In a green-tinted, black orb were reflected the streets of Silvermoon. A scrying spell, meant to show her the validity of that absurd declaration she had just received. In those crimson rimmed streets of marble and magic that she had once died for, the people she once called her own were now engaged in endless acts of debauchery. Proud blood elves crawled on all fours towards the sweet promise of human cock, panting like depraved bitches.
The vision moved on. Over corners, plazas, parks and balconies, everywhere people were fucking like rabbits. Only a corner where the children were cared for and the city guards seemed to be exempt from the endless orgy. Worst of all was the castle, where the traitor Lor'themar and that boy king Anduin were sitting across from each other, enjoying a gargantuan feast, with women tending to him. The leader of the Alliance was barely visible, surrounded by so many slaves.
Two of which, a void elf and a Naaru, looked directly into the sphere and smiled knowingly. Anduin followed their gazes, waved his hand, and the sphere went black.
Sylvanas Windrunner grabbed the orb with her clawed gauntlet. "RAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" the angry scream of the banshee echoed throughout the chamber, as she hurled it throughout the room of the primitive fortress. Rather than shatter on the metal wall in satisfying explosion of crystal and magic, the scrying sphere ripped a hole through the crudely combined metal. That only served to annoy the Warchief further. "Go get it back," she barked at Nathanos.
The undead human bowed, a motion that, unlike most of their kind, didn't show off any bone. As his chief advisor and right-hand man, she had it arranged that the Val'kyr under her command restored his flesh to something close to his living days. Now that flesh was cold, eternal, improved. "As you command, my dark lady," he said, his voice and red eyes reverberating with the necromantic power. He straightened back up, streaked his brown hair back and walked away.
Sylvanas fell back in the ridiculous chair the orcs called a throne. Like anything else those savages made, it was a combination of wood worked so badly that it splintered and iron hammered into a myriad of impractical spikes. It was impressive how quickly Ogrimmar had been built and rebuilt, but it was clear that the speed had come at the cost of quality.
Not that Sylvanas trusted orcs to build anything quality in the first place. Brutish strength of muscle, that was about all they were good for. Thankfully, they also had a tendency to follow whoever was strong without thinking too much about it. A bit of lip service to the right ideals of tribal unity and they screamed her name with fervour.
Sylvanas let out all the air in her lungs. Since she wasn't going to speak, keeping it in there was just unnecessary bloat. Her skin had long since lost any warmth or colour. Indeed, it had developed from a sickly, pale white to a blueish grey over her years of undeath. A state that had left her flesh whole and without a sign of rot, courtesy of her origin as an elf, as her dark rangers, the only other people in the room, were unliving proof for. There was too much magic in her being to be easily influenced by the passage of time. Even the wound that had killed had closed.
If one only saw her, they would see nothing but a blueish-grey skinned elf with red eyes, black lips and mascara around her eyes that seemed to be seared in and running down her face. They would see an athletic body with a flat stomach, thick legs, a perfect ass and tits of a decent size, overall large for an elf. They would see grey-tinted, blonde hair that cascaded in soft waves. All of that clad in tight leather. Sylvanad knew of her appearances, scary and sexy at the same time, and she knew to use that to her advantage. Whether she was dead or not, men were so easily lulled by beauty, even without sex.
It was all just a tool for her. She had lost interest in mortal desires when she had been resurrected. When she had become cold. When she had become eternal. When she had been shackled to Arthas will, only to free herself and allow herself this improved state of being. Free from these urges to procreate, to eat, to sleep, free from any pulse that could have made her aim unsteady and any bothering emotions that could have distracted her from her goals. All she needed to think about was the continuation of her own existence, the elimination of all threats. She would find a way to break that rising Alliance, that pesky, life-loving, perverted pact of dogs and bitches in heat.
Yes, she was above all of that. She was Sylvanas Windrunner, she was the mastermind of this war. She would get what she wanted, she would break her opposition. The pieces were in play, no matter how much the boy king struggled, she would come out victorious. She was above worry, above doubt and certainly above her former people. Those that she had protected with her life, that she had helped by inviting them into the Horde - if they didn't want her help and preferred to literally fuck around all day, then that was all fine by her. 'Let them,' she thought. 'I am not bothered, this only complicates things mildly. I am above them and their decaying pacts.'
Why then, was there this long-forgotten tingle between her legs?
____________________________________________________________________________
"Is something the matter, High King Anduin?" Lor'themar asked. The regent of Silvermoon and de-facto leader of the blood elves was looking across the table with a raised eyebrow.
"Your old affiliates have received your new allegiance. At least I am sure that's who I just sent back to minding their own affairs." Anduin lowered the hand that he had used to disperse the scrying spell and placed it back on Baela's head. Tending to the right side of his cock, the goblin kneeled in front of him. Next to her was Mizzy. Both of the short slaves had gotten off the boat after their master had concluded business at the Sunwell.
It had all happened rather quickly. Having witnessed the Alliance leader's lifestyle, Lor'themar had to admit that it would be a whole lot more rewarding for his people to follow it. Especially, since the population of the blood elves hadn't recovered anywhere close to the levels predating the invasion of the undead Scourge.
Although he was a militaristic leader, however, Lor'themar would not force such a decision on his people. Instead, he decided to lead a swift information campaign, trying to let the blood elves form a stance on things before the Banshee Queen could be informed of the happenings.
Everyone on Quel'danas, who was strongly connected to the Sunwell, was quickly convinced of things. They had felt the changes once they had happened and were much happier for it. Not being dependent solely on the Light and its strictness pushed some indulgence back into the local culture. Mindlessly consuming luxuries wasn't a healthy way to live, but neither was the complete lack of them in pursuit of starving of a second mana addiction.
It helped that the Sunwell had continued to overflow with its charged waters. Although somewhat diminished, once Anduin stopped having his orgy inside it, there was still way more of the resource to distribute than ever before. Vials of the twilight liquid were distributed among the populace to allow for them to truly test whether they were getting duped or if they had something real on their hands.
That night was filled with debauched cries, as the populace saw the truth and engaged in an island-wide fuckfest. Quel'danas, after two days of talks, was totally convinced of the fact that this was an improvement. The Lord-Regent and Anduin then moved across the channel and repeated the same project in Silvermoon. It took a bit more effort, but once the waters of the Sunwell were tested locally as well, enthusiasm to affiliate with the High King over the life-bemoaning undead quickly rose.
The waters only reinforced a tendency that the blood elves already had. They had almost switched sides before, during the war in Pandaria, and they had the same submissive streak to them as the night elves they had descended from. Less pronounced, it had to be said, in the males. Night elven males had become slaves along the women, where blood elves decided to engage in something closer to the dwarven model.
All women agreed to become deeply submissive slaves. The decree was championed by Liadrin. Already a hero among her people, she gave some very effective demonstrations as to why the Cult of the Perfect Slave was such a great thing. A couple of public orgies with eternally young blood elf sluts later, Anduin had convinced the women where their place was supposed to be. The twilight wells that were erected all over the city also increased the beauty of the already marvellous race further.
For the men, they were split. Many wanted to be masters themselves, many others seemed pretty happy to submit themselves. Since there was no reason to not make both sides happy, it was simply decreed that men could decide to be either - just as women could decide to be mistresses, but almost exclusively chose not to. The resulting class of blood elf man-whores was mostly populated by quite effeminate men. Anduin had no personal use for them, he was very happy surrounded by boobs and breedable cunts and required no help to handle either, but he was sure they would find their place among the Alliance's people.
Which was the decree that had been sent to Orgrimmar. After only a week of societal restructurings and a unilateral decision to follow this new path, the blood elves had joined the Alliance. The Sunwell was renamed to the Kingswell in his honour and it was agreed that the blood elves would send a number of barrels of Kingswell water as well as their slaves to Stormwind as tribute every year. The first of the sluts sent were the slave knights, now officially under Anduin's command. A mere formulary action, given Liadrin's absolute submission, but a sign of respect regardless. Especially since those doubled as one of the most elite fighting forces Silvermoon had to offer.
Because of the wars, the sin'dorei (the name of the blood elves in their own tongue) had an imbalance in genders anyway. Unlike the night elves, they used a majority male military formation with the women being mostly mages and priests. Those were fewer and had a much better survival rate, and so the ratio had been skewed to something approximating two women for every one guy. As only about half of men were interested in building their own harems, this left about four sluts open per male (with the skipped-out males also being available, if so desired).
