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Changing Seasons ((Open RP))
Krannus surged out of sleep still fighting the horrors he'd faced there. Each breath was a ragged gasp, and a thick sheen of sweat caused his scalp to itch under the dark mane that had tangled about his shoulders and neck during the night. Moment by moment the dark smothering dreams relaxed their grip on his mind, and eventually his breathing began to slow as well.

Taking in his surroundings he gave a soft frown until recognition gradually dawned. This wasn't the tent he normally shared with Malila and Kanatamu within the Dreamspeaker camp. Thin plaster walls formed a room that humans might call crude, but to him they were an unfamiliar luxury. The skins of great beasts had been stretched over wooden slats to form a ceiling, and he could smell the faint traces of oil that had been used on those skins to help keep water out.

Pushing aside the heavy blankets he crawled from the pile of cushions he slept on and moved to the doorway. The gentle caress of the sun was just beginning to touch the eastern horizon, yet already a wealth of smells and sounds washed over him. Ogrimmar never really slept.

Scratching absently at the base on one horn he turned his thoughts back to the dreams. Already most had fled, but he was left with a single image...an image that troubled him. Alori. The Forsaken Priestess sat atop a throne made from bone. Her right hand rested possessively atop the head of a felbeast, and at her side stood a demon very much like the one who served the Dark Lady.

Was this the future? A warning of what might come to pass? Or had it already? Malila and Kana needed to know. Perhaps they'd have some insight to share. And if not perhaps it was time to involve some of the Ironsong. He saw no need to bother the warlord, but Eveline and Shillatae had both proven their wisdom. Dispaya knew much of magic. Or perhaps Damoxian's study of demons would prove useful.

Ducking back inside the room he began donning his armor. It was going to be a busy day.
((From Men'ka's perspective))

A shadowy form moved through the Drag with the ease of one who knew every stone of the place. Short and thin for an Orc, with a wild shock of black hair, she seemed oddly right at home in her morning patrol of Orgrimmar's streets.

Despite her lythe movements, there was a weariness surrounding her. Sleep had become a luxury lately. She'd been keeping an extra watch over Grommash Hold in the past week, trying to solve a mystery and keep the Farseers and the Warchief safe from whatever was occurring. It still unsettled her that the Grunts wouldn't allow her passage into the Hold that she so dilligently protected, albiet from the shadows.

These thoughts and more set her demeanor to a stony neutral as she continued her patrol of the city; in and out of the shadows, over a roof, along the road, blending with the denizens, and sinking in and out of view.
Elamshin stood within the shadows as she looked about the city of Ogrimmar. It was as if nothing had changed in her absence. The people within the city still went about their daily business. If only they knew what was lurking within their dusty streets, in the shadows watching them.

She pulled the hood of her cloak tightly about her boney frame and made her way back towards the wyvern master. Now was not the time to approach those she had left behind. Another time and place is best. Questions will be asked, anger and deep emotions will be shown and in a city among people who know nothing of what has traspired would not understand.
Orgrimaar was a place of Strength and Honor. Here the Horde founded its diamond amongst the desert lands, a beacon of hope for a people who had lost their home and been forced into slavery and then exile. Where the Warchief Thrall ruled with wisdom and sheparded his people into an age of tenative peace.

But near its heart it held a darkness that pulsed like a cancer amongst the greatness. For the Honor of its people, Orgrimaar had formed a cleft of shadow, where those who had forsaken personal honor dwelled for the greater good of its inhabitants. The shattered hand laired next to the descendants of the defunct shadow council, the dreaded Warlocks of Thrall's Horde.

The light of morning never touched the Golden eyes of one of the most formiddable beings to ever take the mantle of the forbidden arts. Only the flickering of tapers lit the world to his gaze, casting him amidst fire and shadow, the elements to which his craft paid its homage. Damoxian deftly ran a few dexterouse fingers slickened by oil along the length of his braids, fashioned with a warriors pride to hang down across the massive breadth of his chest. Soon enough he had risen from the ragged bear skin that served as his resting place, fastening the attire of his trade about his person.

One hand pushed aside the centaur hide that served as a privacy buffer to Damoxian's abode, allowing him to gaze over the cleft. It held its own form of sinister beauty, the green witchilights that flared here and there illuminated the figures of cloaked and hooded beings, the soft chanting of the infernal tongue providing a sinister requiem to the latest batch of creatures whos souls would never touch the light again. These were banished to the nether for the sake of an unloved craft and a people hated for unforgivable reasons. Damoxian moved through it with ease, for he was a part of it and it a part of him, the rythem one could only hear in silence and shadow guiding his every step as he paced forward to start a new day.

The light that was barely more than the cleft showed that the Drag stood before him leading into the winding tunnel that would lead either to the steps of Grommash hold or towards the valley of strength and the gates leading out of the great city itself. It was here that he heard it, that single solitary sound of dischord within the shadow, that infinitely small displacement in the perfection of light and darkness that caused him to whirl around. His lips parted, words to harsh for mortal ears streaming effortlessly from his lips as his hands writhed in an invocation to things that no one was ever meant to see.

It was only when those golden eyes focused on the subject of the distrubance that the words died upon his lips, banishing the sense of euphoria that always came with his dire incantions. The butt of Damoxian's Staff of Dominance struck the ground with a resounding *crack* as he angled his head to reguard the one who stood before him.

"Well, I assume you have a reason for seeking me out? If so discuss it as we walk. I have more things to accomplish this day than you could possibly imagine".

((anyone is welcome to pick up the thread from here))

The crack of the staff startled her less than the telltale signs of his demonic conjurings. To look on him here, now, in this place, she wonedred at the power he held...and yet...he could not be too much older than she. Even forgetting for the moment that it was demon magiks he used, his very presence was daunting.

Her moment of distraction passed as he asked his question, her face took on the solemn look of someone determined to accomplish something. With the graceful ease of her craft, she moved to allow him to lead where he wished and began the difficult task of questioning a rather willful and powerful Orc.

"I'm not in the habit of disturbing Warlocks, Champion...but I have questions that I do not trust just 'any' of those here to answer."

As she waited for his acknowledgement, she wondered just exactly how to ask what she'd intended. Would such a question offend the Tribe's Champion? Would such offence end fatally? She doubted that, but one never knew. Fear dared not enter her thoughts, but concern that her tasks would go untended to and her mystery go unsolved weighed heavily on her shoulders.
Dispaya opened her eyes and took her hand away from the Tauren's brow.

"Indeed your vision was a powerful one Krannus. I can see in your heart that it troubles you even now...and yet try to consider this:

Your vision was not of THE future but only one of many possible futures.

Visions of the future are as the ripples in a pool of clear water. They may drift and change with the smallest vibration of one's own heartbeat."

The undead girl made a slight magical gesture as a few fishing baubles on her alchemy table suddenly sprung to life. They rose into the air above her outstretched hand and circled one another in a spiral pattern.

"Like these baubles, the future itself is in constant motion. All possible things revolve around a universal center which is the present, and each action we take may invoke an infinite number of possible futures. Sometimes these futures, much like these spheres, come so close as to touch the center and at these times our minds may reach out and glimpse them if only for an instant. Visions may be whispered into our ears by spirits, sent to us by our gods, or may come from our own psychic abilities. Yet most usually, a vision is a dream that is generated by the power of one's own intuitions.

I cannot give you the answers which you seek. I can only advise that the vision itself is only the beginning. It is usually best not to dwell too deeply on the vision itself, for in trying to avoid the future one can easily lose one's self and sense of purpose in the present. Try and affect that which you are able in the here and now. Be strong Krannus. Keep honor in your heart and the spirit of the Earth Mother in your soul, and you will soon find that your path is clear."

Dispaya let the baubles drop into the Tauren's outstretched palm and closed his fingers over them.

"Intuition is like cosmic fishing. You may feel a tug on the line but you must still hook the fish."

With that she turned and slowly walked away, leaving the great Tauren alone to ponder these things for himself.
Sing True Ironsong!
Dispaya's words echoed in his mind as the magus ambled away. The visions he experienced might be glimpses of a possible future. But were they truly a warning? And if they were a warning what, if anything, could he do to prevent them? Had actions he'd taken already ensured that such a fate would come to pass for Alori? Would the new name she'd been baptisted with when she was reborn as a Forsaken replace the one she wore in life?


According to Daranthar it was an infernal word, and it had something to do with a dark destiny. Speaking of the skeletal mage, where was he? He'd not been seen by the tribe since he'd gone to spirit Mariya out of Stormwind. That in and of itself was troubling. Of the Dreamspeakers he knew the most about the arcane arts, and having been created by the scourge knew more of it and the Legion than anyone else Krannus had met.

Slipping the baubles that Dispaya had left him into a pocket sewn into the lining of his cloak he stood and stretched. Picking up his staff from its place propped against the table he headed to the bonfire that marked the edge of the Valley of Spirits. He had no idea why the fire was never allowed to go out or what it symbolized, but the fact that it was always here comforted him.

He sat down as close to the flames as he could bear, and stared into the ever shifting depths. Absently taking his pipe from a belt pouch he packed it with some of the orcish leaf he'd recently aquired, and gave it an experimental puff. It was more pungent that what he was used too, but he'd get used to it. One of many changes his new tribe and new home would bring.
Malila stirred lightly as Krannus left their abode, the small action causing a ripple acrossed the plane of dreams as she slept. The loss of warmth he had given her is what gradually began to pull her from sleep, the soft haze shifting into sharp realism as her eyes fluttered open to look around the small room. Soft furs and tanned leather marked the room as their own, looking much like the inside of their tent had back at their old camp. Yet the noices floating in through the thick skin of leather covering the entrance reminded her it was not that case. She sighed lightly, the sound causing Kanatamu to turn over where she still laid on the furs the three of them had shared the night before. Not wishing to wake her, Malila slid a soft earth colored gown over her head and pushed the skin to the side, exiting quickly.

The brightness of the sun caused her to squint for a bit, her eyes opening more fully as they adjusted to the morning light. Krannus had already made his way from their home, no doubt getting an early start to his morning mediations. The thought of him brought a warm smile to her face as she quickly braided her dark auburn mane into one long braid down her back. Stepping onto the path, she started towards the near by pond.

As she passed a near by vendor, he called out to her. On the table before him were several breads and fruits, assorted meats and cheeses as well as herbs dressing the area. She smiled appreciatively, her mind quickly going over the list of thigns she had planned for the feast for the festival that was soon to be held. Yet as she stood there, an odd feeling began to overwhelm her, causing her to turn away from the vendor and walk around the corner. Leaning back agianst the cool stone of the building, she tried to swallow back the feeling of nausea she felt. How odd, she thought, never having had that feeling before when it came to the food she enjoyed cooking. The vendors food had been in good quality, so it stumped her as to what could be the problem.

"I suppose recent events have taken more of a toll on me than I had thought"

Krannus and Kanatamu's concern the night before resurfaced and she sighed. They had asked her to see one of the healers within Ironsong, concerned for her health and wellbeing. I'm fine, she told them, but neither seemed convinced.

The tiredness had not abated as things had settled to a close with Kanatamu's sister, Shalee, though there was still much change to deal with as some of their tribe had disappeared. The desicion to find a new home had not been an easy one, but they knew they had made the right choice after joining Ironsong. So why was she still tired and feeling a bit under the weather?

As the nausea passed, she pushed herself away from the building and started down the path once more. As she came close to the pond, she smiled, seeing Krannus's broad shoulders and handsome frame as he rest besides the fire. She closed her eyes and inhaled slightly, the tell tale scent of his pipe on the air. How she enjoyed it when he relaxed smoking his pipe. Moving up behind him, she leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"What has pulled you from the warmth of our bed this morning, beloved?"

Taking Damoxian's silence as an affirmation to continue, she did so, "My questions may seem uninformed, Champion, but I have very little knowledge of any sort of magic, much less the fel sort. I ask for your patience if I seem ... novice or vague."

With a slight hessitation, she gathered her thoughts to pose a coherrent question, "...of late, I have become aware that there are certain of your collegues who do not practice their felmagic by choice, but rather by necessity...as some form of very strong addiction...do you know of some way to...", a thoughtful frown passed over her face as she paused in search of the proper words, "...remedy the effect?"

As they walked, she folded her hands behind her back and kept her steps light, moving with an odd mix of fluid grace and the awkward posture of a trainee.
<Deleted due to double posting>
Damoxian drew himself to a halt, his neck craning about as he used that golden stare to peer down upon Menka. One great horn stood proudly out from his brow, the other shattered in half. His was a countenance that showed every hint of having taken to deeply from the welspring of demonic power. But in his stance, and deeper within those eyes, the iron born discipline showed.

"As well to tell me the sky is blue, or that rain occurs when clouds come as to tell me that some warlocks have become addicted to the power that they hold . "

He drew himself up to his full height, the imposing garments of stone and silk making him look all the more menacing.

"But those who go to far can only be cured in a single fashion. First you remove the tongue, then you pierce the eyes. Then you tie their extremeites to four different kodos who pull their limps in different directions. Then you take what is left and set it aflame to become little more than ash. A fallen warlock is not a being to be treated lightly, death alone will silence their urge to delve deeper into things they never had the ability to harness in the first place"

Damoxian came back into his stride, resuming his walk out towards the valley of Strength as if he had discussed with her something mundane, that every child should know.
(( Men'ka: ))

For a brief moment after his answer, anger flared in her stomach and burned her cheeks. This was not an emotion that she often allowed herself outside of battle, but the Champion's sheer arrogance somehow set wrong with her. After a short moment to recompose herself, she spoke carefully.

"...it's quite a wonder that any would even attempt to rid themselves of such an addiction with the 'encouragement' they find from that attitude, Champion."

His reply was not what she'd hoped for, perhaps that was what had set her on edge, though she was sure that it was the truth, atleast from his perspective. She never broke stride with him on their way to the Valley of Strength, though her steps seemed to keep her more towards the shadows.

"Though, I must ask...why the mutilation? Why not simply end their lives?"

((Sorry for the delay in posting, Damo...the electricity blinked and ate my post and I had not had time to re-write it since...bleh on rewrites!))
:Big Grinamoxian did not halt his walk, he did not turn again to regard the young rouge that walked at his heels. The world before him opened up into the valley of Strength, where fires roared restlessly and the life's blood of Orgrimaar could be seen in every being that strode its length with an ingrained sense of destiny.::

Because it is a symbol. It is not enough to destroy the physical shell of a warlock, one must make a display of the event. Failure is something that cannot and will not be tolerated amongst those who deal with the infernal. To allow such is set a disease spreading throughout the young and foolish of the order. A display of the warlocks failure will discourage those who do not have the courage...and yes the ambition to stake their souls in this war.

::For a moment he did stop, his head turning with a grin hanging on his features. It was a smile that dripped contempt::

For make no mistake shadow stalker, we are creatures of self reverance for a reason. To be anything less is to lay bare the chink in your armor that some denzien of the legion will use to undo you.

Perhaps when you are older and your temper is cooled, you will come speak to me about what it means to take the cutting path that is my trade. And do not lament the passing of my kind who turn, no matter how grisly the end. We know the stakes of this path when first we set down it, history has been a great teacher to us in this respect.

::A vertical slash of light appeared in the space beside him, a horrible tear in the fabric of reality itself. To look beyond was to stare at infinity in the eye and to know with a certainty that it was stairing you straight back in the eye. From its depths strode a creature from the darkest pits, resembling a horse only in a false cosmetic sense. Alight with a mane of flame, bedecked with barding made in the forges of hell itself, Emberroth strode from his lair to await his masters bidding. A flicker of the beasts head sent a mane of pure flame twitching behind it, the air about it distorted from waves of heat::

But that day is not today. As ever, I have a legacy to forge.

::Vaulting onto the saddled back of the Dreadsteed, Damoxian ignored the incredible heat that enveloped the beast. The muscles in the warlock's legs pumped as he slammed his heels into the beasts flanks, sending it into an immediate gallop that would take him from this city, into a world that would be forged by the likes of Damoxian Dread-Caller, warlock of the Horde.::

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