Deep down under the ravaged landscape of the surface word, in a cavernous hall streaked with veins of a bluish silver, on top of a titanic throne of dark volcanic stone, sat a massive figure, a dragon. But not any dragon, this was a dragon of gargantuan proportions, with a skin black as the blackest night, scarred by the magmatic inner forces of the beast, held together perhaps only by the adamantine plates fastened to it's back and it's iron will, strengthened by madness, a madness rivaling even those depraved individuals who sits gibbering in the darkest dungeons of the most infamous of asylums on Azeroth.
For this dragon surpassed even the oldest of his kin, in both might and age. For this was who was formerly known as Neltharion the earth-warder, many millennia ago, before he betrayed his former comrades for power, as the ones of old had told him to, by their guile and manipulation, and now most commonly called Deathwing, a title befitting the creature. He sat supreme on his high seat, alone in the colossal chamber, mumbling, talking to himself, of the power that should have been his, of how the world should be under his rule. Alone? No, not alone, for even deeper below the world's crust, in a prison created before the dawn of time, a power resided, real and untamed power, the power of old. It was here that the titans imprisoned the Old Gods after the cataclysmic battle that took place even as what would become known as Azeroth formed below the combatants. The Old Gods could not, and can not, be comprehended by the eyes of the mortals who were born in the wake of the harsh creation of their lands. For a mortal to gaze upon one of the Old would be to stare into pure chaos incarnate, a faint glimpse would drive the most courageous paladin into the abyss of insanity. The Old Gods spoke to Deathwing's soul, whispered to him of riches beyond imagination.
But Deathwing failed to carry out the schemes made for him by his benefactors, and by failing, could not recieve hos rewards, could not be what his perverted mind thought he deserved to be: the unchallenged master of all creation. He had no more chance, he realized, reason penetrating the dense fog of aberrant ideas bound to his very spirit. He had failed, and what was done could not be undone. But the draconic behemoth had learned that impossibility was a lie. So his tainted genius hatched an unholy idea, which he nurtured, grew within him until it could be carried out in reality, if there was such a thing as reality to him. Before him, where it had been empty space in all the years of his past, now was another being, one who resembled him, but still not, another dragon aspect.
On the cold rock floor laid Nozdormu, the very master of time itself, chained by cursed bonds granted as a last favor by the ones who were ancient before time. And Deathwing bathed in the pain of his prisoner, and one sentence, a powerful string of words, emerged from his toothed jaws.
Let my world come true.
And so the hourglass of time shattered, broke into a million of pieces, and reformed in another sequence as the sands seeped back through the cracks, and parted to reveal the world of the black dragon.
Rhonin gazed upon the world from behind the bars of his prison cell. He had dared to hit a slave master, a favored servant of the Dragonflight. For this he would be executioned. His family has served Deathwing for generations, always loyal on the surface, but rebellious urges boiling underneath the calm surface. And now he had dared to start the revolt he had dreamt about since he was young. But a week in the dungeons, seeing through his mockery of a window his fellow men being hunted down and painfully slain for his insolence, recieving soul-piercing looks of sheer hatred from the other inmates for being responsible for the massacre taking place, had crushed the mind of the poor man.
On the eve of the day, one of the dragonspawn jailers came and dragged him away. He didn't even try to resist, for he knew what would happen. He had seen poor Uther do the same, and did not want to share his fate. The grim couple came out from the murky prison into the grey and desolate streets of Stormwind, slaves walking back and forth to carry out the orders of their tyrannical masters. They walked slowly up a wooden ramp, each step a step closer to death, to the axeman waiting at the top. And would not death be glorious? To finally be free. Rhonin took a quick look at the severed head of the mighty red dragon Korialstrasz, crudely pierced upon the point of a dark iron pole standing next to the platform, before placing his head on the block.
He did not even flinch when the executioner's axe struck. The severed head of the rebellious mage rolled down the other side of the ramp, blood trailing behind, before finally coming to a halt. And his face expressed only calm, for death could not be worse than the rule of Deathwing, the chaos aspect.
Deathwing watched, and Deathwing was pleased, for Deathwing had won at last.