Post by Isaac on May 29, 2014 21:52:30 GMT -5
((Hey! Thanks for swinging by the thread, I appreciate the initial interest and hope you enjoy what I've written. This is basically a short-ish story involving Lazav Archleone, my Priest, and a Bishop in the Cult of Forgotten Shadow. It isn't an origin story, so much as just a tale involving him as well as introducing the character a bit in personality and power. I haven't really had the chance to RP with many of you, but who knows, maybe this will inspire some! Feel free to point things out, criticism, feedback, etc. You can either post it here, or contact me in game on Lazav, Marrowgnawer, or Venser. Thanks again, and hope you enjoy.))
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter One
Lordaeron rest deep in the grasp of midwinter, slumbering peacefully beneath a sky of leaden gray ash, bleeding tinges of scarlet and yellow on the horizon, spilling out shades of red like a freshly opened wound. The land below was swathed in a frigid cloak of white powder, blanketing the landscape and consuming the flatlands to the south in a frozen wasteland. The gaunt, twisted trees of Silverpine Forest stood proud against the mute canvas of white, the pine ceiling penetrated by the constant snowfall. Evergreen bushed and shrubs found themselves bent from the heavy layers of powder, dampened and curved beneath the weight of their uninvited guest. Frigid wind soughed from the tops of the aging pines, dancing in razor sharp whorls and dervishes of icy spirals, their dizzying colors a reflection of the waning twilight hours. The oldest of the pines, ancient and massive relics of a time long past, towered above the cold landscape in rigid defiance to the howling winds, unmoved by the roar and whims of the roiling clouds and the angry gales that urged them forward. Densely packed, the age-old giants did their best to protect their young from the elements, carrying the brunt of the snowfall in their own broad branches; the less fortunate all but shattered, their cracked trunks falling to a thunderous roar, splintering and collapsing against their kin with a wounded groan.
Footsteps pervaded the air, shattering the sanctity of the desolate land with the crunch of heavy leather against tightly packed snow. A small group, numbering five in size, trudged through the cumbersome terrain in a single file line to hide their numbers, weaving through the tight knit trees to avoid unwanted attention. Ragged cloaks, tattered from time and the elements swirled about them in the violent winds, whipping to and fro like some unholy beast desperate to take flight. Occasionally, one would pause, casting a strained gaze towards the rear of the group in a futile search for danger. The blizzard about them served as both a gift and a curse, offering a natural cloak of protection that also brought them a healthy amount of distress. The group would halt, but with such little to be seen, they would soon be on the move again. At the front of the collection of ill-timed travelers, one of the ragged cloaks hurried to the largest among the group, also serving as the head of their line. An urgent tug of cloth gathered the leader’s attention, the line slowing in their pace as they did so.
“We should be rounding on the chapel soon, Commander!” The speaker’s words were nearly torn from his mouth by the rising tempest, stolen to be wisped away in the rising gale. He visibly fought back the urge to chatter his teeth, tiny shards of frost clinging stubbornly to the scarce threads of a scraggly brown beard. Drawing the tattered cloak about his shoulders, he continued after a moment’s recovery. “Patrols were scarce, milord, but spotted early before we entered the forest. Since then, an occasional watcher has been spotted between breaks in the storm.”
“Your point, Sergeant DeWault?”
“Forgive me, Vindicator Maadi,” The response had been enough to somehow make their surroundings even colder, the Sergeant fumbling a pace behind the larger man before continuing. Justin DeWault brushed the hood of his cloak back from his eyes, his face raw and stinging from the ice-laden winds. He wished for a brief moment that they could find an outcropping to rest in until the storm broke, but ultimately, time was of the essence. Swallowing his thoughts, the smaller man hurried a step forward to catch up. “The men have merely voiced their concerns, as it is likely the Forsaken have spotted us in their lands and yet have not sent troops to intervene. The behavior is odd, almost irrational – they would not allow a group of trespassers, even one this small, to pass through unanswered.” DeWault cast a nervous glance back towards his men, similarly huddled beneath swirling cloth rags, steeling themselves from the elements that battered against them. So distracted was he that that he nearly ran into the back of his halted commanding officer. Stopping a hairs breadth away, he sucked in deep of the frigid air around them before silently lifting his gaze into pale violet eyes, recoiling instinctively. The Vindicator’s skin glittered in the storm, even with the distinct lack of light around them, reflective of the vast and cold landscape around them; a shimmering myriad of pale blues and ghostly white, with streaks of lavender swimming like ribbons of color in an endless sea of gray. His stern features were broad and lined with age, his mouth curved into what seemed like a permanent frown. Above his brightly colored eyes, a carapace-like crest rose high in uneven plates, dark hair spilling about his shoulders behind it. They regarded one another in tense silence, DeWault suddenly seeming very small next to the massive Draenei.
“You and your men are likely correct, Sergeant.”
“Then wh-“
“Undoubtedly, the Forsaken have taken heed of our movements and are well informed of our presence. It is also likely that they are aware of our mission and goals, and informed our adversary of our purpose in their lands. It is possible they believe the storm will take us and they will have to do little more than pick our belongings from our cold corpses. It is also possible that they simply believe we will fail in our task.”
“Will we?” The question was born of fear, and DeWault regretted it the moment the words escaped his lips.
“Fail?” Maadi’s gaze hardened in a reproachful stare of disapproval, DeWault wilting beneath him. After a moment’s pause, his expression softened, eyes simply peaking in a display of skepticism. “Sergeant, need I remind you, the Light called upon us for this task. The Naaru themselves wish for this darkness to be rebuked, the needless suffering of their children to be ceased,” He paused once more, casting his gaze to the winter wilderness. Finally his attention returned to the Sergeant, a heavily armored hand drawing from the depths of his cloak and resting on the shorter man’s shoulder. “There is no shadow that the Light cannot extinguish, DeWault. Despite your being human, you were chosen for your faith and past experience with the Cult. Hold to this knowledge, for we will prevail.”
“As you say, milord.”
He watched as the Draenei attempted a comforting smile before turning back to their single file march. The expression was an odd and uncomfortable, an alien expression to an already alien face. A small portion of DeWault appreciated the attempt, but ultimately it did little to dull the edge of his nerves. Behind him the tension of the men and women who served him grew to a palpable level, the uneasy rise a discomforting addition to the already unfriendly environment around them. A sigh of resigned defeat escaped his chapped lips and he urged his tired legs to follow the Draenei, his hands sliding across the bark of the densely packed giants that loomed over him.
Maadi was well known amongst the Alliance forces, or at least by those in the grand city of Stormwind. Years ago, when his people had first arrived on Azeroth and received aid from the Alliance, Maadi had been among the first of their emissaries to reach out. DeWault remembered the meeting well, and his first impression then had stuck with him through all the years he’d worked under the Vindicator.
It hadn’t been a good one.
There were many words to describe Maadi, but humble was not numbered among them. DeWault wasn’t one to stereotype, but the Vindicator had nearly turned him off the Draenei race as a whole, believing that the pompous commander was the rule and not the exception. He’d all but demanded aid for his people, an admirable goal to be sure, but his lack of humility and tact had sparked the ire of many, those numbers including his own people. Justin had been among those who had travelled from Stormwind harbor to the lands of the Night Elves and beyond to help the Draenei settle into what would serve as their new home and had been with the Vindicator a number of times since. A stern man, with little to no sense of humor, he often dreaded tours they shared together. As it turned out, Maadi often cited the Light as being one of the common factors between his people and the kingdoms of the Alliance, but he did not hold them as equals. It was uncommon but not unheard of, and Maadi numbered as one of the Draenei who believed themselves of higher status than those of similar faiths. It had something to do with the Naaru and their travel between worlds, and admittedly DeWault was a little hazy on the details, but ultimately it boiled down to a form of racial supremacy that made it difficult to work with the Vindicator. The years had done little to temper his racism and grating personality, and as such his earlier speech came as something of a shock to the Sergeant. Usually the Vindicator’s only response was a cold stare and perhaps the curling of a lip in moderate disdain; a contempt reserved only for those more “frail” in the Light than he. Perhaps Maadi was unsettled. He wished for a fleeting moment that the irony of such a thought would prove amusing, but anything that gave the all too self-assured Draenei pause was enough to make him worry all the more.
“You were chosen for your faith and your past experience with the Cult.”
DeWault shivered, and this time, not from the cold. The Cult. The Cult of Forgotten Shadow. It was a religion of sorts, if it could even be called that, and the chief practice of the Forsaken of Lordaeron. He understood little of their practices and beliefs, but he knew well enough of the actual practitioners to fear it. They were a scattered organization, vying for power amongst one another and with no cohesive leadership, they’d often been written off as minor threat in the footnotes of the Light. It was rare to encounter the elusive cult, but once in DeWault’s history, he’d been face to face with several of their members. It’d been a ritual of some kind, practiced in the ruins of Southshore, a former Alliance stronghold in Hillsbrad. DeWault and his companions had been there on a routine scouting mission, attempting to find anything of value to the Alliance that could be recovered and used. Losing Southshore had been a huge blow to their contestation of the Eastern Kingdoms, further proof that the Forsaken were a massively growing threat to the Alliance and her interests. More than a stronghold lost, DeWault had lost his home and several good friends and family members. In truth, he’d accepted the scout and recovery mission with hopes of entering his old home and gathering what personal belongings could be salvaged, but they’d entered the former town hall first. Within the rotting halls, they’d found a small group of Forsaken, members of the Cult, performing a bizarre rite. Illuminated by sickly candles, they chanted over one of their brethren, and the Undead began to phase and flicker, his body beginning to be engulfed with the power of the void. Their cleric had uttered an epitaph of the Light, and chaos ensued. It wasn’t until later that DeWault learned that the Cult had “Lightslayers” in their number, Undead used to assassinate members of holy orders. More importantly, they were resistant to the Light, the greatest tool against the Forsaken. He watched with horror as the two chanting over their companion charged in his allies, producing small blades that hewed through his companions with relative ease and shrugging off the weapons of the Light their cleric had produced. Ultimately, they had outnumbered and overpowered their attackers, but not without casualties of their own. He’d lost three men that day, and while they’d killed the Forsaken that was the focus of the ritual, both Lightslayers had escaped into the shadows virtually unscathed. His report had been a difficult one to explain, but ultimately the Church had vouched for him, clearing him of the deaths of his companions and saving him from a failed career and a life of custodial duty in the stockades.
The Sergeant pulled from his thoughts, noting the trees beginning to thin in number, some signs of deforestation popping up along their path. Along some of the trees he also took notice of the deep lines cut in their bark, claw marks carving through the rough skin of the trunk with relative ease. Once upon a time such markings would have instilled a certain level of fear within any who travelled these lands, but with the Worgen as allies, they simply served as markers of safe haven for members of the Alliance. They served as a sign, that the Worgen of Gilneas had seized this portion of the forest and begun to expand their territory out from the besieged wall of their great city. The markings were old, and sadly, he already knew what lay further down the path. There would be no budding settlement or warm welcome from steadfast allies, no fire or food or celebration to be had among them. It would be deserted, the inhabitants long moved on, or perhaps worse. Once they reached the settlement they would find only one thing. The Cult.
DeWault ran his fingers through the last of the wood-hewn markings before they hemmed out in a vaguely circular clearing, towering tall in a massive natural defense. A soft rustling in the branches above caught his attention, but before he could investigate, the oaths of his companions pulled him away from the sound.
“Disgusting.”
Vindicator Maadi’s rebuke rang true above the frightened murmurs of his men, the world eerily silent aside from their own whispers. DeWault’s distracting thoughts had offered him an absent-minded protection from the cold, and now he bitterly wished for that comfort to return. Instead he gathered the frail rags about him tighter, pushing forward to stand next to the Vindicator and trace his gaze in the process. He absently noted that the blizzard had stopped in the surrounding area, but somehow, it proved to be colder than before. Snow still blanketed the ground, smoothing the contours of the earth and burying the traveler’s paths leading to the hollow settlement. It wasn’t white, however, and appeared dirtier somehow, an unsettling off color. Ragged tents shuddered in the wind, which had dulled to a whisper, and what little foliage remained in the makeshift camp was little more than dead, dried husks. Even without the storm here it seemed dimmer, with twilight having long given way to the embrace of night, but even the stars and moon seemed loathe to grace them. His eyes traced further still across the encampment before them, as earth and snow rose together in the distance to form a winding, rocky outcropping that would likely be overlooking the edges of the great sea. Perched atop the hill sat a solitary tree husk bent and warped far out of shape. The dry, brittle branches clawed forward in every direction like a helpless victim reaching for an unseen savior. Or perhaps, he noted, the swift release of death. Further along the path, beyond the tree, sat a chapel. What should have been the first structure in the settlement, a new addition built by those of the faith, seemed ancient and sickly. Even from this distance he could see the wood was rotting and warped, as though it had sustained extensive water damage. In truth, it reminded him of the hull of a long dead warship, fungus and various overgrowth attempting to crawl up the sides of the damaged wood. The stained slats offered the illusion that the church twisted and groaned like the sides of a wounded beast struggling to breathe its dying breath. What disturbed him the most, perhaps, was that it was with a growing chill he realized why everything in the area seemed so dark and off color. The diminutive, dilapidated building cast a shadow far greater than its own should have been, extending far beyond what little light the night sky had to offer – and to every dead tree, every rotted log and dying shrub, it did touch.
“By the Li-“ A sudden shrieking chorus of cries in the trees above them cut his oath short, and with a small utterance of fear, he and the rest of his mean drew their blades in a clattering of fumbled steel. Only Maadi left his weapon untouched, regarding the frightened soldiers beside him before casting his gaze upwards. Above them, the sky glittered with macabre horror. Feathers. Feathers and eyes glinting in the darkness, peering down at them. The dizzying blue-black of hundreds upon hundreds of crows roosting in the gnarled pine branches rustled above them, watching the group with keen, predatory interest. They parted almost reverently at the center of their murder, surrounding they hideous companion with a shield of feathered bodies. Partially hidden in the shadows, a great, slumbering beast hung upside down, suspended from the thicker branches by feet tipped with wickedly curved talons. Even encased in the leathery shroud of its own massive wings, he could tell the sleeping behemoth had recently gorged itself, bloated on its latest meal. The black, rubbery mass of flesh shifted restlessly and again all but Maadi flinched. What did such a creature eat? Against his will, DeWault tore his eyes from the beast and towards the settlement. It was housed by what, perhaps twenty? Twenty-five? He returned his attention to the trees and fought back the urge to vomit, suddenly feeling very sick.
“The bat is here,” Maadi finally spoke, his voice unwavering, and DeWault couldn’t help but envy his courage. “He will be, too. Now come, the chapel awaits us. We’ll deal with the beast after we slay its master, and then we cleanse this land in the name of the Naaru. For the Light!”
A half-hearted murmur of reply was all the Vindicator received, but his attention had long since passed from the ragged soldiers and had already begun moving forward with renewed purpose towards what remained of the small and broken settlement. DeWault himself remained silent, faltering as the others gathered their fragile wills and passed him without a second glance towards the trees and the horrors that rest safely in their branches. “For the Light.” He whispered to himself, and even as he said the words, they sounded hollow. His eyes flickered once more to the gorged beast above before he followed the others, the hungry eyes of crows watching him intently.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter One
Lordaeron rest deep in the grasp of midwinter, slumbering peacefully beneath a sky of leaden gray ash, bleeding tinges of scarlet and yellow on the horizon, spilling out shades of red like a freshly opened wound. The land below was swathed in a frigid cloak of white powder, blanketing the landscape and consuming the flatlands to the south in a frozen wasteland. The gaunt, twisted trees of Silverpine Forest stood proud against the mute canvas of white, the pine ceiling penetrated by the constant snowfall. Evergreen bushed and shrubs found themselves bent from the heavy layers of powder, dampened and curved beneath the weight of their uninvited guest. Frigid wind soughed from the tops of the aging pines, dancing in razor sharp whorls and dervishes of icy spirals, their dizzying colors a reflection of the waning twilight hours. The oldest of the pines, ancient and massive relics of a time long past, towered above the cold landscape in rigid defiance to the howling winds, unmoved by the roar and whims of the roiling clouds and the angry gales that urged them forward. Densely packed, the age-old giants did their best to protect their young from the elements, carrying the brunt of the snowfall in their own broad branches; the less fortunate all but shattered, their cracked trunks falling to a thunderous roar, splintering and collapsing against their kin with a wounded groan.
Footsteps pervaded the air, shattering the sanctity of the desolate land with the crunch of heavy leather against tightly packed snow. A small group, numbering five in size, trudged through the cumbersome terrain in a single file line to hide their numbers, weaving through the tight knit trees to avoid unwanted attention. Ragged cloaks, tattered from time and the elements swirled about them in the violent winds, whipping to and fro like some unholy beast desperate to take flight. Occasionally, one would pause, casting a strained gaze towards the rear of the group in a futile search for danger. The blizzard about them served as both a gift and a curse, offering a natural cloak of protection that also brought them a healthy amount of distress. The group would halt, but with such little to be seen, they would soon be on the move again. At the front of the collection of ill-timed travelers, one of the ragged cloaks hurried to the largest among the group, also serving as the head of their line. An urgent tug of cloth gathered the leader’s attention, the line slowing in their pace as they did so.
“We should be rounding on the chapel soon, Commander!” The speaker’s words were nearly torn from his mouth by the rising tempest, stolen to be wisped away in the rising gale. He visibly fought back the urge to chatter his teeth, tiny shards of frost clinging stubbornly to the scarce threads of a scraggly brown beard. Drawing the tattered cloak about his shoulders, he continued after a moment’s recovery. “Patrols were scarce, milord, but spotted early before we entered the forest. Since then, an occasional watcher has been spotted between breaks in the storm.”
“Your point, Sergeant DeWault?”
“Forgive me, Vindicator Maadi,” The response had been enough to somehow make their surroundings even colder, the Sergeant fumbling a pace behind the larger man before continuing. Justin DeWault brushed the hood of his cloak back from his eyes, his face raw and stinging from the ice-laden winds. He wished for a brief moment that they could find an outcropping to rest in until the storm broke, but ultimately, time was of the essence. Swallowing his thoughts, the smaller man hurried a step forward to catch up. “The men have merely voiced their concerns, as it is likely the Forsaken have spotted us in their lands and yet have not sent troops to intervene. The behavior is odd, almost irrational – they would not allow a group of trespassers, even one this small, to pass through unanswered.” DeWault cast a nervous glance back towards his men, similarly huddled beneath swirling cloth rags, steeling themselves from the elements that battered against them. So distracted was he that that he nearly ran into the back of his halted commanding officer. Stopping a hairs breadth away, he sucked in deep of the frigid air around them before silently lifting his gaze into pale violet eyes, recoiling instinctively. The Vindicator’s skin glittered in the storm, even with the distinct lack of light around them, reflective of the vast and cold landscape around them; a shimmering myriad of pale blues and ghostly white, with streaks of lavender swimming like ribbons of color in an endless sea of gray. His stern features were broad and lined with age, his mouth curved into what seemed like a permanent frown. Above his brightly colored eyes, a carapace-like crest rose high in uneven plates, dark hair spilling about his shoulders behind it. They regarded one another in tense silence, DeWault suddenly seeming very small next to the massive Draenei.
“You and your men are likely correct, Sergeant.”
“Then wh-“
“Undoubtedly, the Forsaken have taken heed of our movements and are well informed of our presence. It is also likely that they are aware of our mission and goals, and informed our adversary of our purpose in their lands. It is possible they believe the storm will take us and they will have to do little more than pick our belongings from our cold corpses. It is also possible that they simply believe we will fail in our task.”
“Will we?” The question was born of fear, and DeWault regretted it the moment the words escaped his lips.
“Fail?” Maadi’s gaze hardened in a reproachful stare of disapproval, DeWault wilting beneath him. After a moment’s pause, his expression softened, eyes simply peaking in a display of skepticism. “Sergeant, need I remind you, the Light called upon us for this task. The Naaru themselves wish for this darkness to be rebuked, the needless suffering of their children to be ceased,” He paused once more, casting his gaze to the winter wilderness. Finally his attention returned to the Sergeant, a heavily armored hand drawing from the depths of his cloak and resting on the shorter man’s shoulder. “There is no shadow that the Light cannot extinguish, DeWault. Despite your being human, you were chosen for your faith and past experience with the Cult. Hold to this knowledge, for we will prevail.”
“As you say, milord.”
He watched as the Draenei attempted a comforting smile before turning back to their single file march. The expression was an odd and uncomfortable, an alien expression to an already alien face. A small portion of DeWault appreciated the attempt, but ultimately it did little to dull the edge of his nerves. Behind him the tension of the men and women who served him grew to a palpable level, the uneasy rise a discomforting addition to the already unfriendly environment around them. A sigh of resigned defeat escaped his chapped lips and he urged his tired legs to follow the Draenei, his hands sliding across the bark of the densely packed giants that loomed over him.
Maadi was well known amongst the Alliance forces, or at least by those in the grand city of Stormwind. Years ago, when his people had first arrived on Azeroth and received aid from the Alliance, Maadi had been among the first of their emissaries to reach out. DeWault remembered the meeting well, and his first impression then had stuck with him through all the years he’d worked under the Vindicator.
It hadn’t been a good one.
There were many words to describe Maadi, but humble was not numbered among them. DeWault wasn’t one to stereotype, but the Vindicator had nearly turned him off the Draenei race as a whole, believing that the pompous commander was the rule and not the exception. He’d all but demanded aid for his people, an admirable goal to be sure, but his lack of humility and tact had sparked the ire of many, those numbers including his own people. Justin had been among those who had travelled from Stormwind harbor to the lands of the Night Elves and beyond to help the Draenei settle into what would serve as their new home and had been with the Vindicator a number of times since. A stern man, with little to no sense of humor, he often dreaded tours they shared together. As it turned out, Maadi often cited the Light as being one of the common factors between his people and the kingdoms of the Alliance, but he did not hold them as equals. It was uncommon but not unheard of, and Maadi numbered as one of the Draenei who believed themselves of higher status than those of similar faiths. It had something to do with the Naaru and their travel between worlds, and admittedly DeWault was a little hazy on the details, but ultimately it boiled down to a form of racial supremacy that made it difficult to work with the Vindicator. The years had done little to temper his racism and grating personality, and as such his earlier speech came as something of a shock to the Sergeant. Usually the Vindicator’s only response was a cold stare and perhaps the curling of a lip in moderate disdain; a contempt reserved only for those more “frail” in the Light than he. Perhaps Maadi was unsettled. He wished for a fleeting moment that the irony of such a thought would prove amusing, but anything that gave the all too self-assured Draenei pause was enough to make him worry all the more.
“You were chosen for your faith and your past experience with the Cult.”
DeWault shivered, and this time, not from the cold. The Cult. The Cult of Forgotten Shadow. It was a religion of sorts, if it could even be called that, and the chief practice of the Forsaken of Lordaeron. He understood little of their practices and beliefs, but he knew well enough of the actual practitioners to fear it. They were a scattered organization, vying for power amongst one another and with no cohesive leadership, they’d often been written off as minor threat in the footnotes of the Light. It was rare to encounter the elusive cult, but once in DeWault’s history, he’d been face to face with several of their members. It’d been a ritual of some kind, practiced in the ruins of Southshore, a former Alliance stronghold in Hillsbrad. DeWault and his companions had been there on a routine scouting mission, attempting to find anything of value to the Alliance that could be recovered and used. Losing Southshore had been a huge blow to their contestation of the Eastern Kingdoms, further proof that the Forsaken were a massively growing threat to the Alliance and her interests. More than a stronghold lost, DeWault had lost his home and several good friends and family members. In truth, he’d accepted the scout and recovery mission with hopes of entering his old home and gathering what personal belongings could be salvaged, but they’d entered the former town hall first. Within the rotting halls, they’d found a small group of Forsaken, members of the Cult, performing a bizarre rite. Illuminated by sickly candles, they chanted over one of their brethren, and the Undead began to phase and flicker, his body beginning to be engulfed with the power of the void. Their cleric had uttered an epitaph of the Light, and chaos ensued. It wasn’t until later that DeWault learned that the Cult had “Lightslayers” in their number, Undead used to assassinate members of holy orders. More importantly, they were resistant to the Light, the greatest tool against the Forsaken. He watched with horror as the two chanting over their companion charged in his allies, producing small blades that hewed through his companions with relative ease and shrugging off the weapons of the Light their cleric had produced. Ultimately, they had outnumbered and overpowered their attackers, but not without casualties of their own. He’d lost three men that day, and while they’d killed the Forsaken that was the focus of the ritual, both Lightslayers had escaped into the shadows virtually unscathed. His report had been a difficult one to explain, but ultimately the Church had vouched for him, clearing him of the deaths of his companions and saving him from a failed career and a life of custodial duty in the stockades.
The Sergeant pulled from his thoughts, noting the trees beginning to thin in number, some signs of deforestation popping up along their path. Along some of the trees he also took notice of the deep lines cut in their bark, claw marks carving through the rough skin of the trunk with relative ease. Once upon a time such markings would have instilled a certain level of fear within any who travelled these lands, but with the Worgen as allies, they simply served as markers of safe haven for members of the Alliance. They served as a sign, that the Worgen of Gilneas had seized this portion of the forest and begun to expand their territory out from the besieged wall of their great city. The markings were old, and sadly, he already knew what lay further down the path. There would be no budding settlement or warm welcome from steadfast allies, no fire or food or celebration to be had among them. It would be deserted, the inhabitants long moved on, or perhaps worse. Once they reached the settlement they would find only one thing. The Cult.
DeWault ran his fingers through the last of the wood-hewn markings before they hemmed out in a vaguely circular clearing, towering tall in a massive natural defense. A soft rustling in the branches above caught his attention, but before he could investigate, the oaths of his companions pulled him away from the sound.
“Disgusting.”
Vindicator Maadi’s rebuke rang true above the frightened murmurs of his men, the world eerily silent aside from their own whispers. DeWault’s distracting thoughts had offered him an absent-minded protection from the cold, and now he bitterly wished for that comfort to return. Instead he gathered the frail rags about him tighter, pushing forward to stand next to the Vindicator and trace his gaze in the process. He absently noted that the blizzard had stopped in the surrounding area, but somehow, it proved to be colder than before. Snow still blanketed the ground, smoothing the contours of the earth and burying the traveler’s paths leading to the hollow settlement. It wasn’t white, however, and appeared dirtier somehow, an unsettling off color. Ragged tents shuddered in the wind, which had dulled to a whisper, and what little foliage remained in the makeshift camp was little more than dead, dried husks. Even without the storm here it seemed dimmer, with twilight having long given way to the embrace of night, but even the stars and moon seemed loathe to grace them. His eyes traced further still across the encampment before them, as earth and snow rose together in the distance to form a winding, rocky outcropping that would likely be overlooking the edges of the great sea. Perched atop the hill sat a solitary tree husk bent and warped far out of shape. The dry, brittle branches clawed forward in every direction like a helpless victim reaching for an unseen savior. Or perhaps, he noted, the swift release of death. Further along the path, beyond the tree, sat a chapel. What should have been the first structure in the settlement, a new addition built by those of the faith, seemed ancient and sickly. Even from this distance he could see the wood was rotting and warped, as though it had sustained extensive water damage. In truth, it reminded him of the hull of a long dead warship, fungus and various overgrowth attempting to crawl up the sides of the damaged wood. The stained slats offered the illusion that the church twisted and groaned like the sides of a wounded beast struggling to breathe its dying breath. What disturbed him the most, perhaps, was that it was with a growing chill he realized why everything in the area seemed so dark and off color. The diminutive, dilapidated building cast a shadow far greater than its own should have been, extending far beyond what little light the night sky had to offer – and to every dead tree, every rotted log and dying shrub, it did touch.
“By the Li-“ A sudden shrieking chorus of cries in the trees above them cut his oath short, and with a small utterance of fear, he and the rest of his mean drew their blades in a clattering of fumbled steel. Only Maadi left his weapon untouched, regarding the frightened soldiers beside him before casting his gaze upwards. Above them, the sky glittered with macabre horror. Feathers. Feathers and eyes glinting in the darkness, peering down at them. The dizzying blue-black of hundreds upon hundreds of crows roosting in the gnarled pine branches rustled above them, watching the group with keen, predatory interest. They parted almost reverently at the center of their murder, surrounding they hideous companion with a shield of feathered bodies. Partially hidden in the shadows, a great, slumbering beast hung upside down, suspended from the thicker branches by feet tipped with wickedly curved talons. Even encased in the leathery shroud of its own massive wings, he could tell the sleeping behemoth had recently gorged itself, bloated on its latest meal. The black, rubbery mass of flesh shifted restlessly and again all but Maadi flinched. What did such a creature eat? Against his will, DeWault tore his eyes from the beast and towards the settlement. It was housed by what, perhaps twenty? Twenty-five? He returned his attention to the trees and fought back the urge to vomit, suddenly feeling very sick.
“The bat is here,” Maadi finally spoke, his voice unwavering, and DeWault couldn’t help but envy his courage. “He will be, too. Now come, the chapel awaits us. We’ll deal with the beast after we slay its master, and then we cleanse this land in the name of the Naaru. For the Light!”
A half-hearted murmur of reply was all the Vindicator received, but his attention had long since passed from the ragged soldiers and had already begun moving forward with renewed purpose towards what remained of the small and broken settlement. DeWault himself remained silent, faltering as the others gathered their fragile wills and passed him without a second glance towards the trees and the horrors that rest safely in their branches. “For the Light.” He whispered to himself, and even as he said the words, they sounded hollow. His eyes flickered once more to the gorged beast above before he followed the others, the hungry eyes of crows watching him intently.