Hellfire Peninsula

The distant sun filtered cool and distorted through the nether bands streaming across the sky. It was just after nightfall on what remained of Draenor, and the three closest planetoids loomed darkly behind broken, floating bits of the landscape. If she had not known this planet before the breaking, she might think it was pretty. Now it just made her sick, a feeling which grew as she descended the enormous staging platform. Azerothian forces, Horde and Alliance both, held the demonic forces back.

 Miria reached down and put her hand on Naru's shoulders. The blighted landscape rolled out from the foot of the stair – it looked like a raging wildfire had swept the land clean of all life, leaving nothing but cracked, red rock in its wake.

 "They're making a push! Rally!" A nearby Vindicator – a draenei paladin – surrounded by a squad of Stormwind soldiers and Darnassian Sentinels charged past Miria and down the stairs, meeting two massive infernals and four felguards head on. Miria ran to the edge of the steps and pulled back her bowstring. Naru charged in with Miria's first shot whistling over her head. Horde forces joined them at the foot of the stairs, beating back the onslaught with single-minded efficiency. Miria stood with the Sentinels and mages at the top of the stairs, raining arcane arrows on the demons below.

 Together, they made short work of the enemy. The Vindicator turned away from the horde commander and led his forces back to the relative safety at the top of the stair. "Well done," he boomed. "Welcome back to our lands, sister in the Light."

 Miria whistled, calling Naru back from the stair. She would have gone charging into enemy lines to challenge the pit commander if Miria didn't stop her. She turned to the paladin and put her hand on Naru's back again. It steadied her. "My brother told me the Legion was beaten," she said, shifting from hoof to hoof awkwardly.

 He laughed, stamping one hoof and slapping his knee. "That rabble? They try and breech the portal because they know their commanders have abandoned them. They won't break through our defenses. I am Justinius, in command of the Stair of Destiny forces."

 "Miria. I came back to see where I can make myself useful." Despite his efforts to make light of the eredar, they were there. Miria couldn't take her eyes off their forces gathered at the foot of the Stair.

"This is the first time you have returned," Justinius said. The eyebrows under his bony ridge of horns were scrunched together in concern. "Do not worry, the peninsula and Shadowmoon are their last great strongholds, and we are slowly diminishing their control over both."

Miria nodded mutely. She could feel a lump rising in her throat as she looked out over the land. This was not the planet she'd grown up loving – this was a broken shell of the place she once called home. With difficulty, she swallowed and took a deep breath, forcing her voice to remain steady. "Where-" despite her best efforts, she still sounded choked up- "where do you need the most help?"

"You should check in at Honor Hold first," Justinius said. "That is where our force commander is. Tell him I have sent you as reinforcements. You cannot ride there, not while the pit lord is here attempting to take the Stair. Take a gryphon – and at your soonest opportunity, you should get flight training."

"Flight training?"

"The Legion and the Fel Orcs are the least or our worries, now – we have naga, ogres, blood elves, rogue ethereals, Lost Ones... an elekk alone will not keep you safe here. You must learn to summon and manage your own gryphon."

For a brief moment, excitement overshadowed the persistent feeling of grief over the state of her home. Her own gryphon? Miria had only ridden flight master's gryphons, extremely well-trained beasts that nevertheless only flew along their prescribed path. They took the safest path between two points, not the fastest. It helped them avoid Horde settlements where the guards were likely to try and fire on them. Miria always thought they were more intelligent than most other creatures used for mounts.

Naru was not pleased that her fun had been cut short to chase a gryphon across the cold, starlit desert. Miria kept her eyes on the ground, watching the bear lope along behind them. She also made a mental note of every battle-scarred ruin and pool of fel taint, a brooding anger rising in her chest. Orcs had done this to the land – fel orcs, yes, but who was to say the orcs that lived freely on Azeroth were much different? They enjoyed a truce now, but what would come in the future? The Northrend campaign couldn't last forever.

She was so lost in thought when she touched down in Honor Hold that she barely noticed Naru shoving the guards aside to catch up with her. In a daze, she wandered into the inn. The red land looked like Draenor itself was injured and bleeding. The walls of Honor Hold's keep were scorched and scarred – it looked like it had been bombarded from above. Before she stepped through the portal, she thought visiting her homeland might help her find the place she felt she'd lost so long ago. Now she just felt heartsick and exhausted. She paid for a room and trudged upstairs, barely managing to strip her mail off before falling into the bed and a fitful sleep.

"In the name of the Light!"

Miria struggled out of the deep well of sleep, feeling like her eyes were glued shut. Someone was shouting nearby – praying, it sounded like. Another voice was laughing, not with mirth, but with amoral delight that sent chills shuddering up Miria's spine. Underneath it all was a persistent chattering wail.

"I see your ancestors, Anchorite! They writhe and scream in the darkness... they are with us!"

Miria sat bolt upright, sheets tumbling off her shoulders. She released a shot from her bow before she realized that the sudden movement she fired at was a chattering skull wreathed in shadow and flame. She kicked her way out of the bed and dashed across the hall, heedless of her state of undress.

A human in dark robes stood in the doorway to the room across the hall, his hand outstretched, funneling energy from the ghastly apparitions in neon purple streamers. She nudged him to the side with her drawn bow and his eyes snapped to her. He had a close-cropped beard that framed the dark, amused smile on his face. It was bright, brassy red like his long hair, which he kept in a high tail.

"I thought you might sleep through all the fun," he said. The skull he was draining clattered lifelessly to the floor and he shifted his arm, pointing at a new target. The purple energy drain began again.

In the center of the room, floating above the bed and emitting streamers of vile black energy, was another human in plate armor. Facing him with his hands raised was a stocky draenei holding prayer beads. "Be cleansed with the Light, human!" he shouted. "Let not the demonic corruption overwhelm you."

Possession, Miria thought. She released her bowstring, laying an explosive shot on one demon skull and shifting her aim to the next. As she fired, she was aware of the man beside her, his smile firmly fixed on his face and a spark of cruel interest in his eyes as more and more blackness poured from the unfortunate soul on the bed.

"Back!" the draenei priest shouted again, raising his prayer beads and shaking them at the possessed human. "I cast you back... corruptor of faith! Author of pain! Do not return, or suffer the same fate as you did today!"

With that, a brilliant white flash lit up the room and the wailing shriek cut off like it had been sheared with a knife. The possessed man hit the bed with a muffled thump that rattled the floorboards and the caster tucked his hands in his sleeves with a quiet hmmph like someone had ruined his fun.

"I suppose I owe you an apology," the priest said, supporting himself on the foot of the bed.

"Don't bother," the human in robes said. He gestured to a dark corner of the room, and a piece of shadow detached itself from the wall. Miria had her bow ready before her mind caught up with her – that was a demon, a creature of shadow called a Voidwalker. However, it responded to the man's call, which meant...

"Warlock," she said flatly, relaxing her taut bowstring slowly. "What are you doing here?"

"Diplomacy, young one," the priest said before the warlock could respond. He was tending to the man on the bed, who still hadn't regained consciousness. Miria wasn't surprised. "This warlock just saved Colonel Jules' soul and cast the darkness within him back to where it came."

Miria shifted uncomfortably from one hoof to the other. The warlock regarded her with a silent smirk, and then waved his hand, dismissing the Voidwalker, who faded away into the ether until he was called again. Naru came snuffling into the room a moment later, nosing the lifeless skulls and sniffing the smoking magical residue. Miria put her hands on her hips. "You massive, lazy thing," she said, scolding Naru to keep from having to speak with the warlock. "You couldn't come in here when there was work to be done, I suppose."

"Hunter – are you just that good, that you don't need your beast or your gear? You must be exceptionally brave. Or stupid." A speculative gleam came into the warlock's eye that Miria did not like in the least.

"There was no time to get dressed," she said stiffly. "I heard shouting."

"By all means," the human said with a mocking bow, gesturing to the opposite doorway. "I can't imagine what we would have done without your expert help."

Miria's cheeks flushed dark blue and she stomped into her room, her hooves clopping against the wood planks. That was the second time within a few days she'd assisted someone decidedly ungrateful for the help. She buckled her armor on with vicious tugs to the buckles, trusting the Ironforge dwarves' work to stand up to her temper. She strapped on her belt, and with it her map, enchanted bags and skinning knife.

She stepped out of her room face to face with a felguard, and had her bow off her back again in a flash. Shrill laughter startled her into swinging her aim around until, looking down her sight, she found the human warlock smirking at her.

"Don't do that!" she said. "Why are you even still here?"

"I have the room next door," the warlock said, never losing his smirk. "I am Kaster-clan-Raven; warlock, herbalist and alchemist. My minions do my bidding."

"They are sentient beings bound by magic," Miria snapped. "One day you will find that eredar are not so easily tamed."

"Feeling some kinship for your fallen ancestors?" Kaster asked. His felguard chuckled – it held a disturbing echo that reminded her of death knights.

"No," Miria said, pointedly staring at the felguard. "I am sure you had your own reasons for helping the priest with that exorcism-"

"Why waste perfectly good demon souls when these are so hard to come by?" Kaster asked, casually flipping a glinting purple gem in his hand. Miria felt her stomach lurch. She'd heard that warlocks drained the souls of their victims and trapped them in gemstones to fuel their dark magic, but she'd never seen one for herself. She shouldered past the warlock to the stairs, suddenly desperate to get away from his company.

"Welcome to Outland, draenei!" Kaster shouted after her, and his felguard's cruel laughter followed her down the stairs.

The Dark Portal

Miria gripped the edges of her map firmly to keep it from flying out of her hand with every beat of the gryphon's wings. Below her, the shining waters of Baradin Bay gave way into the low marshland of the wetlands. Not exactly a direct route, but flight masters' gryphons had some kind of aversion to flying in a straight line. She assumed Naru was still tracking their shadow far below, and would catch up with her in Dun Morogh.

 This ride would take her into Ironforge, the massive underground capital of the dwarves. After spending so much time in the field, Miria had things to take care of before disembarking for the Dark Portal and Draenor. She'd scrubbed the worst of the plague slime and dirt off her mail the night before, but doing that had exposed a weak spot in her hauberk under the left armpit, and a section on the left leg of her greaves where the chainmail was separating oddly. Add that to the fact that the fingers in her gloves were wearing thin, and she needed to visit a leatherworker with significantly more skill than she possessed.

 The gryphon banked sharply. Miria squeezed with her knees to keep from being thrown off and rolled up her map. They were gaining height over the jagged mountain range that rose on the north side of Dun Morogh, and as they cleared the peaks, Miria started to see the highest towers of Ironforge sticking out of the sides of the mountain, and the path leading up to its gates.

 The gryphon banked again, and Miria leaned low over its back, hugging its mane of feathers as it dipped low through the front gate, swooped through an opening in the gate above the statue of King Anvilmar, and then flew through a tunnel that always felt much too small to fit a gryphon and a passenger.

 The dry heat of the Great Forge swept over her face as they burst from the tunnel and spiraled in for a landing at the gryphon roost. Miria climbed off the gryphon stiffly – long flights were by far one of her least favorite things about Azeroth.

 "Welcome ta Ironforge, lassy," the flight master said. Miria smiled. She enjoyed the company of dwarves – they were a practical and friendly people with an infectious zeal for life. "Anythin' I can do for ya?"

 "I am looking for a smith who specializes in repairs," Miria said. "I assume the Great Forge would be the place to find him?"

 "Aye," the dwarf said. "They'll be in th' center. Been out adventurin', have ya?"

 "Clearing out Scourge, recovering old property deeds for ungrateful noblemen," Miria said. "Thank you for your assistance."

 "Anytime, draenei. Enjoy yer stay!"

 She could see the center of the Great Forge from where she stood, but she took her time walking around the edge, listening to the rhythm of Ironforge. Always present were the sounds of hammer striking anvil, molten rock flowing across solid stone, and above it all the steady huffing of the bellows, like the city itself was breathing.

 For once, Miria wasn't the only draenei around. Ironforge was one of the major cities of the Alliance, and enormously populated. Dwarves and gnomes were the most populous of course, but there were plenty of humans, night elves and draenei milling around the underground streets. There were at least half a dozen dwarves in the center of the Great Forge, each with weapons and armor in various states of completion.

 "Excuse me..." Miria said, shifting from hoof to hoof awkwardly at the edge of the hustle and bustle.

 "Aye, what can I do for ye, lass?" One of the dwarves turned away from his work, putting down his hammer and stripping off his gloves.

 "I am looking for a smith who can repair mail," she said. "I seem to have acquired some worn spots." She crouched down to the dwarf's height and lifted up her arm, poking her fingers through the hole at the armpit. 

 "Aye, that ye have," the dwarf said. "The catch on yer belt's wearin' out too. And yer gloves look like they've seen better days. Well, Thurgrum Deepforge is th' best with patchin' an' repairin'. THURGRUM!" 

 Miria flinched involuntarily as the dwarf's conversational tone switched to an ear-shattering bellow in a split second. Thurgrum's hammer strikes stopped and he pulled a pair of goggles off his eyes. "Ye don't have to bellow at me, Sunderfury," he said, ambling over to them. "At yer service, miss...?"

 "Miria," she said. "I'll be going to Draenor soon, so I must make sure my gear is up to par, of course."

 "O' course," Deepforge said. "This won't take long, I'll just need yer gloves, an' – well, I didn't think t' ask, ye do have somethin' ye can change into, don't ye?"

 Miria was already stripping off her gloves, and she got started on the catches of her shoulder armor without a second thought. "It is no trouble, I will simply wear a tabard in the meantime. You will need my pants as well."

 "Now you wait just a minute, lass!" Deepforge said. "I don't know how thing are with yer people, but ye start takin' yer armor off around here and I can't-"

 Miria hadn't stopped because of his protests – she had a shirt on under her armor, after all – but her fingers stilled when something completely different caught her attention. Surprised shouts and cries of, "There's a bear!" made her crane her neck around the bellows.

 "Naru, come here!" she said, spotting the grizzly wandering through the crowds and snuffling at unsuspecting people. "You know where the gryphon roost is, stop causing a nuisance!" Naru broke into a shambling trot, grunting at anyone who hadn't moved quick enough. When she got over to Miria, she stood up, putting her front paws over Miria's shoulders and snuffling her hair. Miria pushed against Naru's chest fur, trying to heave the bear off her – she was heavy. Naru thumped back to all fours and then sat down with a wide yawn, clearly pleased with herself.

 "Ah," Deepforge said, a wide grin splitting his long gray beard. "Yer a hunter. Suppose I should've known that by th' bow. Alrigh' then, with that great beastie at yer side I doubt ye'll have to worry about walkin' around in a tabard."

 "I can handle myself," Miria insisted, perhaps a little petulantly. The conversation with Treize in the Andorhal inn made her uncomfortably conscious of her relative youth. If every hand had not been needed to establish her people's home on Azeroth and position in the Alliance, it was entirely possible she would still be in the Exodar, learning the long history of their people and training under the watchful eye of the Exarchs.

 "Never meant to imply ye couldn't," Deepforge said, averting his eyes while she pulled off her hauberk and unbuckled her greaves. She pulled her Exodar tabard on over her head, left her armor with the smith, and went to find a bowyer. As she walked, she couldn't help but glance down at the heraldry emblazoned on her chest. She never expected to be preparing for this journey – the trip back to her home. She wondered what it looked like. She didn't think she really wanted to know. Now that she was half a continent closer to the dark portal, her promise to Treize seemed very far away indeed.

 Naru huffed next to her, like the bear could sense her uneasiness. The smith was right – people cleared the way as Miria passed with Naru at her side. She supposed most people didn't want to tangle with a hunter and her bear.

 Ironforge's layout made it easy for Miria to complete her errands. She spent the longest time at the bowyer, chatting with the no-nonsense dwarf woman about draw strength and the practical applications of real arrows versus the kind of techniques advanced hunters used. She could have stood there forever having a long, lively debate with the woman, but when Naru got bored enough she started knocking over weapons racks, and that was Miria's cue to leave. She passed back through and picked up her mail from Deepforge on her way to the inn where she intended to stay the night. Inspecting the links, she couldn't even find where there had been a fault. She tipped him handsomely.

 "Well, Naru," Miria said as she relaxed on her bed in The Stonefire Tavern, "tomorrow we go to my homeland. I feel I need to apologize in advance." Naru grunted at her. "I do not know how it is now, but when we fled the world was ripping itself apart into the Twisting Nether. It's a wonder that it's held together this long." Naru curled up on a rug at the foot of the bed and laid her head down. Miria took the hint and pulled the blankets over her chin, falling into a restless sleep.

 Underground in Ironforge, the only way to mark the time was in the sounds of the city streets. Her internal rhythm pulled her out of deep sleep sometime around dawn, and enticing smells from the kitchen woke her the rest of the way. She laid in bed for a few moments with her eyes closed, wishing she could stay in the Ironforge inn forever.

 "Oi! Hunter! Come wrangle yer damn animal!"

 Miria sat bolt upright. The space where she last left Naru was empty, and she groaned, rolling out of bed and hopping into her armor. She clattered down the stairs with half the buckles undone to find that Naru had planted herself in the doorway of the kitchen and would not budge. "Naru, come here!" Miria said, exasperated, and the bear growled in displeasure as she lumbered over to her master. "I am dreadfully sorry, she is not usually so ill-behaved, I do not know what has come over her-"

 "Don't worry yerself," the cook said, smiling. "It's more than ye can ask for a mostly wild creature t' ignore breakfast. I already fed her a bit, but then she started scarin' my other tenants on account of her not movin'. Ye plannin' t' be off today?"

 "That is the plan," Miria said, and all the apprehension from the night before came rushing back. She set to buckling the rest of her armor "Thank you for the room, it was very relaxing."

 "Only the best here. Anyway, anytime yer back our way, feel free to drop in. Safe journey to ya, draenei." 

 Ironforge had a portal to the Blasted Lands, which prevented Miria from having to spend all day on a gryphon again. Stepping through portals always made her stomach swoop uncomfortably and her skin feel slimy.

 She stumbled as her hooves met solid ground again. Naru growled unpleasantly. The Dark Portal itself rose like a high, menacing monolith out of the center of a blasted red crater. The source of Naru's displeasure was immediately evident – felguards and felhounds alike swarmed around the edges of the crater.

 She trotted down the incline. Naru lumbered after her. They wove through barricades and small knots of soldiers, ascended the steps to the portal, and stood watching its dizzying shift of colors and stars.

Miria took a deep, steadying breath and gripped her bow. "All right, Naru," she said, "this is it."

She put her hand on Naru's head and they stepped through the portal to Draenor together.

Acherus: The Ebon Hold

Necrothirst wasn't sure why he'd diverted his time to follow the draenei into the inn. Tearing through Scholomance like it was wet parchment and slaughtering everything in his path made him feel better, as much as he ever felt better. Better enough to attempt mortal company, something he hadn't done in some time. Now he wished he hadn't. A cold flame of rage simmered in his chest as he strode over the cobblestone streets, glaring at the dusk.

 Illidan Stormrage is dead.

 He should have suspected that truth, and it angered him even further that he let him affect him so. He responded to the flight master's question about his destination with a glowing blue stare, holding the man's eyes until he shuffled, looked away, and simply handed Necrothirst the reins to a passenger gryphon. 

Necrothirst climbed onto the animal's back, settling his knees under its wing joints and ignoring its noises of indignation at the weight and chill of its passenger. He dug his plated boots into its sides and smirked at the squawk it made when it took off. The ground fell away below him, but Necrothirst felt neither thrill nor wonder. It was ground seen from the air, and just as irritating as everything else in this world. He pulled on the reins, and the gryphon put the last crimson streaks of the setting sun at its back, turning into the purple dark of the night. As the night deepened and they passed over the stagnant waters of Darrowmere Lake, Necrothirst tried not to think of the last time he'd seen Illidan Stormrage face to face.

 'A long time ago' was a phrase Necrothirst had heard mortal races use to refer to events in their childhood, before they had become the people they were. He had always found it amusing that they thought of twenty or thirty years as 'a long time.' For a night elf, a long time was relative, but Necrothirst thought the phrase was appropriate in this case. The last time Necrothirst had seen Illidan, he had been alive, and he had not been called Necrothirst.

 The gryphon dropped suddenly, and Necrothirst squeezed with his knees to keep from falling off. He cuffed the animal behind the ear with his gauntleted fist like he'd been taught to do to hippogriffs in his childhood, and then drew back his clenched fist, staring at it. Curious, the things he retained from life.

 Acherus loomed out of the darkness. An unearthly blue glow shone from the floating necropolis's balconies and from the yawning eyesockets of massive skulls affixed to its exterior. The gryphon Necrothirst rode tried to rear back, but the death knight snapped the reins and it instead dove forward, skidding to a halt on the ledge violently. It gave a whole-body shake, trying to throw the death knight off its back, but Necrothirst rode out the small rebellion and then dismounted on his own, sending the gryphon on its way with a harder than necessary whack to its rump.

 Despite his efforts not to think of it, the news of Illidan's death rode heavily in his mind, fouling his mood as he strode through the necropolis. The Ebon Blade was not as numerous as they would like to be, and most death knights knew each other by sight despite the uniform armor many of them wore. Other knights cleared the way as Necrothirst came past.

 The constant craving for suffering made them all volatile, and caution was paramount in how the death knights dealt with their brothers and sisters in death. There were less duels ending in final death now that they had broken away from the Lich King, but there were certain knights one simply did not approach if one wanted to keep one's limbs, and Necrothirst was one of them.

 It had not been so long since the battle at Light's Hope Chapel, and uncertainty colored the ever-present atmosphere of rage and suffering that hung over Acherus. Highlord Darion Mograine was harder to find, these days. He went from Acherus to Northrend with alarming frequency, sometimes switching locations daily, commanding forces in both places. Therefore, death knights reported to their faction representative. Necrothirst walked the halls in search of Thassarian.

 "Necrothirst." His steps halted, and he turned to see who had spoken.

 "Koltira Deathweaver."

 The blood elf fell into step beside him as he began walking again. "I assume you returned with your task complete," he said.

 "We are not to share knowledge of our missions with the enemy," Necrothirst said flatly.

 "We are not each others' enemy," Koltira said. "Thassarian and I oversee our forces in the Eastern Kingdoms jointly." 

 Necrothirst grunted at this. He'd encountered plenty of death knights sworn to the horde out in the world who would disagree with that evaluation of the faction lines. "You are looking for him as well?"

 "He is in the lower levels," Koltira said.

 Necrothirst thought it was uncanny and a bit suspicious how the blood elf always knew where Thassarian was, but he followed all the same. Thinking of his report kept him from dwelling on bad news.

 He heard the snarling long before they walked around a bend and saw Thassarian. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his swords still belted at his sides as he stared down the creature in the cell.

 "She still responds like this to everyone, then," Koltira said, continuing on as Necrothirst's steps halted. He'd seen a thing like this before, he knew they were called worgen, but he had never seen one like this. It was reaching one clawed, black hand through the bars of the cage, saliva dripping from its fangs as it clawed uselessly for Thassarian. Worgen were all too present in the forests of Silverpine, and Necrothirst wagered some must have gotten across the Greymane Wall into that nation. This one, though, didn't look like the rangy gray animals he'd seen there. It was solid black from head to toe except for a gray-blue mask around its eyes – but that wasn't what had stopped him in his tracks. It was the first worgen he'd ever seen wearing armor, and not just any armor, standard-issue Ebon Blade plate armor.

 "...A worgen death knight?" Necrothirst walked closer to the cell, and the beast's eyes snapped to him. They glowed cold, death knight blue. He could see now that it was in fact female, but in its eyes he only saw mad fury. "Does it know how to use a blade or does it simply tear things apart?"

 "Captured from Silverpine," Thassarian said. "Kyladriss. I am surprised you do not know of her, she was in the Scarlet campaign."

Necrothirst didn't answer at first. He had never seen this thing before in life or death. The worgen leapt for him suddenly, throwing her shoulder against the bars savagely as she snarled at him. Her claws scrabbled in the air mere inches from his breastplate. He stared at her coolly. "Was it always mad?" 

 "She was never stable," Koltira said. "She was not this mad until Light's Hope, however. That was when she ceased to speak. I don't believe she can reason any longer."

 "It seems vicious enough," Necrothirst said.

 "We cannot allow her runeblade to stay in the same room with her," Thassarian said. "But she wields it. She is of the blood school, as you are."

 Necrothirst couldn't decide which would be worse, being caged with the blade or without. A death knight's runeblade was their right arm, but it was also the source of their cruelty. It whispered darkness and savagery into the mind, and if it wasn't appeased, madness set in. Without it, though...

 Without it a death knight was helpless and caged.

 Necrothirst was not one to shudder, but he felt a sense of deep unease take hold of him. "Would she not be of more use on the front lines?"

 "How, praytell, would we manage her there?" Koltira said sharply. "We have tried unleashing her on our foes, and she carves a pretty swath of destruction well enough, but then we must capture her again or she would simply go to ground."

 Perhaps that would suit her better, Necrothirst thought, but he brushed it out of his mind. His business here was not to sympathize with feral creatures. "I came to report that Frostwhisper is slain and his phylactery destroyed," he said. "My task in Scholomance is complete."

 "I expected no less from you," Thassarian said. "It is well that you've finished. The war effort needs your presence in Zul'Drak. The Sunreavers of the Argent Crusade have a strong troll presence there, and you are the only Alliance death knight who speaks Zandali. I need you stationed there."

 "As you will. I will depart at once."

 "It is not as urgent as that," Thassarian said. "Besides, I believe there was something to what you said about Kyladriss."

 "You can't be serious," Koltira said. "We haven't been able to keep her corralled, what makes you think he can?"

 "Necrothirst is a blood death knight as well, they can fight each other to a standstill. If anyone is a match for her..."

 Koltira glared at the worgen, irritated. "I think this is a mistake."

 "Gilneas was one part of the Alliance," Thassarian said. "Technically, that makes her mine to command as I see fit."

 "You want me to take her with me to Zul'Drak?" Necrothirst asked.

 "Have you seen the berserkers those ice trolls breed?" Thassarian asked. "They're enormous. Our knights in the area badly need reinforcements. All you need do is point her at the enemy and let her go. She will do the rest."

 Necrothirst looked back at the worgen in the cell, locking eyes with her. Some time ago, she'd stopped trying to reach him through the bars. Now her clawed hands were wrapped around them, her fanged muzzle pushed out through them, and a continuous growl filled the hallway. "If she fights like you say, she could very well be useful." Kyladriss snarled at him, narrowing her eyes, but still did not speak. If Thassarian said she commanded a blade and language like any other knight – at some point, at least – Necrothirst believed him, but she looked like a wild animal.

 "Necrothirst, one more thing," Thassarian said. "Darnassus seems to be focusing their forces in Crystalsong Forest and Grizzly Hills, but it's entirely possible you will run into kaldorei in Zul'Drak." Necrothirst's jaw went tight, and he turned to face his commander with his chin up and his shoulders squared. Thassarian went on like he hadn't moved. "It has taken us some time to convince the various commanders of both factions that we are not mindless killing machines driven by Arthas's will any longer. I will thank you not to destroy those efforts."

 "I will not work with them," Necrothirst growled.

 "That is your choice. I am simply commanding you not to slaughter them."

 Necrothirst's teeth squeaked as he ground them together, scowling at Thassarian under the shadow of his helm. The frost death knight held his gaze evenly, not giving an inch, and Necrothirst snorted. "Commanding officers always ruin the fun."

 "Your quarrels with your own people are your business," Thassarian said with a shrug, "but the war is larger than all of us. You have to decide whether who you hate more – night elves, or Arthas."

 He is so young, Necrothirst thought, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. If he lived through this war, if he survived his first mortal lifetime, Thassarian would one day understand how hate and vengeance could consume a person until hate and vengeance were all that was left. "The Lich King must fall if the world is to survive," Necrothist said. "I will not do anything to compromise the war against him." He could tell it wasn't quite the answer Thassarian was hoping for, but he nodded, and Necrothirst supposed that meant it was good enough.

 "We will leave for Menethil Harbor as soon as we obtain secure transportation for Kyladriss. Make sure you are prepared."

 Necrothirst nodded, and with one last look at Kyladriss through the cell bars, he turned and left the way he had come. The night elves of Northrend would stay away from him if they knew what was good for them – and if they didn't, he had made no promise to his commander that he would not almost kill them.

Andorhal

The sun was just slipping behind the mountains as Miria rode past the guards into town. They didn't look up as she passed – they might stop humans on this road to make sure they were not Forsaken, but there were few enough of her people that they knew her by sight.

 "Miria! Bring any pelts back for us?"

 "Nothing worth skinning in Scholomance," she said to the local leatherworker as she rode past.

 Andorhal was a small town as far as human towns went – at least, it did not compare to Stormwind's size. Miria remembered the first time she had arrived in that vast city of stone, the walls rising so far above her head that she stepped into their shade as soon as her hooves left the wood of the docks. At least Andorhal boasted an inn, a convenience that Miria was grateful for after the dark horror of Scholomance.

 It was not as bad as it could have been, she thought to herself. Despite her unease at his presence, Necrothirst had made her task easier. She was forced to admit that she couldn't have done it without him, although the reverse was not so. He could easily have defeated Ras Frostwhisper without her.

 So why had he brought her?

 Towns such as Andorhal frowned on 'wild' animals, even hunters' pets, in their midst. Naru wandered the wilds at the town's edge, but Miria didn't worry. The bear would find her if Miria called. It would be nice to sleep somewhere besides an open field under the fetid winds. Luck was with her, and Weldon Barov was at the bar when she came in, not drinking but simply holding a conversation with the barman.

 Miria drew some stares as she stepped out of the threshold and into the common room. For once, she didn't think they were because of her race as much as they were because of her appearance. She may not have been injured, but Scholomance left a mark on her nonetheless. She was covered in dust and patches of cobweb clung to her mail. Many of these people declined to leave the safety of their town, relying on hired travelers like herself to walk into the wilds for them.

 Weldon looked up as she stepped up to the bar, leaning away from her. "The hunter!"

 "Did you expect I would not return?" Miria asked, watching him with glowing blue eyes. "I returned with what you asked for."

 The erstwhile baron's eyes widened when she produced not one, but all four of the deeds she'd been sent for, sliding them across the bar from him. Of course, she hadn't cleaned a one of them, and he picked one up delicately in between his fingers, eyeing the stains. "Is this plague or blood?"

 Miria shrugged. "Both are equally likely. If you expected them restored, you should have hired a scribe rather than a hunter."

 Weldon dropped the paper as if he thought it would infect him just by touching it. "Yes, of course," he said. "And the keep, was it...?"

 "Infested and foul," Miria said. "If you would like my advice, I would raze the keep and have the grounds sanctified. Then perhaps you could build a replacement."

 "Raze Caer Darrow?! My dear, er, woman – do you have any concept of how important that holding is to the history of these lands?"

 "Not at all," Miria said dryly. How could she? Her people had been on a different planet. "Do you have my fee?"

 "Ah – of course, of course," Weldon muttered, negligently sliding gold coins across the bar to her. Miria put them in her bag and walked away, hearing him mutter to himself as she went. "This will take months of restoration... recovery with the legal offices..." She supposed he thought the coin thanks enough. Well, she had done it for the coin and not the thanks, so she could not very well blame him. 

Unlike many bars in mid-size human towns, the barman was not also the innkeeper. There was a sign over the end of the bar that indicated it was the place to inquire about lodging, but no-one was there. "Innkeeper?" Miria asked, leaning over the front counter. She waited for a few moments, but no such man appeared. She frowned, tapping her hoof impatiently. "...Innkeeper?" 

"He is drunk in the back, most like."

 Miria turned in surprise. She hadn't heard an accent that thick since Draenor – and indeed, it was one of her people who had commented, a broad-shouldered fellow with engineering goggles perched on his forehead. He was still coming down the stairs as she saw him, but even in the dim light she thought he looked familiar. The mustache... the horns... in fact- "Treize?"

 "Arkanon poros, naMiria," he replied cheerfully, an affable grin expanding across his features. "It has been a long time since we spoke face to face, sister."

 "Treize! I did not know you had taken the Exodar – how did we not meet aboard it? I know there were many who came to Azeroth but still, you should have told me you were coming."

 "We did not exactly expect to be leaving at the time we did," Treize reminded her. "In the confusion, many were separated. You remember."

 She did. Those first few days after the Exodar crashed on Azeroth stood branded in her memory as if seared in by the Light. The hundreds injured, the confusion, the desperation of those trying to find family... 

...The knowledge that your family may not have made it aboard, or may not have survived. Miria threw her arms around Treize when he finally came up to the bar, squeezing as hard as she could. "I'm so glad you're alive," she said. "I feared the worst when I did not see you at launch."

 "Sweet Light, what are you covered in?" Treize asked, prying her off him to hold her at arm's length. "You stink!" 

"Oh, ah..." Miria hesitated for a moment. Treize had always been protective. "Scholomance dust."

 "You went there? Miria..."

 "I am one hundred and twenty-seven years old, Treize, I'm a grown draenei woman and I can take jobs that send me to dangerous places if I wish to, so there." Miria crossed her arms and leaned on the bar. She was not about to be badgered by her older brother.

 "I suppose," Treize said. "I still wish you wouldn't."

 "Let's talk about something else, shall we? What brings you to Andorhal? How are your studies progressing?"

 Treize patted his belt, and Miria's gaze followed to the two fist weapons secured there. "They go quite well – although of late, I find that the elements are restless and difficult to treat with. Almost as they were on Draenor, before..." he shook his head. "I came to this place seeking the mage-city of Dalaran, but they tell me it has removed to Northrend to oversee the war effort."

 "A war on two fronts," Miria said. "Of the two, it seems the Kirin Tor's efforts would be better expended combating the scourge than some overgrown warp stalkers."

 "Miria, you underestimate the situation," Treize said, and Miria frowned. It sounded almost like he was scolding her. "Malgyos and his blue dragonflight are intent on wiping out the Dalaran mages, and any other mortals who employ the arcane arts." 

"Which would be neither you nor me," Miria pointed out.

 "Nevertheless, a war on two fronts is not easy to win. Our people know that. You should remember that." 

 Miria looked down at the bar, picking at the wood grain. "Have you returned since we fled? I hear there is a portal from Azeroth to the peninsula opened."

 "I have," Treize said. "That is part of the reason I am here – I have been traveling the Eastern Kingdoms with a message for any of our people I encounter. It is safe to go home."

 Miria's head shot up and her heart skipped a beat. "The Legion?"

 "There is still Legion," Treize said, "but Kil'jaeden has been defeated. They are calling for us to return and help rebuild. Perhaps one day Draenor can truly become a home for our people."

 That the Legion still held any sway over the planet they had chosen for their refuge was disappointing, but Miria broke into a smile at the news of Kil'jaeden's downfall. "So the long war is over," she said.

 "Do not forget that Mal'ganis still lives. This is not over until all the leaders of the Burning Legion are erased from even the Twisting Nether."

 "What does Prophet Velen say of this? If Kil'jaeden is indeed defeated, and only one weakened lieutenant remains, should we not be seeking another world to settle? Draenor used to be a place worth settling, until the breaking, but as much as I would like to see it, I don't believe it can last much longer before it succumbs to the Nether. And we cannot stay here-"

 "Why not?" Treize interruped. "It is not as if we have not found allies here. True, we have found allies before, and they have often as not betrayed us, but this Alliance seems a different sort. There are so many peoples on this world, could we not be part of it as well?"

 "But we are outsiders. We are not of this place."

 "We would not be of any place we decided to settle, save Argus, and that place is lost to us."

 Miria was silent, picking at the wood again. She wasn't old enough to remember Argus – in fact, she was one of the few who called Draenor her birthplace. She had grown up with the mighty walls of Shattrath rising around her as the draenei built up their new homeland. And even then, she was too young to remember much of the city before it was sacked by the orcs, and her family forced to flee to Zangarmarsh.

 "How... have you seen our parents?" Miria asked, anxious despite herself.

 "Not for a long time," Treize said. "I was barely on the continent before I was dispatched to return. Besides, I find it... uncomfortable to remain there for long. The elements are more chaotic than on this planet. They haven't written you at all?"

 Miria was about to answer him when she felt a cold presence on her back. Treize stiffened next to her and she turned suddenly to find Necrothirst there, barely an arm's length from her. "You!" she said, startled. "Make noise when you approach!"

 Necrothirst ignored her. "You spoke of Kil'jaeden's defeat," he said to Treize. "You seem to know much of the campaign in Outland."

 "I was there," Treize said warily. Miria could tell that the death knight's presence made him almost as uneasy as it made her.

 "Tell me," Necrothirst said. "Have you any news of Illidan Stormrage?"

 "Dead," Treize said. "All of Kil'jaeden's followers are dead – Kael'thas, Magtheridon, Lady Vashj, and Illidan."

 Necrothirst's eyes narrowed in something akin to fury. Miria tensed, her hand moving to grip her bow, and she could see Treize's hands twitch as well. "Dead," the death knight repeated flatly.

 "That is the news," Treize said.

 "My brother does not lie," Miria added, her hand tightening further on her weapon. The night elf's eyes bored into them both for a long, tense moment that stretched out well beyond the point of tolerance. Finally he turned his back and left the inn without a word, his black armor clanking as he walked. Miria wondered how she could have missed his approach. People cleared the way for him to pass.

 "Who was that?" Treize asked.

 "A Knight of the Ebon Blade," Miria said. "One of the death knights who broke free of the Lich King's grasp and once more serves the Alliance. He helped me recover an item for a client in Scholomance."

 Treize frowned at her. "I wish you did not keep such dangerous company," he said, his voice full of reproach.

 Miria scowled right back at him. "I do not need looking after," she said sharply.

 Her brother didn't answer her at first, watching the doorway Necrothirst had left through with that frown still on his face. "Sister, you should go back to Draenor. Not just because I wish you away from this scourge, but because our people need your help. I have no doubt that you have become a skilled hunter, as I have become a better shaman. The Cenarion Circle seeks to help restore the balance to our planet, but some of the druids are too soft-hearted to do what must be done with the overabundance of tainted wildlife."

 "So you wish I would go back to collecting pelts instead of hiring out to dangerous recovery missions," Miria said dryly.

 Treize just smiled. "You know me too well," he said. "Promise me you will at least go see Shattrath. Much has changed since we were forced to leave – it is so much like the city of your childhood again."

 Miria's heart leapt once more. She did miss the walls of Shattrath, the soothing light of the Naaru, the presence of her people. It was more than tempting to return – it was an excellent idea. "If it is as good as you say, I suppose I should return."

 "Promise me," Treize said. "Promise me you will go back there before the Alliance's King drafts you into his war."

 "Is that what concerns you?" Miria asked.

 Treize shrugged uncomfortably. "I have not heard good tales of the front lines," he said.

 "Then I promise," Miria said. "I will go south to the portal, and go back to Draenor. If our people need help as you say, I will be happy to provide it."

 Now it was Treize's turn to throw his arms around her, and Miria squeaked. He had grown stronger than she remembered. "Good," he said. "Very good. I must remain in Azeroth and complete my mission, but I am not set to the task of finding every one of our people scattered throughout these lands. Once I am done traversing the Plaguelands, I should be joining you in Shattrath. Wait for me there."

 "I will," Miria said. "Now, by the grace of the Naaru... Innkeep!"