26. Demon and Revelation

Cloaked under a veil of masterfully crafted magic, a tall, muscular, cloven creature of blue skin stood frowning, a pair of baleful green eyes glowing darkly. Two fingers, ending in dark claws, massaged a sharp chin from which two smooth, fleshy tentacles grew.

"Mannoroth failed then. Disappointing, very disappointing. I will personally oversee his punishment once this pitiful world is consumed." The demonic being said, lacing his every word with displeasure, sadistic anticipation, and utter disinterest, harmonizing in their dreadful contradictions.

The nearby demons tensed up at the irritation. At any moment, the demon lord could lash out. And an outburst of their master could be as deadly as any blade through the heart of a mortal to them. It wouldn't be the first or last, and it was a blessed miracle no permanent death was reported yet.

"I plead not for him, Lord Archimonde, but his lack of success wasn't his inability to have fallen Cenarius. My timely advice to use the orcs bore fruit, and the demi-god and his servants' corpses are currently being processed by the Scourge by my command." Through a rippling green screen, the smaller demonic being answered, separating the victories and defeats, as the truth needn't be hidden.

Cloven legs and a muscular build were their only similarities as two long curved horns adorned his hairless head while large tattered wings grew from his back. He was a nathrezim and his master an eredar and not of any lowly breed.

"Is that so, Tichondrius? Excellent, I will be merciful then. The mongrel would have proven to be an annoying thorn. Then explain. Was it that elf's doing?" Archimonde asked–almost spat–a venomous edge to his voice that the leader of the dreadlord half away across Northern Kalimdor felt his namesake.

Dread. But Tichondrius didn't let it appear, lest it be used against him—or worse.

"Unlikely, my Lord. Clues point to another of those ageless beasts, a large bat painted in primitive runes. Mannoroth gave chase, abandoning his station, only to be swiftly defeated by it. If he killed the bat in return, I do not know." Tichondrius explained coldly, but it wasn't outside of expectations.

The Lord of the Pit Lords was a simple creature of destruction and devastation. Arrogant to a fault, to the point of blindness at times. Left alone, it wasn't surprising that the pit lord acted wildly.

He wasn't key to the success of this invasion, but his loss was undesired.

Still, it was to be noted that the battle, while unforeseen and unseen, was almost concerningly quick. There were few creatures in Azeroth able to defeat Mannoroth in a direct confrontation with such effectiveness.

And it remained uncertain of the nature of this native; little was seen after, regardless of whether it was to be culled if alive.

On this same subject, the dreadlord had another to speak about, and there weren't identification problems this time.

"Ursol is in the northmost area of Ashenvale, though the mut is content to cower in his den with his beastly mortals. Guarding them, but otherwise, he is subdued. He knows of our presence but is content to stay still." The nathrezim enunciated with a frown, his eyes staring into the Defiler's baleful own with the perfect melange of submissiveness, respect, and pride.

The Bear Lord acted strangely, to say the least.

It hardly was this alone. The furbolg, or the almost lack thereof in Ashenvale, was another point directly tied to the above. The bear men would have been uncontrollable thralls, but simple-minded feral meat shields were quite valuable in their own throwaway way.

They would have served among the Burning Legion's first seeds of chaos and softened the elves, killing by themselves thousands of thousands and ravaging their settlements.

Evidently, this became an impossibility. The furbolgs in targeted areas did a mass exodus of improbable swiftness and great organization preemptively to any of that.

Not all of them managed to escape the grasp of the Legion, but those were unlucky ones' and their numbers were anecdotal at best compared to what could have been. Tribes further away were of no substantial use of how they reacted to corruption and were left to their pointless mortal existences.

It was planned and directly to where the Wise Bear was, orchestrated by him under all evidence. There were a lot of suppositions and hypotheses to be drawn, but none of substance beyond the Wild God's awareness of the Legion.

"Observe and remain alert, avoid reckless engagement. His little cave can be ignored. As is, he's inconsequential. Continue your mission. Plunge these woods into decay and hellfire. When I shatter this insolent world, none of this shall matter." Sargeras's right hand rumbled, his tone indicating nothing but agreement would be accepted as an answer.

And it would be less than a swift endeavor. Archimonde could feel the substantial magic from here. It was a massive spell-bound underground shelter that was neither worth the time nor manpower to destroy or conquer.

Unless he went himself there, but it was built in such a way he would damage Nordrassil, diminishing what he could gorge himself upon.

An over-engineered beast pen was all it was and all it would be considered as.

"By your will, Lord Archimonde, I obey." Tichondrius bowed deeply, and the discussion went on from logistics to strategies with the death of the vast majority of satyrs, the pit lord Azgalor sent to replace Mannoroth, and such regarding the perfection of the invasion.

The eredar overlord could teleport to the World Tree atop Mount Hyjal and gorge himself in its potent energies or cast spells and engrave rituals to purify Kalimdor of its purulent nature and so much more.

But he didn't proceed as such; the dragons–the Aspects–would violently react, and while their defeat from their current laughable state was assured, there was no reason to give his hand away. The vain flying lizards were hardly the only potential annoyance if Archimonde were to act rashly.

The same problem was to potentially damaging his feast. It would be unacceptable.

And why waste such delightful despair and delectable agony to escape his grand presence? The demon lord was not blind to this facet of his and reveled in it.

•••••

At the same time, under the twin moonlight of Azeroth's natural satellites, a vast camp of various races was at the base of Stonetalon Peak. Green-skinned, muscular humanoids–orcs–were the most numerous, making up the vast majority of this strange group, whereas trolls and taurens constituted barely a seventh of the orcs' number.

At the heart of this encampment was a large leather tent, and within were the two leaders of the above–Vol'jin, the Chieftain of the Darkspear tribe being down South tending to his people–around a carved boulder serving as a table for their next venture to join the mysterious Oracle and hear of his revelation.

Yet there was a substantial difficulty at hand.

"Our wyvern allies would help, but blood would flow." Thrall, the Warchief of the Horde muttered with a frown as he stared at the bare-bone representation on an even more rough map.

It was where the Alliance fragments had laid camp. They controlled multiple cavern entrances leading to the inside of this large mountain where the Oracle was.

They needed to reach one to proceed onward, and the most accessible way in the humans, with speckles of high elves, dwarves, and even fewer grones' hands. Blades would clash—that was inevitable.

"Alas, that is the unfortunate truth, my orc friend." A massive elderly male tauren rumbled pensively; this was the Chieftain of the Bloodhoof, Cairne. He had no love for violence,e but his preference mattered little at present.

It could all have been potentially avoided if not for Grommash's bloodlust, but it was far too late. It was far from desired, but diplomacy was virtually impossible. Then, a voice echoed in the war tent, confusing all.

"Warchief! Some strange taurens wish to speak with you!"

The son of Durotan paused; his gaze moved to the old tauren for any answers, and it came in an unhelpful shrug. Clearly, neither had a clue of what that meant.

"Tell them to come then. I wish to hear what they have to say." Thrall declared after a long second of internal debate. Many thoughts in his mind were of the same variety as the Bloodhoof patriarch.

However, little could be guessed. The Stonetalon Mountains were vast and home to many taurens, some in small groups to entire tribes, one of which wasn't any lesser than the Bloodhoof. It could be anyone for any reason, though Thrall would be lying if he didn't hope it was to assist the Horde.

Soon after, an elderly female tauren with a grey muzzle walked in with serene and confident steps. Her body was clad in a simple robe of various leather held together by elegant plates of a silver-like metal. In her hand was a wooden staff, vibrating with the wild power of the elements.

To her left was a massive muscle-bound bull glaring promise of violent death at everything daring to get too close to his mistress. His black fur and red face paint were easily visible through a light armor of leather, wood, and a far duller metal. A blade fitting his size was strapped to his waist, and calling it a hunk of steel on a stick would have been more appropriate.

"Magatha…" Cairne whispered first in Taur-ahe, his pupils thinning to dots, many emotions within that spoke of old and complex personal history. This peculiarity didn't go unnoticed by the young orc.

"Cairne." The one named responded in kind, her voice measured and cold with a smile–a sneer and a smirk yet polite at once–on her lips. No further word was exchanged as her eyes shifted to the young Warchief, studying and scrutinizing him.

He was strong in every aspect that mattered, that much she could tell. Among if not the strongest shaman she had ever met, and that demanded a degree of respect. He was young and inexperienced, but this was no reason to underestimate him: a promising young one and a dangerous individual.

"I'm Magatha, Elder Crone of the Grimtotem tribe, and I have to come bearing ill news that I believe you would be heavily interested in," Magatha said in a mildly softer tone, the language of the elements giving the three before her the ability to understand for two were shamans–if one of worse than mediocre abilities–and the last a shadow hunter.

"Throm'Ka honored Elder Crone. I'm Thrall and Warchief of the Horde. What is it you wish to inform me of?" The young orc leader queried, and his seriousness and directness pleased the old cow.

"Knowledge my contemporary seemed to have failed to mention to an outlander like you and the consequences born of this failure of his." She answered matter of factly, her sharp gaze shifting back to the Bloodhoof Chieftain whose confusion grew in limitless amounts with irritation.

"Then, do enlighten me, Magatha," Cairne spoke with far more heat Thrall ever believed his ever-serene tauren friend was capable of. And at that to a powerful shaman, so powerful in fact he was uncertain if he could win against her in a duel.

Magatha openly sneered in response before it shifted to a self-assured smirk as she tapped her staff on the ground, making it shake. Then, a large black owl that went unnoticed until now silently glided down.

It landed behind her before morphing, to everyone's shock–the Bloodhoof tauren in particular, of which Cairne hardly believed his own eyes–into a lightly armored female tauren. She was barely on the cusp of adulthood and had physical characteristics similar to those of the older female.

"Hagatha, if you will?" Her granddaughter wordlessly obeyed and gave the Grimtotem mistress a wooden casing from which a map was unbound and given to the male orc.

"By the spirits… No…" Thrall openly gasped as he studied the magnificent map, though its craftsmanship was second to the information given to him. Elegantly written letters translated in simplified Kalimag that told the tale of which was what and what was which.

Cairne was silent, but the word horror displayed his striking realization. An image Magatha found herself enjoying. She was barely holding her desire to push him down further, but this catharsis wouldn't be worth the price.

"Surely those kaldorei should understand the necessity of lumber, revered shaman?" The young orc shaman asked, worry tainting his voice, but it was evident he didn't believe a pleasant answer was coming.

Hagatha snorted, and the Elder Crone did much the same, but it was the oldest tauren present that shattered this frail hope. It would be a bottomless well of schadenfreude for Magatha if the life of all on the Earthmother weren't at stake.

"Ashenvale is deeply sacred to them, my friend, and Grommash is… your brother is… too incompatible for delicate diplomacy. My most sincere apologies, Thrall… it had eluded my mind to warn you of them. I have no excuse. You may punish this old bull as you see fit." The large tauren bowed deeply in shame and guilt, a sight that wasn't without effect.

'Pathetic. He has truly grown senile then.' The matriarch thought. She was disappointed but not surprised. She wasn't ignorant of potential reasons, but they ultimately resonated with the greatest sin: incompetence. Something Cairne had no right to have as someone she had long considered as an equal.

A tiny part of her was saddened, but it was minimal to the delightful spectacle.

"No. No, the blame is as much on my shoulder, Cairne. I shouldn't have ordered the Warsong clan to do this. I have failed and should have been more inquisitive of this unknown land." The young Warchief proclaimed, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. His grasp was firm yet soft.

He focused back on Magatha and asked, "There must be a way to peace between our people."

"Your people, yes." She pointed out, "The night elves are allies of the Grimtotem, as are the furbolgs. I have come to avoid further escalation with the Horde even after the murder of one of their demi-gods and earnestly burned the diplomatic attempt of a druid of mine by this 'Grommash' you call a brother in the process murdering hundreds of mines and thousands of elves and creatures of the wild. Yet I desire no senseless war. View this as my offer of goodwill, a pardon for your mistakes as those times we live in aren't too such foolishness."

Another shocking revelation to Cairne that explained far too much to be anything except the bonafide truth if the tauren druid present right there wasn't enough. And it confirmed many rumors he had heard and mostly ignored until then.

It wasn't any less impacting to Thrall, whose visage worsened every second, growing uglier and uglier from anger and despondency.

Unknown to him, Elder Crone didn't tell him the far more accurate and horrifying complete truth, such as proverbial betrayal and highly likely willing demonic corruption.

Not out of any particular malice or twisted mercy, but the matriarch knew the orcish warlord's reaction might be explosive if it was her who revealed it.

Unpredictably, it was dangerous, and from her understanding of orcs–small as it might be–there was one chance out of two he would blindly attack. His current state of mind wasn't the clearest as well, and the crackle of electricity on his war hammer pointed to that possibility.

It wouldn't have been the entire truth, either. The night elves started the attack, and the Warsong were ignorant, but pointing fingers was asinine at best.

And Magatha doubted that this Hellscream orc would have agreed to passively leave the ancient forest alone if politely asked and explained to him.

"This is my farewell then." And at this simple statement, the Elder Crone walked away, the two Grimtotem taurens following behind, leaving the clearing in a pregnant silence.

*

Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/thebipboop2003