Warcraft 1. Cloudtear and Bladetorn

**Hello! Welcome to my second warcraft story :D I have been searching for a good orc/night elf pairing, but I've yet to really find one. I know it's an odd pairing, but despite the many people who say it just wouldn't work out, I beg to differ. Night Elves can be very primal people, and not all Orcs are bloodthirsty and crazed.**

**I purposely haven't put their names in anywhere but the title of this chapter (and I only put their last names up), because I feel like to really know someone, you need to look past their name. Might be cheesy but meh *shrug***

**I hope you enjoy. Just to let you know, I do not have a beta reader, but I try to go through and find errors as good as I can. :)**

**Please no flames. Whether for this pairing, my writing, whatever. I'm also by no means a professional writer. This is all just for fun!**

**Please review!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft, Warcraft, any NPCs, any of the lore or storylines, quests, places, races, or really anything but my own OCs. It's all belongs to Blizzard Entertainment.**

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><p>Whirling snow and cold winds, fog and ice for as far as the eye could see. Above them, she could faintly hear the humming and whirring of the Horde's zeppelin.<p>

How she hated the sound. Just a few months ago, back in her home, the sound would have sent everyone into a frenzy of fear and anger for it would have meant the Orcs were coming to destroy their home once again. While Thrall was a fair warchief and made many attempts to keep peace between their peoples, the rest of the Orcs would not always follow in his path. Many of her people had been slaughtered by the Horde.

And a large portion of them had been dear to her…

Her eyes turned toward the sky and she craned her head up to see the outline of the zeppelin through the fog. The only comfort that she could bring herself was that at least they weren't dealing with the ghost ships of the Forsaken. If there was anything she hated more than Orcs and Demons it was Undead. It didn't matter that the Forsaken were 'free' from the Lich King's iron-bound grasp, they were still merciless and unnatural, practically without a conscience. Her time in the Plaguelands had solidified her hatred for undead, and it was probably the only reason she accepted this call to arms.

She had, unlike many others, been given a choice on whether or not to come to Northrend. She had just recently served for a long, well long by the standards of Humans and Orcs, period in the Outlands fighting against Illidan and Vashj and the Legion. She had lost a limb in that time of service, and because of that loss she was given the choice.

However, despite her missing left arm and her inability to use her bow any longer, she still accepted the invitation. She was a Sentinel, a guardian and protector of her people, and if there was an evil threatening her home, she was going to face it. She had given a vow to Elune to do so.

So here she was at one hundred and thirty years old, still young, missing her left arm up to her shoulder, and listening to the slap of waves against the warship and the whirring of motors overhead. The cold stung the scar on her left cheek and she absently recalled the strike of a glaive that nearly rendered her blind. The wind picked up and she pulled her hood about her head, tucking her ears within it to keep them from being frostbitten. On the deck below she could hear the other veterans milling about from one part of the ship to the other. Nearly each and every person on the ship was a veteran of at least rank 68. She, herself, was of rank 70.

The wind rattled around the invitation in her hand. Ah, yes, that was what she had been doing. She looked down at the invitation… The call to arms… She threw it from her grasp with disgust. She was here for only three things; Her hatred of undead, her vow to Elune, and her desire for vengeance.

She was bitter, that she knew, but she had seen and lost to much to care. Those losses were, after all, what made her bitter to begin with. She looked back on her past, naive self with pity and jealousy. She sometimes wished she was naive again, she wished she was home with both her arms still intact and no scar on her face or in her heart. She wished she was still bonded and raising children while she worked part time at the Temple of the Moon. She wished she hadn't taken up the art of fighting and had instead become a healer. Her skills in healing would have been poor enough that she would've been made to stay at the temple instead of being called to war in distant places and worlds. Mundane as her life would be… Anything was better than this. She had decided that long ago, while she watched her love bleed to death on a Scourge alter.

She had gone to Outland only because her grief prevented her from doing anything else besides laying lifelessly in her childhood bed while her father attempted to rouse her. Months of doing that had proved to change nothing inside her. For a while, she had taken to the forest like a wild beast and only when her father caught her and told her he would send her to be with the druids did she snap out of it, returning to her bed for another several weeks. The mention of druids made her recoil. She'd had enough of druids. Because of druids He was dead… Because of druids she was no longer naive, she no longer had the innocence that plagued everyone.

The sun was setting. She could only tell this because of the pink tint in the fog. Soon it would get colder and only the ship's crew would be about beyond the cabins. She decided to return to her own.

"I somehow knew you would accept this." The voice made her stop. It was deep and warm and full of familiar, distant comfort. She heard the rustling of paper and turned to a welcome sight.

"Tharasnar…" She let the warrior embrace her. Between them there was a bond of understanding. They had been partners in Outland, and he was just as broken as she. He had been there when her arm was severed from her body by the naga. He had been there when they fought Illidan and one of the warglaives of Azzinoth struck only a half inch from her eye. He had been there when she visited her love's grave atop the mountain. He had been there when she stood at the edge of the cliffs near the Zoram Strand, ready to throw herself from it. And he was here now, too, ready to be at her side when she finally received vengeance.

Tharasnar was her closest companion. He knew all her dark secrets and fidgety habits, all the things she'd never admit to another person. And she knew all of his too. Tharasnar was forty years older than she, his beloved had died at the Battle for Mount Hyjal, he cut his hair once a year in mourning and memory of her, he was missing three of his teeth and half of an ear, and he was possibly the only Night Elf in the history of Azeroth who hated Moonberry Juice.

_They had tried at a relationship, and it had bloomed through the year and a half of their stay in Outland before dying away after Illidan's death. As she lay in a healer's tent with half her face in bandages he'd come to sit beside her._

_"What will we do after this?" She asked, knowing full well that was what he was wondering too._

_He gave her words some thought, a deep rumbling sigh escaping him. "I do not know." He told her the truth, why cover reality in jewels and promises? Those things turned reality into a broken mirror._

_"I suppose I should go home." She said. "To rest… And then to wait."_

_Tharasnar took her hand in his. Even to him it felt heavy, somehow… Yet she seemed fragile. If he didn't know any better he'd have thought she was almost birdlike. "Yes… We should go home… But what do we wait for?"_

_She looked at him with her one uncovered eye. "You do not have to wait for my broken dreams," She murmured. "But I will wait… Until the time comes for my vengeance." Everyone had known what was to come next. With Illidan, Kael'thas, Vashj, and Kil'jaeden all 'taken care of' at the moment, there was only really one villain to look to._

_She attempted to squeeze his hand but her weakness and the healer's medicine-laden tea prevented her from offering what little comfort she knew how to give others. Her face fell into a tired frown…_

_But Tharasnar squeezed her hand to make up for what she couldn't do. "I will wait with you." He whispered to her before slipping out of the tent._

That was the last truly romantic moment between them. She had ruined such feelings when they returned home. Back in surroundings she was used to, the old memories began to seep in. Every moment she spent with Tharasnar began to twist itself into guilt. As if to say, "You swore there would never be another." There truly wasn't another, still no one could fill her heart the way He had, and it was the same for Tharasnar. Yet still the guilt was there, unexplained and burdening.

It became too burdening. She sought to end it, along with her life.

Tharasnar had barely been able to save her from herself. It was at the last moment that he caught her by the empty sleeve where her left arm should have been and flung her back away from the cliff and into his arms. He held her, weeping terrified tears along with her, and took her face into his hands. He forced her to look at him.

_"You are not ready for another relationship." He voiced what they both knew. "I have seen it in you, I have read it in your journals. And hate me if you may for reading them but I noticed your behavior, how would I not? I read them only out of concern for you." His gaze was soft, but returning to the friendliness they'd shared back in Zangarmarsh as she confided to him as to why being in the presence of druids bothered her._

_"I will always be here for you, but we can't be lovers anymore. It has pushed you too far, and for that I apologize. I know neither of us can ever move on but I never thought another relationship would do this to you…"_

_She shook her head, speaking between sobs. "It is never because of you, Tharas, know that always."_

_And their romance ended, things returning to how they had been a year earlier._

It had been a painful relief to no longer hold that guilt, though she traded it for another. She knew Tharas still held romantic feelings for her, it had been obvious during all his visits and so much so that even her father caught on. But he never said anything about trying again or even sharing the bed for just one night. Nothing ever went beyond friendly embraces and endearing kisses to the forehead…

"You kept your promise." She said against his chest. He was dressed in furs instead of armor, like she, and he was warm. She burrowed against him to shelter from the wind.

His hair tickled her nose as he nodded. "Of course, you are my closest."

Something cold pressed at her hand… She glanced down to see him pressing the paper back into her palm. "Keep this," He said. And at her questioning look; "As a memento of your Call to Vengeance."

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><p>"Da," Ghared tugged on his father's pant leg and pointed to something on the path. "Shiny." It was a small stone, very shiny and very red. The warrior watched his six year old son pluck the stone from the ground and use his vest to wipe away the dust. He smiled fondly, it seemed his son had inherited his mother's fascination in stones.<p>

A stone was such a simple thing. Yet had it not been for a stone, his son wouldn't even be apart of the world, he never would've met his mate. But he already understood the power in even the simplest of things. Like the tense of a muscle, or a single word spoken… A stone, after all, was once a part of the whole of the world.

However, in his smile there was a hint of concern. The loss of Ghared's mother had taken a toll on both of them, and where the his father's damage was for the most part emotional, Ghared's was more in the physical sense. At the age of six the boy rarely spoke more than three words at a time, and the sentences were choppy, disconnected.

"Mama liked stones, too, you know." He told the little boy.

Ghared stared at the stone for a moment. "Mama!" He shouted excitedly. "Stones! Stone for Mama." He began to jump around, throwing the stone up into the air. "Stone for Mama!" He shouted again.

The warrior chuckled. "You wanna give that pebble to your Ma?" He asked, the gravesites were not far and dinner could wait.

Ghared nodded with barely contained excitement, running off to the pen where Windsoul and Rageglimmer were resting. the warrior followed, his fond smile curving around his tusks and blooming into a grin. He watched Ghared climb nimbly over the walls of the pen, even careful of the defensive spikes in place to guard the two wolves from predators. He'd never seen the boy so excited, or so coordinated. He could see so much of his mate in his child at that moment. From the wild, coarse hair hanging in a loose braid to the intelligent gleam in his excited gaze. For a moment his fears were alleviated, his concerns forgotten as he opened the gate to the pen and stepped inside to see Ghared picking on Rageglimmer who had flopped down into a defeated pile to let the little boy pull at her ears. The old battlewolf's tail gave a few meager thumps against the dusty earth at the warrior's presence.

"Let your mother's poor wolf get up, Ghared." He said as he moved to where his riding wolf sat obediently waiting. "Windsoul…" He patted the rust-furred wolf behind the ears, gave a gentle yank on its tusks and was rewarded with a lick on the hand. Windsoul had always been goodnatured. Gentle and dutiful, named for his swiftness, he had been a good partner since they'd found him starving in Stonetalon and raised him into health and adulthood.

Both the wolves were calm, and Windsoul had always been. But Rageglimmer was once completely different. The old she-wolf had once been his mate's battlewolf, known for her cunning and tricks. She had been the trickster wolf, a trickster of both the other wolves and their masters. Only her rider had been able to see past her ways, and she always insisted that no matter what Rageglimmer had done now, she was a good wolf.

_"The best wolf." She told him. "Not, just a good wolf. The best." She picked up a brush and brought it through Rageglimmer's thick fur as gently as she'd bring it through her own. "Trickster or no, she is the best. And besides, her cunning is good for the battlefield. She runs right at enemies and then at the last moment darts around them to attack from behind. You see, she has tricks for the enemies too." She grinned._

At the time he had not known, but since then he'd seen it many times. However, now the wolf was old and tired, on her last. While not lazy, she often slept, and her tolerance of Windsoul and Ghared was incredible compared to her old ways. Hell, she had even taken a long time to warm up to Him. That wolf had only loved her rider… She, too, was yet another victim of his mate's absence. She seemed a bit broken now. Her rider was missing, she had been missing for a long time, and soon the wolf would not be around to wait anymore. The knowledge of that seemed to be killing the creature faster than age… It was killing him too.

His grin faded, but he kept a mask on the hurt that welled up within him. That mask was used often, and no less used now than when he'd first lost her. It seemed to serve as more than just a mask now. It had hardened into a dam, behind which he stored the pain that had been coursing and twisting through his heart every day. And as much as he sometimes wished to break the dam and scream his rage and sorrow out upon the world, he had too many reasons to keep it locked behind his strength. The small, excited child behind him was the most important one of those reasons.

And then there was the tug on his pant leg again. "Take Rage." Ghared was pointing over at the old wolf. She was still flopped down in the dust and watching them, suspicious of the tiny hands that could come back and pull her ears again at any moment. "Take Raaaaage." He drew her name out to stress his desire to ride his mother's wolf. The boy had always favored Rageglimmer for that reason.

His lips drew into a tight line, pursed in frustration. He had never taken Rageglimmer to see her rider's grave. He was afraid that if the old wolf discovered that her master was not coming back, it might drive her to madness. Or rather past it. Yet even if that wouldn't happen he didn't want her to suffer through the absence and loss of her rider all over again, just in a new, 'gone forever' sort of way.

"Take Rage." The words were repeated once more.

With a sigh he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ghared, not today. Rage 's tired, look at her."

Ghared turned around and eyed the black wolf as if to see if she was faking. But when the wolf heaved out a sigh he turned back to his father, head hanging in disappointment. He looked up from beneath his brows, a slight expression of hope dawning on his face. "Take Windsoul?" He asked quietly.

"Of course." Was the reply. And the excited jumping and shouting of "Stone for Mama!" returned.

As usual, there was no one else visiting the gravesite. Few people were buried this far out into the Barrens, and even fewer had the time to come visit those who were. Beside the mummified Tauren and between two other Orcish graves stood her own towering headstone, a chunk of rock pushed up from the earth by the shaman who helped bury her. Resting against that rock sat her shield, still shining, and her great axes crossed behind it. And carved into the stone were the words Thurka Bladetorn- The Axe Maiden.

He had carved those words himself the night she was buried. He had carved them with care, making sure her name was smooth and not jagged. Thurka had been a woman of honor, mastery, and strength, and she was loyal like none other. He hoped Ghared would inherit those things from her as he grew. Quietly they knelt for a while, as they always during their visits, and prayed to the spirits. And as they gave respect, he remembered the day the winds had changed the spirits whispered of new things, as a new voice was among them.

_He knelt and all was quiet. Even little Ghared, who lay curled in his arm, was silent. It was a rare moment of stillness, one that only ever came before a storm. Yet there were no darkening clouds in the sky and the heaviness that always came at a moment like this was absent as well. Windsoul had come to sit by his side, gently nosing at Thurka's shield. And then came the wind. It was strong and wild and filled with the singing of his ancestors. He had heard this before many times, at funerals and ceremonies or when the shaman would gather. But it was changed, as if born anew. There was another voice who had joined the chorus of the afterlife, her voice strong and carrying far throughout the land._

_"Thurka," He had been unable to stop the word from forcing its way out. She had done it. She had fully passed on into the afterlife, her journey was over and she could sing with all the others. A surge of pride mingled with his pain and his emotions compiled into a surging mess. So there had been a storm coming after all._

_It is a lie that Orcs do not shed tears…_

When they rose Ghared placed the stone into the small offering bowl that was placed in front of her shield. "Stone for Mama." He murmured and began picking at the end of his braid, a habit he only took to when nervous or troubled. He looked to his father. "Will Mama like the stone?"

He was caught off guard, this was the most complete of all the sentences he'd said before. "Of course she will," He said after a moment. "It's red like her hair."

"And me!" Ghared said, confidence seemingly renewed, his little chest puffing up with pride.

Chuckling once more, "Yes, and like yours too." He added.

They stayed only a little while longer, it was never a good thing to linger near the dead for too long. The hour was also growing late, not that it ever truly concerned the warrior. But his son needed to eat and he didn't want to lure any lions back near the house. Just another thing to try and shoe away, he thought and remembered the last time he'd lured anything back. It had been a pack of hyenas, thankfully only six in total. And while they didn't dare charge the Orc, who had donned his battlegear, their shrill laugh-like barks could be heard from all around the house. It had been irritating enough to send any Orc into a rage, and the wolves were made restless. Rageglimmer had even attempted to snap off the tail of one who ventured too near to the pen. That had been a good sight after a day of paranoia and irritation with a crying three year old who had to be cooped up in the house due to the uninvited guests…

Both Ghared and the sun were asleep before they made it home. Rather than wake him for food, he was tucked into his hammock. The windows were opened to let in the evening air, and the warrior leaned back in his own hammock, listening to the decorative strings of stone beads clatter against the mud walls of their home. The wind picked up a bit and for a moment he thought he heard the singing… His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of something sliding across the floor. He jumped up, a dagger grabbed from the counter and ready to be thrown at an intruder. But his eyes scanned the room and found something odd. A piece of parchment lay near the door, folded neatly but dirtied by a bootprint, he must have stepped on it while putting Ghared to bed. The seal of Orgrimmar decorated its front.

Fear rose in his gut. No… He threw the letter onto the table, feeling sick as he returned to his hammock. The cool air suddenly felt cold, as if a north wind had blown in from Ashenvale.

…Or beyond…

How long had he been home from the Outlands now? He counted the months on his fingers and received only seven. Only seven months had passed and already they were making the charge. He'd heard the rumors about possible Scourge attacks going beyond the northern portion of the Eastern Kingdoms and old Lordaeron, but he'd never thought them to be true. At least not entirely, rumors and news was twisted this far from the source and who could trust the word of a traveling troll at the Crossroads these days? Eyes closed, he let the inevitable sink in. He was going to Northrend, he was leaving his son again, and he might never return. For the first time in his life, he didn't crave a death on the battlefield but a death in his bed during old age after his son was grown and healthy. He wanted to see his boy grow up into a man, he wanted to sell lion skins and handcrafted boots out of a boring stall once a week at the Crossroads, he wanted to spend the rest of his days under the hot sun of the Barrens, far from battle, far from plagues, far from strife and pain. He'd trade his axe and his armor for it all in a wolf's step. But he'd better not because now he was going to need those things, whether he liked them or not.

His eyes reopened and flickered their gaze toward the table without his permission and he found himself looking at a thing of doom. Feeling old and tired, he went to retrieve it, rubbing his thumbs over the worn paper. It was such a simple thing, this letter. But he already knew the power in simple things.


	2. Insanity and Infection

**Hello! Finally found time to get in an update:D I'm really sorry about the second half of this chapter because I'm really tired and I didn't get much of a chance to proofread it :|**

**I hope it's at least decent. Enjoy:)**

**Please review and tell me what you think of the story so far. If you have any suggestions, please, I'd love to hear them.**

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><p>"<em>North," Ghared said as he watched his father sharpen his axe. "Going north, Da." He picked at his braid. "Going too far away."<em>

_Raikoraan could only agree with his son, it was too far away and for too long, too. He nodded, grinding the sharpening stone across his axe with almost too much force and at the wrong angle. He sighed, tossing the stone to the floor, how was he ever going to be able to survive this coming war? All he could think of was how he was to leave his son. How would he be able to concentrate during battle? He'd be too worried, trying too hard to focus and then failing in the end. He'd be the death of himself._

_Ghared picked up the stone from the floor. "Stone for you, Da?"_

_Raikoraan took it and started sharpening again. "You're a good boy, Ghared." He told his son. "You'll do good in life, good as a warrior, or whatever it is you want to be- Hey, don't ever let someone tell you what to be, alright? You can do whatever you want, no one can tell you no." He stumbled over what were supposed to be words of encouragement from him. Sounded more like Gutterspeak now._

"_Warrior." Said Ghared, offended that his dad suggest he be anything but. "Like you and like Mama. Warrior."_

_Raikoraan smiled for the first time in two weeks, since he'd discovered the letter. "You'll make a great warrior, Ghared. You're the son the of the Axe Maiden, and a Bladetorn." He set down the stone and stood to give his axe a whirl._

_Ghared beamed. "Warrior!" He growled. "Warrior! Warrior! Warrior!" He stood up and stomped around, swinging a branch from the tree outside as his own "sword." More and more had Ghared had been coming out of his shell. Ever since visiting the gravesite he'd been speaking more, running and playing more often, he had even played with another boy during their visit to the Crossroads last week._

_Raikoraan leaned the axe against the table and picked up his son. He growled in the little boy's face and Ghared laughed, growling right back. "Warrior!" He yelled again, squirming until his father put him down. He ran toward the door, motioning for Raikoraan to follow. Once outside he handed the man a stick._

"_What's this for?" Raikoraan asked._

_Ghared stared at him as if the answer was obvious. "Warrior Fight," He said. "Sword." He then took up a battle stance and ran at his father, growling. Raikoraan blocked a couple of times and dodged one of the blows, then letting one land on his chest. He fell to the ground in a mock death. Ghared cheered. "Lok'tar!" The little boy bellowed, not bothering to finish the warcry. He threw his hands up in the air, waving his stick for a few moments and then turning back to his father. Raikoraan peered at him with one eye, grinning, but Ghared had grown serious._

"_Warrior win," He said, pointing to himself. "You follow warrior now." He started toward the wolves' pen while Raikoraan got to his feet. Once at the gate Ghared climbed over and waited patiently for his father to enter. He pointed to Rageglimmer. "Take Rage." He said._

_Raikoraan was puzzled, take Rage where? "What do you mean, son?"_

"_North," He said. "Take Rage." The seriousness in the young Orc's eyes was soul-reaching. "_Take Rage north."

_Raikoraan was shocked. Take Rageglimmer to Northrend? But she was so old now, and he would still need to take along Windsoul. Yet how could he deny his son this wish? What if it was the last thing his son was able to ask of him? He looked to Rageglimmer, who was standing tall, ears erect at the sound of her nickname. She looked almost young standing like that, proud and deadly, like her rider, like Thurka had once been._

"_I am warrior," Ghared told him. "Listen." He demanded._

_Raikoraan nodded, his smile returned again and this time it stayed. "Yes, warrior!" He shouted, now grinning. Rage's last journey, he thought. _She deserves it.

That had been twelve weeks, nearly three months, ago now. But it was all still fresh in Raikoraan's mind as he ran a gloved hand through Rageglimmer's thick, dark fur. Both the wolves had easily adjusted to the cold, they actually seemed to thrive here without the heat of the Barrens beating down on their every step. Windsoul could run faster, despite deep snow and slick ice, and Rageglimmer had regained much of her youthful attitude and strength, having taken to picking on the younger wolves in the stables each evening. The trio had now found themselves stationed in Dragonblight at the Kor'kron Vanguard near the Wrathgate. In two days they, and the Alliance supposedly, were to drag the Lich King out and fight him head to head. Or so said Saurfang the Younger.

The fight to come was making him nervous. He was fidgety, on edge, and had taken to picking at his own braids just as Ghared did. _So that's where he gets it…_ The massive Wrathgate was more than intimidating. It was a monstrosity of twisted steel and the cursed metal Saronite that jutted up like a set of bottom teeth nipping at the cold, gray sky. The gate itself seemed to be a creature, a thing of evil that almost seemed to be alive. To look at the gate made a person feel colder, all the soldiers in the barracks freely admitted it too, and if the howls of the wind were less you could hear strange shrieks and howls and roars from beyond the structure. One would almost wish the wind to return… On top of the gate and the horrors it held back came the crushing weight of Knowing. There was no chance for them to win this, they were outnumbered by the tens of thousands and for every undead felled more would rise from those who struggled to fight them. And they knew this.

The knowledge alone was enough to suffocate any small flame of hope, it tore the breath from every soldier who came to realize that.

Across the Court of Skulls the braziers of Fordragon Hold were burning bright. It was unusually clear this night, and Raikoraan could see the hold clearly. The Alliance looked far better off than the Kor'kron, even from afar one could tell. They had more buildings, though some still under construction, and better defenses. If the Scourge were to strike in the night, the hold would surely outlast the vanguard.

Northrend was two things in Riakoraan's mind; A hellhole and a ruined world of danger and beauty. Almost everything around you in Northrend was combination of either beautiful and deadly, or terrifying and deadly. Or perhaps a mixture of the three. No one could deny the beauty in this hellish place. The skyline was always rimmed by icy mountains that seemed to serve as the world's crown, a silver crown of jagged teeth. When a storm the size of the damn continent wasn't roaring over the land, the waters along the coasts would sometimes be like miles of thick, liquid glass, a mirror in which the auroras that danced through the sky could admire themselves. Day and night often blended into one, whether it be because of fog or storm or moonlight, and one would be entranced, caught in a web of ice and lost souls. However, no one could deny the death that plagued these lands either. From the Kvaldir ravaged shorelines of Borean Tundra to the draconic graveyards of Dragonblight to the Titan-forged ruins in the Storm Peaks and back again, there was a million ways to die. The cold ate at your bones, the wind stirred up snow or summoned fog to blind you and make you lose your way, the waters turned a person into a frozen relic in seconds, and the Scourge struck from behind every frost-enveloped bush.

To Raikoraan, there had not been a challenge so great as surviving this place as far as he'd seen in his life as a warrior. In a way it gave him the strength and determination he needed, but this place could devour an Orc with the fall of a snowflake. And many times he'd wake to find himself tensed and stiff out of fear and terror. His sleep was plagued with nightmares, and they struck like a rabid pack of wolves from every angle. He feared the loss of his life and what would become of his son, orphaned. He feared no longer being able to live and breathe. He feared being transformed into a creature of hatred, made to serve a terrible monster. He feared what might happen if he and all the other heroes and soldiers of Azeroth failed to down that monster, what would become of the world, of his son, of his wolves, of their home, Thurka's grave...

The wind stilled for a moment, allowing the cries from Icecrown to echo throughout the valley and into their ears and minds, Everyone stopped, eyes locked on the gate, watching and waiting to see what might jump out at them this night. Behind him came a rare growl from Windsoul, and beside him Rageglimmer stared at the gate and tensed. When the wind did not return to drown out the sounds they went inside the barracks.

The soldiers were quiet and still for even guarded by thick Orcish walls you could hear them calling. The undead… They waited, they watched without eyes, they-

A hand fell on Raikoraan's shoulder and he started. But it was merely another soldier, a shaman. "You had that empty look," The other Orc said, "That the others got before they went missing. Come sit before it claims you again and we lose another to that damned metal."

"Metal?" Raikoraan asked. "You must mean the Saronite..."

The shaman nodded, motioning for Raikoraan to join him and few others a a table. "The metal is cursed. It makes the living go mad, and sometimes the dead too. Death knights are the only ones capable of bearing armor forged from it." He made a face. "Though I hardly see why someone would want to wear something so disturbing. Sure it is strong, nearly unbreakable, but even if I were dead or undead, I'd never care to wear it. It's cursed, evil, makes people hear voices and think strange things even just being near to it. That damned gate has claimed a good few Kor'kron already."

Raikoraan took up the offer to sit and contemplated the shaman's words. "The Tuskarr say it's the blood of an old god. 'The black blood of Yogg-Saron.'" He repeated what the old Tuskarr fisherman in Moa'ki Harbor had told him a couple of weeks back.

The shaman nodded and pushed a tankard in the warrior's direction. "The natives know." He said before downing whatever was in his own cup. "Now tell me, warrior, what is your name?"

"Raikoraan Bladetorn." He answered without hesitation. To hesitate formed an air of distrust, and distrust was never good between comrades. A warrior relied on his comrades as much as he did his blade.

"A Bladetorn," The shaman commented. "I have heard of your ilk and your deeds. It will be honor to fight beside you, Raikoraan." Past the familiarities, he gave his own name. "You may call me Toakrun"

Raikoraan raised his mug to the shaman. "Good to meet a comrade, Toakrun."

* * *

><p>Naredai pushed her ears back into her hood through the slits she now regretted cutting into it. The wind was, as always, bitterly cold. But tonight was by far the coldest night she'd known during her time in Northrend, for in a room she was not allowed into at the moment Tharasnar lay sick. Two days ago, while flying over the disgusting Carrion Fields below Wintergarde on a rescue mission, the warrior had been yanked from the back of a gryphon by an abomination's hook. His abdomen had been ripped open by the hook itself, multiple ribs shattered by the heavy chain, and the impact from hitting the ground had caused a horrendous amount of internal bleeding and damage to his spine. Thankfully there had been a healing draught on hand that helped to slow the bleeding and take care of some bruises once they got ahold of him again, but there had not been an experienced enough healer to take care of him to the extent he needed. The expert healers had been moved to the Wrathgate, and so Naredai and Tharasnar followed, with Naredai using what little healing skill she's been given by Elune to tend to him as they went.<p>

They had been made to travel by ground because flying would put too much strain on Tharas's already precarious state. But even though the weather had been kind enough to permit them a swift journey, the lack of immediate, proper care had proven to be almost as dangerous as flying. At least flying would have been faster...

An infection had started in the simple stitches they'd administered at Wintergarde. His bandages had been stained yellow-purple by his blood and the pus oozing from his wounds. By the time they reached Fordragon Hold Tharasnar was barely conscious, mumbling unintelligible speech and spewing vomit at every turn in the ride. He was behaving much like a ghoul, Naredai observed, and the realization of what he might become horrified her. Thankfully the healer's assistant had found a spare moment to tell her that he was still only late in stage two of the infection, and with four stages total he was still only in the beginning.

"He's resilient, his heart is quite healthy and his bones strong," The blond apprentice-priestess told her. "His body looks to have been in great condition before the attack, an added bonus that has no doubt helped keep him alive. Not to mention that your gifts, no matter how small, have helped him immensely." That had calmed Naredai considerably. Still, she couldn't help but worry over him as she fed the horse they'd been loaned at Wintergarde. She knew she could just turn the animal over to the stable master… But she needed something to keep her busy.

Northrend had not been kind to Naredai and Tharasnar. Ever since their arrival in the continent there had been nothing but misfortune. First Tharas's saber mount, Rivereyes, had been murdered by Kvaldir in Borean Tundra leaving them mountless and forlorn on a misty strand full of murderous giants. They then, not but a day later, lost all their food and supplies to Kobolds. Not long after that they found themselves on the back of a giant turtle-boat during a full blown blizzard on their way to Dragonblight, and upon arriving were ushered to a large lodge building by Tuskarr and bombarded with requests for help by the villagers and their chieftain, Elder Ko'nani. And just after finishing business with the Kalu'ak, they left for Wintergarde. Now Tharasnar lay too close to death for Naredai's comfort. It reminded her of when she lost her arm to the naga in the Coilfang.

_She lay in the muck, watching them all fight through half-closed eyes. The cut had been clean, the naga's blade sharp enough that it had not hurt so much until she was thrown to the ground. Their healer was dead, his dismembered form strewn across the floor before her. The mucky waters were filled with blood and the air smelled of metal or rust. Briefly, she closed her eyes, hand stretching toward her sword. It was meant to be held with both hands, but she would have to manage with only one. She used it to yank herself from the floor and forced herself to ignore the sticky, purple-red flood coming from where her arm used to be connected to her body. She was shaking, her head pounding, adrenaline streaming through her. She had to help her failing comrades. Her eyes darted from foe to friend and to the bloody floor again. Where was Tharasnar?_

_She started to stumble forward as one of the naga sorceresses turned her attention onto the failing sentinel. She dizzly threw herself at the female creature, flinging her heavy blade forward with her remaining arm and managing to slice through the softer tissue of its stomach. The stench from the she-creature's entrails was enough to make Naredai vomit. But the naga was still alive, hissing and screaming as she used her last bit of life to charge up a frostbolt._

_Naredai had only managed to dodge by accident. The spell hit her left shoulder, the river of blood freezing along with her wound and numbing over. The spell had backfired on the sorceress, but the naga woman wasn't alive to care anymore, she lay slumped over the body of another naga, her intestines draping across them like a sick gown. The sentinel vomited once more…_

_Someone knelt beside her, rubbing her back as she emptied bile from her stomach to mix with the blood, water, and filth on the floor. She was losing her strength and her hand slipped from the handle of her sword and it fell to the ground with a clang. The sound echoed in her ears and she groaned against the noise…_

_Someone was shouting a retreat. She started. They couldn't leave yet, she hadn't found Tharasnar! But then she noticed the weightless sensation of her body moving. She jerked to attention, trying to sit upright until she noticed she was being carried. Her eyes met Tharasnar's tired gaze, his eyes nearly lacking a soul, like the eyes of the dead. But they flickered to life for a moment when he looked at her. She laid back gratefully in his arms and let him carry her out of the Slave Pens. The assault had failed, their healer was dead, and the spell from the sorceress was wearing off. Her blood began to flow once more and quicker with each step Tharasnar took. But she was too exhausted to care._

_When she next awoke she was at the refuge, surrounded by a flock of frazzled looking druids who were darting about the room to retrieve water and bandages and potions at the request of the superior healer. Their presence annoyed her, the feather regalia brought back too many memories…_

_The pillow her head was resting on moved… And turned out not to be a pillow after all. Her head lay in Tharasnar's lap, his legs now devoid of armor. With a glance toward the floor she saw his armor laying in a heap. It was still dirty and looked as though it had been abandoned quickly. She then noticed the lake of blood crawling across the floor. She wondered how she had not bled out already. She looked up at Tharasnar's face, he had not yet noticed she was awake. He sat staring at the walls with that empty gaze she had seen back in Coilfang. There were rings beneath his eyes, black on his dusky skin, and his hair was filled with knots and hung limply to drape over parts of his face._

_The druids were approaching again, arms burdened with everything they'd been instructed to gather. She tensed as they began to tend to her right on the floor, yanking off her armor and tossing it over unceremoniously to join Tharasnar's. She eyed them with worry, her vision clouded by dizziness. Tharas's hand brushed hair away from her face and she latched onto it with the only hand she had, now._

_She didn't know how long everything took. One moment things would be agonizingly slow, and the next too fast for her to handle. She was fed a combination of herbs to slow her bleeding and her wound was cleansed before a tourniquet was applied, then the real healing process began. At that point she could barely form coherent thoughts and she was only conscious because of Tharas's hand. He was rubbing her cheek with his thumb. The healing was painful and difficult, and she heard the druids' panic at some moments when they were unable to properly fuse the skin together. But finally she was lifted from the floor and taken to a washtub where she was briefly washed and then put to bed like a small child._

_But all the while Tharasnar was beside her._

She wished she could be right beside him now, it was not fair to him that he had to lie there alone and lacking of something familiar. Naredai was rarely soft toward people and she rarely could show affection. But this was Tharasnar and he needed her. She felt her anger build as she stormed back into the tower and toward the healer's chamber. But just as she was about to kick the door in herself it opened and the healer and her assistant let her in.


	3. Skipping Stones

**This is just a short flashback of sorts in regards to Raikoraan. Yesterday I realized that there was a lot more on Naredai's past in the story so far, so I wanted to add a little bit for Raikoraan:)**

**Again, sorry for any mistakes. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p><em>Raikoraan sat at the edge of a lake, alone and admiring the silence of wild Ashenvale. He needed time away from the camps, the pressure of his superiors and the bickering among his comrades was getting to his head. The lake was serene, still as lion in wait and silvery in the dim forest light, just what he needed. He spied a stone at his feet and picked it up. It was smooth and round and flat, perfect for stone skipping. He hooked the little, gray stone between his fingers and thumb and lined it up with the water. He flicked his wrist and let the stone fly, bouncing across the lake three or four times before disappearing on the other side.<em>

_More stones lay at his feet, smooth and flat like the other one. He went to pluck another from the mossy shore when a voice stopped him. "How do you do that?"_

_He started and nearly fell from his tree stump seat. Another young soldier was approaching him curiously, her eyes wide with awe. She sat down beside him, shoving him over without so much as a second thought, and picked up the stone he'd been going for. "How do you do it?" She asked again. "This… rock bouncing thing."_

_Raikoraan decided to just go with it. What would it hurt to teach this one how skip stones? "It's called skipping stones." He told her, taking the rock from her and showing her how to hook it in her fingers. "You have to line it up just right with the water…"_

_She tried to replicate his actions, but every time she'd flick it too sharply or at an angle. Still, he would show her again, and still, she would fail. It happened every time, with no progress too. Finally she stood up, fifth stone in hand, and let out a frustrated huff as she whipped the stone clear across the lake._

"_Nice throw," Raikoraan told her in an effort to calm her a bit. "Good power behind it. You must be good with an axe."_

_She let out a sigh and turned toward him. "I suppose it was a good throw," She said and resumed her place next to him. She picked up another stone and for a second Raikoraan was worried she was going to try again at skipping stones. But she didn't. She merely sat staring at the stone, brown eyes studying the tiny thing her palm. It was a cool gray that clashed against her yellow-green skin. "Why throw these things?" She murmured._

"_What?"_

"_Why throw them?" She held the rock up to him. "Stones are such ancient things, older than even this forest. They're sometimes small, yet they can contain so much power. A simple stone can be made into a hatchet, that hatchet can be used to cut trees, the cut tree can be used to build a house for a family, that family could be a family of farmers and they could be raising the very swine we eat back in Durotar…" She dropped the stone into the water and pointed to the ripples, following them with her finger as they spread across the lake. "Like that," She said. "See?"_

_Raikoraan stared at this strange woman who had stumbled upon him. Her words were deep, knowledgeable like those of a shaman. Where did this girl get such wisdom? And what she said… It was true. And it made him see from a different perspective. For the first time he realized the chain reaction that even the most simple of things could start…_

"_Thurka." She said suddenly._

_He blinked at her, coming out of his thoughts. "Huh?"_

"_My name is Thurka," She told him. "Who would you be?"_

"_Raikoraan Bladetorn." He replied._

He grunted, shifting in his cot to turn onto his back. Subconsciously his mind mulled over his dream, or rather memory, and his hand went to his chest. It was a now instinctive action that brought him comfort as his hand brushed over the cool stone that rested on his chest, secured by a leather cord.

She had kept it so she would always remember the day they met. And the night before her death, had handed it over to him.

Raikoraan had been tempted to give it to Ghared. But something told him to hold onto it. Perhaps it was her voice in the wind...


End file.
