Legends of Azeroth: Fan Novelization

[Vanforth-wyrmrest-accord (Vanforth)]

Back in October of 2019 I put up A Proposed Revision 🖊, which was my attempt at reorganizing the sequential ordering of WoW’s story, and also making changes I felt would strengthen the story (like scrapping all of BFA and SL, for starters). I’ve continued tinkering with it over time, and have recently begun mapping out the details for a novelization based on that outline, which absolutely no one needs or probably wants, but it’s still a fun project; it’s a way for me to keep invested in the story in my free time.

I figure if anywhere is a good spot to stash it, it’s here. Hoping to be able to update it regularly as I dump out more garbage. One of the big changes is that I bringing the Draenei and Sin’dorei into the picture at the start, rather than during BC, and that’s where all of this begins.

Major storylines are separated by lettering designations in the table of contents, but everything is meant to be read sequentially.

Contents:

Prologue: A1: Exodus (Draenei)
Chapter B2: Ear of the Warchief (Horde)
Chapter B3: Light of Elune (Tyrande)
Chapter B4: Blood in the Barrens (Rokhan)

Prologue A-1: Exodus

(4,913 Words)

Silence. It wasn’t like what had been heard here once before. Then, it had been a melodic, tranquil peace that rustled gently. It was full of whispers that weren’t quite sounds, but rather thoughts and memories that lingered. This silence was unnerving though, and absolute, and it held no such tranquility.

There was a finality in what Maraad heard, or rather - what he didn’t hear. This was a silence that revealed the true, terrifying power and nature of the endless Beyond, the Great Dark which loomed between worlds. The verdant fields and crystal plains of Farahlon were a thing long in the past, and now only the howling void of nothingness between shattered islands remained. With no atmosphere, nothing stood as a barrier between the Netherstorm and the endless, hungering dark that lay beyond. That realization brought a bone chilling cold with it that forced Maraad to slink backwards and step inside the barrier once more. The clinking of armor and muffled whimpers of those waiting inside was a welcome substitute for the silence outside.

“Quiet, quiet,” a forced whisper commanded. “It’s coming through.”

Maraad turned swiftly, facing the assembly of vindicators who were huddled around Boros, a vindicator far older and tragically more experienced in war than he. The Draenei held in his hand a small disc embedded with crystals around its surface. Typically white and muted, those crystals were now shining bright and purple, humming with the magic that coursed through them. No more than a finger’s width above the crystals a shimmering, holographic image of a tall, long bearded Draenei clad in ornate robes appeared.

“Now is the time, children of Argus,” the elder Draenei announced. “By the glory of the Light we shall escape this place, and once again step forward on our perpetual journey. Go with the Light. Vindicators, begin your assault.” The holographic image faded.

“It will be done, Prophet,” Boros replied, the words echoing in a wave that spread throughout the clustered soldiers.

Boros closed his fingers around the device in his palm and then pocketed the disc into a pouch upon his belt. The once gleaming set of crystal studded plate armor he wore had been faded by battle, age, and strife, but it somehow still radiated the same, powerful aura that Maraad had known from years before. Here, today, there would be no restraining the power of the vindicators surrounding him in the bubble; there was nothing left for them to hold back anymore.

Boros clutched the crystalline hammer at his side and hefted it above his head.

“Justice is on our side. We are the arm of the Prophet; the shield of the Draenei. We serve, we fight, we die; for the Light!”

“For the Light,” the other voices bellowed out.

“For the Light!”

A wave of cries and cheers swept through the domed barrier, spreading even to the civilians who were huddled together on the far side.

Just along the outside edge of the cloaking shield, small arcane runes were woven into existence by the magi standing by; the power imbued within the runes shone with a fierce, electric blue that crackled and licked at the chaotic, latent energy in the air.

“Forward,” Boros cried out.

Maraad turned and charged without question, without hesitation or second thought. It was only a short distance between where he stood and the nearest rune, and he stormed across it - his mind fighting back the strange tugging and pulling in his gut as he was teleported far and fast. Without missing a step he appeared on the deck of the Exodar’s outer terrace, a similar rune beneath his feet a few paces back; he was still racing forwards. He hefted his mighty war hammer, the seventy pound crystalline head no heavier in his grasp than a feather as he imbued the weapon with the power of the Light. He barreled towards the nearest blood elf who stood guard.

The cries of a dozen other vindicators sounded behind him, and not even the startled expressions of the sentries, or their cries of panic and terror gave a single one of them pause.

Maraad brought his war hammer down, the crystal head crashing into the space just between the sentry’s head and shoulder. The elf’s body crumpled beneath the weight of the impact, wetted by the sickening crunch of bones which cracked and shattered. Dashing past, the other vindicators rushed the gates, spells of holy power flying from the palms of their hands and lashing at the barrier. It was Boros himself who delivered the final blow. He hurled his hammer through the air towards the gate and the Light infused weapon impacted with a dazzling burst of energy.

The crackling, buzzing current of arcane power which had prevented entry to the inner courtyard of the terrace ceased. The way was open.

Another triumphant roar sounded through the mass of bodies, and the vindicators stormed through the gate. Inside, hundreds of the elven defenders were charging out into the open from the depths of the massive dimensional ship, the intrusion not unnoticed.

Battle was met, with a dozen against over a hundred and growing.

Flashes of arcane light exploded around the courtyard, and more runes appeared on the ground just beneath; Draenei mages teleported in from all sides, unleashing a barrage of fire and arcane, throwing back the defenders who had so eagerly rushed out to meet their foe.

In the skies above the Exodar, nether rays descended through other portals, rangari mounted upon their backs. A hail of arrows pepped the defenders’ lines, forcing shields to be raised and barriers to be cast, but the frenzied assault only brought more and more of the defenders forth from within. It seemed as if all the Exodar’s elven defenders were rushing to join the fray.

And that was exactly what Maraad, Boros, and the dozen other vindicators had been hoping for.

*

“Battle has been met, Prophet; it is time,” Divinius reported, pocketing her crystal studded communication pad.

“Then there is no turning back. Light guide us. Assault force, stand ready. Open the way,” Velen commanded.

He scooped up the staff which had been hovering in the air beside him and set his focus forwards. The Light’s Chosen, his own personal vanguard, stood ready and waiting, and beside them were dozens of mages and priests and warriors, the greatest force the Draenei had assembled in one place in years. Isolation and a need to stay hidden had demanded they not gather too many. But today they stood tall, poised for battle, assembled around their prophet in their finest armor, with the fiercest expressions they could muster, and not one among them betraying the unspoken fear that this fight could be their last.

A portal sprung to life just feet away, and the group vanished through it in waves.

Velen emerged on the other side just in time to watch the mages blast open the barrier protecting the Exodar’s side entrance; the charred bodies of a handful of sentries lay scattered nearby and were hastily trampled underhoof. There was no furious battle cry, not from this company of insurgents. They were swift and silent, barreling down the curving pathway that led into the Vault of Lights below.

Few defenders remained within the crystal lined halls, the bulk of their forces having assembled near the forward entrance of the massive dimensional vessel, or otherwise engaged with the assault force outside on the terrace.

Spells burst from fingertips, and the pikes and spears of the Chosen rang out as they punctured armor and struck down any foolish enough to get in their way. The Draenei insurgents spread through the Vault of Lights like a rising tide, and finally spilled out into the central chamber where a brilliant conduit of arcane and holy energy flowed ever upwards from deep within the core of the ship. This was the center of the vessel, and here there was no shortage of defenders.

The blood elves turned their attention towards the mass of insurgents storming in from the Vault, and with cries and shouts of fury, they rushed headlong into battle. The fel addicted elves had only just captured the vessel themselves weeks prior, and the risk of losing it was too great to take half measures. The dinn of fighting erupted with a suddenness that would shame even the loudest hall full of machinery.

The crackle of arcane lanced through the air from above as elven arcanists took up position along the upper levels, raining down volleys of missiles and spells that left craters where the Draenei had been charging. Bright bursts of holy magic from the Draenei priests and vindicators sent waves of blood elf defenders flying backwards, as if they’d been tossed aside by the hand of a giant. Arrows flew and more agile swift blades danced through the crowds, sweeping between opponents and leaving gashes and gouges bleeding in their wake.

Blood spilled across the tiled floor, smeared by hooves and boots that struggled to find purchase.

The Light’s Chosen boldered through the center of the raging battle, paying no mind to the finer details of what occurred around them; they were not simple soldiers - after all, they were the finest and most powerful of the Prophet’s arsenal, and they would never, even for a moment, turn their eyes anywhere aside from their task. Velen followed hastily behind, his hands busy configuring patterns and shapes with his fingers - geometric runes of light springing up with each spell he cast. Waves of healing energy flowed outwards in his wake, like the tide coming up upon the shore.

Explosions rocked the upper levels of the Exodar, and the war cries of Boros’ vindicators and magi and rangari from the outer courtyard above now filled the hall, joining the chaos.

“Prophet,” Divinus called back, “Boros’ forces have pushed through.”

“By the Light we will be victorious. Push forward; we must secure O’ros and the heart of this vessel, or else all will be for naught. Romuul cannot move in until we have secured the command.”

“By your will, Prophet,” the six of his Chosen sounded out in unison. Embolden by their directive, they continued forwards - plowing through the ranks of defenders. More of the Draenei insurgents followed hastily on their tail, driving a wedge between the elven forces. Further in and then down the spiral ramp which descended into the heart of the vessel, Velen’s hooves barely touched the ground - his eagerness and desperation bringing them all forward with haste.

“Stop,” Velen commanded abruptly, skidding to a halt as his gaze wrenched upwards. He sensed it coming before he saw it.

A single burst of darker fel magic plummeted through the conduit of arcane and holy energies that emanated from the core of the vessel, like a rock falling down a well. Upon the upper levels of the Exodar far above them, the shadow of winged creatures emerged, and the cursed tongue of demonic fiends could be heard.

“Divinius - go. Take the Light’s Chosen and reinforce our people above,” Velen rasped, his gaze tracking the shape of several felbats which swept through the halls - eliciting screams from their terrified victims who were violently wrenched up from the ground and tossed about like toys.

“But Prophet - the core; the command console?”

“I will endure this alone. Go! Our people do not have long,” Velen shouted back, already rushing past the front of the Chosen’s formation. There was a brief moment’s pause before the sounds of the six turning and storming up the ramp was heard; by then, though, Velen was already far along - not having given even a beat to see what his Chosen would do.

At the base of the Seat of the Naaru far down in the core of the ship, the force behind the surge of fel energy was waiting to meet Velen head on. An aura of shadow and reflux-inducing corruption surrounded the woman who stood at the base of the elevated pedestal, the pedestal upon which one of the Naaru was positioned. It was, after all, the very core of the ship’s heart, and the single most important piece of the puzzle. The Naaru was obscured from sight behind a hazy veil of energy, a barrier that had isolated it from disturbance thus far.

The woman standing before it was a man’ari of purple toned skin, whose forehead crest and horns had curved and curled and grown to a considerable degree, with cracks and fissures of fel breaking through the keratin.

“Sir’ona,” Velen called out, just barely recognizing the face he saw. “Give up your pursuit; leave this place and I’ll grant you the mercy your masters have never shown our people.”

“Sir’ona died eons ago, Prophet,” she spat back, the title punctuated with an easily discernible disgust. “Your plans here will fail. The Prince’s reinforcements are arriving even as we speak, and when they carve a bloody path through your forces, they’ll come to find that I, Sironas, was the one to scorch and mar your flesh, only just the beginning of your eternity of agony at our hands.”

“You cannot succeed here, Sir’ona, not while the Light still burns within us,” Velen shouted back, his robes already fluttering with the sheer force of the holy energies surging into the palm of his free hand.

A wicked howl erupted from the man’ari as she gathered two fistfuls of burning fel energy and flung both across the space between them, a blurred haze sizzling in the magic’s wake.

Velen lifted his staff into the air, channeled the power he’d gathered into the crystal affixed to the head of his weapon, and conjured a barrier which sparked to life before him. The fel energies crashed against it, splattering like mud against a wall. The man’ari hadn’t waited for a counterattack though, and was already hurling bolts of shadow at Velen in rapid succession - the sickly darkness now dripping from between her fingers as she weaved her dark magic.

Velen twirled, his robes blowing outwards and his staff swinging wildly as he twisted and transfigured the incoming magic midair, drenching each bolt with holy energies that left a twilight mist wherever he had vanquished the warlock’s spells. Closing the distance as he weaved his way through the onslaught, Velen struck the butt of his staff down hard against the ground, sending holy energy upwards from jagged fissures beneath him. The sudden eruption sent the man’ari toppling over, and then scrambling for higher ground, though she was quick to continue thrusting magic back down at him in her mad dash.

Howls, screeches, and growls clawed their way up her throat as she fired every last spell she could muster, the ground beneath the both of them crackling like glass beneath the sheer magnitude of power that was being unleashed.

“Every spell you conjure,” Sironas harped in-between spells, “is just another moment and ounce of energy lost for your pitiful insurgency here. You only delay our victory, prophet.” Waves of shadow and fel discharged from her palms, washing down the ramp of the pedestal towards Velen and slowing his pursuit. “You, you and all of your wretched Draenei will perish here; your Light is doomed!”

Velen conjured yet another barrier before him, parting the waves of fel and shadow like a hand dipped into a stream, and he held the barrier upright as his gaze turned towards the ship’s upper levels. She was right, Velen thought. His people’s task here wasn’t to win a battle, though; their only hope was to escape, and every moment spent fighting with the hopes of winning a tactical victory was folly. ‘Azeroth’ was their hope, the world that his vision had shown him. Azeroth was their future.

“O’ros,” Velen called out. “Beacon of Light, hear my plea!” The waves of darkness crashing against his shield continued to roll on, draining his energy as he struggled to maintain the barrier.

Deliver us from this place. Send us along on our own journey; send us to Azeroth, Velen prayed, willing the thoughts to manifest within the Naaru’s mind.

The Naaru, O’ros, had been seated behind Sironas throughout the battle, centered upon the pedestal at the heart of the vessel, silent and immobile. But now it radiated with holy brilliance, seeming to awaken. Velen heard the being’s melodic thoughts entering his own mind, unburdening him of the strain of maintaining the barrier.

This is but one step on your journey, dear prophet. We will open the way for your exodus once more, child of Argus. Follow the Light; follow the path.

Energy coursed through the fragments of O’ros’ body, a configuration of geometric fragments that looked like shards of broken glass; they vibrated and hummed with divine purpose.

Sironas looked back, sensing the energy, and her eyes widened.

“No,” she screeched, abandoning her assault upon Velen’s now-reinforced barrier. The man’ari erupted upwards, a gout of fel energy manifesting where she’d stood a moment earlier to deter any pursuit. Tattered wings, black as night with veins of jaded purple, sprouted to aid in her ascent towards the upper levels of the Exodar.

Velen thrust his free hand upwards, a strand of light jetting out from the tips of his outstretched fingers as he tried to restrain the man’ari and prevent her from escaping. Another screech from her called forth a dozen of the fel bats which had swept into the Exodar though, and they swarmed down the conduit towards where Velen stood, forcing him to relinquish his hold and focus instead of driving back the demons with powerful lashes of holy magic.

O’ros had yet to cease its empowerment of the vessel, even as Sironas escaped into the depths of the vessel. The enchanting, melodic chimes that typically accompanied the Naaru had crescendoed to a symphony, a thrumming melody which swelled within the halls of the ship, growing in magnitude with each passing moment.

Velen turned his focus towards O’ros, eyes widening with admiration as the Naaru took control of the ship.

*

More portals sprung to life just outside the barriers of illusion which had masked the refugee clusters throughout the Netherstorm.

“Go, go! Quickly,” one of the clerics shouted, ushering forth another handful of civilians who bolted from the safety of the barrier and lunged through the portals. Each of the gateways which dotted the landscape led to the Exodar, a dozen routes of escape for the dozens of small clusters that had spent weeks migrating through the rocky terrain, lying in wait for the moment when their escape would be enabled.

At the sighting of incoming attackers, though, another pair of magi broke from cover, this time with a vindicator in tow, and the three sent bolts of arcane and fire and holy magic soaring up into the air. The shots sailed towards the dragonhawk riders that hastily descended from the clouds of exhaust from the nearby manaforges. One arcane missile struck the underside of a dragonhawk and sent its rider plummeting through the air, fated only for a sickening impact which spread the rider’s remains across the ground. The rest of the riders raced down right after, making a low pass over the next cluster of civilians as they sprinted across the open ground towards the portal.

One of the Draenei mages toppled backwards as an enchanted fire arrow struck home through her chest, leaving her gasping for air as the remaining attacked prepared their next strafing run. Another volley of arrows came, but this time they all splintered against a golden barrier which erupted overhead - shielding the escaping civilians and their protectors. The barrier faded as soon as the fly over passed. The wounded mage and the vindicator looked back to find a white haired Draenei priestess standing just outside the edge of the barrier. Another handful of civilians rushed from cover behind, passing to either side as they bolted towards the portal.

A vibration which could be felt in their bones shook the Draenei’s attention before any thanks could be offered, wrenching their focus towards the Exodar which loomed above in the distance. The vessel was turning, its terraced-nose drifting to one side, facing away from the shattered landscape of the Netherstorm.

“No! No no no no no,” an evacuee shouted as they hastened their sprint, rushing towards the portal which dissipated when they were just out of reach. The man toppled to the ground where the route of escape had been just seconds before, leaving those behind him slowing to a halt as all eyes turned towards the dimensional ship. The vessel shone brightly, every inch of its surface bristling with cosmic power, only for it to then rocket outwards and away - leaving a blistering trail of chaotic power in its wake as it took flight.

The Exodar was gone in an instant, and a mixed sense of relief and despair could be felt by all those who had witnessed its departure.

More Draenei emerged from the barrier which had obscured them from sight, their eyes drawn to the now vacant space beside the rest of the Tempest Keep.

“It’s gone. They’ve left without us,” the vindicator breathed. “They’re gone.” There was no disputing that. “High Priestess,” the vindicator inquired, his gaze turning back towards the woman who had erected the barrier which had, no doubt, saved their lives not a moment earlier.

She didn’t offer any immediate response or provide any direction, her own gaze still fixed upon the striking absence of the fifth vessel which had dominated the space on this end of the Netherstorm for months.

“What do we do?”

More eyes were turning now from the empty space and shifting towards Ishanah. The High Priestess avoided their gaze for only a moment, rescinding any permission previously given to her body with which to express distress or despair. She swallowed down the lump which had risen in her throat, a serious glaze falling across her face.

“Now we endure. This was part of the plan; this is the path, and we shall walk it until our last breath - no matter which turns it may take.” Ishanah turned her focus towards the one mage that was still standing. “Open a portal to Shattrath; we return to A’dal. Inform the others to retreat. Until the Prophet returns, this world remains ours to guard.”

*

Explosions had begun erupting throughout the Exodar’s interior in the hours after its departure, sabotage and the consequences of battle having taken their toll on the vessel. The ship lurched suddenly, listing hard to port as another particularly powerful blast sent it hurtling off course. The blur of stars that had surrounded the ship while in transit faded into a canvas of bright specks in the distance, and nausea inducing vertigo took hold as those still standing toppled to the ground. Velen grasped at the nearby railing for support, trying to heave himself upright - but subsequent explosions kept him sprawled out on the ground and too weak to rise. Even his Chosen had been knocked flat.

O’ros whined out a somber melody, the strain of powering and steering the vessel through such turbulence causing more than a fair deal of harm.

Sironas’ hair raising, mirthful crackle reverberated through the halls once more, this time in response to the sounds of pain drawn out of the Naaru. Velen tensed as he felt the surge of fel magic coursing through the vessel as the demon, hidden somewhere aboard the vessel, tore into the ship’s mechanisms again.

“Romuul,” Velen called out. “Romuul what is happening? Have we located the demon?” Weeks had passed aboard the Exodar, weeks spent suffering the ambushes and sabotage of rogue, surviving defenders - blood elves who had made it their sole purpose to cause anguish and destruction.

“Prophet,” the artificer answered out from somewhere deeper in the control space at the heart of the vessel. “We’ve lost proposal capability; the ship is spiraling out of control.”

“There’s been no sign of the demon, Prophet,” Divinus added with a note of clear irritation in her tone. “She still evades us.”

The artificer engaged a feature on the control console which stretched around the base of the Naaru’s pedestal, and a projection of worlds and their orbits sprung to life before the assembled group.

“We’ve lost control, but we’re close,” Romuul reported. “A world is nearby.”

Velen clutched at the railing with both hands now, having abandoned his staff to draft himself up to his knees - both eyes settling upon the projection.

“Azeroth,” he breathed.

Any further thoughts were shaken loose from his mind as more explosions rocked the vessel, sending the Exodar into an outright tumble.

The dimensional ship shot across space at lightning speeds and roared into the upper atmosphere of the nearby world; Azeroth. The Exodar’s hull burned with the fury of its hasty entrance, crashing through the heavens one layer at a time and leaving a blazing scar across the sky.

The terror filled flight of the Exodar had felt like a blur of moments to Maraad, rather than the painful hours, days, and weeks filled with countless more deaths that it had been. From the moment the Exodar blasted off, to the moment the most massive explosion had to be felt, to the moment Prophet’s voice had bellowed throughout the ship granting each and every last one of them his blessing, to the moment when the artificer’s voice had followed and called for everyone able to escape - it was all like a series of flashing images to Maraad. Heeding Romuul’s urgent command to abandon the vessel, the refugees had rushed to board the dozens of pods which were then violently jettisoned from the hull of the vessel.

Maraad had found himself shoved unceremoniously into one by the hand of none other than Boros himself.

“One to each protect; protect those who survive,” the vindicator had shouted before the pod’s hatch sealed.

There was no need for further orders; they’d arrived at an unfamiliar world, a world whose people could very well seek the annihilation of the Draenei, much like the Legion had done for eons. Vindicators like Maraad had only their duty, to serve and protect, and it mattered little where they arrived. The weight of that burden grounded him and slowed time as his pod tumbled through the sky, flipping around and around and around, sending loose bodies and belongings banging into each surface of the interior. There was no up, nor down, nor any sense of any sort. There was simply panic, and Maraad’s one standing order.

He thrust out both hands before him, only the straps across his chest holding him steady now, and he unleashed a small burst of holy power which pinned every last person and thing in the pod up against the outer wall. The sounds of loose bodies and items gave way to the more coherent and sustained screaming of the other passengers, many of them now finally able to make sense of their impending appointment with a short and sudden stop, which was certainly worthy of sustained screaming.

The final moment came sooner than any had expected.

The crushing impact shattered the pod as it crashed through the upper edge of a cliff face; part of the structure went flying off in one direction, but the bulk of the pod stayed straight on, impacting at ground level and spreading a field of debris two hundred yards long. Bodies were mangled in the wreckage, others thrown free - perhaps to be found weeks later but most likely to be devoured by the wilds. The binding magics that Maraad had conjured had held only as long as he’d remained conscious, which wasn’t any longer than the first impact, and when he finally awoke it was with the sky far above him.

A scar lanced through the clouds, burning crimson on the edges where the Exodar had shorn a path through the atmosphere. Maraad blinked, the haze of confusion still weighing him down and making any attempts at movement sluggish. It felt like his limbs had been anchored in stone beneath him, but at the very least he was hearing silence now, rather than screams.

Silence. It wasn’t like what had been heard before.

Before, it had been unnerving and absolute, and it had held no tranquility. But here it was melodic; a tranquil peace that rustled gently, full of whispers that weren’t quite complete sounds, but rather just the breathing of existence and flourishing life that thrived on this world.

The sound of leaves rustling nearby came to the forefront of his attention, and a moment later he found a face staring down at him, a face armed with a blade that was pointed perfectly at his throat. She was tall, with skin nearly matching the pink hue of a Eredeathen peach, and with blue markings that ran from her forehead, across her eyelids, and down to the bridge of her cheek bones. A silvery gold crown inlaid with aquamarine jewels adorned her head, framed on either side by long, sharp ears, and from what he could see she was garbed in a cloth robe cut of a white, silky material he’d never before seen. As concerning and alarming as the blade to his throat was, her features demanded his attention, features that seemed alien and strange.

Though spoken in a tongue he couldn’t understand in full, Maraad heard the woman’s words as clear as day.

“Welcome to Azeroth, demon.”

[Vanforth-wyrmrest-accord (Vanforth)]

Chapter B-2: Ear of the Warchief

(3,258 Words)

“And what of you, Eitrigg? You spoke of news from afar,” Thrall inquired, his gaze drifting towards the venerated warrior who’d been seated mere feet to the right of the warchief’s throne.

Eitrigg grit his teeth, both sets of molars working to grind out his anxieties, as if that were even possible, while he collected his thoughts. After a moment he finally rose to his feet. From beneath one of the armor straps which sat snug across his torso the warrior withdrew a rolled up stretch of leather so thin that light passed through it. Once Eitrigg settled into place before the warchief’s seat he reached out his arm and offered up the scroll.

Thrall took it with a small nod of thanks, and let the parchment fall open.

Even viewing it from the backside, Eitrigg could easily make out the painted brand which had been printed; a mountain peak encircled by jagged spikes, and around that - the smaller sigils of each clan from Draenor. Thrall’s reaction was both instantly visible and largely uncensored; it was not a pleasant reaction by any measure.

“The false Warchief, Dal’rend Blackhand, has dispatched a herald. He once again offers a place for us in what he calls the “True” Horde,” Eitrigg explained, a clear lilt in his tone making clear the unspoken feelings he bore towards the issue.

“I know Rend and the bloody legacy he is born of,” Nazgrel interjected. An advisor of equal rank and repute, Eitrigg didn’t refuse him a moment to speak. “What that herald truly means is that you are commanded to submit to him, Warchief; to surrender this Horde and serve him till death.”

“SHAME,” a particularly outraged voice shouted over the growls and grumbles of irritation which had been drawn out from the other attendees. “Traitor; usurper,” another called out. “Dal’rend refused to join us - he hid in his mountain while we fought for this new hom-”

Thrall raised his hand for silence, cutting off the voices immediately. Eitrigg glanced around to measure the visible irritation seen on the many faces within the great hall; the Blackrock clan had been the foundation upon which the old Horde had been raised. His own clan. But that age was long past, and Rend was little more than a symbol of the savagery that had consumed the orcs once before. Eitrigg turned his focus on Thrall once again and composed himself before continuing once again.

“Dal’rend Blackhand is a cunning warrior, Warchief, but I need not speak again to the chaos that any affiliation with him, or his Horde, would bring. He is dangerous, and he will take any refusal as an act that must be punished. There are rumors that he consorts with monsters born of shadow, and even that he himself has become a puppet of some new, dark master.”

“Dal’rend Blackhand,” Thrall replied with barely restrained anger, crushing the parchment in hand for effect, “is trapped on the other side of the world with no true allies, and no means to threaten us here.” The warchief tossed the parchment into the nearby brazier and permitted himself a short moment to watch it be devoured by the flames; there was something soothing in watching the sigil of that false warchief burn.

“Perhaps this is so, Warchief, but that can change. Leaving Rend with time to gather his forces leaves us at a disadvantage perhaps not now, but in the future. I give my counsel here and now to send a force to strike and remove this would-be warchief. Let it be finished,” Eitrigg replied. More rumbles and foot stomping from the crowd, this time signaling their approval.

Silence followed, and when Thrall spoke again a moment later the previously held strain was absent from his voice.

“He is a thorn in all our sides, Eitrigg; that I cannot dispute. But he is not here, and there is much else for us to focus our minds on. He is not the first to believe he has the right to lead the Horde, and he will certainly not be the last. But he is not Warchief, and he has not fought beside the people of this Horde that I have. There is no rush to confront someone who has no possible chance of claiming control of this Horde, not when we have other concerns to worry over. He has no understanding of the respect earned by the trolls, the shu’halo, or even the goblins, and I would not trust him to uphold their place here amongst us, or to act wisely for the betterment of all.”

“Or the Forsaken,” a waterlogged voice croaked from the edge of the circle of advisors and ambassadors, off to Thrall’s left; the words had come late, but their place in the Warchief’s answer was strikingly apparent.

Thrall turned his focus towards the Forsaken delegation which had been standing silent for the whole of the meeting thus far. Three sets of yellow, hazy eyes turned in unison to meet the Warchief’s gaze, showing no signs of intimidation, and yet not daring outward defiance of the warchief. Not overtly, anyways.

“Ambassador,” Thrall managed to say, words somehow harder to drum up when staring into a face that was mostly rotted - a face where the nearly skinless jaw was kept only thanks to a screw on one side and bits of wire. The spikes of stiff hair atop his head gave the figure a crazed look. “Have you counsel to give on this matter?”

Thrall had no genuine interest in hearing anything from the man, if a rotting corpse could even be called that, but the Forsaken had spoken and in Grommash Hold during Thrall’s assembly of advisors, and honor dictated that he too be given the opportunity to speak.

The Forsaken delegate, seeming to be a soldier of some standing - at least judged based on the armor he wore, stepped forward and straightened up.

“The Forsaken have considerable knowledge of the orcish warlord hiding away in Blackrock Mountain, a product of our… shared history,” the delegate said, the rather indiscrete reference to humanity’s long wars against the orcs a rather curious twist given where the man was standing right now. “He is not a threat worthy of your attention; the conflict in the north, however, is.”

“Who are you to judge what is worthy of a Warchief’s attention, corpse?” Nazgrel had hastily risen to his feet, a fist clenched tight at his side.

Once again, the eyes of the Forsaken delegates turned in unison, all of them peering directly back at the orc.

“Deathguard,” Thrall said before anyone else could elevate the tension further. “You were sent by your queen to represent the needs and affairs of the Forsaken, but remember your place here. You dictate to no one.”

The Deathguard kept his gaze fixed on Nazgrel a moment longer, but finally relented and turned a nod up towards the Warchief.

“Of course, Warchief. I mean only to convey that the humans pose a greater threat than any would-be usurper cowering in a mountain. They ravage our lands and hunt us without pause; the Scourge, too. Without the aid of the Horde, these threats could drive us out, and overwhelm the Sin’dorei to the north. With that, the Horde would lose any foothold across the sea.”

“The Sin’dorei are strong,” one of the elven delegates announced as they stepped forward, crimson and gold tabard swaying with each subtle movement of their figure. “We will defend our borders to our last dying breath, but… admittedly we do see the continued menace of the Scourge as a considerable threat.” The elf’s orcish was crude and ill practiced, but clear enough to be understood. “Without the Horde’s aid and intervention, much of Lordaeron and Quel’thalas could be lost, eliminating a strategic foothold for your forces, Warchief.”

“The Horde needs no land in the east,” Nazgrel countered forcefully. “Kalimdor is our home now; only death and defeat lingers in that wasteland.”

“The dead do linger there, yes,” the Forsaken Deathguard replied. “But while the defeat may have been your own in years past, it will not be our future.”

The comment earned a low growl from the back of Nazgrel’s throat, but the heavy crash of Thrall’s fist upon the arm of his seat forbade any retort.

Sensing the nearly palpable distaste for one another, Baine, son of the tauren high chieftain, stepped forward and spoke.

“Warchief, I hear the plight of the Forsaken and the elves across the sea, much as I understand the history the orcs have with this… Blackhand. But the need for our attention and our combined focus here is of grave importance. Food is scarce throughout the barren savannah, and while Mulgore offers a bounty of game, our caravans struggle to reach all of the Horde’s settlements. And with less and less lumber coming from the Kaldorei in the north…”

“And dis bein added to de already long list ah threats we be facin here,” Vol’jin added, stepping out from the relative comfort of his fellow trolls to speak.

Rokhan, another Darkspear shadow-hunter who had been standing just beside the chieftain, kept a stony expression and left his gaze fixed directly upon the Forsaken. “Quilboar, harpies, de filthy humans comin in der ships, cultists and demons-”

Eitrigg loudly hucked spit upon the ground at the mere mention of the last two.

Thrall’s eyes closed and his head tipped back. The sheer number of problems, and the ever-multiplying assembly of people raising new issues every day, was finally reaching the point of absurdity.

“Warchief,” yet another voice called out. This time it was from one of the Hold’s sentries, one of the Kor’kron - Thrall’s elite guard. The Warchief’s eyes opened and he looked out past the circle of advisors, his gaze settling on the face which had appeared through the hanging furs which served as a barrier between rooms. “A runner has come with an urgent message of an attack.”

A heavy breath escaped Thrall’s lips, and he waved his approach with the curl of his fingers.

A troll bearing white face paint, and adorned in leather and wood plate armor, emerged through the furs and came to stand in the center of the chamber. She offered the reverent bow of her head first towards Thrall, and then to Vol’jin and Rokhan who were standing off to her side - both wearing impassive expressions despite their earnest focus.

“Warchief - annuda attack in da barrens; harpies. Dey was swoopin by dah dozens, snatchin everytin an settin fire on da big caravan. Dere ain’t many of us bein alive left; I was one of dah few who made it out. De whole caravan be gone.”

“The whole caravan,” Baine inquired.

The runner offered a slow bob of her head in acknowledgement.

“That caravan brings vital food and supplies to support the city and the outlying settlements from Mulgore with each new moon; without it, Warchief, we-”

“I KNOW,” Thrall bellowed, his fist once again slamming down on the arm of his seat. Baine’s ear twitched, and his gaze shifted to the corner of his eyes - glancing back to the entryway through which he could have sworn he heard the crack of distant thunder.

Quiet ruled in the subsequent moments, the only sound heard coming from a water skin being uncorked and passed to the runner by Rokhan.

“I know,” Thrall repeated softly. “Spirits help me. There is only so much I can do, and even then, it is never going to be enough. Not on my own.” The Warchief’s gaze shifted to meet the faces of each of the delegates who stood in attendance, each listening, watching, and waiting. “We are strong, and resilient, but nothing about our path has been, or will be, easy. We face enemies all around us, and no shortage of troubles of our own making, not to mention fate itself which seems to laugh in our faces. But any one of us can only tackle a single obstacle at a time.”

Soft hums and grunts of acknowledgement rippled through the assembly.

“Together, though, we share the burdens upon our shoulders. No one problem is any less important than another, and I hear all of your problems; I do. We are stronger when we’re united and focused, but we don’t have that luxury right now. We need to make progress where we can or we’ll be overwhelmed. Vol’jin,” Thrall continued, his gaze turning towards the chieftain of the Darkspears.

“Warchief,” the tusked witch-doctor replied.

“I need you to coordinate the food shortage in Orgrimmar and the outlying settlements; your mind is keen and I can count on you to find a solution. In your place, Rokhan, I’m tasking you with leading a war band to hunt these harpies; see that they’re put to death - every last one of them. Recover what cargo you can.”

The trolls snapped their right handed closed fists against their breast, both of them standing a bit taller.

“Baine. The harpies aren’t the only ones harassing our caravans in the barrens, and we can’t address other threats if we can’t feed and supply our forces. Return to Thunder Bluff and assemble another war band; I want you to drive the quilboar back, as far as you can manage. From Taurajo all the way to the South Fury River. Clear the way for our caravans.”

The tauren matched the salute that the trolls had issued.

“Nazgrel,” Thrall continued, his gaze turning now towards the loose tongued advisor standing off to his left whose face was partially obscured by the head of a wolf pelt which he wore as a cowl. “You’ve been on the verge of drawing your axe against anyone who breathes this whole time; I need you to put that energy to use. Take a handful of our best trackers and start searching for where the humans are striking from now. They have a settlement somewhere here in Durotar that we’ve yet to uncover. If we drive back the harpies and quilboar only to lose ground elsewhere to the humans, we’ll be no better off than we were before.”

“As you command, Warchief.” Another salute, this time from the orc.

“Deathstalker Belmont,” Thrall finally said, this time managing to hold back his unease and disgust as he spoke.

“What would you ask of death, Warchief,” the Forsaken replied.

“Return east across the sea and bring with you this: my word and my command. Those loyal to the Horde there are to join with the forces of the Forsaken and the blood elves,” Thrall said, his gaze darting towards the elven ambassadors at the mention of their inclusion, “and to secure those lands against any enemy that would threaten our people, living or dead.”

Mutters rippled through the assembly.

“My orders are to establish bulwarks along the borders of those territories, and to drive back anyone who would intrude past those boundaries. Though we have not known them as allies for long, any who suffer the merciless pursuit of an enemy who wishes them eradicated are welcome in our Horde. The Forsaken and blood elves will not walk this path alone,” Thrall added, finally rising from the throne upon which he’d been seated.

The Deathguard stiffened properly and swiftly mimicked the trending salute.

“As you command, Warchief.”

“Eitrigg,” Thrall continued on, slowly descending the small handful of shallow steps to join the delegates and advisors on the sunken floor of the chamber. “The Horde of old is a thing of the past now, and the worst parts of it shall never hold sway over our people again, no matter what shadows Rend strikes bargains with. I hear your concern, and in time we will deal with it, but there are more immediate threats we must contend with.”

“As you say, Warchief,” Eitrigg replied, his head dipping to nod his understanding. “My focus is here; command me.”

“Stay a while,” Thrall replied, one hand rising to clasp at Eitrigg’s shoulder pauldron. The Warchief’s head turned towards the assembly of advisors and delegates who were watching on and waiting. “Strength and honor; dismissed.”

The clap of fists striking chests in near unison rippled throughout the chamber, followed promptly by the shuffling of leather and fur and the clinking of armor as the host of bodies migrated away from the back hall of the Hold. Thrall eyed Eitrigg closely, giving the others a moment to shift further away before he spoke once again.

“The Kul Tirans aren’t going to stop harassing our people here in Durotar, not until we find their base and drive them back to the seas once again. I want you to ride south, to Theramore, and meet with Jaina Proudmoore; see what information she will pass on. The humans here in Durotar are not loyal to her, and we need to remember that.”

A soft rumble of unease sounded from the back of Eitrigg’s throat.

“Warchief, I hear and obey.” He hesitated for a moment, but the steady hold of Thrall’s eyes encouraged the old orc to speak his part. “You have heard the whispers of people here in Orgrimmar, Warchief; favor and trust in that human is slipping. Many see no difference between her and the others who pursue us relentlessly.”

“Jaina is not like them,” Thrall answered firmly. “But the humans cannot help their nature; after decades of war with trolls and orcs and the undead alike, I wonder if they’ll ever be able to trust us, and even then… They’re not united, old friend. Much like Rend and his followers, the humans are ruled by many different leaders - many hands with many different minds that all wear similar faces. Jaina is the one human I promise you we can trust.”

Eitrigg kept a steady gaze fixed on the Warchief, his eyes searching the young leader’s face, looking deep into the soul which resided just beyond those orbs.

“You are not like the others, Warchief; but then again, that is why we followed you.” The old orc’s own hands rose to clasp each of Thrall’s upper arms on the outside. “You are the first to lead after having learned from the histories before; you are wise, steady, and not too swift to battle, and that is something which has been sorely needed.”

“I have good advisors to temper my impulses,” Thrall answered with a teasing lilt entering his tone.

“You listen to your good advisors,” Eitrigg corrected. “You understand the many perspectives shared with you, and treat each as a valued voice; that has not been seen in a long, long time. There are many burdens upon your shoulders young Warchief, but you have the strength to persevere and the wisdom to know when you must delegate, and it is because of this that I know that you are the only Warchief we will follow. You’ve learned that leading is not all glory.”

“No, it’s a mix of headaches and overwhelming pride,” Thrall chuckled. “You speak truth more often than I thought capable of a warrior; perhaps you’re destined to be a sage, old friend.”

Eitrigg cast a broad smile and stepped back to slap his fist to his breast in salute.

“Bring me a robe and I shall be the most grizzled sage under your command, Warchief.”

Thrall’s laugh echoed throughout the hall.

“Someday, Eitrigg; someday when we no longer have any need for your brilliant tactical mind. Until then, you have a sorceress to speak with.”

“By your leave, Warchief. For the Horde.”