The Crossroads, Northern Barrens.
As the name suggested, this camp sat at the intersection of the north-south and east-west routes. Though small in scale, to the Horde adventurers in Kalimdor, it was known as the place "where dreams began."
Unlike Goldshire south of Stormwind, few people paid much attention to Razor Hill south of Orgrimmar, but the Crossroads was a place they had to pass through—and would return to countless times.
Inside the inn, Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls clinked glasses and shared stories. In a corner, several Forsaken sat around a small round table. Not all of them drank; although they had broken free from the Lich King's control and regained their free will, their bodies were still undead.
Those who refrained did so because the flesh on their bellies had long since rotted away, leaving holes; if they poured wine down their throats, it would simply leak through their intestines and onto their pants a moment later.
It made them look incontinent.
Unlike the massive but quiet Tauren, Orcs became exceptionally loud after drinking, and their voices filled nearly the entire inn. However, as dusk fell, the rowdy noise quieted significantly when a tall, thin Troll walked in.
"Quiet down, quiet! Kilhara is here!" "Oh! It's Kilhara! Brother, what news have you brought us today?"
The male Troll, named Kilhara, was actually a tailor. Compared to his excellent tailoring skills, the bit of arcane magic he had learned was entirely amateur. Yet, compared to those two skills, his greatest talent was gathering information from travelers and turning it into stories to tell at the inn. The innkeeper recognized this ability and invited him to "perform" every day. Kilhara didn't know what bards in human or elven cities were like, but he imagined they were probably similar to him.
A drunken Troll raised his glass and shouted, "Brother! Last time you only told half the story about that little b*tch from Theramore chasing our Warchief. Can you finish it today?"
"Hahaha!" The room erupted in laughter.
An Orc nearby stood up unsteadily. "That story sounds fake. How could our Warchief have feelings for that little b*tch?"
Someone immediately chimed in, "Exactly! That woman even dared to kill her own father. If they actually got married, she'd probably kill her husband one day too."
"Heh." An undead in the corner who had been quiet finally spoke. "Then I suppose you haven't heard that the Regent Lord of the Blood Elves is anxious to meet our Banshee Queen lately?"
"What happened? Tell us!" Many people became interested, but they were quickly shushed so they could hear Kilhara's news.
Kilhara clapped his hands and walked to his usual spot on one side of the inn.
"What I have to say today is somewhat related to what that Forsaken brother just said," Kilhara began. "Just a few days ago, Tirion Fordring almost died in Stormwind!"
"What?! That Paladin is still alive?" The people in the inn looked at each other in surprise. They had heard years ago that he had disappeared, his fate unknown. In these times, "fate unknown" usually meant "dead in a ditch."
"But at the critical moment, it was the young Prince of the Alliance who saved him. However, the one who delivered the information to the prince was a hero of our Horde..."
Kilhara knew exactly how to use dramatic pauses to grip his audience.
"Who? Just say it!"
Kilhara chuckled. "Who else could it be? Eitrigg, of course."
Clearly, as the news traveled from the Eastern Kingdoms to Kalimdor and was translated from Common to Orcish, the eighth-hand information reaching Kilhara had strayed from the truth. With his own embellishments, only a vague outline remained.
While the relationship between Eitrigg and Tirion Fordring was well-known—Warchief Thrall had even saluted Old Fordring for saving Eitrigg—the crowd was baffled as to how the Warchief's advisor had contacted the Alliance prince and why he would do such a thing.
In truth, Kilhara didn't know either, but he had long prepared a response: "I see many old friends here today, and some new ones. Old friends know my rules: I only tell the news, not the details. One shouldn't ask too much about things they aren't meant to know; asking will only bring trouble upon yourself."
His words said nothing of substance but successfully led the listeners to imagine secrets held by the high-ranking officials of the Alliance and Horde.
"But there is one thing I must tell you today. Eitrigg saved Old Fordring not just to repay the debt of being rescued years ago, but also to have him do something."
The crowd snapped out of their mystery-induced trance and leaned in again. "What thing? Is that Paladin joining the Horde?"
Kilhara asked, "Do you know what the hottest topic is among the Alliance lately, from the nobles down to the peasants?"
"Fishing?" "Brawling clubs?" "A new flavor of ale?"
Kilhara extended a long finger and shook it. "It's the Net Cafe!"
When he said this, not just the people inside but even those gathered outside the inn felt a bit disappointed. They all thought "Net Cafe" was a strange word Kilhara had made up.
"Brother, what nonsense are you talking today? If you don't have anything interesting, tell an old story. Don't make stuff up!" "Yeah! You treating us like kids?"
Kilhara ignored them. "This battle is no ordinary battle. Think about it: could something that moves people like Eitrigg and Old Fordring be ordinary?"
He cleared his throat and began to describe it like a legend: "The Alliance set up a training ground outside Stormwind. Everyone who goes there has to wear special equipment—equipment said to cost thousands of gold pieces!"
"Thousands of gold?!" Everyone looked shocked.
"After putting on the gear, they are transported to a place called the Gathering Hall where they can participate in all sorts of battles! They can team up to fight ferocious dragons or practice one-on-one combat. Not only are there rare creatures and enemies you never see, but you can also learn brand-new skills and moves!"
"And just these past few days, I heard a mysterious wandering mage joined them. He's responsible for training all the spellcasters in the Gathering Hall. To everyone's surprise, the top mages, warlocks, and shadow priests of the Alliance were all defeated by him!"
The crowd reacted: "That powerful?" "What powerful? Alliance dogs were always weak!" "Exactly! That's just because they haven't learned our shamanic spells!"
Despite their shouting, many present who had clashed with the Alliance—or heard accounts from soldiers returning from the Third War—knew that the Alliance's strength was not weak at all. If the Scourge's invasion of Lordaeron hadn't drastically weakened the human nations, the Horde would never have had the chance to catch its breath after the Second War and rebuild in Orgrimmar.
Suddenly, someone asked, "Who is this wandering mage? Is he really that strong?"
Kilhara smiled triumphantly, as someone had finally led the topic to his climax. "That person is..."
The room fell silent. Even the drunks put down their glasses, forcing their bleary eyes open to listen.
"Medivh!"