Hello, everyone.

This is my first story here. Set in the Warcraft-Universe after the Cataclysm.

Since I'm not native to the English language I hope you're forgiving towards all errors in the story – I did my best to correct as much as possible.

The M-Rating has its reason and beside of that I just hope you enjoy :)

Chapter 1

Phin was at a loss – how did she get into this situation?

One of her hands holding up her woolen robe, the other clutched at a wooden pillar in the middle of the old shack. Her ears were ringing with her own moans and the feral grunts of the worgen behind her – both laced with sex and need.

There was no denying it. The furred beast was sticking its manmeat in and out of her, its heavy sack slapping against her nether folds with that delicious nub of nerves. Whenever he thrust up inside her, she could feel his furred tights rubbing against her bare ones. Her knees were trembling under the assault and she wondered how she could still stand.

Her breasts with their erect peaks were aching for attention, and a clawed hand (paw?) grabbed up to cub it roughly. The other was still on her hips, steading her. How long they were rutting like this she didn't know. She bit her lip, trying in vain to stifle her moans, only to spur the worgen on even more, his cold muzzle pressing in her neck and speeding up.

She was aware of her own body that was more than eagerly welcoming that thrusting pole in her core, grabbing and releasing, massaging the veined shaft of its seed – the very thought of having this beasts semen inside of her scandalized her almost to death, her fleeting attempts to slip out of the worgens grip only resulted in a firmer one and Phin felt her climax approaching, the pitch of her voice rising.

The days beginning had not anticipated any of this…

Not that her mission in itself anticipated anything. Be it her survival or her dignity or the fact, that her brains where very close to be fucked out of her head – or all three at the same time. One of these hands (or paws) with its four long claws at each digit could effortlessly slice her throat!

How, in the name of the Highborn, did she end up here?

Seven weeks ago she was summoned by the warchief himself for a special assignment in the warzone known as Gilneas, or at least what was left of this once proud human kingdom. Garrosh Hellscream, tall and brown with piercing black eyes, suspected treason of his already mistrusted ally Sylvanas Windrunner, ruler of the Undercity, for using a forbidden weapon, a cursed weapon, against civilians in the war.

Phin knew her warchief to be headstrong, proud and not easy to get along with, but there was one simple rule in his reign he would always make his subjects keep in mind: the honor of his people, and of his enemies. Even though he would never hesitate to comp off a humans head in battle, he strictly forbade the use of this weapon – and all intelligence was pointing out just that: Sylvanas had ignored the ban.

And now it was up to Seraphita Moonshadow to uncover one of many ugly secrets within the ruins of Gilneas.

At first sight this was a suicide-mission. Alone in the middle of an active warzone, surrounded by enemies, she was to look for evidence about a biological essence – and there wasn't even proof that she would find anything, or where she should start looking.

Of course Hellscream did not send her with the intention that she would fail, but because he trusted that she was the most likely person to succeed here. As an Ex-Archmage of Dalaran and a High Arcanist of Silvermoon Seraphita was by all means a skilled combatant in battle with experiences that would make even the most fearless warrior pale and shake.

But still, walking through Gilneas all alone with no intention to get in touch with any of the warring parties was still a challenge. The worgen would most probably tear her to pieces and the Forsaken would catch and interrogate her – and since she wasn't supposed to be here anyway there was no way her undead allies would go easy on her… Both situations would end probably in her death, and since these were wartimes that death would be just as ugly as well…

But sometimes things were worth those risks.

And so she had packed up her bags and travelled in secret to the Eastern Kingdoms. To cover up her tracks she had used a boat of the Steemwheedle Cartel to make sure nobody would guess her final destination. And then, after about a week of traveling and detours, she arrived at the southern borders of the Forsaken territory, once known as the kingdom of Lordaeron. It took another week until she landed on the peninsula of Gilneas. She had to swim a lot and climbing over mountains but in the end she stood on gilnean soil.

Still she shivered. Never before did she have to go all alone. No backup, no security… Normally she never did anything without a proper plan, a plan B and a backup plan and another plan if anything went wrong – which had never happened before. And now she found herself being on her own with only her powers, experience, wisdom, her knowledge and her will to get back to Orgrimmar in one piece and with results.

Well, I've had worse.

Being a mage had certain advantages. For example a space extending spell on her bag which held her complete lab. Before her departure she thought about to take her library along as well but since her mission contained the analysis of contaminated organic samples books would be a nuisance. In her youth she had walked the path of a ranger like her parents, enabling her to avoid patrols and scouts. All in all things were not as bad as she thought previously.

But Gilneas was something else. Gloomy and constantly clouded her mood suffered greatly. Not even nocturnal Ashenvale or bone chilling Icecrown could have affected her spirit like this, transforming her into nervous wreck that looked over its shoulder every now and then. It was raining almost constantly and after only one week in soaking robes she thought about quitting. By the Highborn, never in her life would she have imagined she could miss the sun as badly as now. Not even on the Echo Isles where the Jungletrolls of the Darkspear Tribe (still, they were Trolls!) lived could make her feel so awkward… At least they had fine weather if you didn't mind the pressing heat and damp air. Right now Seraphita was yearning for warmth, even if she had to share it with trolls.

Since the curse of the Worgen was unleashed upon the humans of Gilneas the weather and very nature of the peninsula was reacting to it. Not only clouds and rain, even trees and rocks seemed to be depressed, if wood and stone could have any of such feelings. And the survivors were even more affected.

A Gilnean no matter if he was afflicted by the worgencurse or not, looked like a normal human to any member of the other races. But as soon as you would see him next to a citizen of Stormwind, the other human kingdom, the differences became more pronounced: pale and dark, kind of cryptic with the air of arrogance and imaginary superiority. For years the Gilneans had lived behind the Greymane Wall, ignorant against the world outside. Maybe they would have kept it like this for generations to come but the worgencurse changed everything and the Gilneans reluctantly rejoined the Alliance.

The attack of the Horde after the Cataclysm speeded negotiations up as well.

Seraphita was sulking under her hood, her dark hair plastered on her forehead. Stupid war, stupid warchief. If Garrosh wouldn't be such a bloody warmonger to start with, Sylvanas wouldn't have been forced to use the potent plague and she, Seraphita, wouldn't have to hike through the slippery mountainside. By now her knees were sore, and she had already bandaged one ankle after tumbling off a large boulder. And still she gathered her samples, plants and wood, even little stones and pebbles and some critters. Everything could bear traces of the forbidden plague and since Seraphita as a survivor of the Wrathgate who had seen the results of Putress' research first hand she also knew the exact formula.

She wasn't proud of it but as a matter of fact after her people joined the Horde her personal pursue for knowledge had led her deep into the belly of the Undercity to refine her skills as an alchemist. In Quel'Thalas the southern half of the elven kingdom was still polluted by the Scourge, constantly invaded by mindless undead. Seraphita was hoping that her research with the Forsaken would help her finding a way to cleanse the Ghostlands…

But her hopes were scattered rather soon since the Forsaken had no intention of cleansing. As a matter of fact that would be counterproductive for their very existence since cleansing the Scourge would also include their final death. But in the beginning Seraphita ignored those inconsistencies, convincing herself that whatever atrocities the apothecaries created down there was only for the benefit of the Horde and therefore also her people. Even the creation of a plague, that would not only affect the Scourges undead minions but also the living members of the Alliance, had its good reasons.

Until the moment she stood petrified on the outlook, watching down into the valley laid down before the Wrathgate. A silent terrified witness of Putress' betrayal and the horrible results of his highly effective plague. Melting flesh, snapping bones, screeching voices vocalizing their anguish. Even Arthas the Lichking, ruler of the Scourge, had to retreat back into his citadel, having nothing in store against the Potent Plague. But he had survived (as far as an undead could be classified as alive anyway) while no mortal warriors down in the valley had.

Seraphita squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ban all memories of that day from her inner eye. Allies, friends, and enemies alike died a horrible death that day, the Alliance renewed their vigil against the Horde and the Horde itself was scattered from within. Even if Sylvanas was not to blame for the assault (Putress had acted on his own with his demonic ally Varimatras) it was she who had assigned the apothecaries with developing a plague in the first place.

And ever since that day relations between the Forsaken and the other Horde factions were tense at best. Thrall, the former warchief, had banned the Plague developed by the Forsaken and Sylvanas had agreed with him back then. But victory over the Lichking and the new war in Gilneas had apparently changed the Banshee Queens mind. Maybe also due to the fact that Sylvanas would never show Garrosh the same grade of respect as she did to Thrall, but her personal resentments against the Plague were wiped away in the face of the difficulties it took to crash the gilnean defenses.

And here she was now. Little Phin walking through a vicious warzone looking for evidence that Sylvanas had disregarded the ban.

Sometimes she doubted her own brains. She could have just declined the order… or Garrosh could have sent one or ten of his Kor'kron guards with her. – Seraphita sighted deeply. Of course he couldn't: a unit of the warchiefs personal elite force would attract attention of worgen and Forsaken alike. And since her mission was of the secretive sort she couldn't afford detection of either party.

This left her drenched in a soaked cloak and robe with wet hair and chilled to her bones. While she collected one plant sample into a small crystal vial her hands were shaking violently. She had to find cover, now.

Every evening Seraphita had to find a secure place to camp and to build up her lab. She preferred abandoned houses or barns; they were dry and easy to warm up with a spark of magic. By now she had developed into a little expert in hiding and hiking, even though her knees wouldn't agree with that – slippery rocks and that. But she had a knack at identifying suitable dwellings and so far outwitted any pursuer, at least if there was any. If a worgen or Forsaken would have seen her she was sure she would have known. Surely she would notice if a villain would jump onto her…

Today hideout was a little barn. After one hour walking she came upon a deserted farm. She had stayed here before two weeks ago. She never stayed longer than one or two days at one place, since there was a war waging in Gilneas save places to hide were few. So she travelled from one place to the other, rotating between them and gathering her samples on the road. She was well aware that it was risky to visit the same places two or three times (she never made it a fourth) but since it was also inadvisable to overly use magic she had to be careful. Before entering a place she cast a minor spell upon it, revealing to her any humanoid being that would hide in there. Luckily her spell, one of the very few she was using here in the open, had never alarmed her. And once inside she would put protective wards around it, making sure that even if someone would enter while she was inside, he wouldn't be able to detect her.

But first she had to get in there.

She crept closer to the barn, hiding between trunks and bushes. When she came close enough she started murmuring under her breath. The incantation was a simple one, but simplicity was often the most difficult lesson to grasp, Andros used to say.

A few moments later she was inside, biting her lip as she scrambled upstairs to the haystack, her aching ankle protesting. She finally collapsed on the straw, too exhausted to mind her prickly bed. A moment she just lay there, listening to the constant drippy sound of rain on the roof. Blessed be the Gilneans and their non-leaking roofs, she though half serious before straighten up – and freezing in terror.

A sound from downstairs, someone was coming!

Voices, rough jagged voices, rang up to the frozen elf. Seraphitas heart was pounding in her slender chest, her breath caught in her throat. As fast she could she stumbled to the ladder that led up to her hiding place on the haystack – but too late, her heart fell: the barns port opened and two worgen entered. Desperate she bit in her sleeve to stifle her panicked squeals.

"Did you hear that?" The deep voice of a female.

"Yes… maybe a mouse," answered a male one and added mockingly, "It's not like they would feel comfortable in our presence."

The sound of unsheathing steal. "I'm not convinced," growled the female. "Let's check upstairs."

I'm trapped! They'll gonna find me! I'm dead!

Purple eyes raced through the barn. Maybe she could fight her way out and use a Teleport spell? But no, there was no way to teleport in or out of an active warzone, attackers and defender saw to that. Killing them? Could work, but they would probably injure her badly enough to rend her unable to continue on her mission. Maybe she would die from infection. What to do?

Just a moment before the furred head of the worgen female emerged Seraphita disappeared.

Yeah, cliffhanger! ;) I really hate those in other stories but concerning my own one… well yes, I'm mean sometimes ^.^

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter – and that there were not too much faults in it. I really tried to fix them…

Anyway, I hope you liked it so far ^^