Shadow of Azeroth

The twilight is like blood, and the setting sun flows among the branches of the ancient trees in Ashen Valley. Malfurion's deerskin cloak was stained with wet blood. When he opened the tent curtain, the damp smell of pine resin and the bitter taste of herbs hit his face. Tyrande was wiping the moon blade with the moonlight-soaked silk cloth. The silver light reflected by the blade cast a shadow like a butterfly wing under her eyelids. Illidan leaned against the copper pillar supporting the tent roof. The evil sparks dancing on his fingertips flickered in and out of the darkness, cutting his profile into fragments of light and darkness. "That was not ordinary darkness." Malfurion's fingertips traced across the tactical map, leaving scorch marks on the location that represented the mysterious man's attack. "When his cloak was raised, I smelled the corruption of the Emerald Dream - like the heart of an oak tree hollowed out by swarms of insects."