User:Joshmaul/Greymane's Folly

Greymane's Folly: The Fall of Fortress Gilneas is a fan fic I started writing shortly before the release of World of Warcraft: Cataclysm - and as such, before Curse of the Worgen. This is my own take on the events of Gilneas, and from the perspective of my own characters...and also still a work in progress. So bear with me.

The Kingdom of Gilneas
The Greymane Family
 * Genn Greymane - King of Gilneas
 * Mia Greymane - Wife of Genn, Queen of Gilneas
 * Liam Greymane - Son of Genn and Mia, Crown Prince of Gilneas
 * Tess Greymane - Daughter of Genn and Mia, Princess of Gilneas

The Nobles
 * Vincent Godfrey - Gilnean nobleman, ally (and later enemy) of Greymane
 * Darius Crowley - Gilnean nobleman, leader of the Northgate rebellion
 * Baron Ashbury - One of Godfrey's lieutenants
 * Lord Walden - Another of Godfrey's lieutenants

The Northgate Rebels
 * Lorna Crowley - Darius' daughter and second-in-command
 * Tobias Mistmantle - One of Crowley's lieutenants
 * Sean Dempsey - Another of Crowley's lieutenants
 * Vincent Hersham - Another of Crowley's lieutenants
 * Josiah Avery - Caretaker of a hidden cache of weapons for Crowley
 * Eidan Zherron - Leader of a rebel militia
 * Jeremiah August - Zherron's second-in-command

The Zherron Family
 * Daril Zherron - Gilnean general, father of Eidan
 * Alma Zherron - Harvest mage (druid), wife of Daril
 * Elmira "Mira" Zherron - Wife of Eidan
 * Mina, Lucia and Arabella Zherron - Daughters of Eidan and Elmira

The Forsaken

 * Sylvanas Windrunner - Queen of the Forsaken
 * Varan Metheius - One of Sylvanas' generals
 * Declan Malkus - Metheius' chief lieutenant and mouthpiece
 * Nyssha Swiftblade - Metheius' personal bodyguard
 * Dark Ranger Thyala - Another of Sylvanas' generals, commander of the initial landings

The Alliance

 * Saavedro of Stratholme - Priest of Lordaeron
 * The Farseer Jaeden'laek - Draenei shaman and benefactor of Zherron

=Text=

Rise of the Wall
"What an eyesore." On a ridge west of the capital city, Lord Darius Crowley silently stared at the great construction underway at the borders of Silverpine. Several months ago, after he left a meeting in Lordaeron with King Terenas, King Greymane had ordered the construction of a great wall along the border between Gilneas and Lordaeron. Crowley knew exactly what his king, his friend, intended to do - he intended to seal it shut, cutting off his lands from Lordaeron - from the rest of the world. Crowley shook his head. He knew Genn was a stubborn man; the King had never believed in the Alliance, only offering his troops - and again, only a token force - when he was accused of cowardice. But now the war was over, the orcs were rotting in their camps, and the Alliance nations had provided very large amounts of money towards the restoration of Stormwind, the construction of Nethergarde, and the establishment of the orcish internment camps all over Lordaeron. Greymane had dropped all pretenses and raged at Terenas at the recent council. "Damn the orcs, damn the Alliance, and damn you!" the King had shouted. "The last thing Gilneas needs is sponges from other nations drawing from our resources, Dalaran wizards meddling with our affairs, and someone else's enemies killing our soldiers! Gilneas is its own nation and it always will be." And so, Gilneas went on its way. Stromgarde had followed suit, Thoras Trollbane regretfully breaking his ties to Lordaeron because Terenas refused to kill the orcs, instead choosing to imprison them. "A blight on the landscape of our nation," he said at last, replying to the man at his side who had spoken. "Aye, my lord." General Daril Zherron looked thoroughly disgusted. Though loyal to his kingdom and people, Zherron had believed in the Alliance, as had his son Eidan - among the few in Gilneas' military who had. "Once that thing's done, and Greymane closes the gates, no living thing will ever cross it again. Not in...and not out. Not a fate I want, certainly." Crowley nodded silently. "So that's why I'm taking some of my boys and heading back out." Crowley glanced sharply in his direction; Zherron shrugged. "Come now, my lord. You and I are far from the only people in Gilneas who think this is the worst idea in the long, sad history of bad ideas, and it'll come back to bite Greymane in the future. My men will obey me, and it won't cause any shortages in the army. I told him we're going to Pyrewood, to maintain our holding there - and I think even if he didn't know right then and there, he suspects...but is allowing us to go anyway." Crowley's jaw tightened; Pyrewood was part of his lands, but it was on the Lordaeron side of the wall. Once the wall was finished, which would be any day now from what he had heard, his lands would be forever separated from the rest of Gilneas. "What of your son?" "He knows my reasons, and agrees with them...but he will remain here. That way, if something happens to me, the family will go on." Zherron looked down for a moment, then glanced at Crowley again. "I am a loyal subject of Gilneas, as have generations of my family. But I cannot sit idly by while we forsake people who would be our friends. I must do this, even if..." He stopped, as if unable to voice the words. Finally, he said, "Even if I never see my homeland again." Crowley sighed and nodded. "I know." Zherron gazed at him curiously. "And you, my lord? What will you do here?" "What I have been trying to do ever since this whole debacle" - he gestured at the wall as he said this - "began. Try to convince him that this is wrong...but my words will fall on deaf ears, as they have for weeks." Crowley looked pained. "It may require more than words." He turned to Zherron, and noted the look in his eyes - perfect understanding. "Light go with you, General Zherron." "May the Light be with us all today, Lord Crowley. We may well need it." "What I have done has been for the benefit of our people - and you want me to continue to let Terenas hold us on his leash?" Genn Greymane snorted. "I think not!" "You know that's not what I'm saying, sire. But Gilneas should not abandon our friends --" "Friends?" Lord Vincent Godfrey laughed humorlessly. "What friend demands obedience and subservience to their agenda? No friend of ours, most certainly." He gave an imperious wave of his hand. "Gilneas has endured without Lordaeron for generations in the past. We will endure without them for generations in the future." "Will we?" Crowley was shaking his head. "I don't think so." "You doubt your own people?" asked Lord Walden, an eastern noble and one of Godfrey's cronies, his voice dripping with condescension. "Of course not. But I doubt the wisdom of this decision." He turned to his King with a pleading gaze. "I ask you to reconsider, Genn. This is a mistake, and if it is not rectified, Gilneas will rue the day it shut itself away from the world." "I have made my decision." Greymane's expression softened as he stood from his throne, standing before his friend. "I have heard your words. But I must think of what is best for our people. Why must we be made to pay Lordaeron's debts? Terenas has plenty of people willing to do that for him. We do not need to be among them." He put a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "You must trust me on this, Darius. This will be for the best, for Gilneas and for our people." Crowley looked down, unable to meet his King's gaze. "I wish I could believe that." "Then go on back to your little farm, Darius, and live in your world of the past," Godfrey said with a sneer. "We," and he indicated the other noblemen present, "will look to our future...we will continue to serve Gilneas, while you cling to your dreams of being Terenas' pet." Crowley's ire rose. "Listen here, you pompous --" "Enough." Greymane, sitting back down in his throne, glared at the arrogant nobleman. "Lord Godfrey, Darius Crowley is my oldest friend, and has stood by me for many a year. It is regrettable that he chooses not to do so now, but that does not give you leave to ridicule him or to question his loyalty to me and to our people." Godfrey bowed his head. "Of course, Your Majesty," he replied, contritely enough for Greymane, but not without a slight smirk in Crowley's direction. "I ask your forgiveness." "It is given." Greymane returned his attention to Crowley. "I understand your passions, Darius, but I wish to make it clear: My decision is final, and the matter is closed. Do you understand me?" He was cornered here, and he knew it. Now was not the time to press the issue...and perhaps this was also not the way. "Yes, Sire." "Very well, then. Let us be friends once more...and never discuss this matter again." Crowley nodded. "Sire, with your permission, I wish to return home to...get my mind off this matter." "Of course." Bowing, Crowley turned and walked away, his mind racing. He had to find a way to stop this. But it would require time - time to gather followers, materials, plan the strategies...this would be a move that would either make him Gilneas' savior...or damn him as its greatest traitor. Either way, his path was set, and he knew now what must be done. There is no turning back now.

Severing of the Ties
General Zherron and his party camped outside Silverlaine Keep on the bluff overlooking Pyrewood Village, and watched as the great gates of the Greymane Wall were sealed. Gilneas was now a fortress...one that could never be breached. Or left at all, for that matter. At his side, a young priest from Lordaeron shook his head, his jaw tight. "Foolish," he said grimly. "Utterly foolish." "You'll get no argument from me on that count," the General agreed. "I'm sorry that the last you got to see of my land was its total enclosure..." "Your homeland is a place of haunting beauty, General Zherron. I enjoyed the visit very much," the priest replied. "But to be honest...I am yearning for home. I have not seen Stratholme since the war." "One thing at a time, Father Saavedro." He smiled at the use of the title "Father", as the priest was only a few years older than his son. "First things first, though, we need to get to the capital - do you think you can get me an audience with the King?" "Not me personally, General," Saavedro replied with a somewhat embarassed grin. "But I know people who might. People with connections to the Archbishop, and to Lord Uther...and thus to the King." The priest cocked his head to one side curiously. "You're not worried about potential ostracism? After all, King Greymane didn't exactly leave on...friendly terms." "It will be clear enough that we are not here at the behest of King Greymane," the General replied grimly. "We are Gilneans who believe in the Alliance, and are willing to serve. That should be enough for King Terenas, I think." He shook his head. "Damn him, that stubborn ass of a man...I pray to the Light I'm wrong, my young friend. I hope that Gilneas will not suffer for Greymane's hubris." "Let me see if I understand you correctly." The young major stood next to the fireplace at his home in Gilneas City, arms folded over his chest, his expression incredulous. "You're asking me to betray my King?" "Believe me, I have as many qualms about this as you do - if not more," his guest replied calmly. "Genn Greymane is my friend and we have earned many victories together, both on the battlefield and at the negotiating table. But his course of action is wrong, and you know it. He claims we don't need the Alliance, not now, not ever...what will happen when this is no longer the case? You served under Lothar and Turalyon, Eidan. You know I'm right...and so does your father." Eidan Zherron gave a solemn nod; he had indeed served in the Gilnean contigent to join the Alliance army, alongside his father. "What are you proposing, Lord Crowley?" "Your men are all of like mind?" "They are, my lord. Father led these men when we fought in the war. The only reason we did not accompany Turalyon beyond the Dark Portal is because King Greymane recalled us after Lothar's death. He was willing to give token support when Lothar was alive, but after he died and the campaign ended with the destruction of the first Portal, we were recalled...it was as if he felt the obligation was paid." "The damned elves said much the same thing," Crowley muttered, remembering the High King's contemptuous dismissal of humans as self-serving barbarians, not even giving any regard to the many humans who had died fighting to protect Quel'Thalas in the war. "With Lothar gone, their debt to Thoradin was paid, and so they went and hid behind their magic gates and told us all to go to hell." "Which is what Greymane is now telling Terenas and the Alliance," Zherron finished for him. "Still...this is an incredibly drastic move, my lord." "So is building a three hundred foot wall cutting off your land from the outside world," Crowley retorted. "Good point." "I have already secured the allegiance of five other militia commanders, and two other nobles with their personal guards. I'm working on gaining the support of two more nobles, and three other militias. Plus the usual volunteers - poor nobles, farmers, normal villagers, that sort of thing. I could certainly use you. But with me or against me, I intend to make this work." The major walked over to the window, looking out at the streets. "Before I give you my decision, my lord," he said at last, "I want to hear you say it. No euphemisms, no evasive language. I want you to say it, and I want you to mean it." The nobleman's eyes narrowed at that. "You wish me to be blunt," he said. It was not a question. Nonetheless, the major answered as if it were. "Yes, my lord, I do." "Very well, Major Zherron, I will be blunt. I intend to raise an army. I intend to either force the King to change his stance regarding this whole wall business...or I will depose him. I intend to commit treason of the highest order - to stand against my Light-anointed King, in order to re-establish our links to the outside world." He gazed levelly at the younger man. "What do you intend to do about it?" Zherron was silent, looking out once more at his home city. Like his father, he was a loyal servant of Gilneas and of its King. But he had actually served in the Alliance army, and believed in its value - and believed that Gilneas shutting itself away would lead to its destruction. ''If Crowley intends to do something about it, then who am I to stop him? But...perhaps Greymane is right. Perhaps we're better off without them. It was only his intercession that kept us from going to Draenor. Turalyon, Danath, Khadgar, all of them are dead now - or if they're not, they're lost on an alien world, far from home. That would have been our fate, if not for our King.'' ''But Crowley is right too. There will come an enemy too strong for us to defeat alone - how long will we survive without allies?'' Finally, with a deep sigh, he turned. "What are your orders, my lord?" Crowley smiled grimly.

Shadows on the Winds
Zherron... Eidan sat bolt upright in his bed. He looked around, but saw no one there. Suddenly, he realized that he was having what he called one of his "twinges". When he was a boy, he swore he had been hearing something speak to him when no one had been there. The other children had laughed, of course. But he noticed his mother looking at him funny, as if she sensed something too. Outside, the wind blew through the streets and alleys of Gilneas City...and once again, he heard it. Zherron... At his side, his wife Elmira slept soundly, not disturbed by the sudden movement as Zherron had come awake. In the next room, his three daughters - the youngest, little Lucia, barely a year old - were also deep in slumber. Shivering in the pre-dawn cold as he left his bed, Zherron put on his leather tunic, trousers and boots, and a hooded cloak to protect him from the biting wind and rain, and carefully stepped out of his house. Walking down the main street out of Greymane Court and into the Market Square, he came to the door of his parents' house. After his father left for Lordaeron, his mother had lived alone with her tomes of harvest rites and her meditation...perhaps that was the source of her stares in his childhood, he mused. Perhaps he was touched by the old ways - many in her family had been. To his lack of surprise, the door opened before he was able to knock, and Alma Zherron stood in the doorway, her expression one of silent comprehension. "You knew," Eidan said without preamble. "All this time, you knew." She nodded as she beckoned him in, and gestured for him to sit in his father's favorite armchair by the fireplace. "The winds know your name, my son," she replied. "You became a warrior because it was the tradition of your father's family to fight for Gilneas. You have given your service in war, fighting the greenskin Horde with the Alliance. Now your father is gone, and Gilneas stands on the brink of disaster. Not from war...well, not entirely." She referred to the rising rebellion of Lord Crowley. "Nature itself prepares to backlash against our lands, and the world, and those with the knowledge to heal the land must give their service." "Lord Crowley wants me to fight for him --" "Darius has plenty of warriors, Eidan." She used the lord's first name, as he had been an ally of the Zherron family; Daril and Alma had hosted Lord Crowley and his daughter Lorna many times over the years. "What he will need after the dust settles are people who can speak to the land, to heal the wounds of the land...and of its people. The Balance must be restored after the chaos." Eidan was struggling with his thoughts. To forsake his warrior training would fly in the face of everything his father had taught him...but he knew that his mother was right. Crowley's forces - known as the Northgate rebellion by Greymane loyalists - had plenty of warriors, conducting a terror campaign against Gilneas City and fighting against Greymane's troops. Even a sorcerer or two had joined the ranks...including those who followed the old ways, the "harvest mages" as they were called by the people. "What must I do?" "I will teach you as much as I can...what I cannot, you will learn from my friend Celestine, who instructed me." She raised a finger. "I caution you, my son - once you begin down this path, you cannot go back. If you commit to serving the land and maintaining the Balance, you must do so to the end of your days. Think carefully, Eidan...are you prepared to serve?" Eidan looked his mother in the eye, a look of determination on his face. "As I have served Gilneas as a warrior," he said at last, "so will I serve now." A hint of a smile appeared on his mother's face. "Then let us begin." Two years passed. In a dense part of the Northgate Woods, Darius Crowley hid behind a tree, rifle in hand. Greymane had certainly smartened up in the last year or so, and had actually had spies planted in his forces. While he and his men were preparing a raid after securing cannons in Josiah Avery's cellar, the city guard had been waiting at their target. Those of his men who'd survived the ambush had fled with him into the woods, hoping to evade the army forces. "More troops coming from the northwest, from the road." Sean Dempsey, one of his lieutenants, looked grim. "Bastards're tryin' to flank us, Darius. Only way out's the river." "Then make for it now. Eidan, take two men and scout ahead." Zherron nodded and gestured to his lieutenant, Jeremiah August, and one of his other troops, as they made their way to the east. As Crowley waited for a moment, then moved to follow, a gunshot rang out. The rebel lord screamed in pain as the bullet pierced his shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him off his feet. Zherron, turning to look back, saw his lord sitting against the tree, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Crowley glared at him and gestured with his bloodstained hand to move out, his meaning clear - avoid capture at all costs. Zherron, his mouth a grim line, finally nodded, and he and his three compatriots began to run. "Well, well, well." Each word was slowly drawled with a hint of malice in the tone. Vincent Godfrey's expression was one of triumph as he dismounted from his horse, his eyes shining behind his spectacles. "What have we here? Looks like a mouse trying to scurry away before the cat pounces." He grinned wickedly as he pointed his rifle directly at Crowley's head. "Too little, too late, Darius. You're mine now." "We'll see about that," Crowley replied as he leapt to his feet, hands going for Godfrey's throat. But the arrogant noble was quicker - he dropped his rifle and drew his rapier. With a quick upwards swipe, he slashed Crowley across the right eye, then kicked the disoriented rebel leader to the grass, the tip of his sword at his throat. "My lord, King Greymane wants this one alive," reminded the militia captain with him. "Aye," agreed Godfrey. "He did not specify undamaged, though." He snorted. "A pity. I would enjoy nothing more than taking your head and parading it through the streets." He sheathed his rapier and picked up his gun. "Perhaps I still can...once His Majesty no longer requires your continued survival." He turned to the militia captain, standing with his men while they held the other Northgate rebels - Dempsey, Hersham, Mistmantle - in chains. "Captain, take Crowley into custody. If he or his compatriots try to escape...kill them." He raised a hand. "I know what the King said. But we must think of the continued safety of our people rather than the well-being of rebel scum." The militia captain grudgingly nodded. "It will be done, Lord Godfrey." Godfrey stepped back onto his horse and rode away, leaving the captain and his troops to deal with the prisoners. Hidden from sight along the riverbank, Zherron watched the arrogant slime ride away, and Crowley and his comrades dragged away in chains. "What do we do now, Eidan?" asked August. "We must go to Lorna," he replied. "We must continue the campaign." "They have Lord Crowley!" "They do," Zherron agreed, "but this movement is more than one man. He understood that, and so we must as well. We must carry on as we have always done." "Oi, rebel. On your feet." Crowley stood, chains around his waist and ankles, as a hooded and robed figure entered. The man lowered his cowl. "Darius." "Genn." Crowley smiled bitterly. "Come to gloat, have you?" Greymane shook his head. "I wish it had not come to this, my friend." "Do you?" Crowley's single eye - the other covered by an eyepatch thanks to Godfrey's rapier - glared coldly. "Is this why you cut my lands and people off from their homeland? Is that why you spat in Terenas' face when he only wished friendship and unity against the foes of humanity? No, Genn. You asked for this. And now you must reap what you have sown." Greymane nodded sadly. "I know. But...it was for the good of Gilneas." "I did not believe that when you made this foolish decision, and I don't believe it now." Crowley sighed. "Look what has happened to us...to our lands. This is what your decision has wrought. I warned you, Genn, and you did not listen to me." His gaze did not waver. "What do you intend to do? Will you kill me and my comrades as traitors and terrorists? I know that simpering weasel Godfrey wants nothing more than to see us hanging from Traitor's Gate. And he's said as much." "No, Darius...you are my friend despite your treason, but you are too dangerous to remain free. I cannot and will not tolerate dissent...and so here you will remain." Greymane looked pained. "I still pray that, one day perhaps, we can mend our differences." Crowley shook his head. "I don't think we can now. Too much blood on our hands. Yours...and mine." "I hope you are wrong, Darius." "So do I, Genn. So do I."

Howl of the Worgen
Lord Darius Crowley sat alone in his darkened cell for many years after that, only hearing the sound of the wind and rain against the walls of Stoneward Prison. But one night, as the moon burned bright above Gilneas City, he listened to the sound of the outside and thought he heard...howling. But there were no wolves in Gilneas, only the hounds that served as pets, and the wild foxes that lived in the Headlands. Crowley's blood ran cold as the howling continued well into the night, and he found himself praying for dawn... "We've had our first killing in the city limits, Your Majesty. Much like the others, slashed up, blood everywhere." "That makes..." "Nine slayings in this fashion in the last two weeks, Sire." "Damned rebels, I knew they were psychotic," muttered Lord Godfrey. "They knew they couldn't take us in a knock-down, drag-out fight, so they're resorting to dishonorable murder of civilians." "It seems that ever since Crowley's arrest, the rebels have completely lost their moral scruples," Prince Liam remarked. "Terrorist, traitor, whatever, he was an honorable man and would not condone the murder of civilians. Now that he's rotting in prison, it's like his troops have embraced their true natures." Godfrey nodded in agreement. Greymane slammed his fist on the arm of his throne. "Damnation...I want these killers found, and I want them found NOW! I don't care if you have to kill every rebel you find - end this!" "I will see to it, Sire," promised Godfrey with a thin smile. Jeremiah August sat in his home in the Merchant Quarter drinking a bottle of whiskey. After Crowley's arrest, he had gone home, trying to settle back with his family, but his wife had moved away with the children to her mother's in Duskhaven, leaving him alone in the house...just him and his alcohol. A growling caught his attention from the back room of his house. Thinking someone's dog had nudged open the door - the damned thing had never been able to stick shut no matter how many times he tried to fix it - he picked up his quarterstaff from where it leaned in the corner and held it at the ready to try and frighten the animal, not hurt it. Last thing he wanted was someone whining about their dog being beat up. Sure enough, there was a dog of sorts that had come through his back door. Except this dog was seven feet tall, walking on two legs...and staring rather hungrily. August felt warm wetness run down his leg as his bladder loosened in terror. Savage, feral eyes glared coldly at him as the creature came forward, and the hapless victim opened his mouth to scream... The Greymane Wall stood above the forests of southern Lordaeron like a haunting monolith. To the north of the wall, Silverpine had been eerily silent, the town of Pyrewood - a Gilnean exclave separated from the rest of their lands by the behemoth fortification - brought to a standstill as the people huddled in their homes, waiting for the chaos to end. The Scourge had laid waste to all of northern Lordaeron, but in the lands nearest the wall, life lingered still. Far to the north in the Tirisfal Glades, Sylvanas and her Forsaken began to fortify within the catacombs of Lordaeron, preparing for their eventual expansion throughout the Plaguelands. Then, shortly after the war ended, the howling began anew in the halls of the former Silverlaine Keep, on the bluff overlooking Pyrewood. In a chamber of the keep's main tower, the Gilnean sorcerer Arugal had resided, consumed by madness and grief at what he had done. When the Scourge had first arisen in Lordaeron, Arugal had consulted the research of Ur for a weapon to fight the undead legions. He had got...something else. Oh, they had fought the Scourge well enough. But when the undead were beaten back, they had turned on the ones they had been summoned to protect. They assaulted Silverlaine Keep and tore it apart, and infected Pyrewood's citizens. Now known as Shadowfang Keep, the fortress was inhabited by the feral worgen of Silverpine, and by the ghosts of Baron Silverlaine and his servants...until the death of Arugal and the clearing of the keep by the Forsaken and their Horde allies. Beyond the walls of Shadowfang, the worgen had turned their attention south, to the great wall...an edifice that was more an obstacle than a barrier. Though it was taller than the grandest cathedrals of Lordaeron, they scaled the walls of Gilneas with ease. The guards that stood on the ramparts had no chance, and soon they would join the pack in its hunt. Though there had been a handful of worgen filtering into Gilneas for years, feeding off the livestock and the wild beasts of the Northgate Woods, they were now beginning to mass...this would be an enemy that the Gilnean army, weakened by years of civil war, could not stand against. In the observatory of his palatial manor northwest of Duskhaven, Genn Greymane now knew that the killings were not the work of Crowley's rebels. Alone in his sanctum, he began to think that maybe Darius had been right. This was a result of his arrogance...his vanity. Now he would have to pay for it. "Mia," he said at last to his wife, "you and Tess must wait here...I am going back to the capital." "Father, no," pleaded Tess. "You and Liam fighting those...things? Risking one of you is bad enough...risking both --" "Enough, daughter," Greymane interrupted, though his tone was gentle. "I cannot ask my people to fight while I hide. Do you understand?" "I understand well enough," Tess replied resignedly. "But I don't like it." "Neither do I, child. But it must be done." Strapping his sword to his back, Greymane turned and embraced his wife and daughter. "Light be with us all," he said, as he walked out to the waiting carriage. Eidan Zherron stoked the fire at his camp along the Northgate River when he heard a twig snap. A heavy boot. He nodded to one of his men, who drew his sword. Sure enough, it was a royal scout. Upon seeing the men standing in attack formation, he held up a hand. "Wait! Hold your arms!" Zherron's hand shot up, halting the man behind him who was loading a quarrel to his crossbow. "I have held my men off, servant of Greymane. Now you will tell me why." "King Greymane is requesting the assistance of the people of Gilneas...all of the people of Gilneas. I'm sure you've noticed the strange things in the woods of late." Zherron cautiously nodded. "Aye, we've seen the strange wolf-men roaming...we try to stay off their trail, though." He noticed the somber expression. "I take it this is more than just a couple of them." "Try a whole howling pack of 'em, sir. They've been showing up in the city in increased frequency these last few months. The King is offering amnesty to you and the other rebels in exchange for your service to Gilneas." "We have never given anything but service to Gilneas, you officious dimwit," snarled one of the rebels. "Quiet," snapped Zherron. He turned back to the scout. "Where?" "The Merchant Quarter. Prince Liam has a militia force assembled." "Eidan, you can't --" "Can't what? Serve my people?" Zherron glared at the one who had spoken. "This is a lot bigger than Greymane and his damned wall now. Gilneas is under threat from a greater enemy, and he's coming to us for help. We may have an opportunity here...to live like Gilneans again, instead of like traitors." He held his gaze a moment longer before the man finally nodded, then turned back to the scout. "We are at your service, friend." "Then come with me. We must make haste. These damned things are everywhere." A howling from the woods nearby alerted them all. "So it would seem," Zherron remarked. "Move out. Anything comes at you with big fangs, slice the bastard."

Shadowhowl, Born in Death
He awoke in his old home in Greymane Court, his shoulder feeling like acid was eating away at him from inside. He had been laid out on a mattress on the floor, all the bedframes, chairs and other furniture smashed by Northgate looters. Tending him was his mother Alma, and his wife Elmira. His three daughters sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him. "M...Mira..." "I'm here, Eidan." "What...happened?" "You were attacked," Alma replied. "Bitten by a wolf-thing - a worgen, they call it." That would explain the pain in his shoulder. The memory came back to him. "Jeremiah...it was Jeremiah..." "He was one of those things?" Elmira was horrified. He nodded, thinking back several days before... ''Eidan Zherron walked cautiously into the cellar of Jeremiah August's house in Merchant Square, a torch in one hand and a quarterstaff in the other. Setting the torch into a wall holder, he held his staff at the ready, as he followed the sounds he heard. He had been sent here by Lord Crowley, shortly after his release from Stoneward Prison, to secure a small stash of hidden weapons; others had been sent to the Avery house to do the same thing, as much of the smuggled weapons had been hidden there.'' ''Walking around a large brass cannon, Zherron saw August slumped against it, shivering and sobbing. "Jeremiah...by the Light, what happened?"'' ''"Eidan?" August looked relieved for a moment, but his relief soon became fear. "Stay away, Eidan! I...can't hold it back much longer!"'' "What happened to you, my friend? Can I help?" ''"No! Stay away! I...can't..." With an anguished scream, August suddenly bolted to his feet. His screams soon became growls, which became roars...his arms became furred and muscular with huge claws, and his face and head...Zherron stared in mesmerized terror as he watched the transformation. Soon, nothing remained of his loyal second, the man who had watched his back in the years of civil war. Now only a beast remained.'' "Jeremiah...what have you done?" ''Without a word, the wolf-man lunged and bit into his shoulder, then slashed his chest with its claws. Zherron screamed in agony as the quarterstaff dropped from his hand, but his foot kicked out, hitting the creature in the groin. Roaring with rage and agony, the creature stumbled back. That was all the time he needed. Calling on the powers his mother had taught him, Zherron lashed out with a bolt of nature's wrath. The cursed August flew backwards against the wall, then slumped to the floor. The rage leaving him, the wolf-flesh melted away before his eyes. Looking up at his old friend, August smiled despite his agony. "Thank...you..." Then, with a last rattling breath, his head fell, and he was still.'' ''Zherron heard footsteps from behind him - some of his comrades. "Eidan? Are you alright? What the hell happened?"'' ''"Secure the cache," he said simply. "Then...give my friend a...proper..." He was unable to finish the sentence as blissful unconsciousness took him, and he slumped to the floor...'' That night, while the others had fallen asleep, Zherron took up his staff and prepared to leave again. His mother approached him. "Are you sure of this, my son? You are still weak." "I am fine, Mother," Zherron replied easily. His face did not quite hide the pain in his shoulder, the wound hidden under a bandage that ran across his chest and arm. "You're still a poor liar, Eidan." Alma shook her head. "It has worsened, hasn't it?" Reluctantly, he nodded. "The venom is...taking hold. I don't have much time." He sighed, and embraced his mother one last time. "Goodbye, Mother. And...thank you." As she watched her son leave, Alma could not help but feel that this was the last she would see of her son - and he knew it, too... Zherron went swiftly from his home in Greymane Court, entering the Cathedral Quarter where others had assembled. Cannons were firing from the steps of the Light's Dawn Cathedral. Running quickly, avoiding any worgen he could, Zherron arrived at the steps. "Eidan!" Tobias Mistmantle, who had been overseeing the cannons, walked over and clapped him on the shoulder (the non-bitten one, thank the Light) and jerked his head to the door. "We're pulling back. Ammunition's running out. We're holding out here." Zherron nodded and entered the Cathedral, composing a prayer in his mind. Light, into your hands I commend my spirit... Seeing two of his comrades cornered, Zherron ran forward and popped the creature inbetween the eyes with his quarterstaff, before swiftly attacking with a nature bolt. The worgen keened and then slumped to the floor. "Good to see you again, Eidan!" Lord Crowley greeted him as he aimed his rifle and shot another worgen down. Looking around, Zherron had a puzzled expression, and with a glance at Crowley he saw that his lord was also confused...it had gone quiet. Something was wrong... The windows shattered behind them, and Zherron and Crowley spun around - but it was too late. As the worgen swarmed all around him, Zherron let out a scream of primal rage...a scream that became a snarl...and then a snarl that became a howl as the shadows took Light's Dawn Cathedral. The howling continued well into the night after that. The elder woman was awakened by heavy footsteps downstairs, and she went down to investigate. In the shadows, a huge figure stood. Lighting a nearby lantern, she gasped as she saw the worgen, its eyes wild and cold, its breath misting in the chill of the night. She screamed as the creature slashed her face, throat and chest with a swipe of its clawed hand, and she fell to the floor, bleeding to death. Leaping up the stairs, sensing the heat and smelling the fear and hearing the terrified screams of a younger woman and her three young children, awakened by their elder's cry, the worgen pounced. The screams were suddenly mixed with gurgling as the young ones choked on their own blood, the ripping of flesh and the crunch of bone, and - most of all - the hungry snarls of the creature as it ripped the house, and its occupants, apart...

The Invasion Begins
Seated cross-legged in a small clearing east of Pyrewood Village, off the beaten path of the Forsaken patrols, the Farseer Jaeden'laek projected his Sight on the other side of the Greymane Wall in an effort to see if his premonitions were true. The draenei shaman had been wandering in Lordaeron for the better part of the last three months, ever since the quakes had begun. Gilneas, his visions showed, would be a major battlefield soon. His far-gaze reached a town in the southwestern part of Gilneas. Here, life lingered still - as the hunters brought in struggling worgen and put them in stocks, injecting them with powerful sedatives to keep them pacified. One in particular, Jaeden'laek could feel the aura of power from - an as-yet untapped connection to nature. A druid, perhaps...he had read that some Gilneans had followed druidic teachings, usually in efforts to ensure plentiful harvests. "Harvest mages", they called them. There were others touched by this power too - but this one had his attention, for some reason. A sign he spotted on the town's outskirts read "Welcome to Duskhaven"... On a ship off the western coast of Gilneas, a Forsaken warrior in armor inscribed with sigils of death stood on the deck, a spyglass trained on the town. A gentle rain began to fall - a rain that was near constant in this cold and dreary place. "Ach...my bones are aching from this damp, General," said the hunter at his side. Beside him, the diseased grizzly growled, not liking the feeling either. "Gilneas, huh...why're we being sent to this dour hellpit?" Lowering his spyglass, the General nodded to the Forsaken banner nearby, the image of the Dark Lady. His lower jaw was missing, so he could not reply with words. But the meaning was clear: "Because Sylvanas sent us here." The hunter, for his part, seemed to get it, and nodded in reply. His claw-like hand scratched the back of his bear's neck as he said, "Makes me wonder if these people have any idea what's coming for 'em." "General Metheius." A dark ranger from Sylvanas' personal guard approached. "All is in preparedness?" Varan Metheius nodded and gestured to his hunter companion. "The General wishes to assure you that his troops will be ready to carry out the orders of our Dark Lady. We merely await the order to advance." The dark ranger smiled grimly. "First battle after your raising, Deathguard Malkus?" "Yes, Lady Thyala," Declan Malkus replied. "I am honored to serve Sylvanas - and General Metheius as well." "Good that someone finally understood his orders without words," she replied, chuckling. "He went through five others who just stared at him like slack-jawed twits. Maybe you will be luckier...very well then. Let us begin." The General nodded to Malkus. "Deathguard! Prepare for deployment!" The worgen awoke in the stocks in Duskhaven, snarling with rage as a potion was forced down his throat. Then...he blinked, and looked around. "What...where..." "Thank the Light...another one." Krennan Aranas sounded relieved. "How do you feel?" "Like..." He sounded uncertain, his voice coming from a mouth he wasn't quite used to. "Like someone hurled a spear through my head." "I know that voice..." A former member of the rebellion came forward. "Is that...Eidan?" The stocks opened, and the worgen stood at his full height, seemingly greater than before. "Eidan Zherron is dead," he growled. "In his place...is a freak." He turned away, gazing out to sea. "A freak," he whispered to himself. "A monster..." "You and many others, Zherron." The worgen turned to see Genn Greymane, hand on his sword. "We have visitors from Lordaeron. It would appear that the dead have claimed our neighbors. The Forsaken, they're called...and we will need the help of all Gilneans to fight them off." He gazed levelly at him. "All Gilneans. Are you...willing to serve?" The worgen gazed at the King with golden eyes, silent for a long moment. "As I have served Gilneas as a man...so will I serve now."

Ambush Near Stormglen
A rumbling beneath Varan Metheius' feet made him halt as he led his Deathguard battalion ashore. Kneeling, he placed a hand on the ground, and realized that this was more than the bombardment. The earthquakes that had been plaguing most of Azeroth these last few months were present even here, above the constant bombardment of the guns from the Queen's fleet. Declan Malkus was looking displeased. "At the rate things are going, sir, between our shooting and the ground shaking," he muttered, "there won't be much of a town left here to claim." Metheius nodded, having come to that conclusion as well. Still, their orders from Sylvanas were clear. They would attempt to take the towns around the capital, and eventually attempt to claim the city itself. If Duskhaven was consumed by the quaking earth, it would do the Forsaken no good in their efforts to claim Gilneas. But on the other hand, it could no longer serve as a base for the Gilneans, either. What concerned him, though, was not the unstable earth...but the fact that the Gilnean forces seemed more and more made up of worgen, moving with a clearer purpose and determination than any Metheius had ever seen. These wolf-men had minds that went beyond the primal instinct of the ferals of Silverpine and the Wolfcult of the Grizzly Hills...human minds. In battle, however, it made no difference. They were still ripping Her Majesty's armies to pieces. The Forsaken were many things - functionally immortal, beyond all the necessities of life, such as food, drink, or air...but the worgen were a craftier foe than any they had ever fought. More so than even the Lich King. At Metheius' side, a sickly-looking Forsaken woman with thin red hair, a maggot-holed face, and the same glowing blue orbs he himself bore, approached - bearing an expression of disgust. "Filthy fleabags," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "They've completely wiped out Thyala and her troops. We're on our own at the moment." That got Metheius' attention, and Malkus' as well. "Are they headed in our direction, Nyssha?" Malkus asked, anticipating his General's silent question - a fact that made him indispensible to the more experienced death knight. "No," Nyssha replied. "They seem to be heading to the hills. To the northeast, towards Greymane Manor." She pointed to the palatial estate in the hills above Duskhaven. "Fleeing before the quakes consume the land." Metheius glanced over at his lieutenant and nodded. "Then we shall do the same," Malkus interpreted. He raised his voice. "Deathguard! To the hills!" The General gestured for Malkus to go with the men, to direct them on, and for Nyssha to remain at Metheius' side. Both nodded in reply and moved to obey. "Not quite what I was expecting, General," Nyssha commented. Metheius glanced at her, his head cocked to one side in silent question. "The way it was made to sound, this would be easy pickings - just weak humans clinging to their land like a lifeline. But worgen...I was not prepared for that." The General nodded in agreement; he had not anticipated it either. Though he supposed he should have, considering that the worgen of Silverpine largely gathered at a point not far from the Greymane Wall. "You don't suppose Sylvanas'll let us take back a few heads?" she asked him. "I think the Undercity could use a few new decorations." Metheius shook in silent, jawless laughter. He was pleased with the results he had achieved with this young woman, training her in the same arts that he himself had been trained by his Ebon Blade instructors years before. He had learned, when he took her under his wing three years ago, that she had been an assassin employed by the late Saavedro of Stratholme, and had in fact been adopted as his daughter before she was killed during the war in Outland. The Scourge had taken her putrifying body from her burial site outside Shattrath - why they bothered raiding burial sites in Outland of all places, Metheius had no idea, especially given how many free bodies they had from the thousands that Arthas and his legions killed in Northrend - and raised her. That hadn't lasted, however; the Lich King was defeated not long after that, and she and her fellows were left without direction. Metheius had found this one in Venomspite, and took it upon himself to train her in the dark arts. Now she served at his side without question. Along with Malkus, she was his best. If only others were so devoted to our Lady's cause, he thought. The worgen who had been Eidan Zherron had renamed himself Zherron Shadowhowl, and completely forsaken his "past life". He no longer answered to the name his parents had given him - for, as he had said, Eidan was now dead. In his place was a beast. Granted, that beast still had a semblance of a human mind...but what was inside no longer mattered to people. What was outside was what people saw, and when they looked at him, they saw a monster. When he looked in the mirror, that's what he saw, too... He knew Krennan's potion would only be temporary. But how much so? How long before he and his fellows succumbed to madness? He had assembled a group of like-minded men, people who had once been part of his militia group. But how many of them would retain their personalities...and how many would give in to the cry of the wolf? Dismissing those thoughts for a moment, Zherron gazed out across the hills, watching the land crumble and consume the town of Duskhaven. His mane fluttered in the mountain winds that brought the scent of decay, the unholy stench of the enemy. The Scourge had left their mark on Lordaeron, and its denizens proved that by their very presence. It disgusted Zherron that such aberrations of nature were allowed to exist. The dead should be allowed to rest, not be forced to march at the whim of a lunatic - be it a man in spiked armor seated on a frozen chair, or the reanimated corpse of an elven ranger. "Boss!" That was one of Zherron's men, from the balcony of the house behind him. "Better load up! We're moving out!" Zherron nodded as he turned and headed back to where the coach was waiting. "General," one of the Deathguard scouts reported, saluting, "it's confirmed - the coach line from Greymane Manor comes by this road." Metheius nodded to Malkus. "To your positions," the hunter commanded. "Snipers, take aim..." The Forsaken death knight perched on a nearby rock, listening carefully. After a moment, he heard the sound of clattering hooves and rumbling wheels. Metheius raised his arm, and he could feel the anticipation of the men. Behind him, Nyssha crouched, preparing to spring. His ears listened for a long moment as the coach came closer...and finally came into view. The General's arm dropped - and the order was given. "FIRE!"