The story of Lycanar, Worgen Warlock of the Alliance

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“Help me help you.”

The creature grinned a perfectly amicable smile that would have been unsettling even on something that wasn’t a demon. Of course, it was – which just made it that much worse.

But it didn’t really seem to affect the man presently being addressed at all. Tall, lean, and impeccably dressed, he stared down at the demon with steady eyes, his expression never wavering. Truth be told, he’d seen worse. He could hear them now, even from here, miles away from the wall – the groans, shrieks, and screams of the Scourge just beyond it.

King Greymane knew what was best for their people, no matter what others may have said. Gilneas was strong, as was its people. Gilneas need not rely on any other – nor, as Greymane had wisely surmised, did anyone else need to rely on it. He agreed with Greymane, always had…but the mutterings began almost the moment the wall was constructed. Madness, some said – madness, to cut oneself off from trade and commerce. Heartless, some said, to deny beleaguered neighboring kingdoms their aid.

He knew it was coming, a rebellion – did good King Greymane see it too? At one point he would’ve said yes, of course, without hesitation. But Greymane was…far too reliant on his court archmage. Rumors swirled, as they always did – rumors of dark creatures unleashed at Arugal’s bidding, rumors of attacks not just on Scourge, but on the proud citizens of Gilneas as well. It really wouldn’t do at all.

“What do you need,” The little creature persisted, hungry eyes set on him from within the confines of summoning circle.

There was a better way to deal with the Scourge. He had it right there, sitting in front of him. And for the first time he spoke, his voice collected and calm. “Power.”

“Easily done.”

Worgen

He ran.

In between visions of another life, he ran, rough paws deftly avoiding branch and vine. The forests might have been treacherous to some, but not to him. A guttural snarl caught deep in his throat – he could smell them, his pursuers. Not even the musk they used to cover their scent could obscure the sour metallic whiff of gunpowder. The others ran on ahead, one taking a sharp turn to the left and ducking towards the river – and then the deafening sound of gunfire rang out, followed by a sharp yelp.

All was still.

He ran on, the thick branches overhead providing cover from betraying moonlight. They were not a pack, though they moved as one. The loss of one mattered little – it meant the others would survive a little longer. It was all that mattered. Lost in the sound of crunching leaves and his own breath, he didn’t notice the telltale glint of moonlight on steel from the trees ahead until it was too late. Once again, the deafening sound of gunfire rang out – and an explosion of pain stabbed at his leg, hurling him sideways, the world tumbling around him.

All was still, and so was he.

Broken Shore

Fire lanced from his fingers, and the offending creature instantly ceased to be. Lycanar’s jaw set in grim determination as he unleashed yet another hail of flame, steadily burning his way through the Legion’s forces. Long gone were the days sequestered behind the “safety” of Gilneas’ great wall – long gone were the days he’d spent, countless in number, simply lost in the thrall of worgen form. He’d regained … not quite humanity, but close enough to contain his shift from man to beast to the rigors of combat alone.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

Raising both arms, he called a rain of fire from the sky, incinerating another babbling pack of demons before they could form a defense. Someone asked him once, sometime after the attacks on the Broken Shore began anew, why he was so eager to obliterate demonkind. Hadn’t they gifted him his power, they asked? He silently moved on, refusing to answer.

But the question lingered regardless. Yes, they had granted him power. And he’d taken it, and he’d used it to defeat Scourge and worgen alike. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and the situation in Gilneas had been desperate indeed. But he owed the demons nothing. He owed the Legion nothing. His power was his own – they’d offered him the knowledge required to wield it. They offered him more, too…the power to curse, to watch his enemies slowly wither away. They offered him their servitude, a bond, a pact that tied the demons to him far more closely than a mere dabbling in power.

He turned them both away. Lycanar didn’t want his enemies to suffer. He wanted them gone. He was no monster, despite the fur, the claws. And he knew very well that the demons would not be serving him, as they offered – he would be serving them.

And Lycanar was a slave to no one. He was Gilnean – strong, proud, resilient, and ever self-sufficient. Yes, his homeland was overrun – but Gilneas would bow to no one, and neither would he. Perhaps one day, when the Legion was defeated, when monsters no longer threatened the world, his powers would fade in turn. Perhaps one day, the dawn would rise on a world of peace.

And perhaps, despite the perceptions and expectations of others, he would even be glad of it.

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