The cosmic clock, in its infinite wisdom, decreed that it was time for Aragorn, the stoic, perpetually-brooding hero, to grace the shimmering, crystal-laden city of Shattrath with his presence. Apparently, even legendary rangers need a vacation, or at least a change of scenery from perpetually damp forests and ancient ruins.
Upon receiving the earth-shattering news that a human was actually visiting, Boros, ever the drama king, clutched the sacred Heart of the Holy Light to his chest like a long-lost puppy. He then plunged headfirst into the city's deepest, most hallowed depths, making a beeline for the Seat of the Holy Light. His mission? To seek urgent guidance from the luminous naaru, Vorlus, presumably to ask if Aragorn preferred sparkling or still water. Meanwhile, Alonsus, Aragorn, and the rest of the paladin posse, with a collective shrug that said, "Well, this is awkward," decided to make the most of it and embark on a grand tour of the draenei city. They admired the architecture, debated the merits of various crystal formations, and generally tried not to look too conspicuous.
However, as is tradition in any fantasy narrative, their leisurely stroll was rudely interrupted. Before anyone could even finish debating the optimal angle for a selfie with a glowing crystal, numerous fel portals, looking suspiciously like angry, swirling cosmic hemorrhoids, ripped open across the city! From these vile orifices poured forth hordes of demons, clearly having skipped the "Knock, knock" etiquette class.
"ENEMY ATTACK! OH MY LIGHT, THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! AND THEY SMELL OF SULFUR AND BAD DECISIONS!" "WE'RE UNDER ASSAULT BY DEMONS! AGAIN! DIDN'T WE JUST CLEAN THIS PLACE?!"
In the unfortunate absence of Prophet Velen, who was probably off somewhere having a particularly insightful vision about the optimal way to brew tea, the city was governed by the Triumvirate—a trio of highly stressed individuals who had replaced the old, presumably less stressed, Bishop Council. After the draenei had been, shall we say, massively inconvenienced on Draenor, and the Broken had decided they'd had enough of the drama, the draenei population on Azeroth had dwindled to numbers that made a small family reunion look like a bustling metropolis. Hence, Velen, in a stroke of genius, had abolished the Bishop Council's rule and installed the Triumvirate, presumably because three heads were better than a dozen perpetually bickering ones.
The very nanosecond the demons materialized, Ishanah, a vindicator and one-third of the Triumvirate, snapped into action like a highly caffeinated drill sergeant. Her voice, usually as serene as a gentle breeze, became a laser beam of command: "INITIATE MAXIMUM ALERT AT ONCE! AND SOMEONE GET ME A STRONGER CUP OF COFFEE!" "HOLD EVERY CHOKE POINT IN THE CITY! PROTECT THE DEFENSE CRYSTALS AT ALL COSTS! THEY'RE NOT JUST PRETTY, YOU KNOW!"
After barking out these emergency commands, Ishanah exchanged a grim, knowing glance with Kuros, the other triumvir present. It was a glance that said, "You handle the messy bits, I'll protect the VIP." She then swiftly led a squad of Vindicators, all looking suitably grim and sparkly, to the Seat of the Naaru to defend Vorlus – because nothing says 'sacred' like having a giant, glowing being as a target. Kuros, meanwhile, with a sigh that spoke volumes about his life choices, took the remaining forces to purge the demons from the city and rescue their people, probably muttering about how he was really looking forward to his day off.
Aragorn and his companions, being the seasoned, battle-hardened warriors they were, didn't even blink. They'd seen worse. Probably. Without hesitation, they formed battle formations that would make a parade general weep with joy and plunged headfirst into the chaotic fray. "Another Tuesday, another demon invasion," Turalyon probably muttered.
"BROTHERS OF THE HOLY LIGHT! LET'S SHOW THESE DEMONIC RUFFIANS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU INTERRUPT A TOUR GROUP!" Kuros roared, wielding a massive, crystal-forged warhammer that looked like it could crack a planet. He smote demon after demon, each blow accompanied by a satisfying CRUNCH and a shower of fel goo. Yet, the fiends poured endlessly from the portals, like a particularly aggressive, very smelly, and highly flammable clown car.
"The Dome of Light is our people's last bastion!" Kuros yelled over the din, wiping a smear of demon ichor from his cheek. "I must defend it with my life! If possible, I ask for your aid in scouring the city for survivors and destroying the demonic portals! And if you find my lunch, that would be great too!"
Turalyon glanced at Alonsus, then at Aragorn, then at Uther, a silent conversation passing between them that roughly translated to: "Who gets the really gross ones?" Aragorn, ever the pragmatist, immediately understood. "Lord Faol," he said, his voice calm amidst the chaos, "I'll take Turalyon and the paladins to rescue survivors. You and Uther stay and assist Kuros! He looks like he could use a hand, or perhaps a very large broom."
Recognizing the undeniable urgency (and probably the wisdom of not leaving Kuros to fight alone), Alonsus nodded in agreement. With a wave of his hand, Aragorn led Turalyon and dozens of elite paladins forward, a blue and gold wave of righteous fury. "We must hurry," Aragorn declared, perhaps a little too dramatically. "The draenei are already few in number—let's not have the Prophet return from his tea-vision to find his home in ruins! He'd never let us hear the end of it!"
Aragorn dreaded the thought of Velen being summoned by Garithos to aid Illidan, only to lose his city – especially since this whole disaster might have been brought upon them by their own presence. "Just our luck," he thought, "to be the cosmic equivalent of a bad omen."
The draenei in the city, bless their resilient, alien hearts, fought valiantly against the demonic onslaught. These extraterrestrial survivors had endured through more than just luck; each possessed formidable combat prowess, often involving glowy bits and very sharp weapons. But their numbers were simply too few to hold against the endless, squishy tide of demons, and their defenses crumbled rapidly, much like a poorly constructed gingerbread house in a rainstorm.
Aragorn's group arrived just in time, like a particularly well-timed cavalry charge in a cheesy action movie. They crushed a wave of demons, sending them back to whatever hellish dimension they'd spawned from, before forcibly shutting down a portal with a satisfying POP. They then guided the surviving draenei, who looked utterly bewildered but grateful, to the Dome of Light for safety.
The residential district, the market (now mostly just charred stalls), the mage quarters (now mostly just charred craters)… Soon, nearly all the demonic portals across the city were sealed. Aragorn wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "Right," he thought, "time for a nice, long, demon-free nap."
Just as everyone thought the crisis was nearing its end, because of course it was, the sky suddenly darkened. A crimson hue stained the blue firmament, looking like a giant bruise, before twisting into a sickly, vile green—a sign of immense fel energy gathering, or perhaps just a very angry cosmic upset stomach.
Then—BOOM! A sound that made everyone jump, even the battle-hardened paladins. Burning meteors, looking like giant, flaming green snot rockets, shrieked across the sky before crashing into the city with the grace of a brick through a window.
BOOM! BOOM! More meteors, more destruction, more inconveniently placed craters. After the rain of green meteors, infernals, looking like grumpy, fire-breathing rock golems, rose from the craters, rampaging with savage fury, annihilating everything in their path. They were less 'demonic invasion' and more 'very angry, very large toddlers having a tantrum.'
But wait, there's more! Another rift tore open in the air, looking like a tear in the very fabric of reality, and a terrifying presence surged forth eagerly, probably sniffing for fresh souls. Two colossal figures emerged—red-skinned beings who resembled draenei, if draenei had spent too much time in a tanning booth and then decided to become supervillains.
"General Rakish, handle things here. Try not to break everything," one boomed, his voice echoing with theatrical menace. "I'll seek our target! And try not to get any fel goo on my new robes!" "As you command, Grand Warlock Jaraxxus! I'll just be over here, trying to look busy!" the other, the red eredar general, Rakish, replied, probably rolling his eyes internally. Rakish led a detachment deeper into Shattrath, presumably to find something else to break. Meanwhile, the other eredar demon, Jaraxxus himself, turned his attention to Aragorn's group, his eyes gleaming with malevolent glee.
"So," Jaraxxus boomed, his voice dripping with condescension, "you're the ones who destroyed the Legion's portals? How… quaint." He paused for dramatic effect. "WHERE IS VELEN?! I, JARAXXUS, EREDAR LORD OF THE BURNING LEGION, HAVE RETURNED! AND I BROUGHT SNACKS!"
Aragorn, having just smashed the skull of an infernal with a casual flick of his wrist, paid no heed to the arrogant eredar lord. He turned to Turalyon. "Turalyon," he said, completely ignoring Jaraxxus's grand pronouncement, "handle that one. He looks like he needs a good shouting at. I'll go find Boros! He's probably gotten himself stuck in a crystal."
Turalyon, with the long-suffering sigh of a man who knew his destiny involved fighting overly dramatic demons, merely nodded. Boros had taken the Heart of the Holy Light to the naaru, and now an eredar general seemed to be targeting Vorlus as well—this worried him deeply. "Right," he muttered, "just another Tuesday."
Swinging the Silver Hand hammer—a relic from his past life that moved with deadly precision, often accompanied by a faint angelic choir—Aragorn carved a bloody, yet surprisingly elegant, path through the demons. He was a man on a mission, and that mission did not involve listening to a demon's overly long introduction.
Jaraxxus, utterly enraged at the sight of his forces being slaughtered and, more importantly, at being so thoroughly ignored, bellowed: "FACE JARAXXUS, EREDAR LORD OF THE BURNING LEGION! I AM YOUR DOOM! I AM YOUR NIGHTMARE! I AM… SLIGHTLY ANNOYED!" The demon lord stomped forward, shoving aside infernals like they were annoying house pets, attempting to intercept Aragorn.
"DEMON! YOUR FIGHT IS WITH ME! AND I'VE GOT A HAMMER WITH YOUR NAME ON IT!" Turalyon roared, raising his blade and intercepting the eredar lord, just as Aragorn had so casually requested.
Jaraxxus snarled, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. "YOU DARE STAND IN MY WAY?! MINIONS, DESTROY HIM! SUMMON THE WRATHLORDS! CRUSH THESE MEDDLING INSECTS! AND MAKE SURE THEY SUFFER! I LIKE IT WHEN THEY SUFFER!"
Seizing the golden opportunity Turalyon so bravely (and perhaps foolishly) provided, Aragorn activated two consecutive bursts of Light-infused speed, leaving the area in a blur of golden light and a faint scent of ozone. He was gone before Jaraxxus could even finish his dramatic monologue.
The paladin didn't know the exact location of the Seat of the Naaru, but he followed the general direction Boros and Rakish had taken, which was primarily indicated by the increasingly loud sounds of things breaking and the faint, high-pitched wails of a very unhappy naaru.
After another fierce battle, which mostly involved Aragorn hitting things very hard and very fast, he finally heard the eredar general's taunts from afar. Rakish, clearly having failed to find Velen and now just trying to sound menacing, was practically screaming.
"BOROS?! NEVER HEARD OF HIM! A NAMELESS COWARD AMONG FLEEING REFUGEES ISN'T WORTH REMEMBERING! HE'S PROBABLY HIDING UNDER A ROCK! A VERY SMALL ROCK!"
General Rakish's voice dripped with madness, desperation, and a hint of existential dread. "WHERE IS VELEN?! DID HE FORESEE THIS?! DOES HE KNOW WE'VE COME?! KIL'JAEDEN SENDS A MESSAGE: SHOW YOURSELF, OR WATCH YOUR PEOPLE BLEED! AND I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT A PAPER CUT!"
CRASH! Slaying the last wrathguard in his path with a satisfying THWACK, Aragorn finally burst into the scene at the Seat of the Naaru.
The sight was… less than ideal. Boros, the aforementioned drama king, lay defeated and grievously wounded, looking like a crumpled, very shiny rag doll. He was unable to move, probably because he was too busy contemplating his life choices. Vorlus, the majestic naaru, had also suffered heavy damage—the lower half of his crystalline form was now tainted by dark violet void energy, looking like a very bad bruise, and his agonized cries filled the air, sounding suspiciously like a cosmic alarm clock that was about to break.
"HAHAHA! SUCH DELIGHTFUL MUSIC! WHAT A CHARMING CREATURE—I'D LOVE TO BREAK IT! PERHAPS INTO TINY, SPARKLY PIECES!" Rakish cackled, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
Boros, weakly lifting his head, spotted Aragorn charging in, a beacon of hope (and slightly annoyed determination). "HELP US, HERO!" he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "AND IF YOU COULD, PERHAPS GET ME A BLANKET? IT'S A BIT CHILLY IN HERE."