"The Abyssals" - Part 3 (*/fm, m/f)

Author's Note: A bit more fun in this story, and it'll be increasing from this point on. And you can see I've detracted a bit from the usual Lore and started added my own things. Bah, I hope they come across as believable. Oh yes, now that every character in the story has finally been introduced... can you guess which one is the one I play in WoW?



The Abyssals – Part 3



Anath'eia paused for a moment and looked back. Though the sun was begin to creep up over the horizon, the winding streets of Darnassus were already beginning to fill up with people. Fa'llien was not too far behind, though the many sacks and bags he was attempting to hold all at once were weighing him down. Anath'eia sighed and turned to face him.

“You know,” she spoke up. “Just because I am a priestess doesn't mean that I cannot help you share the burden, Fa'llien.”

The druid looked up with a grin, dots of sweat already forming on his forehead. “Nonsense, my dear. I'm 900 years young! A few supplies won't wear me down! Ergh...” He grunted as he hefted a slipping bag back up.

Anath'eia turned around once more to hide the roll of her eyes before she continued forward.


Winterstrike dropped to a knee and reached under her bed to retrieve the sack she packed the previous night. I don't care what Coruon said, I'm going with Anath'eia. Anything beats patrol duty, and what if everything she said was true?

She took a moment to adjust her leather breastplate in the tall mirror before quickly stepping out of her small home.

And smacking straight into Coruon.

Time froze while the two stared at each other. Winterstrike's mind raced with every possible excuse she could have made for appearing out of her home in her armor, with supplies, several days ahead of her scheduled departure with several other Sentinels.

Nothing would have fooled the man. She hesitated long enough as it was. She shoved the sack at Coruon before sprinting the opposite direction.

Coruon stumbled back from the impact of the object, but he recovered quickly and situated himself in a spellcaster's stance; knee's bent, body turned slightly, with one fist at his hip and an open palm faced out towards his target. A green aura grew around that outstretched hand.

As Winterstrike rushed past one of the many glowing flowers which served to light the roads, it shivered and suddenly stretched out for her. The flexible stem quickly wrapped itself around the nearest ankle.

One moment, the Nightwatcher was running at full-speed. The next, she was falling face-first towards the ground. And then... darkness.


“This is where we're going?” asked a rather excited Succubus. “To a town belonging to your enemies? Ooh ooh, we're going to kill all of them, aren't we?”

The Horde pair were peeking over the crest of a small hill towards the sea-bordering town below them. Khazdumarr looked over to Aelneth.

“No. At least not today, that is. We would be in trouble if we tried to burn the place to the ground. Look.” The Warlock gestured to a few points, and Aelneth focused her eyes.

Though the town was small, the port was rather large, and several decently-sized ships were currently docked. Guards, fully armored in steel platemail, were standing in key points to oversee the people to watch for troublemakers.

Khazdumarr continued. “While I'm sure we could make them wish they were never born, there's too many well-armed guards to survive such a crude tactic. Instead, we're going to make a distraction and commandeer a vessel.”

Aelneth raised a brow before responding, “How do you plan we do that? And where are we going to get a crew?”

Khazdumarr scooted back below the hill before standing up, brushing her palms off. “Leave both to me. You just watch my back when we go for the ship.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head, arms stretched out to her sides. Her hands began shuffling through a complex assortment positions. The low murmer of a chant escaped her lips, but she kept it low. With several flashes of light, dozens of red rune-filled circles began appearing around the Warlock.


Tom set down another crate with a huff before wiping an arm over his sweat-soaked face. “I'm dying from the sun already. I feel sorry for you, sir,” he said to a nearby guardsman, smiling sympathetically. The guard nodded in return from under his full helm.

A warbled shriek emitted to the north.

The guard turned quickly, wasting no time to unsheathe his longsword. “What was that?!” he exclaimed. Several other townsfolk were looking up as well. There was another shriek, then another, before the creature jumped over the hill and into sight. No, make that several creatures, with more appearing every second.

Dozens and dozens of small, greenish imps.

And they were charging straight for the town.


“Go!” breathed Khazdumarr, and both she and Aelneth rushed down the hill. Imps, while not considered to be a threat, were certainly doing their job well. The fiendish creatures were jumping all over the rooftops and tipping over carts.

The Warlock and the succubus veered off to stay near the sides of town, as the tiny demons were sure to be pulling all the attention from the outlying guards. However they wouldn't last long. All it took was one solid whack from a weapon to bring them down, and already several laid twitching in the town square.

As the pair reached the last building before the docks, they stopped and peeked around it. The few sailors that had not been caught in the chaos had huddled to the far sides of the docks, as well as several guards who were determined to keep them safe from the apparent threats.

“Looks like it didn't divert all of them,” whispered Aelneth. She looked over to Khazdumarr and finally noticed her labored breathing. While summoning one Imp was considered child's play to a skilled Warlock, summoning around fifty of them at once nearly drained the woman.

“Then I need to... encourage them by... changing the... distraction,” she breathily responded. Placing two fingers against her forehead, she sent a silent signal to the summoned demons.

The screams and shouts Aelneth heard suddenly turned to laughter. Even though she had an idea what was happening, she crept around to the other side of the small silo and looked into town.

The Imps had changed their patterns. Instead of jumping randomly around town, they instead jumped onto the townsfolk and latched onto them before wiggling their little claws into any spot they could reach. Men and women rolled around on the ground, slapping at the creatures.

One woman had lost a sandal from running, and two imps were happily taking advantage of it. One was sitting on her ankle, hugging it tightly with his legs, while his hands gripped her biggest and smallest toes to keep her foot still. The other scribbled his claws in a frenzy over her sole, digging them into the ball of her foot before raking the tips down her arches to her rosy heels, sending her into new levels of hysteria.

Another imp found a loose spot in the side of one of the guard's suits of armor. It was burrowed halfway in, and whatever it was doing inside had left the guard pounding his fists helplessly against the side of a house.

Aelneth looked back at Khazdumarr. “While funny, I don't see how this will help us.”

“Listen,” she merely responded.

Aelneth lifted an ear to the air. In the previous chaos, there was pandemonium and screaming, but now amongst the screams there were cries for help and mercy. Like the loyal men they were, the guards at the docks rushed into town to help their comrades and the rest of the people.

The Warlock grinned at her. “Cmon,” she urged, and with that they sprinted towards the nearest passenger ship. At the sight of the undead and a new demon, the people on the docks screamed, but their cries were drowned out by the rest of the chaos in town. They scrambled up the gangplank, and Khazdumarr shouted, “Lift the anchor!”

“What about the crew?!” retorted the Succubus, but the Warlock ignored her. Instead, she focused her attention the sailors and townsfolk that were nearby on the docks. A fist dropped to her hip, while she faced her palm out towards them. Black tendrils appeared about her outstretched hand, and all at once they shot out towards the unsuspecting people. One tendril for each person, impaling them right in the forehead.

They stiffened as the shadowy appendage impaled them, faces frozen in a mixture of fear and pain, when suddenly they began to melt. Not completely, but their skin and innards became like wax near a flame, dripping off of them into a bloody pile at their feet, leaving nothing but a standing skeleton.

The Warlock yanked her hand back, the tendrils returning to her, and she collapsed to all fours, gasping for breath. Khazdumarr could barely focus her eyes, but she did it.

They now had a crew.

Slowly, each of the skeletons began to move forward towards the awaiting gangplank. No words were spoken. No orders given. The thralls obediently moved into positions throughout the ship.

With a flutter, the sails dropped, and with the anchor already lifted, the wind was caught and the ship began to inch away from the docks.

“Halt!” shouted a gruff voice. Khazdumarr was sure that the people in town would have spotted the boat moving and attempt to stop it, but this voice was too close to be someone that distance away. Weakly, she lifted her head up, and stared into the point of a blade pointed down at her. One of the guards must have spotted the skeletons and hurried onto the boat before they could pull away.

“Dismiss your vile creations, or I will cut you down and force them gone,” he demanded, his piercing blue eyes glaring through the T-shaped slit in the helmet. Khazdumarr only smiled at him. The only saving grace about Humans were their habit of giving their enemies an option rather than slaying them immediately.

Unfortunately, it also served as a glaring weakness.

Though the skeleton crew were far too simple-minded to even notice the danger, Aelnet had already circled around behind the interloper while he talked. A fluid as the rivers themselves, she stepped in and slipped one hand up under the space below the guard's helm, pressing her razor nails delicately against his windpipe. Her other hand gripped onto the man's sword hand, and a hoof pressed firmly on the toe of one of his boots to keep him from making any quick movements away.

“Mmm...” she purred, rubbing her cheek sensuously against the side of his helm. “The only thing hotter than me is a man in armor. Is your other sword just as long, mortal?”

The Warlock rolled her eye. While now didn't seem like the time, the Succubi were able to empower their words to reach even the most steadfast warrior; a horny man couldn't think straight since their blood was going someplace else rather than their brain. He stiffened, in more way than one, despite the danger at hand.

“Aelneth,” said Khazdumarr, finally regaining some of her breath. “We won't reach our destination for a few days. Take the man below and entertain yourself. Or have a meal.”

She grinned and added, “Or both.”


Anath'eia had heard stories about the grandiose Human city of Stormwind, but it far exceeded her idea of that word. Large granite statues of lions, with mouths that could have swallowed her whole, flanked the walls of the port of the capital city. It was not until she was past the walls did she realize that the statues were just to disguise the immense cannons hidden behind them. Just a single one could have sunk even the largest of ships.

Once docked, the two Night Elves were forced to push their way through the thick crowds. While Darnassus could get busy on certain days, Stormwind was packed to the point that they were being squished from every direction.

Eventually they were able to make it to the fortified Keep were the ruler would inevitably be. Their only obstacle left was “proper procedure.”

The two guards flanking the entrance into the Keep crossed their halberds in front of them, barring the entrance. “State your business,” the one on the right spoke up.

“Allow me, child,” Fa'llien quietly told Anath'eia before taking a step closer to the guards. “I am Fa'llien, High Druid of the Talon, and I have come to speak with King Varian. We request an audience with the King to discuss an urgent matter.”

The guards glanced at each other momentarily, then straightened their weapons. “Proceed.”

The Druid proceeded in and guided the Priestess behind him down the large hall. Constructed with an off-white stone, a bright red rug was laid before them to guide the path. Large tapestries covered nearly every inch of the walls, depicting every major encounter in Azeroth. Anath'eia noted that in all of them there were only Humans; even at the battles in her own land.

The hall opened up into a large, octagonal room with several other rooms connected to the sides and rear. Ten guards, all clad in highly-polished platemail, equally lined the walls of the room. In the center, seated in a throne upon a raised dais, was King Varian Wyrnn.

While most rulers tended to focus more on politics and savored the delights their nobility brought, King Varian continued to look like the large and powerful warrior who could win any fight. He had been speaking with a young female advisor to his right, but the sight of the Elves caught his full attention.

“Fa'llien. It has been some time. You look well for a man nearing a millenium,” boomed Varian. The chamber seemed to magnify his already loud, authoritative voice.

“Your majesty,” Fa'llien responded, dropping to a bow on one knee. Anath'eia followed in suit before Fa'llien looked up and continued. “I come with urgent news...”


Fa'llien explained everything. The tome of the Highborne, the Abyssals, the general location of the artifact, and ended it on a request for a small group of men to accompany them. King Varian leaned on one his armrests, rubbing the stubble on his chin in thought. Finally, he sat up.

“No.”

The Night Elves rocked back on their heels. “M-M'lord?” stuttered Fa'llien.

“I need my men here, training and ready to wipe the Orc scum from these lands when they inevitably make their move,” said King Varian, hate dripping in his voice. “We Humans have tried to help everyone in the past, and what did it bring us? Fire. Destruction. Death. I will not order my men to accompany you. However, I can assure that as this artifact is within our borders, no army can march for it without first passing through us.”

“But, Sir-!” Fa'llien began, but Anath'eia laid a hand on his shoulder, shaking her head once. She saw that they weren't going to get anywhere. The King was denying their request not because of what the threat was, but because of who was making the request.

“Thank you for your time, your majesty,” spoke Anath'eia, cutting off any further attempts for Fa'llien to keep talking and annoy the King further. However, as they turned, a young, male voice suddenly chimed up from the side.

“I will go with them.”

Anath'eia turned back to the King, noting his eyes were focused to the side, and she followed his gaze towards the guard who had spoken up. He took a large, confident step forward. “You said that you would not order your men to accompany them, but you did not say we couldn't volunteer.”

For a long moment, nobody moved. It was King Varian whom broke the silence, but not in the way they expected. He tilted his head back and let out a boisterous laugh. Everyone, even the guards, relaxed.

“Well spoken, Zullen,” said King Varian once he settled to an amused smile. “You may go. I will grant you three access to our Gryphons for travel.”

Anath'eia couldn't hide her shocked expression before she understood; King Varian Wrynn wasn't necesarilly a bad ruler, but there was something keeping him from opening up to the other races. Perhaps a traumatic event in the past.

No time to dwell on it at the moment, however. The volunteered guard came over to the Night Elves and brought a fist to his breastplate over his heart. “Mathias Zullen, at your service.”


Winterstrike lifted her head up quickly. It took her a few moments to remember everything that happened before she hit the ground, and subsequently get knocked out. She slowly peered about at her surroundings which, though she had never seen them in person, were familiar due to stories told by fellow Nightwatchers and Sentinels.

It was a narrow cell, lit only by two torches placed in braziers on either side of her. One of several cells underneath the garrison in the city. Though the walls were solid, there was a small slot in the door behind her for wardens to watch the prisoners. Then again, escape was impossible for her due to her position.

There were two wooden poles that stretched across the room, one over the over, with the highest one about four feet off the ground. She was bent over the top pole, and her wrists and ankles were tied together with soft cord beneath the lower pole, forcing her rear into the air. While not uncomfortable due to training, she knew she would cramp up after awhile. What she hated most, though, was the fact that she was completely nude.

They called it “Ishura lo Ma'nar,” or “Humility of Those Who Serve.” For soldiers who disobeyed orders or became arrogant to a comrade, they were placed in a cell in an extreme bowing position, helpless as they were reprimanded, and even beaten in extreme cases to break their will before they listened to their mistakes. The lack of clothing was symbolic in the sense that there was now nothing for them to hide behind against the claims of their errors.

Her movement must have clued in someone watching as less than a minute passed before the door was unlocked and someone entered. In her bent-over position, Winterstrike's own legs blocked her vision of the door.

“Sil'neesa,” said Coruon, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

Winterstrike felt the hair on the back of her neck stand. Nightwatchers were never called by their original name once they became one, and even after they were killed. She didn't respond.

The door creaked shut before the druid's footsteps brought him directly behind her. “Why will you never listen to your superiors?”

“Oh I listen to my superiors. I just don't consider you to be one,” Winterstrike shot back.

She was rewarded with a brief grunt of frustration from the man, but he controlled himself and continued, “We have a hierarchy for a reason: order. Those higher up know what is best. Those lower down, well, they only see what's ahead of them. If we let you run around doing whatever you wished, there would be chaos, and our race would have died out long ago.”

Winterstrike wasn't phased. “Tyrande has broken the 'order of things' many times, and in doing so she saved our race several times.”

“That was a time of war! This is a time of peace!” shouted Coruon, his fists shaking in rage. However, as his eyes drifted down to her bare skin, he swallowed his rage and instead reached for one of his bracers. “I see that I will have to force your eyes open before you can see the error of your ways.”

Winterstrike grit his teeth together, waiting for the blow of a cane, but it never happened. Instead of a powerful blame, a very light touch traced a tiny circle at the very tip of her crack. The dam broke almost instantly.

“Neeeeheeeeheaaahaahahaa!! G-Geheheeehet thaahahaat ohohoff!” squealed Winterstrike in a very non-soldierlike manner.

Coruon smirked as he teased her skin with one of the feathers from his bracer. He had not forgotten how explosively she reacted when he had accidentally touched her with one several days back. Now, with the knowledge, he would break her faster than any beating could.

“Come now,” he teased. “You wrestle Orcs. Can't you stand a delicate feather?” He traced it down along the side of her rear to tease the underside of her tight ass.

Winterstrike shook her head frantically, white hair whipping about just above the floor. Bent over the pole, she couldn't wiggle in any direction to try and defend herself. “Ahahahaaha'm gohohoeheheing toohooo keheheel yoooohohooouu haaaahahaaa!”

For once, Coruon did not speak, but rather twirled the feather up the whole length of her exposed crack. Her whole body quivered as a hysterical scream burst force. The wooden poles creaked at her attempts to jump or curl up.

As the feather swept down the other side of her rear to begin the tickly journey anew, a realization flashed through her mind: “Ishura lo Ma'nar” did not end until the one overseeing it felt that the condemned had learned their lesson. She could be down here for days or weeks without Coruon breaking any laws.

Her fear was swept away once the feather slid up her crack again, sending forth a fresh scream of laughter which echoed down the hall...

(To be continued)

good!