The ground beneath them rumbles, and each one takes their respective places to prepare for the changes that have been foretold.
Cartwright, a strong-willed and aspiring shaman, stands upon the threshold of Orgrimmar. Much change has come in the last few days to his people and the Horde; Cartwright learned of Thrall’s self-bestowed quest to face the elemental threat, leaving Garrosh Hellscream in charge. Cartwright had never been fond of the son of Grommash, and despite all attempts to enlist with the Earthen Ring, the young shaman was denied, as he lacked the formidable aptitude to join. He knows the time has come to make his choice: enter these gates and relinquish his freedom to the tyrant-to-be, or leave, never to return, seeking his purpose elsewhere and at his own volition, gaining what he can of what's left of the shattering world beneath his feet as he prepares to join the Earthen Ring. Cartwright stands at the gates, feeling the earth quake beneath him.
Qi, the taciturn assassin, sits on a step of a short flight of stairs down Murder Row of Silvermoon. With a sharpening stone, she works at the blade of a dagger. There’s a nick, where an Alliance sword had met her parry. She runs the stone across the forged steel, methodically and with great care. A tremble from the ground beneath her causes her hand to go astray, pushing hard against the grain. The blade nearly snaps, but she’s quick to move her hand just in time to avoid causing undue pressure upon the metal. The point digs into her wrist with her movement, and as blood runs down the hilt, Qi neither howls nor panics, but calmly lifts the blade out and sheaths it. She quickly bandages the wound. Later, she thinks to herself, she could find a dummy to practice on, maybe recuperate through fighting. She looks to her side at the sheath with the nicked dagger. The blade is flawed, which she’d have to live with, as blades do come and go. It’ll serve her well enough in her next fight with the Alliance, thinking of her battles to come in Tol Barad. The stories of the place came across the seas and lands, and her appetite for a good fight will be sated. She looks to her other dagger, sheathed, and pulls it from its holding. Blood covers it from point to hilt. While the other had the nick, this one met its mark. She wouldn’t clean it, she thought. If one isn’t perfect, best to leave the other as it is.
Oneironaut, paladin of the Light, paces back and forth in Farstriders’ Square. He has lived a life full of purpose and camaraderie, helping and serving any wherever he was needed. Now, feeling change in the air, he cannot fathom a rightful place for himself. What is he to do, now that his brothers and sisters in arms have taken to their own adventures? Only recently has he returned to Warsong Gulch to reclaim the ground he lost so long ago, and even that, as satisfying as battle can be, is still not the same as it once was when he was new to the world. His armor, mismatched in style and purpose, tells of past exploits and adventures of which he holds a great fondness for. Now, as the ground shakes, cracks spider-webbing across the fine buildings and stonework floor, he takes a knee. The time will come when he will be needed once more by his friends. For now, he prays.
Wash, executive-underboss-assistant-manager-in-training to the esteemed and highly respected (only at face value, of course) Trade Prince Gallywix, dances the night away. His shuffle is legendary among the goblins of Kezan, and at his party, celebrating nothing in particular, he shows his party goers what this groove is all about. The ground trembles beneath his feet, and for a brief moment, each goblin in attendance pauses to collect themselves. Far in the distance, a massive explosion is heard; running outside, goblins set their gaze on the not-so-dormant Mount Kajaro. Lava spews from its maw, the ground shakes and buildings begin to collapse. Sirens can be heard across the island, as can Gallywix’s voice. He demands money in return for a safe passage off the island. Wash debates his options: go to a bank and withdraw everything, closing all accounts and cashing in all his stocks; get a gun and start robbing houses and other goblins, then head to the bank and rob that; or start swimming. The lava has reached his home and has begun to burn the foundation, and Wash knows, at that very moment, the fun of the next few moments depends on how much he could steal.
Oathbreaker, Loremaster and well-rounded brigand, screams in the face of an already dead corpse. Since his exile from Orgrimmar for accidentally burning down the Auction House, he took to the wilderness and found a knack in killing off small Alliance settlements for fun. The citizens of Southshore never knew such terror and few understood what pain truly felt like until the warlock visited that morning. Magistrate Maleb’s left leg is missing, and all he can do, as he tries dragging his battered husk with one functional arm across the splintered wood of the burning town hall, is look on as Oathbreaker demands a dead guard the whereabouts of a competent tailor to fix the seam of his robe, which he calls a “man dress.” The ground trembles violently, and a timber beam falls on Maleb, killing him instantly. Oathbreaker’s attention turns to a tremendous noise outside of the town hall. Dropping the dead guard, he runs outside, bearing witness to a tidal wave bigger than Black Temple itself. He summons a Demon Portal down, hoping that wherever he may be once the wave hits, he could just poof back to safety. He begins to cackle uncontrollably at nothing in particular. He stands at the end of everything, hoping that the water, devastating as it appears to be, is at least relatively warm.