Chapter Nineteen
The mental fortitude that protects a man's well-being collapsed. As the horde of undead slowly marched down the road, Daellin fought to regain full consciousness. His stomach turned upside down, nearly making him vomit, as the world swooshed back into clarity. The first thing he noticed was Percy trembling like a tree caught in a hurricane. The poor lad's eyes were blank-white. Next, he saw a few Crusaders charging towards the bulwark of damned, then stopped dead in their tracks. The same pale expression that enveloped Percy was evident in each of the Scarlets. As he slowly pulled himself together, Daellin got a better look at the undead. It was like a wall that rivaled the walls of Tyr's.
However, this wall moved.
Daellin gritted his teeth as he tried to pull himself up. He placed all of his weight onto Dawncrier, trusting his sword to help him up for the hundredth time in his life. His body trembled as he strained himself; his knees buckling from the weight of the world pressing down on his body. "Light!" he shouted, "Grant me your strength!" As he struggled to his feet, a faint glimmer of reddish light flickered around his grasped hand. In a pained, softer tone, he muttered, "Uther…"
The countless undead, all of varying shapes and sizes, lumbered towards the Scarlets. Leading the advance were several undead that ran on all fours. Some were bestial in appearance, akin to terribly disfigured wolves or bears, while others were clearly human in life. Despite being designed by the Holy Light to walk on two legs in life, these damned effortlessly bounded like canines, letting their decrepit arms swing alongside their powerful legs.
The Scarlet Crusade did not match the ferocious vigor of these rapidly approaching undead. Those that had initially rushed forward were now quickly backtracking with their tails tucked between their legs. Only Vivick remained to take on this tidal wave of Scourge, beckoning the damned with profanities while swinging his colossal sword like a madman. Despite the avalanche of undead, he remained firm in his stance, refusing to back down.
Vivick used his hulking sword more like a hammer than a blade, slamming the four-legged undead with ungodly might with the broad side of the blade. The undead wolves snapped at the lieutenant with their jagged, black fangs, trying to rip his neck apart for an easy kill. The lieutenant would not be defeated by such beasts. With each wolf fallen victim to his hulking sword, another would appear. While Vivick held his own, there was only so much he could do; the unending pack of undead wolves proving to be more than what Vivick could handle on his own. "Get up here you fucking idiots!" he called back to the terrified Scarlets. None answered the call, all unable to move their shaking legs. Disgruntled, he slashed away another undead wolf, sending both halves flying in the air. But these undead wolves were not the end of his struggles.
The four-legged humanoid undead that had trailed the wolves were closing in on him. Somehow, they looked even more feral than the undead beasts. Their eyes were blood-red and had fangs and talons that were far longer than any creature would normally have. In life, man detaches himself from nature with clothing to hide their body; these Scourge instead had a thick coat of fur, resembling a bear more than anything. Their wild appearance was matched with a hyena-like cackle. However, their faces clearly showed they were men in life, an awful reminder that despite what these beasts looked like now, they were once no different than any other living human. The furthest of these undead hybrids pounced, its aim fixed squarely on Vivick's chest. Tied up with an undead wolf, the large Scarlet could only brace himself for the impact.
When the creature landed, it was not on the lieutenant, but rather several meters away, burnt to a crisp. It gave one last pitiful ghoulish shriek before evaporating into ash and dust. Shocked, Vivick turned to see which Scarlet magi saved his life, all the while snapping the wolf's jaw from its body. There were no magi to be seen, however, his savior revealed himself a moment later.
With sword held high and rage coursing through his veins, Daellin lunged past Vivick without any hesitation. The undead quadrupeds turned their feral attention away from the large lieutenant and were now trained on the venerated paladin. Their wild cackles were matched with Daellin's own screams of anguish. In a flurry, he simultaneously swung Dawncrier with reckless abandon while launching bolts of radiant Holy Light at any damned that dared get close to him. Many of the undead were slain before they had a chance to react to Lightheart's sudden appearance. The scent of burnt fur and flesh cascaded over the street as the bodies continued to pile up. Daellin did not care, he was lost in his wanton acts of righteousness.
In the midst of his gust of steel and Light, Daellin stabbed the very ground with Dawncrier, piercing the blade several inches into the dry dirt. "Light damn you all!" As if the Holy Light itself agreed with his sentiments, a wall of golden flame bursted from the ground. The wall grew in height until it surpassed even the tallest buildings still standing in Corin's Crossing. It continuously stretched further away from Lightheart- for how far, he did not know. Crimson red and gold flickered violently in every direction like an untamed fire but, miraculously, the wall stood as firm as any wall constructed with brick and mortar. Wicked and unnatural shrieks cried out from within the wall as more undead fell victim to Daellin's brilliant creation.
After a few moments, Daellin pulled Dawncrier out of the ground. He stared into the golden flames of his design, its brilliance reflecting off his eyes like a glossy mirror. He showed no emotion as he stood, mimicking a statue held in one position forevermore. Not even the stench of burnt flesh dissuaded him from remaining locked in that position, basking in the Scourge being burnt to nothing.
"Now that was impressive," Vivick admired the wall of flame as he rolled his shoulders. His armor was ripped asunder from the wolves, but he was alive. "I may have had my doubts about you, but you certainly put them to rest. Excellent work, sir."
His words, while full of praise and repentance, were like nails on a chalkboard to Daellin. He did not acknowledge his fellow Scarlet, but rather gleaned over Dawncrier. Its radiance and heat had grown to a point far greater than he had even seen. Any blood or ichor on it from the undead had long since evaporated. In fact, it was so hot that the rain turned to steam before getting an opportunity to dampen the paladin, creating his own shield from the droplets.
The undead shrieks eventually turned mute. After a few moments of blissful silence, save for the crackling of the flames, Daellin flatly stated, "The Light has rendered its reckoning upon the undead. The Scourge of Corin's has faced its might."
His words were so stoic and proud that even Vivick held his tongue, only responding with a slight nod. The rest of the Scarlets, still standing where they were as if they were stuck in concrete, were spellbound by the glorious wall of golden flames that had saved their lives. Not a soul braved to say anything, scared that in doing so, the wall would collapse.
"The Light has won this day!" Daellin shouted at the top of his lungs as he raised Dawncrier into the sky. The sword beamed like the sun, sending out rays of light that rivaled the light emitted from the flames. "With the Holy Light's grace, we are victorious!" The paladin did not stop gazing into the golden flames, not even turning to address those he was in charge of. Despite having his back turned, Daellin felt the Crusaders gawking at him. In a way, it bothered him, but he was not sure why. Was he upset that the might of the Scarlet Crusade faltered at such a crucial moment, or was he finally embracing his old age crankiness?
Vivick was the first to acknowledge Daellin's words. He gave a sheepish chuckle, even smaller in magnitude when compared to his bullish size, and slowly clapped. With the lieutenant serving as a model, the rest of the Crusaders joined in applause. Despite the praise, Lightheart refused to turn to his comrades. Instead, his focus was purely on the flames before him. Mere moments ago, his vision and heart were blurry and failing him. Now, his vision was clear.
"How cute."
A cold chill swept through the street, paralyzing the Scarlets where they stood. It sounded like an ethereal ghost calling out to the material realm, echoing throughout the entire plagued town. The rain suddenly turned into an outright downpour, swelling the ground with inches of freezing water. Daellin quickly looked around, trying to find the source of the icy voice.
"However, I do detest and wholeheartedly reject your quaint claim, paladin."
The origin of the voice revealed itself. It did not come from a side street, but rather from the golden flames itself. A silhouette appeared within the wall, braving the fire that had annihilated scores of undead. Soon enough, the silhouette emerged from the fringes of the flames, cutting a hole in the wall, revealing a tall man riding upon an armored horse. Hidden underneath individual armor plates, the horse was nothing more than a skeleton. Under each of the horse's hooves were pools of red siphoning out of the skeleton. The rider was as pale as the moon with red eyes that emitted a faint glow. Matching his pale complexion was a long mane of silky, white hair that fell all the way to his waist.
His body was protected by an obsidian plate armor adorned with countless spikes. At the tip of each spike, red liquid oozed out, dripping down his armor like crimson waterfalls. With one hand, the man held a long scythe decorated with pulsating red runes. The same red liquid that spewed from his armor dripped from the scythe's runes, staining the rainwater underneath him with red. Despite all of this, the most unnerving feature was his dastardly grin that never ceased.
"By Lordain's balls, who the fuck are you!?" Vivick sheepishly yelled. The previously cocky Scarlet was rendered to a child quaking in his boots.
The rider laughed, his unnerving laughter echoing down everyone's spines while simultaneously boiling their blood. "I am the consequence of your hubris, the devourer of your sinful essence."
"Fancy words coming from a dead man!" Vivick spat as he regained his composure. In an instant, the enormous Scarlet charged forward, letting his hefty sword lead him.
He did not get far.
In an instant, the rider pointed his scythe at Vivick and, before anyone could react, the Scarlet lieutenant was flung into the air. Shocked by suddenly becoming airborne, he dropped his sword, the blade colliding with the ground with a tremendous thump. As if the large man was a feather drifting through the wind, he glided to the rider, all the while struggling against whatever force was constricting him.
"Your mortal body is unworthy for such…deliciousness."
Vivick's eyes were full of terror, but in an instant were no longer visible; his eyes rolled back into his skull and his limbs fractured in several different locations with an audible crunch. The rotund Scarlet withered as his body shriveled smaller and smaller, to the point that a homeless leper would be large in comparison. The bones, veins, and arteries that gave him structure snapped from his skin with another crunch, making the lieutenant look like a ragged doll undone by loose threads. As Vivick wasted away, the red liquid that oozed from the rider's armor and scythe, as well as the horse's hooves, spewed forth more crimson ichor.
Once Vivick's limp body could not possibly get any smaller, and his arteries were devoid of any more blood, his corpse fell to the ground with a whimper. The rider took a deep inhale, relishing in pure ecstasy. His lips, suddenly flush with red, trembled as if he was riding an orgasmic bliss.
"More, I need more!"
From the rider's scythe, dozens of ethereal tendrils slithered out, looking to quench their master's thirst. They slowly crept, like snakes hidden in tall grass, then suddenly launched at the Scarlets who were too stunned to run away. In an instant, several Crusaders were floating in the air, crying out to the Light or their mother for release. Their desperate pleas would not be met, sadly, as their bodies were painfully wrenched and drained in the same way as Vivick. With each slain Crusader, pools of blood further drenched the rider's armor and scythe, as if the massacre was quenching its thirst.
As lifeless bodies fell to the ground around him, Daellin could only stare at the mounted knight before him. While he had never seen a knight wield such devilish magic, there was an element of familiarity. The aura of death reeked around him. Yes, of course. He had encountered something similar to this before. Blackrock… a death knight. The recollection stabbed his heart, rendering him to a state of complete shock. The last time he had encountered such an unholy creature, it was the closest to death's door he had ever been. The most painful reminder was not the damage inflicted upon him all those years ago, but rather how close that death knight had been in slaughtering his dearest friend, Ahran. As if he was standing beside the volcano that nearly served as his grave, Blackrock's smoke filled his lungs, suffocating him. His body tensed to the point that all it could do was shiver. In the midst of this chaotic massacre, he was a pitiful target.
"Rest assured, paladin, your demise will not nearly be as swift as your allies. I must…savor it."
A tendril, dripping with blood and ichor, launched at Daellin, aiming to add to the death knight's collection of drained bodies. The tendril was quicker than any undead or creature he had dealt with before. Still consumed in panic, he did not have the time to dodge from its cursed grasp. As the tendril collided against his body, a frigid wave shocked him to his core. However, he was not pulled into the air like the others. Once he realized he was still on the ground, he looked down to where the tendril made contact. It was as wilted as the unlucky Scarlets, flailing until it fell to the ground, motionless. Where the bloody tendril landed, Dawncrier simmered with a golden glow as it relished in its latest victory. Daellin stared at his sword, not even realizing that he had brought it to his chest for protection. It even cleared his lungs of that pained memory, letting him breathe.
But the Scourge's champion certainly noticed. As the tendril that Dawncrier destroyed dissipated into nothingness, the death knight winced. His glowing eyes locked onto Daellin and roared, "An instrument of false power? Another pitiful light to snuff out."
Several more tendrils erupted from the knight's armor and scythe, all trained on Daellin. With Dawncrier's reassuring presence, Lightheart found the strength to ready himself for this barrage. While the tendrils were quick, his expertise with Dawncrier proved to be quicker. Like a farmer harvesting grain, he slashed the tendrils in half with his righteous blade, each erupting into a series of flames. Like before, the death knight winced as his vile tendrils were severed. With so many slashed, the knight doubled over on his horse, clenching his chest.
Daellin had to use this opportunity. "Run! Retreat!" Daellin frantically ordered the few remaining Scarlets that had survived thus far. A few were still too terrified to move an inch, while the rest fled like cowards. Lightheart slowly backtracked, readying Dawncrier for another volley, as he sloshed through the still-rising water level.
"Such a pitiful display of cowardice. I will snuff you all to nothing." Following the ominous threat, a daunting laughter crackled through the air like lightning. The blood that oozed from the knight and his horse froze, then defied gravity by floating around them, orbiting like Azeroth's two moons. The individual droplets of blood then coagulated and congealed in air. The death knight pointed his scythe to the sky as his horse reared up. "And the sky shall cry blood."
It was not noticeable at first, but soon enough the rain changed. It absolutely poured like a monsoon. That was not the unnatural element, however; the rain was tainted crimson red. Dawncrier no longer shielded Daellin with its powerful heat from the rain, letting the red droplets cascade down his forehead. The red droplets found their way to his lips. It had a metallic taste. A taste Daellin knew all too well.
The blood-rain had another effect, this one far more troubling. The wall of golden flames that Daellin created was now being battered by the unnatural deluge. Within only a few seconds, the once tall and proud fire was extinguished, letting out a pitiful hiss like a campfire being doused. In its place were hundreds, possibly thousands, of Scourge. With the golden fire no longer keeping them at bay, and the rider still laughing upon his horse, the mindless undead swarmed.
Daellin had no choice, he had to run. As best as he could through the river of blood, he flew. As he treaded through the river of blood, he pleaded to the terrified Scarlets to run and save their lives. Those that were paralyzed in fear did not listen, letting the blood rise to their thighs. As he rushed past them, he heard their blood curdled cries as the undead fell upon their helpless victims. Daellin's heart was far from light as he heard his fellow man cry out in agony, their bones shattering, and their throats ripped out from razor-sharp talons and claws. As the sky cried heavier, he dared not look back at the grizzly sight.
With his attention focused ahead, he spotted the remaining Scarlets turning into a sideroad, away from the river of blood. Despite being several years past his physical peak, wearing heavy armor, and trudging through blood that drenched his legs, he pushed his body to its limits to reach the others. The encroaching horde of undead at his heels was the biggest motivating factor to press on. He could hear them getting closer, their incoherent growls and shrieks like daggers aiming for his back. This was far from wading in the Darrowmere Lake as a kid searching for minnows, this was a matter of life and death.
As the buildings rushed past by him like a blur, Daellin could sense the undead mere feet away from him. With the river of blood rising closer to his waist, his body acted on its own. He spun on his feet, swinging Dawncrier at the closest ghoul that challenged him. His body was lined with a faint red and golden glow that illuminated the blood around him. Despite the ghoul doused in blood, it spontaneously combusted from Dawncrier's wrath. With a scream akin to the undead banshees that haunted the plaguelands, Daellin channeled the last remaining strength he had into his sword. The blade responded in kind by swallowing the flooded street with brilliant radiance. The undead that were nearly upon him were eradicated instantly as a small barricade of Holy Light separated the paladin from the rest of the Scourge. It was far from the heights that Dawncrier had produced in the past, measuring no higher than five feet, but it was enough to hold the damned and the river of blood at bay.
For just that moment, Daellin gazed at his sword's creation. The undead were already clawing at the Light, causing tremendous harm to the mindless abominations. The blood that had engulfed the street slushed against the shimmering Light, just like how a barricade would hold back a storm surge. A few of the undead were taken in by the rising blood level; if they had working lungs, they would have quickly drowned. A wave of exhaustion hit Lightheart, reminding him he could not dilly-dally in this waste. With cracks already forming in the wall of Light, the paladin continued to run, not letting the faint reverberations of chilling laughter halt him any longer.
Be it luck or divine intervention, he reached the intersection and made a hard right into a sideroad, nearly slipping to the ground due to the slick ground. He spotted the surviving Scarlets piling into a dilapidated building for protection from the horrors they had just witnessed. When the front entrance proved too crowded, many Scarlets flung their weak bodies through the windows. A few men were unfortunate enough to be pressed against the ground under the weight of their compatriots; their weak cries to help them up left unanswered due to the panicked state of the rest. By the time Daellin ran up to the building, their cries had turned to silence.
Before plunging into the building serving as an impromptu sanctuary for the living, Daellin took one last glance down the road. Even though he was a hundred yards from the main road, he could see the river of blood trickling. His heart crestfallen, he sighed, knowing that his last wall of Light had already given way. While the Scourge were nowhere to be seen yet, that would not last. Already, the Scourge's wretched screeches and groans were surrounding them like a tight vice. One particular shrill banshee scream bothered him as he lumbered through a broken window into the building.
Inside, the remaining Scarlets flung themselves against the walls or fell prone upon the ground, clutching their bodies to remind themselves they were still alive. There were no more than a dozen remaining, a far cry from the two entire legions that were sent to Corin's Crossing. From the beams of light that flickered through shattered stained glass on a few benches and broken statues, Daellin acknowledged this as the welcoming antechamber of a small chapel. In years past, this chamber would have welcomed adherents to the Holy Light with peace of mind and the aroma of lilacs. Now, it was a shoddy sanctuary for the terrified masses that reeked of death.
The survivors kept to themselves, rocking on the balls of their feet or folded into the fetal position as they whimpered. Others tried to understand the hell they had endured; they found no answers in the glossy eyes of their allies. In the middle of the quaking Scarlets, Daellin stood motionless, taking in the state of his fellow man. Any resolve these soldiers once had, either genuine or feigned, was long gone; only terror and fear remained.
From the periphery of his vision, Daellin spotted movement beside a statue depicting an angel. Despite the faint light, he could make out the outline of a moving body, gnarled and twisted. Trapped under stone debris and fallen timber, an undead ghoul weakly clawed at a Scarlet a few feet away. The Scarlet, a young magi lass, glanced down at the pathetic undead with apathy. She did not raise her hand to cast a spell to rip the undead asunder, nor did she jump away. Despite their sworn enemy being so awfully close, the mage was too stricken with dread to do anything about it. The same could be said for every Crusader in the room. As more recognized the trapped ghoul in their immediate vicinity, none dared to deal with it. With a heavy sigh that reflected their impossible situation, Daellin trudged to the trapped ghoul and decapitated it with a slow blow. The head slowly rolled towards the magi frozen in terror. Still, she did not move.
If Daellin's subordinates were going to do nothing about their present situation besides whimper away in a pile of tears, then he would. He peered into the darkness, trying to find the double-doors that would lead into the chapel proper. While he had never visited this specific chapel before, the general layout was similar across every church devoted to the Holy Light. Two statues of knights of a bygone era, surprisingly intact compared to the rest of the antechamber, proved to be his guiding light. These knights, drenched in the blood-rain that had dripped in the antechamber, were given the divine duty to protect the entryway into the sanctuary. As he ducked under fallen support beams and stepped over debris, Daellin sensed he was getting closer. With the Holy Light guiding his senses through the darkness, he reached out with no trepidation.
Where the double-doors should have been, only more fallen timber met his touch. With the faintest of light guiding his eyes, Daellin could see the doors, still intact, beyond these large support beams. Damn! It made his stomach turn into a knot to be so close, yet so far. He tried to pull one of the beams, but it proved too heavy for just him.
"Hey! We can't just sit here and die!" he hissed. "Help me out here."
Nobody answered the call. Only soft sobs responded.
Lightheart felt a slight scowl grow across his face. Even though his allies could not see his face, too buried in the palms of their hands to even notice, he instantly felt a wave of guilt. Why was he upset by their response, or lack thereof? It was natural to shrivel into a ball after seeing such horrific sights. After all, he, of all people, would know. But he had no time for such weariness. He flung himself back to the broken beams, determined to deliver sanctuary for his fellow man.
He strained his fatigued and aged body to move one of the beams that had perfectly lodged itself against the door. With each grunt and prayer to the Light, he pushed himself to the limit. However, it would not budge. "Light dammit!" he muttered. Again he pushed, the veins in his biceps popping alongside his eyes. This time, he felt a slight shift. Soon enough, the beam toppled to the ground with a muted thud. With sweat pouring from his forehead and his arms numb, he noticed someone else had joined him.
"G-great work, sir!"
With an exhale and grin that embodied the concept of relief, Daellin said, "Thank you, Percy. You are a wonderful lad, you know that?"
As his small frame shook like a tiny dog being disciplined, Percy replied, "Anything to help you, Lightheart." The lad then doubled over, catching his breath. Clearly, the thin man was not accustomed to hard labor.
"Please, call me Daellin."
While the pair had successfully moved one of the fallen beams, there were still many more to get through. And, judging both of their bodies' responses to dislodging just the one, it was not going to be a quick task. As Daellin cracked his neck and went for the next one, he heard several feet shuffle behind him.
"Let us, Sir Lightheart," one of the Scarlets, a younger man with long auburn hair with a matching mustache, said as he bent down and grasped the next beam. Beside him were the rest of the surviving Scarlets, all bracing themselves to dislodge the beams and debris in their way.
Stepping to the side, Daellin half heartedly chuckled, "What, not going to let the old man move all this?" Par for the course for the paladin to find some humor in such a distressing situation.
With the combined energy of the Scarlets, the rest of the beams were removed quickly. Undoubtedly, the howls and screams of the undead growing louder pushed them to work swiftly. Once the doors were accessible, the survivors rushed ahead, however this time far more organized and less hectic than their initial plunge into the antechamber. As the doors closed behind them, Daellin marveled at the sight.
The sanctuary was certainly in a state of disrepair, with all of the stained glass shattered to nothing but shards and the pews unserviceable. The nave was even darker than the antechamber, with only a few rays of light coming in from the various holes in the ceiling. The blood-rain trickled in from these exposed holes, landing perfectly on half-broken statues depicting pious knights of a bygone era. Sconces and candelabras littered the floor alongside an unimaginable amount of rat feces. As if the church expressed how decrepit it was, the still standing support beams creaked from the immense weight of supporting this former bastion of faith.
However, it had a certain charm to it. Despite its current status, the fact was that it remained. In this town filled with death and decay, this holy house still stood. Its existence was as if the Holy Light stood defiant against the Scourge running rampant across Corin's Crossing. In this plagued hellhole, the Light's radiance persisted. This feeling of persistence allured Daellin towards the pulpit, still as intact as the last service held in this chapel. As the paladin traced the pulpit, taking in the faint woodwork, he breathed. It felt like it was the first breath he had in ages. Guided by years of leading prayer service, he found himself behind the pulpit. Before him, scattered about in the sanctuary, was his congregation. The Scarlets, many still rendered silent with horror, all looked back upon him, eyes wide with anticipation.
"Only in our darkest hour do we find the brightest star," Daellin began, not even realizing that he was speaking. "Through that star do we find guidance, hope. That star, my friends, is our heart. While our mortal body may be limited in scope, our hearts are what bring us limitless strength. Through our resolute heart does the Holy Light find its way. And, with incomparable faith, the Holy Light will guide our hearts through our darkest hour."
And so he went on. As if he had gone back ten years to the days of serving as Andorhal's pastor, he preached from the heart. His words, the strongest thing in the entire church, resonated with the Scarlets deeply. With each passage, more came closer to the pulpit, leaning in to hear more. None braved the broken pews, but they were too enamored with Daellin's prophetic words to afford being further back from the impassioned paladin.
As he addressed his wounded flock, Daellin continued to channel the nuances that made him so widely known during his time as a preacher. He made eye contact with everyone in the room, even with those that momentarily looked away. Just like a sheep dog, his words brought those eyes back to where they belong. He paced around the lectern, making sure his bodily movements emphasized his passages. He would even occasionally go down to the congregation's level and place a reassuring hand on the weaks' shoulders, reinvigorating his fellow man.
While the sermon lasted no more than five minutes, it felt like an eon of harmonious prayer. With one final look over his beleaguered flock, Daellin said, "And so, as the Holy Light wills it, with thy righteous eyes set upon thy brilliant star, so it shall be."
The gathering replied in unison, "As the Light wills it, so it shall be."
And then, silence. It was not the sort of silence that was painfully deafening or filled with dread. Rather, it was of reflection and, even though none would dare say it aloud, of hope. Daellin continued to look over the survivors, perched behind the pulpit. After a few moments, two of the Scarlets walked forward.
"Sir Lightheart, a most moving sermon, if I do say so," one said as he bowed his head slightly. It was the mustached man who was the first to lend Lightheart a hand in removing the fallen beams. "I am Sergeant Amsworth, and this is Sergeant Miller."
Sergeant Miller, a clean cut man with noticeably obsidian eyes, bowed and added, "We were Lieutenant Vivick's right hand men, his direct subordinates."
Daellin returned the gesture with his own slight bow. "My condolences," he softly muttered. In Vivick's final moments, he proved to be a strong soldier, a fighter to the end. Now in this moment of clarity, Daellin decided that was enough in his book to earn him eternal respect, even after starting off on the wrong foot. It was the least he could give the fallen lieutenant.
Amsworth crossed his arms and shook his head. "While we are all content in knowing that the lieutenant went down the way he would've wanted, on the battlefield against these creatures, I can't help but think it wasn't the manner in which he would have liked."
"Simply horrific," Miller added. "And with each passing moment, we risk the same demise he and the rest of the lot experienced."
The sudden reminder of the blood-draining terror that the undead and the mounted death knight caused to the Scarlets sent a sobering sense of dread over the survivors. As if Lightheart's sermon was for nothing, everyone's face turned grim.
"That won't happen," Daellin stated. "With the Light, anything is possible. We can block the church's entrance and bunker down until the Scourge pass or reinforcements arrive. There are plenty of resources to use for barricades-"
"With all due respect, sir," Miller interrupted with a raised hand to signify he meant no ill-will. "That demands time we simply do not have. Amsworth and I, we grew up here in Corin's. We attended this church. During service we would explore, bored to death from the sermons, no offense. There is an entrance to the town's crypt around here. Those crypts lead to a series of underground catacombs that we played around in as kids. Eventually, they lead to escape holes littered throughout the town."
Amsworth continued, "We know those catacombs like the back of our hands. We can find the escape hole that leads back to the main intersection, where we left the horses. From there, we ride back to Tyr's."
Daellin gripped the edge of the pulpit, letting this suggestion sink in. The survivors all looked up to him once more, eager to hear what their leader would say. "An underground evacuation sounds incredibly risky," he muttered, "Light knows what we would encounter down there."
"But we know what we will encounter if we stay here," Miller fretted.
"Please, Sir Lightheart, give this a chance," Amsworth pleaded, interlocking his fingers as if he was in the middle of a prayer service. "Give us a chance."
Still, Daellin was hesitant. His heart rate was rapidly increasing as his fingers nervously danced along the lectern. Their idea may be worthwhile in exploring. However, we are protected here, in this house of holy. We can wait out the storm… As the paladin was wrapped in his thoughts, his hands found something he had not seen yet. Underneath the lectern was a drawer where the preacher would keep relevant books and tomes. Without providing a response to the Scarlets, Daellin opened the drawer, somehow drawn to it like a moth to a flame, letting a cloud of dust puff in his face.
He rummaged through the drawer, not sure what he was even looking for, possibly an answer to their predicament. There, his hands glided over something leathery in texture. Without looking, he pulled it out from the drawer. A book, aged and torn beyond comparison. In the darkness, it was impossible to make out any details on the hardcover. Lightheart opened the book as even more dust welcomed him with each page. The paladin was not reading the book with his eyes, but rather with his heart. As he traced his fingers over each page, trying to discern the words with what remained of the ink, he gathered the author's message. He stopped at one line that captivated him.
"...in the dark shall we grow wings of grace and fly to overcome any obstacle in our…"
Daellin shed a single tear as he choked up. He read the line over and over again, each time letting his entire body resonate with what his finger scanned. The passage was all too familiar to him. It was something he had heard before, countless times. Despite the passage being ingrained in his mind, the meaning was never more impactful than in this moment.
"Uther…" Daellin whispered as he wiped away the tear. As if his mentor had placed it there himself, this book was a copy of the Lightbringer's prayerbook, a book nearly as famous as the author. Daellin felt his mentor's presence in that moment, as if the famed Lightbringer was there to place his reassuring hand on his shoulder. With one hand on this book and the other caressing his libram attached to his hip, Daellin chuckled to himself. "You always knew what to say, old man."
Daellin slowly placed the book back into the drawer, letting it stay in its rightful home. He looked back up, meeting the eyes of the Scarlets, still waiting for Lightheart to say something with bated breath. "Well," he began, giving himself a moment to think, "let's grow some wings and get out of this hellhole."