The orcish courier suppressed a yell as his boot once again became caught in the deep snow of Frostfire Ridge. He was usually prepared for any and all trips, but upon hearing the name “Frostfire” he mistakenly thought “some cold, some hot.” He didn’t anticipate that it would strictly be the former. Unable to even cry out lest he be set upon by whatever wolves and ogres patrolled the place, he wished to deliver his message and return to Azeroth as soon as possible.
Eventually, he spotted the garrison and paused a moment to take in the view. Who was even using these places anymore?
Informed that the recipient of the letter was a storied hero of the arena, he found his way to the barracks. The garrison didn't have as many guards as it used to since the Horde's work in Draenor was over, but it was one of the few places that still rang with the sound of steel and warfare. Inside he found a lone blood elf, covered head to toe in armour in spite of not having a foe beyond a couple dummies laid out to accept punishment. Or, as he saw after a short time, healing. A holy paladin, blessed with the talents to mend the wounded, and here he was using the powers of the light to try to repair old straw-filled bags.
“A healer as an arena champion?” the courier asked. “I thought you were supposed to be doing the killing, not the saving.”
The blood elf turned, dark hair and dark skin flashing a winning smile, save for the one dead eye that marred his otherwise handsome face. “Ah, a visitor. Haven’t had one of those in some time. But let me answer your question with a question; do warriors use weapons?”
“I would think so,” he replied with a snort.
“Why, I agree! So when I heal that same warrior, he becomes my weapon. As the arm swings the sword, I keep the arm swinging.”
The orc sighed. He wasn’t interested in a philosophy lesson. “Fine. Now, I have a letter for an arena champion. But he sounds more like a goblin, and you’re the only one I see…” he said, looking around the barracks and finding it otherwise empty. “I’m looking for a... ‘Nudzolini’.”
The blood elf raised his long eyebrows, lifting a hand to his chest and standing up straight. “The one and only.”
“Nudzolini,” the orc repeated.
“A proud Sin’Dorei name, albeit an uncommon one. Now, if there’s nothing else you need…?”
The courier turned and walked out after handing the letter he held over to the paladin. He grumbled the entire way. “Thirty copper to travel to a different time, trudge through snow, find the recipient…”
Nudzolini hardly heard it at all. There were more important things, after all, as he had not had a message in what felt like ages. He went through the lengthy process of removing his gauntlets to open the letter. He didn’t mind in the slightest, as they had saved him countless times before. He never understood the priests, mages and warlocks that would go into battle in little more than a robe. It was battle, not ceremony.
He found the letter to be brief and to the point. It was from his brother, a monk that had taken a far different path in life than him. He had always tried to fix the world’s problems on his own, something Nudzolini found unappealing but admirable. The letter explained that after all his galavanting around the world - and other worlds - he had finally met his match. He had been severely injured - but alive - on a mission in the Shadowlands. Nudzolini suddenly felt terribly worried, but knew that his indomitable brother would find a way through. He kept reading. It was the last paragraph that struck him even more than the pain of hearing about his brother’s fate.
You’re a champion, brother, it read. Yet you languish in a hovel not even in the same world as the rest of the Horde. Your bravery, your battle prowess, your heart - they’re wasted in the arena. The glories there serve none other than yourself. It’s time you return. Take my place, and bring peace to the world. It needs no more bloodshed. Your games can wait until the true fight is finished.
Nudzolini folded up the note and carried it to his quarters where he read it again, and again a short time after. He looked to the helms that lined his wall, rewards from his rank earned through victories in the arena. Marks of honour, the tokens of his success, piled up uselessly in the corner. Perhaps he had done all he could do here. Perhaps he had achieved the highest he could go. There were always new challenges on the horizon, and he had never backed down from one before.
That, and the prospect of finding a soul he defeated in the arena in the Shadowlands - and beating them again - sounded like far too intriguing of a prospect to pass up.
---
“And so we leave our memories in the past so they cannot cloud our.. that…” Disciple Kosmas, an Ascended Kyrian, stumbled over his words. “I’m sorry. Could you please find a different place to sit if you wish to speak with me?”
Nudzolini was lying on his back in the Kyrian fields, relishing in the beauty of the landscape and the tranquility of the many bells and waterfalls. Without so much as realizing it, he had rested his feet atop the shoulders of one of the owl-like attendants that supported the Kyrian. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
Kosmas cleared his throat to continue. “Thank you. We clear our memories so to also clear our minds of any attachments that would prevent us from reaching clarity. Humility. Wisdom.”
“So all my memories, they’d just be… they’d be gone,” Nudzolini said, resting his hands on his stomach.
“Yes. For the greater good.”
With the loss of his memories, he would no longer carry with him some of the greatest achievements of his life. All of the victories, the triumphs and even the losses in the arena that had shaped him and moulded him, would all be forgotten. How could they ask for such a thing? Nudzolini pushed himself up to rest on his elbows. “Can’t I just keep killing these Forsworn you seem to hate so much? It seems I’ve got quite a talent for it, if I may say so myself.”
“Your fate here is yours to determine. If you wish to aid us in our battle against the Forsworn, we will be forever grateful. But you cannot ascend without the completion of the rituals.” Kosmas was unflinching. Nudzolini was disappointed.
The paladin sighed. Motioning towards the mass of Forsworn bodies that lay near them, he gave a wry smile. “What if I double that pile? I bet you I could take out another twelve before dinner.”
The resolute Kyrian frowned and shook his head.
“Did I say something wrong?” Nudzolini asked. “They are the evil ones, are they not? Back in my days at the arena, when we saw the opposition we’d defeat them and then celebrate. Simple as that. You're missing the point of all this.”
“To the contrary, I believe you may be. While the Kyrian admire your…” out of the side of his vision he looked with sadness at the Forsworn bodies defeated at his side. “While we admire your skills with the mace, and while the Forsworn threat must be defeated in order to further serve our purpose, they are still Kyrian. They’re wayward, failed aspirants that have chosen to follow a foolish cause. We lament their choices. I take no joy in destroying them.”
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“Hmpf,” the paladin grunted in acknowledgement. He looked down at his mace, put to what he believed was such good use today. “I feel there’s a lot to learn in this place. It’s a little more complicated than the arena.”
“That it may be,” Kosmas agreed. “But we will be here to guide you, if you so choose our path.”
--
“Another body crushed by this brave new challenger!” yelled Grandmaster Vole, the head of the Theater of Pain. “Can any yet stand against him?”
Nudzolini truly felt alive. A true arena, in the heart of the Shadowlands! Wave after wave of challengers to break and slaughter, and for some reason he was yet to determine, they seemed altogether fine with it. For hours he stomped gleefully through the arena floor, laying waste to challenger after challenger. When one fell, they’d just send more! And more! And more...
As his mace caved in the skull of yet another strange amalgamation of body parts, there was something… missing. Accepting the strange notion of having a grand revelation while in the middle of shattering the knee of an iron-clad skeletal monstrosity, he thought on just what he loved about the arenas of Azeroth or Draenor compared to this. While the theatre was certainly fun - positively joyous, actually - it lacked the honour and pride of his old grounds. Before, the gates would open to find two or three challenges facing off against an even number on the other side, leaving the last one standing as the victor. What was this now? Combatants ran in from all directions. They’d fight those nearest to them with abandon. The sanctity of the old arena gave way to the chaos of the new.
As much as his brother would detest his choice to battle in the arena as instead of fighting for the goodness of Azeroth, there was undoubtedly a sense of honour there; a duty to protect those close to you and to fight as valiantly as one could. Here, skeletal figures slashed others in the back, only to be broken in two by some larger foe a moment after. This was no place for a paladin. Where was the sense of honour, or duty, of justice? It was just… madness.
That, and there was far, far too much slime.
---
Lady Moonberry showed the wildseed to Nudzolini with great pride and reverence. She fluttered about, speaking of its power and importance. The paladin struggled to listen. For the most part, he just kept blinking and rubbing his eyes - well, eye, considering only one still worked. The difference between Maldraxxus and Ardenweald was exceedingly disorienting. While it was certainly beautiful here, he felt a greater urge to take what would be an undoubtedly pleasant nap rather than battle and fight.
“We tend to the wildseeds with- Nudzolini, are you listening to me?” Lady Moonberry asked, concerned. She tilted her tiny head to one side and waved, trying to get his attention.
“Yes! Yes. Of course. The wildseeds. They certainly do have great power within them, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do!” Moonberry said with a smile of pride.
“So just how do we kill them then?”
Lady Moonberry let out a sound which was somewhere between a squeak and a gasp. “When do we what?” She asked in disbelief, hoping she had misheard. She fluttered backwards, an impressive display of coordination.
“Wrong term perhaps… Would ‘harvest’ be correct?” Nudzolini asked innocently.
Moonberry’s jaw dropped. “I… they’re…”
“Seeds! Yes, you see, I was listening. I suppose it would make more sense to say you harvest them rather than kill them… incorrect on my part, certainly, but you must understand, I'm new here!” Nudzolini flashed a big smile her way.
“This seed contains the spirit of the great dragon Ysera,” Moonberry explained.
“Ysera! The green one?” the paladin asked. “Well, I must have been absent in Draenor for quite some time. I didn’t even know she died. What got her?”
Moonberry understood that Nudzolini meant no offense. As he said himself, he was new here. He had so much to learn. “Yes… yes, I’m afraid she did pass. As for what took her, I cannot say. However, we will have a play that will explain much of-”
“A play!” Nudzolini exclaimed. He dropped his hammer to the ground and sat down heavily on a log. “A trip from the arena to the stage. How my brother did this, I don’t know.” He rubbed temples, thinking of a way to find his place in this strange land. “Listen. In Maldraxxus, I heard you were having a problem with the Dust.”
“Drust,” Moonberry corrected.
“Oh! Oh. That makes much more sense now doesn’t it? Now, these Dust-"
“Drust!” Moonberry corrected again.
“Apologies. The Drust. A hammer to the face drops them just like any other, correct?” Moonberry nodded. “Good. In that case, I believe we may yet find some common ground.”
Lady Moonberry sighed, but reluctantly agreed.
---
The spires of Revendreth at first held a tremendous appeal to Nudzolini. A place of judgement felt so natural for a paladin. That, and the appreciation of class and the finer things felt like a blessing after still recovering mentally from the ceaseless brutality of Maldraxxus.
However, he hardly understood their position at all. They were judging souls that came to the afterlife… after they’ve been judged to go to Revendreth already? He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. All he knew was they were dignified. Highly dignified.
Still, he could see himself staying right up until he heard of their fears of the light. It was full-scale abhorrence! Considering his role as a paladin, he did find his combat to be particularly effective - ash ghouls that were already scarred and ruined by the light stood little chance - but it felt strange to be wandering a place of such darkness as a holy warrior.
That, and their obsession with tea did not suit his sensibilities. Hot drinks were never favoured in the arena; you had little time to drink, and it was likely to burn your tongue. It was ages since he’d had a hot drink, and he had lost all taste for them.
Furthermore, Revendreth was a place of judgement but not in the manner he wished. He preferred to judge only after first providing an example for those to follow. These here were quick to condemn, but not so quick in proving oneself worthy of administering their decree. That was not Nudzolini’s way.
It wasn’t long before he packed his things and returned to the strange city of Oribos. Each covenant had their faults and their allure, and he knew he was meant to choose. On the return trip, even the dazzling visuals of traversing the paths between the Shadowlands could not distract him from his all-important decision.
---
“Maw Walker,” Bolvar Fordragon greeted. “I am pleased you’ve made your return. I trust you’ve made your decision?”
“Now, wait a moment - I know I’ve seen that armour before somewhere,” Nudzolini said to Fordragon, who did not yet quite know what to make of the strange blood elf. “This is going to sound strange, but it is the Shadowlands after all... Have I… killed you before? Apologies, truly.”
The denizens of Oribos looked about, confused, but Bolvar understood quickly. “I am not the Lich King that you helped to end years ago. Yet I have taken his mantle.”
“Ahh,” Nudzolini said, pretending to understand. He wondered if asking one of the key figures of the connection between Azeroth and the Shadowlands if he had defeated him before was poor form, but these were the questions he had to ask to reach an understanding of this realm. Politicking was a skill not often used in the arena. “But to answer your question, I’ve chosen…”
He looked around the chamber in which representatives of each covenant stood. The stoic heroes of Bastion, the fearless warriors of Maldraxxus, the mystical creatures of Ardenweald and the proud denizens of Revendreth. While he admired the courage of the Maldraxxi, he preferred the pitched battle over the reckless slaughter. Ardenweald’s peace and calm was beautiful and admirable, but he lacked the patience to watch the world grow. Revendreth felt like it could be his home as a place of judgement, matching his ideals as a paladin, but their distaste for the light was a line he could not cross.
That left Bastion. The thought of abandoning his memories, his heroics, all that he had earned and fought for, was a thought that he struggled mightily with. He thought back to his brother’s words. The glories there serve none other than yourself. Perhaps it was time to move on from that past, and to do as a paladin was meant to; live in service of truth and justice, heroism for others as opposed to heroism for the sake of accolades. You’re a champion, brother. Now it was time to act like one.
“I have decided, Bolvar Fordragon,” taking note to refer to him not as ‘Arthas the Second’ which was the first thought that came into his mind. “I will be choosing the Kyrian.”
He went to the Kyrian ambassador and pledged himself to their cause. The steward at his side jumped happily into the air, so pleased to see a Maw Walker join them. Nudzolini knew it was the right choice. Perhaps the only choice. After all, the Shadowlands was a place of a second life, and in many ways, it was for him as well. His days in the arena were gone. Now, it was the time for greater things.
“Now,” Nudzolini said to the Kyrian ambassador. “I’ve heard a great deal of discussion about a particularly strong ‘bell’ of yours.”