Sunsail Anchorage

Fathos Swifthammer stood waist deep in the gentle swells rolling in from the North Sea whenever a fair Northwesterly blew. The anchorage, once a small placid place that served to bring in supplies for Eversong Wood, had grown greatly since the Scourge had assaulted the Elfgate. The High Elves had found themselves relying on Human merchants for much of their trade and supplies during that time and the King had sworn that never again would this be so. It was, after all, the humans who were to blame for the plague for the first place, and for its spread inside the lands of Quel'Thalas. The less dependence on them the better. As a result of this need, Sunsail Anchorage had been turned into a shipyard second to none in the Elvish histories.

Three long ship beds, raised five or feet above the ground, each cradling a hull in various stages of production, were set in the north bank where they were protected from the wind and tide. Beyond them the ocean was speckled with the tall white and gold sails of ships undergoing sea trials. The crews had largely been drawn from the families of seafaring folk whose sons and daughters wanted no part of working the nets all day. They were fine sailors, but warriors, well, that was a work in progress.

Swifthammer was working on a ship launched only that morning. She had no name yet, Elvish convention forbade the naming of any vessel until she had survived her sea trials. This one, like so many others before it, no matter how tight you might build them, or how much arcane magic was used to seal them, still leaked, some worse than others. In this case he had found that the Phoenix figurehead hadn't been properly fitted and water was seeping through and quickly wetting the hold. So it fell to him, as the Master Shipbuilder, to inspect it all, and he preferred to fix problems himself.

His hammer, a well used wooden mallet with steel bands about the head to keep it from splitting, slammed into the right side of the figurehead once, twice, and then a third time with the satisfying sound of wood battering wood. The figure head shifted and then with a wheeze, it sank into place. A muted voice cried out from inside the hull.

"That is good!"

He tapped on the hull in response and waded back toward the shore acutely aware of the sudden appeared of four Farstrider Rangers. Their bows were slung, curved swords at their waist, and there was no sign of any mounts. Most creatures that might serve to speed them along came at a cost of time spent caring for them, saddling them, or trying to prevent their smell from warning enemies of their approach. No, the Farstriders ran, aided by the Arcane Magics of the High Elves. They had earned their name, and the adoration of their people, a thousand times over. Each one was superbly fit. You rarely saw a fat Elf, but the Farstriders stood out among their race in fitness and skill.

They nodded to him as he climbed from the water but offered no comment. That was something he loved about his kin, if they didn't have something constructive to say, they kept their opinions to themselves. He wouldn't tell them how to Ranger, and they wouldn't tell him how to build ships. He returned their nods and then made his way toward the building that served as his headquarters and the main stores for a fleet in the making.

The heavy door was already partially open and a pair of sentries stood on either side of it, notably more upright and anxious than they usually were. He approached them with a sense of trepidation and glanced into the darkness beyond the door before speaking quietly with one of them.

"Visitors?"

The sentry nodded his blonde head, the sunlight flashing from his polished helmet. He flickered his eyes from left to right, toward the Farstriders, and then a small smile briefly showed. "Ranger-General Windrunner is here, along with the new Admiral-General."

Swifthammer felt a small knot form in his stomach. The fleet had not yet been given a commander and he had half expected the first one to arrive with much pomp and ceremony but it seemed he was wrong. Not only that, but the Ranger-General herself had come suggesting that this individual was a friend of hers, rather than flunky of the court. He took a breath and stepped into the gloom.

Duskwood

Who could have divined the prophetic import of something as unremarkable... as a twitch in the leg of a dead rat?

Bautic gazed upon the rodent in question with some degree of interest. Truth be told he had long surpassed such humble beginnings when it came to control over life and death, but then again it wasn't his own work that he was observing. Being a teacher was a somewhat new experience for him, but as he stared at the convulsions of the deceased rodent, he couldn't help but feel a small twinge of pride as he witnessed a student start to put their skills to use.

However as the test subject refused to evolve beyond its spasms and in fact started to cause tears in its body, Bautic took a deep breath before turning towards the young woman who had attempted the feat and asked in a soft and caring tone voice that would have been surprising to those who had known him back up in Lorderan "Alright Ashley. Would you like to hazard a guess about what you did wrong?"

Ashley for her part leaned in to have a closer look at her failed experiment, her slightly lazy eye facing slightly the wrong direction before she narrowed both of her eyes to focus a little better. Observing the damage that the subject had caused to themselves from their movements, in the end she couldn't help but close her eyes, let out a slightly louder then normal puff of air escape her nose and answer somewhat bashfully "I think... I put a little to much magic into the muscles and disabled muscle limitations in the process?"

For his part Bautic offered a smile as he brought his hands together in a single clap that filled the no longer abandoned farmhouse that had been claimed for the Brotherhood. "Nail on the head Ashley." Deciding to take advantage of the situation to be an instructor to the other, magically inclined Defias that were seated around the testing table, Bautic quickly added for the sake of the class "There is a reason that most muscles have natural limits imposed upon themselves and that is because without those limitations put into place, the muscles would be strong enough to tear themselves to pieces or off the bone."

"That isn't to say that we can't bypass these limitations when it comes to raising the dead. However, doing so successfully requires experience and a solid understanding of the basic biological form. As the saying goes, one needs to have a deep understanding of the rules before one knows when and how to break them successfully. Now Rex, I believe you were..."

Before the lesson could continue, there was a bang on the door frame of the empty kitchen door as one of the guards of the farmstead made their presence known. "Sir, sorry to interrupt you but most of the scouts have returned." The tone given to 'most' heavily implied that those scouts that hadn't returned weren't going too.

A sigh escaped from Bautic's lips before he turned to the class and said "Alright. Continuing your reading and practicing, I'll be back as soon as possible."

Antonidas hummed happily to himself as he rode along, punctuating the silence left by the brooding Elven Prince riding alongside him.

Eventually however, Kael’Thas did speak. “Truly, Antonidas. This is the third time you have demanded I have come with you on these… excursions, and I still see no value in them.”

The Archmage guffawed at the Prince’s words, shaking his head. “Well, first of all be fair to me dearest Kael’Thas. I never demanded it of you. I simply thought it would help you attain… enlightenment. Or perhaps even peace that has been evading your troubled mind. I would think the fruits of our labour would put a smile on your face.”

“If I said I am not a child in need of being cheered up, would you consider that childish?”

“No, but whimsical nonetheless. Do you really not feel… satisfaction, seeing what we have done?”

“Forgive the impoliteness for a reply with my own question, but do you?”

Antonidas paused for a long and hard moment to ponder his reply, before slowly and cautiously stating “No, I do not. But - and I mean this with all due respect to you - the bigger picture is not visible to you. I know exactly how much more work must yet be done. I know exactly how close we are to failure, to total collapse at any moment. I know how many in the world wish to see us fail, and what the consequences will be if we do. None of this weighed on my mind half a decade ago, and my mind simply hasn’t had the time to acclimate to this new world of Dalaran.” The Mage paused, scratching the bridge of his nose with his staff disguised as a simple walking stick. Another sigh preceded the continuation of his monologue. “Maybe bringing you along is a waste of time. But I think the fact you have not declined a single time means that, deep down, you see that value in witnessing how the people we have come to safeguard live. If you will forgive a little speculation, perhaps you are trying to right wrongs that infuriated your father?”

Kael gave Antonidas a glare to not push the subject, prompting the old man to hunch down faintly. “My apologies, Kael. I shan’t speak of it again.”

Seeing the old man’s remorse for his words the Prince himself softened, now himself regretting the furious but unspoken words exchanged. “I am lost. Everything I have done I have believed was for the best. You have helped me assure myself of that. But what am I to think when in the fulfillment of my sworn duties I lose my birthright? Don’t reply if you have nothing new to say. We’ve already discussed this to death.”

“Yes, we have. But I’ll tell you what!” the old wizard began, his aged fingers now scrabbling impotently at the top of an orange he was failing to peel.

“Let me help you.” Kael began, seeing Antonidas struggle, his own fingers starting to frame the necessary glyphs to peel the fruit from afar. Just as quickly Antonidas waved a hand to exert small waves of force on the Elf’s hands to painlessly but decisively push them away from casting his spell. “I can peel my own damn orange, I need no magic!” The Archmage declared, heavy breaths following the outcry. “Hmmm. Apologies once more, dear boy.” the pre-centenarian apparently seeing no irony in using such a misnomer for a man thousands of years old. “But, I will clue you into something that few in Dalaran save myself know. In fact, I believe nobody save myself for the moment. There will be a conference of sorts in the coming days. The leaders of all nations present or former of the alliance, including your father. As part of my attaches, Councillor Kael’Thas would fit in very well.”

Before the disgraced Prince could reply, a thrown axe knocked the orange that Antonidas had at last succeeded in starting to peel right out of his hands. Another one struck the wizard, but bounced off of the mana shield upon him.

The duo looked to the right upon a mass of trolls, somewhat confused at their failure to split the old man in two. Sharing an annoyed look, the duo dismounted and approached the trolls with their arms upraised.

---

plup-plup-plup… plup-plup-plup

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

“Its a damn shame about that last manastone grind. Really thought you had the right fineness.”

“Yup. Thought I could at least try get it to work like gunpowder but… well, lets not dwell on the bad eh?”

“Damn right.”

plup-plup-plup… plup-plup-plup

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

“So what was that chat with the wizards they summoned you for.”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing? A member of the damn council summoned you my dear Barad!”

The Dwarf sighed, retrieving a scroll from a pocket and unfurling it on the table between him and the gnome. “Here, take a look. Wanted me to stick cannons on golems. Said they just wanted me to get the drawn parts done, they’d animate the rest with magic.”

After a silence in which the gnome looked over the drawings, he began to scratch his sideburns thoughtfully as he mumbled to himself. “Its creative, certainly.”

“Right, it is. But I don’t want to do it. Knew you would like the idea though. That’s why I told them you would be better to talk to about it. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Well, I suppose not. If the wizards finally admit they need me, that’s a very damn good start for me getting something real done.”

plup-plup-plup… plup-plup-plup

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

“So, what about your previous contracts with the Kirin Tor?”

“Oh, well, you know. I made the tractors exactly as they asked. Trouble is though, they’re too complex for the peasants what need ‘em. Did you know that the vast majority of humans can’t even read or write in their own damn language? We never saw it in Gnomeregan, Ironforge, or even here in Dalaran. All the humans we met were fancy travelers, mages, diplomats, whatever. But most humans what live in villages and the like? I’m told some of them aren’t even damn numerate. I didn’t believe it, but one village I rode out to had everyone save the blacksmith and mayor give their age in a multiple of five.”

“Gosh.”

“Right? I told the wizards they should do something about it. They said they tried. Uhm, trying. Right. Sending someone to every village to try teach kids to read and write in the day, adults in the evening. Trouble is nobody wants to attend. They’ve lived whole lives for generations without needing to know what a letter is, in both senses of the word.

“What can they do then?”

“They’re trying lots of things. One story’s quite funny. They tried paying peasants to attend, hoping it’d pay off when they would thus work more efficiently. Trouble is everybody and their bedridden granny started attending, while not even caring to actually learn. Cash is cash, and the wizards realized they couldn’t afford subsidizing something that wasn’t going to lead to anything anyway.”

“Damn tragic. Anything else?”

“Oh yeah, for once their stubbornness and arrogance will lead to something good, they’re not giving up. For now they’re reducing taxes on everything the wizards provide if one attends their schools. Medicine and the like, they don’t got to pay for it anymore. It’s not enough to get everyone on board, but the wizards reckon it’ll pay for itself. They’re also restricting positions like mayor behind being able to write more than your name, and they’re not giving my tractors to any farms where the head of the household can’t prove they can read the manuals of operation. They’re just newfangled toys to a lot of the countryside for now, but I reckon by the next agricultural cycle any farmer that has one will be jealous of any that doesn’t. Same as loggers with axes being jealous of them that has goblin buzzsaws.”

plup-plup-plup… plup-plup-plup

"Cheers."

"Cheers."

“Just a damn shame really. I think I’ve been breaking down manastones for a decade now, but the only thing I’ve been able to really get done with them is make a damn great glue for magical bits. I know I can get it to work like coal, or gunpowder. I know I can. But I’m just damn missing something when I make the grains.”

The Dwarf looked at Nillio and his wistful speech, then at his glass of ale. He squinted hard at it, reaching for a washrag to use as paper and an inkwell spilled on the ground hours ago. “Hold on, hold on. Bear with me. Got an idea for you. Just need to figure out a way to put it in words. Before I’m too damn drunk. Liquid. Liquid! remember this word even if we black out everything else we say tonight.”

---

Vanndar looked between the map on his table and upon the city of Alterac just slightly visible across the mist and snow. His eyes shifting almost every other moment, the Dwarf reached into his belt for binoculars every few cycles of his gaze and would take a brief look upon the city before putting it back and resuming his darting view.

Alterac was so close, yet so far. Every day a new warband of the syndicate, or of the ogres, or of the frostwolves would be eliminated following a successful search and destroy operation. But every time this would only allow the combined army of the Stormpikes and Dalaranian Army to advance single digits of kilometres. At this rate, it would be years before they took the city. Yet, it was only a day’s ride away from the camp if a straight path was taken. But, with the amount of foot-troops between the assembled forces, this would devolve to several days. In those days the raids, ambushes, and pricks and prods of the more nimble enemies of man, dwarf and elf would leave it a shell of itself by the time the city was arrived at. Something had to be done if the city was to be retaken in something resembling a timely manner, and for the moment he had no idea what. The Wizards were saying they were working on some new weapons to help the war, but he somehow doubted they’d be the solution to all his problems. It was cold steel and struggle of individuals that won battles, not wonder weapons. Yet, with that said, he damn well wouldn’t mind a steam engine or twelve to be mobile hardpoints for the hypothetical convoy that would march right towards the city. Trouble was, he didn’t have any.

Licking his lips, he decided to reach down for a piece of vellum to begin writing in the runic script of the Dwarves in. The excavation teams had already dug up well enough artifacts that had already been studied to sell home for a pretty penny to prove that the venture into Alterac was profitable. Hopefully, this would be enough to convince creditors in Ironforge that he could repay them for the loans he’d need to commission ten siege engines.

A long line of torches flickered and danced in the breeze that blew from the Hillsbrad Foothills, bringing with it the stench of decay and burning. The men and women who held the Thoradins Wall barely noticed it anymore as it became a as normal to their day as eating or taking a piss. Every one of them could clearly see the green and purple lights that glowed, moved, and flickered in the dark lands beyond. The Scourge offensive may have been blunted but a half dozen hastily repaired breaches and the swathes of destruction around them testified to just how close the armies of the Lich King had come to breaking through into the Arathi Highlands.

One breach, older and more carefully repaired, was almost as vast as the main gatehouse. This was where the Scourge had made their first entrance into the Kingdom of Stromgarde the year before, fighting their way to the very walls of the City before being defeated. It had taken months of hard combat to drive the Scourge back beyond the wall, hold it while the repairs were made, and then to eradicate every trace of the plague within the lands of men. Many had died in the fighting and more would die of their wounds, including the King and his son.

Garald Hammerfist shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably at the thought. He had been there when the King fell, the corpse so badly mangled that even the finest paladins and priests among them could not resurrect him. His son was last seen being torn in two by an Abomination and his torso consumed by the beast. They had been able to burn his legs on a pyre, nothing more could be found.

“I almost prefer it when they’re attacking, then at least we know where they are.” Rycym Rookwood was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers tracing the edges of the massive warhammer he had slung behind him.

“Let us be careful what we wish for,” Garald replied. “To many have died already.”

“Wish what you want, this isn’t over.” Rycyn half turned so that his long blonde hair rippled in the torchlight and shadowed his face. “The rumours of a coalition may prove useful. It is about time some of the other Kingdoms helped bear the burden Stromgarde has suffered.”

Garald could only nod. There was wisdom there even if it was delivered so bluntly. The younger man might not have Garalds years, but he had aged quickly like so many others under the unrelenting onslaught of the Scourge.

“How fare things in the capital?” Rycyn asked, changing the subject.

“Well enough. We continue to recruit well from regions untouched by the Scourge. There is little glory in fighting the Scourge, save for that in serving the Light. It is still enough for some it seems. Equipping them is becoming difficult, what with so much of our equipment getting up and walking away while still on the corpses of the dead. We’ve been reforging any number of Troll or Ogre weapons and armour. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than boiled leather.

Rycyn was immediately conscious of his own spectacular armour that glowed in the flames. It had been a gift from the Paladins of Northshire Abbey and he had worn it proudly ever since. It was patched in some areas and bent in others, but it made him a recognizable figure on the battlefield. As his strength and skill had grown, so too had the ornate items had added to it. A chain with pendant, more intricate carvings, and even a gold bound spell book that he wore about his waist.

Garalds own armour was equally ornate but showed the years of use far worse than Rycyns. On more than one occasion the younger man had been mistaken for a Prince or King of Stromgarde by new arrivals while Garald was dismissed as an advisor. Many apologies flowed when the mislead party was educated on their mistake.

Perhaps sensing the younger paladin’s discomfort Garald spoke quickly. “I have sent to Stormwind and Northshire for more armour and weapons. We shall see what comes of it. I have likewise requested the same from Grand Crusader Mograine of my Order. With luck, and some faith, I believe he will help us with what he can spare.”

Rycyn only nodded. The Scarlet Crusade were a bunch of misguided fanatics in his mind. Hiding behind their Citadel Walls and making grand plans rather than coming out the fight. The Chapter House of the Silver Hand in Stromgarde had few enough left in its ranks after the recent fighting. More and more the fighting, along with the wielding of the Light, was falling to men and women like him; people of a more adventurous nature with no set allegiance other than to humanity.

“I must return to the City at any rate. I’ll be speaking with Alma if she has returned. Any message for her?”

Rycyn perked up slightly at the name. He and Alma had become close, though not in the sense of lovers. Garald had noted that the wayward paladin was drawn to strong women and formed easy friendships with them wherever he went. He and Alma had become quick friends and spent much of their early service fighting Trolls together which only served to cement their friendship. Garald has been convinced that the two would become lovers but, as of that moment, no such thing had happened. Perhaps peace would come and they might yet be able to make a life together somewhere without war. An old man could hope.

“Just give her my best. She won’t need more than that.” Rycyn grinned suddenly, breaking his grim visage. “Oh, and remind her she’s a damn pest, please.”

Garald nodded and the two clasped forearms briefly before he turned to descend from the wall. Rycyn turned back toward the darkness beyond, eyes probing the shadows, a golden sentinel on the walls of Stromgarde.

---

Gnomeregan, Tinkers' Court

For a city covered in -- or practically made of -- machinery, few residents complained about the noise... Partly because, for many of them, the distant sound of technology at work was an ancient evolutionary comfort from a time before they were flesh-and-bone, and in other cases, simply because those places where quiet was necessarily were thoroughly dampened against noise.

The Tinkers' Court was one such place, though dampened for necessity rather than comfort. It was, in many ways, the brain of Gnomeregan, the most important decisions in the city made around the perfectly machined dodecahedral table in its center. At one end sat the High Tinker in his lilac-purple Gnomeregan tabard, lime green goggles proudly worn atop his head despite the complete lack of need for them. To his right, Tinkmaster Overspark, replete with rigidly styled pastel pink facial hair and candy red goggles, each length of his mustache and bushy beard at least as long as his head. He, much like Gelbin, always carried a Gnomish Army Knife -- as did every Gnome worth their salt -- but he carried a veritable cornucopia of punch-cards and remotes for controlling his creations, too. Even now.

To his Left, Kelsey Steelspark -- much like Overspark, her hair was a pinkish colour, though far more tinged with red and tied into a medium ponytail, replete with bangs that swept wide to each side of her face. She still wore her black bodysuit, eccentric as any Gnome ever was -- but unlike Overspark, she had the distinctly foreign manners to remove her crimson tactical goggles -- one lens sporting a targeting system and the other an array of various sensors, compared to Overspark's far more industrial microscopic lenses and radiation sensors.

Their guest approached the far end of the table, accompanied by two mountain dwarves, each wielding a hammer and an axe in their meaty fists. They did not expect an attack here, of course. Dwarves and gnomes were about as close as two peoples could get. They weren’t merely allies, they were family. But they were ever ready. They were now on the war footing, and the light only knew they needed to be ever ready.

The Dwarf King did not deign to sit. Instead he stood tall, at least compared to the gnomes and others of his own people. At his sides were his two runic hammers, and on his brow sat the high crown of Khaz Modan, its red ruby glimmering in the light of the bits and bobs of machinery that surrounded them.

Magni appreciated the ingenuity of his cousins. The dwarves weren’t nearly as obsessed with every little facet one might gain from invention, as one could probably tell when faced with dwarven and gnomish architecture. But they had a knack for invention as well, and certainly were avid engineers, particularly of war machines and transport. Magni himself was a renowned smith, as well as warrior and statesman.

“I trust we are all here?” The King asked. “We’ve many things to discuss.”

"Ready and willing, old friend!" Gelbin replied. "We have -- as I'm sure you're aware -- completed construction of the Southshore airfield, but I believe the most pertinent matter is supplying our war-machines with fuel, yes?' Gelbin replied -- as always, he instantly launched into business.

Magni smiled at the immediate proclamation, glad for the enthusiastic support. “Aye, we’ve got plenty of fuel. The last decade we’ve been hard at work procuring it to get our energy demands back to speed. And I think the trade opportunities with a restored northland is well worth the expense.”

"Of course!" Gelbin replied, just as enthusiastically. Brotherhood was so embedded in the two species that one supporting the other was a practical guarantee -- regardless of the circumstances. "We're confident that, with Kul Tiran support, we can maintain a stable line of supply of fuel -- especially with a Thandol Span intact, and combined with our cargo airport. Not to mention, yes -- a reclaimed Lordaeron will make it much easier to establish offensive operations on Northrend, too."

The Dwarf King nodded in approval, placing two large hands on the table. “I know I can always count on you, old friend. I don’t want ye to have to commit any more of your people than necessary. Ye’ve been through much.” He said, as softly as his powerful, granite voice could muster. “While this…’Scourge’ is perhaps as dangerous as the old Horde in the second war, we’re better prepared now and we’ve learned our lessons. This time, we take the fight to them.” He emphasized the proclamation with his large fist knocking on the sturdy table twice.

"Indeed we do!" Gelbin replied, earning sharp nods from the Gnomes attending them. "There does come the military matter of moving Steam Tanks through a thickly wooded area like Silverpine, however..."

Magni grinned broadly. “Oh we’ve got that well thought out.” He said cryptically, though the solution was easy, of course. “Our mortar teams and axe men are the best on azeroth, and there might still be a few workable roads even after all of the corruption. We just need to make sure we have a steady supply line by gyrocopter the further we go in. We are not like the humans, we can take our time to tighten the noose. But we still need to make haste, because they deserve their homeland as much as we with ours.”

"Indeed they do, old friend." Gelbin nodded sagely. "...Which will make capturing ports even more crucial. Our machines will be vital -- the Scourge is slow, after all, but if we can encircle and crush them quickly..." Gelbin said, bringing his gloved hand together into a fist. "Their necromancers won't have a chance to slow us down. It's a matter of speed, and ensuring the work teams are able to keep up with the army. A careful balancing act!"

Magni gave a laugh. “Very good! We’ll send ‘em back to hell where they belong.” He proclaimed, and as everyone was in agreement, he stopped and went. “...Wait, we can’t have a meeting without drink!”

"Oh! Of course! Speaking of, there's a new blend I've been looking to try out on you..."

---

"Lady Amama," a young elf called gently from the door outside the Magus' study.
The young woman knocked on the door and opened it expecting the wrath of her Mistress for interrupting her studies. Beautiful and graceful the young woman flowed across the room. She had been an orphan found by her father while fighting the Scourge. When her father returned home, the girl and other survivors as well. That was how she became Amama's maid. She had also become Amama's friend when they were in private.

Amama stood looking out the window of the Violet Citadel at the Magus Commercial Exchange and the people coming and going. Buying items - potions, rings, and spells and some learning from tutors. It was decades ago that she had made that trip and looked at the Violet Citadel in awe. Here was the seat of magical power and some of the best mages in the world. Through hard work, she had earned the right to study with the Kirin Tor and then to wear a Violet Robe.

War was coming as it always did. She could always tell when her father would go off to fight. The signs were there as they were in Dalaran. It amazed her how many nobles, generals, and diplomats came to see the aid from the magus of the Citadel.

"There is a new bottle of wine," her maid said. This got Amama's attention. She turned from the window to looked the girl with a smile.

On the desk lay a silver dagger that Amama had spent months working on. The engraving was flawless. The gems simple and well set. The dagger felt warm and light to the touch. Her enchantments were fire and wind. The dagger could burst into flames when triggered and be thrown and travel at high speed.

She had made the dagger as a prototype for a sword to fight the Scourge. Fire was her weakest element and why she had been working on the prototype.

Amama took the girls arm and headed for the dining table.
"Did I ever tell you that transmutation is the highest form of magic?" She asked her maid.
"Out that window people are trying to turning gold into power," She continued.
She had told her maid this for years new.

Walking out into the main room, Amama headed for the table, dinner, and the wine. She noted that extra plates had been set out in case of company.

Amama's rooms were nice, but small in Elven standards. It was a sacrifice she was making for her art.

Duskwood

The old barn was a riot of activity as Bautic crossed the threshold... through only two of the occupants were actually making noise.

While normally there would have been trusted members of the Defias inside with the prisoners in order to make sure they stayed put, the nature of one of their captives had required... special circumstances. So while the living patrolled and guarded the outside, within its walls the dead had been recruited to serve as jailers. Truth be told it made a surprising amount of sense when you thought about it; They wouldn't get bored, they wouldn't fall asleep or need to swap out for biological needs like eating or disposing of waste... and they sure as hell wouldn't be fast talked into doing something stupid. Plus it freed up people to take care of other things since they no longer needed to have members of the Defias actively in the prison barn.

None of that was why the undead were needed for this situation, but promoting the additional benefits didn't hurt.

The wolf creatures that had suddenly appeared throughout Duskwood... Worgen, some people called them... had proven to be something of a problem. The mining operation at Roland's Doom had ended in tragic failure as the wolfish creatures seemed to strike there first, wiping out all the brothers and sisters of the Brotherhood there before spreading out like the savage creatures they were... well, almost all.

Ignoring the pained struggling of the other captive of the room, Bautic walked over to its more human occupant. Even if they were living up to their namesake. "Ah Jitters. I think you'll be glad to know that your information proved accurate. Believe me, if you had lied to me I would have been very upset."

Jitters sat, chained to the wall and looking like a defiled mess of himself. Spending time around the dead and the undead tended to make one accustomed to certain smells and foul odors, but Jitters had not bathed for weeks before he had been hunted down at Raven Hill and being locked up in the old barn hadn't helped his hygiene. The savage beating that had to be delivered in order to get him back here added the scent of old blood to the mixture too.

"Y-You... You found th-that cursed thing?!" the poor, broken man screamed. Partially out of sheer terror, but there was a degree of making himself heard over the muffled, restrained noises of his 'roommate'.

"We did not. We found enough evidence to prove that it was there at some point, but alas forces unknown have currently absconded with it. But that isn't why I felt the need to have this talk with you."

Squatting down somewhat, Bautic resisted the urge to pull away from the awful smell that was Jitters. "Now, the good news is that I can now say with certainty that myself and the rest of the brotherhood are not going to hold you responsible for what happened at Roland's Doom." Jitters managed to raise their head, surprise clearly on his wretched face as Bautic explained "Yes, what happened was tragic. A lot of good people died there. However, we didn't know there was such a powerful magical artifact there and you just happened to be the poor bastard who touched it first. Holding you accountable for an accident like that would be meaningless and cruel."

"However!" Watching the hope be replaced by utter terror in Jitters' eyes was a wonderfully terrible thing. "...What is a little harder to forgive is the fact that you made no effort to contact the rest of the Brotherhood. You ran, you hid... and yes, the fact that there is some kind of warband after the Scythe can excuse that a little, but the moment you saw our people find you in Raven Hill you tried to flee... and when that failed, attacked like a cornered animal. It honestly looks like you abandoned the Defias cause and... well..."

It was easy to see that Jitters was about to beg for his pathetic life. Rather then waste time with that, Bautic raised a hand to signal him to stop and be silent. "Let's just skip all the pleading and stuttering. I'm assuming you were going to say something about being willing to do anything to prove that you aren't a traitorous rat?" After a small moment of silence, Jitters nervously started to nod their head. "Good news then! I intend to take you up on that offer."

Standing back up, Bautic didn't even give Jitters a second glance as he turned and started walking to the other side of the barn. He paused briefly in order to inspect the second, special prisoner of the barn in order to make sure that their bindings was still holding. The shackles were still locked on, the muzzle nice and tight... the large nails hammered into the worgen's body and limbs to pin them into the ground itself to heavily limit its movements and ability to struggle. One of the undead guards, the flesh having long fallen away and leaving bones, only needed a small gesture from its master before lifting up the sledgehammer and slamming it down on a nail that had been forced a bit further out of the ground then was acceptable. The muffled howl of pain was ignored.

The living worgen was not Bautic's interest at the moment anyway. It was the dead one that he was focusing on. A few hours dead, rigamortis had started to set in but the body was still relatively flexible and more importantly; Its fluids were still fluid. Taking out a knife and a glass vial, Bautic performed a quick, surgical slice along a vein before pressing the vial up against the wound and... briefly restarting the heart's pumping with a little bit of necrotic magic. The blood that came out was long cold, but it would do.

A second vial was pulled out, through rather then blood this one would be used to collect drool and other liquids from around and inside the mouth. Gloves were a man's best friend for such a task and the vial was sealed after the collection was done. Putting that away for later, the blood vial was in Bautic's hand as he turned and started to stalk towards the increasingly terrified and whimpering Jitters as the man stared at the vial in question. "We need to discover if further experiments require us to keep a live worgen around the place or if a dead one will do. Thank you for offering your assistance in this matter, Jitters."

There is nothing here.

Gilneas, Northern Headlands

It'd been ages since Genn heard the sound of tens of thousands of Gilnean soldiers on the march. Years, as far as he could recall -- even when Gilneas had abruptly rejoined the Alliance, its army had practically rushed out from the wall -- but now, with wounds healed and a new weapon in their arsenal, he felt they were truly ready for the war ahead.

Marching astride his army atop his ash-white steed, white fur bleeding into grey and black toward its extremities, he allowed himself a moment to survey the soldiers moving apace before him, past his steed's dark mane.

Toward the fore of the formation stood its most hardened, elite close combat troops, several handfuls' worth of worgen clad in light brigandine and flexible mail, clad in the navy-blue tabards of Gilneas replete with yellow-gold trim. Each one was a towering hulk in their own right, fur ranging from snow white akin to their gin to night-black coats, and everything in between. Unlike many of the other Gilnean soldiers, they carried no weapons -- only their wicked, dagger-like claws and crushing jaws were necessary. At their head stood none other than the towering form of Ivar bloodfang, each shoulder marked with the sword-and-shield icon of a Knight-Champion of the Alliance, so massive that he stood taller than every last person in his already physically outsized unit of shock troops. Every step the man took seemed to radiate cold, barely-contained fury, his rigid movements orchestrated as though his muscles were constantly at tension.

Next came the first units of standard close combat troops -- more worgen, like those who came ahead of them, though generally not nearly as large as the soldiers that followed the Knight-Champion. They all wore the royal livery of Gilneas, replete with sallet-style helms and extended visors, necks protected by reinforced, brassy-gold scale, the very same that covered their legs and arms in brigandine, those few pieces of solid steel visible on their helms, gauntlets, and shoulder a stark, bluish silver.

Perhaps the most archetypal feature of the Gilnean uniform, however, were the reinforced pieces of silvery steel over the nose, around the eyes, and all the way up to the rear of the helmet -- replete with sharp angles and a large spike toward the helmet's top, the design was made to both convey aggression and imitate the three-pronged Gilnean flaw, a band more of steel reach backward along the helmets toward the protruding spike.

"Your Majesty Greymane?"

The voice of his Grand Marshal -- Darius Crowley -- broke him from his reverie, and Genn shifted to face his once friend-turned enemy-turned friend, spending a quiet moment or two regarding the man's concerned expression, framed by his auburn hair and extended goatee.

"You aren't worried about the army, are you? They-"

Genn scoffed, cutting Darius off with an abrupt wave of his hand.

"Not in the least. Not the army." He said, gritting his teeth. "We have what damn well might be the strongest army of the living on Azeroth! Our artillery nearly rivals Khaz Modan in volume, we've enough hand-guns to equip ourselves for years ahead, we have the Worgen -- [i]ourselves[/i.] I'm not worried about the damned army, Crowley."

When he noticed that Darius, the very same man who was trying to depose him a handful of years ago, was still looking at him with that same expression of concern, he sighed in defeat. Whether for his King or for his people, Genn didn't know for certain -- but he had a few guesses.

"You were right. That's it. About the Alliance, about needing to intervene against the Scourge -- can you imagine what would have happened if we brought this to bear when it was asked for? When that disgusting traitor of a Prince left for Northrend, or when he murdered his father? If we'd never left the Alliance in the first place?"

"If you hadn't left the Alliance and dragged us with you, Your Majesty." Genn corrected him, his expression briefly shifting to one of sour hostility before flattening out again.

"But it is, as empty as this may sound, in the past. You're aware of your mistakes, no? That you won't make them again? Your people need you to lead them now, to make up for those mistakes. You know I won't forgive you for what you did. Plenty of people won't -- but all you can do now is do better. You have to."

The concern Darius'd shown was gone now, Genn noted. His features were mostly flat, expressionless -- except for a deep furrowing of his brow. Judging. Silent.

Genn found that reassuring, somehow, managing a sharp nod as he held out a hand, leaning toward Crowley as he pointed toward the looming silhouette of the Greymane Wall.

"We're nearing the gates," he said, clearing his throat.

"Make our presence known!" He shouted -- mere moments later, the sound of drums and brass joined the din of marching feet.

"Louder, louder -- and signal to have those damned gates opened!"

For Gilneas, he thought.

"For Gilneas! For the Alliance!"

King Magni Bronzebeard and his Honor-Guard marched up the sloping road that fed into the great gates of Ironforge, the distant booms of rifles and mortars being tested were a familiar chorus across the valley. The colossus of Modimus Anvilmar towered over the burly warriors as they continued into the heated halls of the vast citadel, glad to be back. For how industrial the capital was, it was quite cozy and warm, and it felt like home even to visitors. Gate guards saluted their king and gave reverence to their fellows who followed in his wake.

The main thoroughfare, known as 'the commons' for obvious reasons, erupted in cheers and shouts of 'for khaz modan!' as Magni raised a fist, the tall dwarf striding past his kin that socialized and bartered before the gateway. Even the auctionhouse master went silent, and all those awaiting the next item cried out praises and undulation. Magni always felt most proud to be a dwarf when he walked back into the city, his home. His clan dominated the landscape, and though they numbered hundreds of thousands with the young and old, they were as tight-nit as any family of four.

He and his men turned southeast toward the military ward, the heat of the great forge kissing their skin even from their distance across the chasm. As they marched in, the Captain of the guard, Morek Ironguard, saluted his king. Black bearded and steely eyed, he was as trustworthy as any human knight to their liege.

"I take it the meeting went well, high thane." He said formally, though he spoke with the smile of a friend.

"I had no doubts." Magni Bronzebeard rumbled, gesturing with a wave of his hand for his men to relieve themselves and take a well needed ale for their watchfulness. They passed by two hundred doughty warriors in columns, drilling for the coming conflict. "In two weeks, we'll be passing by Loch Modan and heading north, both ye and me."

"The council will need something more than what ye've given them." Captain Morek reminded him, the two steel-clad warriors watching as their men stood in formation, training with the axe and shield, moving as one. Ever swing could fell an orc, every shield shove could knock a troll of their balance. The dwarves were short, but they were by no means small. They each weighed at least as much as a grown man, and their armor added another chunk to their muscled forms.

"We'll give them what they'll understand." Magni said, appraising his men as they moved and turned by every command of their lieutenants. "Money and open roads."

"That'll probably do it," Morek acquiesced.

"Any news from the expeditionary force?" Magni asked, not taking his eyes from the warriors.

"The one in Northrend, or that other one?" Morek asked, deliberately vague.

"That other one..."

Duskwood

The experiments didn't stop at Jitters. They couldn't. A single experiment performed on a single subject only provided a single point of data and if they wanted to make sure they could weaponize the worgen curse properly, they were going to need to better understand its nature.

Bautic had made a point of limiting the activities of the Defias in Duskwood in order to fade into the background a little bit; The Night Watch of Darkshire were the local law enforcers and they were already under siege by a wide variety of enemies, up to and including the wildlife itself. They were also not above hiring mercenary services in order to enforce their besieged town and strike out at their foes. Such a strike force had marched on Roland's Doom to assault the Worgen there rather recently.

By staying quiet in regards to causing Darkshire itself problems, Bautic intended for the Night Watch to either be ignorant, ignore or forget that the Brotherhood had a presence in Duskwood at all. They were already stretched thin with the enemies who were actively causing them problems as it was without intentionally picking a fight they didn't need too. Having this breathing room served Bautic nicely, since it meant that he had a secure place to allow his students to grow stronger in the art of necromancy while he performed his experiments in peace.

This did mean that getting fresh test subjects was a logistical challenge, since any act that directly drew Night Watch attention to the Defias needed to be avoided... or at least covered up. Abducting travelers, caravan merchants, adventurers and even members of the Night Watch while they were on patrol were doable, but no witnesses or evidence could be left behind. Thankfully, the practicing of necromancy provided a useful tool to help hide their activities.

Not only was the addition of undead forces in the raiding parties a boon towards numbers and thus being able to cut off routes of escape, but having a acolyte forcefully bend some of the corpses at the Raven Hill Cemetery under their control and leaving evidence of them behind at the ambush sites painted the picture that it was the undead of Raven Hill and their necromancer masters that were behind any disappearances reported.

Fell had made making contact with him a rather difficult affair. It was unfortunate, but hopefully having the Night Watch put pressure on him would open him up to the idea of making alliances in the near future. Or he could just get himself killed and the graveyard claimed afterwards. Personally, Bautic didn't care which outcome happened, but adding another master of life and death to the fold wouldn't hurt.

Some test subjects could also be claimed from neighboring proviences like Westfall or even Stranglethorn Jungle, through such options had their own logistical and security issues.

The experiments themselves had started simple; Discovering how the worgen curse spread was a relatively simple affair, through Bautic was somewhat surprised to discover that death seemed to make the curse itself inert. While a dead worgen remained a worgen, its ability to spread the curse further via its blood or other bodily fluids died with them. The infectious samples had to be drawn from a living worgen.

Thankfully they had managed to capture one before the experiments even started... and once the process of creating other worgen was achieved they were able to make replacements when the beast expired.

Step 2 of the experiments, in which the Worgen Curse would be combined with the Plague of Undeath in one fashion or another, was currently hindered by a lack of the latter. The Lich King had been contacted and the lack of plague to use in these experiments was going to be corrected as soon as possible, but it was going to take time. With the lands of Lorderan and the surrounding kingdoms in their current war torn state, while possible, was dangerous in that there would be a risk of interception or tail. The samples would have to come from Northrend itself; Safer and more secure by far, but time consuming.

If nothing else, Bautic would be able to continue teaching the new generations of necromancers as he prepared the Defias for its truth destiny.

The glint of gold-and-silver armor reflected the rays of mottled sunshine that pierced into the incense-filled chambers of the Grand Crusader. At an oaken table, beset by two high-backed, velveteen chairs, two stoic figures glowered at one another over a marble checkerboard in the afternoon din.

A stern and heavy voice broke the silence; its gruff tone echoed on the walls of the room.

“Check. Your move, Fairbanks.”

A silver-haired man, still adorning the blue eagle of Lordaeron, cautiously stroked his long goatee while staring at the chess pieces before him.

“I know, my lord…you’ve placed me in quite the pickle.”

Alexandros Mograine’s face let a small smirk overtake it, but he did not dare take his eyes away from his opponent. The senior opponent was no longer the most agile, but his mind was as sharp as a tack; the shimmer in Fairbanks’ eyes revealed the devious cunning which lurked beneath the countenance of a kindly, old priest of the Light.

High Inquisitor Fairbanks dared not meet his opponent’s gaze; he knew that once he saw the face of victory in his pupil’s eyes, he would crumble. There had to be a way to turn this around…he just knew it…or maybe something different? The Advisor to the Grand Crusader grasped his queen and with a purposeful motion, placed it down.

“Of course you would,”

Mograine began to say before he was cut off by the sudden opening of the chamber doors, the steel clunking open with a rasp.

A young page stood there, nearly shaking in his boots. Fearing the worst for such a sudden intrusion, Mograine immediately stood up and called out:

“What is it boy? Has something happened?”
Yet, the boy stood there stuttering, “Milord, th-th-th-La-a-, M-th-the the Mene-th-Lady…”

Mograine could not understand the poor page. The Grand Crusader called again:

“My boy! Out with it! I don’t understand what you’re saying!”

Then a royal figure stepped into the doorframe. Mograine suddenly understood his page’s anxiety.

“My Queen!”

Queen Calia Menethil met Mograine with a warm, friendly smile, meeting his gaze beneath a crown of simply-cut, shoulder-length gold hair, framing her hazel-blue eyes. Here robes were likewise simply appointed, at least as far as royalty went -- white robes trimmed in yellow-gold fabric in a fashion much like any priestess of the Holy Light.

"Lord Mograine, I have wonderful news!" She chirped, practically beaming with glee.
"The Greymane Wall has opened -- and King Greymane marches at the head of his army."

Alexandros smiled widely and truly, for the first time in nearly six years. And then, he began to laugh, a joyous fire welling up in his chest and a relief washing over him as though a long over-pressured valve had finally been bled of its excess.

“This is glorious news!” He raised his arms in praise, almost embracing Calia in his sudden fervor, before holding himself back.
He anxiously declared “We…we can…we have to call the Holy Council! Fairbanks! Quickly!”

Calia gently raised her hand in anticipation of this, saying “I don’t believe that’s necessary.” She waved to the Citadel Plaza which sat in view of the Grand Crusader’s office.

As Alexandros approached the rail and his eyes slowly became accustomed to the bright light of midday in summer, he saw an incredible sight.

In the Citadel Plaza, a throng had gathered and grew still. Chants erupted from the crowd, hailing Queen Menethil and lauding her name! The light of the sky illuminated the Scarlet Fire emblems of the guards who joined in the acclaim.

Three warhorses, two mares and a stallion - Virtue, Valor, and Dauntless - carried their respective commanders astride their back - Prince Tirion Fordring, High General Abbendis, and Baron Othmar Garithos - into the Plaza. As well, gryphons appeared on the horizon carrying several other figures, Lord Maxwell Tyrosus, Marshal Saidan Dathrohan, Archbishop Benedictus Voss, and Baron Weldon Barov.

A surge of energy flowed in the air, the moment weighed into the hearts and minds of all who stood gathered there, if only but a moment. The Grand Crusader felt his blood rush, the Light coursing through his veins, the Ashbringer coming to life. With a bellowing timbre and lumbering cadence, he broke the clamor of the crowd, his tones echoing throughout the Plaza and beyond to the streets:

“Sons and Daughters of the Scarlets Crusade! My Brothers and Sisters in Faith! Today, a NEW LIGHT DAWNS!”
The crowd cheered at the common refrain of the Crusade, so often preached by the Archbishop.
Crying out, Mograine called “See your Queen, the Hope of Lordaeron!”

He would step away and gesture for Calia to step to the railing beside him.

Wearing her characteristically calming smile, Calia smoothly moved past Alexandros, her robes fluttering with the gentle motion.

"I was not ready to rule, when I was thrust into the position of Queen -- when my family was stolen from me by my very own brother. Many of you --- of us -- have suffered the same fate..." She spoke, soft in cadence yet loudly nonetheless. "And yet, together, we persevered. Hand-in hand with each other, with our stoic and inventive allies from Khaz Modan, with the grand Kul Tiran navy at our back, the knights of Stormwind in our vanguard... But by the Light's grace, even Gilneas now returns to our with its curse tamed!" She exclaimed, spreading her arms wide.

The crowd erupted, shields bashed, and cymbals clanged as the announcement rang out through the Plaza.

"They are changed by their experiences -- and many are still Worgen -- but they are still our friends and allies, no matter how they may appear. Through strength of will, they have tamed the beast within, turning what was once a debilitating curse into a strength! Is that not what truly matters; that they are able and willing to stand beside us as allies in the fight against the Scourge? And if others are to offer us their strength, would it not be unjust and foolish to refuse them?" She asked, bringing her hands close to her chest, over her heart. “

"Many more will join us. The Light has shown me this, too. Some may be people we are familiar with, who we will already trust implicitly -- but it has told me, too, that allies will come to us who we may fear, as we once feared the Worgen, and perhaps even hate. But we must, upon seeing the truth and strength of their convictions, welcome them into our ranks with open arms, for is that not what makes us strong? Together, we will save Azeroth!" She exclaimed, holding her hands high, as if reaching for the sky itself, a warm, golden glow reaching down from the sky toward her. "For the Alliance!"

Thus began a common war-hymn among the Crusade. Alexandros stepped forward and organized it, the audience returning his call:

“For the King!

For the King!

For Our Homes!

For Our Homes!

For the Light!

For the Light!

For the Alliance!

For the Alliance!”

Immediately afterward, the Ashbringer called for many messengers: some riding on horseback, others riding on gryphons, still others creating portals to their destinations.

He gave one command, to be sent out to all who might aid the Scarlet Crusade - Greater Dalaran, Kul'Tiras and Theramore, Quel'Thalas, Stromgarde, Stormwind, Khaz Modan, and Gnomeregan. And the same to all of the members of the Crusade, along with the outlying members: Lord-Crusader Valdelmar in Tyr's Hand; Ser Turalyon, Arator the Redeemer, and Col. Mograine in Quel'Thalas; Cpt. Mograine in Kul'Tiras; and High Inquisitor Whitemane in the Scarlet Monastery:

"To Our former, current, and hopeful Allies, may the Light shine down upon You. Now is the time. Prepare your forces and send your representative to the Southshore Citadel to convene. For all members of the Crusade, enter battle-stations and ready for orders."

The Ashbringer bowed to his Queen and addressed the crowd one last time:

"Prepare yourselves, brothers and sisters! The Scarlet Crusade REAWAKENS!!"

With a roaring huzzah, the Ashbringer retreated into the War Room with his compatriots to plot the coming campaign against the Scourge, awaiting any and all who would answer the call to arms.

---

Southshore did not have long to wait. Even at that triumphant moment, a small army passed eastshore tower at a slow, inexorable pace, much like the movement of the clouds above or the currents of the sea. Grass was shodden under boots of leather and steel and small animals scattered before the wake of the force. Those civilians outside of Southshore and away from the center of the cheers could hear the low rumbling of over two thousand heavy feet.

The guards stationed by the road stood with surprise and shock on their faces once the armored throng passed over the hill and descended upon the town. Had they charged it would have been pandemonium, but they marched in slow and ordered ranks. Steel armor glinted as axes gleamed in the sun. Helms shined to mirror polish covered grim faces and heavy hammers bobbed up and down with the motion of their stout bodies. At the rear, cloaked units of huntsmen stalked in groups of a score each, rifles resting on their shoulders and keen eyes gazing across the hills of Lordaeron.

The advanced force of Khaz Modan had come.

Twelve hundred dwarven warriors grumbled and muttered behind their beards, passing the message down the line that they had made their destination. Thargas was pleased at their quick pace, even considering the craggy, rough ground of the Arathi Highlands. Dwarves could not move quickly, but they were swift marchers in wartime. A dwarven column made surprising speed by the simple fact of rarely ever having to stop and rest. The lads were grumpy for it, but they did it without argument.

Fifty dwarves armed with poleaxes rode at the head of the battalion on sturdy rams, and before them was their commander, Thargas Anvilmar. Aside him was Geradin, High Priest of the Light of Ironforge. Magni had shown great trust in the humans by providing such esteemed members of his court. Thargas only hoped the manlings deserved it.

The brown bearded warrior dismounted his steed and let a retainer take the reins, opting to walk at the head of an honorguard as his men made camp at the edge of town, eating a well deserved lunch and setting up sentries. Twelve dwarves, along with Geradin and a fellow acolyte, followed Thargas passed the dumbfounded guards and strode boldly down the street and into the center of the town.

Needless to say, when the doors to the War Council burst open and Thargas Anvilmar along with the High Priest strode into the chamber, it was likely far quicker than the Scarlet Crusaders had been expecting.

"I hear ye've been expecting us," Thargas said to Ashbringer conversationally. "That's good, because my arse is sore and it's been a long walk from Khaz Modan. Firstly, I would ask that ye let me and the lads take residence in that tower o'er yonder to the east. We can set up a headquarters right quick with a few materials. If that's settled, I'm ready to discuss war if ye are."

"The light blesses this meetin' as surely as the sun rises," Geradin said solemnly, a hand raised to the ceiling before slowly drifting down. The venerable priest cleared his throat, and the following silence was broken by. "Ye wouldn't happen to have any beer would ye?"

"Aye, let's have some beer if ye would be so kind." Thargas agreed, standing beside a chair and crossing his arms. He had ridden to far to sit down immediately now. He would stand and speak to the seated men eye to eye.

Duskwood

With the state of the Kingdom of Stormwind, with its king missing from the throne and a regency built around the young prince, the lands under the influence of the southern most human kingdom had grown perilous to travel. There simply were too many threats to contend with and too few armed solders to patrol the main roads as they might have once done.

This of course didn't stop merchant wagons and traders trying their luck. The wealthier or well connected merchants tended to pool their resources together in order to form caravans, the guards they employed working together in order to try and stand against whatever foe struck out to disrupt their cargo; In the past such caravans would have passed by without incident at all, but these days the threats had grown in number and boldness to the point that no cargo passed through provinces like Westfall or Duskwood without coming under heavy attack. Smaller merchants tended to only have a single wagon at best and despite the rewards that the chaos of the day were offering, few lived to profit from them.

Which made the cart from Westfall all the more interesting. Because in an era were the bandits and monsters were willing to attack fully defended caravans, this one had traveled through Westfall without incident.

From an outside, less informed perspective this might have seemed utterly miraculous. The reality was much less so.

This 'merchant' was a smuggler. Namely, he was a smuggler who had good relations with the Brotherhood and was, in fact, currently transporting a shipment for one of the cells in Duskwood. This went a long way in ensuring that no one bothered them while traveling through Westfall, through once the cart crossed the bridge into Duskwood it stopped briefly in order to pick up its escort for the rest of the journey; Duskwood wasn't the bastion of the Brotherhood that Westfall was after all and the monsters weren't under their thumb.

In the end the cart rolled up to a farmstead that had seen better days and the cargo was unloaded. The leader of the cell came out, the two shared some words and a sack of coin was handed over, alongside a gift of a bottle of rather good dwarven ale. What should have happened was for the Smuggler to return to Westfall so that he could continue to ply his trade with those who offered coin to him... however, instead he died in the seat of his cart, his horse freaked out at the sudden, painful movements of its driver.

When the body was found among the wreckage of the cart on the side of the road, the horse was long gone and the native wild animals had already taken some bites out of corpse. Enough of it survived however to show that the man seemed to have died from the venom of one of the local giant spider breeds, suggesting he had simply run afoul of one. Unfortunate but... a common danger for those traveling Duskwood.

Bautic for his part actually felt a little bad for poisoning the smuggler. He had been an alright guy and had served the Brotherhood's interests well in the past and possibly the future. But the cold hard truth was he had to die. He was the one link in the chain that couldn't be trusted; The only one who might reveal if captured that he had been delivering a special shipment of grain from smugglers from the north.

A detailed map of Lordaeron, Gilneas, Southern Quel’Thalas, and Northern Khaz Modan was sprawled out on the great, central table of the War Room in Southshore Citadel. Beautiful and refined figurines were spread across the map, consisting of a whole swath of colors that signified their respective commanders: White for the Scarlet Crusade; Red for Stromgarde; Gold for Quel’Thalas; Purple for Dalaran; Black for Gilneas; Orange for Khaz Modan; and Green for Kul’Tiras. The Scourge was signified by plain-gray stone figurines.

The council of humans had only minutes to convene in the chamber before a cadre of Khaz-Modanian dwarves tromped into the War Room, Thargas Anvilmar and High Priest Geradin.

In reply, the Ashbringer laughed heartily,

“Master Anvilmar! Blessed are we to have your quick strength and steadfast courage. Yes! We should drink and discourse! The beginning of any Crusade must be a holy celebration!”

High Inquisitor Fairbanks ushered in a set of casks, carried by six men each. The Ashbringer had prepared for Dwarvish appetite and Elven critique: six casks of lager, six casks of cider, six casks of port wine, and six casks of Southshore Mead - the Ashbringer’s personal preferred flavors of cinnamon, carraway, and nutmeg. There was more than enough for three-hundred soldiers. The work of planning a war took as much.

The wizards for their part arrived fashionably late, the characteristic wump-wump-wump-wump-wump of teleportation heralding their arrival. Rather smugly, they took their place last.
The Grand Crusader spoke solemnly:

“Here we have a depiction of the frontlines, as we know them, and the potential forces that array them. Alas, we’ve not been able to maintain a full levy in the face of the prolonged campaign against the Scourge which we’ve been forced to wage. Hillsbrad has been secured, but largely thanks to the efforts of Dalaran, Gilneas, and the Stromic Contingent. However, with the reopening of the Greymane Wall, we have the opportunity to resurge and reclaim our homeland…Give me your best, and I will give you your nation.”

Incense rolled in the room as the words hung in the air.

“And our best you shall have!” came the sound of a handful of small, high-pitched voices in concert -- led by Gelbin Mekkatorque and Tinkmaster Overspark, Dr. Manaswitch and Captain Tread Sparknozzle -- wearing Scarlet tabards -- marched into the meeting chamber. Clad in the sort of formalwear only Gnomes would wear, each looked like they were in the middle of building some strange contraption when they decided to attend the meeting... Which they probably were.

“We’ve prepared a few... Inventive advantages for the battles ahead that I’m sure you’ll find useful. I would explain the precise details for you at this juncture, but... That would take quite some time.
“And we’re eager to see them.” Another voice echoed -- soft, feminine, and welcoming, Calia smoothly crossed the threshold into the chambers, clad in the white robes of a priestess of a holy light. Down the center ran a long, black band -- and on each side, strips of bright, sunny yellow. "But you're likely correct, High Tinker."

“The Gilneans have yet to arrive,” Calia said, quietly stepping into the chamber, the gold hair that typified the Menethil dynasty flowing behind her shoulders like waves of grain. “...But they’ve been spotted not far out of town, and should be arriving shortly.”
Antonidas would begin lighting up a pipe from his seat, the fire streaking from his finger to the pipeweed instantly bringing forth a gout of foul smelling smoke from the wooden tube. “Right, the best. Hurrah!” the wizard chimed in, giving a sideways look to the rest of the assembled magocracy that all immediately muttered concurrence save Kael’Thas who remained in his brooding silence.

“- they really should improve their defences, these wards are rudimentary at be-” The sonorous, if slightly rushed, voice prefaced the appearance of the speaker by a scant few moments, the air in an occupied space in the room shimmering with the distortion of the arcane as a number of figures began to take shape. First as anonymous silhouettes against both the light of the room and the backdrop of spellwork, then condescending in a brief flash into more solid forms. In a moment, the owner of the voice was obvious. Standing among those gathered were the two surviving Proudmoore children, as blonde as their mother had once been.

Of the two, despite a brief look of surprise that they had even arrived in the first place, Tandred seemed the more conformed to the occasion of the two, dressed in a smart and well cut tunic of deep green, inlaid with golden filigree and the crest of the Admiralty, the anchor, placed over his heart, he looked every bit the prepared diplomat of noble lineage. The only tell that but moments before he had been at his command at sea was the smell of sea spray about him, and the slightly wild styling of his closely cropped hair and beard. With a respectful dipping of his head to those assembled, his eyes drifted to the map set out, immediately drawing in the situation that the pair had been late to the discussion of.

His sister, instead, was practically a blur of sudden motion as she moved to greet her old tutor, and childhood friend Calia, in turn. Jaina Proudmoore, despite her status as a member of the Proudmoore family and now Lady of Theramore, still wore the purple and white of Dalaran. As with her brother, her styling was impressive, if modern, by the standards of politics. Since moving to Dalaran, Jaina had never been known to be understated, and the gown she wore spoke more of the Elven influence on the mage city than the more conservative style of her homeland or Lordaeron. Her robe, mostly white trimmed with gold, cutaway low on her chest and in an oval design at her midsection. The purple was present in the flowing cloak across her shoulders and in twin tressels flowing out from her hips. It was notable that the Proudmoores arrived without any further entourage, and for all Tandred’s ability at arms and on the sea, there was no doubt as to how they could do so. Aside from the magical afterglow of the teleport, the young ruler of Theramore crackled with power, even as a charmingly embarrassed smile touched her lips.

“Oh…We’re here, you’ll have to forgive me, casting a teleport from a ship’s deck makes temporarily a little more challenging.” While some may consider her display clumsy in matters of diplomacy, Lady Proudmoore was a dab hand at such things, appearing both charming and disarming all at once, with a sense of clumsy whimsy that even those who knew her might never be able to pin down if it was a deliberate act.

“And for our father’s absence, he extends his blessings upon this effort, although he is busy with the pressing matter of the Horde and its threat to the world.” Tandred picked up the end of his sister’s sentence, and in doing so explaining the missing presence of the Lord-Admiral, albeit with a flicker of discomfort at the topic from Jaina, “But we assure you, we are able to speak in his stead.”

"And we are glad to have you, Lady Proudmoore, Lord Proudmoore, and wish King Proudmoore the best in his endeavors," Calia smiled in reply, her expression just as warm and welcoming as it always was... Even if she spoke in a way that seemed slightly stilted and uncomfortable. She did offer Jaina a particular nod regardless; a cloaked apology for the stiff formality of her greeting to a friend. "You missed some of the arrivals, but we've yet to move to strategic matters, as things are. There is good news, however, that I'm not certain you've heard just yet..."

She cleared her throat, the guise of formality briefly falling as she turned to face Jaina, her polite smile breaking into an excited grin. "The Greymane Wall has opened once more, and the King himself is nearly at Southshore, alongside Duke Crowley, and should thus be joining us shortly. Word travels quite quickly, and they bring with them good tidings, but... I think it best King Greymane deliver them himself," she explains, allowing her shoulders to relax, slackening slightly.

"It's a shame that Quel Thalas will not be joining us, but, nonetheless, I must admit, I'm quite heartened to see the Alliance together like this once again, even if it's under such dire circumstances."

"Indeed!" The High Tinker agreed, reaching up to gently adjust his goggles -- always present, despite being unnecessary and, on occasions like this, perhaps a little gauche. "We are much stronger together than we are apart!"

@POOHEAD189@Jeddaven@Bugman@Ezekiel@Bright_Ops

---

Thargas was not unused to politics. He was a senator for his homeland and had served in the seat for as long as a human lifetime, and yet he felt a bit out of place here. Had his King been present, there might have been some manner of acquaintance or camraderie, but as it were Thargas knew none of them and had only expected to come and reinforce the humans with their expeditionary force before Khaz Modan could mobilize properly. It seemed the war was starting sooner than expected!

He took hearty sips of the mead and listened intently as the varying leaders greeted and spoke with one another. Geradin did the same, though he held his head high and watched with an authority only a dwarf of the cloth could muster, holding his staff with the grandness of a statue wrought in the elder days of the titans. Thargas couldn't hold himself with granduer. He was just a warrior and a politician, and different people would tell you differently on which came first to him.

"While the Gilneans are taking their time, I'll take the floor and provide ye with a bit of information on our involvement in this conflict o' yorn." Commander Anvilmar remarked, stepping forward at their center to grab the gathered attention of the crowd. He was shorter than all of those present, but his bulk wasn't something to be ignored. He could arm wrestle the best of the orcs and still come out looking for more. Once Thargas saw eyes on him, he began...

"Ye have the support of me people, and the good citizens of Gnomeragan-" He conceded, extending a hand to the present Gnomes in acknowledgement. "And of our King. The Bronzebeards have always been staunch supporters of the Alliance, no matter the circumstances and no matter the foe. Our involvement here will be no different. In the coming weeks and months, ye can bet we'll bring more than our token force we've shown here today."

Twelve hundred veterans was nothing to scoff at, but it was certainly not the mobilized military of Khaz Modan. "But know that me king grieves for his brother, and while the dwarves are ever with the men of Lordaeron, some of our people feel that this war must be a war of gain rather than just passion and shared loyalties. Some want to protect our King, even from himself. And so after the war is won, and ye've rebuilt, we'll become trade partners again. We will have much business to discuss, and new roads both above and below ground if ye catch me meaning. If we are to fix this world, then we who have suffered from the Old Horde much as you who are suffering now will need to know we're in it for one another, not just when one of us is down. It took decades to free me homeland from the orcs and dragons, and some of me people felt abandoned during that time. Some felt that the men who ask now for help, delayed in their help earlier. Now, I know that's bullshit, and me king knows that's bullshit, and most dwarves worth their beard knows that's bullshit... however, some might need a bit of hard evidence by the time this is over, in trade and treaties."

Thargas managed a smile, because he knew just how ridiculous it was to even mention such a thing. But it needed to be let out to breathe and to be on the minds of the men and even elves present, because if it wasn't, then some dwarves might worry they would forget. And a dwarf that feels slighted is a dangerous and dogged foe.

"Thank ye for hearing me. Me forces and meself is at your service. Let's slay the zombies in their holes!"

Duskwood

Experiments had happened. Interesting discoveries were made.

The earliest of which was that the Worgen Curse seemed to hate the Plague of Undeath on a fundamental level. The early attempt to distill the two into liquid forms and mix them together had ended in a violent manner; Bautic had witnessed oil and water maintaining separation and chemicals react to each other in an explosive fashion before, but this was honestly the first time he had witnessed two liquids engage in a full on fight to the death with each other inside of the vial. It was the only way to truly describe what he had witnessed.

It was fascinating in a frustrating way.

The tests to infect worgen with the Plague likewise ended in interesting results due to the fact that the illness completely failed to find purchase in their bodies. At least, while they were alive. Once they were dead, whatever protection that the curse had been providing them disappeared... or at least weakened enough for them to be raised. The nature of what it was that the Worgen seemed to share with the Nerubians that offered them such immunity to the Plague while alive was still unknown.

Interestingly enough, Bautic was able to note a... quirk of this immunity. Something that could make this whole enterprise worthwhile.

The Curse seemed to make the Worgen immune to the Plague; However it didn't do so by stopping the Plague dead as it might appear on the surface. The Plague, from what Bautic could tell, still infected the Worgen, but the curse prevented it from digging in and really doing anything. The way that Bautic had come to picture it, the Curse was an advanced form of the body's natural defenses against illness. It attacked the Plague so aggressively that it simply didn't get the chance to really get started and the Curse would sooner or later wipe the body clean of Plague.

The thing was, if the Worgen died while the Plague was still active in their body, then the Plague would do what it did best and raise the corpse into undeath. Exactly how long the Plague remained active in a living Worgen body before it was destroyed was still to be worked out. How to infect a number of people with both the worgen curse and the plague of undeath before reliably killing them before the curse defeated the plague was also a question to be solved... but Bautic could see the outlines of a plan. He just needed a little more time and creativity to bring it all together and history would be made.

After the Dwarves listed off their planned contributions to the war, a silence briefly overtook the room. One of the wizards pulled out a watch lazily before whispering to Antonidas. The old Magus groaned and shifted himself in his seat as the room very slowly started to fill with more and more smoke from the Dalarani delegation's pipeweed.

Antonidas began to rummage in his robes, one of the Council of Six in the meantime popping off to offer the Dwarven emissary some smoking too having heard on one of his many great lunchbreaks that the short folk were quite fond of smoking too. "'ere, its lovely stuff. Grimm's finest, if the merchant's to be believed." The fellow intoned, walking across the room not particularly caring for any decorum at the moment. As the errant Councillor returned to his seat, Antonidas at least procured what he was going to show to the rest of the envoys.

"Well, we too of course shall give what we can to beat back the scourge. Manpower's a bit lacking what with our other pressing concerns, but we shan't forget our commitment to the alliance." After the sentence, the old man glared briefly but meaningfully at the seat where Gilneans would take their seat when they arrived. "We have something far more valuable than a few swords to offer. Something that has been severely lacking in the war effort thus far. Intelligence!" he said, at last presenting a great big crystal ball, and setting the thing down on the table. As the wizards behind him began and failed to suppress guffaws at the perceived insult to the rest of the assembled representatives the Archmagus swiftly corrected himself. "Military intelligence. You see with such a contraption depending on particular example can see the movements and actions of the enemy as far as hundreds of kilometres away. It can find movements of the scourge's forces far faster and more accurately than any scout or watchtower. Nooks and crannies along roads can be preemptively checked for lurking gargoyles and banshees to prevent ambush. Strength of enemy forces in strongholds can be determined, so on and so forth. These aren't exactly easy to make but we'll be sending specialists bearing these beauties to the assembled armies to ensure we can provide a magical eye wheresoever it might be needed.

To demonstrate Antonidas pushed the ball to roll in the middle of the table, the magical sphere correcting its own path as it moved and stopping the moment it was in the centre. He reached out with his staff and struck it on the ball a few times. Eventually an image was produced. Where exactly this was it was hard to tell, but it showed perhaps thousands of ghouls, zombies, and necromancers tending to their fleshy army. With a few circles in the air over the ball, the image moved faster than the eye could keep track of to a location quite far away from the blighted assembly. There stood a skeleton archer, hiding amidst bushes on a road. Now a wave, and it moved again to a picket fence with alliance soldiers shouldering rifles aimed at approaching undead. Antonidas was about to speak, but now Modera whispered into his ear. He sighed, and moved aside slightly to allow the woman to wave her own stave over the ball. In the image, balls of ice fell from the suddenly turbulent clouds to hundreds of undead. Clearing his throat, Antonidas again took the spotlight of the Dalarani delegation. "Well, its an approximation of the great effort we will put in to help our united struggle against the evil the plagues the Eastern Kingdoms.

The Grand Crusader smiled as Thargas Anvilmar spoke aloud with the heartiness of an Ironforge dwarf. It had been too long since the Ashbringer had such a grand array of allies before him...years had passed since the conclusion of the Second War, yet so much reminded him of it. The Proudmoores, the High Tinker, the Dwarven Emissary, the Royalty of Lordaeron and Gilneas, and the steadfast Antonidas of Dalaran. A great joy displayed itself on the Ashbringer's face as he listened to the many members of the New Alliance.

"First: to each of you, our deepest thanks. Without you, this effort is naught but a dream." His eyes swung around, glancing at each representative with a purposeful look. "And I am overjoyed by the great compassion that has been shown to Lordaeron in these most terrible of times. You, each of you, I count among my friends, not just allies; without each of you, we would face doom."

Then, the Ashbringer sighed and looked down at the map before them, resting his plated palms on the edge of the mahogany table. He removed his helm, releasing his long, red-silver hair and revealing his stark-green eyes. A general's face, scarred and worn, tired and taut with strain, stared out at the depiction of the Eastern Kingdoms. Alexandros then addressed each of them.

"Lord Anvilmar, should Lord Stormpike take victory and this war be a success, the Lordaeronian House of Nobles is willing to cede a large portion of the Alterac Valley to the Crown of Khaz Modan and to the peoples of Gnomeregan, if the King and Queen are willing." He then nodded to the High Tinker. "We have recognized the great loyalty of the dwarves and gnomes and wish to reward it as befits the proposed conquest."

Othmar Garithos grumbled in his seat at this. Ignoring him, Mograine continued:

"The land of Alterac has now long been a thorn, piercing us at the worst moments. Stromgarde cannot hope to attain itself if Alterac remains untamed."

"And to Lady and Lord Proudmoore, you will be guaranteed landing and shipping rights to all of our ports until a decade after the end of the proposed campaign. Proudmoore shipping will be preferred, unless there is an emergency."

Then regarding the wizards and their new contraption, the Ashbringer exclaimed:

"And...Lord Antonidas and Lady Modera. THIS IS INCREDIBLE! I cannot wait to use this on the field!" Marshal Dathrohan gave a large thumbs up and nodded. "It will have more than one application..."

He smiled and then paused.

"But, we gather now to discuss the front and The Alliance."

A calm overtook the room for a moment before the Ashbringer continued.

"At this time, I propose a New Alliance...A Second Alliance of the East, for the good of all life, that we may sustain and persevere in the face of apocalypse, until such a time that true peace has been brought to Azeroth...What say all of you?"

The Ashbringer then looked around for accession to the New Alliance.

Duskwood

A solution had been discovered to the problem of combining the Plague of Undeath and the Worgen Curse together!

...Well, part of a solution anyway. There were still a lot of unknowns for the wider plan, but at least there was a solid, theoretical foundation to make it work and instead of blundering blindly forwards it was now going to be a case of figuring out how to craft the path they needed.

As much as his pride might have stung to admit it, Bautic had not been able to come to the conclusion by himself. After trying a number of times by himself, he had at last decided to bring in his most advance class of necromancers into the fold of his plans to destroy the city of Stormwind, how they were going to do it and the tools they were going to do it with. He had only needed to kill one of them who suffered an unfortunate case of traditional light morality; Less then he was expecting but still more then he hoped. The loss was unfortunate, but it served to be educational in that it would help him better tailor future classes to try and weed such things out sooner.

Once he had a team to assist him, ideas that he hadn't considered were raised. Some needed to be turned down due to his understanding of why they wouldn't work, but he had made a point of giving those students who suggested them some credit for using their brains. It was actually Luther, the son of a doctor who had worked with the Stonemasons and joined them both in protest and exile, who had offered a seemingly novel idea that quickly gained ground.

"If the Worgen Curse fights the Plague of Undeath while the two are active in the body at the same time, what if we developed a strain of the Plague that remained dormant until the host body died?"

This... would require some work. A new strain of the Plague of Undeath would need to be developed, but even without the idea of combining it with the Worgen Curse the idea had merit. Long term infection who's only visible symptom was the occasional infected person dying and raising from the dead, seemingly at random with no clear cause. It had taken time to develop, with a couple of strains along the way that failed to live up to what it needed to be. But in the end, they had something that met their requirements.

They had tested it out on a Night Watch recruit they had caught on their own and one of the latest worgen test subjects. Both had gone two days without any sign of symptoms and when they were killed their corpses raise without issue or outside interference beyond establishing control. A more long term trial was currently underway, to see if the strain held up over a period of time. That was alright through; Because it gave them time to work on the next step of making this whole situation workable for the grander plan.

Namely, they needed to find a way of consistently killing the plague infected Worgen in a timely manner.

While the current stage of their creation would likely be enough to majorly damage, if not destroy Stormwind... and possibly other cities as well, but the issue was that while some Worgen would almost certainly die during the outbreak, there was a very serious chance that they would win the day and suddenly Stormwind would be swarming with feral death creatures that couldn't be controlled by necromancy or the Lich King... and they would scurry out of the city in search of food soon after.

The solution to this problem was currently a work in progress, but fundamentally it was this: Alongside the Plague and the Curse, they needed to infuse something into their delivery method that was completely harmless when it entered the human body, but turned decidedly deadly once they transformed into a worgen. Didn't have to kill them instantly, but it did need to end their lives before the critical mass was reached and the future of the Eastern Kingdoms belonged to those with fur and teeth instead of the Lich King.

A challenge, to be sure. But there were always more worgen to test theories on.