The tension in the air was thick. It
was almost a taste on the wind, a feeling of impending destruction
that could neither be avoided nor turned aside. In the Alliance
fortress on the Isle of Conquest, men and women of every race
prepared their mounts, said prayers softly, or tried to talk up their
bravado to prepare mentally for battle.
Amongst them Beckyann sat atop her
deathcharger. Her baleful eyes passed once over the gathering of
allied forces before she reached back and grabbed the helmet that was
strapped to her saddle. She raised it up, placing the thick metal and
chain atop her golden head of hair. The purple colored metal was
capped with gold in the shape of a crown, and it always amused
Beckyann to think that she and her brothers and sisters were as Kings
and Queens of death. The crown of her armor was symbolic of this
fact.
She sat in stillness, completely
motionless while those around her shifted nervously or made last
minute preparations. Her deathcharger sat equally as still, dead
mount and rider more still than any living creature could ever be.
No tension, no fear, no weakness
flows through us. We do not tire. We do not sit in anxiety. We are
calm, patient. We are eternal, and time flows around and through us,
but does not effect us. We exist in the moment, for we do not look to
a point in the future where we will not be. There is nothing that can
challenge us that we are not willing to face.
A horn sounded and
the gate in front of the allied forces crashed down, signaling the
advance. Hundreds of riders spurred their mounts, the animals (and
sometimes mechanicals) lurching forward, slowly picking up momentum.
Beckyann kicked her own steed's flanks, the dead creature beginning
to move before she had even completed the gesture, knowing that it
was time. The thunderous roar of a thousand hooves grew around them
as they picked up speed, rumbling steam tanks joining them from along
the side of the fortress as they began heading down a gentle slope
towards the horde fortress waiting in the distance. Red banners
fluttered from its battlements, as if to represent the blood and
lives that the structure had claimed. One of many that the Horde had
built on the isle, it was a strong-point that could not be contested.
We pass as though we were the wind.
We leave nothing behind us but our own graves. No barrier, no
distance, no obstacle can slow us. No mountain can break our bones.
Like the pale horsemen of myth we ride with ruin in our hands, our
steeds tireless, our strides long. The very soil trembles at our
passing, and sighs in relief when we are gone.
In the distance,
the Horde had unleashed its own forces, and a mighty roar echoed in
the air as they charged towards the surging Alliance riders. They had
brought their own war machines with them, and as the two sides drew
closer both unleashed hell upon their foes. Huge spears of wood
hurtled through the air, slamming into the ground or pinning riders.
Behind Beckyann and to her right a cannonball landed and exploded
with devilish goblin engineering, taking ten riders and simply wiping
them from existence in a heartbeat. Others gasped from the sheer
shockwave of the explosion but Beckyann simply ignored it and
continued on.
A razor sharp disc
fired from a glaive behind the Horde lines bounced once in front of
Beckyann, skipping across the ground like a stone tossed on the
surface of a pond. It flipped upwards, the deadly edge spinning as it
carved through the riders in front of her, sending mutilated corpses
tumbling from their saddles. By the time it reached the death knight,
it had lost altitude again and merely sheered all of the legs from
her deathcharger. As the beast hissed in fury, she leaped from the
saddle, landing and rolling as her mount died in ruin behind her, the
disc continuing in its path of destruction. Beckyann drew her
runeblade as she rose, already striding towards the enemies.
If we are challenged, we meet our
foe with deadly violence. Designed to destroy, we know our craft
better than any other creatures that have ever existed. No shield, no
sword, no spell or ward can stay our blades. No prayer or defense can
resist our magic. We are devastation to our enemies and horror to our
allies. We are oblivion to those who stand against us, and salvation
to those who wield us as we were meant to be wielded.
A steam tank
rumbled past Beckyann, its exhaust belching out clouds of smoke as it
mowed down several Horde outriders. All around the death knight
Alliance riders passed, clashing with the Horde forces that had
charged out and pushing them back towards the gates from which they
had issued. An orc riding a huge wolf attempted to behead Beckyann as
it rode past, and she merely ducked and hacked a limb from its mount,
allowing the beast and its rider to tumble under the treads of
another steam tank that was coming up behind her.
In front of her,
battle raged and she stalked into it, her runeblade already dripping
with gore and magic on her unencumbered hand. Howling blasts of dark
necromantic energy struck out, throwing orcs, trolls, tauren, blood
elves, forsaken, and goblins down into ruin, Beckyann continued to
push forward, striding on the corpses of the fallen as if they meant
nothing to her, her entire being absorbed in the blood lust that
pounded through her mind.
We are relentless. Our morale cannot
be broken because we do not fear death. We have long since passed
beyond the curtain and have stared into the face of what is to come.
We have come to terms with our mortality, and risen above it. We
cannot be halted, we cannot be slowed, for we know that our purpose,
our will is an unquenchable fire that will consume any who go counter
to our designs.
As the Alliance
forces pushed forward, the Horde faltered, retreating back towards
their fortress. At first this was a boon to Alliance morale, but then
deadly fire from cannons and siege engines began to fall amongst the
riders, cutting dozens down and leaving mangled bodies before the
earthen ramparts leading up to the gates.
Ahead of Beckyann,
a steam tank was struck in the side by a glaive, the disc shredding
its armor and puncturing the boiler. The vehicle exploded, flames and
dark black smoke spewing up into the air as burning men and women
tumbled from it, screaming out their last. Many amongst the Alliance
attackers fell back, but Beckyann strode on, her steps unwavering as
she watched a singed gnome from the wreck run towards the fortress, a
satchel in his hand. He was met with a withering hail of gunfire and
arrows from the walls, and he fell in a pool of his own blood.
Striding swiftly
through the curling smoke coming from the vehicle, Beckyann walked up
to the gnome, completely ignoring the bullets and arrows that
continued to strike the ground around him. She reached down,
snatching up his satchel. His dead eyes stared up at her, and she
merely turned and walked away from him, towards the fortress.
Though the living may fall around
us, and the way may seem impossible, we will carve a path. Our
strength, our power was intended to make war upon the mortal races of
this world, and war we shall bring. We are the living dead. We are
Knights bred of shadow and darkness, dedicated to death but free to
protect the living as we please. We are the 1113th, and
none shall thwart us or deny us our destiny, our glory, and our
honor.
Bullets raked the
ground around Beckyann, some even striking her armor. An arrow
punched through her breastplate, the force of it making her stumble
for a moment, but she ignored it. It had only punctured a lung after
all, not something she was actually using. She strode within twenty
feet of the wall, driving her runeblade into the soil before her even
as more Horde began to crowd the walls above her, taking aim.
As if they didn't
exist, Beckyann swung the satchel around, opening the flap and
looking inside. As she knew there would be, there were endless cords
of det-tape and explosives tucked neatly within its confines. With a
slight smile and nod of thanks to her brothers and sisters of the
Knights of Menethil for training her to use such things, she casually
reached in and flipped the timer on the explosives on, hearing it
begin to tick. Her arm came back and hurled the bag, sending it
tumbling end over end towards the wall. It struck the gates halfway
up their length, detonating almost instantly. A massive fireball
consumed the center of the barricade, and they fell into ruin as the
fires roared up. Shrapnel and bits of razor sharp wood flew around
Beckyann, several piercing her body and the ground around her, but
she ignored them, watching as the walls were breached.
She took up her
runeblade, raising it high above her head. Her warcry rose up above
the sound of crackling flames, echoing like a forlorn soul calling
the dead on their black march to the hereafter. Behind her in the
smoke other, living voices took up the cry as the Alliance rallied,
seeing the gates fallen. Far above on the battlements, the Horde
scrambled to get to the breach, hoping to seal it before it was too
late, but it had been too late from the moment Beckyann had first
hurled the explosives at it.
We are death. We are ruin. We ARE
war.
With a smile she
strode into the smoke and flame, eagerly awaiting the slaughter to
come, the sound of hundreds of charging men and women washing over
her as she herself charged.
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