Wrathgate Wednesday: The Fight Continues

Welcome to another edition of Wrathgate Wednesday, the Wildfire Riders ficced event surrounding the cinematic where Bolvar Fordragon and Saurfang the Younger lead their forces against The Lich King. Last week, the Horde joined the fray. This has little impact on the Riders’ hold on the line: Four members of the Horde guild, Noxilite are already fighting side by side with Tarquin’s band of ne’er-do-wells.

This week, one of the lynchpins of the line, Jolstraer Taborwynn takes on all comers. Rashona, a Tauren Druid that has a history with the Riders, is holding the line with him. Behind Jolly and Rashona, Laurus and Haemon, two Riders, deal with the threats that they did not see coming.

Jolly

That "salute" is for you.

The roaring, gaping maw behind them? They couldn’t quite be arsed, by that point.

Into the valley they came, with fierce, ancient horns bellowing the call of their old gods. Through the shattered line of unliving flesh they came, wild axes whirling and spears hurling through the beginnings of snow.

“I’LL EAT YOUR HEART!” The Vrykul foremost in front of Jol bellowed against the wind, axe coming up in his hands in a mad overhand strike.

“YEH’LL FUCKIN’ CHOKE ON ME STEEL!” Taborwynn bellowed back, and he and the others on the line rushed forward to meet the towering foes. In amongst the Vrykul the mercenaries waded, slinging steel and wielding their specialties with deadly proficiency. Jol didn’t even break stride when his sword tore the legs out from under the Vrykul that had issued the challenge, and the angry force of th Light shot out from his shield and tore through the chest of the one behind it.

The Vrykul had size and strength on the Riders, but the Riders had inherent brutality in their favor. Jol spun through the second, tearing through the belly and then hacking into the neck with willful abandon. The third came through the breathing snow, wielding a cruel barb of a sword and a massive, beaten shield. Jol set his feet as the towering bastard came at him, shield and sword ready. The Vrykul bellowed in his native tongue, and his sword came down.

Steel clanged, sharp and crisp. Taborwynn’s sword was raised, parrying the blade on his own. Vrykul strength bared down with all its might, but the old paladin stood his ground, teeth bared and one eye glaring back up defiantly as his sword arm remained true. The two bitter combatants remained locked in their test of wills while Rider and Vrykul alike spilled blood all around them. In Jol’s gut a fierce roar was rising, as his arm began to tremble just barely under the force. It came out in a snarl, then a growl, then a bellow as inch by inch the bound blades moved away from him. His shield armed moved back ever so slowly, then slammed into the Vrykul with all his strength, simultaneously slinging the blade away and thrusting. Jol’s own blade was thwarted by a shield, and the pair danced an old soldier’s dirge.

Back and forth the pair hammered, searching for weakness and finding nothing but bare chances and hard shields in their paths. Cuts and flashes of blood appeared on the exposed skin of each, and they kept at each other like rabid dogs hungry for that blood. A slash, and a spin, and another cut. A resounding thud as sword met shield again, and this time the Vrykul bound Jol’s blade against his shield with his own weapon, yanking it from the Paladin’s grasp. Jol rebounded back with shield up, and as the Vrykul opened himself up for the finishing attack, the wily old bastard’s service dagger flashed out from his belt sheathe, and plunged into the Vrykul’s groin to the hilt. A merciless yank upwards, and Jol cut a ragged path through pelvis and midsection, tearing out the side of the abdomen in a sickening half-moon. The Vrykul clutched at his side, dropping his shield but still swinging blindly with that cruel sword. Jolly avoided another swing, moving to the side and behind and burying the dagger into the side of the knee, sending the Vrykul sprawling.

Jolly took his time picking up his sword, grabbing ahold of the Vrykul’s helm and slinging it off of him. THe Vrykul’s head fell, exposing the neck, and he chanted in some ancient tongue as Jol’s sword rose and fell to finish the deed.

More Vrykul came. And Jol Taborwynn met them head on. His only hope was that he and the others could last against them long enough for someone to hold their flank, or the Riders would be done for from a two-front skirmish in the greater battle of Angre’thar.

—
Rashona

Mother. They defile Your body, murder Your children. Help me fight them. Power rushed through Rashona, warm and familiar as her own blood, and she leapt forward in a tawny blur.

The world was different through a cat’s senses, all scent and sound and the tug of air on her whiskers. Sight was distant and unimportant until you saw movement, there, there, where a new-fallen ghoul was dragging itself back up out of the snow. She raced toward it, claws sheathed for silence until she struck. Lich King or no, a body ripped to rags of flesh would pose no threat to the ones she protected.

She dove into one skirmish after another, weaving among knots of struggling bodies, creeping up to spring on an abomination that towered over her. Her muscles tired and her fur grew slick with gore and worse, but it was a distant annoyance, lost in the need to balance savagery and precision. She’d long since been separated from Linedan, and had to trust his strength to keep him alive, trust the humans not to turn on Davien and Corspilla. Be safe- It wasn’t a prayer; there was no time for prayers.

She could hear shouts, curses in a dozen different languages, and ignored them. Warcries were for those who needed words to fight; for Rashona, the heart of battle was silence. Then she heard a thundering bellow that might have been Linedan. Her head whipped around, and the geists were on her, tumbling down the rocky slope in a jittering parody of a waterfall’s power. Almost her match in strength and agility, and rushing at her in a cascade of fluttering rags and snatching claws-

Mother!

That was a prayer, and it was answered. Her body grew taller, thicker, dark fur stretching like armor where there had been fluid grace a moment before. The black bear raked her claws across empty air and roared.

Come to me!

–
Laurus

Laz is the bloke with the funny hat. To his right his Fells, to her right, their adopted daughter, Precosia

To the east, the mountain veered upward steeply in a solid wall of white. On their left, the slope was more gentle, descending in a smooth arc for perhaps forty feet before straightening itself out and framing the southeast quarter of the battle line. This corner was barren, save several snow drifts ahead which currently served as a method of crude cover. Their crests reached perhaps to Laurus’ elbows when standing tall; useful for obscuring vision but not much else.

He had picked this spot because it was, in his estimation, the most remote end of the field. The relative openness of the area couldn’t be avoided, but he was sufficiently distant enough to whip up jets of angry fire on the enemy host at minimal personal risk. Haemon had remained at his side, intently focused on the unfolding drama playing out below. Spell after spell blossomed in the broad, four fingered hands of a treant. The druid’s bark seemed entirely impervious to the cold. Laurus almost fancied he saw him sweating from exertion, although he was not sure that was possible in his current form. For his own part, Drachmas had to rely on his black robes and repeated cantrips of warmth to stave off the wintry air.

Laurus had never seen anything quite like this in his lifetime. The brutal scope of the event, the cacophony of screams and the waxing tide of blood was all very overwhelming. Somehow, he also thought it oddly euphoric: an easy fallacy for an observer far from the fray. He stood at ease, signature staff drawn and planted into a small circle where the snow had melted, casually conjuring death like some child might stomp on insects. A savage cackle echoed off the mountainside as another bright flash lit up the snow.

“Enjoying yourself?”, muttered Haemon dryly.

“Heh, hah! What, aren’t you?” His attention was squarely forward, still giggling with girlish glee as he watched a ring of smoldering undead clear the recent blast area.

“A healer’s job is to keep people alive, and in a conflict like this, I am bound to fail at some point. It is a rather depressing state, and as I am not given to the sorts of dramatic displays of power you are, people will only know I am here when I do fail.”

“Depressing? Stop being so bloody sentimental.” Laurus snorted derisively in reply and dropped his arms. “There’s no room for being depressed out here. Far as I can tell, everyone that matters is still alive. More importantly, we still are, and we haven’t even–”

No sooner than this did the ground commence a violent quake. Laurus lost his balance and stumbled to his knees, narrowly saved from falling prone by a single hand bracing against the earth. Haemon, stuck in a much more steadfast form, merely sighed. “See, this is what happens when you open your big fat mouth. You prove me right.”

“I didn’t even finish! What have you got to be right about?!” None of his jocular anger was lost despite the altered state of affairs. Nevertheless, Laurus began to mentally roll over the incantation of invisibility. More so an act of comfort than a consideration; he held on to the vague hope that if all the world died on this battlefield, he might still survive. The escape wouldn’t do much good for Haemon if he had to use it, of course, but there were no heroes here. It didn’t matter much to him if that idiot druid bought it, no more than anyone else.

Only moments after he spoke, what could only be described as a gateway to the abyss burst open atop the central hill. The spiders, lords of the underworld, reached up their hand and pulled down the pinnacle of the mound, leaving a gaping black void in its passing. One of their Kings emerged, a chittering bulk of horror made manifest. “Looks like company is coming,” commented Haemon as a destabilized siege engine disappeared forever into the darkness below. Shad muttered something sharp in Darnassian that echoed of explicatives. Laurus followed his gaze and immediately understood.”Geists too,” continued Haemon, “they will be overrun if it is not just a few. Anything you can do to plug that hole?”

War cries distracted Laurus from the impending disaster and shifted his focus to the bowelless horde which had appeared on cue to the north.”I’m working on it! Vrykul incoming!”

Laurus focused his energy on a single charging warrior to the rear of the pack and merely snapped his fingers. They could not see what he’d done to him, a sudden convergence of writhing flows which threw themselves on the target like starved leeches. He tried to imagine what the creature might start to feel as its body boiled and burst from the inside out, and vaguely wondered if there’d be any friendlies nearby when it happened. There was no time to spare anything else on the half-giants: if unaddressed, that breach could allow a enfilade of the whole line. He considered his options another half second. That was a truly massive hole, and he was utterly incapable of moving so much rock. The best he could do was cut off any further reinforcements.

The air above the hill’s mouth trembled like some crouched, eager beast before the pounce and then whipped itself into a frenzy, razorblades of ice dancing like motes amidst larger cousins which impaled the ground with thundering force, then dissipated like mist. Those that managed to escape the icestorm unscathed galloped about in a frantic search for its source. Geists are, as a rule, keen scouts. Many yellowed eyes found the pair hidden away on the slope and bounded away with lithe rapidity.

“Oh, shit, shit, shit!” The blizzard immediately ceased, leaving only confused, fluttering snowflakes. Laurus reflexively snapped on his mana shield. With the breach clear again, a second wave was already making its way for what was now the most obvious tactical choice. In response, Haemon melded into his elven form and reached for the sky. “Acting as a distraction helps, I suppose. I am curious, Laurus. If I bring the storm, what kind of blizzard can you get out of that?” Despite the frigid air, a downpour had already begun from the gathering clouds locally overhead. Growling with mounting impatience, Laurus estimated the seconds before the skirmishers would be upon them. “Hurry up with the lightning!”

“I am working on it, and thank you ever so much for your collaboration.” Then came the first blinding streak and the smell of burnt meat. Laurus’ next blizzard overlapped partially with the druid’s fury, lashing to pieces the few geists which didn’t burn or collapse in spasms from the powerful bolts. Grudgingly, he had to admit there was a certain beautiful synergy to it. In just a scant few seconds, the geists were no more.

Both hands rested on his thighs as the noble panted, much like some fatigued mongrel on a hot day. Casting spells of that magnitude was a strain both mentally and physically. Haemon slapped Laurus on the back and hit him with an Innervate which struck like its own bolt of lightning. “All right,” he said, “Now I am having fun.”

“Heh…heh…Glad to hear it, druid.” Laurus stood up and wiped at his mouth when he felt the sweet rush of power course through his veins. He swallowed. A scream cut the air, and he wasn’t sure if it was his or not. All of it happened at once. Pounding undead fists impacted like hammerstrikes on his shield. There was no indication where the geist could have come from, and Laurus found himself stumbling back in panic. The lone attacker was followed by more howls which echoed in all directions, and the enemy was upon them.

Coherency evaded the magus entirely. The only thing he could do to hold on to sanity was keep screaming. Where did these ones even come from? It’d be a gruesome death if the geists did them in, torn apart handful by handful, organs yanked out in front of their eyes. For the first time since the Battle of Angrathar began, Laurus truly felt fear.

“Laurus, here!” A branch stretched out to yank the magus under as much cover as he could provide. “I’ll keep them off, you get rid of them!”

Instinct commanded that he listen to his companion. Drachmas threw himself against the protective bark and refreshed his shield, then blew his assailant’s arm off with an explosion of searing heat. It didn’t stop the monster. He didn’t even bleed, although a bone caked with old blood marked his stump. The other hand continued to lash furiously as three more undead found the pair’s flanks. Laurus’ shield vanished without so much as a sound. Next thing he knew, hot blood sprayed over his lips and burning pain shot down his spine. Their claws had landed on his arm and chest, leaving behind oozing trails of red. It was impossible to frighten him any further now. The insane perspicacity of war finally clicked into place, that heedless will to survive that all beings, all living beings possess.

Haemon immediately wrapped himself as much around his ward as he could, a constant stream of elven consonants marking the breaks between pieces of every mending spell he could think of. None were for himself, despite the claws raking bark from his back. Even as the wounds were healing, Laurus was coming around and gnashing his teeth like some enraged animal. “Die! Die, die, die, die, die…”

Freezing air suddenly took on the shimmering haze of the desert. Two geists to his front fell back in charred heaps as he leered forward, unleashing a cone of unquenchable flame. Crackling lightning surrounded them at once, blast after blast of frenzied arcane force expanding outward in a bright lavender bloom, crushing bones and snapping limbs off like twigs. His litany had by no means ended. It only grew louder as the rage consumed him. Another geist sprung into the air and was tossed aside mid-leap by a swirling vortex of glacial frost. His squadmate’s simultaneous attempt smashed against solid ice. There was a hiss of steam as it melted away in the flash fire of a blast wave which roared and shook the ground.

“Die, die, bastards, die…

Laurus whipped his head around a split second in the thick of it all. He couldn’t resist a fiendish grin in Haemon’s direction. When the chips were down, Laurus was glad as hell to be at his side. Haemon smirked as he closed his eyes for another round of rejuvenation.”We need a breather,” Shad gasped, “Retreat, or finish them?”

“Can your wooden legs keep up with me?” It did not strike Laurus as odd that he’d ask; it simply wouldn’t do if that idiot druid died while he was away.

“Not if you blink all the time,” he purred. “Otherwise, yes.”

At the soonest possible lull, Laurus spun around with that typical shit-eating grin. It flickered and split into four identical copies, just as real and infuriating. The central one disappeared in a pulse of light and started running down the hill into the nexus of the crisis. The pair had a Crypt Lord to kill.

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