Steel boots slush through the shallow tides. Unseen, navy-blue currents part to the catapulting limbs. Weightless particles spill upon fog-ridden winds. Drenched warriors bathe in the sprinkling beads, yet heed not the spray. Crashing waves roar at their shins, yet they near not their calls. Only the sounds of their heaving lungs and pounding hearts echo within their minds. Only the cries of their enemies dance upon their thoughts…
"Run! Run as fast as you can little humans!" Their dark, rolling voices match that of the sea's rumbling waves, "pray for escape!" Vile words bounce menacingly upon the air, deceitful misdirection developed. "Your feet are thundering cannons! And your hearts…their little cries play for our ears!"
Echoing calls make it impossible to track the enemy's position. One minute the villains boom as if inches away. Another they are as distant as Darkshore's coasts. Neither warrior attempts to turn. Their eyes are as untrustworthy as their ears. Even the foe's stench is lost, the salty air and whipping winds masking the source fully. With senses dulled it falls upon wit and hope for navigation.
It falls upon…faith…for survival…
"Ero!" And Krik's belief is lacking, "where is this island?" he pauses, a dreadful thought entering his mind, "I sure hope your plan doesn't involve running the sea to Azuremist!" His voice worrisome yet firm.
Ero holds hesitant. He can picture the miniature, rocky bastion clearly within his mind. Alas, the distance draws him to uncertainty. "Just keep running!" Heavy iron soles slough through the watery deeps, "trust me, Krik! Just keep running!"
Krik takes a deep breath, inhaling pockets of salty mist and choking fog. He coughs, growing further agitated. And as treads the tides, the sounds of crashing iniquity rising from behind, he finds what little patience remains teetering towards the edge.
"Ero!" He stumbles upon a hard object under his foot – a rock, certainly. He keeps his balance, yet loses his calm, "you have lost your mind, old man!" Harsh winds slap the sides of his face and stings his eyes, "there isn't any island, Ero! We have to stop and face them…"
Haste dissipates from Ero, his mind altering. With a heavy gaze, fury burning within his eyes, Ero retorts, "Stay your tongue," he takes a deep breathe, his lungs waning, "you have no idea the horrors that await when you stand against the Kvaldir." Another deep inhalation, his partially casted eyes directed for both that waits ahead and that which stands behind. "Kill one. Five rise in his stead."
Krik smirks, "Numbers? So trivial, Ero." He squints, following the shadowy man before him, "That is nothing," Ero breaks momentarily, his sight falling forward once more as the pompous boy speaks, "the more the merrier!" Ero cocks his head back at the child "Let them…"
Suddenly the old man twists, eyes widening. Skidding in the muddy bed below, he shoots an arm rearward at the boy while he spins awkwardly – his moving body unable to overcome his own acceleration. Krik stumbles to the side while the old man hollers, "Krik! Look out!" Flipping forward as he does.
An unnatural gust of fierce air spirals betwixt the duo. Blurred shadows rocket into sight and end in a torrent of thrashing waters. A vibrating, wooden shaft oscillates, impaled in the sea floor. Ero careens uncontrollably into the mist, tumbling onto a bed of solidity while Krik finds himself falling backwards into the briny deeps.
Chilling prongs prod and poke at his already moist arms and upper chest. Fluids flutter around his smooth facial features and send icy tingles across his scalp. Frost snaps at his eyes and forces his lungs to clenching as he deeply inhales the mixture of salt and ice.
Instantly he jerks from the depths, the waves clutching at his person. Tugging at him, the waters dare attempt to drag him back down, but he overcomes them with brute force. Sitting upright he takes a set of short, harsh, bitter gasps at air.
An iron mitt with a fine leather palm wipes against his brow, swiping the water from his face. He is slow to recuperate, the ice hampering his progression. He is lacking in thought, the tides distracting. And then, as his body settles and his mind realigns does he find his properly misplaced anxiety.
Despair strikes him into frenzy. Krik twists and turns, throwing himself to his feet in a noisy, raging display. Upon one knee, he draws his blades and peers into the fog. He is not certain of his position. He is not certain of his direction. Even as he throws his head side to side, ever watching eyes yearning, he is unable to find any sign.
Carefully, quietly, he pulls to his feet. Bent knees prep for battle and sharp, unblinking eyes search. He makes not a noise nor emits a yelp. One can only hope that the enemy is as blind as he. Alas, he knows that is a fool's prayer. He knows…
"Which way to go?" A loud cry rumbles, and unlike the previous bellows, this one's position is exact. "Which way to safety?" Diabolical, despicable, devious words ring with a coating of glee, "Oh, how boring it would be to grow so lost, yet know not of your impending demise! Here...let us aid you..."
Suddenly, as if commanded, the haze lessens. Once a wall of gray now stands a sundered, intermingling collage of silver, gray and black. Amidst the ever-lightening fog appears a trio of foul, looming creatures that hold as mere outlines.
Silhouettes as dark as night slowly, eerily creep forward. Every step taken casts away the darkness and the features once lost to the boy's nightmares reappear. Krik grips his blades firmly. Though they are minuscule in the giant's wake, he knows their points shall be sufficient.
But quaking legs and trembling arms speak a different tale...
And voices as damnable as any demon echo across the heavens, "We would hate for your end to be a surprise," the set halts, shoulder to shoulder, spear to spear, "we would hate for you to go…peacefully…"
Spears are lifted. Legs are braced. And though the boy cannot see it, he can feel the rancid smirk that molds upon the monster's maw as the final second passes…
"Mist consumes you, boy!" Bounding forward, the pack lunges for the assault. Metal tips are drawn for a killing blow. Swift feet carry the beasts through the shallow currents and for their target, "The end is…"
Yet as they slam heel to toe, they are instantly halted…
"Enough!" Shattering the air as if a cannon's blasting, a voice spans the skies and commands all born witness to its beckon, "this one…is mine…"
Dismayed, Krik takes a feeble step rearward. The voice reverberates wildly, echoing within his mind as a haunting memory. He throws his gaze upon the halted trio, their spears lowered, their figures upright. As he gawks forward the haze creeps back in, shrouding all. And in a few fleeting moments the monsters are lost.
In their wake appears a single figure, shorter than the rest. It holds perfectly still as if a shadowy mirage. Krik's eyes land upon the new appearance, feasting upon all details available. But it is lost in the mist. It is but a faint construct…
But its voice defines that which is lost to the eye, "You are one of the woman's servants, aren't you?" It shifts forward, the fog and water parting to its sway, "Yes, I do believe I recall you speaking to her." Closer it draws, "Why did she send you here, child?"
Krik flinches, the voice overwhelming. Never before has he heard a boom of its magnitude. Never before has a mere bay alone shattered his sanity. As his legs falter, his arms numb, and his fear grows, he gets a shadowy view of the ever approaching being.
Draping its shoulders is a heavy, tattered cloth. Frayed edges dangle down to its torso, running into a circular collection of fabrics that encompass its legs. The cloak holds loosely to its sides, yet shows no signs of arms; though, the fog still leaves much lost.
"Fear got your tongue?" As it speaks, another step taken, dull rays of amber and auburn ripple across that which should be its face, "or are you simply ignoring me?" Rivulets of illumination pulsate while a set of bright, beaming gems slice the haze with ease. "ANSWER ME!"
Fires roar from the two spheres – infernos of eyes. Raging flames billow from the spanning, interconnected pits. Krik's maw sunders, yet no words are emitted. He has not a clue what the beast speaks of. Simple escape is all he reckons now. But the mist closes in around him. Fog strangles his senses. There is nothing of simplicity here. Only the pressing walls of instability that smother his person. Only the dark being that treads the tides. Its burning orbs fixated.
"You will tell me where she is. You will tell me your purpose." Another stomp released. "You will…"
As the demon moves upon Krik, all hope devoured by the smoldering embers, a flash erupts in the corner of his eye. Repeating as it had once prior, the golden ray burns brightly. It is the light amongst the darkness. Rolling through the fog, dissipating as rapidly as its birth, the light sweeps the land caresses his person and vanishes into the nothingness.
Shifting in its spot, the creature before him flinches to the spark. Curious cinders scan the haze, yet lose what they previously yearned for. Loud footsteps erupt from Krik's side – sounds of slapping sand colliding upon his ears.
Once again the old man grabs his arm and pulls him through the mist. They move but a few yards, and to the boy's dismay, the mist vanishes. He throws his head rearward, the fog still present, yet where they stand the haze is naught. However, as he casts his gaze upon the thicket of gray, he can still feed upon the embers – their fire ever present…
"Krik, forgive me." The boy strays not from his target. Ero grows concerned as the pale child gazes uneasily into the mist, "Krik? You ok?"
Suddenly Krik is given a weak shake and his eyes snap from the haze. Landing upon Ero, he blinks once and feebly emits, "Ero…" he glances into the fog once more. This time: nothing. "Ero…"
"What is it boy?"
A moment passes.
"Ero, something…something is in the fog…"
Ero sighs. "Just be thankful we are free of it."
Footsteps ring in the old man's wake and Krik twists. Krik finds the man marching towards a steep, jagged peak that is no bigger than a small hill. It is now that Krik notices a dull, yet clearly visible violet hue that encompasses the peak's edge. A purple outline that matches the flickering fingers of the rising sun…
Yet it is the sheer lack of mist that baffles him. How in the world did they go from complete darkness to a serene scene of normality? It is simply overwhelming. Yet, as the riddles rattle his person, he feeds onthe light upon the horizon. Maybe it all has something to do with that light. And it would seem that the old man has the same idea…
"Krik, move!" Ero shouts , "I heard some voices over the ridge here. Let's pray they aren't related to our friends back there."
Krik swiftly, nervously, departs the fringes of the fog and takes after him; however he keeps his mind upon the recent occurrences. "Ero," he jogs to the quick-walking man, "I am telling you there is something in that fog!"
"Really, now? Did they throw spears and shout hate at you while you ran?"
"No, Ero, this was different. It had fire eyes and was…doom…"
Ero throws a weak glance rearward and cocks a puzzled glance at the boy, "You were seeing things. Don't worry," his eyes drift forward once more, "it happens to everyone in the mist."
"I don't know Ero, it was pretty spooky. You had to be there…" he hesitates as his own words overwhelm his train of thought, "…Ero. What happened to you back there?"
Without flinching the man speaks, "When I stumbled out of the fog," he throws a heavy leg and grunts as he pulls himself up the first section of the sloping wall, "I lost sight of you." Another long stride and another pause, "And it hit me as I searched for you in the fog: the mist had taken you. Once it does, only you can fight your way out."
Krik makes to reply, but stumbles on his words as he pursues the man. After a few seconds of thought he grunts and peers inquisitively at the man, "Then how did you pull me out?"
Ero twists backwards, startled by the boy's question. He wasn't anticipating a follow-up to his previous response. Uneasy, the man sets his sight at his palm. Within his grasp rests the answer to Krik's words. Oddly, he feels compelled to throw his gaze upon the misty bug-jar that still holds intact at his side.
A multitude of responses form within his mind. A grand concoction of replies congeals within his bewildered head. And as he holds still upon the rock face, the fog broken, his sight clear once more, he finds his way still clotted with haze – this time the thicket formed of uncertainty.
However, before he is forced to replying in manners undesirable, a nearby voice rings, "We are almost set to leave." It is an odd voice: raspy and harsh, yet overlaid with a demonic, scratchy echo. He has heard this kind of voice before. "Fill the hold and prepare for departure. Little time remains to catch with the main fleet."
Then, if his own ears deceive him, a second voice takes over. A familiar feminine chime, "Move it! You heard the Death Knight, we haven't much time!" That answers the previous dilemma – the initial odd, reverberating tone a Death Knight's to own. "If the fog dissipates before we leave then we will be left behind!"
This second voice, however, he knows all too well, "Lift with your legs!" Only one vile creature procures such a ring. "Come on, you idiot! No! Don't drop it! Ah!" Only one woman, "Orc, what is your major malfunction?"
The Night Elf from Darkshore. The Mistress…
Instantly a knot of rage builds within Ero. Krik too feels an uneasy twisting within, yet must confirm what he heard, "Ero? Is.."
"Yes, boy." Clenched teeth expose Ero's rage, "I believe so."
Grunting, Krik takes no effort to restrain himself. Bounding up the remaining rock wall, he makes for the final assurance for his reasoning. Ero makes to grab the boy, but he is too fast. In a flash he pulls to the summit, glances over the rock and angrily whispers.
"it is her." Ero pulls to his side, letting the sight fill his eyes. "That…that…woman!" His anger displaces his vocal capabilities as he gazes onward.
Before them both rests a small, makeshift dock. At its side is an oddly crafted, sleek vessel that holds against the frail station with an equally as weak ramp. Mounted upon the curved front of the ship is a large lantern. Emitting from it is a purple aura that shines like the moon itself. Within the span of the shining beacon are stout, leathery orcs that scurry wildly across the platforms, moving crates as if their lives depended on it.
Standing upon a small rise, overseeing the workers, is an orc clad in heavy, black metal. Skulls are crafted into his shoulders, while white hair drapes down the rune-littered back. From here, one can make out the plumes of blue smoke that rise from its eyes. The Death Knight.
Next to him, waving her arms and shouting as if the Lord's Queen, is the despicable Night Elf that they know so well. Ero doesn't know what irks him most: the orcs that hunted them and aimed for their lives, the Kvalidr that chased them through the fog, or this...
Their supposed leader amongst their hated enemy.
Oh, how he is unsure of what vexes him most. He survived the two initial fights ordeals and expects their actions as normal. They are his born foe, and to act differently is wild. But this. This is beyond the man's reasoning. So he knows the answer is clear. His stomach wrenches as she whispers to the grotesque orc and cackles.
How very clear the answer is…
He can stand orcs and bloodthirsty marauders. But he cannot tolerate…traitors…