Varian, a soul forged in the crucible of adversity, met the challenge with a warrior's grin.
In the decade since the brutal orcish tide had crashed against Stormwind's shores, the kingdom, though scarred, had risen anew, its strength not yet eclipsing its golden age, but undeniably amplified by the desperate embrace of Lordaeron's displaced sons and daughters.
Yet, within the heart of the young lion, a different fire burned. He knew the weight of his father's crown would soon settle upon his brow, and the untamed spirit of adventure would be leashed by royal duty. Northrend, then, whispered promises of a final, glorious escapade.
Derek, a scion of the sea, felt the Arctic's icy tendrils tug at his adventurous spirit. Having already witnessed the tapestry of Azeroth and stood defiant against the Burning Legion at Mount Hyjal, the enigmatic Northrend, held an irresistible allure.
"Kul Tiras," Derek declared, his voice resonating with conviction, "is not a monolith under the Proudmoore banner. While my own fascination with Northrend burns bright, convincing the other noble houses to invest in that frozen expanse will be a battle in itself. However, we shall rally our own forces, a vanguard under the personal standard of Proudmoore!" He acknowledged the looming obstacles, but as Galen's unwavering ally, his resolve was a shield against doubt.
The dwarven lords remained stoic, their enthusiasm a cold forge. The hard-won unity of the three great clans under the Council of Three Hammers was a triumph, yet their combined numbers still paled in comparison to the zenith of Lordaeron's might.
Scattered across the rugged landscapes of Dun Morogh, the treacherous depths of Loch Modan, the fiery embrace of the Searing Gorge and Burning Steppes, the desolate Badlands and Hinterlands, and the blighted Plaguelands, the dwarves had barely begun to fully exploit their ancestral domains. The notion of distant overseas colonies seemed a fanciful dream.
But Galen, a master strategist, had no intention of allowing them to remain idle. The strength of the alliance was his bedrock, and his own burgeoning prosperity could not lead to the fracturing of that foundation.
To have Stromgarde, or even the nascent Crusade alone, stand as the sole pillar of power would create a fragile alliance – a mighty trunk supporting brittle branches, a tempting vulnerability for the architect of an Eastern Continent empire.
Indeed, if obstacles did not present themselves, Galen would conjure them from the ether!
Of course, all of this intricate maneuvering was merely a phantom dance within Galen's mind. The simple truth? He cherished the camaraderie of allies!
This ingrained habit, a relic of countless hours spent commanding virtual armies in the strategic realms of Age of Empires, Red Alert, StarCraft, and Warcraft, ran deep.
A noob never fights alone!
Thus, even as his tactical brilliance sharpened, this fundamental principle remained etched in his soul. He would no more face a challenge without allies than a warrior would charge into battle unarmed!
So, Gilneas and the Council of Three Hammers dared to refuse?
Unthinkable!
Absolutely impossible!
"Intelligence gleaned from my Shadow Council," Galen announced, his gaze settling on Brann, a hint of mystery in his tone, piquing the Bronzebeard prince's curiosity. "Speaks of a dwarven tribe dwelling within Northrend's Storm Peaks – the Frostborn – and their leader, a figure known as Yorg Stormheart."
A flicker of interest ignited in Brann's eyes. Tales of lost dwarven kin invariably stirred his explorer's heart, but since Muradin's tragic loss, his elder brother had curtailed his far-reaching expeditions. Even as his spirit yearned for discovery, he had to heed the potential wrath of his kin.
"It is said..."
Galen's smile held a knowing edge. "This Yorg Stormheart, the chieftain of the Frostborn, has only recently risen to power. Curiously, however, this Stormheart is no true Frostborn dwarf."
Brann's ears perked up, his attention fully captured. He knew Galen, the alliance marshal, did not traffic in idle words; some significant revelation lay beneath the surface.
A tremor of anticipation ran through Brann.
Galen, sensing his interest, pressed his advantage. "Stormheart is described as a dwarf with skin the color of crimson and snow, and his past is a complete enigma. Yet, his strength is undeniable, and it was with this power that he drove back invaders, earning him the Frostborn's allegiance and their leadership."
"So..."
The world around Brann seemed to fade, Galen's words resonating with profound implication.
"He is Muradin!"
"By the heavens!" Kurdran and Durin exclaimed, astonishment etched upon their faces.
"The Council of Three Hammers will stand alongside this endeavor! Kurdran, Durin, your thoughts?"
"We are with you!"
The Wildhammer and Dark Iron clans, unburdened by other pressing concerns, readily pledged their support to their Bronzebeard brethren.
"Excellent. And finally, Liam, what say you?"
Though Prince Liam held sway in some domestic matters, the ultimate authority rested with his father, King Genn, preventing him from offering the swift commitment of the crownless kings, Calia and Kael'thas.
Galen even harbored a desire for this prince to defy his aging father. Genn's increasingly erratic decisions were stifling Gilneas, placing his son in an unenviable position.
"Galen... I..."
Liam's youth and inexperience held him captive in a moment of hesitation.
"Northrend has lain untouched for millennia. The bear-men, the Drukkari, the tuskarr – the tribes that dwell there are relatively weak. Before we confront the Scourge, our primary adversaries will likely be trolls and vrykul. This is not a war, Liam, but a colonization effort where the rewards far outweigh the risks."
Galen understood the reluctance of insular Gilneas to join such a grand undertaking, and so he appealed to their pragmatism.
"New veins of precious minerals, potent new herbs, and valuable hides – all resources that will swell the national treasury and bolster your armies." Galen's voice took on a pointed edge. "Gilneas's national strength, it seems, has stagnated in recent years!"
Galen's audacity was breathtaking, a blatant affront to King Genn's pride.
Once, after the fall of the Kingdom of Azeroth, Gilneas had stood as the second mightiest power. Now, Stromgarde had eclipsed them, and even the fledgling Kingdom of Stormwind was rapidly closing the gap. Should Kul Tiras also surge ahead, where would the Greymane royal family find solace?
Would they be relegated to sharing the fate of the fractured Kingdom of Alterac?
Perhaps not even that. Whispers spoke of golden dragons sighted near Alterac's ruined capital. If King Daval Prestor had forged an alliance with the dragons, then Gilneas...
They would languish at the bottom!
Liam's jaw tightened, his resolve hardening. He would join!
And in secret, he vowed to impress upon his father the urgent need for reform within Gilneas.
"Oh, and one more thing, Liam. I've received reports of a growing organization within your kingdom – the Worgen Cult. Do not underestimate them. Should you encounter difficulties, do not hesitate to call upon the alliance for aid. After all, we have forged a pact of mutual support!"
The worgen curse, a primal affliction originating from the wolf god among the wild demigods, had once been the subject of forbidden research within a splinter sect of the Cenarion Circle's druids. These worgen druids, in their transformed state, succumbed to feral rage, a danger that led Archdruid Malfurion to banish the practice.
Galen couldn't help but envision a future where the stubborn King Genn, while foolishly hunting these creatures, would fall victim to their savage bite, succumbing to the very curse he likely dismissed.
But that was a drama yet to unfold. The intractable king would likely require a harsh lesson before relinquishing his rigid ways.