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Solivar
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re: [Vortex] An Unexpected Summons

The message was waiting for him upon his return to Dalaran -- as was, somewhat more surprisingly, the messenger.

Siouxsie, formerly a banshee and presently a death knight, cut a memorable figure, being over seven feet tall, pale as moonlit snow everywhere she was not covered in gleaming jet armor, and very obviously of Kaldorei extraction, all while occupying a rather central place in the Filthy Animal's common room. She was, in fact, sitting cross-legged on the bearskins in front of the main fireplace, her enormous double-bladed axe laid across her knees, her face toward the doors and her back to a roomful of hostile orcs, trolls, and elves, as though daring them to take offense at her presence. Which was, Solivar reflected, more or less vintage Siouxsie, for whom subtlety had never been a strong suit.

Uda the Beast, however, was not so philosophical. "She is here for you and will not leave without you. Go. Both of you."

Which was, he supposed, the end of his heretofore convivial relationship with the Filthy Animal's management; Nargut and Rhukah's growls contained significantly more than the usual, desultory amounts of menace as he stepped past them. Siouxsie, by way of contrast, smiled up at him with perfectly malicious good cheer and accepted his hand, levering herself to her feet and from there to her full, rather impressive height. "Highlord Mograine has received your report and ardently desires to take counsel with you on the matter. Immediately."

"As the Highlord wishes," He murmured in reply, flicking a glance toward the doors. "Shall we -- "

But she was already casting, threads of shadow and death crackling between her fingers, and with a rush of cold air and a hollow roar that set Uda's worgs whining, the Gate blossomed there on the spot, Siousxie offering it to him with a half-mocking bow. "Your chariot, Mercy."

Her voice carried; heads all around the room turned. He stepped through the gate, surrendering himself to the stunning cold and howling nothingness, before he could meet any of their eyes.

He emerged into a place only slightly warmer than the blood-freezing chill of the Gate itself, a wind that tasted of ice and salt caressing his face, lifting the hair off his neck, finding its way through all the seams in his armor. Grey nothing resolved into sight, sound: they stood on the observation platform of a necropolis, wind-driven snow falling about them in the fading twilight, dark and frigid enough that even the wan ghostlight falling across the stones from deeper inside seemed warm and welcoming in contrast. It was not Acherus -- the smell of the air was wrong, and a glance over the railing showed him why: they hung over the tangled thorn-forest that lay on the western border of Zul'Drak.

"Zeramas," Solivar whispered, and at his back, his companion chuckled humorlessly. "That was...unnecessary, sister. Had I known he was this close to Dalaran, I would have set out at once."

"Would you now, brother?" Siouxsie's smile was nowhere in the vicinity of pleasant and contained far too many sharp teeth. "You should know that he gave me orders to bring you by whatever means I chose, and in pieces if I had to. I suspect he may be slightly wroth with you. Perhaps something to do with the way you vanished into the Nether for the best part of the last two years?"

He could not help bristling at that, glaring over his shoulder at her. "I am not the only one to make that decision."

"No," She agreed, still bright and sharp with malice, "But you're the only one who belonged to his father to walk away from him."

That struck home, far more deeply than he liked her knowing, and drew blood; it took a moment to school his face still, and she enjoyed the visible loss of control entirely too much. "It was not Darion that I was walking away from."

"The fine points of why hardly matter now." She set her axe head-down in the snow. "I can still take a leg or two off, if you like?"

"That will not be necessary," He assured her dryly, and turned to enter the necropolis' cavernous, echoingly empty depths. "It is good to see you again, sister. I have missed our talks."

No one, to his knowledge, quite knew why Zeramas had been abandoned. Three necropoleis had been allocated to the task of pacifying Zul'Drak and its population of savage trolls and equally savage god-beasts. Had matters gone as planned during the assault on Light's Hope, he and the King's Fist would have returned to Northrend to take their places on one of them as the lieutenants of Prince Navarius, whose commission it had been to bring the crumbling empire of the Drakkari wholly to ruin and deliver what was left to the service of the Lich King. Matters had not gone as planned -- or, rather, they had not gone as Highlord Mograine and the forces under his command had intended -- and neither, it seemed, had the carefully plotted, extensively strategically supported war effort against the trolls. Kolramas lay shattered by some unimaginably great power, the Scourge forces were scattered and leaderless, the Prince Navarius having been rendered a fine red paste beneath the heel of one of his flesh giant creations and his successor having proven unequal to the task left incomplete by his master's destruction. And while Zeramas still flew, looming menacingly over the trolls' dark forest, its threat was impotent, empty. The only death knights who walked its echoing corridors were those who had forsaken the Lich King's service and whose designs on the homeland of the ice trolls were nil so long as those trolls were keeping the Scourge forces in the region pinned down, far from the battlefields of Icecrown.

Highlord Mograine awaited in the upper tier of the citadel's central core, in what had once been its commander's war-room. He stood with his back to the transporter platform, his attention absorbed in the detailed map of Northrend spread across the floor, covered with with carved wooden counters that represented the field units of the assorted armies scattered across the continent, and did not deign to acknowledge the transporter's activation or the ringing sound of titansteel-shod footsteps that attended Solivar's arrival. It was not entirely surprising: in life, Darion Mograine had embodied the best virtues and, in many ways, the temperament of the mother he had never known; in death, he was most definitely his father's son. The rigid set of his spine and shoulders, the angle of his unhelmeted head and the tension in his jaw, spoke eloquently of his anger; that he had not turned spoke of his will to control it. Wordlessly, Solivar shrugged out of his sword harness and laid his weapon at the foot of the platform, advanced to the edge of the map and went to one knee.

The silence between them stretched, seconds becoming minutes. Solivar almost wished that breathing came more naturally to him, that he might have something to count while he waited and forced his mind empty, not wishing to look up and see the gangly, scab-kneed boy he had once known in the man that stood before him now. Finally, just as uncomfortable stood on the threshold of unbearable, the Highlord spoke. "So, my prodigal commander returns. At the latest possible hour, and bearing some of the worst possible news. I am tempted to ask what I did to deserve this."

"Highlord," Solivar addressed his greeting to the floor at Darion Mograine's boot-tips. "You called. And I would not have kept what I learned in Scholomance from you under any circumstances."

"I -- " It began as a shout, ringing off the stone-and-saronite walls, and continued more calmly, albeit somewhat tight around the edges. "Yes. I suppose I did, at that. Would you have -- " He stopped himself again, released the breath he held in an echoing metallic sigh. "Rise."

Solivar did so, keeping his gaze carefully afixed to the map. It was, he reflected, struggling for distance himself, a fine example of the cartographer's art, the work of a master. The Highlord paced across it, kicking counters aside as he went; the positioning was months old, and hundreds of major and minor engagements off, anyway. "I had hoped you would have returned of your own recognizance before this."

"Highlord, I had nothing to offer you that you could not have obtained from any other soldier under your command." He replied, evenly. "Perhaps even less. I was...not in my right mind after Light's Hope."

"Who was?" It was not a question that required an answer, and so he made no attempt to do so. The Highlord paced back towards him. "There are those among the Brotherhood who doubted not only your sanity, but your loyalty. There are some, point in fact, who doubt your freedom of mind and will even now, and who suspect that this -- " A sheaf of parchments struck the floor at his feet, neatly clipped together. " -- is an elaborate trap meant to divert forces that otherwise would have been deployed against the inner defenses of Icecrown."

"A not irrational supposition, given the circumstances." The Highlord stopped, less than an arm's-length away. "It...strains credulity, I know, that I should become so enmeshed again in a matter with which I was intimately involved prior to our liberation. In truth, I do not think these circumstances are so...random."

"I'm deeply gratified to hear you say that." The Highlord was, for the first time, not audibly struggling with some species of wrath. "And I await your thoughts on the matter with barely restrained anticipation. Look at me."

"I cannot." He stopped and waited until he was certain he could speak without a tremor in his voice. "Answer me this: what has become of the other members of the vortex weapon's development team?"

"You. Cannot." Strangled with barely restrained rage, and silence, as the Highlord spun away and walked not only in the opposite direction but halfway around the room entirely. "Navarius is dead -- spread in an impressive number of small, scorched pieces across half of Zu'Drak as a matter of fact. Zarod was destroyed in the initial assaults on the Fleshwerks and his phylactery broken before he could reform. The Horde kindly disposed of the Flenser for us when he was foolish enough to assault Warsong Hold in the west. Darkmaster Thantal..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes. They are all dead -- or, more practically, destroyed, diminished beyond recall." And now he did raise his head, as the Highlord turned, realization spreading across his face. Solivar was tempted to call it horrified realization. In the instant, he looked painfully, utterly like his father.

"Except you." Their eyes met, and Solivar wrenched his gaze away with an almost physical effort.

"Yes." It took a perfectly ridiculous amount of effort to control both his voice and his body at the same time, holding the one steady and the other still as the Highlord circled back. "It cannot possibly be the product of mere chance."

"What's the old saying?" The Highlord asked softly as he approached. "Once is misfortune, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action?"

"We have, I feel, reached the level of enemy action." The Highlord stepped into his field of vision and very simply refused to move; he focused on a point somewhere beyond the hilt of of the weapon slung over the shoulder of his master's only remaining son, the boy he had bid farewell to at a little farmstead in Tirisfal and never saw alive again. "The priestess I named in my report -- Cathrinia -- is not partisan of her own accord. Her mind and her will are not her own, though she struggles against it, and she struck against me at a point of weakness, to goad me into pursuing her."

"And if I commanded you not to pursue her?"

The question hung between them unanswered for an uncomfortably long time.

"I cannot obey that command, Highlord," Solivar finally replied, and let his gaze slide back to the Highlord's face. "Though I suspect she came to join the band of brothers that I serve under false pretenses, I have sworn a vow to her and she to me. False and treacherous though she may be...she is still Steadfast, in some place in her mind, and if it is in my power to rescue her, I must."

"...You're serious. I can see it in your eyes." The anger drained from him, utterly and all at once.

"I am." Softly.

"I should have Siouxsie chop off all your limbs and ship you back to Acherus in a burlap sack. Idiot." And this time it was the Highlord who could not maintain his gaze, spinning away to begin pacing again. "Given your knowledge of the original vortex weapon, do you truly believe it could have been recreated in the form this...intelligence suggests?"

"It is not impossible. The potential for mass destruction existed even in the initial iterations -- the difficulties we had in limiting its sphere of effect were indicative of that. It was more Navarius' distaste for the level of materiel wastage involved in its deployment that ended the experiment, not a lack of interest in proceeding to the...natural next level." Kolramas' fractured counter lay near his feet; he picked it up and rolled it between his hands, to give them something to do. "Preliminary work had already been done in that regard -- it was our thought to increase the weapon's mobility by mounting a focusing circle in a necropolis core assembly, and using the natural necromantic focusing properties of the holds themselves to the weapon's advantage. I do not believe that a prototype was ever made, but the design had been drafted."

"...And you were searching for signs of implementation at Malykriss' construction dock...where you encountered Silver's men four days ago."

Solivar nodded, rather impressed with the speed involved in the Highlord's intelligence-gathering network. "Yes. It seemed a logical possibility, given the superior necrotic conduction properties of saronite, that if any necropolis were being armed with an altered version of the vortex weapon assembly that it would be the Vile Hold. I did not, however, find such evidence in the shell or among the construction plans...but in the structure of the Gates."

The Highlord's eyes narrowed, sharpening the intensity of their glow, and the angle of the shadows that fell across his face, suspicion scrawled in every line. "You mentioned Aldur'thar alone in your report. You have found other signs since?"

"I have, Highlord. The pieces of the weapon, for want of a better description, are scattered throughout Icecrown -- particularly in the defensive structures of the Gates, but also in the outer works of the Citadel itself. The physical and sorcerous mechanisms are all in place, and the Citadel is at their center." He hesitated a moment. "And we know that they are making use of children culled from every race dwelling in this world as the focus and delivery vector for the vortex's magic."

The Highlord said nothing in response, but resumed his pacing, completing a full circuit before he spoke again. "Can you disarm it?"

"Highlord, we plan to do so."

"Planning to do something is not the same as possessing the ability to do it." Their gazes locked again and this time held. "So I ask again...can you disarm it?"

The Highlord of the Ebon Blade, Solivar could see, knew precisely what he was asking -- as did, beneath the ice, the cold distance of command, Darion Mograine. "Yes."

"The focus."

"It is the most vulnerable point of the vortex structure, yes."

"Children."

"It will be a...challenging extraction operation, yes, but no more so than any other conducted in Icecrown." Solivar replied, and the Highlord's dawning expression of startled relief was far more painful than it had any right to be. "What did you think I was going to do?"

"You must admit, you possess a certain well-earned reputation for...pragmatism in the field, Mercy." The Highlord, blessedly, looked away and continued his transit of Zeramas' core.

"That I do." It took a moment to school himself, and his voice, serene again. "Were you one of them, Highlord?"

"If you are asking if I doubted your sanity and your allegiance," The Highlord replied, utterly dry, "the answer is 'yes.'"

"I...see."

"Bear in mind, I still doubt your sanity -- 'challenging' is not the term I would use to describe rescuing who knows how many children from anywhere in Icecrown." He returned to the map, kicking the markers representing the Host of Suffering off the heights of the fortress. "But my other fears have been allayed somewhat."

Solivar forced the corners of his mouth to stop twitching, not at all certain what expression would result from permitting them their leave. "I am...entirely grateful for that, Highlord."

"You will require considerable external support to pull this off, you realize." The Highlord stared moodily down at the map. "Air support, more precisely -- evacuating defenseless civilians across the glacier by ground straddles the line between impossible and an exotic method of committing suicide."

"I am aware. We have been making arrangements with our allies to assist in this matter -- though a certain amount of risk is unavoidable, even with the extensive use of both air and magical transportation support."

"Point." An easier, more contemplative silence fell between them. "I could make a formal request of High Overlord Saurfang that the Orgrim's Hammer be put on alert and required to render assistance if you signal for it."

"That would be an enormous boon to our efforts, Highlord."

"Very well. Give me a few days, if you have them, to contact him directly -- I swear by my father's soul, if I have to talk to that idiot Agmar again, no one will ever find his body." The Highlord snapped a glare up at him, entirely without warning. "You have my leave to stop calling me 'Highlord' at all times, Solivar."

"As you wish, Darion." Solivar bowed from the shoulders. "I must also contact my allies with these developments. By your leave...?"

"Go. I know where to find you now."

Solivar retreated to the transporter platform, scooping up his sword-harness as he went, and paused as the Highlord spoke again.

"And I expect your report on the results of this action to be delivered in person, commander."

"As my Highlord wishes."

The hum of the transporter almost drowned out the sound of Darion Mograine's quiet laughter.


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re: [Vortex] An Unexpected Summons

And the plot thickens....
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