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.