Chapter Text
~ Orgrimmar ~
I am not a nosy person. Just a very concerned individual.
Her shoulders hunched as she crept along the sweltering tunnels of Ragefire Chasm. Pools of magma bubbled beneath the stone trail, searing her eyes through her goggles.
Two pairs of footsteps pounded the earth ahead of her. A cart wheezed as it rolled against the gravel.
She followed from a safe distance behind. A river of sweat trickled uncomfortably down her spine.
Her suspicions rose from the recently appointed Warchief with — just slight — anger management issues: Garrosh Hellscream. He had also been raised upon (or survived ) Outland, that depressing chunk of floating rock. But Garrosh had changed…
Her body pressed against the smooth stone as she inched forward. Double doors with iron casings loomed at the end of the corridor. The entrance groaned as it inched open, its massive metal jaws spread wide.
A goblin strode forward with a tarped cart. General Nazgrim joined him.
She pressed her fingers against the leather straps of her goggles, straining for a glance inside —
The orc general glanced over his shoulder.
Crap!
She ducked out of sight. She didn't dare breathe. Hairs rose on her arms, listening to the soft rasp of the orc’s breathing.
The half-elf had seen a lot in sixteen years: raging demons, elves tearing their eyes out, mages with an unhealthy addiction to steamy romance novels, babysitters from the seventh circle of hell, a dragon in love with the Sunwell, a prince smiling as his kidnappers’ legs broke (the list goes on with far more unsavory details). None of it compared to the new smile Garrosh wore during his military strategy meetings.
There has to be a reason for it. He fought against the Scourge, he helped the Horde through the Cataclysm, he got me through — well, I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him. He was so good …there has to be a reason.
The doors had stopped screeching. Plated boots scuffled along the cavern. Nazgrim’s shadow slunk through the heavy double doors as they closed.
She dove in after him.
I am NOT a nosy person. Just a very concerned individual.
~*~
“Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Light blazed across the room. Her eyes squeezed shut. She turned away from the undead alchemist.
Each breath she took had a sharp stab of pain. It coiled in her abdomen, ripping at the burned flesh. Images swirled in her mind of hissing forges and white-hot blades —
The alchemist lowered the glass bottle emitting the sun-like sear. His ocher eyes flitted across her face. “Interesting pigmentation in the eyes.”
“My eyes are fine.” She insisted, blinking away the dark spots that the light left behind.
The undead frowned. “If you insist…you’re pale enough to pass for one of the Dark Rangers.”
Her skull hit the back of the slab with a dull throb. That was a bad sign. Her skin was always a tan-like pink. Like a sunset — if sunsets had freckles and acne.
I’m lucky the rest of me didn't burn. After what I saw —
She had to leave Orgrimmar. Get as far away as possible. But the seething needles that stabbed into her side were hard to ignore…
“Not many could have survived a burn of this caliber,” The undead mused. Gloved fingers pressed into the skin above the wound, against her ribs. She bit back a hiss.
“On a scale of one to ten…how close to dead am I?” she said.
“I’ve been closer,” said the undead. “I’ll bandage it, prescribe some healing potions, and you may return to your scouting duties. If the skin starts to change color, come see me.”
She nodded, the cold slab beneath her biting into her skin. Bile churned in her stomach, but it had nothing to do with the stupid burn. Being a scout typically gave her a sense of lightness, of freedom. Now she felt trapped. Watched instead of watching.
“Tell me: how did you acquire this injury?” said the undead.
She bit down on her lip. The alchemist fiddled with something out of her line of vision along the row of shelved potions.
“Um…I…” she swallowed. Her dry throat burned in protest. “I — sorry, it's difficult to think. I accidentally stepped on a warlock’s imp. It threw a fireball at me.”
The alchemist looked back at her. He stared, unblinking, for a long moment. “Nasty business.”
Her palms pressed down into the stone slab. “Indeed.”
The undead alchemist gestured casually with his hand. Steel glinted as he moved. A syringe. An involuntary shudder rocked her form.
“Do you think me an imbecile, Strider?” he said.
“No, sir.”
“A fool?”
“No! Of course not.” Strider’s fingers clenched into fists against the stone.
The undead’s jaw flexed beneath the leather straps keeping it in place.
“Hellscream’s eyes are upon you, little scout. They are unwavering. I know what you saw.”
Her heart stuttered. It thumped a hard, uneven rhythm against her ribs.
“The soldiers. The forges. The weapons .” The undead’s unblinking stare rivaled a full moon overlooking the hidden terrors of the night. “I take credit for some of the mutations residing in those halls.”
I can obviously see the resemblance . A tremor shot through Strider’s body as she lay there, cold and vulnerable. She was aware of every soft draft that whispered through the iron walls of the fortress.
Somewhere nearby, but not near enough, war veterans and novice swordsmen pummelled lifeless targets on the ramparts. There was no real threat to their existence. Strider envied them.
“I-I think I accidentally left the stove on. My cookies —!” Strider scrambled, sitting up.
The undead’s bony fingers curled around her shoulder. He forced her back against the slab. Strider’s breath hissed as agony clawed at her abdomen.
“Snitches don't get cookies!” snapped the undead. “Besides, your death won't be questioned. Not after your actions at Theramore.”
Strider gulped. She wasn't nosy that time, per se — simply helping a brother in need (Kalec insisted her help in his crusade to court Jaina Proudmoore). Another action by Garrosh that she couldn't overlook….
The undead raised the syringe.
Blood fled Strider’s face. A shout left her lips as she struggled against the undead reaper and his small, yet menacing scythe.
Strider seized the undead’s gloved wrist. No matter how hard she twisted or pressed down, his grip never faltered. He was dead . There was no way to inflict pain upon a dead man. She squirmed beneath him, limbs burning in protest from her seared flesh.
Strider’s foot slammed into his chest. The undead loosened his grip.
Strider wrenched herself out of his grip and slammed her body against the door.
The corridor was far warmer than the room with the icy slab. Torches swayed, becoming frantic as she raced down the hall. Oil and burning Ashenvale wood invaded her nostrils.
The undead’s inhuman gait quickly limped behind her, rotting flesh slapping upon the floor.
Strider stumbled down stone steps three at a time. Armored guards frowned as she ran past and threw herself into the sunlight.
The orange glare of Durotar’s sun nearly blinded her after the dim corridors. Strider squinted through the haze, the canyons gleaming gold. The oppressive embrace of the heat irritated her abdomen.
Strider shouldered her way past adventurers crowding the dirt roads. Pleading for help wouldn't make a difference. She was no longer Garrosh’s special spy: she was the traitor that fought in defense of Theramore. Garrosh was the only reason Strider remained alive — or used to be.
Wind whistled between the canyons, jostling the weathered tarps above. She focused on the sound, ignoring the uneven rasp of her breathing.
Strider glanced back. The undead alchemist was there; bones poking out from his robes as he hobbled forward. There was a deep intelligence in his eyes that could be mistaken for madness.
Strider scoured the square. A sickly sweet scent tickled her nose. Mana.
Her head whipped around. A portal bobbed across the bridge. Murky shades of green swirled in the air: it was a portal to a new, recently-discovered continent. Garrosh had planned to send Strider there for scouting purposes.
I have my orders. I can run. It’s nearly too good to be true!
Strider jogged over the bridge. She stumbled on the row of nails, hissing as her insides burned. The adrenaline was fizzling out, leaving her light and dizzy.
The portal pulsed in their air before her. The hum of arcane throbbed in her bones, pounding in her skull.
“Ma’am? Do you have access to this land?” The portal master sized her up. He was one of the natives from Pandaria; his large, furry form threw a shadow over her.
Strider stopped short. She patted her pockets, crystals tinkling, lockpicks pinching her fingertips, crimson vials clinking against one another. Her hand closed around a soft pouch.
Strider spun, handful of yellow powder in her palm. The undead alchemist closed in. With a soft blow, yellow flurries filled the air, encircling the already dead man.
The alchemist collapsed. His form twitched, but the paralyzers trapped him in place. Mumbled curses escaped his lips.
Strider turned to the slightly pale portal master. “Yep! Sure do.”
The undead moaned behind her. Strider smiled sweetly.
“Erm,” The pandaren unrolled a scroll of parchment at his side, scanning names, “And you are…?”
Strider bit down on her lip, considering giving him a fake name. It would take a lot of creativity. Possibly some mind-reading she did not possess (or man-handling she was too tired to bother with).
Oh, what the hell — my family is already the worst scandal of the century. There’s no way I could make it any worse, can I?
“Eona Strider,” she said.
The portal master nodded, checking her name off the list. Eona bowed her head as she walked forward, magic sucking on her skin.
Onto the next adventure.