This Chapter almost didn't happen on time... I had to rush about at the last minute because of various IRL things getting in the way of writing (pesky things like my Birthday, Renn Faire, and setting up a new computer) but I can happily say that it was made to work, although I wouldn't recommend writing 7 pages in one day on anyone, unless your that special kind of broken inside that I apparently am when push comes to shove. We draw ever nearer to the Cataclysm, but there are several important things left to address before that. In the meantime, Read and Review, and as always, please enjoy the chapter! ~F

Chapter 189

Rifts

Malfurion could not help but grin at the wild look of rage and anger that crossed his hated foe's face as they cornered him once again. The druids of the pack were as ferocious as they were during the War of the Satyr so many years ago. They tore into the ranks of Xavius' minions, both in worgen and Night Elf form, weapons, claws, and fangs ravaging even the Fel empowered hides of the Legion sycophants.

"It matters little," He blustered, waving his claws threateningly as Remus and Malfurion approached, "My victory draws near!"

"Not likely," the Worgen Archdruid said, swinging around the Scythe of Elune and releasing a blast of lunar energy, scorching Xavius' far deeper than any attack had before this time.

In that moment, Malfurion understood that the Satyr's physical form had been destroyed, leaving this as the last remnant of his body, and finally rendering him vulnerable.

"Curse you Goldrinn," Xavius snarled, recognizing the fury pouring through the weapon, "I will destroy you after I deal with Ysera and these fools…"

"Bold of you to think that you'll even reach the Dreamer," Malfurion said, before shape-changing into the form of Ursoc, his antlered head crashing into the midsection of the Satyr. Xavius was clearly not expecting the level of pain and damage, so confident in his supposed immortality here in the Dream, gasped as he was forced backward, putting more distance between him and the floating fortress of the Green Dragonflight.

The corrupted Night Elf finally grasped that his physical form was destroyed, and his natural cowardice won out. Even as the guardians of the Dream closed in from all sides, and a host of Yesera's children arrived from the floating island, the Satyr Lord vanished in a swirl of shadow magic, his flight from the battlefield so hasty that Malfurion was able easily to pinpoint where he had fled to.

What disquieted him about it was the massive swirl of dark energy that was pooling around the Moonglade's echo, a whirling maelstrom that promised destruction and nothing more if it was permitted to grow out of control.

"We must follow, and end Xavius' plans," he said to the Worgen, who nodded.

With a thunderous crash, Lady Yesera landed among them, the Dreamer bathing them all in the peace and calm of how the Emerald Dream ought to be. "We are with you Malfurion, and we will see the end of Xavius' threat on our world."

Taking shape once more, Malfurion took to the air, even as the Worgen surged through the enchanted trees after the flight of dragons.

Suddenly, their chances against Xavius felt must stronger than Malfurion had felt for many years of captivity.

…The Stormreaver…

Sylvanas finally felt prepared for the next stage of her scheme to get revenge on the Dark Horde.

From the Forsaken's new stronghold in the now fortified former city of Stratholme, the newly raised ranks of their Forsaken warriors being marshaled into a fighting force that was not only reserve from those at the Undercity, but highly expendable.

Additionally, their control through into the Western Plaguelands meant that they held a perfect line across the top of the Eastern Kingdoms, allowing the Forsaken to push downward into any of the lands surrounding Arathi and attack in ways and directions that for a long time had been denied them.

Ships, build in secret off the north coast of Tirisfal Glades would enable them at last to try and challenge the supremacy of the Dark Horde on the western coastline, while stolen technology from their goblin 'allies,' gave the Forsaken more options in air transport and combat.

Their alchemists and apothecaries were now well situated in Caer Darrow, and from Scholomance they were able to craft and refine their plagues without threat to the rest of the Forsaken, and eliminating their presence from where the other Horde members would frequent reduced the chances of their own allies becoming overly involved in what the Forsaken were concocting for their counterparts in the middle of the continent.

The Sin'dorei were constantly occupied with reinforcing their own lands, and trying to rebuild Silvermoon and Eversong to its former glory to be concerned with what their neighbors were focused on, so long as nothing came to threaten their people, which Sylvanas was keen to prevent as long as possible. Their closer union with the Blood Elves was something that the Banshee Queen only wanted to make use of when absolutely necessary, a trump card against the strange magic of the Dark Horde to use at a pivotal moment, and no sooner.

The fact that the Dark Horde was allied with the Amani trolls sealed their union against them, as the Blood Elves would be under constant threat of reprisal so long as the Dark Horde would support the Amani's desire for revenge.

Sylvanas would leverage that when the time was right, and combined with the Magister's fascination with the strange inborn magic of the higher ups of the Dark Horde, these humans from another world, they would be more than motivated to devise means to counter their magic and steal away one of their clear advantages over the other factions.

But every offensive needed a first strike, and the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken had one that would be utterly devastating to the living, and cripple whatever advantages that the Dark Horde thought they had, hidden behind their walls and defenses. Darrowmere River fed into the underground streams that gave the Arathi Basin its fertility, and therefore was a massive weakness that the Forsaken could abuse, now that they controlled the origin of the river in the Plaguelands.

The fact that the river had withstood the blight this long was a testament to its resilience, or the blessings of the Light that protected it. But with a concentrated form of the Forsaken's plague being routinely dumped directly into the water, it wouldn't take long before the entirety of the river was polluted and rendered unusable to anything living.

It was a shame that it would destroy the Basin, and all the farmland of the Highlands, but the Forsaken would endure without that. The ores and minerals alone from the mines would be sufficient for their needs to march southward and press the assault as the Dark Horde was forced to withdraw to their mountain fortress of Blackrock.

Meanwhile, Nathanos had been returned to Silverpine, and given full reign to fight as he saw fit, a bounty placed upon the pelt of every worgen found and killed. Even the living members of the Horde had come to see about making a sizable amount of gold for what they supposed was a trivial task.

Unfortunately, progress in that direction had slowed to a crawl. The Worgen had grown significantly more cunning in recent days, and stayed out of sight until the Horde forces were at their weakest, and the strike hard and fast at supply lines and wounded forces.

Between the Worgen, and the push against the Greymane wall, the Forsaken in that region were hard pressed to maintain their hold on the Sepulcher and even the gateway into Tirisfal. Nathanos had suggested a dire tactic, one that Sylvanas herself had only threatened previously, but the thought of literally smoking out the Worgen by igniting the trees from their entrance southward would be a permanent solution.

The fact that the forest itself, probably through a wild druid among the worgen, had started to fight against the Forsaken as they started this operation made the going slow. Despite that, they were making progress back toward the entrance to Hillsbrad.

In the midst of all of this, Sylvanas would have expected more involvement from Kalimdor, and Thrall, to try and counter her moves against the Dark Horde, but apparently the training of his successor was overly consuming the Shaman's thoughts, and there had been little word from across the sea to so much as request updates of their status, let alone orders for them to prepare for any longstanding threats to the survival of the Horde as a whole.

If she were the type to actually care, the Banshee Queen would have been off put by the lack of communication, which was definitely unlike Thrall. But if it meant that she had more time to move unobserved, she would capitalize on that rather than draw attention to herself by complaining about the sudden out of character silence from Orgrimmar and the Horde leadership.

With any luck, the next missive she received would be undersigned by Garrosh Hellscream, Warchief of the Horde, rather than Thrall.

…The Stormreaver…

Remus could still feel the rage of the wolf spirit thrumming through the Scythe of Elune.

Thundering through the Dream in the wake of the bird-form of Malfurion, as well as the vanguard of green dragons, he knew that they were stalking their prey to his final holdout. There would be no more retreating for the satyr from this point. He would be destroyed at last, and they would return to the waking world.

Crashing through layers of undergrowth, the werewolf druid could sense the closeness of his prey, of Goldrinn's enemy, and the lust to resume the fight renewed itself again in his veins. But he would not be controlled again, and Remus clamped down his own will against the unmitigated hatred. Long had this wild spirit raged against the Satyrs, those that had caused his followers to be locked away, and shunned from the society that they had given their control to protect.

Now, at last, they were given a new chance to prove themselves as the defenders of Azeroth that they longed to be. The same hum of blood and battle surged through every worgen, new and old, that crashed behind him into the newest clearing.

The seemingly quiet Night Elf village would have been a tranquil place to live, had it not been for the infestation of countless Satyrs and their demonic minions. Xavius himself had retreated to the edge of the enormous lake in the center of the location, showering the waters with his befouling magic, and making the entirety of it ripple and darken with every passing moment.

The anger of Goldrinn pushing him onward, and the dragons swooping in to begin their own assault, Remus have no pause to initiate their attack, charging forward with the Scythe of Elune flashing outward, its curved blade edge cleaving the arm of the nearest demon. The surrounding trees erupted moments later with his army, as well as the other denizens of the Dream, all rushing headlong to battle.

"No more dreams!" the massive Satyr was saying as Remus and their forced closed in, "Only nightmares!"

"You will not have a chance to end the Dream!" Malfurion declared, reappearing in a rustle of feathers near to the Nightmare Lord.

Even as the worgen tore into the satyrs guarding their master, Remus barreled through their lines and charged at the alpha Satyr, lunar magic flaring off the Scythe of Elune as he tapped into the unlimited natural energy that flowed through the Dream.

Vines and roots erupted around Xavius, entangling his legs and forcing him to cease his spell casting into the pool and actually engage the two archdruids.

Malfurion charged, barreling headlong as the antlered bear, and leveraging his suddenly massive form against the claws of Xavius, even as Remus continued to hamper the mobility of the behemoth.

The green dragons swooped overhead, their emerald flames carving through lines of the satyrs while still leaving the wild vegetation intact, even as other forces started to break through the demon-tainted lines.

The bonds on the satyr lord grew stronger, and soon Xavius could do nothing but flail weakly as countless thorny vines and roots wrapped around him.

"You sought to bring the Nightmare to us, Xavius," Malfurion said, returning to his natural form, "But the only one who will taste of the Rift of Aln will be you."

The waters of the mirrored version of Lake Elune'ara swirled once more, opening like a gateway to a darkened abyss, even as the bonds of Xavius started to move, lifting the massive Satyr into the air to dangle over his future prison.

Only as his hated enemy was thrown in, and fell screaming into the darkness that seemed to have no end did Malfurion look into the dreadful abyss, and Remus chanced a glance in as well. It radiated with primeval energy, far older and unnerving than anything that the Archdruid had ever felt before felt.

Even looking at the endless tunnel, it was difficult to make out any specifics of the realm beyond, as though it itself was only partially manifested. The rest seemed to shift and change on a whim, and seemed ready to just fade out of existence altogether.

That was when Remus felt the spark of dread reach him from the depths. Something indeed was down there, some ancient evil that only had a name that he had heard from the dark witch Morgan le Faye: an Old God…

Curiously, its grip on that realm seemed to be tenuous at best, as though the being struggled to maintain any influence in the rift additionally to wherever else its presence was.

"We should seal this portal to the Rift, and forget all that currently lingers there…" Malfurion said, his own voice seeming as unnerved as Remus felt.

"With Xavius defeated, we can depart in victory," the Night Elf said, channeling power to cause the waters to close up over the tear between planes.

Personally, Remus wasn't sure if it was right to simply patch up the new prison and leave it at that. At the same time, thinking of the unnerving presence within the Rift, Remus could understand the lack of desire to plunge further into that corner of the Dream.

"The Green Dragonflight, along with the other inhabitants of the Dream, will see to the expunging of Xavius' remaining minions," the massive dragon said, landing with a small shudder among them.

"Thank you, Yesera," Malfurion replied, "We will go and see to the affairs of the waking world, and what had permitted so many of our druids to be stuck in the Dream to be captured by Xavius in the first place. I suspect some manner of treachery among my own people…"

Turning to Remus, the Night Elves continued, even as the dragons took to the air, "I fear that something is direly amiss, and it may be some time before we meet on the other side of the Dream, but know that I am indebted to you. And the Kaldorei do not forget their debts."

Remus bowed his head in acknowledgement, "I do not know where or how you will have opportunity for such, but I will never say no to aid gladly given."

"Until that future time then," Malfurion said, even as his form started to shimmer and fade, "I will be good to stretch and breath the real world's air again…"

Then he was gone.

With the Night Elf departed, the welcoming sense of the Dream started to wane, as though the land itself was tired of mortals wandering its pathways, and Remus felt himself and his people, the Druids of the Pack, urged to depart for the emerald gateway from which they had entered.

He had not planned to swell the ranks of his worgen in this effort, merely to stop the plots of the wolf cult and Fenrir Greyback, but they would be welcome assets when the other werewolf decided to try to retake control of the pack.

"Let us return," he said, starting back for their new homeland.

…The Stormreaver…

Garrosh couldn't help but feel a roiling disquiet in his gut as he and Med'an made their way southward, traveling speedily through the Barrens toward Duskwallow Marsh, and the waiting human community that already knew of his imminent arrival.

He knew of the Lady Proudmoore and her close connections to Warchief Thrall. He normally would have scorned such a relationship, but upon closer and more thoughtful inspection he understood the tactical and important diplomatic need for such things.

The Horde as a whole could not survive by conquering Azeroth. They had tried that once before, at the beginning, and it had backfired completely, starting a downward spiral that almost had ended in the destruction of their people multiple times.

What he knew was that he wanted some manner of positive relationship with the Sorceress, even if it was more neutral than her friendly relationship with Thrall. The Horde benefitted too much with their friendship with Theramore, and their connections through to the Alliance back in the Eastern Kingdoms.

Threats such as the Lich King, the Burning Legion, and even the Dark Horde potentially would be far more manageable if they worked together, rather than constantly trying to one up each other along the way.

Whether the woman was amiable to such a thing was the true question. Med'an was confident that it would be a great experience for Garrosh, regardless of the inevitable outcome, but the Mag'har was more hesitant. There were many things that he had both said and done, in his former arrogance, many of which may have soured any attempt at him establishing positive relations with the other factions, and he would have to own those difficulties and work to undo the damage that they may have caused.

More than his personal disquiet was the larger event going on in Kalimdor. Carine had disappeared with warriors to quell a centaur uprising in the Thousand Needles, and had not returned in over a week's worth of time, and most of their escort south would continue onward to try and find what had happened to the old bull.

To say he was worried was an understatement. Garrosh had grown quite fond of the nurturing nature of the Tauren leader, even if their rocky relationship had not been as smooth as one could hope. If anything had happened to him, Garrosh was not sure if the Horde would ever be the same.

"We're nearly there," Med'an said, even as the pair of them turned off to the Duskwallow Marshes, letting the others spur themselves ahead down the Gold Road. There was a place set aside, according to Med'an, where they could safely have their wolves taken care of, and continue on foot to Theramore proper.

It made sense, as the humans had little knowledge in the care of war wolves, and the large beasts might frighten many of them.

Still, even as they approached the walls of the island city, the looks they received were not what Garrosh expected. True, there were plenty of hesitant looks and the occasional glare, but most of the people of the city seemed perfectly at ease with their presence, which was extremely jarring for Garrosh.

As they crossed through a small market, Garrosh was startled by the extreme normality of it. Aside from the different style and the people that filled it, the same feeling and businesses would have not be unusual in Orgrimmar, or even back on Outland.

There was a shout, and Garrosh reacted, catching a tumbling stack of crates as they were about to tip over in front of him, the crops inside marked with the seal of Stormwind. The shopkeeper came running moments later, and together the orc and human steadied the stack of crates so that they would not fall again. Garrosh was profusely thanked, and even given one of the large red fruit that were more plentiful on the Eastern Kingdoms: an apple.

Nodding in thanks for the gift, he took a bite, relishing the natural sweetness that simple was not present in the crops of the Horde, even as they turned their way toward the center of the city, and the tower that rose over the entire area.

Waiting for them at the entrance to the Sorceress' abode was the elderly matron that he recalled seeing often at the side of Proudmoore. "Welcome home grandson," she said, embracing Med'an gently, before addressing Garrosh. "Welcome Garrosh, son of Grom."

Recognizing the fact of who this woman was, and the heritage that Med'an commanded through the human Medievh, he nodded his head in respect. "I thank you," he said simply.

"You may store your weapons and gear inside, first rooms on the left hand hallway. Lady Proudmoore will receive you in the central room, as will her other guests." The woman continued, gesturing for the indicated hallway.

Rather than some back cupboard or storeroom, Garrosh was surprised to find fully furnished guestrooms, with stands and racks for their equipment to be secured with respect, rather than dumped on the floor or leaned against a wall.

Hefting Gorehowl, Garrosh gently settled it onto the wall mounted holder, only momentarily feeling the weakness that being unarmed gave him, before a warmth flooded the room. Turning, he saw the old woman had not left, but was sparking up a fire in the hearth. "These two rooms do get chilly at night, even on warm days," she explained, "it helps to have the fire going to keep the temperature up when you need it. I've heard through Lady Proudmoore that orcs tend to prefer warmer environments."

"It is true, most of our homelands are very warm, but we do not mind the cold if it is needed." Garrosh said, thinking of the Frostwolves, Thrall heritage clan. They had lived in the icy mountains of both Draenor of old and Azeroth.

Everything he had brought stored, and clad in only clean linen garments and leather boots, Garrosh followed the woman up the tower to a large sitting room, where the others awaited.

Lady Proudmoore rose to greet him, while another family of humans, two men, a woman, a young boy, and an even younger girl, watched as the Sorceress approached. "Welcome Garrosh," she said, "I hope the trip to Theramore was not too wearisome."

"No, not at all…" he said, caught off guard by the warmth of the welcome. Med'an appeared, and the little female child bolted from her mother for the part-orc.

"Dan…dan!" she said happily, her speech not fully formed yet. The girl seized the hand of the powerful spell caster, and practically dragged Med'an toward a nearby seat, speaking nonstop as they went.

"I fear that I am wholly out of my depths here," Garrosh admitted, hoping that honesty would help to ease any concerns that Lady Proudmoore might feel towards him.

"Simple enough of a place to start," she said, gently leading him to the circle of seats and chairs, "Come and meet the others that are here on vacation."

A few of the humans Garrosh new by sight, although he had never been properly introduced to Lords Lucius and Draco Malfoy, nor had he ever met their wife and mother, Narcissa, nor their little one, Aurora. The final guest was an even greater surprise.

"Anduin Wrynn, Prince of Stormwind," the young boy said, blond hair bouncing as he looked Garrosh up and down in quiet admiration. "Is it true that you are designated to be the next Warchief of the Horde?" he blurted, before flushing at the forthrightness of his question.

Even the idea of that mantle on his shoulders was overpowered by the bright innocence of the boy in front of him, and Garrosh couldn't help but smiling at the mirth and light that the young Prince gave off in waves. There was no judgment here, only honest curiosity and a desire to understand, much as what had brought Garrosh here in the first place.

"That's what I've been told…" Garrosh said quietly, "Although to be truthful, I don't know if people will be happy with me leading the Horde…"

The boy frowned, thinking, before he said something that even Garrosh paused at, "My father always says that a king is only as noble as the cause he serves… I am sure that the Warchief of the Horde must fulfill a similar role…"

Garrosh found himself musing over the words, even as the conversation turned away and the young Prince was distracted by the Malfoy family once more. What cause did he wish to serve? Once, not so long ago, he would have said making sure that his people, the orcs, were able to thrive. But now, his views had been massively broadened, and the needs of the Horde as a whole laid bare to him. What cause could bring them all together, keep them safe and strong, but not turn them into aggressors against the rest of the world?

The words resounded again and again in his mind for the rest of the evening, and while he was able to make pleasant conversation and listen to the stories of the humans and their struggles, he silently felt himself already having profited immensely from the first hours of this meeting.

…The Stormreaver…

Moira was haunted by what she had seen, in the magic of memory that Nobu'tan of the Dark Horde had forced into her mind.

She knew her people were not happy to have to make any concessions, but at this time, she realized to her own disgust that they had not really acknowledged her rule over them, nor the legitimacy of her son either.

The Dark Irons wanted to fight against anyone that they thought was an enemy, and she was starting to suspect that they hoped to pull Ironforge into a war with the Dark Horde, and userp Ironforge from under the Bronzebeard's nose.

That, she would not allow. Angry at her father she might have been, but blood was still blood, and she would not let the people of her birth suffer because of the anger of those she had married into.

Therefore, she followed the admonition of Velen to the letter, and sent scouts to spy out Grim Batol, and prepare the way for the Dark Horde to clear the former Wild Hammer stronghold. Meanwhile, she would request of her father a messenger to the Aerie Peak, to inform the Wildhammer of the situation, and request their blessing for the Dark Irons to take their lost fortress as their new home. She wanted no more war between the dwarves, and if they could take Grim Batol without causing a new rift in the clans, then all might settle at last.

Returning to Ironforge with all speed, Moira could only think of how she wanted to see her son right now, and take comfort in the boy's innocence. It had done much to mend their relationship for her father to spend time with the young dwarf lad, and Moira had allowed much of her former anger to simmer, especially as she had learned about the old dwarf's change of heart regarding females.

There now was a full detachment of female royal guards that cared for her and her son's every need. And that was not some token show, everywhere she looked in Ironforge, men and women worked side by side in all walks of life at last, and truer equality seemed to be a very real thing in Ironforge.

"Perhaps my husband's sacrifice was worth it, in the end…" she said, more to herself than anyone around her, as she thought of the reunion of the dwarves as a people.

Her return to the royal palace was rather uneventful, so focused was her mind before she entered the private quarters for the family of the King. And her father was not alone with her son, but the smaller dwarf with his rustic hat and worn clothing was a well known face from Moira's youth, "Uncle Brann, so good to see you," she said, embracing the renowned explorer of the dwarves.

"Moira, you've returned from Stormwind then," her father said, a note of reservation in his tone. Moira felt that it was fair. Long had he withheld his tongue and opinion about her actions, and those of her people, wishing nothing more than to relish the time with their family reunited, and she had clearly put him through a great deal of turmoil and pain, trying to use her blood relation to pit him against those allies that he considered like family.

"Yes… and we have found a compromise," she announced, surprising her father.

"A compromise?" Brann said, confused.

"With the assistance of the Prophet Velen, as arbiter, the Dark Irons and the Dark Horde will work together to free the former Dwarven fortress of Grim Batol, in order for the Dark Irons to have a home for themselves. We will then depart from Ironforge, although I have been given freedom to come and go at your will. The Dark Irons however, are barred from reentering Alliance territory until formal appeals for joining the Alliance are made and ratified." She explained.

"And how do the Dark Irons feel about this?" Magni asked, hesitantly.

"They will take a deal of convincing," Moira said, subdued, "but I hold out hope in the long run, that once more we may have all dwarves united under the banner of the Alliance, side by side as they ought to have been so long ago…"

"I do not know what change has come over you, daughter," the King said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "but I have faith that if anyone can withstand the stubbornness of the Dark Irons, it will be you."

"But enough about me and my problems," Moira said, wanting to change to a brighter topic, "Brann, what are you doing here, you typically don't come back unless there's a big find in your adventures…" she said, smirking at the look that her uncle gave her.

"You know me too well, niece," Brann said, already moving to a table where a large, broken, tablet of stone rested in three pieces. "This tablet was found in the depths of Ulduar, and it's written in the language of the Earthen, the original forms of the dwarves long ago before the curse of flesh turned our forefathers into the original dwarves."

"Fascinating," Magni said, looking over the tablet, "I suppose the Explorer's League will take a deal of time to translate this, and we might have another valuable piece of Dwarven history."

"For the totality, yes, but I did do some preliminary translations," Brann said, "and it speaks of how dwarves can become one with the mountain once more, connecting with the earth and our heritage."

The three dwarves pondered for a moment what the ancient language could possibly mean.

…The Stormreaver…

Lucius was certainly concerned by the presence of the brown orc from the Kalimdor Horde. That was aside from the fact that he seemed to be genuine in his earnest desire to experience the mindsets of the other races.

Still, he was not appreciative of the fact that it was here, with his wife and daughter, when Lady Proudmoore had decided to test the restraint of the orc and the extent of his earnestness. What was more, the woman seemed to want to press the issue, and make it apparent of their affiliation with the Dark Horde, which was well known to be a sore point with the hot-headed future leader of the Kalimdor Horde.

"So I hear that Nobu'tan is still having difficulties with the Dark Iron Dwarves," Jaina said casually, and the visible stiffening of Hellscream instantly put Lucius on edge.

He felt the wand in his sleeve, ready and willing to appear and strike down the orc if the case needed, but the orc merely huffed. "I figure that everywhere the warlock turns, there is someone or something that wishes to pit itself against him and his aims…"

"Indeed," Draco said slowly, also keenly aware of the temperament of the other guest of Lady Proudmoore, "The Dark Irons have been a thorn in the side of the Dark Horde for several years, but only recently have they started trying to instigate a full blown war between the factions."

"They will fail…" Garrosh said flatly, mildly surprising even Lucius with the definitiveness fo the statement.

When he realized all eyes were on him, the orc at least had the grace to look abashed before continuing to explain, "as much as I may dislike the warlock for his heritage and power, there is no denying that he is an expert statesman, and the rules of warfare are clear. The Dark Horde won the mountain in direct conflict, and like it or not, the dwarves lost the war. They have to challenge for the mountain in combat to win it back, and figuring from the Dark Horde's technology and allies, which would be something beyond their ability alone."

"However," Garrosh continued, leaning forward and started to be engaged with his own thoughts on the matter, "The Alliance, from what I've been told, is not allies with these dwarves, and therefore ought to have no reason to back their desire to cause a war on their own doorstep. It would be foolish for them to do so. If I commanded the forces that Nobu'tan had, the threat of war alone would be enough to cause any potential enemies from sanely challenging me, and I would make a showing of that power to make certain that everyone was aware of that fact…"

"That is a very astute observation," Jaina said, agreeing with Garrosh's view, "However I feel that in recent days, Nobu'tan would not want to antagonize his neighbors, so soon after multiple major conflicts far from their homelands. Many of the world leaders are tired of losing soldiers and warriors to these conflicts so quickly…"

The orc seemed to consider the point, "It does make sense," he said at last, "and it is true that the Dark Horde has borne the brunt of many of these attacks and fighting."

"Father tried to keep some information from me," Anduin piped up, from where he was with Med'an and Aurora, "There was apparently a meeting between the Dark Irons for right after we left for Theramore, along with the Prophet Velen…"

"Could the King have been trying to find a solution without allowing the Alliance to go to war?" Narcissa said, looking between Lucius and their son.

"It's possible…" Draco said, "He did certainly want to wait until we were all away from Stormwind to do so…"

"Protection for his son, as well as those too close to the matter to be completely trusted to act rashly, perhaps…" Garrosh guessed, and while Lucius was not sure that the orc was fully correct in his guess, it was likely nearer to the truth than he liked to think.

"Knowing Lord Nobu'tan, if he was indeed summoned to Stormwind, there may have been cause to separate others, just in case something undesirable occurred."

"I'm fairly certain we would have learned of it fairly quickly should the worst have happened," Jaina replied, "No use in worrying until there is more information to worry about…"

"Dinner is prepared," Aegwynn stated from the doorway, still acting in the manner of a not-so-very humble servant, and Lady Proudmoore stood to lead them all from the sitting room.

Garrosh seemed at a loss as to why they were moving rooms, but Med'an gently steered him to follow the humans as they made their way to the dining room.

Regardless of the cultural difference, the love of food still seemed the universal factor, and in true Kul Tiran flair, Lady Proudmoore's cooks failed to disappoint. There was a healthy mix of seafaring and mainland dishes, as well as a few that Lucius heavily suspected were recipes from the Horde's locations, just in case it was too much for their extra guest and he wanted more familiar sustenance.

Hellscreams apparently feared little, however, and Garrosh pointed chose to pile a small helping over everything to offer, sampling gingerly with the utensils which were arguable too small to the large brown hands. None of them made any mention of it, and Anduin was just as eager to try the food from the Horde's location, happily asking about them from the young Mag'har to learn about their background, and the ways that they were prepared.

Personally, Lucius felt that the salted pork was rather simple, if not filling and choice cuts of the meat notwithstanding. The garlic potatoes on the other hand were actually quite appealing, and he was mildly delighted to have found a similar root staple to the one that had had back on Terra.

Fish as a whole seemed not to be in the pallet of Hellscream, and while he grimaced at the first few samplings, he power through every helping he had claimed, giving full manner to not insult his host. That at the least, was something that Lucius could respect.

Whether Nobu'tan liked this Mag'har or not, Lucius could see that the orc was giving an effort to open his horizons, and that he may indeed be capable of growing into a wise and prudent leader. Whether that fell into the plans of the Dark Horde or not, Lucius couldn't be sure, but it seemed the hand fate had chosen to deal regardless of the desire of Nobu'tan or anyone else.

There could have been far worse options, given the other leaders of the Kalimdor Horde that might have vied for the rank of Warchief. Even the idea of the Banshee being in charge of the full might of the Horde sent a shiver silently up Lucius' spine. It didn't help that they were completely unaware of what she was currently up to, while all this fuss was happening around Blackrock Mountain and in Kalimdor.