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The Chronicles of Darchrow - Chapter 5: Apparebat Eidolon Senex
Bradwarden, who had for the past twenty minutes taken in the brunt of the physical and magical assault of the undead, was dying. Propped up in a four-legged stoop against the thick trunk of the World Tree itself, he neighed desperately as he fumbled to hold in his intestines from falling out of a ruined stomach. Already his thoughts, normally clear and alert, were blurring into gray static.
Where the curses and body binding enchantments of his foes at failed, the filthy claws of the ghouls and decaying horrors had succeeded.
But it didn't matter. He had bought the others time to fortify barricades across the sloping path that led up to Nordrassil itself, and that would have to be enough right?
He didn't have an answer to that, but there was no point in looking back now. He had played the role of the martyr well, had charged when the rest stood stupefied and confused in the wake of Jakiro's bloody fall. He had, in short, done his best. They had all retreated to Nordrassil, leaving him behind, but he wasn't bitter. It was hard to hate when you could barely breathe, much less think.
In front of the fallen Centaur Warchief, nearly fifty yards down the slope in front of him, lay the Scourge. A thousands ghouls and necromancers, with their generals scattered like pollen throughout the host. There were less of that last than there were before. With his axe, he had beheaded both Magnus and Nessaj in their frenzied attempt to reach him first ahead of the rest. When their decapitated twitching remains had hit the grass, the rest had fallen on him, and thinking about it, he realized it was a miracle that he should have gotten up here at all, a miracle that he was even thinking about it as his heart slowed it's beats, hot blood pooling around his hooves in a sea of crimson.
Muddy centaur eyes, filming over in darkness, seemed to see the air waver strangely at the edge of his vision, but he didn't notice. He was watching the legions ahead group together and move. Toward him and the mighty tree that lay beyond him.
He heard a an audible popping sound to his right, the sound of something physical appearing where there was only air a moment ago, but didn't notice. The end was here.
Footsteps, the sound of grass crushed beneath thick boots from the direction of the sound. Fear, unexpected, bristled through him. He couldn't move, couldn't do anything, and now some fiend was going to kill him after all.
Now it was next to him. The sound stopped. A worn hand, human and smooth, gripped his shoulder with surprising force.
"I was afraid that I had been lost in that other space forever. The Scourge are coming, but they are full of fear. What a wonder you have done..."
Life, a pure flowing surge of it, suddenly shot into his massive hulk like electricity. The hand on his shoulder, burning white, gripped tighter as it dug into him. A punctured lung was healed. New blood filled into mended veins and arteries, and his ruptured stomach sealed over without a single scar. The flow of whiteness pulsed with gathering intensity over the next few seconds, then ceased as the gray curtain over his vision lifted, returning Bradwarden to a world of life and color.
He got up shakily, unsteady. His four legs, each a piston of the strongest muscle, lifted his ten foot frame to it's full imposing height. The enemy forces on the slope below had stopped moving, eyeing him silently.
They were waiting for something, but what?
He turned his bearded face to his right, and then gasped. It was Purist Thunderwrath, the healing man. No longer young, the paladin's hair had grayed, his chin and mouth snowed over by a fogged beard streaked with white. Most startling however was his face. It was the face of an old man, wrinkled and lined. Only the eyes, iceberg blue, were young. It was the face of someone who was dead but didn't know it.
The Warchief dropped his axe, shocked. He rubbed his eyes with stubby fingers, hoping it was nothing more than a mirage, a hateful apparition.
He looked again. The old, dead face was gone. The young man he knew was back. Purist smiled warmly and clapped his relieved ally on the back. He said in the Centaur tongue, "By the Light, you are brought back from the brink of death. I almost lost you."
"No problem. Your face though..."
"What about my face?"
"It looked as if you had aged a thousand years, like the Van Winkel man who slept beneath the tree in that old story."
Going pale, Purist remained silent a moment, then responded quietly, "You imagined it. A vision, nothing more."
Bradwarden, who simply accepted things, just shrugged. "Okay. We must meet with the others now. They are behind the Tree, preparing defenses and barricading the inner encampments and tavern area. No time to lose eh?"
Purist nodded. No time to lose indeed, but Darchrow seemed intent on something. In his mind, he heard the Enigma's instructions clearly.
"Ask the centaur for the orb of seeing. I need a visible point to project myself to if I am to move into the Lich King's sanctums. I will siphon off a bit of energy to increase its potency as you scry."
Then it was gone.
Bradwarden was already galloping off, but he was still in calling distance. "Brad! Can you lend me the crystal ball you have in your saddlebag? There's something I need to see."
Without hesitation, the Centaur chieftain reached into the bag that hung around his neck and rummaged. A moment later, he found a smooth sphere at the bottom, and palmed it. Judging the distance, he then promptly tossed it underhand to the Omniknight. It sailed upwards in a smooth arc, and a moment later he grunted approvingly as he saw it snatched out of the air. The human's reflexes were as sharp as ever.
He nodded, gave the hand signal for a later meeting, and then continued his ascent to the World Tree, where the rest of the Sentinel was preparing for the coming siege. Like when the Burning Legion had come before, they found themselves cornered once again.
Only this time, Malfurion Stormrage was not here to lead them.
Purist turned toward the darkened skyline, clouded over as moonlight shone across the landscape, and crushed the crystal sphere to powder in his hand while mouthing the proper incantation. Opening his palm, which was now flooded with light, he was delighted to find that the Lich King's necropolis was in full view, a crumbling city built upon a blighted plateau that rose above the dying forests of it's borders. The Throne itself, magnificent and glimmering brightly, stood at this undead settlement's very heart.
There was no movement. It's inhabitants, every single soldier of the Scourge, now stood below him. They hungered and jabbered with slime filled jaws at the sight of the World Tree, and at Purist who stood in their way.
"Make your move now Darchrow, while there's still time"
In response, the dead city in his palm suddenly went black.
Purist closed his right hand into a tight fist, and began his ascent to join the rest of the Sentinel's defenders.
10/29/2007 10:01:05 PM
Category
The Chronicles of Darchrow
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