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The ground shook. Shuddered. Snow drifted from it’s tenuous perch on branches and the cliff above him. Telinthos cautiously glanced up, shifting his feet ready to run.

To hell with these earthquakes.

Finding no excuse to flee, Telinthos continued scanning the valley below him. He watched carefully, invisibly, as Gnomish troops gathered in tidy regimented lines and assaulted their subterranean lair.

Now what could warrant such devoted attention. He wondered, watching as time and again their lines attacked and retreated, like ocean waves.

The ground shook again. Snow fell in larger clumps, trees swayed. Telinthos deftly pulled his rolled up carpet from his pack and took to the air. Below him the ground rocked and nearby, Black Rock Mountain erupted, spewing liquid hot magma into the air.

A deafening roar filled the air. A massive shadow unlike anything seen in a thousand years took to the air.

By the heavens, Silvermoon must know what I have seen.

Telinthos landed a short distance away, on the first stable piece of land he could find. The shaking had knocked loose years of snow and ice, showering the valleys in avalanche while the eruption was spewing ash and fire everywhere else. He intoned the words necessary, keys to reality and opened a portal to Silvermoon and stepped through, sealing the hole behind him.

Elder and student magi standing around him were shocked by his sudden appearance and the chill wind that followed his footsteps as the portal sealed behind him. Gathering his wits about him, Telinthos marched from the Arcane Library to the Palace chambers, down the hall a short distance. Two guards lowered their spears, barring his passage.

“Regent Theron is in Council and cannot be disturbed.”

“I must speak with the Regent immediately. I have urgent news that cannot wait.”

“You must wa-” the guards words were cut off. Telinthos, short on patience, waved his hand and a pulse of energy knocked the guards aside.

Telinthos regained his stride as he marched into the Council chamber.

Lor’themar Theron, Regent Lord of the Blood Elves and ruler of Silvermoon City stood in meeting with a Troll liaison from Orgrimmar. Regent Theron turned, a scowl building on his face. “What?” his voice deep with ire.

“Regent Lord, my apologies. I have news from Black Rock Mountain. A dragon of immense size has emerged from deep below ground. I believe Deathwing has returned.”

Lor’themar stood. His face an unreadable wall of calm. “Very well. Please depart.” and turned back to the Troll standing with him.

Telinthos walked back down the hallway into Silvermoon City. The fools will likely fail to act and we will lose everything. Again. Glancing around Silvermoon one last time, Telinthos unfurled his carpet and took to the air.

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Tired and weary, the days’ travel behind him. Telinthos pulled a jug of fine Dark Iron mead from his packs and drank from it heavily.

Watching as his Dranei blue skin started to fade slowly and return to the pinkish hue of his elven origins, he mused.

“I’m going to miss the tail.”

“I won’t. Nor the hooves.” Savandra remarked as she adjusted, searching for a comfortable way to sit. The shapechange masking their bodies took the greatest toll on her. Probably because this was her first change and likely the last.

Having completed their foray into scouting Alliance battle strategy and economic position, Telinthos had enacted the ritual magicks necessary to undo the polymorph binding his form to that of a broad-shouldered Dranei.

“Well, at least you’re not gaining five feet of height. Try being a Gnome for a while.”

“Pass.” she commented, finally giving up and laying upon her belly. “This will be done in the morning?”

“Long before then, but you’ll want to be asleep or drunk for the transition. It can be disorienting, at best.” Telinthos pulled another jug from his pack and handed it to her. “It’s no kungaloosh, but it does the trick.”

Telinthos took a long pull from the jug, emptying it’s contents into his belly and threw himself to the ground to sleep off the effects as his mind slipped from it’s precarious grasp on reality into the spiraling whirlwind of inebriation.

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I flew into the encampment with a hint of unease. I had and had not been there before ever. My old life behind me like a morning fog, I landed my carpet and took to foot before the Argent Pavilion.

“Name?” a guard asked, as he eyed me suspiciously.

“Uurem Antaridos, of Exodar.” I recounted, strange sounding to me yet impulsive and as natural as walking or breathing.

The Pavilion wasn’t anything special. A collection of supplies in crate flanked the main entrance, a notary and commander before me with pews to my right and yet more supplies to the left.

The commander, wrinkles creased her face, sighed heavily before looking up. “And you are?”

And again I repeated by impulse more than control. “Uurem of Exodar” The notary took this information into his ledger, many pages in and well worn from travel. “Mage?” she said, her gaze passing over the fine cloth I called armor and a blade that spoke volumes to my journeys and abilities. I nodded.

“Report to the Silver Covenant on the other side of the grounds.” and she turned back to some report she had been examining moments before.

The air back outside was cool. I hadn’t noticed immediately, but Icecrown was one of those places you bundle up tighter than others, where the wind comes in off the sea and lashes at you, biting your ears and lips.

I trod along the encampment, making note of vendors hawking refreshments, a central coliseum housing a mighty tournament by the sounds of the roaring crowd. The steps before the Silver Covenants tent was flanked by mounts tethered. Nightsaber, Elekk, Horse and Ram all tied to their post awaiting master to return.

Everything seemed familiar and yet new. Like visiting a village after many years growth, seeing faces after a long vacation.

The arrangement inside was spacious. A large central area for prospective members to gather, accept tasks and hold audience and separate berths for a representative of each city to gather. Notable in it’s strangeness was the Gnomish representative for Gnomeregan, which I’d come to understand was under siege and in ruin.

I spoke briefly with Colosos, of Exodar, to introduce myself and gauge his reaction to my perceived origins. He merely nodded and wished me luck in my aspiration before beckoning me to speak with the orator in the center of the tent.

Another bureaucrat who took my name, only this one then issued me tasks to complete before I should return.

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Waking up in the Exodar was a strange experience. Being underground, but unlike the Undercity. The ceilings were high, the chambers well-lit. Very little of the surroundings were unfamiliar and yet comforting.

Guards greeted him as one of their own, shopkeeps sold their goods unaware of the truth.

Even this person didn’t fully remember. A necessary precaution in the spellcraft, to prevent prying minds from unraveling his secrets. Another five years under the guise before Silvermoon would ever be called home.

Five years as Draenei.

As he sat down in the nearest Inn, opting to drown his confusion in several pints of the strongest drink, he encountered a sharp pinching pain.

Yes. The tail would take some getting used to.

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He had met her in the Frozen North. They had traveled the tundras, plundered tombs and slaughtered fel creatures great and small.

It was when the mage spoke, that he spoke to them both. The enchantment would be more than polymorph and something less than illusion. They would journey together, witness changes in the Alliance. A coming storm was rumored, changes in the world, and the Silvermoon council wanted news. It was willing to risk dearly and pay heavily for it’s intel.

And so, geared and prepped, Telinthos and Savandra met a small cadre of mages deep in Eversong Woods, far from prying eyes. In those woods they stood in a circle of dust and energies, bathed in the transition.

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Telinthos gazed over the encampment. Vendors hawked their wares, combatants adjusted their armors and checked weapons, anticipation gleaming in their eye. He reached to his side, to an impossible small set of pouches and pulled a small roll. With a flick, that roll was cast into the air unfurling and expanding.

Telinthos leapt into the air and landed on the carpet. It’s tassels glinting with energies and fine embroidery. In a moment he was off, wisked over the Stormpeaks and down the mountainsides to Zul’Drak.

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It wasn’t the magical hat that conjures booze.

It wasn’t the conjured booze.

It was the Carpet. Evidently, it can’t hold it’s liquor.

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While I admire the endeavors of the Argent Crusade, their quest to destroy the Scourge and protect Azeroth, I detest their training methods.

Admittedly, times occur when I am reduced to eradicating my foe with wand. On occasion, I’ve found reason to invoke the fine sharpened edge of my dagger.

But to require entrants learn the finer nuances of jousting, to mount with lance and shield those who are better trained to rain destruction via spell and gesture? Preposterous at the least, utterly insane at the most.

It has taught me new respect for some of my more heavily armed comrades. The defense offered in plate and mail do invoke a subtle twinge of jealousy. But when I consider the loss of firepower. The sheer reduction in my ability to eradicate, that jealousy evaporates like so much water in the Grim Guzzler.

Speaking of which. The Grim Guzzler is one of the finest drinking establishments around. Now if only they offered room and board.

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It was after some inebriation that a lovely blood elf managed to seduce me into betraying some dark secrets.

You see, once upon a time I was a Gnome. I served masters seeking information. In a time before the great journey North, into the cold wasteland. I was investigating the possibility of rejoining the alliance, us paler elves, our well of power destroyed. That was when Kael’thas journeyed unto the Outlands. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard, but the ties were there. I saw Alliance and Horde working towards the same goals, I saw man and orc fighting the same foes.

And at the same time, I saw renewed hatred. Competition and violent contact where handshakes and courteous nods could have been used. I’ve seen war from one end of this world to the other. And I had thought briefly I might see peace at last. Our two forces united.

And so it was, that after seeing the truth in the violence I spent some time alone. A year, if I recall the days properly. I watched the stars come and go, the suns rise and fall. I considered my place in the world.

Mind you, I’d likely still be there, trying to make sense of the chaos that was sewn into all our beings. But my Grand Illusion started to fail. The appearance, the physical changes and the mental blocks all designed to guard against discovery. For three years I was a Gnome. My face still itches where a beared once grew.

And in one moment it was all gone. The enchantment broken. Dispelled or worn out, I cannot say. And yet, I felt ashamed. To have been away from Silvermoon all those years. To have been away from family, from friends. It was crushing. It was so impossibly horrible to comprehend, the loneliness. That my first action was a recall home, to a familiar drinking establishment. And that’s where I awoke up, days later. I must have drank myself til I was gone and then some again.

The memories still plague me. Of time with Dwarves, of serving petty human taskmasters, of aspiring to the ideals of fickle druids and ignorant warriors.

And I still drink. Just in careful moderation. Lest I wake up in a fountain in Stormwind Castle.

But it should be known, I learned my lesson while travelling as a gnome. I learned the value of perspective. I came to understand the need for practice and the desire for power.

Now I carry with me a mild case of Claustrophobia and little else to remind me of my past time.

It is worth noting, as a side-consideration, that I am very grateful that lovely hunter didn’t fill me full of arrows that night. It would have ruined my favorite hat.

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My skill at tailoring reached a new point when I was taught how to stitch up a roll of carpet that doubles as both a sleeping mat for those cold Northern nights and a mount upon which to ride the winds.

Amusingly, neither my Wyvern nor my carpet seem able to handle the extreme chill offered by the air in the north. I had thought this because Drogus was not only cowardly but also lazy. I’m finding now that it’s more of an environmental issue and will require some special arrangements.

That being said, the trainer I was talking to suggested I might be able to stitch up a faster carpet option when I’ve learned more. Something he call the ‘Magnificent Flying Carpet’. As though a flying carpet was rather mundane and everyone could have one and that only a faster option was truly remarkable.

I eagerly look for a way to get off the ground. More things have tried to kill me in the last three days than all of my time in the Outlands. I think even Kael’thas wasn’t that angry with me as those trolls I fought of yesterday were. And let it be known, I don’t mind trolls. They at least smell nicer than the occasional Forsaken I cross paths with.

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