A still denser poisonous miasma hung on either side of the passage.
The dark green gases took on an eerie fluorescent sheen in the moonlight.
Orgrimmar appeared at the end of the passage, but he did not step beyond the miasma. He merely stood behind that flowing green curtain.
Only his gold-green slit pupils showed through gaps in the haze, calmly observing the party outside.
His gaze went first to the stretcher.
With Orgrimmar's discerning eye, it was easy to see that the young female dragon was in truly dreadful condition.
The blood seeping through her bandages had already turned dark purple.
That was a symptom of ruptured organs compounded by dragon blood degeneration.
The magical glow emanating from her broken horn flickered as erratically as a candle in the wind.
Every flicker there was accompanied by a spasm of the wounded dragon's body.
The dragonkin priest's healing prayers could barely keep her vital signs from deteriorating further, let alone reverse her injuries.
Orgrimmar's gaze swept over the battle-axe in the burly dragonkin's hands.
The dark red on its blade was not rust, but a distinctive patina that could only form after prolonged exposure to high-tier blood.
This weapon had drunk deeply of the blood of at least three legendary powerhouses to acquire such a deep-seated aura of ferocity.
The entire party looked exhausted, yet even at a green dragon's doorstep, their defensive posture remained flawless.
The twelve guards appeared loosely spaced, but their positions actually supported one another.
No matter which direction an ambush came from, they could immediately form a defensive formation and counterattack.
This was an instinct found only in elite veterans of a hundred battles.
The Black-Winged Tyrant certainly has some tough ones under her command.
Orgrimmar thought to himself.
He took a step forward, passing