Darkshore…

A name once fancied misconstrued, misleading, and miserably given; now, the properly fitted attire for this dire forest's dreadful demeanor. Trembling seismic seizures tore the land asunder, shifted plates decimating the town of Auberdine. Earthen scars run veiny, sprawling patterns across the forest floor, filling with the ocean's bounty. These newly formed rivulets are deceiving to any wandering nomad; their depths wild and sporadic. Even the most skilled of adventurers can find themselves treading the bed only to discover a deep, watery grave. And amidst the flowing canals, born from the depths and the heavens combined, is a spiraling vortex of complete and utter destruction.

Spilling from origins unknown, the winds violently thrash from a sinkhole placed squarely upon the forest's epicenter. The upper portion of its sprawling funnel can be viewed from as far as Ashenvale, and is a daunting signal for any foolish enough to venture to these lands. With every passing day, the airy tornado appears as if expanding. Its color constantly altering to that of which it feeds upon, and trees constantly become uprooted projectiles of vile destruction. Sheer chaos manifested upon the winds, spinning unyieldingly, night and day.

Yet, where the land may suffer, its flesh tore and tattered, there is hope amongst the ruin.

Resting above the chaotic crust is a ceiling born of gorgeous azure bounty. A heavenly bastion unscathed. An aerial scene of beauty. The skies, though assaulted by Deathwing's Flight, remain as marvelous as ever. It is where a mind will wander to escape the despair, the darkness. Now if your neck grows tired, worn of bending, then it is upon the shores where the dark-blue seas ripple as a suiting replacement.

Gentle waves roll , spraying salty pockets upon the breeze. Rhythmic tides sprawl across the grayish sands, spilling the ocean's riches for all to embrace if for only a few fleeting seconds. A glorious plane. A marvelous setting spanning from horizon to horizon. And, if it is not enough in its own worth, then the gorgeous heavens reflect upon the glassy aquatica so one may feast upon both treasures simultaneously. At night, the ocean becomes a vain display of the Moon itself; its reflection so grand the Moon cannot help but grow envious of its own image.

It is this occurrence, the moon and the seas, that is the truest price for the Night Elves of these forests. It is the strength to their resilience and the way of their courage. Even our heroes cannot escape the magnitude and glory of the moon and its twin. Even our heroes yearn for the night, just so they may be led by the tides and the moonlight. But, of late, a foreboding darkness has been descending upon the twilight. Of late, an eerie fog has shrouded and skewed that of desire. And tonight, of all nights, a dense, unwelcome haze coats Darkshore fully.

A cover that shrouds the heavens and obscures the bountiful blue waves…

"Ero?"

"Just ask the damn question, boy. You are beginning to make me hate my own name."

The two hold near to the shoreline, yet still remain quite within the forest's grasp. Krik glances occasionally towards the coast, yearning for a simple taste of his waters. As he walks through the thicket, dodging boulders and roots, he keeps his eyes locked to his side.

Krik frowns, his inquisitive nature at play, "Why can't I see the water?"

Why can't he see the water? Eros knows that the moonlight always burns as a reflective guide for those thought lost. He knows it is visible from all aspects of these sloping lands. The boy is simply letting his imagination get the best of him.

Yet, he feels compelled to humor the lad.

Ero twists, his disbelief of the boy evident; however, as he finds himself facing where the ocean should be, he quickly notices the dilemma. The pair are no more than a dozen yards from the forest's edge, and on an average night that would be ample distant to keep a view on the watery flank. But this night, he can barely get visual of the forest's end.

This, however, raises a greater concern within the old man: light. They normally use the Moonlight as a guide once it nestles upon the skies. It would seem they will actually need their little glass dwellings after all. Ero sighs and reaches for the bug jar, shaking it gently. The heavy glow returns, coating the two in a teal, optical paint. Krik instinctively throws his gaze upon the now gleaming glass. Oddly, he casts a gaze upon his own jar and then returns to his companion's.

Ero, the jar of no curious dealings to him, speaks as Krik stares at Ero's bugs, "Quite the observation, Krik. Honestly, if you didn't say anything I...wouldn't...have...noticed..." Ero loses interest in his own inceptive ramblings as he watches Krik gawk at the jar he holds. "Krik?"

The boy narrows his gaze, examining the container as if the grandest of puzzles.

"Krik, you really should pay attention."

Krik keeps his eyes locked. For some reason he Ero's jar is different. For some reason it seems brighter than…

PHWACK, Krik wobbles rearwards as the tree wins the fight of forces. Pain surges across the child's cheek, but fortunately for him his nose was just out of reach. Krik throws an angry stare at the towering, obstacle and gnarls his teeth.

"Stupid tree." He gives it a swift kick with his boot, tearing a small chunk of bark from its flesh. "There, now I can remember which one you are, so I can come back, cut you down, and make a chair out of you."

Mild frustration dances upon his words, and Ero cannot help but smile. He isn't sure if it is the boy's humiliation, agony, or comment that humors him more. He chuckles feebly, catching Krik's ear.

"What are you giggling at?" An angry set of youthful eyes land upon him, "it is your fault I hit that tree. You and your stupid super bugs."

Ero cocks an eyebrow, yet keeps his smirk, "Super bugs?" He glances at the jar in his hand. For a moment he gawks at it prior to shifting his gaze upon Krik's container. It takes him but a moment for the revelation to appear: his jar burns brighter – significantly. Ero shrugs, his smirk fading to a frown, "Not a clue, Krik. Not a clue."

Krik eyes Ero as if attempting to read him. Intent focus is exerted. Narrowed, inquisitive eyes probe and peruse Ero's facial features. The child may not be an intellectual genius, but he knows when someone is lying. And though Ero may possess a poker face of the ages, Krik knows he is hiding something.

"Ero." Krik stays calm, his intent covered. "Are you lying to me?"

Alas, the boy is not one for subtly. Ero flinches not, his hand played well; however, despite his confident appearance, he has no proper response for Krik. He likes the boy and isn't keen on deceiving him. Of course, he isn't keen upon the course of this topic either.

Fortunately for him, a sudden spark in the left corner of his vision catches his eye. Twisting, he lets the current anomaly alter his, and Krik's, attention. In the distance, a mere twinkle of life, yet still just that, an orange spark burns profusely.

With it comes a sigh of relief for Ero. With it also comes frustration for the questioning that is inevitable…

"Ero?" And so it was written. "What is that?"

Rolling his shoulder, Ero attempts to remove from him a discomfort that suddenly formed within the joint. He knows fully where it developed: the armor, shield, and all that it encompasses dragging upon his person. Though, even with that given logic, he cannot help but place Krik's annoyance as the source…

"Ero?"

"Krik." Ero swiftly replies, his grown impatience apparent, "just because I do not have an immediate response doesn't mean I don't have one coming. Give a man a second to formulate an answer before you make sure he knows his birthright."

Krik turns, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

Ero sighs, "Never mind. Just…never mind."

Krik heeds his words and returns focus upon the distant spark of life. He raises a hand and forms a "C" with his fingers and thumb. Ero is dumbfounded at first, but quickly deciphers the boy's actions: he holds his hand as if bracing the source in its grasp.

The boy tilts his head to the side as if bemused and grunts, "It's growing."

"Growing?"

Ero squints, letting his aging eyes land upon the oscillating source of light. It trembles as if unrestrained. It quivers as if moving rapidly and wildly. The three rings that encompass it go from white, to orange, to red, and as the boy stated, the rings seem to gain circumference with each passing second. Both of the warriors, almost in unison, discover the light's true source.

Krik runs his armored fingers through his hair and sighs. "Ero. Is that a fire?"

"Took the words out of my mouth, Krik." Ero takes a step forward. "I didn't think we were that close to the pass yet."

A strange surge of chills creeps across Ero's spine as he gazes at the ball of distant warmth. He is not quite certain what drives the frost that now creeps upon his vein, but there is a reason. Krik, however, frowns and glances at Ero with widen eyes.

"This isn't right."

"What isn't?" Ero instinctively replies.

Krik glances at the fire, shuffles uneasily and then casts his gaze back upon Ero.

"Night Elves don't light fires at night, Ero."

Ero makes to reply, but a distant rumble quells him. A second flash erupts near the first. This one, however, climbs into skies, its core flickering in and out of sight above the canopy. It takes but a few moments for the soaring flare to fall to gravity's sway. It takes but a second for its size to nearly double. In a flash it tears through the trees, collides with the floor and explodes.

Red flares ripples into the sky. White flames spread as a blanket. Orange tendrils snap and multiply upon decaying branches. The explosion strikes nowhere near, yet the flames can be felt. And the light that is secreted illuminates their once bleak armor.

The fires dance across the bed of earth, the decaying rot a fine fuel. Shadows form eerie, unrestrained puppets upon the two warriors. A welcoming visage for the blind. A grand display for those easily amused. And a horrifying revelation for those that remain…

"Come on, Krik." Ero takes a step to his side, eying the fires as if they are readying to chase. "We need to get out of the forest…"

Krik holds still for just a moment, but he knows better than to linger when danger looms. But their movement is for naught. The two are allowed a few meager steps before the horizon stirs into motion. At the fringes of the forest, dozens of rapid flashes ripple. They streak upon skies – shooting stars for the naïve.

Death for the wise…

Ero's eyes follow the burning tangelo trails and his chest clenches. "Run, Krik! Run!" Ero spins upon his toes, tearing dirt. "Incoming!"

Taking to flight, the boy obeys promptly. Roots snap beneath heavy soles. Soil is sundered by metallic stomps. Silence creeps upon the air, the loud trampling lost upon one's ear. Profound stillness strangulates the two as their breathing and pounding hearts become all they know.

Say…for a faint whistling….

Ahead lays the coast, the fires burning a path for one's sight and our hero's flight. The falling terror casts a growing light upon the land, expanding as the projectiles grow ever closer. A short distance for both the men and arrows. A shorter distance for the latter. Shrill wails stir the winds. Fierce, unnatural gusts shatter the heavens. Flames flick and lick the branches. Slivers of orange rain upon the forest unmercifully.

Dull thuds thunder. Brief hisses sizzle upon the eardrums. All around descend the shafts of chaos. Trees ignite on impact. Tuffs of dried grass explode into miniature infernos. Impaled, the wooden instruments stand tall as tombstones.

But the two do not flinch nor flounder. A spike shoots past Krik's head, heating his scalp. Wind catches Ero's hair in an arrow's wake. Neither hesitates nor loses haste. This is not the first the two have fed upon a shower of these magnitudes. And from experiences past, one must keep focused. One must keep stern lest the terror overwhelm you.

Their target…the coast…

In a flash they dart to the thicket's thinning. In a flash they approach their destination. Even as the arrows continue to strike, they continue onward. And as the downpour intensifies, the wails a growing roar across the heavens, the two make their escape - fires snapping at their heels.

Leaping forth, Krik and Ero descend the stout, steep incline and land upon the sands below. The ground rises well above their height and makes for perfect cover. The two hug the round curves of grass and sand and hold still.

They dare not look. There is no need for such foolishness. Instead they listen, hearing hundreds of thuds that beat as deafening drums. They feel: every collision a miniature tremor. They wait: patience a sense grander than all the others combined.

Moments pass upon the backs of snails. An eternity becomes infinity. And yet, as quickly as it began, it ends. All sounds cease, say for the lingering rounds. Illuminating energies fade, the rising inferno incapable of matching that of the aerial flares. All calms. All steadies.

Silence returns once more.

"Is it over?" Krik breaks the stillness.

Ero pans his sight, sweeping the skies for any remaining blows. "Looks like it. For now, anyway."

Krik comes to his feet, his eyes level with the forest floor. Heavy plate boots crunch the sand below as he takes steps to get a better view. "Do you think they were aiming for us?"

Bounding to his feet, the old man dusts himself off and directs his gaze back to the forest, "No. They wouldn't have used so many for just us."

Krik glances once more at the still burning forest and sighs. He knows full well of the orcish assaults, but this one was closer than usual. But that is no concern for him. That wasn't even as close as in the past; a pathetic attempt at their lives. Yet, as he gazes at the spreading fire, he cannot help but agree with Ero's remark.

They were not aiming for them.

Then what were they aiming for? Krik, despite his usual curious dealings, dares not dwell on that topic. Most likely an orc saw a wandering kitten and wanted to make sure it, its family, its neighbors and the wandering deer got caught in the barrage. Overkill, to an orc, never applies.

Ever.

Krik, quickly losing focus on his own mental ponderings, spins in his spot. He takes notice of the average, dull sand and Ero's wide, logical stare. The old man is most likely attempting to piece together the situation. Krik, however, wants none of that nonsense. He simply wants to see the water.

Pivoting fully, he embraces the watery banks. Alas, as his eyes fall upon the waves, he finds himself wanting. For as he peers out, expecting a moonlit plane of blue, he sees only a dense eerie cloud of gray. The anomaly spans from the heavens themselves and curls down upon the rippling tides. Krik cocks his head and grunts.

"When has there been fog here?"

Ero twists, eying the water. It takes him a moment to reply. "Honestly, Krik, I cannot remember the last time. Heck, I don't recall the last time it was cloudy at night. The elves feed upon the moon like ravenous hyenas. Their Elune mumbo-jumbo."

"Then why is it here?"

Ero makes for a rebuttal, but his is voice is lost as his lips sunder. A simplistic, almost childish question, yet profound in its magnitude. He cannot fathom why this fog would be here. No weather altercations could explain for its appearance. Not even Deathwing's gifts would explain it. Yet…there it is…

Krik sighs again, bored once more. "Now what? Should we keep moving?" The boy twists towards Ero, "or go tell the angry elf of this?"

Ero eyes the boy and then shifts his gaze upon the haze once more. He lets his focus linger for just a moment longer before replying, "She told us to make it to Ashenvale. So, we keep going until we get there."

Krik nods and spins upon the sandy mounds. Delicate pockets of gray whip to his sway as he marches with a wobble down the shore. Ero, hesitant at first, takes to his feet while the current riddles of life bear down upon him.

His eyes lock upon the shore once more, letting the expanding murky mist consume his focus. He has not a clue of its origin, but it sweeps the seas and crawls towards the coast with unnatural haste. It devours all light, shrouds the heavens, and saps ones morale.

For a brief, unwelcome second, the old man lets a horrific thought cross his mind. A notion that would certainly gain notice of the Mistress. But he dare not let it hold for long. He dare not ponder the truth behind it. To do so is too much for even him…

He, instead, throws his mind from the waters and to the now raging inferno to his side. White cores suckle upon the forest floor, spewing orange and ruby waves upon the skies. Thick, black smoke billows towards the heavens, while lit trees crackle and cry in anguish.

The orcs would be fools to light the forest without some logic. Night Elf's would make easy prey of any Horde foolish enough to come within reach of the flare's reach. So, why in the world did they strike here? Why in the middle of nowhere? Was there truly someone or something of importance within this area? Or, quite possibly, was it the forest itself what they were after?

All plausible questioning, yet no plausible answers to follow. And now, as he holds upon the second situation at hand, he finds himself baffled and irate. He is a man of focused reasoning and desired logic, but he cannot dare conjure a rationale for neither the fog nor the fire. Such a situation drives him to frustration and complete bewilderment.

But must not let it get to him. He must keep calm and ready.

So, as he marches upon the coast, his eyes now drifting upon the boy ahead, he finds himself following the same path as Krik. No point in attempting to pick apart the undefined. No need to disassemble the intangible. Instead he quickens his pace, aims his attention upon catching the boy, and lets the rest drift away.

At this moment, he knows that of all things left unanswered, that there is one truth: time is still on their side. He will get his reasoning and his logical plots eventually. He simply needs to feast upon the grandest of senses. Let patience be his guide. For despite that which has occurred, he knows it has only just begun.

And that the night is still very…very…young.