An inky black expanse swept across the heavens, awe-inspiring and fathomless in its sheer magnitude. Interwoven throughout the immaculate darkness was a crown of stars that twinkled softly, free of the storm clouds that dispersed with widespread relief.
Wispy strands and bursts of faint colorful gas acted as a backdrop between the motes of light, the sky above acted as a window into the cosmos, providing a glimpse into the great and terrible vastness in which Azeroth lingered.
A speckle of dust suspended in a beam of light from another view, elsewhere in the Great Dark Beyond.
But below the breadth of the sky, fires raged in braziers and below mantles as the bitter chill of nighttime set itself upon Durotar. Mothers and fathers exchanged tired smiles over their sleeping children, shopkeepers closed up their wares til the morning and bartenders began to make their last calls for the night.
However, within the warchief's council chambers the heat and light from the great fireplace did little to remedy the grim and long-winded discussion taking place.
Since the departure of Tor Blackwind to the tauren refugee camp two more council members had arrived, much to Rogar's interest.
Zenzal, the eldest of Durok's advisors, his most trusted and one of Orgrimmar's most honored citizens. The troll had served Durok and both his father and greatfather, providing a lifetime of unflinching loyalty, wisdom and even military service in his junior years to the city of Orgrimmar.
His true age is uncertain although many speculate he is well over several centuries, despite biting criticism that such a thing is impossible.
The troll took his place on Durok's right, seated cross-legged in his iconic ancient stained and frayed kilt, his upper body bare.
Alongside Zenzal was Kor'thak Stormfist, the warchief's lead shaman and warlord. The massive orc stood two heads over most and garbed in black leathers with a sable wolf pelt hung over his shoulder, he was an awe-inspiring figure to most.
His body language expressed a deep-rooted feralness and primitivity, but one that had been refined over many years, sharpened through hard earned discipline. He took his appointed seat to the left of the warchief, cross-legged and palms resting on his knees.
Brief greetings were exchanged and the somber discussion resumed where it had left off.
Durok nodded toward Katanja to proceed and the troll's nimble fingers returned to her tome, followed by a moment of rustling paper until she placed a palm down on the exposed page.
"I'll recount for those of ya who are just settlin' in. Ya all know that all of Azeroth is crisscrossed by perpetual ropes of great magical power called ley lines. These lines are significant ta all beings with even a single drop of magic energy within them."
"Some use them so that they may tap power from them, to others they are sacred. But regardless, due to the sheer importance of these lines they have been studied, surveyed and scrutinized by most conceivable means of doing so," Elroden continued.
"Now what I was sayin' before," Katanja picked up. "Was that tha location of these lines, and the nexuses where they converge, are all very well mapped and haven't changed significantly in known history. Occasionally there are anomalies that occur but nothing especially noteworthy, being as ancient- "
"So if there is nothing noteworthy, why are we having this discussion?" Rumbled Strogg, wearing a humorless scowl.
The matronly troll's expression morphed from concerned to slightly amused.
"Because, noble Strogg, a ley line has awoken in Winterspring."
Ice gripped the orc's feet and locked him in place, but his momentum kept him going, causing him lose balance and fling his staff aside. Bloodlust in his eyes, the orc opened his mouth but only flames escaped his lips, knuckles white, veins and eyes bulging as his entire body wound up in pain.
It was only a moment before he fell forward, his lungs burned and shriveled from within.
With a thud softened by the marshy earth, the orc collapsed never to rise again. A female came into sight around a group of trees just as he hit the ground and let loose a throaty howl. Wielding a similar staff to the male's, she thrust it toward the killer, two-handed and in a casting position.
A dark flare of energy erupted and crackled from the rod and rushed toward the white haired figure. In retaliation he thrust a hand toward the attack, conjuring a red-orange ball of flame that burst from his palm. Their efforts collided with flash and an unnatural rumble that echoed eerily throughout the forest's mist.
The blood elf cursed as he attempted to survey the heavy darkness of the woods around him, quickly returning his attention to the orc attempting to close the distance between them.
He cleared his mind, forced the base of his staff into the ground and muttered something under his breath. Instantaneously a wave of flame roiled away from him and crashed into the female, the impact bringing her to her knees.
He took advantage of her brief disoriented state and followed up with a stab of his staff, producing a cone of conflagration that flared out and consumed most of the orc's upper body. The roar of searing flames dissipated and blood-curdling shrieks and crackling skin filled the silent world around them.
The scent of burning flesh filled the blood elf's nostrils and although he cringed, made no attempt to stifle the smell. The screams were now mixed with chokes but became shorter, and soon ceased as her throat melted and closed.
The wind began to pick up and the smell of burnt orc went with it downwind to the blood elf's silent relief. This also exposed the moon, full and pale, which in turn shed light into the gloom of the forest.
All around the elf were silhouettes, black against the shadows they crept from. Some chanted, some laughed but most of them were silent, and that silence was what unnerved him. A few of the figures began to reach the exposure of the moonlight.
A thin human, his complexion was bloodless and black veins coursed beneath his skin. Greasy, tangled black hair fell lank to his shoulders as he limped forward with his staff.
A gnome laughed and mumbled to himself, his left eye had swollen shut due to what looked like an infection. His skin was an unhealthy yellow and his robe was caked in mud and stained from what appeared to be weeks, or even months of use without being cleaned.
As more shadows edged into the moonlight the blood elf gripped his staff firmly and kept himself on a pivot, ready to burn down the first wretch to get close enough.
He rolled his shoulders and spat to the side, muscles tense.
"I hate warlocks.''
Rogar raised a thick eyebrow. He surveyed the faces of those around him and what he saw ran the gambit from bewildered to indifferent.
Kor'thak's brow was knitted in thought, staring into the fire as his fingers drummed absently on his knees.
Zenzal was serene as he looked about the room and faintly hummed to himself.
The magi talked in low tones to each other and gestured to the tome repeatedly.
Gresh and Throm looked to each other, uncertain, almost as if they waited to react as instructed.
Durok and the Kirin Tor mage conversed quietly, the warchief listening sternly to the tired looking woman.
Strogg sat impassive, his eternal sneer fixed on the mages.
"Okay, I'll bite," he snorted. "What does that mean?"
Elroden smiled sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head.
"Well, that's the thing. You see, we're not exactly sure why this happened or the full ramifications, because ley lines just don't awaken. As far as we know at least. And while this is an incredible opportunity to learn more about such an ancient power," he trailed off and visibly grasped for the wording.
"We don't know how stable tha line is," Katanja continued. "Our colleagues in tha field have reported that tha energy fluctuates wildly, spikin' and droppin'. Elroden and I would request your permission warchief, ta venture to Winterspring and study the phenomenon ourselves."
Durok leaned forward, fingers laced at his chin.
"You have my permission mages. But first," he began with a gesture to the woman beside him. "This is Aerwen of the Kirin Tor, acting ambassador from Dalaran. She arrived earlier today with supplemental news of the situation in Winterspring. Aerwen," Durok finished with a nod to the human.
"Thank you warchief. The ley line quandary certainly has the mages buzzing in Dalaran, but few expedition parties have been sent." The fatigued mage's tired eyes rested on the pair of magi.
"The reason being is that the ley line has had," she chewed the word over. "'Extraordinary' effects on the local population, flora and fauna. We lost all contact with the three preliminary teams we sent around the region. They are listed as missing in action but," she trailed off, jaw tightening before regaining composure. "We have little hope in their safe return.," she said quietly, eyes cast downward.
Strogg broke the silence with an exaggerated grunt, powerful arms crossed over his chest.
"Am I the only one still not seein' the big picture here? How does some magical energy," he gestured with a dismisive wave of a thick hand. "In Winterspring have any bearing on us, here and now?"
The Kirin Tor mage frowned at the orc, meeting his gaze with a heavy sigh.
"Because orc, what does unbalanced magical power attract?"
"People trying to wield it," Strogg said matter-o-factly. "But I don't get us blowin' all this steam over-"
"Demons, orc! Demons are drawn to power like moths to a flame," she interrupted, eyes wide. "If we do not gain control of this phenomenon as soon as we can, we will pay dearly for the consequences in the future."
"I-I see," the orc replied stiffly, mouth thinned to a line.
Dark bursts of magic tore through the air around the blood elf as he dispensed retribution in return to his foe. But his mind began to grow weary and the seemingly unending concentration began to take a toll on the mage's body.
He was surrounded in the clearing, the warlocks finally closed in around him and cut off any visible chance of escape. The elf felt the fatigue setting in, the soreness of his muscles begging to rest. His head throbbed, pain pulsed in his temples and his skull threatened to split open.
His staff was held defensively, head swiveling to stay aware. The warlocks silently agreed to cease their assault in unison as they stepped into the moonlight. A circle was formed around him, the gambit of races silent as they monitored him.
They can kill me at any moment, but why aren't they?
His heavy panting began to slow and he wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm.
"What do you want with me?" He called out, voice hoarse. "Finish me off or say some-"
A flare of shadow energy interrupted his challenge, smashing into the middle of his back and sending the blood elf staggering forward onto his hands and knees. A bloody rope of spit hung from the mage's lips, face twisted in pain as he groaned through gritted teeth.
Another concussive burst collided into his ribs, wisps of shadow washing over him. The elf was forced onto his back as the world spun and blurred above him.
What felt like a lifetime had passed before a dark shape loomed into view. Through squinted eyes the mage attempted to make out any features of the figure but its face appeared smudged and distant. An ethereal voice rumbled, finding its way beyond his ears, deep inside his head.
"When the child of wrath falls and the very snow is as ash, the sun will dawn upon a new day. The torch will be extinguished and those who dwell in the darkness of this world will retreat," the words were a soothing song in his mind.
"But when you bring down the sun," paralyzing pain flooded his body and the elf struggled to breathe. "Immortal night will reign," booming laughter echoed in his skull and white hot pain blurred his vision. He gasped, a voiceless scream trembling in his throat.
The blood elf felt a crushing pressure across his body, blood rushed and he sensed dark energy pricking at his mind.
A surge of light flashed above him, sweeping across the forest clearing and everything was black.
The fire in the council chambers burnt down to embers, charred logs crackled and glowed against the darkness.
"Strange tidings, eh father?"
"Yes Kraz, most unsettling tidings," nodded Kor'thak. "However, I still insist you continue with your upcoming diplomatic visit to Stormwind."
Kraz's brow furrowed. "But, I don't quite understand. What if I am needed here?"
"Even in the light of these recent events we cannot shirk our duties," he said solemnly, a strong hand rested reassuringly on his son's shoulder.
Kraz's cast his gaze downward.
"I understand," meeting his father's eyes with a knowing nod.
Kor'thak smiled warmly at his son, at the man he had become.
"Come Kraz," Rogar coaxed. "Let's see off Katanja and Elroden. Who knows when we'll see them again."
"Good idea, they're going to need all the luck their friends can muster."
"Father, I want to speak to you later. Will you be in your chambers?"
"Yes Rogar, I'll keep the torches burning," nodded the warchief.
The pair exited the chamber, leaving their fathers alone in the low light of the room. When their footsteps subsided Durok released a heavy sigh.
"The thought of these coming days leaves a heaviness in my heart, Kor."
"The Horde is strong warchief, we have weathered much in our long and proud history. If a threat does arise, we will conquer it swiftly and without mercy," encouraged the shaman, clenching his raised hand into a fist.
"My concerns are not for the Horde," he paused, flint colored eyes watering. "They are for Rogar."