After a truly spectacular battle, the joint fleet of Stormwind Kingdom and Kul Tiras successfully handed the Burning Legion a resounding defeat in their sneaky ambush. Varian, ever the proper king, then returned to his flagship, the gloriously named Llane's Oath, probably for another nap.
Upon counting the various bits of floating wreckage, it was discovered that Stormwind's fleet, having bravely (or perhaps foolishly) led the demonic raid, had sustained far more severe losses than Kul Tiras. In addition to the rather dramatic crash of an aerospace battleship, eight more warships sank with a mournful gurgle, and twenty others suffered varying degrees of "spontaneous structural rearrangement."
After a brief, probably awkward discussion (involving Varian bemoaning the cost of his ships), Drake Proudmoore and Varian continued sailing towards the Broken Shore as planned. But this time, it was the Kul Tiras fleet, looking suspiciously pristine, that took the lead.
"Smell the sea breeze, Varian! Oh, it feels so good to be out on the open sea again! I've been cooped up in Boralus for far too long, dealing with paperwork and disgruntled nobles!" Drake boomed, clearly enjoying himself.
Not long after the epic Battle of Mount Hyjal and the frosty Northern Expedition to Northrend, Drake had inherited the throne of the Kingdom of Kul Tiras. Over the years, he'd diligently followed Galen's suspiciously wise advice, working tirelessly to stabilize the domestic situation. Since the Second War, the Alliance had enjoyed victory after victory, and the various nations within the Alliance had reaped the glorious dividends of war, increasing their national strength to impressive levels.
Drake had originally thought the kingdom he inherited from his old father Daelin was a picture of vitality and prosperity. If Galen, that perpetually unsettling genius, hadn't pointed it out, with Drake's rather blunt personality, he truly wouldn't have been able to discover the sneaky, lurking crises in the dark corners of his own kingdom.
Kul Tiras, like many kingdoms, operated under a charming feudal system. In addition to the ruling Proudmoore royal family, there were three other equally powerful (and equally irritating) noble houses. Proudmoore, naturally, controlled the bustling capital city of Boralus. House Ashvane was situated in Tiragarde Sound, primarily responsible for trade and economy—and also for being obnoxiously ambitious. House Waycrest held vast amounts of land and mining operations in Drustvar, wielding significant economic influence (and a terrifying amount of creepy magic). And finally, there was House Stormsong in Stormsong Valley, famous for shipbuilding and its highly exclusive magic manufacturing.
Members of the Stormsong family could even become Tidesages, mystical individuals with a deep, almost unsettling connection to the sea. They could use their magic to bless ships, making them ride the wind and waves with impossible speed, and occasionally summon angry squids.
The four major families, ostensibly, had a clear division of labor. Proudmoore commanded the mighty navy, House Ashvane was responsible for manufacturing arms (and probably skimming profits), House Waycrest provided armaments (and occasionally cursed items) for Kul Tiras, and House Stormsong was in charge of building ships and providing the Tidesages who escorted them.
Most of Drake's headaches, it turned out, came directly from these three supposedly supportive families.
The territory of House Waycrest, Drustvar, was deeply affected by an Evil Witch, and the curse had even spread to its main members. Pleasant. A nasty split had occurred among the Tidesages led by the Stormsong family, and naturally, the Old Gods were secretly pulling the strings behind it all. In comparison, the lightest, almost charming, crisis was probably House Ashvane. Their head, a truly ambitious woman, secretly tried to replace Proudmoore as the ruler of Kul Tiras. Drake simply needed to firmly control the naval fleet, coupled with his own and Jaina's powerful high-end combat capabilities, to suppress Ashvane's inner restlessness.
Drake, being a man of action (and wanting to avoid endless paperwork), then set out to resolve the deeply unpleasant hidden dangers of the Waycrest family. He first, cleverly, married Anna from the Waycrest family as his princess (because nothing says "alliance" like a strategic marriage). Then, he shrewdly reorganized the Order of Embers, a powerful group of monster hunters from a thousand years ago, to investigate the source of the curse and put down those meddling witches. Eventually, the horrifying truth was uncovered, and Lady Waycrest, the true mastermind behind the Poisonous Coven, was exposed, thus resolving the crisis for the Waycrest family. Mostly.
The most difficult problem, the Tidesage schism, consumed a truly gargantuan amount of Drake's energy, and he'd had no idea where to even begin. If Galen hadn't conveniently dealt with N'Zoth on the seabed (because, of course, he did), Drake would have been forced to send troops to the Temple of Storms to forcibly wipe out the group of dangerously split sea priests.
"Compared to the endless intrigues on the ground, I definitely prefer breathing the salty air of the sea!" Jaina, who was standing next to Drake, also looked remarkably relaxed. She could sense that as long as she helped Galen solve the persistent hidden dangers within Azeroth, she would finally get what she wanted. You get what you want!
For a moment, the usually stoic female mage not only did not feel the tension and solemnity that typically preceded a battle; she was actually a little excited.
"Your Majesty," a Kul Tiras sailor, looking surprisingly calm despite the impending doom, came to report. "At our current speed, we are still twenty nautical miles away from reaching the Broken Shore." He paused, clearing his throat. "The marines arrived an hour ago. According to their report, the island is already… full of demons, sir!"
From a distance, Drake had already seen a gargantuan green beam of light shooting out from a demonic spire and reaching into the sky, a beacon of pure, unadulterated evil. He waved the sailor away, then signaled Jaina to cast an amplification spell on him, because if you're going to shout, shout loudly.
"WARRIORS OF THE ALLIANCE! WE ARE ABOUT TO ARRIVE AT THE BATTLEFIELD! AND IT'S GOING TO BE A GLORIOUS MESS!"
"THE ONLY WAY WE CAN WIN IS TO DESTROY EVERY SINGLE DEMON WE SEE! LEAVE NOTHING BUT ASH AND BLOOD!"
"FULL SPEED AHEAD! FOR THE ALLIANCE! FOR AZEROTH!"
The Marines, acting as the vanguard, had already bravely cleared a stretch of the chaotic coast, establishing a precarious landing point. The warriors of Kul Tiras, surprisingly agile for such large men, made a quick, efficient landing.
BOOM! BOOM!
The Burning Legion's old, reliable trio of pain—Fel Cannon long-range attacks, Cerberus ground assaults, and Hellfire air strikes—continuously impacted the fragile defense line established by the Marines. By the time Drake and Jaina landed on the east shore of the Broken Shore, three thousand of their brave men had already been killed. It was a grim start.
Jaina looked into the depths of the demon-infested beach, and apart from demons, there were densely packed, sickly green fel crystals that looked unsettlingly like an ordinary matrix, only radiating pure malice. "There's something very strange about the crystals on those spires, Drake. They give me a very bad feeling. Like a thousand toothaches at once!" As her strength reached the bottleneck of mortals (a rather annoying limitation), Jaina could sense the raw chaos and disorder of the evil energy emanating from afar.
"Whatever the purpose of the crystal is, we should probably destroy it," Varian chimed in, having teleported over and joining them, looking remarkably refreshed for a man who'd just watched his fleet get ambushed. "Let's show them the true strength of the Alliance! Or at least, the strength of my sword!"
From a distance, King Varian saw it: the huge, green, undeniably familiar backside of Fel Commander Azgalor on the distant hillside. One of the truly colossal Pit Lords who had somehow escaped the Battle of Mount Hyjal, despite everyone's best efforts! After that war, the Alliance had searched for him for a long, frustrating time but couldn't find any trace. And now, unexpectedly, they met him again on the Broken Shore.
"It's true what they say," Varian muttered, grin spreading across his face, "we are truly on opposite sides of the road! You just keep popping up like a bad penny, don't you?"
Immediately, Varian, feeling a surge of pure warrior blood, led a team of elite Stormwind Royal Guards and surrounded Azgalor, because what's a battle without a little direct confrontation?
"Ants! I'm going to burn you all to a crisp! Your world will be nothing but cinder!" When Azgalor saw that the human dared to charge at him, he immediately raised his huge, double-headed spear and began to bellow a spell.
A large number of superheated fireballs shot out in all directions, with Azgalor as the blazing center! It was a Firestorm! Varian's face changed. Although the Abyss Lord's spellcasting was not particularly fast (he was more of a brute force type), Varian wasn't afraid for himself. However, the fireballs were huge and dense, which was very dangerous for his royal guards, who were considerably less fireproof.
"Spread out! Hold up your shields, you brave fools!"
"Watch out for the fireballs! Don't get toasted!"
After shouting twice, Varian executed a magnificent, very heroic leap, then charged, quickly closing the distance to Azgalor like a human missile. The Lord of the Abyss also recognized this old rival at this point, and his memories flooded back—all the humiliating past of hiding from place to place, constantly being outsmarted by this annoying human.
"Die, ants! And watch your world fall to pieces! Slowly! Painfully!"
"We are infinite! We are the Burning Legion! And you're just very squishy!"