My name is Thrall

The word means "slave" in the human tongue, and the story behind the naming is a long one, best left for another time. By the grace of the spirits and the blood of heroes before me that runs in my veins, I have become Warchief of my people, the orcs,and the leader of a group of races known as the Horde. How this came to be, too, is another tale. The one I wish to set to parchment now, before those who lived it pass to dwell with the honorable ancestors, is the story of my father and those who believed in him; and of those who betrayed him and indeed, all our people.

What might have become of us had these events not unfolded, not even the wise shaman Drek'Thar can say. The paths of Fate are many and varied, and no sane being should ever venture down the deceptively pleasant one of "if only " What happened, happened; my people must shoulder both the shame and the glories of our choices.

This is the tale not of the Horde as it exists today, a loose organization of orc, tauren, forsaken, troll, and blood elf, but of the rise of the very first Horde. Its birth, like that of any infant, was marked by blood and pain, and its harsh cries for life meant death to its enemies...

The power the stranger radiated swirled in glorious hues and vibrations, flowing like a cape behind him, encircling his mighty head with light like a crown. The voice was audible in both the cars and the mind, and raced along the blood like a sweet song long forgotten and now suddenly recalled.

What he offered was tempting, was exciting, and made the heart ache with yearning. But still, but still. . . there was something. . ..

When he had gone, the leaders of the eredar turned to one another and spoke softly, the words intended for their minds alone.

"It is little enough to ask, for what he offers us," said the first. He stretched, in the physical world and in the metaphysical one, sending forth echoes of his strength.

"Such power," murmured the second, lost in thought. He was the elegant one, the beautiful one, and his essence was glorious and radiant. 'And he speaks the truth. What he showed us will come to pass. No one can lie in such a telling."

The third was silent. What the second had said was true. The method by which this powerful being had demonstrated the truth of what he offered could not be falsified, they all knew that. Still, this entity, this . . . Sargeras . . . there was something about him that Velen misliked.

Velen's fellow leaders were also his friends. He was particularly close to Kil'jaeden, the most powerful and decisive of the three. Friends they had been down the years that had slipped by unnoticed by beings beyond the reach of time. That Kil'jaeden was inclined to accept the offer carried more weight with Velen than Archimonde's opinion, which, though usually sound, could occasionally be swayed by appeals to his vanity.

Velen thought again of the image shown to them by Sargeras. Worlds for them to conquer, and more importantly, to explore and investigate; for above all, the eredar were curious. For beings so powerful, knowledge was what meat and drink were to lesser beings, and Sargeras offered them a tantalizing glimpse into what could be theirs if they would only . . .

Only swear their loyalty to him.

Only pledge the same for their people.

"As usual, our Velen is the cautious one," said Archimonde. The words could have been a compliment; instead, they struck Velen as condescending. He knew what Archimonde wanted, and Velen knew the other viewed his hesitancy as nothing more than an obstacle to what he, Archimonde, craved at this moment. Velen smiled.

"Yes, I am the cautious one, and sometimes my caution has saved us as much as your decisiveness, Kil'jaeden,

and your instinctive impetuosity, Archimonde."

Both of them laughed, and for a moment Velen was warmed by their affection. Then they quieted, and he sensed that they, at least, had already made up their minds. Velen felt his heart sink as he watched them go, hoping that he would make the right decision.

The three of them had always worked well together, their diverse personalities serving to balance one another. The result was harmony and peace for their people. He knew that Kil'jaeden and Archimonde truly wanted what was best not only for themselves, but for those they led. He shared that sentiment, and always before, they had reached agreement on such things.

Velen frowned. Why did the confident, appealing Sargeras unsettle him so? The others were obviously inclined to accept the offer. Sargeras had told them that the eredar were exactly what he had been searching for. A strong, passionate, proud people, who would serve him and advance a cause that would bring all worlds, everywhere, together. He would enhance them, he said. He would change them, make them better, give them gifts that the universe had never before seen, for indeed, the universe had never before brought together the powers that Sargeras claimed and the uniqueness that was the eredar. And what Sargeras had told them would indeed come to pass.

And yet. and yet...

Velen went to the temple, where he had often gone before when troubled. Others were there this night, sitting in a circle around the single pillar in the room that bore the precious ata'mal crystal. The artifact was ancient, so ancient that none among the eredar could remember its origins, any more than they could remember their own. Legend had it that it was a gift bestowed upon them long ago. The crystal had enabled them to expand both their mental abilities and their knowledge of the universe's mysteries. It had been used in the past for healing, for conjuration, and, as Velen hoped to use it tonight, for visions. Respectfully, he went forward and touched the triangular crystal. The warmth of it, like a small animal nestled in his hand, calmed him. He breathed deeply, letting the familiar power penetrate him, then dropped his hand and returned to the circle.

Velen closed his eyes. He opened every part of him that could receive, body and mind and magical intuition. At first, what he saw seemed only to confirm what Sargeras had promised. He saw himself standing with Archimonde and Kil’jaeden, lords not only of their own noble and proud people but of countless other worlds. Power shimmered around them, power that Velen knew would be as intoxicating as any liquor he might sip. Shining cities were theirs, along with the inhabitants of those cities, prostrating themselves before the three with cheers and cries of adoration and loyalty. Technology such as Velen had never dreamed of awaited his exploration. Tomes in strange tongues were translated for him, revealing magic hitherto unimagined and untold.

It was glorious, and his heart swelled.

He turned to look at Kil’jaeden, and his old friend smiled. Archimonde put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

Then Velen looked down at himself.

And cried out in horror.

His body was now gargantuan, but twisted and distorted. Smooth blue skin was now black and brown and gnarled, like some once-noble tree disfigured by disease. Light radiated from him, true, but not the pure light of powerful, positive energy, but a sickly green. Frantically he turned to behold his friends, his fellow leaders of the eredar. They, too, had been transformed. They, too, retained nothing of what they had been but were now—

Man'ari.

The eredar word for something horrifically wrong, something twisted and unnatural and defiled slammed into his mind with the force of a shining sword. He cried out again and his knees buckled. Velen pulled his gaze away from his tormented body, searching for the peace and prosperity and knowledge Sargeras had promised him. He beheld only atrocities. Where before him had been an adoring crowd, now he saw only mutilated corpses or bodies that, like his. like Kil’jaeden's, like Archimonde's, had been transformed into monsters. Among the dead and the distorted capered beings that Velen had never before seen. Strange dogs with tentacles sprouting from their backs. Tiny, twisted figures that danced and capered and laughed at the carnage. Deceptively beautiful creatures, their wings outstretched behind them, who surveyed what had been wrought with delight and pride. Where their cloven hooves fell, the earth died. Not just the grass, but the soil itself; all that gave life was obliterated, sucked dry.