The Azeroth Scenery Project.

Announcing the final direction for this blog: The Azeroth Scenery Project.

I will be touring Horde and Alliance areas from the beginning areas to the major cities to instances and dungeons. Your tour guides will be Lohengrin Neverdusk and Alledrah Moonskin, respectively.

Only old world Azeroth will be documented, Outlands and Northrend may be a new project at another time.

There's a method to my madness. If rumor speaks true, I'll have a nice old guide to the way things were here.

Reopening.

As if Lohengrin could be put into a box and never thought of again. There will be new stories for him, and other things pertaining to the lore of warcraft.

New direction. Lohengrin long ago moved to the Kael'thas server. New tales to tell and all that. Thanks for reading and good night.

Go wash your brain out.

They called him Soap.

He had another name, once, a human name. Along with a wife, three kids and a farm not far from Stratholme. But if you asked him his wife's name, or how old his children had been, or his own actual name, he'd probably just give you a blank look. And then declare his name was Soap and anything else before then was all just silliness anyway.

So the name stuck, no matter how nonsensical it was. After all, he was a good mage and could toss a mean fireball when instructed to. Sometimes, you just had to remind him who he was actually throwing a spell at. Sometimes.

Soap found himself recruited into the armies of the Frostwolf Clan, through some machination he really couldn't remember if he thought about it. Or it gave him a headache to think too much. Miriam always told him he was dead and really couldn't get headaches anymore. But it hurt like one, so surely it was one. So she gave him potions on occasion that made it stop hurting so much. Strangely, they tasted a lot like water. But Miriam swore by them, and they worked just fine.

She was a good lady, Miriam was. Always looking out for him. Now, she had a way for him to repay her a little bit. A portal, and perhaps an escort for a poor paladin lad with a bad leg and a fever. Perhaps a headache, much like the ones that always bothered him. Soap couldn't help but be sympathetic to that.

But, try as he might, there wasn't much chance for opening a portal, not with all the snow swirling around and something just blocking him from casting it. It'd have to wait until after the snow lifted, or something like that.

Miriam sighed, "I don't think he'll last much longer. Well, Soap, would you like to help me take him out of here then, we can go to Tarren Mill. It isn't far from the valley."

He didn't even think this time, that might hurt a bit if he did, "Of course my dear, of course. Oh, and Miriam..."

"Yes?"

"Did you make sure to give him some of that fine potion of yours? The one that works for me? Just in case he, you know, has a headache too."

She chuckled, amused. "I already have, Soap, don't you worry about that."

Ravenin rolled his eyes at the entire conversation. Or would have, if he had eyes in his sockets to roll. Instead, the glow of his eyes drifted upwards. "Well, I suppose that means the 23 we started out with is now 20. Admintaru has asked to go with, to carry the bloody paladin. Best go now, before the snow lets up. Otherwise you're bound to have fifty alliance crawling over you like ants."

Taking the warning to heart, the band of four set out immediately.

Can the dead smile?

Lohengrin sometimes wondered if he was dead and remembering or alive and dreaming. He floated in and out of consciousness with no concept of how quickly time passed. Voices rang incoherently in his ears, snippets of conversations in languages he couldn't understand. Occasionally he felt hands on his forehead or a bottle of water was brought to his lips to allow him to drink.

His rescue barely registered. He felt a bony hand on his shoulder, a feminine voice speaking to him, asking him something. He nodded to her question, whatever it was, and a second later strong arms were lifting him up off the cold, damp ground and throwing him over a broad shoulder. Tauren, he assumed. Maybe Orc. He was too delirious to care.

They carried him out into a swirling white world, snow caking in his hair. Dully his leg ached, but the cold had already numbed him. He narrowed his eyes, but the world remained blurred, figures darting in and out of focus in a world gone gray.

It wasn't until they had him inside a bunker, wrapped in front of a fire that it really hit him that he was no longer a prisoner. The undead priest who had accompanied the Tauren carrying him here handed him a mug of something warm and tasteless. She was smiling at him, or at least he thought she was. The left half of her face had rotted away to reveal the bones of her jaw.

"That drought will have you asleep soon, blood elf. Tell me your name while you can still speak."

Already his tongue felt leaden. He managed to tell her, slowly. "Lohengrin. Lohengrin Neverdusk."

Snow is a bit cold, don't you think?

The battle for control of Stonehearth raged on for hours until at last Alliance troops retreated as dusk settled in and a blizzard threatened the combatants. Snow fell in relentless waves, driving even the most stalwart Horde warrior into the confines of the Dwarven hovel, where a fire burned meagerly on the ground floor. Priests and warriors, shamans and paladins alike huddled around it for what little warmth it provided.

In war, often times even the smallest grunts became leaders, simply by attrition. Such was the case with Ravenin Blackglove, who had no desire to lead. Yet he found himself directing the rag tag bunch anyway, as the snow settled over the land and freezing winds kept Alliance at bay. He sent Tauren warriors out to gather wood, Blood elf and Orc hunters to keep watch from the second floor of the hovel, priests to tend to the wounded, and rogues out to scout in the snow and keep an eye out for any stalwart Alliance brave or stupid enough to try anything.

And oddly enough, they fell in line and obeyed him. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not, finding the control over others exhilarating but the work it also entailed cumbersome.

Just as everyone had settled in for the evening, along came yet another headache in the form of an orc rogue with news from outside. "It's a cave sir, and some of the warriors found Alliance inside. There's a battle in progress, we need some of the healers if they can be spared."

Ravenin had taken stock of his numbers earlier. Two priests, a restoration shaman and a healing druid. Four, out of some twenty-three Horde who occupied Stonehearth. "Foolish of you to engage the Alliance now. We've enough trouble as it is. Just how many healers do you think I can spare?"

"Sir, let me go," one of the priests said. An undead woman who still clung to her human trappings and went by her original name, Miriam Thatcher.

Ravenin waved them off, "Very well, there is your healer. I suggest you take all precautions in protecting her. And bring no prisoners. We haven't the resources for them. Kill. Them. All."

Tauren are not for dinner.

Anyone who claimed that Tauren were eternally patient had never met a bull determined to smash his enemies. Fawa did not take kindly to the stereotypes of her people. The slow moving Tauren were as swift as their comrades, and even swifter than their enemies when necessity called for it. When diplomacy and patience had worn thin, their horns turned bright with the blood of their adversaries. And anyone foolish enough to believe them dim witted or unintelligent usually realized their folly far too late. Tauren were not cattle, and could not be rounded up and driven over cliffs.

She tried hard to call upon the patience of her ancestors during times when required, especially when dealing with those who were supposedly on her side, yet saw fit to overlook her intelligence and assume she had nothing to add. While slow to anger, frustration built a bit quicker.

The blood elf barely looked at her, merely reading off the parchment in front of him. He recited each word slowly, pausing occasionally to change a word he assumed would be too large for a Tauren to understand. "... And as you are normally in the company of my son, I would app- like you to please send me news of his whereabouts-- that means where he's at-- as soon as you are ab--Hey!"

Taliesin, tired of listening to the long winded missive, simply snatched it out of the courier's hand and held it out to Fawa. "She isn't stupid. In fact, I daresay she can read it herself without your input."

The courier huffed indignantly, glaring at Taliesin as if he'd grown a second head with warts. "As you wish..." Something else hung on the sentence, something likely unkind. But he had the forethought to bite his own words and simply leave the room.

Fawa smiled at Taliesin, taking the missive and unfolding it in her lap. "Thank you. He was becoming rather obnoxious."

Taliesin shrugged his shoulders, making a whimsical gesture with his hands. "If you'd run him through with your horns, I don't think I would have minded very much."

"Taliesin!"

He simply smiled at her in reply.

The missive was difficult to read. Not because Fawa didn't know how, but because the letters themselves weren't shaped quite right and the language was rough in patches. Blood elves had to learn Orcish, the primary language of the Horde. Some balked at the idea of it, Orcish was a very gutteral language, harsh enough to be difficult on the throats of many elves. Others, like Taliesin and Lohengrin, took to it with ease. Not only had Tal already picked up Orcish, but he now had Fawa teaching him bits and pieces of Taurahe.

She wished she could try sitting Lohengrin down and teach him as well. If only he weren't so flighty! Determined to go find some cause somewhere and fight for it. And now she had another missive from his father in Silvermoon City demanding information from her. As if she had it to give him. Since Lohengrin ran off to join the armies at Frostwolf, she hadn't heard from him.

That in and of itself was unusual. Lohengrin usually kept in touch some way. That his father was unable to find him and send someone on him to keep an eye on him was even stranger. The man was obsessive about his son's welfare. While Fawa understood it to a degree, she often felt he took it too far.

"What does he want this time? Secret bombing squads with goblins to go looking for our wayward friend?" Taliesin asked.

Fawa laughed. "No, it's just the usual round of questions about Lohen. I'll reply... tomorrow."