Tales of the Infinite

In the many futures foreseen and transpired by the Infinite Dragonflight, one brings the Iron Horde to ultimate victory. Their blades are drenched in the blood of thousands of innocents, their numbers are Legion, and their resistance are few. To be a man in such times is to live as one against untold millions. It is to live in the age of blood, abandon the promises of hope and understanding, for in this grim future there can only be war. These are the tales of those times.

Vanidicus Alexander
Day 18

“Mooove!” He heard himself bellow. “Fall back!” He could scarcely believe himself. He had given the order. Retreat.

“Sir! The flank is crumbling! The guardsmen are dead!” Van whipped around, his hood blown back from a hot gust of wind as a flaming boulder crashed into the ground several feet from him. Van stumbled slightly on the dry grass and looked back at the battlemagi.

“Hold it! Hold it as long as ye can!” He shouted through the din of running feet and war cries.

Van whipped around again and looked up at the incoming artillery hits and raised his staff. A violet barrier materialized in the air, a flaming boulder broke upon it, to his left a group of fleeing magi had not been so lucky. Van dropped the shield and looked to the battlemagi.

“Get back t’Lieutenant Furlbrow! Tell him to hold! We need the shields to cover the men’s retreat!”

“Sir! He’s dead!” The battlemagi shouted.

But Van didn’t hear him, he had run off already, quickly scrambling up a small nearby hill and looking down at the battlefield. Duskwood burned; many of the trees which shrouded the land in shadow had long since burned. He quickly looked to the east, Darkshire had fallen soon after the Horde marched north, now they were on the doorstep of Stormwind. Van pressed his finger to the communicator in his ear. “Nathul! Nathul!” Van said, looking down at a group of retreating alliance soldier, a flaming boulder from a siege engine impacted right into the middle of them, sending men flying in all directions. “Nathul! Where’re the shields!” Van waited a moment.

“Nathul!” Van cursed to himself. “Someone! Jaine?!” Van shouted into his communicator as he raised his sword, projecting a shield over another group of fleeing soldiers. Van’s eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the battlefield in the distance, beyond the burning trees the bulk of the Iron Horde marched. Their footsteps booming. “Get back everyone! Get to th’portals! Back t’Stormwind!”

Day 46

“Sir!” Van looked up from the table covered in plans. Next to him, various other Alliance Generals and strategists, each one with a look of rigid determination on their faces. The chatter of communication officers relaying orders to infantry.

“What?! Report!” Van turned to look at the guardsman, his Kirin Tor tabard was torn and singed and his armor had numerous dents in it.

“We’ve finally got report from the other Councilors!” Van nearly grabbed the message from the man’s hand and began scanning it and his brow furrowed. “Good.” He said and sighed and chuckled darkly to himself for a moment. “…good.”

The siege continued. The Iron Horde had reached the gates a couple weeks ago. Inch by inch they ground their way into the city. It was not an easy fight for them, and it never will be.

“Bomber Wing seven is ready to go, General!” One of the Air Marshals said. Van nodded to the guardsmen and gave him a return note he had quickly penned.

“My men are ready as well, Marshal.” Van pulled his hood up over his hair, since falling out of the braids and touched his communicator. “All Dalaranian foes! Mo-“ An impact rocked the keep and Van lost his balance for a moment. “Move out! Bomber wing seven will cover you!”

Van got back to the table and looked at the maps, magically enchanted pieces moved across the map of the city, representing units of alliance forces, each one glowing softly with a violet hue for Dalaran and blue for general Alliance forces. Enemy pieces were marked with red. Van watched with held breath as he watched his units slide across the map. Across the map, red markers lost their hue and glow, one by one, as the pincer tactics took effect. Van felt a stab of vicious stab of pleasure as he heard the explosions coming from the gates as he watched the Horde pieces fade on his map.

Day 78

“General! We have to get you out of here!” Van heard a couple of Battlemagi say from behind him.

“No!” Van had his hands pressed to the table, a drip of blood running down his face and into his beard. “No! We can still push!” Several other generals next to Van stood at the planning table in the keep with what leaders remained. Debris littered the room and rubble was strewn on the table. “Where is Lausten!” Van shouted. “Where is she?!”

Next to Van a general lay dead on the floor, the keep rocked again. A couple more allied marker pieces went out.

“General! She’s gone!” “Where is she?!”

Van whipped about.

“Where could she have gone?!” Van shouted at the battlemagi. “We gave you her message sir, we don’t know!” Van thought of the message.

"Commander. This city will not fall again.  Hold until relieved."

Van turned around to look at the map as the Horde makers slid across the map, toward the Keep. “Get a message to the High Command! Tell 'em to get out of ‘ere! We’ll rally! I will not let this city fall again!” Van shouted at one of the other generals. “Move your men! We can cut them off!” Van looked back to his plans as some dust fell from the ceiling.

The battlemagi behind him looked at each other for a moment and looked back to Van. “Sir. The city is falling.”

Day 79

“Die!” Van roared as he shoved his staff forward, a blast of arcane force shot forth and disintegrated several orcs. “Forward!” He shouted and ran towards the orcs.

What guardsmen were left in the city and alliance soldiers who had decided to stay behind with the battlemagi. Van flowed from orc to orc, discharging blast of ice and arcane force around him, taking care not to hit his allies. He leapt forward at an orc, a torrent of flame shooting from his mouth as he swept his gaze across several orcs. In this corridor, the orc’s numbers did not count for much, they could be held back. Held back while the last men could be evacuated. To regroup to fight back.

“We’re almost there boys!” Van shouted at the soldiers with him. “We’ll hold them back!”

Van cut down another orc as an artillery strike rocked the keep again, he lost his balance for a moment, but recovered too late. An arrow sailed through the air and into his mouth, tearing a hole out the back of his cheek and out through his hood.

“Forw-aaaughh!” He shouted and stumbled, almost falling to his knees, dropping his sword. An arrow found its way between his armor joints a moment later, an arrow penetrating just above his knee a moment later, then another one through his other thigh. As the orcs closed in and began cutting men down, one of his battlemagi, Zodian Spellseal grabbed him by the shoulder and began dragging him backward.

“Time to go, General!” Zodian was dragging him through a portal to Dalaran.

“Neugh! Noeugh! Ah can schteel gah!” Van tried to say, blood pouring out of his mouth. “Sschteand down! Gaht bahck an’ fiahght!” As Van was dragged back, his legs weak, his arms heavy, he managed to raise his staff and shot off a barrage of icicle spears, some orcs fell, but he accidentally struck a mage, who was shredded. “Dahmn…it…” Van muttered before losing consciousness.

4 years+38 days 

"No!" Van shouted "Not here!" Van shouted as he ran, several of his remaining battlemagi in tow. Zodian spellseal ran with him, blasting orcs as they poured out of the woodwork. Van had ordered his men to form defensive perimeters around key structures and hearding those too weak to fight into the violet citadel. Orcs dropped from the sky on twin headed monsters, the air pulsed with the sound of beating wings and the swinging of axes, the crushing blows of maces.

But the defenders were not so weak. The air was also filled with the sounds of explosions and the smell of cooking flesh.

"Shpread out!" Van shouted to a group of battlemagi. "Shircle around an' box'em in!" He ran to an orc charging at him, axe raised and mouth wide in a war cry. If he wanted a shout off, Van was happy to oblige. Van took in a deep breath and amplified his voice, sparks of magic crackled across his throat. He screamed at the orc, a deafening cry echoing from his mouth, the orc faltered and stumbled for a moment under the shockwave as ran dashed forward with a burst of enhanced speed, lopping the orcs head off with one swing.

"You there!" Van shouted to a group of magi and guardsmen. "Form that shield up! Get movin'! As orcs continued their assault on the citadel defenses, Van waded through the horde, battlemagi at his side, slaying all they could.

As Van broke through to the other side of the conflict he found Councilor Baelheit and traced his gaze to the citadel. He fought his way to the man's side and spoke up.

“The Counshilh of sixth is trapped inshide, shir!” He slurred urgently. Van briefly brought up an image of the city in front of him, showing engaged forces. "We're stretched too thin!" Van didn't think the councilor was listening, he just kept looking at the citadel.

“Commander, I need you to handle the situation here!” he blurted to Van. “Dalaran’s defensive shield must be reactivated!’ Van nodded, the councilors plan was sound, but he had no idea how he'd get it to work. He had faith in him. “We’ll get it dohne, sir.” He said with a grim salute and turned around, yelling for support as he waded back into the orcs.

6 years+167 days

“Keep 'er contain’d.” Van said grimly. “If the defenshive wards keepin' her in shtart t'fail again. We'll all be in fer it.” Van sharply turned around and walked through the dark halls of Dalaran.

Things had fallen into disarray quickly one Stormwind fell. Alliance outposts were going dark as fast as the Horde ones. The dwarves were still holding out, but he wasn’t sure for how long. The Night Elves, always concerned with the safety of their city had fallen back to their lands. Last Van had heard, the Orcs were having a very hard time breaking into Hyjal, though some faction of Orcs was very happy to get to Felwood.

Van walked through the section of the city since claimed by Councilor DeVin. Since the fall of the bulk of the Council of Six in an attempt to recovery and consolidate Dalaran forces. They failed.

Dalaran had been a sanctuary for a while, flying and remaining above the chaos spilling into the world below. But there was only so much room in the city and the city of magi could only do so much. The last of the council of six had perished in the riots. The Magus Senate was the only faction left in the city to maintain control. And control they did take.

“Happy, Vani?” Arranax said in his usual smooth tones. Van looked to him on his left, behind him two battlemagi walked.

“No, I’m nevah happy.” Van said, his facial wound slurring his words.

Arranax smiled.

“You need to lighten up, have some ale, I still have a couple barrels left from my lands.”

Van stopped walking and looked hard into Arranax’s eyes.

“I’ll conshider that bribery. Counshilor. Do not think for one moment I will not think t’exshterminate yer little cult without a second thought.”

Arranax didn’t even blink.

“Such big words.” He said with a smile. Van kept walking out of the darkened part of Arranax’s section, ignoring Arranax’s taunts. To combat the Orcs, rules had become more lax, more soldiers were needed. And as Orcs fell, that was more fuel for the armies. Necromancy. Forbidden magics had been unleashed. Dark powers contained within the vaults used. Unprecedented. As the city began to fall apart, splitting into factions, the Ministries of the Interior and War had turned up policing. As Arranax turned more and more to Necromancy and with the revelation of the old god madness of Councilor Lausten, Van had taken increasing control of the ministry of war, order was kept in the city as the Chancellor and other chancellors retreated into their own little enclaves. Zanbor to his little place of magic, Vorien…eugh…Van didn’t like to think about that insect. Weak. He had let his own power wither him away over the loss of a few thousand men. There were always more. There had to be to fight the Horde.

As Van walked through the streets he had to pass through the section of the city claimed by Councilor Baelheit. Full of Titanic magics. Van hated this district. Too bright. His guards kept vanishing or becoming enthralled by whatever power Baelheit had found. Van kept having to…recruit…new soldiers.

Van made his way back to what was left of the military quarter. It was in disrepair, since the horde incursion alot of the city had been damaged, Van felt that his offices were fairly low on the priority list. He stopped a guardsmen, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Sholdier. I want ye t'get additional men t'guard Lausten. I won' rishk her eshcapin'. Not with the Horde bearin' down on us like thish."

"Yes, sir." The man nodded and quickly walked away."

"...good man." Van said with a sigh. Who could be called that anymore?

8 years+127 days

“Mage-General?” A man said.

“What?” Van asked, turning around from his desk and looking up from logistics plans. “Did you fuck shomething up?”

He said to the soldier. “N-no, sir.” The alliance soldier said, straightening up. “The intel you wanted is here.” He held out the scroll. “And latest training reports.”

“This’ll be good.” He said taking the report and reading it over. He sighed and held out the report, setting it ablaze in his hand with black flame. “Tahke me to the men.” Van said coldly. The soldier nodded and they walked out of the war offices.

Van paced back and forth in front of rows of armored men in the courtyard of what was once the silver enclave, several battlemagi were interspersed into the ranks of soldiers and guardsmen.

“You hahve all done well…” Van said with a half smile. Half of his face couldn’t move much anymore. “…but a fehw of you need werk.” Van stopped in front of a soldier. “What ish your name, boy?” Van asked, leaning in close to the man.

“Private Sloan, sir.”

“You know the Iron Horde are coming?”

“Yes, sir.” "Are you scared of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wrong answer!” Van shouted and drew his hand back, his hand cloaked in crackling dark energies. His arm became immaterial and thrust his arm into the soldier’s chest, gripped, and yanked his arm back. An immaterial being came with Van’s arm, impaled on his arm. As he pulled away the man fell to the ground, Van looked at the spirit wrapped on his arm and squeezed, the spirit turning dark and falling into pieces.

“There can be no weakness! No failure!” Van turned away and paced back and forth again, before coming to a stop. “There will be so much worse if the orcs get you." Van whipped around again to face the men. "And it will not be as fast." Van turned to leave. "Keep training."

8 years+287 days

“This is it, men!” Van braced himself, looking through the viewportal. “They come for us!” Below Dalaran, the Iron Horde waited below. Their warlocks slowly draining the city’s spellwork. They could reinforce it…but there was nobody left with the knowledge to do so. The city shook and Van looked down into the city streets, his amplified voice booming.

“Get the counshilors to the Blood Shitadel!” Van shouted. “If they do not go, you make them!” Van turned back to the viewportal, showing the Horde below, and another smaller one, showing Chancellor Haliwell.

“Chancellor.”

“General.” He said back calmly; his warped visage and wings disgusted Van.

“I am ready to depart. Our alliesh have contacted ush, Counshilor Liridian shays the portal is shtable. I will bring my men through firsht an’ reinforsh the area, then shend the all clear.”

“Very good, General. Do it. We have little time.” Van nodded and closed the viewportal, he turned to the Dragonkin next to him.

“Letsh go.” He said and left for the portal in the courtyard.

They stepped through.

Damon Halliwell
Damon stood just outside of the Parlor looking down at the Floating city of Dalaran. So many years had passed since the iron Horde had invaded their world and so much had happened. Damon’s eyes scanned the city he gave everything to. The spires of Dalaran were no longer pure and purple but dirty and split. Dalaran had changed because of the endless war. The Council of Six had long been dead by this point as well as proudmoore. The City was now ruled by the Inner-Council of the Magus Senate. We did what were to create to do, protect and ensure Dalaran survived. The forbidden laws of magic had been forgotten as well as any law accept survive as long as we could. Many of the Senate had fled Dalaran as news reached of every area of the world falling to the Iron horde. They ran to find loved ones or try and retake old lands. Some returned barely alive but many were never heard from again.

You see Dalaran was falling. It was not a fast fall mind you but the iron Horde had finally found a way to slowly pull the energy out of the crystals holding Dalaran in the Air. Damon thought back to how long they had fought them off. Wave after wave of attacks from the sky and a battle of magic while they tried to hold the crystals together keeping Dalaran flying, but just like the old Alliance and Horde did before Dalaran they had failed. Every day Dalaran descended a bit more and soon they would be close enough for the army of the Iron Horde to do a full on attack and try to finish off the last bastion of resistance in the world.

Part of the city remained as it used to, Purple spires and Blue Arcane crystals. The roads were clean and you could see Dalaran mages walking and talking but more importantly working. Barriers were being put up and spikes to try and stop the incoming invasion from gaining ground. This area of Dalaran was led by Zanbor Emerson, above all he was the Mage who remained true to the ideas of the Kirin Tor. He kept his section as pristine as it had been in the old days and wore unto any who made the mistake of making it look otherwise. He had drove himself into Nethermancy pulling arcane power from the nether to fuel his area. In fact it had gotten so bad that if someone did not fill out the proper paperwork he would open a portal and send them flying into the nether itself. This Area was known for the beer garden and Zanbor loved to drink even now. He drank at one of the tables and you could see him yelling and beating an undead minion that followed him around. Oh poor Lewis, Not even in death did he escape Zanbor for Arranax had brought him back to serve.

Damon’s eyes now moved to another part of the city. This part was control by non-other than Verus Baelheit. The parts of old had been covered by Titan parts. Verus had scavenged any and all Titan strongholds he could find and had brought them back to Dalaran. He much like Damon had told him in the past become obsessed with it and Damon had egged him on in the end. Verus was now more Titan creation them Human. The old friend Damon had known long gone replaced with hate and desperation but Damon would not blame him for it was this way for everyone.

His eyes moved to yet another part of the city that was dark and dirty but by far the most that scared Damon. It was led by Arranax Devin if you could still call him that. He had turned this part of the city into a Necromancers playground. He had restarted the cult of the damned and they looked to him as if he were the Lich King…but he might as well be as the iron Horde had long since devoured Icecrown and any form of life there, be it undead or living. From within this section of the city you could see horrible Abominations walking around doing the jobs Devin demanded. These abomination where made completely from dead orcs that Devin and his following had slain and used for parts. Damon could see the Lich Devin shouting orders and preparing himself. Damon just looked on thinking about how far they had all fallen, how far they had needed to just to survive.

Once more Damon’s eyes moved to the Final part of the city he could see that had changed. Dark roads and towers lined this area. Fel Crystals lined the towers and streets. It was in this area the very last of the Blood elves lived. The High Elves had long died out either by death or the slow conversion to becoming Fel users themselves. Vorien Dawnstrider was the Leader of this area and shocking one of Damon’s favorite areas. When the lands of the Blood elves fell to the iron Horde Vorien took it hard. The High elves had almost completely rejoined the brothers and sisters when the Iron Horde came. The destruction was horrible and the once beautiful lands looked lifeless and barren. What the Iron Horde did to their lands made what the undead do look like child’s play. Vorien had rushed back and had saved as many as he could but only about 500 elves made it. Once again the sunwell was destroyed and corrupted and the elves lost everything. Even Vorien twisted and became a wretched. Vorien and the small group of his people quickly turned back to Fel magic and went as deep into it as they could. From within his area Demons could be seen walking around preparing for the attack as well and runes of dark magic being cast. Vorien himself was in the middle summoning in the last demons he would be able to before the attack.

Damon closed his eyes as he thought about Gehlnarine Liridian, at some point long before the city turned to the forbidden magic’s word had reached Dalaran about the Caverns of time being under attack. Gehlnarine quickly took the portal there located in Dalaran but was never heard from again. The portal just vanished one day and Dalaran had been completely shut out from the caverns. Damon assumed he had died protecting them and it saddened him to think of such.

Damon’s eyes shot open as he felt the city jerk lower once more and from the underbelly of the city came a cry of anger and hate. Damon looked over to Devin’s area of the city and his eyes moved to the only remaining opening to the underbelly of the city. Every other area had been sealed off because of what was now inside. Meriahm Lausten out of all of the Inner-council took the orc invasion the hardest. She had lost so much to the Orcs and now a 3rd time they had come and this time had won. As the alliance fell around her she returned to Northrend. She was gone for many years and Dalaran had thought her dead but one day she had returned to the city when it needed her most but how she returned made even the orcs cry in fear and run. She had fallen to the Old gods…or chose to, she never said. She was now corrupted and twisted. Her life extended by the dark masters she now served. She led an army of faceless and other twisted old god minions. She and her forced kept to the underbelly to worship the old ones and bring more forced to fight. Now as the city fell she would exit the opening in Devin’s area and with her came the faceless that served her. Damon shuttered as he knew the time had come. The end of Dalaran had come.

Damon turned his back to the city and walked into the citadel. It was no longer called the Violet Citadel but the Blood Citadel. This was Damon’s area of the city. Along with the others he had fallen. He had looked for any and every way to fight the orcs and for him it was blood magic. He had practiced it in secret for many years but had really let loose when the time had come. His skill was unmatched in blood magic. He would take tons of orcs and all at once kill them by cutting off their blood flow or turn them on each other controlling their blood but all of this was meaningless to him as there had ever only been one reason he used it. He had looked to find a way to bring back his life and real love Zeph back from the dead, it was only after the invasion of the Orcs that he had found a way.

As he walked into the now Red Parlor his wife Zeph came to him and explained how we would defend the city to the last. Damon looked around as the parlor had basically become his lab. There he studied blood and how he could use it to bring an end to the orcs. As Damon nodded and spoke to Zeph he stretched out his wings…yes wings. After he had brought Zeph back into the world of the living he had followed her down the path of Fel magic. He had long forgotten his mage training and had become a full warlock. Blood magic was his choice of magic but he knew he needed more than weak arcane magic to bring out its full power. Along with Vorien and Zeph he abused artifact after artifact until his body changed and twisted to be more Demon them man. His skin was much greyer now and he had horns growing him his forehead. While they were not the largest he had grown demon like wings on his back. Looking back on this choice Damon knew he had made the right choice for Damon blood was far more powerful than normal blood. At last the alarm sounded and the time was at hand. He put his arm around Zeph and they walked out of the Blood Citadel to meet their fate.

Damon had to admit that most of what came next it a bur to him. The Orcs had been able to get the city low enough to back the walls down. The Orcs had rushed into the city and the fight itself he did not remember. The last real thing he remembers was him, the whole Inner-council and the last of Dalaran’s forces were all trapped in the middle of the city. The orcs had surrounded them and where coming in for the kill. Damon and Zeph stood back to back while Zanbor and Vorien did the same. Arranax and Meriahm having both lost all their forced stood with them and Baelheit stood between them all shouting that the Titans themselves would avenge him. Dalaran was falling around them. Fire was everywhere, screams and explosions were all around them. At last Damon turned and kissed his wife and moved to the very center of them and nodded to them all in a last goodbye. They all knew what was about to happen, they had long ago decided that Dalaran would never fall. If they did not hold control of it then no one ever would again. Almost in sync the whole Inner-council and Zeph started to channel all their power into Damon. Damon himself had started a cast a spell he had created long ago, a spell he had hoped to never have to use. He started to absorb all the magic around him. He sucked in all the power from the council and then started from the city itself. The walls and towers of Dalaran started to grow weak and crumble as Damon took the magic right out of them. The Orcs grew closer and Damon readied his spell, the creation of a mana bomb, a bomb beyond reckoning. One last weapon to be used against the Iron Horde, one last weapon forged in the name of planet he failed. As the bomb stabilized and came into being, Damon primed the timer and waited. The end was finally here and Dalaran would not fall to the Orc but them.

Just as Damon had pulled in all the magic around him something stopped him. A Large dark portal had open next to him and from within it a single man stepped out. He whole body was armored and let it looked like it was falling apart. His very skin was tuning back and falling off into the wind. His black eyes turned to Damon and he saw it was Gehlnarine. Gehlnarine looked around him and was laughing “My friends, this is how you go out? You let the Orcs win? NO! They will never win! We have lost here and now but just as they did so shall we. The Infinite Dragonflight has seen to it. Just beyond this lovely Time portal my friends is our salvation!” Damon looked on in shock for a moment as he felt the city shake, the city had almost fallen at last. He opened a viewportal to the rest of the forces under his command, announcing their departure. As the city drifted lower and lower and the Orcs yelled and prepared to begin their final charge, it took them all of a moment to make the final decision. Damon set the timer and motioned to the portal. First went Arranax and Meriahm then Baelhiet, then Vorien and Zanbor. Gehlnarine looked at Damon and told him he had moments after him before the Time portal would close and he jumped though. Damon looked on Zeph had waited just too long and an orc would cut her down in front of him. Damon knew there was only one course of action where they could truly be together again…the past. He would quickly summon all the power in him into a ball in front of him. It was unable to be moved but he would let it go and jump into the portal and survive…and so he did. He jumped into the portal and it closed behind him. Those left behind would be honred in the coming empire.

Damon would exit the Time portal and he smiled as he saw the whole Inner-council again once more together. He looked around and was in shock when he saw it was Netherguard keep…intact the first place to fall. Guards were confused and charging at them. Damon only grinned and looked around to the others “And now it is time to correct history!”

Mab Nimue
In a world where the Iron Horde had won, there was not much left to hold to. While Dalaran still had a sliver of hope as the magi there turned to darker and darker things to save what little of the world they could, the rest of the world had been long lost. It was if the sun never shined anymore. But that was only due to the rubble of destroyed cities being kicked up into the air, creating perpetual dust storms that ravaged the once green and fertile land. Even the trees in Mab’s quiet copse were starting to die. Evergleam it was called. A portion of Duskwood where the sun used to shine and the moonlight spilled down upon a perfect clearing. A clearing that was made for fairy-tales to take place, for spells to be born and for a gathering of people to dance and sing.

No longer of course. They were coming. Chopping down every tree to make the war machine grow. Destroying the land so nothing would again flourish here. If it was not useful to the Iron Horde, it was not useful at all. There was nothing but the Iron Horde afterall. Mab picked up a handful of dirt from her garden and let it fall back to the disturbed earth. Her garden too was dying, leaving her thinner than ever. Starving, like a frightened helpless animal. Her grey eyes were sunken, dark and tired. Her raven tresses were filthy, oily from being unwashed. Depression had ravaged the girl, leaving her a shell of the hopeful cheerful woman she had once been. They were coming. She did not have the strength to fight them.

Would she be taken as a spoil of war? A trophy, a slave, a source of amusement until she had broken just to be thrown away? Cast aside as if she were not living, not breathing, not full of dreams and fears? Would she be discarded straight away, cut down like the trees in the copse? Or would she be a source of entertainment, to see which parts of her bent the furthest before breaking, snapping like twigs, her bones hollow from malnourishment. Where was the shining light in the darkness, the abyss that surrounded her? Where was the single dim candle that called her to have hope, to have faith that a better day would surely be upon her? Where were the rebels that would fight for freedom, for a world worth living in? Was it all an endless pool of sorrow, darkness, shattered dreams, despair now?

So she sat, in her simple white gown. This one not tattered, not worn, not tired. No, this one was a special gown. Saved for a special day, saved for perhaps a joyful day of marriage, of love, of --bliss. Things that would never come to be. Things that -- were distant echoes, memories of friendships, of -- hope. Mab went to the clearing where she had spent so much time. They were coming. She could hear the shouting now, the guttural scream of the orcs tearing apart the land, searching- searching for anything, seeking victory and nothing more. She knew nothing to save the world now. Her lips went to the vial and finished it in a single gulp, letting so very little of it touch her tongue before it was gone. Vile terrible stuff. The most bitter of drinks, and would normally be a regrettable circumstance, but situations had far changed, leaving her without option, without desire to go further. Not one more step. Her grey eyes fluttered for the moment as the world spiraled in a dizzying mess. The green of the trees faded to a black and white surreal sight. The broken doll that had been a human woman once was fading fast. Collapsing, breathing shallowing. A life that had once been worth living snuffed out like a candle’s flame on a bedside table when the darkness was ready to pounce. Sleeping now, sleep forever, the little flower in the white dress. Her fingers grasped for nothing.

Lady Azsh'Amara Highspire
Lady Azsh’Amara “Azshari” Highspire had long since abandoned Dalaran. She was not the type to commit herself to a losing battle. In fact, she wasn’t the type to commit herself to any battles. It was a good way to end up dead, and she hadn’t survived for nearly 9000 years through random fortune. When the Iron Horde began their march across the world’s grounded cities it became obvious that it was only a matter of time until Dalaran would follow suit.

Finally free to practice whatever magics she wanted unmolested and with no need for concealment, Azshari not only abandoned Dalaran, but actually gravitated towards the Iron Horde. They were much more understanding of her magical aspirations and it’s always best to associate with power after all. She retreated to her various homes around the globe and resumed her traditional, secretive lifestyle. Certain rumors persisted amongst those back in Dalaran about how she had been a traitor all along, simply masquerading amongst the Kirin Tor in order to gleam their secrets while all the time worshipping her watery queen.

In any case, the mountains of northern Darkshore around her home began to look eerily similar to the Fel Wood - there she practiced all manner of dark magic with blissful freedom, magics that she had been familiar with since she was a girl in Eldre’Thalas. Demonic magic, necromancy, plague magic, fel, chronomancy, nether magic…, she was free to investigate whatever she wanted without worrying about Sentinel patrols or Kirin Tor investigators. There was nobody left to oppose her, and the Iron Horde was too concerned with their march of conquest to pay one sorceress any mind.

It was not long before she abandoned any effort at maintaining her traditional form. There was simply no need anymore, and it limited her power. She didn’t recognize any reason why she ought to stifle her curiosity into the depths of magical detail. The more she embraced demonic magics, the more fel-corrupted she became. Like her Quel’dorei cousins in Quel’Thalas, at first only subtle signs manifested: green eyes, sharper fangs, longer claws. Eventually small bumps sprouted on her head and shoulder blades.

After nearly a year of grinding attritional warfare across the world, Azshari one day realized that she no longer felt Dalaran’s presence in the world. At last it must have fallen to the Iron Horde. The light of that floating collection of spires, composed of the world’s most powerful mages, had finally been extinguished. Surely all of its inhabitants were destroyed: those rather annoying humans with their odd and perhaps unfair affinity for magic, the noble Magisters of Quel’Thalas that had introduced them to it, the master Gnomes that had a knack for spell innovation and even fellow Highborne that wanted to die with them – they were all gone. For some odd reason, this realization left Azshari feeling quite suddenly alone. At least while Dalaran resisted the Kirin Tor still lingered on as some imaginary antagonist to her life, as if they may somehow survive and come for Azshari next. But now she was truly alone; there was no magical police force coming for her. Nobody cared what she did. What was the point of discovering the depths of magic with no one to enjoy it with? No one to display it for? No one to dominate with it.

In time, one of her old curiosities began to rekindle itself. From stories she recalled as a child, something her father used to repeat during his many drunken nights of lamentation in Eldre’Thalas began to repeat in her mind. According to him, her family had once been cherished and beloved and was granted ancestral holdings just outside the Capital, and near to the Well of Eternity, by the Light of Lights herself. When the Sundering sunk half of Kalimdor to the bottom of the sea, it was all destroyed, leaving the Highspyre clan with nothing but titles and bloodline to sustain themselves as refugees in Eldre’Thalas. Ordinarily Azshari placed little stock into such self-inflated stories of grandiosity, but they slowly ate at her thoughts for the following decades as she continued her downward spiral.

Azshari continued studying any magic she desired, and had been turning the idea over in her mind for so long that one day after many years she finally believed it to be as divinely true as her father had: surely her family prospered somewhere far below in the watery depths as beloved and cherished… Naga.

By now, overexposure to Fel had amplified her physical characteristics significantly. The bumps on her head had sprouted into curled horns; the ones on her back were small wings that were almost capable of propelling her. Just above her butt a long, scaly tail had sprouted and seemed to grow nearly overnight. She looked like a half-Night Elf, half-Dreadlord, half-Succubus. Long patches of short purple hair running in strips down her back, the outside of her thighs, down the edges of her torso, and between her fingers looked very Satyr-esque. She was almost a half-demon herself. She began to investigate the Naga.

In the past, she had wanted nothing to do with them. The atrocities and carelessness with magic that they perpetuated during their lives as Highborne had brought nothing to Azshari except suffering and guilt-by-association by the various races of the world. Her own kin in Ashenvale banished her because of those Highborne. But now that those races were mostly extinguished, her old feelings gave way to new: she wanted to reconnect with the Naga. She came to discover that the Naga had been created by the Old Gods in a desperate pact between they and her namesake, Azshara, the Light of Lights and Queen of the Kaldorei. It wasn’t long until she infiltrated the Cult of Twilight just as she had done with the Kirin Tor. Those Twilight Old God worshippers explained much to her. It became clear to her that the “fallen” Titan Sargeras was not so fallen after all. The extreme bias against him by all the races of the world was misguided. For without him and the chaos he espoused, chaos that was the original and natural state of the universe, order would come to prevail—and restrict. “Order” was simply the destruction of freedom. It was “order” that Malygos sought to establish when he nearly consumed all of the world’s magic and slaughtered all mages during the Nexus War. And isn’t circumventing order the entire purpose of magic?

By now, nearly 100 years after the Iron Horde first assaulted the world, the dust had firmly settled. All landmasses were under the control of the Iron Warchief Garrosh Hellscream who seemed to remain forever-young through some dark magics just as Azshari herself was. Things almost reverted back to normal. The only difference now was that the various cities around the world were all filled with Orcs, and only Orcs. But life went on; the world still had squabbling factions—some that wanted to control magic and some that wanted to explore it, like the newly resurrected Cult of the Damned led by the Lich-Lord Arranax.

For the Kingdoms of the previous century, the coming of the Iron Horde was the end of the world. For Azshari, it was simply the beginning of another chapter in her endless life—a chapter that would lead her beneath the waves in search of the only thing that her privileged life never gave her: love, companionship, and a sense of belonging -- or at least that's what she hoped.

Kyandra Icefire
"Father, we -must- leave Dalaran! The Iron Horde are bringing the city to the ground!!" Kyandra knew full well that Garrosh had successed in taking over Azeroth. Everything was going in his favor, and now with dark magics, Garrosh's forces were finally able to bring the magical city of Dalaran to the ground. Kyandra standing just outside the Violet Hold, was speaking with a Sin'dorei Archmage...the same one that had raised Kyandra from childhood. Keeping his attention on Kyandra, he shakes his head and he says to her in a calm, but saddened tone, "Kyandra...I cannot leave. I will be able to hold off the Iron Horde for as long as I can...but you must go. Flee to the corners of the planet if you must, but do -not- stay here! It's too dangerous for you!!" He glances over at her, with a serious, but a saddened look, as if he didn't want to sound so demanding, but he knew that if she stayed, she would possibly be taken as a prize of the horde, or possibly die. Kyandra would look horrified and scared, keeping her attention on the Sin'dorei, and she says in a scared tone, "I can't leave you here alone! You need to come with me! They'll kill you!!" He sees in her eyes the fear and the sadness as she speaks, and he goes to speak in return, but at sudden, the city would jerk violently as some orcs from the Iron Horde came into the city from the sky, and started, yet another battle with the mages there. Many magi fought, but many also were killed. Some of the orcs soon found Kyandra and the Sin'dorei Archmage. The Archmage gives a glare, and uses Abjuration magic to form a shield around himself and Kyandra. Kyandra meanwhile, summons her water elemental, Hydrolus, and commands him to fight back. She then uses her fire magics to launch deadly fireblasts at the orcs. Her Phoenix would appear as well, in her adult form, and start tearing the orcs apart. Along with Shalia's fire magics, she was a deadly fighter. Kyandra keeps her attention on the fight as she says in a worried voice, "You need to leave! You're body can't hold his shield up forever...the strain might kill you!!" As she finishes her sentance, the shield suddenly breaks, and orcs rush towards them. One orc quickly rushes towards the Sin'dorei, and taking his blade, stabs the Sin'dorei in the chest. The Archmage's eyes widen, and he slowly kneels to the floor. Kyandra glances over to see this occur, and she gets a look of pure fear, and she feels that her heart just broke. The orc removes his sword from the Archmage's chest, and he collapses to the ground, dying. Tears would form in Kyandra's eyes as she watches him fall to the ground, and her armor begins to glow violently with fire.

The orcs turn their attention to Kyandra, watching in confusion as she started to glow, but one orc says, "Forget this, kill her!!" They begin to rush at her, when at sudden, Kyandra's eyes shoot open and she unleashes a powerful fire nova, burning the orcs alive. She yells out, "You've killed the only person to care for me! Now you will all pay!!" She rushes at one of the burning orcs, and infusing her hands with flames and arcane magics, she grips the orc's throat tightly, burning it with the rage of fire and arcane, suffocating him. The other orcs see this, and they grow afraid. Kyandra releases the orc, and slightly turns her head as more flames ingulf her body and she says in a calm, but angered tone, "...You're turn..." She then makes quick work of the other orcs, killing them with the hatred and anger that Kyandra was feeling. After the orcs are dead, the flames disperse from Kyandra's body, and she looks around in fear. She holds in a gasp as she says, "Di-...did I do...-this-???" She blinks in horror, then rushes over to the Archmage, and says in fear, "Father! I-...I lost control of my magic!! I decimated everyone...including you...you're burned really badly..." The Archmage, who was still barely alive, very weakly takes hold of Kyandra's hand and says in a calm, but dying voice, "Ky-...Kyandra...do not...blame yourself...just remember..." He stops suddenly and let's out a deathly cough, blood and ash coming from his mouth, but he continues to speak in a weaker tone, saying to her, "Ju-...just remember...things may seem bleak now...but...the light shall come out...one day...and everything...will be...okay-..." He stops as he expells his last breath, and dies in Kyandra's arms.

Kyandra keeps her attention on the Archmage, very gently shaking him, then when he stops speaking, tears streak down her face as she says, "Father...? Father? Father!!!" She begins to shake, as she slowly stands, not wanting to believe him dead, and she starts to cry. She falls to her knees as she says softly to herself, "...what have I done...? I caused my own father's dead..." Ice magics start to form around her, enveloping her in a cold embrace. Some magi that survived the attack see Kyandra and one of them says to her in a worried voice, "Miss Icefire...are you alright...?" She hears this voice, and says softly, regarding no one in particular, "...Go away..." The mage blinks, unsure of what was wrong, and says, "But Miss Icefire...you look like you lost a dangerous fight and--!" He interuppted as Kyandra stands and ice magic suddenly explodes outward in a circle around Kyandra. She glares and says again, sounding more angered, "I said...Go away!!" She keeps her attention on the magi, but blinks and realizes what she has done. She slowly backs up, and makes a portal, jumping into it quickly.

(30 years later...)

Kyandra's water elemental approaches Kyandra, holding a piece of parchment, and Kyandra speaks, saying in a rather saddened, yet angered tone, "What have you to report, Hydrolus?" Hydrolus bows at Kyandra, then says to her in a calm, bubbly tone, "Mi'lady. There have been reports that a small scouting party are making ways to your location..." Kyandra glances over at Hydrolus and says in an angered tone, her fire magics acting up, "Iron Horde?!...Do more of those beasts need to taste the flames of anger??" Hydrolus let's her speak, then says, "No mi'lady...fragmented members of the alliance...they seek survivors from the Iron Horde..." Kyandra blinks and the fire magics die down slightly as she says, "Impossible...the Iron Horde would have killed everyone by now...there's...no one, left..." It had been around 30 years since Kyandra fled the city of Dalaran to live in exile. She was now in the region of Feralas, once lush and green, now barren with no life, asides herself. She would be alot thinner then normal, and her hair, no longer in a neat braid, rather being out and long. She still wore purple, to remind herself of what life was before Garrosh had succeded. Hydrolus was now more tainted, poisoned from the damage that the pollution had done, but still loyal to Kyandra. Hydrolus speaks, saying, "Mi'lady...they seek survivors for a rebellion...they wish to take down Garrosh, so then the world can be fixed..." Kyandra's rage grows as she says angerly, "No!! I can't be around -anyone-! I'm too dangerous to be near people! I can't get a fix on my emotions, which have fueled my magics for nearly 3 decades...if I lose control...I'll kill more people!!" Hydrolus speaks to her calmly, saying, "Mi'lady...you can't hide forever...you need to come out sooner or later..." Kyandra starts to yell, saying angerly, "No! I don't want to harm anyone ever again!!!" She rushes outside to the barren lands and runs to the coast.

The waters of Feralas would all be polluted. No life would be seen anywhere along the coast as Kyandra ran to the edge. She falls to her knees, and covers her eyes as she says, "Why?! Why did the world have to fall like this?!?!" Fire would cover Kyandra completely, and she collapses. A fire aberation of herself approaches her and says in a firey, but sarcastic tone, "Why do you hide your anger like a coward, hm? Why not use such anger to take what is rightfully yours...??" Kyandra glares up at the aberation and says angerly, "Because it's not the right thing to do!! I will never harm anyone, ever again!!!" The aberation laughs and says, "You've already lost..." It then burns Kyandra and continues as Kyandra recoils in pain, saying, "I will be your commander...and you will be a harbinger of flame!!!" Kyandra yells out, "No!!! ...It-...It's not right!!! No!!!!" Kyandra then collapses, her spirit severely weakened and the aberation says calmly, "Now...you are mine...be gone from this vessel..." The aberation then traps Kyandra in a prison of flame and walks away.

When Kyandra wakes up on the coast, her eyes are flaming, and she smirks. She then says in a dark, flaming tone, "Now...to make this world pay for my anger, and to show them the flames of my hatred..." She laughs, then walks away, leaving a trail of fire in her wake, preparing to show no mercy for what was to come...

Tammini Silverspark
With a silent somberness uncharacteristic of the gnome, Tammini Silverspark peers with tired blue eyes from the top of the Violet Citadel. The pinnacle is black, now, tainted by desperation and the dark magic that followed. The skies all around the city are red with distant flames, like Deathwing’s cataclysm come again, and formations of chimeras and their brutal riders wheel in the burning air.

She sighs, long and low, setting down her staff on the tower’s balcony. Her logical mind knows that it will not be needed; it cannot turn back the tide when all the armies of Azeroth have failed. Instead, she enters the tower, where a sole apprentice awaits, fear in his eyes. The gnome feels her age bearing down on her shoulders. In another time, there would have been words for a frightened boy, but not now. Now, she simply beckons with a small hand for him to follow.

The Citadel is empty, dreadfully so. They have all gone to fight. Vanidicus Alexander, Arranax de’Vin, Nathul Furlbrow. They were fighters. They would go. But so too are the scholars gone, and the enchanters, the librarians, and even the apprentices. Aithnea, Kalecthos, Verus Baelheit, Zanbor Emerson. And so her faint footsteps echo like a giant’s through the marble hallways.

The great doors to the Arcane Vault loom ahead, and behind them, the few artifacts that the mages have not scavenged for war. In times that now feel like centuries ago, Tammini would not have been able open these doors alone. But their wards and enchantments were diverted, drained away to power legions of golems, and then to fuel the boneyards for the undead and the rituals to summon demons. For the slide from artifice to necromancy and fel magic was but a lesser evil when the world was at stake. Now, the lone archmage is able to raise her ring to the doors, and bid them part to admit her entrance.

With her apprentice trailing behind her in her shadow, she enters the vault. Flickering lights from long lost orbs and crystals dance against statues of infinite age, and motes of the purest arcana float through the air overhead. Perhaps, the gnome thinks, this is the last time any will see this place. She looks to the apprentice. “Bring parchment,” she states, her voice quiet. As the boy vanishes beyond her sight, Tammini clasps her hands behind her back. The roar of some colossal engine of war rumbles in the distance, muted by the thick stone. With a slow stride, she makes her way deeper into the vault, tomblike in its solitude and silence.

She traces a well traveled route through the scattered artifacts. She has been here many times before, in these last of days. At the very back of the vault, nearly concealed in darkness, she has filled its shelves with books. Not the great tomes of magic that once dwelt here, for they have long since been seized and taken. These are the great chronicles, the religious scriptures, the stories and poems from across the world. They now sit, one after another, all together. In Tammini’s tired mind they are like a last, ragged line of soldiers.

The apprentice returns, a long sheaf of parchment in his trembling hands. With a nod, Tammini takes it. She dismisses him, just as wordlessly. It occurs vaguely to her that she has sent him away to his death. But now she is alone. She approaches her shelves, running a small gnomish finger lovingly across the spines of the assembled books. And then she seals up each case with a ward, carefully weaving it over every nook and cranny. And then she takes up the parchment she holds in her hands, and writes.

“My name is Tammini Silverspark, mage of the Kirin Tor, and herein lies the history of Azeroth.”

She sets it down. It is for peoples and beings of the past or future alike, for whatever endures the annihilation that approaches Dalaran, or for the Titans themselves. The paper flutters, then lies still, and the gnome turns away from it, leaving the vault behind. She looks back as the gates close behind her, and then weaves a spell over it all. The vault doors, and everything within, fade away, as if they had never existed, replaced with blank stone. It has been sent away, she knows, to the timeless realm of magic, where, one day, perhaps it will be found. Until then, it will endure.

And then, with decorum and grace, Tammini Silverspark goes to die.

Meriahm Lausten and Viserth Arenall
“It was always going to be this, I suppose,” Viserth casually flicked his skeletal fingers and sent a small ball of fire drifting out into the shattered remains of the Underbelly. It flashed brightly and, for a split second, illuminated the twisted and moving shapes in the darkness. Then the darkness closed over the flame like a wave, extinguishing it. “Though I must confess, I didn’t see it coming.”

The voice that answered him was cold and cruel. If Viserth didn’t know any better – and he did, which was the entire reason he was still alive – he would say that this was an entirely different woman than the one who had pursued him since she sentenced him to death. “Of course you didn’t. You don’t see everything.”

“And I suppose you do. C’thun had a giant eyeball, you know, and even he had a hard time seeing the dragonflights closing in on him.”

The temperature of the air around the Forsaken dropped rapidly. He could feel it, of course, but it brought him no discomfort. That was part of the benefit of a good portion of his blood being gone. “C’thun was one. I am many.”

Viserth shrugged and paced back towards the source of the voice. Blue flames danced in their braziers, the only reason he had not fallen from the broken remains of the Cantrips and Crows that still lingered. Rather like the people of Dalaran, Viserth mused to himself as he walked, desperately clinging to the last scraps of stone they could with no knowledge of how unstable that stone had become. “You realize, of course, the degree to which this world has fallen. I tried to obliterate all of existence twice and I’m the sanest person left in this city.” And with that, he looked up to where the rest of the wood and metal had gone.

The Cantrips and Crows had been torn piece by piece and reassembled to serve as a twisted throne. The broken and splintered structure rose out of the sewer water like a knife plunged into the heart of a once-great city. Green and brown shapes moved in the darkness at the base of the throne. Viserth was not particularly keen to know what those were. Perched atop the throne, lording over a kingdom of corruption, was the woman responsible for the infestation.

Meriahm Lausten, former Archmage, Minister of War, Lieutenant, and teacher, now sat in command of everything that was wrong with the world. Her skin, previously pale, was a skeletal white and seemed to be thinly stretched over her frame. White hair hung down to her shoulders, just brushing the top of the violet robe she now wore – no heraldry of the Kirin Tor nor connection to Dalaran save for the color, a perverse and twisted mockery to adorn a corrupted woman.

When she spoke, her voice was as the ice she commanded. “Halliwell will call for us soon. His envoy’s mind was very clear before he succumbed to the pain. The Council will tear the hole you’ve always dreamed of in time and we will obliterate the Iron Horde before it can begin.”

“Right,” Viserth shifted further towards one of the braziers, just in time to avoid a tentacle that snapped out of the darkness where his head used to be. “Speaking as someone who… er… has some experience with time travel, I think I can speak with some authority on that plan. Which is shaky at best and suicidal at worst.”

“You opinion was not solicited.”

The Forsaken smiled without showing any teeth. “Wasn’t it, though? You had the chance to kill me in the Storm Peaks, and you held your blade. Why then, if not to listen to me?” No answer came from the twisted throne. “Exactly. You know this plan will not work.”

“We will enter the portal and obliterate the Orcish race once and for-”

“You know this plan will not work,” Viserth repeated, risking immediate death by interrupting the Archmage. Fortunately, she fell silent, and he retained the use of his head. “Somewhere in that mind of yours, dear Archmage, somewhere in the brain that I am aware is still in there, you have retained the use of your logical functions. Think, and tell me that I am wrong.”

Meriahm was silent for several moments. Though he had long since lost the ability to feel pain from dismemberment and lacerations, Viserth felt his chest tighten as he thought of what she may do if she took his boldness as an insult. The woman was unpredictable before. Now, she had become the avatar of Chaos that Viserth always knew she would be. Their past history did not matter, and neither did Viserth’s own intelligence. There was simply no way of telling what Meriahm was going to do.

At last, she spoke. “If you are proposing we bring you with us, the answer is no.”

“Oh, no. I’d sooner jump off Dalaran than step through that portal.”

“That,” the Archmage intoned, “can be arranged.”

Viserth chuckled, and the shadows roared around him at the sound. “Oh, no. If you were going to do any less than doing me in yourself, I wouldn’t be here. Now, let us return to the point at hand – the fact that your former Chancellor is leading you to your inevitable doom.”

“There is no way to prevent it?” A question now. Viserth was winning, and he knew it.

“None. There is no scenario where you emerge from this alive and victorious. Either the Iron Horde will stop you, or you will fall at your own hands,” At Meriahm’s confused glare, Viserth chuckled again, “You know what I mean. You will, all of you, die, and your quest will have been for nothing. Think back to the days of Dalaran past. Could you few really have taken on the entire Senate?” He paused once again, peering directly up at her, “Would you really render all you have done, all we have done, meaningless?”

The Archmage rose from her throne and began to walk forward. As she did, piece of the wood dislodged themselves from the spire and swirled around it, eventually maneuvering into place in front of her. Downwards she strode, the throne breaking apart to form a floating staircase at her feet. When she at last reached Viserth, Meriahm waved a hand. With a dozen sickening crashes and screams, the broken throne collapsed into the shadows and was no more.

From where she was standing, Viserth could clearly see her. He could make out the texture of her skin, like spoiled milk. He could see clearly her hair, and how it reflected light in a way that wasn’t natural. And he could see her eyes. She knew. She knew he was right, and she hated him all the more for it.

“Tell me what I must do.” Another question, but framed as a command.

Viserth thought for a moment before answering. His hands moved as he talked, sweeping in front of him as he outlined his plan. “Find the staff. If what you’ve said is true, it should be hidden in your quarters. Ensure it falls into my hands,” From there, the instructions got more and more complicated. The Archmage stood in silence, hands clasped behind her back, listening as her greatest enemy outlined his plan for her. Viserth carefully explained every step and every eventuality he could think of. When he was finished, he stopped, and waited for a response.

It was not long in coming. “I will do as you say.”

“Excellent,” Viserth turned away from Meriahm to look down at the brazier. The blue flames danced before his eyes as all else around them melted together and faded into blackness. “Chancellor Halliwell will sound the alarm soon. It will end, and it will begin. The circle will be broken, and I wonder how it shall be reformed. Do you think, Archmage…” He paused for a moment. There really was no point in standing on circumstance. It was too late for anything but fate. “Meriahm. Do you think there is a universe, somewhere in the infinity of existence, where you and I never met? Where we never pledged to destroy each other? Where all this pain, all this death, was avoided?”

Meriahm’s voice drifted from behind Viserth. For the first time in a long time, her tone sounded as though it had softened just a little bit. “That’s sentimental, coming from you. Unusual.”

The blue flames flickered higher and higher, blurring together as Viserth lost focus on the individual flames and all was a swirling shape keeping the shadows at bay. “Perhaps I was all along, or perhaps I am deceiving you now. We will never know, at least not here. When you kill me, Meriahm, do it properly. For the first time, I do not wish to come back.”

“As you wish.” Her voice had hardened again, and Viserth knew she was gone forever.

“By the way,” He said over his shoulder, “Give my regards to-”

And he said a name.

The scream that tore from Meriahm’s lips shook the walls of the sewers. Though Viserth couldn’t see them, he knew that the shadows were churning now, as Meriahm’s army of abominations prepared for battle. Instead, he turned his attention to the blue flames for a final time. Ever since he was a young man, Viserth had been fascinated by fire. It was only fitting that he had studied it in life and death. It was the only thing left in the world that he held dear, and so for a moment, he was glad it was the last thing that he would see.

He did not feel the ice lance pierce the back of his skull.

He did not feel his body crumple nor slam down onto the wood.

He did not feel anything.

Forever.

Margrave Haifrall
It seemed cowardly, Haifrall thought to himself, to be in this position, standing alone in what was left of Duskwood.

Everyone else had remained in Dalaran to battle the Orcs that now waited under the city, waiting for their prey to fall out of the sky, yet Haifrall had left the city, believing he could do something else to aid his allies, rather than simply fighting.

He knew he was wrong, however, and there was nothing he alone could do to stop the constant flow of Orcs rampaging through the city. The plan had been a very simple one; travel to the Dark Portal and destroy the source. It was a stupid idea, now that Haifrall thought of it. If the Iron Horde was this entrenched in Azeroth, then it made no difference.

Despite how absurd the plan was, giving up on it now would mean giving up on the Kirin Tor, which Haifrall had sacrificed in this single gamble. He continued walking along the path, the darkness of Duskwood giving him no advantage.

Silence was all there was in the woods, the sound of Haifrall's steady footsteps being the only constant sound in the area, until more footsteps came.

Haifrall whirled to see his approacher, and beheld an armored, brown skinned Orc rushing at him with a sword, no battle cry on his lips. A silent ambush. Gritting his teeth, the wizard thrust out his staff, murmured an incantation, and an explosion of arcane power burst from the tip of the staff, blasting the Orc back several yards. The spell sent the Orc sprawling, but Margrave quickly saw the bad situation he was in when other Orcs soon appeared to battle him as well.

Two more Orcs rushed at him, just as silent as the last. Margrave murmured another incantation, summoning a spear of ice that flew towards the Orcs, and split into two. The ice lance pierced the armor of both Orcs, but they did not stop. Haifrall threw another, more powerful ice lance at one of the Orcs, and the lance was powerful enough to kill him. The other kept coming, but Margrave suddenly thrust his staff forward.

Water shot from the tip of the staff, catching the surprised Orc with a great amount of force. The Orc fell to the ground, struggling under the pressure of the water. Haifrall suddenly cast a spell, chilling the water on the Orc, and froze the warrior where he lay on the ground. "Two down," Haifrall murmured to himself, and looked up at the other Orcs. "Eight to go," he finished, weariness in his voice. The odds were not in his favor.

Haifrall was not prepared as four of the eight Orcs suddenly charged at him. Quickly, he summoned a frost nova around him, freezing most of the Orcs in their tracks, but one forced his way out of the ice. He swung a large mace, catching Haifrall right in the chest and sending him flying.

As Haifrall lay on the ground, he was certain several bones had just been broken. It felt impossible to get up, and every movement in his chest suddenly hurt. He struggled to breathe as he saw the Orc walk up to him, his mace still in hand.

"Damn..." Haifrall growled to himself, trying to summon some other spell, but the Orc gave no chances. Shouting something in his Orcish tongue, he swung the mace down towards Haifrall's head.

Margrave Haifrall died instantly.

Muzula Silverweave
Day 36

Muzula stood on the balcony of her Manor, looking down at the refugee camps spread across Whitewell, and most of the Peaks, "How did it come to this?" Muzula thought to herself, as the several Ley-Siphons drained the energy from Whitewell, and fueled the barrier that kept the Iron Horde out. While the Sihpons kept the Iron Horde at bay, they drained the Magical energy from under Whitewell, in many places, a dry husk. "Handmaiden, alert the Eastern Lords, we push the Iron Horde back into the Hinterlands by the next Moon." The Kaldorei Handmaiden bowed, and left her Chambers.

Day 40

Several Ladys and Lords gathered around a table, heavy in argument. "Are you insane!? If we remove the Barrier, we will face the full wrath of the Iron Horde!" One Lord yelled, followed by several of the Nobles that had fled into her lands after the Iron Horde took most of the Eastern Kingdoms. "And what do you suppose we do, huh!? You know damn well that Whitewell can't support all these people! If we stay locked up behind a shield, we'll die of hunger!" Muzula screamed back, followed by the agreement of many others. "Listen, fighting among ourselves does nothing, our enemy is the Iron Horde. If we can push them back into the Hinterlands, we can send power there, and create another barrier! The refugees will have a place to go, and we will have control over the farm-land."

Day 48

"Move!" Muzula screamed, as cannons rained down on Whitewells forces. "Press forward, drive them back into the canyon!" Several Siege weapons fired against the Iron Horde, forcing many of them to flee into the canyon pass. "Now! Collapse the canyon, and slaughter the remaining!" Explosions echoed through the Mountains as boulders and dirt came crashing down on the canyon, killing off those that had fled. "Quickly, tra--" Several of the Iron Hordes Shaman began hurling rocks at Whitewells forces, destroying several Siege weapons and their ground forces. Many of them flew past Muzula's head, just missing her as she hurled bolts of Arcane toward the Iron Horde, but to no avail, the Iron Horde had destroyed most of their Siege weapons, and were advancing Forward. Muzula had lost.

Day 56

Muzula watched as embers from the fire fell onto the cold ground of the refugee camp. "We can't just stay here, we have to attempt to regain land." Most of Whitewll was in ruins, Muzula's plan had failed, allowing the Iron Horde control of almost half of Whitewell, and her Manor. "Really? Your plans failed, Silverweave, Whitewell is gone because of your actions." Spoke one of the refugees as he cuddled around the wool blankets that were given to the camp. "If atleast one Ley-Siphon still works, I can reverse the--" Muzula was cut of by the sound of Wolfs howling, the Iron Horde had tracked their scene, and would soon be at the camp. Muzula walked through the vail of the night, as the Iron Horde closed in on their location, Muzuala knew it was over, Whitewell was lost, and her people would soon be dead. "Everyone, listen to me...Whitewell is gone, I will open a portal to take us to Dalaran, those of you wo wish to live, follow me, the rest of you, I am sorry for this..." Muzula opened a Portal to Dalaran, leaving it to her people to choose, as she tinkered with her Ley-Siphon. Minutes later, Muzula looked on the remaining people in Whitewell, and sighed. "I am sorry for what I must do, my friends, but you had a choose.." Muzula lifted her hand, and killed off the remaining people of Whitewell with a single bolt of Arcane Magic.

Day 57

"If the Iron Horde wants this land, then they shall have it, but they will not live to see their victory." Muzula active her Ley-Siphon as it began a countdown, draing everything from Whitewel, and feeding it into a canister. Muzula took one last look at her land, before stepping through a portal to Dalaran, and leaving Whitewell to it's fate. Muzula had turned her Ley-Siphon into a Mana bomb, and it would soon go off, destroying the Iron Horde in her land, and the land itself.

Day 145

Whitewell had long fallen, and Muzula looked on Dalaran, slowly, the Iron Horde gathered below the city, getting ready for a attack. Muzula turned her attention to Baelheit, has he tinkered with Titan artifacts. "The Titan Relics are ready, Lord Baelheit, if the Iron Horde marches on Dalaran, they will face the might of the markers." Baelheit laughed, as he looked on Muzula, she body crackling with Arcane and Titan Energy, which would teat her mortal shell apart if not for the Titanium armor she wore. "Very good, Muzula, my dear...very good." Muzula nods, leaving the Librarium Archives, and returning her chambers in what was once the Eventide, collecting energy, and preparing. If the Iron Horde wanted Dalaran, they would have to go through the horrors were now Muzula's Titanic creations.

Verus Baelheit
“Look out!” Verus Baelheit screamed at the top of his lungs, alerting a nearby detachment of Soldiers. Too late, unfortunately, as the murderous shell annihilated the armored fighters as easily as swatting away a bothersome insect. Baelheit rushed over to what was left of their position, searching for survivors he could take back with him to the holdfast. Barely anything recognizable was left. Armor bearing the Heraldry of all nations was smeared with the blood of the men who died to defend them.

“Help, please…” came a croaking voice behind him, as a Soldier lay dying in his own blood. His fingers twitched desperately, pleading. Baelheit approached him and kneeled, grimacing. His torso was nearly crushed, there was nothing he or likely anyone could do. He placed his hand gently upon his chest, looking the dying man in the eyes as he drew his rapier. The dying soldier made the connection, and begun to squirm as best as he could. “No…” he managed to rasp before Baelheit could complete the deed. “I’m sorry.” The Archmage said before thrusting the sword into his heart, quick and clean. The man died in seconds. Without bothering to wipe the Blood off his sword, Baelheit sheathed it in favor of his staff, using it to draw himself up as he began to sprint towards the rapidly retreating Alliance line. Gilneas has suffered plenty in recent years, the threat of Forsaken invasion dwindled away as the Iron Horde marched on all holdings of Azeroth, It didn’t matter if you were Alliance or Horde. There was no mercy from these off-worlders.



            The Alliance was in full retreat, Gilneas was lost. The headlands had been their Last holdout, the myriad of Noble estates of its proud defenders providing them with valuable time, the Worgen and Men who defended them were stubborn, some had refused to leave. Baelheit did not enjoy thinking about their fates. His second in this battle, a Gnome by the name of Muzula approached him. “Lord Baelheit.” She said respectfully, despite the urgency of their situation. “Everyone’s nearly at the Boats, we can depart at any time.” Baelheit nodded, he did not correct the Gnome on the ‘Lord’ title he cared so little for, this was not the time, or the place. The Magi of Dalaran had come with him here at his request. Gilneas’ defense was a personal matter to him. The lands they had defended, that men had died to defend, were those of his own Wife. Aya, his Aya. Aya Avernus of her Noble House. He did not know what they could have done to successfully defend these war-torn lands, he knew that they had to try. But now that dream was over. She would be safe, he knew, amongst her own people. They needed her to lead them just as much as his own Magi needed him. Gathering his colleagues to his side, they began to transport themselves away from this place, before an explosion decimated the ranks of the fleeing Alliance. “What?!” Baelheit cried in shock, as a plume of water showered the Gilnean coastline. The ships in dock were exploding, Baelheit’s fingers gripped his staff so tight he thought he might shatter it. Sabotage, he thought grimly to himself, there was no other explanation, and before the Mages could catch their breath, War horns sounded in the distance, and the ground began to shake. Their position away from the retreating Alliance left them in the path of the Iron Horde’s advance, lying in wait until their signal had come, and The destruction of the Alliance ships had summoned them. Baelheit spat. There would be no escape for anyone in Gilneas now. Ordering his Magi to fall back closer to the Alliance beachhead, he gained a true understanding of how bad their situation was, nothing but jagged boards, bits of sail and more somberly, bodies, remained of their escape craft. These were no ships of War, Baelheit realized. They carried nothing but families and the soldiers protecting them. His eyes widened at the prospect of his own being among them, drawn from his speculation by an urgent cry from Muzula, Baelheit was in control of himself in an instant, wishing the Mage-Commander was here as he began direction his Magi to protect all that they could. A portal could be their only hope, but they would have to sacrifice so many just to hold it open for long enough. The fighting began before they could reach a decision, The last defenders of this Kingdom of men striking with a vengeance against the Orcs who were taking everything from them. “mages of Dalaran, Focus your Magic on me!’ he commanded. He disliked doing this, and leaving his men so undefended, but against this Enemy, he saw little choice. The Mages who were his Colleagues focused their energy upon him, feeling himself fill with power, he rose his Staff as he bombarded the Advancing Orcish assault, tearing great swathes of Death in an ocean of Brown skin. Hope materialized within him as he witnessed the Orcs retreat before this Magical assault, and the sacrifice of all mankind and the races of Azeroth who defended her. He lowered his staff, the spell complete, and his own men severely drained because of it. He was no exception, and he took a deep breath as he turned to Muzula. “How many lost?” he asked before taking a drink from his waterskin. She was about to answer him, when a Gilnean Soldier came racing over the Hill at their position. “Lor- Archmage Baelheit!” The man corrected himself, Baelheit sighed, he cared little enough for it now. “What is it?” he asked with as much calm as he could summon. The Soldier’s urgency did not diminish. “I... I think you’d better come see, Sir.” Sensing his sincerity, Baelheit began to follow them, the both of them breaking into a steady pace as his Magi followed behind him quickly enough.



            As they broke the crest of the Hill, Baelheit’s eyes refused to believe what they saw. “No.” he thought to himself, sprinting down the hillside with abandon. “Oh, no. no, no no…” He thought to himself, before her name came screaming from his lips. “AYA!” He cried in stark horror and disbelief. She was lying in a pool of her own blood, Baelheit was at her side immediately, and lowered his head against her chest, listening for her heartbeat, but was surprised by a touch. “Verus…” came the Words from her lips, her mailed hand weakly upon his shoulder. He clutched his arm underneath her shoulders, keeping her a modicum of upright. “I’m here, Aya.” He said, unable to keep the emotion from his lips, or the tears from welling in his eyes. “I… I’m sorry…” she said weakly, Baelheit’s eyes were caught upon her wound, it did not look good, Magical damage had afflicted her, and a hole had been torn through her stomach. “No, no, hush now. We need to get you to the healers!” he said with his urgency rushing back into his voice. He tried to lift her, but a cry of pain from her forced him to abandon that pursuit. He trembling hand rose to his cheek. “Verus… “ she said with what strength she had left, a spark of magic in her free hand lit into a ball of ethereal grey fire. Their own spell, he realized. “Our flame… Don’t let it…” her voice trembled and he drew her near to him, tears now streaming freely down his cheeks, each rivulet washing away the blood and dirt that marred his face. “Don’t let it… die… out…” she looked up at him with a smile, and felt a shuddering gasp escape her. Baelheit looked down upon the Woman he loved, at the Woman who had born his children, there had to be something he could do! “Aya?” He asked her, there was no response. “Aya.” He said in a trembling voice, this couldn’t be happening. He drew her head against his chest, she was silent now, and unmoving. “Aya…” he said aloud again, choking back a sob, and her hand at last fell limply at her side. “Aya…” he broke at last, clutching her against him as he gently rocked her alongside him, sobbing at this lowest of defeats. He felt like he could have sat there with her for an eternity, had a Warhorn not broke their tranquility. Muzula’s hand fell upon his shoulder gingerly. “Baelheit.” She said quietly. “We have to go.” Tearing his eyes away from his beloved wife for an instant, he saw the Iron Horde cross the Hill they had defended, and the screams of dying men began to fill the air once again. Gilneas was lost, his Wife had paid the ultimate price to defend it, and now, he was alone. His fellow Magi beginning to cast their spells to Teleport them from this place of misery. Baelheit clutched his wife in his arms, as he began to teleport himself as well, unwilling to leave her behind. “Damn it… he sobbed before white overtook his world. “Damn it…”





<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">Dalaran. It was a place of sanctuary. Even in the midst of an Alliance and Horde war, it had sheltered both from Northrend’s perils. Against the greatest threats to Azeroth, it had stood defiant, even when overcome, it’s people arose as the true heart of the City, so long as they remained alive, nothing would stand against them. “It’s probably for that very reason they’ll just kill us all, Damon.” Baelheit lamented bitterly to Chancellor Halliwell. They stood within the Violet Citadel, the Council of Six was with them, but their Field expertise gave them the priority here. “You won’t find me willing to leave Dalaran undefended, Verus.” Damon Halliwell had been Verus’ friend for many a year, but now they found themselves at odds towards this City’s defense. “The Eastern Kingdoms have practically fallen, Damon!’ Baelheit nearly shouted with a fist slammed against the table. “The Alliance on Kalimdor aren’t doing much better. I’ve told you so many times, We need to work together! If you’d just listened to me before, then we-“ Baelheit’s sentence was cut off by Damon. “I know, Verus.” Damon said bitterly. Baelheit reeled himself in slightly, he knew this war had tried them both in ways they hadn’t imagined. “Quel’thalas came up us today.” Damon continued to explain. “They want to revive our Alliance between us.” Baelheit’s brow lifted. This was news. “Does that mean… the rest of the Horde?” Hope creeping tenaciously into his voice. Damon’s voice remained bitter. “I’d rather have an army of Orcs I can throw against more Orcs as cannon fodder than not have one.” Was all he said, Baelheit drew his hands away from the table. If things were this desperate… “Still,” Baelheit continued. “It’s obvious that this strategy isn’t working, Damon. We need a new weapon. We need something that can change the tide.” He said to the Chancellor, who narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you sure, Verus? You know my concerns. Your Obsession with the Titans…” Baelheit’s brow furled deeper, he had been expecting this. “My –interest- in the Titans comes from their ability to defeat Offworlders, Damon. What are the Orcs?” He proposed. The Chancellor drew contemplative. Verus sighed, leaving him there and preparing to depart the Citadel. There were others who needed him more.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            They were in his arms before the door closed behind him. Rowan and Vera, his son and daughter, his two children had leapt upon him and he received them with all the love he could muster. Still young enough that he could carry them comfortably within both arms as they idled about their room within their personal chambers in the Citadel. He smiled and felt a world of pressure melt away from him. They had grown particularly close in the time since Aya’s death. Her portrait hung upon the wall in the room with them where she could always watch over her children. The family looked upon it for a solem moment as they shared a quiet grief. This was a time of grieving, however. And the bad news came in every day. The Horde had all but conquered the Eastern Kingdoms. The Human backbone of the Alliance armies was no longer a Viable alternative. It had reached the point where the Draenei were rearming their Naaru based defenses for mobilization. Baelheit hoped it would be enough, as more and more Alliance units fell back to Kalimdor, to find some safety, oddly enough, in the arms of Vol’jin’s Horde. His son tugged upon his arm. “We missed you, Daddy.” He said in his quiet voice. Baelheit’s arm fell around his shoulder. “And I you. Have the pair of you been good while I was gone?” Vera was quick to jump to answer. Toting her stuffed kitten as she always did. “I have been. He hasn’t.” she pointed the finger of suspicion at Rowan, who grew defensive. “Hey! You know that’s not-“ Baelheit quickly interceded. “Kids! Kids, easy.” He smiled at Vera. “Try as you might, my dear, I don’t think I have it in myself to be mad at either of you right now.” Things soon settled down, and after a good evening of what could almost be considered a normal family, Baelheit placed his two children within their beds and closed the door to their room. His hand remained clutched upon the doorknob, as if he was afraid they’d disappear if he let them go. They were his entire world now, he knew. They, and Dalaran, he had no time for anything else. He descended the stair to resume a little late night research when a gentle tone informed him of a Visitor in his rooms. He exhaled calmly, none but the Kirin Tor could teleport into his personal chambers, and not without good reason either. Composing himself, Baelheit entered his study, surprised, but not overly so to see Damon waiting for him there, a folder held in his hand. He looked grim, and they did not bother with pleasantries as he handed Baelheit the report. “The Eastern Kingdoms are lost.” He explained without waiting for Baelheit to read the report. Their eyes met cold and hard. “Do what you have to.” Came the compliance, command, and order from his old friend and colleague.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">Verus nodded grimly.

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:13.0pt; font-family:Calibri;mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">Northrend was the only cold that could bother Baelheit, but this bitter chill bit to the bone. He had opted to venture alone into the Storm Peaks out of concern for his colleagues. They could scarcely afford to lose a single Mage, let alone a squad. The Mage-Commander Vanidicus had wanted to accompany him, but he had declined his offer. His research wasn’t the only one being persued, he knew. Back in Dalaran, the Council of Six grew thin. More and more of the Magus Senate Council had been promoted to fill the void, and magical restrictions were growing lax already. “War is truly a terrible thing.” He thought to himself as he pressed down on his staff and slogged out of his burrow. Another blizzard had caught him off-guard and forced him to seek refuge. His enchantments ensured he was at no risk to the elements, but the body could only endure so much. Fortunate it was that he was close. The Looming peaks and crystalline slopes slowly faded away as he ascended, revealing the ornate structures formerly frozen within. Vast temples arose and fell in these Mountains of thunder. The Halls of a race of creatures so powerful they were regarded as Gods by many cultures.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">But to Baelheit, they would always be the Titans.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">He had no Gryphon, but a few decisive teleports would see him safely to his destination. These distant lands had gone unconquered by the Iron Horde, for now. They remained an important refuge for many who had fled, but remained confined to the distant valleys below. None had come so far as he had. His feet finally gained purchase on weathered stone floors carved into the Mountainside as the edifice of Ulduar loomed ahead of him. Baelheit made ready for himself, with him he had brought the choicest Tomes and Relics of the Titans recovered by Dalaran over the years, including some of his own. One Celestial relic had been granted to him from the Arcane Vault by the Council with the express consent that it would only find use within the most dire of circumstances. He hoped that would remain so. He pulled his hood down as he took his first step into these megalithic halls…

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            Baelheit wasn’t sure what to expect as he returned home to Dalaran. His colleagues, possibly. Damon, almost certainly. There were many questions that would need answering, and Baelheit had found many answers for his questions. The expedition to Ulduar had proven fruitful, and felt himself shine with a new light. Three days amidst those ancient powers and his spark had been reinvigorated and energy coursed throughout him like no one but he could understand. He was quite intent on figuring out a way to share it with his Colleagues when he materialized, and found himself staring into a Field of War. Krasus’ Landing was the heart of a Battlefield, and the prime target in what was clearly an Invasion. Iron Chimaeras ferried more riders of the Orcish Clans unto the age’s City. Before he could register what was happening, he found himself the target of an Iron Horde soldier’s attack, who bore down upon him with the same Iron from which their barbarian army took their name. This Orc, however, would not live to regret his mistake, however. Baelheit’s eyes shone with the spark of creation, and nearly flayed the Orc alive with a single spell. Turning his attention away from the ruined mess, he fought his way deeper into Dalaran. His Colleagues were active in their defense, but it was clear that they had practically made themselves a target. No one in Dalaran had expected the Iron Horde to invade. Their floating City gave them the ultimate defense, but the simple power of Brute force in overwhelming numbers was not one to be underestimated, and cannonfire and death now made themselves made known to Dalaran, and to the far too many civilians trapped beneath their exploits.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            The Violet Citadel was the center of Dalaran’s defenses, and held room for nearly every single Resident of Dalaran, but it was precisely for that reason which Orcs now invaded in droves by aerial assault and subtler methods of Magic. Baelheit ran up to the structure without hesitation. A brutal siege was underway at the Front gates, large portions of the violet walls had given way or were otherwise burning. A dread knot formed in his stomach. Rowan and Vera were still inside. He had to go and save… “No.” he silenced that thought before it could manifest himself. He had an entire city to worry about saving. Mage-Commander Vanidicus came to his side with a slight slur he had been speaking with since a grisly facial wound he had taken. “The Councilh of sixh is trapped inside, sir!” He said urgently. The pair took notice of their situation. Their forces were engaged all over the City, but with no particular drop point, there wasn’t much anyone could do to stem the time. Unless… “Commander, I need you to handle the situation here!” he instructed, he had but a single plan that could work. “Dalaran’s defensive shield must be reactivated!’ As he gestured broadly to the city skyline which was now plagued with Orcs. The Commanded nodded, too much of a soldier at heart than to question. “We’ll get it dohne, sir.” He said with a grim salute. It would be the last time he saw him do so, as they each ran off and teleported to fight their own battles.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            With the front gate under Siege, there weren’t many ways to get into the Violet Citadel, but Baelheit knew Dalaran intimately. The Citadel’s underbelly Gate had been barred to prevent an invasion on two fronts, but a forceful spell tore it off of its hinges as Baelheit descended into the City sewers. The reek was terrible, but the noise was worse. Cries of fear could be heard from the almost countless refuge population that had gathered within the overcrowded barracks of impromptu housing that had sprung up in the Underbelly’s heart. There was no time to worry about them now, however. They were all doomed without that shield. Trawling through an unused sewer pipe, Baelheit ran his hand against a cold, stone wall. With a forceful invocation of magic, he placed his hand against the all and released his energy, crumbling the pipe and gaining access to the Citadel basement. “Not far from the Shield generator.” He noted, as he ran as fast as his feet could carry him through the empty lower halls. The overwhelming majority of Magi that should be filling the halls forced to defend their home from the surface. That gave Baelheit cause for worry. “If everyone’s defending up top, who’s defending down here?” he realized as he rounded a corner, skidding on his heels. The Generator crystal that was the Rubric of Dalaran was just ahead. That all-important spell kept them all from dying by keeping the city floating, and kept them safe by powering their shield. He reached his hand ahead to pull him past the wall that led to the Generator chamber as he felt the City shake. “Oh no.” he thought with anxiety and peered his head around the corner to see what he had most dreaded. Some form of foul Orcish arcanist stood before the Generator Crystal, the spell within flying out of control. Baelheit stepped into the hall quietly, trying to gain a strike undetected, but found himself flung back against the hallway wall by the forceful spell cast by the Orcish arcanist. “Pitiful whelp!” snarled the brutish creature, Baelheit was surprised it passed for a Mage of any kind. “Did you think yourselves invulnerable here? All are subject to the Iron Horde’s path of conquest!’ he laughed with an obvious confidence in his abilities. Baelheit was fairly confident in his as well, but no need to let the Orc know just how much. “I suppose you don’t care that you’ll die too when the City falls?” he asked as he rose against the wall. That only got the Orc to laugh. “An Honorable death!” he proudly cried, “And a glorious new chapter of conquest for the Iron Horde, Taking such a powerful enemy with us!’ His brown eyes almost shined with anticipation. “Our victory, will be legend!’ he announced. Baelheit didn’t respond. He had perhaps minutes left before the City began to fall, and he couldn’t restart the Rubric alone. Casting a quick eye against the Orcish arcanist, he focused upon the Crystal, so vital to Dalaran’s defenses. The Orc stood between he and it. He clutched his staff in both hands and feigned a charge, the Orc prepared, clearly quite content to let brawn settle what would be his final battle, but he never made contact, as the Human Archmage gad drawn his staff and began casting from both ends. A vast swath of magic poured from him, striking not the Orc, missing him entirely to strike the Crystal generator. The Orc turned his head, his eyes going wide as the Crystal began to glow, then glow brighter, and react faster than ever before, shaking the tiles of the floor, charging the air. “What are you…” the Orc Arcanist stuttered in dumbfounded awe, as the reactivated Crystal shot out a surge of raw mana, frying the Orc and Baelheit as well. The chamber grew blackened with char as the release of energy nearly incinerated the Citadel basement. Baelheit had to clutch his staff to stop himself from falling. The Orcs remains crumbled to the floor in a heap of cinders. He let out a harsh sigh, and crumbled to the floor himself.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            Baelheit awakened to find himself in a row of bodies. Some of which still drew breath, others, more somberly, blanketed to preserve them from sight. Laid out among the Magus commerce exchange were a line of wounded that stretched out of sight. Magi rushing about had more to concern themselves with than a groaning man sitting up in the rows. He got to his feet, his armored robes nearly scorched black, but he felt unharmed. He was almost out of the district before someone called his own name. “Archmage Baelheit!” Muzula cried in obvious shock and surprise, and he noted, a touch of relief. She ran up to him and took survey of his state. “We didn’t think you’d survive! When we found you in the Crystal room…” Baelheit wearily cut her off. “thank you, for your concerns, Muzula. But I’m alright.” he lied, “What’s the condition of Dalaran?” He had no idea he’d been out for, but from the looks of things, they’d won. How long that victory would last however remained to be seen. Muzula led him to the Violet Citadel, where he noted regretfully the sight of another two blanketed bodies being carried with the utmost respect from the Citadel, causing his eye to draw. Damon and the Inner-Council met him in the Council chamber, he was surprised to see no members of the council of Six present. “Verus.” The Chancellor said to him in greeting, there was little cause for celebration, they had come closer to defeat than any time during the war. “Damon, glad to see you’re still on your feet.” The Chancellor grimaced. “More than can be said for Modera and Karlain. Baelheit’s face blanched. The two he had seen carried out… “So who’s left?” he asked his old friend expectantly, though he already suspected his answer. “We are.” He said with a note of finality. “You’re on the Council now, Verus.” The Council of Six, he realized. The Highest Lords of Dalaran, what he had always wanted, and at such a terrible cost it had come at too.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            It was not long after the new Council of Six’s first meeting that Baelheit once again found himself heading towards his quarters. He had thought to tell his family of what had transpired. Of what he had done and how they had won. Of how The City had been invaded and how a War was growing that would likely continue to grow. He didn’t know how he could bear to tell him. His eyes drew upon the portrait of his beloved, departed wife as he entered the room. “Oh, Aya… What would you have me do?...” he wondered aloud, whispering the words to her as if she could hear him. Yet something was off. He turned his head to all corners of the room. “Rowan? Vera?” he called out. No response came to him, he closely regarded the room, Vera’s kitten wasn’t on her bed, it must still be with her. He called them out once more before casting a simple Scrying spell to locate them. They were not in his quarters, he realized with an overpowering feeling of dread. His Chambers were not directly in the path of the Invasion, but they could have been evacuated, he realized quickly. Hurrying out of his chambers, Baelheit set to the daunting task of visiting each evacuation shelter. Every time in inquired, he was disappointed, and the knot in his gut wound tighter. Every habitable building in the City was being used for the betterment of their defenses or the aid of the wounded, and he could find them in none. Even the vast Underbelly refuge was absent of any by their names or description. They were in Dalaran, he should be able to find them! As night began to fall, he found himself walking into the Magus Commerce exchange once more. There had been more wounded here, he remembered. So many who had been injured or lost, they drew here. The Archmage inquired, he searched and he scryed, and could find no trace of his children. They Mages and Doctors here were closing down for tonight, a roll of the recently deceased was being carried away. He watched somberly as he realized that not even the young had been spared the Orcish attack, when his eyes widened. A stuffed kitten, bloodied and battered lay beside the corpses. He felt a pain form inside of him that he had never known. “No.” His chest stiffened and his blood raced. He took a cautious step forward towards the rows. He refused to believe the possibilities that were creeping into his head. He began to breathe heavily, reaching a hand out as if pleading to the light that this would not be so. “No…” he said again, wracking emotion evident in his voice as night had fallen over the district. Tears welled in his eyes before he could control himself, but he did not want to. He was bare feet away now, and as he drew beside them, he fell to his hands and knees, crawling towards them in a futile attempt to defy fate. “No, Light. Oh, please no… Oh, no, Light. No, no, no, no…” The streetlamps came on over them.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">The mutilated corpses of Rowan and Vera Baelheit laid before him in the lane. “NOOOOOOO!!!” cried out their father in a fit of anguish to profound, he couldn’t find the sense to stop. He pounded his fists against the ground, thrust great waves of magic into the air, screaming in a maddened frenzy at the sight of his own children. “NO! NO! NO!” he screamed uncontrollably, enraged and grieving and a million other emotions crawling into his mind, all behind one. He had chosen to save Dalaran. “Did I do this?” came the thought shattering crystal clear into his mind like a razor’s blade. The tears flowed freely down his cheeks and would not stop, trembling with unmitigated loss and misery as he kneeled low beside the remains of his only family, head bowed so low his forehead touched the pavement, and tears matted his red hair with dust and debris.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            “It will work.” Verus Baelheit said in a voice so cold, so cleansed of emotion, it could have come from the Golems Guarding the Council chamber. Other Councilors kept a close track of the conversation. Each of them carried powerful magics within them. Magics years ago they would have openly condemned for their use, now they relied upon them for their continued existence. “Will it?’ Inquired another occupant of the room, his face shrouded. “Or will it only justify in your mind the resources you’ve sunk into this childish pursuit.” There was no witty retort, no vicious response. Only the cold certainty of logic. “It –will- work.” Baelheit stressed again the stars in his eyes evident for all to see in their darkness.”

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">The Council disbanded, each of them retreating to what districts of Dalaran suited best for their expertise. The Mage’s city had been transformed. There were no more refugees in Dalaran, only conscripts. Those were all they could afford to take on, so thinly pressed they were. Granted, their new abilities had certainly helped in lessening that burned, as Dalaran now drifted over land for the first time in nearly a year, they could wait no longer, lest they starve or die out in their City, away from the eyes of the World. The Ashenwastes were a center of activity for the Iron Horde, as the victorious Orcs stripped wood, oil, stone and fuel from the former ancient forest’s depths and chewed them up in their hungering war machines, the only solution to which would be more conquest. “We are ready, Archlord.” Came the familiar voice of Muzula, oddly calm and quiet in the face of their situation. “Then let us begin.” Said Baelheit as he took position. The Librarians of Dalaran stood arrayed with him upon the City’s western side. The shadow drifting over them was the precursor for the Orcs. But their true end came with Light. Baelheit extended his hand, sparks and points of light danced around it, a meager demonstration of his power. Of his blessing. “Of the Gods.” Was the last thought in his Mind as he leveled the Titanic relic downwards towards the wasteland. Blazing Light of Stars shone within the Platinum disk, the energy of creation had been harnessed. Now it was turned towards destruction as it shone down upon them with devastating wrath as a thousand lives were snuffed out as quickly as they had spawned. Their deaths made no difference to Baelheit, save that now there were less Orcs, and now they could collect what they needed to survive another day. Nothing but satisfaction in his mind as he descended from his position, knowing that he had granted Life to Dalaran today.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            The concept of Life was growing in Importance to the Archlord. If he could give life to a City, why could he not give life to those who deserved it. Why shouldn’t he give life to those who deserved it. Who could deny his right… “The Chancellor of the Kirin Tor approached him, his voice thick with Magics of blood. “it’s not enough.” He said grimly, his usual tone of voice. “No.” Baelheit agreed with him. “We’ll have to expand our operations.” He said calmly. The Chancellor did neither approve nor disapprove. “So long as the Iron Horde controls this world, it may never be enough.” He turned to leave then, leaving Baelheit with his thoughts and he turned his attention back to the Stars that he held in his hands. He knew better. He knew who really controlled this world.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            Everyone could feel the descent. After years of living in the Sky, the slightest rise and fall, the ebb and flow of the wind, the City’s inhabitants had grown quite adept. After years of bitter warfare, of an age of suffering and death, their time had run out.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">Dalaran was falling.

<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">It was not so dramatic as it had been all those years ago at the Violet Citadel, now so appropriately renamed the Blood Citadel for the Chancellor who dwelt within, but it would catch up to them all the same, and there was nowhere they could run, nowhere they could hide where the Iron Horde would not find them. The last battle of the War… and Baelheit’s work had only just begun. He stood within his sanctuary amidst the former Silver Enclave, now so augmented with Relics of the Titans, just as he was. His own body supplemented and transformed by their Lifegiving magics. Dalaran fell as the Iron Horde’s primal magics lured them down from the heavens, now bleak and grey like the rest of Azeroth. Overwhelming force had won out against their spells, but even had they not, they could not resist. The Rubric of Dalaran was failing, and none had the capacity to mend it. From his sanctum, he could see the Battlemagi and Soldiers, and Mage-General Vanidicus prepared for a final assault to the death. He could feel the undead stir within the Lair of DeVin, preparing for a final death amidst their many lives. And he could sense the anathema stir within the Underbelly where Lausten had made her asylum. Damon was distant to him these days, he suppose he could understand why. There wasn’t much to say. Every member of the Kirin Tor knew his or her orders, “Fight, Kill, survive.” Little else mattered. Except… He had visited him the Night before he left, the Councilor who had found their salvation. He remembered the words he had asked him… “What do you expect to find there?” he had asked, his colleague turned and replied, “I’m not sure, but it was not I who found them, Verus. They reached out to me. Dalaran is doomed, old friend. Look around, or hadn’t you noticed.” Baelheit did not laugh or begrudge him, calm under all circumstances, leaving the Councilor to continue. “Things can’t get any worse… if I die here, I won’t get a chance to try again. If I succeed… We all may have a chance to try again.” There were several mistakes Baelheit wouldn’t mind rectifying, so he nodded and bid him what could be his final farewell. “…To protect and serve Dalaran, Gehlnarine.” He said to the Councilor, who nodded before he entered his shimmering portal. “To protect and serve Dalaran.”

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            The Invasion began somewhat predictably, A barrage from the siege Engines, a makeshift ramp for the Iron Horde to ascend before they were patient enough to bring the City to earth. Orcs were climbing over the walls before the Cities defenses were properly arrayed. The forces of Dalaran were great, but the Numbers of the Iron Horde were legion. Twisting Nether energies wailed and Blood erupted from the sores of every Orc, but it was not enough, and before long, the Inner Council found itself mounting a Final defense at the Heart of the City. A tide of Darkness I Orcish flesh closed in around them, The Cosmic energy in Baelheit’s body joined with the others to exact their final vengeance, to destroy themselves and many as they could. The Orcs closed in… and the Air shimmered as a portal emerged. Like a saving angel from heaven, a figure stepped out and addressed them… “Beyond this portal lies salvation…”

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">            The Land was cracked and red, but the sky… it was as bright and blue as Baelheit remembered it. The Blasted Lands stretched out before him, the squalor of Demons doing little to affect the impact it had upon him. Nethergarde keep loomed in the distance, challenging any to take the Mighty fortress. It was a humbling reminder of how far they had come, of how unprepared they had been for the horrors to come. Words were short, hands were clasped and missions were stated. They had a second chance now, it would not do to waste it. The Mages of the Inner Council dispersed to accomplish their Individual tasks, but Baelheit lingered for a moment. Something about this place elicited a feeling from him he could not quite touch upon… a feeling he had no use for, and dismissed with a passing gesture. This world was clean, touched by the corruption yet to come, but not despoiled. There was hope here… Hope had to be crushed, stomped out. Hope had no place against the Iron Horde. There was power yet left in this world to salvage the future, as somewhere in this blissfully ignorant world, there was an Aya Avernus who yet lived… and her Children… He teleported himself away. The familiar cold of the Storm peaks brushed against him, he welcomed it like a long lost cloak. This world still had guardians, this world had defenders. This world had Gods.

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">“Time they met their new one.”

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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin;mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin">And high above, the stars shone generously upon Azeroth.

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Jaine Rosenthal
Day 18

"Mooove!" Jaine whipped her head around to hear Vanidicus shouting. "Fall back!" she was actually shocked to hear the words coming from Vanidicus's mouth, it was almost mortifying. Jaine sighed and cut through another orc with her sword, she began to retreat like he had commanded, she searched around, trying to find anyone she knew, but she only found dead bodies and armored figures clashing with each other. She kept running, but she stopped when she was slashed at repetitively by an Orcish Warrior, she twirled around and unleashed a large bolt of fire unto him. Her usual kindess hadn't showed recently, ever since the Iron Horde invaded and her daughter Sandra was slain when she had followed Jaine into battle without her realizing. Jaine had used her anger to fuel her battle technique, and it showed when she was killing more than she usually would on the battle-field. Jaine despised the Horde before, but with the loss of her daughter it only drove hatred even more, killing the orcs didn't bring her daughter back to life, but it helped with the pain of loosing her daughter. Jaine looked around, Duskwood wasn't recognizable anymore, it looked like a burning warzone filled with seige engines, dead bodies, fallen trees, and fighting everywhere. She kept running, it was all she could do, Almost there... almost there... she thought to herself. Out of nowhere a flaming boulder crashing onto the ground, it missed her, but the soldiers behind her weren't as fortunate as she was. She heard someone yelling, "Nathul! Where're the shields!" her head looked toward the voice, it was Vanidicus again, "Someone! Jaine?!" she ran towards him, but by the time she was halfway to the hill he was on he shouted, “Get back everyone! Get to th’portals! Back t’Stormwind!” Jaine watched as the Alliance Soldiers that were close to the portals retreated into them, and as they were closed one by one she suddenly found herself alone with the dead and the orcs. The orcs weren't focused on her, so she quickly slipped away into a small cave she was shocked to see what she had found. A female gnome was crying over the corpse of male gnome, she looked up to see Jaine enter the small cavern. It appeared as though they had been here for a while, a small fire, makeshift bedding, and empty rations were the only things that were evidence of this. Jaine felt a wave of pity rush over her, she created a portal to Stormwind and pleaded that the gnome come with her, and finally with a sniffle, the gnome left the corpse and followed Jaine into the portal to Stormwind. There they saw the city, preparing for war... Jaine comforted the gnome, promising to stay with her until she was called upon by Vanidicus, her commanding officer. "My name is Jaine, what's your name?" the gnome wiped the tears from her eyes, "My name is Mikri... Thank you..."

Day 32

Jaine and Mikri quickly raised up their arms, a violet barrier spread around themselves and the civilians, "Donnovan! Get the innocents to the evac-zone over in the graveyard, me and Mikri will hold up the defense!" with her command an Alliance soldier took the citizens and rushed off from the Trade District. A place once bustling with people and merchants was now reduced to a war torn line of defense against the Iron Horde. The Alliance and Kirin Tor Magi were putting up quite the fight against them, but they already breached the Valley of Heroes, it was hard to navigate through however, this was the Alliance's only advantage over the Iron Horde. These days, Jaine couldn't get any sleep at all, most thought that she considered sleep to be a waste of precious time, but that wasn't true... the fact of the matter was that she was terrified to sleep... fearing the Iron Horde to come at any time, unfortunately, she was right. She shook herself awake, trying to keep the barrier up so that the orcs couldn't break through the line. A human woman shouted at Jaine, "Wake up! We need the barrier stationary, I can't keep healing every soldier that gets injured because it's not in place!" Jaine reinforced the barrier with her magic, "Sorry Svari!" Svari Darninghale was her adoptive niece, ever since the death of her husband Theorius, she has been rough on the soldiers. The Kingdom of Prosperity, which was a guild dedicated to bringing peace to Azeroth, was taken over by Svari when their leader Damara Windfist was killed when the Iron Horde first invaded, ever since the guild's purpose was to send out rations, supplies, and healers to the soldiers who needed them. Jaine couldn't believe that they were actually starting to hold them back, then she realized that they were actually retreating. The soldiers of the Alliance cheered, Jaine however... figured something was off, just as she was about to report to Vanidicus, her suspicions were confirmed when a soldier suddenly shouted, "GRONN!"

Day 79

Jaine, Mikri, Bruce, Alina, and Saelyla watched from the roof of Stormwind Keep in sadness as they saw the districts be destroyed one by one. The Trade District was almost completely destroyed by Gronn attacks, the only noticable object there were the buildings that suprisingly stood and the statue of Alleria Windrunner that had been used as the Iron Horde's ammunition. The Mage District's tower had crashed to the ground yesterday, as did the Cathedral of Light's Steeple. There's no point in trying to retake Stormwind now, Jaine thought to herself. She gazed around at the districts, the Dwarven District, Old Town, and Stormwind Keep were the only places that weren't overrun with the Iron Horde, but they all knew that it soon would be, if not today, then tomorrow... only about a hundred soldiers remained in Stormwind, and Jaine wasn't about to be one of the ones who stayed. Going down there would've been suicide, going anywhere near them would've been suicide. Fighting began breaking out again at one of the blockades, Jaine saw Vanidicus down there, fighting... she wanted to help, but she knew she had to protect her own, so she did. She decided to finally let go of the past, she had to focus on the present, and the future. As Jaine created the portal, and allowed the others to step through it first, she wondered... should she really do this? Risk her life with a bunch of strangers she had met after the invasion of the Iron Horde... or risk her life with her friends, knowing she could die from it, Jaine was no coward, but there was no turning back now... as she stepped through the portal, she looked back, "I'm sorry Vanidicus... Light help you..."

Day 232

Jaine walked through the streets of Dalaran with Mikri, they both wore long cloaks and cowls, they didn't want to draw attention to themselves anymore than they had to. The Dalaran Jaine once knew was gone... she couldn't stand to live here anymore, if it weren't crucial to her survival, she would've left with Mikri a long time ago, everything when downhill when the Iron Horde found their base camp, Saelyla and Bruce didn't make it out of attack with their lives, if it weren't for Mikri, Jaine never would've survived the attack either. Jaine hadn't seen Svari since the Iron Horde used Alleria to break through the barricades, and she hadn't seen Alina since they first entered Dalaran and she was taken into questioning. Dalaran had changed so much... she was surprised that there were finally districts, compared to having a simple Commerce Exchange and a few districts to the Alliance and the Horde like before. The districts had no names, but Jaine labeled them in her mind based on what they were like... A district led by Zanbor Emerson was the only one she could possibly stand, Nethermancy was a common practice here. Nethermancy. Strange that they violated the rules of Dalaran like that... though, it was probably Arranax Devin who violated them first. Arranax's district was the opposite of Zanbor's, dark, scary, depressing, like some kind of physical manifestation of Jaine's tortured soul. Unlike Zanbor's district, Arranax's district is more fond of the practice of Necromancy. Jaine couldn't believe it, even after seeing it with her own eyes. Baelheit's district was another one... Baelheit. She hadn't seen him since before the invasion of the Iron Horde, she wanted to see him, but she didn't know what he would say to her after her resignation from the Kirin Tor, she kind of figured that his district would have titan relics and architecture. The last district she'd seen was Vorien's district, the blood elven district, Jaine didn't like the lingering feeling of fel energy in the air, so she didn't enter here much. The Violet Citadel had changed too, it had become Damon's personal area, the Blood Citadel... Jaine never even went close to the Blood Citadel. When she first entered the city again, she never entered any areas other than Zanbor and Baelheit's districts, but nowadays she entered the districts she was allowed in and didn't ask questions. Mikri sighed and looked to Jaine, "I miss the way things used to be, before all this..." Jaine sighed, "Me too." Mikri looked around, "Do you think this world will ever change for the better?" Jaine looked distracted, yet she still answered, "The world won't change on it's own, but... when opportunity doesn't open a door for you, build one..."

Aya Avernus
Thick pillars of smoke retreated into the distant sky, fleeing the withering flames which restlessly plagued the husks of what had once been homes and places of commerce. As hcollected about the ruins like a blanket of grey, broken only by a casual breeze which carted rolling waves of debris into the rapidly dimming recesses of what had once been her town. Mistvale had been scarred with the disfiguring mark of war, and she knew it well; a great many fought behind her walls in a last stand that marked the proper fall of Gilneas. The Headlands had been painted under a similar palette, a barren wasteland that had been consumed in the absence of any contenders. That the Iron Horde arrived so quickly was perhaps the only reason that it had all been so well preserved, though the notion made the sight of it all no less disconcerting.

In her state of undeath, Aya felt nothing. She recognized the sickening crunch of her boots against the disheveled pavestones which had once uniformly lined the streets, but not the struggle they waged against her weight. She did not percieve the latent heat within the air, for she knew only a perpetual cold not unlike numbness. It was in this manner that her trek felt almost dreamlike; a perverse reality within which even the faintest spark of life had been abashed.

Such was the extent of my 'gift, she thought to herself. It had been the desperate actions of her husband that wrested her away from a true death, a touching sentiment she resented all the more for the torment it wrought upon her heart. Aya lifted a skeletal hand, watching several writhing tendrils of fadeflame take on a light all their own. That too had become a mockery of all that it had once been, for the very spark - their flame, as it had been remembered - had also faded from their world.

Yet, she came not to remnisce on the fallen. For the first time in her unlife, Aya returned with a purpose.

Before her, an archway extended ever-upwards, flanked by ramparts that once defended Mistvale from those who would do it harm. Much to her surprise, the oaken gates were nowhere to be found; they had been sealed with a runic inscription, movable only by those who wielded specific keystones. Just as it had been with the rest of her town, she found no remains - merely scraps of armour and discarded weapons, some of which stained with the gore of the owners they once protected. Beyond them once resided her forests, now similarly ruined and littered with the remains of all that stood within.

"There is no requiem for all that falls where the eye does not see, only the bleak, lonely existence of hope and sundered dreams grasping for a time that will never come." Aya said aloud, careless as to the volume of her voice with knowledge of her dreadful solitude.

It was not far from her current vantage that she lost her life, a memory that dominated her mind as her greatest mistake. A time where, in her weakness, she allowed herself to fall when others needed her most - on numerous occasions did she try to come to terms with the ordeal, but nothing offered the reconciliation she so desperately needed; it had all been her fault, and she now looked upon the cost her people payed because of it.

It was all like a not-so-distant memory...

'''Verus...' Aya thought to herself, gripping Tyir's hilt in preparation to retaliate against the ring of Orcs that unified against her. They converged slowly, a pack of hunters stalking their prey, eyes alight with murd'rous intent. Many boasted baleful axes with serrated edges, composed of a material dense enough to sunder armour; they were a horror t obe avoided, a prospect complicated further by the inherent heft of her Aegis. Faint exhaustion tugged at her limbs, taxing her muscles in a searing pain with which she had become well-accustomed. One by one, they fell upon her, each toppling in a flash of steel and a lingering haze of mists. They were fond of her strength, she noted, but clumsy; mere grunts before the host yet to come. Aya conserved her energy as best she could for that purpose, knowing the worst was ahead of them.''

She spurred herself forwards, moving into the sea of stumps and scorched wood in search of something - the very threads that drew her back to so forsaken a place.

''"Feed the Mists! They run red with the blood of monsters!" Aya jeered, evoking a furious howl and reckless charge out of an Orc that had been previously harrassing one of her healers. She disposed of him deftly, leaving herself extended in an exact exit from the blow she had just dealt, erring once she heard him hit the ground - one half, then the other. The tides grew denser even in spite of her best effort, but her display of combative prowess intimidated her opponents; they attacked her less often than her soldiers, and only in groups. In many ways, she was thankful for the reprieve - but kept on edge, as every moment passed meant another man had fallen to the Iron Horde. It was a slow battle of attrition, and they were losing.''

''Her period of thought was broken by a jarring strike, halted by a timely spell. Startled and frustrated with hersef, her riposte dropped him, too. ''

With every step, the ash grew thinner, as did the smoke. Only in absence thereof did she notice just how thick the haze had actually become, though it held little effect on her thoughts or well-being. She drew Tyir from its surrogate sheath, the blade a mere collection of fragments sustained in the likeness of it's former self by means of a spell. She was close... Very close.

''Pain. Red, bone rotting pain, a sensation that never ceased to take her by surprise when it came crashing down upon her body like a cold splash of water. Her healers had been slain, both delivered from life via precise slashes across their necks - Assassins which, in sight of Aya, deigned to remove the Gilnean figurehead from the ordeal. Their ruse would have worked, were it not for a hidden enchantment in Tyir's blade; shielded from harm, she dispatched them with no small measure of dismay. It was nothing permanent, however, and as her shield fled, she found herself pierced at the front by a spear. She gripped at the wooden shaft, pulling one final change from deep within; siezing the Orc between her lupine paws, she wrenched until his neck gave a sickening pop, leaving her to fall to the blood-soaked ground. Just as quickly as she had assumed her Worgen guise, it departed, leaving her to pull the spear from her abdomen; already she felt the chill of death creeping into her limbs, bringing resignation of a fate she now knew to be unavoidable. Warm red blood melded with that of those around her, collecting upon her ruined tabard and matting it to cuirass. She watched, ever weakening, as the distant spellwork of her colleagues forced the Orcish swarm into recession. Her only thought, if for the moment, was relief.''

''She quickly lost track of time, drifting closer and closer to the brink; it was a harrowing feeling, but eerily full of acceptance. It was, perhaps, that she knew resistance was a futile endeavour which gave her such fortitude, heartened by the notion that her death might not be in vain. It was then that Verus came to her side, a blur only until he held her in his arms. She lifted a mailed fist to his shoulder, using it as an anchor whilst she peered into his eyes for the last time.''

''"Verus..." She whispered, a tear streaking her bloodstained cheek. Her runic markings glimmered faintly, dimming with the ebb of life in her body. "I'm... sorry..."''

"No, no, hush now. We need...- you to the healers!"

''She started to protest, her hearing beginning to dim, but was cut short by a wave of pain. She cried out involuntarily, inwardly embarrassed by the outburst. With her free hand, she conjured a spark of Fadeflame, the spell itself visibly weakened. "Verus... our flame... don't let it..."''

''Aya was interrupted by another surge of pain, bringing with it the realization that her next words would be her last. She felt a pang of remorse enter her heart, thoughtful as to the turmoil her husband was facing at so squallid a sight; she had the grace of becoming acquainted with her end, but they did not share a mind. In her final moments, she wished for nothing more than to see him happy, to... pass on at peace, knowing that he would for both of them just as she had at his side. ''

"Don't... let it..."

''The cold grew so intense, she no longer had control over her body. It remained rooted in the position she left it, already stilling.''

''".. Die... out..." ''

''A smile touched her lips, fading as her vision turned to darkness. His face was the last thing she saw, followed by a warmth that momentarily reminded her of his embrace. The one they used to share. The one that comforted her in times of stress, and warmed her in times of peace. In that moment... she had her wish.''

''"Verus, thank you. And... I'm... sorry." Echoed her final thought, and then all was still.''

Aya paused before a clearing between five gnarled stumps, waving her skeletal hand through the air, almost as if she could feel the threads for which she had searched so long into the evening, or so she guessed; the time of day was imperceptible behind a constant hue of red, streaked with the darkness of distant fires. Through the assurances of instinct, she cast a long-winded spell, opening a portal to forests much like those she walked in life. Before that doorway lay an Aya who yet lived, and in that moment, the Viscountess thought she saw a way.

She would make the most of her sacrifice in preparing them, in... changing the future. For Gilneas... for her family.

For the future.