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Malthaes looked down at the scroll, his quill leaning restlessly in his hand. He glanced over at the e cage settled against the wall, a cage holding a human child he obtained in Darkshire, and he smirked. Initially he planned on having the child stuffed and sent to Orwyn, but the sound of the child's cries grew irritating. He put the child into a deep sleep, and then filled out the forms to have the child sent to the Undermarket for sale. Someone would be in the hunt for a human child. Perhaps as a magical experiment, or a labor slave. Or, warranting that no one wanted to listen to such miserable mewling, perhaps the child would be liquidated. Hopefully he would be liquidated.

Chuckling, he looked back at the scroll he had written. The ink had just dried, and he picked it up and read.

To: Fernand Argustus,

Please send the caged human child to the Undermarket for further profit or, providing no purchaser can be found, liquidation. He is young, about ten years by my estimate, and his parents will not be looking for him, owing to their falling unfortunately to fire.

- Malthaes

After a moment, he leered at the sleeping child.

"Now you're no longer my problem."

The city of Stormwind never truly slept, but in the hours between the moon setting and the sun rising, the crowds were certainly diminished. Certainly, no one looked twice at the burly dwarf driving a carriage of ale kegs. A brief inspection from the guard confirmed what appeared to be obvious - the kegs in the back were indeed full of lagers, stouts and ales. Given the size of the dwarf, and the unspoken camaraderie which existed between men of duty and men of breweries, no one bothered to give a closer look at the carriage itself. Hidden beneath the driver's seat was a small compartment, which was currently occupied by a sleeping (one could say tranquilized) child obtained from Darkshire. The dwarf drove around Stormwind until he happened upon a park which was currently deserted. Gently, the dwarf placed the child upon a bench, with a secondary package beside him. The cool night breeze caused the child to stir and, smiling, he curled up on the bench.


Written in neat, slightly slanted lettering on crisp white parchment, and attached to the package seated beside the lost child.


Stormwind City Watch,

I sincerely hope that you will be as delighted upon finding your missing progeny as I am writing this letter. I believe you will find him in excellent physical condition, excepting slight malnutrition, which I assure you was as we found him. Needless to say, this is all a most unfortunate business, and I do apologise.

Please also find attached a package which I hope will convey the seriousness of this situation. Inside, you will find the bones of a Forsaken child, who was killed alongside his father, and the remains summarily scattered about Brill. Etched into the bones are the statements 'Mercy is for the merciful.' and 'This is only the beginning.' At this time, we have no definitive proof as to the identity of the murderer, although members of the Luchdu Ocheliad were sighted in the vicinity at the time of the attack, and given the propensity for one Cyrus Sagewind to be involved with such flashy displays of malice, I should think that this draenei is a preliminary suspect.

It is my understanding that your Watch considers itself something of an authority figure. Clearly, Tirisfal Glades falls outside of your jurisdiction, but I was curious about what your policies were regarding the treatment of known Alliance war criminals within the human lands of Stormwind. Furthermore, it has come to my attention that specific organisations among you are involved in collaboration - namely the Reclamation, Pia Presidium, Luchdu Ocheliad ... and possibly your own Watch, which is currently, and quite possibly, one of the last truly honourable organisations within the Alliance. I do hope that you take the war crimes perpetrated by the Reclamation, Luchdu Ocheliad and - by extension of assisting these guilds, specificaly the Reclamation during attacks upon Horde civillians - the Pia Presidium into consideration during any dealings with them, if not convict them directly for butchering defenseless civillians and children in order to use their deaths as some sort of macabre message to the Horde.

By all accounts, Lieutenant Commander Orwyn is a man of character and professionalism: I am certain that, in life, I would have enjoyed working alongside him. As it stands, I do appreciate these qualities, and trust that the Stormwind City Watch will do the right thing by the child we have returned to you, and also the treatment of the Reclamation, Luchdu Ocheliad and Pia Presidium as deemed necessary due to their status as war criminals.

Have a splendid day, and I wish you all the best in your endeavours,
Fernand Argustus
Department of Horde Relations
Modas il Toralar

"...and here is Lieutenant Commander Orwyn of the Stormwind Watch to answer your questions." The mayor of Darkshire hurried from the podium and dragged Orwyn up to it. He retreated to a dimly-lit far corner as Orwyn paused a moment to survey the crowd that had filled Darkshire's city hall to hear from, and no doubt castigate, the authorities after the raid on the town.

The mayor had spoken only briefly, but had already been interrupted several times by angry citizens. Orwyn could see that every face shared a look of hostility mixed with fear. Standing firm at the podium, he looked over the crowd and began to speak in a calm and measured voice.

"Good evening. Although mere words will never be enough to lessen your justifiable feelings of rage, frustration, and grief, I do wish to personally express my sympathy for your losses. Several brave, upstanding citizens were taken from us in the unprovoked and fiendish attack, and our entire nation is diminished by their absence.

"A horrific event such as this of course leads to serious questions as to how it could have occurred. In response, I will be completely honest. Currently, Stormwind is facing possibly the most serious threat to its security since the orc invasion. Our people are the target of a well-equipped band of fanatics, who are very different from any criminals we have previously dealt with. Most criminal acts stem from a desire for money or power. The major beneficiaries are of course the criminals themselves. However, those behind this attack have a far different and more serious goal - a goal that if successful would cause death and devastation on a scale far beyond what we saw here. That goal is, simply, full-scale war between the Horde and the Alliance. I don't believe that I need to go into any detail about what that would entail. Many of you, afterall, remember the recent wars. Suffice it to say that it would be many times worse than what happened here, and repeated across the entire kingdom.

Having said that, I am predicting two matters of contention that many here would immediately raise. First, there is the matter of overall Horde aggression practiced against the Alliance since the Shattering. It cannot be ignored that aggression has taken place. However, there is a complete difference between military activities ordered by the Warchief of the Horde, and attacks by criminal organizations. There may yet be war between the Alliance and the Horde, but if it comes, it should be brought about by the leaders of both sides, with the full understanding of their people. It should not be forced on us all by a shadowy cabal whose love of destruction has more in common with the Twilight Cult than anything else.

"Second, it must be acknowledge that a terrible crime has been committed here, and that justice must be done. I emphasize the word, 'justice.' As tempting as it may be to strike back in kind on the Horde, that would not be justice, and it would serve the overarching goal of this criminal group. It cannot be forgotten that each atrocity committed by either side benefits them by bringing us closer to war. The only way that justice can be served and our hand not forced is to treat this situation as a criminal matter. All attempts at punishment must be directed at those who committed this crime and carried out by the King's legal authorities acting in accordance with the law. Frustration and anger are valid responses, but they should not be the cause of striking blindly and violently, as ultimately we shall be the ones feeling the blows. I cannot be clear and forceful enough when I state that violent retribution would ultimately be more harmful to everyone in the kingdom.

"If you would strike a blow, do it by enlisting in the Watch, the military, or your local militia. Train to defend your families and homes. Devote your fervor to strengthening our kingdom. In the meantime, the Watch and other official agents of the King will devote ourselves to bringing justice to the perpetrators of the these heinous acts. As difficult as these times are, I appeal for calm; I appeal for restraint; and I appeal for your personal dedication to the protection of your families, homes, and our sense of justice that sets us apart on this world.

"I will now be happy to take questions."

The hands of almost everyone in the room rose in unison. Orwyn steeled himself and pointed to his first interrogator. "We'll start from the front row, on the left. Yes, sir?"

The front gate of Silvermoon always seemed so deceivingly peaceful to Cyrus.

The front two guards really hadn't had any warning. Sathrasa had managed to get behind one and sink a dagger clean into the back of his neck for a quick, quiet kill. One of Samego's arrows had made solid purchase with the left guard's temple when he glanced over to see what had happened to his fallen comrade.

The bulk of the Ocheliad team moved swiftly through the gates, downing any guards that happened upon them. Cyrus knew he'd chosen the attack location wisely when he realized just how few guards the blood elves were able to afford for their own city. No matter. It only too a few bodies to make a statement. On orders, three dead guards were hung up by their feet, chained to high-up places on the walls near the gate for all to see.

Stabbed into one of their chests was an Ocheliad banner. The statement was clear. There was nowhere the Ocheliad were unwilling to go to hunt down Modas.

The scene set, Cyrus urged the Ocheliad forward to see how guarded Lor'Themar Theron's chambers might be. Unfortunately for the Ocheliad, the resident elves were not as spineless as many jokes made them out to be. As the Ocheliad dealt with some of the guards around the targetted chamber, Cyrus remained near the back of the formation to keep an eye on their flank. He knew this was a wise decision the moment an ice lance sailed past his ear.

Thelinna of the Modas and Drakehide had managed to get behind them to attack from the less-guarded flank. Thelinna's attack had only missed by an inch, but that very well could have been on purpose. She seemed ready to strike, but Cyrus soon had several Ocheliad as backup. Soon, her line of sight on Cyrus was broken by the mob, but Drakehide was still within swining range.

Cyrus' axe met Drakehide's shield, sending the lighter blood elf back into the swarm of Ocheliad. Not having made a habit of playing fair when in enemy territory, Cyrus was content to let the Ocheliad handle them.

Proving more resilient than Cyrus had anticipated, the two elves were soon joined by several guards, as well as a passer-by Tauren druid and a warlock. This was sufficient to push the Ocheliad into a chamber near where Lor'Thremar resided. All pride aside, the Ocheliad were deep in an enemy city, and now found themselves with their backs to the wall with an enemy that was only going to grow in number.

Seeing little other option, Cyrus gave the order, and the Ocheliad retreated through a portal to Dalaran.

***

"Further orders, Captain?" Sathrasa had inquired once they reached Dalaran. With a shakes of his head, Cyrus disbanded the group to return to their duties. Now, all that remained to do was wait to see how Modas, the Horde, and possibly some Alliance groups responded to this most recent attack.

It was well past midnight when Orwyn put down his pen to review his response to the letter received from Modas' Department of Horde Relations.


Dear Mr. Augustus.

On behalf of the Kingdom of Stormwind, I would like to express our thanks in returning the child who was so brutally abducted from the side of his murdered parents. Although considered in isolation the return of the child is commendable, when included with the history of Modas' destructive attacks on Stormwind's citizens, it unfortunately does not come close to balancing the ledger.

Your displeasure and horror upon seeing the results of the massacre at Brill is noted and understood. The Watch and the citizens of Stormwind are sympathetic, but those feelings do not extend to Modas, due to their infliction of similar horrors on members of the Alliance. Instead our shared grief and anger is with the victims, their families, and their community.

As you are aware, the Watch is dedicated to justice and the law, and certainly no member was involved in any manner with the attack. That being the case, we will be happy to assist the rightful Horde authorities with the investigation of the Brill incident, if asked. We hope they will reciprocate, so that by working together all members of both the Alliance and Horde may live their lives peacefully and free from the debilitating fear that an atrocity may be committed against them at any moment.

Respectfully,

Lt. Commander Orwyn
Stormwind Watch


Good enough. Orwyn drained the last of the cold coffee in his mug and began the difficult task of finding an envelope on his cluttered desk.

Sitting behind his overly large oak desk, Fernand sorted through the daily mail. The desk itself was immaculate - every piece of paper upon it made a perfect right angle with the rectangular surface itself, and the circular ink and nib wells were placed to be equidistant from each other and the edge of the surface, in an aesthetically suitable right hand corner of the desk. In the left hand corner, again perfectly placed to mirror the ink well, was a glass of dry scotch distilled by a now extinct distillery in the Alterac Mountains.


Fernand took a sip of the scotch, and smiled primly over Orwyn's response. While he no longer required any form of true sustenance, in life he had considered himself something of a connoisseur when it came to liquor. Pretending to enjoy the lost old habits of life was perhaps one of the few ways in which any semblance of humanity remained within the Forsaken man.


Fernand appreciated Orwyn's letter. The lieutenant commander was focused - Fernand's obvious attempts to direct the human's sense of morality against the 'crimes' of his comrades was disregarded as the nonsense it was, but given a caveat that it would be considered were the Horde truly concerned...which of course it would not be. Orwyn was also capable of perspective - the human did not accept the gift of the human child without considering it against the Order's overall activities, which of course the worthless little endotherm was nothing more than an attempt to tease the commander's sense of trust and good will.


The undead cadaver took another sip of his drink, both attempting to remember what it was to experience such a thing as taste, and contemplating the situation in general. Fernand's dry, cracked lips twitched in a mockery of a smile. When all was said and done, the Stormwind City Watch was too defensive, too narrowly preoccupied by the small stretches of land claimed by the humans. They could never be a threat to the Modas il Toralar - if nothing else, once the other Alliance races were extinguished, Aziel V'Ghera's shadow could calmly devour the last of the humans, all the while with the Watch standing by, bereft of their war-like allies which required more immediate attention.


Fernand would regret the necessary death of Lieutenant Commander Orwyn. 'We may not have been successful in stirring confusion between the Watch and their allies, but happily, judging from this letter, there is at the very least a sense of mutual respect and etiquette. After all, there is no reason why two people who wish to see the other disposed of cannot act in accordance with basic etiquette.'

Charitye wandered into one of her favorite offices looking for her friend Chambliss. Some usurper was sitting where her friend should be! She yowled with displeasure at him, then jumped up on the desk and flopped down. She flicked her tail in irritation and started glowing black. Charitye was very unhappy with this person. She looked over at the ink well her tail knocked over and moved to get out of the mess before flopping down again. Her eyes never left the man's face as she chewed on the balloon string tied around her paw. Hmmm, the man could change colors too. His face was an unusual red color.

She would stare him out of Chambliss' office. She would also get all these crackling papers off the desk she and Chambliss shared. Papers and bits of papers few through the air like confetti...mostly because many of the papers were actually confetti now.

((If you want me to remove this, Orwyn, I can. I kind of took control of Orwyn.))

Drakehide sat in his father's home in the Northern Barrens, deep in his ponderings. The warrior wiped blood off of his blade and reflected on the battle just-fought.

He had been fortunate enough when he'd received the warning, that Silvermoon was under attack, to make the acquaintance of a blood elf mage, a woman who had conveniently and expediently teleported him and Fearow to Silvermoon so that they could mount a defense against the Ocheliad attack.

At first, it had been a bloodbath. Silvermoon's forces were being slaughtered almost wholesale, as Ocheliad had the advantage of numbers and the element of surprise. Even when Fearow and Drakehide had jumped into the fray, the battle was wild, incoherent, desperate. It was made worse, part way through that battle, by the fact that Drakehide was not only fighting the Ocheliad. Tyrynna and Silvarusc were warriors Drakehide respected, and...warriors that, in his own odd way, he considered friends. Here they were, at Silvermoon's gates, shooting at him, crashing their weapons down against him.

Fearow, Thelinna, and all of the other allies Drakehide had met in Silvermoon fought valiantly. And somehow, Silvermoon had survived. Reinforcements had shown up near the end of the battle, and Raoul and a warlock friend arrived near the battle's end, just after the Ocheliad forces had fled. Once the city was at rest, Drakehide had the pleasure of speaking further with Thelinna, only to learn that she was a representative of the Modas il Toralar.

After being shot at by Tyrynna and swung at by Silvarusc, Drakehide had made a friend in the Modas il Toralar. While he respected the Modas il Toralar...he did not approve of many of their more extreme measures, or methods. Especially with respect to prisoners of war. Yet...Thelinna had aided him, and the others. Without her, the city of Silvermoon might have been slaughtered.

He chuckled, softly and darkly. This was a strange, strange world. And it only continued to get stranger.

The troll grinned to himself, his lips peeled back over wickedly sharpened teeth. The Modas il Toralar prided itself on having the most malicious, devious and down-right-not-very-nice-people in perhaps all of Azeroth. Gathered before Dree’jin was a strike force whose single intent was to slip in quickly behind the Alliance ranks and deal as much devastation as possible. Aziel and Thelinna stood side by side, the undead pair the epitome of sin and perversity, both consumed with the need to control and dominate everything they came into contact with. Dr Vincent Wolfe, atop some strange contraption, twitched occasionally as some part of his hybrid mechanised, biological, magic infused body released a spark of electricity or fel magic. Kunlokku, the Hungerer, towered above them all in his bear form, the tauren’s breathing like a bellows, thick drool leaking from his maw. Malthaes watched on, a dry smirk on the blood elf’s face, eager for an opportunity to exact a taste of revenge upon the Alliance that had betrayed his people. Finally, the ruined, eye-less husk that was Donovann Harmarth was also present, a scythe clutched in one bony hand, his anger and contempt toward the living an almost palpable force.

For his part, Dree’jin was also excited. The savage troll loved nothing more than proving his strength upon the battlefield, preferably with his foot on the corpse of an enemy, but tonight was something particularly special. Several weeks ago, the troll Hexxer lost something invaluable to a ritual he was planning to perform – the bloody hearts of over eighty powerful beings. It was a terrible loss; the hearts had taken almost a year to gather, and could only be replaced by pure spirit energy for the troll’s ritual. And so this was exactly what Dree’jin planned to use. Years ago, the Gurubashi trolls of Zul’Gurub had summoned Hakkar to Azeroth to make war upon their enemies. Hakkar’s avatar had been killed, and the Loa’s spirit returned to the Spirit World to seethe in frustration. Never one to let a good thing pass him by, Dree’jin had stolen a small amount of blood from the dead avatar, not entirely sure how it would be useful. Hakkar’s blood was exactly what Dree’jin required to streamline the imprisonment of the one hundred and eleven spirits he required. The Soulflayer was possessed of an endless hunger for souls, and even his blood shared this – it drew wandering souls to it like iron filings to a lodestone. Now, the blood was boiled down, and crystalised to small, fragile blood shards, capable of drawing forth and capturing lost souls. Every warlock in the Modas il Toralar’s strikeforce was equipped with one of these blood shards – Aziel, Vincent, Malthaes, Donovann and Dree himself. Tonight, there would be a great slaughter, and many souls would be torn from their bodies. With every death, the warlocks would capture the souls of the slain. Dree’jin would have his energy source in no time at all.

The Toralites struck Theramore with no recourse to stealth or pretense. Everything that stood in their path was destroyed. The troll giggled as Kunlokku raged about, a half-eaten sailor caught in the bear’s jaws. The amount of fel magic being released in such a high amount, and in such a short space of time, made the very air thick with shadow and the stink of hellfire. The warlocks gathered, and began to chant. The fabric of reality distorted and strained beneath the power of their summoning, threatening to unravel. Meteors of green flame and molten rock hurled downwards from the Nether, pummelling the human’s keep, crushing people and structures alike, setting fire to anything flammable. From the crater rose a small army of infernals under the control of the Modas il Toralar. Nowhere was safe – the Toralites swept through the entire keep methodically. Corpses were strewn about the courtyard, the blacksmithy, the stables, the training grounds, the docks. Screams of terror and suffering filled the night.

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Theramore was little more than a wall enclosing a firey pit of death and destruction. And yet, the Toralites were not satisfied. It was simplicity itself to capture a vessel and, with the crew firmly in check, the strike force set sail for Menethil Harbour. Upon the eastern continent, the Toralites met with resistance in the form of the huntresses Tyrynna and Lupetia, a surprisingly stoic and relentless dwarf shaman, Brenri, a goggled human mage and several others. Once more, the warlocks gathered on the docks, and began to summon forth a battalion of demonic might. The infernals smashed against the docks and rose under the command of their masters. The Modas il Toralar directed the demons against the Alliance, and in formation, the demons thundered toward the dwarven settlement.

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Dree’jin was pleased. He was certain that the blood shards would be brimming with souls, which was just as well, because the Alliance were beginning to gather more reinforcements. The Toralites chose a pier to defend and pushed back several more waves of Alliance aggression. Dree and Aziel shared a look. ‘Summon a portal, now.’ The Forsaken hissed impatiently. But it was too late – before the troll knew what was happening, Brenri, the little shaman, landed in their midst seemingly from nowhere, and blasted the troll with a wave of electricity. Dree’jin was launched into the air, barely conscious, to splash into the ocean. The terrible cold of the water brought the troll back to his senses, or at least enough to enchant himself with the ability to breathe underwater. The troll was dazed, bleeding from at least half a dozen minor wounds, but most importantly, he had what he needed. Dree’jin swam downward into the dark ocean, away from his fellow Toralites, and activated his hearthstone. Already his thoughts were focussed upon the next stage of his ritual. What had transpired in Theramore and Menethil was nothing compared to what the troll had in mind.

Night had fallen on the streets of Stormwind and the bustling of the Trade District had given place to a more quiet, relaxed scene. On one of her walks, Senjhylh stopped by the Weapon shop, picking up her weapons she had previously left an hour or so before for maintenance; "An occasional third-party weapon-sharpenin' can't do any wrong." she thought aloud.

Her armor was still bearing a few marks from her fight in Menethil, repelling the Modasi forces from the Alliance soil. Glancing a moment at her breastplate she reminisced with deep emotions the moment she struck Aziel as he was summoning Light-knows-what. A wide grin spread across the youngish elf maiden's face as she jumped mid-air in glee. "How fun that was! Real, straightforward evil shenanigan-ing wretched souls in front of me and my blades... you can't even second-guess yourself!" Her eyes sparkling with ever-growing bliss and excitement, she had be struck by quite the bug. Still vibrating with the same intensity as she walked out the shop, her walking pace was suddenly broken by a thought; an idea, of some sort.

"I should show some gratitude, tell someone concerned by today's events how grateful I am for their actions." She nodded to herself with strange seriousness.

--

As she made it back to the Ocheliads' tower, she hastily made it to her room and sat at her desk, quill and inkwell not too far from hand. She penned.

"To his Lordship Aziel V'Ghera.

I do hope this letter makes it to you in good health. It is not everyday that I take the time to write to people, even to the people I hold dear to me in my life. But in the light of the events that took place in Theramore and Menethil not too long ago, I came to the conclusion that time spent writing this letter would be a kind and honest gesture, one of gratefulness that could verily be appreciated; so I took the time to write you, with these feelings in my heart.

I wanted to thank you. For making the lines between the endlessly wretched and foul, and the honor-abiding and the more versed in what defines "good", less blurry. It makes the "job" of deciding whether to kill or not -very- easy and the actual fighting ever more enjoyable. The hunt now boils the blood in my veins with ever-growing excitement.

On a sidenote, I think the choice of Menethil Harbor as secondary raid plan was poor; I understand there were no other way to get back to the Eastern Kingdoms than to hijack the boat that leads there (unless using a portal), but wrecking what's already been wrecked doesn't quite strike fear and despair in our hearts. However, I commend you on a job well done in Theramore. A pity I wasn't there to crush your and your minions' skulls at that moment, but I hear some damage was done still. It eases my bleeding heart.

Again, thank you for making my life easier and more exciting. Please do provide us with more bloodbaths soon.

Sincerely,

Sensanee Senjhylh."

It was done. Hopefully in due time, her feelings would be conveyed.

There was a knock at the door. 'Come in.' Fernand said in the monotonous tone of one well accustomed to people wandering in and out of his office at all times of the day and night. A rather thin orc with the nubbed tusks of the peon caste came into the dusty office hesitantly. Over his shoulder, he carried a very full looking satchel, and in his hand was an envelope.

'I have a letter.' The peon grumbled, glancing everywhere but at the Forsaken behind the desk.

'I should hope so. You are the courier, after all.'

'No, no, a letter...for Lord V'Ghera. I didn't know what to do with it, so ... ' The peon gingerly held it out to Fernand.

Fernand raised an eyebrow, and took the envelope, relieving the courier of his burden. The peon scrambled out of the office, bumping into a filing cabinet on the way out. Fernand had to admit that he was equally unsure of what to do with this letter - writing directly to Lord V'Ghera was unheard of. Even Fernand did not write directly to Lord V'Ghera. It was simply not the done thing: as absurd as writing to Garrosh Hellscream and inviting the orc warlord to a tea party. Fernand quickly scanned the letter itself and failed to pick up any keywords that would be of interest to the nobleman, such as 'unconditional surrender' or 'mutual agreement' or 'betray the Alliance'.

'Wonderful, that makes this a good deal easier to deal with.' Fernand muttered to himself. He stood stiffly, several joints cracking, and deposited the letter in a filing cabinet. 'Inviting Garrosh to a tea party.' The Forsaken man smiled primly to himself and returned to his business, ludicrous images of Garrosh sitting at a tiny table with a pink tea cup in hand parading across his mind.

(( Boromir: 'One does not simply...write to Aziel V'Ghera.' ))

The next afternoon, leaflets began to hit the streets of Stormwind, Ironforge, Darnassus, and the Exodar. Boys and girls of appropriate races stood on the curbs and beside major thoroughfares, shouting "Extra, extra! Read all about it!" The leaflets read as follows:

Attack on the Harbors!

THE WETLANDS -- Members of the ruthless Horde organization Modas il Toralar brutally attacked the ports of Theramore Isle and Menethil Harbor on the evening of March 3. Reports have it that they landed on the docks of Theramore and began picking off the isolated guards and officials until the greater force of Theramore marines arrived. Driven off of Jaina Proudmoore's fortress island by the guards, at least two dozen Hordies hijacked a ship across the ocean, in hopes of finding a softer target.

But they would be disappointed. They were met in the harbor itself by a hastily-assembled resistance force, led by the Worgen of the Night, Lluchduu Ocheliad, and the Azure Crusade. Beaten beyond endurance, those Modas who survived scattered and fled to parts unknown. Among them in particular, Dreejin, a trollish mass-murderer, left his companions to die at the hands of the superior Alliance force.

Luptia Silverfang, alpha worgen of the Worgen of the Night, was understandably proud of her people's performance. Still, she preferred to maintain modesty. "I'm just here to aid my allies," Silverfang said. "I do what I can."

Unfortunately, not everyone who was injured or killed at Menethil Harbor was a Horde member or even a soldier. According to AAMS courier (and, we will note, principled pacifist) Spriggel Lockbolton, a number of dockhands and civilians were seriously injured or murdered.

"I definitely saw the Modas tabard," Lockbolton said. "They were not responsive at all to talking. I tried to catch the attention of several, to no avail. Leaders, even some of the peons, none would parlay with me."

It was no language barrier preventing peace talks, though. "I tried my best Orcish and elfish, but they wouldn't listen. I think I counted three sevenses of them."

Afterwards, those who had not been able to aid in the fight were visibly shaken and disturbed by the unprovoked savagery they had witnessed. Captain Stoutfist, the chief of the defensive forces, had this to say: "We're always ready for the Horde to come busting into our town, especially now that we're fighting the elements as well as the Horde. But the help of our trusted friends across the Alliance is always welcome."

(This is an excerpt from the coming Vigilant Times, a newspaper that will be available Monday! Be sure to pick up a copy to read stories like this and more, and to see exciting photographs from all over the world!)

((Even Thel wouldn't invite Garrosh to a tea party. >.> ))

03/04/2012 01:32 PMPosted by Dreejin

(( Boromir: 'One does not simply...write to Aziel V'Ghera.' ))

03/04/2012 12:45 PMPosted by Argustus

'Inviting Garrosh to a tea party.' The Forsaken man smiled primly to himself and returned to his business, ludicrous images of Garrosh sitting at a tiny table with a pink tea cup in hand parading across his mind.

((Now, there's a disturbing mental image I'll never quite be able to get rid of...xD Brilliant!))

(( Wait...tea party. That's a much better idea! Thanks guys! ))

Failure. A stain of honor. It darkens a warriors name. The biggest failure makes one forever cast out. Grymm strolled the columned halls of Modas Il Toralar. He had failed in his duties, had been captured as leader of the Black Hand Society. That leadership was stripped. No leader would fail and be captured. Slaves had been exchanged for his release. This would be a bitter word in the mouth of any who claim honor. Here, alone, Grymm only smiled.

Failure had shifted attention away from him. His duties as leader of the Black Hand where stripped. He was now free. His plan to set the board of players in motion had been splendid. He was no longer on this games board. He was in the place he had manipulated to be. Free to pursue his ambition.

To the far north lays the key. The key to all power. The players on the board would plot and counter and strike each other never seeing the game. While true power would sit and wait to those above the game to claim it. Grymm would speak again the word of failure. For it truly was a word that had strength. Failure would not be his brand. Power honored the bold the unflinching. Grymm had learned well the lessons from his creator and his lieutenants. Now he would freely stride unnoticed to the key of Azorath.