Chapter 13 : A Requiem of Sorrow

With silence gaping the throats of these men of war, my presence alone brings about turmoil and gloom
With despair slowly encroaching their hearts, it seems death shall soon sing the tale of their doom

"Nevermore, do you choose to cling onto the deceased king or submit yourself to one who stands before you? He, who was but a pauper in my midst, can not aid you no more. Will you be reluctant to obey me and betray me just as the rest have, or are you willing to accept my offer?"

"I live to only serve Ner'zhul, Abaddon. Do what you must, but Lord Arthas's voice can still be heard echoing in my mind."

"The deceased have no voice you fool. Your feeble mind just can not accept that he is gone and will never coming back."

"He speaks of a murderer, Abaddon. All of the Undead know of your sinister betrayal. Ner'zhul's power has already begun to fade from the vast hordes of the Scourge. You are King of no army Abaddon. Lord Arthas's kingdom is falling before your very eyes. You can not stop the revolts to come, you will not succeed. Know this fool; I do not bow to the weak."

Like a phantom stirring in the shadows, the dark being treaded across the murky waters. The murloc and croc-infested marshes surrounded the dark entity from all sides. Large pockets of air abruptly bubbled every now and then at the surface, as if a drowning child was struggling for breaths of air beneath the thick muddy water. A vast bastion of Undead marched slowly behind this abhorred creature while keeping their safe distance. The Shadow Fiend was feared for slaughtering allies and foe alike for his own personal gains. For every victim he slew, it was said that the Shadow Fiend would store their souls safely inside his own, spiritually empowering himself. Leeching off their power, his own grows exponentially to the extent that he is able to fire volleys of this ectoplasmic energy and blast the ground in a torrent of shadow energy. Forever being trapped inside the pit of despair and blight, it was said to be a fate worse than the fiery depths of Hell itself. Alone and afraid, the victim's soul would slowly wither away into the nether, with no one to hear its screams of agony.

Theramore Isle, to lay my eyes on it feels like but a dream. A land of magical enchantments, a place I've wanted to visit since I was but a mere child. And now, it's all mine for the taking.

Nevermore shifted his gaze towards the troops rallying behind him. They immediately stopped in their tracks, ceasing all movement and actions. Their bodies trembled and their throats felt strangled in a deadly lock, yet they dared not to make a sound. A strange tranquility gripped Dustwallow Marsh, and an eerie solitude could be felt. The Undead felt alone, seemingly cut off from the world itself. Nevermore took a light step in the thick, damp soil beneath. Blight grew from where the tip of his "foot" had come in contact with the ground. As the weak sunlight penetrated through the dense mangrove trees, a gentle humming could be heard from the nearby vicinity of the swamp.

He raised a charred hand at one of the Ghouls at the front line. He spoke coldly, while laying sharp emphasis on his instructions by enunciating slowly, but clearly in his somewhat Transylvanian accent, "You. Check the woods. We're being watched."

Wasting not a moment, the Ghoul promptly obeyed and scurried in the direction of the forest. He clumsily skipped past the dark waters, and slid himself across the slippery mud. The creature crawled over the mangrove's roots and suddenly gave a short pause in its movement. He raised his head high above, unmoving and stiff. After a few brief seconds, it shifted its gaze towards the Shadow Fiend. The Ghoul shook its head slightly and opened its mouth to speak. Before it could utter a sound, its body grew limp and landed on the earth. With its back towards the sky above and its body sinking in the mushy soil, an arrowhead could be seen bored into the back of its skull, gleaming menacingly in the harsh rays of sunlight.

The humming grew fainter with each passing second. Tranquility seized the marshes once more, and the army of the Scourge obediently awaited their leader's command. Nevermore's vision fixated on the overgrowth, waiting to detect the subtlest of noise. He drew his right arm backwards and positioned it directly perpendicular to his side. With his palm outreached seemingly towards the canopies of the trees above, a white smoke began to slowly materialize. This strange phenomenon twisted itself into a tether of fine threads, with each section seemingly unraveling as more smoke was added to this chain. A crude shape of an elliptical net began to form of this smoke, with the stark lines of white slowly decolorizing into what appeared to be a murky shade of grey. These weaves of grey wrapped themselves in a mesh near the edges of this netted structure. An eerie glimmer of energy brimmed at the surface of these silhouettes, dark and powerful in essence.

The Shadow Fiend thrust his arm forwards. The shadowy globe of energy burst forwards, crushing all in its wake. Nearby Ghouls and Necromancers were cast into the air, all the while screaming in shrill, terrified voices. The laces of grey propelled the stark net of white forward in harmony, intertwined like that of darkness and light. The thick barks of trees crunched under the immense force of impact, almost as if they were but a hurdle in the path of its trajectory. Breaking the silence, a bloodshot scream echoed through the secluded marshes. A corpse slid down the limbs of a tall, sleek mangrove tree. It fell limp on the ground, just a few steps away from the Dark Lord.

What! A Blood elf! Here?

The threads of grey and white thickened to vines and slowly crept across the dead male's body. They slowly bound around his neck, around his sternum and hid his appendages beneath thick strands of white. Once his entire being was masked by layers upon layers of shadowy vines, they began to pulsate a rapid white. Suddenly, the corpse stirred and began ossing and turning. Feeble screams could be faintly heard, slowly dying away. The vines suddenly combusted into flames, revealing only a glimmer of light beneath the flickering blaze. The flames ritually danced around the Shadow Fiend in perfect unison, almost as if they were in the act of summoning a creature of untold power. A tiny globe of light suddenly darted towards Nevermore from within the ashes of the Blood elf. The fire extinguished, but a new blaze quelled beneath the Shadow Fiend's own torso. A dark sphere of energy materialized around his hand, and cycled around it in a melancholy manner.

Nevermore's voice rang out, "The first blood has been spilt. The time has come for Theramore to be shrouded in darkness. Let us rob them of their joy and shatter their last glimmer of hope. Let our presence be known across the lands. Despair shall soon unfold, and the glorious name of Abaddon will be sung across the lands in unison. The Scourging of Azeroth has only just begun, and now it is time for Theramore to fall under the might of Lord Abaddon!"

What the hell is Arthas thinking? He promised to never break our pact… why is he choosing to go back on his word now, when he could have back then-

"Mistress Proudmoore," said a voice interrupting her thoughts, "the front lying outposts have already fallen under the wrath of the vile Undead forces. We can not hold them off for long. It is only a matter of time before they siege the castle."

Jaina responded in a calm yet commanding tone, "Captain Voltaire, I fully understand the gravity of the situation. What has become of them is most unfortunate, but we must not dwell on the past. Prepare for a full-frontal assault, it may be our last."

"I'm afraid you don't, my lady," said Voltaire in a grievous voice, "we are vastly outnumbered. With every soldier of ours that is slain, their numbers grow exponentially. What you are asking of us to do is suicide-"

Jaina interrupted sharply, "What I am asking of you, captain, is to follow orders. What is it you propose, to run from them? Run to where, captain. This is our homeland, and we will defend it to our last breaths. There is nowhere left for us to go and there is not a place left in the world that will accept us."

Captain Voltaire intervened harshly, "You may be able to live with their deaths on your conscience, but I am not one to be able to live with the guilt. Call it cowardice if you must, but I shall not allow them to be slaughtered today."

"Watch your tone with me captain. I am still your ruler and if you choose to disobey me, I shall have to consider it an act of treason," said Jaina menacingly.

"My lady, I meant not to insult you. Regardless of you being my superior and your broken pact with that mad man, I feel that we should at least grant them a second chance at life, and save them from the torment of eternal living as the dead," replied Voltaire coolly.

She spoke in a solemn tone, "My powers have long since weakened captain. Either I hold down their forces and allow a few to escape on the boats, or your men try and bargain me some time. With just a little time, my vital energies can be restored just enough to let me help us escape from Arthas's clutches as far as possible. The choice is yours now captain, and I shall willingly abide by it."

Arthas, I should have left you to die when I had the chance, you son of a bitch

As massive projectiles of rotten meat tore through the wooden drawbridge, the denizens of Theramore Isle were fleeing in chaos. Volleys of arrows hailed upon the Scourge legions in the waters of the below, but their advance could not be impeded. Their silhouettes were steadily coming closer with each passing second, and the rapidly increasing vast size of the army sent shockwaves of panic amongst the Theramore Guard. Not a single human or bloodelf could stand still without trembling in fear.

Catapults hurled flaming logs of wood across the twilight sky in a blissful splendor of an intense blend of red and yellow. In their midst flew boulders of gigantic proportions and clashed with the rotting sacks of meat. The air reeked of decaying corpses and the stench of death itself. Enormously sized abominations began to hack away the wooden drawbridge with their cleavers. As mindless ghouls tried their best to burrow through the stone archways with their sharp claws, more boulders were hurled towards them from the sky. The harsh impact rendered them as but a pile of bones, flesh and blood, floating above the watery surface.

A shadowy weave of white laces tore through the drawbridge as if it were mere splinters and managed to collapse the entire structure. While some scaled upwards the stone castle walls, the rest of the bloodthirsty Undead crawled through their newly formed entrance, and behind them followed a dark, hovering being of untold might and power.

A wave of foot soldiers rushed forwards to confront the legion of mindless undead. They charged towards them with only a glimmer of hope trapped in their hearts. One by one they fell to the ground, and the curse of the undead took hold of their corpses. Reanimated from the grave, their swords clashed against their own brethren and kinsmen, who reluctantly fought to their last breath until they too were consumed by the curse.

The Dark Lord ignored the valiant efforts of the footmen, and proceeded with his assault. A small bastion consisting of a few necromancers, an abomination, and a fist full of ghouls followed his lead. They swept past the bustling streets and mercilessly slaughtered all that stood in their path. Be it the innocent child, the weeping mother, or the brash yet poorly equipped farmer, none were granted any mercy. Corpses were brought to life once more while uttering cries of "Hail Abaddon!" in their breaths. They rose to challenge those that once loved them, and those that they once loved. The blood curling shrieks of the innocent echoed across the city streets. Murdered they were at the hands of their own relatives, friends, and even family.

The stronger, bolder warriors faced the wrath of Nevermore himself. The looms of shadow of light shredded their entire being and devoured their soul from within. With each of them that were slain, the Shadow Fiend grew stronger when facing the next. A handful of forces that dared to ambush him from the safe vicinity of their stone-walled strongholds incurred the Dark Lord's fury. With a slight wave of his hands, the ground was desecrated in an array of a flickering dark-green, seemingly imbuing a dark shadow vortex of energy. The array of shadowy energy engulfed his unsuspecting victims, causing them intense suffering. Screams of agony shot through the cold desolate walls, but there was no one to lend them aid now. The Undead could not be contained now, for it would take a miracle now to drive them back.

The Scourge bastion drove back a band of guards who sought nothing but defending Jaina Proudmoore's palace until death itself, and soon met their untimely ends at the hands of the ruthless Shadow Fiend. He sauntered past the still bodies of the Alliancary

Forces as if he did not care that he took away their youthful lives and subjected them to ever-lasting torment. In no time at all and with hardly any resistance, they easily reached to the end of the spiraling flight of stairs. Upon reaching the last step, Nevermore sensed a disturbance in the room. An eerie silence had gripped what seemed like the palace's throne room.

A hail of arrows rained upon the small group of Undead from the ceiling above and caught them completely by surprise. The ghouls ran chaotically in circles, confused as to what was happening. The necromancers reacted much more calmly and tried to channel a few spells to lend aid in relieving them of this predicament. Their spells backfired as intense negative bolts of energy shot from the walls of the room and sizzled the flesh of the necromancers to a fine, smoking crisp. Lying next to them was a large abomination, crushing several ghouls beneath it, and gutted with innumerable arrowheads.

Nevermore's assailants materialized before him, dressed in a shining golden armor etched with the emblem of a fountain spewing blood. The archers drew their arrows far into their bowstrings, while one of them who appeared to be their leader took a step forward.

"Any last words, vile demon?" taunted the elf mockingly.

"Please, call me Nevermore. But, I'm afraid, you're mistaken," said the Shadow Fiend in his usual accent and a smirk on his face.

"But whatever do you mean, Nevermore. With a mere flick of my wrist, I can order my men to slay you before you even get a chance of blink" said the elf laughingly.

The Dark Lord cackled maniacally and began to wave his arms around in a mystical fashion. The flames near his torso began to dance up and around his body, spiraling faster with each passing second. The elven leader wasted not a moment and ordered his archers to launch their arrows with a brief wave of his hand.

The flames danced ritualistically while Nevermore's strange dance of sorts continued. The arrows were now soaring through the air and speeding towards him at a deadly rate. The Shadow Fiend forced both arms downwards, and then sprung his hands skywards with all his might. A vicious thrust of wind blew towards his assaults, tossing the arrows aside as if they were mere paper. The gust of wind was followed the singing of a solemn, melancholy requiem. Souls of the departed began to sing in unison, with their voices echoing along the powerful blasts of wind. The voices of the dead soon took hold over all in the room. Their ear shattering cries of agony and pleas for freedom drove the elves' minds to insanity. They ceased to move entirely, and even their breathing pace slowed rapidly. Their heart rate slowed steadily, and despair began to enfeeble their hearts. Oddly, they began to relish this mysterious requiem of sorrow and slowly drifted their existence into it.

One by one Nevermore thrust a ball of shadow ectoplasmic energy at them, yet chose not to be affected by the news of their imminent deaths. As their souls were banished to the spiritual plane, the Shadow Fiend's vital energies were empowered once more, and his sole aim was brought back into focus. He strut towards the throne chamber's doorway hell-bent on fulfilling his task with only one thought in his mind; consuming the soul of Mistress Proudmoore.