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The Chronicles of Darchrow - Chapter 2: In The Watches of the Night
While Darchrow moved southeast and the Lich King sent his emissary, the Sentinels were celebrating. The entire encampment was in joyous upheaval, with treants and druids frolicking in the moonlight and the taverns, situated at the base of the World Tree itself, entertained it's champions with an ecstatic vigor not seen in months. Even foul-mouthed Jakiro, ever temperamental, was happily roosted in a nest of leaves on Nordrassil's lush canopy. His two heads bayed at the moon and echoed across the midsummer night.
Only Purist Thunderwrath, greatest of paladins and second to Malfurion himself in position, sat alone this night, sitting at the edge of the central lane that led down the rolling mountainside into the forests and lowlands; a man who felt utterly bewildered and without use on battlefield that lacked a battle. How could everyone waste time enjoying themselves and reveling when there was blood to be spilled? They should be pushing and routing the Undead, not....doing all of this.
As a boy, he had been taught that you never stopped until the job was done. Whether it was his holy training or his chores, there were no exceptions. As a result, he had never known many friends as he grew up in the city-state of Stormwind. Friends only served as liabilities in a battlefield scenario. By the Light, they were liabilities no matter what the situation. Yes, without exception, for what was it that his commander had always said? "Pathos should not impede a necessary course of action. When in combat, you look out for others, but never let emotion cloud your better judgments. Friends come and go; do not hold your hearts near their hands, because each of you have only one life to live, and letting your feelings take control ends that in a hurry."
Purist snorted. He had nearly forgotten Admiral Ganshire's gruff voice and those little speeches of his. He was most likely dead by now, either slain by the Undead Scourge or their masters, the Burning Legion, that had come soon afterwards to pillage what was left of humanity in those lands. Despite not liking the old battle-axe too much during those years of military service, he wished that he could have listened to him again before the end had finally come in the form of rotting friends and family, now mindless and cannibalistic. Oh the terror he had felt in those days.....
And here he was, a human paladin, in a land far from the home he had ever known. Is this what it feels like to be a ghost? Cut off, separated, and completely alone? To this he had no answer, and he wondered if he ever would.
So, it is in this state of melancholy that we find Purist Thunderwrath, sitting cross legged at the edge of the Sentinel's base and staring listlessly at the woods that surrounded it, lost in his memories of a world that was once full of love and light. Even as a clump of trees at the edge of the outer forest perimeter began to shake as a darkness moved through them, it wasn't until the thing came into view that Purist's unfocused stare finally broke, returning his mind to the present as he stood up to better see what was coming.
His unsheathed sword, covered in runes and odd diagrams of dubious meaning, began to glow a whitish blue as the eidolon came into the moonlight from the penumbral shadows of the outermost trees. It was bulbous in shape and dark violet in color, legless, and well over seven feet in height. From it's strange smooth sides two thick, muscular arms dangled listlessly, fingerless but each braced at the wrist. The most arresting and horrible thing about it, however, was it's face. It was dark violet like the rest of it's body, but it was transparent, and Purist could see it's skull. Indigo fires, one in each black socket, flared out from an otherwise ghastly undead visage.
Purist, who had faced down an infinitude of undead horrors, who had beheaded the most tenacious and putrid of demonic forms, found that he could not move. His face grew white, and his chest respirated rapidly, for it seemed that he couldn't feel breath. He gagged, and realized that it was moving towards his position.
The part of his mind unfrozen by fear was already at work channeling his magic around himself, hoping to ward it off, this evil that had come from an airless, squirming hell beyond anyone's experience, much less that of a paladin. Yet his efforts, though filling him with the sickening urge to vomit, engulfed him in glowing, runic energy, a barrier of gold that swirled and shielded him from spells.
As a result, Darchrow didn't slay the Omniknight as it passed through him. Interested in the protective energies of this man's repelling magic, the Enigma only stopped a moment to observe it, his violet orbs turning toward the sickened paladin indifferently, then turning back toward the World Tree as he continued moving towards his goal. Treants and druids that were in its path shrank back in mewling fear. Those it touched withered and collapsed, petrified husks drained of life.
Purist, amazed that he hadn't simply died in its passage, watched in disbelief as it moved behind him into the heart of the Sentinel's encampment. Although filled with a growing sort of relief, there came with it something ominous. He thought of Malfurion, who had left hours ago to watch the sunset, and had not returned since then. It was true that the Sentinel's leader often moved about the land without a word, but now that he thought about it, something was definitely amiss.
Was it possible that this was all more than coincidence?
So, following the necessary course of action, the Omniknight turned around and followed the monster into the encampment. Darchrow, who found that this man would serve his purposes after all, chuckled silently and continued onward.
He reached Nordrassil three minutes later, and as the taverns emptied and the Sentinel's many generals and champions approached the Enigma with curiosity, it began to speak.
And everyone listened.
10/28/2007 11:12:14 PM
Category
The Chronicles of Darchrow
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