Was thinking about the old Alliance 'Wrathgate' questline and ended up writing this, enjoy!
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"Rest well, boy, and bear witness to our hour of triumph."
Those were the Highlord's last words to me. Confident. Powerful. Absolute. Then he was walking away, the proud lion of the Alliance roaring its silent benediction.
The choking shroud of pain eases for a moment and my lungs heave, trying to pull in a gasp of frigid air. Instead, something – thick and drowning – roils up instead. My eyes snap open and for an instant I see a face – emerald eyes gleaming with determination – before the pain – shredding, burning – forces them shut. The distinct sensation of my leaden legs dragging through hard, unforgiving semi-frozen dirt surfaces next and my mind falters in the dark for an instant.
When I next peel back my stiff eye-lids….
I'm standing there on the precipice staring out towards the horizon, watching as the ominously black clouds endure. The crumbled ice – bitter and sharp – swirls around me, around all of us, leeching life and spirits alike. We've been here for too long. But a glance to the side, to those gleaming, brilliant eyes, tells me we can hold out for a bit longer.
There are voices all around me. One booms from the right – deep and forlorn – whilst another chatters to the left – restless and eager – but as I try to focus on them, on the sounds, the words, the people, they all spiral in and soon there is naught but the screams – piercing and desperate, pleading for salvation. I try to speak, to reach out, but acid floods my lungs and it feels like a river of magma flows through my veins, in lieu of blood. Shouting and screaming and pain amalgamate into a brutalising force that tears at my mind.
I feel myself slipping….
And from somewhere above in the windswept spire, the deep roar of the horn bursts forth, battering through the frigid gale to bellow its song of war. The camp, silent in its preparation, transforms into the war machine it is, belching out men and women – lives – to hurl at our enemies. With the Highlord at their lead, the ranks of the Alliance stand firm. A heavy hand claps down on my pauldron but my eyes remain fixed on the embroidered lion that adorns Bolvar Fordragon's billowing cobalt drape. A strong voice cuts through my reverie.
"Should we be down there?" It rumbles with presence, concise and commanding.
"Of course we should!" This one is fast, eager, ready to fight – too ready – and for a moment I wonder why I'm not fighting in this last crucial battle.
And then my eyes are drawn to Fordragon's lion once more. But now, it looks different. Silenced. Cowed
Defeated.
A trick of the wind.
"No." The word is faintly spoken, lips still trembling from the surfacing wounds of that last clash, but they heed it nonetheless.
I wake choking on my own bloodied spittle. For a long moment I hang motionless, silence reigning but for my hacking coughs, and then pain surges against the walls of my mind like crushing waves breaking on floodgates. My spirit steadfastly endures, and after an eternity of gasping for air – In…out…in… – something slips in around my soul. Something warm and serene that soothes the searing pain to an ache – envelopes, cradles me in its embrace.
I open my eyes – when did they close? – to a set of bright green eyes. As I fall into those glimmering emerald depths something stirs in me, a vague notion – a forgotten memory? And then even that is gone and, suddenly, the pain is flooding back in to fill the void.
The last thing I see is a mangled hand still encased in tarnished plate, spattered with rupturing fel-green blisters.
The next thing I see when the squall dies down is a mangled hand, flesh rotted away to a few pestilent strands clinging to bleached white bones. There are hundreds – no…thousands – of the monsters swarming under the stygian saronite of the Wrathgate. A patchwork army of the dead – desecrated and defiled. A final insult, to face the rotting corpse of a comrade.
Fordragon draws his blade and charges, voice booming over the cacophony of disembodied groans, and slices into the wave of ghouls. The lines of soldiers follow his charge, an implacable, inevitable force that echoes his every word.
"VICTORY!" The Highlord's roar is unwavering. Overwhelming. The responding bellow from the charging soldiers is deafening, even as the first of them fall to the tumultuous mass of plague-ridden, decrepit ghouls.
"OR DEATH!"
The Light erupts into a righteous fervour as it floods through the men and women below. It urges me to act, to fight, burning away the weariness that seeps through my bones. And as the screams of brothers and sisters echo into the endlessly dark sky, I yearn to listen, to yield to the presence – strength and fortitude – that has always guided my hand.
But I won't move. Can't move. Because even as it urges me forward, something else needles at the brink of lucidity. The feeling grows – expands, balloons – seals me in a cage of lambent weave. One gauntleted fist clenches around the shimmering haft of my war mace and the warmth surges into the smooth titansteel – rippling and pulsing with vindication.
I blink, a fleeting motion in the ceaseless rain of white, and solace returns. There are others joining the clash below, a crest of deadly red and black that breaks upon the scourge with a thunderous, tribal roar.
Blink
Something crimson and immense towers over me and the sun's light ignites the blood red scales like a radiant flare. As it's neck slips gracefully closer, I can only stare at the paired fiery orbs – burning with life, with vigour – that spark from the shadows of two gilded horns. And then the thing is gone but it's presence remains, a halcyon aura of succour and safety. The figure that replaces it is garbed in ornate scarlet plates that rest upon deep amber skin. A person – no…no…too tall…too…
Recognition dawns with the blinding sunburst and a torrent of scarlet fire engulfs my arm, searing away at the affliction within. Mangled flesh burns to stone and flowing flames boil away the tainted blood, replacing it with veins of pulsing fire.
My throat labours to breath and scream and speak at the same time. The Aspect of Life beats me to it, voice thrumming with echoes of her ancient power.
"Hold strong!"
"Fall back!"
That single broken voice – once so bold, so dauntless – amongst all the tormented wails, pushes me over the edge.
Literally.
Two voices – one resounding, the other fervent – call from above but they're torn away by the screaming wind and the thick crunch of frost under foot. I don't look back.
I know they'll follow me – to victory or death.
For good or ill.
The Light surges through me, it's indomitable will bolstering my strength. By the time the frosted ground under foot turns to nebulous steel and the dying lay scattered about me, holy energy crackles across my skin like golden lightning and floods outwards to fight the taint.
Each step sanctifies the broken land and each breath sweeps away the putrid venomous smog, but still the tortured screams persist. I'm too late. All around me lay hundreds of men and women, of the Horde and the Alliance. All dying. All victims of the forsaken.
Betrayed.
I see the Highlord. His voice is gone, his body shattered. The once-proud lion of our Grand Alliance is no more, barely a tatter of cloth in the rising wind.
The lingering cackle of laughter echoes across the valley.
Raw grief crests like a gargantuan wave and crashes down, sweeping away all else. My eyes clench shut to stem the tide, but still they fall.
Tears for the vanquished.
I stand on the precipice, gazing out over the remains of the battle.
Boots crunch into the frost behind me. Neither of them – because only they would look for me here – reaches out, nor do they say a word. The searing burn in my flesh is omnipresent, a constant reminder of this Light-damned place. Of the bodies, now purged by the fires, and the piercing screams, now replaced by empty silence and the occasional choking sob.
The shattered shield feels heavier when I breathe out.
"Should we have been there?" Once more the words are softly spoken.
"Yes," is the echoing reply from the both of them. I don't need to look to know that the sparkle in her eyes is gone. Nor can he hide the resignation that rumbles within his words.
I simply nod, once more to fallen, and turn away.
Victory or death, Bolvar?
Were it so easy…but no, old man, you've forgotten surviving.
The in-between. The grey zone.
We've been here too long.
Hope you liked it!