"Get back here you cowards!" Roared a voice, a man's voice. The sounds of feet hitting the ground of Redridge Mountains, the forests surrounding Lakeshire were filled with Blackrock Orcs, not part of the new Horde, but remnants of the old.

"Shit, that crazy tranny is gonna burn down the forest!"

"Someone shoot the bastard already!"

"No way! Did you see his hair? Guy's clearly a fairy, not goin' near 'im!"

"You call yourself an Orc? Get in there and gut this pink-skin."

"Do you all think this is a game!?" Bellowed the man, fire began to rain all around them, the earth was scorched and riddled with ashes, fires leaping from trees into the skies.

From beneath the man's feet exploded a great wave of flames, he charged after the fleeing orcs with reckless abandon. He'd torched the stone tower overlooking the lake of Redridge Mountains in his fury, the fires being doused by a duo of Water Elementals, the interior was scorched and would take weeks if not months to properly prepare but the man wanted to make damn sure he purged that annoying gnat of a caster from within.

The man in question was a youthful looking twenty-something with long black hair that was tied away in a ponytail, falling down to the middle of his back, a few stray locks diligently framed the left side of his pale face, a pair of bright blue eyes filled with fury at the mockery from the orcish brutes.

The reason?

He was a Mage, and as such wore dark red robes to augment his ability to draw on the powers of the arcane, with the correct enchantment a Mage could don heavier armour, but the young man wasn't that well off so couldn't afford something so exuberant without indebting himself to his benefactor.

The Orcs apparently believed he was some roving transvestite who was soft in the head and enjoyed burning their huts.

"I'm going to start burning you all now, and I don't know when I'm going to stop." The young man said with a furious scowl, eyes filling with arcane might as he swept a hand across the landscape, sending a large, unstable arc of fire rolling through the already charred glade.

Fire cleans all, such was the addedge of a good pyromancer, but it also allows for growth, 'Before creation, comes destruction', and all that jazz.

To be fair, he hadn't exactly given much evidence to the contrary about the hut burning.

The man's hands exploded in fire as he drew his arm back like he was throwing a ball and proceeded to throw the gathered energy in his hands that, upon impact with an Orc's left leg, exploded in a shower of cinderous sparks, that blinded one of his comrades.

In place of another Fireball the man thrust a hand forward, a great thrum of energy left his hand in an instant, a Fire Blast struck the same Orc reducing him to ashes. With the same hand the young man swept his hand to the right and released a Scorch Spell.

The Scorch was aimed at the dry grass beneath the orcish warband, it exploded into flames with a little sneaky control he surrounded them in a ring of fire.

"Johnny Cash, mother fuckers." Snarled the Mage, eyes glowing hot like fire as flames crept up his arms, with a thunderous clap of his hands he released a spell of his own design, still in the beta phases, a black cloud opened up over the orcs, who were divided in trying their luck with the ring of fire, or phalanx'ing to shield themselves from whatever this crazy human was going to try.

A quartet of soccer-ball sized fireballs fell from the cloud and exploded on the ground, killing the orcs in cleansing fire, but also filling the air with a rancid scent, the Mage dusted off his hands, patting down a small fire on his robes and frowned.

"They were supposed to be meteors." Grumbled the young mage with a frown. "Better than last time though… took me months to figure out a spell to grow my eyebrows back… without them being feathers." Thought the Mage as he rubbed the back of his head, walking past the charred chaos he left in his wake.

"'Go to Redridge' they said, 'It'll be fun' they said. Lying assholes. When I get back to Stormwind I'm burning down their culty little library, lying fucking Warlocks." Rambled the human.

A little context?

This young ray of sunshine was Menma, of the Noble House Prestor. He was an orphan of circumstance before coming under the Prestor name, his parents had both been slain in the Scourging of Lordaeron by their Lord Baron Rivendare, in the name of the Lich King.

Menma had been taken away from their home in Lordaeron by his Granduncle, Tobirama, a renowned Mage of Frost in his heyday, and brought to Stormwind. Not even a month after arriving in Stormwind. Tobirama died in his sleep, leaving Menma enough to get by for a time, and with no small supply of arcane journals and tomes.

The snag was that as an Orphan of ten years, his belongings were taken by the state and put away into the libraries of Stormwinds Wizard's Tower.

Of course, Menma took exception to this, and proceeded to burn several of the Towers wards in a fit of childish pique. This in turn drew the attention of the Guards, and of course, the king. Who demanded the vagabond explain himself.

After searing the King's chin with a Scorch spell he was confined to the Stockades for a month. During this month he was visited by one Lady Katrana Prestor who found the young boy's talent for magic and general 'screw the rules' mindset useful for whatever schemes she was cooking up.

She offered Menma her name if she could use his talents when he was older - and mature - for the 'betterment of Stormwinds prosperity'. Menma demanded the woman stop feeding him shit and speak clearly.

He saw something in that woman's eyes that day, and it stirred a primal fear in his gut when she said 'I like you, boy.'

The scariest fucking thing he'd ever heard a woman say, because it sounded like 'I'm going to eat your soul, boy.'

She paid his way through school, and in turn he did mundane errands the Lady cared not for, she kept to herself and he to himself, theirs was a relationship of convenience, though heavily weighed in the Lady's favour for many years.

Menma begun to make a name for himself amongst his peers as a troublemaker and a nuisance, but he cared little for their words, he would carve his name into Azeroth if it killed him, he'd mold magic and craft spells the likes of which even Dalaran could not conceive.

So far, he'd made a small Meteor Shower, because Magic wasn't a fucking game.

Menma rubbed his hands together as sparks of electricity began to gather, before slowing fizzling back out, "Augment the natural electricity within the human body with mana, sooner or later I'll be able to use it for more than just sparkles."

Experimenting with more than just the recommended three branches of magic for budding Mages hadn't actually been as hard as he'd initially expected, a few of the teachers within the tower had praised his want for diversity amongst his selection when it came to offensive magic.

Lightning-based spells weren't unfamiliar to the school of the Mage so much as they were just few that weren't directly related to shamanism. Lightning for a mage was typically used to supercharge their bodies and in turn, regenerate their mana and health much quicker than usual at the cost of eventual fatigue.

Menma had been experimenting with controlling and fusing various spells, such as the Frostfire Bolt, one of the few Fire and Ice spells taught at the academy, this spell was the catalyst for his path, the very evidence that magic was both malleable and all that it took to create new magic, was dedication to the craft, and the iron will of perseverance.

Menma looked around the wreckage that was one of many Blackrock Orc camps within Redridge and his eyes turned towards the North, towards the Burning Steppes and by proxy, Blackrock Mountain.

"Kill my kin, will you? Well you ash skinned filth, I'll show you how light-damned dangerous an angry Mage can be."

"You. Human." Grunted a voice, Menma turned quickly at the sound, the book chained to his hip whipping up and around with the haste of the movement, the creature that spoke was an Orc, this one donned in heavy, black robes, a single spaulder on his left shoulder was wrapped in mana-soaked and woven cloth, it sucked in the ambient magic in the air, any caster could see this.

This meant that the creature's abilities could be cast faster, and recovery.

"Warlock." Menma ascertained with a scowl.

"Mage." The Orc said in return, "You slay my kin. Blood price be paid." He said in a rough attempt at the human common tongue.

Menma's scowl was steadfast, as a trio of Imps crept out from behind the Warlock, bloodlust in their beady little eyes. Menma was happy with his talents in the arcane, but Warlocks tapped into something thicker, darker, they used the very essence of the Twisting Nether to unleash great powers upon their foes, the energies of the Fel demons they summoned were not to be trifled with.

"Seems like we're at an impasse, it would be a shame if you… BECAME A SHEEP!" With a flick of his wrist and a hasty twist of magic, Menma Polymorphed the Orc into some horrifying Orc-Sheep hybrid, the creature began to scream in horror and agony, the Imps began laughing at their summoners suffering, Menma immediately Blinked away about two dozen metres, to gain some ground.

The Warlock was in complete agony, Menma was horrible at the Polymorph spell, molding the very molecules of a creature into that of another form, that being said… the results were quite impressive on a live subject.

Menma spread his feet apart and weaved his hands in a circular motion, a great orb of fire began to form, with each circular motion it grew denser, and dripped near-molten globules of mana. With a thrust of his palm Menma sent the Pyroblast sailing towards the Orc-Sheep, throwing a hand up a blue disc of frozen energy opened up above the Imp and their deformed Master, just as the Pyroblast struck, thick, razor-sharp shards of ice began to fall down into the Orc's body courtesy of the Blizzard spell.

The Imps bounded away a short distance, to avoid being incinerated and eviscerated, their Master was not so lucky and the Orc was reduced to a pile of soggy, charred meat.

Four Fel Firebolts sailed Menma's way, he threw up a hands once more and a thin, blue shield formed around him, a Mana Shield was a less intensive form of the Ice Shield that most Frost Mages conjured with ease.

The Fel Bolts were nullified one the barrier of Menma's shield, but it also popped after just one round, Arcane magic began to gather in his hands as Menma pulled his right hand down, a blanket of dark purple magic fell around the imps as Menma cast a Mass-Counterspell, disrupting the dangerous Fel Magic and causing several pops as Imp bodies were reduced to cinders and twiggy bones.

Menma pulled a cloth from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead, he walked over to his impromptu quarry and knelt down at the Orc's side, with a scowl he pulled the shoulderguard off the corpse, looking over the heavily damaged piece of cloth armour Menma hummed and lifted a single finger up, ice began to quickly grow around it as he used the sharp shard to cut up the mana-gathering cloth, pulling his right glove off after he'd done so the young man stood up, found the nearest tree stump and sat down, only but a few metres away from his conflict.

Dipping into one of the pouches on his hip he pulled out a needle and a spool of dark blue thread, over the course of roughly thirty minutes Menma managed to sew the mana-gathering cloth into his glove, and with the excess gave it a flare cuff to fold back down, pulling the glove on he felt the newly created 'magic item' attune to his own flow and sync up, slowly but surely the gathering cloth went to work and he felt his depleted reserves building back up.

For the sake of symmetry Menma rolled up the sleeves of his robe and folded them to just above his elbow, whilst he did only have the one cuffed glove so the symmetry was thrown-somewhat he felt it balanced it out more.

Slowly but surely Menma retreated back to Lakeshire, rubbing his head as he walked down the well-traveled path, looking around he took in the bright sunshine, the crisp autumn air only slightly stained with the smokey taste of ash from Blackrock Mountain to the north, the grass surrounding the roads had a soft green colour whilst the falling leaves from the trees were browned and ready to pass through the seasonal changes.

Menma dipped his head to the road, watching his feet as he walked, the only company he had was the soft clipping of his boots against the hard dirt trail, he had to pass through the recently liberated lumber yard to return to Lakeshire.

The lumber yard had been overrun by vicious green spiders, spitting poison at anything in sight, the whole yard had to be refurbished, men and women were already hard at work doing just that, a contingent of guardsmen guarding the perimeter, as he entered the yard he was given a polite greeting from one guard and a shoulder slap from another.

"Hard work today, lad?" An older man, beneath his helm one could see dark green eyes and grey brows, "Look a little worse for wear."

"Orcs aren't exactly fond of having their encampments burned down." Menma explained with a shrug, the Guardsmen chuckled lightly at that, having more than had enough grief from their orcish neighbours, and hearing of their misery brightened the day somewhat.

"Well you've done right by takin' their lot out of our lands, done right by us." The Guardsman said with a firm nod, offering his gauntleted hand to the Mage, Menma accepted the firm handshake with a small smile.

"I'll go and let the mayor know you can begin taking back territory past the tower." Menma thumbed over his shoulder and a slightly worn tower overlooked the lake of Redridge, and what a lake it was.

"Bang up job, Caster." Said the opposite Guard, audibly younger.

"Make sure to keep an eye out, I did take a scorched earth approach, but Light only knows if some of the pigs managed to escape." Menma said as he continued walking through, he had reduced a good portion of the forest to ashes burning the orcs from their encampments.

The anger he felt bubbling in his guts when he killed them, the fury that burned hotter than any fire he could produce, he hated Orcs, he hated them more than anything. He hated them because of the look in his Grand Uncle's eyes when he spoke of the Orcish invasion, the dead look in the old man's eyes haunted his every day, the sheer despair in the man the echo of torment that permeated his body and mind was constantly pushed onto those around him.

Tobirama had once been a brilliant scholar, a Frost Mage without peer from the city-state of Dalaran, a member of the esteem Kirin Tor, but after he lost so much to the Orcish invasion and then to the Scourge, it was all too much for the old man's heart to weather anymore.

It was his old man's memory that fueled his hatred so, the Orcs, the Scourge. Mixed up with the general angst of youth and one had a volatile mixture, magic power aside.

The tense thoughts must have been conveyed when he began walking once more, as none of the workers dared come near him, the stormy look on the young magus' face was more than enough to deter any gratitude they may have had.

Stormwind City; Two Weeks Later

Menma had returned from the task to purge Redridge Mountains of the Orc menace, earning himself a hefty purse of gold for his trouble. He was glad not everyone had that near insane desire to adventure for a living, because the market would be completely saturated and his own talents would surely be passed up.

The only downside with all the enchanting material he'd bought, he was kicked back to where he started somewhat, though it was completely worth it.

The Mage's Quarter had many shops and essentials, the most important being quiet. The lack of noise outside of chirping birds and students being instructed allowed one time to think, the Quarter itself was very relaxed, even the buildings looked to have been made in a manner to mellow one out what with the various blue and light purples on the roofs.

There was grass instead of cobblestone, like the rest of the city, around the area. Magically looked after by the few Druids that lived within the Quarter, Night Elves, obviously. The few trees in the Quarter were sturdy oaks with thick green leaves, shading the benches under them, only making noise when the wind passed through.

Menma usually took moments like the one he'd had that morning to take stock with his life, he was 24 years of age, a grown man in his own right, with his own home, filled with enchanted items to make life easier for himself, he'd become a true independent since his old man's passing, even if he technically wasn't what with his relation to Miss Prestor.

She would regularly gloat about him to the other nobles and whilst he did nothing to deter the woman, in fact taking her gloating as the go ahead to pursue his path with greater vigor, it did grate on the nerves whenever one of those that endured one of her various sessions sneered at him.

Currently the young mage was sitting at one of the various benches dotting the Mage quarter, he was writing down the method for the Meteor Storm spell he'd been working on, in its current state it was basically a Fire-based Blizzard that exploded on impact, but still it was progress.

"Excuse me, sir." A voice said, Menma looked up from his book, dark blue eyes finding the form a younger male, an apprentice, donned in basic robes, scruffy blond hair and bright green eyes, a throw of freckles across his cheeks.

"What can I do for you?" Menma asked, snapping his spell book shut and leaning forward to give the child his attention.

"Magister Dumas has asked you to come see him, sir." The child said quickly. Menma nodded and stood, as he passed he pat the child's head.

"Get back to class, kiddo. Delivering messages is for familiars, not people." Menma ordered lightly, and the boy did just that, scampering off with haste. Menma watched his retreating form before disappearing in a flash of arcane energy.

Appearing back in his room he threw off his white shirt and with a flick of his wrist clothes flew out of his wardrobe, a dark red robe/coat with a golden, silk sash, his now-identical cuffed gloves, thick riding boots of kodo leather, because he was a man who liked the finer things in life, along with black trousers.

With the gold he'd earned he'd managed to acquire enough arcane dust and shards to outfit himself with two full sets of augmented clothes. His coat, now could take an axe-swing from an enraged dwarf and be unscathed, that one took a lot of effort, but was totally worth it.

His boots were enchanted with feline agility to allow him better maneuverability in the heat of battle, his gloves drew in mana, his sash acted a second catalyst for area based spells, such as Arcane Explosion, and Blast Wave increasing their power.

His pants were enchanted with comfort, +10 resistance to saddle-sores.

Disrobing from his daily life clothes Menma donned in 'uniform' and dusted off his shoulders to straighten up his robes, on the way out he accepted the dark gold scarf from Argen, his suit of enchanted bronze armour, closed the door behind him.

Menma did a cursory double check of the pouches sewn into his robes and smirked, it had taken years of effort to get his habits so precise and consistent, but thank the Light he'd managed it.

It made life so much easier to be prepared and a walking weapon.

With another flash he entered the Mage's Tower, climbing the circular ramp and entering the portal therein, this swirling gate of arcane energy transported one to the Wizard's Sanctum, Menma had yet to actually learn where it was technically located but it was a grand library where the highest ranking mages of the order dwelled during 'business hours'.

Magister Dumas was Menma's mentor, he was the one who took the boy on when Prestor began funding his education, Dumas was a very talented Mage in his own right, well versed in the Arcane, and one of the few who left Dalaran to assist with bringing up Mages for the Alliance.

Menma's accomplishments were Dumas' accomplishments, his failings, his victories, his trials and tribulations. All reflected on Dumas, the older man was relieved that his first apprentice had turned out so well, that being said not everyone had Menma's sheer driving force.

It was either an extreme case of empathy, or a twisted mind that set the boy on his path, all calling back to the death of his parents and the death of his Granduncle.

Maginor Dumas, a man in his early forties with light brown hair, intense blue eyes and lightly tanned skin. He wore a dark purple robe with blue accents, a pair of gold and blue shoulderguards that, when paired with his sapphire circlet, augmented his ability to draw from Azeroth's ley lines three fold.

"Ah, Menma good of you to come so quickly." Greeted Maginor with a nod, Menma returned the nod and stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his arms crossed behind his back.

"You called for me, Magister." Menma said crisply.

"You needn't be so formal, my boy." Maginor said with a fond chuckle, the boy remained in his stance but the visible relaxation in his shoulders gave a physical act to his acquiescence of the 'command'.

"May I know why you've called me, Maginor?" Questioned the younger man with a slight turn of his head.

"You may." The Magister said with a nod, gesturing the boy to sit with him, Menma did so, crossing one leg over the other to display his boot, one habit Maginor wasn't completely pleased was with his apprentice was his need to showboat in subtle ways.

"I wish to bring a matter to you, far to the north, we've received word that an old magical artefact has been uncovered by some of our dwarven comrades, in the very heart of Khaz Modan. This artefact isn't something to be trifled with." Informed the older mage, his voice grim.

"And what exactly, is this relic?" Questioned Menma with a raised brow.

"We believe it to be the an item from the time before the Sundering. An ancient necklace from the Highborne elves." Menma's eyes widened somewhat at that, "Now you understand the severity of the task, I offer you this mission as a formality, but in short you are being sent like it or not."

"Any particular reason you've chosen me to head this expedition?" Menma questioned with another quirk of his brow.

"Because you've soaked my lessons on handling and caring for artefacts better than anyone else in this order, you know what needs to be done and I trust you not to recklessly endanger yourself or anyone else within the immediate vicinity." Dumas said with a solid stare, locking eyes with his apprentice.

"A sounds reason… Am I to assume others will be coming along? I'd be amazed if such a find didn't warrant more attention." Menma questioned further.

"Indeed, you'll obviously be working with the Explorers Guild of Ironforge, along with an elven liaison from Darnassus, whilst they as a people reject the arcane they are the only ones able to fully understand the severity of artefacts such as this." Menma nodded, that was solid reasoning.

"There also comes the caveat that for the assistance of the Mages Guild in Ironforge that one of their juniors will be tagging along for the task, and if you so choose it, you're given the right to apprentice them." Dumas informed getting a slight nod from his junior.

Given the right to take an apprentice was one of the first cornerstones of being recognised as a truer mage around Stormwind and its allied territories, a mage was only as good as their spellcraft and their students.

Thus why Jaina Proudmoore was, whilst a hero in her own right, looked down upon for never having taken an apprentice, it was considered selfish of her to hoard her knowledge the way she did.

"Return home, and pack accordingly, you'll meet your liaison back here within the hour." Instructed Dumas, Menma nodded and stood, the pair exchanged a cordial handshake as the younger magi left the sanctum.

Stormwind City; Mage's Quarter, 1 Hour, 13 Minutes and 42 Seconds Later.

Menma was either tapping his foot, or pacing back and forth, Dumas was quiet as the stone. A figure came up the way; a dwarven woman with long orange braids and bright green eyes, oddly sunkissed skin, a wolf's pelt thrown over her shoulder, dark blue plate armour across her chest and arms, a pair of dense stone hammers chained to her wide hips.

This was Agatha Stonebreaker, an old acquaintance of Menma's from his apprentice days, they'd run into each other by accident, some brat had tried to swipe her coin purse so Menma burnt his ankles and beat him black and blue, apparently Agatha found that incredibly amusing and bought him a drink.

First pint of ale at 11, what a day.

He'd acted as a go between with a few other of the young between the Mages of Stormwind and those within the Mystic Ward, training under the gnomes for a few months had been an illuminating experience, he'd gained a fondness for the diminutive race, their approach to anything in life was to constantly push the boundaries and share that knowledge with their allies.

"Are'ya ready to head out som'time this centr'y lad?" Questioned the woman with a quirk of her brow.

Menma stopped pacing and turned to face her, bowing at the waist, one leg slightly forward, one arm across his chest and the other behind his back, just as Second Mother taught, "Forgive me, Lady Stonebreaker, my elven liaison does not appear to have an appreciation for punctuality."

"Ahk! Wadda say about bowin' to me, lad? Wha' kinne gesture's that to a friend of friends, now c'mere and gimmie a hug you soft-cock!" Menma flushed at the woman's words but she seemed unhindered and managed to drag him down somewhat, two hardy thumps onto his back and he was released from the 'hug'.

Menma sighed and ran a hand over his hair, "Agatha it's called professionalism."

"It's called been a wee baby." Countered Agatha with a smirk, punching his hip getting not a wince, but a frown in return, "Ooh! Looka you, able to actually stand after a punch. Is my lil' mage boyo growin' up now?"

"I enchanted my robes to nullify a good portion of damage from non-magical sources." Menma informed with a sigh, dusting off her impact point, she slapped his hand away but gave him a lecherous grin.

"There be magic in these 'ands, boyo." Agatha flirted, shamelessly. Dumas looked away to hide his amusement but the poor younger magus was caught flat footed.

"..." Menma 'said', opening and closing his mouth, "That's highly inappropriate to say in a public setting, Agatha!" Finally managing to get words out he chastised the woman, looking around, praying to the light no young apprentices were in earshot.

"Maybe for you wanky 'nobles' but dwarves are straightforward." Agatha said, waving him off.

Menma gave one more look around, it looked like the goddamn knife-ear wasn't coming after all. "Let's get going, Agatha. This is ridiculous." He began concentrating as a spiral of arcane power swirled around him, the Mage visualised the Mystic Ward of Ironforge the smell of the few incense burners, the sound of the fountain out front, Menma held out a hand and a portal to Ironforge opened up.

"After you." Menma said, gesturing Agatha in, the woman shrugged and disappeared as she entered, Menma following suit.

Dumas kept the silent vigil for another twenty minutes, and still the liaison didn't show up, "I'll need to have a few words with our allies if such lack of care can be taken for such an important find." the older Mage muttered with distaste.

End of Chapter.

A re-do of Arcane Adept. I've decided to give another swing at this, without running so rapidly into retardation, like last time.

Raxychaz!