Conquest of the Horde

I
A failing Light

Deep indigo turns into a squalid green shade and pinpricks of starlight fade from the sky as two draenei stalk deeper along the face of the cliff. Taint lies thick within the canyon, its trees withered into blackened husks with their branches clawing at the sky and cracks in the rock holding stagnant pools of fetid water, both with their mouths covered by cloth to shut out some of the palpable corruption.

One of them draped in flowing robes and holds a wooden staff topped with a crystal idol. The other wears scalemail fastened onto thick leather armour, wielding a short but wide sword with both hands. Their mission had brought them to the southern part of the elven forest Ashenvale, specifically a place of legendary victory against the Burning Legion for the azerothians. Now it’s a place where ruining evil seeps back into this world.

“It looks like the canyon splits in two up ahead,” the vindicator says.

“And perhaps a trail to higher ground aswell,” the anchorite comments.

A sharp edge dives past the tip of the armed draenei’s nose as he rounds the corner, the rest of an axe follows suit, digging inches into stone and sending alarming echoes bouncing all along the natural corridor. Dodging the surprise attack, the soldier rolls away from the cliff face while drawing his sword, only rising onto one knee before parrying the next swing. The other draenei’s eyes widen when he realizes the kind of their enemy.

“Mo’arg!” shouts the one in robes to his companion.

Before them stands a heavily armoured brute of rippling muscle, matching them with a head’s length. It grips an axe with jagged edge in one hand, each “tooth” looking like the curved tusk of an elekk and the whole weapon adorned in demonic symbols which seem to glimmer green when it’s thrust through the air. The demon slams its torso with the other hand, throwing its head back to roar at it’s adversaries.

With hooves wide and tensed thighs the vindicator seizes the moment and charges at the brute head on. The strike lands across its leg and dents the leg plates enough to make it fall to it’s knees. Uttering an incantation, right hand held infront of his crest in a holy gesture the anchorite evokes a wave of Light towards the demon, crashing into its side - crushing a few ribs.

Enraged by the draenei’s successful resistance the hulking mo’arg flails it’s spiked helmet in fury and with a two-handed grip of the axe sends a low swipe aimed at the vindicator. The experienced soldier drives his flat-tipped blade into the ground, bracing against the incoming blow. Suddenly the demon release one hand from his weapon, a big plated hand closing around the neck of the armoured draenei. Baring yellowed, crooked teeth demon raises the axe high above it’s head, preparing a final blow.

The ongoing battle reminds the anchorite his people’s strife which has spanned millennia and worlds. Images of the twisted corpses of his kindred flash at the back of his mind. A feeling of urgency washes over him and with a booming voice, he speaks a blessing upon his kinsman and a golden shimmer veils the vindicator’s form. But the demon takes no notice of the shield and the axe descend upon the draenei struggling against it’s grip.

The barrier flashes the instant the blow lands and in the next instant the holy protection is shattered. Scalemail disperses, leather shreds and bone cracks as the demon’s blow sinks into the vindicator’s head. Through a blur of pain and asphyxiation, in a final act of desperation the draenei grabs the demon’s pauldron and consecrates it.

Cracks bursting with Light arc across the demon and it howls in pain as it tumbles under the weight of it’s own armour. The anchorite darts for his friend as he falls limp to the ground, kneeling beside the soldier. When he presses his hand against the wound he realizes in horror that the scalp is barely clinging to the rest of the skull. A choked prayer makes the vindicator open his eyes, looking fearfully at the cleric.

“Hold on!” the anchorite manages to whisper between suppressed sobs.

“T-Te..Telah, take my sword... take..” are the last words the draenei manages before his eyes fade and blue blood wells up in his mouth.

Bovel