Conquest of the Horde

At her call the demons came. They came alone or in clumps. They came from the void, summoned to this earth at her whim. They came to cluster about her throne and watch the woman sit. Imps hung upon the horned backs of Felguards. Succubuses idled in the throng, dragging their barbed whips along the backs of the Felhunters that ringed their feet. The parasitic court stood, listless, to listen to the woman's delusions.

"Do I have wheels? Am I pulled by beast or pushed by steam?" Marianna slouched upon her throne. Even now, in her state of repose, her essence seethed with hatred. One clawed hand was clenched around her flesh-bound grimoire, the other closed around a wooden figurine. A pipe was cluched between her razor-thin lips, the black-stemmed knob spouting acrid billows of green smoke. Her chin was pressed to her collar and her eyes were lidded, the green sliver of her gaze focused intently upon her chest. The front of her dress had been torn open to lay bare a fresh pink scar that dripped down from her collar bone to her naval.

"Was I put on this earth to carry forth the meek to fame?"

"No."

"I am not your ticket to glory."

"I am nobody's fucking ticket."

She sat there in silence for another moment. She watched the spidery pink scar that ran between her breasts. She could already feel her heart within her. It was thumping away, slowly pumping black blood through her caustic veins. And god, did it feel good.

It felt like winning a fight. It felt like a father's affection. It felt like the first sip of Fel Blood. It felt like love. It felt like violence. It felt like a thousand fractured memories, spinning and rolling in her battered brain until the dust of time wore them to just so much dust.

It felt like victory.

Tomorrow would come soon enough. Tomorrow she would find the Tothrezim and fulfill her bargain. He would not be pleased with her payment. But he will accept it. He had to accept it. To do anything otherwise would lay bare to the Legion his own petty avarice.

And for her loyalty she would ask for her sister back. A simple request, for a broker of souls. And she would haggle and he would threaten. But in the end, for whatever price that she would need to pay, she would get the soul.

She waved a clawed hand to the throng. Quietly, the demons lifted her up and carried her out and onto the balcony. They deposited her unceremoniously on the wooden landing. She walked the last few feet, moving out across the roof and over to the parapet.

"The mood is changing. People aren't as foolish as we wish them to believe. They listen and watch. What hideous things they are, with ears on their feet and eyes on their backs…But by Sargeras, they are observant.

"And I'll change right along with them. I'm a new girl. I'm a better girl. I've got ice in my veins and fire in my fingers. My mind is now unclouded and my purpose…" She moaned softly, wetting her cracked lips with her blackened tongue. "No, my existence has been made clear."

"So sit back and keep your eyes wide…Because you know it will only be a matter of time before old Bisen finds a way to f**k with your day.”

The woman draped herself over the stone parapet. She stared out across Deadwind, letting the cold air and somber darkness wash over her in waves. She let out a strangled sigh of contentment. "This is my tower. This is my land. This is my world."

"So come on and let me show you my heart!"

The newly corrupted Fel Sworn tipped her head back and laughed. It echoed across the cavern, bouncing upon the gravestone gray walls and sinking into the fetid black waters.

She was a better woman now. With a new heart and a new sword, she felt more complete then she had ever felt beforei n her life. Silently, her hand reached down to curl around the blood red pommel of her new blade. She could feel the shard of the Black Blade within, thrumming quietly with her corruption. It was a blade a Fel-Sworn could be proud of.

Slowly, the great purple sigil faded. And with it, the Tothrezim's wrath faded from this world.

Yet it still lingered in Marianna's heart.

The demon had not been pleased with how the half-human mutt had paid off her debts. Ten souls, he had demanded of her. And when she had summoned him next it was to tell him that she had finished her end of the bargain.

With no souls in hand, the demon had turned upon her. Filling her body with twisting agony, he had pinned her down and prepared to flay her bit by bit. And through the pain and tears she had gasped out that the ten souls were still living. That even now they walked across Azeroth, spreading their work to every dark corner and recess.

What use were the living to a trader of souls? Why should he accept these souls as payment?

Because he was still a servant of the Legion. His work, his entire being, was to be bent towards the glory of Sargeras. These ten souls were doing this. After all, he only wanted these ten souls dead so that he could use them for the glory of the Legion, wasn't he?

With his greed laid bare the demon had relented. Yet he had not done so gracefully. Three hours, he had tortured her, beating out tears and blood for her trickery. Yet in the end, broken and bloodied as she was, she was still alive.

Marianna spat up a fang and lay there quietly. The air was already beginning to cool, the chill of Deadwind rushing in to claim the sky where the fiery demon had stood. She watched as her blood, already an oily, glossy black, begin to shrivel and evaporate. Even her lifeblood was corrupted.

Slowly, carefully the demoness groped for her blade. She closed a hand around the gnarled grip and drew it to her breast. She laid there for some time, panting, beaten and deflated upon the cold stone of the tower.

She stared up at the starry sky above and slipped into thought. Even past the torture, her purpose burned ever brighter in her mind.

Never let it be said that I have rested on my path. With her blade as a crutch, she levered herself up. She stood, shakily, and began to stagger back towards her office. There were grimores to complete, test subjects to observe and enemies to dispatch. There were a million small, unglamorous duties that she needed to accomplish before she could drink in the glory of conquest.

Anyone who thinks my job is glamorous is a fool. Now, back to my labor…

And yet, Marianna limped off with a smile, for clenched in her other hand was a single purple shard. Within, she could feel an all-to-familiar rage pressing against its confines. Even in death, the spirit swelled with her wrath. Not even death could temper this b***h.

Marianna Bisen poured quietly over the body upon the slab. Her normal robes and adornments had been discarded in favor of a doctor's white smock and cap. At her side, dressed in nurse's scrubs, was her faithful assistant Marianna Bisen.

The doctor turned to the nurse and hissed something in demonic. With a nod the nurse slipped away, swaying up the steps with an unusually feminine gate.

A few moments passed and the nurse returned with a third Marianna in toe. The third was dressed in leathers, an array of torture and medical implements clipped to her bodice with a series of chains and leather loops.

The three identical women exchanged a few raspy hisses before turning back to the body.

"How long has it been?" It was the doctor who spoke first.

"It was not my task to track her progress," hissed the nurse.

"Wait…" The leather-bound succubus began to pat herself down, sorting through the little metal instruments and tools. "I have a watch…"

The body on the table twitched. The women turned and, hurriedly, crowded around the prone creature. The creature wetted its dry, cracked lips and let out a hoarse croak.

The tool-master knelt down, smoothing her fingers through the body's coarse, greasy hair. "What is it you wish to say, My Mistress?"

"Do not strain her, you fool! The Mistress requires rest."

"The Mistress requires us to remove the heart. She can rest afterwards."

The two other demonesses nodded their agreement.

"We shall prep the Mistress for the procedure then." The doctor cinched up her smock and began to busy herself with setting up.

The tool-laden women hummed thoughtfully to herself. She began to pick her way through her selection of wares, selecting only the sharpest and most macabre of tools. Laying them out one by one on the slab she set about cauterizing them, green fel-flames licking her fingertips as she bathed each in emerald fire.

Presiding over it all was the Marianna in the nurses uniform. She stood at the foot of the slab, legs apart and hands upon her hips. She watched the two others while they worked, hissing short orders in demonic when they were required.

The nurse turned upon the leather-clad woman. "Are the tools in order?"

The tool-bearer bathed the last of the metal instruments in fire. She turned around smartly. "The tools are in order."

The nurse turned next upon the doctor. "Are you prepared for the procedure?"

The doctor wheeled over a small side table. Upon it was a basin of blackened water and a spool of greenish steel thread. The woman began dipping her hands in the water, cleaning those calcified black claws. "I am prepared."

The nurse nodded approvingly. Her gaze turned back to the woman upon the slab. Her expression softened somewhat, the firm domineering melting into some form of tenderness. It was a strange expression upon a face worn well with scowls lines.

"Is the Mistress ready?"

The woman on the slab let out a strangled half sob. All three of those attending nodded.

"The Mistress is ready."

"The Mistress is ready."

"Begin."

They descended upon the body and began. Gently the doctor cut into the creature's chest, peeling the thick hide back. The tool woman pushed spanner into the creature's chest, peeling the ribs apart.

Silently the nurse reached into the opened chest and, from the bloody innards, pulled out a skull. She shivered as the Shadow energy flowed out of it and into her, waves of energy rolling through her body. Already the blood upon it, normally such a rich, vibrant green, was a sickly, putrid black.

"Close the Mistress up."

The tool woman undid the spanner and set the ribs back into place. The doctor sowed back muscle and tissue, knitting the chest back. All that was left of the procedure was a few bloody rags and a fresh scar running vertically between the creature's breasts.

The three women crowded around the prone figure. They ran their hands reverently along her flesh. They whispered soft words in demonic, reverent and hushed. They stroked her horns and her darkened flesh. They touched her long, angular face and slopping brow. They straightened the thick, greasy strands of black hair.

One by one, the three women's disguises began to fall away. Their features blackened and dissolved away, turning to smoke before blowing away. Where three identical copies of Marianna once stood were now three succubi.

"Mistress…"

"Mistress…"

"Wake up Mistress…"

Quietly the demon upon the slab stirred. Her eyes fluttered before opening. A burning, emerald green gaze stared quietly up at the stone ceiling.

Idly the true Marianna wetted her lips.

"H-how long?" Her voice came out as a dry, hollow hiss.

"You have been out for a month…"

"Mmmh…" Idly the demoness wetted her black, cracked lips with a serpentine tongue. "And your russse?"

"Your disguises for us were flawless, My Mistress. No one saw through them."

"And my new body?"

All three women straightened. They exchanged devious little grins. Behind them, upon the table, the Heart of Deadwind throbbed gently, pouring vile darkness out of it.

"It has been completed. You are whole once more, My Mistress."

A Little Light Music

High above Deadwind, sheltered behind the thick mortar and stone of Tower Duskhaven, Marianna sorted through her outfits.

The woman stood before her gilded throne. A small cadre of demons fawned silently over her, an eclectic mixture of imps, succubuses and Felguards that rolled around her and moved about her private chamber.

"Mirror."

Almost in unison, the three succubuses that stood at the Fel-sworn's side turned and called out into the throng.

"Mirror!"
"Mirror!"
"Imps! The mirror is in the back. Get it."

From the crowd three imps dragged over a cracked, body-length mirror. Balanced on the others shoulders, they held the mirror up before the naked woman.

"Fishnets…" Marianna tapped her chin thoughtfully, regarding her reflection. She raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Perhaps you should wear something a bit more modest?"
"She means to say something less revealing…"
"Perhaps pants?"

"Mmmh…" Her legs and hips faded, dissolving into a black cloud of miasma. "Something practical then."

One of the imps chattered in protest. The nearest succubus cracked her whip, snapping at them in Eredun. The little creatures straightened out the mirror and held still once more.

"Hmm…"
"Practical for what, Mistress?"
"Idiot! Don't ask improper questions!"

The demoness laughed softly. A few seconds later the darkness around her legs dissolved. She wore a full-length skirt now, the black silk flaring at the hips and going down to brush across her hooves. She ran her claws through the cloth, watching as her fingers sliced through the silk before the illusion mended itself.

"Get me my letters."

One of the temptresses bowed away and disappeared into the crowd. A moment later she returned, clutching a small stack of stationary. Wordlessly she passed them over to the warlock.

Marianna thumbed through them brusquely. From the stack she pulled out three, inspecting them in detail. As she worked her chest and stomach dissolved into smokey miasma, leaving only a head and set of arms to float above a glossy black skirt.

"Activate these three agents." She passed the three letters back. The succubus took them and the original stack, hurrying off. She returned a few minutes later, just in time to see the woman's torso reform, this time wearing an unflattering silken chestplate.

"You look wonderful, Mistress."
"Perfect for an attack on the Demon Hunter base."
"Or for a nice evening poisoning your enemies."
"Maybe killing traitors?"
"Or disguising yourself to blackmail another pawn?"
"I know! Destroying Sto-?"

Marianna held out a warped, clawed hand. The three demons fell silent.

"Where is my horseman?"

"Out testing your potions."

"My Shadow Priestess?"

"Still in Netherstorm, where you left her last."

"My researcher?"

"Somewhere around the Catacombs."

She turned back to her throne. Already the shadows were creeping up her collar, solidifying into a large headpiece. She smiled darkly to herself, those green eyes smoldering in her charred eye-sockets.

"How is the disease?"

The three demons fidgeted quietly. They exchanged glances. They loved their mistress, with every ounce of their soul. Her loyalty to the Legion was unwavering, that they had been assured. Yet sometimes…

"It is finished, my Mistress."

Marianna sat heavily upon her throne. She curled her claws around the charred armest and hung her head. The three demons inched slowly away.

"It is the will of the Legion?"

"It is the Legion's will."
"For the Legion."
"For Sargeras."

The Fe-sworn parroted the words. She lifted her head and regarded the roomful of demons stretched out before her.

"Then let us begin." Slowly a smile crept over her, those yellowed, pointed teeth sparkling in the gloom of the tower.

"Let humanity see the end of their law. Let us give them a taste of the fate that all worlds shall suffer before the grand tide of the Legion! An end to the Horde! An end to the Alliance! An end to reason itself! For the Legion!"

The succubuses relaxed. They grinned with their owner, their own barbed smile stretching from ear to ear.

"Begin moving the equipment! We will begin our work immediately."

"For the Legion!"
"For Sargeras!"
"For the Third Invasion!"

The room dissolved once more into chaotic shuffling. Marianna remained upon her throne, smiling that insane little smile as she let her mind wander. There was no resisting the inevitable. One could no more resist the Legion then they could death. And if her machinations reached fruition, then no one would be able to resist either by the week's end.

By all accounts, Marianna's time spent with Navren Windstrider was both tragically common and easily avoidable. After all, there is little variation to the play that is youthful rivalry; no matter the actor, setting or scene the script will always follow a common trend. And yet variations do occur, however rare. For good or ill, these divergences of hatred can play such odd games with the endings of a life.

Marianna had caught Navren on a busy day in spring. He was an ugly, hairy face snatched from the shifting crowds of the plague-ridden Booty Bay. He had a mop of dark black moustachechop hair painted upon a dark purple face that was, in turn, perched atop a hairy, muscular body. His features were blurred by the movement of their battle, his cheeks rounded and jaw softened until he took on almost morbidly demonic features. The girl's breath caught for a moment before she regained herself and flung her next ball of Fel-fire.

Even at the age of thirty nine Marianna had a demon's build; her shoulders were wide and evenly set with eyes of burning green set in an angular, gaunt face. Her stringy, greasy black hair bounced and jostled upon her brow with every twist and thrust of battle, the black ringlets billowing up before tumbling down and around her pale face. She ground her pointed, yellowed teeth – an ugly habit that reared itself only when a Demon Hunter raked his claws across her face.

When the battle ebbed for a moment it offered the two children a moment alone. They hung, Fel-Sworn and Demon Hunter, above the bay, both flapping their wings to stay aloft. The battle had left Navren's features bloodied and broke. Yet even with the crippled leg and the blood congealing upon his chest there was a certain roguishness about the man, of a wounded past and quiet brooding. When their gaze met she saw that his eyes too were filled with green fire, a by-product of the massive quantities of Fel the two had ingested. Yet all she saw was a hairy man a thousand years her senior, a tired soul who needed the death Marianna knew only she could offer.

She charged again, swinging herself into the assault. He caught her as she advanced, his hands curling around her throat and flinging her back to the docks below. The Fel-Sworn had twisted through the air, flapping her wings and spitting obscenities before she had crashed into the dock with a splintering sound.


It was quite peaceful, actually. There was no escape. No retreat. Nothing really much to do but accept what was given. Her fate was, once more, out of her hands. The thrill of her own frailty rolled through her and, for a precious second, she was afraid.

The Fel-Sworn stared up at the sky. Her leg was shattered and she had lost her demonic form. Above her, standing with a pointed horn in his hand, was the Demon Hunter. She lifted her head and hurled an obscenity at him before letting it fall again. It seemed only the proper thing to do.

She wished she would die. If she died then she would be reborn a time later later, a new creature in a fresh body. Yet this fate…This fate would be worse.

I'll be back. Nothing stops me. Nothing tires me. Nothing slows me. I'll always be back. I'll always be back…

“No! Kill me! No no no n-!”

The Demon Hunter brought the horn down and into her breast and the Lady Potentate shattered. The demoness' essence was dissipated, her consciousness unglued and scattered to the winds. Her soul, spirit and existence were cast out across the bay. In such a state, the Demon Hunter had no difficulty in drawing her, body and soul, into this horn.

Into her prison.

With one final shriek the Fel-Sworn's body melted into the horn. It fell to the bay, its sides already beginning to darken. Green cracks formed in it, spewing energy as the demon within struggled. Yet all struggles must end and, after a few moments, the horn fell still.

Deep within, the spirit and body of Marianna Bisen waited in the empty void. And in this isolated void she would wait until she was freed.

She had done great evil in her life. She had done great cruelty. A lifetime of misery and woe and injury began to quiet unfold around her to fill the abyss. Her mentor. Her father. Her uncle. Her master. Her friends. Her enemies. All would keep her company in this prison.

This is what I wanted. I made my choice a long time ago. I have never looked back. I have no regrets.

…Because Bisen. Is. Eternal.

The demon looked out across the woods and sighed softly.

Six months ago she would have sold her soul, her body, her mind, her past and her present for this wind through her hair and the warm grass beneath her feet. Six months ago she would have prostrated herself or exposed herself to any number of monsters and saints, if only it would let her enjoy a moment of freedom.

Navren. For six months she was the elf’s prisoner, his little trapped demon. She was his scratching stick. She was his trophy. She was his slave. Blind, deaf and dumb she had remained, her essence rolled and balled into the little horn. No company. No pleasures. No freedom.

All there had been was her own thoughts to keep her company.

“Wine, Mistress?"
"Food, Mistress?"
"Warm Flesh, Mistress?"

The three succubi stood in the shadow of a pillar. The first clutched a golden jug of red wine, the broth spiked with the poisons and acids that the demoness enjoyed taking every evening after her supper. The second held aloft a flank of rotting meat upon a golden platter, the putrefied flesh greasy and darkened from age and exposure the preferred meal for the sickly fel-sworn. The last stood apart from the rest, a leash in her hand. At her side was a male human, shirtless. He looked to be in a trance, his head slowly bobbing up and down, chin dipping to drag along his collarbone as he swayed in his own little world.

Marianna had made camp in the corrupted shrine a few days ago. It had been a pleasantly out-of-the way place, a patch of empty elven ruins tucked away in the hilly divide between Fel-Wood and Darkshore. Already the ancient pillars and collapsed altars were filled with tents and torches, the green glow of fel-fire casting a sickly glow across the withering earth.

"Pipe." Bisen waved them away and the three demons bowed back into the shadows. The woman had taken her seat at the very edge of the oval-enclosure, her chair balanced against a collapsed pillar. From her perch the hill sloped down and into the ravine that served as the shrine’s one entrance.

The three demons returned in time, swinging over to take their position beside the reclined demoness. From the first the demoness took her pipe, a dark, scorched mahogany thing with a fat bowl and a long, tapered stem. From the second she took her tobacco box, opening the gilded golden chest to fill the pan with the pillowy hills of tobacco laced with fel-weed that she preferred. From the third she took a smile, nodding kindly to the last succubus as she took the filled pipe and lit it.

With a sigh the woman slid back into her seat and was still. Puff by puff the shadows grew around her, the acrid smoke from her pipe forming a thick cloud that obscured the monster from sight.

"Do you require anything of us, Mistress?"
"Anything at all, Mistress?"
"I think the Warm Flesh is still wandering around here somewhere…"

A blackened hand swept out of the fog and waved them off. They disappeared with a bow, mumbling their thanks.

It had been a long month since Belzerial freed her. A very long, busy month. Since then she had regained her previous power and position. She had tied up the loose ends of her previous life. She had regained the bulk of her followers. She had an organization under her thumb and the power that gave at her beck and call.

And yet…

The woman took up her pipe and uttered a single word in Eredun. Three seconds later the succubi returned, one after another.

"Yes, Mistress?"
"You rang, Mistress?"
"I left him just near the tent. I know he’s here somewhere…"

"Paper and pen."

The demons fled at the command, returning a moment later with the writing instruments and a pallet. Stretching the piece of wood on her lap, the demoness began to write.

To pass her time the demoness had begun to practice alchemy. She had found the hobby enlivening. The craft occupied much of her evening for the last year or so, the midnight hours spent bent over burners and filters. When skill failed her she augmented the concoctions with magic.

It was a useful hobby.


The woman paused and, after a few quiet moments of computation, took up her stylus and continued to write.


A slow, vile smile spread across the woman’s face as she wetted the tip of the pen once more. At the very bottom of the page, below the instructions and formulas, the woman wrote a single line: