The world was ending.
Raising his eyes to the heavens, Eschaton watched as unnumerable boulders of molten rock vomited forth from the boiling conflagration that was now the sky above Azeroth, hurtling ever downwards in blazing columns of flame only to impact the already shattered land in wave after wave of fiery destruction. Great gushes of steam and lava rose hissing from jagged chasms as the earth itself was rent asunder by the furious onslaught. And from all directions, Eschaton could hear the beating of mighty wings and the terrible rising battlesong that now reverberated across both land and sea. Diving, howling, feeding, wave after wave of creatures until now seen only in nightmares and visions hurtled across the sky, spewing forth from a trinity of massive portals that hung high in the air above the twisted monstrosity that used to be the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind.
The full might of the Burning Legion had come to Azeroth.
Astride his demonic steed, Eschaton turned and galloped down the small hill from which he had been watching the unfolding of Armageddon. Glancing briefly to his right, the Warlock could see the remains of the dead city of Stormwind, it's marble palaces and mighty keep now reduced to smouldering piles of rubble, the only building that remained standing amongst the ashes was the Cathedral - no longer the tall marble spire that Eschaton remembered with such bitterness, but now a twisted effigy of flesh and flames, rising like a cadaverous claw into the sky, the focal point from which the Great Portals to the Nether were anchored - and the work of the Warlock's own hands.
On his left, Eschaton could see the bare outline of what was the village of Goldshire, recongnizable now only by the wretched collection of terrified refugees that huddled there, some desperately trying to decide where to go next, others wailing their prayers to the Light, but most simply sitting on the ground and waiting to die. They would have their wish soon enough, the Warlock thought, noticing the monstrous form of an Infernal clamber ponderously out of a crater that had been newly blasted into the ground near what used to be Crystal Lake. The massive rocklike body turned and headed directly for the squalid collection of survivors, it's blazing eyes seemingly aflame with the thought of the impending havoc and destruction it would shortly wreak.
A brief flash of blue light caused Eschaton to rein in his steed and gaze upwards. In the skies over the scorched fields of Westfall, a massive blue dragon wrestled with an equally huge red shape that Eschaton recognized as one of the Greater Efreetii Lords. Bolts of blue lightning crackled against the burnished bronze armour, and the massive fiery scimitar of the demon burnt long searing gashes into the gleaming scales of the dragon. The battle looked equally matched, until a detatchment of smaller demons dove out of the steaming clouds and latched themselves onto the dragon's wings, their razor sharp teeth chewing through tendon and muscle, until the dragon could no longer maintain her flight and plummeted earthward with an ear shattering shriek. Eschaton already knew from his demonic spies that similar confrontations had already taken place across Azeroth, and all with the same outcome. The Dragonflights were no more, the Aspects themselves having fled in craven terror before the unstoppable might of the demonic host.
As we watched the ongoing destruction, Eschaton felt a peculiar calm come over him. His Great Work would soon be accomplished. Soon Azeroth herself, unable to bear the relentless battering from forces immeasurably greater than anything else in existence would begin to shatter and crack, until finally all that would remain would be a cloud of shattered rock, floating silently in the vastness of the void, a last testament to the world that he, the Warlock Escahton Fell, had unmade. And before that final instant, Eschaton would himself pass through one of the portals, into the eternal and endless paths of the Nether- there to await whatever final fate the Universe had decreed for him.
Shook suddenly from his reverie by the wild screeching of his Dreadsteed, Eschaton glanced upwards just in time to see a huge lump of flaming rock hurtle directly towards him, burning the very air with it's incandescent fury. Unable to react in time, all Eschaton could hear was a massive roaring as the meteor filled his vision and his entire world suddenly was reduced to Flame and Darkness....
....screaming aloud, Eschaton sat bolt upright in his bed. Struggling to regain his composure, the Warlock glanced down at his bedclothes, now saturated with sweat. In the dead night air, his laboured breathing echoed across the empty space of his Sanctum. Quickly and deliberately the Warlock threw off the sodden sheets and strode towards his writing desk, so that he could record as many details of the dream as he could before they faded from memory. This was the third dream in a week - it must be a sign. Eschaton's hand quivered with anticipation as he picked up the quill.
Soon his Great Work would begin.