Chapter 7: The Invasion of Durotar

Barrens, Kalimdor. Early Winter, 3281 Years of Arathor

Pain. There was a pain that emanated from his head, and spread to the rest of his body. But there was something more then the pain haunting him. A hunger...Something so volatile and needing...it seemed like he had been drained of energy...of magic for years...

Alaric'Quel awoke with a start. With sharp intake of air and he started to realize his surroundings. The air was hot, and dry. He was in a cage; the cage itself was iron (or so far as he could tell). His magical cape, and blood red armor were missing. He was left with the gallous piece of cloth that he wore under his armor and boots. Outside oh his cage, he could vaguely make out a Orc settlement. Their stronghold in the center of the village, as always, with the lumber mills and burrows surrounding. His vision blurred a little, and he blinked once or twice and it went back to normal.

"Damned Orcs" he muttered

One of the Orcs nearby noticed, and bellowed something Orcish. He then translated to English;

"Haha! The Elf awake! Frail little Elf, did that pat on head hurt you?" the greenskinned brute broke into laughter and was joined by those around him.

"Vermin" Alaric replied in a defiant voice

"Stupid Elf. I fight Elf in war far away, long ago. I fight Elf when we come from Draenor. I kill many Elf, I kill you too after Warchief talks to you. Then I eat your bones!" the grunt again laughed.

Alaric smiled in response. He looked around at his surroundings once more, his mind now focused. Behind him was a forest. Above, wyrvns and other indeginous flying creatures soared. To his left was a barricade and then a Orc Lookout Tower.

Suddenly, the Orcs all came to attention. A huge wolf, a Frostmane Wolf from what Alaric could tell approached from the Lookout Tower's area. On top of the wolf was a large Orc, not as bulky as these grunts, yet still muscular. His body, unlike the grunts and many of the Orcs he had ever seen was covered in a black armor. "Doomhammer's armor!" Alaric thought in a flash of remembrance "So this is their Warchief?"

"Warchief! This prisoner Elf was caught with a band of humans in Wilderness!" what looked to be the commanding grunt announced proudly.

"Ogrigar, nou garum fellow Orc. You are dismissed" the Warchief said in a deep, rugged voice. His battle stressed face then turned to Alaric. "You there Elf! What is your business in Durotar?"

Alaric replied nothing, studying the Orc. "It seems that they have an intelligent Warchief that looks promising enough to understand tactics, unlike others I could name" he thought.

"Speak up Elf, or I'll feed you to the razorwinds!" the Orc bellowed.

"I believe introductions are in need first Warchief. I am Alaric Faltron'Quel, blood related to the Sunstrider Dynasty. I am the last of our kind's ancient Dynasty, and I intend to see the race of the Elves upheld to victory and the end of our enemies. Quel'thalas will be retaken from the Forsaken, or Scourge, or anybody else who would dare touch our sacred soil"

"Well, little Elf, I am Thrall. Warchief of the Horde and creator of Durotar, this nation. I will have now why my soldiers found you and your band within our territory. To many of your patrols have been found in the area lately. Has Mrs. Proudmoore no control over her own people?" Thrall, the Orc replied in a sadistic tone.

"Good. He thinks that I am under the leadership of Theramore. But what did he mean by patrols?...Eolas...He must be scouting out the area for himself. Again, good" silently Alaric said to himself. "Tell me Warchief. How much of the Horde did you lead here?" he then spoke out loud.

"Enough to put up with any invaders if that is what you are pointing out at. Are you an Alliance agent? From what I know, the Alliance has fallen apart" Thrall then rebuked. Behind him, the sun was setting in a glorious orange and yellow aura that seemed to surround the Orc.

"Fool. The Alliance has failed the Blood Elves. We consort with no one unless we have to. We have learned that independence must be valued, and that committing yourself wholly to another's cause is folly. I will tell you Warchief; the time of the Horde has ended. May you all be cast into oblivion!"

"Fine. If you shall not answer questions, I have other ways of extracting information from you" and with that, Thrall, Warchief of the Horde departed back to his Frostwolf. Alaric watched him go. The whole conversation he had put up had been a ruse; to study the integrity and characteristics of this Orc. "He will put up a good fight when the time comes...it is coming very soon though" Alaric whispered.

Through the end of the evening a plan of escape formulated in Alaric's head. There was no way he could kill the Orc guards with physical arms, but there was always magic...

"It has been long since I used magic. Using it requires tremendous amounts of energy without the Sunwell. That is unless we use the dark magics. Yes, there is no other way" the plan was complete. In an instant, Alaric's cage was ripped open by the power of the magics around him.

"Asetha barana!" he screamed. A whirlwind of fire exploded around two Orcs and lit up the night sky. The vermin screamed and writhed as the flames consumed them. Another Orc was almost upon him. He then spun out another spell. "Gradar Nes Tonaskvlo!" in that very moment of time, the Orc charging him was banished by the magic. His physical body was banished to the Twisting Nether for a short while, while his spirit stood in its place witnessing all that was going on. From the Lookout Tower, an Orc shot an arrow that came whizzing towards him. The arrow was coming straight for Alaric, yet all he did was stand. In a split second, he caught the arrow inches away from his face, and it burned by the magic in his hand. He let a ball of summoned elemental flame escape from his hand, and it found its target; the wooden base of the Lookout Tower. Smugly he chuckled at the sound the Orc made when he found out his protective tower was coming down him in flames.

In the immediate vicinity there were no Orcs. He could see the settlement in the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. They had to have seen the light show he had just put on.

"No rush needed" Alaric said to the corpses as he donned his arcane cape and body armor. And with that, he sprinted back into the forest behind.

It had taken him most of the night, but eventually he encountered one of his 'patrols' in the forest. Caringly, they took him back to the fortress now constructed on the beaches. Exhausted now from his capture, he retired to his quarters. After a while, he returned outside again. The Captains had assembled and were awaiting his orders.

"We're moving out" he replied to their frantic calls and suggestions. He pulled a map from his pocket and traced a line across it. "This is Durotar" on the parchment, a picture of a large peninsula jutted out of the mainland of Kalimdor. The peninsula was labeled 'Orc Land', and beside it was a vast stretch of grassland known as Mulgore. "We will create a warpath, distract the Orcs from the smaller portion of our army which will flank from behind, and lay siege to Ogrimmar. We have not a large force capable of taking on the entire Horde, and must require maneuver to get around the slow moving Orcs. Good luck to us all, and let victory come to the Light"

At first dawn, the Expedition set out. They crossed into the borders of Durotar at the edge of the Barrens, many leagues to the north. The marching itself took two grueling weeks, but eventually, the Alaric'Quel's force split in two. The larger, continued on its path between Mulgore and Durotar, intent on drawing out the main Orc forces. The smaller, led by Alaric himself, stealthily maneuvered past Dustwallow Marsh, where many Trolls seemed to reside.

"Damn I hate these primitive Trolls" Alaric mumbled one night in the Marshes. Beyond him was an ever stretching bog. A stinking, steaming swamp. In the distance Alaric could vaguely make out the mountains surrounding Durotar and shot a hateful glance at them. The Trolls had originally been very ancient creatures in Azeroth, even more so than the High Elves themselves. When Quel'thalas had been established firmly, a massive Troll army invaded, killing many of Alaric's kin. The humans of the long destroyed, noble empire of Arathor had aided the Elves in a war against the Trolls. After years of warfare, they had defeated them. As the Orcs entered Azeroth nearly 3,000 years later, they recruited the remnants of the Trolls once great civilization into the Horde. And so, more decades of blood drenched fighting insuded, in turn creating a new wave of disgust to the Trolls, who lived trying to preserve their dead ways.

Alaric then turned to his trusted, hand drawn map he had himself created after his...experience on the outskirts of Durotar. The Horde did not seem to notice that his army had split in two, or even less that they were a threat from across the Great Sea. The few days of fighting in the fly infested Dustwallow marsh had alerted the Trolls though.

"Lord Alaric, another wave of Troll warbands is approaching from the east. Our forces are currently deployed to the west of us, and will not be able to reach the command camp in time!" a Blood Elf runner announced, catching his breath after what looked like a long run from the outposts.

"Let them come. We shall fight them ourselves!" he replied, bloodlust overtaking him. Since the robbing of the Sunwell, the Elf kind had been drained of spirit. Overcome by anger and baser feelings...The magic that had sustained them suddenly gone had left them to fend for themselves completely on all terms, including that of lesser emotions. Before the Sunwell was destroyed, an Elven commander would surely had thought Alaric's rash decision over.

Alaric himself noticed this, yet was not suaded by his own conscience. It didn't take long for a party of a couple of dozen Blood Elf and human troops to group around him. Suddenly, then from the trees beside them, whispers and rustling came. Then, a chant. The strange voodoo religion of the Trolls required them to chant before going into battle, and it seemed they were fulfilling this. Before long, waves of bluish and green Trolls scampered out of the forest. The creatures, about eight to eight foot five in height wielded mostly spears and rock knives.

"Kill the Elves!" cries arose from the Trolls. "Va shnak lovodok! Trai sta stain lopu! (Avenge your ancestors and heritage. Revive you honor, throw off your shackles!)

"Kill them all!" was another battle cry that rose from Alaric's line. The Blood Elven troops then cried out "Even Stalimos Quel'thalasen! (Long Live Quel'thalas) Alaric dodged, and swept around using his most advanced swordsman techniques.

The Blood Elfs themselves seemed to start using magics and seemed to have less trouble with it.

"Ever since we came to Kalimdor, a new power has been lit in us. I wonder what has caused this miracle?" Alaric quickly thought.

The battle did not last long. The 'great Troll army' had turned out to be no more than a hundred of the kind. Most of them were spear throwers and melee fighters. There weren't many spell casters, as he seemed to remember back from the days in Lordaeron. But there was one big Troll, shooting hexes and spells in all directions, screaming in their strange voodoo language. Alaric quickly sunk his blade into that one to prevent him from killing any more of his men. That Troll lay before his feet now, still alive, but near death.

"Yo mon. Jus' tryin' to keep our lands free of your wretched kind. You havin' no clue how much we hatin' Elves. They take away everythin' from us, includin' land from far across sea" the Troll sputtered, black blood pooling from its mouth.

"I am going to put an end to your wretched kind vile beast" Alaric said triumphantly. He raised his blade.

"No mon! Wait, NOOO!!!" the Troll yelled those last words before the Elven blade sliced through its head.

Alaric smiled at his kill. Looking back to his men, he raised his blade and a cheer arose. Before sending off runners to regroup the main force, he looked upon the corpse of the Troll. On it lay a talisman. "Hmm. I wonder..." Alaric said to himself. Upon the talisman were runes enscribed saying; WHOMEVER CONTROLS THIS TALISMAN, CONTROLS THE GATES OF AZSHARA AND THE PATHS TO THE DUNGEN OF LORE. "Ah, this is a talisman of ancient Night Elven craft. A powerful artifact that now I may be able to use to reach the waters of Eternity with impunity. But this part about the ancient queen of past, Azshara...This must also be a key to the Dungen of Lore, in out ancient city capital, the place once center to all Night Elves. That was before the invasion of the Burning Legion...but I thought this was a legend, a myth. Amazing that such power and responsibility should have landed on my shoulders, from a Troll! The wretched creature probably knew nothing of its power. But I have matters to attend to. Before I reach Ashenvale itself, I must deal with the Orc. Now, for Durotar itself..."

The smaller portion of the Expedition continued through the last remnants of the Dustwallow Marshes and back into the last long stretch of the Barrens. It took another week to traverse the hot, dry, and barren landscape. Finally though, the smaller Expedition force came to the Gap of Imdor. From across the small, but deep body of water, they could see the landmass of Durotar. The Expedition continued and silently bypassed the mountain ranges surrounding Durotar. The Expedition Force, the last hope of the Elf's, the best hope of Humanity, had entered Durotar, land of the Orc...