Penulis : Jeff Grubb
Tahun Terbit : 2002
Format : PDF
Warcraft Trademark
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
Copyright © 2002 by Blizzard Entertainment
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Password : www.chenkwang.blogspot.com
Cover :
Characters (Source=http://www.wowwiki.com/)
Main characters
Supporting characters
Minor characters
Note: These characters were only mentioned or had little to no role during the story.
Alonda 
Arrexis 
Blackhand - Commander Borton
Kilrogg Deadeye - Lady Delth
- Denbrawn
Gul'dan - Guzbah
- Hugarin
- Huglar
- Korrigan
- Norlan
Factions (Source=http://www.wowwiki.com/)
- Azeroth/Stormwind
- Horde
- Order of Tirisfal
- Magocracy of Dalaran
- Kirin Tor
- Shadow Council (mentioned)
- Stormreaver clan (mentioned)
- Burning Legion (mentioned)
Cuplikan :
Prologue
The Lonely Tower
The larger of the two moons had risen first this evening, and now hung pregnant and silver-white against a clear, star-dappled sky. Beneath the lambent moon the peaks of the Redridge Mountains strained for the sky. In the daylight the sun picked out hues of magenta and rust among the great granite peaks, but in the moonlight they were reduced to tall, proud ghosts. To the west lay the Forest of Elwynn, its heavy canopy of greatoaks and satinwoods running from the foothills to the sea. To the east, the bleak swamp of the Black Morass spread out, a land of marshes and low hills, bayous and backwaters, failed settlements and lurking danger. A shadow passed briefly across the moon, a raven-sized shadow,
bearing for a hole in the heart of the mountain.
Here a chunk had been pulled from the fastness of the Redridge Range, leaving behind a circular vale. Once it might have been the site of some primeval celestial impact or the memory of an earth-shaking explosion, but the aeons had worn the bowl-shaped crater into a series of steep-edged, rounded hillocks which were now cradled by the steeped mountains surrounding them. None of the ancient trees of Elwynn could reach its altitude, and the interior of the ringed hills was barren save for weeds and tangled vines.
At the center of the ringed hills lay a bare tor, as bald as the pate of a Kul Tiras merchant lord. Indeed the very way the hillock rose steeply, than gentled to a near-level slope at its apex, was similar in shape to a human skull. Many had noted it over the years, though only a few had been sufficiently brave, or powerful, or tactless to mention it to the property’s owner.
At the flattened peak of the tor rose an ancient tower, a thick, massive protrusion of white stone and dark mortar, a man-made eruption that shot effortlessly into the sky, scaling higher than the surrounding hills, lit like a beacon by the moonlight. There was a low wall at the base of the tower surrounding a bailey, and within those walls the tumbledown remains of a stable and a smithy, but the tower itself dominated all within the ringed hills.
Once this place was called Karazhan. Once it was home of the last of the mysterious and secretive
Guardians of Tirisfal. Once it was a living place. Now it was simply abandoned and timelost.
There was silence upon the tower but not a stillness. In the night’s embrace quiet shapes flitted from window to window, and phantoms danced along the balconies and parapets. Less than ghosts, but more
than memories, these were nothing less than pieces of the past that had become unstuck from the flow of time. These shadows of the past had been pried loose by the madness of the tower’s owner, and were now condemned to play out their histories again and again, in the silence of the abandoned tower. Condemned to play but denied of any audience to appreciate them.
Then in the silence, there was the soft scrape of a booted foot against stone, then another. A flash of movement beneath the lambent moon, a shadow against the white stone, a flutter of a tattered, red-hued cloak in the cool night air. A figure walked along the topmost parapet, on the crenellated uppermost spire that years before had served as an observatory.
The parapet door into the observatory screeched open on ancient hinges, then stopped, frozen by rust and the passage of time. The cloaked figure paused a moment, then placed a finger on the hinge, and muttered a few choice words. The door swung open silently, the hinges made as if new. The trespasser allowed himself a smile.
The observatory was empty now, what tools that remained smashed and abandoned. The trespassing figure, almost as silent as a ghost himself, picked up a crushed astrolabe, its scale twisted in some
now-forgotten rage. Now it is merely a heavy piece of gold, inert and useless in his hands.
Regards,
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