Two years? I would have never thought that, but now that you mention it…
At least I won’t feel bad when I forget something that has occurred:P
Are you prepared? I sure as hell am. IT’S GO TIME!
As the sky began to turn a blazing yellow in the west, a smell of roasted meat rose from the streets of Theramore. Inns opened their doors wide for everyone, and wherever there could safely be a bonfire in the streets and on the marketplaces, one was started to roast the many hogs gifted from the Warchief. Bread, fruit and drink was served to whoever could pay just a little coin, inviting even the poorest of the city to for eat their fill as well.
While the city began the celebration, three groups of people prepared to leave it.
Jaina entered her throne room followed by several men and women of her Elite guard, as well as Aegwynn, Tandred, emissary Southstone and his aide. The guards’ armors were polished until one could see a reflection in the metal, and those not wearing plate were dressed in white robes with golden hems. Jaina herself had opted to at least exchange her leather skirt for one made of silk instead. The rest of the more orcish clothes she chose to keep, as well as the braid and trinkets in her hair. As per human wedding tradition, a few flowers had been added to the primal jewelry.
The draenei representatives, and Tyrande with her entourage, already waited in the throne room. If Tyrande was nervous, she gave no sign of it. The others, however, kept casting sideways glances at each other, fidgeting with their robes. Just as Jaina entered, the female mage of the draenei was whispering to one of the shamans, rubbing one of the tendrils hanging from behind her ear between two fingers. She immediately cut herself off and smiled anxiously in greeting along with the others. Jaina knew why, and nodded at her, hoping the silent support would help. The much taller, blue skinned woman smiled a little wider for a brief moment.
Jaina turned to sweep her gaze over all of them. There were more people who needed to be calmed, in these final doubtful seconds before they went right into the enemy’s stronghold as guests. She was pretty sure that she, Aegwynn and possibly Southstone were the only ones who weren’t fearful on some level. And even she was anxious about how well or bad the evening would turn out.
“Good evening,” Jaina said, smiling as soothingly as she could. “Remember that we will be appearing inside of Grommash Hold. There will be guards all around, but let me remind you that they are loyal to Thrall and of the Earthen Ring. There is nothing to fear.”
“Of course not,” Tyrande calmly replied. Her followers looked at her and carefully, their shoulders sunk a little as she seemed confident.
“Is everyone ready, then?” Jaina asked.
She gave them a few moments to collect themselves enough to nod, and then raised her hands. Teleporting so many at once took great effort, but she had mentally prepared herself as well as she could. Focusing with all her might she swept out her will to encompass everyone in the room, and then zero in her mind on the mental image of Grommash Hold. The world tingled and fell away, then swept up again in a wholly different shape.
Again Jaina felt very glad that she had change skirt, as while Theramore had been bathed in the evening cool, Orgrimmar was still as hot as the middle of the day. The braziers illuminating the inside of the hold did the temperature no favors, either. The fire cast wild shadows over the walls, from the armored orcs standing silent along the walls. Some were Kor’kron Elites, but many were shamans of all the Horde races that were able to commune with the spirits.
Jaina didn’t hear any of the draenei or night elves recoil, but she wouldn’t have blamed them. It was an intimidating first sight.
The guests from the Alliance had appeared on one side of the throne hall, and on the opposite side there were already representatives of the Horde factions waiting. Consciously, Thrall had had the tauren stand closest to where Jaina’s groups would appear – and the Forsaken the furthest away. The smell was still very noticeable, even though it mixed with soothing scents of burning incense. Thrall had not been joking about that.
Thrall himself stood before his throne, watching the entire hall as intensely as everyone else. The air felt heavy to breathe, until he spoke.
“Welcome to Orgrimmar.”
His voice rung out, calm and reassuring. Jaina’s own shoulders fell, and though nobody replied verbally, some shuffling was heard from all over the hall as guards and guests alike moved to stand a little more at ease. It was a matter of pride, now, to at least appear unaffected by the proximity of people usually considered enemies.
Nodding briefly to the guests she had brought, Jaina started forwards together with her companions. The others stayed behind, waiting for their time.
Thrall met her gaze as she approached, tense hope flaring in his blue eyes. He offered her his hand as she stepped up the stairs to where he stood, and she squeezed the huge finger she grasped. Even though he had sounded collected before, she knew it was a well practiced act. This was far from over.
Her guards, Tandred and the others moved aside, to furs laid out on the floor to the right beneath the stairs. There they sat down, and the guards took off their helmets to place them on the furs. On the left side of the stairs, Saurfang, Geyah, Hellscream and other prominent already sat, watching everything in silence.
Or in Garrosh’s case, glaring rather than watching.
Jaina stepped up beside Thrall and turned to face the hall.
“Darkspear tribe,” Thrall said. He spoke Orcish first, then said the same thing in Common. “I and my mate thank you for celebrating with us tonight.”
Bone trinkets and sea shell jewelry rattled as the trolls gathered on the other side of the hall stepped forwards, led by Vol’jin.
It might have seemed like a very small issue to some, but the order of greetings had caused Thrall and Jaina severe headaches during their discussions about how to go about the celebration. Some group would inevitably have to step forwards last, and the threat of resentment for that slight was great. Even if the visitors themselves were understanding, others among their people would doubtlessly grumble about it.
And on the other side of things, who should be greeted first? That group would be seen as the host and hostess’ greatest ally, as they received that honor. They could not begin with the trolls, tauren, Forsaken and blood elves in a row, then greet the night elves and draenei, either, or the other way around. That would be favoring Horde or Alliance.
At the same time, greeting everyone at once was disrespectful in its own way, as that would make it seem like no group deserved recognition for being there.
In the end, Thrall and Jaina had settled on an order that had enough significance to hopefully be acceptable to all. The trolls first, then tauren, night elves, Forsaken, blood elves and finally draenei – the order in which the groups had become allies of the orcs and Theramore during the third war and beyond. It was not perfect and it could be argued against since some were no friends of one side or the other, but it seemed like the most natural option.
In the end, also, the draenei’s request during the previous day gave a decent reason on its own that they were greeted last. It was a request best fulfilled when everyone else was seated and watching.
Vol’jin responded to Thrall’s greeting in Orcish while the trolls behind him bowed, but left it at that. Even so, he did incline his head to Jaina briefly, as a gesture of goodwill in place of speaking Common. She returned it. It was no secret to her that Vol’jin had severe doubts about this whole thing, but there was very little she could do right now to mend that. That would only come in time. She hoped that it would come to all of them in time.
The trolls went to sit down, and the tauren stepped forwards instead. Cairne, unlike Vol’jin, offered a warm smile as he spoke in his deep, rumbling voice.
“May this celebration mark the start of a more peaceful time,” he said. “It takes great bravery to do what you have done, and harder work to end battles than to start new ones.”
He paused there, and let Jaina and Thrall thank him. More words hung in the air between them, more things he wanted to say were written all over his face. But that too would have to wait for another time. The tauren moved away, hooves ringing softly against the floor.
The steps of the night elves, on the other hand, despite many of them being barefoot, seemed to ring through the air.
“It has been a long time since we all met, Warchief,” Tyrande said, smiling a bit wryly. “I am glad that you accepted our request to celebrate with you.”
“And I am glad that you offered it, High Priestess,” Thrall replied. He didn’t for a moment let his tension show, even though he felt a strong urge to throw Vol’jin a warning glare. “It is proof of good will I admit did not dare hope for.”
The words were pregnant, and many a breath was held as Tyrande slowly nodded.
“Let us not speak or think of such things,” she said, her smile new and more genuine than before. “This is a wedding celebration. Both of you have my deepest well wishes.”
“Thank you, High Priestess,” Jaina said, as Thrall nodded agreement. “Your support is a welcome, precious thing.”
And still, both of them noticed that the night elves avoided looking at most of the other groups there as they walked over to their places and sat down.
Jaina clenched her teeth, as next Thrall asked Lady Sylvanas and her followers forwards. The stench rose over the incense as the undead moved forwards, but Jaina willed herself to keep her face calm. She had been face to face with Sylvanas just the other day, and then been so upset that she could hardly think straight.
As she offered a brisk congratulation, Sylvanas’ lips pursed into something resembling a smile. She looked as if she could not be bothered to remember how to smile genuinely, or rather did not care for it. Her expression did not change as she turned swept away, smelling of decaying leaves and old, murky chambers, her guards clattering after her.
The blood elves were just a little less curtly – Lor’themar Theron did weave an elegant little speech, but when it came down to it, it said very little. At that point, also, Jaina was struggling not to chew on the inside of her cheek, and she heard Thrall shift his weight ever so slightly.
The blood elves finally stepped aside.
The draenei moved forwards.
All of them elegantly bowed, but it was one of the male shamans who spoke.
“Lady Proudmoore. Warchief.”
There was no question of which greeting carried the most weight. Jaina bowed her head, but she remained silent for Thrall.
“That you are here is a gesture of hope,” he said, his voice warm and calm. However, Jaina felt his fingertips brush against her back momentarily. He was struggling not to go to pieces, and she could offer no support. “I truly thank you for bridging this gap, this distance, to be here tonight.”
“It was you and your wife who showed that it could be bridged,” the shaman said. The draenei all straightened. “Prophet Velen was very moved by what transpired a week ago, and what you have done since.”
He paused. Thrall hardly breathed.
“If you would allow it, honored Warchief, we request you let a magical link be momentarily established.” The shaman motioned towards the female draenei in a blue, richly embroidered mage’s robe. “We are mere messengers.”
Murmurs rose all over the room.
Jaina could not stop herself from glancing at Thrall. Though he watched the draenei with a composed face, she saw his lips twitch – it was the only sign of emotions he allowed to show right then.
“I see that as a generous offer and welcome it,” he said.
“We thank you for your faith, honored Warchief.” With those words, the shaman stepped back.
The mage stepped forwards instead, delicately putting her fingertips together and bowing her horned head above them as she murmured in a low voice. The rune floating above her forehead flared up as light danced between her palms, and with a soft cry she flung her hands upwards. The light leapt from her fingers to the ground, forming a glowing circle.
It was eerily reminiscent of what the undead mage had done two days ago, moments before the Lich King attacked. Alike, yet it could not have been more different.
From the light rose a figure, swatted in a pale, beautiful robe. Graceful tendrils framed his thick, pure white beard which in turn mirrored the color of the pure rune floating above his forehead. A long, elegant tail curled out along the hem of his robe and the edge of the magical circle surrounding his cloven hooves.
Jaina looked up, and so did Thrall. And higher up yet. Complete silence fell over the hall.
Prophet Velen was tall enough to be imposing, but there was a sense of peace about him which invoked only calm.
“Warchief. Lady Proudmoore,” he said, inclining his head slightly.
Jaina bowed her head in greeting back, but she remained silent still. This was Thrall’s, and the entire orc race’s, moment. She happened to see Saurfang from the corner of her eye. The Overlord sat stock still, his eyes a breath wider than usual.
“Prophet,” Thrall said, bowing his head. “I am honored that you grace Orgrimmar with your presence, even through a fragile bond like this.”
Not even he could keep a sliver of emotion in his voice, however slight. “Honored” was a mere shadow of the wonder this gesture truly was. It was not a promise of peace, of forgiving. The crimes of the past were too great still. But it was a sign that there was a possibility, beautiful and real, and that was more than anybody could have dared hoping for.
“I fear it would have been too divisive still of me to take part in this celebration in person,” Velen said. He smiled, the knowing twitch in the corner of his lips saying that he was aware Thrall and most everyone else caught the promise in that simple word, ‘still.’ “But, I am glad that I could offer my best wishes to you on this day, and I wish you all a joyful evening.” He swept his gaze across the hall as he spoke, but as he continued, he looked straight at Thrall again. “We shall speak at length at a later date, Warchief.”
“I welcome that, honored Prophet,” Thrall said, bowing his head once again.
His glowing eyes slipping shut, Velen returned the gesture. And with that, his image faded away as the magic circle dissolved.
Intense, whispered conversations erupted from all corners of the hall, completely ignoring the draenei bowing and heading over to sit down. They ceased only momentarily as Thrall and Jaina stepped down from the stair to stand on the wolf skin laid out directly aligned with the throne. Thrall raised his voice, calling immediate silence.
“I am not even going to pretend hoping that there will be no disagreements with these many factions represented here tonight. So when the inevitable happens and you start arguing with somebody, do the civilized thing and take it to the Ring of Valor. That’s the training arena, for those of you who visit for the first time.”
He said it with enough lightheartedness that it earned a few laughs, even though some were more nervous than the others. That set the bar for what level of nonsense would be tolerated.
Smiling still, Thrall sat down together with Jaina. With that, the celebration finally got started.
While everyone began to settle down and food was served, a troll and a human in dark armor were let inside of the throne room after speaking with the guards. The two of them moved along the wall, earning a few glances but as the guards let them pass they were largely ignored. Over where the humans were seated, however, emissary Southstone caught sight of the two and followed them with his gaze as they moved closer.
As they reached the back of the humans’ assembly, the troll muttered something to the smaller man, who answered in a low voice. They nodded to each other, then the troll continued towards his own people, where he joined the guards standing behind them. The human, on the other hand, stepped forwards and sank down on the empty space beside Thomas.
He took off his helmet and placed it on the floor, running a hand through his sand blond hair and smiling faintly.
“Sorry I’m late,” Collins whispered.
“I was getting worried,” Thomas said in a low voice.
Collins smiled a little wider and made a small motion towards the trolls.
“I had a friend keeping me company,” he said. “There was nothing to worry about.”
Though he nodded and was about to leave it at that for the time being, Thomas paused when he noticed that something was off with Collins’ leather armor. At his sides and from the look of it also on his back, the material was darker than the rest. This was also the case with most of the protective gear on his arms and shoulders. That had not been so before, as far as Thomas remembered.
“What happened with your armor?” he asked.
In a flash, Collins’ face was blank and strict.
“I fell in the lake,” he said, his voice neutral.
“Fell in the lake?”
“Yessir.”
Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.
“It’s fine,” Collins said. “I dried pretty quickly in the sun.”
For a moment Thomas closed his eyes, then he just shook his head and motioned for Collins to help himself from the big plates of bread and meat. At a better time, there could be questions. Maybe, if the paladin decided that he actually wanted to know.
Thrall waited for a while before he started to carefully relax, making sure that the dinner was getting going in a civilized manner. The placing of each group ensured that insults flung at an opposing side should be heard across the entire room – for better or worse – but at least for now, it remained peaceful. At first, the conversations remained within each group itself, but it didn’t take long before those of the same main world faction turned to their nearby allies.
This gently broke when a draenei turned to a tauren sitting within speaking distance and politely addressed him. The horned head turned and big, calm eyes watched the draenei for a moment. Then the tauren spoke.
They were far too far away for Thrall to hear a single word, but the curious expressions of both men spoke enough. Either the tauren knew Common or the draenei Orcish; either way, they did not seem to have any troubles communicating. Very soon, the people sitting closest to them noticed what was going on and leant in to either listen or take part in the conversation.
It continued in the same vein – no voice rose over another in anger.
Thrall heard Jaina breathe out, and when he glanced at her she met his gaze and smiled in relief. He nodded, smiling back although both of them knew that this hardly guaranteed that the rest of the night would run along as smoothly. But it was a very good beginning.
Allowing himself to feel a little bit more at ease, Thrall raised his goblet of wine and tapped it against Jaina’s as she held up her own. Still, both of them only drank a little bit, with no intention of emptying more than one goblet.
As the dinner continued without incident, Thrall finally sighed inwardly, sent a silent prayer to the spirits, then looked up and signaled at the guards at the door. One of them saluted and slipped out.
He couldn’t hold it off any longer, and it filled him with a vague sense of dread. Which, in turn, made him feel guilty. He couldn’t help it, though.
“I truly hope that it wasn’t a bad idea to let Vol’jin busy himself with the entertainment,” he muttered to Jaina.
She lowered the slice of meat she had been taking bites from and swallowed.
“Do you really think he has planned something?” she asked, frowning.
“No, no, nothing like that.” Thrall glanced at the door. The guard had returned, and outside a group of trolls were lining up in the torchlight. “But I don’t put it past him to have some mischief in mind.”
Jaina started to say something else, but a deep, dry note flowing through the air cut her off. The discussions all over the room died down and people looked around towards the door. A troll woman dressed in a white robe entered, walking slowly while playing a long, wooden flute. White and pink flowers had been braided into her teal hair, and though she walked carefully there was a faint sound of clattering beads for every step she took.
Four men of her kind followed her, each of them carrying a small drum under one arm. Halfway into the room they took a synchronized turn and sat down in two pairs on the floor, setting the drums between their knees.
The woman continued to the middle of the floor, where she stopped moving but kept playing. Each note was long, soft, the sound like that of the wind blowing through the hollows in a mountain and bearing little resemblance to the crisp sound of a metal flute.
One of the drummers began a slow rhythm, weaving it into the flute’s music.
Another troll man stepped into the room, shirtless but wearing pants as well as a sweeping loincloth. Each one of his steps and little motions corresponded to the sound of the drum as he moved. He sidestepped, circled outwards but always kept his eyes on the woman and always moved towards her albeit slowly. The rhythm changed, the others joined in to build up a slow crescendo. The man reached the end of his half circle motion, walking straight towards the woman with cautious movements, always following the drums. She kept playing, ignoring him even as he slowed and kneeled in front of her.
One last slow note from her flute and the drums stilled. She lowered her instrument and looked down at the man before her. The silence invited clapping, but the expectant tension did not.
Another beat began, low at first but rising as the woman reached up and pulled a single pink flower from her hair. The moment she dropped it into the man’s outstretched hands, all four drummers slapped down on the drums with a powerful thump. More than one person in the audience gave a start.
To the sound of the drums, ten more trolls of both sexes marched in while the first couple remained still as statutes – only one motion or step for each beat of the drums. It was not quite walking and not quite dancing, but somewhere in between. The men were all dressed like the first male dancer, except their clothes were a little darker brown. The women wore slanted grey skirts and just well enough matching cloth over their chests to keep them from being immodest.
The woman in the robe flicked her whole arm, and the flute spun backwards through the air only to be caught by one of the approaching men. He in turn threw it further back without looking, to a woman at the end of the line who tossed it to one of the drummers.
Sharp teeth gleaming in the light of the torches, the first woman shook off her robe to the sound of rattling beads.
Suspicious of Vol’jin as he still felt, Thrall tensed the moment the robe began to fall – but the lead female dancer wore just the same clothes as her sisters, only in a lighter hue. Strings of beads clashed and clattered around her neck, arms, waist, the sound melding into the rhythm of the drums.
She made a few slow, lazy motions with her arms, while her male counterpart ducked around her and kicked the robe aside – all gracefully, to the beat. The others spread out, the women mimicking the motions she made.
They paused, a moment of silence as the first male dancer handed the pink flower to one of the other women.
The beads around the woman’s waist clattered, no others, and she winked at Vol’jin.
Another clatter, and this one did not end. It rose and fell in waves, matching not only that one woman’s movements, but all the trolls’.
An entrancing chaos followed.
The women stayed in one place, their arms enough to transfix the audience with their graceful, slithering motions. Their bodies moved as if no part was linked to another – when their hips swung, everything above that hardly moved at all and vice versa. All alluring smiles and gazes blazing over the audience.
And meanwhile, the men were all over the place. Far from elegant, but there was a certain majesty about the way their gangly arms and legs swept about. They sidestepped, leaped, spun – and somehow, no matter how radically different their dances were, the men’s movements matched the women’s. Throughout all this, that one pink flower wandered from hand to hand, sometimes thrown and sometimes carefully passed on, always through skill or wonder avoiding to get ruffled.
The mind boggled for the first few moments of watching the dancing, until one managed to see how it all remained aligned to the sound of the drums. A low sweeping kick along the floor corresponded with a twist of an arm, a swing of the hips matched a leap.
That first man remained close to the first woman, moving around her in wider or smaller circles. The two of them stayed in the front center, their hands touching occasionally as he whirled past close enough.
All of a sudden he moved back, closer to the other dancers, and the flower finally found its way back to his hand. Again he spun outwards, towards a certain part of the audience–
With a flick of his wrist he sent the flower flying through the air, and it would have landed in Tyrande’s lap had she not snatched it between two fingers as it came towards her. She turned her silvery eyes at the troll with a long eyebrow rising.
He bowed at her, smirking, and backed into the whirling crowd of dancers.
Vol’jin caught the look Thrall threw his way, and innocently waved his hands. The Warchief was about to growl in exasperation, when he felt Jaina’s fingers tapping his arm. As he looked at her she nodded towards the night elves, lips twitching.
Under the hesitant looks of her guards, and ignoring the snickers from all over the room, Tyrande turned the flower over in her hands a few times. Then she shrugged and, with a smile that bordered on a tiny smirk, stuck the flower behind her right ear.
This would have been a perfectly graceful handling of the situation, if the trolls had just let it die right there. Instead, the male main dancer leaped forwards again and threw a kiss at the High Priestess with very pronounced wink, before returning to the dance without a hint of losing his rhythm.
Large parts of the audience dissolved into laughter and thankfully, after a moment of looking caught between amusement and annoyance, so did Tyrande.
She might have been pacified thanks to a glance to the side, and the sight of the Warchief leaning forwards with his face in one hand. Beside him, Jaina could not hold back her laughter, although she contained it to soft chuckles.
Vol’jin, though mainly concerned with laughing at the night elves, cast a look at the two leaders. Seeing Jaina shake with her mirth, the aging troll actually grinned wider despite himself. Although uncertain about whether or not he felt disappointed (childish as he could admit that was) at Tyrande’s reaction, he found himself feeling pleased at seeing the human mate of the Warchief take the joke so well.
It was strange. It had been exceptionally silly, but it helped. After that, everyone seemed to be far too amused to even think about being tense. As the evening wore on – with far more restrained troll singing and dancing – no arguments broke the peace. The drinking was kept at a reasonable level, aided by the servants alternatively bringing fruit juice and wine.
Well into the night Thrall finally declared the celebration to be over, and he and Jaina thanked everyone for being there. Tactfully, both of them didn’t bring up the lack of fighting – the lack of that spoke for itself. One by one, the visiting groups left – whether to sleeping quarters provided inside Orgrimmar, or teleporting to Theramore.
It was a miracle, in no small way.
Even if the official celebration was over, Orgrimmar kept going. One could not expect a city like that, especially full of goblins and trolls, to let a good party end before daybreak. Standing by the window together with Thrall in his chambers, Jaina listened to the sounds of laughing and music from below. The moons shone down over the cliff sides, but the city was alive with bonfires and dancing bodies.
She expected Theramore was very much the same in that moment, defiantly joyful about something so strange as a human noble marrying the Horde Warchief.
Neither one of them spoke. There was too much relief for that. Too great the euphoria.
Jaina leaned against Thrall and he drew her in, their warmth mingling and merging.
It was a miracle.
They stood together for a moment longer, before Jaina reached out and closed the shutters, closing out the cold moonlight and the dancing illumination from below. The rest of the night was theirs alone.
Saturday night update? 
Again Jaina felt very glad that she had change skirt,
Not even he could keep a sliver of emotion in his voice, however slight.
From his voice?
Considering my state of mind while I finished up the last pieces here (telling myself I’d finish before midnight come hell or high water despite having worked late), I’m amazed those are the only mistakes you found. Thanks as always 
I read it after returning home, so I wouldn’t trust me there either.
You are welcome of course.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
It’s done.
Epilogue 1
The sun rose above the horizon, signaling another tense day for the soldiers of Tiragarde Keep. However, on this morning the guards in the towers ran to report the sighting of Kul Tiras sails. The news bolted through the Keep, electrifying weary souls and drawing every last man and woman towards the towers, walls and windows, desperate to catch a glimpse of this sudden hope.
The air only grew more feverish as indeed, the sails grew closer. Five ships in total, coming closer by the minute. Speculations ran wild on how many soldiers there could be to bolster the ranks in the Keep, if the Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore was arriving personally after so long. News had been so scarce, they had heard that he was long dead but many had still refused to believe that.
For the first time in years, they had hope. So much, in fact, that the lookouts failed to note that on the horizon were also blood red sails bearing the Horde symbol.
On board the ships gliding towards the Durotar shore, the atmosphere was much more grim and subdued.
Tandred stood at the helm of the ship The Morning Stride together with Captain Mishan Waycrest, grimly surveying the harsh land and the crumbling Keep.
It had been a tense journey, made even tenser when the Horde warships had appeared as the Kul Tiras ships neared Durotar. They did not approach, however, always staying only within sight. The Warchief had apologized to Tandred, yet the Grand Admiral understood. Letting Alliance ships into orcish waters without some kind of security was not something that Thrall could ever allow.
After this tense journey, there was only unsavory business to take care of.
The ships were steered as close as the depth of the ocean allowed, and the anchors weighed. On the beach, the soldiers were lining up with their commanders. There were so few of them, for a fortress of that size. From this distance Tandred couldn’t tell the state of their armor, but he strongly suspected that nothing they owned was in prime condition.
They expected reinforcements.
Setting his jaw, he looked to a female mage standing by behind him and signaled to her to strengthen his voice. Once he knew that he would be heard, he turned back towards the shore and drew in a deep breath.
“I am Lord Admiral Tandred Proudmoore of Kul Tiras.” The magic empowering his voice made it easier to find a commanding tone. “Soldiers of Tiragarde Keep, you are encroaching on land belonging to the orcish people. I hereby order you to leave the Keep and board these ships to return to Kul Tiras.”
There was a moment of frozen disbelief before all hell broke loose on the beach.
The order amongst the soldiers broke up in disbelieving shouts. The commanders did nothing to calm their men, furious protests on their lips as well. In this harsh, inhospitable land discipline had been worn down until only a fanatic quest to destroy all who opposed them remained. With their hope for aid renewed and then so quickly crushed, rage could be the only response.
Tandred watched as the lines fell apart, as fists were shaken in his direction. Even at this distance, and with the wind blowing the other way, he could tell without hearing what they were yelling. Insults towards him, calling him an usurper, a traitor, an orc lover, a stain on his father’s memory – as bad as the stain his filthy sister had already caused. Glancing aside, he saw Mishan, her jaw set tight and her short locks of hair tussled in the wind above her hard eyes. There was a little bit of sadness there, pity for the people who were so far gone into their own hopeless battle that they saw only enemies. Like the Scarlet Crusade half a world away.
He felt the same stitch of pity. There couldn’t be more than one hundred and fifty soldiers, and their numbers must have been thinning monthly if not weekly. Still they clung to the ruins with the conviction that they were righteous and would prevail. Foolishly angering the orcs and trolls who simply wanted to live in peace in their new land, trying the patience of an overwhelming force just behind the next few hills.
And when it came down to it, surrounded and without ships they had had no way to leave, either. Looking at them now, they were far beyond the time where they even could accept this chance to go home. They had struggled for so long, clinging to this place with frantic pride and despair. Suddenly finding that everything they had suffered had been for nothing, was unbearable.
He knew then, that Thrall had truly been as merciful towards these poor abandoned souls as he could have been, perhaps for longer than he should have. The time for letting this madness continue was past.
Perhaps some could find peace once they were returned home, even if he would have to put them on trial – for the resistance they were about to put up, at least. Everyone would know it was a farce, but it would be even more of a farce if he had them accused and tried for encroaching on friendly land. Neither the Alliance nor his own people could be expected to accept that yet.
He raised a hand, signaling to a man down on the deck. The soldier stepped forwards, two red flags in his hand, and raised them to send the signal to embark and gather the Tiragarde troops. Boats were immediately dropped into the water from all the ships, soldiers climbing into them to make it inland. At the sight of this, the last shreds of order dissolved amongst the men and women of the Keep. Some started towards the ocean to fight the invaders, some fled towards the crumbling stone walls to better hold their ground. The commanders who managed to keep their heads cool shouted for everyone to head for the Keep, but with all the turmoil they were only heeded by those standing close enough to hear and care.
In the end, though, it was useless.
At another wave of the signal flags a flock of gryphons rose from the furthest ship, soaring above the water, the beach and the Tiragarde soldiers. Bolts of blue arcane light rained down over the mutinous troops, splattering into pools of ice as they hit the ground, trapping feet and causing many who were not caught to slip. Other men and women disappeared in puffs of smoke, and confused sheep staggered around in their stead.
The airborne mages’ assault shattered what little remained of the morale and clear thinking of the Tiragarde soldiers. By the time the Kul Tiras soldiers arrived on the shore, there was little left to subdue. Even so, it was not a peaceful takeover. Many of those who did not violently fight back still shouted and cursed at every turn, offering no help and having to be dragged to the boats.
The sun was at its highest as Tandred finally felt ready to order a search of Tiragarde Keep. Prisoners were still being brought onboard the ships, but enough of his soldiers were free to enter and turn the fortress’ insides upside down.
Following another command, one of the mages urged his gryphon to fly high above the towers of the Keep. Once he himself could see the distant Razor Hill he set off a flare of pure arcane magic, to alert those who had waited for a signal.
As the last resisting soldiers who had been hiding inside Tiragarde were dragged out along with what little belongings had been scrounged up, the first dozen wolf riders crested the hills. They were Kor’kron Elites, followed by orc shamans on yet more wolves, as well as trolls riding on raptors. All in all, their numbers were greater than that of the soldiers that had clung to Tiragarde.
At the front line was an imposing orc in dark, copper-lined armor, and alongside him rode a human woman in a white and purple dress. She stuck out amongst the much bigger people around her, yet looked perfectly at ease in her strange company.
Other scattered Horde members followed, but obviously not part of the Warchief’s assembled troops they stayed further away to simply watch the spectacle.
The last thing the Kul Tiras soldiers did before they vacated the fortress was to take axes to the gallows at the center of the Keep. They quickly had them torn down and the hacked up remains were dragged to the entrance of the main building.
Tandred, together with a group of elite soldiers acting as his guard, waited for the approaching Warchief and Jaina as the small army reached the shadows of the still standing walls.
“With well wishes for your marriage,” Tandred said in a low voice as his sister and her husband dismounted their wolves.
Jaina pursed her lips in a grim smile, while Thrall’s mouth twisted around his protruding tusks. It took a moment for Tandred to conclude that the Warchief was silently expressing what he himself felt – distaste that it must be done, but knowing that it had to be.
“I am grateful, Admiral,” Thrall said in a low rumble.
Tandred bowed his head slightly, guiltily relieved for a chance to look the other way. He still struggled to accept it all. Part of him was at peace with it, especially whenever the Warchief’s cordial nature was proven again and again. Yet, whenever Tandred actually looked at the huge orc, his mind was invaded by unpleasant thoughts of his sister kissing those thick, green lips and those enormous, black-nailed hands touching her face.
He wrestled the mental images away and nodded to Jaina. In response, she discreetly waved her hand. For a moment her fingers glowed and she nodded back. As he spoke again, Tandred’s voice once more boomed out to be heard by everyone gathered there.
“This fortress was built as a declaration of war from the last Grand Admiral of Kul Tiras. This land belongs to the Horde, and I have no right to exercise authority in it. Even so, as the keep was built by soldiers of Kul Tiras, as the current Grand Admiral I give my full permission for it to be destroyed.”
He swept his hand out towards the crumbling walls.
“My soldiers have sought through the fortress for any remaining rebels or possible prisoners. To solidify that this is done thoroughly, however, I ask that the orcish Warchief let his own men search the grounds to ascertain that there is nobody left inside.”
Thrall gave the signal, and several of the Elites and shamans headed towards the Keep.
To the relief of everyone involved, the orcs and trolls returned with reports of nothing. There had been no Horde prisoners found, though there would always be the knowledge that many young, foolish warriors had disappeared while probably trying to put a dent in the human settlement.
Tandred, along with his soldiers, returned to the ships. Their part in the Grand Admiral’s unusual wedding gift was complete.
The Keep had been cleared out by Alliance soldiers, by command of an Alliance grand commander. It could still be used as a claim that the destruction was a declaration of war – however, not as smoothly as it would have been if the Horde had attacked and leveled it on their own.
And leveling it was all that was left.
Once sure that nobody was still standing too close to the Keep, Thrall and Jaina exchanged a nod. She stepped forwards, raising her staff high in the air. Flames flared up around her hands upon her command and shot forwards across the barren court, exploding into the remains of the gallows. It was arcane fire only until it bit into the paper dry wood.
Thrall spread his hands, calling out a prayer to the spirits of fire. A flaming roar answered him as the spirits heeded him and the fire stormed over the wood, spreading inside the building. Dancing fire elementals flared into existence as behind Thrall, a mighty choir of voices echoed his words. They spread through the Keep, consuming anything that could burn.
Under the intense heat, rocks shattered and walls cracked. The ground rumbled as the second wave of calls rang out, beseeching the earth itself to help destroy what did not belong in this land. Already faltering walls rattled and fell apart, as stone elementals rose and began pounding away.
The black smoke rose high above the rocky ground and the ocean, roaring as it raged through the ruins. Aided by the shamans the fire spirits let loose all their power.
Thrall did not like it. Yes, it had to be done, and when it came down to it, this was the most peaceful way it could have been resolved. He was eternally grateful that Tandred had offered to help taking care of this sore spot on the orc and troll lands. Yet the Warchief found himself with a disturbing lack of the relief he had expected to feel.
He looked at Jaina, uneasy with his own sense of dread. She saw his movement from the corner of her eye and turned her face towards him. Not smiling, it was not the time for that – but she offered a determined look that at least for a moment soothed his troubled mind.
The firelight rose up and sent shadows flapping about her face.
Thrall swung his head back at this sudden roar of the fire and gazed upwards. The darkness filled up the entire sky above the people outside the falling ruins, blotting out the sunlight. The smoke spewed upwards, and then a sudden gust of wind threw it southwards, with such force that for the briefest time, the cloud nearest its source was almost horizontal.
The fire flared upwards, and the spirits howled along with it. For a moment, the flames looked like a furious face, and the black smoke hung behind it like hair bundled up in a wild pony tail. It bore down on the scene where humans, orcs and trolls had just cooperated to remove a symbol of discord.
Thrall pinched his eyes shut, struggling to not sway from the intensity of the spirits’ cry. He could not be seen staggering even an inch in this moment, not for any reason. Not even though he recognized a warning when he saw one.
Wrenching his eyes open again he saw only a fortress nearly burnt to the ground. The flames were dying down, having consumed everything they could feed on.
Thrall reached out and put his hand on Jaina’s shoulder, making himself return her tiny smile when she looked at him. He didn’t want to worry her, so he did not let her know that he drew strength from her being there. It was still such a new, and ever precious source of strength and peace of mind.
Turning back towards the smoking debris that had been Tiragarde Keep, a scowl dug into his forehead though he managed to keep the defiant snarl inside.
Come what may. They would face that, too.
And following a very visual-based first epilogue, we have Epilogue 2.With whiplash scene shift!
… I wonder if anybody remembers this far back.
Lady Vashj could tell that her personal guards were not at ease, although they kept their complaints to themselves. She could not blame them, for the air in Tempest Keep held a metallic, burnt stench that seemed to dig into her scales, dehydrating her. Arcane bolts of lightning tore at the sky outside, above the cracking landscape. Part of her was thrilled at the vast amounts of power apparent in the area, but another part felt unease at the tear of the land.
She had lived in the ocean for millennia – a world embodying eternity did not scare her. However, one could not swim in the Nether. Only fall, by the way it looked. She had no wings.
And the Netherstorm was far too dry for her tastes. However, she had been made to understand, by several increasingly frantic letters, that this was a matter she truly had to take into her own hands.
The naga were met just outside the portal by very much relieved blood elves, and Lady Vashj slithered alongside High Astromancer Solarian’s hurried steps through the long, confusing corridors of the keep. For the sake of her honored guests, the High Astromancer had foregone her magical hood which normally made her face an unreadable mask reminiscent of a void walker. This in turn had forced her to apply more beauty enhancing magic, but even that could not completely hide how worn down she was. More elves with harrowed expressions passed by, proving just how badly this situation was worrying them all.
Following a final turn and heading towards a guarded gate at the end of a corridor, a distant, muffled scream was heard from where they were heading. Lady Vashj tilted her head, frowning.
“Is he torturing prisoners?” she asked. She did not disapprove, exactly, but it did not seem like Kael’thas to dirty his hands with such things. Then he must truly be beyond furious, dangerously so.
The pale, fine face of her guide scrunched up in a grimace, and Solarian actually winced when another scream rung down the corridor.
“No, my Lady,” the elf said with badly hidden distaste. “It is worse than that.”
The scream continued, ending and beginning again even as the two women stopped a few steps from the doors. Difficult to say if it was the same voice screaming, distorted as it was by pain. Whichever it was, it was a deep, roaring sound. Didn’t sound like a human or elf.
The several guards mumbled grateful welcomes to the naga, which she ignored.
The snakes on Vashj’s head obediently laid down and wreathed themselves into a braid. She knew that they disturbed the Prince even after all this time, and she had no intention to make him even more aggravated.
While Vashj focused on this, Solarian knocked on the great doors. The guards looked on with great apprehension apparent on their faces.
“Your Majesty?” Solarian called, keeping her voice neutral. “Your Majesty, Lady Vashj wishes to see you. May I open the door?”
A second passed, with a lull in the screaming, and then there was a snarl from inside. It may have been an acknowledgement. Solarian squared her jaw and pulled one half of the gate open.
Roaring, a full grown orc, in black mithril armor lined with copper, flew through the open door. Solarian recoiled, crying out in shock, and Vashj’s snakes rose up with an alarmed hiss as she too drew back, eyes wide.
However, the huge thing went straight through Solarian as if it was… just an illusion. Despite its lack of matter, it crashed on the floor loudly and then laid still. A smoldering hole went straight through its chest, so large that one could see the floor through it before a flood of dark blood covered the tiles. Luckily, the magic at work could not recreate the smell of burnt flesh and blood.
Vashj and the elves stared at the thing by their feet, Solarian gasping for breath and pressing a hand to her chest.
After a moment, the naga shook herself out of it and her snakes laid back again as she squared her jaw. She had never seen this orc in person, but knew him well enough from pictures and memories drawn into moving images.
“I sssee,” she said, hissing with the distaste she felt.
Small wonder that the elves had called for her help if their Prince had sunk so low as to play sadistic games with illusions. Such things amused their Lord Illidan from time to time as well, but it was not the sign of a healthy mind. Vashj really had had higher thoughts of Kael’thas.
Still hissing, she swept past the blood elves. Her tail whipped out and right through the fading image of Warchief Thrall.
Kael’thas’ chamber was, to her surprise, pretty much intact save for a few torn pillows and papers scattered across the floor, splattered with ink. Judging from the splotches along the floor and wall, a bottle of it had been thrown across the room.
There was a human shaped, pink image curled up on the ground, blonde hair spilling over the dirty papers. Vashj pretended that it wasn’t there as she slithered towards Kael’thas. The distaste kept her anger up for a moment longer, but she controlled it and let it fade to annoyance and then concern as she looked closer at the Prince.
He lounged on a divan, glaring at her with his head propped up on a fist. Rage and lack of sleep lined his handsome features, encircling his eyes with dark rings. His fine red robes were in disarray, and he made no move to appear more collected under her gaze.
Behind Vashj, the door was silently shut.
She slipped up close to where he was, then lowered her body on her long, thick tail so that their faces were at the same level.
“I’ve never seen you like this, Prince,” Vashj said, lowering her voice to a soft rather than harsh hiss.
He glanced away.
“I’m sure they have informed you well enough of what has happened,” he countered.
Unperturbed by his cold tone, Vashj leaned closer.
“You should speak with Master Illidan,” she urged. “He knows your pain. He would help.”
“It’s too late.” He said it dully, shaking his head. “It was always too late, they moved too quickly. We could not have amassed the troops in time to stop them in Ratchet…”
His words faded into a growl. On the floor, the image of Jaina Proudmoore curled up, covering her head pathetically as sobs wrecked her naked form.
“… and now they sit behind their walls.”
“She is not worth this much pain, my Prince,” Lady Vashj whispered, stroking his cheek with the back of her fingers.
“No, by hellfire, she’s not!”
He shot up suddenly, clenching his hands at the trembling illusion.
“To be scorned in favor of an orc!”
“Kael’thas, calm yourself!” Vashj sharply said.
With a combination of quickly softening orders and careful touches to his arms, she managed to soothe him back down on the divan. He still glared between her and the illusion, but at least settled down.
“You know humans, Kael’thas,” Vashj said, shaking her head. “They are foolish, frightened little things. When they’ve made a decision they’ll defend their choice with blind pride, because they’re deathly afraid to realize that they are wrong.” She wasn’t sure if a sneer would be a good idea, considering his state of mind, so she kept that to herself.
She motioned towards the source of the quieting sobs, still refusing to look straight at it.
“Let her suffer through all the nights she can bear with that orc,” Vashj whispered into Kael’thas long, elegant ear. “That is sufficient punishment for her, until the day we can crush all of them. Then you shall have her, if you want her.”
After a moment he slowly nodded, but she was not sure if it was in real agreement or just a polite way to make her stop talking.
She could feel it, if not her very eyes could have told her the same, what a dangerous blow Lady Proudmoore’s actions had been. Illidan was difficult enough to deal with. Kael’thas had to stay sane, but he had already lost so much.
Unbeknownst to her, in the silence between them he listened to another voice, far deeper and more sinister than Vashj’s could ever be.
Kael’thas stood up abruptly, surprising her. The snakes on her head rose in alarm, but she ordered them back down as she studied his face. Though the rage remained, the worst tension melted away under his massaging fingertips.
As he snapped his fingers, the sobs instantly ceased and the illusion on the floor froze.
“Pardon me, Vashj.” Kael’thas took in a deep breath and held a hand to his forehead for a moment. “It was a heavy blow to my pride, I admit that. I have made you all worry.”
“You did,” she agreed, watching him warily. The change was welcome, but she was not certain that it had not come too easily. “I and your people care a great deal about you, and we hate to see you suffer. Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes. Thank you for taking the time, dear friend.” His smile was charming as always, but also, as always as well, a little tight.
Vashj nodded and returned his smile. She noted, however, that he did not dissolve the illusion. Shaking his head, Kael’thas made a move to start walking towards the doors.
“There are, indeed, matters I must attend to,” he said. “I have high hopes that we may soon begin the next step in rejuvenating the Sunwell. Once that is complete, I will have more time and means to discuss how to go from here with my people’s allies.”
And he smiled, grimly, baring his pearly white teeth.
As great a thing as their marriage were, the Warchief and Lady Proudmoore could not influence the actions of their enemies. They could only take a stand amongst their allies. For the forces of the Burning Legion cared not a whit about that wedding that rocked the political world of Azeroth.
The world itself, and its defenses, still rested on the shoulders of not only the leaders and generals of Azeroth – but on those brave men and women ready to risk their lives in the everyday battles to protect it from the demonic and undead forces.
Now if you’ll excuse me… staggers off
Oh boy. I’ll get back to that, but congrats!
Thanks, and no pressure!
Here I am a few days later, but I have all my pennies.
This in turn had forced her to apply more beauty enhancing magic, but even that could not completely hide how worn down she was. More elves with harrowed expressions passed by, proving just how badly this situation was worrying them all.
It sounds as if the situation might be the excessive makeup, Disney-style.
The world itself, and its defenses, still rested on the shoulders of not only the leaders and generals of Azeroth – but on those brave men and women ready to risk their lives in the everyday battles to protect it from the demonic and undead forces.
Isn’t that a bit generic for the ending? The sentence before that is better. After all, BgW/SotAr is a Great (Wo)Men type of story.
Good job finishing it How many words/pages in total? And what do you plan next? I suggest short stories.
Ah yeah, I’ll look over your suggestions for the final draft as always Thanks!
219 pages with double space break between paragraphs and some extra linebreaks between chapters so I can spot those when I’m scrolling. And like I’m going to say in an author’s note at the end: A romance story of 219 pages, well over 100 000 words, and nobody said “I love you” once! MUHAHAHAHA! I love that I got concerns about that in some reviews, when that was my intention from the start.
Yes, short stories. Just short stories for a while now. Bzzzt. I’ve been really overworked all autumn, but my job situation is better now (in that I’m not working 110%…). Still, my friends have threatened kidnapping if I don’t cut down on stress, so no more big projects on my free time.
Man, it’s been a hell of a ride, hasn’t it? You’ve put…what, three years of love into this? That’s something special. And it was all very much worth it.
Well done, Weiila. Very well done indeed. :victoly:
You just said “I love you”, so that objection’s overruled. You could use some time without writing, I wager.
Curses, foiled again! XD
Nah, don’t worry. I hardly wrote anything all autumn so now I have lots of ideas that are popping up through the mist of exhaustion.
I still can believe this is done, you know.
Can or can’t? XD Well, we have seen it snail along since 2008…
Finally, my chickens came home to roost! Eat nutritious chicken food little chicks.
Er, anyway. I remember when I joined this place, d had all these sagas running that were hundreds of pages long and there were people who had followed them from the beginning and who’d come out of the woodwork to comment on them and disappear again. I’m very very glad you finished this though.
Yeah, those were the days, really. Those were a blast.
I’m really glad I managed to finish it too, especially since my last big project (Introspective Hero for Jak and Daxter) slipped out of my hands. Though I’ve tried to get back to it a couple of times, I just don’t know the characters anymore and I can’t connect with them again. I would have gotten really depressed if I’d failed to finish another grand story that had gotten so popular.
How did you organise the story actually? Did you have a synopsis or just knew how things would go in your head?
When I first get the idea for a story it’s usually just one phrase or scene I want to make something out of, then I plan it out, write down some bigger scenes by hand to map out the important things (amusingly, I seldom write the ending in notes), and finally I start writing it on the computer which is the pre-final draft before I start showing it to people for concrit. While I map out the big picture in notes first, though, I’ll often end up adding a lot of stuff while I’m writing. I find it’s just good to write the basics by hand first, it gives the story time to grow inside your head before you start the rewrite.
You heavily suggested in the first part that he had a deep and intimate relationship with this “Tari” orc woman… so I had already established in my mind that Thrall was not a virgin - all the awkwardness that appeared, I attributed to him being head-over-heels about Jaina and the racial barrier.
But I dunno that much about what’s canon in the Warcraft universe. Is Tari established as not having that kind of relationship with Thrall?