While the Elves of Quel'Thalas were busy holding their ceremony, the world did not come to a standstill, and events continued to unfold.

Within the burning ruins of Dalaran, a portal linked directly to the Twisting Nether burst into existence.

From within the depths of boundless chaos, the second highest ranked demon, Archimonde the Defiler emerged.

Standing at 12ft tall on hoofed feet, and possessing bluish skin, tentacles under his chin, and eyes bursting green with Fel energy, the demonic Draenei was an imposing figure.

His arrival onto the planet of Azeroth created a surging thunderclap as the energies of Fel gushed into the mortal plane.

Every magically attuned being-whether they be within Dalaran, or on the far off continent of Kalimdor-felt his presence.

Night Elves, Trolls, Tauren they all dropped to their knees and began praying to their respective deities. For they had known of this phenomenon long recorded in their histories.

For the Elves around the world who had lived through the Sundering, it was as if a nightmare had revisited itself upon this land.

Not all were desolate, however. Some refused to bow, and showed defiance.

Thrall, young Warchief of the Horde tasted the Fel magics in the air, and called the elements to him, fortifying the tribes around him from the sickly sweet temptation known to their fathers.

Jaina, archmage and heroine of the Alliance, from her recently established base of Theramore erected a shield, protecting her home from a roiling storm that threatened to drown out her new city.

The psychic screams of imprisoned Old Gods howled back at the Fel in defiance, their concerted efforts pressed upon Archimonde with one thought in mind:

SUBMIT

Archimonde chuckled, and flourished his grand cape around him like a ward, dispelling the crazed echoes of the mad gods.

Waving his hand with an incantation on his lips, Archimonde drew upon the power of the portal that had summoned him, and opened countless portals in the vicinity.

Hoofed demons began spilling out of these breaches in reality, hungering for blood.

Hundreds of Doomguards, hulking 8 to 13ft tall horned and winged demons red in skin, clad in armor and wielding giant halberds were the first to emerge. These monstrous beasts acted as Captains and Commanders for the forces following in their wake.

Following directly behind them were thousands of rank and file soldiers. Blue-grey (or sometimes orange) skinned demons known as the Felguard. Standing at 7-8ft tall, these warriors covered themselves entirely in armor, except for their exposed chest. Wielding a double headed axe that was almost as tall as they were, what these demons lacked in intelligence, they made up for in brute strength and ferocity.

These Felguards were supported by the remaining three most numerous Fel races:

The human-sized, purple skinned, winged and hoofed whip wielding succubi seduced men, and sucked them dry of both life energies, and their bodily fluids. Their targets were left as little more than bags of dry skin, eventually turning into dust on the wind.

Ranging in size from large dogs to baby elephants, Felhounds were quadruped demons possessing no eyes, and the quality to devour mana. They sniffed out their targets with two flowery looking fleshy stalks sticking out of their back. Gifted with mana sight, they growled with a boundless hunger. Scaled, and able to silence mages, they were a magic practitioner's worst nightmare.

Lastly, the most numerous demon appearing in the tens of thousands, was the Imp. Looking like something most people would describe as a ‘gremlin’ the Imps were chatty, and often punted by Felguards for sport. Skin the color of mottled bark, they were a bony creature with high pitched voices, and the ability to throw fireballs. In a force that excelled in melee, Imps were essentially the only ranged support.

In but a moment, Archimonde had summoned tens of thousands of demons unto Azeroth.

Without any direction or specific goal, they knew what to do. The demons immediately began to corrupt and destroy.

Any remaining souls in Dalaran were all but defenseless from the hungering tide.

Souls became nourishment, and torment their libation.

The Burning Legion had set foot on Azeroth once more.

Archimonde drank in the suffering like an alcoholic appreciating his final drink.

“Astounding.” Archimonde remarked.

“Indeed, Lord Archimonde. The paltry wizards of Dalaran stand no chance against the might of the Legion.” Tichondrius, the vampire-like, winged Dreadlord agreed. His smooth baritone sounded sibilant like all those of his race.

“You have done well, Tichondrius. I am placing the Scourge under your command while I focus on seizing the Well of Eternity.” Archimonde ordered.

“You honor me, great one.” Tichondrius bowed.

“The stench of the Void is rife among this planet. I suspect foul play is afoot. Whence I return, we shall cleanse this land, and claim it for the Legion.” Archimonde stated.

“Your will is my command.”

“Hmph. Beware the lands to the north, I sense the rot of a great champion of the Void. Focus your efforts on subduing these what do you call them?”

“Human, Lord Archimonde.”

“Yes, Humans. The Scourge is an interesting tool. Succeed in proving their worth, and you might just find your standing improve, Tichondrius. For now, I shall soften up the pawns of the Void with a little, mm, gift.” Archimonde smirked to himself as he curiously looked down at the Human Death Knight and Lich groveling to the side.

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Archimonde then ignored whatever reply his silver tongued subordinate uttered, and magically cast his voice to encompass the surrounding area within the city limits of Dalaran and beyond.

“Let the echoes of doom resound across this wretched world, that all who live may hear them and despair. A rain of fire shall cleanse this land!” Archimonde said, and then enacted one final spell, opening countless portals in the sky all across the world.

The night sky above the sub-continent of Lordaeron was torn asunder as flaming green meteors the size of SUV's streaked toward the ground.

Nowhere was safe as these Fel golems known as Infernals crushed buildings, mountains, and fields.

Emerging from the pits of destruction, the 12ft tall golems roared destruction, and consumed life in a quest to extinguish the faintest glimmer of hope amongst Elves and Men.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within the dry wastelands known as the Barrens, hot rays scorched the earth, and cracked the dirt.

Water only existed here in small oasis, occupied by savage Centaurs, Quilboars, and giant crocolisks, survival was all but impossible.

For Thrall, leader and Warchief of the Horde, this was not what he had expected when he fled the Human lands of Lordaeron, and came to the continent of Kalimdor.

Unaccustomed to sailing, the Orc fleet had crashed on some cursed islands, and then found their way into this desert land.

His people were tired, hungry, and most importantly, thirsty.

Fortunately they had made friends along the way, incorporating the Dark Spear Trolls into their coalition, and allying themselves with locals calling themselves the Tauren.

For the last few weeks, they had been setting up outposts and villages to hunt for food, and rest.

They had finally found a place next to a river, and had begun construction of a proper city.

Thrall dubbed it Orgrimmar, in honor of his mentor, and the previous Warchief, Orgrimm Doomhammer.

However, founding a city in these hostile lands was anything but easy.

Even now, he was out scouting with the Tauren to help them eliminate their eternal foe: the Centaur.

Foul smelling creatures, they were more obstinate than an Orc, and refused to talk. Knowing nothing of honor, they quickly became a hated enemy of the Horde.

Thrall had consulted the spirits of this land, and learnt that they were a cursed species.

If he was to truly gain the trust of the local elementals, he would have to help them lift this curse.

“The Legion has returned.” A wind spirit whispered in Thrall’s ear, warning him.

“Thank you my friend. Will you lend me your power against this foe?” Thrall whispered back.

Laughter tickled Thrall’s ear, and disappeared as soon as it had come.

“Dire news Warchief! Our settlements are under attack!” An Orc outrider mounted upon a car sized dire wolf reported.

“The Earth Mother smiles upon us this day, young Thrall. Come, for the tribes!” Cairn Bloodhoof, leader of the Tauren slammed his aged-yet still powerful-hoof onto the ground, creating a mini earthquake.

“Lok'tar Ogar, we ride!” Thrall hefted his giant hammer, and pointed it toward the burning town of Crossroads.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Theramore, it was a bustling seaside town under heavy construction after Jaina had fled the endless tide of Undead. Located at the corner of a huge swamp known as Duskwallow Marsh, it was practically unassailable by land, and commanded the nearby waters with impunity.

Its high walls, and steadfast guards scared away the local wildlife, and Murloc pests.

Ships were constantly coming and going as stragglers arrived from Lordaeron.

Fearful of turning into Undead, more than 15,000 people had sailed across the ocean to Kalimdor, and called this place home.

Jaina watched the peasant workers stack bricks, cobble dirt roads, and perform a hundred other miscellaneous tasks from within Theramore keep.

The scrying orb in front of her served as both a means of spying on her immediate surroundings, as well as a tool to facilitate communication.

Currently, Jaina was clenching her hand over her heart at the grave news she had just received.

Archmage Antonidas, leader of Dalaran, and the mages of Kirin Tor had just passed.

Before his death, he had warned all those close to him via a message on his magic orb.

He informed them of treachery from within, of the dreadful mage turned Lich, Kel'Thuzad.

Antonidas’ death by the hands of a colleague had sent Jaina into a depression.

However, what truly set her heart aflame, and was something she didn't want to believe in was the identity of the Scourges leader.

Scrying orbs could share images, as well as text, and what Jaina saw made her sick to her very core.

There on her orb was a deathly pale, viciously grinning monster. It was her one time crush, Arthas Menethil.

Jaina was beside herself in sorrow when she suddenly felt it.

Creeping, hot corruption blasted her like a vent of hot air.

The mana around her began to take on a sluggish, sickly quality, as if the air she breathed had become polluted by something.

“Archmage! Huff, Archmage, we have a situation!” A guard came bursting into her chambers, out of breath from running up multiple flights of stairs.

“I can see that Sergeant.” Jaina idly commented as she looked out the window.

There from a distance, a dozen flaming boulders came hurtling down at her town, her people.

“Alert the guard, and prepare for battle!” Jaina commanded, then prepared herself to meet this new foe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within the confines of a musky, dust covered cell completely devoid of light or sound, a blind Night Elf sat cross legged as if in meditation.

With the arrival of Archimonde, the Night Elf’s scars lit up a sickly green, and his gaze fell in the direction of Lordaeron.

The Legion had returned, and with it, his freedom.

Illidan madly laughed to himself within his cell, and clawed at the ground in excitement.

10,000 years of darkness, and soon he was to be free.

Oh how he had waited for a moment like this.

For his scowling brother to come begging for his aid. Or for sweet, caring, beautiful Tyrande to forgive him for his crimes.

Crimes, hah! The very word drove Illidan to madness.

Was it a crime to destroy the Legion? Why couldn't they see he had gone double agent, learned the powers of Fel for good?!

Illidan could've broken this cell any time, but he held on, hoping that the woman he loved would see his sacrifice, and accept him for what he was.

Cenarius, the venerated demigod worshiped by the Night Elves, had taught his brother to be the first druid, forsaking Illidan. All because he, Illidan, did not know sacrifice.

If willingly spending the last 10,000 years locked in a black box wasn't sacrifice, then Illidan would have to ask what the meaning of sacrifice was when he held Cenarius’ beating heart in front of his own eyes the next time they met.

Yes, his ascension was soon. He could feel it.

The world was about to change, and Illidan intended to seize the opportunity.

“Just watch your back, brother. Otherwise, Tyrande may find interest in another Stormrage!” Illidan cackled madly to himself, the sounds of his howling heard by none save himself.