Draenor should have been a name with no connection to Azeroth, but a gateway and a war more than twenty years ago had bound that name tightly to Azeroth.
The two worlds first encountered each other through war and plunder, but in the end, they embarked on a path of mutual adaptation and dependence. The Dark Portal was not dismantled. Instead, after the World War of Year 26, which lasted eight days, new changes came to the gateway that had once symbolized disaster and that apocalyptic land.
It began to flourish again... but not on a foundation of war. Or rather, its prosperity was warped, a sign of the beginning of another war, or perhaps a feast.
Fear had set out the tables and chairs, sorrow was weeping, destruction had donned its finery, and death sat high in the seat of honor. It brimmed with ambition. It was about to dance.
The feast of death was about to begin.
"Keep moving. This damned weather. It might rain here... rotten luck."
A dozen or so mounted knights chatted as they rode. Perhaps because the terrain had been completely devastated, the weather in the crimson Blasted Lands was highly changeable. A rumor in the army claimed that too many people had died in the war here more than twenty years ago, and their departed souls, unwilling to accept their deaths underground, kept weeping in sorrow. The rain was their tears.
But that was nonsense. Azeroth really did have undead, and everyone knew that the undead of those killed in battle had no such power to summon wind and rain.
The knights' clothing and armor were far from immaculate, but their riding posture alone showed that they were true battlefield veterans. The military insignia on their chests and shoulders proved it, too.
It