Across the sky of the Loch Modan, light purple clouds rolled. It was a late afternoon, and a steaming breeze crawled its way from the ancient, dried lake to the Algaz station.
Earlier this day the sun had heated the wet grass and dried the ground from earlier downpours, and a light shroud of damp gave the the surroundings a brilliant atmosphere.
Small sunrays emitted through the pine needles from the surrounding trees.
The Wardens guarded the area from several threats here as of late: bandit renegades, Horde conscripts... and hooded men with apocalyptic intentions.
The thought of these lands being in contestation was faint, but a person of good heart could feel less tranquility than before.
It was a quaint feeling to the station.
A gilnean huntsman leaned himself into the wall of Algaz bunker, the stone was rather cold, and it affected the battered huntsman in a delightful way.
The gilnean wiped his forehead with a tissue, and tucked it down in a pocket of his vest, finishing with a relieving sigh.
Inside the bunker, a Draenei exarch sat with a pile of papers, analyzing them slowly while stroking his moustache.
The first page contained several appointing sentences like: OK, GOOD LIFE, and hints of Aldori cuisine.
Exarch Teralon seemed less tired than everyone else, but yet quite worn out. His forehead was lightly stained with sweat, and his cheeks had a blossoming and healthy, deep blue color to them.
He scowled briefly around the bunker, peering at the dwarven furniture and accessories. He had a new ring on his ringfinger.
On a small grass mound outside the bunker, Commander Gerrond stood on guard. With narrowed eyes, he gazed down at the tunnel descending to the Wetlands.
Meanwhile, across the meadow, a sinister fog ominously crawled its way to the station. The shadow of the Bastion began looming vigorously.
The tranquility was shattered - madness, was on the move.