8th of Gornow, 26E219

Grommash Hold, Orgrimmar, Kalimdor

~1400

Sokolov stepped into the massive hold, lit by braziers that kept the room almost stiflingly warm. At the far end of the circular room stood a green behemoth, an orc, presumably the so titled "Warchief" known as Thrall. Beside him was another orc, this one with brownish red skin and tattoos. Most distinctive about him was the massive horn shoulder plates he wore. He looked at Sokolov with a far more suspicious and aggressive expression than Thrall, whose face belied the face of a tired, wizened warrior.

"Welcome to my halls, representative of Noveia, Sokolov. I am Thrall, son of Durotan, and warchief of the Horde." Thrall greets Sokolov, who bows politely in response, taking the center of the hold.

"I am honored to be here, honorable Warchief. The Tsar sends his regards." Sokolov replies, rising from his bow to meet Thrall's gaze.

"Your business here better be good. We were pulled from the frontlines in Northrend to meet with you, diplomat!" The other orc spat, scowling at Sokolov, who politely bows his head in deference. Thrall raises his hand to calm the other orc.

"Don't be rude to our guest, Garrosh. This man promises the possibility of deals that would greatly benefit the Horde in these trying times. The campaign in Icecrown has not been easy, nor has it been cheap. Our people will feel the strain of this war for years to come." Thrall speaks up. Garrosh scowls and grunts, deferring to Thrall, who returns his attention to Sokolov. "Now, Captain Sokolov, what do you bring from your lands?" He inquires.

"Thank you for your graciousness, Warchief. I was briefed on your land and people's history during the time it took me to find my way here from Silvermoon. As I understand, you enjoy presently, a tenuous pact with the Alliance, in pursuit of the defeat of this Lich King and his Scourge. Furthermore, Northrend is far to the north, an arctic campaign of such scale is certainly expensive." Sokolov explains. Thrall and Garrosh watch him as he speaks. Thrall nods along, confirming the things Sokolov speaks of.

"As I said to Garrosh here, the war has not been easy for our people, or the Horde as a whole. We are still reeling from the assault on the Wrathgate, which cost us and the Alliance many of our experienced warriors." Thrall responds. Garrosh spits and scowls.

"Damn Sylvanas and her forsaken! If she kept a tighter leash on those Scourge rejects, such a betrayal would not have occurred!" Garrosh snaps. Sokolov looks at him as he speaks, before returning his attention to Thrall.

"My own nation is predominantly steppe and tundra. We deal with the cold quite regularly, and are often in conflict with our neighbors, namely the Coalition and the Endarian Empire. However, we are currently in a tense peace. I am certain we could reach an accord, providing winter gear for your forces, as well as volunteer force contracts." Sokolov continues. He reaches into the bag he had at his side and presents a series of documents to an aide, who runs the documents to Thrall, who looks at their contents upon receiving them.

"Am I reading this right? Your nation is ready to provide, per month for 6 months, 8,000 swords, 14,000 camping sets, 100,000 arrows, 10,000 bows, and 250 tons of dry rations? As well as the option for contracting out volunteer groups from the squad to division level?" Thrall asks, his voice belying disbelief. Garrosh looks at Thrall, his face displaying momentary surprise. He looks at Sokolov, who again, politely bows.

"Correct sir. Are the numbers too low? I'm certain I could negotiate for more, given time." Sokolov responds with clarificaiton. Thrall looks up from the documents and gazes down at Sokolov.

"More? This is already a massive amount and you mean to say your nation can afford to cut an even larger deal?" Thrall presses, almost suspicious of the deal. He continues to the next page, where it was listed what Noveia expected in return. Sokolov knew the deal was absolutely a lucrative deal. After all, the Horde needed material, something Noveia could provide in abundance. In return, all that Noveia asked for was something seemingly cheap. A mutual defense contract as well as the opportunity to send scribe to translate and make copies of books in the various libraries within Horde territory.

"This is an impressive offer. I will discuss it overnight, and summon you around this time tomorrow with an answer." Thrall speaks up after he finishes reading the documents. Sokolov smiles and bows his head once more.

"Thank you Warchief. I look forward to and hope to hear a most positive response." Sokolov replies.

"I will have one of my men escort you back to where you are staying. I hope you enjoy your stay within Orgrimmar, Captain." Thrall says with a smile. Sokolov salutes and turns to leave. An orc warrior steps up and escorts him out.

9th of Gornow, 26E219

Shores of the Scarlet Enclave, Eastern Plaguelands, Eastern Kingdoms

~0000

A massive wolf streaked through the air, landing on the darkened shores of a dead land as a person, clad in a fur and leather cloak. No element of their identity was revealed, for their face was clad in a wolven mask carved from wood, and the rest of their head was covered by a hood. They scan the shore silently, where lingering undead have begun to notice the mysterious traveler. As they do, the various ghouls and skeletons begin to turn to attack, sensing the intolerable existence of extant life within the person.

"A rotten land… the cries of your earth are so very quiet and beleaguered…" The Wolf speaks, paying little heed to the half dozen or so undead that were charging them. With a green shimmer of light, a wicked spear, a little over 2 meters in length, appears in the Wolf's hand. Ancient runes are carved into its metal shaft, and the long tip vaguely resembles a wolf's head, while the smaller point on the bottom vaguely resembles a tail. The Wolf flourishes the spear in a blur of spins around their body. As they do, specks of green light form. In an instant, runes float in the air and glow orange, glowing ever brighter.

"Loisg." The Wolf utters softly as the undead close in on them. In an instant, the runes surrounding the Wolf burst into furious flames, scorching the undead to ash. The flames dissipate quickly, leaving nothing but the acrid scent of ash to cut the smell of rot and death that fills the air.

Wasting no time, the Wolf dashes forward, faster than any person should be able to move, leaving nothing but a faintly glowing white rune in the sand that soon fades. In a single lunge, the Wolf clears the beach and transfers the energy into a jump, propelling themselves upward onto the cliff overlooking the beach. They pause to take in the sight of long dead and abandoned farmland, and in the distant, a ruined town. Faded scarlet banners flutter on rusting flagpoles.

Unimpressed or unfazed, the Wolf continues on, running at a speed equal to their wolf form, striding through the dead fields. Any undead that crosses their path is cut down like stalks of grain, failing even to interrupt the Wolf's pace.

~0100

The Wolf walks through the ruins of the town. They had seen a map, provided by one of Endaria's agents from their original venture to the Eastern Kingdoms. If the map was correct, this was the Scarlet Enclave. Or what remained of it. Skeletons lined the streets. With the skeletons were the freshly slain undead, felled by the Wolf's spear. A large wolf, the size of a bull, sniffed around the various houses. The wolf had white fur, but most iconic were it's pale blue paws, eyes, teeth, claws and tail. Whenever it would stop and sniff something, frost would build up around the wolf's feet, leaving frosty prints behind whenever to wolf continued on to something new to inspect. The Wolf looks at their frosty companion.

"Come, Hati. Anything of worth that was here is long since gone, and the prey is too fragile to offer much of a fight." The Wolf says. The wolf, Hati, looks up from the pile of bones he was sniffing and looks at the Wolf. He bounds over to the Wolf and walks alongside them as they walk towards the walls of the town, continuing westward, towards some sort of life.