Kalimdor, temporary refuge of the Night Elves.
Shandris's heart was heavy. Но in her mind, she recognized it would have been even heavier if the squad had lost not one sister, but several. Aeranyor—the very Sentinel who could turn into a tiger—had been unlucky. The retreat by land turned out to be far more dangerous than the aerial wilderness and most likely ended in capture… Fortunately, Tyrande promised to ask Azshara to release the prisoner at their next meeting.
While Shandris was immersed in somber thoughts about her comrade's fate, Tyrande was acquainting herself with Illidan Stormrage's reply, reading the not-so-long message for the fifth time. Finally, the priestess shifted her gaze to her friend and stated categorically:
"I don't believe it."
"Um… What exactly?" the elf who brought the letter asked, being in the dark.
"None of it!" Tyrande snapped, squeezing the unfortunate paper with a crunch. "What is this 'died and was reborn as a Human'?! You were deceived, Shandris!"
"He recognized me and addressed me by name! In elven!"
"That doesn't mean anything!"
"But the Bond stone pointed to him!"
"Exactly! That was Illidan Stormrage, but under a disguise spell!"
"Rebirth is certainly an incredible-sounding explanation, but I still don't think he was lying. He even agreed to meet with you and discuss everything! Why would he lie?!"
"Because you won't find him again," Tyrande was gloomier than ever. "He told a pack of lies, now he'll protect himself from searching, and you can whistle for him all over Azeroth!"
"Well, I don't know," Shandris drawled. "It didn't seem like a performance. And he never once expressed an intention to get rid of me: not when he caught me in ferret form, nor when he recognized me. Although his girlfriend, it seems to me, if she had her way, would have turned me back into a ferret…"
"What girlfriend?" Tyrande was surprised.
"Well, there was one with him…"
"Wait, stop," the elder elf interrupted her. "Tell me everything from the beginning, in order and with details."
An hour later, Shandris fell silent, but the next question didn't follow: Tyrande might have been a meticulous listener, but even her imagination wasn't enough to stretch a five-minute story any longer. One of the two "shepherds" of the Kaldorei remained silent for the next five minutes, and the huntress didn't risk interrupting her friend's thoughts. Finally, a verdict was delivered.
"I need to meet him," and for some reason, her voice no longer held doubts about the possibility of organizing this event. "Go back and try to track them. Maybe they haven't had time to return to the city yet. When you find them—call me via the amulet, and I will open a portal there."
"Fine… but this time I'm going alone!"
***
A half-dozen huge lizards with scales of the most diverse blue shades—from light blue to sapphire—made their way through the clouds, hiding from accidental gazes. Representatives of the dragon tribe didn't seek to put themselves on public display even in normal times, and now these specific flying sentient flamethrowers were hiding, and not from just anyone, but from their own kin belonging to other lineages. And they feared with good reason: thanks to the Aspect of their flight, the reputation of the Blue Dragons had recently plummeted. But the famous dragon-mages, though hiding, weren't too worried about the latter, for this time the destination was an extremely rarely visited place—Dragonblight. After all, dragons were practically immortal creatures, so additions to the cemetery didn't happen often, but they did happen.
"Descending," a thought-command came from the leader of the pack. The dragons, folding their wings in sync, began to dive, literally dissolving into the air. Under invisibility spells, they unnoticed left the clouds that sheltered them and rushed toward the ground, where even from a great height, gray spots—large clusters of dragon bones—were visible. The ancient cemetery lived up to its name. The leader, a huge dark blue male, who was also the strongest and most experienced Mage, distributed his younger kin by directions: their Leader's task had to be completed as quickly as possible, and it would be better if it happened with a positive result. Searching for specific representatives of the dragon tribe among thousands of skeletons accumulated over millennia was far from a trivial task, which is why the six of them had come.
The masters of the sky moved away from each other, heading toward the outskirts of the burial ground to cover different sectors. If the search spells didn't impose distance limits, one dragon would have been enough, but alas, due to the distant kinship of the sought remains with the reference sample, they would have to comb the area, soaring over the bone deposits for several hours, or even days…
However, that much time wasn't needed. Not five minutes had passed before a bright flash lit up the cemetery, the source of which was one of the seekers. Under the astonished gazes of the dragons, nearly a third of the burials, represented by skeletons of ancient lizards, became shrouded in mist and then vanished completely without a trace, leaving behind only frozen ground, gray bone meal, and… uninvited guests. Perhaps the most surprised and disconcerted was the one who had cast the mass cleansing spell. He had expected to see something quite different when he felt illusion charms beneath him and wanted to strip them away.
And as for how surprised the pair of high demons were, under whose leadership Undead of humanoid form were efficiently dragging another dragon skeleton bone by bone and passing it down a chain into a stationary portal. There the Nathrezim were, minding their own business, at least as far as the living were concerned, and then—bam!—first someone strips the disguise from the excavation area, and then that "someone," because of using the spell, loses their invisibility, manifests in the air right over their heads, some fifty meters away, and turns out to be a dragon. Just a regular Blue Dragon, whose kin, in the general opinion of Azeroth's inhabitants, are recognized geniuses in everything concerning Magic.
"He is alone! Kill him quickly!" a demon, also not above using telepathy, decided for some reason that the uninvited guest, or rather—the master, had arrived for inspection or to communicate with the spirits of ancestors in solitary splendor. This was a clear mistake by the famous tacticians.
Next, coordinated actions followed from the Nathrezim; fortunately, plans for the appearance of the formidable masters of the sky had been developed by them even before they paid their first visit to Dragonblight. The air thickened around the enemy, not allowing him to quickly change position, and following that, the dragon, stuck as if in a quagmire, was covered by a glowing green (the color of Fel—the demons' favorite color) net.
The scaled Mage was instantly surrounded by a blue protective sphere, with which he successfully tumbled down to the joy of the defilers of the burial ground. But before the Undead led by their commanders could surround the fallen master of the sky, his kin rushed to his aid. The rescuers, apparently in solidarity with the enemies, also decided to make a major mistake and not give due importance to the open portal, apparently assuming an ordinary warehouse on the other side.
Scattering the weak Undead with a single blow—whose purpose before this battle had been basic carrying and fetching—the dragons concentrated on the invaders from other worlds. Thought-speech helps coordinate comrades' actions, but when both sides of the conflict possess it, the advantage effect is neutralized, and victory goes to the one who is stronger. And in this case, the strongest were the dragons. In the end, even without considering various nuances, there were simply more of them. And while one lizard prevented the enemies from escaping via teleportation, in which the Nathrezim were so skilled, a second blocked their path to the stationary portal, a third concentrated on protecting the group, simultaneously freeing the caught relative, and the remaining three struck one of the demons with a collective spell. Though bright, but otherwise seemingly ordinary fireball, easily tore through the Nathrezim's defense, and the flame bursting from the sphere easily destroyed the demon's physical shell, freeing him from the "shackles of flesh," as some inhabitants of Northrend like to put it. The second otherworldly being was immobilized by collective efforts.
And just when the dragons' collective actions had discorporated one Nathrezim, sending his essence to wander in the Twisting Nether, and captured the second and were already approaching the horned prey, a crowd of high-level Undead poured out of the forgotten portal—who were no match for the previously exterminated porters—along with demons, including no fewer than ten Nathrezim. Not that the latter were particularly saddened by the losses, or that they suddenly showed mutual aid, but the demons definitely did not want the captured brother to be tortured and have information about the impending invasion beaten out of him.
A couple of minutes later, the situation had changed drastically. Now, a quintet of dragons was on the ground, surrounding the prisoner and straining with all their might to maintain the defense that saved them from being diced into cubes by the tightening net. A sixth brother was performing aerobatic maneuvers in the air, ignoring physical laws and common sense alike. Magic—what else was there to say? At first glance, the efforts of the remaining free lizard, who made no attempt to flee, seemed pointless, merely delaying the inevitable. However, portals began to appear high in the sky, beyond the zone of the magic blocking spatial charms. Through them, Revenge began to arrive, giving meaning to the dragon's chaotic dance. This fresh influx into the battle swung the scales sharply back in favor of the guardians of Azeroth. Moreover, the newcomers sported not only shades of blue but also green and red; the latter were even more numerous than the first two groups combined.
The flow of Undead and demons did not cease, and new portals continued to open in the sky. Torrents of fire rained down upon the earth, and the air became choked with a sickly poisonous-green color... The battle at Dragonblight had begun, and the Nathrezim, bound by magical chains, served as the prize. A significant number of dragons had to focus not on the fighting, but on protecting the prisoner from colleagues who believed it was easier to kill him than to save him, and on restraining the demon's essence, which kept trying to slip out of its physical vessel to undergo a "regrouping" in its home domain. In short, the demons were doing everything to ensure their secrets remained unknown, though the very facts of the theft of dragon bones, the presence of Undead, and the massive number of demons already spoke volumes...
Be that as it may, at one point a situation arose where the participants of the opposing sides were occupied exclusively with one of two tasks, aside from controlling their own defenses: either attempting to kill the captive Nathrezim or protecting him.
Malygos put an end to the protracted battle. Word of the unprecedentedly brazen demonic invasion of the graveyard finally reached him. Flying into a rage at the mere thought that the remains he needed for the Resurrection ritual might be stolen, he struck immediately upon arrival with one of his own developments... By chance, the resulting crater, overflowing with blue flames, formed exactly where the prisoner was held, destroying him along with all the protection the dragons had layered upon him throughout the battle. For the surviving Nathrezim—and fortunately for them, they were the majority—the battle was over, and they hurried to retreat, abandoning the remnants of their mindless troops to be torn apart. The stationary portal, held open with great difficulty by someone on the other side against the spellcasting lizards' attempts to close it, ceased its resistance and breathed its last.
------------------//------------------
"Ma-a-am!"
A young, blonde, living embodiment of cuteness burst—there was no other word for it—into Azshara's private office. The age of the adolescent elf, translated into Human terms, varied between fifteen and seventeen, though, of course, it would never occur to anyone present to use the age measurement system of their mortal neighbors.
"What happened, Maywell?" Azshara said, without looking up from the surface of her desk.
The mistress of the office was currently studying a parchment covered in a multitude of unknown symbols. The bottle containing the message from an unknown sender had been found on the shore, but so far, no one had been able to translate or decipher the inscriptions. All the experts unanimously insisted it was not a prank by some Human child who had launched a "toy boat" into the sea out of boredom. There were several convincing pieces of evidence: the parchment and the cork were of an unknown botanical origin, and the bottle had been colonized by so much marine life that it was practically a ready-made exhibit for a collection, a natural fossil...
"I'm bored!" The girl ran around the desk and, ducking under Azshara's arm, stared curiously at the parchment.
The eternally young and beautiful queen, despite the calm she had displayed recently, possessed a hard, if not cruel, character. Nevertheless, she was above feelings of irritation or anger directed at a child, especially one who was practically her own.
"Have you already read all the books?" The elf, called "mom," met the child's desire for parental affection and put an arm around her.
"Yes!" The girl tilted her head back, the amber eyes of the young copy of the queen hiding a slight mischievousness.
"And what lesson did you take from them?"
"Don't eat yellow snow?"
"What?!" the single mother involuntarily asked. After processing the answer, her eyebrows began to rise higher and higher, much to the delight of the innocently smiling prankster.
"I mean, I wanted to say: 'If you see a demon, kill the demon.'"
"Well done!" It was much more pleasant to give deserved praise than to engage in the empty wordplay she sometimes had to perform for the sake of political intrigue.
"Such potential and striking insight... to express the meaning of three books about the dangers of working with Fel in four words—she really is unique... a sweetheart. She knew much from birth, and she absorbs new knowledge with incredible speed, and most importantly, she understands it. Combined with her childhood spontaneity, it creates a unique effect," Azshara thought, moved by the sight of the serious little face. The ancient elf didn't notice how she had fallen under the charm of the Well's Avatar; on the other hand, her fate was shared by the vast majority of adults who had become parents. Furthermore, despite the Avatar's physical age being frozen on the threshold of becoming an adult elf, Maywell's developmental level was somewhere around that of a fifty-year-old girl.
"I'm bored, I want to help you!"
Another distinguishing feature of the girl was her strong attachment to Azshara, whom she considered her mother, and her desire to please her and be of assistance. Therefore, Maywell was interested in everything her parent did.
The queen smiled and pushed the old parchment toward her.
"Here, we are trying to understand what these writings are and whether they are encrypted."
Maywell looked at the message, but no miracle occurred; knowledge of the intricate hieroglyphs did not manifest in the girl's head, as had happened previously with the ornate elven script. But the "scientific" investigations of the newly minted heiress of Quel'Thalas did not end there. The young elf sniffed the parchment, scraped the ink with a fingernail, licked the resulting powder, and said with incorruptible confidence:
"Bears!"
"Bears?"
"Uh-huh, bears!"
"What 'bears'?" Azshara tried to clarify. A thought of the woolly breeding grounds for Kalimdor fleas—the Furbolgs—flashed through her mind, but those slobs and writing on parchment? She didn't even consider the possibility of such an absurdity.
"Funny bears."
Further questioning showed that neither a description nor the location of these "funny bears" could be extracted from the Well's Avatar—such details were unknown to her...
Since the subject of the little ward's virtues had come up, it was impossible not to mention her flaws. In Azshara's opinion, there was only one, but it was a big one...
"Mom, when is Papa coming back?"
...The girl periodically tried to find out about the fate of her second parent, in whose existence she was, for some reason, absolutely certain. Since Azshara had not yet acquired a life partner and had created the Well in proud solitude, she had serious concerns regarding the identity of the presumed father. After all, whoever he was, he might possess as much influence over the powerful Avatar as she did. And while Azshara could—albeit with effort—reconcile herself to the thought that the girl loved someone else besides her, the possibility of losing this sweet miracle, who possessed power potentially comparable to the Well, due to the whim of an unknown "other half," infuriated her. Fortunately, when asked, "Who do you love more?" the daughter confidently answered, "Mom!" This avoided most of the future headaches, leaving her with the final word in any dispute over Maywell, but it didn't remove threats of the sort where this "father" might simply walk up to the daughter and say, "Come with me," and she would go!
She had been able to understand from her daughter's questioning that "Papa" was quite real, and she immediately tried to establish his identity, logically assuming he must have some connection specifically to the Well, rather than to her romantic interests. And even though it had been created nearly ten thousand years ago, she could trace all the major milestones of its creation and functioning... though now, perhaps, it was more accurate to say—its life.
So, firstly, no one but her had ever entered the chamber with the Well: not before its creation, not after, and certainly not during. And not because they didn't want to—many craved entry into the holy of holies of Quel'Thalas, and even now would be glad to snatch even a modicum of power—but because the defensive complex of charms was the very first thing she had built when creating the Well.
Secondly, she had personally checked every container of water from the Moonwells, those that had long ago formed the basis of the Well. Of course, she could have been tricked, or the sentient being who theoretically could have enchanted the water might have been many times more experienced and stronger than she was. But she didn't want to think that the girl's father was someone on the level of Sargeras, and the fact that Maywell prioritized her mother contradicted that hypothesis.
Thirdly, the only one who had the opportunity to do something with the essence from the Well of Eternity was dead. Even if she hadn't seen Illidan Stormrage's death with her own eyes, but... fine, Azshara could admit to herself that the "thirdly" in this part was somewhat unreliable. The elf might well have become a slave to N'Zoth; however, that certainly happened after he had taken the Well's essence. Therefore, despite her respect for Illidan Stormrage's skills, the latter could not be compared to her own achievements in the field of magical science. The suggestion that she had missed something there stung her vanity and was thus discarded as false.
The fourth was the most likely hypothesis at the moment. Every day, thousands of elves, using the system of energy conduits in Quel'Thalas centered on the Well, fed the heart of the kingdom. And although Azshara had made every effort to make the Mana entering the Well as neutral as possible, the public accessibility of the power lines worked against her. Even the presence of an automatic channel lockout to protect the Well in case suspicious energy was detected didn't fully reassure Azshara. The fact remained—she was not a "single mother."
Be that as it may, the proverbial "father" was recorded as an enemy by default.
"I don't know, Maywell, I don't know. I'd like to know myself. Maybe he stopped loving you?" Azshara replied standardly.
"No-o-o, it's Papa!" her daughter followed with an equally typical indignation, but then the dialogue took a turn fundamentally different from previous conversations about the father. "Let's go visit him!"
The hand stroking the girl's head froze.
"Do you know where he is?" the queen asked cautiously, waiting a moment—what if her daughter was about to drop another revelation?
"Yeah! I found out recently!"
"Where?"
"Somewhere over there..." The girl waved her hand toward the door.
Azshara correlated the indicated direction with the cardinal points, and it turned out that "somewhere over there" could be almost anywhere on the continent, with the exception of a small amount of land north of the capital, since her daughter had pointed her mother south. Glancing thoughtfully at the exit of the room, the queen chuckled.
"Can you show me on a map? Or at least say how far away he is?"
"I don't even know... Papa is far away... beyond the mountains."
"So not in Quel'Thalas... Sad and yet encouraging—most of the potential 'husband' candidates are ruled out." In the time since the Avatar's "birth," Azshara had learned to speak with her daughter on the same wavelength.
"Further than where the Gnomes live?"
It was unclear how Maywell knew where the "Gnomes" lived, or why she knew about them at all but not, for example, about Humans. But the fairly accurately described engineering quarter of Ironforge left no room for ambiguity—she knew.
"No, closer! Much!"
"I see..."
Alas, the girl could boast of no other geographical landmarks. Therefore, Azshara had to think: determining the father's approximate location was simple enough—it would suffice to drive Maywell around the country and measure the direction at several different points, then correlate them with a map, draw a few lines, and the sought-after location would be the point of their intersection. And then... well, if the place turned out to be uninhabited, the matter would be significantly simplified. With some small village, it would also be easy—grab everyone and drag them in for a paternity "examination." But if there was a city there, or the capital of some Human kingdom... While she could agree to Maywell traveling the country, taking her out of Quel'Thalas was too dangerous... But identifying the father was almost a vital necessity. However, if the need was great, she wouldn't hesitate to forcibly bring all the residents for testing, though, of course, she wouldn't want to spoil relations with allies before the coming war...
Yes, definitely, there was much to ponder here.
------------------//------------------
Kalimdor, the temporary refuge of the Night Elves.
When unfamiliar sentient beings conflict, they often raise their voices at each other, subconsciously believing that the louder they are, the more convincing they become, and the more authoritative their opinion. When a wife and husband or a pair of lovers quarrel, volume usually takes a backseat; the primary means of influencing the opposite side are argumentation and the use of facts, or the "Because I want to!" principle used by the particularly stubborn and thick-headed.
The quarrel between the leaders of the Kaldorei, despite the fact that they were married, proceeded according to a combined version: highly elevated intonations interspersed with tons of sarcasm delivered in an attempt to convince the opponent. Each defended their point of view as the only correct one, hardly bothering to analyze the arguments of the other side. Fortunately for them, they had anticipated each other's reactions to the news brought, and therefore had secluded themselves behind closed doors, deciding not to involve the rest of their compatriots and not to lower their morale with the sight of quarreling leaders.
"...So, in your opinion, the fact that I didn't tell you about Illidan Stormrage immediately for fear of giving you false hope about a surviving brother is the same as your unilateral decision to betray Elune and agree to a slave's yoke from that blonde snob?! Malfurion Stormrage, have you taken an example from the Aspects and gone mad?! Or do you have another case of brain softening after the Emerald Dream?!"
"I don't recall any alternative means of survival being found during our last conversation."
"Illidan Stormrage..."
"And I knew nothing about him until this moment! And besides, your faith in my brother is... groundless. One man is not an army!"
"One man is an army if the field is one-on-one... And don't change the subject! How could you even think of abandoning the Goddess?! After everything she has done for us?"
"Not that much," he grumbled in response.
"Perhaps," the priestess of Elune unexpectedly agreed, "but that is no reason to step onto the path of betrayal!"
"From Azshara's point of view, it is we who are the traitors," Malfurion Stormrage reminded her of that significant point.
"And you decided to take her side? Instead of looking for other possibilities, you turned first to those-who-are-afraid-to-intervene, and then, when they sent you away, you went to the-one-who-never-cared-about-us?"
"Do you think it's better to perish ingloriously in an unequal battle?"
"Do you think that bitch, having bound us with a magical oath, won't send us to the front lines? And that's your best way out—to die not for your homeland and interests, but for someone else's? Seriously?!"
"Perhaps we are resources to her, but those are exactly what she doesn't throw away. You saw for yourself how her capital is organized—no one is idle, everyone works for the good of the country."
The girl sighed.
"I saw many things there that you apparently didn't notice. Including enslaved Trolls and Murlocs. I don't want my children to live in barracks as a lower race just because one of their leaders lacked the wits to make the right decision!"
"If only one knew it, that right decision..." It was the Druid's turn to sigh, but then he perked up: "Wait, did you say 'children'?"
"Naturally, I'm not pregnant, but sooner or later they will appear, Malfurion Stormrage, and slavery is forever!"
"The oaths haven't been taken yet; we gathered specifically to discuss the situation. So what exactly are you proposing? Well, besides the fact that we absolutely must see 'Illidan Stormrage.'"
"There is a possibility it isn't him," Tyrande Whisperwind nodded, catching the doubt in her beloved's voice. "But whoever he is, this man gave me the idea that we've approached the problem with too narrow a focus."
"Yes, yes," the man waved the message clutched in his hand. "Find allies in other places... I read it. But you understand yourself—it's unlikely that all these Tol'vir and others are dreaming of helping us."
"Perhaps..." she said, looking thoughtful for a moment. "But that's not what I mean. We are fixated on the war with the Ancient One, but we only need to cleanse Nordrassil, and with its help, we will figure out how to protect ourselves from the Void's minions. Fortunately, we have a working example of using a Source for protection right before our eyes."
"We already tried, remember? We surveyed Nordrassil, and based on the research results, that very foray was organized..."
"...Because Malygos said so," the priestess finished for her husband, "who betrayed us. Not suspicious at all, is it?"
"Yes, I hadn't really thought about that... But perhaps it's because we saw the truth of his words with our own eyes? The source of the World Tree's corruption is underground."
"I don't care—it could be on the moon for all I care! Forgive me, Elune, for such sacrilege... The main thing is to deal with the emanations of the Void!"
"Fine," the Druid agreed compliantly, not wishing to argue over trifles. "I will ask Ysera and Korialstrasz... and someone else."
"That's only the first point. And then there's the very first link in the chain of our woes—returning to our native forests. We a priori decided to return no matter what, and that's wrong."
"What do you mean?" he frowned. "Stay here? We discussed that too—it only gives us a reprieve and leads to defeat, because the longer we wait, the more strength N'Zoth will accumulate."
"Flight," Tyrande Whisperwind suddenly declared. "Since no one is burning with desire to help us with the common problem—we can run away and let all interested parties solve it themselves."
Malfurion Stormrage was surprised at first, then thoughtful.
"There's something to that... We've been fixated on Kalimdor while a more suitable spot for us might be found on other continents. But that, again, only gives us a reprieve."
"No one is talking about a continent," his wife shrugged. "The Twisting Nether is full of different worlds. Look, right next to Azshara is a stationary portal to the world of some savages who recently attacked Humans. If they could open it, so can we."
"That's... an interesting idea," Malfurion Stormrage couldn't help but admit. "But saying we can open a portal to another world is a bold statement. Those savages, as far as I know, were helped by demons."
"What some mages could do, others can too. We just need time, which moving to another continent will provide."
"So, we look for a place on the eastern continent and prepare for relocation, while simultaneously learning about the possibility of cleansing and continuing to look for allies."
"Don't forget about Northrend and the meeting with Illidan Stormrage."
"Yes, yes, and we'll talk to Illidan Stormrage," Malfurion Stormrage still didn't believe his brother had survived. "When, by the way?"
"As soon as Shandris Feathermoon finds him, I'll contact you."
"Good."
------------------//------------------
Northrend. How much is hidden behind that word for each of the dragons.
Flying among the fjords is very... inspiring! Below, the waves crash in anger, trying to conquer the impregnable cliffs, while above, life reigns supreme, especially in spring, when the greenery of mighty pines is generously diluted with the bright colors of flowers... And then there's the wind. Flying along the sheer cliffs was almost constantly accompanied by this faithful companion, and it didn't matter if the wind cooperated at any given moment or hindered by blowing head-on—it always helped one become imbued with the element and "feel the sky on the tips of one's wings."
Flying over yellow clover meadows brings joy and merriment. The bracing, rich, herbal-honey scent of these yellow flowers practically forced one to breathe it in deeper, and then repeat it again and again!
Flying over the tundra helps one relax. Vast, monotonous spaces of half-frozen grass and earth, dusted with snow that hasn't melted for a long time, evoke peace by their very appearance. And it's so grand to snack on a mammoth or two! Countless herds of woolly herbivores roamed the entire continent, but preferred something between the relatively warm southern coast and the northern snowy fields—the tundra was exactly that place. Hunting served as a reminder that they were predators, and animal instincts were by no means foreign to them.
Flying over the western basin, overgrown with jungle, charges one with vigor. If the fjords amazed with their variety of colors, the solid green Canvas of the jungle forced one to involuntarily become imbued with the power of Life, which Red Dragons and Green Dragons especially loved to do by their very nature.
Soaring in the streams of natural Source of Magic, which abound in Northrend, allowed one to replenish their own reserves faster. That very feeling when wide-spread wings are literally pierced by an ascending flow of energy particles... As they say, Blue Dragons approve!
Their brethren, the kin of the fallen Neltharion, also loved to fly in circles, but preferred to soar not just anywhere, but over those sources of mana located in active volcanoes. The flight of the Bronze Dragons was swift and beautiful... but invisible to others, for they glided through the time streams, unburdened by material concerns.
Mountains... well, it was better not to fly over them, especially low: the crazed servants of the Titans considered anyone who invaded their domain an enemy, including their own colleagues in overseeing Azeroth.
In short, Northrend had become a home for the dragons, one might even say a sacred place. It was here that their sanctuaries and the temple called Wyrmrest Temple were built, where representatives of different flights met to discuss various issues, make global decisions, or simply exchange news. Ambassadors of the Green Dragonflight, Red Dragonflight, Bronze Dragonflight, Blue Dragonflight, and even Black Dragonflight—despite the betrayal of their Aspect—had been almost constantly present at the top of the temple lately; the tense situation on Azeroth was taking its toll.
But at this moment, the upper platform was deserted; only the lonely figure of the Life Aspect watched the wasteland surrounding the temple, while junior members of the flights remained on guard, while most members of the dragon union had headed to the graveyard...
The quintet of acting ambassadors gathered at the graveyard discussed the brazen theft of their ancestors' remains, as well as the battle that followed the discovery of the thieves.
"Well now, dearest kin, what are you going to do?" The ringing girl's voice of a Human woman broke the funeral mood.
Naelis, the ambassador of the Black Dragonflight, was, as usual, cheerful and brisk. And why should she be sad? The worst had already happened to her flight—the Aspect was dead, and barely a hundredth of the original number of the former guardians of the earth remained. So the representative of a flight that was the mortal enemy of the other dragons—except, perhaps, the Bronze ones—could only joke and be a little nervous because diplomatic immunity extended only to the Wyrmrest Temple and the area around it. At the graveyard, the peace zone had formed more out of custom than any agreements backed by the words of the Aspects. Therefore, the answer to the question of how much the graveyard could be considered safe territory was somewhat uncertain. Naelis clearly didn't want to die at the hands of her kin because of a crazed Aspect—she was a very life-loving sentient being, and so she had to joke twice as much as usual, hiding her fears behind a mask of high spirits.
"And you, it seems, not only hold your living relatives in no regard, but your dead ones too, and you don't intend to help, did I get that right?" Korialstrasz was the first to respond, as expected. He was the consort of Alexstrasza, the Life Aspect and leader of the Red Dragons.
Of all the flights, it was the reds who had suffered the most significant losses in clashes with their black brethren during Neltharion's rampage. And the Earth Aspect's attempt to kidnap Alexstrasza to continue his flight had found a heated response in the souls of her kin, filling them with sincere hatred, the flame of which matched the red color of their hides. And the most ardent "fan" of this attempt was Korialstrasz—Alexstrasza's lawful husband. It was only due to his wife's personal request that he hadn't kicked this annoying, insolent woman out of the temple. On the other hand, a couple of years ago, he had wanted to tear off her wings and throw her off the upper platform... So there was obvious progress. In general, the long-standing "love" between these two members of the dragon union was known to all, and therefore the other ambassadors were in no hurry to intervene in their dialogue, preferring to follow a proven approach: give this pair a chance to blow off some steam, and then move on to constructive discussion.
"The dead no longer need our care; we value caring for the living more than the dead. Though how would you, guardians of Life, know words like 'care for life'? You prefer to operate with words like 'death,' 'hatred,' 'vengeance'—don't you?"
"We had good 'teachers.' Consider this merely our 'gratitude' to them."
"What nobility! Your appreciation extends not only to the 'teacher' and his circle of associates, but even to us, his 'second cousins.' Truly, you are a 'worthy' representative of your flight," Naelis knew how to play with words like no one else, and the grinding of her opponent's teeth only confirmed it.
"Let's get closer to the subject, shall we?" Ithar, the ambassador of the Green Dragonflight, couldn't stand it, guessing that this time the exchange of "pleasantries" might drag on. "Not all of us have time to listen to your bickering."
Green Dragons mostly belonged to the non-material world, and therefore tried to minimize their presence on the physical plane of Azeroth.
In response, Naelis merely shrugged, as if to say she had nothing to do with it, and then, putting a bored expression on her face, turned away from the fuming Korialstrasz entirely. She had already fulfilled her minimum plan of driving the hater of blacks to a white heat. Better for her enemies to remember old grudges than to ponder her immunity specifically in this place...
Most of the dragons present, including lizards not belonging to the ambassadors, appeared in the form of Elves, a minority as Humans. Taking the form of pointy-eared mages, the Titans' henchmen busily surveyed the surroundings: the battlefield, the site of the stationary portal, the remains of the Undead—there were many targets for close study. Some of those present were flying, surveying the terrain from above, and simultaneously watching to see if an enemy was sneaking up, deciding to strike a sudden blow at the gathering of Azeroth's guardians. However, among all this crowd was one individual who preferred the form of Gnomes—allies of the Dwarves. There was one nuance here, though—Chronormu, the ambassador of the Bronze Dragonflight, had chosen as his form not just a Gnome, but a female Gnome. The petite blonde with huge green eyes, now closed by eyelids, might have evoked a sense of endearment in her interlocutor, if said interlocutor didn't also know that behind the mask of the pretty girl named Chromie was a multi-thousand-year-old male lizard—Chronormu.
Chronormu's eyes snapped open, and having emerged from the time streams of the past, he delivered his verdict.
"These are demons, and they..."
"You don't say!" Naelis couldn't help herself and, turning around, threw her hands up theatrically. "And I thought it was Gnomes in disguise putting on Hallow's End with skeletons and decorations, accidentally smearing everything with green paint!" The girl pointed a finger at a nearby green puddle of materialized Fel energy.
"If you don't want to help, then shut up and don't interfere!" Ithar ordered coldly. He also hated Black Dragons, and while he didn't show it as strongly or obviously as Korialstrasz, the ambassador of the Green Dragons respected his friend and therefore didn't intervene in his sparring with this vile regurgitation of Neltharion. Now, however, he was not going to tolerate her antics.
"I am helping you! I'm diluting your wordiness with my witty hints. Но if you don't need the help of an Earth Magic specialist to determine where the demons and Undead came from, then I'll be quiet..."
"..."
The silence was incredibly eloquent.
"Well, are you finally finished?"
Khronormu was displeased with many things: the fact that he had been rudely interrupted, the fact that demons also had a few Time tricks up their sleeves—which had prevented him from examining the events in detail—and he was extremely displeased that Nozdormu had sent him to the temple as an ambassador. He was intensely jealous of Soridormi, who had been given a much more interesting assignment, but that had little to do with the matter at hand.
Without waiting for an answer, he addressed the primary troublemaker personally:
"Naelis, any more sharp remarks left?"
She jerked her head in an indeterminate gesture, but the bronze dragon took it as a positive response and continued his interrupted speech:
"The demons were here for no less than a year, and during that time, they stole over a thousand remains. In the visions of the past, I managed to glimpse what was hidden on the other side of the portal. It was a massive cave filled with high-level Undead, Nathrezim, and other sentient as well as mindless demons. Furthermore, in the background loomed a strange icy crystal with a barely discernible humanoid silhouette inside." A two-dimensional image appeared over the gnome's open palm to illustrate the description.
Those gathered suddenly tensed. Most had rightfully assumed the enemies were represented only by the contingent that participated in the battle for the Dragonblight, but now it turned out there were twice as many Nathrezim alone.
"I didn't see those types of Undead here yesterday," Korialstrasz remarked. He was specifically interested in manifestations of anti-life, and thus immediately spotted the inconsistency.
"Hmm... perhaps they didn't want to reveal all their cards?" suggested the ambassador of the Green Dragonflight, who also shared a distaste for such games with death.
"And I am more concerned about the number of demons," Khronormu admitted, studying the projection he had created. "The Nathrezim are one thing—those can slip into any crack without grease—but how much time and effort did they spend dragging the rest through? Surely neither we nor the elves could have missed the creation of a stationary portal to the Twisting Nether?"
"Unlikely, but that means they've been here for quite a while... Or there are far more Nathrezim and their ilk capable of penetrating Azeroth independently and bringing friends along," the elf in green robes scratched his chin in agitation, forgetting he wasn't in dragon form; instead of durable scales, his head was covered in ordinary skin easily yielded to even fingernails, resulting in scratches that, however, healed almost instantly.
"We know neither the strength of this Undead, nor how many such caves there are, nor where they are located," Korialstrasz summarized, glancing sourly at Naelis. "What shall we do?"
"Fine, then—I'll help with the last point, so you won't say we're only bad because we're black," the girl finished her speech, already turning and heading toward the spot where, until very recently, the stationary portal used by the demons for transport had been functioning.
The trio of ambassadors who had taken part in the dialogue exchanged glances and engaged in a mental discussion regarding Naelis's intentions. Ten seconds later, Khronormu winced at another waste of time due to the erupting bickering and, breaking contact, followed the dragoness who had offered help—he was, after all, the most friendly toward the surviving kin of the Earth Aspect. Korialstrasz and Ithar had no choice but to follow the bronze dragon.
The last one—Saragosa, ambassador of the Blue Dragonflight, was the consort of Malygos and had ended up in this position thanks to the elimination of the rebel Kalecgos at the hands of N'Zoth, but this dragoness was in no hurry to participate in the discussion. Saragosa was here only out of the necessity of playing the role of ambassador; she generally didn't care about the dragon graveyard. Moreover, at the moment, she was more concerned with her husband's intensifying obsession with the idea of resurrecting his primary wife—Sindragosa. Truth be told, she had no desire to lose her position as the primary consort should her rival return. Thus, Saragosa had no time for meddling with demons, yet she followed the others to the site of the portal destroyed by the enemies during their retreat.
"Somewhere there, under the mountains," Naelis said, finishing her investigation. She rose from her knees, brushing dust from her hands—dust brought to the graveyard by the thieves from the other side of the portal—and waved toward the north. "Five hundred kilometers, plus or minus fifty. I can be more precise after a ritual that might take a couple of days, unless, of course, you help me. Alternatively, perhaps that silent blue lady over there can orient you."
This time, the ambassadors collectively glanced at Saragosa, who continued to pretend she wasn't with them. They stared and stared at her, then decided to start from a slightly different angle.
"To guaranteed eliminate a threat of this magnitude without suffering excessive losses, we will need an entire army and several Aspects to boot," surprisingly, it was Khronormu who spoke, though the Aspect of his flight rarely took personal part in battles.
"We can call the elves—they won't refuse to participate in a showdown with demons," Korialstrasz hurried to suggest; he clearly had no desire to put his spouse in danger.
"They are unlikely to help," Ithar darkened. "We refused the Kaldorei help with N'Zoth, and they are deeply offended by Malygos." The ambassadors' gazes crossed on Saragosa again, but she had already leveled her "I'll pretend I heard nothing" skill to impressive heights. "It's worth a try, of course, but I wouldn't count on a positive result if I were you. And as for Azshara... I don't think it's possible to talk to her at all."
"Humans?" Khronormu suggested. "The Dalaran Mages have great potential."
"What use is potential now? We need ready, experienced warriors," the ambassador of the Green Dragonflight sighed. "And as far as I know, the Human Mages are under Azshara's wing. I doubt they would dare to take independent action. The Queen of the Nagas does not strike me as someone incapable of keeping her own vassals in check."
"Right, and that's exactly why the elves split into Kaldorei and Quel'dorei," the brunette commented mockingly.
The vision of a virtually ready demonic army had severely soured the mood of those present, so it was no surprise that they immediately snapped at her, especially since there was a large selection of ambassadors ready to do so at any moment. But the leader in hatred for his black kin beat them to it:
"Since you're so smart, then you will be the one to go negotiate with Azshara on behalf of the entire union. And don't bother coming back without the elves!" Korialstrasz added vengefully.
He wasn't afraid to send her alone or grant her such authority: ever since the Dragon Soul ended up with Azshara, she had been telling every dragon who flew in "to talk" to get lost. And not all of them returned in one piece.
"Sure, 'ally,' why not fly there," the girl agreed, unexpectedly easily for everyone. "But actually, since you've admitted I'm smarter than you, I can't help but prove that fact in practice. In such a simple matter, we don't need helpers. I suggest we simply collapse the cave roof. It won't kill the Undead, of course, but it will certainly render them incapacitated. And the demons will have a hard time too. Minimum effort—maximum result."
A tense silence fell. But while the red-haired and green-haired elves tried to find or invent flaws in the voiced plan—mostly out of habit and emotion—the little gnome fell into serious thought, trying to find the right version of the future and catch a glimpse of it. In any case, Naelis's proposal did not leave any interested parties indifferent, and the first remark was not long in coming:
"It's unlikely the demons are so stupid that they didn't foresee such a possibility," there was nothing special in Korialstrasz's words, but he tried to convey all his contempt for the intellectual abilities of the one who might have once killed his kin through his intonation.
The discussion began.
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