1Wind. That was all that Fist heard as he ran. No plan in his mind, no basic idea, not even a coherent thought. The only thing he knew was that his vision was gone, eyes seeing only a red fog. So he ran, guided by a pull on his spirit. Nothing in his path was safe. From Brill, where he had left, to the Scarlet Monastery, there was only death. Shattered remains of bats and darkhounds, torn trees, zombies shorn in two. His wicked claws dripped blood, his hands stained with that of his victims, and one other. One vision burned through his brain like wildfire, it showed his lover. Her body broken, torn and bleeding. He had left her in the care of a priest in Brill, there was nothing he himself could have done, and revenge could not wait.
So now he ran, as a ghostly blur. Eyes shining red, like the lifeblood he now searched for. If the priest could not save her, then she would finally be at peace. Free of this war torn world. But, peace or not, she had been injured, if not stolen away from him. They did it..he knew. His running never slowed, he had long since stopped breathing, his heart did not beat.
In his mind there was a vision as if it were the physical realm. His mind looked shattered and broken. Red rock, a sea of glass, blood red sky...it was like a nightmare. It was in this desolate wasteland that two figures were meeting, arguing. One was a man, or the spirit of one, skin as dark and infinite reaching as the night sky. Robed in glowing white cloth. His eyes were naught but blue stars, he was arguing with a thing of nightmares.
The spirit smashed its hand against a table between the figures. The other seemed amused at his anger. The other figure was a monster, a demon...a dreadlord. Wicked horns and claws curved from his head and fingertips. Huge black wings unfurled and casting long shadows. The demon was shining and deadly in his black plate armor. The two argued, roaring at each other, voices echoing throughout the emptiness of Fist's mind. "Vengeance must be had, with, or without your help demon!" That was the voice of the spirit of the man, surprisingly not the dreadlord.
The demon spoke, dark, evil, gravely voice calm despite the spirit's tone. "And you expect to kill the zealots without my help? Come now priest, surely you know better than that."
"If you'll not help me,"the spirit's voice came, dangerously calm, he was wasting time arguing with this demon,"then I will die with my love...and you will be out of a host." He walked away from the table and the map on it. Fully willing to commit himself to the coming death.
"...Priest.."the demons voice came, "it seems that I've no choice. Without a host I can not even go back to the nether, so I will help you."
"Thank you, Fistnantilus, even if it is just to save your own hide."
The two joined back at the map, looking over it and discussing plans. The map was one that almost no one had ever seen. It was that of Scarlet Monastery. Rooms were circled, every room with a person integral to the power of the monastery in it.
The demon's voice came,"Before we enter, we need a plan. I would rather not walk the spirit world as you do all through the day."
The two spirits continued talking, and while they do, Fist's rampage begins. He roars as he reaches the outskirts of the monastery. The guards laughed and talked in a language he once knew, this one forsaken running up towards them, roaring out unintelligibly. Then they saw it...above this undead loomed a great dark shadow. Wings beating as it kept speed with the man. Weapons raised quickly as they watched this zombie run towards them, not drawing a weapon, not casting a spell...just charging. The first guard started to charge but a skull, bleeding black flame, leapt out of Fist's eyes and blasted a hole through the man's chest. That same black fire curled out of the air to set the following zealot aflame.
Through all this, Fist continued running. Blind with rage, he tore through body after body. Blood splashing across his face time and again, unnoticed through the haze of the same color permeating his vision. He is death incarnate. His claws tear through skin like it is paper. Through bone only slightly less easily. One unlucky guard was not killed in the first blow, one that tore his left arm from its socket and right off his body. Nor in the stab of claws into his chest, not until Fist ripped his hand to the side did the mans screaming stop. It stopped, because his torso had been shorn in two by the sheer fury in the movement.
And now Fist was where he had to make a decision. Into the library, the chapel, the armory, or the torture room first? He ran into any room, it happened to be the torture room. Down the hall, body parts being strewn about like confetti. An arm here, a leg over there, beautiful decorations. Stepping into the torture room like a dream that Sargeras himself could not have forgotten. He looked from one torturer to another, then exploded into motion. Hands tearing through muscle and bone, seemingly through the very soul of his victims. Such were the screams. These men and women who had tortured anything and everything they did not see eye to eye with, fell like they were struck by a vengeful god.
Then there was only interrogator Vishas. He looked around with frightened eyes, the deadly being had gone, leaving him with the torn bodies of his allies littering the floor around him. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind. Then he was laying on his back on the stretch wheel, not quite sure how he got there. Then the man who had slaughtered his way in here was beside him. One wicked claw-tip settled down on Vishas' arm, then worked its way up. "You hurt her,"came the voice of the undead, frighteningly calm. The interrogator could only stare as one slit opened up his arm to his shoulder, then down, spreading to open up each of his fingers. Fist took hold of a little bit of excess skin on the other, untouched side of Vishas' arm, and pulled...the skin of that arm ripped back with a sickening, sucking sound. The man screamed at the now bare muscles of his arm. Fist spun around and gave the other arm the same treatment. The screams were like music, and Fist grinned. He pressed the tips of his claws at the mans foot and cut his way up the legs. Slowly, agonizingly so, and ripped the skin off of Vishas' legs. Oh, how he screamed. Oh, what music. He continued, stripping each inch of skin from the interrogator's body until there was nothing but muscles and the man's remains twitching.
Fist just turned and strode out, through the bloody hallway, bodies everywhere. Up the staircase into the main room. Blood was still dripping from the bodies. From the walls, even from the ceiling. Fist just walked across, and headed down the staircase to the library. A dark and evil smile on his blood covered face.
An unearthly, maniacal laughter cuts through the air. Human and dog both look to the far end of the hall, near the staircase. Every human's jaw drops at the sight of one lone undead, covered in blood, cackling like an insane person. The closest ones saw two horns poking forth from the forsakens forehead, not large ones, but noticeable. The laughter continues as the nightmarish thing takes his first step since becoming the center of attention, then cuts off and the being explodes into blood red motion, every part of him dripping with gore. He sprints down the hall, trailing death, bodies around him dropping like flies. His muscles, usually almost unnoticeable, bulge and ripple with every swing. His normally small hands have grown exponentially since he discovered his injured lover, grown to accommodate his muscles. One huge hand darts out to wrap around the head of a scarlet hunter, Fist squeezes. He raises the man many feet off the floor, still squeezing. And with one last pulse of strength the head collapses in his hands, blood, bone, and bits of brain dripping down to the floor. The other zealots stand there stunned, and more than a little frightened. Fist smiles as the body drops, then turns to the rest of the Scarlets in the hall. A wicked, evil smile spreads across his face, one that would have made Archimonde cringe.
One zealot breaks away, running as fast as possible, or he started to. As soon as his back was turned a bolt of pure darkness leapt from Fists hand, slamming into the man and smashing him against the wall. The rest just charged the undead, stupidly more afraid of what Inquisitor Mograine would do if he found that they ran. The fell, one by one. A neck is sliced open here, snapped there, death making no distinction between man, or woman. Fists claws dug into the soft flesh under one woman's chin, the claws kept going, two fingers moving up through the wound as well. As the tips of the claws began to poke out between her lips, she tried to scream but could not open her mouth. Fist tore his hand free, taking her lower jaw with it. She dropped to her knees, bleeding everywhere, the last to fall.
The two horns on Fists head grew longer, wickedly twisting. The black horns would inspire fear in any onlooker with any intelligence. Then again, this man, covered in blood, eyes a glowing red, seemed to exude hatred and death. He walked, step after step, to the courtyard of the library wing. He hooked his claws into a mans back and pulled, ripping him in twain. Fist was confused, there were supposed to be more people in this part. But, not questioning fortune, he walked into the room Locksey was supposed to be in. It too was empty. But then an arrow thumped into his back and his spun, there was Locksey, bow in hand. Fist ran, batting the three guard dogs out of the way as if they were toys. Fist tackled the Scarlet Beast tamer into the fountain behind him and cackled maniacally.
The forsaken pressed his claws to the mans chest, then pushed. The claws went in and back out as Fist wrapped his hands around something hard. He pulled, and with a crack, out came one of the mans ribs. He screamed, Fist laughed, having a great time. He repeated this process time and again, somehow keeping the screaming, writhing, man alive while he did. Fist reached into the mans body, moving organs out of the way and grasping the spine. He cackled and pulled, the man folded neatly in half, screaming like nothing ever before. Fist continued to pull the mans spine until, with a sickening snap, part of it broke. Then, and only then, did he relax his demonic grip on the mans soul, letting him slip to the peace of death. The undead laughed, walking slowly and deliberately out of the courtyard, making his way to the actual library. Doan would indeed know pain soon.
Fist was back in the corridors, making his way ever closer to the room Doan resided in. Step by bloody, rage filled step. Then he dropped to his knees, letting out an unearthly scream of pain. His back felt as though it were on fire. The sensation peaked and with one last choked sob long, wide, black wings burst from the undead man's back. He stood again and looked over his shoulders, black eyes gazing at the black wings. And he laughed. Fist started walking again, wing tips brushing the ceiling of the hallway. The scarlets seemed to have vacated this part of the building already. The screams of Locksey must have been more frightening than he had thought. Still Fist walked, the very tiles of the floor cracking with the man's power.
Then Fist saw why he had not met with any resistance in this portion of the hall. In the room ahead of him there they were. Row upon row of spellcasters, monks, and chaplains. They stood, monks out front, priests in the back. Fist laughed an evil laugh and snapped a finger twice. With the first sound his voidwalker was summoned beside him, with the second the demon was sacrificed. The power of the nether surrounded the winged apparition and he waded into the mass of human flesh. Swinging with abandon, the claws on his hands were like long, curved, swords. They sliced through bone, decapitating some, dismembering others. The head of one woman hung on the forsaken's claw. He cackled as he stood among the bodies, feet covered in a poop of blood. Fist raised his claw and looked into the head's eyes, he turned his head slightly to the side and snapped his neck forward, knocking the head off his claw.
He let out a laugh and walked out, leaving bloody footprints on the floor as he went down the hallway. He slaughtered every Crusader he passed. One man got too close for Fist's claws, to close for his spells, the monk beat his fists into the undead man's chest desperately. Fist's head just snapped forward and he took a great bite out of the man's face. Pulling the front half of the monk's skull from his head. The body dropped and Fist spit out the bones, and just kept walking.
Then there was Doan. Standing ready in his circular room. He spoke in Gutterspeak, albeit a bit brokenly. "I know you are here to kill me, to kill the others as well I do not doubt. But why, if I may ask?"
Fist just laughed and stepped into the room, grabbing a fist full of the archmages robes and pulling him close. He spoke, but he spoke in demonic. "You hurt her,"were the simple words he said. Then his hand stabbed into Doan's stomach, it disappeared up to the wrist, then all the way to the elbow. The mage couldn't help but scream as the warlock, more demon than undead, pulled his intestines out of his body. They plopped to the floor, a bloody pile. Fist kept reaching around in the mage's body. He grabbed the one of the man's lungs and tore it out absently, tossing it to floor with the intestines. The screams somehow continued as Doan was kept alive to feel this. Then Fist found what he was looking for. His clawed hand wrapped around the throbbing muscle and tore it out. In his hand was the still beating heart of Arcanist Doan. He laughed, then bit into it, savoring the taste of the soft, bloody flesh. Slightly sweet, a little metallic, very good. Fist just turned, leaving one of the deadliest mages of Azeroth laying on the floor, very dead. Fist walked away from the room, his blood covered feet leaving prints. Footprint, after footprint...after hoofprint. By the time Fist left the library and headed through the door to the armory, he was walking on a pair of black, cloven hooves. In his mind he heard the devilish laughter of a doomguard long denied his fun...
Step after step, the clipping sound of the hooves rang off the floor, walls, and ceiling. Long, black wings scraped the top of the hallway. Blood ran like a river on the floor. The broken and torn bodies of the scarlet zealots laying against the wall, soulless eyes staring out. A scream, and another body is thrown to the wall, crumpling boneless on the floor. Still Fist did not stop his stride.
Down some short steps and into a room full of weapons. And more full of crusaders. Fist just gave a twisted smile and waved a hand, instantly a felhunter leapt out at the gathered enemies. Those that attempted to cast spells became nothing more than dried husks of people. Those who fought with sword were bitten, slashed, but they overwhelmed the demon. They turned back to the undead, expecting him to be casting a spell. But when they saw the nine foot tall forsaken, wings, horns, hooves and all, there was a collective gulp. In his hands was a blade almost as long as he was tall. It was crystalline, blue, and wickedly curved. A green aura surrounded the blade. The wicked grin on Fist's face stayed as he walked to the group, one swing cut a zealot in two. Another decapitated three other enemies. The last jumped back in time to dodge a third swing, but acid flew from the tip, into the woman's eyes. She screamed and while Fist watched, the acid burned her eyes, and even her brain, leaving nothing of what was in her head behind other than gray liquid on the floor.
So Fist continued to walk, blade weaving intricate patterns in the air as he got used to using it again. The myrmidons fell like flies after that. Carved, sliced, cut in twain. Until finally he was at the door. It creaked as it opened, and he slowly stepped in. Herod was at the bottom of the pit, sharpening his axe and doing whatever else he does down there all day. Fist jumped down and grinned at the man with pointed teeth. Herod leapt up and swung his axe, fully intending to cut this stupid undead in half. But when Fist caught the metal haft of the axe and bent it backwards in one swift motion, those plans quickly changed. Still, Herod tried to fight, beating the undeads chest with what would have been bone-shattering punches. Yet Fist just smiled and grabbed a halberd in one hand, stabbing it through the mans armor, his body, and the stone behind him, effectively nailing him to the wall.
The undead man laughed insanely and lowered his face down in front of Herod's. The scarlet fighter tried, unsuccessfully, to head butt the demon. Fist just smiled and opened his mouth wide, it got wider and wider...then without warning Fist chomped down on the mans face. He bit the mans head in half in a spray of blood. With wicked laughter Fist just let go of the man and pulled the sword off his back as many young zealots-in-training ran into the pit. With one mighty swing each zealot was decapitated or splashed with acid. As the screams of the dying faded Fist smiled and started his bloody way back outside. With psychotic laughter this vision of death opened the door to the entrance of the cathedral, disappearing inside with the sounds of screaming.