"Lord of the Alliance, it seems you're not just 'legendary,' you're practically a cosmic-level clairvoyant!" Prince Erazmin's electronic eyes practically shot out two bright, blinking red exclamation marks, whirring with astonishment. "Mechagon has been off the grid since, well, forever, and yet you know our entire tragic-comedy of a situation! My decision to ditch Rustbolt Town? Clearly the most brilliant tactical retreat in gnome history!"
Galen, ever the master of understated smugness, merely offered a silent, knowing smirk. Ah, another isolated, self-imposed exile of a civilization, ripe for the picking. He'd known about the Mechagon mechagnomes for eons, or at least it felt that way. An island, you see, just off the ridiculously steep coast of Kul Tiras, where the very rocks seemed to judge your life choices.
Tens of thousands of years ago, a particularly unlucky (or perhaps incredibly forward-thinking) group of dwarves, fresh from being rudely awakened by the curse of flesh and blood in the mountains of Khaz Modan, decided to migrate here. Their engineering? Utterly bonkers, a complete departure from the mainstream, sensible, explosion-prone engineering of Azeroth. These radical thinkers had decided, quite literally, to replace their squishy, inconvenient flesh and blood with gleaming, clanking steel and whirring machinery. They called themselves "mechanical gnomes," presumably because "flesh-averse, gear-obsessed, metallic short stacks" didn't quite roll off the tongue.
The reason for this rather extreme makeover? During their migration, they stumbled upon a Titan relic. Not just any relic, mind you, but one that apparently spilled the beans on Titan engineering secrets and, more importantly, the horrifying truth about their own squishy, cursed origins. So, naturally, this group of dwarves, much like the Neferset tribe of Tol'vir, dedicated their entire existence to solving the pesky "flesh and blood curse." But unlike the Tol'vir, who were about as clued-in as a rock, these dwarves took a different approach. They didn't just try to cure it; they decided to engineer it out of existence, replacing all the offending organic bits with delightful, whirring clockwork.
And oh, did it work! The gnomes of Mechagon, after their grand mechanization, found their lifespans stretching out like a particularly long piece of taffy. Armed with this terrifyingly advanced tech, they then decided to play cosmic hide-and-seek, cloaking Mechagon Island in a shroud of secrecy. Once they were absolutely, positively, 100% sure no foreign invaders would ever find them (spoiler: they were wrong), they hunkered down to tinker with their newfound Titan toys.
This delightful little hermitage lasted for tens of thousands of years, a veritable eternity of gears and circuits, until modern times. That's when things got really interesting. A king emerged amongst them, a monarch so utterly, gloriously mad that he made most other mad kings look like slightly grumpy librarians. While most of these mechanical gnomes had the decency to keep their original, squishy heads (a small mercy, really), King Mechagon went full-throttle. Every single organ in his body, save for the brain (a crucial detail, that), was replaced with machinery. And then, because one madman is never enough, he decided everyone else also needed to become a glorious, whirring, emotionless machine.
Enter Prince Erazmin, the contemporary prince standing before Galen, looking utterly exasperated. He, bless his metallic heart, did not agree with his father's maniacal obsession. So, with a band of like-minded, slightly less metal-obsessed tribesmen, he staged a daring escape, establishing a tiny, defiant outpost outside the main city, aptly named Rustbolt Town.
If Galen hadn't already snagged Ulduar and the mechanical gnomes' very ancestors, he might have been tempted to offer Erazmin a pre-emptive hand, just to get his grubby paws on that sweet, sweet gnome tech. And honestly, if Erazmin hadn't had the good sense to bail from Mechagon, perhaps the world would still be blissfully unaware of their existence.
"You, Prince, have made the most exquisitely correct choice," Galen declared, extending his hand and grasping the dwarf prince's mechanical appendage with a grip that could probably crush a small boulder. "The Alliance, in its infinite wisdom and generosity, will absolutely, positively, unequivocally help you and your people. In return, you'll just need to, you know, join us. Like the Great Craftsman here. And, naturally, provide all your shiny technical support to the Alliance. Think of it as a very metal, very beneficial partnership."
The peace-loving mechanical prince, who had probably been bracing for a lifetime of solitary tinkering, visibly relaxed, a faint whirring sound emanating from his chest. He shook Galen's mechanical arm with a sincerity that could only come from someone who had literally nothing left to lose. "It is my profound honor to join the Alliance! Your Majesty Galen!"
And just like that, with a handshake that probably generated enough static electricity to power a small village, they reached an agreement.
Allied Races +1! Boom!
"Well, just a minor caveat," Galen added, a slight, almost imperceptible wince crossing his face. "Please, please be careful not to, you know, mechanically transform other Alliance races at will. It's a bit... permanent."
To be brutally honest, if this were his previous life, Galen knew full well that no self-respecting man could resist the siren call of "mechanical ascension." Imagine! No more stubbed toes, no more hangovers, just pure, unadulterated, metallic efficiency!
But Galen, being the embodiment of Galenlema, was deeply, profoundly, annoyingly well-versed in the ways of nature. He harbored a deep, almost visceral dislike for the mechanical dwarves' practice of abandoning their perfectly good (if sometimes inconvenient) flesh and blood. He worried, with a genuine furrow in his brow, that unchecked mechanization would birth a whole new breed of madmen in Azeroth. King Mechagon, after all, was a prime, whirring, terrifying example.
"..."
A string of utterly baffling characters, like a digital sigh of exasperation, appeared in the dwarf prince's electronic eyes.
Seriously? Galen thought, resisting the urge to facepalm. Is that how you mechanical gnomes express emotion? Simple emoticons? I'm too tired for this.
"Don't fret too much," Galen hastened to reassure him, a hint of patronizing amusement in his voice. "After all, a mechanical body is notoriously bad at storing all sorts of energy. Only technicians like yourselves, utterly obsessed with engineering technology and utterly unconcerned with, say, magic, would ever choose such a... unique transformation."
At this, Prince Erazmin's metallic ears (or what passed for them) perked up. "Actually, Your Majesty," he began, practically vibrating with excitement, "I've recently been researching two rather fascinating topics: 'Artificial Energy Transmission Pipelines' and 'Storage of Magical Power in Mechanical Bodies'! Perhaps soon, our people will have a spellcaster! Imagine! A gnome wizard who runs on pure arcane energy!"
So that's why, Galen mused, in addition to the usual warriors, rogues, and hunters, mechanical gnomes can also choose to be mages, priests, and warlocks! It's all your fault!
The Mechanical Prince, still buzzing with his groundbreaking research, was about to launch into a full-blown lecture on theoretical mana conduits when he was unceremoniously yanked away by the Great Craftsman Mekkatorque. Mekkatorque, bless his tiny, non-mechanical heart, simply could not stand this lump of whirring iron whose "expressions" required a Rosetta Stone to decipher.
"I," Azeroth declared after a long, horrified silence, "do not want to turn myself into a machine. If that happens, my heart won't be able to carry me! It'll just... clank!"
"That's right, that's right!" Brian chimed in, practically shuddering. "If I become a lump of iron like that, I won't be able to taste the fine wine and feel the glorious comfort of being tipsy! Gulp... gulp..." He quickly took a fortifying swig of his wine, as if to ward off the very thought of metallic sobriety.
Galen was about to offer some profound wisdom, or perhaps just a sarcastic comment, when a sudden commotion erupted in the distance. As the host, and because he was probably bored, Galen strode over without hesitation, ready to witness whatever fresh chaos had descended upon his banquet.
He saw a group of... long-eared elves confronting each other.
Why "long-ears," you ask? Because Galen, for the life of him, couldn't immediately distinguish between the various elven factions currently on the verge of a full-blown, glitter-infused brawl.
Highborne. High Elves. Night Elves. And the Nightborne.
Yup. Every single elf on Azeroth, apparently, had decided to grace Stromgarde with their presence, only to immediately start squabbling like particularly venomous pixies. These elves, who all shared the same ancient, slightly embarrassing ancestor, were on the precipice of utter, unadulterated violence. Axes were clutched, swords were unsheathed with dramatic flourishes, staffs were held aloft, practically crackling with accumulated magical power, as if they were all about to spontaneously bleed out in the next glorious moment.
"Well, well, well, look who it is," sneered a female Highborne, her voice dripping with enough disdain to curdle milk. "After you betrayed Her Majesty the Queen, you all regressed and ran off to the forest to live a life of eating raw meat and drinking blood? How utterly primitive."
She then turned her gaze to another group, her lip curling. "And you," she continued, pointing a perfectly manicured finger, "are so dark, just like the slaves in the mines! Honestly, what happened to your complexion?"
Then, she focused on the High Elves, her eyes narrowing. "And you, a bunch of shorties... "
Before she could finish her utterly charming monologue, her male companion, Cyranus, clapped a hand over her mouth with the speed of a panicked squirrel.
"What do you mean?! Cyranus, I haven't finished yet!" The female elf, Aethenel, shrieked, tearing free from his grasp. As a former maid of Queen Azshara, now gloriously restored to her Highborne form after the curse was lifted, she was practically vibrating with righteous fury at the sight of these "traitors."
"Aethenel! Watch your words, you infuriatingly rude creature! This is the palace of Stromgarde!" Cyranus was sweating profusely, a veritable waterfall of anxiety. Because he'd just spotted the owner of this very palace, Galen, striding purposefully towards them, and Aethenel was just about to insult the High Elves, two of whom happened to be Galen's wives. This was going to be an awkward conversation.
"Oh... short what?" Brian, fueled by righteous indignation (and probably a bit too much wine), suddenly jumped up, looking ready for a fight. "We are all here!"
"Alright, that's quite enough!" Galen's voice cut through the escalating chaos like a perfectly aimed arcane blast. Brian, bless his drunken heart, had absolutely nothing to do with this elven catfight, but he just had to wade in and stir up more hatred. This isn't a dungeon, Brian, why are you trying to aggro the entire room?
"You have brought profound shame upon Azshara with your rudeness," Galen stated, his voice calm but firm, directed at the offending Highborne. "I don't think you can possibly bear the consequences of such a public display of social ineptitude."
The male Highborne, Cyranus, practically dragged his companion aside, bowing frantically and apologizing to absolutely everyone within earshot. The expressions of the Night Elves and Nightborne, who had been seconds away from unleashing ancient, tree-hugging and arcane fury, softened ever so slightly.
"Go away, everyone," Galen said, waving a dismissive hand. The feud between the Highborne and the Night Elves was older than some mountains and definitely not something to be solved at a banquet. And just like that, everyone dispersed, as if the entire, embarrassing spectacle had never even happened.
But privately, many guests were absolutely buzzing with curiosity. Which audacious, utterly tactless force did those two elves belong to, the ones who dared to insult three entire elven races: Night Elves, Nightborne, and High Elves? Brian, still slightly tipsy but now intensely curious, was among them.
"Galen," Brian whispered, elbowing him conspiratorially, "who was that arrogant long-eared guy just now?"
"It shouldn't be the Night Elves, right? They can't even curse their own people without feeling guilty!"
"That," Galen explained, a hint of dramatic flair in his voice, "was a Highborne. A confidante of Queen Azshara from ten thousand years ago. And, more importantly, a Deep Sea Naga."
Brian's jaw dropped. He sobered up instantly, the alcohol fleeing his system in sheer disbelief. "Naga? They've changed back?!"
"Indeed," Galen confirmed with a nod. "I lifted their curse. And Azshara, in her infinite ambition, intends to rebuild her kingdom. And, delightfully, join the Alliance."
"..."
The silence that followed was deafening. Big news! The guests who had just witnessed the elven squabble, now armed with the knowledge of the Naga's return, collectively choked on their wine. For a moment, the entire banquet hall hummed with an awkward, stunned energy. However, as the court musicians of Stromgarde, clearly professionals, launched into a soothing medley of favorite pieces from every represented ethnic group, the atmosphere gradually, mercifully, relaxed.
Soon, the kings, nobles, and entourages of the various Alliance member states arrived, one after another, filling the hall with a delightful cacophony. The dwarves and tauren burst into cheerful, booming laughter, their mirth echoing through the grand hall. Meanwhile, the human and elven nobles, ever so refined, raised their delicate glasses, clinking them together as they discussed crucial "cooperation" like strategic marriages, lucrative trade deals, and other schemes to strengthen their already ridiculously powerful families.
Friends who were intimately familiar with Galen (and probably used to his eccentricities) also gathered, forming their own exclusive, slightly-too-loud small circle. King Kael'thas of the High Elves, Queen Calia of Lordaeron, King Liam of Gilneas (still probably smelling faintly of wet dog), King Drake of Kul Tiras , King Varian of Stormwind, Rhonin and Jaina, the new generation of Dalaran's magical elite, the new Grand Marshal Valstann of the Night Elves, Baine and Meera of the Tauren, Chief Arcanist Thalyssra of Suramar, and Zhu Taran, the stoic leader of the Shado-Pan.
If nothing utterly unexpected happened (and in Azeroth, something utterly unexpected always happened), the history of Azeroth for the next hundred, or even thousand, years would be meticulously, dramatically, and probably quite bloodily written by them.
Through casual conversation, Galen learned that the damage from the recent catastrophe had been largely repaired, which was nice. And thanks to Stromgarde's timely, incredibly generous delivery of food aid, no one had actually starved, which was even nicer. Vastan, ever the eco-warrior, declared he'd apply to send druids to various Alliance territories, using their tree-hugging abilities to help people and nature "regain vitality." Galen suspected this meant more annoying trees popping up everywhere.
After chatting for a while, Kael'thas, ever the one for juicy gossip, suddenly leaned in. "Galen," he purred, "I heard Queen Azshara's envoy is here too? Is it true? The Naga?"
"Yes," Galen confirmed with a nod, trying to sound nonchalant. "Azshara, surprisingly, contributed a lot to the destruction of N'Zoth. After the curse was lifted, they, rather ambitiously, wanted to rebuild the Highborne Kingdom on land."
"Re-establish a country?!" Thalyssra practically shrieked, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Many people were already grumbling about the High Elves joining the Alliance, let alone the Naga wanting to set up shop! The Kaldorei Empire had crumbled into dust ten thousand years ago! If Azshara actually pulled this off, the most embarrassed people wouldn't be the Night Elves, but the Nightborne! After all, they had directly slammed the gates of Suramar shut during the War of the Ancients, refusing to join the coalition of Night Elf commoners and a few High Elves, effectively telling Azshara to shove it.
"Has the location been confirmed?" the Chief Arcanist pressed, her voice laced with a desperate hope it was somewhere far, far away.
"Originally, they wanted to go to the Silver Wind Islands northwest of Kalimdor," Galen stated, trying to suppress a smirk.
The Silver Wind Islands! Two large islands, Silver Wind Island and Secret Blue Island, plus a smattering of smaller ones. Silverwind Island, for those keeping score, was the Bloodmyst Island of later generations. But in this time and space, there was no rude, crash-landing Draenei spaceship called Exodar, no scattered, blood-red crystal radiation polluting everything. It was still as ridiculously beautiful as a postcard.
When Galen uttered the name "Silver Wind Island," Vastan's eyelids twitched so violently they nearly detached. However, as a devout follower of the Heart of Origin, he knew that Galen, in his other, more secretive alias as leader of the Night Elves, would never, ever agree to Azshara's audacious request.
And the result? Exactly as he expected.
"I rejected Azshara's request," Galen announced, shrugging his shoulders with an air of casual dismissal. "At present, there's simply no extra land for these 'returning' Highborne to settle down on the four continents of east, west, south, and north. Unless, of course, they're willing to live under you."
"Heh-heh..."
A ripple of suppressed laughter went through the crowd. This was simply unimaginable. Not only were the Highborne notoriously arrogant, but Azshara herself was an undisputed, terrifying force of nature. It was utterly impossible for this group, from the queen down to the lowliest Naga, to condescend to live under anyone else. Even if Azshara had been "ruled" by the Heart of Origin (whatever that meant).
"Based on our extensive, painful understanding of Azshara," several elves chimed in, nodding in grim unison, "what she decides never changes. A country will definitely be established, but it will be on a certain piece of land! Somewhere far away, preferably!"
"Although Azshara and her followers made surprisingly useful contributions in conquering N'Zoth, it's undeniable that they once caused truly catastrophic harm to Azeroth," Galen conceded. "So, I told them that the Alliance, in its boundless magnanimity, was generous enough to accept them. They can have land, yes, but they have to pay a price. A rather significant price."
Everyone leaned in, listening intently to Galen's words. Not a single soul in that room wanted a powerful, arrogant, potentially land-grabbing neighbor.
"My esteemed allies of the dragonflight," Galen began, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "informed me that when Azeroth was first created, there were other lands besides the original Kalimdor continent. Lands that, for various mysterious reasons, lost contact with the outside world."
He paused for dramatic effect. "There is a piece of land called the Dragon Islands, where some truly evil forces are sealed away by the guardian dragons. A rather inconvenient problem, you see."
A mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "I have, shall we say, shown Azshara the way. She will go on her own, with her loyal followers, to achieve the new home she so desperately desires. And perhaps, clean up a little mess for us while she's at it."
This was big news! The kind of ancient secret that made even the most jaded noble gasp. To learn such a profound, continent-shifting truth at a banquet! Hearing that there was still evil lurking on Azeroth, Varian actually became restless, practically vibrating with a desire to bash something. He was already somewhat tired of handling tedious government affairs in the palace, and a good fight sounded infinitely more appealing.
"Drake!" Varian exclaimed, turning to the Lord of Kul Tiras, his eyes gleaming. "Why don't we form a fleet? Galen has taken all the good things, and there's not much left for us to fight for in Azeroth! Let's go find some evil and punch it!"
"This one..." The Lord of Kul Tiras was visibly tempted, a faint flicker of adventure in his eyes. But then, reality set in. He still decided to fool around with Varian. After all, the colony of Northrend had just been "digested," and Kul Tiras didn't have any extra population to develop new, potentially monster-infested land.
"Kul Tiras's next five-year plan," Drake announced with a sigh, "is to recuperate and replenish the population. As for the development of new, possibly dragon-guarded lands, I'm afraid we have to put it on hold for now! Perhaps in another five years, after we've had a good rest."
Outside the wall of a courtyard in the royal palace, a whole team of royal guards stood sentinel, looking incredibly bored, guarding all the passages. Hidden knife spies, probably equally bored, secretly monitored every blind spot in the courtyard, ensuring no rogue squirrels or overly ambitious pigeons breached security.
The courtyard itself was blissfully far away from the noisy hustle and bustle of the banquet, a sanctuary of childish chaos. Only a group of half-grown children played there, blissfully unaware of the geopolitical machinations unfolding just beyond the walls.
The oldest among them were three human children. The two boys, about ten years old, were a study in contrasts. One, radiating an aura of future kingliness, wore blue and gold armor adorned with a golden lion head emblem, his short golden hair perfectly coiffed. This, of course, was Anduin Wrynn, the little prince of Stormwind Kingdom, probably already practicing his diplomatic smiles. The other, nearly adult-sized despite his tender years, was dressed in outrageously gorgeous red and gold clothes, looking like a miniature, very wealthy, very serious bodyguard. This was Bodomo, a member of the formidable Trollbane family, probably already plotting his next grand strategy.
These two boys, in a rare moment of peace, surrounded a slightly younger girl, Artoria, the princess of Lordaeron. She had soft, white skin that seemed to glow, shoulder-length golden hair that shimmered, and blue eyes that held the promise of future mischief. Even at a young age, she possessed a pretty face that hinted at a stunning beauty to come.
The three were captivated by the game unfolding in the middle of the courtyard. This was a doubles match, a clash of miniature titans, with the two sides standing opposite each other. On one side were two half-elves with slightly shorter ears, looking suspiciously like they'd just raided their father's workshop. These were Legolas and Arathor, the very owners of this courtyard, probably already arguing about who got to use the cooler robot.
On the other side, a high elf and a dwarf child stood ready. The high elf child was the descendant of Kael'thas himself, the prince of the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas: Aris'Annar Sunstrider, probably already practicing his dramatic poses. His teammate, a truly unique individual, was the offspring of Gimli and Princess Bronzebeard, the current Dark Iron Prince Groin, who probably smelled faintly of coal and ambition.
In the field, Arathor, ever the aggressive one, took the lead in attacking: "Charge! Sons of Will! Let them taste your iron fist! And maybe a bit of rusty lubricant!"
Seeing that the front row had already rushed out, Legolas, with the gravitas of a seasoned general, immediately barked orders to the mini Arathor hovering in front of him: "Use missiles! Arathor! And try not to hit any actual children this time!"
Upon receiving the command, the mini Arathor's tiny mechanical arm rotated a full 90 degrees towards the sky, unleashing more than a dozen micro cannonballs into the air like a particularly enthusiastic, very destructive salute. After rising to about two meters, all the micro missiles, with a terrifying whizz, flew directly towards the two unsuspecting robots opposite!
The two people on the opposite side, caught completely off guard, lost the initiative in a flash. The high elf prince's face contorted in a comical mask of panic as he faced the dense, incoming firepower. It was too late to hide, too late to flee! He could only brace himself!
"Sun Chaser! Strengthen the armor! And maybe activate the emergency glitter shield!"
After the order was given, the Sunreaver micro-Sentinel in front of the prince immediately activated its own defense system, forming a shimmering, magical shield just milliseconds before the missiles from the Arathor arrived!
Rumble! Rumble!
The dense explosions created a cloud of dust so thick in the center of the site that it was impossible to see what was going on inside. Oh no, oh no, I don't know if I can handle this! Aris Annar thought, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated nervousness!
Phew!
A timely breeze, as if summoned by a benevolent deity, blew by, dispersing the smoke and dust. And there it was! The micro sentinel, battered but unbowed, still standing!
"Good job! Sun Chaser! You magnificent, tiny, magical shield-bot!" The High Elf Prince practically bounced with excitement. "It's time for us to fight back! Use Summon Lightning! And make it extra zappy!"
The Arcane Sentinel, clearly energized by its survival, burst out with a crackling bolt of lightning, heading straight for the offending red Child of Will!
"Son of Will! We also strengthen our shields! And maybe deploy the emergency rubber duckies!" Under Arathor's frantic command, the Son of Will immediately activated its skills! Unlike the Arcane Golem, the Son of Will's reinforced armor was a bit like a warrior's shield wall, with three small, silver-white shields appearing on its chest, looking vaguely like a very determined, very small, metallic hedgehog!
But alas, it failed to stop the lightning! The Son of Will went down with a dramatic clatter! Fortunately, it stood up again after a moment, looking slightly singed but still determined, and was now very, very close to the enemy!
"Good opportunity! Son of Will, strike hard! And maybe give it a sarcastic remark!"
At this crucial moment, the dwarf prince's mechanical pet, a clockwork robot that looked suspiciously like it had been assembled from spare parts found in a dumpster, finally arrived!
"Clockwork robot! Release poisonous fumes to protect it! And maybe sing a lullaby!"
Bang! Boom!
The battle raged for a solid five minutes, a whirlwind of miniature explosions, whirring gears, and tiny, indignant shouts. In the end, the team of Legolas and Arathor, much to their smug satisfaction, emerged victorious!
"Hmph! Groin, it's all your fault!" the High Elf Prince huffed, glaring at his dwarven companion. "How come your clockwork robot has such poor defense? It fell apart after just one hit from the Son of Will! It's an embarrassment to miniature combat!"
"How could it be just one time?!" the dwarf prince retorted, his voice rising in indignation. "It clearly helped your Sun Chaser block a rocket from the Arathor! And besides," he added, turning away from the high elf prince to address the two smug princes of Stromgarde, "engineering is not my strong point. I just put together the clockwork robot with spare parts I found under a loose floorboard!"
After Groin finished his spirited defense, he turned back to the two victorious princes, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Next time," he declared, puffing out his chest, "if you dare to use an elemental pet, I will use the stone guards I found in archaeology to kill you! They're ancient! And very grumpy!"
"Don't dare!" Legolas and AraArathor exclaimed in unison, practically recoiling in horror. "My father said that engineering will make three generations poor, poor, poor, and archaeology will ruin your life! My family is rich enough to support me if I study engineering, but archaeology is something that even dogs wouldn't learn! It's a curse!"
"Cough cough!"
Just as the Legolas brothers finished their rather emphatic declaration, they heard a very pointed cough from outside the courtyard, followed by a series of suspiciously dense footsteps. Then, Galen, looking utterly exasperated, showed up with his group of close friends.
Legolas and Arathor immediately dropped their arrogant expressions, their faces morphing into those of perfectly innocent, angelic good boys.
"Father, Uncle Varian, Grandpa Brian... hello!" they chorused, their voices sickeningly sweet.
"Oh! Children, Happy Lantern Festival, have you eaten the glutinous rice balls?" Brian boomed, looking far too cheerful.
"Well, good boy, you have grown taller again!" Varian added, trying to sound paternal.
The elders greeted them, showering them with exaggerated praise. When it was Brian's turn, the old man winked conspiratorially at the two children. Clearly, he'd heard everything. Galen, however, simply ignored Brian's antics. After all, those rather unflattering words about archaeology and engineering had, unfortunately, come directly from his own mouth. He couldn't exactly scold his children for repeating his own wisdom.
"Everyone," Galen announced, his voice cutting through the lingering pleasantries, "we invite you to this first Lantern Festival not just for a delightful gathering with old friends, but for something far, far more important!"
"Oh, Galen, I knew this drink was worth it!" a dwarf boomed, already pricking up his ears impatiently. "Tell us what's going on! Spill the beans! Or the ale, whichever comes first!"
"That's right, Galen," another chimed in, equally eager. "You have brought us all together, helped us overcome countless crises, and saved the world more times than we can count! You are our most important comrade-in-arms! Just tell me what you want to say! We're practically vibrating with anticipation!"
"No matter what the situation is, we will stand firmly behind you! Like a very large, very loyal, very drunk wall!"
"Mother Earth blesses you forever! Galen!"
Everyone was talking at once, a chorus of booming voices and clinking glasses, which, to Galen's surprise, genuinely moved him a little. All his hard work in supporting them over the years, all the strategic back-patting and subtle manipulation, had finally paid off. If he had chosen the path of ruthless conquest instead of tedious union, he might have had a group of loyal and capable heroes of Azeroth, yes, but he would never have had a group of like-minded friends, full of nostalgia for his past life, who were also prone to drunken outbursts and bickering.
After calming his surprisingly sentimental heart, Galen solemnly announced: "Azeroth's very own Titan Soul has awakened from its rather serious injury!"
He paused for dramatic effect. "And she has some... mobility!"
Well, everyone was a little surprised, but also, in a strange way, it was expected. They had long known that the planet Azeroth was not just a planet; it was home to a powerful Titan, the mother of all living things on Azeroth, currently in a very long, very painful coma.
Bane, ever the spiritual one, was practically vibrating with excitement. "Titan Soul... is it Mother ? Is she going to give us hugs?"
Galen smiled mysteriously, a glint in his eye. "Whether it is Earth Motheror not, you will know when you see her! Prepare yourselves for a cosmic surprise!"
Oh, open!
When the news finally spilled out, everyone's eyes widened to comical proportions.
Titan Titan Soul. A powerful, cosmic race in the universe. They were bred within planets, like very large, very slow-growing eggs, and possessed the terrifying, star-roaming power from the moment they were born. The greater the potential of a planet, the more ridiculously powerful the Titan soul it nurtured. And the Titan Soul of Azeroth? Recognized by the entire Titan Pantheon as the most powerful one since, well, ever.
Because of this, the Titan Pantheon and the utterly creepy Void Lords paid special attention to this remote, slightly dusty galaxy where Azeroth was located. The Titans, in their infinite, slightly overbearing wisdom, had transformed Azeroth's environment in their own unique, world-shaping way, creating various facilities to assist the growth of the Titan Soul. The Lord of the Void, however, being a colossal jerk, had sent five Old Gods to Azeroth at the same time. They were like cosmic parasites, living on the planet, oozing out the distorted will of the Titan Soul, and ultimately trying to hatch a void titan! A truly horrifying prospect.
Fortunately, after tens of thousands of years of agonizing corrosion by these Old God parasites, the beleaguered Azeroth Titan Soul finally, finally cleared all the disgusting parasites from its body, with a little (okay, a lot) of help from her children on the surface. And now, after recovering from a serious illness, the Titan Soul's awakening speed was accelerating at an alarming rate, and its initial will had also awakened!
As a token of gratitude (and probably because she was tired of being a giant, sleeping rock), Titan Soul decided to show up and bless the children who had so diligently helped her. Then, amid the excited murmurs of the crowd, a blinding silver light appeared in the courtyard of Stromgarde Palace.
Azeroth's appearance made everyone's eyes go white, followed by a collective, pained wince. This incarnation meant that the Titan Soul had finally passed its larval stage and was majestically moving towards maturity, no longer needing Ymiron to act as a cosmic telephone operator to communicate with Galen. Everyone, tears streaming from their over-stimulated eyes, peered through the blinding light, utterly curious about the Titan Titan Soul born in their own world.
It was a silver-white human figure, taking the graceful form of a high elf, with a body so elegant it seemed to float, long, thin ears that seemed to listen to the very cosmos, and a face that was tantalizingly hazy, as if she were made of starlight and dreams.
"Titan Soul..."
"High elves?" someone whispered, utterly bewildered.
Facing everyone's surprise, Azeroth laughed lightly, a sound like wind chimes made of stardust. Then, in a voice that was both ancient and playfully teasing, she said: "Children, this is the embodiment of my will... and yes, I picked an elf. Deal with it."
But why, everyone wondered, did Titan Soul, the very essence of the planet, choose to use an elf's illusion, much like most dragons? The dragons had always said that their phantom appearance after adulthood would choose the powerful mortal races on the continent at that time, which would facilitate their contact with the mortal world. Of course, there were exceptions; some dragons would choose their favorite race to transform into, perhaps a particularly fluffy sheep or a grumpy badger.
But was it the same for Titan Soul? As if reading their collective, confused thoughts, the Titan Soul, making her grand debut, patiently explained: "Trolls were the first intelligent race conceived in my body. My eldest, and perhaps, most... challenging children."
Although the elves present visibly winced at this revelation, they had to grudgingly admit the historical fact. But there seemed to be some disappointment in Azeroth's tone? Disappointment with the trolls? They didn't understand.
But Galen, ever the one to grasp the deeper, more tragic cosmic truths, seemed to understand something. That was disappointment in his eldest son. The Old Gods had corrupted Azeroth, and the ignorant Titan Soul, in her desperate attempt to save herself, had blessed the first intelligent race born within her, giving them strong physiques and terrifying self-healing abilities. They had, indeed, done a good job. The entire race had fought fiercely against the Yakir insects, the disgusting minions of the Old Gods, and eventually defeated them.
Unfortunately, the trolls, like many promising children, had later declined. The Zandalari stayed on the island of Zandalar, making absolutely no progress whatsoever. The Gurubashi, in a fit of self-destructive glee, killed each other in the jungle. The Amani were primitive and barbaric, still clinging to their ancient, slightly smelly ways. The Drakkari isolated themselves in the ice and snow, probably complaining about the cold, and the Faraki were even struggling to survive in the desolate desert.
Azeroth's eldest son was, to put it mildly, ruined. And Azeroth's first attempt to save herself had failed rather spectacularly.
As Galen's thoughts drifted into the melancholic depths of cosmic parenting, Titan Soul continued to narrate: "Back then, Aman'thul, the father of the gods, in a moment of extreme, well-intentioned clumsiness, pulled Y'Shaarj out of my body, causing me to be severely, painfully injured. The wound was large, and it ached."
Although Azeroth's tone was gentle and light, everyone could practically feel the cosmic agony in her words. "In order to heal my wound, my brothers and sisters, bless their giant, well-meaning hearts, built a Titan facility around the wound to stop the incessant flow of my precious blood."
Kael'thas, Valstann, and Thalyssra could feel the Star-Soul's gaze passing over them, a silent, knowing acknowledgment.
"A group of nocturnal trolls, who clearly had nothing better to do, settled around this facility. The energy emitted by the wounds caused the trolls' bodies to change, and they became... night elves. My second attempt at parenting, slightly more successful."
Kael'thas exclaimed, his eyes widening in realization: "The night elves and the Well of Eternity... it all makes sense!"
"That's right, my children," the Elf of Light confirmed, a gentle smile gracing her hazy features. "Elves are the lives I gave birth to. That's why I chose to meet you in the form of an elf! It's a family reunion, after all!"
As she spoke, she gracefully approached the crowd. She stretched out a delicate finger and tapped the forehead of Arathor, who was closest to her, followed by Legolas, then Artoria... giving special attention to the children, a dazzling, colorful halo burst out from Azeroth's body!
The light circle rippled and spread, washing over everyone. When they were affected, their bodies involuntarily floated up, surrounded by shimmering red, gold, green, and blue energy spots! Those scattered energy points, like tiny, eager fireflies, quickly poured into everyone's bodies and disappeared with a faint pop...
After doing all this, Azeroth's shimmering silver body became a little dimmer, as if she'd just run a cosmic marathon.
"Children, I bless you and your bloodlines. I hope you can become familiar with them as soon as possible and turn them into your own strength! Don't just sit there, use it!"
"Galen... my spokesperson, please lead my children well... and try not to let them turn into machines."
After saying this, Azeroth's body began to turn into streams of light, dissipating into the air bit by bit, like a particularly beautiful, very expensive special effect. After absorbing the blessing of power bestowed by the Titan Soul of Azeroth, the distance between themselves and the Titan Soul was shortened. They could even feel the Titan Soul's expectations for them, a faint, cosmic pressure to do something with all that power.
Ai-chan came quickly and left quickly. Facing Azeroth's rather abrupt departure, everyone only felt a surge of profound reluctance in their hearts, like a child watching their favorite ice cream melt.
Galen, however, didn't feel much. He himself possessed the Heart of Azeroth and could communicate mentally with the Titan Soul at any time. He could even pop into the Secret Chamber of the Heart for a quick chat and a cup of cosmic tea. He reacted immediately, immersing his mind in feeling the ridiculous amount of power that had just entered his body. Due to her obvious favoritism, he alone obtained one third of the power of Titan Soul's blessing, which directly elevated his demigod mid-level rank, which had been stuck for many, many years, to the high-level demigod level! He practically glowed.
In addition to the rather significant improvement of his own rank, there was also some more information in his mind, some rather intriguing ways to guide the power of Azeroth itself. After a quick glance, he felt that it was somewhat similar to the application of Azerite power that he had come into contact with in his previous life.
What is this? Galen wondered, a slight frown creasing his brow. Azeroth Titan Soul itself changes its version? Is this a software update for the planet?
Galen was a little surprised. But he soon discovered even more astonished friends.
"Everyone," Galen announced, his voice booming with newfound power and a hint of triumphant glee, "the Titan Soul has blessed you with power! I believe that soon, one of you will break through the limits of life and become a demigod! And then you can buy me a drink!"
He paused, letting the implications sink in. "And those who have already become demigods will soon break through the ranks even further! Prepare for glory!"
"For Azeroth!"
"For the Earth Mother ... and all her weird, wonderful, and occasionally annoying children!"