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The Dark Lady stood at the outskirts of the Horde encampment, her piercing gaze fixed upon the horizon. The air hung heavy with a mix of anticipation and tension, mirroring the state of affairs in Azeroth. The once mighty Horde, battered by internal strife and external threats, now looked to her for guidance. She felt the weight of their expectations press upon her, and amidst the Chaos, she reveled in it. For Sylvanas knew she would do what had to be done - to gather the allies they needed.
The primordial forest surrounding the camp reflected the dark depths of her thoughts. The night was oppressive - overhead, the firmament danced in moonless shadow, deepening every blackness surrounding them. The twisted trees seemed to reach out with gnarled branches, their skeletal forms a stark reminder of the desolation that had consumed their once vibrant lives. A gust of wind whistled through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of decay and desperation.
As Sylvanas surveyed her surroundings, her mind was consumed by the strategical puzzle before her. The Alliance, their sworn enemies, had grown bolder in their assaults, their forces seemingly united under a common purpose. They believed that by pushing the Horde back, they could restore balance and order to Azeroth. But Sylvanas knew better. The world was a chaotic, ever-changing place, and that order was naught but an illusion, and they - who claimed so vehemently to fight for the side of goodness - were mere children, fumbling in the dark, desperate to put a name to forces they could never truly understand.
The razor sharp tips of Sylvanas' gauntlets traced along the taut string of her bow, her mind awash with a cacophony of a thousand thoughts. Battle plans. Strategies. Notes for diplomatic meetings, yet to be had. It was a delicate balance of command, and to be the Warchief meant walking the razor's edge of balance. The elven woman's long, pointed ears detected the crunch of leaf litter behind her.
Turning slowly, the Dark Lady's burning red orbs - like twin pyres in the night - pinned to the approaching individual. Another sharp zephyr stirred, picking up her cloak and whipping it about her legs. Locks of pale hair twisted behind her, like threads of dancing moonsilver.
She was in little mood for company, in this moment. Lip curling, Sylvanas straightened out her posture, gazing down at the person with an expression of imperious grace. "State your business," The Warchief's flanging voice demanded, cold and sharp as ever.
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