Morg Wolfsong and Thrall, the Warchief of the Orcish Horde, sat in
the shaman's smoky tent, staring down at a shallow bowl of water between
them. Speaking in his forceful voice, Wolfsong instructed the young
Warchief on what to do. "Look at the very heart of the water, and know that
it came from the natural world. Feel that link, and try and follow the
water back to whence it-"
Suddenly, the old shaman gasped.
Thrall, the Warchief of the Orcish Horde, looked up at the old shaman, concern in his eyes. Rumbling in his deep bass voice, he could not suppress the dread that crept into his words. "What is it, old one?"
The ancient seer started to reply, but then toppled forward onto the thin reed mat of his tent. His eyes glazed, he seemed to be looking inward at a horrible sight. His mouth formed around silent words, yet no sound came. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and then he spoke, still lying on the mat where he fell.
"All those little life-lights...going out so fast...so many...they could do nothing...nothing..."
Thrall, horrified by his confidant's words, cupped his hands into the bowl of water between them, and splashed it over the shaman's face. Brought back from the brink of unconsciousness, Wolfsong sat up, face in his huge hands.
"They are all dead...all dead...my god! Hellscream has fallen! Thrall," he said to no one in particular, "Hellscream is dead!"
Mouth open, Thrall blinked at the old seer. Wolfsong was a trusted advisor, and yet the Warchief could not believe what he was saying. He had known Hellscream since he was young, and had never thought of him dying. Now, his constant figure was gone, never to return. However, instead of remorse and grief, black anger bubbled up inside him. This was what Grom would have wanted. The outlanders would pay.
***
The golden gates of Dalaran opened with protest, squeaking and groaning as their solid-gold mass was pulled aside. The gears slowly stopped and the gateway swung wide, admitting the Crown Prince of Lordaeron and his tired expeditionary party. Arthas kept his eyes downcast as he trudged through the streets, shamefully reminded of the grand party he had left with in the disbelieving eyes of the city's populace. The Archmage Antonidas rode along beside him, the monotonous clacking of his horse's hooves almost maddening in the uneasy silence that pervaded. Looking up, Arthas saw the great Magus' Tower ahead, the spire from which Antonidas kept his council. His father was there now, eagerly waiting for the news of his return. Although Arthas was joyous to be back, he was sure that Teranas would be disappointed in him for his failure. Although he was afraid to admit it, the Prince knew his father would also seek revenge against the Orcs, a foe that would surely crush the unorganized, widely-dispersed Lordaeron Corps.
They stopped at the foot of the Magus' Tower. Although no door was set into the ivory-smooth stone, a huge runic circle was burned into the travel-worn cobblestones. Antonidas rode into the center of the center and spoke a few syllables in the singsong, lilting language of the Ancients. Arthas felt a pull in his stomach, was wrenched upward, and blacked out.
***
King Terenas was furious. His son had failed the mission that he had so confidently given him, and all over a petty scare from a tired old Orc. Arthas knelt in shame before him now, in the highest spire of the Magus' tower of Dalaran, and endured his father's verbal punishment.
"You were simply sent out to destroy a few Orcish camps. How could you fail that, Arthas? No doubt the beasts are still slowed by the lethargy that overtook them in my camps," said the king of Lordaeron, his wolfskin cloak swishing as he turned away, "and their leader is naught but a brazen young whelp. Uther could have-"
"Uther this, Uther that, is he all you talk about? To be sure I consider him a father, but sometimes the old man can be a bit tedious. He is a great man, father, but for once can you just listen to me for one second instead of the judgements of the Silver Hand?"
Terenas seemed to be warring inside himself for a moment, then said simply "Get out of my sight. Either go back there and bring me the Orcish leader's head on a pike, or you may stop considering me your father. Dismissed," he spat out the next words, "Prince Arthas."
Standing, Arthas strode toward the door, a maelstrom roiling in his head. If his father wanted him to kill the Orc leader, and if that granted him eventual kingship, then he would relish killing the beast. Slamming open the great oaken doors and walking down the hall to the runic exit, he realized one thing: He needed to speak with Uther.
Thrall, the Warchief of the Orcish Horde, looked up at the old shaman, concern in his eyes. Rumbling in his deep bass voice, he could not suppress the dread that crept into his words. "What is it, old one?"
The ancient seer started to reply, but then toppled forward onto the thin reed mat of his tent. His eyes glazed, he seemed to be looking inward at a horrible sight. His mouth formed around silent words, yet no sound came. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and then he spoke, still lying on the mat where he fell.
"All those little life-lights...going out so fast...so many...they could do nothing...nothing..."
Thrall, horrified by his confidant's words, cupped his hands into the bowl of water between them, and splashed it over the shaman's face. Brought back from the brink of unconsciousness, Wolfsong sat up, face in his huge hands.
"They are all dead...all dead...my god! Hellscream has fallen! Thrall," he said to no one in particular, "Hellscream is dead!"
Mouth open, Thrall blinked at the old seer. Wolfsong was a trusted advisor, and yet the Warchief could not believe what he was saying. He had known Hellscream since he was young, and had never thought of him dying. Now, his constant figure was gone, never to return. However, instead of remorse and grief, black anger bubbled up inside him. This was what Grom would have wanted. The outlanders would pay.
***
The golden gates of Dalaran opened with protest, squeaking and groaning as their solid-gold mass was pulled aside. The gears slowly stopped and the gateway swung wide, admitting the Crown Prince of Lordaeron and his tired expeditionary party. Arthas kept his eyes downcast as he trudged through the streets, shamefully reminded of the grand party he had left with in the disbelieving eyes of the city's populace. The Archmage Antonidas rode along beside him, the monotonous clacking of his horse's hooves almost maddening in the uneasy silence that pervaded. Looking up, Arthas saw the great Magus' Tower ahead, the spire from which Antonidas kept his council. His father was there now, eagerly waiting for the news of his return. Although Arthas was joyous to be back, he was sure that Teranas would be disappointed in him for his failure. Although he was afraid to admit it, the Prince knew his father would also seek revenge against the Orcs, a foe that would surely crush the unorganized, widely-dispersed Lordaeron Corps.
They stopped at the foot of the Magus' Tower. Although no door was set into the ivory-smooth stone, a huge runic circle was burned into the travel-worn cobblestones. Antonidas rode into the center of the center and spoke a few syllables in the singsong, lilting language of the Ancients. Arthas felt a pull in his stomach, was wrenched upward, and blacked out.
***
King Terenas was furious. His son had failed the mission that he had so confidently given him, and all over a petty scare from a tired old Orc. Arthas knelt in shame before him now, in the highest spire of the Magus' tower of Dalaran, and endured his father's verbal punishment.
"You were simply sent out to destroy a few Orcish camps. How could you fail that, Arthas? No doubt the beasts are still slowed by the lethargy that overtook them in my camps," said the king of Lordaeron, his wolfskin cloak swishing as he turned away, "and their leader is naught but a brazen young whelp. Uther could have-"
"Uther this, Uther that, is he all you talk about? To be sure I consider him a father, but sometimes the old man can be a bit tedious. He is a great man, father, but for once can you just listen to me for one second instead of the judgements of the Silver Hand?"
Terenas seemed to be warring inside himself for a moment, then said simply "Get out of my sight. Either go back there and bring me the Orcish leader's head on a pike, or you may stop considering me your father. Dismissed," he spat out the next words, "Prince Arthas."
Standing, Arthas strode toward the door, a maelstrom roiling in his head. If his father wanted him to kill the Orc leader, and if that granted him eventual kingship, then he would relish killing the beast. Slamming open the great oaken doors and walking down the hall to the runic exit, he realized one thing: He needed to speak with Uther.