Recruitment Drives
6/4
Officially, Lillibeth was being punished. Unofficially, she was privately receiving personal training from Selena, the spirit that was now cognitively a near perfect copy of Natalie Selene. Illucia had hatched a plan, using the relationship shift on Darkmaster Gandling to reverse their positions of authority. He may be the headmaster, but all recognized her position of authority as the lady of Caer Darrow as absolute. There had never been much antagonism between the two of them, so it was a smooth transition save the ascendancy of her husband alongside her. Alexei, lord of Caer Darrow, was easy enough to neutralize with a necklace forbidding him from going against the wishes of his wife.
Once that was done, Illucia commanded that each and every student be examined mentally; after all, that piece of work Lillibeth had been very free with her mind altering magic. So was Illucia. With half an hour, a necklace, and a subject that was willing, no matter how grudgingly, she could bind almost anyone to the master’s will. Lillibeth and Selena had a similar rate of success with the students being sent for “correction” as punishment by Malicia and Vectus on trumped up charges, and Vectus had many volunteers for his possession procedure among the least impressive students, now that the first test subjects had risen so meteorically.
With information defense, they were safe. No form of mind reading or detection would indicate the truth about them or what they were doing. The only threats left to them were the members of faculty with the power and inclination to ask questions. Her daughter Illucia was bold because of their familial ties, and of course Ras Frostwhisper. The Lich was a favored student of Kel’Thuzad himself; whatever his official position, he would retain disproportionate influence and the accompanying arrogance.
Jandice would be easy enough, but Illucia suspected that Ras would need to be worked around right up until he could be cornered. Three or four more necklaces would make the process fairly painless, but apparently the master had need of all those that he had. Tonight, when there was time and privacy, Alexei could go through a similar conversion process to her own, and his necklace could be given to Jandice. Then Ras. Then Gandling, then Marduk, Slate, Blackwood, Polkelt, and Kirtonos. All the while, students would be lining up to be examined to ensure that they were following the master properly, or begging Vectus to be captured. Completion of the mission was only a matter of time.
••••••••••
The troggs were no more able to resist Sylvanas than anyone else; even more than the ogres, they were feeble minded. At the master’s insistence, she had brought along the Night Elven priestess to put an arrow in the head of their chief, and a few Dark Iron dwarves to speak with the Shadowforge archaeological team. It was all mostly just a front to get to the real treasure, deep in the complex.
Well, treasures really, and deeply interconnected ones as well. If the master’s information was correct, the titans themselves had stowed a set of magical platinum disks here, which contained a recording of all things that have happened upon the surface of Azeroth since their creation. Obviously valuable, if they could be read. That was, naturally, why the master also wished for their guardians to be captured.
He didn’t know the precise nature of the disks. It was, he admitted, entirely possible they had stopped recording centuries ago. In that case they would be substantially less immediately useful, but still a great boon in many niche situations to one such as he. The guardians, if his memory held up, were builders and craftsmen; useful in their own right.
The fight, such as it was, was not difficult. She requested the assistance of Doan for a few moments, and he was able to place the hooded stone golem in stasis. The watcher was resistant to mental influence, but the necklace was absolute. The disks would have to wait until he was ready. The rest of his servants, living stone statues of dwarves, were far less resistant to the commands of the banshee queen and proved quite sentient. They would hopefully do in the short term, and informed her of another titanic watcher nearby. Excellent; Ironaya would also serve the master.
•••••••••
Ragda scratched herself. Itchy. Lady who smell of death say follow. Ragda follow. Dark skin lady say magic users stand here. Ragda stand there. Ragda flameweaver, very honored. Very smart. Know fire better than most in Stonevault Tribe. Tribe named because they stay in stone vault; other tribes driven off because Stonevault is best.
Dark skin lady look at each Trogg magic user. Flameweavers told to stand there. Ragda smart, so Ragda go stand there before being told. Dark skin lady annoyed, and then happy. Ragda not know why. It obvious the third time flameweaver was chosen to go there. Ragda bored, so watch short pinkskin teaching taller female pinkskin how to make flashy lights. Not fire, so Ragda not that interested, but better than nothing.
Ragda handed pretty metal circle. Told to put on wrist. Metal circle felt nice. Ragda was told to give her name and capabilities by the woman after a few moments of waiting.
“I am Ragda. I am a fire shaper of my tribe. I can throw fire and create defensive wards of flame around my tribesmen.”
“Any martial abilities?” The pointy eared woman asked with a bored tone.
“I can use a club, but need to use fire to get respect.” A nod.
“You will be assigned to the first consort’s entourage. Hopefully your skills will transfer appropriately.”
Ragda nodded, unsure of what exactly that meant, but hoping it would be explained if she followed along. She soon felt her body begin to grow and twist, as her large flat face took on the slim, angular features of the woman she’d been speaking with, and her legs lengthened and were covered with soft, smooth scales. She noticed how incredibly attractive all of the people around her were, save the members of her tribe still gathered behind her, and was excited to join their ranks. She had difficulty finding sexual partners, which in retrospect was probably because of her tendency to employ fire when she wanted something. Somehow she suspected that wouldn’t be a problem going forward. Wings grew from her back, which was the last of the pleasant changes.
Fire flooded through her body, but not the kind she knew. A tainted, poisonous fire. It was like being chewed on by a great beast, being sick, and being on fire all at once. However, it was a passing thing. A few minutes, and she was perfect. Fire was at her fingertips and her body and mind were both stronger and more beautiful than ever before.
“You feeling alright?” Her new tribe mate, one of the people running this process, asked her kindly. All around her, the other Fireweavers were going through the same process.
“Wonderful. What am I supposed to do now?” Ragda felt nervous energy flowing through her. She wanted to be helpful, partly to repay these gifts she’d been given. She felt so incredibly thankful.
“Over there, you’ll need to be bound by one of the warlocks for your own safety, and then receive training on how to assume a visage. After that you’ll be allowed to start attending to Mistress Lividia and sort out further training with the other Flameborn.”
At the mention of Lividia, Ragda’s heart swelled with excitement. She would get to meet her mistress! The only thing more wonderful would be if she were selected personally to assist her in some way. Truly, she was blessed above all others.
She regretfully handed back the necklace so one of her tribesmen could be blessed, joined the line full of other newly transformed troggs and chatted with her kin, all of whom had taken far more aesthetically pleasing forms. Most of those who were warriors, the majority, had not been gifted as much brilliance as she, but she felt closer to them than she ever had before being brought into the fold. There were only so many warlocks available to “bind” them, so there was time to chat.
There was so much to talk about, but the easy topics included their future assignments, the strange and eclectic clothes that the ones titled “dommes” had been gifted, philosophical debate about what (if anything) had been lost in this transition, hopes for what new skills they might be able to develop, gentle mockery of their own former stupidity, and guessing games where they tried to identify newcomers as they joined the queue.
There were well over a dozen teachers explaining how to take a visage, and each of the Flameborn and Spellscales were temporarily gifted with an encyclopedic understanding of all the things which every male and female member of the retinue found attractive in a prospective mate. Ragda tried to ask what Lord Bismark and Lady Lividia liked in a woman, but was gently told that their specific interests were mixed in with all the others to ensure some diversity. Damn.
She settled upon one appearance eventually, which was approved by her warlock as being acceptable. She wasn’t entirely comfortable until the necklace was placed around her neck and she realized that it was the truest and most comfortable expression of herself possible, with her combat form coming in as a close second.
Her head was spinning, but she felt… happy. Not giddy, except for the anticipation towards meeting Mistress Lividia. Her life just felt vastly improved compared to this morning, and she felt earnestly optimistic about what would come next. She was vaguely aware that she had been enslaved and transformed. She couldn’t think of a single reason, logical or emotional, to consider that a bad thing. If she could, she’d ask to have it removed; why be unhappy?
••••••••••
There was a festival in the Undercity, and Gretchen couldn’t stop herself from smiling. The Grand Apothecaries had finally found a cure for undeath. Gretchen knew that it employed the powerful necklaces Lord Bismark had granted them, so Putress couldn’t be given full credit, but he had figured out the process. He would surely be rewarded.
If one were transformed into a Nathrezim, a demon charged with death magic, and then into a normal demon, the taint of undeath was cleansed from the body. It was an excruciating process, compared by most to being burnt in a pyre, but they said it with a grin and their first glass of wine since the Third War.
Men were far more prone to going through the process; they had lost so much more than the women, who mostly only went for it if they wanted to be mothers. After all, they could taste, feel, and hear well enough. A few girls here and there wanted back the capacity to be ugly; they tended to be a bit disappointed to find themselves rejuvenated by the process of being captured, young and beautiful by default even as living women. At least until their body dysmorphia was tidily swept away; so much easier to remove the offending thought than to change the world to compensate for it. More reliable, too.
Many of the deathguard were, of course, going to remain as Nathrezim so as to be bound to warlocks. That was likely to be Gretchen’s own approach, especially since she could bypass the biggest drawback of the transformation: she didn’t need a whole new wardrobe because as a huntress she had perfectly tailored armor and cloak whenever she wanted. No matter; making new armor for everyone would be expensive but worthwhile, and the expense itself was hardly a bad thing right now. Three dozen suits of dark iron armor had been commissioned already.
Hybrid forms were still being studied; Gretchen very much hoped that she’d be able to have a few options by the time she was transformed. She still wanted to be pretty. A form that was part dragon would be ideal; a visage would make the aesthetics of the base form a moot point, but on their own the nathrezim were not very attractive. For now she would wait her turn. It seemed distinctly wrong to steal even a few minutes of life from a man who hadn’t felt physical pleasure in decades. Besides, those outside of the retinue were lining up for the new and improved procedure. Their numbers were growing admirably.