Chapter Four: Bargaining (Part II)

Voren’thal’s army wasn’t big, but it comprised some of the brightest among us. It was a strong, cohesive force, more than enough to take the broken city of Shattrath. As we gathered to leave, Neph approached to say goodbye.

Some people envied us. Our love was so obvious and true that left no doubt for anyone to contest. Even if our farewell kisses were soft and calm, restrained by the presence of so many elves around us, gathering and getting ready for the departure, our gazes were intense and devoted to each other. That was the last time he held me with such tenderness; that was the last time he kissed me with such pure love and affection.

I was forced to take my mind away from the night before and focus on what we were doing. We gathered in small groups with at least one mage on it, and so we were instructed to teleport the small group to a chosen area at Zangarmarsh. The reason we weren’t teleporting right up to Shattrath’s doorstep was that it was a long distance, a big group and it would leave us exhausted and with little time to organize and rest. I also believed that Voren’thal didn’t want it remembered as a coward’s attack: the city was already broken, struggling to rise again, and were we going to attack it in its sleep? I suspected he wanted to give the defenders time to notice our presence and build up the defense lines. I liked to believe that; I didn’t want to murder anymore children and unarmed peasants.

Teleporting to a closest location might have saved us some days of marching, but still it took us the whole day to teleport everyone and regroup. We couldn’t all just teleport to the same point, and so we were given specific points in the marsh to teleport to, each one of them a mile or so away from the other. It all happened quite smoothly, and just half of my group ended up in the middle of the river. I guess I could have been more focused.

We regrouped and set our camp. As I looked around, I remembered what I felt the first time I’d been to the marsh. It was as impressive as it was threatening. I breathed in the wet and heavy air of Zangarmarsh and had the feeling that the trees were watching me. Sometimes I had the feeling that the leaves and grass would swing away with no breeze; that the forest was closing around me, embracing me. Some plants, fungi and animals emitted a soft and peaceful light that made the use of torches nearly unnecessary. Also, the mushrooms were everywhere, and some of them were so big that they grew up high above the tallest trees. It was such a surreal place it was easy to understand that, before the Shattering, that place was actually the bottom of the sea.

For a botanist, it was quite a fascinating place. Lots of different kinds of plants, with a myriad of different and interesting properties were growing there, some of them just waiting to be discovered. Even though the air was heavy there, it seemed purer, fresh, vibrating with life. I could smell the wood and the moss; I could hear the buzz of insects and flapping of wings of the shy, hidden birds. There were no demonic forces tainting that place that remained, as much as it could, free from demonic influence. As far as I knew, at least. But the same way a rose have thorns, that place was far from being safe. Like I said before, there was no safe place at Outlands. The marsh was infested with giant insect-like creatures, sapient fungi, poisonous things and things I didn’t even bother to understand what they were. None of those would trouble us, however, since we were strong, united and organized.

What put me at rest, at the moment, was that I brought Ala’Nyr with me. After I built up my small tent, I built a nest for Ala’Nyr with sticks and grass covered by some pelts, and couldn’t help but think it looked better than my poor tent. If I could have learned anything from my years spent on the wilderness, was to not complain about the lack of comfort. I could have learned useful things, you know, like fishing, skinning and hunting. A friend of mine, Katu’Zul Zula, tried to teach me those things, back in the days, and I learned nothing. But that’s another story entirely. Katu’Zul deserves her own story.

That day the camp was silent as we went to sleep, and I dreamed I was with Neph. When I woke up I was disappointed to see he wasn’t by my side, and the weight of the reality hit me. I would have to get used to that cold bed for some time.

And so we marched.

The routine was immediately settled. There were a couple of others riding dragonhawks, maybe enough to form a small flight unit. As most of our forces moved by land at a pace that would seem painfully slow, at first we spent most of the day flying over them in large circles. When the sunset started to approach, we would land and follow by foot too. There were some tasks we carried out, sure, but I did those in a state of lethargy, pushed away by inertia. I flew over the party in a large circle, scanning the area for anything that could threaten us. When I spotted a small ogre camp, I immediately flew back to report to Voren’thal, only so he could devise another route to avoid the camp. I felt reduced to a messenger, a scout. Once I delivered the message, I took flight and started it all over again. I mechanically flew over the party, scouted the region ahead, and reported back. Scout and report. Scout and report .

Days went by, indistinguishable from one another.

My mind seemed like a dog chasing its own tail, trapped in an eternal loop so that I wouldn’t have to glance to the side and see the source of my suffering, my cold bed, the cold piece of metal that rested on my finger. I just followed along the pack, shuffling pathetically when my feet touched the ground, fading into duty when I was in the skies... I just followed along... I just...

What was I doing?

At some point, I took a fright, so sudden it felt like someone just slapped me in the face. I’m not sure what caused it; maybe some part of me started to really get pissed at myself. All that stupor wasn’t fit for a mighty mage like me. I wasn’t fit for receiving pity; I wasn’t fit to fade into numbness and duty. I could even wonder what Katu’Zul would do if she saw me in this state. She, who taught me what I needed to survive, would come up to me and let out a displeased grunt just before slapping me on the forehead.

“Ya waitin’ for pity, moron? Wat is pity worth for?”

Her raspy laugh still echoed in the depths of my mind. If someone in front of me would behave the way I was, I would call him moron and slap him in the face, just like her. My wish for kicking my sorry ass just grew as I noticed that, indeed, pity glances were constantly thrown at me when I landed and dismounted Ala’Nyr at the end of the day. But I guess I now realize what made me break that lethargy, that spell that descended upon me when we left Tempest Keep.

Eventually, as the days went by, one after the other, I tried to take my mind away from my suffering and set my eyes on what was before me. After the desolated view the Netherstorm gave us, even Zangarmarsh seemed beautiful. The soft fluorescence the living beings emitted there painted the fabric of reality with ethereal shades of dreaminess, turning those twilight and pre-dawn moments into jewels of rare beauty, fleeting instants of perfection, impossible to contain. I even wished the sun would take some more time to rise, since most of those beautiful fluorescent beings got into hiding during the day.

But then the sun insinuated itself on the horizon, and one day I truly paid attention to it. I drank on the view. The sun would never truly reach Netherstorm, hanging by the edge of the Twisting Nether, half on this world, half being sucked into the void.

That shard of natural and overwhelming beauty was enough to still my thoughts for a moment, as if I even forgot how beautiful the sunrise could be, the sun slowly painting the sky with gold and blood, while covering the world with its warmth and light. Its power could be felt even before it appeared completely in the horizon; before it could bathe the world with its light and fend off the claws of shadow clutching for my heart.

The sun’s warmth had this strange invigorating effect on me, fending off that ridiculous idleness trying to take over my mind. Being surrounded by such natural beauties - and perceiving it - just made me realize how the path we’ve been trailing seemed unnatural for us. Stealing other’s powers, communing with demons - what else could have we done in our moments of despair?

If only Neph was there to see and feel all of that...

My heart started to feel lighter as the so known flame of hope started to burn again. Sometimes I still tried to bury myself into an abyss of self-pity and guilt: I felt guilty over not even trying to argue and make Voren’thal recruit Neph as well. And I despaired, thinking of what could happen to Neph depending on what would happen at Shattrath. If only he was there...

If only...

I started to talk to people again, mostly because we were told not to fly anymore as we approached the borders of Zangarmarsh. I started to live again, and realized that the more distance we put between us and Netherstorm, the less we looked like a raiding party. There was still some underlying tension in the back of our minds, but I now I could even hear some laughing bursting out behind me - or some people engaged into light and meaningless conversations.

There was one particular day that seemed so beautiful that made me think the weather should match the events happening on the ground accordingly: rain and a cloudy, gray sky were more fitting to an assault to a city, rather than that bright, cheerful sun mocking us so peacefully. I was starting to curse the fact that I didn’t bring with me a hawkstrider too, since now I was on foot and my feet hurt terribly, when I heard someone sing. It was a long time since I last heard someone sing, and other elves around me seemed equally puzzled, looking around to search for the source of that sweet song.

Voren’thal was humming calmly, sitting upright in his green hawkstrider with all dignity. It was a simple, cheerful and refreshing song - and yet it was enough to make birds ashamed of their plain songs, the elven voice imbued with threads of magic that trembled in the air and propagated softly around him. The elven voice does have some sort of inherent magic, and when it shapes a song, seems like a spell is being weaved. The doubts and darkness still residing in our hearts retreated in the face of such simple sort of magic. An ancient sort of magic, as contagious as Voren’thal’s serenity.

It seemed completely inappropriate for a war raid leader to cast such calmness and harmony through something as simple as a song - drums seemed more fitting. War drums and trumpets and...

But that was not fit for us. War drums and displays of strength might bring clans of orcs together; bloodshed and blood sacrifice might unite troll tribes and the Holy Light has the power to unify humans. But we were elves, and what united us since ancient ages - the very source of our existence as a nation - was that kind of brute and innocent magic. We could look back into our history and notice how our darkest days were mostly always the result of our inappropriate use of magic, usually when greed struck and we followed our arrogance. We should have learned, back then.

Someone to Voren’thal’s left also started to sing, adding a female voice to the song, making it richer and rounder. And then another elf joined them. And then another, and another. And before we knew it, without any order or command or word, Voren’thal unified the elves into one voice, beautiful beyond measure, taking us to the root of what we really were, or at least what we should have been, since the beginning: that pure and innocent magic. Not that wild and greedy search for power we’ve been holding - but that hunger for knowledge, for wisdom, for the mysteries of the arcane.

More than ever, that made me recall home. If only Neph was there...

“You’re quiet,” Aiwyn said, glancing to the man, who had been staring at the ceiling for far too long. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“I was just wondering,” he answered, after a moment of silence. “If that is what makes mortals so strong. This unity.”>

It was really unusual for her to see him so serious - she couldn’t recall ever hearing words so profound from him.

“A divided Azeroth wouldn’t be able to push back the Burning Legion, afterwards...” he continued, and the course the conversation was taking sent a chill through her. Even though he was in her bed right now and seemed reasonably sane, she had to remember his kind had always the seed of madness consuming their minds. That, in spite of his manageable mood, she knew him to be manipulative and unpredictable. That, in spite of the control she claimed to have over him, still an enemy’s heart beat within his chest.

Aiwyn just tried to ignore him and continued.

Then the landscape started to change, and I realized we were leaving Zangarmarsh behind, with its giant mushrooms and insects, and stepping into Terokkar forest, the region where Shattrath city was located. We were really close now, and if it would seem we were dragging ourselves out of Zangarmarsh, where the trek was a hard, slow struggle, the journey through Terokkar forest was swift and smooth. The trees that welcomed us were tall, their trunks rising straight up in the air, crowned by a modest crown of leaves. But I started to stop paying attention to the forest as we started to approach Shattrath.

We didn’t even have the opportunity to set eyes on the city, hidden beyond a curve along the road, when we found our first visitor. For the last time we were setting camp before the attack, gathering by the fire to share a silent meal, when we heard some struggle and agitated voices ahead. Some elves set their meals aside and got up as a couple of elves struggled to bring forth an angry draenei scout close to the fire and hauling him before Voren’thal. His hands were tied to his back, and so when they pushed him forward, he lost balance and fell and buried his face on the ground.

All about the draenei appearance seemed to scream the fact they weren’t from our world - or from that shattered world we were at the moment, Outlands. Nor from any world we could ever hope to see. They do have humanoid features, and that one before us, struggling to get up and recover some dignity, had pale blue skin. I noticed that the male ones, like this one, had some sort of fan-like forehead plate; and coming out of their chin and along the jaw-line, almost like a beard, some tendrils in variable number and size. I counted four pairs of thin tendrils on each side of his jaw as he stood up and the light of the bonfire revealed him entirely. He was a bulky one, enough to be a Vindicator, a bit truculent for his kind, known for their peaceful ways and priesthood orders and way of life. He wore full plate armor, only fit for a warrior or paladin, and despite some scratches, he seemed mostly unharmed. He stood up in all his pride, mud in his face and hands tied to his back, facing Voren’thal fiercely as the old elf approached. The draenei had a long, hairless tail and his strong legs capped with solid, massive hooves. He was a fine example of his race, in the zenith of his youth, challenge in his eyes and pride in his posture - he was at least two times the size of Voren’thal, that looked particularly small and old in comparison.

“What’s your name?” Voren’thal asked.

There was no answer.

“Do you understand me?” Voren’thal insisted.

“There are no limits to your greed, you filthy scum, are there?” he finally spoke, and in spite of the boldness contained in his words, his eyes flickered at the hostile surroundings, betraying a nervousness otherwise well hidden. I could imagine he wasn’t expecting to get out of that situation alive - but planned to take as much elves he could with him. And I bet he could. One of his captors stepped forward.

“We were scouting and saw him coming by the road. He was probably patrolling the surroundings...” he started.

“And I was not the only one,” the draenei cut him. There was something about his passion that made me admire him. Most draenei I’ve seen had a monk-like temper, cool and placid waters easily achieving balance when faced with any external disturbance. That one was like fire. Hot tempered, wild, reckless. And stupid. Just like me.

“Answer me honestly, draenei,” Voren’thal asked. “Do you think your companions have seen us? That they know what we are up to?”

“They know there’s something going on,” he asked fiercely, but it seemed like he was trying to convince himself more than Voren’thal. “They know you’re here!”

Voren’thal seemed to ponder over that for a moment. As he approached, he had to look up to look into the captive’s eyes. I was fearful the draenei would try something stupid - and Voren’thal... Well, he was our leader in that journey, but he was so frail...

“Then I want you to go back and tell them,” the elf said. “Tell your people to prepare, to gather all your warriors and line them out to defend the city. Tell them we’re coming with the sunrise.”

The draenei just stared at him in disbelief, only able to blink a few times for a moment. Finally, after a moment staring fiercely at Voren’thal, he found some words.

“Is this a trick, elf?” he asked.

“It is not a trick. I believe you’ve been appropriately disarmed,” he glanced to the side and saw one of his captors holding his giant hammer and a few other knives he must have taken from the captive. “You will be released on the road near your city and run straight for it, never look back. You will deliver my message and instruct your people to prepare. Do you understand?”

The draenei still had disbelief and distrust in his eyes, but did not say a word. I believe he was pondering the odds of subjugating his captors, against the weight of the task he had in his hands: even if he killed his captors, he might get hurt or even killed. And if he was killed, who was going to deliver the message? Voren’thal took his silence as an answer and indicated a couple of elves to take him. The warrior’s fighting spirit seemed temporarily pacified, dumbfounded, as his mind was too busy trying to find the trap that surely was hiding there; and so he followed along peacefully, more or less.

Once the noises of the draenei’s strong steps vanished into the night, I noticed the camp was silent. The fire was crackling, but no one moved or spoke. Finally Voren’thal sighed and turned to the elves surrounding him. All elven eyes were set on him, looking for answers, hoping for a direction. We weren’t truly surprised by Voren’thal’s action - it fitted him, and it just confirmed my theory that he didn’t want to make that a coward’s attack. But my theory wasn’t completely right.

“I need to tell you something, children,” he started, taking a seat and raising his eyes to all of us. Everyone was eagerly drinking on his words, barely breathing. “I should have told you this long ago, but I didn’t know if all of you were ready. You are ready now.”

Some sort of fatherly pride sparkled in his eyes for a moment, but then he continued.

“I had a vision...”

“I still think that, if Neph was there, it would have been so much easier... He would understand, right away, our motives, our purposes.”

“You spend too much time thinking what would have happened, if only... if only...” the man said, and for some reason he seemed truly annoyed.

“I know. I even told myself that if he heard everything I had to say, every story, every reason, Voren’thal’s vision, everything, and still wanted to stick to the old ways... Then I would make him run away with me, and we’d both be traitors, loyal only to ourselves.”

“You still are not over him,” he said, now irritation stinging in his voice.

It was true, even though she tried to conceal it, even though she tried to pretend. She walked away, but that didn’t mean she...

“Why the hell did you stop? Continue!” he asked, and she was thankful he didn’t let her fall into that abyss once more. Gladly, she continued.

As we expected, as Voren’thal wanted, when we reached Shattrath, our welcome was ready. Shattrath was nested by a mountain chain, and even though we could see how it suffered, how it has been so obviously broken, it was imposing in its own way. The draenei architecture is very different, and yet not unusual to us, since the Tempest Keep had been built by draenei hands. It was mostly built with yellowish stones, no doubt strong and solid enough to survive the assaults it has already survived. It was old, with some sort of majesty that only ancient buildings can radiate. The city was a large disc that, in the middle, had a huge temple-like building pointing out to the skies like an arrow. A beam of light escaped and ran free to the skies. At the time, I just wondered what it was, without paying much attention to it.

And instead of running for their lives, there were the draenei. They lined up just beyond a bridge: vindicators, exarchs, priests and mages. Every able-bodied draenei they had. They decided to defend what I would know to be called the Terrace of Light, the inner circle of the city where that temple was located, concentrating their forces there. “It won’t be another Kirin’Var” he told me, and so I trusted. And everyone with me trusted Voren’thal as we saw those proud warriors in their finest armor, wielding their most impressive war hammers, ready to die for the city. They were ready, unwavering in their decision to die for their own people, rather than live on without them.

We weren’t so different, after all. Didn’t we all stand in all stubbornness and pride as the undead raided us? Weren’t we ready to die for Silvermoon, for the kingdom of Quel’thelas?

The draenei waited for us to attack. We lined up too, facing their forces as the last prayers were sung and the last protective spells weaved. The sun shone bright on the horizon. It wasn’t mocking us; it just knew the truth.

Voren’thal stepped forward, alone. Old, frail and wise Voren’thal, whose serenity guided us so far, stood alone to face the wrath of our enemies. He stopped exactly between the two armies, and I’m sure he was the target of a thousand arrows at that time, ready to fly. In a large and slow gesture, he raised his staff to the height of his shoulders.

And dropped it.

And behind him, the sound of the elves dropping their own weapons spread and echoed, and its crescent cadence   sounded to me as the song of redemption; sounded like an approaching wave, washing away the marks of our terrible deeds, washing away our bloody steps. In a moment, there was no one else carrying any sort of weapons on our side of the line. Staves and swords, knives and hammers, all abandoned in the face of our sworn enemy; all laid at the feet of the people we were supposed to exterminate, whose city we were supposed to take. I just let go of my staff, peacefully, but I noticed how some elves threw their weapons to the ground almost eagerly, almost disgusted by it.

Turmoil started to spread on the other side of the line like fire, when the draenei started to look around as if asking for guidance. What’s going on? Is this some sort of trick? What should we do? Confusion and doubt, but quite certainly, also hope.

Voren’thal went forward, and for a second I got tense. He could still be hurt, and I even saw how the warriors of the front lines tightened their grip on their weapons and tried to look threatening. But it was all in vain, and when Voren’thal approached, I knew that tranquility he carried eased their fighting spirit, washed away their distrust, put out the fire of battle that was just so briefly lit. They were there to defend the city, not to murder that old, fragile and unarmed elf.

They stepped away, and Voren’thal stormed the Terrace of Light without a single blow. The draenei seemed shocked, giving a free way to that strange elf that just a moment ago seemed ready to lead a raid to take the city. But no one attacked him; no one raised a hand to him, nor uttered a word. Unlike us, the draenei understood of compassion, of redemption and kindness.

I was not there to witness what happened next, but everyone talks about it. It is said that Voren’thal demanded an audience with A’dal. I have been in the presence of A’dal, and it’s completely stunning and impressive. They say A’dal belongs to a race they call “naaru”, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They seem like beings made out of pure light and energy, incalculably old and wise, with some sort of central “heart” where shards of light spin around. A’dal seems like a giant crystal-like being filled with light, imbued with wisdom, and when his words resonate in our minds, our hearts are filled with hope. To receive A’dal’s blessing is to receive the purest thing you could have ever hope to get; to behold upon him was to behold upon unending beauty. His presence was warm, gentle, kind...

A’dal reminded me of the Sunwell.

It is said that when A’dal showed himself, Voren’thal, the Seer, advisor to our Prince, knelt down in front of him and said:

“I’ve seen you in a vision, naaru. My race’s only hope lies with you. My followers and I are here to serve you.”

And thus, we were accepted - hesitantly, still distrusted - by the city we had sworn to take. We were accepted by our enemies and we accepted them, not because we wanted to, but because we needed to. We would need each other to overcome the dark days that would follow, foreseen not only by Voren’thal, but by other seers and sages spread out through that world.

I hoped A’dal could provide us the healing we needed, and when I first stood in his presence, I was sure he could.

The draenei didn’t pretend to like us and neither did we pretend to like them in turn, but we did our best to make our coexistence peaceful. As much as it could be, of course. We still struggled behind the curtains, but not with weapons. We fought for A’dal’s attention and admiration, for his blessings and love.

Thus the order of the Scryers was born.

“Traitors,” he whispered softly on her ear, and it sounded like the hissing of a snake about to attack. “Betraying your Prince, your people, consorting with the enemy...”

“If we have to carry the tittle of ‘traitors’ for staying on the side of the living, instead of choosing to walk among demons, I don’t mind,” Aiwyn replied softly. The accusations of treason didn’t bother her anymore - she already accepted them, almost proudly.

The man seemed disappointed to notice it didn’t affect her the way he wanted to. Questioning her honor didn’t seem to sting her, not even a little bit, even though it would probably hurt an honorable human or orc. With a failed attempt at provoking her, he let out a grumpy grunt and laid back.

“I can’t believe you just left your fiancé that easily,” he said. And against his expectations, that did hurt.

“I didn’t,” she said in a whisper, almost as if she didn’t want him to listen. But he noticed her hesitation on continuing the story, and that just lighted up his interest.

“What happened? What did you do?” he asked.

“The only thing that could be expected of me,” she answered. “I did something stupid.”