The Temple of Dagon

I am building a web site around the lore which I am fabricating for my character, Tauroon. Here is the data so far:

Again, this is the text from a website I am developing. I had this nifty idea that instead of writing a standard, fan-fiction thing, I would create and entire site, devoted to the totality of lore surrounding my character. It was interesting to me to not only add some depth to the toon itself, but to help me better bond with my role in the WoW canon. I wanted to explore things that some might find interesting, or offensive, to the hardcore line of Blizzard lore readers.

This, again, is just my mind, poured out on paper, but it is a compelling glimpse into how a hobby can offer insights into other things. Here then, is the bio page text, with a section beneath about tauroon's "mysterious father". I invented the whole mess, and of course all names and characters of Blizzard are their property. Enjoy, and comments are appreciated...


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Hearth & Home Studies

*author's note*

Tauroon was originally rolled on the Elune server as a Tauren Hunter character, but the druid class appealed to me more at that time, and the rest, as they say, is history. I have provided external links to wowiki and wikipedia resources for key-named places, people and things, to better context the overarching tale below...


Tauroon, a member of the thoughtful and hard working people of the Tauren race, was born on the plains of Mulgore, approximately 87 years prior to the founding of Durotar as the Orcish Nation, on the continent of Kalimdor in Azeroth. Though he has wandered far and wide from his comfortable surroundings of the Kodo-rich plains of his homeland, he has always called the magnificent city of Thunder Bluff his home. The city, a refuge of sorts from the chaos of the wilds and the far greater conflicts of the larger world, is a bastion for the Tauren people and tradesman of all kinds, a place to keep lore and tradition alive, as well as preserve life and limb for road-weary seekers of lore and skill for many avenues.

Heritage

Tauroon has a somewhat obscure and unique lineage for which he is a part. As testament to the legacy of his family line and their accomplishments, his mother, Tauria, was a Shaman of long tradition and ironically an exalted member of the Cenarion Circle, the only non-druid and non-Night Elf being ever to earn a place of leadership in that ages-old organization.

The truly esoteric portion of Tauroon's genetic story is more striking, from the fact that his father, Tauraguros, was of the Blue Dragon-kin racial leaning. Being that he was, in fact, a humanoid blue dragon in life, perhaps an offshoot of some wyrm-kin from the distant past, Tauroon himself has the strength and wisdom of dragons (the Malygos line) in his Tauren veins. The only outward physical hint to his draconic heritage are his ice-blue eyes, which are identical to those of a Blue Dragon.

These things of course should inspire captivating conversations for scholars and lore keepers of a race as thoughtful as the Tauren. The idea that the Tauren ever coupled their genes with those of Dragons is considered folly by all but the most learned and wise of the world's denizens. Far stranger things exist in the quiet corners of a world as overwhelmed with change as Azeroth.

It is also interesting to note that as a young person, Tauroon was more enthusiastic than most about the Great Hunt, a cultural staple of his race, and that he began the rites of manhood that many of his peers would not set hoof upon until early adutlhood had set in. Some would say the dragon part of his blood drove him in this early quest, but others would comment on the urgings of his mother and mysteriously absent father.

It Begins

Despite the wisdom and racial memory inhereted from his obscure parentage, Tauroon was a reckless youth. He left the plains of mulgore as he reached adulthood without any real direction in his life. Since that day, his tale has been one of honor, tragedy, hope, and ultimately, survival. It is a tale that resonates within the very fabric of what it means to be steadfast. For in a world as ripe with conflict as Azeroth, there is little room for those considered "weak"...

The Seeds of Destiny

During the Third War, the world was on a precipice. Old hatreds, long simmering and yet brought to the fore by dire events, were in a constant state of Flux. Tauroon's people, the Tauren, were on the brink of total annihilation at the hands of the Centaur, a race of brutality and viciousness with few peers in the known world. Cairne Bloodhoof, the present-day leader of the Tauren species, and considered one of the most dangerous living mortals on the planet, had somehow managed to rally his people under a single tribal banner, and in so doing, had planted the seeds for a destiny that is still being written.

It was during the final battle against Archimonde, at the great World Tree, that Tauroon had his first experience with the Druids of the Cenarion Circle. A contingent of Tauren warriors and sages, sent by Cairne himself, in the stead of Thrall and his orcish troops, had been dispatched to the base of Mount Hyjal, long a seat of ancient wonder and power for the reclusive, ancient Night Elves. It was there, during that moment, when nature herself rose up in revolt against the blasphemy of Archimonde's machinations for destruction, that tauroon glimpsed with his own eyes, the power that nature could unleash, once her full fury had been tempered.

He watched, transfixed, as the physical embodiment of nature surrounded, bound, and literally annihilated the great demon lord, leaving Archimonde as nothing but a historical footnote in some future epic tome. It touched something within the Tauren then, and has been affecting his movements and behavior since that fateful moment, all those years ago.

Approaching Malfurion Stormrage, Arch Druid and ancient leader of the Night Elf people, Tauroon was seen as insane by the Elves, and even Orcs, who stood behind the geat Druid in their alliance against the shadow. His bravery in approaching one of such might as Malfurion, with questions one would consider tactless and rude, was not lost on the wise, powerful Arch Druid. As others in the area watched with contemptuous sneers, awe, and perhaps a little fear for the Tauren interloper, Malfurion showed the greatest aspect of his culture and people, by responding with a Mentor's zeal. He answered Tauroon's questions about nature with all the knowledge someone of his age and stance could do so and, in the end, felt a noble stirring in his heart that this young, idealistic and impressionable young being had a larger role to play in future events.

Malfurion sent Tauroon off then, into the wilds, telling him of "Tauraguros The Spell Mind", knowing that the Tauren as a whole race could be counted upon to follow in the Cenarion tradition. Tauroon bowed in humble respect to the mighty Malfurion, and, although he has not been fortunate enough to see this man since that day, has never forgotten the compassion and understanding shown to him by Stormrage. It seems that the rest of the Elven race, as well as their allies, have forgotten this noble inclusive spirit in the current scheme of events, but Tauroon, to this day, holds in his heart the promise that all is not lost, and that hope is more powerful than hatred...

Like Father, Like Son

During the time following his meeting of Malfurion, Tauroon wandered with aimless desperation, in search of an enigmatic Night Elf known only as "Targion Tonguelash". the name implied warlockry for some, and insanity in others. What little is known about this being suggests, like many other key historical figures in Azerothian canon, that he was someone of note in ages past, and, like those same heroes of ancient lore and legend, had chosen a life of exile in the wilds. Some believe these people do this to distance themselves from the horror of nearly constant wars. Others believe they are cacheted away in a calculated manner by other, unseen and powerful hands, to play a much larger role in world events at some previously planned time.

Whatever the case may be, this encounter would forever shatter Tauroon's conceptions about not only what is possible in a world such as Azeroth, but who he is, and what that means to the greater bulk of his future life. Targion was a demon hunter, of the same line of work Illidan Stormrage had been in before his involvement with the events of the War of the Ancients and his subsequent dealings in outland.

What exactly was told to the young Tauroon, when he finally found and approached this strange Night Elf Hermit is known only to Tauroon himself, and a closely guarded network of close relations and friends that Tauroon holds dear to his noble heart. The general understanding by those inclined to know about such things is that He was shown his true lineage, that of his Mother, Tauria, her history and role in helping Thrall before his ascension to Warchief of the Horde, and his father, a mysterious anomaly in the annals of sentient history.

What he came away from that encounter with, is apparent in his current appearances throughout the world of Azeroth: A steadfast calm, a reassurred look to his face, and his eyes, which are those of a Blue Dragon, show an intensity lost on few he encounters. Tauroon walks with a steady, purpose driven gait, and his hands are strong, and his mind is keen, sharp, and undimmed by his years of toil, hardship, and loneliness. It is this carefully guarded knowledge of his lineage that Tauroon has used to further the goals of not only the Cenarion Circle, but of the will of Nature Herself. What future events will be shaped in his knowledge cannot be foretold, but surely they will be important nonetheless.

The Cliff of Despair

Shortly before the events of World of Warcraft, Tauroon came face to face with what could have been his own death. It was on a lonely road in the Barrens, where a Thunderhawk, being stalked by a haggared and underfed Tauroon, took up fight against him, and he was savagely bitten, thereby meeting the sting of a deadly poison. The beast was slain with Tauroon's then-little knowledge of Druidic magics, but the wound left by his assailant had all but doomed the hapless Tauren.

Penniless, alone, and in dire certainty, facing his death, the Tauren stood upon a cliff of despair. He resigned himself to his fate, being a Tauren as he is, and found a spot just off the road, in some bushes, to sit and await his entrance into the dream eternal we all know as death. He thought about his experiences at Mount Hyjal, his never-faded memories of his childhood chasing the plainstriders and the Kodo of the barrens and of Mulgore, and he thought of his mother, whom he had known for so short a time before her death at the hands of a Burning Blade warlock.

He thought about all of these things, of how so much destiny and promise had been placed into his soul, and he wept bitterly. Destiny could be cruel, he surmised. Nodding to himself in grim satisfaction, the noble Tauroon lay his head down then, feeling the tingle of everlasting sleep creeping into his mind. He relaxed, and let go of the waking world...

Salvation & Renewal

Chance is a fickle mistress. She has jokes only she understands. All beings know her and her wiles, but none ever really understand the motives of Chance. It was Chance then, that found a wandering Orc warrior, known as Shyndoon, among the wastes of the barrens. This warrior was yet another, in a long line of events, that would further the life and times of Tauroon, the Druid, the Adventurer, the son of the Spell Mind.

Shyndoon found the Tauren, his breathing labored, his eyes closed, and fell upon him with honorable concern. The alliance among the Orcs and the Tauren was not lost on this mighty Orc battler, and he was honor-bound to assist as he could. He packed up the Unconscious Tauroon onto his riding wolf, Fanger, and made way for Orgrimmar, the capital seat of the Orcish Horde, determined to do his all to save this hapless soul from a fate surely lonesome and undeserved.

Many moons rose and fell during this time, and the poison was excised from Tauroon's body. Although cured of the lethal poison by Orc Shamans in Orgrimmar, a scar, caused by the poison as it had coursed through his veins, had left an indelible serpentine scar across Tauroon's Chest. The wound would never fully heal, and would serve as a reminder of the day Chance, and the ties of Honor, intervened on his behalf.

When Tauroon awoke in those hazy days, he was astonished to find he was still alive. His first words, garbled by his confusion, came out in Draconic, something that shocked the few Orc Shaman who stood at his bedside. Sensing the dread and confusion around him, Tauroon bit his tongue out of practiced resolve, and asked as to the nature of his current situation.

It was at this time that Shyndoon and Tauroon were formally introduced, and a bond was formed that, to this day, Despite the recent death of shyndoon by a Troll God avatar in Zul Gurub, has lost none of its potentcy.

Through mutual research during these days, the pair of unlikely friends researched the linguistics of their mutually ending names, and it was learned that the naming conventions for both of them had much to do with an ancient bond among the Tauren, and the first Orc who ever set foot into Kalimdor, long before the Dark Portal and the events surrounding it. This information was lost in part with the death of Shyndoon, but Tauroon retains it in his mind and keeps it close to his noble heart.

The Might of Love

No mere mortal is as powerful as the phenomenon all know as Love. Love can turn the tide of the worst battle, and can save even the most depraved, if allowed, from themselves. With a heritage of such loss and lonliness, it is miracle in itself that a being such as Tauroon would ever one day find strength in the arms of another.

Fate, it seems, is not without compassion in it's bag of tricks.

On a windswept day, several years after Tauroon's near death and subsequent salvation at the hands of his friend Shyndoon, Tauroon was passing through the area of the barrens known as 'The Crossroads'. He was stopped over inside the local inn, resting up for his further forays into the lands of Ashenvale and beyond. Stepping out into the harsh Kalimdor noonday sun, it was then that he saw her:

She, a female Tauren, stoon near the tradesman vendor, a hand perched over her brow, gazing off into the distance. He saw her, in her regal beauty, her pigtailed hair swaying gently in the harsh winds of the barrens, something he found alluring and ironic, as if she somehow controlled the swaying of her own accord. He saw this beautiful creature, and Tauroon's heart was no longer his own.

The approach, as is often the case in these things, was one of trepidation. For although Tauren are known for their noble spirits, their might as warriors and their wisdom as sages, it is the females of their race who hold the most sway in their internal politics. A Tauren female is not to be taken lightly, and her wrath is as expansive as space itself is cold. To second guess a Tauren female in battle has been the death of many would-be mighty beings.

Tauroon spoke to her, his tone and intent apparent from the moment she noticed him, and he knew from her raglia, insignia, and mannerisms that, like he, she was a druid in training. Perhaps that was the spark, the kindling, the small ember, that brought them close to begin with; a mutual understanding, a respect, for that which no one alive could deny, nature itself.

It has, since then, become somewhat of a local legend, around the watering holes of Kalimdor (and beyond) about this pair and their misadventures. One is rarely seen without the other, and when that is the case, the other is never far afield. their current status is as a mated pair, lovers in time, forever bound to the fate of the other. As Tauroon has progressed in years, and grown in Druidic power, so has his love, the sun in his fields, so to speak, grown in her own ability and wisdom. What tomorrow holds for them is as unknown as how many worlds exist, but one thing is certain, their love will move the mountains of their tomorrows...

Tauraguros Lore

*author's note*

Tauraguros is, quite literally, in both mention and explanation, something I made up in my head. As far as I am aware, there are no Blizzard-sanctioned lore-parallels which exist in the current Warcraft mythology, regarding dragons and other sentient races pairing to create offspring. This ideal was partly inspired from the Warcraft III game manual, in which there is evidence suggesting that the Dryads of Ashenvale, as well as the Centaur of the Barrens are bastard offspring of the Night Elf Demigod, Cenarius. As such, please keep that in mind when reading what is presented here, as I was merely trying to add some personal depth to my character, and provide him with a more fascinating backdrop in which to portray and play him.
Facts, Speculation & Legend

The Spell Mind

Tauraguros, the Spell Mind, has always been an enigmatic and often joked-about creature in the more isolated scholar-circles of the Cenarion Circle. Being that the organization of the Cenarion Cirlce is as old as it is, it was inevitable to find some of its more ancient members engaging in lore studies that are, well, outside the normal channels. When mentioned in open conversation with those the Circle is willing to engage in such matters, he is portrayed as a cavalier, reckless, open-minded, fair and yet aloof creature, wise beyond the years of most creatures, and yet somber, somehow sorrowful for his apparent isolation in the world. As noted in the few texts that remain regarding his life and times, he was the only known dragonkin to walk as a man in symmetrical form. We can infer from this that his life was a lonely one, if not a persecuted one, at that.

Since one is not simply sent a card with an invitation into the Cenarion Circle, regardless of lineage, it is of special merit to note that it is the GREEN dragonflight, lorded over by the apparently now missing Ysera the dreamer, and not the Blue dragons of the Malygos line, who are the faction-standards of the Cenarion Circle. The green dragonflight was charged, long ago, with defending the natural wonders of the world by the Creative Titans themselves, long before the frist Elves and Men walked the world. Therefore, as perhaps one of the greatest mysteries surrounding this enigmatic and long lost creature, the close bond between Tauraguros and the Cenarion Circle is a timeless mystery that is lost to the ages.

Tauraguros's Mate

It is unknown exactly how Tauria, an ancient (even by Tauren reckoning) Shaman, and Tauraguros, met one another, fell in love, and eventually sired Tauroon. It is mostly due to the fact that so little is known about either being. What is known, beyond historical refutation, is that Tauria, her wisened and learned ways often appealing to those with a desire to learn, was a natural magnet for the once-directionless Horde hero known as Thrall. During his early travels before rallying the greater bulk of what then-remained of his people, Thrall was in search of knowledge of Shamanistic practices, practices which had once been native to his own people on their homeworld of Draenor, in ages long before the Burning Legion brought their shadow to his people. According to historians of the Horde and Alliance scholars from Theramore Isle itself, Tauria was chief among those for which Thrall sought out relearning his people's lost traditions. She was the first to open her arms to the insatiable curiosity and drive of the young Orc, an orc who would then, by all accounts, become the greatest leader his people have ever known, and would one day forge an alliance with Tauria's kin, thereby preventing their annihilation at the hands of the Ferocious, contemptable Centaur.

In many ways then, it can be assumed that Tauroon's mother, and the mate of Tauraguros the Spell Mind, was a key catalyst in creating the current pretexts for which so many on both sides of the current conflict are now involving themselves. It has been said in the real world, as well as popular fiction, that throughout the history of any given mythos or real life story, it is the quiet, unassuming beings of might that quietly guide things along that shape the history of events to come. It seems then, that whatever Destiny lay at Tauroon's feet, his mother and historically elusive father have left a permanent, if somewhat transparent, mark upon the history of the world Azeroth.
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And now for the current day events:

Prologue: The Desert's Demand

Inside Cenarion Hold, Silithus:

"We have no time for trivial impracticalities, Thorgram. This must end here, and end now." Farfurion said with a slight lisp.

Farfurion was old, even by Elven standards. His lisp was derived from the horrible scar on his mouth, planted like a succubus kiss onto his face in aeons past, during a nasty encounter with a Furbolg war party in Ashenvale Forest. His left ear was pierced with a trinket, brandishing the eyeball of that same Furbolg, preserved through some magical means to hang forever on his lobe, unblinking, forever staring out from it's owners long-recalled defeat.

Farfurion had the appearance of an Elf not treated kindly in old age. His skin hung in sloughs over his large ribs, and when he walked he seemed about to keel over from fatigue. His eyes however, burned with an all-knowing glare that could disconcert all but the most stalwart of beings. Even the mighty Dragon Aspects looked upon this ancient creature with respect. To attract that gaze was to invite a wrath unimaginable in all but the worst of nightmares.

Farfurion turned aside from his listener, staring at his hands, which were covered in criss-crossing scars from some unknown debacle in ages past. The old Elf clenched his hands into deep purple fists, a hiss escaping his mouth, sans the lisp from before. "Bring me the bovine ursurper!" he said, his voice a thunderstorm of obvious agitation.

Thorgram, an undead night elf who was somehow bound to the will of Farfurion and none other, simply blinked at the ancient Night Elf Druid-lock in silent contemplation. He knew on a primal level that his master was unlike any other druid in the known lands, contested or not. Farfurion, as far as he knew, practiced Druidism and Warlockry simultaneously, and therefore was an innately powerful force with which to reckon. He knew this on a primal level of course, but on an instinctual, and perhaps intellectual level, he really didn't care. When one is undead, pretty much nothing surprises you any longer, and there are no new tomorrows to glean new insights from, especially at this current age of fifteen thousand years. Thorgram let that thought, as he did with nearly any sentimental ponderings, die alone in the back of his mind.

Thorgram was older than most of his kin, but not Farfurion. Even still, he was wise, and although undeath had taken his mortal trappings and molded him into a nightmarish parody of his former Elven elegance, his unseemly and sickly appearance hid a most lethal countenance. Inside this being's hands was certain demise, awaiting anyone foolish enough to cross him.

His skin was like parchment that had been submerged in slime molds. It's glisten was only visible beneath shadow damage lights, an odd and eerie suprise to anyone who used such spells on him. His teeth had long since become nothing more than stubs and exposed roots, festering with cavities of undending decay. His eyes were sewn shut with Dwarven hair, from Magni Bronzebeard himself, it was said by some.

His fingers ended in large, thorium-forged nails, which had been grafted to his shrunken and disheveled hands only recently, and the pus and mucuous from the exposed flesh dripped with horrible surety of purpose down to the apex of each talon, dripping in a constant stream. That stream, as only few knew before dying, was a venom of the most vile distinction. It contained the blood of demons themselves, and it was constantly multiplying it's own cell structure, forever oozing out of this being like a sentient incarnation of pure, infernal hate. When the demon blood entered a victim, that being would become ill, fall into a sleep, and transmorgrify into a Fel Guard under the direct command of Thorgram. A horrible fate befalling anyone unlucky enough to meet his talons face first, to be sure.

Unlike other undead, Thorgram Walked at his full height, and the normal speed boost most undead seemed to possess was a parlor trick compared to him. He blurred, in fact, when he so much as breathed. Hard to target for all but the most determined foe, many a would-be vanquisher had died at the hands of this creature, never having seen the delivering blow that sent them screaming into dominated, eternal oblivion.

The topknot on the back of his otherwise bald head was snaked down to the small of his back, yet not made of hair, but of Silithid carapice, in a long, drawn-out and flayed pattern, and it flexed in the dim light of Farfurion's Chamber. The purpose of the Silithid carapice was not a bio-engineered grafting, but one of demonic shadow-engineering. When flexed, Thorgram was able to sense, and therefore home in on, anyone's innate fear, and feed off of that fear to raise his mana pool. Many a foe had gazed upon him and become frightened at his countenance, only to fuel his decimating spell arsenal with each rising spike of fear. He smiled his hideous, emotionless smile as he thought about that.

Thorgram tensed slightly as his mind was touched with the words of his master, spoken only moments before, but now lashing against his thoughts like a Cat-o-nine-tails. His master's distress brokered no pity from him, for his emotions had died long ago with his blood and air supply. Instead, only a grim understanding was found in his undead mind: Find the Tauren Druid known as Tauroon. Bring him back. All else bedammned.

Chapter One - Near Misses

At the Temple of Thuul - Hinterlands
He was falling. The whirling druid-dervish. If only Cairne could see him now, he thought to himself with an amused grin. Tauroon Thornspine, druid, friend to all of nature's nuances, was in a not so graceful free-fall from the top most tier of the Temple of Thuul in the Hinterlands. Above his head, screams of rage, promises of death and maiming of the most horrid sort reached down to his ever-retreating ears. The trolls that infested the place in veritable armies were infuriated at his brazen jump from the top of their abode. They would have him, and excise their vexation on his meat. However Tauroon was falling far faster than two-toed troll feet could carry their owners down the sheer cliff of a mountainside.

A deeply blue and strangely quiet series of massive waterfalls were at Tauroon's back as he fell ever farther from the perch where the screaming, idiotic trolls stood, raising their axes and stamping their odd feet at his rebuttal. The waterfalls were part of his escape plan, and were in fact the reason for his apparent suicidal dive to oblivion. At the bottom of any waterfall, there is a pool, and that pool almost always connects to a river.

Since he had been dressed in a simple farmer's tunic, carried no staff, nor used any of his potent arsenal of spells on the hapless trolls, Tauroon was quite certain that none of the ignorant beings knew his true calling, that of Druidism. Therefore, the probability for his plan to fail was a low one. Druids can shapeshift, and Tauroon wanted to slink away unnoticed for the moment. His sea lion form would serve him flawlessly in this endeavor. No doubt the trolls would come trudging down the mountain, an enraged train of hot muscles, slagging rage, and bared tusks, wanting to inspect their prey's brains which surely by now were splattered among the boulders, rocks, and soft red clay-dirt at the base of the falls.

"Trolls," Tauroon mused allowed in his seal form, which he had turned into as soon as he had hit the water, "Always thinking with their stomachs". He bit back a wince of contempt for these wild, repugnant creatures. "As nature herself wills, so does her will compel those to follow their own aspect of her will". He rationalized that the trolls were merely doing what it was in their nature to do, that great balancing act of needing to eat versus caution. Well, he was not about to let these idiotic upstarts sate their basest natures with his flesh on their spit. This day, he had a mission to adhere to, and no troll, nor even Sargeras himself, would stand in his path.

"Where be the meat, mon?" Vark barked at his peers. Vark was an ugly troll, and had a habit of licking any open wounds he had on his body, even though they never stayed open for very long. His reputation among his own people was so bad in fact, that he was despised by them almost as much as anyone unfortunate enough to stumble into his sight from far afield. He had the appearance of a well fed, almost overweight troll, something almost never seen. This was a troll who had seen many meals, and he was not ashamed of it.

"Bigger target" Tauroon thought to himself with a wry grin. "That fat embecile couldn't dodge a wad of crap thrown by a gnome ".

"What you be doin standin der aye? Finds the meat and bring it quick!" Vark snarled at the smaller of his two companions. The smaller troll was totally unremarkable by troll standards, save his deep cobalt skin. He looked almost like a rubber figurine of some other race, his blue sheen and red hair betraying his lineage to that of perhaps a tropical bird someplace far from here.

The larger troll looked for all the world as if he was merely out collecting flower petals for some romance-entangled female back in the temple proper. He had the facial expression of a contented idiot, no matter what the circumstances might be. He eyes were dull from years of hard labor and being mistreated, but his idiot grin betrayed that hidden sorrow and made the creature look mildly autistic.

Ignorance is bliss for some, but for this one, it was a constant state of being. Even, it seems, after being smacked in the open mouth with the butt-end of Vark's battered war axe. The nameless buffoon sauntered off, muttering apparent praises to some unknown god for the time away from Vark and his "mashy axe".

Near the edge of the pool at the bottom of the falls, the smallest of the three trolls was looking into his own reflection, grinning like a demon at his handsomeness. How anyone but a troll could find such a creature handsome is lost on most. At any rate, he was about to pick his teeth with his index finger, when he was suddenly dragged underwater by two massive, furry, clawed paws, each the size of his head. he never made a sound.

Ripples on the surface of the water. Silence in the Hinterlands, save for an eagle in the middle distance...

The mentally slow, larger troll who had accompanied Vark had wound his way around the opposite side of the pool, behind a small outcropping of rocks. As he rounded the corner, he caught the scent of the Tauren and his nostrils flared in agitated delight. His stomach growled at the idea of the Tauren screaming as he was roasted alive back at the pit. He jumped in the direction his sense of smell told him, and found himself standing face to face with Tauroon. The Druid was still wearing his banal farmer tunic, his lusterless pants and his bare hoofed feet were there, all in one piece. Not a single cut, gouge or wound on him that the troll lug could see. He did make a note, however, that the Tauren had a faintly green hue surrounding his entirety. Not really concerned with such anomalies, and merely wanting something to chew on, the troll did what trolls of the wilds do, he charged. It was his first and last mistake, and Tauroon never lifted a hand to him.

The druid opened his arms and met the charge with malignant grin on his face that almost stopped the burly troll short, as confusion set in. He took the blow, which, even though the Tauren had several sizes on the large troll, sent the Druid sprawling onto his back, rolling to the side. the troll began laughing at the idiocy of his prey. What a fine meal this would be!

When Tauroon stood back up the troll was looking down at his feet with a mixture of confusion and horror. He had hundreds of tiny, but stout, little thorny vines holding his feet in place! Damn the meat, he could not move at all, and his prey was standing not even five feet out of range of his weapon. What was this? The meat was waving at him? Was it a hello? A goodbye?

The Crazed Owlbeast answered the silent query by tearing the dumbstruck and immoble troll to pieces in the time it would take a human to fart. The Owlbeast, mad beyond reason during this mating season for its kind, ravaged the troll, tearing him limb from limb, his only sound a slight gargle as his throat became a hole in the hands of the mighty beast. The owlbeast, still in a bloodfrenzy of the troll interloper, suddenly sensed the Tauren's presence and turned with a snarl not born of that world. Tauroon, who had reverted into cat form, was already gone without a trace.

Vark stumbled into the pool at the base of the falls. His face betrayed his emotions, clearly showing fear in what he found beneath the water. It was just as he realized one of his companions lay gutted beneath the lapping waters of the pool, at the bottom, a silent scream on its face, that Vark heard the terrifying roar of the Crazed Owlbeast behind the rocks ahead of him, hearing his large minion torn apart, and the distinct sound of a large cat going into the shadows to hide. "Vark is not hungry anymore." the troll said aloud, in a voice clearly laced with dread.

That same dread fed the mana behind an immolate spell that lashed out like a kiss from the Devil Himself and engulfed the troll. The flames danced. The troll screamed and danced, then fell into the water, his eyes long since burned away. His final thought was that he didn't like spicey food at all.

"Run yet, my child, though you know not the might of him that chaseth you down, to your inevitable end. Your time will come. But first, some sport."

Staring up at the blue sky, offended by it's natural beauty, Thorgram spat upwards in a display that would have seemed comical to the aloof, and slithered off between the outcropping and open fields of the Hinterlands. His prey, still ignorant to its persuer, was on the move...

Chapter Two- Echoes Of Obsession

At the Ruins of the Dark Portal - Outland

Maiev was shivering in her tattered Warden's shawl, against the bitter winds that constantly plagued her every step in that cursed realm of Outland. Doomed to failure time and again, her mad quest to recapture and repay Illidan Stormrage for all his evils, real and imagined, the once noble and proud Night Elf Sentinal who was so integral to the events before and during the third war, had been reduced to a wandering, mentally ill shadow of her former self. Her troops, long since convinced of her madness, had either abandoned her outright to her fate, striking out on their own for some semblance of an existence, or had been slaughtered by the beasts and worse things that wandered the wastes of the Orcish former homeworld. Cold, directionless, and utterly alone on an alien world, Maiev Shadowsong was not deterred just yet...

Chapter Three - A Leader's Burden

Grommash Hold - Orgrimmar

The unassuming Korkron Elite approached the Warchief with somewhat of a fearful look. The mood of Thrall had been most volalite of late, and although he was not known to lash out without warning on his bretheren, servitor or exalted rank notwithstanding, his mood seemed so dark that the warrior who now approached was wary. All it would take was one hit, and he knew it.

"Lok'Tar Ogar, Warrior!" the mighty warchief of the Horde exclaimed as the Korkron Elite approached his massive dais, from which his seat of power spread out like blades. All traces of his former frustration melted into a smile of sincere love and devotion for his people, and the Warrior marveled at his leader's poise and stoicism despite his internal worries.

"What news do you bring from Silithus regarding the Qiraji defeat?" Thrall asked.

The Korkron blanched.

"Mighty Warchief, I am Sortrakar, of the Frostwolf Clan. I am not he that was dispatched from Silithus. I am just arrived from the field of battle across the sea in the Blasted Lands. I bring news of a stirring near the Dark Portal. Someone, or something, according to our advance scouts, is slowly materializing where the Dark Portal once stood. I saw with my own eyes the great shadows shifting, stirring. It was as if I were in a dream, my Warchief, a dream made flesh, and terrible. We surely -"

Thrall's left fist smashed into the arm of his huge chair, splintering wood and shredding the leather padding on it. the Korkron took a half step back, his years of hard training and toil preventing him from fleeing, but that same wisdom letting him realize he should back away, just in case.

"Thrice bedamned the legion for their petty torments upon our brothers and sisters. Thrice bedamned that world, which although lost to us for all time as a home has now become a staging ground for more sorrow and bloodhsed. Thrice bedamned that woman and her madness!"

Confused, and a little alarmed at such a display of unchecked emotion on his beloved leader's face, the Korkron bowed his head in genuflection.

"My Warchief, forgive my honorless outburst of panic. I acted as a human maiden in labor. My life in payment to this insult."

When the Korkron looked up, he saw something he never believed he would see in his life: Thrall, mightiest Orc alive, one loved by his people, respected by his foes, and honored among those on both sides of that distinctive line, was in tears. His shoulders were low, his head bowed, and he was sobbing as a baby human would in a cold rainstorm without a blanket. The Korkron felt rage swell in his heart, and he too wept. What could possibly disturb his beloved Warchief so?

Looking up, Thrall said only one sentence before blinking out of the room, as if someone or something had simply plucked him from the universe: "The Reign of Chaos was but a prelude to what is to come"...

Chapter Four - Another Near Miss

Somewhere in the Blasted Lands

Tauroon Thornspine, Druid and protector of nature's pathways and denizens, was stalking through the cave with assured calm. He had been following the advice of old Tonguelash for many months, and was certain his long vigil was nearly ended. Surrounding himself in sneaky shadows, he moved onward into the darkness of the cavern, his cat form silently stalking past untamed Felhunters and Felguards, each with one thought on their minds: "If I can see it, I can kill it".

The cavern was like most any other underground space occupied by sunlight-shunning creatures of the dark places of the world. It had mosses, fungi, and the occasional spider or bat here and there. Like most caves, the temperature here, below ground, was well below room temperature, and was most soothing on dry skin. Unless, of course, you never left these dank corridors.

Tauroon picked up a scent with his cat-form abilities and froze in place. The overwhelming stench of sulfur was almost too much for him to bear and remain cloaked in his stalking stance. Yet something more ominous laced the scent: fear. It was a terrible smell, and one that Tauroon knew animals of all kinds learned to avoid early in life. It was almost an emotional manifestation of bile in one's throat, if that can be imagined. It freezes the blood and leaves one hopeless for a brighter end.

It was at this time that sudden weakness gripped his entire body, and the Tauren found himself laying prone on the ground, an invisible weight upon his body that was so powerful, he could barely scrabble his mighty paws onto the cave floor. Even that took tremendous effort.

"Remarkable how far one gets, when one slips through so many cracks, eh my Tauren friend?" came a voice from behind Tauroon, to his immediate left, back apace.

Tauroon cursed himself inwardly for not tracking better against beasts and humanoid forms of life, realizing at the worst moment he had been followed by someone, or something. In the back of his mind, he relived that fear smell again.

A sigh from the shadows.

"Yes, that's what I like to hear in my now empty chest, fear of the unknown. Such a tasty morsel, and one that feeds me full and pure."

Thorgram, the undead Night Elf assassin, stepped out in his regal, terrifying glory, out of range of the massive cat-formed druid in front of him. His Silithid topknot flexed eerily in the torchlit cavern, making a slight crackling noise, as if adjusting itself to better fire some death ray at the Druid.

Tauroon, summoning up his reserves of physical prowess, turned his head by sheer force of will, and beheld a nightmare. The obvious Night Elf was somehow..wrong. He had no life-force in his person, that much was obvious to the Tauren's natural instincts. Yet something more profoundly troubling surrounded this creature. His scent was of....sulphur and hatred. A physical creature borne of the hatred of Sargeras himself...or worse, if worse existed in the realities throughout the twisting nether.

Thorgram's grin quickly dissipated into an intense frown, his displeasure apparent on his face, even though his eyes were long since sewn shut. He was moved, internally, by the realiztion that this Tauren had somehow overcome his initial shock. The undead Elf realized with wry amusement, that the Tauren was not afraid of him, but was in fact sizing him up for a lethal strike. Impressive. 'Lack of fear slows my mana', he thought, 'But it cannot prevent an inevitable outcome.'

"What is it you want of me, abomination," Tauroon growled, now reverted to his native form and straining all his muscles in defiance of the curse of weakness placed upon him by his assailant. "I don't have all eternity."

"Witty. I like wit in my prey. Nonetheless, it only prolongs the inevitable course of events, events which were put into motion before you or myself walked this world. You are to accompany me to Cenarion Hold, at once. Cooperate, and I will leave you alive but wishing you were in the Emerald Dream. Disobey me and I will grant you torments not seen in a mortal for aeons. Choose, and choose quickly, for neither do I have eternity to play mind games with inferior species."

'Escape is a foregone conclusion at this point,' the Druid thought to himself. 'If I play along, I might glean insight into this abomination and his aims for me. I am of no use to the Circle as a corpse.'

Thorgram flexed his topknot and flashed his claws in the dim light of the cavern. "You know," he said, "This place is rather dreary, wouldn't you agree? I can think of a few decorations that would adorn it better than these useless demons have done. I mean, look at that," pointing to a body hanging on the far wall, adjacent the pair of them, "I mean, really. Who wants to look at rotten man-flesh day in and day out?'

Ignoring the flippant banter of the infernal being, Tauroon used a spell that removes cursed and jumped up to his full height, his ice-blue eyes gleaming in the torch lights that surrounded he and the creature before him.

"I will do as you ask, abomination, but I would have your name, and your summoner in my ears first, lest you disappoint your master with a returned corpse. No name, no game, Elf." Tauroon hissed through his clenching teeth.

And eyebrow on the undead Elf arched, and Tauroon burst into flames. Most anyone would begin screaming in terror at their body combusting without warning, but Tauroon was a druid. Calm and surety were his daily bread. Calling on nature, Tauroon used some of his mana and healed himself, fighting a howl of pain as his body was engulfed in pain few could outlast. Slowly, the flames died away, and the wounds that would have doomed a normal mortal went away as well.

"Impressive for one so young. I applaud your zealous calm in the face of a good roasting. Most people scream and thrash about like a Murloc in death spasms. Well done. Please know however, that insolence will garner you more of the same until we arrive at your ah, final resting place. Believe me when I say, your mana will dissipate before my own. I am known as Thorgram. Now then, are we done with this drudgery? Let us commence to the ties that bind us and be away from here, for I long to be beneath the sky again, so I can disdain it with my own face, not a memory."

Tauroon, looking down at his hands, made a solemn vow to never forget the location of this cave. The fate of Azeroth depended on what the depths contained. He would NOT fail the Circle a second time...

It was at the entrance to the caves, where the twilight of night was blanketing things in an eerie lime glow, that a bolt of Lightning appeared seemingly out of the rock itself, and blasted Thorgram in the face, sending him several yards to the right, clocking his head against a rock. The creature lay still.

"Boon met, brother!" came a thunderous voice from outside the cave. "I was beginning to wonder if you didn't like my potions I made for you, and were avoiding me!" came the voice of one Tauroon instantly recognized as friend.

"Mottled, my friend! Late, as usual," laughed the Druid, the ease in his emotions apparent in his voice, "You are a sight for sore hooves!"

Thorgram stirred on his back, a hiss escaping his battered lips. Tauroon twirled in a fury, his spells at the ready, crackling along his hands for something to nullify with rage.

"Be still thy heart, youngin! That lout won't wake up until the next Feast of Winter Veil. Special potion on my totem, he will wake up with amnesia. HA!" said Mottled, his mirth overwhelmingly intense. I bet he remembers me now, tho. HA!"

Tauroon relaxed, and turned to his friend.

Mottled was a Shaman, and a mighty one at that. the being stood a foot taller than Tauroon, which was rare for a Tauren. His blue dragonscale mail armor was like a slice of a glacier, hard as nails and strong as the Titans themselves. He was an imposing sight to most, and mighty foe to those who held such labels. However, his aloof manner was well versed to putting others at ease, and it was this happy exterior that kept him alive over the years. Many an opponent mistook his goofy demeaner for foolishness, and met their ancestors for it. He smiled his rogue-smile at his dear friend. "You look like Illidan freshly unchained, my friend."

Ignoring the joke, Tauroon spoke "We must be away from here, and this creature, Mottled. I was here on official Cenarion business, and this..idiot here told me I am being summoned to Cenarion Hold in Silithus. What troubles me is, they do not normally send one of such...distinct wrongness to summon someone for a meeting, judgement, or mission. I fear the Circle has been infiltrated by something dire beyond reckoning. We must get to moonglade, YESTERDAY!" Tauroon explaimed.

Mottled shifted on his hooves, and his armor clinked. "You worry alot for someone as tough as you are, youngin. Well then, let's be off!"

Saddling up on their Kodo, the two companions set off from the cave mouth. The ride was long ahead, and the journey would be a hurried one. Booty Bay awaited them...

okay kids, this is where FAN FICTION shines at its most mentally ill....*demonic grin*

Chapter Five - When Universes Collide
Location Unknown

Thrall, the unification catalyst of his people, the Orcs, vomited. it would have been less of a mess on his person, had he been hunched over a bucket or latrine. Instead, he was hung up, crucifed - style, across the skeleton of a very strange, insect-like monstrosity. His bindings were lashes made from human or demi-human skin, dried and salted like game hide, each strap covering his limbs in several places. He could barely breathe, much less fidget. The scent of bile running down his bare chest roused him.

"What in the name of the Shapers is this?" Thrall exclaimed. He blinked in utter confusion at his surroundings. What those Orcish eyes beheld there, before them, was a scene unlike anything ever beheld by any being, alive or dead, upon the face of Azeroth. Perhaps he was the first of the mortal races to witness it. Perhaps not. At any rate, what he saw not only astounded him, it terrified him beyond all comprehension.

The chamber he found his waking self in, if that is what it could be called, appeared to be made of living, pulsating, quivering biomass. Some denuding, molasses type substance oozed from pore-like pustules on the surfaces of the walls, which somehow reminded the Orc Warchief of the underside of a large beetle. His first thought, due to the renewed war in the Deserts of Silithus, was that he had somehow been teleported into a Silithid stronghold, deep in the wastes. That alone was bad enough to make him try to strategize his moves he would try to make, but there was something so...alien about this place. It had no smell to it, and all around him he could hear a determined, steady, droning "chatter" like a cacaphony of millions (billions?) of voices, all saying the same thing, at different speeds: "Find humanity. Eradicate. Learn. Evolve."

Using his Shamanistic powers over earth, Thrall, son of Durotan, attempted to mold the wax inside his ears to stop them up, to drown out that horrible chittering chorus that was driving him to the brink of insanity. He found, to his sheer terror, he had no abilities to summon! This place, as horrible as it was, was somehow not a part of the living earth itself, and therefore his Shaman's abilities were useless. His gear that still remained on his person was now nothing more than an assortment of trinkets and doodads.

Incapable of fathoming defeat, even at this perilous time, Thrall looked at the floor of his prison, for anything he might use to free himself. Always thinking like a tactician, he scanned the ground up to his right, and stopped his eyes...

There, on the floor of the chamber, was what appeared to be a humanoid head. Only vaguely, he surmised, but still. It was the strangest looking head he had ever seen, or even imagined. In his mind, the thing looked almost teardrop shaped, its apex a slight, soft, fleshy curvature that came to a stiff point at the back end. He noted there were dark, lifeless eyes on that head, staring blankly out from whatever horrors had befallen the body once attached to it. the strangely bioluminescent chamber made the lifeless view from those eyes a pale green. They may have glowed a deeply entrancing blue in life. He was further cowed that this head apparently had no, or had never had, a mouth, or nose, or ears to speak of.

'What manner of Hell have I been placed in' the mighty Orc thought to himself silently, 'This surely is the twisting nether or some corner of it.'

"Far from it, strain." came a voice so loud it made the Orc cry out in stark terror. He noted as the fear lessened that the voice was that of a woman, but unlike any female of any race he had ever heard. It was resonant, echoing, like when speaking through a long cylindar of metal and having someone hear at the other end. Yet, this affect was magnified several times over, to a disconcerting degree. Here was power, the old Orc thought to himself.

"You are bearing witness to the fact that you alone are the only living being not of my loin to set foot within these walls. The fact you live yet is but a small, shall I say, "pleasantry" I will grant you. Once. The next time your eyes befall my visage, your time as a singular organism, and a cognitively aware one at that, will be at an end. Therefore, strain, take what little comfort this gives and listen while there is time."

" I would send you back to your "hovel kingdom" in the canyon you call Orgrimmar. I would have you take back a message to the people and races and...strains, of your world. I would also have you take it to the demon-worshiping buffoons who dwell in the dark recesses of your insignificant globe. This message will be met with scorn by some, outrage by a select few, and mass panic by the larger whole of the organisms that make up your world. This message is resolute, and its finality will shatter entire ecosystems that constitute the fields on that planet. I would - "

Thrall interrupted the voice, his rage at being lashed up like a pack mule driving him past all pretenses of decency. His battle rage was loosed and he would have blood on his hands or he would die trying.

"What is this madness? I am no "strain" as you put it! What is this word and it's implied insult? Release me at once woman, or face the bloodfury of the Warchief of the Horde!"

His roared challenge, nerve shattering to all but the largest of Dragons, echoed in the massive chamber.

Thrall started to roar an expletive in his native Orcish, which turned into a scream so shrill, one would have thought something to be eating a billygoat alive. The scream was his own. Within his mind itself, not audible, but PHYSICAL, pain became sentient...

"SILENCE!" The voice from before, now inside his mind itself, filled his every thought in a supernova of total domination.

Several hours later...

Thrall awoke to find himself unlashed from the insect corpse. He was covered in a resin-like substance, but he no longer cared. For one as battle hardened as Thrall, as tough as he was, his appearance now would have disheartened his shock troops into a full retreat. His mouth hung down, exposing his old teeth, some broken, some rigid, and a slight dribble of drool escaped his bottom lip, collecting on his thigh, as he sat, hunched over, rocking without realizing it.

"And so you have seen, and the vocalization of my intent has been burned into that pathetically irrelevant brain of yours, Strain. With what you have seen, you will now go forth into the societies of your world, and you will tell of my coming. You will bear witness to my pure, refined absolution. The slaughter is come." the voice said with a surety and searing contempt that made Thrall nauseated once again.

Thrall managed a slight squeak of a question, before blacking out of awareness, whereby he blinked out of this horrible place. He asked this woman-voice:

"T...te..tell me your name, mighty one, for I must put a name to this..doom upon us."

The voice replied, in a tone that suggested anyone not already aware of the information simply couldn't exist:

"I am Kerrigan. I am the Queen of Blades."

Chapter Six- Artifacts & Secrets

Cenarion Hold - Silithus

Farfurion Lorebane sat in his favorite armchair, it's thick leather padding creating a soft, soothing countermeasure against his aging, aching body. His chambers, here in the deepest recesses of Cenarion Hold, were reserved for himself, and his closest companion, Fandral Staghelm, the current Spiritual Steward of the Night Elf People. The apparent loss of Malfurion Stormrage inside the Emerald dream had everyone on edge of late, and, most notably, Fandral. A powerful Arch Druid in his own right, Fandral was far younger than Malfurion had been during his ascendion to the title of Arch Druid, and thus, his temper was less reigned in on most issues. Nonetheless, he was the de facto leader of the entire Night Elf nation, and his word was law.

Farfurion thought about that. Anyone of power, such as he himself possessed, knew for certain that the more power one attained, the deeper the temptation to wield it without regard for others ran. It was one thing to conciously know this, but quite another to safeguard oneself against the infernal demons of corruption that could harden one's heart into thorium, and thus sew chaos among the mortal realms of reality. Farfurion, himself, to be sure, wielded perhaps more power than all but a select few living mortals, and that sometimes exasperated the ancient Night Elf.

The sheer volume of his responsibilities weighed heavily upon his heart, and though his methods would be recorded in historical lore as "ruthless" and "without conscience" by most lore keepers of the realms, none could deny his dedication to the natural order, and of his place in the bigger picture of life. Tormented though he was, he held, fanatically, onto his devotion to keeping Kalimdor, indeed all of Azeroth, safe from the shadow.

By any means neccessary, what a concept to some. To Farfurion, it was a mandated fate, to be beneath the scenes, but using any and all means at his disposal to ensure that the world his people, and so many others, of so many beautiful varieties, would never fall to the burning shadow that lurked out there, just beyond sight of mortals. It was a shadow with form and substance, and its malignance was beyond comprehension to the average person, regardless of philosophical leaning. Sargeras himself, once a mighty and proud champion of the creators themselves, had been so affected by that shadow, he himself had become one of them, and in fact, now ruled over the ravenous, vicious, immortal demons from the wastes of the twisting nether.

It had been speculated that there were worse things than demons that dwelled unseen in the currents of time. Farfurion, in his ancient shackles of office, forever mired by secrecy and vigilance against such things, was one of the few alive who actually knew that worse things did INDEED exist beyond the realms that could be scryed via magic, or crossed into after one's death. It was, in fact, a reality that, yes, there are things out there, beyond mortal eyes, that even demons feared.

Across from the ancient Druidlock, was an object that had been kept secret since the first known recorded time on Azeroth. A secret so profoundly disturbing, that madness would grip almost anyone who was privy to it. Some things, as all Druidism practicioners knew all too well, were not meant to be studied, handled, or trifled with.

This particular item fitting that description was a small, oddly angled device, that resembled a locust. The material on the outer shell of this device was of some totally unknown alloy, far beyond the known strengths of metals found on Azeroth. The casing was, by all accounts thus far, indestructible by magic or other means. Not even hellfire itself could melt the thing.

That troubled the small circle of beings whose birthright it was to know of its existence. It was that circle of beings, known as the Council of the Long Watch, to which Farfurion was a part. Malfurion Stormrage, for all his long years, had never been included in this secret. Ysera The Dreamer, Matriarch of the Green Dragonflight herself, had insisted only hand picked beings would ever be allowed near it, much less know of its existence. It was a thing that could save, or destroy, all of known reality. Past, present and future as well. The fate of all life, not merely mortals, but the demons and perhaps even the Titans themselves, hung in the careful containment of the device, and it's dreadful meaning for all life in the universe, both known, and unknown.

Farfurion, knowing these things, but compelled beyond reason to approach the device for the six hundredth time in as many years, arose from his armchair and hobbled over to inspect the locust-shaped thing. Waving a hand over it, a slight chorus of chirps, beeps and mechanical sounds chittered fore and aft of his chamber. His consummate dread at going near the thing was stuffed deep down into his inner self, knowing that he would need his strength and resolve to once again activate the machine.

As he stood in relative proximity to the stirring device, a blue hue began to surround and froth off of it. He stood at his full height, as if in some way that made him believe he was not a lesser pawn in some larger scheme for which even one of his age had no reckoning. A small globe of bluish-white light appeared above the machine, and an image appeared in that sphere. It was a head, though it had only eyes, and nary any other feature of humanoid countenance. Disconcerted or not, Farfurion prepared to revisit what was to come, as he had many times during his long, lonely vigil.

The head, eyes glowing an eerie yellow, frothing a cold-fog of power, began to speak:

"Antaro Adun, Listener. I am Artanis. That name means little to you, to be sure, but this message will come to mean more than anything you and yours will ever hear. You can understand me plainly, and this may confuse and concern you. The language you call common to your peoples is the same everwhere, with merely divergent names. Thus, life can speak to life."

"I represent a race known as the Protoss. My particular sect within that race is known as the Dark Templar. We are a dying breed, the Dark Templar. But enough on that. What must follow is a story, and if you value your lives, the lives of your loved one's, indeed all life, you will heed my words, for they are not long winded for naught. Be still and steadfast, and be made witness to what defines all futures of your reality, and what has befallen it in our time, long hence from your time.."

A sudden crash in the background of this strange sound recording...The head turns, its eyes squinting in contemplation...

"My time grows short, friend. Here is the knowledge by which you can be warned, and perhaps save your world, and all worlds that cater to the beautiful stage that is life. ignore this at your peril."

The head looked down, as if a deep sorrow was contained inside it. A mechanical sounding sigh emenates from it.

"I speak to you now, not as a representative of my kindred race, but as a being of sentient ability. We are only different in our biological constructs. We all breathe and we all think and feel. Thus, please set aside any aversion to my appearance, for we are brothers in the great wheel that is life itself."

"Your world is one of but an infinite number of the same. For your part in this stage, you live out your lives, persuing empire, creating children, fostering legend and tradition and perhaps war and strife, all in the name of what you believe to be the goal of sentient life. Those goals sometimes involve evils to attain them, and sometimes they bring you together as one to defend your way of life. This message is a warning, to you and yours, that to stand united is to stand alive. To fight amongst yourselves is to lose all for which you have suffered down throughout the aeons of your world's history."

"Your world has been watched, indeed visited, numerous times throughout your recorded history. Yours is a world unlike any other we have seen. For although you lack the technological ability of warp travel, which means traveling faster than the speed of light, or the ability to use your minds to alter your surroundings, you have managed to maintain control of your world, through what you call magic and or sciences. This has caught the eyes and minds of creatures you have no comprehension of, such as we. It was learned by us early on of the so-called "demonic" incursions, from those creatures in the Twisting Nether, which many of you see as some sort of hell dimension. Your entire world's population, regardless of motivation, view these beings in a celestial light, as if they maintain some form of balance to the reality for which you possess so very limited a scope. These "demons" as you refer to them are quite formidable in their power, but they are no more spirits than the ghosts of memories in your mind. They too have a physical reality in which they lurk, and rule. They too have their petty concerns, and they too, have their fears."

"Perhaps this message will make more sense to inform you these beings HAD their fears. I come to you now, in this message, from far in the future. The exact time of that future is so far beyond your ability to reason, it would cause synaptic overload in your braincase. Needless to say, it is the future for which all fates, and all worlds, are tied into. It cannot be avoided unless you listen to the last of my message."

Farfurion crinkled his lips at that comment. His mind reeled, no matter how many times this "recording" was viewed. The sheer daunting mathematical work involved in this knowledge was overwhelming. The head spoke on, unaware of his audience...

"In our time, here where I know impart these words, the universe as you have always seen it is a silent place. Silent in pockets, at least. The myriad worlds throughout space, or what you refer to as the 'Great Dark Beyond' are now purged, burning, and desolate. Life, on a cosmic scale, has been sent into death throes. The silence however is most loud, even in the vastness between worlds.

"It was the "demons" you know of that fell first. In your current timeline upon your planet, or, your world as you call it, these "demons" are a constant threat to your way of life. They pit your various races against one another, seemingly bent on invasion of your world, to dominate and subjugate all that they see and hear. The horrible truth of their intentions toward you and your brothers and sisters, is far more cold and calculated than even your most learned minds can grasp. They are not seeking a way to dominate your world, they are seeking the means by which they may save themselves from the future I now call to you from."

Farfurion shifted unfomfortably on his old feet. The shudder that snaked up his spine during this portion of the message never lost its potency to him. Demons in peril of annihilation? It seemed almost silly to him. The Burning Legion had scoured countless known realms of their life, and tortured, ravaged, and murdered countless beings in what so many believed to be a purging of life for its own sadistic sake. Sargeras, the Great Enemy of All life, portrayed by this talking head as a "pawn" in something bigger? Hard to swallow. The head, still speaking, carried on the dire tale...

"Your foes, these "demons" were utterly removed from the cosmos by a threat that cannot be pidgeonholed into some folklore tale passed down. These "demons" in your current time, are perhaps your gravest threat, but in my current reality, they are no longer present."

"There is a race that exists, EVEN NOW IN YOUR AGES, that lives and breathes as we do, but for a sole purpose: To assimilate all life into it's biological construct. It is always seeking racial perfection. It is not hampered by political bickering among nobles of caste. It is not mired by wanton needs or sexual or chemical stimulation. It is a terrifying unified and ravenous creation of the most single minded and dauntless persuasion. This race, once ruled over by a single overmind, as it is called, is now under the direct control of another, seemingly pitifully under-evolved creature. A human female. This human female is unlike any creature you have ever encountered, and likely ever will encounter in your lifetime. She has the determination to survive at all costs like that of humanity, and yet the terrifying powers of both my own race, who have mastered our minds to the point we can alter physical reality on a whim, to those of defensive and offensive natures of wildlife from so many worlds as to leave you confused by their sheer volume. She is a creature the likes of which the universe has never bore witness to, and she is merciless in her obssessive drive to reach her goal: Racial perfection. All who stand in her path are devoured as the sunset devours the sky each night."

"It is with this knowledge that I now impart to you steps to ensure that my work was not in vain. All sentience, and indeed all life on every field of green, red or otherwise, depends upon your world, and what you do with it. The device I am speaking from was sent to your world, to your very timeline of your recorded history, via a scientific anomaly known as a "time warp". Much like your mysterious 'Caverns of Time' lorded over by the Nozdormu broodlings, a time warp spans eternity, and few know how to access the vast energies contained within that vortex. Nonetheless. there are those that do, and not all of these minds have good intentions at their core."

" The race of the Zerg, as I described before, is one such collective. They have discovered your world in my timeline, and they have seen your magical splendors, your verdant natural power that is in your world, and your ability to stand up to beings of such might and power, all without possessing a single highly advanced technological arsenal. With your races and your magics and your secrets assimilated into her fold, the Queen of Blades would be, truly, a god, without rival anywhere in reality. She would become the absolute embodiment of domination itself, and all life would be lost to her ambition. She already, as I stated prior to this, possesses the human essence within her, as she does my race's psionic prowess. Now, here in my timeline, she possesses the ferocity, the tactical, far sighted genius, and the near immortality of the "demons" with whom you know conflict."

"She must not be allowed entry into your caverns of time. Were this done, she would alter the very fabric that is time itself, consuming any and all potential threats in one virulent motion. Your people, your history, your entire struggle for what you seek as peace, would be meaningless, and destroyed."

"Know then, fellow sentient, brother, friend, that if you are hearing this message, my race has failed. Our time has passed and we will soon become a part of the Zerg Swarm. Kerrigan, their Queen of Blades, has found our hidden homeworld, and humanity, as a whole has been annihilated. The "demons" you now face are mere footnotes in the greater story that is the Zerg Swarm. You, and yours, are the last line of defense. If your world falls. All is lost."

Farfurion wrung his hands, thinking of all of this with a renewed sorrow. He would cry, but his years made that very hard to do. He thought of Tauroon and Thorgram. he must have that Tauren here soon. He feared his ruthless minion would kill the happless Tauren and bring him back dead, which would doom all involved in this...epic...He must ensure that did not come to pass. Thorgram was loyal, but brutal beyond compare.

Sending out a call to his chamber guard, Farfurion called to one of them:

"Summon me our Elune Priestess at once," he bellowed, "This requires skill over sadism."

Farfurion watched the recording draw to a close, with images that showed a hundred million worlds, flashing past, all burned, all lifeless. As it dissipated, Artanis said "for Adun, brave soul, and for your loved ones.."

Farfurion cried despite himself...

I don't know anything about WoW, but God-damn that's some nice work you've done.

Jesus Prime wrote:I don't know anything about WoW, but God-damn that's some nice work you've done.

One of my personal pet peeves with writing is, after I sat here on my ass working on all this shit, I look at it and find 900 billion errors. Drives me batshit insane. lol.

MS Word it. I know they miss a lot of stuff and make up mistakes that don't exist, but overall you end up with less errors than you might if you typed it elsewhere.

Chapter Seven - "Setting It Aside"
Ironforge City - In the throne room of King Magni Bronzebeard

As the green explosion of light filled the massive chamber, the Ironforge batallion, known as the Gut Kickers Brigade, was enjoying another long day of standing around pretending to be steadfastly guarding their beloved king, Magni Bronzebeard. Not that the dimunitive little being needed the protection really. His legend was almost passed down for as long as the elder races themselves had written history. His line was pure, and his heart was stout. If anyone could find a common ground item to like in their foe, it would be found in King Magni Bronzebeard. His size hid a ferocious warrior countenance, and a crafty mind that had survived things most beings far larger than he would have perished from.

Nonetheless, as that green explosion of light filled his inner sanctum, the leader of the Dwarven nation almost choked on his ale.

Magni Bronzebeard gasped then, and when his mug hit the floor, in true Dwarven style, he became infuriated at the loss of a stout mug of his favorite brew, rather than worry about strange lights.

"What the bloody trogg stool this be?" bellowed the mighty Bronzebeard. "Ye'd be thinkin the Titan's themselves be stoppin in for a chat or sumthin eh?"

The Gut Kicker lads rushed in practiced unison, forming a perimeter around their liege.

"Aye, kinda sets the mood for a might good whoppin!" decried one senior officer. He was hefting an axe the size of his body with a steadfast assurance that, whatever this intruding thing was, it would not long remain singular in body.

Magni bounded up from his larger than anyone's life throne, and looked at the center of the expansive throneroom. There were rags. A heap of rags, and smoke ascended from those rags. Curious, but naturally cautious, Magni stepped down to even level with the lump of cloth on the floor. He could feel and see his guards' aprehension, but with a wave of his left, gauntleted hand, bid them stand down. This would prove interesting. Rather than sit on that damndable chair all day long, listening to his kin complain about this and that, he had a real, emerging mystery to deal with. He liked those.

The pile of rags stirred, and a heaving, deep, baritone breath eased out of the pile of rags, like a dying man telling his children his final will and testament. Magni palmed his meaty fist around the hilt of his battle axe, awaiting the slightest excuse to bring it to bear on whoever...or whatever, lay beneath those rags.

"The...Reign of Chaos was a lie. The true meaning is doom without end, for all who live..." Came a mighty voice from beneath the rags. Although it sounded wounded, or somehow 'drained of feeling', as if whomever had spoken lay on the edge of death.

Magni started in his plate armor. The wise and long-lived king of of the Dwarves had heard this voice before. He reckognized that tone and precisely practiced manner of speaking, something that had been learned, and taught by human tutors, long ago.

Realizing his unannounced guest would surely cause untold pandemonium in the heart of the Dwarven halls, should his identity be known, Magni made a quick determination and turned to his lads:

"Exit this chamber at once milads. This be private concerns o the state and matters o the welfare o all of us. You be getting yerselves a mug and a lass and come back in here when me summons ye, and NOT BEFORE. Aye?"

The Gut Kickers, long accustomed to doing as told without the slightest hesitation, nonetheless looked at each other as if slapped by a Yeti in season.

"Milord? Ye be sure ye be wantin a singular audience with ah, that creepy crawly on ye floor?" asked the officer whom had spoken before. His axe had not lowered an inch since he brought it to his fore.

"Does ye be daft and stupid at the same time, munchkins? I said take ye leave!" snorted the flustered Magni. "I canno-be doin me kingly businesses with ye all up in me pants like a overzealous trollop. Now off with ye!"

Chagrined, the officer bowed in genuflection and hurried his men to the chamber doors. As he closed them, the officer looked at the heap of rags again, as if angry at it, for causing this slight in front of his men suffered from the King.

Silence fell like a landing infernal within the now sealed and solemn hall of the mighty King of the Dwarves.

"Ye can unsheath ye head now, lad, I be a king of multitudes o little angry folk, but I be a kindly one o them same folk. I will hear why ye tresspassin, before blungeoning ye brains across me palms without reason. Speak to me."

Thrall, the Warchief of the Horde of Durotar, sat upright, and gasped for breath. Apparently he had missed the entire scene that just played out before his formerly crumpled form.

"By the tortured screams of Nerzhul!" cried the old Dwarf. "I know ye from tales and havin heard ye on the fields of battle, but not first hand experience. Ye be lookin' a might worse for the wear Thrall, son o Durotan. By the god's, lad!"

Thralls face was no longer the deep shade of green, so associated with most of his kin. His eyes were sunken, still their mighty sky-blue, but somehow faded to a slight grey hue. His lips looked as if they had been kept on by sheer will alone, and his skin was literally grey, like rotting meat in the Desolace sun. His expression showed that, for his strengths, this lad was serisouly well past being broken in two. Perhaps fully.

Swallowing his horror, Magni said, "I be aware o the ongoin' hostilities between our peoples, lad. But as bad as you be lookin now, I be thinking you didn't drop in me lap from the god's picnic table itself to pick a fight with old Bronzebeard. So I will give you the moment you need, then we can sort this out like men. Sound fair m'ilad?"

Thrall attempted to express what might have been a courteous smile, then slumped over onto his back, looking up at the immaculately crafted ceiling of the Hall of Kings inside Ironforge, a city he had always hoped to one day see, without a batallion at his side or a war at his back. So, the Queen of Blades sent him here, the first stop on his "tour of hell". So be it. He was, after all, still Thrall.

After a few moments, whatever pain was ailing the battered Orc Warchief subsided, and the mighty Orc sat upright, crossed his legs and sat his hands upon his lap, palms facing up, a sign of his repsect for the King, and showing openly that he was unarmed or unadorned with weapons of assassination. Magni smiled at the courtesy so few had shown him during his reign, nor his forebears.

"Aye lad, ye are as imrpessive as they have foretold. Your reputation as not being like the brutal one's of yore preceeds ye. I would sit with ye now and talk as equals, as men," said Magni. "Maybe after I will get ye something to eat and guzzle, lad?"

And it was there, in the hall of the magnificent Dwarven captial, that two former arch enemies, who had lived around each other, feeding off tales of one another while their men fought and died on their mutual commands, that the leader of the Dwarven nation, and the leader of the Orcish Horde, sat. Thrall began to speak, his eyes showing a far away, almost destitute reflection on the King's plate mail.

As he ended what he was to say, said as if some force had spoken through him, Thrall blinked once, a single tear shedding from his left eye, and looked at the King of the stout folk like a dog that had been kicked.

"All our hatred has been used to fuel our irrelevance. The Legion then, has been searching for something to save their race from total disintegration, and we were merely in their pathway."

Magni had been listening intently at the Warchief. So profoundly disturbed was he, that he did not immediately realize Thrall had ceased speaking to him. His shock betrayed him, for the Orc tried to grin, but instead grimmaced, as if even that simple act caused him extreme pain. "Yes, fair and yet mighty King of the Stout Folk," Thrall managed to get out before losing his breath again, weak as he was, "The wars, the pain, the hate, nothing but a sidetrack tactical move. Everything, from the Titans' exodus to the present day, has been in preparation for this, a quiet doom, the end to all. What is hate and war when none live to feel and fight them? What then is malice, when none stand on their own legs to swing their fury into the head of a foe? We have all been fooled, good king."

Magni scratched his head. Long had the royal line of Ironforge been steadfast against threats. Long had they been unearthing secrets to their ancient past from deep beneath the earth. Long had they hoped to find a final answer to the ancient mysteries. Now tho, Magni Bronzebeard, King, was not keen on hearing those answers so desperately sought for so very long a time. His stomach tightened.

"Well, I think it be a safe bet you be tellin' me the straight truth, Thrall, son of Durotan. Ye would never have risked ye life like this to come to me with a ruse, designed ta be lurin me outta the mountain like a ram in season." Magni explained from a look that showed sincere compassion for the beaten, broken Orc leader. "Ye be a long way from ye home, and no escorts to be seein' ye safely sail later on. I must admit, this is hardly the entrance I expected from one such as ye, but ye has always proven to be the honorble sort. According to Jaina Proudmoore, you be more noble than her old coot seahand daddy a been. I respect her, and therefore I respect you."

Thrall nodded, his head seeming heavier than it looked.

"I must be askin this then, aye, for me own sanity, lest me be thinking me mug o ale been spiked with demon mischief," Magni continued, "But ye obviously was brought here against ye wishes, by that lass ye described. Sounds meaner n' a harpy on the 3rd trimester, that one. Well, I s'pose ye be having a list of places to be gettin' on ta, and I'm hell bent on seein' ye leave the halls o the forge in one piece. If any lads or lasses out there in the city proper were to realize who I gots here, well, not even the loyalty from the line o me thick as poop blood would keep you safe. Lotta the stout folk see orcs as bad news. Meself, I have seen the worst and the best. You, son, despite ye woes and the tiding ye be bringin me, are by far the best."

With that, the great King, Magni Bronzebeard, helped thrall lay back onto his back. "ye be layin there, still as a sleepin Archdruid, and I'll get one o me mages in here for a portal as soon as, ah, dwarvenly possible, HEHE!" he exclaimed, filling the large room in thunderous mirth.

Thrall lay back and closed his eyes. His moments of peace seemed to be dwindling in these times, but he was deeply moved and grateful for the moment's respit proffered by Magni. He felt honor in his heart towards this one, and he was a little less weak for it.

Opening the chamber doors like a madman who had proven to himself that yes, his skin was crawling with invisible bug invaders, Magni Bronzebeard screamed out into the corridor beyond the walls of his throneroom:

"Gashion! Venthalik! Get ye wee bottom feeding hairy toes in me chambers NOW! We be needin' ye portal magics! Leave Torrin behind, the blisterpuss may blow something up!"

From somewhere nearby, a voice like a child's voice:

"Great King, you have no faith in my genius!"
An explosion followed thereafter, and a gnome cursing followed that.

It was about this time that the very roof of Ironforge city came down on all who called it home...

Chapter 8 - "The Downward Spiral"

On the outskirts of Booty Bay

Breaking camp, Tauroon and Mottled worked to saddle up their holdings onto their Kodo mounts and prepared to set off back on the road, which lead into Booty Bay. They had been traveling for nearly a fortnight, and they had enjoyed their rest along the bushy jungle pathways of Stranglethorn Vale. Well, except for the routine attacks upon them by wild beasts. It seemed that the place was infested with veritable armies of all manner of creatures hell bent on killing and eating anything in their path.

Mottled, his usual demeanor of goofiness slightly lessened, was more than ready to set foot in a tavern and perhaps chat it up with someone, anyone, other than the parrots who drove him insane with their constant calls from the canopy high above he and Tauroon's massive bulks. The place wore thin on his nerves, being he was a Tauren, from a relatively quieter homeland than this always screeching, always humid, always dangerous jungle hell he had found himself and his friend in.

"This place is like an afterlife punishment, Tauroon" Mottled grumbled. "It reminds me of Desolace, only with more noise and more populated game trails. I cannot stand this constant animal calling we hear, which for being one of our people, is highly significant. It makes me wish I had a rifle with limitless shells!"

Tauroon wiped a large glob of sweat from over his right brow, his thick coat of fur not stopping his body from trying to cool itself from the damnable jungle heat. "For me, my earthen friend, it is the heat. I feel as though my skin is itself a flask for the mosquitos to drunken themselves from." He grimaced and slapped yet another of the pests away from his face, accidentally slinging his massive hand against the buttocks of his loyal Kodo.

The Kodo shrieked it's displeasure at that, and took off like a plaguebat out of hell down a slight ravine into some underbrush at a pace that spelled certain doom for anything in it's path. Tauroon cursed: "Thrice bedamned the skittish brute!"

The Druid took off after the mindless beast, swearing and yelling things Mottled did not quite understand, all the while his pace increasing with each step. Mottled suppressed a laugh of sheer irony, and took off after his friend, and the pack animal that was surely by now on the other side of the jungle, crushing anything and everything that might hinder its mad dash...

Meanwhile, in the local tavern of Booty Bay:

Thorgram stood with his back to the room, staring at the floor. His face hid a fury none would wish revealed. He had been waiting for several days on the pair of infuriating Tauren heathens, and he was beginning to tire of the game. It was simply too much to ask for him not to wish someone dead at his feet. He secretly hoped the interlopers would meet their end at the hands of some unglorious wild beast, and that his mission would be a failure, just so that he could lose the cloud of annoyance that the Tauren presented. He was bitter, having been clocked in the face as he had been, and he was even more bitter from the way he awoke in that damn cave, a Fel Guard bearing down on him, intent on ending his life.

He had responded with the rage of a man so old as to be silly in the head with senility, and his rage at the Tauren who had got the drop on him was fed, full course, into the demon. When he was finished with his spell-work, the demon was, quite literally, a small pile of ash. This, of course, could never sate the fury of one such as Throgram, but any port in a storm, he thought aloud, without really caring who heard him.

"What was that, rabbit head?" came a voice from across and below the bar counter. "Sounds like you need a drink, or three."

A little goblin, his ears long since torn asunder, hopped up on a stool behind the bar, his nose ending still at the base of Thorgram's torso. He looked to have a perpetual, eternal grin on his face, and that grin did not look the least bit neutral, or friendly. He looked like a hyperactive devil in sea britches.

"I never drink," replied Thorgram, his voice plainly uninterested in the goblin or his wares. "It gives me mood swings, and thusly people vanish." He looked dead on at the little green creature with a glance that said 'begone fool'.

Curiously, the little green mouthpiece wasn't swayed by this, and hopped up onto the bar itself, edging in a little bit closer to the undead night elf, perhaps to size him up better, or to impart a little secret knowledge. It was widely known that goblins brokered everything known to society, and knowledge was one of their most lucrative trades. If it was to be known, a goblin someplace surely knew about it, and would try his or her damndest to make good off that information.

Grinning even wider, as if amused by the idle threats of a child, the goblin spoke again, but this time, his eyes had a weird tinge to them, and his voice deepened several tones, granting him an air of authority. Thorgram was startled at this, but moreso that the room around him, including all of the bar patrons, had simply frozen in place, as if reality had been put on hold.

"Thorgram, my dear boy, you simply will never learn your rightful place in the scheme of things." Came the voice of Farfurion. It was only shocking in that it came from the goblin's mouth, not a summoned, or conjured, effigy of the Druid-lock himself. "I expect better manners from my servants, regardless of their methodology in dealing with a mission. Shame on you." he added with a scorn that could wilt flowers. The scorn was lost on Thorgram, who only served out of being bound, not cowed, by his powerful master.

Thorgram started to reply with a scathing retort, then bit his tongue. Instead he turned fully to the little green pissant and genuflected. "My lord, to what all encompassing purpose do I owe your visit?" The tone of sarcasm in his voice would surely rile the master, but his master was too marshal to let it show in his responses.

The goblin craned his neck, as if he was waking up from being controlled from afar by his tormentor. Jerking violently, the little green creature fell back off the stool and hit the back of his head on some mugs that littered the floor behind the bar. He shook his head, stood up and exclaimed "Whoah, what the hell did I eat this morning?" As if completely unaware of what had transpired before, the goblin wandered out from behind the bar and back out into the bustle of the city proper. Thorgram watched him go then realized the bar was hopping alive again, and everyone carried on with their petty concerns, their drinks, schemes, and the like. The master was good at affecting things without being noticed. He did admire that, at least.

But apparently something had happened to his master. The apparent spell used to control the little goblin would not have been severed by the masters will before his reasons for visiting his minion had been layed out. Something was amiss. Thorgram made a grim expression, knowing full well that his ire with the Tauren would have to wait. His master was in peril, and he was bound by arcane chains to rush to his aid. "Damn it!" he exclaimed. The bar patrons all looked up for about two seconds, then went back to their own concerns. If it wasn't in danger of boiling over, no one really bothered to care.

Removing a small, jet black stone from his belt pouch, the undead assassin muttered something arcane, and in an instant was gone from the shores of stranglethorn...

Back in the jungle, outside Booty Bay

Tauroon rounded a small, mossy boulder to catch up with the Kodo that had lost all sense. When he rounded the corner, he stopped short, nearly running face first into a murloc. Mottled came charging up right behind, and the pair of old comrades suddenly found themselves atop the startled creature, which bellowed out a guttural challenge.

Rolling to the left, Mottled let out a startled "what?" and kicked out as hard as he could, intending to hit the fishman in the face. Instead, he planted his hard hoof into Tauroon's stomach. Tauroon bellowed in pain, and tossed Mottled up toward the Murloc, who by then had gained his footing and was aiming a wicked looking spear at Tauroon's head. The Murloc shrieked and dodged to the left, missing the hurled body but losing his footing, and fell off a steep cliff on the embankment's edge that was literally beside them all. All of the brush had made it invisible to the naked eye to all but whom might have been looking for it.

"Thanks my druid friend, I now hang upon the edge of despair!" came a mock angry tone from below the cliff face. Tauroon rushed to the edge of the cliff to find his friend hanging by both strong hands on a shoot of vine roots jutting out from the cliff face. They appeared to be holding him well enough, but nonetheless Tauroon knew his duty to his comrade.

"Calm yourself shaman, I will root your hands into place with a spell." Tauroon's calm came back into focus. He channeled nature into the earth of the cliff surrounding Mottled's mighty hands, and roots shot up and over, tangling him further into the vine roots. Thankfully, this particular root spell had no thorns along for the duration. This relief betrayed the Shaman's face, and Tauroon smiled. "Special alteration of the spell of my own. You never know, my friend, when an offense can be a defense!"

Mottled was laughing so hard, his armor was clanking as he heaved. He looked down, and saw that the murloc had landed on top of a raptor's nest, and was being torn asunder by an angry Lashtail and her offspring. "Well, so much for the fishing expedition. I guess that -" looking to the right of this, he saw something else, and went silent a moment.

"What is it?" asked Tauroon.

Rolling his eyes in consternation, the Shaman looked up to his friend and replied:

"I found your Kodo"