Mathion stood amidst the aftermath of a skirmish. It was an exceptionally cold night in darkshore, the wind howling, his crimson cloak waving in the winter breeze. Corpses lay scattered across the field, the feint green glow of blight filled the basin of what was once a moonwell, now tainted. “What is this all for?” He asked himself. So many dead, and for what? Honor? Glory? There is none to be found here.
He made his way across the battlefield, observing the carnage that lay before him. More would come, the Kal’dorei would not give up their lands. They would fight to the bitter end. Dispite the differences he shared with his forest dwelling cousins, he respected their resolve. They had nothing else to lose, and this made them dangerous. His people had been in a similar situation once before, and if not for the companionship of the Horde, this would still be so.
An undead pikeman interupted his strain of thought. “Highlord! You have been requested to the front. The Blightcaller says it’s urgent.” His suspicions were correct. The Alliance was preparing for another offensive. He called for his charger, the sound of heavy hooves striking the ground filled the air. He mounted his steed, pressed his heels into it’s sides and speed off in a full gallop. He approached Nathanos’ tent, he could see three figures inside. One, in the shape of a troll, was ranting. He sounded mad. Scared. His voice was shakey and broken. Mathion could barely make out what he was saying, but one thing was clear. He had seen something. Someone. Nathanos and a she-orc stepped outside the tent. They were looking at something. He looked in the direction they were facing. A pale white owl. Not a second after it caught his vision it let out a screech, and flew away in the direction of the tree line, not far from the camp.
It had begun, and more would die. Many more. His gaze met the Blightcaller’s, both nodding at each other in agreement. Words were not needed to explain what was about to happen next. Mathion’s grip tightened upon his reins. “Soldiers of the Horde, steel yourselves for battle! We march to meet them!” he barked, as he rode to the line of the massing troops. His sword sung as it was drawn from it’s sheath. “Anar’alah Belore…” He whispered in prayer. “For the Horde!”
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