Thousands of miles above the Broken Isles, far, far away from the comparatively puny Eastern Kingdoms, the sky wasn't just covered in dark clouds—it was a maelstrom of ominous, roiling shadows. Suspended majestically within this tempest, a golden palace, adorned with vibrant red banners, floated with an almost arrogant grace. The entire airspace around it buzzed with the furious flapping of wings, as a legion of towering, golden-armored, winged guards patrolled with unwavering vigilance. This was no ordinary sky-castle; this was Valarjar, the Skyhold, a floating military camp, which, along with the immense, equally gilded structure below, was collectively known as the Hall of Valor. In the legends of the Vrykul, they called it the true Hall of Valor—because why settle for anything less? And just for kicks, this glorious, floating fortress was once part of the colossal Ulduar complex itself.
At this very moment, the master of this airborne bastion of might was sprawled on his throne in the center of the Skyhold's largest, most excessively gilded palace. He was a colossal, intimidating figure, looking at least seventy or eighty meters tall, built like a mountain carved from pure, indignant pride. He wore magnificent gold and red armor, burnished to a blinding sheen, and a ridiculously gorgeous, pointed helmet sat atop his head like a golden spike. Below the helmet, one eye blazed with a sharp, majestic intensity, while the other was covered by a stern, black eye-patch. Apart from the single, piercing eye on his face, the most attention-grabbing feature was the fiery, magma-like beard that cascaded from his chin to his neck, looking perpetually ready to erupt.
He was Odyn, the chief administrator of the Titan guardians, a being of immense power, monumental will, and frankly, astounding stubbornness.
Ever since Valarjar was rudely sealed by his perpetually problematic daughter Helya and the traitorous Loken, Odyn had been… well, sitting. A lot. In his palace. Moping, mostly. But he wasn't entirely isolated from the cosmic gossip. His loyal Val'kyr and the occasional Vrykul hero, still able to enter and exit Valarjar freely, brought him juicy tidbits of news from Azeroth. He knew that a heroic king had appeared among the insignificant mortals, he knew about the ludicrously named Grand Alliance of Azeroth, he knew about the Burning Legion's repeated, utterly tiresome invasions, and he knew that the black dragon mother and the Elemental Lords were trying to dismantle the world. Again.
As a high-ranking member of the Titan Guardians, Odyn honestly didn't care about these things as much as he should have. He firmly believed (with an almost childlike faith) that his meticulously trained army of heroes was more than enough to defeat any puny enemies and save the world. He'd even rehearsed their victory parade in his mind.
And now, Odyn sensed it. A surge of power, unmistakably similar to that of his own Glorious Heroic Warriors. He was practically vibrating on his throne.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed through the vast, empty palace. A four-meter-tall, impossibly strong Vrykul warrior, clad in gleaming golden armor and a truly magnificent horned helmet, strode in. His shoulder armor and skirt armor were embellished with angry, pulsating red gems, and two enormous greatswords, gleaming with a cold, hungry light, hung at his waist, practically dragging on the floor. He stopped abruptly in front of the throne.
"Heimdall," Odyn's majestic voice boomed, rattling the very foundations of the palace. "Have you found out who's been playing with my toys?"
The gatekeeper of Valarjar, the mighty Heimdall, half-knelt down respectfully, his own deep voice resonating through the chamber. "Great Odyn! According to the location of the energy reaction, the Val'kyr informed me that it is the mortal kingdom of… Stormwind!"
"Stormwind," Odyn mused, tapping a massive finger on his chin. "One of the member states of the alliance formed by the 'Hero King,' you say." He pondered for a moment, a rare occurrence. "Their members seem to be the rather… weakened… descendants of Titan creations." Despite this tenuous connection, Odyn still didn't entirely trust humans, dwarves, or gnomes, especially since they were also the messy product of the Old Gods' delightful curse of flesh and blood. Ugh. So much squishiness.
"No matter what," Odyn finally declared, his single eye narrowing, "the Burning Legion has indeed invaded this world again. And frankly, they're being terribly rude about it. I need more intelligence than these Val'kyr can gather from their little flying expeditions." Although Odyn's news wasn't entirely isolated, the Val'kyr were simply unable to obtain the detailed, top-secret, gossip-worthy information he truly craved.
"A dozen years ago, Ulduar actually shook, and a few years ago, Ra-den's aura simply vanished in a flash." Odyn adjusted his sitting posture, propping his elbow on the throne with one hand and supporting his chin with his palm, looking remarkably like a giant, grumpy philosopher. "The reputation of Valarjar is only sung by the Vrykul people, who are, let's be honest, easily impressed. I also need more warriors to face the possible crisis. It has been tens of thousands of years since I actually had some fun. I want to make peace with Helya! Or at least kick her out so I can get a decent war going!"
"Heimdall," Odyn commanded, his voice now imbued with a renewed sense of purpose, "you are one of the strongest warriors in Valarjar! I command you to walk among the squishy mortals, spread the bravery and unparalleled awesomeness of Valarjar, and lead the souls of more warriors into this glorious Hall! Find me some real heroes, not just the ones who trip over their own feet!"
"We also need to investigate those ridiculous fluctuations in Stormwind Kingdom that are of the same origin as Valarjar. I want to see who is stealing the power of the gods! And perhaps… what their secret recipe for that power is."
Heimdall had been keeping his head bowed low, listening to Odyn's instructions with the utmost respect. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he straightened his chest, clenched his massive fist, and slammed it against his chest plate. "I will not let you down, Great Odyn! I shall bring you champions! Or at least, their souls!"
"Go ahead..." Odyn waved a dismissive hand, already plotting the next cosmic crisis.