I.
I am.
I am... Asterius.
Thought was returning, albeit slowly. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with no picture. The druid struggled to retrieve the fragments of his mind, to reassemble his sense of self into a coherent working image. Bit by bit, he began to take form, and with it regain his sentience.
It wasn't easy. Returning from the dead never was.
After what seemed like an eternity, Asterius felt whole enough to send out a searching thought, trying to ascertain exactly where and what he was. The thought returned with only one scrap of information; a color.
Green. He knew then, though he sent out more roving sentries of his mind to verify what he had already deduced. He had returned to the Emerald Dream, the home of each and every druid. The home of his true body, not the empty husk buried on some barren, snow-capped peak. This was a land that knew nothing but verdant life, a copy of the world as it would have been without the influence of the 'intelligent species'.
His scouting senses began to paint a mental projection of the world around him. He was in a forest, massive in size and ancient in age, with trees that reached so high that their limbs stretched beyond the range of his limited sight. Little sunlight filtered through the unbroken roof of leaves far overhead, and he might as well have been in an underground cave. It didn't matter in his eyes, though, which perceived a different type of light in this realm. In fact, everything around him practically glowed in vibrant green, the color of living energy. This area was teeming with the raw force of life, which flared so brightly in his second sight that for a moment he almost couldn't bear its beauty. There was only one imperfection in this otherwise unblemished place.
Ugly, gnarled vines curled out of the ground, twisted in a thorny mass of tangles like a cage, wrapped about a still form underneath so tightly that not a trace of its prisoner could be seen. This area was stained with the ghosts of emotions so powerful that even the passage of time had not changed their effect on the environment. The air had an acrid metallic taste to it, the combination of hurt and hatred that carved itself indelibly into the heart of the land.
Wisps of light, like glowing fireflies, drifted through the unfathomably old tree trunks surrounding the briars, their very existence a physical manifestation of the Dream's inherent magical power. The bright specks slowly converged on one another, uncountable numbers merging together to form something entirely new. As more and more of the miniature stars joined as one, they began to take on a humanoid shape. Eventually the flow of wisps faded, leaving a lone figure behind that still held the dimming aura of its creation.
Asterius drew himself up to his full height and flexed a glowing muscle that had strength but no substance. It was good to have a body again, even one created entirely from his own imagination. That was the true beauty of this realm. Anything that the mind could imagine here could become reality. The laws of the world, of boundaries and order, were broken here as easily as in a dream.
The reason for that, the druid thought to himself, that was because this was a dream. Not just a dream, he corrected himself, but all dreams. It was said that every living being visited the Emerald Dream, Ysera's Realm, in some capacity when they slept and allowed their unconscious minds to take control. That was a fact that Asterius meant to take advantage of.
The druid took one lingering look at the bed of thorns that kept his true body safely encased, forever deprived of freedom. Though his flesh-and-blood body remained here, he had still been able to interact with the 'real' world by creative use of his mental prowess and the fundamental power of this place. After all, when one dreams in the realm of dreams, where else does one's spirit go to but the material realm? He supposed he should even be grateful; though the death of his wandering spirit was not something to scoff at, he was still afforded some measure of anchor on this place because of the druid's still-breathing, still-sleeping flesh. He would never have been able to make the trip back from the spirit world without this advantage, and even then his passage was only successful by the barest of margins. It was time to put his work to good use.
First off, he released his temporary physical form, scattering his consciousness out again. He drifted through the Emerald Dream, all at once everywhere and nowhere, existing in a way that defied comprehension. His search didn't take long before he found what he sought. Every living being touches the Emerald Dream as they sleep, including those who live within the walls of the human stronghold of Stormwind. Though their glorious city did not exist as such in the Emerald Dream, the presences of the people within the city were like beacons to the druid's eyes.
Asterius danced from dream to dream, picking through individual thoughts and minds as if he were peering into open house windows. Panicking citizens who had nightmares of being cut down by faceless monsters, bored guards snoozing through their graveyard hour shifts, prisoners of war beaten into unconscious submission as if they were violent animals; all these and more the druid delved into, gleaning every bit of information that could even possibly help. He was almost finished when he felt a hideous presence that made his soul shudder.
This person's dream might well have been made out of oil, a sickening black sludge of evil that had been set alight by the flame of hatred. He dreamed of blood, gore, and death. What's more, he reveled in it. All possible sorts of perversions permeated his every thought, as if someone had taken everything about the world and twisted it into an unrecognizable portrait of horror. If this man had once been human in any sense of the word, he was no longer. Asterius felt the charred soul of his murderer, Lord Jerikkal Vertesium. The druid remained only long enough to force one thought into the unconscious mind of that demon with a human face. "Vengeance comes."
He doubted that this night would prove restful to his nemesis. Grimly satisfied, Asterius moved on. He now had the means to help his soldiers in the realm of reality. Now all that was left was to get there. He had already found a suitable vessel. Iyotanka had thoughtfully left a seed within reach that would be perfect for the upcoming struggle, though Asterius doubted his friend had expected it to be used as such. The druid sighed as he began to push his way back into Azeroth, using every ounce of skill and magical muscle he possessed. Begging, bartering, and bullying through barriers that had stood for far longer than his feeble lifespan to command free passage was certainly not a simple task. The magic within the living realm was also incredibly difficult to reach without some form of conduit, a luxury Asterius didn't have. It was not easy.
Then again, returning from the dead never was.
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High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, self proclaimed king of the gnomes, was furious. He stood alone in the throne room of Ironforge, its vast emptiness magnified by his diminutive size. The shadows cast by the weak flicker of torchlight only seemed to increase the size of the room, while at the same time swallowing up every murmur of sound, leaving only faint echoes behind. All of the sudden, the gnome king let out a vicious, soul-wrenching scream, filled with a rage so great that it couldn't be contained. He cried out for the destruction of his city and the abduction of his friend. Mostly though, he cried for his helplessness, an overwhelming sense of despair that stemmed from his inability to join in the upcoming battle.
Not long before, Horde soldiers had stood in this very spot, plotting an attack against an unstoppable foe that could utilize seemingly limitless resources, all for the sole purpose of rescuing their sworn enemy. In any other circumstance, even thinking of such a situation would have left Mekkatorque bent double on the floor with laughter. Instead, he had helped the brutish war veterans plan their assault. He had given them the benefit of his knowledge and they had accepted despite fierce prejudices. Then, they took a fighting force of Ironforge's elite and departed for Stormwind and whatever fate had in store for them, most probably a short but painful death.
The strange part was he wanted to be with them. Every instinct in his being screamed that he should have left with them.
It flew in the face of all of his vaunted logic and common sense. He had to stay in the city. Ironforge had already lost one leader, presumably for good if those foolhardy beasts' rescue attempt failed, which Mekkatorque knew in all likelihood would happen. They planned to walk straight into their enemy's stronghold. Traveling with them was suicide. It could never work. And yet...
The gnome king's gaze dropped to the cold stone beneath his feet, to the detailed map of black dried blood and the bright silver sword within that gestured to the Stockades of Stormwind. The makeshift marker's razor-sharp edge sparkled in caught torchlight, except for the ruddy black tip that was still caked with gore. Mekkatorque imagined for a moment what his own dying moments would bring. Would he spend his last breath as this barbarian General had?
Barbarian or not, he had walked straight into his enemy's stronghold. He had turned a situation that might have ended up as a hopeless battle for his own troops and a slaughter for the people of Ironforge into a hair-thin success for them both. The dwarven soldiers even now under a tauren's command testified to his victory. The gnome couldn't decide whether it was the luck of the devil or extraordinary tactics, but that commander had turned one enemy into an ally while his outnumbered soldiers annihilated another. Staring down at his savior's final act in life, Mekkatorque's mind wandered to his imprisoned dwarven friend and did the unthinkable. He began to hope.
Not that the tauren General's luck had held out in the end. Brilliant or not, he now lay in an unmarked grave on the snowy peak of an uncaring mountain. By the next snowfall, even that grave would be covered and soon forgotten, along with the General's accomplishment. The gnome king knelt on the blood stained floor and took hold of the sword that had ended Asterius' life. Built for human use, Mekkatorque had to struggle to lift the massive broadsword, his grunting exertions finally convincing him to call for assistance. With half a dozen of his gnomish brethren acting as a solemn procession, the Ironforge citizens carried the murder weapon toward their city's gates. The least he could do, Mekkatorque thought to himself, was to insure that the tauren would remain at least as a memory.
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"Ahem," Mekkatorque cleared his throat, calling for attention from the assembled citizenry of their sacked city. They had gathered in a loose semicircle around the adjunct king of Ironforge. Gelbin himself stood next to a quick-drying concrete statue nearly twice his own height. Considering the time in which it had been prepared, the statue gave a passable likeness of a tauren with both hands held forward. There was a space within its fists that the murderous sword could be placed, blade down into the soil. The statue had been erected directly in front of the small mound of dirt that covered the druid General.
"My fellow refugees," the gnomish King began, his tinny voice raised to a near shout to outmatch the constant, howling wind of the mountain, "we stand here today in solemn remembrance. We stand here today because of this fallen warrior's actions. Despite our kinds' mutual hatred for one another, this... enemy took it upon himself to save us from betrayal from our own allies, at the cost of his own life."
"And we didn't even know his name..." Mekkatorque gave a passing glance to the hastily crafted statue, devoid of markings. As he spoke, the gnomish king dragged the massive sword to the statue and set it into position. "But we know of his courage! This statue shall stand as a timeless memorial to that courage, and the salvation of our people! So long as this statue stands, may we never forget!"
With those words and the applause that followed, Mekkatorque let the sword slide into place, its long blade slipping through the statue's hands and burying its still bloody tip into the grave. The instant that the blade pierced the ground, the clapping fell dead silent. A new noise had begun, a rumbling that overshadowed the ruckus of the gathered Ironforge citizens many times over. Dwarves and gnomes looked to each other with concern that quickly elevated to alarm and fear as the ground below them began to shake. With a violent snap, the first crack appeared in the wall of the mountain, shattering solid rock like a boulder hurled into an icy lake. Screams erupted from the mass of humanoids, who began to run in terror as the ground beneath their feet began to awaken angrily.
"It's an earthquake!" cried a ragged gnome as he clung to his king with a desperate hope that Mekkatorque could somehow save them. The king, to his credit, tried to remain calm, keeping a passive expression on his face though he was wracked with terror within.
"Nonsense! This mountain has been silent for millennia!" Nevertheless, his bravado went unheard. The populace continued to scurry about in a panic like hunted mice, while the mountain ignored his command to be still as deep crevasses dug their way into the ages-old landscape. With a growing horror, the brilliant leader of the gnomes realized that the serpentine motions of the cracks within the stone were winding their way towards his own position. A hairline fracture appeared beneath his very feet, but the little gnome was so terrified that his legs wouldn't respond to his pleas for escape. He stood alone now that the sensible folk had long since fled, and as still as a statue, though that analogy worried him since the concrete memorial beside him shuddered and collapsed into a broken heap as he watched. Oddly enough, Mekkatorque's fear-gripped brain managed to notice, the sword it had held in its grasp still stood upright despite the fact that the quakes began to multiply in strength.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the quakes stopped. The ground ceased its shuddering and the horrific noise of the mountain ripping itself apart fell eerily silent. With unsteady steps, as if the mountain was still doing its best to throw him off, Mekkatorque stumbled toward the entrenched sword. The converging lines in the shattered earth resembled a spiderweb with the blade as its nexus. He stared dumbly at the amazingly vertical weapon for a few moments, his mind still blank from shock.
"I... I broke the mountain," he mumbled to himself, but no one was around to hear, or so he thought. The interim-king of Ironforge let his gaze slowly fall, since keeping his body standing was as much as he could manage as the adrenaline from the pure terror began to fade. With his empty stare and dumbfounded thoughts, it took all of a minute for the sight of a hand bursting out of the grave to register in his mind. Only then did he begin to scream.
The mountain echoed his voice, drowning out the tiny king with what could only be considered a roar of its own. At the earth's shouted command, the buried hand shuddered and began to change before Mekkatorque's very eyes. It shot upward towards the sky, fingers spreading apart as if trying to grasp the heavens, flesh hardening until it no longer resembled skin at all. It grew exponentially fast, its size soon dwarfing the gnomish king entirely. Any appearance of an appendage was long gone. Its 'arm' had morphed into roots that dug deep into the soil. 'Fingers' had become branches, which had begun to sprout leaves from the tips. The 'palm' was now a trunk as wide as Mekkatorque was tall, covered in a hard outer layer of bark. In all of twenty seconds, a massive tree had burst out of the grave, decades worth of growth happening in the time it took to draw breath, though that particular bodily function had been forgotten by the gnome spectator.
Its transformation was nowhere near complete, though. As Mekkatorque watched in awe, the bark skin of the tree began to shiver, humanoid features forming on the trunk as if it had the consistency of clay. Brilliant green leaves sprouted from its branches in a beautiful semblance of spring, even as those branches began to move like writhing creatures. The mouth of the face solidified as the metamorphosis continued, which gaped open and closed like a fish out of water, gasping for breath without lungs. Empty eye sockets formed next, which began to blaze with a familiar emerald fire. In seconds, the verdant green leaves had faded to a yellow that was so bright it hurt to look at, which soon withered into a dull red that was somewhere between the colors of fire and blood. Dead now, their lives quickly spent, the leaves began to fall en masse, showering the air with a rain of color. The near humanoid tree began to struggle, its expression one of trapped panic. Roots ripped free from the earth and it clawed for freedom with its shuddering, wooden arms. It grew pale, losing its warm mahogany color until it was bleached white. With a horrendous crack, the silvery bark skin splintered and the tree fell forward. As it hit the ground with a thunderous crash, the tree form shattered like glass, revealing the tauren curled in a fetal position inside.
His body was still incomplete. Muscles spread like vines down newly formed bones that moved into place with sickening crunching noises. Organs grew into place, still visible for moments after they had begun to function while flesh spread protectively around them. The skin was mutating oddly between scales, bark, feathers, and a dozen other substances as if not quite sure exactly what it was before settling on pink skin and rapidly growing fur. As the last hair on his head began to settle into place, his finished body gasped its first breath, a coughing wheeze as new lungs learned how to act. The heart stumbled into a rapid beat, blood flowing quickly through his shivering form, which was still devoid of the warmth of life. He was bare. He was weak.
Asterius was alive.
"YOU!" Gelbin Mekkatorque gasped in shock, partially hiding behind the fallen statue. His wide-eyed gaze locked onto the struggling tauren, who couldn't seem to find the will to move.
"M-M-M-Mmmmuv," was the druid's stuttered reply. He grimaced, still wracked with spasms, and tried again to relearn how to speak. Making his voice do what he wanted it to was a little beyond him at the moment. "M-mmmma... M-m--mmmmaaee... Mmm-mm-mmmaaeev!"
"Huh?" Asterius was delighted at his accomplishment, but the gnomish king seemed less than enthralled. With a wince, the druid realized that Mekkatorque couldn't understand. He tried once more, digging through his addled mind for the right language.
"C-c-coooold-d-d-d,"
"Oh! Just a minute," the gnome answered and disappeared from sight. Asterius couldn't manage to turn his head to follow, but his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the king leaping into the now empty grave. He reappeared a moment later and wrapped a cloth around the tauren, who hugged the fabric around him like a drowning man might grasp a life preserver. It was only a moment later that he realized what Mekkatorque had handed him, and he would have laughed if he could manage such a feat. The closest thing around, the gnome had quickly realized. He had grabbed Asterius' charred, bloody, ripped, and now dirt covered tabard from where it had been placed within the grave. The druid pulled it even tighter around him.
"How?!" Mekkatorque gaped, still keeping a good distance away from the immobile tauren, well cautious of things that shouldn't be alive. "You were dead. I saw it. You were definitely dead!"
"W-w-wouldn-n't be the f-f-f-first time," was all the sarcasm he could manage before consciousness left him, the sheer effort it had taken to create a new body weighing his mind down into a deep, uninterruptible sleep.
Mekkatorque, his eyes set on the druid with an intense glare, contemplated his options. His people had a pretty strict view on the undead, and it wasn't a kind one. With a heavy sigh, he ran as fast as his stubby legs could take him, heading for the refugee camp and cursing himself with every breath.
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With agonizing slowness, Asterius began to wake up. His head throbbed with a strength that made him wonder if dwarven blacksmiths hadn't taken up permanent residence within his skull. His throat was parched and his tongue felt like it was made of cotton. He didn't bother trying to sit up, but even moving his fingers seemed like a mighty task. He opened his eyes, wincing slightly from the sting of the relatively low light.
The first thing he noticed was a ceiling. He hadn't quite expected one, but it was a welcome sight. The dim lighting came from a smoldering forge on the other side of the room that radiated heat. He basked in its warmth, covered though he was in comfortable woolen blankets. Sparing a glance downward, he noted with amusement that four smaller beds had been pushed together to support his massive frame.
"I should've left you there, you know," came a voice from his side. Asterius tried to place it, though his mind was bogged down by sleep and the lingering effects of his rebirth. He turned his head slightly to see the gnomish king standing by his makeshift bed, suspicion evident in his eyes. "It took a dozen gnomes and three dwarves to carry you back here, against their will of course. Our kind doesn't look too favorably on the undead, after all. The proper choice was to leave you. The wind would have finished you off. Zombie or otherwise, everything freezes in the Dun Morogh night."
"Why didn't you?" He asked of Mekkatorque. The tiny king scratched his bald pate, searching for an answer.
"You broke your statue," he said at last, handing the druid a flagon of spiced cider. Asterius drank greedily as the gnome continued, "Not much of a memorial if the statue's broken. Besides, I don't even know your name."
Asterius set down the mug and extended his hand toward Mekkatorque. "My name is Asterius, General of the Eastern Front. And if its any consolation, I'm not a zombie, wraith, spirit, or any other malevolent form of undead monster."
"Then what are you?" The gnomish king asked hesitantly, reaching out with his own tiny fist.
"I am... a druid," he replied, shaking the little ruler's hand. "Nice to meet you."
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"Why come back? You can claim you're not undead, but I know what I saw."
The druid ignored his question, changing the subject instead. "How long have I been out?"
"About a day," Asterius raised an eyebrow. It had seemed like an eternity on the other side, but time travels differently there. He got to his feet, pleasantly surprised that they supported his weight without trembling much. "Are you sure you should be walking so soon?"
Asterius strode out into the darkness of the night, leaving behind the warmth of the dwarven-made stone building. He found himself within the city limits of Kharanos, the little town filled many times beyond capacity as it attempted to house the numbers of homeless refugees from the wrecked city of Ironforge. Signal fires blazed from sentry points along the outskirts of the village, and the druid's keen eye could pick out an armed patrol making its way through waist-deep snow. Either they had seriously increased security after his own attack on the defenseless outpost or something was keeping them on high alert. A sudden breeze gusted through the deserted road, whipping past the countless numbers of canvas tents of the refugees that were undoubtedly miserable in this weather. True to the gnome king's word, the intense chill sent shivers down his spine. He could feel it already begin to sap at his still meager strength. It would be a good idea not to stay outdoors for long periods of time, especially clad in only his tabard as he was now. "Your concern is noted, but I'm already pressed for time."
"You're going after them." It was a statement, not a question. In response, Asterius pointed to the soldiers on guard.
"They're here for a reason, unless I miss my guess."
Mekkatorque hesitated, but finally admitted it with a nod. "There was an... incident. Civilians were found in this city brutally murdered. We believe that some Syreen may have survived. How did you know?"
"I felt it," the druid said as he started to walk along the road, his fur automatically growing thicker to defend against the sting of the freezing temperature. Sometimes, having complete control over one's body was rather useful. He continued to speak, sensing the following gnome's questioning gaze, "When I was in the other plane. I felt their deaths and something even worse. I felt their souls pulled from their bodies... almost as if they were devoured."
"Souls? Come on, I'm a man of science. No gnome believes in an afterlife. You can't expect me to..." He trailed off as Asterius glanced back at him, his eyes reminding the gnome of where he had been not long before.
"You can say I have some experience regarding the afterlife, little king. The soul is very real and destroying it in the way that I felt is possibly the most horrendous thing I have ever experienced." He shuddered at the memory. "You wanted to know why I came back? These Syreen already pose a tremendous threat to life on this planet. If they are behind the very destruction of life energy itself, I have no choice but to stop them."
At his pace, it wasn't long before Asterius had reached the gargantuan gates of Ironforge, but stopped short of entering. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a silvery glint in the moonlight, shining from a small copse of trees. He walked over to investigate and found the long, gleaming blade that had ended his previous life, still stuck in the frozen earth that only hours ago claimed his body. He grasped the blade and yanked it from the dirt.
"What are you doing?" Mekkatorque called from behind him, wrapped in so many layers of clothing to keep out the winter chill that he was nearly round.
"I believe I'll return that man his sword," the druid replied with a wicked grin. He spent several more minutes in his own grave, uncovering his buried armor and packs. A tauren skeleton grinned back at him from its resting place and he wondered if it should bother him to stare at his own remains. "In terms that you can understand, my tiny friend, I am reloading. I need more ammo."
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His hooves clattered loudly on the stone with every step, magnified by the echo of the cavernous city. Asterius, once again clad in his worse-for-wear leathers, walked down the proud, paved streets of Ironforge, surveying the wreckage with a clinical eye. The Syreen had set ablaze everything that could burn, but fortunately that wasn't much considering the very nature of the city. Every protective measure against flames had already been taken by the industrious dwarves, so that very little was lost to the fires that ravaged the dwarven homes. The Syreen army hadn't stopped there, though. The human commander's hatred for the city was so great, he had ordered his soldiers to take it apart, brick by brick, with sledgehammers if necessary. Explosives had ripped apart some areas of the city, melting stone and destroying the strong, carved structures in the blast radius. The city truly looked like hell, a fiery wasteland of war.
"We'll rebuilt it," Mekkatorque said, keeping pace by the druid's side. He gestured to the teams of dwarven and gnomish craftsmen who were running about in a frenzy, even in the dead of night, mirroring the well-ordered commotion of an anthill. His expression looked full of sorrow, but his voice rang with an inner determination. "You'll see. There's nothing that dwarves like more than working, and there's nothing that gnomes like better than improving what's already there. Those bastards did us a favor. Now we'll get the chance to redo the entire city from scratch! It'll be bigger and better than ever."
"If there was one trait to admire from your culture, it's that larger-than-life attitude," Asterius said conversationally.
"Another thing to admire would be our thirst for justice," Mekkatorque's expression had turned from sorrowful to vengeful. "Jerikkal will pay for this."
Asterius glanced down at the gnome king. "You know it's not the greatest of ideas to accompany me to Stormwind."
"Thinking of talking me out of it? Well let me tell you something. I don't care why hell spat you back up, but you can crawl right back into that hole you came out of if you think you're crossing my Tram without me. I'll be damned if I leave Magni's fate to the likes of your kind. Dead as you are, I ought to be doing the sensible thing and re-killing you until you don't come back."
Asterius gave a dangerous smile. "You think you could manage it?"
"Don't even try to intimidate me, you walking carpet. I am the ruler of Ironforge!"
"Oh, no, I would never even imagine of thinking little of someone with your stature," the druid said dryly, patting the king on his hairless head. The gnome rolled his eyes as Asterius let out a hearty chuckle.
"Yeah, you're hilarious. I've certainly never heard that one before," Gelbin muttered as they picked their way through Tinker Town, rubble and bodies strewn across the streets toward the entrance to the Tram. "We're here."
The unlikely pair forced their way into the loading docks, pushing through twisted masses of metal and collapsed sections of stone from the overhead rafters. Tauren and gnome stood on one of the moving platforms, Asterius waiting expectantly while Mekkatorque fiddled with the car's controls. A long minute went by before the druid spoke up.
"Is there a problem?"
"Yeah, it's stuck." Mekkatorque removed a sheet of metal from a portion of the control panel and stuck his head inside the spaghetti-like lump of wires that made the machine do what it was supposed to. Muttered curses and the occasional yelp of pain was the only thing he heard from the gnome, who by now had dug so far inside the innards of the mechanical contraption that only his boots were showing. "It was built for cargo, not armies, and especially not those hundreds of fat cows in body armor that trampled through not long before. Too much, too soon... The poor baby is just overworked."
Around half an hour went by before Mekkatorque finally extricated himself from the electronics mess that faced him. "Something the matter, lumpy? You're as silent as the grave!"
"Har har," Asterius said. He was sitting crosslegged on the Tram car, staring intently at a stone placed a foot in front of him. His pouches lay by his side, along with the longsword that seemed permanently stained with his blood. He gestured to both the rock and the blade. "That stone killed me just as surely as the sword."
Mekkatorque feigned horror, a sarcastic tremble of fear in his voice, "Oh noes! Get the evil, scary rock away from me before it strikes again!"
Asterius turned to the gnomish king, replying in a deadpan tone, "Not to worry, I shall protect Your Highness from the vicious stone. Can you fix the Tram or can't you?"
"Of course I can fix it! You just keep playing with your stones. I'll have us out of here and moving toward certain, painful death in no time."
"Full of confidence, aren't we?" the druid said, but his companion had already disappeared into the bowels of the mechanical beast, gears and wires hiding him from view. Asterius sighed and stared down the long corridor that led the way to Stormwind, praying that his friends were alive and unharmed in the very center of their enemy's stronghold. They wouldn't have to hold out long.
Asterius was coming. Gods help the poor fools that stood in his way.
