Dreams of Steel: Book 1: Asura

Disclaimer: I do not own the franchises of Fate/Stay Night or World of Warcraft.

An Alt. Story of 'Lioness of Stormwind' by Vahn. Written with permission from Vahn.

"in the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground." Cersei Lannister, A Game of Thrones.

"You are not prepared!" Illidan Stormrage. The Burning Crusade

Chapter 1: Tempering

Clack! Clack!

The rhythmic pounding of wood on wood filled the dark Training Grounds of the Illidari, as a highly toned set of arms repeatedly struck the wooden post with the instruments they held.

Clack! Clack!

Never missing a beat, a constant and even tempo as wood struck wood. The striker was performing no kata or movement drill. This was a toning exercise, one designed to strain the muscles, to help the striker build up their strength and endurance.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

Left arm and right arm. Left arm and right arm. An endless repetition. It was a monotonous and tiring exercise, one that many younger and more inexperienced practitioners of the martial arts would not see the point of or think they were useless, eager to learn the secret arts of either blade or fist and then make their mark on the world, only seeing in those techniques that they had seen their masters or mentors use the fall of their enemies and themselves receiving glory, triumph and adulation.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Clack! Clack!

Those dreamers had never seen crimson gore of another thinking being paint the ground.

They had never smelled the rotten odour of a loosening bowel belonging to a corpse.

They had never felt the bite of steel in their side as someone they had once called friend buried a hidden dagger in their gullet and dragged it along their front, their steaming guts, putrid and purple and slimy, spilling out onto the cobble stones of a dank alley.

They had never heard the screams of women and children and the elderly as, now defenceless due to the local militia being killed brutally, were dragged away in chains, bound who knows where to suffer untold horrors at the hands of a heartless being with enough gold to purchase their life and soul.

They had never tasted the blood and bile creeping up their throats as they writhed on the ground, their vision quickly blackening as they tried futilely to draw breath through a crushed throat.

They didn't have a clue about what 'adventuring', what 'being a Hero', truly meant.

And they probably never will.

Clack! Clack!

The striker's sweat slick hands kept a firm grip on the wooden training blades, the lead within them causing him little strain to lift as he endlessly struck away at the post, feeling the thump and crack and clash ripple up the fake sword but his grip was far too experienced, too good, to let it jar out of his hands.

He had been at this for at least three hours now, unable to find rest this night for some reason, the tightly corded muscles beneath his little-darker-than-sky-blue skin feeling the burn, particularly in his shoulders, feeling restless and jumpy, as if they felt something in the air had changed.

Clack! Clack!

His red hair, arguably his most defining feature, hung limp and wet, plastered to his skull, and his long, very long, tapered ears pointed firmly back, much like his father's race. The wet hair was, unfortunately, not cut short enough to not hang in front of his amber orbs flecked with silver, making it difficult to properly see his target to strike. Not that it deterred him, his trainers had made him work in worse situations than merely having his vision obscured by his own hair.

His mother had been very adamant that he not have it cut short of a certain length. He wasn't exactly sure why, and it was somewhat of a pain at times. But the minute he went to get knife to adjust to a proper length, he remembered the soft, almost awed, touches of his mother's hands on his fiery mane. Her yellow eyes distant and slightly wistful, maybe even yearning, as if remembering and reminiscing on past events that she wished had never finished.

He couldn't find it in his heart to take away something that gave his mother such joy, making her truly smile instead of scowl, sneer, smirk or snarl, however fleeting and ephemeral it was.

So he just grin and beared it. It was hardly that much of an annoyance. Besides, his father had much much longer hair and it didn't seem to bother him any when he was sparring. He was King of the Mountain here.

Not that any were stupid enough to challenge him.

Clack! Clack!

He breathed deeply as he rested his fake blades on the training post/dummy for a moment, sweating dripping down his bare chest, free of the tribal like markings that adorned his father, and soaking the loose pants, his sash and the strip of fabric that hung over the front of the sash that was embroidered with the symbol of his father's forces, as he leaned his head to look up into a sky so different from anything else, anywhere else. A sight that was truly unique to Outland.

Nebulas. Bright orbs. Two moons, one red and the other pale white. In the far distance, through the veil of ever shifting green that was the Twisting Nether and the dancing light of stars, he could see an orb of verdant green and blue, with splashes of deep brown. The top of said orb, or maybe the pole would be a better word, was also covered in a veil of white, what he knew to be a cap of snow and ice.

He knew that place, even if he hadn't ever been there. The birth world of his father and mother. A place that saw countless battles and endless wars. A land where two factions, the Horde and the Alliance, continuously struggled for supremacy in an Age of Chaos.

Azeroth.

The boy felt his burning shoulders lessen slightly. His small break was over, time to get back to work.

The boy shifted his bandaged, but otherwise bare, feet as he prepared for another series of a thousand double strikes, horizontal this time, the slightly claw like nails of his feet subtly gripping the sand covered stone of the Training Ground, which meant he would be twisting his torso and hips a lot. Contrary to what many might believe, the strength of sword strike did not come just from the hands, wrists, arms and shoulders. The entire body also played a part, the torso, the hips and the legs often making a difference between a successful or unsuccessful blow or block or parry.

As one of his assigned trainers had called it at one point, 'the Unity of Flesh and Steel'. A philosophy that was close to mysticism that believed that a weapon was only a channel through which the flesh, the wielder, could exert their will and that the strength of the weapon was irrelevant. In this philosophy, a man with strong will and conviction and flesh, armed with but a butter knife, could feasibly do as much damage, or more, as someone with a weapon of legendary calibre.

The trainer was more correct than he knew.

Twirling his wrists, and spinning the weighted training blades, he set himself to begin the next part of the drill...

"You are out a bit late aren't you, young lord?"

Only spin around, reacting as he was taught, his blades leading as they sought to strike down the perceived threat that he hadn't detected before then, his instincts moving ahead of his sight and conscious comprehension.

Chunk! Chunk!

Only his training blades to lodge themselves on sharp edge of a large red glowing glaive that his sneaky opponent had rose across their body, preventing any damage to them.

It also gave the bare chested boy pause, allowing him to comprehend what he had done and, more importantly, who he had done it to as his eyes widened at the sight of the one who he had believed to be an enemy.

It was a female night elf, her long green hair tied in a tight braid would reached her lower back had it not been draped over the front of her shoulder, letting it fall down her front. A fang-like mark, dark green to match her hair, went from under her blindfolded eyes to her jaw line, the mark of maturity and adulthood among her race. She wore loose pants, similar to his own, own a inky black and slightly tighter, which matched her forearm long gloves, which incidentally left her palms and fingers entirely exposed. Her upper body was entirely bare of clothing except for an extremely minimal copper-toned breastplate that looked more like a bra, which covered little more than her bountiful breasts and her abdomen and was held in place by a collar around her neck attached to two leather straps. Her more unique features, the large purple bat-like wings attached to the back of her shoulders, were furled and tucked away behind her back, at rest and not likely to be used soon.

He knew this person.

"Sorry, Master Alandien," he said sheepishly, quickly and firmly removing his training swords from the night elf's glaive, the wooden casing splintered and cracked and the lead weighted core notched and scarred as evidence of the glaive sharpness, and let them dangle his side, a wordless expression of peace and desire to not fight. "I didn't sense you arrive."

"Clearly," Alandien said, her brows wrinkling in a small frown, "I thought I had taught you better, young lord."

"Sorry," he said with a ducked head, his right hand absently reaching up to scratch his head with the hilt of his sword, somewhat ashamed and apologetic at his lack of awareness. Something that his father was stern about and made sure to do his level best to make it stick with his son, just as he made it stick with his students and their students.

'Be Prepared' was practically his father's motto.

Alandien sighed heavily, "We will discuss that tomorrow," she said grimly, looking at him harshly despite her lack of eyes, "more important things need be discussed right now," her brows narrowed even further, "like why you are doing sword endurance drills when you should be abed, Lord Shirou."

Shirou winced as looked up at the suddenly scary form of his main tutor in the arts of battle.

Somehow, he thought that his answers to her questions wouldn't go down too well.

Alandien Nightshade looked down at the young one who was both her greatest pride and, at times, her biggest annoyance.

She had been serving her Lord Illidan for over a decade (at least in Outland time. Being in the Twisting Nether, otherwise immutable concepts like time and space were easily distorted and changed in Outland and could even be manipulated entirely by those with enough magical strength and the proper knowledge.) when she had been approached by the Lord of Outland himself for a task.

A task that involved the young one now standing sheepishly before her.

She had heard and seen the young one, it was hard not in his earlier days. His father, Illidan, and his mother, Lady Vashj, had made sure to keep him close to hand, not trusting anyone fully enough to look after him but themselves and a precious few loyal retainers that could be counted on a single hand with fingers left over.

Illidari's forces were, after all, were comprised of an element of demons and other unsavoury individuals, many of which wouldn't hesitate to use Illidan's son against him if it meant that they would have a chance at obtaining more power, whether it be financial, political, magical or martial.

The Shadow Lord made sure to keep those elements as far from his son as he could. The young one's made sure that any that attempted to circumvent the father were never able to do it twice.

Lord Illidan made a firm example with what was left of their corpses.

To those with greater loyalty to the Lord of Outland, loyalty that went beyond mere transactions of gold and power, however, the young child was a welcome surprise, even more so than the fact that Illidan had taken a lover in Lady Vashj (it surprised Alandien as well initially. Many were the songs and stories among her people that emphasised the unrequited love between the one they had called the Betrayer and the Champion of Elune. To take a lover in Lady Vashj was almost incomprehensible.).

Lord Illidan was a harsh and often cruel Lord. His word was law and the fates of those who disobeyed or failed him were the stuff that nightmares were made of. Many were they who failed a mission, through either incompetence or bad luck, that met their end by Lord Illidan's poisonous green glowing glaives. If they were lucky.

For all the Lord's cruelty, Lady Vashj was even worse, her own cruelty heightened by millennia of Naga society, which was harsh at best, and the slight taint of the Old Ones that touched all Naga, often bringing more negative personality traits to the surface, twisting the mentality of the Serpents of the Sea. Not so quick were the deaths of those who earned her ire. Like a serpent with mouse, she toyed with her prey, making them think they had a chance to avoid death, making them fearful and desperate as she turned their minds on themselves, making them break and shatter mentally and spiritually before she granted them the release of death.

That fact that she was of the female gender was also a factor. Females were often the more dangerous of the species, and the Naga proved it.

However, when the child was born, they started to change.

It wasn't overt at first, just small things. A degree of mercy for a soldier who failed a mission, a greater reward for a mage who succeeded in a particularly difficult task, just a few small subtle changes in their behaviours.

As they stayed longer in the young one's presence though, as the boy grew from wearing diapers to tottering around on his own two feet (the fact that he had born with two feet rather than a Naga's tail had been a surprise to say the least to many), the changes grew easier to see, the changes in both their personalities there for all to see.

No longer did Illidan brood in his solitude, thinking the dark thoughts as he dwelled on his defeats by The Lich King and the revenge he desired to extract from the walking corpse. He was now amongst the men, laughing with them (if rarely), fighting beside them, pushing them harder just as he pushed himself, finding in his body the drive to improve himself once more, to continuously get stronger and more powerful. The reputation he had with them, with the Illidari, increased greatly and loyalty to him rather than to riches and gold and power had begun to form...even amongst the demons bound to him.

Lady Vashj also changed, though not as overt as her paramour did. She seemed to devolve less into a primal mindset when angered, a trait that all Naga shared and was capitalised on by their enemies in combat, and became more involved with the Naga clans that had answered Illidan's call, making a more cohesive unit through mutual co-operation, a real army. She became more open to suggestions from her officers, rather than making decisions on her own and believing them to be the best, and was more lenient with failure, no longer killing her forces for screwing up unless it was by vast incompetence on their part.

The two leaders were not the best of beings, and probably never would be due to the choices they had made and the paths they both walked, but they had become Rulers, albeit dark rulers, in their own right rather than dictators and tyrants. They still ruled there respective forces with a firm and stern hand, but the demands the hand made were within the scope of the commanded.

And it was all because of the influence of the child standing before her, and the Illidari and many of the associated forces loved him for it.

As the boy grew older though, it was made clear that, despite his popularity, or may be because of it, the boy had a target on his back.

Many were the enemies that would seek him out, both Illidan and Lady Vashj having not been the most careful in avoiding angering certain forces, in order either kill him or control him, seeing him as a way to strike at the Lord of Outland. Thankfully, knowledge of the boy's existence was kept close to Illidan's forces and, to the Lord of Outland's knowledge, the only one that knew of the boy's existence outside of his forces was Queen Azshara, who had been informed by Lady Vashj herself.

However, Lord Illidan knew it wouldn't last. Eventually, his enemies would know of the child's, his child's, existence. And they would come for him.

Alliance. Horde. Legion. Scourge. Maybe Dragons. Or even just a fool looking for a decent paycheck. It didn't matter. They would come.

And so the child would need to be trained, taught to defend himself. Shown how to use flesh and steel, to wield powers arcane. To know the weaknesses of all the beasts of the earth, the birds in sky, the creatures of the deep and all the monster and beings that travel in between. To have knowledge of geography, history, tactics and myriad other academia.

However, neither Illidan or Vashj would be able to do it completely by themselves. Training a warrior, of any stripe, took dedication, time and effort, from both the student and the teacher. Time which, ironically due to the changes that the boy had brought about in them, they didn't have due to the duties that they had shouldered as Rulers of Outland.

So, much to his regret, having wanted to train his son himself, Illidan was forced to delegate the role of his son's primary tutor.

And thus she had been chosen.

Her skills in warfare, her intelligence and knowledge on myriad of subjects, like the arcane, due to having lived as long as she had (millennia of life and experience granting her wisdom) and, most importantly, her unswerving loyalty to Lord Illidan made her a excellent choice and one that could be trusted with the young lord's welfare without any fear of ulterior motives or subversion from the more unsavoury elements that abided in Black Temple.

She had been properly introduced to her prospective student when he was around six, a respectable age for a child to begin to learn the arts of war and battle...for a human.

She had initially thought that Lord Illidan had sensed something ill in the wind, or was completely mad and delusional, for him to introduce his son, who was of elven blood, so early as to be a dangerous and, to the child, quite possibly deadly decision. The long lived races such as her own (now that their 'immortality' was gone due to the events at Mt. Hyjal and she had little hope that the Teldrassil would be as powerful as the original World Tree), the Draenei, Quel'dorei and others, which included the Naga, all had stretched out childhoods compared to humans, taking longer to grow up and reach full maturity, taking at least a century to reach such a point.

This meant that a normal six year old elven child would be comparable to a less than two year old human.

She had made a protest, saying that he was far too young, that it was impossible for the child to be able to train and had hid revulsion at what she had thought that her lord was planning to turn the child, one of his own blood, into a weapon, much like the more ill-minded of bandits who abducted various children to raise at such a young age to become little more than blood thirsty wildlife berserkers.

To her further disgust, he had only chuckled before gesturing her to follow him, something she did reluctantly, the first pangs of treacherous thoughts seeping into her mind, her fel tainted energies surging forth in response to her darker emotions, eager to be used in violence, urging to fight and steal power from her superior. Thankfully, she had enough self control, something that had pounded into her by her Lord, to quell those demonic impulses. Had she surrendered to them, she knew she wouldn't have lasted a moment against her Lord.

He wasn't called the Lord of Outland for nothing after all.

It was after a brief walk that she was formerly introduced to her would-be student and charge, seeing him with her own eyes (or rather her mage sight due to her demon hunter training) her Lord's actions were then understandable to her.

Lord Shirou was far from a normal elven child.

His looks were very different compared to his parents. His skin colour was a few shades darker than sky blue and lacked the scales on the lower body of his mother's race and was bereft of the arcane markings or tribal marks that littered his sire's body. He had two legs instead of his mother's tail. His chin length hair was a crimson red, the shade of blood and rust, that drew her eye at the unusual colour, neither of his parents having a similar one. His ears, in her opinion, were at least normal and clearly showed his elven heritage with their length.

However all these features had paled in comparison, were almost forgettable, next to his eyes.

Warm gold orbs that drew all that looked into them in, practically glowing in the dark with the immense power hidden behind them. Eyes that heralded changing and turbulent times, where those with a great destiny thrust upon them would stand out among others, an eagle amongst crows, a crane among geese.

His father's eyes.

It was not just the colour that had had her mesmerised though. There was a hint of steel in those depths, hidden behind the warm gold, showing a potential in him, a potential that would either take him far or see him fall before he reached his goal. There was a drive, a determination, a burning fire like that of a blacksmith's forge that told her that he would never give up.

They were not the eyes of a child and yet, much to her surprise, they were set in the face of the youthful form of young Shirou. A young Shirou who's body's maturity was not that of a six year old elfling's, but rather comparable to a six year old human's.

It had stirred a curiosity in her. To see such a strange person and she couldn't but wonder how far he could go, which path he would take in the future and where his destiny lied.

The combination of her Lord's orders, the child's odd physical maturity, and her own musings eventually led her to accept her Lord's proposal to be the young lord's tutor.

It was something that she hadn't regretted over the last six years of Outland time.

Though that wasn't to say that there weren't some rough points and downsides, like now. That her charge seemed to love training when he should be asleep...

She had lost more than a few months worth of beauty sleep because of that annoying habit of his.

She looked through her blindfold down at the sheepish child, "This is the third time this week you have crept down here," she said sternly to her student/charge, scolding him for his recklessness, "and the tenth time this month alone...and it still has more than a week to go! You know well enough that you shouldn't be here or be doing that at this time. Your mother, father and myself have made that abundantly clear again and again." She lowered her voice as she notice it starting to creep up as she vented her frustration with the stubborn child. She sighed softly, "why did you do this, Shirou?" She said wearily, forgoing the formalities of titles, she was too damned tired to really care about such things at the moment.

This was not the first time he had done this...nor would it likely be the last. Alandien had come to learn that her student was nothing if not diligent and dedicated in his training, more than willing to put in the hard yards, mentally and physically, and had never complained about the tasks she had set or the workouts she had given him. Indeed, he seemed to thrive under the pressure, his body adapting to the force she had her student put on it very quickly, almost too quickly to be natural. It had made her proud, knowing that her pupil could perhaps become one of the best fighters through sheer dedication alone, and his heritage only helped his growth. His parents were far from powerless and it made sense for their son to have inherited at least some of that potential (for all that he looked more like one of the Highborne than he did one of his parents at this point).

The problem was keeping him from overtraining.

Even from the start of his training, the demon huntress had noticed that her charge seemed to have a goal, a desire to reach something, and was determined to reach it as soon as he could, and used that determination to fuel his body and mind, pushing past his limits.

Where other men and women would have fallen, their bodies unable to take the strain anymore, Lord Shirou had simply gritted his teeth and pushed through, even at the cost of tearing a muscle or worse.

Where others would falter at the influx of information from their studies, Shirou kept reading, taking notes and making sure he understood the information he was given well enough...and then came back for more, to the point of forgoing sleep and meals at times.

Her pride had swiftly turned into worry when she had finally understood the depths of this determination, this obsession, and had immediately tried to tone down her lessons, setting a slower pace in the hopes he would recover from this self-destructive phase.

She didn't have much luck, the young man had only turned his attention to more private studies in his own time in order to make up for the adjustments she had made.

She, having no choice, had then resorted to speaking to her Lord and his paramour about his almost fanatical behaviour, hoping that they had taken notice and may be able to rein him in. Thankfully, both were aware of it and were taking steps but they hadn't fully understood the lengths that their son had gone to, the boy seeming to have a gift for hiding things to a degree, and had been shocked.

The entire situation had then been brought out into the open between the young lord's parents, the boy and herself with a deliberate discussion. Lord Illidan almost demanding to know why the boy was doing such dangerous stunts, stunts that verged on destroying the boy utterly in mind, body and soul, whilst also berating him for doing such foolish things. The sheer anger in the Lord of Outland's voice, which had made many quiver in abject terror before him, belied the true emotion it stemmed from.

That of fear. Fear of having bury his own child.

Lord Shirou, however, weathered the berating unflinchingly, his face an odd mask of both acceptance and rebellion. A strange look that none of the adults had ever seen before due to the contradictory nature of both feelings.

Lord Illidan finally finished his tirade and demanded to know why. Why did his son do these things? Why did he risk his future health and well being in this way?

Shirou had only smiled at his father.

An odd smile, one with a hint of sadness, of wistfulness, but mainly filled with a determination, a desire. It was the smile of a man who had sacrificed much, and would sacrifice still more, to reach his goal, his dream, one that's end was almost in sight but wishing that the end would come sooner.

That smile and a single cryptic word were his only answer to his father's parental concerned rage.

Still, the argument, if it could be called that, had helped to mitigate the young lord's foolishness. He still worked hard but Alandien and Lady Vashj were able to keep him from going overboard for the most part, directing his attention toward other avenues than study and warcraft, making him take up a hobby that allowed the young elven boy to unwind and relax.

It had worked, to a point. The youth was no longer tearing himself apart and had set a more acceptable, if still swift, pace for his studies and was no longer just supremely focused on his goal, actually taking time to 'smell the roses'.

The hobby he had chosen to take up had also made itself beneficial beyond the point of relaxing him. Lady Vashj, in particular, had been very appreciative of the results.

Still, sometimes, the child backslid. Never becoming as bad as he once had been, the talk with his parents had seemed to have established itself well enough, but still concerning. Little things like what she had just caught him doing now.

"I had trouble sleeping," her charge said, snapping her out of her thoughts on the past, making her attention return to the sheepish and apprehensive looking child, "I tried for a while but..." He shrugged a little, looking uncertain, worried, making Alandien frown slightly, "I guess I was just restless and stressed. Especially with the...you know." He finished uncomfortably even as Alandien's eyebrows rose in sudden understanding as things became clear.

Considering what was just around the corner, the fact that the boy was stressed and restless enough to backslide into old habits wasn't very surprising. To be honest, she wasn't much better.

She was a demon hunter, a warrior and fighter, not a silver tongued negotiator.

"Understandable," she murmured thoughtfully as she eyed her nervous charge, "but still not acceptable," she rebuked him, "if you are so restless and anxious about the coming talks you should have seen the healers for a sleeping aid," she lectured, "'the warrior who goes to battle tired will find find his rest on the battlefield.'" She quoted the words of wisdom from her own sire, long since passed on, and words she had lived by and had ensured her student knew from the very first day.

Lord Shirou looked up at her, a slight frown on his face, "But this is only a diplomatic meeting." He protested slightly, making Alandien roll her blindfolded eyes inwardly.

For all the skill he displayed in warcraft, his skills regarding social interaction and wordplay, something that was the basic root of all diplomacy, were no where near as good. Give him a sword and he would be fine (she had ensured that and his own seeming natural skill with any bladed weapon had only added to the certainty. Any fool who tried to match blades with him now would get a very nasty surprise.) but ask him for florid words and you would be disappointed.

Don't get her wrong, he was the epitome of a polite and well mannered young man, almost never having a harsh word for anyone. But, sometimes, he seemed to have problems understanding certain social aspects, like he didn't really think the same way as others did.

He just wasn't cut out for the, sometime literal, cut throat aspects of political manoeuvring, of subtle words and hidden agendas.

He generally let his actions speak for him rather than hollow words that aren't worth the air breathed to speak them.

It was not the best trait a figurative 'prince' could have.

And as his tutor in many areas, it fell to her to correct this rather difficult problem and oversight. Thankfully the boy's serpentine mother, who was used to and experienced in the power plays in Azshara's court, was aiding the night elf in her endeavour.

"The battlefield can take many forms," she said sternly to her student, "as can weapons and warriors. These talks will be a different sort of battle and you will have to treat it as such." She warned him.

She watched as he silently contemplated that before sighing slightly. She was up now and, she had to admit, was pretty restless herself. The talks coming up had everyone in the Temple on edge.

Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.

A subtle flick of a hand and then she swung, her weapon in hand, at her student's throat.

Chunk!

It never reached as her student reacted with the speed she expected, blocking her glaive with his wooden blade, easily keeping the sharp edge at bay, even as his eyes widened in slight surprise at her actions.

Her lips twitched in satisfaction. She had trained him well. Time to see if he had improved. She hadn't had a proper spar with him for a while. Time to rectify that.

A twitch of her foot and she thrust kicked at her students chest, to push him away to start the spar properly. Unsurprisingly, her foot never touched his flesh. His other blade quickly intercepted, blocking her foot's sole and locking in place, the wooden blade refusing to move closer to it's wielder.

That was fine. That wasn't what she wanted any way.

The power of her kick was still transferred to her student however, making him slide back several feet, furrows in the created by the young elven boy's heels, and wrenching her glaive's edge from being embedded in the weighted training blade. The young lord, in a show of impressive strength, managed to keep a firm hold on his blade, never letting it escape his firm grip.

"If you are too restless to sleep, young lord," she said calmly to her surprised looking student, his golden eyes watching her cautiously, warily, flickering to her now readied glaives and the firm stance she took, the crimson glow from her chosen weapons flaring higher, "Then let me aid in your goal."

With her piece said, she launched one of her glaives at her student, a whirring disc of death and pain to anything it struck, while quickly following it, her other glaive at ready to strike at her opponent with it's wicked edge.

She only had time to see her student's surprised look fade to a determined one, the light of understanding and hidden gratitude in them before becoming steely gold, before, after easily flowing around her flying glaive, he met her other blade with strikes of his own, beginning the dance of battle between them.

The training grounds were filled with the clash of steel on wood and of flesh on flesh that night, continuing on beneath the ever shifting emerald radiance of the Twisting Nether and the orbs of planets and stars and moons therein.

Under the light of a small pale white glowing gem, a sapphire hand, that seemed to shimmer with a rainbow cast if the pale light of the gem struck it at a certain angle, slowly moved the quill it grasped in it's long fingers, the long and viciously sharp nails adorning them doing nothing to hinder the slow, sure and purposeful movements. Each stroke of the quill was unhurried and was made with great deliberation as the owner of the hand put their thoughts to the parchment, the bright scarlet ink leaving it's mark on the green substance.

To My Queen Azshara, the Light of Lights and Empress of Nazjatar.

Greetings and Salutations,

In accordance with your decree I hereby submit my annual report for you to read at your leisure.

In regards to the initial task, I can assure you of a profound degree of success. You were right to believe that Lord Illidan's power was nothing to trifle with, even if it was below your own, and despite several set backs, particularly in regards to the denizens of Ice Crown, he has shown himself to have the capability to carve out a Kingdom for himself and keep it under his control.

His title as the 'Lord of Outland' is by no means a joke and holds a great deal of truth. Few within this shattered realm have the power to challenge him alone and the armed forces he has created will, in a short time, have enough manpower to situate itself as a Faction in it's own right. Even now he has enough manpower, with the aid of the clans of your people already here, to strike a decisive blow to the other inhabitants of this strange land and tilt the balance of power even more in his favour.

However, upon discussion and consultation with his staff, which included myself and the Naga generals under my command, a slower and, possibly, more certain approach was decided rather than an all out assault. An approach that he has asked me to lead.

In conclusion to the initial task that you graced me with, I can confidently say that Lord Illidan would be a welcome and, more importantly, powerful ally. So long as he is shown integrity, honour and respect, dealings with him should be possible and, through careful questioning, would be open to a more formal alliance between himself and you.

In my somewhat biased advice, I would strongly urge you to think on this. The possibilities it opens up are nothing to be idly turned away.

The quill paused in it's scratching, the owner's eyes narrowing slightly in thought, shifting slightly in her seat of coiled flesh and scales, before continuing to write. The quill moved slower, the scratching more quiet, as she carefully chose the words appropriate words to voice her thoughts.

In regards to my more personal endeavours, I believe you will be most pleased.

As you know from my earlier reports, my son is quite an enigma to many amongst my lover's forces. As a child of one of the original Naga, myself being one of the Highborne that was affected by the Sundering, and the originator of Demon Hunters, who's body has since become more relatable to a hybrid between demon and kal'dorei rather than pure kal'dorei, it was expected that my child would be a unique existence, to say the least. None were even sure that a child could be born of such a union.

To my everlasting thankfulness, a child, my child, was indeed born. And he was unique from his very first breath.

At first blush, he looks as though he had inherited none of the physical traits of our race, like a tail, bone plates or scales, ill suited to life beneath the waves, and instead had more traits in common with his sire, but lacking the more demonic appendages like wings or horns, but even that wasn't quite correct.

It seemed that my child was a throwback, exhibiting traits that we both had long since forgotten we had or had since lost over the millennia due to various circumstances. It was like he was an elven child, but of a kind none were able to determine. The closest we could get was as if he were a Highborne child, before they were exiled and became the Quel'dorei in Quel'thalas.

It was something that I was proud of, bearing the child of a shattered race who's own birth rates were rare in the first place. Despite now being content with my new form, I will always have memories, both good and bad, of my old form, when I rushed through hill and dale and forest, leaping from tree to tree, rather swim in the depths of the sea with all the wonders and dangers therein.

If I were to be honest and vain, it was perhaps my silky hair that I missed the most, despite the advantages my head serpents give me in combat.

The fact that my own child has locks of hair, which I have encouraged him to grow out, is something that gives me a reminder of who I was, the fonder memories of times long past, and can't help but be drawn to it.

The fact that it was a stunning red, a colour none had ever seen before in any elven race, and his skin an almost sky blue, once again never seen, also made me proud due to the fact it hinted at hidden potential. A unique form for a unique and precious existence.

And the golden eyes of destiny that shone out of it.

As he grew up, he began to exhibit more signs of his uniqueness amongst others.

The most concerning was the rate of his ageing, comparable to that of the mortal races of Azeroth, the humans in particular.

The quill paused as the hand's grip on it tightened. The owner of said hand remembering those agonising days when she had assumed the worst, that she would feel the greatest horror a mother, a parent, could feel.

To out live their own child. To stay youthful and strong while their child, their legacy, wilted like a dying flower, crinkled and broken with age, before passing on.

She still remembered the chill that resided in her soul during those days, a bitterness at the world for giving her something precious only to take it away after having only barely touched it.

Her Lord had not been much better. Those who disturbed during those days had paid a heavy price for their foolishness.

She forced herself to keep writing, her serpent locks hissing and writhing in agitation to mirror her otherwise hidden anger.

It is unknown why he is ageing at such a mortal rate, perhaps a consequence of the union between myself and my son's sire, but, thankfully, it seems that this will only affect his less mature years. There are strong indications that, once he reaches the height of his maturity, his ageing will slow to a crawl that is similar to other children of the elven races.

But that is not a certainty.

The Naga drew a breath as she paused in her writing, and breathed out to expel the pent up emotion that discussing her child's possible mortality had caused before continuing.

There are also other attributes that are unique to him and may have possible links to his ageing.

One of which is his physical growth. His father is one of the most physically powerful of his original race, which was vastly increased by his acceptance of demonic power, and his son seems to share that trait in a way.

It seems that he gets more out his training, putting on muscle, ingraining reflexes and muscle memory, far faster than many others can and seems to have an endless endurance, allowing him to push his body harder, to gain more from it.

It is honestly rather startling to see the equivalent of a seven year old child defeat a blooded elven warrior in physical might.

And it seems that this strength could very well have very little in the way of limitations. The possibilities of a fighter with endless growth potential are fascinating to say the least.

As glorious as his potential as a warrior is, his magical potential is a bit more...strange.

The Naga matron of the Coilfangs smirked slightly at the understatement she had written. Her son, her beautiful and powerful son, was nothing if not unique.

In regards to the more common paths of spell casting, whether it be Druid, Shaman, Warlock, Paladin or classical Mage, it can be said that my son is, sadly, an abject failure.

His ties to the earth are lacking, thus denying him the gift of Druidism.

The elemental spirits seem to be deaf to his call or, somehow, ignorant of his existence, thus banning him from Shamanism.

The Light is something that he doesn't truly follow, believing it to be rather judgemental, and thus will not respond to him.

She frowned slightly as she wrote down the next point.

It also seems that demonic power is not exactly compatible with him, despite the nature of his father. The fel energies he is supposed to absorb in the beginning of such training acted oddly. Instead of storing them for later use, his soul seemed to react violently, his natural power, which was quite sizeable, turned a dull silver and began engulfing, devouring, the fel energies, tearing them apart and subsuming them, converting them to something else, before disappearing.

It was not a painless process and none could figure out what had truly happened. Further investigations are on going but results and answers are still beyond my reach.

Oddly enough, while absorbing fel energies, the energies that Warlocks used to cast their spells and keep their demonic servitors in line, was ill fated, my son can share that unique energy of his to demons amongst the Illidari and has quite the positive effect on them, like an energy boost and a meal all wrapped in one. It also seems to have some form of mental effect on those accepting the energies, a very subtle and almost indistinguishable one, but this has yet to be proven conclusively.

In either case, while the true path of a Warlock is closed to him, he still has some strong ties to the more 'trustworthy' demons of his acquaintance, who would willingly answer his call if he beckoned.

The one time handmaiden of Azshara snorted delicately. Willingly didn't even begin to cover it. Her son was quite the attractive prospect for the shivarra and succubi in residence, who were the only ones apart from the felhunters who her son got along with. She giggled slightly to herself.

For all that he was not completely matured, her son still had a strikingly fit and powerful body, one that drew attention from many of the feminine gender, regardless of race and standing. Many of the succubi and shivarra, along quite a few of the female Naga of various clans and even female blood and night elves, made an excuse, at some point or another, to be present at the training grounds when her son was sparring, bare chested, against his primary tutor.

She chuckled softly again. Perhaps her mind was somewhat twisted over the centuries if she could find humour in her preteen child attracting the hungry attention of much older women.

Particularly women who had quite the reputation as man eaters.

Literally.

It is in the path of Mage, however, that he shows a degree of competence, but still fails to meet the base standards of an Apprentice.

His inborn magic is very...odd, which has led to this confusing assessment.

Almost every spell that has been attempted to be taught to him failed. Often explosively.

An example would be his simple attempt to produce a low level fireball spell, one barely strong enough to light a candle, which resulted in a concussive blast effect that sent him heads over heels backward into a wall, embedding him an inch deep in the wood, while turning the table the candle sat on into a pile of splinters and wood chips.

Many are still trying to figure out how my son made a Flame natured spell become a Force natured one.

I also adamantly refuse to say anything in regards to his dismal attempts at Frost natured spells.

The envoy of Queen Azshara shivered slightly in remembrance at that episode. A viewing of that particular backfire was often used in interrogations of prisoners. Showing them the memory in it's entirety to the prisoner and stating that they would be the youth's next target for the spell.

The prisoners generally folded like a house of cards at that threat and sang like canaries.

It was rather frustrating to all involved. Myself and Lord Illidan, along with the more accomplished mages amongst the Illidari, could all clearly feel the substantial reserves of magical power in my son, but any attempt at a spell to express seemed to go awry in chaotic ways.

It was by complete accident that we found a solution and a possible reason.

It seems as though my son's gifts in the arcane are narrowly specific but, at the same time, is exceedingly powerful within those limits. It's like as if his very soul was aligned with a certain aspect of existence so tightly as if to almost completely deny him the ability to use other methods of arcane expression. It is similar, but not identical to, the situation a spellcaster faces at some point in their lives, where they have to choose a discipline to pursue, leaving them unable to use spells of a different set due to compatibility, like choosing the path of a Warlock forbids ones from being able to use craft from Druidic and Shamanic sources.

The exact 'alignment' is yet to be determined but, considering the abilities my son is noted to have, I would guess it would have some connection with weaponry or perhaps steel.

He seems to have a unique gift in postcognitive psychometry, especially in regards to anything related to weaponry, and extremely those that have a link to swords.

The gift is such that, upon picking up a weapon, he seems to have an immediate mastery of it. Swordsmanship, polearm fighting, axe mastery or even archery, he seems to excel in such arts, even ones that are almost completely different from one and another, and the expertise stays with him even when he picks up freshly made weapons to wield. In addition, he seems able to 'mimic' (if that is the correct word) the fighting style of the weapon's true master if it has been in the owner's hands for a long enough time or the weapon is old enough to have a 'history', as my son terms it.

This was proven by him wielding his sire's signature blades in the exact same manner as his father...having never even lifted a similar blade before.

I don't think I have to tell you the possibilities apparent in this particular gift.

Additionally, this 'mimicry' doesn't just involve weaponry.

The female Naga rose one of her many hands to finger a delicate necklace of fine silver chain, a small pendant of a spiralling serpent, the symbol of the Coilfangs, attached to it to hang in the hollow of her throat. It was one of her most precious possessions and was never without it on her person.

With but a glance and a touch of several tools, he has become a very accomplished jewelsmith, miner and blacksmith, with knowledge of otherwise hidden and secret plans of various unique and valuable items, such as weapons, armour, jewelled enhancements and others, from various races and factions now in our possession.

And they wouldn't even know we have them.

However, this gift goes hand in hand with his more specific ability in magic.

It seems that he is nigh unrivalled in the aspect of Inanimate Conjuration in regards to weapons, able to create real blades, axes and other simple arms, rather than fragile spectral constructs, for him to either wield in close combat or choose to launch at his foes with mind numbing speed. The conjurations also seem to be able to stay in existence longer than they should, which is still being investigated.

With this, his unlimited growth potential, his psychometry and the fact that he is able to augment his already profound physical capabilities with magic, possibly the only conventional magical spell he has accomplished, and I can confidently say, without a shadow of a doubt, that my son has the capability to become a warrior without equal, as befitting a son of Illidan Stormrage.

And this assessment is made by only what my son has only shown as of now.

There are still mysteries that abound around my son and are no doubt waiting to be discovered due to the fickle nature of arcane power. It would not surprise me that my son has many other more hidden gifts due to the workings of wild arcane power, much like yourself and I were changed by the wild lashings of power from the Well of Eternity during the Sundering. Mysteries that could hold the key for Lord Illidan to cement a dynasty within this shattered land that would last for millennia.

With respect and awaiting your response,

Handmaiden Vashj, Consort of Illidan Stormrage, Lord of Outland, and Matron of Coilfang.

Lady Vashj finally put up her quill, letting it rest in the pot of scarlet ink she had used as she perused her missive to her Queen for any mistakes she might have made, shifting in her lengthy coils restlessly.

Thankfully, there were none.

With practised ease, she swiftly rolled up the green scroll and, with a specific burst of magic, sealed it shut, a red wax seal of her clan appearing on it, and ensured that only her Queen would be able to open it and then lay it aside for it to be sent on the morrow as she rose on her coils to stretch the kinks in her spine from sitting at desk so long.

Six arms spread wide as she stretched and groaned heavily in relief as she felt the cracks in her back slowly disappear, leaving a sensation of relief in her joints.

It was one of the annoying things about living away from a decent water source. On the land, there was only yourself to support your physical position. Under the water, on the other hand, you could let yourself float at a steady depth, the very water supporting your body.

"What a day," she sighed as slid across the smooth stone walls of her private chambers, her tail propelling her smoothly out onto the small semi-circle marble balcony, taking in a deep breath of the fresh night air of the former world of Draenor.

She couldn't help but smile slightly as she watched the dance of the emerald aurora and the planets in the Twisting Nether that made up the sky of Outland. It was one of the few things that never stopped awing her about this place. You could never find such a sight on Azeroth.

She leant the smooth bulstrade of the terrace, letting her mind think as her eyes kept watching the dance and play in the sky. She had completed her missive to her Queen and she say with a degree of certainty that the Queen Beneath the Waves would be quite pleased with the information therein, especially in regards to her son.

Her often harsh face softened even more. Her son. Her beautiful son. She had a beautiful son.

Even after over a decade (in Outland time), she was still filled with awed joy at that fact. She had never thought that she would ever have children, a combination of never finding an appropriate enough mate and a small illness earlier in life (before the Sundering) having made it almost impossible for her to do so, the already low fertility of her former race not helping at all. It was only through her mate's seed's sheer potency and quite a bit of luck that she was even able to be impregnated.

Her lack of children to continue her line had been a large sticking point for her and had called into question her fitness to be a Clan Matron of the Coilfangs. Thankfully, her own skill in battle and politics had allowed her to keep that high position from all challengers.

She frowned slightly, her snake hair hissing lowly to reflect her sudden agitation.

Now that she had a child though, her line could continue and there would be many a snake-hipped temptress that would seek to take her child to their bed, despite his young age. The line of succession in Naga culture went through the female line, a reflection of their female dominant society. However, in the case of a son being the only possible heir, he would take up his mother's role until such time as he had taken a wife and a child was born, and then he would step down and allow his wife to take up the role of Regent until the child heir, male or female, would reach maturity in order to take up their rightful place.

To put it simply; if any Naga female (for the halls of power beneath the waves would only permit their own race to hold power in Azshara's court. Her son's own hybrid status was somewhat of an exception, there never having been such a being to exist before. Many of the racial purists wanted him killed, an insult to the superiority of the Naga, but were wise enough to keep it behind closed doors. The fact that the boy's father was the Lord of Outland, a being that had few equals in power, made them cautious and the fact that the boy had the Queen's curiosity, and favour, had forced them to take a 'wait and see' approach to his continued existence, circling around she and her son like wolves, ready to destroy them at the first sign of weakness.) were to be 'knocked up' by her son, then they would be able to make a massive step up in power, wielding official influence amongst the clan second only to herself and her son, regardless of previous background.

Vashj could easily see many opportunistic scaled whores trying their luck with her son, his own accelerated growth rate working against him in this manner and leaving him vulnerable to seduction, an avenue of politics she hadn't yet covered with him.

Words, Coin, the Bed and the Blade were the universal staples of statescraft, after all.

She frowned even heavier. The time was also nearing for a more public appearance of her son to be made, to be introduced to prospective allies of the Illidari as an heir of Illidan. It would allow the Illidari to gain a bit more legitimacy, people do so love a chance at continuing stability in rule after all, and could net them a few more gains in an alliance (much as she did not like it personally, in politics, even her own child was a tool, to a point, albeit one that was used only sparingly.).

Though she would be sure to keep away from any possible arranged marriages. Few of them ended well and even fewer succeeded in doing what they were created for. No, an arranged marriage was far from a stable base on which to raise an alliance.

However, it also opened them up to new concerns. Legion, Alliance and Horde all had a bone to pick with Illidan and many wouldn't hesitate to use his son as possible leverage or simply kill him as a possible threat equal to his sire. She knew they would eventually find out about his existence, there was no getting around that and it was the reason that they had begun his training.

But she thought it may be too early, that her son wasn't quite ready.

But there was no helping it. It had to be done, and soon. There were already rumours in Shattrath about a blue skinned youth, a boy really, that stood at the side of Illidan and was treated warmly. It would only be a short step before those whispers reached the ears of some one powerful enough, and curious enough, to send out teams of their champions to assess the truth of them.

She sighed heavily, her head falling forwards as she rubbed her temples with two of her many hands in a vain effort to ward off a headache. Life seemed to be a never ending one and was determined to upgrade to a migraine.

Vashj of the Naga suddenly frowned slightly as she noticed something on the fields below and turned to look with her own primary eyes. The eyes of the serpents that made up her hair were not the best, but they ensured that blind spots were almost completely eliminated and made many a Naga Wave Priestess almost impossible to sneak up on.

All it took was a single look before she sighed in exasperation at the familiar sight of her late night training and roaming son facing off against his tutor in warcraft's glowing glaives.

"He'll never learn," she muttered, her mouth twitching as it tried to smile in fond annoyance. It had happened plenty of times before, becoming almost routine, and as such she was used to it, even amused by it. Though she would question her child in how he managed to get past the magical alarms that would have alerted her to his sneaking around in the morning.

The familiar sight relaxed her slightly, letting the tension that had been building up in her ebb away as she watched her son and Alandien dance to the tune of battle.

There was no use stressing over things for now. Her mind was slightly tired and it would not do to make any decisions with her thoughts hampered in anyway. She would think on it another day.

For now, she would just enjoy the sight of her precious son as he grew in strength and might.

For now.

Eyes of emerald flame, high above, watched the two figures, one that glowed the familiar green with black wisps of a Demon Hunter and the other, the smaller one, a unique uniform dull silver, like a well made blade, exchange blows with their weapons as they sparred in the otherwise empty training field of his army, far below. His vision was not impeded by the distance between them and could easily make out each individual movement with an experienced eye, picking out the small flaws in both of the combatants

"He is growing well," the owner of those emerald flames rumbled, the flames in place of his eyes burning brighter for a moment, small green torches that burned through the black cloth that covered them but hindered him not.

The Lord of Outland shrugged slightly, his clawed toes biting into the black stone of the edge and rustling his wings of flesh and blood and bone as he made himself comfortable in his examination and observation of his own son and heir.

His brow furrowed slightly in thought. His son. He had never thought that he would ever say that. Not after his millennia of confinement and imprisonment. And definitely not of someone who was not of Tyrande's womb.

His clawed toes dug deeper into the black stone of the former Temple of Karabor.

Tyrande.

That very name brought conflicting emotions with it. He had loved her, for her beauty, for her intelligence, for her kindness, for the sheer strength of will that she had, since they had been barely been out of their first century of life.

But it had not been returned in the way he wished. Even back then, he could see the growing closeness between his twin brother and her. It had made him jealous, even more so when his brother seemed oblivious to the attentions she gave him. Couldn't she see that he was just as strong, if not stronger, than his Druidic brother? That he could give her the attention she deserved?

That desire for her attention had been one of the reasons he had walked the arcane path. Azshara had shown him the might one could wield as an arcanist. Perhaps if he was overwhelmingly stronger he could garner her attentions, her desire?

It hadn't worked. Worse, it seemed to make her more distant to him and closer to his brother.

Then there had been the entire mess that was the Sundering and his eventual imprisonment. It still galled him that his brother had been the one to close that dark door, all because of their fear and prejudice of the arcane.

His sacrifices had been for naught.

He had hopes when beautiful Tyrande had freed him from that lonely darkness, to the point of slaying her own people in order to do so, so that he could fight the Legion. His brother hadn't been very happy with that decision.

The later series of events, like his first confrontation with the bastard Arthas, absorbing the power of the Skull of Gul'dan and then utterly destroying Tichondrious and his help with the power he gained, gave him even more hope. He was much stronger now, clearly superior to his brother, and had destroyed an enemy that threatened Tyrande.

The hope turned to ashes. He could clearly remember the expression of disgust and outrage that had adorned her face as Malfurion berated him for his actions, in complete agreement with the Druid's decision to banish him.

Not even a sword blow to the gut could have hurt him more than that expression.

He shook himself, rustling his folded wings. He didn't want to revisit those memories, or the ones that came after. Not now. He had more important things to worry about than a lost love.

He turned his attention back to his son.

He was shaping up well and would be a fine heir when, or if, the time came if he carried on improving as he was. He was everything he could have wanted in a son. Strong. Intelligent (if slightly obtuse and dense regarding females. Then again, most men are, and his was only just getting out of the, to use a human term, 'cooties' stage of his life. Though he had noticed his son had never truly exhibited such signs. Perhaps due to the lack of similar aged beings in the Temple.). Skilled in the paths he had chosen to develop.

Yes, he would grow to be a fine adult.

However, he was still young and had many years to go before he could be considered a complete adult. He lacked real world experience, mostly due to having never been allowed to leave the Temple (there were many enemies out there that wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of his son. At least in the Temple he could relatively guarantee his safety.). Experience that he would eventually need to have.

But his son needed to be stronger, to be a cut above the rest in order to defend himself, before he could let his son leave. Something that his son had wanted to do for quite a while.

He could understand that, his own childhood had been one of relative freedom. Running through the forests, hunting and playing with his brother and Tyrande had made up the majority of those early days...before they had become students of Cenarius.

However times had changed, the world had changed (in no small part because of his own actions).

Not to mention that he suspected there was more to his son's desire to travel than just to get experience and freedom. There had been a light in his eyes, ones that were similar to what his own had been once upon a time, a driving desire and need that was familiar.

His son seemed to mirror him more than he had initially thought.

The dull silver figure of his son far below finally stepped back from his opponent, holding up his hands in surrender. It seemed that his son had finally wore himself out. And it only took hours of endurance training and a lengthy full contact spar with a superior fighter!

He looked up into the sky as he felt a stiff breeze blow, ignoring his son and his tutor as they wandered back into the Temple, no doubt to finally rest.

The alliance talks that were upcoming would be when he would make his final decision regarding his son. The upcoming talks were important and, while not his most favourite pastime, he would need to play the political game rather than one of battle.

Even he wasn't willing to tangle with an entire flight of dragons.

Alright, I know some of you guys are going to be up in arms about my butchering of lore from WoW but, in my defence, I have only played it a little and haven't read the novels. I haven't even seen a comic or manga of it and wouldn't know where to start looking.

That said, what I do know is going to be used and twisted to a point. The Illidan and Vashj we have all come to know aren't exactly around. Shirou's influence is quite strong in them, keeping them from going over the edge into madness, as befitting of a precious child. They still have the same basic traits but they have been changed slightly, making them more towards neutral than chaotic.

However, it is to be remembered that a leopard can't really change it's spots. They can still be cruel and malevolent, having had millennia to become that way, it's just that Shirou brings out their more hidden decent side, at least a little.

In regards to Shirou's current abilities, he still suffers from his 'Incarnation' problem, thus limiting his options on magical education. The warlock path difference is a bit of a cheat really. He doesn't have the ability to compel any demon to do his commands, like a true Warlock could, but he can summon them with magical energy and an item. Think of it more as a summoning contract from Naruto rather than a familiar/enslavement bond.

In regards to his appearance, I can legitimately see him being a throwback, a return to an earlier stage. Naga were originally night elves and Vashj in particular was one of the originals, turned during the Sundering. Mixing with Illidan's blood, they should have made a night elf but, due to the large amounts of arcane and fel energy running in both of them, they get something different. In lore, it was noted that night elves who practiced arcane magic went through gradual and irreversible changes. I just made it so that Shirou had those changes from the start. If you want to get a fix on his appearance, I based it on a male version of Mystique from the X-men Evolution cartoon.

Be aware, however, that he may change as time goes by.

The next chapter will be a bit more interesting. There will be politics and there will be fighting. The enemy that will be faced, however, will require a degree of twisting of WoW lore but hopefully you all will find it enjoyable.

As always, your reviews will be welcomed and appreciated and flamers will be punished.

Best wishes,

Kujikiri21