What followed was rather clichéd. Under pressure from a powerful outside force, a group of mutually hostile people had no choice but to unite. Conflicts were inevitable, but with the threat of the Aqir looming, they had to agree on a solution, however unwilling they were.
Everyone knew that facing the Qiraji alone could only end in defeat and death. Even if those in the Eastern Kingdoms or farther away were deranged enough to try to stay out of it, that was no longer possible. No one sitting there was a fool; they understood what it meant.
The Aqir were much like the undead. Surrender and appeasement meant nothing to these creatures. Everything in the world other than their own kind was an enemy, and they would never stop advancing of their own accord.
But viewed another way, this was actually a good thing.
Under overwhelming pressure, although the Night Elves and High Elves still disliked each other, and the relationship between Orcs and humans remained one of hatred, no one would now step forward to obstruct the alliance.
Even Daelin, who wanted to thrust a blade at any Orc he saw, sat beside Caliea with his fists clenched.
He had not voiced his support, but the good news was that he did not seem to object either.
Malfurion cleared his throat. Looking at the oppressive atmosphere in the hall, he said softly,
"Then, those who agree to send troops into the Silithus Great Desert in three months, please raise your hands!"
Jarod and Sylvanas raised their hands at the same time, as did the Dwarves. The Troll shakily raised his thin, withered arm. On the skin exposed beyond his robe, this mysterious Zandalari Troll bore densely inscribed runes.
Duke Leoric of Stormwind City raised his hand, making a point