The two figures stand at the rim of Arathi Basin, one shielding his eyes against the setting sun, the other leaning on her staff and reading the play of shadow across her vision. There is the odor of smoke in the air, but Acherontia can also smell the heady scent of soil rising from the earth not too far in front of them. Melchisedech turns to her. "What do you see?"
Acherontia raises her gloved hand and points. "A small cluster of buildings over there." She inhales deeply and continues. "Moist soil. Is it the farm?" Melchisedech nods silently. "What else?"
The blind warlock counts the shimmers of light in her Fel-vision. "...three...five patrollers on the road. Three more surrounding the farm. Two in the field." She turns to the priest. "So few?"
Melchisedech's face is grim as he nods again. "We have come just in time." The sound of drums echoes faintly across the basin. With a whispered word, Acherontia conjures the Eye of Kilrogg, then gasps as it takes shape and she is able to see the entire crater.
Sunlight shimmers off a river that splits and surrounds a hillock on which stands a small building. The blue and gold banner snapping smartly in the wind proclaims that the Alliance have won victory over the Horde and now hold firm there against their diminished forces. High up to the left, a gap in the sparsely forested hills reveals a lumber mill, in front of which is hung another Alliance flag. Before the Eye fades, Acherontia sees a gaping maw in the mountains far beyond the river, in front of which a swarm of soldiers crawls like so many ants. She swallows nervously and banishes the Eye completely. She would prefer not to see what lies ahead of them...but she cannot not shut out the sound of the drums.
Melchisedech gestures, more out of habit than courtesy. "The farm lies below us. Beyond that, in the middle of the river, is the smith, which they hold. Far to the northeast is the mine. Up on the mountains is the mill - again, taken by them - and beyond the smith and the mountains lie the stables, which they almost certainly hold." He glances at Acherontia who stares, lips slightly parted, into the vast crater. She was too inexperienced, not ready for this yet, but they didn't have a choice. The Alliance was threatening to overtake the Basin altogether, and the Horde couldn't afford to lose the resources. Still, she was too inexperienced. He hated to put her through this. "Do you remember what I told you?"
Acherontia nods stiffly, not looking at him. "Hold the farm."
"What else?"
The warlock grips her staff tighter and takes a deep breath. "Stay close to you. Keep them away from us, no matter what it takes."
Melchisedech prompts her. "Because..."
"...because our position is weak..."
"...and we are all frail," he finishes for her. He starts down into the basin, expecting her to follow, but her voice stops him.
"Melchisedech...why are we here?"
The priest turns and regards his young companion solemnly. He could reply that the Horde needs these resources, that they cannot allow the Alliance to gain the upper hand here, or all could well be lost. He could reply that the Basin is of strategic importance, that it might well be the key to victory or defeat over the humans and their allies. He could reply with any of these things, but he does not think that is what she has asked.
"We are here, Acherontia, because She has commanded me to aid the war effort, so aid it I shall. We are here, because, for whatever reason, you have elected to serve beside me, instead of hiding in the sewers of the Undercity waiting for... something. We are here because we have chosen to act, rather than react."
He steps closer to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I do not know why you have come with me. I do not know why you remain by my side, no matter how often I scold you or lecture you or berate you. I do not know why you remain my companion, despite the enmity I sometimes think you feel for me. But I am grateful. Stay with me. Trust in me, especially here, and hopefully, with luck and the blessing of the Dark Lady, we will continue to travel together. Hopefully, I will have the chance to learn why you have chosen to stay."
Acherontia absorbs his words silently, then starts to follow him down the steep slope into the basin. "Stay here, Abramelin," she orders the Siamese, but does not look back. The cat mewls in protest but does not follow her. The two descend carefully, watchfully, down toward the farm, as the drums echo across the crater and the sun sinks behind the mountains, casting Arathi Basin into shadow.
--------------------------------------
((Parts co-authored by Melchisedech.))
Call To War by Acherontia
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Re: Call To War by Acherontia
"...so then she says, 'My name's not Valeria, and get your hand off my felhound!'"
Raucous laughter filled the night, Dazinji slapping his knee so hard he almost fell over. All around the fire, the Horde guardians of the fire laughed, forgetting for a moment their situation, lost in the enjoyment of the moment. They raised a toast to Thromgar, and the orc shaman, in return, began another joke.
At the edge of the firelight, Melchisedech and Acherontia stood silently. Melchisedech watched his fellow defenders as they made merry, wondering which of them would not live to see the dawn. Over the last two days, the Forsaken had come to know his comrades in arms, and as they had beaten back Alliance patrols, skirmished with scouts, and lost men or gained them from reinforcements, they had grown to know one another.
Thromgar was boisterous and bawdy, and Dazinji, the troll mage, seemed to appreciate his manner more than any of the others. Off to the side sat Wilhelm, a Forsaken mage with an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles when he was casting a spell. Romalliard, a Blood Elf, had attempted to strike up a conversation with Melchisedech, but the two had rapidly devolved into ideological screaming, and now the paladin spent his time chatting with a troll priest named Vinzinjo. Thelluriana, Romalliard's erstwhile lover and skilled with a blade in the night, sat off to the side, combing her long, blonde hair and admiring her pale, slender features in a hand mirror.
More of the Horde patrolled, while others slept inside the farmhouse. Stormcry, a massive Tauren swordsman, stood near the road to the smithy, while his brother, Hawkscream, slept inside. Another Tauren, Laughing Wind, stood with his wolf on the edge of the river, watching for owls, which he believed were harbingers of death. The orc warlock Gul'thar had retired almost immediately, and the sounds of his "relaxation" with his succubus could be heard yet at the edges of the fire. Jalila, a troll assassin, somehow slept through the recreational activities, curled up in front of the farmhouse's fireplace. Finally, Gorrek and his giant turtle were posted near the bridge leading toward the mine, calmly fletching the arrows for his massive longbow.
They all spent their time differently, the Horde. Some laughed and caroused, others retreated in upon themselves. Some fornicated to forget, others drank. Despite their differences, however, they all knew how dire their situation really was.
The Alliance held the stables, the mill, and by all reports, the mine. Wilhelm had planned a lightning strike against the smithy, and it had gone well, but the Horde at the smith were a separate band, now, isolated and distant. Intermittently, they heard the sound of steel on steel or saw a flash of light from a spell cast on the hill, but in the moonlight, the Horde banner still stood at the blacksmith. And through it all, they heard the pounding of the incessant drums.
The Alliance would be coming, and probably sooner rather than later. The farm had repelled a few scouts, even one advance force that seemed serious about its business, but they could not hold forever. The Alliance was massing at the mill and mine, and soon they would come for the smith. When they did so, the farm would not be long behind.
Melchisedech looked over at Acherontia. Briefly, he wondered exactly what she saw when she looked at the world through gaping sockets that once held eyes. She did not deserve this. She had come with him because he was ordered to act, had chosen to act here, but she did not deserve to die here.
He shook his head. Morbid thoughts. He had to have faith. The power of the Dark Lady flowed through him. She would protect them, through him, and if She did not, then it was Her will that they perish here. His life was Hers, and She could do with it as she pleased.
Through all his thoughts, the drums continued, incessantly. Doom. Doom. Doom.
Raucous laughter filled the night, Dazinji slapping his knee so hard he almost fell over. All around the fire, the Horde guardians of the fire laughed, forgetting for a moment their situation, lost in the enjoyment of the moment. They raised a toast to Thromgar, and the orc shaman, in return, began another joke.
At the edge of the firelight, Melchisedech and Acherontia stood silently. Melchisedech watched his fellow defenders as they made merry, wondering which of them would not live to see the dawn. Over the last two days, the Forsaken had come to know his comrades in arms, and as they had beaten back Alliance patrols, skirmished with scouts, and lost men or gained them from reinforcements, they had grown to know one another.
Thromgar was boisterous and bawdy, and Dazinji, the troll mage, seemed to appreciate his manner more than any of the others. Off to the side sat Wilhelm, a Forsaken mage with an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles when he was casting a spell. Romalliard, a Blood Elf, had attempted to strike up a conversation with Melchisedech, but the two had rapidly devolved into ideological screaming, and now the paladin spent his time chatting with a troll priest named Vinzinjo. Thelluriana, Romalliard's erstwhile lover and skilled with a blade in the night, sat off to the side, combing her long, blonde hair and admiring her pale, slender features in a hand mirror.
More of the Horde patrolled, while others slept inside the farmhouse. Stormcry, a massive Tauren swordsman, stood near the road to the smithy, while his brother, Hawkscream, slept inside. Another Tauren, Laughing Wind, stood with his wolf on the edge of the river, watching for owls, which he believed were harbingers of death. The orc warlock Gul'thar had retired almost immediately, and the sounds of his "relaxation" with his succubus could be heard yet at the edges of the fire. Jalila, a troll assassin, somehow slept through the recreational activities, curled up in front of the farmhouse's fireplace. Finally, Gorrek and his giant turtle were posted near the bridge leading toward the mine, calmly fletching the arrows for his massive longbow.
They all spent their time differently, the Horde. Some laughed and caroused, others retreated in upon themselves. Some fornicated to forget, others drank. Despite their differences, however, they all knew how dire their situation really was.
The Alliance held the stables, the mill, and by all reports, the mine. Wilhelm had planned a lightning strike against the smithy, and it had gone well, but the Horde at the smith were a separate band, now, isolated and distant. Intermittently, they heard the sound of steel on steel or saw a flash of light from a spell cast on the hill, but in the moonlight, the Horde banner still stood at the blacksmith. And through it all, they heard the pounding of the incessant drums.
The Alliance would be coming, and probably sooner rather than later. The farm had repelled a few scouts, even one advance force that seemed serious about its business, but they could not hold forever. The Alliance was massing at the mill and mine, and soon they would come for the smith. When they did so, the farm would not be long behind.
Melchisedech looked over at Acherontia. Briefly, he wondered exactly what she saw when she looked at the world through gaping sockets that once held eyes. She did not deserve this. She had come with him because he was ordered to act, had chosen to act here, but she did not deserve to die here.
He shook his head. Morbid thoughts. He had to have faith. The power of the Dark Lady flowed through him. She would protect them, through him, and if She did not, then it was Her will that they perish here. His life was Hers, and She could do with it as she pleased.
Through all his thoughts, the drums continued, incessantly. Doom. Doom. Doom.
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Re: Call To War by Acherontia
The moon eluded her tonight, now peeking out behind the clouds that seemed to streak across the sky, now hiding its face completely and bathing the world in cool darkness. The young woman stood silently in the field, arms folded, brow furrowed as ever, listening to the frogs chirping from the nearby stream. The wind whipped her silvery-blond hair around her head and caused her skirts to billow and flap against her legs. A storm was coming; she could smell it. She smelled the current that flashed in the clouds, smelled the moistness in the air. It was coming.
She had come out here as she always did, to escape his incessant staring and quiet subservience. Tonight, he was sitting alone in the farmhouse, doing who knows what, doing who cared what. Trying to pick his way through one of her books again, stumbling over simple words, turning the pages with his meaty hands and failing to make any sense of anything. She snorted derisively. Simple and silent as ever. In the two months of their marriage, he still had yet to speak one word to her, always looking at her as though he expected her to run away if he touched her or even spoke, his expressions blank and open, his eyes always staring, always kind, always quiet, always caring...always dumb and stupid as ever. The woman shook her head. She had come out here to forget him, forget her life for the brief snatches of time she tried to secure for herself in the midst of...all this.
A drop splashed on her forehead, then another. The lightning flashed again and then it was as though the sky had been cloven in two with a mighty sword stroke and the woman was soaked head to toe. The rain fell in sheets upon the farm, driving down upon her as she unclasped her arms and raised them to the heavens. This was where she belonged...out here in the field in the midst of the raging storm, she felt like something more than the wife of a simple and stupid farmer. This was where she felt like someone...that there was something coming for her, something great...she didn't realize she was crying at first, not with so much wetness on her cheeks. The woman danced on the wall that separated hope from despair, feeling the promise of a greater life at one moment and the crushing weight of hopelessness in another. She laughed aloud, a wild, maniacal sound, and willed the lightning to strike her down. Surely death would be more fulfilling than this life, this worthless, meaningless life spent grubbing in the fields with a silent and staring farmer, never mind how much he cared for her, never mind how much he tried to show her he loved her. Never mind all that. It didn't matter.
A gentle touch on her arm startled her out of her thoughts and she turned sharply to see her husband standing nearby. He opened his mouth briefly as though to speak, but then closed it again, instead unfolding the blanket he had tried to keep dry while walking out to her and moving to place it around her shoulders. His hair was plastered to his forehead and in the lightning flashes the woman could see his eyes, uncertain as ever, staring at her, filled with concern. Stupid man. She shrank away from his touch and turned, stalking away from him and into the farmhouse and slamming the door behind her. Another night lost. And then another. And then another. Stretching into eternity, all she could see, all she was. Nothing.
Simon stood in the field, wondering again what he had done wrong. He ignored the rain, ignored the lightning, saw nothing except the image of her face dancing in front of his eyes. Her scornful glare...her lovely eyes...the twist of her lips into a sneer...her brilliant hair that seemed to glow with silver fire when the afternoon sun fell upon it in just the right way. Another night lost. And then another. And then another. It would come, one day. The thought caused his heart to turn over and clench within his chest. One day, she would be happy. He would see her smile. Folding the blanket, Simon slowly walked through the fields, through the driving rain, towards the house.
"Acherontia."
The warlock starts, jolted back to the present by Melchisedech's voice. Turning, she sees the priest approaching, strange flickers of color appearing and then disappearing within his aura. She knows those colors. He is worried.
"You need to come back. It isn't safe out here." In the darkness, he can barely make out the familiar line between her brows as she focuses her black stare upon him. He turns as though to head back, but she makes no move to follow.
"How long are we to stay here, Melchisedech?" Acherontia's voice is hard, the rasp tinged with an undercurrent of sorrow, as always. "As long as your Dark Lady commands it?" She pauses, and the priest hears her next question before she even asks it. "Until we die?"
Melchisedech sighs. "As long as we must... as long as we can make a difference."
Acherontia is silent. The priest starts back toward the farmhouse, not looking back. "Come, Acherontia."
As the warlock approaches the dwindling fire, she glances briefly at her fellow defenders. Dazinji and Thromgar have fallen into a drunken sleep, snoring loudly. Thelluriana and Romalliard retired several hours ago, and Acherontia had gone out to the field to escape the sound of their lovemaking. She guesses the time to be very near dawn as she folds her legs and sinks down beside the embers, feeling their warmth and wishing to all the gods she were elsewhere. After peeling off her two layers of gloves, she holds her hands over the coals and watches the glow and shadow. Melchisedech takes up a seat near the fire, opening a thick book and pulling quill and ink to scribble notes in its pages. Another night gone.
A horn blast jolts Acherontia out of her reverie. Her head snaps up, toward the smith, as Dazinji and Thromgar groggily stumble awake and Hawkscream, alert even while sleeping, appears in the doorway of the farmhouse.
"What is it?" the Tauren asks Acherontia as she scrambles to her feet. The warlock begins to call her succubus as she answers grimly, "The blacksmith." Thelluriana is helping Romalliard into his armor and Jalila belts on her swords while checking her boots for her daggers.
The ragtag group of defenders slowly fans out into the field, looking toward the blacksmith and the assault the Alliance has launched upon their brethren. Faces grim, they wait for sign of victory or defeat as Melchisedech walks among them, murmuring a prayer and blessing minions and fighters alike. Acherontia whispers a word and feels an icy chill sheet over her skin, the power of her demonic armor buzzing inside her brain. Melchisedech stops in front of her when he blesses her. They share a look for a moment, each realizing that this might be the last time they see the other, before turning back toward the smith. Every eye is fixed on the red and black of the flag of the Horde, moving gently in the morning breeze, figures grappling and fighting at its base.
"Look." Laughing Wind's gruff voice breaks the silence as the group begins to make out several figures running away from the smith, towards the farm. There is a moment of tension, then Wilhelm lets out a cry of disappointment as the Horde banner is torn from its wooden pole and the blue and gold of the Alliance flag soon replaces it. Dazinji sets his jaw and steps forward.
"'Das it, mon." He turns back to the group. "We leave here. We meet up wit' da res' o' dem, and we take it BACK. Dey can't -"
He never finishes speaking.
Blood spurts from the mage's mouth as he lurches forward, a knife buried deep between his shoulder blades. The hand gripping it is attached to the lithe form of a twilight-skinned elf, and he yanks it free as another rogue melts from the shadows the mountains have thrown across the crater and begins to shred the mage with her swords. Dazinji screams aloud a word of power, and frost crystals spring up from the ground to cover the boots of the two rogues. The troll lurches to one side and away from the elves, collapsing on the ground even as another figure, short and stocky, appears and finishes off the mage with a swift stroke.
With a speed that belies his massive form, Stormcry dashes up to the trapped elves and swings his massive sword down in a blow the male is able to parry, but only just. His other hand wields the dagger still coated with Dazinji's blood, and the elf stabs upward, finding a gap in the Tauren's armor. Acherontia cries out in her croaking voice even as a golden shield of light materializes around her, and the face of the stocky dwarf contorts in agony. From the smith, the horn sounds again, and the Alliance force can be seen streaming out from the army across the basin towards the farm.
Acherontia tastes the stench of demonic power in the back of her throat as she calls down curse after curse upon the encroaching attackers, but it isn't enough. In seconds, they fall upon the farm, and the succubi race to meet them, stopping two in their tracks. Laughing Wind's wolf is a blur of gray as she streaks across the field and leaps at a robed figure that falls at the onslaught of tooth and claw. A shower of sparks rains down upon Acherontia's head, and she turns to see a blue-skinned Draenei drawing his weapon back for another stroke. It descends in a deadly arc, but before it collides with Melchisedech's shield again, the warrior's face twists in horror and he flees, screaming, as the Forsaken priest shrieks aloud in his mind. The warlock begins to conjure her demonic fire, but another crash of sword against golden shield disrupts her concentration. Frantically, she tries to finish, but the glowing light surrounding her disappears and she feels a sudden strike on the back of her head.
Can't move.
Can't speak.
Can't think.
The rogue circles in front of her and grins, gripping his daggers and raising them high.
She knows no more.
She had come out here as she always did, to escape his incessant staring and quiet subservience. Tonight, he was sitting alone in the farmhouse, doing who knows what, doing who cared what. Trying to pick his way through one of her books again, stumbling over simple words, turning the pages with his meaty hands and failing to make any sense of anything. She snorted derisively. Simple and silent as ever. In the two months of their marriage, he still had yet to speak one word to her, always looking at her as though he expected her to run away if he touched her or even spoke, his expressions blank and open, his eyes always staring, always kind, always quiet, always caring...always dumb and stupid as ever. The woman shook her head. She had come out here to forget him, forget her life for the brief snatches of time she tried to secure for herself in the midst of...all this.
A drop splashed on her forehead, then another. The lightning flashed again and then it was as though the sky had been cloven in two with a mighty sword stroke and the woman was soaked head to toe. The rain fell in sheets upon the farm, driving down upon her as she unclasped her arms and raised them to the heavens. This was where she belonged...out here in the field in the midst of the raging storm, she felt like something more than the wife of a simple and stupid farmer. This was where she felt like someone...that there was something coming for her, something great...she didn't realize she was crying at first, not with so much wetness on her cheeks. The woman danced on the wall that separated hope from despair, feeling the promise of a greater life at one moment and the crushing weight of hopelessness in another. She laughed aloud, a wild, maniacal sound, and willed the lightning to strike her down. Surely death would be more fulfilling than this life, this worthless, meaningless life spent grubbing in the fields with a silent and staring farmer, never mind how much he cared for her, never mind how much he tried to show her he loved her. Never mind all that. It didn't matter.
A gentle touch on her arm startled her out of her thoughts and she turned sharply to see her husband standing nearby. He opened his mouth briefly as though to speak, but then closed it again, instead unfolding the blanket he had tried to keep dry while walking out to her and moving to place it around her shoulders. His hair was plastered to his forehead and in the lightning flashes the woman could see his eyes, uncertain as ever, staring at her, filled with concern. Stupid man. She shrank away from his touch and turned, stalking away from him and into the farmhouse and slamming the door behind her. Another night lost. And then another. And then another. Stretching into eternity, all she could see, all she was. Nothing.
Simon stood in the field, wondering again what he had done wrong. He ignored the rain, ignored the lightning, saw nothing except the image of her face dancing in front of his eyes. Her scornful glare...her lovely eyes...the twist of her lips into a sneer...her brilliant hair that seemed to glow with silver fire when the afternoon sun fell upon it in just the right way. Another night lost. And then another. And then another. It would come, one day. The thought caused his heart to turn over and clench within his chest. One day, she would be happy. He would see her smile. Folding the blanket, Simon slowly walked through the fields, through the driving rain, towards the house.
"Acherontia."
The warlock starts, jolted back to the present by Melchisedech's voice. Turning, she sees the priest approaching, strange flickers of color appearing and then disappearing within his aura. She knows those colors. He is worried.
"You need to come back. It isn't safe out here." In the darkness, he can barely make out the familiar line between her brows as she focuses her black stare upon him. He turns as though to head back, but she makes no move to follow.
"How long are we to stay here, Melchisedech?" Acherontia's voice is hard, the rasp tinged with an undercurrent of sorrow, as always. "As long as your Dark Lady commands it?" She pauses, and the priest hears her next question before she even asks it. "Until we die?"
Melchisedech sighs. "As long as we must... as long as we can make a difference."
Acherontia is silent. The priest starts back toward the farmhouse, not looking back. "Come, Acherontia."
As the warlock approaches the dwindling fire, she glances briefly at her fellow defenders. Dazinji and Thromgar have fallen into a drunken sleep, snoring loudly. Thelluriana and Romalliard retired several hours ago, and Acherontia had gone out to the field to escape the sound of their lovemaking. She guesses the time to be very near dawn as she folds her legs and sinks down beside the embers, feeling their warmth and wishing to all the gods she were elsewhere. After peeling off her two layers of gloves, she holds her hands over the coals and watches the glow and shadow. Melchisedech takes up a seat near the fire, opening a thick book and pulling quill and ink to scribble notes in its pages. Another night gone.
A horn blast jolts Acherontia out of her reverie. Her head snaps up, toward the smith, as Dazinji and Thromgar groggily stumble awake and Hawkscream, alert even while sleeping, appears in the doorway of the farmhouse.
"What is it?" the Tauren asks Acherontia as she scrambles to her feet. The warlock begins to call her succubus as she answers grimly, "The blacksmith." Thelluriana is helping Romalliard into his armor and Jalila belts on her swords while checking her boots for her daggers.
The ragtag group of defenders slowly fans out into the field, looking toward the blacksmith and the assault the Alliance has launched upon their brethren. Faces grim, they wait for sign of victory or defeat as Melchisedech walks among them, murmuring a prayer and blessing minions and fighters alike. Acherontia whispers a word and feels an icy chill sheet over her skin, the power of her demonic armor buzzing inside her brain. Melchisedech stops in front of her when he blesses her. They share a look for a moment, each realizing that this might be the last time they see the other, before turning back toward the smith. Every eye is fixed on the red and black of the flag of the Horde, moving gently in the morning breeze, figures grappling and fighting at its base.
"Look." Laughing Wind's gruff voice breaks the silence as the group begins to make out several figures running away from the smith, towards the farm. There is a moment of tension, then Wilhelm lets out a cry of disappointment as the Horde banner is torn from its wooden pole and the blue and gold of the Alliance flag soon replaces it. Dazinji sets his jaw and steps forward.
"'Das it, mon." He turns back to the group. "We leave here. We meet up wit' da res' o' dem, and we take it BACK. Dey can't -"
He never finishes speaking.
Blood spurts from the mage's mouth as he lurches forward, a knife buried deep between his shoulder blades. The hand gripping it is attached to the lithe form of a twilight-skinned elf, and he yanks it free as another rogue melts from the shadows the mountains have thrown across the crater and begins to shred the mage with her swords. Dazinji screams aloud a word of power, and frost crystals spring up from the ground to cover the boots of the two rogues. The troll lurches to one side and away from the elves, collapsing on the ground even as another figure, short and stocky, appears and finishes off the mage with a swift stroke.
With a speed that belies his massive form, Stormcry dashes up to the trapped elves and swings his massive sword down in a blow the male is able to parry, but only just. His other hand wields the dagger still coated with Dazinji's blood, and the elf stabs upward, finding a gap in the Tauren's armor. Acherontia cries out in her croaking voice even as a golden shield of light materializes around her, and the face of the stocky dwarf contorts in agony. From the smith, the horn sounds again, and the Alliance force can be seen streaming out from the army across the basin towards the farm.
Acherontia tastes the stench of demonic power in the back of her throat as she calls down curse after curse upon the encroaching attackers, but it isn't enough. In seconds, they fall upon the farm, and the succubi race to meet them, stopping two in their tracks. Laughing Wind's wolf is a blur of gray as she streaks across the field and leaps at a robed figure that falls at the onslaught of tooth and claw. A shower of sparks rains down upon Acherontia's head, and she turns to see a blue-skinned Draenei drawing his weapon back for another stroke. It descends in a deadly arc, but before it collides with Melchisedech's shield again, the warrior's face twists in horror and he flees, screaming, as the Forsaken priest shrieks aloud in his mind. The warlock begins to conjure her demonic fire, but another crash of sword against golden shield disrupts her concentration. Frantically, she tries to finish, but the glowing light surrounding her disappears and she feels a sudden strike on the back of her head.
Can't move.
Can't speak.
Can't think.
The rogue circles in front of her and grins, gripping his daggers and raising them high.
She knows no more.
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Re: Call To War by Acherontia
Dimly, through the fog in her mind, Acherontia begins to hear the clink of sword on armor as the murky haze begins to lift. She hears and sees as though she is underwater, sight blurred and sound muffled and all pain numbed...though not completely. Fighting, clawing her way to the surface, she breaks through - and emerges into a sea of blood and fire.
Her hands are locked in a deathgrip around the throat of a young woman, squeezing ever tighter as the she flails and struggles for breath. Weakened, kneeling at the warlock's feet, her skin is blackened and charred and much of her hair has been singed. Acherontia gapes in shock and tries to release her, but she feels her hands clench tighter even as she tries to tear them away. Her eyes are burning, but she can see, she can see the blood pounding in the woman's face, seeping from the cracks in her burnt flesh, she can see the pleading in her eyes. A sudden give and Acherontia realizes she has just crushed her windpipe, the young woman's flailing taking on a new desperation as she strikes feebly at the warlock's face, shoulders, grasps at her wrists and tries to pry the iron grip from her throat. Unable to release the woman, Acherontia tears her gaze away and noticies Melchisedech nearby.
She tries to speak, but her throat is on fire, she can barely croak out the name. "Mel-," and she starts to cough and choke on the thorns that must be piercing her gullet through for all the pain she feels. Acherontia draws a breath, carefully, and is finally able to gasp, "What do I do?" She feels foolish gesturing to the limp form clutched between her hands, but when Melchisedech says nothing, she looks frantically at the face, eyes gaping, mouth slack, then back to the priest. She is still unable to release the woman, still cannot unclench her hands, still cannot relax her muscles. She feels as though she is gasping for breath, "I can't...I don't...what do I do?!" Her body starts to shake, she takes huge, heaving, hiccupping breaths as she pleads for help.
Melchisedech speaks softly. "She's dead."
Acherontia feels the fire begin to drain from her. Against her will, she clenches the crushed throat tighter and shakes the body for a brief second before feeling her muscles relax and her fingers slowly start to release the dead woman. The weight of the body pulls at her and she stumbles before finally opening her hands, letting the body fall to the ground with a sickening thud. Falling to her knees, she feels her strength begin to leave her, as the light filling her eye sockets slowly fades - but not before she sees.
Bodies are scattered across the field, in the road, floating in the water and - Acherontia stared, gaping - hanging in the trees like macabre scarecrows and flung on top of the farmhouse. Humans, dwarves, purple-skinned elves, gnomes, the hooved and horned Draenei from across the heavens...they lie intermingled with the bodies of her comrades, some burned beyond recognition, some twisted and curled in on themselves, faces contorted in a rictus of terror and agony. Blasted in the earth near the river is a crater, still smoking, hardened to scorching rock and littered with corpses, some clinging to the sides even in death, some crushed and broken in the center. Near its lip, cradling a lifeless form in his arms, sits Stormcry.
Acherontia barely recognizes the young Tauren in his arms, so bloodied and twisted is he. Hawkscream's body is nothing more than a mangled mass of flesh and bone and fur, limbs twisted at impossible angles, bending in more places than they ever should. Stormcry's deep voice can be heard, murmuring softly, even as his tears fall upon the body of his younger brother. The light fades from Acherontia's eyes completely as her Fel-vision descends upon her and only one glimmer of life can her sight reveal to her - dim, muted, despairing. She struggles again to stand, but before she can rise to her feet, she hears a cry that strikes her deep inside, to her very bones, a roar that sounds as though it had been ripped from the bowels of the darkest, blackest night imaginable.
Flashes of light flare on the edge of her sight as spell after desperate spell is cast on the hill upon which sits the lumber mill. Figures can be seen swarming, running, fighting, flailing, falling - and in their midst towers a creature of rock and emerald flame. It moves with the rumble of stone on stone, stooping to scoop up the tiny bodies, crushing some in its hands, snapping bones and letting the broken bodies drop to the ground where they lay, lifeless, unmoving. One is picked up and flung, still living, out into the basin, the anguished, echoing scream cut short as it lands in a crash of armor and timbers upon the bridge leading to the blacksmith. There are those who leap from the high ledge, taking their chances on the rocks below, anything to escape the terror raging among them.
Acherontia feels a chill in her guts as she kneels on the ground amidst the corpses and stares at the monster on the hill. She is vaguely aware of a hurried discussion among the survivors, but soon succumbs to the low buzzing that has been slowly encroaching on her thoughts once again, filling her mind with its hum and blocking out all other sound. The dark, syrupy taste fills her mouth again, thickening her tongue, assaulting her nostrils, coursing through her rotting veins - ...slowly, very slowly, the warlock rises to her feet and turns to face the demon.
Her eyes filled with a greenish fire, Acherontia feels the beat of a thousand hearts pulsing inside her brain as she realizes what must be done. It was she who summoned the foul thing. Now, she must send it back.
Air thickened with demonic power fills her lungs. She lifts her hand and in a voice that is young and strong once more, clear as the first dawn and true as the sound of the first bell ever struck, she cries out.
"Adolibus!"
**********************************************************
Her Fel-vision descends upon her with a crushing weight as she staggers to one side, fighting for consciousness. She sees a pile of boulders in the middle of the road, not thirty feet from the farm, then slowly starts to turn on legs weak and shaking. Acherontia's hazy sight fixes on Melchisedech, and she croaks in her rasping voice that is once again barely above a whisper, "I'm all right..." Soon, after what feels like an eternity but is only a few scant moments, even her shadow vision begins to fail her and she takes a stumbling step forward, giving the priest a faint and weary smile. "Tired..."
The warlock pitches forward, crumpling to the ground, into blackness once more.
Her hands are locked in a deathgrip around the throat of a young woman, squeezing ever tighter as the she flails and struggles for breath. Weakened, kneeling at the warlock's feet, her skin is blackened and charred and much of her hair has been singed. Acherontia gapes in shock and tries to release her, but she feels her hands clench tighter even as she tries to tear them away. Her eyes are burning, but she can see, she can see the blood pounding in the woman's face, seeping from the cracks in her burnt flesh, she can see the pleading in her eyes. A sudden give and Acherontia realizes she has just crushed her windpipe, the young woman's flailing taking on a new desperation as she strikes feebly at the warlock's face, shoulders, grasps at her wrists and tries to pry the iron grip from her throat. Unable to release the woman, Acherontia tears her gaze away and noticies Melchisedech nearby.
She tries to speak, but her throat is on fire, she can barely croak out the name. "Mel-," and she starts to cough and choke on the thorns that must be piercing her gullet through for all the pain she feels. Acherontia draws a breath, carefully, and is finally able to gasp, "What do I do?" She feels foolish gesturing to the limp form clutched between her hands, but when Melchisedech says nothing, she looks frantically at the face, eyes gaping, mouth slack, then back to the priest. She is still unable to release the woman, still cannot unclench her hands, still cannot relax her muscles. She feels as though she is gasping for breath, "I can't...I don't...what do I do?!" Her body starts to shake, she takes huge, heaving, hiccupping breaths as she pleads for help.
Melchisedech speaks softly. "She's dead."
Acherontia feels the fire begin to drain from her. Against her will, she clenches the crushed throat tighter and shakes the body for a brief second before feeling her muscles relax and her fingers slowly start to release the dead woman. The weight of the body pulls at her and she stumbles before finally opening her hands, letting the body fall to the ground with a sickening thud. Falling to her knees, she feels her strength begin to leave her, as the light filling her eye sockets slowly fades - but not before she sees.
Bodies are scattered across the field, in the road, floating in the water and - Acherontia stared, gaping - hanging in the trees like macabre scarecrows and flung on top of the farmhouse. Humans, dwarves, purple-skinned elves, gnomes, the hooved and horned Draenei from across the heavens...they lie intermingled with the bodies of her comrades, some burned beyond recognition, some twisted and curled in on themselves, faces contorted in a rictus of terror and agony. Blasted in the earth near the river is a crater, still smoking, hardened to scorching rock and littered with corpses, some clinging to the sides even in death, some crushed and broken in the center. Near its lip, cradling a lifeless form in his arms, sits Stormcry.
Acherontia barely recognizes the young Tauren in his arms, so bloodied and twisted is he. Hawkscream's body is nothing more than a mangled mass of flesh and bone and fur, limbs twisted at impossible angles, bending in more places than they ever should. Stormcry's deep voice can be heard, murmuring softly, even as his tears fall upon the body of his younger brother. The light fades from Acherontia's eyes completely as her Fel-vision descends upon her and only one glimmer of life can her sight reveal to her - dim, muted, despairing. She struggles again to stand, but before she can rise to her feet, she hears a cry that strikes her deep inside, to her very bones, a roar that sounds as though it had been ripped from the bowels of the darkest, blackest night imaginable.
Flashes of light flare on the edge of her sight as spell after desperate spell is cast on the hill upon which sits the lumber mill. Figures can be seen swarming, running, fighting, flailing, falling - and in their midst towers a creature of rock and emerald flame. It moves with the rumble of stone on stone, stooping to scoop up the tiny bodies, crushing some in its hands, snapping bones and letting the broken bodies drop to the ground where they lay, lifeless, unmoving. One is picked up and flung, still living, out into the basin, the anguished, echoing scream cut short as it lands in a crash of armor and timbers upon the bridge leading to the blacksmith. There are those who leap from the high ledge, taking their chances on the rocks below, anything to escape the terror raging among them.
Acherontia feels a chill in her guts as she kneels on the ground amidst the corpses and stares at the monster on the hill. She is vaguely aware of a hurried discussion among the survivors, but soon succumbs to the low buzzing that has been slowly encroaching on her thoughts once again, filling her mind with its hum and blocking out all other sound. The dark, syrupy taste fills her mouth again, thickening her tongue, assaulting her nostrils, coursing through her rotting veins - ...slowly, very slowly, the warlock rises to her feet and turns to face the demon.
Her eyes filled with a greenish fire, Acherontia feels the beat of a thousand hearts pulsing inside her brain as she realizes what must be done. It was she who summoned the foul thing. Now, she must send it back.
Air thickened with demonic power fills her lungs. She lifts her hand and in a voice that is young and strong once more, clear as the first dawn and true as the sound of the first bell ever struck, she cries out.
"Adolibus!"
**********************************************************
Her Fel-vision descends upon her with a crushing weight as she staggers to one side, fighting for consciousness. She sees a pile of boulders in the middle of the road, not thirty feet from the farm, then slowly starts to turn on legs weak and shaking. Acherontia's hazy sight fixes on Melchisedech, and she croaks in her rasping voice that is once again barely above a whisper, "I'm all right..." Soon, after what feels like an eternity but is only a few scant moments, even her shadow vision begins to fail her and she takes a stumbling step forward, giving the priest a faint and weary smile. "Tired..."
The warlock pitches forward, crumpling to the ground, into blackness once more.
-
Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: Call To War by Acherontia
The moment Dazinji spat blood, Melchisedech threw a shield of force around Acherontia, buying her time to start igniting people and hurling curses. And yet, in the chaos, the shield did not last long. Swords skipped off the bubble, striking sparks, and spells shattered against it, leaving ashes and shards of ice to tumble to the ground.
Melchisedech shrieked in the minds of all nearby, channeling all his pent-up rage and memories of the hellish siege of Lordaeron into a pure psychic scream. Three Alliance went tearing away, including a massive Draenei warrior. He could hear the crackling of Acherontia’s demon fire. He turned his back to her, speaking the shadow word taught by the Dark Lady, trying to weaken all the Alliance with wracking pain.
He heard Acherontia cry out, felt his shield around her weaken, give, and disappear like a bubble pricked by a blade of grass. He turned to aid her, but a sharp stab in his lower back doubled him over in pain, incapacitated. A night elf seemed to materialize, laughing as he drove his daggers into Melchisedech’s bony corpse over and over again, and all the priest could do was cry out in agony.
Then, everything went to hell.
Acherontia seemed to explode, rings of clawing flame radiating from her in bursts that sent everyone, friend and foe alike, flying away. Melchisedech was hurled back, landing in the bushes near the farm’s flag. With lips flecked with his own vital ichor, he coughed out the words to a spell that renewed him, mending his flesh slowly, and he watched.
Acherontia stood in the center of a devastated circle, Alliance and Horde scattered around her like broken toys, clawing their way to their feet. She spat a word, and two Alliance doubled over, clutching their faces and screaming as their skin began to bubble and spit, melting from their bones. Another, the night elf with daggers still soaked in Melchisedech’s fluids, leapt at her. His knife bit her shoulder once before he was hurled away by a bolt of shadow that seemed to suck the very energy from his body. Yet another, a dwarf with a massive rifle, fired at her but missed, his shot kicking up a divot of ground near Melchisedech. Acherontia hurled a curse at him and he fell to the ground, wracked with pain until his spasms shattered his bones.
More Alliance began to flee, and a great cheer went up from the Horde. Melchisedech was terrified. He saw in Acherontia utter hatred, the rage on her face, her eyes glowing a fel green, and he wanted to curl in on himself, to gibber and scream in utter horror. This was not his comrade. This was something else.
The Draenei warrior climbed out of the river, dripping wet and roaring with rage. He bellowed a challenge to Acherontia, and she turned to face him. He hefted his weapon, but stopped when the warlock lifted her hands to the skies, speaking words that hurt Mechisedech to hear. Her voice was strange, clear and powerful, speaking what the priest presumed was the demonic tongue without any hint of weakness. For a few, tense moments, nothing happened. The warrior flinched, hesitated, straightened. He laughed and took a step forward.
A shadow blotted out the sun for an instant, and the warrior was obliterated in an explosion of dust, rock, and soggy gore as a glowing green meteor smashed into the ground. Debris blasted away from the impact, and the force felled everyone nearby, Alliance and Horde, at least one of whom did not rise.
Silence reigned for a few sparse moments, before a roar echoed from the crater, a roar like an injured lion and tearing cloth and the scream of a child. A massive shape lumbered out of the smoke, a humanoid figure of charred rock and green fire. Melchisedech felt his bowels quake.
An infernal.
The nearest elf was picked up and hurled away with a scream before he could react, and suddenly the farm was thrown into chaos. Everyone, Horde and Alliance, elf and dwarf and orc and troll all began scurrying away, trying to escape the infernal. All but Acherontia and Melchisedech. The priest was transfixed, paralyzed with fear. The warlock stood, staring at the demon, her eyes blazing.
The infernal roared again and charged Acherontia, but she held up her hands and the air before her shimmered. The infernal stopped as if it had struck a stone wall. For a few harrowing moments, the two stood, face-to-face, the air between them rippling like heat rising from a fire. Eventually, the infernal roared again and turned, chasing after the Alliance.
An arrow ripped through the air, impaling Acherontia through the stomach, but she merely grimaced, her attention focused on the demon. A ball of flame arced from a gnome’s outstretched hand, just before the hand and owner were annihilated by a fiery stone fist. The fireball impacted on Acherontia’s chest, sending her reeling back, but her concentration barely wavered. The infernal began herding the fleeing Alliance toward the lumber mill, their attention turning from Acherontia to the monster in their midst.
A shrill scream of agony brought Melchisedech’s attention back to Acherontia. A human woman stood behind her, a dagger in the Forsaken’s back, a second knife slicing desperately at her arms, legs, chest, and head, anywhere she could reach. Melchisedech stretched out a hand, casting a spell of renewal on Acherontia, but he knew it couldn’t keep up with the damage the rogue was doing.
Acherontia’s attention was focused on the infernal, but she shuddered in pain, her concentration wavering. The rogue did not let up, even when Melchisedech’s mind began to tear at hers, flaying open her worst memories, her agonies, her fears. Acheriontia desperately tried to remain focused on the infernal, her concentration wavering as the knives slid in and out, over and over, but finally it was too much. With a gasp, Acherontia turned on the rogue, wrapping clawed hands around her neck.
Melchisedech hurriedly spoke the words of a spell of healing, seeking to close some of the hideous wounds on his companion’s body. The warlock drove her thumbs into the human’s neck, cursing and screaming at her. For her part, the human suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape, clawing and slashing at Acherontia’s arms. The Forsaken gritted her teeth against the pain and immolated the rogue with a spell, the fel flames searing only the human and not the warlock’s hands.
Melchisedech turned as the infernal roared again, striking a dwarf so hard he skipped across the lake around the blacksmith. There was no question, now. As Acherontia grappled with the rogue, clawing and grasping at her neck, the infernal rampaged merrily. It no longer chose its targets with care. Anyone who drew too close was attacked, and no one could stand against it. The warlock had released a monster.
As the fire burned out on the rogue in her grip, Acherontia seemed to shudder, to blink, and to stare at the woman she was strangling, panic written plainly on her face. As she began to look around, taking in the carnage and destruction around her, Melchisedech finally pulled himself from beneath the bushes.
“Mel-” She tried to speak, but she could not even croak out his name. She was cut off by a fit of coughing and gasping, but her fingers never left the human’s throat. “What do I do?” She shook the human in her hands like a rag doll, as if indicating her. She stared at the rogue, then gaped at Melchisedech. “I can’t… I don’t… what do I do?!” She was gasping, hiccupping, heaving.
Melchisedech spoke softly. “She’s dead.”
Acherontia seemed to shake the body one last time and then relaxed her grip. The weight of the dead woman nearly pulled the shaking warlock from her feet. She stumbled to her knees, gaping around at the carnage she and her new pet had wrought.
The Horde survivors gathered around, staring at Acherontia and murmuring under their breaths. Melchisedech glanced at the slaughter, bodies flung nearly everywhere, from trees to the river to the top of the farmhouse. Acherontia gasped, and Melchisedech followed her gaze to the infernal, rampaging up toward the lumber mill, discarding Alliance like children’s toys.
The warlock stood slowly, very slowly, turning to face the demon. Melchisedech motioned for the gathered Horde to move away, and they did so, wary of the power in the young Forsaken. The green felfire rose in Acherontia’s eyes once more, as her hand lifted toward the demon. In a voice young and strong, clear as the first dawn and true as the sound of the first bell ever struck, she cried out.
“Adolibus!”
The demon stopped in its rampage, turning its stony head toward her. It roared again, the sound clear and strong even at this distance. It leapt from the cliff even as a dwarven warrior leapt on it, and it carried the brave but foolish Alliance to its doom. The landing must have shattered every bone in the dwarf’s body, but the infernal seemed hardly dazed, charging toward Acherontia.
The warlock began chanting in a language Melchisedech did not understand, but which could only have been the tongue of the Burning Legion. The Horde near her clutched their ears in agony, backing away, all but the priest. Melchisedech stayed nearby, not between her and the demon, but close. A darkness began to gather around Acherontia’s outstretched hand, sucking all the light into a ball of pure ebony cradled in her palm. Still, the infernal advanced.
When the demon was no more than ten yards away, barreling down the road, Acherontia’s chant came to a crescendo that shattered the glass from the windows of the farmhouse. The bolt of black energy that streaked from her hand struck the infernal full in the chest, staggered it back a few steps. A smoking hole gaped in the demon’s chest, and its last roar was somehow softer, as if pleading rather than challenging. With a last burst of green fire, the infernal discorporated into nothing more than a pile of smoking rock.
Acherontia staggered a bit as the Horde slowly moved in around her, and she croaked raspily at Melchisedech, “I’m all right…” She took a stumbling step forward and gave the priest a faint and weary smile. “Tired…” Her eyes closed as she pitched forward, crumpling to the ground, unconscious.
Melchisedech swiftly stepped forward, kneeling at her side. He held his hand before her mouth, felt the faint and uneven pulse of her breath. He nodded. She was alive, or as close as Forsaken could come. He gently tucked one hand beneath her head, the other beneath her knees, and lifted her in his arms.
He turned to see the remaining three Horde facing him, scowling. Romalliard stood with blade and shield in hand, while Stormcry, still clutching his brother’s body, loomed behind him. Thromgar nursed a broken arm, the flesh on the limb burnt and bruised, and it was the orc shaman who spoke first.
“Give her to us.”
Melchisedech’s lips peeled back from rotted teeth. “Not likely.”
“You saw what she did, priest. You saw what price WE paid for her actions.”
“I saw that she saved our lives. I see that your arm is broken, but it will mend. I see that the Tauren has lost a brother and the elf a lover, but that without her we would ALL be dead.”
Romalliard shook his head and stepped forward, brandishing his sword. “Enough talking. Give her to us, or we’ll take her.”
A shield sprang to life around Melchisedech and Acherontia, and the priest clutched her more closely to his chest, feeling her limp form in his grip. His hand cupped her head, gently holding her against his shoulder. “You will have to kill me first.”
Romalliard screamed in defiance and swung his blade, but it skipped off the force field with a spray of sparks. Melchisedech shrieked in the minds of all the Horde as he had with the Alliance, and the trio ran off in opposite directions. He pulled his hearthstone from his pouch while the Horde fled and wept. With a word, he activated the stone’s magic.
He and Acherontia disappeared.
Melchisedech shrieked in the minds of all nearby, channeling all his pent-up rage and memories of the hellish siege of Lordaeron into a pure psychic scream. Three Alliance went tearing away, including a massive Draenei warrior. He could hear the crackling of Acherontia’s demon fire. He turned his back to her, speaking the shadow word taught by the Dark Lady, trying to weaken all the Alliance with wracking pain.
He heard Acherontia cry out, felt his shield around her weaken, give, and disappear like a bubble pricked by a blade of grass. He turned to aid her, but a sharp stab in his lower back doubled him over in pain, incapacitated. A night elf seemed to materialize, laughing as he drove his daggers into Melchisedech’s bony corpse over and over again, and all the priest could do was cry out in agony.
Then, everything went to hell.
Acherontia seemed to explode, rings of clawing flame radiating from her in bursts that sent everyone, friend and foe alike, flying away. Melchisedech was hurled back, landing in the bushes near the farm’s flag. With lips flecked with his own vital ichor, he coughed out the words to a spell that renewed him, mending his flesh slowly, and he watched.
Acherontia stood in the center of a devastated circle, Alliance and Horde scattered around her like broken toys, clawing their way to their feet. She spat a word, and two Alliance doubled over, clutching their faces and screaming as their skin began to bubble and spit, melting from their bones. Another, the night elf with daggers still soaked in Melchisedech’s fluids, leapt at her. His knife bit her shoulder once before he was hurled away by a bolt of shadow that seemed to suck the very energy from his body. Yet another, a dwarf with a massive rifle, fired at her but missed, his shot kicking up a divot of ground near Melchisedech. Acherontia hurled a curse at him and he fell to the ground, wracked with pain until his spasms shattered his bones.
More Alliance began to flee, and a great cheer went up from the Horde. Melchisedech was terrified. He saw in Acherontia utter hatred, the rage on her face, her eyes glowing a fel green, and he wanted to curl in on himself, to gibber and scream in utter horror. This was not his comrade. This was something else.
The Draenei warrior climbed out of the river, dripping wet and roaring with rage. He bellowed a challenge to Acherontia, and she turned to face him. He hefted his weapon, but stopped when the warlock lifted her hands to the skies, speaking words that hurt Mechisedech to hear. Her voice was strange, clear and powerful, speaking what the priest presumed was the demonic tongue without any hint of weakness. For a few, tense moments, nothing happened. The warrior flinched, hesitated, straightened. He laughed and took a step forward.
A shadow blotted out the sun for an instant, and the warrior was obliterated in an explosion of dust, rock, and soggy gore as a glowing green meteor smashed into the ground. Debris blasted away from the impact, and the force felled everyone nearby, Alliance and Horde, at least one of whom did not rise.
Silence reigned for a few sparse moments, before a roar echoed from the crater, a roar like an injured lion and tearing cloth and the scream of a child. A massive shape lumbered out of the smoke, a humanoid figure of charred rock and green fire. Melchisedech felt his bowels quake.
An infernal.
The nearest elf was picked up and hurled away with a scream before he could react, and suddenly the farm was thrown into chaos. Everyone, Horde and Alliance, elf and dwarf and orc and troll all began scurrying away, trying to escape the infernal. All but Acherontia and Melchisedech. The priest was transfixed, paralyzed with fear. The warlock stood, staring at the demon, her eyes blazing.
The infernal roared again and charged Acherontia, but she held up her hands and the air before her shimmered. The infernal stopped as if it had struck a stone wall. For a few harrowing moments, the two stood, face-to-face, the air between them rippling like heat rising from a fire. Eventually, the infernal roared again and turned, chasing after the Alliance.
An arrow ripped through the air, impaling Acherontia through the stomach, but she merely grimaced, her attention focused on the demon. A ball of flame arced from a gnome’s outstretched hand, just before the hand and owner were annihilated by a fiery stone fist. The fireball impacted on Acherontia’s chest, sending her reeling back, but her concentration barely wavered. The infernal began herding the fleeing Alliance toward the lumber mill, their attention turning from Acherontia to the monster in their midst.
A shrill scream of agony brought Melchisedech’s attention back to Acherontia. A human woman stood behind her, a dagger in the Forsaken’s back, a second knife slicing desperately at her arms, legs, chest, and head, anywhere she could reach. Melchisedech stretched out a hand, casting a spell of renewal on Acherontia, but he knew it couldn’t keep up with the damage the rogue was doing.
Acherontia’s attention was focused on the infernal, but she shuddered in pain, her concentration wavering. The rogue did not let up, even when Melchisedech’s mind began to tear at hers, flaying open her worst memories, her agonies, her fears. Acheriontia desperately tried to remain focused on the infernal, her concentration wavering as the knives slid in and out, over and over, but finally it was too much. With a gasp, Acherontia turned on the rogue, wrapping clawed hands around her neck.
Melchisedech hurriedly spoke the words of a spell of healing, seeking to close some of the hideous wounds on his companion’s body. The warlock drove her thumbs into the human’s neck, cursing and screaming at her. For her part, the human suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape, clawing and slashing at Acherontia’s arms. The Forsaken gritted her teeth against the pain and immolated the rogue with a spell, the fel flames searing only the human and not the warlock’s hands.
Melchisedech turned as the infernal roared again, striking a dwarf so hard he skipped across the lake around the blacksmith. There was no question, now. As Acherontia grappled with the rogue, clawing and grasping at her neck, the infernal rampaged merrily. It no longer chose its targets with care. Anyone who drew too close was attacked, and no one could stand against it. The warlock had released a monster.
As the fire burned out on the rogue in her grip, Acherontia seemed to shudder, to blink, and to stare at the woman she was strangling, panic written plainly on her face. As she began to look around, taking in the carnage and destruction around her, Melchisedech finally pulled himself from beneath the bushes.
“Mel-” She tried to speak, but she could not even croak out his name. She was cut off by a fit of coughing and gasping, but her fingers never left the human’s throat. “What do I do?” She shook the human in her hands like a rag doll, as if indicating her. She stared at the rogue, then gaped at Melchisedech. “I can’t… I don’t… what do I do?!” She was gasping, hiccupping, heaving.
Melchisedech spoke softly. “She’s dead.”
Acherontia seemed to shake the body one last time and then relaxed her grip. The weight of the dead woman nearly pulled the shaking warlock from her feet. She stumbled to her knees, gaping around at the carnage she and her new pet had wrought.
The Horde survivors gathered around, staring at Acherontia and murmuring under their breaths. Melchisedech glanced at the slaughter, bodies flung nearly everywhere, from trees to the river to the top of the farmhouse. Acherontia gasped, and Melchisedech followed her gaze to the infernal, rampaging up toward the lumber mill, discarding Alliance like children’s toys.
The warlock stood slowly, very slowly, turning to face the demon. Melchisedech motioned for the gathered Horde to move away, and they did so, wary of the power in the young Forsaken. The green felfire rose in Acherontia’s eyes once more, as her hand lifted toward the demon. In a voice young and strong, clear as the first dawn and true as the sound of the first bell ever struck, she cried out.
“Adolibus!”
The demon stopped in its rampage, turning its stony head toward her. It roared again, the sound clear and strong even at this distance. It leapt from the cliff even as a dwarven warrior leapt on it, and it carried the brave but foolish Alliance to its doom. The landing must have shattered every bone in the dwarf’s body, but the infernal seemed hardly dazed, charging toward Acherontia.
The warlock began chanting in a language Melchisedech did not understand, but which could only have been the tongue of the Burning Legion. The Horde near her clutched their ears in agony, backing away, all but the priest. Melchisedech stayed nearby, not between her and the demon, but close. A darkness began to gather around Acherontia’s outstretched hand, sucking all the light into a ball of pure ebony cradled in her palm. Still, the infernal advanced.
When the demon was no more than ten yards away, barreling down the road, Acherontia’s chant came to a crescendo that shattered the glass from the windows of the farmhouse. The bolt of black energy that streaked from her hand struck the infernal full in the chest, staggered it back a few steps. A smoking hole gaped in the demon’s chest, and its last roar was somehow softer, as if pleading rather than challenging. With a last burst of green fire, the infernal discorporated into nothing more than a pile of smoking rock.
Acherontia staggered a bit as the Horde slowly moved in around her, and she croaked raspily at Melchisedech, “I’m all right…” She took a stumbling step forward and gave the priest a faint and weary smile. “Tired…” Her eyes closed as she pitched forward, crumpling to the ground, unconscious.
Melchisedech swiftly stepped forward, kneeling at her side. He held his hand before her mouth, felt the faint and uneven pulse of her breath. He nodded. She was alive, or as close as Forsaken could come. He gently tucked one hand beneath her head, the other beneath her knees, and lifted her in his arms.
He turned to see the remaining three Horde facing him, scowling. Romalliard stood with blade and shield in hand, while Stormcry, still clutching his brother’s body, loomed behind him. Thromgar nursed a broken arm, the flesh on the limb burnt and bruised, and it was the orc shaman who spoke first.
“Give her to us.”
Melchisedech’s lips peeled back from rotted teeth. “Not likely.”
“You saw what she did, priest. You saw what price WE paid for her actions.”
“I saw that she saved our lives. I see that your arm is broken, but it will mend. I see that the Tauren has lost a brother and the elf a lover, but that without her we would ALL be dead.”
Romalliard shook his head and stepped forward, brandishing his sword. “Enough talking. Give her to us, or we’ll take her.”
A shield sprang to life around Melchisedech and Acherontia, and the priest clutched her more closely to his chest, feeling her limp form in his grip. His hand cupped her head, gently holding her against his shoulder. “You will have to kill me first.”
Romalliard screamed in defiance and swung his blade, but it skipped off the force field with a spray of sparks. Melchisedech shrieked in the minds of all the Horde as he had with the Alliance, and the trio ran off in opposite directions. He pulled his hearthstone from his pouch while the Horde fled and wept. With a word, he activated the stone’s magic.
He and Acherontia disappeared.
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Keeper Of Lore
- Lost
- Posts: 1749
Re: Call To War by Acherontia
In the darkness, lit only by the flickering light of the small campfire, Melchisedech crouched over Acherontia’s supine form. Ichor still dripped from some of her wounds, the more grotesque slashes and cuts, but as the priest fed healing energy into her, even those began to close. Breathing a sigh of relief, Melchisedech knelt by her side.
He pulled an alabaster flask from his belt pouch, popped the cork, and drank deeply of the sweet nectar within. He watched Acherontia as she rested. Melchisedech’s hand rested lightly on hers, and his mind wandered.
It had been a long time since the priest had seen Scourge. He remembred, all too clearly, his brief time among them, before the blessed freedom of the Dark Lady had been laid upon him. He remembered the terror in the tunnels of Lordaeron, when the Forsaken fought back against the monsters in their midst.
He remembered finding a young slip of a girl, left behind when the Scourge abandoned the city, and he remembered carrying her rotting body back into Lordaeron. He remembered tending what wounds she had, bandaging her with what meager skill he possessed. He remembered, between tending the other wounded, sitting beside her and touching her forehead, hoping she would wake.
Once again, he let his hand move to her forehead, stroking back stray strings of hair. She looked so peaceful. Everyone said that of the dead, as they lay in state, but she looked as he would sometimes see her, when she laughed or smiled. She looked as she looked not when she slept, for sleep seemed to fill her with restlessness, but the way she looked when she just rested, when she would speak to him at length.
“Mel-” Once again, she choked out part of his name, and he pulled his hand back quickly. “Mel-” She sounded desperate, her voice ragged almost past audibility. Melchisedech leaned over her, his movements clinical and precise. He touched her face, watching her flinch away from the touch, and moved his hand before the gaping sockets of her eyes. When he was satisfied that she was coherent, he sat back.
“Rest, Acherontia. I am here.”
“Wha-” She was cut off in a fit of coughing.
“Hush, Acherontia. You’ve strained your voice too much. It will take time to come back. All you need to know now is that we are safe, we are no longer in Arathi, and we won.”
“Whe-” Melchisedech shook his head.
“We are in the Caverns of Vision, beneath the Spirit Rise on Thunder Bluff. We are among our people. You are safe here.”
Acherontia struggled to speak for a moment, before finally nodding and relaxing. Melchisedech drew a skin of water from his pouch, soaked a few strips of linen in the water, and began washing the ash and blood from her face. His hands were gentle and soft. He was glad she could not see his face.
“Sleep, Acherontia. I will be here.”
I will always be here.
He pulled an alabaster flask from his belt pouch, popped the cork, and drank deeply of the sweet nectar within. He watched Acherontia as she rested. Melchisedech’s hand rested lightly on hers, and his mind wandered.
It had been a long time since the priest had seen Scourge. He remembred, all too clearly, his brief time among them, before the blessed freedom of the Dark Lady had been laid upon him. He remembered the terror in the tunnels of Lordaeron, when the Forsaken fought back against the monsters in their midst.
He remembered finding a young slip of a girl, left behind when the Scourge abandoned the city, and he remembered carrying her rotting body back into Lordaeron. He remembered tending what wounds she had, bandaging her with what meager skill he possessed. He remembered, between tending the other wounded, sitting beside her and touching her forehead, hoping she would wake.
Once again, he let his hand move to her forehead, stroking back stray strings of hair. She looked so peaceful. Everyone said that of the dead, as they lay in state, but she looked as he would sometimes see her, when she laughed or smiled. She looked as she looked not when she slept, for sleep seemed to fill her with restlessness, but the way she looked when she just rested, when she would speak to him at length.
“Mel-” Once again, she choked out part of his name, and he pulled his hand back quickly. “Mel-” She sounded desperate, her voice ragged almost past audibility. Melchisedech leaned over her, his movements clinical and precise. He touched her face, watching her flinch away from the touch, and moved his hand before the gaping sockets of her eyes. When he was satisfied that she was coherent, he sat back.
“Rest, Acherontia. I am here.”
“Wha-” She was cut off in a fit of coughing.
“Hush, Acherontia. You’ve strained your voice too much. It will take time to come back. All you need to know now is that we are safe, we are no longer in Arathi, and we won.”
“Whe-” Melchisedech shook his head.
“We are in the Caverns of Vision, beneath the Spirit Rise on Thunder Bluff. We are among our people. You are safe here.”
Acherontia struggled to speak for a moment, before finally nodding and relaxing. Melchisedech drew a skin of water from his pouch, soaked a few strips of linen in the water, and began washing the ash and blood from her face. His hands were gentle and soft. He was glad she could not see his face.
“Sleep, Acherontia. I will be here.”
I will always be here.