...From the depths of the void, from the eternal gloom,
Under the whisper of waves, where only we survived the doom,
We raise a song to those older than dreams,
Who slumber in the depths, where no light gleams...
Their will is ruin, their mind—eternal night,
Their touch—the seal of madness, stealing sight.
There is no hiding, no escape to find,
One of us you'll be, leaving all behind.
The taste of sea salt in my mouth. A vile, cold sensation stretches across my whole body.
Cold... very cold, and only my head burns with fire again from the runes pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Just like my lungs, pushing the remains of water outward. They burned like a blacksmith's forge, fiercely and with strain, so that every breath echoed with pain throughout my body.
I was drowning.
Choking in the icy water, while strong, slimy hands dragged me into the darkness. Bubbles everywhere, darkness surrounds me from all sides, and any attempt to break free ends in nothing.
The thickness of the water squeezes my body. Moving becomes harder...
A flash.
Light flickers before my eyes; it is everywhere and nowhere. Bright, all the colors one can imagine. Emptiness in my head and only dark circles before my eyes in a blurring picture.
I am lying on my back. The cold floor slightly soothes the pain in the runes of the oath burning with fire. A meager groan escapes my mouth, like the creak of old, rusted metal.
I try to roll over... To push up on my elbows and look around. But my head is empty, only pain pulsing without end.
One of my eyelids opens slightly, and I see something before me... Khaz. Words cannot describe the wrongness and unlikeness of this place to everything I have seen before.
High cast columns stretch into the heavens, disappearing in the distance. They are entwined with ivy, corals, and seaweed, through which carved shells of lilac shades protrude. Beneath me is neither earth nor stone... A strange, soft substance, moist and cool, yielding under my fingers.
And light...
A strange, almost ghostly light pouring from everywhere. From the ground, from the columns, from the corals. It draws the gaze, but if one lingers on it for more than a couple of seconds, whispers begin to sound in the head, and the pain in the temples becomes unbearable.
And among all this horror, they walked... crawled. Light played on the scales of their backs; huge tails with fins swayed majestically at the will of their masters. Grotesque faces that you wouldn't wish to see even in a nightmare...
One of these creatures approaches. But all I see is a pair of yellow eyes and a hand stretched toward my head, softly and smoothly stroking me, running fingertips along the carved runes.
Unable to endure it, my consciousness shuts down.
"Uncle Goldrick, is it true that the biggest catfish hide at the bottom of the lake?"
My childhood voice sounded unusually sharp. Looking around, I tried to understand what was happening, but instead of an answer, a fishing rod was placed in my hands. Broad-shouldered and smiling Goldrick grunted into his mustache, then silently nodded toward the small pier.
Unable to resist, I took the first step... then the second, the third...
When my bare toes caught the edge, nearly falling into the void, I froze. Froze, unable to tear my eyes away from the lake's surface. Dark, quiet, and gloomy... it seemed to be looking back at me.
Leaning lower, dropping to one knee, I tried to scoop up water with my palm, but instead of sitting down smoothly, I fell through, plunging into the lake's depths.
My eyes snapped open suddenly. I was being turned inside out. A taste of blood and seaweed, which was being forced into me, was stuck in my mouth. Spitting out the foul mixture, I try again to stand... but almost no strength remains in my arms. My body fails me, and falling on my side like a gutted fish, I am forced to gulp air deeply through my mouth, trying to recover.
My eyes slide over the columns again, anywhere, just not to look at the cursed light again.
Through the seaweed and shells, the outlines of symbols emerge. Thousands of inscriptions merged into a single pattern, telling the story of this place. Ancient runes...
So familiar...
"Your service has been valued... Your flesh is but a shell for his will..."
I was being turned inside out again... from the voice... from the singing... or from the hissing. It seemed to seep right into the brain... ancient, deep...
Unable to withstand the pressure, my mind shut down again—sending me into a saving oblivion.
"This is for you, Rodgirn." That soft voice, a kind smile on wind-chapped lips...
Grandmother Mogrin gently pats my head. Her dry, working hands, covered with calluses, give affection and warmth. She hands me a toy.
"So that you become a real blacksmith, like your grandfather!"
My eyes drop down of their own accord, looking at the gift—a wooden hammer, perhaps the most precious treasure for a child.
"The runes of your oaths..." A vile female voice tears me away from childhood memories. Groaning long and hard, I felt again how slimy fingers ran across my scalp, tracing a path, repeating the carved symbols. "Every line... a thread of submission and loyalty..."
The voice is getting closer; it's right there, practically next to my ear. I try to see her, but I only see a dark female silhouette in the reflection of the cursed light. Her hair has a life of its own; it hisses and jerks as if alive.
She catches my gaze. Yellow eyes with vertical pupils, a toothy smile of needle-like fangs... The creature's words spread like an oil slick. No matter how much I try to grasp them, I can't catch them whole.
"Accept his will... Accept the reward for the gifts..."
Pain pierces my head. A red-hot needle plunges into my brain, forcing me to grab my head, opening my mouth in a silent scream.
My fingers find the vile scars on my head. Swollen, painful from every touch, just touching this filth makes me nauseous.
"Cast aside fear and doubt," the female voice continues to sing over my ear, driving into my head in sync with the pain, "your will... is broken... your thoughts... are ours... you are part of the design of the Old Gods..."
Inside, fear mixed with rage. The weight of what was happening pressed down on me—spilling out in a cry of pain and fatigue before my consciousness failed me once more—sending me into non-existence.
"Rodgirn, steel is like character," Father... still alive. Standing in grandfather's smithy, showing me a simple blank that I managed to spoil, "it must be tempered in fire and water to become strong and resilient."
"But my steel is broken... I feel it... I am drowning... not only in water, but in this madness." For the first time in these memories, I was able to speak, but Father seemed not to hear me.
Heat hits my face, drying the emerging sweat. My whole body is on fire, but it's much better than the vile, damp chill and cold. My mouth becomes drier; I swallow saliva—looking at my old man.
His gaze is calm and heavy, like the ancient anvil under his free hand. Strong fingers affectionately stroke the metal, running pads over every chip, crack, or dent.
Looking over the sword one last time, Father says nothing and returns it to my hands. I know what it means. No words are needed. If it didn't work the first time—then I should go and redo it.
— The blood of the earth... Whisper your secrets," even here I can hear that cursed voice. It presses from all sides, penetrating my thoughts, crushing the walls of memories.
But there is still something unshakable in this "world." My father, standing a couple of steps away from me, pointing his free hand at a blazing forge, inside of which a golden light flickers behind a cascade of scarlet flame. Quite tiny, small... But still alive.
And around it... Around it, thin lines of different colors intertwine. Scarlet—passionate and strong—the color of blood and life. And green—soft and calming, like fresh grass in spring.
Without thinking long, taking one last look at my father, I threw the sword into the forge without hesitation, allowing the golden light to consume the ruined blank.
The flame flares up stronger. At first, bit by bit, but with every moment it gains more strength, filling with light and flooding the room with it...
Driving away the darkness, pushing the whispers and songs of the underwater snakes into the farthest corner, though unable to remove them forever.
The memory trembles; I feel it. I feel myself being pulled back to reality, while the mighty figure of my father dissolves into smoke, leaving only me and the golden light with the intertwined threads.
Closing my eyes, I tried to step closer, to grasp the burgeoning golden light...
But I only woke up again in the cursed underwater temple, decorated with the crafts of those shitty Murlocs or their masters, hell if I can tell them apart.
My thoughts fell into order, every cell of my body demanded action, and my growling stomach yearned to devour a whole ram or even something bigger.
My fingers ran awkwardly over the scars of the carved oaths on my head... Now extinguished and cold, no longer carrying fury or bloodlust. Some of them had healed over, while others had become mere rough growths on my body.
"I need a drink... Life didn't prepare me for this kind of shit."
I hadn't felt anything like this in a long time; even the most horrific hangover couldn't compare to what I had to experience in this cursed place... Old Gods. The words echoed in my head, as if the name itself carried a terrible intent; as soon as I thought them, the runes on my head pricked slightly, but nothing more.
Instead, a familiar warmth of a forge with a golden flame inside flared up in my chest. And this inspired optimism, especially in this gloomy and eerie place.
"Though..."
Looking around, I realize there's nothing that unusual in this underwater hovel; even Troll shit looks more threatening and frightening compared to the debris and ruins where I woke up.
I lay in the center of a semblance of a temple, or what was once one. Everything around was thoroughly stinking of fish, rotten Meat, seaweed, and seawater. The stench was so horrific that the body's first impulse—to eat—instantly receded into the background.
Covering my nose with my palm, I looked around more closely, noting everything that had seemed like a hallucinatory delusion. Runes of the ancient dialect of Khaz Modan carved into the walls. Glowing corals stuffed into corners...
And, of course, the snake. A massive beast, with a torso resembling a Human's, but with a fish tail and fins—stuck everywhere possible. Instead of hair, dead snakes hung from its head, dangling like ropes from side to side every time the serpent shuddered in sobs.
The ugly thing huddled in the corner, covering its face and tucking its tail under itself. Her nervous, painful sobs echoed through the temple, but they didn't evoke a drop of pity in me.
Habitually trying to roll up my sleeves, I found myself completely naked, which caused my rage threshold to jump another couple of points.
Reaching the creature with a steady stride, I was already prepared to beat all the shit out of it when the monster went into hysterics again and shuddered, trying to crawl further away from me.
She was afraid of me. With every step I took, the snake-girl shrank back even more, though it seemed there was nowhere left to go.
Grabbing the monster by the arm, I yanked her out of her refuge with all my might, easily dragging her into the center of the hall, forcing her to appear before me in all her "glory."
"What in the name of Khaz happened here?" All my fire quickly died out. I expected resistance. I expected a fight, condemnation, or at least a rebuff or a tantrum, but... As soon as I dragged the snake into the light, her body was revealed to me... Decorated with terrible burns, starting from her face and ending with the palms of her hands. The entire front part looked as if it had been hit by a stream from a Fire-spitter!
"What did you do to me? And what's wrong with you?" Trying to jerk the monster up once more, to shake her properly so she'd start answering questions... I only achieved more intense quiet tears mixed with mumbling.
Leaning closer, bending down so I could hear her tearful chirping, I caught every word, trying to get to the essence.
"Rejected his gift... Deceived... Me... All of us..." Her words seemed like nonsense to me, barely forming a picture, but gradually the meaning began to dawn on me. "Gave an oath... Such betrayal... After so many gifts... Holy... Cursed Holy! Burning, hateful... Holy!"
Trying to grab the snake's arm again, I watched with doubt and disgust as she cowardly burrowed back into her hole, trying with all her might to avoid contact with me.
"To hell with you, although..." Just as I was about to give up on the terrified creature, a thought occurred to me and I had to approach her again. I didn't particularly want to do it, but I grabbed the creature by the shoulder, turning her burnt face toward me, looming over her and trying to scare the overgrown Murloc even more. "How do I get out of here?"
***
Orgrim Doomhammer—Warchief of The Horde, sat upon the bodies of fallen Humans who had died under the head of his own hammer. The massive pile of bodies perfectly demonstrated his personal strength to anyone who still dared to doubt him, and at the same time served as a decent throne from which it was convenient to observe reporting chieftains or their confidants.
Dozens, hundreds of Orcs, Trolls, Goblins, Ogres. Commanders, chieftains, Shamans, inventors, scouts, logistics officers...
They all gathered before him, taking turns reporting on their successes or losses.
Grunting at the thought of the latter, Doomhammer bared his teeth so that half of the subordinates standing before him lost color in their faces, especially a clumsy one-headed Ogre in battle-worn Armor who was fidgeting like a young female elekk during a herd outing.
The Humans had lost once again. Another battle that brought glory to him and his Horde was won, and the few scattered survivors of the meat grinder would carry news to their kin, spreading fear and horror through their kingdoms.
"Only they won't be yours for long."
Nodding to his own thoughts, Orgrim gripped his famous hammer tighter, its head resting on a corpse beneath his feet.
The local races had proven themselves good warriors, but it wasn't enough to break the power of the growing Horde that was learning from its mistakes. Doomhammer did not disdain Humans, recognizing their good points and adapting them for Orcs. He learned every day, and today—it had yielded the first, wonderful results. The enemy army was utterly defeated, and the losses were only a small fraction, which would be quickly replenished by new clans arriving from the south.
"Good, you may go." Nodding to the Ogre, who almost had a joyful fainting spell at those words, the Warchief looked through the petitioners for someone more interesting, someone who could bring him truly good news.
That was when the chieftain's attentive gaze noticed something wrong. Struggling through the crowd toward him, a warrior of the Warsong Clan came limping. The once mighty Orc looked as if he had been chewed on by a dragon or a gronnt. Pieces of his Armor had fallen off, his weapon was snapped, and only a tattered banner showed his affiliation to the once-great clan.
Pointing a finger at him, the chieftain waited with difficulty as the battered and barely conscious warrior was led before his eyes. Struggling to stay on his feet, the fighter gratefully accepted a drink from the local bearded shorties—draining it in one gulp.
"Great Chieftain... I am from the clan..."
"I know who you are and where you're from," Orgrim interrupted the warrior's words, forcing himself to remain seated with sheer willpower, maintaining his usual composure. One could not show weakness, even in such small things. "What of Hellscream? Where is your clan? And what of the Human city, the capital of this kingdom?"
"Dead... All dead..." A deafening silence rolled through the ranks. "Chieftain Hellscream has fallen..."
No matter how much the Orcs competed with each other, trying to push clans at the top of power, each of them recognized the strength and might of Grommash Hellscream—second only to Orgrim himself. And the news that such a renowned warrior had perished, along with his entire clan...
"The Humans held the siege... Then they set a trap," meanwhile, the last member of the Warsong Clan continued the story, "they blew up the city, collapsing it underground and killing everyone."
With a wave of his hand, Orgrim ordered the wounded fighter to be taken to the healing tent, where Troll and Goblin healers would attend to his wounds. The news brought was unpleasant, and that was putting it mildly, especially after such a deafening victory that should have brought glory and a resounding triumph! Now... Now it would only cover the loss they had suffered—trying to capture Stromgarde.
Rising from his seat, Doomhammer looked over his subordinates, then smiled bloodthirstily, gripping his hammer tighter and slinging it over his shoulder in one motion—wrenching the head out of the body of the local king.
Perhaps he was wrong. And the Humans might still show him what they are worth.
"Otherwise, this war would be too easy."
***
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