Tag Archives: southshore
Durnholde Keep
After Mokvar and Faranell dropped their respective timeline bombs on us, we hashed out how best to juggle things to keep the risks to a minimum. In the middle of things, Chromie popped in just to…I don’t know…go “gee willickers” a couple times and remind us that Mokvar and Faranell absolutely must not interfere with their former selves, like we didn’t already get that. And then she blathered on about all the crap that could go wrong with the timestream if they do, and most of it pretty much just came off as “WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS BAD.”
So yeah, we’ve got to be careful about this, but the way around it seemed pretty obvious. Mokvar couldn’t run into himself at Durnholde Keep, so okay, he just wouldn’t go. He stayed back at the inn in Southshore and kept an eye out for Tirion’s people arriving while we went to Durnholde to take care of Thrall. Meanwhile, Faranell can’t interfere with his old human self, so he came with the rest of us to Durnholde – get him away from Southshore for a little while, minimize the chance for a random run in, and plus this way he could be traveling with the bunch of us at all times so we can all be giving a sort of buffer zone in case Faranell v1.0 turns up. Liadrin also had a pretty sharp idea, to have a sign/countersign for Faranell, just in case he’s ever separated from us or if anything happens where we need to make sure we’re dealing with the right Faranell. The way things tend to go for us, it’s probably a good idea not to leave anything to chance.
Side note, I’m not sure if Faranell is worried about running into his younger self, or if seeing Kel’Thuzad and Helcular just threw him or something, but he’s been acting kind of strange since he and Mokvar got back. A couple times now I’ve caught him just staring at himself in the mirror, touching his face, just seeming all kinds of distracted. Not sure what to make of that. Hopefully he’ll be able to keep his head in the game until we finish what we came for.
So anyway, I finally headed out with Faranell, Liadrin, and Utvoch, and we made our way over to Durnholde. And I’ve got to say, I don’t know WHAT was going on with that defunct Alliance group that was supposed to handle this, that they thought they needed five people to handle this job. The Noz might have been erring on the side of safety, or maybe those Alliance scrubs really do suck, but no joke, I can’t possibly exaggerate how easily we rolled over those Durnholde guards. We had to clear out the lower barracks first, where some of the orcs were being held. And then I guess one of the officers came running in, some dude named Drake, at least that’s what Liadrin tells me. I wouldn’t have thought there was anything special about the guy myself, what with how he dropped like a rock after one good chop from Gorehowl.
Anyway…at that point we were set to head into the keep proper and get Thrall. It took a few minutes to hack up the handful of guards on the way in, and then, lo and behold, there was our Warchief-to-be chilling in the basement cell. And you know, I’ve got to say, you always figure the whole time travel business is pretty straightforward as far as the do’s and don’ts, but you don’t realize how hard it can be to bite your tongue until you’re standing there with a younger version of someone you know. I had to keep stopping myself from saying things to him, not that half of what I would have to say would make any sense to him coming from my fake-ass human face.
Here’s the other thing, though. I wasn’t expecting him to be so young. I mean, I knew how old he was, it’s not hard to take now-Thrall and roll him back ten years in my head. But even beyond the ten years…he was just so YOUNG. You could see it. Even locked in a jail cell, he just seemed so…unburdened. His eyes looked so much less tired. I never even realized how much Thrall seems like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders now, until I saw what he used to be like. Anyway.
One thing that was still the same, though – past or present, credit where it’s due, Thrall’s kind of a badass any way you cut it. In fact, I think I liked past-Thrall a little more, just because he seemed a lot more unapologetic about it. Like for instance, we broke him out of his cell, and he ran up to the keep’s armory to grab some armor and a weapon for himself. And there was this armorer guy standing watch there, and he started screaming bloody murder when he saw Thrall roll in, and before you could say “open-hand bitch-slap,” well…see for yourselves.
THRALL KEEPS THE PIMP HAND STRONG.
“That’s enough from him” is right, Thrall. Roll with it, man. Hell, bottle some of that shit up and send it to yourself ten years from now, you could use it. True story.
Anyway, the stupid humans sent a bunch more guards to try to stop us on the way out, and we made hilariously short work of them, and then I guess there was some captain that we polished off without me even realizing he was supposed to be someone important because OMG SPLAT. At that point, Thrall had the bright idea that he wanted to use the captain guy’s horse to high-tail it out of there…even though the horse was barely moving faster than we were on foot. I mean, seriously, were these the best mounts the humans had available back in the day? Really? And meanwhile Thrall was looking absolutely ridiculous sitting on top of this thing, PLUS if he was moving any slower he’d be going backwards, and for real, dude, have you just not learned ghost wolf form yet? Because even that would have been faster than this reject horse.
Anyhow, you don’t need every last painful detail. We got Thrall to Tarren Mill, and killed some more humans – always a plus – and then some of those Infinite Dragonflight guys showed up, and we handed them their asses easily enough. And then out of nowhere this fog rolled in, and – you guessed it – The Noz came pimping in to check on things, and confirmed that the timeline has been secured against the Infinite Dragonflight’s interference, and that’s nice and all, dude, but how about you leave a memo for yourself not to be a frigging douche-tard down the road so we don’t have to waste time stopping your future chronies (SEE WHAT I DID THERE?) from screwing around with things?
Oh and also? Just have to say – Thrall’s human friend Taretha? SPITTING IMAGE of Jaina. Seriously. Crossbow to my head, I could not tell those two apart. And you know what? Draw your own conclusions about her. I don’t even want to know.
We’re back at the Southshore inn now, and we just need to hold tight until Tirion and Alexandros Mograine and all those people show up. I’ll keep you posted on what happens. Or, you know, you can consult the nearest history book.
[Header image provided by Rioriel from Postcards From Azeroth, reproduced here with permission and many thanks. Click here to see the souped-up Postcard version!]
All my troubles seemed so far away
Okay, so remember what I was saying about not wanting any more complications? Yeah, I should probably know better by now than to say shit like that. Mokvar, Faranell, and Utvoch just got back from burying the bodies of those Alliance adventurers. At least THAT much went off without a hitch. After they got back, though, Mokvar hit me with the first wrinkle in this whole plan – apparently, back in the day, HE was one of the orcs being held in Durnholde Keep along with Thrall, which could cause the tiny little problem that if he goes there, he runs the risk of…like…running into himself, and…I don’t even know what that would do to the timeline. Liadrin could probably explain it, seeing as she actually seems to understand this timey-whimey crap, but who has the patience, right? Bottom line is, we have Mokvar troubles.
Oh, but the Mokvar business isn’t even the biggest fucking-up-the-timeline issue we have to deal with. Oh no, we’ve got ANOTHER wrinkle to deal with that will make you wish you could go back to the happy-go-lucky headaches of the Mokvar thing. Because check THIS out – it turns out our buddy Faranell has his OWN issues here. And in HIS case, they’re not even as straightforward as Mokvar’s crap. Because check out what the guys got blindsided by on their way back to town, keeping in mind that right now our boy Faranell looks just like he did back in his pre-undead human days…
Faranell, Mokvar, and Utvoch walk down the main street in Southshore, heading toward the inn.
UTVOCH: Wow, you really get EVERYTHING written down in that notebook of yours, huh?
MOKVAR: It’s actually not as hard as you would figure, once you work out a good shorthand system.
UTVOCH: You’ll have to show me sometime, that could come in pretty handy with the next class I take.
MOKVAR: Are you still working on those?
UTVOCH: Yeah, I have to repeat the last one what with them failing me when me and Dontrag handed in the same term paper.
MOKVAR: Wait, Dontrag?
UTVOCH: Yeah, I talked him into taking one of the classes with me, but then he got sick of the homework, and we tried to save time by splitting it up, and…
FARANELL: Wait, you mean it didn’t occur to you that they would notice if you both handed in the same paper for the same class?
UTVOCH: Well yeah, who’d figure they’d remember something like that?
FARANELL: I never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to think Garrosh is heroically well-mannered…
MOKVAR: Heh, you should see when—
VOICE: <calling from behind the trio> Faranell!
Faranell, Mokvar, and Utvoch exchange quick puzzled looks before starting to turn.
MOKVAR: That can’t be good…
UTVOCH: What the…?
FARANELL: Crap, I think I know… <turning> Oh…um… Hey, Kel’Thuzad.
Kel’Thuzad of Dalaran, accompanied by Helcular, approach the group.
KEL’THUZAD: I thought I recognized you. Good to see you as always, Faranell, it’s been too long.
FARANELL: Um…yes, yes it has, Kel’Thuazd. Just…busy with research, you know how it is.
KEL’THUZAD: <nodding> All too well. I’ve been spending a fair bit of time away from Dalaran myself of late.
Faranell nods nervously while Mokvar and Utvoch edge a step behind him.
FARANELL: Right…so…
KEL’THUZAD: You’ve met Helcular?
HELCULAR: I don’t think so, as I remember.
UTVOCH: Isn’t he the guy that—
Mokvar elbows Utvoch, who (miraculously) shuts up.
FARANELL: No, um, we are meeting now for the first time. Yes…ahem…good to meet you, Helc—erm, that is…Hecklevar, you said your name was? Sorry, I, um, I’m not very good with names that I have never heard before today.
HELCULAR: Helcular.
FARANELL: Ah, okay, Hel-cu-lar. Got it. But, um, yes, nice to meet you.
KEL’THUZAD: And your friends here…?
FARANELL: Oh… Oh, yes… <looks back to Mokvar and Utvoch, then back to Kel’Thuzad> Introductions, yes… Um, well, Kel’Thuzad, this is… Movarius, and…Utley… Old friends of mine from Brill. Fellows, this is Kel’Thuzad, archmage of the Kirin Tor…
KEL’THUZAD: <nodding to them> Gentlemen.
UTVOCH: Hey.
MOKVAR: Archmage.
KEL’THUZAD: Are they also…students, Faranell? Were you bringing them for our meeting?
UTVOCH: Well no, not until next semest—OWW!
MOKVAR: I don’t. Think that’s. What he was talking about. Utley.
FARANELL: Our meeting…oh. Oh! <rubbing his chin nervously> Oh…crap…
KEL’THUZAD: Faranell?
FARANELL: Oh… Um, no, no, Kel’Thuzad, I just…um…
KEL’THUZAD: You seem upset. Is something wrong, my friend?
FARANELL: I… No, I… They’re not here for the meeting, Kel’Thuzad. I just happen to… Well, you see, we try to come to Southshore for a fishing trip every so often, just an old custom going back to when we were kids, you know…
KEL’THUZAD: I see. Why were you so distraught there for a moment, then?
FARANELL: Distraught?
KEL’THUZAD: Yes.
FARANELL: Was I distraught?
KEL’THUZAD: You seemed it.
HELCULAR: You said “Oh crap” for some reason.
FARANELL: Oh. Did I?
HELCULAR: Yes, you did.
KEL’THUZAD: That’s what I heard as well.
MOKVAR: <skimming notes> I have you down for “Oh crap” too, yeah.
FARANELL: Not. Helping.
KEL’THUZAD: Is something wrong?
FARANELL: Oh… Well, no, I guess I just said “Oh crap” because…well…I’d actually forgotten about our meeting. Was that…today? What’s the date today anyway?
HELCULAR: It’s the fourteenth.
FARANELL: <eyes go wide a moment> Oh no…the fourteenth… How did I not remember that was the day…
KEL’THUZAD: You did receive my letter, did you not?
FARANELL: Oh yes…I did… It was just…some time ago, and it slipped my mind entirely…
KEL’THUZAD: <chuckles> You’re as forgetful as always, my friend.
FARANELL: Well, yes. I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.
KEL’THUZAD: You should try to rest more. We can’t have you falling ill.
HELCULAR: What is you friend writing, by the way?
FARANELL: Pardon?
HELCULAR: Your friend’s been writing something down all this time.
FARANELL: Oh.
Faranell turns to Mokvar, who’s still jotting things down in his notepad.
KEL’THUZAD: That is rather curious.
FARANELL: Oh…well…you see… Hmm. What are you writing, Movarius?
MOKVAR: Oh. Me?
HELCULAR: You haven’t stopped writing for more than a few seconds at a time.
FARANELL: Yes, that is rather peculiar behavior for someone who isn’t doing anything conspicuous or out of the ordinary at all.
MOKVAR: Oh… Well…um…well, I’m a writer, you see.
KEL’THUZAD: Oh?
MOKVAR: Yes… Well, a poet, actually.
UTVOCH: You are—? OWW!! I mean, um, you are.
MOKVAR: Right. And so, well, I’m just…always jotting down ideas. Thoughts, images, turns of phrase…you know the creative process, can’t pick and choose when inspiration will strike, right?
HELCULAR: So you’re working on something now?
FARANELL: Oh, he’s…he’s always working on something. That’s my old friend Movarius, always toiling over a new masterpiece…
KEL’THUZAD: You know, my cousin is a writer as well. I always admired his talent. It’s one of those skills I’ve never really mastered myself.
MOKVAR: Um, thanks… It’s really nothing…
KEL’THUZAD: Oh, don’t be modest.
HELCULAR: I’d be curious to hear what you’re working on.
MOKVAR: I…what?
KEL’THUZAD: Indeed! Would you mind sharing a bit?
FARANELL: Oh, um, I’m sure Movarius wouldn’t want to eat up everyone’s valuable time…
MOKVAR: Yeah, definitely, I’m sure you both have much more important things to be doing…
KEL’THUZAD: Nonsense! One needs to take the time to enjoy these sorts of pleasures.
HELCULAR: I find I don’t do nearly as much pleasure reading as I would like, so it would be fascinating to hear from an actual working poet, honestly.
MOKVAR: Oh…okay…well then… <flips through a few pages in his notepad> Well, okay, how about this one… There once was an elf named Sylvanas / Who cried—you know what, um, I’m really not comfortable reading this while it’s still just a draft.
HELCULAR: Oh.
FARANELL: It’s all right, Movarius, don’t distress yourself… <patting Mokvar on the back reassuringly, while looking to Kel’Thuzad and Helcular> He tends to get very anxious and protective about his work, you see…
KEL’THUZAD: Ah, I understand. So sorry, Movarius, I didn’t mean to put undue pressure on you.
HELCULAR: <muttering> Temperamental artists…
KEL’THUZAD: I’m sure when you’re satisfied with it, it will be an epic work indeed. You’ll have to send a copy to me when it’s done.
MOKVAR: Sure, sure…might take a while, but sure.
FARANELL: At…um…at any rate, Kel’Thuzad, I should probably see my friends to the inn, but I’ll speak with you about our…business…soon.
KEL’THUZAD: <nods> Of course, Faranell. In the meantime, I may go ahead and begin discussing matters with Helcular.
FARANELL: By all means. I’ll… Um, I’ll talk to you shortly.
KEL’THUZAD: Until then, my friend.
UTVOCH: Nice meeting you, Kel’Thu—oh HEY, is that the guy who—OWW!
Kel’Thuzad starts to walk off with Helcular.
KEL’THUZAD: Keep your voice down, Helcular. Strangers abound…
HELCULAR: So you can teach me this…this…
KEL’THUZAD: Necromancy. It is called necromancy…
Kel’Thuzad and Helcular walk out of earshot while Faranell, Mokvar, and Utvoch make their way toward the inn.
FARANELL: We…really need to get inside before things take a bad turn here.
MOKVAR: You mean when Kel’Thuzad comes looking for you again?
FARANELL: No, I mean when I arrive in Southshore.
Yeah, how do you like THEM apples? For those of you not keeping score at home, our buddy Faranell totally forgot that we just happen to be snooping around Southshore right around the same time HE was traveling to Southshore, as in his old human pre-undead self. Which means that at any point, a duplicate human Faranell could show up right on top of us, which might make things just a TINY bit more complicated as far as making sure none of us cross our own timelines or whatever that shit was that Chromie was blathering on about.
I’ll write more in a little while. Right now I think I need to run downstairs and see if the innkeeper’s got any aspirin, because this whole stinking mess is giving me a frigging headache. I wish this whole damn thing was over. Only it IS. Only it’s NOT. AAAAAAAHHHH I hate this fucking time travel bullshit…
So it goes
So check this out! I’m writing to you FROM THE PAST! How freaky is that?
Okay, so, Mokvar just pointed out that ANY writing I’ve done would have to be from the past, seeing as I would have to write it, and then at some point AFTER that you would read it, and so I would ALWAYS be writing from the past, and yeah, thank you, Mokvar, way to piss on my excitement and muddy up what should have been a cool moment. Fuck.
Okay, I had to be smack him around a few times for a minute there. I’m back now.
Anyway, though, the point is, I’m not writing to you from the plain-ol’-regular past right now, where I write a blog post and a couple hours later you see it. No, no, I’m writing to you from TEN YEARS AGO. Because GUESS WHERE WE ARE, bitches! Um, I mean, WHEN we are. Although that doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as well. Anyhow.
That’s right, right this minute I’m writing to you from old Hillsbrad. Well, right this minute, to me. To you it’s still ten years ago…okay, you know what, you guys know what I mean, so I’m going to stop trying to keep my verb tenses straight, I’m just going to give myself a headache if I try to keep this shit up.
Anyway, I know what you’re wondering – how the hell can I be connecting to the internet and accessing the here-and-now blog from Hillsbrad ten years ago? I mean, hell, they were still using fucking dial-up back then, right? Well here’s the thing: I had the foresight to bring my laptop on this trip, complete with the why-fly doohickey Spazzle hooked me up with, and so I’m still able to get online using Nozdormu’s wireless network. And I know what you’re going to say next – “but, but, ten years ago!” Well here’s the thing, part two. The Noz’s wireless network is fucking AMAZING. Everything he does is all time-warpy, and his network is no exception. Hell, ten years is nothing – you can connect to that thing from fucking CENTURIES ago. Not to mention, his built-in spam filter? Not only does it BLOCK all the spam and pop-ups and all that crap, but it locates their source and sends a fucking bronze dragon to roflstomp it and pretty much wipe it clean out of the timestream before it even has the chance to exist. I think he calls the feature iPwn.
So, let me catch you all up on the situation. I traveled through the portal to old Hillsbrad with the rest of my team: me, Mokvar, Faranell, Lady Liadrin, and Utvoch. Dontrag ended up staying out. The Noz made a fuss about six of us going on the trip…for some reason, sending five of us back was no problem, but six, oh boy, sending six was going to be all kinds of logistical headaches. Apparently the time portal takes a huge amount of power to maintain – 1.21 gigawatts, if I remember him right – and trying to squeeze an extra person in was just going to make them blow a fuse or something. At first I tried arguing with him, and made the case that really, Dontrag and Utvoch should only count as one person between them, because seriously, you’ve met them, right? But oh no, he wouldn’t budge, so I just had the two of them do their coin-toss game to see who got to go. Utvoch won – which broke Dontrag’s 89-toss win streak, by the way – and so here he is.
I got the last laugh on the Noz, by the way. Since he wasn’t going to let Dontrag come with us, I told Dontrag to wait for us with Nozdormu and keep him company. BET YOU DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING, did you, Noz? HAH!
I was having a good chuckle over that while we took the portal, but apparently karma really is a bitch, because Utvoch didn’t waste much time making me think maybe I should have brought the other one. Or neither. Come to think of it, neither’s starting to sound pretty good.
So anyway…we go through the portal, and the bunch of us are getting ourselves situated and checking out each other’s new fugly human looks. Mine’s not a disaster, although I don’t know WHAT’S going on with this beard. Oh and Faranell, check this out, HIS human form? It’s not even a fake human form — he looks like his old self, like what he looked like as a human before he died and got turned undead. Crazy, huh?
Anyhow, we’re all checking this stuff out, when I look up and see Utvoch is already getting mixed up with something. He’s wandered a little ways off to the nearby hillside, and he’s managed to piss off some giant moth that’s buffeting him around with its wings. By the time I can yell “The hell are you doing, fuckwit?” he’s already got the moth dead, but still, we’re supposed to avoid messing around with anything that isn’t necessary while we’re back here. Still, I don’t think too much of it, because what are the odds of any kind of fallout from killing a moth, right?
Yeah. Hold that thought.
So, we take the scenic route so as not to be noticed, sneaking past the outskirts of Tarren Mill past the south road. We make our way south just past the watchtower, and we’re about to make the turn down to Southshore, when what do we spot in the field just off the road? A giant fucking yeti, totally owning a pack of five humans. And like, seriously, this wasn’t one of your garden variety yeti, this was the super-gigantic wendigo variety with the big curving horns and shit, the kind I thought you only saw up in Northrend. And this motherfucker is no joke, because he’s totally laying waste to these people even though they seem to be adventurer types, like with a healer and a volunteer meat shield (although seriously, who the fuck volunteers for that job?). Although by the time we see what’s going on, the meat shield guy is a lot less shield and a lot more meat, mostly of the dead variety, and so now the yeti is running around smacking the rest of them down, and within another minute or so they’re all dead.
At that point, Mr. No Fucking Around Giant Yeti Guy spots us and attacks. Naturally I charge in to intercept him before he starts eating someone squishy like Faranell, and I mostly manage to keep him focused on me while everyone else helps burn him down. Even though, come on, who do you think really did most of the work on that one? Anyway, we get the yeti dead without too much trouble, and we go to have a look at the pile of dead humans, when who should pop in on us but the Noz’s pipsqueak buddy Chromie, and…well, here:
Chromie teleports in amid the group.
FARANELL: <jumps> AAH! Don’t…don’t do that!
CHROMIE: Hiya guys! How’s it—
She looks around at the pile of bodies.
Oh fudge crackers. No, no, no…
UTVOCH: That sounds kind of good, do you have s—
GARROSH: <smacks Utvoch> I’m expanding your ban to all words.
UTVOCH: Sorry, sir.
GARROSH: <pummel> Those were words.
Chromie rubs her forehead, then looks around again.
CHROMIE: Really, guys, you haven’t even been here an hour yet. Gramps is not gonna be happy about this…
LIADRIN: What’s wrong?
CHROMIE: <sigh> Remember how we’d sent some adventurers back here on a mission a few years ago?
LIADRIN: Oh no…
MOKVAR: Crap.
CHROMIE: Yeah. So… <looks around the bodies> That’s them.
FARANELL: I don’t get it, though – we haven’t done anything since we’ve been here, have…?
Faranell trails off as the rest of the group turns to look at Utvoch one by one.
GARROSH: You. Fucking. Idiot.
UTVOCH: Yes sir. <pause> Um, but why, sir?
GARROSH: <pummel>
UTVOCH: OWW! Sorry, sir…
MOKVAR: Not to be the secondary idiot here, but I’m a little confused, to be honest. I get that it has to have something to do with the moth, but how did that end up getting these people killed?
GARROSH: Please tell me they were Alliance, at least.
CHROMIE: Yup, they were.
GARROSH: Okay, silver lining, then.
CHROMIE: And as for the moth… <sighs and rubs her head again> The big guy here was a wendigo named Yettimus, and—
LIADRIN: Really? “Yettimus”? People call him that?
FARANELL: Not anymore.
MOKVAR: It is a little on the nose.
LIADRIN: Should I start calling Mokvar or Utvoch “Orcinator” or some such?
UTVOCH: Oh hey, that would be kinda coo—
GARROSH: <pummel>
UTVOCH: OWW!!
GARROSH: Word ban.
UTVOCH: <starts to open mouth, then nods>
CHROMIE: Sooooooo… Yettimus here used to stay pretty secluded up in the hills until fairly recently – by your time, that is – and he mostly kept himself entertained chasing butterflies.
FARANELL: Simple minds, I guess.
GARROSH: Maybe I need to get a butterfly net for you-know-who.
CHROMIE: But, when you guys arrived, Utvoch wound up killing that moth, and in the original timeline that was supposed to happen, that moth was the one that kept Yettimus occupied for most of the afternoon… And when it wasn’t there to keep him busy, he got bored and went wandering around the fields here, and, well… <sigh>
GARROSH: Ugh… Okay, so, what now? Can we maybe pop back out to our own time, and then come back a few minutes earlier and straighten this out?
LIADRIN: I would imagine not…
CHROMIE: Nope.
GARROSH: How come?
CHROMIE: You can’t double back on your own timeline. Once you get mixed up in a certain set of events, you commit to that timestream, and can’t interfere with your own past.
LIADRIN: Otherwise, you create paradoxes and other like anomalies, correct?
FARANELL: When did you become an expert on this?
CHROMIE: No, she’s dead-on right.
LIADRIN: I’m a student of the philosophies of the Light. I happen to enjoy theoretical discussions.
CHROMIE: And don’t even get me started on the beehive you can get into if you cross your own timeline and interact with yourself. Not even gramps can do that without causing all kinds of problems.
GARROSH: Okay, so we can’t get a do-over on the moth…and I’m guessing you can’t just yank these people back out to avoid getting curbstomped by the yeti…
CHROMIE: Nopers.
GARROSH: Okay, so…what do we do now?
CHROMIE: Well, the you part of the “we” just got a new job while you’re here. And while you do that, the me part of the “we” gets to go update Nozdormu on what’s happening here, which he’s not going to like at all…
MOKVAR: So now we need to go make sure Thrall escapes from Durnholde like he’s supposed to?
LIADRIN: It would make sense, to correct the disruption in the timeline…
CHROMIE: I like her! She’s smart.
GARROSH: Not something I get to hear about my minions often…
FARANELL: You know we’re all standing right here, right?
LIADRIN: Wait, “minion”?
MOKVAR: I’m really not liking this business of having to go into Durnholde…
CHROMIE: Well maybe you should have thought of that before you let your ADD squirrel-chasing puppy friend go running around without a leash! Jeepers!
GARROSH: Okay, okay, fine… We’ll go take care of Thrall, just have to juggle that with the original mission, and…ugh…do we at least have time to check on things in Southshore to make sure we’re not already screwed?
CHROMIE: You’ve got a little time before Thrall absolutely has to be in Tarren Mill, so yup. Just be sure to make good time getting in and out of Durnholde when you get there! I’ll check in again later — have fun!
Chromie teleports away again.
So, we’re at the inn in Southshore now. One stroke of luck – none of the Silver Hand people have gotten here. Liadrin talked to Kelly the innkeeper and made a little show of some of her paladinny holy crap to make it seem like she was one of Tirion’s people, and found out he’s not expecting his other paladin guests till tomorrow sometime. So we’ve got a little time to work with if we move fast.
While we were getting settled here at the inn, I sent Mokvar and Utvoch to round up the bodies and bury them somewhere. Faranell volunteered to go up with them, too, to help speed up the process. That left Liadrin and I to get us a couple rooms here at the inn, although Kelly gave us a look when I told him she and I each wanted a separate room. Like, dude, really, grow up. Then I mentioned how we had some other people who would be joining us, so we’d need space for more than one in each room, and OH BOY the look from the innkeeper got an upgrade. Like SERIOUSLY, dude, GROW the fuck UP. You run an inn, stop acting like a fourteen-year-old. Or who knows, maybe these humans are easily shocked or something. None of the innkeepers in Silvermoon would bat an eyelash at any of this shit.
Anyway…once the gravediggers’ commission get back, we’ll get rolling on the whole Durnholde thing. Hopefully we can make quick work of that, because the last thing we need is more complications.
[Header image provided by Rioriel from Postcards From Azeroth, reproduced here with permission and many thanks. Click here to see the souped-up Postcard version!]
YOUR WARCHIEF IS A GENIUS
Not that you guys didn’t already know that, but you know what, I’m going to repeat it, BECAUSE IT BEARS REPEATING.
YOUR WARCHIEF IS A FUCKING GENIUS.
Why, you ask? YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T THINK OF THREE OR FOUR REASONS OFF THE TOP OF YOUR HEAD? Okay, fine, maybe you just suffered head trauma or something, or you’re Dontrag or Utvoch, so I guess I can let it slide. Just this once. Anyway, I suppose I should explain what I’ve come up with.
So, you know how we’re trying to figure out a solution to the whole anti-plague thing in Southshore, and how we tracked it back to that meeting Tirion had with his other Silver Hand people, and that dark crystal that they turned light and used to make the Ashbringer with…only, that lead wound up being a dead end, literally, since Tirion’s the only one who was there at the time who isn’t dead now? Well check out this flash of brilliance – yeah, sure, those people are all dead NOW, but they weren’t ALWAYS dead, right? And I know what you’re thinking, “Uh, yeah, Garrosh, that’s the way dead works, people don’t start off dead, they come out the gate not being dead, not being dead, not being dead, still not dead, not dead yet, OH FUCK now they’re dead, the end.” Well SHUT UP and LET ME FINISH. Fucking hell, you and your damned interruptions. Point is, we can’t go question people like Isilien and Doan NOW because they’re dead, but who says we can’t just go track them down at some point when they WEREN’T dead? Because guess what, it just so happens I have an in with some people – loosely speaking – who know a thing or two about time travel.
Yup, that’s right. I’ve already contacted Thrall, and as we speak he’s talking to his old Deathwing-slaying buddy Nozdormu, and so as soon as we get the details squared away, I’ll be rounding up a team and heading down to the Caverns of Time.
GARROSH, YOU GENIUS, YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN.
Anyway…while Thrall finishes making nice, I’m going to get a jump on prepping for the trip. I’ve only met Nozdormu the one time myself, and I didn’t really get to talk to him so much, so I might want to be ready to make nice myself when I get down there. I’ve heard he’s got a real sweet tooth when it comes to pastry, so I’m thinking I might get Marogg to whip up a batch of Greatmother’s lemon squares. Anything to grease the wheels, you know?
More updates soon. Don’t be surprised if the next time you hear from me, it’s from Tanaris.
[Header image provided by regular reader and commenter ZugZug, used here with permission and many thanks.]
Well who woulda thought…
Remember that guy Lor’themar from my Earth Online guild? Some friend of Sylvanas. I’m guessing she probably knew him back in Silvermoon back before, you know, the whole corpsey-ghosty-undeathy thing. Which I’ll grant has to do a number on your social circle, especially if your particular brand of undeath winds up being the brain-eating zombie variety. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever really given Sylvanas props for keeping the whole brain-eating thing to a minimum among her people. Because spirits know we’ve got enough mental defectives around here without me having underlings going LITERALLY brainless to boot.
Anyway. The point is, turns out that Lor’themar guy has actually turned out useful for something. I guess Sylvanas was talking with him about the whole Southshore situation, and what we learned from Tirion the other day about the Ashbringer and the crystal and whatnot. As it happens, he’s got a contact up there in Silvermoon that he thinks might be useful to us – Lady Liadrin, the leader of the Silvermoon Blood Knights. Which I’ve got to admit, at first I thought was the name of a sports team, and I was kind of hoping for a minute it was beach volleyball, because for serious could you imagine what the blood elf team…you know what, never mind. I get enough hate mail as it is. So anyhow, “Blood Knights” is the fancy shmancy name the blood elves have for their paladins, and Liadrin happens to be the matriarch of the whole order.
I know, right? Who would have guessed Lor’themar would be in good with someone important up there?
I guess Sylvanas was explaining what we know to Lor’themar, and Lor’themar thought this rang a few bells and explained it to Liadrin, and somehow by the end of this rumor chain Liadrin had the idea that the dark crystal turned light crystal that Tirion was talking about might have some connection to the Naaru. You know…those big crystally talking chandelier things that the draenei seem to think are a big deal. Her idea is that what Tirion was describing from his meeting in old Southshore sounded an awful lot like the end of a Naaru’s life cycle, or some mojo Velen did with some dead Naaru’s essence at the Sunwell. Which I’m surprised Velen had the time to do, by the way, since I would have figured by that point he would have been busy looking for another unsuspecting world to lead the frigging Burning Legion to and then leave to fend for itself. Not that I’m holding any grudges or anything.
Anyway, she seems pretty keen on following up on this, so I’m going to try to bring her into the circle. At the moment, though, I’m not sure where we’re going to go from here, since our only lead at this point consists of a meeting from ten years ago between a bunch of people who are all dead now, except for one of them, who is Tirion. I’m honestly not sure which of those two groupings came out on the better end of the situation. Either way, it seems like we’re at a dead end unless we can think of something.
So I think this is my cue to go close myself away and start thinking deep thoughts, because honestly…look around at the rest of these people. You really want to roll the dice on any of THEM coming up with something clever?
Where did all the words go?
We arrived in Hearthglen this morning and were ushered up to meet with Tirion Fordring in Mardenholde Keep, which as I’m sure you can imagine was an exercise in joy for me. Luckily I at least managed to come prepared this time, with company and an exit strategy. Part of the company, by the way, being Mokvar, so if you’ve been reading the blog for any length of time, you know what’s coming up…
Garrosh, Mokvar, and Master Apothecary Faranell are escorted into the Highlord’s command room by the night elf Daria L’Rayne.
DARIA: Highlord Fordring, the Horde delegation has arrived to see you.
TIRION: So I see, so I see indeed, good Daria, and great thanks to you for so kindly seeing them in. Truly is it by the aid of such as yourself that great alliances are forged, and great deeds are brought to fruition!
DARIA: Okay…yes, sir. Thank you…I think.
TIRION: And rightly do you think! As right and just are the thoughts of all those gathered here under the banner of peace, in this hopeful age ushered forth in the wake of the Lich King’s demise! For surely what challenge might not we surmount, having proven in the icy wastes that we can come together before a common foe, and unite in our resolve to forge a brighter world! None indeed! Would you not agree, noble elf?
DARIA: Um…so, you have visitors, sir.
GARROSH: Sup, Tirion.
DARIA: Good luck, Warchief.
Daria makes a very, very speedy exit from the chamber.
TIRION: Warchief Hellscream!
GARROSH: Here we go.
TIRION: A pleasure it is to see you once again, old friend! Too many winters have passed since last we spoke face to face, since those noble days in Icecrown when we stood together against the Scourge, and oversaw the fall of Arthas and the delivery of justice upon the hated Lich King! Human and orc united in unwavering defense of home and hearth, brought together in a far-off land to lay waste to an odious common foe – what valiant days those were! Ones which, I see, have served not only as testament to your courage, but as proof positive to your people of your leadership, a validation of your rightful rise within the ranks of the Horde, which I see has brought you in the intervening time to the highest of stations, Warchief of your people, as great a tribute as your comrade Thrall might verily bestow.
FARANELL: So, in other words, hello.
GARROSH: Yeah. Hey.
MOKVAR: Afternoon, Highlord.
TIRION: And I see, good Warchief, you have deemed fit to bring noble counsel with you for your visit – no doubt picked from the most esteemed of your sage advisors. And moreover, I see, spanning even beyond your own kin into the ranks of the Forsaken, whom – I will assure you, assure you most firmly indeed – shall find no animosity within these walls. For regardless of the fervor of our struggle to subdue the spiteful reach of the Lich King’s hated Scourge, far be it from me to presume ill intent from those whose only crime is to have fallen victim to the Scourge’s curse of undeath, for well I know, your will restored under the care of your Banshee Queen, your capacity for heroism knows no more bounds than any in our world, as proven by those Forsaken who fought and, yea, fell beside me in the battlefields of Northrend. For just as fate has shown that humans may prove as vile as the blackest Scourge, just so might orc or undead prove more noble than any king, most revered! And so it is with an open hand and generous heart I greet you, good sir.
MOKVAR: Wow, really?
GARROSH: I told you.
FARANELL: So, in other words, also hello.
TIRION: And might I ask, my Forsaken friend, whom have I the pleasure to meet this good day? The beginning of a great friendship, forged in amity and fellowship, no doubt. Lend me your hand, good sir, that we might pledge unto each other’s goodly aid.
Tirion grabs Faranell’s hand and starts to shake it just a bit too enthusiastically.
FARANELL: Um…you know what? It’s okay, I’m just some guy. No need to trouble yourself.
GARROSH: Ohhhhhhh no, you don’t get off that easy, Skin’n’Bones.
FARANELL: Crap.
GARROSH: So yeah, Tirion, this is Master Apothecary Faranell, head of Sylvanas’ Royal Apothecary Society. And I think you’ve met Mokvar?
TIRION: Indeed, indeed, I remember him well, and good day to you, noble Mokvar. Though I will confess, remember you well though I do, fondly and with reverence, it saddens me that I cannot yet lay claim to knowing you so half as well as I might wish. A regrettable condition I am sure our efforts here today shall surely change, and lay the foundation of a friendship – nay, a kinship, for we who strive together for the good of Azeroth, I dare suggest, are nothing if not kin, a family brought together by devotion to all we mutually hold dear – that time and trial shall validate as stuff of legend.
FARANELL: So, in other words, yes.
GARROSH: Right, okay. So what I wanted to—
TIRION: And so, good Mokvar, I welcome you with open arms to Hearthglen, and look forward to the progress of our blossoming acquaintance. Though I will confess, great Warchief, it does bring a faint sadness to see you have chosen not to bring the noble Eitrigg with you today, as far too many a year have passed since I’ve cast eyes upon my orcish friend, to whom, I’m sure you are aware, I owe a debt of honor. It was Eitrigg, after all – I shall take a moment to clarify for the sake of your colleagues here who may not know the tale, I am sure you shall not begrudge a momentary digression—
GARROSH: What the hell, at this point.
TIRION: —whom I encountered an age ago in the northern reaches of old Lordaeron, dwelling in an abandoned tower. Unaware as yet of the nobility of your eventual lieutenant, and predisposed – misguided – ill toward any of orcish kind, I engaged Eitrigg in battle, a furious melee joined between two worthy combatants, in which neither would give quarter nor long hold the upper hand. Truly our contest was one for the bards, as we traded blow upon blow, gaining and ceding ground, victory dangling precariously just beyond the grasp of us both.
FARANELL: Huh. Were you killed?
GARROSH: <chortle>
TIRION: Fitting you should ask, good Faranell, for though I suspect a jesting tone, your words recall a harrowing turn in the battle in question! For deep into our duel – and long indeed did we take arms, so long into the night! – the aging tower that formed our battlefield, weakened and cracked in the wake of our combat, began to crumble, and a heap of stone and mortar, breaking forth, came crashing down upon me. Consciousness abandoned me as I fell beneath the rubble, broken and bleeding, left to the mercy of my adversary, and further: injured enough that, lacking prompt medical aid, no adversary would be needed to bring my life to end. Hours passed, and in time I awoke to find myself in my own familiar bed—
FARANELL: Oh, so it was a dream?
TIRION: A dream, my good fellow? Perhaps! Perhaps indeed the realization of one—the dream of orc and human fellowship, which the truth of the tale would prove! The birth of the greater dream of encompassing peace and camaraderie between our peoples which even yet eludes our hopeful grasp! Truly stated, truly stated, my friend; you have, I think, anticipated the epiphany that would light upon my bedridden thoughts!
FARANELL: Actually, what I meant—
GARROSH: Dude, just let it slide. Tick tock.
FARANELL: Ah. Yeah.
TIRION: For once consciousness had returned to me, and friend and family came to check upon my health, I learned from them the circumstances of my discovery: some days prior, they had found me, wounded and unconscious, tied to my loyal steed and sent trotting back toward home. Only one explanation would make sense: that the orc whom I had presumed an agent of evil had, in fact, saved me from a solitary death, and taken pains to return me in my need to friendly hands. Later would I seek out the orc – the sage and noble Eitrigg – and thus began the friendship that would span so many years. And yet, far too many of those years have slipped away like sand through our oblivious fingers since I have had the pleasure of seeing my dear friend face to face. And so, good Warchief, while I have no doubt your reasons were wise, it saddens me indeed that you have opted not to bring him here today. Upon your return to Orgrimmar, then, I would entreat – nay, implore! you pass my greetings and highest blessings to your dear advisor, and endeavor to ensure he know, though separated by days and distance, the thoughts of Tirion Fordring are with him, as are the shining memories of our kinship, which even now live on in my heart as though mere moments old.
FARANELL: So, in other words, say hi to Eitrigg.
MOKVAR: Check.
GARROSH: Okay, yeah, I’ll do that. So anyway, Tirion…
TIRION: Indeed, gentlemen, indeed, I know you’ve business to attend here in New Hearthglen. Shall we take our seats and begin our discussions?
GARROSH: Yeah, I think I’m going to need to sit down before too long here.
Tirion – still talking – leads them over to the nearby conference table.
TIRION: Indeed, indeed, then certainly, my good fellows, make your way thusly, and relieve your weary feet presently. I will apologize for the rudimentary caliber of my furnishings here: surely not the quality and comfort one of high station might come to expect in diplomatic parlay—
GARROSH: No, it’s—
TIRION: —but these chairs were gifted to me by the workmen of the nearby lumber mill, and product of their very labor, crafted with painstaking care albeit limited material for embellishment, and so a certain humble pride compels me to retain them, even realizing that there are far beneath the standard of luxury as might befit ambassadors and heads of state.
GARROSH: Dude, seriously, it’s cool. I grew up in a hut made of sticks and fucking mud, believe me, I’m okay with B-grade fucking chairs.
FARANELL: My skin is tattered and falling off around every joint in my body. A lack of seat cushions is way, way down on my list of discomforts.
TIRION: Now, good gentlemen, as we are now more properly seated, what boon may I grant to you on this fine day? Know, surely, that the hand of Tirion Fordring stands ever ready to lend its aid—
GARROSH: Much appreciated, Tirion. So—
TIRION: —for surely, just as our glorious victory in Northrend could never have come to fruition without the united efforts of Horde and Alliance, Argent Dawn and Silver Hand, Ebon Blade, and more—
GARROSH: Ah. You weren’t done.
TIRION: —just so, I know full well, might enterprises of great pitch and moment, upon which might hang the very future of our kind, just so might these endeavors languish fruitless save for the will of good men such as ourselves, to stand together despite those petty differences that might divide us.
GARROSH: Um, yeah. Cool.
TIRION: And so, gentlemen, how might I be of aid?
Garrosh, Mokvar, and Faranell sit quietly a moment, watching Tirion.
GARROSH: That was it, right?
TIRION: You confuse me, Warchief Hellscream. That was what, exactly?
MOKVAR: Just go.
GARROSH: Yeah, never mind, not important. So here’s the thing.
FARANELL: Don’t pause too much between sentences.
GARROSH: We’ve got a situation down in Southshore. Somehow or other the Forsaken there managed to set off some kind of magical effect that’s neutralizing their undeath and killing them all.
FARANELL: It seems to be functioning, basically, as a reversal of the plague of undeath, and dissipating the necrotic effects that reanimated my people.
GARROSH: It’s more or less contained right now, but it’s going to spread, so we’re trying to find out exactly what it is and how it got there, and since we’ve heard that some of your Silver Hand people were down there at one point and you’ve always had an interest in the Scourge, we were thinking you might be able to fill in some blanks.
TIRION: Ah, interesting, interesting. I do recall a time when I did journey to the scenic port of Southshore, in answer to a summons from Highlord Alexandros Mograine to confer, indeed, upon the emergence of the Scourge. Even then, Mograine knew the threat the undead – forgive me, friend Faranell, I mean, of course, to say the Scourge – would pose to this world, even though in those days, unbeknownst to us all, their true menace was truly in its infancy. You see, these were the days before the fall of Arthas and of Lordaeron—
GARROSH: Right, we know.
TIRION: —when the Scourge, then commanded by the nefarious orc warlock Ner’zhul, was merely a pawn of the dreaded Burning Legion. The Legion, you see, led by the monstrous Kil’jaeden, had decided that their prior attempts to invade Azeroth had been doomed by the infighting and divisiveness within their orcish armies. Folly indeed, as I am sure you will agree, to suppose that their failure rested in the orcs, when rather they were doomed from the outset to fall to the courageous defense put forth by the steadfast people of our world!
Garrosh shrugs and opens a backpack, which he had set down on the table.
Nevertheless, the Legion under Kil’jaeden’s vile judgment took upon themselves to build a new fighting force, one united by a single mind, and so the warlock Ner’zhul was remade as the odious Lich King and cast, trapped in an icy block, into our world, in the icy wastes of Northrend. There he began to build his forces, slaying all within his reach and raising them as mindless undead, bound only to his will. Gradually he built his forces and would send them forth to wreak havoc in the Eastern Kingdoms. But even in those early days, while the undead legions were still only beginning to stir and their hateful sweep through Northrend was merely the start of their rise—
Garrosh removes several wrapped sandwiches from the pack and begins handing them out.
GARROSH: You wanted the pastrami, right?
MOKVAR: Yeah, please.
TIRION: —even then, noble Alexandros had the vision and foresight to perceive the threat they would soon pose to our world. Though I wonder at times if truly he could have anticipated that which they would become, the true extent of their evil, let loose over time when the scheming mind of the Lich King would turn upon its masters and break away, freeing the Scourge from its demonic shackles such that it might stand alone in its pernicious pursuit of dominion over the world of the living. Indeed, how could he? Who, in their worst imaginings, would dream of what would befall Lordaeron? What mind could in its darkest hours imagine that the very king’s blessed son would fall to darkness and turn upon all those whom once he loved, slay his own father, and forego his presumptive kingship with another, darker one, one which would bring him to the Frozen Throne in Ner’zhul’s stead?
Meanwhile, Garrosh et al are eating.
FARANELL: Did you bring any mustard?
GARROSH: Yeah, you need spicy brown or yellow?
FARANELL: Spicy.
GARROSH: Here you go.
FARANELL: Thanks.
TIRION: Nevertheless, Alexandros rightly foresaw the threat the Scourge would pose to our world, and called upon we Knights of the Silver Hand to gather in secret in the town of Southshore in order that we might lay plans to defend our homelands. I journeyed to Hillsbrad with two of my closest allies – Brigitte Abbendis, daughter of the High General, and Isilien, both of whom, sadly, would one day turn their backs upon our cause in order, like my own son Talaen, to embrace the madness of the Scarlett Crusade. Alas, it seems that madness would consume many in the aftermath of the Scourge’s invasion, and the outbreak of the plague that would leave a kingdom in ruin. Even my dear uncle Lucius, a longtime resident of the rural outskirts of old Andorhal, would find his grip on reality slipping in his later years, admittedly by no connection to the Scourge invasion – so far as we know. But indeed, in his later days he found himself immured in the fantasy that he was, in fact, the late Llane Wrynn – hardly late in his eyes, of course – the dear fallen king of Stormwind, and father of its current ruler, King Varian. His wife my aunt and several of my cousins would attempt to appeal to whatever reason might still have lingered beneath the delusions, but to no avail: the dementia had taken hold far too deeply, and Uncle Lucius would spend his days allowing his delusion to lead him off on one misadventure after another, until he finally settled into the final stage of his madness, sparked by blue paint and a spatula. But I fear I digress, gentlemen, and far be it from me to waste all of our precious time on capricious reminiscence.
Everyone continues eating as a moment of silence passes.
GARROSH: <looking up, surprised> Oh. You were done?
TIRION: <blinks, surprised> Warchief Hellscream?
GARROSH: Um, yeah, okay, I guess I must have zoned out there for a minute.
FARANELL: I think there was something in there about a meeting in Southshore.
MOKVAR: <skimming back over notes> Yeah, I have him down for a meeting about ten years ago, with Alexandros Mograine, Isilien, and Abbendis.
GARROSH: Man, you really are committed to the job, Mokvar. Props.
MOKVAR: Eh, beats being unemployed.
GARROSH: Okay, so for one thing, was that it for that meeting, or were there any other people there that we should know about?
TIRION: Those were the principals from my perspective, Warchief; Alexandros having called the meeting, and Isilien and Abbendis having accompanied me in my journey to Southshore. If memory serves, the Highlord’s lieutenants Fairbanks and Arcanist Doan were present as well.
FARANELL: Whew. Things didn’t exactly end well for a single one of those people. Not liking your odds there, Tirion.
GARROSH: So what was the meeting about?
TIRION: As I had begun to say a moment ago, Warchief Hellscream, the meeting was born of Highlord Mograine’s wise anticipation of the threat the rising Scourge might pose to our world; he called us together to begin to make preparations to defend our homelands against the inevitable assault of the undead.
FARANELL: What kind of preparations?
TIRION: To gather our forces; to train in earnest in anticipation of the battle to come; to ready friends, family, and rulers alike for the possibilities of what awaited us. A forthright effort to increase our awareness, mainly, and to dispel whatever complacency might dull our eventual readiness… As well as…well, there was one further outcome…
GARROSH: Which…would be?
TIRION: <pauses> At the time we all were sworn never again to speak of it. But that, I suppose, was a long time ago, and much has changed since then…
GARROSH: Huh, that must have been rough.
TIRION: Begging your pardon, Warchief?
GARROSH: I’m just trying to imagine you sworn not to talk about something.
MOKVAR: <mutters, chuckling> That one’s…getting…the nice printing…
TIRION: I suppose the time has passed for this one secret, at least. Alexandros…also showed us an item he had held in secret for a decade by that time. A dark crystal, black as the void, a focus of hideous, destructive power…a living embodiment of shadows. Alexandros believed that the existence of such an object, a manifestation of darkness, implied the possibility of its opposite: a manifestation of light, which he believed might prove the ultimate weapon against the undead. He was soon proven right, though not in the manner he would have supposed…
FARANELL: Starting to tick a few boxes here…
GARROSH: So what does that mean? Did you guys find the matching light crystal or something?
TIRION: No, Warchief Hellscream. We did not find it. Without even setting out to, and very much to our surprise, we created it.
FARANELL: I think I see where this is going…
TIRION: Some of our group doubted Alexandros’ faith in the crystal’s importance, and attempted to destroy it through the powers of the light. The crystal, however, merely absorbed whatever holy magic was cast upon it – spell after spell, we poured our power into it, until the dark crystal transformed into its own radiant counterpart.
GARROSH: Oh shit.
FARANELL: Where did the dark crystal come from in the first place?
TIRION: From Outland, originally…
MOKVAR: Please don’t tell me you got it from the arakkoa…
GARROSH: Huh?
FARANELL: The what?
TIRION: We never learned where in Draenor the crystal had originated. We only knew it was carried by an orcish warlock, a lieutenant to Orgrim Doomhammer, during the assault on Blackrock Spire during the Second War. Alexandros took the crystal from the fallen orc’s body and kept it hidden.
GARROSH: So what happened to it? Did you end up using it for some kind of weapon?
Tirion brandishes the Ashbringer and stares at it a moment.
TIRION: Aye.
GARROSH: Oh shit again.
FARANELL: Um, I’m going to step back a little, if it’s all the same to you guys.
GARROSH: So that’s what you were doing in Southshore? Forging the Ashbringer?
TIRION: No, Warchief, the blade was not forged that day. Our meeting in Southshore merely laid the groundwork. It was only some time later that Alexandros and Fairbanks brought the crystal to Ironforge, where King Magni Bronzebeard himself forged the sword.
GARROSH: And in between, what happened to the crystal? You kept it under lock and key, or hid it somewhere, or what?
TIRION: The crystal remained in Alexandros’ possession until he decided the time was right for the Ashbringer to be made. From that day in Southshore, its locked chest was ever in his keep.
FARANELL: And that was it? The dark crystal was converted to light, you sealed it up, and Mograine held onto it until Ironforge?
TIRION: Indeed, my friend.
FARANELL: Hmm…that leaves us without a lot to go on, unless the sword itself was unaccounted for at some point.
TIRION: <shakes head> Nay, the Ashbringer’s succession is known, and before its forging the crystal was indeed never… Wait…
GARROSH: Uh oh, here it comes.
MOKVAR: We’re going to have to go kill something, aren’t we?
TIRION: Now that I set my thoughts to it… I do recall, just after the crystal’s transformation, Isilien and Doan both grew intrigued by the object, an intellectual curiosity, it struck me, as to the crystal’s nature. I believe Alexandros granted them some leave to examine it while at the inn, though I’m certain he would never have allowed it to leave the premises.
GARROSH: Okay, so in that case we just have to track down Isilien and Doan—
MOKVAR: Dead.
FARANELL: And dead.
GARROSH: —and of course they’re both dead, because nothing is ever fucking easy.
TIRION: And as for the integrity of the Ashbringer’s line, I can assure you it has never fallen into the wrong hands – or rather, hands who might have used it for such purposes as concern you here. For most of its existence, the Ashbringer was carried by Alexandros himself – indeed, he came to be known as the Ashbringer – as he waged battle gloriously against the Scourge in its early days. Even after the dreadlord Balnazzar corrupted Alexandros’ own son Renault, driving the lad to slay his own father, the blade would soon be restored to its original bearer, as the lich Kel’Thuzad would soon after raise Alexandros’ to undeath as a death knight of the Lich King – a truly horrid end for one such as Mograine, a mockery of all he had fought for in life…
MOKVAR: So, we good here?
TIRION: …The blade itself recoiled against the treachery of Renault, and became twisted into a corrupted form, one in which it would remain for years hence. During that time, as you may well have heard – and indeed, I can attest, the whispers speak truly – the corrupted blade remained in Alexandros’ risen hands, as he served the Lich King in Naxxramas, leader of the Four Horsemen.
GARROSH: Yeah, I think so.
FARANELL: I don’t think he’s going to have anything else for us.
TIRION: It was in that time, however, that Mograine’s younger son, Darion, unable to bear the knowledge of what had become of his father, unwilling to see so great a man’s legacy besmirched by his actions in death, gathered a party from among the Argent Dawn and led a mission into the dread necropolis. Therein, reluctantly, the son slew the father, and thereby laid his father’s weary spirit to rest – but at a terrible, terrible price.
GARROSH: Okay. Cue Operation Bait-n-Switch.
TIRION: Darion, indeed, would take up the blade – as well as his father’s place in servitude to Arthas. He would carry the Ashbringer in its corrupted form until passing it to me during the great Battle of Light’s Hope. I am, of course, simplifying the tale in the interests of time; you will, I hope, forgive my occasional reductive glossings…
Garrosh and Faranell start to gather their belongings while Mokvar walks over to the doorway.
MOKVAR: Sergeant Pain and Scout Suffering, you’re up!
TIRION: While I commend you gentlemen for your impulse toward cleanliness, I assure you, there’s hardly a need to take pains gathering your belongings at this early juncture. I’m sure our discussions will allow ample time for a less rushed approach to…
Dontrag and Utvoch enter.
GARROSH: Okay, so, Tirion, quick introductions.
TIRION: Ah, I see you have summoned further aides to supplement our discussions – I must commend you, Warchief Hellscream, on your insistence on thoroughness in these deliberations. Though, again, I note that I find myself again presented with two additional members of your kin who are, regrettably, not Eitrigg…but I am sure these fine gentlemen will prove invaluable to our efforts.
FARANELL: In a manner of speaking.
DONTRAG: Greeting, Warchief.
UTVOCH: Good day to you, sir!
GARROSH: Sup guys. So anyway, yeah, Tirion, this is Scout Utvoch, and the spikey-haired dude is Sergeant Dontrag.
UTVOCH: Um, actually, sir, I’m Utvoch.
GARROSH: Isn’t that what I just said?
DONTRAG: No sir. You said I was Utvoch.
GARROSH: I did?
UTVOCH: Yes, sir. You said Dontrag was the spikey-haired one, and that’s me, when Dontrag is actually the one who’s bald, mostly.
DONTRAG: Bad genes, sir.
UTVOCH: At least you stopped trying to do the comb-over.
DONTRAG: Well you could have told me how ridiculous it looked.
UTVOCH: Huh? I did, like a dozen times.
TIRION: Ah, I recall having that very discussion with Doan on more than one occasion.
DONTRAG: Yeah, that year in the Barrens wasn’t really a pretty time for me.
GARROSH: So yeah, anyway, you two, this is Tirion Fordring.
TIRION: A great honor to make your acquaintance, good sirs.
DONTRAG: Hey.
UTVOCH: So wait, weren’t you killed in Northrend?
DONTRAG: How could he have been killed, he’s right here.
TIRION: <chuckles> No, no, my friend, though I will admit a harrowing time or two, I can assure you I returned from the frozen north very much alive.
UTVOCH: How come I thought they said some Fordring died up there?
DONTRAG: Maybe it’s another Fordring?
UTVOCH: Did you have a cousin up there too?
DONTRAG: Or maybe like one of his kids or something?
UTVOCH: Oh crap, did you have a kid get killed? I’m sorry I brought it up then.
DONTRAG: I think you’re right, though, I remember hearing about a Ford-something dying up there too.
GARROSH: Um, are you guys thinking of Fordragon?
DONTRAG: Yeah, actually, it might be.
UTVOCH: I think so, yeah, one or the other.
DONTRAG: Definitely some kind of name like that.
UTVOCH: So yeah, was it Fordring or Fordragon that got killed in Northrend?
TIRION: Actually neith—erm, that is…Fordragon. Yes. It’s Bolvar Fordragon that you’re thinking of. Who died. In Northrend. That’s what you were thinking of.
UTVOCH: Oh okay.
DONTRAG: Was he a friend of yours?
UTVOCH: Oh yeah, because if their names sound alike I guess that means they must know each other because that’s how things work, right?
DONTRAG: Oh shut up, stupid.
UTVOCH: You shut up.
TIRION: Actually I did know him quite well; Bolvar and I were friends of many years, like brothers, in fact…
UTVOCH: Oh man, I guess things DO work like that, I’ll be damned. That’s messed up.
DONTRAG: I’m sorry your friend died then, sir.
TIRION: As am I, my good orc. But I am, alas, no stranger to tragedy. Why I was just moments ago relating to your comrades here the doleful tale of my dear Uncle Lucius, who dwelled for many years near Andorhal before madness touched him and he grew obsessed with the delusion that he was, in fact, King Llane.
Garrosh, Mokvar, and Faranell exchange glances and nods.
UTVOCH: Good thing he never met Garona, that might have been weird.
TIRION: His life from that point on was weird enough, I assure you, between his endless wanderings, parcheesi board ever in hand, and his final preoccupation racing through Tirisfal, chasing bats with a spatula.
DONTRAG: Well, at least bats make sort of decent eating, if you use the right breading…
TIRION: A delicacy I cannot claim to have the pleasure of sampling, though I have no doubt the proper hands could produce culinary marvels. But no, dear Uncle Lucius’ tastes were far more mundane, as he was perfectly content to treat each meal as a simple breakfast of bacon and toast – provided he could acquire a suitable marmalade to accompany it, as he was something of stickler in such matters. Raspberry ideally…
GARROSH: Aight, T-Ford, Imma bounce. Peace!
DONTRAG: So what’s the difference between marmalade and jam, anyway?
TIRION: Curious you should ask, as there is, as it happens, an interesting tale behind the distinction…
Garrosh, Mokvar, and Faranell make a hasty exit through the doorway.
Also, note to Eitrigg: Dude, was he always like this? How the fuck could you stand it? Fucking hell, I wasn’t even there for that long and I already feel like I need a day off.
Spare the rod, spoil the Helcular
So Helcular wasn’t exactly the most help in the world. I’m not sure if he’s just been sort of batshit ever since he was raised as undead from the Southshore graveyard a few years back, or if he was always kind of unstable, or what, but dude could not stay on topic for all his flipping out and panicking about what had happened down at the ruins. To be fair, I suppose being at ground zero of some freakish anti-necromantic explosion that took out most of your team, and just barely escaping from having the unlife sucked clean out of you yourself, well, I guess I can see how that might freak you out. And Helcular being a mage, and kind of a bookish one at that, I can see how he might not exactly be the battle-tested kind of guy who deals with adversity well.
But DUDE, I can’t POSSIBLY overstate how much he was spazzing out over everything. Could not keep him on topic for more than thirty seconds at a time, so I spent practically the whole conversation having to slap him around to try to get him back on track. Now granted, I probably didn’t help matters when Kaal arrived with an update from Southshore, and I let him give his report in front of Helcular. Turns out, those shimmery purple lines are still expanding outward – slowly enough that you can’t notice it with the naked eye, but still moving and stretching little by little, apparently gravitating toward other centers of necromantic energy. As in, places where there are lots of undead. So eventually – slowly, but eventually – this thing is going to spread.
Which as you can imagine, is just what panicky jittery Captain Freak-Out Hercular needed to hear, and yeah, a few more beatings ensued to get him to stop fluttering about. Eventually, after enough enforced focus to make my frigging hands sore, I was able to drag this much out of him: Helcular used to live in Southshore, where he knew Kel’Thuzad back in his pre-lich days, and had studied necromancy under him. Because nothing could go wrong there, as we all know. But he couldn’t think of anything they could have done that could have had a hand in what’s happened – the training and practice he did in the vicinity of the town was all small-potatoes stuff, and from what he could remember, Kel’Thuzad kept his distance whenever he was doing anything major. He did remember one point some years back, though, when a bunch of people from the Knights of the Silver Hand were hanging around the town. They were being pretty hush-hush, but were still attracting enough attention that he could remember strangers turning up in the town and lurking around snooping on them…so there’s a fair chance they were up to something. And considering how those paladins wound up taking an interest in the Scourge, it sounds like there’s at least enough of a possible link to be worth following up on.
And again, let me just stress that pretty much every sentence of that was spread out over two of three smackings and a frustrated “Man, will you PLEASE try to pull yourself the fuck TOGETHER?”
Anyway, though, we’ve got another lead to follow, even though I’m not exactly thrilled where it’s leading. But, I’ve already had Eitrigg send a message up to Hearthglen in the Western Plaguelands, and I’m getting ready to head north. Not going to lie to you, I’m not looking forward to this at all, but it’s our best in with the Silver Hand, so I guess I’m going to need to go have a sit-down with Tirion Fordring.
Ruins of Southshore
Okay, so remember what I was saying about the Undercity smelling bad? Well I would happily spruce up the aroma of Grommash Hold with some Undercity potpourri before I took too many deep breaths around Southshore the way it is right now. Holy shit, it’s like somebody went down to the Apothecarium, put together an olfactory mix tape of their greatest hits, distilled in into some kind of glowing green porridge with a side of asparagus, force-fed eighty tons of the shit to a gang of syphilitic ettins, then locked them all in a closet for three days and let them fart it all out. Like THAT bad. That’s what it’s like down here. I seriously think this is what atrocity must smell like. A piquant blend of genocide and child abuse.
I knew Sylvanas’ people had used Southshore as a test site when I gave them the go-ahead to start up their plague research again, but even I wasn’t prepared for the sheer scope of what they had going on here. It isn’t even a town anymore so much a slimy green puddle, with these living goop thingamajigs squirming around the place. It’s actually kind of scary to imagine they were able to crank all this out so quickly in the window I’d left them to resume work. I can only figure some of the apothecaries were so fired up to be able to get back to it that they really threw themselves into it in a huge flurry of activity right off the bat.
Anyway, the bunch of us – myself, Drok, Cromush, Mokvar, and a handful of warlocks and alchemists who came with – spent some hours scouring over the place looking for any clues about where the anti-plague effect had come from. It wasn’t until some of the locks (who, by the way, actually aren’t big fans of socks – apparently we’ve got a bunch of hippie sandal-wearing warlocks these days…terrific) tried some kind of incantation spell that we started getting somewhere. They were able to make these shimmery purple ribbons visible around the town, almost like hazy purple flames. Kaal Soulreaper, one of our locks, explained to me that the haze was made up of the traces of a potent magic effect, which you could see spreading and scattering all around the town – most likely, he said, leaving those purple traces along the paths the effect took bouncing from one undead to the next. So what we were looking at was the hazy footprints of their deaths. Or re-deaths. Or whatever.
So, tracing back to where the haze was at its most dense was the most likely way to get to the starting point. That brought us to the old town inn – specifically, underground, beneath the cellar. From somewhere down there, all the purple ribbons came spreading out, up through the cellar and out of the ground along the outer walls of the building. Whatever it was exactly, it looks like it detonated there. And according to the warlocks’ best guess, the haze will continue holding the “contagion” until it dissipates. As for how long that will take, they ballparked it somewhere between hours and centuries. So, lots of help there. Really, guys, I appreciate the info so far, but couldn’t you give me a LITTLE better idea of when it’s going to be safe for the Forsaken to come back down here? Is it tomorrow or the end of time, or what?
The next question that comes to mind is, you know, how the fuck this magic doohickey got there. And since we have a fairly powerful magic-user on staff who actually has a pretty long history with Southshore, I’m thinking it’s time I had some face time with our man Helcular. He had been supervising things in Southshore before everything went kablooey, at which point he was evacuated to Tarren Mill with as many other Forsaken as they could pull out in time. I’m having Cromush and Drok continue the work down here in Southshore while I fly up to see him. More soon.
The Apothecarium
While Drok was making his way down to Southshore, Mokvar, Nazgrim, and I got the grand tour of the Apothecarium from Sylvanas and Faranell. Overseer Kraggosh was there as well, finishing up his lunch break. Basically a working lunch where he just camped out on one of the work benches, since he couldn’t really spare any extra people to stand watch in his absence, what with everything going on. Gotta say, watching him munch away left me kind of boggled, because first of all, as bad as the Undercity smells in general, the APOTHECARIUM? Where they keep all the extra toxic chemicals and plaguey shit? Rancid stench squared. So how he could possibly choke food down and keep it down is beyond me. And second of all? His lunch of choice? Steak melt with three kinds of cheese and extra bacon. Kraggosh, Kraggosh, you seriously don’t want to live to see your daughter start school, do you? Come on, man.
The apothecaries looked to be carrying on their research as usual in the main chamber, but they’d set up a side room – the one they usually used to hold, ahem, Alliance test volunteers – as an area to work on bodies that had been affected by the anti-plague. Some mages were channeling a containment field to make sure nothing spread out of the room, and Dr. Halsey and Apothecary Zinge from the Royal Apothecary Society were inside decked out in those weird full-body gas mask hazard suits the Forsaken have.
Further updates from Faranell’s research: Whatever this thing is, it only seems to have any effect on undead. They ran tests exposing some of the Alliance prisoners to it, and it doesn’t seem to do anything to humans, dwarves, or even worgen. Just registered a big ol’ nothing. What’s more, even though the effect spreads very easily if other Forsaken get close to an affected body, every test they’ve run here indicates it’s not chemical or biological in nature. So even though we’ve been talking about it being “contagious,” that’s not really accurate. Hell, on that basis, I probably shouldn’t keep calling it an “anti-plague,” seeing as it’s not really a plague at all, except that you pretty much don’t get any more “ANTI” anything than not being that thing at all, so I guess as it turns out, the “anti-plague” name is pretty damn accurate, so take THAT and FUCK OFF, smart guy. Plus “anti-plague” sounds a lot cooler than “that weird shit what’s happening to the zombies.”
Anyway, though, it’s not biological or chemical in nature – it’s some kind of self-propagating magical effect. So we’ve also gotten a few warlocks down here to help with the research as well – orcs and blood elves, since we don’t have to worry about them being exposed. Best they can tell, it’s a strange balance of shadow and holy magic, held in some kind of…I don’t know…something about a matrix and counterbalances and some fucking…polarity of the neutron flow or some shit. Point is, it seems to have reacted to the traces of shadow magic that woven into the Forsaken plague – the part of the plague that makes its victims rise as undead afterward – and generated this effect that causes that same shadow magic to be purged off anything it hits. So the necrotic effects that make undead undead get dispelled right off. Which is way beyond anything even a top-flight priest or paladin could do.
Whatever it is, exactly, it all got started when Sylvanas’ people were working on their green goop down in Southshore, so I’m thinking if we’re going to get any answers, it’s time for a bunch of us still-living peeps to take a trip down there.
So much for the Frostwolves
Cromush has moved down to Southshore with some of his people, and has started trying to get the worgen back under control. Meanwhile I tried contacting Drek’Thar this morning to see if I could convince him to send some Frostwolf assistance down there. Granted, the last time somebody tried calling on him for aid, it didn’t especially go well, but I thought maybe the current situation might persuade him to reconsider.
So…yeah, so much for that idea. I tried making my case for sending some help, and he launched into this big epic speech about the honor of the Horde and the atrocities of the Forsaken, and how what’s happening to them now is just comeuppance for the crimes they’ve committed against all decency, and how he’d be damned before he so much as lifted a finger to help breathe life back into the rightfully dying embers of their misbegotten existence, and it was all really powerful and moving and badass. And then he shit himself. Man, old age is not kind.
At that point he got into this yelling, screaming argument with somebody who wasn’t even there, something about whether or not they’d stolen the last of the boar kabobs and given them to the man in the hat, and then he yelled at Galvanger to wheel him back to his room because it was time for his stories. And seriously, I really truly hope I die gloriously in battle at some point in the relatively near future, because I positively do NOT want to roll the dice on growing old.
Meanwhile, Sylvanas has been doing some more testing on the undead who’ve been…well…re-deaded? by the anti-plague thing. Her latest effort has been seeing if her Val’kyr lackeys can re-reanimate one of the bodies. No go there. Seems that whatever this anti-plague does, it not only purges the body of necrotic effects, but actually immunizes it against any more afterward. So no going all Ner’zhul on them.
So…still working on it. In order to help with the process, I’m going to make a trip to the Undercity with a few other key people. Hopefully between the bunch of us we’ll be able to come up with something.
[Header image provided by Rioriel from Postcards From Azeroth, reproduced here with permission and many thanks. Click here to see the souped-up Postcard version!]