Disclaimer: I don't own Warcraft or any of it's characters

A cool wind blew over the plains of the Arathi Highlands, winter was coming. Rickard Bren shivered and pulled his cloak tight. He was a short man, just a head taller than the average dwarf. His blue eyes showed no hint of anger, his posture suggested that he was very relaxed, and indeed he was. His skin looked to have a blue hue to it, but everyone said it was a light bending trick. Short golden hair spilled onto his forehead unchecked. Black pants, baggy because of his height, met thick black boots so that they blended together almost seamlessly. The black cloak he wore would have made him a menacing figure, if not for the bright red shirt that completed his outfit.

Closing his eyes, Rickard reflected on the events that necessitated his coming out to this place. Someone had screwed up. Now, the wrong people were asking the wrong questions.

From behind him he heard heavy footfalls. Turning, a tauren riding a black kodo came into view. He watched as the tauren dismounted and, with one hand, drew a triangle in the air with a line coming out of each point. "You're late." Said Rickard, for he spoke fluent tauren.

The tauren bowed his head. "Forgive me, I was held up by­–­"

"I do not care about your excuses." Interrupted Rickard, voice cold as ice. "What information do you have for me?"

"Thrall and Cairne are beginning to suspect something, but they pose no immediate threat. Sylvanas and Vol'jin are either oblivious or just don't care. The Burning Blade will be easy to manipulate, as will the Scarlet Crusade."

"And what is the general consensus among the horde of this new information?"

"Most do not believe it. The few that do pay it no mind."

"Good, perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing that Mizren betrayed us. I trust he has been executed?"

"Of course, sir."

"Excellent. Now, we need to increase the tension between the horde and the alliance. The king of the dwarves will not listen to us; he will have to be killed. When you feel the time is right, suggest a siege of Ironforge to Thrall. Until then, just lay low and gather information. You will be contacted if there is a change of plans that affects you. You're dismissed."

The tauren bowed. "Yes sir." He mounted and rode off. Rickard watched him go before creating a portal and stepping through.

Mikael stepped out onto the streets of Orgrimmar, dust stirring around his feet. He was a young orc, though he walked like one who had faced a thousand battles. With his dark hair tied back in a ponytail that hung to his lower back, dark green skin, and piercing eyes, Mikael was a fierce sight. He was dressed in brown leather wears, unlike most other fighters who dressed themselves in full armor. A shining great sword was strapped to his back, making passing citizens look on in wonder.

He walked toward the gates from the Valley of Honor, paying no mind to those passing him. The information he had recently acquired concerned him. A troll named Mizren had recently told Thrall about an organization trying to turn the horde and the alliance against each other. Mizren died the next day. Most believed the tale to be the ramblings of madness, and that was what Mikael didn't like. He knew that some groups were so adept at secrecy that they could be undetected in anything they did, even murder.

Mizren did mention a name, a tauren called Rin Bluehoof. Mikael knew of Rin, he was a close advisor to Thrall and Cairne, but he didn't stay in Orgrimmar or Thunderbluff. At times he would disappear for days, always resurfacing with information of alliance aggression in the Eastern Kingdoms. What bothered Mikael was that, with Mizren's information, the connection between Rin and the mysterious group was too obvious. He didn't like it when things were easy. There had to be something more, and he was intent on discovering what it was.

Gerald padded softly down the corridors of Northshire Abbey. He was an unremarkable man, nothing about him was special. He had no extraordinary talents or skills, he was of average height, and had short, dark hair. He was, however, always confident in his ability to do what needed to be done. That was part of the reason he became a priest. And now, with his flowing white robe trimmed with silver brushing the ground, he was going to be sent out to help those who needed it.

Pausing at a door, Gerald knocked. "Come in." Said a voice from inside, so Gerald did. The room was quite plain, a small bed on one side and several pictures on the opposite wall. Across from the door was a window, and in front of the window was a chair where the abbot now sat looking out at the abbey grounds.

The abbot paused a moment before speaking. "Gerald, you have been with us for ten years now. In that time you have been a remarkable student." He stood up, his white robe was trimmed with blue, and turned to Gerald. "But now it appears you will be leaving us."

Gerald was shocked. "Father?"

"A message was sent to me yesterday, requesting your presence at Stormwind. The signature at the bottom was none other than Archbishop Benedictus. This is a request we can't ignore, so, my son, you are to leave as soon as you are ready. Stormwind is not far from here, but stay on the roads, the Defias hunt the woods for travelers. You will also need this" he walked to his bed, and from under it produced a robe, like the one he and Gerald were wearing, but trimmed with gold. "Put this on, as of this day you are no longer a student, but a brother in our order. Now go, make Lord Benedictus as proud of you as I am." With that, he walked passed a stunned Gerald and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Many questions buzzed in Gerald's mind as he changed into the robes. The most prevalent was why? Why would the Archbishop summon him? A mere neophyte, despite having trained for ten years, there were others with so much more experience than he could ever hope to have.

His journey to Stormwind, a relatively short walk any other time, seemed to take hours on this day. For he knew he wouldn't be returning to the abbey for some time. Nothing stirred in the forest along his way, aside from the occasional guard or wandering merchant from Goldshire.

When he finally reached the Cathedral of Light, his legs felt weary, as if he had just walked thrice the distance he had. His heard pounded against his chest as he ascended the steps, as if ascending to heaven. And inside, he saw the one that he sought. Archbishop Benedictus stood there, at the end of the hall, watching him. Gerald walked slowly toward him, the living vessel of his faith. When he was within arm's length of the Archbishop, he dropped to one knee.

Benedictus laughed. "Arise young one, you needn't kneel to me." Gerald slowly stood up, almost not daring to look the Archbishop in the face. "The abbot of Northshire has told me quite a lot about you, Gerald. He calls you his most promising acolyte." Gerald finally looked at the Archbishop's face. He looked stern, as battle hardened warriors often do, but his eyes were kind. He smiled. "I believe you have become a son to him." Gerald felt himself grin; the abbot had been like a father to him.

"Now, you must be wondering why I summoned you. Gerald, I need your help. Something foul is afoot, and I want to know what it is." He began walking down one of the side halls, beckoning Gerald after him. "Come, I will explain in my quarters."