#rip Wrathion he gets no thoughts
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Man the dragon aspects really are Blorbos from my Video Game lol. I just,, I love them. They’re all living rent free in my brain.
Poor Alexstraza who just cannot catch a break, always fighting and not vibing like she’d really rather be. I actually really love the idea that post Cataclysm, she’s been super interested in what the mortal races of Azeroth have been up too. Hence the new sparkly eyeshadow XD
Kalecgos has wet cat energy. My man needs a nap and some soup. Also an annoying little sister in Emmigosa and a new found (grand)father figure in Senegos.
Wrathion
Nozdormu is a DILF is also out here trying his best knowing his inevitable fate, and idk he has tired father figure vibes. He’s the dad of the aspects I’ve just decided this now. Him and Alexstraza are close, they hang out a lot <3
Sabellion I only kind of remember from Outland questing but I like his personality. He’s fun lol
I’m not far enough into the Maruuk rep to know what’s up with the green flight exactly, but I miss Ysera and I hope Mirithra is doing well. I think they both deserve it XD
Also honorary aspect mention for Ebyssian. He seems like he gives lovely hugs and advice, and he’s one of the few dragons who’s got a non elf or human visage form. So that makes him very cool. I think he should lead the black flight tbh, he’s got the temperament for it lol
#bird caws#world of warcraft#alexstrasza#red dragonflight#kalecgos#blue dragonflight#nozdormu#bronze dragonflight#wrathion#sabellion#ebyssian#ebonhorn#black dragonflight#ysera#mirithra#green dragonflight#rip Wrathion he gets no thoughts#I think he’s a funny little guy but also I got nothing for him#so he gets to make the formatting of my post funny XD
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tww wrathion thoughts
pre-legion (and honestly pre-8.3 in bfa) there were a lot of takes centered around wrathion's vision for the future of azeroth. it was a lot of 'he predicted this' and 'he prepared us for this' and 'why isn't he here for this.'
And they were all valid points, of course!! Especially in Legion, because our first indication that Legion was going to happen was HIS vision of a future demonic invasion back in Mists of Pandaria.
But I was thinking about what content he DOES appear in post-MoP, and there's a bit of a worrying trend.
Wrathion tries to protect Azeroth during Cata. We never see anyone question the necessity of dispatching black dragons at this time (not even Fahrad, who barely offers resistance without the influence of the Old Gods.) By the standards of Azeroth's people, he succeeds.
In Mists of Pandaria, Wrathion tries to protect Azeroth...
And by the standards of Azeroth's people, fails.
Varian jumps off a fel reaver into a horde of demons and rushes headlong with an alpha_roar.mp3 into his own death. RIP 37 year old minor I can't believe Wrathion would do this. High king indeed.
Consider Wrathion's cameo in Admiral Taylor's garrison log. Admiral Taylor starts a garrison in Spires of Arak during WoD, and by day 12 Wrathion turns up and gets put under house arrest.
On day 15, a shipment of resources arrives as a gift from Wrathion, who also warns Taylor about the local creepy warlock Ephial. Taylor "doesn't trust either of them."
On day 27, Taylor returns from a trip to the Ring of Blood to find that Ephial's taken over his garrison, and loses his life trying to take it back.
So Wrathion, in Warlords of Draenor, as a fugitive from the Alliance, is still trying to protect the people who drew guns on sight of him at day 12.
The standards drop lower in BfA (Chromie also treats him with imo unnecessary suspicion during the Deaths of Chromie scenario in Legion but that's pretty minor) with Anduin punching him on sight.
"My father is dead because of you."
My brother in the Light your father is dead because he has been waiting for a chance to give up his crown since Jaina dragged him kicking and screaming back from the arena.
But seriously. This is really rich coming from someone whose only political move while at a semi-comparable age was 'I think kids should read more.' Anduin never tried to change the world at that age because he had people who cared enough to tell him it wasn't his job. He might still be waiting around for a uwu thick dwarf dommy gf if he didn't get such a high off lording his 13 years of life experience and political education over Wrathion's head.
Everyone else is born gay: for Anduin, it really is a symptom of sexual dysfunction. Just think: not even Wrathion could keep him away from Garrosh.
Back to illustrating the trend. What else does Wrathion do in BfA?
Well, we find him having brewed an anti-Old God potion. We also find him eager to apologize for past mistakes, take accountability, and in his own words, 'let his actions speak for him.'
When we enter Ny'alotha, it's Wrathion who guards our sanity.
So far, Wrathion's underlying motivations have always been the defense of Azeroth. Whether he succeeds or fails, his ends remain the same.
Now: what about Dragonflight?
"The legacy of my flight." "I will save what matters most to mine." "Claiming the Obsidian Citadel."
Granted, he does mention "defending all of the Dragon Isles."
But where's his passion for Azeroth? Do we really believe Wrathion would be 'at home' cooped up in a citadel full of people he's never met before, with smog choking the sky and blotting out all the stars? Do we really think Wrathion has more of a familial bond with Ebyssian, let alone Sabellian, than with Left and Right?
The ultimate insult to any character (ask Garrosh fans) is to revoke their identity for the sake of someone else's story.
Khaz Algar is going to be full of Titan secrets and lost peoples.
And, unfortunately, I'm not confident that Wrathion will be there... because I'm not confident they'll give him screentime without a chance to 'humble' him.
Where's the runestone enthusiast? Where's the mogu historian? Where's the master weaponsmith, the enchanter who imbued those legendary cloaks? Is he entirely eclipsed by the fugitive?
I want him to see the sun-gem in Hallowfall. I want to hear him laugh. I want to hear him stumble over words he didn't mean to say aloud. When Blizzard says he's arrogant, and he only cares about himself, they forget how many people genuinely loved him before Anduin swung that fist.
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Finally put out another chapter so here we are! :3 if you guys like it and have any suggestions (or lore corrections) let me know and I'll see what I can do to implement it!
Chapter 14: Scars
It was a great relief when Anduin was finally free of his father's shadow again. Especially since he had been spared having to end his budding relationship with Wrathion. The dragon in question was preparing for a night's rest and was back to ignoring Anduin's existence. "What the hell is your problem?" Anduin asked after a hour of not even an emotion wave from the dragon, the priest couldn't sense anything the dragon was feeling no matter how much he focused.
"What do you mean problem?" Wrathion seemed amazingly deadpan.
"You go from making out with me to ditching me for something more important to holding hands and kisses goodbye and back to ignoring me. What is your problem?!" Anduin snapped, exasperated.
"Do I have to shower you constantly in affection for it to be clear of my feelings?" Wrathion rolled onto his side from where he had been laying and staring up at the ceiling on his bed.
"Well some acknowledgment would be nice." Anduin growled, rolling so he didn't face Wrathion and ignoring the warmth that undoubtedly appeared at his side. Wrathion could not handle not being looked at.
"Do you want to know why I 'ditched' you this morning?" Wrathion asked his voice soft.
"It better be good." Anduin grumbled.
"I'm... not sure what to do with you, I mean, if you feel the way I think you feel than I don't want to do something and mess it up when I didn't even know what I had done wrong. So I asked the other Aspects for some help."
Anduin tried to skulk despite how his chest warmed from Wrathion's attempt to do right by him. "What do the other Aspects know about this?"
"i spoke to Kalecgos in particular, he has been romantically involved with humans for a long time. He knows them better than any other dragon."
Anduin, reluctantly, turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "And what did o' mighty Kalecgos have to say?"
"He told me that humans love fiercely and stay with their partners for life generally." Wrathion began seeming entranced by just gazing at Anduin, "they have learned to love every second they have and can appreciate the beauty in everything around them. Humans are also stubborn and will stand firmly in defense of what they believe to be right."
Anduin rolled to face Wrathion finally. Meeting the red eyes that were bracketed by black curls "Did he say anything about me?"
Wrathion made a purr in the back of his throat. "He thinks that you are a perfect example of your kind. You're sweet, dedicated, determined, patient, and optimistic."
Anduin huffed and made a show of rolling his eyes, "Kalecgos did not say that! You just don't want to tell me how you feel. Not directly anyway."
Wrathion gave Anduin a lazy grin. "Well maybe you're right, I can talk a big game and don't have clue what to do now that I've gotten your attention."
"Idiot." Anduin sighed gently reaching up and drawing a thumb over one of the shadows beneath Wrathion's eyes. "Is this going to be a thing or do I need to kick you out back to your own bed?" Anduin asked his breathing catching in his chest as Wrathion looked him over carefully. "I will expect you to at least acknowledge me when I'm around just the way I acknowledge you."
"I should ask for forgiveness ahead of time for I am... not as artfully skilled in human courting as I am in most things," Wrathion rumbled letting his eyes fall shut under Anduin's touch. "But I would very much like to try. To be with you I mean."
A surge of ecstasy overloaded Anduin's senses at the admission. He leaned forward and kissed Wrathion, gently at first but when Wrathion did not speed things up the way he had previously Anduin got impatient and pushed Wrathion onto his back and followed, straddling either side of Wrathion like one would ride a horse, mindful of the leg, well, it sounded weirder in Anduin's head than it really was.
Wrathion responded instantly to the gentle kisses and then became more fierce and aggressive after that. "Wrathion." Anduin wasn't even sure what to say or what he was trying to say. His excitement pooled in his stomach and tightened around his insides almost painfully. What was it about Wrathion that stirred such emotions inside Anduin?
Anduin smiled and claimed the black-haired man's lips again. He pawed lazily at the black jacket that Wrathion wore and began to pull it away.
Maybe it was because Anduin couldn't see very well at all except for the glow of Wrathion's eyes that made it feel a bit better to be doing this with him. No one else being able to see anything, if they could somehow get in through the door Anduin had specifically locked when he and Wrathion had retired for the evening. No Right or Left getting on to them again. Just the two of them together.
Anduin felt no shame for what he was doing. His father had already voiced his approval and the Light had no qualms about letting one do what they wanted. The only real rule being it wasn't allowed to hurt someone and he didn't think he could hurt or force Wrathion to do anything at all. Not that he wanted to do either.
Still the gentle glow was enough to see the new expanse of skin available to him.
For Anduin having been worried about the remains of his own injuries Wrathion hadn't said a thing about the massive array of angry scars of all colors. All were well cared for but were discolored only because of the nature of the attack. Some blue wounds came from what Anduin could only assume was a breath weapon of another dragon. Many of the horribly discolored wounds were definitely breath weapon in origin
Most though were angry red welts ripped into his flesh from teeth and claws indicating many battles fought even though his dragon form was just yesterday big enough to fight properly.
Anduin knew more than anyone what it was like to be forced to fight too young. Anduin himself had been very little when first taught how to defend himself, though he loathed having any type of disagreement, petty ones in particular. If he needed to fight he was going to face the problem, not hide from it. "Wrathion-" Wrathion hummed his acknowledgment, pushing some hair out of Anduin's face. "Do they hurt you still?" Anduin asked ignoring the finger tugging at the hem of Anduin's shirt, it wasn't about him anymore.
"Sometimes. Mostly the elemental attacks but-"
"May I try to mend them?" Anduin interrupted.
"I've had the best priests, paladins, shamans, druids in the world-"
"I think I can heal it." Anduin held his ground.
Wrathion stared at Anduin for a long time before he lay back onto the bed, "very well. You can try."
Anduin nodded slowly. He called the light to him and began to channel it, closing his eyes and allowing his soul itself to flow into the light. These wounds festered long past their delivery because of the hate and fear attached to them. Or that's what Anduin suspected. It's why Anduin's own had not healed much at all since the day there were dealt. No healer could mend them unless they were personally attached to the patient. Many priests refused to see their close friends and families for safety's sake. But if Anduin could help Wrathion he was going to try. The light grew brighter as he began to surge all his thoughts and memories into the spell. He needn't open to eyes to know the light was glaring, for it seeped under his eyelids but he opened them anyways and shrank the spell so it fits into the palm of his hand as a small disc.
He guided the bright disc to Wrathion's chest and already the skin touched by the light was mending, the true color returning, the marks receding and closing. Soon the scars faded into small white lines that would vanish on their own. With a smug grin, Anduin glanced up to where Wrathion was staring at him perplexed. "How did you-"
Anduin, not wanting to answer the question and be asked why he didn't fix his own, both because he knew he couldn't do that and because it was something of a mood killer, replied,b"Tricks of the trade." Instead pressing their lips together again.
Wrathion sighed into the kiss and ran his fingers through Anduin's hair, gently clutching at fistfuls of it. "Titans..." he breathed. There was a long pause where they gazed at one another intently. "That's amazing," Wrathion said finally. "Healing the uncurable." There was yet another bout of frantic kissing before a huge wave of exhaustion hit Anduin like the bell. Just much less painful, and more disappointing. The spell had drained Anduin of every scrap of energy he had and he was going to fall asleep on top of Wrathion if he didn't stop this soon. As much as he would like to continue his body would not allow it for the life of him.
"Wrathion... we should stop now." Anduin murmured once they separated again. Wrathion tilted his head at Anduin clearly worried, confused, and maybe a tad hurt. "Its nothing with you I'm just... drained because of that spell."
Wrathion seemed to understand them, his arms dropping from Anduin's back to either side of him on the bed, and Anduin was able to roll onto the bed beside the dragon. Wrathion rolled in the opposite direction to presumably close his eyes and sleep.
Anduin took this opportunity to wrap his arms around Wrathion and hold the dragon close.
#world of warcraft#wrathion#blizzard#fanfic#to be continued#anduin wrynn#wranduin#this took me way longer than it should have
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I’m crashing in so u betta get this party started
((Another campy, Warcraft-infused iteration worthy of the genre...))
Next on Trixany and the Kaja-Cola Flava Girls...
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Trixy's my name, after me Kaja-Cola was never the same! Trixany's my name!
T R I X A N Y !
One sunny afternoon at the Kaja-Cola Dream House, high up in the Stonetalon Mountains...
[Guild] [Meghan]: Mu’usha above! Trixany, what happened to you??
[Guild] [Trixany]: *stumbles in, with baby blue ripped Kaja-Cola costume and white knee-high boots with a broken heel* Arghh.... I had a run-in with Phuur in Dalaran. I tried to handle it once and for all in a civil fashion, and with honor. The way a true warrior would--
[Guild] [Dahlia]: *gravelly Forsaken voice* You mean with D20 rolls? You should have just stabbed her in the shin.
[Guild] [Shuga]: Dahli! Will you cut that out--do you want this girl band guild to get shitposted and banned? Geez, if one more leader of the Frostwolf Clan unfriends me at this point...
[Guild] [Trixany]: ... I rolled a 19. But then that witch Phuur just... stabbed me with her pink crystal dagger, right in the... shin! *groans, collapses on the bright yellow and pink Kaja-Cola Dream House couch*
[Guild] [Dahlia]: See! That’s how you’re supposed to handle things in Dalaran. Steet! Jaina banned people, Madam Goya breaks thumbs... actually, that place can get pretty ghetto come to think of it.
Caption: Dalaran, where pretty magical fireworks happen and lead singers of girl bands getting stabbed in their shins also happens.
[Guild] [Shuga]: Grrr... Enough is enough. Something has to be done here. I’m a Burning Blade Orc by birth, and I’ll be socially dead if one more Orc shitposts about me on Reddit...
[Guild][Trixany]: Wait, Shug--I thought you said you were Frostwolf Clan by birth?
[Guild][Dhalia]: No, she’s a Mag’har Orc now. Shug kept losing followers.
[Guild][Shuga]: That was the week before last. Anyway, those Ally’s Angels have gone too far. We may be a girl band put together mainly for softdrink promotional purposes and not our actual musical talent, but we’re still Horde! *loud wolfwhistle* Mojo Jojo! Arcana Mama! Start up the Kaja-Car. *glints, sinister Orcish snarl* We’ve got some real hard core PvP on our hands.
[Guild] [Coco]: Meanwhile, the intelligent Goblin goil of the guild is gonna stay clean out of it and call our lawyers in about an hour, in anticipation of a fantastic blow-out that can only result in harmin’ business long-term. But have fun, ladies! *crosses ankles on the sofa next to her dying step sister Trixany. Turns magazine page*
[Guild] [Trixany]: *still groggy, as the pretty Nightborne Arcana tries to revive Trixany with Kaja-Cola brand smelling salts in a bright orange vial* Wait, who’s the DM for this again? And do I need a summon?
[Guild] [Shuga]: NO MORE D20! This is real killing, okay?!
Later, at the Ally’s Angels concert in Cathedral Square, Stormwind...
[Phuur]: Aaah, yes, King Anduin. *curtseys* We have seats vight up vront here for you and your date.
[Anduin]: Thank you very much. But no, this is just Wrathion. He’s here on diplomatic matters, of course.
[Phuur]: I’m sure he is. *she makes scare quotes with her blue claws* “Diplomatic.”
[Anduin]: Honestly, I’ve always loved Gnomeade since I was a kid, and we’re both huge fans of Ally’s Angels. Wrathion’s spoken of nothing else since I punched him right in the face with my excellent right hook that one time.
Caption: Young Prince Anduin, with a Gnomeade commercial stuck in his head, “I feel like Gnomeade tonight, like Gnomeade tonight!”
[Wrathion]: *sighs, crosses arms in his embroidered jacket* Must we... keep mentioning that, Anduin dear?
[Phuur]: Enjoy ze show, boys. *winks at them both and gently sashays on her Draenei hooves back to the stage set up in front of the Cathedral stairs* Ladies? Is everyzing set to go?
[Gelica]: *The Human priestess looks up as she finishes tuning her golden electric guitar* The Gnomeade Gnomes have handled everything beautifully as usual. They even brushed Roary all over even though she’s not... really that kind of Worgen.
[Phuur]: *winces* Uh-oh. Roary? You okay with zat? I know you prefer to perform in your Human form at a big event like zhis?
[Roary]: *still making a purring noise and wagging her bushy gray tail* Aaall... over. So nice.
[Phuur]: Oh? Oookay, zhen. *she is handed a blue and gold Gnomish microphone as the Gnomeade Gnomes pick up their equipment and smoothly depart. Phuur then takes her spot center-stage. The sapphire blue curtains haven’t raised yet, but all three Alliance performers smile when they hear the Cathedral Square crowd begin to cheer and chant*
Ally! Ally! Ally! Ally!
[Phuur]: Time to finally show zhe vorld of Azeroth we are ze best peformers, and ze greatest softdrink beverage company! *mutters* Take zhat, Trixany!
[Roary]: Wolf-howls, and laughs mischeviously. *the curtains raise, Gelica sends the first golden guitar riff sailing. Phuur and Roary spin side by side, then drop to their knees in a dramatic synchronized dance move. Then, holding onto each other with real emotion, Phuur curls over her microphone and begins to sing in harmony.*
I looove... what I looove, Roary...
And I love, what you love, Phuur...
What do yoooooou love, Gelica?
We all love... we looooove the Alliance...
Caption: Gnomeade’s premier girl band, Ally’s Angels. Gelica (Human), Phuur (Draenei), Roary (Worgen)
But then, a heavy shadow passes over Cathedral Square and all are compelled to look up, even the highly trained Gnomeade Ally’s Angels performers.
A giant green zeppelin with the bright orange Kaja-Cola logo on the side is sailing dead-aimed at stage.
[Phuur]: *looks up, wide-eyed* They wouldn’t dare... All because I--
[Gelica]: *lowers her guitar, annoyed* Phuur, did you go Eredar on us again? Something clearly provoked this. Roary, did you know about this?
[Roary]: Why, I must say... *then stops looking so concerned* That’s an unusually apt deduction for a Human, Gelica. *eyeroll*
Blood Elf “Fiesta Lime” Trixany is at the helm in her bright blue and green Kaja-captain’s hat, looking very ill and leaning on crutches. The fearsome Orc known as “Shuga Slam” is wearing an Admiral’s hat and red, studded shoulderguards. She’s bracing Trixany up from the other side. Shuga then raises her Goblin megaphone device.
[Shuga][Yells]: Lok’tar! All this pure, white, colorless stone... This place is SO bland, isn’t it, Flava-Girls?
[All Flava-Girls]: Wooooooo! Yeah!
[Jojo]: Light up dat sucka!! For da Horde!
[Shuga][Yells]: Yeeeeaaaah!! I say... LET’S FLAVA-BLAST IT!!! !!! 1!
*BWOOOSH!!! fWOOOOM!*
The gaseous, fiery explosion could be heard from all the way to Booty Bay.
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I’m thinking of ideas for Kelantir and Nalice so. Kelantir first. For belf paladins, specially those that were in the first generation of blood knights trained by Liadrin, they probably became friends. If they were trained later, she could have helped train them c:
I am open to writing past romantic relationships with her, too, but from after TBC more or less, she started dating Halduron
And it’d have to be something that ended before or because of the Fall, since having no one left is one of the things that prompts her to join the blood knights, and also to set aside her family name
Childhood friends that lost contact at some point and meet again much later in an unexpected situation could be fun
Buddies struggling to make it without going crazy from being in the worst hell being tortured, if it’s someone who also died and was sent to the maw unfairly. They could be trying to find a way out c:
In verses she survives, it was a narrow escape and the explosion still hurt her to a degree, so maybe someone who helps her recover. She wouldn’t go back to Silvermoon until they are openly against Garrosh as to not give him an excuse to brand anyone else traitors, and because her survival chances are higher if he continues thinking she died, so maybe someone who is also running for some reason, and they end up banding together for a while
Idk enemies and antagonistic relationships are also fun I just couldn’t think of anything more detailed for those
For Nalice, mortals she was forced to interact with in a non violent way when she was ambassador of her flight in wyrmrest
Or better yet, other dragons. Maybe some of them doubted her sincerety and thought she shouldn’t be there. Maybe they wanted to befriend her and see her flight redeemed. Maybe they were just curious about her, being one of the blacks and all
✨Blackwyrm Cult✨if your muse would worship a dragon as a goddess clap your hands
If they would remain loyal after Wrathion sent rogues to kill her but she ended up surviving the attack, clap your hands
I mean it they could help her recover, and then help her start over with spreading the cult, while they plot revenge on Wrathion c: Who knows, if you’re unendingly loyal to her she might come to like you, even if you’re just a pesky mortal. She’s not as uncaring as she seems. Mostly.
If your muse works for N'zoth, they could try to get her entirely corrupted through whichever means. Or just void agents in general.
In an AU where she is being cleansed of corruption with Wrathion s aid, there are some possibilities. Maybe you take personal offense that this is being done bc idk she killed your family and you don’t think she should be redeemed. Maybe you remember Onyxia and think it’s stupid to let her daughter be anything other than dead. But on the other hand, maybe you think anyone willing to change could be redeemed, so you’re willing to help if you can.
If you bring her news about Serinar with concrete proof, Nal will find a way to reward you. Or she might try to kill you. Depends on the verse.
Nalice never had actual sincere friendships beyond Serinar. In the AU she’s being cleansed of corruption, she could end up becoming friends with someone.
There’s also the possibility she met someone in her time as Ambassador of the Black Dragonflight, and while it was obviously fake on her part, she ends up caring more than previously expected, so maybe she tries to reach out once she’s being cured of void influence. This could go very well if the person is receptive to her, or very badly if they aren’t ajdhsjhd
Romantic relationships before she’s actually trying to get better would be exclusively with Black Dragons bc she didn’t care for anyone else. They are possible, though; like I said, she’s not as uncaring as she seems.
After she’s trying to get better, idk tbh. I don’t even know if she can make friends lol help me find out thanks
It’ll probably be awkward and require patience on the other side bc her people skills were all based on deception rip
#idk some random ideas for my babes#bc I'm still#in a mood#* muse: kelantir bloodblade / BLOODFORGED.#* muse: nalice / BLACKWYRM.#* out of character: the mun / JUST YOUR LOCAL ANXIOUS NERD.#* out of character: wishlist / ALL I EVER WANTED WAS THE WORLD.#I guess I should tag as that too#AU I say for Nalice as if that wasn't my main verse#Past relationship with Kelantir more specifically exes lol
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WoW 9.0 Predictions and Wishlist
It’s customary for me to make a predictions/wishlist post before a new expansion announcement, so here goes.
I don’t have too much to say in the way of predictions, aside from I think the leaks about it being “Shadowlands” are probably accurate. I’ve been waiting a looooonnnnng time to see what the future holds for Bolvar, so that leaked image has me very, happily intrigued. I hope he stays neutral and doesn’t get hit with the villain bat.
I concur with the general consensus I’ve seen going around that all the various death entities we’ve been dealing with (Helya, Bwomsamdi, Lich King, etc.) are going to be involved as we explore the other side of the veil between life and death. I bet we’ll get more lore about the Spirit Healers, too. (I wonder if Azuregos is still dating one...)
I hope we finally get in the loop with whatever it is Sylvanas has been planning, and I hope it’s a bold, brilliant scheme worthy of the former Ranger General of Quel’thalas.
I’m looking forward to more development for Taelia.
I also have to admit I’m hoping for some kind of involvement with Arthas. We know from the Sylvanas short story that some scrap of his soul is being tormented in whatever dark place it was that she went before the valkyr saved her. And we know from Chronicle that he was holding back the full might of the Scourge from sweeping over Azeroth. I’m not saying I want or even expect a full-blown redemption arc, but any glimmer of who he once was would make me happy. (He was always kind of a dick, but he wasn’t outright evil to start with, and I find him really interesting. Plus I have a long history of fangirling villains. So there.)
It would be cool if Dragon Isles was a leveling zone, or if it was a Timeless Isle/Argus/Nazjatar-type zone for later in the expansion.
Of course, Wrathion must have a significant role. He’s finally back after all this time. Don’t let him disappear again after 8.3, Blizzard! Please please please please!
As far as new races and/or classes go, I have no idea. It wouldn’t shock me if we got either, but it seems like lately the tendency has been for new races to be added as allied ones later in an expansion, instead of available at launch. I’m not sure what new class would fit with an afterlife-centered expansion. Necromancer is the obvious one, but it feels like it would be ripping off too much of the Death Knight’s kit. However, if they could make it feel distinct and new it could be a lot of fun. Maybe they could focus more on the ghostly/spiritual side of things instead of the zombie/bones motif. There have been zero new cloth-wearing classes added since vanilla, and it’s past time for another one.
As for nuts-and-bolts gameplay stuff, I haven’t played enough of BFA endgame to have much of an opinion about what needs to be changed. Just...something that engages me more than what we have now. (I know, vague.) I guess I’d prefer normal gear for awhile instead of special, gimmicky gear like artifacts, Hearts of Azeroth, and Azerite pieces. (I actually did like artifacts at the time, but in hindsight the blandness of the Heart taints my opinion of them, and I’m ready for something else.)
I really enjoy the world quest system, so I hope that stays like it was in Legion and BFA. I was in the minority who never minded daily quests (even during MoP when they went a tad overboard), but WQs are definitely superior.
I miss First Aid, especially as a mage--i.e. a non-healer in wet cardboard armor. I would be quite surprised if they brought it back, though.
More customization for original races would be so welcome, and so overdue. Piercings, glasses, tattoos, new hairstyles and colors...gimme gimmie gimmie.
As always, my #1 dream (that I doubt will ever happen) is for more than fifty character slots per account. When you’ve played since vanilla, you accumulate a lot of characters that you’re sentimental about. Even if I almost never play them, I don’t want to delete them or race-change them. Yet I also want to play new allied races, new classes, etc. I don’t even care if they charge me a little extra a month on top of my subscription. Or do it like with garrison followers: you can have (for example) 75 characters, but only 50 can be active at any given time, and there’s a cooldown for activating/deactivating characters. That way I could essentially cryogenically freeze some of my older alts while still being able to play the newest races/classes.
Hmm. I can’t think of much else to ramble about. Everything has either already been predicted by other people, or is too far-fetched to actually happen. (I thought about Photoshopping a fake logo for an expansion called “World of Warcraft: Wrathionapalooza” but never got around to it. Either that, or some variation on WotLK 2: Electric Boogaloo. Wrath of the Other Lich King? WotLK: 2 Fast, 2 Wrathy? Wrathion and the Lich King?)
I feel like WoW expansions have a pattern of good, not-so-good, good, not-so-good. Or at least:
TBC = good
WotLK = best
Cata = meh
MoP = fantastic
WoD = fail
Legion = quite good
BFA = I quit playing for a year
So yeah. We’ll see what 9.0 brings. I’m cautiously optimistic.
.
TL;DR version:
I think it’ll be Shadowlands, and I would like to see (in no particular order):
1. Wrathion (dragons in general, too)
2. Cloth-wearing necromancer class
3. Some kind of involvement with Arthas(’ soul)
4. Bolvar not being eeeeeeevil
5. More player customization
6. More character slots
7. Sylvanas letting us in on her super-secret plan
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There is nothing but fire; the sight, the acrid smell of smoke, the heat on his scales. Dragon-fire, hotter than that which nestles itself comfortable in the pit of his gut. It burns so very, very badly, so unbearably. More than he ever thought possible.
He sees them, eyes as red as his own, lit up like the flames around them. The eyes of the father he only ever faced in visions, burning into his own. Judging, terrifying, reducing him into a cowering mess. The former Aspect towers over him, nostrils flaring, iron jaws parting and tongue swiping across yellowed fangs. The only emotion that Wrathion can recognize that he is feeling then and there is terror.
“You will become just like me.”
And suddenly, they appear as mortals, and Nelthario---Deathwing’s hand is grabbing a fistful of his dark hair, forcing his head back, forcing him to meet his gaze. There is such a suffocating amount of power rolling off of him in waves, and bloodlust and insanity fill those red eyes. Even as a mortal, his father’s teeth remain pointed as his lips curl back into a snarl.
“It is your fate,” and he yanks Wrathion’s head back further. The prince is struggling to speak, the knot in his throat far too tight, and he wants to beg for it all to stop, to be released, so he can run away and hide from the one being that terrifies him above all else. The one being he never wants to become, whose footsteps he does not want to follow. “Just like the rest of our flight. Do you truly believe you can make a difference?”
Wrathion’s eyes are hot and wet. Tears. Both hands shoot up, grasping desperately at Deathwing’s arm, trying in vain to get the elder dragon to release him. The grip on his hair only tightens. Wrathion lets out a choking sound, something akin to a sob, and suddenly they’re dragons again and his father has him pinned down with one large foot, claws barely missing impaling his much smaller body.
And his father dips his head down, mouth opening, and the prince screws his eyes shut and lets out a hoarse cry.
Covered in cold sweat, Wrathion shoots up, eyes wide. His chest heaves with every labored breath, and he looks at his surroundings in confusion. A dark room, the same room he now remembers falling asleep in. The inn is quiet, not a sound finding its way into his room, and the moon through the window is the only thing illuminating the dark---besides the glow of his eyes.
It was just a dream.
At some point in the night, Wrathion had shifted forms. He remembers falling asleep as a dragon, but now sits as a mortal. Both hands wipe at his sweaty face in frustration and confusion. Damn him for letting his fear get to him so easily, damn him for fearing at all! Wrathion wants to rip his own hair out, but he is so, so tired and all he wants to do is sleep, but sleep comes with the threat of more night terrors.
The room is dark. The night is cold. And he is alone, so very alone, and he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be alone. But maybe it is better that he is alone, because no one can see how his shoulders shake and his expression twists into one of despair. No one can see him hide his face in his hands as sobs wrack his body. Trying to make sense of everything, everything in his head and everything in reality. But it is all so much to handle as a young dragon, who still struggles to find his own truth and do what is right.
For now he is alone, tired, confused, and scared.
It’s better this way.
#drabbles.#dont rb /#hello team i got hit with Inspiration#its short bc thats all i have the energy for but...................#heres some depression
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The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 42)
Book Three: Trial of the Black King
The group tries to escape the new threats at Blackrock, but others have already given up hope.
“What is this place you’re taking us to?”
“An old place,” Gravel said. “Lord Nefarian hated its presence. Not many go down here.”
Ebonhorn frowned. If Nefarian had disliked it, then it could be a sign of purity, or lack of corruption. But could there be darker things the dragon - his brother - even shied away from? He watched Gravel’s back, pockmarked with dozens of pits and scars and burns, and wondered as to the dragonkin’s motivations. Powerful blood. And yet. His mind lingered to Samia.
“Who knows of this place?”
“Not many,” Gravel said. “It is mostly a forgotten realm. A deep place.”
Deep indeed; he did not have to be told that. He’d noticed the gentle slope of each path they had taken since fleeing the antechamber. The air grew hotter, heavier with the smell of old earth and metal, an iron-blood scent stuck in the nose. A good scent, to be sure, but all the same he could not shake the wariness from his shoulders. He could be led into a trap, down into these dark halls, and no one would be the wiser when he disappeared beyond the next slope… and now that all the rest had turned, who could he trust?
But Gravel still had Sabellian in their arms, and though they could reach down, easy as picking an apple, and snap his neck with one of their great clawed hands, they did not. It was as if they didn’t notice the dragon they were holding: their eyes swept back in forth in lazy, but intent glances as they led the way to this forgotten realm.
At least it felt nice to trust someone now, when it felt, for the first time, the earth around him exuded evil. A thousand watching eyes.
He glanced down at his brother. Sabellian hadn’t woken, let alone moved. It was almost a blessing; what could they expect when he did wake? The pendant had been glowing and hissing like hot metal in water since they had clasped it back on the dragon’s neck, and he could only hope they had stopped it in time. He did not want to fight another family member - and already wounded, no less. Already they had to stop so he could wrap his tail. The spike had ripped a tear through the flesh, but it had ripped cleanly, at least: no jagged pieces of meat or gristle clung to his hands as he pulled the bandages around it.
It would leave a divot once healed. A small price for such consequences. At least his other wounds had already begun to scab over, though the slash across his brow itched like fire.
Gravel stopped. How long they had been walking, he couldn’t say. Hours?
The path they’d been following ended before them in a pitch of darkness. The earth hunched close to them on all sides - so much so the dragonkin had to duck, and even then Ebonhorn was pressed for space. The cavern was quiet and still and black.
“Careful,” Gravel said. “Heave back on your feet, master.”
For a terrible moment, he thought Gravel spoke to someone in the darkness. But no - master. Such was his title, and all because of his blood. Discomforted, the only thing he could think to do was nod.
The dragonkin grunted as he shifted his weight back onto his heels. He started down into the darkness - the pitch of darkness which was a sudden and steep incline. Ebonhorn pinned his ears back and hurried to look down as the dragonkin disappeared from view below the ground.
He peered down. Earthmother! The incline was a near vertical angle. Gravel was almost halfway down; the dragonkin’s paws dug into the earth, and one shoulder lay pressed against the side for extra stability. Each step was a torture to watch, as he was sure the oversized creature could topple at any moment, and Sabellian with them.
“You’re certain this is a safe way?” His voice carried down the incline. Distant blue light sighed into vague, glowing swirls deep at the end of the tunnel before disappearing. Cave mushrooms?
“Yes,” Gravel said, their voice already far away, and then they disappeared into the dark, from where the lights had come.
Ebonhorn sighed. At least the chokehold would bar any surprise attack from the outside. He rubbed the cut on his forehead. Scab crumbled away at his touch. He smeared some blood across his nose.
Alright.
He planted his hooves firmly on the ground and descended.
At once, he realized his size was both a blessing and a curse for the tunnel. Gravity pulled down at him hard and heavy, but blessedly his broad shoulders pressed up against the walls of the tunnel as Gravel’s had, giving him stability for the decline. All the same he was careful, eyes fixed on the ground as he picked his way down.
Thank An’she he could see in the dark.
At last he made it to the end of the incline. He braced himself at the edge, hands firmly planted on the side of the walls, and stuck his head, warily, out of the new opening.
The tunnel leveled out and spread into the dark. The glow he’d seen before emanated from the center of what he sensed was a giant antechamber, though smaller than than the one they had fled. His eyes adjusted with a couple of blinks.
“Ah,” he rumbled. He could see at once the lack of allure from Nefarian.
It was a cave lake. Stalagmites and stalactites grew in sweeping ripples along the ceiling and floor. The height of the ceiling dipped up and down, as if a great breeze had come swirling in and shaped the place with its bumps and swirls. In some places, even a human would be hardpressed to stand; in others, Ebonhorn could spread his wings in his true form.
Many of the spikes had been worn away or cut or toppled, and in some areas there lay swathes of free ground to walk and sit without things to trip and stumble on. There seemed to be no end to the chamber that he could see.
And the lake… yes, the glow. No cave mushrooms: algae. It grew near the shore, a pale, ghostly blue, and lit and glowed in quiet, subtle movements as Gravel sat Sabellian down nearby.
It was cool here. The water could have run from the more fertile lands to the east, collecting for miles in an underwater river until it fell here in this still, quiet place. He could have been in one of the underground lakes in Highmountain if he hadn’t known what lingered above.
“This is beautiful,” he said.
Gravel blinked. He’d set Sabellian against one of the broken stalagmites; the dragon’s head lolled against his shoulder.
“Hmm,” they said, and turned to sit on a nearby boulder.
Ebonhorn took one last look around. Thank you, he called out to Azeroth, and with a renewed freshness in his stride, made his way to his brother.
The dragon’s face was still pale, his face still slack. Ebonhorn felt at his forehead. Hot, at least. He glanced back at the entrance. The light from the lake was gentle, but in the blackness from before, might have well have been a beacon to the outside. If he hadn’t just come from the tunnel, he would have worried it would attract attention.
But they were safe. For now.
He rose, knees aching. Yes, for now. But then what awaits us? Those controlling Samia and the others would not be pleased to be out-maneuvered. They would hunt them down, and there was Gravel to consider. He wanted badly to trust the dragonkin - and yet.
He ghosted his fingers over his side: the place where the obsidian shard had nearly sliced through his body. Furywing. She had distracted Samia for them - for forgiveness - Outland. A story he did not know, but a story he might not ever get. She’d been taken too.
And Wrathion -
He cringed, pinned his ears back so hard it strained the cut on his forehead. Samia had said she’d spoken to him before she’d found them. A bluff? Or had she taken care of him too?
“Gravel. Do you have any allies… like you?”
Their second eye-lid slid over their eyes. “Could be,” they said, and unsheathed the axe from their back. They pulled a polishing rock from a bag at their side and began to make slow, practiced circles along the edge.
“If we can have them look for Wrathion - if you could contact them -”
“I can try,” they said, in the same blank, distant voice they’d used since meeting them.
Ebonhorn nodded his thanks and turned away. The question haunting him before pulsed in his forehead as he took a seat to rewrap his tail.
What awaits us now?
---
Fuck. Shit.
Left struggled against her bindings. Fuck! It’d been too long! She should have gotten free by now.
She growled and glanced at the wall separating her from Wrathion.
Samia had left; she knew that much. The dragon’s voice had stopped, and so had Wrathion’s. Left didn’t like that. He wasn’t dead, no - the bloodgem connection was still there, albeit broken, like something had taken one of its antennas and corkscrewed it into a new direction.
Ugh! This would have never happened if that idiot dragon had allowed them to make a damn perimeter. Some kind of added protection. But no. Of course not. Why in the world would they do anything smart down here?
The orc dug her fingers against the rock and pushed. The hold had been much tighter before, so tight she couldn’t breathe, but it’d loosened when Samia had gone. Loosened, but not entirely. The shatter-marks she’d spotted on the side were turning out to be the greatest points of weakness, and thankfully she’d been pinned to the wall with her legs still able to touch the ground, giving her added leverage.
She bent her knees and placed her soles flat against the wall, then pushed, snarling. The shatter-marks spread. Slowly. Too slowly. How long had it been? She roared and pushed. Her legs burned.
The rock groaned. Bits of it fell from the cracks.
Again she roared and slammed her chest forward with all her strength, springboarded her heels against the wall with every ounce she had left in her.
The rock gave way. It exploded from the wall, and her along with it, her momentum taking her face-first into the floor.
She allowed herself a breath before she sprung up and hurried to the slab where Wrathion lay trapped behind.
“Wrathion!” she called. “I’m free. Are you injured?”
No answer. She scowled and pulled away. She looked around, searching for any shatter-marks. Dirt and crust covered the slab, but no marks to expose.
It was impossible to get inside unless she started digging around, and she had no tools or explosives for that.
Though she did have some things - some things a rogue would be stupid not to have on their person at all time. She rifled through her bag, eyes fixed on the slab, relying on touch alone to make sure she had the elixir. Yes - there. The long, cold one. She eyed the rock.
Yes, it would work. But she needed more than just one person to break it open. They’d left a handle of minor agents in various chambers, but she had no way of contacting them now that the bloodgem connection had been broken. As commander, she’d be able to spot them amongst the shadows, but it meant leaving Wrathion and going to search for them in territory crawling with enemies.
She didn’t have much choice.
“I’ll be right back,” she called. “I need to get back-up.”
Again, no one answered. She hissed and smacked her palm on the rock before she turned and sprinted from the cave.
Stupid. Stupid. Her chest ached with each step. This shouldn’t have happened. He should have let me die.
What had he been thinking? Letting Serinar go just so she could live? It’d been a green mistake to allow Wrathion get farther ahead of her so Samia could separate them, and she should have paid for it with her life. That was the rogue’s life. You messed up, and you died. Especially if you were a rogue who had pledged your life to protect someone, and that someone should have let you die rather than unleash a terrible enemy upon them.
She wiped dirt and sweat from her brow. They could talk about that later. Deal with it later. Now, she needed to focus on making sure there was a later.
Left slowed as she approached the antechamber. Shadows had long since surrounded her as she’d run, and she was just another flickering piece of darkness in the caves.
She peered out. Empty.
But not of clues. New marks gouged along the ground. Pits of earth were missing. Rock walls lay shattered. And blood. Lots of it, and fresh.
Sabellian and Seldarria? She edged forward. No smell of death, just blood and earth and fire. A quick glance gave nothing else away.
This did not bode well.
Left moved into the chamber. No ripples showed in the shadows: no Blacktalons. She cursed to herself and looked again, then again, then again.
Nothing.
Damn all this. Killed? Fled to safety? Went to find help outside the mountain?
Voices. Distant.
Left swept up against the wall and blended in with the darkness.
“Where did they go?” Samia. Left’s skin prickled. Forms shifted in the cave across from her. It was too dark even for her to make them out, though they were big enough to be dragons. Two of them.
“I didn’t see.” The other dragon, quieter, huskier. Furywing, the dragon with the odd markings on her wings.
“Seldarria won’t be of help for a while,” Samia said.
Sabellian’s doing?
“Just find the Dragonkin. We can’t afford to lose a lot of them.” Samia sounded distant now, and Furywing so much so that Left could not understand her reply.
The forms disappeared deeper into the cave. Left waited for a beat. She pulled back from the wall when she was sure she was alone.
Interesting, but nothing that could help her.
What would help her were the Agents. The elixir would erode enough of the slab, but -
Something grumbled up behind her.
Left swung around and aimed her crossbow.
At a bear.
She huffed. Misha. She lowered the point of her weapon, but kept it cocked. The feather of the arrow brushed against her arm.
“You’re alone,” she said, quiet, very quiet. She squinted past the bear. “Where is your master?”
Rexxar. Hero of the Horde. And apparent friend to the lizard who’d murdered Right and multiple other loyal Agents. It’d lowered her opinions on him, though all for the better; orcish hero worship wasn’t very practical to a rogue.
Misha moved back and lumbered away into the cavern nearby.
She hesitated for a moment before following. She kept her crossbow high and aimed.
Misha was already halfway down the cavern. Left followed. The tunnel was cramped, far smaller than any of the others she had navigated in the time she’d had. Not enough time. All of this had moved too fast. Fast even for her and her team. Probably dead, them.
They moved into an area where the rock swelled out, giving enough room to breathe and move, though not by much. Misha gave a sigh - relief? an odd animal she was - and moved around the curve: a cave, she realized, hollowed against the wall.
Rexxar was waiting for her.
The half-orc sat against the wall as he sharpened one of his axes. He didn’t look up.
“What happened out there?” Left asked. She lowered her crossbow at last. Rexxar wasn’t an enemy - not really - and he gave no warnings as to ill intent.
The beast-master glanced at Misha. He swung his axe along his back and stood.
“Samia and Ebonhorn,” he said. His voice was heavy, a dull grind. “He got away. With the Baron.”
Left blew out a rush of air. “My Agents?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fine. Then come with me. I need your help.”
Rexxar studied her. It was hard to read his expressions when he had his mask on. It was usually an easy thing to read someone’s intentions in their eyes, but she wasn’t afforded such a thing with him.
“Alright,” he said gruffly. “Lead the way.”
She hurried back the way she had come. Rexxar followed, footsteps heavier than hers but somehow, just as quiet. Good. If Samia or the others came back, she didn’t want to deal with a beacon of attention.
“You didn’t ask me what I need help with,” she threw back as she crept up to the exit of the cavern mouth.
“It’s the boy.”
She frowned and glanced at him. Ancestors, he was tall. She was tall, but the half-orc … standing so close to him, she could remember what other half he was made of. “How did you know that?”
He wasn’t looking at her: his eyes were trained on the antechamber, same as hers had been a beat before. Misha trudged up next to him and nudged his hand.
If Rexxar made little noise, Misha made none at all.
“You never leave his side. If you need help, it must be for him.”
Well. At least someone else down here had some sort of logic. If only his “friend” had had that too.
Misha growled softly. Then Left saw them: Dragonkin. They were the centaur-like creatures, and only three. They said no words she could understand, just hisses and growls that followed them as they passed by.
They hadn’t been noticed.
The party didn’t move until the dragonkin disappeared into one of the tunnels. Left inched forward.
“Hold,” Rexxar said. Misha walked past them to take the lead. She pointed her nose up.
The beast-master nodded toward her, and Left, with a small sigh, went after the bear.
“You put a lot of trust into beasts.”
“So do you.”
“What?”
“The whelp.”
“He isn’t a beast.”
Rexxar shrugged. Left eyed him.
“I mean no slight,” the Beast-master said. He moved his head a little as they passed the blood-stains. A muscle in his neck tightened. “I only wondered about you.”
“Me.” Left kept the conversation at the back of her head as they made their way back to the entrance of the path leading to Wrathion. Some dirt at the front was disturbed.
“How an orc could come to be a bodyguard for a black dragon.”
“I was looking for work. He hired me.” She waved Misha inside the path. Their quiet march began again. Those dragonkin looked to be on patrol. She recalled all of them in the higher recesses of the mountain. Bad numbers for them. Bad. “Does this matter? Why are you asking?”
A shrug. “Don’t see much orcs working outside the Horde.”
Her skin prickled. “There’s more to being an orc than being a part of the Horde.” She tried not to look back at him. “I think that you of all people would understand.”
“Again, I mean no slight. Sabellian says I am blunt, sometimes. I only share what I see.”
She couldn’t help but look back at him, then, at his mask. How could he see anything behind that? “The Horde doesn’t have anything to offer me,” she said, and looked away to pick a quiet route around a path of gravel.
“No. They haven’t for me, either.” A pause. “And this new Horde the least of all.”
Left grunted. “Just another Horde. And this one will come and go until the next warchief leads the orcs into more violence. And more will die.” She soured. “Lok’tar ogar means nothing if there’s no one left to celebrate the victory.”
Rexxar made a low noise. In agreement?
“We do have some things in common,” he said. “I wondered.”
“You helped make the Horde,” she shot back at him. She was getting distracted; she hadn’t thought he’d bring something like this up. Something she never brought up. Ancestors, half of the reason she’d signed onto Wrathion’s work at first was because he asked no questions. And here was the Champion of the Horde, someone she’d idolized as a child and who she’d always thought to be - “I always thought you were a warmonger like the rest.” Someone who iconized the Horde’s bloodlust, the bloodlust and needless death she’d grown distasteful of in her younger years.
“I fight to protect. Not for the blood.”
No: maybe no orcish icon.
“And now we fight for dragons.”
Rexxar chuckled. “Well, we fight to protect friends, too. Even those with scales - like beasts.”
“I don’t think you should call them beasts in front of their faces.”
“No, maybe not.”
Rexxar stopped. He held a hand out the same moment Left did. They glanced at one another. A nod forward told her enough: they’d both sensed movement ahead.
Rexxar unsheathed his bow. Left melded back into the darkness. She crept forward, down the hall, along the curve.
Two dragonkin stood admiring the slab where Wrathion lay trapped behind. They were speaking in low, gurgling hisses: draconic, but in an accent unknown to her, all scratchy and slurring.
Guards? It didn’t matter. Left slid behind one, took out her dagger, and neatly slit its throat.
It gurgled, its eyes bulging. Blood spurted from its neck. It grabbed at it, scrabbling with its claws.
Then it slid back and fell on its face.
The companion roared and scuttled back. It blindly swung around. Left jerked back from its sword.
The dragonkin stiffened. It gave a grunt, and collapsed. An arrow shaft stuck from its back, so deep the point stuck out from the chest.
Rexxar stalked into the room and swung his bow back along his shoulders. His eyes were already fixed on the slab. Behind him, Misha lumbered forward and sniffed at the corpses.
“Difficult,” the Beastmaster said, “but doable.” He whistled. Misha trotted forward, the dead forgotten.
Left join them. She swept her hand along the slab - smooth - and rifled through her bag again. Yes, there it was, at the crease along the bottom. She pulled it out and held it aloft; a thin piece of glass, cold along her fingertips, filled with chill-blue.
“Stand back,” she said, and just as he moved out of the way, she threw the vial at the rock.
It shattered. The liquid splattered along the rock and ground. It hissed and smoked. The smell of sulfur sprang up among them, rich and thick and cloying in the throat and noise. She pushed her wrist up against her face.
The slab groaned, deep in its core. Acrid smoke fumed.
Misha sneezed.
When Left waved away the smoke with her free hand, she was pleased to see the toxin had done its job: a scar lay in a blood splatter-like pattern, large and pale. It’d eaten away almost half a foot deep.
She ran a hand over the rock. Dry. Left dropped her hand from her mouth, turned, and smashed her shoulder against it.
A little more give. But not enough.
Without waiting to be asked, Rexxar was there, next to her. A grunt to her other side, and yes, there was Misha, too, up on her two legs and two massive paws placed steady on the slab.
The two orcs locked eyes and nodded. They braced their shoulders against the rock.
The rock stood little chance this time. It cracked and groaned as they smashed the might of their weight against it. Pebbles fell on her. The slab chu-shunked around them.
A rush of air - and the rock at last gave way. Left stumbled back as it collapsed inward with a crash which rattled her knees.
Black, choking air rushed out.
She tripped back and hurried to cover her face. It went screaming past her, oil against her skin, and was gone, fast as it had come. She could breathe.
“Cursed,” Rexxar muttered. Misha made a low noise in the back of her throat.
She didn’t care. No, she cared, but not for her, for -
“Wrathion?” She rushed inside, fast as the smoke. “My Prince?”
There - on the wall. Wrathion lay pinned to it, torso cocooned with clay, similar to how she had been trapped. His head hung to his chest.
She cursed and hurried toward him. Soon as a snap she was scrabbling at the rock. It stuck to her hands like putty, despite looking like solid rock.
But she could at least pull it away easily. She grabbed fistfuls of it and tore it away like great rolls of gnomish taffy.
No - taffy was too jovial a word.
Mold. It was like mold. The rock had molded, and the unnaturalness of it, and the smell - a smell she could only describe as the scent of dread - set her even more in a frenzy to get Wrathion out of it.
At last she dug enough out, and Wrathion toppled from the wall. She caught him. He was pale-cold in her arms, and his breathing came in gulps.
Again, Rexxar was there. He extended his arms. She heaved Wrathion in his hold; he might have well have been a dwarf in comparison.
An absurd thought. She put her ear to his chest.
Thunk thunk.
Even, healthy. She pulled away and grabbed at his face. Cold, drawn. She shook him lightly.
“Wrathion.”
Nothing. Misha sniffed his hand, hanging down, and licked it. Nothing. Left slapped him lightly. Nothing.
“We were just talking about your penchant for bad luck,” she said to him as she shuffled again through her pouch.
Oh, that would do.
She pulled out a thumb-sized bottle and popped off the cork. She pushed it under Wrathion’s nose.
He jerked up with a gasp and dug in his nails into Rexxar’s skin. The half-orc didn’t flinch. He glanced at Left with wild, flickering eyes.
“What - Left - I - what was that?”
He couldn’t focus his gaze on her: he glanced back and forth, around. Not blindly, but as if there zipped bugs she couldn’t see.
She put away the vial and tried to get the dragon’s attention with a quick wave of her hand.
“Wrathion. Sir. You’re safe.”
His fixed his gaze on her.
“Left,” he breathed, “is this real?”
Left opened her mouth, but a roar, distant, interrupted her. All three looked up.
They didn’t have time to center him from whatever darkness Samia had inflicted - though she had some ideas what. She looked up at Rexxar. “Can you track Ebonhorn? They had to hide somewhere.”
The half-orc nodded. He lowered Wrathion to his feet, but as the ex-Prince’s boots hit the ground, he transformed into a whelp. He slipped up to crouch on Left’s shoulders and hooked his claws into her leather.
“Go. Anywhere but this cave!” he hissed against her ear.
“We can escape the mountain, sir.”
A long, tantalized pause. Then he shook his head. “I am not going to run away.”
Another roar, closer.
“I think they know I escaped,” Wrathion weakly supplied.
“This way,” Rexxar said, and led them into the dark.
---
Dark. So dark.
This didn’t feel like death. And he was sure death wouldn’t allow him to think. He almost wished he was dead. Such a thoughtless rest would be welcome after … after…
After…
He struggled to remember. Blackness, laughter, and then a terrible light, but a scorching light, a driving light. It’d saved him. But Titans, it’d taken a lot from him.
He reached out tentatively, but did not see his own hand before him. It was not like he was in the dark, he realized. Just a kind of voice.
“Samia,” he croaked. His heart sank. Vaxian, Pyria. Talsian…
Light flickered around him. Familiar to him, but wary, as it had felt before in dreams.
It was warm, and cold, and - everything. Indescribable.
“No,” he groaned, his voice raw, cracking. “No. Don’t help me. Help them. My children. Not me!”
Melancholy surrounded him. Visions of dark jungles flickered in his mind’s eye.
“You could have saved them,” he snarled weakly. “Why did you save me?”
The images of vines blocking the way hovered again.
He struck out in anger. His hand collided with something.
The world collapsed around him. Solid ground - behind him. Clear, cool air on his face.
A form pushed away from him, grunting in pain. Sabellian jerked up. Sitting. He was sitting.
Along a lake?
Ebonhorn backed away, rubbing his nose - but when he looked down at him, his ears perked up.
“Sabellian. Thank the Earthmother you -”
“Samia? Where’s Samia? Where are we?”
The pendant. He scrabbled for it at his neck. There. Hot against his palm. It hummed.
“Samia… she’s still in the mountain, as far as I know.” The tauren’s eyes said everything else. So did his wounds, not quite healed.
Sabellian leaned against the back of his hands. Mind blank.
“Where did you take me?” His voice sounded dead and istant. The edges of his vision grew hazy, as if it were unraveling, as if someone had found the string of his last thread of patience and was pulling it, unraveling the world around him with alarming speed. But he couldn’t find it in him to care.
“An ancient place,” Ebonhorn said. “Deeper in the mountain, far below.” He tried to catch Sabellian’s eye. “Are you… well? The pendant was not gone from you for long. And yet…”
Sabellian brushed his fingertips over the pendant. He kept his eyes fixed on the lake.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Your Earthmother saved me.”
Ebonhorn stiffened, straightened up. “What?”
It doesn’t matter. He stood. “She should have saved Samia,” he said hoarsely. “The others.” He walked past the tauren. “Leave me.”
He stopped at the edge of the lake, a blink away from the water. Everything lay gray and dull before him, a waxy slackness to it, a false image of the real thing. He felt like he could reach out and pull away everything like wet paint on canvas, and he would be in the void again. It would have been preferable to this.
He felt so old.
Movement shifted behind him. Ebonhorn, still lingering. “Sabellian. There’s still much we can do. Our family -”
“Is lost,” he said. “As it always has been.” He glanced back at the tauren, then looked away. “Leave me.”
A pause -- and crunching of hooves a beat later, heading back up to the recesses of the cavern.
Sabellian sat; he no longer had the energy to stand.
He bent his face into his hand and wept.
---
“Down there?” Wrathion peeked down the passage. It was so steep it might as well have been a drop. The other side was shrouded in darkness.
Rexxar nodded. “The tracks lead down here, and Misha’s nose is never wrong.”
Wrathion grumbled. Left glanced at him. The bloodgems hadn’t worked since Samia’s interference, but he still understood her glances and quiet noises. He sighed and nodded at her. What other choice did they have?
“Send your bear first,” Left said.
Rexxar shrugged and whistled. Misha trotted up. She glanced down at the passage and sighed. The half-orc gave her a pat, and only then did she start descending.
She quickly disappeared down the slope.
A pause.
A roar called back up the tunnel. A bear’s roar. Rexxar looked down at them.
“It’s safe.”
“Do you speak bear?” he asked before thinking. He didn’t feel right, yet, after the cave.
The cave. He couldn’t think about that. He hadn’t been there long… or had he? Time had moved fast, slow; it hadn’t moved at all.
And the blackness. The darkness, the cloying corruption. It’d seeped inside, cutting him off further and further from the outside, from the earth, from his very thoughts - all that had made him him. To describe it was to describe a slow death.
If Left had been too slow -
He shuddered and pushed such thoughts away.
Rexxar blinked at him. “Yes,” he said, then turned and began down the passage.
It took some time for them to get down - mostly because Rexxar had trouble getting through the squat tunnel, whose sides were as thin as the Beastmaster’s shoulders were wide.
When they all got down, someone was waiting for them.
“Gravel?” Wrathion snaked to perch on Left’s other shoulder.
The dragonkin blinked at him. They were standing next to the entrance, and set down the axe in their hands.
“Hello.”
The cavern certainly was a change of scenery. Relief sank like a rock into his belly. It was water, and light, and glowing, and arid. If they had to be in another cave of darkness -
He loathed this. So little time in this mountain, and he was already shying away from what had always comforted him: the earth.
Oh! There was Ebonhorn, coming toward them. And there was Sabellian, sitting on the shore of the lake, still as slate.
“Wrathion!” Ebonhorn smiled at him. “Praise the Earthmother. I’m glad you were able to find us.”
“What happened to you?” He glanced at the gauze ‘round the tauren’s tail, at the cuts along his fur.
“Oh. Samia.” Ebonhorn cast a glance at Sabellian. Something in the look felt nervous. The other dragon hadn’t moved yet.
“Mmm. Yes, us, too, I’m afraid.”
“At least we’re still alive,” Ebonhorn said. He nodded to Gravel. “They led us here. I believe we can trust them.” The tauren met his eyes. But for how long?
Wrathion eyed the dragonkin.
“If you’re a Dragonkin, how can we trust you to be here? You might go mad like all the others,” Left butt in.
Gravel raised their axe and smashed the butt of it down on the stone.
“I follow the old blood,” they rumbled. “I am bound to those of Neltharion’s line.”
Interesting. This Gravel character felt different than the other Dragonkin. Some other creation Lord Victor Nefarius had left behind. A personal servant or guard? To be tied so tightly to the blood of Deathwing - hm. Interesting indeed.
“We’ll have to trust them for now,” Ebonhorn rumbled.
“Oh, yes, like we trusted Samia!” But his heart wasn’t in it, and he deflated against Left’s shoulder. “How bad of a situation are we in?”
Ebonhorn waved them away from the entrance and toward the shore.
“All the dragons have been corrupted,” the tauren said. He sighed. “And Sabellian discovered Seldarria was using something called… nether-energy on a clutch -”
“I knew it!”
Ebonhorn cocked his head. “She infused it in Vaxian to test it. It was why he was ill.”
That, unexpected. “And what does Sabellian think of all this?” He slid his eyes over to the elder dragon. He still hadn’t moved.
“He has not been taking it well,” the tauren rumbled. “But first: what happened with you?”
“Oh. Samia tried to get rid of me.” He flexed his claws. “As she apparently tried to get rid of you.”
“And Serinar has escaped for it,” Left said. Her voice was blunt but rounded with a blade, steel on stone. Wrathion winced. Was she angry with him? No, unlike her. But they hadn’t spoken about the deal Samia had pushed on him. Left for Serinar.
Ebonhorn frowned. “The dragon you captured? How?”
“I don’t know. Our Agents just contacted us.”
Wrathion managed to hide his surprise. Ebonhorn only nodded.
“It’s just another thorn,” the shaman said. He sighed and sat on a boulder. It looked to have once been a stalagmite whose spike had been sliced off. “The problem now is how to best pluck them from our hides.”
Again, he wandered his gaze to Sabellian. Distant as he was, he could make out his blank, unseeing stare.
“We should leave him be for now,” Ebonhorn said quietly.
“We should have him locked up somewhere,” Wrathion muttered. “If the others turned, he’s most certainly going to.” He shifted along Left’s shoulders. “If he goes mad, we might as well drown ourselves in the lake.”
Ebonhorn tilted his head. “The pendant he wears stalls the madness.”
“Pendant?”
“The one he wears. The crane.” He held his hand to his chest, as if he himself wore it there. “Samia tore it from him in the tunnels. I know little of our enemy, but I cannot think that they are pleased Sabellian walks free.”
Pendant? The one he had seen him wear last night?
Where could he get such a priceless artifact?
And why didn’t he share it with me?
“You seem surprised.”
“He didn’t tell me that,” Wrathion said, unable to keep the annoyance from his voice.
“I was told,” Rexxar said.
“Well no one asked you,” he snapped. He shook his wings out.
“At least it’s something we don’t need to worry over,” Ebonhorn hurried. “What we should worry over is what we are going to do bout the dragons upstairs.”
“They’ll come for us,” Left said. “I heard them planning to search.”
“Azeroth knew something was about to happen,” Wrathion said. He met Ebonhorn’s eyes. “Your vision.”
He nodded. “Has come true.”
Surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t something he was unused to.
But this… the darkness, the corruption of will - the things that had shaped his life before he’d hatched, what he’d tried to correct the moment he crawled from his egg -
It was not fear curdling in his belly.
It was anger.
“We have the soul of the world with us,” he said. “I will not run away. Whatever awaits us… our combined strength will force fate on our side.”
It felt so good to speak like this again. To speak with confidence. With righteousness
Ebonhorn stomped his hoof. The clang echoed through the lake; the water winked near the shore. “Yes. For whatever comes.”
But what can we do? What can we expect?
Wrathion knew how mortals worked; how he could pull strings to make people angry or happy at one another, how he could play alliances and rivalries against one another, how he could instill fear or courage. Such tactics… they felt rusty now, clinking like old gears in his mind. But the more they spun the more the rust came falling away.
No, he didn’t know what to do with this enemy. He didn’t know them upfront; had never seen the blackness of their eyes beyond the wrongness in Samia and Fahrad’s. These were ancient beings under his feet.
Am I mad to think so grandly?
Should they kill those corrupted, as he had before? No. Azeroth had expressed her displease of the Hammer, and the killing would not accomplish much in the end. And they were two to seven in terms of capable fighting dragons. Even if they had Blacktalons on their side, it wouldn’t be enough.
His eyes drifted to Sabellian.
Three spheres.
“I know,” Ebonhorn said. “She saved him after Samia took the pendant from his neck.”
Wrathion raised his eyebrows. For a moment he almost felt jealous. Azeroth was supposed to be his.
And yet…
“Let me speak with him,” Wrathion said. “Alone.”
---
Sabellian did not react as Wrathion approached him on the shore.
It was hard to read the dragon’s expression: he seemed to have no expression at all. His face was lax, his eyelids drooped, his lips a vague frown. He looked far away.
Wrathion took a seat close by. Not close enough to infringe on the dragon’s space, but close enough to create conversation.
They sat in silence. Every once in awhile the cavern would give a low, distant groan, ever-alive despite the stillness around him.
“I suppose you were right all along, boy.”
Sabellian didn’t move. He didn’t turn his head. If Wrathion hadn’t seen the dragon’s lips move he would have thought it his imagination.
“I usually am, in the end,” Wrathion said as he eyed his uncle warily. “What was I right about this time?”
“Killing us.”
Wrathion stiffened. “I - what?”
Sabellian smiled a cold, dead smile.
“Better to be dead than monsters.” His smile faded, and his expression again blank and distant. Wrathion wasn’t sure which one he preferred: both were terribly unnerving.
He shifted his weight, stalling. Of all the ways for this to go, he had not counted on this. He had to be careful with what he said.
Strange, he thought. I would have been celebrating such an admission a month ago.
“At this very moment, you’re not a monster,” he said. He plucked his words like herbs. How frustrating. Couldn’t Sabellian had admitted this that month before? This would have been so much easier.
Have I really changed so much? A bad thing. A good thing? Was he becoming too lenient, too pliable?
No.
Sabellian slowly slid his eyes toward him.
“The moment I took off this pendant, I would be.” He grabbed at where it hung on his neck, and for a terrible moment Wrathion thought he was going to pull it free. But the dragon only sighed, dropped the pendant, and looked back at the lake.
Wrathion glanced at the artifact. It was beautiful, in an eerie sort of way. The crane’s eye stared far beyond, an azure stone aglow in the dark, and the white of its feathers shone too shiny for any common stone.
“You know, if I had known you had an artifact to keep you from going mad, I would have felt much better.”
Sabellian said nothing.
“Where did you get it?”
“The prince. Anduin Wrynn.”
Wrathion stopped himself from gawking.
He knew at one he should not be as surprised as he was. And yet he felt betrayed somehow. Anduin hadn’t even told him?
“Quite a favor,” Wrathion said at last.
“Mmm. A strange boy.”
“Chi-ji blessed it, I take it?”
A shrug.
“I would have thought your good friend the tiger would shield you instead.”
Sabellian said nothing.
Wrathion bit his bottom lip and looked out at the lake. It was translucent. Soft black earth lay on the bottom, peppered with great chunks of obsidian. His reflection stared back at him, vague and ghostly along the glass-like surface. It made him look like his face came from the black silt, and when he glanced at Sabellian’s, he saw the same.
“What do you want to do?”
His voice was quiet - almost conspiratorial.
Sabellian exhaled.
“There’s not much we can do,” he said, and in his voice dredged resignment, a hopelessness.
“Samia and the others -”
“Can’t be helped,” Sabellian said. “They are lost, like all the rest.”
Wrathion stared at him, disbelieving.
“That’s it, then? You���re just going to abandon them to madness?”
“The Old Gods know they will lose us if we retreat to Outland,” Sabellian said. “They will never let Samia and the others even consider going a hundred miles of the Dark Portal. And unless you can summon an army, we won’t be able to capture them and bring them home.”
“I - well -” Wrathion glanced over his shoulder at Ebonhorn. The tauren stood far enough away that he wasn’t able to hear them. He gestured toward Sabellian with a puzzled look; Wrathion shrugged helplessly.
“What about the drake you first came here with? The male? He went mad, didn’t he? What did you do with him?”
“I killed him.”
He must have misheard that. “Who killed him?”
“I did,” Sabellian said. “I took his neck in my jaws and snapped it.”
“You… killed your son?”
“Yes.” Sabellian looked at him. “Like I said: better to be dead than to be a monster.” And he looked away.
Wrathion didn’t know what to say. Let alone think. All this time, Sabellian had tried to kill him for killing the children. And -
“I know,” the elder dragon said. “How could I do such a thing, when I maimed and mauled you for the very crime I committed?” There was the dead, cold smile again. “I’ve just been delaying the inevitable, boy. That is all. In my mind, my children had so much more time. And you… taking that time away from them… no, I could never forgive that.” He sighed. “But they don’t have time. None of us do. What is it to kill them now, versus kill them in a year, or five, or ten?”
“I don’t understand,” Wrathion said. The absurdity of this was overwhelming. Suddenly he was the fool saying the dragon wasn’t a monster, and Sabellian was the one proclaiming the murders acceptable? Had he really gone mad in the cave? Frustration itched at his shoulderblades. “Are you really suggesting that we -”
“Yes.” Sabellian sighed again, the deep, hopeless, resigned sigh. “We must kill my corrupted children. There is no other choice.” He tilted his head, not quite looking at Wrathion but at least moving it in his direction. “You should be glad. You won, in the end, it seems.”
Wrathion sat back. Oh, yes, once, he would have celebrated.
Now, he felt numb.
No. Now he felt something else.
Angry.
“It’s a little curious.”
The only thing suggesting Sabellian was listening was the stiffening of his shoulders.
“It’s a little curious how you went through so much when I killed one of your children, but when They force you to kill all of them - you just roll over and accept it.”
Sabellian growled.
“You are a child,” the dragon said. “Not a manifestation of chaos, or the poison in my blood. It’s different.”
“They aren’t invincible,” Wrathion pressed, fire in his voice, now. “The Titans defeated them.”
Sabellian snorted. “And we are not Titans,” he said. “And defeated them? Encaged them, but in cages where Their voices can still travel.” He shook his head. “Trust me, whelp: I know what battles I can and cannot win. And this is one I cannot.”
“So you’re just going to give up.”
“Does this matter to you?” Sabellian looked at him. “Does my family matter to you now? Have you suddenly learned harmony?” He scowled, but even then the expression was weak, and when he looked away again he waved his hand, and arcane popped around him. A pipe appeared,, and he leaned back against the boulder and lit it. He took a long smoke. “I told you: you were right all along. That is what should matter to you. I know how your wicked little mind works.”
“But I wasn’t right!” Wrathion stood. “It’s just - it’s just a loss of life! There’s still value on all of you. You’re not mindless. You’re just - I don’t know - warped.” Trust me. Azeroth had shown him this. Shown him what they were, what they could be. Trust me. Did he even believe the words he was saying? He wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Trust me. Who else could he trust but the thing he lived for most? “Seldarria and Furywing could have ambushed and killed us the moment we went inside. But they didn’t.”
“Yes, until -”
“Yes, I know, I know! But listen to me. Maybe they can still be saved. Samia… I saw her still in there. Just - being used. But she was still in there.”
Sabellian’s shoulders sagged. In his eyes lay sorrow.
“Boy,” his uncle said, “there is nothing we can do.”
He met Wrathion’s eyes. In them was the utter conviction of loss. “Don’t you think I would be out there now, trying to save them? To take them home?” He looked back at the lake. “But I am not fighting against you, or dragons, or armies. These are the muscles in my body. The shadows in my blood. Shadows I can’t even touch.”
He was right. But in the same moment, Wrathion didn’t feel as hopeless as Sabellian looked. He wasn’t sure how to tackle this. Hope. Hope…
You need it more than I have ever met.
Hope. It felt… good. Bright. Hah! No wonder Anduin felt so vibrant, so sure, all the time. He liked the feel of it.
They could do this. Even though he didn’t know what this was. Taking back what is ours.
Something in his chest warmed.
Taking back what is ours.
Yes!
“Oh, sure. They have the Old Gods. But we have a World. An entire world.”
“Azeroth cannot help.”
“She saved you.”
Sabellian rumbled and eyed Ebonhorn sidelong.
“She cannot save them all. Not anymore.” He shifted his weight. “I think they are blocked to her.” He touched the pendant. Wrathion squinted at it.
“Even so, Ebonhorn and I think she has something planned -”
“You think?”
His confidence flickered. “We don’t know what exactly it is -”
Sabellian ground his teeth. “More empty promises. If she hasn’t helped us since the Dragon Soul, then she cannot help us now.”
“But -”
“Wrathion.” He flinched. When was the last time he actually used my name? “Go. Whatever grand scheme you have, or don’t have, I don’t care to be apart of. Maybe today is the day you realize some things you cannot change.”
The ex-Prince pursed his lips. He stared at Sabellian, stared at him a long time, and finally, stood. “Then I was right before,” he said. “You are a coward.”
“Maybe I am, boy,” Sabellian said. “Maybe I am.”
---
Sabellian wasn’t sure how long he sat there after Wrathion left him. It could have been minutes or hours; the cavern was so still and quiet that it gave no state of time.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing did, anymore. The words felt dramatic, but he could think of no other way to put it. He had not felt such loss since Gruul.
Heavy footsteps came crunching behind him. Heavier than Wrathion’s.
Sabellian sighed.
“So,” Rexxar said. “When do we journey back home?”
He closed his eyes. Rexxar came to stand next to him.
“I don’t know why you’re still here,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to be.”
“Because I still have a friend who needs my aid.”
Sometimes orcs took their ideals of nobility too far. Especially this one - and he wasn’t even a full-blown orc.
“I think you’ve certainly done enough, Rexxar,” Sabellian rumbled. “You found me. Isn't that why you came along anyway? To track me?”
Rexxar snorted. “Just because I did my job does not mean I will wipe my hands clean and go home.” He leaned against the boulder nearby. Misha was not with him. “I am not a machine with one mind and mission.”
“And?”
“I am here until this is done.”
Frustration welled up in his chest. “It is done.”
Rexxar shrugged.
“Don’t shrug at me.”
“I am not shrugging at you.”
“Did one of them send you over here?”
“No,” the half-orc said. “You’ve been sitting here for too long, and I came to talk to you. That is all.”
“And you heard nothing from before?”
“No, I did.”
Sabellian growled softly. “And?”
Rexxar shrugged.
Sabellian ran a hand over his face. “Why are you here? What do you have to say? Out with it.”
“You are giving up.”
“I came here to find my children. I found them. They are gone from me.”
“The boy gave no ideas?”
“No.”
“The tauren. Your brother?”
“They keep looking at me as if they are waiting for me to do something grand,” Sabellian said. “As if I’m the one that will give them their lead to greatness. But both don’t know what they’re doing here. They don’t know what to do, and they are too weak to know when to give up. And the boy! One talk with Azeroth and he thinks he is some pinnacle of goodness! They think we’re going to be able to do something? That Azeroth has some great plan for us? A plan they don’t know? And they dare look at me with admonishment, when they themselves have nothing?”
“You could ask her.”
“What? Ask who?”
Rexxar pointed down.
“Oh, get out of here,” Sabellian grumbled. He waved a hand at the half-orc. “You are useless.”
Rexxar straightened and pat his back. “I’ll leave you to your musings, then,” he said.
He left him there, and again Sabellian was alone.
And decidedly more annoyed.
Talk to her. Were they all mad?
They had no idea. No idea. They pretended they knew what it would be like, with empathy from stories. Fools. They had no idea. And they had an idea to - what? Stand up against the very gods who had cursed them all? Did they even know what they were supposed to do? No.
Mad indeed!
And Azeroth -
He growled.
He felt around for the pendant. It was hot against his glove.
Maybe I should speak with her, he thought. If only to throw his anger at something. If only to make this end. If only to make the two stop looking at him strangely, if only to make them give up too, if only to make Azeroth mind her own business.
“Fine,” Sabellian snarled. “Fine. You wish to speak with me? Then come. Speak to me.” He squeezed the pendant hard - hard enough that it should have broken, but it did not. “Speak to me!”
The earth rumbled around him. Power, the same power which had surged inside of him when the pendant snapped, surged along his fingertips, up his arms, into his eyes. It was so sudden and vibrant he didn’t have time to even gasp. Darkness clouded his vision.
When he opened his eyes, the chamber had vanished.
He stood in a large, echoing space without form or space - the only thing that remained was the lake. It lay black and shiny, like a single shard of obsidian glass. It reflected a pulsing light.
Slowly - slowly - the light began to peel out, pulse out, a rising tide. It lifted from the lake, quietly taking form above.
It didn’t have a form - not really. It was a great mass of light, but what color? Silver, gold, green - every color, every texture. He tried to pinpoint what it was made of, but every time he looked, its surface changed. Diamond, grass, sand, jungle. Shards of distant places, shards of familiar places. If he looked at it from the side, he could almost make out the shape of it: a wolf, a human woman, a dragon, a serpent. But when he looked at it directly - nothing, just a flickering light.
Even as it stopped growing from the shard, it continued to pulse, thunk-thunk, heart-like. With each pulse, it gave off energy.
Pure, flashing energy, unlike any he had ever felt. Not arcane, not druidic, not elemental - and yet, he could sense some fragments of such schools radiating from within this creature. It was raw. Primordial. The power within was… overwhelming. It pushed against his body like a wind, not cold, not hot, but full of force. He struggled not to look away or allow his knees to buckle.
Azeroth.
I am in front of the soul of the world, he thought. How many would sacrifice so much for an opportunity like this?
And how would they like to know I despise her?
“I am here,” he called up to her. “This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? Since you reached out to me on the island on the Great Sea. So speak, spirit. What do you want? Why did you save me?”
Azeroth flattened and coiled out: a long ribbon, a snake.
She moved closer to him, humming. He stayed still. No. He had no fear for her: just the ticks underneath her skin. She was the gateway. The betrayer.
She pulsed and hummed loudly. It grew difficult to look at her directly; he was forced to look down at the lake when he could take no more.
He saw - himself on the surface.
He blinked and took a step back. It was not a reflection. It was a vision. There he was, speaking to Wrathion for the first time in the Tavern. It shifted. The Kun-lai cave. Sik’vess. The Temple of the White Tiger. The Celestial Court.
His expression darkened.
“You’ve been wanting this for longer, then. You’ve been watching me.” Discomfort pulled at his stomach. To be watched - studied. He had known the Old Gods would be doing as much the moment he stepped foot on this cursed world, but this… he squinted his eyes, steeling himself, and looked up at her. “But none of that answers my question: what do you want?”
Azeroth was right in front of him. He forced himself not to flinch. She had no face, or even a head or eyes, but all the same it felt like she was studying him. It didn’t feel judgemental, malicious. Iit felt curious.
The lake replayed the scenes again, faster. He growled and closed his eyes at the flashing colors.
“Alright. Yes. Me.” He breathed out, felt his heart beat hard and angry against his chest.
“So. I suppose you have some grand plan, is it? You want your protectors back? Is that it? You want my power?”
Azeroth hummed. She pulled back a little. Wary, unsure.
“You showed me that you couldn’t save them,” he yelled up at her, the rage in his voice wavering in how it began to immediately break with sorrow. He didn’t care about the power she had, the power he could feel. He didn’t care that this was Azeroth, the Azeroth, the soul of the world. She was everything which had gone wrong with the Black Dragonflight, and all which had taken his children’s future from them. “And now your two underlings tell me there is some great destiny at play?”
It was juvenile, but he wanted to throw something at her.
I WISH TO HELP YOU.
She spoke, but with thunder, with the rush of water, the call of birds, the groaning of stone. They were not words, but he understood her all the same. He flinched back.
“Help me?” he said at last, then laughed a bark of a laugh, dry and disbelieving. “Help me how? You showed me you cannot reach Samia and the others. So how can you help? Or do you only wish to… to monopolize off of me, to use my power for your own ends?”
I NEED NOTHING FROM YOU.
“Oh, except to bother me,” he said. “Is this what drove me Father mad?”
Her form shuddered. Heat rolled off of her.
YOU HAVE ANGER IN YOUR HEART THE SAME SHADE AS MINE.
Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “And that anger has led me to do terrible things.”
The glass lake rippled. In it, visions appeared: of the attack on Wrathion, Sik’vess, Xuen, the Celestial Court… YOUR ANGER. HOW YOU PROTECT.
He looked down at himself in the lake, diving at the Alliance harpoons at Sik’vess.
“What of it, then?” He raised his eyes to Azeroth. “Is it what you want? My anger?”
A touch of frustration… amusement, too. I SEE THE SAME ANGER IN YOU THAT IS IN ME.
“You don’t know me.”
I HAVE KNOWN YOU SINCE YOU HATCHED.
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
Sabellian growled. It wasn’t anger in his chest, but fear, that he tried to force down. “No you don’t.”
I KNOW YOU PLAN TO GIVE UP.
“There is nothing to be done -”
DO YOU NOT FEEL RAGE FOR WHAT WAS DONE TO YOU? WHAT THEY FORCED YOU TO DO?
The lake shimmered. He looked down.
He saw himself, gliding over black clouds and smoke. He dove with a roar. Flame gushed from his mouth. The mortal town below was already burning, and as he descended, guards scattered from the flames. Some were caught and burned in their armor. He aimed for homes, for the inns, where he knew there would be families and refugees huddling in fear.
Another image: breaking down dwarven homes, baking them from the inside with his flames.
Another image: unleashing poison from his mouth, toxic purple, where it fell hissing on a human settlement, one of the first to grow on the Eastern Kingdoms, thousands of years ago. Flesh bubbled beneath him. Screams of pain and terror were his blood.
Another image: flying, twirling in the sky with dozens of other dragons. His legion against a Red and Blue they had taken by surprise. Three Red circled him. He sank his teeth into one of their necks, extending his installed metal fangs and gushing poison into her blood. She fell away, screaming, her eyes burning from her sockets.
Another image: the Red and Blue dead around him, him smashing his way into a great blessed tree in a red dragonshrine.
“No - please - no!” cried a drake as he thundered in. He smashed him off to the side and turned, mouth opened with poison, at the dozen red whelps cowering in the corner of the tree.
“Stop,” Sabellian snarled. “Stop!” He closed his eyes, put his hands over his face.
It stopped at once.
I KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL. Her voice was gentle, bathed in sorrow. I CANNOT LET YOU GIVE UP. NOT WHEN THEY HAVE DONE SO MUCH TO US.
He felt tears along his eyes. Angry, bitter tears, but tears nonetheless.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he hissed quietly. He opened his eyes and looked down at the lake, fearing he would see the whelps again, but no - the images had changed. In it lay visions of darkness. There lay the world, bathed in blackness. Along the ground bubbled flesh. Black flesh, living flesh, formless flesh.
Pain roiled off of him. He stumbled back, heart hammering. It was a pain he knew too well: an echoing, sticky pain. It lingered up memories of vomiting up black gunk after arriving on Blade’s Edge.
Impacts, like comets, burst against his chest. Dark, darker. They were in the visions, too: great fleshy things driving into the earth, tainting it. He bared his teeth and raised his eyes. Visions of the Twilight Hammer flickered in the lake now, and in it mortal cultists and dragons alike ripped from the ground. The earth heaved and cried out; the ground cracked like bones shattering.
I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE FORCED AND ENSLAVED AND TWISTED.
Jagged buildings shot up from the earth. Deep underground, rock and crystal and slate were pushed away then dissolved as tentacles grew and stretched through the world.
I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE HELPLESS.
Visions changed. Replacing the world’s corruption now reflected a herd of unicorn Dreamrunners. They galloped past him, their eyes white with terror. Behind them, vines swept after their hooves. No matter how fast the creatures ran, the vines - terrible and red and spiked - were faster. They devoured the Dreamrunners and, like a tide, passed over them. When they were gone, the creatures had been transformed into monstrous, oozing beasts, a corrupted image of what they had been, spiked and glowing of eye. The vision molded, shifted: entire ecosystems were devoured by this red darkness. Demigods fell. Druids of the strongest will were turned.
THEY TAINT MY BLOOD.
The visions shifted. Tentacles smashed through marble floors and swent Dwarves - no, Earthen, but all clad in iron - scattering. They coiled around some of the most prone and crushed them into rust. The building - ancient, metal, machined - rumbled, cracked. Laughter rang out, deep and terrible. Each cackle made the images change: titan avatars clutched their heads in fear or confusion. Machinery grew black and fleshy. Brother turned on sister. Chains snapped. Iron towers toppled.
THEY TAKE THOSE WHO CARE FOR ME. THEY TAKE MY VOICES AWAY. THOSE CLOSEST TO ME.
THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO. I CAN ONLY WATCH.
A sick, tarry feeling lay in his gut. He flexed his hands into a fist, and relaxed them, then flexed them again. He met the gaze of Azeroth’s floating form.
“None of this matters,” he said. “We both have the same things. And yet neither of us can do anything about what we have. All you have shown me is you have nothing to offer - the same as ever.” He scowled. “You say you just want to help, is that it? That suddenly, after ten thousand years, you want to help. Help how? Help how?” How dare she. How dare she. “You are as useless to me and mine as ever. All you are is a conduit for Them.”
USELESS? The ground around him thundered. Heat and chill crashed into him. Distant rumbling echoed from beyond the cavern.
I AM THE GROUND BENEATH YOUR FEET. The cavern shook.
I AM THE AIR YOU BREATHE. THE WATER YOU DRINK. THE OCEANS YOU CROSS. THE STORMS. THE TREES. I AM THE PLACE WHERE GENERATIONS HAVE LIVED AND DIED. I AM THE CAVE YOU HATCHED IN.
She thrust her form at him. So much power thrummed before him, so overwhelming, so cosmic, he had to back up and looked away.
I HAVE THE SAME SCARS AS YOU. DOES THIS MEAN YOU ARE USELESS, THAT ALL THOSE YOU CARE FOR ARE, TOO?
He grit his teeth. “No.”
She pulled back. All the rage from her form fell away at once. She hummed softly.
I KNOW WHAT I AM. DO YOU?
He opened his mouth and closed it.
The questioning was inane, useless. And yet he fixated on it. Furywing’s accusations came lingering back. At least I know what I really am. A monster, nothing more. Even what he had thrown at Wrathion - deep down, they were all just selfish slivers of grime, and relics of a lost time.
But even as he tried to reply, his words stuck to his throat. His whelps. He thought of his whelps, the smallest of his clutch. Did he think them monsters, deep down?
“I am a broodfather,” he said, slowly. No. He didn’t think they were.
THEN BE ONE.
“I have! I have crossed your oceans and cursed earth and brave my own sanity to protect them! But now they are taken by the curse of our own flesh.” He bared his teeth. “And you tell me to be one, when you yourself can do nothing?!”
NOT ON MY OWN. She paused. BUT I CAN BE HARNESSED.
The lake shimmered. Images of mortals rose to the surface. Orcs, tauren, dwarves - they danced with the elements, but the earth most of all.
They danced, and killed.
Monsters came running. Sha. Writhing flesh. Faceless Ones. In each vision the shaman sent a rain of destruction on them: boulders, great earthen spikes, lava. They summoned earthquakes, chasms to swallow entire swathes of minions, rockslides.
Sabellian watched, eyes blank. He shook his head.
“You misunderstand me if you think I am allured to the idea of using such power.” he looked up at her. “The same power that corrupted us. Being close to you is being close to Them.”
Azeroth hummed warily.
I KNOW WHAT I AM, she said. She paused for a long time. I HAVE ALWAYS HAD PROTECTORS. AND I HAVE ALWAYS TRIED TO PROTECT THEM IN RETURN WITH MY POWER. BUT I FAILED, A LONG TIME AGO. I GAVE TOO MUCH TO ONE.
Her voice was heavy with sorrow, and Sabellian’s stomach grew heavy with dread.
“Father.”
HE WAS MY GREATEST FRIEND, she said. AND FOR IT, I GAVE HIM EVERYTHING. Her form trembled with rage. EVEN MY OWN CURSE.
“And now you wish to give such power to me?”
The chamber shuddered. I WAS YOUNG THEN - AND I HAVE LEARNED. She swirled closer to him. A FRACTION OF MY POWER.
“The boy won’t be pleased about that. Give this to him, not to me.”
She shimmered as if amused. HE ALREADY DOES.
Sabellian frowned. “What?”
I GAVE HIM POWER TO PROTECT. She shimmered again. I GAVE IT TO EBYSSIAN TO AID. She pulsed. AND I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU TO UNITE.
She stretched out a part of her form. A swirl coalesced into an outstretched claw, palm up. It shifted into a paw, a hand, then back into smoke.
Sabellian stared at it. All his life, he had hated her. First, because They made him. Second, because he realized her power had cursed his kin and all his children. She was what had made them like this, even if she had not meant to. An apple with worms inside.
“Unite,” he repeated.
YES. TAKE MY POWER, AND YOU WILL TAKE BACK WHAT IS YOURS.
His instincts told him to turn away.
He thought of the hatchlings huddled together.
I will have to do the same for my own, one day.
“No.”
Azeroth didn’t move.
“Not until you can promise me something.”
A curious, wary hum.
“Even if I use this power to get my children back,” he said, “one day, we will have to return to your surface. And when that day comes… there will be nothing to stop us from corruption. I will have to kill us all out of mercy.” He touched the pendant. “You are as powerful as They are. You may not be able to throw Them from your core, but maybe -” He sounded a fool. Hadn’t he learned? “You are everything you said you are. Then show me. Help my family, like you helped me when the pendant fell.’ He could not say the words. The real words he wanted to say. The foolish words.
Heal us.
Azeroth hummed, quiet.
OPEN THE WAY.
Images of vines blocking the forest path flickered in the lake: the same image she had shown him before.
“And then what? How?”
THE WAY WAS OPENED FOR ME TO SPEAK WITH YOU WHEN YOU RECEIVED CHI-JI’S GIFT, she said. BUT SUCH GIFTS ARE NOT PLENTIFUL, AND I ALONE CANNOT BURN THEM FROM YOUR BLOOD.
Frustration built inside him. “Then you can’t -”
TOGETHER. Her voice echoed beyond the chamber. YOU AND I, AND ALL OTHERS LIKE US. TOGETHER, WE WILL OPEN THE WAY.
“Like us?”
Again she extended her hand, her claw, her fin, her claw toward him.
CURSED.
#sabellian#wrathion#ebyssian#hey! i did it!#sorry if i missed editing stuff! i'm SICK!#wrath of sabellian
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History of the Black Dragonflight Part 2
Part 1: https://wowcustodian.tumblr.com/post/158604089586/history-of-the-black-dragonflight-part-1
The silence was only the quiet before the storm evidently as since his retreat into Deepholm Deathwing had not been idle. He had rested within the Stonecore, weakened from his wounds at the Battle of Grim Batol until the Twilight Hammer cult came to him and began working on forging Elementium armor plates from ore Deathwing had commanded the gyreworm Coroborus to dig up. The plates were hammered and fused into the Dragon’s flesh to sear his wounds closed and hold his slowly rupturing body apart. His madness taking physical form as the power of the Old Gods had steadily increased within him with the awakening of C’thun and Yogg-Saron. His power increased to greater then ever before and his body ready for war Deathwing burst from the Stonecore, shattering the World Pillar and destabilizing the connection between the Elemental Plane and Azeroth, erupting back into the world and causing the cataclysm known as the Shattering. The world itself heaved causing floods, earthquakes, volcanoes, the Elemental spirits were sent into a frenzy as Deathwing made his way east until he crashed down upon Stormwind, scorching the park and the stone towers before leaving, having reclaimed the heads of his children Nerafian and Onyxia. His madness now completely overtaking him his goal was to usher in the Hour of Twilight and see the eradication of all life from Azeroth.
Deathwing’s message had been clear, he had returned to see the world eclipsed in fire and shadow. Heroes from the Horde and Alliance began their work, hunting down the newly realised Twilight’s Hammer and quelling the unrest caused across the planet. In the Badlands a lone Red Dragon, Rheastrasza had begun research into the Black Dragonflight to see if there was some way to purify them of the Old Gods corruption. With the help of players and a gnome scientist, Dr Hieronymus Blam, she collects eggs from the captured Black Dragon Nyxondra and experiments on them, ultimately being able to purify a single egg. She calls players to a cave and to wait while she collects the egg only to be found by Deathwing who has learned of her plan. She begs that the egg be spared by Deathwing refuses and burns them both before leaving. Upon the player investigating it is revealed that the purified Black egg is long gone and the egg Deathwing thought was the purified one was one of Rhea’s own. (Also this quest is fucking heartbreaking. No matter how high level I get I can never bring myself to get rid of the Trinket you get from it.)
As his plans began to take motion Deathwing went to Mount Hyjal, just as Ysera’s Green Dragonflight arrived to witness Deathwing summon Ragnaros the Firelord back into Azeroth from the Firelands to see Nordrassil burn. Al’akir the Windlord also allies himself with the Old Gods and Deathwing as his minions seek to take control of a Titan machine in Uldum that could wipe out all life on Azeroth and in the Twilight Highlands the Twilight Dragons battle the Reds for control of the area as the Twilight Hammer, led by Cho’gall, claim the Bastion of Twilight as a stronghold to continue their experiments. Alextrasza and her son Calen lure Deathwing to the Highlands to try and end him once and for all and while both Dragons badly wound the other ultimately Deathwing survives. Calen has the player leave with his mother while he stays to hold Deathwing back, claiming later that the Black Dragon was more hurt then he let on and was forced to retreat to recover.
As further fuel for his experiments Deathwing, using the power of the Old Gods, revived his dead son Nefarian as an undead dragon and set him to work in Blackrock Spire once more. His experiments more gruesome then ever, resulting in his final “greatest” creation; a revived Onyxia supposedly capable of being a new Brood mother for their flight.
Another plan of Deathwing’s that ended in failure was the Blue Dragon Arygos, son of Malygos. After Malygos’ death the Blue Dragonflight were discussing who to choose as the new Aspect of magic and in secret Arygos had stuck a bargain with Deathwing that would see him as his father’s successor and the Blues to survive the coming destruction in exchange for loyalty to the Black Aspect. The plan ended when the Blue Dragonflight voted Kalecgos as their new Aspect of Magic. Arygos ran from Coldarra and was soon after killed by the Twilight Hammer for his blood to be the catalyst to bring Chromatus to life. (I did say it was years later.)
As Deathwing and his forces ravaged the lands Kalecgos as the newest Aspect, as well as Ysera, Nozdormu and Alextrasza began meeting at Mount Hyjal to discuss possible ways to defeat the Destroyer. Ysera also took time to train Thrall to better connect to the earth, allowing him to see for hundreds of miles around until he felt some kind of “gap” in his perception beneath Hyjal. Delving down Thrall constructed a stone copy of himself as he reached the empty space and found it to be a chamber hidden under the mountain, blocking anything from seeing inside. As he entered the Orc found himself face to face with the Black Aspect who proceeded to beat and claw the stone Thrall, the pain of his wounds reaching his flesh and blood self. Deathwing saw it as a mockery that the other Aspects dared to try and “replace” him as Earth Warder with a mortal shaman. It was only by the Aspects, Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle that Thrall survived and the Aspects themselves came to the conclusion that the only chance to defeat Deathwing was with his own creation; The Dragon Soul.
Nozdormu opened a time portal to send heroes back to the Well of Eternity, before the Sundering to allow the disc to be stolen before it was sent away. Bringing the item back to the present and ferrying it to Wyrmrest Temple, Thrall and his Hero escorts (*coughfuckthisdungeoncough*) are accosted by the Twilight’s Hammer, desperate to prevent the Dragon Soul from being used.
At some point before the Dragon Soul was brought to Wyrmrest the Red Dragons employ a Rogue to recover a Decoder ring from Hagara the Stormbinder and deliver it to Corastrasza in the Twilight Highlands, claiming it could act as a cipher for a hidden message. Upon arriving the Rogue discovers a dead thief at the Dragon’s feet and she explains the purified Black Dragon Egg Rheastrasza sent off from the Badlands was being kept at the Vermillion Redoubt for safe keeping until a band of these thieves snuck in and stole it. The cipher is needed to decode the message in the pocket of the dead man. The message is revealed to be instructions mentioning to meet up at Ravenholdt Manor in Hillsbrad with the egg and the Rogue is sent there to retrieve it.
Upon reaching the basement where the egg is kept it’s revealed the egg has hatched into the Black Prince, Wrathion. Pure of the Old God corruption but no less merciless than the rest of his kin. He employs the Rogue to hunt down other Black Dragons, claiming that they are a threat to Azeroth and to himself.
The first is Hiram Creed, a Black Drakonid who, disguised as a Gilnean has gathered a motley crew together on promises of retaking their city. He has infected them with his Draconic blood to heighten their senses and abilities while slowly corrupting them into being his slaves.
The second is Nalice, the Black Dragonflight representative from Wyrmrest Temple. Now she’s hiding out in the caves underneath Karazhan and digging up arcane secrets.
Thirdly is Deathwing himself. Wrathion tasks the Rogue with being one of the Raid that sees Deathwing destroyed. So it finally comes to the battle of Wyrmrest. Deathwing and his forces attack Dragonblight in full force. The ground ripped open as colossal maws of leviathan tentacle covered beasts spew the minions of the Old God N’Zoth out to swarm the temple. The Black Dragonflight battle their cousins, filling the sky as the Horde and Alliance airships try to defend the temple as best they can. All of the combined efforts trying to buy the Aspects enough time to use the Dragon Soul, or rather for them to empower the Soul so Thrall can use it since it’s still unable to be wielded by a Dragon.
It was here Deathwing unveiled his “ultimate” creation; the Twilight Dragon Ultraxion. Having consumed the energies from Nether Dragons, Ultraxion radiates crackling purple lightning and attempts to bring down the Aspects as they work on the Dragon Soul. Ultraxion, like all of Deathwing’s plans, failed due to the Heroes of Azeroth defending the Aspects and slaying the Twilight Dragon. Finally prepared, Thrall releases the power of the Dragon Soul on Deathwing, badly wounding him. In his rage the Black Aspect destroyed the Horde airship and began making his way back to the Maelstrom to flee into Deepholm as he had done before. The Aspects, Thrall and Heroes of the Horde and Alliance all boarded the Alliance airship, the Skyfire, and gave chase.
After fending off Warmaster Blackhorn and his Twilight Drakes the Heroes dove out of the Skyfire and landed on the back of Deathwing himself and proceeded to forcefully tear away the Elementium plates holding the Dragon’s body together. The damage done to him and another blast from the Dragon Soul by Thrall pierced a hole through Deathwing’s chest, causing him to crash into the Maelstrom.
Believing him finally dead, the group met up with Thrall and the Aspects on the shores of the Maelstrom only to have their celebrations cut short as Deathwing, now little more then a writhing insane mass of fire and tendrils, rose from the waters for one latch ditch effort to snuff them out and cause a second Cataclysm. With the immense power of the Aspects Deathwing was finally slain and his body utterly destroyed save for his jaw which was carried back to Stormwind and Orgrimmar as a trophy just as had happened to his children.
With the plans of the Black Dragonflight finally stopped Wrathion’s agent returns to him to find the Black Prince standing at the corpse of a Red Dragon, claiming the “Treacherous” Red Dragonflight attempted to kill him off. It is then Wrathion informs the Rogue of one final Black Dragon that he wishes to see dead. His bodyguard Fahrad. Wrathion goads Fahrad, pointing out that as a Black Dragon he too shares the visions and whispers of the Old Gods every one of his brothers and sisters has. Becoming agitated Fahrad takes on his Dragon form and attacks but at the last second the Rogue lunges from the shadows and deals a killing blow.
Relieved Wrathion claims he is, as far as he is aware, the last Black Dragon in existence. He takes on his Whelpling form and flies off.
Later in Pandaria strange agents working for an unknown master pop up here and there, scouting the lands. As it turns out they serve Wrathion who calls heroes he deems worthy to the Tavern in the Mists where he explains that he has foreseen the return of the Burning Legion and that Azeroth has no hope to survive should the Horde and Alliance continue their war. As his only interest is in Azeroth itself and not the mortal races, he pledges his loyalty to each faction without the other knowing. He tasks these heroes with proving their faction deserves with win the war and thus be the vanguard to stand against the Legion. He judges Varian and Garrosh, asking the Heroes to see for themselves what the Alliance and Horde truly stand for.
During his stay in Pandaria Wrathion becomes friend with Prince Anduin. The two debate on the merits of harsh leadership versus compassion as Anduin recovers from an attack by Garrosh.
After gathering requested resources for Wrathion he leads Heroes to the Isle of Thunder, to the Thunder Forges. His plan being to use the power of Lei Shen against him. Acknowledging the brilliance of the Thunder King as well as the Titanic machinery he uses, Wrathion manages to craft the Lightning Lance which he claims can harness the very power the Thunder King himself wields, however the weapon must be tempered by using the Lance on the Cloud Serpent Nalak just as it dies, to absorb the power Lei Shen imbued into the creature. With what the Heroes gatheres Wrathion creates the Crown of Heaven to empower the Heroes armor and declares them the “spark” that with ignite and unlock Azeroth’s true potential.
Next he requests the Heroes to return to the Isle of Thunder to gather Titan Runestones to learn about the history of the Mogu race, their Titanic origin and their servitude to the Titan Keeper, Ra. Their purpose of protecting the Vale of Eternal Blossoms and its power. Their eventual rebellion and founding of the different clans and eventually the rise of the Thunder King and his Empire.
After learning of the power Lei Shen holds Wrathion commands the Heroes to go to the Isle one last time and return with the Heart of the Thunder King. The campaign is long and difficult but they do return victorious and present the Heart to Wrathion who, despite Anduin’s obvious disgust, eats the heart to gain the Titan knowledge Lei Shen possessed. After devouring the heart he receives a vision of millions of worlds presumably all the planets the Titans visited and a voice speaks through him of having to “Rebuild the final Titan.” Afterward he claims to’ve forgotten everything the Heart showed him and that all the Mogu too also forgot their purpose.
The next task the Prince has is to talk to all four August Celestials and complete a trial from one of them. Each of the Celestials asks Wrathion of his opinion of each trait they stand for; Strength, Hope, Fortitude and Wisdom. Each Celestial disputes Wrathion’s thoughts, such as him believing strength to mean having the power to crush your enemies or that he does not truly believe Azeroth can withstand the Legion.
Yu’lon and Xuen both have the Hero duel a blindfolded Wrathion. Chi’ji and Niuzao summon a vision of Deathwing’s humanoid form and ask the Hero to heal and protect Wrathion as he fights it. From this we learn that beneath all of Wrathion’s cold arrogance he is terrified of Deathwing. Despite the attempts to offer advice Wrathion dismisses the words of the Celestials, interested only in the power they offer. Taking their blessings Wrathion creates a Cloak of Virtue, another token of power gifted to us as a reward for our aid.
The Black Prince has one last mission for us, to allow us to earn his Draconic power to be augmented into the cloak to increase its power and so sends us to the newly discovered Timeless Isle. At the Isle Wrathion introduces the Heroes to Kairozdormu, a Bronze Dragon studying the anomaly that is the Timeless Isle. Gathering the reagents from the Timeless Isle Wrathion requests he asks us to meet him at the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. With Lorewalker Cho transcribing the tale of your exploits the two begin to argue about what kind of “Hero” the story is about, one who seeks to benefit the world or destroy their enemies. Nevertheless Wrathion forged the Cloak with the power of his own magic, creating the Legendary Cloak. With its immense power Wrathion gives the Hero the task he apparently had been preparing them for all along; Garrosh Hellscream’s assassination. To take part in the Siege of Orgrimmar and end Garrosh, leading to the Alliance taking the chance to destroy the Horde in their weakened state.
As this is not the outcome, the Hero returns to Wrathion to find him storming about the Tavern in the Mists, throwing glasses about and breathing fire, insulting Varian Wrynn for throwing away his opportunity. His plan had been to aid the Horde in conquering Azeroth until Garrosh alienated himself from the other Horde Leaders at which point Wrathion’s allegiance changed to the Alliance. In his anger he claims he should have do what “Auntie Onyxia” did and assume direct control of the Alliance himself.
His bartender Tong grows infuriated at Wrathion’s rambling and finally talks back to the Black Prince, trying to convince him that the Horde and Alliance are at their strongest because of the conflict between them pushing them both, however Wrathion dismisses Tong’s words as he did the Celestials and flies off after proclaiming that he will stop at nothing to prepare Azeroth for the coming war and that “next time” he will leave nothing to chance.
Wrathion is not one to sit and do nothing and so as the world prepared for the trial of Garrosh Hellscream he began planning. As the trial went on he met regularly with Anduin Wrynn as the two grew to become good friends yet Wrathion also ventured to meet with Warlord Zaela, leader of the Black Dragon clan and engineering her clan as well as several allies, attacking the Temple of the White Tiger to disrupt the trial long enough for Wrathion’s other ally, Kairoz, to free Garrosh and together the two lept across time and space to Alternate Draenor. His belief was that a new more powerful Horde could sweep across Azeroth and remove the Alliance and the old Horde from the world so that an Azeroth of united Orcs would stand ready to fight the Legion when they inevitably return.
Wrathion himself travelled to Draenor and ended up at Admiral Taylor’s garrison claiming to have angered the local Ogres and sought somewhere to stay. While there he grew to distrust Taylor aswell as one of his followers, Ephial. Wrathion eventually left the garrison, taking several of Taylor’s men with him. Beyond being briefly seen in his Whelp form sat outside Khadgar’s tower in Talador the Dragon has not been seen since.
Since the Legion’s invasion and the campaign across the Broken Isle Wrathion himself has not been seen however as this is the very conflict he was so obsessed about I’d be surprised if we didn’t see him at some point. We were introduced to a new Black Dragon, minor spoilers if you haven’t completed the questing experience in the new zones.
It is discovered that when Huln Highmountain banished Deathwing to Deepholm he used the Hammer of Khaz’goroth to attempt to purify some of the remaining Black Dragon eggs of their corruption. While most were destroyed a single Whelpling remained, Ebyssian or as Huln names him, Ebonhorn. Ebyssian had remained in Highmountain across the centuries having taken on the form of a Tauren and serving as an advisor to every High Chieftan to follow in Huln’s hoofprints. After completing the Nelthation’s Lair Dungeon Ebyssian says he has “Family matters” to attend to which seems to hint at a confrontation between himself and Wrathion but we have yet to see anything from the two since then.
Wrathion gives us our best depiction of how Black Dragons were before the Old Gods corrupted them as Xuen calls him “A Black Dragon through and through.” From him we can determine the Black Dragons are rather disconnected from the mortal races, focused on the wellbeing of Azeroth as a whole. Focused, arrogant and seemingly unwilling to listen to the advice of others, they will do whatever it takes to achieve their goals and are unrepentant about doing so. Many Black Dragons have shown a preference for manipulating mortals, humans more then any other, to carry out tasks for them rather then get their hands dirty themselves.
Ebyssian is the exception to this being compassionate and loyal to the Highmountain Tauren however as he was raised with zero contact with any other Dragon, living in hiding it is understandable how he grew so attached to the people.
Male Black Dragons tend to end with the suffix “an” while females usually end with “ia” though as with all Dragonflights there are exceptions such as Razormaw, Nalice, Nyxondra and Neltharion himself. Like many Dragons they choose to live in caves however Black Dragons generally choose somewhere deep underground with molten lava running about their lair. They can breathe lava and the symbol of the Black Dragonflight is a volcano.
PHEW Jeez this one took a while. I thought the other posts were long. This one ended up taking a lot more effort then I realised, hopefully I won’t make that mistake again. If you made it through the entire thing congratulations! Apologies if my rambling was boring, any feedback is welcome as always.
Ciao!
P.S. WrathionxAnduin OTP!
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@terraforged // WRATHION.
It had not been time enough since her last visit. Far from it, truly, matter of days that it was (and days amounted to naught to one who had seen millennia pass). Too brief, too few, too short, the blink of an eye truly, and Nalice finds herself all the more irritable due to it; or so she tells herself, that irascibility is all matter of her feelings, all her own and not caused by external forces, persistent in their pestering as they had grown to be after realizing she did not intend to heed them at all.
Her disembodied companions were not content that she would have them shut out, and for that in the least she was content, tiniest bit of annoyance she could cause them in return.
Journals had been filled as instructed, if minimalist in manner she had done so, and more scarce as days had past, as they had since she first sought him out. What was strictly important --- how the voices affected her --- had been noted with as much detail as to how as she felt comfortable in sharing, which meant not much detail at all beyond intensity with which she heard them and if they were few or many. They were in her head, after all; what they prodded at was no less than her every thought, and sooner she would be driven insane than to give Wrathion more domain over her than he already acquired.
Not true, not at all. You go to him even now, returning to your master like a dog on a leash. Protesting doesn’t change the truth of it; he has all the power and you none, and we could give it to you, if only you would let us help.
Scoffs at apparently nothing while descending to very same lair she had barged in last time. Do you think to fool me with sweetened words? I’m no foolish mortal to bend so easily. Situation may not have grown as dire as it had been when she finally gave in and sought out the Black Prince, but Nalice knew better than to wait for it to happen (’twas not far, truly, the blabbering already seeking to pull her towards multiple directions until she begun ripping herself apart). She had refused to come until they begun to interfere with her basic living, ruining her focus and ability to be capable hunter. In turn, hunger only made her more desperate and their interference easier, vicious cycle she would see broken now.
Hesitates before changing into mortal guise she had worn each time she had dealt with Wrathion; the true mortals gives her pause. His Blacktalons (so many of them around, safeguarding their employer; out of sight they may be, but she could smell them easily enough) might make for an easy enough meal, close as they were. Mortals are far from being a favorite, but she’s learned to not be picky throughout everything she had to survive through.
This, she knew, was not as much thought as it was suggestion, and she shifts to human appearance at once. A worthy attempt, at least; but mortals barely made it as food, and those with armor and weapons and perhaps even carrying poison would be a stupid choice to pursue.
Most of all when she still needed Wrathion’s aid, loathe it as she did.
“But you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Talks to her incorporeal companions in manner that surely makes Wrathion’s pets think her insane; perhaps she is, Nalice thinks, difficult as it was lately to tell apart where her mind ended and Void influence begun. If losing her mind, she still has enough of it to know acting against him now would be playing into their hands, for destroying her and weakening his forces would be desirable enough outcome to them (and then and there, she found her unwillingness to follow anyone’s whims but her own rivaled only her drive to survive no matter what).
How glad she’d be to sink teeth in them and tear them apart limb from limb, how tragic it could not be done to enemies that were made of no physical matter. To get rid of them in manner that is somewhat effective, then. Strides are quick but purposeful also, leading her directly to the other dragon with apparent nonchalance that belies just how attentive Nalice is to surroundings deemed hostile.
Lashes out even as she approaches him, regardless of how his aid had been saving grace in truth and she may not be there at all were it not for Wrathion intervening when asked to do so. Lack of progress irritated her, nevertheless; in spite of adapting his recipe accordingly to information she provided, Nalice had yet to be able to resist the voices for truly lengthy amount of time. “I must say when I came to you for help, my expectations were low and yet I expected it to be more effective than this has been so far.”
#I figured it might be more interesting to have it not be the next time she came back#because then we can deal with the trying to make it more effective rather than have it be just him helping her again?#asndfkajndfkj Idk if I managed to explain it but#anyways#irritable is nalice's mood of the day#so she came to call wrathion incompetent while relying on his help#akjsndkajnk#* muse: nalice / BLACKWYRM.#* in character: nalice / BLACK OF HEART.#terraforged#* thread 009: terraforged / NALICE & WRATHION.
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The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 36)
Wrathion deals with the fallout of his loss in the Trial of Will.
Sabellian pulled the hood closer over his head.
The dry heat was welcome after so much time at sea, but the dragon couldn’t focus enough to enjoy it. He stared up at the mountain with a grimness that felt stark even on his face.
If the newest reports were correct, Samia and the others were in there.
Crunched footsteps came from his right. He didn’t look over. Only one person would dare intrude.
“So?” he prompted.
“Agents were right,” Rexxar said. “I managed to track the trail to the Spire’s pass.”
Sabellian sniffed.
“And you’re sure it was him?”
Rexxar grunted. He came up to stand at his side. Misha wasn’t with him. “I saw him in Pandaria with the Dragonmaw. He lacked their markings and saddles, but I remember his visage. Yes. It was him.”
Sabellian glanced at the half-orc. Only yesterday the hunter had taken off the bandages from his scuffle with the Dragonmaw two weeks ago. What was left were scars, ripping all across Rexxar’s bare chest.
“Alone?”
“Alone.” Rexxar looked at the mountain. It reached so high the jagged top touched the clouds of ash that misted along the gorge’s sky; the clouds themselves cast a red and black hue on an even redder and blacker landscape. It almost looked like home. “No other tracks.”
He frowned, thoughtful as he was aggravated. No Samia, no Vaxian.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t here.
He knew they were.
“I suppose those Agents are good for something,” Sabellian said. “Send word to that orc and have her ready some of his little underlings for the trap.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.” Sabellian looked skyward. It was late afternoon, but the sun lay obscured under the ash-clouds. Unlike Blade’s Edge, the Searing Gorge had a perpetual darkness to it. “The longer we linger, the longer Serinar has to realize we’re here, or for them to relocate. Or both.” He curled his lip. “Especially after the idiot insisted we bring so many of his Agents.”
“Necessary,” Rexxar pointed out.
“And cumbersome. Mortals smell to dragons. The more there are, the more scents Serinar and the others will find.”
Rexxar shrugged one large shoulder.
They stood in silence. Sabellian ran his fingers down the collar affixed to his neck. It was becoming a habit of his since he’d put it on right before arriving to the Gorge two days ago. Though it inhibited his draconic form, the smooth feel of the metal had a calming quality.
Rexxar looked at the collar. His expression didn’t change. “Anything?”
Sabellian dropped his hand. Irritation bubbled in his chest. Every glance that his travelling companions had given him, every slight wince they’d done when he moved too fast or snapped, he’d caught as quickly as only the self-conscious did. It’d gotten somewhat better the longer he hadn’t snapped and killed them all, at least.
“Nothing,” he said dismissively. He’d told no one of his dreams, either.
It’d stay that way.
“I’ll have Misha send for Left, then.”
Sabellian stared at at the mountain known as Blackrock for a moment longer, then shook his head. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go to speak with her. I know she’s at camp - and no doubt the boy is there as well. Come.”
He moved past the Beastmaster. “We hunt the fool down,” Sabellian continued as he made his way down the rocky slope of the smaller mountain, back down to their camp at ground level. “If he’s alone, it’s our only chance before he skulks back into the mountain - and who knows when we shall have another chance to corner him.”
Corner him, torture him, force him to tell them where his children were. No matter what it took.
---
Two weeks earlier.
“Sabellian wins the Trial of Will.”
Silence – a silence of victory so sweet Sabellian savored it like a fresh heart.
He looked Wrathion. The Black Prince stood frozen, face ashen and his eyes red with shock. Stupid boy. He'd fallen into Sabellian's game far easier than the alchemist had expected.
Such was ego.
Xuen padded over to the orb, where it glowed orange and bright in the center of the Celestial Court. Each footfall scuffed loud against the quiet, so hushed was the entirety of the arena. He raised one massive paw over the ball.
“And to the victor goes the spoils,” he said, voice booming out along the Court. “The Black Prince must renounce his title, cease the suffering of Sabellian's brood, and return with him to Blade's Edge to face the judgment of his remaining family.” As he spoke, the orb began to spin, quick and then quicker, until it began to dissolve into ribbons of light which swirled around one another like a swarm of butterflies.
The White Tiger looked at Sabellian.
“Do you accept?”
“I accept.”
Xuen nodded. He swept his claws through the ribbons.
They shot away, quick as a firework – right toward Wrathion. The prince only had time to widen his eyes and take one step back before the ribbons of energy surrounded him. They locked together, cocoon-like, shielding the dragon from view.
The orc bodyguard cried out in anger and alarm. She smashed the butt of her rifle against the energy – and only succeeded in being thrown back. Snaps of light popped inside the shield.
All at once, the ribbons slowed in their mad dance. As quick as they had come, they dissolved into pieces of starlight.
Kneeling on the ground was Wrathion. He curled into himself and groaned.
No longer did he wear the illustrious garb of desert royalty. Instead, his clothes were plain: a white tunic and baggy deep-purple pants similar to the old, without all of the gold decoration.
The orc rushed over and knelt down to him. She managed to help him to his feet. Wrathion had a gaunt look on his face, and his eyes were distant and searching. He swayed once. Then he looked at Sabellian.
Little fool.
He didn’t hesitate: he walked over. The crowd murmured from beyond; he ignored them. Let them talk. The theatrics, the dramatics, were over. He wanted his prize.
Left looked up and snarled, tusks flashing.
“You'll be coming with me then, boy,” Sabellian said.
“So you can kill him without all of these people seeing, lizard?” Left spat. “I won't let -”
Wrathion put up a hand. Slowly - slowly - he looked up. His eyes were glassy, pained; he never took his eyes off of Sabellian. Exhaustion and something like resolution settled on the young dragon's face.
“It's fine, Left,” he said. “We'll go with him.”
“My Prince -”
“I'm not supposed to be called that anymore, remember?” Wrathion smiled a terse smile, and there, at last, was the bitterness on his expression. “If he wanted to kill me, he already would have.”
Sabellian raised an eyebrow.
“So I would have,” he repeated. He glanced at the orc, frowned, and looked back at Wrathion. Odd. Where was the tantrum that he'd been expecting Wrathion to unleash? “Only this one is allowed to follow. No others. And certainly not the mortal prince. He'll talk us all in circles.” Even from afar he could feel Anduin's need to preach at them both; the boy stood at the very edge of the arena, watching. Titans help them all if he was allowed to get close.
Wrathion grit his teeth.
“Fine.”
Sabellian looked up and nodded at Rexxar. The half-orc grunted. He moved forward to stand behind Wrathion and Left. Misha skulked off to the side. The once-prince glanced at them nervously.
“Good,” Sabellian said. “Now follow. Don't mind the bears. They're just there to keep you on the right path.”
He turned and started out of the Court. Footsteps followed.
A hundred eyes watched them go – but their gazes and hushed conversation, and not even Xuen's watching look, could come close to unnerving the dragon. For Sabellian had finished what he'd come here to do – in a way that let himself feel right. Feel good. Feel vindicated.
The only thing that itched him was the visions Wrathion had summoned. Things he hadn’t wanted to see again. Things and people he hadn’t wanted to bring up.
His Father.
Anger rumbled at his chest, and he redirected it at the ex-Prince.
Yes - he'd brought Wrathion to his knees. Shown him his brood's suffering. Stripped him of his title and reputation in front of champions who would spread the word, as mortals tended to do.
Yes – death would have been an easy strike. Too easy, for someone who had taken even more children away from him.
Too easy indeed.
---
The walk back to the cave was as grim and quiet as a funeral procession.
The more they walked, the more Sabellian grew a bizarre mix of angry and smug. Angry at the visions; smug because he’d won.
By the time the cave came into view, Misha had taken up the rear and Rexxar the side. The Beastmaster kept casting glances at Sabellian – enough that it began to grate on him.
“What?” he snapped.
Rexxar paused, then looked away and shook his head.
Sabellian shot him a glare.
He stopped in front of the cave entrance.
“Wrathion and I will be speaking alone,” he said.
Left went to protest, but Wrathion beat her to speaking.
“Fine.”
Sabellian gave a curt nod. Rexxar was staring at him again. The dragon bared his teeth, turned, and swept into the cave.
The lanterns they'd lit before leaving had gone out. With a wave of his hand, he set them to blazing, and fire burst hot and bright, sending shadows scattering and bobbing.
He waited until he heard footsteps behind him: footsteps wary and silent. Sabellian crossed his arms over his chest and glanced back, but did not turn.
“I confess,” Sabellian said, “I expected your reaction to the loss more... volatile.” He turned to face the boy and frowned.
Wrathion glared.
“Now, boy: listen to me. You’re going to do me a favor with your new oath.”
----
Sabellian and Rexxar made their way down the slope. Their encampment was nestled at the base, hidden underneath an outcrop of rock from aerial view.
Glimpses of shadows skulked at the corner of his eyes. Wrathion, despite his initial reluctance, had smoothed into his role with a vehemence that bordered on vengeful. The boy couldn't do anything about his situation, so apparently he was going about it aggressively, summoning all the power his Agents provided – and that included summoning a lot of Agents. A lot of them; a flashy amount. Wrathion was either trying to show he still had some semblance of control with the flourish of power, or was just trying to get this over with as quickly as possible by pushing all of his resources into it.
It was probably both.
They reached the camp. Two Agents stood at attention, but moved out of the way without so much as a glance or a word in their direction. Sabellian and Rexxar swept by them.
It was a small camp, hastily erected underneath the outcrop. A fire popped in the center and some bedrolls and a portable table surrounded it.
At the table stood Left. She looked up as they approached. Her face gave nothing away.
“Rexxar filled you in,” she said. It was not a question.
“We won't have long to corner him.” Sabellian moved to the other end of the table. A map and a scattering of documents, all scrawled in different hand, littered the surface. At the far end were some vials filled with reagents and herbs he'd laid out earlier; within one lay what looked to be a clump of dead grass, blackened by heat. He eyed it. “Where is the boy?”
“Checking on the scouts on the northern edge of the mountain,” Left said. She hadn't warmed up to him at all; her tone remained a growly sort of snap that he ignored. He wasn't here to make friends. “Nevermind.”
He looked up at her and followed her eyes to the sky, where a blur of black swept down from the clouds. Wrathion slowed as he approached. He'd grown a little, some of his limbs a little longer and his face a little more angular. He alighted at the edge of the camp and in a rush of smoke, transformed into his human guise.
“So?” Sabellian said.
Wrathion stared at him with a bored expression. “So what?”
“Your scouts?”
The ex-prince smoothed back his hair. He'd – somewhere – found a brown leather coat that covered the slightness of his body. Most likely one of the Agents he'd called in had fetched it for him.
“They've flanked the pass,” he said. “Are you certain that that little bit will work?”
“If I wasn't, I wouldn't have suggested it.” Sabellian reached over and flicked his fingernail on the vial of the dead-grass. It gave off a delicate ping. “It's more than enough. As long as your Agents are set correctly in place.”
Wrathion frowned. He eyed the vial. “They'll do just fine.” He slid his eyes over to Rexxar. “But a tool is only as good as the directions it's given.”
Rexxar grunted. “I won't fail.”
“Of course he won't,” Sabellian grumbled, glaring at Wrathion. He'd grown a little more confident since the beach and he wasn't sure if he liked it better or not. At least it made him seem more clear-headed and not a mopey child. “We go now.”
Left and Wrathion stared at him. “Now?” the orc said. “We have to arm the -”
Sabellian put up his hand to silence her. Slowly, he straightened then grabbed the vial. He tipped it up and down; the grass inside plunked back and forth with the motion. He watched it. “As I said: we won't have long. The Searing Gorge has enough prey here for him to hunt and hunt quickly, then feed quickly. He'll skulk back to wherever he's been hiding within the hour.” He put the vial in his robe. His hand brushed against the warmth of his charm.
No one still knew about that.
“We go now.”
---
“You want me to find your children for you?”
Sabellian had explained what he wanted Wrathion to do, and he liked the boy’s bewildered expression very much.
He smiled tersely.
“You were able to find the dragons hiding from your assassins well enough,” he drawled. “This should be easy for you.”
Wrathion ran a hand through his hair. The boy looked ragged around the edges; to Sabellian, he looked like a sheep whose wool had been sheared for the first time. He had that sort of shocked look about him and the lack of his elaborate clothing only solidified the image.
“You… you did all of that… just to force me to be your bloodhound?” Wrathion drew himself up and bared his teeth. “That wasn’t even part of the bet! You took my title away from me, you forced me to stop killing them, but -”
“Wrong.” Sabellian put up a hand to stop the boy from speaking any more. “I said you had to face my children for their own judgement. But how are you supposed to meet them if they’re not all there?”
“But that’s not -”
“You can ask Xuen, if you’d like,” Sabellian cut in smoothly. “You needn’t worry; I asked him all the details before I started the Trial. The Tiger said it was up to the oath-taker to do anything possible to bring about his duties.” He smiled stiffly. “Which means you have to find my children, first. Understand, now?”
Wrathion grew more and more pale. His little burst of anger vanished like a flame blown out on a candle wick; all that was left was that remaining shock and disbelief again.
“You have a network of spies around the globe,” Sabellian continued when the boy didn’t speak. “You have access to your earth powers so you can sense the dragons. Yes. I cornered you in front of mortals and humiliated you. I’m forcing you to help those you’ve wanted to kill. And I am taking much pleasure in it.”
How good it felt to have his plans come to fruition so smoothly.
Wrathion chewed on his bottom lip. He seemed to look through Sabellian, and the dragon saw the dozens of ideas flash desperately behind the boy’s eyes as he thought of ways to get out of this and fail. The whelp stood there long enough, frozen, that Sabellian’s satisfaction felt all the sweeter.
Finally, Wrathion’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth.
Defeat.
“And you’re going to kill me afterward?” he asked, but didn’t look up.
“No.” Sabellian shrugged. “I don’t want to kill you anymore. I realized just how little I cared about you to sink to your level of killing without thought.” He glanced Wrathion up and down. “And leaving you alive with your guilt and psychological damage is much more rewarding to me.”
Wrathion looked at him.
“I hate you.”
“I don’t care. Now go.” He waved a hand, dismissing his new tool. “Get all of the Agents to look for Samia, Vaxian, and Pyria. Find them fast, and you won’t have to deal with me ever again - and that, I promise you.”
---
“You want me to go home?”
Sabellian sighed. He hadn’t thought this was going to be as difficult as it was turning out.
“Nasandria. I know all you’ve wanted to do since we arrived is to leave for Blade’s -”
“I’m not going to leave when we’re about to go look for my siblings,” she said. She flushed at her interruption, then shook herself out and crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to go home, but not when -”
“Listen, girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. Nasandria went still. They were outside of the cave, and alone; Rexxar had gone to guard (or, in his words, “keep an eye on”) Wrathion while the boy went to collect some last-minute details from his Agents. “You’ve been through enough. What you are going to do is listen to me and go home. You’re going to let the brood know that the Prince is taken care of. You’re going to let them know what we’re still doing here. And then you’re going to tell them they shouldn’t be fretting over me.”
Sabellian stared down at her until she looked away. She was his child; she would obey. The leader of a brood had that sort of respect. It wasn’t like some flimsy human family.
“As you say,” she murmured.Though she had averted her eyes, he saw a softening of relief in her gaze. He appreciated her attempt to hide it.
He hesitated, then let go of her.
“We are lucky the Agents tracked Serinar to the Searing Gorge,” he said. “Familiar territory. I know most crevices and caves there, and Blackrock was your Uncle’s lair.” Something he didn’t fancy himself going into, but if he had to - for his children - he would. “It shall be easy to corner them.”
A day ago, Wrathion’s Agent, Left, had come to him explaining they had found traces of black dragon there. Black dragons. And one had seen Serinar.
Samia and Vaxian had last been seen with Serinar. If he was there… then they were too.
Pyria, however, remained a mystery.
“That Bronze has the portal schedule,” he said stiffly, feeling, at once, somewhat awkward. “She’ll accompany you to make sure you take the right one. Don’t shift out of your human guise until you take the path from Shattrah into the Terrokar Forest. The northern route, not the eastern. Arakkoa have too many encampments in the latter. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Father… you’re sure about this Wrathion business, too?” She looked up at him, bangs hanging over her eyes.
“Very. Trust me, girl.”
She stared at him. Then she frowned, and the snap of her voice took him off guard. “And the Old Gods?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How are you going to do that?”
He scowled. “Nasandria -”
“Just - wait. I have something.”
She turned and rushed into the cave - not without tripping and stumbling to catch herself on a clump of roots.
She disappeared inside. Sabellian heaved a sigh.
What could she possibly -
Nasandria reappeared within the next moment. She clutched her satchel in her arm. Sabellian watched her approach, one eyebrow perked.
“Kalecgos, he -... he gave me this before we left the Temple,” she explained. She undid the clasp and reached in. When she pulled out the silver collar, Sabellian narrowed his eyes.
“And why would he give you that?”
She looked at him. They both knew why, but she said it anyway. “For you. Just in case.”
He eyed the collar. He’d loathed the thing at the Temple: the feeling of constriction, of confinement. A confinement needed just in case he went mad again. In case he tried to shift into his true form and slaughter everyone in his path.
He sighed quietly.
“Give it to me.”
Nasandria nodded and handed it over. Her eyes never left the collar; she did not raise them to watch him.
Sabellian spun the thing over in his hands. The light didn’t catch the slick metal, as if it absorbed it, not reflected it. Power tingled at his fingers where they touched it.
“I suppose it will be of use,” he muttered. “In case something goes wrong.”
She shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”
He said a quick word of power, and the collar disappeared in a whisk of arcane. He brushed his hands off and looked at her. “Thank you.”
She smiled warily.
“There is one other thing, Nasandria,” he said. “Before you leave.”
The drake straightened. “Yes?”
“I want you to go find where Talsian’s remains are: the cave in Kun’lai.” He put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Those bones don’t deserve to be in the cold. Bring them home.”
Nasandria’s face fell, and she nodded.
“I’ll make sure of it, Father.” And she bowed her head.
Sabellian nodded. “Good. Now, go find Chromie. With any luck, I shall see you soon, with Samia and the others in tow.”
The drake hesitated. Then she threw herself forward and embraced him.
Sabellian startled and stiffened up. A hug was such a human gesture...
But he returned it all the same.
“No, go on, then, girl. Go.” Sabellian let go and waved her off.
She looked a little flustered, but, on seeing Sabellian wasn’t angry, smiled one last time and nodded.
“Good luck, Father. And be careful.”
---
The day before they were set to leave, Sabellian received a visitor.
He had begun going through supplies for the journey when Misha began rumbling at the cave entrance. Rexxar had only just left to buy water flasks at the Market courts, so he could not be back so early.
Sabellian glanced over. His mood dropped.
“Prince Wrynn,” the dragon greeted. “Why are you here?”
Anduin stood at the opening, eyeing Misha. The bear sat to the side. She made no move to bar him from entering, but she didn’t make him welcome, either.
“Ah…” Anduin looked at him. “I was hoping to speak with you.”
Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He didn’t seek Wrathion, then. Interesting. And suspicious.
“Leave him be, Misha,” Sabellian said. “Let the boy in.”
The bear flicked an ear, grunted, and rose. She thumped away and sat at the other end of the cave.
Anduin entered, and only then did Sabellian see that the boy held a small pouch.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. He looked around. “You’re alone?”
“Would you like me to be?”
Anduin frowned and glanced at him; for a moment he looked startled. Then he smiled. “Not necessarily.”
Sabellian grunted. He turned back to his supplies, cast all over the slab etched into the wall. He picked through dried rations, health potions, and gauze. “What is it, then? If you’ve come to ask me to let go of Wrathion’s debt, I’m afraid you’ll just be wasting your words.”
“It’s not that.” Anduin sat on one of the only chairs in the cave. It was big enough to hold Rexxar, so it engulfed the Prince.
Anduin began looking around again. Sabellian watched him from the corner of his eye. It felt as if the boy was having trouble focusing on him for very long. To be fair, the last time the two had spoken alone was when he had Anduin captive under Sik’vess. He glanced at where he had scoured the fel dagger across the boy’s eye, though any scar that might have been there was hidden by the long sleeves he wore.
“Then what is it?” Sabellian pressed impatiently.
“You’re leaving.”
“Yes. Who told you that?”
Anduin shifted in his seat. “I overheard your daughter. Nasandria?”
The suspicion came back at once. Sabellian rumbled, set down a handful of rations he’d been sifting through for packing, and turned to face Anduin.
“Go on, boy. Say what you’re here for.”
Anduin smiled again. It seemed tired, and reached his eyes in the vaguest sense.
“I was at the Celestial Court last night, speaking with Chi-ji. Nasandria came to speak with the rest of the Celestials.” He tilted his head. “It’s when I learned you were leaving.”
And what could she have wanted from the Celestials? He stared at Anduin in silence, bidding him to continue with the intent of his stare.
“I don’t mean to… ‘tell’ on her,” he said, and watched Sabellian’s face carefully. “But she was asking them to help you. Because you’re leaving the island.”
The unsaid lay like a thin ice between them. Sabellian frowned.
“I saved Chi-ji, once,” Anduin continued when Sabellian remained silent. “The Celestials… they have a strange concept of debt. They don’t expect anyone to repay them, but if they owe you something, they will give you any favor you ask for.”
“How generous,” Sabellian drawled.
“I asked him for something that would help.” The boy undid the strings on the pouch and upended its contents into his palm.
It was a necklace. Its gold chain spilled over Anduin’s hand, and shining in his palm lay a charm. It was in the shape of a crane’s arching head and neck. A glow emanated from it.
“Chi-ji is the Celestial of Hope,” Anduin said. “He blessed it with some of his essence. It’ll act as barrier against the Old Gods.” He looked up at Sabellian, his eyes careful, calculating. “But the stronger your will is, the stronger the charm will be. So Chi-ji said, at least.”
Sabellian stared at it.
Then he laughed.
“Very thoughtful of you, little prince,” he said. “But some little good-luck charm isn’t going to scare Them away.”
The boy frowned. It scrunched up his face. “Chi-ji isn’t a regular being,” he said, intent, this time. “He’s a Wild God. He’s connected to Azeroth like all the others. Maybe it won’t completely stop it - but it will help. I promise you.”
“You seem awfully confident.”
“That’s because I am.”
Sabellian raised an eyebrow. Having confidence didn’t mean he was right.
Anduin sighed and closed his fingers over the charm. He collected the chain up from where it hung down. “I know why you might not believe me. If it helps… he told me he also infused some of this island’s magic in its blessing.”
That got his attention. “Oh?” Again he looked down at the charm, even though it was now hidden beneath Anduin’s fingers. For a moment, an almost weary sort of hope warmed at him. He grunted and brushed it away.
“Yes,” Anduin said. “And, think about it: you bet whatever you planned on Xuen forcing Wrathion to keep his bet. And it looks like it worked. If Xuen has such power, don’t you think Chi-ji does, too?” Anduin scooted forward on his chair a little. Such intensity in such a young thing. “Please trust me. I’ve seen what Chi-ji can do. Azeroth isn’t only the Old Gods. It’s him, too. And Xuen and Niuzao and Yu’lon. Goldrinn… Cenarius… even Elune.”
So intent and so hopeful. It was so hard not to feel hope when this boy spoke. Sabellian frowned at him.
“Why did Chi-ji do this for you? What did you do for him?”
“I saved him during a Sha attack on his Temple.”
“You used a debt… to try to help me?” Sabellian squinted, suspicious. “What do you want from me?”
Anduin blinked, then shook his head. “The only thing I want to do is to help.”
He extended his hand, opening his fingers and offering the pendant. “Please. Take it.”
Should he even be surprised, even suspicious, about this strange human? No one really did anything for free.
This was Anduin Wrynn, though.
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“You just want to help,” he repeated. “Even after all I did to you and the whelp. How well did that gash heal, boy?”
Anduin’s eyes hardened. “I try not to hold grudges,” he said. “But I do have a good memory. I saw how much Nasandria cared when she asked the Celestials for help. And how scared she looked for you.” He withdrew his arm and averted his eyes. He stared at the floor, thoughtful, intent even still. “Someone needed help and I knew I could give it to them. And… I grew up with Onyxia. I don’t want anyone to become like her if I can help it. Without choice or the will to be good instead.”
The more Anduin spoke the more reliable he became. The more truthful.
“Very noble of you,” Sabellian muttered. “Even if the enchantment doesn’t work.” And it would be nice to have something to cling to beside the collar. He heaved a sigh and beckoned with his hand. Anduin smiled and handed the charm over.
It was warm against even his gloves. Sabellian studied it and turn it over. The same profile winked up at him; both sides of the crane had watching eyes which glinted at him in the dull light of the cave.
But holding it… something about it felt… precious. Real. Something otherworldly, and yet, something familiar. He frowned.
Perhaps this was something: something more than a good-luck charm.
“I wonder what she would have been like if she had a choice, too,” he said, almost to himself. He eyed Anduin. “She was truly despicable. And yet… so was I. As you surely saw at the Trial.”
Andun smiled, the gesture forced. “It’s… hard to think about.”
“So it is.” Sabellian looked down at the charm again. He wrapped his fingers around it, sighed, then set it down near his other supplies.
He turned to Anduin.
“Does that leg still bother you?”
Anduin blinked.
“Why do you ask?” the prince said. Now it was his turn to look suspicious.
“I can’t accept this without giving something in return,” Sabellian explained. “I don’t like having debts over my head.”
“You really don’t have to -”
“Yes, actually. I do.” Sabellian turned and rummaged around in his pile of supplies until he’d found a roll of parchment he’d bought yesterday to take notes on during the journey. He tore off a small piece and found a stick of charcoal near the fire. “You’re still in pain. You were limping when you came in.” He began jotting down ingredients.
“I… yes. I’m still injured.”
He wasn’t saying everything, but Sabellian could work with the admission, at least.
“And you’ll be in pain for a long time with that sort of injury,” Sabellian said. Soon, nearly a dozen ingredients listed down the parchment. “This is a pain-eater elixir of my own make. It’s very strong. Very adaptable.” He continued to write, but this time, steps to make it. “Give this to your alchemists - someone who really knows what they’re doing, understood? No amateur. This is an advanced potion.”
After a quick glance, he nodded, rolled up the parchment, and handed it to Anduin.
The prince stared at it. He took gingerly.
“It’s not poison,” Sabellian said gruffly.
Anduin laughed. “No, no. I didn’t think of that.” He tilted his head and looked at the scroll for a moment longer before glancing up at the dragon. “I’ll get this to someone in Stormshield. Thank you.”
Sabellian shrugged. “As I said: I don’t like owing debts.”
“Well… and like I said, it wasn’t a debt.” He smiled quietly. “But you’re just going to keep ignoring that.”
“Clearly.” It was near duty-bound for a dragon to repay a favor, and if he did a favor on someone else’s behalf, well, he expected them to pay up later. Dragons didn’t give anything away for free.
And yet… what an odd boy. To give something so precious and expect nothing in return - truly. Not a ploy, not a scheme to get a debt from a powerful dragon. He realized, staring at the boy, that Anduin truly meant what he said: he’d just done it to be kind.
An odd boy indeed.
Anduin stood and slipped the roll in his satchel. “I should go,” he said.
“Slip past your babysitters again?”
Anduin shot him a look, but he flushed a little. “They’re not happy with me, no,” he explained, then relaxed. He studied Sabellian’s face. “I do hope the charm works. And that you find what you’re looking for.”
“As do I, Prince Anduin,” the dragon replied. He paused, and before he could think better of it, said: “Do take my apologies for Sik’vess. I did what I had to.”
Anduin raised an eyebrow, but it only took him a moment to smile slightly and nod. “Right. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but… thank you for apologizing.”
Sabellian wrinkled his nose. He shooed the boy again. “Alright. Go on then.”
Anduin sighed and moved toward the cave entrance. Misha watched him. Before he left, he paused and looked back.
“And don’t be too hard on Wrathion. He’s just… misguided.”
“We’ll see.”
Anduin watched him. He nodded.
“Good luck.”
Then he was gone.
---
In the middle of the journey, they spent the night on a small isle in the middle of the Great Sea.
Sabellian had a difficult time sleeping. The others had nodded off hours ago - save for the lookout who hid in the thicket of the trees bunched tight around them.
It was deep night when he finally gave up on sleep. Perhaps a walk around would dull his anxious mind. Or maybe all the sea-salt would - or just do the opposite. He could feel the damned stuff crusting around his hair.
He stood and stretched. No one stirred around the fire, which had begun to die down. Once he’d brushed off most of the sand from his robe, he waved a hand and rekindled the embers. The charcoal popped and hissed. He watched the flames before moving away.
He walked.
It was a small island; if it weren’t for all the copse of trees, he’d be able to see the end of the isle.
The journey had been uneventful. They had left early in the morning to skirt the mortal crowd of the day’s market and adventures. One unforseen plus was they avoided the air traffic of those arriving to the Isle. Stretching his wings to a free sky was, for that moment, better than any feeling, even if his body still ached from his injuries.
They’d pushed hard the first three days until they reached the more expansive stretches of the Great Sea. By then, both Rexxar and one of Wrathion’s senior Agents had recommended they hop from island to island to help replenish supplies and keep the party rested. It was better than making the mistake many others had: pushing over the Great Sea until exhaustion hit, and finding nowhere to land below.
It made things slower, but it would have to do. That, and if he got too weak…
As he walked, he touched the pendant hanging from his neck. When around the others, he tucked it underneath his turtleneck; no one yet knew of it. They didn’t need to - though he wasn’t an unobservant fool, and saw the glances the Agents in particular through him whenever he snapped or lost his temper for a moment. They feared the moment he would lose it.
So did he. And yet, nothing.
Ever since leaving the island: nothing. Not even a hint of a whisper had yet to reach him. Was it dumb luck? Did he still have residual magic from the island hindering them? Or was it the charm? It was warm under his fingertips, even when he was wearing gloves. It seemed too easy. Too good to pass.
And yet…
He frowned and shook his head, then let go of the charm. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down, now more than ever. If he grew too complacent, his guard would go down, and then things would go downhill fast. Perhaps it was the warding of the charm mixed with his own stubborn will that kept them at bay. Hadn’t Anduin mentioned something like that?
He exited the copse of trees and found himself on a wide stretch of beach.
Sitting there at the shore was Wrathion.
Sabellian raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t noticed the boy had been absent from the fire. Then again, he hadn’t paid much attention to the ex-Prince since they’d left the Isle. Wrathion gave him little reason to, anyway. The boy had been deathly quiet most of the time.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of finding somewhere else to go. Then he shrugged that off and approached.
Wrathion tilted his head, but didn’t look back.
“Sleep couldn’t find you?”
“No.”
Wrathion sounded tired. He didn’t look at Sabellian, even when the elder dragon stood right beside him.
He glanced down. The boy stared out at the ocean with a distant expression, his face unreadable. It was the same expression he’d worn throughout most of the trip: an expression of thoughtfulness and glassiness, a mix of intentness and self-preservation that seemed oddly familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place.
Sabellian looked away and stared out at the sea: a dark expanse as black as both their scales. The moon was waxing, a sliver in the sky. Among those thousands of stars was his home. Somewhere. He sighed to himself, a sound so quiet that he hardly heard it on his own. He wondered if the whelps had grown any.
“Can’t you go stand somewhere else?” Wrathion said.
“What happened to your silence?”
Wrathion screwed his face up and let out a slow sigh. He relaxed when the last of his breath left him. He shuffled his shoulders.
“I hardly see why you brought me in the first place,” he said, “if you loathe me so much.”
“I don’t trust you alone, boy.”
“The Celestial bound me to this,” the dragon said. His words came out flat, lacking the punch of his usual attitude. “It’s not like I can do anything else.”
“Even bound by an oath, I don’t trust you.” He looked out to the sea again: the great expanse of black glass. “The last time I was foolish enough to, you stabbed me in the gut and left me to die.”
A flash of paleness spread over Wrathion’s face.
Silence spread between them.
“You never mentioned how you managed to survive that,” Wrathion said at last in a low voice.
“Because I never offered the explanation.”
Wrathion finally looked at him, though only sidelong; a glance, nothing more. He didn’t even move his head.
“I wanted to kill you so badly my hatred let me live through it until I could be healed.” Sabellian looked down at the boy.
“Oh.” Wrathion stared at him, nodded slowly, then looked away, as if it made perfect sense. “All of it for me? How flattering.”
“And all of this is because of you,” Sabellian snapped. “You stupid whelp.”
Wrathion wrinkled his nose but, to Sabellian’s surprise, didn’t rise up to argue. He picked at his sleeves and continued staring out at sea.
When the ex-Prince didn’t speak again, Sabellian again looked up to the night sky. They would make it to the shore of the Eastern Kingdoms in a day and a half. From the Westfall coast, they’d make their way northeast until they reached the Searing Gorge: the place where Wrathion’s Agents had tracked down traces of black dragons.
The Searing Gorge. He’d grown up there, though then, it had been a nameless place. His hatching cave was nestled somewhere in those rocks - and just beyond the range was Blackrock Mountain, the lair of his dead brother. Did Nefarian’s bones still rot underneath the ground?
“I did panic.”
“What?”
The suddenness of it had Sabellian instinctually glaring down at Wrathion. The whelp busied himself by picking at some dirt caught in his shirt.
“That first drake,” Wrathion said. “I saw her and I panicked. So I forced that Blood Elf to kill her.” He raised his eyes to Sabellian. “One of your children had mangled it, but I made him do it anyway. I felt his agony. I didn’t care.”
They stared at one another for a moment before Wrathion looked back at the water.
“So. You were right. With what you said at the Trial. I panicked.” He sighed. “Usually I’m much smarter than that. I’m supposed to be a dragon of tact and cunning! What a bad first impression…”
Was this his way of… apologizing? The boy had a tone which held a sense of drag to it, as if he was close to saying something just beyond his range of voice.
“I should have thought,” he continued with the same tone. “I felt her die.” He didn’t look at him. “I should have thought.”
If it was an apology it was a bad one, but - perhaps, for their kind, it was still an apology. The pride of a Black Dragon was one of their greatest downfalls.
So perhaps it was enough. An apology, however vague, was still one all the same.
Sabellian rumbled in response. Wrathion frowned.
When Sabellian finally left, he left the boy alone, still staring at the sea. Watching.
----
“Did Deathwing treat all his children like that?”
“Excuse me?”
They were camped on the hills of Westfall. Sabellian was sitting against a tree, picking at the remains of cow ribs. A yard away, Wrathion looked through some various reports his Agents had given him before they’d landed to eat. Rexxar and Left were hunting for some more game.
“The vision.” Wrathion tilted his head but didn’t look up. He flipped through another report. “You were afraid of him.”
Sabellian grit his teeth. He had the sudden urge to kick the boy down the hill, but withheld it.
“He liked Nefarian and Onyxia much more than me.”
“Mm.”
Sabellian snorted smoke. He’d reburied that memory again, and the boy just had to bring it up?
“Is there a reason you asked, or are you just trying to annoy me?”
Wrathion shrugged. He wrote something down on one of the reports and set it aside.
“Curiousity.”
The boy had grown a trite more talkative since they’d spoken on the beach, but not much. He only seemed to speak to Sabellian. It bothered him. Why did the whelp want to talk to him more?
Sabellian grunted and peeled off a strip of fatty meat from the ribs. “He was not someone you wanted to be your father, boy,” he rumbled. “Which is why you’re lucky not to truly be his child.”
Wrathion eyed him.
He looked back down and didn’t speak up again. They took flight an hour later.
---
He was in a place of darkness.
No ground, no sky, no horizon. And yet he still had the feeling of standing, of something beneath his feet.
He couldn’t feel the sensation of his body. Like he was made of air. Spectre.
feel you
your fear
accept the gift
take it
take it
Take it
TAKE IT
TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKEITTAKEITTAKETTAKEITTAKEIT
Then silence. Nothing.
A sensation of touch. A familiar feeling. Soft. Unsure. Something reaching toward him. It was the touch of a friend that hadn’t seen another in a long time. It was shy. And something about it scared him on a primal level. He jerked away.
The touch fell back. It was nervous. It? It. It. No. She. It was a she. He knew her. Remembered her from when he was young. A gentle, strong voice. Not his mother. Something deeper. Something below, but not Them. Near them. But not Them. Something that had tried to help him. To soothe when he was small. Something that had failed to ward against the others that had claimed him.
The presence lingered out of his field of vision. She remained, ready to approach again but not yet doing so.
He woke with hard breathing and the crane charm burning against his chest.
---
They found Serinar right where Rexxar had seen him: the Spire’s Pass, leading from the Searing Gorge to Redridge.
Sabellian had positioned himself at the top of the cliffs bordering the Pass. The wind flickered hot against his face.
A little below him, one of Wrathion’s agents crouched in the crags. Others like her dotted the Pass, hidden from view. This included Wrathion himself and Rexxar, though he could not see either from here.
He lacked the surprise he’dt thought he’d have when he first took position and had seen Serinar below. But with how much he’d seen and had been through since leaving Outland, it was beginning to feel as if nothing could surprise him.
But there Serinar was. The dragon had indeed been hunting, and now gorged himself on the carcass. It was silent - so silent that even from so high the sounds of Serinar chewing and snapping bone were audible.
He’d only just begun to feed when they’d arrived; the timing could not have been more perfect. The smell and taste of blood would mask most scents to the dragon. It’d leave him vulnerable in his hunting-frenzy.
He may not have the surprise, but he did find it strange, almost bizarre, to see Serinar below. The dragon had briefly been under his command, and he knew that if anyone could survive the purge after the Cataclysm, it was him. The wyrm was overly cruel but cunning, with a knack for surviving when others did not.
And yet he’d been enslaved by the Dragonmaw. How had they gotten away? That was a question that still gnawed at them all.
But he didn’t have much time to think that over: Serinar jerked his head up from the carcass. A flap of muscle hung from his jaw.
He went still. His nostrils flared.
He’d sensed one of them. A shift in the wind.
Sabellian’s suspicions were realized when Serinar snapped open his wings and beat up into the sky. Dust and rock went flying, so frenzied was his sudden lift.
If he escaped, they might not find him again.
Sabellian didn’t hesitate: he undid the latch on the collar, threw it off to the side, and calmly off the side of the cliff. He transformed mid-fall.
The swath of his shadow fell over Serinar.
The other dragon glanced up. Fear flinched across his eyes before Sabellian smashed right into him, and the two went crashing toward the ground.
#uhhh i cant remember my password to my writing blog YIKES#sabellian#wrathion#sorry this took so long i really couldnt figure out how to write this part. seriously.
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a bunch of general ideas for interactions/dynamics with kelantir and nalice:
For Kelantir: with belf paladins, specially those that were in the second generation of blood knights trained by Liadrin, they probably became friends. If they were trained later, she could have helped train them c:
I am open to writing past romantic relationships with her, too, but from after TBC more or less, she started dating Halduron
And it’d have to be something that ended before or because of the Fall
Childhood friends that lost contact at some point and meet again much later in an unexpected situation could be fun
Buddies struggling to make it without going crazy from being in the worst possible hell being tortured, if it’s someone who also died and was sent to the maw unfairly. They could be trying to find a way out c:
In verses she survives, it was a narrow escape and the explosion still hurt her to a degree, so maybe someone who helps her recover. She wouldn’t go back to Silvermoon until they are openly against Garrosh as to not give him an excuse to brand anyone else traitors, and because her survival chances are higher if he continues thinking she died, so maybe someone who is also running for some reason, and they end up banding together for a while, or just someone who helps her even if they themselves are not directly opposing garrosh or hiding/running in any way
Idk enemies and antagonistic relationships are also fun I just couldn’t think of anything more detailed for those
this is very specific but vereesa and the silver covenant definitely apply for antagonistic relationships. this is not specific at all but I have no idea why she’d interact with any of them.
For Nalice: mortals she was forced to interact with in a non violent way when she was ambassador of her flight in wyrmrest
Or better yet, other dragons. Maybe some of them doubted her sincerity and thought she shouldn’t be there. Maybe they believed her and wanted to befriend her and see her flight redeemed. Maybe they were just curious about her, being one of the blacks and all
✨Blackwyrm Cult✨ if your muse would worship a dragon as a goddess clap your hands
If they would remain loyal after Wrathion sent rogues to kill her but she ended up surviving the attack, clap your hands harder
I mean it they could help her recover, and then help her start over with spreading the cult, while they plot revenge on Wrathion c: Who knows, if you’re absolutely loyal to her she might come to like you, even if you’re just a pesky mortal. She’s not as uncaring as she seems. Mostly.
If your muse works for N'zoth, they could try to get her entirely corrupted through whichever means. Or just void agents in general.
In an AU where she is being cleansed of corruption with Wrathion’s aid, there are some possibilities. Maybe you take personal offense that this is being done bc idk she killed your family and you don’t think she should be redeemed. Maybe you remember Onyxia and think it’s stupid to let her daughter be anything other than dead. But on the other hand, maybe you think anyone willing to change could be redeemed, so you’re willing to help if you can.
If you bring her news about Serinar with concrete proof, Nal will find a way to reward you. Or she might try to kill you. Depends on the verse.
Nalice never had actual sincere friendships beyond Serinar. In the AU she’s being cleansed of corruption, she could end up becoming friends with someone.
There’s also the possibility she met someone in her time as Ambassador of the Black Dragonflight, and while it was obviously fake on her part, she ends up caring more than previously expected, so maybe she tries to reach out once she’s being cured of void influence. This could go very well if the person is receptive to her, or very badly if they aren’t ajdhsjhd
Romantic relationships before she’s actually trying to get better would be exclusively with Black Dragons bc she didn’t care for anyone else. They are possible, though; like I said, she’s not as uncaring as she seems. Just depends on how ok you’d be with murderous manipulative dragon gf
After she’s trying to get better, idk tbh. I don’t even know if she can make friends lol help me find out thanks
It’ll probably be awkward and require patience on the other side bc her people skills were all based on deception rip
#* muse: nalice / BLACKWYRM.#* muse: kelantir bloodblade / BLOODFORGED.#* out of character: the mun / THAT GLOOMY GIRL WHO SIGHS A LOT?
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