Somewhere near the Beginning of the path to Rebirth.
Mist swirled around, of an ordinary, unremarkable gray color. And though its origin remained unknown, it—despite its thickness and mystery—could not hide a bright-light speck looming in the distance. Toward it, breaking through the veil that was never destined to fall as drops of transparent dew on the grass, moved a dimly glowing ball. It was accompanied by companions, albeit of a somewhat smaller size. The movement was irritatingly slow, but on the other hand, it required not the slightest effort from the newfound travelers: the distant light independently attracted new souls who had renounced all things worldly and were heading for a new rebirth, and the swell itself gently pushed in the right direction.
The soul of one of the heroes of the War of the Ancients was in a state of blissful tranquility, perhaps even noticeably excessive for this place. Whether the loss of the body had such an effect on it, or the events preceding its arrival here. Be that as it may, while the mist, gently touching the ball, nipped a spark from it, thereby depersonalizing the soul striving toward the Light, the latter was trying to digest a single thought of no great depth:
"Where am I?"
Given all the circumstances, the soul of the famous elf could hardly have coped with the task it set for itself until the very end of—not to say such a long—journey. And the fact that this entity belonged to a mage who was not the least among his kin, possessing an enviable will, did not help much. After all, this place had its own laws, and getting here by one's own will to gain the corresponding experience was practically impossible. Of course, there were loopholes in any laws... but they, as a rule, did not concern ordinary sentient beings.
On the path of the former inhabitant of Azeroth, striving in the literal sense of the word for a new life, an obstacle suddenly arose. The mist ahead quickly thickened, turning into a dark, practically black blot, whose tentacles immediately lunged to intercept the ball as it tried to adjust its course, paying no attention to its neighbors who scattered in different directions. The maneuver, executed by an unintelligent "autopilot," was doomed to failure. Foreign braids entwined the prey and immediately tried to squeeze it in an attempt to destroy it. However, either the soul proved stronger than expected, or the invading stranger overestimated his strength, but the first attempt was unsuccessful, and the captured source of the elven sorcerer's essence was in no hurry to disintegrate under external influence. The animated misty black clump was not too upset by the impossibility of dealing with its recent offender right on the spot, deciding to postpone revenge until returning to the native lands of Azeroth. Fortunately, he already had the technology for intercepting foreign souls following to rebirth worked out. Tentacles of darkness wrapped a multi-layered cocoon around the target, and the "little octopus" began to dissolve into the mist. The blackness faded, gradually losing color and yielding to the gray paints of the road of oblivion.
Only the uninvited guest did this not quickly enough for one of the local masters to fail to "say hello" to the departing one. A lasso formed from the surrounding haze lashed over the already quite blurred spot of darkness, instantly filling with the whitest light. To avoid an inglorious death in a foreign land, the guest had to manifest again in this plane of the astral, concentrating more Darkness around himself. The loop began to tighten, and someone pulled the end of this "rope" that burned the opponent with Light, dragging it with increasing speed toward the spot visible in the distance—the very one that was the destination of the surrounding souls' journey.
Obviously, a close acquaintance with the attacker was not part of the stranger's plans, and therefore he, again likening himself to an octopus, contracted, stretched out, and lunged to the side, trying to slip out of the loop. The captured soul under the pressure of the tentacles was "spat out" and, turning into an unguided projectile, flew off somewhere in the direction opposite to the lunge, but the intruder's interest in its fate had already faded. A simple and straightforward desire to survive manifested in the foreground.
How things turned out further for the hapless kidnapper one can only guess, but apparently, he had at least some idea of the local inhabitants and had clearly met them more than once, and therefore his chances of a successful escape attempt were far from zero.
The soul, meanwhile, was quickly covering considerable distances. The impulse of the "shot" turned out to be strong enough to carry the anxiously flickering ball perpendicular to the flow, pushing aside "colleagues" floating toward the Light along the way. And though the collisions created a mad flight trajectory, and one should not forget the gravitational pull of the distant source of rebirth, nevertheless, the general vector of movement remained the same for a fairly long period of time. And although toward the end of the flight the speed of the attack victim noticeably dropped, it was still enough to break out beyond the limits of the "milky" river of oblivion.
The soul, due to its sluggishness of thought, had barely realized that something was wrong when it suddenly flew beyond the boundaries of the seemingly infinite gloom. Finding itself in empty space (and how emptiness differs from darkness can only be understood by experiencing it on one's own skin), the ball, still dimly glowing, sharply lost the remnants of its speed, and then began to drift slowly somewhere into the void, away from the misty flow, toward where the new destination point was located, having caught the stray like an invisible magnet.
Thus, the path to rebirth turned from a couple of years into a road that would take Illidan Stormrage several millennia. Fortunately, total oblivion no longer threatened him, and the dead man now had something to think about, despite the speed of the thought process, which remained ridiculous.
***
The coast of Kalimdor.
"And what, we're just going to let her go like that, after everything she's done?!" Tyrande Whisperwind could not stand the hanging silence, with a sharp gesture adjusting a lock of green hair that had fallen over her eyes, thereby betraying her nervous state. "As soon as she settles in a new place, she'll immediately start her old tricks!"
"Right now we can do nothing," the demigod reluctantly stated their common impotence. "Even if we gather all our forces, the maximum available to our capabilities is the exchange of all our lives for the lives of only a part of her supporters... or for her alone, but there are no guarantees there."
The trio of night elf leaders stood on a tree-hidden hill and watched the loading of ships, which had been going on at full speed for several hours near the ruins of Eldarath—a small elven town whose inhabitants a few years ago did not even suspect that their forest home would suddenly become a real port city, or rather its ruins. On the shore, cleared of trees that went to repair elven vessels found who knows where, a lively bustle was observed. Several thousand elves quite briskly provided a continuous conveyor for delivering supplies to the holds. The bay was not very large, and only ten ships were moored, while a couple of hundred others, both already filled and waiting their turn, had anchored further out. On the other hand, the mages had managed to organize the ships' mooring directly against the once-sloping shore, which allowed them not to bother with using boats and to load barrels and crates straight across the gangplanks.
The observers' attention was fixed on a specific representative of their race—a commanding elven woman, frozen between the receding forest and the shore, looking toward those seeing her off with a mockingly contemptuous smile. And neither distance nor thickets were a hindrance to her gaze... however, the spectators were not particularly hiding. In her white hair, which for some reason (not at all according to elven fashion) was cut short, the red drop of the Power stone of the famous royal diadem burned brightly. It was impossible to confuse Queen Azshara with anyone else.
"Has it been found out why they need so much essence from the Moonwells?" Malfurion Stormrage interrupted the long pause.
"No," Cenarius shook his head. "None of the ordinary executors know anything; perhaps the inner circle has the necessary information, but it wasn't possible to reach them."
"What is there to find out!" the girl exclaimed in her heart. "It's all obvious—she wants to make a new Source!"
"Most likely," the mentor of the loving couple nodded in agreement. "And one can not even doubt that she will succeed. But even if her creation will surely be stronger than Illidan Stormrage's handiwork, it can never compare to the Well of Eternity."
"Agreed, but this matter cannot be left without control either. We need to ask the Aspects to keep an eye on her. They, more than anyone else, must understand that our world will not survive another catastrophe."
"And it's still frustrating that she'll escape punishment," the girl's logic quite recognized the facts presented to her, but at the same time was still on its own wave and stubbornly denied the reality in which the main instigator of the War of the Ancients came out dry from the water. "While Illidan Stormrage... You know yourself that search spells show he is dead."
"She could have lied, and spells are not hard to deceive," Malfurion Stormrage hurried to calm his fiancée's vulnerable nature, placing a hand on her shoulder in a sign of support. "You of all people should know that Illidan Stormrage got out of any trouble."
"I'd just like to know what he got into this time," the girl grumbled, continuing to glare with a scowl at the royal personage preening on the shore.
The competitor for the title of the most beautiful elven woman was not prevented from looking her best by either the short innovative hairstyle, or the fitted leather Armor of an unpretentious gray color that had replaced the usual white airy wraps that had previously served as the queen's clothing, or the haughty face that had already set Tyrande Whisperwind's teeth on edge, but from that, alas, had not become less attractive to male eyes... All this, in a purely feminine way, did not greatly please the priestess of Elune. Therefore, the desire to restore justice for what happened to her people and the concern for a missing friend were generously sprinkled with ordinary envy of another's beauty and power...
"Sooner or later we'll find out. Either he'll show up himself, or the dragons will finally be free from work on stabilizing Azeroth and will want to have a 'heart-to-heart' talk with the culprit of the world-scale mess. I don't think even Azshara will be able to avoid a talk."
For some time they watched in silence as the cargo passed along the chain quickly disappeared into the depths of the transports.
"At first we weren't going to touch her surviving followers: after all, they are our kin. But now, with her appearance... Azshara with the Highborne and Azshara without the Highborne are two big differences. So, maybe we should have killed them after all?" the girl did not abandon her bloodthirsty intentions.
"No, we decided correctly: since she is leaving, there is no reason to give her a reason to stay here longer than necessary. She was surprisingly indifferent to the Kaldorei in general and to us in particular. One could say she kept her word... But I am still uneasy," Cenarius suddenly admitted.
"Is it because of their departure? Or because of Azshara's message about N'Zoth? Do you think it's true?" Malfurion Stormrage was also troubled by this question, so much so that he turned away from the distant shore.
"The second. I remember that on the summit of Mount Hyjal she mentioned these very Old Gods, and it didn't look like she was lying."
"Why would she warn us?" the girl shrugged, having calmed down a bit. "She's probably distracting us from another of her 'royal' schemes."
"Perhaps," the old demigod said thoughtfully. "But if it's true, difficult times await us. We must not lose vigilance—the enemy is unclear and possibly powerful."
"Still, I suggest first discussing this issue with Malygos—who if not the Magic Aspect should know about the capabilities of this N'Zoth..."
"If he actually exists, of course, and isn't a figment of the imagination of a bald auntie who's gone senile in her old age," Tyrande Whisperwind did not fail to insert a jab.
"Yes, a consultation with the Aspects wouldn't hurt," Cenarius nodded in agreement. "Though I don't think Malygos will respond to the request: he has no time for our problems right now. But I will try to contact at least one of them."
On this note, the discussion of the current situation ended, and the rulers of the night elves went about their business, which showed no sign of ending for at least the coming centuries. And there was someone to watch the departure of the former queen without them.
***
The flagship of the formed Quel'dorei fleet took the lead position and headed toward the open sea, away from the deserted shore. And although the single-masted shells were each like the other, the "leadership qualities" fell to the lead ship not for any external attributes like the color of the sails. On its board was the crowned personage who now determined not only the political course of her people but also the direction of movement in the literal sense of the word.
"We will round the continent from the north and go west," Azshara finally ordered, as soon as the shore had receded a bit, but was not yet intending to disappear behind the horizon.
"The mages say there are many islands to the east," the captain said cautiously, frozen near the queen and the helmsman. "We won't be left without supplies on the way to the other half of the continent."
"No, we go west," the girl stated categorically. "And let the mages spare no effort: the faster and further from the Maelstrom we are, the better. And as for supplies, you needn't worry: I will find us food and water even in the middle of the Great Sea."
"Yes, my Queen."
The captain bowed slightly and stepped aside to transmit Azshara's orders to the other ships. His place was meanwhile taken by Dath'Remar.
"My Queen, the 'kin' are still watching us."
"I don't care. Those nature-lovers and bearded goats have arms too short to stop us. I'm more concerned about the one watching us from the depths of the sea. Remind everyone that once a day they must report to the mages and undergo a course of cleansing spells... and take one sip of moon essence. Everyone without exception, including the mages themselves. Most importantly, do not touch the marked barrels: we will need them for another matter."
"There might not be enough for the whole journey," the advisor noted cautiously.
"That is why I ordered you to hurry," the girl looked away from the horizon and cast a dissatisfied glance at her kinsman, as if to say, "Will there be more stupid questions, or will you finally get to work?!"
"My queen," Dath'Remar hurried to bow and vanish from the sight of the ill-tempered Azshara.
The long journey to the eastern lands across the Great Sea had begun…
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