Pride and Prejudice

Lord Walden curses the rain for the thousandth time from under the cover of his porch. The solidly built house passed down through his family stands tall and firm in the face of nature's wrath, a sanctuary of warmth and comfort. His household guards stand watch in the rain before the house and along the roads, ever vigilant for the ravening savages that would see every Gilnean infected or dead. The ageing Lord scoffs and rests his hand on the pommel of his sword.

The foolishness of their King would see their country plunge off the edge and into darkness. The city has already fallen, the vaunted Greymane Wall breached. The mewling sheep in his field attracts his attention for a moment. Of all the things that could have been chosen to live on his property…it had to be sheep. He sucks in a deep breath of the salty air of Tempest's Reach and leans against a support. The illusion of peace settles over him once again.

A cracking of bone, squelching of flesh, and a cry of pain shatters it. One of his guards collapses revealing a shimmering, armored figure. Whatever was keeping the attacker cloaked fades away revealing him for them all to see. A towering figure clad in plate and mail, wild copper hair plastered to his skull from the rain, hefts his hammer menacingly. Blood drips from the clenched jaws of the wolf worked into the head.

"Ulric take you all traitors!" the man snarls and charges forward. The remaining guards leap to meet him blades drawn and shining in the flashes of lightning dancing across the sky. Well trained, highly motivated to defend their lord, and experienced. None of them stand a chance. The armored man roars and ducks under the first man's thrust. His hand slides up his hammer shortening the grip and slamming the head into the guard's hip.

Bone shatters and he tips forward. The hammer rises and falls caving in the guard's skull with a single blow. The next man doesn't last past the first move, taking a strike to the chest that caves in his ribs and sends him flying back. The last man slides to a stop and trades a few blows before he forgets something crucial. Seeing an imagined opening he swings for the exposed ribs. In his panic forgetting the plate of steel encasing the man's torso.

Gilnean steel slams into dwarf forged plate and barely dents it. The burly knight traps the blade beneath his arm and brings his hammer down with one hand driving the head into the guard's neck. The man crumples like a puppet with his strings cut leaving Walden to his own defense. His hand shakes drawing his blade in anger for the first time in over two decades. The armored man steps over his guard hefting his hammer.

"Why betray your King!?" the wild haired knight demands. Fury turning his voice into an animalistic growl. His every squelching step echoes death coming for the treacherous Lord.

"T-that monster is n-not my King!" he stutters in reply and steps off the porch.

"I'll waste no more words on a fool."

Lord Godfrey stares into the sheets of driving rain, peering between the flashes of lightning and booming thunder. Waiting for the pack of wild beasts that no doubt is on its way to rescue their King. Their King. Not his.

The flea-bitten beast lost that right the moment he kept his curse a secret and dared to continue leading the Gilneans as one of the beasts that stole their home from them. Said creature looks miserable in chains staked in the rain. Godfrey's loyal soldiers stand ready under the eaves of the small farmhouse and barn, their blades ready and willing to taste the flesh of the Beasts. The distant clop of hooves on the cobblestones stirs the guards.

Godfrey's heart begins to hammer in his chest. Anticipation stirs as the rider approaches. A grey figure begins to solidify between the raindrops. Broad shoulders becoming more defined revealing the familiar armor plates of Ragnar of the White Wolf. The guards shift uneasily as the rider guides his massive warhorse into the center of the courtyard before tossing a pair of gilded blades to the ground before Godfrey.

"Your allies are dead. This madness ends now," Ragnar declares. His voice is cold and unfeeling as winter's breath spreading unease through the ranks.

"It's over Godfrey. You have no support among the eastern lords," the King announces heavily. Grief laden eyes watching the fury coming over his old friend's face.

"No…I'd sooner die than have one of your kind for a King!"

"That can be arranged traitor!" Ragnar snarls and kicks his horse forward raising his hammer menacingly. Godfrey sneers and draws his blade too angry to consider the wisdom of his actions.

"No! Let him go. Too much blood has been shed today." King Greymane declares daring Ragnar to dispute his command. The Templar slowly lowers his weapon, eyeing the disgraced Lord with all the disdain he can muster. Godfrey runs into the rain, swiftly fading from view.

A deafening roar rips free of Ragnar's throat drowning out the hissing cries of the Forsaken. His hammer splits the air and then crushes through a paper-thin skull. Rotting brains spray everywhere and the undead warrior collapses to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Another swings a cleaver for his arm only to gape as it glances off solid dwarf forged steel. The corpse walker doesn't have long to be surprised when the hammer swings around and crushes it leg. The Forsaken falls to the ground and looks up just in time to see the wolf jaws of the hammer crush through the front of its skull.

"Ulric's fucking teeth I hate fucking—" A jagged blade screaming for his face interrupts the White Wolf's tirade. His hammer knocks it aside on instinct and his head slams forward in a classic Middenheim Kiss. The Forsaken's rotting nose shatters and the corpse staggers back enough for Ragnar's armored boot to slam into its gut. An overhead hammer blow drives its skull into its chest like a nail and it falls.

"—nobles and their damn schemes!"

"I must agree, they are most aggravating," one of the Worgen accompanying him remarks as he rips his claws from a Forsaken's sunken chest cavity and wipes the mess off on the ground. The remnants of the Forsaken force keeping a number of Gilneans prisoner in a mine retreat further within towards the lair of their leader leaving the Gilneans to recover their strength for a final assault and Ragnar to stew in his anger. The fury of Godfrey's betrayal boils in his guts driving itself onwards. He can barely contain it all and must use the Forsaken as an outlet.

Too many times he saw the Empire falter at the crucial moment because some blue-blooded noble decided to make a move on his rival or earn that little bit more prestige and get good men killed. The White Wolves are more unique among the knightly orders as they accept anyone that proves themselves; commoner or noble they accept all comers. Ulric doesn't care for birth only the mettle of those who worship him.

The frustration turns to fury driving Ragnar forward. The tunnels are well lit by the Forsaken who shove aside their slaves still chained to their work for more room to fight. It doesn't help them survive. The Worgen rip them to shreds to either side of Ragnar's swinging hammer. Leather and chainmail do nothing to stop the sheer force of his blows which shatter unliving bodies like glass. Deeper into the mine they press as a wall of fury, fur, and claw. Their master stands at the center of the lowest chamber, hefting the cleaver and hook so iconic to the Abominations, and stares Ragnar down.

An hour later Ragnar plops himself down on a crate in the Gilnean camp and drags a rag across his hammer to clean it of gore. The brains and rotting guts of Brothogg the Slavemaster do not cling to the blessed steel as he cleans it. The feeling of eyes watching his back draws his attention towards a familiar mage. Alera Blackmane was largely relegated to healing the wounded and protecting the caravan of civilians from Forsaken raids along with those of random wild animals that plague the world, and thus was spared much of the insanity that the last week has entailed.

However, with the retaking of Gilneas now starting to look like a reality she and all other battle capable wizards are being called to the front. Something she is not happy about.

"I blame you," she declares imperiously, gesturing with her staff so that the flickering crystal leaves spots swimming across his vision.

"For what?" he asks with an arched brow.

"My life was perfectly calm before the Worgen and your happy ass popped out of a portal. I was going to open a small shop to treat the sick. All I ever wanted. Instead here I am! Getting ready for a battle for the first time in my life because the undead are in my house messing with my petunias!" Ragnar merely smirks at the mild hysteria in her voice.

"It could be worse."

The once imposing and supposedly unbreachable edifice of the Greymane Wall bears mute witness to the procession winding through its gates. Shambling, rotting corpses tramp through the gates around carts of petrified wood weighed down by arcane machinery. Bubbling cauldrons and wheezing bladders are carefully tended by their unliving crew. Carrion steeds strain against the weight of their burdens pushing the enchantments biding them together to the limit.

From atop her own rotting mount the Banshee Queen watches it all with a sinister smile. Her glowing red eyes observe the procession much like a mother does her toddler taking its first steps. This is a risky move. The Blight is no simple disease after all…

"My Queen," one of her servants gurgles from his position kneeling in the dying grass. Smoldering eyes turn to regard the pitiful wretch as if regarding a roach about to be crushed underfoot.

"Our forward forces are ready to receive the Gilneans, and the first of the Blight is nearly ready."

"Good. I hope our little welcome is to King Greymane's…satisfaction." The walking corpse is just smart enough to recognize the dismissal in her tone and bows his head before rejoining his comrades. The Banshee Queen greedily scans the silent city with her glowing red eyes. Taking Gilneas is a risky move for the Horde let alone the Forsaken, if it fails, they stand to lose massive amounts of bodies and material that might be better used in other theatres…but if they succeed, they knock and entire kingdom out of any further fights.

The former Ranger-General kicks her steed forward trailed by her bodyguard of Dark Rangers and Deathguard. The rusting iron hooves clack against the cobblestones joining the tramp of rotting feet and steel shod boots. The shattered gates yawn widely as if welcoming the Forsaken…a corpse greeting another corpse. The Forsaken units already within the city bow to her as she passes and are ignored. Sylvanas Windrunner doesn't acknowledge her subjects, already writing them off as truly dead. The Horde wants a port into Lordaeron…and a port they shall have.

An unseasonal cold wind sweeps through the city throwing refuse about and rattling the tree branches together with a haunting raspy scrape. The cold would have made the living shiver, but none reside within the city and the Undead are beyond heat and cold. Sylvanas snorts at the faint howling of wolves carried by the wind. She doesn't fear the Gilneas and their Beasts. All will fall to the Forsaken, serving in life or slaving in death.

A/N: Sorry for it being short but the next chapter is going to be long as shit and I don't want to infringe on it if at all possible.