Peggy Sue 'Saves' Azeroth

[FractiousDay]

Summary: Time travelling characters often go back and try and save the world or similar. While sometimes they accomplish this, this story will explore the disruption this can cause. Two characters fresh from the defeat of Sargeras are hurled into the past by the machinations of the Infinite Dragonflight.

-x-

In the foothills outside Durotar a fire burned low in a small hut.

Two figures sat beside the fire, neither speaking.

The first was an orc, grey skin marking him as one of the Blackrock Clan, he wore no armour but aged skin and wrinkled face showed the harsh life of a warrior and campaigner. He was Saurfang, general and master of many warriors, none of them able to fight the enemy that had so wounded his friend.

The other figure looked into the fire as well, staring blankly. He was larger than Saurfang, standing head and shoulders above him. He was Tagar of the Mok'Nathal, half-ogre, like Saurfang a warrior and hero, but despite his might his son was still dead. His eye were unfocused, his limbs flecked with the red dust of Durotar. He had been digging a grave.

"Rage is a weapon" the statement was a sigh of exhaustion. Anger had always served Tagar, from his youth as a slave of the ogres on Draenor, to the campaigns of the Horde, up to the Battle of Hyjal. Now his weapon had failed him and nothing he could do had been able to save his son. Rage had only helped him dig the grave for the wasted, tiny body.

The Blackrock orc extended a hand, laying it on the shoulder of his companion. "You did all you could."

"And it wasn't enough." Replied the larger orc.

"Tomorrow the shaman will come again, we will learn what happened, I swear it."

Vark had been young, too young to be taken like he had, wasting away in the night, half dead by the time Tagar even knew of the sickness.

They stared into the fire and Tagar was glad of the company, even if it didn't bring his son back.

If all had gone as it should the pair would have sat there for the rest of the night, perhaps sharing old stories. If all had gone as it would Vark, son of Tagar would have still been alive and gone on to a fine military career making his father proud.

But all wasn't as it should be and the hut was suddenly shaken by an explosion and a flash of green fire. The explosion came with an accompanying stench of sulphur and death.

The orcs and leapt to their feet in an instant as the smell reached them Saurfang growled, "The Fel." He said simply, turning to his companion, "Do you have weapons?"

"Not here." Replied Tagar, reaching for a woodsman's axe in the corner, Saurfang drawing a knife from his belt. The Mok'Nathal looked to the window. "Better to face them outside?"

Saurfang nodded, accepting that Tagar couldn't accept demons trampling his son's grave. They bundled out the door, weapons high.

"Not as smooth as we're used to. You're losing your touch!" remarked a deep voice from a cloud of dust and smoke.

The reply came but was too muffled for the orcs to hear, but as soon as the cloud started to clear the orcs stalked forward.

"I'll distract the larger." Saurfang said under his breath, "Deal with the smaller first, then help me."

Tagar leant forward, breaking into a sprint, two figures, as Saurfang had said one larger and the other smaller emerging in the darkness.

But then he felt something around his legs, pulling him up short, his axe flying from his hand. Coils of shadow wrapped themselves around his limbs, ephemeral yet stronger than steel manacles.

"Clear the air." Ordered the larger figure, the same deep voice as before.

At his command the smaller seemed to make a gesture and the air did indeed clear, but both Saurfang and Tagar were still bound, floating upright, slightly above the ground.

"Good catch." Came a remark in accented Orcish from a voice much higher than the previous one.

"Get us some light." Rumbled the larger figure, "I want them to see it."

The smaller looked up at the larger, "What? You think Go'el wouldn't set anyone right?"

"I'm not worried about him; I just don't want to have to fight everyone."

The smaller figure moved slightly, perhaps a shrug. Then he turned to the farm and the air crackled, green fire shrouding the demon, dark power flowing from his hands over the outbuildings and crushing them, pulling them across the ground, already swathed in green flames.

This spell, something to the level Saurfang and Tagar had only ever seen worked by Gul'dan or the higher levels of the Shadow Council, was used so casually but the smaller figure… The demonic magic of the Burning Legion… used to make a bonfire.

The warlock pushed the fel into the ruined material, pushing the fire higher, then abruptly stopped.

The fire still blazed but now it was lower, a natural fire with all the colours a fire was supposed to have and a steady, though intense light radiated across the clearing now.

The smaller of the figures came closer, peering at his prisoners. Saurfang struggled in his shadowy bonds but Tagar waited for the opportunity.

The smaller figure was an elf, and a High Elf at that. Tagar remembered their sort from the wars in the Eastern Kingdoms. Arrogant but with the power to back it he'd heard their power had been broken by the undead several years ago. Clearly in this case it wasn't so.

The elf was tall and slender like they all were, his face finely boned without being sharp, his eyes glowing with a green fire, his robes magnificent reds and golds, clearly enchanted and as powerful as he was. A staff floated through the air beside him, following him along as he advanced, that too was clearly powerful and stank of the Fel.

"The Staff of Ner'zul." Whispered Saurfang out of the corner of his mouth.

Tagar frowned, he'd known the elf was a powerful warlock from his spellwork but that was something else. He also noticed that as the elf walked the sound of his steps didn't match his movements, and when he spoke neither did his voice. It was an illusion.

"Saurfang." The elf greeted the orc snidely. "I can't say it's a particular pleasure to see you again."

Saurfang just glared at him.

The elf turned to Tagar, tilted his head and bowed very low, slowly placing his hand over his heart. "Tagar, son of Darmok, I've always regretted that we've never met, but I've benefited from your wisdom many times. I greet you with honour."

From an elvish warlock, a powerful one at that, the statement baffled Tagar, but clearly the elf had no particular desire to elaborate and he turned to return to his larger companion.

The larger figure had been shrouded in darkness before but now the bonfire lit him up plainly. He was immense, larger than Tagar had suspected, tall, or taller than an ogre, certainly as broad. He was completely covered in pale, blocky armour, with his harness giving the impression of solidity and strength rather than elegance. Several parts were slightly damaged, notably the pauldrons and vambraces where the pale giant had defended himself. His helm was as magnificent as the rest of his armour, a stern face wrought in the strange pale metal with a sort of crown circling his head. Light seemed to fill the figure from within and his armour looked more like stone than metal.

In his hand was the largest axe Tagar had ever seen, a wicked black blade with a wailing skull set into its side.

The half-ogre considered that either of the arrivals might ordinarily appear as noble, whether the elf's elegance or the giant's strength, yet they were shifted in a way, the elf's illusion clear under close examination and the giant looked more sinister than it did noble, like a spectre of the ancient past, a memory of buried rage.

"Alright let's get on with it." The elf said, looking at the bound pair.

The giant nodded and the shadow-bonds around Saurfang faded into the night air.

But as soon as his feet touched the ground the orc leapt forward, a hidden knife in his hand, plunging down toward the elf's neck.

The pale giant was there, he caught the strike and struck Saurfang in the chest sending him flying through the air, landing heavily and rolling before springing to his feet.

"Rage is a weapon." The giant told him, "But it is not enough."

Tagar's eyes flicked between Saurfang and the giant. The words couldn't have been a coincidence, had the pair been watching them before they'd shown themselves? He looked at Saurfang, processing the short attack. Saurfang hadn't been struck he realised, he'd been thrown, caught and thrown. Why? The giant was clearly fast and strong enough to kill an orc in a single blow and Tagar suspected he was as dangerous as the less well armoured warlock.

The elf raised a hand, pointing west toward Orgrimmar, "Saurfang, powerful agents of the Burning Legion have emerged and threaten the city, surely Go'el should be warned? He should even bring his advisors and his most powerful warriors!" he said slowly, as if impressing an order on a simpleton.

Saurfang looked at them suspiciously.

"Thrall." The pale giant corrected after a moment.

"What?" the elf asked.

"He's still called 'Thrall'."

"Oh." The elf remarked, his intimidating aura and the nimbus of felfire that danced around his head and shoulders like a mantle rather contrasting with his obvious confusion. "Well yes him in any case."

Saurfang was still suspicious. "Why should I lead the Warchief into a trap?"

"What makes you think you've got a choice?" asked the elf, then with a wave of his hand Saurfang fell downward, not to the red dirt of Durotar but into the ground, green fire engulfing him, then fading as soon as the orc was out of sight.

"Taelan…" this time the giant sounded exasperated. It was an intimate grumble rather than the stoic restraint of his previous statements.

"Va-" The elf, 'Taelan', Tagar supposed was his name, replied, but then stopped and looked again at Tagar, then continued, "We've got a lot to do and I don't fancy standing around in the dark for half the night."

The pale giant looked down, shrugged and sat down on a rock, carefully laying his axe down so the edge of the blade didn't touch anything and Tagar noted the move, was the weapon truly that dangerous?

"If you swear not to attack us we'll let you down. You're quite safe I assure you."

"Swear it on the spirit of your son." Said the pale giant, its head tilted in an emotion Targar couldn't interpret.

Could he swear it? From the elf's actions they seemed to have send Saurfang to fetch the might of Orgrimmar, which was certainly an unusual way for servants of the Legion to behave, but then again the paid were utterly transparent, clearly they wanted the Warchief to come.

"I swear it." Tagar admitted after thinking and before the words were even out he felt himself drop to the floor, landing on all fours and standing quickly.

The pair seemed to disregard him after that, though he felt the giant's head turn toward him, then away as soon as he caught Tagar's returned look.

Their behaviour was baffling. The warlock was powerful and the giant likely just as powerful, both their gear was clearly enchanted and he didn't doubt the giant could wrestle a dragon if he wanted to.

The elf was walking about, hand extended, eyes closed and fingers splayed, mumbling to himself. "We're going to have to get used to this, even the leylines are different, a lot's changed."

"Or hasn't." the giant replied.

"I meant for us."

The giant grunted noncommittally.

The elf had neared Vark's grave and Tagar felt his hand clench as Taelan walked over, then knelt hand over the freshly turned soil.

"Get away from him!" the Mok'Nathal roared, stepping forward.

The shout interrupted the two arrivals, but after looking Tagar they ignored him and turned back to the grave. "It's the interchomatic resonance. Like with Geya'rah." The elf said, still holding a hand over the grave. He looked at Tagar again, "A wasting sickness, starting yesterday?"

Tagar could feel his heart thundering in his ears, "Yes." He admitted, did they know something of it? Did they know why his son's flesh had dissolved as he carried the boy to his grave? "Did you do this?" he spat the demand.

"Not exactly." Remarked the elf, his hand still hovering over the grave.

Tagar restrained himself. Before his anger had simmered, purposeless and ignorant, now it grew, if these strangers knew what had killed his son he had to make them tell him. "What caused his death then?"

"It's complicated," the elf continued, "Mostly a human and some dragons, but it was overall beneficial."

Tagar's lip curled, his knuckled white and fists clenched. "How exactly was my son's death beneficial elf?"

The elf looked up at him, then to the pale giant who stirred and spoke, "Death is only the beginning."

The elf paused and extended a hand to the west, a flat plane of green fire opening in front of him, his greenfire eyes narrowed and looked into the fire, then he called over his shoulder to his companion, "A large party, worg riders in the vanguard, infantry following behind. Many magically powerful figures, I assume shaman."

"How many?" the pale giant replied.

"I said 'many' didn't I? All perhaps, I wouldn't be surprised."

The giant nodded. "It'll save convincing them later."

The strangers conferred among themselves, the elf Taelan sticking his hand into the air and pulling out a piece of paper from seemingly nowhere. Tagar edged closer, hearing them convey about a number of different locations and individuals, only some of which he recognised from Blackrock Mountain to something called the 'Ghost Wolf'.

Could these be the strangers' plans? It seemed likely, yet they also seemed not to care about him eavesdropping.

Soon enough though Tagar heard the horn calls of the approaching riders. The came in with a torrent of fur and steel, riding in a grand circle around the strangers, some dismounting and sending their wargs away, others remaining mounted, mounts ready to pounce, axes gripped in readiness. It was a grand assemblage, likely everything Orgrimmar could spare at short notice. As the elf had said there were indeed several shaman, as well as other magic users from the Trolls and Tauren in the city. As they approached Tagar backed away from the strangers, fading into the swirling soldiery, Saurfang finding him quickly and handing over an axe. They led him straight to the Warchief who was dismounting his massive white wolf, the black and brass armour of Doomhammer clinking and his weapon clutched in his hand. The spirits swirled about him and blue eyes narrowed at Tagar's approach.

"Who are they and what do they want?" Thrall, son of Durotan, asked simply.

"You, or so it seems, they act strangely." Replied Tagar.

Thrall nodded once and held up a hand. A long horncall sounded and he strode forward, his warriors parting around him.
The strangers seemed utterly unimpressed by the military display and the warriors surrounding them. The pale giant was still sitting on his rock and the elf merely looked around in benign interest.

The Warchief called out a challenge, but before he could finish demanding an explanation for their presence the
Thrall paused, stopping his advance and raising the Doomhammer.

The giant rolled its shoulders, its masked face giving no impression of its thoughts. Then it spoke:
"Mak'gora."

The word was simple, but it set the worg riders shouting and their worgs growling. Some yelled abuse and refusals at the challenge but a few of the others bellowed the warcries of their clans as was tradition when a such a challenge was issued.

Thrall looked to his advisors in confusion, he'd never faced such a challenge.

Drek'Thar, chief of the Frostwolves came forward, "Beware young Thrall, the elements surround this one, the spirits… be careful."

"He must have standing." Insisted Nazgrel, riding up on his warg, "Only a chief can call the Mak'gora."

Thrall nodded and turned back to the pale giant, "You must be a chief of a clan to challenge me in Mak'gora." He repeated, "Who are you and what clan do you claim?"

The elf was grinning as the giant reached slowly up and removed his helm.

"I am the Breaker, I am Kingkiller and Deathlord, Avenger of the Titans and High Marshal of the Legionfall."

The face that was revealed was pale, white and hard as alabaster, hairless with strong jaw and heavy brow, his eyes were blue and glowed with an inner light.

"I am Vark, son of Tagar," he continued, looking his father in the eye "And I have come to lead you."

-x-

Several years ago I started my first story, 'Liberation' which admittedly wasn't very good, but dealt with the consequences of disruption between different cultures and interestingly seems to have predicted the Iron Horde to an extent. I've developed since as a writer and I'd like to have another go at the themes with an idea I came up with recently.

I want to write a 'Peggy Sue' story, where a character time travels into the past and tries to 'fix' things. However, I want to explore the disruption and chaos this causes to the more primitive society, and want to revive my old characters, Vark and Taelan to do this in the Warcraft universe.

If you want to read ahead I have a Patreon where I'll be posting chapters in advance.

 

[FractiousDay]

Thrall stood in conference with his captains. Nazgrel still urged caution, but the others were less clear. The strange warrior claimed to be the son of Tagar of the Mok'Nathal. This was clearly impossible, but it was a strange thing to lie about, and it left Thrall in no more certain a position.

"The Moons move Go'el." the giant called, "Give your answer!"

Thrall gripped the Doomhammer more tightly as he looked upon the giant Orc's pale face. There was a resemblance to Tagar there for certain, but the skin, the eyes, they were strange indeed…

"Why do you call me such, Stranger?" the Warchief shouted back.

"Your father told it to your grandmother, before he travelled through the Dark Portal." the giant said simply, "Give me your answer, 'Thrall'."

Thrall, no, Go'el's mind raced. Once again, it was a bizarre thing to lie about.

"Get on with it," said the elaborately dressed high elf to the side, "we've got a lot to do. We should hit the city before morning."

The giant stroked his chin and nodded. "Go'el," he announced, "If you deny my challenge I will strike you down now. You were a worthy Warchief once, but you do not have the stomach for what is to come."

Thrall bristled, as did his warriors. "I have mettle enough for you, Stranger."

"Come then, prove it."

Drek'thar leant forward to lay a hand on Thrall's pauldron, "Patience, patience! You don't know what you face. Wait for more shaman to arrive, we will-"

Thrall had already taken a stride forward, the Doomhammer raised.

The Mak'gora was accepted.

Thrall circled, but the giant remained where he was, his shoulders resting easy, he did not even raise his hands, and his axe lay against a boulder.

"Arm yourself!" Thrall ordered.

"My axe would eat your soul in a single strike." the giant said, "And this won't take long."

Thrall didn't bother to answer, he stepped and swung his weapon, up swiftly, into the giant's side.

The Stranger's speed belied his size, he stepped back just as swiftly, and again he dodged even as Thrall went forward, his footwork impeccable from years of training as a gladiator.

The giant was swifter still.

Thrall's strikes were only glancing blows, which the giant turned as easily as he might the gnashing of a wild dog upon the leg of an armoured knight.

Indeed, the armour concerned Thrall, it was massive, incredibly thick, sized not only for the giant's physique but for the obviously massive strength he held in that terrible form.

"This is ridiculous, Vark. Finish it." came the elf's call from the sidelines.

"There are rituals to observe. And they have to see it." the giant called back to his companion.

But the giant had stopped to answer, and this time Thrall called to the Spirits to aid his strike. The Wind raged around his hammer, the Earth filled his arm with power, and he struck!

The shock travelled back through his arm as soon as his attack landed, and the Warchief of the Horde had only a moment to gape in amazement as the giant turned his head back toward Thrall, before he found himself sailing through the air, his grip on the Doomhammer broken.

Thrall landed heavily in the dirt, bouncing once, his armour clashing painfully against his arm, and when he rose, he found the Blackrock plate sundered upon his right arm, and the bones beneath broken.

"Spirits…" the Warchief breathed, and he felt the wound begin to heal. It was too slow though.

"As I said." the Stranger spoke loudly. "You are not enough." he paused, gesturing to the assembled warriors. "I say this to you all. War is coming, one unlike any you have faced. You murdered Draenei children as they cowered under beds, you fell upon Stormwind in force where Blackhand spent his warriors' lives like a goblin spends coin, you fought the demons at Hyjal. Remember that day, remember the day when the sky rent and rained fire. It will come again."

The giant looked down at Thrall and stepped forward. "And I will lead you against it."

Massive fingers wrapped around Thrall's neck, he struggled, tried to break the grip, his bones burning as he broke the mending the Spirits had given him.

Darkness crept into the Warchief's vision, a black despair overtook him, that he had not been strong enough, that the Spirits did not answer him, that it would not be…

"Remember not to kill him." Thrall faintly heard.

"I won't." the giant growled, and Thrall woke as if from a dream.

He was lying on the ground, gasping. That great pale shape turned away.

"Pick yourself up Go'el. We have much to do."

Thrall's warband stood in a stunned silence, their eyes wide with disbelief and amazement. The defeat of their revered Warchief, Thrall, had sent shockwaves through their ranks, shaking the very foundation of their faith and convictions.

The rule of Thrall was unquestioned in the Horde. Yes, perhaps there were whispers that the Warchief was too passive, too great a friend to the humans, too willing to talk when war beckoned, but he was Lord of the Clans, the heir of Doomhammer and its wielder. Whispers of disbelief spread among the crowd and many shifted awkwardly as they looked to the new Warchief.

Thrall himself had recovered quickly, he cradled his broken arm, the shattered bones aching. Indeed, the pain was incredible, but he had faced war many times in his short life, and with a warrior's grit he pushed the feeling away. Drek'thar came to tend him, removing the sundered plate of Doomhammer with a slip of his knife, letting the armour fall to the ground as he murmured entreaties to the Spirits while examining Thrall.

The former Warchief looked at the plate on the ground. There was a little cloud of dust settling from it's fall, and Thrall felt his face with a mix of pain and sadness, not only for the physical injury he suffered but also for the emotional weight carried by the shattered pieces of his armour. Here was Doomhammer's legacy, the legacy of his people, broken in the dirt.

His good arm clenched, fist and knuckles tight. Thrall raised his head, looking this way and that. As he surveyed the crowd, his heart sank. Thrall had been known for his wisdom, for his calmness among a calm clan, but his heart now beat with confusion, alarm, and a profound sense of disturbance. The events that had unfolded had left him questioning not only his own capabilities but also the very fabric of reality itself.

Doubt gnawed at him, eroding the foundations of his identity and purpose.

Uncertainty enveloped Thrall's thoughts like a suffocating fog. The new Warchief's appearance and the overwhelming power they displayed seemed to defy all reason and understanding. Questions swirled in Thrall's mind, leaving him grasping for answers. How had this come to pass? What did it mean for the Horde? And perhaps most hauntingly, had he failed his people?

As his uncertainty deepened, a creeping sense of shame began to take hold within Thrall's heart. He had always strived to lead with honour, to be a beacon of strength and wisdom for the Horde. Yet, in the face of the new Warchief's undeniable power, he had been defeated. Doubts and self-recrimination whispered in his mind, taunting him with his perceived inadequacies.

The shame was a bitter pill to swallow, a piercing reminder of his own fallibility. Thrall had always shouldered the burden of leadership with humility and conviction, but now that burden seemed unbearable. He questioned whether he was truly worthy of the trust and faith placed in him by his people. How could he guide them if he could not even protect himself?

As Thrall lowered his gaze, a mix of sadness, uncertainty, and shame washed over him. The shattered armour, the broken bones, and the lingering questions cast a shadow over his spirit. The once-proud Warchief now stood as a symbol of vulnerability and the inevitable passage of time. He longed to find the answers that would set his troubled mind at ease and reclaim the strength he once possessed.

In this moment of turmoil, Thrall's journey to rediscover his purpose and reconcile with his defeat would begin. He would need to confront his own uncertainties, learn from the events that had unfolded, and find a path forward. The road ahead seemed treacherous, but within the depths of his soul, a flicker of determination ignited. This would not be the end.

He would think on this Deathlord's words. 'Go'el', the Stranger had named him. It was fitting perhaps that he be named a redeemer. Had that been his father's wish? This would require further thought, and with a sigh Thrall pushed away Drek'thar's hands, setting his jaw and turning to his captains.

"Hail Vark, Warchief of the Horde!" Thrall roared, and at his call came others, uncertainty at first, but rapidly they filled the night.

---

As previously, if you want to read ahead I have a Patreon where I'll be posting chapters in advance.

 

[FractiousDay]

We're alternating perspectives here, so this one is with the Uptimers. This post was on Patreon a couple of weeks ago, and the next one Chapter is up there now too.


As the moons cast an eerie glow over the arid landscape of Durotar, the two victorious time travellers stood at the centre of a sea of orcs. Vark stood head and shoulders above even the tallest, such was his mixed blood and the terrible influences upon his body over the years. The Maw of Damnation was on the floor, but the screams of a hundred civilisations whispered at the edges of his consciousness all the same.

Taelan stood beside him, the illusions upon his wretched form flickering as he bent his arcane senses toward the crowd, orbs of Felfire floating in the air. The Sceptre of Sargeras hovered next to him, exuding a distasteful scent of corruption, which even the most ready warrior avoided. Kil'jaeden's Burning Wish filled his mind with promises and visions, but the Withered Magus ignored them all, he had burned a world, and whispers to slay the orcs around them were easily put aside.

"It is for you now, Brother." Taelan said, "I am with you."

"And I with you." Vark agreed. He called the Maw to his hand and the deathly axe rose to clap into his palm.

As the new Warchief stepped forward the murmurs of the crowd stilled. Before them they saw a giant. As large as any Ogre, yet with a vigour seldom seen in that race, he stood, his armour more elegant than any in the assembly, yet with a brutal edge. Those of the Blackrock clan were most affected perhaps, for they saw armour the likes of which their smiths had never dreamed. The shaman in the crowd too turned their attention to the figure, and their eyes instead alighted on runes forged upon hallowed anvils to withstand the blows of a Titan.

Vark took his helmet at his size, raising his mighty axe.

"By right of Victory, I rule!" he bellowed aloud, "Does any warrior challenge me?"

The warband were silent before his commanding gaze.

The Marshal of the Legionfall swept his gaze over the warriors before him, and a wave of salutes broke out, passing silently across the crowd.

The orcs were torn between feelings of reverence for the new Warchief's evident strength and the lingering doubts that clouded their minds. How could they trust someone who seemed to have materialized from another era?

Uncertainty permeated the air, leaving the orcs teetering on the precipice of doubt and hope. They had witnessed the impossible and were now faced with a future that held more questions than answers. The foundation of their beliefs had been shattered, replaced by a mix of awe, curiosity and dread.

The Deathlord promised doom, spoke of the return of the Burning Legion, and of the ruin of the world, and the companies could but await his words.

"Warriors of the Horde!" Vark's voice boomed, carrying across the gathered crowd. "Form ranks by company. Assemble before me! Let captains present themselves!"

Immediately the officers of the Horde made themselves known. They rushed forward, some eager to gain the Warchief's favour, others motivated more by duty as the assembly formed itself into some sort of order after the crowd had gathered in to witness the duel.

"I am Agmar of the Kor'kron!" said one.

"Nazgrel of the Frostwolves!" called another.

"Saurfang of the Blackrock." said the old general, flinty-eyed.

"Thrall." said the broken champion, and when the others looked to him for more he kept his silence.

Others came forward, any warrior of note, but Vark found them… disappointing.

Saurfang stood out. He was the most hostile, perhaps due to his earlier humiliation, and he hefted his axe in what might be interpreted as an insultingly ready manner, if not for Vark's ease in defeating Thrall.

It was Arcanite, that much was clear in Vark's eyes, but that was it. That metal possessed certain notable qualities, it was magically conductive, it was strong and rigid, a fine choice, but he already knew he could snap it in his hands. It was just… primitive.

It was bizarre.

Even the leylines were different here, the roads of Azeroth's blood were changed, or rather, Vark concluded, they were yet to be changed. Ever since Malygos' madness and the Nexus War, and then further in the Cataclysm, the world had been wounded harshly, but now it was as if they stood in a past, an almost primordial time, or on another world entirely.

The Deathlord could feel the Spirits, even through the veil of death he could still feel them, and the Heart of Draenor pulsed on his finger, the ring of power strengthening his connection tenfold.

It was a primitive time, an alien time. The Captains wore armour, but most had only a few blessed trinkets or magical items, it was a far cry from the suits of Black Iron, writ with runes and shaman's blessings that Vark had commanded not days before, indeed, Nazgrel was barely wearing armour at all, he had little more than a wolf pelt on his shoulders to stave off the chill of the night.

And the smell! It was of warrior's grease, of leather and hide, of weapon oil and acrid herb. Where was the dust of metal from and Iron Stars' raging? Where was the chemical vapours of the firethrowers? Where was the burning coal and oily residue of the steam tanks, or the sulphur of the cannonbearers?

"Saurfang." Vark said, "Take whatever force you need and take every warlock in Orgrimmar. Fall on them swiftly, capture them if convenient, kill them if not. Pursue the Burning Blade into the caverns beneath Orgrimmar. If they flee allow them to congregate there, but make sure none escape."

Saurfang did not actually look surprised. Clearly by this point he suspected that they were traitors, and Vark's eyes narrowed at that.

"Nazgrel," he continued, "Report on the Horde's military and threats, swiftly!"

The Frostwolf general looked affronted, but his new Warchief had little patience for that, and he began to speak. "There are ten thousand warriors in Orgrimmar and Durotar, several thousand in the Barrens, and a number of expeditions in Lordaeron and the Eastern Kingdoms, mainly in Stonard, New Kargath, Alterac, and Grom'gol. In the east our position is not good, and here we are blockaded by the Kul Tirans and menaced by the Quillboar, the Night Elves, and the Centaur."

The report was brief enough, but it confirmed the time travellers' suspicions.

"The heartland first." Taelan said after Nazgrel had finished, "General, assemble two forces, the first to lay siege to the human settlements along the coast, the second to march on the Razorfen. Assemble two more smaller forces in readiness."

Nazgrel frowned, "We… we do not have such force. We do not have the supplies, nor the warriors for expeditions. One large force perhaps, but they must be screened, supplied, garrisoned and so on. We could call upon favours from the Tauren perhaps, but the centaur raid up and down the Barrens."

"Where is the army that conquered the stars?" asked Vark to himself, and half to Taelan, who shook his head. Vark signed, "Withdraw the Warsong from Ashenvale. Set them against the Centaur. Are there forces in Stonetalon?"

"Some yes, alongside the Darkspear. We cannot withdraw from both regions though, one perhaps." Nazgrel considered, seeming to actually engage with the matter, "There is iron in Stonetalon, and the lumber from Ashenvale feeds the fires of Orgrimmar. Besides, our allies among the Tauren, especially the Grimtotem-"

"Ha!" exclaimed Taelan.

Vark laughed a dark laugh. "Withdraw them, Nazgrel. Send the messengers tonight. It need not be quick, but pull them out, for there is much to do. Hold the passes through the mountains, but prioritise resources over territory."

"I still think it not wise, Warchief, and I must protest."

Vark considered the matter for a second, "Very well, Ashenvale only then. But see to the rest quickly."

The others were still standing there in surprise. That a great warrior had defeated the Warchierf in Mak'gora was strange enough, but that he would immediately upend the strategic deployment of the Horde's military was stranger still.

"Go'el." Vark said next. "I would speak with all persons of significance. Bring me Jaina Proudmoore, Gazlowe the Goblin, Zul'jin, Cairne Bloodhoof and Hammul Runetotem immediately. After that I must have messengers to Stormwind, to Kul Tiras, to Zandalar, and to other places. Assemble your emissaries and I will speak with you regarding their missions."

"And what shall I say to them?" Thrall asked simply. It was useless to resist, or indeed to question such an assembly, for no Warchief would tolerate disrespect so soon after taking up the mantle. In a few days perhaps they could speak privately, and then they would see.

"First, merely that you have been defeated in Mak'gora and that I lead now. But we shall speak of that in time."

"You'll deal with the Iron Stars? Once I've finished the warlocks I can sort them." Taelan said quickly to Vark, turning to him.

"I had planned to." The Deathlord replied, eyes misting over as he looked into the sky. "But yes, deal with them yourself. Drek'thar! Know that Taelan speaks with my voice, and acts with my hands, in all things. Gather the Earthen Ring and attend him."

"Agmar, you will see to the expeditions." Vark continued, "Now here is what you must prepare…"