Jarn'dor Gurubashi traversed the mountains of the Arathi Highlands with a little difficulty, the rocky bluffs jutting out with awkward and confusing angles, unlike the jungle trees of his homeland. The Troll had broken out into a sweat a few hours ago, the physical exertion far more tasking on his body than he had thought was possible.

It had been nearly two months since Vyndakian Sunshatter, Alk'wan Bloodraptor, and he had confronted the mastermind Golion Ragereaver, and had defeated him upon the Blackrock Spire. They had swept aside his Orcish and Dark Iron armies, and had barely survived with their lives.

Since that night, he had been plagued by horrible visions, of his own death, and of the death of everything at the hands of Golion's true form, the Magmawyrm Obsidion Terrorwing. Gigantic, black insects had swarmed the landscape, as ethereal Dragons pierced through the sky, blackening the earth with their flames.

These visions had slowly destroyed his sleep, and the peace of his quiet household. Jaz'renthi had slowly recovered from her imprisonment within Blackrock Spire, but she had quickly become worried about Jarn'dor and his dreams.

Now, the Druid was climbing this mountain, in hopes of tapping into the supposed natural spring at its peak, to draw upon its soothing powers to cleanse himself.

With a mighty heave, Jarn'dor pulled himself to the precipice of the mountain. There was no spring, no nature, just a flat, grey surface. The Druid groaned, sitting down after his futile climb.

After the battle with Golion, everyone had gone there separate ways, Vyndakian leaving to try and regain his lost memories, and Alk'wan to lead the Clan. Jarn'dor had mainly stayed with Jaz'renthi, trying to make up for the time he had missed with her, staying inside the Emerald Dream.

Vyndakian had reunited with a childhood love, and had quickly filled the void in his heart that the Elf Kisha'rowyn had left him. For this, Jarn'dor was glad, that his friend wasn't left to mope forever.

Alk'wan had quickly united what remained of the Clan, and everything was slowly begin to function normally again. The wreck that Zi'bal had left with his death had been repaired, and turned into a functional fighting force. Slowly, the Clan had become a noticeable force within the Horde, multiple members even sitting in on meetings with the Warchief.

Jarn'dor smiled with pride, knowing that his small family had grown so well. Lately, there had been unrest within their ranks though, people had vanished, or had gone mad. No one had seen Durzarn, the Troll Pirate, in at least a week.

A figure appeared out of the shadowy gloom, down the side of the mountain. A fog settled in, blocking the advancing shape from the Druid's view. Jarn'dor reached for a short blade at his belt. It was one of the swords he had used to trap Golion in chains at their battle at Blackrock, and he had kept it as a good luck charm.

He now drew it as the figure slowly popped up from the edge of the mountain-flat, standing upright. Durzarn shifted out from the fog, his baggy shirt and pants hanging from his weather-beaten, limp form. The Pirate seemed to be a little ill, his skin a horrid pallor of what it once was. There was something in his eyes, something that unnerved Jarn'dor.

"Durzarn," spoke the Druid, as the Pirate advanced on him, "Is sometin' wrong, bruddah?" The other Troll grinned as he drew his blade, and Jarn'dor's worst fears sparked in his mind, the existence of his greatest terror.

"Durzarn isn't here right now," whispered the voice of Golion, as Durzarn grinned, "But I'll be happy to deal with you." The possessed Troll suddenly swung his blade, and the shocked Druid was struck across his face, unable to raise his weapon in time. He stumbled, and the other Troll advanced, scoring as many blows as possible.

"Foolish Druid," cackled Golion's voice, as Durzarn scored another blow across Jarn'dor's back, "You thought the end was passed, when your doom is just beginning." The Druid collapsed upon the ground, his vision fading. He tried to crawl away, but he knew that he was bleeding; even the murderous puppet was slipping in his pooling blood.

Jarn'dor reached out to be saved, his hands groping thin air. But before him, two sets of hands reached out, groping for his own. His eyes wavered up, to meet the eyes of his parents. Both were whole, unharmed, and smiling.

The Druid laughed, even through his unimaginable pain, as he rejoiced in the presence of his parents. Even as the world slipped away, as the maddened cackles of Golion assaulted his ears, Jarn'dor reached out, to take his parents' hands.


Kisha'rowyn Delsoran walked across the quiet grass of the Eversong Woods, book in hand. For the longest time, the Blood Elf had thrown herself into her work; studying demonic magic, and searching for relics she could use to increase her own power. Of course, her mind occasionally wandered to more personal things. Or people, especially Vyndakian, and the time they had spent, every night i-

She shook her head forcefully, clearing it. No, she wouldn't think about him, not ever again. She would throw herself into her work even more if she had to; there were just too many regrets now. Kisha'rowyn sat down on a rock, and gazed at a nearby river, the babbling brook flowing like a pane of liquid glass.

Her red hair cascaded down her delicate face, framing her high cheeks elegantly. The Warlock smiled at her reflection, and it quickly turned into a grimace. She spotted two perfect, dagger-like teeth; the only things that marked her as a Darksworn.

Vyndakian made her one, to save her life from a demonic curse. And she loved it. She was faster, stronger; she was a hunter, culling the weak from the strong. The Warlock had the choice of who would die and who would live, the actions and thoughts were compelling.

"Staring a little too hard into the river, eh Kisha'rowyn," mused a voice behind her, chuckling. The Elf looked into the water, at the reflection beside her. The speaker was a tall man, dressed in flowing black robes, and with his hood pulled up, covering his face. A hand reached out to pat her shoulder, the scorched-black bones reaching out gingerly.

"Golion," she whispered, half in shock. The Elf was not unfamiliar with what had occurred at Blackrock Spire, and who had been leading the armies inside. How the Dragon had planned to set his Magmawrym's upon the land.

"You look so shocked," he hissed in her ear, "When you know I cannot be killed." As she turned, he vanished into the shadows, gone, but still present.

"Why are you here," asked the Warlock, more than a little nervous. His laughter rang throughout the trees, a sound that caused her to shudder in terror.

"To see an aching heart," he replied, his voice cool, "Tell me, how is Vyndakian and his little lover?" Kisha'rowyn felt a heaviness in her chest, at his name. Memories danced before her eyes of her and the Death Knight, but soon she was replaced by his woman, Trayste Ashward. She clenched her fists in anger, seething at the thought of him with another woman.

"Why should I know or care," she shot back, trying to remain cool and composed, "He means nothing to me." Golion laughed once more, the chilling sound causing her skin to crawl.

"Such a shame," he sighed, as a package appeared before her. It was one that Vyndakian had tossed at her feet when they had fought and broken up. She had given it to Alk'wan, the fear of what had laid inside it burying itself into her.

"Open it," whispered the Dragon, as Kisha'rowyn reached for the package. She was curious, and tantalized. The Elf burned to know what was inside the box, what Vyndakian had thrown at her feet. But then a fear gripped hold of her; what if it was some sort of poison that would kill her when she opened it?

The Warlock brought her foot down, crushing the package under her booted feet. She ground it into the dirt, just for spite. Golion appeared behind her, as his arm went around her waist, and his clenched hand held just in front of her face. It slowly opened, to reveal a beautiful engagement ring.

"Such a shame," he mused, "That you broke his frozen heart before he could propose." Kisha'rowyn was more than a little surprised that Vyndakian was going to propose to her. Suddenly, she was filled with anger; anger at Golion, at Vyndakian, and especially at Trayste.

Soon, her anger burnt out, and a few tears began to stream down her eyes. The Warlock leaned back against Golion, surprised at how warm he was. Despite her want to do otherwise, she found a little solace.

"I can make the pain go away," he whispered, and Kisha'rowyn's ears perked slightly.

"How," she asked breathily, as the ring in Golion's hand melted, turning into a golden Azeroth, the diamonds from the ring making up the Maelstrom.

"I can give you the world," he replied, as the golden orb changed into a Dragon, "I can make you the Broodmother of the last Dragons on Azeroth." Kisha'rowyn couldn't help but smile. With that kind of power, she could easily do whatever she wanted. The Elf looked up at Golion, as his form changed, into that of Vyndakian. But she gasped at the changes.

His skin was the gray of ash, the parlour of death. And while his face was as beautiful as Vyndakian's, his eyes were fiery orbs of absolute evil. Spiderwebs of molten fire danced over his skin, brining a terrifying light to his face. The golden slag in his hand slowly reshaped, turning as black as Golion's soul. In moments, the ring had reformed, the gold now pitch black, and the diamonds now a blood red.

The Dragon slid it over Kisha'rowyn's fingers, and brought them up to his lips. She could feel herself blushing, as a cruel smile played across her lips. A cold sort of love filled her breast, and she knew that everything was perfect.

"With gifts like that," responded the Elf, "How could a girl resist?"


Alk'wan sat inside his tent, running a sharpening stone over his axe-blade. The Troll had finally had time to relax, and then realized his weapons were in serious disrepair. So, the Warrior had spent the last few hours cleaning his somewhat extensive arsenal.

He had been busy ever since the raid on Blackrock Mountain, trying to keep the Clan together. Once Golion had been uprooted, he had surprisingly caused a lot of discourse and damage to the clan. The Dragon seemed to have had a lot of contacts and servants within their ranks, and Alk'wan had spent the last month and a half weeding them out.

The Troll stepped outside his tent, to absorb the cool night air. While he would normally spend his time at the Barrens, his travels had brought him to Mulgore, the plains-like home of the peaceful Tauren.

He wiggled his toes in the soft grass, as the moon reached its apex overhead. While normally lost in shadow, tonight the moon was full, shedding its light upon all of Azeroth.

A sudden burst of magical power drew his gaze downwards, as a package appeared next to his feet. Alk'wan couldn't help but smile, as he had asked his brother to send any mail for him to him magically. In the back of his mind, he wondered how Zimbawa was doing.

He opened the package, and the proceeded to gag from the stench of decay. Alk'wan swallowed some bile, before reaching into the box. His hands slowly closed around what felt like hair. As he lifted the object, the disembodied head of Wiigarg came into view, maggots slowly crawling out from his mouth.

First Dragons, then heads, what the hell was next?


Vyndakian pulled Trayste into his arms, smiling as she giggled. The two were standing on a bridge, just above a flowing river. They were surrounded by beautiful trees, their leaves yellowing in the autumn weather. Just a few moments ago, the two had enjoyed the sunset, being closer than two should be in public.

The Death Knight pulled a ring out from under his tunic, sliding it onto Trayste's finger. She could only smile, and plant a kiss on his lips.

"Yes," she whispered, as he pulled her up into his arms. Everything that he had pictured growing up, it was all about to happen. His mouth met hers in a passionate kiss, as his mind seemed to touch hers. Everything was beginning to blur together, as they began to get very close. Very VERY close.

"Father!" Vyndakian was suddenly roused from their private moment, shaking his head. Trayste continued to kiss air for a moment, soon realizing that it had ended, albeit a little sheepishly.

"Father," cried out Kaoru, pushing through the trees, tears streaking down her eyes. Vyndakian soon found his arms filled again with a woman, but not Trayste. He looked at his fiancée with a little worry before looking back at Kaoru.

"Kaoru," spoke the Older Elf, "What's wrong?" She sobbed into her father's shoulder for a long time.

"It's Jarn'dor," she managed to choke out, "He's dead…"


Golion laughed, sitting on his throne. Kisha'rowyn had retired to her chambers shortly after arriving at Utgarde Keep, only taking the time to meet with their allies. The Dragon knew she was probably plotting Vyndakian's destruction. And he was fine with that. After all, it was the only reason that he had 'recruited' her.

What entertained him now, was one of the Warlocks that worked with his eggs. The entire group of spellcasters had come to watch their leader babble on.

"You see milord," managed the Warlock, "The eggs are too unstable to age once they hatch. We'd need to wait for them to hatch naturally." Golion tapped his talons across the arm of his throne in irritation.

"And how long would that take," asked the Dragon, more than a little impatient to begin his plans. The Warlock quavered under his Lord's gaze, his knees knocking.

"Approximately one hundred years," he managed to get out before a scream was torn from his throat, as his body was compressed by Golion's magic, the screaming form folding in on itself.

Obsidion pushed himself off of his throne, walking down to the Warlocks. He pointed at one, and the rest of the group stepped back, singling him out.

"You are the leader now," he ordered, "Make sure my eggs hatch in the next week." The Warlocks immediately scattered from the room after those words, before they could incur their master's wrath.

A small group brought a canister into the chamber, a set of flowing, plain robes set on the top. Across the funeral canister, the words Liar, Deciever, Killer, and Traitor were scribbled in Zandali

"Good," hissed the Dragon, "You found it." One of the Urn bearers stepped forward, nodding.

"It was not easy," he replied, "The Bloodraptor hid it well. We nearly lost it getting it off the mountain." Golion laughed. Of course, the Clan would hide their last leader, in hope that no one would find him.

"Seal the room," he ordered, as he pulled out his spell book, flipping through the pages. Before he knew it, there was no light, save for the paint on the burial urn. With a snap of his talons, the letters in his spellbook began to glow.

Like most of his relics, the spellbook was also stolen, once having been in the position of the Guardian, Medivh. But after a raid on Karazhan, he had acquired a few powerful tools, just like his raid on the Black Temple, where he had acquired the lost Warglaives of Azzinoth.

Golion began to chant, and the room became silent. Time seemed to stand still, as words in a strange tounge began to issue forth from the Dragon's mouth. The Urn shook and rattled on the floor below him, as the complex spell began to work.

The lid of the Urn shattered, as the robe floated above it, bleached white bones emerging from the clay pot. They began to assemble themselves inside the robe, taking the form of a Troll.

The bones rattled as the skeletal figure fell to the floor, kneeling. Golion laughed as his spell was completed, and the Troll rose.

"Welcome back to life, Zi'bal."