A/N: All 25 chapters of this now completed story - except for chapter 23 - are new. I originally played World of Warcraft from 2006 to 2008; chapter 23 of this story was written at that time as a oneshot based on RP. For deeply personal reasons, I deleted ALL of my stories and stopped writing and even reading any fiction at all, period, for almost nine years.

When I started playing Warcraft again in November 2014, inspiration struck and I rewrote chapter 23 from memory in early 2015 after nine years of writing nothing. For sure some details have changed or been recalled differently, but it mostly feels just how it did back then and don't ask how I was able to remember, as I'm not even sure myself. The rest of this story (as well as "The Torturer's Penance") is sort of me just wondering what would have happened to my characters in the interim when I wasn't playing or writing.

February, year 31.

The darkness was difficult to describe. The entirety of his vision was pitch black, with not a single other color to be seen. There technically shouldn't have been any movement at all without the presence of light to reflect color. Through some inexplicable means, however, he could clearly see the swirls wrapping around each other in the darkness. Changing shape, changing dimensions, changing in ways he didn't quite have the words to describe, the darkness weaved in and out as though it were alive.

He had no body; that much, he knew. He was sentient, but without any physical being. Bundled in the folds of the darkness, nothing seemed to exist save his own decontextualized mind and the swirling mass in front of him.

Slowly - every so slowly - sensations came into being. Far, far away, the sense of sound came to him. There were voices of people drifting over to him, though he didn't seem to have ears. Before he could even distinguish one voice from another, emotion came to him. Hate - but not for the people. Louder and louder they grew until the screaming became audible. Pained, horrifying screams that would chill anyone to the bone despite them belonging to the voices of others.

No sight came to him, though there was smell next. He waited, and the restoration of memory gave the smell meaning. The stench was awful, but too familiar. It was everywhere, though he had no nose to fill, and its noxious odor sickened his restored heart.

There was blood. So much blood.

On the monster's hands, under his fingernails, on his tools, some even on his teeth.

His vision was black, but the screams of his victims filled his ears. Hysterical screams of people restrained, unable to fight back, unable to shield themselves. Unable to do anything except watch. Watch him, as he let the monster out of its cage.

None of them deserved what he was doing to them. Every last one of them had surrendered or submitted after capture - keeping accurate counts was his job. And yet there he was, howling at them for information, demanding answers to questions that were dictated to him by his superiors. But the officers weren't to blame. Every depraved act of torture was his own, free choice.

Blood had a horrid smell. No matter how many battles he had participated in during the Third War, no matter how many craniums he had cleft or caved in, no matter how many abdomens he had sliced open, he could never get used to the smell of excess blood. As irrational as it seemed, he swore that innocent blood smelled even worse.

His nostrils became real now, and were overwhelmed by the stench.

His eyes became real, forcing him to watch as his real arms came into his own peripheral vision, reaching in slow motion for another pleading, begging captive who was just asking for it to stop. And inside himself, Garot'jin's conscience screamed for him to stop as well. Deep down inside, he knew this was morally wrong - every fibre of his being knew. There was no denying it.

But it was his choice. The monster wasn't real, no matter how much he tried to pretend; it was all him. Just him and his choices. And just like every other night, he never dreamed of his victims turning the tables and taking their revenge. To imagine his own punishment would have been too good a form of solace for his guilty heart.

Just like every single night, he only heard his victims' screams; never his own. Never receiving any form of retribution for the atrocities he had committed.

Garot'jin's vision went black again as the screams died away; a temporary reprieve for his exhausted, self-loathing, semi-lucid mind. Just a quasi-conscious dream he was aware of filled with nothing but blackness and silence. It was the most beautiful sound he could imagine.

Tiny blue, wisplike particles floated into his disembodied view, dancing in front of him - wherever he was. He watched them as they hovered, not knowing whether they were dust, soil, real wisps or something else. It was almost hypnotic, and he suddenly realized that the good dream - the only good dream that ever occasionally graced his mind during the past six years - had finally come to visit again.

It was so rare. Only a few times, not even a full dozen, had his nightmares of his own sins been interrupted for this. But it was his only form of solace from his routine night terrors, and when it came, he stopped thinking. Stopped thinking and just felt.

As the single blue beam of light shone down through the blackness, his hatred of his own self subsided just enough to live in that memory - a memory that, from some cruel act of fate, he had difficulty recalling while awake.

The wisps floated in and out of that single blue beam, dancing in circles with such elegance that he could almost feel the light of the moon flowing over his scalp, down his neck and across his back; a singular reminder that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as depraved as he had convinced himself he was. It was hard, so hard. Believing that he was the scum of all Azeroth was paramount to his own psychological justification for his new life. It hurt to live the lie, and it hurt to relive the truth; and without either lies or truth, he felt like nothing.

Through the pain, he saw it in the dark. The beam hovered down through that singular opening in the canopy, illuminating just the very top of the small grassy hill. Across the ravine, he was too far to focus but close enough to see.

The trees lining the sides formed a natural wall, blocking out the possibility of any onlookers from the sides. And on that quiet, otherworldly night with no wind, there was only the mental prison on one side of the ravine, and that unobtainable freedom behind a still-visible glow on the other as he reached for it longingly.

A light shone. Faint, far but still visible in the distance, it penetrated into his soul just as much as it opened up for him. One, single shared moment that was so brief yet so deep. He pulled his hand back, knowing that he wasn't strong enough to let himself be free. But the memory of his missed chance was enough. Even if he was still searching for his inner peace, the image of having once watched it pass him by was enough to keep him going.

The light of the moon dimmed as his tears of laughter washed some of the pain away along with the hope that escaped once again, and the blackness returned. And in that split second, the dream was gone.

The jungle troll woke up slowly, almost wishing he could fall back asleep and return to the same dream. It was futile - the only time he had ever forced himself back to sleep, he merely returned to more nightmares of his crimes against nature. The man closed his eyes one more time as he pushed the thoughts out of his head. He was no longer Garot'jin the torturer; Garot'jin was supposed to have died a deserved death, forever marked as an outcast.

No, he was different now. A new identity, a second chance. He was a mere highway robber, just another dreg of society who had served out his sentence in a hellish prison only to be released early to help fight the Iron Horde. Even if it hurt to live the lie while awake, it was all he could do - revisiting the pain of the past could be saved for horrid, unmerciful sleep.

He breathed deep one more time before rolling over and searching for his jacket. The rest of the hired men were still sleeping on their bunks, and he didn't disturb them - there was no reason for anyone else to be aware of his escape. Just a quick and easy exit as he slipped his winter clothes on, slunk across the floorboards and squeezed his massive frame through the door as quietly as possible.

The snow lied still on the streets of the burgeoning settlement at Thunder Pass. There was no breeze blowing, and with minimal activity it would be easy to pass unseen. The signpost above the door of a medium-sized inn stood still, not even vibrating as the door slid open a hair. A pair of red eyes peered out, spying both the apothecary and vegetable wholesaler across the street. The whole area was devoid of life other than a few stray cats sleeping in the alleyway directly across from the inn's door.

The door was pulled open all the way as a hulking, fur-clad figure slinked out. He reached back with one hand and quietly closed the door behind him, not wanting to be heard. He tiptoed southbound down the empty street, his vibrant scarlet mohawk and a single knotted braid dangling at the back of his head shifting somewhat as he approached the end of the street inch by inch.

The next intersection was another small one, with various shops and distribution centers dotting both sides of the road. Crouching behind a barrel on one corner, the man fingered one of the sawed-off knubs jutting from under his upper lip as he estimated the amount of strides it would take to sprint across the street. It would have to be fast if he wanted to reach the other side of the road without being seen. He rested his left elbow on his knee, keeping his right knuckles on the ground as he envisioned a zig-zagging route to get across. He was completely oblivious to the furry, three-fingered hand reaching for his shoulder.

"Khujand." He spun around while still crouching to see who could possibly have gotten the drop on him.

A relatively lean tauren woman stood there staring down at him quizically. "What are you doing?"

At seven in the morning, not many of the locals had begun their daily chores and business just yet, though everyone was up. Down the street, some of the shopkeepers who lived in the floors directly above their stores were enjoying coffee or breakfast on their balconies, easily able to spy anybody who thought they could possibly hide in broad daylight on a street corner.

The oafish jungle troll was reminded of why he could never have been a rogue. The ivory of his clipped, four-inch long knubs that were once long tusks gleamed in the sunlight.

"I am hidin'."

Zorena stood motionless in front of him, an eyebrow raised above her doeish eyes. She was wearing a cream colored jacket over a green apron with pockets on the front. Along with her pure white, ankle length dress, the overgarments created a color combination that distracted her friend for a moment.

"From what?"

The vegetable delivery kid passed by with a handful of carrots as he greeted them, not even noticing that one of the pair was crouching behind a barrel that was way to small to hide his large stature anyway. The glass bottle-blowing family from Quel'thalas diagonally across the intersection pushed the curtains of their shop window aside and propped the door open as a sign that they were ready for customers.

Khujand's red eyes darted over to the glass blower's children on the porch across the intersection, then back to Zorena, then across the street again, and then back to Zorena.

"I am hidin'."

"Well, I caught you," the tauren chortled as she took Khujand by the arm. "So now I need you to follow me." He stood up and walked alongside her as she explained the message she had received from a contact in the Cenarion Circle the day before.

Embarrassed, he tried to focus on what she was saying as he dodged the growing number of morning bypassers in the street. He bumped past a trio of furry pandaren who were below his chest height only to narrowly miss a blood elf sorceress dressed far too formally for a garrison outpost. Three orcs were already pulling a cart full of assorted iron tools as they blushed at a group of Darkspear troll women eyeing every man that passed by except Khujand. The residential district was ahead, its roads much narrower and too cramped for the two of them to walk comfortably side-by-side.

The narrow, two-storey apartment Zorena shared with her brother Kuma would have been comfortable for most people; with the two tauren and the beefy jungle troll, it felt downright cramped. The chairs the siblings had moved into the sitting room were unusually cushy and plush given the lack of proper furniture factories in Frostfire, and though they were a luxury they also took up even more space.

Kuma was preparing some herbal tea in the kitchen, his body taking up literally the entire space as he hunched over the countertop and wood-powered stove. Zorena sat comfortably in the dull brown chair nearest to the kitchen with her back to Kuma, leaning back slightly. Khujand was tense, holding on to his knees with his hands as he took care not to lean forward and close the mere two-inch gap between his legs and Zorena's. She wouldn't have cared and he meant nothing by it, but despite their friendship Kuma was overly protective of his sister.

"These podlings are almost sentient, but there's something wrong with the groupings in west-central Gorgrond," she explained as she continued reviewing the transcription of the message that had been sent via some sort of enchanted scrying bowl.

"The attacks on locals near Beastwatch have left some of them with infections; it isn't life-threatening, but it causes chronic difficulties with their respiratory systems. Two of my contacts associated with the Cenarion Circle are currently stationed there and need samples from the aggressive podlings in hope of discovering a cure. I won't lie to you; this will require you to take the life of a podling and collect its 'blood' with this." She produced a small jar with some enchanted runes glowing on its lid, the colors sweeping across the spectrum.

Khujand smiled to himself despite knowing that the quest wasn't particularly significant, which was likely the reason why nobody else had accepted it until now. Since the Battle of Thunder Pass had come to an end and other adventurers and garrison grunts had beaten the Iron Horde at their base near the pass into submission, he felt like he was wasting his second chance at life; one could only down so many frost boars before wishing for some sort of a higher purpose.

"So ya need somebody ta ride inta Gorgrond, smash...er, sample some of these podlings, and make it ta Beastwatch?" he said more than asked. "But how do I get back?"

Zorena adjusted one of her two braids. "There has been a lot of activity at the ironworks of the Iron Horde during the past few days. It isn't safe to fly currently, but we have something just as good." She was leaning close as she whispered the secret, causing Khujand to glance at the kitchen to see where Kuma was looking. "One of the mages from Undercity has enchanted a hearthstone for us. It's weak, as magic energy seems to function differently here on Draenor; it will only work once. You can take that wolf you and Toruk found through the pass; once you're done in Beastwatch, just hearth back."

She was suddenly handing the light grey stone with the ocean turqoise runes on it; he had not noticed where she pulled it from at all, but stuck it in the pocket of his fur jacket.

Kuma sat down at the third chair, placing the herbal tea down on a tray. The three of them were practically occupying the whole room, only adding to the already increasing temperature in the region. The weather had warmed up over the past week, though the warm tea was still a delight.

"The reward won't be much," Zorena added, "but it's for a good cause and could lead to a cure for several sick people. The Cenarion Circle will appreciate the effort." She looked Khujand directly in the eye now. "Everybody else I asked was unwilling, as a large party wouldn't make it through the pass unnoticed; this is a solo quest, but Gorgrond is very dangerous for lone travelers. I'm asking you because I felt if there was anybody up to it, it would be you."

His ego which had been deflated for a long time pumping up slightly, the flattered Darkspear did his best to avoid grinning.

"Ya know I'll do it," he said with more enthusiasm escaping onto his face than he realized. "Helpin' ta cure a non-life threatenin' illness might not be tha biggest achievement out there, but every little bit counts. I can even leave today."

Khujand had to lift his hands up to protect his face from the fluffy frostwolf's tongue, the beast almost headbutting him a few times as it tried to smother him with big wolfish kisses. Much like its Darkspear savior, the wolf was oversized and heavy. It was a bit slow but could carry Khujand and his gear for a good distance before tiring. It lacked the killer instinct of the smaller, more lithe wolves, but then again, Khujand wasn't an actual hunter and didn't tame beasts anyway. As a mount, it was a perfect fit.

"Are you sure you don't want to give it a name?" asked Thunderhorn, leaning against the railing of the wolf's pen inside the stables.

The old tauren had been caring for the giant, snow white furball since it followed the jungle troll home after the successful catch of another large boar for the inn. He tried to scare it off at first, but it just kept following him with its tongue hanging out, its big blue eyes staring at him like those of a big puppy. It was so docile that what few children there were at the settlement (mostly local, non-Azerothian orcs) could climb on its back and pull its ears without fear.

"Wolf is a name," Khujand replied, rubbing the animal's belly as it rolled in the dirt and hay.

Thunderhorn rolled his eyes as he smiled. "Is Ushka alright with you disappearing for half a week?"

The hefty troll inhaled deeply, his back puffing up as he kneeled over his new mount. "I started bunking with tha hired men tha other night," he started. "Neither of us are totally comfortable, but she has reasons ta be paranoid about money. Tha extra room ta rent out will really help. It has a toilet and everything."

"Is she taking it personally that you're working somewhere else, even temporarily?" Thunderhorn's eye was raised as he asked. He didn't want to pry, but the two were close enough now that they could butt into each others' business a bit.

Khujand sighed. "I think she might. She didn't indicate that, but I understand if she does. She has enough kills now ta serve customers for at least a week, but..." He looked off to the side as he trailed off for a moment. Thunderhorn knew that Khujand had been in prison, though nobody knew the real reason. His fake identity was protected, and around his small circle of friends, he could open up a little bit - keeping certain pieces secret while working out the details of the lie.

"I'm feelin'...listless, ya know. I was supposed ta be here with a second chance at life. Now I'm just catchin' animals for food. It's honest work, but it ain't what I had expected. Ushka knows that, and sometimes she hints that I'm wastin' potential, wastin' time better spent with other things."

He couldn't make eye contact with Thunderhorn as he spoke. As much as he had progressed socially since coming to the settlement at Thunder Pass, the reality was that only a month and a few days ago, he was in prison in a near-catatonic state. Lorthiras had given him a bit of a pep talk, the initial assault through the Dark Portal made him feel alive again and the horrors of Tanaan (and the fact that he survived it) reminded him of his own mortality and the fact that he had a life to live. The problem was, he didn't know how to live normal anymore. Nearly six years in an unacknowledged prison couldn't be reversed in one month, especially without any family and no friends save the dozen other adventurers like Thunderhorn, all of whom would go their separate ways after the campaign.

"Ushka is right, if that is what she's trying to imply to you," Thunderhorn said thoughtfully as he stroked his furry chin. "And if that's the case, it's probably better for you to go try other things. It might help you to sort things out in your head."

The frostwolf had already been saddled up as the stablehand was speaking. It was so attached to Khujand that there weren't even any reins - verbal commands and pointing were enough for the happy canine to follow directions.

"Maybe tha change in scenery will help me figure my life out," Khujand sighed as he looked back at one of his few friends in the world. Thunderhorn swung the brand new gate open as the two walked out, Khujand's enormous travel bag and three-foot-long waterskin strapped to his back. They both worked to fasten his weapons to the side of the heavy wolf's saddle before bidding each other farewell.

"Khujand!" the mottled black tauren called out. The fur-clad traveler and is docile mount both turned back to see Thunderhorn raise his right arm and point to them dramatically.

"Stay safe!"

The two men shared a good laugh as the troll and the wolf disappeared down the ridge and out of the settlement. It was a simple solo quest to slice open some plant people. Surely there wouldn't be anything along the way that could jeopardize his safety, he thought to himself.