Velen was deep in meditation when Restalaan reluctantly approached him. He sat in the central courtyard of the Temple of Karabor, not on the comfortable benches that flanked the rectangular pool, but on the hard stone. The air was filled with the scent of the flowering bushes of the lush garden, and the water murmured softly as it circulated. Trees, their leaves moving in the wind, added their own quiet sounds. It was a tranquil scene, but Velen's attention was inward.

Long, long had the draenei and the Naaru trusted one another. The luminous beings who so seldom opted to take solid form had been first caretakers of the exiled eredar, then teachers, and then friends. They had traveled together and beheld many worlds. Each time the Naaru, particularly the one that called itself K’ure, had been instrumental in helping the draenei flee when the man'ari uncovered their hiding place. And each time, Kil’jaeden and the monstrous creatures who had once been eredar had come closer

to capturing them. Velen grieved every time he and his people had to depart a world to save themselves, knowing that any beings they left behind would be as changed as the eredar had been. Kil’jaeden, always eager for more to join the Legion he was creating for his dark master Sargeras, would overlook no possible recruit.

K’ure, as sorrowful as Velen, grieved with him. But it spoke in Velen's mind with the unalterable logic that Kil’jaeden, Archimonde, and Sargeras would have destroyed another world in the same amount of time. All worlds, all beings, all races were horrifically equal in Sargeras's eyes. They all needed to be obliterated in a ghastly festival of carnage and fire, Velen's death at the hands of beings who had once been his dearest friends would save none of the luckless innocents, whereas his life possibly would one day.

"How?" Velen had raged once, "How is my life more important, worthier, than theirs?"

The gathering is slow, K’ure had admitted. But it continues. There are other Naaru like me, who are reaching out to the younger races. When they are ready, they will all be brought together. Sargeras will eventually fall beneath the will of those who yet believe in what is good and true and harmonious, what is the timeless balance of this universe.

Velen had no choice but to cither believe this being who had become his friend, or turn his back on those who had trusted him and be twisted into man'ari. He chose to believe. Now, though, he was confused. The ores had begun attacking lone hunting parties. There seemed to be no reason for the aggression; none of the shaken guards to whom Velen had spoken reported anything out of the ordinary. And yet, three hunting parties had been killed down to the last draenei. Restalaan, who had investigated the slaughter, had reported that the bodies were not simply killed ... they were butchered.

So Velen had come to the temple, created in the earliest years of the draenei on this world. Here, surrounded by four of the seven ata'mal crystals that had sprung into being so very long ago, he could hear the faint voice of his friend in his mind, but as yet, K’ure had no answers for him.

There would be no flight for them this time if things went wrong. K’ure was dying, trapped in the very vessel that it had provided when it had crashed into this world two hundred years past.

"Great Prophet," said Restalaan, his voice soft and weary-sounding. "There has been another attack."

Slowly, Velen opened his ancient eyes and regarded his friend sorrowfully. "I know," he said. "I felt it."

Restalaan ran a thick-fingered hand through his black hair. "What do We do? Each attack seems more violent than the last. Examination of the injuries done to the bodies seems to indicate that they are improving their weapons."

Velen sighed deeply and shook his head. The white braids swung gently with the movement. "I cannot

hear K’ure," he said quietly. "At least, not as well as I used to. I fear its time is not much longer."

Restalaan lowered his gaze, pain evident on his face. The Naaru had effectively sacrificed itself for them; all the draenei knew and understood this. Strange and mysterious as the being was, the draenei had grown to care for it. It had been trapped and slowly dying for two centuries. Somehow, Velen had thought it would take longer than that for the being to die ... if it did die, as he understood such things.

He rose with purpose, his light tan robes fluttering behind him. "It yet has wisdom to impart to me, but I have not the skill to hear it anymore. I must go to it. Perhaps proximity will help it communicate better."

"You—you mean to go to the ship?" Restalaan asked.

Velen nodded. "I must."

"Great Prophet ... I do not mean to question your wisdom, but—"

"But you do anyway," Velen said, laughing, his startling blue eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine good humor. "Continue, my old friend. Your questioning always has value to me."

Restalaan sighed. "The ores have adopted the vessel as their sacred mountain," he said.

"I know this," Velen replied.

"Then why antagonize them by venturing there?" Restalaan asked. "They would surely see this as an act of aggression at any time, particularly now. You would be giving them a reason to continue their attacks against us."

Velen nodded. "I have thought of this. Thought long and hard on it. But perhaps it is time to reveal who we are, and what their sacred mountain is. They believe their ancestors dwell there; and they may very well be right. If K’ure does not have much longer, should we not utilize its wisdom and its powers while we can? If anyone or anything can broker peace between the ores and ourselves, this being, greater far than any of us, has that ability. This may be our only hope. K’ure spoke of finding other races, other beings, to join in its quest for balance and harmony. To stand against Sargeras and this vast, unholy force he has created."

Velen placed a white hand on his friend's armor-plated shoulder. "One thing for certain has been revealed to me in my meditations. And that is that things can no longer continue as they used to. orc and draenei can no longer live in distant familiarity with one another. There's no returning to that, my old friend. There is cither war or peace. They will cither become our allies or our enemies. And I would never forgive myself if I did not explore every avenue to peace I could. Do you understand now?"

Restalaan searched Velen's face unhappily, then nodded. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. But I like it not. At least let me send you with an armored guard, for I know they will attack before they will listen."

Velen shook his head. "No. No weapons. Nothing to

provoke them. In their hearts, they are honorable beings. I was able to glimpse the souls of the two young orcs who stayed with us a few years ago. There is nothing cowardly or evil in there, only caution and now, for some reason, fear. They attacked hunting parties, not civilians."

"Yes," Restalaan shot back. "Parties that were greatly outnumbered."

"We found blood that was not our own spilled at those sites," Velen reminded him. "They took the bodies back for ritual burning, but there was orcish blood enough on the soil. And with our knowledge, a handful of draenei can easily stand against many ores. No. I will risk all on this. They will not slay me where I stand, if I state my intentions honorably and I come without the blatant ability to defend myself."

"I wish I had your confidence, my Prophet," said Restalaan resignedly, bowing deeply. "I will assemble a small escort party, then. And they will not be armed."

The Great One, Kil’jaeden, began to visit Ner’zhul with more frequency. First it was only in the dream state, as with the ancestors. He would come in the night while Ner’zhul slept deeply, his body heavy with the drug that opened his mind to Kil’jaeden's voice, and whisper his praise and congratulations and plans for further orc victory.