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Well, it’s better than nothing, he supposes.
It’s only been a few days since his encounter with Xavius, and consequently, the shade’s defeat at Tyrande’s hands, but the real Xavius still lurked in the depths of the nightmare, and every passing moment was another that he recovered. There’d been some hurried discussion about what to do about this, and what they could do, but ultimately, they made their decision. So with little time to lose, they elect to put together a raiding party to strike at the heart of the Emerald Nightmare.
The group they’ve managed to put together for this venture is… interesting, to say the least; Malfurion couldn’t bring any of his fellow druids along, for fear they’ll be corrupted, and he’s barely allowed to go, himself, even to just be a guide. If Tyrande could have her way, he wouldn’t be going at all, full stop. But they do need a guide, and he’s the best one for the job, even if she’s not too happy about her husband managing to get into the thick of it, again. She was not amused by the stunt he pulled with Xavius, and he knows she’s going to watch him like a hawk the entire time they’re in the nightmare.
The group of adventurers includes an alarming amount of dead people- death knights most of all- and an alarming amount of demon hunters. Neither he nor Tyrande are particularly pleased about this, either, but beggars can’t be choosers, and it’s remarkable that they managed to get this many volunteers on such short notice. He just… questions what their motives are, honestly. They’d mostly gathered people by word of mouth, and word of mouth consistently almost entirely of Ethelde, the draenei priest who’d saved him, going to her order hall and asking for help there. How she’d managed to get so many death knights and demon hunters to come along after going to an all-priest gathering is a mystery, though. In fact, the only priests who actually came are Ethelde, herself, and the other two high priests, one of whom was dead. Everyone else was an acquaintance of theirs, of some sort. Which leads him back to the question, why in the maker’s name were there so many dead people?
Total, the group as a whole was just shy of twenty, and the undead made up at least a quarter of that if not more. The demon hunters took up another significant chunk, and after that was a variety of the usual adventurers, which is to say, they were ruthless, relentless, and feared no man nor beast nor god. It took a certain kind of person to be an adventurer on Azeroth, and these were people that had been to hell and back multiple times.
In retrospect, this might explain the dead people.
They’re nearly all here, now, waiting at their appointed spot a little ways from the opening in the great, rotting tree. Malfurion, surprisingly, was not the first one there, although it had been his intention. No, surprisingly, the first ones there had been the demon hunters- two night elves, one far more noticeably fel-corrupted than the other, and two blood elves, a man and a woman. There is also, bizarrely enough, a blood elf paladin with them. The blood elf woman appeared to be the leader, standing at attention, though slightly nervously, while the others stood at her back, a bit more relaxed. She appeared to be on the lookout for something, and only relaxed when he caught her furtive gaze.
“Oh good, this is the right spot,” she mumbled under her breath. The paladin puts her hand on her shoulder reassuringly.
“See, Bear, I told you not to worry about it,” she tells her. The paladin waves at him, dispelling any remaining semblance of formality, though this only seems to pain Bear.
Tyrande arrives next, with Ethelde in tow as well as a comely Kirin Tor mage, small and fair with long, lovely raven hair. That’s Adythalin, he thinks; Ethelde had brought him up when they’d been trying to come up with allies that would be willing to join them on this incursion. He’d hoped that more mages would come with, but it appears that none were available, or could be bothered.
Tyrande is not at all amused by the demon hunters, though Bear does her best to be respectful, and glares daggers at the others until they do the same. The more monstrous illidari bows first, and sincerely, whereas the other two barely tip their heads. His wife squints at them, but nods her head. He’s not sure if the death knights arriving helps or hinders this, but there’s certainly no focus on the illidari anymore when the portal rips open.
The death gate has all the subtlety one would expect from dark, shadowy magicks ripping a hole through time and space to form a portal, which is to say, none at all. The dead file out, a large troll striding out first, who looks back and makes it a point of counting who follows and making sure they make it safely through. He’s tall, even by troll standards, and has long, dark braids cascading down his back. He’s not wearing any sort of armor to cover his chest, and while this isn’t unusual for trolls, it certainly is for death knights. The runes covering him, that’s not too unusual though.
The next to arrive is a dwarf, beardless and fully armored but for a helmet, though she wields her runeblades more like daggers and in such a manner that makes Malfurion very nervous. He supposes that’s the intended effect. She grins at him, bright and cheery and only a little unnerving. This only confirms it.
After her, an orc and a tauren, in quick succession. The orc is runty and tragically young-looking, and the tauren is black-furred and massive. They’re chatting lightly with each other, and they both seem to be holding one of those horrible goblin drink concoctions in their hands. This one is relatively new, he thinks; it only came about when the pandaren had begun integrating themselves in horde and alliance alike. He believes it’s called bubble tea, if he remembers correctly. The pastel liquid and the dome-lidded cups that contain them, covered in images of colorful, cutesy animals, are extremely jarring next to their spiked, saronite plated armor and the weapons strapped to their backs exuding a distinctly murderous hunger.
The fact that all of the dead that have appeared so far have all had dark hair is leading him to believe that Acherus has some sort of enforced dress code. It honestly would explain a lot.
The next undead arrives and nearly throws this theory out, wearing a soft-looking dress with colorful patterns, but he’s quick to notice that her eyes glow yellow, not blue, marking her clearly as a Forsaken. This does nothing to disprove his theory. The mystery of this is going to haunt him, he knows it.
The troll does one more headcount, then closes the rift. He nods at Malfurion in greeting, and the druid reciprocates in kind. The forsaken waves at him, and then Ethelde, before wandering over to the orc and tauren and joining their conversation. One of the demon hunters, the less-corrupted Kaldorei, wanders over, too, and for a moment Malfurion thinks, maybe this will all work out, maybe this will be alright.
This does not last long.
It takes way too long for the rest of them to arrive- an hour, at least, and wait is clearly starting to get to them. Not too long into the wait, the other demon hunters joined in on the death knights’ conversation, and while most of them seemed content to get along, the blood elf man has apparently gotten into an argument with one or more of the undead, possibly all of them. The topic of conversation had switched to their respective leaders, and while most of them were quite happy to vent and complain about their leaders’ less-than-stellar decision-making, the man- Kayn, he thinks? Kayn had apparently taken offense to something said by the dwarf, who does not look even the least bit sorry, and the following words, so often uttered by the illidari, had burst out of him:
“We’ve sacrificed everything- what have you given?”
The ensuing silence was stifling. His leader, Bear, looks like she’s torn between killing him and killing herself out of shame. The dwarf, Orene, is still grinning at him, looking like she’s maybe thinking of starting a brawl proper, the tauren thinking along those same lines, and the forsaken doesn’t look too much better, smiling tightly and squinting. The troll, Maraj, looks very, extremely tired. The orc- Drana- opens her mouth to speak, and Malfurion is filled with inexplicable dread.
“I was in Azeroth for maybe six months before I died at the Wrath Gate,” she says placidly. “Fresh out of Outland.” Every word is agony for Bear apparently, and the druid understands completely, horrifyingly, and sort of wishes some sort of nightmare creature would come lumbering out of the rotten world tree and end his suffering.
“I was nineteen,” she says, more nails in the coffin. The gravity of what he’s said seems to finally reach Kayn. She takes a sip of her bubble tea. “Did you know that Arthas sometimes liked to take away the memories of his followers to keep them obedient? I sure didn’t.” She takes another sip.
“I didn’t remember my own name until like, a year ago,” she says, unblinking. She’s reached the end of her bubble tea, just pearls remaining, but doesn’t seem to care, still trying to suck them up. The noise the straw produces is deafening. Malfurion longs for the sweet release of death.
This is, thankfully, loudly interrupted.
It starts with a shriek that immediately grabs their attention and puts them all on edge, but another one follows soon after and it’s recognized as laughter. Out of the trees walks another troll, another blood elf, and two more orcs. For their main recruiter being a draenei, this is an awful lot of horde, Malfurion thinks. The laughter is coming from the blood elf, apparently, shrieking with delight as she seems to be running from the troll, possibly instigating a chase. The troll herself is caught between angry, stressed, and amused. One orc is just stressed, and the other, amused.
The blood elf, bound in dark leathers and bearing daggers, is clearly a rogue, and the two orcs are both warriors, wearing heavy plate, the man bearing two axes and the woman a sword and massive shield. The troll is a priest, judging by the recognition on Ethelde’s face.
“There you are, dear,” the forsaken says, clearly relieved to get away from the conversation at hand. “We were worried about you,” she continues, chiding. Bear takes the opportunity to pull Kayn aside by the ear and hiss at him angrily. The other demon hunters take too much pleasure in this, Malfurion notes.
“We got held up,” the troll says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder to point at the rogue. “Someone decided not to do all their errands in Dalaran until the last minute.”
“It’s important,” the rogue protests, loudly. “You’ll thank me for it later.” She is immune to the glare the troll sends her way. The shield-bearer laughs, brash and rowdy, and the axe-bearer rubs his temples, sighing.
“I take it that we’ve all arrived safely, now?” Tyrande asks, patience tried. Ethelde nods.
“Yes, that should be everyone. We should be good to head in now,” she confirms. Tyrande nods, and marches towards the entrance of the great, hollow tree.
---
They don’t even get five feet in before they hit a roadblock. Said roadblock is a mostly-rotten dragon corpse who, contradictingly, may in fact still be alive.
The death knights and demon hunters are all too ready to draw their weapons and attack, as is his wife, but Malfurion stays their hands, just a moment.
“If Nythendra is still bound to the dream, we may yet save her,” he explains, wracking his brain for a solution. The shield-bearer, Selka, grimaces.
“I dunno,” she says. “She looks pretty fucking dead.” Orene snorts at this.
As if to spite her, the clouds of insects infesting the tree begin to swarm the corpse and re-animate it. Selka makes a disgusted face, muttering “oh, what the fuck,” and most of the party seems to agree. Ashok, the tauren, is entirely too excited at this prospect. It’s frightening.
Tyrande notches a pearlescent arrow and fires, hitting the dragon square between the eyes. She screeches in pain, the insects fleeing her body as light from the arrow floods the room, blinding them. When sight returns, so has the dragon’s flesh, pale but green and very much alive. The dragon promptly wheezes and passes out. That’s understandable, he thinks. Coincidentally, this also sets the mood for the rest of the evening.
“Well, that hardly seemed fair,” Kor’vas jokes half-heartedly.
“You were right,” Tyrande says, as if she were commenting on the weather. “She was still bound to the dream. This was merely an illusion- all we needed to do was dispel it.” Malfurion tries not to think of the alternative, where his wife was willing to shoot an emerald drake dead and damn the consequences.
“Come, now. We have little time,” Tyrande says simply, and strides past the dragon, further into the tree. Ashok pouts and grumbles but follows.
“Do you even need us, at this point?” Kor’vas continues, laughing.
“I don’t know,” Malfurion says despairingly.
---
The death knights and demon hunters are enjoying themselves entirely too much. In theory, Malfurion should be in the lead, guiding them, but in actuality, there seems to be some sort of petty competition in place of who can kill the most satyrs, the fastest. So naturally, they’re quick to rush ahead, leaving mass destruction in their wake.
Satyrs don’t frighten easily, being that fear is the base of most of their magicks, but they make an exception to the roving pack of homicidal maniacs bearing down on them, and a few of them actually turn to flee. Malfurion actually feels a little bad for them.
But, seeing the sheer amount of druids they’ve captured and tortured, he can’t feel too bad. This amount of bloodlust is a little unwarranted, and honestly a little alarming, but it’s nothing if not deserved. Besides, proves to be a decent distraction, allowing him and the three priests to free any druids they find from their bondage. They seem to appreciate it, even if they don’t immediately recognize their rescuers as harmless. Which-
A satyr screeches, and the telltale crunch of bones breaking resonates down the path. The druid they’re unbinding flinches, and that’s- that’s fair, to be honest.
---
“So, um,” the rogue says. “It’s not supposed to look like this, right?”
This, of course, is referring to the strange, veiny bloom unfurled where their path converged with four others. There’s a shadowy eye rolling around its center that Ethelde takes an uncomfortable amount of interest in. Of course, the environment around them wasn’t much better, being that its very existence was falling to pieces. The other four paths seemingly lead to nowhere.
“No, it’s not,” Malfurion replies tiredly. Drana looks around.
“Reminds me of home,” she says, apparently unable to not be the biggest fucking bummer in the room. The demon hunters have long since abandoned their challenging her to see whose life is the most tragic. Tyrande looks at her with utter exhaustion. The troll priest, Shuuna, apparently feels the same.
“What’s this mean for us?” Shuuna asks, forging on anyway. “Will we be able to continue?”
“We should be able to, in theory,” Adythalin reports, examining their surroundings.
“In theory,” the rogue repeats helpfully. Drol’thak, the axe-bearer, gives her an exasperated look.
“Thaleia,” he hisses in a warning tone. Thaleia just shrugs at him.
“We just don’t have as much time as we thought,” the mage finishes. “And I wouldn’t recommend splitting up; pretty sure those paths lead to portals, and we don’t know where they go.”
“Other parts of the dream, probably,” Malfurion says. “But you’re right, we shouldn’t split up. It’s too dangerous.”
“Will we find more of your colleagues farther in?” Megala, the forsaken priest, asks. The druids they’ve found thus far have largely stayed out of any combat they’re run into, and were currently taking shelter with the restored Nythendra. It was easy to see them to safety when they were so close to the waking world, but this far in- it’d be dangerous.
“I hope not,” Malfurion says.
---
So obviously they find more druids.
Furbolg, mostly, because the first of the four other paths apparently took them to somewhere Northrend-adjacent, if the black pine trees dripping with sap that looks eerily like blood is any indication. It’s a little difficult to tell with how much the nightmare has warped. And obviously, there’s yet more satyrs for their resident lunatics to go after, several of them making the mistake of thinking that disguising themselves as furbolg would somehow save them from being murdered in cold blood. It does not; the demon hunters take the lead on this one, ratting them out as they track them down with their spectral sight. Their leader, Bear, is ruthless in her hunt of them, but keeps looking back to the rest of their party, like she’s worried about making a good impression. She’s making an impression, alright.
Additionally, Ursoc is not at all happy to see them.
Malfurion had hoped, perhaps, that they could call on the sleeping bear god for aid in their fight against Xavius, or at least check in on him, but the corruption had spread far more than he’d feared, the bear god ensnared and maddened. They’re still in the process of deciding what to do, because fighting an ancient god is a bit trickier than fighting a mostly-rotten dragon corpse, but they soon have the choice made for them, as one of the furbolg druids they’d rescued apparently makes the executive decision to pick a fight without them.
“Um,” Cyana says, uselessly pointing a claw at the little bear sprinting into the god’s den. That might be the first thing she’s said all day. It’s probably how she managed to get the rest of the group’s attention.
“Did he just fucking run in?” Selka asks incredulously, angry but still laughing. It is not at all a pleasant laugh.
Ursoc wakes up, loudly, and this spurs them into action.
Bear takes the lead, shifting into a spindly, more demonic shape as she sprints forward, roaring loud enough to rattle their eardrums. But it has the intended effect; Ursoc is now focused on her rather than the short-sighted little bear. The rest of them pile in as quick as they can, the illidari rushing to her side, and the paladin hot on her heels. Cyana takes to the air, attempting to dive bomb him, and Kor’vas and Kayn swipe at his legs with their glaives.
“Don’t kill him!” Malfurion shouts over the noise. “He can still be saved!”
“We need to pin him down somehow,” Tyrande yells, “It is unsafe for me to purify him with that many of us around him.”
“On it,” Drana says, and she and the other death knights rush forward. It seems counter-productive at first, but the rune-covered troll forms chains of ice in his hands seemingly from nowhere, and the dwarf follows suit. Ashok picks up the druid and holds him under one arm, whistling with his other hand. He either doesn’t seem to notice its attempts to rebel against him, or doesn’t care. But the demon hunters hear the whistle, and grudgingly pull back, all except for Bear who still holds Ursoc’s attention. Adythalin catches on as well, weaving a frost spell in his hands as he, the troll, and the dwarf stalk forward towards the god, unnoticed.
Maraj lassoes a length of chain overhead, and throws, hooking a back leg. It trips him up for a moment, but ultimately doesn’t stop Ursoc, the troll struggling to keep his grip. Orene throws hers as well, hooking the other leg, but this still isn’t enough to stop him. Drol’thak and Cyana rush to the dwarf’s aid, taking hold of the chain, and Kor’vas and Drana take hold of Maraj’s. Finally, they drag his feet out from under him, and the bear collapses to the ground with a snarl.
“Now,” Maraj snarls, and Tyrande fires. The arrow lands in his flank, far away from any vital organs, but the contact is enough, white veins spreading from the shaft sticking out. Ursoc roars, wounded and rabid, and the red corruption begins to melt away from him, fur becoming a patchwork of black and brown. He thrashes, and his captors struggle, but the rest of the party each grab onto a chain, holding him in place until the end, when he goes still and quiet and there’s nothing left of the taint but the red ooze seeping into the earth.
Orene fearlessly trots over to where Ursoc lay his head on the ground, despite the fact that it’s as big as she is. She looks him over.
“Yeah, he’s fine; he’s just passed out,” she calls, and the rest of them collectively sigh in relief, dropping their chains as they melt away. She gives the bear a gentle pat on the head before rejoining them.
“Where on earth did you learn how to do that?” Megala asks curiously.
“Parents were shepherds,” Orene explains. “Before I had to live with my grandpa, I used to do that shit all the time with rams.” Meg nods along good-naturedly.
“I was expected to catch and tame my own raptor,” Maraj says simply. He just looks tired again, as does Shuuna, and Megala doesn’t press him for details. Malfurion suspects there’s something inexplicably tragic behind that, and decides he doesn’t want to know.
Meanwhile, Bear, still in her monstrous form, is getting a good scolding from the paladin, Jahdiel. It’s something to the tune of that was stupid and dangerous, don’t you ever run off without me again, and it appears to be effective, judging by how Bear’s whip-like tail hung between her legs and how she ducked her head when Jahdiel spoke to her. Malfurion is fairly certain Bear had been doing that this entire trip, but he supposes it’s a little bit different when there’s a god involved.
“What do we do with him?” Ashok asks, lifting up the problem child in question. The furbolg is as snarly as ever. Tyrande peers at him, gauging something, then glances around at the slowly healing environment.
“He should be safe here with his fellows for now, as long as they stay in Ursoc’s den,” Malfurion says, confirming his wife’s theory. Tyrande nods, and it isn’t hard to herd the furbolg they’d found into the cave behind the sleeping bear. The oily vines that had been choking every inch of the paths they’ve taken thus far begin to wither and die, the greens become greener, and light finally pokes through the swirling storm clouds above.
Things look like they’re going to be okay.
---
They go down the next path and find four more dragons, all at the same time. It’s exactly as horrible as it sounds.
Even more horrible, Malfurion recognizes all of them. This isn’t even the first time they’ve been corrupted like this, and seeing them like this again is awful. Gods, just- he and the Cenarion Circle really need to get their shit together, this shouldn’t keep happening, holy shit.
They manage to get them separated before they cluster up; Ashok and Maraj use their dark magic to grab hold of the ones they’ve focused on right down to their souls and pull them from the others, leading them to different corners. Bear does something similar, using magic to attack the senses and force one to focus on her while she howls at it and leads it away. And Selka-
Selka shouts abuse at it and smashes the flat of her sword against her shield, making as much noise as she can. It works, and she leads it away, or rather, is chased by it, laughing. Whatever works, he supposes.
After that, it’s a relatively simple matter for Tyrande to fire a purifying arrow at each one, quick enough that their fellows don’t notice and can’t help them.
---
They find some sort of horrifying spider amalgam down the next path, and it’s not until they’ve got the damn thing pinned down and are about to finish it off that it starts to cry and beg for its life. It’s laying on its back, insect legs splayed in the air and ichor splattered down its twisted body, and shielding its face from them with its many hands. It’s Ethelde that has it at her mercy, surprisingly, a single cloven hoof pressed delicately into its sternum while she wields a dagger with a jagged blade and a single, roving eye. The dagger, while still a ways away from it, is still pointed suggestively at its throat in such a way that makes the creature shake and writhe in fear. Malfurion sincerely doubts it’s just her foot holding it down, and the shadows subtly weaving themselves around them seem to support this.
“Please, I just want to live,” it begs, blubbering, and it seems too sincere to be crocodile tears. “I won’t try to hurt anyone anymore, please just leave me alone.” It’s convincing enough for several members of their group to shift uncomfortably and back up a step or two, anyway.
“Hm,” Ethelde says, smiling placidly, and presses her hoof a little harder. It wails, and there’s something unsettlingly familiar about its voice.
“Oh no,” Malfurion says. Blurts out, more accurately.
“What are the chances of this being a corrupted druid?” Megala asks hesitantly, like she already knows the answer.
“Fairly high,” he says after a moment. Admittedly, this would explain the (at the time) nonsensical things it had screeched at them when they had first entered its lair. And when its personality seemed to shift about halfway through their encounter into something remorseful and scared rather than manic.
“And the chances of restoring them?” she continues. He looks to his wife, who has not yet lowered her bow, and is regarding the creature with the same sort of apathetic disgust with which one would regard a fly.
“Not good,” he replies. “I fear the nightmare may have twisted them too far for us to repair any significant damage.”
“We could still give it a shot,” Ashok says, very deliberately placing emphasis on the last couple words. Very few people laugh, but it apparently still warrants fingerguns from the tauren. Malfurion sighs deeply.
Tyrande lowers her bow, and taking the arrow she had drawn, strides over to the creature and gently touches the tip of the arrow to its neck. It does not pierce its flesh, and no blood is drawn, but light washes over it from where the arrowhead made contact with its skin, and the creature slowly shifts back to a more recognizable shape.
Her skin may be ashen and grey, her hair may be blackened and her eyes a glowing red, but Malfurion recognizes his sister druid when he sees her.
“Elerethe,” he mourns. “What has happened to you?”
“I died,” she says sadly.
“Oh fuck, same,” Drana says empathetically. There’s a chorus of “same” from the other death knights and also Megala. Elerethe looks at them puzzledly, tears still in her eyes, then looks back to Malfurion, mouthing the words what the fuck at him.
“It’s a long story,” he replies tiredly.
---
The next room makes everyone deeply uncomfortable. Well, most of them, anyway- the death knights appear to be having fun. Too much fun, in fact.
They’d went up the next path and weren’t very pleased to find that an eldritch creature along the same lines as the old gods had physically manifested in the hollow of a great tree within the dream. They’d come to its den, everyone hearing faint whispers here and there on the way up, but Maraj stops them just before everyone steps in.
“It’d probably be best if it was just the undead beyond this point,” he explains, turning to face the group. “Undead are basically immune to the old ones’ calls.” Kayn looks a little offended at this, but before he can speak out again and make an ass of himself, Maraj taps the side of his own head with a finger and says, “Already occupied, so they can’t worm their way in.”
Kayn grudgingly shuts his mouth.
“That’s fair,” he allows, pouting. “Our inner demons would probably jump at the chance to take over, anyway.” Maraj grimaces sympathetically.
“Man, Illidan put y’all through some shit,” Orene says, and Kayn is instantly vindicated. “We at least got to kill our shitty boss.”
“Soon,” Bear mutters none too quietly, with murderous intent. Jahdiel snorts at her, giggling.
“I would advise you all to stand back,” Megala suggests firmly, waiting for the others to file in before walking in, herself.
The reason for this is learned shortly after.
It’s partly because the cyst rooted at the base of the tree began lashing out at everything that came near with poisonous tendrils, but also because apparently with no living creatures to get in the way, their undead party members saw no reason to hold back anymore. There is a ludicrous amount of gore, particularly when the creature begins manifesting strange, animate blood globules to protect it, and the death knights happily discover that they spray blood everywhere if they’re so much as sneezed at. At some point there’s a loud moan from an unidentified party that is entirely too sexual in nature, and it all goes downhill from there. It is profoundly uncomfortable to stand on the sidelines and watch this.
The demon hunters, meanwhile, are all standing around pretending they don’t get exactly the same way with, well, demons. They seem to radiate secondhand embarrassment and shame.
“Holy shit,” Adythalin says a little dazedly. Malfurion agrees.
---
Fighting Cenarius is predictably messy, and tragic, but they manage to knock him out before he does any more damage to himself or them. There is nothing, however, that could have prepared Malfurion for afterwards, and the one horrible question that followed.
“Did,” Selka starts, a strange, desperate sort of look in her eye. “Did you just call Cenarius ‘daddy’ in Darnassian?” Cyana’s eyes bug out of her head, and Kor’vas bursts into loud, ugly laughter. Tyrande looks like she’s going to kill her, right here right now.
“Someone please tell me what ‘shan’do’ means, because given the context, it sounds like it means ‘daddy,’ and I am afraid,” she continues, feverish.
“I mean,” Kor’vas replies, managing to stop laughing for a moment. “You’re not wrong?” Selka looks suitably horrified, and Kor’vas falls back into another laughing fit.
“That’s not what it means!” Cyana shrieks, a little hysterical. “It just means teacher, that’s all!!” It’s too late now, though- laughter has started up among the rest of them, the blood elves particularly.
“Daddy,” Shuuna deadpans, the traitor, and Thaleia loses her mind.
Thaleia also has the experience of an arrow whizzing past her head, so that puts a stop to that.
---
Cenarius comes to a little while later, just enough that the dryads he’d called to help him fight them earlier can help him stagger off to join the others they’d rescued. However, this still leaves them with the problem at hand- which is to say, a big fuck-off hole in the ground, filled to the brim with dark, swirling energies that nobody could see the bottom of.
It positively reeks of corruption, and Malfurion is almost completely certain that Xavius has himself holed up down there while he recovers. But they still had no idea how they were all going to get down there, let alone climb back up. After some discussion, they decide that sending one of the demon hunters down to scout would probably be best, on account of their ability to fly. Well, Cyana’s ability to fly, anyway; most of them could only manage something of a glide, and she’s been changed enough that her wings actually have the strength to lift her up off the ground. They try to set it up to be as safe as possible for her, but objectively everyone knows that there’s a very strong possibility that she just won’t be able to come back out. She knows this, and accepts it, with the sort of mind-numbingly irritating self-sacrifice the illidari have been trained into having. Her fellows tell her, “Suffer well,” and Bear shrieks at them, “Stop, stop, god damn it, no, we talked about this.”
Thaleia ties some rope around Cyana’s waist, and Adythalin enchants it so that she will never run out of length on the way down. And if she wants to return, all she has to do is pull it three times, and it will pull her back to them. They tie the other end to one of the corrupted trees that grew under Cenarius’ misguided care, and with that, she dives into the pit.
It takes some time for her to respond, and everyone is left standing around for a few awkward minutes while they wait to see if she’s died or not. But she lands, presumably, because there’s two tugs on the rope, signaling that she’s reached the bottom, and that it’s safe to come down. The death knights and demon hunters again seem to be in a race to go first and be the most martyr-like, but ultimately the demon hunters win this one, on account of Bear arguing that their gliding down slowly means they can catch anyone who falls. So they go first, and Tyrande follows, the sheer divinity of her presence clearing the mist and acting as a light for the rest to follow. It makes the act of climbing a little less complicated, and go a little quicker.
Cyana waves at them from the bottom of whatever pit they’re in, the end of the rope untied from her and curling around her feet. Malfurion flies down and circles around them keeping a close eye on those still making the trip. The horizon is dark and limitless, and there isn’t much light beyond what radiates from his wife. The shadows shift and change constantly, forming ominous shapes in the dark, red eyes blinking in and out just out of sight. The ground is solid, but doesn’t feel like much of anything, and he cannot recall anything natural or man-made to match its make. The closest thing he can compare it to is dust, caked and layered to a point where it’s solidified, but even that doesn’t quite do it justice. He’s pretty sure that if Tyrande weren’t here, there would be shadows constantly changing or shifting here, too. Her light seems to banish whatever guise they try to put themselves in, and forces it to be real. Two of the three priests and their lone paladin radiate a sort of light, too, though to a lesser degree, but the third priest, Ethelde, blends right into the ever-changing dark. It is not at all surprising.
“The prey is close,” the goddess says in Tyrande’s voice, her eyes and arrows glowing wild and moon-bright. It seems she has borrowed Tyrande’s skin, for now, too tempted by the hunt of worthy prey to resist taking hold fully for a little while. She stands still as a statue while the others trickle down, and when they’re finally able to gather themselves, she stalks forward, bow strung, arrow notched. Her hair flies free of its ties, and plant life springs from every step she takes, but withers in that same instant, finding no purchase in this corruption.
“Well, she knows exactly what she’s doing,” Megala comments, chuckling to herself. Shuuna bats her arm harmlessly, hissing at her to be respectful. Megala shrugs and points directly at Elune’s avatar. “She doesn’t care, look.” The troll scoffs irritably, and Malfurion is reminded of how uncomfortably similar his and the troll’s respective pantheons are. He tries not to think about it too hard.
The shadows do not take kindly to their intrusion, and before too long, tear themselves from that endless horizon, forming into horrible, eldritch shapes that come lumbering towards them. Tyrande, however- or rather, Elune-in-the-shape-of-Tyrande- just keeps striding forward, like she doesn’t see them, or more likely, she doesn’t care.
“Is she-” Jahdiel starts. Laughs a little nervously. “Is she gonna stop any time soon?” Tyrande keeps going, making the distance between her and creatures smaller and smaller. Which, coincidentally, answers that question.
“Fucking shit,” Selka snarls, taking her sword and shield from her back. She then proceeds to jog ahead of Tyrande, and shouts at the top of her lungs, “FIGHT ME YOU SONS OF BITCHES!”
They don’t need to be told twice.
One of them swipes at her, and misses, and another one does too, but comes perilously close to actually hitting her, bouncing off of her shield harmlessly but still making a terrible scraping sound that shoots up his spine. Drol’thak, exasperated, yells something off-color and incoherent, and runs forward as well. This prompts Thaleia to sprint ahead, and then Shuuna, and then it all goes downhill from there. The rest of them seem to take this as the go-ahead to go apeshit nuts, and frenzy seizes the bloodthirsty idiots. More creatures crawl out of the shadows, but the encounter is over in minutes, and most of it is a blurry, violent mess that Malfurion prays he won’t remember come tomorrow. Most of the party is covered in a viscous substance too dark to be blood, but it behaves about the same, anyway.
Tyrande, of course, is spotless, and still stalking relentlessly forward.
“Holy shit, does this bitch ever fucking stop,” Selka hisses. “God damn.” Selka stubbornly keeps pace with her anyway, shield out and ready.
“Not really, no,” Malfurion admits, tired. He can heal alright, but trying to do so and keep up with his wife is another thing entirely, and doing it for long periods of time is exhausting. So of course, he’s been foisted into doing it the entire time.
Tyrande comes to an abrupt stop, forcing a couple of them to stop on a dime lest they run into her. Orene looks fit to be tied because of this, but Maraj shushes her, just as a huge, hulking shape takes form in front of them.
“There,” Elune says, voice reverberating through all of them. The light streaming from her mortal body grows brighter, and the shape becomes illuminated.
“Eww, what the fuck is that!” Thaleia shrieks. Malfurion can’t even argue or say she’s wrong- Xavius is grotesque. The only thing that seems to be left of his wounds are some pale grey scars, glowing slightly and looking like they’d been cauterized shut. Xavius’ beady red eyes narrow, and he doesn’t appreciate the comments to follow, either, because Thaleia starting up with that has only opened the conversation up to more, worse things.
“Why does he have a tongue piercing,” Drana points out. “Why’s it so big?”
“Because he wanted it to be,” Maraj explains tiredly. This sounds like a conversation they’ve had before, many times. “That’s what he wanted to look like. People are allowed to pick what they wanna wear.”
“Looks bad, Raj,” Drana replies with an air of finality. Maraj is exhausted.
“Looks bad,” Orene agrees, almost in unison with Ashok.
“It looks bad and he should feel bad,” Kayn says definitively.
“Do his… hoof nails get stuck on stuff when he sleeps or walks?” Cyana asks, staring with morbid fascination at the nails in question.
“Why is he wearing a loin cloth with rope and leftover hexbolts from the iron horde?” Thaleia asks with no small amount of disdain. “He has fur.”
“He’s trying to save us from his mutated satyr dick,” Shuuna replies. Maraj looks even more exhausted. “This is the one mercy he can give us.”
“Well I mean,” Adythalin starts. “If it can’t literally split me in half, killing me instantly, then what’s the fucking point?”
“This is,” Malfurion starts, pleading. “Completely unnecessary. Please.” Xavius looks confused and offended, and honestly a little hurt, at all this.
“I bet we can hog tie him by those hoof nails,” Selka suggests, and Malfurion is horrified to find she is completely serious, even tempted by the idea. “Like a pig.”
“Enough!” Xavius exclaims, a wave of darkness flying from him, knocking them back a little. “The Nightmare has corrupted dragons, gods, and legends. Your downfall will be simple and swift!”
“You don’t sound too confident about that,” Kor’vas replies, maddeningly. Xavius screams at them. The feeling is mutual.
Tyrande kicks things off by letting loose a white, shining arrow. It doesn’t hit Xavius, whizzing past his head, but it does hit the massive eldritch creature behind him. Because apparently, in the time it took to harass the satyr about his frankly questionable attire, hordes of shadow creatures had formed and were gaining on them.
“Shit,” Bear says eloquently.
The creature screams and disintegrates into a burst of white light, but this does not seem to discourage its fellows, who continue their terrible march forward. Tyrande keeps focused on the largest ones, thankfully cutting out most of their work, but there’s still swarms of smaller ones rushing towards them. Their little brigade of murderers gets right on that, and Selka, Ashok, Bear, and Maraj take turns distracting Xavius while they clear them out. This is relatively simple to do as he’s already pissed off at them, and therefore much easier to distract. Now this is all well and good, but they were dealing with the swarming corruption at exactly the same rate that it was spawning, which meant that they were effectively at a stalemate, at least until people started to get tired and slip up. They had to figure out a way to end this, and soon.
However, what undoes Xavius, ultimately, is a ludicrous amount of metal marbles.
A couple of things happen, in very short order:
Firstly, one of the priests- Shuuna- finds herself accosted by one of the shadow creatures, and cannot immediately fend it off and heal their comrades at the same time. Secondly, Thaleia notices it, and isn’t at all happy about this. Thaleia then proceeds to do the good and noble thing of defending her companion, and attempts to throw herself in between them and shove the creature away. This is not what happens.
She gets between them, sure, and does attempt to push the monster away, but doesn’t quite manage it, as the monster attempts to slash at her and then gets its claws stuck in a small satchel on her belt, instead. She’s trying to shove Shuuna away from the monster and the monster away from Shuuna, but can’t quite manage it; Shuuna won’t be moved and her impressive height over the elf gives her the means to do so, meanwhile the monster, despite having Thaleia’s boot pressed firmly onto its head, can’t get its claws unstuck from her satchel. It seems to realize this, struggles, and tears the satchel open in its attempt to stay latched on, spilling its contents onto the ground.
And its contents… just keep spilling out.
Thaleia screams something incoherent, to the tune of “OH NO!!” and “FUCK!!” combined into some panicked amalgam, but the marbles just keep pouring out, spreading over the ground like a flood. It’s. A huge problem, actually, because the more they pour out, the more they start tripping everyone up, raiders and monsters alike. First the creature slips, then Thaleia, dragging down Shuuna, and one by one everyone drops except Tyrande, still firing her arrows at anything that moves. Several of the marbles are sent careening across the ground by them tripping over them, which in turn trips up one of the huge monstrosities coming up from the back, which then sends them skidding right into Xavius.
“Why did you have those?” Shuuna yells at the rogue. “Why did you have those?!”
Xavius teeters, and there’s one horrible moment everyone realizes that he’s going to fall, and hard, including Xavius himself. The raiders scatter, tripping up on more marbles as they go, and though Xavius struggles and struggles to keep himself up, there are far too many to slip on for this go on. So, Xavius falls, and he falls hard, flat on his face, in front of the waiting Tyrande.
“Begone,” she says, the very air around her vibrating with power, and fires an arrow with the strength of a comet at point-blank directly into his head.
“I told you it was important!!” Thaleia shrieks, just before the light from the cleansing arrow blinds them. Shuuna screams at her incoherently, and the world goes blank with a bright, white light.
When the light fades, they find themselves in a lush green meadow, surrounded by a grove of tall trees and the faint golden glow of the magic inherent in the dream. Malfurion finds himself at peace, for the first time in a good while. It doesn’t last long.
“Oh what the fuck,” Orene gripes, sitting up from her place on the ground. “This better not be a fucking dream sequence. I better not be fucking dead again.”
Malfurion sighs deeply, slapping a hand to his forehead. It doesn’t make him feel any better.