The raid on Naxxramas happened on a dull, wet day.
Many tens and hundreds had travelled from afar to seek its destruction, rallying to the call and cries of the Legions and Orders. Brave, valiant and gallant as some were, few were equipped and trained well enough to serve as practical militia in the direct assault. The others became delegated to labour work; setting up tents, securing supplies, running the temporary base of the small army amassed in the rotten shadow that was the Citadel. Anyone who had answered the call to arms was given a vital role, no one person was ignored. Healers, Physicians and Medicine-men were assigned to particular groups and collectives, making sure each was was the peak of his or her health before the charge.
It had taken less than four days to organise.
The morning of the siege was rain-filled and spirit-dampening. Fear and nerves were aplenty, despite the well-wishes of family, friends and others who remained grounded. In a timely, fashionable manner the throng of warriors and spell-users marched on forth intent on dealing death to the unholy inhabitants inside the most dangerous construct in their history.
Entering upon the cold, stone steps leading into the centre of the airborne fortress, many had shuddered, gasped and whispered disbelief at what they were doing. Ribs were nudged, spines told to straighten and attitudes demanded to buck up; they were doing this and it was going to be successful. The Lich King needed to be stopped, and this was their self-proclaimed objective.
Morag Millstone had been with her particular regiment for a scarce two months, slowly getting to know her fellows in preparation for something like this; a day when their lives rest in her delicate hands. She had spent the past six years studiously training in the teachings of The Light in the snows of her home, Dun Morogh. Her breath was hitched and forced, barely able to control her nerves as the pack of people pressed tighter around her the further they drew into the enclosed walls containing who-knew-what horrors beyond. Even despite their hushed murmurs and terse yet careful footsteps, a rattling scream was heard from afar, jolting several into a near-panic – she was nearly one of them.
A large hand enclosed around her shoulder, offering friendship, support and relief, and she patted it fondly, knowing the kal'dorei owner was a good man. One of the few elves and even fewer druids she had ever met, Riond and she had struck a fast friendship in their early days within their regiment, the two healers greatly fond of each other and their systematic way of working well together. Tentatively, she followed her brethren and designated contingent into the first wing.
The information they had been given was sketchy and hazy, only an extreme handful of scouts ever coming out alive from the citadel to divulge what little information they could offer. Vital as the reports were, and no matter how greatly were the sacrifices made appreciated, everyone had been frustrated to not know more upon entering. One fortress, four quarters and innumerable foes standing between them and their goal- this was the extent of their knowledge. Many whispers- both outside and within the forces leading this charge- labelled this as a suicide mission due to the lack of tactical intelligence. Morag, however scared and nervous she grew, steeled herself with dwarven strength and remained steadfast with her faith in the commanders leading forth the assault.
How wrongly she misplaced it.
Their assigned 'wing' held denizens with far too many legs and limbs for her comfort. Their battle cries nought more than skittering and hostile hissing as their mandibles claimed several with their poisons in the primary entryway. Hiding in the shadows above them, the spider-creatures had dropped without warning onto the unfortunate forefront of their group. The soldiers woke up at the first sign of combat and soon enough the minor guardians of the halls grew silent- even if twitching post-mortem. Allowing the stronger ones to move the corpses of their fallen foes out of the way, Morag, Riond and others moved beyond them, peering down a curved corridor leading into a large, empty room. Two men, one wearing chainmail and the other plated armour, returned from a swift venture into the room and declared it clear, safe to lay the wounded. Immediately the healers sprung into action and ordered those in a bad state to be moved out of the way. With a thin corridor leading into a dead-end chamber, then at least any more potential foes could be bottle-necked instead of attacking them openly in the dire halls.
Deftly she treated the first she came to, laying shivering on a crude blanket while she removed the leather jerkin covering the woman. The bite wound was serious and deep; and poison was not her strong point. Nevertheless she pressed forward, calming the troll beneath her hands and easing what pain she could. Before too long her eyes fell white and rolled backwards into her head. Her pulse stopped beating. The venom had been dealt in copious amounts, swiftly disabling and invading the soldier. Acting even beyond death, the poison forced a yellow froth to bubble from between her tusked mouth.
Sick with revulsion, Morag swallowed bile, fell back on her heels and took a moment to breath, instantly regretting such an action. Scowling at the stench she finally took in the surroundings of the crude, makeshift hospital. Domed, putrid and filthy with dirt, it was clear at first glance that this was no place for to treat the wounded. The infections gained in here would more than likely kill them in place of their injuries, she thought harshly. Why the room was perfectly circular she could garner no purpose or explanation with her dulled logic. The main portion of their regiment stood outside the doorway, not wishing to crowd the healers and also serving as immediate protection to anything wishing to charge the corridor leading to this room. Withholding her revulsion, she turned her attention to the next wounded who needed her.
At first she thought it was her human patient who was hissing in pain before she belatedly realised that he had fallen unconscious- and not only just either. The noise grew a little louder and the dust and dirt beneath her feet started to shift and shake as if in a sieve. The trembles grew more noticeable and others now looked up in confusion and mirrored dread curiosity.
Too late did they realise that they should have run for the doors.
Thrown shut, the two heavy slabs serving as the entryway barred their exit in a cloud of earthen dust- and prevented any of the regiment reaching through to the room to aid them. Crying and calling, several were already on their feet pounding the door, but she knew it was futile, whatever was coming was going to get them, and there was nothing they could do. She sought Riond's elven eyes and the same fear she felt building in the pit of her gut was shining through his.
A sickening noise behind them heralded the arrival of their host.
"Aaaaah, welcome…to my parlour…"
Lieutenant Commander Firesworn moved with careful deliberation upon approaching the enclosure. A mental map held an angrily-red skull marked over the blueprint designated to the chamber in his direct line of sight.
Danger. Warning. Death.
All the typical nuances related to such a symbol flitted through his mind as he recalled the memories regaled to them by Commander Eligor Dawnbringer only a scant four days ago. Having participated in the only other attempted assault upon Naxxramas he was considered one of the few experts trusted and willing to advise all involved in this secondary siege.
The first raid upon Naxxramas, at the birthplace of the fortress in Northern Lordaeron had ended in complete disaster and grief. He, a new leader at the time, had been in shared charge of the regiment entering the now-dubbed Arachnid Wing when they had lost so many to whatever horror lay beyond. Ryndan recalled his face when the Commander described the screams and guttural cries of agony that he heard on the other side of this very same stone entrance. The paladin had not seen many who bore that level of regret and bereavement on their shoulders while still remaining standing under the sheer weight of such a burden, but Dawnbringer used it as an armour, rather than a self-piercing dagger. Ryndan found himself admiring the Commander with a deep respect that few were awarded.
When the doors had reopened, Dawnbringer had told them, there was no sign of the creature that assailed the men and women that had then lay strewn across the room- some barely mere husks of their former selves from only a few minutes previous, he had whispered direly.
Most of the dead had been gentile healers, barely able to defend themselves, much less their patients-in-care. Angry hot tears had formed fleetingly in Eligor's eyes, but their presence had been swift in their passing replaced with a steely determination instead.
However, the Commander had countered, a small, broken light had emerged from this atrocity. One person out of the fourteen survived- almost. Many hours of strenuous and round-the-clock treatment allowed the dwarven woman to regain consciousness. Deemed safe enough to move out of Naxxramas she had been taken directly to Stormwind by way of a hastily-constructed Portal. Screams and terrors poured from her mouth and it was yet another hour and a half further before she believed herself out of immediate danger. Eventually, two days upon her retrieval was she able to describe what had happened. By that point in time, less than a quarter who had entered Naxxramas had managed to escape its dreadful clutches. The others lay dead within the four separate branches, the living few crippled, wounded, near-death or on their way to it.
Never had such a willing carnage been brought upon so many in recent memory, Eligor had reminisced. Azeroth had sent their best, and they had lay beaten and broken beneath Arthas' fist as if they were nothing more than insects. That had been two years ago. Ryndan recalled hearing the reports from his fellows and superiors in the Dawn, his own battalion stationed across the seas on Kalimdor at the time.
The dwarf's description was difficult to draft up, according to Eligor's first-hand reports. Stopping and starting, anxiety attacking her at irregular intervals had made for a difficult interview about what she had survived, but with delicate persuasion the priestess managed to exact her memories onto paper before passing in her sleep later that night. It was probably for the best, the Commander had commented to Ryndan and Ashwood in private, reasoning that the horrors she experienced would have not let her mind rest for the remainder of her days.
The two drawings she managed to describe to a local artist were the essence of nightmares. Ryndan had flinched at them in disturbed horror when he had been presented with the illustrations four days ago in the fire-lit halls of Wintergarde Keep. Some of the spider-like anatomy had been labelled but the rest was lost to crumpled wrinkles and faded ink. 'Hind legs, claws, eyes' and 'horn' were still legible.
He was torn between revulsion and practical acceptance at the existence of such creatures as these, briefly hoping that they were exaggerated or fever-induced by the woman who protested in her dying hours that these were, in fact, real. Common Sense, however, disallowed such disillusionment for him and so he forced himself to study the remainder of the information available in preparation of readying his troops to face…whatever the creatures were, these…nerubians.
The memories and recordings had been copied and published within the upper circles of military ranks, all information necessary and memorised for such an eventuality as this second raid upon Naxxramas. It was this and the first-hand accounts from the likes of Eligor Dawnbringer that they relied upon now. There was similar intel gathered about two of the other wings, but these were irrelevant to the Argent Crusade delegation. Their focus was the Arachnid Quarter only. And now, thanks to the long-passed dwarven healer and her short will to live on long enough to divulge any information that could save future lives, Ryndan and his Argent Crusaders were now somewhat prepared for what lay beyond in the domed, vacant chamber inviting them in so seductively with its feigned safety.
With straight backs and blades, each man and woman equally equipped with the same knowledge on what to expect, they entered The Crypt Lord's Domain two years after their predecessors had fallen so cruelly without warning.
Not this time, they collectively thought. No. Today, Naxxramas falls.
Bart scratched his beard absently. The growth had remained untouched in nearly two weeks, the elf now uncaring and extremely unwilling to care about such a minor matter. His mind had been preoccupied and distracted much to his chagrin, however this past week proved to provide a suitable diversion to such dark and self-depreciating thoughts since she had left.
Now charged with the downfall of Naxxramas, Wintergarde and her allies set about mobilising the best taskforce available for such a large-scale assault. The reclamation of Lower Wintergarde nine –no, ten- days ago now had caused such a commotion that they were sure Dalaran could have heard their cries of triumph- maybe even the Lich King himself. Hours after they recovered their dead and proper respects paid, Legionnaire, Crusader, Horde and Alliance alike drank and celebrated their deserved victory, only slightly wary of a potential counter-attack from Naxxramas that thankfully never came.
Bart had participated in the festivities briefly before his black mood that had hovered over him for the days past returned. Luckily, that was to alter the next morning. It was announced and advertised that Naxxramas was going to fall, and that they were going to be the ones to bring this about. Still revelling in the afterglow of such a successful allied counterattack against the Scourge forces, the higher ups of the Crusade, Legion, Expedition and Horde representatives all agreed to strike while the iron was hot. He may be a tailor by profession now, but he still understood the analogy well enough- and he was not sure if he had liked it or not.
Meetings had taken place up at the impregnable keep watching over Wintergarde, that much everyone knew. As plans were made and set in stone, the information filtered through the ranks to even the civilians such as him about what each faction was designated to do. The Crusaders were to take the Arachnid Wing. The Horde were to venture into the disturbingly named Plague Quarter, and the Seventh Legion, necessarily bolstered and bulked with numbers from the Valiance Expeditionary Militia, were to assault the curiously dubbed Construct Wing.
The survivors and able-bodied were to gather centrally afterwards before the remaining was to march on the last quarter. No one dare speak aloud about the possibility of such a group never forming should they fail.
Having been in charge of cloth supplies and assigned with the tailoring of shirts and capes from before, Bart had been approached by Commander Ashwood- a very fine woman in both nature and body, he had noted with respect- about using that cloth for medical purposes instead now.
Readily he agreed and the next few days were spent tearing up frostweave into suitable bandages, slings and even a few blankets in mind of preventing frost-related ailments from damaging any inevitable wounded further while they recovered. He worked with healers to tally and distribute the supplies locally and found himself also in charge of medical stores after his first day. The change in his operations and task had been a subtle and natural transition and he found it worked well to have someone heading the organisation of something so large. Everyone now confidently knew where the potions were, who needed more bandages and whether the Legionnaires required another healer or two to assist them come the raid and if so, would that one doctor from the Horde or that healer from the Crusade mind going along with them?
He had a working, confident knowledge of anatomy and wounds from days-long-past and was a self-proclaimed decent first-aider if the situation required it. Due to these skills, his sewing abilities, recent position as Chief-Medical-Organiser, steady hands and strong back, the night elf now found himself standing in the chilling central core that was the lobby of Naxxramas. He honestly could never have pictured such an event occurring to him in his lifetime, yet here he stood.
The military assemblies had entered first, making sure all was clear and secure before allowing them, the stationary infirmary and potential surgery centre to gain entrance and set up shop, so to speak. With unspoken words of encouragement and fortitude, they had sent off the three groups of determined forces into their nominated divisions. A small armed band of twenty or so remained with the hospital, guarding the menders and physicians while they distributed the crates of iatric goods equally in their mostly-circular setup. No one neared the fourth unexplored wing, instead most of the unfolded stretchers now lay empty and ready on a raised dais resting above the very stone steps used to enter the citadel.
Satisfied that they were as prepared as could be, all they could do was to lay in waiting for the poor bastards that would fall to the traps and deadly threats that lay deeper within the walls of Naxxramas. Bart remained unsure as to whether he would rather be sitting there or charging forth with them in this instance. The waiting was ominous and painful, being left in the dark despite knowing how vital their services would be shortly.
For the longest time the screams and shouts of their peers and comrades had occasionally sifted through from the corridors and antechambers leading further in. Periodically moans and wails seemed to practically travel the entire length of the fortress, eerily being heard in all three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around them. Sure as the sun was to rise did many suspect that what they envisioned from such audio was nowhere near as gruesome as the real cause of it.
The sounds of combat sometimes drew their attention, draining blood from the faces of men and women alike, Bart included. Despite this, nerves remained held with great commendation. Many standing here were not customary or primary field-physicians. They were unused to seeing the wounded straight from the bloody fray and the shaking of some of their clenched hands gave that away. The tension was as thick as the vile odours lurking around them.
Bart was sure it was must have been a solid hour wherein no one had dare to move before the first trickle of wounded and fatalities were carried and dragged their way. The battle-healers could only do so much on the spot after all, the truly dire rest in their hands now, and he and his fellows could only hope they were prepared enough to save however many as possible this day.
A/N – I do so apologise for the long update. I have written and re-written Naxxramas thrice over now in the past month as I was terribly unsatisfied with my initial drafts and something like this I needed to be perfect in its narrational execution, something which I hope I have achieved with this; the prelude to the raid. As you can see I have explained the first appearance of Naxxramas in the Plaguelands with a failed raid upon it as the lore surrounding its existence in the (Vanilla) game is a little hazy, so this is my take on it. I have also ignored the last portion of the Wintergarde quests. They did happen in my story, but I won't make much, if any, mention of it as I saw no value in it for story or character progression, favouring Naxxramas for my attentions instead.
Part Two will be up in the next few days where our first boss fight will take place. To the original veterans of both Naxx's, I hope I have done, and will do, one of my most favourite raids justice in your eyes.