Elune's divine spell only suppressed the Nightmare corruption for a moment; it couldn't purge it completely, which only proves how tenacious the Nightmare really is.
The two Green Dragons reverted to Night Elf shape, curling up, twitching now and then, eyes squeezed shut, pain flickering across their brows.
You can still summon Elune?
Arthas was openly surprised, as if seeing the warrior woman—who usually blushed at the slightest tease—for the first time.
Maiev rolled her eyes in exasperation, white teeth nipping her lip.
I used to be a Priestess of Elune; the Warden Force are all Moon-Goddess worshippers. Between hunting demons and training, we pray to Elune. Who told you every Priestess has to dress like Tyrande in white robes?
White robes aren't the point—it's just a preference, the same way a nurse has her uniform and a doctor has a coat.
All right, forget the details. What now? The Nightmare's been suppressed, but they could wake up any moment and become its claws again. My vote: kill them cleanly, then ask the local Wild God for leads.
Arthas never advocated mercy for enemies; unless they were someone he cared about, he simply drew his blade—no redemption required.
Maiev produced two chains laced with Arcane auras that could dampen any energy. Binding Emeriss and Ysondre, she let the restless black mist coil within them, held fast by the fetters.
Arthas tried a Holy Light Spell on them to see the effect.
A shaft of Light descended; the Nightmare mist shrieked mindlessly and thinned a little. Decent, though against the whole volume it was merely a drop.
Better than nothing—it proved Holy Light could work, so the 'Light is useless' theory wasn't absolute.
A Paladin who finds the Light nauseating and hypocritical—quite the oddity. Anyone could tell he barely believed in it.
Ysondre's eyes fluttered open, vacant and dazed, like someone waking after centuries of sleep.
Judging by her name, most would picture a man; women rarely choose names ending in 'dre'. Names ending in '-sia' or '-na' sound far more feminine.
Where… am I?
In hell. For your atrocities, slaughter of the innocent, and cruelty to living creatures, you're sentenced to life imprisonment.
Maiev pinched the soft flesh of Arthas's waist in playful reproach. Sweetness surged in her heart—perhaps this lively, mischievous side was his true self, more lovable than any solemn mask.
Adventuring beside Arthas was a rare privilege for any woman who adored him. Maybe even his wives hadn't had that chance; should she leave the Warden Force to Cordana?
Then she'd have all the time in the world to stay by his side. Compared with power, companionship was the greatest confession. Affection deepened with time.
She shook her head. What nonsense was she thinking? She hadn't even settled her sisters in the Wardens; she couldn't be selfish.
Ysondre blinked, the air of a mature elder sister rolling off her—not the 'Big-Footed Fake-Goods' Sister Rain.
You're Lord Arthas, aren't you? Pleased to meet you. Maiev, we meet again—looks like you saved us.
Arthas was used to being recognized. He might not remember them, but the title 'ancient hero who saved the world' was a lifelong VIP pass among long-lived races.
Sorry, but I purified your other two companions. You're not planning to avenge them, are you?
Ysondre smiled, stood, and unreservedly displayed her full figure. Sweeping back violet hair, she twisted it into an elegant bun.
Of course not. Once Nightmare claimed us, we became traitors to the Green Dragonflight. My lucid moments are brief; when I sink into sleep, I hope you'll use Holy Light to burn away some Nightmare so I can stay awake.
Dragons are no monolith—rivalry, hatred, even blood-feuds exist. Among humans, schemes over profit can just as easily end in murder.
Maiev merely nodded, standing behind Arthas in silent allegiance.
I'm here to assist, my lord. You're in charge; I'll obey.
Arthas turned and murmured a test.
Even in the bridal chamber tonight?
Maiev shot him a fierce glare—was now the time for jokes?
Sooner or later I'm yours. What's the rush?
It was tacit consent; she felt no shame. After talking with Tyrande, Maiev accepted her fate—partly her own wish, partly Tyrande's plea, partly a long-held desire.
Ysondre covered a chuckle; she'd naturally overheard. Her jade eyes studied Arthas again as she offered a palm etched with green runes—once the sort warriors wouldn't touch.
Good women don't bear runes; those who do are no better than tramps. Fun for a fling, but bring one home and you'll be wearing a two-meter green hat.
Thank you, in any case. I know the way to Moonglade and can guide you. I'd be honored to fight beside you, Lord Arthas.
They clasped hands, sealing their alliance.
A native guide who knows every path beats wandering blindly through the Emerald Dream; its wilds hold extreme peril.
He casually shot Emeriss with a Holy Light Spell; soon her lashes trembled and she woke.
Unlike the outgoing Ysondre, Emeriss was introverted, wordless, bowing her thanks to Arthas.
Emeriss has always been quiet and avoids conversation—please don't mind. Follow me; we must pass Razorfen Downs. Lately the Wild God Agamaggan has been frenzied; provoke him and Green Dragons and druids alike will be attacked.
Nightmare spreads fast—creatures of the Emerald Dream are affected, and the spirits of Wild Gods grow savage. My findings point to the Nightmare's origin deep within the Dream: the Elyndar Rift, where even Queen Ysera fears to tread.
Ysondre produced a magic carpet and invited the others aboard. While steering it, she recounted recent events.
She was the mightiest of the four Green Dragons tainted by the Nightmare and one of Ysera's lieutenants. To serve as a lieutenant required more than strength—wisdom, loyalty, and capability were all essential. Mere fighting prowess would earn only a bodyguard's post, not command of an army or the right to undertake solo missions.
Half a day later, Arthas met another old friend.
The boar demigod Agamaggan!
During the War of the Ancients, Agamaggan rampaged across the battlefield, trampling and goring countless demons. Answering the Night Elves' call, most Wild Gods perished outside Sindorei. The boar demigod was no exception—Archimonde had blasted him away.
Though gravely wounded, Agamaggan kept fighting the demons that kept pouring out to distract the Anti-Mage Alliance, and finally died in Razor Hill. His corpse became a vast thorn hill that became the Worgen homeland.
The Worgen are, by the way, a sentient race with strong reproductive power. Their intelligence is low; most live like savage beasts. Only a few sages become shamans or witch doctors. They have kept trying to resurrect Agamaggan while spurning Night Elf help, and every attempt has failed.
Vashj once remarked that Worgen dislike bathing, preferring mud baths and wallowing in dirt. A coat of earthen armor always clings to them, and the stench is unbearable—so foul that even nature-loving druids retch and suffer diarrhea.
Sixty meters of towering bulk, every inch covered in backward-curving thorns, eyes a blazing red. It stared at the group, blocking both advance and retreat.
"Lord Agamaggan, I am Ysondre, lieutenant of Queen Ysera. This is Lord Arthas, consort of Queen Azshara, once known as Ximen Chuixue. Permit us passage; we seek the source of the Emerald Nightmare and mean to end the crisis."
There was no reply; instead, the surrounding thorns erupted in wild growth, sealing every route of escape.
A single thorn reaching thirty meters into the air would be trivial, but hundreds upon thousands of barbed vines formed a lethal maze.
"Liar!"
Agamaggan's voice droned; after a long pause he spoke the word in ancient Kaldorei.
Ysondre was bewildered—was he calling her the liar?
Before she could speak, a hand covered her mouth. She turned to find the demigod himself—an overreach, and he even pinched her cheek. Too far!
"Agamaggan, your descendants are trying to bring you back. Let's deal: help me, and afterward I'll visit your people and aid their resurrection. How about it?"
Arthas stepped forward; if Ysera's lieutenant lacked clout, surely he himself carried enough.
Azshara had dueled every Wild God and beaten them all; otherwise she could never have secured the Kaldorei Empire throne. Using them to assert dominance left relations rather sour.
The woman fought without restraint; it was never a mere duel, and no Wild God liked to speak of Azshara—impressions were poor indeed.
Still no answer. Agamaggan fixed Arthas with blood-red eyes. Seconds crawled past; the deadly tension made Maiev ready her circular saw-blade, poised to strike at the first sign.
By now she felt defeated: she had come to help, yet offered nothing useful. Beyond using Elune's power to suppress the Green Dragons' Nightmare, she had been reduced to massaging calves and shoulders.
Was this a Warden's duty? How did it differ from a handmaiden's?
She shot Arthas a sidelong glance—if serving as handmaiden, the choice of master mattered; for him, it might not be so bad.
Double standards?
Double standards are fine—every man for himself, or heaven and earth will conspire against you.
"Agreed—but I will test your strength."
Agamaggan rumbled.
Arthas bristled: he had toiled in the Emerald Dream to purge the Nightmare for the sake of the azeroth world-soul, and this Wild God—existing only on the stray energy of that same world soul—dared obstruct him? Had his new strength been gained for nothing?
"Fine. Then I'll thrash you soundly and teach you what it means to serve Azeroth!"
The words had barely left his mouth when he mounted a black dragon that appeared from nowhere and charged.
"Wait—I didn't mean single combat! Ow! That hurts! Stop!"
Agamaggan took a punch; his titanic boar frame lurched, showers of earth crumbling away. Rocks along his body cracked, and as the fists kept landing on his snout the fractures spread like a spider's web.
The strikes looked ordinary, yet every blow was a critical hit. However thick his hide, he could not endure such a relentless chain-punch. So fast—was this Wing Chun?
"Oink—I'm getting angry! Ouch—you're dead!"
Agamaggan squealed in pain; his mountain-sized body seemed paralyzed, taking the beating without retaliating. Whenever he tried, a mysterious force dazed him, leaving him helpless.
Arthas was astonished: the boar not only absorbed the blows but reflected part of their force through the laws of nature. The harder Arthas hit, the more damage rebounded.
The reflected damage was peculiar; even his aura of concentration could not reduce it—damn it all!
Were it not for his rapid life-steal, he would have been killed by his own assault.
This Wild God had tricks—was it the thorns entwining his body?
After pummeling him for a full dry-minute, Agamaggan felt utterly wronged. He hoped the reflection would kill Arthas, yet the man grew only more enthusiastic. How could he still live when even Agamaggan could barely endure?
Had he known that Arthas' life pool contained not a single point of his own life—every drop stolen through attacks—the boar would have surrendered long ago and spared himself the agony.
"I yield—ow, it hurts! I surrender—stop, no more!"
Under the gaze of Ysondre, Emeriss, and Maiev, Agamaggan shamefully capitulated. Humiliating—but if he held out any longer he truly would be beaten to death.
To perish again within the Emerald Dream would mean eternal death, with no chance of resurrection, even for a demigod.
Half a day later, Maiev was still turning skewers over the fire while a pot of rich Dream-thread fish soup bubbled above the flames.
Beside her, the boar Wild God Agamaggan had regained his senses; his eyes had shifted from blood-red back to normal. Arthas sat opposite him, talking, and every so often a porcine squeal erupted—apparently the price was too high and needed to be lowered.
Maiev could barely stifle her laughter; she hadn't expected such a farce. Yet on second thought it made sense: the Nightmare had already seeped from the Emerald Dream into the world. Word was that the World-Tree itself had withered, exuding an aura of decay—proof their home might soon die.
Out in the world, creatures driven mad by the Nightmare were appearing; inside the Dream, the Nightmare would only grow stronger, never weaker.
Whatever bargain man and boar struck, Agamaggan looked irked as he handed over a unique bramble suffused with his own aura.
"When you meet my descendants, show them this thorn and feed it a trickle of Anima; I'll appear for a moment and order them to cooperate."
"Anima? That'll cost extra. Come on, old pig, that's not fair—you know how precious Anima is. I'm helping you and you want to bleed me dry? Not happening."
Arthas shook his head like a rattle-drum; friendship was friendship, but business was business—no one works at a loss.
Had Agamaggan possessed a beard instead of a snout, he'd have been blowing it in fury.
"Once I'm resurrected, mounts, ore, herbs—take whatever you want. I'll even fight for you. We're both demigods—stop haggling over every copper!"
"Tsk, only because I'm soft-hearted; anyone else would refuse. Fine, it's a deal—but first we settle the Nightmare here. If you go mad again, resurrecting you would be pointless; we'd have to put you down a second time. All that effort for nothing?"
Arthas never took a loss; among the many Wild Gods, Agamaggan was hardly rich, yet his larder was deep. The Worgen had settled in Razorfen Ridge and the Razorfen Downs, where unique marsh plants and aquatic goods grew—things only Worgen could harvest and cultivate. Yes, Worgen cultivated wild plants; quite the curiosity.
Agamaggan needed a favor, and since he couldn't win a fight, he had no choice but to accept the blade to his throat.
"Moonglade is also tainted; the druids can barely keep themselves from slipping into the Nightmare, so don't expect much help from them. But I know where the Elyndar Rift lies—the very source of the Nightmare. Care to take a look?"
The Elyndar Rift: a place the Emerald Dream could not ignore. Since ancient times it had served as a cesspool; something had once been there, and after it was removed the abandoned land grew eerie and spawned the Nightmare that should never have been.
In other words, the Rift existed long before Xavius arrived; that boot-licker merely picked up another's scraps. The so-called Nightmare King was nothing more than a spokesman—when the tiger's away, the monkey proclaims himself king.
Arthas nodded; the druids must already be at their wits' end, or such a lapse would never have slipped by. Still, visiting Moonglade was not about seeking aid—it was about making a name.
He had been an ancient hero, but that was long ago; young druids might not know him. Saving them once would earn their gratitude—not to convert them, just enough goodwill to coax them to Lordaeron to help rebuild.
Lordaeron's nobles had been swept away; those who remained were his own. Uther, Mograine, Dathrohan—the first generation of paladins—and Fording, lords without lands, entitled only to dividends.
Without fiefs there could be no state within a state; only one voice counted—Emperor Arthas.
He had labored to bring druids and dryads to cleanse and restore the land, not for leech-like nobles. Anyone who tried to fleece him would be sent straight to the mines—nothing cured greed faster than a pickaxe.
"Still, we'll visit Moonglade, see the situation, and offer what help we can."
Reputation-grinding needn't be spoken aloud; it could be done, but saying it cheapened the act.
"Whatever you say, you're the boss."
Maiev shrugged. Without noticing, she had become almost girlish. In the past, leading demon-hunts, every decision had fallen to her; oversights had sometimes led her into ambush and costly losses that weighed on her conscience.
Now, unburdened, she enjoyed a man's protection she had never known. Having someone to shield her from wind and rain felt wonderful.
With Agamaggan standing guard, the night passed in deep, sweet sleep—perfect except that Maiev still wouldn't let him taste her, which would have made it heaven.
The next day the party spurned magic carpets and instead rode upon the boar Wild God's back, experiencing what true beast-speed meant.
Agamaggan barreled straight through hillocks and floating, twisted trees, sending everything flying. Behind him lay a shattered trail; add a little necromancy or Fel Energy and it would be a textbook Burning Legion invasion.
Savage, yes—but the boar was undeniably fast, skimming over marshland as if it were paved road.
Arthas found it odd; a body so huge should sink knee-deep in muck, yet it never did.
Perhaps it was a porcine gift, the ability to tread soft mud like stone. Once he might have bothered to learn, but now that he could fly, swamps no longer mattered.
Besides travel, Arthas worked with Agamaggan on a condition of resurrection: learning the Way of Nature. Strange as it sounded to study nature from a boar, Agamaggan was a genuine Wild God—more than qualified to teach.
"Ding—Thorns Aura learned."
Thorns Aura: reflects fifty percent of melee damage back to attackers.
"After the second breakthrough, Thorns Aura will evolve and fuse with other auras."
At last the final aura was his; he had meant to learn it from Cenarius, yet a whim to try with Agamaggan had paid off.
He had first tasted the boar's thorns in battle, nearly dying from the reflected pain; learning to turn the same trick had been irresistible.
Taking a beating was bad enough, but if you could make your bully suffer too—well, that was its own sweet revenge.
Moonglade.
With Agamaggan leading the way, the treant guards on the perimeter quickly shuffled aside so they wouldn't get sent flying later.
Emeriss and Ysondre stepped forward to explain, leading Maiev and Arthas into a valley ringed by green trees, its streams crossed by simple wooden bridges and linked by bluestone paths in a neat grid.
A few curls of cooking smoke and it could have been the Four Winds Valley of Pandaria—except this was Moonglade.
A Night Elf man crowned with huge antlers walked up, his gaze on Arthas a tangle of anger, admiration, and a trace of sullen resentment.
Being stared at like that by a male Night Elf gave him goose-bumps; the guy wasn't… into guys, was he?
"Uh, Malfurion, if you've got something to say, just say it. Don't look at me like that—I'm not into male mates, thanks."
"Pfft—haha!"
Maiev was first to crack, unable to hold it in. Fighting back laughter, she explained for her man.
"Neither he nor Illidan like you. They both love Tyrande, but Tyrande bore you a child and keeps saying she's your mate and that nothing will change with time. Seeing his rival in front of him and not throwing the first punch is already polite."
Fine—stealing someone's beloved is ugly, leaves a bad taste, and trashes your morals.
With that pointed out, Malfurion couldn't really explode; the Kaldorei prize freedom and assume no one would ever be forced.
"Hello, Arthas. What brings you here?"
The atmosphere was obviously strained, so Ysondre spoke first.
"We were devoured by Nightmare and lost our minds. Maiev and Lord Arthas helped us suppress it; we're only barely lucid and can't fight."
"The Emerald Dream is being eaten away by Nightmare—badly. We need to fix this, Malfurion. I want your full cooperation—for Azeroth!"
When it was framed that loftily, what else could anyone do?
The truth was Malfurion had never planned to make trouble; sometimes love means wishing the other person joy and freedom, not possession.
"I know. I mean no harm. I'm just… amazed. If Arthas has returned, could Lord Cenarius return as well?"
"He can—but the time isn't ripe. Welcome, Arthas."
A resonant voice rang out as the half-stag Cenarius stepped from the trees. This was his spirit-form; after death Wild Gods come to the Emerald Dream—if not, they've gone to the Shadowlands.
Arthas set his right hand to his chest and bowed slightly, a confident smile lighting his handsome face and making the dryads' hearts flutter.
"Hello again, Cenarius. Enough small talk—we're here on business. Let's crush the Nightmare first; we can chat afterward."
"Ha! Well said—true to Azshara's mate, that brisk style is hard not to like."
Cenarius gestured in invitation and led the way; this was no place for talk.
Ahead, a vine-wrapped cliff face bore a plant-arch doorway hollowed out inside. Tough walls were laced with vines, and weathered plank flooring ran all the way in.
Every corner had just enough aged boards to keep dampness out, and walking produced a crisp clip-clop.
A shaft of moonlight spilled through the dome onto a huge central stump. Wood-sprite children hopped about, setting out wooden cups and freshly picked fruit—clusters of dream-grapes, melons, hami, apples—while two brown bears gnawed on a round honeycomb; all a bit too magical.
"You must be Arthas. Honored to have you. I am Malfurion, emissary of kind Elune—please sit."
A white stag stepped forward, purely animal, not a trace of human shape. True Wild Gods prefer their original forms. A few, blessed with Elune's divinity, take Night Elf shape while keeping animal traits—Cenarius is one; Aviana, queen of birds, another, though she looks fully human save for wings on hands and tail, dressed rather daringly.
Maiev tried to follow but was blocked by dryads.
"Sorry, Maiev, but this is a gathering of demigods; you may not enter."
The dryads were gentle: not unqualified, just "unable for now."
True to their peace-loving nature—violence only if roused.
Maiev couldn't argue; it felt like adults at play, kids told to wait outside.
"Let her in. She's my mate; I need her."
Arthas smiled and smoothed things over, testing what the assembled demigods really wanted.
The dryads looked to Malfurion; only if Grandfather nodded could Maiev pass. They weren't wrong—daughters of Cenarius, and Cenarius' father is Malfurion, so grandfather it is.
"Ha! Since Arthas asks, let her enter."
Malfurion's kindness came from Arthas' deeds in the War of the Ancients and his own demigod status—together they earned such courtesy.
Demigods form circles, born over eons from stray world soul energies. They feud, yet keep a healthy balance.
Gratitude flooded Maiev, swelling into deep emotion: to Arthas she was no disposable tool but a mate, a partner to trust.
She resolved: if chance came, they'd consummate the bond. Ceremonies meant nothing; presence and action were real.
Inside, living and dead demigods thronged—something huge was afoot!