This novella started as a little side project and evolved into a standalone part of HoS and Act II's prequel, introducing characters that were not present on Draenor, and setting the stage for the whole Voidsworn plot - and more...
Chapter I: Dead Man's Tales
I.
The dim glow of the Red Lobstrokk Inn's oil lamps painted the air in hues of amber, casting long, wavering shadows. The nauseating scent of rancid ale and acrid sweat clung to the wooden beams. Tylos sat in the farthest corner, fingers drumming against the chipped surface of the table, his dark eyes darting toward the door every few heartbeats.
Boralus was a city of many famed establishments, the names of which usually required no further comments to savvy patrons and novice thrill seekers alike. From the filthiest to the classiest, from the honest and modest to the deliciously decadent, the choice was rich and wide. The Snug Harbor Inn and the Pitbull Pit Pub, the Blushing Siren Tavern and the Loose Cannon Inn, even the infamous Hangman Bar situated right next to the city's gallows. And, of course, the Massive Mermaid Inn - the only truly luxurious one, its clients being merchants, noblemen and even royalty. These days, however, it was the favourite booze parlour for the Ashvane Trade Company's specialists and officers who felt their exorbitant payment burning holes in their purses.
Tylos Tobolsen was a nobleman. In fact, almost royalty, given his family's claims. And, of course, he was a specialist - one could say, a niche expert. But tonight, the establishment of his choice was the Red Lobstrokk Inn, a cheap and nasty place reeking of fish guts and guaranteed trouble. And said choice didn't involve a lot of options anyway.
Agony radiated from the poorly-bandaged wound beneath his black robes. He couldn't afford drawing attention in these slums even if there were no hunters on his trail, and there were plenty. "Know that the Hammer's reach is long", claimed Cho'gall, the monstrous, two-headed tyrant of the cult. "Know that Her eyes are many, and they never sleep". Who was this "She", Tylos failed to find out. His cooperation with the Fel-infused, demon-driven invaders calling themselves "orcs" was not truly long, nor was it productive. In fact, he never intended to become their ally. Back in the Swamp of Sorrows, he was about to be beheaded and gutted with the rest of the prisoners when one of green-skinned brutes, tattered robes hanging from his warped frame, barked something in their alien tongue as he pointed at Tylos' belongings which included several soul shards and a grimoire bound in demon skin. Apparently, these beasts never met a human capable of wielding the Fel just like they did. Ironically, dabbling in forbidden arts - the end of most renegade mages-turned-warlocks - saved Tylos' life that day.
The rest of the story was reserved for those who promised to help him after his nigh-botched escape through an unstable portal he managed to conjure. Instead of Lake Lordamere's shores, Tylos found himself on the coast of Kul Tiras. From there, he managed to contact the Kirin Tor of Dalaran and make an offer. They agreed to send an envoy, to deliver him to safety. But the Voidsworn got to him first, and it took almost all Tylos had left to escape with his life. Whatever power this Cho'gall served, its reach was long indeed, and its slaves included humans as well.
"...aye, aye. More outsiders comin' in every day. Good for Ashvane's coffers, bad for us honest lads an' lasses. Whatcha thinkin', bo'sun? Heard an elf witch gave you a headache?"
Whispers and murmurs took shape, worming into Tylos' ears. To his relief, this was little more than the patrons' gossip.
"No witch, a sorceress. By the Tidehunter's trident! Saw 'er meself, aye, at Upton Borough," croaked a large, tough thug, slamming his fist on the sticky table. "Kilnar Goldensword, top brass of Dalaran, no mistake. Walkin' like she owns the bloody place, a mask on 'er face, as if she's too good for our eyes."
"Too good for our air," grunted his companion, a wiry man with a black eyepatch. "Elves an' their damn sensitive noses. Hah. Heard of 'er... thought she'd sailed off for good after... y'know. After the Admiral's got married proper. And that was some twenty years ago! 'Em elves don't age, lucky bastards. Well as long as she and 'er kid have no claim on Proudmoore's title..."
"Don't be daft, Grimshaw," cackled a tall, lean redhead woman. "Men such as our good Admiral don't let a firecracker like Kilnar go cold for long. Bet she's warmin' his bed again, right under Katherine's nose."
"We all know ye're speakin' from experience, Steph. But Proudmoore's not yer Norwington lad. Nuh-uh," countered one who was called bo'sun. "Too messy now to bother. Her half-blood girl, Finnall, is all grown up, and so is Daelin's firstborn son. Whatever Kilnar's here for, it's business, not pleasure. Affair's ash, mark me."
"Ash can still hold heat," the woman retorted, earning a round of coarse laughter.
Tylos allowed a faint, amused grin to touch his lips, unseen in the gloom. As one who tasted a succubus' love, he had little but contempt for mortals' fleeting passions. The speculation about Kilnar and Daelin was pathetic - uncouth commoners pretending to understand their betters' affairs. But then the conversation then took a darker turn, lowering in volume but gaining an edge of genuine unease.
"Speakin' of heat," muttered the bo'sun, glancing nervously towards the door. "Heard about Old Man Haggerty? He's gone, an' in a rather messy way. Butchered right in his own shack at Tuna Street. An' his neighbours? Vanished."
"Oh, these folks aren't the only ones," the woman added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "People disappearin', or gettin' stabbed or shot, that's no big news. People hanged an' gutted like fish, that's worse. Guards found two more corpses last night. Wasn't a pretty sight. I myself don't think twice before pastin' a bullet in a sorry bastard's eye, but I won't draw weird shite on the floor with 'is blood."
"Tidemother preserve us," the bo'sun breathed, making a warding sign. "Lemme guess, Stephania... A circle with eight arrows comin' out of it? That's the weird shite ye're talkin' bout?"
Stephania nodded. "Aye. Like a compass rose, but... wrong. Profane."
Tylos listened intently, his Fel-sharpened senses subtly reaching out. He could taste the fear in the air, thick and sour. Oh, he was very much familiar with the symbol they mentioned. He had seen it many times, painted with blood and carved in stone. He had it cut into his own skin beneath the glove. The Sigil of Ruin. Eight Directions and Eight Dimensions. Everywhere and Nowhere. And the sheer terror its shadow inspired in these lowborn was delicious. The irony was almost too rich: here they gossiped about the dark and the profane, utterly oblivious that a literal Voidsworn adept sat calmly next to them, sipping their terrible ale and finding their primitive fears entertaining. He suppressed a genuine chuckle, then diverted his mind elsewhere, tired of eavesdropping. The murders were their problem. Tylos had other matters to worry about.
II.
Somewhere beyond the tavern's walls, the city clock rumbled. Where was that fool of an envoy? Anxiety gnawed at Tylos' mind. Perhaps, he thought, coming here was a mistake...
As if responding to his thoughts, a figure glided through the haze of smoke, elegant and silent. A woman. The way she moved, the deliberate grace, the way the shadows themselves seemed to part for her, all screamed she did not belong in this place, above and beyond its filth. Tylos startled, already knowing she was no Voidsworn. A high elf woman, her aquamarine eyes glittering in the dim light. For a moment, he almost mistook her for Lady Goldensword, the one those thugs were talking about. But no, Kilnar was far taller, and usually wore a mask in public.
The woman's voice chimed like silver bells. "Tylos Tobolsen, I presume." That was no question, but a statement. He answered anyway.
"In the flesh. And you are..?"
"Dayoma to friends. Lady Rainsong to you."
She sat opposite, a vision of nearly alien elegance amidst the commoners' squalor. Tylos couldn't help but admire the perfection of her ivory skin, the sharp angles of her face only barely softened by centuries of refinement, the sheer presence that radiated power and untouchable authority spiced up with jestful scorn. Her rich attire of incredibly vivid colors - shades of turquoise, teal and aquamarine woven with black and silver - appeared both impractical and imposing. The woman's spellblade, a sliver of crystallized mana, was hovering in the air next to her hip. She wasn't hiding. She could incinerate this entire den of cutthroats without breaking a sweat, or so she thought. That confidence was truly terrifying.
"Your sudden and desperate proposal has been considered, Master Tylos," Dayoma stated, her voice a melodious contrast to the tavern's din. "I assume you are aware that the Kirin Tor has zero tolerance for your kind. The Fel is a crutch for the impatient and the traitors."
Tylos forced a charming, roguish smile, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. "A crutch? Perhaps. But when you're drowning, you grab the nearest rope, even if it's coated in pitch. And there are things worse than the Fel anyway. The abyss that I've peered into and escaped unscathed, yet with a few of its secrets in my grasp." He met Dayoma's luminous gaze. "Which brings us to my price. Not gold. Pardon. Full clemency from the Kirin Tor. Sanctuary in Dalaran. A second chance. That's the rope I need now."
"How about a hangman's rope?" Dayoma chuckled softly, yet her eyes flickered with cold, aloof disdain. "Are you honestly expecting a pardon for betraying your kingdom, for consorting with demon-spawned murderers from another world?" Her tone remained chillingly polite. "The Fel is despicable, Master Tylos, but it is an entity we're all familiar with. The abyss you mentioned, on the other hand... It is an ocean of pure darkness. You swam in it. Why would we let you stain our doorstep with its filth?"
Tylos snarled. "Because, perhaps, I am the first man to see what I have seen and live to tell the tale? Your confidence is remarkable, but it's born from dusty old fables, retellings of retellings, pompous superstitions. I can offer you so much more. Do not try to persuade me the Kirin Tor prefers staying blind and deaf. The abyss, this ocean of darkness... it will come for them, for you. For everyone. And you will want to be prepared."
The high elf's coldness was still there, but her lips curved in a smile.
"Then be so kind as to provide a sample of your knowledge."
Tylos couldn't hide a return smirk. The deal was afoot, he thought. Or perhaps too soon?
"Very well, Lady Rainsong. Could I ask you to conjure a Dome of Silence? Prying ears abound."
"No need to. Just think of it. Recall the memory you want to share."
"You can't mean..."
"Open your mind."
These words weren't spoken aloud - Dayoma's mental presence seeped inside Tylos' head, slithering through his thoughts like a serpent. This was... unexpected. While the gift of telepathy was not as rare as widely believed, few were able to hone their thoughts into weapons - and this high elf's were sharper than daggers, effortlessly flaying the warlock's mind.
Dayoma smiled most innocently as Tylos' grin turned a grimace. He gasped, then, left with no choice, accepted the small surrender, letting the invasive mental probe into the piece of memory he had prepared for being voiced.
"...the massive form of Cho'gall cast an even larger shadow. "This one," rasped the monster's right head, whiskers wiggling like worms. "He touched the Flame... He is burnt, but he will be charred to the bone. He will suffer more. Oh, so much more." The one-eyed left head burst into a manic cackle. "Pain! The currency of power! The Twilight Canticle! He sings not yet, but he feels it, he hears it, does he not?"
Only now Tylos realized the two-headed beast was speaking the same language as the greenskins, but somehow every word, every phrase was as clear as if said in perfect Common. This thought did not escape Cho'gall.
"We have no need for words, for we are beyond words! Talk to us, speak in blood, speak in hunger. You know how!" "You know! You know, do not lie."
Tylos knew. He extended his left hand, a jagged dagger glinted, a gnarled acolyte's laughter reflecting his master's. Four cuts made an eight-pointed star blossom on the backside of the warlock's palm. The Sigil of Ruin. Blood ran down, splattering upon the cold stone.
Answering questions unspoken, Tylos grinned, relishing in the pain.
"Yes. Yes I do. Yes I will."
Dayoma tilted her head. Her psychic touch softened, then vanished, and for a moment, Tylos hoped it was all over.
"So you were not forced to collaborate. You actually found your servitude worthwhile."
Tylos blinked, gripping the tankard. "Worthwhile? It was survival! Cho'gall offered me life! A way out of the gutter, off the chopping block!" He took a shaky gulp, swallowing the cheap ale without even noticing its taste. "And you're not the one to judge. Dalaran turned its back on me long before I turned mine on Stormwind! Now it's the same deal, I want to live! And you will benefit from it! My pardon for my knowledge, take it or leave it." He slammed the tankard against the table, then continued in a suddenly low voice. "I made some choices I'm not proud of. But I'm not your enemy.
Dayoma leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing. "No, you're not. Now, let me continue. Open your mind and relax."
"But I provided the sample as you - "
"Do I need to repeat myself?"
Tylos shook his head, appalled by this blatant violation of terms. He no longer believed a word, panic building up. He realized his mistake. A deal was never on the table here, his bargain position turned out weaker than he expected - this damned sorceress was going to simply drain him of all the information, offering nothing in return. He reached towards the hidden dagger in his boot, uttering an incantation at the same time...
"Don't."
This command slammed into Tylos' brain like a spike of ice, freezing his muscles mid-motion. What came after wasn't another psychic attack - it was a thorough, meticulous yet lightning-quick intrusion that made short work of Tylos' mental defenses. It felt like cold metallic fingers probing the cracks in his mind's armor, crushing rusty edges before sinking inside. He sat still, unable to move or even call for help. To the drunken patrons nearby, the battle in his mind looked like little more than a tense conversation - a richly dressed woman leaning forward, a pale man flinching in confusion.
"Now be reasonable, Master Tylos. The more that you resist, the more the pain you feel."
III.
Dayoma smiled. Tylos clenched his teeth. The psychic pressure intensified, unraveling the warlock's mind and flooding it with fragmented, unwanted images of dark visions and dark deeds he left behind.
...shivering, he knelt upon cracked obsidian under a bruised, pulsing sky. Before his closed eyes, sprawled the World-That-Was, a vision of Azeroth before the Usurpers came to murder the Gods Below and unmake their legacy. But that what does not live, does not die either...
...in a pool a pit of viscous black slime, loomed the ancient Faceless One. Its form shifted, tentacles dripping primordial ooze. Cho'gall chanted - guttural, ominous sounds escaping both throats. The air vibrated, fraying Tylos's mind...
...beneath, the Pale ceased their marching, turning as one to face the two-headed master. Their eyes, hollow and starved, burned with devotion. Drums pounded, rumbling echoes intertwining with whispered promises from the deep...
...bodies, corpses, gore-splattered cadavers. The blood on his hands, on his lips. The payment. Not death. Not souls. Suffering. Tylos cursed the frailty of his kin. The greenskins lasted longer...
...visions ripped his mind apart: swirling blackness, stars consumed by sleeping monstrosities, reality as a thin scab over endless madness. Understanding leaked in like poison - mortal insignificance, the inevitability of the non-existence. He vomited onto the ancient stones, soul chilled...
Feeling Dayoma shivering and recoiling as she witnessed some of his thoughts brought Tylos a modicum of vengeful satisfaction, yet still this did not keep her from dutifully copying every memory. After scavenging the outer layers, she pushed deeper into Tylos' mind, past the rehearsed Twilight Canticle (which she absorbed on the way), past the veneer of the Voidsworn dogma (which she plundered as well, and then mercilessly squished all that remained of it in the warlock's conscience), hunting the rotten core of his forsworn loyalties. She cut through memories of doctrine, of punishments, of ritual torture, searching for the truth beneath his bold claims. Something truly dark loomed ahead, something hidden immensely deep, shielded and buried. Parting the heavy curtains of his mind, she reached out, too excited, too oblivious...
Tylos kicked Dayoma's shin under the table. Not really holding back. But before he could push the sorceress out of his head, or turn the table on her, or grasp his dagger's hilt, her sharp "Don't!" jolted through him, rendering muscles paralyzed and mind numbed.
"Tsk tsk. That was truly desperate. And foolish."
Her physical voice didn't change even though Tylos could feel the searing pain in her fractured shinbone through the unsevered mental link.
"I understand you perfectly well, Master Tylos." Dayoma bared her pearly teeth in a rictus grin. "I, too, have very personal memories that are not for random strangers to peek into. But I'm afraid you still fail to grasp the difference between you and me. Therefore, a lesson is in order."
Leaning back, Dayoma closed her eyes.
"Suffer."
It wasn't a word as much as it was a bolt of pure agony fired directly into Tylos' consciousness. The warlock's body convulsed violently, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he slammed back against the chair, his eyes rolling white. The psychic assault reignited the physical wound - fresh, dark blood bloomed through his bandages, staining the silk. Dayoma remained still, the feedback of Tylos' anguish harmlessly washing over her own mental barriers.
"Oi! Everythin' a'ight over there?" The bo'sun, coat on his shoulders and tankard in hand, lumbered towards their table, flanked by two equally rough-looking companions and the redhead woman whose hands now rested on her pistol harness. Suspicion was thick in their gazes. A potential murder in the tavern was bad for business.
Dayoma's predatory expression smoothed into cool concern with terrifying speed. "Quite alright," she said, her voice regaining its practiced calm. "My companion suffers from old wounds. A tragic condition." She produced a small, glowing crimson vial from a pouch on her belt - a potent healing potion. "This should remedy it swiftly. Please, return to your drinks."
The thugs hesitated, eyeing Tylos' pallor and the bloody spot on his clothes, but the man's lack of reaction, the promise of the potion and Dayoma's composed demeanor seemed to placate them. They grunted and shuffled back, though they kept watching the unlikely duo.
Tylos gasped, unable to speak, his vision swimming back into focus, pain twisting both mind and body. The sight of the healing potion dangling from Dayoma's fingers was a lifeline. The sorceress licked her lips, uncorked the vial and took a sip to mend her fractured shin. Then, to Tylos' surprise, she poured the rest into his tankard.
"Wiggle all you like, the lesson isn't over, Master Tylos. I get the memory, and then, maybe, you get the remedy. In that order."
Tylos' eyes flashed like those of a cornered rodent. Dayoma leaned back, taking all the time she needed. Her wait wasn't long. The warlock nodded before being allowed to speak.
"As you wish. Hope you choke... I mean, enjoy it, Lady Rainsong."
IV.
...he was standing in a subterranean chamber carved by no mortal hand. Ancient runes were glowing with scarlet light on columns supporting walls that seemed to breathe. In the center, a giant was kneeling, his colossal arms wrung up by massive spiked chains. Not a crude creature of stone or magma, nor a scaly sea behemoth. One of the Usurpers' prime servants, a Watcher. No longer untarnished and majestic, his once-metallic form was now a maze of maimed flesh. His single cyclopean eye was clouded, swirling with agony and defiance. Next to the giant's immense bulk, two creatures of nearly similar size stood, dwarfing orcs and ogres alike. These two were profanity incarnates, unspeakably wrong amalgamations of eyes, maws, claws and tendrils - walking, breathing flesh of the Gods Below given separate and terrifying forms.
Cho'gall presided over the choir of his kin and his slaves, both heads chanting, voices weaving a complex, soul-rending spell. Hundreds of Pale cultists, twisted faces ecstatic with devotion or numb with terror, formed a ring with eight lines coming out of it. Tylos stood near Cho'gall, holding an ornate dagger.
From the pits below, screams and wails were rising with the smoke reeking of burnt flesh. Two villages worth of prisoners and a few dozen captive Stormwind soldiers on top of that - those who were too weak or wounded too badly to be used as the Horde's slaves. They could not toil, but they could suffer. One of them recognized "Baron Tobolsen" before the brazier-cage's door clanked shut. Tylos did not care. Lording over useless lowborn was long beneath him.
Cho'gall's chanting reached a crescendo. The air crackled with unstable Void energy. The Watcher strained against his chains, a low groan like grinding gears vibrating through the chamber.
Tylos stepped forward, the dagger cold and heavy. This wasn't the Fel, demanding a soul. This was the Void, demanding anguish. Not only the victim's. The acolyte's as well.
Chained upon the altar's tarnished obsidian was Nyrith. His succubus. The sayaad he first summoned in Dalaran's Underbelly many years ago. The creature whom he owned - and whom he owed. One who did all within her power to spare him the darker fate. It was not enough.
"You are lucky", Tylos could recall Cho'gall's right head chuckling back then when he was told about Nyrith. "A sayaad... these sleazy fidgets are Her ambrosia, Her delicacy. Give it to Her. Send it home. Its suffering will serve."
Tylos met the demoness' gaze for a fleeting second - no desperation, no plea in her eyes, only disbelief. Then he hardened his heart. Survival. Power. Worth any price.
She endured the torture in silence longer than any human or orc, but in the end, she did scream. She hissed, gurgled and cursed him, choking on hollow threats and bitter profanity. Her Fel-addled blood fountained, painting elaborate ornaments upon the black marble before seeping into it.
Nyrith's final cry nearly made Tylos' eardrums burst. "Not Shial! I'm not going there! I'M NOT GOING BACK TO HER!!!"
Fueled by the demoness' song of agony, the chanting reached a deafening, discordant peak. The chains' metal ignited with violet-black fire where it touched the Watcher, reshaping into something else - hungry metal tentacles that sliced and maimed as they slithered. The giant's body arched in silent, ultimate torment, still bound by unseen power. The swirling defiance in his massive eye dimmed, then was utterly extinguished, flooded by an inky, absolute darkness that pulsed with malevolent sentience. It spread through the giant's veins like spilled oil, reaching the core. A final, shuddering groan escaped the Watcher, now devoid of his ancient will. His hooded head bowed in obedience, crude cloth alight with runes. Cho'gall roared, a sound that echoed the Pale's howls. Tylos stepped back, dagger dripping. He grinned, feeling the surge of borrowed power, the cold certainty of the Void's triumph.
This was unmaking. This was reshaping.
And then came the words, spoken from under the fallen Watcher's hood - but they were not his.
"EIGHT HUNDRED SOULS,
TO SATE HER HUNGER.
SUCH IS THE PAYMENT.
A DROP OF QUEEN'S BLOOD,
TO QUENCH HER THIRST.
SUCH IS THE PRICE."
Unimpeded, Dayoma wrenched the memory free, the horrendous visage of the Watcher's corruption, followed by the foreboding prophecy, searing her mind. She saw the ritual's purpose, the scale of the Hammer's ambition. It was enough.
Tylos gasped as if surfacing from drowning, sweat pouring down his face. He clutched the table, fighting the urge to throw up. "You see?" he panted, a manic gleam in his eye. "You see what I can reveal? The depths of their plans! The power they wield! My pardon, Lady Rainsong. Grant it, and Dalaran learns everything!" He coughed, blood blooming on his lips.
Dayoma's smile was inscrutable. "To your health, Master Tylos." She nodded at the tankard, the healing potion glittering like liquid ruby.
The warlock blinked in confusion, but he didn't really need an invitation. A deal after all? He grasped the tankard with both hands, poised to have a greedy gulp...
"Drop it."
His fingers parted. Precious potion, all of it, ended up in a spill on the filthy floor.
"Master Tylos! Do you have to be so clumsy?"
Dayoma's fake compassion was dripping with venom. The lesson, it seemed, wasn't over yet.
Hissing, the warlock closed his eyes.
"I've got just one question, sorceress. Why."
Dayoma first giggled softly, then burst into laughter. Under different circumstances this sound could have been considered a melody of celestial spheres.
"Oh, Master Tylos... I think of myself as a very bold person... I'm incapable of fear, or at least I've yet to witness any evidence of the opposite. But right now I sincerely envy your audacity. Asking "why" at this point... You really have the nerve."
"Yes, whatever. I am a warlock, a traitor, a soul past redemption. I've also dared to hurt your pretty leg and damage that fancy boot. Its leather is probably worth more than this whole damn inn. And let me guess... The time you wasted on digging in my brain cost you tonight's soiree at the Ashvane Villa."
"Correct!" Dayoma replied, still chuckling. Then her eyes narrowed. "Also, what you did to the one who trusted you."
"But you can't mean..." Tylos blinked, not fully realizing who Dayoma was referring to. Then he let out a thunderous guffaw. "The succubus? The demon? Seriously? It didn't even truly die! It had worse on a bad night in the Underbelly..."
"You have no idea what you've done, you miserable pile of - "
Tylos was quick to strike. He sensed something behind Dayoma's words, a vulnerability - and didn't think twice. After all, a lifetime of demonic bargains gave him vicious insight. He focused on Dayoma's resonance, seeking out a shatterpoint. She retaliated immediately, but a new "Don't!" was easy to evade. Before another command was issued, he found what he was looking for - a deep, old mental scar. He lanced at the shatterpoint, drawing from his pain, his desperation, burning through his own life force.
Dayoma flinched. An expression of panic and shame flickered before the mask slammed down again. Her psychic grip faltered.
Tylos seized his target, a savage grin splitting his face, triumph surging in his veins. "Ah! So you crawled into the dark just like me! You think you're better? You bargained with -"
He never finished the sentence. The moment he brushed the hidden connection within Dayoma's soul, something immensely powerful lunged at him from its depth. This wasn't a probe or a command any longer. It hammered into Tylos' weakened mental barriers like a brick smashing a window of stained glass. Unlike before, it wasn't seeking information, it was aiming to destroy - a pure, radiant force of hate. It tore through layers of personality, doctrine, pride. The sensation was excruciating - a violation deeper than anything physical, the very core of Tylos' self dissolving under the assault. Memories flickered erratically: torment, rituals, moments of fleeting power, all crushed and washed away.
It paused for a moment, staring into the memory of Nyrith's demise. Then it ended his life.
Tylos' triumphant grin froze. His eyes, wide with sudden terror, turned glassy. A silent psychic scream tore through him, manifesting in reality as a faint gurgling sound. His body convulsed violently, spine arching, then snapped rigid. A thick rivulet of viscous, ink-black fluid oozed from his left ear, another from his nose. His head whipped backward, cracking against the grimy wall, then slumped forward onto the sticky tabletop, cheek pressed into a puddle of spilled ale. Lifeless.
Dayoma sat perfectly still. Her face was calm, hands resting upon the stained tabletop. She stared at the corpse, her gaze devoid of emotion.
"Well, Dayoma, I guess this is it. Hope he's not taking anything important into his well-earned corner in hell!"
A familiar voice rang, bright as polished metal. Dayoma glanced aside to find a young dwarf woman with a beaming smile, her cheeks rosy with alcohol, thick copper braids coiled over naked shoulders. Her attire was far more fitting for this establishment - studded blackened leather and dull brass. A sizable dagger was sheathed at her hip, but the crystal-tipped staff gave away her position as a sorceress.
Holga Brassbrow. Dayoma's backup on the mission, her bodyguard, her apprentice. Her partner in questionable schemes and unsavoury deeds. The closest to what could be called a friend.
Dayoma smiled faintly. The now-deceased warlock never even noticed Dalaran's envoy did not come alone. Not like it mattered anymore.
"So... Learned anything interesting?" Holga bobbed her head, the braids swinging as she mounted the vacant chair. "Mind sharing some... juicy bits?"
"Trust me, you don't want a single piece of it. But yes. A lot to digest."
Dayoma's spellblade, Twisted Glamour, hummed ominously. A warning of impending danger.
Tylos' body convulsed, his eyes opening for a moment, mouth curving in a wicked smile.
"Thoq fssh N'Zoth!.."
These words tore through Dayoma's psyche, past her mental barriers, leaving a trail of palpable anguish. She recoiled, her vision darkened for what felt like a mere moment. Then she awoke to Holga shaking her shoulder. They were no longer alone. The familiar thugs, accompanied by patrons and strumpets, circled around the table. One of them reached to push Tylos' body down on the dirty floor, splashing blood all over the place.
"Now dontcha tell us your friend just drank 'imself to death", snarled the bo'sun. "We've got some questions, ladies, and ye owe us some good honest answers!"
Dayoma's return grin was all teeth, no joy.
"No. We do not."
Her fingers clenched against Twisted Glamour's hilt as the crystal tip of Holga's staff began gleaming with rime.
"You heard her, lads and lasses! Besides, we're already leaving... and nothing of value was lost anyway!"
Chapter I: Dead Man's Tales
I.
The dim glow of the Red Lobstrokk Inn's oil lamps painted the air in hues of amber, casting long, wavering shadows. The nauseating scent of rancid ale and acrid sweat clung to the wooden beams. Tylos sat in the farthest corner, fingers drumming against the chipped surface of the table, his dark eyes darting toward the door every few heartbeats.
Boralus was a city of many famed establishments, the names of which usually required no further comments to savvy patrons and novice thrill seekers alike. From the filthiest to the classiest, from the honest and modest to the deliciously decadent, the choice was rich and wide. The Snug Harbor Inn and the Pitbull Pit Pub, the Blushing Siren Tavern and the Loose Cannon Inn, even the infamous Hangman Bar situated right next to the city's gallows. And, of course, the Massive Mermaid Inn - the only truly luxurious one, its clients being merchants, noblemen and even royalty. These days, however, it was the favourite booze parlour for the Ashvane Trade Company's specialists and officers who felt their exorbitant payment burning holes in their purses.
Tylos Tobolsen was a nobleman. In fact, almost royalty, given his family's claims. And, of course, he was a specialist - one could say, a niche expert. But tonight, the establishment of his choice was the Red Lobstrokk Inn, a cheap and nasty place reeking of fish guts and guaranteed trouble. And said choice didn't involve a lot of options anyway.
Agony radiated from the poorly-bandaged wound beneath his black robes. He couldn't afford drawing attention in these slums even if there were no hunters on his trail, and there were plenty. "Know that the Hammer's reach is long", claimed Cho'gall, the monstrous, two-headed tyrant of the cult. "Know that Her eyes are many, and they never sleep". Who was this "She", Tylos failed to find out. His cooperation with the Fel-infused, demon-driven invaders calling themselves "orcs" was not truly long, nor was it productive. In fact, he never intended to become their ally. Back in the Swamp of Sorrows, he was about to be beheaded and gutted with the rest of the prisoners when one of green-skinned brutes, tattered robes hanging from his warped frame, barked something in their alien tongue as he pointed at Tylos' belongings which included several soul shards and a grimoire bound in demon skin. Apparently, these beasts never met a human capable of wielding the Fel just like they did. Ironically, dabbling in forbidden arts - the end of most renegade mages-turned-warlocks - saved Tylos' life that day.
The rest of the story was reserved for those who promised to help him after his nigh-botched escape through an unstable portal he managed to conjure. Instead of Lake Lordamere's shores, Tylos found himself on the coast of Kul Tiras. From there, he managed to contact the Kirin Tor of Dalaran and make an offer. They agreed to send an envoy, to deliver him to safety. But the Voidsworn got to him first, and it took almost all Tylos had left to escape with his life. Whatever power this Cho'gall served, its reach was long indeed, and its slaves included humans as well.
"...aye, aye. More outsiders comin' in every day. Good for Ashvane's coffers, bad for us honest lads an' lasses. Whatcha thinkin', bo'sun? Heard an elf witch gave you a headache?"
Whispers and murmurs took shape, worming into Tylos' ears. To his relief, this was little more than the patrons' gossip.
"No witch, a sorceress. By the Tidehunter's trident! Saw 'er meself, aye, at Upton Borough," croaked a large, tough thug, slamming his fist on the sticky table. "Kilnar Goldensword, top brass of Dalaran, no mistake. Walkin' like she owns the bloody place, a mask on 'er face, as if she's too good for our eyes."
"Too good for our air," grunted his companion, a wiry man with a black eyepatch. "Elves an' their damn sensitive noses. Hah. Heard of 'er... thought she'd sailed off for good after... y'know. After the Admiral's got married proper. And that was some twenty years ago! 'Em elves don't age, lucky bastards. Well as long as she and 'er kid have no claim on Proudmoore's title..."
"Don't be daft, Grimshaw," cackled a tall, lean redhead woman. "Men such as our good Admiral don't let a firecracker like Kilnar go cold for long. Bet she's warmin' his bed again, right under Katherine's nose."
"We all know ye're speakin' from experience, Steph. But Proudmoore's not yer Norwington lad. Nuh-uh," countered one who was called bo'sun. "Too messy now to bother. Her half-blood girl, Finnall, is all grown up, and so is Daelin's firstborn son. Whatever Kilnar's here for, it's business, not pleasure. Affair's ash, mark me."
"Ash can still hold heat," the woman retorted, earning a round of coarse laughter.
Tylos allowed a faint, amused grin to touch his lips, unseen in the gloom. As one who tasted a succubus' love, he had little but contempt for mortals' fleeting passions. The speculation about Kilnar and Daelin was pathetic - uncouth commoners pretending to understand their betters' affairs. But then the conversation then took a darker turn, lowering in volume but gaining an edge of genuine unease.
"Speakin' of heat," muttered the bo'sun, glancing nervously towards the door. "Heard about Old Man Haggerty? He's gone, an' in a rather messy way. Butchered right in his own shack at Tuna Street. An' his neighbours? Vanished."
"Oh, these folks aren't the only ones," the woman added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "People disappearin', or gettin' stabbed or shot, that's no big news. People hanged an' gutted like fish, that's worse. Guards found two more corpses last night. Wasn't a pretty sight. I myself don't think twice before pastin' a bullet in a sorry bastard's eye, but I won't draw weird shite on the floor with 'is blood."
"Tidemother preserve us," the bo'sun breathed, making a warding sign. "Lemme guess, Stephania... A circle with eight arrows comin' out of it? That's the weird shite ye're talkin' bout?"
Stephania nodded. "Aye. Like a compass rose, but... wrong. Profane."
Tylos listened intently, his Fel-sharpened senses subtly reaching out. He could taste the fear in the air, thick and sour. Oh, he was very much familiar with the symbol they mentioned. He had seen it many times, painted with blood and carved in stone. He had it cut into his own skin beneath the glove. The Sigil of Ruin. Eight Directions and Eight Dimensions. Everywhere and Nowhere. And the sheer terror its shadow inspired in these lowborn was delicious. The irony was almost too rich: here they gossiped about the dark and the profane, utterly oblivious that a literal Voidsworn adept sat calmly next to them, sipping their terrible ale and finding their primitive fears entertaining. He suppressed a genuine chuckle, then diverted his mind elsewhere, tired of eavesdropping. The murders were their problem. Tylos had other matters to worry about.
II.
Somewhere beyond the tavern's walls, the city clock rumbled. Where was that fool of an envoy? Anxiety gnawed at Tylos' mind. Perhaps, he thought, coming here was a mistake...
As if responding to his thoughts, a figure glided through the haze of smoke, elegant and silent. A woman. The way she moved, the deliberate grace, the way the shadows themselves seemed to part for her, all screamed she did not belong in this place, above and beyond its filth. Tylos startled, already knowing she was no Voidsworn. A high elf woman, her aquamarine eyes glittering in the dim light. For a moment, he almost mistook her for Lady Goldensword, the one those thugs were talking about. But no, Kilnar was far taller, and usually wore a mask in public.
The woman's voice chimed like silver bells. "Tylos Tobolsen, I presume." That was no question, but a statement. He answered anyway.
"In the flesh. And you are..?"
"Dayoma to friends. Lady Rainsong to you."
She sat opposite, a vision of nearly alien elegance amidst the commoners' squalor. Tylos couldn't help but admire the perfection of her ivory skin, the sharp angles of her face only barely softened by centuries of refinement, the sheer presence that radiated power and untouchable authority spiced up with jestful scorn. Her rich attire of incredibly vivid colors - shades of turquoise, teal and aquamarine woven with black and silver - appeared both impractical and imposing. The woman's spellblade, a sliver of crystallized mana, was hovering in the air next to her hip. She wasn't hiding. She could incinerate this entire den of cutthroats without breaking a sweat, or so she thought. That confidence was truly terrifying.
"Your sudden and desperate proposal has been considered, Master Tylos," Dayoma stated, her voice a melodious contrast to the tavern's din. "I assume you are aware that the Kirin Tor has zero tolerance for your kind. The Fel is a crutch for the impatient and the traitors."
Tylos forced a charming, roguish smile, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. "A crutch? Perhaps. But when you're drowning, you grab the nearest rope, even if it's coated in pitch. And there are things worse than the Fel anyway. The abyss that I've peered into and escaped unscathed, yet with a few of its secrets in my grasp." He met Dayoma's luminous gaze. "Which brings us to my price. Not gold. Pardon. Full clemency from the Kirin Tor. Sanctuary in Dalaran. A second chance. That's the rope I need now."
"How about a hangman's rope?" Dayoma chuckled softly, yet her eyes flickered with cold, aloof disdain. "Are you honestly expecting a pardon for betraying your kingdom, for consorting with demon-spawned murderers from another world?" Her tone remained chillingly polite. "The Fel is despicable, Master Tylos, but it is an entity we're all familiar with. The abyss you mentioned, on the other hand... It is an ocean of pure darkness. You swam in it. Why would we let you stain our doorstep with its filth?"
Tylos snarled. "Because, perhaps, I am the first man to see what I have seen and live to tell the tale? Your confidence is remarkable, but it's born from dusty old fables, retellings of retellings, pompous superstitions. I can offer you so much more. Do not try to persuade me the Kirin Tor prefers staying blind and deaf. The abyss, this ocean of darkness... it will come for them, for you. For everyone. And you will want to be prepared."
The high elf's coldness was still there, but her lips curved in a smile.
"Then be so kind as to provide a sample of your knowledge."
Tylos couldn't hide a return smirk. The deal was afoot, he thought. Or perhaps too soon?
"Very well, Lady Rainsong. Could I ask you to conjure a Dome of Silence? Prying ears abound."
"No need to. Just think of it. Recall the memory you want to share."
"You can't mean..."
"Open your mind."
These words weren't spoken aloud - Dayoma's mental presence seeped inside Tylos' head, slithering through his thoughts like a serpent. This was... unexpected. While the gift of telepathy was not as rare as widely believed, few were able to hone their thoughts into weapons - and this high elf's were sharper than daggers, effortlessly flaying the warlock's mind.
Dayoma smiled most innocently as Tylos' grin turned a grimace. He gasped, then, left with no choice, accepted the small surrender, letting the invasive mental probe into the piece of memory he had prepared for being voiced.
"...the massive form of Cho'gall cast an even larger shadow. "This one," rasped the monster's right head, whiskers wiggling like worms. "He touched the Flame... He is burnt, but he will be charred to the bone. He will suffer more. Oh, so much more." The one-eyed left head burst into a manic cackle. "Pain! The currency of power! The Twilight Canticle! He sings not yet, but he feels it, he hears it, does he not?"
Only now Tylos realized the two-headed beast was speaking the same language as the greenskins, but somehow every word, every phrase was as clear as if said in perfect Common. This thought did not escape Cho'gall.
"We have no need for words, for we are beyond words! Talk to us, speak in blood, speak in hunger. You know how!" "You know! You know, do not lie."
Tylos knew. He extended his left hand, a jagged dagger glinted, a gnarled acolyte's laughter reflecting his master's. Four cuts made an eight-pointed star blossom on the backside of the warlock's palm. The Sigil of Ruin. Blood ran down, splattering upon the cold stone.
Answering questions unspoken, Tylos grinned, relishing in the pain.
"Yes. Yes I do. Yes I will."
Dayoma tilted her head. Her psychic touch softened, then vanished, and for a moment, Tylos hoped it was all over.
"So you were not forced to collaborate. You actually found your servitude worthwhile."
Tylos blinked, gripping the tankard. "Worthwhile? It was survival! Cho'gall offered me life! A way out of the gutter, off the chopping block!" He took a shaky gulp, swallowing the cheap ale without even noticing its taste. "And you're not the one to judge. Dalaran turned its back on me long before I turned mine on Stormwind! Now it's the same deal, I want to live! And you will benefit from it! My pardon for my knowledge, take it or leave it." He slammed the tankard against the table, then continued in a suddenly low voice. "I made some choices I'm not proud of. But I'm not your enemy.
Dayoma leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing. "No, you're not. Now, let me continue. Open your mind and relax."
"But I provided the sample as you - "
"Do I need to repeat myself?"
Tylos shook his head, appalled by this blatant violation of terms. He no longer believed a word, panic building up. He realized his mistake. A deal was never on the table here, his bargain position turned out weaker than he expected - this damned sorceress was going to simply drain him of all the information, offering nothing in return. He reached towards the hidden dagger in his boot, uttering an incantation at the same time...
"Don't."
This command slammed into Tylos' brain like a spike of ice, freezing his muscles mid-motion. What came after wasn't another psychic attack - it was a thorough, meticulous yet lightning-quick intrusion that made short work of Tylos' mental defenses. It felt like cold metallic fingers probing the cracks in his mind's armor, crushing rusty edges before sinking inside. He sat still, unable to move or even call for help. To the drunken patrons nearby, the battle in his mind looked like little more than a tense conversation - a richly dressed woman leaning forward, a pale man flinching in confusion.
"Now be reasonable, Master Tylos. The more that you resist, the more the pain you feel."
III.
Dayoma smiled. Tylos clenched his teeth. The psychic pressure intensified, unraveling the warlock's mind and flooding it with fragmented, unwanted images of dark visions and dark deeds he left behind.
...shivering, he knelt upon cracked obsidian under a bruised, pulsing sky. Before his closed eyes, sprawled the World-That-Was, a vision of Azeroth before the Usurpers came to murder the Gods Below and unmake their legacy. But that what does not live, does not die either...
...in a pool a pit of viscous black slime, loomed the ancient Faceless One. Its form shifted, tentacles dripping primordial ooze. Cho'gall chanted - guttural, ominous sounds escaping both throats. The air vibrated, fraying Tylos's mind...
...beneath, the Pale ceased their marching, turning as one to face the two-headed master. Their eyes, hollow and starved, burned with devotion. Drums pounded, rumbling echoes intertwining with whispered promises from the deep...
...bodies, corpses, gore-splattered cadavers. The blood on his hands, on his lips. The payment. Not death. Not souls. Suffering. Tylos cursed the frailty of his kin. The greenskins lasted longer...
...visions ripped his mind apart: swirling blackness, stars consumed by sleeping monstrosities, reality as a thin scab over endless madness. Understanding leaked in like poison - mortal insignificance, the inevitability of the non-existence. He vomited onto the ancient stones, soul chilled...
Feeling Dayoma shivering and recoiling as she witnessed some of his thoughts brought Tylos a modicum of vengeful satisfaction, yet still this did not keep her from dutifully copying every memory. After scavenging the outer layers, she pushed deeper into Tylos' mind, past the rehearsed Twilight Canticle (which she absorbed on the way), past the veneer of the Voidsworn dogma (which she plundered as well, and then mercilessly squished all that remained of it in the warlock's conscience), hunting the rotten core of his forsworn loyalties. She cut through memories of doctrine, of punishments, of ritual torture, searching for the truth beneath his bold claims. Something truly dark loomed ahead, something hidden immensely deep, shielded and buried. Parting the heavy curtains of his mind, she reached out, too excited, too oblivious...
Tylos kicked Dayoma's shin under the table. Not really holding back. But before he could push the sorceress out of his head, or turn the table on her, or grasp his dagger's hilt, her sharp "Don't!" jolted through him, rendering muscles paralyzed and mind numbed.
"Tsk tsk. That was truly desperate. And foolish."
Her physical voice didn't change even though Tylos could feel the searing pain in her fractured shinbone through the unsevered mental link.
"I understand you perfectly well, Master Tylos." Dayoma bared her pearly teeth in a rictus grin. "I, too, have very personal memories that are not for random strangers to peek into. But I'm afraid you still fail to grasp the difference between you and me. Therefore, a lesson is in order."
Leaning back, Dayoma closed her eyes.
"Suffer."
It wasn't a word as much as it was a bolt of pure agony fired directly into Tylos' consciousness. The warlock's body convulsed violently, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he slammed back against the chair, his eyes rolling white. The psychic assault reignited the physical wound - fresh, dark blood bloomed through his bandages, staining the silk. Dayoma remained still, the feedback of Tylos' anguish harmlessly washing over her own mental barriers.
"Oi! Everythin' a'ight over there?" The bo'sun, coat on his shoulders and tankard in hand, lumbered towards their table, flanked by two equally rough-looking companions and the redhead woman whose hands now rested on her pistol harness. Suspicion was thick in their gazes. A potential murder in the tavern was bad for business.
Dayoma's predatory expression smoothed into cool concern with terrifying speed. "Quite alright," she said, her voice regaining its practiced calm. "My companion suffers from old wounds. A tragic condition." She produced a small, glowing crimson vial from a pouch on her belt - a potent healing potion. "This should remedy it swiftly. Please, return to your drinks."
The thugs hesitated, eyeing Tylos' pallor and the bloody spot on his clothes, but the man's lack of reaction, the promise of the potion and Dayoma's composed demeanor seemed to placate them. They grunted and shuffled back, though they kept watching the unlikely duo.
Tylos gasped, unable to speak, his vision swimming back into focus, pain twisting both mind and body. The sight of the healing potion dangling from Dayoma's fingers was a lifeline. The sorceress licked her lips, uncorked the vial and took a sip to mend her fractured shin. Then, to Tylos' surprise, she poured the rest into his tankard.
"Wiggle all you like, the lesson isn't over, Master Tylos. I get the memory, and then, maybe, you get the remedy. In that order."
Tylos' eyes flashed like those of a cornered rodent. Dayoma leaned back, taking all the time she needed. Her wait wasn't long. The warlock nodded before being allowed to speak.
"As you wish. Hope you choke... I mean, enjoy it, Lady Rainsong."
IV.
...he was standing in a subterranean chamber carved by no mortal hand. Ancient runes were glowing with scarlet light on columns supporting walls that seemed to breathe. In the center, a giant was kneeling, his colossal arms wrung up by massive spiked chains. Not a crude creature of stone or magma, nor a scaly sea behemoth. One of the Usurpers' prime servants, a Watcher. No longer untarnished and majestic, his once-metallic form was now a maze of maimed flesh. His single cyclopean eye was clouded, swirling with agony and defiance. Next to the giant's immense bulk, two creatures of nearly similar size stood, dwarfing orcs and ogres alike. These two were profanity incarnates, unspeakably wrong amalgamations of eyes, maws, claws and tendrils - walking, breathing flesh of the Gods Below given separate and terrifying forms.
Cho'gall presided over the choir of his kin and his slaves, both heads chanting, voices weaving a complex, soul-rending spell. Hundreds of Pale cultists, twisted faces ecstatic with devotion or numb with terror, formed a ring with eight lines coming out of it. Tylos stood near Cho'gall, holding an ornate dagger.
From the pits below, screams and wails were rising with the smoke reeking of burnt flesh. Two villages worth of prisoners and a few dozen captive Stormwind soldiers on top of that - those who were too weak or wounded too badly to be used as the Horde's slaves. They could not toil, but they could suffer. One of them recognized "Baron Tobolsen" before the brazier-cage's door clanked shut. Tylos did not care. Lording over useless lowborn was long beneath him.
Cho'gall's chanting reached a crescendo. The air crackled with unstable Void energy. The Watcher strained against his chains, a low groan like grinding gears vibrating through the chamber.
Tylos stepped forward, the dagger cold and heavy. This wasn't the Fel, demanding a soul. This was the Void, demanding anguish. Not only the victim's. The acolyte's as well.
Chained upon the altar's tarnished obsidian was Nyrith. His succubus. The sayaad he first summoned in Dalaran's Underbelly many years ago. The creature whom he owned - and whom he owed. One who did all within her power to spare him the darker fate. It was not enough.
"You are lucky", Tylos could recall Cho'gall's right head chuckling back then when he was told about Nyrith. "A sayaad... these sleazy fidgets are Her ambrosia, Her delicacy. Give it to Her. Send it home. Its suffering will serve."
Tylos met the demoness' gaze for a fleeting second - no desperation, no plea in her eyes, only disbelief. Then he hardened his heart. Survival. Power. Worth any price.
She endured the torture in silence longer than any human or orc, but in the end, she did scream. She hissed, gurgled and cursed him, choking on hollow threats and bitter profanity. Her Fel-addled blood fountained, painting elaborate ornaments upon the black marble before seeping into it.
Nyrith's final cry nearly made Tylos' eardrums burst. "Not Shial! I'm not going there! I'M NOT GOING BACK TO HER!!!"
Fueled by the demoness' song of agony, the chanting reached a deafening, discordant peak. The chains' metal ignited with violet-black fire where it touched the Watcher, reshaping into something else - hungry metal tentacles that sliced and maimed as they slithered. The giant's body arched in silent, ultimate torment, still bound by unseen power. The swirling defiance in his massive eye dimmed, then was utterly extinguished, flooded by an inky, absolute darkness that pulsed with malevolent sentience. It spread through the giant's veins like spilled oil, reaching the core. A final, shuddering groan escaped the Watcher, now devoid of his ancient will. His hooded head bowed in obedience, crude cloth alight with runes. Cho'gall roared, a sound that echoed the Pale's howls. Tylos stepped back, dagger dripping. He grinned, feeling the surge of borrowed power, the cold certainty of the Void's triumph.
This was unmaking. This was reshaping.
And then came the words, spoken from under the fallen Watcher's hood - but they were not his.
"EIGHT HUNDRED SOULS,
TO SATE HER HUNGER.
SUCH IS THE PAYMENT.
A DROP OF QUEEN'S BLOOD,
TO QUENCH HER THIRST.
SUCH IS THE PRICE."
Unimpeded, Dayoma wrenched the memory free, the horrendous visage of the Watcher's corruption, followed by the foreboding prophecy, searing her mind. She saw the ritual's purpose, the scale of the Hammer's ambition. It was enough.
Tylos gasped as if surfacing from drowning, sweat pouring down his face. He clutched the table, fighting the urge to throw up. "You see?" he panted, a manic gleam in his eye. "You see what I can reveal? The depths of their plans! The power they wield! My pardon, Lady Rainsong. Grant it, and Dalaran learns everything!" He coughed, blood blooming on his lips.
Dayoma's smile was inscrutable. "To your health, Master Tylos." She nodded at the tankard, the healing potion glittering like liquid ruby.
The warlock blinked in confusion, but he didn't really need an invitation. A deal after all? He grasped the tankard with both hands, poised to have a greedy gulp...
"Drop it."
His fingers parted. Precious potion, all of it, ended up in a spill on the filthy floor.
"Master Tylos! Do you have to be so clumsy?"
Dayoma's fake compassion was dripping with venom. The lesson, it seemed, wasn't over yet.
Hissing, the warlock closed his eyes.
"I've got just one question, sorceress. Why."
Dayoma first giggled softly, then burst into laughter. Under different circumstances this sound could have been considered a melody of celestial spheres.
"Oh, Master Tylos... I think of myself as a very bold person... I'm incapable of fear, or at least I've yet to witness any evidence of the opposite. But right now I sincerely envy your audacity. Asking "why" at this point... You really have the nerve."
"Yes, whatever. I am a warlock, a traitor, a soul past redemption. I've also dared to hurt your pretty leg and damage that fancy boot. Its leather is probably worth more than this whole damn inn. And let me guess... The time you wasted on digging in my brain cost you tonight's soiree at the Ashvane Villa."
"Correct!" Dayoma replied, still chuckling. Then her eyes narrowed. "Also, what you did to the one who trusted you."
"But you can't mean..." Tylos blinked, not fully realizing who Dayoma was referring to. Then he let out a thunderous guffaw. "The succubus? The demon? Seriously? It didn't even truly die! It had worse on a bad night in the Underbelly..."
"You have no idea what you've done, you miserable pile of - "
Tylos was quick to strike. He sensed something behind Dayoma's words, a vulnerability - and didn't think twice. After all, a lifetime of demonic bargains gave him vicious insight. He focused on Dayoma's resonance, seeking out a shatterpoint. She retaliated immediately, but a new "Don't!" was easy to evade. Before another command was issued, he found what he was looking for - a deep, old mental scar. He lanced at the shatterpoint, drawing from his pain, his desperation, burning through his own life force.
Dayoma flinched. An expression of panic and shame flickered before the mask slammed down again. Her psychic grip faltered.
Tylos seized his target, a savage grin splitting his face, triumph surging in his veins. "Ah! So you crawled into the dark just like me! You think you're better? You bargained with -"
He never finished the sentence. The moment he brushed the hidden connection within Dayoma's soul, something immensely powerful lunged at him from its depth. This wasn't a probe or a command any longer. It hammered into Tylos' weakened mental barriers like a brick smashing a window of stained glass. Unlike before, it wasn't seeking information, it was aiming to destroy - a pure, radiant force of hate. It tore through layers of personality, doctrine, pride. The sensation was excruciating - a violation deeper than anything physical, the very core of Tylos' self dissolving under the assault. Memories flickered erratically: torment, rituals, moments of fleeting power, all crushed and washed away.
It paused for a moment, staring into the memory of Nyrith's demise. Then it ended his life.
Tylos' triumphant grin froze. His eyes, wide with sudden terror, turned glassy. A silent psychic scream tore through him, manifesting in reality as a faint gurgling sound. His body convulsed violently, spine arching, then snapped rigid. A thick rivulet of viscous, ink-black fluid oozed from his left ear, another from his nose. His head whipped backward, cracking against the grimy wall, then slumped forward onto the sticky tabletop, cheek pressed into a puddle of spilled ale. Lifeless.
Dayoma sat perfectly still. Her face was calm, hands resting upon the stained tabletop. She stared at the corpse, her gaze devoid of emotion.
"Well, Dayoma, I guess this is it. Hope he's not taking anything important into his well-earned corner in hell!"
A familiar voice rang, bright as polished metal. Dayoma glanced aside to find a young dwarf woman with a beaming smile, her cheeks rosy with alcohol, thick copper braids coiled over naked shoulders. Her attire was far more fitting for this establishment - studded blackened leather and dull brass. A sizable dagger was sheathed at her hip, but the crystal-tipped staff gave away her position as a sorceress.
Holga Brassbrow. Dayoma's backup on the mission, her bodyguard, her apprentice. Her partner in questionable schemes and unsavoury deeds. The closest to what could be called a friend.
Dayoma smiled faintly. The now-deceased warlock never even noticed Dalaran's envoy did not come alone. Not like it mattered anymore.
"So... Learned anything interesting?" Holga bobbed her head, the braids swinging as she mounted the vacant chair. "Mind sharing some... juicy bits?"
"Trust me, you don't want a single piece of it. But yes. A lot to digest."
Dayoma's spellblade, Twisted Glamour, hummed ominously. A warning of impending danger.
Tylos' body convulsed, his eyes opening for a moment, mouth curving in a wicked smile.
"Thoq fssh N'Zoth!.."
These words tore through Dayoma's psyche, past her mental barriers, leaving a trail of palpable anguish. She recoiled, her vision darkened for what felt like a mere moment. Then she awoke to Holga shaking her shoulder. They were no longer alone. The familiar thugs, accompanied by patrons and strumpets, circled around the table. One of them reached to push Tylos' body down on the dirty floor, splashing blood all over the place.
"Now dontcha tell us your friend just drank 'imself to death", snarled the bo'sun. "We've got some questions, ladies, and ye owe us some good honest answers!"
Dayoma's return grin was all teeth, no joy.
"No. We do not."
Her fingers clenched against Twisted Glamour's hilt as the crystal tip of Holga's staff began gleaming with rime.
"You heard her, lads and lasses! Besides, we're already leaving... and nothing of value was lost anyway!"
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