He could feel it in the air, the tension.

Dry breeze cast ashes into the wind from the everburning fires of Orgrimmar. All was quiet, nearly too quiet. The Alliance claimed to be assaulting the city within the hour, and vendors were closing their shops, people were shutting their windows. Grunts exchanged nods as they passed each other, a relief from the nervous glances they cast around when on patrol.

"...With your permission, we will execute this plan. Make no mistake, it *will* draw away men from our defenses, but I believe in our chances. The Alliance is too waded in its own confidence to see this coming."

"Permission granted."

And so they were away, into the hearth of the Alliance. Less than a dozen, they caught the Stormwind's defenses completely unprepared -until they reached the Keep, where the Alliance had claimed to be gathering for their upcoming operation. Spells flew across the range of the citadel, shattering pillars and flinging people away like leaves on autumn storm. Dust, reek of burning flesh, spilling blood, all added to an unearthly background to the chorus of screams and low thunder as for a brief moment, the very foundations of the Stormwind Keep seemed to rumble in part with the magics unleashed.

Retreating with the haste they had arrived, the survivors returned to Orgrimmar, reporting of the superior numbers the Alliance held.

He remembered speaking with Amorn, the commander of the defense force, urging to play time, for Alliance morale had always been weaker and easy to crush.

"They are not coming".

The realization, spoken aloud, woke the warpriest from his thoughts. He nodded, and gave a signal to Hadena, the undead steed carrying him on a ride across the suspiciously still Barrens.  As no word had come from Thunderbluff, they headed off, towards the zeppelin to Undercity. As he went, he could see a grunt stationed in the cliffs surrounding Orgrimmar sink against the rock, the orc's expression one of true relief.

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It had been so pitiful, the Alliance raid. The warpriest could recall rushing into the enemy ranks, side-by-side with two troll rogues, and the three of them had taken down the Alliance vanguard before the raiding party had any chance to react. The battle, if it could be called such, had been over before the full brunt of their might could even have been brought to bear. Corpses, mostly human and night elven, had been everywhere, their frozen visages testament to the ferocity of the Horde counter-attack. Scattered survivors had ran amock for hours, he had heard, but offered no true resistance as the Apothecary rounded them up and took them away into their laboratories.

Their bloodthirst not sated there, and disappointed by not having received the promised battle worthy of their capabilities, they decided to take off. Nelithar, the mighty orc warlock as their spearhead, they had crashed into Ironforge. And not to challenge king Magni, or for any vain notion of spite or revenge. They struck with force into Auction House, into Bank, into the very hearth of Alliance economy. And population. They did not seek to challenge individuals, but rounded guards by the dozens, only to mercilessly burn them alive with the spells unleashed by their warlocks. Once the initial Alliance response came, they began a guerrilla war. Turning the tight corridors and apartments of the cavernous city to their advantage, they forced the Alliance into death traps were their advantage of numbers was lost.

And they had choked their foes in their own blood. Within the first hours of the attack, hundreds laid dead, taking four Alliance members to slay even one from the Horde raid. Taking turns to rest, they had held off long in one spot before moving to fortify themselves in another. They had finally been given the challenge they craved, for these were no longer mere city guards but veterans and warriors worthy in skills and equipment, blinded with rage, desperately trying to take the situation under control. Finally, as the raid's numbers began to dwindle, they fought their way out through the front gates.

The Alliance had pursued, eager to punish the offenders, only to meet the second wave of the attack, coming only now to join the fray as the battle began anew.

Dalethas wiped a trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. He smiled to the mirror, eyeing the result and nodded. All his teeth were back in their proper place. Washing his hands, he turned his attention to study the dozen scrolls' worth of reports piled on his desk. Bloodhoof, destroyed. Thunder Bluff needing materials for minor repairs. He tossed them aside. Undercity had taken more damage than what he had thought. Clearly they should have left more men to guard it, as the sporadic Alliance survivors had managed to still form an effective fighting force and retreat, presumably to Darnassus. Still, it was nothing compared to the massacre at Ironforge. As the sin'dorei read on, the reports estimated Alliance casualties in at least four hundred fighting capable men, dwarves and children of the stars. City guards had died in scores, and their and the civilian toll were beyond estimations.

The blood elf sneered grimly. Operation Misfire, hmmh? It had indeed been a dud, for although civilian casualties on both sides were high, the Alliance had lost more soldiers than it could easily replace, and far more in numbers compared to the Horde. More than that, the Horde had taken the fight to the homes of the Loch Modan Marksmen who had been too occupied in their bloodlust to even pay attention to defending their loved ones. Typical for Alliance, and if the warpriest could guess anything at all, something to provoke a response. He hoped, however, that the message had been clear. Perhaps the next raid from these poorly aiming dwarves would offer something more than a demonstrational record in how swiftly a fighting force can be broken.