by 5kops
In an instant of clarity, the olthari realized that no deity could resist the ability to mold Heaven to their own will. The Olthari formed a plan regarding the god-forged blade: the servants of the gods would remove Thallin-daviel from Heaven and place it safely where no deity could go. They hoped to end the war and unite Heaven long enough to drive Illenthuul out.
The plan had been simple. The Olthari were trusted everywhere. No one in Heaven, even the gods themselves, would question the Grand Inquisitors. They used their authority to travel into the Forge of Creation. It was there, in the bowels of reality, that the eldest olthari inquisitor was sacrificed on top of the Forge. The sword severed his artery and was then placed in his hand. Godsword and Olthari vanished together. With his death, the betrayal was fulfilled. The death shocked Heaven and all the gods transported to the Forge, only to realize that the Godsword had disappeared from their previously omnipotent hands forever.
Thurm dropped to his knees under the weight of the memory. Once again, he was trying to do the right thing, this time aligning himself with the betrayer in hopes of gaining his race's redemption. He would destroy everything for the chance to save his people.
This was the tenth mortal year since he had accepted Illenthuul's proposal and started his crusade. The knowledge made him cold. He had entered and destroyed another thriving metropolis of life, another failure, another dead world devoured by infernal demons. Though he could barely stomach the sight of dying mortals he shrugged it off, allowing himself no room for remorse.
I am the Harbinger of Destruction. The infamous tide satiated a hunger that he had never recognized; by destroying all of creation, he was betraying Heaven again, this time out of vengeance.
"Vengeance . . ." The word stroked Thurm's fire. It almost made the pain of being locked away from the gods bearable. Long ago he had accepted that his race would never again sit in service of the gods, but he missed not so much being in a relationship with the gods as being cut off from the divinity that was his birthright. There was no way to explain the pain other than a longing to be next to the loving embrace of all creation.
Thurm's thoughts came crashing down with finality. I will never again see my home; none of my kind will, not without a miracle! So walking through the portal and into this particular place stirred such emotion in the immortal: Thurm recognized that he was in a plane of existence that he could not be in . . . the implications were preposterous!
The olthari was standing on the Path of Fate surrounded by the turbulent white waters of each aspect of Heaven. He did not know what to think. Maybe it was the fact that he had been thinking of the tragedy, or maybe it was a hole in the fabric of reality, but whatever had happened, he was sure of it: this was the Divine Plane.
"The Forge of Creation," the olthari clarified, grasping the magnitude of the situation.
The Forge of Creation consisted of thirteen raging rivers, all flowing without regard to who or what they swept away. In between each was a triangular mass which contained each river until they all reached the epicenter, a gaping hole in the middle of this strange plane.
Why am I here? he wondered, standing on the edifice of creation. For that matter how am I here? His blood raced. Was it possible that after ten years, the God of Chaos had finally discovered that which He so frantically sought? Had Illenthuul summoned him here to reopen the Gates of Heaven?
"I must be dead," Thurm said, "or dreaming. This cannot be real."
The olthari bent down to look into the waters of creation, making sure not to touch the turbulent surface, just in case he was wrong. He did not care to be swept away into oblivion before the crusade was complete. The waters stilled and became so smooth and clear that the olthari's reflection looked back at him.
If this was indeed the Water of Creation then even looking into the pool would cause a ripple, increasing the possibilities of his future a thousandfold. No one dared look into the water for more than a moment for one's fate changed in an instant, and not always for the best.
Thurm's reflection blinked, moving with the same gestures that the real olthari used. It began to speak in a haunting voice.
Your fate beckons you, the apparition whispered. You must follow the Path of bate and once again gaze upon the Great Forge.
The olthari did his best to keep his composure. There was no other explanation to this madness. It was real! He was on the Plane of Creation, and he was being beckoned.
Thurm scrambled to his knees and peered into the water. The smooth plane once again begun to froth and flow towards the epicenter.
If Illenthuul had truly summoned him to this place . . . well, the possibilities were endless. The most significant thought in Thurm's mind was that he could sense no danger, unlike his first meeting with the Dark God. This time there was peace and serenity. This time, there was hope.
Not wishing to waste time and strain the god's good will, the olthari pushed himself up and gazed to the horizon. It was beautiful.
The sky was littered with stars, the whole universe in its chaotic splendor. This was eternity bound to time. This was time tied to multiple realities. This was reality woven through each universe. He was gazing upon true creation. Thurm was overwhelmed.
Reality meant nothing here, as power was assumed through the strength of "self and "thought."
Thurm was so deep in deliberation that he hardly noticed the great edifice which overlooked all of creation and destruction. For the second time in his eternal life he saw the massive rivers flowing, traveling, and creating as far as the eye could see. He was in the middle of it all, where each river dumped its churning waters, forming thirteen massive waterfalls which poured into a circular pit of nothingness. In the middle of it all was the Forge of Creation, his last memory of Heaven. And his birthplace.
The olthari was hesitant to teleport himself into the center. He would have to rely on a steep staircase that plunged headlong into the eternal dark. It would not hurt to take his time, reveling for a few more sweet minutes in all of creation.
He walked to the staircase and with one last wistful glimpse at the beauty then traversed the Path of Fate. Descent into the darkness only took moments, as time and reality warped, folding upon themselves to distort distance. Existence pulled at him as he passed through the chill of nothingness. Slowly, blindly, he made his way down to the Forge.
Although he heard the rumble of water converging above him, no water touched his material spirit, instead vanishing somewhere into Eternity. With an iron will, the olthari concentrated, parting the blackness and stumbling blindly into the chamber of creation.
"Have you ever wondered why there are thirteen rivers?" a mild voice asked from behind.
Thurm had been so caught up in entering the Forge he hadn't noticed that an elderly human sat cross-legged on the ground.
The gods often assumed the identity of the lesser races, thinking it was easier to relate to their creations.
"I do not recognize your form," said the olthari. "Are you a representative of the gods?"
"You could say that." The old man's colorless eyes met the olthari's. "Some would argue that I represent all of Heaven."
"Why have you brought me here?" The olthari asked.
"Good question," the man said smiling. "But you have not answered mine."
Thurm sighed. It had been long since he had dealt with the stubbornness of an angel; the gods were notoriously worse. "I have never questioned the creators, nor do I care to. Now, have you summoned me here to discuss the Plane of Creation, or is there a more formal reason for breaking Heaven's edicts?"
The old man chuckled. "So you would rush to the point of the matter." He stood, bent with age, hair disheveled. It struck the olthari as odd that a god would take on a form that was frail in comparison to his own and less magnificent. The old man only came to his waist.
"Oh, I have my reasons." The old man read Thurm's mind and stated the obvious. "If you wish me to be blunt, I think I
can help you in your search for redemption."
"The Olthari race cannot be helped, nor can I! Anyway, I serve the God of Chaos now, and your kind would never accept me."
"I have always felt the pain you have endured," the old man said. "Unfortunately, it was the only means to prepare you for what I will bring next."
"More lies from the gods," Thurm spat. "Nothing can be worse that what I already endure."
"Believe, son, things will get worse," replied the old man. "You are not the first race I have eradicated over time."
'You have eradicated?" Thurm said, fury boiling up. "I was under the impression that another . . .You are the one responsible for our banishment?" He decided that if the answer was wrong, he would kill this malevolent angel.
"I am! However, not in the way you perceive," said the old man. "I am He who gave the Olthari sentient thought. I am He who broke the will of Heaven, allowing your race to hide the Godsword. I am also the one who helped The Dark One hunt your kind down."
"Then you deserve to die, angelic scum!" The olthari screamed in rage. He grasped his giant battle-axe, only to see it turn into a fish. He charged the old man, who moved with blinding speed.
"Think, Thurm Stormrage," said the old man. "Do not let your irrational heart drive you to inconclusive decisions. I did what must be done, as you do now. The choice was beyond moral implications. It
The olthari was stunned by the use of his name, which he had not heard spoken in longer than he could remember. He tried to move, but was bound to the spot, frozen in time by the angel's might.
"Are you an angel?" Thurm whispered, as a powerful force crushed the wind from his lungs.
"Unimportant," the old man replied. "Now, if you will not hear me out, how can I offer you the chance to be reaccepted into Heaven?"
"I already have that chance," Thurm gasped, nearly losing consciousness. The pressure subsided.
The old man laughed at Thurm, stroking his hand across the Forge. "Oh, I guarantee you will find what—or rather, who—you are looking for, youngling; but there is no saving your kind by finding it. I give you my word that I will open the gates of Heaven should you listen."
"Angelic words mean nothing to me, old man! Anyway, what you offer is not in your power to give!" Thurm charged him again, only to fall flat on his face, grabbing at air.
"Isn't it?" the old man asked. "Yet you do not question the power of the Fallen One. Is it in bis power to allow your race back into Heaven?"
The statement froze Thurm in mid-stride. If Heaven knew his plans, then they were trying to stop him ... or were the gods plotting against each other? There was no point in dying for this, at least not without hearing what the old man wanted.
"Who are you?" whispered Thurm, finally feeling the oppressive power of divinity around him.
"Do not worry about who I am," said the man. "I have brought you here because it is time for you to fulfill your purpose, and free your people from bondage. Let's talk, you and I."
****
Lord Bowon Silvershield paced around the war room of Stormwind Keep, his brow creased in frustration. He had been searching for the chaotic source for ten years. Of those years, this would be the fifth since the knight had found Malacheye in his mountain home; rather, since Malacheye had found him. It was the first of many visits to the peculiar man, a blind prophet who could foresee the future.
The words of prophecy still rang in his head.
"You seek that which cannot be known," the prophet had said. "You will find that which cannot die. You will betray that which you love. In your ignorance, you will begin the downfall of the Bre'Dmorian Order."
Bowon had never questioned the guidance of God. He assumed that Starsgalt had led him to this place and assumed that the creator was ever watchful, assisting him in his holy crusade. The problem was, not finding the source was beginning to wear him down. His young heart was very tired. And it was getting worse.
Starsgalt had certainly allowed him to find the prophet and be cursed with a terrible knowledge of the future. In truth, some part of him concluded that his fate was sealed, his choices grim: He could either seek the source and destroy the Bre'Dmorians, or not seek the source and deny God.
Bowon was becoming frustrated. If his belief in God was true and his faith strong, then he could not question the choice. Yet he felt guilty over what must be done. It bothered him that the Bre'Dmorian Order had to be sacrificed. He tried to tell himself that there was no price too high when serving God.
Bowon grimaced and sat down at a circular table. Though not so fine as that of a high ranking noble, the table was made of long-grained ash and polished to a high gleam. It was only in this chamber that he could reflect upon the vision that anointed him a Champion of God.
It seemed like yesterday that he had set out from Aresleigh, beaming with pride and fanaticism. He had been given a commission from God to find a source of chaos that roamed the land. It was easy to find chaos; he found it everywhere he went. The problem was that God wanted a specific chaotic source—an unknown chaotic source that centered around miracles.
God had said only, "Seek the chaotic source" He had never indicated what might be causing such chaos or its whereabouts. It was always left to the knight to seek the unknown source, again and again, by himself.
After ten years of failure, Bowon felt little of his former faithful conviction. He tried to describe what emotion now ran through his heart; the most common was despair. He was failing God.
The knight glared at his reflection. He was only thirty-three seasons old but a perpetual frown marred his once-handsome face. His features had become became gaunt and dark bags hung under his eyes. There was little left of the young man who had burned with holy fervor, the man who had undertaken an impossible quest.
At least God still speaks to me each communion, he thought. At least He still believes that I am serving His purpose.
He did not doubt that he was serving God. But why did God forsake me? What purpose am I serving? He could not understand why God would not reveal more information.
Bowon had answered this thought a dozen ways: God was teaching him to have faith, regardless of sacrifice. If he truly loved God, then he would trust in the creator's flawless reasoning: a test of true faith.
Bowon's search had taken him through five kingdoms, countless repositories of knowledge, even into the outskirts of the Great Devoid. It had led him to abandon his ethos on several occasions. He had been forced to deal with wild creatures that he normally would have killed on sight. It wasn't until the moment that the prophet told him that he would find what he was seeking, destroy it, and bring down the whole order that doubt had entered his mind.
He always wondered what the High Lightbringer would do if he thought for a moment that the order would be undone by one of his own. Bowon could not help but wonder if the order or Lord Lightbringer would have him killed. Maybe this was the point of his quest: to weed out those not pure enough to be trusted with the divine sanctity of god.
The knight stood and paced. He told himself that it was only a matter of time before he would be presented with knowledge that would help his cause. He needed only to have patience. He had endured for so long, believing that failure was unacceptable, to give up now.
It is not my place to question, Bowon reminded himself. A prophecy is merely that: words spoken by a flawed mortal, interpreted by another; not the infallibk wisdom granted by a minion of Starsgalt. It is my duty to honor the pact I made with God. I will search my entire life, if I have to. I will destroy the usurper. I will even bring down my brothers.
He realized he was not prepared to deal with the consequence of his actions. If it came down to it, could he really sacrifice everything he stood for? Even if the cause was just, even if it was ordained by God, could he betray those to whom he had given his life in service?
I am a knight! His thoughts raged in conflict. I will do whatever God demands! But he could not shake the feeli
ng of despair. Ten years of failure. How long would God accept his blunders? How can I call myself a warrior of Him?
An abrupt knock interrupted Bowon's musings. It was not like one of the servants to come so late at night, nor was it likely his good friend, Baron Marqel Colstom.
Bowon wasn't prepared to discuss matters in his present condition; it was most likely a restless servant checking on his hunger. He was about to sit when the knock sounded again, urgent and forceful.
Intrigued at the servant's persistence, the knight did his best to push his thoughts aside. He walked to a small bronze basin and splashed water on his face, then to the wooden doors of his chamber. Slowly, he opened them.
A clean shaven young man with cropped dark brown hair, steel grey eyes, and face bright with eagerness stood before him. It was not his physical appearance that surprised Bowon though, but the fact that he was wearing a suit of scale-mail. The young man was a newly anointed Bre'Dmorian, fresh in the face, most likely graduated less than a fortnight ago. The young man's eyes burned with a holy fire.
It must have been a dire need that sent the young man out in the middle of the night, for he looked exhausted. Bowon guessed that he must have ridden hard for several days to get there. He thought something horrific might have befallen Aresleigh, or the Academy.
"Consulate Bowon Silvershield?" the younger knight asked. When Bowon nodded his head, the young knight continued. "I am Videon Ham-merfell. I have ridden several days to get here, my lord, may I enter?"
"Of course, Lord Hammerfell," Bowon replied and stepped aside, sweeping his hand in a gesture of etiquette. He seated himself behind his desk and leaned forward. He noticed that the other man looked down, refusing to meet his eyes.
"I do not mean to seem hasty, Knight Hammerfell, but it is late and I am working on several texts. How may I be of service?" Bowon decided to keep the conversation brief, taking the man's lack of eye contact as an insult.
