Archive for lich king

Sibling rivalry (with an AA rhyme scheme)

Posted in EPIC VERSE with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 25, 2015 by Garrosh Hellscream

It’s still Friday somewhere, right?  Right…?

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EPIC VERSE BATTLES OF AZEROTH!

ILLIDAN STORMRAGE

VS.

MALFURION STORMRAGE

BEGIN!

MALFURION:

The horn has sounded, and I’ve come as promised
To confront at my calmest the storm that rages upon us;
I’ll take no joy in this, brother, and I’ll spare you the gallows,
But I’ll drop you down so hard you’ll find the Barrow Deeps shallow.
You were always a black sheep, but you took it deeper:
Betrayed our peeps to demons like you were some fel grim reaper.
I dreamt the dream of the sleeper; you daydreamed like a creeper:
Leering at your sister-in-law even without any peepers.

ILLIDAN:

You foolish furry, Furion, you know nought of what you’ve wrought,
For even my blind eyes can see what seeing eyes cannot.
Now I’m dropping verbal blades, and it’s time to end charades;
You portrayed me as Betrayer – nay, ’twas I who was betrayed!
Just the same, before you stand there spouting off “disloyal” slander,
Maybe you shouldn’t just stand there when a Horde raid stomps Tyrande.
And while you dozed, one never knows if I received a conjugal visit –
Oh yes, you’ll scoff…but it’s a thought you can’t simply dismiss, now is it?

MALFURION:

When you reached down in the well, you must have fished that witless jest.
Maiev may be naught without you, but without you, you are less.
You sold your soul to demons, now to all persona non grata;
You were once an epic hero – now you’re a warglaive piñata.
Rejected, hated, friendless; and remember, when you go
Brooding on your skull of Gul’dan: you know him not, Horatio.
Slither off now to your naga; take the loss here that you’re due –
But based on Arthas, I suppose you’ll think you won this battle, too.

ILLIDAN:

You were always quick to lecture with your arrogance arthurian;
Here, have seven vials of shut the fuck up and hush, Malfurion!
Sold out? I used the Legion for the power I’d inherit;
I may now be half demon, but you’re at least a quarter ferret.
Alas, your beard – and facial hair – don’t have anyone fooled.
Now I hope you’ve taken rhyming notes, for Sha’do’s getting schooled.
You’ve had enough? Now shift to fraidy-cat and run off scared,
For I declare, brother, in this battle you were not prepared.

WHO WON?

WHO’S NEXT?

YOU DECIDE!

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EPIC VERSE BATTLES OF AZEROTH!

 

[Next Friday…the Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge bonus-edition finale!  (Who will it be?  Who’s to say?!  GET YOUR SUGGESTIONS IN EARLY!  And…I promise… some overdue for-real for-real posts between then and now!]

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And, if we turn a blind eye to who’s still around canonically…

Posted in EPIC VERSE with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 10, 2015 by Garrosh Hellscream

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EPIC VERSE BATTLES OF AZEROTH!

VAROK SAURFANG

VS.

THE LICH KING

BEGIN!

LICH KING:

I find the irony delightful and the arrogance sublime
For you to hope in my domain that you could wield the coldest rhymes.
You’ll learn the meaning of fear now, and the chill of the grave;
Not a soul is going to help you – they’re all trapped in my blade.
Every foe that I defeat is a new minion to employ;
You say you named him Dranosh – do you miss your little boy?
I kill fathers and sons; I’ve already slayed the Younger.
Now it’s dinner time, orc…and Frostmourne hungers.

SAURFANG:

You can save your strangulation, its rotation’s gonna switch,
For it seems that Varok Saurfang’s going to have to choke a lich.
Your runeblade has a name and people tremble while beholding;
You know why they fear my axe? It’s the one Saurfang is holding.
Sucking souls; your own: unneeded. Uther’s warning went unheeded.
You might once have been the heir, but you never once succeeded.
You’re the king of Frozen Thrones, but your chilling’s getting thawed,
’Cause I’m the one both factions turn to when they need to kill a god.

LICH KING:

<channeling a spell>
I’d stay to slay you, orc, but there’re things I need to do.
Falric! Marwyn! Bring me his corpse when you’re through.

[The Lich King summons Falric and Marwyn, then exits up a hallway.]

FALRIC:

By your order, my liege!

MARWYN:

                                             This invader shall fall!

FALRIC:

Now your humble soldiers rise to meet their master’s call.
Your despair is so delicious and your fear exhilarating.
Your reputation might precede you, but it’s textbook overrating.
It’s two against one orc and even you can do the math:
Your fate will be no different – none are spared the master’s wrath.

MARWYN:

When the master ravaged Stratholme we were standing by his side,
And we saw the look Terenas made that moment as he died.
Your rhymes are weak as Silvermoon when master went attacking.
Now we’ve surveyed our enemy, and we have found him lacking.

SAURFANG:

I don’t waste my time on red-shirts but since Arthas had to leave,
Come at me, boys, in double file – now eat my verbal
                                                                  CLEAVE.

While your king walks afar
                                     You others cover and flock
To spar, but I’ll knock ajar
                                         One and another and block – so far
Your knocks may shock on par
                                         To smother and sock and scar
But your talk and mocks won’t mar
                                              The brother of Broxigar.
You took all your best shots but every one of them missed;
You’re getting schooled, children –

[Saurfang cleaves both Falric and Marwyn’s heads off with one swing.]

                                                     Now class is dismissed.

[Saurfang heroic leaps into the next room, where the Lich King is holding Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner at bay.]

You don’t get away that easy, no escape from pending loss;
I just took out the trash, so now you’d better be a boss.
Orc dictator, human traitor, “See you later,” what a “hero.”
So you run, “Now we are one,” but when I’m done, you will be zero.

LICH KING:

No questions stay unanswered; you’re the answer to my plans;
For clearly yours are verses greatest of the also-rans —
You know your place, I’ll grant you, rallied by your leader’s pennant:
Such a hero, such a legend, such a permanent lieutenant.
If ambition drove your mission, its commission might unnerve us,
But you’ve cleared the way, and now you’ll stay forever in my service:
Dead, deployed, to destroy, like your son with death to bring:
In the last, when you’ve passed, you will all serve the king.

 

WHO WON?

WHO’S NEXT?

YOU DECIDE!

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EPIC VERSE BATTLES OF AZEROTH!

Wrath of the Lich King

Posted in General, Transcripts with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 16, 2012 by Garrosh Hellscream

Show time.

The group assembled today on the Windrunner: me, both Saurfangs, Liadrin, Edwin, Jaina, Mokvar, Dontrag, and Utvoch.  I figured the way the Scourge have swarmed through practically all of Northrend, I’d just as soon not leave anything to chance, which is why we brought so much heavy-artillery personnel.  Drok and his crew had the ship ready to go, and we set off for the Nexus in Coldarra.  Once we had the Focusing Iris, we’d head straight for Dalaran, where Jaina’s Kirin Tor friends would be ready to port us straight to the Caverns of Time.

We arrived at the Nexus and docked the ship on one of the upper ring platforms that was equipped with a teleportation orb.  One problem: the platform was swarming with Scourge – all the platforms were.  Vargul and skeletons mostly, with a couple necromancer types lurking around the back.

I’ll tell you, Mokvar was right the other day.  This really wasn’t fair.

Between me whirlwinding through skeletons by the bushel, Liadrin Diving Storming her way right through the heart of them, Jaina flame-roasting undead in bunches, and – yup – Saurfangs Young and Old cleaving down everything in sight, it didn’t take us long to clear a path to the teleportation orb.  The only down side was that those necromancers kept summoning more undead, and every so often a proto-drake would fly by and drop another damn vrykul to help keep the influx coming.

 

GARROSH:  They’re not getting anywhere, but neither are we if we just stay up here all day killing these fuckers…

The necromancers cast another summoning spell, and some hundred new skeletons appear on the platform.

LIADRIN:  <slashing by one of the vargul>  We don’t all need to be up here – you go, I’ll stay and protect the ship.

GARROSH:  You sure?  There’s still an awful lot of them.

Liadrin rushes into a cluster of vargul, dropping them all with another spinning Divine Storm.  As she finishes her follow-through, she lands on one knee, slamming the Ashbringer down onto the platform floor; a shimmering flash of yellow-white light bursts from the Ashbringer and shoots out in a horizontal shockwave in all directions.  The light rips through the skeletons and sends them spilling onto the floor, burning with holy fire.  Still on one knee, Liadrin tilts her head up at Garrosh.

LIADRIN:  I’m not worried.

Jaina runs to a clear area near the gunship and starts channeling a spell.  A glowing blue runic circle begins to appear on the floor beneath her.

JAINA:  I’m placing a portal marker here.  Once we have the Focusing Iris, I’ll be able to teleport us directly back.

Several more vargul drop onto the platform.  While Liadrin engages them, several val’kyr and gargoyles descend down over the Windrunner.

SAURFANG:  <rushing back to the gunship and cleaving through gargoyles>  I’ll stay back as well to help guard the ship.

MOKVAR:  Well now you’re just running up the score on them.

SAURFANG:  The rest of you – go!

DRANOSH:  You all heard the man.  Let’s get moving.

 

We took the teleportation orb into the Nexus.  The sight that greeted us froze us all in our tracks.  Around the circular room and down every hall, the ground was littered with the lifeless bodies of blue dragons.  We all just stared for a minute while the sight sunk in.  I think it hit Jaina the hardest, what with her probably having had some dealings with the blues over the years.  She knelt down over one of the dead dragons and put a hand over its face.

 

JAINA:  This… I know her.  This is… Her name is…was Kirygosa.  She was a daughter of Malygos…

UTVOCH:  Wait, when you said there were going to be a lot of dragons here, I thought you meant they were going to be alive.

GARROSH:  …Seriously?

FARANELL:  That’s got to be an act, right?  I mean he can’t possibly really be that stupid.

MOKVAR:  Dontrag and Utvoch: raising the bar on lowering the bar, since the dawn of time.

DONTRAG:  Hey, I didn’t say anything!

GARROSH:  Yet.

DRANOSH:  <surveying the halls>  Most of the…  <glances back at Jaina, then lowers his voice slightly>  …most of the blood seems fresh.  Whoever did this did it fairly recently.

GARROSH:  Probably still nearby.

Jaina stands slowly, still looking down at the bodies.

JAINA:  Kalecgos considered her one of his dearest friends…

DRANOSH:  The next time you see him, you can tell him all about the world of pain we brought down on the ones who did this to her.

GARROSH:  It has to be the Scourge, based on upstairs.  Not sure why they’d be coming after the blue dragons, though.

JAINA:  At this point, they’re one of the only major powers left between them and all of Northrend…  It was only a matter of time before they struck here.

GARROSH:  That’s the thing, though – yeah, they have the Horde and Alliance on the ropes, but why wouldn’t they finish them off first, THEN take on the dragons?  The Lich King has to know he’s got the upper hand.  Why divide his efforts?

DRANOSH:  Maybe he wants to finish both off quickly?

GARROSH:  All the time we were up here fighting him, did you ever know Arthas to be impatient?

JAINA:  He’s not.  Anymore.

DRANOSH:  <shrugs>  Either way.  I am the impatient type – let’s go find that Focusing Iris and let it be finished.

 

We made our way deeper into the Nexus, finding more slain dragons all the way.  As we worked our way down a long, descending passageway, we could hear sounds of combat, and reptilian cries of pain.  I ordered Dontrag and Utvoch to make sure they kept Edwin safe under pain of so-much-worse-than-death-your-admittedly-limited-brains-would-melt-just-trying-to-imagine-it.  The bottom of the passage was dark and filled with shadows.  As the floor leveled out from the end of our descent, we turned a corner and came to a doorway.

The room was large and circular, with crystalline patterns in the walls and floor, like so many of the other rooms here.  In the center of the room, hovering in the air of its own accord, was the Focusing Iris – an enormous blue orb, glowing with arcane power.  On the far side of the room, four humanoids – a human, a tauren, and a pair of dwarves – all wearing armor like that of a death knight, stood over bodies of blue dragons.  More bodies filled the room, and the air reeked with the smell of draconic blood.  Two more death knights, a draenei and a troll, flanked the doorway on either side, and as we came around the corner they called out a warning.

And as the sentries cried out, in the center of the room, out from behind the Focusing Iris stepped Tirion Fordring.  Covered in spiked black armor, wielding a runeblade, eyes glowing a deathly pale blue.  I’ll tell you, I was never crazy about Tirion, but this was still horrible to see.  Even Tirion deserved better than this.

 

TIRION:  <grinning broadly>  Ah, how serendipitous!  It appears fate has set us all upon a parallel venture, and I find myself reunited with personages of no small familiarity.  I greet you all, good orcs and humans, and welcome you to the curtain’s rise on the final act of this grand endeavor!

GARROSH:  By the spirits…

Tirion gestures to his minions.

DRANOSH:  What?

Tirion’s Deathbringers rush at the group, blades poised.

GARROSH:  He still loves to talk.

Jaina casts a Cone of Cold that slows the death knights’ approach.

DRANOSH:  <shrugs>  Time to do what we do.  Lok’tar!

GARROSH:  For the Horde!

DONTRAG and UTVOCH:  For the Horde!

MOKVAR:  For the Horde!

JAINA:  Um, actually…

Jaina exchanges a shrug with Faranell.

Okay.  Whatever.

Garrosh, Dranosh, Dontrag, and Utvoch rush forward to engage the Deathbringers, and the two groups battle back and forth, with Tirion lurking by the Focusing Iris, watching and taunting.

TIRION:  Good, my glorious vassals, unleash your fury and show these intruders the fate that awaits those who would interfere with the work of our dread lord the Lich King!  Woe be to any who stand against us!  Their ruined bodies shall be the latest paving the way to our inevitable dominion over this world!

GARROSH:  <exchanging blows with the tauren>  The hell are you even HERE for, Tirion?  What do you fuckers even want with the Focusing Iris?

TIRION:  Well could I ask you the same, young Hellscream!  But as it will profit you naught, I will tell you, so that you might meet your end knowing the full scope of your failure, and indeed the hand you and your ilk have had in bringing forth this very hour!

DRANOSH:  <aside>  That’s it, get him monologuing…

GARROSH:  <aside>  He’s going to be monologuing anyway, might as well get him going on something useful maybe…

Dranosh and Garrosh continue pushing back the tauren and human.  Dontrag and Utvoch spar with the two dwarves, aided by chain lightning from Mokvar, while Jaina launches a seething fireball that incinerates the troll.

TIRION:  Did you truly believe your ill-fated ploy to deny the Lich King your precious Sunwell would go unanswered?  That the master of the Scourge would be halted by your sad, trifling magician’s tricks?  You merely delayed the inevitable; and now, with the Focusing Iris in hand, the Lich King’s mightiest seers will shatter the meddlesome bubble conjured by that poor, doomed, suddenly so very solitary dragon Kalecgos—

Jaina lets loose another pair of fireballs, finishing the dwarven death knights fighting Dontrag and Utvoch.

JAINA:  Kalcgos’ flight had no part in this war, Tirion!  The old you – the real you – he would be sickened to see what you’ve done to these innocents!

TIRION:  Oh, Lady Proudmoore, do not be so naïve as to think the blues innocent – or yourself.  It was Kalecgos who chose to throw in his lot with your kind and aid in your foolish charade at the Sunwell, and all of you who interfered in the Scourge’s march.  The Lich King was content to leave these pitiable lizards be – for now.  It was you who forced his hand, you who altered his plans, you who made the Focusing Iris a necessary implement—

DRANOSHSpirits, he likes to talk…

GARROSH:  Dude, you have NO IDEA.

TIRION:  —and you, all of you, who helped bring this fate upon the Blue Dragonflight today!  From their blood shall flow the coming of a new age for this world!  From their deaths shall be forged a new future, bathed in carnage!

JAINA:  <gathering a fiery glow in her hands>  You want carnage?  Arthas will have more blood than he ever bargained for!

Jaina unleashes a massive fireball that tears through the draenei death knight and badly burns the tauren and human – whom Dranosh and Garrosh quickly finish off – and hurls Tirion back against the far wall.

DRANOSH:  Remind me not to piss her off.

GARROSH:  No shit, right?

Tirion pulls himself up and faces the group.

TIRION:  You all shall pay dearly for—

DRANOSH:  <charging in and knocking Tirion a few steps back>  Pro tip, Tirion – when your boys are taking it on the chin, might be a good idea to stop running your mouth for a minute and help them out.

Garrosh joins in, and Tirion begins scrambling to deflect both orcs’ blows.

TIRION:  You think I fear you, boy?  Through the Lich King I have seen power the likes of which you cannot comprehend!  By his will I have cast off death itself, and risen anew, ascended, greater than I might ever have dreamed in my former, paltry, limited existence!  You do not know what you trifle with, you—

As Dranosh and Garrosh unleash a flurry of blows from both sides, Jaina singes Tirion with a surge of flame, then freezes him in place with a frost nova, throwing off his footing.

GARROSH:  Tirion…

Garrosh locks one of his axes in a parry with Tirion, then drops his second axe from his free hand and swings his fist under the runeblade and into Tirion’s gut.

Shut.

Garrosh breaks the parry, forcing Tirion’s blade hand to swing to one side, where Dranosh hacks it away at the wrist.

The fuck.

Garrosh and Dranosh bring their axes down from either side, slamming vicious into the base of Tirion’s neck.

UP!

Tirion slumps lifeless to the floor.

JAINA:  <looking down sadly at the body>  You have been missed, old friend.  May your spirit finally find its rest now.

MOKVAR:  Okay, let’s get what we came for and go.

JAINA:  Let me get it into a more manageable form…

Jaina holds her hands out to the Focusing Iris and begins channeling beams of arcane magic into it.  Slowly, the Focusing Iris shrinks until it has been reduced to a shimmering blue sphere about a foot in diameter, hovering in the air.

There…now we just need to—

Jaina is interrupted by a shadowy, purple tendril of magic that lashes out at her from the doorway and yanks her back toward it.  Her body flies backward through the air and – with a hideous slicing sound – into a blade held out from the dark hallway:

Frostmourne.

As Dranosh steps in to catch the falling Focusing Iris, the Lich King strides into the room, Jaina’s body still impaled on the runebalde.

LICH KING:  Impressive…

The Lich King shakes Frostmourne, dropping Jaina’s body to the ground.

Most impressive.

UTVOCH:  Okay, this isn’t so bad, there’s just one of him against all of us…

The Lich King drives Frostmourne’s blade into the floor, releasing a shockwave that knocks the group back against the far wall of the room.  As they recover, the Lich King hold Frostmourne aloft and begins channeling a spell.

LICH KING:  Now then…a further test…

Crackling purple energy shoots out of Frostmourne in all directions.  Slowly, the dozens of dragon corpses around the room begin to rise, eyes glowing a dull blue, bodies withered and gaunt.

GARROSH:  Oh…shit…

DONTRAG:  You really have to keep your mouth shut, Ut.

The nearest few reanimated dragons rush at them.  Garrosh, Dontrag, and Utvoch step in to intercept them and start to fight them back, with Mokvar and Faranell casting spells at them from behind.

The Lich King continues channeling.  After a few seconds, Jaina’s body rises from the floor; her hair has turned white save for a single blonde streak, and her eyes shimmer with a lifeless blue glow.  She looks around the room, then faces the Lich King.

JAINA:  A-Arthas…?

LICH KING:  I have missed you…my Queen.

Jaina grins hideously, turns, and unleashes an enormous fireball that incinerates two of the dragons on its way toward Faranell.

DONTRAG:  Doc!

UTVOCH:  Look out!

Dontrag lunges at Faranell while Utvoch rushes in from the opposite side.  Dontrag shoves Faranell out of the fireball’s path, just before the flames reduce both him and Utvoch to smoldering heaps of ash.

DRANOSH:  Edwin!  Jaina was our ride out.  That’s your job now – port us out of here, and fast!

FARANELL:  But— I’m not that powerful a mage!

Dranosh shoves the Focusing Iris into Faranell’s hands; a bluish white glow shimmers over his body.

DRANOSH:  You are now.  Fire it up!

Garrosh and Mokvar – both fighting dragons – back up toward Dranosh and Faranell.  Faranell closes his eyes, mutters an incantation, and teleports the group away in a blinding flash.

 

We reappeared up on the ring platform where we’d docked – a few yards off from Jaina’s targeting rune, but hey, I’m not going to nitpick over a clutch save from Edwin.  When we appeared, we were greeted by the sight of an enormous pile of Scourge corpses that formed a hill leading up to the Windrunner.  Dozens of vargul, hundreds of ghouls and skeletons, val’kyr, geists, a couple frost wyrms…and sitting on top of the pile were Liadrin and Saurfang, taking turns drinking from a waterskin.

 

LIADRIN:  <looks up at them>  What kept you?

DRANOSH:  We had guests.

GARROSH:  Come on, everyone get on the ship.

SAURFANG:  Where are the others?  Lady Proudmoore, and the…cerebrally inexpansive duo?

GARROSH:  They didn’t make it.

SAURFANG:  What happened?

DRANOSH:  Arthas is here.

LIADRIN:  By the Light… Get on board, and quickly!

GARROSH:  What happened to you not being worried?

LIADRIN:  I wasn’t.

DRANOSH:  Fire it up, Captain!  Top speed to Dalaran!

The group boards the Windrunner, which disembarks from the platform.  After a moment, the ship shakes and creaks, then begins to slide slowly backwards.

DRANOSH:  Um, Drok?  I don’t think I said anything about reverse.

DROK:  We’re still on full ahead, sir, I don’t—

GARROSH:  Uh, I think you guys might want to have a look at this…

They turn to look back at the ring platform, where the Lich King now stands, channeling a dark purple band of energy from his hand that grips the gunship, and using it to slowly tug the ship back toward the Nexus.

MOKVAR:  He’s— he’s death-gripping the ship!  How is he death-gripping the whole ship?!

DRANOSH:  Drok, this would be a good time to give the engines a little extra – we’ve got to get out of here!

DROK:  I’m giving them everything she’s got, sir!  I can’t change the laws of physics!

Saurfang stands at the railing, watching as the Lich King slowly drags the gunship back toward him.  Saurfang looks back at Dranosh, then to Garrosh.

SAURFANG:  He’s looked out for you since you were children.

Garrosh gives a quizzical look, then nods.

Look out for him now.

Saurfang turns and launches himself off the deck, toward the platform below.

FOR THE HORDE!

Saurfang barrels into the Lich King and they both crash onto the floor.  With the Lich King’s death grip broken, the gunship lurches forward again and starts to pull away from the Nexus.

DRANOSHFather!  No!

Garrosh intercepts Dranosh as he rushes to the edge of the ship and pulls him back.

GARROSH:  Get us OUT of here, Captain!

DRANOSH:  <spinning back toward Drok, still in Garrosh’s grip>  No!  Turn us around, Drok, we have to—

Garrosh spins Dranosh back to face him.

GARROSHYou know what he’s doing!  DON’T LET IT BE FOR NOTHING!

Dranosh stops struggling.  Garrosh releases him, and as the gunship continues its escape, he walks to the railing and looks down at the platform, where the Lich King knocks Saurfang away from him.

LICH KING:  Foolish old orc!  You dare stand against me?  Do you know how many of your kind I’ve slain?

SAURFANG:  You…murdered…children.  <draws his axe>  You answer to Saurfang now!

Saurfang charges the Lich King furiously, cleaving and slashing with his axe.  The Lich King parries with Frostmourne, and the two grapple back and forth as the platform shrinks from view.

 

I’m writing from the Windrunner now.  We should reach Dalaran soon.  I’ll update again when I can, if the news is good.  If it isn’t, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here to keep updating.

In the meantime, we continue on our way to Dalaran.

In silence.

 

 

[Header image of the Nexus provided by regular reader and commenter ZugZug.  Gunship image provided by Rioriel from Postcards From Azeroth; click here to see the souped-up Postcard version!  Both images used with permission and many thanks.]

The fire in which we burn

Posted in Transcripts with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 11, 2012 by Garrosh Hellscream

Dranosh left with the Windrunner for Theramore.  He brought Dontrag and Utvoch, which, I mean, I know this is really no time for jokes, but…HAHA!  Poor fucker.  Anyway, he’s going to see if he can find Faranell there, or in Thunder Bluff if need be.  One way or another, Mokvar and I will meet him there when we’re done on our end.

We got Mokvar hooked up with a wyvern, and we both flew down from Ashenvale to Tanaris.  Soridormi was there to greet us when we arrived at the Caverns of Time.

 

SORIDORMI:  Overlord.  Or do you still prefer “Warchief” in this reality?  It’s so hard to know what to call certain people.

GARROSH:  Doesn’t matter.  Call me whatever.

SORIDORMI:  Oh?  So if I decide “Roshy” has a nice ring to it…?

GARROSH:  Don’t get clever.

SORIDORMI:  <wry grin>  I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.

GARROSH:  <grumbles>  Fine, whatever.  While you’re being all smug and smart, though, how about this – last time I was here, seems to me you might have, you know, neglected to mention a few minor details about this world.

SORIDORMI:  In fairness, I did tell you all that there were other events that played out differently.

GARROSH:  Which you totally made sound like “I’m just glossing over this since it’s not really that important.”

SORIDORMI:  Did I?  Hardly.  Every moment is important, Garrosh.  But at the time, there was no telling how much longer I had to detail matters further.  We were – if you’ll pardon the expression – working on borrowed time.

GARROSH:  And now?

SORIDORMI:  This timeline has taken…a much firmer hold.

MOKVAR:  The last few times we’ve shifted, our time here has gotten longer, and our time in the original timeline has gotten shorter…

SORIDORMI:  <nods>  This timeline is taking over as the predominant one.  That overwriting of your reality will soon be complete, if it isn’t already.

GARROSH:  Well then, since we’re in like 2% less of a rush now, how about you fill in a few gaps for us.  Starting with, say, why it is that Orgrimmar is overrun right now by the Burning Legion and the Scourge, both of which we had pretty well under control last I checked.

SORIDORMI:  In both cases, everything hinges on certain unexpected events involving the Battle of the Wrathgate.

GARROSH:  Go on…

SORIDORMI:  After the Alliance and Horde set aside their petty conflicts and united against the Lich King, Tirion Fordring’s Argent Crusade was able to assemble a strike force of the greatest champions from both factions.  The team that Fordring would lead into Icecrown Citadel for the final assault would be far mightier even than the one that defeated Arthas in your timeline.

GARROSH:  Okay, so I’m not seeing how that leads to things being WORSE.

SORIDORMI:  It didn’t, at first.  But you’ll recall, in the time leading up to the attack, the Lich King’s chief researcher was not Professor Putricide – Patrick Faranell – but Putress.

Soridormi holds out her hand and summons an image of Rotface and Festergut.

IMAGE OF ROTFACE:  Daddy make toys out of you!  WEEEEEE!

IMAGE OF FESTERGUT:  Dead, dead, dead!  Daddy, I did it!

SORIDORMI:  Putricide’s most formidable creations, while strong, were ultimately…limited.  Undermined by a lingering sentimentality that Putricide would carry into undeath from another life.

She shakes her hand, and the image changes to that of Patrick Faranell.

IMAGE OF PATRICKBetween you, me, and the walls, I’d rather like to have a couple sons… I remember how much Dad seemed to enjoy himself with us.

SORIDORMI:  Putress’ malevolent ingenuity would have no such…humanity to temper it.  He would furnish the Lich King with constructs more monstrous and strains of blight more virulent than anything known to your timeline.

GARROSH:  Um, didn’t I ask you THIS VERY THING about Putress the last time?

SORIDORMI:  You did.  I didn’t give you an answer.

GARROSH:  INDEED YOU DIDN’T.

MOKVAR:  I think we might have distracted her, actually.

GARROSH:  Whose side are you on?

MOKVAR:  I’m on the side of us not standing around bickering over who said what and why.

GARROSH:  Fine.  So Putress invented some powerful shit, boy, don’t know why you never thought of that, Garrosh, go on please.

SORIDORMI:  Strengthened by Putress’ creations, the Lich King would ultimately defeat Fordring’s even mightier strike force.

MOKVAR:  So some of the most powerful heroes against the Scourge, from the Horde and Alliance, were all killed.

SORIDORMI:  <pauses grimly>  It would have been a kindness had they merely been killed.

Soridormi waves her hand, summoning a likeness of the Lich King.

IMAGE OF THE LICH KING:  You trained them well, Fordring.  You delivered the greatest fighting force this world has ever known…right into my hands – exactly as I intended.

MOKVAR:  By the spirits…

GARROSH:  He raised them as his minions…

SORIDORMI:  And then killed Tirion Fordring.  <closes her eyes a moment>  And then raised him

IMAGE OF THE LICH KING:  You could’ve been my greatest champion, Fordring.  A force of darkness that would wash over this world and deliver it into a new age of strife.

SORIDORMI:  …to lead his new army of Deathbringers.

Garrosh and Mokvar exchange troubled looks.

GARROSH:  Okay…  Bad news part one done…  Now what about the demons?

SORIDORMI:  A further consequence of the defeat in Icecrown Citadel…  You may recall, in your time, after the fall of the Lich King, some of his former minions would find for themselves…new allegiances.

Soridormi conjures a shimmering likeness of Sylvanas Windrunner.

IMAGE OF SYLVANAS:  With the death of the Lich King, many of the more intelligent Scourge became…unemployed… They are under my command now…

SORIDORMI:  With the Lich King victorious, the val’kyr would never ally themselves with Sylvanas.  Which would prove…unfortunate for the Forsaken.

Soridormi waves her hand.  Above her palm appears an image of Sylvanas with Lord Godfrey and High Warlord Cromush at the Greymane Wall.

IMAGE OF SYLVANAS:  Soldiers of the Horde!  We are victorious!  Lordaeron is w—

The image of Lord Godfrey draws a pistol and shoots Sylvanas point-blank.  She immediately falls dead on the ground.

IMAGE OF CROMUSH:  What have you done, Godfrey?!

IMAGE OF GODFREY:  Something that should have been done a long time ago, you filthy animal.  Gilneas belongs to me, and so soon will the rest of Lordaeron!

SORIDORMI:  In your timeline, Sylvanas was resurrected by her val’kyr servants.  Here, she had no val’kyr to save her.  Sylvanas Windrunner died – for the second and final time.  In the aftermath of her death, leadership of the Undercity would pass to Sylvanas’ second, her majordomo of several years.

The nathrezim Varimathras.

GARROSH:  Varimathras?  How?  He’s…dead…oh no…

MOKVAR:  <head sinks>  The Wrathgate…

SORIDORMI:  <nods>  Without Putress in the Undercity, Varimathras had no collaborator with whom to conspire against the Banshee Queen.  There was never a coup against Sylvanas.  And without the coup against Sylvanas, Varimathras was never exposed as the traitor he was — his true loyalties to the Burning Legion never revealed.  He carried on unimpeded, not only free to continue his scheming in the Undercity, but eventually becoming its leader.  Much time did not pass before he carried out his master plan…

She waves her hand again, summoning the fiery red likeness of a monstrous eredar.

…and summoned Kil’jaeden the Deceiver into this world.  Bringing with him countless legions of demons from the Twisted Nether.  Bringing with him the Second Fall of Lordaeron.  Most of the Eastern Kingdoms was soon to follow.

GARROSH:  Fucking hell…

MOKVAR:  Soridormi… Edwin is in this world now, we think.  If we can get him here, is there still time to undo all this?

SORIDORMI:  If we can get him back to Southshore, we should be able to reset the timelines with both Edwins at the points they need to be.

GARROSH:  Okay, great, so we’ll just collect him and get him down here and—

SORIDORMI:  Actually getting him to old Southshore, though, is no easy task, and not without problems.

GARROSH:  Dammit, I thought if I said that fast enough we could get out before the “but” kicked in.

MOKVAR:  What’s the problem?

SORIDORMI:  Sending Edwin back to period to which he’s already time-traveled involves crossing his own timeline in ways that no mortal was meant to do.

GARROSH:  Ah…the whole “no double-dipping” thing.

SORIDORMI:  To open a stable time portal for such a repeat incursion will require me to channel immense amounts of power – far more than I can summon up myself.

GARROSH:  What about the Noz?  He’s the head honcho time guy anyway, couldn’t he pull it off?

SORIDORMI:  I am…the most powerful member of the Bronze Flight here.

GARROSH:  How does that work?  I mean I get that you’ve got this secret super time vision and whatever, but no offense, how did you get to be more powerful than Noz?

MOKVAR:  Garrosh…

SORIDORMI:  I’m not.

GARROSH:  So what gives?  Where is he, any…oh…oh no…

SORIDORMI:  <looks down a moment>  For a number of reasons…the final confrontation with Deathwing proved…far more costly in this timeline than in the other.

GARROSH:  I… Wow do I feel like a jackass.

MOKVAR:  This is what it finally took, huh?

GARROSH:  So…we need a power source to tap into, then?

SORIDORMI:  That’s right.

Garrosh stares off to one side, thinking anxiously.

MOKVAR:  Not to bring up bad memories, Soridormi, but I don’t suppose the Dragon Soul is an option?

SORIDORMI:  I would be, yes…

GARROSH:  Okay, so—

SORIDORMI:  Except that it has already been returned to its own time, and retrieving it a second time would involve the type of crossing of timelines that we need the power source for in the first place.

GARROSH:  Okay, seriously, you’ve got to start leading with the “but” part of these answers.

MOKVAR:  What about the spell book that Malchezaar used to bring the demons into Orgrimmar?

SORIDORMI:  <shakes her head>  The Book of Medivh is a powerful source of portal magic, for portals within this reality, but hardly helpful for the kind of temporal manipulation we’re undertaking.

GARROSH:  <staring down, hesitant>  What about…the Focusing Iris?  From the Eye of Eternity?

SORIDORMI:  <nods slowly>  The Focusing Iris would work, yes.  As a dragon relic, in fact, it should lend itself all the more easily to my use.

MOKVAR:  Do we know where it is now?

GARROSH:  The Blue Dragonflight is keeping it in Coldarra.

SORIDORMI:  I will give you my talisman to show to the blues.  They will give you the Iris if they know you’ve been sent by me.  They’ll know I would not ask were the need not dire.

GARROSH:  Okay then.  I think we have a plan.

SORIDORMI:  Indeed, Warchief.

GARROSH:  You know what?  Just call me Garrosh.  People calling me “Warchief” here either gets confusing like with Utvoch earlier, or it’s just creepy like with Malchezaar.

MOKVAR:  We should probably get go—

SORIDORMI:  Wait, Garrosh – Malchezaar saw you, and called you “Warchief”?

GARROSH:  Yeah, why?

SORIDORMI:  <fidgets with her hands nervously>  You need to go.  Now.  Take my talisman and get to Northrend quickly to recover the Focusing Iris.

MOKVAR:  Why?  What is it?

GARROSH:  I’ve really kind of had my fill of flying blind around here.  What’s got you spooked all of a sudden?

SORIDORMI:  The Netherspace where Malchezaar dwelled was a distorted region of time.

GARROSH:  Right, I know.  Time loop, round and round, now he’s dead, now he’s not, boom.  So what?

SORIDORMI:  The Netherspace rests at the intersection of countless times.  Those who dwell there can see into the different realities – bits and pieces, usually, but one never knows.  If Malchezaar knows to call you “Warchief,” he has seen your other world.  And in that case, he may well know enough – or could deduce – how the worlds fit together and how they might be corrected.

MOKVAR:  It would really be nice if there could be some stupid people on the bad guys’ side for a change…

SORIDORMI:  The Burning Legion stands on the brink of a victory on Azeroth that it has coveted for millennia.  If they realize what we’re doing, they will not stand idly by.  We need to act quickly.

GARROSH:  Got it.  Be doing whatever you need to do to get ready, Soridormi.  We’ll be back with Edwin and the Focusing Iris.

SORIDORMI:  I hope so, Garrosh.  Titans watch over you.

 

We winged it double-time to Thunder Bluff.  I’m writing from there now.  Dranosh and the others haven’t arrived yet, but I’ve sent a messenger to Theramore with the barest bare-bones of what we need to do.  I’m guessing he’ll be headed here by nightfall, morning at the latest, and then we can get moving.

Next stop, Northrend.

 

 

[Sylvanas and Kil’jaeden images above provided by Rioriel from Postcards From Azeroth, reproduced here with permission and many thanks.  Click on the links in the previous sentence to see the souped-up Postcards versions!]

Time isn’t after us

Posted in Transcripts with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2012 by Garrosh Hellscream

{Previously on The Warchief’s Command Board…well, here.  Go read it yourself and get caught up.  We don’t have bandwidth for fucking previouslies.}

 

Garrosh looks around again.

GARROSH:  So…much less crowded all of a sudden…

LIADRIN:  Hmm.  Just us three at the Caverns of Time?

SORIDORMI:  <nods>  Your counterparts in this timeline had come here on…related but different business.

GARROSH:  Wait, our COUNTERPARTS?

SORIDORMI:  <nods>  For lack of a better word.

LIADRIN:  Oh, I think I’ve read about this… <looking around again>  I never thought I would experience it first-hand, though…

GARROSH:  Okay, so since everybody seems to understand this but me, could SOMEONE please explain what the fuck is going on?

SORIDORMI:  You’re caught in the backwash of Edwin’s temporal instability.

GARROSH:  Yeah, there’s not one single part of that sentence that was helpful.

SORIDORMI:  The flashes you’ve been experiencing have all corresponded to Faranell’s time shifts.  Every time he’s jumped to another point in his timeline, you have been shifting into…well, here.

LIADRIN:  An alternate timeline.

GARROSH:  So how come the Noz didn’t notice this?  And where is he, anyway?  How come he missed this kinda major part of what’s going on?

SORIDORMI:  Nozdormu can see the disturbances surrounding Edwin’s displacement in time easily enough, but the intermingling of realities occurring in the background is a bit…beyond his perception.

GARROSH:  But it’s not beyond yours?  No offense, but I thought the Noz was the one with the super-uber-heightened time perception.

SORIDORMI:  <sighs, then smiles>  Believe me, I’m not the first woman ever to let her husband go on thinking he was the smart one for the sake of his fragile ego.

Liadrin chuckles briefly.

MOKVAR:  So are we the only ones shifting into this timeline?  Why us?

SORIDORMI:  Yes and no.  You’re not the only ones toggling realities, but you are the only ones who have started to retain your memories of one timeline when you move to the other.  Those of you who were with Edwin in Southshore have been left with a sort of temporal residue that’s making it possible for you to bridge the gaps between realities.

GARROSH:  Okay…I think I’m starting to get this… So in that case…

Mokvar starts chuckling, quickly descending into raucous laughter.

Um, dude, what’s so funny?

MOKVAR:  <still laughing>  No, sorry, I’m just thinking…since this is affecting all of us from Southshore… I’m just imagining Utvoch trying to figure out what the hell is going on…

Mokvar falls into another fit of laughter.  Garrosh thinks for a moment, his eyes widening and a broad grin spreading across his face as he does, then starts laughing as well.

GARROSH:  Oh…oh man…that’s just…ha ha HAA!

LIADRIN:  Um, Garrosh?  Don’t you think we should…?

GARROSH:  <still laughing>  Oh SHIT!

MOKVAR:  <doubled over>  Hahaha…what?

GARROSH:  <starts to lean on Mokvar for support amid chortles>  Can you…can you imagine him trying to explain this shit to Dontrag?

MOKVAROHHHH!  HAHAHA!!

GARROSH:  Can’t you just see them?  “I think I was somewhere else,” “No you weren’t, you were right here,” “Yeah, I was here, but you weren’t,” “I was too here,” “No you weren’t, I was here only it was somewhere else here, and you were gone,” “Are you sure I wasn’t here?” “I think so.” “Huh, I wonder where I went…”

MOKVAR:  <gasping for breath and leaning back against Garrosh>  Stop!  You have to stop!  Hahahaha!

Liadrin turns back to Soridormi and rolls her eyes.

LIADRIN:  Boys will be boys.

Soridormi shrugs and nods.  Garrosh and Mokvar carry on laughing.

SORIDORMI:  Sadly, so will grown men.

LIADRIN:  At any rate… I understand that our connection to Edwin is allowing us to retain our awareness of this timeline, but I’m still not sure why these shifts are happening to us.

SORIDORMI:  It all comes back to Edwin, in more ways than one.

LIADRIN:  His own displacement in time, as Nozdormu was saying, obviously…

GARROSH:  Okay, okay, we’re done now.  <chortle>

SORIDORMI:  That was the start of it, yes.  And then, beyond that…this alternate reality was created when your Edwin caused…certain changes in the past.

LIADRIN:  Oh no.

GARROSH:  What did he do?  In his letter he said he remembered everything he did and said, and he would make sure he repeated it all.

SORIDORMI:  I have little doubt that he did.  And it strikes me as unlikely he even made these changes deliberately, or at least consciously.

GARROSH:  Then what did he change?

Soridormi holds out one hand.  A small, glowing, blue-tinted image of Patrick Faranell appears above her upturned palm.

IMAGE OF PATRICK:  Good news, everyone, I found it!  Just what the doctor ordered!

SORIDORMI:  I believe you’ve met Edwin’s brother, Professor Patrick Faranell.

LIADRIN:  Oh no… I think I know where this is going…

SORIDORMI:  In your original timeline, Patrick was killed during the Scourge invasion of Silvermoon.  In this reality, however, he never went to Silvermoon.  He survived.

GARROSH:  That…sounds like a pretty major crapping all over Edwin’s whole “I won’t change history” pledge.

SORIDORMI:  I doubt he did it deliberately.  Even if he remembered everything he ever said to his brother, repeated it all word for word…don’t underestimate the influence of a simple change of inflection, a tone of voice, a facial expression…  Even if he’d read all his lines, knowing what he knew, Edwin could easily have planted the doubts that would steer his brother away from harm.

GARROSH:  Seriously.  He couldn’t keep himself reined in, knowing how important it was?

SORIDORMI:  Garrosh, could you look a loved one in the face, knowing death was upon them, and be completely certain you wouldn’t let a hint of it into your voice?

GARROSH:  Okay…fair enough.  So, now we have one extra friendly dorky guy wandering around.  So what?

SORIDORMI:  Had he met his end in Silvermoon, Patrick was fated for…a different path.

Soridormi waves her hand, and the image of Patrick Faranell is replaced by a shimmering image of Professor Putricide.

IMAGE OF PUTRICIDE:  Good news, everyone!  I think I perfected a plague that will destroy all life on Azeroth!

GARROSH:  The hell…

SORIDORMI:  Patrick would be risen into undeath, unbeknownst to his brother in Dalaran.  The Lich King would take notice of his keen alchemical mind, and install him – in his new identity of “Professor Putricide” – as his chief alchemist and researcher in Icecrown Citadel.

GARROSH:  Okay…I’m really starting to worry about why this becomes important…

LIADRIN:  Dominoes…

SORIDORMI:  With no Putricide in existence, Arthas’ attention in those early days would turn in a different direction…

Soridormi waves her hand again.  The image of Professor Putricide flickers out and is replaced by the likeness of Grand Apothecary Putress.

IMAGE OF PUTRESS:  Did you think we had forgotten?  Did you think we had forgiven?

SORIDORMI:  I believe you are both familiar with the work of Grand Apothecary Putress, previously of Sylvanas’ Royal Apothecary Society.

LIADRIN:  By the Light…

SORIDORMI:  The Lich King chose Putress for the role that would have gone to Putricide – replacing one master alchemist with another, albeit perhaps a more ruthless one.

GARROSH:  So, what, did Putress come up with some invention for Arthas, or…?

LIADRIN:  Garroh, no… Think…the Wrathgate

GARROSH:  Oh… OH…

MOKVAR:  Oh shit…

SORIDORMI:  <nodding>  With Putress in Icecrown Citadel rather than the Undercity, there was no coup against Sylvanas.  There was no betrayal at the Battle of the Wrathgate.  Dranosh Saurfang survived, as did Bolvar Fordragon.  While the Lich King survived to fight another day, driven back into his fortress, the assault on the Wrathgate was regarded as a great victory – for Alliance and Horde alike.  Bolvar would use that success, along with his newfound friendship with Saurfang the Younger, to persuade Varian Wrynn to reconsider his stance on relations with the Horde.

Soridormi waves her hand again.  Above her upturned palm, a glowing likeness appears of Thrall and Varian Wrynn shaking hands.

The Alliance and Horde would sign the Dalaran Accords some weeks later.  The war between Alliance and Horde was ended.

GARROSH:  <sneers at the image>  Fuck you, Varian.

MOKVAR:  You know that’s not really him, right?

LIADRIN:  Peace between the Horde and the Alliance… All those lives spared at the Wrathgate… And…

Liadrin looks down at the Ashbringer in her hands.

SORIDORMI:  A number of other rather important events have…played out differently.

GARROSH:  Like the fact that with Dranosh still alive, when it came time for Thrall to name an acting Warchief…

Soridormi nods.

And then… Cairne… By the spirits…when Hamuul’s druids were attacked by the Twilight’s Hammer…

MOKVAR:  Cairne wasn’t as quick to think Dranosh was responsible, like he was with you?  So that means…

GARROSH:  There was never a duel.  Cairne…never died.  I never…  He never died.

MOKVAR:  This is all…I don’t even know what to call it.  But, crazy as it all is…why is this timeline mixing with ours at all?

LIADRIN:  Edwin.  It’s all about Edwin…

SORIDORMI:  <nods>  These divergent timelines aren’t uncommon.  There are countless events in your history that have produced alternate realities.  But what’s different here is your friend.  The split in realities was caused by Edwin averting his brother’s death.  But it’s also Edwin who’s become unstuck in time.  He’s spawned an entire universe in which he does not belong; he’s out of time, and time itself wants him back.  It’s pulling him back and forth, and pulling the other reality into ours in the process.  Edwin has become a shatter point in time, and the walls between realities are cracking around him.  Eventually, the other timeline – the one we’re in now – will bleed through into ours.

LIADRIN:  He’ll never even realize any of this is happening, will he?  It’ll just happen while he’s off at other points in time.

SORIDORMI:  Difficult to say.  Though it wouldn’t surprise me if the timelines eventually converge to the point that he begins to remain here with you.

MOKVAR:  Still trying to wrap my head around this…

SORIDORMI:  It is much to absorb, I know.

MOKVAR:  But…what do we do now?

SORIDORMI:  Reality will continue to crack around Edwin until the timelines converge and this one, essentially, replaces ours, unless we can return both Edwins to where they belong and restore the original timeline.

LIADRIN:  I suspect that won’t be quite as simple as running back through the portal to old Hillsbrad.

SORIDORMI:  <shakes her head>  Crossing your own timelines will be a dangerous proposition, and one that will take a tremendous focusing of magic.  There’s much we’ll need to do here to prepare, and even then, there’s the small matter of getting this Edwin here at a point when he isn’t…elsewhere.  Not to mention convincing him of the necessity of going back.

LIADRIN:  I suppose we’ll just need to do what we can we can can erif we eht can do ma can i tub can what em semusnoc what taht erif a si ti regit eht ma i tub em hold selgnam taht regit a si ti revir eht the ma i tub gnola em speews taht line revir a si emit edam ma i we hcihw fo we ecnatsbus what we eht what si what emit what what we what we can to get ready.

NOZDORMU:  Indeed.  Chromormu, go speak with Erozion about a possible return incursion to Hillsbrad.

CHROMIE:  Sure thing, captain.

Chromie teleports out.  Garrosh, Liadrin, and Mokvar exchange uneasy looks both at each other and at Faranell – who likewise looks around uncomfortably.  Soridormi, standing half a step behind Nozdormu, watches them and raises a single finger to her lips.

TIRION:  Dr. Faranell?  Are you all right?  You seem out of sorts suddenly.

FARANELL:  Yeah…um…

EITRIGG:  It happened again, didn’t it?

NOZDORMU:  <narrows his eyes, looking at Faranell grimly>  Yes.  It would appear so.

Faranell nods and sighs.

LIADRIN:  Where were you this time, Edwin?

FARANELL:  It was…a large, sprawling city, built into the mountains of a bright, orange-stoned desert.  There were…orcs and trolls everywhere… Was… It was Orgrimmar, wasn’t it?

MOKVAR:  Sounds like it.

GARROSH:  Well, Doc, I don’t know if you were just in your past, but Orgrimmar is definitely in your future.  You’re coming back with us, where we can watch out for you while we figure this thing out.

TIRION:  A wise choice, mostly likely, my good Warchief.  Upon our return to Hearthglen, I will have Daria make arrangements with the good doctor’s family to have whatever effects he might require transported to Orgrimmar.

GARROSH:  Good deal.  Don’t…um…don’t feel like you need to deliver them personally.  Some plain ol’ couriers will do fine.

TIRION:  If…you say so, Warchief…

NOZDORMU:  In the meantime, I will see about making what preparations we can here.

GARROSH:  Yeah.  Thanks, Noz.

Nozdormu nods solemnly and walks off.

SORIDORMI:  I should go assist Nozdormu.  <looks slowly from Garrosh to Liadrin to Mokvar>  I suspect I will see you all again, in due time.

 

We’re back in Orgrimmar now with Faranell.  I’m going to have him assigned quarters somewhere he can be comfortable — well, as comfortable as a human can be in a city full of orcs — and we can keep an eye on him at all times.  Not sure where we go from here, but I want him close just in case.  Right now I’ve got a lot to think about…

More soon.

 

“Daria’s Pro Tip for Dealing with Tirion #8: Do not wear black mageweave leggings. Ever. Ever.”

Where did all the words go?

Posted in Transcripts with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 11, 2012 by Garrosh Hellscream

We arrived in Hearthglen this morning and were ushered up to meet with Tirion Fordring in Mardenholde Keep, which as I’m sure you can imagine was an exercise in joy for me.  Luckily I at least managed to come prepared this time, with company and an exit strategy.  Part of the company, by the way, being Mokvar, so if you’ve been reading the blog for any length of time, you know what’s coming up…

 

Garrosh, Mokvar, and Master Apothecary Faranell are escorted into the Highlord’s command room by the night elf Daria L’Rayne.

DARIA:  Highlord Fordring, the Horde delegation has arrived to see you.

TIRION:  So I see, so I see indeed, good Daria, and great thanks to you for so kindly seeing them in.  Truly is it by the aid of such as yourself that great alliances are forged, and great deeds are brought to fruition!

DARIA:  Okay…yes, sir.  Thank you…I think.

TIRION:  And rightly do you think!  As right and just are the thoughts of all those gathered here under the banner of peace, in this hopeful age ushered forth in the wake of the Lich King’s demise!  For surely what challenge might not we surmount, having proven in the icy wastes that we can come together before a common foe, and unite in our resolve to forge a brighter world!  None indeed!  Would you not agree, noble elf?

DARIA:  Um…so, you have visitors, sir.

GARROSH:  Sup, Tirion.

DARIA:  Good luck, Warchief.

Daria makes a very, very speedy exit from the chamber.

TIRION:  Warchief Hellscream!

GARROSH:  Here we go.

TIRION:  A pleasure it is to see you once again, old friend!  Too many winters have passed since last we spoke face to face, since those noble days in Icecrown when we stood together against the Scourge, and oversaw the fall of Arthas and the delivery of justice upon the hated Lich King!  Human and orc united in unwavering defense of home and hearth, brought together in a far-off land to lay waste to an odious common foe – what valiant days those were!  Ones which, I see, have served not only as testament to your courage, but as proof positive to your people of your leadership, a validation of your rightful rise within the ranks of the Horde, which I see has brought you in the intervening time to the highest of stations, Warchief of your people, as great a tribute as your comrade Thrall might verily bestow.

FARANELL:  So, in other words, hello.

GARROSH:  Yeah.  Hey.

MOKVAR:  Afternoon, Highlord.

TIRION:  And I see, good Warchief, you have deemed fit to bring noble counsel with you for your visit – no doubt picked from the most esteemed of your sage advisors.  And moreover, I see, spanning even beyond your own kin into the ranks of the Forsaken, whom – I will assure you, assure you most firmly indeed – shall find no animosity within these walls.  For regardless of the fervor of our struggle to subdue the spiteful reach of the Lich King’s hated Scourge, far be it from me to presume ill intent from those whose only crime is to have fallen victim to the Scourge’s curse of undeath, for well I know, your will restored under the care of your Banshee Queen, your capacity for heroism knows no more bounds than any in our world, as proven by those Forsaken who fought and, yea, fell beside me in the battlefields of Northrend.  For just as fate has shown that humans may prove as vile as the blackest Scourge, just so might orc or undead prove more noble than any king, most revered!  And so it is with an open hand and generous heart I greet you, good sir.

MOKVAR:  Wow, really?

GARROSH:  I told you.

FARANELL:  So, in other words, also hello.

TIRION:  And might I ask, my Forsaken friend, whom have I the pleasure to meet this good day?  The beginning of a great friendship, forged in amity and fellowship, no doubt.  Lend me your hand, good sir, that we might pledge unto each other’s goodly aid.

Tirion grabs Faranell’s hand and starts to shake it just a bit too enthusiastically.

FARANELL:  Um…you know what?  It’s okay, I’m just some guy.  No need to trouble yourself.

GARROSH:  Ohhhhhhh no, you don’t get off that easy, Skin’n’Bones.

FARANELL:  Crap.

GARROSH:  So yeah, Tirion, this is Master Apothecary Faranell, head of Sylvanas’ Royal Apothecary Society.  And I think you’ve met Mokvar?

TIRION:  Indeed, indeed, I remember him well, and good day to you, noble Mokvar.  Though I will confess, remember you well though I do, fondly and with reverence, it saddens me that I cannot yet lay claim to knowing you so half as well as I might wish.  A regrettable condition I am sure our efforts here today shall surely change, and lay the foundation of a friendship – nay, a kinship, for we who strive together for the good of Azeroth, I dare suggest, are nothing if not kin, a family brought together by devotion to all we mutually hold dear – that time and trial shall validate as stuff of legend.

FARANELL:  So, in other words, yes.

GARROSH:  Right, okay.  So what I wanted to—

TIRION:  And so, good Mokvar, I welcome you with open arms to Hearthglen, and look forward to the progress of our blossoming acquaintance.  Though I will confess, great Warchief, it does bring a faint sadness to see you have chosen not to bring the noble Eitrigg with you today, as far too many a year have passed since I’ve cast eyes upon my orcish friend, to whom, I’m sure you are aware, I owe a debt of honor.  It was Eitrigg, after all – I shall take a moment to clarify for the sake of your colleagues here who may not know the tale, I am sure you shall not begrudge a momentary digression—

GARROSH:  What the hell, at this point.

TIRION:  —whom I encountered an age ago in the northern reaches of old Lordaeron, dwelling in an abandoned tower.  Unaware as yet of the nobility of your eventual lieutenant, and predisposed – misguided – ill toward any of orcish kind, I engaged Eitrigg in battle, a furious melee joined between two worthy combatants, in which neither would give quarter nor long hold the upper hand.  Truly our contest was one for the bards, as we traded blow upon blow, gaining and ceding ground, victory dangling precariously just beyond the grasp of us both.

FARANELL:  Huh.  Were you killed?

GARROSH:  <chortle>

TIRION:  Fitting you should ask, good Faranell, for though I suspect a jesting tone, your words recall a harrowing turn in the battle in question!  For deep into our duel – and long indeed did we take arms, so long into the night! – the aging tower that formed our battlefield, weakened and cracked in the wake of our combat, began to crumble, and a heap of stone and mortar, breaking forth, came crashing down upon me.  Consciousness abandoned me as I fell beneath the rubble, broken and bleeding, left to the mercy of my adversary, and further: injured enough that, lacking prompt medical aid, no adversary would be needed to bring my life to end.  Hours passed, and in time I awoke to find myself in my own familiar bed—

FARANELL:  Oh, so it was a dream?

TIRION:  A dream, my good fellow?  Perhaps!  Perhaps indeed the realization of one—the dream of orc and human fellowship, which the truth of the tale would prove!  The birth of the greater dream of encompassing peace and camaraderie between our peoples which even yet eludes our hopeful grasp!  Truly state, truly stated, my friend; you have, I think, anticipated the epiphany that would light upon my bedridden thoughts!

FARANELL:  Actually, what I meant—

GARROSH:  Dude, just let it slide.  Tick tock.

FARANELL:  Ah.  Yeah.

TIRION:  For once consciousness had returned to me, and friend and family came to check upon my health, I learned from them the circumstances of my discovery: some days prior, they had found me, wounded and unconscious, tied to my loyal steed and sent trotting back toward home.  Only one explanation would make sense: that the orc whom I had presumed an agent of evil had, in fact, saved me from a solitary death, and taken pains to return me in my need to friendly hands.  Later would I seek out the orc – the sage and noble Eitrigg – and thus began the friendship that would span so many years.  And yet, far too many of those years have slipped away like sand through our oblivious fingers since I have had the pleasure of seeing my dear friend face to face.  And so, good Warchief, while I have no doubt your reasons were wise, it saddens me indeed that you have opted not to bring him here today.  Upon your return to Orgrimmar, then, I would entreat – nay, implore! you pass my greetings and highest blessings to your dear advisor, and endeavor to ensure he know, though separated by days and distance, the thoughts of Tirion Fordring are with him, as are the shining memories of our kinship, which even now live on in my heart as though mere moments old.

FARANELL:  So, in other words, say hi to Eitrigg.

MOKVAR:  Check.

GARROSH:  Okay, yeah, I’ll do that.  So anyway, Tirion…

TIRION:  Indeed, gentlemen, indeed, I know you’ve business to attend here in New Hearthglen.  Shall we take our seats and begin our discussions?

GARROSH:  Yeah, I think I’m going to need to sit down before too long here.

Tirion – still talking – leads them over to the nearby conference table.

TIRION:  Indeed, indeed, then certainly, my good fellows, make your way thusly, and relieve your weary feet presently.  I will apologize for the rudimentary caliber of my furnishings here: surely not the quality and comfort one of high station might come to expect in diplomatic parlay—

GARROSH:  No, it’s—

TIRION:  —but  these chairs were gifted to me by the workmen of the nearby lumber mill, and product of their very labor, crafted with painstaking care albeit limited material for embellishment, and so a certain humble pride compels me to retain them, even realizing that there are far beneath the standard of luxury as might befit ambassadors and heads of state.

GARROSH:  Dude, seriously, it’s cool.  I grew up in a hut made of sticks and fucking mud, believe me, I’m okay with B-grade fucking chairs.

FARANELL:  My skin is tattered and falling off around every joint in my body.  A lack of seat cushions is way, way down on my list of discomforts.

TIRION:  Now, good gentlemen, as we are now more properly seated, what boon may I grant to you on this fine day?  Know, surely, that the hand of Tirion Fordring stands ever ready to lend its aid—

GARROSH:  Much appreciated, Tirion.  So—

TIRION:  —for surely, just as our glorious victory in Northrend could never have come to fruition without the united efforts of Horde and Alliance, Argent Dawn and Silver Hand, Ebon Blade, and more—

GARROSH:  Ah.  You weren’t done.

TIRION:  —just so, I know full well, might enterprises of great pitch and moment, upon which might hang the very future of our kind, just so might these endeavors languish fruitless save for the will of good men such as ourselves, to stand together despite those petty differences that might divide us.

GARROSH:  Um, yeah.  Cool.

TIRION:  And so, gentlemen, how might I be of aid?

Garrosh, Mokvar, and Faranell sit quietly a moment, watching Tirion.

GARROSH:  That was it, right?

TIRION:  You confuse me, Warchief Hellscream.  That was what, exactly?

MOKVAR:  Just go.

GARROSH:  Yeah, never mind, not important.  So here’s the thing.

FARANELL:  Don’t pause too much between sentences.

GARROSH:  We’ve got a situation down in Southshore.  Somehow or other the Forsaken there managed to set off some kind of magical effect that’s neutralizing their undeath and killing them all.

FARANELL:  It seems to be functioning, basically, as a reversal of the plague of undeath, and dissipating the necrotic effects that reanimated my people.

GARROSH:  It’s more or less contained right now, but it’s going to spread, so we’re trying to find out exactly what it is and how it got there, and since we’ve heard that some of your Silver Hand people were down there at one point and you’ve always had an interest in the Scourge, we were thinking you might be able to fill in some blanks.

TIRION:  Ah, interesting, interesting.  I do recall a time when I did journey to the scenic port of Southshore, in answer to a summons from Highlord Alexandros Mograine to confer, indeed, upon the emergence of the Scourge.  Even then, Mograine knew the threat the undead – forgive me, friend Faranell, I mean, of course, to say the Scourge – would pose to this world, even though in those days, unbeknownst to us all, their true menace was truly in its infancy.  You see, these were the days before the fall of Arthas and of Lordaeron—

GARROSH:  Right, we know.

TIRION: —when the Scourge, then commanded by the nefarious orc warlock Ner’zhul, was merely a pawn of the dreaded Burning Legion.  The legion, you see, led by the monstrous Kil’jaeden, had decided that their prior attempts to invade Azeroth had been doomed by the infighting and divisiveness within their orcish armies.  Folly indeed, as I am sure you will agree, to suppose that their failure rested in the orcs, when rather they were doomed from the outset to fall to the courageous defense put forth by the steadfast people of our world!

Garrosh shrugs and opens a backpack, which he had set down on the table.

Nevertheless, the Legion under Kil’jaeden’s vile judgment took upon themselves to build a new fighting force, one united by a single mind, and so the warlock Ner’zhul was remade as the odious Lich King and cast, trapped in an icy block, into our world, in the icy wastes of Northrend.  There he began to build his forces, slaying all within his reach and raising them as mindless undead, bound only to his will.  Gradually he built his forces and would send them forth to wreak havoc in the Eastern Kingdoms.  But even in those early days, while the undead legions were still only beginning to stir and their hateful sweep through Northrend was merely the start of their rise—

Garrosh removes several wrapped sandwiches from the pack and begins handing them out.

GARROSH:  You wanted the pastrami, right?

MOKVAR:  Yeah, please.

TIRION:  —even then, noble Alexandros had the vision and foresight to perceive the threat they would soon pose to our world.  Though I wonder at times if truly he could have anticipated that which they would become, the true extent of their evil, let loose over time when the scheming mind of the Lich King would turn upon its masters and break away, freeing the Scourge from its demonic shackles such that it might stand alone in its pernicious pursuit of dominion over the world of the living.  Indeed, how could he?  Who, in their worst imaginings, would dream of what would befall Lordaeron?  What mind could in its darkest hours imagine that the very king’s blessed son would fall to darkness and turn upon all those whom once he loved, slay his own father, and forego his presumptive kingship with another, darker one, one which would bring him to the Frozen Throne in Ner’zhul’s stead?

Meanwhile, Garrosh et al are eating.

FARANELL:  Did you bring any mustard?

GARROSH:  Yeah, you need spicy brown or yellow?

FARANELL:  Spicy.

GARROSH:  Here you go.

FARANELL:  Thanks.

TIRION:  Nevertheless, Alexandros rightly foresaw the threat the Scourge would pose to our world, and called upon we Knights of the Silver Hand to gather in secret in the town of Southshore in order that we might lay plans to defend our homelands.  I journeyed to Hillsbrad with two of my closest allies – Brigitte Abbendis, daughter of the High General, and Isilien, both of whom, sadly, would one day turn their backs upon our cause in order, like my own son Talaen, to embrace the madness of the Scarlett Crusade.  Alas, it seems that madness would consume many in the aftermath of the Scourge’s invasion, and the outbreak of the plague that would leave a kingdom in ruin.  Even my dear uncle Lucius, a longtime resident of the rural outskirts of old Andorhal, would find his grip on reality slipping in his later years, admittedly by no connection to the Scourge invasion – so far as we know.  But indeed, in his later days he found himself immured in the fantasy that he was, in fact, the late Llane Wrynn – hardly late in his eyes, of course – the dear fallen king of Stormwind, and father of its current ruler, King Varian.  His wife my aunt and several of my cousins would attempt to appeal to whatever reason might still have lingered beneath the delusions, but to no avail: the dementia had taken hold far too deeply, and Uncle Lucius would spend his days allowing his delusion to lead him off on one misadventure after another, until he finally settled into the final stage of his madness, sparked by blue paint and a spatula.  But I fear I digress, gentlemen, and far be it from me to waste all of our precious time on capricious reminiscence.

Everyone continues eating as a moment of silence passes.

GARROSH:  <looking up, surprised>  Oh.  You were done?

TIRION:  <blinks, surprised>  Warchief Hellscream?

GARROSH:  Um, yeah, okay, I guess I must have zoned out there for a minute.

FARANELL:  I think there was something in there about a meeting in Southshore.

MOKVAR:  <skimming back over notes>  Yeah, I have him down for a meeting about ten years ago, with Alexandros Mograine, Isilien, and Abbendis.

GARROSH:  Man, you really are committed to the job, Mokvar.  Props.

MOKVAR:  Eh, beats being unemployed.

GARROSH:  Okay, so for one thing, was that it for that meeting, or were there any other people there that we should know about?

TIRION:  Those were the principals from my perspective, Warchief; Alexandros having called the meeting, and Isilien and Abbendis having accompanied me in my journey to Southshore.  If memory serves, the Highlord’s lieutenants Fairbanks and Arcanist Doan were present as well.

FARANELL:  Whew.  Things didn’t exactly end well for a single one of those people.  Not liking your odds there, Tirion.

GARROSH:  So what was the meeting about?

TIRION:  As I had begun to say a moment ago, Warchief Hellscream, the meeting was born of Highlord Mograine’s wise anticipation of the threat the rising Scourge might pose to our world; he called us together to begin to make preparations to defend our homelands against the inevitable assault of the undead.

FARANELL:  What kind of preparations?

TIRION:  To gather our forces; to train in earnest in anticipation of the battle to come; to ready friends, family, and rulers alike for the possibilities of what awaited us.  A forthright effort to increase our awareness, mainly, and to dispel whatever complacency might dull our eventual readiness…  As well as…well, there was one further outcome…

GARROSH:  Which…would be?

TIRION:  <pauses>  At the time we all were sworn never again to speak of it.  But that, I suppose, was a long time ago, and much has changed since then…

GARROSH:  Huh, that must have been rough.

TIRION:  Begging your pardon, Warchief?

GARROSH:  I’m just trying to imagine you sworn not to talk about something.

MOKVAR:  <mutters, chuckling>  That one’s…getting…the nice printing…

TIRION:  I suppose the time has passed for this one secret, at least.  Alexandros…also showed us an item he had held in secret for a decade by that time.  A dark crystal, black as the void, a focus of hideous, destructive power…a living embodiment of shadows.  Alexandros believed that the existence of such an object, a manifestation of darkness, implied the possibility of its opposite: a manifestation of light, which he believed might prove the ultimate weapon against the undead.  He was soon proven right, though not in the manner he would have supposed…

FARANELL:  Starting to tick a few boxes here…

GARROSH:  So what does that mean?  Did you guys find the matching light crystal or something?

TIRION:  No, Warchief Hellscream.  We did not find it.  Without even setting out to, and very much to our surprise, we created it.

FARANELL:  I think I see where this is going…

TIRION:  Some of our group doubted Alexandros’ faith in the crystal’s importance, and attempted to destroy it through the powers of the light.  The crystal, however, merely absorbed whatever holy magic was cast upon it – spell after spell, we poured our power into it, until the dark crystal transformed into its own radiant counterpart.

GARROSH:  Oh shit.

FARANELL:  Where did the dark crystal come from in the first place?

TIRION:  From Outland, originally…

MOKVAR:  Please don’t tell me you got it from the arakkoa…

GARROSH:  Huh?

FARANELL:  The what?

TIRION:  We never learned where in Draenor the crystal had originated.  We only knew it was carried by an orcish warlock, a lieutenant to Orgrim Doomhammer, during the assault on Blackrock Spire during the Second War.  Alexandros took the crystal from the fallen orc’s body and kept it hidden.

GARROSH:  So what happened to it?  Did you end up using it for some kind of weapon?

Tirion brandishes the Ashbringer and stares at it a moment.

TIRION:  Aye.

GARROSH:  Oh shit again.

FARANELL:  Um, I’m going to step back a little, if it’s all the same to you guys.

GARROSH:  So that’s what you were doing in Southshore?  Forging the Ashbringer?

TIRION:  No, Warchief, the blade was not forged that day.  Our meeting in Southshore merely laid the groundwork.  It was only some time later that Alexandros and Fairbanks brought the crystal to Ironforge, where King Magni Bronzebeard himself forged the sword.

GARROSH:  And in between, what happened to the crystal?  You kept it under lock and key, or hid it somewhere, or what?

TIRION:  The crystal remained in Alexandros’ possession until he decided the time was right for the Ashbringer to be made.  From that day in Southshore, its locked chest was ever in his keep.

FARANELL:  And that was it?  The dark crystal was converted to light, you sealed it up, and Mograine held onto it until Ironforge?

TIRION:  Indeed, my friend.

FARANELL:  Hmm…that leaves us without a lot to go on, unless the sword itself was unaccounted for at some point.

TIRION:  <shakes head>  Nay, the Ashbringer’s succession is known, and before its forging the crystal was indeed never… Wait…

GARROSH:  Uh oh, here it comes.

MOKVAR:  We’re going to have to go kill something, aren’t we?

TIRION:  Now that I set my thoughts to it… I do recall, just after the crystal’s transformation, Isilien and Doan both grew intrigued by the object, an intellectual curiosity, it struck me, as to the crystal’s nature.  I believe Alexandros granted them some leave to examine it while at the inn, though I’m certain he would never have allowed it to leave the premises.

GARROSH:  Okay, so in that case we just have to track down Isilien and Doan—

MOKVAR:  Dead.

FARANELL:  And dead.

GARROSH:  —and of course they’re both dead, because nothing is ever fucking easy.

TIRION:  And as for the integrity of the Ashbringer’s line, I can assure you it has never fallen into the wrong hands – or rather, hands who might have used it for such purposes as concern you here.  For most of its existence, the Ashbringer was carried by Alexandros himself – indeed, he came to be known as the Ashbringer – as he waged battle gloriously against the Scourge in its early days.  Even after the dreadlord Balnazzar corrupted Alexandros’ own son Renault, driving the lad to slay his own father, the blade would soon be restored to its original bearer, as the lich Kel’Thuzad would soon after raise Alexandros’ to undeath as a death knight of the Lich King – a truly horrid end for one such as Mograine, a mockery of all he had fought for in life…

MOKVAR:  So, we good here?

TIRION:  …The blade itself recoiled against the treachery of Renault, and became twisted into a corrupted form, one in which it would remain for years hence.  During that time, as you may well have heard – and indeed, I can attest, the whispers speak truly – the corrupted blade remained in Alexandros’ risen hands, as he served the Lich King in Naxxramas, leader of the Four Horsemen.

GARROSH:  Yeah, I think so.

FARANELL:  I don’t think he’s going to have anything else for us.

TIRION:  It was in that time, however, that Mograine’s younger son, Darion, unable to bear the knowledge of what had become of his father, unwilling to see so great a man’s legacy besmirched by his actions in death, gathered a party from among the Argent Dawn and led a mission into the dread necropolis.  Therein, reluctantly, the son slew the father, and thereby laid his father’s weary spirit to rest – but at a terrible, terrible price.

GARROSH:  Okay.  Cue Operation Bait-n-Switch.

TIRION:  Darion, indeed, would take up the blade – as well as his father’s place in servitude to Arthas.  He would carry the Ashbringer in its corrupted form until passing it to me during the great Battle of Light’s Hope.  I am, of course, simplifying the tale in the interests of time; you will, I hope, forgive my occasional reductive glossings…

Garrosh and Faranell start to gather their belongings while Mokvar walks over to the doorway.

MOKVAR:  Sergeant Pain and Scout Suffering, you’re up!

TIRION:  While I commend you gentlemen for your impulse toward cleanliness, I assure you, there’s hardly a need to take pains gathering your belongings at this early juncture.  I’m sure our discussions will allow ample time for a less rushed approach to…

Dontrag and Utvoch enter.

GARROSH:  Okay, so, Tirion, quick introductions.

TIRION:  Ah, I see you have summoned further aides to supplement our discussions – I must commend you, Warchief Hellscream, on your insistence on thoroughness in these deliberations.  Though, again, I note that I find myself again presented with two additional members of your kin who are, regrettably, not Eitrigg…but I am sure these fine gentlemen will prove invaluable to our efforts.

FARANELL:  In a manner of speaking.

DONTRAG:  Greeting, Warchief.

UTVOCH:  Good day to you, sir!

GARROSH:  Sup guys.  So anyway, yeah, Tirion, this is Scout Utvoch, and the spikey-haired dude is Sergeant Dontrag.

UTVOCH:  Um, actually, sir, I’m Utvoch.

GARROSH:  Isn’t that what I just said?

DONTRAG:  No sir.  You said I was Utvoch.

GARROSH:  I did?

UTVOCH:  Yes, sir.  You said Dontrag was the spikey-haired one, and that’s me, when Dontrag is actually the one who’s bald, mostly.

DONTRAG:  Bad genes, sir.

UTVOCH:  At least you stopped trying to do the comb-over.

DONTRAG:  Well you could have told me how ridiculous it looked.

UTVOCH:  Huh?  I did, like a dozen times.

TIRION:  Ah, I recall having that very discussion with Doan on more than one occasion.

DONTRAG:  Yeah, that year in the Barrens wasn’t really a pretty time for me.

GARROSH:  So yeah, anyway, you two, this is Tirion Fordring.

TIRION:  A great honor to make your acquaintance, good sirs.

DONTRAG:  Hey.

UTVOCH:  So wait, weren’t you killed in Northrend?

DONTRAG:  How could he have been killed, he’s right here.

TIRION:  <chuckles>  No, no, my friend, though I will admit a harrowing time or two, I can assure you I returned from the frozen north very much alive.

UTVOCH:  How come I thought they said some Fordring died up there?

DONTRAG:  Maybe it’s another Fordring?

UTVOCH:  Did you have a cousin up there too?

DONTRAG:  Or maybe like one of his kids or something?

UTVOCH:  Oh crap, did you have a kid get killed?  I’m sorry I brought it up then.

DONTRAG:  I think you’re right, though, I remember hearing about a Ford-something dying up there too.

GARROSH:  Um, are you guys thinking of Fordragon?

DONTRAG:  Yeah, actually, it might be.

UTVOCH:  I think so, yeah, one or the other.

DONTRAG:  Definitely some kind of name like that.

UTVOCH:  So yeah, was it Fordring or Fordragon that got killed in Northrend?

TIRION:  Actually neith—erm, that is…Fordragon.  Yes.  It’s Bolvar Fordragon that you’re thinking of.  Who died.  In Northrend.  That’s what you were thinking of.

UTVOCH:  Oh okay.

DONTRAG:  Was he a friend of yours?

UTVOCH:  Oh yeah, because if their names sound alike I guess that means they must know each other because that’s how things work, right?

DONTRAG:  Oh shut up, stupid.

UTVOCH:  You shut up.

TIRION:  Actually I did know him quite well; Bolvar and I were friends of many years, like brothers, in fact…

UTVOCH:  Oh man, I guess things DO work like that, I’ll be damned.  That’s messed up.

DONTRAG:  I’m sorry your friend died then, sir.

TIRION:  As am I, my good orc.  But I am, alas, no stranger to tragedy.  Why I was just moments ago relating to your comrades here the doleful tale of my dear Uncle Lucius, who dwelled for many years near Andorhal before madness touched him and he grew obsessed with the delusion that he was, in fact, King Llane.

Garrosh, Mokvar, and Faranell exchange glances and nods.

UTVOCH:  Good thing he never met Garona, that might have been weird.

TIRION:  His life from that point on was weird enough, I assure you, between his endless wanderings, parcheesi board ever in hand, and his final preoccupation racing through Tirisfal, chasing bats with a spatula.

DONTRAG:  Well, at least bats make sort of decent eating, if you use the right breading…

TIRION:  A delicacy I cannot claim to have the pleasure of sampling, though I have no doubt the proper hands could produce culinary marvels.  But no, dear Uncle Lucius’ tastes were far more mundane, as he was perfectly content to treat each meal as a simple breakfast of bacon and toast – provided he could acquire a suitable marmalade to accompany it, as he was something of stickler in such matters.  Raspberry ideally…

GARROSH:  Aight, T-Ford, Imma bounce.  Peace!

DONTRAG:  So what’s the difference between marmalade and jam, anyway?

TIRION:  Curious you should ask, as there is, as it happens, an interesting tale behind the distinction…

Garrosh, Mokvar, and Faranell make a hasty exit through the doorway.

 

Also, note to Eitrigg:  Dude, was he always like this?  How the fuck could you stand it?  Fucking hell, I wasn’t even there for that long and I already feel like I need a day off.

 

“Daria’s Pro Tip for Dealing with Tirion #11: If he asks you if you want to hear a story, say yes. He’s going to tell you either way, but if you say no, he’ll just take longer getting to it. Think of it as steering into the skid, only with the skid being a tedious barrage of words.”

The Last Stands of Sylvanas

Posted in EPIC VERSE with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 13, 2012 by Garrosh Hellscream

So, a little late, I know, but here it is, this week’s second (belated Thursday) installment of EPIC VERSE in Garrosh’s Poetry Challenge!  Featuring the return of everyone’s favorite Argent Gossip Girl, Argent Confessor Paletress.  As always, comment away with suggestions and idea for next week’s MASTERPIECES.

 

Hi again,
Garrosh, friend.
Hope you’re doing fine.
What brings you
Here anew?
I see that you brought wine.
 
Hold on, now.
I know how
You made me talk last time.
I’m still mad
At how bad
I spilled my guts (in rhyme!).
 
I refuse!
’Twas with booze
You got me to tell.
Whatcha got?
Jello shots?
Oh, well, what the hell.
 

*  *  *  *  *

 
The Dark Lady passed through here,
In the Lich King’s final year.
   Sought advice
   Once or twice
From – guess who – truly yours.
From our talks we grew aware
Of just how much, in fact, we share,
   Like our urge
   To purge the Scourge.
(And sometimes dress like whores.)
 
Still her memories recur
Of life as Ranger Windrunner,
   When the doom
   Of Silvermoon
Left all appearing lost.
Last defender, there she stood;
Fight with her last breath she would.
   Pain was fine:
   Buy them time
She would at any cost.
 
There she took her final breath;
They raised a banshee in undeath –
   Could not kill
   Her iron will:
As strong now as it had been.
Summoned up her fallen brothers,
Lordaeron’s lost souls, and others,
   Bore their pain,
   Broke their chains,
And hacked the Lich King’s admin.
 
Years have passed and foes have died,
Fruitlessly Sylvanas tried
   To soothe chagrin
   For zombie kin
From all the blows they’d taken.
Cursed and scorned and plagued with doubt –
Damn the world that shut them out!
   In her care
   Her children there
Would never be forsaken.
 
When at last the Lich King fell,
Banished to the blackest hell,
   Off alone
   To Frozne Throne
Sylvanas made her trek.
Arthas’ final demise
She would confirm with her own eyes;
   And so higher
   To the spire
She ventured up to check.
 
It was true; her foe was gone;
His broken corpse she spat upon,
   But the hole
   In her soul:
It felt an endless void.
For so long her single thought
Was bringing Menethil to naught;
   Now the task
   Was done at last
And she was unemployed.
 
All her past she dwelled upon,
Shining elvish future gone,
   Time she slept:
   Off she lept
And fell toward deadly spikes.
But before she fell to night,
Self-impaled on saronite,
   Near would sing
   Val’kyr wings
And stave off the last strike.
 
Val’kyr visions was she granted,
Of a future disenchanted:
   Her adored
   By the Horde
Were marshaled out as fodder.
Unprotected, now she’d seen,
Left without their Banshee Queen,
   With a haste
   Went to waste
Before worgen marauders.
 
Her Forsaken children, cherished:
She could not leave them to perish.
   Made a deal,
   And, surreal,
Returned to her unlife.
Bound now to the scheming Val’kyr,
Brought them to her home locale here,
   To begin
   To watch her kin
And guard them from the strife.
 
I remember when we spoke,
The elf who bent but never broke,
   How she knew
   What she’d do
Would carry heavy cost.
For her people to stay whole,
Someone had to pay their soul:
   No defers;
   ’Twould be hers –
It was already lost.
 
All her elvish life she’d said
She’d fight to wipe out the undead;
   Tables turned:
   Living spurned:
Now she would forswear it.
No more kindred’s anguished cries;
Not one more, on her watch, dies.
   Tortured, pained,
   Conscience stained:
For them, she will bear it.
 
*  *  *  *  *
 
Hey, hold on!
Liquor’s gone?
Then the story’s done!
Go restock;
That would rock.
And then we’ll have more fun.
 
One last dose,
One last toast
To Sylvanas’ sorrow.
Not undead,
But man, my head:
I’ll pay for this tomorrow.
 
No, you wag,
No Jaina gag.
No more lurid defection.
(Although, she’d seen
The Banshee Queen
In the Halls of Reflection…)

 

EPIC VERSE!