New Lorash Model

Lorash in War of the Thorns

Technically, we don't need to kill civilians... but I like your style.

That wasn't a guard, but far be it from me to stop us from murdering the Alliance.

Hey, careful with the civilians. We may draw the guards' attention.

I'm going to look the other way on that one. I can't say I've killed a man in his sleep before.

And so, Lorash was alone. He had faintly heard Malfurion’s booming voice and Saurfang’s taunting replies. Many of the night elves had retreated this way, so he suspected Malfurion would, too. The night elf leader would need to join them to plan the next phase of their defense.



And maybe, just maybe, Malfurion would be distracted. He had suffered a loss. His mind might be occupied.



The sound of a foot pressing down on soft leaves brought a smile to Lorash’s face. The time had come. For my father . . . for my mother . . . for my people!



His ankles moved. He fell headfirst toward the ground, a dagger gripped tightly in each hand. He had timed this perfectly. Malfurion was directly underneath him, not looking up.



Lorash swept both daggers in an arc. When they crossed, they would meet Stormrage’s neck, removing his head.



They never crossed.



Malfurion stepped aside. The instant before Lorash crashed into the ground, tree roots burst out of the earth and slapped his wrists. He dropped his daggers. He cried out in surprise as he landed on his right shoulder and neck. There was a sharp jolt of pain. His right arm went numb, but Lorash could still move.



More roots took that away from him, too. Before he could leap to his feet, roots wrapped tightly around his wrists, ankles, and neck, pinning him to the ground, immobilizing him.



Damn.



Lorash fought against the roots for only a moment, but it was useless. They could have already killed him, crushed the life out of him, or ripped his limbs off his body. But they hadn’t. The blood elf stared up hatefully at Malfurion, who looked back down on him with pity.



“This is senseless. This invasion is senseless,” Malfurion said softly. “Brother, we should not be enemies.”



Lorash’s daggers lay several feet away from him. They might as well have been worlds away. He had two shurikens tucked in his sleeves, but that was it. He had no doubt he would die if he tried to throw them. Not unless he could distract Stormrage.



“The rest of the Horde, I can fathom. Sylvanas, I can fathom,” Malfurion continued, “but our peoples once lived together. We fought together in the same wars, and we died for one another. It was true long ago, and it was true only a few months ago, out on the Broken Isles. There should be no divide between my kaldorei and your sin’dorei.”



Lorash hissed through the root that gripped his throat. “And who created that divide, Stormrage?

Who exiled my people?”



“I remember the faces of those who left that day. Yours was not among them,” Malfurion said. “Are you invading my homeland because you heard stories from before you were born? Or are you blindly following orders from your fallen warchief? I cannot decide which is worse.”



Lorash still wasn’t dead. That surprised him greatly. Malfurion wants to talk. A leader of the night elf people genuinely believed that the blood elves had no reason to take part in this battle.



Lorash was happy to educate him.



“Yes, that all happened before I was born,” he said. “I was born in Tirisfal Glades. As a child, I had to flee with my family and all the rest. I remember wandering for years. I remember a long winter trapped in the mountain peaks. I remember my father hunting despite the cold, losing one finger to the frost, then two. I remember one day he never returned at all. How many of your people have frozen to death, Malfurion? Do we share that history, too?”



Malfurion did not answer. Lorash smiled inwardly. He could not use his daggers, but he could still make Stormrage bleed.



“I remember centuries of warfare against the trolls,” Lorash continued. “I remember seeing pieces of my childhood friends decorating the huts and villages of the Amani. Trophies, you see. Was it the kaldorei who came to our aid in those days? No. I remember the day death itself marched on our new homeland. When my mother died and was raised into the Lich King’s army, who had to kill her and put her to rest? Was it you, Malfurion, who stood with us as we lost our homeland?”



“My people had just repelled the Burning Legion and, in doing so, lost our homeland,” Malfurion said sharply. “And despite the years of war between our two factions, we never attacked your home.



We have never even dreamed of it.”



“I have dreamed of little else,” Lorash said.



“Then I am glad most of your kind is not as lost as you.”



“And I am glad that you will live to see my kind conquering your home,” Lorash said. How far can I push this? His heart told him he had already gone too far. His soul told him to go even farther. “Does that thought fill you with disgust? The temples of Elune filled with sin’dorei?”



Lorash saw a flash of movement, dark and swift, out of the corner of his eye. Someone was coming Malfurion looked up. He had noticed it, too.



“You,” said Malfurion.



“Ishnu‐dal‐dieb,” said Sylvanas Windrunner, raising her bow.



This was Lorash’s chance. His only chance. His hands wrestled against the roots, and his fingers desperately stretched toward his last two shurikens. It took only a heartbeat.



In that heartbeat, a war raged above him.



The blood elf watched in awe. Shadow‐wreathed arrows and green‐laced magic darted through the air. A burst of dark power shoved Malfurion back, and Lorash felt the roots binding him go loose.



Lorash drew both arms back, shurikens held so tightly he felt the tips pricking his palms. He didn’t care if he poisoned himself. He was so close, so close . . .



Malfurion looked at him, at the weapons in his hands, and the root around Lorash’s throat squeezed.



Lorash heard a grinding crunch. His eyes were still open, his mind was still racing, but his body wouldn’t obey him. His lungs wouldn’t draw breath. His entire body was numb. His thoughts were fading.



“Your kind has not conquered my home yet,” he heard Malfurion say. Was that to him or Sylvanas?



Lorash did not know.



A few moments passed. Blackness pulsed in his vision. That was his own poison, probably. Sylvanas Windrunner stood over him, saying something he couldn’t hear. If Lorash was seeing her, Malfurion must have retreated.



Damn. He still lives.



Lorash had failed. He wondered if he would see his family on the other side.

Implications of Raising Lorash

Lady Sylvanas Windrunner says: I can raise your dead, Regent Lord. Your rangers can fight again.

Lor'themar Theron says: Sylvanas! You will leave our corpses alone or I will deal with you here and now.

Lady Sylvanas Windrunner says: I'm sorry to see your lack of commitment... What of the human corpses?

Lor'themar Theron says: ... well, I suppose that's between you and the Alliance, isn't it?

Sylvanas Raising Night Elves

These night elf ambushes have left us undermanned. We need reinforcements if we are to hold Darkshore. Brynja, one of the Dark Lady's val'kyr, can provide us with those reinforcements. Slay the night elves and command her to raise the willing ones into our service. ...Did I not make myself clear? Go. The Dark Lady has plans for these Dark Rangers.



Elune had intervened. Perhaps she had even stayed Saurfang’s killing blow. And she wouldn’t be the only force beyond the Alliance to oppose Sylvanas’s true objective.



Sylvanas’s anger grew cold.



She had known this would happen. It had simply come sooner than expected. That was all.