For the Horde. Part Two. World of Warcraft Fan-fiction
Lady Jaina Proudmoore
For The Horde. Part Two.
With the passage of two months’ time, the ill wind had strengthened to cover all of Azeroth, grating the nerves of only those with the knack for sensing the ebb and flow of the world’s spiritual tide. Lady Jaina Proudmoore, ruler of the city-state of Theramore, member of the Alliance’s High Council, and most powerful human sorceress on Azeroth, was no exception.
She’d been busy counseling the newly crowned King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind against his campaign of vengeance on the Scourge of Northrend and the Forsaken of lost Lordaeron in recent months. She often wondered why he would act so aggressively against allies of the Horde Warchief, Thrall, when Stormwind yet reeled from the death of Arthas Menethil. Were it not for King Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge lending the benefit of his bureaucratic experience, Stormwind’s government would’ve collapsed from neglect.
Lady Proudmoore indeed noticed the wind, but it bore not the sulfurous stench of the Burning Legion, whom she hated with a fervor bordering on madness for transgressions no force on Azeroth could pull from her. Perhaps then it is not so difficult to understand why she paid the wind little heed.
Until she found a letter one evening.
She’d just teleported back from another High Council meeting, in which her message of peace between Alliance and Horde had been largely ignored in favor of tirades over old grudges. The kaleidoscopic whirl of colors and the sensation she was seeing from four eyes, brought on by being in two places simultaneously, had not yet died when her gaze alighted on the brittle parchment sitting on the dusty, untouched pillow of her bed.
Her chamber door was locked from the inside, her room too high to be reached by the narrow window overlooking the ceaseless bustle of Theramore Isle. None would countenance entering her room unbidden.
None but Hell’s Scream, she thought as she set her archmage’s staff on her desk and took up the letter, noting the telltale spot of blood beneath the signature. It was so poisonous the paper was burnt black around it—the mark of a fel orc, an orc once tainted by the blood of a demonic legionnaire.
In the years since Hell’s Scream had contacted her, she’d never managed to catch one of their operatives trespassing. But any group yearning for vengeance against the Burning Legion was an ally in her opinion, even if they were outwardly Horde.
Their intelligence on Legion-tainted members of the Horde’s ruling class had always been good, and the cost of their other “services” so reasonable. But she realized this was no request for payment. This fell into a very select category of moments when her skills were requested for the mutual good.
Scrying requires a focal object linking vision to place. Otherwise, the vision is tossed upon spirit winds like a ship in a gale. Lady Proudmoore tried not to think of how the lock of hair enclosed in the letter was obtained while she arranged the necessary accoutrements in the center of the room. Normally the menial tasks would be relegated to her apprentices, but what she did now risked treason. It was for that same reason she set the letter aflame and let its ashes sink into the silver scrying bowl set before her cross-legged form.
Peace brought insight, and with it second sight. And then there was no peace. The world whirled past her, bringing with it bouts of nausea, to alight before an outline. Its compact form was that of a dwarf, but a dwarf was not what it contained. Reminiscent of lizards packed into an overtight glass bottle, glistening and squirming, the whole radiated ancient malice. Gripping one leg like an unseen shackle was a wisp of thought.
Lady Proudmoore steeled herself, changed focus, and shot along the invisible trail like a hound following the scent of prey. It brought her to the center of a great desert far to the south of her physical form. At the top of a dead plateau, she gazed down a bottomless chasm, and felt the humid funk of something vast and terrible breathing below.
Her suspicions were proven. This is far enough, she thought, feeling an unusual sense of timidity.
The wisp wrapped around her leg and dragged her down before she could scream.
Visions of what hungered for her flashed by as she plummeted.
Molten blood. Dripping insanity. Drooling hatred. Eyes aflame. Waiting maw. Coming Destroyer.
“My lady! Are you well?”
Lady Proudmoore slowly became aware of being shaken. She was clutched in the arms of a Theramore elite guard, fearsome in full plate armor. He’d heard his lady’s terrified cry and battered the locked door to splinters.
She wanted to scream at the resurgent memory of what would soon walk. The Destroyer’s dark apostle yet roamed, readying the way for its master’s return. But the concerned faces of her apprentices clustered around—just children, she thought—forced her to choke it back.
She was resolved to warn Hell’s Scream the very second she could teleport out without being seen.
- For The Horde. Part 2. World of Warcraft Fan-fiction
- For the Horde. A World of Warcraft Fan-fiction
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