A Night Elf, huh? Vorath examined his new form with meticulous care. His glowing white eyes stared back at him from the reflection in a nearby stream.
Well, at least I'm alive again. He cracked his knuckles with genuine joy; it had been far too long since he'd felt the simple satisfaction of moving a body of flesh and bone.
He inhaled a deep lungful of fresh air, gazing up at the star-studded night sky. Two moons looked back at him, and he felt a strange, soothing warmth wash over him as he stared at the larger of the two.
Probably a racial instinct, he thought, shrugging the feeling off. He reached down to pick up the sword that had been lying beside him when he woke. The dark metal of the Shadowlands seemed to pulse with a faint, predatory hunger in the moonlight.
He clicked his tongue, a frown marring his new features.
Alright, so what's the Jailer's grand plan this time? He hadn't been given a single instruction, not by Zovaal, and certainly not by those arrogant Nathrezim. He had been left entirely to his own devices.
Now that he knew he was a Night Elf, the next mystery was the timeline. Had he arrived before or after the War of the Ancients? For the moment, Vorath saw no demons on the horizon, nor any towering pillars of Fel fire tearing through the sky. That was a start, at least.
Perhaps he had arrived during a time of peace, but he quickly pushed that thought out of his head. After all, Azeroth was a world defined by perpetual conflict.
Deciding not to linger at his arrival point, Vorath began his trek into the deep woods. In his previous life, he had never gone camping alone; he'd always had a friend or a family member by his side. Now, he could say with certainty that being alone in a forest at night was a terrifying experience, even with a magical sword in his hands.
Every snap of a twig was enough to put him on high alert. A predator could lunge from the shadows at any second, and Vorath had no intention of being caught off guard. The howls of animals that were completely unknown to his memory didn't make him feel any safer, either.
But all of that was just one problem among many. He soon felt a sensation he hadn't experienced in a very long time: hunger. His stomach was growling fiercely, louder than he thought possible.
And so, Vorath set out in search of sustenance. He wasn't stupid enough to just grab a random mushroom or one of the many strange fruits littering the ground; he didn't want to die so soon after finally obtaining a new body.
He found something resembling a rabbit and began to creep forward, trying to be as stealthy as possible. Before the beast even had a chance to hear him, he channeled his anima and manifested a jagged icicle. He hurled it with a sharp flick of his wrist, impaling the creature before it even realized he was there.
Hmm, curious, he noted, flexing his fingers as he felt the energy humming beneath his skin. The anima reacts far differently here than it did in the Maw.
He watched as the animal twitched for a second or two before falling completely still.
Is eating this raw a good idea? I'm terrified of lighting a fire in this forest, he thought, kneeling to pull the icicle from his prey.
The creature was almost identical to a rabbit from Earth, which was comforting in a strange way, but the lack of a stove, and the very real threat of whatever might be lurking in the dark, made his stomach churn with more than just hunger. Crossing his legs, he stared at the carcass, debating if his new Night Elven stomach could handle a raw meal or if the risk of smoke was worth the reward of a cooked one.
Argh, fuck it.
He took a jagged bite of the rabbit. The taste was worlds apart from anything he'd eaten in his previous life; the warm blood filled his mouth, leaving a heavy, metallic tang of iron on his tongue. It was primal and repulsive, but he chewed and swallowed anyway.
Within minutes, the meal was gone. With his stomach feeling slightly more substantial, he tossed the mangled carcass aside for whatever predators might be lurking nearby, perhaps not the smartest move, but he was preoccupied with a more pressing goal.
Finding civilization.
Ideally, he wanted to find a settlement before he got eaten by the local wildlife or, worse, stumbled face-first into a warband of Trolls. He knew enough of the lore to know that Trolls didn't exactly have a "welcome wagon" for Night Elves or Elves in general.
He continued his march through the dense forest, his only companions the twin moons and the cold weight of his sword.
An icicle shattered against a thick trunk in the early morning light. Seconds later, the carcass of a massive boar, a dark blade buried deep in its skull, hit the forest floor with a heavy thud. Vorath collapsed beside it, his breath coming in ragged, happy gasps.
"Ah," he exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. "That one... that one was a fighter."
Nature itself seemed to have a personal vendetta against him. Since nightfall, the local wildlife had been lunging at him without the slightest provocation.
"Does Mother Nature hate me or something?" He forced himself to his feet with a groan, his muscles screaming in protest. "This is going to leave some serious bruises tomorrow."
He stretched, his spine popping in a way that felt both satisfying and painful. He was still struggling to adjust to a body of flesh again, and all the physical cons that came with it.
He pulled the sword from the boar's skull with a sickening squelch. Almost immediately, a now familiar, foul rot began to seep from the wound, and fat, pale maggots wriggled out of the graying flesh.
That was the primary reason he hated killing with the blade. It was a grisly sight. He had no idea what kind of twisted magic Raznal had imbued into the metal, but the result was nothing short of revolting.
"Disgusting," he muttered, wiping the blade on the grass.
Still, he couldn't complain too much. If the boar hadn't shrugged off his icicles like pebbles, he wouldn't have been forced to finish it with the steel in the first place.
He shrugged and turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rouse itself from its slumber. Despite the grueling night spent fighting his way through the brush, Vorath hadn't slept a wink, and strangely, he didn't feel tired. The exhaustion was purely muscular; his mind worked with the same cold clarity as always.
Snap.
He spun instantly to his right at the sound of a breaking twig, his sword raised in a defensive stance, anima surging through his limbs like a current of ice.
"Who are you, elf? You radiate a strange kind of magic."
Vorath shuddered as the voice echoed all around him, seeming to bleed from the forest itself. His eyes darted through the thick canopy, expecting a Night Elf huntress to drop from the boughs or an arrow to whistle through the air, but... nothing.
Then, another snap came from the same direction. From behind a massive ancient tree to his right, a woman stepped into the morning light. Her Night Elf torso was partially hidden behind a layering of thick, broad leaves, and her vine-like green hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail.
But below her waist, the illusion of a humanoid vanished into the powerful, lithe body of a fawn. She watched him with narrowed eyes, her spear leveled at his chest with predatory grace.
Vorath gulped, his mind working at mach speed to find a way out of the situation.
The dryad walked slowly toward the carcass of the boar he had killed minutes prior. She stopped in front of it, her gaze fixing on the wriggling maggots with a look of pure disgust.
"What horrible magic your sword contains, elf," she noted, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fascination. A burst of vibrant green light exploded from her palms, instantly enveloping the corpse.
"I have never seen anything like this," Vorath heard her murmur. He contemplated running, but he chased the thought away as quickly as it had come. Trying to outrun a forest creature in its own domain was not a bright idea.
"I-I woke up with it, but I mean you no harm," he stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel the stress mounting; he was a creature of Death, and she was a being of Life. From everything he knew of the cosmic chart, they were fundamental enemies.
The dryad held his gaze for a long, tense moment before turning her attention back to the boar. As her vibrant nature magic clashed with the lingering rot of the Maw, the two energies hissed and spat like water hitting red-hot iron.
"The magic of your blade is a perfect antithesis to my own," she whispered, her voice a mix of wonder and dread. "It is curious... Father must see this!"
Father. That meant Cenarius. That meant a literal Wild God. Vorath's stomach did a slow somersault.
"I—" Vorath started to speak, but the words died in his throat.
Suddenly, a wave of pure malevolence rolled out from the thicket. The dryad snapped into a fighting crouch, her knuckles whitening as she gripped her spear. Vorath felt it too, a sharp, oily sting in the air that made his senses scream. It was like yesterday in the Maw with the dreadlords
Fel magic .
Fucking hell, he thought, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade. Can't I catch a break for five minutes?
He heard a violent rustling in the underbrush, and from the deep shadows of the trees roared the favored beasts of the Burning Legion. Four felhounds, their muzzles frothing with toxic green bile, rushed them with the blind, frenzied aggression of rabid predators.
"Don't let their tentacles touch you!" Vorath cried out to the dryad as he charged forward to intercept the pack. If he remembered the game's lore correctly, those writhing appendages sprouting from their backs could siphon the magic right out of a spellcaster's veins.
He launched a rapid barrage of jagged icicles at the charging demons, hoping to slow their advance, but the unnatural beasts simply shrugged off the frost, their Fel-infused hides absorbing the impact.
Seeing that his ranged magic was going to be ineffective, Vorath threw himself directly into the melee. He gripped his blade with both hands, stepping into the path of the lead hound and bringing his sword down in a brutal, cleaving arc.
The blade sheared straight through one of the lead hound's tentacles. The demon let out a shrill, agonizing whimper, but Vorath didn't have time to celebrate; he immediately had to bring his sword up to deflect another appendage snapping at his face.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the thick roots of the surrounding trees tearing out of the soil to brutally entangle two of the demons, a timely assist from the dryad.
With two beasts temporarily pinned, Vorath focused entirely on the remaining pair. The heavy proto-Mourneblade moved with a practiced, lethal grace in his grip. He dodged and weaved, desperately trying to land a fatal strike, but bringing down the frantic creatures proved incredibly difficult.
Fighting a wild animal with snapping jaws was bad enough, but the erratic, whip-like threat of their mana-draining tentacles made it almost impossible to find a safe opening. The sheer pressure of the beasts was rapidly becoming a bit too much for him to handle alone.
"Argh!" he heard the dryad cry out.
Vorath snapped his gaze toward her and saw one of the writhing appendages clamped firmly onto her lower flank, violently siphoning her magic.
Fuck. If she dies, I'm going to get overwhelmed. Vorath planted his boot into his own opponent's chest, delivering a heavy kick that launched the snarling mutt backward.
Pivoting on his heel, he aimed his blade at the hound attacking his temporary ally. A concentrated bolt of raw Death magic jolted from the steel, crashing violently into the side of the felhound's head. The beast released a pained, echoing roar as it was thrown off the dryad, but Vorath didn't have a second to celebrate. He had to whip right back around to manage his own duel.
He continued this desperate dance for a few moments longer, right up until a thick root suddenly erupted from the soil, violently snaring the legs of the hound directly in front of him. Without a second thought, Vorath stepped in and rammed his heavy blade straight down through the beast's skull. It died instantly.
In one fluid motion, he wrenched the dark steel free and bolted toward his second opponent, the same beast whose appendage he had severed at the start of the skirmish. The injured felhound snapped its jaws wildly, trying to ward him off, but Vorath cleanly cleaved through its remaining tentacle before driving his sword deep into its chest, finishing it off.
Panting heavily, he spun around to check on the dryad. He found her last opponent securely bound by thick, constricting roots. The fourth hound lay dead on the forest floor nearby; the side of its head, right where his Death bolt had struck, was already rotting away under the ravenous necromantic magic.
"W-what were those?!" the dryad gasped in pure fright. Her hand, radiating a soft, vibrant Life magic, pressed against her lower flank exactly where the hound's tentacle had been draining her. "These... abominations of nature. What were they?"
"The Legion. You don't know of them?" Vorath asked.
He desperately needed information about the timeline, and her question just gave him a massive clue. Judging by her complete ignorance, he was about seventy percent sure of when he had landed. The other thirty percent was reserved for the possibility that she was just incredibly sheltered deep in these woods.
"N-no. Who are they?" she stammered, flinching slightly.
"A sprawling army of demons that wants to burn the entire universe to ash," Vorath replied flatly. He walked over to the last hound, still helplessly bound by the roots. "I assume you don't want to keep this one alive?"
The dryad rapidly shook her head. Without hesitation, Vorath plunged his dark sword straight through the creature's skull, ending its thrashing.
"W-we need to warn Father about this Legion you speak of!" she declared, her initial terror suddenly giving way to a naive, fervent determination as she stepped toward him. "He will warn the Queen, and then we will defend our home!"
As she loomed over him, Vorath suddenly realized just how large she was. The sheer adrenaline of the fight had masked it, but she easily towered over his Night Elf frame by a good twenty centimeters.
"You're right," Vorath replied, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "We definitely need to warn people about the Legion."
Wait... did she just say 'the Queen'?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Queen Azshara.
So, I'm right at the start of the War of the Ancients? Vorath sighed internally, the sheer scale of the looming apocalypse making his new head throb. I really can't catch a fucking break.
Resigning himself to his fate, he flicked the corrupted blood from his blade and let the dryad lead him deeper into the ancient woods.
"So, what's your name, miss?" he asked after a few minutes of navigating through the thick woods in silence.
He noticed her startle slightly at the sudden sound of his voice. Strange.
"Lunara," she said, turning her head to offer him a polite, if still slightly guarded, smile. "And you?"
"Vorath," he replied. The name tasted strangely heavy in his mouth.
–
Yay, after restarting five times the chapter I can finally post it.
I really have mixed feelings about it, the action for example was a bit hard to write.
Hope that you liked it.