The hastened barking of commands echoed out over the broken battlements of Stromgarde, the Syndicate within struggling to control the flames left in wake of the Merc's sabotage. The columns of smoke rose high in the sky, broadcasting to all around that there was quite the battle about to take place, with Stromgarde as center stage. Without a doubt the dwarves of the Wetlands must have watched on, wondering just what it was that they were doing that caused not only such a grand ruckus, but also these towering plumes of smoke. Maybe the Bronzebeard dwarves would be so kind as to come and offer their congratulations on their hard-fought victory to come.

A pair of once-tall, now broken doors lay before the path to Stromgarde. The colors of the kingdom flew atop dryrotting poles and a banner was draped perfect center of the arch of the gate. The banners were desecrated; mud and tar had been smeared all over the grandest one that hung above the gates.

The marching columns brought the few unfortunate souls that passed across the main street in panic to panic even more. Young men, those who had allied with the renegades in an effort to make their way through less desirable means, cried out in an effort to rally the soldiers. A few did quell their hysteria and clump up, bearing their blades and cutting their eyes towards the keep. The flames would die before they reached it—already beginning to burn themselves out—but surely Lord Falconcrest would have a way out of this. As much as they might have hoped, retreat was no longer an option, and despite the strategy that had been employed by Amaren, there was no resistance.

They were scattered like chaff in the wind. Their leadership was nowhere to be seen and Falconcrest seemed to be absent himself. This was the reckoning of Aliden Perenolde. It was likely that if he were in the area, he had stopped and settled in at Durnholde. It didn't seem to matter in the slightest to Amaren, though. Her endgame was to take back Stromgarde at any cost, to ensure Falconcrest was made to answer for the heinous murder of her family.

"Break formation! Charge! Run them down like the pigs they are, sons and daughters of Arathor!" Amaren yelled, and the two columns would instantly fragment as the phalanx charged forward with an earthshaking cry. They began to bludgeon the defenders with their shields, slamming them square in the face and severing their necks by delivering swift and brutal strikes with the bases of their towering shields.

Archerus knew himself that he had to stay close to Gwenhyfar. She was zealous in their spar, she was going to be zealous now—perhaps even more so. When the call to break formation and charge was given, she drew both of her longswords and charged directly into one of the stragglers that attempted to flee into the residential district. He was stopped as the masterfully honed steel by the fledgling paladin. Despite the stampede behind them, she took it slow.

Both blades pierced slow through the man, one severing his spine and the other driving straight through his left lung. He sputtered, coughed and cried out, blood flooding his throat and mouth as Gwenhyfar ripped the blades from his torso. He just barely managed to turn around to her, to see the face of his killer, only to discover that it was indeed the fair, now bloodthirsty farmer's daughter from Hearthglen. Not a subordinate of Amaren or a veteran of Stromgarde's military—no, just a woman out to explore her own bloodlust.

The lack of emotion in her face as she watched him slowly tumble backwards, falling there on his back as he would drown in his own blood. Sucking in deep breaths, only to have his body reject them as life drained from his body like the blood from those wounds. The crimson fluid pooled around her black boots as she kept a neutral expression, looking him over before taking a breath and turning her back to him and marching forward, intent on joining the rest of the fighters.

The charge was steadfast and they moved in a massive wave. Cutting through the defenders with unusual ease and advancing straight up the path to the keep, intent on storming it and either taking Falconcrest alive or leaving with only his head. Slowly, the great stampede would thin out to only the militia of Refuge Pointe, the Gilneans opting on their own volition to go and secure the remaining districts. Thus far, their advance was unhindered, and just when the clashing of blades and valiant cries of battle slowly halted, only one enemy stood in front of them. A woman in black robes, carrying but a black staff, stood in their path.

"My name is Darbel Montrose," she spoke with an eerie calmness, bringing the advance to a standstill as their shields would raise in preparation for whatever this woman was going to do, "I am afraid that despite the treachery of my associate's mercenaries, I cannot let you pass." She wore a smarmy grin as she spoke.

"And who're you to stop us from taking back our home?" Yelled one of the shieldbearers.

"I am delighted that you asked." Darbel. She raised her right hand, staff resting in her left, and pointed towards the man who spoke out against her. In that instant, he began to cough, and then wheeze, and before long the color in his face would fade. He choked as he stood there before Darbel, his skin slowly turning to some disgusting shade of black. He fell forward, writhing on the ground as corruption seized his body and destroyed him from the inside out. When he would cease his wallowing, he would lay still; dead.

"It is a shame you had to tear the city apart like this just to make an attempt to retaking it. It is just as much a shame that you're not going to succeed. You fought hard, but at the end, you are all just lambs to the slaughter." Darbel tilted her head to the side, rose a brow and began mumbling something that nobody seemed to be able to make sense of. When she would finish her incantation, she extended her hand and sent forth a flurry of fire at the phalanx.

There was nothing that they could do to stop it but brace their shields and pray to the Light that they wouldn't be scorched away like ashes in the wind, but their prayers would do nothing to aid them. The fire scorched clean through their shields and incinerated their armor, boiling their flesh as they bellowed out in agony. The group split and did whatever they could to help the wounded, but Archerus knew as he watched on from the back, his holy words could do nothing to help these men. They were far too gone for him to save.

Darbel was now laughing at the top of her lungs, sending forth volley after volley to char the ranks of Refuge Pointe, and Archerus was doing everything he could. He called upon his power to bless and protect his allies, but it was so much so fast that it was nearly impossible. They died one by one in the felfire of this warlock. When it became clear to him as his allies fell around him without any effective way to aid them, the only way that he could circumvent this obstacle was to strike her down himself.

"Gwenhyfar!" Archerus yelled, "Now! We have to go! This is your trial! The Heavens watch us now, let us kill the blasphemer and bring up our allies together!" Though she scrambled in an effort to find cover from these volleys, she knew that if she didn't act with her allies, then she was as good as dead as those who then laid on the ground before them, dead. She nodded her head and drew a deep breath. Now was her time to be brave and prove herself, regardless of her bloodthirsty display when they first entered the city.

Archerus and Gwenhyfar both sprung from their cover, the echoes of Amaren cursing them and ordering them to return to cover, but they didn't listen. This was for glory, and to avenge those that had been charred by this woman prior. Archerus summoned all the courage in his heart to sprint headlong through the fire, Gwenhyfar following suit as they ran parallel to one another.

Darbel was preoccupied with her display of unholy wrath as she rained fire upon his allies, not quite realizing that the two broke from their cover and was not intent on ending this fight in that instant. She snarled and drew back her hand to channel a stronger attack at Archerus. The great green fire that formed in her hand dissipated as Archerus swung his maul with all of his might, landing a clean blow into the stomach of the warlock and sending her flying onto her back. She writhed, clearly some of her ribs broken and perhaps a lung punctured, but she had not been killed.

"You will pay dearly for that! All of you... All of this world..." Darbel opened her book again and cried out some demonic incantation, just like before, but instead of a rain of fire or otherwise, her body changed. It was twisted, destroyed and desecrated as she absolved herself of her humanity and assumed the form of a demon. A horrifying succubus of sorts, one with multiple arms and gnarly blades. "All of you shall BURN!" Darbel hissed, beginning to swing with reckless abandon but still with shocking finesse.

Her first target was Gwenhyfar, and just as Archerus intended to deliver another mighty blow to her, he was knocked aside by one of her reckless swings. The grip on his hammer was lost and landed many feet away from him. He found it hard to watch, thinking that this was where she died, he murmured a prayer for her peace and safety in the afterlife.

"Light, bless her, deliver her from this evil and let her spirit shine brightly in your kingdom, just as it did in my own... Let her...

"Silence!" Called a voice with a familiar echo. A beam of light shot down from the sky just before Archerus and with a mighty crash, Armades stood before him. The power of the Light, that which Armades commanded, took hold of Archerus and brought him to his feet. Even then in the daylight, Archerus could not see beyond the white hood which Armades wore, but he could see black hair tumbling from underneath. On Armades' belt were two weapons; two greatswords, and the angel would draw one and press it into Archerus' hands.

The blade felt as light as a feather, but he could tell that there was momentum in the swing just by looking at it. It was balanced perfectly, at that, which so few blacksmiths seemed capable of doing. Archerus' brief moments of adoration of this beautiful weapon were ignored by the clash of steel and the cries for help as Gwenhyfar was left unsure of what she ought to do. So in what she thought to be her last moments as well, she prayed. She repented for what she did; how she intended to use Archerus' faith, benevolence and might to exact her revenge. She did so only now that she had blood on her hands. It seemed as if all this bottled-up emotion and resent for having to take that life, but also the foremost rage came in a wave. Amidst her prayer, Armades could hear her, and outstretched was his hand. She was bathed in his purity and protected, even if just temporarily.

"The Light has abandoned this land for quite some time, girl! Your pitiful prayers do nothing!" Darbel rattled out yet another sinister laugh, but her words certainly weren't about to pierce the shield of pure light that Armades had surrounded her with.

"That is where you are wrong, servant of the burning hells. The Light abandons no man!" Armades replied in a calm, almost monotone voice. He beat his wings just once and Darbel finally turned her attention to him. The fel tainted eyes of the demoness widened and she loosed another horrific hiss.

"You are the very power that abandoned this land and left it to ruin, Guardian!"

"And the Light has come again to burn away the corruption and squelch the sounds of evil! The Light conquers all, demon!" Armades charged, using just one hand to wield the mighty sword that certainly would have required two if Archerus were the one using it. The clank of his golden plates rung out over the crackling fire that was slowly being snuffed by the recovering militia.

The greatsword glimmered in the sunlight as it swung, and the very moment its sanctified edge would rend the skin of the demon, Darbel roared out, feeling the very might of the High Heavens as it cleansed her. Armades' Light-touched weapon eviscerated the demoness, the changed warlock falling to nothing as he would deliver another decisive strike after his first mighty cleave, plunging his blade into her chest and letting the demon fall on her own. While the lower half of her body burned away in the presence of divinity, Darbel clutched the leg of Armades, her black blood staining the ground and burning on the gold of his blade.

"My masters will rip your heavens from the sky and hang your broken body from our battlements... All life will leave our kingdom." Armades picked his boot up and set it upon her neck, swiftly pressing down until a telling snap rung out and over the passageway.

"I have defended the kingdoms of man since their conception. I shall continue to defend them long after I have defeated your kind, hellspawn." Armades remarked, stepping off of the corpse and turning to Archerus who attempted to grasp the scenario that had unfolded before him. The angel said nothing, instead, he merely turned his back to him again and like grains of sand in a dust of wind, he faded. A few feathers blew in his wake, dancing on the air. Archerus still held in his hands the great weapon that Armades had put in his hands when he descended to strike down the demon.

"Divine intervention...?" Gwenhyfar asked, hysterical that she had survived the flurry of attacks. Her blades had been knocked from her hands in a failed attempt to block the demonic onslaught, but she appeared to be in one piece, save for a cut on her left cheek and her sore body. She pressed herself up slowly, unsure of her legs at that moment, and joined Archerus.

"The Light abandons no man, Gwenhyfar." Archerus replied simply. When he looked back at the blade that had been given to him, it was gone. A glimmering shard of some immaculate crystal, but when five seconds would pass, its brilliance faded and it assumed the appearance of a piece of coal. All of its beauty lost.


The city was left in shambles. The granaries had been burned and what little food the Gilneans didn't steal had been charred to ash. Stromgarde had been freed from the traitors of Alterac, but now a new threat loomed, one that the Merc didn't tell them about. The Syndicate had allied themselves with warlocks. Powerful ones, at that. It did not bode particularly well for their presence, but perhaps one day the region could be fully stabilized and Stromgarde rebuilt. This is where it would start.

But first, justice needed to be served. Silvana had managed to go in ahead of the main force, using the Merc's explosive distraction to move right into the keep and kill Lord Falconcrest's personal guard and subdue him. When the dust settled, the dead had been sorted and carried off to be buried outside of the walls, Silvana drug him out there. Regardless if she was an isolationist, she was also an esteemed agent of SI:7—or at least was. She followed orders to the very letter.

In silence, the troops rallied outside of the gates and watched as Amaren scaled the rickety, decrepit construction inside of the walls to mount the battlements. She was true to her word. An audience of Gilnean and Arathian alike sat outside of the gates, watching as Amaren secured the noose around his neck and tied it off to the ramparts. This was her justice.

"Lord Falconcrest, noble of the fallen kingdom of Alterac and traitor to the Old Alliance of Lordaeron, your charges are as follow: conspiracy to murder, murder, arson and treason. For your crimes you have been sentenced to hang. What are your last words?" Amaren asked, her face stony and mind prepared to do what she'd been wanting to do for years.

"Watching me hang isn't going to bring back your daughter or husband, Amaren." Falconcrest remarked, staring out over the hills of Arathi as he waited. It was as if he too was expecting her to claw her way back from the pits of rage and depression to take back what was hers and exact her revenge.

"No, it won't bring them back, but I know they will rest easy now."

Amaren put her boot to the small of Falconcrest's back and shoved him off the battlements. The fibers of the braided rope stretched and the tension was audible as the faint sound of swinging could be heard.

"Children of Arathor, rejoice, we have won!" Amaren yelled out from atop the battlements, her strong, gruff voice echoing out over the still hills of Arathi as the wind again began to blow. A steady breeze carrying the fresh ocean air to calm the spirits of the victorious warriors and banish the smell of ash.