The darkness had existed
for countless thousands of years, silent and brooding. Within its soft
embrace, the ancient forms of long dead kings lay, their retainers and
worldly possessions around them in death as they had been in life. In
the frozen north, the cold seeped into the deep crevices of the stone
cave, its rough hewn walls simply absorbing the temperatures and
creating a pocket of deadly chill that no living creature had set foot
in since before time itself was recorded.
In that still, endless night beneath the ground, only the dead stirred, the unlife that fueled them leading them to patrol their silent domain for eternity, ever vigilant for intruders. The dark influence that the undead had over this area of Icecrown had long since extended beyond the confines of the stone, controlling events in the area to ensure that even with the rise of the Lich King the tomb would remain unviolated.
The silence, the vigilance was finally broken, after century upon century, by the sudden sound of screams and the *crump* of explosions as battle erupted near the sealed entrance of the tomb. Within the darkness, tension grew in the air, as if a thousand creatures had all inhaled suddenly and held that breath, waiting for what would come next. It would not be a long wait as the sounds of battle grew in intensity. Outside the tomb, several more detonations could be heard, the *crump* of the blasts now rattling dust from the ceiling of the stone structure. The fifth and final explosion occurred on the crypt door, and sunlight flowed into the chambers beyond as the stone exploded inward, sending shattered fragments skittering across the floor.
A dozen dark-cloaked humans poured through the shattered door, running from something behind them. Each bore markings on their face; deep ashen-gray designs around their sunken, hollow looking eyes. Each carried curved daggers and wore many pieces of jewelry and decorations with skull motiffs on them. They were the Cult of the Damned, and in this particular moment they looked more like a routed army than a threat to Azeroth.
Behind them, Light flared as men, elves, orcs, and draenei poured in behind them. Each bore a white tabard with sunburst design, and many glowed with holy power, illuminating the darkness beyond enough for eyes to adjust to the new environment. Amongst them, a red-haired Sin'dorei Magistrix strode into the room, her manicured finger pointing at the fleeing cultists.
"In the name of the Argent Crusade, I order you to surrender," Biara's voice echoed around the chambers of the tomb. She had been sent with the crusaders from the tournament grounds to disperse a group of cultists that had been causing trouble lately, and the band had fled to this remote location before being hunted down.
In the darkness of the tomb, something responded to Biara's voice. The darkness took on a life of its own as the dead began to shuffle from their tombs, and a deep echoing laughter filled the interior of the space. The fleeing cultists all stopped in their tracks, peering wide-eyed ahead. Behind them, the crusaders took up defensive positions, sensing the approaching tide of undead.
It happened in seconds, the restless dead charging from the darkness to slam into both the cultists and the crusaders pursuing them. Already weakened by their losses in battle, the cultists found themselves facing an endless tide of the dead, rusted blades cutting into their flesh and ancient magic striking them down. The crusaders fared better, their Light repulsing the first wave of the dead and driving back the attack leaving many of the reanimated corpses as piles of dust on the floor. Biara's magic lashed out, and several of the undead as well as a few of the cultists felt the sting of her spells as she battled desperately alongside the crusaders.
As the dead were pushed back, the last of the cultists fell and a chill wind began to blow unnaturally in the interior of the tomb. The laughter returned, this time deeper as the temperature plunged. Breath frosted on the air as the crusaders and their ally looked at one another and grimly prepared themselves for what was coming. The corpses of the cultists lying on the floor of the chamber began to twitch as necromantic magic flowed over them, making them rise as new slaves of whatever power kept the tomb in its grasp.
Even as new foes rose up, the cold wind began a fog that surrounded the small band, and within that fog a drifting figure could be seen, its pale blue eyes studying the living with hatred. The Lich laughed again, drifting close enough to spark fear in the hearts of the Argent Crusade group that had violated its domain.
"It isssssssss time to die," the creature hissed. "You will join my sssssssslaves and reforge my kingdom in death!"
Cold flowed over the group, many of the crusaders gasping as it became physically painful to breathe. The Lich laughed again, drifting closer and a few of the crusaders furthest from the center of the group moaned pitifully as their flesh froze. Three of them died painful deaths from the cold before a blow could even be struck against the creature. Light lashed out, and the Lich's laughter died as it hissed in pain and irritation. It gestured and the dead charged again, only to be met with blade, Light, and spell.
As its minions were repulsed a second time, the Lich shrieked and pointed at the group. Deadly necromantic energy lashed out at them, and several of the crusaders screamed as their flesh was rent apart and they instantly became the living dead and thralls to the creature. The converted heroes turned on their allies, and dismayed cries echoed through the tomb as the survivors fought to keep their turned companions from them. The Lich laughed, lashing the party with the spell again and deadly silence descended as the remainder of the crusaders were struck down with the spell.
All but one. All but the Magistrix amongst them.
She stood alone, her companions now undead monstrosities. The wards on her face glittered, their protective magic having long since incorporated sigils of necromancy for just such assaults. Her gaze was focused on the Lich, and its pale blue orbs of fire met her stare, locked in a battle of wills the likes of which it had not experienced in centuries.
"Do you know why they chose me to come with them?" Biara said, her voice calm and controlled. "It is because I alone amongst them understand exactly what you and your kind are. I know what must be done because I do not fear knowledge and understand that magic is to be applied by the will of the wielder, not the nature of the spells."
The Lich stared at her in hatred, and around her its minions clawed at the air, eager to tear her to bits. Still, the fact that she stood there so calmly and challenged it verbally enraged the creature; it would show the upstart elf a lesson before it killed her!
"You know nothing of death little mortal," it's voice came out in a deadly whisper. "You only think you know, only believe you hold the power in your handsssssss. You have but the smallest fraction!"
A spell lashed out, much more deadly than before and aimed directly at Biara. The Lich would have smirked if its face still had the capacity to do so as the dark energy lashed at the Sin'dorei. To its surprise however, instead of watching her flesh melt away it instead got to see a colorful display of magical effects as the wards on her face crackled with energy, one of the necromantic runes there flashing and sparkling as it absorbed the spell.
This time the look in her eyes was not calm, but contained a deadly rage simmering under the surface. The Lich paused, suddenly unsure of what to make of the Sin'dorei.
"It's a pity really," Biara purred. "All that power, and you are useless as a tool because you cannot be controlled and directed. A dreadful waste..."
"You think to control me?!" The Lich began to demand. It had no chance to complete its thought as Biara's magic lashed out. Bolts of razor sharp ice peppered the skeletal form of the Lich, and as it's followers rushed forward to overwhelm the Magistrix, a deadly blast of freezing cold air blew them back and away from her, burying many completely in drifts of newly formed snow. Biara's face held nothing but pure ecstasy as she summoned more magic. It wove in the air around her, drifting snowflakes of magical energy that empowered her spells.
The last thing the Lich saw in its unlife was a glowing bolt of icy power hurtling towards its chest.
*******************************
Biara sighed as she stepped over the now lifeless corpses that the Lich had raised as its servants. With its power destroyed temporarily, its followers had fallen back into their endless rest. She moved past them casually, as if they did not matter at all, her eyes fixed on the corpse of the Lich.
It was nothing more than scattered bones now, and she reached out with the tip of her boot to kick them apart, studying the fallen creature carefully. It had been extremely powerful, and the Magistrix knew that it would be so again if it was allowed to reform. As she studied her fallen foe, the glint of metal beneath its bones caught her eye. She reached down, her delicate fingers wrapping around the object hidden there.
She rose up, the Lich's warstaff in her hands. It flared with magic, and she trembled as she held it, looking at it in awe. She could feel it, feel the energy imbued within it as she wielded it. In curiosity, she pointed it at a wall and channeled some of her magic through it.
A shard of ice hurled from the end of the staff, slamming into the stone wall and shattering a huge crater from it. The tomb rumbled with the force of the blast, and Biara blinked in shock before a smile spread across her face.
"And who said working with the Light didn't pay off?" she joked. The staff would make a mighty weapon, but there was just one more thing to do to ensure that her ownership was not contested. She headed deeper into the crypt.
A few minutes of searching located the phylactery, just as she suspected. It was part of the Lich's original burial rites, and it seemed the creature had once been a mighty king in its own right. The urn that made up the phylactery glowed in her senses, and she reached out, caressing it gently as she fed on some of its power, shivering with the pleasure of it.
After it had been weakened from her feeding, it was a simple matter to bring the heavy warstaff down on it, shattering the fragile urn and undoing the magic that imbued it. A faint wail could be heard as the Lich's spirit was undone. Minutes later, Biara was standing in the relative warmth of the sunlight in Icecrown, her eyes glowing dully with power and the staff clutched tightly in her hands.
Whoever said that the Argent Crusade didn't pay well was quite wrong!
In that still, endless night beneath the ground, only the dead stirred, the unlife that fueled them leading them to patrol their silent domain for eternity, ever vigilant for intruders. The dark influence that the undead had over this area of Icecrown had long since extended beyond the confines of the stone, controlling events in the area to ensure that even with the rise of the Lich King the tomb would remain unviolated.
The silence, the vigilance was finally broken, after century upon century, by the sudden sound of screams and the *crump* of explosions as battle erupted near the sealed entrance of the tomb. Within the darkness, tension grew in the air, as if a thousand creatures had all inhaled suddenly and held that breath, waiting for what would come next. It would not be a long wait as the sounds of battle grew in intensity. Outside the tomb, several more detonations could be heard, the *crump* of the blasts now rattling dust from the ceiling of the stone structure. The fifth and final explosion occurred on the crypt door, and sunlight flowed into the chambers beyond as the stone exploded inward, sending shattered fragments skittering across the floor.
A dozen dark-cloaked humans poured through the shattered door, running from something behind them. Each bore markings on their face; deep ashen-gray designs around their sunken, hollow looking eyes. Each carried curved daggers and wore many pieces of jewelry and decorations with skull motiffs on them. They were the Cult of the Damned, and in this particular moment they looked more like a routed army than a threat to Azeroth.
Behind them, Light flared as men, elves, orcs, and draenei poured in behind them. Each bore a white tabard with sunburst design, and many glowed with holy power, illuminating the darkness beyond enough for eyes to adjust to the new environment. Amongst them, a red-haired Sin'dorei Magistrix strode into the room, her manicured finger pointing at the fleeing cultists.
"In the name of the Argent Crusade, I order you to surrender," Biara's voice echoed around the chambers of the tomb. She had been sent with the crusaders from the tournament grounds to disperse a group of cultists that had been causing trouble lately, and the band had fled to this remote location before being hunted down.
In the darkness of the tomb, something responded to Biara's voice. The darkness took on a life of its own as the dead began to shuffle from their tombs, and a deep echoing laughter filled the interior of the space. The fleeing cultists all stopped in their tracks, peering wide-eyed ahead. Behind them, the crusaders took up defensive positions, sensing the approaching tide of undead.
It happened in seconds, the restless dead charging from the darkness to slam into both the cultists and the crusaders pursuing them. Already weakened by their losses in battle, the cultists found themselves facing an endless tide of the dead, rusted blades cutting into their flesh and ancient magic striking them down. The crusaders fared better, their Light repulsing the first wave of the dead and driving back the attack leaving many of the reanimated corpses as piles of dust on the floor. Biara's magic lashed out, and several of the undead as well as a few of the cultists felt the sting of her spells as she battled desperately alongside the crusaders.
As the dead were pushed back, the last of the cultists fell and a chill wind began to blow unnaturally in the interior of the tomb. The laughter returned, this time deeper as the temperature plunged. Breath frosted on the air as the crusaders and their ally looked at one another and grimly prepared themselves for what was coming. The corpses of the cultists lying on the floor of the chamber began to twitch as necromantic magic flowed over them, making them rise as new slaves of whatever power kept the tomb in its grasp.
Even as new foes rose up, the cold wind began a fog that surrounded the small band, and within that fog a drifting figure could be seen, its pale blue eyes studying the living with hatred. The Lich laughed again, drifting close enough to spark fear in the hearts of the Argent Crusade group that had violated its domain.
"It isssssssss time to die," the creature hissed. "You will join my sssssssslaves and reforge my kingdom in death!"
Cold flowed over the group, many of the crusaders gasping as it became physically painful to breathe. The Lich laughed again, drifting closer and a few of the crusaders furthest from the center of the group moaned pitifully as their flesh froze. Three of them died painful deaths from the cold before a blow could even be struck against the creature. Light lashed out, and the Lich's laughter died as it hissed in pain and irritation. It gestured and the dead charged again, only to be met with blade, Light, and spell.
As its minions were repulsed a second time, the Lich shrieked and pointed at the group. Deadly necromantic energy lashed out at them, and several of the crusaders screamed as their flesh was rent apart and they instantly became the living dead and thralls to the creature. The converted heroes turned on their allies, and dismayed cries echoed through the tomb as the survivors fought to keep their turned companions from them. The Lich laughed, lashing the party with the spell again and deadly silence descended as the remainder of the crusaders were struck down with the spell.
All but one. All but the Magistrix amongst them.
She stood alone, her companions now undead monstrosities. The wards on her face glittered, their protective magic having long since incorporated sigils of necromancy for just such assaults. Her gaze was focused on the Lich, and its pale blue orbs of fire met her stare, locked in a battle of wills the likes of which it had not experienced in centuries.
"Do you know why they chose me to come with them?" Biara said, her voice calm and controlled. "It is because I alone amongst them understand exactly what you and your kind are. I know what must be done because I do not fear knowledge and understand that magic is to be applied by the will of the wielder, not the nature of the spells."
The Lich stared at her in hatred, and around her its minions clawed at the air, eager to tear her to bits. Still, the fact that she stood there so calmly and challenged it verbally enraged the creature; it would show the upstart elf a lesson before it killed her!
"You know nothing of death little mortal," it's voice came out in a deadly whisper. "You only think you know, only believe you hold the power in your handsssssss. You have but the smallest fraction!"
A spell lashed out, much more deadly than before and aimed directly at Biara. The Lich would have smirked if its face still had the capacity to do so as the dark energy lashed at the Sin'dorei. To its surprise however, instead of watching her flesh melt away it instead got to see a colorful display of magical effects as the wards on her face crackled with energy, one of the necromantic runes there flashing and sparkling as it absorbed the spell.
This time the look in her eyes was not calm, but contained a deadly rage simmering under the surface. The Lich paused, suddenly unsure of what to make of the Sin'dorei.
"It's a pity really," Biara purred. "All that power, and you are useless as a tool because you cannot be controlled and directed. A dreadful waste..."
"You think to control me?!" The Lich began to demand. It had no chance to complete its thought as Biara's magic lashed out. Bolts of razor sharp ice peppered the skeletal form of the Lich, and as it's followers rushed forward to overwhelm the Magistrix, a deadly blast of freezing cold air blew them back and away from her, burying many completely in drifts of newly formed snow. Biara's face held nothing but pure ecstasy as she summoned more magic. It wove in the air around her, drifting snowflakes of magical energy that empowered her spells.
The last thing the Lich saw in its unlife was a glowing bolt of icy power hurtling towards its chest.
*******************************
Biara sighed as she stepped over the now lifeless corpses that the Lich had raised as its servants. With its power destroyed temporarily, its followers had fallen back into their endless rest. She moved past them casually, as if they did not matter at all, her eyes fixed on the corpse of the Lich.
It was nothing more than scattered bones now, and she reached out with the tip of her boot to kick them apart, studying the fallen creature carefully. It had been extremely powerful, and the Magistrix knew that it would be so again if it was allowed to reform. As she studied her fallen foe, the glint of metal beneath its bones caught her eye. She reached down, her delicate fingers wrapping around the object hidden there.
She rose up, the Lich's warstaff in her hands. It flared with magic, and she trembled as she held it, looking at it in awe. She could feel it, feel the energy imbued within it as she wielded it. In curiosity, she pointed it at a wall and channeled some of her magic through it.
A shard of ice hurled from the end of the staff, slamming into the stone wall and shattering a huge crater from it. The tomb rumbled with the force of the blast, and Biara blinked in shock before a smile spread across her face.
"And who said working with the Light didn't pay off?" she joked. The staff would make a mighty weapon, but there was just one more thing to do to ensure that her ownership was not contested. She headed deeper into the crypt.
A few minutes of searching located the phylactery, just as she suspected. It was part of the Lich's original burial rites, and it seemed the creature had once been a mighty king in its own right. The urn that made up the phylactery glowed in her senses, and she reached out, caressing it gently as she fed on some of its power, shivering with the pleasure of it.
After it had been weakened from her feeding, it was a simple matter to bring the heavy warstaff down on it, shattering the fragile urn and undoing the magic that imbued it. A faint wail could be heard as the Lich's spirit was undone. Minutes later, Biara was standing in the relative warmth of the sunlight in Icecrown, her eyes glowing dully with power and the staff clutched tightly in her hands.
Whoever said that the Argent Crusade didn't pay well was quite wrong!
No comments:
Post a Comment