Chapter 12: Ouroboros

"LIGHT, GIVE ME STRENGTH!" The harsh voice resonated power and a thirst for justice as it echoed through the caverns' corridors. The sound pierced through the noises of battle, the screams of the wounded and dying, the clatter of armored men and women falling to the unforgiving stone of the cavern floor.

The beleaguered Scarlet Crusaders paused briefly, wondering if it was the sound of their salvation or merely the declaration of a final, suicidal charge. The members of Glade took little notice, sure that the faith of one individual would fail to turn the tide of battle.

Illana squinted through the lines of battle, searching for the source of the sound. As a half-elf, her eyes were better in the partial light given off by the few torches carried by the Forsaken and the glow from the auras of the surviving paladins. At the rear of the Forsaken lines, Illana made out the brightness of a figure's aura; it slowly advanced, pushing through the enemy ranks and moving closer and closer to the battle's center.

Like a comet, the figure barreled forward, pushing aside and cutting down foes as he did so. His aura illuminated his body, a rippling mass of a muscles covered by sparse armor: a red helmet adorned his skull, a set of gold and crimson chainmail pants and boots adorned his lower half, while a unique rouge pauldron covered with three tooth-like metal spikes sat atop his right shoulder. His hands gripped the haft of a massive axe with an irregularly shaped blade that tapered off into three serrated points; this weapon rose and fell, chopping and hacking the Forsaken to little more than piles of limbs and organs.

"BE JUDGED AND SENT TO HELL BY MY BLADES OF LIGHT!" The figure roared, his aura intensifying as his axe became wreathed with golden trim. With each new strike, undead troops instantly decayed to dust, the purity of this figure's power too great for their accursed bodies to handle.

The Scarlet Crusaders were in disbelief, most in shock as they watched this lone hero smash apart their adversaries.

"Is this…a dream?" Harold stuttered. "No, we must not remain still." The soldier raised his left arm in the air, his hand beckoning to the other Scarlet Crusaders from behind his shield. "Forward, men and women of the Scarlet Crusade! Let us aid our savior and drive these undead bastards back! For Lordaeron! For the Crusade! For humanity!"

Exhausted and wounded Scarlet Crusaders suddenly felt a rush of energy as they redoubled their efforts against their foes. Invigorated by this miraculously appearing hero and Harold's declaration, the troops clashed with the Forsaken anew.

Dextra loosened her grip on Sonja and turned towards the newly-arrived warrior. She narrowed her eyes behind her cowl and muttered a spell before firing a blast of shadow magic at the figure. The massive wave of magic struck the figure, but he continued rushing forward, his aura dissipating all the power. Dextra gasped in disbelief and continued to attack this foe, unaware of Sonja who was casting a spell of her own.

The leader of Glade fell long before the charging warrior reached her: a blast of holy magic struck her in the back, bringing her to her knees before a mace crushed her skull. Sonja panted as she finished her grisly work, the power of the Light flowing through her.

This man, whoever he is, gave us all a new chance for victory, Sonja thought, watching as he redirected his gaze from the slaughtered Dextra to the remainder of Glade, most of which were routing while a few fought on vainly. Sonja collapsed to her knees, her entire body wracked with pain and exhaustion. Moments later, an arm propped her up and healing magic coursed through her body. "Thank…you…" Sonja muttered to the nameless priest who saved her; her eyes were heavy and she could not see the one who aided her. Seconds later, Sonja passed out, a smile on her face.

By this point, it was all over for the Forsaken. The miraculous appearance of the shining soldier surprised their forces, striking them from behind and causing dozens to die before being able to react. Their forces broken, the undead's morale began to crumble. Many tried to run, but the lone axe-wielding warrior cut off their path of escape, hacking them apart piecemeal as they desperately tried to break through him. Others continued to fight the Scarlet Crusade, but their efforts were naught and within an hour all the Forsaken lay dead.

Harold roused Sonja to wakefulness, and the two approached the miracle warrior; the combatant sat alone, sharpening his axe with a stone while a pile of Forsaken corpses burned behind him.

"We are indebted to you, hero," Sonja said, approaching the man.

"It was nothing," he replied gruffly. "Regardless we have no time to rest. Begin torching the bodies as I have."

"Y..yes…" Sonja stammered. "But first…who are…?" Sonja trailed off as she came closer, gasping as she realized who the figure was. Harold came to the same conclusion at the same second, and the two instantly fell to their knees.

"Hail, Scarlet Champion Herod!" The two spoke. Instantly, dozens of other Scarlet Crusaders stopped what they were doing and followed suit, giving their respects to this hero.

"We…assumed you had died in the Monastery," Harold murmured.

"Obviously you thought wrong," Herod was curt as he rose and grabbed the haft of the axe of a slain soldier, sticking it into the pyre he had created before tossing the flaming brand into another group of Forsaken corpses. "I assume you would all like to hear my story?" Herod stated, returning to a seated position atop a stone. "Fine, it will give you all time to recuperate."


"Come on you dogs! You really think you can defeat me?" Herod roared, bashing aside a Forsaken swordsmen with a gauntleted fist. Another fighter, this one wielding a flail, charged at the Scarlet Champion. Herod sidestepped before bringing his axe around in a wide swing to cleave the undead man's torso in half.

It had become habit at this point. Killing the undead was merely a process, a daily grind that was unavoidable in such a line of work. Herod's muscle memory took over, his mind barely conscious of the actions he took, of the pile of bodies that grew at his feet.

They came again and again, each a copy of the last, their individuality lost to Herod. Without their humanity they had become mere tools of Sylvanas: they had freed themselves from the Lich King only to become slaves anew for a cause even more damned. With such a muscled and cold exterior, none would ever think that Herod considered such things. He roared as he cut down another soldier; was it his tenth? His hundredth? He no longer knew.

Herod had been too young to fight the Orcs when they had ravaged Azeroth. The Horde had fought through his homeland of Lordaeron, striking at his hometown of Southshore time and again with their fleets of Troll Destroyers and Ogre Juggernauts during the Second War. The Tirassian navy had turned back the Horde, but not without sacrifice; Herod's father had died during an Orc raid, his head crushed by a two-headed Ogre. Herod had been too young and too weak to fight, and so when the war was over he dedicated himself to the martial arts.

Training had not been easy, nor did Herod gain much acceptance. The other children quickly took to insulting him for straying off into the forest to climb trees and lift rocks to improve his strength. He had not taken well to these words and decided to test his newfound strength on them, quickly earning him the moniker "Herod the Bully." By the age of fourteen he was able to defeat boys twice his age in boxing matches, which only led him be further ostracized. But there was one who had seen potential in Herod: her name was Sally Whitemane.

Soon, Herod began to steal farm implements to practice his skills, using these tools as makeshift weapons. Eventually, he was able to convince a guard from the Southshore watchtower to sell him a rusted sword and began using this weapon for his training. Whitemane watched Herod from afar, not so much afraid of his martial prowess as she was nervous to approach him with the offer of a friendship he might reject.

Eventually, Whitemane gained the confidence to speak to Herod, and the two formed an awkward friendship: Sally loved to talk, and Herod loved to fight. She would read to him about the Light while he hacked at trees with his blade; little by little the words sunk in, and soon the two friends agreed to pursue a course of study in which they could utilize the Light's powers for justice. Shortly thereafter, the two temporarily parted ways: Sally joined a priestly order while Herod joined the Lordaeron military.

But Fate conspired to bring them together again.

The Third War tore across Azeroth, bringing all the races of the world into conflict with one another and with the dreaded Burning Legion. With the rise of the undead Scourge, the Silver Hand and the priestly orders of Lordaeron were called forth to both heal the wounded and purge the unholy. Meanwhile, the Armies of Lordaeron were stretched to the breaking point, with countless reserves called up and desperate drafts instated in hopes of containing the undead.

Ultimately, both Sally Whitemane's division of priests and the 2nd Army of Lordaeron, in which Herod served as a member of the heavy infantry, were drawn together during the Battle of Grace Fields. Never again were the two apart, and little by little they gained more allies, eventually learning of a man named Mograine, who both were eager to follow.

Herod had found acceptance in the ranks of the Scarlet Crusade, and it was not long before he rose through the ranks, becoming known as its Champion, a position he gained by slaughtering countless hordes of undead. Herod accepted the title graciously, but he cared not for words: it was only the ultimate goal of serving the Light and purging the land of evil that guided him.

It could have been three years ago, or it could be the present. Regardless, Herod fought, his axe rising and falling, his fists smashing skulls, his boots cracking ribs. It mattered not when they would stop: Herod would not end his onslaught until no more came at him. He had become a beast who changed the world, having long ago sealed his destiny: he would only die when the Light deemed it so, only when his body was incapable of moving, only when the last monster he could see lay crushed upon the ground.

The armory had been overwhelmed. Herod was one of the few fighters who still stood, his eyes set forward through the slit in his visor, oblivious to the plight of his men. Already the marble was stained with scarlet blood, the bodies of his troops interspersed with the corpses of the Forsaken. Yet, the swarm of undead continued. A few Scarlet Crusaders had fled in fear and even managed to escape the armory, but Herod ignored their cowardice: the Light would judge them in due course. The Forsaken tore at his body, half a score of warriors covering his body every moment, pulling him slowly but surely towards the ground. Herod took blow after blow but continued fighting. As his chest became stained with blood, Herod screamed, calling on the Light one last time; at that moment a spear point pierced his chest, and he crumpled to the ground, swinging one last time with his axe as he did so to cleave a skull in half.

But the Light had not forsaken nor forgotten Herod, merely delayed its gift. When the Forsaken had long left his area of the armory, and instead set about plundering its riches and securing pieces of their final plan, Herod was reinvigorated and rose to fight again. Alas, he was too late to save his beloved Monastery; the Forsaken detonated a series of explosive charges, causing the ancient building to collapse. Herod fled, stones and masonry falling around him, the Light guiding him to a safe exit. By the time he escaped the collapsing monastery, his foes were long gone; Herod swore vengeance, feeling the Light pushing him towards his goal, inexorably guiding him to the Plaguelands.

Herod moved across desolate plains, past rotting trees and crumbling ruins that were once the mighty walls of Lordaeron. Now and then the forces of Sylvanas or the Lich King would assail him, and every time he cut them down without a thought, always moving directly forward. Something told him where to go, some feeling that he trusted above all else. Eventually, it led him into a cave, guiding him through the winding passages until he came upon the sight of comrades beset by the undead. The Light truly was what guided him.


"Andorhal…" Aurora let the word drop as she motioned towards the ruined city before them. The Scarlet Band took time to take in the sight of the destroyed buildings and silent streets. The place looked even more ominous than the last time they had moved through it, perhaps because their numbers had thinned and dissent ran rampant through their forces.

The plan was simple: charge through the city, breaking through the walls of Scourge troops. It would be a rush maneuver, with no time wasted on clearing out foes. The only goal was to move through the city as quickly and painlessly as possible. Casualties would be unavoidable, and Aurora believed that such a venture would purge some of the weak from their order.

Soon, a wave of crimson descended on the city as the Scarlet Crusaders pushed their way through the ranks of undead. Holy magic erupted from lines of priests and paladins who led the charge, clearing the way for the warriors who set about taking down the tougher undead who had survived the initial onslaught. They were followed by scouts, their arrows and throwing weapons picking off what few undead roamed the edges of the Scarlet Band's formation. Here and there a soldier was dragged down by a ghoul's claws or slaughtered by some other unholy beast.

Aurora led the charge, her legs whipping back and forth rapidly as she moved through the horrendously desecrated city. Uther's Arm swung like a pendulum, smashing aside columns of skeletons, turning bone to dust. Occasionally, the Inquisitor would scan the area for downed Scarlet Crusaders: if they were alive and free of signs of plague infection, she would heal them using holy magic; if they were gravely injured and showed evidence of the plague of undeath, Aurora took it upon herself to finish them off and burn their body. It was a grisly task, but even the smallest stitch in the Lich King's side served to further the Scarlet Crusade's goal.

The rear of the Scarlet Band's formation faced the greatest threat from the Scourge: undead thought defeated rose again to harrow the backs of the red-clad soldiers. Abominations smashed through rows of warriors while necromancers popped out of ruined buildings to infect archers with spells of the darkest shadow.

Delilah Corwin and Elric Isana had volunteered to help defend the rear. They and dozens of other troops marched backwards, facing the rear to defend those they could. Crossbow bolts whizzed into the chests of zombies, while blades and hammers chewed through rusted armor of skeletal warriors.

After six ranks of skeletons had been put to the sword a single Lich emerged from behind a crumbling marble pillar of a former chapel. The skeletal creature glided several inches above the ground as chilled air circled his face, the very icy fabric of death harmoniously entwining itself with this undead leader.

"So…you managed to kill some of my servants…I commend you pathetic humans…" the Lich rasped. "However…you will soon join them…for I am Kurek Chillgyre…and I shall…" The Lich's speech ended abruptly as a crossbow bolt with dynamite attached to it lodged itself in the creature's skull; a second later, the explosives went off, turning the Lich's skull to dust and ending his unlife. From a distance, Elric chuckled and whirled his crossbow.

"Come now, the servants of the Lich King really do get more overconfident every day," Elric said, his face lighting up before becoming stern again as he loaded his crossbow again and fired a bolt into the chest of an approaching Abomination.

Always the show off, Delilah thought, smashing her hammer into a crypt fiend's abdomen, smashing apart its chitinous exoskeleton and causing its inner fluids to spray across the desiccated soil of Andorhal. No, but I must not think ill of him; Elric is more devoted to our cause than most of the Scarlet Band. He also is devilishly skilled…I wonder how he came to be this way…


"Finally you're back, what took you so long?" The old woman growled, chewing on the end of her corn cob pipe before spitting on the cabin's floor.

"I am sorry grandmother, game is getting harder to find," the lad replied, adjusting his glasses and slinging his quiver off his back and resting it against the log walls before placing his catch, three rabbits, on the oak table.

"You're lying, Elric," the elder replied, rising from her rocking chair and walking over to him. She grabbed his right hand and inspected the palm. "Just like your father: calluses. You've been practicing archery, haven't you?"

Elric paused before nodded sullenly. "I am sorry to lie, it's just that…"

His grandmother shook her head. "No, I understand. You want to surpass him, don't you?"

Elric wanted to nod hastily, wanted to declare that it was his dream to become the best. Though young, he had trained in marksmanship for a decade, and his skills had improved greatly. Yet, he still could not achieve his goal. It was…just beyond his range.

The memory swirled, faded, switching gears to move two decades into the future. Elric was in his mid thirties, his military service having been renewed time and again as he vowed to defend his homeland. Orcs, Trolls, and Gnolls had all met their end at the tips of his arrows and crossbow bolts, and time and again he was hailed for his bravery and prowess.

Yet, Elric cared not for titles or rewards: he had already turned down promotion to lieutenant on numerous occasions, preferring to fight on the front lines rather than sit in a tent and plan strategy. He had trained too long and practiced too hard to waste his skills. His diminished eyesight was reason enough for pause, and with each passing year Elric feared his vision would grow too poor to allow him to continue in a sniper's line of work, yet the gods saw fit to bless Elric and rather than falter he set new records for range each year with his skills among Lordaeron's 33rd Corps of Snipers.

The Scourge arrived and Elric continued his service, having to adjust his shots to account for lack of enemy organs; regardless, hundreds of new bodies fell, yet the tide seemed unending. He was even forced to put several of his comrades to death after they consumed poisoned grain, a necessary evil; the brave soldiers of Lordaeron accepted this decision, knowing it was best for the future.

Elric and his platoon became cut off from their central army during the Battle of Cyclone Marsh, eventually finding a small fortress where they holed up for sixteen months. Here they fought a desperate defense, staving off the few undead that wandered their way; the Lich King knew the men would die of starvation eventually, and so committed few troops who served more to reduce morale and waste the men's energy.

In the end, the few stores of bread and cheese the men had ran dry. Most would sit still and accept their fate, but Elric left the safety of the fortress to forage and hunt, fighting through several groups of ghouls as he did so. Elric traveled for five days and found no food, but he found something better: a party of Scarlet Riders. Elric told them of his comrades' plight, and they hastened back to their position. Alas, upon arrival, they found most of the men had died of starvation and been reanimated: Elric and the Scarlet Crusaders set about the grisly task of killing these new slaves of Icecrown. With nothing left and nowhere else to go, the sniper pledged his service to the Scarlet Crusade.

Since then, his bolts had continued to whizz, his bow had remained taught, his eyes stayed keen. Elric pledged body and soul to the Crusade, following every order word for word, once again declining promotions in favor of staying in the fight on the frontlines. Yet, Elric had not remained static: his skills had grown, and his heart had changed.


"Fucking great," Aurora spat. The casualty count from Andorhal had just come in: over a hundred troops were confirmed dead, with another hundred and fifty wounded and roughly eighty missing. Worse still, the majority of the dead were from Aurora's constituents. This loss was not expected, and the Inquisitor's anger fumed expressing her disgust by kicking a skull into the side of a tree, causing the bone to crack and shatter into shards.

The Scarlet Band now numbered roughly eight hundred soldiers, with only three quarters in good condition for fighting. Aurora and Warren could agree on one thing, however: the Scarlet Band could not tarry, and both ordered the troops to continue their march, telling the surgeons and priests to conduct their healing on the move.

Morale began to run ragged at the edges of the Scarlet Band, and words of desertion and mutiny were discussed in hushed tones and whispers through the ranks. As the troops came to the border of the Eastern Plaguelands, such words reached Aurora's ears, and Marshal Delilah Corwin took it upon herself to punish the dissenters. Those that had spoke of rebellion silenced themselves and were shown the error of the ways before the point of a sword, rededicating themselves to the cause rather than risk death.

Delilah felt no guilt for these witch hunts: she had long ago decided to further the goal of purging the undead by any means necessary. Her resolve had strengthened upon Baelin's death. She still thought about him, but forced herself to bury such unnecessary dreams: Baelin was no more, and no amount of wishing could change that. Delilah's actions brought her closer to Aurora, and as their mutual respect grew, Delilah began to think she understood the Inquisitor's viewpoint, and even began to realize they had mutual goals. Delilah, however, refused to let herself forgive Aurora; she still resolved to duel the Inquisitor once this march was over, and had sworn to win. She had already watched Aurora's actions in battle, studied her techniques, and even attempted to train late at night in hopes of victory.

Delilah knew she was at a disadvantage: Aurora possessed greater strength, speed, and magical skill. The Inquisitor possessed a mighty aura and the rare power of Soul Scrying which, perhaps, had some practical application to combat. Even with the odds against her, Delilah continued to hold onto her dream: she would avenge Baelin.

Yet, something held Delilah back at the times when she thought of her desired challenge. Aurora was strong, and that strength may even be necessary to defeat the Lich King. Perhaps it would be best to wait until the Scarlet Crusade purged all of Lordaeron before fighting Aurora? Delilah pushed this thought from her mind and renewed her resolve as she had thousands of times. No, the longer I wait the greater the chance of my own death in battle. If I die before reaching Tyr's Hand then it was the Light's plan that I fall. If not, perhaps it is my destiny to kill Aurora and complete my vengeance.


"No time to dawdle," Herod grunted, motioning for Sonja and her adherents to follow him. It seemed he too knew these caverns, or at the very least was guided by something to find the correct path. Sonja could tell his movements were valid, but even if they were not she dared not contradict him. Herod gave off an intense pressure, as if the intent to slaughter undead constantly hung around him and polluted the very land his feet touched.

Herod was somewhat of a legend among the Scarlet Crusade. Scores of stories recounted his glorious exploits, each one more outlandish than the last. In the past, Sonja had doubted that most of them were true, but after witnessing his heroic entrance and destruction of Glade the priest began to believe them. She even thought that, perhaps, Herod was more than a man; he seemed the embodiment of the perfect soldier of the Scarlet Crusade: strong, ruthless, and with no other desire than to slaughter the undead and their allies.

Few spoke as the Scarlet Crusaders marched through the ancient caverns of northeastern Lordaeron. All were stunned they were still alive, having accepted their inevitable death hours ago when Glade had appeared. Now it all seemed like a dream: the undead were but ash moldering on the cave floor, while the humans had survived and could move closer to their goal.

Sonja was unsure how to approach Herod to thank him for his aid. The dour man marched solemnly, seemingly unfeeling and unaware of those around him. Had he saved them out of compassion or was he merely carrying out his duty to slaughter the undead?

Sonja spent the hours marching through the cave studied Herod's movements, thinking of something to say, yet her lips remained closed, her mind conflicted. He gave off an aura of intensity, the pressure overwhelming the Scarlet Crusaders around him; none dared speak, for fear of upsetting this barbaric champion.

Adrian, Illana, and Gareth marched together in the center of the formation, exchanging whispers now and then. All were still in awe of Herod, amazed that this angel of victory had graced their seemingly hopeless battle. It seemed unreal, as if something out of a legend. Yet, all of them now new first-hand that such tales could be fact.

"With Herod here I feel more hopeful," Adrian muttered. "He's so powerful…with him alone we should be able to push through any foes we face in the Eastern Plaguelands."

"Yes, he's certainly impressive," Illana whispered. "I'd heard stories of his exploits and seen him from afar in the Monastery, but this is the first time I've ever seen him fight. He's almost like a personification of power."

"I guess the Light must really be on our side," Gareth stated. "I'm feeling more confident in our goal than ever."

"I'm glad all you young'uns are confident, but we cannot afford to let our guard down or become cocky," the stern voice of Harold stated, moving towards the trio.

"S…sorry sir," Gareth stuttered.

"No need to apologize," Harold replied, turning away. "Anyhow, I'd best see how Captain Sonja is fairing and speak with Champion Herod." As the soldier turned away, his cape flapping, he shook his head. Alas, I fear the most difficult and violent part of our journey is still to come. I doubt the majority of us will be alive to see next spring…


"There," Warren pointed forward with his gnarled staff, indicating the even more barren and lifeless land before them. In the distance, specks circled back and forth, their forms swaying unnaturally in the light of the setting sun. "We finally have the border of the Eastern Plaguelands in sight."

The soldiers of the Scarlet Band were silent, offering no response to the mage's speech. All that stood behind Warren and Aurora had long since abandoned any fear or regret. They had given themselves, body and soul, to the cause of Lordaeron's Purification. Walking the thin edge between life and death, and seeing firsthand the desecration of their homeland, had hardened the hearts of these warriors. Who would die? Who would live? Who would be remembered in the annals of history as great heroes? Who would become nameless in the face of time's indomitable march?

"We will not press on until tomorrow," Aurora stated harshly. "The borders of the Eastern Plaguelands are strong enough without the coming moonless night."

"For once I agree with you," Warren stated, his voice without its usual coldness when addressing the female Inquisitor. "Though tonight we should double our watch; this close to the enemy's major strongholds we cannot afford to take any chances."

"Indeed," Aurora was curt, making sure not to become too friendly with the wizard even if the two saw eye to eye on the issues at hand. The two leaders needed to do little more than wave their hands before the troops set about setting up camp; this habitual activity had become as normal and second nature for the Scarlet Band as breathing or walking.

One by one, tents rose, the sea of canvas soon engulfing the rotting grass of former Lordaeron. Many would try to sleep this night, but most had dreams of death and murder, of the battle they would surely face the coming morning. Prayers were uttered and swords were sharpened, as the men and women of the Scarlet Band prepared once again for combat.

Yet, what was one more battle? After all the trials they had faced, would this conflict be any more difficult? Some would live, and some would die. Victory or defeat…did it even have a purpose anymore? Most of the soldiers had long forgotten the cause of Lordaeron's purification and instead saw each battle as merely a trial that stood in the way of their survival. Life and death were all that mattered, success was measured by awakening the next morning as one of the living.

There were others, however, who burned with righteous fury, warriors like Delilah Corwin who were motivated by hatred and revenge. These figures, rather than moving to speak with others of their fear, stayed alone in their tents, hardening their hearts and fixing their eyes on the goal ahead.

Tomorrow, I'll show the undead my power once again, Delilah thought as she sat in her tent, adjusting the haft of her warhammer as nightfall neared. The Scourge will come to know me and fear my approach. Aurora will also see that my strength has grown, and may even come to acknowledge my power. I am still too weak to take her head, but I shall close the gap between our power with each battle and continue to analyze her fighting style from afar. When the day of our duel comes, I shall surely be victorious.

Without another thought, Delilah Corwin fell into a deep sleep, her dreams swirling with images of undead disintegrating under a wave of righteous energy.


A single tall spire rose above the plains surrounding the Alterac mountains, its mauve spire piercing the heavens and serving as a beacon to all around it.

A conclave of violet robed figures stood side by side in a room in one of the tower's lower levels. They were all bickering, each raising his voice higher in an attempt to be heard over the others, though this action was ultimately futile.

"A full undead army? Preposterous, at best they are remnants of Gul'dan's pitiful experiments!"

"Can we ignore this threat when villages have already fallen?"

"Loss of life or not, Dalaran MUST remain neutral!"

"How can we just ignore Lordaeron? That nation has always been a steadfast ally and many of our mages here came from that nation!"

One wizard stood silent as the others bickered, sighing heavily as he left the room. He had long since realized that Dalaran would act far too late and ultimately be torn apart during this conflict. Thus, he had decided to head north and join and army that had hopes of eradicating this menace before it spread too far.

"You seem distraught, Warren," a cold, creaking voice addressed the man.

"Master Antonidas…" Warren muttered, hesitating a second before falling to his knees in a gesture of respect for the leader of the Violet Council.

"Rumor has it that you support the faction that seeks to openly fight the undead," Antonidas continued, his tone haughty. "Surely you already know that I sent my apprentice Jaina to investigate these claims and report back to us with any useful information."

"If it is not to bold, lord," Warren stated, rising, "I believe that the longer we wait, the worse this plague will grow. This is not merely an isolated incident or a small battalion; an army of undead is surely rising in the north. And…" Warren paused, taking a deep breath. "I have decided to resign from my post in Dalaran and commit myself to helping the Silver Hand fight against the undead."

"Surely you cannot be serious," Antonidas spat back. "To give up your position here you sacrifice rank and the legacy of your family."

"I believe saving humanity comes before fulfilling tradition," Warren snarled, turning and leaving the room, his plum coat fluttering behind him. Before he left the entryway to the room, he unclasped his cloak, a symbol of his station and allegiance to Dalaran, and flung it to the floor.


"Master Warren! Wake up, dawn has come!" Ellen Harmonia, one of Warren's apprentices, bellowed as she stuck her head through a flap in his tent.

"Eh…thanks for the wake-up call, but try not to be so loud next time," the older man muttered, letting out a long breath as he shooed her away with one hand. "I need to dress; this is no place for a lass."

Ellen nodded swiftly and rushed out to continue her duty of rousing other members of Warren's faction. After Reskin and Maxwell's disappearance, it had fallen to Ellen to serve as Warren's right-hand. Ellen's parents had been close friends of Warren during the Third War, and after their death at the hands of the Scourge Warren had decided to raise the girl. Though only fourteen, she was already a skilled mage, some would say a prodigy. People always said it was lucky she had magical aptitude, for never was a plainer face seen than on Ellen Harmonia.


"So what did you end up doing with the captive?" Delilah Corwin asked her superior, Inquisitor Aurora Cronos, as the two rallied troops for the day's assault.

"As you'd expect, he died not long after the torture. Few men could put up with that kind of punishment and come out alive," Aurora stated coldly. "As for his body, I threw it into the forest; based on our marching patterns, someone would have to backtrack several miles to find it, which would look suspicious enough as is."

"I see…" Delilah replied. "Now, Inquisitor, I recall you mentioned a plan yesterday to convert Warren's followers to our side…"

"Hush," Aurora's stern index finger jabbed itself before Delilah's nose as the older women lowered her tone. "We shall speak more of this tonight. For now, just focus on the battle ahead. I've gotten tired of saying this, but it will no doubt be our most difficult. Then again, threes conflicts will just continue to escalate in scale and the power of our foe the deeper into the Scourge's territory we press. Now, go and see that the paladin corps is ready; they will be our most useful weapon in this fight."

"Yes, m'am," Delilah stated, saluting, before jogging off towards the center of camp. Aurora has such fierce determination…how will I find the strength let alone the drive to kill such a woman?


Pain: it coursed through every inch of his body, threatening to overwhelm his very soul.

Had he truly died? No, that was impossible; if it were so, his body would not be wracked with this endless agony.

Yet, what did death truly feel like? Could he be sure that there was no feeling of intense torture beyond the grave?

But he was conscious…yet immobile. He could not have become a spirit; he felt his corporeal body beneath him, the rough earth rubbing against rips in his tunic, the wind blowing through what was left of his hair.

He could not stand, or was it that he would not stand? Was there any drive to move forward? He had failed his mission, he knew. But what mission had that been? It felt like another lifetime. Perhaps he had lain here long enough to gain a new lifetime; had he been here for eons?

"Pathetic."

A voice rang against his eardrums, and he fought to know who it was. He desperately tried to use his arms to push himself up, but he was unable. His head, too, refused to respond, slumping worthlessly on the ground.

"Do you have a name, corpse?"

The voice echoed again, ringing through his entire brain.

"Maxwell…" his mouth moved almost of its own accord, as if his body so desperately wanted to be sustained that it was acting independently of him.

"Fine," the figure's voice became louder, and Maxwell assumed he was moving closer. "What do you want Maxwell? A second chance?"

"Y…yes, I want to live…I want to be free of pain…" Maxwell grumbled.

"Haha, my master can easily give that to you. Would you accept a new life in exchange for service?"

"Of course!" Maxwell's mouth moved again of its own accord.

"Come then, I shall induct you," the figure grabbed Maxwell and lifted him onto its shoulders, dragging him out of the ditch and walking off into the trees. "There is much for you to see and do."

Character Profile: Herod

Age: 25

Rank: Scarlet Champion

Affiliation: Head of the Scarlet Monastery's Armory

Abilities: Herod is an intensely strong warrior who is skilled with almost every type of melee weapon, though he prefers great axes above all others. Herod posses an incredibly high endurance and is able to fight for hours without seeming to tire; in his youth, he was seen as a military prodigy.

Appearance: Herod is a tall man, standing at a height of six feet six inches, almost as tall as some High Elves. His eyes are dark green, but the remainder of his facial features remain a mystery as he only takes off his helmet when he is alone. Herod wears a massive red spiked shoulder plate on his right shoulder, has a bare chest, wears chainmail pants, and bright red boots. His face is covered by a massive red helmet with two horns on either side.

HES: Hey everyone, sorry it took me so long to update but I've had a lot of work this semester! I actually started this chapter three months ago and got fairly far, but didn't have time to finish it until recently. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I'll post the next chapter soon!

As I always, please leave a review if you can; I always enjoy hearing from fans and take all the feedback I get into account!