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It started with the rumble of distant thunder. Sound carries ahead of particularly severe storms.
Fishermen and merchants at sea heard the rumbling first, and trimmed their sails, turning to land to make haste into port.
The wind was next. It began to change direction from the south west, to the west, then back, and a dark mass of cloud appeared on the horizon like a grey wall.
The storm bells started to toll, ringing the alarm clearly, amplified by magic. All activity in the forge, workshop, and field stopped. Tools were put away, projects were set aside unless they were at a critical stage. Everyone who could was called to throw the storm wards up, tie down or bring items indoors, and close the shutters.
The sunlight streaming in through skylights and windows dimmed, then darkened completely as clouds raced in from the northwest, covering the sky and glowing with flashes of blue-green lightning.
Faenileda's apprentices and servants opened the shelter last used when the compound was under attack, and began to set up cots and hammocks for sleeping as people began to filter in.
Buried in his laboratory with some samples, Lethdor didn't know anything was happening until the storm bell began clanging. It broke his concentration. He put down the sample of Kul Tiras granite he had been testing and went to the door.
Looking out, he was confronted with a servant almost running down the corridor. The elf pulled to a halt before him.
"Since when does a storm require you to run through our hallways like a --" Lethdor asked. Then he registered the look on the elf's face.
"Lord Lethdor," the servant said, panting a little but as respectfully as he could, "it's -- it's --"
An apprentice mage ran past, casting the spells necessary to bring the wards up to full strength. She paused briefly, dodging around Faenileda, who was buckling on a helm, and a priest, who was in full battle regalia and invoking the rarely used Holy wards, meant to repel or shackle undead.
Lethdor felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck. He lifted one hand. "Slow down," he said, gentling his tone. "Did you see 'it' outside for yourself?"
"Y-Yes, my lord," the servant managed. "I was outside, when I saw -- yes, I saw it."
"Tell me what you saw."
"The sky darkened, my lord. I mean, this wave of darkness, black darkness, came from the north." He swallowed, gulping audibly. "It was darker than any ordinary autumn storm, sir. Faster, too. And the clouds -- they were boiling, undulating."
Lethdor felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
Faenileda finished strapping her helm on as she reached Lethdor's door. She tapped the servant on the shoulder. "Thank you for alerting Lord Morningshard to the danger. Make way to the shelter."
The priest continued raising the Holy wards, and Faenileda felt the prickle of combined magics across her skin as she observed Lethdor.
"It's Northrend," she said quietly.
The servant looked relieved. He turned and walked down the hall, fast but with more dignity.
Lethdor looked at Faen, the helmet on her head. Mentally, he recited a quick exercise to restore mental calm; it took him barely a second, with his training.
"How can you tell?" he asked her.
"The direction is too far north of west to come from Kul Tiras or the Broken Isles, and you should look outside at the clouds. The lightning is lich-king blue or scourge green," she replied. "All noncombatants are going to the shelter."
Oh, shit. "I'll do just that," he answered. "Let's go have a look together." His face was set and grim now. He, too, could feel the Holy wards going up.
Faenileda walked with him to the balcony, following it around to where there was a view of the northern sky. The clouds were black, with lightning flashing in an icy blue and oily green color. The wind was stiff and brought the taste of frost with it.
The last of the Holy wards appeared with a cascade of Light before sinking within and behind the arcane wards on the walls.
Lethdor stared at the clouds as they raced closer. His eyes narrowed. There was nothing natural about their speed, or the way they roiled in the sky.
He watched as they came closer, closer. Perhaps they should go in, but his curiosity wouldn't let him do it. Almost without willing it, he cast a simple arcane warding spell around himself.
Faenileda's comm crackled. "Everyone is in shelter. What is your location?" She grabbed the back of Lethdor's robe, under his cape, as the wind began to pick up.
"North balcony, observing with Lord Morningshard. Initiate emergency transporter and begin sending all noncombatants through to Ceroluthrel's island location."
A wave of static muffled the reply, which, after repetition, was "Copy that. Initiating."
She tightened her grip and prepared to pull them around the corner and out of the wind. "I've initiated evacuation," she shouted into his ear.
The screaming wind had sprung up out of nowhere. Even as Faen spoke, the threatening clouds blotted out the morning sun, and a wave of darkness fell over the world.
Curiosity gave way to prudence in Lethdor's mind. "We'd better get inside," he responded.
Faenileda nodded as she pulled him back around the corner. A gust of wind sent a small tree bending nearly to the point of snapping its supple trunk.
Once inside, she secured the door in the storm shutter over the balcony. "Grab your chest of armor and staff, shrink it for travel." She turned, tapping her communicator. "We are inside, shutters are in place." Gusts of wind blasted the building, creating subtle vibrations in the walls.
"Good. Evacuation is in progress," was the reply.
Lethdor nodded at the order, but glanced back toward the balcony. "I don't think it was aimed at us, whatever it was," he said thoughtfully. "But I think you're right -- it was the Scourge." Which makes no sense, but . . .
They headed downstairs for the shelter, with a stop by Lethdor's bedroom for him to pick up his gear chest and trigger the spell to magically shrink it. By the time they reached the shelter and secured the doors behind them, the noncombatants were through the transporter with supplies. The Seneschal greeted them as they entered, then threw the bar in place behind them.
"Everyone is secure, and our noncombatants are through. Do we go or stay to defend?" he reported, asking the question in everyone's eyes.
Faenileda's gaze was hooded as memories of Silvermoon's razing flickered through her mind. "We go, we settle our people into their shelter and leave enough defenders behind to guard them. Once everyone is secure, we return, assess, and defend if necessary," she replied.