As his blade pierced trough the air, the figure jumped up into the air.
"That blade..." Feanon uttered, he had seen it somewhere, but he couldn´t place his mind where...
He looked back for a second, he had never thaught he´d seen Myrion again, as he thaught he had fell into the last battle for Darnasuss, he grinned and mumbeled to himself:
"Just like old times Myrion, always in the fray..." As he had muttered these words, he was kicked down to the ground, and in a barbed cage! The barbs closing in on him for every second...
"A little help here, please!?" He cried as he had to curl himself into a ball to not being impaled from the large sword like barbs enclosing around him.
Myrion spun on his heels to see what was happening. A good distance behind him now Feanon seemed in trouble with the Legion's warlock. Myrion turned towards the camp and yelled. "Somebody help him, we don't have much time" With a sad glance at his friend he continued on his way after the blood elf.
"Did you see them charge? I really thought we had them beat. We should've won."
A broken Blood Knight addressed his fellows in the corner of the camp, another shook his head.
"It was.. impossible. He took twenty, and they just got swallowed by that.. wave.."
The other sighed heavily and raised his dusty, dirty hipflask.
"To Knight-Master Strifeheart, and our fallen comrades."
The others replied. Some of them snapped off weary salutes, others stared at the ground in disbelief.
Somewhere in Silvermoon City, the broken and destroyed body of Sithren Strifeheart was impaled onto a spike high into the air above the city gate overlooking the Woods, a symbol of how even the most fierce resistance was crushed under the Legion's boot, a horrifying avatar to crush the morale of the nearby freedom fighters.
"C'mon soldiers! They're not dead yet!" Commander Grummar yelled, as he slashed his mighty blade, cleaving a doomguard in two.
The Shadowhunters had been reformed, and was now leading the attacks in Northrend. "For the light, my brothers and sisters! Keep your heads up high, and your faith in the Light strong, and the Light will succeed!", Gaebriel of Sunshine yelled over the sounds of blades clinging. Gaebriel and Grummar was keeping the demons attention, while the others were healing and fighting.
"Fingon, report. How many casualties?" Grummar asked Fingon, the ranger-leader. "Two."
- sigh* "Who?"
"..." "Speak up!" " Ivoryman...and Rhianwynn."
Grummar sighed once again. "Shame...they were good soldiers...may the Light bless 'em."
Some yards away from them...
"Bah! I'm gettin' tired of this! They're limitless! Oi, Kenon, you're our demon expert! How many of 'em are left in this Light-forsakened place?" "Hm...good question. I dunno." "WHAT?! You're supposed to keep track of 'em!" "Well, YOU try detecting demons with this many of them around! Shadow magic isn't child's play!"
Big Chingo spat on the desert ground. He was, as ever, bloody annoyed. His black wizards' hat had more holes in it than he suspected Northwall's brain to have, but he hadn't seen him, or any of his friends, in years. He had made his way to Tanaris for he had heard that there was a camp there he could get aids and supplies from.
The desert was just as he remembered it. Hot, unforgiving, and with an annoying tendency to throw sand in his boots. Things had changed through. A dark red sky hung above the landscape, and the ruins of Gadgetzan could be seen far off in the distance. A fallen monument to trade and industry.
He scowled. 'Bloody hell,' he said, 'one of these days I'm gonna find a skin of dwarven stout and neck it down faster than owt else, y'know.'
But there was no one to talk to. It was peaceful, and it was quiet. Just how he had always wanted it, and now he couldn't wait to get rid of it. He continued to walk. But his bones were creaky, his eyes dulled, and his once tightly groomed beard was a catastrophic mix of different strands of hair, and he was getting tired.
Not tired enough, however, to not notice some figures moving towards him rapidly. They were, he surmised, on wolves. Ha! Wolves! He hadn't seen him in a while. Bleedin' reunion, wannit? He stopped in his tracks. Wolves meant nature. Your common demon had no use for them, and would rather see them dead and buried. As the figures came closer, it became clear that...yes... these were orcs. The wizard grinned.
'Lok'tar, friend!' said the leading figure. A wolf's head sat on his face, and he wore a red tabard, a bright colour in all the gloom. He regarded the gnome with interest.
'Alright?' asked Big Chingo, spitting on the ground again. The battle with the demon ambush in the Six And A Half Needles had left a bad taste on his mouth. He clutched Atiesh tightly. Just because they weren't demons didn't mean they weren't enemies.
'I am Gremkarc of Orgrimmar, of the Heroes' Society. My forces are scattered about, all over. I haven't seen some of them for quite some time. These men are Big Knot, and Loz.' He motioned to the two flanking orcs. They nodded at the gnome. 'And who might you be?'
'Big Chingo. Wizard. Got a ride for me? Nee- hey...weren't you that orc who did that damn silly march a few years back? 'fore we all fell down?'
The orc nodded. 'A pleasure to meet you, Big Chingo. The day couldn't come sooner. We could do with your help back at the camp. We've been patrolling for reinforcements for some time. Are you for it?'
'Too damn right, I'm for it. Oi, hoist me up. I got me staff here ready. We gonna go and show 'em gits a thing or two, are we?'
'My friend,' Gremkarc answered, picking the gnome up and plonking him on Mask's back, 'a thing or two would be an understatement. We will tear the limbs from their bodies, and avenge our fallen kin. We shall reign supreme.'
'Aye aye,' Chingo muttered. 'I've heard that before. Let's jus' get to this damn camp, shall we?'
Liberal Goldera Edit
It was night by the time Librael reached the small camp in Tanaris. A sand storm was beginning to whip up, luckily her goggles kept the sand from her eyes and extended her vision through the blur of sand. She was limping heavily and there was a long gash through the armor on her torso and blood dripped out like it was a sickening smile with a tendril of drool. Luckily the healing potions she always carried had managed to speed up the rate at which it began to congeal and slow.
She limped on through the vicious wind and sand, past the various crates and small tattered tents towards the centre of camp. She passed a number of footsoldiers patrolling past, shielding their own eyes. How they would see any oncoming attack in this was beyond her. Eventually she made it to one of a few larger and far neater tent near the centre of the camp. She pulled back the flap and entered. Inside stood the leaders of the rangers from all races including her own ranger-general, Halduron Brightwing. He turned as he heard her enter.
"Ah Librael, you have returned...what ne-" He stopped short as he saw the wound on her stomach and stepped forward already yelling for a medic.
"I'm ok...the bleeding is all but stopped..."
"That may be but you still need a medic." He signalled to a bodyguard who came over and helped Librael to a small sofa at the side of the tent. She looked around and noticed that none of the other ranger leaders were paying them any attention. Typical, even in these times they could only co-operate to and extent. They were still out for their own cause at the end of the day. "Now tell me, how did that battle fair? Where are the others?"
"Badly sir...There are no others. I had to flee for my life..." She looked the general straight on. " They had almost double the numbers that damn informant told us they would. We continued the attack regardless as per orders. We did have the advantage of suprise...but...with the speed at which they reacted..."
"Well...I'm not so sure we did. I think they knew we would be there." She looked around the tent at all the people within before continuing in a quiet tone. " We have a traitor amongst us..."
"Aye..." Halduron sighed heavily. "It does not suprise me. Many people loose their cool in these dark times. They sell themselves to the enemy in the hope they will be spared. We will begin investigations into it immediately. These are very dangerous times Librael. No one can be trusted and that weakens us greatly against a powerful enemy. I must admit I see no good ending for us..."
"No...neither do I...we've already lost so much." Her thoughts flicked to Ibis, he had fallen in one of the first offensives against the legion at Silvermoon. Her pet, ally and best friend and friend to many others had died and she hadn't even had time to give him a proper burial. She shivered with the thought of what those demons had done with his remains.
The medic came into the room and began work on the wound. She lay back and closed her eyes. Halduron returned to the small group of leaders and began talking away to them. Her thoughts wandered.
So this is my life now is it? None of my friends here, my pupil went missing years ago and even my daughter I have heard nothing from in weeks. I don't want these constant battles and mearly fighting for survival...I thought I'd seen those days gone when I left the rangers. It's only a matter of time now really. Destruction comes in all it's fury and none of us can defeat it...never mind...perhaps death...death... would be...w...welcoming...now...perhaps...per...
The last thing that ran through her head was how bad the wound looked compared to what she had suspected. Then everything went black.
The dwarf sighed. "I understand...but still, have you got ANY clue how many there are left up here?" "Hmm...approximetly...around four hundred. And that's just up here in Northrend..."
With a cautious glance around the camp, Ris promptly removed his mask and reached with a jar, deep into the bottom of the barrel of water. Whilst swigging the jar of dirty water back, he noted a couple of Orcs quabbling about a ration of meat.
He ran his eyes around the camp, recognising some of the weary faces from years past.
Haatom stood at attention at the exact moment his brothers did, one of a thousand identical drones in service to the Legion. It sounded like a Titan tripping over his own feet. The sound carried far across the icy planes and echoed through the many caves and valleys of Winterspring. The monstrous demon sized them up from miles away, and every one of his brothers swallowed hard when the sight of that monster passed them. "The Master wants them found!" The voice made the noise of their march seem weak. "These Druids have harassed our forces for too long! We burned down their glade, now we wipe their remains under the ice! For Sargeras!" It stomped a hoof, cleaving the ground . The enormous wings spread in time with the cheer, and it threw its horned and antlered head back for a roar that shook ice loose from the World Tree. The Felguards roared in response and set out across the snow swept lands. Before he reached the cave his group was tasked to sweep clean, Haatom caught sight of Lynva, on the arm of one of the Dreadlords. "Skanky little thing," he said to himself. "She can seduce anything male. Never got to you, though, did she, old man?" The demon lifted the chain at his neck and looked into the shriveled face of Felblight. "Ah, what's that?" He feigned listening. "Nothing left for her to tease? No, I suppose not." He spotted the yeti scrambling in his direction and caught it square in the face with the axe, one-handed, without letting go of the chain. "But I meant before that," he said, swiping the axe through some snow to clean it. "She is one of the best succubi the Legion has, before, during and after you enslaved her. But she was putty in your hands. Why was that?" He stared at the head, honestly expecting an answer. It didn't come. "Fine! Be that way!" He ran his hand through the Yeti's blood and smeared it across the severed head's face.
"You're sure they're here? Not hiding like the rest?" "I'm sure. They choose to fight, preferably for lost causes. They're here to get revenge on me, if nothing else." "Right, you would know," Kazzak mumbled, looked down over the tide of demon heads and then back up at the monstrous Demon Lord. It returned the stare and the Doom Lord shrank back. "Yes, Kazzak. I WOULD know. I handed you the Moonglade on a silver platter, remember?" The hawk-like wings shook, sending burning purple and brown feathers the size of tree trunks flying. Kazzak swallowed. He certainly had... and the reward Kil'Jaeden had given him was unprecedented. He gave a sidelong glance at the dead husk of the World Tree, sticking out askew over the mountain range. Of course the Druids would have been a major force to reckon with otherwise, but the reward was something even Archimonde had failed to get... And the power - it had turned him into something a Pit Lord would shrink back from.
"You enjoy this, don't you?" he asked then. The Demon Lord's three clawed digits squeezed tight. "I do. I enjoy this so very much." A mad smile cracked the enormous parody of a bull's-face and it looked down at the swarm of demons, flashing its clawed and taloned hands, stomping a hoof. "But by the Nether, Orlen. I had no idea Tauren could become like you..."
Sand. Sand in the tents, sand in the food, sand in the mouth. By the Twin Serpents, she hated sand. True, she had been trained mainly in Durotar and the Barrens, so she wasn't completely unfamiliar with it, but the all-covering, endless sand of Tanaris had become the symbol of defeat, symbol of death, symbol of everything that had gone wrong. The jungle troll inside her longed for the rain forests.
Absent-mindedly she fingered her Heroes' Society insignia. This is where they would gather, as this was the base of the resistance. But had the others already resisted themselves to death? Rumour had it hat Charlie had been seen dead, but there had always been plenty of rumours around the mystery Tauren.
Sagaris at least was already there. Wae met the elf's gaze and gave him a weary smile.
Her skin was ashen, her eyes, once silver, held a glow of faint green. Her silvery-white hair billowed in the merciless wind, and that was next to all there was to see; the rest of her slim figure was covered in a heavy robe of black leather, gloves, and even a mask of the same. Immaculate, save for the dust from the constant, battering sandstorms.
She'd had her trackers follow the route of Mornu'Nutarus and his satyr. They'd had too much headway for her to catch up to, but she'd watched him, like she'd watched... The thought was dismissed before it could reach deeper into her memory. What mattered was that she'd watched, and learned that he was good. Following in his wake would surely bring some manner of victory, if not the grand prize. That logic had been a wise one to follow, she thought to herself, standing atop a high cliff in Tanaris, looking down at the camp huddled in the middle of the desert a good mile or so away. There'd been one attack, recently. They would not be on guard for another, not so soon, and especially not at night... the Hour of the Wolf, her hour.
Oh, she hadn't been lost in a long time now. She had a driving force; she set a goal, and achieved it, mercilessly, viciously. She would not lose tonight, either. Not like... Not like that day, when the hippogryph landed in Auberdine, and she was ushered on a boat to nowhere, in a wedding dress. The cause and people she'd loved had turned their backs on her that day, it had only taken a few years in the Legion, and forsaking her own name, to realise.
No. They were weaklings, willing to turn traitor to anyone the moment their own lives were at stake. Fear was the only defining factor of their lives. In fear, they would die. Tonight.
She returned to her Felguard troops with quick, sure steps, giving her last orders in demonic, quietly; there was no need to alert anyone by shouting, they'd know well enough when their doom was upon them.
And then they marched.
Commander She Wolf, beautiful as ever, perhaps even more so than before, in her spite and determination. The only thing that reminded anyone, even herself, of who and what she had once been, was a tattered, blood-soaked black tabard that hung over her fine armour, the outline of Horizon's golden sunburst still faintly visible on the front.
Iliaster Starblade, Legion commander.
Ris acknowledged the nod from one of his Society colleagues and spoke loudly over the harsh desert storm. "Glad to see many have atleast made it this far..I have been making my way here as I have heard this is the epicenter of the resistance..Silvermoon is no more..Lord Sithren's body impaled for all to see..The legion have struck us hard and fast..I saw Stormwind's mighty walls crumble...all is lost it seems"
With that he sits against some crate's and continues to drink the filthy water
Feanon putted his heels to one of the sides of the cage, and his hand to another, and pushed...In attempt to release himself from the trap.
After some futile attempt, a dwarf in rusty armor smashed the cage with a large hammer, nodding quietly to Feanon, and walked away before Feanon could thank him.
"...Why do they always leave me?" Feanon asked himself, he had been trapped in the cage, and when the Satyrs had fell, noone hade helped him.
"Just like old times..." He chuckled and went to the camp, in hope to get some water and provisions, as he was soon late too his patrol, the shores of Tanaris was not nearly as full with Demons as the other places were, but still a border which needed daily cleansing.
Well in the camp, he saw several familiar faces, both known since great times, and others he had known since the fall of Kalimdor.
"What has become of this place...I remember the golden beaches as they were..." A human paladin in robes, his armor either lost or destroyed.
"´ow tha ´ell would I know lad!? Tha important thing ´ere is te servive!" A dwarf in mountaineer gear answered the human. The dwarf didn´t look as ragged as the others, perhaps a new recruit, or just a lucky son of a ...
Feanon jumped up on Storm, and rode off, into this marshlands of the former beaches, hundreds of yards of marshlands was where the former sea had begun, and the distant shoreline was nothing more than a couple of ridges, barely shielding out all the ocean water.
North of Tanaris. Mulgore.
Threm walked among the bluffs. Among the burning buildings. The corpses. The death. Threm reached the greatest tent in THunder Bluff. Death, even here. Even among their leaders. The body of Cairne Bloodhoof lay inside the sundered tent. Everything could be summed up in one word. Death. He sighed, and turned around. He had been searching...searching for days...hoping that Verdauga and his other companions hadn't fallen in battle. Had faced death. He kept searching. The only thing he found. Was death. Blood. Fire. And then...nothing. He searched..and found nothing. Nothing that would matter. Nothing he would care about. The only thing he searched for, was his friends. Verdauga. Harb. Ulbaz. Where were they now..? Dead? Alive? Who knew. But what Threm knew, was that he must keep on searching. He must find them. He musn't let that one thing he didn't fear take them away from him. Death.
-4 Years Ago: Silvermoon-
Silvermoon was in chaos. Demons were pouring in through every gap they could find in Silvermoon's defenses. The dead littered the streets, some piled so high that no-one could clamber over them. The Blood Knights, the Magisters, the Warlocks, and all those who could fight tried to hold their ground, as wave after wave of demons and Felblood came crashing against them.
Slowly, they were pushed back to the Sunfury Spire bridge, the Court of the Sun being defiled before their very eyes. Still they were pushed back, into Sunfury Spire itself. Valtheras cast every spell he could at the oncoming Legion, trying to stall them so that those who were still outside on the bridge could get inside. But it was no use. For every one that fell, several took their place, and the stragglers were viciously cut down.
Those that had survived barricaded themselves in the spire. They could hear the demons outside bashing at the door, and scratching against the walls. Valtheras looked around at the survivors. They were all tired and demoralised. Some were too young to even know what was going on.
One of those younglings spoke up; "It's going to be alright, isn't it? Lady Lidrian will push them back, won't she? and Lord Loth'remar, he won't go down without a fight, will he?". Val smiled sadly at the kid. "Yeah... it'll be alright...". He turned to face Zanien, one of his fellow Warlock masters, who whispered "It's not, is it?"
"No. I saw Lidrian and Loth'remar fighting in Sithren's group. I'm sure you know what happened there." Val let out a deep sigh. The barricade at the door started to buckle slightly, as the demons outside pounded against it. One of the Silvermoon Guardians ran into the room, tears in his eyes, and his voice wavering. " The Forsaken have cut the Orb's connection! We're stuck here! No way out!" he literally screamed. The room fell deadly silent. Everyone knew what would happen now. Valtheras sighed again, and turned to the rest of the group. "Then we fight. And we make sure that this Last Stand will make them fear those born on Azeroth."
He turned back to the door. Those around him picked up their weapons and sheilds, and positioned themselves wherever they could. Some said prayers, other simply stared at the barricade in silence, waiting for the end to come.
The barricade splintered, and fell. A great, terrible roar arose from the demons, and they flooded into the room. They battered, slashed, stabbed, and brutally murdered all those in the room. And Valtheras stood there, casting as fast as he could, trying to kill as many as he could before the Darkness came.
And the last thing he said, for all to hear, was this: "This is the way the world ends... Not with a bang, but a whimper".
A cople of hours after the orb to undercity was cut off a small group of young people stood huddled together. The group was incredably diverse with trolls tauren orcs blood elves even a pair of humans. The one in the group that stood out was a little dark haird orc girl looking more misable than many orcs.
The hole group knew something was up with her and had badgerd her since thay were all bundled towards the orb by the bloodknight master that had taken them in.
Only when the attack was going to end up at undercity and a cart came for them all did the young orc girl speak.
"Before he went to fight... he gave me his songs..."
The time after that was not kind to the group and only the orc girl was left. She took up travaling and lerned to fight. She tried to go travaling to villages and rally the people ending up with the name Warsong leaveing her old name behind. The last one to ware a black and silver tabard now dirty and dusty.
She made enquiries but the body of the blood knight master Kamrin Firrath the one who had taken her in and looked after her then given her his gift of music was never found.
The view between the battle and the camp had been closed off by the sandstorm unable to see between the two locations. The demons reached Crimsons drawn line as the sand gave way beneth them falling inside a deep hole about 40 foot deep and the infernals and styrs crash down to there demise. Crimson smirks his hand glowing a golden colour of light as the last demon goes crashing to its demise he flicks his wrist as the sand covers over the large hole as if it wasent even there.
Turning around to leave one styr which he had not noticed leaps from the sightless view behined him grabbing his ankle starting to crush it with its claws. Crimson falls to the floor hardly able to see the creature in this storm despite having its claw on his leg, rolling onto his back he takes a blind swing into the distance as the pressure on his leg eases a head of a Styr rolls next to him. As he stands up "Urrg...i thought this time i wouldent get injured" Crimson gazes around, "Camps that way...right?" as he starts to limp into the storm.
After chasing down the remaining demons Myrion had ran back to the warlock to see him already gone, and no trace of Feanon either. Confused, he scratched his head and headed to the camp. "We need to leave" he stated in a calm but serious voice. Many confused questions followed, many were left unanswered. "On my way here I saw an army. Mo'arg, Eredar and Felblood elves alike. Last time I saw them was when I flew over Feralas, they were at the border to the Thousand Needles". Again he was answered with more questions. "Where will we go?" one soldier spoke out. "There's nowhere else, we're the only ones left!" "That's what they think, each struggling to survive in their pathetic strongholds, scattered throughout the world. But they're there. I say we move to Hyjal. Tyrande, Jaina and what are left of the dragonflights survive there. Last I saw the army there was three hundred strong. Not much, but maybe if we gather everyone else..." Myrion's voice trailed off. When he had looked north he could have sworn he'd seen a figure in the mountains. He thought he knew the person. Sighing he allowed himself to slump to the floor holding his head. He couldn't be sure what was real anymore.
Liberal Goldera Edit
Librael awoke with a start. Her dreams had been plagued with flashbacks of the battle. Watching people being torn limb from limb by demons. Their guts being dragged out accross the floor and left for the flies, maggots and worms to feast upon. She saw the cold lifeless eyes of those who had fought alongside her and felt sickened that she had survived when no others had.
She eventually gathered her senses and realised there was a human stood above her. He wore the plain white robe of the camp medics, though it was stained heavily with blood, vomit and other bodily fluids. She was set atop a bed, one in a series of others exactly the same lining a long tent. All of them had victims in each in various levels of suffering.She lay there silent for a moment watching as a light channeled from his palm to the wound on her stomach. Even as she watched she could feel the wound knitting back together and the pain slowly subside. She sat up quickly and got up off the table. The medic ushered after her trying to get her to lay back down but she barged her way out of the tent.
Outside the sand storm still raged. A couple of Orcs sat arguing over a drink or some such and many others hid behind crates enjoying an alcoholic beverage, one of the few joys left. Her goggles buzzed around as her head turned gathering a sense of her location. She eventually began heading towards the supply tent. A drink would do her good.
She was about half way towards it when she caught a faint sound on the wind. For a moment she could have sworn she heard marching. She broke away from the path towards the tent and instead went towards the edge of the camp in the direction of the noise to the West. She got to the wooden fences that designated the boundry of the camp and acted as a small defence. She adjusted the lenses of her goggles to see into the distance as far as possible. As they came back into focus she saw legions of demons marching out of the storm like a monster out of the depths of the ocean.
"Demons!" She yelled as loudly as she could. Heads began popping out of tents and people staggered to their feet. "The demons are coming! From the West!" She ran through the camp trying to raise the alarm...
This was bad...very bad...
A monster out of an ocean of sand... And at the head of that army, that monster, a slim, black-clad figure that, in front of the Felguards, seemed small in comparison. Yet there was no mistaking who led this assault, for there was not even a hint of fear or hesitation in the commander's stride, and her straight, proud bearing left no room for misunderstandings. Fear was a thing of the past. And she led by force of personality, by example, even among demons.
From a distance, she saw the alarm raised, saw the camp come to life, lanterns lit, warning shouts, hurried movement. All it did was make her lips curve in a sinister smirk. She was used to taking enemies by surprise, slaughtering helpless opponents in their beds - it was a part of the job, and her pride had never overtaken her sense of good strategy. Still, knowing that the Resistance was wide awake and quickly preparing brought her satisfaction. A glorious battle was always a glorious battle, better than simple, mindless carnage. They still had the numbers. They still had the cover of night, and the sandstorm that hardly bothered the demons.
A fair distance from the feeble fence surrounding the camp, she raised an arm to signal a halt. Slamming the end of her steel staff into the sand, she raised her voice after it, over the howling wind, clear and full of contempt.
"Union!" she yelled, spitting the word out like poison. "Grab you torches and pitchforks, worms, for the Legion comes for your blood!" The demon army roared behind her, yet did not drown out her voice. And she raised her staff in the air again, shouting at the top of her lungs:
"CHARGE! FOR KIL'JAEDEN!"
And the wave broke on the small encampment, the wave of night, and of demons, with one Kaldorei leading the assault, her face a mask of bloodlust. After all the years of darkness, she still wielded a staff, but not once did she shapeshift, not one of her corrupt spells aimed to heal. The weapon was her focus, and it knew how to spill blood, if only by crushing skulls.
Myrion had just been waiting for a response from the gathered members of the Union when he heard the battlecry. With a sigh he exited the tent, staring right into the face of felguard. Unsheathing his warglaives he aimed them down the middle of the demon. A grin appearing on his face he shut his eyes. When he opened them again they were glowing a deep white, and the same light started to shine from his weapons. "Elune-Adore" he smirked sinisterly. With that a burst of blue light shot from the blades, slicing the demon clean in two. With his blades now shining the colour of an uncorrupted moonwell, he walked calmly into the fray. "Guys, I might need a little help out here. Not much, but enou-" Myrion stopped midsentence, his jaw dropping. A mixture of fear and joy appearing on his face. Looking at the dark robed figure he fell to his knees. That shape. That hair. That determined look. Iliaster! he thought.
Ebaj lounched casually in his Throne of Obsidian. The Fortress had been erected quickly, the Legion quickly began to fortify the land around Tanaris, great towers, keeps, fortresses and bulwarks made out of brimestone and felsteel.
Ebaj smiled to himself; remembering how he had once fought with the others against the Legion. When it became clear that all was lost, the Gnome warlock threw his lot in with the Legion - His expertise on the Alliance was invaluable, his knowledge of their tactics, strengths and weaknesses allowed the legion to win several key battles. Ebaj had shown little or no remorse at the sight of Dun Morogh burning; odd considering it was where he had grown up....Ebaj quickly snapped back to the real world - he had a war to win.
"Sir" Said a large Felguard, with orange skin dressed from head to toe in black armour.
"Yes?" Replied Ebaj almost casually; these demons....
"The portals have been opened; the reinforcements have arrived"
"Excelent...prepare our forces..it is time we found this petty "Union" and destroy it!"
Threm charged. Or ran. Who wouldv'e known? No one was there. But one thing was certain. He was heading south, for Tanaris.
- Around an hour earlier*
Threm saw it. The one thing he didn't want to see. The one thing he hoped that he would never find. But it was there. It just laid there. A mask.
Threm picked it up, seeing blood drop from it. And just as the blood reached the ground, so did the tear. One tear. His very first tear. "IS this...how it feels..to feel...sorrow?" he thought to himself. He fell to his knees, and threw away the mask. If someone...anyone...had been there, they could have felt it. Anger. Pain. It was almost touchable. Like an aura, licking Threm's body. He had enough. Enough with searching. He rose. Is someone...anyone..had been there, they could have seen the fury and hatred in his red eyes. He grabbed his loyal axe, Hellslayer. And ran. Ran, all the way to the edge of the bluffs. And not even there, he stopped. He jumped. He jumped down, falling to the ground. And just as you're about to brace yourself for the crash, and the body of a dead orc...nothing happened. He landed on the ground with only one foot, and took a running jump forward. And he ran. He kept running. South. Towards the demons.
The Raft stopped. it was sinking. so shase stood up, and summoning the death ice to him, continued to walk. he was a Death knight. He had been at acherus, And had been there when Kil'jaeden fell upon the Ebon Hold, the Lich King had tried to run, and shase knew not if he had succeeded. Shase had been lucky, A fel cannon had decimated his division, and piled the dead over his un-concious body. he had awoken, and had felt... Free. he had rode, all the way to the exodar, Begging a mage to deliver him there through a portal when he could find no ship. He finally reached the desoclace shores, And began to run. Desoclace was fairly empty, seeing as the Legion had already amassed a foothold there, it had simply wiped out the other settlements, and then gone to join its compatriots. Shase was glad off it. he ran, and ran on, he felt in his mind... he could feel to the south. he kept running, his warblade stuck to his back, his ancient and battle weary Eredari battle-platings from his one true home of argus. The silent runner, he never stopped for fear of looking back.