The Trials of Vynlarion: Introduction

Silence swallowed him up as he was transported into the unknown. Suffocating silence. It was all around him… everywhere. He could not even hear the beat of his own heart, or the sound of his breath. Silence. It was indeed everywhere. There could be no greater silence he had experienced, and no greater silence to follow. His eyes slowly opened to find naught but blackness before him. Extending his hands forth, he found nothing before him, and upon relaxing the muscles in those limbs, they merely floated before him, or so he surmised from the feelings therein. Soon after, he realised that his entire body was floating.

But where?

And how?

Opening his mouth, he called out, though heard nothing. He shouted fervently, but again, no sound was heard. As he exhausted his throat, he soon found that he could not breathe. There was no air coming into his body. Panic began to take hold as his lungs instinctively hyperventilated in the lack of oxygen. His hands instinctively went to his chest as the weight of asphyxiation began to kick in. It was then that upon turning his body through the floating, lifeless abyss, he saw the truth of where he was. Before him now was the truth of the matter.

A horrific highway of madness and chaos was spread before him. Undulating with masses uncounted of demons and their abominations crawled through its multifaceted dimensions. Through great spaces of nothingness, a putrid green mist permeated all, shrouding the activities of those below. Interspacing this horrendous path were worlds uncharted by Azerothian men and women. Worlds so foreign and curious the man who observed them found himself at a loss to explain what they were. One planet seemed to be covered in naught but an eternal sea, another blanketed in ice and snow so thick that nothing but its vast white nothingness could be discerned. Another looked more akin to Azeroth; many islands – nay, continents, separated vast stretches of water. His eyes spanned the eternal nothingness, but what alarmed him most was how he was beginning to fall toward the calamity of an interstellar path below.

As he fell toward its hellish nature, he found himself willing all his magic to stop it, but alas, none would come to his fingers. He was powerless and he was falling to his death. Growing ever closer and now breaching the endless sickly verdant clouds he saw a truly terrible sight. Massive islands the size of continents floated in the miserable space. Upon them the undulating movements of even more demons could be seen milling about. Great machinations not seen since the days when adventurers scoured the Outland and encountered certain death by the Fel Reavers roamed about, their mechanical cries not heard by the once more breathing man.

However breathing was not a pleasant ordeal. The putrid air of the Twisting Nether was chokingly corrosive and stabbed at his lungs with every breath. Though he seemed to be able to survive it, and so he did as he fell. Following such, the reality of what he saw finally donned upon him; these were not floating islands, they were the remains of destroyed planets. Just like Draenor. Drawing ever toward one of these ruined planets, he found himself oddly decelerating. His body righted itself without his accord and after some time he landed upon rocky ground. The land below swayed from side to side much akin to a ship at sea, and it seemed bereft of any natural life. The rock itself was searing hot and the elven man found his gilded greaves becoming uncomfortably warm as a result. Stepping quickly in any direction to stop himself from becoming stuck, he looked around. Demons roamed the land about him, oblivious to his presence. Felguards passed through their ranks, Shivarra danced in and out of plain sight, magicks causing one to lose sight of them easily as they waded through the hapless scores of foreign looking creatures. Many looked akin to Worgen, though their fur was molted and where it was absent patches of sickly looking fel-green skin were exposed which pulsated with the dark magicks at work.

“I have been sent here to die, then.” Vynlarion Highcrest said coolly.

~

Hours passed as Vynlarion remained where he was, largely forced to remain seated from the labour that was simply breathing. He could feel the ambient magic of the Sunwell being mysteriously syphoned out of him, and so even moving was becoming difficult. He felt his great age begin to catch up to him as the Sunwell’s arcane and Light energies left him, and he slumped forward in his seated position weakly. Lifting an arm to unfasten his breastplate, the beleaguered man found it difficult to raise the appendage. Soldiering forth, however, he began to remove the bulk of his armour, discarding the priceless plates of metal adorned with precious gems and finer metals such as gold and platinum. Adorned in naught but chainmail greaves, or rather what sufficed as greaves under the heavy plates, black trousers, a sweat-soaked collarless white shirt and finally adorned one of the long swords that he wore on his armour.

Pushing his hair off his sweatstained forehead and finding it to be mercilessly hot on this barren rock of demonic death, he pushed himself up off his seated position and rose, looking around. Indecision struck hard at that moment as he weighed his options. Should he retreat to Azeroth? Perhaps one of the habitable looking worlds nearby? Or should he search for Lathinal? The foolhardiness of his quest seemed to don on him as he looked around. It was in this twisting labyrinth of death that some means of finding the power to secure Lathinal in his life once more was.

Upon the pseudo-horizon to his left he saw the cresting of that icy planet before him. A greater congregation of Burning Legion soldiers seemed to amass in such a direction, and so he set off to find a means of ascertaining just what he had to do. Every step pained him so as the corrosive air poisoned his lungs, though he continued forth, only to find his feet dragging behind him. Venturing forward over the desolate floating rock, he was oddly lucky to find himself bereft of being found by the demons about. It was as though they avoided him. Almost every time he crested a rocky outcropping and saw legions of hapless demons, they would randomly separate from their congregation and leave the valley open for him to traverse. There was no denying something or someone was forcing the demons to either entrap or avoid him, though the elven knight-lord ignored this, deciding he would face that foe when they showed themselves.

The shale-like rock below him slid uneasily below his unsteady feet as he made his way down one last rock ledge. However upon his descent he found himself face to face with a wicked looking creature. Two fel touched eyes much akin to his own stared hopelessly toward him. The creature had a humanoid upper body, however its legs seemed to almost coalesce into a vile looking slug aberration. The creature whose body was a sickly green, most likely the result of the fel corruption so often seen, shambled toward Vynlarion in a sliding motion. Reaching forth an arm with but three slime covered fingers, it seemed to be almost beckoning to the Blood Elf. The knight-lord placed a hand on the blade at his hip, eyes narrowing on the creature. “No further, fel creature.” He said boldly, unsure if the creature could even understand him. Evidently ignorant of the Thalassian dialect, the creature glanced to the almost drawn sword and stopped. However the extended limb remained beckoned, before turning over its palm in a supplicating gesture.

The elf knew this gesture; it was how fel creatures who could not speak show respect to a superior. “You think me your superior? Astute, creature…” Vynlarion commented, before tentatively reaching a weary hand toward the creature who gave him a miserable stare once more. Placing his hand in the creature’s hand, his mind felt as though it was ruthlessly stabbed. Though the creature’s equivalent of fingers wrapped around his hand, binding it there with painful little spikes that slid into his flesh deeply. However it was the intrusion on his mind that surprised Vynlarion the most. A foreign and oddly depressed voice pierced his mind; “why are you here? What are you?” The creature looked deeply into the knight-lord’s eyes as it spoke in his mind.

“I was sent here. I must find someone lost to me long ago. And I am Sin’dorei, Vynlarion Highcrest the sixth.” The man spoke out loud, hoping that the creature could now understand him. The creature’s mind seemed to retreat for a moment after realising the pain it had caused. Vynlarion continued, “I am on a quest for power unseen in my home – to return the fallen beloved one to my side.” The creature leaned in, eyeing Vynlarion closely, before uttering foreign and guttural words he could not understand. Giving what, at least to Vynlarion, sounded akin to a sigh, it spoke into his mind once more.

The creature’s mind was much more reserved this time. It did not attack with thought, but instead eased its presence and spoke with a curious mental echo, as though there were others agreeing with it. “I understand, Sin’dorei Vynlarion. But the power you speak is not here. You must find the creators and beseech them for such a gift. Perhaps on the icy lands below you might find them. You are of us; the fel is within you. Simply use the Nether to arrive. But be warned, the land itself does not welcome strangers.” The creature retracted its tendrils, the small spikes sliding smoothly out of his flesh. Vynlarion nodded once, and after uttering a few more unintelligible words, the creature slowly made its way toward the far edge of the floating island.

Vynlarion followed after the creature, intent on finding out how to use the Twisting Nether to not simply die from the fall onto the icy planet. However he found himself having difficulty keeping up; his magicks were still blocked somehow, and what little was left in him was draining fast. Moreover the choking breaths that he took were not aiding him, and he found his head to be sharp with an unknown pain, and his lungs perpetually tight with nigh asphyxiation. Placing a hand on the creature’s undulating shoulder, he stopped it and spoke; “I can go no farther. My body is magical in nature and something in the Nether is stopping me from passively syphoning. If I do not syphon magic, I will die.” The fel corrupted creature halted upon his words, seeming to comprehend his words. It turned toward him once more, offering its hand in that same supplicating gesture.

Hesitant, Vynlarion took the creature’s tendril-like hand and was once more heard its echoing voice. “Take from me what you will need, creature. You are with the fel, but you are free. You must be from the anomaly. We are trapped, the Queens are enslaved, and thus we are. They will control us if we fight back. Take from me. I am already dead.” Vynlarion nodded once, and removed his hand from the creature’s tendril, slime connecting the two limbs for about a foot of distance before breaking. Vynlarion drew his shakey hand up to the creature’s head, hovering his fingers before its face and speaking aloud.

“You are noble and great hearted, creature. I will not forget your sacrifice. Mayhap in time one of Azeroth’s heroes shall free you.” With that, his fingers tensed as he felt the fel course through the creature. He was unhappy with this decision, but it was necessary; he had to find Lathinal. He began to drag the fel out of the creature before him. In wispy streams of fel, much akin to the corrosive and choking mist around them that was slowly killing him, magic began to pour from the creature who simply closed its eyes and accepted death. The solemnness of its acceptance of death disturbed the ailed knight-lord and he worried that this could have been his people’s fate – his own fate, had they not have broken from Prince Kael’thas. Invigorated as the first vestiges of fel entered his body, he increased the spell, drawing up another hand and syphoning with reckless abandon. The creature shuddered for a moment before collapsing onto its side, its slimy body making a sloppy smacking sound as it reached the hot rock below.

Ceasing his syphoning, Vynlarion stood a little taller as he breathed in; the choking air seemed to be purified somewhat as he ingested it. However, to his concern, a foul looking dark green steam escaped his nostrils when he exhaled. Moreover he found himself able to walk more quickly. Deciding against summoning his armour, mostly for the possibility such was impossible and to be found from the effort of attempting such. He set off forth once more with renewed purpose as he hurried to the congregation of felguards and a few Nathrezim at the edge, wherein a thick incorporeal amassing of the choking green mist led toward the planet below. Deciding that such was the logical and largely safe method of reaching the icy planet below, Vynlarion paused, considering his options. Given his current state, fighting felguards and a few Nathrezim would be impossible, regardless of them appearing to be weaker dread lords, he devised a plan.

Raising his hand into the air, he wished silently for magicks to come to his command, he called for the Light, and nothing responded. Predictably, he could not feel the Sunwell’s power within, and it left a decidedly empty feeling in his person. Defaulting to more conventional magics, he sent a flare of arcane magic into the air, which exploded, albeit rather harmlessly, with a loud crackling. Sliding behind a nearby rocky outcropping, he heard the dark language of Eredun uttered and the heavy foot falls of felguards coming for his location. The stench of death fast proceeded their arrival as they converged on his position, though the elder knight was in no position to be found, and so he spun around the outcropping, hurling himself onto higher ground as quietly as his relatively unarmed person would allow, only to stand toe to hoof with a dread lord; Nathrezim. The malefic creature flared its wings in surprise.

The dread lord’s body was covered in a smooth violet skin, heavily muscled and contorted woefully by the fel and Sargeras’ terrible powers. Donning azure, gold and crimson armour, the creature wore a belt of skulls, some humanoid, others looking so foreign that Vynlarion could scarcely believe them to be skulls, were they not placed next to others. The creature had black fur reaching down its lower legs which joined unto scarred demonic hooves, and behind them wagged a wicked looking tail. Cropping out from the creature’s almost elf-like head were two great and terrible black horns which arced upward triumphantly. With long ears much akin to the Highborne, Vynlarion dreaded that the theory he had read once was true; these creatures were once great masters of arcane, just as his own people were. Baleful verdant eyes stared, surprised, down at Vynlarion, for even the tall knight was but to the creature’s chest. Moreover its hands were naught but three terrible claws, blackened and dark, along with one thumb-like claw on each hand. The creature began to speak flawless Thalassian upon seeing what Vynlarion was; “Blood Elf from Azeroth… Why are you here? Have you come to join the true power of the Great Dark?” Its voice was a venomous bassy tone that struck an irrational fear even in the war worn Vynlarion, however the elder knight kept his composure.

“My people were weak and discarded the generous offer your lord Kil’Jaeden bestowed upon us. I have separated myself from these cravens and seek to join unto your ranks.” Vynlarion spoke calmly, deciding that it might serve him better to use the Twisting Nether to deliver him directly to the Titans’ strongholds and find the power he needed there. He knew the Titans alone could deliver Lathinal back to him. But to find a Titan installation would be nigh impossible on his own. Nathrezim regarded him critically for a long moment, before beginning to walk around him, evidently sizing him up.

The dread lord let off a low guttural grumble of acknowledgement. “You are weak. Old. Frail. But…” The demonic lord leaned over, dragging a black claw across Vynlarion’s jawline, raising his face so that they might meet gazes. “There is potential… There is military strategy… cunning… ruthlessness. You remind me of the Eredar in their younger years… Indeed…” The dark voice of the dread lord rumbling before the elder knight before the dark fiend continues; “a test is in order… Come, elf.” With that, the massive winged creature before him turned and headed toward the edge of the floating island. “Tell me of yourself, elf. Tell me of your might that you would offer us.” Nathrezim led Blood Elf toward the precipice of destruction. The ground began to grow less stable below them, the groaning of rock below becoming more and more noticeable. However the Nathrezim seemed to pay it no heed as he ventured forward toward the edge of the floating island.

The demon’s hooves kicked up dirt as it tread slowly, however the kicked debris seemed to simply float midair and remain suspended there, as though the pebbles were stuck in time. Vynlarion, after a moment, spoke “I am Vynlarion Highcrest the sixth. I am a Knight-Lord of the Blood Knights, an organisation that once used the Light of the Naaru M’uru to gain power. We now syphon the holy Sunwell for power. Moreover I have been a knight and lord of the Knights of the Realm of Quel’Thalas for many centuries, wherein I battled the Trolls and won nigh constantly. I have also raised a mighty army in service of my family, large enough to have such a sway in military decisions of the homeland that my voice is always heard. I also –“ Vynlarion was cut off as the demon raised a clawed hand.

“Enough. You turned the Light to become your own tool? Fascinating. However unimportant. We cannot allow such powers within the Burning Legion. Our servants? Perhaps. But our true forces? Never. You will be gifted with a different power for your trial.” The Nathrezim flourishes a clawed hand to the wintry planet below. Wispy clouds moved quickly over its surface, and the outcroppings of continents etched into the snowy plains below. “This planet – a frozen rock at best – serves little good to the Burning Legion. However every planet conquered is a planet that cannot stand with the aberration.” The dread lord explains and turns toward Vynlarion.

The elf nods once in understanding, however worry begins to take hold at the back of his mind.

How far will he have to go to save Lathinal?

What depths of villainy will he sink to?

And will there be anything left of him when all is said and done?