Wielding the Stars to Craft War (Warcraft/Starcraft)

Deep under the icy wastes of Northrend, four winged, cloven hooved figures stood proudly within a lightless cavern once inhabited by the arachnoid nerubians, the baleful glow of their eyes the only source of illumination among the subterranean ruins.

"The usurpation has been completed then?" rumbled Tichondrius, the leader of the assembled dreadlords, asked his kin to his right.

"Complete and effortlessly for once," came the insidiously smooth reply from Mal'Ganis. "The rulership of Stromgarde is ours to puppet. The last seeds of resistance are being purged, and the lower populace remain suitably oblivious."

"Good."

It was about the first thing to go to plan ever since the damnable dragons suddenly discovered their operations here. If not for the fact that the winged lizards had targeted the more obvious assets first, the dreadlords wouldn't have had the time to quickly retreat into the shadows.

It didn't help that Kil'jaeden's toy, the broken soul of the orc Ner'zhul, had gone mad long before this and had to be put down. What ramblings of the disembodied shaman trapped in the Frozen Throne that made sense hinted at some sort of upheaval in the skeins of time. Ner'zhul wailed of being blinded, that his visions were unraveling. The dreadlords had immediately understood the gravity of his nonsense, and while it was amusing to listen to the orc screaming at the unraveling of his planned defiance, the irrecoverable state of their tool meant that they had to permanently silence Ner'zhul. All sentience was excised from his spirit, leaving just enough to fuel the armor and runeblade that was once his prison.

Without Ner'zhul, Tichondrius and his subordinates had to take personal command of the undead legions against the stubborn resistance of the nerubians, a chore that greatly ate at their time to modify the future of their operations in Azeroth. Still, they were making significant progress in snuffing out the arachnoids until the dragons came to completely raze their base of operations in Icecrown Citadel, and force the dreadlords into sacrificing the undead minions to allow them time to go into hiding.

The only consolation Tichondrius managed was ensuring that the nerubians were similarly ruined as well. After noting that the dragons cared not for the tunnel-dwellers, he had the last of the reanimated legion to mob nerubian positions right as the dragons were beginning their assaults, ensuring maximum collateral.

After Detheroc's sudden discovery and near demise, Tichondrius and his fellow dreadlords immediately went to ground, both literally and figuratively. Through rituals they masked and muted their magic to avoid detection through the more obvious scrying procedures. At the same time, a few of the undead were transfigured into replicas of the dreadlords, decoys for the dragons. And as a final precaution, the dreadlords split up, each taking a portion of what was left of their deathless minions.

Every now and then, Tichondrius would meet his brethren in this cavern, their Fel magic and physiology masked while distracting the dragons above with scattered elements of undead. It bought them precious time to work on salvaging their mission. It was, annoyingly, Mal'Ganis and Varimathras who concocted the plan to infiltrate the human kingdoms through subtle beguilement.

Without better alternatives, Tichondrius, Detheroc and Balnazzar carefully worked on drawing the dragons' attention with large displays of Fel magic at inconsistent intervals, first to allow Varimathras to depart for the southern continent undetected, and then to mask Mal'Ganis' more subtle use of mind-molding rituals. They were careful not to kill the dragons unless truly cornered; enraging the magical reptiles might only serve to make them too persistent.

For more than a year they operated this way, and despite the annoyance of having to act as bait, visible progress was being made. Conveniently, they found what they had thought to be an easy focus point in Alterac. Drawing on the humans' basic greed over that kingdom, Mal'Ganis had twisted the minds of several useful humans across the Alliance, stoking and warping the ambition of a king and two princes to excellent effect. Varimathras meanwhile adopted a mortal disguise to collect information and carefully nudge the addled targets in the right direction.

Through careful planning, they managed to smuggle the Frozen Throne, before this secreted away and rendered dormant, over to the kingdom of Gilneas. The king Genn Greymane might not be as magically potent as Ner'zhul, but his knowledge in warfare would serve just as well in leading the new batch of underlings once he was fully broken in.

Everything was proceeding as well as could be expected, until, just days ago, Varimathras did not report back. It took Mal'Ganis plucking the mind of his victims to learn of their colleague's fate; in an attempt to subvert a third prince and a warrior of the Light, somehow Varimathras was discovered by the so-called mage-king of Alterac. Whatever the truth to how it happened, the undeniable result was that Varimathras was defeated and likely banished back to the Twisting Nether, dealing a costly blow to the dreadlords' mission on this world.

It didn't help that one of Mal'Ganis' pawns suddenly decided to go ahead of schedule and seize power of Stromgarde. Tichondrius had to risk his life and the entirety of his undead elements at that moment to attract the dragons' full attention, allowing Mal'Ganis the freedom to cast spells to ensure that Galen's coup was swiftly conducted. With his father dead and deposed, the following days were spent in strengthening the dreadlords' grip on both the new king and his kingdom.

Travelers and merchants were restrained from leaving the kingdom, while the fledgling coven of Mal'Ganis went among the populace to soften their will and mold their perceptions. With that basic groundwork, it seemed that the new truth was easily digested. King Thoras and most of his court had been assassinated during a feast, and despite his luck Galen was too late to warn his father of the poisoned food.

Those nobility that could not be subverted to the cause were quickly painted as the conspirators responsible and disposed of, and some well-crafted evidence gave the impression that there might be more hiding in the kingdom, or perhaps beyond it. It was more than enough to stoke the fear and outrage of the gullible humans.

And now Stromgarde was theirs to wield.

It just needed the finishing touches.

"Can we bring them up to par with Gilneas with speed?"

Mal'Ganis shook his head. "Not unless you are willing to risk drawing the dragons from the north."

Tichondrius hummed with annoyance. "We cannot afford any further interruptions…"

"Perhaps another distraction?" Detheroc suggested in a soft growl. "One that could make use of our harassers?"

"What do you have in mind?"

Detheroc raised a clawed hand palm up. "We have already begun discreetly activating the grain in western Lordaeron, and thus far it has escaped the dragons' notice. We can afford to be more aggressive in activating the infection in other regions. Alter the plague there into something more obvious, something the dragons cannot ignore."

"That would likely draw their attention to our current work," Balnazzar countered. "We cannot underestimate the reptiles' intelligence. Or the weaker mortals'. They might find the underlying link in our curse, perhaps even through sheer luck."

"Create a variant that is completely dissimilar to what we have in western Lordaeron, then. Have it flare up and burn through the target region so that little evidence remains."

Balnazzar scoffed. "Our plague is far from perfected. Without Ner'zhul, it would take too much effort to create anything close to a stable strain. Nevermind the dragons, any simple spellcaster might find a trail easily enough if a survivor remains."

"Then we aim for either thoroughness, or disposability. The goal is to draw attention, not truly cause damage."

Tichondrius hummed again, this time in thought. Both suggestion and the protest against it had merit… "Your thoughts, Mal'Ganis?"

"While we should proceed with patience and caution, I must admit to being tired of enduring through this string of mishaps for any longer. We've been on the back foot for too long, some initiatives should be seized, however paltry the gain might seem, at least to shift the momentum to our advantage."

Detheroc grinned approvingly, while even Balnazzar was nodding with reluctance at the logic. Tichondrius too gave a curt nod before glancing around the chamber with disdain. "Agreed. While our place is in the shadows, we should at least find comfortable ones to work in. I have had my fill of subterranean hideouts."

The leader of the dreadlords fell into thoughtful silence and glanced around the empty cavern, staring at the shattered nerubian ruins. Inspiration struck him as he laid eyes on a particular broken statue. He turned to Detheroc with an indulgent smile. "The premise of your idea is valid enough, though modifications will have to be made." With that, Tichondrius turned to Mal'Ganis. "Tell me, what do we know of Quel'Thalas?"

"What information do you require? These elves are a magical race, generally not as potent as the dragons, but numerous enough to make up for it."

"Would their ancestors' weakness still be found among them?"

Mal'Ganis paused for a moment before frowning. "The protections warding the kingdom makes it hard for us to infiltrate and subvert it…"

"Hard, but not impossible?" Tichondrius offered with a sly grin, glancing back at the broken feline head that stared into the darkness.

Thanks to the dark tidings brought by a mysterious messenger, the high elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas reinforced their defenses and increased their wariness of anything beyond the ordinary. Their swift fleet diligently patrolled the North Sea seeking for any signs of corrupting carried by the icy waves. Magister covens cast surveillance nets at the regions bordering their kingdom for early signs of demonic incursion.

Yet, their alertness against the Fel left them unprepared for the obsidian statues washing up on the eastern shores of Quel'Thalas. Eight statues in all were found throughout the shoreline, each carved to the likeness of a winged leonine with a humanoid upper torso and arms posed in victory or challenge. All of them rested on ornately carved caskets of gold and basalt of unknown yet certainly ancient design.

The elven magi carefully studied through the sculptures, finding the lifelike design uncanny but otherwise inert. There was no trace of Fel magic emanating from the statues. If anything, it seemed that the constructs were slowly absorbing the ambient magic around them. Not enough to be a hazard on prolonged contact, but it was something to keep an eye on nonetheless.

Its magic-absorbing properties also barred any study into the interior of the caskets the statues set upon. All that was certain was that there was something within, and wisely nobody dared break either statue or casket open to find out its contents just yet. Perhaps a master stonesmith or runesmith from Ironforge might be commissioned to look into the matter, considering their affinity towards such materials. It would have to wait for a more convenient time though.

Some magisters reported feeling unnerved by staring at the feline faces for too long, that through the trick of the light, the emerald eyes seemed to glow to give the illusion of sentience. Despite all that, they were still deemed inert enough to be transported to a secluded laboratory for further study. Magisters from varying disciplines would visit the novelties, but most would leave soon after sating their shallow curiosity.

Only a rare few, like Magister Dar'Khan Drathir, who came to see for themselves the queer flotsam and after a while, decided to assign themselves to the laboratory. They still tended to their assignments in defense of the kingdom, but the small clique of researchers, nicknamed the 'Archaeologists', gathered whenever they could to study the statues.

None would admit to anyone - even themselves - of hearing whispers in their head whenever they stared into a statue's emerald eyes. But eventually the elven researchers abandoned any actual studying of the statues in lieu of simply staring in the inanimate gem eyes whenever their similarly distracted peers were not noticing. Eyes that most definitely did not glow green, on stony feline faces that most definitely did not smirk or smile as the sinfully smooth whispers in the elves' head spoke of glory and power and unfulfilled potential.

But it was only the magister Dar'Khan Drathir who had ambition enough to arrange for several colleagues' 'accidents' right after applying new wards to the laboratory with them. Only Dar'Khan, who had finally found a means of achieving the recognition he so thoroughly deserved, put faith in the sweet whispers and began daubing his dead fellows' blood on the statues as an offering of raw arcane lifeforce, and then carved and formed their remains into an improvised ritual circle.

With the new wards both masking his daring but necessary activity from outsiders and protecting him from any potential harm the rite might unwittingly bring, Dar'Khan reached out with his magic. To his immense relief and elation, something on the other end reciprocated, and the statues' eyes all glowed, basking him in the green light of enlightenment.