Deep in the forests of Elwynn, stands a solitary tower of weathered stone. Inside, a seemingly endless staircase goes up and up, until it reaches a study. In the study, many a tome and scribbled scroll lies strewn about, but the wizard does not mind the mess. His ponderous expression is fixed on the large, crystal orb in front of him.
What far-off places and peculiar events does the wizard see in his orb?
(More wizards nowadays need to go back to their roots of orb pondering)
…an endless supply of conjured bacon sandwiches…
Far beyond the borders of the greeneries of the winding Elwynn Forest, crossing the peaks of the rocky mountains that separate the lush human realm from the dark and desolated realm of the Burning Steppes.
Where the rumbling volcano of Blackrock Mountain forever ignites the sky, with the dark-laid spire fortress poking out from the volcanic mountain wall in a state of ruin and disrepair. - Like an echo of the past, forever a lesson in what hubris and sorcery might bring.
And just beyond it, the Searing Gorge, where a young Dark Iron readies his blunderbuss, casting a glance out from his hidden perch near the searing pools of the Cauldron. - Fiery hoofs stride across pools of cooling molten slag. A horse whose hooves match that of the pools it strides across, its hide a darkened red, near black in low light, the hues of which are only really revealed by the ever-flaming mane across its back.
Whether a demonic steed let loose by a Warlock or simply a creature condemned to a half-life between beast and Elemental by the burst of the First Flame, one can’t be certain. - What seems certain, however, is the intent of the young rifleman. Shouldering his blunderbuss. Aims. Click! BOOM!…
And the orb vision changes with the plume of gunpowder smoke…
He sees his closest neighbour not recycling right, putting everything in one trash bin.
Looks like someone is fully paid up on his Azzers subscription.
A group of wizardly apprentices are playing cards in the halls of a mage tower’s great archive. By the size of the stacks of chips, the gnome among them is winning, and the elven fellow is losing - betrayed by the movement of his brows and ears.
It is an intense match point - or at least, it could have been, if that orb of theirs hadn’t been rigged to detect divination magic as to not allow for cheating. An argument ensues. They believe the gnome has been magically scrying the content of their hands!
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