When Lethelon Dawnrest walked into the Razor Hill inn, his smile was the lightest thing in the room. Of course, there was little competition; Grosk, the innkeeper, a rugged, scowling orc kept it drab and dreary deliberately, thinking the darkness would cause his patrons to drink more and worry about keeping up appearances less. That, and maybe they’d miss a few of the smudges on the glasses. However, that did little to stifle the sparkling visage of the blood elf warlock in the slightest. His jetting chin held a grin that reached from ear to ear.

“Harrietta Bentham!” he said, sitting at the table of a Forsaken sitting upright and rigid at an uneven table. “How lovely to see you, as always!”

Harrietta frowned, hearing her old name - the one she had chosen prior to her death - said instead of the new one she had taken. Normally she’d correct him, taking a few shots at his pomp and circumstance he brought with him on every occasion. In fact, that’s why she chose this inn; she thought it could deflate his ego. However, today something bothered Harrietta, and even though the skin in her face didn’t comply with her emotions anymore, she made it clear something was on her mind. “Sit down, and please, just this once - speak softly.”

Lethelon pulled out a chair, noticing that his demeanor had caused a few glances his way. It was something he was used to, but he did note it was more than usual today. “Well, with this place as lively as it is, how will you hear me over all the chatter?” he said mockingly. The place was indeed eerily quiet, even with the presence of a fair number of orcs, typically a boisterous people. “Innkeeper!” he said, snapping his fingers at Grosk who was busy using a dirty rag to spread the filth on a dirty glass in a half-hearted attempt to clean it. He came over quickly, his eyes darting to the back of the inn.

“What do you want?” asked Grosk, showing his typical charm and hospitality.

Lethelon ran a finger along his chin. “Hmm. You know, I’m feeling like living on the edge today, perhaps. Give me something strong, I’m thinking! Something even a tough old orc like yourself would scoff at!” Inspecting his fingernails, he couldn’t help but add, “After all, if I can control fire and fel, what is ale to me?”

Grosk only grunted. Harrietta frowned even deeper than before. Normally, she found his elven arrogance amusing, even endearing, and to be fair, as an undead she had to take the friends as she found them anyway. For him, she was one of the few that could put up with that same arrogance. That, and her appearance - so unseemly to many - bothered him not in the slightest, considering he was a conjurer of any number of ferocious and wretched demons. Unfortunately, Harrietta could not afford to suffer Lethelon’s eccentricities as she always had.

When Grosk returned to the table, he leaned in close to the blood elf, doing his best attempt at whispering an orc could hope to achieve while he laid the ale he brought with him on the table. “Listen to me, warlock,” he said, his breath causing Lethelon’s noise to twitch, “if you can manage to keep your voice down, I won’t charge you today. Consider yourself lucky.”

“A free drink!” Lethelon said, his long eyebrows raising. “In that case, I’ll take one for the lady as well. And perhaps a cactus apple surprise, if you have one. It’s the one orc delicacy I’ve found myself fond of. Or at least, able to tolerate.” Grosk walked away without another word, although his mind’s eye was clearly picturing cleaving the arrogant wretch in half. “Now,” Lethelon said, obviously struggling to keep his voice down, “I believe it’s time you tell me what it is about this bar that has kept everyone in this strange, catatonic state.”

“The one at the back of the bar,” Harrietta replied.

Lethelon started to lean to see around her.

“Not so obvious!” she snapped. Lethelon tried again, this time with subtlety.

At the back sat an orc, his lower half covered almost entirely in plate. While he seemed not to be carrying a weapon, the size of his arms and chest implied that he hardly needed one. His bare skin was covered in so many scars it appeared there was hardly a part of him that wasn’t wounded. The patches that weren’t were covered in dark tattoos over the dark brown skin of the orc. It marked him as a Mag’har, hailing from the alternate timeline of Draenor where the orcs were untouched by demon blood. Yet he needed no such blood to inspire fear. The stranger had an aura of menace that hung around him like a dense fog.

“And who might that be?” Lethelon asked as Grosk returned with food, drink and a scowl. The blood elf ran a finger around the rim of the glass, letting a green fel flame briefly trail in its wake. The unmistakable smell of the smoke from the demonic energy briefly filled the air around the two, causing the undead’s eyes to open wider in anger and frustration. “Apologies,” the elf said, raising his finger from the glass. “Old habits.”

“Really, I’m going to need you to settle yourself. That’s…” she turned back, just a touch, to ensure the stranger still sat where he did. “That’s Doomscream.”

Lethelon snorted. “Doomscream? Had Grom simply beaten him to the punch on the surname?”

“Idiot!” she said, too loudly for her own comfort, and she quietly chastised herself for her outburst. “Have you really not heard of him? He ran with Hellscream side by side. When the Lightbound draenei began to impose their will on the rest of the world, he was one of the leaders of the resistance. He was one of Hellscream’s fiercest lieutenants! They say when they would flank an enemy in battle, they’d hear a roar of doom and one of hell, and all those that followed the light would tremble in fear.”

“An orc who yells,” Lethelon said with a laugh. “So, an orc! I believe I’ve met plenty enough.”

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“Keep. Your voice. Down,” Harrietta warned. “This is no ordinary orc. Something… something happened to him, it seems. Seeing the light - this brilliant source of power that seemed on the side of righteousness, of justice - slaughter any that dared to stand against it, well, his sense of right and wrong just… broke. He’d slaughter anything in his path. Soldiers, healers… civilians. I heard he went through towns after he and Grom would defeat their guards and just… it was carnage, they said. The things I was told, I can only hope they’re exaggerated.”

“Again, this just seems like the action of any- hold on. I thought orcs only spoke of honour. Where’s the honour in slaughtering those that can hardly put up a fight?”

“You don’t understand,” Harrietta said with a shake of her head. “There’s a hatred in him. Even since he came here, and got off that world. There have been reports that he hunts any that wield the light. Priests, paladins, he’d massacre them.”

“Well, I am a warlock, don’t forget. Perhaps we’d find some common ground.”

“He rips them apart, Lethelon,” she said, her face stone, her raspy voice desperately struggling to express her seriousness. “Any that dare use the light around him, after he’s seen what it’s done, he…”

“Go on, then.”

“He tries to tear it out of them. He’ll hack into them, trying to ‘free’ them from the light that’s corrupting their souls. Just cut them to ribbons...”

“Doesn’t like the light. Probably why he came to these dusty old ruins,” he said, his hands held up to better express his disdain for the place. “We could be in Silvermoon, you know. A single portal, and we’re dining in decadence!”

She leaned forward. “If you can’t keep your voice down, you’re not going to be seeing Silvermoon ever again. Either of us. I’ve already died once. I didn’t like it much. I doubt I’ll like it much the second time around, either. So, please, kindly shut your mouth.”

“Well,” Lethelon said, putting on an overly dignified expression and holding his hand to his chest like a slighted noble, “I’ve never been so insulted in my life! Now, if this… Doomscream, was it? If he’s such a rampaging, light-hunting monster, how is it they haven’t put him in chains?”

“We’ve been in combat over one thing or another since I’ve been born. Well, reborn. Do you think all the warchiefs we’ve had over the years would ever be willing to throw away a weapon like that? One that can defeat a whole garrison? Even if it means he’s defeating the whole garrison, even more than he has to,” she muttered. “The Horde is entering the Shadowlands. They’ll need everything at their disposal. They can’t afford to lose him.”

“From what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’ll meet plenty of old friends there!”

Behind Harrietta a chair scratched across the wooden floor. Every patron in the bar suddenly became exceptionally interested in their drinks and stared down at them intently. Harrietta slid so far down her chair she nearly fell out of it.

“Why, Harrietta, you are somewhat of a ghost, yet you look like you’ve just seen one. And I thought the undead resisted fear!” The warlock laughed and slammed down his mug of ale on the table. After that, however, he paused. His hand moved to an enchanted dagger he kept in his robe, as he heard the unmistakable sound of plate-clad feet stomping slowly in his direction.

“What have you done?” muttered his friend.

“Relax,” he said with an awkward chuckle that revealed he realized that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew. Now that the orc was standing and coming progressively closer, he was much, much larger than he had anticipated. Muttering a few words as fast as he could, he summoned his imp to his side.

The orc walked calmly up to him, placing a massive fist on his table and leaned in close. In a cold, dead tone he spoke softly to the blood elf. “I don't like noise,” Doomscream said. "Battles are loud. I come here for quiet. And you've been very disrespectful."

The blood elf’s eyes darted to his imp, and the tiny demonic creature began to weave his hands one over the other, creating a small ball of fire. Before it had a chance to release it, a heavy boot came stomping down on top of it, sending it back to the nether from which it came.

Holding up his dagger, Lethelon began to rapidly speak powerful words of fire and chaos, hoping at least to stun the orc for a moment. However, the massive Doomscream was too quick, and grabbed the elf by the throat and closed his windpipe. “I should kill you now, just so I can find you in the Shadowlands and kill you again! Do you think you could hide from me there?!” he roared in his face. He squeezed harder, the elf’s face turning slowly blue. Harrietta and the other patrons stood paralyzed with fear. “You’re not as loud as you were with my hand around your throat!”

He loosened his grip and grabbed a knife that was meant for Lethelon’s meal. The tiny thing would have looked almost comical in Doomscream’s hand were it not for the situation. Holding it just above the warlock’s chest, he yelled louder than before, showing his namesake was not said in vain. “Should I see if there’s any light in your heart?”

Coughing, Lethelon tried desperately to remind the orc what he was doing. “You’re threatening a member of the Horde!” he wheezed. “I’ll see you in chains for this!”

Doomscream grabbed him by the jaw that once held that arrogant smile. “You’ll not tell a soul if I rip out your tongue!”

“Alright! Alright!” Lethelon wheezed, panic and fear etched in every part of his face. “Please, just let me go!”

Grabbing him by the front of his robes, Doomscream lifted him up from the table and threw him across the bar, the blood elf’s body clattering into glasses of half-finished ale and cold, leftover meals. Although still breathing, Lethelon hardly moved. Doomscream took the seat at the table that the elf was formerly sitting in and looked at Harrietta with eyes wide in fury. “I heard what you said of me,” he said calmly. “Those rumours? It’s only what those who bore witness dared repeat.” He leaned closely. “Before you judge me, know this. The light took more from me than you could understand. I will make it pay for every drop of blood it spilled on Draenor. That,” he said definitively, “is my justice. My retribution. My purpose. My honour as an orc and a Mag’har!” He rose up and began to leave, the bar in stunned silence behind him. He turned back for just a moment. “Not even death will protect the light from me.”

Harrietta waited until he was gone before she rushed to her friend’s side. Immediately, she waved her hands over Lethelon’s broken form and performed her spells of healing. It burned her every time, but she still would use the light. She just prayed Doomscream did not return to discover she was a priest.