Chapter Twelve: Thinking and Choosing

Winter 593, Borkom's Camp, Stromgarde

Borkom Grimfist briefly considered his options. He had five hundred orcs with him, ready to harass the human armies in order to confuse and waylay the Alliance armies in the area. The problem was to choose which was the one they should put so efforts on. Squinting in the candlelight, barely acknowledging the wind which wafted from outside, carrying with it the first real wisps of cold, he looked at his maps of the area.

His scouts had done an excellent job - the precision of the human troop movements was as clear as it was fascinating. Not surprising, since he knew that his second, Keragsa Flaminghand, never took anyone in their band that wasn't an accomplished scout or a cunning raider. It showed that three of the Alliance armies were moving around the horde positions - the First, the Fourth and the Ninth Armies were breaking formation, going farther east, away from the front lines. He frowned. That was about sixty thousand troops - a large formation to have weakened the human push on the Land Bridges. It seemed a foolish move.

However, a raider like Borkom hadn't become so good at what he did by drawing hasty conclusions. He knew the commanders of those three armies - Ironhorse, Swiftblade and Minvare. All three had proven able and most annoying leaders in the many skirmishes along the front lines. He absolutely refused to believe that they would move away from the front without some sort of reason. Possibly a reason the Horde wouldn't be pleased at finding out the day the hammer fell.

But then again, others must have noticed it. They would have to deal with these forces. He didn't have the strength with him to harass such large moving forces. However, there were some encampments near the front which had been left quite open by the sudden leaving - tempting targets, near enough, and not so numerous that his well-trained troops would have trouble with them. It was towards them that he took his gaze pensively; just before someone entering interrupted him.

He stiffened, hand lowering to his axe by sheer instinct even as he turned and recognized the newcomer. A very small newcomer, toddling into a tent with wide eyes and a laughing mouth.

"Kelak," he breathed, "What are you doing here?"

The little child just looked at him and rushed, giggling, crying 'dadda! dadda!' in a shrill voice. The little one hugged the captain's large leg with his rosy, pudgy little arms.

In two years, he had never gotten completely used to this yet - a human child giving him affection, and him finding himself returning it. But then again, he had never gotten over the fact that he was the reason the child was still alive today. Well, he and Keragsa were the main reasons, but he had made the decision.

It had been the right thing to do, the war be blasted. He knew it, something in him had told him to save this child's life, something from what it seemed a calmer, wiser past. And he had listened, going against his orders and against the unspoken rules set upon them by Doomhammer. He had taken the child back to his raiding camp and nursed it back to health.

There were objections to his actions, from many of his subordinates. Many had wanted the child killed, with a few - he shivered in disgust to even remind himself of this - supposing that it would be nice in a cook pot. Those last he had set to the dirtiest duties, and the former, he had shamed.

"Is this the way the proud orcs of Dreanor act? Killing children who aren't even able to know the reason of our hate?" he had asked angrily "Where is the glory in such a kill? Nowhere! There is no pride to be had in such an act, and I consider myself one of honour and pride! I never want to hear those words again in my presence. The next who talks this way, I will use my axe on him."

It had calmed them down, at least for a little while. And during the weeks, which followed, the child recovered, gained back its weight - through the healers' painstaking efforts, and a lot of luck. Some of the grunts had orders to secure fresh milk instead of the usual loot, but after a few weeks, the child had become a healthy baby once more.

For the least twenty months, Kelak Fatebreaker - as they named him after seeing him survived when he should have died - had grown on everyone. The angry mutters had faded, and many of the grunts, used to the grimness of war and battle, had found the little one a refreshing sight. Soon, they had forgotten that he was human, and treated him, as they would have any orcling.

Still, Borkom sadly realized, the child was human, in body at least. The day would come that he would ask the questions and demand answers. How would he tell him that he was of a race that the orcs had waged war against for years? He hoped the day was still some time away. Very far away indeed.

He took hold of the boy and lifted his small frame up to his eye level. "And why were you running around, you little brat?" he asked, his tone gentler than it usually was. The child giggled again.

"Hide n' see! Hide n' see vit Nogoo!" he said, his face so happy it made Borkom's heart briefly ache with envy. Had he ever been so young, so free of the cares of the world? If he'd ever been that way, it had been swallowed long ago, by the mists of time.

He knew, however, what the boy meant. Hide and seek, indeed. A game some of the grunts played with the child, giving the camp the laughter and the easy time. He also knew what the name 'Nogoo' meant, and rose to his feet, facing the door, trying his best to look stern even as his mouth twitched,

"You can come inside, Nolgoor!" he said in what he hope was an appropriate tone. "Kelak has just given you away!"

A few moments passed, and then entered a young orc, puffing, and looking extremely embarrassed to be there. Nolgoor Direstrike had been one of the first to take a liking to the child, and in the months, which followed, had probably been the one who had taken care of him the most. He had played with him; he had fed him, and put up with many childish antics. In a way, it figured. Nolgoor was a good grunt, deadly if he wanted to be, but had strangely never exhibited the overwhelming bloodlust even Borkom had difficulty in controlling during a battle. It wasn't surprising that the young orc had latched on to a symbol of peace and innocence, to the point that he had become Kelak's protector and, in many ways, his teacher.

"Still playing so late at night, young Nolgoor?" he asked less sharply than he should have. "Shouldn't the little one be in bed right now." he ignored the child's crumpling look, and instead focused on the one he was accusing. The young orc warrior bent his head a little, now definitely feeling like he wanted to be elsewhere.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, sir." he said at last "I truly didn't think a short game would degrade in such a way. Had I known-"

"You probably would have done exactly the same. Don't squirm! It's a small thing, and I admit I needed the diversion. The war is getting more and more complicated by the day..." he checked a sigh, resumed his talk with a more confident tone "Yet, I do believe that I've found very entertaining targets for us. Take Kelak to bed, and then please go and get Keragsa. I'll need her advice on how we should proceed with the scouting."

"As you command, so will it be done." Nolgoor intoned quickly, not bothering the relief he felt at getting off so easy. Borkom put little Kelak back on the ground and pushed him towards his guardian.

"Off you go, little one!" he said with a tusky grin "Its late for orclings to be about. I'll go and tell you a story or two if you go to bed without making Nolgoor's life miserable." The happy, eager grin which lighted the child's face lifted his spirit, and when the two had gone away, he stayed staring at nothing for long moments, not wanting reality to reassert itself just yet.

But, in the end, it did, and he shrugged helplessly. "A nice moment." he murmured "I don't have those a lot. If I ever did." And to say he'd silently mocked those grunts that had children, boasting of them. He truly had been a clueless orc.

As he turned back to his maps, back to battle and death, he wondered when Kelak had gone from a duty he had to something as close to a son as he would probably ever allow. He couldn't quite pinpoint the answer. He didn't find a need to. It was moot, for only one thing mattered to him now: in his mind, Kelak Fatebreaker was his and Keragsa's child.

There were some who might one day disagree.

Let them come.

He'd make them agree. And if they still wanted to hurt what was is, he'd make them dead.

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 593, Jeredin Hills, Lordearon-Quel'Thalas Border

Turalyon, second of the fledging Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand, right and to High Alliance General Anduin Lothar, surveyed the endless, unbroken expanses of the Quel'Thalai, shining red and orange and yellow, with clumps of emerald and deep green showing where pines or stubborn trees still tried to maintain their leaves against the inevitable season change. To him, it seemed like a sea of colours, and both his religious and fighting heart couldn't help but to admit that there was something definitely awe-inspiring in the sight. No human forest had ever seemed so large, or looked so beautiful and peaceful in all the lands he had ever visited.

It was a shame, really, that this seeming peace was but a facade, a cover to the violence and bloodshed, to the despair-taking place under the trees. The orcs were busy breaking Quel'Thalas, ensuring no one would be able to come to Lordearon when it came under attack.

And what did they have to try and stall this reportedly immense army of powerful veteran Horde Warriors? A rag-tag army of barely thirty thousand swords, most of them peasants or militia with no true formal training. He looked back at the tents strewn behind him, with the fires from the cookpots, and the comings and going of men and women, and settled on the practice field where the few trained, blooded footmen were busy both giving lectures to the unblooded footmen, while at the same time others tirelessly trained the militia and farmers in the use of sword and shield.

It was marginally working, but Turalyon knew that nothing could prepare one for a battle with the Horde until one had actually fought a battle with the Horde. As for the farmers and others, what good would second-rate blades, old shield and thin leather armour be against orcish strength. Only those soldiers with good armour, good weapons and good training could hope to stand against a wave of grunts. However, almost all of those were fighting the other half of the Horde south, or busy fortifying Whitefort. They'd had to go to the slaughter with what they had.

Yes, he wasn't that very optimistic about their chances. Only a fool with indescribable naiveté would be.

"It's going to be stiff and nasty, there's no doubt of that."

He turned to his side and wasn't surprised when he saw Lord Lothar himself standing only a few feet from him, inspecting the forests with an hard stare which only served accentuate his age and his fatigue. The High Alliance General was perhaps the most respected man in the human lands, but the paladin knew that beneath all the titles, there was only a man with too much weight on his shoulders. However, he wasn't about to comfort the older man - it wouldn't be proper or wanted.

Instead he let his true feelings show. "Almost four hundred thousand Horde troops? We can't hope to be much more than a minor fly to them."

Lothar only gave a tired nod - it wasn't anything the old knight didn't know. "I have more bad news. Word just came in from some elven scouts this past hour..." he sighed, "It appears that Alleria has been taken by the Horde. Taken alive, at that."

For a moment, Turaylon only looked at Lothar with large, pale blue eyes as his brains slowly digested this unlikely information. It seemed relatively impossible to him, which she could have been taken so easily - Alleria was the leader of the feared Elven Rangers, and hadn't won that title because she had fair hair. Once past that denial, scorn and irritation settled. He had known about her plans to harass the Horde. A good plan, but all of the other seats at the High Command had been against she personally leading the attacks. Her answer had been to sniff arrogantly at them and ignore their pleas. Foolish elf. Arrogant elf.

So she was taken? It served her right, he thought no matter what his priestly side told him. He had never liked the elves at all - fickle, overbearing and sometimes so old their forgot the basic concepts of life like danger and risks. However, a third stage remained, the one which reminded the young paladin of Alleria's position as a seat in the High Command, and all that it entailed.

"Foolish woman!" he raged, paladin training flung to the winds as his soldier's spirit took to the fore. "They'll know everything they need, if they keep questioning her. Our failsafe, our back-up plans, or fortifications and the strength and emplacement of whatever northern armies we still have in the north."

Lothar nodded, his hard stare only hardening, the lines of age deepening. "Yes, you're quite right. Which leaves us with but one option: to find Alleria, rescuing her if we can, kill her if we must. Turalyon, I want YOU to undertake this mission."

Although this shocked him more than a little, the younger man kept his composure as he received the demand/order. "I am only an average tracker at best..." he began uncertainly.

"You'll have help. Once you have your team assembled, you'll meet some rangers who will help you track the Horde contingent, which has their leader captive. Once that is done, we need people who can act wisely, but with strength and swiftness. This will perfectly apply to a few paladins."

It made sense, in a way. With the elves using their stealth and paladin warriors using the might or their arms and magic, a short, surgical strike was possible. It wouldn't be easy, it would have to be precise, but at least it was possible.

There was only one problem with that. There weren't any paladins around. All of them were still mostly training at the Fortress, and the few who weren't were nowhere near here. He told lord Lothar that much.

Who received the information with a wan grin.

"I am not yet that old that I would forget about the fact that you're alone. That's why I decided to...ah, but there's no need to explain. Turn around and you'll understand immediately." the old knight said.

Obediently, rather puzzled, Turalyon obeyed, looking at the camp. He immediately notice something had changed. A company of mounted knights, all in full armour, were riding towards them. It was only when he saw the colours they wore and the symbol they had instead of a nation's royal crest. They were all dressed in white and pale grey, with deep blue cloaks, and on their shields, was the crafted image of an open hand in a circle. The symbol of the Order of the Silver Hand.

These twenty men were Paladins, much like him. He stayed stiff and stunned at they approached, taking off their helmets and bowing one after the other to Lothar.

"Well met, Sire Regent." the one on front - the unspoken leader no doubt - said respectfully. "I bear greetings from Alonsus Faol and the wizard Khadgar. Their magic allowed us to travel faster than most might have, and I hope you did not wait long."

"We hardly waited, Paladin." Lothar answered, his face then setting in firmer lines. "But I hope you can waylay rest for a while yet, for Lord Turalyon and I have pressing need of your strength."

The paladins looked at each other briefly, subtle shrugs and confusion on their faces. He didn't recognize them. None were of the first twenty who had trained under Uther Lightbringer himself. That fact made Turalyon strangely ill at ease, but he fought off the impression. He was being foolish. They were paladins, taught the same tactics and spells he had been. If nothing else, they were what he needed to get this new mission done the way he wanted. Before any could respond to Lothar, he stepped forward.

"Greetings, brethren. My name is Turalyon, and I indeed require your aid. The present situation in the elven forests, though dire, isn't our main concern. Our main concerned is this: Alleria, leader of the Rangers of Quel'Thalas, has been taken captive by the horde." This caused a stir, but he kept plunging ahead, speaking hurriedly. "She, as a member of the Alliance High Command, has information that might make our situation go from dire to lost. We must rescue her before that happen!"

Other warriors might have hesitated. Even knights might have found the task ahead daunting. And Turalyon was quite certain that more than one of these paladins wished to be elsewhere. However, the fact remained that they were paladins. The one who led them - or so it seemed - gave the others a long look, then turned his gaze towards Turalyon firmly.

"Sir, tell us what we must do."

And quickly, breathlessly, yet strangely composed, Turalyon and Lothar began to build Alleria's rescue.

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 593, Hiljenaia-Alsavre, Quel'Thalas

"I have never had such a stubborn, prisoner, I have to admit that."

"I didn't think that breaking her would be easy, Jolparg. I did say, however, that this was exactly what you had to do." Grimfrost muttered. "So my question remains: when can I expect news about what Doomhammer and Gul'Dan need to know?"

Jolparg, a large, crafty orc who was one of the best and nastiest of the Horde's questioners, seemed about to shrug, then thought better of it. Grimfrost didn't really blame him. Battles against the elves had been going at a slow but steady pace. Roadblocks to Doomhammer's plans couldn't be allowed to remain in the light of Doomhammer's plans. However, the simple fact that the orc in front of him had even hesitated was the direct way to show him one very big roadblock. The intellectual stench of it was worth retching over.

In the end, however, having no choice but to do so, the questioner gave his opinion to the warlord. "I think that if we insist on what we want, and only on that, focusing all of our efforts, we could probably have enough by the end of the weak. She is stronger than it seemed at first, but even she won't survive our probing spells for long.

"Make certain of this, my friend. Gul'Dan wants control of the fabled Runestone at Caer Darrow, an island protected by an ancient spell which only a few know how to disable. That Gul'Dan wants it means little to me. However, Doomhammer, our Warchief, wants the power it contains. I do not know of their plans for the artifact, but I know this: my loyalty is to Doomhammer. What Doomahammer wants, I want. And right now I must say your results have gleaned...less than the reputation you are credited with."

The orc flushed in fury and injured pride. "Are you questioning my abilities?"

Grimfrost's voice was as cold as his name as he answered. "Not yet. But I want swift results. And if I don't get them, I AM going to start questioning your abilities. Trust me, questioner, you do not want me to do that."

The threat was direct, though silent. Certain, even if couched in words, which didn't truly, imply harm. Jolparg was many things, but not a fool - he saw the sentence for what it was: if you don't bring me result, I'll have your head. Literally. For a moment, he wondered if the fool would try to defend himself against the deadline he had to make the Head Ranger Alleria talk.

In the end, however, he didn't. "I will have the secrets of Caer Darrow before the sixth sunrise, or I will forfeit my life." he said proudly.

"Done." Grimfrost said, totally unimpressed by the unimaginative - not to mention fake - oath. The tone hadn't been one from the heart. "On the sixth sunrise, if you don't have my information, I will insure that you fulfill your vow to me."

Maybe that wasn't what the questioner had expected, although Grimfrost had a hard time seeing how that could have come across in any other way. The fact remained, however, that the orc left with a seriously disturbed look. Good, if it made him work faster. Plans were being finalized for major attacks, which would cripple the Alliance in the northeast, and it wasn't a time when he had any small bit of pity for those who failed.

At last, the questioner went out of Grimfrost's large tent, and the experienced leader felt he could safely sigh in discomfort. Damn the elven woman; blast her to the Twisting Nethers! Although he had expected her not to give in easily - she was the leader of a long-lasting tradition of warriors, and he knew one didn't gain prominence in one of these by being weak-willed. But she was also making his life harder, and it didn't endear her to him much that way.

He looked at his plans. The attack on Strathholme, a large city controlling the northwest of the Alliance's refinery operations, wouldn't be easy. Tyr's Hand was a medium town, not overly involved with the war as a whole. Its fall had been laughably easy if one compared it to battles at cities such as Northshire, Sunshire or Moonbrooke in the previous conflict with the humans. However, those cities had also fallen, no matter how old or fortified they had been. Even the mightiest, Stormwind, had fallen. And so Stratholme would also fall to the wrath of the Horde's overwhelming power.

But Caer Darrow, with its strong magical shielding, was a problem. Even the information from Alterac had gleaned nothing. Only the highest elven officers knew the way to deactivate it, once it was activated. It was a pain in the butt, and it was giving him the most monstrous series of headaches just thinking about it.

Fortunately, he was distracted by outside event before another migraine could form.

Unfortunately, the distraction soon gave him a very sour stomachache.

A guard entered breathlessly, disturbing his train of thought completely, disregarding protocol. That the guards normally outside his tent hadn't stopped him should have told him that something was afoot, but at that moment, all he could think about was the outrageous intrusion.

He glared at the puffing grunt. "What is the meaning of this?!? I hope that what you have to say is worthwhile, grunt, or things are going to be painful for you very soon!" he growled. "I want an explanation! NOW!!"

In response, the grunt only started to babble. "Have to...you know...lord, I want to tell you...he's here, and them too..."

A voice cut in, clear, arrogant and supremely egotistic, pushing the ramblings aside. "I didn't know my sudden appearance would make such an impression. I'm touched."

He knew that voice. Oh, how he knew that voice!

How he loathed it and the one to whom it belonged.

"Lord Gul'Dan." he hissed, and so he appeared, dressed in the now-dead dress of a warlock, looking at Grimfrost calmly, with that smugness that so many wanted him dead for. "What an honor. Grunt, get out of this tent. I wasn't expecting you. To what do I owe this visit?" Keeping his voice civil to that monster was hard, but he was managing thus far.

Gul'Dan only looked at Grimfrost as if the warlord had made his query in all honesty - a fact the warlock surely knew was false by now. "Why, I'm here to gather the information needed for our campaign against Caer Darrow, what else? I have learned that you captured a very important elven lady..."

"And HOW did you learn of this so fast?"

"...And I found that I HAD to talk to this esteemed prisoner right away!" the older orc finished as if nothing had interrupted him.

He had never liked the warlock leader. Even on Dreanor, or when he wielded so much power over Blackhand the Destroyer, he had never been able to respect the conniving orc. So when Doomhammer had dismantled the Shadow Council, he had helped as much as he could, and had seen the warlock driven to his knees. He was certain the other orc hadn't forgotten that, either.

And so, far from treating Gul'Dan with any kind of respect, he took on a demeanor, which showed his disdain for him. "Well, then, you have yourself quite a task, given the fact that she won't talk to anyone, no matter how nicely OR harshly we ask the questions. I would be amused to see how you intend to manage."

The smile that the other orc returned was chilly in its intensity, and the amusement shining there made Grimfrost's skin crawl, battle experience notwithstanding. The answer was as amused - and as perversely cold - as the look itself. "Let me show you who will conduct the interrogation."

That was when they entered, two cold being wrapped in shadows, exuding the stench of death. Cloaks hid most of their bodies and hid their heads completely, so that glowing eyes were the only things, which he could perceive. Their bodies, which moved unnaturally, wore the garments of Azerothian knights, but these were filthy, broken in places. More than anything else, there was something about them - an aura - which made his sour stomach clench in cold dread.

By the Ancestors, were those the Death Knights Doomhammer had agreed to let Gul'Dan create?!?

Gul'Dan only grinned. "Meet Calluvik and Doron. They will make Alleria of Quel'Thalas talk. You can rest assured of that. No matter the cost."

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 593, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde

It hadn't been very hard to avoid fights. All he'd had to do was to listen to the spirits of the recently dead warning him of paths, and he had managed to squeeze on one which was yet devoid of much bloodshed. He said much, because he had found no place yet where a sentient being hadn't killed another, be it only once. It was a sad state of affairs, but one he had been used to. One that, in a truthful fact, he had rather looked forward to...was it less than two years ago? It felt as if it was two lifetimes.

The loud sounds he had been hearing were now deafening despite their distance - steel clashing on steel, warcries and screams of agony sounding from thousands of throats. The stench of blood and death filled his nose, and he fought choking for a moment. Two years with the strange but peaceful old human Desil Brassgoat - his unlikely mentor and teacher - had made him sick of fighting of any sort.

Once, he would have thought such feelings a weakness. No more.

He rounded the corner of the hill, to a stony crag overlooking the valley a hundred feet below, and saw a battle. A great battle, between the Horde and the Alliance. A futile clash of force which would, in the end, give nothing and take too much.

Or so Gelmar Thornfeet thought.

The main line was made up of roughly equal numbers of human footmen and orc grunts, flailing at each other, screaming their rage and their hatred, their fears and their hopes. Uncountable numbers of small battles had erupted in the massive, tangled lines. Here, two footmen skewered a grunt, only to be attacked by three fresh troops. There, six footmen overtook and slaughtered four surprised grunts. Many of them fought one-on-one, determined to kill and prove to be the stronger one. Amidst them, prone or moaning bodies were crawling or staying still, the end result of this huge melee.

Ogres were on the flanks, their pounding attacks stemmed by the ranks of human knights. There two, hatred collided, and the death toll was rising even as he looked, taking a knight there, then an ogre, then another here, others there.

Giving cover fire were elves - with a few men - on one side, against trolls and spearmen on the other. The elves were the better marksmen, and killed more individually, but were outnumbered by the troll forces. The tool they reaped was about the same.

From the hill, it seemed to Gelmar that the whole valley had become a sea of bodies, of bloodshed and of destruction. No pity or mercy existed there. No understanding came on either side. Both were content with insuring the destruction of the other side. Nothing more, nothing less.

Futile, stupid, senseless. And yet there it was.

And yet, to his eyes, this wasn't the worse.

Around the battlefield, to his trained senses, came the spirits of the dead. Orcs and humans both, freed from the shackles of flesh, and understanding at last the witless conflict for what it was. They wailed and raged, desperately trying to get their friends and comrades to listen to them in the short time they had before passing on. Their wails, ethereal and yet so shockingly real, came to his ears, their laments and despair tangible. He could taste the horror and the grief. Finally, unable to take anymore, he closed his eyes and senses to both the living and the dead, and leaned against a rocky outcropping.

"Spirits," he breathed sadly "Why can't they see what they're destroying?"

The former Necrolyte turned shaman didn't expect an answer to his question, so he very nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice answered, posedly and evenly. "Because they can't see it. That's all."

Gelmar jumped and turned towards the voice, seeing a hooded form sitting on the very rock he had been leaning against. The possibility of danger flared within him, and with it, he instinctively looked to spell and he could use against the stranger. He then realized what he was doing, and it shamed him. Weren't these travels supposed to strengthen his emotional control? Old habits, it seemed, died hard. If they died at all.

The stranger appeared to pay no mind to the brief surge of power - which, given the magic Gelmar felt from him, he must have sensed easily. Rather, he looked down towards the swaying battlefield. Although his face was hidden, there was no mistaking the sorrow and guilt, which exuded from every pore and fiber. It looked like a great weight was upon this one. By why was it so?

"Well met, stranger." he said at last. "Who, may I ask, are you? I didn't feel you come in."

"A strange occurrence for one who can feel spiritual energy. I see old Desil has taught you well." he rode over the orc's surprised noise. "As for who I am...lets just say I'm a sort of...seer. An oracle, if you may prefer."

"...Actually, I was referring to your name. Mine is Gelmar Thornfeet."

"You are very careless with the trust you give. Who knows what I may glean from your name?"

That wasn't the kind of answer he had expected to hear, or wasn't it? There was definitely something peculiar about this person, and it wasn't just the fact that he could come upon one unnoticed. The shape and the tone set the newcomer as human, yet something at the edge of his senses informed him that something was amiss.

"If that's so, then its too late to do anything about it." he finally said, dismissing the possibilities. "Well then, seer, what have you come here to see? Have you come to watch into the future and look at whatever catastrophes will befall the people fighting below us?"

He had meant it more as a jest than anything else, only it wasn't taken that way. He immediately felt an instant gaze at his back, and he turned to see the hood turned completely in his direction. He couldn't make out the face in the hood, and yet he knew exactly where those eyes were.

"I may." the figure said grimly, making Gelmar's skin crawl. "I may just be seeing the future. I hope not, for what I see isn't pleasant, for either human, elf, orc, goblin, dwarf or any other thinking being on this world."

Gelmar didn't think it only had to do with the war itself, but he nodded as if it had. "They are losing their way. I wish to rebuild the heart of the orcish clans. I believe we can live without bloodshed, and I intend to teach my brothers and sisters to embrace the concept."

"A noble ploy. And not an easy one. Hard times are upon you. The possibility of your death is not far-fetched. What say you to that?"

"That if I can start something which might redeem my people, that it would be a small price to pay."

Silence. The face behind the hood, darkened as it may be, seemed pensive. A boom made Gelmar turn back towards the battle. The noise was winding down, and horns were sounding the end of the day's engagement. So it was that his back was turned when he heard the person's reply.

"Good. He will need someone like you."

The former necrolyte turned sharply at the cryptic sentence, to find no one there. The being had gone as if it had never existed, like a dream and a whisper of morning fog.

"Whom did you mean?" he asked, knowing there would never be an answer. What strange man - if it had indeed been a human at all. Yet, hadn't he known his mentor, Desil? An enigma left unresolved.

He would leave it to be resolved another day. The battle was ending, and he had to go with the orcish survivors. His mission was important, he knew it, and as the strange one had said, death might await him. He didn't fear it. The spirits - and his own soul - would guide him to a way to make them listen. He would force them to. Because they had to stop being monsters, and become what they were meant to be.

Filled with resolve, Gelmar Thornfeet began to descend the hill towards his brethren, unknowing of an invisible being that looked at him.

And smiled knowingly.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Winter 593, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde

There were few things as bitter as defeats and retreats. Since the beginning of the war, they had known many of these, almost as many as victories. The soldiers of the Alliance knew by now that it was part of the grim cycle of war, that even the best-laid plans can go askew, even when those who had put them together were considered to be the best in their field. Bram Poorglade was wise enough by now to know it.

He knew war by now, knew it like an old friend - or more like an old enemy. The bloody reaper, taking lives for reason he couldn't understand, making decent people mad and bloodthirsty. He had seen young, innocent farmers - much like he'd been himself - become cold, ruthless killers in a matter of weeks. It was the way it had to be, the way people could survive such madness. But it didn't mean that it was a pretty thing to watch.

And he could see it in himself. He'd done well for himself in the army. He was a sergeant now, although he doubted he'd make it any higher. Those who made lieutenant or higher usually were either noblemen or knights or both. As such, he was in charge of a contingent of fifty doughty fighters, twenty-three of which had been with him since its formation. Before the battle, it'd been twenty-seven.

Now, his men and he were assigned as part of the rearguard picket line, with the mission to fight off any Horde raid which came their way as the First, Fourth and Ninth Armies broke contact with the orcs who had so skillfully ambushed them. An ingrate job, but one that had to be done.

"Y'know what I hate, sarge?" one of the men seated around a fire with him said. A first sword by his rank, with the eyes, which seemed too old on a young face. Light, did he look like that as well?

"Can't say I do, friend. What do ye hate?"

"The waitin'. I mean, not that I'm all eager to go and fight, but at least in a fight, you know what to do. And after the fight, you can enjoy some peace there." the footman took a deep breath "What I mean here is, waitin' just bugs my soul. Not knowin's the worst thing, y'know."

"I hear ya." a corporal replied. "Get what ya mean, too. Being part of a damn picket line's no feast, that's fer sure. Sure'd prefer bein' back with the main force."

"Could be worse." Poorglade interjected. "We could be assigned to scouting duty."

One man shivered. "That'd be the pits."

"Lights, yes."

It wasn't a secret that being a scout was one of the most dangerous works in the entire Alliance forces. Elves and humans, all selected for their quick wits, good memory and stealth, were extensively used to spy on the horde forces, to discover troop movements, numbers, and hidden plans. The information they brought back time and time again was always a treasure trove that the leaders and army strategists had thus far used to counter the orcish threat. No one faced more dangers, and grimmer fates if caught. Many had died in gruesome fashion. Thus, they enjoyed deep respect from both the troops and the brass.

"Right, right." the corporal nodded "Still, being here's not really the most joyful thing to be, if you get my meaning."

At that moment, without any previous warning, voices were heard. The sentries were calling. "TO ARMS!! RAIDING PARTY!! TO ARMS!!" the call came from many throats.

All of those with Poorglade were trained and blooded. The easy conversation, the fire and the evening cookpot on top of it were quickly forgotten. In seconds, swords and shields were taken, helms were on heads, and Bram led them towards the voices. Already orcish voices could be heard, and the clash of steel. Within moments they came to the edge of the camp, where the sentries were fighting the advance units of an Horde raiding party.

Poorglade's orders were sharp, simple and immediate. "At them, boys! AT THEM!" and he uttered a warcry, hearing it echoes in half a dozen throats, and entered the brutal melee.

Bram deflected an axe, striking with his sword, cleanly cleaving a forearm. The orc, which had been attacking him, howled in pain, and struck with his good hand, catching the sergeant with a sound blow. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but his instincts allowed him to return a strike with his shield. In a blur he struck the orc, and continued on his way, not knowing if he'd felled his foe, trying to clear his head.

He then screamed as another orc swung at him with his axe and connected with his shoulder. Only the shoulder plate allowed him to keep his arm, but the steel was cloven deep, the flesh was cut and bleeding. But the bone hadn't been reached. Bellowing in a mix of rage and pain, he took hold of the axe, wrenched the orc towards him, and thrust his blade right into his throat.

He stepped back as his enemy lurched and spas med, taking the axe blade out of his shoulder. Blood flowed from the wound, but he ignored it - he had had worse, and had no time to worry about bleeding in the middle of a fight.

Bidding his pain to be gone, he then cried out and went to meet another orcish charge.

They eventually beat the raiding party back. The orcs were outnumbered, and they hadn't expected such an immediate resistance. Bram promised himself to have the sentries be given the best meat they'd caught that day. That is, those who survived the first charge. He looked around him, and although he saw that his own men were the ones who were standing and the orcs running, he saw many of his men, moaning or unmoving, on the cold ground amidst the orcish bodies. He recognized one - the first sword who had told them he'd rather have a fight rather than wait. Well, he would never wait for anything again, it seemed. What a sad waste.

"Hey, sarge, that orc's still alive!" came a voice, and he looked to a footmen who pointed to a greenskin, moaning nearby. The would the grunt had was bad, but nothing too serious if he could get up and leave to have it tended.

Poorglade stepped towards the orc. "You greenskins killed some of my men. You really thinkin' I'm going to let you walk away?"

The orc raised his head to look towards him, only to have it forced down by the sergeant's boot. Keeping a steady pressure, the former farmer ignored the disgust a part of him felt at what he was doing and let the strange glee the warrior felt take over. He lowered his head toward the orc.

"You greenskin are murderous trash. I've got not mercy for your kind." he hissed, "Die like the green pig you are."

And with that, he augmented the pressure on the orc's neck. The grunt began to trash, clutching his leg, but too weak to get a good purchase. Around him, the other footmen were looking in, some snickering, and some making deprecating comments towards the Horde. Was it what war did to people? Poorglade thought that it was so. And suddenly didn't care that he was fully part of it now.

It took long moments for the orc to die. Eventually, the trashing stopped, the greenskin gave his last breath. Feeling both intensely guilty and insanely elated, Poorglade brought his foot off and faced his men. None of them looked accusing. A few of the younger ones looked troubled. Most looked approving. He didn't think that was right, but what could he do?

Now he understood why his father hadn't wanted him to join the Alliance Army. It was a harsh world, which transformed them all into harsh people until they couldn't be anything else. Whatever pity he had once felt for wounded orcs were long gone, as well as any compassion for any in the horde. They were enemies and nothing more to him now. That was the life he had chosen to lead. And right now. He had orders to give his men.

Take the wounded to the healers. Bury the dead footmen with honors. Bring the dead orcs to rot elsewhere. The camp returned to normalcy. The attack, the ruthless killing of the orc, was put behind them.

They had a war to fight. Life went on.

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Late Winter 593, Havenport, Kul Tiras

There were many things which Dealin Proudmoore, king of Kul Tiras, had always appreciated in his realm's capital city. Founded by the expanding Arathorian Empire nearly seventeen centuries ago, it had initially been little more than a small port surrounded by repair bays and mercantile outposts. As the time passes and the colonies became more and more prosperous, however, much trade went through the small port, which was quickly enlarged. A military unit was stationed there, and people immigrated to the bustling, prosperous Haven Bay.

Today, Havenport was a large, ancient city, a walled town that boasted the largest port in the entire human world. Goods abounded, trade flowed ever quicker, and by Dealin's youth, it was an amalgam of wealth, sophistication, and prosperity. One might have thought the war would have changed that, but the Tirasian people were nothing if not adaptable. They quickly shifted their industries to war, and now, money and goods flowed in for the maintenance and the expansion of the Alliance Fleet, the bulk of which was made up of powerful warships and sea crafts from Proudmoore's kingdom.

At other times, Proudmoore would have looked out the city and seen it holding on to hope and the future. He would have savored the feel and the many sights as he'd always done in the past.

Only, today wasn't a day in which he had his city in mind. In fact, he didn't have his kingdom in mind, or even the war. All he wanted to do was to see his family. His sons still not being home from their scouting the western shores of the realm for Horde presence, he still had two people close to his heart, which he had to see.

Thus Proudmoore sped along the wide halls of his castle, grinning as he heard his personal guards quicken their pace to keep up with their most uncooperative monarch. He took stairs by three, ignored calls from heralds or advisors alike, barely acknowledged the bows which came when he catapulted on his way, until he came in front of a door which he normally wouldn't enter even if his life depended on it.

This time, however, he flung it open with a grin.

Multiple pairs of eyes looked at him in cross annoyance, some spearing him with their intensity, others nearly freezing him with their coldness. No one interrupted a reunion the Queen of Kul Tiras had called in with some of the wealthiest of the noblewomen of the capital. It wasn't done! Especially a man. And, it often had seemed to the king the few times need had forced him to open this door, it seemed to be even worse when the man in question happened to be the queen's husband.

But today was a day when he cared nothing about the haughty, feminine glares from the gaggle of high-blood in the room. Women of all ages, settled in opulent chairs, dressed in gold and silver-trimmed finery, all looked at him. Amidst them was a woman of late twenties, dressed well yet decently, with luxuriant, thick brown hair that overflowed over the gold and silver circlet on her head, nearly hiding the sole ruby, which signaled her as the queen of the realm. Light streamed in from windows on the side, making her skin appear to glow.

Her eyes were perhaps the only ones in the room that showed a sort of amusement at his bombastic entrance.

Hiding his grin, he made himself look grave and told the assembled nobility. "I apologize, ladies, but I must speak with my queen now and privately. You will be kind to leave us at once."

With men, the room would have emptied at once, the people falling over themselves trying to please him. These women, however, looked to the queen first, who nodded regally. Only then did they rise, filing out of the room, some of them giving him restrained looks of respect. He almost laughed out loud at that.

When the last one of the ladies had gone, and he had bid the guards close the doors and leave them alone, did they drop all pretense. The queen's face brightened, and before she had taken more than a step, Proudmoore was already across the room, sweeping her into his arms, holding onto her and kissing her deeply - an act to which she responded at once. It was a long time before they broke it, and even then it took a moment before he let go of her entirely.

"I apologize for the ruse coming, Larienne." he said with a grin, holding on to her shoulders gently "Please forgive an old fool for having no manners."

"Oh, you have manners - when I remind you of them, Dealin! But what to say? I have grown used to your rudeness and your ill-mannered attempts to seduce me!"

Five years the two had been married. His second marriage, and by far his happiest. Dealin's father had arranged the first one, and although two sons he adored were born of that union, his first wife and he had never seen eye-to-eye. Not so with Larienne. She seemed to fulfill him merely by being in the room, she had been accepted by his sons, and had endeared herself to the entire, stubborn nation that was Kul Tiras.

Light how he loved her.

"Away with your mean words, my dear!" he said theatrically "I've come not only to see your charm every noblewoman in the realm. Rather, I've been meaning to ask about my daughter. Where is she, so that I may see the little lass with my own eyes."

"I thought you might say that." she replied with a happy grin. "I must tell you, though, that she looks like me, and not like you."

"Which is a thing to be praised. Her beauty will be unsurpassed!" he replied in stride.

"Come, stubborn king. You daughter is just on the other side of that door, being taken care of by a trusted servant. I never allow her to be too far from me." with that, she led him towards a door to the side of the meeting room. He followed eagerly, almost dancing in excitement. A third child! A daughter! He only barely contained himself from laughing in delight.

It was when she opened the door that things abruptly took a turn for the worse. She gasped, falling back a step, her hand clutching the crafted door handle. Instinctively, he stepped forward; putting himself in front, hand on the hilt of his slender blade. He took one look at the room, and drew it.

The room might have once been cheerful or opulent, now it was a butchery. A body, in the livery of the castle servants, lay in a broken, bloody heap, blood splashed everywhere in the room, and the stench of death reminded him of a battlefield - or a torture chamber. He gritted his teeth against the smell, one he hoped would never be smelt inside his castle.

"GUARDS!!!" he bellowed in a tremendous voice, and almost as soon as he had uttered the words, the doors burst open, and two footmen entered quickly, sword drawn. Larienne, however, gripped his arm before he could utter another word.

"Jaina! The baby!" was what she said, more frantic than he had ever seen her. Worry took over him, and forgetting the danger he went into the room, right to the sculpted crib. He took a look in, praying with all of his heart that he wouldn't see a small corpse, and couldn't hold back a sigh of relief when he saw a healthy baby, cooing softly as it stared up at him drowsily. With one arm, he carefully scooped up the little bundle, carrying it back to Larienne, who took it from him and held it close to herself.

Then he turned towards the footmen, who were looking upon the carnage warily. "Someone seemingly has murdered this servant, perhaps trying to kidnap princess Jaina. One of you will go with the queen to her chambers. Take five other men, and guard her with your lives - I will expect no less. The other must go and raise the guard. We will search this castle from dungeons to battlements. If this murderer is somewhere within, I want him!"

"There is no need for a search. The message has been passed, Proudmoore." came a disembodied voice. "The child was left alive on purpose, to show you our power. Here is the message: events will soon unfold in Lordaeron. Stay out of these affairs, if you value your child's life."

Proudmoore looked around and growled. "A sorcerer. Yes, it fits. What events? Is this some kind of trick from the Kirin Tor. If Dalaran has anything to do with this..." he trailed off when the voice chuckled.

"You will know of these events. They are about to happen. You will see them unfold. But you will do nothing, or your child will die atrociously." And with that, silence reigned again, leaving behind a worried king and queen, and a burden any would find hard to bear. What was to happen? What would he see? Will he let it happen at the cost of his child's life?

And it had been such a joyous day.

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BONUS PROFILE #6

Gelmar Thornfeet

Birthplace: Faren Plains, Dreanor
Birthdate: Around 570
Height: 6'1"
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black
Present status: Shaman, former Necrolyte
Allegiances: Shamanism, the Orcs (but not the Horde), the Light

History: Gelmar Thornfeet never felt at home anywhere or with anyone. He rose in a world where necromancy was rising, replacing the old traditions. The shadow council controlled magic, and it was perhaps for that reason that he became a Necrolyte - having no focus, he wished to have something forcing it upon him.

He was an average spellcaster, and followed the Horde into the Second War without much relish, lacking much of the thirst for blood he saw in his kin. However, he trusted in Gul'Dan and the warlocks to help him achieve something, which would calm his spirit.

Instead, Gul'Dan destroyed all of the Necrolytes except for him. Overwhelmed with horror, Gelmar fled, to find he living with an old human named Desil, who taught him the art of shamanism.

This changed him. For the first time ever since he could remember, he felt a sense of completion. Although he found it tedious, he turned his back upon the necromantic arts and eventually learned how to use shamanist magic, becoming the first uncorrupted orc shaman in decades.

Now increasingly freed from the bloodlust he had disliked all of his life, Gelmar has set out to find his kin, and reintroduce shamanism - and a more peaceful lifestyle - amongst the most receptive of his war-torn people.