Their antipathy stems from a number of interactions with some less-than-savory Belves, and an interesting bit of random RP during BC, when a new Draenei character nearly died to a Blood Elf ambusher.

So share with us: What races does your toon despise–and why!

Naiara Bittertongue

Naiara Bittertongue exists as a series of emotes, drawings and exquisitely timed phonetically spelled swear words. She doesn’t have a class. She has no profession. She does not even have an avatar. She does, however, consume a significant amount of RP. In return, she generates more than her fair share of Bricu/Threnn stories, ideas and vignettes. It should be no surprise, then, that Naiara was a huge factor in how the Bittertongues decided to deal with Arthas. This is how the Bricu prepared for war.

Thenia refused to think of her daughters and her son in law. Both daughters, her no good son-in-law and her nearly-perfect granddaughter had arrived to tell her, in person, that the Highlord had called the banners. The Riders were going to war, which meant her daughters were at risk… Instead, she focused on her still limping husband, who was stubbornly insisted on putting their granddaughter to bed.

“Sit and relax Thenia.” Padraig said, “You worked all day. Besides, I usually put her to bed. You can get her ready when she gets up in the morning.”

She noted that Padraig didn’t mention how Naiara did not want to come near her, or how Naiara fussed when he left the room. She was thankful that Padraig didn’t use the words, “phase, stage or fussy.” He just left it alone. Thenia almost smiled at her husbands kindness.

To keep her thoughts from drifting to Dalaran–and worse–Thenia kept herself busy by sorting through Naiara’s bags. Threnn and Bricu left her: sets of clothes, cloth diapers, homemade snacks and more stuffed animals than any little girl really needed. Each bag was meticiulously packed and ordered, and contained far more than what was necessary for “one last battle.”

At the bottom of the biggest bag, she found a large enevlope. It was addressed to Naiara, not to her, in Bricu’s hand writing. Thenia didn’t need instructions on how to take care of her granddaughter, and as clever as Naiara was, she was still years away from learning her letters. Her son-in-law left her a mystery. A mystery she carried with her to the kitchen, where she made herself some tea. As the kettle boiled, she checked to make sure no one in the house was watching her–a useless precaution given that she could hear Padraig reading a story to Naiara–and steamed the envolpe open.

She took out a collection of letters. Some were short notes, others were multiple page affairs. Some were written in Threnn’s handwriting, some in Bricu’s. All of them were dated. Most were dated for Naiara’s birthday, but Thenia found one with today’s date–a long letter written by Bricu–and read it.

My wee girl,

Your Da.

Thenia folded the letter up and put it back into the envelope. She listened for Padraig or Naiara, but neither was making a sound. For the moment, Thenia was completely alone in her home. She sat in her chair and let herself worry about her family, in the North.

Varenna

Varenna watched helplessly as Illithias lept into the necromancer, her axes swinging in different directions. One axe went into his staff, the other crashed into his skull. Both shattered into pieces. She landed on her feet and kept running. Varenna called after her, but Illithias didn’t turn. She charged, head first, into the mass of skeletons that had regrouped around the shattered staff. Two skeletons reached out for Illithias’ legs, nearly sending her to the ground. She kicked at one, giving her a moment to steady herself, but a moment was all the skeletons needed. The skeletons mobbed around her, once again tearing and pulling at her. Illithas could not get enough room to swing either axe, nor could she bring one up to shield her self from their talons.Varenna waded through the mass, calling up on the light to reduce the skeletons around Illithias to ash. She swung her sword at the ones that got to close. Two she bashed into pieces with her shield. Shortly, she was standing over Illithias. Before Varenna could tell her it was safe, Illithias rolled backward to safety. Then she leapt to her feet and lunged at Varenna.

Threnn and Bricu

Threnn felt the baby kick again as she descended the slope. It was a small comfort–that her baby was still capable of kicking–as she watched the Eye mow down the remaining Vrkyul and Scourge, clearing a path for the Riders. Threnn held her breath as the Red Dragonflight swooped down from the southern edge of the Dragonblight, burning away the Forsaken’s green mists. Threnn’s heart raced as she heard the sounds of battle were replaced by with the screams of the dying. But at the rally point, she was safe. She could breath normally and find away back home, to the Pig and Whistle, to a warm hearth at the Gilded Rose… She stopped the thoughts from taking hold. There were Riders to account for and wounded to care for.

She looked over the assembled Riders, her eyes resting on Annalea and Fingold, and did a quick head count. Two were still missing. Bricu started to pull her towards Annalea and Fingold when Threnn pulled back.

“Varenna.” she said.

“What, yeh don’t see ‘er?” Bricu asked

Threnn scanned the pockets of fighting, praying that the Varenna was not among the ones screaming on the battlefield. Threnn paused briefly while Annalea and Fingold rushed forward to meet them. Threnn took a step forward, away from Annalea’s arms, while she looked for the missing riders.. Then she saw Varenna’s tell-tale glow and the figure that loomed over her. The light reflected off of Varenna’s shield as moved it in time with the axes swirling around her. Varenna was defending herself against Illithias.

To recap: Bricu and Threnn have been ambushed by geists, and while both were fighting valiantly, they were also loosing. The calvary has appeared–mounted on a war bear.

The Wildfire Riders – Uthas by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Threnn
by Uthas, age DEATHKNIGHT

Threnn gasped at the cold air, pulling with all of her might to draw it in and fill the void in her chest. The muscles in her chest were on the edge of giving up, and within her she could feel the pounding of not one, but two hearts in panic. The jagged and bent bits of her armor bit into the ice, halting her slide, and she awkwardly rolled onto her side, shielding her swollen belly from the geists as she struggled to her feet. Once she had her boots under her, the strangling fear did not end. There was no sign of Bricu, only a mix of dark raggety bodies hissing and leaping. She wanted to shout for him, to scream to the Light and deliver its judgement on those hiding him from her, but, her lungs just wouldn’t seem to fill. Sharp pains lanced up her side, and she struggled with the straps to loosen her breastplate. A flash of burnished gold in the sunlight told her where her husband lay, covered in beasts tearing at the metal to find the warm flesh beneath. Threnn found her breath and screamed.

It was not the Light that answered her plea. Death came again for the once dead in the form of a huge armoured bear. The beast’s fur was snowy white where it showed through the coating of dark red and black blood and ichor, and atop it rode the dark reflection of the prayers Threnn had shouted. The voice that had stirred thousands, that had led Azeroth to the brink of hope and the pinnacle of despair before falling years silent now rose again, this time in wrath. The roar coming from the black, shadowed helmet seemed a thousand voices wailing from a place so far away it could only be found in the small places within Threnn, those places that existed where her soul wasn’t quite large enough to fill the space it had been alloted, the empty place of her spirit. And the scream was answered by others, maybe six, seven in number, Threnn couldn’t tell in the confusion. Others that brought a dark tide of their own with them, a wave of cold empty death that rode under the banner of the Unblinking Eye.

The geists were blasted away by these dark riders, six of whom streamed past Threnn, leaving her shaken and nearly alone on a suddenly quiet field of snow. One other remained behind, off of his warbear now, kneeling down over Bricu. Threnn yanked her shield up out of the snow and staggered over to the fallen paladin. As she passed the bear it snarled once and sniffed at her. Uthas straightened and stepped away, letting Threnn slide into his place literally as her legs gave out on the ice. The deathknight spoke, voice a mass of icy tendrils that burrowed into her mind. “He will live.”

Threnn cradled Bricu’s head in her lap, shielding his face from the sun with her shield. Blood covered his face, coming from a large gash in his forehead, and he’d never grow a completely full beard again with the slice along his jaw, but he was breathing. She looked up at the black armoured figured, and then spat at his feet, more blood that spittle. “If you think this changes anything, you’re wrong. Riding in to save the day in one big swoop changes nothing. We know what you are, what you do. You hurt him more than anyone, more than even that damned bloody Prince down there. You’ll never hurt him again! This changes NOTHING! This changes no-”

Threnn stared at her bloody left arm, wondering where her shield had gone. Everything was quiet around her. No shouting, no screams of the dying, no sounds of battle at all. Only a distant ringing in her ears. Her breath steamed out of her mouth in front of her eyes, obscuring the blood dripping from her arm. An immense shadow crept across the snow beside her, covering Threnn and Bricu in darkness. She looked up to find out where the sun had gone, and saw the abomination towering over her. She blinked once, long and hard. There was something about this, something she was supposed to do, some way she should react, but nothing made sense. The remnants of her shield dangled from the chained hook twirling in the beast’s hand. It grinned at her, and she smiled back unconsciously. There was something sweet in its eyes. The eyes of a child. A child. Her hands moved to her belly as the abomination raised its other arm, holding an enormous cleaver. Threnn gasped as the world rushed back to her. The meathook descended.

And was caught by a gauntleted hand. The immensity of the abomination spoke of an unstoppable force, its enormity crushing all its path. And yet, the small man now standing over Threnn and Bricu held its strength in check, one hand to one hand. It was ridiculous in a way. Threnn herself towered over Uthas by nearly half a foot. But, rather than caving in front of the hulking brutality of the fleshforged creature, the deathknight forced it back, slowly but surely. He stepped in to grab the arm holding the chain, and the true test of might began. Threnn watched in horrid fascination, not daring to make a move and end the contest either way. Neither opponent could gain a vantage over the other. The abomination had the size and leverage, but it was as if the deathknight had the will of a thousand men. The struggle was a deadly stalemate of stasis.

“You know the prayer of Brother Cadvan?” Threnn was surprised. Uthas’s voice didn’t sound strained. There was no inflection or emotion in it at all, almost as if the deathknight were holding up a board for a friend to nail onto something, instead of wrestling with an unholy nightmare. Threnn sputtered out an affirmative. “Use it while I hold him in place.” She nodded in affirmation, then realized he couldn’t see her, and then realized she didn’t care. She began the chant, and almost immediately felt the Light answer, like it had been waiting on the edges of the field for this chance to rush in. The golden energy pooled in her, filling her bones and flesh with a liquid fire. The snow around her began to melt, and Bricu moaned, but she was so deeply in the force of the prayer that she could not break out even if she had wanted to try. Threnn raised her bloody arm and pointed it at the abomination, watching as a droplet of blood detached from her arm and vanished in a golden spark before it touched the snow. With a final word she released the power.

There was no light. No hammer of fire from the heavens. No bolt of divine justice that leaped from her fingers. Instead, after a moment, both of the combatants simply started burning. It started as smoke, pouring from the skin and metal of the enmeshed fighters. It rose in streams from cracks and bends in their flesh, followed by small spurts of yellow flame. The abomination began trembling now, and great fat baby tears began running down its face. Uthas forced its arms back until there was a cracking of bone, and the beast screamed as a great bonfire seemed to erupt from its mouth and Uthas’s helmet. Its scream trailed off as the fire consumed its throat and the head. It collapsed into a pile ashes, the armoured knight falling through it, flames still dancing around his armour.

Threnn sat quietly, holding Bricu and staring at the pile of ashes and metal. A lone geist crested a mound of snow near her, but as it prepared to leap the shot of a rifle tore through its head, felling it. The paladin couldn’t see who had fired, but she guessed Ulthanon or Beltar. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from the smoking remnants of the struggle. When the armour started moving it was all she could do not to laugh. Of course. Uthas stood and began to walk toward the great warbear still waiting for him. He staggered at first, one leg seemingly twisted under him, but as she watched it seemed to straighten and strengthen with each step. He swung up onto his bear and ushered it toward her. “Tell him that is now six meals he owes me.”

She watched his back as he rode away, toward the banner of the Eye. She spoke quiet words. “This changes nothing.” Even she could hear the doubt in her voice.

–

Bricu

Warmth spread from the center of his chest down to the tips of his fingers and toes. It jolted him awake, and Bricu saw Threnn smiling over him. For a moment, Bricu forgot the war going on around him. The Death Knight on the snarling white warbear, riding back to the line reminded him of where they were. Threnn’s eyes went back to the Knight. Bricu followed them, and he knew which member of the Eye it was. He started to sit up, grinding his teeth as he reached for his axe. Threnn helped him to his feet, shaking her head. “Not now love. We have to go. All of us.” Bricu hesitated, watching Uthas ride back to the rest of the Eye, holding open a gap that would let the Riders flee to saftey.

Bricu said nothing. He left his axe in the snow, and took Threnn’s hands as she helped him to his feet. Standing, Bricu looked back towards the ruin that was their ballistae perch. There were more bodies of the scourge behind them. The tent used by Genise, Yva and Davien couldn’t be seen anymore. Closer to where they now stood was another mound of scourge, the geists that had separated them. Their bodies were both slashed and burned. Bricu could only imagine what had occurred while he was unconscious.

“Love,” Threnn said, “We have to get moving. Now.”

“Aye.” Bricu said with a nod. He picked up his axe and shouldered it before running down the hill.

Maybe your guild has killed Arthas, maybe you’re making steady progress in ICC or maybe your main RP toon isn’t even in a raid: The end of the Lich King is coming (if it hasn’t already happened). We’ve discussed some of this before, but not in any great detail. I believe with all the Cataclysm news (including the class changes) I think we should not forget the RP in Wrath.   Arthas’ death has clear cut effects on our characters, our characters ABV and the lore.  Let’s not gloss this over because of something new and shiny (and doesn’t have a release date yet).

Without further ado, I have a few questions. Feel free to answer them in the comments or ask your own.

1. How did your guild handle the Death of Arthas?  Did you pick a date or go by the first kill on the server?
2. Where was your toon when Arthas died?
3. What did your toon do/what do you plan (say 3 months or so) on doing after Arthas dies?

1)  The WFRs and a few other guilds on Feathermoon decided to go with patch 3.3.5 as the day Arthas Dies.  On that day, we can start discussing questions 2 and three.

2)  Bricu is in ICC.  I have no idea what happens yet.  I’m struggling with what kind of role he plays vs the Mary Sue aspect of, “I KILLDED TEH LICHER KING! LOL!”

3) After Arthas dies, Bricu will be with other Northerners, planning a Northfolk only celebration.  He’ll also be getting even with anyone who crossed the Riders while Tarquin was away.

So, answer away and ask your own questions!

Haylie Dannis calmly strolled from the front entrance of the Pig and Whistle, jaw set and cheeks flushed. Bright, metallic armor glinted as the sun reflected from the polished steel, glowing an eerie blue as large, Stormwind officer’s cloak upon her shoulders gave brief rise to the passing, end of winter breeze.

“Wail nae,” the moment of clarity she enjoyed as she stepped from the pub was suddenly interrupted by a voice that grated on her mind possibly as much as that of ‘Shakes’ Everett, the stuttering pickpocket from across Old Town.

“Looks t’be as if ye wair enjoyin’ ‘at lunch a’fore Battertongue reckoned t’be a sore-arse at ye.”

Haylie’s jaw set tighter as she slowly glances aside into the shadows. “Erskine…”

Haylie’s armored back slammed into the wall as she gasped, eyes wide in a mix of excitement and fright – and quickly squinted shut as the mouth of her assailant pushed daringly against hers. Plated hands slapped at the leathered shoulders of the slender, short black-haired man upon her, who eventually released her from the kiss, dark eyes set upon hers as he kept the paladin trapped against her office wall.

“Boss wants t’see ye.”

“Shaw?” she asked, blinking and staring at the man in the shadows.

“Albrecht, an I do kin he means t’see ya righ’ nae.” A smiles, visible even in the shadows, rolled across the lips of the agent, white teeth sucking in what light they could to become visible.

“Fine.” She turned away and began her stroll towards the SI:7 building.

Erskine blinked and slipped from the shadows, following behind her. “Jes fine aye? No ‘allo Erskine – lookin’ sharp t’day Erskine – sorry ’bout yair balls, Erskine?!”

“I rarely find need to be apologetic about comedy. Good day, Agent.”

“Wah? ‘Ow’s abouts I buy ye a drink later?”

Haylie continued to walk, expression unphased. “I don’t date anyone I’m potentially going to arrest one day. Good day, Agent.”

Erskine grinned and tilted his head, watching the armored guard stroll away. “Ye’ll be changin’ ‘at tune soon enough, Dannis.”

“Commander Albrecht, it’s good to see you, sir.”

“Quite a charm to see you too, Knight-Captain Dannis. Do have a seat.”

Haylie obliged the aging man, who’s once coal-black hair and goatee was now lined with traces of grey. Luckily for him, they came in stylishly at the center of the beard and side of the head, making the Commander appear rather striking in his fifties.

“A little bird tells me you just had a run in with the Riders on your lunch break?”

Haylie blinked, eyes going wide as she stammered. “B..but, that was not more than ten minutes ago… How did you..?”

“We’re the government – we know everything, Haylie. May i call you Haylie?”

“I err…” She blinked again, caught off guard. “Well, we’re both on duty…”

“Ah yes, duty. Duty calls, and the brave Knight-Captain Dannis always answers the call! It’s a trait we all enjoy about you, very much.”

Haylie squirmed a bit and just stared, already knowing the coming moments weren’t goingto be too preety for her.

“What a coincidence it is that tempers had to get heated in your presence, Dannis. I am rather sure you’re going to enjoy the ‘duty’ I have set for you tonight.”

Haylie groaned and rubbed at her eyes, murmuring. “Commander Albrecht, can’t you have someone else deliver them? I can’t even go into my favorite bar without arresting six people anymore because of all this.”

“On the contrary, Knight-Captain, that’s why we do send you.”

The Commander opened a folder on his desk before Haylie, who watched on with a flat gaze, obviously a good bit more upset by now. Lifting several sheets of paper, he began flashing them briefly before her, all loaded with a list of names and numbers.

“Your peers, Dannis. Exactly four-thousand six hundred and thirty-eight of your peers. A growling list of employees in the Stormwind who have accepted bribes of some sort or the other.”

Haylie’s gaze grew wider in a mix of shock and anger. “You’re spyin’ on…”

“What do you think Stormwind is,” he interrupted. “A magical kingdom where every citizen is of free will to do as he wishes, live as she wishes, deciding who and what goes?”

Albrecht laughed. “This is a monarchy, Dannis. The only true ‘right’ any citizen of Stormwind has, is the right to pay their taxes and not question the uthority of the government. Speaking of, you truly should quit being so kind to these people running you over.”

“Bu-…”

“Drag Bittertongue out into the street and have his teeth kicked out of his mouth in public one day, you’ll find a lot more respect the next time you go for a drink.”

“No, thank you, Commander.” Her gaze fell to the desktop and the older man smirked.

“Sense of justice, and humanity. Amazing woman, just like her father. Regardless of whether you wish to be bullied around or not though, Knight-Captain, when Shaw informed me to choose someone we could rely on in this matter, I went straight to you. Why? Because your name is not on that list, nor will it ever be. What’s that name they’re calling you now?”

“Commander…”

“Yes, yes, the one they call you in the alleys. Haylie No-Purse?” He laughed. “Not too creative, but quite true. Listen to me, Dannis. The Riders are infamous for their bribes, as well as they are for their charming attitudes, bullying, and their sly, serpentine, mountan-breasted snake-tongued sorceress who keeps weaseling her way higher on the positional charts.”

He tapped the bribery sheets on the desk, and then pointed to Haylie. “None of those things are problems with you. Duty is your ally, your driving force, and you’d rather die then not perform your duties. We need you for this.”

“With all due respect, you’re using an honest officer to serve an investigation into bogus crimes, Commander. ” Haylie frowned deeply as she spoke.

“Oh, Dannis.” he waved his hand absently. “Don’t go assuming we’ve led a witch hunt against ap Danwyrith. These are simply charges, and if so bogus as you say, he wouldn’t have needed to flee, and he would have stood before the magistrate to be cleared. I’m quite sure there’s a lot more things he’s actually guilty of if we were just out to get him. Aren’t you?”

“Well, I…”

“Exactly,” interrupted again! “So I want you to deliver these summons back to the Pig and Whistle. Afterwards, have a drink on me and the rest of the night off.”

Haylie swallowed, cheeks reddening as she gathered the scrolls from the desktop and slipped to her feet, saluting. “I’ll get right on it, Commander Albrecht.”

“I knew you would, Knight-Captain… Oh, and…. Haylie?”

“Sir?” She blinked, caught off-guard by the casual shift of his voice.

“Just Nathan. Expect a nice little bonus with your pay this weekend.”

The commander’s lips tugged upwards in a smile, as did Haylie’s. She watched him for a brief moment, only for the smile to face before responding.

“No thank you, Commander Nathan, I won’t be bribed, by anyone.”

Albrecht’s smile dropped as the Knight-Captain turned and exited his office.

“She’s a wild wan, Commander.” a chuckling voice of familiarity drifts from the shadows as Erskine slips into view. “I’m wailin’ t’bet she’s a fookin’ tiger in th’ sack too.”

“So we dream, Agent.” The Commander shakes his head and sighs.

“Aye, dream, aheh.” The rogue stopped beside the desk, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Anythin’ goes bad at th’ interrogations, an’ ye know they’re ganan kill ‘er, aye?”

“Without Tarquin in town, and those other idiots running his show – the thought had crossed my mind, Agent Erskine.” Another folder is brandished from the desk, and handed to the rogue.

“That’s why you’re going to send her north again. It’s time she logs her field training and the necessary combat time required for her Marshal studies. That should give things time to blow over.”

“I’ll get righ’ onnit, sir.” Erskine responded, snatching up the folder and slinking back into the shadow. An audible pop and a puff of smoke left the Commander to silence.

—-
Bricu

The Wildfire Riders – Bricu by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Whatever she would have said, whatever Tarquin would have chosen, hung between them for a flickering moment before another voice interrupted it, a grim and creaking call with the bite of command. “Anub-Kayet! You are summoned!” Too fast for its size, the Crypt Lord jerked its dripping face about to the location of an armored figure, faceless in an iron helm, bile and ichor and blood drenching his dented armor. A frayed-looking man with red hair and a sneer on his soot-blackened face, and improbably, a pond-still tree with a vaguely human shape, flanked him, surrounded by the ruined tatters of a swarm of geists.
Jakob Balthasar levelled his sword, the runes scribed along its surface burning white. “Kneel, cur. Come to me and kneel.”

“Arrogance!” The Nerubian’s laughter had a new note to it – a note, oddly, much like Ilarra’s cracking giggle when the poison had seethed across her skin. “I am Prince of Seven Maws! You will shriek for years, nameless little prey.”

“Do you require my name?” The death knight raised his visor and let the thing see his fleshless face, his rictus smile, the deep-set pools of his eyes. “No. You need only hear your master’s voice.” He slammed his sword point-down into the snow, its glow nearly blinding, and lashed his voice through the cold air. “To me, drone! Bow your head!”

It was if cables had been hooked into the wings and joints of Anub-Kayet’s body, tugged by a dozen strong men. Chittering and growling, it was heaved forward a dozen yards, soaring improbably through the air, and crashing to the earth at Sir Balthasar’s feet. For a moment, its head dropped; for a heartbeat, it did obesiance before a Knight of the Ebon Blade. Then it raised up, shrieking fury in its dead tongue. Jakob dropped his visor back down over his pitted face, pulled his sword from the snow, and hefted his axe in his other hand. “Better,” he said hollowly, as the Riders coalesced around Anub-Kayet’s flanks. “We’ll make a proper soldier of you yet.”

A buzzing howl was the Nerubian’s only answer, and then the shriek of steel as they charged and struck. Two shots rang out on the hill, Ulthnaon and Beltar, surrounded by the corpses of the locust swarm – load, cock, fire, repeat, with dogged repetition. Isi Underhill circled Anub-Kayet, her blades striking each new scar and divot in his carapace; beside her, Tarquin stepped in, his knives digging for joints and wrenching open wounds, and then tearing free as he darted back. Laurus took a few hasty steps back, but fire was already springing from his fingers, lashing and licking along the beast’s hide. Threnn called upon the light as she swung her blade and put another crack in the Nerubian’s carapace. A soft, golden light spread from the fracture, illuminating Anub-Kayet. Bricu pulled himself to his feet and grabbed his axe.

But the Prince of Seven Maws ignored them all for the mortal who had exposed him as nothing but a servant. He lunged and lashed, gibbering incomprehensibly at Sir Balthasar, who turned aside half the crazed blows and scorned the ones that broke through his guard and hammered against his armor. Green light washed over him, Haemon’s limbs moving like he was conducting an orchestra. “Discipline,” Jakob said, tearing a line along one pummeling limb with his sword, “would have saved you.”

“Not from the fury o’ the northman!” Bricu screamed, his voice cracking from his anger. He called upon the light as he swung his massive axe. Instead of a soft warm glow, Bricu’s prayer called on the wings of an avenging celestial, and when he made contact the crack sounded nearly as loud as a shot of Beltar’s rifle. Fragments of chitin scattered; ichor and unwoken scarabs stained the ground. Anub-Kayet half-turned towards Bricu, and paid for it when the death knight’s runeblade plunged into the joists of its neck. Holding the sword steady, Balthasar brought his axe in a sweeping arc and sheared away a set of mandibles.

“Six Maws, now.” Jakob’s contempt was obvious even in the creaking echo of his voice. “Does that knock you down to Duke?”

There was nothing of the Nerubian’s condescension left, none of the mockery of mercy – just pain, and hate, and an overwhelming hunger in its wails. It lunged again at the Ebon Knight, babbling with what seemed like a dozen different voices. Jak drew up both blades and caught the descending blow, straining against the monster’s bulk. Venomous drool spattered off his pauldrons as Anub’Kayet forced his guard down by inches – and then its force slackened, and its shrieks went paper-soft. The Nerubian was engulfued in shadows, the soft purple and blues obscuring its form, wreathing and clutching about it. There were shapes in the veils, clutching hands, smiling lips, and things better left unnamed.

Ilarra Stormrunner walked towards Anub’Kayet, her feet a yard off the ground, studying the twitching monstrosity through her half-moon spectacles. “Fractured, I might be, sweet pea,” she murmured, her voice soft but perfectly audible, “But at least I can fake it.” She clapped her hands together and Anub-Kayet’s struggles halted; its face was turned to the sky in something that might almost have been ecstacy. “Was that all you had for me? Bad form to keep a lady waiting for more.” She giggled and opened her hands, and with the slithering sound of falling sand, the Crypt Lord came apart, husk dropping from its ruined, squeezed-in meat.

There was an uncanny silence, the sound of battle below nearly a constant backdrop. Bricu surveyed the scene. One of the ballistae had sunk halfway into the snow, leaning over on the edge of the Crypt Lord’s tunnel; the other two had vanished into it. Ulthanon was cursing and digging himself free of the corpses of uncountable scarab-servants; Beltar seemed perfectly content where he was, chuckling to himself and reloading. He caught Threnn’s eye; she had one hand on her stomach and the other still hefting her sword, giving him a look with a certain weight to it. Slowly, she turned it on Tarquin.

A particularly loud scream from below galvanized them. “Aright, dinna shite it oafay the bug!” Tarquin barked, half-hysterical, his grin balanced on the tenous edge between panic and celebration. “Balthasar, put yir fuckin’ face on an’ get those lassies in the tent goin!”

“Gotta pull back the troops.” Bricu’s voice had an edge of weariness to it; he seemed to hear himself and scowled and spat in the snow before trying again. “Less yeh wanna just set the lot on fire an’ throw ‘em at the fuckin’ deaders.”

The boss wouldn’t stop smiling. Maybe couldn’t. “Maybe the cows!” he called, already loping down the hill, stumbling in the deep snow. “I’ll get the lot back, yeh mind the hill!” Cursing and laughing, he made his precarious way down the slope, one gaunt figure plunging towards the madness of battle below.

“Speakin’ o ‘settin’ things on fire,” said Bricu, his gaze falling on the ruined Crypt Lord’s bulk. The snow steamed beneath it as poisonous ichor dripped from its wounds. “Oi. Laz. Light this fucker up. Burn all that shite off so we ain’t breathin’ it in. Nothin’ left but ashes, aye?” Laurus moved swiftly, flames already dancing at his fingertips. Bricu nodded and clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Threnny.”

“Sergeant.”

He ignored the inflection in her tone, the one that said she was about to give him ten kinds of shit. She wants ta call me “sergeant,” I’ll give her a fuckin’ order.. “When he’s done, I want yeh ta consecrate the ground, in case his royal fuckin’ Majesty wants ta try piecin’ his servant back tagether.” There was a beat where he was certain she was going to argue, but then she saluted and without another word, followed after Laurus.

He longed to pause and roll a cigarette, but the damage the Anub’Kayet had done needed sorting out before whatever would be hurtling up the hill next. “Right. Ulth, Belt, come give me a hand gettin’ this ballista back up. Rest o’yeh lot, straighten’ up! Battle’s far from over.”

Yva

The Wildfire Riders – Yva by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Yva rolled on the floor and laughed, her skin covered in tendrils of purple magic that writhed like snakes. Her hands stroked down the curves of her body, to her hips, and she gasped. Everything tingled. Beneath her skin, a mighty power churned, waiting for its release. It felt good – amazing – heavenly, almost like the moments before orgasm, when you climbed and climbed and climbed until your head swam among the clouds.

But she hadn’t peaked. Not yet.

Soon, love. Soon.

She hissed, and ice pooled beneath her. She lifted her hand above her head, and the blood from her palms dripped down, coursing warm over her skin. She smeared it there, tilting her head back like her lover was drizzling kisses along the column of her neck.

“Divine.”

And it was.

Behind her, Genise incanted, fire as red as her hair dancing along her arms. She waved her hands, watching the trails of flame with an inordinate amount of glee. Giggles spilled from her lips as the temperature inside of the tent rose another degree. Sweat had plastered her gown to her frame, highlighting the perfection of that statuesque body

Davien stared at the tent side, her lips moving, but no sound came. She rocked to a music only she could hear. There was a presence upon the air around her – something heavy, something near tangible and yet not. When she moved, it was like she was trying to wade against a tide. Over time, her bun had come unraveled, black locks swaying with each of her movements. The silver sigils on her arms sparkled like diamonds. With her high cheekbones and fine features, she seemed a thing of alabaster.

They’d wrought a great beast – something beautiful and wicked that slept inside of a runic cage. The ley line, the witches, the spell work fed it, but it was not enough. Soon it would be unleashed upon whatever hapless thing fell in its path, and it would feast.

There was a noise outside, a clanging of plate armor. When the tent flap lifted, a great breeze swept in, but none of them moved from their positions. The only indication that they registered Jakob Balthasar’s presence was the movement of their eyes.

“Ap’Danwyrith says come,” he said. Though he looked a human man, the mask of death had robbed him during its tenure. An unusual coarseness clutched at his words.

Above his sword, his fingers flexed inside of their gauntlets.

“My darling Jak.”

He looked down to the ground, where the woman who shared his bed peered up at him, as languid as a cat in sunlight. He crouched by her side, cupping her chin to peer into her glassy eyes. She raised a blood crusted hand to his cheek.

“Yva . . . “

“It’s time, Love,” she said.

“But do you even know for what?”

“To wake the storm and make the rain come.”

They moved then, like one entity. Yva rose from the ground, a blooded girl in a plain white dress, the red of her lips stark against her porcelain skin. Genise flitted like the fire upon her fingers, like a candle flame caressed by the wind. Davien gathered her skirts about her, a glinting thing of unparalleled poise and grace.

Jak peered at them and then past them, at the ritual circles swarming with red, white and blue lights. When he heard Yva hum, when she reached her fingers up to trail them across his bottom lip, he snatched her hand in his own and flipped it over, pressing a kiss to her palm.

She smiled, and then she laughed, and then she walked forward, her sisters at her sides.

Jak had no choice but to step aside.

The latch was sprung and the beast woke from its slumber, spilling from its cage with the uneasy stillness of a hunter stalking its prey.

It was time.

The Al’Cair Girls

The Wildfire Riders – Threnn by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Maiden

The hillside came tumbling down upon her. There was an ungodly sound above them, a shriek and the chittering of scarabs, but before she could even finish turning to see what had emerged from far beneath the snow, the world went white.

It was everywhere, everywhere, and she went tumbling with it — snow and ice and rocks, clods of hard dirt that hadn’t seen daylight for a hundred years. She drew magic from the air and pulled it around herself, but it lasted only a heartbeat, battered away by the force carrying her along its inexorable path.

Ice shards went down the back of her robes, found their way into her boots. Don’t open your mouth, don’t open it, don’t– She landed hard on her back and the wind rushed out of her. The first searing breath she dragged back into aching lungs was filled with snow. Annalea began to choke. Her throat burned with the cold.

Push it away, slow breaths. It was part of her training, ignoring pain, but that was far easier said than done. Stars swam in her vision. The edges of the white world turned black. She imagined she felt a clawed hand around her neck and tried to scream.

Then there were real hands grabbing at her, clamping onto her arms and yanking her from the snow. She kicked and flailed, certain that Fane had her, that he was here on the hill, come to finish the job… until one hand let go of her and she felt heat flare inches from her nose.

“None o’that, chickie.” Pill waited until her eyes focused and she stopped struggling, then began brushing the snow off of the priestess’ shoulders. “Hit them, not me.” She pointed at the line of destruction that continued down the hill. The avalanche’s path was relatively thin; a quick glance around confirmed that Anna was the only one who’d gone under, at least from the Riders’ contingent. I must have been on the edge of it, got spit out early. Further down, though, there was a gap in the Scourge line where the raging snows had plowed through.

Only, the Scourge didn’t need anyone to pull them out. Rotted arms and legs, presumably still attached to rotted bodies, were even now poking through the crust and working their way out.

Satisfied that Anna wasn’t going to lash out again, Pill gave her a pat on the head and began gathering a ball of fire to hurl at the ghouls. She paused at a shout from behind them.

Tarquin came staggering down from above, calling the retreat.

Mother

Laurus kept his fire neat. The Crypt Lord went up in an acrid column of flame and smoke, but not a single fleck of ash left the spinning cylinder of the nobleman’s spell. He looked quite proud of his work, teeth flashing in a self-satisfied grin as he let the burning stop and the pieces drift back to the ground.

Threnn waited for his nod, then drove the point of her sword down into the frozen ground. Odd how it was still packed this hard despite the mage’s fire that had burned atop it moments ago. It should be churned up and muddy, but it’s still tundra beneath. This place doesn’t let go once it’s taken hold, does it?

She wrapped her hands around the hilt, feeling the cold radiating along the blade. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she opened herself to the Light. It gathered around her, warm and golden, but there was no time to take comfort from its presence. The Light slammed into the ground at her will, radiating out as she directed it. There was a bit of anger behind the prayer – That thing tried to kill him. — but tenacity was a virtue. Tenacity: the act of holding things together, cohesiveness.

Threnn Bittertongue would hold onto her family. Surely the Light would approve of that.

The glow faded into the dirt before Threnn realized she was on her knees. Laz stood beside her and, more gently than she’d believed him capable, helped her to her feet.

“I have to say, that was a fine job, there. Did you see how much heat there was? A proper inferno! Ha!” He stopped short of actually patting his own back, and his wild grin slipped a notch. “Kind of like old times, eh?”

They’d done this once before, or something like it. She remembered an abandoned cart in Stromgarde, filled with plague-tainted goods: Laurus’ fire to burn away the disease, Threnn’s prayers to burn out any evil that remained. “Guess we’re getting to be old pros at this.”

“The boss does call us professionals.” He preened, as much as someone dishevelled from a morning of fighting the Scourge could. “Are you all right here? I should go see where your husband wants me.”

“Go on, Laz. I’m fine.”

When he was gone, she stared at the circle of newly-hallowed ground and wished there was a piece left to kick. It almost took him away from me. It could have killed us both. The words Bricu had screamed while the Nerubian chittered above him still rang in her ears: Tarquin, don’t yeh dare fuck this up! And the look on Tarquin’s face, as though torn between two tragedies…

One of them would talk, when this was all over, and tell her precisely what the fuck that was about. She just had to figure out which one to press.

But that was for later, when everyone was home and safe. They weren’t there yet, not even close. She squared her shoulders, pulled her sword from the ground, and made her way back to the center.

First to Respond are Shad and Laz, two Riders who have a surprising amount in common, despite their obvious differences. The druid and the magus are running to support the Riders left to man the Ballistae.

Those riders are under Bricu’s command. While he is calling the shots and directing fire, he also made Tarquin promise something. That promise is being called into effect now.

Last, and certainly not least, Ebon Knight Jacob Balthasar. Jak’s responsibility at Wrathgate was to keep the Arcane Ladies (Yva, Davien and Genise) safe from any counter-attack. We see how this particular death knight responds to oaths.

Shad:

Haemon was sweating. Sure, it was cold, but that wasn’t what made it weird; he was concentrating on the well being of no less than fifteen people at once, after all, so there was ample reason for it. The odd part was that he was managing it through bark. He hadn’t even known he had sweat glands in this form. There wasn’t really time to muse on it at the moment. He had a unit’s strength to buoy. He concentrated mostly on the battle nearby, sparing only occasional thought for the mage at his side. The front lines needed the support now. He’d funneled rejuvenating blessings to each of the plated warriors as they faced down wave after oncoming wave. They were what epic tales were made of. He just kept them that way.

Laurus, on the other hand, was more along the lines of an arcane horror story. Or perhaps, the elf reflected as another maniacal cackle echoed off the snow, a comic poem. “Enjoying yourself?” he muttered sarcastically as he focused on the berzerker elf in the center of the fray. Illi probably wasn’t about to tire, but she could stand to have a few of those little cuts knit up, and the big ones diminished.

“Heh, hah! What, aren’t you?” the mage replied with his own brand of innocence.

The tree sighed. “A healer’s job is to keep people alive, and in a conflict like this, I am bound to fail at some point.” Not that point precisely. No, Jolly’s ankle was not about to give out, surprise, ghoul. Bet you thought you had him. “It is a rather depressing state of things, 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.” His branches moved smoothly, as though he were conducting nature’s orchestra. A little accent there with the lifebloom. “So…nnno.”

“Depressing? Stop being so bloody sentimental.” The mage snorted. “Far as I can tell, everyone that matters is still alive. More importantly, we still are, and we haven’t even–”

Murphy and his dratted Law promptly cut Laurus’s confident announcement off and began a wicked scheme to invalidate it. The human lost his balance in the earthquake and quite nearly fell on his face. Haemon, having stabilized himself with a limited root system, shrugged the tremor off. “See, this is what happens when you open your big fat mouth. You prove me right.” He peered down to the ballistae and counted living heads. One, two, three, four, five… Well, one almost fell…

Laurus rose, invisible, to squawk indignantly. “I didn’t even finish! What have you got to be right about?!” Fate answered with the collapse of a good portion of the hill on which the Rider ballistae were balanced, followed immediately by the first two legs of something that probably had too many.

“Looks like company is coming,” the druid noted calmly before the crypt lord’s full form was in view. Then it was time for a bit more tree sweat. “Oh sweet assfucking Elune,” he spat in his native tongue, “I hope that thing doesn’t come up up here.” Laurus probably wouldn’t catch all of that, and thankfully the emerging crypt lord didn’t either. “Geists,” he announced in Common as the tiny springy abominations began to worm out of the hole. “They will be overrun if it is not just a few. Anything you can do to plug that hole?”

“I’m working on it!” Drachmas protested, snapping his fingers at a charging Vrykul and bringing it to its knees, face contorted with pain. He moved again, pelting the tunnel’s maw with shards of ice. While it did slow the advance somewhat, it also drew the attention of quite a few pairs of sharp, glowing eyes attached to sharp, glinting claws. There were people over there. People were notably tasty. It was worth their time for four or five of them to spring that way. “Shit, shit, shit!” Smug, confident Laurus naturally folded at the first sign of danger; his blizzard fizzled in favor of a bubble of mana, allowing the next wave of geists, now chilled and irritated, to seek out their attacker. On the up side, at least they weren’t immediately leaping for, say, the dangling ap Danwyrith.

“Acting as a distraction helps, I suppose.” As usual, Haemon had to take care of things himself. He slipped into his own form–by Elune it was fucking cold–and thrust a hand up to call to the clouds. “I am curious, Laurus,” he mused. “If I bring the storm, what kind of blizzard can you get out of that?” A proper storm took time, and this wasn’t going to be one, but it might be enough to answer that ponderance. How well -could- mage and druid spells mix?

Given that his mage on hand was recoiling in panic still, he’d probably have to wait to get his answer. “Do I look like a forecaster? Hurry up with the lightning!”

“I am working on it.” The falling rain, liquid despite the cold, had begun to slicken the mountainside leading to them and send some of the dead things back from where they came, scrabbling for footholds. “And thank you ever so much for your collaboration.” Tendrils of electricity shot out from the makeshift cloud to properly charged assailants, cooking them from within. Those without a charge who made it past the gauntlet of icy slope and well-done comrade bomb were taken out by thick, heavy bolts of ice, Laurus’s power getting a boost from the druid’s storm.

Breathing in the moment’s peace after the storms ceased, Haemon slapped Laurus on the back and offered him a well deserved shock of innervation. “All right,” he mused, slightly worn but pleased. “Now I am having fun.”

The relative quiet was shattered by a scream. A glance around for the source only revealed an incoming cadre of geists, seemingly from several directions. Ignoring the elf, they dove straight for the shielded mage, who predictably panicked.

He was not alone. The scream that erupted inside Haemon’s head (“HOW DOES THIS EVEN HAPPEN?”) was not precisely panic, but clearly the panther spirit was disturbed. It lay with the elf proper to take a breath, shift to vegetable form, and make sure no one stole his pleasure of ripping Laurus’s head off. “Laurus, here!” He extended a branch and jerked the mage into the relative safety of his trunk. “I’ll keep them off, you get rid of them!” It was apparently simple, inoffensive, and necessary enough a command that Laurus did not protest or even sneer at being bossed around. He obediently backed into the bark and fired an ineffective spell at the geist pushing him back.

As the undead circled around, preparing to feed, Haemon wrapped himself around his mostly useless ward and began to murmur an unbroken stream of ancient elven tones. ”Come on you fucker, fight, strength of the leaf restore unto you your body and mind that you shall not fail…” He was not a fighter himself, not like that, but he was fairly stuck. He’d be vulnerable as an elf, and thick bear hide would only leave him unable to heal. Nothing the monsters could do to him surpassed what pain would be waiting with Fells should Laurus not return unscathed. ”Drink from the geyser of unending life under the protection of the seed, come on, wake up and fight…” Despite the claws raking bark for his back, he spared no thought for himself. Laurus needed all the help he could get, especially when the bubble finally broke.

The spray of blood that sprinkled Haemon’s leaves with scarlet served to rouse the mage from his stupor. He growled and began casting in a whirl, screaming death as his companion whispered life. Slowly, the druid released him and turned to face the attackers behind. Lacking the ability to go all that much on the offensive, he did what any proper ent would do: he threw people. Still focused on Laurus’s health, he roared and blindly grabbed forward, catching one in the mouth, or maybe its mouth caught him. It mattered little, as he wouldn’t feel the pain until later, and the toothy grip only made it that much easier for him to pitch the beast over his head and down into Laurus’s blast of flame.

Valiant and violent though their efforts were, they weren’t exactly winning. The action was beginning to take its toll on Haemon’s concentration, and he wasn’t so quick to parry the next incoming claw. There was a perfectly calm moment, as he removed the pointy things from what might otherwise have been his cheek, during which he decided shifting back to flesh would be a bad idea anytime soon. Absence of bark, after all, meant absence of skin. That they had begun to chip away at his trunk proper meant that he would be in very real danger of immediate death should he shift. “We need a breather,” he gasped, shoving the claws and the geist attached over the edge of the embankment. It would only be right back. “Retreat, or finish them?”

“Can your wooden legs keep up with me?” Laurus asked, surprisingly considerately.

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

Naturally, the first thing Laurus did after summoning four very accurate and very irritating copies of himself was to blink away. Fortunately, the copies were also irritating to the geists, who lost all interest in the vegetation and immediately followed the normal, sensible instinct of attempting to destroy Laurus Drachmas.

“It is good to know some things never change,” Shad muttered to himself as he skidded down the hill.

–
Bricu

Bitter Frustration by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Bricu dropped his gnomish glass and gripped his axe with both hands. With his cigarette still clenched in his teeth, he barked out orders, his voice angry but still steady. “Beltar, Ulth. Shoot the fuckin’ insect!” He’d sounded much the same ordering someone thrown out of the Pig. He watched as his friends peppered the Nerubian’s hide with gunfire. The gun’s reports echoed through the valley. Each bullet clattered against the scourge-thing’s carapace, drilling deep holes into its chitin. It clacked its mandibles together, laughing away the newest scars. It hissed something in its dead langauge, and the ground erupted into scourgling beetles. Ferocious, tiny beetles that could shear flesh off of bone in seconds.

Cool and collected, Beltar recocked his ornate firearm and did something that made the gun clack and creak like a toppling house. When he pulled the trigger again, bullets hailed down on the beetles in short sprays, driving the madly chittering beasts down into the snow and here and there cracking a shell or bursting a vulnerable face. Further up the hill, Ulthanon spat a continuous stream of elven curses as he fired shot after shot into the slowed insects, dropping them one at a time, as fast as he could keep up with the swarm. They scuttled up the hill towards the two marksmen.

Freed from the hail of bullets, the crypt lord dragged its ponderous bulk forward, glittering black eyes fixed on Bricu. “Veteran,” it gurgled, and improbably, dipped its horned head in some form of respect. “It is Anub-Kayet, Prince of Seven Maws, who gives your life to the Majesty. I am honored.”

“The fuck?” Bittertongue stared at the creature from under brows drawn down in anger. Bricu gripped his axe with both hands and glared at the Nerubian in front of him. “Yeh want t’explain yer self ‘for I cut yeh in ‘alf?”

“You bear the marks of His first conquest, Veteran.” A leer in the Nerubian’s voice, an inescapable hunger in the hunch of its bestial frame. “To bring such a soul to Him, to feast on such flesh…ah, northman, you will taste of glory!”

Bricu planted his feet in the turf and spat, the chittering of the locusts and the curses and grunts of his comrades echoing in his ears. “The name’s Bittertongue, yeh fucker.” He hefted his axe as his comrades circled the Crypt Lord, stalking, hungry shadows with knives close to hand. Somewhere back by the tent, a wash of heat erupted, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. “An’ sorry ta disappoint yeh, but after years o’ picklin’, I taste like arse.”

Threnn moved to Bricu’s shoulder, mace in hand and shield covering their child.

“Threnny, off the line!” He shouted.

“Like. Fuck.” She said calmly. “Nowhere is safe, so we stand here, remember?”

“Bloody…”

Anub-Kayet clacked its mandibles with glee, interupting the Bittertongues. “A child! A spawn! And yet unborn! Ah, if you could but know the bliss-” Anub-Kayet’s boast was cut short by a lance of violet shadow. The beetle reared on the back pair of its six legs, hissing in pain. A spinning ball of the same purple and blue shadows broke off the lance and shimmered in front of Bricu and Threnn, and coalesced into the elegantly curved frame of Ilarra Stormrunner.

“Oh pooh.” She giggled, “What about me? I want to play too!”

“Yeh lot get behind the bloke in the metal suit!” Bricu shouted.

“Too bloody late now!” Threnn shouted back. She was whispering a prayer of healing as Anub-Kayet crashed to the ground. Two of its six eyes seemed to focus on the priestess.

“Back to the shadows with you, fractured one.” Anub-Kayet’s mandibles split apart as a spout of vile green ichor shot towards her. Stormrunner tried to shift to the shadows, but the ichor was too fast. Ilarra was covered in the substance before she could flee. Threnn changed her prayer, cleansing the poison from her system. Bricu watched as Illarra fell to the frozen ground. At first, he thought she was sobbing in pain. It took half a second to realize she was still giggling.

While Threnn cleansed Illarra, Bricu ran towards Anub-Kayet, swinging his Axe upward into the Nerubian’s mandibles. “Spit this way, yeh fuckin’ tosser!” he shouted. Bricu pulled his axe up and out of the Nerubian’s still clattering jaws. Anub-Kayet lunged forward, but Bricu took another step forward and brought his axe down on the Nerubian’s left front leg. Chitin shattered and the monster shrieked like a steam engine, lashing out with its other claw; the air shimmered golden in front of Bricu’s face, and he and Threnn exchanged a grim smile as the thing’s talon skidded off of nothing. Tarquin darted in, with tottering, graceless speed, and rammed the point of his knife home in the joint of one buzzing wing; ichor sprayed the air, and the northman skipped back, nearly falling on his arse in the snow.

“Hit an’ run, that’s the way!” Bricu slammed the haft of his axe into Anub-Kayet’s forelimb, prizing himself some distance from dripping mandibles. Now it was Isi Underhill, shrieking a stream of obscenities as she sprinted forward and bolted onto the thing’s hunched back. With a revolting splintering noise, she hacked a rent in the many-scarred hide and drove her blades into it, over and over. The Crypt Lord’s screams were a cacophony, a thousand whining arrows, a hundred burning beehives. Tarquin approached again, circling to stay behind the thrashing monster, and Ilarra, still giggling in spurts, dragged herself to her feet.

“Ek’fani kazai ashkur ashkeia thruk-” Seething, the Nerubian bit back its curses, hunching into itself. “Enough, vermin. My amusement ends.” With a shuddering effort, the thing flapped its crippled wings, and with terrifying speed hurled itself into the air. Flexing its boneless body, it whirled, sending Isi flying into Ilarra, one of her swords still standing in the monster’s flesh. Another stream of poison studdered from its parted jaws, and Tarquin dove for the snow, steam hissing from his cloak where the venom made contact. Laughing, chittering, drooling, Anub-Kayet succumbed to the pull of gravity on its immense bulk and thundered to the earth directly before Bricu, its lashing forearms knocking him sprawling.

“Feast!” it shrieked, the cracked coals of its eyes settling on the lonely figure of Threnn Bittertongue, all its cultivated manner gone. “Praise! Feast!” Dragging the ruined hulk of its body across the bloody snow, whining and drooling and bubbling laughter, the Prince of Seven Maws enveloped Threnn and the hope growing in her belly in its shadow. “My worship,” it burbled. “My glory…”

Bricu, still on his back, reached for his axe. “Tarquin, don’t yeh dare fuck this up! Do it now!” Bricu screamed. Tarquin ap Danwyrith rolled to his feet, tugging the ruined mess of his cloak from around his neck – and Anub’Kayet turned to Bricu, a fathomless hunger in its eyes. “Come on, tosser!” grunted the Veteran, his eyes flickering between his wife, his friend, and his likely end. Tarquin crouched to spring, a knife in one hand, his face an agony of indecision. Threnn stared at him, her eyes narrowing, and then took a step forward and opened her mouth…

–
Jak

Jak and Yva

Somewhere, there was a battle, itself a side note to a far greater one; somewhere, men and women he might have called comrades were struggling for their lives against fathomless ranks of his eternal enemies. His old allies. Behind him, the woman he loved was pitching what little life the world had left her into the cauldron of her magics, with regard for little but pyrotechnic results. It was all a deal too much to have on one’s mind when the world had dwindled to a screen of pummeling limbs and gibbering masks.

The geists were everywhere, at least a dozen if not a score, less the four or five inanimate corpses in the snow. Those bodies had taught them caution, and they were damnably fast learners; they flanked him and clawed at his sides, dragged down his limbs with the weight of their slimy flesh and brittle bones, leapt and struck and danced away. Jakob didn’t know whether help was on the way from the famously self-interested mercenaries he had pitched his lot with, or if he would fight his way clear only to be greeted by the slavering mandibles of a Crypt Lord.

He heard the niggling whisper at the back of his mind as another leathern fist slammed into his side, impact felt through his armor. No. Not here. He jammed the hilt of his axe backward, felt the impact of flesh. Another came in on his left, too slow, and his sword plunged upwards into the soft flesh below its chin. It fell, squealing, but another replaced it, clawing at his arm, the runeblade nearly falling from his grasp. He growled two words in a dead language, gathering the soothing cold from their flesh, leaving a boiling blood in its wake. The flesh of the one on his arm erupted in black spots, and it joined its fellows in a chorus of agony – but they were still on him.

And the cold was in him now.

Desperately, Jakob twisted and thrashed, whispered another word and the snow erupted and dragged down a geist that was attempting to wrench the helm from his head. His axe tore through flesh and bone, dropping a forearm to the snow, but the jagged stump behind it punched into his pauldron and tore a scratch. Another impact, behind him, buckled his left knee. It was only a matter of time. He struck blindly, hearing the shrieks. Strange how they sounded more like joy than pain. There was likely a reason for that. Down on one knee now, his left vambrace crushed to his arm. The world seemed nothing but a horror of writhing flesh, an orgy of punishing monsters. It was time.

He lowered his head and breathed in the cold, drew the Northrend winter into his lungs. He opened himself to the voice that murmured and threatened in the cellar of his mind. As he did, light bloomed across the corners of his vision. The pressure slackened, released momentarily. When he looked up, a great invisible hand was tracing an inferno across his foes, scattering fire like a bridesmaid’s petals. Geists staggered back, thrashing and clutching. A voice, a human voice, was shouting at him, telling him to rise. Ordering, in fact, and insultingly so. It seemed help had come at last.

Jakob Balthasar looked on the fire swirling towards him, and felt no heat. Under his helm, his lips tugged up into a smile, pulling away from the flesh of his face, and as his eyes sank back into the sockets around them he closed his thinning lids, and opened them to -

-beauty. Fire dances across his foes, and while fire is no friend to him, carnage was ever his love. The maggot-men squirm and squeal, with the voices of naughty children, and he does not doubt their faces are curled to dismay at this, their punishment. They ought to know better, he thinks. I am beloved of the winter. He rises. One of them, scorched to gristle, is still clinging to his back; he barely felt its weight. He plunges his sword into a staggering geist, and when it turns from minion to meat, leaves the blade standing in its flesh, reaches up, and pulls the misbehaving thing from his back. He holds it at arm’s length, laughing when it flails at his face.

The Voice is silent, he realizes. It was not immediately obvious, so compelling was this world of slaughter, but his Lord’s Voice was not waiting for him on the other side of the wall of being. And here, so close to His home – there must be a reason, but the knight will not question it. He is free to do as he will, and so he does, laughing again and dropping the writhing geist to the snow and blinking when its head is suddenly in two pieces. How light the axe, how swift the blow! He barely remembers it, and grieves.

A cough, air expectorated from lungs with inhuman tones. He whirls to see the strangest of sights. A tree has grown here in the snow, a smallish tree of odd shape, and it has in turn grown itself two blinking eyes. One of its limbs stirs. Almost like a mortal man, reaching for him. Green washes over his vision, and the earth’s hand tickles his flesh beneath the cold iron. He knows that this is meant to soothe him as it does its work, but the repair of his battered flesh simply itches. The tree seems to notice it too, so much so that it speaks. ”What are you-” He laughs a third time, and louder at the expression on its face, for he has never been such a horror as to cause the very trees to grow features and voices to startle at him. It is a good day.

“Fucking come on!” There is another one, a tall man with hair the vibrant orange-red of funeral pyres, with a face stark with panic and ornate black robes dusted darker with soot and rent here and there. ”He’s on his feet, druid, there’s still that - that!” One outstretched finger, indicating a many-legged enormity pitching from side to side as it strikes at the tiny figures of living foes. For a moment the scene is meaningless; he idly catches another burning geist as it tumbles past, inspects it for the moment of a breath, and then his axe tears the spine from its body.

“I already took care of them, Balthasar!” The man, even in his obvious anxious rage, found time to be smug. He remembered him now. A lord among the living, such as it went. ”Quit fucking around, that thing’s coming for us next!” More memories. A Crypt Lord, the chosen zealots of his Lord, forever blathering about their worship and their high status.

“Good,” he croaks, and both of them stare at him for a moment. He reaches down and plucks his sword from a corpse he barely recollects making, feels it in his hand. The weapons have no weight, but this, this has a presence. Like a lover’s breast, and this stirs some other memories that he shoves aside before the cold can reach them too. Perhaps later, but this is not the time. He raises axe and sword for a moment, then lowers them both and whispers a secret to the blade, a secret that excites it and makes it shine. ”In fact,” he adds, remembering now humor, “I’ll hurry him along.”

Man and tree stare at each other now, with the strangely identical expressions of those who find themselves among the mad. He sympathizes with them, as much as he can. It must be difficult, he muses as the runes grow brighter, and he prepares his challenge, to be a sane man.

After all, this is the land of winter. Those poor souls have no place here.

Alcime

Form rank, take position, guard the back lines.

She fell into formation, waiting for The Priest’s next order. Vrykul lay dead at her feet, but she knew this was just the start of Arthas’s fury. The true onslaught had yet to begin. Ghouls, abominations, necromancers and gargoyles were the unyielding sentinels at the gates, waiting as patiently as only the dead could wait for their liege lord’s command.

Form rank, take position, guard the back lines.

And so she did. There was no doubt that what she did here was just. Her duty – her function now, in this second life – was as clear to her as her own name. Angrathar meant so many things to so many people: some came for glory, some came for revenge for lands and loves lost. The Eye came because it was their purpose to be here. This fight sustained them and justified their existence. It was as vital to them as air was to a man drawing breath.

When they had nothing, they had The Priest’s vision of Arthas’s fall, and here at long last was their opportunity.

Salvation?

Form rank, take position, guard the back lines.

To the left, a banshee roar sent a talon of Bolvar’s troops staggering, at least two soldiers falling to their knees as the preternatural wail shredded their equilibrium. Uthas’s hand flitted – an almost graceful sweep of fingers, and she thought for a moment he could have composed music like that – and Alcime was moving. Blades raised, she called upon the one thing she could draw strength from: her blood. It burned and broiled inside of her, molten energy coursing through her veins, hardening her muscles and infusing her skin with magic.

The undead thing had just a moment to turn its head before she closed the chasm between them, her gauntlet opening and chains of ice dragging it forward. It tilted its head back, the evil of its voice the best offense, but ironclad fingers strangled the sound out of her. What should have been a scream was a gurgled whimper lost to the northern wind.

As she brought the sword up, burying it into the thing’s middle (why did it feel like cutting taffy? That made no sense) she waited to see the fear in its eyes, but there was nothing. Drained of will, drained of free thought, the scourge just wilted and was no more.

Like I’d have been, could have been . . . No.

Mother.

She winced.

Form rank, take position, guard the back lines.

–
Mary

Mary Norvallen by *JRinaldi on deviantART

A couple of days back…

They were a stain on the horizon.

Against the eternal white backdrop of the great Dragonblight advanced a host of horrors. Shambling ghouls, creeping gheists, ponderous abominations, stiff skeletal necromancers and soldiers who walked like grotesque puppets on unseen strings. Some of them bore devices clasped to their spines and rising high above their heads; the recognizable symbol of the Scourge represented not by fluttering banners, but crossed iron bars upon which were skewered bones; skulls, ribcages, blackened ribbons of flesh.

Among them were the riders, death knights, each personally raised to power by the Lich King himself; a stoic, commanding presence, black serenity next to the gruesome host that bore them. One rode ahead; empty-eyed shell of a horse at a canter, a forward cavalier who sounded a three-note wail from his wintery horn.

Deathcharger beneath him, Baron Titus Rivendare gazed levelly from the advancing horror, down to his old pocketwatch, clutched in his gauntleted hand. It was still ticking, despite it’s coat of frost.

“Well,” he murmured, “They’re just in time.”

The forward scout reined in before the Lord of Stratholme. The hooves of the beast he rode kicked up small white flames as it halted. The rider raised the visor of his helmet, and the face beneath would have been nearly handsome but for the white pallor that death had permanently cast upon it. He saluted.

“Lord Rivendare!” the man dismounted, and kneeled briefly, before approaching the senior death knight. “Tidings from Enki’lah.”

“What word from the Temple City, sir…?”

“Johansson, lord. Bertrand Johansson. Enki’lah has fallen.” The younger knight’s face was placid. “Alliance and Horde forces converged on it’s walls, and it was overwhelmed.”

“What of Talramas and Naxxanar?”

“Both, grounded, smoldering ruins.”

“And Prince Valanar?”

Johannsson’s face did not change. “His broken body dangles from a spike over Warsong Hold.”

“He was working to undermine Alliance forces. How came the Horde to claim his body?”

“Got to it first, it seems, lord.”

“Good for them,” Rivendare’s tone was dry. “I expect, then, that this company is what remains of the combined Talramas and Naxxanar garrisons?”

A tall, cloaked figure dismounted from the arrived company, walking forward as Johannson continued. “We are, sir. Our orders, from the mouth of the Lich King himself, are to march with you to Angrathar.”

“Where,” said the approaching figure, voice clear as a funeral bell, “we catch them. We are the hammer.” She cast back her hood, ash-blonde hair falling across her armored shoulders. “The Wrath Gate is the anvil.” A smirk drew across her lips. “The Seventh Legion and Kor’kron forces are the slag.”

Rivendare could not keep a slight smile from his face. “Though the King favoring, we may yet find some good steel to use for our ends, among the dead.”

“That’s the Lord Rivendare I remember from the Lordaeron campaign,” As she spoke, Johansson drew back, bowing his head slighty as the superior officer stepped before Baron Rivendare, clasping his hand with a ringing of gauntlets. “Always ready to join in the gratuitous analogies.”

“Lady Maraviglia Norvallen.” He stepped back, and the two senior death knights began walking, Johansson falling into step behind. “Didn’t you die at Tyr’s Hand? Or was it Light’s Hope?”

“Tyr’s Hand, lord. Actually got trapped in the basement as the Chapel of the Crimson Flame burned. As you can see, that didn’t last.”

“You know what happened at Light’s Hope, though, don’t you?”

“I do, lord.” The corners of the woman’s mouth turned down.

“Surprised you escaped that with your skin.”

“Not nearly as surprised as I. I missed Naxxramas’ departure, and there was no point in trying to go back to Acherus. Had to slip on board a cargo ship for Valiance Keep. It took a very long time to convince them that I was a diplomat for the Scarlet Crusade.”

The two continued to walk, Rivendare glancing cursorily over the host Norvallen had brought, occasionally nodding his approval, whether for their numbers or their general hideousness. “You didn’t miss a beat in keeping that look up after your orders in New Avalon were long-since carried out.”

“What can I say, my lord?” As she spoke, Johansson began shouting orders to the assembled ranks, the new arrivals moving to mingle with the old, easily falling into line with marching orders pre-ordained in their dead instincts. “I know where my talents lie.”

“Perhaps. It’s time you had a taste of open warfare again, though.”

“I could not agree more, Lord Rivendare.” Her tone still conversational, and her movements almost relaxed, she punched Baron Rivendare square in the jaw.

Once again, Johansson’s horn sounded, a three-note clarion. And absolute chaos erupted.

The death knights that had come with the arrivals, moving amidst Rivendare’s company, cut down the cultists bolstering the ranks with surgical precision, hot blood and offal falling along with a rain of bone splinters, the abominations flinging about the skeletal foot soldiers with childish abandon.

Rivendare’s own knights were plucked from their steeds by a screaming flock of gargoyles that plummeted from an empty sky, carried high and dropped, breaking like unwanted toys on the frozen ground. Those that survived the drop, or beat off the screeching monsters before they could be lifted off their chargers, were quietly immolated in black fire by ranks of unliving arcanists.

It was a rout. The Scourge forces could not have been caught more off-guard, and what order they were able to bring themselves into quickly broke as they caught sight of new devices being raised: the dead-black Ebon Blade of Acherus.

Amidst it all, Titus Rivendare and Maraviglia Norvallen circled one another, runeblades in hand. The Baron wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. His jaw ached, despite the necrotic energy already closing the cut delivered by the blow. “You,” his voice still held it’s even, conversational timbre, “conniving, backstabbing, traitorous she-troll.”

“That one,” Norvallen’s tone was, if anything, lighter, even amused, “was from Varenna Sungale of the Argent Dawn.”

“Who?”

“Someone I’m regretting could not be here right now to laugh at your sorry state.”

The opposed death knights met, their ensorcelled weapons meeting in a shower of icy sparks. There was no opening between the two; what Rivendare had in strength, Norvallen matched with uncanny reflexes, parrying and redirecting the blows almost delicately despite the massive blade that she, too, carried, and not a single one landed.

“You should never have left Stratholme, Titus.”

The Baron kicked out. Caught in the leg, Norvallen fell, but rolled and righted herself as the point of Rivendare’s runeblade plunged into the ground where she had fallen, driven by a powerful, overhanded thrust.

He pulled his sword from the ground to stop a slash that would have taken his head off. He did not reply to her words.

“You should have stayed in that smoldering waste of time. You should have bottled yourself up in the slaughterhouse.” Another exchange of blows, another series of cuts that came within an inch of striking home.

“You should have wasted away, or perhaps immolated yourself. You’re a failure.”

Rivendare’s calm did not break. As he went back to circling, stepping, occasionally thrusting to test her openings, cracks formed in the ice they stood upon, forming runic patterns. Norvallen’s breath turned heavy as his aura of entropy thickened, but despite the sapping effect, she still held her ground, and worse, still would not shut up.

“A cold, dead failure. What, was it pity that Kel’thuzad felt, in his nonexistant heart, letting you cling to his skirts like a frightened toddler as he flew far, far away from Ground Zero for Rivendare’s humiliation?”

The Baron took stock of the situation, trained gaze not flickering from his opponent but taking in still the state of affairs around him. His forces were ground to nearly nothing, and the spectacle of the two death knights was drawing a small crowd of Ebon Blade minions with nothing left to kill.

He dove in again, in another serious of ferocious attacks on Norvallen, who yet stood, if heavily, on the rune-covered ground of his aura.

The woman was not expecting it when he suddenly dove far to the side, stood straight, thrust out a single hand, and a black lance of crackling force shot out from his palm, coiling not around his opponent, but one of the abominations standing slack-jawed opposite him.

With tremendous force, the misbegotten hulk was yanked forward, completely bowling over Norvallen, who’s expression was satisfyingly shocked as she was enveloped beneath a rolling mass of flesh and dangling entrails.

Without pause, Rivendare’s gauntleted fist thrust into the air. The ice beneath him erupted, and he dove into the host of hostile onlookers upon the back of his deathcharger, called to him. An aisle of smoldering death and decay scattered the surprised crowd, and he charged beyond their masses at a speed only achievable by a steed unhampered by the limitations of living muscle.

The crowd of Ebon Knights and their ghastly retinue glanced back as Norvallen stood up, face pale, and gauntlet over her mouth as if to hold back a heave. The abomination lurched aside into a vaguely upright position. It’s giant, hideous face fell into a grotesque but almost comical expression of shame.

“Corpulous is big so-hoh-hoh-rrryyy!” blubbered the rotund horror.

Norvallen looked up at it, opened her mouth, raised a finger, inhaled slowly, and then lowered it. She turned. Bertrand Johansson stood before her, and behind him, the still-retreating figure of Baron Rivendare rapidly dwindling into a speck on the eastern horizon.

“Ma’am?” He inclined his armored head.

“Let him go.” She shrugged, poise regained. “We cannot afford delays, and he would likely decimate any smaller force we send after him.” She looked down at her hand, clenching and unclenching her fingers. “Surprised I stood my ground, myself. Still, always did want to give Baron Rivendare a good punch in the jaw.”

Walking past Bertrand, her voice raised in command, and it echoed in the ears of the Ebon Knights and their host. “Excellent performance, gentlemen.” She drew herself up into the saddle of her vacated deathcharger. “But, we will have a chance to outdo ourselves yet!”

Other knights reined in. Ghouls looked up from their feasts, and gargoyles circled above. “We reach Angrathar before dawn!” Her voice resonated amidst the ranks. “Divide up, and maintain formation! When the Wrath Gate is in sight, the Fallen of the Alliance shall move to the perimeter beyond Fordragon Hold! The Fallen of the Horde, to the Kor’kron Vanguard! We take the Wrath Gate, and beyond, we meet with the forces of our Lord Mograine in the blighted glacier of Icecrown!” A metallic timbre entered her words, “Ride, my brothers, to spit in the eye of the Lich King!”

The cheer of men is one thing. The cheer of dead men riding, unliving voices echoing in that metallic cadence, amidst them the rasping cries of grave-spurned malignancies, is another, and any who walked that reach of the Dragon Wastes that day heard only an affirmation of the region’s cursed, haunted legends.

And so the force from Acherus rode.

–
The Italics Post

The colossus hit the ground with an ear-pummeling thud, its uncanny bones splintering with the force of impact. Riddled with bolts, cloven through in the spine, it shuddered and fell limp, an inert mass of gristle, the malevolent force that bound it dissipating.

In the far distance, barely audible beneath the cacophony of war, wolves howled.

Oh shit. Its a baby.

Bricu

The Vrykuls’ war horns echoed through the valley. They were deafening even at the reseve lines. Bricu put the gnomish glass to his eye and looked down at the battle.

Bugger me. Bricu thought, We’re gonna feel this wave… He threw his cigarette to the ground, then barked an order.

“Oi! Time t’earn our pay!” Bricu straightened his back as he shouted over the sound of battle.

“Isi, Larra , lock them fuckin’ bolts down an’ heave ta them blue balled bastards!” he barked.

“Ulth! Belt! Support the line. Clean fuckin’ head shots on the fuckers on the Bull’s left flank!”

There was banter–typical witty Rider banter and bets–Bricu called out another order:

“Fuckin’ stow yer shite-talk an’FIRE!”

A volley of arrows, bullets and ballistae bolts followed.

“Reload an’ Fire! I want ta see holes in Arthas’ children’s fuckin’ skulls!”

Bricu turned his eyes behind the ballistae. Threnn was sorting through more bandages. Her shield was already out, covering the baby that was due to be born in a matter of weeks. Behind her, three magi prepared a torrent of spells–arcane, fire and ice–to smash through Arthas’ army. Threnn, Stonemantle, Darrows and Crownsilver held his attention for a matter of moments.

A roar to the east, coming from the line, pulled his attention back to the fight. “Ulth, Belt, Scatter. Harry the fuckin’ lines an’ take clean shots! Move! Isi, Lanna, aim the quarrels for the chests, just ‘bove our folks’ heads. Fire at will.”

Isi fired a shot that sheared off the shoulder of a Vyrkul at the front lines. Through the gnomish glass, Bricu watched as the bolt tore through metal, flesh, muscle and bone, and continued onto the saronite walls of the Wrathgate itself. Another quarrel slammed off the wall seconds behind. It carried a still living Vrkul with it. At her Ballistae, Ilarra giggled.

“OI. Brilliant!” Bricu shouted. He kept his eyes to the battle in the valley itself. From this distance, all Bricu could see were the banners of the companies and platoons leading the charge against the Bloody Prince. Most were variations on the Seventh Legion. The banner that caught Bricu’s attention, leading the charge toward a Vrykul rune caster and her bodyguard, was a banner more familiar to him than any of the Seventh Legion’s platoons. It was The Eye. Uthas’ Army.

Bricu watched as seven of Uthas’ warriors, all on horse-back, charged the position of the Runecaster. Bricu, and the rest of Ballistate team, had a clear view of the Eye’s battlefield. From their, he could imagine the details: Uthas would shout out orders, Charge, Dismount, Parry!

“Larra, Isi. Aim this fuckin’ Ballistate ten degree’s north, bring it down fifteen degrees. NOW”

Armed with the gnomish glass, Bricu watched as Uthas’s soliders dismounted–almost in unison–and brought their weapons up to parry the downward swing of the Vrykuls massive axes. Only one of the Eye was too slow to block an axe. Bricu saw it fall to the frozen ground. Another of the Eye parried the killing blow, giving the one on the ground enough time to roll away. The Vrykul’s axes spun and whirled by Uthas’ soliders. The ferocity was mesmerizing to watch. They swung their axes with all of their might, howling for blood. Some even twirled their double-bladed axes over the heads–a tactic that scared off so many of the initial soliders of the Alliance. Their weapons sang through the air and their battle cry was clear over the din of battle.

The Eye did not falter. Bricu watched as Uthas’ soldiers followed through like the trained, hardened fighters he feared they would be. They parried the Vrukul’s powerful attacks, rushed in under their guard and knocked the Vrykul to their knees. On their backs, each one of the Runecasters’ body guard was dispatched with cold efficiency.

When this fight ends, that one’ll begin. He’ll get more folk ta follow ‘im. He’ll want ta talk t’me ’bout it all…

Bricu glanced back to Threnn–she was looking past him, towards the line held by the Riders.

He’ll want ta see our wee one.

Her body guards dispatched, one of The Eye used its fell power to pull her towards them. She cast her runes, calling upon her own magic to shield her from their attacks. The Eye was patient. They blocked her escape and waited for her magic to end.

“Yeh got the targets?” Bricu asked calmly.

“Aye, ‘e git ‘im, but…” Isi spoke

“Fire.”

“Brick..”

“FIRE!”

The bolt sailed straight and true…

–

The Wildfire Riders – Uthas by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Uthas

The frontlines wavered for a tense few minutes when the Black Gate spewed forth its vrykul. Where men quailed, a few dark riders moved in to bring their icy death to the giant warriors, until the men and women returned. Still, there were few of them, and they caused nearly as much fear to those under the Alliance banners as the great slavering undead. And then Fordragon came forth and showed those under the banner of the Eye what they had lost. He brought with him the Light, and the Allied banners surged forward again.

Uthas surveyed the lines, using the speed of his small unit to advantage. They were used to moving in this freezing Hell – the cold and ice slowed them no more than a passing breeze might slow a bull in anger. Only to the thickest of the fighting did they ride. Amidst the shouts and screams and roars of battle, they moved silent, guided by the raised and lowered hand of their leader. Each time they smashed into the enemy, driving them back not with skill of arms or ferocity, but with the simple inevitability of death come to earth. Each time they fought until the lines rallied and pressed forth, absorbing them again, when they would return to their mounts and find their next challenge – though they would not find what they truly sought on this battlefield. That had been lost to them.

When the Runecaster and her guardians came for them, they were ready. The shouting terror tactics of the bearded dead raiders could not chill blood that was already frozen, and without their fear, the vrykul were nothing. Uthas watched them fall one by one, seeing the face of the Runecaster twist into an expression alien to its features. The bold of the great North, the ancestors of man were not meant to be afraid. But this was the end of the world, and the Eye was something new that had not come before, and so fear crept into the hearts of the vrykul and made its insidious home. One of the dark knights raised a gauntleted hand and beckoned the Runecaster. The gesture was almost sweet, a simple flex of the fingers, open palm facing the sky – as if the knight longed for the life still lingering within the tall witch. The power of the North responded to the desire, and drew the witch to the knights of death. Uthas watched as she shouted a few words in her harsh tongue and a great shimmering red shield flexed into being around her. The Eye encircled her and planted their weapons, waiting patiently for the shield to drop.

*************************************

The rock flew through the air and clunked off the fence post. The dented tankard atop the post rocked a bit, but settled back into place. “Bloody ‘ell!” Bricu swore and kicked at Uthas, who nimbly danced out of the way, laughing all the while. “‘s t’ree ye owe me now, Bri!” The taller boy sighed and picked up another rock. He wound back and hurled it at the metal cup, and both boys watched it sail toward the post, where it missed by a good four feet.

Uthas cackled and fell onto his back, slapping the ground. “Four! Four good meals ye owe me now! Yer tha worst chucker in the t’ree counties Bri! Ye keep up like ‘is ‘n I’ll be eatin’ fer free ’til we’re ol’ men!” Bricu turned and kicked some dirt onto the younger boy. “Yar, yar, laugh all ye want, pipsqueak. I kin still clock ye ‘ard ’nuff ta make ye ‘n orphan all o’er ‘gain.” The redhaired lad bent and picked up another rock, tossing it at the tankard again. He watched as it missed, and scratched at the new fuzz on his chin to conceal his smile. “Argh. Tha’s five meals I owe ye.”

*************************************

The crimson bubble shattered into thousands of pieces as the ballastae bolt tore through it. The bolt drove sliced through the neck of the Runecaster, tearing it off cleanly with its passing. The body stayed on its feet for a few moments, still gesturing, before realizing that it was dead and collapsing. Without pause, the seven knights of the Eye mounted again and turned as one. As they rode back toward the Alliance lines, Uthas turned his head to the hill where the bolt had originated. Atop the crest of ice and snow, he could see the gleam of plate and bright swish of red hair, prematurely stained with grey. The distance was too far to distinguish features, but life sometimes makes such details unnecessary. Uthas turned his head back toward the fight and again raised his hand, gesturing at a band of five vrykul chieftans preparing to charge a gap in the line. As the Eye began to move again, inside his helmet the Lord of the Unblinking Eye smiled. “Six.”