Bones

Then, and Now

I saw the armada, jagged ships scorching the sky and defiling the land.

I saw the sky darken, I saw the swirling mass of their homeworld burn a hole in the sky.

I saw the sword fall, I felt the world shudder in pain.

I saw the tree burn, smelt the smoke on the wind, and heard the people scream.

I have been, and continue to be, unconcerned.

I am, however, intrigued.

There’s real fucking magic on the wind, now.

The Naaru, the Illidari, the Army of the Light. Prophets, archmagi, doomsayers, and every wannabe huckster flipping cards onto their backs. They drank the punch. They bought bridges in far off lands. They were all convinced that life, the universe, and everything was threatened.

I was unconvinced. There were always other worlds than these. There were always shadows, nooks, and crevices hidden in the folds of what was betwixt and between. Worlds, demiplanes, timelines, universes. There was always a way out of the box, you just had to think outside of it.

I spent much of my time in them, learning them, becoming acquainted with the necrotic underbelly of the magical which-ways that permeated reality. If the universe was going to fall away beneath my feet, I wanted a parachute.

That wasn’t to say I didn’t do my part for the war effort, for the boys in the blue and the boys in red. I just did it on my own time, in my own ways. My knowledge, my expertise could be a great boon, of course. 

In the words of a wise contemporary: “in a land of fel infused ancient elves, the peasant with a good banish spell is king.”

Inquisitors, Eredar, and their cultists were dangerous foes, with dangerous resources. I made sure they were neutralized, and their resources responsibly taken care of.

The Nightborne, wretched addicts easily exploited for a fix, were masters of the highest order of arcana, and all too grateful for help. They had little use for the artifacts left in their ruins.

I was unseen, unheard, unattached, and unscrupulous. War has, and will always be, a profitable situation for the man with a keen eye for opportunity and an expansive knowledge of the arcane. 

The assault on Teldrassil was a justifiable military operation. The blood of Azeroth was a powerful reagent. Though, Sylvanas has been all too eager to draw out her bowstring and spread her blight. It’s burning, however, was an uninspired affectation of arrogance. Low-hanging fruit on a villainous tree. 

Artless, really. She did the job, but she just… missed the point. There was an artistry to cruelty that some people just didn’t get. Cruelty was a scalpel, not a hammer.

She sacrificed the Undercity and Lordaeron to the Alliance and to blight, scorched the earth and sowed salt in the fields. 

I lost The Dragon’s Crotch, my dive bar in the bowels of the Rogue’s quarter. My lair still endured deep in the mountains at the coast of Tirisfal, for now, but it would need to be moved. 

I had always found the “warchief” and her ambitions to be insipid, arrogant, hypocritical, and foolish, but ultimately, harmless to my own machinations. She was beginning to inconvenience me, now.

She kept the flames of war fanned, though, and those flames burned away the fog of war and brought Zandalar and Kul Tiras to light.

Zandalar. Ancient and savage and enduring.

Drustvar. Superstitious and earthen and wild.

There’s deep, dark, primal magic, there, unlike the high arcana of the Broken Isles and Suramar.

There’s real power, there.

I can smell it in the air, amidst the tang of sweat and the iron of blood and the ozone of mojo. Amidst the salt of the sea and the smoke of witches’ cauldrons.

I can hear it on the wind, the drumbeat bellow of the Loa and the susurrus of ancient things.

Azeroth whimpering in pain as she bleeds.

War was opportunity. 

It was time to go be a “patriot”.