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Wall of text Incoming, Critique.
The world of Azeroth – an orb lost in the labyrinth of the Dark Beyond – burns brightly with life’s fanatical
flames. It rests precariously by doom’s gate, where no benevolent beings guard it, like a poor slave boy in one
of its forsaken villages. Many a barbarous malcontents, in their guises of infernal demons or civilized kings, have
wrestled and grappled for its land and people. Over the tiresome ages, these ungrateful and unwelcome guests
have torn Azeroth’s mulish, defiant spirit. Most of its wounds are slow to heal, while others never do. Its sentient
offspring have cut its forests, mined its gold and stupefied its beasts. Defensive calluses rarely form. When
forbidding omens appear, the shifting sands quell and the mountains quake in dismay. Innocent creatures of
nature vanish from view within the woods and the soil. The wise and watchful spread the message of disaster and
despair and try desperately to muster what diminished resistance fighters remain.
Azeroth has been painfully bending over its knee, succumbing to loss, confusion and remorse. Slowly it has been
strangled by countless unloving hands. Dark vines entwine the hilts of sacrificial blades, threatening to spill its
supple life. Defenders with little hope hack the entanglement with one hand, yet draw suffocating cords tighter
with the other. Peasants animate their listless selves for their portentous masters, but unknowingly they claw open
the earthen mounds which will eventually contain their rotting corpses. Unless Azeroth soon finds the strength to
rise, it will become as lifeless as the bleakest reaches of Draenor.
Garrulous, child-like lords have long bickered over nations’ crowns. The foolish have fluttered and then died. The
great wrote the scrolls of history and were buried by their serfs. Some instilled fear while others nurtured and
shielded. The celestial bodies have always taken turns to cast their resplendent radiance on this despicable festival.
Tree limbs stooping with age have mumbled their distaste. The carefree winds have sung of their noble deeds
as they brush across forest, desert and ocean – while the grumpy cliff-faces have muttered dark curses. Streams
traipsed like fine cobble roads across verdant mountain slope and valley have hummed their ceaseless melodies,
ferrying rumors. Regal Stags, virulent Furbolgs, timid Rabbits and avaricious Drakes share their visions of Azeroth’s
plight in clacking hoof, thumping tail or scratching claw.
A new and colossal war now sneers over Azeroth – born from meager houses and fortress ramparts, the
darkest reaches of the world and a myriad places beyond. Known simply as The Third War, it is a putrid machine
consuming Azeroth from within. In the land of Lordaeron, the disunited peoples bandy needle, thread and knife,
weaving the vulgar clothes of battle. Like the reliable ebb and flow of tides, lives are dragged into the most
stagnant of doldrums, laced with blade and armor, thrust among the ranks, acting as if death is the treasure they
seek. A few short years ago, the formidable Undead Scourge, an onslaught bred to vanquish Azeroth’s spark of life,
began to show signs of erosion. Now it is trapped in civil war, the jagged splinters shredding one another.
~~~
Much earlier, ere life blossomed into being for many constituting the wars’ hearts and limbs, the infamous demon
lord known as Archimonde the Defiler was drawn from his scabbard of the nether void, demons sparking forth
behind him. So it was that the Burning Legion blew over once more to incinerate the resilient mortal beings which
had defied their will for thousands of long years. Conducted by the demon lord known as Kil’Jaeden, Archimonde
ushered the Burning Legion towards the soul of Azeroth. However, a misfit alliance of Humans, Elves, Orcs and
other creatures baying for the demon invasion’s demise were already assembling in preparation at Mount Hyjal,
at the forested, root-clad base of the World Tree. While Archimonde and his gust of terror corrupted and scalded
countless lives and lands, including the Well of Eternity which supported the World Tree, the Burning Legion
was halted by the strength of this Alliance and by the Elves’ great sacrifice during the Battle of Mount Hyjal.
Regrettably, the celebratory cadence which followed came upon the crest of a bitter wave. After Archimonde’s
collapse, the menacing bulk of the Undead Scourge in Lordaeron reached a golden minaret of might, perched upon
the revitalized strength of Ner’zhul – once an Orc shaman, resurrected to become the magnanimously powerful
Lich King.
The weight of peace and harmony once more outweighed that of war and discord. Kil’Jaeden contorted with
displeasure, yet in his vast wisdom saw a more crucial mater to deal with. Aware his concoction had become
an unruly weed, a power-hungry entity, he cast about for the means to end the Lich King and the Scourge. He
uncovered the lacquered name written by the powers that be – Illidan Stormrage, a tainted and antediluvian elf
of demonic powers who had emerged free from the lock of his ancient Elven prison, during the final chapter of
the Burning Legion’s defeat. Kil’Jaeden sought out this promising demon hunter and beseeched that he obliterate
the direly threatening usurper. In return, Illidan would find an exalted place awaiting him among the demon lords.
This grandiloquent promise of near omniscience was too irresistible for him to decline – like a peasant offered his
dearest dreams. Striding on burning soles of haste, Illidan began harvesting the ingredients for his assault. It would
take more than a mere blade and those of his allies to rend life from the dark and brooding Lich King. Thus began
Illidan’s foray in pursuit of the Tomb of Sargeras and the legendary artifact contained within.
While Archimonde had swept on, he left three notable Dreadlords in his wake – Balnazzar, Detheroc and
Varimathras, brothers split from the same slab of demonic power. Plotting nefariously, they sought to forge
crowns of the Undead Scourge for themselves, to rebuild the lost presence of Archimonde’s Legion. This was the
beginning of the dire schism that wrought the Civil War within the plague-tended lands of Lordaeron. The Lich King
scowled his distaste from the Frozen Throne, sealed in the frigid clutches of the roof of the world. The disunity of
his Scourge at these demons’ behest was a most troublesome wave of fate’s staff. The Lich King’s champion and
servant – the prince known as Arthas – had been lowered and tossed from the scales of power and was deeply
spited. To the Dreadlords, Arthas was a regrettable stain upon fine silk. A poultice had to be found to repulse this
scum from his throne.
~~~
In a separate land, Arthas was pitted in battle against the last respite of the elves in Quel’Thalas. He wielded his
blade against the defending ranger, Sylvanas Windrunner. Before his virulent assault, no more than a battered
corpse lay to tell the tale of her defeat. In cruel punishment for the defiant stance she had led against the Scourge,
the corrupt Prince drew from his knowledge of necromancy to resurrect the pure High Elf as a banshee, aggrieved
and shackled to him in eternal enslavement. With this act fulfilled, Arthas then proceeded down the Lich King’s
charted path, moving unrestricted to the lush, blossoming waters of Sunwell. Therein, he submerged the feeble
remnants of the deceased Necromancer, Kel’Thuzad. Sprouting from the nourishing energies of the Elves’ great
Sunwell, Kel’Thuzad rose from death anew, with the capacity of his powers vaulted far beyond their former
heights. The pure waters of the well were left tainted and twisted, no longer fit even for a scamp to bath in. The
posts of the Lich King’s design were falling efficiently into place.
Under Kel’Thuzad’s coercing, Arthas marched victoriously back to Lordaeron, which had become so blighted by the
Undead presence that it became known as the Plagueland. In the gaunt recesses of the horizon, thunder growled
its formidable notes. Illidan and the sea of forces surrounding him had attained an antidote to the Lich King’s
poisonous existence. Channeling the powers inherent in the Eye of Sargeras, Illidan split the frosted region where
the Lich King dwelt. If Illidan’s brother had not arrived, then his plan would have succeeded, incinerating the very
ice and metal host to Ner’zhul’s spirit. While the bottled powers of the artifact had been unleashed and ripped
apart the Lich King’s defenses, Malfurion Stormrage intervened before the final bell tolled - unwittingly sparing
a shared enemy. The Lich King endured – nonetheless, his powers were fractured and swiftly fading, growing
measurably weaker with every day.
Arthas suffered the same lose as his master. His strength spilled from his veins as though he had been lacerated.
His raging current of power subsiding, his slave, Sylvanas, was finally able to worm free, tearing from the heavy
chains of bondage to walk her own path. For the hunting Dreadlord brothers, desperate to wean Arthas of his
remaining strength, she was the repost. A glowing light striding from the dourly ranks of Arthas’ minions, they
saw her as a Tome of Power, propped a hair’s breadth from their grasp. If they were able to claim her fealty, the
Scourge would fall readily within their clutches.
~~~
The earth could tell you the movements of its rivers. Some have trickled across soil, mud and rock, traveling
straight and true, pulled gently by time and gravity. With their chiming, graceful waters, as beautifully clear as
the finest crystal, these rivers have tediously carved runes and monoliths out of the stone and clay. When their
banks were rife with the ebullience of green life and when the sleek, star-like bodies of fish darted down the
watery paths and drew gulps of the sweet nourishment, the river had reached its zenith, when its innocence and
inquisitiveness became fused with great intelligence, reason and generosity. While time marches to its steady
beat, rivers writhe and twist in their earthen garments. Those which are long and slim like arrows curl patiently as
the land shifts. Shimmering snakes of azure winding through forests and hills ease into half moon lakes and spindly
streams. Ox-bows emerge and disappear in repeated gestures of worship and the earth bears these oddities in
contentedness.
Like these ever morphing rivers – while are at one time reliable to the voyaging Captain and the swimming Murloc,
are at another little semblance to the original, in the form of a dozen wild ponds and brooks, matching no map –
Sylvanas no longer waded in Arthas’ punishment. However, she tactfully pretended to: hastening to carry out his
commands. She awaited just one lapse – the opportune moment freedom when it would bring her despised captor
to his death. And the moment was to come soon…
~~~
Quietly, the Dreadlords had been observing Sylvanas from the shadows. It was time they emerge from the viscous
depths to deliver their offer. One in her position should willingly fill a notch in their new vision of The Scourge. Yet,
the former high born was not so keen. She was no stranger to greedy rulers and gilded portents of fortune. One
can only assume she had formulated lengthy, expansive plans of her own. The offer was tantalizing, like a dwarf
feast of the greatest caramelized boar and fine wine… but she turned down the menacingly hopeful tyrants.
The Dreadlords festered in their self-contained disgust. Yet, Arthas had not sailed from their grasp so easily. Upon
his trail like glass-eyed hawks, they hunted. Just as the venerable tree survives the lightning storm, Arthas evaded
their strike. To the brothers, he was a contemptible, retched fool that should have bowed and slipped the circlet
of life off his head – yet, he had not. The Lich King’s pampered, black-hearted prince had led them into a dismal
swamp of their own creation. From the hearth of some remote, unlit cave lashed the flames of their fruitless furry,
licking hotly albeit without effect upon the slippery edifices isolating them from their quarry.
With scant time as her greatest opponent, Sylvanas rushed to Arthas’ side, pretending to be his faithful minion.
The truth of her betrayal was not easily subdued, as it clawed desperately inside her gut. She bowed before Arthas’
will – he saw only the servile Banshee he had resurrected, not the wolf in sheep skin. Sylvanas eased closer and
closer to the moment when her poisoned arrow would pierce his flesh. Finally, Sylvanas could resist her craving
no longer, and she struck. Arthas would have been sent to meet the fates – however, his lieutenant, Kel’Thuzad,
stepped forth. Eternally loyal to Arthas, like dwarves to ale, he fended off his master’s attacker. Somehow,
Sylvanas dodged death that day, for the grim reaper had other plans…
~~~
It was not long after the attempt on his life when Arthas felt a prying voice call to him from over the lands and the
seas. Suddenly, he abandoned his concerns in Lordaeron and disembarked with a Nerubian Army for the glacial
shores of Northrend. In his fatally weak condition, the Lich King risked defeat in the face of his swiftly encroaching
enemy. The bulk of this pack was Illidan and his motley reinforcements – Naga, Blood Elves, Draeni and others
from the Orc world of Outland. Kil’Jaeden had given Illidan the one chance for redemption – a second failure
would mean his damnation. The Lich King was nearly powerless, like a slender icicle under the sun’s rays. Only his
cherished servant, Arthas, could defend the mighty despot.
Arthas had been wise enough to leave the Scourge in Kel’Thuzad’s care. His trusted right hand would guide the
faithful Undead against the upstarts. However, a new bell sounded in Lordaeron. Arising from old dens, the many
enemies Arthas had made during his tenure took advantage of his absence. Among them was Syvlanas…
Returning for revenge and her own circle of power, she pulled strings to build a new army. Maggot-infested,
vulture-pillaged, fly-ridden corpses littering fresh battlegrounds were among the many sources. With efficiency,
she coerced throngs of Undead to rise from senselessness and serve her. The Dreadlord brothers may have
suggested a Civil War, but this abrupt appearance confirmed it.
~~~
Night could be quiet in the peasant households of Lordaeron – and in the contested Plaguelands, during the time
of the Scourge Civil War, it was an unsettling likelihood. Those who lived huddled before the demonic mouths
of barley glowing coals; others lay sleeplessly in heaps of straw. They took hushed breaths and dared not move,
so they could better hear the faintest of sounds. The swinging of a pot on a hinge outside the door would instill
living nightmares. The terror came from the Undead – lumbering groups or staggering individuals, marching in
thoughtless obedience by starlight. Even in daylight fear quickened heartbeats and riveted minds. Wherever the
peasants hefted their picks and saws they never traveled easy. Every grave stone filled them with dread. The
bravest would walk by graveyards at a dead run. Homely, peaceful structures became gaunt and unhappy as
windows were boarded and fresh iron bolts placed on doors.
Syvlanas had chosen the darker road. Her flocks of eager minions were uncountable. Most were hated and feared
the world over as if they were death’s vial warriors. The veterans of old wars had been ignored or shunned by
their original masters. Unaccustomed to joy or freedom, ignorant to any kindnesses, and familiar with the tyrant’s
harsh tongue, they came together in commonality. These lost, desolate, discouraged, suffering things became a
new faction under Sylvanas’ rule – The Forsaken. The dull stew of the Civil War exploded with flavor. Wherever
Kel’Thuzad and the Dreadlords could be found, Sylvanas began to beat them back into their own hides.
One by one, her enemies sank to their doom. Varimathras was the first brother to feel the Forsaken’s whip. Feeling
the wall of darkness upon him, knowing that his death was soon to come, he pleaded and begged for his life.
Brazenly rejecting what his brothers stood for, he offered Sylvanas every dreg of power at his disposal and every
scrap of knowledge in his mind – it was his desperate hope he would be spared Sylvanas’ wrath. Sylvanas felt
no reason to refuse the appealing gesture. Varimathras’ boon sprang like wildfire throughout the Undead ranks.
Bolstered by the signs of their triumph, the Forsaken spread its deadly wings.
The remaining brothers were outraged when they learned of Varimathras’ treachery. Contempt and animosity
marred their judgement. Balnazzar concerted his forces at Lordaeron’s ancient capitol in preparation for the
inevitable, while Detheroc reinforced the meager defenses of his own fortress.
The humans that remained alive in the once prosperous region wore only filthy rags, had listless expressions and
bowed before the insatiable cruelty of the Dreadlords. The majority enslaved, they bolstered the Undead ranks
with warm and trembling flesh – and few yearned for life. Armed with meager picks, saws, hatchets, sticks and
hunting bows for weaponry and devoid of combat training, they did not serve Detheroc well when the Forsaken
began the siege. In due time, the second brother and his followers were defeated, reduced to no more than a pool
of wax where once a flickering candle had been. With his pungent fetter lifted, his human slaves were free. Fearing
for their own safety, with no noble lord to lead them, they formed a cautious alliance with the Forsaken. Sylvanas
and her minions, the humans’ liberators, looked and acted the most humanistic of the great powers.
Balnazzar’s might was tested next. Zounds of demons, humans and undead marched in consortium, a pockmarked
army like the defacing symptoms of a disease. In comparison, Balnazzar posed little threat. His forces were as
piddling as a blade of grass trying to fend off a locust swarm. If anything, they served to nourish the Forsaken. It
was only a matter of time before Balnazzar’s tatterdemalion flag was ripped down and replaced by that of Sylvanas
and the Forsaken. The short-lived reign of the Dreadlord brothers reached its final chapter. The Forsaken seized
Lordaeron’s capitol without opposition. Because they outlived their usefulness, Sylvanas betrayed slew the gullible,
wide-eyed humans that had helped her achieve victory. This murderous, chocking blanket of black smoke had
claimed the pinnacle of humanity. Nothing stood within sight or hearing to stop the might faction.
~~~
Arthas outpaced Illidan and drove away the last of his master’s assailants. What blood had been spilt trickled
briefly and froze upon the frigid wastes. Swinging the cursed runeblade of Frostmourne, Arthas shattered the
frozen waters surrounding the Lich King’s throne, fragments spraying like the shrapnel from a dropped glass.
The artifacts which contained Ner’zhul’s spirit were wrenched free from their stagnant moor as Arthas donned
them. In an abrupt marriage of consciousness and power, servant and master became one. Like the offspring
of legendary flowers, their potency blossomed to unbelievable heights. And there upon the Frozen Throne, he
– Arthas and Ner’zhul, the Lich King – sat to contemplate and brood. The tendrils of his mind began to steer his
players in the undying war of the nations.
~~~
Elsewhere in Azeroth, the scattered vestiges of the old alliance which had guarded Mount Hyjal from Archimonde
nearly a year prior were being re-forged. While its restructured legions set out for the Lich King‘s lair in the white
north, like leaves falling from a dying tree to return borrowed energy to the earth, the Lich King sent one of his
Commanders, Anub’Arak, to the south. Instructed to aid Kel’Thuzad, who stood alone before the Forsaken like a
parchment wall before a blaze, the Nerubian arrived swiftly. Backed by his crustacean kinsfolk, Anub’Arak brought
fresh flames to the dwindling conflagration. Awestruck and demoralized, the undead renegades began submitting
themselves to the power of the Lich King’s Commanders.
~~~
Sylvanas had been pressing a desperate barrage of attacks against the Scourge in Lordaeron, raving for its
destruction. But while the Forsaken had previously been strong, it had become vulnerable. She sensed the two
storm fronts gathering around her. Time was of the tides, any moment liable to swallow the Forsaken like an island
lost at sea. While Sylvanas’ Demons and Undead had fought tenaciously with blade and mana, it was to no avail –
for, it was then when Anub’Arak arrived. Behind him strode his great army – a spearhead of battle hardened Crypt
Fiends and Crypt Lords.
For a time, the contested line remained stoic, an even balance between the desperation of the Forsaken and the
reborn power of the Scourge. Nonetheless, just as old age subdues great warriors, Sylvanas and her followers
began losing ground. Kil’Jaeden offered to ally with her. Upon his word, teaming ranks of demons would reinforce
her dwindling effort. However, Sylvanas believed the Forsaken did not need saving.
She bid her forces fight on –thrashing the wavering with a cat-o-nine-tails – confident the scales would tip in
her favor before long, like wind and rain slowly crumbling rock. Better she had accepted Kil’Jaeden’s offer. The
weeks passed quietly, Sylvanas ignorant of the defeat and loss stacking against her. However, reaching the foul
and frayed end of the rope, she knew that her army had become mere firewood for a war that it could no longer
win. Kil’Jaeden’s veiled advice drifted through Sylvanas’ mind. He suggested Varimathras knew of the means
to summon the Burning Legion. While the Dreadlord had betrayed his brothers to live while they had perished,
Sylvanas had no choice but to turn to his aid. She commanded that he summon the dauntlessly mighty Burning
Legion once more – for she knew that it alone could grant the Forsaken victory.
However, from the sanctity of the Undercity built beneath Lordaeron’s old capitol, Varimathras could not due as
he was bidden. Only in Dalaran could it be done. The magical city built long ago and once home to the Kirin Tor,
reduced to ruins, would be the glistening archway to welcome the new armada. Sylvanas knew this was the only
opportunity she would get. The Forsaken retreated from the dismal fug of the frontlines, regrouping around the
oppressed ruins of Dalaran, stooped in shadows. There, Varimathras began to summon the Legion.
Across the great distance, Kel’Thuzad sensed the resonances of the very same ritual he had so recently performed.
Aware of the dire implications, he ordered the Scourge to descend upon the site of the new Demon Portal, least
the Burning Legion and the Forsaken rise up from the fading ashes of their last blaze.
Varimathras was quite successful – in a fiery plume of splendor, Kil’Jaeden burst forth from the Void. Shortly
afterwards, the demon lord magnified the portal to accommodate the Legion that was to follow. A maddened mob
of enraged, blood-lusting demons rushed forth, like thousands of prisoners released from years in the darkest of
dungeons, unleashed upon the world of Azeroth for yet another chance to fulfill their purpose of destruction.
The demon onslaught was unbearable; impartial to the thousands and thousands of lives who would drown
beneath. Envisioning defeat before this wild abandon, the commanders of the Scourge swept upstream with their
forces, retreating swiftly from the menacing death that Dalaran symbolized. This new war javelin in the hands of
the Forsaken repulsed the terrorized Scourge deep into their own plagued grounds and turned their once iron
resilience to liquid. Yet, all was not as it seemed…
Alas, redoubling their strengths and reassembling upon a battlefront of their own choosing, the Scourge made
a stand. The glimmering scale of war balanced itself, neither side shifting the other – the restless swinging of a
pendulum stilled in the center. While the cries of the suffering were distilled through the winds, Lordaeron had
broken in half. Sylvanas, Kil’Jaeden and their minions held sway over the western lands, while those to the east
belonged to the Scourge, like the dominions of morning and evening plunged into a final dispute.
~~~
At present, from the sanctity of the Undercity, Sylvanas dictates the Forsaken in the violent struggle against
Kel’Thuzad. Varimathras keeps a careful watch over the Burning Legion as both ambassador and an observer, like
a falconer’s regal bird. And while they attend to these affairs, Kil’Jaeden has resurrected the fallen city of Dalaran,
enamoring the once glorious human enclave with the twisted, infernal powers of the Burning Legion, like an
elegant tapestry morphed by defacing flames.
Seeking to expand his reach, Kil’Jaeden summoned two of his most potent commanders: his right hand,
Mepihstroth, the Lord of the Dreadlords; and Azgalor, Lord of the Pit Lords. With segments of the Legion’s might
at their beck and call, they ventured to the distant lands of Khaz Modan and Azeroth, bent upon conquering what
fragments of weakened resistance could be found. Like a gout of icy water dousing torchlight, they succeeded.
From the accursed tower of Karazhan, Mephistroth now conducts the fate of Azeroth. The rivers that once
sparkled thousands of hues from the vibrant stones beneath and the fields that once blossomed with lush life now
reek of the defiling tyrant’s rule. He pits his forces against Outland, vying to regain control of it, intent upon slaying
Illidan, who has become the ostentatious ruler.
Within the halls of Grim Batol, Azgalor watches over Khaz Modan. Like the thick blocks of a stone bridge collapsed
into a river below, he cinches life of those who would defeat him – Khaz Modan was once the place of habitation
for a myriad of dragons and dwarves, but they now fight desperately and doggedly to hold on, like trees growing
upon a treacherous cliff side.
In the gaunt and tainted Plaguelands, from within the darkened and blighted walls of Strathholme, Kel’Thuzad
rules. Armies of the undead heed his commands like fearful serfs, streaming to the west to battle the Forsaken.
As Sylvanas and Kil’Jaeden blindly plunge themselves in the tidal pool of a seemingly depthless and timeless war,
the Crypt Lord Anub’Arak secured the human stronghold of Stromgarde for the Scourge. Thus, poised abreast the
Legion fortress of Dalaran, he now wages a vicious onslaught.
~~~
The Lich King eventually attained victory over the stuttering, pitiable parts of the Alliance, trouncing the
constituents like a cat bandying a crippled mouse. He chose to corral the living to the continent of Kalimdor. And
there, his followers walking among them planted the sprouts of mistrust amid the different factions. Soon, they fell
apart to bickering and malcontent, the alliance transformed into barley more than contesting bands – and, now,
each of the pieces, like fish out of water, struggle for their survival.
Presently, it is Jaina’s budding hope to reform the stripped tatters of the Alliance – for she knows the immense
worth of unity. Yet there is little golden prospect, for the garrulous Orcs are wary of their one time allies, while the
aloof elves – the valor and nobility of their spirits now faded like a cord frayed to a strand of its former self – wish
only to hide from the rampant disruption that is rife around them. In the reticent glades of Ashenvale they gather
and in desperation attempt to restore the health of the World Tree.
~~~
In Lordaeron, the necromantic powers of the Scourge seem as without end as the mysterious vibrancy of the
embracing blackness of midnight, the hordes of demons spewing from the demonic portals unlimited. So many fall
to senselessness on each side as the war grinds mechanically and dutifully on. Meanwhile, Mephistroth bears his
cruel weight down upon the flaking and crumbling beings within Outland. He drives his assault into the hearts and
homes of the Illidari and contests with an unseemly coterie of Draenei, Night Elves, Dwarves, Humans, High Elves
and Gnomes. The three distinct factions spin in a brewer’s pot, producing war’s fine amber ale. Like the mother
war now waging in Lordaeron, in Outland no side can lay rest upon any solid stretch of land for long.
flames. It rests precariously by doom’s gate, where no benevolent beings guard it, like a poor slave boy in one
of its forsaken villages. Many a barbarous malcontents, in their guises of infernal demons or civilized kings, have
wrestled and grappled for its land and people. Over the tiresome ages, these ungrateful and unwelcome guests
have torn Azeroth’s mulish, defiant spirit. Most of its wounds are slow to heal, while others never do. Its sentient
offspring have cut its forests, mined its gold and stupefied its beasts. Defensive calluses rarely form. When
forbidding omens appear, the shifting sands quell and the mountains quake in dismay. Innocent creatures of
nature vanish from view within the woods and the soil. The wise and watchful spread the message of disaster and
despair and try desperately to muster what diminished resistance fighters remain.
Azeroth has been painfully bending over its knee, succumbing to loss, confusion and remorse. Slowly it has been
strangled by countless unloving hands. Dark vines entwine the hilts of sacrificial blades, threatening to spill its
supple life. Defenders with little hope hack the entanglement with one hand, yet draw suffocating cords tighter
with the other. Peasants animate their listless selves for their portentous masters, but unknowingly they claw open
the earthen mounds which will eventually contain their rotting corpses. Unless Azeroth soon finds the strength to
rise, it will become as lifeless as the bleakest reaches of Draenor.
Garrulous, child-like lords have long bickered over nations’ crowns. The foolish have fluttered and then died. The
great wrote the scrolls of history and were buried by their serfs. Some instilled fear while others nurtured and
shielded. The celestial bodies have always taken turns to cast their resplendent radiance on this despicable festival.
Tree limbs stooping with age have mumbled their distaste. The carefree winds have sung of their noble deeds
as they brush across forest, desert and ocean – while the grumpy cliff-faces have muttered dark curses. Streams
traipsed like fine cobble roads across verdant mountain slope and valley have hummed their ceaseless melodies,
ferrying rumors. Regal Stags, virulent Furbolgs, timid Rabbits and avaricious Drakes share their visions of Azeroth’s
plight in clacking hoof, thumping tail or scratching claw.
A new and colossal war now sneers over Azeroth – born from meager houses and fortress ramparts, the
darkest reaches of the world and a myriad places beyond. Known simply as The Third War, it is a putrid machine
consuming Azeroth from within. In the land of Lordaeron, the disunited peoples bandy needle, thread and knife,
weaving the vulgar clothes of battle. Like the reliable ebb and flow of tides, lives are dragged into the most
stagnant of doldrums, laced with blade and armor, thrust among the ranks, acting as if death is the treasure they
seek. A few short years ago, the formidable Undead Scourge, an onslaught bred to vanquish Azeroth’s spark of life,
began to show signs of erosion. Now it is trapped in civil war, the jagged splinters shredding one another.
~~~
Much earlier, ere life blossomed into being for many constituting the wars’ hearts and limbs, the infamous demon
lord known as Archimonde the Defiler was drawn from his scabbard of the nether void, demons sparking forth
behind him. So it was that the Burning Legion blew over once more to incinerate the resilient mortal beings which
had defied their will for thousands of long years. Conducted by the demon lord known as Kil’Jaeden, Archimonde
ushered the Burning Legion towards the soul of Azeroth. However, a misfit alliance of Humans, Elves, Orcs and
other creatures baying for the demon invasion’s demise were already assembling in preparation at Mount Hyjal,
at the forested, root-clad base of the World Tree. While Archimonde and his gust of terror corrupted and scalded
countless lives and lands, including the Well of Eternity which supported the World Tree, the Burning Legion
was halted by the strength of this Alliance and by the Elves’ great sacrifice during the Battle of Mount Hyjal.
Regrettably, the celebratory cadence which followed came upon the crest of a bitter wave. After Archimonde’s
collapse, the menacing bulk of the Undead Scourge in Lordaeron reached a golden minaret of might, perched upon
the revitalized strength of Ner’zhul – once an Orc shaman, resurrected to become the magnanimously powerful
Lich King.
The weight of peace and harmony once more outweighed that of war and discord. Kil’Jaeden contorted with
displeasure, yet in his vast wisdom saw a more crucial mater to deal with. Aware his concoction had become
an unruly weed, a power-hungry entity, he cast about for the means to end the Lich King and the Scourge. He
uncovered the lacquered name written by the powers that be – Illidan Stormrage, a tainted and antediluvian elf
of demonic powers who had emerged free from the lock of his ancient Elven prison, during the final chapter of
the Burning Legion’s defeat. Kil’Jaeden sought out this promising demon hunter and beseeched that he obliterate
the direly threatening usurper. In return, Illidan would find an exalted place awaiting him among the demon lords.
This grandiloquent promise of near omniscience was too irresistible for him to decline – like a peasant offered his
dearest dreams. Striding on burning soles of haste, Illidan began harvesting the ingredients for his assault. It would
take more than a mere blade and those of his allies to rend life from the dark and brooding Lich King. Thus began
Illidan’s foray in pursuit of the Tomb of Sargeras and the legendary artifact contained within.
While Archimonde had swept on, he left three notable Dreadlords in his wake – Balnazzar, Detheroc and
Varimathras, brothers split from the same slab of demonic power. Plotting nefariously, they sought to forge
crowns of the Undead Scourge for themselves, to rebuild the lost presence of Archimonde’s Legion. This was the
beginning of the dire schism that wrought the Civil War within the plague-tended lands of Lordaeron. The Lich King
scowled his distaste from the Frozen Throne, sealed in the frigid clutches of the roof of the world. The disunity of
his Scourge at these demons’ behest was a most troublesome wave of fate’s staff. The Lich King’s champion and
servant – the prince known as Arthas – had been lowered and tossed from the scales of power and was deeply
spited. To the Dreadlords, Arthas was a regrettable stain upon fine silk. A poultice had to be found to repulse this
scum from his throne.
~~~
In a separate land, Arthas was pitted in battle against the last respite of the elves in Quel’Thalas. He wielded his
blade against the defending ranger, Sylvanas Windrunner. Before his virulent assault, no more than a battered
corpse lay to tell the tale of her defeat. In cruel punishment for the defiant stance she had led against the Scourge,
the corrupt Prince drew from his knowledge of necromancy to resurrect the pure High Elf as a banshee, aggrieved
and shackled to him in eternal enslavement. With this act fulfilled, Arthas then proceeded down the Lich King’s
charted path, moving unrestricted to the lush, blossoming waters of Sunwell. Therein, he submerged the feeble
remnants of the deceased Necromancer, Kel’Thuzad. Sprouting from the nourishing energies of the Elves’ great
Sunwell, Kel’Thuzad rose from death anew, with the capacity of his powers vaulted far beyond their former
heights. The pure waters of the well were left tainted and twisted, no longer fit even for a scamp to bath in. The
posts of the Lich King’s design were falling efficiently into place.
Under Kel’Thuzad’s coercing, Arthas marched victoriously back to Lordaeron, which had become so blighted by the
Undead presence that it became known as the Plagueland. In the gaunt recesses of the horizon, thunder growled
its formidable notes. Illidan and the sea of forces surrounding him had attained an antidote to the Lich King’s
poisonous existence. Channeling the powers inherent in the Eye of Sargeras, Illidan split the frosted region where
the Lich King dwelt. If Illidan’s brother had not arrived, then his plan would have succeeded, incinerating the very
ice and metal host to Ner’zhul’s spirit. While the bottled powers of the artifact had been unleashed and ripped
apart the Lich King’s defenses, Malfurion Stormrage intervened before the final bell tolled - unwittingly sparing
a shared enemy. The Lich King endured – nonetheless, his powers were fractured and swiftly fading, growing
measurably weaker with every day.
Arthas suffered the same lose as his master. His strength spilled from his veins as though he had been lacerated.
His raging current of power subsiding, his slave, Sylvanas, was finally able to worm free, tearing from the heavy
chains of bondage to walk her own path. For the hunting Dreadlord brothers, desperate to wean Arthas of his
remaining strength, she was the repost. A glowing light striding from the dourly ranks of Arthas’ minions, they
saw her as a Tome of Power, propped a hair’s breadth from their grasp. If they were able to claim her fealty, the
Scourge would fall readily within their clutches.
~~~
The earth could tell you the movements of its rivers. Some have trickled across soil, mud and rock, traveling
straight and true, pulled gently by time and gravity. With their chiming, graceful waters, as beautifully clear as
the finest crystal, these rivers have tediously carved runes and monoliths out of the stone and clay. When their
banks were rife with the ebullience of green life and when the sleek, star-like bodies of fish darted down the
watery paths and drew gulps of the sweet nourishment, the river had reached its zenith, when its innocence and
inquisitiveness became fused with great intelligence, reason and generosity. While time marches to its steady
beat, rivers writhe and twist in their earthen garments. Those which are long and slim like arrows curl patiently as
the land shifts. Shimmering snakes of azure winding through forests and hills ease into half moon lakes and spindly
streams. Ox-bows emerge and disappear in repeated gestures of worship and the earth bears these oddities in
contentedness.
Like these ever morphing rivers – while are at one time reliable to the voyaging Captain and the swimming Murloc,
are at another little semblance to the original, in the form of a dozen wild ponds and brooks, matching no map –
Sylvanas no longer waded in Arthas’ punishment. However, she tactfully pretended to: hastening to carry out his
commands. She awaited just one lapse – the opportune moment freedom when it would bring her despised captor
to his death. And the moment was to come soon…
~~~
Quietly, the Dreadlords had been observing Sylvanas from the shadows. It was time they emerge from the viscous
depths to deliver their offer. One in her position should willingly fill a notch in their new vision of The Scourge. Yet,
the former high born was not so keen. She was no stranger to greedy rulers and gilded portents of fortune. One
can only assume she had formulated lengthy, expansive plans of her own. The offer was tantalizing, like a dwarf
feast of the greatest caramelized boar and fine wine… but she turned down the menacingly hopeful tyrants.
The Dreadlords festered in their self-contained disgust. Yet, Arthas had not sailed from their grasp so easily. Upon
his trail like glass-eyed hawks, they hunted. Just as the venerable tree survives the lightning storm, Arthas evaded
their strike. To the brothers, he was a contemptible, retched fool that should have bowed and slipped the circlet
of life off his head – yet, he had not. The Lich King’s pampered, black-hearted prince had led them into a dismal
swamp of their own creation. From the hearth of some remote, unlit cave lashed the flames of their fruitless furry,
licking hotly albeit without effect upon the slippery edifices isolating them from their quarry.
With scant time as her greatest opponent, Sylvanas rushed to Arthas’ side, pretending to be his faithful minion.
The truth of her betrayal was not easily subdued, as it clawed desperately inside her gut. She bowed before Arthas’
will – he saw only the servile Banshee he had resurrected, not the wolf in sheep skin. Sylvanas eased closer and
closer to the moment when her poisoned arrow would pierce his flesh. Finally, Sylvanas could resist her craving
no longer, and she struck. Arthas would have been sent to meet the fates – however, his lieutenant, Kel’Thuzad,
stepped forth. Eternally loyal to Arthas, like dwarves to ale, he fended off his master’s attacker. Somehow,
Sylvanas dodged death that day, for the grim reaper had other plans…
~~~
It was not long after the attempt on his life when Arthas felt a prying voice call to him from over the lands and the
seas. Suddenly, he abandoned his concerns in Lordaeron and disembarked with a Nerubian Army for the glacial
shores of Northrend. In his fatally weak condition, the Lich King risked defeat in the face of his swiftly encroaching
enemy. The bulk of this pack was Illidan and his motley reinforcements – Naga, Blood Elves, Draeni and others
from the Orc world of Outland. Kil’Jaeden had given Illidan the one chance for redemption – a second failure
would mean his damnation. The Lich King was nearly powerless, like a slender icicle under the sun’s rays. Only his
cherished servant, Arthas, could defend the mighty despot.
Arthas had been wise enough to leave the Scourge in Kel’Thuzad’s care. His trusted right hand would guide the
faithful Undead against the upstarts. However, a new bell sounded in Lordaeron. Arising from old dens, the many
enemies Arthas had made during his tenure took advantage of his absence. Among them was Syvlanas…
Returning for revenge and her own circle of power, she pulled strings to build a new army. Maggot-infested,
vulture-pillaged, fly-ridden corpses littering fresh battlegrounds were among the many sources. With efficiency,
she coerced throngs of Undead to rise from senselessness and serve her. The Dreadlord brothers may have
suggested a Civil War, but this abrupt appearance confirmed it.
~~~
Night could be quiet in the peasant households of Lordaeron – and in the contested Plaguelands, during the time
of the Scourge Civil War, it was an unsettling likelihood. Those who lived huddled before the demonic mouths
of barley glowing coals; others lay sleeplessly in heaps of straw. They took hushed breaths and dared not move,
so they could better hear the faintest of sounds. The swinging of a pot on a hinge outside the door would instill
living nightmares. The terror came from the Undead – lumbering groups or staggering individuals, marching in
thoughtless obedience by starlight. Even in daylight fear quickened heartbeats and riveted minds. Wherever the
peasants hefted their picks and saws they never traveled easy. Every grave stone filled them with dread. The
bravest would walk by graveyards at a dead run. Homely, peaceful structures became gaunt and unhappy as
windows were boarded and fresh iron bolts placed on doors.
Syvlanas had chosen the darker road. Her flocks of eager minions were uncountable. Most were hated and feared
the world over as if they were death’s vial warriors. The veterans of old wars had been ignored or shunned by
their original masters. Unaccustomed to joy or freedom, ignorant to any kindnesses, and familiar with the tyrant’s
harsh tongue, they came together in commonality. These lost, desolate, discouraged, suffering things became a
new faction under Sylvanas’ rule – The Forsaken. The dull stew of the Civil War exploded with flavor. Wherever
Kel’Thuzad and the Dreadlords could be found, Sylvanas began to beat them back into their own hides.
One by one, her enemies sank to their doom. Varimathras was the first brother to feel the Forsaken’s whip. Feeling
the wall of darkness upon him, knowing that his death was soon to come, he pleaded and begged for his life.
Brazenly rejecting what his brothers stood for, he offered Sylvanas every dreg of power at his disposal and every
scrap of knowledge in his mind – it was his desperate hope he would be spared Sylvanas’ wrath. Sylvanas felt
no reason to refuse the appealing gesture. Varimathras’ boon sprang like wildfire throughout the Undead ranks.
Bolstered by the signs of their triumph, the Forsaken spread its deadly wings.
The remaining brothers were outraged when they learned of Varimathras’ treachery. Contempt and animosity
marred their judgement. Balnazzar concerted his forces at Lordaeron’s ancient capitol in preparation for the
inevitable, while Detheroc reinforced the meager defenses of his own fortress.
The humans that remained alive in the once prosperous region wore only filthy rags, had listless expressions and
bowed before the insatiable cruelty of the Dreadlords. The majority enslaved, they bolstered the Undead ranks
with warm and trembling flesh – and few yearned for life. Armed with meager picks, saws, hatchets, sticks and
hunting bows for weaponry and devoid of combat training, they did not serve Detheroc well when the Forsaken
began the siege. In due time, the second brother and his followers were defeated, reduced to no more than a pool
of wax where once a flickering candle had been. With his pungent fetter lifted, his human slaves were free. Fearing
for their own safety, with no noble lord to lead them, they formed a cautious alliance with the Forsaken. Sylvanas
and her minions, the humans’ liberators, looked and acted the most humanistic of the great powers.
Balnazzar’s might was tested next. Zounds of demons, humans and undead marched in consortium, a pockmarked
army like the defacing symptoms of a disease. In comparison, Balnazzar posed little threat. His forces were as
piddling as a blade of grass trying to fend off a locust swarm. If anything, they served to nourish the Forsaken. It
was only a matter of time before Balnazzar’s tatterdemalion flag was ripped down and replaced by that of Sylvanas
and the Forsaken. The short-lived reign of the Dreadlord brothers reached its final chapter. The Forsaken seized
Lordaeron’s capitol without opposition. Because they outlived their usefulness, Sylvanas betrayed slew the gullible,
wide-eyed humans that had helped her achieve victory. This murderous, chocking blanket of black smoke had
claimed the pinnacle of humanity. Nothing stood within sight or hearing to stop the might faction.
~~~
Arthas outpaced Illidan and drove away the last of his master’s assailants. What blood had been spilt trickled
briefly and froze upon the frigid wastes. Swinging the cursed runeblade of Frostmourne, Arthas shattered the
frozen waters surrounding the Lich King’s throne, fragments spraying like the shrapnel from a dropped glass.
The artifacts which contained Ner’zhul’s spirit were wrenched free from their stagnant moor as Arthas donned
them. In an abrupt marriage of consciousness and power, servant and master became one. Like the offspring
of legendary flowers, their potency blossomed to unbelievable heights. And there upon the Frozen Throne, he
– Arthas and Ner’zhul, the Lich King – sat to contemplate and brood. The tendrils of his mind began to steer his
players in the undying war of the nations.
~~~
Elsewhere in Azeroth, the scattered vestiges of the old alliance which had guarded Mount Hyjal from Archimonde
nearly a year prior were being re-forged. While its restructured legions set out for the Lich King‘s lair in the white
north, like leaves falling from a dying tree to return borrowed energy to the earth, the Lich King sent one of his
Commanders, Anub’Arak, to the south. Instructed to aid Kel’Thuzad, who stood alone before the Forsaken like a
parchment wall before a blaze, the Nerubian arrived swiftly. Backed by his crustacean kinsfolk, Anub’Arak brought
fresh flames to the dwindling conflagration. Awestruck and demoralized, the undead renegades began submitting
themselves to the power of the Lich King’s Commanders.
~~~
Sylvanas had been pressing a desperate barrage of attacks against the Scourge in Lordaeron, raving for its
destruction. But while the Forsaken had previously been strong, it had become vulnerable. She sensed the two
storm fronts gathering around her. Time was of the tides, any moment liable to swallow the Forsaken like an island
lost at sea. While Sylvanas’ Demons and Undead had fought tenaciously with blade and mana, it was to no avail –
for, it was then when Anub’Arak arrived. Behind him strode his great army – a spearhead of battle hardened Crypt
Fiends and Crypt Lords.
For a time, the contested line remained stoic, an even balance between the desperation of the Forsaken and the
reborn power of the Scourge. Nonetheless, just as old age subdues great warriors, Sylvanas and her followers
began losing ground. Kil’Jaeden offered to ally with her. Upon his word, teaming ranks of demons would reinforce
her dwindling effort. However, Sylvanas believed the Forsaken did not need saving.
She bid her forces fight on –thrashing the wavering with a cat-o-nine-tails – confident the scales would tip in
her favor before long, like wind and rain slowly crumbling rock. Better she had accepted Kil’Jaeden’s offer. The
weeks passed quietly, Sylvanas ignorant of the defeat and loss stacking against her. However, reaching the foul
and frayed end of the rope, she knew that her army had become mere firewood for a war that it could no longer
win. Kil’Jaeden’s veiled advice drifted through Sylvanas’ mind. He suggested Varimathras knew of the means
to summon the Burning Legion. While the Dreadlord had betrayed his brothers to live while they had perished,
Sylvanas had no choice but to turn to his aid. She commanded that he summon the dauntlessly mighty Burning
Legion once more – for she knew that it alone could grant the Forsaken victory.
However, from the sanctity of the Undercity built beneath Lordaeron’s old capitol, Varimathras could not due as
he was bidden. Only in Dalaran could it be done. The magical city built long ago and once home to the Kirin Tor,
reduced to ruins, would be the glistening archway to welcome the new armada. Sylvanas knew this was the only
opportunity she would get. The Forsaken retreated from the dismal fug of the frontlines, regrouping around the
oppressed ruins of Dalaran, stooped in shadows. There, Varimathras began to summon the Legion.
Across the great distance, Kel’Thuzad sensed the resonances of the very same ritual he had so recently performed.
Aware of the dire implications, he ordered the Scourge to descend upon the site of the new Demon Portal, least
the Burning Legion and the Forsaken rise up from the fading ashes of their last blaze.
Varimathras was quite successful – in a fiery plume of splendor, Kil’Jaeden burst forth from the Void. Shortly
afterwards, the demon lord magnified the portal to accommodate the Legion that was to follow. A maddened mob
of enraged, blood-lusting demons rushed forth, like thousands of prisoners released from years in the darkest of
dungeons, unleashed upon the world of Azeroth for yet another chance to fulfill their purpose of destruction.
The demon onslaught was unbearable; impartial to the thousands and thousands of lives who would drown
beneath. Envisioning defeat before this wild abandon, the commanders of the Scourge swept upstream with their
forces, retreating swiftly from the menacing death that Dalaran symbolized. This new war javelin in the hands of
the Forsaken repulsed the terrorized Scourge deep into their own plagued grounds and turned their once iron
resilience to liquid. Yet, all was not as it seemed…
Alas, redoubling their strengths and reassembling upon a battlefront of their own choosing, the Scourge made
a stand. The glimmering scale of war balanced itself, neither side shifting the other – the restless swinging of a
pendulum stilled in the center. While the cries of the suffering were distilled through the winds, Lordaeron had
broken in half. Sylvanas, Kil’Jaeden and their minions held sway over the western lands, while those to the east
belonged to the Scourge, like the dominions of morning and evening plunged into a final dispute.
~~~
At present, from the sanctity of the Undercity, Sylvanas dictates the Forsaken in the violent struggle against
Kel’Thuzad. Varimathras keeps a careful watch over the Burning Legion as both ambassador and an observer, like
a falconer’s regal bird. And while they attend to these affairs, Kil’Jaeden has resurrected the fallen city of Dalaran,
enamoring the once glorious human enclave with the twisted, infernal powers of the Burning Legion, like an
elegant tapestry morphed by defacing flames.
Seeking to expand his reach, Kil’Jaeden summoned two of his most potent commanders: his right hand,
Mepihstroth, the Lord of the Dreadlords; and Azgalor, Lord of the Pit Lords. With segments of the Legion’s might
at their beck and call, they ventured to the distant lands of Khaz Modan and Azeroth, bent upon conquering what
fragments of weakened resistance could be found. Like a gout of icy water dousing torchlight, they succeeded.
From the accursed tower of Karazhan, Mephistroth now conducts the fate of Azeroth. The rivers that once
sparkled thousands of hues from the vibrant stones beneath and the fields that once blossomed with lush life now
reek of the defiling tyrant’s rule. He pits his forces against Outland, vying to regain control of it, intent upon slaying
Illidan, who has become the ostentatious ruler.
Within the halls of Grim Batol, Azgalor watches over Khaz Modan. Like the thick blocks of a stone bridge collapsed
into a river below, he cinches life of those who would defeat him – Khaz Modan was once the place of habitation
for a myriad of dragons and dwarves, but they now fight desperately and doggedly to hold on, like trees growing
upon a treacherous cliff side.
In the gaunt and tainted Plaguelands, from within the darkened and blighted walls of Strathholme, Kel’Thuzad
rules. Armies of the undead heed his commands like fearful serfs, streaming to the west to battle the Forsaken.
As Sylvanas and Kil’Jaeden blindly plunge themselves in the tidal pool of a seemingly depthless and timeless war,
the Crypt Lord Anub’Arak secured the human stronghold of Stromgarde for the Scourge. Thus, poised abreast the
Legion fortress of Dalaran, he now wages a vicious onslaught.
~~~
The Lich King eventually attained victory over the stuttering, pitiable parts of the Alliance, trouncing the
constituents like a cat bandying a crippled mouse. He chose to corral the living to the continent of Kalimdor. And
there, his followers walking among them planted the sprouts of mistrust amid the different factions. Soon, they fell
apart to bickering and malcontent, the alliance transformed into barley more than contesting bands – and, now,
each of the pieces, like fish out of water, struggle for their survival.
Presently, it is Jaina’s budding hope to reform the stripped tatters of the Alliance – for she knows the immense
worth of unity. Yet there is little golden prospect, for the garrulous Orcs are wary of their one time allies, while the
aloof elves – the valor and nobility of their spirits now faded like a cord frayed to a strand of its former self – wish
only to hide from the rampant disruption that is rife around them. In the reticent glades of Ashenvale they gather
and in desperation attempt to restore the health of the World Tree.
~~~
In Lordaeron, the necromantic powers of the Scourge seem as without end as the mysterious vibrancy of the
embracing blackness of midnight, the hordes of demons spewing from the demonic portals unlimited. So many fall
to senselessness on each side as the war grinds mechanically and dutifully on. Meanwhile, Mephistroth bears his
cruel weight down upon the flaking and crumbling beings within Outland. He drives his assault into the hearts and
homes of the Illidari and contests with an unseemly coterie of Draenei, Night Elves, Dwarves, Humans, High Elves
and Gnomes. The three distinct factions spin in a brewer’s pot, producing war’s fine amber ale. Like the mother
war now waging in Lordaeron, in Outland no side can lay rest upon any solid stretch of land for long.
