Copied from the Realm forums this is a peice of collective forum RP.
So yeah this is what would happen if Kil'Jeadan did succeed in being summoned and Azeroth has fallen to the 10,000 years of Darkness, kinda inspired by a forum thread off the american RP forums about the same kinda case with the scourge but i wanted to see how we could work with this. Everyone is welcome to join/add a new element into this hope we can make it a good read
The Ten Thousand Years of Darkness Edit
The clouded skies overhead with a slight red tint begin to raid down upon the ruined lands once Azeroth. The walls of Silvermoon City have crumbled as the only a few elves remain living there in darkened allys and barricaded houses. The gates of Stormwind from a distance looked closed and secure, upon closer inspection there is hole ripped right through the center between the two mighty doors. Each city has fallen since the day the worst prediction happened, Kil'Jeadan the deceiver has be summoned into Azeroth from the sunwell bringing about the 10,000 years of darkness in Azeroth.
The goblins have been slain or driven away from there Business's and profits of booty bay and ratchet, a few years ago there were rumors they fled underground, but non have never been seen since the beginning of the darkness.
Every land has a vast army of the legion marching over it, the land itself becoming corrupted, the sound of birds and the wind against the tree's is no longer existent among the roars of the creatures from the nether and the burning greens fires.
A group of Horde and Alliance have gathered up setting up a small base camp roughly around the same size as the crossroads in southern Tanaris where the legion activity is a little less than other area's.
Crimson sits amongst a stack of wooden creates, stressed with many sleepless nights the sand stroking past his face with the Remnants tabard blowing in the wind, leaning against the wall gazing over his dark mask around the bottom half of his face at some humans quarrellings with a few orcs in a small debate. A regular thing in these pressing times, Crimson closes his eyes letting out a long sigh.
The dagger dropped into the sand with a cutting thud, kneeling down to tighten the bindings around his ankles he noticed a glint of light shimmer from the blade, peering up he squints through the old goggles and sand trying to catch what it was.
Grabbing the hilt Sagaris placed his broken bladed weapon back into place, tightened his leather and fur robes that protected him from the sandstorm and continued his stressed march towards what he hoped to be a place to bed for the night.
Soraya signed. It was all she seemed to do in these times. Sigh, hang her head and regret. Damn the Offensive for being so complacent! All that work retaking the Isle was whittled down to nothing becaise in the end all that had mattered was the portal and that was there they had failed. She clenches her fists tight and punched hard against a nearby crate, the little relief it gave her was more than welcome.
She scanned her pale gren eyes around the rable that had managed to make camp, with yet another sigh passing her dry lips. She hated how things had become, but she guess that if anything, it gave her another reason to dislike the Naaru and that, if nothing else, made her smile.
Librael Goldera Edit
Librael stood silently behind the trunk of a decrepid and rotting tree, the gnarled branches above reaching out like ancient hands. The sun beat down through grim smog casting a half light on the horrific and scarred landscape. How little the landscape of the Londaeron had changed since before the explosive return of the legion except for the fact that what little that had remained of the human empire here was now ash. She ehrself had changed a lot, her armor was now battered and dented. Her hair band had been snapped a long time ago and her hair now hung freely, with annoying bands falling across her face at in-appropriate moments. Her remnanats tabard was tattered and torn and flapped weakly in the feeble breeze that blew. A shadow of her former self, but so was everyone these days.
Her heart pounded in her chest with the knowledge of the task that lay ahead circling in the forefront of her mind. She heard the cry of a wolf somewhere to the North. It was no wolf though, it was a ranger such as herself giving the signal of the oncoming demons. She took a steadying breath and drew the bow that had seen her through so many battles.
After roughly five minutes she began to hear the sound of heavy footfall coming down the scorched remains of the road. A terrifying marching beat was being played out which only grew in horror as it grew louder and closer. Within another minute the demons were in sight. An ugly display of claws, scales and furious eyes. She quickly estimated the number of them and she guessed around one hundred. Her heart threatened to leap out of her chest, that was almost double what they had been informed. They were only thirty in number themselves, a mis-match group of rangers from all species. They surely didn't stand a chance against such numbers. It was the same everywhere now though. Nights elves, Humans, Blood elves, Trolls any race that could offer soldiers of any class had done so. There were now small pockets of them across the continents putting up a futile and covert fight against the demons all fronted from the small camp in Tanaris. It was useless though, more poured through everyday and they could only kill small numbers at a time.
Regardless she had her orders. As soon as she was within shooting range she took a deep breath and gave a loud yell. She and the others leapt out of their hiding spots throughout the trees and a volley of arrows launched at the demons. So the battle began...
Mornu'nutarus, a Forsaken male who had pledged allegance with Kil'jaeden, balanced himself on a single rafter in the roof of an alcove in the now ruined Undercity. Crouching down with a hand holding the beam, he was waiting for something with extreme patience.
The man, rotted and hideous, was wearing a white shirt and black trousers held up by a belt with a silver-skull-shaped buckle. His hands were partially covered by fingerless black gloves and on top of it all, was shrouded a massive, black, dusty trenchcoat. He wore a black mask that covered his mouth and nose, a black bandana which covered the top of his seemingly-bald head, and terrible red-tinted goggles, which would move outwards on several metal segments slightly every so often.
Shifting slightly and peering downwards, he looked like a great black crow roosting in a tree. He startled as he heard a sound come from directly behind him. Turning soundlessly and flawlessly on the beam he stared with a cold anticipation at where the noise had come from. There was an archway, blocked by various planks of wood and stone. a single plank of wood was removed by a skeletal hand and the whole mass collapsed with lack of support.
Two raggedy Forsaken Deathgaurds leapt over the rubble and peering around for danger, they waved somebody on from inside the archway. Mornu'nutarus stood up and leapt upwards, grabbing onto a higher beam that was further into the darkness and pulled himself up onto it, so as not to be seen. He made hardly any sound, despite the heavy trenchcoat he had draped around himself.
A woman in tattered and torn black garments and a black hood which blotted out her face stepped through the rubble and looked around cautiously. She was thin and elfen, but also had prominent rotting features just like her guardians. On her belt a serated sword was strapped and in her hand was an ancient bow. Mornu'nutarus groaned internally at the sight of her. Sylvanas. The Banshee Queen.
The group began to walk slowly out of the alcove and into Undercity's 'streets' next to the gooey river that ran through it. It was only when the Banshee Queen had turned around that she realised one of her guards was gone, without her or the gaurd's associate noticing. She turned to the remaining guard.
"Demon magic?" She asked harshly.
"I.....I don't know Queen...." He seemed overcome with sorrow for his comrade.
"Get a grip, Deathgaurd. These are dark times. One person is nothing compared to the losses this city has already faced." The Banshee Queen told him, hardly a sound of emotion coming across in her tone.
"But...." The guard began. Sylvanas looked at him angrily. He stopped mid-sentance.
"I don't know what has happened to the other leaders of the Horde or Alliance, but as far as I can see, the resistance needs one. We need to get to them. -All- plans of Forsaken dominion aside, Deathgaurd." She said, flinching slightly at the sound of creaking wood. "I recommend we run." She concluded, looking back cautiously at where the sound had came from. And so they did.
Sylvanas was fast. She sprinted over the bridge across the river of green goop and belted down the street next to the ruined alcoves of the Apothicarium. Turning sharply to her right she skidded and came to a halt, looking over her right shoulder. The last guard had gone. She groaned and ran down the aisle that lead to the trade quarter, the pieces of cloth that used to hang there indicating the direction of a quarter were now tattered, flapping in a breeze that came from above.
Mornu'nutarus stood to the left of the exit from the aisle that lead to the trade quater. He seemed pleased at his stealthy work with dispatching the guards. A job well done indeed, especially for an old warlock such as himself.
Sylvanas skidded on her boots around the left corner of the exit of the aisle and skidded to a sudden halt once again. There in front of her stood the shady figure of Mornu'nutarus. He said nothing. She drew up her bow which had miraculously gained an arrow in its string.
"Who are you?!" Demanded the Banshee Queen. "And what have you done with my bodyguards?!"
The Forsaken man stood there and continued his vow of silence. Sylvanas pulled back her bowstring, but before she could get a perfect shot, was knocked down by a great, mailed fist from nowhere. She looked up, unable to get up from the floor at a hulking Felguard, mighty axe-in-hand. The spikes on his back quivered with demonic rage.
Mornu'nutarus walked towards the crippled Dark Lady. He knelt by her side and seemed to pity her for a moment....but that was lost a few seconds later. He ordered his Felguard minion to hold her upright with her hands behind her back and he did so, with a strength that was too great for the Banshee Queen to relinquish. She looked up pitifully at her captor, who strolled with his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.
"Wh....Who are you?" Sylvanas asked less demandingly than last time.
The man walked up to her, so his forehead touched hers and gazed into her eyes through red-tinted goggles. He lifted them upwards with his left hand, revealing undeniably yellow Forsaken eyeshine over empty eye-sockets and a huge scar running diagonally across the whole length of his face. He used the same hand to pull down his black mask over his nose and where his top-lip should have been. It wasn't there. He pulled down the mask fully and revealed a Forsaken with no lower jaw. His tongue and cheek muscles hung down, twitching lustily. Sylvanas scowled.
"Refestus.....you traitor. I should have known. Allying yourself with Kil'jaeden solely for the purpose of power and revenge.....I thought you were uncorrupted...." She said provokingly.
"Its Mornu'nutarus to you......and very well percepted, my dear." Refestus said and gripped hold of the sword that hung from Sylvana's belt. He drew it and thrust it into her stomach. She groaned and her head flopped forward. "I have a special treat for you....." Refestus's cheek muscles twitched sadistically.
Mornu'nutarus stood before the mighty Kil'jaeden and lowered himself graciously.
"My lord. The deed is done. The Dark Lady is dead." He informed the massive demon humbly.
"Well done, Mornu'nutarus.....your reward shall come after you have completed some more tasks for me." Kil'jaeden said to his servitor. "I am most pleased we have one less leader to deal with....the resistance is frustrating enough as it is without a leader...."
Refestus's cheek muscles twitched from underneath his mask as he thought of the resistance. It seemed he was the only mortal benefitting from the demonic tyranny. But that would change. Refestus, now unwilling to die unlike his former self, longed for blood. He wanted the whole world to bleed by his own cause. And so, Kil'jaeden had promised him demonic immortality and freedom to bring havoc upon the world in exchange for his loyalty and willingness to assasinate so many people.
"It was a pleasure, my lord." Refestus said, bowing low and humbly. "For the Burning Legion."
"Indeed. For the Burning Legion." Kil'jaeden agreed. "You may leave now. Your next assignment shall be alerted to you later."
Mornu'nutarus nodded and walked elegantly out of the massive chamber in the Magister's Terrace in which Kil'jaeden, the Lord of the Legion, resided.
As the winds of the Tanaris desert whipped against a crudly built tent, Feanon Ar´d Kunisada was trying to catch some sleep after several days of battle, what had become of his home land...his people...his...Family...
He could still remember when it all began, first with an explosion on Quel´Danas, then suddenly a green wall of fire sweeped across the isle, wiping the settlements and people in it out completely, those still on Dragonhawks fled south....Futile, of course.
Within months all of Eastern Kingdoms had fallen, and Kalimdor was soon to come, within less then a year, all of Azeroth had been brought to it´s knees, even if resistance was made all over the globe, there was no change to stop the onslaught, the death numbers was....Uncountable.
Within his head, he could still hear the song of the woods, the bustling life on the buzzbox channel, nowadays, an automized message was all that was playing...
"The Resistance is not fallen!
We´re still holed up in Cenarion hold, in Silithus, there´s still hope for all of us, we´ve food, water and weapons! Together, we could strike back and reclaim Kalimdor!
For the Union! (( Kinda new name for the mixed Alliance/Horde faction.))"
...Feanon had seen the Hold, burnt down to the ground, and crawling with legion forces, just like any other stronghold in Azeroth, all that remained was small camps, and the Union´s main camp, a settlement, not larger than the town of Goldshire was in the deserts of Tanaris, the only "Safe" place to be these days.
"Feanon, there´s a enemy patrol up ahead!"
Feanon groaned, a ragged shadow of his former self, his battered armor was dusty, and his helmet had a large hole in it´s neck. His crossbow had been smashed in a battle two weeks ago, and now he was forced to use a small handgun, which often broke, or didn´t work. A piece of black cloth, barely reasembeling the colours of "Horizon" hung across his chest.
"I´m coming...I´m coming..." He said to the soldier outside, barely a youngling...perhaps, 15 years old, not more, he was scared, but these days...who wasn´t?
Feanon mounted up his saber, which was almost as ragged as himself, took the reins in his hand, and set off into the whipping winds of Tanaris...
A faint purple glow emitted from beneath the sand, scorched metal protruded upwards. The sandstorm was fierce and strong, bringing with it distant demonic cries. Whipping past the remains of a scratched and ravaged metal arm, blasting away at the last of the undead flesh away from it a faint sound was heard.
____________________________________________________________________ Implant Tone: *click* 2 years *click* 17 days *click* 14 hours *click* 5.32 minutes. stop
Implant Tone: *click* Unobtanium power core shut down imminent. stop ____________________________________________________________________
A humming was audible as the first of the module units - Elixirated Goblinetec Enhanced Organisms - (E.G.E.O) power core ran it's course and depleted fully. Only the fierce wind and sand that was ravaging the land was left.
Drielle had reached the camp alone, her shield hung loosely on her back and her sword clung helplessly to her side, they were rusted and bore the marks of war, blood and dry sweat soaked to them. Lifting her head Drielle peered around the sorry sight of the camp. This sight would have shocked her, but no, not now. After all she had seen, the wailing children being ripped away from there parent’s dieing bodies. The legions screams and battle cries, the moans of the dead bodies and last wishes being called to her. The smell of the tainted land that she once had called home. And in the rush and panic of the legion coming, she ran. The holy paladin who vowed to protect the innocent and wounded... ran. Her actions made her shiver. And after all her battles she thought nothing would scare her. But she was wrong.
She would have liked to have come with more, much more then the worthless possessions at her side. She would have given her last dying breath to see her sister, her lover, and her friends, again. But they were nowhere to be found. In the rush to flee from the burning legion she could not find them, her heart jumped in disappointment and sorrow.
She moved slowly through the camp, keeping her head down, whilst staring at her battered, chipped hooves. A few heads looked up at her, the rest ignoring her presence all together, she did not blame them, she was a sorry sight. And as those few heads looked up at her, she knew what they were thinking, they knew what she was, she could see it in there eyes.
She knew what she was.
She was a failure.
She was a coward.
She hung her head in shame, and sat silently on the ground, making sure she was away from others, the harsh, cold wind blew into her face, moving her hair, it caressed her cheek and nose, it smelled of sweat and burning. Her hooves were battered and chipped, her armour looked nothing like its shining old self, her black hair was partially dyed red due to the spray of her own blood, and others. One of her horns was just a stump on her head, it being snapped off in the midst of her running.
She sighed placing her head in her hands... What had she done?
Myrion Starblade stood alone in the Temple of the Moon in Darnassus, slowly walking towards the moonwell in the centre. He stood there, looking into the fel tainted waters, below the severely charred statue of his godess. He thought back to the day it had happened, the day the world had died.
The wind had been calm, the sun high, and the sky clear. A perfect day. In his arms he held his fiancé, whispering sweet nothings to her, blinded to the sinister events unfolding over the sea. At the bank of Lake Elune'ara he sat, smiling. The pair were deep in conversation, discussing their wedding plans. Then it had happened. Immediately they silenced and turned to one another, the ripple they had felt had been undeniably fel. With severe revulsion Myrion remembered the only other times he had felt such a wave of terror sweep over him. The first time had been ten thousand years ago, the first time the Legion set foot on Azeroth, the second only a few years ago at Mount Hyjal, in the battle with Archimonde. He took Iliaster's hand and whistled for his hippogryph, carefully mounting it. He offered a hand to his still shocked love, and set the creature into the air, flying directly for Darnassus.
A year later they'd been stood together in the Temple of the Moon, declaring their vows to each other. There had been a thunderous crash as an infernal soared through the roof and into the well. Great stones of green fire, with only one desire, to spill blood. The demon had to be ten times larger than any other he'd ever seen. Screams erupted, and several more crashes could be heard, as the wedding guests ran outside they saw the eredar sorcerers outside, sending infernals into the city. The warrior's terrace, the archdruid's tree. Scared for his life and that of his friends Myrion looked to the sky. Hundreds of doomguards were circling the air above them, a malicious grin on each face. How fitting it seemed that the last bastion of resistance would be the city of those that had brought the Legion into Azeroth for the first time. Slowly the hippogryphs had landed, taking as many as they could away from the city. Pleading, Myrion forced Iliaster onto a mount and set her into the sky, watching as the doomguards cut down as many of the riders as they could, tears running down his cheeks as he watched until his new wife was out of sight. With a roar of agony, Myrion called the troops to his point outside the Temple. Here the night elves would make their last stand.
Wiping tears from his face Myrion rose from his knees, looking sickly at the hole in the Temple roof. Outside the Temple the city was in flames, flames of fel that had never been put out since the city had fallen, the eternal burning they called it. The buildings were charred, and covered in blood. Myrion pulled his warglaives from his back, mounting his hippogryph, he needed to scour the continent, deciding to travel the whole way south, battling demons as he went. As he slew a group of doomguards upon exit he thought of his wife, the wife he hadn't seen for all these years.
After much flying he finally found himself in Silithus, landing slowly and cautiously. He peered at the communication seed in his hand. He was sure he'd heard Feanon's voice. Remembering the militia they had once both belonged to he looked down at his chest. No tabard remained, that part of him had died a long time ago.
Mornu'nutarus stood in the canyon that had once been Zul'Farrak in a throng of several elite Satyrs and a giant infernal. His personal retinue. The Sandfury Trolls that had once reigned dominant in this place, were long dead, all killed off by the ever-growing Burning Legion.
'Mornu' as the Satyrs liked to call him adjusted the goggles on his head with his left hand. His sharpened fingers seemed to be taking the form of demonic claws now and his whole aura felt so.....unnatural. Fel energies whipped around the relatively empty canyon.
The Legion's presence in Tanaris was dwindling at an alarming pace. Mornu'nutarus had been sent to Zul'Farrak by Kil'jaeden himself to patrol the deserts of Tanaris in search of a rumoured 'Union' camp somewhere out there. His cheek muscles twitched grimly beneath his mask.
"Galtak Ered'nash!!!" Mornu'nutarus yelled over the canyon, disturbing its eerie silence and the whispers of Fel energies. He began to quote Archimonde the Defiler. "Belanora mordanos nenaar ila mornu farlos kada!!!!!!" The Satyrs leapt about in an ecstasy of bloodlust and sprinted forwards at Mornu'nutarus's command. The infernal followed closely behind.
Many hours later, Kil'jaeden's servitor thought he had finally found what he was looking for. A small compound of tents could be seen, protected by many a strong soldier. He couldn't help think how pathetically depressed they all looked.
The Satyrs smelt the fear. Without order from their leader they sprinted forwards, leaving Mornu'nutarus next to a slowly crackling infernal. He groaned at the Satyr's usual over-optimism and beckon the infernal forward before pointing towards the small camp. Mornu'nutarus's hands glowed a deep purple as he began to cast a shadow bolt, fixing his eyes on his prime target.
Just then, the Satyrs made contact with the enemy and so, the fighting began.
As Feanon rode trough the corrupted sands of Tanaris, he heard roars of battle not far away...From the direction of the Union camp!
He changed direction, aiming to get to the camp as fast as Storm could bear, when he arrived, he saw the attacking force, not as many as he´d expected from the Legion, but more than enough to wipe them out.
"And so it begins...Again." He almost spat out the words, and charged into the fray, stood upon Storm´s back, and jumped straight into two satyrs, chopping their heads off in the suprise he created, then sheated his blade, and shot down another three before the Satyrs had known he had even appeared amongst them.
His gun and sword danced trough the bodies of the enemy, it´s steel sang as it ripped trough their chests and waists, loud cracks from his gun as the bullets flew into the heads of the foul beasts.
Even though he danced trough the fray, they were too many for him, he regrouped with the rest of the defenders, and once again began to fight! The display he created, even in his ragged state, was amazing to watch, even though he wasn´t nearly the most amazing to watch in the battle.
As the Satyrs charge began to fade, he looked upon the defenders...Ragged orcs, humans, Night elves, Blood elves...Every sentinent race was there, some of them dead, the others to wish to be dead... But as he looked away, a large infernal had slammed into the ground, sending Feanon flying a few yards away, and as he rose, satyrs began moving on his position.
In the distance he could see a shrouded figure, obviously their leader, he rose to his feet, dispatched of his enroaching enemies with a trap, and by shooting them in their skulls, he charged at the "Leader", drawing his blade, and jumped, aiming to strike at his head...
As Myrion had been about to land at the camp he had seen the fighting break out, from his aerial vantage point he had a perfect aim, and let loose several arrows into the force of satyr. Slowly he watched their numbers dwindle and flew lower to the ground. Directing his hippogryph, Greytalon, he began to swoop into the path of the infernal, altering its course away from the camp. From his saddle Myrion began to slash madly at the fearsome demon, striking its weak points that he had come to know well in the ten thousand years of war. Soon the fiend crumbled until it was nothing more than a pile of stone. Sliding off his hippogryph Myrion ran towards the other defending elf. "Feanon!" he cried.
A darkened figure moved swiftly through the small band of orcs and humans in the base camp, completely covered in black and a hood over her face she stopped glancing over to where Crimson sat his eyes closed, the rawring of chatting behind her as she slowly stepped over to him placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Crimson...are you alright?" She whispered kneeling down and pulling her hood back a soft yet distressing look of her face, a scar running down her left eye forcing a smile onto her face as a hand brushed over his cheek.
The darkness had consumed all of what she knew with the little hope she had left in her heart swayed like a candle in the wind, taking in a deep breath she stood her head slightly frowning at her husband with a great deal of worry "Crimson??".
Crimson blinked coming out of his thoughts seeing his wife standing in front of him. Looking up at her he smiled, being the last closest thing to him he carried on living for her. "I'm alright honey"
His ears twitched as he sat up slowly looking out one of the Entrances of the camp in the distance seeing sand rising in the air from one point, Crimson frowns as he watches a infernal fly down from the sky at the point of impact. "They've found us already...No!"
His mind races thinking off anywhere else to go after this one and only sanctuary, nowhere, everywhere was darkness and despire. His eyes look at his wife thinking about her above all else he lifts his mask kissing her on the lips as his horse appears in a flash of light already galloping past he grabs the side of it swinging himself onto the saddle as it runs outwards towards the desert.
The horse vanishes as he slides across the sand watching the legion persue the two night elves running off into the distance, Crimson brings up one hand forming a seal with it as a wall of light breaks up from the sand between the legion and the elves. The creatures stop in realisation they all turn around almost at the time same glaring at Crimson.
The light wall falls a few countinue after the night elves, Crimson draws his Orcish High Warlord blade and draws a line with the tip of the blade in the sand he then jumps backwards a few yards from the line awaiting the legion the come closer. "For Essence, for Quel'Thalas, for the Union" "FOR FREEDOM"
Myrion turned to the blood elf to give an appreciative nod, and then noticed the wall begin to fade. Warglaives tight in hand he glared angrily into the faces of the demons. His armour looked worn, strong and battle-ready, but worn, and his once neat azure hair fell down to his waist in violent strands. His body itself seemed the same, and if anything he seemed fitter now than before. He turned to Feanon with a sarcastic smile. "Leave this to me, old friend" Charging into the fray of demons Myrion slashed and sliced in every direction, spinning on a three hundred and sixty degree angle at times to get the best use of the curved blades. At times they seemed to glow violet from the enchantments placed upon them. As the last felguard fell to the ground Myrion couldn't help but grin. Giving Feanon a pat on the back he ran off in the direction of the blood elf.
Mornu'nutarus had been fighting for barely half an hour and news of the attack had already reached several of the Union's most elite soldiers. He swore in Eredun loudly, making the infernal's head turn as it chased after a warrior on a hippogryph.
He turned around to see some of the few Satyr leaft falll victim to gunshots and in a flash of a flurrying light, a blade sliced through the air and whistled towards Mornu'nutarus's head. He parried the thing with his serated sword. Some of the defenders seemed to recognise it. It was the blade of Sylvanas. Drawing his blade back, Mornu'nutarus gave a chance for the defender to regain his strength. The advisary swung his sword around swiftly, swiftly with the precision of a Night Elf and a hunter, Mornu'nutarus thought.
He leapt into the air. The blade sliced through the end of his flapping trenchcoat. Suddenly, once he had come back to the ground, Mornu'nutarus, instead of fighting more, kicked the Night Elf to the ground. Although the defender managed to get up, he found himself inside a barbed cage. The barbs were facing inwards and it seemed to grow smaller by the second. Mornu'nutarus had dissapeared. All that could be heard now were the screams of Satyr and Union defender alike and the harsh, resonating voice of Mornu'nutarus himself -
"I will return, defenders of the Union and when I do, you shall all fear the name of MORNU'NUTARUS!"
Brian stood on the deck of the decripit ship, the salty winds whipping around his long hair and his scarf billowing out in the winds. The thought continued to run over and over again in his mind..."I shouldn't be here...", he had been called away during that first encounter with Kil'jaeden by Dalaran. They had accepted his application to develop his Illusion magicks further and leave the path of the Magister for the path of the Shadowdancer. Brian smirked to himself sadly, of course all that was gone now...and here he stood, with only his blade, trickery and illusions to defend him, well all that would hopefully change...he had a plan.
The ship clipped through the water empowered by the spirits of the air and water aiding the shamans that accompanied the Elf, sweat dripped slowly down Brian's face as he saw the jagged incisor-like mass of frozen mountains ahead, the Roof of the World, The Frozen North...Northrend. They had considered him mad, a fool, at best hopelessly misguided but Brian knew of one powerful entity that loathed the Legion almost more than he loathed the mortal races, if he could somehow convince him, trick him...somehow....perhaps he could prove to be an ally. Brian scoffed, the whole act was desperate but these were desperate times.
A boreal wind whipped around the ship carrying with it what sounded like whispers...Brian turned and saw a shimmering figure standing before him, it appeared to be an Elf, a young one, with long hair and wearing Blackened Armour tinged with the scent of undeath and covered in osseus markings. The figure raised its two blades and slashed out at another hazy figure, this one was demonic in form, it collapsed in two neat halves and the Elfin figure turned towards Brian, his eyes ablaze with a chill blue, and uttered in a dark, serious voice. "To regain but a part...you must sacrifice all..." The figure shimmered and vanished, Brian staggered back and collapsed on one knee, a large Tauren Shaman hurried over to him and helped him up, "Associate Rimeshade, are you alright?" he asked in worried tones. "I'm....fine yes thank you master Shaman..." lied Brian, he knew what the apparition meant, and he knew who he was, or who would soon become him.
Brian turned and gazed at the sky, a single tear running down his cheek and mingling with the chill rain as it began to sprinkle down upon the deck.
The Darkness was all consuming. The Dust had blotted out the very sun, great soaring pillars of the inky darkness rocketed into the dying sky, Crystals jutted from the ground, energy crackling from them and dancing from one another, and crackling across the area around them, radiating metal, and rapidly decaying the corpses of the dead. Shase sat there, the Ancient Warrior sat alone amongst the bodies and the radiation, he sat there, waiting. the legion had not even dignified his people with a face to face encounter. they had chosen only to grant them oblivion from afar, launching fel magics down upon them, destroying the exodar in dishonourable and devastating annihalation. Not distinguishing between warrior, elder, woman or child. the naaru had bled itself into its vengeful Void god altered self, which had destroyed any survivors it met. So shase sat there. In silence, too engulfed in grief to utter a single word. the legion had not sent agents, so confident in the success of their bombardment and the devastation the new Void god had unleashed they had left the exodar to burn, and the radiation to warp what ever it touched. Shase himself was warping, painfully altering his molecular structure, stuck to the spot from pure raw emotion. then, a hawk flew over head, and suddenly, shase leapt up, and roared at it, his voice carrying itself across the silent and dead forests of Azuremyst. His Roar was wordless, and he drew his Warblade, saliva flying from his mouth. He then ran to the shoreline, ripping bark from the waters, as the ripped bark of teldrassil covered the water, he lashed it together, and sat on the raft, leaving fate to decide where he arrived.