My roar echoed across the sand, muted only by the howl of the wind around me.
It was insulting, demeaning, and outright disrespectful. They sent four thousand Ogres and a smattering of casters to kill me?
I had been worried about retaliation, worried of the demons realizing what I am, and this was what they sent after me.
They dared to assume some pathetic mortals could halt my advance.
It took me a moment to clamp down on my anger. Letting my own rage fade away as it built within my victims.
The ogres frothed as they blindly attacked one another. Calling for blood in a manner I fond soothing.
The demons controlling this land had no idea what I really was. I had no reason to let that frustrate me.
It should have been good news, but I was on edge.
I tore through the army under cover of the sandstorm I had conjured, even as they threw themselves against each other.
I wet my claws in their blood and gorged myself on their flesh, letting their useless weapons bounce off my hide, and their spells be drawn into my scars.
In truth I was angry at myself. Ever since the nightmare called to me I had been nervous.
It was flaunting that it was corrupting my brethren. claiming it could pull me into the same servitude.
As I was now It was certain. If the nightmare could take Ysera, it could take me.
I had known that from the beginning, it was why I hadn't ventured the dream already. It was the boldness of the statement that bothered me.
The audacity of challenging me in such a manner.
If I was content to wait and allowed my strength to grow naturally in response to my current power, I would be stronger than any of the aspects within the next century.
That it could send such a message to me even with that knowledge was grating against my instinct, and I would see the insult repaid in full.
When the time came I would rip the heart of corruption out of the nightmare myself, and I would watch it scream.
For now I'll have to be content with the prospect of further strength, and the slaughter I was currently taking part in.
It was a waste of energy to handle things in this manner, especially considering I was certain I had no need of magic to handle this problem personally, but I had no intention of being caught.
My inscriptions should shield me from direct scrying, but just in case I called upon my powers as a spirit of nature as well.
With the right manipulation of the wind, and enough magic in the sand, I had a storm unlike any other.
Perfect privacy to work out my anger.
I swiped at an Ogre, tearing his torso from his body, before I breathed magical flame into their ranks.
The blood magic writhing inside them made it so they barely even noticed, fighting one another even as flame melted their flesh away.
A warlock attempted to drain my life away, only to melt away as the flow of energy reversed itself.
The remains of my victims rose up, striking down those living souls around them with the same madness that fell upon them in life.
Four thousand ogres died in ten minutes as the land, their allies, and even their own minds turned against them.
I took note of the fact that many of the ones who had consumed fel blood had a passing resistance to my influence on their bodies.
I imagine demons would be all but immune then. A shame.
By the end of the battle I stood atop a dune of sand overlooking an army of the dead.
I fed them a stream of poorly handled fel energy, and watched as their bodies began to combust into green flame.
I watched as the army collapsed into dust and ash, before I returned to my human form.
When I was sure their remains had been scattered to the four winds I released my grip on the storm.
When I turned back to where I knew my army awaited me, I was sure nothing but scattered weapons and ruined armor remained.
Hopefully it would give the Dreadlord controlling this place a good scare.
The forward guard of the Dark portal were solemn and unsung heroes of the war against the burning legion.
When the Dark Portal was reopened, and demons began to pour in from Outland the Horde and the Alliance had been quick to respond, attacking mere days following the first wave.
However when the time came to take the battle to the burning legion, it was decided that many needed to remain, and guard their weakened flank against those agents of the burning legion that survived the initial assualt.
A mixture of stalwart orks and humans alongside a number of other races worked together to see to it the forces of Azeroth were never cut off from supply or aid.
It was they who ensured the supply lines remained relatively safe, and that the portal never fell under the control of the Dreadmaul who fought so hard to see it theirs.
While the Horde and Alliance held off the legion from the front, it was them who held it off from behind.
It was thankless work, and many died forgotten within the desert sands, but they held to their duty as well as any could.
When the scouts reported an army of Ogres on the march they assumed the worst, and prepared to stand once again against the Dreadmaul.
When the first of their hulking figure appeared over the horizon many readied themselves for the battle to come.
The attacking force was only just over a thousand strong, but they had been battered for months and reinforcements had yet to arrive from the Outposts within the Blasted lands.
Victory was assured, but It was clear it would only be a costly prelude to the coming months.
It was only when their spyglasses caught the banner of Westfall that they allowed themselves a sigh of relief.
Reinforcements for the front. Marcus Moonbrook had delivered on his promise to aid in Outland.
