Resistance-1 (Patreon)

Riding with Anessa atop her hippogriff was much more pleasant than being stuffed into the saddlebags with Nari. The conversation was better too, the elven girl a remarkable font of information about druids – witches in all but name, in Aderic's mind – despite not being one herself. Including utterly ludicrous customs that the kaldorei held to.

Of course, he couldn't simply try to stir up trouble within the gender-based caste system the kaldorei had established for his own fun...

But his lord's? Why, he was practically obligated to put thoughts into the young elf's head if Lord Renard would find it funny.

And he would. Immensely funny. "Women can't be druids? What utter rot." He dismissed with a scoff. "Why, the latest member of my lord's family is a young girl! Blessed with his form, that of the Maiden of Dusk, and even convinced the Pillar of the Wild to grant her its favour! Strongest witch in generations." Tutting loudly he shook his head, the girl couldn't see him but she could surely feel his disdain. "Were Samantha still alive she would give whoever came up with these rules a well-deserved smack upside the head."

Not even a lie, that. Samantha wouldn't care that it was a demigod or ten-thousand-year-old elf that had come up with the rules, she'd berate them all the same. She'd done it to the maiden once, when she was brooding.

Terrifying, but then Aderic knew exactly how far he could push his lord and when he could, just as she had. He already missed the old stubborn bird.

"Shan'do Stormrage has never taken any female students." She replied almost sulkily as she directed her hippgriff to turn and follow the wisps that marked their path; something he or Nari could have done, the girl's presence largely political. "Nor has Lord Cenarius, and all others follow their example. Women are expected to follow the example of High Priestess Tyrande, Warden Shadowsong, or General Feathermoon."

"Witches, or druids, are all about life." He argued gleefully, reaching around to poke her exposed belly meaningfully. "And they think they can ignore the lifegiving side of the things? As I have already said, what utter rot."

Balance was not achieved by discarding one half of the whole, abandoning the other to live alone for centuries at a time. There was a reason they had kept the tradition of Mingling even amongst the strictest times of separation.

She shook her head as she banked the hippogriff southward, towards the mountains. "Shan'do Stormrage and High Priestess Tyrande wouldn't have chosen this way without reason." She stated, though the lack of conviction for her words was clear enough. "They rebuilt our society to protect the world after the War of the Ancients."

"And they did a terrible job of it." Aderic replied casually. "Otherwise we wouldn't be here, having to warn you about the invasion of the Burning Legion more than a decade after they started trying again."

"Father said things have been... difficult in the Dream." She offered an excuse then shook her head again, and more vehemently this time. "Tell me about your home, this... Gilneas and the Order of Amber. Father will want to know when he wakes."

"Certainly." The seed had been planted. As much as stealing the girl, talented as she was, was worthwhile and would amuse Lord Renard, stealing the father would be of far greater benefit; a druid trained by Cenarius could do more than even little Gwyneth for improving their skills with the magic of Life. "The first thing you must understand is that we have been around, in one form or another for... oh, twelve thousand years or more? A witch is foremost an adviser and a guide to their people you see..."

-oOoOo-

Watching as his brother, the... paladin, mage-girl, and so many others gathered and poured over the great wound of licking Fel flames inflicted upon the genesaur-father Cenarius, Grom had never felt so tired. His blood was quiet, the rage he had drunk of so deeply was gone, and the power that he had claimed so greedily, thinking those that would not were cowards, was... missing.

Mannoroth. The demon that had damned their race – that he had willingly enslaved himself to so long ago – lay dead at his feet. At the feet of so many veterans, even Eitrigg of the Blackrock, who looked at the liquefying remains of the corpse with an air of disbelief.

A tree sprouted from it, drenched in blood and struggling to survive, but claiming the body of the Flayer as its food nonetheless.

The curse was broken. The blood haze had lifted. He was free; they were all free. And he could not even claim a fraction of this victory; he had been used, treated as a pawn, to strike down the demon's foes once again.

Gorehowl clattered to the ground as his hands went slack. It was those before him, humans and elves that had done the deed.

"The curse is fresh, fortunately." Proudmoore said calmly, her hands aglow with frosty energies as she bound the Fel-flames of Cenarius' wound in ice. "I may not have had practice dealing with this, Master was never willing to let me study curses directly, but I have read all the theory... now if I just– yes, there. Uther?"

His hand clad in shining Light the paladin broke off a piece of ice-encased flames and tossed them aside. The flames within still burned, and Grom bared his teeth at the sight. Even in death, the demon's power did not truly die.

"Keep washing the wound, Thrall." She continued without hesitation. "The purifying waters are preventing it from reclaiming ground..."

"I know how to heal, Proudmoore." He replied testily.

Taking another shard of frozen flames, the paladin aimed a glare at Thrall. "And this is not mere healing but the cleansing of a curse. Listen to those that offer their knowledge freely lest you wallow in ignorance.

Above them the genesaur shifted, his whip-fingered hand tracing a line along the now healthy part of his wound and sealing it shut, flesh knitting together – and the forest around him withering in equal measure. "Wise words, and I once more thank you for your aid. In time I may have gathered those needed to purge this evil from my own people..."

"But we don't have time." Proudmoore finished. "The undead are to the north, in Azshara; they wash down the Southfury river in great numbers and the demons will not be far behind. We have to make haste to Ashenvale and Hyjal..."

"And to the barrow dens before that. I must awaken the druids..."

Grom knew much of battle, even of waging true war, but he could make little of words he had no understanding of nor places he knows not at all. The forests to the north, the home of the... purple elves and their genesaurs. The foe he would have made if the paladin's words were correct – and they were.

The blood on Gorehowl's blade was as clear as the eagerness he had felt in his heart to cleave through them and leave only blood in his wake. To face a real foe and sate his hunger for battle.

They were excellent enemies. Fast, strong, clever – unlike the pathetic mewling humans he had hunted for years.

Yet with the blood haze lifted he could see the harm such a course would have caused his people. Had he invaded, cut down their homes, made an enemy in this land, then his little brother's dream may never have come to be.

He owed a debt. And that he did not enjoy.

When the healers finally finished tending to the genesaur-father's wounds he approached, hands held tightly at his side. "Why." He demanded of the paladin. "Why did you save me?" Why did one whom he had tormented, whom he had abused and mocked, whose charges he had slain, choose to save him?

Had the paladin killed him himself Grom would have not begrudged him it. They were enemies. Foes. One day he would die in battle, and that at least would be... worthy.

Turning to face him, the paladin, Uther, narrowed his gaze. "All who fight the demons are our allies." He said flatly, a glint of fury lurking below an iron will of his own. "No matter how distasteful they may be."

Grom grunted in dissatisfaction as Uther made to move past him. Though it answered his question, it was not what he needed to know.

"For many a year I have wondered if I made a mistake." Uther said, pausing once again. "My brother, who saved and spared an orc, aided their escape and allowed them to roam free, was banished for his deed. Was there truth in his words, that the orc held honour? That he was no blood-thirsty beast like so many others? I did not know. I tried to learn the answer and time and again was proven correct over my brother."

"Is Tirion well?" Eitrigg asked, overhearing their conversation. Uther, frowning, turned to him in clear confusion. "I am that orc. I saved his life, so he saved mine. He is my brother also, bound in blood and honour."

The confusion faded from the paladin, only to be replaced with some deep-seated regret. "I do not know. I fear he has fallen to the undead Scourge that claimed Lordaeron... but I will make amends for his banishment in time." Moving once again, he stepped close until he was chest to chest with Grom – his face inches from Grom's own.

Close enough that Grom could pry the paladin from that shell of steel he shrouded himself in. Crush his head like an overripe fruit.

But his hands hung limp, the piercing and shining blue eyes staring straight into his soul.

"I did not save you for you. I saved you for the sake of others, for the lives under my care; you fought the demon and so long as you did another would not take your place. It is for those that must be protected that I fight. Should you wish to be remembered as anything save the one who first drank the demon's blood, then it is your right to do so." As the paladin retreated Grom's nostrils flared in anger, a fleeting and guttering thing compared to the rage he once felt, but familiar all the same. "But redemption is not something easily earned. Lifetimes may be spent to make up for those your kind have slaughtered."

"Now, there are others that need my aid." Uther said, turning his back and marching away with the clatter of dented steel. "I am not yet spent."

The rage fled as quickly as it came, and Grom stared down at his hands with a scowl. How many had he slaughtered? How many had died during his service to the demons, to Gul'Dan and Ner'Zhul? He did not regret the battles, the warriors, whose lives he claimed.

But there was no glory in the road they had made.

"Heh. What have these hands ever protected." He grunted, fists tightening.

Not his mate, whose suffering he was too weak to end. Too cowardly to take her life when she begged him to; leaving her to die in pain and claiming she was the weak one for giving in... no. He was no protector.

Collecting Gorehowl, he walked towards the great genesaur that now spoke with its people.

"I killed your son. Ended the lives of many who fought here." He declared loudly and without fear. "Tell me, great spirit, what must I kill to earn your forgiveness for my people?"

"Grom, no!" Thrall shouted, rushing to his side. "They attacked you. You are not at fault here," he glowered at Proudmoore, "no matter what some might claim."

Shaking his head, Grom stood steadfast. He would not shatter his little brother's dream; even if said little brother didn't understand what hatred truly meant. He had felt it, once, but his revenge had been swift and complete. Never allowed to fester.

Feuds between clans lasted generations. Between spirits... ages unending.

The great genesaur looked down at him, evaluating him carefully. "That you ask that speaks of your lack of understanding for what you speak." Cenarius said slowly. "Yet this time is not like any other."

Whip-like fingers gestured at Mannoroth. "The demons have come. They will pollute and defile my forests until they are cut out root and stem. Kill them. Slay every last demon until none remain in the forests of Ashenvale and you will have earned my favour, Grommash Hellscream."

Grom snorted and grinned. That he could understand and would do gladly.

-oOoOo-

"Goddess Elune see these foul creatures back to whence they came." Tyrande hissed as she nocked another arrow, the blessed Light of her goddess filling the air. Beneath her Ash'alah growled, leaping away from their incessant pursuers and catching one with a swipe of her paws – a head rolled, tore from rotting flesh, but it was but one amongst thousands. "Andu-falah-dor!" She loosed not forward, upon her foes, but into the skies above.

With the arrow's shining passage the canopy of ancient trees opened, the glittering sky filled with stars visible to all – and Elune, watching with half her face, illuminating the night.

The stars themselves fell, the heavens pouring down their fury to cleanse the land of this corruption. By the dozens, hundreds, the mindless bodies that assaulted them fell – too simple to seek shelter from the skies themselves.

"Sisters! Gather the wounded!" One of her sisters called out. "We must–"

A bolt of sickening darkness saw the archer crumble to the ground, gasping for air as a rot set into her body. Before them those that had fallen in their battle rose, clambering to their feet and drawing their bows.

Clicking her tongue Tyrande tensed, her thighs tightening their grip on Ash'alah; as the arrows flew, with none of the accuracy her sisters held in life, she was moved. And with that movement her connection to Elune splintered and faded. "Their leader reveals themselves, strike true!"

Following her direction Tyrande's faithful nightsaber leapt, an arrow nocked and loosed in the same moment, and Elune's Light illuminated a demon. Wings furled, leaning hard onto one leg, a broken horn and a deep-seated scowl on his face. Yet, all the same, Tyrande knew this one's name.

"Tichondrius." She growled, a second arrow missing by inches as Ash'alah mauled the dreadlord's undead protectors. "We defeated your master once before, and we shall do so again." Though she spoke there was no hesitation to her actions, no delay between the arrows she loosed. "No matter the puppets you have enslaved to do your bidding."

He cackled, a deep rasp to the demon's voice. "Your goddess will not avail you, Priestess. Lord Archimonde has come to claim victory at last."

"We shall see about–" Almost too late, eager for the kill, Tyrande reeled and pulled Ash'alah back.

Felhounds. Demons suited best to hunting down mages crashed together where she would have been had she pressed the assault, but no matter their taste for the Arcane, they would enjoy Elune's blessings no less.

The first died a moment later as the fangs of her mount crushed its skull, demon blood spilling and tainting the soil.

But though she loosed an arrow into the second it was quick to turn its eyeless head; her arrow merely wounded the creature and it turned, siphons waving eagerly as it tasted the blessings she carried. "Fall back!" She ordered, seeing the dreadlord cackling once more as he raised a distorted skull that glowed with the Fel. "To the river, we must make for the river!"

Ash'alah complied but the claws of the undead she had passed, now separating her from her sisters who fought to reach her, slowed their passage. Wounds festered upon her beloved companion's flanks as she pressed forward.

Behind her she heard the crashing of great green flaming stones, the bodies of Infernals summoned from beyond the world. Demons not seen for ten ages or more. She had not taken Ordanus' warning lightly, gathering all the sentinels of Astrannar and Raynewood, her sisters ready and able to fight back against any normal incursion into the forests, yet she had forgotten the true dangers of the Legion. It had been too long.

She should have demanded Ordanus remain with her. Stopped him from charging southward, into the barrens and badlands, to aid Lord Cenarius with his battles.

"We're surrounded!" Raene Wolfrunner cried out, her canine companions striking at undead assaulting their rear.

"A trap was prepared for your ancient guardian, Priestess." Tichondrius rasped as he walked behind the hulking fiery stone behemoths. "Did you think we would not seek you out as well?"

Gritting her teeth Tyrande rallied with her sisters, striking down those that would threaten them to buy time. "Trust in Elune's Grace."

Should they fight, should they commit all they had, they might bring down the demons. Hold until she could call upon Elune's power once more and thin the horde that surrounded them – if not to claim victory but break free.

Yet they had one last trick to play, one that would see a number of them survive against–

"FIRE!" A man bellowed, his voice then crushed under a deafening roll of thunder that seemed like it would never cease – until the horde before her exploded with flames and smoke, an infernal reeling as the stone of its arm shattered and it roared with pain. "BREAK THEIR LINES! FER KHAZ MODAN! FER GILNEAS!"

It had been millennia since Tyrande had heard the tongues of the Earthen, but even that gave little understanding to what she saw. Wolves, wolves with green-skinned figures atop their backs, crashed into the undead and entered fearlessly into melee.

"Lok'tar Ogar!"

An acrid stench and smoke filled the air as lesser cracks of thunder ran down a long line, all focused upon Tichondrius. The dreadlord tried to shield himself with his tattered wings but winced in pain.

"Press the attack! Kill the dreadlord!" Tyrande ordered, turning her focus upon their true foe. She knew not who these outsiders were, who had entered their forests, but she would not waste this moment. "Elune favours us this night!"

All descended into chaos as the disparate forces clashed across the field, the green-skinned ones tearing through rotten flesh with axes and reckless abandon as steel-plated figures closed with more discipline. Thunder roared time and again as the siege weapons struck at the living weapons that were the infernals.

Vicious glee ran through her as she pinned the dreadlord's wing to a tree. She would not have to watch in silence from hiding as her sisters were slaughtered.

This night was to be her hunt.

"Enough of this–" Tichondrius hissed, raising the skull once more.

"Break." The single word was spoken with certainty as Baobob, protector of Aessina's shrine, grasped the untouched infernal's form. Flames licked at his arms as the weapon roared, leaving great scorch marks upon his bark. "Break."

Stone groaned and rumbled, then shattered. Crumbling into embers and rubble upon the forest floor – a single flame burned which Baobob then squashed underfoot.

At nearly the same moment, a great thud came as a totem collided with the other infernal's leg, toppling it to the ground. "Arikara!" Cried the aged and wizened tauren who then brought down his weapon upon its skull.

Great balls of steel crashed into its form, mere feet away from the tauren, yet he did not flinch; the second infernal died.

"It seems you live this day, Priestess." Tichondrius growled, tugging at the arrow – yet it held fast. There would be–

He tore his wing from his body, howling with pain, then vanished in green flames. Escaping back to the Twisting Nether from whence he came. "Coward." She spat.

"They prove devious and slippery foes." The tauren spoke, approaching calmly. "Ishne'alo'porah, priestess. I am Cairne Bloodhoof, and with me are the forces of the Alliance and Horde who have come to these lands to fight against the darkness that threatens us all."

"Torq Ironblast." The earthen commander said, hammer in hand as he approached. "Temporary leader o' the Gilneans until their lads and lasses show up."

One of the shining steel ones came next. "Lords and Ladies, Thane Ironblast. Duke Lionheart, good... priestess."

"You have my thanks for your aid." Tyrande spoke, feeling the blessing of Anveena shape her words – and theirs – into something that transcended simple language. A blessing that sat ill at odds with the devastation, the destruction, they had left in their wake. "Yet I must demand you depart these lands. They are our realms to defend and your defilement will not–"

"Huln Highmountain." Baobob intoned slowly. "Dungard Ironcutter. Unng Ak. Krasus."

Looking at the towering ancient, a being that had fought alongside her – and those very same names, ten thousand years ago – Tyrande felt... chastised.

They faced the Legion. The forests could mend, in time, so long as they remained. If it was the will of the Wisp Mother... then it was what it would be. "My sisters and I shall go north to wake my beloved. Turn south, to the Dor'Danil Barrow Dens; Raene, guide them and wake our brothers from their slumber."

"Well, thank ye. I guess." Ironblast said without a hint of thankfulness in his voice. "But some of ours should go with ye. Ye've not the numbers... Oi, Saurfang, can yer wolves keep up with the cats?!"

"They will, dwarf." One of the green-skinned ones returned. "They must."

-oOoOo-

After a few days of flight, spent ever further whittling away at the young elf's perception of her society, they reached a secluded valley in the foothills of Stonetalon. Far west, near the coast – so near in fact they could see the ocean over the mountains from the highest point of their flight before their descent.

It may have taken crossing the entire continent, but they were on their way to meet with Jarod Shadowsong. The only night elf his lord had mentioned by name without cursing their very existence for multiple days.

"Well, hello." As they landed beside a fenced garden they were greeted by an elven woman, seemingly in the prime of her life, who stepped out from the shadows of a tree. "Are you lost, travellers?" The ease with which she stood, her eyes taking in Aderic's differences from her elven companion without even a blink of surprise, and even those of Caedan and Drek'thar, made clear she was hardly young. "Few come out this way, and rarely with such urgency.

"Not as such, no." Aderic said, stretching his back and making it click before climbing down from Anessa's hippogriff. "Just looking for someone, an old friend of a friend, one might say."

Nari hissed unhappily as he clambered out of the bags and flopped to the ground, his tails splaying everywhere. "Just say that we're looking for the Shadow's Song, Longtooth." He grumbled. "We've little enough time that wasting more to play games is stupid."

The elf tilted her head and blinked slowly. "The Shadow's Song, is it?" She clapped her hands eagerly. "Well, we could share stories over tea and perhaps I could help you? Not without knowing more of course. And, ah, I forget myself." She bowed with a smile. "Shalasyr, former Priestess of Elune and now a woman living a happy and simple life in the wilds."

Around the little valley the wisps they had been following stirred faintly, something about her words causing them to disagree.

"Wouldnae say no tae a drink after two weeks o' flyin'." Caedan grumbled good-naturedly. "Iffin ye've something a wee bit stronger than tea, ye ken. Figure we've gotta get back tae finding the bloke otherwise."

"I suppose we could open some of my husband's wine, he isn't the best vintner but he tries." Shalasyr said, still smiling. "But I haven't had your names, yet...?"

"Nari, grandson of the Silver Tongue, Lord Renard." Nari replied bluntly. "And do tell him to stop hiding in the shadows; it stopped working when he flinched over suggesting we drink his wine."

"So I wasn't mistaken." An elven man, tall and with stronger features than Aderic had seen on any elf, said as he stepped out of the shadows. A large sword, a good hand's length longer than Aderic was tall, held lightly in his hand and bearing a shimmer of enchantment along its edge. "Shala, would you prepare a meal? I will have to tell him what stories I know of his ancient ancestor, I owe the Silver Tongue's memory that much at least."

His words came with such a melancholic tone, clearly signing his belief that Lord Renard was gone, that Nari started cackling.

"Oh?" Aderic asked, one brow raised as he looked up at the much taller man. "His memory? But he sent us here himself, to seek you out and inform you. He is alive, you see, forgotten and ignored even when Stormrage and his ilk came to his home and forest." Shaking his head, Aderic sighed sadly. "Ten thousand years, wounded, alone, and abandoned by those he fought to save. "

Anessa shifted uncomfortably – she'd heard the story already, protested the idea that her people's precious Shan'do could possibly make the mistake of ignoring the land where he sealed away his mistakes.

It was something he was to hammer home until they chose to make amends. Some matters he could, and of course would, take into his own hands but not all. Others were to be left for a time when Lord Renard was more able to act beyond the Blackwald – if ever such a time came again.

As Jarod Shadowsong stood there silently, a look of surprise on his face, Nari's laughter faded away into a malicious hiss.

"You owe grandfather and his siblings a debt, Shadowsong; all the kaldorei do. They fought, bled, and died, yet for all they did they were all but forgotten." Nari's tails waved behind him in irritation, flickers of flame dancing upon their tips. "We know, he knows, that had no desire to command. That, given the chance, you would slink away from your place of rulership and become humble. But, in your absence, none have tried to repay the debt you owe."

Aderic hummed. "That offer of telling stories is the closest any have come in ten thousand years."

"As you say, grandson of the Silver Tongue," Jarod said as he knelt in the grass, "I left my role behind. I wanted nothing more than peace and... anonymity. What more could I do to pay this debt than I have offered?"

"The Burning Legion has come again." Nari said bluntly, earning a gasp from Shalasyr. "Archimonde the Defiler walks the land, the dead rise up and slaughter the living, the mortal races rally to the cause once more. But who has led such disparate groups? Who has commanded the gods of the wild in battle? Who knows, truly knows, what they face and how such a war is to be waged?"

"Lady Tyrande has led our people–"

"Your people." Nari cut him off sharply. "No others, Shadowsong. The tauren, your ancient allies, were left to be exterminated by the mistake of your own Lord Cenarius! The Centaur, the misbegotten grandchildren of your greatest ally, were slaughtering your oldest! Such leadership to ignore their plight."

Caedan grunted angrily. "Shoving yer head in tha' snow dinnae make a problem go away. Tha' bull men deserve better."

Aderic held up a finger, ticking it off. "Tyrande Whisperwind, isolationist priestess of Elune who neither understands nor wishes to understand outsiders." A second. "Malfurion Stormrage, the ever-sleeping druid who scarcely knows the affairs of his own people let alone others." A third. "Your sister, Maiev Shadowsong, who is... more than a little obsessed with her prisoners." A fourth, which he snapped closed. "The fourth, Illidan, said prisoner. What choice is there but you, Jarod? The choice of the Wild Gods themselves, unless you would deny them."

"If Malfurion had his way, he'd seal the Burning Legion under a tree for ten thousand years." Nari sniffed, flicking his tails – and their flames – into the valley's stream where they burst into clouds of steam. "And then promptly forget they exist."

"Even if you have such a low opinion of my people, there must be others." Jarod said, looking them over. "Or is there not one who gathered you together? Two races I have never seen, the child of one of the guardians, and the descendant of the earthen of old. The tauren too, I assume; Huln's legacy continuing throughout the ages."

"The very arrogance which makes your people unsuitable means that they will never accept one who is not theirs." Aderic explained with a roll of his eyes. "Not even Anessa here could deny that."

She twitched faintly, her hand reaching to the daggers at her belt as she glared at him, but made no protest; there was even a discontented frown upon her face as she pondered his words.

"My love..." Shalasyr placed her hand on her husband's arm. "If the Legion has truly returned, we cannot stand idly by."

"I do not..." He protested, then sighed. "Lord Ravencrest would be disappointed in me for shirking my duties, no matter how long I have been absent any command of my own." Firming his stance he met Nari's gaze resolutely. "Tell me; what forces are brought to bear, what races have answered the call, what you know of the Legion's plans... there is much to be done, and–"

"One last thing!" Aderic said, piping up to interrupt. "I just have to know– you have been together ten thousand years, yes?" He waited until he received a nod from Shalasyr. "Then, how, exactly, have you managed to remain childless in all this time? Did you both swear vows of celibacy?"

Though Jarod Shadowsong was the elf Lord Renard had not cursed for multiple days that did not mean he had not cursed him at all. There was some degree of petty revenge to be wrought before they were done.

"If it is a potency issue, I have a few tonics that can help with that." Ignoring the blank stare he was being given by the elven man, Aderic made a show of rummaging around in his bags. "I can even guarantee their effectiveness on elves! Well, assuming that Quel'dorei couple didn't simply get lucky... five times... in two years. Triplets were rather unexpected, I tell you. Girl was tiny."

Nari had fallen to his side with cackling laughter and both Caedan and Drek'Thar were staring at him like he was a madman.

"That sounds... like it may be worthwhile." Shalasyr said softly, leaning up to kiss her husband's cheek lightly. "Should the worst come to pass, I would have a part of you with me forever, my love. It has been long enough."

He swallowed and nodded. "I suppose it has. But, we must consider what needs to be done; the children will need to be taken to safety, and that cannot be done without knowing what forces we have to work with. Sentinel, what is the readiness of the kaldorei armies at this time?"

Satisfied at prickling the elves, Aderic leaned back and settled in to answer the elf's questions to the best of his ability.

There was still a long road ahead of them from here, so much more to be done, but at least the most suitable general for the task would be leading the defence this time around.