D101 Chapter 197

Whilst the forces of the Covenant had made gains across the Eastwald, and were holding a Triumph to celebrate their victory, other developments were occurring across the Eastern Kingdoms. 

It was to a cloudy, moonlit night that a group of the Legions mightiest commanders had congregated to discuss and plot the demise of the Human race. 

Situated within the burnt out remains of a fortress on the road to Hearthglen, the three Dreadlords, the brothers Balnazzar, Detheroc, and Varimathras had gathered.  

Cloaked in darkest purple, the vampiric Dreadlord, Balnazzar stepped into the light of a smoldering pile of rubble. When he spoke, his voice was deep and melodic, cultured like a King's chief advisor should be, and carried with it a sort of haunting charisma. 

“Woe is the hour, brothers. The advance has stalled, and our siege yields bitter fruits. I want to hear suggestions.” Balnazzar-the eldest and strongest-said. 

“I seized this fortress, did I not? You worry too much, brother. The mortals are weak, their flesh a burden. By the end of the month, their hunger shall be so great, they will beg to become our slaves. Patience, brother, victory is within our grasp.” Detheroc-the middle brother, wrapped in sinister green-slapped a clawed hand onto the skull of a nearby Undead, and crushed it into nothingness. 

“Patience? Detheroc, patience is for those who know when to act, when to strike. We have used all our patience, and are running on borrowed time.” Varimathras-youngest brother, and dressed in crimson red-chided. 

Flicking the gore off his claw, Detheroc grinned maliciously at his younger sibling. 

“Yes, knowing when to strike. Is that how you got that scar?” Detheroc gestured towards the ruined Light-singed scar pulsing on Varimathras's wing. 

“The Ashbringer is not to be underestimated.” Varimathras stated darkly. 

Detheroc smirked, having finally gotten under his younger brother's skin. 

“Enough of this. I asked for suggestions. You may squabble amongst yourselves on your own time.” Balnazzar admonished the pair, and drew them back to the focus of this meeting. 

“Starving them out is not an option, they are being supplied. Behold” Varimathras said. 

A second later, a shimmering illusion showed a portal being opened up, and a squad of Elves coming out with weapons, ammo, and supplies. 

“The Elves.” Detheroc ground his teeth, and muttered bitterly. 

“With a working Rune Stone. I need not specify what this implies, do I, brothers?” Varimathras spread his arms wide and asked in a rhetorical tone. 

“So Quel'Thalas is not truly destroyed. Even with the powers of the Sunwell, they must be so few in number, they are but a trifle. Our true concern should be regarding that Lich, Kel’Thuzad to the east.” Detheroc dismissively waved his clawed hand, and spoke in a tone that diminished everything Varimathras said. 

“You have more to report. No more games to string along your brother, Varimathras.” Balnazzar ordered in a stern tone that only an older brother could deliver. 

“Perceptive as always, Balnazzar.” Varimathras inclined his head, and then conjured up a new image. It was one that depicted a short scene of Syra decimating Darrowshire, as well as showcased Quel'Vanar hovering over Stratholme. 

“Woe is the hour indeed. Our rival has been supplanted. The hated Elves have become more powerful than we ever could have possibly imagined. Indeed, they must have tapped into the true potential of the Sunwell.” Balnazzar analyzed the scenes, and speculated. 

“My spies have seen much. The power they wield is…extraordinary. It is 100% confirmed that a Demigod resides within this fortress. I fear this campaign has gone on long enough. My suggestion to you, elder brother, is to abandon the majority of our forces, and go to ground. To ultimately infiltrate the Sunwell, and claim it for ourselves.” Varimathras toothily smirked. 

“What nonsense. We have millions at our disposal, and when the three of us take the field, we can slay even a Demigod, it has been done before, it can be done again.” Detheroc exclaimed. 

“Hmmm.” Balnazzar hummed as he rubbed his chin in thought. 

The red and green clad brothers eyed him eagerly, as his next words would determine their fate. 

However, before he could get a word out, an overwhelming pressure fell upon them. 

“The progenitor!” Balnazzar exclaimed in shock. 

“What could he want?!” Detheroc cried out. 

“We must answer his summons, he is sure to be wroth with our lack of success.” Varimathras sullenly moped. 

Balnazzar and Detheroc wore ugly looks, yet were quick to smoothen their expressions out. 

Raising their hands high, the trio of brothers channeled their magic into a central ball above their heads. 

A second later, an infinitesimally small portal to Oblivion had opened itself up. 

Leaking into the mortal plane, the screams of countless billions of souls cried out in pained agony, and an aura of never ending cold seeped into the air. 

“Father.” The brothers all said at the same time, and took a knee. 

[Balnazzar.] 

“Yes, my master.” The purple clad Dreadlord quivered. 

[Why isn't Azeroth's virgin cunt awaiting me?] 

“We…I failed to seize the Well of Eternity, and did not summon you.” 

[You were at the Sunwell, were you not?] The voice lightly asked. 

Balnazzar was sweating, and shivering by this point, and his mouth worked up and down as he struggled to answer. 

“We were only following your instructions, master, the Sunwell is mighty, but only contains enough power to summon your Avatar.” Detheroc hurriedly explained. 

[Silence!] The voice thundered. 

Detheroc collapsed to the ground, and convulsed. Green slimy Fel mana leaked from the Dreadlord's mouth and eye sockets, causing the creature great pain. 

[Balnazzar?] 

“Yes, I was at the Sunwell.” Balnazzar belatedly replied. 

[Then you have met the Elf. The one who Maphela claims shall BED AZEROTH BEFORE ME!!!] The voice spoke calmly at first, before ultimately descending into extreme rage. 

The souls wailing on the other side picked up in crescendo, and a whole new wave of pain and suffering spread throughout that far off realm. 

Balnazzar clutched at his chest as his very soul threatened to leave his body. Eyes going wide, the typically cool and collected elder brother glanced at his siblings with panic. It was clear that he had absolutely no idea what their master was speaking about. 

“But of course, Father. This is the Varrus Vandercross in question, is it not?” Varimathras pulled out a scrying orb, and showed a pre-recorded play. 

[Very clever, Varimathras. Do not think I fail to see through your ploy. This recording is decades old, yet you are trying to trick me, me, into believing you know who Varrus Vandercross is. You truly are my favorite son. Such audacity should be rewarded.] The voice said in an amused tone, yet the words contained hints of violence, and promised retribution. 

Varimathras bowed his head silently at the compliment. 

“...What is it you would have us do, master.” Balnazzar eventually got out. 

[A spawn of Akatosh once again seeks to meddle in my plans. Destroy the Dragonborn, cast his soul to Coldharbour, defile the innocent, and bring me his wife!] 

“As you command, Father.” The trio of brothers said in unison. 

No further words came from the portal, however, a trio of golden droplets-each no larger than a pinky nail-launched themselves out of the ball of light, and onto the Dreadlords tongues. 

Immediately thereafter, a metamorphosis occurred, and the three brothers rapidly advanced in both the depth, and richness of their mana. 

Within minutes of consuming this golden elixir, they emitted the auras of Demigods! 

“Godsblood. It is fortunate you are so favored, Varimathras.” Balnazzar inclined his head appreciatively. 

“Is this what patience looks like?” Detheroc stroked his chin, and for once, turned to look at Varimathras in a new light.

“Brothers, please, do not be so shallow. This boon is naught but a sugar coated curse. Our course is set. Victory means elevation, and perhaps a shot at unseating Tichondrius, yet one shudders at the consequences of defeat.” Varimathras said, more fearful at the prospect of losing than any reward that might come from winning. 

“Then win we shall. Detheroc, I want you to crush these insects at Hearthglen, Varimathras, try and infiltrate their forces, learn of their plans, and cause chaos within their ranks.” Balnazzar ordered. 

“...I still believe it prudent to focus our efforts on the Sunwell.” Varimathras argued. 

“Perhaps you are right, Varimathras. However, the word of Molag'Bal is absolute. To disobey our creator is to face the full wrath of Oblivion. Favored son you may be, but disobedience is one thing our master shall never forgive.” Balnazzar emphatically explained, and wiped a clawed hand to the side, letting it be known that his decision was final. 

“Very well. Good fortune to you, brothers.” Varimathras bade them farewell, then disappeared into a portal. 

“I shall lead the assault, yet I must confess, I feel unease. Decades of perfect planning, and it had all led to this? I must think for a time.” Detheroc placed a hand on his head in confusion, then ported out. 

“You are right to be concerned, my brothers. For I feel that stinking malaise myself. Dragonborn. What a hateful word.” Balnazzar said aloud to himself, before he too ported out. 

~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, within the ruins of Lordaeron's capital, the remnant Scourge forces were being overrun by the armies of the Forsaken. 

Shooting an Arcane Arrow into the head of a Heroic Lich, Sylvannas swaggered into the throne room, and plopped herself down on the room's namesake. 

“Congratulations, Ranger General, Capital City is yours.” A high ranking Darkfallen Ranger bowed in praise. 

“Capitol City. Such a droll sounding name for a dour people. The Humans have so much potential, yet they waste it on ugly monuments of stone, and thump their chests in pride at the actions of their ancestors. Haah, why is it that they take pride in the greatness of their forebears, but do not try to be great themselves.” Sylvanas ran a hand through her hair, and said in disappointment. 

“One struggles to understand the hearts of man, Mistress. Now that you have conquered these lands, what are our next steps?” The Ranger enquired. 

“Find that scoundrel Arthas, and give him the pleasure of a slow death.” Sylvanas mustered up what glee she could, and combined it with all the hate smoldering in her heart when she spoke of her goal. 

“A dream that has glued many a dispirited soul to your banner, Lady Windrunner, but have you given any thought towards your life after vengeance?” The old Darkfallen, and former councilor of the Convocation, Dawnbringer said in an aged voice as he entered the chamber. 

“Not more of your wisdom old man.” Sylvanas rolled her eyes, crossed her legs, and rested her chin on her fist as she reclined into the throne. 

“Oh yes, I am quite up to date with the goings on of Quel'Thalas. Surely you have felt it, what it might mean for us.” 

“The Sunwell? What good will that do for us? It was of no use in stopping Arthas, what can be done to rid us of this wretched state?!” Sylvanas hotly demanded. “Vengeance is all that is left to us. Revenge is our future.” 

“Maybe so, you very well could be right about that. However, General Nightsong has returned, and she is whole once again. There is hope. We must have faith.” Dawnbringer smiled, and shuffled his way to Sylvanas’s side. 

The portly priest used his staff as a walking stick, and beamed down at her. 

“Ever the optimist, Dawnbringer. I remember when my mother would ignore me, you would sneak me candies as a girl. You told me the cost for happiness (a candy) was a smile. Do you still hold such beliefs after all that has transpired? What of the other Darkfallen within Quel'Thalas, are they cured? Is this hope of yours even real?” Sylvanas couldn't help but bitterly chuckle. 

“My child, I do not know.” Dawnbringer leaned down, and warmly smiled at Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas shook her head and laughed. It was her first honest to goodness laugh since her transformation into a vile Undead. With Dawnbringer around, and his refreshing sincerity, it was difficult to remain angry for long. 

“My Lady? Is all alright?” The Ranger stepped forward, a look of concern plastered over her face. 

“Hm?” Sylvanas cut off mid laugh, and the negative emotions associated with her cursed state manifested themselves once more. 

“Peace, Sylvanas. Peace. Let us turn our attention back to the war.” Dawnbringer changed the subject, as well as shifted Sylvanas away to a different topic to direct her ire at. 

“Yes, the hunt for Arthas. Ranger Captain, I want all our sisters out in the forests, hamlets and towns. Cleanse the mindless Undead, and rally those awakened damned souls to the Forsaken. Any hint, any whisper, at the slightest rumor of Arthas, notify me.” Sylvanas commanded. 

“It will be done, Mistress.” The Ranger Captain nodded her head, then departed. 

“A sound strategy. Now that we have completed our objective, we are finally in a position to coordinate with Quel'Thalas.” Dawnbringer nodded his head, and suggested. 

Sylvanas had a sour expression on her face, yet reluctantly agreed. 

“Very well, what has the playboy instructed you do next?” Sylvanas spat with barely veiled disdain. 

“Oh hoh, talk like that in front of the First Seat, and you'll be quick to turn into ash!” Dawnbringer belly laughed. 

“Oh stop it. He's just some up jumped noble snot riding on his daddy's coattails. A figurehead necessary in dangerous times. The Vandercross name carries the weight of legitimacy. With General Nightsong at his side, it is clear as day that she is propping him up. As soon as vengeance has been obtained, he'll be discarded like yesterday's newspaper or Nightsong will continue to use him as a patsy, but she should have more class than that.” Sylvanas scoffed. 

“You still don't believe that he defeated not only his own father, but the rest of the Convocation, do you?” 

Sylvanas silently curled her eyebrow, and replied with the smallest of smirks. 

“Unfortunate that you should think that, I'll have to let Lor'Themar in on your true opinion regarding the lad.” Dawnbringer said in a conspiratorial tone as he began to head towards the exit. 

“Papa? What would he care? Politics aren't his forte, he's strictly a military man.” Sylvanas said, and pretended to inspect her nails, yet was secretly giving the portly priest all of her attention. 

“Ah, my mistake, I meant Ranger General Lor'Themar, councilor of the Convocation. I have it on good authority that he has been wooing General Nightsong as of late. If I am not mistaken, it seems like you might be welcoming a baby brothe-” Dawnbringer said, but was interrupted mid sentence by Sylvanas. 

“Get out.” Sylvanas coldly ordered. 

“What a sweet thing. We can discuss the topic of our next move at a later time.” Dawnbringer commented, patted his belly, and left the premises with a jolly grin. 

“Papa, you can't really be seeing that power grabbing woman could you?” Sylvanas curled herself up on her seat, and chewed on her thumbnail. “No, I forbid it! Heh, you want to give me something to live for, Dawnbringer? You've only given me something else to hate for!” Sylvanas madly chuckled to herself. 

Her haunting peels of laughter echoed through the silent halls of the throne room and out into the city. 

Dawnbringer-who was relaxing outside-shook his head in pity. If only he could have helped that child more when she grew up. All her older sisters were more competent, yet didn't want the job of Ranger General, and the Windrunner matriarch was amongst three individuals even Dawnbringer despised. 

What that girl went through wasn't right. 

Gazing up to the moon, Dawnbringer said a silent prayer. 

He prayed for hope.