Prologue
It was a dark night, Morg the orc thought. He was one of the Bloodwolf Regiment, stationed here at Flamebane Hold, a small outpost just 10 miles from the edge of Ashenvale Forest. Morg gulped. Although they are at peace with the night elves there for more than 10 years, he still feared them. The night elves were once members of the Alliance and therefore had raided Horde territories many times, including this outpost itself. But after the Outland Wars and the increasing size of the Maelstrom, during which the Elves were severed the Alliance as none of their communication could get through, they had grudgingly signed a Declaration of Peace against the Horde. That peace contract started a new era, an era of peace and prosperity in Kalimdor. Whatever race they were, whether they were humans of Theramore, orcs of Durotar, night elves of Darnassus or even trolls of Dustwallow Marsh, they prospered.
Morg stared out into the darkness from his watchtower, he shivered again. Something or someone was out there, his instincts have never failed him, yet. He thought of calling to the other watchtower and ask what they could see, but dismissed the thought as soon as he thought of it, asking the troll on the other tower would just make him more uneasy about this night. If there was another more troublesome troll he had yet to meet them. The young troll scout, J'ingan Scarhead was recently transferred here in preparation for the arrival of Tyranda Whisperwind, the night elf High Priestess. This was another reason Morg was nervous, the only time he has ever seen the Priestess before was 16 years ago at the Battle of Stonehall Field when the Horde and Alliance was still fighting. The priestess used her awesome powers to call upon stars which fell from the sky and slew many of Morg's finest warriors. But that was all in the past now…
Suddenly there came a scream of terror.Morg turned around immediately and saw the other look-out post in flames. Following his instinct Morg reached into his belt quickly and withdraw a small horn, crafted from the horns of a centaur he killed years ago. He blew as hard as he can onto it and immediately he heard the running footsteps of orcs and trolls running out of their rooms. But who could the attackers be?
Just as he wondered that he heard a sneering voice behind him. "Surrender greenskin or you shall face the wrath of the Sin'Dorei!" Morg turned slowly around; there is a humanoid with long ears riding some type of flying beast with a long flowing tail, nothing more could be made out in the darkness of the night. Morg thought that the word Sin'Dorei was familiar, but since he never bothered to learn about any other language other than Orcish even if he knew he still wouldn't know what it means. As he thought he took his trusty throwing axe from his belt and raised it above his head into a throwing position. However the elf-like creature merely laughed and from somewhere in his hand conjured up a glowing blood-red orb. He throws the orb effortlessly onto the support of the small wooden tower and as it made contact, the structure collapsed as though it was made out of water. Morg's eyes were round with surprise as he fell, and he knows no more…