Unity - Chapter 15
It lives once more! Bask in its awesomeness... or something. I hope you like it. This divided more-or-less evenly into two parts, rather than three. Enjoy!
Title: Unity
Part: 15 of 18-21
Word Count: 7721 (of this part)
Includes: Violence, het. Shameless liberties taken with events in Warcraft lore. Thrall's actual personality, and Jaina's too.
Pairings: Thrall/Jaina.
Summary: Garona and Thrall visit Undercity for diplomacy's sake. Unsurprisingly, it smells very, very bad.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Sidestory: Linguistics
13 14
The first thing Thrall noticed was the smell. Breathing was difficult when inhaling brought with it the stench of rot and the taste of decay. Thrall kept his breathing careful and shallow to avoid too much of it, which meant each lungful was just as stale as the last. He gave up trying to be polite about it after the first ten minutes, and this actually helped to numb his senses. The spirits had long since fled this place, and any place in the near vicinity, so there would be no purifying the air around him.
The second thing that Thrall noticed was that it was not quite, as promised, a city carved out of a sewer. As Thrall stood in the main threshold of Undercity, he could see that this had once been a city, albeit the sad ruins of one. As he understood it, some large cities were layers built on top of layers, and when new levels were added, old ones were forced down into obscurity. This became the 'under city' of a city, and often led into the sewers. Many of the sewer pipes of old -- some of them twice as tall as an orc -- had been broken open, adding more labyrinthine layers to an already dark and complex city.
Thrall's escort through the Undercity was none other than Nathanos Marris, known as the Blightcaller, and Sylvanas' champion. More than once, Thrall had heard a noise, or caught a particularly alarming smell, and asked about it. The Forsaken man had shrugged with a grinding of bones Thrall found disconcerting every time he did it, and said that he never noticed such things.
Because he's used to it, Thrall mused. I don't know if I ever could be.
Marris had been tall, once, and while death and reanimation had wasted him, there was still some amount of height and pride to him. Thrall recognized his garb as that of a Ranger, though he wore a tabard that bore the symbol of the Forsaken's ruler herself, the Banshee Queen. A ivory half-mask, cracked but not broken on the front, on a purple backing. The armor itself seemed to be rotting away, as if the very touch of undeath caused it to age, exposing bony joints and clawed fingers and toes.
"We've divided our city into five quarters," Marris was saying, and offered Thrall a macabre grin, so that he wouldn't ask the obvious question about the math involved with five quarters. "Four of them are in the city proper, and the fifth, where you're going, is more private."
"I understand," Thrall said gravely. Garona nodded once, and unlike many of their sojourns into highly unpleasant places, she offered neither comment nor complaint. In some ways, I should be happy. In others, it means that she truly doesn't like this place, or it reminds her of something worse.
As if she could sense his thoughts, Garona said quietly, "I've been here before. Not for long, and not after the fall of Lordaeron. The buildings are different. This place was smelly, disgusting and filthy, but it wasn't... death. This place smells like death."
"Well, we don't make it particularly welcoming to the living, considering how little they make welcoming to us," Marris said, his tone acidic. "Perhaps you can claim that you're not being chased around by humans with swords, bows, and guns, but we can't say the same thing."
"We make a point of trying to move past it, and understanding that not all humans are the same," Thrall growled warningly. Those reports of human activity in the Barrens prevented Jaina from visiting this place. She takes it so personally when they cause trouble. I'm almost glad she isn't here. Almost.
"I'm afraid we don't really have time to send them questionnaires about their feelings when they're trying to kill us," Marris replied, ignoring his tone. He waved one bony hand. "But for those who cannot ever go home, Lordaeron is our sanctuary. Quel'thalas is heavily reinforced and fortified as a Scourge base, as are most of the eastern parts of Lordaeron, from Stratholme to Andorhal. Arthas being run out of Lordaeron by the demons was a favour to all of us."
"In a sense, I suppose it was," Thrall admitted. "Your Queen was spare on the details."
Nathanos shrugged. "What our Queen chooses to disclose -- or not disclose -- is entirely up to her."
"It’s difficult to negotiate diplomatically without proper information," Thrall noted. Nathanos lead them through the ruined gates, down past the ruins of Lordaeron and into the under-city. The buildings were largely wooden construction, but aged, old and dark.
Most of the buildings seemed to be empty, with their windows either boarded up or smashed out, the latter staring like eye sockets in a line of skulls. Here and there, Thrall could see a Forsaken head poking out, like white maggots peeking out from inside a skull, watching the activity on the street. He could sense their curiosity, their suspicion. Even as Forsaken, the former humans and former elves were distrustful of those some of them felt were still a great threat to Azeroth.
Perhaps, if they were better accepted by the living, they would not have resorted to allying themselves with the Horde, Thrall thought, and glanced at Garona. We need something from each other, if nothing else, neighbours who won't shun us.
Garona's brow was wrinkled with concentration. He knew it was her impulse to hide in shadow, to conceal herself from prying eyes, to be the observer and not the observed. That was forbidden, they both had to be under supervision at all times.
Residential areas, such as they were, gave way to merchant stalls and shops, lurid and colourful almost in defiance of the rot and decay of the rest of the city. Some shops billowed with green or purple smoke, others displayed wares out front, clinking in the slight breeze. There was food, which Thrall did not quite expect. Dead carcasses or creatures kept in crude cages, ready to be taken home, a parody of living human cities. Even the animals were twisted by exposure to the plague. Patterns of infection marred their skins and coats, infected even if they were not, in fact, undead, and Thrall had no doubt that such creatures would sicken the living if they attempted to eat them.
Another way to destroy the humans… starving them out or making them desperate enough to try infected meat, Thrall noted. I wonder how many here fell to such a trick.
After the merchants were the training halls. Plague hounds barked with low, rough voices at skeletal birds while decaying, undead horses stood in stalls eating what looked to be raw meat. Nearby, Forsaken were training with arms. Like the buildings, the armour they wore looked old, rusted and decayed, baring the bone-joints of knees, elbows, fingers and toes, while their swords shed rust flakes with each swing, though they seemed to hold out against attacks.
The Forsaken were practicing against hulking creatures, wielding various weapons. A meat hook would grasp towards the fighters, only to be deflected and evaded. Thrall felt bile rise in his throat as he noticed glistening loops of intestine swinging from the creatures with each blow. These must be the abominations... they’re more horrific than Jaina described.
Hooded Dark Rangers, clad in the uniforms of the Rangers of Quel'thalas, practiced their marksmanship against straw dummy figures shaped in human forms, their burning red eyes missing nothing. Still others crafted, and for a moment, Thrall saw the way they formed weapons, without elegance, only efficiency. Still, the steel was new and well-forged. It was exposure to the Forsaken that changed its quality, their very presence eroding that which was new and whole.
From near the fighters came the scent of the Apothecarium. It would appear, Thrall thought ruefully as his nose began to burn, that my sense of smell is not quite as gone as I thought it was. More's the pity. Regardless of previous occupation, the Forsaken had embraced alchemical research with zeal. Thanks to Sylvanas' ability to poison Arthas and nearly kill him, poisons were of great interest to the Forsaken, and so too was the plague that had transformed them. The Forsaken raided Scourge camps, stealing cauldrons and bringing them back, using the plague they found to test and modify. To render it harmful to the Scourge, I am assured. Thrall glanced around at the Apothecaries. Unlike many of their kin, these individuals were not frightened or shy. They grinned openly at the visitors and even waved. It was Nathanos, with his stern, disapproving looks that caused them to go back to work.
"The Dark Lady's receiving chamber is near the Apothecaries," Nathanos said. "She founded the Royal Apothecary Society and personally approves and tests their work."
"Has there been much success?" Thrall asked curiously, and Garona drifted forward a little, frowning at the poisons.
Nathanos shrugged again. "Some. Not as much as we'd like, the Scourge aren't rotting and dying. It will come with time."
"What happens to the Forsaken when you create a plague capable of destroying the Scourge?" Garona asked quietly. "Will you go down laughing with the sinking ship? Will you embrace oblivion with open arms?"
Around them, the Apothecaries stilled in their work, and for a moment, there was only the sound of boiling potions. Finally, Nathanos shrugged again. "We'll just have to see." He glared at the apothecaries, gesturing for them to get back to work. They hastened to their respective tasks, but as they moved past the apothecaries, Thrall felt as if he were being watched. He shared a glance with Garona, who shrugged unapologetically.
The far end of the under-city was built into the catacombs beneath the major graveyard, breaking into the tomb of the Menethil kings. Thrall's gaze caught on some of the plaques marking the identities of those who'd been laid to rest in the marble tombs, recognizing some from his history studies and others from later stories he'd heard from some of Jaina's people. They spoke of their dead rulers with reverence and a touch of fear: the Menethils had been warrior-kings, conquerors feared by their allies and feted by their subjects. While Terenas had not been the type to take to the battlefield with sword and shield, he had been a warrior in the field of politics, and few had been able to match wits with him, from the noble elves to the steadfast dwarves. The tomb of Terenas Menethil II was empty: the urn holding his ashes had been stolen from Uther the Lightbringer, and was reportedly lost somewhere in Lordaeron.
Jaina said there were rumours that Arthas had taken them to try and reassemble his father so that he might enslave him, Thrall thought, feeling cold all of a sudden. She assured me that such a thing was impossible if the body was cremated, but still... we rely so heavily on it to protect our fallen. To find it ineffective at its primary purpose would be unsettling.
Nathanos spoke briefly to a number of Deathguards, Sylvanas' elite bodyguards. They seemed larger and more solid than the civilian Forsaken, and eyed the living with somewhat impolite disbelief. Nathanos gestured towards Thrall and Garona as he addressed the Deathguard, and they nodded briefly.
"Come," Nathanos said. "The Dark Lady is waiting."
I would hope so, Thrall thought sourly. Considering we were called here. He simply nodded back and Nathanos led them further in. The passage through the catacombs was narrow, and lined with Deathguard, all watching the trio in silence, and the feeling of crawling discomfort returned. Finally, the passage broke into an open, round room, obviously once meant for the royal family to find their final rest, but which had since been cleared out. There, shrouded in darkness, was the Banshee Queen.
"Welcome," Sylvanas said, acknowledging Thrall and Garona with a nod of her head. "I have been looking forward to this meeting for some time."
"As have I," Thrall said. Sylvanas sat on an elegant ebony throne, padded with black silk cushions and framed with a charcoal gauze curtain. She was sitting back so that the shadows concealed her face, though her burning red eyes pierced the darkness. Her legs, crossed at the knee, were encased in black scale armor, both flexible and protective. Black leather boots covered her from her knees to her toes, without any hint of the decay that Thrall had noted in every member of the Forsaken that had watched them approach, and the flickering light hinted at a black scale breastplate that covered her from waist to wrist to chin. She drummed long, pale fingers against the arm of her throne.
Sylvanas gestured, and several Forsaken carried out two wrought-iron chairs. Thrall disliked them on first glance, and only continued to do so the more he looked at them. They were large, but the metal seemed rusted and stained, somehow, rather than sturdy.
I'd almost prefer wood, Thrall thought, carefully sitting in one of them. Garona ignored the second seat and stood just behind his left shoulder at rest, but not at ease.
In the darkness, Sylvanas smiled.
"Garona," Thrall said warningly, his voice a soft, orcish growl.
"I think I've seen this particular type of torture device before, Warchief," Garona replied. "You can see where they removed the bolts and straps."
"You're exaggerating," Thrall said, and looked anyway. She wasn't. Damnit.
Sylvanas' smile widened. "If you're comfortable, Warchief, let us get started. We have so much to discuss."
"We do," Thrall agreed. "What news from the Eastern Kingdoms?"
"The Ashbringer is dead." Sylvanas folded her hands, and there was a certain amount of smug satisfaction to the gesture. "The Scarlet Crusade scrambles to properly lead themselves, but there is a second organization, similar to the first but far more tolerant. I believe you’ve heard of them, they call themselves the Argent Dawn."
Thrall nodded, and frowned slightly. "I have heard of the Argent Dawn, they have done some recruiting in Orgrimmar. It is... unusual to see humans outside of the Theramore League in Durotar. Usually, they are more hostile."
"I will confess to having an interest in the Argent Dawn. They seem to accept our state of being, and several Forsaken have joined their ranks." Sylvanas gestured elegantly, towards Marris. "We shall see how long their shiny ideals last."
"We shall," Thrall agreed, and frowned again. "How did the Ashbringer die?"
"My sources say that he was ambushed by Scourge on the way to Stratholme to meet with his superiors. Some theorize he was betrayed by one of their own."
"Theorize?" Garona asked, raising an eyebrow. The Banshee Queen turned her gaze on the orc Spymistress, and nodded to herself when Garona neither flinched nor shifted.
"The Scarlet Crusade are the dregs of the Silver Hand, those who were not good enough to die at Arthas' hand. They are like scorpions, fighting and stinging each other, and lashing out at the innocent and guilty alike." Sylvanas' fingers curled. "I'm not sure which of them got the notion in their head that the Scarlet Crusade was not going to save Lordaeron, but it's good that they did. It weakens the Crusade, and the Argent Dawn holds true to the ideals of the Silver Hand, while the Crusade does not."
"What’s the present state of affairs in the plagued lands now?” Thrall asked.
“The city of Stratholme is divided. The Scarlet Crusade managed to succeed in purging and holding the Cathedral district, and they get their supplies through the shipping district, since the Scourge rarely make use of ports or navies.”
“Stratholme has the wherewithal to support a port?” Garona said, and Thrall nodded.
“While the domestic port has been the King’s Harbour for centuries, Stratholme was the major oil supplier to the fleets patrolling the northern parts of Lordaeron during the Second War. Peace made them less prosperous, but I suspect you could sneak a boat down the coast if you were clever.”
“Assuming the Scarlet Crusade are ever clever,” Garona pointed out, and Sylvanas raised an eyebrow before continuing.
“The most heavily corrupted parts of Stratholme are being held by a Death Knight named Baron Rivendare who has been placed in charge of overseeing the conflict with the Scarlet Crusade. Presently, the necropolis Naxxramas is stationed over Stratholme, spewing blight and poison into the lands below. Its master is Kel’thuzad.” The contempt in Sylvanas’ voice was a palpable force. "Almost all of the surrounding countryside, aside from one narrow pass, is controlled by the Scourge. The Argent Dawn hold the city of Tyr's Hand and the King's Harbour. Tyr's Hand is a coastal city, and surrounded entirely by Scourge holdings, including Mereldar-on-the-Lake and Corrin's Crossing. Due to the conflict between the Argent Dawn and their former brothers, shipping between Stratholme and Tyr’s Hand is nonexistent."
"Why haven't the Scourge overrun the city to begin with?" Garona asked. "They have to sleep sometime."
"That... I don't quite know," Sylvanas admitted. "In their attacks on Forsaken outposts, they have possessed some kind of strong protection against the undead. It makes them difficult to fight."
"Could it be the Light's work?" Thrall frowned as Sylvanas laughed harshly.
"If it were, don't you think that the Lightbringer would have won against his student? No, I think they've found something else. At first, I believed it was the Ashbringer's influence, and now... now I'm not quite so certain. It's a concern that needs to be investigated by the living." Her burning gaze went from one orc to the other. "If what they have can be used to fight the Scourge, we must seize it. They will not share it. They have no regard for the Forsaken, nor for the living that aren't part of their organization. They have turned away non-human members of the Silver Hand, and sent those who originally joined them on suicide missions. The last of those who survived went to the Argent Dawn."
"You've kept a very close eye on the situation," Garona observed. "I'm almost surprised."
"Almost, because the Scarlet Crusade are our neighbours, whether we wish them to be or not," Sylvanas said, and settled back again. "It is in my best interests to encourage the Argent Dawn. The Scourge need to be eliminated."
"I will pose the problem to my council," Thrall said. "Was there more, before I give my own report?"
"I believe there is, yes," Sylvanas said, steepling her fingers together. "A matter that concerns you more directly. There is a race on Kalimdor that are known as the... Quillboar, I believe?"
"That's the name we give them, yes," Thrall said. "What of them?"
"The Scourge are courting them. Recent intelligence suggests that they've sent an ambassador to one of the Quillboars' elder crones in the hopes of establishing a stronghold in Kalimdor." Sylvanas smiled at the looks of alarm and surprise on Thrall and Garona's faces. "I thought you'd appreciate the warning."
"We do appreciate it," Thrall said. "We appreciate it a great deal."
"Good," Sylvanas said. "Oh, and before your report begins, there is one, additional piece of intelligence I have about the Scarlet Crusade matter."
"And what is that?" Garona asked flatly.
Sylvanas smiled, and it sent a shiver down Thrall's spine. "Something at least one of your councillors will appreciate. Taelan Fordring is the Highlord of Hearthglen."
~ * ~
"And then they told me that I needed to go outside," Jaina finished. Thrall offered his hand to help her over some thorns, but she had blinked past them. He smiled fondly, and hurried to catch up. "I do go outside."
"I believe you," Thrall said sincerely. "I appreciate that you've taken time to come with me for this."
Jaina smiled at him warmly. "I always enjoy our time together, Thrall. The spread of the Scourge in Kalimdor is something we all must worry about. If they're allowed to run unchecked..."
"I understand," Thrall replied gravely. "Though after meeting with Sylvanas... the threat of the Scourge is so widespread."
"Yes," Jaina agreed, and bowed her head briefly. "We were not meant to stop it, not at that stage. Everything Kel'thuzad permitted us to discover was to drag us further into his plot. If the trap had been meant for me instead of Arthas, I don't know that I could have resisted."
"I think you could have," Thrall said softly, and reached to take her hand. Jaina squeezed his hand silently. "Though speaking of the Scourge, the other matter that Sylvanas brought up has been troubling me."
"Troubling you, in what way?" Jaina asked, watching his expression.
"She mentioned specifically that Taelan Fordring was the Highlord of Hearthglen. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I'm not quite sure why. It certainly meant something to Eitrigg, he all but jumped at the chance to go to the Eastern Kingdoms. He didn't explain why, just that it was personal. It's a long shot, but I was wondering if you had any idea who this Taelan Fordring is."
"Ah," Jaina said, and paused, gathering her thoughts. Thrall waited, expectant. "Well, it's... complicated, but if he can be found..." At Thrall's uncomprehending look, Jaina elaborated. "Taelan Fordring is the son of ex-Highlord Tirion Fordring, once the governor of Hearthglen."
"That name I know," Thrall said. "That was the human that Eitrigg was living with when I came to find him."
"Really... he was reported as dead a year after his exile... I should explain from the beginning, though you surely know Eitrigg's part in this story."
"Of course," Thrall replied. "Eitrigg left the Horde because he felt as though Orgrim had broken his promise to lead the Horde with dignity, and he lived in the forest near Hearthglen, far away from the war and the camps. He was found by a human -- Tirion -- and while they fought originally, as we did, it was due more to misunderstanding than malice, and they grew to be friends."
"Yes," Jaina said, and smiled briefly. "Tirion kept it secret from Lord Uther and the other paladins, but he was turned in by one of his students, Barthilas. Eitrigg was seized and Tirion was reprimanded. Tirion then continuously petitioned for Eitrigg's freedom and eventually agreed to go before a tribunal, promised that he could plead his case."
"That doesn’t sound so unreasonable," Thrall said, but Jaina shook her head.
"The so-called tribunal was not motivated by a desire for justice, but by anger and disgust. Four men sat on the tribunal, and of them, only one went into it believing that Tirion didn’t deserve to be stripped of his privileges, and that man didn't even believe that Tirion shouldn't be punished, merely that capital punishment was too much."
Thrall frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The tribunal consisted of Lord Uther, my teacher Archmage Antonidas of the Kirin Tor, my father and... Arthas." She sighed. "My father and Arthas openly hated orcs, Uther privately hated orcs and while my teacher had devoted time and studies to the orc Lethargy, he felt on the whole that Tirion's behaviour had been irrational, emotional and foolish. He would not have seen Eitrigg executed but brought back to Dalaran for extensive studies, which is neither comforting nor compassionate of him, but simple logic: if he could see what made Eitrigg different from other orcs, he could learn what the Lethargy was, whether it be the symptom of a disease, a curse or what have you. Nonetheless, Tirion made his case and was summarily told that what he had done was treason, pure and simple. There was no exception. All orcs had to live in the Internment Camps or under the supervision of recognized Internment officers, or be killed."
"Not that the Frostwolves or the Warsong cared for such," Thrall said, a rumble building in his throat. "Nor, for that matter, the remainder of the Black Tooth Grin clan which reclaimed the name of Blackrock once Orgrim was captured."
"No, human rules so rarely apply to anyone but humans," Jaina murmured. "The worst part was that if Tirion had denied it, he could have gone free with only the reprimand, but to Tirion, that was an unacceptable solution. It was dishonest, against the Light. In calling this tribunal, he had admitted to his own guilt, and the trial became not about Eitrigg, but about Tirion. Tirion was offered multiple opportunities to recant, to ask the forgiveness of the tribunal and he refused. As a point of mercy, or so they claimed, rather than having Tirion executed, he was excommunicated from the Church, stripped of his powers and sent into exile. Reportedly, all he asked was that his family not be forced to join him, which they weren't. He was reported dead within a year."
"He wasn't dead," Thrall replied after a moment. "I saw him, we were introduced. If he was stripped of his gifts as a paladin, then he would not have been able to save Eitrigg. During their escape, he was badly injured and Tirion called upon the Light to heal him."
"I argued that, at the very least, removing the Light's gift from an individual after they'd been gifted by them was impossible according to the very process by which it was granted, but this was ignored in favour of deciding I was sympathizing too much with a traitor." Jaina's lips quirked in a smile. "And that was before we met."
"I felt how sympathetic you were when you tried to impale me with an ice crystal," Thrall said ruefully, and glanced around. The home of the quillboar was circular, the kraul fenced in as its name suggested by thorns and brush. Snowsong hopped over an arm-sized coil of briarthorn and whined. "She hears something."
"We've walked right into their home, I wouldn't be surprised if they've been watching us." Jaina's voice was calm and unconcerned, even as she shifted positions. Thrall looked around in a more exaggerated fashion, stepping back so that he and Jaina were back to back. Snowsong stood at his feet and whined again. "There?" Jaina asked, gesturing slightly.
"There," Thrall agreed. He did not close his eyes, as was his habit, but let his gaze unfocus as he called to the spirits of air, asking for their help. Wind swirled around him, filling his lungs with magic. "We can see you, come out."
Immediately, there was angry snorting, and one of the quillboar broke from its cover, raising its spear high. It took three steps before it was frozen in place, ice crystals creeping up its hoofed feet. It made an angry noise, brandishing its spear while Jaina shook her head.
"No, that's unacceptable," Jaina said, and as her voice drifted through the air, it changed and altered into a series of grunts and syllables. When it reached the quillboar, its eyes widened. "You will listen to us. You will hear our words."
Another quillboar stepped forward, making sure to show off its numerous trophies, proof of a strong warrior, though it did not attack. Instead, it looked each of them over, calculation behind its dark, narrowed eyes. Finally, it snorted. "You are on our lands, outlanders. You cannot make demands of us."
"I have learned about your language and customs from your exiles," Jaina said. "You do not take requests or ambassadors. You consider them weak. You execute them as cowards and deserters." She snapped her fingers, and the ice crept up the quillboar's legs. It squealed and fought. "So we will make demands and you will hear them. If you don't like it, you will try to attack us, to force us into war."
"How can you trust the words of exiles?" the quillboar snorted, and Jaina smiled sharply.
"They have nothing left to lose but their lives, and even those are considered forfeit. Now, will you listen?"
The trapped quillboar squealed again, and the speaking quillboar gave it a look of disgust. "Very well, we will hear what you have to say."
"I know that the quillboar speak to the elements as well," Thrall began. "I know that the quillboar speak to the spirits and their ancestors, that you are the children of the boar-god, Agamaggan." This was met by squealing and hooting. "So you know what the spirits call abomination. The restless dead. The blighters of lands, the plagued. We have been told that one of your crones is negotiating with one such creature. We must stop this, or all quillboar lands will become as dead as salted earth, and your people will be slaves to the king of the dead."
This was met by squealing, snorting, and three more quillboar broke from the brambles to charge. One turned into a rabbit, hopping and looking quite perplexed. Another was swept in a tornado of winds, flailing and dropping his spear, and a third was encased in ice.
"Rabbits, now?" Thrall murmured. "I thought it was sheep."
"I'm experimenting with new things, it's thematic," Jaina replied. "Rabbits are easier to pick up, relatively speaking."
"You've never been kicked in the face by a rabbit before," Thrall said, chuckling before he returned to seriousness. The speaking quillboar drove his hoof into the dirt.
"You insult us! Our crones are wise, and speak to the spirits! They would never offend them so!"
"Many have said that about their leaders," Jaina said, ice dancing around her fingers. "Many have been deceived."
As Thrall concentrated on keeping one of the quillboar disabled, he felt something. There was a presence nearby, a powerful, imposing one. Thrall looked around, and looming above the brambles was a massive spirit-boar. Thrall could see a bleeding wound in his side. The blood that splashed onto the brambles seemed strengthen them, and grew long, thick thorns. "Jaina--!"
"Be still, my warriors!"
Immediately, the quillboar threw themselves to the dirt, and even the one half-frozen in ice tried. Jaina snapped her fingers, and he flew forward in his haste. Thrall made a symbol of reverence. Jaina, on the other hand, looked around.
"What is it? What do you see?" the sorceress asked, and Thrall blinked at her.
Can you not see it, plain as-- oh, of course. "Jaina, we are in the presence of a great spirit, a... a god."
Jaina waved a little. "Hello. Nice to meet you."
Thrall fought the urge to laugh. Jaina studies the spirits so respectfully and devotedly, but they are not part of her world. "I will tell you of him when this is over." He bowed deeply to the boar-spirit. "Mighty Agamaggan, we have come to speak to your people about an urgent issue. We believe that one of the crones is--"
"I heard your words to my people. I am dead, not deaf."
"...my apologies," Thrall said, and bowed again.
"Acceptable. The words you speak are truth. I feel the rot beginning to spread, deep within the kraul. It must be stopped. We are warriors. We are strong. We seek constantly to test our strength against others. Your kind came to this land seeking a home. My children seek to keep theirs. I have seen you expand around their homes, leaving them room while you make homes for your own people. We attack you."
"Yes, we get reports. We lose people."
"That is our way. That loss, that return of blood to the earth, to be reborn into new warriors."
"Your people have declared war on the orcs--"
"No. If you were at war with my children, you would know. You would see their thousands. They would rush through your hills and canyons, destroying everything in their warpath. My children are merely doing what comes naturally to our kind."
What kind of race would do-- oh. "I think I understand. My people were once like that. We jockeyed for strength, fighting each other to establish dominance."
"Humans do it too," Jaina noted. "The difference is we tend to call them tournaments... or bar crawls."
Agamaggan regarded Jaina for a moment, and snorted. "The undead speaker does not wish to establish dominance. It doesn't even want war. It wants annihilation of everything, of the spirits of the quillboar, of their very way of life. It wishes to add my children into their great war machine."
"The Scourge seek to turn the world into a wasteland of undeath, to rule a world of the dead," Thrall said gravely. "There are those who have fallen for their lies, or those so desperate that they believe they will never feel or suffer again."
"To be alive is to suffer, but it is also to rejoice. It is to die with a spear in your ribs or to be the one holding that spear, to taste the blood of your enemies, to feel triumph as well as defeat." Agamaggan snorted. "These Scourge must be stopped, and the foolish crone punished. The crones are the wisest of their kind, those who speak to me and ask my advice. Charlga has not spoken to me. She has not used her wisest judgement. She has not consulted with other crones. She has acted on her own to destroy the Razorflank and with them, all quillboar. She must be stopped."
"She will be," Thrall said. "We ask for your guidance, as the heart and soul of the quillboar. Show us how we may act so that we can help your children."
Agamaggan snorted again. "I will."
~ * ~
Thrall studied the map quietly. Agamaggan had ordered the quillboar to help them, and it had taken some time to create the map in question, simply because the quillboar didn't usually map. They relied on instinct and scent to get them places, which made for poor topography. Fortunately, once Jaina was no longer concentrating to keep the warriors under tight control, she could build an illusory map based on quillboar testimony about the state of the inner sections of the kraul. Once Jaina had finished the map, she had compressed the image onto a large scroll of paper, allowing Thrall to make markings on it.
Nearby, other crones were performing rituals of purification and appeasement. To Thrall, Agamaggan was looking on, listening thoughtfully. He shook his head a little.
"What is it?" Jaina asked softly. Thrall smiled, and took her hand.
"I'm not used to spirits taking such an immediate and direct interest in affairs," Thrall admitted. "We perform rituals and I sense the spirits, but we don't worship a specific one. I can see him listening."
"That reminds me of philosophical discussions about faith and belief back in Dalaran," Jaina said. "You must keep in mind, most mages are irreligious. Some of it has to do with the fact that many mages are also elves, who in turn tend to be irreligious, but it also has to do with how we are taught."
"And what are you taught?"
"To be skeptical. Not to trust in the idea of gods or spirits… even the Light can be suspect at time, if there's too much of a concern of being led by emotion and instinct instead of logic. To mages, communication with spirits almost never exists. Ghosts are understood, analyzed and eliminated as needed. As far as mages are concerned, everything that is can be explained, analyzed, even altered with enough effort. Things that people believe in that are intangible or faith-based tend to be disdained. On the other hand, in a case like this… Agamaggan clearly exists. I can't see him, but I can see the effect he makes on the world. In some cases, creatures we call gods communicate with people directly. This faith isn't intangible, the proof is concrete and it exists. You speak to the elements. You perform rituals and they respond to you."
"Sometimes, but not always," Thrall noted. "Arcane magic seems to be very predictable. The spirits are… not always receptive to requests. They have personalities and desires like you or I do. It's less like tapping into a source of power and more like asking a favour of a particularly mercurial friend who expects you to do them a favour in return."
Jaina nodded. "Something I think most mages would find frustrating. They like to know where their power is."
"You've adapted to it," Thrall said, smiling gently.
"In a sense. It can be hard to believe in something I can't strictly analyze, but I can't deny its existence. I prefer to study the known interactions with spirits instead of analyzing them directly, since I can’t see them. I make note of which rituals work and which don’t, and why they have the results that they do. I can use this to create a greater picture on the whole of how spirits interact."
"To what end?" Thrall asked.
"So it can be understood. People fear what they don't understand. Dalaran's very existence is due to the fact that the Arathi feared magic. It can be hard to trust those who have practices that you don't understand. That seem to… pray to the air for no reason other than superstition and fear."
Thrall heard Agamaggan snort. "And the only way to do this is to explain it the way you would arcane magic?"
"No," Jaina said. "I analyze spiritual beliefs as a mage because I am a mage. Understanding is always relative to what you can see, hear and feel for yourself. I can use this method to explain spiritual beliefs to other mages. I would have to use a different approach to explain it to practitioners within the Church of the Light, who are more understanding of such situations, but are often not born with the holy powers that they channel, or people who have never experienced any kind of abnormal phenomena, magical, spiritual or divine."
"You would explain magic to people like this as well?" Thrall asked curiously and Jaina nodded. "How would you explain magic to a shaman?"
"Well…" Jaina thought, and then nodded. "Magic is a force that exists all around us in a raw, untamed element. It is an inert, transmutable force that gathers on a plane of existence that rests just beneath the physical one, like skin underneath clothing. There are two kinds of mage: the kind that are born with the ability to channel power and those who learn to do so via study. The former tend to be called sorcerers and the latter wizards. Sorcerous talents must be trained, or in rare cases, drained and sealed off and wizards, since they learn their craft of their own free will, never have to worry about this, and are instead trained strictly on the proper ways to channel this power. All kinds of mages must learn rituals, usually called spells, to channel that power into a specific function. Raw arcane energy is considered the most powerful but also the most volatile and draining to use, and rules the transitive elements of magic, such as transmutation, morphing, but also scrying, teleportation and enchantment. Converting that magic into one of two elemental types is considered to be more controlled, though more limited. Fire magic tends to represent raw destructive force whereas ice magic tends to be more defensive and rely on the mutable state of water."
Thrall nodded. This new information worked very well with how he understood the elements. Every new conversation we have about magic is a wonder, though... "You said that people with in-born mage talents are called sorcerers… and you're a sorceress. That means your talent is inborn?"
"Yes." Jaina's smile faltered a little. "It was not easy to adapt to at first. Magic is not something my family is known for, so it was difficult to identify what was-- that I had mage potential."
"Jaina?" Thrall asked softly. He squeezed her hand gently.
"Kul Tiras is not without its own superstitious beliefs. Tirans do believe in the Light, but just as much so we believe in the twin forces of the ocean and the weather… Sea and Sky, is the specific oath. Sailors see many things while out on the ocean. Things that many people simply don't believe. Sometimes these things are brought on by delusion, or an inability to take the time to properly analyze something that they've seen. So… they believe in things like mermaids, selkies… sprites. Changelings… spirits that steal away children and leave their own in their place. Fairies. Some of the stories are clear moral lessons to keep children in line, but others…" She shook her head.
"What happened?"
"When I was very young, I channeled magic unconsciously. I didn't know what I was doing and allowed emotion to dictate my actions. I was… frequently short-tempered and easily roused to anger. I still can be, at times." Jaina smiled a little, and then it faded. "My parents insisted that I was fine, but I know they worried. Other people weren't so polite about it. Some people thought I was some kind of spirit, or changeling, or… freak of nature. It was hard for me to make friends and keep them, because strange things kept happening around me. When I was ten, I was playing on the docks with some others. One of them said something to me and I got angry… and I pushed him, and he fell onto ice. He was hurt… bleeding… and I panicked. I ran as far as I could and I hid. I was very fortunate that my father chose to contact Archmage Antonidas of the Kirin Tor. One of the advantages one has when one is a head of state and is also very persistent."
"He loved you very much," Thrall said quietly, and his heart ached, just a little.
"He did," Jaina said. "Antonidas convinced me that I wasn't… broken in some way, that there was a reasonable explanation for everything that happened in the world, a cause to each effect. In my case, that I had a powerful, untamed mage gift and if I trained it, I could become a mage the way he was."
"And you said yes?" Thrall asked. Jaina shook her head.
"I hated it. I hated being different. I told him to take it away. He said it was possible, but a waste. He asked me what I wanted to do more than anything else. I said I wanted to be a pirate. I surprised him, I think. I said that I wanted to sail the world, fighting other pirates and bringing home treasures. I wanted to… rescue people. He persuaded me that mages could do these things with even more ease than pirates, and that I could still travel the world, and fight, and find treasure, and do even more than that. I said I would try it for a little while. With my parents' permission, and mine, he took me to Dalaran and they started to train me. I learned how to control my gift, to not let my temper dictate all of my actions. I started to read some of the books they had… about the mage-heroes of old, the Guardians. There weren't Guardians any more, not since Medivh, but… I could dream, and I did."
Thrall put an arm around her, holding her to him. "Medivh was less than fond of being a Guardian."
"He was, it was… a little shocking," Jaina admitted. "But there are some things books just don't tell you about your heroes." She kissed his cheek softly, and tucked her head under his chin. Thrall held her for a little while before speaking.
"When I was very young, I had the perspective that humans were right and anything not-human was wrong. The first time I saw my own face, in a bit of glass, I was afraid. Disgusted. I heard Blackmoore joke about it once, how I barely seemed to know I was an orc. That wasn't true. I could never forget it. Looking at my own hands and feet, seeing how I grew… even looking at Tari and her parents. I thought I was inherently wrong for being an orc."
Jaina reached up, caressing his cheek, pale fingers contrasted against green skin. "How you are born can't be inherently wrong. No one specifically requests to be born in any specific way, but you can be proud of it. This face… isn't ugly because it's orcish. In fact… it's very handsome. Dignified."
Thrall turned his head a little, kissing at the pads of her fingers, and brought his hand up to stroke her cheek in turn. "Just as this face is beautiful. It is pink, and pale… and it's yours."
Jaina leaned up, kissing him softly, and Thrall kissed her back, the motions long, slow and sweet, the swell of her lip to be savoured. There was no reason to push for more, there was balance in this, with the careful way Jaina avoided his tusks and yet held nothing back. When he inhaled, he took in her scent, one that hinted at the sharp tang of arcane energy, of dust and sweat, of…
There was a loud snort and Thrall reluctantly broke the kiss. He looked over to see an elder quillboar crone staring down her snout at them with her hands on her hips. "Yes?"
"You must offer your devotion to the Quill God," she said, her voice harsh and grating. Thrall blinked in surprise, as did Jaina. "Come along now!"
"Of course," Jaina said. "Just show me what to do." Jaina pulled away from Thrall and let herself be led, going through the motions with care.
"She cannot see or hear me," Agamaggan said to Thrall, his tone almost conversational, had it not resonated across Thrall's senses. "The rituals mean nothing to her."
"That isn't quite true," Thrall said. "She can't see or hear you, but it doesn't mean she doesn't believe you're there. It simply means that she has to trust that you will understand her even without a clear answer."
Agamaggan snorted. "Strange. It is something that my crones know well."
"One might wonder about the nature of faith," Thrall said quietly. "Is believing that something exists easier or harder because you can't see it, because you will never gain anything other than personal satisfaction and peace for performing rituals?" Thrall looked up at Agamaggan. "Would it be as easy for people to believe that you existed if they'd never seen you, if you did not speak to them personally."
Agamaggan snorted, but said nothing. Once Jaina was finished, Thrall was brought to repeat the same rituals, speaking quietly and sincerely of the ferocity of the Quill God. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Agamaggan was pleased by the words, enjoying the praise, the way that people remembered his deeds, his heroic battle and fall during the War of the Ancients.
It's not so different from the elementals, Thrall thought. They like being praised and pleased, though I think that those the Kaldorei call gods actually draw strength from that belief. They demand a sacrifice… time, mostly, in exchange for their blessing and gifts. As Thrall finished, he felt Snowsong nuzzle against is side, and he stroked his fingers through her fur. And some people are just shameless.
Snowsong sneezed on him.
[Part 16]
Title: Unity
Part: 15 of 18-21
Word Count: 7721 (of this part)
Includes: Violence, het. Shameless liberties taken with events in Warcraft lore. Thrall's actual personality, and Jaina's too.
Pairings: Thrall/Jaina.
Summary: Garona and Thrall visit Undercity for diplomacy's sake. Unsurprisingly, it smells very, very bad.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Sidestory: Linguistics
13 14
The first thing Thrall noticed was the smell. Breathing was difficult when inhaling brought with it the stench of rot and the taste of decay. Thrall kept his breathing careful and shallow to avoid too much of it, which meant each lungful was just as stale as the last. He gave up trying to be polite about it after the first ten minutes, and this actually helped to numb his senses. The spirits had long since fled this place, and any place in the near vicinity, so there would be no purifying the air around him.
The second thing that Thrall noticed was that it was not quite, as promised, a city carved out of a sewer. As Thrall stood in the main threshold of Undercity, he could see that this had once been a city, albeit the sad ruins of one. As he understood it, some large cities were layers built on top of layers, and when new levels were added, old ones were forced down into obscurity. This became the 'under city' of a city, and often led into the sewers. Many of the sewer pipes of old -- some of them twice as tall as an orc -- had been broken open, adding more labyrinthine layers to an already dark and complex city.
Thrall's escort through the Undercity was none other than Nathanos Marris, known as the Blightcaller, and Sylvanas' champion. More than once, Thrall had heard a noise, or caught a particularly alarming smell, and asked about it. The Forsaken man had shrugged with a grinding of bones Thrall found disconcerting every time he did it, and said that he never noticed such things.
Because he's used to it, Thrall mused. I don't know if I ever could be.
Marris had been tall, once, and while death and reanimation had wasted him, there was still some amount of height and pride to him. Thrall recognized his garb as that of a Ranger, though he wore a tabard that bore the symbol of the Forsaken's ruler herself, the Banshee Queen. A ivory half-mask, cracked but not broken on the front, on a purple backing. The armor itself seemed to be rotting away, as if the very touch of undeath caused it to age, exposing bony joints and clawed fingers and toes.
"We've divided our city into five quarters," Marris was saying, and offered Thrall a macabre grin, so that he wouldn't ask the obvious question about the math involved with five quarters. "Four of them are in the city proper, and the fifth, where you're going, is more private."
"I understand," Thrall said gravely. Garona nodded once, and unlike many of their sojourns into highly unpleasant places, she offered neither comment nor complaint. In some ways, I should be happy. In others, it means that she truly doesn't like this place, or it reminds her of something worse.
As if she could sense his thoughts, Garona said quietly, "I've been here before. Not for long, and not after the fall of Lordaeron. The buildings are different. This place was smelly, disgusting and filthy, but it wasn't... death. This place smells like death."
"Well, we don't make it particularly welcoming to the living, considering how little they make welcoming to us," Marris said, his tone acidic. "Perhaps you can claim that you're not being chased around by humans with swords, bows, and guns, but we can't say the same thing."
"We make a point of trying to move past it, and understanding that not all humans are the same," Thrall growled warningly. Those reports of human activity in the Barrens prevented Jaina from visiting this place. She takes it so personally when they cause trouble. I'm almost glad she isn't here. Almost.
"I'm afraid we don't really have time to send them questionnaires about their feelings when they're trying to kill us," Marris replied, ignoring his tone. He waved one bony hand. "But for those who cannot ever go home, Lordaeron is our sanctuary. Quel'thalas is heavily reinforced and fortified as a Scourge base, as are most of the eastern parts of Lordaeron, from Stratholme to Andorhal. Arthas being run out of Lordaeron by the demons was a favour to all of us."
"In a sense, I suppose it was," Thrall admitted. "Your Queen was spare on the details."
Nathanos shrugged. "What our Queen chooses to disclose -- or not disclose -- is entirely up to her."
"It’s difficult to negotiate diplomatically without proper information," Thrall noted. Nathanos lead them through the ruined gates, down past the ruins of Lordaeron and into the under-city. The buildings were largely wooden construction, but aged, old and dark.
Most of the buildings seemed to be empty, with their windows either boarded up or smashed out, the latter staring like eye sockets in a line of skulls. Here and there, Thrall could see a Forsaken head poking out, like white maggots peeking out from inside a skull, watching the activity on the street. He could sense their curiosity, their suspicion. Even as Forsaken, the former humans and former elves were distrustful of those some of them felt were still a great threat to Azeroth.
Perhaps, if they were better accepted by the living, they would not have resorted to allying themselves with the Horde, Thrall thought, and glanced at Garona. We need something from each other, if nothing else, neighbours who won't shun us.
Garona's brow was wrinkled with concentration. He knew it was her impulse to hide in shadow, to conceal herself from prying eyes, to be the observer and not the observed. That was forbidden, they both had to be under supervision at all times.
Residential areas, such as they were, gave way to merchant stalls and shops, lurid and colourful almost in defiance of the rot and decay of the rest of the city. Some shops billowed with green or purple smoke, others displayed wares out front, clinking in the slight breeze. There was food, which Thrall did not quite expect. Dead carcasses or creatures kept in crude cages, ready to be taken home, a parody of living human cities. Even the animals were twisted by exposure to the plague. Patterns of infection marred their skins and coats, infected even if they were not, in fact, undead, and Thrall had no doubt that such creatures would sicken the living if they attempted to eat them.
Another way to destroy the humans… starving them out or making them desperate enough to try infected meat, Thrall noted. I wonder how many here fell to such a trick.
After the merchants were the training halls. Plague hounds barked with low, rough voices at skeletal birds while decaying, undead horses stood in stalls eating what looked to be raw meat. Nearby, Forsaken were training with arms. Like the buildings, the armour they wore looked old, rusted and decayed, baring the bone-joints of knees, elbows, fingers and toes, while their swords shed rust flakes with each swing, though they seemed to hold out against attacks.
The Forsaken were practicing against hulking creatures, wielding various weapons. A meat hook would grasp towards the fighters, only to be deflected and evaded. Thrall felt bile rise in his throat as he noticed glistening loops of intestine swinging from the creatures with each blow. These must be the abominations... they’re more horrific than Jaina described.
Hooded Dark Rangers, clad in the uniforms of the Rangers of Quel'thalas, practiced their marksmanship against straw dummy figures shaped in human forms, their burning red eyes missing nothing. Still others crafted, and for a moment, Thrall saw the way they formed weapons, without elegance, only efficiency. Still, the steel was new and well-forged. It was exposure to the Forsaken that changed its quality, their very presence eroding that which was new and whole.
From near the fighters came the scent of the Apothecarium. It would appear, Thrall thought ruefully as his nose began to burn, that my sense of smell is not quite as gone as I thought it was. More's the pity. Regardless of previous occupation, the Forsaken had embraced alchemical research with zeal. Thanks to Sylvanas' ability to poison Arthas and nearly kill him, poisons were of great interest to the Forsaken, and so too was the plague that had transformed them. The Forsaken raided Scourge camps, stealing cauldrons and bringing them back, using the plague they found to test and modify. To render it harmful to the Scourge, I am assured. Thrall glanced around at the Apothecaries. Unlike many of their kin, these individuals were not frightened or shy. They grinned openly at the visitors and even waved. It was Nathanos, with his stern, disapproving looks that caused them to go back to work.
"The Dark Lady's receiving chamber is near the Apothecaries," Nathanos said. "She founded the Royal Apothecary Society and personally approves and tests their work."
"Has there been much success?" Thrall asked curiously, and Garona drifted forward a little, frowning at the poisons.
Nathanos shrugged again. "Some. Not as much as we'd like, the Scourge aren't rotting and dying. It will come with time."
"What happens to the Forsaken when you create a plague capable of destroying the Scourge?" Garona asked quietly. "Will you go down laughing with the sinking ship? Will you embrace oblivion with open arms?"
Around them, the Apothecaries stilled in their work, and for a moment, there was only the sound of boiling potions. Finally, Nathanos shrugged again. "We'll just have to see." He glared at the apothecaries, gesturing for them to get back to work. They hastened to their respective tasks, but as they moved past the apothecaries, Thrall felt as if he were being watched. He shared a glance with Garona, who shrugged unapologetically.
The far end of the under-city was built into the catacombs beneath the major graveyard, breaking into the tomb of the Menethil kings. Thrall's gaze caught on some of the plaques marking the identities of those who'd been laid to rest in the marble tombs, recognizing some from his history studies and others from later stories he'd heard from some of Jaina's people. They spoke of their dead rulers with reverence and a touch of fear: the Menethils had been warrior-kings, conquerors feared by their allies and feted by their subjects. While Terenas had not been the type to take to the battlefield with sword and shield, he had been a warrior in the field of politics, and few had been able to match wits with him, from the noble elves to the steadfast dwarves. The tomb of Terenas Menethil II was empty: the urn holding his ashes had been stolen from Uther the Lightbringer, and was reportedly lost somewhere in Lordaeron.
Jaina said there were rumours that Arthas had taken them to try and reassemble his father so that he might enslave him, Thrall thought, feeling cold all of a sudden. She assured me that such a thing was impossible if the body was cremated, but still... we rely so heavily on it to protect our fallen. To find it ineffective at its primary purpose would be unsettling.
Nathanos spoke briefly to a number of Deathguards, Sylvanas' elite bodyguards. They seemed larger and more solid than the civilian Forsaken, and eyed the living with somewhat impolite disbelief. Nathanos gestured towards Thrall and Garona as he addressed the Deathguard, and they nodded briefly.
"Come," Nathanos said. "The Dark Lady is waiting."
I would hope so, Thrall thought sourly. Considering we were called here. He simply nodded back and Nathanos led them further in. The passage through the catacombs was narrow, and lined with Deathguard, all watching the trio in silence, and the feeling of crawling discomfort returned. Finally, the passage broke into an open, round room, obviously once meant for the royal family to find their final rest, but which had since been cleared out. There, shrouded in darkness, was the Banshee Queen.
"Welcome," Sylvanas said, acknowledging Thrall and Garona with a nod of her head. "I have been looking forward to this meeting for some time."
"As have I," Thrall said. Sylvanas sat on an elegant ebony throne, padded with black silk cushions and framed with a charcoal gauze curtain. She was sitting back so that the shadows concealed her face, though her burning red eyes pierced the darkness. Her legs, crossed at the knee, were encased in black scale armor, both flexible and protective. Black leather boots covered her from her knees to her toes, without any hint of the decay that Thrall had noted in every member of the Forsaken that had watched them approach, and the flickering light hinted at a black scale breastplate that covered her from waist to wrist to chin. She drummed long, pale fingers against the arm of her throne.
Sylvanas gestured, and several Forsaken carried out two wrought-iron chairs. Thrall disliked them on first glance, and only continued to do so the more he looked at them. They were large, but the metal seemed rusted and stained, somehow, rather than sturdy.
I'd almost prefer wood, Thrall thought, carefully sitting in one of them. Garona ignored the second seat and stood just behind his left shoulder at rest, but not at ease.
In the darkness, Sylvanas smiled.
"Garona," Thrall said warningly, his voice a soft, orcish growl.
"I think I've seen this particular type of torture device before, Warchief," Garona replied. "You can see where they removed the bolts and straps."
"You're exaggerating," Thrall said, and looked anyway. She wasn't. Damnit.
Sylvanas' smile widened. "If you're comfortable, Warchief, let us get started. We have so much to discuss."
"We do," Thrall agreed. "What news from the Eastern Kingdoms?"
"The Ashbringer is dead." Sylvanas folded her hands, and there was a certain amount of smug satisfaction to the gesture. "The Scarlet Crusade scrambles to properly lead themselves, but there is a second organization, similar to the first but far more tolerant. I believe you’ve heard of them, they call themselves the Argent Dawn."
Thrall nodded, and frowned slightly. "I have heard of the Argent Dawn, they have done some recruiting in Orgrimmar. It is... unusual to see humans outside of the Theramore League in Durotar. Usually, they are more hostile."
"I will confess to having an interest in the Argent Dawn. They seem to accept our state of being, and several Forsaken have joined their ranks." Sylvanas gestured elegantly, towards Marris. "We shall see how long their shiny ideals last."
"We shall," Thrall agreed, and frowned again. "How did the Ashbringer die?"
"My sources say that he was ambushed by Scourge on the way to Stratholme to meet with his superiors. Some theorize he was betrayed by one of their own."
"Theorize?" Garona asked, raising an eyebrow. The Banshee Queen turned her gaze on the orc Spymistress, and nodded to herself when Garona neither flinched nor shifted.
"The Scarlet Crusade are the dregs of the Silver Hand, those who were not good enough to die at Arthas' hand. They are like scorpions, fighting and stinging each other, and lashing out at the innocent and guilty alike." Sylvanas' fingers curled. "I'm not sure which of them got the notion in their head that the Scarlet Crusade was not going to save Lordaeron, but it's good that they did. It weakens the Crusade, and the Argent Dawn holds true to the ideals of the Silver Hand, while the Crusade does not."
"What’s the present state of affairs in the plagued lands now?” Thrall asked.
“The city of Stratholme is divided. The Scarlet Crusade managed to succeed in purging and holding the Cathedral district, and they get their supplies through the shipping district, since the Scourge rarely make use of ports or navies.”
“Stratholme has the wherewithal to support a port?” Garona said, and Thrall nodded.
“While the domestic port has been the King’s Harbour for centuries, Stratholme was the major oil supplier to the fleets patrolling the northern parts of Lordaeron during the Second War. Peace made them less prosperous, but I suspect you could sneak a boat down the coast if you were clever.”
“Assuming the Scarlet Crusade are ever clever,” Garona pointed out, and Sylvanas raised an eyebrow before continuing.
“The most heavily corrupted parts of Stratholme are being held by a Death Knight named Baron Rivendare who has been placed in charge of overseeing the conflict with the Scarlet Crusade. Presently, the necropolis Naxxramas is stationed over Stratholme, spewing blight and poison into the lands below. Its master is Kel’thuzad.” The contempt in Sylvanas’ voice was a palpable force. "Almost all of the surrounding countryside, aside from one narrow pass, is controlled by the Scourge. The Argent Dawn hold the city of Tyr's Hand and the King's Harbour. Tyr's Hand is a coastal city, and surrounded entirely by Scourge holdings, including Mereldar-on-the-Lake and Corrin's Crossing. Due to the conflict between the Argent Dawn and their former brothers, shipping between Stratholme and Tyr’s Hand is nonexistent."
"Why haven't the Scourge overrun the city to begin with?" Garona asked. "They have to sleep sometime."
"That... I don't quite know," Sylvanas admitted. "In their attacks on Forsaken outposts, they have possessed some kind of strong protection against the undead. It makes them difficult to fight."
"Could it be the Light's work?" Thrall frowned as Sylvanas laughed harshly.
"If it were, don't you think that the Lightbringer would have won against his student? No, I think they've found something else. At first, I believed it was the Ashbringer's influence, and now... now I'm not quite so certain. It's a concern that needs to be investigated by the living." Her burning gaze went from one orc to the other. "If what they have can be used to fight the Scourge, we must seize it. They will not share it. They have no regard for the Forsaken, nor for the living that aren't part of their organization. They have turned away non-human members of the Silver Hand, and sent those who originally joined them on suicide missions. The last of those who survived went to the Argent Dawn."
"You've kept a very close eye on the situation," Garona observed. "I'm almost surprised."
"Almost, because the Scarlet Crusade are our neighbours, whether we wish them to be or not," Sylvanas said, and settled back again. "It is in my best interests to encourage the Argent Dawn. The Scourge need to be eliminated."
"I will pose the problem to my council," Thrall said. "Was there more, before I give my own report?"
"I believe there is, yes," Sylvanas said, steepling her fingers together. "A matter that concerns you more directly. There is a race on Kalimdor that are known as the... Quillboar, I believe?"
"That's the name we give them, yes," Thrall said. "What of them?"
"The Scourge are courting them. Recent intelligence suggests that they've sent an ambassador to one of the Quillboars' elder crones in the hopes of establishing a stronghold in Kalimdor." Sylvanas smiled at the looks of alarm and surprise on Thrall and Garona's faces. "I thought you'd appreciate the warning."
"We do appreciate it," Thrall said. "We appreciate it a great deal."
"Good," Sylvanas said. "Oh, and before your report begins, there is one, additional piece of intelligence I have about the Scarlet Crusade matter."
"And what is that?" Garona asked flatly.
Sylvanas smiled, and it sent a shiver down Thrall's spine. "Something at least one of your councillors will appreciate. Taelan Fordring is the Highlord of Hearthglen."
~ * ~
"And then they told me that I needed to go outside," Jaina finished. Thrall offered his hand to help her over some thorns, but she had blinked past them. He smiled fondly, and hurried to catch up. "I do go outside."
"I believe you," Thrall said sincerely. "I appreciate that you've taken time to come with me for this."
Jaina smiled at him warmly. "I always enjoy our time together, Thrall. The spread of the Scourge in Kalimdor is something we all must worry about. If they're allowed to run unchecked..."
"I understand," Thrall replied gravely. "Though after meeting with Sylvanas... the threat of the Scourge is so widespread."
"Yes," Jaina agreed, and bowed her head briefly. "We were not meant to stop it, not at that stage. Everything Kel'thuzad permitted us to discover was to drag us further into his plot. If the trap had been meant for me instead of Arthas, I don't know that I could have resisted."
"I think you could have," Thrall said softly, and reached to take her hand. Jaina squeezed his hand silently. "Though speaking of the Scourge, the other matter that Sylvanas brought up has been troubling me."
"Troubling you, in what way?" Jaina asked, watching his expression.
"She mentioned specifically that Taelan Fordring was the Highlord of Hearthglen. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I'm not quite sure why. It certainly meant something to Eitrigg, he all but jumped at the chance to go to the Eastern Kingdoms. He didn't explain why, just that it was personal. It's a long shot, but I was wondering if you had any idea who this Taelan Fordring is."
"Ah," Jaina said, and paused, gathering her thoughts. Thrall waited, expectant. "Well, it's... complicated, but if he can be found..." At Thrall's uncomprehending look, Jaina elaborated. "Taelan Fordring is the son of ex-Highlord Tirion Fordring, once the governor of Hearthglen."
"That name I know," Thrall said. "That was the human that Eitrigg was living with when I came to find him."
"Really... he was reported as dead a year after his exile... I should explain from the beginning, though you surely know Eitrigg's part in this story."
"Of course," Thrall replied. "Eitrigg left the Horde because he felt as though Orgrim had broken his promise to lead the Horde with dignity, and he lived in the forest near Hearthglen, far away from the war and the camps. He was found by a human -- Tirion -- and while they fought originally, as we did, it was due more to misunderstanding than malice, and they grew to be friends."
"Yes," Jaina said, and smiled briefly. "Tirion kept it secret from Lord Uther and the other paladins, but he was turned in by one of his students, Barthilas. Eitrigg was seized and Tirion was reprimanded. Tirion then continuously petitioned for Eitrigg's freedom and eventually agreed to go before a tribunal, promised that he could plead his case."
"That doesn’t sound so unreasonable," Thrall said, but Jaina shook her head.
"The so-called tribunal was not motivated by a desire for justice, but by anger and disgust. Four men sat on the tribunal, and of them, only one went into it believing that Tirion didn’t deserve to be stripped of his privileges, and that man didn't even believe that Tirion shouldn't be punished, merely that capital punishment was too much."
Thrall frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The tribunal consisted of Lord Uther, my teacher Archmage Antonidas of the Kirin Tor, my father and... Arthas." She sighed. "My father and Arthas openly hated orcs, Uther privately hated orcs and while my teacher had devoted time and studies to the orc Lethargy, he felt on the whole that Tirion's behaviour had been irrational, emotional and foolish. He would not have seen Eitrigg executed but brought back to Dalaran for extensive studies, which is neither comforting nor compassionate of him, but simple logic: if he could see what made Eitrigg different from other orcs, he could learn what the Lethargy was, whether it be the symptom of a disease, a curse or what have you. Nonetheless, Tirion made his case and was summarily told that what he had done was treason, pure and simple. There was no exception. All orcs had to live in the Internment Camps or under the supervision of recognized Internment officers, or be killed."
"Not that the Frostwolves or the Warsong cared for such," Thrall said, a rumble building in his throat. "Nor, for that matter, the remainder of the Black Tooth Grin clan which reclaimed the name of Blackrock once Orgrim was captured."
"No, human rules so rarely apply to anyone but humans," Jaina murmured. "The worst part was that if Tirion had denied it, he could have gone free with only the reprimand, but to Tirion, that was an unacceptable solution. It was dishonest, against the Light. In calling this tribunal, he had admitted to his own guilt, and the trial became not about Eitrigg, but about Tirion. Tirion was offered multiple opportunities to recant, to ask the forgiveness of the tribunal and he refused. As a point of mercy, or so they claimed, rather than having Tirion executed, he was excommunicated from the Church, stripped of his powers and sent into exile. Reportedly, all he asked was that his family not be forced to join him, which they weren't. He was reported dead within a year."
"He wasn't dead," Thrall replied after a moment. "I saw him, we were introduced. If he was stripped of his gifts as a paladin, then he would not have been able to save Eitrigg. During their escape, he was badly injured and Tirion called upon the Light to heal him."
"I argued that, at the very least, removing the Light's gift from an individual after they'd been gifted by them was impossible according to the very process by which it was granted, but this was ignored in favour of deciding I was sympathizing too much with a traitor." Jaina's lips quirked in a smile. "And that was before we met."
"I felt how sympathetic you were when you tried to impale me with an ice crystal," Thrall said ruefully, and glanced around. The home of the quillboar was circular, the kraul fenced in as its name suggested by thorns and brush. Snowsong hopped over an arm-sized coil of briarthorn and whined. "She hears something."
"We've walked right into their home, I wouldn't be surprised if they've been watching us." Jaina's voice was calm and unconcerned, even as she shifted positions. Thrall looked around in a more exaggerated fashion, stepping back so that he and Jaina were back to back. Snowsong stood at his feet and whined again. "There?" Jaina asked, gesturing slightly.
"There," Thrall agreed. He did not close his eyes, as was his habit, but let his gaze unfocus as he called to the spirits of air, asking for their help. Wind swirled around him, filling his lungs with magic. "We can see you, come out."
Immediately, there was angry snorting, and one of the quillboar broke from its cover, raising its spear high. It took three steps before it was frozen in place, ice crystals creeping up its hoofed feet. It made an angry noise, brandishing its spear while Jaina shook her head.
"No, that's unacceptable," Jaina said, and as her voice drifted through the air, it changed and altered into a series of grunts and syllables. When it reached the quillboar, its eyes widened. "You will listen to us. You will hear our words."
Another quillboar stepped forward, making sure to show off its numerous trophies, proof of a strong warrior, though it did not attack. Instead, it looked each of them over, calculation behind its dark, narrowed eyes. Finally, it snorted. "You are on our lands, outlanders. You cannot make demands of us."
"I have learned about your language and customs from your exiles," Jaina said. "You do not take requests or ambassadors. You consider them weak. You execute them as cowards and deserters." She snapped her fingers, and the ice crept up the quillboar's legs. It squealed and fought. "So we will make demands and you will hear them. If you don't like it, you will try to attack us, to force us into war."
"How can you trust the words of exiles?" the quillboar snorted, and Jaina smiled sharply.
"They have nothing left to lose but their lives, and even those are considered forfeit. Now, will you listen?"
The trapped quillboar squealed again, and the speaking quillboar gave it a look of disgust. "Very well, we will hear what you have to say."
"I know that the quillboar speak to the elements as well," Thrall began. "I know that the quillboar speak to the spirits and their ancestors, that you are the children of the boar-god, Agamaggan." This was met by squealing and hooting. "So you know what the spirits call abomination. The restless dead. The blighters of lands, the plagued. We have been told that one of your crones is negotiating with one such creature. We must stop this, or all quillboar lands will become as dead as salted earth, and your people will be slaves to the king of the dead."
This was met by squealing, snorting, and three more quillboar broke from the brambles to charge. One turned into a rabbit, hopping and looking quite perplexed. Another was swept in a tornado of winds, flailing and dropping his spear, and a third was encased in ice.
"Rabbits, now?" Thrall murmured. "I thought it was sheep."
"I'm experimenting with new things, it's thematic," Jaina replied. "Rabbits are easier to pick up, relatively speaking."
"You've never been kicked in the face by a rabbit before," Thrall said, chuckling before he returned to seriousness. The speaking quillboar drove his hoof into the dirt.
"You insult us! Our crones are wise, and speak to the spirits! They would never offend them so!"
"Many have said that about their leaders," Jaina said, ice dancing around her fingers. "Many have been deceived."
As Thrall concentrated on keeping one of the quillboar disabled, he felt something. There was a presence nearby, a powerful, imposing one. Thrall looked around, and looming above the brambles was a massive spirit-boar. Thrall could see a bleeding wound in his side. The blood that splashed onto the brambles seemed strengthen them, and grew long, thick thorns. "Jaina--!"
"Be still, my warriors!"
Immediately, the quillboar threw themselves to the dirt, and even the one half-frozen in ice tried. Jaina snapped her fingers, and he flew forward in his haste. Thrall made a symbol of reverence. Jaina, on the other hand, looked around.
"What is it? What do you see?" the sorceress asked, and Thrall blinked at her.
Can you not see it, plain as-- oh, of course. "Jaina, we are in the presence of a great spirit, a... a god."
Jaina waved a little. "Hello. Nice to meet you."
Thrall fought the urge to laugh. Jaina studies the spirits so respectfully and devotedly, but they are not part of her world. "I will tell you of him when this is over." He bowed deeply to the boar-spirit. "Mighty Agamaggan, we have come to speak to your people about an urgent issue. We believe that one of the crones is--"
"I heard your words to my people. I am dead, not deaf."
"...my apologies," Thrall said, and bowed again.
"Acceptable. The words you speak are truth. I feel the rot beginning to spread, deep within the kraul. It must be stopped. We are warriors. We are strong. We seek constantly to test our strength against others. Your kind came to this land seeking a home. My children seek to keep theirs. I have seen you expand around their homes, leaving them room while you make homes for your own people. We attack you."
"Yes, we get reports. We lose people."
"That is our way. That loss, that return of blood to the earth, to be reborn into new warriors."
"Your people have declared war on the orcs--"
"No. If you were at war with my children, you would know. You would see their thousands. They would rush through your hills and canyons, destroying everything in their warpath. My children are merely doing what comes naturally to our kind."
What kind of race would do-- oh. "I think I understand. My people were once like that. We jockeyed for strength, fighting each other to establish dominance."
"Humans do it too," Jaina noted. "The difference is we tend to call them tournaments... or bar crawls."
Agamaggan regarded Jaina for a moment, and snorted. "The undead speaker does not wish to establish dominance. It doesn't even want war. It wants annihilation of everything, of the spirits of the quillboar, of their very way of life. It wishes to add my children into their great war machine."
"The Scourge seek to turn the world into a wasteland of undeath, to rule a world of the dead," Thrall said gravely. "There are those who have fallen for their lies, or those so desperate that they believe they will never feel or suffer again."
"To be alive is to suffer, but it is also to rejoice. It is to die with a spear in your ribs or to be the one holding that spear, to taste the blood of your enemies, to feel triumph as well as defeat." Agamaggan snorted. "These Scourge must be stopped, and the foolish crone punished. The crones are the wisest of their kind, those who speak to me and ask my advice. Charlga has not spoken to me. She has not used her wisest judgement. She has not consulted with other crones. She has acted on her own to destroy the Razorflank and with them, all quillboar. She must be stopped."
"She will be," Thrall said. "We ask for your guidance, as the heart and soul of the quillboar. Show us how we may act so that we can help your children."
Agamaggan snorted again. "I will."
~ * ~
Thrall studied the map quietly. Agamaggan had ordered the quillboar to help them, and it had taken some time to create the map in question, simply because the quillboar didn't usually map. They relied on instinct and scent to get them places, which made for poor topography. Fortunately, once Jaina was no longer concentrating to keep the warriors under tight control, she could build an illusory map based on quillboar testimony about the state of the inner sections of the kraul. Once Jaina had finished the map, she had compressed the image onto a large scroll of paper, allowing Thrall to make markings on it.
Nearby, other crones were performing rituals of purification and appeasement. To Thrall, Agamaggan was looking on, listening thoughtfully. He shook his head a little.
"What is it?" Jaina asked softly. Thrall smiled, and took her hand.
"I'm not used to spirits taking such an immediate and direct interest in affairs," Thrall admitted. "We perform rituals and I sense the spirits, but we don't worship a specific one. I can see him listening."
"That reminds me of philosophical discussions about faith and belief back in Dalaran," Jaina said. "You must keep in mind, most mages are irreligious. Some of it has to do with the fact that many mages are also elves, who in turn tend to be irreligious, but it also has to do with how we are taught."
"And what are you taught?"
"To be skeptical. Not to trust in the idea of gods or spirits… even the Light can be suspect at time, if there's too much of a concern of being led by emotion and instinct instead of logic. To mages, communication with spirits almost never exists. Ghosts are understood, analyzed and eliminated as needed. As far as mages are concerned, everything that is can be explained, analyzed, even altered with enough effort. Things that people believe in that are intangible or faith-based tend to be disdained. On the other hand, in a case like this… Agamaggan clearly exists. I can't see him, but I can see the effect he makes on the world. In some cases, creatures we call gods communicate with people directly. This faith isn't intangible, the proof is concrete and it exists. You speak to the elements. You perform rituals and they respond to you."
"Sometimes, but not always," Thrall noted. "Arcane magic seems to be very predictable. The spirits are… not always receptive to requests. They have personalities and desires like you or I do. It's less like tapping into a source of power and more like asking a favour of a particularly mercurial friend who expects you to do them a favour in return."
Jaina nodded. "Something I think most mages would find frustrating. They like to know where their power is."
"You've adapted to it," Thrall said, smiling gently.
"In a sense. It can be hard to believe in something I can't strictly analyze, but I can't deny its existence. I prefer to study the known interactions with spirits instead of analyzing them directly, since I can’t see them. I make note of which rituals work and which don’t, and why they have the results that they do. I can use this to create a greater picture on the whole of how spirits interact."
"To what end?" Thrall asked.
"So it can be understood. People fear what they don't understand. Dalaran's very existence is due to the fact that the Arathi feared magic. It can be hard to trust those who have practices that you don't understand. That seem to… pray to the air for no reason other than superstition and fear."
Thrall heard Agamaggan snort. "And the only way to do this is to explain it the way you would arcane magic?"
"No," Jaina said. "I analyze spiritual beliefs as a mage because I am a mage. Understanding is always relative to what you can see, hear and feel for yourself. I can use this method to explain spiritual beliefs to other mages. I would have to use a different approach to explain it to practitioners within the Church of the Light, who are more understanding of such situations, but are often not born with the holy powers that they channel, or people who have never experienced any kind of abnormal phenomena, magical, spiritual or divine."
"You would explain magic to people like this as well?" Thrall asked curiously and Jaina nodded. "How would you explain magic to a shaman?"
"Well…" Jaina thought, and then nodded. "Magic is a force that exists all around us in a raw, untamed element. It is an inert, transmutable force that gathers on a plane of existence that rests just beneath the physical one, like skin underneath clothing. There are two kinds of mage: the kind that are born with the ability to channel power and those who learn to do so via study. The former tend to be called sorcerers and the latter wizards. Sorcerous talents must be trained, or in rare cases, drained and sealed off and wizards, since they learn their craft of their own free will, never have to worry about this, and are instead trained strictly on the proper ways to channel this power. All kinds of mages must learn rituals, usually called spells, to channel that power into a specific function. Raw arcane energy is considered the most powerful but also the most volatile and draining to use, and rules the transitive elements of magic, such as transmutation, morphing, but also scrying, teleportation and enchantment. Converting that magic into one of two elemental types is considered to be more controlled, though more limited. Fire magic tends to represent raw destructive force whereas ice magic tends to be more defensive and rely on the mutable state of water."
Thrall nodded. This new information worked very well with how he understood the elements. Every new conversation we have about magic is a wonder, though... "You said that people with in-born mage talents are called sorcerers… and you're a sorceress. That means your talent is inborn?"
"Yes." Jaina's smile faltered a little. "It was not easy to adapt to at first. Magic is not something my family is known for, so it was difficult to identify what was-- that I had mage potential."
"Jaina?" Thrall asked softly. He squeezed her hand gently.
"Kul Tiras is not without its own superstitious beliefs. Tirans do believe in the Light, but just as much so we believe in the twin forces of the ocean and the weather… Sea and Sky, is the specific oath. Sailors see many things while out on the ocean. Things that many people simply don't believe. Sometimes these things are brought on by delusion, or an inability to take the time to properly analyze something that they've seen. So… they believe in things like mermaids, selkies… sprites. Changelings… spirits that steal away children and leave their own in their place. Fairies. Some of the stories are clear moral lessons to keep children in line, but others…" She shook her head.
"What happened?"
"When I was very young, I channeled magic unconsciously. I didn't know what I was doing and allowed emotion to dictate my actions. I was… frequently short-tempered and easily roused to anger. I still can be, at times." Jaina smiled a little, and then it faded. "My parents insisted that I was fine, but I know they worried. Other people weren't so polite about it. Some people thought I was some kind of spirit, or changeling, or… freak of nature. It was hard for me to make friends and keep them, because strange things kept happening around me. When I was ten, I was playing on the docks with some others. One of them said something to me and I got angry… and I pushed him, and he fell onto ice. He was hurt… bleeding… and I panicked. I ran as far as I could and I hid. I was very fortunate that my father chose to contact Archmage Antonidas of the Kirin Tor. One of the advantages one has when one is a head of state and is also very persistent."
"He loved you very much," Thrall said quietly, and his heart ached, just a little.
"He did," Jaina said. "Antonidas convinced me that I wasn't… broken in some way, that there was a reasonable explanation for everything that happened in the world, a cause to each effect. In my case, that I had a powerful, untamed mage gift and if I trained it, I could become a mage the way he was."
"And you said yes?" Thrall asked. Jaina shook her head.
"I hated it. I hated being different. I told him to take it away. He said it was possible, but a waste. He asked me what I wanted to do more than anything else. I said I wanted to be a pirate. I surprised him, I think. I said that I wanted to sail the world, fighting other pirates and bringing home treasures. I wanted to… rescue people. He persuaded me that mages could do these things with even more ease than pirates, and that I could still travel the world, and fight, and find treasure, and do even more than that. I said I would try it for a little while. With my parents' permission, and mine, he took me to Dalaran and they started to train me. I learned how to control my gift, to not let my temper dictate all of my actions. I started to read some of the books they had… about the mage-heroes of old, the Guardians. There weren't Guardians any more, not since Medivh, but… I could dream, and I did."
Thrall put an arm around her, holding her to him. "Medivh was less than fond of being a Guardian."
"He was, it was… a little shocking," Jaina admitted. "But there are some things books just don't tell you about your heroes." She kissed his cheek softly, and tucked her head under his chin. Thrall held her for a little while before speaking.
"When I was very young, I had the perspective that humans were right and anything not-human was wrong. The first time I saw my own face, in a bit of glass, I was afraid. Disgusted. I heard Blackmoore joke about it once, how I barely seemed to know I was an orc. That wasn't true. I could never forget it. Looking at my own hands and feet, seeing how I grew… even looking at Tari and her parents. I thought I was inherently wrong for being an orc."
Jaina reached up, caressing his cheek, pale fingers contrasted against green skin. "How you are born can't be inherently wrong. No one specifically requests to be born in any specific way, but you can be proud of it. This face… isn't ugly because it's orcish. In fact… it's very handsome. Dignified."
Thrall turned his head a little, kissing at the pads of her fingers, and brought his hand up to stroke her cheek in turn. "Just as this face is beautiful. It is pink, and pale… and it's yours."
Jaina leaned up, kissing him softly, and Thrall kissed her back, the motions long, slow and sweet, the swell of her lip to be savoured. There was no reason to push for more, there was balance in this, with the careful way Jaina avoided his tusks and yet held nothing back. When he inhaled, he took in her scent, one that hinted at the sharp tang of arcane energy, of dust and sweat, of…
There was a loud snort and Thrall reluctantly broke the kiss. He looked over to see an elder quillboar crone staring down her snout at them with her hands on her hips. "Yes?"
"You must offer your devotion to the Quill God," she said, her voice harsh and grating. Thrall blinked in surprise, as did Jaina. "Come along now!"
"Of course," Jaina said. "Just show me what to do." Jaina pulled away from Thrall and let herself be led, going through the motions with care.
"She cannot see or hear me," Agamaggan said to Thrall, his tone almost conversational, had it not resonated across Thrall's senses. "The rituals mean nothing to her."
"That isn't quite true," Thrall said. "She can't see or hear you, but it doesn't mean she doesn't believe you're there. It simply means that she has to trust that you will understand her even without a clear answer."
Agamaggan snorted. "Strange. It is something that my crones know well."
"One might wonder about the nature of faith," Thrall said quietly. "Is believing that something exists easier or harder because you can't see it, because you will never gain anything other than personal satisfaction and peace for performing rituals?" Thrall looked up at Agamaggan. "Would it be as easy for people to believe that you existed if they'd never seen you, if you did not speak to them personally."
Agamaggan snorted, but said nothing. Once Jaina was finished, Thrall was brought to repeat the same rituals, speaking quietly and sincerely of the ferocity of the Quill God. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Agamaggan was pleased by the words, enjoying the praise, the way that people remembered his deeds, his heroic battle and fall during the War of the Ancients.
It's not so different from the elementals, Thrall thought. They like being praised and pleased, though I think that those the Kaldorei call gods actually draw strength from that belief. They demand a sacrifice… time, mostly, in exchange for their blessing and gifts. As Thrall finished, he felt Snowsong nuzzle against is side, and he stroked his fingers through her fur. And some people are just shameless.
Snowsong sneezed on him.
[Part 16]