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korkrunchcereal · 4 years

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The Last Warlord

As the first storm breaks

The past must be confronted

The last warlord comes

It was rare for the Barrens to rain outside of its wet season. Rarer still was when the rain became a storm. Like angry gods clashing in the heavens, great bolts of lightning crashed to Azeroth, and the booming of thunder echoed as war drums. It was a day to hide from nature’s wrath and seek shelter from the elements. Yet from a rise overlooking a vast swathe of grassland, the once Warlord Gargaron Khral meditated.

From his perch, he could normally see to the northern Stonetalon Mountains. Today however, he could barely see a hundred yards so thick were the clouds and rain. He sat in only a pair of trousers, the rest of his olive toned body bare to the elements. Water fell upon skin and dampened hair, though he seemed unperturbed. His eyes were closed, fists pressed together in front of him. A simple Bo staff lay in the dirt before him, along with incense long since snuffed out.

“Mmmmm…” his hum was nearly drowned out by the wailing of the wind, voice monotone in its pitch. Despite the figure of peace he presented, he was anything but peaceful. Lightning crackled, his brow furrowing and ears twitching. Thunder boomed, and his muscles tensed. Rain fell, and his teeth were bared. Focus. Focus on the water rolling against your skin. Feel the soothing touch on your skin as…

…the blood is hot against his skin as he strikes. A dying world groans beneath his feet, the very ground quaking in defiance much as he does. Something fires in the distance, the impact unsettling the dirt. He avoids the shot barely, his muscles screaming in protest. There is no time to think, or retreat. Kill or be killed.

An axe blow falls, his sword catching the blade and sliding it off course. There is no time to recover, his sword already striking. He doesn’t check as he pushes forward, knowing his target is dead. His heart is racing. Thump. Thump…

…Thump. Gargaron’s eyes shot open, his breathing laborious and heavy. He fell backwards, barely catching himself in panic. A crimson gaze darted around in confusion, hands clenching around grass. He knows this place. The hills are familiar. The sky is familiar. The land is familiar. Slowly he began to calm down, sweat mixed with rain against his skin.

“Raaaugh!” He roared in anger, slowly pushing himself up. His eyes narrowed as he faced the sky, teeth bared. This was not the first time he lost focus in such a manner, and he doubted it would be the last. His anger began to deflate much as his mood did, the melancholy he faced now matching the storm. Disheartened, he grabbed his Bo staff, giving one last look to the storm before descending down from his overlook.

A small part of him had hoped the storm would provide enough distraction from his own mind, but even he knew it was a vain belief. The memories were part of him now, and he had yet to learn how to live with them. Of course, that was not the only thing haunting his mind these days. Idly, he scratched at his long beard, his gaze distant now. He thought of much, and the solitude he had sought years ago was not as quiet as he had hoped. It was true he rarely saw another soul save for his rare trips to the nearby village. Instead, his constant company were unpleasant reflections and bitter moods.

“Oh what now…” His eyes narrowed, spotting his home. It was a small structure of wood, bone and hides of uneven shape and at times questionable durability. He had built it himself after several attempts for he was no carpenter, and though it was not much, it served its purpose. Instead however he focused on the figure that stood outside. As he drew closer, he could make out that it was an orc woman he wagered of mid thirties, her clothes and body soaked to the bone. She finally spotted him as he neared the house, waving her arm.

“Hail!”

“What are you doing outside in this weather?” Gargaron demanded, grunting as he slammed his staff into the fresh mud. This close he could see the woman was shivering. “How long have you been here?”

“An hour, I think. I would have gone in but…” she motioned her head to the piece of cloth that served as a flap. “You got a big wolf in there.”

“Ah good, Rosha’s home. Damn lazy beast…” He pulled his staff out, moving to the entrance. “Well? Come in. I’ll get a fire going.” He pulled aside the flap to stare right into the fangs of a massive wolf. Bred for war and combat, the beast was easily capable of tearing Gargaron to shreds. Instead it began to lick the orc, whining. “Bah! Enough Rosha. Ancestors, I was only gone for a…” he paused. He actually did not know how long he had been gone. “Now move, we have company.” He scratched the wolf’s black mane before waving his hand. The wolf slowly moved to a corner of the house, circling it several times before laying down.

“A cozy little place.” The woman stated behind Gargaron, causing Rosha to growl. He heard the woman pause midstep, gulping in worry.

“Easy Rosha. They’re a guest. Come.” His command was directed to the woman now, though he did not turn to face her. Instead, he moved to the small fire pit in the center of the room, a small stack of kindling and firewood beside it. “Take a seat. It’s not much, I’m afraid.”

“It is fine I…” a pause. “That’s an old horde banner.” Gargaron craned his neck, looking at the woman. She was standing in front of a tattered scrap of cloth, the horde symbol emblazoned on it. “Several years old, right?” she looked to him. He nodded as answer. “I served as a grunt for years.” she went on, seeming to admire the tattered rag. “Saw many different flags come and go in my service. This was Vol’jins era, wasn’t it? How long did you serve?”

“Why are you here?” Gargaron repeated his earlier question as he struck the kindling with flint, the small sparks of a flame starting. There was a moment before she answered, the woman moving to crouch next to Gargaron: “Our village lies several miles from here; I have seen you there occasionally. Recently our children have been playing a little too far from home and only a few days ago several of them stumbled onto an old Kor’kron barracks.” Kor’kron. The name brought many memories to Gargaron, and few were pleasant.

“They’re abandoned, no?” he grunted.

“We thought so, but the children came back saying something was living in that one. A group of our strongest went to investigate. I was among them.”

“And?”

“Something is living there alright. When we entered the ruins, we were attacked. We smelled it before we saw it. By the spirits I have smelled plenty of death in my lifetime, but this was…” She winced, trying to find the right word. “Overwhelming. Then we saw it, or at least flashes of it. It was black steel and terrible fury..., and the laughter! I’ve never heard anything so horrible. We were forced to flee quickly. Luckily, none of us died though several got broken bones.”

“So why come to me?”

“Whatever that thing is, it's dangerous. It defeated a group of us in, oh, seconds?” came an awkward laughter. She rubbed at her arm, looking aside. “Some Kor’kron machine gone haywire, I’m guessing.” She did not sound convinced by her own guess.

“You did not answer my question. Why come to me?” Gargaron poked at the crackling wood with a stick, shifting the kindling around and letting the flames grow.

“I know who you are. Though you no longer wear the crimson and black plates nor wield that big sword of yours, I recognize you… Warlord Khral.” Khral sat silent for a moment and let the flames crack. When he responded, his tone had turned somber.

“That is no longer my title.”

“Perhaps not, but it was what you were.”

“Yes, who I was. However, I am no longer that orc. Why not turn to the guards? The Crossroads is only some hours away by wolf.”

“They are dealing with their own problems. Quillboar are getting restless and threatening caravans, and there’s rumors of a new centaur leader. Believe me, I tried to get their help. Besides, I have seen the way you fight. None of them are like you.”

“Bah!” he exclaimed, tossing his stick into the fire. “I am no longer the orc you remember. I am sorry, but I cannot help you.”

“What? You can’t help? Gargaron Khral, former Warlord and Blademaster of the Horde can’t help?”

“No. My fighting days are over. I am neither warlord nor blademaster these days. These days I am a –“

“Coward.” She finished in disgust as she rose up from the ground.

“Monk.” His tone was calm despite her accusation. After all, he expected as much a reaction. “I am here to seek balance and peace.”

“Balance?” She spat in response. “I had heard you died. When I realized you were here instead of helping the Horde, I had figured it was for some better purpose than ‘seeking balance and peace’.” The Horde. For many years it had been home, but now he could not even bear to speak that name.

“What were you expecting?” Gargaron asked.

“I don’t know, but not…this. Hiding from the world and cowering from your duty to the Horde and-“

“My duty?!” A brief flash of rage fell over him as he rose, turning to face the woman. “Do you know how my loyalty to my duty was rewarded? Abandoned on the Broken Shore, along with what little honor the Horde had left. The Horde died that day…” as suddenly as it had come, the fury left with a deep sigh. Gargaron’s shoulders fell. “All that’s left is a festering illness and forgotten memories. I cannot fight for a Horde that blindly followed another Garrosh. Not again.”

“So you hide. You’re worse than a coward, Gargaron. Hide here then. I will find someone else to help us.” The woman stormed outside though Gargaron did not pursue. Instead he sat back down at the fire, staring into it. Coward…

...A horn sounds in the distance. Gargaron turns in surprise, watching the Horde army slowly retreat. Why do they run? There are still injured on the field. They couldn’t abandon them to the demons. Faces move past him as he charges ahead upon his greying wolf. Fighting is everywhere. His blade cleaves demons in twain, but they just keep coming.

Were the Alliance warned? He has not heard their horn yet. Ancestors, has Sylvanas abandoned them without word? What cowardice to flee, now of all times. Or was this her plan all along? He doubts he will ever know. Ahead there are so many bodies. Comrades. Friends. All dead or dying now. Felhounds feast on flesh, the screams of the injured piercing the air. His Kor’kron are in the thick of the fighting and are being overwhelmed. They have not broken off yet, and for that his chest swells with pride. Yet they are his men. Their lives are his responsibility. His duty. He gives one final order, and charges into the thick of the demons…

The whine of Rosha stirred Gargaron from his memories. Her mother had died on the Broken Shore, like so many good sons and daughters. In many ways, so had Gargaron. Coward. Perhaps he was now. Rosha whined again, causing Gargaron to glare in her direction.

“What? Don’t tell me, you want me to go help that woman. My days of fighting are over, Rosha. Oh- come on, don’t give me that look! Bah, damn wolf. As stubborn as your mother.” He looked away back into the fire, his ears perking as he heard the wolf approach. Gently she pushed her snout against Gargaron’s arm. He no longer desired to fight. He had seen the cost of it and what it had done to his body, soul and mind. He had still not recovered, his spirit sick with the unfocused bloodlust and rage.

But then, who was Gargaron? He had never been a coward. He had been abandoned to fate many times now and had fought not only to survive, but to protect others. It was his nature to defend those who could not defend themselves. He could fight many things, but the only thing he could not fight was his own nature.

“Alright. Fine. You win.” He grumbled, rising up slowly. The wolf snapped her teeth in excitement, moving to the door. “Oh, you’re going to join me this time? Good! I didn’t feel like walking long in this weather. Bah! Where’s my pipe? There you are, and now…” he paused, hand hovering over his Bo staff. It was only for a moment before he grabbed it, turning to leave his home. Rosha rushed outside, the heavy rain making her fur damp near as right away. Gargaron grabbed onto a tuft, pulling himself onto the back of the beast. It let loose a long howl before it took off.

There was only a small walking path up the hill to reach his home. In this weather he doubted the woman had gotten far, and sure enough she had barely made it down the road. He pulled on Rosha’s mane, causing the wolf to slow down to a stop beside the woman. A growl escaped the wolf’s maw as the beast stared at the woman.

“Warlord?” She seemed surprised, having heard Gargaron’s approach and turning to face him.

“I told you, I no longer have that title. Now hop on. I don’t know where the ruins are, so you’ll have to show me.” He offered out a hand for her, who shook her head. Instead she hopped onto the back of Rosha herself, positioning behind Gargaron. Rosha turned, snapping her jaws in seeming annoyance at the second rider, but nevertheless pressed on ahead through the storm.

“What changed your mind Khral?” she shouted to Gargaron. She didn’t move to grab him for support, seemingly keeping her balance with a firm grip of her legs.

“I cannot abandon who I am.” There was a moment's silence, before he changed the subject. “Now, you say it was a machine in the ruins?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure.”

“Mmm. You said you smelled death. Did you see any bodies?”

“No.” she said, but then looked up. “Wait, there was a dead Zhevra, and a lion too. I didn’t have time to see much else, though.”

“I see. Hmm. Hold on. Rosha! With haste. We must outpace the very heavens if we are to make it before sundown.” The wolf obeyed, paws digging into dirt and mud with each step as it ran. Overhead the sky roared in fury and the wind howled. Gargaron did not say another word, letting nature’s wrath break the silence of the riders.

They remained silent for what felt like an hour as they rode east. The storm showed no sign of fading, instead growing harsher the further they travelled. He spoke only to figure out where he was going and to his luck the woman whose name he hadn’t asked for seemed to know precisely where to go. Though he could not see the sun he knew it fell beyond the mountains to his back, and he realized he should have packed a blanket or furred cloak for warmth.

In a way however the cool touch of the rain was soothing. Indeed, riding through nature’s fury was strangely peaceful, and for a time he enjoyed the moment of it. His mood grew dark, though, much as the sky did, for his thoughts turned to bitter paths once again. Kor’kron. A name that had been fouled by evil machinations and twisted by rotten purpose. Gargaron had strived to redeem the Kor’krons name and once more make it become synonymous with honor. He had failed in that task. The poisonous roots that tyrants had left choked out any opportunity to-

“Something troubles you, Khral.”

“What?” Gargaron blinked, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He craned his neck back to look at his passenger, brows furrowing.

“I sense great turmoil within you. Your very body is testament to that.” She raised a hand to his back, keeping a finger inches away as she dragged it down the length of his spine. “Such tension; it is like a spring ready to burst. Ah, your form is perfection, and yet marred with such heavy burdens.”

“Hmm…” he grunted, turning back to look ahead. “You sound like a shaman.”

“It does not take a wise woman to see the weight you carry. I think however you have been dealing with your problems the wrong way.”

“Oh? And how should I deal with them?”

“Ah, that is not for me to decide for you. I am merely here to guide you. Speaking of..” She trailed off as faint objects could be seen in the distance. The air felt colder here as a damp mist hovered in stagnation. This was wrong. The hair on the back of Gargaron’s neck rose as he pulled Rosha’s mane, the wolf slowing down, his senses screaming at him.

“What is this?”

“I am not sure. This was not here when I came last. Look, upon that pillar there.” she outstretched her hand and Gargaron craned his neck to see. He followed her gaze to a broken stone pillar, the remnants scattered around in dense piles. On it had formed a thin layer of frost. His brow furrowed as a hand moved to unstrap his Bo staff, the weight a small comfort in his hands.

“Magic.” Gargaron uttered, teeth baring. As they moved further into the mist it became harder to see, for only faint shadows of outlines were visible. Rosha sniffed the air, whining at the scent. Gargaron hopped off the wolf, both hands clasped around his staff. He could make out more details. From the mist emerged warped ramparts and metal battlements like the great maw of a mangled iron beast, threatening to devour any foolish enough to come close.

“Khral?”

“Stay here. Whatever this is, it is no mere machine. If I do not return in an hour’s time, you must take Rosha and warn the guards. I sense great malice in this place.” She did not give an answer, nor did Gargaron look to see her reaction. He instead moved further into the mist, bare feet upon mud that gave way to cold steel and stone. Overhead a crude portcullis loomed, though the bars had begun to rust.

If his muscles were tense, now it felt like his tendons might snap in the rigid cold as he stepped into the barracks. His crimson gaze darted around. It was a standard Kor’kron layout; two hallways leading to a small armory and living quarters respectfully, before circling to the main hall where meetings were held, tactics were planned, and officers conversed. He surmised whatever stalked these ruins dwelled there.

There was no light in the halls, forcing Gargaron to move in the darkness. Several times he stubbed his toe on rubble or nearly tripped, though quickly corrected himself. Truthfully, he was distracted by the smell. The woman had not been lying when she said the stench was overwhelming. It was death, but in a rotten manner fit for long dead corpses, not the freshly slain. He was barely able to force himself not to gag, his heart threatening to flutter in panic. Yet panic he did not, steeling his resolve as he pressed on.

The air grew colder the further he moved in, sending a shiver through Gargaron’s body. Perhaps it had not been the wisest decision to enter bare chested, though it was too late to do anything about that. It grew lighter the closer he got to the main hall, a faint glow emanating ahead of him. He could make out more of the hall now, spotting discarded pieces of rusted armor and equipment, along with scattered remains. Relieving the Kor’kron of this barracks had not come freely it seemed. Ahead, the door had been shattered, and as he stepped through into the main hall he stopped, eyes wide.

Before him was a massive throne carved in iron, though much of it had broken away with time. More impressive however was the figure upon it. Monstrous in size, clad in massive plates of blackened steel while a great helm crowned with horns rested on his features. In one hand he held a brutish maul, the head of it buried in the stone floor beneath. The other was gripped against an arm-rest, denting the iron with the force of his grip. A layer of ice had built up over the figure and throne, extending the size of it to keep the figure seated. Gargaron took a silent step into the room, eyes narrowing.

“Who are…” Gargaron paused mid step, eyes shooting open in surprise. Though the helm covered most of the figure’s features, Gargaron could make out the thin strands of white hair and part of the face. Rather than flesh it was bone, burned away in years past. Though he had only met the man before him in passing and again during the trials of the Kor’kron, he recognized the figure. The juggernaut before him was an orc; a dark mark upon a blackened history. Tyrant. Warlord. Monster.

“Skullcrusha…” It had been years since Gargaron evoked that name. Leaving his lips it felt like a curse, and perhaps it was. Slowly Gargaron took another step forward, waiting for some kind of reaction. The enthroned orc did not move, nor had he for some time. A brief thought flashed in his head; had the woman led him into a trap? Was she some puppet of the former High Warlord?

“Skullcrusha?” The name was poised as a question now. Nothing stirred, though Gargaron did not loosen his grip upon his Bo staff. “Are you alive?” An ironic question for a dead man, but he received no answer. “Bah! of all the things I expected to encounter in here, you were least among them. Surely the ancestors have cursed me to find you here, beyond my nightmares and instead in the flesh.”

He cautiously approached, bringing his staff up to poke the orc. Nothing moved, though this close Gargaron could see a faint glow in Skullcrusha’s left eye socket. There was life in him still then, or whatever counted as ‘life’. Trepidation gave way to curiosity now, though Gargaron still kept his distance. Even when he fought he had little doubts the former High Warlord would crush him, and now? It would be a slaughter.

“How strange. I would have thought you’d be hunting former rebels or seeking your revenge in some bloody and violent fashion. Instead I find you here, hiding in this shell.” Gargaron could not help but smirk at that irony, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Ah, I suppose in that we are similar. Two orcs, without a Horde to call home and fleeing from our failures. A pity how far we have both fallen. A pity indeed…”

...There is no pity or mercy here. There is only the next slaughter and the one to come after. Every day it is a cycle of vicious bloodshed, for that is the law of this land. The planet is greedy, demanding more and more blood to feed its thirst. He provides it in gallons, for upon this dying world he is death.

Time has lost all meaning to him. The wounds grow, but so do the bodies. He thinks he can reach the heavens themselves so high are the corpses he’s made. Every day is the same. Every day it is a cycle of…

Gargaron blinked, returning to the present. He bit down on his own fangs, knuckles white so tight was his grip. He steadied himself with his staff, sweat beading his brow despite the cold. He gave another look to Skullcrusha, then to the head of his staff. He could end it here. Thousands could be avenged with but a single strike. It was only wood, but in the hands of an orc it would strike like steel and crush the Warlord’s skull. The legacy of a monster would finally be over…

…but he could not bring himself to do it. Something stayed his hand. Perhaps it was mercy or perhaps something else. Gargaron did not know. It didn’t matter why, only that he did not strike. Shaking his head, Gargaron gave a final look to the frozen orc before turning to leave. It seemed Skullcrusha had been there for weeks judging by the thickness of the ice on him, which led to the question of why the woman had lied?

“Bah, it is no use. I am not sure anything is left of you to hear me now, Skullcrusha. You’re nothing but a shell of an orc now, trapped in this cage of your failings.”

Yet as he stepped away, a great crack echoed in the room. An icy chill ran up Gargaron’s spine, the orc slowly turning as he heard metal crash together. With great effort Skullcrusha had begun to move, pulling himself away from the throne. Chunks of ice broke away with the motion, the throne collapsing under the force of his movement. The warlord rose to his full height, hands clenched at his side. Gargaron never realized just how much Skullcrusha had been hunched over, for before they were the same size. Now the Death Knight stood well over a head taller and was much, much bulkier. Long extinguished torchlight flared to life around the room, casting Skullcrusha’s long dark shadow over Gargaron.

“Pretender.” Skullcrusha’s voice echoed with an unsettling hollow, causing Gargaron’s ears to hurt. “How strange that for months I was un-bothered and yet suddenly two figures from my past find me.”

“Two? Who was the other? A woman?”

“No. There was the Blackwolf, and now you.”

“Blackwolf?” Another name Gargaron had not heard in some time. “He was here?”

“Yes.” Skullcrusha’s attention seemed pulled away, his eye looking to the southern wall where Gargaron had entered. “Hmm…whatever brought you here had also brought the Blackwolf. I sensed it before just as I sense it now.” His gaze fell back upon Gargaron, balefire glowing from his eye with malicious intent. Why are you here.”

“A woman led me to you. You had scared some children and injured some villagers.”

“Did I? Ah yes, I did. I could hear them coming a mile away, their hearts pounding in their chest like war drums. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Quicker and quicker it beat.” Skullcrusha took a step forward, his steel boot causing the wood to buckle beneath his weight. “But not you. Thump. Thump. Thump. You had no fear, not like the others. Consider me impressed; you at least have foolish bravery.”

“I do not fear you, Skullcrusha.”

“You do not fear me?” At that Skullcrusha barked with laughter, the sound hideous. He turned around quickly, a hand wrapping around his maul. He wheeled on the ball of his heel, swinging his weapon in a wide arc and forcing Gargaron back. “Of course you fear me! All men fear me, for my name is a curse and my deeds a wicked mark upon history. I, who was fist of the Warchief himself!” He slammed his maul down, sending splitters flying as the boards shattered under the impact. “Now why are you here pretender.”

“I already told you.”

“My meaning is why are you here, in the Barrens. I heard rumors you had died upon the Broken Shore.”

“In a way, a part of me did.” Gargaron could not stop a sharp wince crossing his face. “I was captured on the Broken Shore by the demons and brought to their homeworld.”

“You were on Argus?” The name sent a chill up Gargaron’s spine. Argus. He had tried in vain to forget the name of that terrible place. He dipped a stern nod: “Aye. They tortured me for some time, but I escaped. This was before the armies of Azeroth invaded the planet. As far as I knew I was stuck there.. so I fought. I gave myself to the bloodlust to survive. They said it was only a year before Argus appeared in the skies of Azeroth, but it felt longer than that. Much, much longer. When Azeroth arrived, I quickly left the planet and retreated here to the Barrens, to seek solace. You sound disappointed at the thought of me dying though. I thought you would have been pleased.”

“And be robbed of vengeance? Do you know how long I have wanted your death, and the Blackwolf’s and the rest of you cowardly, treasonous wretches?”

“Cowardly?!” Gargaron growled, slashing his hand across the air. “Says the orc skulking in the ruins of his fallen glory. You can’t escape the shadow of the Kor’kron, can you?”

“Silence, worm.” Skullcrusha hissed. “I knew my duty, and that never changed. The Kor’kron is who I am, in all of its terrible bloody wrath. You consider this my failing, but this is my lesson. I can see where I went wrong in every piece of broken stone and rusted iron. In truth I would be doing the Horde a favor ridding it of your weakness.”

“Then why do you not seek to kill me.. You said the Blackwolf came. Is he dead?”

“No.” There was a pause. Skullcrusha’s entire body visibly shook. “You see.. I am beyond such desires now.” The sentence seemed forced from his mouth, as if he did not entirely believe his own words.

“You? Beyond vengeance?” Gargaron scoffed at that, loosening his grip on his staff. “What trickery is this?”

“There are greater problems in this world.” He said simply. “The petty squabbles of the Alliance and Horde are forgettable. The reign of Sylvanas was short-lived if bloody. Ah, Teldrassil. I was there for that you know. I watched as that proud and noble place burned to ash. I watched Lordaeron’s fall, and the death of heroes. I watched as Saurfang died upon the dirt of Durotar, and as the Banshee fled. I watched it all, and I was displeased.”

“Why? The Horde of Sylvanas was the heir of Garrosh’s regime. Another tyrant in a long list of them. Theramore. The Vale. Teldrassil. Is that not the Horde you served? Is that not the legacy of the Horde you helped to form?”

“Indeed that is the Horde. War. Violence. Conquest. As that is the truth of the orcs, so too is that the truth of the Horde. Yet this new war was done not for the Horde, but for the whims of an uncaring Warchief. Garrosh sought to strengthen the Horde, though the weakness of the rebels brought such designs to ruins. Sylvanas? We all heard her words the day Saurfang died. The Horde is nothing. It was a tool for her whims, nothing more. In truth I would mount the Banshee’s head on a pike were I to find her, but alas.”

“You speak as if war and bloodshed are the only things important in life.”

“For an orc, are they not? The humans were not born with a lust for blood. Nor were the dwarves, or the tauren or any of the other races save the trolls. We however were born craving violence. We were taught to kill before we were taught to read. One cannot build security and strength without domination.”

“It is a curse upon our people, Skullcrusha.”

“A curse? No, a blessing. We orcs are unburdened by unnecessary ambitions or politics. We seek strength. Might makes right, pretender. The strong do what they will. The weak suffer what they must. Just as it is in nature, so too is it among our people.”

“Is that not a shallow life, to live only for violence?” Gargaron asked, and yet the word itself caught on his tongue. Shallow. How could such a word sting a thing as Skullcrusha? What did it even mean to a people who had made violence their creed; their life.

“I did not seek a complicated life. I sought to serve the Horde and serve it I did. I died for it. When I regained my freedom I returned to it. In the Horde I saw the strength needed to secure our people’s future, and all those who pledged to the crimson banner. I left the thinking to the seers and scholars, for I fought not with words but with steel.”

“Victory or death…” Gargaron muttered beneath his breath. His glare met that of the behemoth’s. “Look where it has led you. Look where the violence of the Horde has led! Another senseless war, and another defeat for the Horde. Strength is not power, Skullcrusha. These walls strengthened by stone crumble. These foundations buckle under the weight of its past, just as the Horde does again and again. The Horde’s legacy is of violence and defeat. That is all it will ever be.”

“Bold words from a pretender to my title. I had forged one of the greatest fighting forces this world had seen, and you brought them low. The weakness is not from the Horde itself. It is from cowards like you, like Blackwolf and like all the other men and women too spineless to do what needs to be done; too afraid to give your being to the Horde.”

“Bah! Why are you here Skullcrusha!” Gargaron demanded, changing the subject to cool himself off. “Why hide in these ruins, away from everything.”

“I sought solitude to think and dwell upon matters. I did not expect company, nor did I have a want to draw attention to myself. I had scared off the villagers for I had no need to kill them, but that was weeks ago. Or months. In truth I am not sure; time means nothing to me, anymore. Your arrival however has stirred me from my hibernation. I sense it is time for me to leave.”

“To where?”

“I am not sure. I feel a calling northward, to the frozen wastes beyond ice capped peaks and sprawling tundras. Will you let me leave, or must I fight you?”

“What will you do in the North?”

“I do not know. I am not seeking vengeance, if that is why you ask. Now, will you fight me?”

“No.. if you leave, I will let you pass without conflict.”

“Ah, a pity then. Gone are the days of fighters. Now I am surrounded by the dead and the weak. How.. disappointing.” Skullcrusha turned around, stepping back to the throne before pausing. “Before I leave however, I will give you a warning. A darkness is coming, terrible and mighty to behold. It may not be for months or even years, but it will come and swallow the world whole. Trust not the shadows, for in every inch of shade there is death unending. Heed my warning... or do not. I care little. Goodbye, pretender. This is the last time we will speak with one another.”

“Skullcrusha, wait.” The Death Knight either did not hear or ignored Gargaron, an armored talon tearing into the fabric of reality. Swirling green runes appeared in the air, circling to form a portal large enough for the armored goliath. In seconds he was gone, disappearing along with the portal and leaving Gargaron alone.

Death unending. Grim portents from a monstrous tyrant, yet the words made Gargaron uneasy. Even if it was untrue Skullcrusha seemed to believe them. There was something wrong about the former High Warlord. He was different; far different then Gargaron remembered. He had always thought the orc was as stubborn and unchanging as the mountains. The curious change did little to ease Gargaron’s worry, and instead only heightened it.

“This tale grows stranger and stranger… Bah. Where is that woman? I must have words with her, and what her game here was.” She had not lied about the villagers, of this he was sure. She did lie on how long ago the incident was and had omitted the Blackwolf’s involvement. He had not seen Blackwolf since his return, and part of him assumed the orc had died of old age.

As he left the barracks, the air felt lighter. The oppressive chill and fog was rapidly evaporating, though Gargaron could not shake the feeling of dread that clung to him. Skullcrusha’s words had unsettled Gargaron for a number of reasons, and it was not just the warning given. Their talk of the Horde had rattled Gargaron more than he cared to admit. It was a debate he had faced many times with himself; was the Horde weak, or was he weak? Were the orcs more than their violent past, or was it what shaped them? He had never found an answer he liked, and their argument did little to change that.

As he stepped outside the barracks, he saw the mist had mostly vanished, replaced now with the steady rainfall. He saw Rosha some yards away, the wolf spotting Gargaron and running to him in seconds. Of the woman, there was no sign. This only troubled Gargaron further, bringing a frown to his lips.

“Where did the woman run off to, Rosha? Find her.” The wolf did not move. “Bah, lazy beast. Alright then, we’ll leave. This journey has done little to ease my worries or fears, I am afraid. Instead it has only given me more questions…” He slung his Bo staff across Rosha’s side before he pulled himself onto her back. Satisfied, he withdrew his pipe he had stored away in a pouch along with some herbs. His brow furrowed as he realized he had forgot to pack something to light his pipe.

“Damnit.” A sigh escaped his lips as he pulled Rosha’s mane. “Come on girl, let’s go home. Perhaps we will see her on our way back, though I doubt it. Ah how strange fate is, and how damn annoying!”

#World of Warcraft #Gargaron Khral #Skullcrusha #Skullcrusha writing #orcs

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themyskira · 7 years

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THAT Wonder Woman script, part 1 of what the fuck did I just read

Around 2005, Joss Whedon, who has recently been attached to an upcoming Batgirl movie, was hired to write a Wonder Woman movie that never got off the ground.

In an interview, Whedon described the movie he’d envisioned thusly:

She was a little bit like Angelina Jolie [laughs]. She sort of traveled the world. She was very powerful and very naïve about people ... [a]nd ultimately her romance with Steve was about him getting her to see what it’s like not to be a goddess, what it’s like when you are weak, when you do have all these forces controlling you and there’s nothing you can do about it. That was the sort of central concept of the thing. Him teaching her humanity and her saying, OK, great, but we can still do better.

Some years after the project got canned, a 2006 draft script was leaked, and proved to be every bit as terrible as Whedon described and worse. I skimmed it a few years back, and with all the renewed talk around it in the wake of the Batgirl announcement I foolishly decided to try to actually read it for real.

And oh, do I have some notes.

We open with the following text:

IN THE TIME OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS, THE MOST POWERFUL WARRIORS ON EARTH WERE THE AMAZON WOMEN. PROUD, MIGHTY AND CUNNING, THEY WERE NEVER DEFEATED IN BATTLE.

LEGEND TELLS THAT ARES, THE GOD OF WAR, GREW JEALOUS OF THEIR POWER AND HAD THEM IMPRISONED, THEIR WRISTS BOUND IN MYSTICAL CHAINS — CHAINS THAT ROBBED THE AMAZONS OF ALL THEIR POWER.

SHAMED AND IMPERILLED, THE AMAZON QUEEN HIPPOLYTE PRAYED TO ATHENA, GODDESS OF WISDOM, FOR DELIVERANCE FROM THEIR SLAVERY.

THE AMAZONS VANISHED FROM THE EARTH.

Okay, so… there are already a few things I’m not a fan of here.

One: right from the outset the Amazons are being defined solely as warriors. All of their qualities are linked to their martial prowess — “proud, mighty and cunning”. The Amazons of Wonder Woman comics have always been powerful warriors, but it’s a skill they’ve cultivated alongside their prowess as scientists, makers, artists and priestesses. I’ve found that when Wonder Woman writers choose to define Amazons as fighters to the exclusion of all other interests, the result is a very militant, xenophobic and primitive people with a distinct whiff of straw feminism.

Two: really, Joss? Of all things, you had to keep the “Wonder Woman loses her powers when her bracelets are chained?” bit?

Three: “the Amazons were the best until things went wrong and they had to pray their way out of it” this origin story is boring as shit.

But enough of the Amazons. It’s time to meet the real hero of the story. The one we’ve all been waiting to see. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for…

EXT. SKY - DAY.

We see the roiling grey fury of a storm — and an old twin engine prop plane roars into frame from above us.

She bucks bravely amidst the wind, rain and crackling flashes of lightning. We can hear her practically shaking apart.

INT. PLANE - CONTINUING.

Inside, the noise is even worse. Boxes of cargo, most with a red cross, shake and pitch with the plane.

The pilot holds the steering column as it bucks. Maybe 30, kind, determined eyes in a workingman’s face.

…LAAAAAAAME DUUUUUUCK!

I’m not being a smartass, that is Steve’s actual call sign, which he uses as he shouts into his radio trying to hail his guys on the ground. He’s getting only static in return.

STEVE This is Lame Duck, I got a force gazillion hurricane in my face! Visibility is zero and my readings are… […] …they’re shot! My instrument panel’s having serious emotional issues; I am lost at sea.

As the storm batters his plane, the voice of a South African bloke called Ben crackles through on the radio to advise Steve that he may be heading towards some bad weather. Ba-dum-tsh.

Steve deadpans at Ben and then the communications cut out with a “scorching pop” and lightning hits the left propeller. Being the hero of this story, Steve “stubbornly” hangs on, but the plane is bucking wildly and there’s no mistaking it— he’s going down.

Then suddenly he’s out of the storm, the rain and the clouds clear and spread out below is a lush, pristine island. Our rugged hero shakes off his bewilderment and manoeuvres the plane towards a river, “the thing most resembling a landing strip”.

It’s a messy landing; the plane skids along the river and slides out of control down a hill before hitting a couple of big trees mere inches ahead of a near-bottomless ravine. Steve’s wrist is broken and one leg is caught under boxes, and as he’s trying to figure out his next move, there’s a thump on the roof.

The door is tugged clean off its hinges. A silhouetted girl stands in the newly-made opening.

CLOSE ON: THE GIRL.

To say she is beautiful is almost to miss the point. She is elemental, as natural and wild as the luminous flora surrounding. Her dark hair waterfalls to her shoulders in soft arcs and curls. Her body is curvaceous, but taut as a drawn bow. She wears burnished metal bracelets on both wrists, wide and intricately detailed. Her shift is of another era; we’d call it ancient Greek. She is barefoot.

BARF. Just go back and compare this to the way Whedon describes Steve — “Maybe 30, kind, determined eyes in a workingman’s face.”

When Whedon introduces Steve, the main thing he seems to want us to take away is that this is a Good Man trying to do right. When he introduces Diana, the actual titular hero of this movie, he just blathers like a hormonal teen about how fucking hot she is, except not just hot because who could use such crass words to describe a woman as spectacular and— and elemental as she?! She is nature itself, friends, wild as the luminous flora! her dark hair a waterfall! the taut curvaceous girl of my manic pixie dreams!

Like. Are you even listening to yourself, Joss?

Anyway, The Girl looks about curiously; apparently she’s never seen anything like a plane before. “It’s hollow…”

She’s wary when she notices Our Hero, who babbles a bit to the tune of ‘hey do you speak English, could you get to a phone and call for help, my leg is pinned’, before The Girl casually pulls the boxes off him one-handed, studies him for a moment and concludes, “You look horrible.”

Not because he’s injured, mind. It’s because of his stubble. She’s thoroughly perplexed by it, since as we know gender is a strict binary and women never have facial hair of any kind especially since obviously Amazons have a strictly 21st century Western concept of female beauty except oh wait.

Then the realisation hits her.

She reaches for his face, touches it. Realisation breaks her face into a wondrous grin.

DIANA You’re a man.

STEVE Wow. No gettin’ anything past you…

But he’s as mesmerised as she, neither of them moving as her fingers sensuously trace his face.

THE ROMANCE. She is captivated by his masculinity, he belittles her, and they are both entranced.

They trade names, the plane lurches ominously over the ravine, and Diana scoops him up and tosses him to safety. “You feel safer now?” she asks, as he lands hard on the grass.

ANGLE: STEVE has fifteen sharp, gleaming spears in a semicircle around his head.

They are held by fifteen women, armoured and helmeted in the greek style. Backlit enough to be dark and almost inhuman.

STEVE Nnyeaaybe…..

Ha-ha! Champagne comedy!

Also: what’d I tell you? Militant, xenophobic and primitive. How long d’you think before the straw feminism rears its head?

Next scene! Steve is marched into the Amazons city, accompanied by Diana and encircled by a grim company of Amazons. Steve’s hands are bound with rope, the other end of which is held by “the enormous, austere HEPHESTIA, captain of the guard”.

Steve tries to ask if he can use their phone, and Hephestia responses by yanking the rope and sending him sprawling. Diana rushes to help him up, but Hephestia ignores him entirely, admonishing, “It is not to be spoken to.”

YEP HE WENT THERE. WHEDON’S AMAZONS ARE ANGRY IRRATIONAL MAN-HATERS WHO REFER TO MEN AS “IT”.

Hephestia goes on to berate Diana for breaking the “First Law”, telling her that “By all rights your fate should be his” and “You should have killed it.”

Fuck’s. Sake.

Then Steve gets his first sight of the city.

THEMYSCIRA. It’s a vision of a city, nestled in the lush green hills. Greek in many aspects, it has an organic look that is particular to the Amazons — not just straight stone columns.

More than a hundred women are visible, walking, talking, weaving, forging — there is an arena near the bottom with women training at games and swordplay.

Hey, look at that. First indication so far that the Amazons are something other than primitive sword-wielding thugs.

STEVE (continuing; whisper) Where the hell am I?

DIANA This is Themyscira. Home.

STEVE Whose home?

DIANA The Amazons.

STEVE (looking at her) The Amazons are a legend.

DIANA We are? (considers) Good. We should be.

GOOD LORD THIS IS TERRIBLE. And what the fuck is with Diana’s casual arrogance here?

They walk through the city, attracting stares wherever they go. A friend of Diana’s, Aethra, hurries over and falls into step with her. After ascertaining that, yes, this is a fabled man-creature and they are taking him to the Queen, what do you think her first question is?

She falls into step, whispering into Diana’s ear. Diana looks briefly shocked.

AETHRA (continuing) Well, I would’ve. While you can…

SHE ASKS IF DIANA FUCKED HIM.

WHAT THE ABSOLUTE SHIT.

Cut to the Queen’s chamber.

HYPPOLYTE is every inch a queen: noble, beautiful, thoughtful. She is middle-aged, but very much in her prime.

Apparently being attractive is a prerequisite for being a queen now. Also, Whedon has trouble settling on a spelling for her name, as we’ll see.

She is approached by CIRCE. An older woman, Circe is honest and humble, but her eyes pierce well beyond common sight.

(No, it’s not that Circe. I don’t know why Whedon gave her the name of one of Diana’s most prominent rogues.)

CIRCE The Guard returns, my Queen.

HIPPOLYTE Is it what we thought?

CIRCE (nodding) A man.

HIPPOLYTE All this time… and the Gods still mock us. Alive?

CIRCE (nods) Hephestia would have killed him on the spot, but… she was not the first to find him.

This news tightens the corners of Hyppolyte's mouth.

Groan. Yes, Hippolyta, the gods are mocking you by inflicting man on you. That is what’s happening now.

Wait, no, I take that back. Somebody is definitely mocking you right now.

Cut to the throne room. Hippolyta’s on her throne, Steve on his knees before her under Hephestia’s guard. Diana stands by him, and women crowd about the room.

Hippolyta binds Steve with a familiar-looking lasso and interrogates him. The one thing she wants to know: if they fix his plane and help him on his way, will he promise never to speak of the Amazons to anyone? Steve says he won’t, but when Hippolyta presses — what if you were offered money? power? what if you were tortured? — he admits that he could not stay silent if his friends or family were threatened.

Anyway, it doesn’t actually matter because it turns out that Hippolyta was only exploring this line of questioning to demonstrate why there is no solution other than to kill Steve (and I guess so that we could see what a Pure and Heroic Hero Steve is). It’s his life against thousands of Amazons, which is why the First Law says that any man who sets foot on the island has to die, obviously.

At which point Steve gets his self-important on and is like ‘UM EXCUSE ME YOUR MAJESTY but if I don’t get the supplies on my plane to the refugee camp I was headed for, then a fuckton of sick and starving refugees will die, YOU MONSTER.’

Hippolyta considers this, and asks him what he’d say if she could guarantee that the supplies get to their destination — after she murders him. Steve stares at her a moment, then: "Deal.”

So Diana’s like “MOTHER NO!” and Hippolyta is like “MOTHER YES”. Except then for some reason she instructs Circe to take Steve away and feed him and tend to his wounds because I guess she’s too tired to murder him tonight, no need to rush the process.

Then Hippolyta kicks everyone out so she can argue with her daughter.

HIPPOLYTE We came here to escape the tyranny of men.

She holds out her hands as she speaks and Diana places hers begrudgingly in them — Hippolyte turns them palms up as the light glints off Diana’s bracelets.

HIPPOLYTE (continuing) Your wear the symbols of our subjugation but you don’t know what it was like. When these were bound, and we were powerless. The pain, the shame… no Amazon will ever be bound again. […] Steve Trevor may be an honest man but he connects us to a world more brutish and mad than the one we fled. […] He cannot peaceably stay and he cannot be allowed to leave. Do you not see?

DIANA (eyes locked on Steve) I see only murder.

HIPPOLYTE (sees Diana staring) Your eyes are clouded.

DIANA They are clear, mother. Maybe for the first time.

She starts to leave.

HIPPOLYTE I envy the luxury of your clarity. (Diana stops) I am Queen of Themyscira. My responsibilities weigh heavily on me. It’s simpler for those who’ve never had any.

so yeah basically this scene is all about Our Hero and how his heroic heroism puts Diana on a path to becoming Wonder Woman. She’s been living a life of blissful naivety on her island, and then this man comes along and is ready to die so that innocents may live, while Diana’s isolationist people would rather kill to save themselves, and in an instant her eyes are opened “maybe for the first time” and GOSH AREN’T YOU LUCKY A MAN CAME ALONG TO TEACH YOU HOW TO BE A HERO.

Nighttime now. Steve is gloomily pacing his ‘cell’, which is actually a big, comfortably furnished room. Diana, doing a Batman, steps out of the shadows behind him.

DIANA Why don’t you care?

He turns, not particularly surprised to see her. She comes close as she talks. There is an attraction between them that neither of them mentions — or possibly even knows about.

UGH GO AWAY JOSS.

She wants to know why he’s so willing to throw away his life. She wants to know about his world, and what it is he believes matters more than saving his own skin. Steve is uncommunicative; he doesn’t know what she wants him to say.

DIANA (thrown) I… I wonder if there’s a reason. For your coming. Some sign, something for me to learn.

STEVE So my imminent death is, wow, all about you. You know I really should rest up, though, for the dying — why don’t [we] do this another time?

DIANA But we—

STEVE (ushers her out) I’ll call you. I mean it. Let’s keep in touch.

This is a recurring theme in their interactions. Diana reaches out, trying — often somewhat ignorantly or naively — to understand or to help, and Steve bites her head off for being a spoiled, selfish little princess who knows nothing about the real world.

Speaking of which!

DIANA I don’t like your manner.

STEVE And I don’t feature spending my last night on earth playing Discovery Channel for some bored debutante.

DIANA I’m just trying to understand.

STEVE Understand what?

DIANA You. Your world.

STEVE You can’t.

DIANA “Can’t”?

STEVE Can’t. Is that another new word for you? Means ‘are unable to’.

DIANA But you won’t even—

STEVE You and I have nothing in common.

He crosses to the banquet table.

STEVE (continuing) Has there ever been a day when you didn’t have everything you wanted? Have you ever been hungry? (chucks the pear to her — hard) Been cold? Worked twenty hour days underground for no pay, been spat on, stepped on, shot at… (approaches her again) Your mom is Queen of Crazy Town but she’s right to be scared. You wanna stay as far away from the real world as possible. They’d eat you alive, Princess.

DIANA I am an Amazon.

STEVE Yeah yeah, bend steel with your bare hands… in my world, you wouldn’t last a day.

UGH.

So Diana wanders out of Steve’s cell and towards Athena’s temple, “lost in unhappy thought”. Aethra catches up with him and — you guessed it — SHE STILL WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT STEVE’S DICK.

AETHRA (behind her) At least tell me you looked at it.

Aethra wants to know why Diana comes to Athena’s temple every night. What is it she asks the goddess for?

DIANA I… I ask what to ask. To know… what I want, to be content… (quiet passion) I am not what I should be. I can be more, I was meant to be more, I know it. To do something worthy. (looking off) I ask Athena what that is.

AETHRA And you think she’s answered.

DIANA (turning, urgent) Can it be coincidence? That a man should drop straight from the sky after all this time?

So, if we’re following this logic… Diana asks the goddess “what [she needs] to be content” and to be the person she was “meant to be” — and the goddess responds by dropping a man in her lap.

Joss Whedon is such a Great Feminist Writer, y’all.

Also, Aethra’s response to this?

AETHRA (smiling) You really think you’re the only woman on the island thinks that was her prayer being answered?

Because evidently Whedon’s Amazons are deeply heterosexual and desperate for cock.

Diana confesses her unease, and Aethra gives her some completely meaningless advice.

AETHRA Then don’t be a child. Don’t ask for guidance, for permission; don’t ask for anything. Tell Athena what you want. Maybe then you’ll hear her reply.

yes because making aggressive demands of the gods and failing to observe proper respect has always historically gone well for the greeks.

Diana spends the entire night praying. In the morning, a falcon (which isn’t Athena’s bird, but who cares about research) alights in front of her and she stares at it.

Our Hero is led into the royal hall, bravely prepared to meet his death. As Hippolyta prepares to mete out his sentence, the proceedings are interrupted by a stampede of animals. Screeching falcons swoop into the hall and land on Hippolyta’s throne. Huge snakes carve a path through the crowd, followed by a pair of giant panthers and no I have no fucking idea where Whedon is going with this either because he never follows up on it at all.

Diana enters behind the panthers, cloaked and hooded, and announces that she is invoking the “Right of Trial”.

STEVE Trial by what?

Diana pulls off her robe in one swift motion.

AETHRA Combat, of course.

Beneath is the outfit: the burnished eagle breastplate, the deep red of the cloth bodice, the skirt, a greek’s, leather strips low in the middle and cut higher at the hips, dark blue with diamond-shaped silver inlays. The gold sandals matching the wristbands and tiara. A sword is on her hip, which she pulls, pointing at Steve with it.

DIANA (to the assembled) This is the law. If I can defeat Themyscira’s greatest warrior in single combat, judgement on this man will be mine to render. He will live, return to his world… and I will go with him. […] If this world of his is truly mad, I would know why. I would know what it is we all fear so terribly. (pointedly, to Mom) I consider it… my responsibility.

And who is Themyscira’s greatest warrior? Well, I think we all know the answer to that.

So Diana has to fight her mother to save Steve’s life.

But it’s more fucked up than that, because Joss has made Hippolyta the symbol of all of Themyscira’s insular, xenophobic, backward tradition, while Steve represents the hero Diana aspires to be — all-American, prepared to sacrifice himself to defend the helpless.

So in practice this reads as Diana choosing to reject her people’s (primitive, wrong) culture and embrace the (good, heroic) American Way.

Anyway, Hippolyta hefts her sword and they fight. Steve continues to be a smartass.

AETHRA This must seem strange to you.

STEVE No, my mom and I did this all the time.

The fight is relentless — “In Amazon training,” Joss tells us, “they don’t teach retreat”. What with the Amazons being ruthless savages and all. Hippolyta gradually starts to get the upper hand, sends Diana to her knees and brings her sword down “with all her might” on Diana’s shoulder. It shatters on Diana’s skin.

For a moment, only the clatter of the shards on stone.

Then Diana is back up in a flash, swinging at her mother with brutal force — Hippolyte blocks and pulls Diana close.

HIPPOLYTE In his world, it may not be the sword that will break. You will be weakened, and reviled, daughter: death is out there. Here you are safe, you’re strong, you are a princess and there they will make you nothing now will you yield?

Diana looks at her with intensity, but no malice.

DIANA I can’t.

HIPPOLYTE. (quietly) I know.

She steps back, throws her broken sword down. […] Hyppolyte grabs Diana to her and embraces her fiercely, both women exhausted and emotional.

Hyppolyte kisses her head, takes it in her hands, inches from her face. She whispers ungently:

HIPPOLYTE (continuing) Remember who you are. They will take everything from you but that.

…aaaaand I guess that’s that, then? Hippolyta breaks her sword on Diana’s shoulder, fights her to a standstill, and then, “give up now? what, you don’t? oh okay well I guess I give up instead, then”.

Steve and Diana fly out. Joss takes the time to tell us that Diana is wearing “a simple white tunic (which on her is anything but simple)” which oh my god keep your boner to yourself mate.

Also let’s just pause to note that at this point Diana’s only motivation beyond a vaguely-articulated desire for direction is The Boy. In most modern versions of Wonder Woman’s origin, Steve is a catalyst rather than the motivating factor in Diana’s journey forth into Man’s World. Rucka’s Amazons recognise the gods’ hand in Steve’s arrival and realise that greater forces are on the move; this spurs them to choose a champion who will be both ambassador and protector. Pérez’s Diana actually wins the mantle of champion and the responsibility of defending the world against Ares before the war god’s machinations bring Steve’s plane down.

Whedon’s Diana has no mission or calling. She just met a boy and decided to follow him home.

#whedon does wondy #this is long and painful and i am sorry #wonder woman

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