The Wrath Gate

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Nykkolaia
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Nykkolaia » Wed Apr 22, 2009 11:15 pm

Lines.

Even if they were not visible to any eye, there were distinctive lines to all things in life. Some people had a natural ability to cross them with grace, while others simply blundered through or crashed unknowing, casting invisible markers into the air with their recklessness. Yet, almost everyone knew that the lines were there... even if they didn't know the precise location, or if they didn't care. It was in the nature of consciousness to know them.

Lines. Nykkolaia knew much about them. For eleven months, she had dutifully remained inside the narrowly defined corridor of abusively drawn lines. After that, she had learned about the magic lines that existed all through out the world, and the lines between arcane, fire and frost. The lines on her body - all too visible - greeted her each morning when she looked into the mirror, on those days she looked at all. Everywhere there were lines - sometimes to keep things in and sometimes to keep them out. Their success was subjective, but that didn't negate their existence.

The mage sat within earshot of Tarquin ap'Danwyrith's speech and the response of the Riders. She heard the words and felt the emotion. Yes, even so cold as she might seem to be, she felt it. Young though she was, she knew the pain of her nation. Taborwynn might have outlined her removal from it the night before, but even if she had not been witness, she had felt the brunt of the blow. Her scars had not come by the same hands as the others, and yet they were almost worse for the removal - for what else had been robbed from her.

She had never had the chance to say good-bye, or even know it might be needed.

Outside the edges of the gathering ap'Danwyrith and the Riders, Nykkolaia stood and listened. She lingered and she observed. As she moved through life, so she stood here at the doorstep of her death. How many might perish today, she wondered, and yet... her mind, even in its cynicism, could not picture any of them being taken under. They had one another and that would see them through. The words of common, and the accents of the North. The song of the Kal'dorei and its echoes in druidic forms. The shouts of the Dwarven tongue. The roar of a battle impending, shared. It bound them.

Nykkolaia could almost see it as a plainly clear line, stretching from each one of them to the next. Linked. They would see one another through the day... She did not know any of them well, despite her willingness to confess a portion of her past the night before, but it didn't take knowing them, or calling them friend, to see what she saw. It only took watching this one moment in time to understand the binding between each of them, as they faced the morning.

It only took one who knew she was on the outside of those lines to see it.

Deep within the chills of her heart, tears never cried from years past sat silent and still. Waiting. Lingering within as she did from without. She would not let them come. Now, even though she might have the chance, there was no one to say good-bye to. No lines drawn between her and any other living soul.

"Let's get to work, Riders."

The words were not spoken for her, but she knew that it was time for her to get to work none the less. The expanse between her and the rest of the world never seemed so large as it did right then, and yet she would do what she could. For a world she didn't think she could ever feel a part of again, she would work. Fight. Die. Mayhap this will be mah death at las', came the unbidden and yet not unwelcome thought. Luckeh, 'e called mah. Jolstraer's words rang deep within.

How could this be lucky? His pain seemed to bind him to others who would see him through. Hers isolated her from them.

The powers of the arcane were placed where they could best target the oncoming forces and yet be removed enough to minimize direct danger. Those who practiced the same arts as she had no plate armor to fall back on, nor the swift steps of some others. No one had placed her there, for she had no one that gave her orders, but she went to that place all the same and made herself as ready as one could.

Nykkolaia looked out over the snows, seeing lines of fighters and then the Riders move to their places. The wind was blowing gently and the sun was cold. Light, but little warmth... as was expected. Sitting quite alone upon the slight hill that seemed best suited for her task, never before had Nykkolaia cursed so vehemently something so simple, and yet so complex, as lines.
"It ain't about how hard you can hit, but how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward; how much you can take and keep moving forward." ['Rocky Balboa']

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Fells
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Fells » Wed Apr 22, 2009 11:37 pm

He'd gone in the morning.

He took with him her druid, as well as the whole contingent of those she'd designated as hers. Left behind would be the farm and the daughter and the girl sick in bed and the Dreaming baby, all under her watchful eye. An' what if'n this's all tha's left, after?

This family intended on returning. There was no doubt in her mind as to that. There was too much love there, too much drive and dedication and stubborn will to permit anything else. Fells simply had to trust again that they would be back. So she went about the work of making the stables and fields and house into a home, preparing it for their inevitable return.

There was little choice but to again be the one who waited. She discussed it aloud frequently, under her breath when no one else was close enough to hear. Each muted conversation ended at the same conclusion: if any of them dared die up there, she'd outright kill them. She already should, for the worry they were causing her. Maybe she would yet.

She'd decide as soon as they came home.
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Aelflaed
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Aelflaed » Wed Apr 22, 2009 11:39 pm

"Uther's Balls, Bert. I thowt ye... an' Stratholme. An' ye foun' me here? ... bloody hell." She stood up, looking him clean in the face, eye to eye, before looking away.

"Aye, bloody hell's about the size of it. Been through it once, looks like tomorrow we get to do it all again. How the nether are you here? Someone said there was a redhead just arrived at the medic camp, with an accent that'd put a Dwarf to shame. I thought it might be you. I hear you still talk like you've a mouth full of marbles." He laughed, and the sound hit the fog and disappeared.

"Oi, an ye still think y've go' better than th' lots wha' do. Y'great ponce."

More laughter, and he reached out gingerly to touch her hair. "You look just like I remember..."

She peered at him, glancing over his face, looking for some shred of the young man she'd grown up with. "There's nae much th' seventeen y'r ol' left in ye, thow. Ligh', bu' ye hardly e'en look like y'rself."

"I'm... not. Well, I am, but - it's a long story. You haven't answered my question though - how did you end up here? This place doesn't seem to fit the likes of an up and coming Paladin." His eyes found the jewel on her left hand. "... let alone a woman about to be married."

"Tha's.. well, tha's a long story 'swell, bu' then 's been near 10 years. F'r now, I'm here 'cause m' Boss sent me, after th' fecking Cultists took out half a camp a' Medics an' Fordragon put a call f'r th' independen' camps t' send a healer each. I've skill wi' combat healin' - 's wha' I did f'r th' armies fightin' th' Bloody Prince th' last time. After allat, an' a fair bit t' myself, I'm up wi' th' Wildfire Riders, ap Danwyrith's crew."

He stepped back, eyes wide in mock surprise. "Oh you've taken up with /that/ band of ruffians and ne'er do wells, aye? I should've known. Even as a Paladin, you end up in trouble."

"An' th' bes' fecking trouble I've found in awhile, too. Better lot than th' ones ye seem t' have taken up wi, thow I cannae say I'd prefer th' other option, given th' circumstances."

His face fell slightly, as somewhere in the distance a low bell rang, the sound hanging in the fog.

"And that's for me, and my troubles. I'll be on the line tomorrow. If you have any of the faith they say you do, pray you don't see me until after this is over..." He trailed off, eyes flicking to the bandages and the medic's flag on the tent before resting back at her face. "I can't say I've much left in the way of Light, Aely, but knowing you're here, that you made it... well, it's something."

Silence crept between them.

"I... aye... An' Ligh' go wi' ye. E'en if ye dinnae recognize it." She placed her hands gently against his forehead, murmuring a blessing. "Go wi' peace, Bert."

Closing his eyes, he turned away, and she watched until he disappeared into the fog.
[5.OOC] Beltar: Hammer of What The Fuck Were You Thinking

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Shad
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Shad » Thu Apr 23, 2009 12:11 am

Haemon had never minded the cold. It was a fortunate quality since, unlike the man he'd come to protect, he was almost entirely unburdened by supplies. No tent, no sleeping bag, not even a thick winter coat beyond that afforded him by his spirits. His leathers kept him plenty warm, and once he grew bark the temperature didn't matter at all. He'd spent the night in silent vigil five paces behind Laurus's tent, periodically watering himself. It was better camouflage than black fur on the white landscape.

The druid stood apart as ap Danwyrith delivered his brash, hopeful message to his troops, his heroes and anti-heroes. It was a real, physical effort not to laugh. Teach the Lich King fear? Pep talks required hyperbole, certainly, but that kind of impossible goal was dangerous. Hope for the wrong thing is more dangerous than no hope at all. It was a lesson he'd recently learned through experience. Hope was the only true neutral, a tool that could be as painful as it was helpful. Point it at the wrong thing, and it could backfire horribly.

Were they there to inspire fear? And in whom? In the mindless minions? The brainwashed commanders? The Lich King himself? Even Tirion Fordring acknowledged there was nothing left of the man who had been Arthas. What remained was a mutated creation of a demon, nothing more than an embodiment of the forces of darkness. Mortals feared for their own destruction. But what cause had Arthas to fear, when he had become the element he represented?

Darkness could never be destroyed.

One would think that the Riders would know that better than anyone.

Smaller, simpler, more logical goals, those were the order of the day. Hold the pass. Guard the flank. Live. There was no need for frightening visages or roaring battle cries, for fear was not their tool to use. Craft, strength, light and life. He glanced to Laurus. And love. The noble's fingers fidgeted on a rune. The plan, no doubt, circled through his head.

Do the job. Make our mark. And then get the fuck out.

Silent through all the Riders' multi-lingual cries, Haemon watched the column of saronite soldiers advance on the gate. His golden eyes narrowed at the brazen banner that deflected all protests with its icy stare.

"Balah ishnu," he hissed.
I don't know if you know this, but baby bears are precious and soft. --Mylune

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Dravir
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Dravir » Thu Apr 23, 2009 2:08 am

Why we fight.

It was cold. That was all he could think of, as the crew set up camp along the rocky walls, Angrathar looming over them. A bitter, malevolent chill, seeping past armor and furs, something that sought to leech the life and hope from your body and soul. No rest would come for those who fell here, in this land of ice and vile magic. The night was long, and the dawn would herald a terrible reckoning with a foe that had cost everyone, all those who surrounded him for miles, something precious.

Of course, it could be the lack of sleep talking. No one had slept through the rush through the Dragonblight. Odurd kept them at a vicious pace, his little goblin eyes alight with a strange hunger as the miles shrank between them, and the staging grounds at Angrathar. Gotta be there, kid. Big things at stake. Business opportunities of the century. And besides, it's big cred to the bosses back home if we kill something that's valuable as a corpse in a famous battlefield.

Of course, they arrived rather late. Stern Alliance infantry directed them to the masses of irregulars, far from the front lines. South and west, they found a nice little hill that barelyy smelled of the nearby open latrines if the wind was right, and began to dig into the frozen ground as the sun set. The trolls started a cookfire, building a semblance of a meal from their hastily gathered supplies, while the Boss went walkabout to find his fellow gobbos and sniff some information. Dravir savoured the quiet time. No shrieking goblin, and the orc was happily stacking small stones on top of the other. The dwarf was getting drunk in another camp, and the elf...

The elf was preparing for war.

A small trench dug, arrows were sunk into the frozen earth, the heads carefully wrapped so the ice that would grow in the night would not lock them into the dirt. Already his long, enviously amazing hair was bound into braids tight against his skull, war paint adorning his brow, to block sweat that would drip in his eyes and spoil his aim. For a moment, their eyes met, and he could almost respect this elf, a traitor to his people and the greatest ass Dravir had ever met, one professional to another. They shared a nod, before a familiar toned shriek erupted across the small camp. "Everybody get to the center! I have things to talk about now!"

Those who were able clustered around their diminuitive leader, watching him pace. And pace he did. He muttered with arms crossed, glaring a the ground. There was no acknowledgement of anyone, just goblin rage vented at the poor permafrost. Minutes passed, before he stopped, and looked up at them, his face a more usual businessman calm. "Alright. So. We're not getting paid for this gig."

Amid the moans and frowns, he waved his hands for quiet, then adopted a thoughtful pose. "Now, I'm a good gobbo, and like a profit as much as the next. Probably more," he admitted with a smirk. "But there's no pay here. Wrynn and Thrall are cheap bastards and have all these thoughts about "glory!" this and "honour!" that. The first gobbo to ask what the going rate was had himself and his crew escorted in chains to Venture Bay."

Odurd paused, scratching his green head. "Now, normally, I'd not stick around. No gobbo would, but we have a bunch here. And there's a good reason why. All the humans, the orcs, trolls, tauren, all of them, they're in it for the same thing. And right now, we are too. Because when it comes down to it, this Lich King made one big mistake, far as us gobbo's are concerned. He tried to screw with us. Make us look bad. And sabotage our business.

No one, no one, screws with another goblins business 'less it's another goblin. So get some sleep, 'cause tomorrow, we are going to send this man a message."
Last edited by Dravir on Thu Apr 23, 2009 5:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Avers: My God, the Anals o Darrowshire is a pain in the ass when you have four chicks who need it.

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Tarq
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Tarq » Thu Apr 23, 2009 7:38 am

The horns sundered the morning again, echoing off the teeth of Angrathar and reverberating into brassy confusion. Hooves churned the hard-packed snow, feet marched in unison. The golden arcs of protective wards and uncanny crackle of prepared magical assaults shimmered here and there in the ranks. Under the Lion of Stormwind, crying out for Lordaeron and Menethil and all that had been lost, the golden soldiers of the Alliance charged.

And their foe was waiting, sown before the Wrath Gate like a crop out of nightmare, a writhing conglomeration of mangled, malformed corpses and their frost-hearted commanders. Fordragon's soldiers plunged into them, the precise formations degenerating to chaos within seconds, and all becoming rank butchery. But the banners of Stormwind, interspersed here and there with the White Horse of Lordaeron or the Grey Bull of Stromgarde, stood high in the press. All knew that this was but the fodder of the Adversary, but deal with it they must, and they went to it with a will.

On a nameless hill half a mile west of the gate, the call went out. Black dots appeared in the winding corridor of the pass, scurrying through the snow or clawing up out of the tortured earth. Soon, their shrieks and gibbering laughter echoed off the icy terrain, preceding them to the hill - one of half a hundred of the Lich King's probing fingers, looking for a weakness in the allied lines that would provide Him the opportunity He sought. As the undead approached, their features became clearer - swinging apeish arms, distended faces, protruding spurs of bone as sharp as blades. Those in the profession of Scourge-hunting called them ghouls. The Lich King called them His children. The people on the hill called them the beginning of a good day's work.

"We've cot company!" called the elf burrowed in snow on top of the hill, and, "I don't know, a fucking lot!" in answer to the ensuing question. Bows and rifles were readied. Swords scraped from scabbards. Fire writ the air, words in a forgotten language gone as quickly as they appeared. The commands came down from the red-haired northman at the crest - to stand ready, waste neither ammunition nor enchantment, and let the monsters come.

And they did, howling in glee, howling in agony, howling until the rot in their throats flecked the snow and the Dragonblight had become a vale of screams. Closer and closer, a scurrying insect with a hundred mouths, endless hunger animating every uncanny movement of their frames. Here and there were visible a different species of horror, loping along with eerie silence, their faces concealed behind crude leather masks, their hands pummeling the earth like gnomish mechanisms. In the rear could be glimpsed the maggot-pale bulk of constructed abominations. Closer, until the lead ghouls glimpsed the ragged line of mercenaries, with their motley armor and wide mortal eyes. They shrieked in ecstacy, with the rapture of carnage to come.

On top of the hill, the scarecrow in dark leathers lit a cigarette with shaking hands and turned to his red-haired, stone-faced companion. "Cheers," he murmured quietly. "Let's do it." The sergeant roared the call to fire, and fire was what they gave them - fire and steel besides, boiling the air and churning the snow, and tearing the front of the pack to sopping rags. Behind the plume of smoke, the infantry waited, weapons at hand, while the first dozen or so of the undead vanished under the rain of projectiles.

In the sudden silence in the wake of the explosions, the Riders heard Bittertongue's voice. "Fuckin' aright, now do it again!"
Now hang me by this golden noose
'Cause I never been nothin' but your golden goose
Silver tongue don't fail me now
And I'll make my way back to you somehow

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Threnn
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Threnn » Thu Apr 23, 2009 10:58 am

Maiden

"Wait." Anna placed a hand on Fin's shoulder and eyed the woman in the snow. "The hell are you doing here?"

"Protectin' Davien. You can't make me go." The witch glared up at her, scowling her fiercest scowl, until she saw Fingold in the background. The hat came off in a mad wave. "Hey! Didja get your socks?"

Fin grimaced. "Anna, we ought to get into position."

"I'm coming." She turned back to the mage. "You want to help her, come with us. No one gets through the line. Nothing climbs this hill that's
his."

Corspilla twisted to glare at the tent flaps, muttering.

"Oi. You can sit here and fret, or you can come be useful."

The dead woman considered a moment, then took the hand that was offered to her and lurched to her feet. "I'm comin! Ain't stupid, just dead. Now, stuff can get lit on fire and Davien can't get mad at me!" She paused, sniffing the air. "You been rollin' in dreamfoil or somethin'?"

The priestess didn't answer. "Let's go."


It was a good spot to mount a defense. Of course it was -- the veterans among them had scouted it out beforehand and laid out the battleplans. Anna pulled the shadows closer, waiting for the dead things to come in range. They felt different here, on the edge of battle. Eager. She wondered how much of it was her own nerves, how much was the strange pull that she always felt in Icecrown, and how much was due to whatever was going on in the tent at the top of the hill.

It didn't matter. The Scourge were coming, and the shadows would do her bidding.

At her side, the dead girl cackled and adjusted her hat.


Mother

In her mind, Threnn ticked off the list of supplies back in the healing tent: bandages, pallets, blankets, herbs and salves. Water, whiskey, clean steel and braziers, should anyone suffer wounds grievous enough to need cauterization. Light send no one will. Light send I won't need to use so much as a bandage. Light send we won't even have to carry one person into that tent when this is over.

Light send I won't have to pull the blankets up to cover the faces of my family.


They were futile prayers, truly, but praying kept her from pacing. The last thing they'd need was for her to go into labor while there was a battle going on. She counted heads, too, noting as many positions as she could.

The horns sounded again, and the nightmare-things came into sight. Naiara kicked hard enough to elicit a gasp. "I know, baby girl," she whispered, placing a steel-gauntleted palm on her plate-covered belly. "I know."

Then Ulthanon was shouting, and Bricu's voice cut into the wind -- not her husband's voice, but her sergeant's. The ache in her back that was near-constant these days faded as she pulled herself to attention and called the Light into her hands.

Her daughter shifted inside her once more, then subsided.



Crone

Magic filled the air. With every breath, she pulled it into her lungs, felt it suffuse through her body until it sang in her very bones. She felt as though she should be shaking with it, but her hands were steady as she drew another rune in silver ink.

So much power here, so tempting to let it just flow over her, to wade into the lines and let it carry her away on its currents. She was brimming with it, the words coming to her lips faster and faster as the runes began to glow.

When I was a girl, we danced around the poles at Midsummer until we were too dizzy t'stand. I feel like I'm in mid-whirl, now, an' any minute I'll go spinnin' off, the world tiltin' up t'catch me, the sky wheelin' above.

No. Control it. Take it.


Magic required a will of iron. Weak-minded mages never made it very far -- the lucky ones were weeded out by their teachers before they could do lasting harm. The unlucky ones were sometimes found dead, sometimes found drooling.

Davien Stonemantle had never been weak. She pulled in another breath, set down another rune.

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Beltar
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Beltar » Thu Apr 23, 2009 11:08 am

They came.

The dead, and half-dead, and not-quite-dead, and thrice-dead. Ghouls and geists to the front, skeletons of various races mixed in, the grub-white of abominations lumbering at the rear. Not exactly an army's worth, but at least a few for each of the Riders and friends arrayed across the pass. Enough for a probe, when you were the Lich King and had a near-infinite supply of fodder.

Beltar watched, seemingly unconcerned, from behind his rock, and waited. To all outward appearances, he was no different than at any other time. Hair windblown and skin windburnt, face craggy as the mountains that surrounded them, eyes a bit squinted, armor a tad dissheveled and not quite polished. Just a dwarf past his prime, playing at being a hero, somehow managing to make his fine collection of dragonhide and saronite mail look less than it really was.

Appearances were deceiving. Beltar Forgebreaker, unimpressive-looking as he was, was a Light-damned professional, and he wasn't shy about telling anyone who'd listen, whether they believed him or not. Today, he'd prove it.

He brought the Nesingwary 4000 up smoothly and gently balanced it on a bit of rock, sighting in on the approaching mass. They were picking up speed now, rolling downhill like a boulderslide, on a course that would crash them right into the Riders' line across the pass, and give him and Ulthanon beautiful firing lanes into their flanks. The bolt went forward and back for the first time, loading a Mammoth Cutter into the chamber.

He waited. And waited. Then Bricu's voice roared from behind the line, and the pass erupted.

Trigger. Bolt.

His first shot picked off a geist in mid-gallop, flinging it backward into the snow and allowing its fellow undead to finish the job Beltar started, by trampling it to death.

Whistle. Target. Trigger. Bolt. Trigger. Bolt.

Longpaw erupted from beside him in a cloud of snow, took two graceful bounds, and leapt, a silver-spotted blur, to land fifteen yards downhill on the back of a ghoul and bear it to the ground. It stood back up, shrugging the cat off, in time for two nearly-simultaneous shots to explode its head and send it right back down.

Target. Sight. Fan the trigger. Bolt. Trigger. Bolt. New target.

The cat began to tear at a geist as Beltar focused in again and kept up a steady drumbeat of fire, reports booming off the rock walls. Calloused, knobby hands moved like the finest gnomish clockwork, from trigger to bolt to trigger again, fast and smooth. There was no thought, just reflex honed by a lifetime of practice. Nothing else mattered, nothing else existed. He and the rifle were one. He didn't wield the weapon, he was the weapon. He may as well have been just pointing his own hand as the undead fell shredded under a withering hail of fire from front and flank. There was no rage, no anger, no screaming; there was, indeed, no noise from Beltar at all except for the sounds of his rifle, the snick-clunk of the bolt and the deafening bang of the firing.

For however long he could keep it up, Beltar Forgebreaker was, once again, the cold, emotionless killer he'd always claimed to be.

It was glorious.

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Chrystenise
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Chrystenise » Thu Apr 23, 2009 2:58 pm

~Haylie Dannis and the Wrath Gate: 2~

It seemed as if she had been staring at the hilltop for an hour now. In fact, it was only a few minutes. She jumped lightly as the war horns sounded across the lines of the Stormwind Army, signalling the charge forward.

"You are men of good!" Sergeant Deveraux cried out, unsheathing his sword from upon the plate-barded warhorse. "Soldiers of The Great Kingdom and Servants of the Light!"

A faint rumbling came from just over the hill. Chattering and jibbering meshing along with the crunching downfall of bare feet in the snow.

"You'll show no fear, and you will fight til victory or last breath - Light's will! No fear!"

"No fear!" The majority of the battalion shouted. Tower shields and spears formed a front line, the heraldry of the Lion carved intricately onto each wall of wood and steel. They planted them into the snow and put their weight against it, mentally prepared to bear the weight of the world itself in order to stop the scourge.

"No fear!" Sergeant Deveraux shouted again, receiving the same in return from his troops. Haylie flinched as the first of the wave was seen coming over the hill. Rotting and destroyed, figures of bone and ichor. Eyes hollow and actions mindless. They smelled flesh, and in a rage they would never udnerstand - wanted to destroy it.

"Archers!" The command shot from Sergeant Deveraux's mouth as if he were whipping a sick horse into a gallop. A good twenty bows came to aim. "Sevi du krathi - kreth kreth!" Amalia, the frail, but pretty sorceress shouted, short, wily mane of black whipping in the wind like a dark as the ends of each arrow burst into flames!

"Fire!" The arrows released with a loud whistle, flying over the heads of the shield wall, and finding home in a small majority of the scourge! Those who weren't critically wounded rushed on, however, no true match for the shields the encountered, crashing off of them like waves on a cliff. The soldiers planted their feet and pushed forward, holding the rotting mass at bay as more words of the arcane were shouted, and another volley of arrows loosed.

"Sevi du krathi - kreth kreth allanaki!" Amalia shouted again and flung an arm forward. Snow at the top of the hill began to melt, and a column of flame poured down over a mass of the scourge, exploding and incinerating a healthy portion of them - only to have more take their place.

What Dannis had seen during the Zombiepocalypse was nothing compared to the army of the dead her eyes spied this day. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she stared upon the mess of flaming, grotesque parts that fought to pass the unmoving shield wall, barricaded and holding strong as flames and arrows tore them apart.

It was then as the call she feared to hear came. "East flank!" Sergeant Deveraux's words stung especially hard - as she was at the very front of the battalion's east. Gasping and quickly turning her head to the right, she saw the wave of oncoming scourge; a mere twenty feet away! She fumbled, and grabbed at her sword and shield, tears welling in her eyes.

The outer line of the battalion all turned, readying sword and (much smaller) shield. To the surprise of most, however the flanking line was not scourge! It was quite possibly much worse.

"Archers east!" Deveraux commanded as the men turned, knocked, and loosed arrows into the oncoming wave of magnataur and snobold! Several fell, but a good hundred more followed! The line readied their blades and put their shields forward. Dannis took to heart her training and flung the shield up before her, shouting fearfully in her war cry and rushing forward with the rest!

The magnataur trampled through the front line, few falling, and more successful in their attempt to break the humans apart! Dannis sword struck home in the gut of one, but she found herself rammed and flung a good ten feet through the air from the impact and thudding on her back in the snow! She whimpered and glanced aside, quickly grabbing her sword and rolling just in time to be missed by the stomping hoof of a magnataur!

She scurried to her feet and screamed, attempting to flee from the beast - and only found a second one bearing down a charge upon her. What little bit of a life the young woman had flashed before her eyes, and she lifted her sword in frantic defense; she knew now that she had no chance of survival.

The oncoming beast suddenly flipped forward, legs taken out completely as a banner of Stormind, flung like a spear, pierced a meaty thigh and stumbled the giant beast! Sergeant Deveraux sped past the girl on his warhorse, and in a single chop of his sword, removed the trampled magnataur's head! The mount raised on it's hind legs as he pulled the reigns and turned it to face her. A loud shout, and and a flash of light later, he swung his shield through the air - and sent a golden-hued phantom of it flinging through the air! It struck the second magnataur and dazed it, saving the personally-dazed Dannis herself from a trampling as her rushed forward, gutting it with another might blow!

Dannis suddenly cringed, and snapped to her senses as a hand struck her hard across the cheek, stinging the flesh and dizzying her. "Fight, girl!" Deveraux commanded. "Get that cute ass our there and kill shite!" He gave her a light boot to the side and stumbled her - but seeing the two dead beasts, she was filled with a false sense of bravery. With a squawk of a battle cry, Haylie rushed forward to meet the oncoming massacre!

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Ulthanon
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Re: The Wrath Gate

Postby Ulthanon » Thu Apr 23, 2009 7:00 pm

The abomination didn’t really know where it came from. It was aware that it had parts of many different creatures sewn into its body, but it didn’t remember what they were called. It understood that it was supposed to go and poke the little things in front of it with axes and spears and so forth, but it wasn’t entirely sure why. It just felt like that’s what needed to be done, in the same way that a fish finds the streams of its birth simply because that’s what is supposed to happen.
It was aware that the little things directly in front of it, going in the same direction that it was going, were not the little things it was supposed to be stabbing, so it didn’t. They were very jittery, today… but then, they were always a little bit jittery. A word formed somewhere in its partially rotten brain- “Ghoul”. That’s what the jumpy little things in front of it were called.

The abomination stumbled forward, doing its best to keep pace with the ghouls. A few yards on either side of it, others of its kind lumbered absently forwards. They, too, knew what they were supposed to do when they reached their destination, and similarly, they didn’t know why. Nor did they care.

Up ahead, the abomination became somewhat aware of a line of little things that were not ghouls. This was obvious because all the ghouls were going forwards, but these other little things were standing still and facing the wrong way- against the current. Stupid little things.

The abomination was about thirty yards behind the ghouls up front (not that it knew what a yard was), when it saw the lined-up little things start hitting the ghouls with swords and shooting them with guns! This confused the abomination. That wasn’t supposed to happen! Everything was supposed to go down this hill, along with the other abominations and ghouls and skeletons… why were they attacking the ghouls?
Another word bubbled up in its mind, this time far more clear- “Mortals”. That was a bad word, for sure. It wasn’t sure why it was sure, but sure it was. Mortals were to be poked with sharp things and stepped on until they stopped moving; until they got back up again as ghouls! Then they could go with the current and go down the hill like they should have been in the first place.

“Me help them,” the abomination said to no one in particular, and picked up the pace.

As the lumbering creation shambled to within twenty yards of the mortal line, it felt three distinct impacts on its left side. It didn’t hurt, per se- it didn’t have the brain function to really process pain, but it did understand that something had hit it. Bullets, from that hill, that’s what it had to be; the mortals weren’t poking him up close yet, so…
Wait, no.
It looked up the hill, where it saw a small collection of gunmen… and that sort of made sense for where gunfire would come from? But… no, no, that couldn’t be it. Come to think of it, that didn’t make sense at all. No, it must have been shot by that big, armored mortal up front. The one with the hammer!
Yes. That makes sense.

The abomination started to charge, now very determined to poke that mortal with spears and axes and step on it until it was dead. He charged through a collection of ghouls that happened to be in the way- no time to explain now, little ghouls, that hammer-gun-thing has to be dealt with.
A fourth impact was perceived by the abomination, this one near what would have been its solar plexus, but this one felt different. It felt… like bubbling? Even for a mostly-rotted brain, that didn’t make any sense. Bullets didn’t bub—

BOOM! The first explosion blew the chest cavity clear out, sending a shower of bone and bile across all those near.
BOOM! The second explosion tore off its right arm, sending it flying into the air. The force behind it was so great that it also caused splashes of liquid fire onto the ghouls he’d charged through, and it melted through their limbs.
BOOM! The third and final explosion took the creature’s head off its shoulders, and it fell over, dead once more. Its final thought was disappointment- the mortals were doing it wrong, they were supposed to go down the hill…
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