Along the forested trails of the Hillsbrad Foothills, the usual sound of birds chirping and animals grazing was interrupted by the loud clatter of armors and weapons, the "clip-clop" of hooves, the grinding gears of the mechanostriders, and the silent steps of padded paws. Blue banners, bearing the golden outline of a lion's face, roaring, were scattered among the group, as well as red banners of crossed hammers, and purple flags of a glaive and arrows before a shield. They marched for war, not for the lands of the undead north of the Hillsbrad Foothills, no. Instead, their destination was a frozen valley, reached by a tunnel north of Southshore, a fishing village within the foothills. In that frozen valley, the Alliance would fight the Horde, in that valley the blood of many would be spilled. With the Cataclysm upon them, old grudges had resurfaced, and the uneasy cooperation that the Alliance and Horde shared while combating the Lich King now returned to open warfare, and that valley was one of the many battlegrounds of their never ending war. The valley's name was Alterac. It was the Alterac Valley, where the dwarves of the Stormpike Guard fought against the orcs of the Frostwolf Clan, the dwarves seeking artifacts of their ancient race, and the orcs defending their homes. Both the Alliance and the Horde have taken an interest in this conflict, and have sent forces to reinforce their respective allies. This massive group of armed men and women were of the Alliance, and within this group sat a black haired man, upon a demon horse. The horse's mane was of fire, the rider's hands seemingly uncaring of the flame's caress, its body covered in dark, reddish scales, and burning eyes. It's rider bobbed up and down, relatively alone amongst the group, not talking to his fellow man. His robes were a dark green, the color of fel fire, black lines crossed its surface, and on his face was a black beard, and above that, green eyes that just stared down upon his gloved hands. A simple sword of steel graced his side, while pouches filled with various items covered his black belt. His hair was long enough to cover the back of his neck, and forehead, though was parted in the middle. This man was a warlock, quite obvious to the others around him, his demonic steed giving it away. This man, left alone by both his kind and society. Society abandoned for his profession, and his ilk for forsaking their cult like gatherings. This man's name happened to be Gilashand, though most people either called him Gil, or Gilas. He had been drafted into this war, and was just remembering the details. I'd just been walking along the trade district of Stormwind, and out of nowhere, some man came out yelling at me, Gilashand complained to himself. He started yelling at me about being drafted into the army. I remember his exact words, he thought bitterly. "You there, you have been drafted into the glorious army of the Alliance! These are the direct orders of King Varian Wrynn, and anyone who does not comply will be treated as a traitor." Gilashand continued to pay no attention, and merely let his horse walk, guided along by the others, merely following the group. The warlock looked to his side, into the glare of a Night Elf, his glowing eyes seeming to stare daggers into him, his purple face seemingly stuck forever in a look of disdain, as the large white tiger that he rode on padded away along. Gilashand sighed, looking away, and instead up ahead. In front of him, a few riders away, was a clustered group of warlocks, quietly murmuring amongst themselves, quieted whispers revealing nothing of the subject they spoke of. Gilashand sighed, reaching for the hood of his robe, pulling it over his face. This is going to be a very long trip.