Vordrul the menacing had lived a life of blood and conquest for decades. First, as the warlord to a minor clan of Ogres on Draenor, and then as a servant to the burning legion on Azeroth.
When the offer came to drink the blood of a doomlord, to accept its power into himself, he had relished it. He had felt the strength and rage coursing through his veins just as strongly now as it had twenty years ago.
Under his masters will he had personally led assaults on every point of interest within the blasted lands, conquering the Horde and the Alliance as he pleased.
On many occasions over the past ten years he had succeeded in his task, pushing the pathetic coalitions from the blasted lands and earning himself high regard among his new clan, the Dreadmaul.
It would not be long before he earned the right to challenge the current chieftain,Grol the Destroyer, and with the strength the demon blood granted victory would be all but assured.
Unfortunately the two ruling factions of the world had began to take the threat the blasted lands represented far more seriously.
With the Siege of Outland underway, and the traitor Illidan still in control of the majority of the shattered world the Alliance and the Horde entered a tenuous pact following the battle for the Dark portal.
The war would be set aside as a matter of survival. Armies marched for weeks into the Blasted lands and through the Dark portal, a constant stream of fresh bodies to the slaughter.
The Dreadmaul had worked hard to see their travels harried, initiating a campaign of guerrilla warfare and night attacks on the encroaching armies. Both factions lost hundreds before they even reached Outland.
The united armies would have easily been capable of wiping out the forces in the Blasted lands, their combined military might unmatched on Azeroth.
It was the pressing nature of their campaign the kept the Dreadmaul alive.
Even a day wasted against the legion could mean them seizing control of Outland in it's entirety, and giving the legions full might a direct entrance into Azeroth.
All the Alliance and the Horde could do was defend themselves as they forcibly marched through the Desert at a breakneck speed.
Unfortunately the Dreadmaul had too few to attack directly in the opening weeks, and The Horde and the Alliance established the Foothold they desired on the other side of the portal, setting outposts for both armies to work in tandem.
But while the two factions had been successful in their march their speed left them with an opening at their flank, supply lines and reinforcements were easily attacked and decimated as they traversed the sands.
This went on for nearly a year before word reached his demonic masters of a new army marching to provide their support.
The small and weak nation composed of Westfall and Duskwood's combined residents had gathered their support, and in a stunning display of wealth acquired the forces of two of the Ogre clans at their borders.
Scryers reported around twelve hundred Ogres marched under the newly made banner of Westfall, led by the rising star of Marcus Moonbrook.
A human necromancer rumored to have considerable power if the masters spies within Silvermoon were correct.
It was a considerable force for a nation of relative weakness, and if they supported the Horde and the Alliance in their campaign they could inflict considerable damage on the already weakened and scattered legion forces.
Perhaps it would even be difference enough for the forces of Azeroth to seize and destroy the portals legion forces were using to transport their armies.
If such an event came to pass it could set back the conquest of Azeroth by decades, a cost in time the masters of the legion would never allow for a world of such importance.
Sargeras himself would punish the ones responsible for such a failure. With that in mind master Razelikh, demanded the full march of the Dreadmaul clan.
From the first day of Westfalls march in the Blasted lands Vordrul sallied all who could march under his command, and with the aid of four thousand Ogres and a dozen warlocks of varying power made to intercept the passing of Marcus Moonbrook.
Up until now they had fallen back to simply harrassing their enemies forces, but Razelikh felt the need to send a message to all nations of the world.
Only the Alliance and the Horde have the power to march into the Blasted lands and survive the experience. If Westfall provided aid it was possible other unrelated forces would begin to help directly as well.
It was four days later that they closed in under the cover of night. Their warlocks had covered the armies march with a haze over the desert, working together in a great ungoing ritual every night.
With their approach obscured they could attack with complete surprise, and if all went well completely decimate the enemy forces.
Mere hours before the attack everything went wrong.
First the wind began to howl with a ferocity he had never seen in years of living within the Blasted lands.
Then the sands began to pick up around them, whirling around their entire army with such speed and force it began to tear even at the tough hides of the Ogres, many of which had been born to this land.
The desert storm was soon howling so loudly he could barely hear the screams of Ogres ten feet infront of him as the weather itself flayed them.
The sand obscured his vision, and he was forced to close his eyes before it blinded him like so many of his less fortunate fellows.
Over the wind he heard a warlock yell out. "There's magic to this storm!"
He was about to comment on the obviousness of the statement before he felt it. A rage gnawing at him.
He clamped down on it with an iron will, but only barely, his demonic blood helping him to resist it's effect.
His army could not say the same. He heard steel ring out, and spell-fire began to erupt all around him as everything within the storm began to turn on itself.
The ground shook as something large landed just behind him. Vordrul squinted through the storm, just barely catching sight of the massive shape of a dragon looming over him.
He took a step back as burning purple eyes glared at him through the sand.
Blood red fire erupted from its throat, and Vordrul the Menacing knew no more.
