Mount Hyjal, summit of the World Tree, and the site of the Sentinel's encampment, was under siege. And losing.
Ghouls, led forth by the now satisfied and gore covered Nai'x, leaped on decimated ranks of Treants and tore them open, quenching their thirsts with the sap that oozed between the rent carcasses. Seconds later, druids came out from behind the barricades and attempted to assault the feeding ghouls, but soon found themselves surrounded. Nai'x, smiling his lipless, blood-soaked grin, began to laugh, and he and the rest of the fiends capered in to feast.
Many yards away from this gristly scene, war raging on around him in the lower foothills, Purist found himself fighting a man he had thought died nearly two years ago. Abaddon Deschael, an older paladin who had been eaten alive by a pack of felhounds....now seated atop a decaying warhorse, ashen pale and eyes the glittering blue of a drowned sailor. A dead man, laughing as he swung his runeblade almost lazily, beheading a nearby druid in his madness. Even his allies drew away from him uneasily, and distanced themselves out to find their own kills somewhere else.
The Lord of Avernus, turning towards Purist's way, swiped at him in a thick downward stroke, but misjudged the distance, resulting in a paladin now retreating out of range, eyes alight with anger. Abaddon, losing interest, rode off screaming in hopes of finding slower prey.
Purist had felt anger before, but seeing a former friend twisted in so horrible a fashion....it was unspeakable. He could feel the blood pounding in his head, his throat choked with rage. It was obvious that Abaddon had become infested by demons, and that hurt worst of all. It was a fate worse than death, always.
Calling on his repelling magics, the Omniknight shielded himself and rushed in, hoping to end it quickly, and met with success as his upward lunge severed the grinning, livid face of a corpse from it's armored form, which then fell lifelessly on the ground in a heap. Dark things, screaming and full of killing spite, rushed out from Abaddon's neck like a swarm of wasps, buzzing angrily into the sky and were soon out of sight. The warhorse, whining desperately through a rotting set of vocal cords, ran off into the night, trampling many-a-ghoul in its terror, and then it too was gone.
Regardless, the ghouls and necromancers marched on, forcing the saddened, but victorious paladin into retreat.
As Purist made his charge, closer to the barricades that had been erected around Nordrassil, Ezalor and Bradwarden blasted back entire legions, one with waves of crushing energy, and the other with giant hooves and an axe to match. Yet for every fallen ghoul, two took it's place. Necromancers began to draw together and maneuver themselves around Ezalor's blasts. And further back, a large Sea Giant began to make his way up the mountain, towards the two defenders. Muddy eyes glowed malevolently as his anchor lit up with it's own inner fire....
Across the entire range of this mountainous region, a million different battles were taking place between these two factions, and slowly but surely, the Sentinel were retreating while the Scourge pushed upwards, towards a very fragile looking World Tree, alone and towering over everything else.
Even as a loud, booming thunderclap erupted from the direction of their ruined city, the ghouls and necromancers took no notice. Kel'Thuzad, who was busy in his malicious spellwork, felt terrible pain rip through his skeletal core, but ignored it. The Master's will was for the World Tree to fall, and fall it shall! He would be not let injury precede his god's wishes.
Still, he was troubled....
The next hour went by in excruciating agony for the Sentinel's defenders. Bradwarden and Leviathan both lay dead, each with their respective weapons buried in the other's skull. Already the barricades were being eroded away by the combined efforts of both Lesale Deathbringer and Viper, toxins melting through the thick wood and iron like battery acid. Thousands lay dead across the hillsides, and Nai'x ate greedily from every corpse he could find, even if it was another ghoul.
And Purist, exhausted from healing his sick and dying comrades from behind these dissolving barriers of earth and steel, found himself writhing in agony as Darchrow's essence wriggled excitedly inside him. He clenched his teeth and prayed, gripping his sword with bleeding fingers, wondering if morning would ever come.
The end was close now.
All the chips on the table. Every card up but one. As Ner'zul himself had noted, the deck was still moving, and was quickly shuffling itself towards the Scourge's favor.
Until now.
From behind the endless mass of undead beasts and monsters, a tide of darkness was rising to shore. Elementals, each the same as one another, floated murkily across the ground in thousands, moving like thick ooze up the base of Mount Hyjal. At the very front, a colossus with violet flaming eyes led its tenebrous host in silence.
Atropos, who barely had the strength to hold his essence together from his previous exertions with the scroll of projection, cried soundlessly as Darchrow consumed him in one fell swoop. The avatar of fear and death was now one with an even greater terror than himself.
Sluggishly, like motion underwater, the whole of the Scourge turned around in growing horror as they came face to face the Enigma and his legions. These eidolon were mouthless, faceless, yet they began to hoot and cry in mud choked voices all the same as the Scourge became aware of their presence. Darchrow floated forward, raising one braced appendage in the motion to advance.
The Scourge, who had never known fear of anything, forgot the World Tree in favor of this new enemy. Doing what any animal does when it becomes cornered, they turned to fight.
Each eidolon, in the face of this rushing horde of monsters, launched it's own magic essence in response to their aggression. Each sparkling pulse of blue energy formed together to create a storm of magic that tore into the undead host.
The results were catastrophic.
Kel'Thuzad watched in growing horror as his god's original plans scattered to the four winds. The storm had burst over seven thousand ghouls; the sky itself rained blood and bits of bone and flesh, and already there were cries of fear among the ranks. This could not happen, it shan't happen!!
Focusing intently on Darchrow, his fleshless hands swerved and twisted around each other as frozen energy formed into a white, swirling orb. A moment later, he launched it forcefully, bending its path to hit the Enigma first, then it would bounce through his formations and destroy the eidolons.
Darchrow, aware of his surroundings in a dreamlike focus, turned toward the chain of frost and sent it flying back into the Lich through the power of his mind. To the casual observer, it looked as if it had stopped dead in mid air, then turned around and launched back, like a game of football.
It struck with soul shattering force into the Lich's disjointed, ornate body. He screamed as the force of his own cold essence bored deep inside, then burst, opening a path for his evil soul to depart from this world forever. Now only a measly pile of scattered bones, the Scourge had lost it's greatest general.
With that, the rest of the Scourge began to run up toward the World Tree, no longer trying to destroy it, but to seek sanctuary in their senseless fear. The last of the ghouls, necromancers, and minor centurions and commanders of this broken horde found themselves facing a renewed Sentinel. Purist, eyes gleaming brightly in victory, shouted and raised his sword to charge. Hundreds of treants and druids flew down from behind the barricades, led by the Sentinel's last champions.
At the same moment, Darchrow's monstrous servants rushed forward, their time in the physical world almost over.
The Scourge was crushed between the two opposing forces, battered and beaten by an endless stream of magic and melee swipes and stabs.
When the sun, a circle of blood and fire, finally rose above the horizon at the beginning of a brand new day, the war was over. Not one undead monster was left, and the endless night was over.
Darchrow, who had extinguished his servants back into the void hours ago, moved away from the celebrating and tired remnants of the Sentinel, and moved steadily down the slope quietly, moving down into the lowlands.
Purist, who had been listening to Zeus explaining the plans to rebuild the encampments and clean up the bodies, proper burials, and other such necessary matters, excused himself from the others and moved down the slope to watch the Enigma.
Darchrow turned and beckoned the paladin with his burning gaze, compelling and full of need.
The Omniknight followed him in broken boots to the place of counseling.
Epilogue: The Circle Closes
Dear Ezalor,
This will probably be the last you ever hear of me, and perhaps it's for the best. Despite everything, I believe that with all my heart. Bradwarden and Furion, my friends, are dead. There is no reason left to stay, so I hope when you finally receive this letter, you will understand my intentions.
Although I fear what I may find as I go home, in this world consumed by chaos, I am not afraid or worried. I am no longer alone, and perhaps that too is for the best. There's a price to pay for everything, and only now am I beginning to understand exactly what that price is.
Last month, on the morning following our victory, Darchrow led me down into a clearing to discuss my future. It was him who destroyed the Lich King, and it was him who flanked the Scourge at their backs.
He believes you a coward for sending me into the Ritual of Chud instead of participating in it yourself, but looking back, I think that it was probably meant to be from the very start.
Darchrow and I are headed across the sea to Lordaeron now. Demons still roam those lands, and there are even rumors of a renegade group of Undead, called the Forsaken, who are working to develop their own plague of undeath to start the war all over again.
Linked in the way that I am with him, I think I understand my new partner's motivations. He is insatiable, and wants to continue to learn and grow as a sentient being, and to do that he needs to travel.
After all of this is over, perhaps I'll settle down and live a normal life again. Sheathe my sword and devote myself to the Light completely. Whatever awaits me then, I'll accept it gladly, and then, maybe, you and I can meet again.
Long days and pleasant nights, and may you someday find happiness for yourself.
- Purist Kazaer Thunderwrath