World of Warcraft®

((A collection of short tales detailing several character responses I began to write when the pre-expansion patch when live. I'm still writing on them, carrying their tales through the dark portal and into Draenor. Hope you enjoy.))

((As always, comments and critiques are always welcomed if you feel so inclined.))

The Mistress speaks...

She comes to me in dreams.
A saintly lady.
Her voice as a lover. Soft. Intimate.

Whispers through darkness bring tidings of terrible battle. Bloodshed. Terrific chaos.
Horror.
A land of red earth. Fel tainted soil stained of old blood… and new.

She beckons. Come.
Ever her servant, I faithfully obey.

The Mistress speaks.

I obey.

Lilith placed the last of her clothing into her pack.

Each article had been meticulously cleaned, then pressed and creased along very specific lines. Once the clothing item was as she desired, her intentions exact and precise, the article of clothing was meticulously folded. Or rolled depending upon the garment.

Each item was then carefully placed in a pre-specified location within her pack. A position predetermined with careful scrutiny of the true dimensions of said traveling pack. Once its volume had been calculated she then designed several optional layouts until one was discovered that best optimized the space available.

As it is with most gnomes, she did all of this in her head and often on the fly.

Once the last item of clothing had been placed she assessed what room she had been left, gazing down into her pack. She grinned at the empty space.

“Precisely as I intended. This will be more than enough room.” She stifled an excited squeal.

Her time recently spent in Darkshire had been very well spent. Keeping a very low profile while occupying only a very modest space in the Scarlet Raven, Lilith was able to come and go nearly as she pleased. For all intents and purposes she had nearly been a ghost, being seen only when she deemed it necessary and prudent. Even then her appearance was likely very forgettable, as most humans seem to willfully overlook the diminutive race until such time it warranted their acknowledgement.

Such neglectful treatment never really bothered her before. It was just the way of things, she had told herself before promptly forgetting the issue. Now however she was beginning to see the world differently. Being regularly dismissed and purposefully overlooked didn’t really anger her now, but that was only because it played well into her own designs. She didn’t want to be seen or known. She wanted to disappear easily in a crowd. But taken as a whole it gave her much food for thought. She could more clearly see now much of the issues those like Professor Sputterspark took with their collective treatment.

Foolish humans. She thought to herself, but then paused. She needed to be careful. Not every human was so foolish. Her dark master, after all, was human…maybe. There are times she had her doubts. Regardless, it was folly to begin to think in such a manner.

Lilith exhaled thoughtfully.

All of her time alone had been spent in deep reflection and study. The Black Grimoire of her beloved dark master lay open almost at all times within the safety of her private room. Days passed as the pages flipped back and forth, availing themselves of all manner of secrets and mysteries.

From the darkest corners of the nether voices whispered to her mind writing their truths and knowledge onto the deepest portions of her soul.

Lilith giggled at the rather romanticized thought. Even still it was fairly accurate.

Esoteric languages begat dark knowledge. Knowledge which then unfolded ancient forbidden secrets.

Soon the little dark haired gnome flashed demonic runes across the inner walls of her room to establish meticulously crafted wards of protection. Once they were complete Lilith deconstructed them and reworked their formula, casting them upon the walls again and again until it felt almost like breathing.

And so it was with all of her spellworks these past few days. If her private space within the Inn wasn’t sufficient then the mysterious little gnome absconded away to some secret corner of the darkened woods of lower elwynn. There she could perfect her craft in relative peace, free from prying eyes and disturbances.

… Limited disturbances, at least.

And so the weeks passed. Each day she grew stronger and every other day she put herself to a test. The dark forests were ripe with trials of all sorts. A more perfect playground and testing field a blooming warlock could not ask.

Mindless ghouls, feral beasts, wraiths, wrights, and other accursed creatures that haunt the darkened woods fell in her wake or were twisted in some specific manner.

Her collection of macabre artifacts had also grown considerably. A collection she couldn’t afford to carry with her. A more secret local had to be established and what location could be more perfect than deep within the catacombs of Raven Hill Cemetery.

Raven Hill.

Lilith chuckled at the thought, flashing a mild grin. It wasn’t much more than a modest nook, but it was a beginning. It was all hers, and the dead kept it for her.

She moved thoughtfully from her pack that sat on the bed to a box that sat atop a squat chest of drawers.

The box was no bigger than two by two hands squared and looked to be hand crafted. Its’ seems were tight with corners and edges slightly rounded. Its lid fit tightly with hardly a seam revealed. There was no clasp, at least no obvious metal clasp. It was simple and unstained.

The box itself was wrapped in a peculiar dark length of fabric. The wrap itself was rather common, yet done in a specific pattern for a specific purpose.

Lilith reached out and grasped the wrapped box with both hands. She lifted it with a reverence as one might lift and move a holy relic. Weighing a little over five pounds the box fit precisely in the empty space of her pack with space enough on either side for the last of her items.

A rolled leather pouch of skinning knives and a small package of simple enchanters dust. The top drew closed and the leather flap buckled down to make a nice tight pack. Lilith grasped both arm straps and hefted it to test its overall weight distribution.

She frowned. “A little top heavy.” That was unexpected.

She grimaced, setting the pack down. It was a natural inclination to be hard on herself. She should have anticipated this. She should have known. That something so obvious escaped her meticulous calculations needled her a thousand times over in the space of a breath.

In the past this natural inclination only worked to bog her down until she floundered in stagnation.

Things were different now.

Her grimace turned to a scowl of defiance. Her back stiffened and her jaw set hard. Her will was gradually becoming like Iron. Methodically she pulled every last item out of her pack and began anew.

This time the wrapped box went first.

While in Darkshire she had acquired a new leather book satchel. Fashioned from pelts she’d gathered of her own accord. Not having the skills to fashion the satchel herself she turned the pelts over to a leather smith in town. Inquiries as to ‘how’ and ‘where’ she came upon such pelts were answered “from the timber wolves deeper within”.

A partial truth easier to swallow.

Checking the contents of her new book satchel she found its single item, the Black Grimoire, safely tucked inside.

Dressed in her finest purple 'traveling sales-gnome' attire, she threw the book satchel over a shoulder across her body, hanging right at her right hip. Her dark cloak fluttered as she threw it about her shoulders. Her pack followed, an arm through each strap, and pulled the bit of adjustment snug so it would sit high on her hips.

The Scarlet Raven Tavern downstairs often filled with an overabundance of patrons looking for a drink, a tale, or a lively tune. Anything to take their minds off of the gloom that constantly surrounded them. The darkness that permeated their existence. A throng of people that grew and dwindled depending on the season, all seeking to hold onto the last bits of their humanity.

Lilith descended the stairs and slipped among them silently to find the keeper of the Inn. Settling her debt she casually scurried back through the throng toward the door. Along the way she picked up a few tidbits of gossip.

“They still haven’t found him.” A gruff man mumbled.

“Still?” The man beside him responded.

The gruff man shook his head. “Been nearly a week now.” A hint of sorrow lingered in his tone.

Another man at a table muttered as he took a swig of his ale. “The boy’s gone. Taken by the woods. Best leave him be before we join’m.”

The boy. Lilith’s mind tripped back to the boy she’d known. Images of the boy she befriended what seemed to be so long ago. Yet it had only been a few months. Still, it may as well have been a lifetime ago for her.

Another pair sat at a table near the entrance talking between themselves. As Lilith passed she couldn’t help but distinctly hear the boy’s name.

“Booker.”

Lilith stepped out into night. She paused beneath the awning and let the door close behind her before pulling up the deep purple hood of the cloak she wore. She peered up into the darkened sky through the dim glow of the street lamps.

There was a time when such chatter would have triggered a deep emotional response. Tears would well behind her eyes like rivers threatening to burst their dams.

Lilith calmly sniffed the air. “Smells of rain.” She said coldly.

Not even a pang of guilt. No regret. No sadness. She was evolving.

In the book satchel at her side the Black Grimoire whispered frightening tales and terrible truths of horror and dismay. The eerie voice echoed in the back of her mind and a strange comfort washed over her.

Outside at a distance she noted the Night Watchmen were aflutter with activity. A courier of the crown had arrived and apparently with terrible news. Being curious, Lilith passed closely by the group at a slow easy pace. She could only over hear a few words.

“...Nethergarde...portal...orc...war...”

A knot tied in the pit of her gut. She wanted to stop and ask questions. What appeared to be a superior to the Watchmen passed her by, giving her nothing more than a strange glance. As he stepped to the group all jumped to attention and with a strong clear voice he asked, “Where are we at with that investigation?”

One of them answered. “The missing boy?”

The supervisor nodded. “Yes. Booker.”

“Still no progress sir, but we still have several men scouring the woods to the west for any sign.”

Booker. Hearing that name Lilith promptly continued on her way as casually and aloof as possible.

No sign. Good. They'll likely not find anything. Poor fools.

If they did, Raven had been careful enough to misdirect their search with a few specific details. They'll be chasing the local worgen population in circles until they relent. Another unfortunate case of a child wandering too far into the woods. Being snatched up by a dirty worgen happens more often than the watch would care to admit.

She caressed the thick fur strap of her book satchel at the memory.

Lilith turned east and disappeared into the night. Her destination: a long forgotten grove.

The winding path was difficult to follow at first. Generations of neglect and disuse had allowed the surrounding dark forest to reclaim large portions.

The path took her up a steep hill behind an old tower. Further up the twisting steep path, her way finally broke to a large iron and stone trellis arch. A portal to a forgotten realm. Passing beneath, the land mostly leveled off to a sizable grove.

A few greener trees stood as silent witnesses to the hidden oasis of beauty amidst the darkness of the Duskwoods. Patches of mostly green grass clung to the lasting memory of their vibrancy. From a higher peak of the mountain a spring of crystalline water still bubbled, pouring its life down a sheer stone face to form a rather large pool. It flowed north following the natural gradient of the hill to cascade off another stone face where it would pool once more and eventually combine its flow with a larger more divisive river.

Even the life giving waters attempted to avoid Darkshire and the pervading darkness of the Duskwoods.

Standing just inside the grove Lilith turned to the east where she found a very reverent display. A single stone hewn tomb honoring a once beloved but now long forgotten soldier. Stone benches sat on either side to allow for reverent observance.

Stepping to one of these benches Lilith dropped her pack. She stood a long while rubbing her sore shoulders to study her surroundings. She had to be certain this was the spot illustrated in her dream, or rather her nightmare, so long ago.

Upon the lid of the stone sarcophagus lay a serene warrior. Little detail was given to the face which struck Lilith as odd since the rest of the stone relief figure had been depicted with meticulous detail. He was clad in expensive chain and plate mail armor with a customary tunic over all. His hands were gloved, clasping hold of the hilt of a sword held tightly at his chest. The length of the stone blade ran down the front of him where every last bit of his armor was detailed, right down to his armored boots and the leather stings and buckles that held it all together.

A few of the finer details had been lost to typical weathering, but overall it lay just as Lilith had seen it in her vision.

Satisfied, she left her pack on the bench and strolled the grove, quiet and careful. Lilith searched for any sight that she was not alone. She had to be certain of this. The importance of her task at hand was far too great for anyone, or anything, to disrupt her.

Again, satisfied that she was the sole being in this secluded forgotten grove, Lilith returned to her pack and began unloading its contents until finally she held the wooden box in her hands.

The old dwarf huffed and grumbled as he took his usual seat. Ever since the Sergeant was reassigned for special training the old dwarf had been saddled with the responsibility of supervising the unit.

For months after joining with the guard he'd been superbly joyous with his position as a senior officer within the Mountaineers. The rank and position provided him the right amount of autonomy he personally required.

Office work, let alone city life, just did not suit him. Too many schedules, too many meetings, to many little tethers that tied him down. Things forcing him to come and go and do regardless of his wants and needs. Some call it responsibility. He called it as it is: Slavery.

A few hours into his assignment and he already began to miss the chilled breeze and fresh sent of pine...

And that was a months ago.

Luckily he knew exactly how this game is played. One might argue he damn near created it.

“Sparkpipe!” He barked in his usual rough growl.

Carulo Sparkpipe scampered up the stairs and stood at attention. “Yes sir!”

The grumpy old one-eyed dwarf hefted a stack of paper nearly the thickness of his grip. He stood and sauntered over to the gnome, dropping them unceremoniously into his arms. Carulo reacted just in time to catch the thick stack.

“Do what is usually done with these. I'm heading out for... eh... rounds.” The old dwarf mumbled as he stroked his full gray beard. Standing near the top of the stairs he looked rather out of place in his usual green mountaineer's uniform.

Chain linked shirt and leggings under oiled plates of leather. The typical green cowl that fell off his shoulders, green cape to his ankles and green hood that hung from the back of his neck. It was not uncommon to see mountaineers wandering the streets as they come and go on their business, yet highly irregular to see one fully dressed as if he were on a long distance expedition seated behind a desk piled high with paperwork. Then again, Odin was not your usual sort of dwarf.

At first blush it was an easy mistake to make. He rarely smiled or laughed, always serious and direct in his dealing. Not all together unusual for a dwarf to be lacking sociability. He could put his fair share of brew away and still retain a rather high level of functionality, as with most other dwarfs his apparent age.

Buried deep within however, there was something else. Some may see only a glimmer of it from time to time, but not know quite what it may be. Few have ever been able to pin it down, but even then it eludes definition.

Odin drew a deep breath a grumbled. “Ah miss'et.”

Thinking he understood, Carulo smiled up at the old one-eyed dwarf. Arm full of paperwork. “It’s still out there sir, and I'm certain you'll return to it soon enough.”

The old dwarf shot a withering glance down at the gnome, who immediately cleared his throat. Odin grunted, taking the first few steps downstairs with a single (and apparently effortless) bound. Round the steps to the first floor he came upon two dwarves standing at the front desk. The argument between them grew in volume and appeared to be taking a turn for the worse.

Gimdozz Cogsteel yelled at Odin from the front reception desk over the argument. “Sir!” The old dwarf glanced at the fight as he made his way to the weapon rack for the rest of his gear, namely his weapon and shield.

“Sir!” Gimdozz continued yelling but his message came garbled over the noise of the two arguing dwarves.

Odin lifted his shield and slung it over his shoulder, thrusting his arm through the other strap. Emblazoned with the red-orange hammer emblem of Ironforge, it fit snug across his back.

“Sir!” Gimdozz’s message continued to be garbled. The pair of dwarves turned from arguments to bold faced threats.

Old gray beard lifted a stout object resembling a wicked cross between a heavy mace and a drinking stein, complete with a thick studded iron band around the neck and a weighty base. He hooked the handle securely on his belt just behind his hip so it was hidden by his cape. He lifted a hand ax, a typical weapon and tool carried by the guard. Hefting it a moment in one hand he considered also the standard issue flintlock rifle standing in its place in the weapons locker. A slight scowl twisted his features and he replaced the weapon, deciding to take only his shield and stein/mace.

He turned to the front desk only now to discover that the gnome at the reception had been trying to get his attention, as evidenced by his red face and flustered appearance.

“SIR! …[garble]… dance!”

Odin twisted a confused look. He shrugged at the gnome mouthing, What?

The argument between the two dwarves had finally boiled over. One grabbed the other by the collar who reacted with a hay-maker of his own. The punch knocked the other back a few paces. A hairs breathe of a pause, and then the two were at each other, throwing punches with the fury of a bitter rivalry.

Odin heaved a sigh. The post was empty as all the guards were on patrols. Only he and a skeleton crew of gnome office workers remained for the next several hours. His visage drew dark with a dangerous scowl. Gimdozz ducked under his desk as the old dwarf stalked toward the fray.

He grabbed the first by the back of his collar. The touch made the dwarf turn suddenly with a punch but Odin would have none of it. Old one-eye ducked his head down just so, catching the dwarfs punch on the most solid portion of his forehead. The dwarf’s fist impacted hard with a meaty pop. The dwarf recoiled with a loud cry and stepped to the side to cradle his injured hand.

The way was open for the second dwarf. “Mind yer own business!” He yelled as he charged Odin. The old gray dwarf clenched a fist and shot it straight at the charge. The impact of solid knuckles on the dwarfs head stopped his charge cold, jarring his senses.

The dwarf with the injured hand glared at old one-eye. “Ye bastard!” Other fist clenched, he stepped forward ready to do battle.

“Enough’a ye.” Odin grumbled. He clenched that dwarfs' tunic with a thick hand, his grip solid as stone. With a powerful yank he pulled the dwarf hard into a head-butt. The dwarf fell to the floor dazed.

The second dwarf began to pick himself up. His eyes traced shapes across the room as if his world were spinning. “N-now... hol-hold ye’on one...” he stammered.

Odin stepped close, raise his heavy boot, planted it squarely on the chest and shoved. The dwarf stumbled backward, out the door and over the railing. He then turned to the first dwarf at his feet and grabbed him by the collar and belt, pulling him out the door. Without as much as a grunt Odin heaved the dazed dwarf over the railing like a sack of potatoes.

Slapping his hands together as clearing dirt from his hands. In a matter of moments the issue was resolved, as far as he was concerned. Odin stepped back into the room. It was now so silent one could hear a pin drop. He grasped hold of the leather gear crisscrossing his chest and flexed his neck. A resounding series of pops and crackles sounded as he stretched and flexed.

“Alright.” He exhaled with a note of relief. “Noo tha' I'm awake, what dae ye have for me Cogsteel?”

Gimdozz Cogsteel emerged with a dual pronged device clenched in hand. He glanced around the room, at Odin, then out the door. The old gnome shook his head, scowled and put the device down.

“You know, this makes three times just this week. If these file a complaint the upper brass is going to rain all sorts of unholy hell down on us.” The old gnome tugged lightly at the cuffs of his uniform and grumbled. “You’ve got them torqued harder than a chopper’s suspension spring, what with your heavy handed ways and all.”

Odin grinned ever so slightly. A thing which looked exceptionally unnatural for the likes of him. “Ye let me worry 'bout thea brass, lad.” He glanced down at the device with his one good eye. “An' what were ye gona do with'is? Poke'm in tae compliance?”

Gimdozz glared at Odin indignantly and slammed his palm flat on the desktop. “There is enough voltage in this little device to bring down a charging angry ram on a refined blood thistle bender. Had you given me the chance, I could have handled them.”

Odin recoiled a little. The old gnome was feisty and obstinate. The old dwarf admired him, the only one in the whole unit (so far) to call him on any of his own yak-fodder. He leaned forward, elbow on the desk, and worked his finger in a circle indicating for the gnome get on with it. “The message...”

“Orders from the top. There's been a crisis in the south. It's the Blasted Lands.”

Odin's visage grew dark. “Blasted Lands.” He mumbled to himself. “The portal.”

Gimdozz Cogsteel nodded slowly. A note of panic, fear and sorrow all mixed in his eyes. “They're activating a few select units now for immediate response, especially several of the mountaineers. You've been activated.” He handed over the message along with a small tube.

Scrawled in impeccable runes, it read: URGENT across the top.

Odin mumbled as he read over the page. “Send out runners. Rouse those off-duty. Everyone comes in.”

Gimdozz raised a gray frizzled eyebrow. “Eh, sir, technically this unit is a part of the Ironforge City Guard. We haven’t received any notice of change of our…”

“Technicalities. Donnae ye worry about that. I’ll handle thae upper brass.” The old dwarf’s eye continued scanning the message details. “We need all hands on deck.” Odin looked up from the message wearing a grave expression. “Call in everyone. I’ll explain it all then.”

Bending below the desk Gimdozz Cogsteel pulled out a short range communicator and began working several small dials, calling out names and issuing orders to faceless voices on the other end.

Rubbing his beard in thought, Odin stepped out the front door, orders in hand. He popped open the tube and pulled out a thick booklet that had been rolled as a scroll. Flapping it down on the wide stone banister he opened its leather cover and began sifting through its contents.

His mind's eye reconstructed step by step every moment as detailed in the thorough eye-witness reports. From the portal turning red to the sacking of Nethergarde. Graphs, charts, time-lines, copies of other reports and witness accounts sprawled out over the stone banister before him. The horrors of what had just occurred swirled in his mind.

He looked up to the street beyond. It was busy with the usual day to day.

Life in Ironforge was just beginning to find an equilibrium since the incursion of Moira and her Dark Iron. Matters were far from serene, but things were on the mend. The citizens of this great dwarven bastion were finally beginning to calm and settle into a relatively peaceful existence. As he watched the citizenry pass by he realized that most if not all of them would have lived through the first time orc poured through the Dark Portal. Still, the younger among them would have no idea what was coming.

Grim memories of his own began to reawaken. Old hatreds and grudges unsettled burned once again. His mental roster of officers and cadets flipped open. He needed to assemble a team to respond immediately with him and the other dwarven units. Those names would be few he feared. The ones he’d pick right away may choose to stay behind to amass with the larger armies. Others may choose simply to stay, preferring to defend the city and their families if it came to that. He could pull rank and issue orders, but that wasn’t really his way. Everyone needed to make their own choices, especially when it came to something as grave as this.

His mind darted to a pair of old friends.

“Jove. Ceidy.” He mumbled to himself. Likely they already knew and were formulating a response of their own, but he needed to contact them just the same.

Something stirred beneath him from just beyond the stone banister. It shook him from his grim reverie. Leaning over the wide banister he gazed down at the two dwarves he had moments before summarily thrashed and tossed out of his offices. A thought traipsed through his head.

“Eh there.” He growled down below. The two dwarves, each holding their heads and nursing injuries, uncomfortably twisted their necks up at the deep voice.

“If’n ye lads are finished brawlin’, either o’ye fancy a real fight?”

Nixim Henris Dibik Blackwrench, Professor-Emeritus of the Stormwind Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences and head of the Robotic Engineering Department for several years; during which he co-founded the research board for Artificial Sentience, author of several deeply esoteric papers such as Theoretical Mathematics for Impractical Physics, lay on his back within a square console.

ZAP!

Nixim yelped. He remained where he lay, his entire upper torso inserted within the square command console, which had a common and rather boring appearance. The gnome engineer mumbled a stream of gnomish profanity and continued working.

ZAP!

“COGS!” He squealed, kicking his feet.

With a thrust of his hips he extracted himself from beneath the console. He sat up rubbing his hands. A scowl of frustration furrowed his brow over the rims of his modified gnome-tech goggles.

“Pardon me sir.” One of the technicians assigned to the Stormwind Watch Engineering Laboratory stepped up behind Nixim. The balding gnome crooked his head to the side to glare up at him through the thick emerald lenses.

“What is it?” Nixim snapped.

“This just came in.” The gnome handed Nixim a pane of viewing glass clasped within an intricate metallic frame of curious gnomish crafting. Projected across the glass surface was the digitized image of a letter and the accompanying report. One of the head titles read: Nethergarde Sacked. Nixim adjusted his goggles as he quickly flicked his finger through the images on the glass pane.

“When did Orwyn get this?”

“Several minutes ago.”

“Why didn't I get this sooner?” Nixim grumbled, thrusting the pane of viewing glass up into the technician's hands. “There will be preparations to make! I need to make sure everything is up and running before the commander can anticipate as much and I can’t make that happen if I’m the last to know…” Nixim fixed the technician in his goggled glare and growled. “Can I?”

The technician recoiled a bit from the rebuke. “I-I only just finished the digitization of the files, sir.”

“What process did you use?” Nixim growled, rubbing his hands which still tingled from the electrocution.

“The optic-scan pak triple-I. We installed it into my Flux-Fire Feline module only yesterday.”

Nixim nodded. The fire of frustration in his tone began to ease. He grunted. “Get the subWare techs to start diagnostics. It should be digitizing in real time and it’s not. Figure out why and patch it by tomorrow. I want to see the optimized version quad-I by the afternoon.” Nixim began pushing himself to his feet. “And while you're at it, have one of the other Mech-Tinkers give your trip-F an overhaul. Might as well rule out any conflicting antilogarithmic subroutines.”

The technician nodded. “Yes sir.”

Nixim made for the exit speaking over his should at the technician. “Have someone prep my rocket. I'm leaving for Thelsamar as soon as I return from the briefing Orwyn will surely be calling shortly. Contact Tink on the holocom and let her know I'll be on my way soon.”

“The, uhm, the holocom is still non-functional sir.”

Nixim halted at the door and turned sharply. His face slowly turning red. “Then send her a regular communique. Write a letter. Release a dove. Start a go-ram fire for smoke signals. I-don't-care-how you do it, just let her know I'll be returning today!” He lifted his goggled to his forehead. “While you’re at it, bring her up to speed on the situation in Blasted Lands.”

“Sir!” The technician nodded, turning on his heals with a spring in his step.

Nixim mumbled to himself as he strolled through the door. “I need to see where the watch is with this.”

Somewhere far below the humble abbey of Northshire through a veritable maze of twisting turning corridors an old gnome sat deep within the Conclave Archives.

He leaned backward in his seat, a comfortable gnome-sized padded seat thoughtfully procured by Matron Stoneheardt, with his feet resting on an ottoman. He leisurely leafed through a sizeable tome in his lap. A long stem pipe clenched in his teeth puffing the occasional wispy clouds of fragrant weed he found agreeably soothing. Atop the high padded backrest perched his mechanical companion and longtime friend Sims. The metallic squirrels' eyes were lit brightly, casting a suitable light over the old gnome's shoulder for him to read by.

"...Shadowmoon..." he mumbled to no one in particular. He did so again for the third time as he read aloud.

"Shadowmoon." He stroked his long white beard. "Curious. I wonder what sort of link they hold with..."

Kicking the ottoman away the old gnome slid from his seat and lugged the large tome a short distance to a table across the room. There he pulled several other books of varying thicknesses and size from various piles. Each he opened, flipping the pages as a fan to find a specific passage.

"Cult of Forgotten Shadow." He read one aloud. Pulling another to him and fanning its pages he read.

"Shadow Magics." Flipping further he mumbled aloud again as he read. "Void Magics."

Shuffling to another pile he pulled free a smaller, thinner, book and flipped to a previously marked page. "Voodoo."

There had to be a connection there he wasn't seeing. "It's like its on the tip of my mental tongue."

Sims beeped and chirped.

"Well, I suppose you can say it like that. I rather prefer my own euphemism, thank you Sims." He turned back to his mechanical friend, leaning heavily on the table for support.

"Sims. Do you think that you could..." He paused as Sims' lighted eyes blinded him. He raised a hand to shield them. "Thank you Sims, you can turn off those lamps." The bright eyes dimmed.

Sims chirped.

"Yes, as I was asking, could you do some research for me? I need you to cross reference the various interlinked historical archives."

Sims beeped a low and rather insulting tone.

"Well of course I know you can do it!" The old gnome snapped back.

Sims beeped and chirped reprovingly.

"Yes, yes. That is what I meant." He grumbled with a scowl.

Sims beeped and chirped in a way denoting sarcasm.

"Pish-posh." The old gnome fluttered his hands. "I've no idea what you're getting on about." The mechanical squirrel rolled over on its side and turned its head away from the gnome.

Sims produced a series of low wheezing beeps.

"Oh! Alright!" The old gnome huffed, folding his arms angrily. Disingenuously he smiled and grumbled through gritted teeth.

"Would you, please, do me this favor?"

Lazily, as if disinterested, Sims whined a few tones as an answer. The old gnome huffed his frustration. His bushy white eyebrows scrunching to downward in a glare.

"Because it would take you minutes or hours what would otherwise take me days." He lifted a hand and idly picked at the dirt beneath a nail. "Provided of course the information is there."

Sims agreed in a series of beeps and tones.

Relief washed over the old gnome as his features softened. "Thank you Sims." The mechanical squirrel stood and slowly scampered down the back of the soft padded seat, beeping, whining, and whistling variating tones.

"I know this sort of work taxes your systems." The old gnome said sympathetically. He pushed himself off the table he leaned against and strolled back to his padded seat. "How do you think I feel?"

Sims began to answer with a beep when the gnome cut him off. "Don't answer that. Just get back to me when you've completed your research." As his mechanical companion casually strolled around the corner out of sight the old gnome plopped down into his comfortable seat.

"These old eyes need a rest."

Leaning backward he interlaced his fingers across his chest. In moments he was snoring.

The old orc hag sat on a cold stone slab at the center of the large empty cavern. It had been the main gathering chamber for her growing cult of nameless orc. A place where they could gather and listen as their drukurv’ash dispensed knowledge and power. It was also a ceremonial chamber where the growing cult held competitions of strength and valor for honor and favor with the one they called Hag.

Lines painted on the floor radiated out from the beneath the stone slab. They stretched across the room until they reached the oddly angled walls. The line then continued up the rough pitted surface until they reach a singular point on the stalactite ceiling. A point directly above where the hag now sat. In ancient times the chamber would have resembled a holy place. A place set apart for the devout to hear the words and receive the blessings of their shaman.

The old orc’s legs were folded before her. A hand rested on each knee. Her back straight, head level with the floor. Eyes closed. Beneath the ceremonial rags she wore, decorated with bits of bone, her chest rose and fell with even breaths of careful concentration. In ancient times she would have been their shaman.

But times change. With the fel corruption of her people came a twisted form of shamanism. Warlock they called her. Instead of dealing harmoniously with nature’s spirits, she spun deals with powerful demons. Where the shaman bolstered their clan, lifting them to greater heights, she dominated her cult. Like the demons she mastered, she bent each cultist to her absolute will and they praised her for such brutality.

Throughout the intricate webbing of lines, shapes and runes, lay an orc cultist. Each within their own particular location in the ritual space. They had all come to hear the final words and receive the final teachings of their powerful leader. Words she offered upon her ‘ascension’.

Or at least that is what they believed.

For hours she spoke ‘sacred words’ which no one understood and babbled an enigmatic language none of them could speak, save the hag. In the time it took the sun to fall from the sky behind the red mountains each of them lay listening ignorantly to the ritual their ‘anointed’ conducted.

The time had come. She sat motionless. Silent. A single word left unspoken. A single word to complete her ritual. Age creased lips parted and in an old tired voice she uttered,

“Gar’mak.”

In an instant the lines painted throughout the room surged with a sickly green energy. Each orc cultist, numbering just over a hundred, released a painful howl as a small void opened beneath each.

Arcs of dark energy from the great darkness beyond surged through the cultists. Guided by the ritual markings these arcs of dark energy streamed through the vast cavern until they met at the center where their power focused into a single beam to crash down upon the old hag that sat beneath.

Fel tainted dark power seared into her being. The old orc released a howl of pain and anguish muted only by the cacophony of power surging through every ounce of her. In an instant it began. In an instant it was over.

Smoke rose from her flesh as she lay upon the stone slab, now blackened from the dark infusion. The air throughout the cavern crackled with the remnants of the fel energy expelled from the ritual. Slowly the old hag pressed herself up. Her long hair cascaded over her face. She lifted her arms and gazed through locks of vibrant raven hair at her hands. Her youthful hands. Despite the searing pain that still racked every ounce of her the hag pressed herself up to her knees, and then to her feet.

She was weak at first and uncertain of herself, but the sensation soon began to fade. She straightened her back and gazed around the vast ritual chamber. A grin spread across her lips, her soft smooth youthful lips, as she fully realized her success.

“It worked.” She chuckled aloud hearing her own voice. It had youthful tone which she had long forgotten.

Running her hands over her sore body, partially in disbelief, she pulled off the ceremonial vestments she'd worn. Holding them in her hands she examined them with a scoff. Ceremonial. They were anything but. Simply a set of rags she’d ripped and torn haphazardly. Adorned with bits of animal bone and nothing more. The only part they played in her ritual was to make her appear the part. The old wise hag, powerful beyond her years.

In part it was true. She was still old and quite powerful, but not quite as powerful as she'd led these simple orc to believe. Really. It’s no wonder humans hold us in such poor regard. These orc, these cultists, amassed with incredible ease. They were simple and aimless. Dull as the rocks upon which they slept each night without hardly a complaint. Even so, they played a crucial role and for that much she was grateful.

Some distant part of her would miss them. The same part that felt a pang of guilt for the atrocity she’d just committed against so many of her own kind.

Tossing her garments unceremoniously to the side she examined her new youthful form and figure. All of her old scars were still there, which was just as well. To her, as with most orc, they were trophies. Proof that she was indeed a mighty creature. A fearsome warrior worthy of respect at the very least. She drew in a deep breath and felt the vigor of youth fill her lungs.

Through the darkness of the caves she walked alone and naked to the entrance. There in the night she gazed up at the moon and felt the night air upon her skin. Memories of her distant past on Draenor before the fel corruption of her people drifted back to her. The momentous horror of what she had just wrought, sacrificing so many of her own, drifted from her. Nostalgia filled her mind.

Several days ago she'd felt it. Far to the south the power of the Dark Portal wavered. It fluctuated, dimmed, and then surged as it opened anew. Something had changed. Something new and exciting was on the horizon, and so she set to work on this ritual.

This was a time of renewal. Time for transformation. To reform the body and soul for a second chance at something greater than herself. They had failed to be conquerors before but now... things might be different. An old excitement tingled her spine. It was the same sensation, the same energy, she'd felt when she was much younger as she joined the united clans against the Draenei.

Her attention turned to the tower far off near the foot of the mountains. Il’galar and the witch that occupied it. Dealing with her was now a minor affair. Taking the tower for the potential power and secrets it held no longer mattered. Her gaze and desire turned toward the Blasted Lands.

What wonders has that portal brought to us? She could only guess. One thing was certain. Her future lay toward the Dark Portal.

Alone and unafraid, wearing nothing but her long thick black braid that drifted in the cool night breeze, the youthfully revitalized hag took a momentous step forward. She left her old trappings behind with a mind for the future. A future that included flexing her newly gained power to sack a small unsuspecting home along the way for supplies. Or maybe she'd waylay a traveler or two along the road instead. She couldn't very well stay naked the entire trek.

Then again, why couldn't she?

((Sorry for the interruption. The next several sections were complete but are back on the drawing board for some major rewrites. I'll start up again as soon as I get those completed which might be after the holidays. We'll see. Thanks for hanging in there this far! :D ))