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Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Sun May 24, 2009 8:33 am
Despite the throwing of frost against snow, Nykkolaia burned inside. Time was irrelevant, except the breaths and heart beats between the casting of each spell. The only inner sign of the length of time passing was the glint of frost coating her hands and the dull ache in her mind. Down the slope, blade and shield and blunted weapon was being swung and throne. The clangs and thuds echoed up, and Nykk was dimly aware of it as it reached her ears, cutting through the wind that alternately whispered and shrieked.
Nykkolaia's pale eyes infrequently broke from the sight of 'us' and 'them' to see recognizable forms. Hear their voices. The accents of the North were the loudest for her - comfort and music in the midst of chaos.
"MOVE MOVE MOVE!" Jol Taborwynn bellowed over the sound of his damage, swinging blade and shield like a living weapon. Vrykul, ghoul, geist, cultist, it didn't matter to him. He would damn well bathe in their blood for the memory of what was lost and what remained that the mindless dead would try to tear away from them. He was surrounded by hard fighters, Horde and Alliance, Orc and Night Elf, Troll and Dwarf, Human and Forsaken. Jol was mindful of them, but swung all of his strength into the undead as they fell back up the slope. His arms felt like bars of lead, but he kept swinging out of sure stubborn will. They were falling back, but they were nowhere near done. The battle was not done yet. Not done.
The Riders and those of Noxilite who fought beside them fell back.
As the retreat was sounded, the lines began their slow move backward. Taborwynn's roar rose above the sounds of battle and Nykkolaia was, briefly, aware of ap'Danwyrith coming to the line. Another mage was beside her now, but only part of her was aware of these things. The other part was focused. Her eyes and her hands rose to the sky and the grey clouds swirled together. Called from the air came the blades of ice that left razor paths through enemy flesh.
She could smell the blood, though none was on her hands. Being a mage was clean business, when done right.
The tumult of sound only drew nearer, but she didn't stop. The ice falling from the sky slowed the encroaching 'them' to allow the 'us' to make their way back to the lines. No peace in our time, came an unbidden thought that was pulled away amidst the noise of slamming shields and shearing of bodies.
"Git goan!" Jolly roared to those remaining behind him, standing and facing against the onslaught and holding them off to buy the others time to get set. Swing, turn, block, slash, cut, slam. He flew into a fury of Righteousness, giving up one grudging step at a time, but buying the others time to move. They had to move, regroup, and then bring the hammer down on the Scourge.
The wind roar and the burning inside her grew worse. The fire ate away at her awareness and it abandoned her. She suffered no injury, but there was pain building inside. Her magic continued, but it began to falter. The tide moving towards her was unknown and would catch her in its wake if she didn't over-come the distraction within, and yet her heart beat moments too late and the forces surrounding the solitary figures trailing the line were suddenly far closer than they had been before.
Nykkolaia was aware of being alone. The line had moved without her, the chaos enveloping all.
Her survival instinct took over where it had previously forsaken her and her left hand swung out before her, ice rising with greedy hands to capture the feet of those who would harm her. She hurried back to rejoin the rest of the forces, but the ice - that of Northrend's making - took her down before she got far. A careless mistake, perhaps, or simply a cruel twist of fate... either way, it was very likely to cost her life, before she had the chance to make much of her ruined soul.
The fire that had been burning her from inside grew. Panic fed it. Fear fed it. Helplessness fed it. All within moments, breaths that she wasn't taking. She was aware of the enemy around her, like the tide about to pull her under... and she closed her eyes. The fire erupted all around her.
Mangled bodies flew outwards in flames, and it damn well caught Jol's eye as he was about to turn and rejoin his fellows. Someone was down there. He damn well couldn't leave them behind.
A wordless roar came out from him, and he physically threw himself into the throng, leaping over a falling Vrykul and blasting into the Scourge with Holy Light. He clambered over and through undead, swinging and slamming through until he reached the still smoldering circle of cleared undead. The mage was curled up there, covering herself in fear. Jol had no time and no patience for the still-clambering Scourge. With another gutteral roar, he turned and unleashed a furious rain of holy power, clearing a path back through the undead that had surged past. Burying his sword into the chest of a charging Vrykul, Jol sidestepped and let it past, taking the moment to grab the mage by the scruff of her robes and physically lifting her up fully. With another roar, he turned and pushed her through the cleared path.
"MOVE!" he bellowed after her, turning and picking up a discarded hammer from the ground in a hurry. With gritted teeth, he turned back around to the fray, swinging his hammer with all his might.
Death was forestalled. It was denied. Perhaps for the second time in her life when it shouldn't have been, it was. Nykkolaia was not so foolish as to lose herself in shock when her senses recovered and she was hauled to her feet. Only for an instant, her eyes met Taborwynn's and breath returned to her body. She moved back on the path and sought ice to throw, cover Jol... but it would not come. Panic lingered at the edges of her mind, but she couldn't let that happen twice.
Fire came with barely a thought now. As she quickly made her steps back, her eyes took in everything and she watched the Paladin swinging the great hammer. Fire bloomed from the chest of the Vrykul as its head caved in and another, coming in swiftly, lit up explosively and fell thrashing to the ground.
The Vrykul he was about to lay into bloomed into fire, and Jol didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. He damn well knew he couldn't keep up at this pace, and there was still a fight left to be had. Burying the hammer in a gibbering geist's head, Jol turned and ran back up the slope towards the mage. He barely had time to register the surprise on her face when he lowered his shoulder and wrapped an arm around her, lifting her up over his shoulder in one smooth motion without breaking stride. "Keep slingin' an' ah'll keep runnin'!" he bellowed at her as his legs churned them both up the slope.
Posted: Wed May 27, 2009 10:37 am
((Each of us wrote our own parts, just making one big post to make things cohesive. <3!))
Sandaled feet smoothly paced across the unforgiving earth. With each
touch of a long, wooden heel to stone, the snow within a foot-wide
radius melted at instant, small wisps of steam rising around shapely
legs. The lacey robes of many bright hues whipped around her as the
wind atop the valley screamed amidst the sounds of battle. Long,
painted nails sparked with fire as fists clenched, soon becoming
engulfed by the elemental flames...
And the bright blue gaze of Genise Crownsilver narrowed upon her enemy
as the last retreating Rider passed them by. A sudden smack on her
backside made her yelp - but she didn't dare turn to scold the
criminal; she had other things on her mind.
Her teeth gritted, and her arms raised - and with a shout of foreign
words, she let loose a volley of channeled flames, empowered by the
ley lines, and harnessing pure destruction. The first of the three
vrykul coming over the ledge simply melted, their gooey remains
flopping to the snow and pouring back down into the valley. The first
behind them? Sent sprawling through the air to a broken death as a
ball of magical flame slammed into its chest!
Genise cackled with glee, the surge of power dominating her; such a
high to any caster, no matter their knowledge or power.
Line by line, the scourge followed, coming over the ledge and closing
in on the camp. Genise kept calm, composed, and didn't move. Patience
would reward her in the moments to come, and as the unbearable stench
of her foes grew stronger with their closing steps, she calmly reached
for the sword on her back, and whispered a soft cantation.
As the first of the scourge lunge, she draws her sword and shouts. A
shield of fire explodes in an instant before her, knocking the beast
back and setting it aflame! She turns quickly and brings the sword
down across the chest of a rushing vrykul - causing a second, minor
explosion, but every bit powerful enough to send it into the air, over
her head, and crashing into its comrades.
She giggles brightly and turns, eyeing the mindless horde of ghouls
around her, growing larger in numbers and slowly surrounding. Ravenous
screams and gibbering as they practically tear each other apart to get
to the lovely meal. Closer and closer, but she still does nothing to
defend. Her smile creeps wider and higher, and her eyes narrow
"Come on now, be mindless like you were made to be and pounce..."
And so they do. hundreds of pounds of death, decay, and disease all
leap, closing in around the young woman, ripping and tearing in an
attempt to have that first bite, the second, or even the last.
Shame to see, then, that they only manage to land upon the block of
ice she encased herself in. A vrykul howls, bringing his axe around,
taking out three of his comrades and barely chipping the block in his
effort. The lessers continue to claw and gibber, knowing that
eventually, they'll make it to her. They have all the time in the
Her eyes close within the icy prison, and she whispers softly. A wave
of heat suddenly washes over the area, and the block shatters,
exploding in all directions! Flames wave out all about her form,
crackling and exploding; sending all scourge in the area up and back,
set aflame and mangled beyond uselessness.
A bubble of flame encases her, crackling and licking at the earth and
remains at her feet. She floats roughly two feet above the ground, and
she cackles wildly as she eyes the carnedge about her.
This feeling of power was beyond anything she'd ever felt - and she
had thousands upon thousands of scourge to test it upon.
She knew somewhere in the back of her mind that she'd left the tent with two other women, but she couldn't seem to remember their faces or their names. She knew the man she loved was around, but she hadn't the faintest idea where, because all she could concentrate on was the thrum of magic searing her from the inside. Never before had this kind of power branded her soul. Never before had she felt this absolutely gorged on her craft.
There was the shriek of geists coming from her left, and she swiveled her head, the motion feeling slow and languid. They ran at her, their spindly arms raised, mouths gaping open to reveal the glint of fangs. Yva tilted her head back and laughed, her arms spreading wide.
The first ice stalagmite erupted from the ground. One geist was impaled outright, its middle tearing open as the pinnacle split it from chest to guts. The others found themselves trapped, tethered to the ground as ice worked itself over their feet to climb in cords up to their knees, and then their thighs. Yva's giggles faded as the song bubbled forth.
My love is ice and fire and wind.
The ice was around their waists now, and it began to tremble. Smaller tendrils snaked around too, creating a network of spider webs. It climbed, and climbed, until the things were swathed to their necks in her quaking magics.
The rush of the river.
Another stalagmite and then another erupted in front of her, each one acting as both a spear and an anchor, holding the writhing masses in icy grips. She walked forward, feet leaving tiny prints in the snow. She never felt the cold, she never registered the screams of the geists behind her as the last of her spell made spikes erupt from the cords, impaling each of them on a thousand shards.
The lark that sings.
She worked her way onto the field of battle, the ground opening up at her command, the terrain glittering thanks to the enormous jags protruding from it. An abomination screeched before her, its legs held strong by her power. She watched it try to chop the spell away with its axes, and she laughed and danced, swaying as the shadows erupted from her fingertips to tear through its tattered skin.
It fell back in a steaming heap, the light fading from its eyes.
Her lips moved, but no words came. In her mind, though, her song gave way to the skipping rhymes of her youth, and she smiled, rolling her head around on her shoulders with a gleeful shriek.
They wear the face of friend not foe,
Smile of light, but eye of crow
A brand of death upon the skin
Wearing their sin, Wearing their sin
The demon's soul, and lo beware
Turned to stone with but a stare
A witch to live, a witch to die
Oh wicked brand, the end is nigh.
She opened her palms and let her magic fly.
They'd said, so very long ago in Ambermill, that magic was addictive. That every spell you cast made it harder and harder to resist casting the next. That it would change you, corrupt you (and there was no "perhaps" or "might" about it; only the inevitable "will"), make you crave it the way the drunk craves his flask. That there were dark, dangerous things out there, waiting for the foolhardy to slip up and let them in to wreak havoc upon the world.
She'd been cautious once, watching for the signs of those things because her teachers had told her she should be afraid. The evidence of their predecessors' arrogance was written in history's pages and in the scars of the world itself.
She'd been cautious, but then the priestess Mirandella had been shattered by the woman who now walked at her side, destroyed by a power whose opposite Davien knew it was within her to wield.
She'd been cautious, but then Yva had come and begged a promise from her, had asked her to be a boon, a bane, a balm.
She'd been cautious, but then the shadows had come and shown her what was, what might be, and what must never be again.
And for those things, for all those things and so very many more, she'd left caution behind at last, stealing into Eldre'thalas and pulling musty tomes from where they'd lain forgotten so that she might glean the knowledge of the Highborne. She'd collected stories all these years, not merely for entertainment, but because, when you dug down into the meat of a story -- when you opened up its bones and sucked out the marrow, when you stuck your fingers in its chest and touched its very heart -- there, beneath all the layers, you found truth.
Find enough truths, and find power beyond imagining.
When Sylvanas made her pact with Sin'dorei, Davien cajoled her way into the restricted areas of Silvermoon's libraries. The clearing behind her cottage in Moonglade became her practice ground, the earth scorched with runes, sigils carved into tree trunks.
All a rehearsal, it seemed -- not for the murder of Yva Darrows, not anymore (not yet; let's not be foolish. Not YET) -- but instead for the taking of a life that had done even greater damage.
Regicide, that's what this was.
They were here to destroy a Prince, and the power to do it sang within her.
The witches emerged from the tent into the biting cold of Northrend, and everything seemed tinged in white as the arcane pulsed through her. She could pull down the mountains if she knew their Names. Perhaps she did; there were stories older than this place. She could pull down the very stars with this much power, or at least one or two. There were several of those whose Names she'd known since she was a girl in Westfall.
Shadows tinged the edges of her vision, clamoring to blind her. She forced them back, until the world was keenly edged with white once more. Y've no need t'protect me, she thought at them, certain they could feel what she felt. I'm doin' as 'ee bid me, long ago. "Never again," y'said, remember?
Never again. Just as the Riders had roared this morning, their voices carrying into the tent and making the runes shiver against her skin.
Never again. The shadows subsided, and the witches strode through the snow.
The Riders returning to the top of the hill gave the women a wide berth. Among them were other forms she recognized, not of the Black and Red, but of the Eye. Stubborn, she thought, as she passed her own. Though they probably think the same o'me. Linedan looked as though he might pluck her up off the path, and set her down so Rashona could make good on her threat to sit on her. Pill looked as though she'd gladly help. Her heart swelled with love for them, but there was no time for more than a nod and a smile.
There was work to be done.
As the last men and women passed them by, the magi stepped out into the gap between the camp and the scourge. The abominations had followed ap Danwyrith's force partway up the slope, ghouls and geists gibbering and capering at the thought of easy prey. Their cacophany lapsed for a heartbeat as they took in the three coming down to meet them.
One of them laughed, an empty, raspy sound from a jawless mouth, and its commander found his voice once more. "KILL THEM!" he thundered, a skeletal hand flinging forth to point, in case any of his squad's brains were too rotted to be sure.
They keened as they surged forward, a battle-cry filled with madness. The hunters on the hill weren't taking any chances; gunshots boomed behind them. Arrows whistled past, punching into decaying flesh. Davien grinned wildly as the wind from one stirred her hair. She tied the arcane to its tip as it flew by; the ghoul's heart exploded in a ball of white as the arrow slammed home.
Then came the tug from the runes that tied her to her sisters. Fire and ice flared as Genise and Yva drew on the ley lines that ran deep beneath the snows. Davien pulled on it, too, and the world slowed to a crawl.
She whispered a word in a forgotten tongue, one that meant corpse and revenant and another that meant puppet and tied them together with a rune at her wrist, made them a new word.
Then she sent those words forth in a streak of purple and white, a barrage veined with thin ribbons of ebony, and let death tear them a path through the scourge.
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Wed May 27, 2009 11:08 am
Hearing her name, the paladin turned, saw nothing, and looked back towards Angrathar.
Fordragon's shouting stopped, and a chill whisper like the sound of death responded.
She hopped down, trying to find the voice among the swirls of snow, ghoul parts, and wounded men. "Ayeh, I hear ye - who are ye, an' where?"
"I'm here. Under the wagon, please Aely."
Running back and pulling loose another set of linen bandages, she found him. His side had been split open from ribcage to hip, and he was breathing blood as much as air.
A horrified gasp and shudder went through the armies gathered around the Wrathgate.
"Sweet Ligh', Bert... I... " and she set to bandaging his wounds. "I've nowt left bu' bandages, I cannae fin' anneh Ligh' here now..." She bustled. He stopped her.
"Don't. Please. I've died once, and dying now to know that you live and are well... is better than the first time. This life is not one that I want, nor care to keep - I want peace. Please. Peace, and rest..."
From somewhere high above, a booming voice, and the creaking squeak of siege engines.
A crash, and screaming. More crashes.
She looked out from behind the splintered wood, and fear sunk back into her stomach with all the delicacy of lead and rotten fish. Green gas, everywhere - and men screaming until their lungs filled with the choking fumes and their lives ended, drowning in open air.
A wafting wall of death floated towards them.
His voice rasped, with the rattle she knew the meaning of but didn't want to believe. He reached for his pocket and handed her something. "You made this once, have it again. Now /run/." Half a dozen steps and she looked back to see the wagon disappear under the oncoming wave - and there was no sound from underneath.
She ran as the screaming behind her died to a choking whisper, and as dragon and felfire blazed from the sky. She ran as breath caught in her throat and the wound in her arm grew numb. She ran, without looking back, until she collapsed in the snow, chest heaving with exhaustion and pain and cold.
In her hand, blue-purple against the pale, twilight lit snow, was a knotted cord of prayer beads.
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Wed May 27, 2009 2:40 pm
Ulthanon had settled into his groove, wordlessly working his way through boxes and boxes of ammunition. His task was not so exciting as the front line's; where they would engage each enemy in a unique and individual circumstance, someone relegated to providing covering fire simply took down the targets that the front line didn't have an opportunity to. He'd come to find, over the years, that it meant he was doing his job best when his compatriots took his services as a given. That meant that they had absolute trust in his continued accuracy and judgement.
Most of the displays of his better marksmanship didn't even register in his mind as noteworthy anymore- he didn't have time to brag. Any more time wasted than the second it took to pull the bolt of his gun back again, and he risked someone's life down on the front. For at least three-quarters of the shots he was taking he had less than half a second to aim, but thus far he had not missed a single target. Some of the bigger creatures took a little more attention, but it was an attention he was more than happy to give.
Even from up on his hill, with the din of his own gun and Beltar's beside him, he heard the call for a general retreat sound from the melee below. This meant little for him; he still had to rain death with the same level of accuracy, and its not like he had to move anywhere. It just meant that the people who would be returning to the camp might be a little more distracted than they should be.
From the corner of his eye, a distinct movement registered in the back of his mind. It was only from the periphery that the figure caught his attention, but it was moving quickly and towards one of the Paladins from the left- probably Jolstraer, from the way the armored figure moved. Still, there were five other targets lined up in his mind, most of whom were around Tarquin and Tirith, so this new creature would have to wait its turn.
Blam!ka-chick.Blam!ka-chick. Two down, both headshots. He realigned his aim a few degrees to the left, allowing better view of the creature- a Vykrul. So a body-shot wouldn't be enough to bring it down... that's fine.
Blam!ka-chick. He realigned to the left again after catching a leaping Giest mid-air, wholly halting its trajectory and sending it whirling into the snow. It was a Vykrul after all, but its weapon was smaller than normal. Looked like a throwing axe. The creature started to wind up its good arm.
Blam!ka-chick.Blam!ka-chick. Another two bullets found home in a pair of Necromancers that had started eyeing up a Tauren, and they crumpled as their heads were reduced to a fine red mist. He doubted whether or not the two could have really harmed the enormous bull, but he'd noticed the Hordesman helping a few Riders now and again, so he had figured he'd repay the favor. Still, that left the axe-thrower...
...and from the right, now, another one of the northern giant-men loomed out of the crowd, and began to heft its hammer. Left alone, it might catch Tirith unawares.
Oh, fuck me.
What happened next took place over the span of maybe three seconds.
Ulthanon's eyes snapped left to the Vykrul to see that the axe was already leaving it's hand. Shooting the monster now wouldn't save anyone from that whirling blade, which was probably four feet long and a hundred pounds of honed Northern death. From the right, the second of the pair had now fully lifted his weapon, and still stood a few feet diagonally behind where Tirith was casting his spells. From the speed he was moving at, he'd be on the Rogue-turned-Mage in about a second and a half... the axe would hit Jolstraer in less than that.
Ulthanon's aim snapped back to the right, halfway between the Vykrul and Jolstraer's position, to a point where there was a gap in the fighting. Without a hesitation, he squeezed the trigger.
The bullet shrieked down the length of the hill, fully ready to bore into a snowbank. As it approached it's intended spot in the plane, however, the axe whirled into view, and the marksman's shell found home on the flat of the blade. The axe, whose flight had now been acted upon, deflected a mere degree or two to it's left- but it was enough. It sailed past Jolstraer (Ulthanon wasn't even sure if the Northman even knew the axe ever existed) and found a new home in the forehead of the Vykrul advancing on Tirith. The hammer-wielding madman stopped in his charge and fell backwards, massive gavel falling to its final rest on his chest with a light squelch.
Blam!ka-chick. A seventh bullet, this time fired for a direct effect, dispatched the axe-thrower without further incident.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ulthanon caught sight of something about seventy degrees to his right...
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Wed May 27, 2009 5:02 pm
The battlefield had become such chaos, that a single animal barreling through the undead into the thick wasn't catching as much eye as it should.
Bellesta pounded into the ground with her paws, muscles burning and jaw hanging lazily open. She forced her way past ghoul and solder alike, hesitating only when the former had to die for her to continue. A mixture of snow, bile, and blood stuck to her fur where her armor did not cover. She swung her massive head around, trinkets hanging from her mane swaying. The snow was too thick, she could no longer see the company in which she had arrived with.
Bellesta suddenly caught movement out of the corner of her eye, twisting away just in time for an axe of a Vykrul to clang off of the bark she wore on her shoulder. She dropped open her jaw and bellowed a roar. It was drowned out by the battle that raged around her. This enemy, one of many who were closing in to the stationary druid, would be the first.
Twisting and rolling about, she looked like a mass for fur, bark, and muscle. The axe of the Vykrul came down to hit snow again, spraying white powder. Forcing herself back onto her feet, Bellesta swung the waterskin around her neck up, catching it in her jaws and popping it like a plump berry. Green liquid sprayed over her teeth and face, two massive gulps of it sliding down her throat.
The fight was silent. Suddenly all she could see was a mass of moving shapes, and one creature clearer than ever before. The Vykrul's movements came so slow, so clumsy. Bellesta easily sidestepped as the axe came down again, one paw lifting to catch an arm. Flesh was so delicate... so smooth. The spray of blood and resulting howl of pain were like music as the massive humanoid toppled before her. Teeth moved to carefully behind the throat, as if she were about to lift a cub.
The resulting yank was not so gentle. With a surge of physical power granted only by the drug she so cherished, the lifted the Vykrul and slammed him sideways, bludgeoning something else moving until it stopped.
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Tue Jun 09, 2009 2:33 pm
-Reserved for pithy one liners-
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Tue Jun 23, 2009 10:12 am
(ahem. We got posts to do. )
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Thu Jul 16, 2009 8:43 pm
The battle raged to new heights. Instead of a slow trickle of undead and an overwhelming force of Alliance, Aleros now looked across a battlefield of mingled armies. Horde, alliance, and Arthas's army now fought together. If one thing heartened the druid it was that the horde and alliance worked together. Too long had the petty squabbles of the two forces hindered real progress towards eliminating true threats. It was surely a good sign that they were working together.
For most of the battle so far very few injuries had come in to his care. Some of the ones that did come were severe, but he never found himself overwhelmed healing the wounded. He treated both horde and alliance, although at his current position he received very few that donned the horde's red tabard.
One of the younger men of the alliance army had received a nasty wound from one of the vicious blades of the undead, and it had festered terribly. The man must have been no older than 19.
"They sent me up here from my station down in Booty Bay. Nice place it is. A bit rough." He groaned as Aleros worked on bringing the infection under control. He wouldn't be sealing the wound before then. He used alchemical potions as well as magic to control and remove it.
"I had a shack down there." Aleros gave the man a quick smile before returning his gaze and attention to the wound, it smelled like rotting fruit. "My daughter also frequents it, but she doesn't go into the Bay all that often."
"That-" he winced, "That so? What I'd give to be down there right now, not up in this frozen hell hole. She... she pretty?"
That's an odd question. He stopped for a moment, then considered that the man might need some comforting conversation right now. "Yes. Yes she is. Long blue hair, a big smile. Very smart, although she doesn't act it. She's with someone. She's with someone but I could ... I could get you a drink with her. When you get back to the Bay." He looked up at the man's face again. It did seem to give him some relief to think about somewhere warmer again.
"I'm Maynard Wilson."
"Aleros, Aleros Crescentwing."
"If you don't mind me asking... what's... what's her name?"
"Skyborne, most just call her Sky."
"Skyborne Crescentwing..." His gaze wandered off.
"Oh, no. She's just what you'd call my daughter in law."
"Oh." Maynard became silent after that. His silence made Aleros feel almost uneasy.
"You will - you can still meet her."
Maynard smiled at that, but still said nothing. That was enough for Aleros. He successfully removed all traces of the infection and began to close the wound as he noticed five men coming down one of the slopes towards him. Two of them were carrying one man, and one of the others was carrying...
"We seek aid, we're a scouting party from the pass over," he indicated over the hill they'd just come from "There. We were ambushed." All of the men were somewhat torn up and bleeding in various places, but the worst was the one they carried. "Our commander, he needs your healing the most." One of the men held out a detached foot. The man they had now set down on a stretcher was indeed without one of his feet.
Aleros applied an elixir to Maynard's wound, which had almost finished healing, and went over to begin trying to piece their commander back together.
The man who carried nothing down the hill and had yet to speak, spoke. "We need this done in less than half an hour, and everyone back in fighting condition."
Aleros felt a twinge at the tone in the man's voice. "This can't be done in half an hour, let alone getting him into fighting condition."
"We need it done in that amount of time. The pass cannot go unguarded."
"I am telling you that no magic will have him back in fighting condition in any less time than a day." He tried to keep his voice calm, despite the impatient and annoyed tones that the man was rapidly developing.
"Then we shall have to take him to someone more suited to his injuries, a brother of the light, not some hippie healer."
Aleros's face muscles twitched. "I told you, no magic can reattach this man's foot and heal all the wounds he has in that amount of time." He continued to not look at the man, but rather desperately concentrated on keeping that Commander's life in him.
"This is an order. Druid."
"I don't work for your Stormwind army, and I don't take orders from the likes of you." He was now genuinely annoyed with him, and still trying to keep his focus.
One of the other men interjected, "Kessler, maybe you should just let him do his job."
"Liutenant Commander Kessler to you! I know what his job is, and our job is to make sure no undead get over that pass, do you hear me? I'm second in command with Jex here incapacitated! Don't back talk me again Corporal or I'll have you--"
"Kessler," the commander, who up til now appeared to be unconscious, interrupted. "Shut the fuck up."
Maynard had a hard time stifling a laugh.
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Mon Jul 20, 2009 9:12 pm
They came down from the hills by the thousands, heralded by the baying of wolves and the brassy shriek of warhorns. Hooves and claws flung gobbets of snow that iron-shod tramped into muck. The golden knights of Quel'thalas raised their lances and charged beside the bright-plumed mounts of savage Darkspear raiders; the grim-faced Deathguard of New Lordaeron lowered their iron masks and trampled the hillside in the wake of totem-bearing Bloodhoof braves. Raising his father's axe, their Mag'har commander bellowed an ancient orcish war cry, and when his troops roared it back, the very mountains trembled. The Kor'kron punched into the flank of the great Scourge army, fangs and blades rending, staining Dragonblight anew. In the space of minutes, the Legion was relieved, and Saurfang the Younger and Bolvar Fodragon clapsed hands before turning back to the day's bloody work.
The Scourge fared no better on the flanks, the irregulars responding to the rhythmic unison of the Bloody Prince's assault with their own reserves, taking a brutal toll on the swarms of undead. And nowhere was the devastation greater than the broken hill, where three women raised their voices in words that pitched into the weave beneath the world and brought back shining death. Ice and fire and wind swirling about them, they walked into the face of the enemy - and where their eyes turned, they left sacks of charred meat, fragments of glass-frail bone, empty and ruined husks. They made a charnel pit of the valley, and the heroes on the hill raised a ragged cheer, exhorting them on.
When the hellish storm died, corpses were heaped to the hundred, barely recognizable as things that could have aspired to humanity. The great hulk of the behemoth was reduced to bone and char, the cultists that had been cowering behind it nearly obliterated. The field was clear, the three women alone in the ashes, drained and tottering. They looked at their handiwork with unseeing eyes, otherworldly power still coloring the paper of their flesh. They smiled as one.
The sound started as a whistle in the smoke, a patter against the broken edges of dread Icecrown, swelling in the fallow silence. Like maggots they crept out of the mountains, myrmidon swarms, lurching, leering cutthroats ranked to the horizon. The earth itself disgorged the Scourge in rank disgust, and as they heaved the rotten scaffolding of their bodies into the light of day, they raised their disused voices in praise. Fleshless champions thumped the hafts of their weapons on the pocked ground; gape-jawed ghouls shrieked and tore at their own flesh; the thanes and necromancers of the Vrykul keened in their meat-chopping language.
And there they stayed, ranged across the mountains in the thousands, the baleful points of their eyes turned to the heavens. Even the dead knew joy. Even the Scourge could exult - and so they did, while their mortal foes watched in dawning horror.
The hero of the Alliance stood before the gates of Angrathar, calling the Enemy by name, demanding justice. And in the gullies and passes, the Scourge echoed him, moaning and roaring and whispering with voices that defied nature by their very speech.
"ARTHAS!" they called. "ARTHAS!"
Re: The Wrath Gate
Posted: Mon Jul 20, 2009 9:40 pm