^START FYI^

I do not own World of Warcraft, its characters, its themes, its anything. Blizzard does. And… that's all.

Some stuff you need to know: This story may seem a little biased from the Horde perspective. This is because I love the Horde. Also, this isn't going to be a short or flimsy ficcy—I intend to work hard on this and it will be ridiculously long. If you wanna follow an awesome story for a long time, this is it for you. If you want a one shot, this is def. the wrong story for you. Updates tend to run about every other week, while you're waiting I encourage you to read back—see if there's some foreshadowing you missed. I love foreshadowing, and flashbacks. I also love those. I also like my readers to know what's going on—believe me, you'll never be confused as to the setting of the story, haha!

Now go on! Get started!

^END FYI^

*START INTRO*

//SET LOCATION: SILVERMOON CITY

"No, no, no, absolutely wrong," scoffed a dark-haired blood elf, green eyes flashing. "Put it up—I want to look dignified, not wild!" spat he, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror. At present, his hair hung loose around his shoulders.

The small goblin barber, Krank as he was called, barely concealed an eye roll. He transferred out of the Undercity because he thought the undead had bad attitudes. As it turns out, blood elves are far worse, as he was learning much too late. "Yes, of course. What exactly do you want?"

"A pony tail," hissed Negate, as he was called.

The goblin's mouth nearly fell open. A pony tail was the exact same as he'd come in with. Wordlessly, he gathered Negate's ebony locks in one hand and began to brush out the kinks. Every stroke of the brush carried a hint of anger—not only was this blood elf particularly annoying, he was also wasting Krank's time. As per the barber's policy, Negate was in for a free haircut. An ingenious idea that only the goblins could think of: waste money by working on the weaklings, so that when they are strong, they return to the only barber shop they're used to—except at that point, they pay a premium fee. While it virtually decimated all competition, in some instances it really wasn't worth it, and this was one of those cases.

The young elfin cause of Krank's irritation seemed satisfied with the preceding of events thus, and leaned forward to admire himself in the mirror. "What a beautiful sight am I…" he cooed lovingly at his own reflection, "even in this stupid bib I am attractive…"

And the statement was true enough. Long, black hair (currently tied back, as per instruction) lifted high to expose the whole of elongated ears, with points toward the sky. A short goatee (as was all this race appeared capable of growing) covered his chin in a stylish cut. Long, high eyebrows hung delicately over the focal point of his face—a pair of eyes glowing green with the taint of arcane magic. Unnaturally muscular for a spell caster (another racial trait) but no where near the mass of an orc or even a human gave him what most would describe as a medium build, though a tiny goblin like Krank might disagree. He was also short in comparison to most humanoids, standing at approximately 5'9''.

His skin was a soft peach color, similar to that of a human, but most of which was covered by red, black, and gold robes marking him as a warlock. At his hip hung an Acolyte's dagger, and Krank seriously considered ramming it through Negate's eye.

"Raid! Four left!" shouted a female tauren outside of the barbershop, interrupting the scheming goblin's thoughts.

"Sounds like a raid!" Krank announced, setting down the scissors, for honest fear of causing accidental-on-purpose harm to his customer. "She'll never find anyone in this ghost town—Just finished trimming the split ends, looks great! A nice guy like you ought to go tell that tauren she's in the wrong city for recruiting!" He said very quickly, pushing Negate up from his seat and ripping off the bib.

"Wait! I've hardly time to examine your work!" insisted Negate, turning back toward the mirror. He didn't pry his sister from his waist with a crowbar for a less-than-perfect style.

"No time—shop is closed!" Krank countered, pushing Negate all the way out of the shop.

"We—but!" Negate turned around, glaring at the store front, but before he could utter any sort of useful protest, his face met with a sign reading "CLOSED FOREVER!" hanging upon the fanciful door.

"Well—I never!" Negate scoffed, turning toward the tauren female; Anrin, she went by. Since he'd already been so rudely cast out, he figured he might as well offer her a bit of advice.

"You there! Anrin!" He called, "I hate to rain on your parade, but this really isn't the best city to recruit within. It's quite under populated these days—I'd recommend Orgrimmar if you're serious about a raid."

"Thank you, but I've already gathered most of my friends. I really only needed four more, and now… it looks like I only need one. Interested?" answered she. As is the way with taurens, her voice was a friendly alto. Her clothes marked her as a shaman: a half shirt and long skirt, exposing softly spotted fur.

"No, no," Negate laughed softly. "I am only—"

"NONSENSE!" called a mage, likewise an elf. "Certainly the finest race in the land could only bring good tidings!"

"No, you don't understand—" Negate began, but was caught off by the tauren.

"Then it's settled," declared Anrin just in time for a stampede of some of Azeroth's finest to appear on the horizon. "Look, here they come now." And, as if on cue, she (and consequently, Negate) were immediately surrounded by the monstrosity of a crowd.

"Great sun!" Negate gasped, trying to avoid elbowing someone as they crowded around. "Isn't anyone paying attention!?"

But it was useless—his voice was small in comparison to the roar of the group. The mood was incredibly patriotic—some of the most well-trained hands in all of Azeroth coming together with one common goal: the demoralizing defeat of Alliance scum, and of course, the pursuit of a war bear, as was customarily rewarded by the Horde to anyone who successfully beat the Alliance down in their own hometowns. The excited, blood-hungry chants only served to increase Negate's urgency to leave, but as he struggled from the crowd, he was prevented passage by the same elfin mage.

"Those are some pretty nooby clothes!" he declared with a cocky laugh. "I like it! No one will suspect you!"

"Suspect me of—ah!" Negate shouted as the crowd began to move forth and, however unwillingly, Negate was pushed and shoved along with it.

//SET LOCATION: DEATHKNELL

Meanwhile, a forsaken rogue named Lisys sat unaccompanied, as was typical. She hadn't many friends in her life, and so the change in her existence affected her perhaps to a lesser extent than other undead. Still, the clear change in the citizens of this town in which she grew up was unsettling, and sometimes it left a loneliness in the pit of her stomach. A complete unwillingness to discuss any type of human emotion had caused simple hurt and dismay to complicate into unabashed hatred and rage in many other forsaken, so Lisys had noticed, and she suspected that to some extent, the same process had begun in her.

But what could be done? Brooding was hardly helpful, her own kind were far detached, and the living most certainly wouldn't understand, provided they could stomach the sight of her at all. Ultimately, it was probably best to let the anger stew until she could put it to use…right?

She shook her head, tiring quickly of all the heavy thinking on the plight of the forsaken. The whole issue, it seemed, was best left to the strong and the intelligent, such as Their Dark Lady, anyhow.

"Oliver!" She called as the like-named Deathguard passed through her field of vision. "Come sit with me, I only want a moment of your time."

"Speak quickly," he hissed, but sat down beside her all the same. "I'm busy."

"I'm curious… where have all the guards gone? I only see you." Lisys asked, undaunted by his manner.

Deathgaurd Oliver snarled at her, as if this question wasn't worth the bother, but once more followed through all the same. "A raid group has stormed through the Orb of Translocation out of Silvermoon City. Sylvanas requested a number of the weaker guards cheer them on."

"Strange…" Lisys mumbled, leaning back on her hands. "Thank you," she said by way of dismissal. She quickly found herself lost in thought once more. Silvermoon? What was it like there?

Oliver stood up with a cackle. "I know what you're thinking," he scoffed. "A hideous thing like you would never fit in there," he spat, as if he did, in fact, know what she was thinking.

Lisys watched Oliver return to his patrol with an unhappy frown, though his statement was true enough—Lisys wasn't exactly a beauty queen. Dirty, dark hair hung perfectly straight on either side of a rotting face. The skin and flesh around her knees and elbows had long sense worn away, simply from bending her arms and legs, and for unexplained reasons, her blackish purple outfit—typical of a rogue—did nothing to cover any of the various bones poking through her skin, including shoulders, pieces of her spine, and both hip bones.

Most horrifying, however, was certainly her unfortunately progressive face rot. Both eyes were missing and left unreplaced by the eerie yellow glow exhibited by some of her brethren—instead she was left with empty sockets hollowed so that she always appeared vengeful and angry. Below, her nose was completely missing, leaving only the triangular depression of her skull, and worse yet, her lips and a good portion of the skin on her jaw had long since decayed. This left every single tiny, cannibalistic tooth exposed, giving Lisys a terrible, demonic appearance.

After watching Oliver for a few moments more, Lisys stood and turned to enter the old, broken-down inn without a word.

*END INTRO*

^START FYI^

I am open to any and all suggestions for improvements, but at this time I do not plan to backtrack or perform any massive re-writes. Still, it's nice to know what could have gone better, for future reference. (:

^END FYI^

LAST REVISION: 04-01-2010