Chapter Text
It was time.
‘They sleep. They will not know.’
Makios nodded in the darkness, sitting up and moving only his eyes to survey his surroundings. The twenty or so members of his Order slept peacefully, so exhausted from running around Silithus all day that not even the clack of hooves against wooden flooring could wake them.
‘Go. Go now.’
He worked quickly, peeling back the blankets to reveal two large bundles of Azerite, each wrapped in cloth so dark not a single ray of light could escape it. Shadoweave, the exact same kind his shirt and pants were made of. They kept him cool and collected as he worked, and also offered quite a stylish purple tint to what would otherwise be an unusually gothic Summer outfit.
His Order had come here to assist the Alliance Expedition and learn about the Azerite, a new substance stirred from the depths of Azeroth’s core when Sargeras had stuck his sword into it. Makios had helped them as he always did, but upon close inspection of an Azerite crystal he’d been reprimanded as if little more than a child.
’Don’t eat it, you fool! What’s wrong with you?’
Usually he would’ve hung his head and apologized like a good boy. Usually. But as of late, he’d been noticing things. Barely anyone in his Order respected him, least of all the Exarch who never seemed to recognize the good Makios did with his Light-based healing. No, he only ever noticed when Makios did something wrong, such as mercy-killing tortured prisoners who were begging to die or shying from combat that could’ve taken his life.
It was not fair. And Makios had had enough.
Holding the Azerite made him feel something. It was like his cowardice melted away the longer he stared at the crystal, rubbing his thumb along the gold and blue sides of it in wonderment. Thoughts blossomed in his mind of glory and valiance, of recognition for his deeds and a version of his life where he felt secure. Safe. Welcome. Loved.
He’d not brought his scythe to Silithus – an ancient artifact from Mac’Aree, the Scythe of the High Wakener. Used in Soulbinding and summoning the trapped spirits of two Constellars who could turn the tide in any battle. He kept that thing at home, and was glad he had because boy was he tempted to take someone’s life tonight. Holding the azerite close gave him the courage he needed, but what little Light remained in his darkened mind urged him against it. He had to be strong. A paragon of justice. A good lad.
‘But for who?’
It was, indeed, time. He slid out of bed, floorboards creaking beneath his solid hooves as he exited the barracks with his azerite, sunhat and staff. Alright, it was a walking stick he’d picked up in Feralas, but it looked cool. Let him live.
Makios cast his blank gaze to the innocent, sleeping Draenei behind him. Some were his friends – or friendly acquaintances, anyway. Others? He’d gladly see fall in battle. The Shadows were whispering to him, urging his darkest desires to take shape. He had his dagger, Horngore the Ender, strapped to his thigh. But now was not the time. He had to make off with this Azerite before anyone thought to stop him – at close range, he would be well and truly fucked if a plate-wearing Paladin decided they wanted mincemeat out of his tail.
He levitated himself up an inch with a touch of holy magic, floating down the stairs which had threatened to break under his weight once before. All the wood in this blasted place was dry and brittle. Dangerous. He couldn’t take any chances. It was a bit unwieldy to manage all the things he was carrying, but he didn’t know how the Azerite would react to being lifted by the Light. The Exarch had forbidden experimenting with the stuff. Bastard.
‘It will all be undone.’
“Oh, shut up.” Makios hissed under his breath, freezing as something clicked behind him. Out from behind the barracks strode two shadowy figures, hunched and wearing nothing but tattered purple cloaks. Their naked, shriveled bodies glistened with sweat, and as Makios turned he noted them to be Krokul. The same ones who’d been following him for months since the incident on Argus. Would they ever leave?
“Anchorite.” Said Gavuun, the one on the left. “Where are you going?” In his hand he held a standard-issue Boomstick, a sawed-off gun that could be operated with two fingers. Krokul had three. And Makios’s hands were full.
Drawing himself up to his full height of eight and a half feet, Makios glowered down at the two Krokul.
“How dare you point that thing at me?”
Gavuun and Bhaatok exchanged glances. This indignant confidence was new. And mighty suspicious.
“The Shadows grip you.” Bhaatok noted.
“And?” Makios clutched the Azerite closer to his chest, letting his tail keep hold of his stick. “I am a Priest, in case you didn’t know. We use both Light and Shadow to-”
“What’s that you’ve got there?” Gavuun interrupted Makios and that was the last straw. Gentle golden eyes narrowed to thin purple slits and when he spoke, the Anchorite’s voice was full of hate.
“I’ve just about had enough of you.” His tail lashed to the right, and from the tip of his staff came an eerie purple glow that drew Gavuun’s attention at once. “You worthless, disgusting… v’shaaq gshkshkn il’kazcsnrrk!” The glow vanished as soon as it had come, energies invisible to the untrained eye shooting out at the two Krokul and diving down their throats. It crushed them from within, filling their minds with black despair and endless, endless screaming. Gavuun’s fingers twitched and the Boomstick fell to the ground, thankfully with the safety lock on so it didn’t explode. Bhaatok’s eyes rolled back into his head and he convulsed violently, somehow standing in place as his limbs twitched and dark blue ichor seeped from his ears. He opened his mouth to cry and only coughed up blood, emptying the contents of his sodden lungs out onto the ground before faceplanting into it, shivering. Gavuun stared at Makios, reaching a hand out to him that was rapidly deteriorating into nothing but skin and bone. Then, not even skin. It melted off him, sloughing off in bluish-black strips until the Krokul was little more than a skeleton curled into a ball.
But Makios wasn’t finished yet. The Shadows weren’t finished yet.
He needed a free hand for this – so Makios set down the Azerite, curling the bulk of his tail around the two bundles to keep them secure. He no longer looked the part of the innocent, chubby Priest – his hands were clawed, nails lengthened in the shadows so dark not even moonlight would illuminate them. Elune had fucked off for the day. She didn’t get paid enough to deal with this shit. His golden blonde hair looked white and stringy, sticking to his face in a mixture of sweat and translucent, lilac-tinted energies.
“Come,” Makios growled in Shath’yar. “Join us.” The clawed fingers clenched into a fist, and in one smooth motion the Krokul’s tormented souls were ripped from their bodies. Makios forced them to bend under his will – the Light had abandoned them long ago, so they had nowhere to flee. And then he shoved them into his mouth, which by now resembled a twisted, jagged maw as the Void covered his entire being in thick, tenebrous goop. He knew not what this urge was to consume, devour, rend and tear. But he did, uncontrollable hunger driving him to absorb what meager power the Krokul had and assimilate it with his own life force. His very ancient, corruptible life force.
The surge of energy that ran through him was glorious. Tentacles burst from his shoulders and flailed with renewed vigor, all the while his hooves carried him and his Azerite far, far away from the Alliance settlement. He slid weightlessly along the sand, leaving a trail of violet energy up until he met Kalimdor’s Western sea. He sought no passage away but rather found himself a nice rocky outcropping within which he could hide. And so he hid all throughout the night, giggling softly as he was pulled deeper and deeper into madness.