Well there you have it, the first revised chapter of Chosen by Shadow. This also means that the previous version will be taken down. Big thanks to the readers and I hope you will like this just as much.
I'm aware of the fact that this timeline does not entirely follow the one in game. So there will be a bigger timespan between WoW and BC in this story
Enjoy people
Disclaimer: I do not own World of Warcraft, even though Merrilynn was my own creation. But helas, she and the game, still belong to Blizzard.
Azeroth in time of peace is a truly wonderful sight. It's so calm, serene and the people generally go about their own business. If you saw most cities now, you would never guess the horrors and the bloodshed that happened not long ago.
Though survivors smile now it is bittersweet, tinged with memories of how they have lost friends and family in the war. Twenty years ago, most of the Eastern Kingdoms were tainted by a plague. Towns were erased, cities ransacked and the world was on the verge of destruction. The culprit behind all this terror and pain became widely known by the name of the Burning Legion. The plague murdered families, and once it had passed, the sorcerers of the Legion came to resurrect them as slaves. Many a time, a surviving father saw his family coming after him, their flesh already rotting. Often those that witnessed their own kin serving the enemy took their own lives. So they would not have to face the living nightmare anymore. This only added more bodies to the Legion's horrific host of unliving abominations.
Facing such an army of undead, mankind was desperate. Prince Arthas of Lordareon had gone in search of something, anything to stop this force of advancing. And in doing so, he too became a slave of the Lich King, one of the most powerful officers of Sargeras, the Legion's commander. The prince betrayed all of his kin, murdered his father and the people he had once vowed to protect. It was a harsh blow and the few survivors fled to Kalimdor, carrying the plague with them.
There seemed to be no more hope for the spread out races of Azeroth. Some did not even know of the other's existence until refugees arrived at their doorstep, pleading for mercy. There was much disagreement between them, but if they were to survive, they had to unite. Temporarily forming a pact, they worked together and drove the endless armies of the Legion back toward the hellish portal they came from. When victory was at hand, the strongest spell casters destroyed the portal, hoping to prevent anything from coming out ever again.
To this day, the Dark Portal is still an area avoided by all but the most wretched and devoted followers of the Legion, devising plans to enable the return of their dark masters to Azeroth. The once beautiful marshland was now no more than a barren desert, filled with the scars of war and a painful memory that cannot be forgotten. It was named the Blasted Lands for more than one reason.
After the Great War, the pact remained, though frail between some of the races. With exception of those that followed in the footsteps of the first druid Malfurion Stormrage, the two major allegiances did not mix well. There was the Alliance, and there was the Horde, differing greatly from one another not only in appearance, but in actions as well.
When one spoke of the Horde, they either meant the cannibalistic Troll, the brutish Orc, the bulky Tauren or the deceitful Forsaken. The latter; being creations of the Burning Legion despite blessed with a will of their own by the late Sylvanas Windrunner, did not help them to a position of utter trust within their Faction. Not to mention the smell of rot and decay that followed them around was hard to ignore, even for an Orc.
According to the Alliance, the Horde didn't mind a bit of interracial mixing and had a brain the size of a peanut. True, they lived in primitive huts and did not pass judgement upon mixed couples like most of the Alliance do, but they were by no means dumb. Accustomed to a simple life they desired nothing more. Living in balance with nature was what most of them thrived.
Elves, Humans, Dwarves and Gnomes formed the Alliance. Supported by the technological brilliance of the Gnomes and the ingenuity of dwarven builders, the Alliance was proud of their big and advanced cities. The Horde often shook their head when they walked by the majestic structures. Yes, the cities were magnificent, and the devices Gnomes invented were ingenious, but the cities were an unmoving target and the gnomish inventions more often than not rather put their creator in mortal peril than serve their actual purpose.
The Alliance, again with the exception of the druids, and for once the Night Elves as well, also lived a wasteful short life with no respect at all for nature. They often ignored the call of the elements and went their own merry way, not seeing the harm they did to their surroundings.
However, by some unknown miracle, the pact held for years and neutral cities arose from the rubble. Places where those who wished could live among each other and did not have to fear for their lives - all underneath the watchful eyes and, as some people say, one-sided trade laws of the keen-witted money-loving Goblins.
Once the dust of war fully lifted, they finally saw the full scale of the destruction. The north of the Eastern Kingdoms would remain plagued forever. Undead still roamed there and the Alliance fought there daily to free the lands of the plague forever and once again live in their beloved cities, hoping against hope for the land to grow fertile again. Lordareon now home of devilish Forsaken and Stratholme still burns. The great mage tower of Dalaran had been pulverized. But from the ashes the survivors were rebuilding it, protecting their city with a shield of impenetrable magic. And Stormwind, one of the last keeps that had remained standing in the Eastern Kingdoms was rampaged. But the damage could be overcome.
Four years after the war, while the smaller cities still recovered from their wounds, it once again flourished. For its surroundings, Stormwind city shone like a beacon of light: And from there out new hope reached its surroundings. Elwynn forest became a lush green place again and once the villages were back on their feet, the whole area began to grow. Eastvale was no longer a small logging camp. More houses had been built, roads paved and the Murlocs and other possible threats had been either removed or controlled.
In this very village lived a Night Elf. This was a quite uncommon sight, for the Elves had a distaste for the in their opinion lesser races. They preferred to keep to themselves and their tranquil tree homes in Kalimdor. But there were those who were intrigued by the short lifespan of Humans, and sought out to live among them.
After all, Humans were sometimes reckless with their short life in hopes of reaching immortality in books and tales. But an Elf, who had quite a long life to lose, was more cautious, until the need was there for him to defend that which he held so dear. Ironically, Elves gained more fame that way than the humans who sought it by other means. This caused more friction between the once immortal Night Elves and the other races.
But you would never find an Elf living in the cities of Dwarves or Gnomes. Not only was most housing too small for the tall Elves, it also cut them off from the sky and nature they so love.
The name of this Elf was Treon Weaderin. The reason he had left his home in the trees went by the name of Manja. They had met many years ago in the midst of war. Both still wore their scars with pride, knowing that it could have cost them so much more than a little bit of flesh. Treon was notorious in the army, known mostly for his great tracking skills and the havoc he and his pet tiger Peach wreaked in the enemy ranks. What he didn't kill with his arrow, Peach was surely to hunt down with her claws.
They had once gotten in over their heads, and Treons long life would have ended had it not been for Manja. Her magic powers were considered lethal at least and her knowledge of potion making was still often requested. She had seen the oncoming storm of enemies towards the hunter and his beast and promptly summoned a hail storm. The two were not harmed, but the enemy was slaughtered by either cold or the ice that fell down at great speed.
However, Manja had let her own guard down and was swept from the ground by one of the enemy's spell casters. Treon, knowing well who had saved his hide made quick work of the threat before much harm came to the mage. It was an event neither would easily forget. Since both nearly paid for it with their life. Cooperation followed, and once the war was over, and emotions were once again celebrated, so was love. Manja gave birth to a little girl not long after. Naming her Merrilynn, they knew that no matter what, they would love and cherish her.
At the age of nine, Merrilynn first learned grief. Her father's trustworthy tiger perished, old age taking her life after years of battle. As the girl grew, her ears started to grow slightly bigger than a human's, the shell not round, but pointed like her father's. Though she had purple eyes, they shone a faint silver in the dark, emphasizing the fact that she was not entirely human. She was very aware that this fact made most villagers uncomfortable. 'Halfbreed' was often muttered behind her back as she walked through the city. But she cared not. She was proud of her parents and proud to be their daughter, no matter what race they were. They were after all, heroes of the third war. Who was not proud of such a fact?
Here our story begins, twenty years after Arthas' betrayal.