I’ve got a nightmare to remember; I’ll never be the same…

Within her dreams, the hellish scene played again and again.

In her head, Horde and Alliance alike fell to the betrayers.

“You caused this, Ryoumou.  It’s all your fault.”

In her head, the Red Dragonflight burned away the last of the Blight, incinerating the infected bodies in the valley below her.

“All of this could have been avoided, had you just given up.”

In her head, she knelt before the Red Dragonqueen, tears welling in her eyes, clutching the armor of Dranosh Saurfang to her chest with a vow in her heart that his father would know of his fate.

“Such a brave soul… lost to the void or worse because of your arrogance.”

“You should just give up.”

“Give up.”

“End your crusade.  Live in fear.  Die in obscurity.  Better this than dashing your body and soul against the Lich King to be resurrected as a mindless slave.”

The voices in her head rose to a tumultuous volume, piling atop each other until she could stand it no more.  The images of that fateful day played rapidly in her mind until they were little more than indiscernible flashes of light.  She put her hands to her ears and screamed…

…herself awake.  The fragments of the dream clung to her consciousness for a moment then faded, leaving only an overwhelming feeling of dread and guilt in their wake.  The cold air outside her small tent did little to bolster her spirits, and the excited buzzing of others outside only added to her frustrations.

The day the Argent Crusade had announced that a tournament would be held to determine champions most worthy of facing the Lich King and his armies, Ryoumou had been among the first to put their names on the list of competitors.  Not for glory, not for fame, and certainly not for a chance to battle Arthas.  No, her goals were much simpler:  Loss of herself in the bloodlust of battle, and a chance to forget what she had done.  For months she had fought in the pits of the Argent Tournament, felling foe after foe in the throes of combat.

Ryoumou pushed back the flap of her tent and stepped outside, watching the smoke waft up from the various campfires dotting the landscape surrounding the great coliseum of the Argent Crusade, which stood like a great tower against the backdrop of Icecrown Glacier.  The festive booths and vendors did little to hide the guards patrolling the border of the coliseum grounds; Icecrown was a warzone, and the coliseum was as close to the front lines as one could get.

“Ryoumou, what are you doing here?”

“You don’t belong in this place.”

“You DO belong here… as a competitor, working towards a chance at battling your greatest fear and avenging Silvermoon’s destruction once and for all!”

The smaller parts of her shrieked in protest, but she quickly silenced them.  She had, months ago, made up her mind that this would be her fate.  She would forget herself in the pits and, when the time had come, she would give herself to inevitability.  She stared at the day’s roster and shook her head; the typical assortment of beasts, summoned demons and captured servants of Arthas would stand and fall before her today.  It was a daily routine she had played out for…

“…Months, Ryoumou.  Is this how you’ve been filling your time?”

The voice from behind startled her, but she didn’t even need to turn around to know who would be standing there, or to see the admonishing look in Itsuki’s eyes.  She could feel his gaze boring into the back of her head, as though he could see every thought in her mind.

“You wouldn’t understand, Itsuki.  Nobody can understand.”

“Try me, old friend.  I saw what happened, the same as you did.  After Undercity, you disappeared for almost five months.  We all thought you were dead, Ryoumou.”

“You were supposed to think I was dead.  You weren’t supposed to look for me.  I’ve betrayed the Horde, the guild and my own people.  I’m not worthy of the friendship you offer.”

She felt Itsuki’s hand on her shoulder; a strong grip she could neither shake nor push away.  “Perhaps, perhaps not.  For now, we’ll just settle with camaraderie.”

Finally, Ryoumou turned.  “What do you mean, Itsuki?”

Itsuki smiled at her.  “Today, the Molten Flan Babies fight beside you.  Today, we shall help you face your demons.”

A flash of anger swelled within her heart.  “It wasn’t supposed to be like that, Itsuki.  It wasn’t supposed to be for honor or glory or self-redemption!  I’m here to fight until I die!”

Itsuki shook his head in disappointment, saying simply  “If you die, I die beside you… and I don’t plan on dying today.  You should think about someone other than yourself.”  He then turned and walked away, leaving Ryoumou to her preparations.

—————————————————————————————————————–

Ryoumou stood on the floor of the coliseum as the other combatants gathered in the cold wintery air.  Around her, the other aspirants buzzed with excitement, each boasting of their exploits in the arena in previous matches.  Ryoumou largely ignored them as she always did, but some part of her was scanning the faces of her compatriots looking for the familiar faces of those she had once relied upon.

“How dare you, Ryoumou?!  How dare you?!”

Ryoumou turned, startled, and was met with the strike of a palm across her face.  She stood, stunned, as a familiar tear-soaked blood-elf face met her eyes.

“Lynca, I…”

“I didn’t want to believe Itsuki when he told us you were hiding out up here.  We were so worried about you, Ryoumou!  How could you do this to us?!”

“I betrayed you all.  How can you worry about somebody like me?”

“Because you’re our friend, damn you.  Pull your head out of the sand and stop thinking about yourself!  Get out of this cloud and see reason!”

Ryoumou turned away from Lynca;  “This is reason.  I am not fit to walk among you.  More than one war has been started on my account.  I won’t see more people I care about die because of me.”

“Ryoumou… if we win this day, I’m going to smack some sense back into your head,” Lynca fumed.

She was interrupted by the booming voice of Tirion Fordring, leader of the Argent Crusade, as he introduced the combatants one by one; Ryoumou started at the mention of not only Itsuki and Lynca, but also Moochan, from the Molten Flan Babies.  She turned back to Lynca and whispered “You drug poor Moo along as well?!”

“When she heard we’d found you, she refused to stay behind.  Maybe you should take note,” Lynca hissed back, as Tirion’s booming voice announced the last of the hopefuls in the arena that day.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen of the Horde and the Alliance!  Introducing the crusaders’ first challenge:  The Beasts Of Northrend!”

Ryoumou raised her mace and charged into the fray as her mind wandered…

———————————————————————————————————————

“Beasts!  Betrayers!  They are not fit to count themselves among the Horde!”

Within the walls of Warsong Hold, Garrosh Hellscream spouted his venom against the forces of the Forsaken as Saurfang the Elder stood silent, clutching his son’s armor with tears in his eyes.

“Varok, you have lost a son this day!  The Forsaken and the Scourge alike must pay their dues for this!  Surely you must agree with me!”

Saurfang the Elder merely bowed his head.  “I have lost a son.  The Horde has lost many heroes.  The Alliance has lost a steward.  I wonder which is the greater loss?”

“Pull yourself together, Varok!  Surely Thrall would not stand for this indecision!  The time has come to put aside hesitation and strike!”  Garrosh pounded the table with this final word, shaking the pieces of stone he and Saurfang had been using to represent the forces of the Horde.  “Would you insult your son’s honor by standing aside like a child?”

Saurfang raised his head, a glow in his eye that had not been there a moment before.  “Dranosh would not want to be remembered by a thoughtless, hasty, two-pronged strike that would seal the doom of the Horde, Garrosh.  Thrall trusts my judgement, and even this mighty blow isn’t enough to shake my resolve… and do not forget who is in charge here, child of Hellscream.”

Saurfang turned to Ryoumou and Itsuki.  “I am sorry that you must see such bickering within the horde, friends… and the time has now come to have you report to Thrall with all that has happened here today.  The zeppelin leaves for Orgrimmar soon, and you must be on-board.  Thrall must know all… including the death of Dranosh… if he is to make a decision that will best benefit the Horde.  Now, please go… and I thank you for the small kindness of bringing my son’s armor to me.  At the least, something of his can be given a proper burial.”

As Itsuki and Ryoumou walked past Garrosh Hellscream, he let out a low hiss of disapproval, and Ryoumou knew in the back of her mind that Garrosh and Varok would be fighting within moments of their departure.

—————————————————————————————————–

At the end of the melee, three great beasts lay dead.  Of the multitude of combatants, only a few had fallen; not nearly enough of a dent in their forces to complicate the challenges ahead… and yet, Ryoumou found herself frantically scanning the faces of the deceased hoping that she would not catch a glimpse of a familiar face among them.

“What does it matter to you?”

“You turned your back on them long ago.”

“No regrets.  No connections.  Only fear… and, soon, release.”

Ryoumou put a hand to her forehead; the voices from her dreams had begun to speak to her in her waking hours!  She could feel a pressure in her mind, as though somebody were attempting to force open a barricaded door… it was as if she had been fighting madness for months and, finally, her mind had begun to unhinge.

“We’re not dead, Ryoumou.  We’re standing behind you.”

Ryoumou turned, a slight smile on her face at the sound of Itsuki’s voice; behind her, battered but none the worse-for-wear, stood Itsuki, Moochan and Lynca.

“I’m glad.  I want to see you guys survive this…”

“That’s the first logical thing you’ve said all day!” Lynca interjected.

“…and leave this place.  I won’t see you die for my selfishness.”  Ryoumou finished her sentence as though Lynca had never interrupted.

Moochan glowered at Ryoumou as she spoke, and when she spoke her words were quiet but forceful.

“When this is over today, and we all stand victorious, I am going to drag you home by the tip of my staff in front of the entire Horde if I have to.”

Itsuki grinned and spread his arms wide, putting his hands on Lynca and Moochan’s shoulders.  “There’s no stopping them, Ryoumou.  I could just let them have their way and have you come back to us with a few new bruises, or you can stop this foolishness and come back to us willingly.”

Ryoumou shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but the voice of Tirion Fordring drowned out her words.

“And now, heroes, the Grand Warlock will summon forth your next challenge!”

At his words, a diminutive gnome strolled proudly to the center of the arena.  “Thank you, Highlord! Now, challengers, I will begin the ritual of summoning! When I am done, a fearsome Doomguard will appear! Prepare for oblivion!”  With this, a great portal opened in the coliseum and through it stepped a demon far larger than a Doomguard.  Behind her, she could hear the surprised gasps of the audience as they fled their front-row seats and ran towards the top of the arena.

“That’s no Doomguard, that’s a lord of the Eredar!”

“What is this madness?!  They would see us all dead or damned!”

Unfazed, the gnome laughed in the face of the monstrosity.  “Ah ha! Behold the absolute power of Wilfred Fizzlebang, master summoner! You are bound to ME, demon!”

The demon looked down at the summoner, an impassive look in his burning eyes.  “Trifling gnome, your arrogance will be your undoing!”  With that, the Eredar waved his hand and the Grand Warlock fell dead, his final protest perishing on his lips, as the great demon then turned toward his challengers.

“You face Jaraxxus, Eredar lord of the Burning Legion!” he bellowed as he charged the would-be crusaders.

“Quickly, heroes!” shouted Fordring.  “Destroy the demon lord before it can open a portal to its twisted demonic realm!”

“Great.  More demon troubles,” Itsuki muttered.  “Come, Ryoumou.  These should be your specialty.”

Ryoumou smiled wide for the first time in months as she took up arms with her friends and charged into the fray.

————————————————————————————————————-

“Ryoumou, the portal!  Seal it now!”  Itsuki shouted as the demon hordes began to pour out into the royal chambers of Undercity.

Thrall and Sylvanas stood back to back, fighting off traitorous Forsaken and demonic spawn alike.  “Quickly, child!” shouted Thrall.  “We can’t hold them back much longer!”

Above them, on the pedestal where Sylvanas typically stood, the demon Varimathras grinned down at them.  “Yes.  Struggle.  Struggle and die, heroes.  Struggle and die as your friends did at the Wrathgate!”

“How could you do this, Varimathras?!” shouted Sylvanas.  “You were entralled to me, demon.  How did you manage to betray the Forsaken?”

Varimathras laughed then, shaking his head.  “My masters have long had their thrall over me, banshee witch.  Your words held no sway… although you were meant to think they did until the time had presented itself to make our intentions known.  Putress proved a valuable asset in that regard, working to betray your new friends right under your very nose!”

“Sylvanas!” Ryoumou shouted.  “The portal is closed!  Varimathras’ support is cut off!  Let’s end this!”

Varimathras snarled.  “It’s not going to be that easy.  The master’s plans will not be broken!  Life on Azeroth will end, and the Scourge will be brought to heel as they should be!”

Varimathras leaped off the pedestal into the fray, and was quickly slain, a plea to his master the last words from his lips.  “That takes care of half this little insurrection,” Sylvanas snarled.  “Now, we find Putress and put him down.”

As the four of them dashed out of the throne room, they could hear footsteps advancing down the corridor.  “It appears Putress may have found us first!  To arms, heroes of the Horde!”  Thrall shouted as they stood their ground against the unseen forces rounding the corner…

———————————————————————————————-

The champions stood, gasping.  Jaraxxus had been felled, but the battle had cost them several more lives.  Around them, the spectators still stood in disbelief as tensions grew between the Horde and Alliance onlookers.

“What is the meaning of this?  Are the Alliance trying to sabotage the tournament and bring down the Horde’s greatest champions?”

“It was an accident, you idiots!  The Alliance would never stoop so low!”

“Treacherous Alliance dogs!”  shouted Garrosh Hellscream.  “You summon a demon lord against warriors of the Horde!? Your deaths will be swift!”

The Alliance king, Varian Wrynn, responded in kind from his place across the arena.  “The Alliance doesn’t need the help of a demon lord to deal with Horde filth. Come, pig!”  With that, brawls broke out amongst the spectators as Horde and Alliance launched themselves at each other in the stands.

“Everyone, calm down!”  shouted Fordring.  “Compose yourselves! There is no conspiracy at play here. The warlock acted on his own volition – outside of influences from the Alliance. The tournament must go on!”

“Easily said, Paladin!”  Wrynn responded.  “Our honor has been besmirched! They make wild claims and false accusations against us. I demand justice! Allow my champions to fight, Tirion. We challenge the Horde!”

Fordring shook his head in resignation.  “Very well, I will allow it. Fight with honor!”

The gates opened, the Alliance champions entered the arena, and Ryoumou glowered.  The best that the Alliance had to offer stood before her.  Perhaps this was fate, after all…

———————————————————————————————

Tension was thick in the bowels of Undercity as the Horde and Alliance invasion teams stood face to face in the corridor of the royal chambers.  At the head of the Alliance troop, Varian Wrynn brandished his blade at Thrall and the other heroes of the Horde.

“I was away for too long,” Wrynn mused.  My absence cost us the lives of some of our greatest heroes. Trash like you and this evil witch were allowed to roam free — unchecked.  The time has come to make things right. To disband your treacherous kingdom of murderers and thieves. Putress was the first strike. Many more will come.”

“You have taken down Putress?!  Then the threat has passed,” pleaded Itsuki.  “Varimathras and Putress planned this from the very beginning.”

“Silence, Shaman!  I’ll hear none of your lies!” shouted Wrynn.  “I’ve waited a long time for this, Thrall. For every time I was thrown into one of your damned arenas… for every time I killed a green-skinned aberration like you… I could only think of one thing:  What our world could be without you and your twisted Horde… It ends now, Warchief!”

With that, Wrynn and his forces charged.  “Attack!  For Stormwind!  For Bolvar!  For the Alliance!”

As the armies were mere feet away from each other, a voice echoed through the corridor:  “Varian, no!  Stop!”  A chill wind blew through the chamber, and Horde and Alliance alike found their feet frozen in place.  From the rear of the Alliance forces, a woman Ryoumou recognized as Jaina Proudmoore strode between the gathered foes.

Jaina lowered her head in sadness and waved her hand; as she did, the Alliance forces began to fade from view.  Just before they disappeared, Jaina muttered “It did not have to be like this.”

Thrall spoke sadly as his feet regained their mobility.  “It ends like it began… All that we have fought for in this world is lost. The hopes and dreams carried by my father and mother… by Doomhammer… Gone... If only you were here right now, Grom, my old friend. You would know what to do”

“I know what he would do,” came a voice from up the corridor; Varok Saurfang marched around the corner with several squads of Horde raiders in tow.  “He would say to you what I am about to say to you: Thrall. Lead your people.  Let’s go home, old friend.”

Thrall nodded.  “It’s good to have you back, Varok, old friend. I’m sorry about your son.”

With that, they departed, as Sylvanas remained behind to rebuild her fallen and broken city.

———————————————————————————————————–

“Ryoumou, stop!”

The figure lying on the ground in front of her was bruised and broken; one arm was presented in front of his face in a gesture of pleading submission.  Above her head, Ryoumou’s mace waited to fall, thirsty for the blood that was sure to be spilled in its wake; the only thing holding it back was Moochan’s hand tightly wrapped around Ryoumou’s wrist.

“What’s gotten into you, Ryoumou?  Let it go.  It’s not worth this.”

“They would see us all dead, Moochan.  Better him than me.  It’s not my time yet.”

Moochan yanked Ryoumou’s arm back, tossing her to the ground.  “This isn’t you.  What’s done this to you, made you like this?  Why are you so eager to kill and die?”

Hours before, Ryoumou would have had an answer to this question.  Now, all she could do was pick herself up in stunned silence.

“Moochan… I don’t know.  It’s like there’s more than one of me in my head… and I don’t know who’s real anymore.”

“We’re here.  We’re real.  Trust in us until you’ve got this mess in your head straightened out.”

Inside her, the voices were at war.

“Cast them away.  All you will do is see them hurt.  All you will do is see them dead.”

“Your friends are concerned about you!  Don’t abandon them!  Work together with them and you might see this through to the end!”

Ryoumou put her hands to her ears and fell to her knees as the dueling voices rose to a deafening roar.  She didn’t know how much more of this she could take; something had to give somewhere.

“Ryoumou…  What’s wrong?”

“Did she take a blow to the head?  Is she finally coming to her senses?”

“This is madness.  Help me get her up, Moochan.  She can’t take any more of this.  We need to get her out of the arena, quickly!”

As Itsuki and Moochan helped her to her feet, Ryoumou waved them off.  “I’m fine,” she gasped.  “Only one more battle left today.  I can do this… if you’ll help me.”

Lynca smiled at her.  “It’s about damned time, you stubborn oaf.  What do you think we came here for?”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Ryoumou interjected.  “We can win this if we fight together… but I can’t go back with you.  Not yet.”

Above them, Tirion Fordring shook his head sadly.  “A shallow and tragic victory. We are weaker as a whole from the losses suffered today. Who but the Lich King could benefit from such foolishness? Great warriors have lost their lives. And for what? The true threat looms ahead – the Lich King awaits us all in death.  Now is the time for solidarity!  Only by working together will you overcome the final challenge. From the depths of Icecrown come two of the Scourge’s most powerful lieutenants: fearsome Val’kyr, winged harbingers of the Lich King!”

The gates of the arena opened, and two ethereal angelic figures glided into the coliseum.  As they charged, they screamed in unison:  “In the name of our dark master. For the Lich King. You. Will. Die.”

Ryoumou smiled once more and turned to the few remaining Horde champions.  “Come, friends!  Let us put aside our differences meet this challenge head-on!  For the Horde!”  The responding battle cry rang out through the whole of the coliseum as Ryoumou led the champions into battle.

—————————————————————————————————-

“What are you doing?  You cannot put your trust in these warriors.  It will only end in sorrow.  End in death.”

“I’m doing what I should have done months ago.  I’m putting the Wrathgate and the Undercity behind me.”

“This folly will only result in pain.  You should just give up.”

“I can’t give up.  My friends followed me to the ends of the world because they give a damn.  They’ve stopped me from doing horrible things in the name of my own selfish grief.”

“Killing your foes is not horrible.”

“Killing somebody who has surrendered is murder.”

“You shouldn’t have a problem with murder anymore.  The Wrathgate should have gotten you quite accustomed to it.”

“The Wrathgate was not my fault.  The Forsaken’s betrayal was not my fault.  Reliving my memories of those days  has proven this to me.  I was merely an unwitting pawn, and instead of fixing the problem and mending the fences I’ve been hiding in my own guilt.”

“Hiding is acceptable.  Dying is acceptable.  Why do you not just end it?”

“Who are you?  You are no part of me.  Your influence over me ends now!”

“You cannot cast me out so easily.  You will obey.  When I call, you will come, and you shall be mine forever!”

“We’ll just see about that.”

And, with that, the overwhelming presence in her mind lifted as the twin Val’kyr fell to the ground, motionless.  Whomever or whatever had been influencing her thoughts and actions was, for the moment, silent and still.  She had done it.  Ryoumou was free.

———————————————————————————————————

Victorious, the collective Horde champions raised their fists in triumph as the cheers from the crowd around them rose to a tumult.  Garrosh Hellscream raised his blade triumphantly and shouted “Do you still question the might of the Horde, paladin? We will take on all comers!”

Tirion responded in kind:  “A mighty blow has been dealt to the Lich King! You have proven yourselves able bodied champions of the Argent Crusade. Together we will strike at Icecrown Citadel and destroy what remains of the Scourge! There is no challenge that we cannot face united!”

“Did you hear that, Ryoumou?!”  Moochan shouted excitedly.

“You’ll have your chance at Arthas yet, old friend,” Itsuki said, patting Ryoumou on the back.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve finally come to your senses, Ryoumou,” Lynca said.  “You don’t know how glad I am to have you back.”

Ryoumou smiled.  She felt renewed and refreshed.  The nightmare was over, and so were the battles of the day.

“Let’s go back to camp,” she said to her friends.  “Tomorrow, we can meet with Tirion and begin a plan to assault Icecrown Citadel.  We shall bring Arthas….”

Ryoumou was interrupted by a booming voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  “You will have your challenge, Fordring.”

A great gout of flame sprung up in the coliseum, and out of it stepped a form that had haunted her nightmares for years upon years.  Ryoumou glowered.  “Arthas.”

Tirion leveled his blade at the Lich King from atop his podium.  “Arthas! You are hopelessly outnumbered! Lay down Frostmourne and I will grant you a just death.”

Arthas merely laughed in response.  “The Nerubians built an empire beneath the frozen wastes of Northrend. An empire that you so foolishly built your structures upon.  My empire! The souls of your fallen champions will be mine, Fordring!”  With that, Arthas plunged his blade into the ground, and the floor of the coliseum shattered.  The collective Horde combatants screamed as they plunged into an unknown depth and the form of Arthas Menethil, the Lich King, faded into the cold air, a maniacal laughter still audible over the sound of shattering earth.

A moment later, Ryoumou felt water surrounding her; the combatants had landed in a great pool amidst the broken ruins of a great temple, surrounded by the walls of a crystalline cavern.  It was at once terrifying and beautiful, and for a moment Ryoumou’s mind flashed to a similar crystalline cavern, lined with chains, that she did not recognize… but the sensation quickly passed as a voice broke the awe-inspired silence.

“Ahhh… Our guests arrived, just as the master promised.  Welcome, you who shall be champions of Arthas!  This place will serve as your tomb!”

Before them stood a great insectoid beast, its chitinous shell rotting and flaking to reveal the fetid meat beneath. This could only be a Nerubian, ravaged in undeath and experimented upon by Arthas to become something much more sinister.  With a crackling hiss, it lunged at the champions with venom in its eyes, and the combatants found themselves fighting for their lives as the Nerubian’s minions clawed their way out of the ground and advanced upon them as well.

Ryoumou’s mace swung again and again as she beat back the hordes of creatures erupting from the frozen earth; crack after chitinous crack of stone and steel against insectoid carapace rang through the chamber as the champions slowly began to gain the upper hand against the Nerubian swarm.

“Ryoumou!  Ryoumou, watch out!”

With a hiss, the great beast had dug its way under the ground and out of sight.  She could see the earth shifting in a beeline straight for her.  In a panic she attempted to dive off to the side, but it was too late; the creature’s spines erupted from the ground and plunged into and through her body.  As they retracted, and her lifeless form slumped to the ground in defeat, her final memory was of her friends shrieking in terror and grief as they rushed to her side.

Then, blackness.  Nothing.  Obscurity at last.  This was what that part of her that was not her had waited for all this time.  So, now, why did it feel so wrong?  Why did she feel incomplete?

“It’s not your time yet, young elf.”

“You have much yet to do in this lifetime.”

“You are being called.  Go home.  Your friends await you.”

In the blackness, she could hear voices… but these were not like the voices she had heard within her head.  These were calm, kind voices whose tone sounded at once ancient and young, meek and powerful.  A faint light penetrated the blackness, and as she focused on it she realized that it was the crystalline structures within the cavern she had fallen into.  The battle was over, and Ryoumou lay on the frozen floor with Moochan and Lynca standing at her head and feet and Itsuki kneeling over her with a look of relief on his face.  The look of surprise on Ryoumou’s face must have communicated her thoughts perfectly.

“What, you think you’re the only one who can learn new tricks?” Itsuki said with a slight grin.  “I did not spend the last few months idle, like another I could name.  I have learned much in the way of communion with my ancestral spirits from my brethren among the Taunka, and the spirits have shown me how to coax other spirits to their homes.”  Itsuki paused, then added:  “Even the dead ones, like yours.”

Ryoumou looked up at her friends with an exhausted, wan smile on her face.  “I shall never doubt you again, my friends.  Let us leave this place, and let us return home.”

Itsuki helped Ryoumou to her feet.  “We have been put up in Dalaran by the members of the Kirin Tor, who have been kind enough to provide us shelter while we amass ourselves and gather forces for the battle against Arthas.  Let us begin there.  Tirion and his sorcerers have managed to set us up with a portal of return.”

With her friends supporting her still-weakened frame, Ryoumou stepped through the portal and onto the crowded streets of the floating city of Dalaran.  It took Ryoumou and her friends a moment to realize that the activity was that of panic; of chaos.  Moochan stopped a frantic pedestrian as they attempted to dash by and asked  “What has happened here?”

The passerby, with fear and panic evident on his face, shouted “Ulduar!  Up in the Storm Peaks!  The Alliance Expeditionary force discovered something terrible… word is that they have uncovered the prison of Yogg Saron himself!  They’ve said that Yogg Saron is free!”

Lynca’s eyes widened with fear.  “Yogg Saron…  the God of Madness and Death.  If he is indeed free, he will wreak a terrible havoc on this entire world in his hunger to consume it.”

Ryoumou, however, had experienced a different reaction:  At the mention of the Old God’s name, her mind returned to a crystalline chamber, lined with shattered chains.  In the center of a chamber stood a woman she did not recognize, her hands over her ears and her voice a wordless shriek of fear, anger, frustration and madness.  From within her scream, Ryoumou could discern a second voice; dark, sinister and alluring all at once.  A voice that was immediately familiar to her, as she had been listening to the voice for months on end..

“Come, Ryoumou.  Leave your friends behind and return home.  Return your mind to me.  Give in to the fear I was so kind to gift to you…”

“Return to Yogg Saron, Ryoumou.  Come home to Ulduar.”

Ryoumou shook her head.  “Yogg Saron,” she whispered.

Itsuki leaned in toward her.  “What?”

Ryoumou repeated.  “Yogg Saron… must die… if I am to be free of this chaos in my mind.  I cannot face Arthas with my mind in conflict.”

Lynca smiled.  “I think it’s all come together now.  Let’s go put down a God.”

A wicked mind is a weapon of mass destruction…

Ryoumou stared at the terrible scene before her, the tears welling in her eyes as she shook her head wordlessly. Below her, at the foot of the sheer cliff, were bodies so numerous she could not even begin to count them. The air was thick with a miasma she could not name and had never smelled before, but instinct told her that this was the stench of death. When she finally found the words to speak, her voice came as a whisper.

“Itsuki… What have I done?!”

————————————————————————————————————

Ryoumou awoke with a start, her scream carrying sharply in the cold, dry air.  Around her and above her, she could hear the whirring of the alchemical machinery that had become so familiar to her in the week since she had arrived in Venomspite, and could smell the odor of the “Blight” that she had been assisting the apothecaries in perfecting and had pervaded her dreams so heavily.  She was as safe as she could be in Northrend, and the only dead nearby were the living dead of the Forsaken that toiled tirelessly in their processing and testing of the Blight.  The dream had been just that:  A dream, and nothing more.  Still, the doubt she had felt after leaving Vengeance Landing still lingered in her heart.

The Blight was working well; it had been shown to have almost instantly destructive effects on captured Scourge upon direct contact when concentrated into a thick gaseous form, but a side effect had shown itself in more and more deadly reactions on living hosts.  Still, there was very little time left; they had been making huge advances as Putress had promised, and were in the process of mass-producing the Blight in time to assist the other Horde forces in a pending assault on Icecrown, where Arthas himself held rule in his massive citadel.  Ryoumou stood up, shaking off the last of the dream.  There was no time to lose; she would soon have vengeance on Arthas for the destruction of Silvermoon, and if the Forsaken were able to exact their own brand of vengeance on Arthas in the process, who was she to deny them that right?

The Forsaken…  Ryoumou had first met them not long after leaving Silvermoon.  In her travels, she had come across a small village of undead that she had at first believed to be Scourge.  However, there had seemed to be organization and independence to their movements that she hadn’t characterized with those mindless undead, and instead of attacking her on sight she was welcomed into their village, albeit with a rather cold reception.  These dour-tempered, rotting husks called themselves Forsaken, and professed to be the only undead to have broken free of Arthas’ unrelenting mental control, thanks to a benefactor they referred to as the “Dark Lady.”

Ryoumou was shocked to discover that the “Dark Lady” worshipped by these Forsaken was none other than Sylvanas Windrunner, her former commanding officer, believed deceased during the Scourge’s siege of Silvermoon six years earlier!  The tale told by her newfound followers was a tale of sorrow: they told of the fall of Sylvanas at the hands of the Scourge, the resurrection and subsequent cruel torturous experimentation at Arthas’ hands, and finally of Sylvanas’ forceful liberation from Arthas’ control.  Since then, Sylvanas had managed to free other members of Arthas’ Scourge, and she and her followers had taken over Arthas’ former home city of Lordaeron, building beneath it a massive city of the dead that, Ryoumou had learned, was now called Undercity.  Soon after, the Forsaken had joined forces with Thrall and the Horde, forming a tenuous and mutually untrusting pact with the living in an attempt to take their revenge upon the dead.

Since then, Ryoumou had crossed paths with many of the Forsaken, and had even fought alongside some of the most honorable of them during her time with the Molten Flan Babies.  They shared a common enemy in Arthas, and with this she could easily sympathize.

She set a newly-crafted focusing lens into place and put her jewelcrafter’s kit aside.  There was much to be done before the siege began, but she couldn’t allow her weapon skills to become rusty.  She set out into the frigid morning light with her mace at the ready, prepared to take out her frustrations on some of the local Scourge.  As she emerged from the laboratory, there was a great roaring sound from overhead that broke her from her reverie… a sound that reminded her of a frost giant savagely ripping a canvas sheet, and shook her to her very core.  Around her, several of the Forsaken looked up and saw the dragon.  A great, skeletal dragon, blue flame streaming from the gaps in its bones, speeding resolutely to the east.  Behind it followed several more, each seemingly larger than the one before it.

“They’re heading for Angrathar!” shouted one of the apothecaries, and Ryoumou’s heart rose sickeningly in her chest… Angrathar the Wrathgate was where members of both the Horde and the Alliance were preparing to break through into Icecrown!  Her allies, and possibly her friends, were in terrible danger!  Wasting no time, Ryoumou grabbed the reins of the nearest horse and sped off toward the glacier that made up the bulk of Dragonblight; she had to make it to Angrathar before the dragons did!

—————————————————————————————————

Ryoumou arrived at Angrathar to find that the besiegers were themselves besieged.  Countless zombies and ghouls flooded up the cliffs that made up the valley of approach to the Wrathgate, only to be quickly cut down by the blades of the Horde and Alliance on either side of the valley.  Overhead, the skeletal Frost Wyrms rained blue death upon the living, obliterating anyone foolish enough to set foot into the valley.  She sped up the side of the valley to the Kor’Kron encampment, where the Horde forces had a tenuous hold on at least part of Angrathar Valley.

“Ah, a runner!” called a gruff voice.  “I’ve seen you ride, now, lady Blood Elf, and I have need of your speed.”  An orc of noble stature approached her… an orc that looked somehow familiar.  She’d seen him in Thrall’s chamber several times, and recognized him as one of Thrall’s most trusted advisors, but…

“Lord Saurfang?  I’d heard tell that you were aiding Hellscream in the Borean Tundra.  Why are you here at Angrathar?”

Saurfang laughed heartily.  “I see my father’s reputation preceeds me, and I will take that mistake as a compliment, comrade.  My father is indeed at Warsong Hold, raining his strategies on the deaf, brash ears of Grom Hellscream.  But, enough introductions.  I need you to ride like the wind, friend!  Ride to Wyrmrest Temple and give word to Alextrasza, Queen of the Red Dragonflight, that we need her aid in order to quell these damnable Frost Wyrms!”

Ryoumou cocked her head at Saurfang the Younger.  “What makes you think that the Queen of the Red will assist us here?  The battle with the Scourge is not her fight.”

“Her flight are the guardians of life,” replied Saurfang.  “I have heard much of the Molten Flan Babies, Ryoumou, and I believe that you could easily persuade Alextrasza to help us.”  Ryoumou started in surprise.  “Oh, yes.  Your reputation preceeds you as well.  Thrall has told us to expect great things of your guild, and that’s just what I’m going to do.  Now, I place my trust in you!  Ride, and return with as much aid as Alextrasza is willing to give!”  With that, Saurfang turned and ran back to the cliffside, tossing explosive charges over the ledge upon the heads of the Scourge below.

Ryoumou turned her horse and rode as fast as she could muster, heading toward the tower in the center of the glacier.  She hoped that Saurfang’s trust in her was not misplaced.

———————————————————————————————-

“I believe that your cause is just, and that your need is great, Ryoumou formerly of Silvermoon.”  Ryoumou knelt before a regal woman who had the appearance of a firey-haired Quel’Dorei; her majestic presence belied her more humble appearance, as this woman’s true form was something far greater.  “I shall lend you what little aid I can; however, many of my children are engaged in battle with members of the Blue Dragonflight, and I cannot spare many.”

Ryoumou rose from her knee and, although her cautious heart begged her not to question the great Queen of the Red Dragonflight, her curious lips spoke the question unbidden:  “Why are the Red Flight and the Blue Flight battling each other?  Malygos is your brother!”  She regretted the question as soon as she had spoken; Ryoumou could feel the eyes of the draconic emmisaries around her, all of whom had also taken the illusion of mortal form.  Some eyed her with admiration for daring to ask such a question, others looked at her with loathing and contempt, and some others still with curiosity; Alextrasza merely smiled at her and responded gently.

“Return to me when the situation at Angrathar is less dire, honored friend, and I will answer this question and more.  In the meantime, return to your forces and tell them that they need not fear the skies; the forces of the Wyrmrest Accord shall quell this aerial siege.”

As Ryoumou left the temple, she could see a great mass on the horizon; many riders were headed at great speed towards the Wrathgate, but at this distance she could not tell if they were friend or foe.  Ryoumou leaped astride her stolen steed and made haste back to the Kor’Kron Encampment, reporting back to Saurfang immediately.

“Your speed is unparallelled, lady Ryoumou… and the terror in the skies no longer plagues us.  I was right to place my trust in you!”

“There is no time; we must prepare for the possibility of an attack from behind!  On my way back from Wyrmrest, I saw many riders moving fast toward our location!”

Saurfang laughed.  “I was expecting backup, but not this soon.”

Before Ryoumou could ask what he meant, she spied the familiar banner of the Horde at the front of the column of riders that sped toward them… and beside it, she spied the familiar banner of the Molten Flan Babies!  Itsuki sat astride a Kodo at the lead of a giant army of what appeared to be Tauren!  Was this the backup Saurfang had been expecting?

“Greetings, Itsuki!  What news from Agmar’s Hammer?”  Saurfang greeted the leader of the Molten Flan Babies like an old friend, leaving Ryoumou slightly confused.

“I have aided the Taunka in re-taking their village of Icemist from the Scourge.  In turn, they have pledged their alliegance to the Horde, and they will aid us in our struggles against the Scourge of Icecrown!”  Itsuki waved his arm behind him.  “Their manipulation and mastery of the elements is far greater than my own, and we Shaman of the Horde have much to learn from them in the manner of bending elements to our will; I believe that they will make indespensible allies today and in the future of the Horde!’

Saurfang was practically beaming.  “A glorious day in the history of the Horde!  The Tauren reconnected with their ancestral brothers, a new weapon for the Horde made by the hands of those who have broken free of Arthas’ grip, an accord with the Red Dragonflight itself… Fortune stands at our side, my friends!  Now, let us join with our bretheren within the Alliance, and together we will tear down the walls of Icecrown and knock Arthas from his frozen throne!”  With this, he threw up his fists, eliciting a round of cheers from the troops nearby.

“Itsuki and Ryoumou, you two will take charge of the second wave of troops.  Remain here, and wait until we have breached the Wrathgate.  Once we are through, you will lead the second wave through and we will rain a second death upon these abominations!”  With that, he turned and began to rally the troops, and Ryoumou watched as a charismatic Human led the Alliance charge into the valley, and began to lay waste to the Scourge as they screamed taunts at their undead foes.

“Lord Bolvar, Steward of Stormwind,” Itsuki explained.  “He has watched over the Alliance capital in King Varian Wrynn’s absence.”

Itsuki’s explanation was cut short by a gutteral cry from behind the Wrathgate; the teeth of its great maw opened wide, and a handful of barbaric giants poured forth, uttering battle cries in a language Ryoumou had never heard.  These beastly men pounded into the Alliance vanguard, easily forming a wedge in their offensive line.  Behind her, she could hear Saurfang rallying the troops of the Horde as they began to mount up and prepare for battle.

“Rise up, Sons of the Horde!  Blood and glory await us!”  There were hundreds of wordless cheers as Saurfang sounded his great horn, and the Horde forces charged into battle!

“Lok’thar odan!  For the Horde!” Saurfang bellowed, and behind him the Horde forces echoed the battle call as they launched into battle alongside the Alliance.

“I was wondering if you’d show up!”  yelled Bolvar.

“I couldn’t let the Alliance have all the fun today!” replied Saurfang as he let forth a hefty cleave from his blade, felling three of the barbarians instantly.

With the combined might of the Horde and Alliance pressed against them, the forces of the Scourge were quickly subdued, and the valley grew quiet.  Bolvar approached the Wrathgate, sword at the ready.

“Arthas!  The blood of your father, of your people, demands justice!  Come forth, coward, and answer for your crimes!”

There was a moment of silence, then the maw of Angrathar slid open once again, and Ryoumou’s blood began to boil; she drew her mace and prepared to leap from the tall cliffs to face this foe that had haunted the worst of her nightmares for more than six years.

“Ryoumou!  Stop this madness!  What has possessed you?!”  Itsuki grabbed Ryoumou by the arm, restraining her from jumping into the valley.

“That’s him!  That’s the bastard that razed Silvermoon!  My family, my friends, Sylvanas…” her words came out in a jumble as Itsuki attempted to keep her from moving.

“Maintain your composure, old friend.  We have our orders, and you’ll have your chance.”

Arthas, the Lich King,  stepped from the threshold of the Wrathgate as it slid shut behind him, the blue fire in his eyes narrowing as he took in his opponents.

“You speak of justice?  Of cowardice?  I will show you the justice of the grave, and the true meaning of fear!”  With these words, countless Scourge sprung up from the ground around him, many of them foes that had only moments before fallen at the hands of the living.

“Enough talk,” bellowed Saurfang.  “Let it be finished!”  With that, he charged Arthas, prepared to let forth a felling blow… but Arthas met Saurfang the Younger’s attack with a single stroke of his own, shattering his weapon and sending him deceased to the ground.  With a wave of his weapon, the dread runeblade Frostmourne, Arthas absorbed the soul of Saurfang as Bolvar tightened his grip on his sword.

“You will pay… for all the lives you have stolen… Traitor!”

“Boldly stated,” taunted Arthas.  “But, there is nothing you can…”  His words were cut short by a great explosion within the ranks of the collected Horde and Alliance, and a familiar odor wafted up the valley… Ryoumou recognized it instantly, and her stomach churned.

“No… Oh, Gods… No…”

Arthas turned his head and saw the great, dense cloud rising from the site of the explosion.  “What?!”

Then, Ryoumou heard a cackling from somewhere high above.  All heads, both in Kor’Kron and in the valley, turned to look at its source, and Ryoumou recognized the voice as one of the apothecaries she had been working with in Venomspite!

“Did you think we had forgotten?  Did you think we had forgiven?  Behold, now, the terrible vengeance of the Forsaken!”  Arthas’ eyes narrowed again, this time in understanding.  “Sylvanas!”

With this, a battery of catapults rolled to the edge of the high cliff above.  “Death to the Scourge, and death to the living!” the apothecary cried, and the catapults began to fling barrel after barrel of the Blight into the valley.  The forces of the Horde and Alliance began to retreat in fear as those not lucky enough to escape the gas convulsed and died terribly.  Bolvar, caught in the expanding gas clouds, collapsed as Arthas retreated to the Wrathgate, visibly injured.

“This… Isn’t… Over…” he gasped, as Angrathar closed behind him.

Ryoumou heard the laughter of the apothecary again.  “Now,” he proclaimed as his catapults continued to fling the Blight into the valley,” All can see that this is the hour of the Forsaken!”  With this, he retreated from the cliffs above and disappeared.  Overhead, she heard the flapping of great wings, and turned to see several members of the Red Dragonflight raining fire upon the Forsaken catapults.  They then turned their attention to the valley, burning the bodies of Horde, Alliance and Scourge alike as the gas dissipated under the great heat of the dragons’ flame.

Ryoumou stared at the terrible scene before her, the tears welling in her eyes as she shook her head wordlessly. Below her, at the foot of the sheer cliff, were bodies so numerous she could not even begin to count them. The air was thick with a miasma she could now name and had only smelled before in a dream; the stench of the Blight and of horror and of death. When she finally found the words to speak, her voice came as a whisper.

“Itsuki… What have I done?!”

This time, it was no dream.

They’ll claim it’s justified, they’ll say it’s divine judgement…

Ryoumou awoke with a start, wincing in pain as she shook the last vestiges of sleep from her mind.  As she groggily sat up, she found herself on a crude cot; the leather-wrapped walls of the small, cramped hut and the work-songs of the Orcish peons told her that she was still in Orgrimmar, but she had no memory of being taken to this makeshift infirmary.  Only the cuts, bruises and burns on her body suggested that anything had occurred at all once she had launched herself into battle; the rest of her memory from that point had faded into oblivion.

“Awake at last?” A comfortingly familiar gruff voice greeted her from somewhere just behind, but she lacked the strength to turn and look.  Even so, there was no need.

“How long have I been unconscious, Itsuki?”

“Almost one week, my overzealous little friend.”

Panic struck Ryoumou, and despite her body’s protestations she attempted to rise, only to find herself collapsing into an unceremonious heap on the dirt floor of the hut.  Itsuki helped Ryoumou to her feet and set her back on the stretcher as he admonished her:  “Your body is still too weak, Ryoumou.  Don’t worry.  The Scourge have been pushed back, both from Orgrimmar and from your body.  The city is safe, and little the worse for wear.  The same cannot be said for you.”

“What happened to me, Itsuki?  What do you mean ‘pushed back from my body?’”

“I can only gather bits and pieces from those that have been caring for you, but when you disappeared from Shattrath, Adal informed us of what had transpired.  He sent several of us through the portal to assist in breaking the siege of Orgrimmar, and when we arrived we saw you locked in mortal combat with the forces of the Horde.”

Ryoumou’s eyes widened.  “Battling the Horde?!  Impossible!  Why would I do such a thing?”

Itsuki laid a hand on her shoulder.  “You were infected by the Scourge’s plague; a special blend of that unholy disease that twisted your mind and bent you to Arthas’ will as it slowly robbed your body of life.  It took both Moochan and myself holding you down to stop you from moving, and we had to render you unconscious to keep you from causing further damage to yourself or others.  It was the merest chance that priests from the Argent Dawn had come to aid in breaking the siege of Orgrimmar; they held a small portion of an experimental cure that saved you from death… and far worse.”

Ryoumou was stunned by this news.  “I was… infected with that filth…” She shuddered violently, regretting the motion immediately as her body was wracked with pain.

Itsuki knelt down and looked Ryoumou in the eyes.  “You’re sure you remember nothing of what happened while you were under Arthas’ control?  A glimpse of his plans, perhaps?  Any nugget of knowledge we could glean about his movements would help immensely.”

“I remember nothing after arriving in Orgrimmar and launching into battle.  Why the urgency?”

Itsuki shook his head gravely.  “Orgrimmar was only one city that was attacked that day; all of the major capital cities, both of Horde and of the Alliance, were besieged by the Scourge on that same day.  The Argent Dawn have been receiving reports from across all of Azeroth; Arthas’ forces are moving en masse from Northrend, and it is only a matter of time before we are all overrun with the mindless undead, just as we were during the Third War.”

Ryoumou was again stricken with panic; she remembered all too well the attack on Silvermoon and Quel’thalas.  “What is Thrall planning to do?”

Itsuki shook his head.  “What does Thrall usually plan to do?  He’s already got plans in place to take the fight to Arthas directly.  Zeppelins are already running circuits between here and Northrend; Garrosh Hellscream himself has set up a fortress in the Borean Tundra and leads the Orcish forces under the advisory of Saurfang the Elder.  At the same time, the Forsaken have a zeppelin set up outside Undercity heading to the Howling Fjord, on the opposite side of Northrend.”

The mention of Undercity gave Ryoumou pause:  “What are Lady Sylvanas’ plans?”

Itsuki raised his eyebrows at her question.  “Funny you should mention that; she requisitioned you specifically to report to Vengeance Landing in Northrend once you have recovered.  Her forces are working on a disease to combat Arthas’ scourge, but they are having problems acquiring the materials to mass-produce the plague.  She would like your expertise in assisting her apothecaries in this task.”

Ryoumou’s heart sank.  “I’m not to accompany the rest of the Molten Flan Babies?”

“The Flan Babies are all being diverted to tasks that fit their own personal strengths; we’ll not be performing as a strike force right now.  Our initial movements in Northrend will be strictly expeditionary; Arthas and his forces have changed much of the landscape up there, and there are rumors of… other foes… that may be demanding more immediate attention than even Arthas.”

“What could be more dangerous than Arthas?”

“I don’t know, but whatever’s happening in Northrend was significant enough for the mages of Dalaran to uproot their city; it now floats above Crystalsong Forest, in the center of the continent.  Whatever’s happening up there, it must be huge.”

“So, it sounds like we all have our orders, then.  What are yours?”

“Orders?  I have no orders.  Just heading to Northrend to visit some ‘old friends,’ that’s all.”  With this, Itsuki grinned; a slightly mischievous smile that belied the innocence of his claim.

Ryoumou smiled slightly.  “Fine, you keep your secrets then, you belligerent cow… it’ll all come out in the end anyway.”

Itsuki laughed softly, then his face turned dour.  “Beware, Ryoumou.  There are… whispers.  Treacherous whispers.  Thrall suspects that one of the Horde’s most trusted advisers may be planning an uprising.”

“Impossible!” whispered Ryoumou.  “Who does Thrall suspect of treachery?”

“He doesn’t know, but he suspects that somebody close to Sylvanas is subverting operations in Northrend; who knows, perhaps the Dark Lady herself is pulling the strings?”

Itsuki walked towards the tiny door of the hut, crouching as he prepared to leave.  “Rest up, my friend.  Thrall wants us all to leave within the week… and you’re going to need to be in your best health if you’re to help the Forsaken.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Leave it to the Goblins to design a Zeppelin that looks like a giant frenzyfish,” Ryoumou muttered to herself as she boarded the giant toothed dirigible.  It had been only three days since Itsuki had given her the order to depart for Vengeance Landing, and in that time Ryoumou had taken the opportunity to experiment with a few new healing techniques.  The results had been outstanding; her bones had mended almost instantly, and within a day’s time the pain was completely gone.  This newfound power she’d learned to tap into was amazing, and she was anxious for the opportunity to use it to assist others.

“Or, to purify some Scourge,” she mused.

She felt Northrend before she saw it; a wall of cold that suddenly engulfed her as the Zeppelin soared over the glassy oceans of the Frozen North.  Several minutes later, she spied the top of Vengeance Landing’s crude zeppelin tower, and several seconds later she could see the rest of the ramshackle Forsaken outpost and, surprisingly, a great deal of house-sized alchemical arrays that stymied even her own attempts at explanation.  She stepped off of the Zeppelin and, after a few pointed questions about who was in charge, was directed to the humorless High Executor Anselm.  Anselm briefly (and curtly) ordered her to work on the dazzling alchemical arrays she had been so enamored with while on the Zeppelin, before turning to monitor the giant lift that scaled the cliff face almost a mile away.

Ryoumou spent the next few weeks honing her jewelcrafting skills by cutting focusing lenses for the Forsaken arrays.  She slaughtered Scourge, collecting their essences for the Forsaken alchemists to use in their experiments with the plague.  She even flew over Alliance vessels, marking them with flares and reporting to the apothecaries with the (often comically gastrointestinal) effects of the plague on living beings.

One morning, as Ryoumou mounted up and steeled herself for another day of slaughtering Scourge, a Forsaken runner approached her with a letter.  She tore it open hurriedly, hoping that this could finally be word from Itsuki calling her away from this drudgery; instead, the letter consituted new orders for her.

“Ryoumou, Champion of the Naaru and Honored Member of the Molten Flan Babies:

You are charged to take a portion of the new plague you have been helping to develop, and take it to my apothecaries in Venomspite; a small town in central Northrend.  The equipment there is far superior to that trash in Vengeance Landing, and the apothecaries there will be able to make strides with much more haste.

You are to tell nobody of these charges, and especially not that twit Anselm.  His mind knows only swords and steel, and nothing of the subtleties of science!  Tell him I’ve ordered you to Venomspite to harvest a purer essence of Scourge, but say nothing of the plague!

Once in Venomspite, you will continue to assist the apothecaries there in their development of this… Blight.

-Grand Apothecary Putress”

“Who is Putress?” Ryoumou mused to herself, and she found a dour voice answering her from behind.

“Putress is the Forsaken’s foremost apothecary,” stated Anselm.  “He is a fool who sets science before reason, but he is also at Sylvanas’ right hand; if he has given you orders, they take precedence over mine.”

“Thrall ordered me to Vengeance Landing to help the apothecaries here.  I cannot simply abandon this post for this… Venomspite.”

Anselm raised one rotting eyebrow.  “Your devotion to the Horde is admirable, young lady… but know this.  Despite our disagreements, I must credit Putress with one thing:  He crafted the antidote that the Argent Dawn used to cure those afflicted with Arthas’ super plague.  I understand you imbibed such a cure yourself.”

Anselm frowned knowingly at her and walked away.

At dusk, while Anselm and most of the outpost guards were on patrol, Ryoumou snuck a small portion of Putress’ “Blight” into a container and climbed onto a windrider headed for Venomspite.  She didn’t know if this Blight would be the judgement upon the Scourge that she was hoping, but it was the best choice she could see for herself at the moment.  Her mind clouded with confusion and thoughts of vengeance, Ryoumou soared through the frigid air, the darkness intensifying behind her with every flap of the Windrider’s wings.

Was this the right choice?

Tonight, goodnight; I’m burning Star IV…

Netherstorm.

Last time Ryoumou had come here, she had seen the horrible truth of her Prince’s “Promised Land,” and had learned the depths of his madness.  Now, flying alongside members of the Dagger of Thrall, she returned to this ruined place to avenge her peoples’ honor, prevent a terrible calamity and avenge a comrade; for Raskol had fallen in battle within the walls of Tempest Keep.  As the great floating fortress crested the horizon, Ryoumou’s stomach grew uneasy; within those walls resided the elite forces of Prince Kael’thas himself… if Group Two themselves had been caught unaware and defeated, what could she hope to do?

“Stay low as we approach the vessel!” called Altaego over the rush of his Windrider.  “We do not want to broadcast our presence until we are inside the keep itself!”  But their worries proved unfounded; as they flew over the outer wall and lept off of their mounts expecting to face off against heavy resistance, they found instead an abandoned courtyard and the door to Tempest Keep wide open before them.

“Remain vigilant,” muttered Itsuki.  “They will spring the trap as soon as we enter the fortress, I’m sure of it.”

Surely enough, as they entered the keep they found themselves beset by the elite forces of the rogue Sin’dorei converted by Kael’thas.  Group Two fought with every ounce of their might, besting wave upon wave of the best that Kael’thas had to offer as they pressed forward into the central chamber of the fortress where, high above, a great phoenix circled with his flaming eye fixed upon the intruders to his master’s lair.  Beneath the beast’s swooping flight,  Ryoumou could see the form of a Tauren lying prone upon the ground, his great chest heaving with ragged breath.

“Raskol lives!” bellowed Altaego.  “Fight with all you have, friends!  This firey beast will not have him for dinner while I still draw breath!”

With those words, the very ground beneath them burst into flame, and Ryoumou suddenly found herself in the midst of the most intense battle she had ever faced.  Tiny phoenix-spawn filled the room as their parent took the form of a giant meteor and hurled itself at them, attempting to crush beneath his great weight those who refused to succumb to the flames.  She found herself taxed to her utter limits as she dashed about the battlefield, dodging flames and mending what wounds she could, until at last the great beast fell in a flaming heap upon the floor of the chamber.

As Group Two celebrated their victory, Ryoumou and Altaego rushed to Raskol’s side.  “He’s gravely injured,” said Altaego.  “He appears to be unconscious, but I don’t know how much longer he can hold on.”  Ryoumou’s mind raced; there must be something she could do, something to save the leader who meant so much to those who served him… but even as her mind reeled Raskol took one last gasp and fell dead upon the floor.

At that moment, something burst within Ryoumou’s mind.  Even as the tears called forth by her comrade’s loss began to roll down her cheeks, her hands began to glow with a soft white light and words she had never before spoken nor heard uttered came unbidden from her lips.  There was a great flash of light that enveloped Raskol’s body, and a moment later his eyes opened slowly and he drew a great gasping breath.

Ryoumou felt a hand upon her shoulder; Itsuki stood beside her, his mouth agape in amazement.  “This power… I’ve only heard it muttered in rumors.  Any practitioner of healing can awaken the unconscious, but this…  Ryoumou, this is an amazing gift!”

Ryoumou stared at her hands in amazement.  “But…  I didn’t do anything consciously.  This is no gift, old friend; this is an accident and nothing more.  None of the Blood Knights of Silvermoon have ever possessed this power.  Perhaps, within the walls of this place, my power is amplified by the spirits of the fallen that course through it.”

“Whatever the case,” stated Altaego, “you have brought our comrade back from the brink of death, and for that I shall be ever grateful.”  He motioned for a member of Group Two to lift Raskol to his feet.  “Fly him back to Shattrath,” Altaego ordered.  “He should be safe there until we return.  The Naaru should be able to help you heal what’s left of his wounds.  The rest of us will press on until the architect of this madness has been destroyed.”

With that, Group Two pressed on into the depths of Tempest Keep, fending off the waves of Sin’dorei that continued to throw themselves against the body of invaders in vain; soon, they stood within the audience chamber of Prince Kael’thas Sunstrider.  Before them, standing upon a raised dais that overlooked the room, stood the Prince himself; he and his advisors stood taller than Ryoumou remembered, and she presumed that the energy they had been absorbing from the Netherstorm had warped their bodies.

“Energy,” mused Kael’thas as they approached his platform.  “Power.  My people are addicted to it; a dependency made manifest after the Sunwell was destroyed.  Illidan promised us power.  He promised us enough energy to slake our thirst for centuries to come… but his goals were short-sighted.  We have been promised a power far greater than anything Illidan has to offer.  Kil’jaeden has access to limitless power that he has promised to us upon his return to Azeroth.  He will be our salvation!”

“Madness!” screamed Lynca.  “Kil’jaeden will bring only death and destruction if you bring him into our plane of existence!”

“Yes,” bellowed Itsuki.  “The Legion seeks only one thing:  The slaughter of all other living races!  Kil’jaeden and his Burning Crusade will be the end of us all!  See reason and free yourself from this madness!”

“Enough!” shouted Kael’thas.  “We shall soon leave Outland with enough power to re-awaken the Sunwell.  The souls of the dead have given us strength, and soon we shall summon Kil’jaeden through the Sunwell and he will help us to craft the glorious empire of the Sin’dorei!  Welcome to the future, you witless pawns of Thrall’s filthy Horde.  A pity you are too late to stop it.  No one can stop me now!”  With that, Kael’thas sneered.  “Selama ashal’anore,” he called mockingly to the members of Group Two, as his advisors marched off of the dais and attacked.

Ryoumou launched into the fray, mace swinging; these traitors against life itself had to pay for their crimes.  The advisors fell, one by one, beneath the blades and spells of Group Two, and at last Kael’thas stood alone against their fury.  However, he only sneered at them again as they approached his dais, and with a wave of his hands several autonomous weapons appeared out of thin air and began to attack.  “As you can see,” laughed Kael’thas, “I have many weapons at my disposal!”

Group Two fought long and hard against the weapons of Kael’thas, and soon the disembodied armaments began to drop to the ground.  “Take up these arms!” called Altaego.  “They will serve us well against the Prince and his power!”  As the last weapon dropped, Kael’thas bellowed with rage.  “I suppose I should have simply cut you all down from the beginning myself!  Behold the power of the Twisting Nether!”  With that, Kael’thas raised his arms, and suddenly all of Group Two found themselves floating helplessly high above the ground.  With another wave of his arms, they dropped to the floor with an unceremonious clatter.

“Yes!  Despair, traitors!  Die before me and lend your souls to my cause!”  With that, Kael’thas began to throw balls of fire in every direction.  “This is hopeless,” called Altaego.  “We cannot even get close to him this way!  We have to do something to stem the power he receives from the keep!”  But, a moment later, a fireball slammed into his chest and he fell to the ground unconscious.

“Enough!” Ryoumou bellowed.  “I’ve seen enough of this!  I respected you, Kael’thas.  I thought you would lead our people into a new tomorrow; instead you would see us all damned and destroyed.”  As she spoke, she could see the glow emenating from her body as it had before, and again the words she spoke were not her own.  “Now, you and this star of death you have forged will burn in the holy retribution of the Light!”  With these words, a great flash of light clouded her vision, and when her eyes cleared Kael’thas lay motionless upon the floor of his own audience chamber.

Itsuki stared at Ryoumou, his mouth again agape at the power she had unleashed.  “Incredible!” he finally muttered.  “I had no idea you were capable of such power!”

“Neither did I,” stammered Ryoumou.  “This was never a power I’ve experienced before.  I don’t know where it came from, but it feels as though someone speaks and acts through me, without my aid or control.”

“Let us heal our wounded and return to Shattrath,” stated Itsuki.  “Perhaps the Naaru there will have some answers for you.”

The events within Tempest Keep plagued her during her flight to Shattrath; if her power was derived only from energy stolen from the Naaru in Silvermoon, how was it that she was able to command this great strength when none of her bretheren could?  These questions continued to haunt her, even as she stepped into Shattrath’s central temple and into the presence of Ad’al, the Naaru of the temple city.

As she approached Ad’al, a voice spoke within her head; a gentle presence that soothed her troubled nerves.  “I know what troubles you, child of Silvermoon.”  This voice could only be the Naaru himself!

“You are troubled by the events within Tempest Keep; the power that came unbidden through your hands when you needed it most.  The strength that carried your friend from beyond the grave, and that laid Kael’thas Sunstrider low.”

Ryoumou was about to respond when the voice came again.  “You need not speak; your thoughts serve as conversation enough.  The power that you wielded there was the true Power of the Light.  It is a tool that can grant the greatest gifts imaginable:  Redemption for the righteous, and retribution against the wicked.  This power, however, can only be wielded by one who acts with honor and respect for their fellows.  The power you wielded within Tempest Keep was your own, and not the power forcibly taken from my kin.”  Ryoumou started, and the voice within her head laughed merrily.  “Yes, I know about Mu’ru and your peoples’ manipulation of his power.  His captivity was his choice; he saw within some of your people the potential to move beyond his own power, and into true harmony with the Power of the Light.  With practice and time, you can learn to control this great gift… but you must do so quickly.  Events transpire on Azeroth even now that will require this new power more than ever before.”

“Return to Thrall, Ryoumou.  Return to Azeroth with my blessing.  Return to the Horde as a Champion of the Naaru.  Hone your strength swiftly, for it shall be needed more now than you could ever have imagined.”  As those words coursed through her head, a portal opened before her, and through it she saw the towers of Orgrimmar.

Saw the towers of Orgrimmar burning.

Quickly, she stepped through the portal, and after the familiar painful sensation she had felt when first entering Outland, she stood before the gates of Thrall’s home.  Parties of screaming women and children fled the city in droves, and flames raged around her as fellow members of the Horde battled desperately against armies of undead; the Scourge that had claimed Silvermoon years ago had returned from the frozen North, and now laid siege to Orgrimmar.

“Arthas,” Ryoumou seethed, and with that utterance her body began to glow and great wings of light sprouted from her back as she launched herself into the fray.

Retribution for the wicked, indeed.

A thousand million questions about hate and death and war…

A time of chaos, death and war.

The city of Silvermoon had known they were coming; they had seen the plumes of smoke on the horizon, and had smelled the reek of death on the air.  The Scourge were marching on the kingdom of Quel’thalas, and as thousands upon thousands of rotting forms came into view it was obvious that, even with the combined might of all the Quel’Dorei, the city of Silvermoon was destined to fall.

And fall it did.

Ryoumou stood tense at her post on the island of Quel’Danas, watching flames erupt on the horizon as the undead swept through her fair city.  The heralds and refugees had been crossing the channel in droves, the panic showing clear on their face as they relayed tale after tale of tragedy and woe.  The Convocation of Silvermoon had been decimated, and the king himself had fallen to the blades of Arthas and his mindless troops.  Tears welled up behind her eyes at the thought of her city’s glory dashed against the mountainside, but the Scourge were making a beeline for Quel’Danas, and she could not afford to give in to emotion; she and the other Rangers of Silvermoon would be the last defense for the Sunwell; if that fell to the Scourge as well, the Quel’Dorei would be no more.

When the rotting undead husks surfaced from the depths of the channel, the guardians of Silvermoon were ready for them.  Arrow flight and spellsong wove a deadly lullaby as Ryoumou and her comrades repelled the forces of the Scourge.  Arthas’ forces were legion, however, and as Ryoumou watched in horror the bulk of the Quel’Dorei spellweavers collapsed from exhaustion.  She herself was beginning to feel her energies waning, and it would only be a matter of time before she too succumbed to the limitations of her abilities.

At the limits of her strength, she glimpsed him; Arthas himself.  The Death Knight who had carved himself into the annals of infamy with his cruelty and malice.  He strode effortlessly towards her, shrugging off the arrows and spells of her comrades as though they were small annoyances, and Ryoumou knew in that moment that she was going to die.  She attempted to lift her sword for one final blow before her strength left her, but her arms were bound to her sides by the shackles of fatigue.  As the last of her strength ebbed from her muscles, Ryoumou’s vision gave way in a blinding flash of light, and she slipped into the faint of exhaustion.

Her eyes opened sharply and suddenly, and as they did she expected to see the black form of Arthas standing over her.  Instead, she felt renewed strength flowing through her body.  She had been brought back from the brink of death, and instead of Arthas’ menacing form another body stood beside her.  Through her bleary eyes, Ryoumou recognized a tall figure clad in the regal red robes of the Silvermoon royal family, and realized at once that her rescuer must be Prince Kael’thas.

“Stand, brave Ranger of Silvermoon.”

His voice was gentle but firm, and Ryoumou found that despite minor protestations from her body she was able to follow his command quite easily.

“Good.  Now, gather what survivors you can and retreat into the forest.  The battle here has not ended.  Arthas has contaminated our Sunwell to resurrect one of his Necromancers, and has now turned his attention to the obliteration of our people.”

“What will you do, Lord Kael’thas?”  Even as she asked this, Ryoumou already knew the answer, and even through her bleary vision she could see Kael’thas’ eyes narrow with sadness at the task ahead of him.

“I must destroy the Sunwell.  The release of power should drive most of the invaders back, and the Sunwell’s destruction should keep our people from being corrupted by Arthas’ poison.”

Ryoumou’s heart sank; she could not imagine a life without the power that had sustained the Quel’Dorei and their way of life for so long.  Even so, she knew in her heart that it must be done.  She could already feel the corruption slowly seeping into her; a mind-numbing miasma that sickened her belly and clouded her mind.  She dashed about the battlefield, gathering as many survivors as she could, and together they scrounged up several undamaged boats and made their way back to the forests of Quel’thalas.

Ryoumou and her charges felt the destruction of the Sunwell some hours later; the sickening energy she had felt was immediately gone, but an emptiness and a disharmony clouded her mind.  The magical energies that her people had become so dependent on were now absent, instead replaced by a hunger that threatened to take their minds; a hunger for arcane power.  For years, Ryoumou and her companions lived off of the land, scouring the forest for anything to take the edge off of their hunger.  They waylaid travelers, robbing them of any magical possessions and then draining the arcane energy from them.  They mined the earth, searching for fragments of gems with any semblance of magic about them.  Eventually, they even learned to draw small amounts of energy from magic-using living beings, using this ability to stymie the Amani trolls that were constantly hunting them through the forests of Quel’thelas.  But it was never enough to fully satisfy their hunger, and after several years their minds began to succumb to their arcane addiction.

Their minds clouded by this affliction, Ryoumou and her charges left their camp and returned to the city they had once loved, determined to pillage any last vestiges of magic from Silvermoon’s broken frame… but instead of a ruined city, they found a city in the throes of a magnificent rebirth.  Giant crystals lined the city streets, each pulsing with energy that Ryoumou had not seen or felt in almost six years.  As she and her companions stood there, marveling at the restored glory of their city, she was startled by a familiar voice behind her.

“Magnificent, isn’t it, child of Silvermoon?”  The voice was that of Lor’themar Theron, second-in-command only to Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner herself and Ryoumou’s former commanding officer.

Her eyes still affixed on Silvermoon’s restored glory, Ryoumou responded in awe:  “Commander Lor’themar… this is impossible.  I saw this city destroyed.  I heard of the fall of the King and the Convocation.  I felt the destruction of the Sunwell.  How is this rebirth possible without the Sunwell’s power?!”

Lor’themar chuckled softly.  “I am something far beyond a Commander now.  Much has happened in your absence, Ryoumou.  Come, let us take the edge off of your hunger and I will inform you of the events that have led to our restoration.”

Ryoumou left her charges behind and followed Lor’themar to the Magister’s Terrace, high above the streets of the city.  There, she learned of the death of Sylvanas Windrunner, and Lor’themar’s de-facto promotion to Ranger-General.  He told her of Prince Kael’thas re-dubbing of the people of Silvermoon to the name Sin’dorei – Blood Elves, in memory of those who had fallen in defense of Silvermoon and the Sunwell.  She was told of Kael’thas’ subsequent departure to Lordaeron to push back the forces of Arthas’ undead Scourge, and his disappearance soon thereafter.

“Now,” said Lor’themar, “I have been crowned the Lord Regent of our restored city.  Grand Magister Rommath has come to us bearing the teachings of Kael’thas Sunstrider.  It is through Rommath and his advice that we have managed to rebuild our city, in preparation of our Prince’s glorious return.”

“Return from where?”

“Outland.  Paradise.  Kael’thas has gone between worlds to forge a paradise for our people, and has sent Rommath home to Silvermoon with the information we need to wait out the Prince’s triumphant return.  Come with me.  There is something I must show you.”

Ryoumou followed Lor’themar through the streets of Silvermoon, stopping at last before the entry to a great temple.

“Through this gate, you will find your destiny; the very essence of the new teachings of Prince Kael’thas.  Enter, and embrace a power unlike any you have ever known.”

For weeks and into months, Ryoumou resided within the temple.  She trained herself in the manipulation of power she had only ever felt once in her life; in the moment that Kael’thas yanked her from the grasp of death itself.  Strength returned to her body and mind.  She trained herself in the art of restoring life, maintaining life, balancing a body’s immune system; the art of the Paladin that Arthas himself had subscribed to in life.

She was sworn into the Order of the Blood Knights, and it was then that she learned the horrifying secret of her new-found Order:  The energies she had been learning to manipulate for months had been forcibly drawn from the most benevolent of beings; a creature called a Naaru, a being of pure and nearly endless holy energy that raged against its captors in a hidden chamber beneath the streets of Silvermoon.   “It is called Mu’ru,” stated another member of the Order.  “A gift from Grand Magister Rommath.”  But Ryoumou could sense the pain of the creature that provided her with the very strength she had come to rely upon for months, and it hearkened back to the pain and emptiness she had felt when the Sunwell had been destroyed.  Surely, Rommath had deceived them; the kind Prince Kael’thas would not have wished for this solution to her peoples’ plight.  Ryoumou whispered a silent apology to the creature and set out alone from her reborn city.

Perhaps, one day, she would find the Prince of her people, and together find a way to save the race she was once proud to call Quel’Dorei.

————————————————————-

Ryoumou sat astride a great winged beast, seeing with horror the truth of Kael’thas ambitions and his “Paradise.”

At Lynca’s prodding, she had sought out the Scryers within the city of Shattrath.  They had not told her much, but what little they revealed to her wove a tale of deceit and treachery around the Prince she had once thought would lead her people to salvation.  The Scryers, she had been told, were all Sin’Dorei that had sought out Kael’thas in Outland, at the prodding of Rommath.  In the service of their Prince, they had committed untold acts of atrocity and depravity in the name of their peoples’ salvation.  At last, Kael’thas had ordered them to attack the city of Shattrath for the crime of standing against Illidan, who had proclaimed himself the Lord of Outland.  When the Scryers had arrived at Shattrath they were met not by an organized army, but a ragtag militia of Draenei priests and refugees from Illidan and Kael’thas’ genocidal attacks throughout Outland.  Realizing that their Prince had lost his sanity and become enthralled with the power that Illidan had offered him, the Scryers had instead laid down their arms and joined forces with the Naaru of Shattrath, Adal.

After relaying this story, the Scryers had advised Ryoumou to travel to the area called the Netherstorm, at the northernmost tip of Outland, and observe for herself the atrocities committed by the Prince of the Sin’Dorei.  Now, floating above the desolate wasteland of barren rock, she watched as Kael’thas’ forces worked tirelessly to harvest energy from the Twisting Nether; the realm of the dead and the very essence of chaos itself, which flowed through the area like a river of multicolored light.  Kael’thas was using the very souls of the dead to fuel his, and seemingly Illidan’s, agendas!  The merest thought of it roiled her stomach in anger and revulsion.

Ryoumou returned to Shattrath in a daze, seating herself amongst the refugees of the Lower City and brooding on what she had seen.  Everything she had been taught since returning to Silvermoon had been a lie.  Rommath had not deceived them, at least, not intentionally; Kael’thas had deceived them all.  In his madness and his thirst for power, her Prince had committed the most depraved acts imaginable to her:  The slaughter of the living and the desecration of the souls of the dead.  Her people, ignorant of Kael’thas clever manipulations, were playing directly into his hands, and she was helpless to stop them.

She felt comforting hands on her shoulders; in her brooding, she had failed to notice Lynca and Moochan behind her.  “Your reaction mirrors mine, when I discovered the truth at last,” Lynca said solemnly.  “Kael’thas must be stopped.”

“But how can we stop a force like that?” Ryoumou protested.  “Kael’thas’ troops are legion, and we Molten Flan Babies are but a small group.  Even if we were to slowly chip away at their forces, we could never hope to stand against that many.”

“We have a group of powerful friends now,” stated Moochan.  “If we were to confer with Group Two, tell them of Illidan and Kael’thas’ twisted plot, perhaps they would agree that Kael’thas is now too dangerous to continue his plans unchecked.”

“But what quarrel do Thrall and Group Two have with Kael’thas?  Even if they knew the truth, I fear that they would not help us.”

“You’re wrong,” bellowed a gruff voice behind them.  The three of them quickly turned and there, seething with fury, stood a handful of troops that Ryoumou recognized as members of Group Two.  The leader of the band, a Tauren druid, bore a bloody helm under his arm.  “I’ve been training with him for several days in your absence,” whispered Moochan.  “That’s Altaego, leader of Group Two’s druid force.  They departed Shattrath yesterday, and I thought for sure they had returned to Azeroth to report to Thrall.”

Altaego tossed the bloody headdress upon the ground.  “The minions of Kael’thas Sunstrider have slain Raskol,” Altaego raged.  “We ventured to Tempest Keep in the Netherstorm to investigate claims by the Scryers that Kael’thas was consorting with Illidan, and our forces were decimated.  We have seen Kael’thas’ true plans, and they have gone far beyond atrocity; even now, he confers with members of the Burning Legion behind Illidan’s back!  Kael’thas’ insanity and lust for power will destroy us all!”

Murmurs rose from all within earshot.  Ryoumou felt herself go numb, and the color blanched from Lynca’s face.  “That’s… impossible,” stammered Lynca.  “Kael’thas may be insane, but to hold concert with the Burning Legion?!  Kael’thas would see our world destroyed!”

“Yes,” stated Altaego.  “Needless to say, Group Two now has more than a vested interest in the dealings of Kael’thas Sunstrider.  For honor, for Raskol and for the sake of all the peoples of Azeroth, this menace must be stopped.”

“March with us to Netherstorm, Molten Flan Babies.  March with us for the sake of all our futures.”

Raining blood from a lacerated sky…

Weeks had passed since Ryoumou’s arrival in Outland.  Nazgrel had been keeping the hands of the Molten Flan Babies full with various missions, in hopes of finding and exploiting a weakness in at least one of the foes that had beset the ragamuffin military post they had established, but thus far their efforts had been of no avail.  The only lead they had uncovered was an intercepted letter addressed to an overseer of Hellfire Citadel, penned by Illidan Stormrage himself, but this information had only served to bolster the belief that the bloodthirsty Fel Orc armies of Hellfire Citadel were indeed an invincible force; the mere mention of Illidan’s name was enough to make even Nazgrel pause in fear.

“Perhaps we should focus our efforts on the Alliance?”  Nazgrel mused during yet another fruitless strategy meeting.  “They would be a much more manageable adversary than this tribe of Fel Orcs.”

“My scouting missions report that the Fel Orcs also control the lands south of Honor Hold,” Ryoumou replied.  “They’ll serve to keep the Alliance busy enough, but we’d still have to fight our way through them if we were to take down Honor Hold.”

“Then it’s settled,” proclaimed Nazgrel.  “We focus our efforts on the Burning Legion.  We clear a path to the Dark Portal and secure reinforcements from Orgrimmar.”

“That could take weeks,” Ryoumou retorted.  “We’re running low on supplies, we’re running out of able bodies and, more importantly, we’re running out of time.  The Fel Orcs are at the doorstep of Thrallmar now.  The Legion won’t keep them busy forever, and they will storm this place.”

“What would you suggest, then?  We wait here to die like lambs in the pen?”

“Absolutely not,” Ryoumou replied, sensing Nazgrel’s ire.  “We send a small band to slip through the defenses of Hellfire Citadel, at the northernmost end of the wall where the patrols are lightest.  Once they’re through, we can secure the outposts at the Old Stadium, Broken Hill and The Overlook, currently held by the Alliance; the munitions there should serve to protect us as we move the remainder of Thrallmar’s operations beyond Hellfire Citadel.”

“A bold plan, child.  It has potential to work, but it’s too risky to attempt,” Nazgrel mused.  “We would surely raise the ire of the Alliance, and they could easily duplicate our move before more troops arrived.  We would likely be putting ourselves into the same situation, only several bodies fewer.”

“I have a better idea,” boomed a voice from the shadows of the hut.  “We take the Fel Orcs by storm, and render them impotent.”

“Who goes there?” Nazgrel demanded as he readied his weapon.  “Show yourself!”

A group of three emerged from behind the entrance partition:  An Orcish shaman whose garb pulsed with deadly power, a female Troll warrior with a brutal glint of cunning in her eye and, towering over both of them, a Tauren with the body of a Fel Orc slung over his shoulder.  All three of them bore the tabard of the Flan Babies, and Ryoumou immediately recognized them:  The Orc and Troll were Diwrnach and Omozek, two of the Molten Flan Babies’ founding members, and the towering Tauren was the very leader of Ryoumou’s guild, the shaman Itsuki.

Nazgrel lowered his weapon.  “What news from the front, friends?”

Itsuki tossed the Orcish body on the ground.  “Have your alchemists test the blood of this wretch to confirm our observations:  The Fel Orcs are fanning their bloodlust by incorporating demonic blood directly into their own.  This is why we’ve thought them to be an unstoppable force.”

Nazgrel stood for a moment, stunned.  When he finally spoke, his voice was subdued:  “If this is indeed true, then Illidan’s malice runs deeper than any could have thought.  We cannot defeat an army like this.”

“It gets worse, ‘mon,” Omozek interjected.  “It ain’t just any demon ‘dey got trapped in ‘dere.  ‘Dey be fortifyin’ ‘demselves wit’ ‘da blood of Magtheridon himself.”

This proclamation caused gasps of terror from several of the advisors.  “Magtheridon?”  “The former lord of the Black Temple!”  “No wonder the Fel Orcs are so powerful!”  “They will dash us against the Burning Legion and crush us all!”

Diwrnach spoke up over the din of the frightened advisors.  “They hold Magtheridon captive beneath the body of Hellfire Citadel.  Day and night, a group of channellers work tirelessly to keep him bound there.  If we disrupt the channellers, Magtheridon will be released and wreak havoc on his former captors.”

“If we do this,” Nazgrel countered, “we risk the beast turning his attention to us once he has vanquished the Fel Orcs.  He is a high-ranking member of the Burning Legion.  Illidan himself had trouble containing him, even with the Fallen Draenei fighting by his side.  What makes you think that Thrallmar could drop him with our limited forces?”

“Thrallmar will not have to fight,” Itsuki replied.  “I’ve already spoken with Thrall, and he has a better idea:  Group Two is currently on the move to Outland.”

More gasps came from Nazgrel’s advisors and Ryoumou’s breath caught in her chest.  She had heard rumors about this Group Two, also called the Dagger of Thrall.  Group Two was Thrall’s elite second unit from the last great war, who had quelled the threats from Stratholme, Ahn-Quiraj and the necropolis of Naxxramas.  If Group Two was coming to Outland, it meant that Thrall had given the situation in Hellfire Peninsula his full attention.

“The Molten Flan Babies will work alongside Group Two in an effort to free and, if necessary, destroy Magtheridon,” Itsuki stated.  “After we’ve dealt with Magtheridon, the Fel Orcs should be weakened enough that Thrallmar can begin moving its operations westward with minimal resistance.”

Nazgrel bowed his head for a moment, then nodded.  “Group Two should be able to move swiftly through the Burning Legion from the Dark Portal to Hellfire Citadel.  We will wait for your signal that Magtheridon has been contained before we make our move westward.”

“Then it’s settled,” Itsuki proclaimed.  “The Molten Flan Babies will ride to Hellfire Citadel immediately, and meet with Group Two.  Diwrnach and Omozek, I would like you to remain here and assist the Thrallmar forces when they make their push through Hellfire Citadel’s troops.  I will communicate with you when we have dealt with Magtheridon.”

The ride to Magtheridon’s prison beneath Hellfire Citadel was, surprisingly, uneventful.  Once they arrived, it was a matter of only a few moments before Group Two and their leader, Raskol, joined them.  Together, they passed through the gates beneath the fortress and prepared themselves.  As they delved into the depths of the dungeon, they found themselves beset by several the most powerful of the Fel Orcs’ warlocks.  The battle was rough, as the Fel Orcs were desperate to pretect the secret of their power, but at last Group Two was able to draw near the central holding chamber.  As she looked down from a great balcony Ryoumou caught a glimpse of the great demon, Magtheridon, as he taunted his captors.  The sight of the beast struck fear into her heart; if he were to attack them instead of the orcs, there would be no stopping a creature like him.

As Ryoumou and Group Two penetrated Magtheridon’s cell, they swiftly fell upon the channellers holding Magtheridon captive.  “Hurry!” shouted Raskol.  “We must kill the channellers before Magtheridon breaks free!”  They moved quickly, laying the channellers low as swiftly as possible, while the orcs summoned their own demons in an attempt to destroy the invaders and return to their channelling.  However, they were too slow; with a great roar, Magtheridon broke free of the last of his bonds.

“Thank you for freeing me, mortals!”  Magtheridon bellowed.  “Let me show you my gratitude by destroying you and delivering your souls to Kil’Jaeden!”  Ryoumou’s worst fears had come to light; Magtheridon was going to crush them below his heels.  “Fight for your lives!” yelled Raskol.  “The only way out is through, now!  Thrallmar falls if we fail!”  Group Two set their blades to Magtheridon, and the battle began in earnest.

Despite the overwhelming power of the beast, Group Two’s efforts began to weaken Magtheridon’s resolve.  In desperation, Magtheridon began to slam the walls of his prison, bringing rubble crashing down upon the group.  “This prison will fall!  Illidan was a fool, Kael’thas was a fool, and you are the most foolish of all!”  The mention of her prince’s name infuriated Ryoumou, and she began to fight with renewed vigor; however, with the walls of Hellfire Citadel crashing down around them, Group Two had to fight more furiously than ever to best Magtheridon before they were crushed beneath the rubble… and best him they did.

Itsuki reached into his pouch, drawing out a small blue gem and speaking into it as they dashed out from the dungeon of the Citadel.  “Diwrnach!  Omozek!  Hellfire Citadel is about to fall!  If Thallmar’s forces are to move, now is the time!”  With the walls of the fortress falling behind them, Group Two escaped from beneath the citadel as a handful of troops from Thrallmar crushed the demoralized Fel Orc guardians.  With Hellfire Citadel heavily damaged and the surviving Fel Orcs in complete disarray, Group Two marched westward towards Terrokar Forest with Thrallmar’s soldiers.

Later, with the Horde fighters safely ensconced at Stonebreaker Hold, the Molten Flan Babies headed to Shattrath City.  While on the road to the temple city, her longtime travelling companion strode up beside her.  “You’ve looked troubled ever since we left Hellfire Peninsula.  Is it what that dog Magtheridon said about Kael’thas?”

“I can’t believe that Kael’thas would have fallen to a monster like that, Moochan,” Ryoumou replied sullenly.  “Prince Kael couldn’t have been so easily beaten by Magtheridon.”

“The truth is worse than you know, Ryoumou,” crooned a voice from behind her.  She recognized the voice right away; Lynca, one of the priests within the Molten Flan Babies.

“What do you mean?”

“Our Prince Kael’thas is very much alive and well, Ryoumou.  His search for a cure from our arcane addictions led him here to Outland.  Led him here to Illidan.”

“Lynca, are you saying…?”

“Go to the Scryer’s Tier.  There, you will find those who once served Kael’thas loyally.  They will give you the answers you’ve been searching for… but you’re not going to like what you hear.”

We saw a host of dark-skinned warriors standing still below the ground, waiting for battle…

Thrall clenched his fist. “You must destroy Nefarian’s sister, Onyxia…”

Thrall then shook his head, as if awakening from a dream.  “No.  This task is beyond even a Blood Elf as capable as you.  There is much more you must do to prepare… and I have just the task to ensure you do so.”

“Weeks ago, I sent a scouting party to Stonard, one of our warcamps in the Eastern Kingdoms.  They were to investigate reports of increasing demonic activity in the nearby Blasted Lands; I have received no report from them.  Go to Stonard and locate those scouts; send a report back to me when you have found them.”

Ryoumou opened her mouth to protest, but was stopped short by one of Thrall’s advisors:  “The Warchief’s word is law, Blood Elf.  You and your kin seem to have had a hard time understanding this.  If he says that the task is beyond you, then it is.  Go to Stonard.  Send in your report.  The Warchief may see fit to give you favor if you accomplish this simple task.”

Dejected, Ryoumou left the Warchief’s hall and boarded the blimp for the Eastern Kingdoms, all the while wondering if there was something she had done to anger the Warchief.  Was she not strong enough?  Had she not proven herself adequately within the confines of the Mountain?  Two powerful enemies threatened the very existence of the Horde and all of Azeroth; why was she being sent on a petty scouting mission when something had to be done to stop these foes?  She had lost herself so deeply within her malaise that, before she realized it, she had landed in Stonard.

Ryoumou set herself to the task of finding the scouts.  Before long, she discovered that the scouts had departed for the Blasted Lands almost as soon as they arrived in Stonard, mentioning that they were heading to investigate the southern canyons of the desolate wasteland.  Ryoumou followed their trail into the desert, until at last she approached a canyon where the light itself seemed to fade from the world.

She heard it before she saw it; a hissing like that of a great snake.  The sound brought utter terror into her heart, but she could not fathom why.  As she proceeded deeper into the canyon, the sibliant din increased exponentially until, at the apex of its volume, she rounded a bend in the crevasse and finally spotted its source.

The Dark Portal, sealed for years, stood open and active before her.

Ryoumou’s jaw dropped at the sight; the Dark Portal, through which the Orcs had first passed in their campaign to overrun Azeroth, had been long ago sealed and was never to be opened again.  According to the legends of the Second War, the re-sealing of the portal had shattered the world that lay beyond it; it would have taken someone, or something, of incredible power to open it again.  In front of the massive gate were strewn bodies of all races; the weapons of war they had manned in their fight against whatever had come through the gate lay broken on the ground.  Something had happened here, and since Azeroth had not yet been overrun, the combined forces of the Horde and the Alliance must have been successful in pushing back their unknown attackers.

Ryoumou strode cautiously toward the Dark Portal, suspecting full well that the scouting party she had been sent to find had been laid low by the forces from beyond the gate.  Still, something called to her.  She had to know what lay beyond the Dark Portal.  She approached it until, at last, she passed into the swirling vortex.

Pain.  Unbelievable pain.  It was all Ryoumou could do to keep herself from crying out in anguish.  She felt herself falling, flying, a sensation like her soul being ripped from her body, and after an eternal instant she found herself standing upon a terrace in a place she had never even dreamed of.

Before her eyes, the combined forces of the Horde and the Alliance battled against a seemingly endless stream of demons.  The combat was fierce, and the forces of Azeroth were slowly losing ground.  Ryoumou drew her weapon to join in the fight, but was stopped by a gruff voice: “What the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish with that little twig, girl?”  She turned, and saw a gruff Orc holding a small package.  “You won’t stand a chance against the Burning Legion with a weapon like that.”  He gestured towards an ever-growing pile of dead Orcs and Trolls.  “Unless, of course, you’re bound and determined to wind up like them.”

The orc looked Ryoumou up and down like a rider surveying a horse.  “Yeah.  You’ll do.  You’re small enough to slip by the Legion unnoticed.  Take my Windrider and fly west, to Thrallmar.  The beast knows the way well enough without your guidance.  Take this package to Nazgrel; it’s the latest reports from the front here.  You’ll know him by the wolf’s pelt he wears upon his head.  Now, get moving, girl!”

Ryoumou leaped astride the beast just as it took to the air.  She had ridden on the backs of Windriders before and was accustomed to flying over enemy territory, but even that left her unprepared for what she saw beneath her; the desolate landscape was littered with demons advancing on the Dark Portal.  The Burning Legion seemed to be amassing in several camps as she passed over them, forging great and terrible machines of war; thankfully, they were so set in their tasks that they took no notice of the lone Windrider gliding over their heads.  After what seemed like an eternity, the beast set down within Thrallmar.

Ryoumou was amazed; all around her were the signs of warriors preparing for battle.  Several groups of Orcs stood at attention as they were drilled in the basics of combat.  Quartermasters handed out weapons in droves to warriors heading toward the front lines.  Scouts dashed through the city on wolves, stopping just long enough to submit their reports before sprinting back into the field.  In the center of it all, Ryoumou spied a small group of Blood Elves who were not taking part in the battle preparations; indeed, they seemed to be preparing for a religious pilgramage.  One of them was preaching to the others in a loud voice, and Ryoumou approached to hear his words.

“…After so much searching and so much suffering, it shall soon be over!  We have come to the Promised Land!  Prince Kael’thas long ago told our people to follow him here, and with his guidance our arcane dependencies will finally be sated and we may finally be at peace!  We must all seek him out, we must all join him, and we must all be free!”  With this, the other pilgrims cheered and rejoiced zealously.

Ryoumou’s heart caught in her throat.  Prince Kael’thas was here, in this desolate land?!  Had she finally found the final destination of the Prince of the Blood Elves?  Could she be the one to finally lead her people to Kael’thas and release them from their torment?  She was so lost in this prospect that she had almost forgotten the task she had been given; she hurried to the meeting hall, where Nazgrel and his advisors huddled around a map, arguing loudly amongst themselves.  Ryoumou gently cleared her throat, and at once all eyes in the room snapped toward her. 

Without a word, she handed the package of reports to Nazgrel, who snatched them from her and tossed them aside without looking at them.  “That idiot constantly requests more troops, when we have the Blood Orcs standing on our western doorstep, the Legion attacking from the east and north, the Alliance dogs in Honor Hold to our south and nothing standing between us and all of these foes but a wall of wooden posts and a small troop of untrained whelps?  We have risked too much to keep Thrallmar standing to let it fall now.”  Nazgrel eyed Ryoumou contemptuously.  “And now, they send us a lone Blood Elf child.  Go back to Silvermoon, infant.  Go back to the nursery you came from.”

Ryoumou had heard enough.  “Do not speak to me like a child, Nazgrel.  I have been demeaned, I have been condescended to, and I have been coddled long enough by Thrall; I don’t need to hear it from you.  The scouting party he sent to Stonard is dead, and now I must report this news to him.  This is not a prospect that pleases me greatly, and I would at least appreciate a little respect; something that has been noticably lacking toward the Blood Elves since our induction into your dirty Horde.”

Nazgrel eyed her silently for a moment, and Ryoumou swallowed hard; he was doubtless going to draw his weapon and strike her dead where she stood for her comments, and yet she could do nothing but stand her ground.  Finally, Nazgrel laughed.  “You have an admirable spirit, child… but my comment still stands.  You are a child, forged in battle but untempered in the fires of true war.  Know that you have found your scouting party, and know that we have been in contact with Thrall many times since our arrival here.  Know that you have been deceived by Thrall for your own benefit, and take comfort that Thrall would not have knowingly sent you here if he did not mean for you to aid us.  There is much you can learn here, Blood Elf infant.  You were sent to Thrallmar as a warrior with the Warchief’s blessing, and after we reforge you we shall send you back to Orgrimmar as a hero of the Horde.”

Nazgrel clapped her heartily on the back.  “Welcome to the war, child.  Welcome to Outland.  Now, steel yourself, and prepare for the fight of your life!”

You’re a traitor to us all…

…Ryoumou listened to Thrall’s tale, as her guild prepared for another trek into Blackrock:

“At the end of the first war, Warchief Blackhand was killed through an act of betrayal. Orgrim Doomhammer, in an valiant attempt to free the Orc race from our demonic taint, killed the corrupted Blackhand, decimated the ranks of the Horde warlocks and took up the mantle of Warchief. It was he who passed the title of Warchief to me with his dying breath, and this very city of Orgrimmar now bears his honorable name.

Doomhammer’s lieutenants were Maim and Rend Blackhand; the sons of the corrupted Warchief Blackhand. When Doomhammer died in battle, Rend believed that he would finally take the title of Warchief by lineage alone, and many believed that he intended to renew the Horde’s corruption by the Burning Legion; when I became Warchief, Rend and Maim fled to Blackrock Mountain. Maim was killed there by the Dark Iron Dwarves and Rend was believed dead as well, but I’ve now received intelligence that proves otherwise.”

Thrall scowled as he held up a scroll that appeared to have been hastily unsealed. “This document was found on a raiding party not far from Blackrock; orders directly from Rend Blackhand himself. He calls himself ‘Warchief of the Dark Horde,’ and states that he seeks to overthrow me,” Thrall spat. “He makes mention of ‘weapons that would ensure his victory against Thrall and his band,’ and also claims that these weapons were what turned the tide in his battle against the Dark Iron Dwarves. If these weapons drove back both the Dark Iron and Ragnaros’ minions, they must be powerful indeed.

Ryoumou, confer with the Molten Flan Babies’ most powerful warriors; this task shall take many of you. Venture to the spire of Blackrock Mountain and slay Rend Blackhand. Discover the nature of his ‘weapons,’ and bring me the head of this false Warchief, for the glory of the true Horde.”

Ryoumou took her leave of Thrall and rode swiftly to the Orgrimmar Guild Hall to discuss this new quest with Itsuki, leader of the Molten Flan Babies. As many of the Flan Babies were occupied with battles in Outland, it was decided that only seven would travel to Blackrock Spire on this missive; Itsuki and the other warriors believed that this would be more than enough. After sharpening their blades and stocking up on supplies, the Molten Flan Babies once again set out for the wasteland surrounding Blackrock Mountain.

As they battled their way through the Orcs guarding the spire, Ryoumou noted that while their weapons were well-forged, there was nothing out-of-the-ordinary about them. Clearly, the “weapons” referred to in Rend’s orders were something a bit more sinister than arrows and swords. A letter, swiped from a slain Quartermaster, offered her the first clue:

“Imbecile, I hold very little faith in your ability to prevent outsiders from accessing the master’s lair. In the very likely event of your death, this orb has its own failsafe built in to prevent outsiders from teleporting directly into Blackwing. Only those with the Mark of Drakkisath branded upon their hand may make use of this orb. Thankfully, Drakkisath is not nearly as incompetent as you, Quartermaster. He guards the brand himself!

-Warchief Rend Blackhand (P.S. Destroy this letter, idiot)”

Blackwing. She’d heard the name before, spoken to her by a deceitful dragon in the Searing Gorge. It was the name given to the Black Dragonflight; she’d heard the wings of dragons off in the distance during her first visit to Blackrock Mountain. Was this the secret weapon that Rend had hinted at: An alliance with the Black Dragonflight? If so, the threat of Rend Blackhand had been sorely underestimated; she and the Molten Flan Babies were in far greater peril than they had realized. As they opened the door to Blackrock Spire, Ryoumou’s worst fears were confirmed; a group of black-scaled dragonkin rushed to meet them. The guards were beaten down easily, but the party feared that there would be worse to come.

Finally, they came upon a great nursery, carpeted with eggs and tended by several of the Black Dragonflight. Piles of human bones were scattered about; most likely the bones of lesser adventurers fed to the hatchlings. Ryoumou studied one of the eggs closely; it was quite unlike any of the dragon eggs she had ever seen. These eggs had been magically altered somehow, although she could not begin to fathom the nature of the experimentation that would have produced these horribly misshapen masses. With a shudder, she rejoined the group; she had a feeling there was more to Rend’s “weaponry” than his alliance with the Children of Deathwing.

The troops of the Black Dragonflight and the Orcs of the Dark Horde put up a powerful struggle, but at last the Molten Flan Babies fought their way to a great balcony, overlooking an even larger arena. On the far side of the arena, Ryoumou spotted an Orc that could only have been Rend Blackhand holding conference with a human whose presence struck fear into her heart. She did not recognize the man, but there was something about him that struck a chord in her on the most primal level: Power. Sheer, unbelievable power radiated from this man like a tangible force, and it was all she could do to keep from fleeing her comrades as the man turned his attention to the intruders.

“Welcome, servants of the weak,” he bellowed. “We have been expecting you; your ascent of the spire was not the most stealthy, I’m afraid.” Beside him, Rend grinned with amusement. “I am Victor Nefarius, the lord of Blackrock Mountain.” He gestured behind him, where several Dragonkin stood waiting. “I believe you have already met some of my brethren, and have been quite unkind to them; rest assured that I do not grieve their passing.” Victor smiled; “I have many, many more siblings for you to play with.”

“That can wait,” Victor declared with a sinister cackle. “First, I would like you to meet my children.” With that, the balcony beneath their feet crumbled, and the Molten Flan Babies were dumped into the heart of the arena as the gate began to open. Behind the gate were what appeared to be dragon hatchlings, but as they drew closer Ryoumou saw that they were horribly misshapen; their skin was a sickly mass of various colors, and as they launched their attack their breath simultaneously burned her skin, froze her to her very core, made her ill at her stomach and quickly began to corrode her armor.

“Do you like them, servants of Thrall?” Victor cried. “They are my gift to Blackhand! A whole new race of dragons – the Chromatic Dragonflight! All of our strengths, none of our weaknesses… they will be the ultimate power in Azeroth!” Rend and Victor laughed as the Molten Flan Babies fought for their lives against this new threat. “Many dragons from the other flights died to give birth to this magnificence,” called Victor.
“Pay them the proper respect, and die slowly.”

The beasts came wave over wave upon the group, until it seemed that they would be washed away by the tide of dragonspawn, but at last the chromatic whelps all lay dead upon the floor of the arena. There was a moment of silence, then Victor Nefarius uttered a mournful wail: “This cannot be!!! Rend, deal with these insects!”

Rend grinned maniacally. “With pleasure, Lord Nefarius!”

As Rend dashed from the balcony, Victor stared down angrily at the party. “It seems I’ve underestimated you,” he growled. “Do not worry. The Warchief will cleave your limbs from your worthless bodies, and my children shall feed upon your entrails!” With that, the arena gate opened again, and to Ryoumou’s horror a great chromatic dragon flew over the threshold; astride the beast’s back sat Rend Blackhand. Fear set into the hearts of the Molten Flan Babies, yet they had nowhere else to run: With a powerful cry they charged the great beast and, after a fierce battle, sent both mount and rider crashing lifelessly to the ground.

Victor Nefarius stood and stared at the party for a moment in what appeared to be utter disbelief, then seemed to regain his composure. He smiled menacingly at them, and strode away from the balcony. In the distance, they heard his voice calling to an unseen servant: “Drakkisath! We have guests. Ensure you extend them the best hospitality!” Ryoumou recognized the name from the letter they’d found earlier: Drakkisath, keeper of the brand that would allow them passage into the lair of the Blackwing. Their goal was near!

A short passage behind the arena led the party toward the top of Blackrock Spire, and to the imposing General Drakkisath and his Chromatic guardians. “Lord Nefarius seems to think that combat with you shall be worth our time,” Drakkisath hissed. “Do not disappoint me, maggots!” With that, he charged at them with his great sword, and the Molten Flan Babies once again found themselves fighting for their lives.

The battle was fiercer than any Ryoumou had ever faced; even with the Molten Flan Babies’ best warriors in the fray, the outcome of the battle was in question several times. At last, with a great roar, Drakkisath slumped to the ground, defeated. “I have underestimated your skill, mortals,” he gasped. “It shall not happen a second time!” With those words, Drakkisath unfurled his wings and flew into the depths of the spire, leaving behind an orb that could only be the brand. Remembering the letter, Ryoumou pressed her hand to the orb, and suddenly her mind was flooded with images: A swamp, a great cavern, dragons of every color scattered to every corner of Azeroth, an amulet, a great black dragon filled with rage… when she came to, the only reminder of the ordeal was a glowing glyph upon her hand; she now bore the mark of the Blackwing.

Exhausted but triumphant, the Molten Flan Babies returned to Thrall and told him all that had been revealed to them. The Warchief sat in shocked silence, then shook his head in disbelief. “Rend Blackhand, a puppet of the Black Dragonflight. A new, more powerful dragonflight than any Azeroth has seen before.” Thrall slumped in his chair. “Honored guild of the Horde, this is beyond my capacity to battle against. I fully believe that this Victor Nefarius you saw was, in fact, Nefarian – the son of Deathwing and the ruler of the Black Dragonflight in Azeroth. If this is true, then you will not be able to combat him as you are now. You will need protection that only the Black Dragonflight can provide, and they will not give it to you willingly…

…so you must take it by force.

There is a way to do this, and to simultaneously strike at this ‘Chromatic Dragonflight.’ If Nefarian is indeed the new ruler of the Blackwing, then there is only one possible source for his eggs. Defeat her and claim her scales; this will gain you the protection you require, while dealing a fatal blow to the Blackwing.”

Thrall clenched his fist. “You must destroy Nefarian’s sister, Onyxia…”

Finally it’s happened to me…

The messenger appeared distraught as he barged into Warchief Thrall’s throne room. She couldn’t hear the hushed words that were spoken, but as the herald delivered his mysterious message Ryoumou sensed a sudden surge of urgency in the Warchief’s demeanor that she had never before seen; with every word spoken, Thrall’s eyes grew wider and his muscles tensed, though Ryoumou could not tell whether it was in anger, or anticipation of battle. Finally, the messenger dashed out the door to parts unknown, and Thrall beckoned Ryoumou hurriedly to his throne.

“Blood-elf, the opportunity for your guild to finally prove its true worth to me has arrived. Through an act of treason and treachery, the Princess of Ironforge has fallen into the hands of the Dark Iron Dwarves. My herald brings me news that she even now stands ensorcelled beside the throne of Tharussian, the Emperor of Shadowforge City.

Go to the depths of Blackrock Mountain, Ryoumou. Kill Emperor Tharussian. See the princess delivered safely to Ironforge.

If you do this, not only will your guild have proven itself irrefutably to me and to the Horde, but the Molten Flan Babies will also be solely responsible for paving the way to a true peace between the Horde and the Alliance.

Now, go.”

Ryoumou’s heart soared; finally, the promise she made to herself would be fulfilled, and it would begin at the very core of the heartless obsidian beast itself. She left Thrall’s throne and sent word to her guildmates, informing them of this opportunity for glory. The responses came quickly: the deed would be done, for the glory of the Horde and the Molten Flan Babies, and the operation would begin immediately.

The windrider set down in the Searing Gorge and, for the second time, Ryoumou stepped into the cavernous throat of Blackrock Mountain. The fears she had felt during her first trek were allayed; she was now with powerful friends, and together they would easily purge the depths of Blackrock Mountain. The party carefully walked down the chains that suspended Forgewright’s tomb over the mountain’s molten belly, and made their way into the cavernous entrance to Shadowforge City.

As they navigated the tunnels of Blackrock’s depths, they spied their first obstacle: The great golem lord, Bael’gar. Ryoumou’s grip tightened on her hammer; she had heard tales of Shadowforge’s great guardian before, as it was his “children” that had earned her guild their name. This trip had proved fortuitous indeed: An opportunity for not only glory, but revenge? Ryoumou let out a warcry, and together the party charged the great beast and his molten spawn.

Bael’gar fell swiftly with a great crash, and his children succumbed to the blows of their weapons. The Molten Flan Babies had bested the children of Bael’gar. Justice had been done.

With the giant vanquished, the Flan Babies entered the great city of Shadowforge; as they did, Ryoumou’s breath caught. When her people had been partnered with the Alliance, she had once set foot into the city of Ironforge, and had been awed by its craftsmanship. Now, as she stared slack-jawed across the streets of Shadowforge, a different kind of awe struck her: Where Ironforge was simultaneously stark, utilitarian and strangely inviting, Shadowforge was purely oppressive. Troops marched through its halls with no regard for the citizens within, and pieces of their great war machines hung in the streets as though advertising their intent to march across the whole of Azeroth, sowing discord and destruction in their wake.

Ryoumou’s eyes narrowed. She would not allow this to be.

As the group delved further into the city, they found themselves beset by fire elementals. Unlike the mindless summoned pets she had faced countless times before, however, Ryoumou sensed something different about these creatures: A genuine intelligence and a sense of purpose. Something was not right here; these elementals were not servants, they seemed more like emissaries. Her fears were confirmed when the party slew the great elemental lord, Incendius, at the heart of the city: As he perished, he spoke a single name – Ragnaros.

Ryoumou’s heart sunk in dismay; she had heard this name before, whispered fearfully among the dwarves of Ironforge: Ragnaros, the elemental Lord of Fire, so feared that the dwarven clans of Bronzebeard and Wildhammer dared not approach Blackrock Mountain upon his summoning. Suddenly, it all became clear: Ragnaros was pulling the strings of Emperor Tharussian, and by proxy the entire city of Shadowforge. It was Ragnaros’ firey poison that had turned once fertile land into the Searing Gorge and the Burning Steppes. If Ryoumou was truly meant to cleanse this mountain, she would have to pass through the gate to the elemental plane of Fire itself, and battle Ragnaros within the walls of his own keep. For now, though, a task was still before her, and she would have to finish it before daring to enter Ragnaros’ domain.

The Molten Flan Babies quickly moved through Shadowforge, blazing a path through the halls of Tharussian’s palace, and into the great throneroom of Emperor Tharussian himself. Despite their better efforts, Tharussian and his senators fell swiftly beneath the blows of the group, until finally, the hall fell silent. The Dark Iron Dwarves had been bested, and Princess Moira Bronzebeard of Ironforge was free. However, as Ryoumou extended her hand to the princess, Moira slapped it away angrily.

“Do not offer me hands of friendship, Blood-elf!” Moira spat. “You and your band of hoodlums have slain my husband. My unborn child will have no father, thanks to your efforts.” The princess allowed a sinister smile to cross her lips. “Confused? I was the one who sent word to the Dark Iron Dwarves. I was the one who betrayed my brethren to their deaths. There was no sorcery; my child was ever meant to be the union of Dark Iron and Bronzebeard. My child shall sit on the throne of Ironforge, and spread the will of the Dark Iron Dwarves and of Ragnaros. Now, even though the Dark Iron lay slain by your hand, rest assured that my child will know of your deeds this day, and will not be kind to your Horde when that day comes.”

“Go now, pet of Thrall. Go and tell your Warchief the results of his meddling.” With that, Moira strode into the depths of the city.

Dismayed, the Molten Flan Babies returned to Thrall and informed him of their discoveries. Thrall’s skin blanched as they told him the tale of Moira’s betrayal, and of her plan to subvert the Alliance from within. “You have uncovered a grievous plot,” exclaimed Thrall, “and the involvement of Ragnaros makes this situation all the more dire. However, as terrible as this revelation may be, another treacherous lion has reared its head within Blackrock Mountain, and the Molten Flan Babies have proven that they are the only ones fit to handle the task at hand.”

Ryoumou listened to Thrall’s tale, as her guild prepared for another trek into Blackrock…

It’s close to midnight, and something evil’s lurking in the dark…

As she looked up from the foot of Blackrock Mountain, Ryoumou’s blood chilled in her veins and the wind caught in her breast… and yet she could not tear her eyes away.

It wasn’t as if she’d never heard of the place, or even seen it; she’d spied the obsidian eyesore on the horizon from the back of many a Windrider, and had laughed at the stories of death told by the few within her guild who had returned from its halls. But now, standing before the gruesome, majestic mass of the mountain itself, it was easy to believe that every single one of those stories was indeed true. The rational part of her begged her to step away; to return to her tasks within the Searing Gorge, but the spirit of the adventurer within her compelled her feet forward.

The gates of Blackrock, forged in forgotten times by a forgotten people, loomed ajar and seemingly abandoned by their masters. As she stepped over the threshold, Ryoumou’s plate-clad footfalls echoed against the ancient, lonely onyx floorstones. It sounded as though she was completely alone within the fortress; a concept that, somehow, made her more than a little uneasy. The hall twisted and curved into what seemed like eternity, and around every corner Ryoumou’s imagination conjured the dragons and demons that never came. With all of the horrors that she envisioned, however, nothing in the wildest corners of her mind could have possibly prepared her for what lay around the final bend…

The hall ended within the great cauldron of the volcano, where enormous fortresses hewn from its rock loomed as though awaiting their next meal. At the heart of the cauldron, suspended impossibly by great chains bolted into the surrounding rock, a great island of obsidian hovered precariously above the mountain’s molten core. Somewhere unseen overhead, Ryoumou could hear the flapping of great wings and, elsewhere within the fortresses of Blackrock, the clank of pickaxes and drunken chants of Dwarven miners. Around her, the rock was crumbling; signs of struggle, strife and war within the bowel of the mountain itself – it was obvious that the denizens of Blackrock were in constant combat with each other.

As she stood within the heat of the mountain’s heart, Ryoumou made a promise to herself: When she had seen more of the world of Azeroth, she would gather her bretheren, return to this place and cleanse the filth from its halls in the name of the Molten Flan Babies. She stared a moment more at the imposing sight, then turned and retraced her steps back to the lonely gates, her vigor renewed and her purpose clear:

“The whole of Blackrock, from the depths of its molten core to the lair of the Black Dragonflight, and even to the uppermost reaches of its spire, shall be purged of its warmongering inhabitants,” she vowed.

“This, I swear.”