WoW Story Part One

Unholy Resurrection

There are times in the chill hours of the morning, when the early winds lift off the glacial cliffs to the north and play through the crystalline leaves below us, that I can still hear the screaming. There are days, late towards evening when the raw gloaming splashes its slit wrists across the sky and gleaming crimson reflects across the towers, that I see something move just outside my vision. Something all-too-like the loathsome lurching of decaying flesh. I see the other bold adventurers striding through the streets, their armor glinting atop the strong backs of proud steeds; and I marvel at how they have moved on while I am still haunted by another city, other streets, and nightmares that pursue me.

I believe I remember how it started, but there’s a haze of dread and fear that fogs my memories. As though those days before the horror were a dream I cannot quite properly recall.

Azeroth seemed a place at peace. The deceptions of Onyxia had long since been exposed and she had been routed from the humans’ royal court, driven back to her lair. We followed her down into darkness and fire, and with rich arcane fury I reduced her children to ashes. We were welcomed back as heroes when we returned to Stormwind and hoisted her head high upon the gates of the city. I remember the cries of joy and cheers for our success that rang through those streets. But I also remember other, more terrible cries ringing through those streets.

We journeyed deep into Blackrock Mountain, down to the nearly unbearable heat to bring ruin to the elemental servants of the raw, fiery hatred that dwelt there. Facing, finally, the Firelord himself and once again we were victorious. From there we ascended to the very peaks of that dread citadel and found the eldest child of the black dragons. He was far more terrible than I had imagined in my youngest days – dreaming of adventure in the tunnels of Gnomeregan. Once more, we were greeted as heroes when we returned to Stormwind to raise Nefarian’s head alongside his sister.

We knew that there were other threats in the world – but in the face of our victories they seemed paltry and distant. Others rode to the far land of Kalimdor and faced an ancient terror deep in the southern sands of that miserable kingdom. But I did not care for such fancies and adventures – something was changing in the world. I could feel it.

So I was not surprised when the Dark Portal opened once more and we found ourselves staring deep into the hungry maw of that twisted doorway. When we emerged into the homeland of the orcs, I found as inhospitable and unpleasant a land as I had ever imagined. Only in the northern reaches, upon the crumbling remains of a kingdom that had been named Netherstorm, did I find anything of merit. The designs and workings of the machines there were wonderful. So many hours spent in study of their technology – hurling blasts of arcane power upon those murderous elves that wanted the secrets all to themselves.

I heard tales of the fall of Illidan and of adventures through the very fabric of time itself. But I found myself too tired for such folly. The years of fighting had taken their toll, and I still felt the ache of adventures long past in my muscles. I wished only to help in what ways I could and to see that the vicious servants of the Burning Legion did not pass through that land and into our world. I wanted the peace and serenity of knowing that Azeroth was a better world for my efforts.

I try my best to remember those times. To remember the ease and simplicity of that saner world. But my memories are always pulled forward. The terrible inertia of time moves my thoughts again and again to the atrocities that followed. As though passing through a veil, my thoughts part the mists of my memories and once more I am in those terrible streets. Those damned days and nights of howling horrors, and the soft padding of rotting flesh upon the cobblestones of civilization.

I was sitting in one of the workshops of Ironforge when I heard the first reports come in. Something was happening in the south, that much was clear; but of just what it was we were still uncertain. Those first few hours were a steady stream of rumor and the trembling recounts of those who had seen something their minds would not let them properly recall: strange shadows moving through the jungles and forests of the south. I recall several times hearing farmers speak of “grain” in such trembling tones that I believed I must have misheard them.

* * * * *

It was two days later, two days of fear and uncertainty, when the first reports of full assaults came in. We had heard that small groups of creatures had been seen moving through the dense jungles of Stranglethorn, but considering the bizarre and gruesome practices of the trolls who dwelt there this was nothing new. Finally, a rider who had been passing through the forest of Duskwood arrived in Ironforge with a report too terrible to believe. The creatures that had been seen amongst the jungles of the south had moved northward and had set upon him and his companions. He escaped their steely grips and hungry jaws to report what he had seen. The undead. Zombies hungering for the flesh of the living. These were not the forsaken of the dread Banshee Queen; these were the mindless slavering nightmares that had nearly devoured the world.

The Scourge had attacked again, a few years before. Their necropolises had filled the skies and the fearsome servants of their unholy host had come down to meet us in battle. At that time I had joined my friends, and more than a few of the plague-ridden scum had fallen in the blazing wrath of my magic. We had pushed back their invasion and the only sign of their coming was the dread citadel that remained, hovering quietly far to the north.

What was happening now, however, was different. This was not the crude, shock tactic assault of years before. This was something terrible to behold, this was an attack directed by a mind more malevolent and vicious than any I had ever conceived. This was the terror of the Lich King. The Scourge was upon us once more.

It seemed unthinkable when we heard word of the assault on Sentinel Hill. Guards had fled to Stormwind, battered, bruised, and beaten by the onslaught that had fallen upon them. Messengers from the king himself came to Ironforge, meeting with King Bronzebeard and asking for his assistance – warning that the creatures might not be held back merely by the might of their own forces. I was there, whispering in hushed tones at the edge of the King’s chamber, packed with the dwarves and other gnomes. I heard the tale from the messengers themselves.

It was near the middle of the day, the sun was hot overhead and the farmers were working their lands. High atop the tower of Sentinel Hill, one of the guards was looking out towards the bridge to Duskwood, always watching for those rare trolls who sneak past the Watchers and come into Westfall to pillage and steal. Through the shimmering haze of the summer heat and the parting of wind through the fields of wheat the guard saw something. His words froze up, caught in his throat by a clenched fist of terror and disbelief. Unable to speak he ran down the stairs through the tower, as if fleeing some unknowable horror upon the rampart.

When he reached the bottom he stuttered and stammered out the only word he found himself able to force from his throat. “Ghouls!” Before the full weight of his words could be understood, the terrible creatures were upon them. The guards of Sentinel Hill were not strangers to the undead; they had faced the occasional stray monstrosity from the graveyards of Duskwood and thought they knew their enemy. But these things moved far swifter than other lumbering horrors. They were directed with purpose and the malevolence of the mind of their master. This was an army of the Lich King, and they had come to do his work.

The slavering fiends fell upon the citizens who worked the mill at Sentinel Hill, their rampage too horrifying to imagine. The messengers told us how the guards watched as the fallen men and women would quickly rise again, their limbs already rotting – their forms twisted into unspeakable shapes. Bones violently protruding through their pallid skin, hungry mouths mangled by their newly gaping jaws. The friends and neighbors they had spoken to only an hour before were now monsters directed by the same terrible will as those who had killed them.

The messengers told us of one of the guards brashly charging forward to destroy one of the newly risen ghouls. When the guard struck him a few times, the creature released a terrible wail and burst open in a shower of gore and a spray of green mist. The guard who had attacked and several other travelers were caught in the bilious spray and within moments found themselves overwhelmed by the terrible, unholy plague of the Lich King. Changing until the hunger of undeath took them, turning them upon their allies.

Witnessing this mindless carnage, we were told that it was Gryan Stoutmantle himself who turned fire upon the creatures and led the escape of those who still lived. They fled north, towards the sanity of Elwynn Forest – and the hopes that Stormwind would rally against the coming terror. Guards along the edges of Elwynn reported that the fires spread rapidly, and that some farmers remained to battle the conflagration. Many of the men and women fled Westfall, coming to Stormwind hoping for rescue, hoping for a place to find sanctuary from the nightmare. How could they have known that they were merely detritus riding upon the crest of that apocalyptic tide?

We heard the reports of the messengers of King Wrynn and mighty Bronzebeard himself looked crestfallen at the news. There was no fear in his eyes, no dread upon his face. But deep within his heart, I believe he felt the weight of that terrible moment. There were emissaries of the Argent Dawn there who claimed that they could protect us from the Scourge. But considering the reports from Westfall, we gave little credence to their attempts to assuage our fears. Perhaps they could provide aid, but there were so few of them, and terrible many of our enemies.

I thought then, about what I should do. There was an ache in my bones of battles long past. My staff was used more and more to help me stand, and less to strike down my enemies. But more than the weight of my robes or the age around my eyes – there was a burning hunger I had thought long forgotten. I felt the gravity of adventure pulling me forward. I had killed dragons, I had sent missiles of pure magic blazing through the fires of an Elemental Lord himself, I had walked through portals into other worlds. I would not stay in my workshop when the enemy was finally at our gate. I resolved myself to heroism. I chose to save Azeroth once more.

Unholy Resurrection Part Two

I went then from the throne room of King Bronzebeard and ran to my workshop. So excited was I, at the prospect of new adventure, that I teleported in small bursts the entire way there. Finally, I grabbed my staff and began to head towards the lands of Stormwind and King Wrynn. If I had been thinking properly I would have simply teleported myself to Stormwind or taken the tram. But I was not thinking – I was just doing, for the first time in some years.

I headed back to the great forge at the center of the city. The magnificent heat of that grand furnace warmed the ache from my joints and soothed the weariness from my bones. I should have stopped a moment to speak to the Gryphon Master there. I should have asked him what news he had heard. Perhaps I would have thought a second time about what I was doing. Instead, I carelessly flipped a gold coin towards him, hopped upon a gryphon, called out “To Stormwind”, and spurred the creature into the sky.

My mind reeled for a moment at the sudden lift of the beast and the dizzying motions it took to quickly navigate its way out of the city. But the moment the cold, glorious air of the mountains rushed against my face, and we passed out of the great gates of that city, I remembered my glorious days of dragon-slaying once more.

The lands of Dun Morogh passed below me as the gryphon soared through the air. I could see the snow-capped peaks that surrounded that land, I smelled the subtle scents of malt and barley that flowed from the brewery of Kharanos, and far to the west I could see the green fog that rose from the tunnels of my home. Gnomeregan: lost forever. I had ventured back once with a group of friends. For hours, we fought our way deep through its tunnels; but no matter what damage we did, the Troggs seemed endless. By the time we found the Dark Iron dwarves in the deep passages, we were exhausted and weakened from the effort. We turned back and escaped that place through a forgotten passage; though as we left, I thought I heard the mad cackling of the Mekgineer himself, coming from the lowest halls of our forsaken city.

My thoughts were shaken from such malaise when I passed over the scorched lands around Blackrock Mountain, scene of my greatest triumphs. And though the lands around it were still barren, flame-ridden desolation; and though the orcs still held that mountain stronghold; a smile crossed my face at the memories of dead dragons and fallen elementals.

A few moments later, marveling at the speed and grace of my ride, I found myself among the falls and rivers of Elwynn forest. Stormwind would not be far ahead, and the moment for my return was finally at hand. Passing over the forest it seemed still untouched by the advancing undead menace. Smoke rose from the mill to the east, and as I passed near Goldshire and the nearby abbey, there was little sign of disturbance.

The gryphon brought me over the Valley of Heroes and the glorious statues that pay remembrance to the champions of the Second War. Perhaps, if I had looked down among those statues, I could have seen some sign of the horrors that were assaulting that land. Alas, I was filled with the folly of regained vigor; and looking towards the west I could see the black, billowing clouds that rose from the burning lands of Westfall. And so, without even landing, I bucked my gryphon against its path and yelled out, “No, to Westfall. Sentinel Hill.”

My gryphon obeyed and after a swift circle over the valley, we were speeding off toward the smoke in the west. As I passed over Elwynn again, I began to notice how things were changing. I could hear screams below me, though my eyes could not pierce the canopy of treetops to see what was happening. I should have stopped the gryphon then and headed back, perhaps riding a mount to Westfall and seeing if I could help along the way. But my course was set and the gravity of atrocity was pulling me forward.

We passed from the forests of Elwynn and came out over Westfall. I had always felt a love towards that land. It was so different from the snowy peaks and frozen rivers of my own home: no steep valleys, no trolls or hulking wooly terrors to be found in caves. The way that the wind passed through the thick fields of wheat, turning the landscape into a glistening lake of golden currents and flowing scintillation. It was not a home to me, but it was still a place I had found myself often visiting for all its warmth.

The land I found myself flying over, however, was not the place I remembered. The fires had spread beyond Sentinel Hill and several farms were burning. The black storm that rose from the fields brought tears to my eyes; as much from the choking sting of it, as from what was being lost below me. Through holes in the smoke I could see that the undead were still terrorizing the lands as well. The sounds of breaking glass, bursting lumber, and the screaming of terrified families trumpeted the carnage happening below me. Flying above, I was powerless.

As I neared Sentinel Hill I could see that the entire outpost was ablaze. The lumber mill was a raging firestorm; the humble inn there was lost in an ocean of dancing flames, the top of the tower itself the only visible island of safety amidst the inferno. Coming nearer to the blaze I found that my gryphon was bucking and turning violently. The heat from the fires was creating unpredictable wind currents that pushed the creature higher, and then pulled it down dangerously towards the flames below.

Finally, the gryphon let out a screech of protest and began to turn away – it would approach Sentinel Hill no closer. I struggled against its reigns, trying to force it to take me to where I had commanded it. Yelling, “No you stupid beast. Take me closer, NOW!” and at my insult the creature violently bucked and threw me from its back.

With a moment’s thought I lightened my body and though I was still falling, it was slow enough for me to land safely. The problem with landing was that I was still falling towards the flames below me. But I was close to the tower, close enough that with a small effort I teleported myself to its top.

The heat from the fires around me was nearly unbearable. The tower itself was not as untouched by the blaze as I had hoped. Looking down the stairwell within I could see that flames consumed the entire bottom floor and that tongues of fire were slowly licking their way up the stairs and the walls within. I thought for a moment, searching for a safe place to try to reach. I summoned my magic to me, focusing upon the cold and frosts of my homeland, then released a small burst of ice towards the fires in the field around me. Though it reached the flames and seemed to, for a moment, soothe some of the ravaging blaze – it did not last long enough to create a clearing. Letting my thoughts slip even further towards the icy embrace of the mountains, I channeled my energies into letting a blizzard of ice fall upon a small patch of the blaze.

It worked! I had created a clearing from the fires a small distance from the tower, close enough for me to reach. I smiled and let out a slight sigh, a job well done. And in that moment of triumph, that moment of peace amidst the ruins about me, that moment…I heard the scratching. I had not noticed it before, or perhaps it had not been there before, but suddenly I realized there was a sound as of a dagger’s blade scraping against rock. It was coming from below me, within the tower. A survivor, I thought, someone was in the tower still and they needed my help.

Turning from my victory amidst the flames, which had been brief as the fires began to close the small patch I had cleared within them, I began to head down into the tower. The smoke choked me and filled my eyes, shattering the world into a kaleidoscope of teardrop facets. Though I had spent a great deal of time studying the uses of magic to create flames, it was always different with natural fire. Descending that tower was like returning to the heart of Blackrock Mountain, the choking fumes and blazing heat of pure elemental destruction.

Squinting through eyes tortured by the flames, I searched desperately for the source of the sound. “Hello?” I called, “Is there someone here? Call out and I’ll help you.”

A sound did come, returning my call, but it was not a cry pleading for assistance. It was a low sound, a hollow sound. It had a certain sense of emptiness, a void that a human voice should fill. It was the shell of a voice, wrapped around a dark abyss. It was a moan, a hungry thing born from vocal cords twisted by plague. It was a ghoul cry, and it was terribly near. It was not a survivor – it was a victim, now a monster.

The thing rushed at me from the flames – somehow its form was still holding together through the fires. I did not stop to wonder at how it had survived, I leapt back from its advance and its claws tore chunks of rock from the step where I had stood. It rushed at me and without hesitation I acted, a lifetime of training and adventure coming back to me; it was instinct, reflex. Survival.

As the creature lunged at me, I spotted the steps below me, closest to where the fire had advanced. In a flash of blue light, its claws nearly tearing into me, I teleported myself through the creature, past it, to the steps where it had first emerged. Confused for a moment, but not fooled, it quickly spun about and began to run down towards me. I only had an instant, but I had to let it get as close as I could. Yellow slobber dripped from its jaws, I must have looked like an appetizer to it.

Nearly upon me again, its hands grasping for me, I took a step back and released a ring of ice about myself that froze the wretched thing in place. I jumped then for the stairs that rose above us and grabbed onto one of them, just beyond the thing’s reach. Pulling myself up and looking back, I saw that the fires around us were quickly melting the ice that froze the creature; I had less time than I had hoped. I took a moment to bind the fiend with chains of magic, weighing it down – once the ice finally melted away it would be slowed by my spell. Hopefully, that would be enough.

I rushed back to the top of the stairs and quickly looked around the base of the tower. The flames were all around me, but worse – there were dark forms within the fires. More of the hideous undead creatures were approaching. Looking around, I saw that to the east, towards the forests of Duskwood, the fires were at their least dense. I summoned another storm of ice to fall upon a small patch about halfway between myself and the edge of the blaze. Just as it finished I heard a sound behind me and spun about; though slowed by my spell the creature was at the top of the stairs and quite nearly upon me.

Without a thought, I leapt from that high tower. The ghoul lunged at me, and tore at my cape. Only through the grace of its ragged claws, which ripped through my cloak rather than grasping it, did I continue to escape and not merely find myself strangled by that hideous beast. In another moment I had once more lightened my form and was slowly gliding toward the spot that I had cleared in the flames.

I landed amidst the fire and quickly realized that it was swiftly closing in upon me. The ghouls would reach me soon, but if I did not act quickly they would find their meal already well cooked for them. I summoned my magical fires about me to create a protective ward against the heat, and then ran into the blaze towards the east, towards the river. I was nearly there when I felt my magic begin to wane. The fires were eating through my shield and would soon consume me. I made one last desperate leap towards the edge, closed my eyes, and teleported as far as I could with a quick flash of blue light and the brief scent of burnt hair. I was on the edge of the river. Out of the fires. Safe.

Looking up, I realized I was not alone. I prepared myself to release a blast of arcane energy at whatever was around me, but fortunately found it unnecessary. It was not the undead that surrounded me, but instead I found the hulking forms of those who had come from that land beyond the Dark Portal, the draenei.

They barely took notice of me, for they had struggles of their own. Several of them were focusing, channeling great amounts of green energies, to focus on Azeroth and use the powers of the land. Waves, higher than the trees, rose up from the river and flowed past them to crash down onto the flames – and judging from the scorched land about them, they were winning the fight, but slowly. The other few draenei with them were clad in heavy armor and wielding the light itself to hold back the diabolic undead that attempted to devour them all.

One of the paladins was down on his back, a hulking undead monstrosity upon him. The draenei was flailing desperately against the creature but his weapon had fallen too far from his hand to reach. For a moment he looked up and saw me standing a short distance from him. I witnessed the terrible panic in his eyes and he quickly yelped, “Please. Help me!”

At least half a dozen more creatures were coming towards me through the flames, and I took a step back from the struggling paladin. “I’m sorry,” I replied, “I cannot.” I did not fully understand the look on his face at that moment, I would like to believe that it was an expression of understanding from one desperate hero to another; but I cannot help but feel that it would be more properly described as surrender or grim resignation. I did not have long to study the expression before it disappeared into the spit-flecked maw of the ghoul upon him. The other ghouls were quite nearly upon me as well.

Thinking quickly, I froze them all in place with a quick blast of magical ice – then I ran from them, heading north toward the borders of the Elwynn. The sun was finally setting as I reached the area where gnolls often patrolled the southwestern edge of the forest, and still the undead abominations were pursuing me. Without other option I draped myself in the arcane and slipped silently into invisibility. I ran because I knew that to do battle with them was to give them opportunity to infect me. And that was a terror too great to consider.

* * * * *

When I slipped into Elwynn forest I was greeted with a sight beyond imagination – the gnolls were locked in battle with the undead already. The moaning and unholy screeching of the ravenous unliving blight that descended upon them drowned out the yelping and giggling of the gnolls. I slipped past the scene quickly, hiding in the deep forest shadows, and noticed that the great gnoll Hogger stood atop a pile of ghoul corpses, his axe wet with green ichor, he was howling with frenzy. I did not pause to watch further, fearing that I might attract the attention of that terrible creature.

I ran as fast as my short legs could carry me, back towards Goldshire, in hopes that the guards of Stormwind had aided the small town. All about me in the forest, I saw shadows moving, gibbering and gurgling their cannibalistic intent. I grew up in a land of few trees, a land blanketed in perpetual snow that even in dead night would reflect the moon to cast a fairy glow of snow-light through the darkness. The shadows of grim Elwynn struck me with the darkest dread. Everywhere were claws grasping for me, teeth gnashing and frothing to devour me, eyes glinting with the deathly pallor of hungry oblivion.

I tried to take the main road through Elwynn, but it was a road no longer. It was a path of devastation. Corpses littered the road, many of them gnawed upon, half-eaten things that twitched with the unholy energies that were brewing within them. I have seen battle; dead bodies do not startle or disturb me. But these were different, as you moved past them they moved as well; and in little time, they rose before you, their forms twisting and changing with the mutilations of undead rebirth.

The road was a vein of tainted undeath running through the forest; and to follow it was suicide. I escaped only through my magics and once hidden within the forest, I did not attempt to use the road again.

I came slowly, hearing the forest alive with death all about me, to the edge of Goldshire. My hopes were smashed in an instant. No guards. No armored support from Stormwind; only nightmare unending. Few citizens remained and fought against the undead horrors about them, but it was to little avail. I rushed past them, hurling spells where I could assist. But more often than not, my efforts were in vain and I watched as the people I tried to help were overwhelmed and dragged down by a flurry of teeth and claw.

I reached the road to the city, but saw it blocked by a great host of the hungry dead. Many of them were advancing towards Stormwind, but some instead looked back towards the town, towards me. I ran into the inn but the main room was in terrible disarray, tables and chairs broken and cast about. The fire, which usually filled that room with such heat that I had often fallen asleep in my cups, was only ash and rare cinder. Upstairs I could hear the heavy steps and scratching sounds of the undead – it was no safe house any longer. I could not remain there.

I turned to leave and only through that small fortune was I saved, for I turned to see a hungry pair of jaws nearly snapping shut upon me. I dropped down and leapt back, saved only by my short stature as the beast closed its maw just above me. I blasted a ring of ice from myself, freezing it in place, and jumped upon the bar. I had little time, but I had no choice. This ghoul stood between me and the only sane route for escape. I looked about the room: at the splintered wood, the dying fire, the stains of crimson splashed across the walls. I would not end up as the others had; I was stronger.

Turning upon the ghoul I first laid arcane weights upon it, to ensure enough space for myself, then began to pour my anger into it. I hurled great orbs of flames towards it, unleashed blasts of energy one after another – fueling my own desire to see it explode in a blinding pulse of arcane light. Its icy restraints shattered and it began to slowly advance towards me. I focused a moment on the powers of the arcane and fueled my spells with even greater energy, then reached into my pocket for a small trinket I kept there. It was a relic from the lands beyond Azeroth, a fragment of the power that had destroyed Draenor, and when I touched it I felt its power add to my own.

I looked upon that ghoul, coming closer to me with each moment. And in that instant I wondered who it had been. A friend of mine? Perhaps the keeper of the bar that I was perched upon? A town guard who won the fight but lost the war? It did not matter – it was a husk now, a shell for the terrible powers of the Lich King. I yelled out with a roar of gnomish fury and released a torrent of missiles made from pure arcane energies. As each missile slammed into the creature I saw it weaken, pushed back, and finally fall, crumpling beneath its own weight, and release one last unholy breath.

I took a moment to prod the thing with the end of my staff, but it did not move, did not flinch, did not make a sound. It was dead, for the last time. But, I had become careless, and I could hear several things upstairs begin to stir and move towards the stairway that separated me from them. I hopped down off the bar and quickly headed out of the inn once more. Back into the bleak night that had only recently arrived, but seemed as though it would never end.

The army of undead was still on the road between Stormwind and myself, it was no way to reach the city. I needed to find somewhere safe, at least for a few moments, so that I could focus and teleport to the arcane halls of Stormwind’s Mage Quarter. I knew of several other houses nearby, off the road, that I could likely hide within and find the time needed to transport myself.

I moved quickly, staying to the shadows in the hopes that the undead were as poor sighted as myself in the hideous yellow light that was cast by the bloated moon overhead. Everything seemed sickly, as though the sky and land themselves were taken by this plague. The stars seemed more distant than ever before, the darkness around them was cold and empty. The low moon looked jaundiced and fit to burst, spreading green infection across the whole of the land, remaking Azeroth into a world of putrefaction and moaning hunger.

I reached a house and took a moment to glance into its windows before proceeding. The main room was overthrown and torn apart, but there was no sign of any of the things that had caused such ruin. I entered the house and thought to teleport immediately; but I feared that some unholy beast might pass by and attack. So I rushed upstairs and leapt upon the landing at the top while releasing a shockwave of frost from around me, just in case there was anything lurking nearby. Fortunately, I was alone.

I went then into the master bedroom and found a great many bloodstains and torn sheets, but no bodies and no ghouls. I thought to teleport myself then but found that I was weakened, drained of energy and without the fuel for my spells. I had been running through bounds of teleportation and slipping into invisibility my whole way through the forest, slowly sapping my strength and the fight against the ghoul had finally drained me. I needed to regain myself.

I sat upon the bed, used the last of my energy to summon a small pouch of magical water, and began to drink. The liquid was cool and tasted slightly of lemon and honey. I felt its energy flow through me, filling me with arcane fervor once more. I was whole again.

While I drank, however, I came to notice that I was no longer alone. I jumped, at first, in a moment of shock when I saw the intruders, but realized that it was no ghoul. It was six children. My eyes opened wide in wonder as I saw them, how could they have survived this terrible destruction? It was a miracle, these children! Hope living in the face of cataclysm.

But then, one of them spoke:

“Stranger, you are lost in this place. You are not home. You are not safe. And the Lich King looks upon you – his servants hunger, and you are the prize.”

“What?” I said back. The child’s voice was low and hollow; there seemed an ache of age and disturbed graves just beneath it.

“King Menethil is returning to his people.” One of the little girls replied in a voice as cold and hard as a tomb, “He will lead them to the freedom of the grave. The peace of unholy serenity.”

“What are you?” I asked them.

“We are heralds,” another little boy answered, his voice like the sound of wind through a skull.

“We are celebrants in the ecstasy of oblivion,” the first boy added.

“We are those who watch the world die,” a second girl replied – her voice like the shattering of a mirror, “and scrape our teeth on its bones.”

“We are children born from atrocity,” a third boy intoned without moving his lips, his voice slicing inside my brain.

“We are the ones you couldn’t save,” the first girl said, “and we are the memory of the nightmares that will haunt you.”

“Get away from me,” I said, my hands balled into fists, encircled with flames. I have never attacked a child, not even the children of the horde or my enemies. I simply could not do it. But these things before me, they were not children.

“Go ahead to the city,” the last boy replied, his voice soft with subtle menace, “we won’t stop you. We do not partake. We bear witness. But know that the screams you hear are not of death, they are the birth pangs of a new world.”

I backed away from those diabolic children; their faces seemed to pretend at being alive, like masks or dolls. They watched me with eyes that had all the emptiness of the ghouls outside, their lips twisted in serene smiles. The moonlight coming through the window seemed to cling to their skin, bathing them in ghostly iridescence. I closed one eye to focus on my magic, but kept the other open to watch the children. They did not move, merely stood and watched in silent malevolence. As I completed the spell and felt myself fade away, pulled through a slipstream of arcane energy toward Stormwind, I saw them turn and begin to walk out of that room. I do not know where they went, but I have never since felt peaceful beneath the bowers of Elwynn forest.

Unholy Resurrection Part Three

With a sudden lurch I felt myself arrive in Stormwind as I appeared in the mages’ tower. I had hoped for a moment’s peace from the nightmares, but this was no longer a world for hope. When I came into the chamber I found my senses flooded by a high-pitched noise that I could not explain. It assaulted me and I clasped my hands to my ears to keep from being overwhelmed. A moment later and the sound became more recognizable. The city was screaming.

All around me in the main room of the tower I saw the remnants of devastation. There were scorch marks and bloodstains along the walls and floor. My hope for respite from the bloodthirsty madness of that night was slipping. My mind nearly shattered in that moment and it was only the heat of a fireball passing by my face that finally shook me from my daze. I looked about and a mage near me was yelling.

“RUN!”

Looking further I realized what had happened. A portal to the chamber stood open, the other side lead to a landscape of twisted timbers and shattered crates; a dock without workers, and far off a great statue of a towering goblin. I had heard rumors that the plague started on the docks of Booty Bay, and someone – either enemy or fool – had created a portal to Stormwind from that town. Again and again ranks of gibbering mindless horrors were coming through that portal. This was not a haven; this was the eye of the storm.

“Down!” the mage nearby commanded me, and without hesitation I dropped to the floor on my stomach. Over me I felt the heat from a ring of magical fire blasting out from the mage. Several ghouls were knocked back and away from me by the impact of the mighty conflagration.

“Do you have your beard in your ears, gnome? I said RUN!” he shouted at me. I did not think to stay and help, I ran. Through the portal into the mage tower entryway, to find more ruin. The mages must have been fighting the ghouls in that tower for some time before my arrival; I could only hope they had cleared a path for me.

I ran through the room and down onto the twisting spiral ramp of the tower, but my hopes were immediately dashed by the slavering madness of a dozen ghouls advancing toward me up the ramp. I could have ran back to warn the other mage of the monsters that were approaching him. But that would have cost me time I needed. There is often no pride in self-preservation, but I do not regret my survival. I jumped from the ramp and lightened my body again to float as far as I could from the fiends that pursued me. That was a mistake.

As I slowly floated away, several of them leapt from the ramp and were following me on the ground – moving faster than my slow descent. I thought that they might catch me, take me into their arms, and welcome me to oblivion with waiting jaws and ragged claws; and for a moment, I considered surrender. But I shook those thoughts from my mind and fought on. Just above the ground I unleashed another ring of ice that froze the beasts in place, teleported myself a bit further ahead of them, and began to run. I cursed myself for not training more avidly in the ways of frost; I could have rained down an icy torrent upon them, freezing them as it tore their rotting skin from their carcasses. With my knowledge of the arcane, I could slow one – but I could not stop them all.

I ran through the alleys of the Mage Quarter, I did not know where I was going – but I had to escape. As long as my feet could carry me forward, there was a chance for sanctuary, or at least salvation.

I ran from the inner section of the Mage Quarter and headed north along its outskirts. All through the city there was the stench of death, and the cacophonous, hungry moans of the ghouls bearing catastrophe. I saw flames consuming the Trade District, the light of which cast the forms of guards battling the undead scourge into harsh silhouette. Everywhere I looked there were brave men and women giving every last ounce of their strength to defend their homes; the ghouls took their strength and kept coming, pulling them down with fingers stronger than steel, teeth sharper than swords.

I reached the Stockades of Stormwind, hoping that the guards there had held off this unholy plague. Instead I saw that the prisoners of that hellish penitentiary had escaped and rioted, taking the prison over. But they had overstepped their strength, and the ghouls were pouring down into the prison, destroying everything they could. The prisoners were rising up quickly with the familiar, twisted forms of undeath – still wearing their red bandanas – and turning upon their former allies, eating their way deeper and deeper into that place. With the twisted humor of one who had abandoned myself to depravation I thought, briefly, that perhaps the ogre Hamhock would finally live up to the potential of his name.

I ran past the entrance to the Stockades and crossed the small bridge that leads to where the Druids of Kalimdor have made their home; but the sounds from that place, and the red blaze of flames burning beyond the outer buildings made me continue and run instead toward the Cathedral to the east. That holy place, where the priests and paladins pray to the light, was my last hope for refuge within the battered, bloodied walls of the city. And one last time, I found that hope had been abandoned for the sweet repose of madness.

The square around the Cathedral was as much in flames as the rest of the city, and the doors of the great church were shut fast against the plague. At first I was horrified, wondering how the servants of the light could abandon their charge and turn the city over to the undead. But then I saw a mighty host of the Scourge slamming themselves again and again against the walls and doors of the Cathedral. The servants of the light were no better prepared to fend off this nightmare than the rest of us.

As I departed, I saw that some of the wretched ghouls were breaking down the door to the orphanage, but I did not stay to witness their feast; I chose to try the district of the dwarves and hope that the tram would take me from that place. I raced from the square about the Cathedral and crossed the small bridge to the Dwarven District. As I passed over, I could see shadowy forms moving below the waters, their faces hidden by dark currents, but their hands grasping at and rippling the surface. I moved quickly but steadily, dreading a fall into that watery crypt.

The Dwarven District was a clamor of undead moans and stout dwarven yells. There were the sounds of gunshots, of hammers cracking twisted bones, and axes severing decayed limbs. The dwarves were holding their district well enough, or at least one section of it. As I passed through their ranks, one of them stopped and shouted to me, “Gnome! Stop your flight and help us fight these things!”

I stopped a moment and looked to the dwarf, his beard was matted with blood and the bilious green humors of the undead. “I cannot,” was all I said. Then I moved on, concealing myself within the magic of invisibility, and slipped silently into the entry to the Deeprun Tram station.

The undead vermin had demolished the station. One of the trams had been torn from the rails and everywhere was the sounds of the howling, gibbering madness that the Lich King had released upon us. I looked deep down the tunnel, as far as my vision would allow, and could see shadows moving toward me. There was no way now that Ironforge had been spared this calamity. No home for me to return to.

Suddenly, a ghoul I had not seen lunged at me from the tracks below me. It missed its mark but it was quickly pulling itself up to where I stood. I slowed its movements with a brief flash of energy, and by the light of that spell I saw more hideous forms emerge from the depths of the tram tunnels and begin to lurch toward me. Once more a wave of frost held them in place and allowed me to make my retreat. But they howled behind me, calling to the others; my time was short.

I had one final idea, one last chance at where the stoutest hearts of Stormwind might have made their stand and held their defenses. I ran to the Keep, toward the very castle of King Wrynn. Perhaps I still had a chance. And if not, then to die before the throne of Stormwind would be as fine a death as any.

* * * * *

I reached the entrance to the Keep, the long hallway that passes upwards into the throne room of the king, and found that even there the rampaging horrors had sewn destruction. There was a line of soldiers at the end, before the throne itself, and they were fighting back the oncoming ghouls with every last bit of strength. Behind them were a few of the mages of Stormwind as well, hurling their magics over the shoulders of their friends and slamming the undead fiends back with blasts of ice and flame.

Even the warlocks of the “Slaughtered Lamb” had come from the darkened hollows of their catacombs to aid in the defense of their city. Towering felguards, torn from the Twisting Nether and forced into subjugation by fel magic, were battling the zombies. They shattered the undead with each strike, but were ultimately pulled down and torn apart by the unending ferocity of the ghouls. I had reached Stormwind’s last stand.

I was not ready, however, to try to force my way through to join the defenders and lend them help. I was weakened, my powers not yet drained, but not sufficient for the effort I required. I needed a place to spend a moment and recover myself. I ran down a side passage toward a small courtyard that I had often visited; spending warm days beneath its trees, reading esoteric tomes of arcane mysteries on benches cooled by shade.

The courtyard had been taken and was occupied by three ghouls who crouched, eating something I did not wish to see. I draped myself in magic again and slipped, invisibly, past them and toward the small library of the keep. Once deep within, concealed from sight by large bookshelves, I slid out from the arcane veil and into the world. I realized, immediately, that I was not alone.

There was a woman crouching behind a stack of books nearby, hiding herself from the undead monstrosities. The sounds of wet crunching and slurping coming from the courtyard were reminder enough of what she feared. I looked at the woman, then toward the gap of bookshelves between us that would make me visible to the ghouls if I crossed it. I motioned for her to move slightly aside, which she did – then in a subtle flash of blue light, I appeared beside her.

“Are you ok?” I asked her, after making sure the ghouls had not noticed my teleportation.

“Yes,” she replied in a whispered tone, “who are you?”

“My name is Crowley Gimblestone,” I replied in a hush, extending my hand to take hers. She took it with a slight smile, her feminine hand enveloping my own small digits. I conjured a small pouch of water, and sat down to drink while whispering to her, “It’s not safe here, you must try to reach the throne room.”

“I can’t,” she said back, “I haven’t the strength.”

I looked at her then, remembering those who would always rely upon me, those weaker than myself. They were the reason I first left home to find glory with my arcane prowess. “Please, help me!” she hissed desperately.

As I considered our situation, the woman shifted slightly and a small stack of books crashed to the floor. The ghouls in the courtyard ceased their dining. I heard their rotting feet quickly approaching where we hid. Three ghouls, I could destroy them; but at what cost? I could not hold off all three; one of them, at least, would almost certainly infect me. I could save this woman, but at the cost of my own life. I was alone, without the friends who had helped me slay dragons and conquer the elements.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” I stammered as I slowly backed away from her. I had only finished about half my water, but I could not risk being there any longer. “I can’t save you. I-I cannot!”

“I’m sorry.” I replied quietly, looking into her eyes one last time: the eyes that haunt my memory and remind me of what I lost. I quickly hid behind another stack of books as the ghouls entered the library, I saw only for a moment that all three of them were charging and leaping toward where the woman was hiding, and then I ran from the library and into the courtyard. The screams were brief and quickly lost in the city’s tumult.

As I slipped back into the passageway toward the main hall to the throne room, I looked back one last time to see four ghouls shambling from the library. I ran then into the main hall and found the undead had doubled in number during the brief time that I was away. The defenders at the top of the hall were still fighting them back, but their overwhelming numbers seemed insurmountable. I thought to turn back, but the ghouls behind me were approaching me, called by the others to join in the main assault. I was trapped between opposing ranks of the profane offensive. The four ghouls behind me saw me then, and began to charge toward me.

I rushed out into the main hall and the others immediately noticed me. They began to close in around me. In every direction, my vision was filled by the sight of gangrenous limbs, ragged claws, and twisted mouths with teeth-mangled lips. I released a blast of freezing ice to hold as many of them in place as I could and made a desperate run for the defenders.

But, there were far too many of the unholy abominations for me to get past them all. I could feel their claws raking at me, slicing into my arms and legs, tearing at my robes as I passed. I felt a sudden surge of warmth around me and saw a priest at the top of the hall, her white and gold garments stained with the filth of the Scourge, she was looking down at me and yelling, “Run!”

I could see the golden barrier around me and knew that my time was short; I had to push through quickly. The claws and teeth of ghouls on every side glanced off the shield of holy energy that surrounded me; I desperately pushed my way through the slavering mass of unholy villainy. I was too far from the defensive barricade, too far when I felt them push through the shield enveloping me, too far when I felt teeth sink into my shoulders and tear a small piece of me away. And I was much too far when I noticed a mark, like a small green bruise, forming on the top of my hand.

I felt sick. The world seemed to be spinning, tearing me down. My feet moved without my will, I was still moving but felt as though the ceiling was going to lift me up. The warmth within me was draining away, being replaced by sickness and confusion. The plague was spreading like a devouring fire within my veins, eating away every last part of me that lived and replacing it with a hunger I had never imagined; fueled by a voice that pounded in my skull, an unholy litany with the rhythm of a heartbeat, “Eat! Devour! Destroy! Eat! Devour! Destroy!”

It was the Lich King, his thoughts invading my mind and droning an endless command to swallow the world. My left hand began to convulse, my bones pushing through the thin parchment of my skin, changing me into something terrible. With my last moments I focused and in a brief flash of light, I teleported myself through the horde of ghouls, through the barricade, and behind the defenders.

I could feel my mouth filling with my teeth as they grew larger, bloody foam frothing from the corners of my lips. My mind screamed as a constant din rang through it, a voice scraping against my skull, “Break down their doors. Burn their cities. This is the time of the Scourge! Embrace the purity of the grave!”

With my last energy I looked up at the priest who had shielded me before, her front covered in the black and gold symbol of the Argent Dawn, laying at her feet I squeaked out, “Help me.”

There was a sudden blast of glorious golden light all over me. It filled me, rushing through my body and purging the howling, hungry madness from within me. One final time I heard the Lich King’s voice within my skull, a silken whisper, “Come to me, I will give you power. I will give you peace.” The terrible voice replaced by the echoing void of righteous purification. I was exhausted, defeated, and yet somehow still alive. My left eye was swelling shut from the impact when I fell to the floor, but I could see that my hand was returned to its normal shape, the skin repaired. And in my last moments of wakefulness I looked up and saw the King himself, Varian Wrynn, each hand holding a sword larger than I am; he was leading his guards, wading into the endless tide of unholy carnage, and they were winning. Then I slipped into the black repose of unconsciousness.

It has been six months and still I wake in the night, screaming as the phantom limbs of my dream body change into the howling madness of undeath. King Wrynn and his men turned back the shock forces of the Scourge. Stormwind has been repaired and rebuilt. Almost nothing remains to remind us of what happened there. Sentinel Hill was rebuilt; druids from Darnassus went to Westfall and brought life back to that tortured, scorched land. Had I not seen those terrible times of ruin and desolation with my own eyes, I would have thought it all a dream; there is little sign that civilization was nearly torn down and devoured.

And the heroes moved on. They took boats to Northrend to take the fight to the Lich King, punishment for what he had sent to our lands. Too long they allowed him to sit at the top of the world and plan his attack. I followed them as well, and though I have once again regained my taste for scouring the dungeons of the world with flame and magic, there is a change within me. I walk the avenues of this glorious floating city and remember those wailing streets, that corpse-lit night. I look at gleaming towers in the bleeding light of sunset and see only a scene worthy of carnage. I stare down darkened alleyways and yearn for the sight of mounds of bodies piled upon each other, each writhing and bursting in hideous rebirth.

For a few moments, I knew the peace of the grave. I heard the steady, guiding voice of a master who has seen worlds beyond reckoning. I followed the heroes into the north, aiding them in their endeavors to destroy the elegant necropolises of my new King. I have seen him several times in this land – and each time he promises me a new life. Free from choice. Free from doubt. Free from remorse. I need only follow to the gates of his citadel, and offer myself there to him. I am not yet worthy of his blasphemous benediction, but I will be soon.

I remember the eyes of a woman I would not help, and I envy her for the glory she was given. At night I still dream of changing into something more than myself, something blessed with the unholy purity and focus of death; and I wake up screaming, because each time I realize it is only a dream.