When Galen and the perpetually hungry Artoria crash-landed into this so-called "Brave New World," Galen's nostrils were immediately assaulted by the familiar, yet oddly aggressive, scent of pine and earth. This wasn't just a forest; it was a monumental pine forest, with a river that didn't just rush, it thundered through it, probably judging every single one of their life choices.
A quick glance at the terrapins casually loitering by the riverbed – looking suspiciously like they were planning something – and the brown bears confidently strutting through the trees, confirmed Galen's suspicions with the speed of a wizard slamming a spellbook shut. "Hillsbrad!" he declared, a triumphant, slightly deranged glint in his eye. He knew this place so intimately, he could practically smell the unwashed socks of the Durholde Keep guards to their east!
Ohoho…
The terrifying, guttural rumble emanating from the tiny human currently clinging to his side snapped Galen back to reality. Artoria, bless her perpetually empty stomach, hadn't eaten since… well, since before they'd spontaneously combusted into this dimension.
With a sigh that could fell a small tree, Galen unleashed two fireballs from a distance so ludicrous it defied the laws of physics. The unfortunate freshwater turtle and an equally unlucky brown bear were instantly flash-fried, their last thoughts probably being, "Wait, that's how it ends?"
And so, under the cloak of a night so dark it felt judgmental, the impromptu adventurers savored a campfire dinner on a precarious high ground overlooking the river. As he watched Artoria devour a bear paw he'd personally roasted – a culinary masterpiece, if he did say so himself – Galen finally felt relaxed enough to inflict conversation upon Murozond.
"The world seems… relatively normal," Galen mused, picking a stray bear hair off his sleeve. "But the real question is, how long until it devolves into utter chaos?"
Two golden runes, shaped suspiciously like antique stopwatches, flared to life in Murozond's eyes. He squinted, adjusted his ethereal monocle, and then, with the gravitas of a cosmic librarian, declared, "We can still hold on for another ten years."
Ten years! Galen nodded, a smug, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. Finally, a timeline that wasn't about to collapse into a singularity before he could even finish his breakfast. The next step: confirm if his utterly insane plan was actually, you know, feasible.
"If I, hypothetically speaking, were to drastically redecorate this time branch with the subtlety of a rampaging Kodo, would it… inconvenience our own world?"
Murozond, who had long since accepted his role as Galen's long-suffering cosmic babysitter, sighed. "Great Lord," he began, his voice dropping to a solemn, doom-laden whisper, "do you, by any chance, understand the intricate art of weaving?"
He continued, without waiting for an answer, "As the shuttle of the loom moves, the warp and weft threads are entangled, and cloth is created. A loom is a miniature world. If you wish to obliterate a world, you merely need to sever a few important nodes!"
Azeroth itself, Murozond explained, was no ordinary cosmic rag. It was a bespoke, designer fabric, collectively blessed by the entire Titan Pantheon, making it uniquely… stubborn.
This included her timeline! It wasn't just a line; it was a spaghetti junction of interwoven temporal threads. Every crucial time node was tangled with every other, like a cosmic ball of yarn after a particularly enthusiastic kitten got to it. Interfere with it, and the timeline would veer off course, spawning "time tributaries" – apparently, the universe's equivalent of annoying side quests.
"So my plan is… not feasible?" Galen deadpanned, his face a mask of profound disappointment. Had this entire time-traveling escapade been for naught? Even as a "parent-child activity," it was shaping up to be a spectacular failure.
"Actually," Murozond interjected, clearly enjoying Galen's suffering, "most tributaries won't affect the main body of the world line. Think of them as the sleeves of a particularly ill-fitting garment. Their eventual end doesn't impact the overall length of the clothes…"
"But," he added, a finger raised dramatically, "if you decide to mess with too many time points at once, you'll cause problems so terrible, they'll make your eyebrows spontaneously combust."
"The Bronze Dragon Legion," Murozond continued, now sounding like he was reciting a particularly dull bureaucratic memo, "will dispatch its members to maintain temporal stability at specific points. They're basically cosmic bouncers, alert to external interference, and prompt to clear out any unstable factors causing chaos."
Murozond paused, letting the sheer density of that information hang in the air like a bad smell. Galen, bless his simple, world-conquering mind, didn't need to understand the nuances. He just needed to imagine different timelines as different, slightly less impressive, parallel universes.
"I distinctly feel," Galen announced, a manic gleam returning to his eyes, "that the errors and flaws in this timeline have reached such a catastrophic level that it can't even flow forward normally. It's practically constipated!"
"When the tributaries of time become less important, or perhaps are about to vanish entirely," Galen continued, now practically vibrating with excitement, "the Bronze Dragon Legion, in their infinite wisdom, sends out a young dragon. A rookie! And I, my dear Murozond, now possess enough power to hide it from him until this pathetic timeline is on its last gasp!"
That meant… the plan worked! Galen's heart was practically doing the Macarena with unbridled glee!
After a night's rest – though "rest" for Galen usually involved plotting world domination in his sleep – Galen and Murozond parted ways. Murozond, with the weary resignation of a man about to explain advanced calculus to a particularly dense squirrel, went to find the unfortunate young dragon in charge of this temporal stream. Galen, meanwhile, hopped onto his magic carpet, Artoria giggling maniacally beside him, and the farmer clinging on for dear life, as they zipped eastward.
Mid-flight, Galen's mind was a whirlwind of glorious, self-serving schemes. First, pinpoint the exact temporal coordinates. Then, locate a suitably secret mine, because what's a world-domination plan without a hidden base and a rapidly expanding population of loyal, easily manipulated farmers? Then, and this was the pièce de résistance, he'd swing by Stromgarde. If his pathetic counterpart, Galen 2, was still kicking in this timeline, he'd simply… take his place.
The plan was foolproof! Or at least, fool-resistant.
The magic carpet, clearly enjoying Artoria's infectious laughter, zipped along at an alarming speed. Soon, a colossal castle loomed into view!
(Why did he take his daughter with him bruh)
Durholde Keep!
The sight of the perfectly intact castle, complete with shackled orc slaves milling about outside – because nothing says "peaceful timeline" like forced labor – confirmed Galen's temporal coordinates. This was after the Second War, but before the Third! A sweet spot for maximum meddling!
The castle itself wasn't just a prisoner-of-war camp; it was the nerve center for all the other camps. Dozens of guards, looking bored but vaguely menacing, stood at the gate. As the magic carpet gracefully landed, they snapped to attention, saluting Galen with an almost comical deference. Anyone who could operate a flying carpet, after all, had to be at least an "intermediate level" magician, which in their world meant "don't mess with him."
"Master Mage!" one guard practically gushed, his voice dripping with practiced obsequiousness. "Welcome to Durnholde Castle! Whether you're here to acquire some prime orcish stock or witness tomorrow's gladiatorial spectacle, you are guaranteed a wondrous experience!" The guards puffed out their chests, radiating an almost delusional confidence. Durnholde Keep, after all, was the undisputed champion of northern orc internment camps, and a renowned arena. Every self-respecting northern noble with a penchant for bloodsport or cheap labor came here.
Ding!
A gold coin, gleaming with an almost divine radiance, was flicked from Galen's hand. It landed with uncanny precision, embedding itself perfectly into the guard captain's belt.
"Who," Galen intoned, his voice resonating with an authority that brooked no argument, "is the person in charge here? Take me to him. Now."
The gold coin, clearly a master of persuasion, caused the captain's already obsequious smile to widen into a grotesque, almost painful rictus. "It's General Drake, honored Master! I shall personally escort you to his esteemed presence!"
Drake? Galen racked his brain. No general by that name in Lordaeron's history, as far as he recalled. But no matter. With his own god-like power, controlling this "Drake" would be as easy as swatting a particularly annoying fly.
"This way, please, honorable Master!" The captain barked a few hurried orders at his bewildered deputy, then practically skipped ahead, leading Galen and his entourage into the castle and towards its highest, most ostentatious point.
The castle was practically bursting with a festive atmosphere, which Galen found deeply unsettling. Orange and yellow flags, looking suspiciously like they'd been designed by a particularly color-blind goblin, fluttered defiantly from the ramparts. Galen frowned. The seven human kingdoms had their distinct colors: Lordaeron (white), Dalaran (purple), Stromgarde (red), Stormwind (blue), Kul Tiras (green), Alterac (orange), Gilneas (black)…
What in the blazes was this orange and yellow abomination? Perhaps this was just another delightful quirk of this particular temporal detour? Probably.
Led by the ridiculously eager captain, they navigated a labyrinth of checkpoints, each manned by guards who seemed increasingly impressed by Galen's mysterious aura (and likely the lingering scent of his gold coin). Finally, they reached the castle's zenith, where they were ushered into the presence of General Drake, the man who apparently ruled this bizarre roost.
The moment his eyes landed on the general, Galen's memory clicked. Lieutenant Drake! The ambitious, utterly forgettable soldier from the Durnholde Keep escape scenario! The man whose ambition was matched only by his pathological hatred for green-skinned orcs, a hatred he gleefully inflicted upon his prisoners. This was Draco's background. And in this twisted parallel universe, he'd somehow clawed his way to general, reaching the pinnacle of his pathetic life? The sheer audacity!
With a casual flick of his wrist and a mind control spell so subtle it barely registered, Galen transformed Durnholde's pompous ruler, General Drake, into his own personal, drooling puppet.
After a table groaning under the weight of delicious, mind-controlled food was prepared, Galen began to interrogate Drake, extracting every juicy, twisted detail about this new, doomed timeline. He needed to know why it was on the verge of temporal extinction.
"Eighteen years ago," Drake droned, his eyes glazed over with a disturbing obedience, "a horde of greenskins, the very same ones now scrubbing our latrines, descended upon our lands! They utterly annihilated the Stormwind Kingdom in the south!"
"To combat these… monsters," Drake continued, his voice devoid of any genuine emotion, "the North forged the glorious Seven Kingdoms Alliance!"
Artoria, who had been quietly stuffing her face, suddenly perked up, her little head tilted. She was surprisingly invested in tales of inter-species warfare.
The first part of the story was almost identical to Galen's own timeline, which was boring. Galen urged him to get to the point, subtly nudging Draco's mind with a mental prod.
"Finally, the Human Alliance and the Orcish Horde clashed in a decisive, utterly brutal battle at Blackrock Mountain!"
"The failure of that duel," Drake recited, "completely shattered the greenskins' morale! A vast number of orcs were captured, becoming our… valued assets!"
"The greenskins who managed to escape," he continued, "had their spirits utterly broken. They wandered the wilderness, hunted relentlessly by the kingdom. In the end, they were either captured and enslaved, or summarily executed for daring to resist."
Galen had listened for what felt like an eternity, and still, no actual point had been made. "How," he interrupted, his patience wearing thinner than a goblin's wallet, "did you become the General of Durnholde Castle?"
Drake 's eyes unfocused, falling into a programmed recollection. "After the Alliance was established, I served under King Blackmoore. We found an orc baby in the south…"
"Wait!" Galen practically roared, slamming his hand on the table. "You said King Blackmoore? Aedelas Blackmoore?!"
Bingo! Galen had found the temporal anomaly!
"Tell me everything about Blackmoore and that orc baby!"
"His Majesty Blackmoore," Draco explained, "originally intended to use this orc baby to control all the orc slaves, to make them fight for him. A brilliant plan, truly!"
"But the orc baby," he continued, a flicker of something almost like regret in his blank eyes, "died when he was one year old. His Majesty, in his infinite wisdom, then punished the family that had cared for the baby!"
"What happened next?" Galen pressed, leaning forward. "How did he become king?!"
"After the plan failed," Drake droned, "His Majesty had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. He devoted himself entirely to his goal. After the Battle of Blackrock Spire, His Majesty, unlike those other fools, did not disband his private army. He poured all his efforts into training and cultivating our subordinates, and then bought mercenaries on a scale that would make a dragon blush."
"In private," Drake added, leaning in conspiratorially, "His Majesty also struck a secret deal with the surrendered orcs: as long as they joined his private army and attacked King Terenas and his kingdom, the orcs would all survive!"
"Just him?" Galen scoffed, utterly incredulous. He remembered Blackmoore as an ambitious fool with a life expectancy shorter than a goblin's fuse. Why would the orcs listen to him?
"He slew Orgrim Doomhammer," Drake stated, a robotic reverence in his voice, "in single combat at Blackrock Mountain."
Confirmed. Blackmoore was the absolute, unhinged variable in this timeline. He actually dueled the Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer, and won?! Anduin, the supposed hero, was clearly a complete and utter loser in this dimension!
"Because of this monumental feat," Drake continued, "Your Majesty gained immense prestige and forged an army of unparalleled power!"
Galen remembered that Durnholde Keep was the largest gladiatorial arena. Blackmoore could have subjected his subordinates to countless gladiatorial battles, forging them into hardened warriors through the crucible of life and death!
"Terenas is dead," Drake announced, his voice flat. "Uther Lightbringer and Anduin Lothar are also dead!"
Hearing these familiar, revered names, Artoria's little eyes widened with genuine terror. Galen, ever the doting-but-scheming father, held her close, gently comforting her.
"Father," Artoria whispered, now calm, "please ask about Mother Calia and Uncle Arthas!"
"Speak!" Galen commanded, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"Terenas' son, Arthas, was too young to fight," Drake explained. "He fled south with his queen and princess, following Prince Varian. They all survived!"
"King Varian now rules Stormwind," Drake continued. "Arthas is his right-hand man, and King Varian was the best man at Arthas' wedding!"
"Who," Galen asked, a sense of dread creeping in, "is the bride?"
"The bride is Jaina Proudmoore," Drake said timidly, clearly sensing the shift in Galen's mood.
"They already have a child," he added, almost as an afterthought. "A little boy. Prince Uther."
Really… Even abandoned timelines, it seemed, clung to some semblance of historical inertia.
Durnholde Keep, having served its purpose as an information hub, was summarily abandoned the next day. Galen, with Artoria and the farmer in tow, continued his eastward journey, soaring over the Wall of Thoradin and into the Arathi Highlands.
He'd done his reconnaissance before leaving. Stromgarde, it seemed, had fallen into a state of glorious disrepair, most of the city now occupied by a charming mix of ogres and human thieves. The remnants of Stromgarde's once-proud populace were now huddled in the northeast, using the Refuge Valley, G'Shark Farm, and Dabile Farm as their last bastions. They were united, apparently, under the command of Prince Galen Trollbane, and were "gathering strength to retake the city!"
What a familiar, utterly predictable plot!
If he hadn't been blessed with his cheat-level time-traveling abilities, in his timeline, that very prince would have colluded with the Syndicate thieves and the Stonest Ogres to assassinate the king. Then, an incompetent prince would seize control, only to prove utterly incapable of protecting and governing the country. The Syndicate and the Stonest Ogres would then unite, breaking through the thousand-year-old royal city of Stromgarde. The prince would then be forced to survive with his people, forever branded with the ignominious title of "filial son."
But without the Scourge of the Undead and Jaina's eastward journey, Stromgarde's population shouldn't have been decimated. So why had they lost most of their capital?
Pondering this temporal paradox, Galen cast a vision spell outside Stromgarde. The entire city, in all its ruined glory, was laid bare before his eyes.
Though ogres and human thieves held sway over most of the city, Stromgarde's city guards, bless their stubborn little hearts, still clung to the last church district. Prince Galen in this timeline – let's call him Galen 2, for clarity – was holed up in the church, which, ironically, also served as the royal cemetery of the Trollbane family.
Galen 2, Galen observed with a detached amusement, looked utterly pathetic. He was seriously ill, practically on his deathbed.
Heh! Galen laughed out loud, a rich, booming sound that probably startled a few local squirrels. Two Galens in one timeline! While their souls were distinct, their bodies were, for all intents and purposes, identical. This temporal paradox, a mere trifle for a demigod like himself, was clearly wreaking havoc on poor Galen 2.
Galen 2 was too weak! And in this brutal, unforgiving world, weakness was the ultimate original sin! No matter who was plotting against Stromgarde in this twisted timeline, Galen 2 simply couldn't protect his legacy!
Waving a dismissive hand to dispel the vision spell, Galen rummaged through his backpack. He pulled out a pristine priest's messenger suit, donned it with a flourish, and then, with his daughter and the bewildered farmer in tow, strode confidently towards the ruined city.
"Father… is this Stromgarde?" Artoria asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and confusion. Was this crumbling, ogre-infested ruin truly the same glorious ancient city she'd seen in the history books?
"Royal power is not eternal, Artoria!" Galen declared dramatically, looking down at Artoria. Sooner or later, she would wear the crown of Lordaeron, and there were certain harsh truths that needed to be drilled into her impressionable young mind. "If you wish to wear the crown, you must bear its crushing weight. If you are incapable of leading the kingdom to greater heights, then the kingdom will inevitably decline, just like this very city…"
"Yeah… I understand, father!" Artoria chirped, probably more interested in the prospect of future snacks than the philosophical implications of temporal decay.
As Galen delivered his impromptu lecture on the ephemeral nature of power, a squadron of cavalrymen, resplendent in their red Stromgarde armor, materialized from the ruins, surrounding them.
"Who are you?!" a familiar voice boomed. "The situation ahead is… unpeaceful. What in the blazes are you doing here?!"
Galen looked up. The leader was a middle-aged man with a magnificent golden mane and an equally impressive golden beard. He wore the standard Stromgarde armor, red-edged with a white background, a winged eagle emblazoned on his chest, and a proud red fist symbol on his shield.
Varokal? Galen remained silent, allowing the man to approach.
Varokal's face, initially stern, softened as he took in their attire. The farmer was clearly a peasant. The little girl, though dressed aristocratically, was just a child. His gaze settled on the mysterious Galen. Clad in the robes of a divine messenger, his face obscured by a hood, Varokal couldn't make out Galen's features. But the robes themselves, radiating an almost blinding light and imbued with an aura of undeniable holiness, screamed "BIG DEAL IN THE CHURCH OF HOLY LIGHT!"
Varokal dismounted with a speed that belied his age and offered Galen the most respectful, almost groveling, salute. "Greetings, Reverend! I am Varokal, cavalry captain, appointed by Prince Trollbane!"
"May the Holy Light be with you, Mr. Varokal!" Galen's voice, muffled by the hood, resonated with a practiced, pious calm. "I am the Bishop of Northshire Abbey, leading the very bloodline of the Menethil family to the Holy Land, to meet the Archbishop!"
Galen had just dropped a bombshell, half-truth, half-magnificent fabrication. Varokal, for his part, looked utterly shell-shocked. The bloodline of Menethil?! He'd only heard rumors that Arthas had married in Stormwind and had a son! But the person before him was clearly a daughter!
Varokal covertly scrutinized Artoria. As Galen 2's confidant, he had indeed visited Lordaeron's capital and seen the Menethil royal family from afar. Was it psychological conditioning, or did the little girl really resemble Princess Jialiya? Varokal quickly lowered his head, mentally reminding himself to deliver this earth-shattering news to his prince immediately!
Thinking of his ailing prince, Varokal's eyes lit up with a desperate hope. "Reverend Pastor," the cavalry captain practically begged, "might I prevail upon you to grace Stromgarde with your presence? The ruler of Stromgarde, Prince Galen, has suddenly fallen gravely ill, and our humble church pastor is utterly helpless! I implore you to come and cast your divine gaze upon him!"
Galen, beneath his hood, did not immediately agree. He paused, a dramatic silence hanging in the air, before finally, with a theatrical sigh, agreeing to Varokal's plea. He followed the cavalry into the crumbling city of Stromgarde.
Conveniently, the church area controlled by Galen 2 was near the city gate, saving them the trouble of traversing dangerous, ogre-infested zones. Inside the church, three priests were desperately taking turns blessing the weak prince with Holy Light, their efforts about as effective as trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble. After being informed by the guards, Varokal entered the church.
Hearing that a bishop from the south, and a descendant of Menethil no less, had arrived, Galen 2's eyes lit up with a desperate, pathetic hope. After all, King Varian had also experienced poverty, and Stromgarde had made significant efforts in his restoration. So, he struggled, each step a monumental effort, shuffling slowly towards the church door.
Galen 2 observed the three newcomers with intense scrutiny. The little girl looked incredibly familiar, and she was staring at him with a gaze so strange it sent shivers down his already weakened spine.
"Welcome, Reverend!" Galen 2 croaked, his voice barely a whisper.
"The Holy Light is with you, Your Highness!" Galen boomed, and with a flourish, he unleashed a Holy Light spell. This wasn't some paltry priest's blessing; this was the Holy Light of a Paladin Demigod, a force of nature, even from a Punishment Paladin!
In a single, blinding flash, Galen 2 felt a surge of raw, unadulterated power course through his veins. He wasn't just better; he was practically reborn. His pale face flushed with color, his steps were no longer those of a dying man, and his voice, once a pathetic whisper, now held a newfound strength. Galen had just proven his power with a single, devastatingly effective move, and the priests behind Galen 2 stared at him with a mixture of awe and utter terror.
"I suspect," Galen said, his voice dripping with false concern, "that your physical changes are… unnatural. If you are willing, I can provide a detailed physical examination!"
Galen 2, overjoyed and utterly oblivious to the manipulative undertones, practically beamed. Facing such overwhelming kindness from the pastor, he exclaimed, "Thank you, pastor, please follow me!"