Character: Bonelord Maraad, Champion of the Scourge.
Sun rose over the Azuremyst Isles, sprinkling light over the blueish vegetation. But upon closer inspection, one could notice something wrong. Between and beneath the trees, the grass was dying and the ground itself was corrupted with evil magic. The same magic seeped through the ground and into the trees which were losing their leaves and their colour en masse. Then one could notice the sources of all this in the distance – the Scourge. Meat wagons and dozens of ghouls and other corrupted corpses ravaged the forest on their path, going straight for one of the last remaining lights of hope on this Azeroth. The Exodar, once a wing of the Tempest Keep, now the refuge for some of the last defenders of Azeroth – most of whom ironically were not from this planet. They were the draenei – stalwart in their belief in the Light and the last to fall to the onslaught of the Scourge. But not all of them are still clinging to that last hope. Some were broken, lost. Even the greatest heroes of their civilization began to fall apart. And this paragon of the draenei was one of the first to fall.
The descent into Azjol-Nerub went fairly smoothly. I fully expected some troubles to crop up – some leftover undead Nerubians, maybe evil living Nerubians worshiping Yogg-Saron, maybe something else of the multiple evils that lie in the unexplored parts of that forgotten kingdom. But no, everything went swimmingly. The most trouble we met so far was a couple of bats and spiders, nothing the group of 10 people couldn’t handle. This Xarthat guy kept leading us deeper and deeper, and it was only getting darker and damper. Really, I’m a bird, I was made for open skies and trees not for cramped, nearly airless corridors. It was a slow and painful torture.
So I almost died. Or actually died and then came back, depending on your point of view. It was an odd sensation. When that undead plunged the sword through me, I was overcame with great pain but only for a brief moment. Very quickly everything went dark and the next thing I remember was a sudden influx of warmth, the kind I haven’t felt since we entered Northrend. All the wounds were mended and I was able to get back on my feet. That Argent Crusade leader guy was standing around and making some lecture but I wasn’t paying attention. Just nested in a corner and looked around. Verroak was scared like a little hatchling. I’m not surprised. But I haven’t seen him like that since he left his second wife.
So that whole “dumping the dwarves to seek it on our own” thing didn’t exactly work out. When we stepped out of the ship and met some of the friendly vrykul there, subjects of King Aurgelmir, son of Ymiron who took over after his death, the dwarves claimed they are still not absolutely sure where to go and must first check some of the clues they had before. What they did know for sure was that we had to go Dragonblight, and from there, we would look for further clues as to where the artifacts could have been buried. It was undoubtedly a great mystery but if you knew just the right people, you could find out almost anything. So we continued through the Howling Fjord, among the corposes of giant iron monstrosities Loken created in this timeline, and towards Grizzly Hills and Dragonblight.