World of Warcraft: The First Adventurers

[Danseis-silver-hand (Danseis)]

For quite a while I have been asking a question with only vague answers, how did the Forsaken join the Horde and how did the Night Elves join the Alliance? From that question I developed a story for it. It ended up being longer than I planned and I intend to post it a few chapters at a time as I edit them a bit more. I am not a professional writer, I did this for fun, and I hope others have fun reading it. Until Blizzard gives a concrete answer on how the Forsaken joined the Horde and the Night Elves joined the Alliance this is what I am going with.

Chapter 1: Seen from a Distance

For someone who had never been to the sea before Farenda Brightpaw thought she was doing well. She hadn’t gotten sick once in spite of the rough waves. She did have trouble walking across the deck during the worst of them, but she was getting better at it. Not bad at all for a Night Elf who had spent her entire life on land.

When the ship, Elune’s Grace, had requested a priestess to bless and accompany them on their mission the captain was not impressed by the young woman who came to join them. In fact, Farenda thought the captain was going to turn her away based on the scowl on the older woman’s face. But the captain relented, and their journey was a smooth one. The priestess certainly didn’t think she gave them any reason to complain.

It had only been three years since the end of the most recent invasion of the Burning Legion. The scars from the war were still being felt but they were healing. Though there was a feeling among her people that Farenda felt as well. A loss that no one could explain and yet everyone could explain. The Night Elves were no longer immortal. She did not feel it nearly as much as the elders of her kin but even a younger soul like hers could feel the effect. It would be hard to describe to someone who had never been immortal before. Like a part of herself was gone that she never knew she had before.

Still, the world had been saved. And her people had survived. Her people’s long vigil was finally over, and they were free to explore the world once again. It was as scary as it was liberating to know that the future was yet to be written.

“Ships sighted to port,” came a call from the crow’s nest.

Farenda and many others turned to look for the target of their mission. The combination of daylight and the rough seas made spotting anything from a distance difficult for her people. Yet there they were. Four goblin ships spewing smoke from chimneys and using some kind of paddles for movement. All of them on a direct course for central Kalimdor.

The priestess sighed as she found a ledger and made a new entry. The third she had made today of ships bringing souls to the Western continent from the Eastern Kingdoms. All of them, no doubt, bringing more Orcs to her homeland’s doorstep.

The Orcs had a dubious status amongst Night Elves. They were responsible for the death of Cenarious and felling trees within Ashenvale. They had also allied with the Night Elves against the Burning Legion and had fought valiantly in the defense of the world. The Orcs had also made a union with the Dark Spear Jungle Trolls and the Tauren tribes to create a military and economic force they called the Horde. This Horde laid claim to much of central and southern Kalimdor and were busy settling their new home.

The Night Elves did not begrudge the Orcs wanting a new home but what was alarming to many of Farenda’s people was the number of Orcs coming to Kalimdor. The Orcs would charter ships from the Goblin cartels to bring their people in from the eastern lands to the land they now called Durotar. At first, it was only a handful of ships bearing Orcs to the west. Now, it was practically a flood. If Farenda’s ledger was correct thousands of new Orcs had been traveling to Kalimdor every day for almost two weeks.

“Should we approach them, captain,” a sailor asked as the captain looked through a spy glass.

“No,” she sighed. “The High Priestess’s orders are to observe and record only.”

“Due respect to the High Priestess but this is getting out of hand,” another sailor barked. “If this keeps up there will be more Orcs on Kalimdor than Troll’s, Tauren, and Night Elve’s combined by the end of the month.”

“I know,” the captain grimaced. “But we have our orders, and we will follow them.”

“We are at peace with the Horde,” Farenda sought to defend the High Priestess’s decision. “Why go looking for a fight when it is not happening?”

The captain and several other crew members chuckled at her words. “The folly of youth on full display,” the captain said.

The young priestess had endured more than a few comments about her age since boarding the ship. True by Night Elven standards two hundred was remarkably young for someone like her to be made a full priestess of Elune but she was hardly a child and bristled at being regarded as one. To distract herself she looked to the distance, away from the Goblin ships. In doing so she thought that she saw a glint of something beyond the waves. It wasn’t the first time she had thought she saw something at sea and readily dismissed it. After all, what would the rest of the crew say to the young woman who thought she saw a ghost ship.

“Do you think they saw us,” Clarian asked.

“Possible, but unlikely,” the robed elder told her. “As the name suggests, Night Elves are at many disadvantages during the day. Including their eyesight. Combined with rough seas and a clear mission to track the goblin ships and I think it unlikely we were seen.”

“And if they do, no matter,” a crewman laughed, “we could simply kill them and be done with it.”

The elder sighed and the breeze caught his cloak. As it did it showed a ghastly face that was almost more bone than flesh. The crewman who spoke had ribs caved in that were clear to see through his shirt. Clarian felt the sword wound in her mid-section that was her reminder of being one of the undead. Aside from that the young woman could have passed for a living human aside from her sickly yellow eyes.

Clarian didn’t remember her death or her time as part of the Scourge. Both were blessings she had been told by others. In life, she had been a lady in waiting to a noblewoman of the Lordaeron Royal court. Now she was Forsaken, as were everyone aboard this ship.

“We will not attack them,” the elder declared. “Our queen has sent us to gain allies not to create new enemies. The Night Elves have not attacked us nor are they even aware of our presence. And we will not harm them.”

The crewman growled something inaudible and walked away.

“How did you come to know about the Night Elves, Arch Mage?”

“My late title should tell you exactly how my young friend,” the elder said with a smile. “In my life I served the Kingdom of Dalaran in its library for almost a century. Those tomes held knowledge about the continent of Kalimdor as recorded from the chronicles of the High Elves. Much was embellished, of course, but the Night Elves may make an excellent ally for our people.”

“Or a formidable enemy,” Clarian said glaring at the ship that was dipping past the horizon.

“Perhaps, but that is a risk we must take for our people to survive.”

Clarian nodded her agreement. The Forsaken had too many enemies to count and it needed allies to balance that. A shadow passed overhead causing her to look up and nearly be blinded by the sun. In life, Clarian had studied the ways of the Holy Light and now even the sun’s light burned her more than it had before. Further proof that she was rejected by the world.

Flying high above the sea mortals could be forgiven for thinking that a fast cloud had passed over them. Instead, a group of creatures flew with a determined demeanor. The world was changing, and they were determined to give everyone a chance to live it. They split apart with their destinations and tasks in mind. Ready to create a new chapter for the world.

Chapter 2: The Legend of Fishhook Mcgee

“And so, it is with great sadness that I must tell you, that the expedition to Lordaeron has been cancelled,” the Dwarven scribes voice broke as he said it. It was a direct order from King Magni Bronzebeard. The King himself was in his chambers either weeping or praying. No one blamed him. Daelin certainly didn’t.

Not long ago, Daelin Tailor had been just another farm kid from Westfall. When word had reached the kingdom of Azeroth that Lordaeron was under siege he and many thousands of other young men and women had volunteered to join the Alliance army and march north to defend those who had once defended and sheltered them. After training they traveled to Ironforge where they linked up with armies of the Dwarves and the Gnomes.

Everything was ready, the legions had been marshalled, and then the news arrived. It was already over. Lordaeron had been wiped out. Quel Thalas and Dalaran had been destroyed. Stromgarde was in ruins. The only serious resistance left against the Undead had been some arrogant bastard named Garithos and now he and his entire army were wiped out as well. To put it simply, the war was already over. And the Alliance had lost. Lossing was bad enough Daelin thought, but he and the others hadn’t even been allowed to fight.

The next few weeks in Don Morogh were mostly helping refugees. Thousands of people had fled south, bringing tales of the horrors that had been unleashed onto their homes. Not only the undead but demons had been unleashed. It was a miracle that anyone had made it out alive but thanks to a small group of surviving soldiers many were able to flee the carnage. Unfortunately, one of these soldiers was proving a problem for Daelin right now.

“I’m going back,” the Paladin insisted. His armor was in pieces barely being held together by a tabard that was so blood-stained Daelin was shocked the man was still on his feet.

“Sir, I have my orders,” Daelin repeated sadly. “Until further notice no one is allowed to leave for Lordaeron.”

The Paladin attempted to force his way past Daelin, and the soldier knocked the knight to the ground with his shield. Daelin may not be of noble birth or trained by legendary figures; but he was strong. The knight of the silver hand attempted to rise again, using the haft of a war hammer to lift himself. He probably would have made it if a blue aura hadn’t fallen on him causing his eyes to close and making him collapse to the ground, sound asleep.

“That was close,” said a high, sweet, voice from behind Daelin. “If he had kept going like that, he would have hurt himself.”

Walking past him was a gnome, wearing the robes of a mage. She snapped her fingers and a blanket materialized from thin air that wrapped itself tightly around the Paladin. Daelin had never met a gnome before coming to Dun Morogh. When word had reached the rest of the Alliance army that some catastrophe had hit their city of Gnomeregan he went with a host to attempt to reclaim it. While the Gnomes were grateful, they advised the Alliance forces to stay away. The city, as their High Tinkerer explained, was poisoned and it would be years before it was safe enough to enter. The dwarves took in their smaller cousins as well and the gnomes were so grateful that they started to go among all of the other refugees and give what support they could.

“This is the third one to try and head back to Lordaeron today,” the mage said with a smile. She was perhaps three feet tall with bright pink hair. “Why don’t you get his feet and I’ll take the rest?”

With another snap of her fingers the Paladin’s body lifted off the ground headfirst. Daelin went to grab his feet and together they carried him back to the main refugee encampment.

“This is the third you’ve stopped today,” Daelin asked.

“Yup, he got farther than the others though,” she gave a sad sigh. “I understand wanting to go home but it’s too dangerous for that right now. Oh, I’m Lizi Mech by the way.”

“Daelin Tailor.”

“Another Daelin” Lizi exclaimed. “I get that humans like to name their children after heroes, but do you have any idea how many Daelin’s, Danath’s, and Turalyon’s I’ve run into? Isn’t your kingdoms prince named Anduin, after Anduin Lothar?”

“Well, what do you suggest he be named,” Daelin asked.

Lizi thought for a moment. “Bob. Yes, Bob sounds like a good name for him. All hail the newly named prince Bob of Stormwind.”

Daelin laughed for what felt like the first time in weeks.

Walking down the main road they came to a large open field below the city gates of Ironforge. Normally the space was used for festivals like brewfest but it was now home to rows and rows of tents for refugees. Many were in the city itself of course but with so many people from Lordaeron and Gnomeragon needing aid this makeshift city had been set aside for them. Thanks to the deep run tram, a marvel of dwarven and gnomish engineering, aid from Stormwind was quick to arrive as well. Once the refugees had been given time to rest and recover their strength a little, they would travel to Stormwind to attempt to make a new life for themselves.

Passing several tents, they came to one of the largest which was set up for healers. An exacerbated-looking young healer in white and red robes came out to check on the Paladin the soldier and the mage were carrying.

“What happened,” the blond-haired healer asked she directed them to a cot.

“He wanted to go back to Lordaeron,” Daelin told her as he gently set the Paladin’s feet down.

“And,” the healer looked at a chart and made a few notes. Nodding to a grandmother and a child that they could leave.

“He didn’t get far,” Lizi dropped the rest of him like a sack of potatoes.

The healer threw up her hands and muttered something about the stupidity of Paladin’s, along with a with a few curse words Daelin didn’t think most priestesses would know. The surrounding camp was a grim place with most people staying close to their tents or cooking fires to fight off the mountains chilly wind. Debris was scattered about with most people not caring to clean up after themselves.

Daelin’s foot brushed something, causing him to look down. He found himself stepping on a filthy Alliance flag that had been dropped by someone. Picking up the flag Daelin noted that it was torn in many places as well.

Lizi, noticing what he had found, looked over the flag as well. “Looks fixable. Your last name tailor for a reason?”

Daelin smiled, “We’d better find someone who knows what they are doing more than me.”

“Perhaps we could help,” the grandmother Daelin noted from before was carrying a bag full of sewing thread. Walking with the elder and her granddaughter they came to another tent full of clothes and blankets that were being crafted or mended. A few boys came to ask for some cloth scrapes to play capture the flag with and then the elder got to work.

“Are you sure you can spare the time for this,” Daelin asked examining a coat that needed to be repaired.

The elder chuckled, “This is important too and it won’t take very long.” After examining the flag, she tested the threads. From there she quickly washed it in a soapy tub and dried it near a fire. As they waited for it to dry the granddaughter made everyone some cups of strong and sweet tea to warm up with. The healer from earlier walked by and asked to rest near the tailors. They welcomed her and offered her a cup as well.

“How is your Paladin patient,” Daelin asked after taking a sip from his cup.

“All things considered not bad,” the healer told him. “He led a group of survivors from the old capitol, and he still wanted to go back and try to find more.”

“A brave soul,” the grandmother said. “But I hope you’re not going to let him go, Margaret.”

“Hah,” the healer smirked. “I’ve asked a group of dwarven mountaineers to keep watch on him. If he tries to leave again, they’ll just sit on him till he calms down.”

“That will do it,” Lizi laughed, “dwarves are heavier than they look.”

“A part of me wants to go with him,” Daelin said aloud. His helmet was set to the side so he could drink the tea and he had his shield on his back. He was still not entirely used to wearing armor, but he felt comfortable enough in the standard footman’s armor to move around in it. Certainly, enough to fight in it. “If I weren’t ordered to stay, I probably would go with him.”

“Take it from the voice of experience my young friend,” the elder told him. “I know it’s hard to be told you can’t fight but not everything can be solved with a sword and a spear. As difficult as the decision not to send their armies North was King Magni was right not to. You don’t know who or what you would be fighting. And most important of all what would you be fighting for.”

Daelin listened closely and nodded. He understood but it wasn’t easy.

“When you get to be my age you tend to think of these things a little differently,” the elder added.

“But you’re so young and pretty,” Daelin said with a smile.

All the women there laughed. The elder gave him a kind smile and told him, “May your eyesight never improve, young man.”

“It’s good to have things to laugh about,” Daelin told them. “I don’t think there has been much cause for it for the last few years.”

“That’s because you probably never heard the legend of Fishhook Mcgee,” Margaret told him.

Lizi chuckled, “What’s so great about him besides his name?”

Margaret took another long drink from her tea before answering. “Fishhook got his name from a big fishhook earring that he always wore. He was a scoundrel, a thief, and all-around rogue. His one redeeming quality, according to those who saw him being arrested every other week, was that he went to church every week and made the same prayer. ‘May the Light grant us health and strength. We’ll steal the rest.’ No matter what was going on in his life he made that prayer in earnest.

Well, on one of his frequent stays in the Lordaeron city jail, he thought something was odd about the grain being used for bread and warned everyone he could not to eat it. Those who listened survived. Those who did not became undead. Fishhook then lead an escape from the jail and rescued as many people as he could from the city in the chaos. He led them all the way to Southshore where they could make their own way. And then he went back for more people.

He did this eight times from the capitol and other territories of Lordaeron. Every time he did, he made the same prayer every day. May the Light grant us health and strength. We’ll steal the rest. He saved thousands of lives, maybe tens of thousands, including me.”

Lizi whistled as she spoke, “Sounds like the Light did indeed give him health and strength.”

“And he stole the rest,” Daelin finished the prayer.

“Damn right,” Margaret told them with a smile.

“So, what happened to Fishhook,” Lizi asked.

Margaret’s eyes looked down. “On his nineth trip into Lordaeron his group was attacked by a death knight. He stayed behind to buy the others time to escape. He did not come back.”

Lizi and Daelin both raised their cups in a tribute. Looking around at the encampment, Fishhook had done a lot. There were many thousands of people here thanks to him and others like him. Maybe that was a better legacy to remember than losing a war.

“It’s done,” the grandmother told them presenting the flag. “I hope no one minds but I added a little something.”

Along the edge of the flag was a pattern that looked like a Fishhook. It looked a little odd to have that surrounding a lion but not bad. Then a thought occurred to Daelin, “let’s raise it up.”

In the middle of the camp stood a tall pole, either a large tent pole or a caber from a game Daelin didn’t know but it would do. A small group gathered as he climbed to the top. A mountaineer tossed him some rope that Daelin used to tie the flag to the pole. The breeze caught it as he slid down letting the dreary camp see the flag in the morning sun. It wasn’t much, Daelin thought. But it was a start to something new. Thanks to brave souls like Fishhook Mcgee.

Chapter Three: For a Pair of Shoes.

To call this city hot was an understatement Zentabra grimaced. After living on the Echo Isles, he thought he was used to heat. But that was the humid and sometimes stormy heat of islands on the coast. Orgrimar was built into the harsh and very dry heat of the desert. Orc’s, he knew, preferred the heat of this place. But for a jungle Troll, like himself, this place was sweltering. It was also the reason he was in trouble now.

He had left the Echo Isles to see the city and to try and to find a job. Despite the heat Zentabra liked this city. So many people gathered who looked so eager for the future. With Goblin ships bringing in new settlers every day the city was close to bursting. Most would check in at the city, gather supplies, and travel out into the wider world. There was an energy here, an optimism, that Zentabra loved. The idea that the Horde was ready for a world that was open to them.

Unfortunately, Zentabra had not planned for the start of his journey very well. Rather than go to the Valley of Trials, like most young members of the Horde, he opted for just traveling on his own. With the ground so hot that his feet were burning on the stone streets he attempted to steal a pair of shoes from a vender and was caught. Orcs didn’t imprison criminals like the humans or dwarves would and instead he knew he would be given some tasks to do to make up for his attempted theft. Usually, it would be cleaning the venders’ shop or something else that would include useful labor and then he would be free. Of course, for more severe crimes they would just execute the criminal.

The city guards led him through to a cooler part of the city where a number of tall tents and totems were set. A guard lead him to one of these tents, opened the flap, and told the Troll to enter. Inside was a Tauren sitting cross legged on a hide rug. From the headdress he wore and the grey hair of his mane Zentabra realized that this was not only an elder, but a shaman and he bowed to him in respect. The guard did likewise and then left.

“Please sit,” the shaman gestured towards the other side of a gentle fire in the center of the tent and Zentabra quickly obeyed.

The shaman had kind eyes as he looked at the young troll. “I understand that you are a thief.”

“It’s true elder,” the young troll did his best to be respectful. “I didn’t do it out of malice. And I will be happy to make amends.”

The old tuaren smiled. “Why did you choose to steal?”

“Because its so hot that my feet were burning,” Zentabra told him honestly. “I didn’t prepare well for coming here without any money or anything to trade. It’s my own fault, I know.”

The bull headed elder laughed, “You are not the first to make that mistake young one. Nor will you be the last. Many seek to join the Horde without giving a care about what it will take to actually live. But the Earth Mother denies no one. Normally the guards would give you a simple task to make amends for your transgressions and then you would be on your way. But I have need of a thief with a practical mind and a good heart.”

The elder stood to his considerable height, nearly filling the tepee with his presence. He reached up into the upper reaches of the tent and pulled a bag free. He set the bag in front of Zentabra before seating himself again.

“Open it.”

The young troll obeyed finding a good quantity of items. Some rations, a map, a compass, a traveling cloak, and two long knifes. Looking up at the elder the much younger soul was confused about what was going on. Guessing at the confusion the shaman answered.

“A caravan from Thunderbluff went missing after a storm. Several warriors have set out to find those missing but so far, they have been unsuccessful. The task I set for you, young one, is to find these lost souls and bring them to safety.”

“Elder,” the troll told him, feeling nervous, “I am unseasoned. Perhaps someone with more experience might be better?”

The shaman smiled. “Many more seasoned individuals are already searching for those who are lost. A pair of fresh eyes are needed in my opinion. You can be of great help to others in this cause.”

The young troll weighed the task before him and his own skills against it. It would be difficult. But it wasn’t as though he was being asked to slay some legendary monster. And besides, it was a chance for an adventure. There was one issue that he worried about. And he looked up at the shaman to ask a humble question.

“Do you think I’ll need boots?”

The shaman reached once again into the rafters with a smile and pulled a smaller pouch down. Catching it, Zentabra saw that it held enough coins for boots and a decent hat. He thanked the shaman for his kindness and went to the vender he attempted to rob before. Both to make amends and buy some shoes.

As the young soul departed the shaman stared into the fire. Fire could be fickle, but it was always honest. And the spirits were pleased on this day to show him a vision of the future. He saw a time when great evils would rise, and great heroes would be needed to stop them. That he could help one of those heroes take his first steps into the wider world was a true blessing.

Chapter Four: Siding With Children

As glad as Feranda had been to go to sea she was now just as happy to come ashore. The Western coastline of Northern Kalimdor, called Darkshore by the locals, must have seemed like a gloomy place to a non-Night Elf. But to her people, this coastline with its dense forests and perpetual shadows was a comforting place. Even so, she had not expected to see so many of her people gathered here.

The recent war against the Burning Legion devastated many parts of the Night Elves lands. And the threat of the Horde made it so that Ashenvale, the longtime heart of her people’s domain, was no longer as safe as it was. Still, the land was healing, and the Horde had not attacked any Night Elven settlements. So, at first, she wasn’t sure why so many of her people were here. And then a refugee pointed to a small island, a few miles from the shore.

From a distance it was an unremarkable, barren, rock with nothing of interest. Aside from a powerful green glow and a large tree rising. The tree had been a sapling only a few days ago. In a few more days it will be larger than a northern redwood. And by the end of the year, it would be large enough to hold an entire continent within its boughs. A new world tree, created to house the entire Night Elven population.

Feranda had mixed feelings about such a thing. On the one hand it could be a place of peace and security for her people in a way that they had not known for years. On the other hand, it felt wrong to cut themselves off from the rest of the world. Especially now that the world was recovering from the Legions attack. She wanted to be out there. With the long vigil finally over her people were free to explore beyond Kalimdor in way they hadn’t in thousands of years.

“It feels unnatural doesn’t it,” called a voice from behind her. Turning she saw a tall man, with a much darker shade of purple skin than herself, and hawklike eyes walking towards her. Rishzaran was a hunter by trade and something of a malcontent among the Night Elves people. Having grown up with him she knew that his grumpy nature was mostly an act.

“I wouldn’t say unnatural,” she told him as they started to walk together through the encampment. “But it does feel off.”

“Fair enough,” he sounded tired and she noted the longbow slung over his back and a quiver of arrows.

“Feeding this many people must keep you and the other hunters busy.”

“Yeah,” he said as he stretched tired muscles. “The animals are spooked by so many people moving through the area, so the others and I have been doing a lot of tracking by foot.”

“You could always take one of them with you,” the priestess pointed to group of Night Saber cats lounging nearby with their cubs playing with a group of Night Elven children. Not only were the great beasts the preferred mounts of the Night Elves but they were also cherished companions by most.

“You know I can’t stand cats,” Rishzaran growled. And then yelped back when one of the kids held up a cub to his face. Feranda wasn’t sure which part of that she was laughing harder at, her friend’s reaction, the children laughing at him, or the Night Saber’s seeming to laugh at him. The grumpy hunter shook his fist at the children who ran away still laughing. While their parents stood nearby, either shaking their heads, or laughing as well.

“Come on,” Feranda pulled on his arm. “Let’s go to the beach.”

A short walk away from the crowded encampment was a long sandy beach. The breeze caught the nearby trees making a sound that reminded her of a sail. She sat on a log and stared out at the new world tree. It looked like it was growing taller before her eyes. Which, she considered, it probably was.

“How many Goblin ships did you see out there,” her friend asked.

“At least a hundred making back and forth trips to the Eastern continents,” she picked up a stone and threw it into the ocean. “It must be costing the orcs a fortune since Goblins don’t work for free.”

The hunter picked up a stone and threw it into a wave, “That land they’ve settled, Durotar, is rich in metals. Including gold. The only reason no one was living there was that it was so hot and so little water.”

“Is it true that the Orc’s have been raiding Ashenvale,” Feranda asked him.

“Yeah,” Rishzaran now had a dark look on his face. “Some of the other hunters worked with a group of Sentinels to track the Orc’s. If they were only following game, which this party was, the Sentinels have orders to leave them be. If they see any logging operations, they have orders to attack.”

“Won’t that start a war,” the priestess looked at her friend in alarm.

“Maybe,” he frowned, “of course if the Horde keeps raiding our forests that could start a war too.”

Feranda sighed, “I should have just stayed at sea.”

Rshzaran smirked, “And miss out on my charming company?”

“Shut up,” Feranda rolled her eyes at him as he laughed.

Someone cleared their throat loudly behind the two of them causing both to jump. For someone to be able to sneak up on a Night Elf was unusual even among other Night Elves. Though, when Feranda saw who it was it made sense. Standing before them was Ranger General Shandris Feathermoon. Her starlight eyes twinkled as she looked at the two of them.

“Sorry for startling you. High Priestess Tyrande would like to see you both. Follow me.”

Walking through the camp they came to a large tent with guards posted outside. The Sentinel’s snapped to attention as their Ranger General walked past them and into the open doored tent. Inside were three figures seated around a table. One Feranda did not recognize immediately but suspected that he was Fandral Staghelm. A druid of high station within Elf society and the one, she had learned, who was responsible for growing the new world tree. The other two she recognized instantly. Malfurion Stormrage, Archdruid of the Night Elves and one of the co-rulers of their people. Finally, Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess of Elune, and the primary ruler of the Night Elves. Feranda bowed gracefully to the three elders.

“Rise child,” Tyrande gently instructed her. She and the others were seated around a table under a hole in the tent’s roof that allowed moonlight to shine in. “I understand that you recently returned from a sea voyage.”

“Yes, High Priestess,” Feranda wondered what this was about. “We were tracking the Goblin ships as you ordered. Did I make a mistake in my report?”

“Was there anything in your report that you left out,” the High Priestess asked politely. “For example, did you see any ships that you couldn’t identify. The captain mentioned that you thought you saw something.”

Feranda braced herself to be scolded for her imagination, “I did, High Priestess, but I must have imagined it. It looked like a ghost ship was following us. The captain and crew already thought little of me because of my age. I worried that if I mentioned a ghost ship I wouldn’t be taken seriously.”

There was a brief silence that was broken by Fandral Staghelm. He sat up straight in his chair and sighed as he said, “the captain would have taken you seriously if you did.”

Noting her confusion, Archdruid Stormrage told her, “We have been getting reports of tattered looking ships tracking the movements of the Orcs and other peoples for several days now. We believe they may have come from Lordaeron.”

The young priestess was alarmed by that, “You mean the Scourge?”

“Perhaps,” the Archdruid nodded his antlered head. “We’re not certain if those aboard are undead or not but considering the condition of those ships and where they came from it is a strong possibility.”

“All the more reason to speed up the creation of the new world tree,” Staghelm also had antlers growing from his head, a sign of druidic power, though his were less prominent than those of the Archdruid. “With your help we could have it fully grown in…”

“Your proposed idea is foolish,” it was rare to hear Malfurion Stormrage sound angry, but his voice had a strong growl to it that made the two younger Night Elves take an instinctive step back. Seeing them scared of him he closed his eyes for patience and smiled at the two of them. “My young friends you are not in trouble nor are you here to be reprimanded. On the contrary, Tyrande and I asked for you both to ask your advice.”

“Our advice,” Rishzaran repeated. “Due respect, shando Stormrage, but what could we possibly say that you haven’t already considered?”

“You have perspective,” Tyrande told him kindly. “You both have seen more of the state of our lands and our people. You have observed those who might be our enemies with fresh eyes. Our people are moving into a new age and some perspective would be invaluable to preparing for that age. Specifically, do you believe we can defend ourselves against the Horde or the Scourge as we currently are?”

Feranda was startled by that question and by the trust the two leaders of their people were placing in those they must consider children. She and Rishzaran looked to each other and seemed to reach the same conclusion. With a shared nod of understanding, the young priestess answered the question.

“No, High Priestess, in our opinion if either the Horde or the Scourge were to attack us, I’m not certain we could defend ourselves. The undead legions are simply too vast, and we know little of what the Lich King himself is capable of. As for the Horde, thousands of new orcs are being brought to Durotar daily. If this continues at this rate there will be more orcs on Kalimdor than Night Elves.”

“As for our current status,” Rishzaran took over, “Our people are still recovering from fighting the Burning Legion. The loss of our immortality has done more than just weaken us physically it has also affected our connections with our ancient allies. While there are signs of recovery it will take time. And I doubt that we would be ready before a conflict with the Horde arises. Their need for resources will bring them further into Ashenvale and other territories.”

Both elders listened in silence until the end. It seemed that both of them knew much of what they were being told. Perhaps, Feranda thought, they simply wanted to confirm what they already knew.

“I think you’re exaggerating the situation,” Staghelm had poured himself a drink from a pitcher on the table. “We have weathered far greater challenges than the Horde could ever be.”

“Due respect, tell that to Cenarius,” Rishzaran growled at the druid. “The simple fact is that we are vulnerable in ways that we have not been for thousands of years.”

“And what would you know of thousands of years, pup,” Staghelm scoffed at the hunter.

Rishzaran was about to take a step forward when the High Priestess stood up to her full height. Illuminated by the moonlight she was both a towering and beautiful figure. “Considering that the future is something he and the other young souls will inherit. The current state of our people is very much their business. And they do not deserve to be mocked for it.”

Staghelm was arrogant, but he wasn’t a fool, “I apologize High Priestess. To you and to our young hunter. Though, I do wonder. If we are not going to speed up the growth of the world tree to give our people a new and secure home, then what shall we do?”

Tyrande looked to Malfurion who smiled at her. It was like they were waiting for Staghelm to ask that question and were looking forward to answering it. Shandris, who had been silently waiting by the door had a smirk on her face that Staghelm didn’t seem to notice.

“We are considering joining the Alliance.”

The druid almost did a spit take and coughed as he set his water mug down. It took him a few moments to collect himself before he looked up with shock in his eyes. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am completely serious,” Tyrande told him. “We need to counterbalance the situation with the Horde. Joining the Alliance will grant a parity with the Horde and discourage a conflict.”

“They are children,” Staghelm protested. “Even younger than these you ask for advice. Humans and dwarves live less than a century on average. And even if that were not the case how much aid do you expect to get from a single city state.”

“He has a point, High Priestess,” Feranda felt compelled to answer. She had worked with Alliance soldiers during the war with the Burning Legion. They were brave and capable but the stories they told her did not make her think they could be of much help. “Theramore is made up of the survivors of the Scourge’s assault on Lordaeron. Not only is that kingdom gone, so is every other human kingdom on that continent. The dwarven kingdom of Ironforge remains but I don’t know how much aid they could give us.”

Before anyone could answer, a commotion outside the tent drew everyone’s attention. A Sentinel guard popped her head in and said, “A red dragon has been sighted coming this way High Priestess.”

With a smile both Tyrande and Malfurion left the tent followed closely by the others. Among other people’s, Feranda knew, the sighting of a dragon was something to be feared. An understandable reaction to seeing a giant flying lizard that breathed fire, in her opinion. However, the Night Elves and the dragons were ancient allies. Especially the red and green flights. So, the dragon was greeted by a cheering crowd as it flew lower and did a loop around the camp until it sighted Tyrande and Malfurion and landed before them.

Fire briefly engulfed the dragon causing a few screams while Tyrande and Malfurion looked on with anticipation. When the fire dissipated a tall figure walked confidently forward. He looked like one of the High Elves, distant cousins of the Night Elves from across the sea, and he bowed to Tyrande and Malfurion who gracefully did the same.

“It has been a long time my friends,” the red dragon in the shape of an elf spoke with the same confidence he walked with.

“Indeed, it has Krasus,” the Archdruid smiled at him as one would an old friend. Which, the young priestess realized, he probably was. “How fares Alexstraza, we have heard some dark tales?”

“She is thankfully recovering,” Krasus told him betraying no emotion as he spoke beyond being glad to speak with friends. “In fact, she may come to call upon you all soon. In the meantime, I thought I would come to speak with you regarding how best to help your people recover. Have you heard of an organization called the Alliance?”

Tyrande and Shandris laughed. Malfurion was able to keep a straight face, but it was clearly a struggle. “As a matter of fact, my old friend, we were just discussing the Alliance. And that we were considering joining them.”

Now it was Krasus’s turn to laugh, and the silver-haired High Elf did so with Malfurion joining in now. “Great minds think alike I suppose,” Krasus said brushing away a tear.

“But Lord Krasus,” Staghelm choose his words carefully, “what benefit would we gain from allying with the dwarves?”

“Ah, but it wouldn’t only be the dwarves,” Krasus assured him. “The gnomes have pledged their aid and loyalty to the Alliance as well. And as for the humans. While Lordaeron is gone Stormwind remains. And they are stronger than even they realize.”

“My Lord,” Feranda timidly asked, never having spoken to a dragon before. “Won’t the Alliance ask us for something in return? What could we offer other than new lands to protect?”

“There is no need to be afraid priestess,” Krasus said kindly, “that is a reasonable question. But your people could offer the Alliance a great deal. You would understand more if you saw for yourselves. In fact, with your High Priestess’s permission, I would like to take a small delegation to the Eastern Kingdoms. I know a mutual friend who will be happy to act as an intermediary for your people.”

“An excellent idea,” Tyrande agreed. “I have already asked that Jaina Proudmore come to speak with us. Perhaps you would like to wait until she arrives?”

“Gladly,” Krasus exclaimed and followed along as the others lead him away. “And while we wait, I have much to tell you about.”

[Alynsa-wyrmrest-accord]

Pst!! I am replying to say I like it and so you can reply to this post now!!

[Drahliana-earthen-ring (Drahliana)]

@Danseis-silver-hand

Until Blizzard gives a concrete answer on how the Forsaken joined the Horde and the Night Elves joined the Alliance this is what I am going with.

The Forsaken were sponsored by the Tauren who were sympathetic to their plight.

The Night Elves formed an alliance with Jaina’s survivors of Lordaeron, who settled in Theramore where they established a trading relationship with Thrall’s orcs. Things went south fairly quickly when the Warsong Clan, impatient with negotiatons with the Night Elves resumed logging operations in Ashenvale, the incraesed tension with the orcs would drive the Night Elves into formal entry into the Alliance once contat was made with the Eastern Kingdoms. This was detailed in the WOW RPG 2nd edition setting books. However Frozen Throne does have Malfurion, Tyrande, and Maiev visitig the Eastern Kingdoms .

Things got even more tense when Proudmoore’ Senior’s forces landed, set up a base in Northwatch and started a campaign of ecological devastation which pretty much denuded Durotar.

[Danseis-silver-hand (Danseis)]

Chapter Five: The Costs of Business

If there was one thing Ughbar loved about Durotar it was the heat. True many did not care for the dry and constant heat that was everywhere in this land, but Ughbar loved it. Growing up as a young orc in the internment camps of Lordaeron it had always been too cold, in his opinion. But here, it was as though the sun was embracing him, and he loved it. As a city guard he had the chance to always experience the heat. Rarely taking breaks from his duties so he could enjoy it more.

Today there was a difference though. He was asked to be part of an escort for a representative of the Steamweedle Cartel. The representative was pleasant enough by goblin standards. No snide comments about the city. No insults towards anyone’s honor or family. In fact, the representative rarely spoke. Compared to the chattering, obnoxious, and rude goblins Ughbar had met so often it was a welcome change.

The two of them traveled through the streets of Orgrimar until they came to Honor Hold, the seat of the Warchief. The cartel representative paused for a moment to look at the imposing skull of Manoroth, the pit lord demon slain by the legendary Grom Hellscream, and straightened his suit. Ughbar breathed a sigh as he waited.

“Problem son,” the representative asked.

“No,” the guard assured his charge, “I’ve never met the Warchief before.”

“Ah,” the representative smiled and nodded. “I have a few times. Warchief Thrall is a good egg. You’ll see.”

The two then passed through the stone and wood building until they came to a great hall draped in hide maps. The Warchief stood beside one of these maps with one of his advisors discussing something when he noted the two new figures. The Warchief’s gold and black, plate, armor glistened in the sun as a beam through a window illuminated it.

“Welcome back to Orgrimar, Goldstrike,” Warchief Thrall called out to him.

“Thank you Warchief it is good to be back,” the representative smiled a toothy grin and swept a top hat off his head as he bowed. “I have the newest transport ledger from the cartel. You will be pleased to hear that the ships have arrived safely, and the new citizens are being welcomed into the city as we speak.”

“Excellent,” Thrall walked to the high seat to continue the conversation. “I’ve received word that another group of clans in hiding have heard the Horde’s call and are asking for transport.”

“Ah,” representative Goldstrike scratched his head for a moment. “About that, Warchief. I’m sorry but the cartel bosses are wanting an additional twenty percent for the next transport.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop considerably. Several advisors looked between the goblin and the Warchief. Goldstrike, for his part, knew that he needed to wait for the Warchief to speak. He didn’t wait long.

“We had already settled the amount of gold,” Thrall spoke glacially. Putting emphasis on each word. “This is the fourth time the cartels have increased the price. Are they at least offering a reason this time?”

“Yes sir,” Goldstrike said immediately. “Several of the clans we’ve been picking up for transport are in remote areas. It strains the ships and their crews. Also, some of the bosses have voiced concerns about antagonizing the Night Elves. Night Elven ships have been tracking our ships recently. If they believe that our neutrality is over, then that could jeopardize the bosses overall interests.”

The Warchief listened without interrupting. Ughbar knew why the Night Elves were worried about the orcs. It only made sense that they would keep watch on newcomers to their home continent. However, the goblins did business with everyone. And if one client thought that the cartels were taking sides with another then they wouldn’t have as many clients.

“Provided this is the last time I am willing to increase the payment by ten percent,” the Warchief proclaimed.

“Due respect Warchief,” the representative said with a polite tune, “but I was not sent with authority to haggle.”

Thrall glared at the goblin in way that made Ughbar take a step back. Representative Goldstrike kept his head bowed to the Warchief as a sign of respect and waited.

“Very well,” Thrall relented. “But if there is another increase the Horde will consider it an act of dishonor against us. I trust you can relate that to the leadership of the cartels?”

“Of course, Warchief,” Goldstrike told him with another bow and taking the que that he was dismissed started walking quickly for the door.

“You see,” the goblin told his escort. “Not one threat against my life the entire time.”

“It sounds like he had every right to be angry,” Ughbar thought out loud.

“That is certainly true,” the representative sighed. “I’ve told the cartel bosses again and again that we can’t keep doing this. And every time they just smirk and say that the Horde has no navy so we can charge what we want for our ships. I’ve worked with the Orcs since the third war, and I know what happens if we push too hard. Your people build a navy go to Kazzan and burn it to the ground for being too damn annoying.”

Ughbar laughed, “So you have worked with my people for a while.”

Orgrimar did not have direct access to the sea, a design flaw of the city in Ughbar’s opinion, and as result they had a lot of walking before they arrived at one of Durotar’s ports. Several goblin ships were anchored there and were busy unloading both cargo and passengers. Goldstrike saw the captain of one of the ships and hurried forward to greet him.

“Drapamar Bangs, this is my escort Ughbar,” Goldstrike introduced the new goblin to the orc. “Any problems with your voyage.”

“A few fights, old clan rivalries, and a couple of boys who got mad at losing a game of capture the flag. But that was it,” Drapamar said with a shrug. Ughbar agreed, if that was all then it sounded like a pretty smooth journey. “There was one issue that didn’t have anything to do with passengers. We were being followed and not just by the Night Elves this time. I think it may have been a Scourge ship.”

Almost on que several shouts could be heard from the ship and the dock. The captain sprinted through the crowd followed closely by the representative and the city guard. It didn’t take long on a sunny day with calm seas to see what the commotion was about. In the distance was a ship that resembled a human ship, with torn sails, rotted wood, and the general air of a ghost ship. It was close enough to shore that they could see the crew. All of whom appeared to be undead humans.

A crewman came to the goblin captain. “Do we open fire sir?”

“They’re out of range,” Drapamar shook his head and pulled a collapsible spy glass from his waistband. “The ship is flying colors. That’s not a Lordaeron flag. Not a Scourge one either that I know of. Purple background with a broken mask.”

“Could they be a different group of Undead,” Ughbar asked unsure of the nature of the undead’s leadership.

“Maybe, they’re signaling,” the captain adjusted his spy glass. He read the flag signals carefully aloud. “They are saying that they have come in peace and are requesting a parlay with Warchief Thrall.”

Goldstrike and Ughbar looked to each other. “That doesn’t sound like mindless Undead to me.”

“Me either,” Ughbar said. “We should report this to Orgrimar. Let the Warchief decide.”

“Agreed,” Drapamar then turned to one of his crewmen. “Signal the ship to hold its position while we contact the Warchief.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Word reached the city quickly and the Warchief came forward. And did not do so alone. The skies were thick with wyverns and bat riders. More than a thousand wolf riders marched alongside the Warchief as he approached the shore. It was a glorious sight, Ughbar thought. Reminiscent of the tales when the Horde would march in the past and shake the world.

For his part, he and the other city guards evacuated the civilians from the port. Just in case this was a deception from the Undead. Goldstrike and Drapamar stayed aboard their ship while Ughbar and the city guards made perimeter around it. The Undead vessel was signaled, and a small boat rowed ashore. When it landed two individuals disembarked. One was quite tall, a male thought Ughbar, though hard to tell from the heavy robes he wore. The other had a slight frame that Ughbar was certain was female. They both carried themselves with an air of dignity and respect that made the city guard wonder who these people had been in life.

The Warchief had dismounted to greet these newcomers. Flanked by a Troll and Tauren elder on either side. As the Undead pair continued to walk forward Thrall stepped towards them and commanded, “That is close enough. State your intentions. Why has the Lich King sent you here?”

The robbed figure lowered his hood to reveal a horrible sight. His head looked mangled, as though it had been partially eaten by a wolf or hound. But he spoke with a clear voice that carried well despite speaking softly. “Greetings Warchief Thrall, I am Archmage James Revarda formerly of the Kirin Tor. My companions and I do not speak for the Lich King. We speak for the one who freed us from the Lich King’s domination. Our queen, Sylvanas Windrunner. She who named us Forsaken.”

The Warchief listened carefully, seeming to weigh both the words, and the weight of his war hammer. “You say you call yourselves Forsaken. Forsaken by whom?”

“By everything, Warchief,” the Archmage continued solemnly. “By our former countrymen, by the Light we once worshiped, by life itself. We continue to exist for one purpose. Revenge against the one who condemned us to this fate. The Lich King himself.”

Thrall raised an eyebrow. A human expression that he and many other orcs had picked up in the internment camps. “If that is the case, why are you here?”

The Archmage seemed to brace himself before he continued. “We have come, Warchief, to ask to join the Horde.”

If a pin had dropped it would have been heard with crystal clarity. Ughbar’s mind was racing with many thoughts. This had to be a trap. Even if these souls were telling the truth about being freed from the Lich King, they were still Undead. What existence could they even have? Would it not be better simply to die than to remain as they were?

Thrall stared at the Undead Archmage who did not back down from the glare. “Do you realize what you are asking? You say that you consider yourselves Forsaken by the world and Life itself. The Horde is made up of living beings. What is to say you will not attack us the moment we turn our backs upon you? You ask us to accept you when you reject what we are?”

“We do not reject life,” the Archmage told him, though Ughbar noted that his companion fidgeted uncomfortably at that. “We are rejected by life. And to put it bluntly, Warchief, we have too many enemies. The rest of the world would see us destroyed. We have no one else to turn to and no one else to ask for aid.

And we do not come to you with nothing to offer. As I said, my title is that of an Archmage. We can offer the Horde our knowledge in exchange for your aid. We can offer the Horde the treasury of Lordaeron to aid in bringing the rest of your people to Kalimdor. Our alchemists are the finest in the world and they can offer their expertise. We can benefit the Horde in many ways.”

Thrall turned to his advisors. The Tauren elder, a shaman Ughbar thought, spoke first. “They have traveled a long way to seek aid. Perhaps they should be given a chance to prove themselves?”

“Agreed,” the Troll elder, a witch doctor, nodded his tusked head. “They could be given a task to prove both their loyalty and their value.”

Thrall seemed to agree. “There is a caravan that has gone missing recently in a storm. If you and your companions will aid in finding it and returning any survivors to safety, then I will consider your request to join the Horde.”

The Archmage bowed, “Very well. We shall do our best to find them.”

“I will send an escort along with you,” Thrall told him through narrow eyes. “As guides.”

And guards Ughbar thought. As the shadow of a cloud passed overhead Ughbar thought that he should do this. With a step forward he declared, “My Warchief, I volunteer for this task.”

Warchief Thrall nodded his approval as Ughbar and several other orcs volunteered for this task. Goldstrike wished him well as they set out to join their new charges. This could be interesting, the guard told himself.

[Drahliana-earthen-ring (Drahliana)]

The only minor nitpick is that Krasus never revealed to anyone that he and Korialstraz were the same being before Rhonin. However the dragon kept several othr visages including that of Borel, a Human and an unnamed orc shaman.

[Danseis-silver-hand (Danseis)]

Chapter Six: The Need to Heal and Rebuild

It was several days until Jaina Proudmore’s ship arrived at Darkshore. Feranda had met her once before, though briefly, during the last war against the Legion. To be honest, the priestess wasn’t sure what to think of her. On the one hand the blond-haired, blue-eyed human was a mage and Feranda didn’t care much for sorceresses. Most of them were just too arrogant for her taste. On the other she had fought alongside her people and even managed to delay Archimonde himself when he assaulted Nordrasil. As the priestess stood in the back of the tent while Tyrande and Krasus laid out their proposal to the Lady of Theramore Isle Feranda was starting to like her.

“Both kingdoms have made contact with Theramore so I can certainly make the introduction to Stormwind and Ironforge for you High Priestess. But are you sure want to do this,” she asked politely. “Joining the Alliance will come with obligations. For one thing, every nation in the Alliance has good reasons to hate the Horde. If your people join, then if the Alliance and the Horde go to war you would be required to join that conflict.”

“We have considered that,” Tyrande answered gravely her white robes and purple skin in contrast with Jaina’s blue cloak. “But we are losing the peace with the Horde regardless. It may only be a matter of time before we will need to fight the Horde. And we are not in a good position to do so on our own right now.”

Jaina considered that as she took a drink of the tea she was offered. “King Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge and King Varian Wyrnn of Stormwind are who you will need to speak with. Stormwind has a much larger population than Ironforge and it will almost certainly be even larger now with any survivors from Lordaeron who didn’t cross the sea traveling there. That said, I would recommend that you speak with King Magni. He is the more experienced leader, and King Varian would likely follow any recommendation that he gives.”

“When you say that Stormwind has a larger population than Ironforge what do you mean,” Fandral Staghelm was standing by the table where Jaina and Tyrande sat, looking grumpy.

“Well,” Jain thought, “Please bear in mind that I may be wrong about what I say, and I can’t give precise numbers for the entire kingdom of course. But I believe Stormwind’s capitol has a garrison of around two hundred thousand soldiers.”

Several of the Night Elves present let out soft whistles. Feranda didn’t blame them. That was easily four times larger than the Night Elves entire army at the height of their power. And that was just one city in the Eastern Kingdoms. Granted, Feranda thought, numbers didn’t always win battles, but they certainly helped.

“Are there any other considerations we should know before we proceed with this,” Malfurion also stood by the table but beside the High Priestess and with a much more pleasant look on his face.

“Yes, two points in particular,” Jaina put her teacup back on the table. “First, the Alliance is still reeling from the war against the Scourge and the Burning Legion and that will certainly be an issue if they are considering new members. Second, you may need another recommendation than mine.”

Tyrande and Malfurion shared a look, “Is this because of what happened with your father?”

“Yes,” Jaina told the High Priestess, a sad and bitter note in voice. “There are some in the Alliance who see what I did as treason. Kul Tiras,” she gave a sad sigh, “has even left the Alliance in protest because of my actions. If it is only my recommendation it may not carry much weight.”

Feranda grimaced. She had heard the story of how her father, Daelin Proudmore had led an expedition to Kalimdor and immediately went to war with the Horde. To save her people and to preserve peace between them and the Horde she had stood aside during the war. Allowing her father to be killed. It had restored the peace between Theramore and the Horde after her father’s death. But Feranda couldn’t imagine giving an order like that. Her own father had died almost a century ago from fighting a centaur raid so she would never have to make that choice.

“I thought about that Jaina,” Krasus sat at the table as well, between the High Priestess and the sorceress. “Sadly, my pull with the Alliance has never counted for much but Ronin is another matter.”

Jaina brightened up immediately, “Certainly, as he is the de facto leader of the Kirin Tor now his recommendation would work wonders.”

“It would be good to see him again,” Malfurion said with a smile. “It will be good to see how Dalaran has been rebuilt since I was last there. Perhaps, I could accompany you on this journey East?”

He looked to Tyrande for permission. His life mate smiled and gave a nod. Feranda knew that she would likely want to go as well but the demands on her time right now simply wouldn’t allow it.

“The Elune’s Grace is ready to depart Shando Stormrage,” Feranda told him.

“Actually,” Krasus said with a smile. “I think I can arrange a much faster way.”

Walking out of the tent where Rishzaran was waiting for them, Krasus drew a large circle on the ground with a stick. As he drew symbols of power and runes around the circle Jaina smiled. “You could just use a spell to draw.”

“I know, but it is just more relaxing to do this by hand,” the dragon in the shape of an elf laughed.

When he finished, he looked over his work and gave a nod of approval. He then beckoned Malfurion, Feranda, and Rishzaran towards him. Confused and feeling unsettled, Feranda did as asked and stood awkwardly next to the others.

“Now, this will feel a little disorienting,” the mage warned. “But we will be at Ronin’s doorstep in a few seconds.”

Without giving time for further questions, comments, or complaints Krasus made a gesture with his hands and a blue light flared from the circle he drew. For a moment the only thing Feranda could see was blue light with swirling images in a vague background. Then the world seemed to right itself and she could see normally again. Granted she nearly fell over from the experience and almost fell into Rishzaran and Malfurion. Krasus, alone, had remained steady on his feet.

“Welcome to Dalaran,” Krasus told them.

Now that she was properly looking, she saw that she was in the middle of a city. The city was made of stone with towers that shone in bright daylight. At least the towers that were standing as most of them had been crushed. Yet, as she watched the stones seemed to be slowly lifting into place, repairing the towers. Though she wondered why it was going slowly when she had seen mages work far faster.

They also were not alone in the city street. With many hundreds or even thousands of people going about their day or working to rebuild their city. And they had noticed these newcomers to their city with guards coming to surround them almost immediately. Humans were generally shorter than Night Elves though not as short as gnomes or dwarves. Still the armored soldiers were an intimidating sight.

“State your business here,” one of the guards called out.

“I am Krasus, Archmage of the Kirin Tor, and I have brought guests to meet with Ronin Leader of the Council of Six,” the dragon shaped like a mage told them.

Immediately the guards relaxed. Many of them bowed to Krasus. The captain who spoke earlier spoke again, “Understood sir. Archmage Ronin is currently in the city’s main library shall we escort you?”

“Thank you but I can find the way,” Krasus told him with a smile.

Walking through the streets Feranda found herself staring at everything. She had never been to a city like this. All stone wrought and clearly infused with magic. Most of the city’s inhabitants were humans but there were also a good number of High Elves, dwarves, and gnomes as well. Most seemed just as curious about her and her companions as well with a group of human children pausing a game to watch them. A ball they were playing with rolled to stop at Malfurion’s feet. The Archdruid, smiling, caused a vine to sprout from the ground and carry the ball back to its owners. They laughed as they picked up their toy while the vine grew bright pink and white flowers.

The city’s main library was far larger inside than it appeared to be outside. Feranda thought it must contain books on every subject imaginable. She would love to come back to this city at some point just to read through these tomes. Sitting at a table with several open books and quills making notes that he dictated sat a human with flaming red hair that Krasus was walking straight towards. The man looked up from notes and smiled at his guests.

“Malfurion, I didn’t know when or where we would meet again but I am glad to see you,” the mage, who had to be Ronin the Red Haired clasped Malfurion’s outstretched hand.

“Indeed, it seems you are hard at work,” Malfurion gestured to the tomes still open.

“A project that I have been working on though it will be some time before it is ready,” Ronin told him with a grin. “What happy miracle brings you to Dalaran?”

“We’ve got an idea that we would like to share,” Krasus told him with a smirk.

Telling the Archmage of why they had come caused Ronin to grin even more broadly. “I would be happy to give recommendations for joining the Alliance. Though Dalaran is technically not a part of the Alliance anymore between Jaina and I recommending you, King Magni would be glad to hear it. Frankly, he could use some good news.”

“Due respect you don’t seem to be that bad off here,” Rishzaran had been quiet until now. He had a point, Feranda thought. Granted the city was being rebuilt but from all that she heard about the fall of Lordaeron she expected things to be far worse.

“Appearances can be deceiving my friend,” Ronin conjured a window into the side of the library. “Look outside, to the North, and tell me what you see.”

Both Feranda and Rishzaran looked out the window and both gasped at what they saw. What they had assumed to be the entire city was only the central most part of a far larger one. And beyond a boundary of enchanted light was nothing but devastation. Buildings were either in ruins or deduced to their foundations. Not a single crop or living plant could be seen. And, shambling about were the risen corpses of the undead.

“This is not as bad as other places in Lordaeron,” Ronin told them coming to look out as well. “If you traveled Northeast you would come to a place so terrible you could only describe it as a plagued land. Thankfully, the Scourge did not advance beyond the Thandol Span so those lands are safe from this darkness.”

“How could anyone have survived this,” Feranda asked and realized she was gaping at what she saw.

“Through many factors. Luck. Faith. And the sacrifice of brave souls,” Ronin turned away from the ruined scene outside. With a gesture the window vanished. “Most of those who could flee have already done so. Those few who remain are either here, hiding behind barricades of their own, or have gone mad.”

“Elune have mercy,” Feranda gave a simple prayer and made the sign of the moon.

“I certainly hope she listens,” Ronin said with a kind smile.

“What would you say the Alliance needs most at this moment,” Malfurion asked. He had been to Lordaeron before and already knew about how much destruction the Scourge had wrought.

“At this moment,” Ronin thought. “It needs three things in my opinion. Two practical and one less so. First, it needs to improve its food production. The lands of Stormwind and Ironforge were devastated during past wars with the Horde and while they have largely recovered, they will need help to feed themselves. Second, the Alliance needs leadership. King Magni and King Varian have done their best but both of them need more experienced advisors, especially King Varian. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the Alliance needs to have something to hope for. It needs to be given something to hope for, something to live for, something to fight for.”

The first one shouldn’t be that difficult, Feranda thought. With the aid of the druids, those lands should not be too difficult to heal and provide food. Experienced leadership, again, the Night Elves could easily provide that as well. That last one though. How would they even start with that?

Malfurion, however, laughed. “If that is all then this should be far simpler than I feared. Thank you, my friend. While I would like to speak with you more it seems we need to travel to Ironforge.”

“Well, I’m afraid getting there through magical means would not be safe at the moment,” Ronin advised. “Ironforge is a true fortress in every sense of the word. And with the fall of Lordaeron they have strengthened their protections to include preventing direct transport into the city or even close to the city. But I can offer another option. One that will ingratiate you to the dwarves.”

They left the library and walked to a menagerie filled with many kinds of exotic animals. Ronin led them to a stable within the building that held larger beasts. Including a creature Feranda had read about but never seen in person. It was easily the size of a large stag or elk with the body of a lion and the head, talons, and wings of an eagle. A gryphon, or rather several of them were either lounging in the stable or taking flight from a cave-like hole that led to the sky. Unlike the hippogriff’s that Night Elves favored, whose bodies were more akin to stags, gryphon’s were the preferred flying mounts of the Alliance.

Ronin helped them to pick out four of the great beasts. At first Krasus looked like he might decline and fly there himself, but he seemed to think better of it. Rishzaran needed a minute to get settled while Feranda’s gryphon mount was eager to fly, stretching its wings reflexively. Taking flight was exhilarating. Her gryphon rose high enough to make the ground beneath them seem like a tapestry. Though wishing she had thought to dress warmer she felt thrilled at the idea of another adventure.

Chapter Seven: Lost and Found

Though it had taken several days, maybe weeks, Zentabra had done it. He found the caravan. A storm had passed through the Barrens and the caravan had been caught in the middle of it. The Kudo beasts, massive hooved and thick hided creatures, had been scared and scatted during a strong bout of lightning and thunder. So, the caravan drivers had spent a lot of time attempting to locate all their wagons and animals. Zentabra offered to help and was able to find many of them. The caravan was almost ready to depart again when the centaur found them.

The four hooved raiders with the torsos of either elves or humans, the troll wasn’t sure which, had tracked the kudo’s and were surrounding the caravan. What was worse, one of the wagons was damaged and the caravan’s leader, a Tauren, was trapped beneath its heavy weight. Zentabra had leapt off a wagon he sat in the back of to help but even with four orcs and Tauren together with him they couldn’t lift it. At least not enough while attempting to dodge arrows from the centaur.

Feeling something whiz past his ear caused the young troll to duck. He reached for the long knives he had been given for this journey and considered how best to use them here. As he considered his options a centaur raced towards him carrying a war lance. Timing his actions as best he could, Zentabra was able to dodge the lance and plunge one of the long knives into the centaur as it passed. The centaur collapsed to the ground and Zentabra, not wanting to give it time to recover drove a knife into its throat, killing it almost immediately.

Not having time to do more than withdraw his knives, Zentabra fled back to the trapped Tauren brave. More arrows were now whizzing by or striking the wagon. And in the distance Zentabra thought he saw more centaur’s galloping towards them. He held the brave’s hand to comfort him and gave a silent prayer to the Loa. The centaur cleared the distance to the caravan wagon quickly, with both bows and lances at the ready.

Whatever Zentabra thought was going to happen next didn’t. Instead, the front ranks of the centaur burst into flames so quickly they didn’t have time to scream. Those in the back ranks faltered and turned as bolts of ice rained down onto them. As if the assault of the elements wasn’t enough a light slammed onto the remaining centaur’s crushing them into paste. It was like a great hand had just come from the sky and stamped them out like insects.

The caravan workers and drivers were too shocked to cheer at first but now that they realized they had been saved a cheer went up. Zentabra looked up from where he crouched and saw a group of orc warriors and robbed figures that he wasn’t sure about coming from the other side of the caravan. From the direction of Orgrimar. He squeezed the brave’s hand and called out for help.

Two of the warriors joined those already around the wagon and were able to lift it off the Tauren. Zentabra and another warrior pulled him free. Though it looked like his legs were crushed the brave was at least alive.

“Thank ya mon,” Zentabra told the orc warrior, “I be Zentabra.”

“I am Ughbar,” the orc told him with a nod. “Though you should share your thanks with them.”

The orc pointed at the two robbed figures that Zentabra could now see clearly. And while he was grateful, he was having a hard time saying the words. They were Undead. Zentabra didn’t have much experience with the Undead as others but enough to be careful. Still, they had saved his life and the rest of the caravan.

“Thank ya both,” Zentabra managed to say without sounding breathless. Both figures nodded to him. Then the taller of the two noted the wounded brave and gestured to his smaller companion. She went to examine the brave.

She had been human, in fact by their standards she must have been a beauty, Zentabra thought. Now unfortunately, due to being undead, her skin was a dull grey and her eyes had a misty yellow look. Her hair was wire like and whatever color it had been was now a dull white. Her hands were almost skeletal and the brave grimaced as she touched his legs.

After a moment she rummaged through a bag she carried and pulled several potions from it. She examined the wounded braves legs again and sighed. Perhaps, Zentabra thought, she didn’t think the potions she had could mend his wounds. Looking at how crushed and bruised the braves legs appeared he agreed.

“I guess there is little choice,” she said aloud. She had a resigned look on her face as she turned to her companion. “James, I need to call upon the Light for this.”

Her hooded companion looked alarmed at that. “Are you certain? The pain will be…”

“The potions I have wouldn’t be sufficient for this,” the woman told him and closed her eyes. “Without immediate aid he will lose his legs or die.”

Taking a deep breath, she held a hand over the wounded Tauren and began to slowly chant. Zentabra didn’t understand the words, but they were spoken with power that was both intimidating and comforting at the same time. A golden light surrounded her hands and bathed the braves legs as well. The brave started, surprised no doubt, and the troll held his hand for support. Before the young rogue’s eyes flesh and bone appeared to mend as the healer chanted her words.

The effect on the young woman was equally impressive and worrying for her. The areas where the light touched her hands appeared whole and healthy. Her face was tight with clear pain. In fact, Zentabra had the impression that if she was not so focused on her chanting she would be crying out in agony. But she persisted, until at last, the wounds were completely gone. Glancing around the Tauren gingerly stood on one leg and then the other. The light around the healers’ hands vanished and she swayed where she stood. With a gentleness that seemed to surprise her, Ughbar caught her and helped her to steady herself.

“I thank you shaman,” the brave told her and knelt before her. “I am Valn of the Wind Plateau. Would you grant me your name?”

“My name from my life before is lost to me,” she told him with an odd mixture of sadness and pride. “I am called Clarian by most and that is the name I would have you address me.”

“As you say, Clarian,” Valn had a very deep voice even for a Tauren and now that he stood from his bow Zentabra wondered at how tall he was. Even the orc Ughbar seemed to gaze in wonder at what he recognized as a fellow warrior. “You have spared me from a shameful death and suffered while doing so, and I am in your dept.”

Clarian nodded and seemed taken aback by the braves gratitude. The one she called James walked closer. Now that Zentabra saw him properly this one must have been an elder among his people before his death. His face looked far more decayed than Clarian’s and the young troll thought he had been attacked by a beast of some kind. That said he also carried himself with a power that was unmistakable. Here was a mage of high standing that it would be foolish to challenge.

“How far is it to Orgrimar along the main road,” the mage asked.

“Thunderbluff is closer,” Ughbar told him. “It would be wiser to report there first before heading back onto the trail.

“Agreed,” Valn’s voice echoed slightly as he spoke. “Please come, my people will gladly welcome you.”

The Barren’s, as Clarian had heard this place called, was aptly named. It was a dusty open plain as far as the eye could see. Tall grass dominated this place with few trees and almost no signs of water. Yet it was also a living ecosystem. Birds of many varieties flew either overhead or through the grasses. Herds of beasts sometimes came near the caravan in such numbers that Clarian was impressed they could call such a place home.

Then there were her new traveling companions. The orc guard, Ughbar, had not given his clan’s name, which she had learned was not unusual among his people. He was a hulking presence even among the Tauren who dwarfed him in size. Bald with dark green skin. Armed with a great axe and armored from head to toe in an odd assortment of red leather and plate armor he certainly fit the image most had of what an orc warrior would look like.

The Tauren she had healed earlier, Valn of the Wind Plateau, was enormous. Looking more akin to a buffalo than the cattle humans bred for livestock, his brown fur was covered by a leather tunic, and he had several feathers braided into locks of hair that streamed down his head. He carried a spear with a large steel head, almost a sword in length. Neither he nor the orc spoke much on their journey to Thunderbuff. The same could not be said for the third member of her little circle.

The troll, Zentabra he called himself, was a flurry of comments and questions. He was short for one of his kind, and the general chattiness gave Clarian the impression that he was much younger than other members of the caravan. She learned he had been sent to find the caravan first and that he was a thief who was being given a quest to make up for a misdeed. As for his appearance, he had long dark hair that waved as he walked. He had light blue skin and long tusks protruding from his mouth. He wore a leather tunic that was rather worn and some boots that looked almost new.

Once upon a time, Clarian would have been shocked to find herself walking in such a place and such company. While she had trouble remembering her old name or many details about herself, she could recall that she had been a lady in waiting to an elder states woman who was a regular figure in courtly affairs. Her patron had adopted her after her parents died and raised her alongside the other members of Lordaeron nobility. The Lordaeron Royal Court wasn’t exactly known for its tolerance towards trolls and certainly not orcs. She didn’t hate them, even before becoming Forsaken, but she never would have thought that she would be walking and talking with them.

“So, how did ya do that with the light voodoo,” Zentabra asked politely.

Even though she had not felt much in the way of joy for many years she found herself smiling. “It isn’t voodoo. The Holy Light is the core of what humans believe in. Some have called it different things over the years. Some have called it a god. Some have called it a force. I have even heard some people call it a different plane of existence. But in the end, it is something that has touched all of humanity and guided humans into being what they are.”

“Ya speak of humans as if ya ain’t anymore,” Zantabra insightfully told her.

Clarian smirked, “I have no pulse. I died and yet I walk the earth alongside you. I am in fact no longer human. I am now Forsaken.”

“I am being confused by that,” Zentabra told her and looked the part as well. “What ya being Forsaken by? Your kin? Your Light?”

“Everything,” she told him seriously. “By the world. By the Light. By creation itself.”

“Huh,” Zentabra thought before he spoke. “Ya being more lost than the caravan then. Good thing we found ya.”

Clarian looked at the troll wide eyed. That was a thought that had not occurred to her until now. True, the only reason the Forsaken were looking to ally with the Horde was because it could not afford any other enemies. But that meant that if the Horde accepted them, could they continue to call themselves Forsaken?

Chapter Eight: What They Actually Want

Ironforge had never had so many people in Thranfold’s opinion. Dwarves had never been numerous people and so the mountain city had always felt cavernous. Now, with refugees from Lordaeron pouring in, many spilled out from the city into encampments at the base of the mountain. Thranfold, being a member of the Explorer’s League and a sergeant in the Alliance, had been to Lordaeron many times. As such he knew that despite the number of refugees who came to his home it was a tiny fraction of those who once lived there. The dwarf grimaced under his gold beard as he thought about just how many must have been raised as part of the Undead Scourge.

He helped where he could, Thranfold had lived a hard life as a soldier and gladly offered his home in the city to house some of the more wounded souls. Guards kept watch over many of the wounded for obvious reasons. If necessary, they would not have hesitated to end some poor souls’ suffering if they turned into one of the undead. For those who died a bonfire was set outside the city gates where the bodies were burned with as much dignity as could be spared. Dwarves were practical people, but they also respected traditions, and they regretted that they could not honor the human tradition of burying their dead in the earth.

One of the wounded who was now well enough to help was a paladin, a knight of the silver hand, and he joined the healers in lending his talents to the wounded. This Liet Ardtel, Thranfold had asked him his name eventually, had first been carried in by a human soldier and gnome mage who settled him in and warned the dwarf that he had a habit of trying to get up before he was healed. Thankfully, this time Liet had not chosen to escape back to Lordaeron. Instead, he stayed in Thranfold’s home near the Great Forge and helped with the other wounded.

This passed without incident for several days until a crowd gathered outside the explorers’ home one morning. Thranfold walked outside to see many onlookers gawking at something. As the crowd parted the dwarf saw several guards and two clearly important figures. One he would have recognized anywhere was King Magni Bronzebeard himself. The royal was wearing ceremonial armor today, probably from one of the many funerals taking place. The other, wearing a red gown with many gems and gold patterns, was a human noble that the explorer did not recognize. They both approached carefully through the crowd and stopped at the threshold of Thranfold’s home.

“Pardon the interruption this fine morning,” the king greeted Drungar cordially. “We are looking for a paladin who is staying with you, Liet Ardtel.”

“Aye your majesty, he’s here,” Thranfold told the king with a bow. “He’s downstairs healing a critical patient. You’re both welcome in my home.”

The king gave a gesture to his guards as they stayed outside and formed a barrier around the house. Thranfold led his royal and noble guests through a sitting room and downstairs into the main part of the house. Dwarven homes were often laid out with a large sitting room near the entrance and the rest of the house downstairs with bedrooms, kitchen, and so on. Cots had been set up haphazardly throughout the downstairs area with several wounded humans laying on them and a few healers and guards standing or walking about. When the latter saw the king, they immediately snapped to attention. The healers were too focused on one cot to notice anything else.

The patient was a soldier whose skin had turned a sickly green and was moaning loudly in an apparent daze. An elder priest was chanting words of healing and power over the poor soul with Liet Ardtel standing next to him doing the same. Now that the paladin was fully healed, he was an impressive sight. Almost a head taller than most humans, with dark hair and steel grey eyes, Thranfold thought that the girls must never leave him alone. At least till they got to know the man. In the few days that he had known him Thranfold could think of no other way to describe him than cold. Most paladins were exemplars of faith and justice which were reflected in generally fierce but friendly personalities. Liet was analytical, calculating, and impersonal to the point of being rude. That said, he was also the first person to step forward to help with anything. No matter if it was changing a bedpan to healing a treacherous wound.

As the elder and the paladin focused their abilities onto the wounded soldier the green tint to his skin seemed to dissipate. The king and the noblewoman watched in silence as they worked and Thranfold certainly wasn’t going to interrupt them now. After a few minutes of stressful watching, the green tint had vanished and while the soldier in bed still looked feverish, he looked far better than he had before. Several other healers clapped the elder and the paladin on the back or offered them water which both accepted.

“Impressive work,” the king said aloud causing all eyes to turn to him. The healers now bowed to him and Liet did likewise. While King Magni was not Liet’s king he was still a sovereign ruler in the Alliance. “Was that the plague of undeath you were battling?”

“Thankfully no,” the elder spoke, “at least not the true form of it. Illnesses can have variants, and I fear that this was one of those variants. The true form of the curse of undeath would have been far more difficult to cleanse.”

All the healers nodded gravely.

“Still, the fact that you could heal even a variant of the plague is worthy of praise,” the noblewoman said with her eyes on the paladin. “Sir Liet Ardtel, my name is Katrina Prestor. I represent the Stormwind House of Nobles.”

Thranfold had heard of the House of Nobles. If even half the stories about them were true, then it was enough not to trust her. If the stories were completely true, then it was a wonder the king felt safe letting one of them into Ironforge. They were best known for being greedy, power hungry, and petty to the point that even many goblins refused to work with them. Often, they were only kept in line by Stormwind’s King, Varian Wyrnn. Since one of those stories had been told to the dwarf by Liet, Thranfold didn’t feel the need to warn him.

“My lady,” the paladin gave her a polite nod. Cold or not, the man was still a knight. Human chivalry rules would never allow him to openly be rude to a woman he had just met. “Do you or the king require something of me?”

“Aye,” the king seemed to want to move the conversation along. “We have some questions for you. Why don’t we go upstairs so we can be out everyone’s way while we talk.”

With another bow to the king Liet followed Thranfold as he led the four of them upstairs. His sitting room wasn’t glamorous, but it was comfortable with several couches and a warm hearth. The king preferred to stand next to the hearth while Lady Prestor settled herself onto one of the couches. Liet sat on a couch facing Lady Prestor and Thranfold stood next to the king by the hearth.

“Liet Ardtel, also known as Liet the Coldfire,” Lady Prestor addressed the paladin. “We thought you had died during the battle at the Andorhal Valley.”

“I would have, had I stayed, my lady,” Liet told her politely. “Lord Uther ordered me to gather what civilian survivors I could and take them south. That was the last order he ever gave me.”

Thranfold had been in plenty of battles during the second war. No big hero but he did his share. He knew enough about war to know how hard it would have been to leave his brothers in arms behind. That terrible feeling of being relieved that he survived because they had stayed behind to die. It explained a lot about why Liet had wanted to return to Lordaeron.

“You followed your orders lad,” the king told him. “I also heard that you led a big group through the Alterac Valley to get them to safety.”

“Yes sir,” Liet told him looking him in the eye.

“And that you worked alongside a tribe of orcs?”

The room was quiet for a moment. The king spoke first, “I don’t begrudge you doing what you needed to do. But I do need to ask what happened?”

Liet didn’t flinch or hesitate to answer, “Soon after reaching the Alterac Valley we were confronted by a tribe of orcs calling themselves the Frostwolf clan. They claimed that the valley was their land. I was able to negotiate passage for myself and my charges, but they demanded that we do so without lighting any fires along the way. While difficult in the snow we eventually made it halfway through where the clan confronted us again. This time they had brought pelts, blankets, and food for us to ease the rest of our journey. We made it through to the Hillsbrad Foothills. The orcs asked that I keep the location of the passes into and out of the valley secret in exchange for my leading other groups through. I brought five such expeditions through with their help.”

“You also warned the Orcs that the Stormpike’s were coming,” King Magni’s tone did not change but Thranfold noted his brow sink. Understandable, since the Stormpike’s were one of the most powerful dwarven families not just in Ironforge but among the entire Alliance. Almost half the weapons and armor used by the Alliance was provided or purchased by the Stormpike’s.

“Yes sir I did,” Liet once again did not hesitate to answer. “And I would do so again. The orcs saved our lives. While I won’t take up arms against fellow members of the Alliance, I won’t turn my back on those who dealt with us honorably.”

The king nodded, “I understand lad. But you do realize just how angry the Stormpike’s are now? They have deep ties with the rest of the Alliance. You won’t be the most popular soul for a while.”

“Due respect your majesty,” Liet said with an even tone, “I have been unpopular with the rest of the Alliance ever since the day I punched Lord Garithos in the face for being an arrogant fool.”

Thranfold felt his eyes go wide, “How did that happen?”

Liet shrugged, “I was one of Uther the Lightbringer’s students. During a training session I was sparing with another student that I disarmed. Lord Garithos, who was watching, claimed that the student I disarmed was worthless and should go back to being a farmer. I then punched him for disrespecting my fellow student.”

Lady Prestor chuckled, “Imagine, if you had done that only a few years latter you would be given a standing ovation by the newly named Blood Elves.”

“Probably,” King Magni agreed. “So, what do you intend to do now? Considering your circumstances I can’t guarantee a commission for you in the Alliance army. Will you go back North and attempt to save more people?”

“Sadly, no,” Liet told him, “Most of those who remain are either refusing to leave or have gone into hiding. As for myself. I will be staying here to help with the refugees. After that, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I can offer an alternative,” Lady Prestor said with a grin. “Stormwind has many issues within its own borders. King Varian is creating a force that will be answerable only to him, not the House of Noble’s, and capable of responding to the many problems that face our land. I am certain that he would welcome your services.”

“Which would benefit you as you would be seen as my sponsor,” Liet stated it baldly.

Lady Prestor shrugged, “There is no point in denying that. I freely admit that I am not making this offer out of charity or the goodness of my heart. But, if it helps refugees to find employment and it stabilizes the kingdom that will be their home, does it matter? And I should also point out that you could expect a command position in what will be forged from the Grand Alliance Army.”

Liet thought for a moment before he answered. “That is a tempting offer. But it’s not what I want.”

Lady Prestor’s eyes narrowed but her smile remained. “Due respect, sir Ardtel, but I didn’t come here with a list of options for you.”

“No need, because you can’t give me what I want,” Liet told her.

“Well, then what do you want,” she asked him with a frustrated tone.

“The same thing that every soldier who was forced to leave Lordaeron wants,” the paladin’s eyes seemed to flash. “To have not failed.”

Both King Magni and Lady Prestor looked aghast at that statement. Liet continued.

“We could join or rejoin the Alliance army. Fight on dozens of battlefields against nameless foes and horrors. And none of it would change the fact that when our people were threatened, we failed. Even if we go back to Lordaeron one day. Even if I or any other person among the refugees here were promoted. Even if a bronze dragon were to turn back time it wouldn’t change that simple fact. We didn’t just lose in Lordaeron, we failed. And what I want most of all is to have not failed.”

The room was silent enough that Thranfold could hear the embers crackle in his hearth.

“If that is what you want,” Lady Prestor broke the silence. Her tone was somber. “Then I’m afraid no one can give you that.”

“I agree,” Liet’s eyes never blinked and seemed to have a golden light within them. A sign of the Light’s power, a sign of his anger, or just fire light reflected from the hearth Thranfold didn’t know. The explorer and soldier agreed with the noble and the Paladin. What the man wanted was impossible. Even he knew that. And it didn’t change that he wanted it.

“Well,” King Magni cleared the air first. “In the meantime, we have plenty of things you can help us with here. With so many people here, we are going to have trouble feeding everyone. Stormwind and Khaz Modan are recovering from fighting the Horde but even after more than a decade the damage remains. We will need help to ration food supplies soon.”

“Sadly yes,” Lady Prestor rose from her seat. “Stormwind’s farmlands were devastated when the Horde rampaged through our territory. If you are willing to help us with the recovery efforts even independently of the rest of the Alliance, it would be a big help.”

“Once the refugees under my charge are recovered enough to find their own way, I will do my best to aid all of our people,” Liet stood as well and bowed once more to the King and the noblewoman.

As the pair of them left the simple dwarf’s house and she returned to the quarters the king had graciously provided her Lady Prestor was finally allowed to vent her thoughts.

“So much for that,” she growled.

Bringing one of Uther the Lightbringers students to Stormwind would have been a major boon for her plans. It would have convinced several other nobles of her power and allowed her to better maneuver around without the king’s notice. She had not counted on the man being so bitter about the loss in Lordaeron that he would turn her down. Still, she thought, perhaps, it was for the best. Liet struck her as a troublingly astute person, and it would be better for her to have such men far away. After all, it would hardly do for him to learn more about just who or what she was.

Flexing slightly, a pair of huge leathery wings sprouted from her back. She had not stretched her wings in so long that she found the action soothing. Transforming into a human was not such a difficult task for a dragon. But, retaining that guise for as long as she did was becoming tiresome. She smiled, wondering what her small guests would think to walk in and see a woman with black dragon wings.

They would be terrified of course. Not that they should be in this instance. She had not lied once since arriving in Ironforge. She genuinely wanted to help the refugees of Lordaeron and she truly wanted to improve the kingdom of Stormwind. After all, she thought with a grin, it would be mine.

Chapter Nine: A Test of Spirit

The journey to Thunder Bluff was peaceful after the centaur raid. Between the orc guards, and the two undead souls who had joined them, few things in the Barrens would pose a great threat. Valn had treaded the caravan road many times since it was built between Origmar and his homeland. As such he had fought against centaurs, the pig like quilboars, and many other threats. It would have been humiliating to die trapped under a wagon and he was grateful to the Earthmother for the blessing of being able to walk at all.

The young troll who had been sent to find the caravan was a welcome sight after days of storms. He was a chatty soul and was bombarding Clarian with questions as they walked together. Though he owed the woman his life he was also disturbed by her and her companion. The curse of undeath was anathema to everything that most Tuaren believed in. Their very existence was almost repugnant to the living world. Valn knew little of humans, aside from having fought them a few times on behalf of the Horde, but he did know that they also revered life in their own way. Perhaps it was no wonder that was why these two called themselves Forsaken, Valn thought.

Entering the land of Mulgore was a sharp contrast to the rugged Barrens. Mulgore was blessed with an abundance of water and fertile land. The wind would gift those who entered it with the sweet scent of flowers. Valn knew that some orcs felt the land was soft for being this way, but the Tauren disagreed. Mulgore was strong in its own way, and it taught those who lived there not to take their blessings for granted. In the distance Thunder Bluff could now be seen. The Tauren’s city was built on top of plateau’s that could only be reached by elevators or by those who had access to a flying mount. In the afternoon light it looked like a living thing rather than a city.

A chuckle escaped the taller of the two undead humans who walked with them. Valn had heard his name was James and he had seen that he was a mage of considerable power.

“Is something funny,” Valn asked him.

“Sorry,” the mage said shaking his rotten looking head. “I was just thinking of what my late colleagues would say if they saw your city.”

“Ah,” Valn hadn’t considered that. “What would they have thought about our city?”

The mage shrugged, “Some would scoff at it for looking primitive. And others would be so fascinated that they would insist on studying the city for weeks. It would depend on the person. Is it not so with Tauren?”

“It is,” Valn admitted. “There are Tauren who are very set in their ways and will reject ideas from outsiders. And others who embrace the ideas of outsiders. I admit to being in the middle on matters such as those.”

“Then you are in good company,” James told the tall brave. “Most souls fall in the middle for ideas and are either ignored or shouted down by those who seek to closely guard their ideas or seek out and embrace the ideas of others. It is certainly true for my people and the humans.”

“I do not mean to intrude or offend,” Valn was curious but also wanted to be respectful of what may be a difficult subject. “Do you have any family who survived?”

If James was offended, it did not show. Instead, he thought for a moment. “I believe I have a grand daughter who may still live. She and her husband fled south before the scourge came in force to Dalaran. She is better off believing that I remained dead. I would dislike having to kill her.”

Alarmed by that comment Valn pressed, “Why would you even consider that? She is your family surely that is the greater bond than undeath?”

It was difficult to read the expression on James mangled face. It was some combination of resignation and pity. “It is not that I would seek out her death any more than I sought my own. But she would attempt to slay me, and I would defend myself. It is a reality of being Forsaken. And it is something that I truly hope you never have to consider.”

Valn didn’t know how to respond to that. If that was the reality of being Forsaken, Valn wanted nothing to do with it. He couldn’t imagine having to consider killing his family and felt sick that this person walking beside him did so casually. What would the elders at Thunder Bluff think of this person? Would they even allow him into the city?

The caravan approached one of the large elevators to the city. Guards were already alerted to their arrival and a good number of warriors had assembled before them. At their head was one who any Tauren would recognize. Cairne Bloodhoof, High Chief of the Tauren tribes. Upon seeing him the orc guards immediately sank to one knee. To the orcs, Cairne was a figure as respected as their own Warchief. Tauren are naturally tall and imposing figures among other races and Cairne was imposing even among their mighty people. He strode towards the caravan and Valn called a halt to be respectful of his chieftain.

“Hail, Valn of the Wind Plateau,” Cairne greeted him warmly, as an elder would a young brave, “You are late in coming home. And I see that you have some strange companions.”

“Hail, High Chief,” Valn bowed his horned head. “A storm caught us by surprise on the Barrens and scared off several of our kudo beasts. We were attacked by the centaur and would have likely been slain were it not for the arrival of these brave souls.”

He waved to the young Zentabra, the orc guards who remained kneeling, and the two undead humans. Cairne gave the young troll a warm smile and saluted the orcs with his war spear which they returned with their weapons before rising. The High Chief’s old eyes lingered on the two Forsaken.

“Thrall sent word of you by wyvern rider,” Cairne assured them. “You have saved many lives and proven yourselves to the Horde. But I must repeat the Warchief’s question that you only partially answered before. Why do you seek to join the Horde?”

“Forgive me High Chief,” it was the mage who spoke. “We answered fully. We seek to join the Horde to secure our borders and because the rest of the world would see us destroyed.”

“And those are the only reasons,” Cairne spoke to the mage as one elder to another. “Do your people, not seek vengeance against the Lich King?”

James seemed to acknowledge that he was speaking with a fellow elder, “We do.”

“Do your people, not seek vengeance against the living who you believe want to destroy you?”

The mage was silent. Valn knew from his conversation that no matter what they said otherwise the Forsaken did not value life the same way as the Tauren.

“Of course we do,” Clarian burst out. Hearing her raise her voice startled Valn and the others. Cairne looked at her as an elder might a miss behaving child but said nothing. “When we attempted to turn to the humans for help, saying that we were free from the Lich King’s grasp, they sought to slay us without hesitation. Why wouldn’t we want vengeance against them?”

Cairne stood before her, towering over the frail looking undead woman, and seemed to study her for a moment. Valn noted that Clarian seemed more ‘intact’, than the mage physically. Aside from her grey skin and yellow eyes she could easily pass for a human if she chose. Her robes were immaculate despite having walked through the Barrens. She also had an air about her that told Valn Clarian was once a person of high station within human society. The way she walked, talked, and acted all screamed authority. But while Valn was not an elder, even he could see that there was something else. A deep pain that could not be obscured by the rest.

Finally, Cairne spoke, “You seek to join the Horde, and you have proven your worth in battle. But there remains the question of whether we can trust you. The shamans have asked that when you arrive, we test you in other ways. I have decided to allow this with your consent. I warn you, young one, this may not be pleasant.”

“I remind you, elder,” Clarian said with a smirk, “I’ve died once.”

Cairne grimaced, “That is why you should fear this test.”

Instead of being led to the city proper they were led to a series of caves beneath the plateau. It was a tranquil place filled with pools and a soft light flittered in making it seem like the entire cavern was shrouded in invisible curtains. Clarian wondered if it had been a mistake to speak to the High Chieftain as she did. James was being too indirect with him, and she felt that Tauren were a people who valued being upfront rather than subterfuge. Still, she sensed no malice from him or any of the guards who accompanied them. If anything, they seemed to give her and James a kind of respectful interest. If this was the reaction, she received from all Tauren then she would be glad to count them as allies.

Another elder awaited them by one of the pools. A female shaman, who wore a red robe and had braided red feathers into her mane like Valn, a sign they were either of the same tribe or were kin in some way. She gestured to Clarian, and she walked up an embankment to stand next to her.

“I warn you as the High Chief no doubt has,” the elders voice was strong despite looking frail, for a Tauren at least. “This test will be of your spirit. It will separate your spirit from your body and allow you walk a path of the mind and soul.”

“Do you mean the shadowlands,” Clarian grimaced. She had once been trained as a priestess of the Light. She knew enough about the shadowlands to know that it was a place that should be avoided. Then, she wondered, would the Tauren even know what the shadowlands were?

Guessing her unasked question the elder responded with a smile, “I know of the human concept of the shadowlands but as one who has walked the realms of spirit for many years it is a mistaken one. The paths of the spirits lead to many realms not just the shadowlands. Souls are more complex than can be simply cast into one place at a whim. There are as many absolute rules as there are contradictions to those rules. No, this test will not venture further than your own memories and experiences.”

Now Clarian understood why Cairne had warned her. Everyone would have things in their past that would be unpleasant to revisit. For a Forsaken that could include some truly horrific events. While she was apprehensive about this, she also saw it as an opportunity. She could not remember her time as part of the Scourge. As difficult as it would be to reexperience that, she hoped it might resolve her thoughts.

“You can refuse,” the elder shaman told her. “You have already passed the Warchief’s test, and he is sending messages to your queen. The Forsaken will be part of the Horde with or without this.”

“Would we though,” Clarian asked out loud. “If we do not accept the ways of our allies then are we actually allies?”

The elder gave her a nod. “Very well. Step into the pool. Lay down. And close your eyes.”

Doing as instructed Clarian barely felt the chill of the water on her back as she laid down. “What will I see,” she asked.

“I do not know,” elder admitted as she cast herbs into a fire next to her. “It will be something important to you. Whatever it is, it will be something that you need to see.”

At first nothing happened. Just the water around her and the strong scent of several herbs. Some she recognized like sage and rosemary. Others had a sweet scent that she couldn’t place. She was so focused on trying to identify the different scents that it took her a moment to realize that she was looking down at her own body. A moment of panic and disorientation passed as she looked and saw her reflection in the pool’s water. She looked like she did when she was alive only, she couldn’t feel anything. She looked around the room and saw that everyone else was staring at her body in the water.

It took her a moment to learn how to move. She was able to float around the cavern but not very far from her body. Not sure of what she was supposed to do she simply hovered for a moment until she noted the smoke from the shaman’s fire. It formed a trail through a door that she hadn’t noticed was there before and she followed it. On the other side of the door was a nightmare.

She was in Lordaeron’s capital on the day that it fell to the scourge. Hundreds of thousands of undead poured through the streets. Screams were intermingled with the guttural roars of the mindless dead. Clarian remembered it well. She had been here. In fact, she was sure this was where she had died. Seeing it all from above let Clarian see just how hopeless it was for the defenders. The few places of resistance were overwhelmed in seconds as a tide of bodies tore into the soldiers who did their best to stand their ground. Those soldiers or civilians who fell did not rest long. Moments later they rose from the ground, regardless of their wounds, and joined the Scourge ranks.

She felt herself being pulled away. In moments she had descended into the city. She looked around and saw a small group of civilians huddled behind a golden, magical, shield. Casting the barrier was a young woman wearing the white and red robes of a priestess of the Light trained at the Scarlet Monastery with straight brown hair and a determined look on her face. It was unnerving seeing herself like this and admiring herself. She knew she was going to die but wanted to safeguard as many as she could for as long as she could.

The shield began to falter as dozens of undead battered themselves against it. Ten minutes later there were now hundreds of fiends clawing, biting, and striking at the shield. The civilians Clarian had been guarding had fled. She didn’t know what became of them and prayed that they escaped. The assault by the undead stopped abruptly. They parted ranks as a figure rode a skeletal horse towards her. Clarian now recognized the figure as a death knight, but she knew that who she had been then did not recognize this threat. With a thrust from his rune sword the golden shield shattered. With no weapons Clarian saw her younger self lower her arms, resigned to what happened next. Without a word the death knight thrust his sword again piercing Clarian’s chest.

The world seemed to blur causing Clarian to become disoriented. She saw herself walking along with the mindless dead. At times fighting against the living and at times simply trudging beside her fallen people. Clarian found herself shaking. It was beyond haunting to see herself like this. What was worse was that she was remembering what happened as she saw it happen. The feeling of not being able to control her own body. The looks on the faces of those she was forced to kill.

With a jolt that sent Clarian to her knees the world righted itself into one clear image. As she stood up, she saw that she and hundreds of other undead were swarming towards a group of refugees. Clarian wanted to scream as she saw herself charge towards a family with her hands like claws.

A flurry of movement passed by, and Clarian saw herself being pinned to the ground by a knife through the ragged clothes she had worn. The person who threw it ran past her and pinned other undead to the ground with more knives. The refugees now had enough room to flee and did so as this rogue darted about either pinning the mindless dead with smaller knives or decapitating others with a short sword.

Another figure charged at the rogue. At first, she thought it might be the same death knight that had attacked her, to her horror it was someone far worse. Arthas, the fallen prince who had brought about this apocalypse, rode towards the rogue. Clarian wanted to shout and warn him but couldn’t. Fortunately, this rogue wasn’t going to go without a fight. He evaded Arthas’s rune blade, Frostmorne, and sent a flurry of knives at the fallen prince. The knives were thrown in haste and those few that found their mark merely bounced off Arthas’s armor. The rogue was good as he evaded another charging strike from Frostmorne and slashed at the saddle of Arthas’s stead. Causing the prince to fall from his undead horse.

But Arthas was the Lich King’s champion for a reason. He landed on his feet and sent a wave of dark energy out that knocked the rogue into the air. He landed badly right in front of Clarian. He was slow to stand up, exhausted from the effort to keep up with Arthas in a one-on-one fight. The rogue was not the most handsome figure that Clarian had ever seen. If fact, in other circumstances she would have found him gruff and ugly. But, right now, with his oddly shaped ears, his mismatched eyes, and his fishhook earring he looked like a hero out of a legend. He looked at her with a sad expression.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” he told her. Clarian thought that she saw something like a light return to her eyes. And she realized why these Tauren spirits had shown her this. This was the moment she regained her free will. “But I can at least get one hit in for you.”

The rogue leapt to his feet and charged Arthas. He drew a bomb from out of his cloak, lit it, and jumped at the Lich King’s champion. Without a word Arthas cast a magic barrier around himself. But not before the rogue had already thrown a second bomb into the barrier. Both detonated with enough force to free Clarian of the thrown knives. Arthas still stood looking furious. The rogue did not. There was so little of him left that he couldn’t even be raised as an undead. With a huff Arthas went to repair his saddle paying no heed to Clarian.

It was good that he did not as Clarian saw awareness return to herself. She had been confused, disoriented, and terrified. She had fled into a nearby forest. Alone, Clarian knelt and called upon the Light. The Clarian in the now had not remembered this part and watched as the Light not only answered her prayer but did so in force. The Light enveloped her and the surrounding woods completely. It drove away the blight from the soil and the trees and left the forest cleansed. It also erased any remaining tracks from the refugees. They would be safe. The Light did not forsake anyone.

With that Clarian woke up. She gasped for breath that she did not need and sat up in the pool. She felt like she had just run for hundreds of miles. A large and gentle hand steadied her, and she looked up at Valn. The Tauren brave had come to help her up.

“We saw what you saw reflected in the pools,” the elder shaman told her. The elder kindly held out a blanket for Clarian to dry herself. “We saw that you do possess a living spirit. We acknowledge you as a fellow child of our Earthmother, Clarian.”

A memory came to her. One that she couldn’t have believed that she had forgotten. “Rachel,” she said aloud. “My birth name is Rachel.”

Chapter Ten: A Warm Drink and A Long Journey

Daelin had completed his rounds of helping the refugees and was returning to the main army encampment. Having grown up in Westfall he was well accustomed to sleeping in tents though snow was something new to him. The Alliance army that had gathered here never received orders to return or to disperse so they remained camped at the base of the mountain between Ironforge and the town of Anvilmare. Most of the soldiers were busy helping the refugees and as such most spent little time in the encampment. Initially they were based inside the city but with the influx of refugees their commander had ordered them to set up a camp outside.

Being from Westfall gave Daelin good insight into other things. Most notably, how they were going to feed themselves and their charges. Ironforge had always relied on food from other parts of the world to meet its needs and there certainly wouldn’t be any grain shipments from Lordaeron for a while. At least none that wouldn’t be burned on sight, Daelin thought with a grimace. So that left Stormwind to provide food for not only the refugees but an entire other kingdom as well. Unfortunately, regions like Westfall, Red Ridge, and Duskwood were still recovering from war with the Horde. Famine seemed inevitable.

Sighing as he neared the encampments tents Daelin glanced up at the evening sky. Ironforge certainly had beautiful scenery with the snow-capped mountains and valleys surrounding it. And on a clear day, like today, he could see far into the horizon. Including four shapes that seemed to be getting closer. It took Daelin a moment to realize what he was seeing. Gryphons were a fairly common sight in the Eastern Kingdoms and now that they were closer, he saw that someone was riding them. Though what was riding them he wasn’t sure about.

He wasn’t the only one who sighted these newcomers. Ironforge had a large garrison of gryphon riders who patrolled around Dun Modra and dozens of them swarmed towards the newcomers. There was a conversation in the air that Daelin couldn’t hear, and the gryphon riders formed an escort around the visitors. Leading them towards the Alliance army encampment. By now the rest of the camp understood they were going to have visitors, and a trumpet sounded a call to order and arms. Daelin, already armed for his patrol, went to investigate first.

The first gryphon settled to the ground just before the encampment and others settled around him. As Daelin approached, one of the riders slid from their mount. Running forward he caught them before they hit the ground. This woman was clearly an elf of some kind only taller than most of their kin and apparently so cold that her skin had turned a bluish purple. She shivered in her white robe and looked up at him with star white eyes.

“Do you think I could have something warm to drink,” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Uh, sure,” Daelin told her as she smiled weakly at him.

Two of her companions joined them shortly after that. Both were tall, muscular, and various shades of blue and purple. There was another individual with them, a white skinned High Elf, that Daelin thought might be more than he seemed. More than a hundred soldiers had now surrounded them as Daelin helped the woman to her feet. Without a word they were ushered into General Johnathon’s tent where cups of hot chocolate were brought to them.

Daelin stayed with them as part of an escort. Noticing what seemed to be the entire army watching the tent from outside. General Marcus Johnathon was an imposing figure and was usually in command of the Stormwind garrison. He waited for his guests to finish their drinks and recover themselves before he asked them questions. That also gave time for word to reach the city and King Magni Bronzebeard himself came to join them. The king of Ironforge had also brought warmed ale for them. A sign of friendship from dwarves and one that these strangers gratefully accepted.

“You look like you’ve had a long journey, Mister,” the king asked.

“Krasus good king,” the high elf told him. Daelin noted that he had recovered from the cold faster than the others. Granted, elves were generally much less affected by the elements than humans.

“Ah, that is a name I’ve heard of,” King Bronzebeard said with a smile. “You are a part of the Kirin Tor. I didn’t know they were sending Archmages as escorts?”

“They do now,” he said with a catlike smile. “Circumstances of the recent war has led many mages to rethink their place in the world. I can promise some impressive feats to come out of Dalaran in the near future.”

The King laughed but Marcus Johnathon was busy staring at the others. Not that Daelin blamed him. He had met plenty of Elves before but never ones like these. One of them even had antlers sprouting from his head through his green hair. Another was armed with a bow and quiver full of arrows. He had darker purple skin than the others with black hair and hawklike features. The woman was beautiful, Daelin thought now that he had looked at her properly, with her bright blue hair she would stand out in a crowd. She wore white and blue robes and a cloak with several silver crescent moons embroidered onto it.

“Where are my manners,” Krasus declared as he stood. “Allow me to introduce Feranda Brightpaw, Rishzaran Stealeye, and a figure I would strongly urge you to treat with the utmost respect, Malfurion Stormrage, Arch Druid of the Night Elven people.”

Both the king and the general bowed their heads to the Arch Druid. When an Archmage tells you that someone needed to be respected it was best to listen. Archdruid Stormrage bowed back.

“They have come all the way from Kalimdor to make a proposal,” Krasus continued.

“What kind of proposal,” General Johnathon asked.

Krasus did not speak as Malfurion stood before them. “I have come to ask for my people’s membership in the Alliance.”

King Magni looked stunned then a bright smile came to his face. It looked as though years of tension lifted from it. “I think we need to talk more on this. Come into my city. Please. It seems we have a great many things to discuss.”

Ironforge, as Feranda had heard this city called was a wonder. She heard of the great dwarven cities built into the mountains. Seeing it was something that she had never imagined herself doing. Once past the main gates the city was a high vaulted labyrinth of open court yards with hundreds of tunnels leading from each. And built around the center of the entire place was an enormous forge. The sounds of hammers rang constantly with smiths and artisans of every variant working with the fire of the mountain itself. Feranda had never been good with her hands, but she could admire master’s at work. She had met dwarves before and had been impressed even then by the short statured yet hardy people. Now that she saw their city she could see that she wasn’t as impressed by them as she should have been.

The King’s throne room was built to look out over the great forge giving the dwarven king a chance to work with the artisans and blacksmiths of his city. King Magni was a jovial soul, the priestess thought. He ushered his four guests into the chamber and rather than sit on his throne to speak with them he stood just before it. Malfurion again made his request to the king. Various members of the Bronzebeard court and dignitaries from other member states of the Alliance gathered nearby to listen.

“The Horde is parked on your people’s doorstep you say,” Magni growled. “Aye, everyone in this room knows what that is like. Sure, we’ll help you with that.”

“Just like that,” Feranda couldn’t help herself from blurting that out.

“Just like that,” the king told her with a grin through his beard. “The Horde tore through all of our kingdoms like a wildfire, and I can promise you we don’t forget something like that. You don’t need to join the Alliance if all you’re asking for is for our aid against the Horde.”

“It is more than that good king,” Malfurion pressed. “The world is awakening from a great change, and we believe that we need to change with it. Being a part of the Alliance can allow us to realize that change.”

“I suppose so,” the king scratched his head under his crown. “Of course, you know that plenty of folks in the Alliance will want something in exchange. The Alliance stand together in good times and bad because of the foes we faced side by side. If you are wanting to join us, you’ll be expected to do the same.”

“I understand,” the Archdruid told him. “And I do not come empty handed. I have been told that your people are worried about a food shortage sweeping your lands.”

“Aye,” King Magni agreed. “Between the many wars our farmlands have been beaten bloody. Are you offering to ship food for our people from across the sea?”

“Better than that good king,” Archdruid Stormrage declared. “My people can heal your lands so that you can feed yourselves.”

A hopeful murmur went through the court. King Magni seemed to measure the Archdruids words before responding. “Show me,” he finally told him.

Leading them back outside the mountain it became a good-sized procession. Many of the refugees had joined the group as well, curious of the strangers no doubt, and wondering what the commotion was. Several dwarven and human guards walked beside Feranda and the others including the one who they had first met. Daelin, she had heard another call him, was tall for a human and wearing plate armor from head to toe with a gold and blue tabard covering his chest. He carried a sword and shield, but neither were drawn at the moment.

“What do you think of all this,” she asked him as he walked with them.

“I’m not sure what to think,” he admitted. “But I know a lot of people who could benefit from having their lands healed. Is this something that all Night Elves can do?”

She smiled at that question. “No, but our people do have a strong connection to the natural world. The druids of our people are among the world’s greatest. If anyone can heal your lands, they can.”

“What about the animals in the wild,” Rishzaran asked as he looked around at the snowy landscape. “Do your people not hunt for their food as well?”

“We do,” Daelin told him. “But we’ve been careful about managing our hunts to let the animal populations grow back. If we took too much then…”

“Then those populations may never recover,” Rishzaran nodded his understanding. “The same is true for any livestock your people raise as well, yes?”

“That’s right,” Daelin answered sadly. “My family raises cattle, and we are worried that we may have to put down our herd without hay or grain to feed them. We would hate to have to do it.”

“Well don’t worry,” the hunter assured the guard. “Shando Stormrage is the greatest druid in the world. Healing farmland is a simple task for him.”

“Shando,” Daelin asked.

“It’s an honorific,” Feranda told him. “It’s what you would call a revered elder or teacher.”

“Ah I see,” Daelin accepted that. “You guys being elves that must make him hundreds of years old.”

Both Feranda and Rishzaran laughed. Malfurion looked back at the three of them and smiled at the human soldier.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Daelin said looking downcast.

“I’m not offended,” the Archdruid assured him. “But like my young friends I am amused that you think I am only a few hundred years old.”

“Oh,” the soldier cocked his head as he asked him, “How old are you?”

Stormrage shrugged, “Around fifteen thousand years.”

More than one individual nearby had their jaw drop at that statement. While Feranda couldn’t see Daelin’s face from under his helmet she was sure his jaw was among the others. Krasus was doing his best not to laugh. Considering, Feranda thought, that the dragon was likely many times older than even Malfurion he had every right to at these reactions.

Not far from the city gates was a large tract of farmland that looked as though someone had attempted to rip the earth apart. Upon closer inspection it appeared that tunneling machines had been used here to either mine ore or to attempt to breach the city. The topsoil had been completely destroyed and a deep breath told her that the ground had been sown with salt to prevent anything from growing. If this was an example of what the devastation of the Horde’s passage was like even years after a war Feranda wondered how bad it had been just after that war.

Archdruid Stormrage walked by the king with a smile on his face. “You and your people have already done much to heal this place. The taint of foul magics have already been lifted.”

Feranda hadn’t been paying enough attention. Among the many lessons of the priesthood of Elune was training to sense magic around oneself. Now that she extended her senses properly, she could see signs of fel magic in the ground. And she could sense that the fel magic had been purged from the ground. An impressive feat to be capable of doing this at all. Only physical damage remained.

“Aye,” King Magni said mournfully. “Sadly, we just haven’t had time to do more than that. This field won’t be ready to grow anything for at least a year.”

“My good king you are mistaken,” as the antlered elder spoke the ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. “This is a strong land that is well cared for. And it will gladly share its bounty with all.”

Roots and vines burst from the ground clearing the land of debris and tilling the land until soil remained. In minutes plant shoots began to rise from the soil. By the time Shando Stormrage had walked back to stand with the king a full wheat field had grown to life. The king stared at what had been created as though it were more valuable than gold. The rest of the entourage from the court were just as awed by what they saw. Feranda smiled at Daelin and the others. Even though she had seen druidic magics her whole life she never got tired of seeing reactions to it for the first time.

“So, how helpful do you think we can be for the Alliance,” Feranda asked Daelin.