Disclaimer: I don't own either World of Warcraft or Harry Potter; they are owned by Blizzard Entertainment and J.K. Rowling, respectively. I just play around with their stories.
Date: ?
As Azalea awoke, the melodic chirping of birds filtered through her canvas sanctuary. She stretched, her joints popping and cracking in a symphony of discomfort. Today, she was determined; she needed to reach the dark nexus still lingering in her mind. But without a map of these unfamiliar lands, she had no way of knowing how long the journey would take—days, perhaps, or merely hours.
Rising from the couch, she quickly grabbed a meager breakfast of stale bread and water. It was hardly a feast, but it would suffice for now. As she chewed, her thoughts drifted back to her journey. Though she hadn't made much headway toward her ultimate goal, for the first time in ages, she savored a sliver of freedom. There were no aurors on her tail, no hit wizards prowling the woods.
Yet, as she sat surrounded by nature's serene beauty, a flicker of irrational paranoia crept in.
Something feels off, she thought, a chill running down her spine despite the day's warmth. Her wards had kept living creatures at bay, but years of running had ingrained an instinct to expect danger. "Freedom is a cruel illusion," she mused, taking another bite of bread. Even in solitude, shadows from her past lurked, whispering reminders that safety was often a façade. With every creak of a branch or rustle of leaves, her mind conjured images of threats lying in wait. Azalea pushed those thoughts aside, forcing herself to focus on the present.
Finishing her breakfast, she cast a Scourgify to clean her dishes—not perfect, but sufficient for now. After checking that everything remained in its rightful place, she donned her boots and coat, readying herself for the outside world. It wouldn't do to venture out unprotected; she remembered the time she had to sprint through the forest, evading aurors while fishing peacefully in a river. She had forgotten to cast any protective wards that day, and it nearly cost her dearly. Since then, she made it a point to invoke every protective charm she knew.
With her combat outfit on, she packed her tent, folding the canvas neatly into her bag before casting a notice-me-not and a disillusionment charm over herself. Confident in her invisibility, she dismantled her protective wards and transformed into her animagus form—a sleek raven with glossy black feathers that shimmered in the rising sun's light. Spreading her wings, she soared north, toward the dark nexus that beckoned her, the thrill of the unknown propelling her forward.
As she flew, the landscape unfolded beneath her. Rolling hills dotted with wildflowers and grassy meadows gave way to rugged mountains, their towering peaks shrouded in mist. The contrast between the lush valleys and jagged rocks was striking, each telling a story of nature's power.
Continuing her journey, Azalea soared into a region where the land transformed dramatically. The ground was coated in ash, and the sky above glowed a fierce molten red. Blackened trees stood as twisted remnants of life, echoes of a beauty long extinguished.
Pushing onward, she crossed into an area where the air turned cooler. Hills adorned with lush greenery and sparkling blue waters spread out beneath her. For a moment, the vibrant life surrounding her offered a welcome change.
As she flew over marshy lands, the terrain became unpredictable. Thick reeds swayed in the wind, and murky waters glimmered under the sun. Below, remnants of life emerged—a dilapidated wooden bridge and a forgotten cart, slowly succumbing to nature's embrace. The river snaked through this untamed expanse, guiding her further along her path, a reminder of the transient nature of existence.
After a steep cliff, Azalea spotted two large stone bridges spanning a narrow ravine. One was in ruins, barely standing, its weathered stones crumbling and overgrown with vines, a reminder of a once-great structure. The other bridge, however, was a marvel of engineering, held aloft by heavy metal chains that gleamed dully in the waning light. It arched gracefully over the chasm, a testament to the craftsmanship that had endured through the ages.
As she crossed into a new area, she entered a vast expanse of rolling hills and sparse trees, where the landscape felt both inviting and foreboding. The hills undulated gently, creating a rhythm in the terrain, but the sparse foliage cast long shadows. Jagged cliffs loomed in the distance, their silhouettes sharp against the horizon, while the air hummed with a sense of ancient power.
The world felt vast and full of possibilities as she spread her wings wide, the sun catching the iridescent sheen of her feathers. Launching herself further into the sky, the air rushed past her as she soared above the open expanse. Each beat of her wings drew her closer to her destination, a powerful determination thrumming through her.
As she glided over the landscape, she sensed the dark nexus pulsing in the distance. Azalea soared over the rugged peaks of the mountains, their jagged summits piercing the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast. The wind whipped through her feathers, invigorating her spirit as she navigated the treacherous currents below. The terrain unfolded like a tapestry of stark contrasts—craggy cliffs met rolling valleys where patches of green flourished amid the gray stone.
The mountains loomed high, their weathered faces scarred by time and the elements. Traces of stubborn snow clung to the higher altitudes, while the valleys below formed a rugged tapestry of rocky outcroppings and sparse, hardy vegetation. With each powerful flap of her wings, the pull of her destination grew stronger, intertwining with her rising anticipation.
As she continued north, the landscape shifted beneath her. There, amid the rugged terrain, lay the remains of a town—once vibrant, now reduced to empty buildings and crumbling ruins. The skeletal outlines of stone structures jutted into the sky, their walls weathered and broken, whispering tales of lives once lived. Scattered remnants of life—decayed wooden beams and shattered glass—hinted at the stories of resilience and loss that lingered in the air.
She could almost sense the echoes of the past resonating from the crumbling structures below, their forms barely discernible through the haze of history. Stone walls stood like ghostly sentinels, their surfaces marked by age and neglect. The air was heavy with the weight of forgotten memories, sending a shiver through her at the thought of what had transpired here.
She could almost hear the whispers of battles fought, lives lost, and dark forces that had ravaged this place. She traced her eyes over the cracked surfaces of the walls, imagining the lives that had once thrived here. Yet, despite the beauty of the decay, a dark undertone permeated the air—a lingering presence that felt both foreboding and familiar.
A flicker of movement gave her pause; intrigued, she observed the dark figures that lurked among the debris. She squinted as she identified the figures—ghouls shuffled through the remnants of the buildings, their emaciated bodies rotting, skin stretched tight over sunken bones. Hollow eyes glowed faintly, devoid of life yet moving with an unsettling purpose.
The essence of mortality felt distant in their presence; they were echoes of lives once lived, now trapped in perpetual wandering—burdened by the shadows of their past. A wave of pity washed over her as she gazed into their hollow eyes, devoid of understanding or hope. She could almost feel their yearning, a silent cry for release that resonated deep within her. They were prisoners of their own fate, caught in the cruel grip of whatever dark force had raised them. The ghouls continued their aimless wandering, oblivious to her presence.
In this place of decay, surrounded by the echoes of the undead, Azalea felt more alive than ever. Yet she could still sense the dark nexus calling to her. This time, instead of pulling her further north, its allure beckoned her to the west. As she flew off, the settlement of mindless ghouls faded behind her.
As she surveyed her surroundings, she couldn't shake the feeling that everything around her seemed almost lifeless, as if the very land had withered alongside its people. The fallen prince who had raised these souls appeared to have sacrificed much life for his grim goal, leaving behind a desolate reminder of his ambition. The weight of that loss hung heavy in the air.
Azalea soared over the desolate landscape of the western region, her raven form gliding effortlessly on the wind. Below her, the remnants of a world long forgotten sprawled out—a panorama of decay marked by the skeletal remains of trees and the husks of once-thriving flora. The air hung heavy with palpable sorrow, as if the very ground mourned the life that had once flourished here. Each beat of her wings resonated with the echoes of past suffering, drawing her ever closer to the ruins that loomed ahead.
In the distance, the crumbling silhouette of a grand city emerged from the haze, its broken towers jutting skyward like ancient sentinels watching over the desolation. As Azalea approached the massive front gates, she circled above, absorbing the scene below. The once-magnificent archway lay partially collapsed, its stones weathered and stained by time, while vines snaked through the crevices, reclaiming what was lost. The sight of a great bell, now embedded in the ground, this relic of a bygone era served as a haunting symbol of loss and betrayal, its remnants scattered like memories too painful to hold.
Petals that once blanketed the ground in vibrant hues now faded into decay, the colors muted by years of neglect. Here and there, fragments of intricate mosaics peeked through the rubble, their artistry dulled but still hinting at the beauty that once brought joy to this place. Weathered statues, their features eroded by time, stood sentinel over the ruins, gazes turned downward, as if mourning alongside the landscape.
Yet, amid the desolation, this place whispered of hope—a chance to find allies and others who shared her struggles. The remnants of a grand past hinted at the potential for rebirth, and Azalea felt an electric anticipation surging within her.
Hovering in her raven form, Azalea felt an inexplicable connection to this forsaken land. The decay mirrored her own existence, the traces of undeath woven into her very being. She sensed the weight of history surrounding her; each fragment of ruin was a testament to the struggles endured by those who had once walked these streets. The air was thick with silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of wind through the debris—a reminder of what had been sacrificed.
As she spiraled down toward the ruins, the ground rushed up to greet her, revealing the intricate tapestry of devastation laid bare before her. The cracked cobblestones beneath her bore witness to countless stories, and she could almost hear the echoes of laughter and conflict that had once filled the air. Azalea soared silently into the ruins, her raven form gliding effortlessly through the shadows cast by the crumbling architecture.
The throne room, once a place of power, lay in desolation, its opulence stripped away. Yet even in this emptiness, she felt the lingering echoes of history—a whisper of betrayal, a sigh of loss. Shadows cloaked the room, remnants of grandeur echoing through the emptiness. She settled onto a balcony overlooking the throne, her white eyes scanning the room below.
The intricately designed floor stretched beneath her, polished tiles in deep blue and gray forming patterns that twisted like lost memories. She looked down upon a large emblem at the heart of the floor, her keen gaze glinting as she studied its cool surface. It was an unfamiliar sigil, surrounded by ornate borders and geometric designs that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
This place, once a seat of power, now felt heavy with loss and despair. Faint whispers of the past curled around her, the air thick with an unshakable sense of betrayal and sorrow, as if the very stones bore witness to the tragedies that had unfolded here.
She caught snatches of conversation filtering through the ruins, voices weaving together in a hushed yet fervent exchange. They spoke of plans to repair the fortress, to rebuild what had long been lost to time and despair, to add new areas beneath the crumbling stone. The prospect intrigued her, igniting a flicker of hope within the suffocating darkness that enveloped her. Should she reveal herself or remain hidden?
Gathering information about these freed undead could prove invaluable, especially after her unsettling encounter with the ghouls in the settlement she had just left. The weight of her decision pressed down on her, thickening the air around her like a shroud. Azalea, cloaked by the shadows, felt an ache deep in her chest. The yearning for connection gnawed at her, a desperate hunger for acceptance among those who dwelt in the twilight between life and death. The Forsaken, she thought, might be the only ones who could embrace her darkness, for they, too, walked the fine line of existence, haunted by memories of a world that had cast them aside.
Yet dread coiled around her thoughts, whispering of rejection and violence. What if they saw her as an enemy, another threat in a world rife with danger? What if her hope led her to ruin, like so many dreams before? The fear of being hunted down again tightened its grip around her heart, a familiar torment that threatened to drown her.
Azalea lingered in the shadows, caught in a tempest of dark longing and flickering hope. Before she could settle on a course of action, the voices grew louder, drawing her attention further into the shadows. From her vantage point, Azalea caught her first glimpse of the figure who appeared to lead the gathering. Striking and commanding, the woman emanated an aura that demanded attention.
The armor she wore was a deep blue, once shining but now dulled and marred, hanging loosely on her frame as if she had lost years of strength since her undeath. It bore the scars of countless battles, exuding a muted, somber quality. Silver inscriptions adorned her pauldrons, with white feathers protruding from below—though some had broken off, they added an unexpected elegance to her imposing silhouette.
Draped in a dark blue cloak, tattered in places yet still magnificent, the garment flowed around her with an almost liquid grace. Intricate silver details glinted faintly in the dim light, catching Azalea's eye as they shimmered with each movement. The hood framed the leader's face, its fabric cut with neat openings to accommodate long, pointed ears that emerged with an air of defiance, enhancing her otherworldly presence.
She exuded a captivating blend of grace and menace, leaving Azalea entranced. The woman was tall and lithe, her skin pale—almost ethereal—against the backdrop of the decaying throne room. Her hair, a striking silvery hue, framed her gaunt face, catching what little light filtered through the ruins. But it was her eyes that held Azalea's gaze the longest—glowing red with intense ferocity, they seemed to burn with an inner light, promising both danger and allure. Tear tracks, as if burned into her skin, hinted at deep-seated sorrow beneath her fierce exterior.
Azalea's heart raced with a mix of admiration and caution. The figure before her radiated power—a blend of authority and dread that sent shivers down her spine. As the voices drew closer, her curiosity deepened. For a moment, she hesitated, teetering on the edge of revelation and concealment. Yet the temptation to uncover the dynamics of these undead and the opportunity it presented were too strong to resist.
She hopped forward to the edge of her hiding spot, striving for a better view of the gathering. Suddenly, she caught a flicker of movement below; the leader's piercing red eyes locked onto her, tracking her every movement with an intensity that thrilled and terrified her. How she could detect Azalea, breaking through her active charms, was a mystery, yet this development only fueled her intrigue. There was no escaping now; the leader had already sensed her presence.
Azalea dispelled her charms and let out a sharp caw as she launched herself into the air. The sound reverberated through the chamber, heralding her arrival. As she landed at the center of the throne room, poised upon the strange crest, a swirl of black smoke enveloped her, dancing like living shadows and infusing her entrance with enchanting theatricality—a dramatic reveal that would have delighted her father and godfather.
As the smoke dissipated, her white hair cascaded around her like a silken waterfall, catching the faint light filtering through the broken windows. Her silver eyes glimmered with fierce determination, reflecting both the thrill of the moment and the deep-seated darkness that she embraced. Deep down, fear gripped her, but she held onto the hope that the undead would recognize her as a kindred spirit in this forsaken place.
With a graceful flourish, she stood tall, embodying the enigmatic figure she intended to be. The remnants of the throne room loomed around her, a perfect backdrop for the dramatic entrance she had made. The shadows that clung to her felt like allies, wrapping her in a protective embrace as she prepared to assert her presence. In that moment, she transformed from a mere visitor in this crumbling sanctuary into a force of nature, fully embodying her title of 'Mistress of Death.'
As she landed gracefully before the gathering of undead, they regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, drawn to the striking figure that had emerged among them. The leader narrowed her eyes, her blazing gaze fixed unwaveringly on Azalea. With an oddly dual-toned voice that echoed through the otherwise silent throne room, she demanded, "Who are you?" Her cold, commanding tone sent another shiver down Azalea's spine, the weight of her authority unmistakable.
Date 614 by the King's Calendar:
Sylvanas Windrunner stood at the forefront of the gathered Forsaken, the remnants of their once-proud city looming around them. Her thoughts formed a tangled web of ambition and betrayal, the sting of the living's rejection still fresh. Yet, amid the shadows, a flicker of hope remained for the Forsaken; they shared a common resolve and fierce determination to end the horrors inflicted by the Scourge and to build a sanctuary here. Each step she took echoed through the vast, empty hallway towards the throne room, where shadows danced like specters—haunting reminders of a past long lost.
"We need to discuss our plans for the Undercity," she announced, her voice steady, though tired frustration simmered just beneath the surface. Her advisors, skeletal faces attentive, nodded in agreement, their uncertainty palpable. The weight of the Forsaken's future rested heavily on their shoulders, and she most of all understood her duty to guide them through this darkness.
As they strategized the layout of the underground city, Sylvanas envisioned improvements upon the Scourge's earlier work—expanding the caverns beneath Lordaeron into a sanctuary that would be both defensible and functional. When she mentioned this vision, Eldrin, an architect in life, suggested reinforcing the walls with remnants of the old structures to provide additional strength and stability. "If we can integrate the old with the new," he proposed, "it might preserve some of our history, helping us feel more at home."
A surge of pride welled within Sylvanas at their ideas. They weren't merely planning a city; they were laying the foundations for a new life. "With every stone we carve and every wall we raise, we will reclaim our identity," she declared. "The Undercity will stand as a testament to our strength and determination to rise from the ashes. Have Varimathras assist with the exploration of the caverns and catacombs," she instructed. "He can lead a team to scour for supplies and scout the remnants of the Scourge's presence. We must neutralize any potential threats before we begin construction in earnest."
Just as she was about to continue, a sudden movement above caught her eye. Shadows shifted unnaturally along one of the balconies overlooking the throne. Then she saw it—a raven, perfectly still the moment her gaze landed on it. The bird, darker than the shadows that enveloped it, regarded her with unnerving white eyes, its expression almost startled, as if it had not expected to be seen. Sylvanas felt a prickle of awareness; the bird moved with an unnatural grace, a confidence that intrigued her but also raised her guard. It acted too intelligent to be just a mere bird.
After a brief moment of hesitation, it soared into the air, wings outstretched, cawing loudly, the sound echoing like a clarion call through the vast emptiness of the throne room. She watched as the raven circled and landed at the center of the room, its form blurring for a fleeting moment, enveloped in a wisp of black smoke. A whisper of magic filled the room, a sensation that sent a thrill of caution through her. Sylvanas narrowed her eyes—she had seen enough trickery in her time, enough illusions and deceit. When the smoke cleared, a woman stood in the raven's place, striking and ethereal.
Her brilliant white hair cascaded down her back to the small of her waist, framing a face that was both hauntingly beautiful and unsettling. Her skin, pale, not unlike Sylvanas's own, revealed faint blue veins snaking beneath the surface. She wore a coat and boots crafted from a material that caught the light in an unusual way—black yet shimmering with a faint green hue, giving her an air of mystery and danger. Sylvanas couldn't quite place the material, but it felt both exotic and intimidating, a testament to the woman's strength. Her silver eyes, luminous yet weary, bore dark bags beneath them, hinting at sleepless nights and burdens carried far too long. Those eyes sparkled with mischief but also with the weight of sorrow, reflecting the struggles of a life lived on the edge.
As Sylvanas studied her, she felt drawn to this enigmatic figure. There was a kinship in their shared suffering, an understanding of what it meant to exist between worlds. Yet, a whisper of caution lingered in the back of her mind—a reminder that hope could lead to devastation.
"Who are you?" Sylvanas demanded, her voice cool and commanding, heavy with the weight of her experiences, echoing through the room. "And why have you entered our sanctuary uninvited?" Despite the traces of undeath on the woman—Sylvanas remained wary. The stabs of betrayal still echoed in her mind, constant reminders of the treachery she had faced from the living. Trust was a luxury she could not afford, especially with someone who appeared both alluring and dangerous.
With a swift movement, Sylvanas drew the bow slung across her back, the polished wood glimmering in the dim light of the throne room. "Speak quickly," she added, her tone sharpened with suspicion. "What do you seek in the ruins of Lordaeron?" Her grip tightened on the bow, ready for any sign of aggression, despite the woman's aura suggesting otherwise. Azalea stood unmoving, unfazed by the drawn weapon. The necrotic energies that enveloped Sylvanas's people mirrored the shadows surrounding this new arrival. "Do you come to threaten us?" Sylvanas continued, her tone edged with steel. "Or do you seek to burn us to the ground?" The air crackled with tension, as if the room itself held its breath.
Then Azalea spoke, her clear voice resonating through the chamber. "My name is Azalea Peverell. I came to—Lordaeron, was it?—to look for a place to belong, to find kindred spirits. I've heard of your plight during my travels, tales of struggles that mirror my own." Sylvanas listened, her expression impassive, but the words struck a chord within her.
Azalea continued, her tone steady yet revealing. "I've been labeled a dark lady, a monster, simply for embracing certain forms of magic that others fear. It wasn't always this way. I remember a time when my appearance was vibrant, but then I encountered powerful artifacts of great ancient magic on my journey, and everything changed." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the tense air.
"With their power came transformation. My body stopped aging, my skin turned sickly pale, and my once-lively hair became this stark white. My green eyes faded into the cold silver you see now. And finally, my heart stopped beating." Azalea glanced around the throne room, its echoes steeped in sorrow, then returned her gaze to Sylvanas. "In a world that shunned me, forcing a child into war, I found myself more aligned with shadows than light. I've wandered alone, searching for a place where I could belong, where my past wouldn't define me."
Sylvanas studied her closely, noting the nuances in her expression—the hints of pain mingled with a flicker of resilience. There was depth to this woman, layers hidden beneath her pallid exterior. Azalea spoke the truth but revealed only the bare minimum needed to answer her questions. Sylvanas felt a strange kinship form between them, two souls navigating the complexities of existence. Yet the weight of her own experiences held her back, a protective barrier built on months of betrayal and heartache. She relaxed her tight grip on her bow, her leather gloves creaking softly as she did. Behind her, the Forsaken mirrored her movement, easing their tense postures in unison.
"You seek a place to belong," she repeated, her voice laced with skepticism and curiosity. "And you claim to understand our struggles. Yet, the world is not kind to those who dwell in shadows." She took a step forward, assessing Azalea more closely, her instincts on high alert. "What proof do you offer of your intentions?" Her posture remained relaxed but defensive, the weight of her role as protector heavy on her shoulders.
"Our sanctuary is but a fragile thing, and trust is not easily earned. Why should I believe you will not betray us like so many before you have?" The air thickened with uncertainty, yet a flicker of hope ignited in her chest. Perhaps Azalea was different—perhaps she could help them in their fight against Menethil.
Azalea met Sylvanas's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I don't mind proving myself to you and your people. I understand that trust must be earned. I can help where I'm needed," she stated, her voice steady. "I'm no stranger to fighting for those who have been cast aside. Your sanctuary deserves protection, and I'm ready to lend my strength. I'm willing to take on menial tasks if that's what it takes."
Still, a part of Sylvanas remained guarded. Could this woman truly be an ally, or was she merely another player in a game of deception? "If you truly wish to join us, to aid us, there are tasks that require both strength and cunning. We need capable hands willing to fight back. If you can hold your own against the living, it might just tip the scales in our favor." A sly smile played on her lips, tinged with a hint of challenge. "But be warned—failure is not an option. Prove your worth, and you may find a place among us. Succeed, and perhaps we can forge a true alliance."
Sylvanas's mind raced, weighing the possible aid from Azalea against the complexities of her situation. "We are under constant threat from the living," she began, her tone icy yet deliberate. "The forces of the Scarlet Crusade, based in their monastery north of here, are relentless, determined to wipe us out. They see us as nothing but Scourge, and their presence is a blight upon our existence." Azalea tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment, her silver eyes steady and resolute.
"Before I embark on my task, may I ask the name of whom I'm speaking with?" she asked, her tone polite yet imbued with a subtle sharpness. Sylvanas arched an eyebrow, her guard firmly in place but a flicker of intrigue breaking through. "Very well, my name is Sylvanas Windrunner," she stated, her voice a blend of authority and measured calm. "I lead the Forsaken, the freed undead who wish to reclaim their fate in this world." The weight of her words hung in the air, neither warm nor hostile, but resolute.
Azalea nodded, her expression unwavering. "Lady Windrunner, then. A position such as yours commands respect." There was a calculated sincerity in her words, as if she were carefully weighing each syllable. "I intend to prove myself useful to you and your people. You have my word." Sylvanas regarded her closely, sensing the undertone of ambition beneath the surface politeness. It intrigued her, but it also put her on edge. "Your intentions are noted, but intentions alone are not enough to ensure trust. This is a fragile sanctuary, and we have seen too many betrayals to take your word at face value."
"Trust must be earned; I understand that," Azalea replied smoothly, her gaze unwavering. "But consider this: in a world that casts aside those like us, perhaps we can forge something more than mere necessity." Her silver eyes sparkled with a mixture of cunning and sincerity, hinting at a deeper understanding of their shared plight. Sylvanas felt the air between them thicken with purpose, each woman aware they stood on the brink of a partnership forged in shadows. "We tread a dangerous path, Miss Peverell. I hope you realize that."
"Danger is a language I speak fluently, Lady Windrunner," Azalea said, a faint smirk playing at the edge of her lips. "I wouldn't have revealed myself in this way otherwise." Though a flicker of hope ignited within Sylvanas, her instincts remained vigilant. This encounter could lead to something greater—or something perilous.
AN:
Once again, thank you all for reading my story so far! Below is a note about my reasoning behind my decisions so far and my plans going forward.
Azalea has now met Sylvanas, a moment I wanted to reach quickly without dragging out her journey to Lordaeron. I didn't want weeks of travel with only changes to her location.
Azalea is eager to join the Forsaken, but I didn't want her to become a champion for them immediately. I felt that Sylvanas would test her, and the Scarlet Monastery, an early dungeon for players in this region, serves as a fitting test due to the Scarlet's strong hatred for the undead.
At this point, Sylvanas isn't as jaded as she became in later expansions. While she distrusts the living due to past betrayals, particularly at Silvermoon's gates, she still holds hope for reconnection and a place in Azeroth.
Currently, Sylvanas is still in her ranger uniform, the same armor she wore when Arthas killed her. In my opinion she is currently focused on establishing the Forsaken in Lordaeron to prioritize new armor.
She also hasn't sent out emissaries to the Horde or Alliance yet, as she needs to solidify her faction's position before reaching out.
My plans for the coming chapters are for Azalea will help the Forsaken gain a foothold in the Western Plaguelands, leading into the events of WoW Classic. Despite fewer main storylines than in later expansions, there are still significant lore and dungeons to explore, particularly Naxxramus and Stratholme, which are important to the Forsaken's history and Arthas's fall. After that, I'm planning for a time skip to the beginning of The Burning Crusade, as most Forsaken narratives in WoW Classic revolve around these dungeons, and them strengthening their hold over the Western Plaguelands.