Fantasy Fall of Aegis (Private)

[Innuendo]

Fall of Aegis

Prologue written by Serious Retail








The old woman looks at you with milky eyes, mostly blind after many years of sight. She speaks in a soft voice, gone hoarse after many years of speech.

​

"You know... it's a funny thing, but people now reminisce of a time when we waged war for power. For freedom. Peace... even Greed. A time when our world was ruled and defined by the hatred that was long sewn between factions and races.


Those good old days are gone.


Now our world is defined only by fear, and only one war is left to be waged: the war of survival. The war of life against death... It is a battle which all living things eventually lose, but it seems death has lost its patience.


The Alliance and Horde were weak after the long campaign on the Orcish homeworld. Fighting demons, fel orcs, and the betrayer Illidan Stormrage left them both spent, and tired. The Lich King saw this weakness.


In just one year both Orgrimmar and Stormwind fell to the sudden and relentless onslaught of the Undead Scourge, after the other cities of the Alliance and Horde had fallen even sooner than that. Any survivors, whether they were human, orc, or anything else found both hope and a leader in the noble paladin Tirion Fordring. He led us here, to the floating city of Dalaran. He gave this place and our 'faction' the name of the Argent Bastion.


They moved Dalaran to the seas where it was thought it would be safest, and from here Tirion led many missions to the mainlands in search of survivors. That heroism at last cost the brave holy warrior his life recently. The Lich King himself led an ambush against the paladin's group and slaughtered them all, taking Fordring's soul with his cursed blade, Frostmourne.


We lost more than our leader on that day. Fordring wielded what many believed to be our only hope: the holy blade, Ashbringer.


It has been almost a month since his death. We have been leaderless ever since. Just floating here... Waiting for the army of the dead to find a way to reach us--or for hope to somehow be kindled once more."

​

Dalaran

​

 

[Serious Retail]

Antares Thrask, Knight of the Silver Hand





"Daddy, watch what I can do!"


It was a good day. Not the overly sunny sort, but a day where its rays pierced out from thick, white clouds to bathe the lands in a more gentle kind of light and warmth than the intense heat of direct sunlight. The father looked over to where his six-year-old was playing in the garden and he smiled. Antares followed his brother's gaze and chuckled when he saw his little niece, Rani, hopping about as she pretended she was a frog.





"Ribbit! Ribbit!"


"Very good, Rani!" Regulus called out to his little girl. "Now show us a bear!"


Rani stood up and stretched out her short arms, making a scrunched up face that was far more humorous than scary. "Grrr!" she growled, stomping around in the grass.


"A fearsome cub you've raised," Antares said with a soft chuckle. "Perhaps soon she will be ready to hunt for herself."





"I'm nowhere near ready for that day--and thank the Light it is far, far off yet. I tell you Ant, there is nothing like being a father. The single greatest feeling that there is."


Antares couldn't help but laugh. "I seem to recall you saying something suspiciously similar about being a husband, and even before that there was something else about being in love for the first time."





"It's a good problem to have, is it not? I'm happy to be proven wrong on this account many more times, if this luck holds; and I am lucky, Ant. Very lucky."


Rani ran up to Regulus and jumped into his arms. He gave her a tight squeeze of a hug and laughed when she said he was crushing her. Antares laughed too. "That you are."


"Ah! There ye are, Tares. D'ye 'ave a minute tae spare, laddie?"


The memory faded away and once again Antares found himself pulled to the present. He was on the balcony of one of the many tall towers of Dalaran, giving him a good view of the city below, as well as the great blue expanse that seemed to span endlessly in all directions even farther below. He turned to see a familiar face. "Dargrin," he greeted with a soft bow of his head.


The dwarf looked different than usual. His fiery red mane and beard that were usually wild and unkempt were clearly brushed, and his beard was done up in a careful set of braids, bound together in bronze clasps. Even the dwarf's armor and greataxe seemed freshly cleaned and polished. "How can I be of service?"


Dargrin laughed at that. "Always so formal, eh? I wanted tae run somethin' by ye. Tae get yer opinion an' all. Y'see, I'm thinkin' o' roundin' up some lads an' headin' out tae th' mainlands. I was thinkin' Kalimdor. I figured ye migh' know where tae begin with findin' willin' recruits. I 'ave a couple o' lads lined up already, but it's dangerous, so calls fer more than a couple o' sobered up drunks with axes an' swords."


Antares felt a chill run down his spine. While he had heard the dwarf was skilled with the massive axe that he carried about on his back, the idea of people leaving the city was chilling at best. No one had left since the report of Tirion's death had reached them.


"You hope to find survivors?" Antares asked.


"Well, no' exactly," Dargrin answered. "We've just run out o' ale, an' th' mages we 'ave left say they cannae use their magic tae conjure alcohol. It's a shite world we're livin' in, an' some o' us only manage tae get through it if we have th' righ' encouragement."


Anger struck Antares swift and sudden as a bolt of lightning, yet he managed to mostly contain his outrage. His right hand curled into a tight fist at the notion of risking lives for nothing but some ale.


So that`s why he looks cleaned up. He`s sober, he thought before speaking. "If you can find anyone else foolish enough to go out into the deathlands with you for such an unworthy cause, that is your business and I will not stop you. However, I will not bring myself to offer any aid to such stupidity." The words were harsh, and spoken even harsher--through gritted teeth.





Dargrin turned and left him there alone again, mumbling something half-intelligible on his way to the stairs. Antares hoped the dwarf would not succeed in getting a group together.


The knight turned back to gaze out across the sea once again, eager to forget about Dargrin and his venture, and eager to return to the peace of his happy memory.

 

[Innuendo]

Geth

https://s32.postimg.org/dk65fg4id/Geth_Corpse_Pile.jpg
​

The dried blood caked around his eye lids flaked as he blinked repeatedly, trying to adjust to the empty blackness that surrounded him. Gradually, forms and shapes became discernible. Only a few inches from his face, another was looking back at him. Wide bloodshot eyes stared back at him unblinking, the woman’s face was a mask, frozen in horror. Her mouth was gaping as if she died screaming, teeth were peculiarly intact considering the left side of her jaw was completely unhinged making an already gruesome façade increasingly unnerving. Tracing from her right ear towards her chest, a ghastly laceration had begun to fester, providing a moist home for a wriggling mass of insects and worms. His eyes followed the wound down towards her exposed breasts partially covered by her ravaged linens when he noticed another face, and then another. I was only now that he considered the putrid stench coming off the ruined bodies as it filled his nostrils, it was the smell of death. Panic began to set in as he realized where he was, a mass grave. The weight of the cadavers pressing down on him made it hard to move his limbs, curiously though, he didn’t find it hard to breathe. Thrashing as much as his confinement would allow, bodies began to shift lifelessly around him and he could feel the burdening weight on him lessen. Thin shafts of light started to appear, poking through gaps in the carcasses as his ascent though this hell began. Climbing from the prison of flesh and bone was liberating, but also damning as a sense of guilt filled him as he cast bodies aside almost carelessly. The ambiguous sense of remorse intensified as he rose as moonlight illuminated the faces of the dead as he reached the surface. Pushing the last body out of his way, he climbed atop the mound to survey the carnage. There must have been forty dead at least, maybe more, all thrown into a pit dug for half as many. Beginning to heave he stumbled down the heap covering his mouth with a hand, using the other to steady himself on the limbs of the deceased. Staggering a few paces from the mass he allowed himself to vomit, it smelled almost as bad as the grave, but not quite. Not wishing to dwell here any longer, his march started for any place far away from here. Taking a few steps while wiping the corners of his mouth free of vomit with the back of his hand, he stopped in his tracks, eyes widening in terror as he looked down at his hand. A gaping hole where his palm used to be, he could see his bones and tendons contract and shift with every movement. Each digit had just enough flayed flesh to resemble a finger, but where his finger nails used to be, the appendages ended in bony skeletal points.





Where am I? What happened here? Are there any other survivors? Why was I spared? Was I?


So many questions and fears flying around in his head, it was if he was going to vomit again. It took a few seconds of fearful contemplation until all of them seemed unimportant save for one.



​

Am I alive?

 

[Ozyman]

A boot stepped on the red, desecrated soil, one step closer to the eldritch structure prominently displayed, piercing the devastated horizon. There were five occult statues strategically placed around a flat service with a symbol etched into the foreign, demonic stone. The approaching contender grit his teeth in anger as he stepped toward the structure, burdened with heavy and enraging purpose. The Demon stood no chance. Would receive no mercy. Not after what happened. Not after... her. He clenched his fists and embers flared out on either side. His footsteps scorched the red soil black beneath his feet with step after step toward the structure. A weighted black velvet cloak trailed behind him, blowing in what little wind dared to skirt over the soul-crushing landscape. His head covered by a hood, only his eyes flaring red with anger from within the cast shadows.


The Demon's guards turned to face the approacher. Each stood close to seven feet tall, armoured up to to the teeth in metal and bone, carrying large axes that no single man could lift. With them, felhounds came barreling towards him. With an absent minded wave of dismissal, the felhounds were swept into another dimension with a burst of red light. The Felgaurds were stunned momentarily, confused by what fate just become of their dogs. With more determination than ever, they charge the opponent, for none get close to the master. The opponent reaches out both hands with palms facing up. Where there would be veins in his arms shown burning trails similar to magma running up his arms. Swiftly and decisively, his hands crushed closed into tight fists. The two Felgaurds burst into flames, the fire consuming them and forcing them to their knees. "Anach Kyree!" A demon howls at the approaching man. He keeps walking and flares his hands open and the fires that consumed the two felgaurds combusts again and the fall to the ground writhing in pain. Upon contact with the ground, their form disintegrates into ash, splashing onto the hard ground without a recognizable shape. Without a second look, he walks past.


He approached the occult altar, boots grinding on the loose stones at the foot of the incline. Demons fell from the sky, each trying to claim their kill. Each one engulfed in flame and burned to dust in nothing short of a hideous scream. Finally, he stood on the altar, unchallenged. Flames engulfed his form, occasional bolts of lightning bolts stained purple crackled upwards and around him, his cloak biting against the wind created from his raw energy. He looks around at the faces at the altar that bore down on him unphased. He sneered at the malevolent force that permeated this area.


A deep, booming laugh echoed throughout the stone and from the horizon, faceless in form, impossible to tell the origination. "And who are you to contest me, human? I will bathe in your blood for the mere audacity of your presence here. Turn now and leave. Who are you to challenge me in my house?"


Slowly he pulls back his hood to reveal messy hair black as night, attempted to be maintained by being tied back. His cheeks cracked from dried tears and rage, his whole form trembling. "I am Morrath of the Black Hand.... and Khezzardun, for retribution of your crimes of broken contract and the murder and destruction of what I hold dear... I have come for your soul."

 

[Serious Retail]

In the distance it was there, looming among the clouds; across miles upon miles of sky-blue waters, Dalaran rested, and waited. What little strength the Argent Bastion ever had was likely gone now that Tirion Fordring was finished. The Lich, Kel'Thuzad, gazed out into the sea with eyes more cold and more blue than any waters ever could be.


He had served the Lich King longer than any other. It was Kel'Thuzad who so long ago sowed the seeds of death itself by leading the Cult of the Damned, spreading their plague of undeath throughout Lordaeron by infecting its supplies of grain. It was Kel'Thuzad who died to the fury of the paladin, Prince Arthas, knowing that death would not be the end of his work. His master had foretold it.


He was right.


Arthas had been consumed by the need for vengeance, and found the cursed runeblade Frostmourne in the frigid landscape of Northrend. It was the very blade that the Lich King cast out from his frozen throne with the intent that this very person would find it. Not for the first time, Kel'Thuzad reflected on the wisdom and omniscience of his master. After the prince had cast off his dedication to the Light in favor of the Shadow to become a death knight, and cast aside the title of paladin in the process, he found Kel'Thuzad's grave and remains in Lordaeron. Arthas took them.


Kel'Thuzad's ghostly spirit (that only Arthas could see and hear) advised and aided the death knight as he journeyed north to the lands of the High Elves. The Quel'dorei fell before the might of the Scourge, and using the energies of the Sunwell, Kel'Thuzad was rebirthed: gifted eternal life and awesome power as a Lich.


He was there when Arthas had finally reached the Frozen Throne of Icecrown, and donned the Helm of Domination that fused his soul and very being with that of he Lich King--the spirit of the Orc Shaman Ner'Zhul. Ner'Zhul ceased to exist. Arthas ceased to exist. The Lich King was all that remained, just as Ner'Zhul had planned from the very beginning.


Kel'Thuzad turned from the cliff's edge, his ethereal and skeletal form sending the cold mist that his body passively radiated fanning out around him. He felt pleased with what he beheld: an endless mass of undead warriors and minions. They were bound to Kel'Thuzad and his will, and he willed for them to be still and silent; not one of them moved an inch or made a sound, not even the death knights among them who were allowed to retain a small portion of their wills in order to be more powerful.


The Lich King had commanded his faithful servant to destroy Dalaran, and with it the last of the Argent Bastion. His king was preoccupied preparing for the coming war that would undoubtedly begin soon after life was extinguished from this world: the war against the Burning Legion.


Dalaran was incredibly defensible, even if it was not floating in the air surrounded by sea for miles on each side it would still be a difficult siege. The Scourge did have minions capable of flight, but to attack the Dalaran with only them would leave a chance of failure--which his master would not tolerate. The Scourge also had methods of transporting in the air, but those methods were slow and fragile...


A pleasant chill went up his spine as an idea began to take form.


His plan would not only assure victory, but would have the inhabitants of Dalaran consumed by fear when the time came for their final battle. His master would be pleased--fear was his element. An awful, choking sound washed over the droves of undead minions like thousands of ice shards grinding together and breaking.

Kel'Thuzad was laughing.

 

[Innuendo]

Geth

​

As if the bitter ordeal Geth had just endured wasn’t enough, he was beginning to grasp the morose fate that had befallen him. Surely the episode was short-lived, but the agony seemed to linger for ages. There was an intense pang in his chest, as though his heart was going give way or burst through his ribcage. Weak and lightheaded, clutching his chest fiercely he fell to his knees, enervated. The damp grass wetting his silk trousers around the shins, turning the once brown fabric black with moisture. Vision blurring, his limbs began to tremble,





Just, breathe.


He thought, but couldn’t. Groping with his disfigured hand he found his rigid throat, assuming that clutching it desperately would help him find much needed air. Gasping and gaging he crawled further away from the grotesque bone pile, perhaps if he got closer to a road or path, someone would find him once he passed out, it was only a matter of time now. Dragging himself along the sodden earth he could hear the shrill cries of hungry ravens circling down towards the bodies behind him. Slowly the edges of his field of vision began to fade while orange and purple spots fluttered around what he could still perceive. In a final desperate attempt for rescue, he opened his mouth and the words blared forth from him.





"Help me!"


His voice was so guttural, its tone foreign to him. The words slithered from his lips, they felt smooth to speak but the sound was harsh and raw. It wasn’t the sound of his words that he found the most peculiar though, it was the volume at which he uttered them. Much louder than he expected, louder than was possible for someone who was unable to breathe. Baffled and puzzled, he remained motionless for a moment in complete confusion as the conspiracy of ravens took flight in their state of fright, he wasn’t breathing, nor did he need to any longer. The obstructions to his vision began to leave him as he gazed around, paranoid. His limbs were still trembling terribly, but the pain in his chest was also lessening. Deliberately, on wobbly legs he rose to his feet, a hand once again clenching at his heart where the pain had radiated from. Though the pain had subsided to which he was thankful, his next discovery almost sent him into another panic attack. His heart was not beating. Bony ghoulish hands clawed at the front of his mageweave vest, tearing fabric away from his skin exposing his pasty chest. Defined muscles were still visible between where loose skin had begun to fold, however, neither could distract him from the ghastly wound to the left on his abdomen. Both flesh and muscle were pierced by what he could only assume was a stab wound, clear through his torso. No man could have survived such a grievous insult to the body. Alas, it made sense, but only opened up a new flurry of queries.





I am dead.

 

[Achirae]

Ginsa Swiftfoot loved to run. As she flew along the well-worn cobblestone paths leading to the temple, the young cub relished the way the wind ruffled the fur on her face and arms. Knowing of her fondness for running, the elders often had her deliver messages around the Temple of the Tiger and the surrounding villages atop the Kun-Lai Summit. Today's message had her chasing after one of her favorite Sifus (teachers), the human, Suǒliàn de Zìyóu (most everyone just called him Ziyou).


Since the Mists of Pandaria dissipated, revealing the Wandering Isle to the rest of the world, non-Pandaren refugees became a fairly common sight on the island. Some of the refugees had even been permitted to learn the fighting arts from the Pandaren masters. Ziyou, however, had a different story. Ginsa's parents told her that Ziyou washed up on their shores some twenty years ago, when he was little older than a cub himself.


In his years with her people, he displayed an affinity for their way of life, skillfully learning their martial arts, as well as their spiritual disciplines. He was the first non-Pandaren to be granted the title of Wardancer, and his brews, while still some years from the refinement of the Brewmasters, are still highly sought-after throughout the island.


One of the Dai Sihings (older brothers) at the Temple directed her to one of the nearby shrines that Sifu Ziyou favored for his outdoor classes. As she approached, she saw the class of younger cubs working through Siu Jin Kuen, or Small Arrow Fist Form, on the grass. Sifu Ziyou paced between them, giving the occasional correction as he saw the need. Ginsa had learned this form a couple of years before, and evaluated the younger students while she respectfully waited for them to conclude. Most of the class were Pandaren, though there were a few refugee children among them. She saw a couple of humans, two different types of elf, and even an orc.


Presently, the cubs finished their form with the ritual bow. Ginsa approached Sifu Ziyou, bowed, and presented the message. Ziyou read quickly while the class waited in respectful, disciplined silence. Once finished, he turned to the class, and said, "That will be all for today. You all did very well. Continue to practice, and next class we will begin Siu Pau Kuen, the Small Leopard Hand Form."


Ziyou and the class brought their hands together, right fist covered by left open hand, turned, and bowed to the Temple, then turned and bowed students-to-master. Discipline broke as the cubs all ran off in different directions, grouping off for play.


"Come, Ginsa," Ziyou said as he strapped his Wardancer's saber to his back and wrapped his favored long chains around his forearms, "Master Shang Xi wishes to speak with me. I'll race you back to the temple!"

 

[Soarotu]

"All I have left are memories"


The wrist of the dwarven painter twisted sending the fine hairs of her brush breathing down the taught canvas.


"His eyes. Red as the flame of a minion's fists."





A deeper red would capture the pure rage, but looking down at her scarred leg, Algetha remembered the imp of Elandriann's smirking face as he ravaged her, then added a touch of a lighter yellow for balance.


"His hair was as long as mine, but brown. Every strand at home in the caresses of the wind, flowing from side to side whenever he'd decide to strike"





This was all part of his plan, she realized, to torment her for knowing him. He didn't care about describing his quarry. If the lineage had any truth to it, all he'd basically have to do is look at a reflection. Unless he didn't know. It was possible the Gelthurin never told him who he really was.


Algetha felt Elandriann slowly pulling her soul from her body. It felt odd, like her bones themselves were being crushed and yet like they should have moved that way in the first place.


"You live so long as a brush falls upon skin"


His eyes. Green, and piercing, as though they were burrowing into her very brain, they made Algetha feel oddly at peace. Elandrianns gaze turned towards the painting, half finished, but even the outline drew a striking figure.





"The resemblance is breath taking. Thank you woman, the service of your brushes will no longer be required"


Releasing his hold on her, Algetha fell to the ground, gasping for air and looking 20 years older. She put her hands out to steady herself. but was unable to move fast enough. Algetha sputtered as her body rolled over, near life-less. Her left eye had collided with the corner of a desk as she fell. She tried to mutter but her jaw was dislocated. Elandriann leaned in close to whisper in the dwarves ear.





"Don't die yet, this was just the fun part, you still need to tell me where he is"


Hardly able to breathe, barely able to speak, Algetha coughed out her dying words.


"E's sdead"


An Imp seated just above where Algetha had fallen, on the very corner of the table she had just hit, reared his head back and laughed.





"rRahahaha- he's DEAD!"





Elandriann turned slowly to face the imp.


"Your master is not dead. He yet lives, somewhere in Kalimdor. And I will find him"





"Yeah, yeah ngrrrr go already!"


As Elandriann walked over the corpse of the once lively painter, her body became still, hinting that perhaps somewhere in the afterlife she was making art for the gods. And then Grimpit the Imp jumped on her head.


"I am coming, father"

 

[Soarotu]

“Is he dead father?”


The young boy poked at the still body with a stick he’d found nearby. The boy found the body during an early morning hike up The Long Wash with his father. As usual the young boy found sticking to the path boring, and took off to explore closer to shore to look for shells or other shiny objects that may have been discarded by the Sea.


“Hamling! Get back! Don’t touch him!” Came his father’s booming voice, as he crashed through the underbrush to investigate his son’s findings.


Hamming felt the large hands of his father swiftly moving him away from the body. Jarrod took a moment to give a cursory glance at the body, searching for hidden daggers or blades. Auberdine wasn’t exactly the worst place to grow up but being a coastal city on Kalimdor, one was accustomed to seeing bandits, even pirates on the odd occasion, but there was something different about this body. Something was drawing Jarrod to it. Even before his son had called for him, he had felt it, lingering over the breeze; The aura of powerful magic.


A skilled Mage himself, Jarrod felt uneasy as he moved toward the body, now approaching with extreme caution. The man’s clothes were tattered, possibly from some sort of fight on a ship, perhaps? There was a wrapped wound on his right hand and the blood had fully soaked through the linen, which was now swirling with the tides ebb and flow. He bore no recognizable insignia, nor did he have markings or tattoos on his skin. Moving him from side to side, it seemed to Jarrod the man had nothing of any sort of material possession. Just then, the washed up man raised his arm and emitted a faint moan.


“Sir can you hear me?” Jarrod “Friend, are you alive” Jarrod spoke again in Darnassian. Jarrod looked up at Hamling. “Run back to town, grab your Uncles and tell them to bring one of their fishing nets and two strong poles. Go boy, hurry!”


As Hamling rushed back to do as his father said, the man on the beach coughed, retched, then gasped for air. Giving him space to breathe and collect himself, Jarrod again tried to question him.


“Sir, can you speak”


“Yes” The young man coughed “Barely”


“Do you remember your name?”


The brow of the young man furrowed as he thought deeply for a moment.


“N…. Ehn…. Ethelodrinn”


Jarrod waved his two brothers, who were now bounding over with materials for a stretcher.


“Well, Ethelodrinn, it is a pleasure. I am called Jarrod, welcome to Auberdine.”

 

[Serious Retail]

The knight was seated on a stone bench in one of Dalaran's many lavish gardens. Magic allowed for the illusion of serenity, but anyone with wits would know that plants in the sky could never truly be natural. He was watching a group of children playing a game where they were passed around a ball, trying not to let the person who was 'it' get ahold of the ball. 'It' was a small human boy, no older than eight. Antares envied them.


Most children had lost one or both of their parents, and yet they still had relatively little comprehension of just how dark the times were. Antares stood up to leave, and when he did so the boy who was 'it' noticed and ran over to him. The child's small chest rose and fell in time with deep, winded breaths. He was clearly one of the more energetic of the group. "Wait, please..." he gasped. "...Sir." The boy bent over to rest his hands on his knees, gradually catching his breath before continuing. "Before you leave I wanted to ask you a question. If that's okay. Sir."


The child's energy and demeanor reminded Antares, like so many things did, of his brother. It made the knight smile. "Of course, lad," he said while folding his hands over his lap, looking down at the boy. "Ask away."


The boy nervously chewed his lip for a moment before speaking again. "The fist on your chest and shield. I wanted to know what it means. It looks really awesome. Does it mean that you fight bad guys with your bare hands?" The other children were now watching the exchange curiously from a distance, whispering among themselves.


Antares chuckled. "No, else this would be an odd thing to carry around." He patted the sword hilt at his hip.


"Oh. Right." said the boy, smacking himself dramatically in the forehead.


"It is the fist of Tyr, the symbol of the Order of the Silver Hand, which birthed the first paladins in our world." A faint memory whispered in the his mind.

Do you, Antares Thrask, vow to uphold the honor and codes of the Order of the Silver Hand?



​

"Can I join!?" the boy suddenly asked. "Uhm... well not now. I mean later, when I'm older. I wanna be a hero someday."

Do you vow to walk in the grace of the Light and spread its wisdom to your fellow man?

​

Antares blinked away the memory and focused on the boy's determined face. Softly shaking his head, he answered. "The Silver Hand is no more. I wear this old armor only because I have trouble letting go of the past."

Do you vow to vanquish evil wherever it be found, and protect the weak and innocent with your very life?

​

The boy's voice cut through the memory once again. "But I can still be a paladin someday, right? Like you?"


The words stung more than a little, for more reasons than one. The smile quickly faded from the old knight's face. What was he to say? 'Of course' would be a flat-out lie, and 'No, you are not likely to live long enough to ever be anything more than you are now' would be true, but would devastate the child.


Is this what it is to be a hero now? he wondered bitterly. The power to grant only lies or despair?


There was a time when Antares would have seen a third choice; a time not so long ago. He was no longer that man. That man could find a way to tell the boy the truth and somehow still inspire courage and hope. That man was a true paladin, but was now as dead as Tirion Fordring or any other paladin that Antares had once known.


He walked away without another word, leaving the boy's question unanswered to walk the streets of Dalaran alone as guilt and shame began to once more feast upon his doubts.

 

[Achirae]

Master Xi's message indicated that he was to meet with "honored dignitaries from a distant land". This was more than a little strange, considering that, save himself, the only non-Pandarens to have come to this place were the refugees. Ziyou and Ginsa parted ways at the temple gates, Ginsa having won their contest by a narrow margin. Ziyou headed quickly to the dormitories to wash up and dress himself to receive the dignitaries.


After dressing, he took stock of himself in a corner mirror. His robes consisted of a long open-sleeved tunic and loose pants, cinched at the ankles. Both were heavy black silk, trimmed in gold. His conical hat hung at his back by a leather thong around his neck. His saber was slung over his right shoulder, and his chains were woven and silent under his sleeves. He is not a large man, but is well-muscled from his years of conditioning. The robes do little to conceal his physique.


He arrived at the Grand Hall to find Master Xi with four others. Two he recognized as the chosen representatives of the refugees: Kuruk Oakshout, Tauren patriarch, and Katwyn Brightsteel, dwarven matron. "Ah!" Master Xi exlaimed as Ziyou entered, "Here he is now! Wardancer Suǒliàn de Zìyóu, it is my honor to introduce you to Baltar Hassel, High Mage of the Kirin Tor."


Baltar's turquoise and purple robes scintillated in the light, and seemed to slowly flutter, as though touched by an unfelt breeze. He bowed slightly at his shoulders. "Wardancer," he acknowledged. Ziyou brought his hands together and bowed slightly at the waist.


Master Xi turned to the last individual, a large, dusky-skinned Night Elf, well-armored in green plate over black chain mail. Across his back he carried massive, but elegant, greatsword. "This," Master Xi continued, "is Maaldryn Ravenshade, Warrior of Darnassus that was."





Ziyou's and Maaldryn's eyes looked each other over, evaluating, and finding each other competant. They each offered the other a respectful nod.


Hassel and Ravenshade quickly caught Ziyou up on the conversation. They described the events in Lordaeron, of Kel'Thuzad's poisoning the grain, creating legions of undead, of Prince Arthas claiming Frostmourne and eventually becoming the Lich King, and of the Lich King's undead forces spreading across the world, overrunning the lot of it, growing in number with each living being slaughtered. They explained that most of the survivors have gathered in Dalaran, forming the Argent Bastion, to fight against Arthas's hordes. Some of this Ziyou had already heard from Kuruk and Katwyn, both of whom were nodding and muttering in confirmation as the story was told. This undead onslaught was the reason they'd had to abandon their homes, flee for their lives across the sea, with chance being their only savior when they caught sight of the Wandering Isle, newly revealed when the mists had dissipated.


When they were finished, Master Xi explained further. "The world has become so far out of balance," he intoned, "and those few of us who remain must stand together if we are to push back the growing darkness. Suǒliàn de Zìyóu, I would ask that you join our guests when they return to Dalaran. I will send an envoy to begin to establish ties with them, but I would like you to evaluate their fighting forces and see how we can best supplement their efforts. Mutual defense must be a priority in this partnership."


"Of course, Master," Ziyou replied, "I will return in an hour, once I've gathered my belongings and reassigned my classes." He bowed to the room, and departed.


One hour and four minutes later, the swirling blue energies of Baltar's teleport spell faded, and Ziyou looked out over a city far different than any he'd seen the like of before...

 

[Innuendo]

Arcwell


https://s32.postimg.org/en18y2unp/Arcwell_Intro.jpg



​

“Thirty two copper bolts and three bronze tubes.”


A commanding Gnome shouted at no one in particular, and yet, at his request a burly black haired Dwarf dropped his tools and abandoned his project momentarily to race out of the crowded workshop in search of the needed reagents. What used to be the regal Sunreaver’s Sanctuary in the magocratic city of Dalaran had been hollowed out and converted into a makeshift workshop, now home to all manner of mechanical and magical machinations. On one wall a small team of Dwarves and Orcs labored on salvaging valuable components from the desecrated shell of some monstrous engine, brought into the sanctuary via portal by a handful of the few magi that remained. On the opposite wall a slender female Draenei directed some of her kin as they labored on a crystalline structure, its pink and blue crystals humming harmoniously in their suspended orbit. At the center of the sanctuary, a small elevated wooden table sat, strategically positioned such that whomever sat at it could see all the other projects and workers from the vantage point it offered. Atop the stool at the workstations side was an eccentric Gnome, Arcwell Spackleworth. He had an assertive presence, not unusual for a Gnome, but it was more than just a sheer force of personality, Arcwell had always been seen as a leader in his community and certainly maintained the composure of one. In his youth, Arcwell struck truegold with the discovery of what he coined, the ‘Spackle Process’. The first to unearth the invaluable Spackle Root, a dense but porous plant on a small island of Kalimdor, he unlocked the shockingly potent restorative properties of the root which quickly became the cornerstone of what would become his pharmaceutical empire. Obvious monetary gains propelled the young gnome into the spotlight, granting him unparalleled wealth and prestige, but it was short-lived. It would only be a few short months of his well-earned prominence that the whole of Azeroth would feel the bitter sting of the Lich King’s wrath. He had always dreamed that one day the Horde and Alliance would be able to put aside their petty differences, but not like this.


“Here ye are lad, need me tae get yer an..”


Baerul Ramcask attempted to inquire, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with an oily rag as he placed a small crate of bolts and tubes beside the table, careful to not disturb Arcwell’s blueprints that lay strewn across the table. Strong, eager and capable, Baerul was an asset to the salvaging operation, but positively ordinary by comparison to his gnomish associate.


"Eeik!"





Enraptured by his work, Arcwell looking up from his work, startled as his gaze met the dwarfs. Arcwell's eyes seemed gigantic, almost insect-like magnified by the large goggles on his face. The gnomish headset looked as though it weighted as much as him, with all the tools, lenses and lights protruding from every possible anchor the piece had to offer, it was a wonder how he remembered what each one was for, but of course, he did. Before the Dwarf could even finish his question,


“Yes, Yes! A mithril casing, and a, ugh..”


Hands fumbling through pages upon pages of schematics, Arcwell traced a steady finger along the center of a blueprint until it stopped at a complex mess of scribbles and hard lines.


“A gyrochronatom! If you please Baerul.”


“Wee problem there lad, we dinnae ‘ave any left. Ye took tae last one yesterday.”


Arcwell blinked a few times silently, the lenses over his eyes spun in place before abruptly flipping to the back of his head. The absence of the glass revealed the grease stains on the sides of his face from where he had been massaging his temples in contemplation. A wide grin spread across his face as his eyes lit up,


“I’ll make one then! Shouldn’t be too hard to find the gold and silver needed for a gyrochonatom here in Dalaran. Thanks for your assistance Baerul.”


Arcwell gave the burly Dwarf a gentle tap on the shoulder before hoping down from his chair. Baerul nodded in recognition, resuming the tedious work of salvage duty in hopes of finding the casing , while Arcwell bound through the workshop towards the large doors exiting the Sunreaver’s Sanctuary.

 

[Soarotu]

Arthilios: A Brief Prologue

​

The first thing Arthilios witnessed when he opened his eyes, was the almighty power of fire.


Arthilios closed his eyes.


The heat could still be felt. The visceral rage of it. The purity of it.


Then the memories came creeping in. Images of his wife and daughter. Someone else now, a Man resembling him but younger. Someone else's memory.


Arthilios opened his eyes.


The fire surrounded him. It licked at his feet, and whipped at his eyebrows.


Arthilios closed his eyes.


The memories returned instantaneously, though they now were his again. His mentoring of the young Night Elf. Memories of Magic.


I am a mage.


Taking a deep breath a calmness overtook Arthilios, and he found the fire start to lose its effect.


What was once barren rock, scorching his knees and palms, Arthilios now found to be smooth and calming to touch.


Arthilios opened his eyes.


Expecting to see that he had doused the fire with some sort of arcane reaction, Arthilios was surprised to find he had actually just gathered the flames that had previously surrounded him into a ball, and was now controlling it.


At the flex of his hand it expanded, and at the cold of his gaze it waned.


Arthilios closed his eyes, and the fire went out.


I am so much more.

 

[Ozyman]

Morrath stood there, fists balled so tight the nails on his fingers dug into his palms. The fire that coursed through his veins ran up his hands, past vision into his sleeves. He paced around slowly, his footsteps leaving singed outlines upon the stone. The faceless laughter continued echoing from no discernible point of origin. He looked up, down and around. He could come at any moment. Morrath pulled his sleeve up and waived a hand in a fluid yet complicated gesture as an eerie purple glow emanated from his fingertips, releasing the light with a snap caused the light to bend and focus on a point not to far from him. As the streaks of amethyst energy crackles and snares together, it flourishes to reveal a voidwalker stretching as it comes to life, shaking itself from the bonds of the nether.


"Command m-" It begins to speak, only to have it's voice wrung from it's very neck. It's throat was tight, alabaster eyes flaring wide as the purple energy began to siphon from it's amorphous form, running a wisping trail straight to the open and beckoning palms of Morrath. Soon without a body to hold it, the shackles of the drained demon fell to the floor with an echoing clang.


Morrath then reaches into a pouch at his side and draws out a handful of small crystals, each hummed with an eldritch wail that was faint but undeniable whenever beams of light struck through the impossibly straight surface, but never shone through the other side. The light only seemed to get lost in the depths of the crystals, sunk in the blackness that swirled with a thick violet smoke. He through the handful into the air, using hand gestures to point at one and then to a destination. The crystals flew into place without missing a beat, creating a rough circular shape. The remaining flew snapped into place over his head, static in their new position.


Just then, ethereal hands that were summoned from nothing reached out to thin air and tugged hard, ripping a whole in the fabric of reality. They pull the whole wider and wider still, until from the vortex on the other side, a cloven hoof emerged. The ominous laughing focused on this dimensional breach as a gigantic form stepped through the abyss. He stood roughly twenty feet tall, skin a deeper scarlet than running blood. His eyes lit with toxic green light, in his hands a heavy staff that no human could wield. He stood proud with a sneer on his face, his wings flared, horns dipping around his head to coil back forwards, pointing to whomever his gaze fell upon. "I am Khezzardun, and you invoke your death. Puny servant. Wretched Dog."


Morrath sneered and grabbed the air around him as though it were heavy weights. With great effort he pulls the air down as though it were marked with heavy handles in a forward sweeping motion, and his flaming aura dissipates. The Demon waits for a few seconds, and when the action is met with no reward, he laughs heartily to himself. "Fool. You have already burned your energy on spell, only to have it amount to nothing? You are a crazed man. You gamble with everything you have, only to lose."


"That is where you are wrong. I have already lost everything." He looks over to the crystals splayed out in the manner of his choosing, and they began to spin, accelerating until they were no longer discernible. They shattered due to their speed, fracturing into dust and reforming themselves into a black gate, completing the spell from the other side of the dimension. Through the gate many others in black cloaks walked until they created a perimeter around the altar. Blood Elf, Gnome, Orc, Worgen, Troll, Dwarf, Undead, Human, and Goblin Warlocks all taking rehearsed positions. "However, we the Black Hand are forty warlocks strong, and we will thresh your soul from your wretched body. It is such an overdue harvest-"


"Your useless measure bore me." Khezzardun interrupts the warlock, cutting him off at the pass. "Enough. Time for you to die." In his focus, the demon failed to see the sky above him before to flare red at random intervals, each flash accelerating as the events became more frequent. The warlocks around him then beg to chant simultaneously, overtones of magic begin the first steps of manifestation. He points to fingers towards Morrath, the only warlock standing on the altar.


A torrent of green flame spews from the demon's fingertips, dousing him in agony.

 

[Serious Retail]

Antares stood in the great chamber of the Violet Citadel, headquarters of what remained of the Kirin Tor. To him it felt like it had been hours of arguing with the blood elf archmage that stood before him, though he knew it was more likely only minutes. Debating with users of the arcane was an activity he had grown tired of years ago, so much so that time seemed to stand still when he found himself trapped in such confrontations now. The tensions between the Kirin Tor and Silver Hand went back a very long time.


"As I said before: you do not know what you ask. This is a thing that simply cannot be done."





"Cannot? To me it seems less a matter of ability and more a matter of will. It can be done, but it will not be done."


The mage's features hardened at the implication of Antares' words, his glowing green eyes narrowing their gaze upon the knight with obvious disapproval. "You overstep. The Kirin Tor recognized Tirion Fordring as a fitting leader to follow, but that does not mean we will bow to any paladin now that he is gone. You have no right nor even privilege to storm into the Citadel like this and make demands on things about which you know nothing."


Antares closed the distance between himself and the mage and jabbed him in the chest with an accusatory, plated finger. "If maintaining control is so obviously important to you wizards, you are welcome to it. However, I will not leave until I believe you are doing all you can to keep Dalaran and our people safe. Tell me, how does this plan not accomplish that better than we are now? My idea would make us less vulnerable to sea and air assaults. Do not dismiss me purely because it was not an idea that came from one of your own." Antares paused a moment and bowed his head in a humble gesture. "I implore you."


The sin'dorei mage let out a tired and deep sigh. "I apologize, Sir Thrask. I will bring this before the others, but you must understand; it is easier said than done to move Dalaran over the Maelstrom. It is not necessarily as safe as you might think. You are talking of a place born of wild and chaotic energies. Moving the city there may affect the crucial magics in place that keep us in the air. I would not classify the city being swallowed by the sea as 'safer' than it is now. The scourge may come for us--perhaps even soon, but we stand a better chance fighting them here than doing so while we struggle to keep the city in the air. Still, I will confer with the others and send you their decision."


The mage turned and left Antares to sit with that. The frustration left the knight as he considered the elf's words. He had not known there would be such a risk in moving to the Maelstrom--perhaps it was true that he knew nothing of such affairs and so should keep out of them; he simply felt so restless and useless spending his time reminiscing and wandering about the city. At least with Tirion leading parties into the deathlands there was often a sense of purpose about the city.


It was only then that Antares noticed the group that stood quietly upon the teleportation pad on the other side of the room.


He had no idea how long they had been there. At the front of their group stood a human mage and a night elf with a greatsword upon his back. Behind the two of them was another human with curious-looking armor, who stood among several creatures the likes of which Antares had never seen. He could not take his eyes off of them.

 

[Innuendo]

Geth

​

“AAUGH!”


Letting loose a cry of tormented pain was all that Geth felt he could do, he didn’t care if his cry would wake some nearby slumbering beast that might make a meal out of him. Truthfully, the thought of some dire wolf or rabid thistle bear emerging from the hedges that surrounded him almost gave him pleasure as he thought about the bliss he might feel to unburden himself of this accursed affliction. This sensation so morbid and bleak was not one he was accustomed to, it felt wrong.


This. Pulling his cloth tunic down over his ruined chest Geth attempted to cover the wound. Isn’t me.


Mustering what little will remained within him he continued forward, determined to at very least discern where he was, and perhaps how he got here. His newfound resolve spurred a memory within him, a memory of a time before all this depravity, a time when he was among the living.

______________________________________________________________________

​

The small match cracked and sizzled as it ignited, its small but lively flame danced down the wooden stick towards the raw and muddy fingers that held it. In the palm of that same hand was a simple well-used wooden pipe packed with a generous portion of some brownish green herb. With nimble fingers Geth held the pipe firmly in his grip with his small digit, and lit the herbs with the match held between his index and middle digits before flicking the match away, extinguishing the flame as he did so.


“How about you find us some food, and I’ll get a fire going. Sound like a plan Vasco?”


Vasco took a step forward and rubbed his wet nose against Geths worn overalls, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth as he panted from the heat. Smiling weakly as he let out a single throaty chuckle, Geth vigorously scratched at his Mastiffs jaw before rising from the tree stump he sat upon.


“Yes, yes. I’ll get right to it boy. Now you, Hunt.”


At the command word the loyal dog fired off into the wilderness like a round from a hand cannon in search of whatever game it could find. Usually returning with a flightless tickbird or a large hare, the catch would make a fine stew, and surely be enough to last the two until evening. Geth made his way back to the tree he was laboring on, his large steel axe still resting against the mighty oak where he had left it. The tree was not the largest nor the smallest in the wood, but it was straight, perfect for planks to add to the small home he was building in the foothills to the east. His large callused hand wrapped around the thick shaft of the axe, he would need his trusty tool to chop up some kindling for the fire.


“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, I’m not done with you yet.”


He spoke to the tree as thin wisps of smoke poured from the corners of his mouth, his eyes looking down to the large gashes he had opened up in the tree moments before he had taken a well-deserved rest. Ready and able, Geth made his way towards a small stockpile of logs he had gathered a few days earlier, they would make find kindling for their fire. Reaching down to procure the first piece of timber, he heard a rustling from the hedges behind him.


“Vasco? Is that you boy?”


The noise grew louder as he stood there peering into the dark of the wood, grip on his axe tightening. A moan came first, followed shortly by the figure. It stalked forwards, not bothering to move branches away from his path, just barreling through the thick overgrowth into the clearing where Geth stood. Its eyes unfocused, face sunken and bloody. Almost twitching as it hobbled, its mouth chattered in an unnerving way, as if it was hungry – starving – ravenous.


“But this isn’t..”


The memory stared to fade as Geth returned to reality. The lush green of the forest around him faded to the black grim and deathly despair he began to recall. There was no longer an axe in his hand or a pipe in his mouth, though he could almost taste its lingering tang. His worn work clothes replaces by the torn tattered rags, and the smell..

______________________________________________________________________

​

The smell brought him right back, though he wished it hadn’t. Everything was back to the cruel way it was, except the thing was still walking towards him. The rotted face was discolored and caked with blood, and flesh was falling off the left cheek, barley hanging on by loose flaps of skin. The teeth that weren’t missing or broken were all crooked, and those soulless eyes, they were, familiar.





I’ve seen this face before.


Terror gripped him as Geth stood in place, frozen once more.





From the pit.

 

[Achirae]

(Ziyou is now wearing his war armor. Black heavy silks, trimmed in gold, with red armored plates tied to chest, back, arms, and legs, allowing him a maximum of mobility while sacrificing little in protection. Armored boots and a cone helmet complete the armor. His saber is again slung over his right shoulder, and his chains are visibly wrapped around his forearms. Everything is fitted in such a way as to ensure silence of movement.)


It had been a long time since Ziyou had seen any human cities, and even then, they'd been nothing like this! All around him, tall towers soared overhead. Luminous crystals hovered in the air to provide light at night. Archways and bridges connected the towers one to another. He'd heard tales in his youth of Dalaran, but they'd done little to prepare him for the wonder and majesty that the reality of this city boasted.


Around him in the courtyard, he saw small groups of people, mostly magic-users by the looks of them, mostly going about their business. Some had caught sight of the new arrivals and openly stared at his strange garb and at the three Pandaren that stood with him as diplomatic envoy.


His own attention was drawn by a somewhat loud, obviously exasperated voice, belonging to an armored human bearing the sigil of a silver gauntlet. He was arguing with a human mage, who was politely countering the armored man's frustration with a mien of calm. To Ziyou's insight, however, the mage's calm seemed to be more patronizing than polite.


High Mage Hassel guided the Pandaren envoy off to the side to introduce them to some of the other mages, but Maaldryn held Ziyou back. "You will want to meet this human, once he's realized he'd have an easier time finding a desert-dwelling murloc than convincing a mage of a good idea regarding matters of magic."


Sure enough, when the mage finally turned and went about his business, the armored man looked both frustrated and pensive, the mage having said something that may have struck true with him. He was about to walk off when he took notice of Ziyou and the Pandarens. Maaldryn lead Ziyou to meet him.


"Antares! Come, I've a new ally to introduce you to!" Maaldryn greeted the man. "Sir Antares Thrask, this is... I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm not sure how to pronounce your name correctly..."


"I am the Wardancer Suǒliàn de Zìyóu, at your service. You may address me as Ziyou*, or Wardancer Ziyou," he said, bowing at his shoulders, hand-covering-fist. "My brothers and I have come from the Wandering Isle, the land called Pandaria, to offer what aid and cooperation we may offer in the face of the crisis that faces us all. It is my honor to join you in this fight, and to report to my Masters what military needs we can help meet."


*Author's Note: Ziyou would be pronounced (zhee-yow'), the "zh" sounding like a buzzing "sh".