Epilogue

Streets erupted with life and joy when the news of the Lich King’s fall at last reached Dalaran. It spread through the streets, a rumor that gathered believability with each passing second until at last the Kirin Tor made the announcement from the Violet Citadel, their weathered voices shaking with relief. Lanterns shone bright in the evening streets as the people rejoiced, knowing that their city had at last been avenged.

A more muted celebration took place in the sterile halls of the Sunreaver’s Sanctuary. A substantial portion of the Scourge armies remained, to be sure, but they posed little threat to those outside of Northrend or the Plaguelands.

“A fine thing that the Argent Crusade and Steamwheedle Cartel fought and bled so well,” remarked one aging Sin’dorei diplomat. “Their sacrifice has given us time to consolidate, to better fight our true foes.”

I did not need to ask him to identify those foes.

The zeppelin had carried me from the Lich King’s doorstep to the embattled base camp at the edge of what had once been the Fleshwerks. Otuura, the draenic death knight, had survived her battle against the dragons, and seemed impressed at my continued existence.

Healers repaired my wounds with laudable skill, though my hand was too damaged to save. The Crusade ferried me to Dalaran once I’d regained some strength, and I spent the rest of my recuperation in Sunreaver’s Sanctuary. It was there that I heard of the victory against the Scourge. My service to the Horde in Dalaran’s Underbelly had not been forgotten, and the emissaries there arranged for me to receive a prosthetic hand.

Even today, I admire the craftsmanship of this new left hand, an elegant assembly of steel gears, rune circuits, and copper wires. The finer motor functions are too complex for the machine to emulate, but it can curl into a fist and extend into an open palm.

I stayed in Dalaran perhaps longer than necessary, rarely venturing outside of Sunreaver’s Sanctuary. It was not a proud time for me. I struggled to understand my actions at Icecrown.

In many ways, I had believed myself above the Lich King’s corruption, and I had disdained those Forsaken who used his evil to excuse their own. Even now, I am not so mad as to compare myself with Undercity’s worst. Certainly I have never brewed plagues or sought to end all life. Yet I had still used others to save myself, though in so doing I had saved them as well.

Are we all cowards in the face of damnation? Aletta and Lennister had defied their beliefs to save each other and their child, though they did not truly understand what was at stake. When they fled, he slowed to help her down those treacherous steps, even though the Chosen ran close behind. I turned around to fight the Chosen, but had I done so for any reason beyond hatred? I strained my memories, seeking some grain of courage or sacrifice in that attack. I could not decide if any had existed.

I have always thought that it is too easy to say that the ends never justify the means. Good intentions matter little if they only bring death and destruction. If Lennister, Aletta, and their child all escaped, who am I to judge?

Perhaps the doubts stem from the shame of slipping under the Lich King’s sway a second time. Had the Argent Crusade not commenced that bombing raid, I am sure I would have returned to the Scourge. I, who had thought so highly of my own mind and spirit, had come close to losing them again.

Contacts in the Argent Crusade informed me that Lennister and Aletta had been transported to Hearthglen. Formerly ruled by the Scarlets, the burgeoning township is now under the Argent Crusade’s protection.

“Aletta gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Vestra,” explained the Argent liaison, a blood elf. “She’s a very sickly child, I’m afraid. Aletta’s malnutrition took its toll on Vestra’s body, and perhaps her mind as well. But she will live, and she will be safe.”

I nodded, a mixture of feelings welling up inside. Suffering does leave its mark. Yet I am sure that there is no better place than Hearthglen for Vestra and her parents.

When I left Dalaran, it was at the behest of the Horde. As a cautious peace settled over the north, new troubles brewed in the south, and the Horde wanted my input. I will not overstate my contribution; I was one of several advisors to a diplomatic party sent to the island of Kezan. I will not soon forget my first sight of that place. A madcap array of metal towers, each festooned with bold advertisements, shot up from a tangled web of roads clogged with traffic. We saw the nighttime lights of Kezan on the southern horizon when we were still days away from the grimy splendor of Bilgewater Port.

The Horde’s long-standing interest in the Bilgewater Cartel led the Warchief to explore the possibilities of a permanent alliance with them. Trade-Prince Gallywix appeared enthusiastic, even giving us a tour of his semi-secret oil facility on a lush but volcanic island north of Kezan. None of us trusted him. In the end, no final decision was made. Little did we know that the Cataclysm would drive him into the Horde.

In Kezan, a faction of the Horde’s elder statesmen informed me of their concerns regarding Gilneas. Though not yet Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream was already making his influence felt, and he viewed Gilneas as a threat. The few stories that escaped that gloomy land told of a realm torn asunder and plagued by the worgen. Some, however, thought that the people of Gilneas would be grateful to receive help, even from the Horde.

“If the Horde gained human friends, it would be a significant blow against the Alliance,” pointed out Skorg, the wily old orc who had been in charge of negotiating with Gallywix.

Leaving the goblin metropolis, Skorg’s vessel set anchor at the fog-shrouded Gilnean coast, and I was flown to shore on a gyrocopter. My orders were to learn about the Gilneans and then report my findings to the authorities in Orgrimmar. I did not know that elemental fires were already devouring that heroic city.

I found a nation whose age-old social structure was buckling under the weight of isolation, civil war, and the curse of the worgen. Whether or not they would have made good allies is now a moot point. I was in Gilneas when the Cataclysm hit and the Forsaken came to her shores, ready to repeat the evils of the Scourge.

I left, avoiding Forsaken patrols (who’d have surely made me join them) to reach Undercity. I flew over boiling seas and ravaged coastlines on a creaking zeppelin, praying for the safety of my friends.

Orgrimmar bears scant resemblance to the city I knew. Even before the tremors of the Cataclysm fully subsided, peons had begun working to raise the steel skeletons of new citadels. Now, Orgrimmar is as much a factory as it is a city, consuming resources to produce the great war machines that press down on Ashenvale. Shortages are a fact of life, and the promise of food keeps the peons slaving away.

Garrosh has reserved Orgrimmar’s center for the orcs and tauren; others may only visit. I will not pretend to understand the logic behind this decree. It matters little to me. Orgrimmar may no longer feel like a home, but the Valley of Spirits still does.

I threw my arms around Daj’yah and my other friends when I met them in the rebuilt Darkbriar Lodge, now uneasily shared with priests and warlocks. All were surprised by my sudden display of reckless emotion. I cannot truly describe what I felt seeing them again. Elation, euphoria... these words fall short. It is enough to say that I was no longer alone.

Skorg and his associates had perished in the Cataclysm. Without their backing, widespread knowledge of my time in Gilneas could be politically dangerous. I have hidden away the reports, saving them for a more peaceful time.

Life is difficult in the Valley of Spirits, but the trolls, the Darkspear most of all, are the ultimate survivors. Getting the arcane texts from old Lordaeron is harder than ever before; the Forsaken are reluctant to share the fallen kingdom’s secrets.

Nonetheless, books of magic still get through to Orgrimmar. These I translate, both for the trolls of the Darkbriar and for the new arcane practitioners in Orgrimmar: orcs and goblins. Orcish sorcerers are despised even by the warlocks, who claim that grappling with demons proves their strength and honor. The neophyte sorcerers endure the distrust with stalwart courage.

I have also found much to admire in some of the goblin wizards. I make no secret of my distrust for the Bilgewater Cartel’s leadership (indeed, Gallywix’s treacherous nature is openly mocked on the streets of Orgrimmar), but I have met many fine individuals among the cartel's ranks.

Only the tauren continue to completely shun the arcane. Some of their wise ones have incorporated the Holy Light into the Shu’halo belief systems. The Light offers a moral guidance that I suspect the Horde will need in the trying times ahead.

The new frontiers can wait. The world will always be here, but my friends will not. It is a sad fact that I will likely outlive Daj’yah, Uthel’nay, and the others. Thus, I must savor the time I share with them. It is a fine thing to travel, but it also cuts one off from society. This is a time for me to reconnect.

Taking a sip from an earthen cup filled with rich coffee, I look up from my desk and out to the Valley of Spirits. Evening is coming, and with it a cool breeze that rustles the grass roofs. Torches flare up, one by one, the flames dancing in the warm shade. Quick beats are pounded on drums, welcoming and warning the spirits of the night. I smell the aroma of roasting pork, carried on smoke that spirals up from kitchens and outdoor fires. Distinct through the sounds of the street, with all its laughter and arguments, I hear the sound of Daj’yah’s pen putting words to paper.

I am content.



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((Thank you very much for reading Travels through Azeroth and Outland. I have greatly appreciated the critiques and corrections I have received over the years. It is thanks to you, the reader, that my writing has improved. From now on, I will be focusing my efforts on original stories.

Those curious about the zones (new and refurbished) in Cataclysm should pay a visit to the forums. There, I will present simplified, Cliff's Notes versions of the new zones. I also plan on setting up some discussion on what has become of some of the side characters. While I might occasionally step in to confirm or deny a theory, I think I will mostly let readers speculate as they please. Life's more fun with a bit of uncertainty, after all. However, if it's going to be really fun, it needs readers to participate.

Once again, thank you, and I hope you turn your attentions to Scratched Nerve. It's looking empty right now, I'll admit, but it's where my new writings will go. Safe travels, everyone!))