#whelpling

[thebaronfelidae]

Aromantic

[artofgeist]

Painted a lil dude to practice my mini-painting skills. A blue whelpling! I had to start with the blue dragonflight because they are my favorite.

[wp100]

every time i get a rare drop on WoW that i farmed a very, very long time, for, i'm like, 'what now?'

it's a weird feeling. like... damn what do i chase next lol. and 9 times out of 10 i never use the pet, toy or mount anyway (except for the Infinite Timereaver, god i'm still so stoked i got it!)

[hereisfufu]

Shandris: My straight parents and uncle bring me to a Gay Party... Amazing!

I brought my cat to visit different vet oncologists throughout June. Finally, I finished this work before the end of Pride Month! I drew Chromie holding my kitty because I wish she could take my cat back to last year when the poor little baby was still healthy.😭

*In 48 hours, 1 reblog = 1 Wrathion Whelp, I’ll draw a big picture for those chubby whelplings!!! Trust me I’m not crazy. *

Thank you all for reposting my previous post and supporting me by making commissions! I have prepared a gift for everyone who loves my art: Happy Pride Skeletal Warriors! (Inspired by Lurid, a minion of Thassarian). You can download them for free on my Ko-fi page and use them as emojis or icons!

I also added some emojis of the Slime Cat from Shadowland, but I turned them into RAINBOW! I hope my cat won't become a Slime Cat too soon… If you are interested in these emojis or just want to help my kitty, please check out my Ko-fi shop and get your favorite Slime Cat!

And my commissions are always open. If you want an icon, an emoji, or something unique for your guild, please don't hesitate to contact me through my Ko-fi page or DM me on Tumblr!

Love is the same, just like our bones. I wish every human, furry friends, skeletons can enjoy this summer. ; -D

[skymagpieart]

Art Fight revenge for my bestie @alchememe of Ahtinion and a baby whelpling sitting on her stomach and yes she is laying on the side like dogs do when resting because I think we need more dragon content like that, in general 🖤

[druidonity2]

Genn (Wilderling) with his whelpling Tess (Winding Slitherdrake)

[spiderjumper]

Is it just me or have i never heard Mahatma call Kamor a nickname? I mean Hipswitch calls kamor partner, Albus calls Kamor whelp/whelpling, Atilla calls Kamor test subject, and I don't think i even heard Mahatma call kamor a nickname.

[warcraft-lore-archives]

War of the Scaleborn Lore Facts

The War of the Scaleborn: A Timeline

Mounting Tensions

The events of the novel start just over a decade after Galakrond’s demise (32). By the end, it has been around five centuries or so since the dragons were granted the titans’ gifts (368).

Tyr, worried the dragonflights needed to grow more quickly to face whatever threats might arise, commanded Alexstrasza to take primal dragon eggs from the wild and forcibly infuse them with Order magic (19, 24). Ysera and Nozdormu disagreed with this course of action, but Malygos and Neltharion persuaded the Dragon Queen it was necessary. Alexstrasza ultimately acquiesced to Tyr’s demand with one stipulation - that they only take unguarded eggs that had been abandoned (23-25). It seems, however, that this edict was not always obeyed; some of the primal dragons reported their entire clutches being stolen time and time again (83, 206).

The dragons placed no restrictions on ordering dragons who were with clutch as long as they consented (134).

The whelplings born of primal eggs taken from the Dragonwilds were aware they had been stolen, many remembering vague sensations of Order magic transforming them while still in the shell (53, 83, 133, 206). Vyranoth expected hundreds, if not thousands, of eggs were stolen over the course of the war (211). 

The Aspects engaged in diplomatic relations with the primal dragons for two centuries, Wyrmrest Temple acting as a neutral embassy between the factions. Unfortunately, the Winterskorn War only served to increase the primal dragons’ mistrust of the titan-forged and, consequently, the Aspects (44, 175). 

Iridikron launched a propaganda campaign against the ordered dragons, claiming they were responsible for everything from forcing Order magic on tarasek to the primal dragons being pushed out of their hunting grounds. Iridikron continued this campaign by forcing his clutch-sister, Ikronia, to burn down the towns of tarasek and mortals alike, spurring even more negative sentiment against the ordered dragons (74-76, 88). Some mortals actually joined Iridikron’s forces as a result (76). 

It was at this time Iridikron officially named his faction of followers the Primalists (117).

Raszageth and Ikronia terrorized mortal and tarasek settlements for 50 years (116).

While Raszageth often attacked ordered dragons on the edge of the Broodlands, she never dared to fully cross the border until her final attacks on the Reach (126). 

Despite Raszageth’s attacks on their borders and Iridikron’s rapidly growing army - stirred by primalist propaganda as it was -, Alexstrasza strove for peace (88). 

Neltharion attempted many times over the years to send emissaries to meet with Iridikron in Harrowsdeep, but all were turned away, sometimes even violently (88).

Alexstrasza allowed the primal dragons to hunt in the territories around Wyrmrest Temple so long as they did not harass the ordered dragons (111).

Alexstrasza forbade the drakes from fighting with the primal dragons unless lives were at stake (136).

A Rising Storm

Though it was not the case initially, the primalist forces outnumbered the Aspects’ at the onset of the war by three-to-one (115, 198-199).

Neltharion kept the truth of Tyr’s death from the dragonflights, though the Aspects knew (112). It was not until war officially broke out many decades after the keeper’s death that the ordered dragons found out the truth (230-231).

Stormsunder Crater, a region in the eastern part of the Forbidden Reach, was formed when Raszageth crashed to the ground during her assault on Neltharion’s dracthyr (154). 

Raszageth’s attack on the Reach came to be known as the Battle of Stormsunder (242). 

Neltharion did not want word of what transpired that day in the Reach - and the dark truth of what he did - to get out. Nor did he want Iridikron to turn the dracthyr against the Aspects. Afraid he could not manage either of those things without the control Oathbinder afforded him over the dracthyr, he gave them one last command with the remains of the destroyed artifact and sent them back to their creches (158, 164). A short time later, Malygos would freeze all of the dracthyr in a deep slumber (165).

Neltharion lied to Malygos about what happened at the Reach, telling his old friend that he’d personally attacked and incapacitated Raszageth before imprisoning her (161).

Malygos agreed to help Neltharion conceal the truth of what occurred at the Reach under two conditions: 1) that he would be in Malygos’ debt, to be called upon at any time, and 2) they tell Alexstrasza the Incarnates attacked the Reach right away (163).

Neltharion did not want to tell Alexstrasza about the dracthyr out of concerns that the Dragon Queen, dedicated to peace as she was, would disapprove of his choice to breed soldiers for war (161).

After Raszageth’s attack on the Reach, Alexstrasza declared all primal dragons banned from the Broodlands and Wyrmrest Temple (168). 

Battle Rages

At Iridikron’s behest, a newly-made Incarnate Vyranoth and the Primalist forces attacked Wyrmrest Temple in retaliation for Raszageth’s imprisonment. Aside from Raszageth’s attack on the Reach, this was the first battle of the war (183-184). 

Iridikron later launched another attack on Wyrmrest Temple in an event now known as the Battle of Dragonblight. The ordered dragons won, but at the cost of any territory they had beyond Wyrmrest Temple (219).

Iridikron and other primal dragons often sent earthquakes throughout the Broodlands in covert attempts to destabilize the ordered dragons’ efforts. In response, the blue and black dragonflights erected a series of magical obelisks along the Broodlands’ border that would make the land impervious to Iridikron’s earthly attacks. Each of these obelisks was connected to Vakthros through a ley line (86, 201). 

During the war, Malygos lobbied to alter the obelisks so that they would form a shield of sorts over the Broodlands. Unfortunately, Malygos warned the strain placed on them would cause the already old obelisks to give out in a year’s time. They lasted twenty-five, falling victim to sabotage from within at the last (201-202, 219, 225, 235).

The ordered dragons suffered only a hundred casualties over the first twenty-four years of battle while the Primalists lost about a thousand (220).

Nozdormu was the one to suggest building a vault to hold the Incarnates in perpetual stasis, though it was Alexstrasza who inspired the idea by insisting they not kill them (205).

Alexstrasza established flight academies for drakes at this time to teach them the skills they would need to defend the Broodlands (220).

Nozdormu saw a potential alternate timeline in which Alexstrasza hunted down and killed each of the Incarnates, one by one. The dark truth of what she had done in that timeline broke the alternate Dragon Queen’s mind, causing her to terrorize the world. In another, she forced all dragons to choose between Order magic or death (223). 

Nozdormu also told Alexstrasza that her death would inevitably lose them the war in every timeline (224). 

According to Nozdormu, Fyrakk was always the first or second to fall in the potential timelines he saw (246).

Six ordered drakes, among those who had been stolen from the Dragonwilds as eggs, turned against the Aspects in outrage when they learned the truth of their upbringing. Their ranks included Talinstrasz, Sirigosa, Ellegos, Nolizdormu, Azarian, and Ivarus. They were the ones who sabotaged the magical barrier protecting the Broodlands (227). Sirigosa would later claim she saw the error of her ways and repent (280).

Malygos was the one who captured and imprisoned Fyrakk in a conflict now known as the Battle of Flamesfall. He weaved an illusion over himself to appear as Alexstrasza, then whisked the Incarnate through a portal to the Vault once they engaged in combat. Ysera put Fyrakk in a deep slumber, allowing the Aspects to imprison the Incarnate once and for all (258-259, 265).

Five hundred of the Primalists’ forces were slain in the Battle of Flamesfall. It was the second single greatest loss of life during the war, second only to the Battle of Emberfall in which a thousand casualties were suffered between both sides (265, 267).

In the Battle of Emberfall, the brood-mother Oxoria made a push into the Reach to free Raszageth. Nearly two hundred of the black dragonflight perished in the battle (267).

The red dragonflight also had to contend with a growing force of djaradin encroaching on the Waking Shores at this time (267).

The djaradin had only become increasingly hostile in the last century, perhaps using the ongoing war to their advantage to claim territory in the Waking Shores (269).

Alexstrasza forbade drakes from fighting on the front lines against full-grown primal dragons (270).

As time went on, betrayals became more common among the ordered dragons. Black dragons played double agent, bronzes attempted to reverse time to help the Primalists, and members of the green and red dragonflights made a bid to kidnap eggs from the life pools, among other things. Many of them were imprisoned beneath the Obsidian Citadel and later freed by the Primalists (270, 277-278).

Iridikron’s Rockfuries did not personally join the battle until centuries into the war (287).

Alexstrasza challenged Vyranoth to single combat. The terms were such that if the Dragon Queen were to win, Vyranoth would consent to being imprisoned within the Vault of the Incarnates or perish. The duel was held at the Icebound Eye, part of Vyranoth’s territory (290, 293, 300, 319). This event occurred over fifty years after Fyrakk’s imprisonment (266-267, 289). 

Upon Vyranoth’s defeat and subsequent imprisonment, her dragon companions swore to join Alexstrasza’s cause as long as she honored her original promise to Vyranoth and not force Order magic on them (321).

For centuries, Iridikron’s earthquakes had been part of a plan to carve out secret caverns and tunnels under the earth for an eventual underground attack on Valdrakken (298). 

For the next few decades after the battle at Valdrakken, Iridikron tried and failed to create more Incarnates to replace his lost commanders (331). 

It wasn’t until the end of the war - after three Incarnates had been imprisoned - that Iridikron turned to the djaradin (334).

After Razviik, Mithruz was Vyranoth’s third-in-command. He would fall in single combat against Ysera toward the end of the war (235, 325). 

Neltharion ultimately subdued Iridikron by using the gifts the Old Gods gave him. He vowed to himself it would be the last time he ever gave in to the whispers (371-372). 

As part of the negotiations made between the ordered dragons and the remaining Primalists at the end of the war, Alexstrasza promised to withdraw from the Dragonwilds and grant them to the primal dragons. She also swore that no primal egg would be stolen from its nest ever again (375). 

Alexstrasza then personally visited each dragon that had been taken and ordered in the shell, promising all of them a boon as recompense for the act she had committed without their consent (376, 378). 

Alexstrasza and the Aspects resolved to never speak of the War of the Scaleborn again, wishing to avoid imposing the horrors of it upon future generations (380).

The Vault of the Incarnates was bound with three magical protections: one of time, one of arcane, and one of stone (381). 

Alexstrasza & The Red Dragonflight

Before and during the War of the Scaleborn, a red dragon by the name of Saristrasz acted as Alexstrasza’s majordomo (5, 301).

Tyranastrasz, one of the Dragon Queen’s consorts before his death during the Second War, may have actually been her mate as far back as when they were proto-dragons (8). 

Alexstrasza knew the name of every dragon hatched at the life pools (133).

The Ruby Flamebringers served directly under Alexstrasza (272).

Neltharion & The Black Dragonflight

The black dragonflight’s majordomo was Nalaxa (159). 

A black dragon by the name of Umbrenion was principal architect of the Obsidian Citadel and various structures within Zaralek Cavern (29).

The Shadowscales were a military sect of black dragons dedicated to gathering intelligence on the enemy. They were led by Egnion (61, 86).

The Ironscales were one of the largest battalions in any dragonflight, numbering nearly two hundred (304). By the end of the war, they still boasted around one-hundred-fifty (346).

The Onyx Reavers of the black dragonflight were incredibly deadly in combat. They used their speed to their advantage, often dropping on unsuspecting enemies from above at such breakneck speeds that they would easily shatter their enemies against the ground (236, 254).

Custom dictated that the bodies of black dragons be burned, their bones interred in mausoleums in the Veiled Ossuary, and their ashes spread over the magma falls in the Waking Shores so that they could return to the earth from which they originally drew power (160, 242).  

Neltharion had heard whispers since even before he became Aspect. It wasn’t until sometime in the next two hundred years that they grew stronger, afflicting him with tormenting thoughts and whispers. He never told another soul about them (87).

Neltharion heard at least four separate voices whispering to him (87). This is of note since at this point, Aman’Thul had already dealt with Y’Shaarj, leaving just three Old Gods.

Neltharion experimented on mortals in secret for years, seeking to understand them so that he could create a hybrid army capable of withstanding the primals’ burgeoning might (105).

At this time, Rashok was captured by the black dragonflight and imprisoned within Aberrus (105-106).

Neltharion discovered Oathbinder deep within a titan vault. He asked the titan-forged to modify it so he could use it on the dracthyr specifically (149).

Neltharion was still mostly in control of his faculties after submitting to the Old Gods during the battle at the Reach, though he acknowledged he would never again be the same after letting them in (157). With time, the whispers would only grow stronger, sometimes even debilitating (195).

The black dragonflight spent 300 years preparing for war in secret, having started forging a massive cache of armor and weapons since the day after their oathstone was empowered. In doing so, they developed new forms of blacksteel and elementium, lightweight metals that could provide the dragons protection in the air (193).

The Blue Dragonflight

Beregos was the archlibrarian of the Azure Archives (220).

Centuries after Iridikron began his movement against the Aspects, the blue dragonflight learned how to summon and control arcane elementals (130).

The blue dragonflight frequently employed arcane elementals glamoured as dragons on the field of battle to make their numbers look bigger than they actually were (282).

Malygos and Nozdormu usually fought side by side (281).

Malygos was able to enchant stones that would portal a dragon at a moment’s notice, should the need arise (342, 361).

The Bronze Dragonflight

During the war, the bronze dragons discovered they could reverse wounds with time magic (267).

The Green Dragonflight

The green dragonflight’s majordomo was Vathira (208).

Toward the end of the half-century Raszageth perpetrated attacks against ordered dragons, Ysera oversaw the creation of the Eye of Ysera within the Dream (126).

The Incarnates

Thanks to Fyrakk’s help, Iridikron discovered the means by which primal dragons could imbue themselves with elemental energies and become Incarnates. It is unclear if this means Fyrakk uncovered the crucial knowledge, or if his being the first to survive the process simply helped Iridikron crack the code in his own discoveries (though the latter seems more likely) (33-34). 

Hundreds of primal dragons perished in the initial attempts to infuse themselves with elemental powers. Fyrakk was the first to succeed, followed by Iridikron, who then helped Raszageth through the necessary rituals (31, 32, 36). Iridikron did not consult Fyrakk when he opted to add Raszageth to the Incarnates’ ranks, something which greatly angered the fire dragon (31). 

While ideologically opposed to visage forms, the Incarnates decided taking on forms rooted in the elements could give them a tactical advantage in the war (116).

Fyrakk

Fyrakk is Alexstrasza’s cousin. He was the one who taught the Dragon Queen how to hunt and fight (21, 179, 248).

Iridikron

Neltharion and Iridikron had long been rivals by this time, though they were once close thanks to their shared interests in the earth. While it is unclear exactly when they grew apart, it seems likely their disagreements over the titans’ gifts caused a rift to form between the two dragons (22, 86, 124).

Even as an Incarnate, Iridikron was smaller than Neltharion (124).

Though Alexstrasza was close friends with Vyranoth and cousin to Fyrakk, she had never actually met Iridikron (22).

Iridikron had a sister named Ikronia who willingly submitted to Order magic and became a black dragon (70-71). Few of the primalists knew she even existed (169). Though allied with the Primalists, she perished at Raszageth’s hands during the Incarnate’s attack on the Reach (148).

Vyranoth

Vyranoth initially thought Iridikron no better than the Aspects, having altered himself for the sake of power just like them (46). Though he obsessively sought to recruit her to his side, she refused to pick either him or Alexstrasza over each other, instead desiring peace and neutrality (49). 

Vyranoth hadn’t laid a clutch of her own in centuries, having declined to take a new mate ever since Galakrond slew her last one (50). 

Alexstrasza and Vyranoth used to meet for a hunt at least once a season (61). 

Razviik, once of the proto-drakes Vyranoth had taken under her wing, was the one to bestow the moniker “the Frozenheart” upon her (206).

The Mortals

A tribe of trolls took up residence in Apex Canopy, a small region in southwestern Waking Shores. Having seen that they would shape the fate of the world in time, Nozdormu informed Neltharion who then told the other Aspects of his plans to reach out to them. Each of the Aspects, cloaked in an invisibility spell by Malygos, descended upon the settlement to investigate the mortals (63-65).

Neltharion claimed the trolls migrated to the Broodlands from larger well-established civilizations in the south (65).

The Aspects debated over how best to approach the mortals. Ysera thought they shouldn’t interfere with their development, but Nozdormu insisted a relationship between dragonkind and the mortal races would be important in times to come (65-66). 

Ysera was the first one to propose the dragons don visage forms to empathize with and understand the mortals (66-67).

Malygos initially wove illusions around the Aspects, trying to mimic mortal forms to little avail (67). 

Alexstrasza eventually sent emissaries to the mortals cloaked in temporary visages developed by Malygos (103).

Both the green and red dragonflights took to visage forms much more quickly than any of the other flights. As a result, the mortals forged strong bonds with the green dragonflight and moved in great numbers to the Emerald Plains (112, 131).

After five years, the mortal settlements in the Broodlands grew to triple their initial size (103).

By this time, mortals had trained wolves to hunt alongside them (104).

The dragonflights began forging relationships with Northrend’s indigenous mortal races as well (111).

The dragons gifted technology and knowledge of projectile weapons to the mortal tribes living in Apex Canopy so that they could defend themselves in the event of an attack (176).

Locations in Lore

The Aspects were the ones who conceived of Valdrakken, not the titan keepers. That said, Tyr may very well have influenced its building by teaching Alexstrasza about cities (4, 11).

While the Dragon Isles were originally known as the Broodlands, the vast expanse of territory beyond them - stretching far into modern-day Northrend - was called the ‘Dragonwilds’. The Aspects’ law covered the disparate territories of the Broodlands, but did not extend to the Dragonwilds. As a result, many primal dragons averse to the titans’ influence chose to live there instead of the Dragon Isles (14, 31-32).

Iridikron was rather reclusive and usually kept to his underground den, a place called Harrowsdeep near the Stormscale mountain range, part of what is now known as Northrend (22, 31, 39). Vyranoth’s aerie was in the ‘Frozen Fangs’ - likely Icecrown - while Fyrakk made his home in the ‘Caldera’ (33, 49, 81).

Raszageth’s aerie, the Whorl, was the closest of the Incarnates’ dwellings to the Broodlands (169).

Wyrmrest Temple was constructed simultaneously with Valdrakken (32).

Twenty years after Wyrmrest Temple was built, construction finished on the Obsidian Citadel. Shortly after that, Vakthros was completed as well (43-44). 

Alexstrasza had an upper tier added to the Ruby Life Pools two centuries later after its original establishment (48).

Construction on the Vault of the Incarnates was completed after twenty-five years (222-223).

Stormsunder Crater, a region in the eastern part of the Forbidden Reach, was formed when Raszageth crashed to the ground during her assault on Neltharion’s dracthyr (154). 

The mountain range at the northern edge of the Dragon Isles is called the Scalecracker Peaks (159).

The mountain range housing the Obisidian Citadel is called the Black Mountains (254).

The mountain range on the eastern edge of Thaldraszus was one of the tallest mountain ranges in northern Kalimdor, rivaled only by the Storm Peaks (266).

Some of the many new regions mentioned in the War of the Scaleborn, exact locations unspecified, include: Icewing Rift, the Molten Abyss, Emberstone, the Glacial Maw, Frostfire Chasm, Cinderfrost Vale (220, 237, 249, 254). 

Sawtooth Mountain was near Wyrmrest Temple (336).

The Icebound Eye was a natural sinkhole in the Frozen Fangs (294).

The earth tendrils curving around the Vault of the Incarnates are not naturally occurring structures. They were made when Neltharion ossified lava Iridikron pulled from the surrounding magma pools during their confrontation at the Vault (316).

Misc

Drakonid are actually tarasek who have been transformed by Order magic, not unlike the dragons (14).

Ordered creatures apparently take on a subtle scent of something akin to “smoke and stardust” (15).

Only one in four whelplings in the primal dragonwilds ever made it to drakehood. Alexstrasza supposed barely half of those even saw half a century of life (25).

Primal dragons often abandoned their young when they grew into drakes, though one brood mother - Oxoria - was notorious for raising broods with sustained familial bonds (200).

The ordered dragons’ whelplings were raised communally, allowing their parents to be as involved in the upbringing as they desired. Sometimes this meant they chose not to be involved at all, complete strangers to their offspring (53, 135). 

Dragons can be identified by their scales (92).

It is not unusual for one to experience great disorientation and vertigo after their first portal travel. It can take hours to recover (259).

Captain Drine has been guarding Valdrakken ever since the War of the Scaleborn (305).

The dragons were under the impression that they needed titan keepers to create more Aspects (322, 326). 

The Dragon Isles are the djaradin’s ancestral lands (334).

[medivvh]

spent another 4 hours in wetlands for it to drop...........

.....drop NOTHING THAT IS!

Also yesterday I spent the last dregs of my free time grinding in wetlands for 4 HOURS for the Crimson Whelpling with no payoff. No whelp no tol vir rares no mount drops no wrathion sorry I thibk m pills have kicked in

[thebaronfelidae]

Bear

[artofgeist]

Black whelp complete! Only red and bronze left. And I'm probably going to make a surprise infinite one for hubby.

[zeke-fanfucs]

Soooooo, my high is coming down. But, I wanted to make another FanFic of Kamor regaining his voice.

There’s like a lot of deep feelings talk. AGAIN, I have no clue how GBA will lead the story of Bastards vs Zombies. This is my guilt pleasure.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Echoes Unchained

The sky above was painted in thick, rolling clouds, the kind that promised rain but weren’t in a rush to deliver. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth as Kamor and Albus made their way through the streets of Maya, arms full of grocery bags and energy chargers stacked awkwardly between them.

“Y’know, Welp,” Albus started, a teasing grin pulling at his lips as he adjusted the weight of his bags, “for someone who barely eats, you sure seem to stock up on a helluva lot of snacks.”

Kamor huffed through his nose, shooting Albus a deadpan look before shifting the bags in his arms. He had long since accepted that Albus’s favorite pastime was running his mouth. And since Kamor was still mute, that meant Albus got to do all the talking.

Not that Kamor minded.

He was tired. His limbs ached from the brutal morning training session Albus had put him through. Mahatma had barely given them time to catch their breath before handing them a list of things to pick up, all while Attila shifted to control, making it very clear that no, they couldn’t put it off until later.

Kamor yawned, his body heavy with exhaustion, but there was a strange lightness in his chest. This was… nice. The normalcy of it all.

Albus nudged him with his elbow, forcing Kamor to glance his way. “You sure you ain’t gonna just drop from exhaustion? ‘Cause I will leave your ass in the street if you pass out.”

Kamor rolled his eyes but smirked, shifting one of the bags to smack Albus’s side with it.

“Rude,” Albus scoffed, but he was grinning. “So ungrateful. Here I am, worried about my dear, fragile little whelpling—”

Kamor sent him an unimpressed glare.

“—and this is the thanks I get?”

Kamor exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as they continued walking.

The market street was still bustling despite the looming rain. Vendors were shouting out their prices, people bartered loudly, and children darted between the stalls, laughter ringing in the air. It was lively, loud, and just chaotic enough to feel like home.

Kamor could almost forget the ache in his muscles, almost forget the lingering weight in his chest.

Then, from the corner of his vision, something shifted. A sound—subtle, but sharp—cut through the noise of the market.

Kamor stiffened. His instincts screamed at him before his mind could catch up, and before he even realized what he was doing, he had dropped the bags. His body moved on its own. He reached out. And then—

“Oi! Kamor! What the hell—”

A shove. A crash. The sound of something colliding against stone. And suddenly, the world around him went deathly silent.

_____ (𓁹 𓁹) <(Hello)_____

Kamor’s body felt weightless, adrift in an endless void of swirling shadows and faint glimmers of light. The familiar warmth of SpringRock’s dusty air was gone, replaced by a suffocating stillness. The only sound was the eerie, static-like hum that filled the space around him—until it was interrupted by a familiar, maddening laugh.

Mad Crow.

The voice slithered through the void like oil on water, rich with amusement and something far more sinister.

“Oh, how the little mute runs in circles, chasing after scraps of his past,” Mad Crow sneered. His form, a twisted, ever-shifting mass of feathers and darkness, loomed above Kamor. Glowing eyes locked onto him, drinking in his confusion, his fear. “Did you really think you could just forget? That you could just live quietly playing bounty hunter, playing the part of a nobody?”

Kamor clenched his fists, heart pounding. He wanted to argue, to fight back—but no words came. They never did.

Mad Crow grinned wider, a grin that shouldn’t have been possible on a beak. “You hear them, don’t you? The echoes of what you lost? The voice stolen from you?” He leaned in, his presence suffocating. “Would you like it back, little human?”

The void pulsed. A burning sensation clawed up Kamor’s throat. His mind screamed to reject whatever game Mad Crow was playing, but before he could react—before he could run—the world around him shattered into a million glimmering pieces.

And Kamor… fell.

(Do you hear their cries.. my dearest readers?)

Kamor’s breath hitched as he took in the scene before him. The scent of damp earth and wildflowers filled the air—a scent he hadn’t known in what felt like lifetimes. Earth. He was back on Earth.

He pushed himself up, his fingers sinking into the soft grass as his wide eyes traced the familiar outline of the house before him. A modest home, worn but loved, with vines curling up its wooden beams. The laughter rang again, light and carefree. Kamor turned, his heart slamming against his ribs.

There—just a few steps away—was a boy. Himself. But much younger. No scars, no exhaustion in his eyes. Just a child, running barefoot through the grass, clutching a toy ship in his hands as he giggled without a care in the world.

Kamor felt like a ghost in his own past.

His legs felt unsteady as he slowly stood, afraid that if he moved too quickly, the illusion would break. Was this real? Was this a cruel trick of Mad Crow’s, or… was it something deeper?

A soft voice called out.

“Kamor! Come inside, sweetheart! Dinner’s ready!”

His stomach clenched. He knew that voice. He knew it down to his bones.

Turning toward the house, he saw her.

A woman stood in the doorway, her warm smile framed by waves of dark hair. A deep, aching pang bloomed in Kamor’s chest. His mother. The one he had forgotten.

His throat tightened, a desperate urge to call out to her rising within him. But as he parted his lips—nothing came. No words. No voice.

And then, like a ripple across water, the memory shifted.

The warm evening light dimmed. The vibrant colors of the sky bled into a deep, unnatural red. The house’s wooden beams groaned as if under unseen pressure.

Kamor’s younger self was gone. His mother—still standing in the doorway—began to blur at the edges, her smile frozen.

Then, she whispered one word.

“Run.”

And the world collapsed.

…

Kamor’s body convulsed as the memories surged through him like a flood he couldn’t contain. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself up from the freezing floor, his fingers trembling. The cries of his younger self pierced his ears—his cries.

He lifted his gaze, and there they were. Men in white coats. Cold. Calculating. Their faces were blurred in his mind, but their presence was unmistakable. He saw the way they tore the him from his mother’s arms, her screams drowned by the sterile walls of the academy’s towering facility.

The Academy of Intelligence.

A place disguised as an institution for gifted children, where parents brought their kids for evaluation, believing it was a stepping stone to greatness. A lie. A trap.

Kamor clenched his head as more memories shattered into place. He remembered sitting in a dimly lit room, wires attached to his temples. Needles pressing into his skin. The hum of machines monitoring his every movement, his every thought.

The experiments. Every single one.

The way they tested his limits—his power. How they tried to control it, mold it, use it. How they broke him.

Kamor’s hands slammed onto the floor, his breath hitching as the weight of it all crushed him. He could feel the needles in his arms again, the electrodes shocking his brain, the ice-cold water he was submerged in to see how long he could last before his body gave out.

He saw the scientists watching. Always watching. Taking notes, never seeing him as a person—only an experiment.

And then—

The screams.

His screams.

The boy they took apart piece by piece.

Kamor choked back a sob, his body curling inward as the past clawed at him, demanding to be remembered. He had locked it all away, buried it deep where even he couldn’t reach. But now, it was here. All of it.

His mother’s voice, a fading echo in the distance.

“Run.”

But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

They had made sure of that.

…..

Kamor’s breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as he ran. His legs felt like lead, yet he forced himself forward, his pulse pounding in his ears. The endless halls twisted around him, cold and sterile, yet filled with the echoes of a past he had tried so hard to forget.

Cries.

The voices of the others—his friends. The ones he had fought to protect. The ones who never made it out.

Faces flashed in his mind—children with bright eyes dulled by suffering, hands reaching out for help that never came. He remembered their names, their laughter before it was replaced with screams. He remembered how they were taken, one by one, never to return.

And he remembered when he stopped believing he could save any of them.

His sprint faltered, his body trembling as he saw a figure at the end of the hallway. His breath caught in his throat.

Himself.

Teenage Kamor stood in the middle of the hall, his face shadowed, his eyes dark. His hands—shaking, stained in black ink. The ink of reality itself, his power made manifest.

He remembered this moment.

This was when he snapped.

When the Academy pushed him too far.

Teen-Kamor’s shoulders rose and fell with erratic breaths, his hands flickering with inky tendrils of power. The walls around him warped, reality bending to his will. The air crackled with unstable energy, the lights overhead flickering as the power within him surged beyond his control.

Kamor took a step closer, watching as his younger self’s lips parted, his voice raw with anger and grief.

“Let. Me. Out.”

The walls around them trembled. Alarms blared. The ink in Teen-Kamor’s hands spread like veins through the air, rewriting reality itself.

But Kamor knew how this ended.

Teen-Kamor had tried to break free.

And the Academy made sure he paid the price.

Kamor’s breath shuddered as the world twisted again. Gone was the cold, sterile hallway of the Academy. In its place stood the warm, familiar sight of his old home. The scent of fresh-baked bread lingered in the air, the soft hum of a lullaby drifting through the cracked door of the kitchen.

He knew this place.

His heart ached as his eyes settled on her—his mother.

But she wasn’t alone.

A small child sat on her lap, giggling as she ruffled their hair. Kamor’s breath hitched, his hands trembling as he stepped closer, but something in his chest told him not to.

And then he saw himself—his younger self.

Teen-Kamor stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. But Kamor could feel the weight of his emotions, the realization that shattered him.

His mother… had forgotten him.

She had moved on, built a life without him.

Kamor took a step back, his throat tightening as Teen-Kamor turned to him, his voice hollow.

“Why…?”

Kamor had no answers. No words to offer.

Because he had asked the same question a thousand times before, and no answer had ever been enough to mend the void inside him.

He closed his eyes, exhaling softly. And when he opened them again, Teen-Kamor was gone.

But the world around him had changed once more.

The city streets of his past stretched out before him, the towering buildings casting long shadows against the neon glow of resistance graffiti. The Eyes. The name was painted in bold, defiant strokes across the walls.

This was where he had fought back.

Eighteen-year-old Kamor stood among his comrades, a rare, genuine smile on his face. They were his family. A new one. One that had given him purpose. One that had finally made him believe in something again.

Until he watched them all burn.

Kamor clenched his fists as the memory played before him, the echoes of screams, the smell of fire, the sight of his family—his real family—being ripped away just like before.

But this time, something inside him snapped.

He lifted his face to the heavens, his voice raw as he cursed whatever gods had damned him to this fate.“Why won’t you just let me have something?!”

For the first time, the gods answered.

The air around him stilled, the world shuddering as an unnatural presence descended.

A whisper crawled into his mind, dripping with amusement and something far more dangerous.

Then, laughter.

Cracked. Twisted. Maddening.

From the darkness, he emerged.

A figure draped in black, his body shifting like ink against reality itself. His head tilted unnaturally, a long, beaked mask concealing the void where a face should be. His voice was silk laced with venom.

“Oh, poor little thing. So full of anger… yet so very, very alone.”

Kamor swallowed, his body frozen as the presence loomed over him.

The Mad Crow.

The deity of insanity. The king of the insanity realm.

“Tell me, Kamor,” the entity purred, stepping closer. “Do you want another chance?”

Kamor’s breath hitched.

A chance…?

The Mad Crow extended a gloved hand, his fingers impossibly long, stretching toward Kamor like the tendrils of a nightmare.

“Then let’s make a it a trial.”

~~~~~

Kamor’s breath caught in his throat as the memories surged back, drowning him in their suffocating weight. The Mad Crow’s twisted laughter echoed in his mind, the cruel deity who had ripped his voice from him, leaving him mute for so long. Kamor remembered that excruciating moment when Mad Crow had thrown him across time, hurtling him thousands of years into the future.

His body had ached with the impact, his spirit shattered with the knowledge that there would be no escape, no way back. And then came the trials. The tests. The endless barrage of pain. Mad Crow had tormented him, throwing horrific creatures, impossible scenarios, and unfathomable chaos at him, all the while enjoying Kamor’s suffering.

But through it all, Kamor had found something in the depths of his pain—something precious.

His family.

Hipswitch, with his good-natured, yet tortured soul, had always been there, fighting his own battles despite the weight of his dark past. Hipswitch, the man who had become Kamor’s anchor, even as he struggled with the things he had done for money.

Albus, the gruff, crass warrior with a heart of gold, who had always kept Kamor safe. His protector, like a brother—despite the insults, the teasing, and the jokes, Albus had always been there, ready to stand between Kamor and the world.

Mahatma, kind-hearted and timid, yet endlessly capable when it came to his friends. Kamor could still feel the gentle touch of his hand, the doctor’s soft-spoken words of reassurance when things felt like they might fall apart.

Attila—angry, sharp, but Kamor understood him more than anyone could. Beneath the rage was a man fiercely loyal to his family, a protector in his own right. Kamor had never fully understood his struggle, but he did now. He felt it in the deepest parts of himself.

They were his family. And they would never be forgotten.

With that resolve burning through him, Kamor felt the familiar surge of power build inside him. Plasma blue light surged through his veins, an electric hum filling the void. His hands crackled with the raw energy of the universe itself. He reached out, and with the push of his power, he bent time and space.

He was going back.

In an instant, the void fractured around him, splintering like glass. The world collapsed in on itself before being swept away by the force of Kamor’s will. The light engulfed him, and everything went black.

⸻

Kamor’s body slammed into the earth with a soft thud. His breath left his chest in a rush as he blinked up at the familiar sky of Maya, the sky he hadn’t seen in what felt like an eternity. His vision blurred as the reality of the moment hit him. The world around him felt real—solid. But he was disoriented, his mind racing to catch up with the temporal dislocation he had just experienced.

“Kamor?!”

He felt a weight fall on top of him before he could even push himself up. Kamor’s heart jolted in surprise as he looked up to see Albus’s panicked face staring down at him. The worry in his green eyes sent a shiver down Kamor’s spine.

“Where the hell did you go?” Albus demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and concern. “You vanished, Kamor. Just like that. What the hell happened to you?!”

Kamor’s chest tightened as he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He wanted to explain—everything, all at once. The years lost in the void. The pain. The trials. The cost of his power. But the words wouldn’t come, the silence that had become a part of him so deeply ingrained that even now, when he was home, he couldn’t speak.

Albus’s face softened as he realized the silence. His expression softened, and for a moment, Kamor saw the vulnerability in his eyes. “You’ve been through hell, haven’t you?”

Kamor nodded, his eyes burning as he reached up, touching Albus’s arm. His heart felt heavy with the memories of everything that had led him to this point. But now, standing before Albus, the fear started to dissipate. He had his family back.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kamor felt like he wasn’t alone anymore.

Albus, still hovering above him, pulled Kamor into a tight hug. Kamor stiffened for a second before wrapping his arms around Albus’s back, returning the gesture with a sense of desperation he couldn’t quite control.

“I’m glad you’re back, Kamor.”

Kamor closed his eyes, a small, silent smile tugging at his lips. This time, the absence of his voice didn’t feel like an absence at all. With his family beside him, there was no need for words.

As Kamor and Albus walked back toward the base, the familiar sounds of the bustling town of Maya faded into the distance, replaced by the comforting quiet of home. The scent of dust and the open sky mixed with the faint smell of metal from their base. Kamor was still adjusting to being back in this world—this time, this place—where his family, his friends, waited for him.

……

When they entered the building, the familiar sight greeted them. Hipswitch sat at the table, cleaning his gun, his usual serious demeanor softened by the clinking sound of the metal. Mahatma was perched at the desk nearby, muttering to himself while flipping through a medical book.

Kamor smiled faintly, taking in the sight of the people he considered family. It had been too long since he’d felt like he was home. Albus, as usual, started with a playful jab at Attila, but Kamor didn’t really hear it. His mind was still reeling from the journey he had just made, the weight of everything he had just relived pressing down on him.

Hipswitch was the first to notice him, his voice cheery and warm. “You doing alright there, partner?”

Kamor’s lips pulled into a smile, but as soon as the words left Hipswitch’s mouth, a sudden wave of exhaustion hit Kamor like a crashing wave. His smile faltered as a strange, cold heaviness overtook him.

He stumbled, his vision swimming, and the next thing he knew, a dark, sticky substance pooled at the corner of his mouth—black ink. His breath caught in his throat, his hand shooting up to his mouth as he tried to hold himself steady. The familiar burning sensation crept through his body—the aftereffects of using his powers, the consequences that always came with bending time and space.

His limbs felt like lead, and his vision blurred even more. The world around him seemed to tilt, and before he could catch himself, his knees buckled under him. He fell to the floor with a soft thud.

The others froze. Mahatma immediately dropped his book, rushing over, his hands trembling as he checked Kamor’s pulse. Attila’s usually gruff voice was filled with panic, barking orders to Hipswitch. “Get him on the table. Now!”

Kamor’s eyes fluttered shut as darkness began to take over, his breathing shallow and erratic. But just before everything went completely black, he heard Hipswitch’s concerned voice.

“Partner, come on, stay with us!” Hipswitch urged, his voice shaking, though he tried to keep it steady. The robot cowboy was used to a lot of things, but this… this was not something he’d seen Kamor go through before.

Albus rushed to Kamor’s side, kneeling down beside him. He held Kamor’s head gently, his voice soft yet panicked. “What the hell’s going on, Doc?”

But Mahatma couldn’t answer, Kamor’s body too weak, the overwhelming exhaustion from his battle with the void and the consequences of his powers pulling him into unconsciousness.

In that moment, everything went still. There was no sound but the rapid breathing of the people around him and the frantic murmurs of concern. Kamor’s fate rested in their hands now.

…..

To be continued…….

[huramuna]

Sunfyre, with Aegon atop, raced through the sky like a whizzing bee. The king’s dragon was young, hatching as an egg in the cradle, an admittedly gorgeous golden and pink whelpling. Aemond could remember the jealousy he felt at his brother’s bond with his dragon. Aegon had loose ties to many humans of the world– his nature wasn’t made for forging meaningful relationships, as much as he tried. Apart from his children, as well as a confusing relationship with his sister-wife, he was bereft in anything beyond that.  But, Sunfyre was different. In many ways, the golden dragon reminded Aemond more of a giant dog than a fearsome beast. He was keen on giving and being given affection and was quite pompous, puffing out his chest to Dreamfyre and giving mewling coos when the she-dragon was in his vicinity. Aegon spoke to Sunfyre in broken High Valyrian, mostly opting to speak in the common tongue– the way the dragon learned to understand Westerosi and anything Aegon seemed to say was beyond Aemond. The bond between Targaryen and dragon was bound in ancient magic, but the bond between the king and his mount was even more so– supernatural, even. 

⭐ a short excerpt about sunfyre and aegon's bond in banshee's lament ⭐

[hereisfufu]

Thanks for 21 times reblog, 21 chubby Wrathion whelp finally done🥹 I missing my adventure in Pandaria so much , when I was still a carefree teen, and my kitty, Kiwi was still an one-month baby…I can even feel Kiwi is around while I working on this picture, like he always does: sleeping between my legs or belly, lying on my pillow, looking around through the window, trying to steal snacks from his cat bag… Can’t describe how I love you and how I miss you, maybe we will meet again when we are both in Shadowlands, my little ginger white slime cat;)

Btw,Before Christmas, I will share some whelpling Wrathion wallpapers and everyone can use them for free, if you are interested with them please follow my blog and get the latest updates, love you all and see you soon❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[wow-topazel]

When a short dracthyr and black drakonid love each other very much, they have these two in the family now.

Stratus and Granite, twin dracthyr-drakonid whelplings born of the same egg, the blood children of Topazel and their mate, Alkrenna.

[gfawkesphoenixchokingonashes]

Three days

(RatedE, Non-con elements, Stucky Fantasy AU, dragons, elves, druids, magic, epic love)

“What do we do now?”

Peter’s whisper was meant to conceal their complete lack of grasp of a plan. By the look of the individual currently stewarding the entrance to the Caverns of Time, they hadn’t fooled anyone.

Bucky shushed Peter. He lifted his chin and threw back his shoulders, hoping that act alone would exude enough confidence. He stepped closer to the formidable-looking elf (who wasn’t an elf at all) and opened his mouth to speak.

“Anachronos is expecting you,” the woman said, as if she herself had been waiting there much longer than she intended. “Come.”

She gestured toward the cave entrance, a collapsed collection of pillars and stone and earth that didn’t seem at all stable. And as she turned, the elf disappeared in an explosion of dust and sand and became —

“A dragon!” Peter hissed, forgetting he was supposed to be keeping silent. He’d told Bucky it was better that way; he tended to get into trouble whenever he opened his mouth.

The golden dragon lifted one clawed foot and looked over her shoulder.

“An escort is required,” she said, directly into his mind. “I will provide transportation.”

Bucky’s head was still spinning around the escape from the temple, the flight through Dragonblight. Discovering Peter had hitched a ride was difficult enough to fathom. Add the haphazard speed of their portal to Tanaris and the fact they were both still in one piece, it was no wonder Bucky was slow to catch on.

The dragon snorted as one might clear one’s throat, and Bucky glanced at Peter. The boy shrugged and shifted into a bird, flapping frantically as he took to the air. Meanwhile, Bucky found himself yet again climbing awkwardly onto a wing joint and feeling a tug in his heart remembering the last time he’d done it.

The moment he had secured enough purchase with a hand on a neck fin, the dragon launched up and into the darkness of the cave.

It was the most peculiar cave he’d ever been inside. Winding and dark, snaking around in a steady downward coil, it served up glimmers of shining purple streaks through cracks in the rocks. At one point, after a rather sharp curve, the fissure widened, and the light filled the tunnel. 

“Holy –”

Bucky was sure he was hallucinating. The rocky surfaces of the walls had opened up to the night sky, to a star-filled galaxy of wide-open space. Complete with moons and asteroids, and a strange red planet.

It wasn’t one he recognized, however, and the instant he thought about it, an answer filled his head.

“This is the past. A long time before you were even born, whelpling.”

She spoke as if she were much, much older than he, in the way the wise humor the inexperienced. 

Bucky wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

The final chamber was stunning. Galactic objects loomed overhead, so close one could almost touch them. But the cave itself was filled with life-giving air and gravity kept them grounded and it was nothing like he’d ever seen before.

In the center of the space was a massive raised stone platform, rising out of the sand bottom like an altar to the gods. An equally large gold dragon lay on it, apparently slumbering. But this dragon wasn’t exactly there. It undulated between beast and ghost, its giant body becoming transparent and then solid. As if it were crossing over into different dimensions as its great heart beat.

The steward lit down before the dragon, and Bucky slid off as gently as he could. He found his limbs quite unstable, his mind racing as recklessly as his heart. He watched as she retreated into the far reaches of the cave, passing impossibly large underground pine trees and crumbling houses and regal elves dressed in similar gold attire.

Two menacing dragonkin holding staves larger than Bucky approached, flanking him but not attacking. It appeared he was to be escorted on foot, now.

They motioned him closer to the altar, which rose far above his head, marching around the strange sleeping dragon. Bucky heard the flutter of wings, then the gentle prick of tiny talons as they gripped his shoulder. Peter, wearing the visage of a tiny sparrow, gave a tiny chirrup and held tightly to his cloak.

The dragonkin stopped halfway around the circular structure in the middle, setting their staves deep in the sand and standing with their backs to the altar. Bucky looked from one to the other, until a second dragon appeared overhead.

This dragon was old, ancient even, with a graying beard and deep scars over one blind eye. It paused when it reached the edge, claws curling over it. It looked down from its perch with cold, unblinking importance, and Bucky understood he was meeting with royalty.

Fuck. What should he say?

“Uh. Hullo. Your – Grace.” That was always an acceptable term to use, especially with a being as terrifying as this. “My name is James, and I’m here to –”

“Don’t you think I already know who you are? Why you’re here? What you intend to do?”

This voice didn’t ring inside his head. Instead, it boomed in the chamber, shook the ground on which he stood, and caused a curious gust of wind to ruffle his hair. Peter momentarily took flight as if to flee, then changed his mind and transformed into a mouse that climbed quickly into Bucky’s pocket.

Bucky wanted to join him.

Bucky knew this dragon, or rather, knew of him. Not a king, but a guardian. The original Time Keeper. Anachronos the Fury, to whom Steve was sworn to –

Steve. They were wasting time.

“Please, Sir. I have to get to Tarren Mill. I have to help Steve –”

But the great golden drake wasn’t going to let him speak. “Your mate is being assisted by the King of Stormwind with the blessing of the Bronze Dragonflight. How could someone such as yourself possibly aid this cause?”

It was spoken with a sneer, with a challenge hidden under scorn and something else entirely. Bucky could feel the boil of his blood, the rumble of a roar that had been building since he’d refused to imbibe mana and given up the ways of an elf.

“You said it yourself,” he barked, drawing the twist of each guard’s gaze in his direction. Bucky ignored them. “I’m his mate. I’m a dragon. And we’re destined to be together.”

The Fury snorted a warning but didn’t strike. The powerful muscles in his forelegs bulged as he arched his neck and growled.

“Destiny isn’t always kind.”

Bucky blinked, fists clenched at his side. Yet another dragon who spoke in riddles.  “What does that mean?”

The golden drake lifted and stomped one foot on the stone platform, and the entire cave shuddered. “You will aid him. You will thwart the Time War. But you will lose, and you will regret.”

The mouse in his pocket shivered. Bucky’s stomach did a flip. “Is that a warning? Or a threat?”

Anachronos the Fury shook his neck and roared as only someone with his namesake could. Bucky supposed no one had ever spoken to him like that.

“You do not understand the forces at play! You are but a whelp! You cannot change Time!”

The way he stressed every ‘you’ made it sound personal.

Bucky took it as personal. “I’ve already loved and lost and suffered greatly. The only thing worse than the secrets and lies and horrible things that have happened to me,” – Bucky gasped for breath, now shaking from head to foot with his own anger – “would be losing him!”

Something like a laugh bubbled in the golden wyrm’s gullet. A low, unhappy, disparaging thing. “Then go! Make it so! But be forewarned; everything you do is as it has been foretold. Each of your actions has already played out. And when it’s over, you will be alone, and it will hurt!”

Bucky’s throat was suddenly very dry. The certainty with which the drake said ‘alone’ was ominous. 

He swallowed, hard, unclenched his fists and drew several deep breaths. He’d made his decision. “If I’m to die, then so be it. But at least I did the right thing.”

Fury shook his neck again, then tossed his head in a continued low chuckle. “The agony will be in that you both live. Now. Stop speaking. The Vortex will close soon.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder as a spinning, whirling mass of gold sparks appeared behind him. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it earlier.

Bucky looked up into those cold, yellow eyes with defiance. He would prove this creature wrong. “As long as we both live, there will be no agony. Because I’ll be with him ‘til the end of time.”

And he spun, gently patted the pocket where Peter continued to shiver, and stepped through the vortex into the unknown.

Steve

It was difficult to see from their vantage point outside the town. The trees were thick and a dense fog hung low, the product of a recent rain and cooling temperatures overnight. Steve readjusted his cloak, the scratchy wool one he’d stolen off a washline before the sun came up. He was tired and sore from keeping watch while Tony slept. And now that they were both awake, he wished his king was still sleeping.

“I say we march in there and announce ourselves. The King of Azeroth must bring with him personal bodyguards all the time. They won’t even notice you.”

Steve sighed with the weight of several worlds on his shoulders. “I told you. Llane is dead. Lothar has taken over, and Varian isn’t quite a young man yet. Unless you can pass for an old, battle-worn soldier or a fresh-faced teenager, it’s best if we remain undercover.”

Tony scratched at his stubble and continued to grumble under his breath. “I could pull off seventeen. Varian and I were – are – both dark and handsome. And intelligent.”

It took all of Steve’s remaining strength not to roll his eyes. “I believe Medivh would disagree.”

Although he wouldn’t say no to laying eyes on the once traitorous and later resurrected prophet, the teacher of their current Kirin Tor Mage Guardian, Khadgar, Steve wasn’t testing the fates any more than he had to.

They waited until the town awoke, until smoke lifted through chimney stacks and the smell of cooking filled the air. Tarren Mill was very different from what Steve had ever seen. He supposed it should be; it had been burned to the ground and relocated inland, then burned again by his time. They’d dropped into the very beginnings of the Third War, and by the looks of things, the scourge had not yet taken hold.

That could change at any minute.

After much deliberation, Stark finally agreed on a diplomat’s disguise, while Steve was to be his protection detail. The Stormwind crest on Tony’s chest, thankfully, hadn’t changed in centuries, and with a little mud rubbed into it, one could almost believe it to be from that era. And with Steve in Tony’s armor, he hopefully would pass for a guard. Even if his stomach churned uncomfortably, and the memory of Bucky’s voice inside his head was becoming louder and louder.

In the distance, set back against the foothills that separated the Dwarven civilization from the human, Durnholde Keep stood proud and tall. Steve could see both watchtowers, the Eastern and the West. It was a little unsettling knowing that all of it, the mill, the castle, the people, would be gone by the end of the War.

A wagon rattled past their hiding place, and Steve recognized their chance. He prodded Tony in the back and signaled they should follow. The groaning and creaking of the wheels on its axle would cover their entrance into the town.

They kept out of sight of the driver until the man, a farmer loaded down with wheat and oats to be crushed, turned his horses toward the mill. Steve caught hold of Tony’s sleeve and pulled him in the direction of the pub.

“But it’s Silver Hand days. Shouldn’t we visit the church first?”

Steve shook his head and pulled harder. “Anyone who wants to be outed at once would do so. But we want to stay hidden until we get more information.”

Again, Stark grumbled. He didn’t like being told what to do, and he was surprisingly non-resistant about it. “Fine. At least I can get a decent drink.”

Decent drinks, however, weren’t to be found.

“Ugh!” Stark groaned, holding his cup at arm’s length and wrinkling his nose. “What in Light’s name is in this?”

Several patrons pivoted in their chairs to stare at them.

Steve lowered his hood over more of his face and hissed. “Blasphemy is a crime nowadays. Uther himself warrants these parts. He’s a hero around here.”

Stark blinked in disbelief. “Uther Lightbringer?”

More stares, this time accompanied by frowns. Steve had to get the king under control.

“That's the one. And if you don’t shut your mouth and drink, we’re going to have serious problems.”

Stark finally looked up and around, smiled cheekily and waved before lifting his cup to pretend to drink.

Into the remaining liquid sloshing about, he said, “As if we don’t have enough of those.”

Steve couldn’t agree more.

It was too late, however, even with Tony’s charismatic smile. The townspeople were already wary of outsiders, and their conversations became hushed, their mouths concealed. Steve could feel the noose tightening, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.

He fished out a gold coin from his pocket and approached the barkeep.

“Hello there,” Steve tried, keeping it informal as he shifted his hood back and off his head. His hair was a dusty, flyaway mess; he hoped it added to the charade that they had traveled far. “I wonder if you could help me. I’m searching for a friend of mine. He would look out of place, just like us.”

The bartender eyed Steve sideways, and when the coin was placed on the tabletop, he quickly looked left and right to see if anyone was watching. Everyone was, of course.

The man wisely covered the coin and lifted it into his palm. His eyebrows raised as he turned it over, running the pad of his finger onto the raised lion’s head. Stunned, impressed, he lifted his gaze to Steve’s, then raised his chin in Tony’s direction.

“Who’s he, then? Some kind of politician?”

Stark, bless him, offered up a stellar smile and a wink, of all things.

“Yep,” Steve said without hesitation. “And if you give me the information I seek, I’ll take him away from this town, and he can peddle his ideas elsewhere.”

The barman grunted and rubbed the gold coin against his bottom teeth. He considered for a moment before turning over another cup and pouring them both more of the awful spirits.

“What is it you need to know?”

Steve looked over his shoulder and tilted his head at Stark, who frowned but kept his seat. Maybe this wouldn’t be as difficult as they’d supposed.

“My friend. He would be about my height and build, with dark skin and black hair, possibly wearing clothing that seems out of place.” Steve glanced at his sleeves, noticing how differently the cut and fit from the bartender’s. “He’s most likely asking questions, just like I am. Searching for information.”

The bartender threw back a large swallow and wiped his mustache with the back of one hand. “What kind of information?”

Steve scanned the room, noting as each and every patron turned away as he met their eyes. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, then offered another coin. “Information about Neltharion.”

It was to be expected, the choking sound coming from the barman. Steve had opted for the blunt method rather than easing into it; they were literally racing against time.

“That name is forbidden in this kingdom,” the man growled, pocketing the money nonetheless and looking furtively over Steve’s shoulder. “The only people allowed to even think his name are clerics and paladins.”

It made sense; the knights of the Silver Hand played a big part in thwarting Deathwing during the Second War. As far as they were concerned, the dragon was destroyed, his children scattered and his Flight disbanded. Of course the holy leaders would forbid the use of his —

“Either you’re very stupid,” a gruff voice said from behind. “Or you aren’t from Azeroth.”

Steve spun and hand to grip the edge of the table to prevent from being knocked over. Before him stood the Lightbringer himself: Lord Uther.

“Sire!” Steve spat without thinking. He’d seen drawings and statues and heard the stories of the highest-ranked paladin. But he hadn’t imagined he’d meet him in Tarren Mill’s past. He should have been worlds away, investigating the origins of the plague.

Sir Uther was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful-looking. Even out of his armor, there was a strength about him that would make lesser mortals tremble. Steve, however, gathered his wits about him. And would have pulled off the charade if the knight hadn’t pulled aside his cloak to reveal the shield.

“What is this made of?” he asked after pondering over the surface with a gloved hand. “It’s not like any metal I’ve ever seen.”

Fuck. Of course it wasn’t. Vibranium wasn’t even discovered until 10 years after the man’s death.

“It’s not from this world,” Steve scrambled to explain, scowling at Stark and making him stay in his place with a glare. “I’m a long, long way from home, Sire.”

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. But Steve wasn’t entirely sure Uther didn’t already know that. Who knew what this powerful wielder of the Light could do.

“Hm.” He allowed the cloak to slide back in place, covering the shield with the rasp of undyed wool. “And what has brought you to Azeroth from worlds away?”

Tony was practically bouncing out of his chair, miming that he was willing to step in and speak for the two of them. Steve beat him to it.

“My friend and I seek refuge.” That would work. The Knights of the Silver Hand had begun the charitable nurse’s organization that based themselves in Stormwind’s very cathedral. They couldn't pass up a fellow human in need. “Our world has come under threat from a formidable enemy. One that is said to already have been defeated.”

The knight glared at Stark, who saluted in the Stormwind way. It garnered more raised eyebrows from Uther.

“Indeed. What threat would that be?”

Steve cleared his throat and used the least derogatory name for his father. “The Earth Warder.”

The Lightbringer gave no reaction to the mention of the black dragon other than to settle his hand across his body on the head of The Hammer. “I see. In what capacity?”

Steve had begun to sweat. “There are rumors that he is being resurrected.”

Uther scoffed. “I doubt that, young fellow. There isn’t the faintest possibility, not with the destruction of the Dragon Soul.”

Steve had hoped he would quote the tale, but it was clear he was finished speaking. Steve took it as a positive sign that they were being laughed at; perhaps they could keep up their disguise and still be allowed to question the cleric.

“They are just rumors,” Steve said, mouthing to Stark to ‘shut up’ as Uther again turned his back to look at the king. “But I must complete the quest I’ve been tasked to do. My people won’t allow me to return without proof.”

Uther huffed a breath. “If you do not find it here, may I suggest you make the trip to Durnholde Keep. Tell the paladin there that you spoke with myself. They’ll take care of you.”

“Very good,” Steve said, smiling and backing away toward Tony. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, Sire.”

Uther nodded regally as Steve turned away. He ignored Stark’s shocked expression and physically hauled him to the door.

“Hold on,” Uther’s voice boomed a mere seconds before they had made their escape. “You’ve been to Stormwind?”

Steve flushed hot. He squeezed Tony’s elbow and turned back.

Uther was holding one of the coins Steve had given the barman. He had removed one glove and was thumbing the raised lion on the surface of the coin. He didn’t look up.

“Yes,” Steve said quickly, before Tony could shoot off his mouth. “Our families go way back.”

“Waaaay back,” Stark agreed. He smirked in an “I told you so” manner. 

The paladin looked up, gaze piercing as an eagle’s. It wasn’t a lie. Tony was a direct descendant of the House of Wrynn, and part of Steve’s blood ran with the Black dragons who had destroyed it.

“Indeed,” he repeated dismissively. He returned to studying the coin, and Steve yanked Stark out the door before anything else could stop them.

As they marched down the street, heading for the church, Tony spoke. He was insufferable.

“So not only was I right about going to the church, I was right about using our connection to Stormwind, too.”

Steve hushed him as they passed a group of women eyeing them warily. “Pretending to be the king and his consort is punishable by death, Tony. I don’t plan to die here.”

Stark dragged his heels, stirring up the dry ground. “Just because I don’t have a secret Horde lover waiting for me back home doesn’t mean I plan to die here.”

“For Light’s sake!” Steve hissed, slapping a hand over Stark’s enormous mouth. “These people have been through enough wars, and are dangerously close to the brink of another. Will you please keep your voice down!”

Thankfully they’d reached the church steps, and the heavy wooden door muffled the rest of Tony’s grumblings. They entered the chamber of a modest chapel with rough-sawn wooden pews and stained glass windows that featured saints from before the First and Second Wars.

About halfway down the main hall, off to the right-hand side, two men stood, deep in conversation. One wore the traditional robe and appeared to be middle-aged, balding and face moderately wrinkled. The other was a younger man, with long, blonde hair and a royal blue cloak covering his substantial pauldrons.

Another paladin.

The two men noticed Steve and Tony right away, ceasing their conversation and turning to face the entrance. The cleric stuffed his hands into his robe and bowed his head. Steve took that to mean they should approach.

“Excuse me, Sir.” Steve wasn’t sure if the cleric was in charge, or if he was simply assisting the paladin. He opted to address them both at once. “We are travelers seeking rest and refuge for a day –”

“Yeah,” Tony added unhelpfully. “And Lightbringer said you would be able to answer some questions about Deathwing.”

Steve’s whole body cringed, and he stopped mid-step, rooting himself two arm’s lengths away from the men. Stark pulled up beside him, and Steve struggled to find words that would lessen the damage already done. He looked up into the paladin’s face, smiling and hoping to alleviate any worries that they were hostile. After all, he didn’t carry a weapon; just the shield.

The paladin, however, was heavily armed. A sword almost the length of his body glinted from the scabbard at his hip. He scowled and met Steve’s gaze head-on, and that was when Steve realized who he was.

It was Arthas Menethil. The prince of Lordaeron. The man responsible for mobilizing the scourge and spreading the plague as a means of total destruction. The man who would betray his master, Uther Lightbringer, slaying him and trapping a portion of his soul inside his sword. The sword, a runeblade, named Frostmourne. The man who would use that cursed sword to become the Lich King, killing his people and then raising them from the dead to do his bidding.

In short, he was the man who had caused the death of his mother.

“You dare to speak his name?” Arthas barked, laying one hand on the sword’s hilt, eyes glinting with fury. “Blaspheme in a church, no less?”

Steve held up his hands to indicate they meant no harm. In his head, he ran through the story he’d told Uther, considered even mentioning the knight’s name to defuse the situation.

But he didn’t get a chance to. Because the heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges, and another man walked into the church.

This man was tall and graceful, long, flowing cloak covering him from head to foot. The visible skin on his face and hands was pale. He looked upon the four of them, gaze moving from one to the next. And when they landed on Steve, the eyes that peered out of the cloak were so blue it hurt to look at him.

Everything Steve had ever felt, every emotion ranging from happiness to despair, instantly swelled inside his chest. They swirled around and sank into his stomach, and then settled into one thing and one thing only: fear.

Bucky was standing in the church entrance somewhere in Tarren Mill’s past.

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