Fall of Theramore: Your Character's Reaction

Wyrmrest Accord
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Fudgesticles. Wrong character.
Curse you, Jerome, and all your autopickingme ness.
The humid swamp air flowed through his plated pauldrons straight through to his greaves. Adorning the armor of some sort of Zul'Aman warrior, he sat overlooking the crater of Theramore, and the wreckage around it. Corpses of both factions strewn across the battlefield, floating in water and impaled by the docks.
Varedonis and his Armored Purple Gryphon, Nifty, watched the crying soldiers and civilian survivors. Women and children... the ruins of Theramore had brought them from distant lands.

And yet, under his mask, he did not feel empathy for these people. Nor sympathy.
He would watch them with a blank expression, some scowling at his mask and others pleading for him to save them. Glancing across the crater, to the laughing orcs and trolls. Goblins cheering and rubbing their hands together, looking for salvageable profit.

A man, dressed in simple clothes and devoid of weapons, approached this silent and vigilant warrior. "Don't you see what your kind has wrought? What the Alliance has done to this once great city!? Your war is tearing this world apart!" he shakily remarked, a tear streaming down his face much like water running down a hill of rocks. Varedonis did not answer, but he continued to stare. The man, feeling confident, continued to ramble. "No, man, I know who you are. You're that creep... you, yeah, you fly around and you just watch people. You don't even say anything... what good are you if you cannot even protect the ones you seek out to protect?" Varedonis, being a giant of an elf, clumbered to his feet, towering over the small cowering human. "You are insolent to judge me, before you ask who I am. Do you feel your heart beating against your chest? Because, mine is so cold, that it sends shivers through the very marrow of my skeleton every time my blood circulates. I have lived presumably over ten times the amount of your natural life span, and I have seen the birth and death of many humans. In your blinding ignorance and arrogance you fail to see past the boundaries of your own self-esteem. You are all alike, your race, in telling people what they are and what they are not, and how superior you are to them." His voice was velvety and raspy... perhaps intimidating after taking in account his size. "This isn't about you, elf! It's about Theramore, and the people who have actually lost someone! What about them, huh?" Varedonis turned his head slowly to his gryphon, who had a heart-shaped locket around its neck. He took the locket, and flipped it open. On one side was a wooden shape, with carvings etched in to the surface, and on the other was a name. He closed it and continued to grasp it in his hand. "In proving your point you have proven mine. I do not need to emphasize on how your arrogance will dig your grave for you. Human, I have lost someone. And I traveled around the world to find her. I flew to Dalaran, I scoured Crystalsong Forest, and Ashenvale, Mount Hyjal... and, she sent me a note, telling me to come here once I had the time." He lifted his eyes from the locket, and resumed glaring at the man. "And when I found the time to come here, it was in ruins. I have made mistakes in the past, but I draw sorrow and hatred from my heart and empower the blade, so I may thrust it in to my enemies. But for such a simple man, you cannot fathom the idea of just... letting go. Forget. Live and let die."

And so you continue to grieve. Anger fills your veins until you explode with angst and misery... to the victim who is dwelling in his own. The man raises an eyebrow, not keen on saying any more anger-filled words. "You're... right. I'm sorry for that, but... you know." He looks down at the burnt soil.
"You can apologize to me, by taking your anger out on them." Varedonis pulls a serrated dagger out of a sheath on his belt, handing it to the unarmed man as he grins, accepting it willingly.They both glance towards the orc congregation nearby.
And they charge headlong in to battle, together.

Upon slaughtering the orc gathering, Varedonis kneels atop a nearby corpse, overlooking the crater once more. The man, coated in wounds and blood, falls on the ground next to him. "You're a good man... I like you..." He smiles, and Varedonis peers down at him with the blankest of expressions. "Today is not a day about mourning. It is a day about sacrifice. This is not a time of peace.

It is a time for war."
Hip hip hooray.
A smartly-dressed goblin cringes as pieces of parchment fly out of the room, just grazing his ridiculously ornamented ears.

"My opinion on what? Look, I'm a very busy Orc. I simply don't have time to provide the Horde News Network with gossip today. I have a lot of work to do so unless you're a logistics expert or an alchemical genius, get lost. Damn that imp! Where have you hidden the blood ink this time...."
In a harsh, metallic, echoing voiced edged with hatred:

"What difference does it make how our enemies died? You who have not seen the horrors beyond death are in no position to judge, nor condemn. And yet, I remember a warrior who once threw his best forces into battle casually, some might say suicidally. It would be wise to remember his ultimate fate."
In a cryptic, low muttering tone, barely discernable Orcish mixed with an unknown tongue:

"Laugh, Orgrimmar. Laugh and dance and celebrate, and know Others delight in your actions.
Fools. You only feed that which you sought to destroy.
Wgah'n, sghn'wahl,hupadhu-hrii, ph'nglui mglw'nafh . . .

This is followed by the sound of a blade removed from its sheath, and some liquid dripping to the floor.
Jerome, the enigmatic Tuxedo Knight, perhaps the last of his kind and the first, did not express any emotion towards the cataclysmic destruction besides... a misbegotten sense of joy.
Dancing around the edges of the crater, he yelled, "Death! So much death... not enough Death! Behead the traitors! Repel the invaders! Sentence EVERYONE to DEATH! Ahaha! HAHAHA!"
An orc charged up to him, and Jerome was enveloped in red mist. The orc backed away, and the mist dispersed. But what remained did not cause the orc to so foolishly charge in again. A Saronite-armored Death Knight had risen from the smoke, and with one clean swing, beheaded his enemy, the axe slowly drawing from the power of the defeated opponents soul. Honorless, but in Death, the Tuxedo Knight did not fear being mocked.
As a human soldier walked up to Jerome, he instantly was enveloped in green mist, and emerged back in his impeccably clean tuxedo. "Sir, we need you to calm down," The soldier would state, not so startled from the instant swapping of armor.
"CALM DOWN? Do you think the HORDE are calm? The MOURNING ALLIANCE? JAINA? What of HER? No, you are all toys in the plans of an even BIGGER picture! Ahaha! You will eat yourselves away until you are full and bleeding, and then you will be TAKEN BY THE FORCE YOU CANNOT CONTROL! Do you HEAR me? You cannot EXPECT the UNEXPECTED... for the unexpected has expected you to expect the unexpected, so he plans for you to expect what was expected and END IN UNEXPECTION!"
"S-sir... Unexpection is not a plausible word."
Jerome grabbed the soldier around the throat, and lifted him off the ground with unholy strength, green mists swirling around his body. "Gaze upon me, what do you see?"
The knight had attempted to shake his head, but ended up gargling.
"You see a suit, a tabard, and a cane... a monocle, but UNDERNEATH the costume I am merely a MAN. A broken cadaver, at that. Under the costumes... you are all merely men who are trained to carry armor that will not help you in the heat of battle against MAGIC, or TRAINED COMBATANTS. It is a shield, that you cannot see past... a bandana made out of plate... and then when you finally realize you are weak on the inside you have long before given up hope on ever becoming a worthy soldier. And then you JUMP off the Valley of Heroes, where I wait at the bottom..."
The Tuxedo Knight had calmed down by this moment, and his voice sank back down to a less crazed, more civilized. "And... I pick you up... because some things are worth fighting for." The soldier was on the brink of unconsciousness, so Jerome threw him to the ground, with one hand at his throat and one hand at his chest.
"Know... that you can grieve for today... but there are people dying. By the way, what do you mean 'we' need me to calm down?"
Several armored Stormwind soldiers marched up to Jerome, and took hold of his arm.
One of them mutters, "You disgust me... you crazy son of a (beep)..."
And another mutters, "You are a disgrace to the Alliance."
One was wearing golden armor, and Jerome peered in to his helm-less face. "You're not a disgrace to us, son, you're a worthy ally." And all of them cheered... except for the unconscious one.
"Ha... haha, yeah." Jerome nervously raised his hand in fake-excitement.
"Now get out there, and go fetch me some Orc corpses," the captain exclaimed.

"Can do, sir."
Red mist envelops his body as he summoned his charger. The undead horse cried as its feet are encased in ice, emanating a cold aura, allowing the Charger to walk on water.
As he galloped out in to the ocean, he muttered quietly to himself.
"Today will be a long day full of crying and terror, hell, it already is. For them."
He chuckles hollowly as he points his horse towards Durotar. The Tuxedo Knight is out for blood.

Raynell had often seen the Knights of the Ebon Blade doing so on her patrols, always thinking it a waste of time and a terribly depressing way to spend it. In the span of two days, though, she suddenly realized the practicality of it, even the slight benefit. She was too weakened to do something cathartic, as the sheer violence of the siege, coupled with the suddenness of the bombing, took its toll on her, and now all she could do was rest here in the so-called 'comfort' of Orgrimmar's barracks. She was lucky to even be alive, and yet she could only take solace in that fact through brooding, lamenting all that had been lost in the wake of Theramore.

The bombing was a success. My part in it...a sham.

The thought stung. In all her pride as a soldier of the Horde and her service to the Blood Knights, the one moment of glory she took from the Horde's offensive was merely a ploy to maximize the Alliance's military losses. Northwatch Hold, the siege of Theramore...nothing more than an over-dramatized taunting of the Alliance, who fell all too easily for it. Perhaps the Horde was truly primed for victory. The strategy itself was brilliant, even if it left a distasteful mark upon the honor of those who fought on the ground.

No, it wasn't the destruction that upset her, that made her question her oath to the Horde.

It was the Horde itself, and those who served.


Whispering the name brought a lump to Raynell's throat. She was the finest of Liadrin's recruits, a personal student to the Matriarch, and perhaps even heir to the title of Matriarch herself. The orcs passed it off as an "accident", an unfortunate fire that took the lives of both the Forsaken commander, Frandis Farley, and Lady Kelantir Bloodblade.

Raynell knew better. From the time she spent walking among the people of Orgrimmar, seeing the hateful, judging eyes of some of its guardians, especially the Kor'Kron. It was no accident. It was murder. An affront to all that she stood for. There was no honor to be found in her death, and the worst part was that many knights were likely to take this loss without even raising a voice in protest. They were far too invested now in this war, and dissent was akin to weakness, and as the vaunted Warchief said, only the strongest may dwell in Orgrimmar...

She balled her hands into fists, hissing bitterly as tears welled in her eyes. Her knighthood, and all she believed in, had been shamed. The Lady Bloodblade passed off as a traitor, dying at the hands of cowards. She looked to her side, seeing her shield resting on the wall nearby, and picked it up. She was tempted to chuck it in rage, but she paused as her fel green eyes looked over the plated board, the symbol of her order emblazoned proudly upon the front, though scratched and worn through the years of use. She flipped it over, looking at the etchings on the back, the many memories she engraved. Her thoughts fell upon the day she received it, the words spoken to her as she took her first steps towards knighthood...

"Lady Diliandra, is this...for me?"

The young adept looks to her mentor, who nods.

"Yes, Adept Raynell. This is your shield now. You will carry this burden, and the burden of defending your people and your allies, until you draw your last breath. Remember this as well, Raynell, for this shield may shatter, and your blade may break, but so long as you trust in your courage and fight for justice, you will be -unbreakable-."

The adept seems awestruck. "U-Unbreakable!?"

The mentor smiles widely and nods. "Unbreakable. For even in our people's darkest hour, we could not be broken. You know what that was like, Adept, how our people spiraled into despair. You, however, will lead us towards a new dawn, along with every knight entrusted with defending our people. Let vengeance be your sword! And courage your shield! Remember this, for when your own darkest hour comes, you may find the courage to face it, and find the strength to act justly..."

Raynell rose slowly to her feet, gritting her teeth as she fights through the aches still present in her wounds. Carefully, she slips her shield over her right arm, then seeks out her nearby blade with her left, lifting it and holding it up, arm trembling a bit unsteadily as she trods her way towards one of the training dummies. She takes a mighty swing at it...and misses, wincing as she fights through the agony trying to stop her in her tracks, narrowing her eyes. She swings again, this time shouting out wordlessly.


She makes contact, causing the dummy to wobble. She takes a few deep breaths, then again... thwack...once more... thwack...and through it her mind wanders again...

Vengeance...be my sword.


Courage...be my shield.


Vengeance...for Kelantir!

Blood...for Bloodblade!
For the first time Myr felt broken, defeated. She wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The glimmering cascades of blue lightning seemed to echo grief in her heart as its low rumbling thunder did little to curb the knowledge that she had helped in this cowardly act. Yes it was done without her knowledge but the memory of being told that the defeat was merely a faint fell into the pit of her stomach. Now she saw the fruits of her labor.

And was horrified.

Falling to her knees she screamed. It was the first scream she ever released in years and was not a battle cry but a rattling shriek of anguish. It's echo rebounded into the swamps, heard by many. Some were the perpetrators themselves, boasting about their hollow victory. All eyes turned to the quiet Sin'dorie as tears began to cascade down her face. Their cries of victory suddenly turned to murmurs of guilt as she breathed, "this....is what you think is honorable?"

Dragging herself to her feet, Myr drew her axe and with a roar of rage and pain slammed it into the ground, impaling the weapon into the black dirt. Leaving her weapon she turned her gaze to the entourage and seethed, "Your Warchief has sullied my honor and disgraced us all. I will never return to Orgrimmar."

As she turned to leave Myr found herself doubting her path once again. Was it fate that brought this disgrace? Something called her away. Something was beckoning her to run and leave her dishonor behind. With a last look she gave the crowd a cold stare and muttered, "No...I will return one day...to kill him."

With that she summoned her most trusted friend, a winged horse named Zeus, and flew off into the south. She would not return again for many months.
He sat in undisturbed silence, the only illumination being a well worn candle and a dim flame. Inkwell set and quill in hand, he sat back in the creaky wooden chair to organize the millions of thoughts that raced through his mind, to somehow be able to put ink to parchment...

...and then it came.

I do not propose to say many words tonight. The time has come when action rather than speech is required. Not more than one month ago, in this House, I prayed and hoped that the responsibility might not fall upon me to ask this host to accept the awful arbitrament of war. I fear now that I may not be able to avoid that responsibility.

I cannot wish for conditions in which such a burden should fall upon me in which I should feel clearer than I do today as to where my duty lies. Not one of us can say that the powers that be could have done more to try to keep open the way for an honorable and equitable settlement of the dispute between the Alliance and the Horde. With the loss of Theramore, knowing that the responsibility for this terrible catastrophe lies on the shoulders of one being, Garrosh Hellscream, who has not hesitated to plunge the world into misery in order to serve his own senseless ambitions, that we now answer.

And the Horde will hear our answer in the thunder. Let the tyrant fear.

The Alliance has suffered a terrible blow. Kalimdor has suffered a terrible blow. I am not reciting these facts for the purpose of recrimination. That I judge to be utterly futile and even harmful. We cannot afford it. I put all this aside. I put it on the shelf, from which the historians, when they have time, will select their documents to tell their stories. Let each man search his conscience and search his speeches. I frequently search mine.

Of this I am quite sure, that if we open a quarrel between the past and the present, we shall find that we have lost the future. Therefore, I cannot accept the drawing of any distinctions between members of this Alliance of which we all are part of. Its members are going to stand together, and, subject to the authority of our Allied Leaders, we are going to fight this war. I am come amongst you at this time, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of battles to come and blood to be shed, to live or die amongst you all; to lay down, for my children, my Angel, for the Alliance of which I serve, for the people indivisible, my honor and my blood.

Let this word go forth, that we will never surrender. You ask now, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that endurance can give us; to wage war against a monstrous enemy, whose atrocities now more than ever, must be stopped. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.

The balance of the world has shifted, it is up to us to right it again. May the lightning of your glory be seen and the thunders of your onset heard from east to west! NEVER SURRENDER!
" Theramore.

Bastion of the Alliance right smack in the middle of Kalimdor. From the north, the elves and draenei held back the forces of the Horde. From barely south of Durotar, the Alliance of the Eastern Kingdoms sent batch upon batch of reinforcements to solidify their position. Jaina Proudmoore wanted peace; however, that did not hold true for everyone who went through that port. Garrosh knew this; Thrall most likely did and let it go in favor of good faith.

Any fool could've seen this coming.

Still, the use of a mana bomb..I suppose that took some of us by surprise. We knew Garrosh was on to bigger things when he deployed that weapon in Stonetalon. He was far more willing than Thrall to abuse the explosive technology that the goblins possess. Such power is not without a price, of course. The residual effects of the mana bomb will render it inhospitable for decades, even centuries to come.... even if we retook it, it would be useless to us. The visual effects, of course, are just as hideous. Theramore is no longer a city, but a wasteland. Corpses, many heavily inundated with arcane magic, strewn all over... most likely a terrible sight to behold.

Which is most likely the point. Garrosh wanted not only to decimate the port. He wanted to make an example of it; no, not just that. He wanted to inspire exactly what is happening to us - to the Alliance. Anger. Despair. Confusion. Division. Our people are changing. There are those who still cling to peace, and many more who give in to their hatred, who will fight exactly like the Horde - in vengeance, in rushed, reckless rage. And they will fall, because the Horde are the barbarians. They are the ones experienced in suicidal rushes and madness-driven killing sprees.

No, if we must take our vengeance, we will take it slowly. We will play on their arrogance and brash tactics. Already there's word of dissent among them; we must find and spread it. We must split the Horde much like the Horde split us. We will lure them into ambushes, take out their heads, and have them fold among themselves. They don't play fair, and neither should we. We should turn their armies into rabbles, and massacre them. And after that... we can forever eliminate the threat of the Horde from our world.

Or at least, that's what we will do if our leaders have any sense of rationality left. Tempers are high, and the losses of Rhonin and Marcus, among others, would probably be driving their passions into frenzies. Hopefully, this king of ours still has a thinking mind.

What? Take the souls of the fallen? Tsk tsk. You misjudge me, Khaaghon. Or you simply underestimate my calculations. The arcane nature of the blast would make this nigh impossible. Besides, what use would I have for them? When in the coming days, I'm quite sure that I can make enough soulstones for you to chase to the ends of Azeroth.

...Well, you don't really care, do you? You're just a felhunter. "
"Theramore? Oh, human town. One less place to stop and rest while hunting the Legion. "

*He fixes his blindfold and shakes his head slightly at the ally giving him the news*

"Mortal affairs are not my affairs, but this will stir up the horde and alliance in fighting again. One must be wary once more when traveling through horde territories to get to the true prey. Wish they would make peace, then the demons would die faster."
Cole "Grimslice" Morgan sat with his feet propped on on his desk in his Old Town apartment, reading Sable Sun Company reports when there was a furious knocking at his door.

Wondering what all the fuss was about, Morgan got up out of his chair and checked to see who was outside his door. Looking through the peephole, he saw one of his friends and information contacts, a dwarf named Hadroc, standing outside, looking very disheveled and exhausted.

Morgan quickly unlocked the door and opened it. "Hadroc, what in the hell happened to you mate?"

Hadroc gave a sigh, placing his rifle by the door. "Ferget 'bout me. I've got bad news, Grim."

The dwarf looked visibly pained at this point. "Grim, Theramore's been attacked."

Morgan's thoughts began racing. He had many friends and fellow Sable Sun members who lived in the city. Morgan scratched at his goatee in thought. "Hadroc, tell me everything. Now."

As Morgan paced about the room, the dwarf relayed everything that happened with haste. The evacuation, the explosion, everything.

After he was finished, Morgan sat down hard in his chair, putting his face in his hands.
"I knew the Horde was capable of much, but this is a new level, even for Hellscream. Have you heard any word about the Sable Sun members who lived there?"

Hadroc shook his head. "Nae word yet, but if there was an evacuation..."

Morgan frowned slightly and nodded. "Let's just hope the Shadows guided them well."

He grimaced as he stood up and walked towards the door, grabbing his belt off the wall and sliding his daggers into their sheathes.

Morgan looked down at Hadroc, who had hefted his rifle on his shoulder.

Morgan nodded to the dwarf. "Looks like we're gonna have some work to do, mate. Let's get to it."
This is why she avoided towns, cities, any place with population. Even this far from Kalimdor, word had reached the outpost where Drove bought the supplies she and her companion could not create on their own. She said nothing when the merchants were talking animatedly about the bombing, nothing as they argued over who was to blame, if it was justified, just how bad it was. She simply paid for her goods and slipped away to the stag waiting for her.

She climbed onto the druid's back and let him take her from the people at the outpost. Not a word was spoken until they reached their campsite. The little elf was deep in thought, trying to decide on her next move. If her commander was here, he would know exactly what to do, she had utter faith in him. But he was not. There was only the two of them, a single druid and elf, retreating from the war to recover from it's effects.

"The war has become heated." To put it mildly. But she knew her companion would understand her tendancy to understate the situation. Her voice was flat and numb, the way it always was when talking about the war. No emotional tone was evoked by the news, it was simply another monstrocity in years of conflict to add to the memories that she kept a firm lock on. Her reason for fighting was long dead, killed in a war that never seemed to end, and with him went any openness or empathy for the plight of others. The news of the bomb touched her awareness and left only a dull, tired realization that duty would be calling her soon.

To be honest, she couldn't tell just how bad it was. The tales at the outpost had ranged from an explosion that took out the land all the way to Durotar, to it being a single brave rogue who ran in and killed the military leader in her tower with a hand thrown bomb. Regardless of the truth in the matter, the one thing Drove knew was that the war was escalating.

And that meant her commander would be looking for her.

She rubbed her eyes wearily, then reached into her bag and pulled out an apple. A tap to the druid's shoulder let him know to turn his head back so she could offer it to him. It was a lame sort of peace offering to soften the blow of her next words.

"We will be leaving in two days."
" Pop goes a weasel~ " Voragos said the line in a sing-song manner as he blasted the head clean off one of the guards. "Now where is that beaver? " Or reaver. Liver. He couldn't be damned what his name was. All he knew was he had been paid to help cover the escape of a sin'dorei spy from Theramore.. pity, that soldier looked like she had a pretty face, and now it was splattered all over the masonry.

" FALL BACK!" ' Fall back'? That was a strange order from any orc battalion, though perhaps they weren't as much idiots as he thought they were. That was probably the worst part of this mission: the orcs. It wasn't easy resisting the urge to just take them out in the chaos, but even he knew it would be pretty obvious. He made a mental shrug and recovered from his position, taking a glance at the boats. Stuffed with orcs... no, there's the coastline. I can make good speed on it and don't have to stand the smell of those things.

It was a good distance to Mudsprocket when he turned to look back at the city. A Horde zepellin..? Above the city? " So they're planning to bomb it, eh...? Heh, they're not so stupid after all- " He took a moment to cover his eyes when that thing dropped -

And fell back, overwhelmed by the force. Not of the blast, no; it made a good wind, but at his distance it wouldn't push an elf of his size. No... more than that, he felt it. Clear as day, this surge of energy could only mean one thing.. such concentration of arcane energy.. a mana bomb. Even through his fingers he could see its brilliance, only slightly dimmed; he could feel it ripple like a tidal wave from the Sunwell itself, and for one moment he realized why the magi were so addicted to its power, to its very taste. And the next, it was all gone. Dissipated.. vanished.

He lifted his fingers to see the handiwork of this device; there it was, the remnants of arcane like a purple maelstrom, its flickering power tearing across the air of Theramore or possibly the crater that it likely was. He walked a little closer, and suddenly he could feel it again, softly - the hum of its energy drifting in the air like a mist. The smirk was long gone from his face, replaced by a semblance of awe. " ...beautiful. Simply.. beautiful. "

The grin, however, returned quickly as he gathered his thoughts. Garrosh could never have built this bomb with his orcish technicians, and not even the goblins knew how to construct something that twisted the arcane so. No; this was the handiwork of his people. Whether under Garrosh's instructions or not, it was a testament to what they could do. That fool of an orc might still think to spit on his city, but now he relied on their technology to win his wars. And someday perhaps his people would think to use that same technology for themselves...maybe even on Orgrimmar. And once again Voragos would be there to bear witness to the brilliant, majestic and terrible destruction. From the ashes, perhaps, Lor'themar would be able to build something.. or else whoever deposed him. Perhaps Silvermoon would rise again. With that thought, his grin became laughter.

He shook himself out of his own grandiose thoughts, and began to make his way toward Mudsprocket again. " Something tells me whatever happens, it's gonna be fun. "
(( I would just like to point something out, since i've notices a trend in several of these stories, Garrosh waited Several days between the sacking of Northwatch and the assault on Theramore.
The Horde gave them ample time to both evacuate their citizenry and build up a sizable force, which in the book Tides of War they do both.

So for those of you saying you found children in the wreckage, that is highly unlikely if not impossible because of the lore in the book. Now blizzard probably could have done a better job of telling this to the wow populace in general and not just those who read the book or looked it up, but still it is lore that Civilians were evacuated long before the bomb dropped.
(( I would just like to point something out, since i've notices a trend in several of these stories, Garrosh waited Several days between the sacking of Northwatch and the assault on Theramore.
The Horde gave them ample time to both evacuate their citizenry and build up a sizable force, which in the book Tides of War they do both.

So for those of you saying you found children in the wreckage, that is highly unlikely if not impossible because of the lore in the book. Now blizzard probably could have done a better job of telling this to the wow populace in general and not just those who read the book or looked it up, but still it is lore that Civilians were evacuated long before the bomb dropped.

(( And you're also forgetting that as individuals, a lot of people are bloody obstinate and donkey-like, especially when it comes to defending their homes. And evacuations are normally, but not always, bloody chaotic. Children could have been accidentally left behind, as well as elderly or people that hid once the Horde started showing their angry faces at the walls. SO on general, it's a Your Mileage May Vary, although I do agree that the majority of civilians could have been evacuated.

Edit: less generalizations, and also a bit on how the majority of the populace could have been evac'd.))
Malredis folded his arms, his tattered crimson robes flowing around him. His hood had been burned, and his Horde tabard had a large tear diagonally across it. His right arm had a nasty cut, but nothing that wouldn’t heal. All in all, he was in reasonable shape when he decided to teleport from the main battle in order to watch the show. Looking at the sky, he saw the Horde airship gracefully fly above the city - before dropping its payload.

A few seconds before it hit, Malredis summoned a small portal to the Scryer’s Tier of Shattrath and stepped through; knowing he was still within the bomb’s radius. As the scenery of the Scryer’s Tier came into view, he suddenly felt as if he was hit by a brick wall. Falling down and gasping for breath, he shaked as his very mind was wracked with the silent screams of thousands. He fell over, drifting into unconsciousness. The last image he saw was the vision of a destroyed Theramore through the condensing portal, as two elves clad in purple ran towards him.

He dreamt of destruction. The image of the mana bomb dropping replayed though his head hundreds of times, the faces of those who instantly died bombarding his thoughts. For once in quite a few years, Malredis was genuinely afraid. Such destructive power, while under the control of his people, was… unnatural. He didn’t know what to think.

Upon waking, he shifted towards a mirror in the room where he was staying. Looking back at him was an even more abnormally pale elf, with hair whiter than snow. Frowning at his new appearance, he lifted his hands to make sure it was actually him. When the man in the mirror copied his movements, he snarled and turned abruptly.

“Now, all shall realize that the Sin’dorei reign supreme… And no one will dare to challenge us again.”
Just out of reach, far enough away to have felt the tremors and impact, and close enough to hear the silence.

The sun blurred a bright foggy light through the swamps trees, it outlined the shape of a small elven figure, sitting atop a bone, green armored horse.

The quiet was unnatural, no birds, no grunts of the crocodiles, nothing. Not even a frog. It wasn't grim, it did not scream of death, it was simply nothing. For what seemed like hours, and was simply a few minutes, the priest watched. There was just, nothing.

Slowly, smoke curled up into the air from afar, and an odd shout broke the surreal silence. Green eyes searched the nothingness ahead, not a creature in the soggy land stirred. She knew that what had been done, was the Horde's doing. She had heard tale of a great assault. Yet, there was a pit in her stomach, and the lump in her throat ached.

She knew why it had been done, but she still did not understand.

Her unease simply grew in the eerie stillness. Finally, a soft tongue click broke the quiet, and her bell like voice rose just above a whisper. "Home, Bartleby." The undead mount offered a hiss of an acknowledgement, and turned on massive hooves, his green mantle fluttering with the movement.
"Ancestors, forgive us for this madness. There was never any Honor in what we wrought today." The scarred, one-eyed Orc whispered as he stared into the ruined crater that had once been one of the last bastions of tolerance on Kalimdor.

Pale purple smoke from what few scraps of Theramore's once-mighty walls and stout buildings mingled with more natural grey and black smoke from burning corpses and siege-weapons, and in the sky, strange things flickered and writhed before mercifully fading away. Occasional shouts and the tell-tale ring of steel on steel as looters from the Horde clashed with Alliance scouts and pilgrims sounded distantly.

"A Blood Oath is not something to be taken lightly. It is why our Oath to the Horde must always be foremost in our minds, for we have pledged our lives to our people, and their causes." His mind flew back to those gentler days, before Garrosh had come to Azeroth and everything had started to unravel, when he had taken his nephew and niece down to the Southfury River to fish on one of his rare rotations away from the frontlines. "Lok'tar ogar! Victory or death - it is these words that bind me to the Horde. For they are the most sacred and fundamental of truths to any warrior of the Horde.

I give my flesh and blood freely to the Warchief. I am the instrument of my Warchief's desire. I am a weapon of my Warchief's command.

From this moment until the end of days I live and die - For the Horde!"

"But Uncle! What happens if you think the Warchief is making a mistake?" Skorr had asked, always questioning, always curious, that boy. "What if the Warchief ~!" He yelped as you gently cuffed him across the back of the head and laughed, while Goru'kan, your niece and novice Shaman, sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Hah! Thrall may be strange at times, but he is wise, and listens to the Spirits. He is guided by both the wisdom of his advisors and the Ancestors themselves." You had chuckled, you and Goru'kan both, as gangly, ever-curious Skorr tried to keep his perch on the slippery rocks, flailing both arms and fishing pole for balance. "No, Skorr, so long as the Warchief is an honorable male ... or female, for that matter, our people will never make a mistake so great you will regret taking the Blood Oath."

But he had made a mistake. A terrible one. Garrosh drove the Horde to pointless conflicts, where trade or diplomacy or sound Military Strategy might have saved lives.
An offer of Orcish axes and strong arms to wield them to aid the Night Elves to help drive the Satyr out of Felwood might have earned the Horde logging rights to Ashenvale.
A truce between Horde and Alliance would have allowed the air and naval fleets of both forces to have advanced through the Twilight Highlands without the Twilight Hammer being able to do more than offer a token resistance.
So many things that could have been done that would have made the Horde stronger, more secure and entrenched, but all of them would have required a touch of humility in the heart of the Warchief.

And Garrosh had shed his humility along with his restraint that day in Nagrand. How you had cheered, along with all the other proud members of the Horde, when the morose, resigned Mag'har in Garadar has learned of how Grom Hellscream had finally redeemed himself from helping to damn the Orcs to the Blood Pact with the Burning Legion. Had any of you realised, you wondered, just what sort of Orc was joining the Horde that day?

At the Orc's side, the ghostly shape of a Wolf sniffed the air and whined before the Orc's hand came down and stroked thick, scarred fingers through the Ghost Wolf's ruff.

"It is just not right, Baraka." Krenk whispered to the Spirit Beast, at once guilty and relieved to fell the cold tingle of the Spirit under his mortal hand. "This is not the Horde I swore my Blood Oath to. This is not the Horde I was so filled with pride to be part of. This is not the Horde I wanted Skorr and Goru' to be part of."

Krenk sighed, and lifted his one eye to the heaven, hoping for a sign, a glimpse of the great plan of the Spirits to guide his next steps. But there was only the smoke-stained, arcane-scarred sky.

"But this is the Horde, and my Blood Oath still stands." Krenk sighed and felt his heart clench in shame, regret, and yes, even fear. "These are Dark Days, Baraka. I can only hope the Ancestors can give us a sign, someday, on how we might leave them behind, and return to the True Path that Thrall lead us down."

With one final glance at Theramore's smoking ruins, the Orc and the Ghostwolf turned back into the swamp, to recover the herbs they had originally set out to find to turn into poultices for the injured Horde soldiers from this dreadful battle, warriors who, even now, believed that their Warchief had led them to glory.
Aganaer sat on his protodrake, his eyes surveying the rubble that was once a city. Even if his helm did not hide his face completely, it would still have been difficult to read. His face was calm, nothing but a crease of his forehead and curl of his lip betraying the emotion within.

From a tactical standpoint, he knew that the move was logical, possibly even necessary. The Alliance had been using Theramore as a staging point for military incursions to the Barrens and Durotar for weeks, and it was dangerous to have such a large Alliance base so near the Horde capitol. There was even time given for the civilian populace to evacuate before the city was reduced to a smoking crater.

But still...

Every moral fiber in his body was screaming at him that this was wrong, and he knew that they were right. No matter what possible justifications there could be, none of them overrode the sheer wrongness of what had been done. Not only was the city destroyed, the land itself was tainted. He'd only seen the effects of a mana bomb a couple of times in his life though none of this magnitude, and even the lesser bombs scarred the land in a way that it may never heal. He turned his head to the center of the crater, where even then purple lightning was crackling.

He looked around once more at the various people who came to see the devastation, both Alliance and Horde. The thought to reach for his sword didn't even occur to him. This was not the time.

He reached down to place a hand on the side of his drake's neck, and murmured softly. "Let's go home, Marogan." He wanted to be with his wife and son tonight.
Justin took out the parchment from the gnomish mailbox thing and unrolled it with a faint frown...the signature was familiar though the last time he'd received anything was his birthday some months ago - or maybe hers...

"Justin, I hope this message finds you well.

The Horde have come to Theramore. Preparations are being made to defend it, and those who can evacuate are being ordered to do so at swordpoint. I have one day to decide which I will do - as a healer I want to stay and help the defenders, but seeing so very many horde through the trees, so many campfires dotting the hills it would be foolish to stay.

The Horde are marching. They won't stop here. Be careful out in the wilds. I'll come see you in Stormwind when this blows over

As dark eyes made their way to the last words he could feel the blood draining from his face - it was the talk of the taproom of the inn he usually stayed while in Stormwind - Theramore, levelled. A small gathering of graves beside the road that had previously led to the great seaports' gates. Hastily carved markers, so the valiant dead would not be forgotten....

...he dashed off through the streets to find his mount and begin the long trip to Theramore, to see if one of the headstones bore a familiar name, or if there was yet some hope...

"I will find you, sister...one way or another - I swear it."

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