Supreme Beings of Azeroth

Insomnia had become a familiar companion to him of late. Dagran Thaurissan, Emperor of the Dark Irons, sat in his grand bed chamber with a book resting on his lap, its pages illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby brazier. His wife, Moira, lay peacefully beside him, her breaths soft and even in the quiet of the room.

He glanced at her tranquil face, marveling at the peculiar twists of fate that had brought them together. Their union was a tale many would call improbable, if not outright impossible. Moira, the only child of Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge, came from a lineage that had been the sworn enemy of Dark Irons since the Three Hammer war. For generations, the Bronzeheads had sought to dominate the other two dwarven clans. It was this enmity that had led Dagran to order Moira's abduction, intending to use her as a pawn to force the Ironforge to its knees.

Unlike the typical brutal fates that befell Dark Iron captives forced to battle in arenas, labor as slaves, or in some cases, used as playthings for nobility-Moira's worth made her an exception. She had been held as a prisoner within Dagran's own royal suite. At first, she was merely a tool, a means to an end to hold her family accountable. Yet as the days turned to weeks, she revealed herself to be more than a mere Bronzebeard figurehead princess. Highly intelligent, shrewd, and surprisingly disdainful of her father, Moira had no illusions about the man who had dismissed her as an unworthy heir simply because she was a woman, actively contributing to his cause whenever and wherever she could.

Their conversations, initially guarded and adversarial, evolved into spirited debates on politics, history, and the future of the dwarven race. What had begun as an attempt to manipulate her resentment for his gain had grown into something far deeper. Before Dagran realized it, he had fallen in love with this fiery, brilliant woman despite their immense difference in status. And now, as she lay by his side, the child she carried, his heir symbolized both a personal triumph and an uncertain future.

His gaze lingered on Moira's tranquil expression as she breathed calmly. The thought filled him with both joy and dread. His heart swelled with pride at the prospect of their offspring, but the looming shadow of Ragnaros, the Firelord, immediately tempered his happiness as it did with all things. The Dark Irons were bound to the elemental lord, enslaved to his will. Recently, some mysterious beings took over his enemy's domain and founded a new empire, displaying their immense might by conquering the orcs and ogres.

Now, with the Burning Steppes transformed into a green paradise by the new emperor, the balance of power had shifted dramatically. Dagran knew that such defiance of Ragnaros's dominion would provoke the Firelord's wrath. When Ragnaros was angered, destruction followed, and Dagran had no illusions about what that could mean for him, his people, or his family.

The ceaseless conflict in Blackrock Mountain only compounded his worries. The bitter struggle between the dragons of the upper spire and his forces in Shadowforge City drained his resources and cost countless lives. His war golems, formidable as they were, barely managed to keep the dragons at bay. Any attempt to press an offensive was met with devastating losses as the mighty beasts mercilessly devoured any soldier who dared breach the spire's defenses.

Small skirmishes outside the mountain had been an unending reality, with minor patches of territory constantly changing hands. This state of attrition had defined the conflict between the Dark Irons and their adversaries. However, the dynamics have shifted recently. A few days ago, Nazarick abruptly ceased its offensive operations and redirected its efforts toward fortifying defenses.

At first, this seemed like an opportunity. With the pressure on the Dark Iron borders lessened, Dagran Thaurissan found himself with greater freedom to maneuver his forces. Yet the change in strategy made him uneasy. It was a calculated move; he was certain of it. Such a shift in strategy could signify preparations for something far more devastating: a buildup of enough forces for an overwhelming strike that could shatter his siege lines and flood Shadowforge city with enemy forces.

The thought gnawed at him. There was a chance that his warlocks and shamans, formidable as they were, might not be enough against an opponent as powerful as Ainz Ooal Gown. He, too, was no stranger to combat. Both his hammer and his mastery of magic had earned him respect and fear alike, but Dagran held no illusion that he could win a battle against an entity that could transform the Burning Steppes into a lush paradise.

As his mind constantly wandered on political and military matters, his wife stirred beside him, her movements soft but noticeable. Outside the heavy doors of his chambers, Dagran could hear his servants' hurried footsteps echo faintly. They sounded restless, moving back and forth in his private space.

The early morning commotion didn't surprise him, but the chaotic energy did. It was clear that something out of the ordinary was happening. Yet no one dared to disturb him. The fear of being sent to the Ring of Trials, a death sentence in brutal combat, kept them silent.

Curious and irritated, Dagran pushed his short but muscular frame out of the bed, wrapping himself in a silk robe. The moment he opened the door, his advisors and servants swarmed him in a wave of nervous urgency.

"What Is going on?" He roared, stopping the useless dwarves in their tracks.

"Your Majesty," one of his advisors stammered, bowing deeply. "Majordomo Executus is ascending from the molten core; he will arrive before noon."

The words struck Dagran like a hammer. "Then what are you fools doing, meandering around about? Make preparations!" He ordered, dismissing the lot with a sweeping gesture before retreating back into his bed chambers.

Moira was awake now, her voice groggy but alert as she mumbled, "What...?"

"Executus is coming," Dagran explained, his tone softer for her than it had been for his subordinates. "We need to be ready."

Her eyes snapped open, the words instantly dispelling her drowsiness. She bolted upright, her expression sharp and focused. "Then what are you waiting for? Move your arse and let me get ready," she snapped, her thick Bronzebeard accent cutting through her sleep-laden voice.

"Don't raise your voice against me, woman!" Dagran shot back with a chuckle, leaning in to plant a quick kiss on her lips before stepping aside to give her the space she needed.

The handmaidens were already rushing in, their arms laden with garments and grooming tools. Moira's preparations would take significantly longer than his own. As Empress, she needed to present herself as a paragon of beauty and authority, especially before a figure like Executus.

The stakes were high. Many among the Dark Iron nobles remained bitterly opposed to Moira's elevation, preferring that Dagran had chosen a bride from one of their own houses. Marrying a Bronzebeard, a sworn enemy was seen by some as an unforgivable insult. Though no one dared to voice their criticisms openly, whispers circulated in the senate and in private gatherings.

Dagran was well aware of these dissenters. His spies ensured that such conversations reached his ears, and he knew the alliances among the noble houses were strong enough to forestall any immediate purges. To act against them rashly risked plunging his empire into civil war.

For Moira, the scrutiny was unrelenting. Even the smallest imperfections in her appearance or conduct were seized upon as proof of her unsuitability. Despite the odds, she bore the pressure with strength, her keen mind, and fierce will, proving a match for the venom of her detractors.

Dagran sat rigidly on his ornate obsidian throne, his expression stony, not betraying his nervousness. At his side sat Moira beside him, her posture regal. Both knew that Ragnaros' second in command, Majordomo Executus, would not come in person unless the Firelord had been stirred and when the Firelord stirred, the world of mortals quaked beneath the weight of his ire.

The Dark Iron Emperor masked his unease behind a stoic expression, but his thoughts raced; he knew he needed to prepare for whatever unreasonable demands Executus would make. He knew all too well the precarious nature of his position. To the fire elementals, the dwarves of Shadowforge were nothing more than disposable tools, their servitude a cruel legacy of his grandfather's mistake. Should he falter in his duties or resist in any way, he would be instantly replaced with someone more compliant.

As he brooded, his eyes drifted to the assembled senators scattered throughout the throne room. They jostled for the best vantage points, some leaning over the balconies above, others elbowing their way to the forefront of the floor below. Their petty squabbling over position and influence seemed trivial compared to the fiery storm about to enter the chamber.

Dagran returned his attention to the massive double doors at the far end of the hall. Any minute now, they would open, and the audience with the flamewaker would begin. His grip on the armrests of his throne tightened imperceptibly as the first groaning creak echoed through the chamber.

The doors swung open with deliberate slowness, revealing dozens of flamewakers. They slithered into the room, their immense forms illuminating the space with fiery brilliance. At least three times taller than the average dwarf, each serpentine fire creature was a force to be reckoned with. Their crackling bodies emanated heat that made the senators sweat from the balconies above. Armed with massive forks and spears, the flamewakers moved with an eerie grace, their mere presence reinforcing their devastating power.

They formed two precise lines, creating an honor guard for their leader. Then Majordomo Executus entered. His towering form eclipsed even his subordinates, his scaly face twisted into a scowl. At his full height, he stood five or six dwarves tall, his fiery presence an oppressive force that radiated malice.

Dagran inhaled deeply, steadying himself, and rose from his throne. Moira followed suit, her expression composed but her knuckles white as she clutched the folds of her gown. Together, they descended the steps of the throne's elevation, moving with measured dignity toward the approaching elemental.

The emperor and empress kneeled before Executus as he slithered to a halt, his smoldering eyes narrowing with disdain. The room fell silent, the only sound being the faint crackling of Majordomo's fiery body. All eyes in the chamber were on the pair of dwarves as they bowed low, the weight of their submission a bitter but necessary act.

The searing voice of Majordomo Executus echoed throughout the throne room, consuming all other focus. "Our Lord has spoken. He orders for the Burning Steppes to be conquered and the forests burnt to ash," he declared, his tone laced with sharp impatience.

Dagran Thaurissan's jaw clenched at the impossible demand. The emperor took a steadying breath before replying, his voice calm but laced with the weight of reality. "Sire, we have been in a state of stalemate for two years. Now, with two powerful entities commanding our enemies, mobilising the entire army will not suffice. The dragons of the upper spire-"

Executus's massive trident struck the ground with a thunderous clang, silencing him mid-sentence. The flames dancing around Majordomo's form flared with intensity as he interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Our Lord gave us an order. Or perhaps you need extra motivation?" He turned the point of his massive trident toward Moira, the gesture unmistakable.

Dagaran grated his teeth. A flicker of rage crossed Dagran's face, his fists tightening at his sides. The insolence of this beast to threaten his wife and the mother of his unborn child tested every ounce of restraint he possessed. Yet he was no fool. He was bound by the chains of servitude to the Firelord and could do nothing but endure this humiliation. "I will do as commanded," Dagran replied, his tone controlled but his anger bubbling beneath the surface. "But Sire, if we decimate our standing forces in an all-out attack, the conquest of Ironforge will be delayed for... "

Executus cut him off with a dismissive wave of his trident. "Your desire for revenge is of little consequence. Lord Raganors demands the eradication of the meddling creatures who dared to encroach upon his domain." His fiery eyes burnt brighter as he continued, his voice rising. "I will lead the army personally alongside my forces and see that his will is done."

Dagran bowed his head in acquiescence. "I listen and obey, sire."

"Good," Executus sneered. He loomed closer, his smoldering form towering over the dwarven emperor. "And Dagran, do not even think of disobeying the Lord's order. Your lack of faith is... disappointing."

The Majordomo's voice grew to a roar, and the air around him cracked with heat. "The Lord will rise from the ashes, and these troublesome meddlers will be obliterated. This Nazarick will cease to exist, and we'll see it done in his name!"

At this, the assembled flamewakers erupted into a deafening chant, their coarse voices echoing through the chamber as they cried, 'In his name! In his name!'.

Dagran straightened, his voice joining the cacophony of chants as he declared, "In his name, we will conquer the Burning Steppes."

Seemingly satisfied with his answers, Executus departed, taking the rest of the flamewakers with him. As the last of the flamewakers slithered out of the throne room, Dagran allowed himself a moment to process the daunting task ahead. Executus's demands loomed large, but Majordomo's departure granted him a sliver of breathing room. Unfortunately, the time for reflection was fleeting; preparations for war began immediately.

Grim.

Dagran stood, his expression grim, "We'll deploy the war golems to bear the brunt of the damage," he declared to his gathered advisors. Their high resistance to fire and blunt force damage will make them our most reliable front line.

The advisors murmured among themselves, knowing well the strengths and limitations of the stone constructs. There were only two hundred of them; far too few to counter the overwhelming number of dragons and orcs that comprised their enemies. Even with strategic placement among the troops, the golems would be insufficient to protect the army from the dragons' aerial assaults and the brutal melee strength of the orcs.

Dwarves excelled in close combat within the mountain, but in the open fields of the Burning Steppes, the Dark Horde held the advantage. Their reach alone makes hand-to-hand combat a losing proposition. Guns would even the odds, but we don't have enough weapons or ammunition to arm every soldier.

Dwarves were unrivaled when it came to combat in caverns and other cramped spaces but the Dark Horde had a huge advantage in open fields, and siege weapons were not enough to even the score. The average orc was twice as tall as a dwarf and with a much larger reach making melee combatants almost useless. There still weren't enough guns to arm every soldier in his army not to mention the lack of ammunition. In short, the army was far from ready to conduct an invasion even if they were supported by the elemental forces. A war of attrition likely wasn't feasible either as the newly formed forests likely provided enough food for the orcs to continue the all-out war for months if not years.

Dagran grunted in annoyance and declared, "Start preparing the army. I want the troops fully ready within a month. If anyone is caught sabotaging or stealing from our war effort, they'll be thrown into the lava pits- along with their families."

Moira, beside him, leaned forward, her sharp intellect immediately turning to strategy. "We need to weaken our enemies as much as possible. We should send teams into the Burning Steppes at once to sabotage their food supplies and armories. Without food and weapons, the Dark Horde will falter." She paused briefly, "Perhaps the shamans can summon fire elementals to set the forest fires ablaze. If we cannot claim the land, we'll deny it to our enemies."

Dagran nodded his respect for his wife growing yet again. "A sound idea. The less prepared they are the better the chances of victory."

Edited by: NabeisWaifu, aidan_lo.

Proofreading by fvvck, IAMTHEPLOKOKIOPO,

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