperately searching their shattered lands for hope, though what form that hope would take was uncertain.
There was talk of the Sisterhood attempting ancient and forbidden rituals seeking power from the Goddess that had only ended in failure, and death, or so the whispers said. Everyone knew the conflict was coming to a climax, and judging by the demon's unstoppable will to slaughter, and limitless supply of soldiers, the odds of Azeroth's mortals winning the conflict were small. Desperation pervaded soldiers and refugees alike. Even the allied races felt the despair, though none had, to their credit, fled to their homes. All who saw the hordes understood. There was no fleeing from this enemy. To do so was to all but guarantee those who'd stayed behind would perish only slightly sooner than those who fled. This army was the last best chance for survival.
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Thus, when Illidan Stormrage's subtle call had gone out, more than a few had been eager to answer the heroic spellcaster…only to, more often than not, recoil in disgust at what he suggested needed to be done to finally gain an upper hand on the demons. Those who had not recoiled were now gathered, far from eyes that would interrupt, or dissuade them.
Rumor claimed that the 'druid' Malfurion was mad with grief, and his mage of a brother was simply mad. This too, did little to bolster the hopes of the host of warriors standing against the Legion.
"You have come to me, because you understand…we were not prepared." The aforementioned mage's voice echoed through the ruined chamber of what had once been Zarkhenar's main building, though its owner remained hidden from sight. Vehlar smirked. The only problem with Invisibility spells was their short duration.
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"We were not prepared for the Demons. They attacked and overwhelmed most of our people by way of ambush, and though we have brought all of our magical might to bear against this foe, these are not primitive saurian riding Trolls with their heads clouded by the smoke of burning herbs…this enemy cannot be defeated by the power we currently possess…we are out of alternatives. The Well alone is not enough to defeat this foe."
The sorcerer appeared suddenly before them, and stepped from the shadows. Each of the exhausted eyes of those gathered widened in shock. Both of the mage's hands were wreathed in unsettling Fel flames. "There is only one path before us now, that can save us. Only one power that has any chance of ending the Legion. Permanently. We must use their own strength against them."
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Illysanna spoke then, and Vehlar winced. His lover had become increasingly…agitated, since the draconic debacle. He could hear it in her voice, and the desperation was clear. It was on the face of every Kaldorei gathered. But, under the exhaustion, the fear, the loss, something else burned just as intense. The desire for vengeance upon those who had brought the monsters into the world, and taken her father from it. "How are we to master these magics…not all of us are spellcasters…"
Illidan smirked. "The Felguard are not spellcasters, and yet they fight with the strength of ten Tauren. Neither are the Doomguard, and they are as clever and sly as any of us. Few in the Legion's ranks, at least here on the battlefield, are true practitioners of the arts…it is for this reason that I believe this…Fel energy…can aid all of us...if used correctly."
"How?" It took Vehlar a second to realize the question was his own.
The elder Stormrage's burning amber eyes, far too much like his brother's, shifted to Vehlar. His brother had given him similar glares of this intensity, but there was a hunger in Illidan's eyes that Laronar's lacked. "I do not yet know…but I intend to find out. For now, you all must begin doing as I have done. Drain as much power from the Demons you find as possible. Stormclaw can show you how. Learn from it, test it, experiment with it…I go to Zin Azshari, to learn of our enemy from the source…and when I return, I will forge each of you into the perfect weapon against the Demons. Be patient. Our vengeance will come."
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Two Days of Travel From Zin-Azshari - Somewhere Between Suramar and the Capital
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Illidan Stormrage glanced around, as he came upon the outskirts of the disaster wrought by the massive black dragon, accompanied only by Vehlar and Illysanna. The two spellcasters had quickly begun speaking in terms only magic users could comprehend, and Vehlar soon began to appreciate the unique genius that was Illidan's mind. His lust for power was dangerous, but his knowledge of the arts, and what he had learned of the Fel, continued to impress the Highborne.
Suddenly, Illidan raised a hand towards a crater in the ruined landscape, and from it, rose a scale as black as the waters of the Well of Eternity. A piece of the Earth Warder, no doubt from his brief and titanic brawl with one of his red kin, the dragon Korialstrasz who had been the only of his kind, thus far, to actually aid Azeroth's last best hope against the Legion. Illidan grinned, as he eyed the scale. "Yes...I can sense him...you cannot hide from me, wyrm…"
Illysanna spoke then. "Just what do you plan to do once you reach Zin-Azshari, Stormrage? They'll kill you on sight…"
Illidan turned to look at the pair. In a way, he was envious of their connection. It was obvious to the eyes of one who had been so recently spurned by his own love interest. How close they stood. How their eyes lingered on each other when they thought their amber-eyed leader wasn't looking. His dark rage rose, again within him at Malfurion's idiocy, and incompetence. Never mind that Illidan's own inaction had helped the Legion capture Tyrande, in his mind, Malfurion was the sole source of blame, not the pair accompanying him. If anything, they were the ideal candidates for the warriors he intended to forge...once he understood how. A Highborne sorcerer, and the daughter of the elve's best martial fighter. He had no doubts that Lord Ravencrest had trained her well.
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"With this...I can track the Earth Warder. I will steal his precious disk, under the pretense of offering it to the Legion, to strengthen their portal. Then, I will manipulate their portal, and with the disk's power, turn it back on the Legion, drawing every single one of them back into the hell from whence they came. You two should return to the others...they will need your guidance if they are to survive…"
Vehlar turned to Illidan, and bowed in the Highborne style. Elegant, perfect, and yet the respect he conveyed was genuine. "We will leave you here then, Stormrage. Good luck with your plan...and remember...guard your mind. Demons are not simply mindless beasts. The smarter ones are cunning."
He referred needlessly to the Satyrs, and Illidan grimaced, recalling again how they'd captured Tyrande. Even he had to admire their ability to cast while being fired upon with arrows. Portals usually required significant concentration. It seemed their dark gifts, whatever they were, enhanced their arcane abilities as well. As Illidan opened his mouth to answer, both mages fell into a 'casting crouch', hands raised as the rubble shifted around them. A deep laugh boomed above them, and they spied a figure descending through the mist. A Doomguard, with a pair of wicked looking warglaives in each claw, hovered above them with a dark grin.
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No less than ten of his burly, winged kin joined him as they descended to the ground. "Yes...we are rather cunning, aren't we...the Satyrs are weak, compared to us! As weak as all the other creatures on this pathetic rock..." The lead Doomguard gestured with a glaive, and Vehlar noted Illidan eyeing the weapons with obvious desire, as the monologuing demon approached them.
"What do you have there, little mortal?" The demon was close enough to smell the foul odor that was its breath and natural musk, but Vehlar took the chance to study one up close as the Doomguard continued to speak. "A scale from the dragon...yes...you intend to track it, don't you...my Lord will be most pleased...he covets the dragon's disk...and I will be the one who retrieves it from him!" The crimson skinned demon laughed and the red tentacles dangling from his chin jiggled with the movement. His Fel brothers joined him in the shared amusement. By their measure, Azeroth had proven pathetic indeed, compared to some of their other campaigns. They felt sure of their victory over three elves, two of which were unarmed. Illysanna had an elven blade in her hands, but only time would tell if it would be enough to match the weapons the leader of this pack held.
The Doomguard bore a vague similarity to the Eredar warlocks that acted as the Legion's magical fighting force, but their gifts were obviously tilted towards brute strength, rather than magical power. That, and flight, made them irritating to deal with. Vehlar typically took a special pleasure in tearing their wings off, still rather furious that only one had managed to take out both of his parents, and essentially his brother as well. They were Highborne. Scores of demons should have been required, but in the months spent fighting this war, he had been forced to accept an undeniable fact. Compared to the demons, his people were weak. Highborne and low born, mage and warrior. The might the Well had given them had subjugated the entirety of Azeroth, and yet all their magical might paled compared to the power of the Legion.
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This time, Illidan spoke, a dark smirk forming on his sneering, lupine visage as his eyes kept flitting back to the warglaives burning with Fel power. "I thought I could track it. Now I know I can. My plans will work..." He raised a hand. An aura of darkness covered it. "But first...you will die."
The spell flared, and a bolt of darkness shot towards the demon, only to be split in twain by the glorious glaives he wielded. He laughed again. "Pathetic." He gestured to his squad, then. "Attack! Feast upon their flesh!" The other Doomguard charged, but Vehlar and Illysanna were already prepared to meet them. One went down rather quickly as a rapid series of magic missiles tore his chest apart. Illysanna ducked under a pair of lances, slid between the pair wielding them as she hamstrung their strange, alien legs, and then she leapt, spinning in the air as she took their heads from behind, two at once, with a single motion.
Illidan watched them, smirking. They were indeed ideal candidates. He left the others to them, and focused on the leader. He wanted those weapons...they were almost calling him, tantalizing him as they burned with obvious Fel power. Rhonin had claimed that magic users needed to be ready to deal with melee attacks at a moment's notice, and with weapons like those, Illidan would no longer need to blink out of danger, as Vehlar did that very moment, but not before leaving three of their attackers trapped by ice around their hooves. Illysanna took out two more, and Vehlar made the third's skull explode, as a pair of spiraling arcane bolts collided in the vicinity of the demon's head. Only four of the leader's minions remained, and the pair split them evenly.
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For his part, Illidan let the leader close, and he roared in fury as the nimble spellcaster dodged his strikes. A minor spell enhanced his perception and natural elven dexterity, letting him track where the warglaives would slice at him. The illusion, was that he was too fast to be hit, almost a blur. The more he looked at the glaives, the more he was convinced. They were calling to him on a primal level.
He didn't know how he knew what he needed to do to attain their power, but he did it anyway, trusting his instincts in that moment. A fireball formed in one claw, and while the Doomguard drew back to slice through it, his other hand, once more shrouded in black energy, dove into the demon's muscled chest, and with perverse satisfaction, removed the beast's still burning heart. It took a moment for the creature to realize it was already dead. "This...can't be! I am...Azzinoth! I am...unbeatable!"
"You are weak." Another bolt of darkness ended the creature, as its head exploded. Sizzling gore and Fel blood covered Illidan, but he did not notice even as it burned against his flesh. He did not even watch as his two most promising recruits thus far dispatched a pair of demons each. While they fought, he claimed his prize, knowing as soon as he gripped the warglaives, that this was right. This, finally, was a part of his destiny manifesting before him. Confidence filled him, as he realized the limitless potential within the warglaives. He could trick Sargeras into giving him the knowledge he sought. He could face down a Dragon Aspect, as Krasus had called them, and steal his precious disk. He was, finally, on the path he had always known he was meant to walk.
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The heart in his hand pulsed, and then faded into nothingness, absorbed by the glaives themselves. They were not sentient, that much Illidan could tell, but there were souls within them, powering the Fel that made them so strong. Souls that hungered, endlessly, and cared not who fed them. Now, Azzinoth's essence would feed them as well.
Take in the blood…
Illidan blinked his amber eyes as the words echoed in his head, and he knew, the weapons were telling him, as best they could, how to achieve what he desired. He inhaled, and the gore faded from his person, as he took in the Fel energy that had suffused the creature it had come from. He felt his strength grow. He felt powerful...unstoppable, as traces of faint green lightning sparked over his body, and began to change it forever. He looked at the glaives, as Vehlar and Illysanna approached. The demons of the palace would not allow him to keep these treasures for himself. Not at first. He could not risk not getting them back.
The amber eyes turned to his allies. Vehlar was eyeing him with a frown, but Illysanna was unreadable. Perhaps they wondered if his absorption of the demon gore was having adverse effects. Illidan only felt stronger. Strong enough to take Zin-Azshari by himself. "These weapons...are powerful. Study them. Keep them safe until I return...I will not let them return to the Legion."
He gave them to Illysanna over Vehlar, if only to keep the elf from reducing them to their base components out of enchanter's curiosity, and then departed for Zin-Azshari. Their panthers had run off with the arrival of the Doomguard, with Vehlar's own going in a different direction than his lover's. But walking was no issue, for them or Illidan.
A pack of felhounds came upon Illidan not long into his trek towards the capital, and again he drew their essence into himself. He knew it was changing him, and soon, he would know how, exactly, and he could replicate whatever glorious changes the power brought with it. He left one of the beasts alive to serve as his mount, with the rest of its pack becoming fuel for his ever-growing strength. When next he held his glaives, he would be unstoppable.
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Several Weeks Later – The Sundering
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Though the War of the Ancients had lasted several months now, it was finally, definitively, over. Illidan's secret project hadn't accomplished much for the war effort, as Vehlar and the others had lost several candidates just trying to trap a demon, and the act of drawing Fel magic from it proved difficult, as the magic was volatile, and seemed to overpower every arcane spell Vehlar used to contain it, easily.
Those who survived had tested an idea from legends past, and tattooed lines of magical runes on their skin, to help their bodies adapt to using the Fel quicker. For some, it had worked a little too well, and the emaciated Fel-ghouls they turned into were put down as a kindness. Naturally, their already small numbers had dwindled harshly. Only four remained, after the land had sundered beneath them, and each had been emaciated by using the Fel with limited knowledge. They had eventually divined the need for a fuel source, that wasn't their own souls, but as of yet hadn't figured out an alternative. Once the demons had been inexplicably pulled into the sky, their vast pool of Fel had vanished, and they had moved with the refugees and the host to the safety of Hyjal, stopping only to retrieve the glaives Illidan had claimed as his own from where Illysanna had sequestered them.
It took hours for the gathered mass of refugees and fleeing soldiers, all that remained of the Kaldorei empire, to organize themselves into something resembling a camp, and during that short window, Illidan Stormrage had, quietly, returned to his little cult, finding that pitifully few remained. He now understood what the Legion was. Where it had been. The futility of killing demons on the mortal plane, and what kind of sacrifice would be required to permanently end the demonic threat. Now, his four remaining followers, two males, two females, listened within the cave they stowed his glaives in, as he shared what he had learned from the Dark Titan himself.
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"You cannot comprehend Sargeras. His might is infinite, his power in this conflict not even a fraction of his true strength. He is a Titan. A race of cosmic creators from pure mythological fantasy that, evidently, holds some truth. I don't know what happened to make him fall to the Fel..." Illidan's new eyes flared beneath his blindfold. "But I intend to learn…the Hunter must know his prey." He grinned at each of them. "That is what we must become. Demon Hunters. We will strike at the Legion wherever we can, with their own dark power. They have the confidence gained from thousands of burned and defeated worlds. We will be the ones they fear to face."
"But how?" Vehlar asked, "Without the Well, we couldn't even attempt a portal anywhere meaningful…not with Arcane energy, and Fel-based portals…are a bad idea. We tried those…we'd need a Demonic grimoire to even have a chance of using one right…and even then, we would all likely end up dead."
Illidan stared down Vehlar with an intensity he hadn't possessed before. His need to beat Malfurion had been replaced by a much greater obsession. The end of the Dark Titan. No matter the cost. "Leave that to me…I have a plan to give our race a chance. The High Magistrix was correct when she surmised that the Well might be destroyed in this conflict, and that our surviving people would need a source of mana to feed upon. Whether they like it or not, they are creatures of arcane magic. They need a source of it to survive upon. I will give them one, with the lake atop Hyjal as the base. You will be able to use it as well as any other caster, once I infuse it with a bit of the Well's waters. My gift, to my people."
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Illysanna spoke then, "But that's the only water source for miles…they won't take kindly to you turning it into a font of Arcane energy, Illidan. Hyjal is considered sacred ground. They barely tolerate you as it is."
The Sorcerer gave his few remaining followers a dark grin. "When this is done, they won't be able to stop me…even if they wished to. This new power is…potent. I must show you all how to attain what I have…and quickly."
"And what…" Vehlar said, "Must we give to achieve what you have?"
Illidan grinned at him. The eyes flared, and the blindfold ignited, and burned away. His true, shocking visage was now visible to all remaining. Even the hardiest among them flinched. His tattooed body, covered to a greater degree of runic infusion than Vehlar and the others had been able to achieve, sparked with black lightning, as he drew his glaives to him. They manifested in his grip, and again, he was sure. This was his path. The blades had dimmed in the weeks without feeding, and now seemed deceptively inert, but to Illidan's eyes, he now saw they were simply inactive, and hungry. They tried to take in his power, but he forced them to submit with his iron will before answering his fellow sorcerer.
"Everything."
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Several Millennia Later – The War of the Satyr
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Things had certainly not gone as planned. Illidan had been easily subdued by strange new druidic magic, and then imprisoned within a barrow by his own brother, warglaives included. His gift to them, the supposed font of magic, was now a font of nature, capped by the World Tree, Nordrassil. Illidan's scattered group had dwindled again, down to just Vehlar and Illysanna. The others had simply vanished one night, into the wilds, to hunt what was left of the Legion with what they had learned.
He and Illysanna had agreed, the other two were more intent on wreaking havoc, than claiming vengeance. They would kill anything, and hunt their foe relentlessly. Vehlar and the last Ravencrest had focused on more specific prey, enemies they felt were the direct cause for their people's downfall, the loss of the Well, and the loss of magic. The ones who not only had invited the demons in, but had joined them, and kept them coming through, while understanding all the while exactly what they were letting in. Satyrs.
Being mages of skill even amongst the Legion, small groups of Satyrs had gathered what energies they could in the chaotic Sundering, and teleported safely to Kalimdor. Or what was left of it. Far enough south in the shadowed vales of wild forest to be undetectable to what remained of the elven empire.
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Over the long years, the two had subsisted on Fel energy, consuming the Satyrs' flesh as Illidan had instructed, and enhancing what they could do. They also understood, thanks to what little knowledge they had taken from the Legion, that running out of energy for their Fel spells would not end well. The Satyrs they took alive were introduced to an entirely new level of pain as the two fed on the potent Fel energies that had done to them over time what Sargeras had done to Illidan in mere moments; changed their very beings into something far stronger, and more genuinely demonic. They had, slowly, become the demon's natural predators, but could also be counted among their number, because of what the Fel energies had wrought upon their souls.
In recent times, the Satyrs had become far more active, and the two were, finally, able to draw in enough Fel energy for the binding ritual Illidan had taught them, but they had simply lacked the Fel power to even attempt. It was entirely Fel based, and what demons were left had gone well into hiding as they too recovered magical might.
With all the recent activity, and apparently even skirmishes with the Sentinels of their people, the pair had managed to capture two Satyr commanders, and their entire squad of spell-capable warriors. The lower ranked ones would serve as bonding candidates for whatever new Demon Hunter aspirants they found. In the wake of the Legion, there tended to be those willing to do anything to stop them. One at a time, Vehlar bound the Satyric commanders to Illysanna, and then himself. Because they had already fed on the Fel, their bodies took to the new fusion of demonborne and starborne elf with slightly less trauma than what those who followed them would experience, and potentially fall to.
Vehlar found that he could easily mock the Satyric mind that now tried leeching off of his. It knew right away that attempts to warp his perception or play on his guilt would be useless, and it was Vehlar's rage that helped him mentally imprison the demon. In time, he would force it to serve him, but for that moment, he had been more focused on not letting it explode his body. Illysanna had a harder time, but when he shared with her how effective rage was at subduing the voice within, she managed to calm the volatile energies inside of her though the slight Fel tears in her skin remained, and then calcified into some kind of dark, hardened bone-like carapace several days later. Vehlar's body also changed, as his legs became shaggier, and trimming the deep blue Satyric fur was useless, as it simply regrew within a day. A pair of horns had, only hours after the ritual, burst up from his skull, painfully, and obviously marking him as one touched by Fel. During this transformation, Fel had also shot from his eyes, in a devastatingly powerful beam, and in its wake left only unsettling Fel orbs, not at all unlike Illidan's. It would be some time before he realized his new appearance could help him pass as a Satyr. To their prey's magical senses, both he and Illysanna were now essentially invisible, so long as the Satyrs didn't suspect treachery in their own ranks.
It took some time for them to learn of the war with the resurgent Satyrs that had evidently already begun, and begun badly, for the Kaldorei.
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Ordil'aran had been thoroughly smashed in those early assaults. What few attempts the Night Elves had made at reclaiming their empire's architecture were crushed to ruin with brutal efficiency. The demonic army was composed mainly of Satyrs, the only thing the remaining demons on Azeroth could make in the long millennia since the War, though they had other scattered creatures, mainly hounds and Infernals bolstering them. Vehlar was sure no new portals had opened, thus he was left to conclude the living Fel rocks had somehow been sent from beyond the skies.
When the two saw the tide turning on their people, they agreed that they needed to help them, or at the very least, find others who could learn what they had learned. The Highborne who'd survived the War of the Ancients proved a fertile place for the type of mindset they sought, amidst the chaos of the conflict.
Reviled by the vestiges of their society, they had, for millennia now, endured the stares, spitting, and ill-tempers directed towards them. Many in the palace not enslaved by the demons or the Queen had taken the opportunity to ride from the capital when the High Priestess was rescued. Her survival was the only thing that had allowed them to stay. After enduring so much hatred, this second fracturing of the lifestyles they had come to enjoy drove many to seek revenge upon the demons. It was from these elves, mainly, that Vehlar and Illysanna drew their new aspirants from, and ruined villages usually provided at least one. Though many outright refused once they recognized that the pair was using Fel magic. Some, eventually, saw how effective they were, and even came to understand their inner struggle, and why they would suffer with a demon whispering in their head for millennia, but then refused all the same, choosing other methods with which to combat the Satyrs.
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As the new war raged, the desperate, scattered elves Vehlar and the daughter of Ravencrest had gathered came together in a barrow the two had carved for themselves, in the fashion of the rest of their race. Tree homes and underground dwellings were, evidently, where they were headed as a species, so the two had chosen a subtle warren for their dark experiments.
They were not ignored, however. Even amongst the chaos, with so many new recruits, and law-abiding citizens rejecting Vehlar's offer, the Wardens eventually picked up their scent. None had been captured by the pursuers so far, though. This war was as chaotic as the one before it. Hiding was easy.
Much like Vehlar and Illysanna, the first pair, a female, and then a male of their race, survived the initial stages of the next several tests. They eventually failed, as the Satyrs they were infusing overwhelmed their hosts, and turned them into something new, that was thankfully quickly put down by Vehlar and Illysanna.
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They had their aspirants tattoo themselves, once they managed to awaken, but despite their best efforts, they lost three of the ten that had survived the initial consumption of demon flesh, to madness. To combat the hunger for Fel magic they felt, the elder pair of Kaldorei instructed their protégés to feed on Fel energy for a time, and not go mad from starvation, or a lust for power. It was not, they soon learned, for everyone. Many simply did not have the desire necessary to survive the ordeal of transforming one's very being into something else entirely. Some, simply couldn't accept what they'd become, though Vehlar only pitied them, for their souls were doomed to go only one place, upon dying. In the Nether, their inner demon would likely consume all they'd been, before rebirthing itself among the Fel chaos that was the Twisting Nether.
Once the small surviving group had successfully modified themselves, and managed to tame the demons within as much as any mortal could hope to, they focused on arming themselves. The whole process took several weeks, during which, the demons made heavy advances against their kin. Vehlar soon realized they'd need a much bigger operation to reach the numbers Illidan had spoken of fighting with. The numbers each of them knew would be required, given the size of the Legion.
Though each of them despised the Satyrs, especially once Vehlar educated them on who, and what they had likely been several millennia past, he emphasized for the younger elves that this current enemy's number was barely even a scout force, compared to the numbers the Legion possessed. The remnants of the demonic forces had recruited far more effectively than their would-be hunters it seemed.
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They had no blacksmiths among them, but with his newfound sight, Vehlar managed to forge a blend of metal that would come to be rather similar to what was referred to as Demonsteel, when the smiths of Dalaran began taking a page from the Illidari, and worked with Fel materials. The main difference in his blade's composition, and the simple, dual-sided elven glaives they created for their aspirants, was the strange metal that he had procured from Satyrnaar. Once, the place had been a shrine to Elune, but the demon's presence, or perhaps their magic, had perverted the once gleaming white fusion of metal and stone into something red, and tainted with Fel. He found that it was rather good for binding Satyric souls, and he fed his blades well the moment they cooled, and had the all-important binding runes inscribed into their length.
They fed each of their weapons, keeping a careful eye on the runes that marked them as being full, or close to breaking. He lost count of how many days they hunted the demons once they were ready. Though they lost two of their number, it was clear Illidan's idea of elite Demon Hunters had some merit. The Fel beings could not comprehend what they fought, and by the time they did, their souls were bound in their hunter's glaives, screaming in agony as their Fel power was used to fuel the many abilities the elves practiced to stay alive, amongst hordes of enemies. Eventually, they had snuck into the Satyr's ranks, and assassinated their generals, lieutenants, and anything resembling a hierarchy. Chaos soon rained in their ranks, for their people's 'Feral Druids' and Nightstalkers were doing the same to the Satyr leadership in other camps across Ashenvale.
Unlike the rest of the elves however, the new force of Demon Hunters were not distracted by the fate of the Worgen. The conflict for the small band of mutated Kaldorei was much, much longer, as they spent years stalking hints of their prey through Kaldorei lands once the elven army smashed them to pieces, all the while evading the Wardens, and their people. For safety, they agreed to travel solo, hunting their prey in pairs, at most. Any more would attract the Warden's ever vigilant gazes.
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Vehlar, for once, parted from his long-time lover to hunt around Satyrnaar, as it remained one of the creature's strongest holdings, and had a plethora of souls for him to ensnare. It was well hidden in the forests, but it teemed with Vehlar's prey. Yet no matter how many he killed, there were always more. It was maddening, after a time. More than once he'd simply charged into the 'streets' of the settlement, slaughtering as he went, and yet always, there were more of the horned demons.
Eventually, they came to fear him, for his cruelty was legendary. He had, after a time, learned the truth of the futility of killing demons outside of their home realm from the mocking voice of the Satyr bound within him. He generally tried to keep his kills alive, for a time, before sending them back to the realm from whence they'd been spawned. He wanted them terrified of returning to Azeroth, and over time, they were.
As the years passed, the physical changes to his form made him able to pass among other Satyrs in disguise, for he too sported a pair of horns that resembled theirs. He hunted this way all over Ashenvale, for years beyond counting, doing everything in his power to keep the Satyrs from rising again. He had even managed to find a pair of orphans, raise them to physical maturity, and then turn them into Demon Hunters as well, with souls from the ever plentiful bounty that was Satyrnaar. The Satyrs of that settlement were, by the order of the Legion, constantly shunted back to Azeroth upon reforming in the Nether. Usually one at a time, there was a point during the Long Vigil where Vehlar was so prolific in slaughtering the former Kaldorei that they began to murmur of a legend. A slayer within Satyrnaar, with blades of unsettling crimson, burning with the power of a hundred trapped Satyr souls. Most, treated this rumor as nonsense, until Satyrs they knew simply disappeared, and never came back through the single-man portals they used to retrieve fallen Satyrs from the Nether.
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Vehlar also moved among his people, with the safety of anonymity, and illusion magic for his eyes and horns. He steered clear of druids as often as possible, for they had a bad habit of sensing his presence, even under disguise. It was in this way that he kept himself, and the other Hunters who'd survived thus far, informed of where demonic forces were gathering in Kalimdor.
Eventually, thanks to their immortality, the demon's presence dropped to almost nil. The small band of Demon Hunters, now numbering about fifteen in operation across Kalimdor, learned then that the Wardens had been hunting the remaining demons as well, and had developed new methods of tracking Fel energy. It took several painful losses against the better armed and equipped Wardens for them to realize the only remaining large sources of remaining Fel magic on Kalimdor were themselves.
Once more, only Vehlar and Illysanna avoided capture, death, or imprisonment. With no chance of breaking Illidan and the others free on their own, the two planned to lay low, until yet another tragedy ravaged the Kaldorei, and gave them a chance to gain more aspirants. That changed when Vehlar learned his longtime hunting partner had been captured, and imprisoned in the Warden's Vault as well. Unwilling to spend his immortality alone, he endeavored to rescue her, and his Demon Hunters, if possible.
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Several Weeks Before Andrassil Fell – The Broken Isles
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Vehlar walked calmly amongst the other Wardens as they recited the phrase to open the door to the Vault. His illusion magic had, after some lengthy stays in what remained of his people's libraries, improved considerably, and as a Demon Hunter, he had eventually learned how to mute, if not altogether hide, his killing intent. The fact that he had bonded and usurped the power of Satyrs also helped his deception. The demon within him was always hungry for more souls, though. He knew it wanted him to give in to the rage, to make it easier for the creature to overwhelm him and take control, or more likely, tear his body asunder. The demon would, of course, be fine, but Vehlar's existence would end on the spot, if he gave in.
He focused intensely on his disguise as they ventured further down into the structure, and more than once, he felt some elven ward try to remove it from him, but his will was iron. He could not afford to lose his cover here, or he would die. The Wardens dispensed only one kind of justice to their cleverer enemies, by not giving them a chance to fool them again. The weaker ones, they typically captured for study, and imprisonment.
That, was why he'd needed to get his partner out quickly. From past experience, the first month or so was spent on torture and study, and after that, the Wardens would then turn their Fel blood into a prison, a living stasis of total sensory deprivation that was immune to Fel and Arcane meddling. Only two kinds of glaives could break it, or so he hoped. If his own self-forged and Satyr infused glaives couldn't do the job, he'd have to try to steal a Warden's, and could guess how well that would go. The lawfully blind women of this stronghold cared about little else but their armor and glaives, and he knew better than to try borrowing one.
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Thankfully, he'd kept quiet and unnoticed, and overheard gossip involving a certain 'famous prisoner'. The last of her noble house. In the end, he'd only needed to follow the screams. He was well acquainted with the various sounds she made, and the ones he heard now made his blood boil with rage. The pathetic excuse for a Highborne Satyr that had bonded with him urged him uselessly to slaughter and kill, but he ignored the demon, as always, equating its opinions, wants, and desires, to that of dirt as only another Highborne could. He felt the Satyr within churn with fury, which was what fueled Vehlar's might.
Keeping focused on his spell became difficult the further into the fortress he went, for the deeper prisons held magic from a time when their kin's arcane might had been unmatched. Simple illusion spells were easily unraveled, if their casters lost the intense focus needed to sustain it in the face of such warding, and it was only because he was now party Satyr himself that Vehlar was not revealed. So far below Elune's light, the Wardens could not call on her so easily.
Vehlar struggled for quite a while, standing motionless in one of the empty hallways near the barracks, but eventually, he adjusted the amount of mana needed to maintain his cover. As long as there weren't other mages nearby, he wouldn't be noticed. Given who he was fraternizing with, and the rules involving death for so much as thinking about arcane magic, he didn't worry. His people had lost much since the world broke, and High Elven sorcery tended to be able to 'outsmart' the slower paced druid spells. Sometimes.
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There is no such thing as a 'casual' Warden he soon learned. Everyone had a destination, a predetermined purpose. Lingering anywhere drew glances, and eyes he did not need. Eventually, he found the level for Demon Hunters. He had assumed they kept other creatures here, and he had been correct. Thankfully, one of the law-abiding women had the presence of mind to label what was being held on each level in basic elvish. If one knew where to look.
He managed to find a decent, shadowy covering, and like all of his kin, he blended into the darkness easily. Then, he waited. Hours passed. Hunger gnawed at him, but he knew eating would only draw attention. He only had stale mana biscuits anyway. He could endure.
Finally, after what his internal clock guessed was, at least, five hours, another Warden approached the door. A guard, changing rotations. He swore. The other one had started to drowse, and he'd been tempted to try and Blink through when she nodded off. Given that the magic here was focused on keeping the prisoners bound, he doubted they'd spared it for a door. He'd been wrong before though.
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More time passed, and he knew, the sun was properly awake now far above them. He'd felt the night drain from him, and knew the time to move was approaching. Then, around what he guessed was noon, a figure emerged from behind the door. He knew her by rank, if not by face. The sister of the man who'd saved their race from certain doom in the wake of Desdel Stareye's timely death. Maiev Shadowsong.
Had he known who she was directly responsible for watching, and what she was truly capable of, he might have simply retreated then. If Maiev was at the Vault, nothing would be getting out, but he had not yet encountered the leader of the Wardens, and there were no legends of her strength floating around. The Wardens typically kept to the isles or Hyjal, and were secretive about their activities. They tended not to socialize. But, Tyrande and Malfurion had given them the power to lawfully imprison, and so they were respected…and avoided.
He waited until she left, without a word to the guard at the door, and he knew the time was soon. He counted slowly, with the patience of a hunter, ticking the minutes by. He waited a full twenty, for he had no desire to even chance attracting Maiev's attention. He knew enough of her wrath to be aware of how many of his Demon Hunters she personally had taken down, usually by way of decapitation.
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Finally, he noticed the guard begin to snooze. To all outside eyes, she appeared as straight and alert as always, but he knew better. It had been a trait of those who'd guarded Suramar as well. They had, after thousands of hours of guard duty, learned to get rest while standing. Looking closer, one could see the wall was doing most of the supporting, but her legs and her grip on her glaive remained strong, ingrained as they were.
Finally, it was time to move. He measured the distance for the thousandth time, and gathered the mana. Then, with a bright, and thankfully instantaneous flash, he vanished from his hiding spot. The sentry jolted awake, looked around for a few moments, sighed, and then returned to the infinite boredom of guard duty.
Vehlar, for his part, was smirking. His guise had been stripped upon entering the chamber, but it had ultimately worked. He needed only a quick glance around to know this was where they kept his fellow hunters. He could even divine who, judging by the blades outside each of the fel-crystal prisons. He knew better than to try to break those, though. That would most definitely trip the wards, and he didn't know if his glaives could break magic that strong.
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Thankfully, his target was not yet encased. She was lying on a table, nude, and covered with half-scabbed wounds that, as he stared at them with his sightless eyes, he knew had been hand-inflicted. He quickly remembered the moment when Maiev had left, and swore at himself for not noticing before, as the mundane kind of sight most of his kin used was at this point, was not his preferred method of seeing the world, and thus sometimes he missed physical details. Maiev's gauntlets had been coated with dark purple blood.
He poured a health potion down Illysanna's throat, and gave her two more besides, once she was conscious enough to drink them herself. The wounds closed slowly, and he'd managed to unbind her before he heard the soft sliding of metal from a sheathe. That was usually the only warning he ever got before surprise strikes.
He whirled, and his rune-etched katana met his opponent's glaive. She was, thankfully, not the Warden's leader, but he had no doubt she could summon the others, even all the way down here. His attacks were relentless, and fueled by fury. His quiet rage had slowly built as he'd discovered what the Wardens had been doing to his lady, and now, it was helping. He smashed through the woman's guard, and sliced through her throat before it could offer so much as a squeak. She gurgled, and gestured at him desperately as she bled out, but he had no mercy for the dispensers of 'justice' that by their actions and their narrow minds only aided the demons. He let her choke on her lifeblood.
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Vehlar helped the female Ravencrest to her feet then, not speaking for the moment. Her captors had not been gentle, and her clothing was little more than rags. He wasn't overly worried about her modesty in a vault full of female Wardens, though. They communicated by hand-sign, but her gestures were slow and half-formed. He charged out the door, ready to fight again, only to realize the Warden within choking to death had been the one guarding the door. It made some sense. He'd check his charge too if a magical disturbance woke him from a nap.
It made escape that much easier though, or rather, it would have. His teleportation spell, a stronger one he'd been confident could bypass the wards of this place, fizzled and died as he cast it. Their current hiding place was a seemingly little-used corridor, and he swore as his spell failed. Then, he rummaged in his bag, and handed her a white stone.
Her eyes went wide, staring at it, and then him. "I can't, you'll be-"
He covered her mouth with a hand. "No. I won't. I'll be fine. Go. It's the only thing that will get you out of here." She bit his thumb, hard, but when his hand didn't move she slumped her shoulders in resigned acceptance. She really was in no condition to argue. "Use it…once you do, I'll need to find another way to get out of here, but they can't stop this kind of teleportation. Go. I'll be fine."
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As soon as Illysanna had used the Hearthstone, the Vault's alarms began to wail, doors began to shut, and he hurriedly conjured a passable disguise as he darted past the closing doors and headed for the main chamber. He was not alone. Wardens from each of the four connecting hallways slowly appeared in the main chamber, and a general murmur swept through the thirty or so women as Maiev appeared before them, rather suddenly, in what he swore was a flash of light from a Blink spell. But there was no way. Kaldorei didn't use arcane magic anymore, at least, not without combining it with druidism in some fashion.
"My sisters…we've a rat amongst us. Someone has helped our famous prisoner escape… someone with magical know-how, and skill with a blade not our own. She may have escaped, but her rescuer remains. Go! Find them! And do not hesitate in delivering death. There will be no mercy for this one. I wasn't finished with her…" With that, she turned, and two Wardens joined her as she waved her glaive, and opened one of the doors leading from the chamber. The others slowly slid open as well, though only after being triggered by one of the glaives. It seemed they were the keys to this place.
He followed casually, keeping quiet, and letting others open doors for him as he subtly made his way towards the entrance. Or what he hoped was the entrance. Once he was high enough up, he hoped the wards would be weak enough to teleport through. He almost tried making a portal, but the casting would take too long.
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Nobody knew the prison like the Wardens who guarded it, and they swept it efficiently. He didn't go more than five minutes, anywhere, without running into another Warden, sharing a nod, and continuing on his way. Finally, after some clever maneuvering, he made it close to the lift that led to the exit. Now he saw why it had been so easy.
None of the entrances to it were guarded, and only Maiev stood upon the platform. She rode it up and down, over and over, standing patiently, waiting with her glaive before her. There was only one way out of her Vault, and she'd covered it with her strongest soldier. Vehlar fumed silently, once more melded with the shadows. He needed a distraction. As he thought that, the entire structure rumbled.
Maiev glanced up, and Wardens appeared from out of nowhere at her command. Of course she'd hidden guards. He was almost surprised he hadn't hidden atop one of them by accident within the shadows. They ascended to the top, and he heard the incantation for the door. Then, the circular platform came back to him, and he had his ride out. He paused as it reached the door though, and instead looked up at the ceiling.
Plain, gray, stone. Unwarded, from what he could tell. It was more natural mountain than Kaldorei architecture this far up. And mountains, he could move through. He smirked at the door, and began casting the lengthy teleport. He heard shouting from the other side about halfway through, and dropped his disguise.
He gave the Warden's leader a smirk as the door opened, and her squad charged him, but he was already gone, as he'd redirected his focus once the door had opened, and whisked himself towards Illysanna, still not quite sure how he was still alive.
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Then, something went wrong. His connection to the leylines of the world faltered, and his magic went awry. He groaned, and opened his eyes. A cave, of some sort. He could be anywhere, for that was what happened when teleport spells went awry. At least he wasn't embedded in stone.
He stood, slowly, and glanced around with his unnatural eyes. This place was overwhelmed with wild, uncontrolled magic, no doubt from a large explosion. Was that what had shook the Vault? He extended his senses further, and discounted that. By his best guess, he was near Faronaar. A shattered little village, it had been abandoned long ago. He guessed this cave had always existed underneath it, that is, until he touched the floor.
The rock had been carved away, by something sharp, and something determined. The entire floor was the same, and a chill ran up his spine as he realized he wasn't alone down here. This cave had been dug out, and as he found a tunnel leading from it, which had also been carved, he knew whatever his latest pain in the rear was, it could certainly dig.
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He continued on, simply because he couldn't think of what else to do. Teleporting in mana this chaotic would likely send him to a different dimension, so he walked. He heard sounds as he did, muted, distorted, chittering. But nothing bugged him, so he ignored the skittering around him as he pushed on.
Finally, he came to a much larger cavern, with a much more interesting floor. His eyes spied something on the ground, in the center of a bowl like structure. He went over, and knelt beside it, placing one hand on it. His mind went wild with ideas. Spells, demonic infusions, entirely new, and promising, glaive forms. He was touching power. Pure, unbridled power, arcane in nature, but on a scale his people had never invented. Never even come close to achieving.
He stared at the strange almost ore-like protrusion, and wondered what exactly he was touching. He focused, and used his power to raise it from the earth. The entire cavern trembled in response, or rather, that's what it felt like. He sensed…intense pain, though he didn't know from where. The kind of pain one experiences when something is lodged in a limb, like an arrow, and hasn't passed through completely yet. He raised the node higher, and the sensation altogether vanished.
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Thoroughly puzzled, he reached for the ore again, only to find his wrist bound by some kind of sticky webbing. "Not ssssooo fasssst…" Something hissed from behind him. It wasn't an elf, or a Satyr, in fact, he could barely sense the being at all. It was like the wrongness of its existence made it hard to track with magic sight.
He got an up-close look at it as the webbing dragged him towards the creature that had spewed it. He saw a monstrosity, though among the perverted features he could indeed make out an elf. A member of his species then, once upon a time. "You will tell ussss where to find more of thissss…it sssssatesss usss…we musssst have more!"
"I don't know what it is…" Vehlar snarled, wrenching uselessly at the webs. "It might be an ore, but I don't sense any more nearby. This seems to be all there is."
The creature took in his words, and hissed. "Liessss…you will sssspeak truthsss…in time…" More webs bound him then, and the spider-elf began dragging him towards a nearby tunnel. He swore, loudly, and the creature only chuckled.
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Several Weeks Later…
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Death. That was what his brother had earned. Slow, painful, death. He had been tortured mercilessly at the claws of the spider-elves, and when he'd finally had a chance to be rid of them, his prize, the strange and wonderful ore, had been taken from him by his brother, returned from the dead. He'd always suspected Laronar had ended up surviving the war, but he'd expected him to have been turned into a tree, or something, by now.
As he currently was, Laronar had been, admittedly, quite impressive. As druids went. Vehlar's rage burned away the shell of flame-resistant vines that held him in place, finally, several long minutes after his kin left. He could track the ore true, even now he could sense it heading closer to the part of the isles his kin inhabited. He let it go. He was starved, drained, and Illysanna no doubt assumed he was dead, or captured. Knowing her, she'd try to rescue him. He needed to get back quick, before that happened. After what he guessed was a few weeks in Warden captivity, she wouldn't be ready for an assault on the Vault. Just then, the blocked passage behind him burst open with a spidery screech, and at the head of the surging arachnid-elves was one with his Satyr Soulblades in each malformed hand. In short order, Vehlar eradicated the foul abominations with fire, ice, and arcane spells, and then retrieved his weapons from the ashes.
He climbed out of the spider-infested hell then, and once at the top of the village, turned his anger on those below. He wrought a spell then, conjuring a giant, flaming meteor above what remained of Faronaar's temple to his people's Goddess. Then, he brought it down. The entire structure fell into a truly massive sinkhole, no doubt made by the Sundering of the world. He inspected the rubble once the dust cleared, and nodded. There were still openings down, but the spiders would have to climb through layers of rubble to ever see sunlight from this entrance. It would take them years, if not centuries, to dig free.
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He headed towards what had once been Suramar then, as he knew the land around it was fertile with mana crystals. He could recharge with those, enough for a teleportation spell. He did a double take after an hour of hard searching. On the horizon was an unmistakable, massive shield of Arcane magic. Even now, Suramar stood. Everyone within had likely died early on due to lack of food, but it was nice to know the ruins would be there, somewhat intact, to explore one day, when the shield ran out of power.
He continued on then, combining his scraps of mana into an ever-larger pool, before finally he had enough to bring him home. Home, in this case, was his barrow den in Ashenvale. He arrived to find his lover, still badly hurt, but recovering in their bed. He had more to do before he collapsed beside her though. He reinforced the wards hiding them, adjusted the camouflage of the leaves surrounding the entrance, and then he descended below, to restore the Fel he'd been forced to expend by extracting it from his Satyr prisoners. They'd broken free while he'd been gone, but their prison kept them from leaving, or rather, it kept their demonic essence from ascending from the barrow prison.
He managed to bind them again easily enough, though he'd drained one of them entirely too far, leaving him a husk. When he finally did return to Illysanna he felt her stir. "What…took you so long?"
"I ran into my brother on my…way out. It's a long story…and we need sleep." She mumbled an agreement then, and the two exhausted Demon Hunters fell asleep then, hidden relatively safely from most of the outer world.