This land was disgusting through and through. The Night-Elves of An'owyn had come with the purpose of observing their ancient foes.
They had come from the shores of Kalimdor to investigate the true nature of the Scourge and its affects on the land, and they had stayed to survey the threat the newly named Blood-Elves represented.
In their desperation they clung to even viler magics than they had before, using demonic magic to combat the undead and power their structures and wards.
It was an atrocity.
The highborne had no concept of care for the nature around them, they enslaved the spirits of nature just for the simple purpose of keeping their land within some preconceived notion of beauty.
Even the trolls were better, at least they respected the land in their own savage way.
The Sin'Dorei were stealing the true quality from the land with their selfishness. It was a false and superficial beauty, marred by the agony of the land.
The only thing worse was what the Scourge had done. The highborn controlled the land, forcing it to an appealing form.
The undead stole its life away, twisting the spirits themselves into monstrosities fully aware of what they had become, yet unable to change it.
They had reported their findings with haste once enough information had been gathered on the foes that had arranged themselves against the Alliance.
Nyssa Stormheart had personally flown from their place in the Ghostlands, directly to Ashenvale to deliver the information.
It was on the very night of her return that things changed. The guards were murdered, the commander of their outpost slain, and the only druid at their disposal captured for purposes unknown.
The Trolls had taken her, undoubtedly to serve as another one of their slaves.
The An'owyn garrison did not take the transgression kindly. They slaughtered hundreds of trolls, attacking from the shadows that permanently fell over the land.
They spilled the blood of a hundred trolls for ever life stolen that night, torturing those who survived their attacks for weeks for the barest hint of where their fallen sister had gone.
It was for naught. No troll had even the slightest idea of a Night-Elf prisoner, and many more had only become aware of their presence when the attacks came.
For months they grimly went about their task, even as the Sin'Dorei resistance and their forsaken allies were pushed back into Eversong.
They watched as the highborne rebuilt their strength, pushing the undead from Eversong in their entirety, as they fought against their own corrupted brethren.
Eventually the time came that a victor would be decided. The highborn Elves restored as much strength as they could in such a short period of time, and the undead recieved reinforcements from the frozen north.
Anvilward sent reports of a growing relationship with the Horde as the fighting grew more intense.
Then, just two weeks ago, things began to truly change for the worse.
The undead withdrew, gathering for what was surely the largest push since the fall of Lordaeron, days later scouts reported carnage as civil war broke out overnight among the Trolls, and the roar of a dragon of unknown origin or affiliation was heard.
The fall of Silvermoon would mean the undead had full control of the entire upper portion of the Eastern Kingdoms, and a fresh supply of soldiers and necromancers.
The fall of Deathholme would mean the considerable power of the Horde would grow further, granting them a larger foothold on a continent that was originally fully Alliance territory.
Scouts witnessed at least ten thousand undead of various forms, accompanied by at least three dozen necromancers.
They marched along the dead scar, coming to a halt at the edge of the wards under heavy spellfire from the magisters who waited on the other side.
Some necromancers attacked the wards themselves, and others focused on keeping the undead alive as they marched past the threshold.
Yet, every nightelf in the Ghostlands found their attentions drawn elsewhere. Just as the battle truly went underway, something changed.
From the heart of the anguish the Scourge unleashed on the land, the spirits called out in terror.
Everything with a connection to nature felt as a battle went underway within Deathholme.
To the Kaldorei it was the biological and mystical equivalent of an error message.
Death magics collided with an obscene mixture of twisted life magic and destructive fel mixed alongside a smattering of other twisted forms of magic.
They felt what should be a spirit of nature assume the power of demons, facing the necromancy within with magics just as dark.
It was a beacon of life and nature, surrounded and intertwined with so many conflicting powers it should be an impossibility.
Even as the scouts watched magisters collide with experienced necromancers, even as undead creatures met the stone of Arcane Guardians, their true focus was on the battle they could not see.
It was anathema, alien to them all. What possible force could corrupt a spirit of nature so? What evil brought a spirit reflecting the world itself to such lows?
Perhaps most concerning was the strength of it. Few beings, living or dead, had so much raw strength within them.
Every spirit of nature that had that sort of strength was thought to be well known, yet even so corrupted they would be able to recognize it.
Then, after little more than an hour, it disappeared, fading away as if it was never there at all.
The victor of the battle for Silvermoon was decided in the next instant, the countless forms of the undead either collapsing or weakening considerably, leaving the necromancers alone and unguarded amidst an army of enemies.
Something had changed within the Ghostlands, but was it truly for the better?
