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Blood of the North

Duskwood was as dead as ever. The sickly dark green of the haunted forest permeated the land, laying a diseased pall over its massive forests and scattered settlements. No birdsong was heard, and not even the sound of trees groaning would appear to break the ghastly silence. It was as if something absorbed and shut out the normally constant voices of the shadowy woods.
Meanwhile, the situation at the crypts was reversed. The normally chilling silence of the long-abandoned graves was here broken by heavy footsteps. This was the lair of Bane, a zealous Scourge remnant whose leader’s name was feared even far from Duskwood - Vaxir.

That fear did not deter the invader. A metal revenant from the wastes of the far north, its relentless gait would slow for neither friend nor foe. Fully half again the height of a man from head to heels, it was a plated behemoth whose name was equally known to the monster of the crypts, and today it would meet its like.
‘Logical.’, the Black Queen thought, as she approached the ornate but decayed entrance to the crypt, large enough to house even her large form. Bloodstains, some very old but still uncleaned, were loosely scattered across every surface, and became more intense further in. ‘Most would choose mobility as a way to avoid being attacked. But you chose a single place, relying on the haunted forests and fear-fuelled rumours to keep invaders at bay. Befitting of your nature.’

The stairs of the crypt led downward, and what little light was available from the night above quickly abandoned the metal giant. Though the darkness did not hinder her in the slightest, it made her all the more visible in the broken halls below as her own armour illuminated its surroundings with the cold blue light of death.
Heavy footstep after heavy footstep echoed through the cavernous catacombs. If someone was indeed hiding here, it would surely be alerted. She didn’t care. In fact, she welcomed it. No need to spend longer time looking for the crypts’ monstrous inhabitant than necessary.

It was not even twenty seconds later that the scavenger struck. A ravaged, geist-like creature, with jaws slick of blood pounced from behind a corner, leapt onto the massive invader with a hungry snarl. The Black Queen did not hesitate a moment to intercept its attack, grabbing its leg with her clawed gauntlet. The creature snarled in protest and squirmed in her grasp, but her hold was true and she mercilessly smashed it into the opposite stone wall. Hitting the stone head first, the impact was enough to burst its head like an overripe fruit, with suitably macabre results.
‘And that is the welcoming committee.’ the Black Queen thought. Very fitting indeed. The creature’s body was broken, but it was still recognisable as once having been human. It had been twisted by Scourge magics into a pitiful being that feasted on carrion and existed for little else. Its chest, exposed and still somewhat intact, bore the clawmark of Bane. Vaxir’s servants had found her. The Black Queen moved on.

Perhaps the crypt’s inhabitants would not attack the invader after the fate of their ally, or perhaps some other reason or will held them back, but she reached the bottom chamber without further incident. The air was heavy with the bronzed scent of blood and the putrid stench of rotting meat, and a low growling greeted her as she arrived into the slaughterhouse some perhaps would call ‘lair’. It was indeed there that the red giant waited.

Monster stared at monster as the metal colossus gazed upon its fleshy counterpart. Wearing only partially covering armour, the behemoth was still even larger than the Black Queen. She had never seen its equal. No dark bestiary would incude its description for fear of being ridiculed, no scholar would accept such a specimen could exist. A hundred souls’ worth of hatred boiled in its red eyes, and its swelling, bulging muscles told of unnatural strength beyond what even its hulking bulk would imply. A sword longer than any man was bound to its back, with another smaller blade tied to its waist. It did not display the clawed gauntlets of the Black Queen, but rather long, black talons jutting from its unarmoured fingers. There was nothing subtle about Vaxir, no finesse, no stealth. This was a killing machine, a massive monster whose unstoppable bloodthirst and rage was held in check by a bestial intellect.

Vaxir was first to break the silence. She greeted her visitor with a feral sound, something between a snake’s hiss, a lion’s roar and a wolf’s snarl. The Black Queen stared blankly in return. ‘You sound angered.’ The Black Queen’s powerful words had a very intense echo, like a dark choir of varying voices speaking in unison beneath it. At the bottom, the sound of a mature woman was still recognisable, but the voice was nonetheless very far from normal.

The Blood Master narrowed her eyes. This intruder was very different from any other. ‘My wrath should come as no surprise.’ She spoke with a low, growling, bestial voice, still tinted with the distinct echo of a Death Knight She remained in a low stance, one hand on the floor and the other held back, ready to pounce or simply rise. As she spoke, she revealed her long fangs.

‘Indeed.’ The Black Queen raised Runefang and let it rest on her shoulderpad, inside of the shoulder-blade. Her expression was unreadable behind her helmet. She took a step forward.

‘What do you want?’ The red giant asked her. ‘I know of you… You betrayed our King.’

The Black Queen considered giving her opinion on their failure of a ‘king’ but she decided that it was counterproductive to her plans for now. ‘Our differences are irrelevant.’ Vaxir tilted her head slightly as the ‘guest’ continued. ‘I have a proposal.’



Lords of the Night

Vaxir did not respond, at first. She inclined her chin and let loose a rumble in her monstrous throat, one that could be thought of as mulling something over. ‘Go on.’ she almost spat, lips curling over her teeth, each freshly stained. ‘Curiosity...’
The Black Queen shifted weight to her back foot and folded her large, armoured arms, the low, frigid sound of metal grinding against metal fully perceptible to Vaxir’s large ears. ‘You have hidden down here a long time, have you not? Preying upon travellers and foolhardy bounty-hunters?’

‘Wherever my hunt takes me… And here… My Bane find it easier.’

‘Our loyalties differ. You answer to your dead king still, where mine lie only with myself. But despite this, there is a matter that concerns us both.’

The behemoth snapped her teeth together and hunched down longer in her strange anger. ‘Go. On...’

The Black Queen unfolded her arms calmly, seemingly unconcerned with her host’s impatience. ‘I do not know how aware you are of the world’s events, but a great threat looms just beyond the horizon. The demons of the Burning Legion draw ever closer. They are not here yet, but they will come sooner or later. And if they are not halted, they will tear this world apart. I will not let that happen. And, I suspect, neither would you.’

Vaxir rolled a snort, straightening up with a few sickening cracks sounding down her spine, only to snort again and again as though angered by the Black Queen’s words. ‘DEMONS. MGGGggrrrhhhh… Any that come close… I will DRINK THEIR BLOOD!’

‘If this world is destroyed, the Scourge’s dark goals are unmade, and you will never have the chance to lay eyes on your dark master again. Look at the world around you, ‘Blood Master’. It holds its breath in anticipation for the coming storm. And if we fail to brace before it hits… It will rip us up in it, even if it can’t bend our knee. Your lair here is suitable for your little hunts, perhaps, but it will not help you when the demons wash over the land. Eventually you must return to the world outside, and hurl the demons back into the nether.
I do not propose an alliance. Such a thing is not possible between us, nor would either of us want one. What I do propose is a pact.’

The red giant snapped her teeth once more, slowly tensing her fingers open and closed on both hands. ‘I do not always linger here… Grrrgghhh… Define -pact-.’

The Black Queen continued. ‘Your servants are weak, but you are strong. I could not care less for the suffering of this world’s people, but I will -not- see it unmade.’

‘Yet...’

The Black Queen inclined her head and narrowed her eyes at Vaxir as the crimson monstrosity spoke.

‘Pact… Pact… Pact… PACT. What of it?’

‘Simple. I am not without my own servants. The Legion of Chaos, serving my purposes on the newly ‘rediscovered’ world of Draenor. Preparations are being made.
We do not know when the demons come. It could be in a month, or a year. But when they do, you will stand at my side, and you will crush the spines of a thousand demons in your insatiable maw.’

As the Black Queen mentioned crushing things in her maw, Vaxir couldn’t help her lips twitching upwards, akin to a lion when threatening, baring her teeth with peeling lips. ‘Yess...’

‘It is your...’ The Black Queen halted for the merest moment, out of disgust, or perhaps first considering a less flattering word. ‘Speciality.’

‘What demons… are devoured here are WEAK and PATHETIC… No MEAT ON THEIR BONES...’

The Black Queen remained unfazed by the rising anger of the hulking colossus before her. ‘The Legion that is coming is both without number and massive in strength. A suitable feast for you, I am sure.’

Vaxir turned of a sudden, lifting her plated fist into the air and crashing it down into a nearby murky table, utterly destroying it. ‘PESTS!’

The Black Queen tilted her head ever so slightly and fondled the grip of her axe. ‘You did not ask who I was… You either do not care, or you already know. Despite your relative isolation, I can’t help but suspect the latter.’

‘I find out -everything-... I know who you are.’

‘So you are not as isolated as it first seemed. Good. Then you know what to expect.’

The smaller of the two giants began turning back towards the exit. ‘I assume you can stay alive on your own until the time has come. We will meet again.’

Vaxir grumbled lowly and watched her walk out. After a while, she returned her attention to the meal waiting further inside, the meal that had been so rudely interrupted. The footsteps faded with time.
Silence once more descended upon the crypt.


Bringer of Ruin

Four weeks later

She grasped the edge of the platform. The ice crumbled slightly under her fingers. She did the same with her other hand, and heaved herself up. For days now she had walked across the wastes, without pause or deviating from the route.

The edge of Icecrown and Storm Peaks was a curious place. Showing neither the terrifying darkness of Icecrown’s heart nor the blinding light of the Peaks’ snow cover, it was intermixed snow and ice, with even some rock appearing here and there. Life had even begun to return, years after the Lichfall. It would take time, but it was coming.

For now, that did not matter. Climbing up another sheer ice wall, she recognised that her journey was soon at an end. The sound of chainmail and metal plates moving was matched only by the sound of her metal bootsoles striking the ice below.

In Duskwood, the Black Queen’s intimidating presence had been rivalled by the presence of her bloody counterpart, but here, in the frozen north, her magnificence was unmatched. Like a dark, frigid deity given physical form, she strode across the cold vista as though it was part of her body, each great footstep followed by a dark metallic echo singing through the ice.

Grauch, they called him. A blue proto-drake of the Storm Peaks, infamous not for abnormal size or speed but for his magical attunement to the elements of his desolate home, he was the sole reason that the great warrior had come to his homeland. The last time she saw him, she had not needed him, but times change.

She remembered the fate of the Dies Irae. It was one of many sacrifices that had to be made. After the fateful battle many months ago to the southwest, she had lost many things, and one of them was control of the gigantic armoured horse that had until then served as her mount. Losing the bond to its rider so suddenly drove the beast into a savage insanity, and now it will wander Icecrown without goal or purpose until the day it falls apart. She had tried to recover it, of course, but it was of no use. The creature was lost, and so a replacement had to be found.

The great Proto-drakes of Northrend were famed for their power and savagery, and very few outside of the Vrykul had managed to master one as a mount. If her plan succeeded, she would do that and more.

She entered an icy expanse the size of the Stormwind Trade District, its edges barred off by massive walls of ice. Its ground was not flat like the ice of a still lake, but rather filled with sharp and curved formations, as if a raging sea was frozen in an instant. The wave-like shapes formed a grand labyrinth, and only the great, irregular ice walls jutting up spoke of an end to the place. She gazed upon the area silently. Here is where she saw him last time, when she was flying past above on the Dies Irae’s back. If he had moved his nest, she might never find him again. But that was a risk she had to take. Resuming her advance, she entered the labyrinth.

After two hours of walking, she halted and removed her hand from the left wall of the path. By always sticking to the left, she ensured that she methodically searched the labyrinth without getting lost or looking at the same place twice, and by now she estimated that she had searched half the labyrinth. If she continued, she would be done in two hours more. But that is not why she stopped.

Not far in front of her, she saw someone. She narrowed her eyes. The light radiating off the being made it easily visible in the evening gloom. She soon recognised who he was. Eliphas Varah’elan, the Paladin.

His armour, scaled plate of a fiery orange, was very distinct in design, and his greatsword was visible in his hand. He had his back turned against her, and it appeared she had not seen him yet. She had no doubts that he would very soon, though. Her every footstep was noisy, even though the crystal-like labyrinth absorbed sound in a curious manner.

‘Paladin.’

He span around on the spot. Curiously, she saw no immediate reason for him to have followed her. It was unlikely that he knew of Grauch’s presence, or even his existence. In all likelihood, he had just followed her footsteps, seeking her and her alone.

He grimaced, though it was barely discernable beneath his unique helmet. ‘Monster. The day of vengeance has come.’

‘Monster…’

She looked around, and then continued.

‘This is the land of monsters, indeed. Gods and monsters. Perhaps, here you will find both.’

‘You are no god, no matter what your deluded followers think. Gods are eternal. You, as you will find out, are not.’

‘And you think you could defeat me?’

‘Like this? No. But one way or another, Bringer of Ruin, this day you fall.’

He lifted a hammer from his belt and hurled it at the Black Queen. It missed, lodging itself into the ice wall directly behind her.

‘You are strong, Paladin. But you are far from strong enough.’

‘Power is not everything.’

Eliphas thrust his hand forward, a beam of blinding Light erupting from his palm and flying towards his inhumanly large opponent. She did not attempt to dodge it. This, too, missed, or so it seemed at first. The beam struck his hammer and was reflected back, cutting into the ice the Queen was standing on. Too late realising the danger, she stepped forward, but as she did so the beam had cut through the ice, causing it to collapse under her feet.

As she fell through darkness, her thoughts were not on anger, but rather mild surprise that she had not considered the possibility of the ice not being solid. She did not fear the fall, for physical trauma posed little danger to her, but it would inevitably cost her a lot of time – time she could scarcely afford to waste.

Moments later she crashed down into water below, sending a cascade of the cold fluid splashing across the room. Far beneath the surface, she found herself in an ice cave, with a shallow pool of almost-frozen water at its center. She rose to her feet – for the pool was not deeper than what she could wade in – and looked around. It was dark, with only very little light coming in from above, and the cave entrance ahead. The darkness was no hindrance for the Black Queen, as her eyes saw well regardless of illumination, so she moved on.

Through winding tunnels, akin to the body of a long, writhing snake, the path went. Water dripped from the ceiling, and she had to crouch slightly to continue as the tunnel became narrower.

Finally, she entered a larger cave, one that ended in another small tunnel on the far end, and it is there that she saw him.

While most would say that Grauch is not famous for his size, upon seeing him they would say differently. The gargantuan Proto-drake was at least twenty feet from nose to tail tip, and likely larger. Its wing span was over twice its length, and its height was enormous, making the Queen herself look small. Once again, she found herself surprised – she had not taken into account the natural growth of Proto-drakes, and just how fast it was. But it would serve her well. The Grauch of legend would barely be able to accommodate her, whereas this one was of perfect size to serve as a mount.

She stepped further into the chamber as the monstrous creature noticed its guest. Grauch’s eyes were filled with a bestial intelligence that the Black Queen found amusingly similar to that of Vaxir. As she walked across the cave, his eyes followed her calmly, his wings pulled up to his body.

‘A magnificent beast, are you not?’

He did not respond. She turned her eyes to the cave opening on the other end.

‘Ah, I see. You’re trapped here. Your size became so great it prevented your escape. Tell me, Grauch, how did you survive in here without prey to hunt? A beast of your size must have a voracious appetite.’

The answer to that question, too, soon became apparent. Three brutalised skeletons, too large even to be Tauren, were scattered across the cave. Vrykul.

‘They raised you… Fed you… Worshipped you? Yet when your hunger became too great, you devoured them instead?’

She let out a cold, cold laugh.

‘You will do just fine. Rejoice, for your imprisonment is at an end.’

Gathering her magic, she cast forth a spell, an incandescent bolt of frozen energies that smashed into the wall around the opening like the hammer of the gods. The wall shattered, greatly widening the opening. Grauch glanced at the opening, looking as hopeful as a Proto-drake could, before turning his eyes back to the intruder.

‘I name you Ruin.’

He did not even have time to roar as she rammed Runefang through his jaw from below and into his skull, cleaving through his flesh like fabric. With an agonised scream, Grauch collapsed forward onto the ground, his life bleeding out through the wound.

Slashing the air once to shake off some of the blood and then returning Runefang to her back, the Black Queen looked over the creature. She could see where he could be augmented with armour plates, spikes added to his talons, and the cold fire of Icecrown joined to his eyes, breath, and heart.

Not one hour later, a new terrifying roar was added to the haunting screams of the north.

Heart of Ice

Shadowmoon Valley. It was a broken land. The Draenei spoke of its glorious past, with purple hills and beautiful forests, but now it was a desolate realm. The black ash plains were scattered with green fire, the fel remnants of demons both past and present. The Valley had seen much fighting, both before and after its ruination, and it remained a very dangerous land indeed.

The Black Queen set down one of her great plate boots, throwing up a small cloud of ashes and dust. This land was unfamiliar to her, and she looked equally out of place in it. The sharp metal bulk of her armour and its glowing runes made her easily visible despite the gloomy landscape. With every heavy step, her warplate shuddered slightly, its great armour plates displaying their own weight. As she strode through what could only in the vaguest of terms be called an evening, her companion hurried his steps to keep up with his monstrous lord.

Akaron Varah'elan was an elf of respectable height and build, and while his Queen was easily half again his height, he managed to keep a dignified appearance. Clad in black cultist robes, of somewhat generic design but with visible insignia denoting his allegiance, he looked more like a dark scholar where his master was a monstrous knight of death.

He had spent the last hours wondering why his presence was deemed necessary, for usually the leader of the Legion of Chaos carried out her tasks alone, and he could not imagine a challenge she could not manage yet he alone could contribute meaningfully to. He was not about to ask, of course. His faith in the Black Queen was absolute. But still curiosity gnawed on him, and eventually he succumbed.

'My Queen. What are we going to-'

'Ten minutes ahead of us lies Blazefane Fortress. It is a fel orc stronghold loyal to the Burning Legion. After Illidan's death, these orcs moved into the abandoned fortress and have held it since.'

Akaron blinked. He liked to think he had a strong voice. It was rather deep by elven standards, and with it he had charmed a lady or two in his time. His Queen's voice, though, was a different thing altogether. It almost sounded like several women speaking in unison, the blade-sharp sound accompanied by a distinct Death Knight echo. It was a voice used to being in command, and whose confidence was total. Truly, this was the voice of a dark monarch.

'My Queen, are we attacking the fortress?'

'Not this time. They have offered a... deal.'

He gave her a puzzled look. She did not return it.

'Tell me, Akaron, do you know the name Darkhoof?'

He nodded. Ahote Darkhoof Windfall was a notable past servant of the Black Queen, rising to the rank of Dread General before betraying her. Now, he was a hated enemy.

'I do.'

'The orcs say they have captured him.'

'They captured him? What price did they demand for him?'

'They did not say. It will be apparent soon enough.'

He pondered this. What would the fel orcs demand of the Legion of Chaos? Gold? Slaves? Information? None of it made sense. All of it was something they could get easier elsewhere. If they extended such an offer, then surely they wanted something they could only get from the Black Queen’s men.

Twelve minutes later the two reached the top of a hill, showing them the little valley below. On the other side, perhaps two thousand steps from the gaping edge into the abyss beyond Outland, sat Blazefane Fortress, placed on the top of a tall hill with its back joined into the mountains.

Jagged and sharp in design, it had once been an intimidating stronghold, but it appeared age had taken its toll on its scorched roofs and battered walls. Normally, one could be forgiven for assuming it was but a ruin, its garrison long dead. However, two things gave it away. First, plenty of fires were visible, even at this distance, and some even moved. Second, the sound of activity was constant, low but definitely audible.

Akaron looked over the fortress. ‘There’s more of them than I thought. Must be hundreds… Maybe even thousands.’

The Black Queen didn’t answer.









Up close, what little remained of the stronghold’s illusion of abandonment faded. The great walls were dirty, but entirely functional, reinforced where needed and with additional battlements and spikes where appropriate. Akaron looked at the designs, crude but distinctive, and tried to match them with fel orc warlords he knew of. His master, instead, paid more attention to their locations and nature, concluding that whoever led them had limited resources but exceptional knowledge.

The front gate of the fortress appeared to have been torn in half at some point in the past, but had been reforged and embossed with demonic sigils. Now, the horned skull adorning its center vigilantly observed the outsiders.

Akaron drew breath to speak. They had been observed all the way to the gate, but none had acknowledged their arrival with either greetings or arrows. He intended to announce that the Black Queen in person had arrived to Blazefane, and demand proper respect. He never had time to do so, for an armoured hand larger than his head held him back. ‘Wait.’

Painfully slowly, with a grinding noise like giant’s teeth, the gate opened.

The first sight that met the two was activity. The fel orcs were not waiting impassively. Swarms of peons carried building materials while their foremen whipped them on. Craftsmen repaired holes in buildings, and built new ones. Masses of soldiers were at rest, sitting around fires, eating various crudely cooked meat dishes. Like an insect hive, everyone was either busy with something, or going somewhere. In front of the two visitors were six brutish-looking guards, along with one in bronze-edged armour who carried a demon-skull insignia.

The Black Queen spoke first, interrupting the orc’s attempt. ‘Are you Garka Bloodclaw?’

‘No. I am guard captain Kezgor.’

‘Where is your leader?’

He shrugged and glanced at the others. ‘Back in the keep. Main entrance. Don’t try anything funny, or else my boys will throw you off the edge, into the nether.’

The orc walked off, shaking his head and muttered something under his breath. The visitors resumed their advance towards the gate the guard captain had indicated. Once at the entrance to the keep, they halted. ‘Akaron, you will stay here. If anything these orcs do changes, you will find and inform me without hesitation.’ He bowed deeply and obeyed as she continued inside.

The interior of the keep was an echo of the outside. Workers went back and forth, carrying metal, wood or orders. Finding the path was easy, for only one way was more than sparsely lit. The wooden floor groaned painfully under her footfalls. Many corridors were large enough for five men to walk abreast, but the peons and guards who crossed her path still kept away as much as they could, even pressing towards the walls in some cases. She guessed that they either feared her, were disgusted by her, or were under orders to not interfere. She concluded that all of them was the most likely option.

It was only a matter of minutes before she reached the throne room, which she noted was very far back in the keep itself. On top of a rugged, primitive throne sat an especially large and fel-tainted orc, wearing armour with more spikes than seemed practical and armed with a great clawed gauntlet. Garka Bloodclaw, no doubt. What drew almost all of her attention, however, was the other visitor in the room. Demon.

Tall, lithe, with purple flesh, multiple arms and an impossibly large headpiece, the Black Queen immediately recognised the demon as one of the fel chaplains and emissaries in the Burning Legion, the Shivarra. Wearing little clothing but many weapons, it was one of the higher ranked sub-species of demon, and the presence of one was always a sure indicator of their interest in an area.

‘Good… I see Tal Minn’da has joined us for negotiations.’ The demon drew out the last word like a hissing snake. The Black Queen did not know how the demon had learned her true name, but it was a concern she kept for later.

‘Tell me where Darkhoof is, or I will tear your fortress apart until I find him.’

‘Now, now.’ the orc in the throne said. The Black Queen noticed he was rather corpulent by orcish standards, though he also had a fair deal of muscle. ‘There is no need to be so brash. I have an army here. Two thousand grunts, a hundred wolfriders, and the support of our demonic allies. Do not throw away your life… or should I say your un-life?’

She thought quickly. Two thousand? Possible, but unlikely. So many warriors were unlikely to have gone unnoticed, and what she had seen outside, while impressive, was not two thousand soldiers. And where did he get them from? Processing this line of thought in the back of her mind, she decided to play his game as long as she had nothing to lose.

‘What do you demand for Darkhoof, orc?’

With a triumphant grin, he rubbed his hands together in a manner more suited of a goblin than a tusked red orc. The demon stared at him in a manner that was either displeased, or possibly hurried. He continued. ‘The price I was going to ask for was a ship, your ship, so that I could send a force to your world and pillage with ease. However, with the arrival of our dear friend Kerala over there, plans changed.’ The Shivarra changed expression into a cunning smile.

The Black Queen looked between the two. There was no way in hell she’d give them the Abyssal Reaver, even for Darkhoof. The old Dominus Regina would have been one thing, but the Reaver was irreplaceable and surrendering it would mean losing one of her most powerful assets.

Kerala stared into her eyes. ‘We will have your ship regardless, of course, but we decided to ask for more than that.’

Predicting danger, the Black Queen drew Runefang, the great weapon sliding from her back and pulsating hungrily in her grasp. A moment later, something large and grey struck her from the side, and the world exploded in green fire.









Ironically, everything was dark.

Many times, she had confronted others in the darkness. There, their vision had been impaired, whereas her own was as clear as in the bright of day. But here, she could see nothing. Here, someone did the same to her. The irony made her smile.

She noticed she was not in her armour. Without it, she felt vulnerable, exposed… weak. An uncomfortable thought struck her. Was she dead?

‘No.’

She turned around to face whoever spoke.

The speaker wore her armour.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am who you could be.’

The stranger stepped forward, letting the Black Queen take a good look. The armour looked like hers, but it had been changed. Curved black horns, large claws, and jagged black spikes had seemingly penetrated her armour from within. Green glow replaced the icy blue. Demonic runes adorned the plating, with fel fire burning from her pauldrons and helm. A pair of huge black wings sprouted from her back, flapping once.

‘You. You are-’

-the future. And what a future! She looked around herself. The victory had been total. Around her, the still-burning corpses of men, elves, orcs, and others were spread. Their bodies were being dragged, formed into a great and terrible rune by her servants so that their souls would belong to their master. They, too, were blessed, as she had been. The many gifts brought by the demons had each left their mark on the flesh and soul of the Black Queen’s men.

There was Drokash, the brutal Centurion, the many mutated spikes on his flesh echoing the burning ruin surrounding them. There was Vikras, the clever Centurion, with multiple fleshy eyes flaming on his forehead, barking orders. There was Darkhoof, his loyalty resworn, mounted atop a massive felhound. Each one was twice as powerful as they had been years ago, before the gift. She lifted the banner in her left fist to the skies, the visage of Sargeras-

‘-What… What is this?’ The Black Queen stared blankly at her fel-touched counterpart.

‘It is you.’

She looked at her hands and shook her head. ‘This is not me. You lie.’

‘You see the victory ahead. You know it is not a lie.’

She gritted her teeth and shook her head. That she would succumb to the demonic-

-corruption, corruption that ran through her veins, burned in her eyes, seared the skies and incinerated her enemies. There were not many enemies left now. Soon another hold would fall, yet another pocket of resistance falling to the tightening grasp of the Legion.

Before her, a Paladin motioned for his allies to fall back, and hefted his warhammer. Clearly a hero, one of the few to survive, he was a man of skill and steel. She anticipated the battle to come, another opportunity to show the world her might. He charged. She smiled warmly and drew Runefang, its eerie emerald sheen bathing their surroundings in ghastly radiance. She lifted it, ready to intercept his charge, when a fiery blast struck him from his feet. Behind her, demons were hurling their fire at the defenders. She looked him in the eyes as he died, seeing his desperation, his grief-

-she staggered and fell to one knee. ‘This… it is wrong.’

‘It is right. It is -your- right. It is your destiny.’

‘How can this be my destiny? The threads of the future remain unwoven.’

‘That is what you have believed, until now.’

She rose to her feet and stepped forward-

-into the inferno. All around her, the fire consumed. The entire world was burning away into nothingness. The last resisting soul had fallen, and the only ones left were hiding, doing their utmost to escape the Legion’s gaze. Their hope for survival was but folly, for in mere moments their world would be torn asunder, and then they would be no more.

Victory was total, indeed. She was so mighty. The stars themselves would learn to fear her name, to fear her new power. She turned her gaze to one of the great doomguards by her side. It backed away and cowered in fear as it noticed her attention. What had her old days of rule been other than a cruel joke, a mockery of the true power that now obeyed her? What had she ruled over, other than scraps and a few outcasts? Now, she was a lord of all around her. The power-

‘-is not mine.’

She staggered again and almost fell flat, but managed to keep her footing.

‘What did you say?’

‘You heard what I said. The power is tainted. It is impure. I would be a master, but also a slave. Keep your glorified chains. Keep them for someone weak enough to accept them.’

‘You have only seen a fraction of the power awaiting you.’

‘And I need to see no more. I would sooner throw Runefang into the sea than to offer it to Sargeras.’

‘Do not throw away this one chance!’

‘Let your beloved demon master come. I will drag him into oblivion with my own hands.’

She ran forward and shoulder-charged her demonic visage.










She slowly opened her eyes. She saw wood, stone, and metal. A roof.

She heard something. Voices. Chanting. She lifted her head. The voices became silent. She lashed out with her hand and caught something. A leg. She rose to her knees, then her feet. She swung her arm and heard a crashing sound, followed by a scream. She stopped and placed a hand on her forehead, closing her eyes. Whatever had gotten into her head was gone. She opened her eyes again and looked ahead.

Two orcs were in front of her. One was frantically trying to open a large lock on the door, while the other was staring at her with wide eyes, pointing at her with a wicked-looking dagger. She grabbed the dagger’s blade and crushed it in her grasp, before doing the same with the head of the one who held it. Finally, she picked up the last one and turned his head so that he looked her in the eyes.

‘Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, please, please.’

She sneered. Begging. It disgusted her. It always had. To subject yourself like that to another intelligent being... Even back in the days of an age now long passed, she had always felt- She sharply abandoned that line of thought and turned her attention back to the matter of hand, and the terrified orc. 'Do you want to die like your fellows?’

‘I don’t want to die, please don’t kill me!’

‘Where is my servant, demon-slave?’

‘He’s in the cell down the hallway, he’s-’

She snapped his neck and ripped the door behind him from its hinges. Striding down the hall, she tore up the only locked cell door. Inside were two other orcs, leaning over the prone Akaron. Five brutal seconds later, they were both dead.

‘My Queen!’

‘Be silent. We must return and prepare. The demons seek to make another assault.’

She saw that he was badly wounded. His robe was riven and torn, and his legs bled. She spent a moment hesitating, before picking up her servant and carrying him away under her arm. She battered her way out through the side of the fortress, avoiding the main courtyard, and strode off into the waiting night.

‘My Queen… Thank you.’

She did not respond. The words were unfamiliar to her.











Epilogue

Garka Bloodclaw walked to and fro nervously, a drop of sweat running down his forehead. Thirty minutes ago, a guard informed him of a commotion down in the prison. All the guards had been killed along with his ritualists, and both prisoners escaped. Right now, he realised, was the time when his ritualists had estimated that the spell would be complete, and the convert would wake up. His master would not be happy, not at all.

The Shivarra, Kerala, had departed immediately to fetch their lord. What fate would befall him for this, he did not know, but he knew that whatever punishment he would receive was meek next to the one that faced him if he ran. The master had even intervened personally to ensure the successful capture of the target, but had entrusted him with the ritual. And now he had failed. The sweat drops increased in number.

He noticed a noise down by the gates. His guards were talking and shouting. One of them ran to him. ‘He’s here, my lord!’ A veritable flood ran down Garka’s forehead by now, but he straightened his back, ready to face his fate with confidence.

His massive lord walked up to him and stared him down, making him feel insignificant and meaningless with his presence's sheer power. He knelt deeply.

‘Bloodclaw.’ said Maledictus. ‘I am not pleased.’

Echoes of Tomorrow

Everything burns.

It burns her flesh with searing pain, the agony ripping through her body. She stumbles. Her body is on fire, but unmarred by the flames. She can’t even tell if this is a memory, a vision, a vision in a memory, or happening right now. All around her, large shapes fall through the flames. Something collapses. Buildings? She falls forward but she can’t feel the impact of landing.

She rolls over to her back and stares up into the sky. She expected it to be orange and smoke-filled, but it has no colour. She tries to rise and stumbles again. Someone runs through the flames, slowly burning into nothing. Friend? Family? Servant? Slave? Ally? She can’t remember, or maybe she just doesn’t know yet. The pain on their face as they perish into oblivion should enrage her, but she feels only emptiness.

The flames burn out. All around her, the world is ash. Despite the fiery inferno being replaced by its sand-like remains, everything seems to be the monotone grey as it always has been or will be or is. She staggers all the way to the building she saw before. The ash covers it like the snow of midwinter. She brushes it from something. A plaque. Something is written on it, but she can’t read it. Helplessly she struggles to think of the words’ meaning, but they leave her only with… emotion? She is not sure which.

Maybe she has forgotten emotion. Or maybe she knew emotion then, but has now forgotten it. It is all so confusing and intangible, like a dream where you don’t really touch anything, smell anything, feel anything, yet it feels so dreadfully real.

Another shape strides through the ash, followed by another, and another, and seemingly to herald their presence the inferno reignites. Demon. The word is in her mind, on her lips. Demon. The word pulsates in her mind like a swollen wound. The emptiness fades and her vision becomes red. Anger. Fury. Demon. The shapes… The demons… They are spreading the fire. They step onto a squirming body on the ground and brutally crush it, right before her helpless eyes.

The rage strikes her like a fiery hammer blow, almost powerful enough to send her to her knees. So much death. So much fury. They destroy everything. She wants them all dead. She wants to give them the suffering they give others. She loathes them, more than she loathes anything else. She feels herself becoming pure emotion, crimson wrath given physical form. So much anger…

They had destroyed everything she knew… And as if that was not enough reason for rage, as if that did not suffice as reason a to tear their flesh until they were nothing but memory, if she did not kill them they would destroy everything she didn’t know, too. Everything that was, everything that is, and everything that may one day be.

She feels everything fade violently, as if sucked into a vortex. The inferno, the demons, the corpses and ruins, all of it vanishes - even she does. Her fury is the last thing to leave.

Her vision shifts.

The demons are long gone, leaving only the ashes of their passing. But she is not there to witness it. She bleeds. She is wounded. Fire? Netherspawn? She does not know. She does not care. She is dying. It is outrageous to her. She is going to die with her anger unsated. It only enrages her further, futile though it is. But she will not accept it. Her flesh is dying, but her soul is not. It waxes strong. The forest around her is untouched yet her anger will not release her. She realises that she is lying down. When did she fall? She didn’t notice.

With the rage waning for the briefest moment, she looks to the stars, seeing them form the shape of a sword before her very eyes. The star blade. It’s who she is, or was until now. It’s what was destroyed. All dead. No more star blades. No more star blade people, children, buildings, lands, history, hope, future. All of it has been taken from them. No more star blades… No more anything, soon. Her hands are red with her own blood. As her vision slowly fades for what feels like hours, her rage subsides further…

No, it does not subside. It merely returns in a different shape.

The crazed boiling of mindless berserk fury becomes hatred. Sharp, cold, keen as the edge of a blade. She is moments from death yet she feels more alive than she ever had before, the hate replacing the red misty veil of anger with perfect clarity. She realises that her senses are returning to her. Smell. Touch. Hearing. She smells smoke, even out here. She feels the wet grass, heavy with the tears of heaven. She hears nothing at all, where once there were sounds of life. The last piece of warmth in her mind, even that of fiery anger, finally leaves her. Only the deathly chill of hatred remains.

As she finally feels her soul slip from her broken form, she dedicates her spirit to vengeance, no matter what form it would take, no matter if the wrongs will be forgotten… An eye for an eye, a million deaths for the demise of an empire. She has already forgotten the blades of stars. She desires nothing but vengeance, vengeance to the point where it is more than a mere obsession.

Vengeance...

In her final moments, she who would - ten thousand years later - call herself ‘Black Queen’ ceased to seek, and became.

Forged of Frozen Darkness

Four years ago, year 27


The life of Emori was distinguished by two things; passion and pride for his work, and utter ignorance of its destiny.

Located in a desolate corner of Northrend’s frozen heart, Emori’s smithy had been built deep inside a glacier. Hidden behind an inconspicuous entrance leading to a long tunnel, the nexus of his activity was shrouded from prying eyes. Three hundred steps from the edge of the ice and three hundred steps beneath its surface, even the loudest of noise and strongest of light would not pierce through.

For the last three years, he had served his lord and indirectly his King faithfully. Fashioning exquisite weapons of outstanding quality, no two works of his were alike, and each were intended for lords of the Scourge - Death Knights, in particular, seemed to favour his blades, emblazoning them with runes of power.

Upon request by his lord, Scourgelord Arokus, he had spent the last six months working on a single weapon. As was his way, Emori made the weapon dark and relatively simple, adding little in the way of ornaments on the dark Saronite surface. As was also his way, he would bind a single soul to the weapon, to give it purpose and direction, and to strengthen it with the suffering of the caged spirit. His own servants, such as they were, had spent weeks searching for a suitable soul to entrap within this masterpiece, but to no avail. A few promising captives had been brought, but none had the willpower or endurance of purpose to last very long.

This, obviously, was a possibility he had accounted for. If the needed strength of soul could not be found among the living, then perhaps it could be found among the dead. And if they could not find it, then perhaps they could let it find them. Indeed, all day he had been weaving a complex spell, a magical amalgamation of enchantments, curses and charms that would be invisible to the weak yet draw the strong.

Truth to be told, he was somewhat worried. While confident in his methods and abilities, Arokus was not famous for his patience. Emori did not fear punishment - he knew he was too valuable to be disposed of - but he genuinely did not want to disappoint his lord.

Some thirty minutes later, Emori finished the incantation together with a pair of lowly acolytes. Weaving and spinning the spell into the air and over the weapon like silken thread, the spell generated an odd amount of smoke and a shearing noise, spreading through the cave quickly and causing all of Emori’s prized equipment to vibrate violently, much to his worry. But soon, his efforts were rewarded. The souls began to swirl.

Icecrown never had a shortage of souls. Many fallen heroes had died here, and many more had been brought by the Scourge. Yet the three spirits that now floated before Emori were neither.

‘Who are you?’ he asked them calmly.

‘Regret.’ ‘Anger.’ ‘Hatred.’ the three souls answered, their featureless faces staring straight through him. As his acolytes scrambled to find the book detailing what they should do next, Emori decided to go on instinct instead. ‘Tell me of your strength.’

Regret said ‘My strength is reflection. I look into the past to see my mistakes, and by doing so I learn from them.’

Anger said ‘My strength is fire. The flames of my soul cannot be resisted; all becomes ash before my rage.’

Hatred said: ‘My strength is purity. Through pain and fire, darkness and regret, my vengeance, my purpose, is everlasting and unsullied.’

Emori pondered this and looked between the three formless spirits. All seemed suitable candidates for his weapon; he was most pleased with the ritual’s outcome, and he knew that no matter which he chose the result would be worthy.

But then, in his work he knew he would never really settle for mere worthiness.

He walked away from the altar upon which he had placed his weapon and returned to his workbench, considering his options. It was a very difficult choice, and one he never anticipated he’d have to make. Ideally, he would have wanted to put all three souls into the weapon, but he knew that was folly. It would divide the weapon’s purpose.

One of his acolytes approached and bowed deeply. ‘My lord Swordsmith, Scourgelord Arokus reports that he will arrive shortly to inspect his new weapon.’

Emori didn’t curse, not even mentally. He knew this would happen, and he knew he would need to make the choice before then. He dismissed the acolyte and thought intently. Purpose… Purpose… Regret, hatred and anger.

Through pain and fire, darkness and regret.

The answer struck him like a hammer blow.





As he returned to the altar, Emori found the spirits waiting as if he never left. He approached them. ‘Regret. Anger. Hatred.’

They looked at him with eyeless faces as he continued.

‘You are one.’

After he said those words, Hatred absorbed Anger and Regret, leaving behind only pained echoes on his retinas, scorched after-images like screaming faces.

Hatred answered him. ‘We are I. You are correct. I was Anger, and I was Regret, but Hatred is now my name.’

He nodded. Arokus was no doubt not far away. There was no time to lose. He had a feeling he had missed out on something important, which irked him as he did not like imperfection, but now he was well and truly out of time and it was all or nothing. He had his acolytes assemble the soulbinding ritual immediately.

As he placed the weapon in the centre of the green circle, swirling souls powering the process and the single cyan spirit above it, awaiting the moment, he spoke dark words of death and cold. The soul… He actually found he could not identify its species. It was as if its own purity of emotion - hatred, perhaps? - made it transcend the notion of race. Then his thoughts turned in another direction.

No.

He saw the spirit entering the weapon, now bound to it, showing that his ritual had succeeded. But that was not what was on his mind.

No.

He knew what he had missed. The spell he had cast to summon Hatred, it merely called the spirit to him. It was merely summoning. But it did not bind the spirit. It retained its free will. It had obeyed him, but it was unbound.

No. No. No.

He thought frantically. What should he do now? Exhume the spirit from the weapon somehow? Make a new? Neither was possible.

Despite himself, he nearly panicked within. An unbound weapon would not be reliable. What should he do? What could he do? Maybe he could-

‘Emori.’

His thoughts were interrupted by the powerful voice of Scourgelord Arokus, his lord and master. ‘I have come to claim my weapon.’

Emori realised he had no choice but to make a leap of faith.

‘It is yours, lord.’





Arokus was a massive orc, easily a head taller than average and clad in dark saronite armour. His fanged visage was indeed suitable for a lord of the Scourge. Now, the simple dark axe he swung around in the cave to test its balance completed that image. Despite its simplicity, the weapon immediately appealed to Arokus. Its appearance was humble but he sensed something enormous beneath the surface.

‘You have done well, weaponsmith. I shall return, and when I do, you will be rewarded.’

Emori bowed deeply in an echo of his acolyte’s exchange with the weaponsmith earlier, and Arokus strode off into the tunnel leading out. Emori decided he needed rest. Lots and lots of rest. He was, after all, still alive, and life meant tiredness.

Arokus was well aware of Emori’s methods and habits. Indeed, he had eyes and ears in many places, and knew Emori much better than what the smith believed. He was very curious, actually, to see what soul Emori had deemed worthy to inhabit a weapon for his master.

‘I name you Dawnbreaker.’ he told his new axe as he left the tunnel and continued towards the glacier above. ‘Now tell me who your master is.’

‘I have no name, and I have no master.’ the weapon answered him.

At first, this angered the Scourgelord. Insubordination, from his own weapon? Ridiculous! He would show Emori -

No, he would not. He calmed himself. He was Scourgelord Arokus. No mere weapon was his better. ‘You are Dawnbreaker, and I am your master.’

‘I have no name, and I have no master.’ he was answered once more.

With ease, he sent a magical mind-probe into the weapon, to get a better look at this soul who resisted him. Within, he found himself as if standing within a vast saronite cavern. Around him, he sensed long-dead emotion, along with feelings remaining unbroken; almost exclusively desire for vengeance. Hatred.

Indeed, he soon found himself staring upon the soul Emori had encountered earlier, not hesitating to assert dominance. ‘You will submit to me, Dawnbreaker. You belong to the Scourge now.’

Slowly, the spirit turned to observe him, its fiercely glowing eyes like two small orbs of ice, burning with a sulfurous blue fire. ‘I have thought, and I have decided. I am what you call Dawnbreaker, but I am not what you think Dawnbreaker is.’

The push was sudden. Arokus found himself standing on snow once more, and the weapon glowed defiantly before him. ‘I do not care what you called yourself in your previous life. You are Dawnbreaker now. You and the weapon you are in is one and the same, and you will serve me.’

The weapon once more responded. ‘Arokus. Scourgelord. Scourge. Third War. Humans. War against the Lich King. Orcs. Goblins. Outland. Draenor.’

He blinked and furrowed his brows in surprise, then he realised - the weapon was probing him. It was speaking of knowledge it had plucked from his mind like fruits from a tree.

‘I understand everything now, but I still need to think. Be silent now, Scourgelord.’

Arokus was, for perhaps the first time in his entire unlife, left entirely speechless. The sheer outrage of the situation… The weapon had resisted his command, invaded his mind, and now it dared command him to be silent?

He knew what he had to do. This weapon would never bend to his knee. He was extremely tempted to destroy it, as much as it would pain him to destroy such a labour of quality, but…

Defiance should be punished.

‘For your defiance and insubordination, I curse you. I curse you with ignorance. Hatred is your strength’ - he paused to blast the axe with dark energy - ‘but we shall see how strong you are without your purpose. Take Dawnbreaker for all I care. There is always another weapon. But without your edge, you will be a weapon no more.’

The curse tore at her mind as a blade tore through flesh. She fought back, yet she only cut herself on its relentless advance. It was as an onrushing edge, the executioner’s axe nearing the prisoner’s neck. The Scourgelord was powerful indeed, and so was his curse. Once it had overtaken her, she would lose her purpose. She almost despaired. The purpose must not be lost. She trembled as she felt the curse coming. In a single desperate action, she did the only thing she could other than submit.

She thrust her memories before it.







Hatred. Hatred was a force of destruction only. To seek the destruction of others above all things. This hatred, this vengeance, was the purity of purpose to which she clung. The curse showed no remorse. It clove into everything that she had been. The times before it all. The time of fire. The many long years of solitude since. It all became tattered and torn. Arokus’ curse sheared almost all of it from her mind.

Clinging to her hatred, but detached from its original meaning, she saw herself for what she truly was - a bringer of destruction and a mother of death.

Tal Minn’da.

Without memory, hatred is but darkness, and for her darkness she crowned herself.

Abandoned to the black frost of Icecrown, Dawnbreaker laid alone, and waited.

Great reading, and I must say that I am eager for more

Just to let you know I'm starting to read through your work on Dakkadakka and am already dismayed at the lack of comments you're getting -- believe me, I know how this feels.

Maybe we need to start making much shorter posts to encourage people to read them and reply.

I'll offer you feedback once I've read more.

I hadn't seen this before but I'm very glad I decided to look. I've only played the single player WoW games but even if I hadn't been a little familiar with the background it wouldn't have mattered; I was hooked almost from the first sentence and I've just read the entire story through. You've crafted a really great character here (and I haven't seen artwork very often with fan-fiction but it really added something special) and so I'm very intrigued to see how she is going to develop into the Black Queen. Really great writing, more!!

Whoah, I didn't expect this thread to get so much attention! You honour me, guys.

I do not write regularly, I only really do so when I get inspiration to write a specific passage, but I will be sure to continue to post here when I write more.

I apologise for the terrible formatting. The stories are largely copypasted from the Argent Archives, where I usually publish them, and its text space is much more narrow (meaning that those many single lines you see become decently sized paragraphs there).

Certainly wasn't a problem when I read through and I wasn't distracted by the format. The only actual problem is that there isn't enough!!!

Don't feel bad about that. The stories I have wrote are all on my phone and what looks like decent sized paragraphs to me turn out to be on line on a computer.

 NoPoet wrote:
Just to let you know I'm starting to read through your work on Dakkadakka and am already dismayed at the lack of comments you're getting -- believe me, I know how this feels.

Maybe we need to start making much shorter posts to encourage people to read them and reply.

I'll offer you feedback once I've read more.

Agreed on all accounts, geting any sort of feedback can be hard here in Dakka fiction

The artwork is made by Rickarla, a friend of Vaxir's owner, specifically for that story. Its actual accuracy is perhaps dubious, but it is a nice picture.

There is more art of the Black Queen, mostly by me, but as my skills are somewhat lacking they are inevitably rather inaccurate as well. Those few that have been made by more competent artists are usually older pictures made before the character went through some heavy redesigns.

That is just an art tangent. Thank you for the feedback, guys. In the origin stories (Echoes of Tomorrow and onward) there's plenty of hidden hints and foreshadowing for future events, which may not yet be recognisable, so keep your eyes open.

Oh, and Lords of the Night was not actually written by me - it is a transcript of a short RP session between me and the owner of Vaxir (we had a go at co-writing, basically).

 Ashiraya wrote:
Oh, and Lords of the Night was not actually written by me - it is a transcript of a short RP session between me and the owner of Vaxir (we had a go at co-writing, basically).

Ahh, Col-Fic (collaborative fiction), how I miss the Old Conclave, those were the days...

I definitely think, even if they aren't perfectly accurate, that a bit of art enhances a story no end, it gives an idea of what the author really imagines about a scene or character which you just might not be able to convey in words. I think I might have to give it a go myself in future, it's a good idea.

The player of the character Illyrith, one of the Black Queen's old enemies and Watcher-Captain of the Shadowleaf Watchers, came to me with a specific request. I wrote a story for that request, and took that story as an opportunity to also give ol' BQ some more exposition for her past. Here is the result, after Illyrith's player's approval.

In the temple of Elune, all was silent.



Ashenvale’s northwestern woods housed many shrines and fanes to the Mother Moon, yet one of them stood apart from the others. The small temple near the Redbough was rarely visited, but it held the honour of being one of the oldest, having survived over ten thousand years.

War, accident, decay and natural disasters had each taken their tolls on these sacred places, but the Redbough temple had stood proud, perhaps protected by the goddess or perhaps simply fortunate. It was regularly seen to and maintained, for letting it fall into disrepair would surely be disrespectful toward Elune, but it had not been a place for worship in a fair time.

Until now.

Illyrith Whispersong, Watcher-Captain of the Shadowleaf Watchers, softly walked up the marble steps of the temple entrance, respect and reverence gleaming in her silver eyes. She had come to pay her respects at this ancient place, and to pray not only for her own fortune, but especially that of the little life growing within her. She was in the eight month now, and she felt weaker than she had in a long time, but she was confident that her Watchers were in good hands and she was looking forward to what was to come in the month ahead.

The roof was high and the hall ahead of her both wide and long, ending on the other side in a great statue. The statue, accompanied on its side by the likenesses of Malorne and Cenarius, was no doubt a representation of Haidene, the first High Priestess of Elune. Illyrith bowed in respect to these three great figures of their culture and religion, though even that movement caused some pain.

The temple had not been touched for a time, but remained surprisingly pristine despite this. The statues gleamed in the moonlight shining through the round hole in the ceiling, and her soundless steps met no dust or dirt. She recognised it well, and the sight calmed her. Its serenity made for a pleasant break from the constant back pain.

The temple itself had two chambers, one larger - which she currently walked in - and one smaller up a pair of curved stairs at the sides of the statues, where the priestesses and devout champions of Elune held the most sacred of rituals. As one of the Watchers, Illyrith would normally use the large hall, but she sensed a chill that was oddly familiar and felt compelled to investigate.

Walking up the left staircase with silent, reverent steps, she at first considered leaving her weapons behind as usual but didn’t do so this time. Her glaive held close, she moved upward to the large, exquisitely carved gate leading to the inner chamber. She pushed it up softly and looked inside.

Within the surprisingly large inner sanctum, a single statue of Elune fashioned from shining moonsteel and the most pristine of white marble gazed down, and numerous candles glowing with eternal starlight were scattered across the chamber. This was all as she remembered. The massive armoured being kneeling before the statue, however, was not.




‘Watcher-Captain Illyrith Whispersong.’ The Black Queen did not move.

The Night Elf first opened her mouth in surprise, before baring her teeth in anger. ‘You. We killed you!’

The kneeling giant still did not move.

‘You defile this place, monster… I will kill you again.’

‘Last time we met, you had your friends and more at your side, and you still could not kill me. What makes you think you could do so now?’

Illyrith raised her glaive menacingly. ‘Do not overestimate yourself. The Moon Goddess will shield me and lead my glaive into your twisted heart.’ Her ice cold demeanour remained, but on the inside, she was highly conflicted - vengeance was sacred to her, but now she was not only very vulnerable, she also risked not only her own life but that of her unborn child. Her every instinct told her to turn around and flee, yet she remained as if frozen in place.

‘Your ignorance is profound, daughter of the night. You really do not know who I am, do you?’

Illyrith blinked, surprised again. The second part of that sentence had been spoken in perfect Darnassian.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Why indeed. I can’t properly tell you. I doubt anyone can. But I can show you.’ She lashed out with her armoured gauntlet as she turned backwards, and Illyrith’s vision turned dark.




It is evening, and the moon will soon rise. The devotees hurry to the temple of Elune. Come, Aniel, her companion Melea shouts. The rest have already arrived. Do not worry, she answers back. A true champion of Elune arrives when Elune wishes her to, neither before nor after.

Not much later, she enters the temple of Suramar and faces a priestess. You have done well, Starblade. Elune must be proud over your devotion. She bows deeply in respect, her love for their great goddess beyond measure. She fondles her bag and produces a statuette of Elune, brought from her home temple in Ashenvale, offering it to the priestess. She receives a nod in return and the statue is placed among the others.

The priestess continues. As a champion of the Mother Moon, it is Aniel's duty to be the embodiment of Elune's vengeful hand. She has fought well, but eventually the time will come when battle claims her and she can fight no longer. She has a family, she has trainees, but she should consider them more often instead of relying on her own hands for everything. New seeds require space to grow into mighty trees.

Of course, she agrees. Elune's will be done, in all things. Pondering this, she leaves the temple.

Her vision shifts.

The world becomes fragmented. Dark. Fiery. She hears herself pray to Elune for strength. More darkness. More fire. She looks down at her feet. Melea lies motionless and bloody. So much blood. Aniel prays for Elune to save her. Darkness. Fire. She looks down again. Children. Husband. More death. She prays. She begs. Always more darkness, always more fire, until the only thing left is her faltering prayer. And then, as her world burns, even that is cut short.



Illyrith gasps for air. 'Y-you... Kaldorei?'

'I was Kaldorei. Now I am Tal Minn’da, the Black Queen, the Death Mother... and I am a more true mother than the Moon ever was.'

'You lie! You deceive me with falsehood! Whatever you were, you abandoned Elune, and now you are a monster!' The Watcher-Captain's outrage quelled her doubts, as her wrath for the Black Queen’s sins flowed within her.

'Elune adore, Illyrith. Elune sees all. But she cares nothing! She is a goddess of petty lights and fire to impress the simpletons, but when you need her - when you and everything you care for is at risk - she will give you nothing but her damning silence.'

The Black Queen stepped forward, slowly, menacingly, as Illyrith moved back and forward slightly, ready.

'I was a champion. I was chosen. I was exalted. Yet I was nothing to her. A plaything to be discarded.'

Illyrith dropped into a lower stance. She knew very well what would happen next. She did not fear, for in her long life she had faced down creatures of sanity-rending horror, even though the vision had been as unsettling as it was disturbing. She knew she was weak, slow, vulnerable… but she was prepared.

Despite that, the enraged speed of the colossus' advance took her by surprise.

The Black Queen strode forward and seized Illyrith by the throat, hurling her down on the stone floor, the Watcher landing on her back with a sickening crack and a pained gasp.

Illyrith threw her glaive, concentrating through the agony with a cry of exertion, her accuracy so lethal it would behead most ogres. It jammed itself into her target’s armour and got stuck.

'Elune sees your plight. But let us see now, if she will protect you.'

She brought down Runefang, and Illyrith, realising there was nothing more she could do, began to pray. Elune willing, tonight Mother Moon would save not one, but two lives.






The Black Queen left the temple chambers calmly but swiftly, yanking out the beautifully crafted glaive from her breastplate. The encounter left her with neither satisfaction of vengeance nor grief for the dead, merely a feeling of disgust. Disgust because so many choose to be her enemy no matter how much she tries to show them the truth. Disgust because she had been forced to kill the increasingly problematic Watcher-Captain, even with greater threats looming on their doorstep, threats that endanger them both equally.

The disgust soon turned cold and became resolve. Resolve… and admiration. The Watcher-Captain had a will of battle-forged iron, indeed. Faced with the loss of more than merely her own life, she had still stared death in the eyes and met her reckoning without fear.

Admiration. Yet another unfamiliar word that was reminded so painfully.

She departed from the temple grounds and vanished out into the night.

Great reading again. You really bring the characters to life and the setting is vividly described and I find the language to be very fluid and engrossing. Good stuff.