It's hard to tell, a lot of the stuff actually says 'no one knows'. I think that the Proto-dragons, the skyrim looking ancestors, were there beforehand. The Aspects were the ones that had just managed to evolve broken speech and higher intelligence, and the Titans said 'hey would should make those newly evolved creatures into the guardians of the world'!HioH said:
And then they did.
Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
Considering there was once pink dragon flight....I'll say that they are an engineered race. (It was mentioned somewhere that there was a flight for every color. And I do mean EVERY color.torroar said:
I don't think that I'll often get to say this, but...all of those questions will be answered in the coming chapters.Angelform said:
Yes. Yes Arthas is in good humor. The fun kind of humor where you slit someones throat and then hack their corpse into tiny little bits in a screaming blind rage filled fury that is only being held back by the Iron Control of the Lich King on his chosen vessel through the fragment and the counseling of Kel'Thuzad
On the Sicco thing: He actually went nutzo when Gelbin was nominated as High Tinker. He had been planning to expand and create a kingdom of gnomes, who had never had a kingdom much less a king (he wanted to be the first), and furthermore to push the dwarves out of Dun Morogh. The other gnomes decided that he was far to ambitious and sort of crazy to want to do all that. Wiki states that his sanity broke when all of his years of achievements and work to become High Tinker fell apart.
Nope, full truth right there. You get to live!....this day. He didn't say anything about night, or tomorrow....Angelform said:
This Has Been Rewritten to the following address: Move Along >.>
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Twelve
The Grindstone
A Warcraft III AU
"Strike! Faster you dogs! My great grandmother could fight better than the rest of you pathetic louts!" roared the drill sergeant.The Grindstone
A Warcraft III AU
The swarthy man stomped up and down the line, his armor clanking noisily as he gesticulated back and forth and yelled at his two dozen charges. He moved with ease and speed, a stark contrast to the huffing and puffing recruits who struggled to follow his directions. Swords and shields moved back and forth against utterly uncaring training posts crudely painted with the faces of orcs and trolls.
Buckets of sweat poured off of faces red with effort and sunburn, but they did not cease. They were not allowed to. Every time one slipped up, or swung out of time, the sergeant was there to berate them back into position. The grass of the fenced in square had been trampled into the dirt, the morning dew long gone as other soldiers worked to train themselves across the great field.
Prospective knights unsteadily wobbled on top of pawing warhorses; gritting their teeth to hold up the heavy training lances and swords they had been given. At a whistle, horses reared up and then ran down dirt tracks, the terrified screams of their riders echoing behind them. The sound of wooden lances striking training armor and the sudden exhalation of air as one of the trainees was struck to the ground. Many of those watching groaned as small pouches of coins were exchanged back and forth.
Across the field from the horses, a fusillade of bullets impacted against targets, veteran dwarvish marksmen barking out instruction and encouragement to their human trainees. Many took refuge in the shade provided by their hoods, though a few discussed various topics from underneath a large tent, large foaming steins in their hands. Some sighed in disappointment of the ineptitude of their trainees.
From the top of a hill, the man known as Highlord Bolvar Fordragon stood watching with his arms clasped behind his back.
His eyes narrowed, watching the generally sorry state of what had become of Stormwind's army. It was undermanned, under-equipped, and under-trained. Only a fraction of the men and women down there had any experience under their belts, and even though they did their best, it would be a while before Stormwind's army was truly worth anything again.
"Ho there Highlord! Come to see us sorry fellows try to remember how to hold a blade?" came an amused voice from the path leading up to Bolvar's position.
The Highlord turned to see the sweating and fully armored form of Marcus Jonathan walking up to him. The hard expression on Bolvar's face softened, slightly, as he gestured for a servant to bring the High Commander of Stormwind's defense some water.
"No, Marcus, I'm here to make sure that we sorry fellows remember how to hold a blade," he replied.
Marcus raised an eyebrow even as he gratefully accepted the water, draining the cup in moments before letting out a pleased sigh.
"Oh? We've been at this for only a week, Bolvar. It takes time to re-organize, well, everything, yes?" he said.
The Highlord snorted even as his hand gripped the wooden fence so tightly that it creaked.
"Time we don't seem to have, Marcus. You've read the same reports that I have. Lorderon, Quel'Thalas, Stromgarde, Aerie Peak, all gone. The Scourge is on a path south, and they've already battered their way across half the Wetlands already," Bolvar said darkly.
"In the meantime, our forces have fallen into utter disarray. Our veterans have become disillusioned drunkards or left to work the farms save for those manning Nethergarde. The little bit of funding we've been receiving from the House of Nobles has only just been increased thanks to the Lady Prestor, but money can only do so much. Our lands have been wracked by bandits, the Defias especially, without our attentions," he continued.
Bolvar turned to Marcus then, consternation clear on his face.
"For Light's sake, Marcus. There was a metric ton of reports that had somehow gotten lost about the state of Elywnn. They've even been assailed by murlocs of all things. Murlocs! When's the last time we sent out a good set of patrols across the forest, to Westfall, or Redridge beyond token support?" he asked harshly.
Marcus rubbed his bushy mustache in thought, even as he nodded in agreement about the Highlord's complaints.
"Well, you are right about that. We have been too lax recently. I've been out here since before the sun rose and it hasn't been pretty," he replied.
His last words were punctuated by another trainee falling off of his horse as it reared, sending him to the ground amidst the laughter of his companions. Bolvar looked at the sight and sighed.
"Look at that. They have no idea what kind of hell we're going to be walking into. If the Scourge push into the Loch, it's more than likely that they'll lay siege to Ironforge and Gnomeregan. Our soldiery is even less prepared to fight in those brutal climates. If they go beyond that, they'll hit the Badlands and will more than likely raise all the ogres of that land to their side. This is going to be the worst conflict our people have ever faced in a long time," he said softly.
Marcus nodded, his previously light mood turning grim to match the Highlord's.
"I suppose you're right. What of the king, shall he be joining us?" he asked.
Bolvar scowled as he turned.
"The death of his wife still weighs heavily upon him. Far too heavily. He speaks to almost no one, save Anduin, myself, and the Lady Prestor. Even then we cannot seem to rouse him," Bolvar said unhappily.
"That's…not good," Marcus replied, a troubled look on his face.
"Indeed. I have nothing but faith and well wishes for those fighting in the Wetlands, but they cannot hold out alone forever. We must act, and soon! I shall join you, my friend. It's time to see if I'm still good for anything," Bolvar said gruffly.
"Good for-, Bolvar you're one of the best fighters I've ever known! You aren't even that old!" Marcus shot back.
The Highlord said nothing as they headed down the path towards the ever so slowly improving army of Stormwind.
0o0o00o0o
A group of snarling fel hounds ran low across the ground towards their target. Their hooves churned the muddy ground of the Wetlands as they wove between stomping Infernals and marching Fel Guard. Two fell to a rain of explosives that shook the earth as the others continued on heedless of their fallen pack members.Leaping over the shattered and smoking remains of a dwarvish tank, they fell upon their foe. Despite attacking from behind, one was killed by a backhand with a stormhammer almost immediately. The dwarf turned upon his heels to bash another with a small metal buckler while he struck again and again. His gore-soaked beard was given a fresh coat of demon blood as the stormhammer crushed the last fel hound's skull, the rest of the body flying past him on momentum from its attempted lunge.
"Ye haven't got me yet!" growled the Wildhammer.
Bloody wraps covered both arms from the elbow down, while a brand new eye-patch was strapped to his left eye socket. Scars, still red and fresh, crisscrossed up and down his bare chest. Despite the blood pouring down across his face, the dwarf simply bared his teeth at the sight of three Fel Guard running towards him.
"Fer Khaz Modan! Yaaaah!" bellowed another dwarven voice.
Leaping off of the same wrecked tank was a dwarf wielding two hammers, one with the horns of a ram and the other a flat rune-covered head. Both crashed into the enemies skulls as the dwarf landed. The heavily armored warrior whirled his hammers, another finding its way into a demons knee, sending the creature to the ground where the other pulped it's skull.
Before the last demon could swing it's halberd down a sparking stormhammer crunched into its chest, lightning trailing behind it. The Wildhammer sprinted up to grab the shaft of the hammer and pull the head from the creature, blood and flesh coming out with it. One hand grasped the demons shoulder, while the other gripped the stormhammer as it struck into the creatures head, neck, and chest over and over again.
The creature fell to the ground dead within moments, the Wildhammer jumping off before he would be crushed under the Fel Guard's weight.
Spitting on its corpse, the dwarf turned to his cousin.
"What th' hell are ye doing here Magni?" the tattooed dwarf said as he wiped some of the blood from his head.
"I could ask ye the same Falstad! Charging out here alone, half-cocked like a damn fool!" Magni replied angrily.
Falstad glared at him in response, even as the din of battle echoed all around them. A group of dwarves in Ironforge colors appeared, huffing and puffing after their King. As they took up formation around the two, Falstad finally deigned to speak.
"I don't have te' explain meself to ye Magni, yer the King o' Ironforge, not th' Wildhammers!" he ground out.
Magni sighed in exasperation.
"Ye think I don't know that? Falstad, I'm jes concerned that yer gonna get yerself killed out here alone!"
Falstad looked away as he idly shook the blood off of his stormhammer.
"So what? I'd die taking them down with me," he said quietly, rage still simmering in his voice.
An armored fist cracked into his jaw, sending the Wildhammer sprawling onto the ground. Almost immediately Falstad was up and snarling, stormhammer sparking.
"What th' hell was that fer?" he roared.
His response was another fist; though this time he caught it in one hand. The victory was short however as Magni's forehead met his own, sending him to the ground once more.
"It was fer being a damn fool, and that was fer being a twice-damned fool!" Magni shouted.
Before Falstad could stand, a heavy metal boot was placed upon his chest.
"Damn it all Falstad, you think yer the only one angry? That yer the only one grieving!?" he continued.
Magni spit to the side.
"Ye think that just because I'm Bronzebeard doesn't mean I can't grieve about what happened?" he finished softly.
Falstad shook his head.
"Yer not Wildhammer, Magni. Ye don't understand…," he said, staring at the sky.
Magni snorted, his eyes darting about to ensure that no demons or undead were encroaching upon their positions.
"It doesn't matter that I'm not Wildhammer. It doesn't matter that I'm a dwarf. It still hurts me heart to remember Stromgarde, and yer home. We're kin, Falstad. No matter the name," he said sternly.
The boot was lifted off, and a hand was offered. Falstad looked at it warily before accepting and standing.
"Aye. Aye we are. I just…I want to hurt them; it burns me soul ever second that I'm not fighting 'em," the Wildhammer said helplessly.
The Bronzebeard placed a hand on Falstad's shoulder, a grim smile on his face.
"Me too, Falstad. But we both got to remember. We're the leaders of our people; we can't just go off alone, yeah? You're still th' Thane of th' Wildhammers, Peak or no. Ye've got a responsibility to lead yer people, just like I do. Come back to the camp, yeh need some rest," he said.
Falstad looked at the bloody bandages covering his arms and nodded, looking at the horizon as another flight of Gryphon riders fell upon a screeching Frost Wyrm.
"All right, all right. Let's…let's…" he trailed off as he squinted at something glinting on the horizon.
Magni cocked an eyebrow and turned to look as well.
"What th' hell is that?"
Falstad's eyes widened.
"I can't believe it," he whispered.
"What? What is it? Who is that, Falstad?" Magni pressed.
Falstad let out a whoop of joy, his stormhammer raised high.
"It's bloody Kul Tiras!"
0o0o0o0o0o0
All along the western coast of the Wetlands were dozens of ships, whole batteries of cannon fire smashing into the flank of the enemy lines. Many let down massive gang-planks, from which the soldiers of Kul Tiras sprinted down to form camps, rapidly building defensive barricades even as the demonic hordes swung around to face them.Several men and women set up ballistae and catapults that began to launch their payloads, while marksmen set up posts to begin firing their rifles from. A hail of arrow and crossbow bolts began to fall amongst the demon ranks, slaying droves.
Marching down one gang-plank from a Kul Tiras battleship came a man with greying hair. Though there were many lines to his face, there was a hard strength to him, only emphasized by his large broadsword and green tinted plate armor. He wore no helm, but his position and authority were still known to all who served under him.
Three soldiers, their ranks denoted as Captains, rode up to him before dismounting and saluting.
"Admiral Westwind, sir!" one said loudly.
The Admiral looked at them, and nodded.
"Report!" he barked out.
"Scouts report that the demons and Scourge have managed to push just under halfway through the Wetlands, as previous intelligence indicated. We've set up numerous firing positions up and down the coast and large numbers of the enemy are swinging towards our positions, relieving a significant amount of pressure off of various Ironforge positions," said the lieutenant in a clipped tone.
Barean Westwind rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he nodded, dismissing them all to their various posts. His gaze found the demons and undead screaming towards his ships, and narrowed. Five steps brought him to an already growing supply cache. Both hands reached down to a barrel filled with rifles, grabbing one of the dwarven long-bores. One finger flicked off the safety even as the other hand placed some shots inside.
A particularly large abomination pulled ahead of the enemy ranks, it's rolling eyes bouncing about wildly in too-wide sockets. As it screeched and raised one of its cleavers high, a hollow-point found its way into the skull, exploding and sending brain matter everywhere. Soon after the knees were shot out as well, sending the whole thing tumbling down.
Barean snorted as he tossed the smoking rifle back into the barrel and unsheathed his blade.
"Lord Admiral Proudmoore sends his regards!" he shouted as the battle was joined.
0o0o0o0o0
Smoke filled the air of the still burning ruins of Stromgarde.Through broken stone passageways, shattered wagons, and piles of bodies, the Cult of the Damned walked. A long train of meat wagons, piled high with bodes, stretched from the gate of Stromgarde Keep to a large cleared field beyond the fortress. Atop the soot covered battlements, two Cult members sat quietly munching on crusts of bread as they took a break from the monotonous task of dragging bodies about.
"We can't keep up this pace," one muttered to the other as she swept her hood back to reveal straw blonde hair.
"What do you mean?" her companion replied.
"This pace. Of bodies, and armies. The Scourge is mighty, and sure there are plenty of corpses left in Lorderon, but we've been leaving a lot of them behind. We can revive skeletons and bodies and abominations and wyrms and all of them over and over again, but at the speed the demons are pushing us we can't manage them all," she grumbled.
The other Cult member sipped from a small cup of water as he nodded.
"Well, that's true, but they've been more than supplementing with their own forces. I mean, at this point there's more demonic forces on the battlefield than undead. It's why the majority of the Scourge is sitting in Hillsbrad around Durnholde with Lord Dagren. That demonic brute doesn't want to let us get any of the fighting done anymore," he said.
The woman began to rub circles into her temples with her fingers.
"That Azgalor creature is insane. I much preferred it when the dread lords were in command. They at least had some semblance of tactics. All that monster cares for is constant endless assaults in a single direction!" she said.
"It could also because of what Trollbane managed before he got put down. Wouldn't you be pissed?" her companion asked.
She shrugged.
"I don't really know. I'm a necromancer, not a melee fighter. If they're blades touch me, then something's gone wrong," she replied.
The male Cult member stood, wiping crumbs from his robes.
"Well, in the end, it's a good thing that the demons are the ones doing the majority of the fighting now. We would have lost a lot of our forces taking the Aerie if the demons hadn't done it themselves. But I suppose that now we'll have to see if that Mephistroth fellow can do any better than his predecessors," he said.
The woman snapped her fingers as she stood as well.
"Oh, right! That's what I wanted to tell you. I heard from a friend that it's still around, that Anetheron demon," she said.
"Really? I thought that it would have been killed for its failure by its masters. Where is it then?" he asked.
"I have no idea. That's the thing. Ah, it doesn't matter for us anyhow. We're on abomination duty; we've got to stitch together at least a dozen before the day is done," the woman replied.
The man groaned as the two began to head down the steps.
0o0o0o0o0o0
His chest worked as he desperately sucked in air, vaulting over a collapsed tree. All around him he could hear the sounds of battle as the Dragonmaw fought for their lives with blade and magic.
A raider was pulled from his wolf, his massive blade still swinging as the undead swarmed over him, his last defiant cry cut short. Nek'rosh stabbed down with his spear, but by the time he had cleared the ghouls off the raider was already clearly dead with his throat ripped out. The Chieftain of the Dragonmaw spun, stabbing through the ghoul that had leapt for him before throwing it to the ground, his boot crushing it's skull.
"Lok'tar! Lok'tar!" he bellowed, the call echoing out from hundreds of throats as the battle raged.
Grey talons swiped down at him, raking across his shoulders. As black-red blood splattered the ground, the orc threw his spear through the chest of the gargoyle that had managed to strike him. Stomping over, he twisted the spear viciously in the flying creature's chest, killing it.
"The Dragonmaw will not be defeated by you mindless monsters!" he snarled as he ripped the spear out.
Green blood poured from the open hole in an abominations gut as it rushed towards him. There were arrows sticking out from all over its body, a sword and axe stuck into its back, yet it gave these wounds no thought as it whirled it's many arms at the orc. A rusted cleaver nearly sliced him in two as he leapt back, spear stabbing forwards in a wild flurry.
"We won the First War, and survived the Second even when mighty Doomhammer himself fell!" he bellowed.
The spear went flying through the abominations stomach, poking fully out the other side. It's meat hooks swept down to miss the Dragonmaw as he rolled between its legs.
"We survived the Dragon Queen, and Deathwing himself!" he continued under his breath.
A hand grabbed the shaft of the spear, just behind the head, and pulled. Both hands grasped as the spear spun and stabbed into the creatures back, providing a handhold for Nek'rosh to climb atop the abominations back. The spear was raised and then struck down, impaling the head through the top of the skull.
"We are Dragonmaw! We are orcs!" he hissed as the undead monstrosity fell to the ground unmoving.
Standing atop it, he raised his arms to the sky.
"We are Horde!" he shouted, even as dozens of bleeding and wounded warriors appeared out of the trees, following his cries.
The gathered orcs turned at the sound of dark laughter. Many raised their weapons as they turned outwards in a circle, Nek'rosh at the center.
"So you are, so you are. Imagine my luck, finding the Horde, here, in the very mountains not a dozen miles away!" The voice called out.
From the trees came a winged demon, corruption seeping out from the hoof prints it left behind. A dull orange glow surrounded it, even in the darkness of the woods. It bore great claws, each sharp enough to cut through a puny human while its large wings unfurled behind it. A dark aura of malice covered the demon as it continued to chuckle, powerful magic swirling about its arms.
Nek'rosh was unimpressed.
"I would rethink your definition of luck if you believe facing the horde to be such, demon," he snarled.
The Nathrezim chuckled.
"Mmmm, perhaps. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anetheron," it said with a curt bow.
Nek'rosh merely gripped his spear tighter.
"Please, the time for violence between us is over, oh mighty Chieftain. In fact, I come with a proposition," the dread lord said, a faint grin still on its face.
"Unless it's your surrender, I doubt you have anything of value to say to us demon," Nek'rosh growled.
Anetheron's faint grin grew to a full blown smile, his fangs fully bared.
"How long has the Horde been on the run from the Alliance, Skullcrusher?" he asked to the angry snarls of the orcs.
"Scattered, weak, abandoned by what made you truly strong," he continued.
The veins in the Dragonmaw chieftain's arms nearly popped out, the grip on his spear turning his knuckles white.
"You dare to mock us, demon? Get to the point before I tear you to shreds!
Anetheron laughed.
"Tell me, Nek'rosh Skullcrusher, did you father ever tell you much of Zuluhed the Whacked?" it said archly.
The orcs eyes widened.
"Did he ever tell you…of the Chalice of Rebirth?" the demon continued.
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Mochinator
Protect the weak against the evil strong.
This is pretty cool!
It's a excellent "lull of the storm " Chap that nicely build up the upcoming action chap!
I didn't really find anything particularly awkward while reading, so it's Ok to me!
It's a excellent "lull of the storm " Chap that nicely build up the upcoming action chap!
I didn't really find anything particularly awkward while reading, so it's Ok to me!
As far as I know she didn't leave a note, she actually told him where she was going. However, he just sat passively on his island until the Scourge had run it's course, left across the sea, then came back, and split apart during the Scourge/Forsaken rebellion before deciding it was time to search for his daughter, which took apparently a while for the whole fleet to travel across the sea, at least a month I believe.warlock7 said:
Thank you for the feedback angel. This will be expanded upon and reworked, so that'll happen, don't worry. I will note that this is grindstone one, grindstone 2 will answer those questions of yours. I just needed to put at least something out thereAngelform said:
I believe a novel came out showing the Aspects when they were proto-dragons.Ramenth said:
They teamed up with Tyr to fight Galakrond.
I would expect nothing lessAngelform said:
What, the Scourge making use of the people who studied and helped spread the MASS TELEPORTATION SPELL!Finagle007 said:
IF ONLY I HAD THOUGHT OF....
I'll go ahead and say that Angelform is right. They can't teleport significant enough numbers so Azgalor doesn't think that it's worth it to go for it, and Arthas actually did a whoopsie with the potential ship route.
A big chunk of the fleet went west with Thrall and the Horde, while another big chunk got burned by Arthas himself back when he didn't want to go home. Lorderon had very few ships left before this, and with Kul Tiras mucking about ship movements are going to be restricted.
A big chunk of the fleet went west with Thrall and the Horde, while another big chunk got burned by Arthas himself back when he didn't want to go home. Lorderon had very few ships left before this, and with Kul Tiras mucking about ship movements are going to be restricted.
Beyogi
and a fairy
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Maybe they just used some demon portal of sorts? I figure they'll be far easier to use intra-world than between worlds.Angelform said:
Alright, after looking over the chapter and the comments by Angelform and Kavris, I'm thinking about pulling it for a moment. I looked over my notes and what I had planned, and realize now that I ended up writing too far ahead. The thing I'm writing now is essentially the before-times of the current chapter, and I think it might flow better if I flip the two.
Should I do that?
Should I do that?
That is exactly how he's been approaching this fight, though mainly I mean the other stuff, like Aerie Peak and the why, the Thandol Span and the how.Kavris said:
This post sounds really weird on this forum.
Chapter Twelve: The Grindstone
Note: here it is! rewritten!
The Order of the Black Heart: Part Twelve
The Grindstone
A Warcraft III AU
The mountain fortress-city known as Aerie Peak had been painstakingly carved over the course of generations ever since the loss of Grim Batol in the War of the Three Hammers. Thought it took more than two hundred years, the massive though featureless mountain had been carefully shaped into a perfect rendition of a mighty gryphons head. It had been here that the Wildhammers had retreated and rebuilt their lives, their culture, and their people. Though there were over a dozen extended families that lived in the Highlands to the north east, the vast majority of their people had taken up residence in the Peak. The wide open skies and nature had become their only companions as relations with their Bronzebeard cousins soured.
With a screech of metal on metal, a boulder carved over with demonic runes was thrown into the very beak of the gryphon head and subsequently exploded in a cloud of acrid smoke and fel magics. Even as the tainted smog cleared dozens of gryphon riders appeared carrying explosives of their own in sweaty fists. A miniature storm of fire erupted as they threw these same bombs upon their foe, even while others cast down twirling hammers of stone and metal bearing deadly nimbuses of lightning and thunder.
Yet, as the smoke cleared, they could only groan and retreat from the sight of their utterly unblemished foe.
Poisonous green smoke belched from the great vent in its chest, even as twin pistons along its back ratcheted up and down wildly. Its oversized legs creaked and shook as it bent low and grabbed another boulder before lobbing it with fingers bigger than large oaks to crash again into the gryphon head. Made entirely of demonic magic and engineering, this black iron construct in particular had walked over a hundred worlds in the Burning Legion's endless campaign of chaos and destruction. It was the largest of its kind on this world, at the moment, and dwarfed even its five kin
Despite it being entirely mechanical, the ominous fel glow behind the helmet that made up its 'head' was reminiscent of glee as it swatted gryphon riders from the sky and stomped the land-bound Wildhammers to less than paste. There were literally hundreds of great dents in its black plates, yet it continued its brutal assault uncaring of the stormhammer's that fruitlessly bounced across its head.
It was one of the most devastating creations ever devised by demon-kind and yet it, and all its kind, went by a rather simple name.
Fel Reaver.
Demons of all sorts raced underfoot of the mighty golems, crashing into battle against the Wildhammer dwarves as they advanced up the mountain. Hounds and soldiers, even the rare eredar sorcerer could be seen through the churning dust and smoke of war. Teams of dwarves brought down their taller opponents either through skilled use of their warhammers or by bolts of magic. Men and women wearing talismans, feathers, and even bone charms stormed into battle, lightning and flames crackling in their hands.
The shamans of the Wildhammer would fight to their last breaths to defend their ancestral home.
"TEAR IT DOWN! ALL OF IT! ALLLLLL OFFF ITTT!! BRING ME THE BOY! BRING ME TROLLBANE!!!" boomed a voice drenched in fury.
As formations of demonic soldiers swarmed about beneath the feet of the Fel Reaver's, atop a small hillock stood the overall commander of the Burning Legion's armies, Azgalor, his arm outstretched with one long finger pointed towards the besieged Wildhammer city.
Standing taller than some of the smaller trees, the Annihilan glowered as his forces crashed against the dwarven defenders. Lowering his arm, he idly rubbed one of his new…additions.
Replacing the entirety of his lower jaw was a strange metallic creation, similar in size and appearance to the aesthetics of the Fel Reavers in color and shape. Large jutting spikes performed the function of teeth, even though they did in fact stick out beyond the upper jaw to create a black iron under bite. Several large screws had been driven into the sides of the demons jaw along with compartmentalized movement systems, deep into the bone itself. Small trickles of green blood dripped from these, but the creature paid them no mind.
Azgalor looked down and flexed his new left arm, the same connector bolts slammed into his shoulder, the black iron flexing just as well as his real one would have. From a large vent along the left upper shoulder belched the same green smoke that came from the chest of the Fel Reavers in a constant stream. Covered in extra protective plates that possessed numerous hooks and blades, it would perform more than able enough.
There was another crash as part of Aerie Peak collapsed inward, sending pained screams into the air.
The Annihilan basked in it like a refreshing breeze before lowering his head. Azgalor growled under his breath as he watched a Wildhammer break apart an Infernal with their cursed hammers.
"I will find your son, Trollbane," he snarled, hatred pouring out across the name as he spoke it.
"He will pay a thousand times over for what you did to me…"
0o0o0o0o0o0o
Five Days Ago
Five Days Ago
In the center of the courtyard of Stromgarde Keep, a beast raged.
It screamed at the sky and the earth, roaring so loud the earth itself shook. Across its scaled hide were dozens of cuts and wounds from which bright green blood flowed, splattering across the ground as it stomped back and forth. An enormous gout of blood coated dirt, sizzling and hissing as the corruptive substance sank into the earth and stones. Giant fingers grasped wildly at the still bleeding stump that terminated beyond the demons left shoulder. A river of demon blood came from this open wound, bone visible even beneath the ravaged meat. Yet for all the disgusting sight that it made, there was another that was far worse.
The majority of its lower jaw had been savaged; jawbone and teeth slashed and cut apart leaving nothing but a greatly bleeding ruin behind. The slab of meat that made up its tongue waggled within the ruined mouth, more than half flapping in the wind.
The demon screamed again, agony etched into every syllable.
Azgalor, Supreme Annihilan and Chosen of Archimonde to succeed the demon-king Mannoroth the Destructor, punched into a stone wall with his remaining arm as he roared in pain. Across the ground were the scattered remains of his two-bladed sword Spite, the powerful demonic artifact rendered simple shards of metal.
"Graaagh! 'amned M'tol! K'll argh AG'NN!" Azgalor bellowed through his shattered jaw sending phlegm, blood, and bone shards flying with every word.
The demon dragged itself over to the shattered and destroyed body of the one who had hurt him so grievously. The almost unrecognizable body of Thoras Trollbane, Lord of Stromgarde, lay impacted into a wall. Azgalor released his hold on his stump, the sudden lack of pressure sending another wave of demon blood splashing down, and ripped the dead human out of the wall where he had been shattered into.
Azgalor flung the corpse across the courtyard to land at the feet of the only other standing being in the entire keep. It bounced over the bodies of a dozen different demons, slain by the body flying over them, finally stopped by a great black plated boot. The body had been beaten, thrown, stabbed, and burnt over and over again in death as the inextinguishable flame of Azgalor's fury blazed out of control.
Arthas Menethil looked down at the body, a small smirk on his face before he rolled the body slightly away from him. The smirk faded as Azgalor shambled towards him, rage obvious in the flaming orbs that passed for its eyes. Unholy blue stared up into fel green until the death knight rolled his eyes and unsheathed his blade Frostmourne.
"I assume you want me to raise him so that you can kill him again?" he said in exasperation.
It had been a full hour since the battle had been concluded, the last few remnants of resistance either escaping or crumbling entirely. Eventually, the only violence taking place in the Highlands had been located here as Azgalor attempted to punish the thoroughly dead Trollbane. Arthas began to channel the energies required to force the battered body to standing position once more when Azgalor cut him with a wave.
"Gahngggg…'O, 'O I 'av pl'ns f'r h'mm!" the demon said, spitting blood and bone with every other word.
Arthas wisely took a few steps back as to not be covered in it.
"Plans, mighty one?" the death knight said curiously.
The sound of Azgalor's broken laughter was that of wet gravel and rocks grinding against one another. Without looking any further at Arthas, Azgalor reached down and picked up the shattered remains of his weapon Spite. A grunt of effort that forced a spurt of blood to squelch out of the ruined jaw brought about a hazy black glow around the broken edges.
"Po'wr Un'boun'!" Azgalor murmured darkly.
Then, with astonishing speed, the side of the blade still retaining a few inches of metal was stabbed downwards into the ruined Trollbane, impaling it completely. The body was raised high, the black aura growing to surround it as well.
"Blo'd o' a champ'n!" he continued.
With sharp movements, the body was flung off of the hilt, faint red blood still coating it. As Arthas watched, Azgalor stabbed into the air with his new creation, and drawing it back out. Where the tip touched the air, green and black scars appeared out of nothingness and began to grow. The hilt's point was dragged through the air, slices leaving behind a floating circle filled with runes that dripped with power.
"An' al' m' RAGE!" Azgalor finished.
A coil of green flames erupted across the Annihilan's body and leapt into the circle. Arthas raised an arm to cover his face, yet he could still sense the sheer magical power being poured into the growing portal.
"Mo'arg!" the demon roared.
There was a sound like cracking lightning, and the portal widened fully, enough to accommodate Azgalor several times over. From it came the strangest demons that Arthas had ever seen. Up until this point, the minions of the Legion had been uniform in one way or another. All Infernals were produced to the exact same specifications, while the arms and armor gave the same general look to the Fel or Doom Guard. Even the packs of Fel Hounds were relatively similar in their desiccated appearances . But what strode forth from the gate were none of these.
Grotesque bodies colored anywhere from green so dark it was nearly back to sickly pale, and snarling faces to boot. They hunched, or stomped, or walked straight-backed, all responding to the call. Most were missing limbs, of one kind or another, arms or legs replaced with strange metal contraptions with large green tubes filled with liquid so filled with corruption that the death knight could feel it from where he was standing.
Some possessed great pincer claws, inner edges sharped to fillet flesh and bone with ease. Others had enormous buzz-saws that spun wildly, sparks showering down. Even a few had missing eyes, bulbous contraptions filling the sockets instead.
They were the Mo'arg, chief engineers and creators of machines of death in the Legion. Their black iron constructs had shattered worlds beyond counting even before the eventual fall of the Titan known as Sargeras.
One, so horrifically muscular that its head was nearly swallowed by its shoulders, stumped to the forefront, a fully articulated metal arm that twitched and moved just as an organic one would replacing both of its arms. It bowed awkwardly before the seething Azgalor.
"You have called! What do you-hurk!" it began.
It did not finish, because Azgalor had grabbed it and shoved his still bleeding stump nearly down the Mo'arg's throat, roaring wordlessly.
Throwing the bewildered demon to the ground, Azgalor whirled on Arthas.
"Y'U!" he began. As the demon approached the King of Lordaeron, he paused to scoop up the pile of meat that had become Trollbane's body.
"Wh'rs 'is S'N!" he said, thrusting the carcass into Arthas's face.
"His son? How should I know, we saw him flying off on a gryphon. The largest gryphon roost in the world is at Aerie Peak with the rest of the Wildhammer dwarves-," the death knight began.
Azgalor's eyes narrowed, and leaned down until his face was less than a foot away from Arthas's own. With his remaining hand he wiped the gaping maw that had become his face and spit out a slew of blood and the few remaining loose bone shards.
"Where…" he growled.
0o0o0o0o0o
Azgalor growled again.
"TROLLBANE! SHOW YOURSELF!" he roared again at the Peak.
Just like the last few times, the human wretch did not follow the Annihilan's wishes. In all honesty the demon could have roared for hours, yet thankfully the universe decided to spare a good many dwarves ears with a distraction. At the sound of a portal opening and closing, Azgalor turned to find two Nathrezim standing before him.
"Mighty Azgalor, how goes the hunt?" came the smooth voice of Mephistroth, a small grin on the demons face.
Unlike the still slightly battered Anetheron, whose broken horns and slightly crumpled wing remained evidence of the last stand of Dalaran, the newest Nathrezim to walk the earth of Azeroth was practically pristine. Standing just slightly shorter than his counterpart in gleaming blue armor with a completely unscathed face and not even a trickle of blood from the last meal of cattle, the dread lord cut a completely different figure than his counterpart.
The power emanating that dwarfed Anetheron's own was a far greater sign of difference however.
Azgalor glared.
"Do you think to mock me? I am fully aware that you do not approve of this assault," he ground out, metal jaw snapping.
Mephistroth cocked his head.
"Whatever I may feel personally has no bearing upon how the Legion's ground forces shall move. After all, you are the Supreme Commander of such. I merely came to inform you that the Scourge boy has finally deigned to move on the bridge," the dread lord replied genially.
The Annihilan shifted his bulk to gaze through the blasted apart passageway that had been torn through the mountains. Where before there had been large tunnel leading up from the Arathi Highlands to the Hinterlands there was now a wide and flattened pass that had been blasted out by way of Fel Reavers and explosives. The shifting Scourge army was now visible, and so Azgalor grinned darkly as he watched it flow southwards, the metal quietly screeching with the movement.
"Hah! Good…good! I'll tear Trollbane's whelp from his stone womb, be done in-," he began to say.
There was an enormous explosion behind them, and all three turned.
There was an enormous gout of flames raking off of the largest Fel Reaver's chest. Liquid green flame seeped from the new rent in its body, and as Azgalor squinted he sighted the culprit.
A wild slam brought a stormhammer into the metal, ripping a new handhold as Falstad Wildhammer climbed up the mountain of metal. Lightning sparked around him, and a red glow surrounded his hands. The dwarf seemed to double in size as he roared in fury, and Azgalor could feel the strange shamanic magics of the Wildhammer pumping into the Thane as he continued his assault.
Finally reaching the flaming vent, Falstad battered the metal rungs a final time before holstering his hammer. Leaning back from a particularly acrid burst of smoke, the dwarf leaned in with both hands and gripped the vent. Screaming with the knowledge that his home was being utterly destroyed, the demons below watched unbelieving as the little man ripped the vent apart, flames spreading outwards and across his arms.
Falstad merely gritted his teeth and reached back before throwing a strange seed that shook and trembled in his hands into the center of the beast. The dwarf leapt from the Fel Reaver and onto a swooping gryphon that sped away even as the machine halted in its movements to destroy them, roaring all the while in the dwarvish tongue.
There was a popping noise before roots and branches of some enormous plant exploded from within the Reaver's chest. Rivets and plates were ripped asunder as the growth continued, the head popping off as thorny twists of plant life grew from within the machine's body. The engines within and their fuels were consumed before the entire thing began to crumple from within. Falling to its knee's the Fel Reaver gave one last roar before the entire golem erupted, sending metal rivets flying in every direction.
A single sliver sliced across Azgalor's side and through Azgalor's crumpled left wing.
Mephistroth immediately grabbed his brother Nathrezim and teleported them away as the Annihilan began to tremble. Shaking with fury, the demon roared to the heavens as he wildly leapt from the hill top and into the battle itself, ripping and tearing with his bare hands.
"Tear it down. TEAR IT ALL DOWN!" he bellowed.
0o0o0o0o0
Falstad blinked through the smoke he surveyed his people. Three dwarves or more to a gryphon, the noble beasts squawked and ruffled their feathers under the unfamiliar strain. The highest halls of the Aerie were filled with them all, only the most vital belongings carried with them.
It had been less than ten minutes since that last defiant strike against the demons forces, and it would not be repeated. The seed had been prepared by the elder Wildhammer shamans before they had evacuated on Falstad's orders. They had been on the first few flights to leave for the south along with the young and infirm amongst the dwarves in order preserve the knowledge and culture of their people after the Peak fell.
"Master Falstad! We must leave!" came a slightly harried voice.
Looking up, Falstad found the soot covered face of Galen Trollbane, the only human in the Peak, tossing large packs of supplies into crates that were immediately strapped to gryphons once full. The human prince had barely recovered from his own injuries, but had stoically continued to assist the dwarves despite the protests of the healers. The dwarf nodded and moved to mount his own gryphon before spying something from the corner of his eye.
Reaching down, the High Thane of the Wildhammers picked up a small cloth doll, dropped in the wild rush to escape. Rubbing the doll with his thumb, he closed his eyes and ignored the protests of his tortured skin as he held it. Plunging his arms into the chest of the Fel Reaver had turned his skin blackened and red, and it was only with numerous poultices, shamanic healing, and sheer stubbornness that allowed him to function through what would otherwise have been utterly crippling pain.
He listened to the last sounds that he would hear in the Aerie Peaks for the foreseeable future.
There was the crackling stone as the Fel Reaver's literally climbed and tore at the mountain itself.
The dying as a full third of the entire Wildhammer people fought a holding action to allow their fellows to escape.
The roars of rage as the infuriated demon commander tried to force his way into the Peak itself, tossing demon and dwarf alike aside in its rush.
The sudden rush of flames that had crept up the Aerie until it filled the doorways nearby and licked at the ceiling.
Falstad opened his eyes.
There was an audible crash and boom, even at the highest point of the Aerie, as Azgalor finally managed to burst through the barred doors to the mountain-city with a wordless roar. Shamans and warriors alike were battered aside by the literal dozen in grand sweeps that struck with enough force to explode bodies like melons on sheer impact alone.
"Master Falstad!" the boy called out with even more panic covering his voice.
The dwarf finally nodded, and slowly walked towards his beloved Gryphon, saddled as it was with supplies and armor. Galen slumped in the saddle already, exhaustion covering the boys frame.
With a whistle and a twirl of his horrendously burnt hands, the Wildhammers lifted off as one.
And abandoned their home.
A rain of gryphon feathers and tears would be all that was left to mark their passing.
0o0o0o0o00o00
When the first few Dreadguard smashed through the walls to arrive at the upper levels of Aerie Peak, all they found was smashed crates, empty nests, and a bounty of supplies that had simply not been able to be carried out. Flags and banners had either been burnt to cinders or bundled up and taken with the rest of the Wildhammers as well as numerous other trinkets.
In the end, the only real sign that there had been dwarves in that crumbling ruin at all was a simple cloth doll.
In truth, the rage and fury of an Annihilan is something that is always being expressed. It is their finest wine, their choicest meat. Engines of destruction fueled endlessly on purest and darkest hatred. But to have no foe, no wretch to destroy…they can become rather agitated.
When Azgalor learned that his prey had escaped him once more, he slaughtered dozens, then hundreds of his own soldiers in a wild fury. Some would return to the Nether to reform years later. Others would not be so lucky. He stomped across every inch of the ground before the Peak, spilling rivers of fel blood across the ground and tainting the forests. He instructed the Fel Reavers to tear the whole of Aerie Peak apart stone by stone, before pausing only a few hours later.
Instead, he demanded that the Mo'arg take the mountain, or at least the shattered third of it that remained structurally viable. He desired a mighty bastion, one that would be covered and filled to the brim with demonic energies, with vast machines to pump out the weapons of war needed to take this most stubborn of worlds. He granted them leave to do whatever they wished to the once mighty home of the dwarves to leave it unassailable, so long as a steady stream of war machines would be granted to him upon his journey.
Aerie Peak and in fact the whole of the Hinterlands would become drowned by the touch of the Legion for many painful years to come.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
To the south of the Hinterlands, another assault would soon begin. The mighty Thandol Span had been collapsed days earlier with the explosive brilliance of the gnomes, leaving only scattered assaults of flying barges, zeppelins, and daring raids by those capable of teleportation to be the method of attack and defense between the living and the dead.
This was soon to change.
Even now, after so much fighting, many commanders had trouble comprehending the true horror of war against the tireless undead. They did not eat, not truly though the psychological effect of watching corpses be devoured by ghouls was worth its weight in gold in new recruits. But more than that, they never slept.
Ever.
So it was that just before the break of dawn there came a great and terrible rumbling. Guards snapped to bleary alertness, spyglasses were fumbled before settling with trembling hands, and shouts soon went up across the battle lines. Dwarven and human rifles were raised, even as many rushed from camps to set themselves. Cries of alarm forced a sleeping and weary coalition to blink away the sleep from its eyes only to widen them in horror at what came thundering down the roads of the blighted Hinterlands.
Massive giants of sewn together flesh, with absolutely massive bolts of rusted metal slamming chunks of rotting meat together, given unto the same design as the flesh titans which had stormed the now blasted wasteland that had been Quel'Thalas. But they were not what suddenly bawling sergeants and generals were focused on. Men and women were sent scrambling to form shield walls while gnomish fliers soon appeared in the air.
The four twisted monsters paid no attention to the sudden stream of bullets and explosives that fell upon them, the siege bolts and cannon balls that tore away entire fields of meat. Unfeeling, they merely tightened their formation further to better safeguard the true threat that many were only barely able to see.
The Mo'arg had done more than simply restore the demon Azgalor.
For coming ever closer was an near impossibly large slab of black steel, the materials of which could have gone to over a dozen Fel Reavers. The gnomes had destroyed the Thandol Span, the solemn chunks of grey stone from the great bridge still poking through the skein of the ocean below.
The Legion had decided to make their own.
In the end, there was nothing to be done.
It had been too early, too unexpected, and in the same crushing manner that the Legion had persecuted its campaign of devastation across countless worlds before, unstoppable.
The slab of metal slammed down, crumbling earth and turning those unfortunate gnomes, humans, and dwarves who had been too far forward into less than paste. The earth crumbled mightily, but the bridge held. Before anything else could be done, the four shambling creatures that had carried it there crossed it to wreak havoc upon their terror filled foes.
It was only moments later that a tide of howling death swarmed across right behind them, led at the forefront by a laughing madman with the runeblade Frostmourne held high.
0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o
One Month Later
"Strike! Faster you dogs! My great grandmother could fight better than the rest of you pathetic louts!" roared the drill sergeant.One Month Later
The swarthy man stomped up and down the line, his full armor clanking noisily as he gesticulated back and forth and yelled at his two dozen charges. He moved with ease and speed, a stark contrast to the huffing and puffing recruits who struggled to follow his directions. Swords and shields moved back and forth against utterly uncaring training posts crudely painted with the faces of orcs and trolls.
Buckets of sweat poured off of faces red with effort and sunburn, but they did not cease. They were not allowed to. Every time one slipped up, or swung out of time, the sergeant was there to berate them back into position. The grass of the fenced in square had been trampled into the dirt, the morning dew long gone as other soldiers worked to train themselves across the great field.
Prospective knights unsteadily wobbled on top of pawing warhorses; gritting their teeth to hold up the heavy training lances and swords they had been given. At a whistle, horses reared up and then ran down dirt tracks, the terrified screams of their riders echoing behind them. The sound of wooden lances striking training armor and the sudden exhalation of air as one of the trainees was struck to the ground. Many of those watching groaned as small pouches of coins were exchanged back and forth.
Across the field from the horses, a fusillade of bullets impacted against targets, veteran dwarvish marksmen barking out instruction and encouragement to their human trainees. Many took refuge in the shade provided by their hoods, though a few discussed various topics from underneath a large tent, large foaming steins in their hands. Some sighed in disappointment of the ineptitude of their charges.
From the top of a hill, the man known as Highlord Bolvar Fordragon stood watching with his arms clasped behind his back.
His eyes narrowed, watching the generally sorry state of what had become of Stormwind's army. It was undermanned, under-equipped, and under-trained. Only a fraction of the men and women down there had any experience under their belts, and even though they did their best, it would be a while before Stormwind's army was truly worth anything again.
"Ho there Highlord? Come to see us sorry fellows try to remember how to hold a blade?" came an amused voice from the path leading up to Bolvar's position.
The Highlord turned to see the sweating and fully armored form of Marcus Jonathan walking up to him. The hard expression on Bolvar's face softened, slightly, as he gestured for a servant to bring the High Commander of Stormwind's defense some water.
"No, Marcus, I'm here to make sure that we sorry fellows remember how to hold a blade," he replied.
Marcus raised an eyebrow even as he gratefully accepted the water, draining the cup in moments before letting out a pleased sigh.
"Oh? We've been at this for only a week, Bolvar. It takes time to re-organize, well, everything, yes?" he said.
The Highlord snorted even as his hand gripped the wooden fence so tightly that it creaked.
"Time we don't seem to have, Marcus. You've read the same reports that I have. Lordaeron, Quel'Thalas, Stromgarde, Aerie Peak, all gone. The Scourge is on a path south, and they've battered their way across half the Wetlands already," Bolvar said darkly.
"Our forces have fallen into utter disarray. Our veterans have become disillusioned drunkards or left to work the farms. The little bit of funding we've been receiving from the House of Nobles has only just been increased thanks to the Lady Prestor, but money can only do so much. Our lands have been wracked by bandits, the Defias especially, without our attentions," he continued.
Bolvar turned to Marcus then, consternation clear on his face.
"For Light's sake, Marcus. There was a metric ton of reports that had somehow gotten lost about the state of Elywnn. They've even been assailed by murlocs of all things. Murlocs! When's the last time we sent out a good set of patrols across the forest, to Westfall, or Redridge beyond token support?" he asked harshly.
Marcus rubbed his bushy mustache in thought, even as he nodded in agreement about the Highlord's complaints.
"Well, you are right about that. We have been too lax recently. I've been out here since before the sun rose and it hasn't been pretty," he replied.
His last words were punctuated by another trainee falling off of his horse as it reared, sending him to the ground amidst the laughter of his companions. Bolvar looked at the sight and sighed.
"Look at that. They have no idea what kind of hell we're going to be walking into. If the Scourge push into the Loch, it's more than likely that they'll lay siege to Ironforge and Gnomeregan. Our soldiery is even less prepared to fight in those brutal climates. If they keep heading south, they'll hit the Badlands and will more than likely raise all the ogres of that land to their side. This is going to be the worst conflict our people have ever faced in a long time," he said softly.
Marcus nodded, his previously light mood turning grim to match the Highlord's.
"I suppose you're right. What of the king, shall he be joining us?" he asked.
Bolvar scowled as he turned.
"The death of his wife still weighs heavily upon him. Far too heavily. He speaks to almost no one, save Anduin, myself, and the Lady Prestor. Even then we cannot seem to rouse him," Bolvar said unhappily.
"That's…not good," Marcus replied, a troubled look on his face.
"Indeed. I have nothing but faith and well wishes for those fighting in the Wetlands, but they cannot hold out alone forever. We must act, and soon! I shall join you, my friend. It's time to see if I'm still good for anything," Bolvar said gruffly.
"Good for-, Bolvar you're one of the best fighters I've ever known! You aren't even that old!" Marcus shot back.
The Highlord said nothing as they headed down the path towards the ever so slowly improving army of Stormwind.
0o0o00o0o
A group of snarling fel hounds ran low across the ground towards their target. Their hooves churned the muddy ground of the Wetlands as they wove between stomping Infernals and marching Fel Guard. Two fell to a rain of explosives that shook the earth as the others continued on heedless of their fallen pack members.
Leaping over the shattered and smoking remains of a dwarvish tank, they fell upon their foe. Despite attacking from behind, one was killed by a backhand with a stormhammer almost immediately. The dwarf turned upon his heels to bash another with a small metal buckler while he struck again and again. His gore-soaked beard was given a fresh coat of demon blood as the stormhammer crushed the last fel hound's skull, the rest of the body flying past him on momentum from its attempted lunge.
"Ye haven't got me yet!" growled the Wildhammer.
Bloody wraps covered both arms from the elbow down, while a brand new eye-patch was strapped to his left eye socket. Scars, still red and fresh, crisscrossed up and down his bare chest. Despite the blood pouring down across his face, the dwarf simply bared his teeth at the sight of three Fel Guard running towards him.
"Fer Khaz Modan! Yaaaah!" bellowed another dwarven voice.
Leaping off of the same wrecked tank was a dwarf wielding two hammers, one with the horns of a ram and the other a flat rune-covered head. Both crashed into the enemies skulls as the dwarf landed. The heavily armored warrior whirled his hammers, another finding its way into a demons knee, sending the creature to the ground where the other pulped its skull.
Before the last demon could swing it's halberd down a sparking stormhammer crunched into its chest, lightning trailing behind it. The Wildhammer sprinted up to grab the shaft of the hammer and pull the head from the creature, blood and flesh coming out with it. One hand grasped the demons shoulder, while the other gripped the stormhammer as it struck into the creatures head, neck, and chest over and over again.
The creature fell to the ground dead within moments, the Wildhammer jumping off before he would be crushed under the Fel Guard's weight.
Spitting on its corpse, the dwarf turned to his cousin.
"What th' hell are ye doing here Magni?" the tattooed dwarf said as he wiped some of the blood from his head.
"I could ask ye the same Falstad! Charging out here alone, half-cocked like a damn fool!" Magni replied angrily.
Falstad glared at him in response, even as the din of battle echoed all around them. A group of dwarves in Ironforge colors appeared, huffing and puffing after their King ran ahead. As they took up formation around the two, Falstad finally deigned to speak.
"I don't have te' explain meself to ye Magni, yer the King o' Ironforge, not th' Wildhammers!" he ground out.
Magni sighed in exasperation.
"Ye think I don't know that? Falstad, I'm jes concerned that yer gonna get yerself killed out here alone!"
Falstad looked away as he idly shook the blood off of his stormhammer.
"So what? I'd die taking them down with me," he said quietly, rage still simmering in his voice.
An armored fist cracked into his jaw, sending the Wildhammer sprawling onto the ground. Almost immediately Falstad was up and snarling, stormhammer sparking.
"What th' hell was that fer?" he roared.
His response was another fist; though this time he caught it in one hand. The victory was short however as Magni's forehead met his own, sending him to the ground once more.
"It was fer being a damn fool, and that was fer being a twice-damned fool!" Magni shouted.
Before Falstad could stand, a heavy metal boot was placed upon his chest.
"Damn it all Falstad, you think yer the only one angry. That yer the only one grieving!" he continued.
"Ye think that just because I'm Bronzebeard doesn't mean I can't grieve about what happened?" he finished softly.
Falstad shook his head.
"Yer not Wildhammer, Magni. Ye don't understand…," he said, staring at the sky.
Magni snorted, his eyes darting about to ensure that no demons or undead were encroaching upon their positions.
"It doesn't matter that I'm not Wildhammer. It still hurts me heart knowing that you've lost yer home. We're kin, Falstad. No matter the name," he said sternly.
The boot was lifted off, and a hand was offered. Falstad looked at it warily before accepting and standing.
"Aye. Aye we are. I just…I want to hurt them; it burns me soul ever second that I'm not fighting 'em," the Wildhammer said helplessly.
The Bronzebeard placed a hand on Falstad's shoulder, a grim smile on his face.
"Me too, Falstad. But we both got to remember. We're the leaders of our people; we can't just go off alone, yeah? You're still th' Thane of th' Wildhammers, Peak or no. Ye've got a responsibility to lead yer people, just like I do. Come back to the camp, yeh need some rest," he said.
Falstad looked at the bloody bandages covering his arms and nodded, looking at the horizon as another flight of Gryphon riders fell upon a screeching Frost Wyrm.
"All right, all right. Let's…let's…" he trailed off as he squinted at something glinting on the horizon.
Magni cocked an eyebrow and turned to look as well.
"What th' hell is that?"
Falstad's eyes widened.
"I can't believe it," he whispered.
"What? What is it? Who is that, Falstad?" Magni pressed.
Falstad let out a whoop of joy, his stormhammer raised high.
"It's bloody Kul Tiras!"
0o0o0o0o0o0
All along the western coast of the Wetlands were dozens of ships, whole batteries of cannon fire smashing into the flank of the enemy lines. Many let down massive gang-planks, from which the soldiers of Kul Tiras sprinted down to form camps, rapidly building defensive barricades even as the demonic hordes swung around to face them.
Several men and women set up ballistae and catapults that began to launch their payloads, while marksmen set up posts to begin firing their rifles from. A hail of arrow and crossbow bolts began to fall amongst the demon ranks, slaying droves.
Marching down one gang-plank from a Kul Tiras battleship came a man with greying hair. Though there were many lines to his face, there was a hard strength to him, only emphasized by his large broadsword and green tinted plate armor. He wore no helm, but his position and authority were still known to all who served under him.
Several men and women rode up to him before dismounting and saluting.
"Admiral Westwind, sir!" one said loudly.
The Admiral looked at them, and nodded.
"Report!" he barked out.
"Scouts report that the demons and Scourge have managed to push about halfway through the Wetlands, as previous intelligence indicated. We've set up numerous firing positions up and down the coast and a large number of the enemy are swinging towards our positions, relieving a significant amount of pressure off of various Ironforge positions," said the lieutenant in a clipped tone.
Barean Westwind rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he nodded, dismissing them all to their various posts. His gaze found the demons screaming towards his ships, and narrowed. A hand reached down to a barrel filled with rifles, grabbing one of the dwarven long-bores. One finger flicked off the safety even as the other hand placed some shots inside.
A particularly large abomination pulled ahead of the enemy ranks, its rolling eyes bouncing about wildly in too-wide sockets. As it screeched and raised one of its cleavers high, a dwarven hollow-point found its way into the skull, exploding and sending brain matter everywhere. Soon after the knees were shot out as well, sending the whole thing tumbling down.
Barean snorted as he tossed the smoking rifle back into the barrel and unsheathed his blade.
"Lord Admiral Proudmoore sends his regards!" he said under his breath as the battle was joined.
0o0o0o0o0
Smoke filled the air of the still burning ruins of Stromgarde.
Through broken stone passageways, shattered wagons, and piles of bodies, the Cult of the Damned walked. A long train of meat wagons, piled high with bodes, stretched from the gate of Stromgarde Keep to a large cleared field beyond the fortress. Atop the soot covered battlements, two Cult members sat quietly munching on crusts of bread as they took a break from the monotonous task of dragging bodies about.
"We can't keep up this pace," one muttered to the other as she swept her hood back to reveal straw blonde hair.
"What do you mean?" her companion replied.
"This pace. Of bodies, and armies. The Scourge is mighty, and sure there are plenty of corpses left in Lordaeron, but we've been leaving a lot of them behind. We can revive skeletons and bodies and abominations and wyrms and all of them over and over again, but at the speed the demons are pushing us we can't manage them all," she grumbled.
The other Cult member sipped from a small cup of water as he nodded.
"Well, that's true, but they've been more than supplementing with their own forces. I mean, at this point there's more demonic forces on the battlefield than undead. It's why the majority of the Scourge is sitting in Hillsbrad around Durnholde with Lord Dagren. That demonic brute doesn't want to let us get any of the fighting done anymore," he said.
The woman began to rub circles into her temples with her fingers.
"That Azgalor creature is insane. I much preferred it when the dread lords were in command. They at least had some semblance of tactics. All that monster cares for is constant endless assaults in a single direction!" she said.
"It could also be because of what Trollbane managed before he got put down. Wouldn't you be pissed?" her companion asked.
She shrugged.
"I don't really know. If they're blades touch me, then something's gone wrong," she replied.
The male Cult member stood, wiping crumbs from his robes.
"Well, in the end, it's a good thing that the demons are the ones doing the majority of the fighting now. We would have lost a lot of our forces taking the Aerie if the demons hadn't done it themselves. But I suppose that now we'll have to see if that Mephistroth fellow can do any better than his predecessors," he said.
The woman snapped her fingers as she stood as well.
"Oh, right! That's what I wanted to tell you. I heard from a friend that it's still around, that Anetheron demon," she said.
"Really? I thought that it would have been killed for its failure by its masters. Where is it then?" he asked.
"I have no idea. That's the thing. Ah, it doesn't matter for us anyhow. We're on abomination duty; we've got to stitch together at least a dozen before the day is done," the woman replied.
The man groaned as the two began to head down the steps.
0o0o0o0o0o0
Nek'rosh Skullcrusher ran through the mountain forests of the eastern Wetlands.
His chest worked as he desperately sucked in air, vaulting over a collapsed tree. All around him he could hear the sounds of battle as the Dragonmaw fought for their lives with blade and magic.
A raider was pulled from his wolf, his massive blade still swinging as the undead swarmed over him, his last defiant cry cut short. Nek'rosh stabbed down with his spear, but by the time he had cleared the ghouls off the raider was already clearly dead with his throat ripped out. The Chieftain of the Dragonmaw spun, stabbing through the ghoul that had leapt for him before throwing it to the ground, his boot crushing its skull.
"Lok'tar! Lok'tar!" he bellowed, the call echoing out from hundreds of throats as the battle raged.
Grey talons swiped down at him, raking across his shoulders. As black-red blood splattered the ground, the orc threw his spear through the chest of the gargoyle that had managed to strike him. Stomping over, he twisted the spear viciously in the flying creature's chest, killing it.
"The Dragonmaw will not be defeated by you mindless monsters!" he snarled as he ripped the spear out.
Green blood poured from the open hole in an abominations gut as it rushed towards him. There were arrows sticking out from all over its body, a sword and axe stuck into its back, yet it gave these wounds no thought as it whirled its many arms at the orc. A rusted cleaver nearly sliced him in two as he leapt back, spear stabbing forwards in a wild flurry.
"We won the First War, and survived the Second even when mighty Doomhammer himself fell!" he bellowed.
The spear went flying through the abominations stomach, poking fully out the other side. Its meat hooks swept down to miss the Dragonmaw as he rolled between its legs.
"We survived the Dragon Queen, and Deathwing himself!" he continued under his breath.
A hand grabbed the shaft of the spear, just behind the head, and pulled. Both hands grasped as the spear spun and stabbed into the creatures back, providing a handhold for Nek'rosh to climb atop the abominations back. The spear was raised and then struck down, impaling the head through the top of the skull.
"We are Dragonmaw! We are orcs!" he hissed as the undead fell to the ground unmoving.
Standing atop it, he raised his arms to the sky.
"We are Horde!" he shouted, even as dozens of bleeding and wounded warriors appeared out of the trees, following his cries.
The gathered orcs turned at the sound of dark laughter. Many raised their weapons as they turned outwards in a circle, Nek'rosh at the center.
"So you are, so you are. Imagine my luck, finding the Horde, here, in the very mountains not a dozen miles away!" The voice called out.
From the trees came a winged demon, corruption seeping out from the hoof prints it left behind. A dull orange glow surrounded it, even in the darkness of the woods. It bore great claws, each sharp enough to cut through a puny human while its large wings unfurled behind it. A dark aura of malice covered the demon as it continued to chuckle, powerful magic swirling about its arms.
Nek'rosh was unimpressed.
"I would rethink your definition of luck if you believe facing the Horde to be such, demon," he snarled.
The Nathrezim chuckled.
"Mmmm, perhaps. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anetheron," it said with a curt bow.
Rising from it, the demon snapped its fingers. The orcs growled angrily to themselves even as they tightened their formation around their leader while the very forest around them seemed to come alive with eyes that glowed with fel power. Slinking fel hounds, darkly chuckling eredar, and of course the many doomguard that were present as well dwarfed the remaining orcs.
"The Horde once served the Legion. We have decided that you will do so again…" Anetheron said lightly.
The orcs as one roared their defiance.
"Never!" Nek'rosh bellowed.
Then Anetheron smiled wildly, and with a twitch of his fingers sent the demons swarming forward.
"We do not ask. We demand."
The forests of the eastern Wetlands lit up with screams that would continue throughout the night.
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