Chapter 12

Dalaran, the Violet Citadel

The early spring in the human nation of Dalaran was marked by the growth of beautiful plant life, including the flora flower which held many mysterious ingredients which helped in all sorts of potions, occasional rains, sometimes a downpour or storm, and the melting of the winter's snow which had flooded off of the Alterac Mountains to the east.

For three thousand years The Violet Citadel had stood as humanity's symbol, its mark of ingenious, the greatest apex of magical conjuration that had yet been attempted by men and women. Situated on Cross Isle, an island upon Larrin Lake of which its shape carried its name, lay the capital of Dalaran, the great country of the Mage, a place of intense magical connection.

It was early morn, the sun still rising in the great skies, lighting the snow-capped Alterac Mountains off to the east, whose base was covered by the sea of pines, coniferous, and deciduous trees stretched, green as the deep colors of dragon scale. The sunlight spilled over the horizon and upon the clouds in brilliant oranges and pinks, lighting the mountains, forests, and plains below.

Separating Dalaran from the nation, or now the Occupied Territory of Alterac was the Fenris River, now full of energetic fish, ready for spring. The river itself ran from Lordamere Lake in the central continent of Lordaeron, and was continuously fed by the melted snow and slush of the winter.

Antodias had continued his argument with the persona non grata he had now dubbed the Stranger. For days, the Stranger, posing as some kind of farce prophet had harried him at every corner. Eventually, Antodias had ascended to one of the Grey Platforms, at the apex of one of the towers of the city, and confronted him.

"You must be wiser than the King! The end is near!" the so-called Prophet whispered desperately as if heralding the coming of the demons of the Dark Below.

"I told you before; I'm not interested in your nonsense!" Antodias spat back, this time giving the ruffled man a look that could turn an ordinary man to stone.

Sighing, the Stranger replied in a subdued tone, "If you are so sure of yourself as to not even inquire what I talk of or even am, then I've wasted my time here…", and in a brilliant flash of emerald light, he was gone, leaving only a few ebon feathers in his wake. Sensing another near him, Antodias chuckled slightly. He may have been old, was no fool.

"You can show yourself now Jaina, he's gone," he said dryly, thinking of the premonitions the old man spoke of; a world of burning flame and death. One once told of in the ancient texts of the Dalaran Library, the greatest pantheon of knowledge outside of the Convocation of Silvermoon's Eldre'libas in Quel'thalas.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping-" Jaina was cut off as soon as the light reflecting magic wore off on her.

"It's your inquisitive nature I've grown to rely on, child. That crazed fool is convinced that the world is about to end…" Antodias took a dusty scroll from the pocket of his great, white robe which was inset with gems and jewels designed to store runoff magic that he sapped from magical objects.

Setting out his staff, a light suddenly enveloped them much as The Stranger, and they suddenly found themselves above the Proving Grounds where several of the younger mages were already up at this early hour, practicing their arcane abilities.

Antodias nearly smiled but remembered that he best keep a straight face with his apprentices. Jaina had such a voracious curiosity about magic, its workings, interconnections, and reparations on the world, even when she first came under his tutelage at the tender age of three when her father explained that she did nothing but study the implications of magic and history.

That father was Daelin Proudmoore, King of Kul Tiras, and Lord Admiral of the Alliance Naval Forces. Jaina had come from a noble lineage, one that had suffered greatly during the Second War against the orcish Horde, her own blood brother killed in the disastrous catastrophe that had been the sinking of the Third Fleet, as well as many of their extended relatives when the orcs had landed upon Kul Tiras's shores briefly.

The episode of the Second War had hardened Daelin, once a good friend of Thoras Trollbane, Lord of Stromgarde, and Antodias himself. The old Daelin had seemed a joking, friendly drinking buddy sort, yet, now he committed himself wholly to his work as King and Admiral, especially after his wife had died at the hands of a coup'd'etat attempt at the end of the Second War.

As the two reoriented themselves to their new landscape, Jaina looked up to the old man, most of whose face was covered in a great, white, billowing beard that looked much like the clouds on a summer's day.

"I've heard the rumors; the ones about a plague spreading throughout the northlands. Do you truly believe that this, 'plague', is magical in nature?" she asked inquisitively.

Shrugging his old bones, Antodias simply replied "It's a strong possibility", staring off into the distance of the north, where the shores of Lordamere began, the far off lake now glittering gold in the sun's rising rays.

He quickly continued, "That's why I need you to travel and investigate. I've arranged for a special envoy to escort you in this matter. Journals, rations, and everything you will need along the way have been prepared for you. Journey along the King's Road" he motioned toward the great paved path to the east of the glittering spires of the Violet Citadel.

The King's Road had long been the greatest road of mankind, build long ago in the times of the Empire of Arathor to connect all the major cities along with a single nexus point of trade, paved with thick, granite slabs, many of which bore the names of the Emperors of old Arathor.

Jaina nodded, knowing the enormity of her task, however simple it may sound. Travel along the road and find those villages infected with the wildfire disease, take samples, study them whilst staying uninfected, all in a short timetable.

"Yes master, I'll do my best" she acknowledged sturdily, glancing at him for approval.

"I know you will child. Farewell," he quickly dismissed her and retired to his own quarters.

So far, the High Command of the Alliance of Lordaeron had ignored his pleas and those of his comrades on the Council of Air, even the influential Krasus and analytical Varith.

If they would not listen to the warnings, then he would take matters into his own hands, and bring back the evidence he needed to knock into Terenas's head that the northern lands needed to be quarantined before the intense plague that had been circulating for the past few months, was allowed to spread any further.