Azeroth: Coffee Table Book Edition

(Continued from here)

It was something of a relief to feel the familiar bite of Northrend's winds on my face as my company and I met with Thrall within the confines of a bleak ice canyon. We guarded him closely as elementals bound within the remains of ancient dragons sprang their ambushes; the shaman himself guarded the Dragon Soul myself and so many iterations of others had carefully extracted from the depths of the timeways.

As we passed under Galakrond's massive skeleton, waylaid by yet more forces of the Twilight's Hammer, I could see and hear Deathwing in the skies ahead, already battering the walls of Wyrmrest Temple alongside the twilight dragonkin he commanded. The Aspects' own flights gave plenty resistance, and my ears filled with roaring, shrieking, death cries, and insidious whispers. The tentacles of the Old Gods had veined themselves into the earth around the temple, a great maw of teeth and darkness spewing creatures not of this world onto the path leading to the temple.

All that remained was the Archbishop - once a man of the Light, now of murmuring twilight, quickly dispensed of the madness Deathwing had infected him with via a swift death. Thrall was safe, and would take his place standing in as the Aspect of Earth in the coming final confrontation against Deathwing.

(Continued from here)

As a child of Elune myself, stepping through the time device to the palace of Queen Azshara felt both alien and utterly familiar. Artifacts and ruins of my peoples' once continent-sprawling ancient civilization have been present throughout most of my life's travels, but this felt as though I had not only restored a relic of archaeology, but stepped into it at the moment of its creation.

With the aid of Illidan Stormrage, my company advanced through the palace, sabotaging demonic portals and dispatching warlock lieutenants. Everywhere I looked, beautiful stonework, living buildings, and the forest surrounding the Well of Eternity were being destroyed and set ablaze by agents of the Burning Legion. I had to remind myself several times that the major events of what had already come to pass, were immutable in Time. Nozdormu had enlisted my help to retrieve the Soul, not to martyr myself in the distant past in a futile attempt to stop the advance of the Burning Crusade.

After the corrupt Azshara was dealt with for the time being, Alexstrasza, Ysera, and Nozdormu attempted to break the barrier of magical spells surrounding the Dragon Soul, but this outpouring of energy attracted Neltharion - now Deathwing - who coveted the power of the Soul he had created purely for himself. A dark, immense power forced him to retreat as it threatened to tear his body asunder, and the Aspects gave chase, leaving their various dragonflights behind to battle the demonic forces and Azshara's scattered armies of soldiers and mages. A long, weary battle with Mannoroth, the monstrously gargantuan pit lord directly subservient to Sargeras the Destroyer, ensued on the shores of the Well; as the demon was finally defeated, the spellwork surrounding the Dragon Soul - which had been feeding the growth of the portal that would have given Sargeras access to Azeroth - gave in to its precarious volatility. The Well of Enternity began to implode upon itself. Nozdormu seized the Soul before Malfurion Stormrage would have hidden it for ten thousand years. It was now crucial to go back - forward more than ten millenia - to meet Thrall in my present time.

When the Dragon Aspects decided to seek out the powerful artifact known as the Dragon Soul for use against their corrupted brother Neltharion, the Bronze leader Nozdormu began to search the timeways for an access point from which to retrieve it, and he found the Ways blocked. Somehow, something in the distant future was preventing the Timeless One from probing that point in time.

After summoning a band of adventurous champions for assistance, Nozdormu waited in this distant Future known to him as "the End Time". When the maddened Neltharion - now known as Deathwing - could not be defeated, he brought about the Cataclysm and collapsed in 'victory' atop Wyrmrest Temple. The frigidity of Dragonblight long since burned away, all that remained in this desolate land were ruins. After defeating the warped, time-lost echoes of four mortals' lingering essences in the Ruby, Emerald, Azure, and Obsidian dragonshrines, Nozdormu brought the group of mercenary heroes to his own shrine, where the anomaly blocking his access to the Timeways waited.

Murozond was once the Bronze leader himself, but the titan who blessed him with power over time, also showed him the moment of his own demise. At some point, whispers of the Old Gods tricked Nozdormu into attempting to subvert his own death. The only creature who could thus interfere with Nozdormu, was Murozond, who stole away the Hourglass of Time from the Caverns in which it rested. With the aid of this tool, once again under the blessing of Nozdormu, its rightful master, the heroes defeated the anomalous Infinite Dragonflight, and continued on - back in time - to the Sundering.

We frighten and awe guests and trespassers with them; honor our gods and ancestors; remind ourselves of the valor of heroes lost on the battlefield; and raise them in memory of fallen friends, teachers, and leaders.

Some statues have more practiced sculptors, but almost every statue I pass bears an expression of determination, focus, or reverence that seems so vivid as to have been the sculptor's own reflection. Whatever the story, whomever the immortalized champion, these stone and metal faces give me reason to pause and sober my thoughts.

Of the many native races of Azeroth, one of the most overlooked (or perhaps avoided) by both the Alliance and Horde is the Nerubian Empire. Most of the sentient races look roughly humanoid, and a sizable portion attack us largely because, as with most creatures, we are not like them. Differences make all mindful creatures wary; we fear what is unlike to what we understand, and it is much easier to empathize when we look and act similar to each other.

On the surface, the Nerubians are heavily arachnid in their shape compared to their sister races, the Qiraji and Mantid. Of course the Mantid and Qiraji both look very unlike to most of us as well, but the large .. posteriors, and very long spined legs, clicking fanged mouthparts, and overabundance of eyes compared to our own, send chills down many spines. Even their habitual swaying motions make us uneasy.

The Nerubians, however, seem to delight in their evolved spider-shape. It adorns nearly every inch of their architecture in some form; ceilings, floors, pillars, statues, monoliths, ziggurats, light fixtures and windows. Before their near-annihilation by the forces of the Lich King, they were a complex species, highly intelligent wielders of arcane magic and enthralled with philosophy. They once made jewelry, and demonstrated their own written language and literature.

As the small pockets of Nerubians who evaded the forces of the Lich King dug ever-deeper tunnels to make their escape, they encountered a tendril of the Old God Yogg-Saron's reach, culminating in a second, just as perilous, faceless enemy. This two-front battle led to the death of most of their race, and most contact we have is through their undead-raised brethren, whom we are biased to remember more vividly through inevitable combat. If there are any Nerubian queens left hiding deep, secluded and protected beneath the surface of Northrend, I would hope that someday this culture may retake its delicately crafted cities. They deserve another chance to live in peace.

Azeroth was once a world of gargantuan creatures. As the well-preserved nature of Un'Goro Crater demonstrates, under the correct conditions the vast majority of animals had the potential to grow to tremendous size.

The kodo, bulky as they are in vast herds, still travel to a communal 'graveyard' of sorts to die in peace, dwarfed by just the skulls of their forefathers. Magnataur chieftains of old, their tusks tipped with crudely shaped, armor-piercing caps, were easily twice the size of the largest tribal patriarchs today. Hydra and kraken of enormous caliber once were common along the southeastern shores of the Eastern Kingdoms, as recorded through map illustrations and beer-fueled stories in seaside taverns.

Dragons are always rather large in their natural forms, as the Anubisath's sacred preservation of Grakkarond the bronze displays, but Galakrond - a positively massive proto-drake who lorded evilly over all of what would later be known as the Northrend continent - put even his "offspring" the Dragon Aspects to shame in terms of sheer bulk. If ever you should feel the need to check your growing ego, go find his immutable resting place and stand near his jaws.

In southern Desolace lie two naga warriors known as the Dead Goliaths. Nowhere else on this world have the naga ever reached such proportions. It is a mystery lost to the ages how they attained such size, being a race cursed into existence from similarly small elven bodies; perhaps they were short-lived vessels of some twisted magic.

Producing light without heat or magic is a remarkable feat of nature. It is common enough to be around us in many places, but also easily overlooked, literally outshined by brighter sources of illumination.

Insects were very likely among the first creatures to be seen this way. Glowworms are everywhere in caverns and cave systems, and the simple-minded silithid and mantid larvae produce ample light for their size, providing a natural and unharmful light source for the dry, winding tunnels of their respective hives. Bioluminescent plants do exist but are difficult to find; fungi and toadstools in particular seem to be the most familiar forms in non-animals. The primitive trogg tribes in Deepholm have learned to plant "gardens" of the brighter varieties in the places they most often congregate.

Similarly, anyone who has spent more than a day lurking around naga camps may have noticed their affinity for flashy fish kept in aquatic "torches", and almost every furbolg tribe in existence today has its own combination of food source and light source in the carefully-tended beehives they treasure both for honey and a warm-seeming amber glow.

The eternal vale has been scarred and broken by Garrosh Hellscream’s pride, and the last hateful breaths of a buried Old God. Unquestionably, the Horde has changed - will continue to change - because of him, as has the Alliance, if more subtly.

I can only hope that in the years, the decades, the generations to come, these shifts in our reigning racial and factional powers lead to a better world for all its peoples.

In the days of my youth, I spent many weeks apprenticed to several different trades, most of which .. did not end well. Blacksmithing required more muscle than I was able to muster; I did not have the stomach to learn the anatomy of the animals I was learning to emulate in order to bereave them of their hides; and though I am told I showed an eye for the design of jewelry, I did not have the patience for such delicate work.

I instead found my calling studying under an elderly botanist. Thanks to her, I learned to see the forest floor as more than simple foliage and am well-learned in alchemy. My tools are the herbs which can strengthen the body, empower the mind and mana reaches, to make a flask of crushed, carefully simmered lotus petals which grant power that persists during the few precious moments of near-death, provided that the nearest combat healer can retrieve your soul quickly enough. Even a hero untrained in herbal lore, if he survives many battles, will sometimes learn to distinguish precious sungrass from the vastly more common wheatgrasses, if he knows an alchemist can heal him with the juice.

However, in my studies and travels I have come to appreciate the simplicity of a wheatgrass field, especially on a warm, breezy day in my elk shift, lounging on a hillock. I have discovered a great many unknown and unnamed plants and fungi which though generally inedible and noted neither for their hidden venom nor untapped healing power, are simply ... enjoyable to experience.

Personally I have learned that while quite efficient for zones of conflict, it can be distracting to go herb-gathering in certain areas as a great cat. A few select varieties of mint, while not comparable in potency to the bloodthistle addiction, are simply irresistible when encountered as a panther. Thankfully they typically only flourish in very large patches within thick forest growth so that I may indulge in cheek-rubbing and some unladylike rolling away from curious eyes.

Many places have I traveled. Many meals did I share, and many lives did I touch upon, if only for a day. Many allies, and many enemies, did I collect, and many tales could I tell of their bravery, or their betrayal. I try not to cast judgment. I try to remember that in most cases, even those who would do me harm had good intentions, or had families to support, duties to honor. Surely most had friends, brethren, loved ones ... who perhaps do not even know of their passing.

All of us fight, and eventually all of us will cease fighting, willingly or not. New leaders with new ideas may lead us to an era with fewer among us rushing headlong into bloody battles. Mayhap there will come a time when I may spend more than a day with a new ally, and collect instead, a new companion.

To those I missed such an opportunity with, to those I had to bury or to burn, I kneel, and silently vow that when the time is right, to lay down my weapon in memory of you. [Various graveyards in Pandaria, Eastern Kingdoms, Northrend in Azeroth, and various Outland zones]

When I was very young, I adopted the form of the nightsabers with whom I was raised in Teldrassil with ease and vigor. In time, I learned to shift between several animal forms to suit the need at hand - but the first day I acquired feathers, my heart soared as high as my wings could take me. Much of the time, I use my own wings to fly about instead of that of a summoned mount, in most part because their wings are larger than mine, and I quite enjoy the views I get to enjoy unhindered. There are few skies on Azeroth I have not loved at first look.

Thus noted, when I first stepped foot onto the Outland, it was well that I had to relearn how to fly, same as any other adventurer. In addition to the air itself being of a somehow different make, the currents of this broken world were unpredictable and violent in many areas. I attempted to take wing but simply could not bear the oppressive feeling of such intensely unfamilar vastness. Once the mists surrounding the southern continent parted, I quickly explored every area upon it with an interest I had not felt since that first sensation of updraft over feathers. Such unique forests! Such refreshing breezes! The only sky I could not love was that over the Dread Wastes. The Sha of Fear had so thoroughly rotted both land and sky, that to this day I cannot overcome the trembling shudders which threaten my wings; it is the only region in Pandaria to which I summon my serpent drake.

Hellfire Citadel was once the stronghold of the fel orcs - those willing or coerced into drinking the blood of the demonic pit lord held captive beneath it, Magtheridon. These orcs, calling themselves the "true Horde", are centered within the bastion of the Shattered Halls. There are supplies, weapons, and armor in nearly every room, as well as rows of hammocks in the sleeping quarters, although little time was spent there. Once Magtheridon was defeated, subdued, and imprisoned by Illidan  the Betrayer, the resulting blood curse granted its victims demon-tinged strength, stamina, and a near-constant lust for blood and combat. Most of the Halls' occupants sparred constantly, either amongst themselves under direction of a commanding officer, or chipping away at sturdy training dummies.

Like Un'Goro Crater in Kalimdor, the Sholazar Basin in Northrend is a protected font of incredibly diverse plants and creatures. Left behind by the Titan Watcher Freya to protect this flourishing richness, the Lifewarden stands an eternal guard against the encroaching forces of the Scourge. The basin is protected - both from the essence of plagued undead, as well as from the harsh clime of the rest of Northrend - by titan-created pillars towering over the canopy. However, when the Lifeblood Pillar was sabotaged grievously by the living cultist minions of the Lich King, the ward weakened, and now the Avatar of Freya's battle is constant.

With other, more brute-force options depleted, two titan mechanisms must be activated within the Maker's Perch and Maker's Overlook so that the waygate connecting this rich land to its sister jungle Un'Goro may be powered. Standing dormant on the northern slope of the crater is the Etymidian, a weapon so colossal in raw power that the activation process and his very location were until recently the knowledge of the titans alone. Riding the Etymidian into battle upon the great avalanche-covered face of the Basin to aggreive the Scourge is a terrifying, but exhilarating display of the might of the Titans. A great many beings, though already enormously strong in their own right, seek to harness this power left behind when the Titans left Azeroth. It is a formidable weapon, should it ever fall into the hands of a misguided mind ...

Submerged beneath the northwestern coastline of Ashenvale Forest are the ruins of what once was a Highborne temple complex. Long since abandoned by the Quel'dorei, the caverns have been claimed mainly by the Twilight's Hammer cult, but also by murlocs from the coast, satyrs from western Ashenvale and southern Felwood, and naga from Nazj'vel not far to the north, all drawn to the pull of ancient power thrumming far below.

The murloc leader Gelihast established one of two pearlescent altar rooms as his slimy lair. The lady Sarevess at first delved deep into the Moonshrine ruins and spitefully erected a statue in homage to the naga queen, but later retreated outward when repelled by the cult's presence there. The naga and power-hungry satyr, on skeptical and uneasy terms with the cult, agreed to guard the ruined caves from intruders as the cult's leader, Lord Kelris, fed sacrificed prisoners and even his own minions to what all believed was the favorite pet of the Old Gods - one of which purportedly still dwells beneath this forgotten ancestral home of the night elves.

Aku'mai the massive hydra has been 'killed' many times, but adventurers to this day report that it yet dwells in the furthest bowels of the Blackfathom Deeps. With the sheer number of fae wisp spirits present, twining themselves endlessly around the massive roots of the earth above, perhaps there is truth to the rumor of a sleeping Old God. The naga appear to have been searching for something, and wisps are quite capable of bending living wood to serve a purpose - perhaps, that of a prison?

Once the ancient dwelling-place of Malygos alone, the Nexus complex within Coldarra now teems with members of the blue dragonflight. After recovering from an incredibly lengthy madness caused by Neltharion single-handedly eradicating almost his entire flight with the Dragon Soul, the blue Spellweaver judged that Azeroth's mortal races were running amok with arcane magic, and declared war against them.

Using the Arcanomicon, a device given to him by the titan Norgannon, Malygos began to redirect the ley lines of Azeroth back to his lair through a group of his blue dragonflight and mortals eager to retain the privilege and magical capabilities of Malygos' favor. The flow of raw magic makes the lower levels of the Nexus crackle with energy, but this channeling is quite dangerous, tearing rifts into earth and space and warping the very fabric of our reality.

Upward it spirals, focused through the floating rings of the complex, until it is blasted directly into the Twisting Nether. Immediately below this point brooded Malygos in the Eye of Eternity, lording over his flight and directing all these machinations ... that is, before his defeat by a group of heroes assisted by the Lifebinder, Alexstraszsa.

Though we may trade suspicious or curious glances, we often share the same paths out in the wilderness, far from our own cities. Every young journeyman begins with a map, of course, but we each fill it in as we go along, tracing down roads as we learn them. In unfamiliar territory we all carry the same likelihood for getting lost. Generations before our time, our forebears had the same troubles learning their landmarks as we do, and some made up their minds to help out travelers yet to arrive. Some crossroads' signposts are more .. intentionally eye-catching than others; some you may miss if you blink too many times, being little more than scratches on a wooden post.