The following story was inspired by an adventure an acquaintance and I went on back in either 2004 or 2005; I don't remember which. It is not, unfortunately, a tribute to World of Warcraft Classic because I haven't played the game since then. Although some reinstated material has proved useful in the small amount of research I have done, I am mainly relying on my somewhat-dim memories of seventeen-eighteen years ago. I've only kept up with the Warcraft lore in a very limited way, so you'll have to forgive me if I forget or leave out something important.

At the time, my huntress was around level 45-48, I think, and my friend's rogue was in the early 50's. I don't even remember his character's name, but I believe it included the word I have substituted. I also don't remember if we had mounts or not or the exact motives which began our quest, except that it was at my instigation, so the circumstances are heavily fictionalized. It is true, however, that we started out with almost or no knowledge of the Southern Barrens and absolutely no idea of where Razorfen Downs was or what to expect there.

The speech given by Archbishop Benedictus is copied verbatim from the in-game quest description, which is my way of poking fun at the way this mission sent Alliance players to kill the last boss of a dungeon located in a Horde starting zone with absolutely no preparation or guidance. That made for what I thought was one heck of an adventure, however. It was also an unusual one, at least on my server, because back then very few Alliance players ever went to Razorfen Downs (or Razorfen Kraul or Shadowfang Keep, though legions of us would troop through hell and Lordamere Lake to reach Scarlet Monastery).

The Horde party which appears in this story is entirely fictitious, but I thought they would be a good way to add some contrast to the narrative. I intend for every other chapter to feature their viewpoint, and will upload the second chapter of the story concurrently to the first in order to establish this equal representation. After that I have six more chapters written and plan to upload them on Sundays, with further updates to be posted when complete.

Thank you for reading.

Disclaimer: The Warcraft universe and its related trademarks are all the intellectual property of Activision Blizzard and or its subsidiaries. I make no claim to anything. The cover image was copied from Wowpedia, trusting in the approval of all concerned.


Spiral of Thorns:

.

This was long before any of the great events which have followed the Third War; before even the battle with Onyxia or the opening of Ahn'Qiraj.

In those days it was Ironforge which seemed to be the unacknowledged capital of the Alliance: the hub of its mercantilism and the mustering-place of its warriors and explorers. Stormwind, though a great city, had not yet the diverse crowds of its northern neighbour, had not even its rightful king, and treachery still beat within its secret heart. Under the summer sun of those unrefined times, the white stone walls and white plaster buildings, the still canals and the warm cobblestones were surroundings for a lethargy and an uneasiness that has never come again.

The foot-traffic, then, was overwhelmingly human in all precincts save the Dwarven District alone, and the majority of the population went on just as they had in the years before the Third War, though an expanding trade with Ironforge and Darnassus had begun to replace the lost commerce of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas. The residents had begun to grow used to the night elves who had colonized the city park, as natural successors to their old allies, but a certain degree of suspicion and timidity perhaps remained in keeping with the prevailing atmosphere.

This air, though signal, was not obvious to one night elf who happened to be wandering the canal-sides on that sunlit afternoon. She was not one of the new aficionados of the park, but had just arrived from Ironforge via the Deeprun Tram, and passing quickly through the smogs of the Dwarven District knew only that she had escaped the heat and raucous clamour of the cavern-metropolis. This was her first time in Stormwind, or any human settlement larger than Menethil Harbour, though she had seen the ruins of Stromgarde from afar and passed beneath Thoradin's Wall. She was not smitten with admiration for the pale city, but it provided a happy enough contrast. Its details, like those of the other lands she had visited in the Eastern Kingdoms, were entirely new; had been conveyed beforehand in only the most general hearsay, which to a former immortal was almost the same as nothing.

The name of this night elf was Elatha Thistledeep, by her markings a civilian and by her profession a huntress. Her hair was long and dark blue, her features plain, and her appearance somewhat slovenly. The front of her jerkin was stained; her coarse leggings and cloak were ragged and patched. The bow on her shoulder was strung with an unwaxed cord. She had for companion a dark and panther-sized shadow: a young nightsaber she called Starfang. Such was the ambivalence of the Stormwind natives that the armoured guards only watched this great feline prowl behind his mistress, and voiced no protest.

Elatha's methods were traditionalist, and her Common very poor. She had no knowledge of the park and no other destination in mind, though her feet were aching in her boots and the sun was producing new sweat to replace that which had earlier dried under her travelling garb. By the time she thought to ask directions she found herself alone, but for some furtive figures, on a street she did not recognize as belonging to the district known as Old Town. Somehow she had gotten turned away from the canals, and never found the majestic castle she had seen blocked against the sky.

Fortunately, it was not long before her eye chanced upon the sign of a mug suspended from above an open doorway. This symbol was familiar, and without considering further she mounted the few wooden steps and entered the Pig and Whistle.

Whatever its contemporary reputation may be, in those days that was a sullen establishment. The common room was high-ceilinged and full of shadows around its inadequate windows. The candles were not yet lit; the great hearth was dark in this season. The wooden furniture and long bar were of the heavy, rude style so typical in the kingdom. And the patrons were few and quiet. Some locals sat brooding at the bar; some private persons were drinking or murmuring together at tables. The soft but not stealthy entrance of a foreigner and a giant, sabre-toothed cat caused nearly every head to turn, and almost every whisper to cease.

Blind to the mood, which would have been suggestive of nothing in her society, Elatha walked cheerfully to an open space before the bar. Starfang flowed at her heels. She was too weary to think anything of the way the nearest tipplers deserted their stools at the advent of the nightsaber, and fixing her eyes on the publican broached her terrible Common: "It is to be good morning! For your beer I am want." He said nothing at once so she added, "Also the food. A meat plate would be thanks."

"Certainly, ma'am," said the barman, cautiously. He hoped to avoid any interference with the cat. "We have some cold bacon in the larder."

Not understanding this, Elatha nodded eagerly. One of the clientele further down the bar muttered a vile slur, but this was also outside her grasp of the language.

"Let me take you to a table while you wait," said the publican, moving hastily out from behind the counter. He kept more than one eye on Starfang, who had sat down behind Elatha, so it was a moment or two before he noticed that all of the ground-floor tables had at least one occupant. This was immaterial to him, however, for he had not failed to recall a salient detail which was already increasing his confidence in the situation. "I believe there's a compatriot of yours present today. You won't have any objection to sitting with her, I trust?"

As expected, she nodded again.

Full of relief he walked ahead to a table in one of the square corners of the upper room, and drew out a chair before stepping smartly aside. At the opposite end, with her back to the wall, sat a figure who did not require her people's famous power in order to blend into the shadows of that unlit space. She wore a close-fitting suit of dark material and a pale hood. The glow of her eyes she kept concealed by a judicious arrangement of the latter garment.

Elatha, naturally, was very pleased to see a countrywoman. "Ishnu'alah!" she said, leaning immediately forward across the seat. "Isn't it sweltering here? It's nearly as bad as the dwarf city. And I thought there would be nobody I could talk to."

"...'Nulah," said the hooded woman, eventually. Neither her voice nor her posture were very welcoming.

This Elatha noticed, but she scratched her cat behind the ears, took off her pack, and sat down while the publican said a few more words she barely understood and then departed. "I hope we're not imposing?" she asked.

"No," said the rogue (for such she was). There was only a tall stein before her, and now she sipped once before settling back in her chair.

"Do you know if they take boarders here? I need someplace to put my belongings."

The night elves, notably, had accents. An immortal people dwelling for ten thousand years in such small, ritualistic and staid communities could hardly have not. There was an accent for every region and indeed for every town and outpost. An accent for the Sentinels. An accent for the fishers and another for the Wardens. The druids had particular accents, generally very archaic compared to the others. The rogue, clearly, was from Winterspring, and Elatha from Darkshore. Whether either of them had actually been born in those places was quite incidental: to this ancient and austere people, language was the strongest protocol, and an accent was a declaration quite as important as formal clothes might be to a human.

All the same, these particularities of pronunciation did not establish any clear precedent between them. The Darkshore accent might be considered rustic, and was generally associated with seagoing folk, while that of Winterspring was spoken by a far less considerable group known for their especially retiring habits. So might a dockside timbre contrast with that of some mountain village.

"They rent out rooms, but it's fifteen silvers a day," said the rogue. "You might try the park instead."

"What's that?"

"A sanctuary." Night elves had no equivalent word so casual as park. To say meadow or glen would have been more technically appropriate, but did not carry the legalistic sense. "It's where some of our people live. They'll let you stay for free, and keep your gear safe too."

"It's here in the city?"

The rogue gave directions and answered a few more questions patiently, and in the course of conversation it was the slow brogue of Winterspring which seemed to achieve a smooth and street-wise polish. Elatha was much impressed. "You've helped me a great deal," she said, and introduced herself and Starfang.

The rogue extended her hand, a gesture which confused the huntress until she said, "Human habits for human habitations, Miss Thistledeep." They shook a bit limply. "You can call me Ghost."

Elatha was not diplomatic enough to hide her amusement. "Ghost?"

Her interlocutor made a small gesture equivalent to a shrug, and Elatha had to reflect that she was in a strange time and a strange country and the rogue was perhaps being polite to use a moniker rather than the deception of an assumed name. She hastened to change the subject. "Do you come to Stormwind often, then?"

"No," said the rogue. "I'm only stopping off. What about you?"

"I seem to drift about," said Elatha, with a happy awe. The publican had delivered her beer by this time, and she pulled at it before continuing. "When I came off the ship in that Menethil, I went north, because people said there was a town of dwarves in trouble. I helped them, and then saw the broken bridges across the strait. Have you been there?" Ghost indicated that she had. "Well, I went across and through the green highland where there are so many standing stones, and under the huge wall. In the meadowlands I fought the undead until there was a battle between their township and the one called Southshore. One of my companions was injured and there were no gryphons, so I went back with him to Menethil. After that I heard of the dwarf city in the mountains. I made my way up, fighting orcs in the passes, and found the city but it was too loud. I met a gnome who showed me the tunnel and its riding machines, and so came here to explore the south."

During the conclusion of this short narrative, the rogue had lifted her glass and drained the remnants in one gulp. When she lowered the stein her tone was warmer. "Still wandering the marches, then? I felt like that myself when I first came here."

"When was that?"

"Two years ago." Ghost stretched out her legs under the table. "At first the horizon feels boundless, but one finds the barriers soon enough, I'm afraid. And struggles thereafter."

Elatha looked at her new acquaintance with greater admiration. "I have only been here for two months."

They could hardly help but share a fellow-feeling on this point. Since the Battle of Mount Hyjal a breach had opened in the society of the Kaldorei, sometimes sharp and sometimes amicable. The majority of the population had been moved to draw back from the world, farther than ever before, to an island severed even from the continent of Kalimdor. Some had become more savage in their conservatism, their national seclusion; some had despaired. But there were others who viewed the end of the Long Vigil and of their immortality as, if not necessarily a good, then at least a definite and wholesale change. These individuals had perceived with interest their nation's new alliances, and the opening to them of lands once unknown or forbidden. They were content to go forth among strangers, and full of awe or simply grim determination, had begun as it seemed a new chapter in life.

"Then I congratulate you. You've come far already," said Ghost, magnanimously. "Let me offer some advice. The forest around Stormwind and the western plains have been picked over by adventurers. They're pretty enough, but not very profitable. If you've got the funds, hire a gryphon to the town of Darkshire and ask directions to Stranglethorn Vale. That's the very tip of the continent, and it's wild and dangerous, but not as bad as the mountains in the north or the swamps in the southeast. There's always excitement in Stranglethorn, and you'll be welcome."

"Thank you," said Elatha, though she felt afraid of becoming embroiled in anything she was not ready for. She added, neutrally, "I seem to find something to do wherever I go."

Ghost said, "Think of it as a note in the corner of your map. Or don't. But I would beware of running low on finances, if I were you. Money is the best way to speak to humans."

This witticism at the expense of their hosts was conducive to an exchange of smiles, and meanwhile the publican arrived with the ordered meal. The conversation continued at a slower pace while the huntress consumed her repast, sharing it with Starfang, and the rogue accepted a slice or two for herself. Presently the platter was cleared and Elatha stretched her stiff muscles and rose. "I suppose I should go looking for that place you mentioned."

"The park," said Ghost, getting to her feet as well. "I'll walk you there. I've nothing else to do for the rest of the day."


By the time they left the sun was nearing the towers of the western city, and had found there a nest of stratus cloud. The light was bright orange, and bells were tolling the hour from the pinnacles of the cathedral.

"It's how they mark time here," said Ghost, when Elatha asked her. "The bells are rung at steady intervals, but the number of peals is different at each interval. The people know how many peals for noon, and how many for midnight, and so on."

"Like the dwarven clocks," said Elatha.

"They have those, too."

There was some shadow of a prejudice here; against fuming technologies and stone cities as against demon-calling magics, but it was brief. The world of 'mortal' polities could not be enjoyed if its customs were not appreciated as quaint. Meanwhile the pair went briskly under the comparative overcast, though they had accustomed themselves to a diurnal schedule.

Their pace was silent on cobbles; their boots were soft-heeled. Elatha made some slight whisper in motion, carrying all her possessions, but Ghost and Starfang did not. The rogue was a half-step in the lead, moving with a kind of clandestine stride. Upright, a sheathed sword and a dagger with dull hilts and some dark pouches and holstered vials had become visible around her belt. She took byways, nearer always to the shoreward side, and so avoided most pedestrians. The urban evening was full of odours and rambling sounds. Once, two ragged dogs came rushing up and bayed at Starfang, but at a snarl and a yawning of tusks they cringed and scampered off. The trio passed through the lamplit tunnel and onto the grass of their destination.

Elatha was stirred to homesickness by the frame of the moonwell, and she hastened up to it. The birds in the trees were strange to the huntress, but their song was harmonious. The still air smelled of nightflowers. She had expected to see night elves, but instead there was only a single white-clad figure sitting on the embankment with a bowed head and clasped hands. The hands were brown, and by this, and by the diminutive stature of the sitter, Elatha knew it for a human.

"Very good evening," she said, hoping to see some of her own people appear from one angle or another.

The human startled and stood up, revealing that it was a slight young man who inhabited the white, hooded robe of a priest. He smiled with a nervousness lost upon the abstracted huntress. "Hello! My name is Brother Tertius, novitiate in the Cathedral of Light. I hope this isn't inconvenient, but I was hoping to speak to someone in charge here."

Elatha was saved from having to reply by Ghost, who had now sauntered up. The rogue's command of Common was far superior to that of her new acquaintance. "We're not in charge. We are adventurers."

"What's going on?" Elatha asked, in her own language, feeling that the circumstances justified poor etiquette. "Is there trouble?"

"I don't know," said Ghost.

"Adventurers? That's just as good, then," said the priest, at the same moment. His tone was hopeful. "I am here on confidential business, but, you may be assured, my patron is one of the powers of this city. You are experts on Kalimdor, yes? Night elf adventurers? If you will come with me to hear a proposal, I am certain it will be worth your trouble."

"Do you know where the others have gone to?" asked Ghost, ignoring this offer for the moment.

"I'm afraid not. I've been waiting here for hours."

"What does he say?" Elatha inquired.

"He claims to be a messenger; says he has some patron who'd like to speak to us. A job, I think, maybe for the temple here." Ghost spoke in the manner of a quick aside, as the language barrier enabled her to do. For it was nearly inconceivable that their interlocutor should understand the Kaldorei tongue, let alone a brisk and colloquial rendering of it.

"The human temple?" said Elatha, with more interest. "I know almost nothing about the religion here."

"You are a priest?" Ghost asked the human, and, after he had re-introduced himself, confirmed to Elatha, "He says he is a priest from their temple."

"Shall we go with him, then?"

The rogue cast a cautionary glance at her companion. "If you like. We're not obliged to do anything."

The huntress looked around again. The hour was early, by any reckoning she chose. The meadow around them was empty; the diffuse sun was throwing long shadows from the old trees and the purple-tiled rooftops of the overlooking Mage Quarter. Though she had been tired earlier, she had rested, and the brisk walk from the Pig and Whistle had roused her blood without restoring her aches and cramps. She returned her gaze to the priest, who was staring alternately at her, at Ghost, and at Starfang—the cat had left her side to sniff through the dandelions a little to the left—with the wondering expression of someone who waits on an incomprehensible discussion between tall and glowing-eyed aliens.

"Perhaps I'll go and see what he wants," said Elatha. "Do you think it's dangerous?"

"In what way?" replied Ghost.

"In...the forest way," said Elatha, which is the closest way to translate the expression she used: natural to those who, living among trackless wilderness, would need often to point toward a particular hemisphere and explain if it showed signs of becoming haunted by harpies or satyrs, the bad-tempered chimera or the grumpy furbolg. A simple, open-ended term without specifics: 'there is something suspicious in that region'.

"Everywhere away from home is like a forest," said the rogue, and looked away. "I think you should keep that in mind always, Miss Thistledeep."

This flummoxed Elatha, who did not wish to offend one new acquaintance for the sake of another, but in the end the conclusion was foreordained. There was simply no way for the two night elves to make themselves comfortable on the lonely stretch before the moonwell with Brother Tertius standing awkwardly there and staring at them. It was not long before Ghost admitted, "It's probably harmless, as long as it really is the temple he wants to take us to."

"Do you know what it looks like?"

"Of course. There's no mistaking it: that's where they keep all the bells."

"Please to the church," said Elatha, to the priest. She turned back to Ghost. "You don't have to come if you don't wish to."

"Not at all," said Ghost, seeming to recover her easy humour. "And don't worry. As I said, I have nothing else to do."

Elatha never did learn what errand or distraction had displaced the regular denizens of the park on that afternoon, although she was to meet them later and enjoy the hospitality which Ghost had advised her of. At the time, she had barely long enough to completely observe the place before departing again, through the northeastern entrance, whence she was led across the canals to Stormwind's Cathedral Square.


The courtyard before Azeroth's holy capitol was busy with worshippers and pilgrims, though it was not a holiday and service had ended some hours previously. Brother Tertius avoided the crowd, drawing his two unexpected charges around to a postern door in the western facade of the cathedral.

The slender spires and vaulting roofs of Van Cleef's masterwork were not as impressive to Elatha as her newer guide might have wished, even white and warm against an ochre sky. She could not help but compare it unfavourably with the recently-completed Temple of Elune, in Darnassus. The comparison as such won her interest, however, for here was proof of the humans' regard for their mysterious deity, and of a popular dedication to its worship. The huntress felt that she had gained a new if as yet incomplete insight on the society, who had so far struck her as stolidly secular in a way even comparable to goblins. The impression was very unfair, but in Ironforge the architecture had convinced her that dwarves and probably gnomes were followers of some primitive spirit of fire, within whose embrace they had constituted their metropolis.

In the meantime she and Ghost were led through speckless hallways of white stone, past murals and stained-glass windows depicting colourful scenes of enigmatic context. They halted in a pleasant room where an armed paladin stood guard. Brother Tertius consulted with him, and with another novitiate who briefly opened the heavy door, then turned to the two night elves. "My patron will receive you in another chamber. You must leave your weapons here."

This seemed reasonable. Elatha set her bow, her quiver, and her broad knife upon the table provided. Ghost laid down her sword, dagger and vials, with that deliberation which suggests hidden weapons remain to be challenged. Indeed, after a studied hesitance she removed a slim poniard from her boot and two long, discoloured needles from lodgings along the backs of her leggings and placed them beside the other items. The addition was more like a warning than a surrender: I am always armed.

But the clerics were used to adventurers, and made no particular fuss. Their second objection had a different target.

"The panther must stay here, please," said Brother Tertius, looking at Elatha.

"I...am to remain?" Elatha, of course, turned to Ghost for sophisticated translation.

"He means your nightsaber."

This sort of situation was, of course, one of those for which the huntress had trained her cat, but he was still young, and waited more pacifically when placated with a bowl of fresh meat and milk. There was some delay while this palliative was being arranged, and then a further delay once it had arrived and the bearer brought the news that the waiting patron, growing impatient, had moved on to a different interview. Elatha elected to delay the cat's feast until it should serve the intended purpose, but its proximity provoked many plaintive yowls and pacings which caused some agitation to the paladin and Brother Tertius.

At length, however, the summons was renewed and Starfang left to enjoy his dinner. Elatha and Ghost were escorted down a last corridor to a small door, at which Brother Tertius knocked thrice. As they waited, the priest turned to whisper, "I might as well tell you, now that we're here: you are about to meet Archbishop Benedictus himself! Are you not glad you trusted me?"

Ghost shrugged. Elatha, of course, frowned over the gist of this clandestine communication.

"He is the Archbishop of Stormwind!" poor Tertius insisted. "Sole head to the entire Church of the Light! Even as foreigners, you must know of him."

Fortunately the door was opened by a secretary at this moment, and the two aliens ushered into that presence whose glory they knew not. The chamber was large and stately. Bookshelves stood high across the walls and three long tables were covered with maps on which coloured markings and pins, or sometimes figurines, had been positioned. There were several people already in the room: the young secretary, a bishop in silken robes, and an elder paladin. Archbishop Benedictus himself was unmistakable beside a corner table: as large as a night elf, and dressed in his famous gold-and-argent vestments.

Clearly, all these worthies had been engaged in a close conference on matters of considerable import, for when they saw the night elves at the door they blinked briefly at them before returning to their former deliberations. Nevertheless, the secretary and Brother Tertius chivied the two adventurers over, and the great men paused and made civil greetings. Archbishop Benedictus shook hands with Ghost, and then with Elatha.

"Thank you for coming. I hear it is a long way," he told them in his resonant voice, and if he did not think they had travelled all the way from Teldrassil simply to oblige him they never discovered it. He led them to another table, where they recognized a crude map of the Barrens of eastern Kalimdor.

The archbishop was, in fact, hardly cognizant of the interview. His time was valuable, and many matters took up his consideration. He had been appraised of the exact nature of these latest visitors, but instantly forgotten the information. The two were, as far as he could or wished to recall, experts on Kalimdor recommended by authorities of their own kind who resided in the city by royal invitation. He expected that his subordinates would clear up any confusions and provide any details or specifics as necessary. That any difficulty or ambiguity existed was not known to him, nor that his own vague instructions had caused such disorder.

As a result, he only pointed to the southward area of the map and said assuredly: "The Scourge is a persistent threat to the Alliance, a fact I am sure you know quite well. Recently, we have come across some very peculiar findings. In the Barrens lies a horrid tangle of briars called Razorfen Downs. While once it was the home of simple quillboar, now it has become apparent that a pact was made with the Scourge, creating creatures far worse...They are now ruled by the lich, Amnennar the Coldbringer."

There Benedictus paused, but the two night elves only looked at him in silence. He finished: "Align yourselves with the Light, my friends; put an end to this evil union."