A Warlock Goes Home

[Tideraider]

Mal'garr Firefist crossed the threshold of his home for the first time in many months. As he stepped out of the stale air of Lordaeron and into the musty cottage he called his home, he reflected upon the curiosity that was the fact that somehow the air within was cleaner, less foul, than that outside. As he stepped inside, the darkness within was illuminated by the sickly green glow of the fel-flames that danced at all times at the head of his old, black-iron staff. He glanced around the single large room within. Though rendered somewhat disturbing by the flickering emerald hues in which it was bathed, the house seemed to be empty. Not merely empty, it seemed as if it had been abandoned for some time. The elderly Orc spoke aloud, breaking the awkward silence. A few words in Eredun left his lips, and the building reacted. The air shimmered briefly before the truth of the home was revealed. Though still desolate and dusty, the words revealed that this building was far from empty. The walls, once vacant, now bore many bookshelves which themselves bore many books. Most bound in leather, some bound in something less pleasant. Where bookshelves did not dominate the walls there were great cabinets and chests, marked with dimly glowing green runes, wards of protection and sealing. A great cauldron sat in the centre of the home, a desk or altar to it's right, and to it's far left a simple bed. Mal'garr smiled at his home revealed, and then grew grim as he recalled the necessity that brought him back.

The demon, Erak'vazul, stood at the door, guarding it and watching for any unfriendly eyes. The creature was impatient. It always was, though what it was waiting for Mal'garr was never certain. The Warlock hobbled through the house, running a gnarled old hand over his many treasured possessions. The books, he knew, contained untold lore and knowledge. Reflections and observations and words of power on the Fel and demonic, and in that knowledge there could be found great power. Much of it was the result of his own labour, tomes written by his hand, containing all the things he knew. Why he wrote it all down, he could not say. He had dreamed of having an apprentice, someone he could give his work to as both a legacy and a duty. That dream had faded years ago, though this did not stop him from continuing his work. The books not penned by his hand were prizes, taken from old foes and rivals that had opposed him or who had simply stumbled upon something he wanted. Their work had long since been absorbed and added to his own, but the tomes themselves held great power. The Fel had bled into the pages as it bled into those who commanded it.

He turned then to the cauldron. Both a focus of his mystical power, the heart of many a ritual and summoning over his years of service to the Horde and to the Banshee Queen, as well as somewhat absurdly the means by which he made many of his simple meals in those days. He had never questioned if eating food prepared in the same vessel in which fel energies had dwelled would effect him.

He turned to the cabinets and chests, tugging at his beard in the dim green light as he observed their own dully glowing runes. The bonds on them had weakened without him present to maintain them but still they held. He did not need to open them to know their contents. Some contained artefacts and items, torn from the grasps of foul demons and Warlocks, legion servants and ignorant fools who sought to use the Fel simply to enrich themselves. Others contained the bodies of those servants and fools, or at least parts of them. Fel-drenched bones and demon hearts. A few vials of demon blood. Some simply contained crystals filled with the raging energies of the Fel. All for use as power sources or focuses of experimentation.

All these things represented to the old Orc the latter days of his life. Much was gathered while he served Thrall's Horde, some had been collected, hidden, and found again in his exile fleeing from Doomhammer's dogs. Yet other pieces were things taken from Outland, hidden away before the Horde marched into Azeroth to be collected when the world had been conquered. Regardless of their origins, this collection had taken the elderly Orc many years and much effort to collect, create, or steal. It saddened him to know he must lose almost all of it.

He grabbed a few select volumes from the tens of tomes penned by his own hand, and stuffed them into his bag. He moved to one of the sealed chests, spoke the words to remove the warding, collected many of the fel-green crystals within, and hid those in his bag and robes too. He then turned, and hobbled from the building, pushing his demonic servant from the doorway as best he could, given his condition.

Mal'garr moved until he had put some distance between him, and his home. He turned to face it. For a few moments, he merely stared, solemnly. He knew that, regardless of his personal conflicts, this land was lost. The Alliance forces too many, too united. The Horde simply too few and fractured, turning against itself. He did not know precisely when, but he knew that the land of Lordaeron would fall. It may be the next day, he believed, or the day after that. Perhaps a week or two. It did not matter. Lordaeron's fall was inevitable. Though he did not know where he stood on his adopted clan's...direction, he did know this. The knowledge he had collected over his lifetime, the items of power he claimed ownership of, could never be allowed to fall into enemy hands. He would not see his life's work be used against the Horde and it's people.

He raised his right hand to the sky, his burnt left still clutching his staff, and began to chant. Eredun words left his lips and became words of power as they spread into the world. The fel-flame upon the head of his staff flared and rattled in time with his chanting. In his raised hand, embers of emerald glowed, quickly growing into sparks, and then into flame. After just a few moments, a ball of emerald fire sat in the palm of the old Orc's hand. He fell silent, and looked at it. The raw stuff of chaos dancing around his fingers. Entropy made manifest, which did not harm him. He smiled sadly, and then almost casually tossed this flame towards his home. It quickly caught, directed by both Mal'garr's will and the flame's own malevolence. As it burned it drew upon the latent fel-energies that saturated the home, pulling it from the tomes and the artefacts within. The fireball quickly became an inferno, and just as quickly, an explosion. With a sudden roar and a blast of that sickly green light, the home was consumed entirely, Mal'garr being forced to raise his arm to guard his glowing-red eyes from the flare.

A few moments later, he lowered arm. Where once his home stood, there was now only dust, and a spot of land scoured of all life, even the corrupted life that thrived in Lordaeron. The old Orc stared at the dead empty space feeling hollow, and strangely numb. He turned slightly, glancing at Erak'vazul out of the corner of his eye. The demon's expression was hard and unreadable, as ever, but the Warlock felt the creature was pleased. Pleased to have witnessed his master destroy something he cared about. Mal'garr considered punishing the creature, but decided against it. Erak'vazul was a slave, and would be until his soul completely burned out. He could be allowed one moment of smug satisfaction.

Mal'garr turned away from where once his home had resided and began to hobble away, his servant marching close behind. The Warlock wasn't sure where he was going. He simply wished to be elsewhere.