The Battle of Anderhol
- Location
- United Kingdom
The Battle of Anderhol
Anderhol was an ancient city.
Raised in ancient times when the first of the Flesh-Cursed Vrykul made their way to the shores of Lordaeron, the settlement had been one of the earliest human cities. It sat at the crossroads of the Darrow River and the Old North Road leading up from Southshore, through Alterac and eventually up to Quel'thalas.
Before the Scourging of Lordaeron, Anderhol had been a distribution centre for the agriculture of the provinces. The Cult of the Damned had chosen it for exactly that reason, infiltrating the granaries and sending infected grain out. While the defeat of Kel'Thuzad and the supposed destruction of the Cult had brought some measure of peace to the region, with the return of the Traitor Prince, Arthas, Anderhol once against became a bastion for the Scourge.
It was a critical city in the Scourge's defences. From Anderhol the necromancers and plaguebearers polluted the air and land, causing horrific mutations to the plants and animals around the city, letting the dull miasma around the city serve as just a fearsome defence as the undead within.
While the Eastern Plaguelands, as they were called, were almost lifeless, the Western Plaguelands still held some remnants of greenery, diseased and weak as it was. Their recovery would be critical to connect up the Scarlet Crusade's holdings and restore the Kingdom of Lordaeron, as well as to preserve additional lands which could be brought once again into productive use.
Araj, one of the earliest Liches to be turned to the Scourge's service, leads the city, commanding more than thirty thousands corpses and assorted monstrosities.
You will take the city with barely more than two hundred warriors.
"A blade, a blade!" goes the cry.
"A Burning Blade!"
The gates of Anderhol boom open, the work of a gnomish bomb set in secret by Darion the night before, his slight frame unseen by the Scourge watchers.
The Warband thunders in, Blackrock warriors first, crushing brittle skulls beneath their iron-shod boots.
The Defenders of Darrowshire are next, rushing in with a cry, cutting down any who survive the Blackrock charge. Redpath leads them, his face set and grim, shouting of revenge for his family as he slays.
You occupy the middle rank, and as you charge one larger construct rises up, only for the Fireblade to come down, cleaving it in two, the flames bringing a warmth to your cheeks as your braid snaps against your back in a leap against another horror.
Twin flashes of fire are beside you, leaping up onto the rooftops as Sesk and Ishi take their station, cutting through geists and gargoyles which swarm your way.
"Shields!" Scorn's voice raised in a roar, the Warband raise their defences, Castillian, Keldran and Whitemane all raising their hands in a mixture of magical shields.
Darts and bolts of spellfire glance off the wall of steel and energy and when the bombardment fails the Aspirants dart forward. You give strength to their weapons and twenty blades burn as they cut through the foe, Sorek at your side, slashing through skeletal archers.
The Warband cuts its way further, the Scourge falling before your assault. A thousand are slain, two thousand, the shambling corpses horrible to behold, but weak from decay and putrefaction. Each cohort is met with a strength and capability you've spent months training into your warriors. Vok'fon and Kartha's skirmishers striking down undead bears and wolves from afar, climbing up and raining down missiles on the packed Scourge, while when Abominations and other larger constructs lumber up Vark brings them down with his explosive spears.
"Press on, the Cathedral is near!" Whitemane cries, the Light shining from her staff, shielding the living from the miasma all around.
You see it in the gloomy morning, a tall spire and a large hall to the south of the town, and with redoubled efforts you press on, shoving, slashing, crushing your way through the press. The wounded are carried when possible, but more than one human or orc is devoured, unable to be saved in the melee and swept away further into the ravenous undead.
Finally you gain the shrine's steps, the Warband piling in, the doors held by the rearguard of Kalaran Windblade and his black-eyed men-at-arms, the Knight's own sword swinging as he stands.
Swiftly Whitemane runs to the altar, raising her arms in an incantation, Darion bearing reagents and holy oils to reawaken the sanctity of the place. Sconces on the walls burst into flame, the heroes of stained glass and masonry seem to rise, eyes filled with fury at the Cathedral's defilement. A wailing goes up and all around you spirits burn through the air, startling the Warband.
"To your stations!" you shout, "Set the barricades!"
Pews are grabbed and pushed against the doors and windows, fallen stones piled high as the holy aura of Whitemane's prayers creates a zone of positive energies that repels the unsanctified undead.
"They are doing their duty, now us to ours." Ishi says, tugging at your elbow, and with a final nod to Scorn you rush away, up the stairs, through dusty, mouldering galleries, finally bursting out onto the roof.
Lead beneath your feet, sword in hand, you grasp a griffon's feather, willing the enchantment within to activate. You leap, but while the world seems to fall away and your stomach floats unsettlingly, you soar across the courtyard, falling with a magical slowness.
The square before the Cathedral is packed with Scourge, not merely busy, in truth there is barely room to swing a sword. Undead swarm the streets and avenues, the most agile of them rushing across the tops of houses and market buildings. They go faster than you've ever seen them, and you know this must be the work of Araj himself, somehow giving an unnatural vigour to the normally torpid creatures.
A sharp crack sounds beneath you and you twist as you fall, seeing Vark standing astride the barricade, hand cast forward, a spear having just left it and blow the face off of another Abomination, the corpses of several of it's brethren lying on the steps, their pallid flesh smoking and charred by the Cathedral's holy aura.
You look to yourself though, your landing is near.
Before you are a number of smaller stalls in the middle of the market square, they groan under the unconscious onslaught of the undead, the very weight of the crowd threatening to push them down. There is when you'll land, your jump short than you'd intended.
But you are a warrior and a Blademaster, and though you land amidst the press of undead, their fetid scent in your nostrils, you rise up again like a blaze. The Spirit of Life is strong in you, and as you have for years, you see the future as you fight, your Warsight telling you to dodge, to roll, to strike just so and to reply each blow aimed against you. The Mightstone burns and glows on your chest as the magics within give strength previously unknown to your limbs, and you leap up again, sinews burning as your leap propels you ahead. You launch yourself off the shoulder of a statue and up onto the roof of a building, and without even an acknowledgement of Sesk or Ishi standing there, you run forward.
Araj's citadel is an old mage's tower in the west of the city, and you and the Blademasters run across the roofs to reach it. This is what will allow you to take the city, and this is what prevented the Alliance from doing so. While Paladins were mighty, they didn't have the agility or offensive power that you possess, making it impossible to achieve the same results.
From the tower Araj summons all the power of Azeroth's leylines, perverting it to his own ends, but also linking his own energy to that of his forces. If he falls and his workings are broken, the surge of energy will shatter the coordination of the Scourge over the entire region, at least until some other lich or necromancer can reestablish it.
And you hardly intend to let them.
Anderhol was an ancient city.
Raised in ancient times when the first of the Flesh-Cursed Vrykul made their way to the shores of Lordaeron, the settlement had been one of the earliest human cities. It sat at the crossroads of the Darrow River and the Old North Road leading up from Southshore, through Alterac and eventually up to Quel'thalas.
Before the Scourging of Lordaeron, Anderhol had been a distribution centre for the agriculture of the provinces. The Cult of the Damned had chosen it for exactly that reason, infiltrating the granaries and sending infected grain out. While the defeat of Kel'Thuzad and the supposed destruction of the Cult had brought some measure of peace to the region, with the return of the Traitor Prince, Arthas, Anderhol once against became a bastion for the Scourge.
It was a critical city in the Scourge's defences. From Anderhol the necromancers and plaguebearers polluted the air and land, causing horrific mutations to the plants and animals around the city, letting the dull miasma around the city serve as just a fearsome defence as the undead within.
While the Eastern Plaguelands, as they were called, were almost lifeless, the Western Plaguelands still held some remnants of greenery, diseased and weak as it was. Their recovery would be critical to connect up the Scarlet Crusade's holdings and restore the Kingdom of Lordaeron, as well as to preserve additional lands which could be brought once again into productive use.
Araj, one of the earliest Liches to be turned to the Scourge's service, leads the city, commanding more than thirty thousands corpses and assorted monstrosities.
You will take the city with barely more than two hundred warriors.
"A blade, a blade!" goes the cry.
"A Burning Blade!"
The gates of Anderhol boom open, the work of a gnomish bomb set in secret by Darion the night before, his slight frame unseen by the Scourge watchers.
The Warband thunders in, Blackrock warriors first, crushing brittle skulls beneath their iron-shod boots.
The Defenders of Darrowshire are next, rushing in with a cry, cutting down any who survive the Blackrock charge. Redpath leads them, his face set and grim, shouting of revenge for his family as he slays.
You occupy the middle rank, and as you charge one larger construct rises up, only for the Fireblade to come down, cleaving it in two, the flames bringing a warmth to your cheeks as your braid snaps against your back in a leap against another horror.
Twin flashes of fire are beside you, leaping up onto the rooftops as Sesk and Ishi take their station, cutting through geists and gargoyles which swarm your way.
"Shields!" Scorn's voice raised in a roar, the Warband raise their defences, Castillian, Keldran and Whitemane all raising their hands in a mixture of magical shields.
Darts and bolts of spellfire glance off the wall of steel and energy and when the bombardment fails the Aspirants dart forward. You give strength to their weapons and twenty blades burn as they cut through the foe, Sorek at your side, slashing through skeletal archers.
The Warband cuts its way further, the Scourge falling before your assault. A thousand are slain, two thousand, the shambling corpses horrible to behold, but weak from decay and putrefaction. Each cohort is met with a strength and capability you've spent months training into your warriors. Vok'fon and Kartha's skirmishers striking down undead bears and wolves from afar, climbing up and raining down missiles on the packed Scourge, while when Abominations and other larger constructs lumber up Vark brings them down with his explosive spears.
"Press on, the Cathedral is near!" Whitemane cries, the Light shining from her staff, shielding the living from the miasma all around.
You see it in the gloomy morning, a tall spire and a large hall to the south of the town, and with redoubled efforts you press on, shoving, slashing, crushing your way through the press. The wounded are carried when possible, but more than one human or orc is devoured, unable to be saved in the melee and swept away further into the ravenous undead.
Finally you gain the shrine's steps, the Warband piling in, the doors held by the rearguard of Kalaran Windblade and his black-eyed men-at-arms, the Knight's own sword swinging as he stands.
Swiftly Whitemane runs to the altar, raising her arms in an incantation, Darion bearing reagents and holy oils to reawaken the sanctity of the place. Sconces on the walls burst into flame, the heroes of stained glass and masonry seem to rise, eyes filled with fury at the Cathedral's defilement. A wailing goes up and all around you spirits burn through the air, startling the Warband.
"To your stations!" you shout, "Set the barricades!"
Pews are grabbed and pushed against the doors and windows, fallen stones piled high as the holy aura of Whitemane's prayers creates a zone of positive energies that repels the unsanctified undead.
"They are doing their duty, now us to ours." Ishi says, tugging at your elbow, and with a final nod to Scorn you rush away, up the stairs, through dusty, mouldering galleries, finally bursting out onto the roof.
Lead beneath your feet, sword in hand, you grasp a griffon's feather, willing the enchantment within to activate. You leap, but while the world seems to fall away and your stomach floats unsettlingly, you soar across the courtyard, falling with a magical slowness.
The square before the Cathedral is packed with Scourge, not merely busy, in truth there is barely room to swing a sword. Undead swarm the streets and avenues, the most agile of them rushing across the tops of houses and market buildings. They go faster than you've ever seen them, and you know this must be the work of Araj himself, somehow giving an unnatural vigour to the normally torpid creatures.
A sharp crack sounds beneath you and you twist as you fall, seeing Vark standing astride the barricade, hand cast forward, a spear having just left it and blow the face off of another Abomination, the corpses of several of it's brethren lying on the steps, their pallid flesh smoking and charred by the Cathedral's holy aura.
You look to yourself though, your landing is near.
Before you are a number of smaller stalls in the middle of the market square, they groan under the unconscious onslaught of the undead, the very weight of the crowd threatening to push them down. There is when you'll land, your jump short than you'd intended.
But you are a warrior and a Blademaster, and though you land amidst the press of undead, their fetid scent in your nostrils, you rise up again like a blaze. The Spirit of Life is strong in you, and as you have for years, you see the future as you fight, your Warsight telling you to dodge, to roll, to strike just so and to reply each blow aimed against you. The Mightstone burns and glows on your chest as the magics within give strength previously unknown to your limbs, and you leap up again, sinews burning as your leap propels you ahead. You launch yourself off the shoulder of a statue and up onto the roof of a building, and without even an acknowledgement of Sesk or Ishi standing there, you run forward.
Araj's citadel is an old mage's tower in the west of the city, and you and the Blademasters run across the roofs to reach it. This is what will allow you to take the city, and this is what prevented the Alliance from doing so. While Paladins were mighty, they didn't have the agility or offensive power that you possess, making it impossible to achieve the same results.
From the tower Araj summons all the power of Azeroth's leylines, perverting it to his own ends, but also linking his own energy to that of his forces. If he falls and his workings are broken, the surge of energy will shatter the coordination of the Scourge over the entire region, at least until some other lich or necromancer can reestablish it.
And you hardly intend to let them.
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