*Mount Hyjal, Early in the Twilight Campaign, Pre-1113th Recruitment*
"It's a dead end! We can't get out that way! There's nowhere to go!" the man in the lead called out, despair in his voice.
The rest of the group skidded to a halt as they rounded a narrow bend in the narrow, rocky gorge, all four pairs of eyes affixed on the same slate gray rocks that blocked their path. The leader of the four had placed a hand on the rocks, as if he could somehow push them aside or will them out of existence with his mere touch.
The four figures were similar, and yet vastly different. Each of them wore shining silver armor that had been issued to them by the Stormwind army prior to embarking on the campaign. Each wore an Alliance tabard over the armor, the blue and gold colors standing out against the steel they wore and the gray rocks pressing in around them on all sides. The armor and colors they bore are where their similarities ended though, and each of those who had happened to be recruited into the makeshift company and found themselves now standing in the same gorge had a uniqueness about them.
The first of them, the man with his hand still pressed against the rock, had a golden sword strapped to his back rather than the standard issue ones given to all of the men. At his belt hung a libram, and both sword and libram glowed with holy Light that easily marked him as a paladin. He turned, his pale blue eyes gazing at the other three with him as he shook his head sadly.
The next man in line, the one who looked on grimly, had armor that was of a higher quality than the others. Clearly a noble or of some wealth, he'd had a suit of armor custom made to look like all of the others but made of finer materials. His tabard had a Captain's rank pin attached to it; a rank he likely had bought his way into. Even so, he had a chivalrous air about him befitting of any true Knight, and he offered only a silent nod to the paladin rather than any protest at the cruelty of their fate.
The third of the men was quite the opposite of the last, his armor standard issue and his bearing less than the standards of braver men. He mewled as the dooming words echoed back to them, shifting in place nervously and peering over his shoulder. He looked as if he would flee at any moment but realized that there was nowhere left to flee. It was almost comical to see the realization come over his face and to know that his fight or flight reaction had switched from 'flight' to 'fight' given that he was trapped. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fist, remaining silent.
The final member of the four was, of course, Beckyann herself. Wearing Stormwind's colors and having a runeblade on her back rather than a standard issue weapon, she looked no different from the others with the exception of the blue glow of her eyes that shone beneath her helm. Those baleful orbs fixed on the others, as if weighing and measuring them in the face of their approaching doom. A representative of death itself, her presence was unwelcome and yet vital given what was about to occur, for the end of their world was impending, like it or not.
The shouts of their pursuers grew louder, echoing from the rocks as the four fighters stood looking at one another. They had been a part of a military company sent to aid the guardians of Hyjal against the Twilight incursions there. Ambushed from the wooded slopes of the mountainous region, their company had been cut to shreds by fanatical cultists. What was worse, many of their fellows had been dragged off while wounded or outright captured and likely faced a horrible fate of cult indoctrination or madness as spells were used to break their minds and wills. It was a fate none of the four wanted to face, and the reason for their withdrawal into the rocky opening of the gorge initially.
It seemed now though that there was no way out, no hope. With hundreds of cultists howling for their blood and the rest of the men slaughtered or taken, the battle was as good as over. There were only the four now, four very different knights, each of them coming to terms with the fact that they had failed. Amongst them, Beckyann stirred, her voice echoing coldly from her helm and off of the nearby rocks, "We will stand and fight then. I'll not surrender to scum like that, not while I still have the power to resist. If this is how I am to be destroyed than so be it, but they will taste my steel before the end."
The words galvanized the others, and each grew more grim as they nodded in agreement. To Beckyann's surprise, the paladin stepped forward, drawing his blade and pointing it into the middle of the small circle they'd made while standing at the gorge's dead end, "So be it. I pledge my blade to this final fight then. Though they try to end the world, they will find only the defiance of men and women who will not allow them to take everything from us so easily. I say let them come. Let them see our mettle and know that we will walk free until the bitter end!"
The second man, the Captain, nodded and drew his own steel, placing his blade against the paladin's, his voice confident, "I too pledge my blade to this! We will stand side by side and hold the gorge. Though there are only four of us, only four of them can come at us at a time in here. Let them come then I say. Let them know fear before they die!"
His blade was joined by the third man's, the one who had seemed so afraid a moment before. His voice was tinged with the rage of someone who believed they had been unfairly cheated of a chance, and there was no mistaking that he would fight to the end now that he could no longer flee, "I pledge my blade as well! They will not take us while I still have breath in my body!"
The last blade was tainted and dark, vile runes flickering to life across its surface as Beckyann laid her runeblade atop those of the others. She looked each of them in the eyes, her voice solemn as she swore her vow, "I pledge my blade beside yours. Perhaps none will ever come to know of this moment except us four, but we will stand against the tides of darkness as I once did in life. They are not warriors, not champions or heroes; they are just cultist scum, and they will bleed out their last before us. Let us slay enough to make a tale of it then. I will feel I have accomplished something."
Each of them nodded at the other three, each taking up their blade and turning to face the gorge's opening. The distant shouts had grown louder now as the raging cultists made their way through the tumbled stone of the gorge. It would only be another minute before they rounded the last bend and found the four champions waiting for them. The four moved forward, taking up positions at the most narrow part of the rocks to force the oncoming cultists into a bottleneck. In grim silence they waited, blades held high in firm grips.
A moment later the roaring tide of human filth rounded the bend bearing rusty weapons and mismatched armor. Four voices rose up amongst the roaring, four battlecries ringing out against the stones as champions met evil in a last stand.
************************************
They fought throughout the night, the cultists never tiring of throwing more men into the gorge. The plan was simple of course; they would simply wear the defenders down until all had dropped from exhaustion or perished. The cost was irrelevant; none could defy the will of the Twilight's Hammer and live. It was the principle, the message of despair that the cult tried to instill in its followers; they had to truly believe there was no hope.
And yet the plan was flawed, because of her. Though blades bit the champions and arrows stung them, one amongst the four never tired, never grew weary of the slaughter. Though each of the four were wounded and one by one began to fall, no wound would make her bleed out.
Beckyann was designed, was created for war. She would not falter. She would not stop killing until the battle was ended. She did not need to sleep. When an arrow pierced her lung, she did not need to continue breathing to swing her runeblade. As the dead piled up before them like wood, her magics lashed out, drawing them back to their feet to fight by her side, the cultists supplying her with a never-ending army to support her efforts.
When the Captain fell, Beckyann shifted her position, standing over his body so that it could not be taken. She never once touched it with her necromancy, ensuring that he lay as he fell in battle. When the paladin's arm was severed and he crumpled into a bleeding heap, she death-gripped him behind her, letting him bleed out his last while he stabbed at the legs of the enemies who came at her. When the cultists disarmed and grabbed the last of the men, Beckyann's magic slashed into his body, slaying him instantly so that they could not take him and detonating his corpse. His exploding body slew his captors, and she knew that he'd have wanted it that way.
As the night grew darker, the cultists knew only the terror of death. They came to learn why the Scourge had spent so much effort in creating Death Knights, and just how versatile and sturdy they could be. As the last of the daylight faded, hope faded with it, and there was only death in the darkness.
When the red of the rising sun first kissed the gore soaked ground, the battle ground to a halt, the last of the cultists fleeing the slaughter-house that the gorge had become. Of the four, only one stood now, her body covered in the gore of her foes and three arrows protruding from her chest, leg, and shoulder pauldron. Behind her lay the remains of two of her fellow champions, the third lost in the combat. As she stood silently in the aftermath of the battle, blood dripping from the tip of her sword, Beckyann swore that she would remember each of them for their valor.
There were some things that even undeath could not wipe away, and appreciation of honor and courage were two qualities that Beckyann still cherished in her very spirit. Before she left that blood soaked gorge and left the bodies of the cultists to be picked apart by vultures, she spent an hour carving the names of her companions into the rocky walls that they had died defending. The two whose bodies remained she buried under rubble, leaving the weapons of their foes strewn about the piles of stones and their swords upright as markers.
When she walked away, Beckyann knew that no one but her would remember that moment, but it was enough to know that brave men had faced the end of the world itself with courage. It was a memory that would sometimes rein in the more base nature of the creature she'd become, something to carry with her forever.
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