The world of Azeroth teetered on the brink of destruction.
The proud Alliance kingdoms of Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas burned and decayed as they were choked by the undead Scourge and their Burning Legion masters. The humans had been the first to fall, their farmland and roving forests been rotted away by the fallen prince Arthas Menethil, indoctrinated to the will of the Lich King. The high elf lands were next to fall, its regal inhabitants facing extinction as they struggled without their precious Sunwell. The revered paladin Uther the Lightbringer. The wise archmagus Antonidas. The Silvermoon king Anasterian Sunstrider. Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner. Even his own father, King Terenas II. All were laid before the death knight's feet, their corpses consumed and repurposed by the dead. Their spirits and many others were trapped within the cursed Frostmourne, damned to eternal enslavement for as long as it remained.
Farther south, the remaining human kingdom of Stormwind and its dwarven ally Ironforge readied its defenses and sent aid to any surviving Alliance forces in the Lordaeron-Quel'Thalas area. However, with the loss of Lordaeron, Silvermoon, and Dalaran, the resistance movement to take back the lost land was now a struggle to blockade the undead from advancing any farther down. Only Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, and Gilneas survived. The former cities were out at sea and out of reach from the Scourge, and the latter held back the undead with the enormous wall erected by Genn Greymane and the arrival of the mysterious worgen skulking the Silverpine countryside. Lordaeron was lost, and the humans' only chance for survival was to the west.
Obeying the final order of her teacher, the young magus Jaina Proudmoore led a force of Kul Tiras and forces from other kingdoms across the sea as a mysterious prophet had warned. The sea proved to be just as unrelenting as the Scourge, with Jaina and her soldiers facing threats from pirates, storms, naga, and the Maelstrom itself. Against immense odds and decreasing morale, the Alliance survivors reached the ancient land of Kalimdor. They had made landfall on a small island off the coast of an enormous marshland, fog and trees caking the land. Rain fell from the dreary grey sky, providing a bittersweet welcome for the new arrivals. Despite this, the Alliance survivors were tired and low on supplies. The island would operate as a temporary haven for the time being. At least until they had accumulated enough supplies to continue to more accommodating lands.
A makeshift camp had been made in a small clearing on the island, between a large cluster of trees and a small cave nearby. The peasants worked diligently to harvest lumber and rock. While the work was tough, the cool rain falling onto their faces made the work bearable. Some of the lumber had been fashioned into a pen to hold the animals in. The beasts had been cooped up inside the hull of the transport ship for so long that Jaina felt them deserving of a reprieve. The cows, pigs, sheep, and chickens were eager to stretch their legs and take in the fresh swamp air. Infantrymen were gathered around their tents and fires, discussing amongst themselves the fate of their homeland and what had brought them to such a mysterious land.
Jaina stood along the edge of the island, watching the treeline on the horizon. The mage couldn't even begin to imagine what it was the prophet had in store for them here. She could not deny the enormous power she had felt resonate off of him when he had spoken to Arthas and Antonidas, but the odds had been enormously stacked against her with no plan of her own. With most of the human kingdoms back home having been destroyed and no way to contact the surviving ones, the young woman had no backup and barely a plan. Uther and Antonidas were dead, and her beloved Arthas had befallen to the Scourge. Her heart ached for them as well as for her father back home. Were he here with her, they would have more concrete structure in this desperate gamble. But he was not, and she was left alone to cobble together a plan while voyaging blindly through this forgotten land. Jaina's specialty was magic, not politics or warfare. And now she found herself in a spot where she needed both desperately.
Father, I wish I had your wise counsel. I can conjure spells, incinerate the undead, and teleport across great spans. But leading an army? This is too much… I wish you were here, Father. Antonidas. Uther. Arthas…
"Lady Proudmoore?" The mage turned to face the soldier at her side, saluting her. Clad in simple plate armor with blue furnishing, like the rest of the Lordaeron units. She gave him a smile and nodded, thankful to have her thoughts of Arthas interrupted.
"At ease, soldier," she said, running a finger along her chin. "Forgive me. I didn't catch your name. I've been preoccupied of late." She gave an awkward chuckle. The Kirin Tor had fostered great magical prowess within her. Not much in the way of people skills.
"So have we all, ma'am," the soldier said. "Commander Halford Wyrmbane. Anything I can do to be of assistance?"
"Some conversation would be nice," Jaina said hopingly.
"I can assist you in that regard," Halford said. "Unsure how good I'll be. Not much of a conversationalist."
"Well, I'm not much of a leader, so I guess we're both out of our element," Jaina joked. The two shared a brief laugh and gazed out at the treeline. The haze of fog hung along the horizon like a spectre. Hardly anything could be made out through the misty curtain.
"Kalimdor," Halford said. "Not quite what I was expecting."
"I had imagined the homeland of the high elves to look a lot less dreary," Jaina confessed. Not even remotely did it resemble the great Eversong Woods. Lacking even a spec of color that wasn't some drab muted green or sludgy brown. "I suppose a lot can change in ten thousand years."
"The high elves don't seem to recognize this place," Halford said. "Spoke with some of them on arrival, and they say their ancestors spoke of large colorful forests of green and purple."
"Seeing a lot of the green," Jaina joked. "Although, it's a rather… it's certainly a type of green, I will say that." The mage wrinkled her nose as though the green elicited some foul odor.
"Heh. Right," Halford replied. "Forgive me for saying so, ma'am, but I don't like this place. All this fog and the eerie silence. And I hate not knowing what we're up against." A soldier's greatest weapon was his sight. Metaphorically speaking. The faint traces of white beyond the borders of their island reminded him of ghosts. And Halford had obtained his fill of undead back in Lordaeron.
"Fear not, Commander," Jaina said. "We won't be staying here for too long. Just here to gather supplies, and we'll sail further north along the coast." That was the plan, anyway. "Have our scouts reported anything?"
"It's marshland as far as the eye can see," Halford stated simply. "Spotted a few crocolisks and spiders, but no wild game to hunt. And very few edible plants save for some roots and tubers." The mage let out a glum sigh.
You sure picked the place to set up camp, Jaina, she thought to herself.There would be little benefits to garner from in this strange land, it seemed. "How are our remaining food rations?"
"About a month's worth of supplies," Halford said. "Even with the livestock taken into account. Don't suppose you could just conjure up some bread and water."
"If things become desperate, such a thing can be done," Jaina said. "But conjured food is nowhere near as nutritious as actual prepared food. We'd be fed but receive no protein or vitamins. We'd grow weak."
"A weak army is no army," Halford said. "I'll order the scouts to double their efforts." The sound of someone clearing their throat reached their ears, coming from behind. The two turned, the top of a head appearing on the bottom edge of their eyes. Jaina looked down and saw a dwarven priest wearing white and orange robes with matching shoulderpads and gloves. A long white beard hung from his face and a ponytail on the back of his head.
"Madame Proudmoore," the priest said with a bow. His accent was quite gruff to the ears, but a calming aura resonated within his thick accent.
"Greetings, High Priest," she said while offering a bow. The old dwarf merely chuckled, slapping his knee.
"Please," he said. "Just "Rohan" will do. None a fan a' them fancy titles. We done finished th' chapel. Or at least that's wot we call 'er." High Priest Rohan had been the top practicing and oldest priest trainer in Ironforge, having been deployed to Lordaeron to quell the Scourge threat. The old dwarf had found himself in over his head, even with his holy magic at work. While he could not admit it out of the need to preserve his dwarven pride, Lordaeron was a losing battle. The fight against the Scourge could not have been won here. So when Jaina had begun scouring the Lordaeron coastlines for survivors, Rohan rounded up his fellow clergymen and sailed for Kalimdor.
"Very good, Rohan," Jaina said with a smile. "The men could use a good morale boost."
"The Light will lead us to victory in this land," Halford said staunchly.
"Amen, brother," Rohan said. A second dwarf stepped up, falling in line beside Rohan. He had blue goggles and a long black beard. A keg of gunpowder was strapped to his back, and a clipboard sat in his hand.
"Lady Proudmoore," he said. "We did sum explorin' ah' th' nearby mine."
"What did you find, foreman?" Jaina asked.
"She be a sparse one," the foreman. "We reckon we'll git a day's supplies out of 'er fore she dries up."
"And how well are we doing on stone currently?" she asked.
"Nary a lot," the foreman said. "Nah way we can make a fortress out of our meager supplies."
"Damn," Jaina cursed. "We'll need to find another mine."
"I'll sent scouts on it right away, ma'am," Halford said, saluting before marching off.
"Well, keep digging up what you can," Jaina said. The foreman nodded before turning and waddling back to his mine. "As for you, Rohan…." She scratched her head as she thought over orders. "Eh, have yourself a mug of ale." He pumped his fists into the air victoriously.
"Fantastic idea, lassie!" the priest cheered. Jaina held a hand to her mouth, a soft giggle slipping out.