Chapter Text
“And tempered was Hallard’s soul because he had endured the lies and villainy. Covered with wounds, he still held onto the Blade while he marched onward from the room. Many of the servants fell on their knees, offering their heads, for they knew they were sinful…”
Not a peep. Not a whisper. Not a single soul dared to look up as they listened to the sermon, their hands joined in faith. The majority were humans of different origins, with some bearing long ears showing their shared lineage. But most of the faithful had soft features, relaxed as the sermon continued.
One sole hand was raised, the other holding out the Libram that was used as a reminder during the recitation. Only a small reminder, barely used, as the red eyes barely drifted from the flock in perdition.
They didn’t know. But they were, and yet… The words flowed on, with the faithful bowing.
Even a few Elves had joined, from the Night or the Sun. They were also among the Faithful, though it was intriguing that some of them wouldn’t follow their own creed. Then there were the Draeneis, with their thoughtful expressions, their beliefs contrasting with his, and their stories. Yet, their faith was just as intense and real.
“The Blade swung, but blood didn’t pour as red. No, it poured from the Blade itself, black as the sins they had been delivered from. Their shoulders were lighter; their exhaustion cast aside. For once, they could peer at themselves with pride and joy and the knowledge that they had been absolved of their sins.”
The Dwarves were more difficult to peer at than humankind.
Though they followed the creed, too, they did not share the scriptures. There was a consistent effort on the Faith’s part to translate what they understood. Hallard, for example, could be known as Halvard and instead of a blade, he would have wielded a mace.
Stories, and yet, always entrusting the same value: Resilience.
None could deny that the nature of their Faith was different on names alone, but the changes in the names could be grating or difficult for the neophytes.
Yet, the hand raised higher, and so did the voice, before the choir chanted to end that verse.
The Gnomes were next, forming the closest group in virtue of their height. It was less of an insult and more of a convenient convention that appeared on its own. Small as they were, they were almost forming a wall amidst the children, and with their own, they brought.
Though baptism wouldn’t be done yet, the children’s presence almost elicited a thin smile before the red eyes returned to the Libram.
“There were not many left after the conflict, for the sullied blood had spilled itself and more in spite. Unable to bear the weight of defeat. They stepped on the blood that had sullied the tapestries and walls, following Hallard as he walked the halls, gathering and absolving the faithful. For those who fled in cowardice, their sins became so heavy that their legs gave out after one step. Their minds after two. And their hearts after three.”
He almost felt the slight warmth in his chest as he spoke the word. As his mouth opened and closed, his glimmering teeth attracted the eyes as much as the elongated white muzzle or the red eyes themselves.
No. Many of the spurned shared the same condition as he did, born from a curse that could have been purged for some. Worgens. They were among the flock, too, sharing the creed and the deference to a Priest.
They were silent despite the constant shuffles at their movements, because despite their constant presence, their fearsome appearance created a wedge between them and the alliance itself.
Even then, there was little to do. And little to accuse.
Fear was primal, something only the unguent of faith and trust could appease until the heart would no longer tremble at the sight.
A future Lyam desired as he closed the Libram and put it on the pulpit. In one unanimous movement, a sea of eyes opened and peered at the white-furred Worgen standing for the sermon.
His smile was unfeigned, his red eyes brimming with a genuine desire to help, even as the corner of his lips trembled ever so slightly. Even then, the smile remained, and so did the powerful but chanting voice as he addressed the flock itself and answered their pleas.
His sleeveless robes shuffled as he moved aside from the pulpit for a moment, moving instead of staying still. Speaking instead of reciting.
Faith had to be active, after all, and Lyam wanted it so as he spoke from the bottom of his heart to reach the Faithful. As he clutched the rosary around his neck, a movement ever so calm, it seemed natural.
But the scar-covered right eye squinted, the scarred brow dancing. The ears twitched but for a second. And then, he was back to smile and nod while the crowd waited patiently for the last petitioner to have their woes eased.
Then, with a distant nod, the doors to the cathedral were opened, and the children were among the first to run away. Followed then the clop of hooves or wooden shoes, the more silent shuffle of embroidered shoes, or the exposed paws.
As different as the flock might be in riches or origin, Lyam was ready to see them off, offering his clawed hands to them.
Not so many were keen on accepting his graces, but the number grew as they accepted the careful furry touch and smiled earnestly.
“Priest Lyam. Today’s sermon was even better than the last. I could feel the light embrace me when you spoke,” said Anna, a brave old woman with gray hair.
“The light embraces us all when we pray. Hold on to the words of our forefathers.”
“Father Lyam. I was wrong about you. You’re a good lad,” said Ernest, a young lumberjack.
“I am glad your opinion of me has changed. Your faith is much appreciated.”
“Lyam! Do you think the Archbishop will join the sermons?”
“Alas, the Archbishop must not be disturbed during the Isolation. But I can assure you he can feel your faith even though he is not with us.”
“It is impressive that you are doing all the sermons and offices on your own, lad.”
“And I can count my blessings to have been entrusted with such a position.”
Lyam smiled, watching and listening as the Cathedral of the Light was disgorging itself in the main place. The flock was almost gone, and only a few remained who would pray at the many altars, watched over by the Guards and dispatched Paladins.
He would have preferred for them to leave, but Lyam couldn’t, as he continued to salute the few who desired to touch him and ask him for his blessing.
To each, he answered in kind, even if, for some, his condition was held against him.
Worgen. The curse would always weigh on him, even if it were his penance to bear it even now in the most holy place that had endured the constant conflicts.
Then, with his arms behind his back, he observed the bustling place that was the dais in front of the Cathedral of the Light, right in the center of Stormwind.
It looked lively, and it was beautiful. Lyam sighed as he watched. Next, he turned to a Guard and nodded before stepping back, listening to the men huffing while they dragged on the immense double door to close it, leaving only the wicket door for those who desired to enter outside of the public prayer or office.
Once back inside, the atmosphere remained stuffy, and Lyam’s eyes peered at the incense hanging above, then at the altars on the sides. In his walk to the pulpit. His hands sometimes drifted on the wooden benches, feeling the grain under his fingers while he tried to act calm.
His hands still clutched his pearls, his thumb dancing to count them while he offered himself a silent prayer.
He was surrounded by the Paladins and other fellow Priests, shuffling and walking as they attended to those at the altars.
He was no Archbishop, no Cardinal. Only a Head priest.
But in the last few months, he’d been the face of the Church. Many had doubted it, and even the holiness Anduin or his former King, Greymane, had come to share their inquiries. Inquiries, he answered by explaining how the current Archbishop Barnathrum was in Isolation. A period that had to be observed with no one coming to bother him unless to take the food and change the chamber pot.
Perhaps it was a lie… But it was better for Lyam to keep that calm face… Even as he reached for the Pulpit and the Libram.
He grabbed the latter, attaching it to his waist with a small rope and stepping away, following the path to his quarters while his paws produced almost no sound.
He prowled the hidden corridors much like a predator, his red eyes ready to observe whoever might be his next target… And yet.
“That was quite the sermon, Lyam.”
The Worgen’s fingers clutched the pearls even more, making them slide faster while he held his breath for a moment. One prayer to the Light to give him strength. Another way to let him endure the challenge to pass. And another to-
“Come now. Turn and face me, Lyam.”
The Worgen straightened his neck, swallowed his saliva. And then turned, one step after another, while he observed the leaning Priest against one alcove.
Arms crossed, the cowl down… The elderly man, with a gray beard and a shaved head, did not have the posture befitting a priest. But worse was the green glimmer in those eyes or that carnivorous grin while he eyed Lyam up and down.
“Are you still holding onto those pearls? The Light can’t help you here.”
“Speak your mind, fiend,” mumbled Lyam, his confidence wilting. “Why are you here?”
“Fiend?” replied the human, straightening up and approaching.
He took one step, and Lyam stepped back from the same, leaning back as if the mere presence could wound him. But the steps would continue, and Lyam was to end up cornered against the wall, while feeling that aura. That fiendish aura emanating from the Human, who looked smaller than him, imposed such a dominant presence.
“I think you need to be corrected, Lyam.”
“No!”
The Worgen shouted, but he instantly reached for his mouth, covering it while his ears dropped. But he whined, he whined, and his voice broke while his red eyes watered all of a sudden. Even his legs trembled while the Human shrugged and turned his back on him for a moment, inviting him to approach the alcove, to kneel.
A prie-dieu had been placed there, with an altar as well as a Libram. The Libram itself was bound to the desk, allowing people to read here but not to take it away. A few candles had been lit around, though the Human was taking his time to blow each candle while Lyam approached… And kneeled on the prie-dieu.
But the Worgen trembled, trying to maintain his distance, yet soured as he watched the candles being blown out one by one, their lights slowly disappearing.
“Please. Cease this,” he finally mumbled, his own fluffy tail sliding between his legs.
“Why would I? We are alone here.”
“It matters not. Some people lit those candles; it is insulting to blow them out.”
“They are candles, Lyam. What’s so important about them?”
“They represent their faith. Maybe they were praying for good health, or to be-“
Lyam stopped, watching the curl of the lips and the glimmering teeth. He stopped and bit his lower lip for a moment while the Human seemed to wait.
“Or? You can continue, Lyam. Or I could punish you.”
“Why are you here?” asked Lyam, mumbling. “The Archbishop should be in Isolation.”
“And yet, here I am,” replied the ‘Archbishop’, certainly less than faithful.
And way crude as he finished to blow the candles on the altar, plunging the alcove into the dark except for the sconces. But even then, they did little to reveal the Archbishop’s hand going on the Priest’s belly, titillating the robe, and poking against them.
Lyam’s body answered with small twitches and tremors… With his eyes focusing on the Archbishop, he joined his hands with his rosary in between.
A prayer wouldn’t do much, but he clung onto it… Clung onto those words as that hand continued to pray with the fabric, with the abdominal muscles below them.
“But I came here to tell you I’m back. I didn’t dare to have fun with you in public. It would be too easy for you to blow our cover. But… Do not expect me to ignore your ass, whore.”
“Why were you gone? You never told me,” said Lyam, gulping down while the hand played with the robe’s folds, slowly picking at them to undo them.
“Why would I tell you? Do I owe this to you?”
“I… No. You do not,” he said… With his ears dropping.
“You are so enjoyable to tease, Lyam. So credulous. I was with the Archbishop. I had him servicing me. You cannot imagine how many times I fucked him in the ass while you were busy standing for us.”
“Please. Stop.”
“I had him choking on my cock; he almost died twice. Imagine it, that sound when there’s no air left, but he tries to suck it in. When his lips are closing, and his throat is desperately clutching to get something. Anything.”
“Please. Cease this torment. Light, I-“
“You asked why I was gone. I am telling you this, Lyam. And you wouldn’t dare to tell me to shut up now,” asked the ‘Archbishop’, his hand finally reaching the fur underneath.
Lyam’s body tensed, his whole limbs were like bowstrings, about to release all that tension while the fingers went on his belly and then… They withdrew.
The Worgen was heaving and huffing, his breathing raw as he could feel the presence move apart. Even his tail moved while the rosary beads continued to dance between his hands. But he couldn’t dare to close his eyes. Not as he saw the faint green underneath the arm’s skin.
“Do not worry. You will join him soon. But I have an order: tonight, you’ll be there. Or else…”
Lyam gulped but nodded, solemn. And frightened.
He nodded and closed his eyes. A moment, a second. And then he reopened them to find that the ‘Archbishop’ was gone. But not only. The candles were lit again, but the green, sickening flame was an insult. A purposeful wound to Lyam’s faith as his ears straightened and then… he blew them out. One by one while his hands clutched his rosary.
He did not let go until all the candles were extinguished, and then he stepped out of the alcove to find the halls silent again. Silent and terribly heavy on his mind as he retreated to his bedroom.
He checked for the chalk behind the hinges, seeing that no one had entered the room. However, Lyam did not doubt that a door was but a paltry protection. Still, he once exhaled and emptied his lungs when he had the door locked…
A moment later, he opened his robes, beginning to strip and remove the purple layers he wore. The small, barely decorated room did not fit such articles as the richly embroidered gold or the purple silk. The Worgen stripped of those attires, only to end with his white briefs before the dusty mirror he had in his room.
The Libram had been put on a small desk, and so were all the riches he was supposed to wear.
Only at that moment could he look…Normal.
Not emaciated. Not wounded. Not the worse for wear. His fur was matted from cold sweat, but nothing to worry about as he examined his chest, feeling the slight pudge on his pectorals. He brushed the dark metal piercing through his nipples, black like the night.
He considered touching it… Even pulling on it. But he shook his head before he moved on to the dusty wardrobe. He pulled out a small leather purse filled with coins, along with a brown linen shirt and pants of a similar fabric.
Old clothes given to the church. He didn’t particularly like them, and the fabric was itchy around the armpits. But he put on the articles, then stepped out of his room like a changed man. No longer the young Worgen priest who officiated for the church. But like a man, a common man who beelined to the cathedral’s back door. A discreet passage on the side that opened right onto the east of the cathedral and near the canals.
For a moment, as he stepped out, Lyam checked around. The guards roamed the place, but he couldn’t be sure they were watching him. He couldn’t trust the Priests or the Paladins… The guards? The Legion could hide their shapes with magic, and he couldn’t tell if some were actual humans or not.
Still, he strutted, holding his head high while sniffing the air. No smell of Fel for the moment as he approached the canals, followed them, and could take a peek at the city itself.
Even before he was officiating and before the ‘events’… Before the ‘Isolation’, Lyam loved to sneak out of the Cathedral and don the role of a simple dockworker. But this time, he could not dare to stop to talk with the nearby florist or the small merchant sitting on the porch of his shop.
Each time he looked around, he felt as if eyes were peering at him, pushing him to advance. To tread towards the old town. In the distance, he could see Stormwind Castle with all its stone walls and its impressive looks. But… Whenever he saw those walls, those royal guards, even those gates from up close, he was frightened.
Even at the moment, even as he gave the Castle a wide berth while going for the Pig and Whistle Tavern.
Right from entering, the Innkeeper, Kendor, saluted the Worgen. A few humans were sitting at a table, a few dwarves, too. Not a Gnome, not a Worgen, not a Draenei. Lyam sat at another table, only to meet with a mug of beer and… A face.
A human with a face ruined by a nasty scar. With that mug of beer was presented a ugly mug, its snarl constant, the teeth and gums almost revealed.
The man was clothed as poorly as Lyam, and though the Worgen could say his curse improved his physique… That man was all natural. No excess of fat, no… Burden.
“You look like shit, Dog.”
Lyam gulped… But he had a fine smile when the mug was pushed against him, forcing him to hold on to it and then to nurse it. He took a sip of the pisspoor beer; but as acrid and bland as it was… It was soothing for the Worgen.
“Yeah. I am, Alvor. How are you doing?” asked Lyam, solemnly, while the Human sat at his table. “Still working with Ervan?”
“Ervan? No,” replied the Human, waving his arm at the Innkeeper, ordering another beer. “He kicked me because I wouldn’t let him boss me around.”
“Why? He is a good boss. He never beat you.”
“Yes. But he is too soft and would bend over for his clients. Do you know how much he’d promised to that puffy Lady and her dog? Twenty crates of alchemical sulfur in one hour. Isn’t that crazy?”
Lyam frowned, but as he sipped, he did a quick calculation. Then spat.
“Twenty crates? But… Ten is already too much!” he said, his eyes almost bulging as he wiped his mouth. “What happened?”
“Ah. Nothing. I told him off, and he said he’d dock my pay. So I told him to polish my ass.”
“But… Ervan… Aldor. Are you working now?”
“Me? Working? With my sorry face?”
Lyam clutched the mug even tighter, his fingers twitching. But as he reached for his belt, Alvor’s hand locked on his. That man was a former soldier, and as such, his grip was like steel. Impossible to escape from.
“Do not hope to pay for me, Lyam.”
“Well. I am not poor, and I have been working on my side hustle. I can pay-“
“No charity. I don’t take it.”
No charity. That was Alvor’s mantra. He wouldn’t go to the church in winter to get help. And… Even less ask a priest to get his face healed, even though it would open many doors for him to do so. So… Lyam’s ears dropped again.
And further, as the next question came.
“What about you? You look like someone ate you up and shat you out. What’s the problem?”
Lyam’s feet bounced on the floorboards as he looked around. The customers here looked relaxed, smiling, and drinking. Technically, today was a day off except for the masses and the priests. So, they were enjoying their sole day of rest by getting hammered and-
“Oi. Lyam. You’re gonna tell me?”
“Uh. Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind,” mumbled the Priest, clutching the mug even closer while he eyed the tavern… The rowdy place… Then back to Alvor and his frown.
“I can see it on your ugly mug, Dog. So tell me. What’s happening?”
“Something complicated,” Lyam finally said, putting down the mug and then looking at Alvor. “But I prefer not to talk about it. I… Want to be here to change my mind.”
Or at least, that’s what Lyam told himself as he clutched his muzzle.
He was a priest, a holy man. And yet, he was coming to an Inn to get drunk. Or at least, to drink something strong enough to forget his worries.
“Suit yourself, man. But you gotta tell a friend if there are troubles,” said Alvor, receiving his ordered drink and making their mugs cling. “Cheers. Today, we are not working.”
“If that was the sole reason to celebrate, I’d be wasted every Sunday.”
“And now, you’re speaking like those holier-than-thou priest-suckers,” said Alvor, grinning and showing off his teeth with their cavities. “Come now, I didn’t tell you the juicy bits about Ervan.”
“Oh. There are juicy bits beyond you getting fired?”
“Get stuffed. But that’s it, he bit off more than he could chew with his last contract.”
Lyam smiled, listening as Ervan really drove his business into a wall. It was something grim from the perspective of a man who’d built up such a business from the ground up solely to have it slowly die. However, there was… A satisfaction in listening to Alvor. The man might have a poor reputation, to the point that he is often thrown into jail for loitering. But he was a good lad and someone who, without the war with the Horde, might have had a good chance in life.
Smart with good business acumen. It only made Lyam’s situation stand out in contrast to the Worgen's, who had it easy. And yet, not. Not as he was again chugging his beer while Alvor was going on about a crashed boat and how the crates had not been secured enough. An outlandish tale, with a mix of schadenfreude that was soon to be joined by the other dockworkers staying around, having their own tale to spin.
Many were similar or reheated versions of past events. But Lyam took them as well as the drinks, going against Alvor’s wishes to pay for the drinks.
He'd fish the coins out of his purse, feeling the clinging of the rosary against the silvery coins before he tossed the coins at the innkeeper and ordered for the two dwarfs and the four humans at the table.
If anyone knew that the ruffled, poorly dressed temporary worker was the current Priest in charge of the cathedral, many would inquire about it. Why would a holy man dare to enjoin people to give in to their vices?
And yet, he smiled now. He chuckled or guffawed like them, smacking his thigh or someone’s back. And around, some were joining while Lyam told about his own little story.
“Ok. My turn. So… I was going south after helping at Menethil Harbor. You know my mug, and there was that nasty harbormaster named Mack. An ugly man with an even uglier snout. But he wasn’t a Worgen,” began Lyam, already seeing a grin on their faces.
“I do not know what his problem was, but he always had something to say about our guys. ‘Oh, I don’t like those shorties’ or ‘All knife-ears and their fancy ships’,” he continued.
Though one worker nodded at the knife-ear.
“Everyone guessed what got into him. I guess he sat on a rusty nail and it’d been stuck inside his ass ever since, but you know you know.”
The eyes were gleaming, waiting for Lyam as he leaned forward.
“Thing was. He was afraid of me. When I came up, he’d be peeing his pants. So one day, when I was pretty bored… I asked a friendly lad who worked on a ship called the Jolly Lass. He was a good guy, with a nasty habit of spouting bullshit to the harbormaster. So I asked him to tell the harbormaster there was a monster in the cargo when the harbormaster was done with the inventory.”
Already, the smiles grew, and Lyam, too, felt jolly despite a sensation inside his chest.
“I sat behind a few crates, right nestled so nobody could see me. I had the guards warn, and everyone was around. So when Mack got the news, he was right by me. I heard him squeak and… I howled! Wait! Let me finish!”
Even the other Dockers were snickering.
“I howled so loud, he jumped three feet away and dashed to the guards. I ran away before he caught them. But! I left behind a mirror that was in the cargo.”
Then, as Lyam leaned forward, so did the workers.
“Mack came back, shouting, ‘There’s a monster there! I heard it howl! It’s on the loose! Kill it!’. And I waited. The guards looked at my spot and found the mirror. ‘Mack, that’s a mirror.’ You’d imagine Mack was already fuming and now saying, ‘It’s that Worgen’s fault! That stupid mutt!’”
“And then?”
“And then. I jumped out of my new place, and I shouted, ‘No. It’s true, it’s true! There’s a monster! Mack saw it!’ And you’d know, the guards were now asking me what creature I saw. That’s when I told them, ‘Of course, it’s true. What could he have seen in that mirror but a monster?’”
And so, his group guffawed.
It wasn’t the best story, nor did it have the best delivery, Lyam thought in hindsight. But with the beer running heavy, everyone laughed and cheered… Especially at Mack’s expense, though the truth was that Lyam never spoke with that Mack.
It was only one of the tales he’d heard, but he loved to retell it because everyone loved to mess with figures of authority.
And as he sighed, Lyam reclined, enjoying his beer while another round of stories continued. One round that ended rather nicely with Lyam having emptied half his purses on drinks and feeling cheeky even as he stepped outside the inn, his feet light like a dancer’s.
He saluted Alvor on the way, the dwarves, the human dockworkers, even the innkeeper, and… As he stepped out, Lyam sighed. The air inside the old town was heavy, but adequate after he grabbed his rosary and offered the Light a small prayer.
“Using holy magic not to get drunk? Isn’t that disrespectful of the light?”
And so… Lyam’s brows dropped, so did his satisfaction as he stomped further into the Old Town, releasing the rosary and letting it back into his purse.
With a meager blessing, he could already feel the detoxifying effect of the Light while he went to a library almost next to the soldiers’ barracks. It was… A small shop, one with a poor reputation. But Lyam remained stoic when he entered it.
And as stoic when he left it, two hours later, with his eyes burning from reading near an oil lamp. As he stretched, even his back cracked while he peered at the sky above, at the sun setting in the distance.
The orange shades were almost as welcome to the weary Worgen as he walked the familiar streets, now having to fight his way through the crowd of people returning from eating out or enjoying their days in the parks, the port, or outside town.
The heady perfume of wine and cottage cheese titillated Lyam as he went through the merchant district, and then he walked north, guided by the Cathedral’s shade. Merchants were tidying up their stalls, but some welcomed the Worgen to sample their latest imports, whether food, fabric from another continent, or trinkets said to grant good luck.
They even had little effigies from Pandaria depicting the celestials, which was a delight to see, until Lyam felt a slight sting in his back.
Then, he pressed on, walking directly to the Cathedral. The crowd thinned out, the fabrics and clothes grew richer… And soon, as he was on the Church’s dais, Lyam observed the double door forming like a mouth. Closed, luckily enough.
He advanced with his head down, while he could feel the gazes on him, on a poorly dressed dockworker… From the Paladins. Down to a gauntlet landing on his shoulder.
“Charity is tomorr- Oh. You.”
The ‘You’ was followed by the recoiling hand, and an expression of disgust on the Paladin’s face. Inuro wasn’t an old addition to the Cathedral. The Draenei was a stiff man who came after Benedictus, the last Archbishop, fell.
But his scent was muddled with Fel, and those eyes, scornful, were followed by a disgusted grimace. Only then, the head of the Paladins huffed, raising his nose.
“Again meddling with the little people?”
“Closer to trying to have fun or relax,” replied Lyam, brushing his shoulder.
The air was heavy, the glares present as Lyam’s red eyes went down, then up, brushing over the silvery armor to lock onto those gleaming, milky-white eyes.
“Well. Were there any problems in my absence?” he asked, eliciting a grunt.
Inuro wanted to speak, and he was grinding his teeth. But Lyam didn’t give him the time to reply outside, instead stepping inside while his tail wagged behind him.
Inuro had always been so prompt in judging the Worgen, even before the Isolation. And now, even his stand-in was a pain in the butt, constantly nagging him to stay outside.
As if they weren’t listening to him already.
“No. We have had no problems. You can rest easy.”
“Yes. No problem,” huffed Lyam, shaking his head. “Do as usual.”
“Yes.”
The armor creaked as the Paladin bent over, though his glare must have remained the same while Lyam walked inside. This time, it was empty. Most altars were covered with candles, and the incense in the air formed a fog that followed him through his late afternoon prayers.
He didn’t dare to return to his bedroom for the moment, and in the guise of a poor man… He went from altar to altar, honoring each saint that was depicted.
Up… To the last. Right behind the pulpit where he’d been praying. The light from the stained glass had already dimmed, leaving behind the beautiful vision of the blessed land. But none of the Saints came to absolve the faithful.
It was almost night when Lyam almost finished his round of prayer. But behind him, he smelled him… The Archbishop.
Again, the Human’s face was distorted by that rogue attitude and crossed arms. A disrespectful attitude that persisted as the man strolled around, huffing and chuckling behind Lyam while he continued to pray.
“What is so funny?” asked the Worgen, eyeing beyond the Archbishop. No one was around. Even the Paladins were gone, and so were the priests, probably gone to the rectory.
“Nothing. I love to watch you pray like this. But there is something wrong.”
“Wrong? What is this, this time?” asked Lyam, his eyelids shut.
“Nothing really important. But should a priest wear the clothes of a peasant?”
“Anyone can believe and-… The clothes don’t make the faithful,” mumbled Lyam.
He almost whined; he had almost whined. But he restrained himself at the last moment when the Archbishop’s fingers grabbed his clothes and ripped the front of the shirt.
“Oh yes. Because clothes are an illusion and everyone is equal, or something like that?” replied the Archbishop, one finger drumming against his lips while his calloused fingers ran against Lyam’s coat, against the fluffy white fur on those meaty pectorals.
But the touch was too hot, difficult to bear. And almost… Painful as Lyam’s face scrunched.
“Faith isn’t decided by bloodline or anything.”
“No. It’s true. Even a deviant whore can be a priest, isn’t it right, Lyam?” asked the Archbishop, his hands gliding along the belly to have then the little fingers strumming against Lyam’s rope belt and… Tug on it.
Tug on it before with a snap, the rope was cut, and the wide fabric opened, dropping from the Worgen’s thighs. Even with his wide stance, Lyam couldn’t stop the pants from dropping while the hands continued to dance on his thighs.
But the texture was different, more scaly. Rougher. More rigid to the touch, more leathery. And those claws, dark as night. And that skin, red with a tinge of orange.
That palm, along with those fingers, danced on the Worgen’s sides, playfully touching the white briefs and then… The inside of those thighs. A caress, a stroke… A touch that continued while the digits descended from the briefs to the knees and then back.
“You… Told me it would be tonight. Not now,” mumbled Lyam, shivering.
“Everything about the abuse, yes,” confirmed the Archbishop, his voice must deeper and suave. “But we don’t want a peasant here.”
Snap!
The fabric was cut with a mere touch of a claw, and hastily, Lyam reached for it. Reached for the strand left of the underwear to cover his modesty, breaking his prayer while his eyes finally opened and he looked at the Archbishop. He looked vaguely human, but the fangs, the glowing green eyes, the darker skin… It was all fiendish.
“Don’t you have any respect?” hissed Lyam, reaching for his rosary only to find it missing. Only then did he look down at the purse on the floor. Then, back at the Archbishop, smiling, one hand before his lips. Next, he pointed behind him.
The sound of shuffles, of people coming from the rectory. Lyam could smell the Paladins as much as hear them in the distance. Hooves, boots, paws. A cacophony in the otherwise silent apse. Then, he gulped.
He turned his head a moment, only to see that the Archbishop was gone while the scent of Fel hung in the air. So heavy, so potent… So pungent. Enough for Lyam to grab his clothes and wave them in the air while he ran. Clutching his groin in one hand, he ran towards the other side from the rectory, counting on the lack of sound there to sneak through the corridors and back into his room.
A situation in which… The Worgen snarled and grunted, feeling the shame coming to his cheeks as well as the horror. His heart hurt while he pushed past the first door, finding the passageways empty.
A silence that wasn’t to end when he heard a shout behind him, and a faint cry. Someone must have perceived the Fel and alerted the Paladins because a bell was rung in the transept.
Its high notes rang through the Worgen’s ears, tormenting them as he lowered his head and ran… Ran while clutching the ball of fabric close to his groin, his steps quick and moving like a shadow. Not something he was proud of, as he had to hide in the shades, in alcoves, while watching for the Paladins to run by.
They had so many places to be, so many places to secure, they had to establish a perimeter first. A hastiness that was for Lyam’s advantage as he snuck by his bedroom door and then inside before anyone could notice him.
Or so he hoped as he pressed his head against the door, listening to the stomping on the other side. As he heard the shouted orders, as he heard the butt of the staffs smacking against the tiles while the Worgen clutched his clothes… And his briefs.
And the sole fabric still covering his pride. Still covering… The metal.
Metal that was exposed the moment he released his grip and let go of the tatters. His body was thin… And adorned with a silver cockcage nestled around his groin. A flat cage, tight and crushing on the genitals, pulling on the testicles on every occasion. Obviously, it was well-cleaned despite the Worgen having worn it for most of the day, and even before.
A cage he looked at in the mirror before he dropped into his seat, clutching his face while he listened to the chaos outside… While he listened to the search of an agent of the Legion within the Cathedral’s walls.
The cries wouldn’t die, and yet, none knocked at the door despite the many times the Paladins ran by the door. They would pass by, like thunder, but never to strike. Never to hit as the Priest clutched his muzzle, feeling it would be another play from the ‘Archbishop’ to have him caught and sent to a walled cell.
He was also sure he heard Inuro’s voice behind the door, almost a whisper with a hiss.
It died down. Slowly, steadily. The run ended, and the Priest collapsed further in the chair, holding onto his chest as he could feel his heart throb way too fast in his chest.
His belly ached. So did his lower reaches, his trembling legs, his shivering arms as he finally cupped his cinched testicles in the fuzzy white scrotum… Held onto them while he waited… And heard it stop.
It stopped as his hand released and he looked at the robes still folded on the desk… Then, at the purse he’d dropped on the floor.
“I hate this… So much, Demon,” mumbled Lyam as he grabbed the robes to put them on, but without briefs. At this point, it would be pointless to wear anything under. After that, he reached for his purse. He grabbed his rosary and put it on before he finally stepped outside, watching the tatters on the floor before… closing the door.
It only took him a few minutes to find a Paladin in the corridors despite the fuss the Demon had produced. After a long moment of fear and agony, of… Shame. Lyam faced one of the youngest Paladins who recognized him and reached out for the Priest.
“Cardinal Lyam. I-“
“I am not a Cardinal but the Head priest,” replied the Worgen. “What is happening?”
“I-… We had an intrusion. An agent of the Legion was among our walls, and we have orders from Inuro to lead most priests to Inuro for-“
Lyam stopped the inane explanation with one raised hand and a lowered muzzle.
“Tell Inuro I will be in the catacombs to see the Archbishop. If he has any recriminations, he can join me.”
“But-“ began the Paladin, only to freeze before Lyam’s tense snarl.
“Tell him that if he asks questions. And that I used my authority to go there. Got it?”
The pimple-faced Paladin, almost too young for that line of duty, nodded. And Lyam stepped further, one hand on his chest as he relaxed.
As he let go of the persona he had perfected, he advanced towards the catacombs. Unlikely, the young Paladin had been on the way. But at the same time, it was better to have him warn Inuro than to have all the Paladins searching for him.
And so, with one unsteady breath, Lyam descended the stairs to the catacombs.
At first, they were built to house the Church’s dead. But with the growing numbers and the constant construction around Stormwind, plus the destruction of the Port with Deathwing, the dead had been rehoused.
But the Catacombs had another purpose: isolation. In the deepest cells, Priests would pray in isolation while attending to no one but their direct subordinates. Porridge and water would be given as sustenance. But here… Lyam came empty-handed, feeling stupid not to have brought anything for the lie.
The lie he was to maintain as he approached the deepest cells, guided by the few sconces here and there and his nocturnal vision.
So deep into the Cathedral, no other priests would dare to come and bother. No one would dare to maim Lyam… And none would be able to smell the Fel that had seeped inside the stone, to smell the corruption at the heart of Stormwind.
Or… To witness the large cell where the Archbishop should have been.
The air inside was musky and heavy, with hints of urine and other fluids. An insult to the Worgen’s nose as he entered, eyeing the different brands etched into the stones. A long time ago, that room had been used to summon a Demon. But the original traces of the summoning had been removed. Remined... the ‘pieces of furniture’ that came not from the Church but from beyond; the Twisting Nether. Wooden horse, torture bed, a breaking wheel, and then more.
Again, Lyam sniffed and perceived that old hint of blood.
“Reliving old memories?” asked the Archbishop. Or so it could have been, as the voice shifted from the calm, demure human to a deeper, more suave one. To one belonging to a creature whose immense hands landed on Lyam’s shoulders.
Orange fingers would dig into his shoulders, the claws poking at the embroidered fabric but never cutting through.
Lyam looked behind, watching… The Doomguard. Geruhlon. Like most demons, his eyes glowed green, and his body was covered in dark, osseous growths. Much like the twin horns atop his head, ending with gold caps.
His body was massive, with a broad torso from which nipple piercings dangled. His body was chiseled for war, but war required armor… Which he lacked. The Demon being naked.
Far from being a prude, Geruhlon walked with his black, leathery testicles dangling between his legs, above a sheath of a similar color, with veins of green sometimes throbbing beneath the skin.
His size? Oh, he was well-endowed. So well-endowed, he could contend with most mortal races and win. Even Lyam wouldn’t dare to compare himself. Or dare to do more than a peek at those genitals before he frowned and glanced at Geruhlon.
“I… I was almost caught because of you,” hissed Lyam.
“And you were not. If you were, it would have been no problem.”
“No, for me. They… They would have known about me. About the cage. And about the… My story.”
“But it didn’t happen, did it?” asked Geruhlon, his fingers going against Lyam’s cheeks.
They pushed against Lyam’s face, stroking the fur and inviting the Worgen to bite them, to answer to their provoking presence though the Worgen recoiled or tried to have his head back… Only for the fingers to be more pressing, right before he smacked the Demon’s hand.
Demon who merely chuckled before grabbing the Worgen’s neck.
His grip was like steel; his chuckle like ice. And his eyes gleamed as he approached, his breath sulfuric and terrible on the Worgen’s nose.
“What is it? Are you rebelling?” asked the Doomguard, his voice rumbling.
“No,” squeaked Lyam, grabbing the fingers to pry them open, to force them to release their grip. Which they did, but not from his efforts. “I-… I- I reacted poorly.”
For a moment, the Priest continued to clutch his neck, feeling how tightly the fingers had closed on the flesh, leaving it bruised and sore. But the Demon’s attitude softened again before he raised one hand toward the torture tools in the chamber.
“If only all mortals were as eager to learn. Now, now. Make yourself comfortable. We have a long night if you don’t want your previous Archbishop to suffer more. Or anyone to learn you were hard while you ran to your room.”
“I-“
Lyam’s ears dropped before he could say anything more, but the Demon’s expression had become smug with a toothy grin. There was no point in fighting Geruhlon as he reached for the robes and undid them, without a care for the fabric as it dropped in the grime and the stone… Leaving the white-furred Worgen bare.
Bare to the touch, bare to the caresses… Bare to the hand, wrapping around his thin belly, while he was guided toward the first toy of the night, it seemed.
The wooden horse was indeed disgusting, but… Atop it, instead of the typical wooden wedge that would dig into someone’s taint as they were forced to sit on the triangular furniture, there was something else. A toy. A dildo. A form evidently phallic and reminding of… What Geruhlon had between his legs.
A flared end, with a width that was daunting to anyone. And yet, making the Worgen only gulp and sigh.
“What… What is it? This time?” asked Lyam.
“You look so tired of this, Lyam,” said Geruhlon, his touch drifting apart, but the sensation and the presence remained.
A presence that spread all over Lyam’s body, over his thighs and arms as he could feel himself lifted, though no thanks to any physical efforts.
His legs kicked weakly, his hands opened and closed.
Guided and held as he was, the Priest had no choice but to spread his legs and then… To feel that flare press against his posterior, endure it… bear with it while invisible hands grabbed his ankles, keeping them spread.
Others would grip his wrists, keeping them up before Geruhlon approached and attached the Priest’s hands, tying them to a cross dangling from the ceiling. There was… Little to say. Lyam observed his hands and arms being bound, forced to be lifted, while he felt that pressure from the flared cock press even further against his posterior.
As he felt the pain and the searing heat of his posterior, unprepared and unlubricated, being forced open by the sheer volume. He gulped.
Lyam gulped and then shut his eyes… Feeling the burn, the itch, the ache as his body was forcefully lowered. As his posterior, as his asshole, despite its training, was a source of pain or suffering. As he could feel the rim being pulled by the friction… He could sense the ring itself splitting due to the dryness of his skin.
And Lyam’s ears dropped, his snarl visible while his face was scrunched up. While his hands pulled on the ropes, he pulled on the cross above his head in a reflex to try to clutch his guts.
“Wh-What is that, this time?” he huffed and moaned, his voice high-pitched as he took shallow breaths.
Meanwhile, if he opened one eye, he could see Geruhlon standing in front of him. The Demon smiled. He wasn’t hard or excited; he wasn’t reeking of lust like the other times. No, this time. It was different as Lyam’s asshole continued to burn and his body was pulled down… Down until with a queef and a painful suction; the flare was fully inside.
And… Lyam craned his head back, huffing and heaving, already about to cry.
“What- What is that? Why… Why is this different?” moaned Lyam, his voice raw as he watched the cross dangling from the ceiling. As he watched the stone defaced with runes… And then around, looking at the ropes winding his wrists and keeping them up.
His jaw trembled; his muzzle was wet. And even his eyes were veiled as he sniffed, taking a deep breath… Only to face the Demon, smiling and holding a weight in his hands.
At the moment, Lyam could feel he was halted. All thanks to the dildo’s sheer volume. But he felt the pressure on his guts, the constant slide it was, while his body trembled from the pain. From the tension… From the danger.
His asshole, his ass, even his taint ached as he breathed through his teeth.
“Does it have to be the same as before? You have had a pretty easy time without me,” said Geruhlon, shaking the weights in his hands, weights that looked like a stack of leg irons.
“I- I did as you asked. I lied… To the King for you. Wasn’t… It enough?”
“Enough?” chuckled the Demon, reaching for the Worgen’s legs, noting they were quick to kick… And yet, so fragile, so frail, in his steel-like grasp. “You are making it sound like this is a punishment.”
Lyam’s eyes widened as he looked at the Demon, at that cheerful smile and that slight tilt. At that attitude, while the iron balls clang together.
“We both know you enjoy it. You can deny, but you can’t lie. Not with this,” said the Demon, releasing a leg to give Lyam’s flat cage a flick.
Only one, but it was enough to rattle the Worgen and to make his asshole clench. To make him shake before his grasp on the dildo slipped and… A little more went inside, and the burn grew ever more.
He cried, his head thrown back, but he soon bit his lips and moaned while he could feel that even moving his back was enough to make that enormous dildo slip even further.
“Oh no. It is only a gift, Lyam. I plan to use you all night. Only if you take this dildo to the end in the next forty minutes. But… I brought help,” said Geruhlon, his tongue dancing on his chops while he presented the leg irons.
“This… This is not necessary,” mumbled the Priest. “Just… Just… I’ll stay here all night and… I’ll leave. Just… Just like we vowed. Right? Nothing…. Nothing dangerous or lethal.”
“But it won’t be dangerous. You are a well-trained slut. And that’s why you were lucky enough to be kept. Imagine… How much worse could it be if you refused, if you acted prudishly… And I had to bring you back home. Someone else would have to take your place here.”
Geruhlon’s voice was still suave. Soft. Sickly sweet. Terrible to the Worgen’s ears as they dropped and his tail stuck to his right leg, in submission.
“Good. You know your role here,” said the Wrathguard, reaching for one leg iron. He lifted it before attaching it to Lyam’s right leg. One single weight…
But as soon as the Wrathguard let the boulder drop, Lyam almost dropped right. He almost fell, only for the dildo to hit his insides while slipping in a bit further. While bumping and hitting his guts with such a rattling strength, the Worgen yelped.
“Wait? Do you not like that gift? This is a gift because you lied so well,” said the Demon, his voice so tender, so soft, so mischievous.
A mischievous attitude continued as he stepped around and attached the second leg iron.
Instantly, Lyam’s balance was restored, but now, his asshole had to clench… He had to tighten his asshole, to make it hurt like hell, just so slow down that sliding cock. To stop himself from being impaled.
But the pain, the pain was intense as his toes twitched and his tears descended along his cheeks.
“It’s… P-It’s painful!”
“And this is because you were so good at welcoming the masses to pray here. They don’t even question us anymore,” said Geruhlon, his voice in Lyam’s ears.
“They-… They… Didn’t need me for this,” mumbled the Worgen. “I- I don’t deserve that gift."
Lyam’s mind was scrambling for a solution as his asshole was so tight, but he could already feel his body was at its limits. He could clench his legs, force with his thighs, force with his taint. But it wouldn’t be everlasting. At one moment, his asshole would give out and then…
“Continue, Worgen.”
“I- I lied to them, but poorly. They- They keep asking for the Archbishop! I- I’m sure I do not deserve this gift, right? I- I’m a poor Worgen, a terrible helper, right?”
Despite how painful it was, Lyam even forced himself to laugh, but his diaphragm was hurting so much. His body was hurting so much as he closed his eyelids, taking sharp breath after sharp breath.
“Yes. It is true,” said the Doomguard, his hand closing on the Worgen’s ankle, making Lyam almost want to sigh in relief as the fingers closed on the metal.
“But you deserve another gift for keeping that chastity cage like the good whore you are. So clean and pristine,” said Geruhlon, releasing his grip on the ankle while the Worgen’s eyes opened and almost bulged.
“Wait! Wait! I- I only keep it because I like it! Yes-! It’s not for you! I do not keep it clean for you!” cried the Priest, now shaking his legs and then yelping.
With that moment, his grip on the dildo had lessened, and the toy had slipped inside. So much that it bulged through his belly, and his guts ached. They ached so much while he yelped again… And clenched his buttcheeks once more.
“Yes. This is right,” said Geruhlon, his fingers going to the Worgen’s neck. “But you still wear it. So even if you like it or not… You are our whore.”
Then, the Worgen shivered as he felt the kiss on his neck, the presence of the Fel in that saliva while the fingers danced on his nipples, on the dark piercings… On the metal that was hooked by one claw and gently tugged on.
“Please… I- I… I am already happy with those gifts,” cried Lyam as he focused on the ceiling above, not even sure how long it had been. It felt like an eternity. Felt like more than one hour already and yet…
“You do not seem so. Plus. You wouldn’t refuse a night with me. You only need to let go and have it inside before the clock has ticked.”
“Pl-Please,” replied Lyam, hyperventilating as his diaphragm, too, was hurting. Not from the penetration but from the shallow breaths he was taking, unable to control himself.
“Please? Another gift? For sure,” said Geruhlon, tugging on the right nipple, heavily… And so brutally, Lyam cried while his grip on his asshole slipped again… And he slipped further, his body almost bouncing while his legs were forced apart even further.
He definitely felt pain without any comparison, like his asshole splitting apart. Nothing like… The pleasure of the flesh.
“You did not stay to help the Paladins search for the Fel intruder. Now, they are asking where you went. It matters so little because they wouldn’t dare to question you.”
“I- I only left because… Because you cut my clothes,” cried Lyam, his voice quivering while the Doomguard’s hand closed on his ankle, adding another iron leg but holding it up… The weight’s presence wasn’t yet dragging the Worgen down.
“Wait! Wait! It- It would’ve ruined… no. I- I-“
“You? What are you saying, dear Lyam?”
Lyam’s eyes closed again as he thought of something, another justification on why it would be a bad thing for the Doomguard. While the lie or hiding was bad for his plan.
“It- It was to save my reputation! I- I did it for personal gain!”
“You did? But imagine the gain if you had been exposed. The… Pleasure, as sinful as it is, to have been caught with your dick caged,” said Geruhlon, his serrated teeth nibbling on the Worgen’s ear despite the other dropping.
And… The Worgen couldn’t lie about how the imagery made his mind run rampant. Made him imagine the scene as the other priests would have caught him. As he would have been seen and exposed as an exhibitionist. And… Against his shame, he was biting his lower lip.
“Oh yes. You could have been revealing yourself and been a good exposed whore. You would have loved it, you pervert,” said the Doomguard.
But his words… oh, they snapped Lyam out of his trance. And fear appeared on those relaxed traits.
“Wait! No! That’s not what I meant! I am not like that- LIGHT!” roared Lyam, swearing on the Holy Light while the weight dragged him down.
His body tilted again, but less than before. His ankles hurt from the tension. And his asshole? His guts? Oh, the pain was worse than anything he’d experienced. Than being fucked. Than being hungry for days. Than being beaten. Than anything…
He pulled on the cross, trying to clutch his belly as the flare shape was imprinted through, visible despite the fur covering it.
“Swearing on the Light? Isn’t it bad?”
“Please… I- I don’t need a gift anymore. I… I am good. Please. My- You were so generous already,” moaned Lyam, trying not to anger the Demon despite the Demon visibly playing with him, with his mind.
His ass burned as if he’d been branded with iron. His cock, despite being in the cage, was beginning to stir and hurt. The pain was so intense, the Worgen was crying and unable to contain himself. He would’ve even peed himself if not for his tentative of an erection. Yet, his bladder definitely hurt.
Finally… As the weight continued to drag him down slowly, Lyam could only hear his own heart throb inside his chest… And the heavy footsteps around while the Demon closed on the other ankle, to add a second weight.
“No… No. No. No. No need. I don’t need it,” moaned Lyam, his voice hoarse.
“That’s why you deserve another gift, Lyam. Because you act so demure and innocent. Because you never ask for more from your master. But you want me to use you all night.”
“No… I mean. I-… I need to… Face Inuro. And heat. And ease the priests.”
“But you are so close.”
Geruhlon’s voice heavily emphasized the ‘so close’. So close as the iron leg, the last, closed on the Worgen’s ankle, and he let the weight drop. Drop and drag the Worgen down.
With his own weight, it would have been difficult to keep still.
But each weight had been another difficulty. At the fourth, however?
Oh… Liam couldn’t resist, and those weights dragged him like someone had grabbed his hips and impaled him forcefully on the Demon’s cock, even if it was a fake.
The sudden pressure made him howl, his head thrown back while tears streaked across his face. His eyes went bloodshot, and snot dripped from his nose. His fingers twitched, the digits snapping into different positions while the ropes dug into his wrists and even chafed them.
But the more enticing, the more humiliating, was the weak kick from the Worgen’s legs as he was impaled on that cock.
His body couldn’t endure or bear the sudden pain of penetration, with the raw abuse as his eyes rolled and his mind already drifted.
Already Lyam’s mind begged for the Light’s mercy as it drifted. He could feel his sensations grow numb, as his churning stomach was crushed from the inside… As his limbs were feeling colder… And as he could feel something wet drip from the cage onto his thighs…
Right before he closed his eyes, and heard a voice, sultry… And a caress on his neck.
“Ah. Already broken? Too bad. It only took you nine minutes to take it in. Congratulation.”
Congratulation… Lyam wanted to chuckle and laugh. If not for the obscene, for the humiliating, for the enticing, and for the horrendous situation he was in.-
Twitter - Bluesky - Telegram Channel