"...Surprise! You can see ghosts!" Sven gestured broadly, an uncertain smile on his face. Already the veteran warrior could tell that his descendant wasn't taking this as well as he hoped, her eyes were wide and a look of extreme shock crossed her features. Glancing to Kumostraz, who held a rather irritated look for him, he shrugged. The warrior sighed, "Listen, 'Last hope of my bloodline'. There's no better time for you to see us, so you should get used to the fact we're gonna be here for a while."

Kumo stood up and walked over to Sint, running his hand through her hair as he looked her in the eye. Sint could feel Kumostraz as real as any other, but he couldn't possibly be physical. The dragon nodded to Sint, "My dear. We are bonded, you and I, through my Gift to your family. Sven sacrificed power and glory so that you could shine bright. He and I come to you now because you need our help, more than ever."

"...Where were you on Jedden? When I lost my memory?" Sint was uncharacteristically calm in this situation, her resentment all but nonexistent. Kumo did not mistake this calmness for a lack of anger, of course. He just knew she was smart enough to not cast away her ancestors.

Kumo sat next to Sint, looking to the darkened sky. A sigh escaped him as he wondered what the best way to say what he needed to say was, a serene silence lapsing between the three as he thought. When he found his words, he looked to Svenrir. Nodding to his companion, "We simply lacked the power to see you. Only at Dengarl's first death could we speak to him, and surely you saw his spirit when you faced against that orc in Quel'Thalas. 'Tis the bond in our blood, our spirit, that allows us to be seen by you. Your research into Dragonfire, your search for me, that was what gave us the power to manifest."

"Aye. Took you long enough, girl." Kumo shot Sven a glare as he spoke, making the warrior pale a bit, "Uh… but uh… Hey. I'm sorry we couldn't help sooner, but we're here now. This gift, I've seen it grow. I've seen my family grow. Though the ones who wear the name are fewer in number than ever, since my time… We are potentially at our best in you and your brother. Especially you."

"Why? What makes me so more special than my brother?" Sint shook her head, "He's practically a King with a religion surrounding his very name. Myths are born around him, songs are sung of his heroics…" She looked to the sea, "I am but his Shadow."

"So you are. I cannot change your mind, Shadow of War. But, what I can do, is prove my point." Svenrir leaned back, almost seeming comfortable in his small seat, "Consider the fact your brother didn't kill a God, stop the resurrection of a King who'd damn mankind, stop Xagroth Blackfist… You know. The things you've done."

"He has a point, Sint. Your brother may have begun the war you now fight, but you are winning the war. He sits on his throne in Dragonguard while you are out here, alone, preparing to face a new evil." Kumostraz stands, crouching somewhat so that Sint could take his hand. A kind smile crosses the drake's face, "You are legendary, inheritor. Take my hand, and let us prepare you for the battle in the West."

Sint took Kumo's hand, her expression softening as she rose up. Looking between the two spirits again, she gave a solid nod. Bowing to Kumostraz, she spoke, "I have my doubts about this, but… I have my doubts of many things."

"Aye. About your soldiers, your wife, yourself… Plenty of doubts." Sven nodded, "You question why you chose to go alone. Question why you sent your companions away." The warrior grunted, running his fingers through his beard, "I can't answer those questions, but you should be confident in your choices."

The red drake shakes his head, elven ears almost flattening in disbelief and annoyance, "Svenrir! You were far better at this with Dengarl, why can't you do the same for her?"

"Although she's more like me than he is, I understand his motivations better. His was a simple, easy path. Her's is convoluted." The warrior crosses his arms, "Anyhow, my wife always told me I was far too blunt for my own good." He chuckles, "Called me 'Mace' for a reason."

"You two are like an old married couple. Let us look past my ancestor's missteps, Gift-Giver. I wish to know how you are to prepare me for an enemy I do not yet know." Sint gestures to the sea, "And where this golden abyss of possibilities guides us. I know not of where I will go, or even why I am going, but this journey is mine to take."

Svenrir grins, "That's more like it. The less you doubt, the more we can work with." Rising up from his seat, Sven was almost gigantic. Appearing less a man and more a half-giant, the warrior absolutely dwarfed Sint in size. Though he stood far taller than her and Kumo's elven form, she knew just as well as he that Kumo's true face was even more massive than the small vessel they were riding. Though he and his axe both made Sint seem even smaller than she was, this did not intimidate her.

Sven knew this as his lifted his axe, swinging it over his shoulder. Cocking his head so that he could better see Sint, the spirit spoke, "So, Kumo gave us this gift. This gift of wrathful fire that burns within our veins. Each Dagon has possessed this rage within them since the birth of my first son, and will possess it until it is depleted. Seeing that our family's mostly kept the rage caged up, you've got a lot to work with. You might as well be able to use this power, at full blast, until you die. And even then, there'd still be enough left to allow the gift to carry on." He sighs, " But as with all things…"

"There's a catch." Sint finishes his thought, leading with her own, "A catch I've felt. My heart is weak after each time I use too much Dragonfire. I find that it's harder to sleep, harder to breathe, for days after I exert myself."

"There's a reason for that." Kumo interjects, "And it's a consequence I did not foresee when I gave your ancestor the gift. My soul is stronger than a human's, it's just the nature of my being. Dragons possess great primal power within themselves, power that has both given and taken a great deal of things. If the greatest dragons among us can sacrifice portions of their soul to create a nigh unstoppable weapon, then what of the more mundane drakes within our Flights? We can portions of ourselves to empower things, from weapons to people. But that power is always fire, it has never been anything but flame. Be it the fire of life or destruction, it is the gift our souls give."

"Mhm, in short, he's saying the gift sets your soul on fire." Sven grunts, "And there's no avoiding that."

"There must be a way to lessen the pain I feel." Sint put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at Kumostraz, "For this pain is not something I wish to carry with me into war. If it walks with me in peace, then so be it, but it is nothing but a liability when I march. I cannot be weak." Her words grew more resolute, "So there must be a way to master this gift."

"You've seen that mastery before, even if it was but a glimpse." Kumostraz lifted his hand, a red fire appearing from his palm. Sint moved in to observe, only to see the red flame turn a blinding white. The recognition of the flame's color assured Kumo of his hypothesis, "Though Sven and I have not walked with you long, I knew you've seen this before. There's a brilliance within the purity of strength, within the purity of the flame you hold. And it's something I've only been able to hypothesize due to you."

"There's a reason we've come to you, Sint. Beyond the fact that your war isn't finished, it's 'cause this old lizard never thought 'White Dragonfire' was possible. You've legit tapped into something he didn't know his fire could do, which got his scales in a twist." Kumo elbowed him in the gut, something Sven only laughed at in response.

"I can understand that. From one scholar to another, the knowledge we can share with each other will be enlightening." She pauses, "But. There is a problem."

"Enlighten us, inheritor." Kumo smiles, gesturing for her to continue speaking.

"I didn't bring much, beyond a few rations and enough water to last me partway through the journey. I was thinking on stopping in Kul Tiras, but... " She glances to the ocean, "I'm uncertain if this vessel can survive the route I've got mapped out. You see, we have to avoid Horde waters. They'll sink me without much thought, I'm sure. To avoid Horde waters, though, we have to avoid Zandalar. We have to make it to safe ground in Kalimdor as well."

"There's not much safe ground in Kalimdor, I imagine. At least on its eastern coast." Svenrir stroked his beard, "Not unless you detour all the way to the desert, I think."

"I'm surprised you know that." She hums, "You died almost three thousand years ago, after all."

"We know as much as you and Dengarl see. And odd bits of information from the other Dagons who possessed Kumo's gift." He gave a heavy shrug, "Little good that information does. You lot rely too much on maps, instead of instinct."

"I concur, honestly. There's a great deal instinct and a good sense of direction can do for you, inheritor." Kumo pointed to Sint's map, waving for her to hand over, "Allow me to see your map, for a moment."

Sint pulled it from its bottle, unrolling it so Kumostraz could look. He gave it a quick rundown, "Unlike Sven, I've not actually been dead too long. I survived until the north went to hell, with all that Lich King nonsense. Still hard to believe that was nearly ten years ago… I'm still not over that. Wow." He shook his head, "Nevermind that, there's a few safe havens in Kalimdor. Things that sprouted up ever since the orcs took to burning and pillaging through a once peaceful place. Also, places that existed before the orcs did that. Be it small colonies where shipwrecked men were forced to settle, or places of rest and relaxation that nature and the elements created."

"Strange that I've not heard of these havens." Sint squinted, "I thought the first men to walk Kalimdor came during the Third War."

"As vast as Azeroth's seas are, mankind has walked this world far too long to only make it to Kul Tiras. Nay, men have seen the full breadth of this world, from sea to shining sea. It's just these men are men who are easily forgotten to time, naught a word written of their stories in the history of man. Because your kings do not hear from these distant men does not mean they do not exist." A warm laugh escaped him, "It's funny to explain this to a citizen of an imperialist nation. You had colonies all over the seas, you Gilneans."

"Aye. Then y'all lost the spirit of adventure, the spirit to see the world. Boxed yourselves off until you physically built a damn cage around Gilneas. Seafaring powerhouse turned laughingstock, beaten by corpses and dogs. Now Kul Tiras is its own thing, way stronger than you, and y'all still think you've got something to show for it." If Sven could spit, he would've. His anger was reigned in as he chose to address Sint, "Gilneas isn't lost, as much as your leaders like to say. Even if the land isn't ours, we're still Gilneans. We'll never not be Gilneans. And you will approach these men as a Gilnean, as a helping hand."

"Mm, Sven has a good point. Many of the men of these small havens have Gilneas in their blood. Even if they themselves have never seen the East, they will remember the stories of it." Kumo points to a location on the edge of Durotar, "And I am certain the Horde has not walked all the land they say they own. Here." Sint follows Kumo's fingertip, "This is a hidden ocean-side entrance to a small merchant colony within a clearing. I met these men before there were orcs in the West, and they crashed in Kalimdor due to the Maelstrom's currents knocking them off course. They sailed their rafts into this crevice, where they waited for someone to come looking for them. Nobody came, so they established something of their own operation. If you wonder where the 'Redrust Raiders' come from, it's this small indent in the land."

Sint quirked her brow, "You want me to meet pirates?"

"Should be no different than meeting with Kul Tirans, Sint." Sven looked up to the horizon, where a few islands were already starting to peek over. He pointed his axe its way, "Hey look, we're already almost there."

"Wh- What!?" Sint whipped around to see the isles, as clear as day. Isles she's seen sailing this way countless times. She looks over, "But we've been sailing for minutes! How could we already be this close?"

Kumostraz winks, "Because we're dead doesn't mean we're powerless, Sint. The entire time you've seen this golden ocean, the black sky, you've been traveling extremely quickly through our manipulation of the spirit realm. Something you should start to be able to do for yourself, I think."

"Could I apply that to myself?" The isles approached much faster than they should, Sint watching them incredulously as they zipped passed them, faster than any tidesage could usher a vessel forth.

"Potentially. When we get to Kalimdor and start your search for your Echoes of Fire, we should see. This journey across the sea will be short, after all, so there's little time to particularly train you on the depths of your gift." Kumo shrugs, "Though it's possible we won't need to stop in Kul Tiras, don't you think?"

Sint, seeing as fast as they were going, rapidly approaching Tiragarde Bay, really had to question if their route was a certain one. Looking to the Gift-Giver, "No, no I don't think we should! Chart our course directly for the Redrust Raider encampment!"

If only they had been quicker, the camp might've been saved. These Pirates were not good souls, by any means, raiding and killing as the law no longer applied to them. Fearlessly they committed crime after crime, as a livelihood. But that did not mean they should all be put to the blade. There were more than blackhearted sailors in this camp, but as they scouted through the burnt out hollow; it was certain. Even if they didn't fight back, not a soul was spared.

It was savage, senseless, slaughter. They didn't burn if they didn't need to, they didn't loot or pillage, they simply took the route that would assure all of these people would die. The scene was horrific, but nothing was more horrific than the idea that there were no enemy casualties. At least, the enemy didn't leave their dead behind. It felt as if they came, unstoppable by even the pirate's most powerful magics, a wave of death. To Aranor, this was another day where another part of mankind was burned away at the stake of senseless violence. To Aranor, it was another massacre unlike any he'd seen before the end of the Fourth War.

His rangers fanned out through the wreckage, finding no signs anyone had survived. For the dead's sake, they gathered the bodies and burned them, so that none might come back and commit more atrocities. The Stromgardian did not weep for the dead, this time. Perhaps he had grown numb to the irrational death that had fallen across the hidden societies in Kalimdor, or perhaps he simply lacked the courage to weep for them any longer. He was a coward hiding in a sheepskin cloak, letting his emotions stay far from him so that he didn't have to bear with them.

A voice raspy with harsh emotion pipes up from behind Aranor as he looked into the pile of burning bodies, "Captain Aranor. There's-"

"No survivors." Aranor finished his thought, allowing the crackle of the blazing fire to be the only sound that remained. He waved for his fellow ranger to go search another section of the wreckage, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the dead. He almost felt them calling to him, crying for his help. Help came too late, for they were chasing a ghost. Each time they even had a notion something horrible was happening, it was already finished by the time they arrived. Their scouts never found anything of this enemy, no trace of them. All they knew was that the few safe havens for men on Kalimdor were being eradicated, with no hope of stopping the perpetrators.

At first they thought it was simply a response, as the first to start disappearing into smoke were pirates and mercenaries. As time passed, however, the horrifying truth was made realized. Civilian, merchant, and any other sort of refuge in this hostile Western land were to be eradicated without a thought. A cruel fate for those who likely didn't choose to be in the path of this conquering shade. Aranor ran his hand down his face, turning from the blaze. If he let his resolve break now, there was truly no hope left in the West.

He walked from the central blaze back to the docks, which remained surprisingly intact. The vessels were sunk, but the docks themselves remained solid. They rode in smaller mercantile vessels, Aranor's people did, to avoid detection. If they appeared as an orcish merchant riding down the coast of Kalimdor, none would particularly pay them any mind. Luckily, these merchant vessels held enough space to conceal most of Aranor's scouting party. He glanced to the forlorn, distant faces of his people, nodding slowly to each and every one of them.

"Nothing to do but write the report. It'll be simpler than last time. 'Utter massacre. No survivors, nor a sign of the enemy'. Get to it." He pointed to the ranger with the best handwriting among them, glad to sink back into the vessel to get the massacre out of her mind. To the rest of the rangers, Aranor sighed, "As little as I and you all will like it, we should do another sweep."

"Captain, wait a second!" One of the rangers in the back called out.

"If you're objecting, just get in the ship." Aranor turned, drawing an arrow from his quiver.

"No, Captain! Look!" The other rangers turned to their comrade, who was pointing out toward the sea. An extremely quick and small vessel was rapidly approaching.

Aranor cursed in ancient Stromic, glaring at the vessel. He ran to the head of the docks, angling himself so he could get a good shot of the boat when it eventually docked. Praying underneath his breath, "If they're back, then let's hope we get a good fight before we all meet our ancestors. Scatter into the city in groups of two! Don't hold back in what kind of arrows you use, but wait until my sign to start firing!" The Captain couldn't believe how quick such a small thing was going, even with the wind at its back. It seemed to be propelled by a greyish mist. His people did as he asked, leaving him alone on the dock.

He was sure that it was not big enough to carry more than three people, but three is company enough if they're able to manipulate magic like that. It slowed by the time it reached the entrance of the cave entrance to the bay, Aranor hardly able to make out a single figure guiding the ship in. Whoever was guiding it in, though, saw him standing there. Perhaps he got too ahead of himself, as the mystery person kept the ship out of his range. It didn't turn away, though. It sat there, idle. Whoever was on board was making a choice. That was until he saw the vessel shake and shudder, before a burst of golden-yellow magic detonated the ship. A streak of energy carried something through the air, over Aranor's head, landing somewhere behind him in the docks.

The vessel sank to the depths, but he was aware that this wasn't the end of the action. He swiftly pivoted, aiming his arrow towards where he assumed the projectile went. Though his prediction was correct, he was not correct in assuming that it was a missile of sorts. A person rose out of the impact crater, holding a silver sword in hand. A person who didn't appear very big. Aranor crossed orc out of his head, putting 'Forsaken' in thought instead. Aiming away from the chest, he prepared to fire into their limbs. He loosed an arrow, which the figure deftly cleaved in twain. This figure dashed forward, surrounded by an aura of fire and magic. Though not as fast as their vessel, they covered the distance much faster than Aranor expected. He predicted an attack, rolling to the side, before sprinting down the docks.

The figure leapt over the barrels and whatnot Aranor knocked down, dodging a loosed arrow as he reached the sheer end of the dock. A bow was useless now, so he threw it down, drawing elven blades from their sheaths around his waist. He pointed one toward the figure, which he was beginning to actually make out. Though he still wasn't sure if she was undead or not, he could see that she was assuredly strong. Her armor was black and red, a fine black cloak with crimson lining billowing from her shoulders. A silver sword of Gilnean design was held in hand, as golden smoke wrapped around it and her. Her face was obscured by a helmet that covered all but her lower face, for her eyes were burning with yellow fury. Her face was pulled into a deep frown, one clearly marked by what appeared to be righteous rage. She grabbed her sword with both hands, drawing it into an offensive stance.

"So I see you came back to finish this colony off. I should've figured the Forsaken were involved. Never were good losers, you Lordaeronians." He spat to the side, "Lucky you, you're surrounded by twenty trained Alliance rangers. Some of the best."

She lowered her stance, "Wait. You didn't destroy this colony?" Her voice wasn't hollow, like a Forsaken's always was. There was warmth in that voice, albeit a strained warmth.

Aranor scoffed, "Of course not! You… You did. Wait a minute. Please tell me you're tricking me, because I was really looking forward to killing a monster today."

Though she didn't drop her stance, she softened a bit. The raging energy around her died down, her eyes dimming. He could see them, two very human eyes looking from underneath that black helm. He was facing a human, and a human he almost felt as if he recognized. With the energy gone, she had a remarkably familiar look to her.

"Rank and designation, ranger." Her voice was loud, commanding.

He cracked a grin, twirling his weapons, "On what authority?"

"None. You will tell me, however, or this will get ugly." She remained in one place as they spoke, Aranor following his ranger's movements as they adjusted to her positioning. If anything, he was prepared to buy some time.

"Sorry, miss, but I'm afraid I don't have to squeal anything then." He glanced to his archers, raising his fist, "But, you're about to go screaming to whatever hell you crawled out of!" Managing to duck out of an extremely quick swipe of her sword, Aranor watched as a volley of Alliance-proud arrows sung through the air.

He was as proud as the arrows until he watched with horror as they all were either swatted or incinerated before they hit her. Another few missed, which he felt as if he'll have to reprimand the archers who missed when they reunite in Hell. Aranor sprinted to face the warrior while her back was turned, his first strike just barely missing a weak spot in her armor. She caught him, elbowing him off of her. An elbow that shattered his nose, sending the ranger rolling down the docks.

As his ears rang from the sheer force of the strike, he looked up as he saw her move with blinding speed, ducking and dodging through the ruined port to avoid his archers. Aranor was honestly surprised he wasn't dead, but he knew that the distinction probably didn't matter. This beast of a fighter would come back and pop his head off like a cork, whether or not she did it immediately wasn't important. Blurry vision made it hard for Aranor to particularly track her, but it seemed as if his rangers were distracting her long enough for each of them to retreat back to the ship.

Even the ranger he sent to write that tiny report came out, helping him back to his feet. The girl was a young high elf, hardly old enough to say she remembered the Scourge's invasion of Quel'thalas. Old enough to hate the Horde, old enough to hold a bow. But young enough to make Aranor's heart ache as he knew that even if they all stood together, it might not be certain victory to an adversary with unknown power. The Captain collected himself, walking to the edge of the docks. His rangers ran past him, towards their boat, all prepared to stand to face this foe.

She was easy to track, her golden glow hard to miss. Her blade was not stained with blood, but Aranor swore he saw a handful of broken bows when his rangers made it back. He turned, eyes wide, now realizing only he and the high elf's weapons were intact. The warrior approached, striding through the ruined harbor. She looked like a God of War among the carnage, but Aranor knew now that she was not responsible. Nor was she a foe, hopefully.

He stuck an arm out to hold his rangers back, as he heard them brandish their steel in her direction. Sheathing his elven blades, he made a risky choice. He walked to meet the warrior midway, in a gesture of surrender. He was much taller than her, he realized, as they stood face to face. The ranger looked down, peering into the eyeslots of that black helm's visor. That cocky grin of Aranor's was stifled as he spoke, "So. You dismantled my twenty rangers with relative ease. And me. Thanks for the broken nose…"

"Are you going to cooperate now? I can't get counsel from these dead, so I'm hoping to ask you what happened here." She pointed toward the burning pile.

"The pile's our doing, but the death… the massacre…" He shook his head, "We only arrived to see it. Chasing rumors and previous events like it, mostly."

"There's something killing other havens? Do you know what?" Her questions weren't devoid of emotion. He could tell she wasn't happy to hear this news.

"No. I've been kinda running off of the assumption it was part of Sylvanas' master plan after being kicked out of her throne… but there's no evidence it's Horde." He looked to his feet, "Doesn't mean I don't want to exact vengeance, but we still can't act against them without proof. Not enough resources to take on the Horde, even in the frontier, just yet."

"I'm tracking something, myself. I was hoping to find help from the men of Kalimdor, but I assume they'll be hard to win over with all of these settlements being wiped out." She sheathed her blade, "Perhaps we could help each other?"

"You destroy my bows and then ask me for help. You've got guts! I like that." He looked to his rangers, "This one kicked your asses, and she's offering an equal trade. We help her, she helps us."

The high elf looked befuddled, "Captain, we don't even know who she is! She might be a dangerous criminal, as far as we know."

Aranor clicked his tongue, "That's a fair point. Tell me, are you a dangerous criminal?"

"As far as I am aware, I am not." She paused, "Promise to not try to kill me when I say my name, though. For some reason, it's drawn up quite a bit of hostility as of late."

"I don't hurt a potential ally, lady." He drops his hands to his sides, no longer in a gesture of surrender.

The name she spoke made Aranor's jaw drop. A proud voice rallied forth, "I am Sint Dagon, and I have come chasing echoes of an old war. I need your help."

"THE SHADOW OF WAR!?"