-Chapter 2-
-Tirisfal Glades, Eastern Continent, moments before Northshire attack-
It had taken all day but the trip was over and done with. At least getting there. The Undercity was a giant chilling crypt compared to the other capitals he had been to, and Kolark was seconds away from turning back at the empty Lordaeron Ruins when an undead shambled over and got his attention. Kolark sighed with reluctance. The Tauren bounty hunter walked over to where the pale undead stood watching him intently, or at least it seemed. His glowing eyes matched his bland, expressionless face. He wore a discolored, tattered old robe that would otherwise appall a normal human. Aside from the dingy apparel was the more noticeable lacerations and bone protruding on the outside of the ghostly white film the residents of the Undercity called skin.
Kolark's nose cringed at the stench the dead man emitted and only thought it natural; he was dead, and he lost nearly all his sense of smell. Without a word, the two passed through the derelict halls that were once parts of the castle of Lordaeron. Pillars lay crumbled on the gray stone floor, weeds overtook many corners of the decaying walls, and even the throne room stood abandoned by its once humble occupants. All of it lay on the grimy soil, not even a ceiling to offer. Scattered boulders(probably the ceiling) blocked off much access to the other parts. However, as the halls sloped further down into the dungeons, the sounds of the dead became audible. Kolark heard the shouts of anguish beneath, the sound of the mad alchemists performing their ungodly experiments on the hapless humans they managed to pluck from above. He heard the cold, wicked laughs of creatures that were once human. And soon, he'd be in the heart of their capital.
Two rather large, plump monsters guarded a most unusual door at the end of the dungeon. Aside from their mutant, dumbfounded faces, Kolark could see the extra appendages added on to the bulky sack of fat, each one holding a different intimidating weapon. Some body parts showed signs of stitching together. Some weren't even stitched at all, guts hanging out like they belonged there. They managed to turn and look at him, their breathing changing to a low-pitched hiss.
"Tauren, you here at last," one of them managed to babble. The sound of its voice was like a guttural moan. "Dark Lady wait for while now. Go fastest, or she get mad!"
The bounty hunter simply nodded, wondering in deep interest how the undead managed to create such monstrosities. It came as a surprise to most, but by taking advantage of the Plague's resilience, the Forsaken were able to engineer "living" beings. Nonetheless, they were formidable guards.
The door they looked tediously after finally jolted up, revealing a small cylindrical-shaped chamber; it was simply an elevator down into the city. It descended quite speedily. When it came to a stop, the undead escort pulled up his hood, turned to him, and rasped out "Let us make haste."
With those words, they entered the trade center of the underground capital. It was Kolark's first time visiting the place after Lordaeron's downfall by Scourge hands, and it was a horrifically beautiful place. It was dank and cold and smelled of death and rot. The trade center was dome-like, nearly reaching some eighty to one hundred feet up from where he stood. This room too was cylindrical in addition to vast and wide. In the center was an enormous pillar with platforms where the Forsaken's bank stood, and further down below were more unseen areas, the only viewable spots lit by the dancing flames on torches. On the lowest floor, neon green liquid surrounded the outer circumference like an underground moat, the source oozing from various orifices on the walls. Among the giant room, many undead walked hunched over and uncaringly, carrying about their sluggish activity. Some glared curiously in his direction and then got back to their work. Others muttered darkly in a tongue he couldn't quite understand. All over, large posts advertised items of all sorts; weapons, enchanted apparel, even food.
After navigating through the small crowds of the trade market, they got to yet another circular hall on the outside of the it and met with several Dreadguards, the ones who guarded the Royal Chambers. They eyed him carefully, noticing his red leather-strapped cuirass and pants. They nodded and led him in deeper into the chambers. A brief moment later, a spacious hall opened up, dome-like again, and there stood the banshee queen Lady Sylvanas, the Dark Lady as the Forsaken called her. And next to her was the raging demon minion of hers, yelling at one of her subordinates as he held him up in the air with one fist around his neck.
"Don't you dare think you can deceive the Dark Lady and live, petty grunt!" he growled viciously, his face distorted with gleeful rage and ruthlessness. He held him tightly above a chasm that led to the lowest of floors, which he soon discovered was a pit of stalagmites dipped in smoldering green acid. The leader of the Forsaken stood up and watched the traitor with glowing and unfeeling eyes.
"You were working for them, just as I had suspected all along," she said, her voice spectral and as cold as the very chamber. "I had my greatest spies on you the entire time. Although you have actually helped me by locating your renegade brethren, I cannot excuse such treachery."
The demon beside her halted his lust, glancing once at his queen for approval. The traitor couldn't even mutter a word through the monster's iron grip. Sylvanas merely made a fancy waving gesture and the demon at her side tossed him down like a rag doll. Kolark watched in horror as the undead man tumbled down, his unnatural shouts echoing in utter dismay. The Tauren swallowed hard, his heart at his throat. The high-pitched sound of impalement rang in his ears for nearly half a minute followed by the awful sizzling noise of acid on flesh, until Sylvanas herself spoke aloud to him, breaking him from his trance.
"Ah, I have been awaiting your arrival," she began, her voice a tiny bit more forgiving this time. Her physical form reflected that of a Night Elf, for that was her origin. Tall with pointed ears, slim body, and eye brows extending passed the face, she would have been identical to the forest-dwellers had it not been for the pale sheen of death on her skin. She actually smiled, a rare sight according to most who had the luxury, or misfortune, to see her. "I apologize for exposing you to my more gruesome work. Yet, I must say, it is wonderful to know that as far away as they are, Thunder Bluff would extend a hand at such benighted hours as these." Her words would have seemed kind if her tone was less . . . dark.
"Well, actually, although I've been given the job by them, I don't represent Thunder Bluff whatsoever," Kolark replied in kind.
"Watch how you speak to Lady Sylvanas, knave!" spat the instigating demon, his wings spanning out as he uncrossed his bulky arms. "I should banish you to the Nether for your loose tongue!"
"Enough, Varimathras," the stolid queen scolded. "So, Kolark, you are a bounty hunter, I presume?"
"Yes, that is correct, my lady," Kolark answered with much more esteem than the first.
"Good. Either way you can be of assistance." The look on her face became a sinister one filled with outrage. "As of late, there have been incidents among us where our warlocks have suddenly gone against us, starting their own cults in attempt to overthrow the Forsaken thrown. It has been occurring sporadically, no set patterns or reasons as to how or why. Word has it even Orgrimmar has the same situation with their warlock brethren. My first guesses would lean toward the Scourge, their services to the Lich King ever so plentiful . . . and fruitless. But I fear because it extends as far as Kalimdor and the warlocks are apprentices of the dark arts that this may have something to do with the weakened Burning Legion." Her voice went from a hiss to a roar.
"None shall escape the wrath of the Forsaken, the fallen ones! Not the Scourge, Burning Legion, or the Alliance itself. It is just as futile as endeavoring to understand my pain, my suffering! Not any of you living fools can even fathom what this torment is like, to be enveloped in eternal agony as I, a slave to hatred!"
Kolark watched in awe as the undead queen's moods suddenly shifted. She seemed to calm down after a short while, running out of breath, if such a thing could even occur in an undead. Her minion glared maliciously at her visitor, his horns making him all the more devilish.
"Has he upset you, my lady? Just say the word and I shall teach him manners in the most torturous way a Dreadlord knows." The dark queen shook her head wearily.
"No. It is my own fault. I must take control of myself, for at times like these I lose myself to my pain. Kolark, such deceitfulness cannot keep me stable. That is why I must ask you to seek out their hideaway and give me as much detailed information on their actions as you can scrounge. Then, the Horde shall strike them down!"
"That is my specialty, my lady," Kolark said, trying his best not to look at her enraged demoniacal minion, who eyed him with maleficent intent.
"I am counting on you. You are the only one at the moment who can accomplish this, unfortunately. The others in Orgrimmar are busy with the Burning Blade, and my men must remain to defend against the recent rising threat of those human Scarlet fools, so I need good results, no exceptions."
With his composure at its peak, Kolark bowed down deeply and finished off by saying, "Nothing but the best for the Forsaken."
"For the Forsaken!" saluted Sylvanas and her Dreadguards. And with that, his summoning was adjourned until his mission became a success. Kolark walked out, letting out a deep breath of relief. It felt even more chilly in the royal chambers than it did in the rest of the expansive districts of the Undercity. He sighed, wondering if he really needed the money that badly to serve the Forsaken. Then, he wondered where the nearest tavern was; he was long overdue for a drink.
Northshire was a wreck. Although the houses and trade stands stood untouched, people scurried everywhere shouting and screaming, and guards moved about in revelation of the attack. And from the distance, the abbey loomed over the battle like the target of the brigands. Ralph unsheathed the weapon he hoped to never unsheathe, his beloved short sword. With ardor flowing within him that he hadn't felt in years, Ralph, even at his old age, ran into the clatter of metal and death cries.
Well-armored guards of Northshire fought bravely, the worst of the casualties just mildly scrapped. It was the opposition that was falling, and quick, too. They seemed almost as a sacrifice for some greater motive. Ralph saw a family near the tavern, a mother and two children. Their eyes displayed the same terror that had shown sixteen years ago, during the end of the last war. With a battle shout equal to that of the youth, he stepped in and slew the nearest bandit, who had luckily paid the civilians no mind. Looking at the bloody mess, he quickly turned to the family and instructed them to enter the tavern's second floor where the others took refuge. It would be much safer than the streets.
"T-Thank you, brave knight!" said the trembling woman, her children glued to her in dread on both sides of her arms. They heeded his words. Ralph let out a long drawn breath as he surveyed the area for similar dangers; all was relatively sound.
"Brave knight, huh?" he thought. Those words rekindled a fire within him only for a brief moment.
Ralph made his way toward the abbey on the hill, making quick work of the oncoming unskilled invaders. They were plentiful in numbers for mere bandits, and he couldn't help but wonder how many more would stand in his way. And even stranger yet, they went straight for the guards, as if trying to beguile them into attacking them. True bandits had no honor, Ralph knew. Why, then, didn't they take hostages when they had the clear chance? Why did they not target civilians? It was both a relief and a stressor at the same time.
He stood in front of the entrance to the tower, noticing three immobile invaders guarding the arching doorway. Two of them charged him immediately, simple daggers and swords in hand. He parried the first striker's attack deftly enough to parry the second's and finished with a swift diagonal sheer at the second attacker's chest. Leather and skin tore at the mighty swing as the man fell backward with a cry of pain. He turned to his other opponent waiting for his move only to realize the third guard took his rear. With a gasp filled with anger for leaving his back open, he was knocked back by the assailant before him as he attempted to guard the heavy blow. Behind, he felt the cold steel fall upon him and cut through bare fabric, knew he would suffer a mortal gash. However, there was a slashing burn where the attacker struck, one that only made him wince more from the thought of death than anything else. Aside from the sore burn on his back, Ralph still stood.
He didn't question it yet. He ducked, dodging the next two attacks completely, then made a drawn-out swing as he lifted himself up, catching one of the bandits in his shoulder. Sparks flew from the open wound, so faint he thought it was a trick of the eye. The bandit reeled back, clutching his wound. It was magic. The damn villains were empowered by arcane magic, he knew it. He'd seen it before. With a smile clamping onto his older features, Ralph put out his free hand, chanting a few words.
"Oh righteous Light, empower me with strength! Seal of Purity!"
At those words, the illusion of a thug dissolved into a powdery substance, then dissipated altogether. He turned to the injured bandit, who seemed ready to strike again. Another blast from his palm and it too disintegrated. Silence soon permeated through the tiny village. Ralph's attention changed when he heard the sound of horses in the distance. The cavalry? Had those good-for-nothing knights finally realized there was an attack? After all, Stormwind's king and the Alliance leader were mere nobles, probably relaxing in their large armchairs, sipping their fancy wine.
"Sir Ralph?" called out a guard from the town. Ralph eyed him irately, putting his sword back into his hidden scabbard.
"'Sir Ralph', you call me?"
"I apologize, it's a habit," said the young cadet. "What are you doing here? And with no armor whatsoever . . . ? You could've been killed!"
"Aw, don't give me that," Ralph replied. "These fools were merely illusionary enchantments."
"Really? Is that why they were pathetically easy to defeat? And I thought my training was paying off." He saluted the old veteran and smiled. "Thank you for the help, citizen, but the abbey remains unprotected. I must resume my duties now and inspect. By the way, your brother is inside the tavern, guarding the civilians. He was worried for you when he received word that you came."
How his brother knew he was here was beyond him. However, one thought came to mind, one he didn't like one bit.
"Thank you for the info, that's just who I was looking for."
In the tavern, beside his goblin friend sat Jedo, his expression more disappointed than anything else. In front of him stood a nettled Xadek. The boy's father was clad in his silver-plated armor, his arms on his hips. He shook his head in disapproval.
"Now that we're alone, I want to ask you what the hell you were thinking?" he questioned his son. Chappy, too, was just looking down in shame.
"You two were in great danger here! Where is Ralph?"
"He had nothing to do with this," Jedo said miserably.
"I know that, trust me," spat his father. "Knowing your uncle, he probably told you to wait somewhere. If he finds out you're here . . ."
As if in reply to his unfinished statement, Ralph entered the now empty tavern, his eyes fiery red.
"Ah, Ralph, so you did come," let out his brother in a good-natured tone.
"Yes, I did. And what do my eyes perceive? My bratty nephew here, and with a sword, when I specifically told him not to follow!"
"Now, now, brother," Xadek said calmly, a smile placed on his younger features, "the important thing is that we are all in one piece. Have the knights arrived? We sent a messenger to Stormwind for what seemed hours ago!"
"Yeah, unfortunately," came a grumpy reply.
Jedo got up to stretch and attempted to leave the tavern with Chappy, but to no avail.
"Sit down!" roared both Xadek and Ralph in unison. Surely enough, they sat down that instant.
"I'm not done with you!" his father scolded. "Firstly, where did you get that sword from?"
"Yeah, I'm wondering the same thing," added his uncle.
"Well. . ."
Several mutters came from outside the tavern doors and a loud shout ensued.
"All men report!"
"Ah, looks like you're saved, for now," Xadek said with a wry smirk.
The general of four major Stormwind battalions walked casually over to the door, his plates clattering loudly along the way. The cavalry must've found something of importance in the abbey. As soon as his presence was far gone from the room, Jedo's uncle gave him a glare of lightning. He had been an earthquake in a can all the while, and with Xadek attending to some nobleman, now was a better time than any to explode.
"I told you to go to Annie's!!" he growled, his face reddened with rage.
"And I told you I wanted to help!" Jedo retorted, unsure whether defending his dreams was worth several broken limbs.
"No! You cannot fight, Jedo! I told you that, and I also mentioned it was dangerous! I should pound you into a pile of dust for this!"
At that point, Ralph was nearing the slowly shrinking boy, who just stood in contemplation. Then, there came a raspy voice.
"It was my idea, really," said the goblin at Jedo's side, rubbing his sweaty palms together. "I enticed him to do it. I thought . . . it would be good for business."
Chappy cringed, his entire body slightly quivering. The lie would be his downfall.
"Oh, really?" retorted Ralph. "Then I don't suppose you supplied him the sword either . . . did you?!"
"Oh, that sword?" Chappy said with a nervous smile. "It's my latest invention . . . er, in the making! A mechanized sword . . . with radioactive . . . zapper thingies. It just hasn't been going too great, so I thought it would be a good idea to test what I got so far."
Jedo gave the goblin an apologetic look, probably for his death in the next few seconds. Ralph pulled the sword from Jedo's sheath and used it to daunt the puny goblin.
"Ah, an experiment. Well, Jedo sure couldn't test the sword well. Maybe someone more hard-hitting such as I can test the weapon better . . . on a wretched goblin who thinks he can almost get my nephew killed and get away with it!"
The angry Ralph was cut short from continuing his rabid "disciplining" when Xadek came inside, a grim line for a mouth. He put a hand on his brother's shoulder and simply nodded, calming the giant geezer. Jedo looked at him suspiciously.
"Well, Jedo," he began his tone seeming unenthusiastic, "it looks like we have good news and bad news. First of all, I'm gonna have to go on leave again."
"That must be the good news, eh?" joked Ralph, who's mirthful look wasn't returned.
"Very funny, but the good news goes to Jedo."
The boy looked up at his father with a spark of hope, perhaps more than that. His heart raced for the small duration it took the general to announce the news.
"A very good friend of mine is willing to train you to become what you always yearned to be."
"You mean, I can become a Paladin, just like that?"
"What?!" cried Ralph in a stupor.
"That's right. I'm allowing Archbishop Benedictus to take you into the Cathedral of Light in Stormwind for training. Once there, he and two others will guide you in the ways of the Light. Sound good?"
Lost in amazement and a stupor of his own, he shared the same facial expression as his uncle, only less painful-looking. He could just shake his head in utter disbelief as a large smile peered on his face.
"Of course! It's what I've always wanted to do! Thank you father, I won't let you down!"
"Come now, we must introduce you to the Archbishop then."
"Hold it!" protested Ralph, no longer afraid of concealing their talks from the young boy. "Did we not both agree that he would not enlist? Did we not promise ourselves that, Xadek? It is too dangerous nowadays to become a knight! Soldiers die each day!"
Waving a hand in dismissal, the general smiled, his eyes showing no signs of guilt or fear.
"He is not being enlisted, just trained, Ralph. I still completely agree, now more than ever are soldiers dying. But thanks to the council, there has been a brief moment of peace, a perfect time to assess his skills. We need more defenders in the family, and that's just what I'll allow him to be." He took off his helmet, revealing semi-long blond hair that seemed typical of a Stormwind hero. His finely chiseled features and sharp, blue eyes added to that charm. "How do you think I felt about Minerva?" he added.
Jedo kept his glance low, for he knew very little of the woman his father loved. In fact, he wasn't even Xadek's actual blood son. Not only did he once overhear a most saddening conversation, but he even remembers bits and parts of his first memory with the knight. Xadek always said he'd grow up to be a very important man some day. And ever since, he embraced that theory.
"Fine, I give you that point," Ralph continued, "but the king is merely a young lad himself! I'd bet that Alliance puppeteer is swaying the king's resolve! Do you really want your son to end up as a puppet fighting for an unknown cause?"
"Ralph!" Xadek interjected, mannerly, yet sternly enough, "I serve the king to my fullest, and whether he be ten or one-hundred years of age, I shall obey! So do not insult him again!"
"Ugh, that king, he's such a pansy!" he tested. Xadek pretended not to hear him and led his son over to the Abbey of the town. Chappy followed close behind, giving his friend a thumb's up as they made their way to the Archbishop. He couldn't believe it; he'd finally become a Paladin.
-Ratchet, on the mid-eastern coast of the Kalimdor continent, before Northshire uprising.-
The day was still young as the hustle and bustle of Ratchet began to merely intensify. Such a town filled with markets and hagglers and the coast right beside all this made it the perfect place to observe things clearer. And the fact that they could all avoid the direct involvement of the war here was a godsend. Ratchet was a neutral town, owned by goblins. It was also a trade town where commerce seemed to rule. In Ratchet, anything was for sale. Bandits and pirates and all those rough kinds of people often settled around these parts, but because the Horde was only a walking distance away from town, most decided not to overstay their welcome. They preferred the broader Stranglethorn, where bounty hunters gathered, like at places such as Booty Bay. All in all, Ratchet was ideal for keeping tucked away and safe . . . and to place a bounty or two if there were certain pesky spies.
Strahad Forsan paced back and forth, awaiting his partner's arrival. Things were getting pretty tense lately, particularly with his own fellow students turning against their kin. It seemed there was an imbalance in the demonical forces, and it was his task to stabilize it. Strahad was well-known among mages, warlocks, and other sorcerers who sought to take control of the vast and manipulative dark arts. He never judged his followers, but now it appeared he had no choice. Good, evil, he hated the idea of joining the "good" side, or the "bad" for that matter. But so long as the Burning Legion remained the culprit, he would have to align with those against them. Even as he pondered the matter, his assistant was well on her way back to deliver the news.
She arrived, her red cape not nearly as bright as her shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were fiery, although collective at the same time. Her flaming hair gave her such a majestic look in the sun. She stood near the tent, one hand on her hip as she leaned tiredly.
"Ah, you finally return," Strahad began, forming an arching smile, "took you long enough."
"Ugh, be quiet. I've got much to explain."
Her voice was beautiful; biting as always. She donned a blue raiment exposing both cleavage and belly. Her long, skin-tight dress added to her fiery will. She looked about Ratchet's markets as if waiting for him to get within a whisper's reach. Where they had their hut set up was secluded enough. It stood high above a cliff, not too far from town, but high enough and far enough.
Strahad neared her further, his face all concealed save his lips and scruffy chin. The magus hat he wore seemed to be his trademark to those who knew him. Ironic to those who also knew his occupation, he wore pure white robes, covered by a small red jacket. He leaned forward to her, and she began to report.
"Seems Orgrimmar was the first to taste the demonic betrayal," she began, her voice a rough whisper. "The Burning Blade has salvaged the majority of the warlocks there and pitted them against the Orcs."
"And . . . ?"
"They demand all remaining warlocks be held in an area in the city where mana is greatly reduced, some kind of spiritual force-field created by shaman. Likewise, the Forsaken in the Undercity seem to be having the same inexplicable problem. This phenomenon was triggered seemingly one after the other. My guesses are that it is not directly linked from anything of the Nether, at least not yet."
"That means we can still make an impact."
"Precisely."
"Well, we should inform the leaders of the other major towns. And a perfect time, too. There is a temporary cease-fire."
"Your doing?"
"Yes," he nodded, "it seems that Percival took heed of my advice and alerted the National Council."
"An impressive leader."
"Menara, we need to make haste," he said, his tone more grim. "If my intuition is correct, something . . . otherworldly is at work here."
"What gives you that idea?" Menara questioned, her eyes searching for some way to read him. "Didn't you hear me before? It could just be some mortal's folly!"
"There is a powerful force heading into Azeroth, and I fear it is only growing the more we wait. It's just like my dreams, my vision. The beginning of an Apocalypse."