Conquest of the Horde

-Endling-

Endling woke, huddled against the cracked stone floor of the abbey. Her bones were weary, and eyes narrowed from the light of morning breaching through the shattered windows. Slowly she composed herself, rising up, brushing debris away from her.

It had been weeks since she left the homeland of Tirisfal and come to this haunted place. Though disturbed by the turn of some of it's soldiers, the blighted undead still choked this land, depriving it of its former lush scape. How this place seemed to comfort her more was beyond any comprehension- Perhaps it was the solitude. There was peace in silence, and there was much of both here in the chapel. She took a step, but her body's strength waned. She fell forth onto one knee, bracing against the stone floor with her arm.

"Weakness. Never forget..."

She looked around the abandoned church for a moment before settling on a tall, rustic cierge, grasping it for balance as she rose back up, moving along with it as a cane. The abbey had been in complete wreckage when she had come here- Now it was at least cleared of the debris of the struggle which ensued here, and the victims of it given proper burial. All work here was a solemn one. There was little else anywhere in these cursed lands.

As she cleared out the wooden debris- barricades, fashioned shields, so on- she did come across something of interest. A simple book, pages falling out and yellow from age. Out of simple curiosity Endling took the thing- A quick glance showed it full of verse. Useless, really, but she stowed it in the knapsack at her side. Perhaps she still could find some diversion in reading what little was left of the thing.

Once the rubble had been cleared away she closed the abbey doors, walking to the crumbling stone altar at the back of the chapel. She knelt down, setting the cierge aside, and stayed dormant for a time. She took in deep breaths, closing her eyes and balling her hands into fists.


"Light, give me strength."

A piercing wail of agony shattered the silence of the dead land.

"For I will need it now more than ever before."

Another cry of pain escaped her lips as she gripped the altar. Holy light surged forth from her hands as she channeled through the healing spell. A simple healing touch. It caused her bones to shake, her skin to burn. There was no more benevolence in these healing rays- It was pain, and the only pain she had known so far in undeath.

Regardless, Endling kept her hands against the stone, until her arms gave way and buckled, causing her to fall against the altar. As she lie against it attempting to recompose herself she glanced down. Burned, blackened flesh was upon her hands. At first, she had hoped to eventually overcome the burning light; Instead it only seemed to grow worse.


She shook her head, bracing herself again as she tried in vain to channel forth another spell. Anything at all.

Nothing came, though. In fatigue she could only edge down the altar and to the chapel floor. In defeat she could only rest her head to the stone before her.


I am forsaken...

-Endling-

In an abandoned abbey of Western Lordaeron lay a figure, rigid and heaving, collapsed against the great stone altar which lie in the back of the chapel. Rays of sunlight poured down upon the altar and the body, the brilliant morning light scattered by shattered glass and blocked by the boards nailed to the frame of the window. Deep shadows were cast all over the room, lit only from within by the struggling flame of a chapel cierge, fighting against the frigid air to burn on.

The figure fallen against the stone altar shuddered, beginning to wake. That is not to say she had slept, though. Sleep eluded her; What came now was nothing more than a loss of consciousness, an uncomfortable and unwelcome loss of control. She had awoken as tired and pained as she had been before.


Endling winced in discomfort as she began to push herself up. She staggered back, fumbling to hold onto her candelabra, praying greatly not to pull it too far and fall. It felt almost like she would be unable to get up, if she did, as weakened as he bones now felt. Her whole body ached; It was with immense will that she was able to push herself onto her feet, even.

Luckily she kept her balance, and surveyed the lonely chapel. It was still, despite her efforts over the past few weeks, littered with dust and rubble- Small pieces of shattered wood and stains of blood still covered the floor, save for the altar, which she had meticulously cleaned between these perversions of sleep she experienced. It lie in the back of the room, free of dust and rubble. Instead it was covered in hand prints of black ichor, where the undead had braced herself from the pain of the holy light.

Endling closed her eyes, feeling over the palm of her ichor-stained and scorched right hand. She could almost feel the bone through the painfully thin skin which clung to her palm. Subtle, but still evident, was a tracing of the icon of the Church of the Holy Light, seared deeper than any spell had managed to do to her. She tensed up, hiding the hand away from view of the vacant church, and ruined altar.

She sighed, staggering along to the door, curious to look outside.

Had it been weeks? Days? Months? She had lost count by now. Every day was a blurr, and she clung to what memories she still had now. She came to the door, staring out from inside. Only dead land greeted her eyes. Nothing she could remember. Nothing to comfort her. She crumpled against the archway of the door, huddling to the stone blocks.


Why are you here?

No answer came. She knew only the light.

Where have you come from?

Nothing. This was her home, now.

Can you even remember your name?

A shuddering sigh escaped the priestess' lips, holding onto the wooden candelabra tightly. She could not.

Why?

The light is my strength.

Why?

And with it I shall not falter.

Why?

For it is what guides my path.

-Endling-

A frigid wind blew across the lands of the Western kingdom, the icy bite of the coming winter carried on it's wings. The inhabitants of this land no longer cared, though. There were no crops to harvest, not hearths to warm. All who wandered this land were merely shells of their former selves, twisted and corrupted by the plague.

Down the cobbled road a lone, shambling figure made its way off towards the east, braced hard against her supporting stave, a chapel cierge. She was no different from the disfigured ghouls which ran rampant around the fallen kingdom. How long she had traveled by now she had not cared to remember. Through the trails the only thing which occurred to her was one single burning thought:


Why?

For this she could supply no answer.

If you have no answer, then is there any at all?

There is always a reason. Though we may not understand.

What if there is none?


Endling shivered, appalled at the thoughts running through her troubled mind. Why? She could not say why. Perhaps she once did, but what she once held in memory was ever fleeting. She tried in vain to move her thoughts to something else, to distract her from that itching word which persisted through to her.

Why?

There is always a reason.

Then why.

No matter if we cannot understand its ways.

Then why!

The light will care for its own.

Then it cares for you now?


She winced once more, taking hold of her seared hands. It burned her, not in the body, but in the mind each time she felt those scorched aberrations, saw those blackened digits. Her body shuddered as she pressed them to her chest, hiding them away from the gaze of the lifeless land around her. There was no love, no sense of safety in what had caused them. Instead the light had granted her the only pain she had known yet in this twisted 'life'.


It was not love, then. It was punishment. For what she did not know, but of this she was sure. Perhaps in the annals of her passing memories there could be an answer; In all honesty she wished not to know, though. Whatever had been done to cause such wrath would surely only strengthen this burden she already felt. Despite this, in some strange fashion, this brought her comfort. If indeed this was why she hurt so, then there was indeed reason to this agony. If indeed this was what brought her such pain, then there was hope. Repentance.

Her fingers traced slowly over the burnt icon on her hand. This will be her purpose.


She began to continue down the beaten path at a slowed pace, wrapping her cloak around herself as the north wind swept the land once more. The unearthly chill of this land was unbearable.

-Endling-

"Please! No!"

A ragged man drew away as she approached, her ghostlight lit eyes closing in pain, wincing as his fearful voice called out to her.

"Do not be afraid."

The man went rigid, staring at her in a mixture of fear and confusion. Without further word she approached him, hands shuddering before a soothing glow overtook them. The man grasped for his blade, snatching it out and holding it out defensively to her.

"Come no closer!"

She heeded the man, drawing back. With a gesture a healing ray landed unto his body, his wounded leg regaining strength. At first he lunged for her out of pure desperation- A swing at air later, though, and he stopped, stepping back from her. He glared out from beneath his helm, as if studying her intentions. When he saw nothing but the limp form clinging to the candelabra, he set his sword back to its scabbard. Perhaps it was out of a lack of sport, as the only acknowledgment he gave was a curt nod, before rushing away.

Endling clasped onto her stave, bleary eyes slowly refocusing. Once they had she pulled herself back to the road, able to travel with at least a minimal amount of safety there.

She never did expect any thanks, nor did she really wish for any. Words mattered little to her by now, isolated as she was, and by any account she truly deserved no grace for what aid she could give to those in this treacherous land.

The screams, the looks of fear, though, did hurt. There was a pang in her unbeating heart for each time she heard them beg. She knew they did so with full reason, wounded with a creature of undeath approaching. She did not fault them in any way. Still though there was a lingering feeling of anguish it evoked.

Monster.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head.

It was near the crossing into the Eastern Plaguelands that she heard a cry for help. The voice was weak, dying; She wasted no time rushing to it.

What she came to gave her pause, though. She came to find a man laid out near a tent, which in itself was ripped and battered. The man had many grievous wounds- She knew she could not tend them all, with what she had done already today. But she could keep him alive, in any case.

As she approached the man he became deathly silent, staring at her with a panicked look in his eye. As she knelt down by him he clenched a fist, though stopped as mending light fell upon him. Even still he watched her in complete confusion; She tended to what wounds she could, before she fell back, struggling to help him into his tent to at least keep safe from the wandering dead.

"What... are you?" Gasped the man, eyes narrowed at her.

She did not reply, though, too weak and ragged to manage such. He closed his eyes soon, falling asleep from the weariness his wounds had brought him.

As he slept Endling crept outside, beginning to collect his scarlet armor for once he was well.

-Endling-

"Are you feeling well, sir?"

The paladin's eyes snapped open- He attempted to pull himself up, only to be pushed back by his injuries and a pair of bony hands.

"Please rest. You cannot leave like this, sir."

He turned his head to his side, only to look away just as quick. Indeed, it had not been a dream- An undead sat at his side, keeping him through the wounds of his battle.

"Are you in need of anything, sir? Water? Food?"

He shook his head. "I want nothing from filth such as you, short of your head on a pike."

She shrank back at this, cowering against the corner of the tent she occupied. He perked a brow, a bit of lingering regret occurring to him as he watched her. What was this creature? Surely not any of the scourge which he had combated. It was frail- Or at least seemed so. Perhaps it was a deception. Indeed, it could be surely so.

He furrowed his brow, adjusting himself as he stared across at the undead, who had by now buried her head into the sleeves of her robe.

"Fetch me some water, then. My throat aches something terribly." He said after a moment. She looked up to him for a moment, blinking, stumbling to pull herself up.

"Yes, sir."

With that she crept out from the tent, returning shortly with a bag, producing a vial from it.

"Poisoned, I take it?" he snapped, raising a brow.

"I would never, sir." she replied shakily, setting it down by him.

"Your kind would do many things." He retorted.

Once more, nothing but silence replied. He scoffed, lying his head back, staring up at the canvas. Injured, away from home, with a scourge with the mentality of a young pup watching over him. Perhaps he had just died, and this was some addled dream concocted from their noxious plague.


Endling watched over the man for a good while, mending his wounds when he would not struggle away from her. Luckily she had not only holy magic to tend to him, but herbal cures as well, able to doctor the less pressing wounds. He would be fine to leave by the week's end at this rate.

As he drifted off to sleep Endling huddled against her corner of the tent, eyes flitting from his heaving form to her sleeve hidden hands. Once he had drifted to sleep she rummaged quietly through her bag, producing out the book she had procured from the abbey. Opening it revealed it was rather disappointing in terms of length; Only a few pages seemed legible, the others with smeared ink or pages torn asunder. She made out a pair of lines, though, as she flipped through some of the pages, eyes weary as they were, taxed from caring for the man.

-Endling-

Endling shrank back as the paladin drew up from his cot, flexing a heavy hand.

"I am feeling better, indeed." he said, looking away from her.

"I am glad."

"As you would tell me, indeed." He said with a huff. "Go fetch me water."

Endling gave an obedient nod, shrinking out from the tent, scampering away with flask in hand.

She was most curious. A damnable undead, but curious indeed. While indeed it was quite likely she was no more than a fraud, he found himself reconsidering this greatly with each act of kindness she showed. So gently she tended to him, it was hard at times to remember that she was a rotter. A scourge.

Decisions, decisions.



Endling crept along the brook, towards the waterfall into the Plaguelands. The river was not safe, or at least she believed so. Likely it was that some taint affected even that; This place was so afflicted that this possibility seemed quite real to her. Instead of drawing from there then she at least found it more sanitary to draw from the river's source; In the very least, the thing wasn't discolored.

As she came to the falls in she held out the canteen, filling it to the brim before capping it off. She was glad to be out from the tent. Though she cared greatly for the man's safety, his gaze was unsettling to her. Whenever he laid up he watched her with great scrutiny. There had been many times when she came back to find him rummaging through her bag, as well. He had reason to be suspicious.

She closed her eyes, leaning her hand into the cool mist of the waterfall. She didn't expect to feel anything, of course. She couldn't help imagine that it was surely a refreshing feeling, though.



The paladin lifted open the scourge's bag. Herbs, vials of remedies, books- He had given the two tomes a glance over. One was beyond effort to transcribe, and the other was nothing but a worn prayer book, likely lifted from a victim if the spots of blood atop the cover gave any indication. Perhaps she managed to steal it along with that candlestick of hers.

He sighed, tossing the bag against the ground as he leaned back into bed. No use. What evidence she had of her true allegiances had been surely kept on her person. If they existed at all, even. He doubted by now there would be any grand change of events; not now that he was well enough to fight back.

The man ran his fingers through his beard in quiet contemplation at this. What if she was indeed nothing more than an abnormality? Absurd. Yet he had nothing to suggest otherwise.

He crossed his arms, glancing about the tent once more. She would be back soon, he knew. As the familiar footsteps of the priestess could be heard in the clearing his eyes fell upon a tabard of crimson red and white.

"Here you are, sir." called her voice, as she entered into the tent, flask in hand.

His mind was set.

-Endling-

A fire gleamed in his eyes as he rose up, muscles tensed, exerted for the first in a weeks time. He had sent the undead off to fetch a meal for him before he intended to leave.

As she left he donned his armor once more. Heavy iron chestplate donned, leggaurds and boots following, he began to think. He was well, now. But what was to be done of the undead?

She had indeed aided him in this time of need. He did not forget that. Without her, indeed he would likely be dead. So it was as well that without her continued service, he would have not survived the demands of his body during his recovery.

He cracked his knuckled, pulling on his pair of gauntlets.

She had been nothing but loyal to his demands. She was, by all he could tell as of now, no threat to him at all. She injured herself, even, in her mending. As from what he could make of her, she seemed to have once been a holy woman. By her actions, it was possible, even, that she still was.

He pulled up his tabard, giving it a glance over. With a nod to the scarlet flame upon it he pulled it on. His ears listened for her return- he would not be caught off guard.

She is scourge.

She was weak, but even so she had kept a week with him, healing him despite his constant cursing of her very being.

And still she is scourge.

He donned his helmet, glancing down at the war hammer which lie at his feet. Through the brush he heard her familiar footsteps, returning with some sort of meager food with which to supply him. He tensed, hand glowing with a holy light. He turned to the entrance into the tent, and stood in waiting for her. Soon her figure appeared in the entryway to the tent.

"I see you are well enough to stand now, sir."

He nodded sternly, staring the undead's form down from under his visor.

"I was able to find little, sir. What I have will manage you until you may make it out from this place though, surely."

His eyes focused down onto those glowing, ghostlit eyes. That unearthly golden glow chilled his bones. This was all he needed.

"Scourge."

With a step forward he pulled his hand back, a brilliant ray of light escaping from his clenched fist. Endling gasped, stumbling back and cowering against the ground in fear. He heard no cry for mercy, only her shuddering breath.

The paladin stopped as he came to stand over her, eyes wild. He could not leave her here. She was the enemy.



But he could not bring himself to dispose of her. Not now, at least.

The light faded from his hand, Endling glancing up, an eye opening to behold her fate. What greeted her was a stark contrast; the man stood calmly in front of her, waiting. He studied her with his piercing gaze, eyes closed in silent contemplation.

After a moment of silence she drew up to her feet. The man motioned her to set down what she had prepared upon the cot. She did not wish to provoke the man; she entered meekly, lying the gathered food down onto the bed. Footsteps came from behind, drawing nearer and nearer. She stood slowly, and turned to face him.

All went black as a iron plated fist struck out at her, the snap of bone echoing through the clearing as she fell to the ground.

She is the enemy. She is scourge.

-Endling-

Howling winds battered the pair of figures as they traveled onward, east; farther into the plagued Kingdom. It was not long into the journey that Endling had awoke, but she only now stared towards the ground swept out from beneath her. Now and then she would weakly try to escape his grasp, but to him it was only such of a wind blowing against him. She attempted to plead to him, but all that came was the sound of the air.

Air? She furrowed her brow, opening her mouth once more. Nothing. Again she tried; nothing, once more. She reached up with her free hand, running the digits along the shattered jaw. Immediately she pulled the hand away, huddling against her cloak. The paladin paid no attention to her movements; he was well aware by now she could do little to him.

Her mind raced, panicking as she tried to find some solution to this. She had none, of course; she never had.


And this is what your 'light' has gained you.

Where is the compassion? Where is this endless love?

All of your suffering has only this to show;

A broken body, and a tortured soul.

Endling could not answer. She closed her eyes, trying to separate herself from it all.

But it seems your light is still merciful.

She opened an eye as she felt the man stop. They were beneath an arch leading into a human settlement. It was a place she once knew, but what had been known to her was now alien and strange.

For it seems your suffering rapidly approaches its end.

Her eyes went wide, a pair of scarlet clad guardsmen coming, one forcing a cloth over her head, plunging her into darkness.

And if you are an endling as they say

Then find solace in that not another soul will meet your fate.


The light is my strength
But my body grows weak.
The light guides my path
But this road is untraveled.

The light is truth
But this world holds only lies.

-Endling-

Light beamed in from between the bars of the scarlet prison, cascading onto the floor of the dank room. Many huddled forms lay gathered there, all shuddering from the winter's chill that met them through the barred windows. The only noise in all the room was their shuddering breaths, and the rattle of the iron chains as their heaving forms quivered in the cold.

At the back of the cell huddled Endling, staring up and out into the evening sky, out through the bars. Though she had been within the cell for a week now, and her appearance was now ragged and beaten, skin scathed in many places from burns.

Voices echoed in her head, but they had long become dulled to her.


The echo of chains came from down the hall, the iron door opened and a beaten man thrown in, the whole of the cell looking up with pity to the man as he fell against the stone floor. Endling crept over to the man as the cell door closed shut, the human staring up at the undead with a mix of fear and confusion, cringing as bony hands set upon his still bleeding wounds.

With a flash of light the bleeding subsided; Endling cringed, drawing away quickly, backing into her corner once more.

Minutes later the door opened again.

"Undead." Called one of the men. The guards entered, dragging her out once more.


Endling was partly walked, partly dragged down the hall- And out. Where were they going? The sunlight blinded her as she came out into full view of the open sky, causing her to shield her face with her tattered cloak.

Onward the men marched, out of the settlement and down the road.
"For your case there is no need of judgment. For your mockery of the Light and humanity..."

Endling winced; Hanged corpses had come into view in this clearing, as well as several other bodies strewn about.

"And for your collaboration with the undead scourge."

Your suffering has run its course.

"The Scarlet Crusade's ruling..."

And thus it ends.

Endling winces, closing her eyes as she is set down against a wooden brace, an executioner standing overhead.

"Is death."












A gunshot echoes in the distance.

The lights in the dimly lit room flickered as the man awoke, stretched out onto a cold metal slab. His eyes were frantic, staring around his surroundings. The walls were cracked cold stone, shelves of all sorts running up and down them. There wasn't any real order to any of it- just an eclectic mess of vials and instruments. He saw against one wall salves of differently marked objects, though through his bleary eyes he was completely at a lost to see what they meant.

Footsteps. He heard footsteps!

They came from outside this small, oppressive room; and for some reason the time that this person spent with his idle footfalls did not comfort him any more. The lights dimmed again, and this time the door opened. A man- undead- stepped in. He wore a black and green suit, covering his entire body- His face was concealed behind a unsettling gas mask. Whatever else of him was distorted by whatever concoction had put him to sleep.

This new man's breath was quite audible in the room. Slow, measured heaves of air, crackling through his mask's filter.

"Are we feeling quite well, Mister Andrews?"

The man blinked. Who? He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself silenced by a gag.

"Myes. Myes. I see." replied the other man, pulling up a clipboard and checking it off. "I am Doctor Sivera. I will be covering your... operation today. Myes."

For some reason this idea was not comforting at all to the possible Mister Andrews.

His eyes keenly watched the 'doctor' as he strolled about the room, flipping switches, grabbing vials. A terrible screeching static came from the goblin radio in the corner of the room as he turned it on, though a fain hum of some sort of soothing music could be heard, far in the distance of the white noise. A terrible beating sound echoed in his head as well, getting faster the doctor calibrated his machines. The doctor flipped a switch, a large rack of multiple bladed instruments descending from the ceiling.

The detained man struggled against his bindings, staring up in rapt horror at the blades dangling precariously above him.

The doctor cleared his throat as he came alongside the man, the haze covered eyes of the undead staring down into the drugged man's.

"Let us drop this ruse now, and begin."

The man let out a muffled cry, the undead pressing down a button, a cacophony of machinery roaring to life around them, screens lighting up with various static displays, some bars blinking on them.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

The man struggled some as the machine droned out the noise; Light, the thing was infernal.

The doctor yanked a lever, the man flopping back and rigid as the metal platform moved down. He snatched out a pair of injectors, plugging both down into the now panicked man's skin, the patient's eyes going wide as more foreign drugs were thrown into this mix.

Instantly he began gasping direly for air, the undead snatching a blade and taking a deep cut into the man's side, blood seeping out past his shredded tunic. The man attempted to cry out in agony, sweat beading down his forehead, face cringed in pain.

"One, no mark of adequate effect. More dosage. This will sting."

The undead grabbing another syringe, pushing it down onto the man again, leaning over on him as he writhed in pain. Sivera took up his clipboard, penning down swiftly as he inspected the now victim's wound, which was now bleeding out at a less severe rate.

"Increase of survivability, two."

"Mild discomfort."

Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.


That noise again! His head was throbbing terribly from it, it seemed even worse than this madman's experiments! He strained against his bindings again, Sivera staring him over for a moment before plunging down the next syringe. Spots of color were appearing in the man's vision by now, the undead shining a bright light onto him as he continued his work. He had lost feeling in places, he could tell, unable to feel the metal straps jamming against his flesh.

"Three. Possible case of ocular inhibition."

A crack of bone echoed in the room, coming from down the man's body.

"Loss of sensory reaction to pain."

"Wound clotting severely improved."

Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.

The man's panicked eyes winced again as the machine continued it's droning, the static drowning out most of the doctor's words.

"Four." He heard over the roar of noises.

The undead pulled yet another needle, jamming it onto the man and injecting once more. The lights on the machines around him began flashing madly, one lighting up continually in a blurred text, a loud tone projected from the one beside him.

Thud.


Thud.

Sivera stared over the man. Things began to blacken and dull, the man's body beginning to quake as the fourth vial took effect.

Thud.

The doctor nods, capping the readied fifth vial. Things began to blur more and more; the room seemed to be spinning to the man, who's vision was rapidly deteriorating.

Thud.









Silence.

The machines let out a huff of steam, Rodile approaching the rigid body.

"Four doses; lethal limit achieved. Testing concluded."

-Endling-

Is it... over?

Endling's form shook, as the gunshot echoed through the air. Had it been done? Was this the end? Her body felt numb to her, paralyzed in fear.



Thud.

Endling snapped her eyes open as she heard something fall before her. Her luminous eyes went wide in shock and fear as her executioner fell onto the tainted earth beside her. Blood seeped from the side of his head, a bullet wound evident, bored in at his neck.

"More heretics!" She heard above her. The clatter of chain mail came from before her. Battle cries sounded, met by a thunderous roar of gunfire.



Silence.

Endling remained on the ground, arms held over her head, bracing for the inevitable. She was sent onto her back as a figure stepped close, prodding her up with the butt of a rifle. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the sunlight shrouded man above her, masked by a suit armor. Wordlessly the man held a hand down to her, the undead tentatively reaching out her own bandaged one to meet his. Effortlessly the man tugged her onto her feet, Endling stumbling forward a little from the momentum.

All around rifleman stood. They seemed to be travelers, a wagon setting on the road behind them. From between the lines of men a plate-clad figure, a woman, stepped forward, beckoning Endling towards her.

The priestess blinked, staggering towards the figure, her legs failing, sending her onto her knees, dragged down by the iron weights on her. The woman snapped her fingers, her men walking forth and snapping the chains with their weapons, still staring sternly towards their leader for orders.

Endling weakly rose again, coming to stand before the armored woman, the only trace of her true identity being the predatory grin visible from under her helmet.


"Evening, dear." She said, nodding to the undead before her. She glanced her over appraisingly, her gaze coming to rest down on her burnt hands.


"Would you like to play a game?"

"Good morning, Mister Andrews."

The elf's eyes fluttered open, wincing in pain as his head rang from that grating voice.

"Where... am I?"

"You are gravely ill, Mister Andrews."

"I... am?" The elf replied bemusedly, only now realizing the darkened room around him. He caught a glimpse of a figure- bony, likely undead- before a bright light switched on overhead, blinding him.

"Don't worry. I am an expert."


The roar of machinery came on around them, the sound of measured footsteps pattering about him.

"What... do I have?" He asked, mind still clouded from the anesthetic. He began to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding lamp when an iron restraint snapped shut around his wrists. Immediately began to struggle against it, a bony hand resting on his shoulder.

"I am afraid that is confidential." spoke the forsaken, voice filtered through a grainy device. Slowly he pulled a wicked hatchet from his hip, dried blood coating it.

"But it is terminal."

The elf's eyes went wide, starting to blather out bribes, appeals of mercy, anything- The undead would have none of it though, leaning the hatched against his chest and carving a wound into it, a frothing vial in his other hand.

"Compound one." announced the Forsaken.

Lights flared up to his right and left as the vial dabbled out bits of the liquid onto his open wound- His body tensed up, teeth clenched tight as a searing pain rippled through his body from the gouge.

The undead stood back, watching with clipboard in hand.


At first, the pain began to subside. The elf began to breath normally again, taking slow deep gasps of air. The table he lay on began to rise up some, enough for him to see the rest of his body, and the still bleeding wound.

Slowly it began to take on a discolored look- Rapidly, rather. The toxin of the undead's began to spread, too, small pockmarks becoming evident. Needles of pain shot up over the infected skin, welts becoming evident wherever drops of the undead's vile chemical had landed.

"Slow spread. Visual indicators are large."

The elf's brow furrowed in concern, staring between the spreading wound and the doctor, who sat idle, penning down notes. Finally he set the board aside, walking forward and...

Dropping more of the concoction onto him.


The elf cried out in pain; The blackening wound had spread up his chest even more by now, the elf's skin burning with the irritant. The skin seemed to be withering, sapped of moisture and life, starting to press against his bone. It looked... dead.

"Two doses. Small spread, visual indicators. Decay."

The doctor walked forward once more and just threw the liquid onto the elf's face. Taken aback the man let out a howl of agony, eyes seething from the acrid mixture running into them, blackening his vision. From there the elf fell back rigid, shaking heavily, face contorted in a cry of anguish.

"Compound one, full dosage." Began the doctor as he walked alongside the elf, looking down to his form as he took out his cleaver, sending it arcing down with a sickening thud. The body ceased moving.

"Loss of body control. Massive spread of irritant. Skin decaying. Visual indicators are a nonfactor. Chance of cleansing plague matter; Minimal. Will test."

The clipboard is set upon the table beside the elf, the doctor removing his cleaver and pulling it onto it's harness by his side. With the flick of his wrist the undead pulled the sheet alongside the bed over the corpse of the elf, shrouding the contorted face once more in darkness.

-Endling-

Deliverance.


Endling was led along by the caravan before her, ascending out from the Plaguelands and into the icy mountains of Alterac. Her head was cast down, chains rattling with each somber step. The icy wind blew, but for now she could ignore the shuddering chilling her bones. Conflict filled her mind, though the itching protests and questions had faded now.

A sense of heavy guilt washed over her; Had it all been a test? Had her capture been some sort of determination of faith? If it had, then she knew that she had failed. She had turned to doubt, and after such a small span of time. She shook her head, glancing upwards, on towards the mountain trail which they followed now.

Crowning the mountainside was a city in ruins; One of the many deserted townships of the fallen kingdom of Alterac, she could assume. Its walls were crumbling, and from within she saw one lone pillar of smoke rising. It was a lonely spark of life in the ruins of this once mighty city.


This, she was assured by the men around her, was their destination.

She would do better here. She had to. The light had given her yet another chance; she would not fail it again. With confidence she lifted herself up straight, only to be dwarfed in the frame of the gargantuan entrance to the city, a heavy portcullis raising, manned by a group of soldiers atop the stone fortifications.


"You are a healer?" Rang the voice of the faceless woman behind him, her plated helm staring down to her. She prodded her scorched hands, Endling shielding them quickly.


"Very well then. You should feel at home here."

That was the only explanation offered; With that she was ushered on into the city, through rows of watching, scrutinizing eyes. She entered into a large barracks, and the gate shut behind her. She had exchanged one prison for another, it seemed.

Screams echoed down the halls of the barracks. Endling shuddered, edging over to one of the candelabras leaned to the wall, taking it as a brace before moving onward, further into the building.


She would not fail the light now.

She could not.


Why do you still hold so to this faith?

The Light is my strength.

What good may come from it!?

With it I will not falter.

Why?

The Light will guide me.

Why!

And with it I will overcome.

-Endling-

The engine of the Zeppelin roared to life, the craft shaking as it left dock along the mountainside.


Endling shifted against the wall, arms hugging at her legs as she sat weak against a wall. They had made it out; Most were in fair health, at least now. They were on their way to safety.

Out from the back of the Zeppelin Endling cast her gaze out, down onto the ruins, now devoid of life, left again to the cold and chilling snow. Its brief holding of life had been snuffed out. It had been a trialing time indeed.


"Excuse me."

Endling winced, looking up worriedly towards the voice. An elf stood by the staircase up, onto the deck.

"If you could come, your help would be greatly appreciated."

Endling nodded, rising and following.


On deck lay the still body of another elf. Over the course of the long week she had stayed within the crumbling walls of the barracks, she had known her as Captain; By now she knew her as Isadorian, as the others here did. Two other elves, Krilari and Castella, were gathered around, all surrounding their friend.

This isn't possible.

Endling closed her eyes, looking to her burnt hands, laying them onto the body. Krilari gave her an affirming nod, placing his own onto the fallen warrior. He began to speak a prayer.

Don't!

The words came to her mind, but they were denied. Endling cringed, a gust of golden light starting to move around those gathered. Endling's eyes went wide as she began to contribute to the resurrection, her arms quivering as the burning pain of the Light began to arch through her body. It grew quickly, rising from the tips of her fingers, until a fiery pain began to fill her soul, tearing at it viciously.

She had not known pain. She had no idea of what suffering had been. The sting she knew of healing was nothing compelled to the inferno which was now consuming her body. The crackle of burning skin was audible in her ears; her vision began to fade, before everything went black, dark and dead as night.

Endling attempted to stand as the spell ended, the flash of light searing her one last time. She stumbled back, falling back from her shattered leg, hitting the deck with a heavy thud and a cry of agony.

All was silent after, save for the shallow breaths of Isadorian.


She could see nothing. She couldn't move. She lay out on the deck, paralyzed, staring only into darkness. Barely, she could hear voices- muffled, barely recognizable as actual words to her. Slow footsteps came near to her, the boards creaking.

She felt herself picked up- perhaps she was being helped back below.

"-eal her jaw."

She shivered. No. Was he...?

She felt the mask covering her jaw pulled down, a hand placed upon it.

Please, no!

The fire sparked through her once again.


Searing hot flame overtook her once more, flaring up as the healing touch was coursed into her. Another cry of agony welled up within her, but it was beaten down, unable to react at all. After what seemed like an eternity the gentle hand withdrew, Endling's body quivering as it was rested back down on the deck, trying desperately to cope with the light's affects on her.


All became silent, and once more she was cast into that restless sleep.

-Ferry-

Ferry stared down into his mug, bubbles rising up from the bottom where a dose of fel-blood had been tossed in, for good measure. With a grunt he pulled a heavy hand up, rubbing it down his face.

"Feck."

He pushed back, lying back against the wall, feet up on the table. He was aching; A recent slice up his side, a bash to his face, and a blade yanked out his leg. He was a fighter, he was used to it. He was running up a bit now though in age, and he wasn't nearly as spry as any of these rotters they were rousing up.

Not that he was complaining. No, he was like his Pa; fighter 'till the end.

He took another gulp of ale and sat in contemplation. From what he could tell the boss had roused up a Demon Hunter or whatever the Elves called the things. He knew he wasn't any match, sure. There was a bit of a pit in his stomach when he saw him first, even. Fel, what would Pa say? He's kick him up and down the lane if he knew he was cowering to some long-ear.

Well, what Pa and the boss didn't know wouldn't hurt 'em. Sure, he got a scare out of the thing- Who wouldn't? Big elf, big swords, and probably a better killer than he was ever going to be. Ferry was a brawler. This guy was a real warrior.

Ferry took another gulp of liquid courage. It didn't matter.


If he had to fight the sod, he would. He'd be caught dead before that elf made him turn tail; it was in his blood, in his father's blood, and in his fathers fists that pounded it into him: You don't back down from anyone. If the elf was going to put him down, then he'd sure as hell bash that bastard up hard before he could manage it.


Damn, it was late. Ferry stretched, finishing off his mug before heading out to his sleeping quarters.

In the distance he heard a rustle of bushes, turning his head to the side quickly, only to see the wind blowing it harmlessly.

"Feckin' elves. Feckin' demon hunt'as."