"War does pass a cup from man to man so that he may drink. And the just accept it gladly and they are warmed. And the implacable grab for it roughly and behold, they are scorched."

-Medivh, Aphorisms

"All roads lead."

-Velen

--

Streams of snow whipped around the pines that clustered in the valley. In the blizzard these trees were diminished to wavering smudges, and the sun itself was a pool of soft, pale fire beyond the wall of mountains that sealed the valley in. It was the harshest storm seen in years, rough even for a land as inescapably rugged as Dun Morogh. Sight was obscured and hearing muffled, and so even the troggs retired to their caves and the Trolls to their huts, to feed from their stockpiles, whet their claws, and wait.

The storm moved in a constant breath through the valley. The only audible sound was its desolate keening. The only visible movement was the shimmering of the dark shapes of the trees through the snowclouds.

The valley was deserted. It might never have been populated by more than boars at all. But even so-- against the trunk of one of the pines rested a staff.

The staff stood there, unmoving, snow heaping up around it.

Lower and lower the sun dipped behind the mountains. White became blue-gray, and night fell.

The staff stayed. And then-- a sparkle of orange was moving in the distance, swinging, growing in size and intensity, hovering just a few feet from the ground. It wove left and right, its holder searching for something. The light didn't travel from one cluster of trees to another. Its holder was searching not by sight, but by intuition.

The light grew into a potent flame, and its holder emerged from the shadow near the tree where the staff lay. The flame-holder was a Gnomish girl dressed in Ironforge furs, and beneath that, in spellcaster's robes. She cupped the ball of orange fire in her hand, both seeing by it and drawing warmth from it. She moved left, right, eyes faraway and focused, until she stood immediately before the staff. She unsheathed a hand from her furs to pick it up, turning it over in the firelight.

"There you are," she murmured to herself. "At last. How did you get out here?"

The Gnome grinned in relief and turned away, departing in the direction she'd come. Her footprints behind her were already filling over with new snow, her light dissipating into a patchy corona among the drifts. She was gone, almost gone, when there was a thump and her light was extinguished altogether.

Minutes passed.

The cutting winds swept the snow higher and higher up the trunks of the pines. In a nearby copse, the sound of a falling branch was just audible.

Then a new light was approaching. It was smaller and far less radiant, a barely-perceptible yellow gleam, and it rocked up and down as it came.

Then the second light-holder became apparent: a thin man, near-skeletal, his frame wrapped up in a billowing black cloak. He wore no furs, and his pale hands were unflinchingly exposed to the storm. As he stepped through the snow, he searched out a clear path with the luminance of his yellow eyes. Draped over his shoulder was a small bundle, wrapped in Ironforge furs and beneath that, in spellcaster's robes.

The cloaked man moved deeper and deeper into the brooding isolation of the woods, until he was at the foot of the wall of mountains that formed the border of the valley. He approached the slope of the ridge, and seemed to be preparing to head straight up its near-vertical face until he disappeared into a crack on its side.

A greenish fire struck up within the fissure, building quickly to a strong blaze, and there was a thud as the man threw his bundle to the floor. Two pacing figures, one hunched and emaciated, one tall and of sweeping stride, were barely discernable as shadows on the snow.

"A uden hir ash gol aesire, an Veld Vexistra." His voice was flat and dry, like a scrape against the dusty wall of some forgotten sepulcher.

"Speak Human to me, Gracchus." The second voice was sudden, strong, and commanding, betrayed only by the slightest rasp, a tarnish on its regal iron.

"I have the one… you wanted," said the first man, haltingly. "A…an Veld Vexistra."

The second voice did not spend itself on a reply. Instead, the light of the green fire flickered as there was a rush of movement.

Out in the night, the windstreams hurtled on, building hills and furrows out of the snow. Their voices ensured that the sound of tearing never made it more than a meter from the cave's mouth.

The storm was terrible, but had not yet peaked. It was still building.