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The Twisting Voice (Short Story?)
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Post by
Stabhorn
Hey guys. I've recently started this short story about the War of the Shifting Sands, but I'm not sure how I'm feeling about it. Would you mind reading it over and telling me if you think it's worth pursuing? Many thanks.
___________
They wouldn’t stop screeching.
A hand raised to his head in futile effort to still the noise, Vek’lor staggered through the maze of tubes and tunnels that clustered the ruins of Ahn’Qiraj. His brain was aflame, and felt as if a thousand sharpened claws were all digging through his carapace, into his mind.
We hear him,
they sang, though they had no tongues.
We want him,
they cried, though they had no desire. Vek’lor groaned, dragging one hand down the mandibles that flanked his maw. The hive had recently come awake. Sudden, and without warning, hundreds of thousands of tiny minds had all started to flicker.
The workers and drones buzzed and hummed, scurrying in countless numbers from one chamber to the next, driven by the fervent need to survive. Reavers and wasps cried to him, demanding release. Demanding satisfaction. Beyond that, the colossi clicked and bickered amongst themselves, always
thinking
. Their scuttling nearly drove Vek’lor mad; the weight of such a psychic bond dragged him to his knees, where he bellowed at the pain of it all. The pillars holding up the temple around him quivered with his agony, sending storms of sand raining down on him.
The Silithid hive of Ahn’Qiraj lived again, emerging from dormancy after nearly a thousand years. Vek’lor panted, struggling to his feet, fueled on by only one inescapable truth. Vek’lor could hear
his
call. Vek’lor wanted him, too.
The Great One was stirring in the heart of his prison. The Ancient One, the Lord of the Black Empire. C’Thun, Old God of the Silithid. After so long, so very long, the time had come. The cycle would begin anew, and the Silithid would go to war against the rest of Azeroth. But not yet. First, Vek’lor needed to rouse the Qiraji.
After all, could one man be enough to command the ceaseless hordes of the Old God? Vek’lor was powerful, yes, but strong enough to control the psychic screams of the restless swarm? No. Vek’lor was an Emperor. One of the Twin Emperors, in fact. It was time to wake his brother.
Vek’lor strode through pulsating halls, forcing his legs forward. Around him, the hive stirred. Millions of spiders and beetles scurried around, a carpet of legs and carapace. Fist-sized bugs with glowing abdomens adorned the purple walls at regular intervals, providing yellow illumination to the subterranean cavern.
Soon though, the almost-flesh walls gave way to stone. Ahn’Qiraj had been a temple once, before the Silithid had come to it. And while most of the city had been buried or converted to the hive, the heart of the temple remained intact. It was here that the Qiraji slept still.
The chattering in the back of Vek’lor’s mind faded as his footsteps echoed down the hall, dwarfed by the distant heartbeat of the Ancient One. He was close to the master’s resting place now, the prison in which the Usurpers had chained him long, long ago. Though that ancient war had been lost into fathomless sands of history, Vek’lor remembered. Vek’lor did not forget.
Then he found them. The Qiraji, the caste of elevated Silithid, transformed into avatars of C’Thun’s vengeance. Vek’lor was the Emperor of these, along with his brother, among the first to be elevated from the mindless swarm.
Cocoons filled the hall in front of him, massive sacks of purple and orange goo, shrouded in swamps of spider-web. The pods were translucent, and as the light from the glow-bugs flashed, Vek’lor could see the forms of his brethren stirring within.
One cocoon, twice as large as any other at twelve-feet, hung suspended from the stone ceiling. A vaguely humanoid presence twisted inside its leathery confines. Vek’lor reached down to his belt and withdrew his scepter – a staff topped with a crystal orb, flanked by two black mandibles. Red lightning cracked up and down its length as Vek’lor raised it to the large cocoon. “Brother. Rise, brother. The master bids us to wake!”
A beam of light snapped from his staff, splitting the cocoon lengthways. Orange ooze spilled from the severed pod, and a massive frame tumbled out, hitting the floor and starting to cough. Vek’lor held out a clawed hand towards the figure.
Vek’nilash took it and climbed to his feet, wobbling. He was Vek’lor’s twin in almost every aspect; humanoid in appearance, he stood on two legs and had two arms. He was dressed in orange armor, and purple carapace ran up his muscled frame. His eyes were a deep, smoldering red, and horns grew from his shoulders to flank his head. Vek’nilash was leaner than Vek’lor though, more muscular. He’d always been the soldier, while Vek’lor was the sorcerer and tactician. “Brother?” Vek’nilash asked. His voice was muffled, as it spilled between the gaps in the mandibles that shielded his mouth. “I…is that…?”
“Yes,” Vek’lor said with a grin. “I feel him too. The master was awakened. The time has come to take our vengeance, at last.”
As Vek’nilash gathered his wits, Vek’lor felt the well of voices in his mind grow even smaller. The Twin Emperors would bear the screams of the host together, and control the Silithid as they had in ages past.
“We must gather our forces, then,” Vek’nilash said. Vek’lor knew his brother well; the man was already scheming, no doubt wondering how much the world had changed in their thousand-year hibernation. Vek’lor wondered the same, though he hadn’t left the underground since awakening. Vek’nilash turned toward him, eyes alight with twisted excitement. “Have you seen him yet? The Ancient One?”
Vek’lor shook his head, mirroring his twin’s disappointment. “C’Thun has yet to summon me. No doubt, he wishes us to prepare for war before he gives us our instructions. Nevertheless, this is a great time for us, my brother. We will have to wait in this accursed crypt no longer.”
The Twin Emperors set about to raising the Qiraji. Soon, the cavern was awash with the leftover ooze of incubating monsters. Vek’lor sloshed through the stuff to stand by Vek’nilash as the Qiraji marched upward through the temple, three thousand strong.
“It will be different, this time,” Vek’nilash said, his voice soft. One hand rested on the hilt of the massive broadsword at his side. “We are stronger. Braver. These new bodies match those once held by the Aqir. Azeroth will not be able to stand against us.”
Vek’lor placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Put your faith in the master, Vek’nilash. With the Ancient One’s guidance, no one will be able to stop the return of the Black Empire.” And after long, terrible millennia, the Old Gods would claim dominion once more, taking their vengeance on the Usurpers who chained them. The world would be right again.
*
It was always so strange to Fandral that the desert grew cold at night. A freezing desert. That seemed like an oxymoron. Yet he couldn’t help but shiver as a cold wind whipped past him as he stood atop a spire of stone, looking out across the empty wasteland of Silithus. A crystal-clear sky enveloped the desert, millions of stars spilling from its canvas to twinkle merrily at him. Azeroth’s two moons, the Blue Child and the Pale Lady, both drifted slowly across the sky.
Fandral frowned at the larger moon, the Pale Lady. She had another name in the tongue of his people; Elune, and the night elves worshipped her. Fandral had done the same, before finding a higher power in druidism.
His watch was not for the moon, though, so Fandral averted his gaze back toward the dusty horizon that spanned before him. In the distance, faint and indistinct, would be the ancient temple-fortress of Ahn’Qiraj. Over ten-thousand years ago, an insectoid race had dwelled there, waging war against the elves and trolls. Fandral well remembered their attempts at conquest, and the Kaldorei empire had driven them back innumerable times. But ever since the Sundering – the ancient cataclysm that had torn Azeroth’s continents in half – the Silithid had been silent.
But disturbing reports had come to Darnassus in recent weeks. Rangers reported swarms of wasps in the skies above Ahn’Qiraj, and took note of reavers guarding over new tunnels that had appeared outside the city walls. No matter what they saw or reported, one claim was always consistent; the Silithid lived again.
With all haste, Fandral had left his home – well, he’d been booted forcefully by Tyrande – and come to Silithus to either confirm or deny the rumors, and decide if the Kaldorei needed to take action against the threat.
Thus far, the desert had been…well, deserted. Fandral sighed, shaking his head. He was old, for an elf, and it showed in the creases in his pale skin. His hair was a dark green, his eyes silver like the moon above, and he stood tall at six feet, ten inches. Dressed in the ceremonial garb of his station, robes inscribed with bright leaves and antlers, he cut an imposing figure in the wasteland.
“Archdruid Staghelm?” called a voice from behind him.
Fandral turned to see a young elf step over the crest of the hill and toward him. She was young but pretty, her pale green hair done back in a braid that fell to her lower back. She wore a scout’s tabard over a plain shirt and pants. The tattoos around her eyes shone in the light of a nearby torch, making her look lovely as a shadow.
“Leyara,” he said with a warm smile. “I told you, titles are not necessary. You’ve married my son, after all. I believe that warrants some familiarity.”
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