Epilogue for the Crusade

[Seraphim]

Tirisfal Glades, Lordaeron

"Stormwind, Stormwind, painted blue and gold,
Stormwind, Stormwind, knights and mages bold,
Stormwind, Stormwind, axes at your door,
Stormwind, Stormwind, blue and gold no more..."

Arineme laughed a lghthearted, childish giggle, her eyes turning upward to the light filtering through the forest canopy. She sat upon a rock that loomed over a slow-trickling stream, with a boy her age sitting at its base.

"What are you painting now?" she asked. Her eyes, blue as the sky, peered down at the canvas in his lap.

"Hm?" Scibryn looked up, and chuckled at the sight of the red-headed girl hovering over him. "Just more trees." He gestured with his brush to the lines of brown, and patchy bits of green. He wasn't a master, by any means, but one could see a certain amount of talent in those simple brush strokes.

"They're beautiful," Arineme sighed. Scibryn only shrugged.

The girl found her gaze coming to rest on his face, as it seemed to do so often. A smile pooled over her young features, and she brought up both of her small hands to try to hide it. Another giggle ensued.

"What's so funny?" Scibryn asked, looking up once more from his painting. His expression was one of peaceful bemusement.

"Nothing," she said quickly, attempting to cut off further questioning. She cleared her throat, only half-succeeding at removing the smile of adoration from her face. Her hands went to her lap, smoothing out the white cotton folds nestled there. He shook his head, returning to his work.

"... Scibryn?" A hint of mischief had found its way into her. The boy's head dropped, his short, blond hair almost dragging across the canvas. They both laughed.

"What is it, Arineme? And please don't just say 'Hi'."

She couldn't help but consider it. In the end, it seems the better part of her won out.

"When we grow up, do you think that things will stay how they are now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she began, her fingers intertwining, akin to the knots forming in her stomach, "I mean. Even if you decide to become a paladin, and have to go protect Hearthglen, or Stratholme, or Hillsbrad..."

Scibryn raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I just- I want you to promise that you won't forget about me, okay?" She blinked a few times, and turned her head to the side. "Promise that you'll come back."

The boy smiled, and carefully placed his canvas on the forest floor. He stood, taking one of Arineme's hands in his, and she quickly turned back to him. Her eyes were pink and her cheek damp, though she pretended a very nice smile for him.

"I promise."

Arineme nodded, sliding off of the boulder and wrapping Scibryn in a tight hug. She put a kiss on his cheek, and whispered something in his ear.

The two lingered at the stream, talking and singing and doing nothing of any great importance until stars began to poke through the evening sky.

Scarlet Monastery, Tirisfal Glades

Darion Mograine remembered this place. Remembered the smell of apple blossoms and death, juxtaposed harshly against one another in the blue-green mist of what had once been the heartland of Lordaeron.

The last time he had visited, it was for the purpose of hunting his brother. The patricidal Renault had been destroyed by the spirit of their father, held deep within the core of the Ashbringer.

Suffice it to say, he had hardly expected this second trip to be of a similar nature to the original. Yet, after creating a sufficiently thick pile of corpses around the entryway to the once-holy building, he approached. Long hair held back by a strip of red cloth, and that distinctive mace.

"Stand down, monster of the Scourge," he growled. Even his voice was the same. "Or I assure you, I will wreak the most painful sort of harm upon you bestowed to me by the Light."

Darion glared, simply taking in the irony of this moment. He had always thought to himself that if he ever had the chance to kill his brother again...

"Do you not speak, demon?!"

... He would make it slower.

"I do not question whether you are a construct, or a risen corpse, or simply a skilled illusionist," the Highlord rumbled under his helm, "Because your suffering is assured, regardless."

"What-" The Scarlet Commander barely managed to parry one of his brother's swords before a second was driven deep within his torso. Darion spun, exhaling cold, stale mist, and lopped the head off of Renault's body.

After a moment of awkward twitching, the head and body reverted to what must have been their natural form: A half-rotted corpse, bearing only superficial resemblance to the long-dead Commander.

Darion grunted. That wasn't exactly slower, but then, the imitation of his brother probably wouldn't have felt anything, even if it had been. His glowing, frozen eyes peered up the staircase, into the only remaining bastion of the Scarlet Crusade.

And if the Scarlet Commander was a disguised corpse, he could only imagine what he would find next.

Heavy, unforgiving greaves bashed against the stone steps of the Scarlet Monastery, followed shortly by the trickling blood of its defenders.

Undercity, The Royal Quarter

The Banshee Queen was not happy. Weeks of hunting, thousands of gold in warships and munitions, and the greatest chance at rallying sympathy for her people had all vanished, with no results. A handful of human heads was hardly sufficient to sate her bitter wrath.

"My queen!" A familar voice echoed down the dank halls, burning Sylvanas' scowl deeper into her features. The elite Deathguards at either side of the entrance roughly grabbed hold of the Forsaken man's shoulders.

This time, she did not bid him released. "Giles, I lack the patience for your tidings..."

"But-but-but m'lady!" He stuttered, and lifted a wooden chest high over his head, "I have an offering, from the Argent Crusade!"

The dark ranger paused, turning her crimson glare to the box. It was finely decorated, with the symbol of Lordaeron burned into the wood in several places. Sylvanas awaited an explanation before reacting.

"It is the Talisman of the Scarlet Crusade! A relic of immense holy power, referred to by the humans as the hope of the Crusade!"

"Really." A predatorial smile appeared on her bruise-colored lips. "Bring it here."

The former human was dropped to his feet, and scurried before his foreboding mistress. He laid the box before her and shuffled back, his dessicated skull bowed low in reverence. The Banshee Queen looked over her newfound prize, and seemed to approve, judging by her cruel expression.

"The hope of the Scarlet Crusade. How fitting that I might hold it in my hands, that it may be crushed." She stroked a long, spiderlike finger across the surface of the chest, to its lock. "Soon, they will find despair assaulting from all sides, and finally crumble beneath the might of the Forsaken!"

She smiled, and worked at the coffer's locking mechanism. It was jammed, as though someone had taken a sword to the thing. Still the hideous, vengeful grin persisted, until the top of the box flew open in her hands.

For a moment, the chamber was silent.

"What is this, Giles."

The courier blinked, unsure what the problem was, but already convinced that he did not want to find out. He squirmed backwards, away from his angry ruler. "M-M'lady?"

The box was thrown, soaring across the inky darkness and striking a wall. It clattered to the floor, empty.

Maddened, ruby slits seethed in the shadows of the room.

Scarlet Monastery, Tirisfal Glades

Darion murdered his way through the depths of the monastery, and was drenched in the blood of the Crusade by the time he reached the cathedral. He forced open a door, to find Grand Inquisitor Isillien staring out a stained glass window. Beams of crimson light flowed over his face, which was fixed in a serene expression.

"Good afternoon, Highlord."

The death knight glared. "More dead men speaking. This place almost feels like home."

The grand Inquisitor smiled.

"You are the last person I expected to see, in all honesty." He turned to face the leader of the Ebon Blade, seemingly unconcerned. "I sense that you have killed Renault again."

"That was not my brother."

"Well. In all fairness, it was the closest thing I could find," Isillien replied with a shrug.

Darion hardly reacted to that, though his frigid stare narrowed slightly. "And you are not Isillien, who was killed by Tirion Fordring."

The Grand Inquisitor nodded. "That is true, son of the Ashbringer." As he spoke, his voice changed, becoming something deeper, with the sinister echo of fel booming behind it. "Regardless, to these fools, I am their unquestionable leader. And with the true Isillien dead, your brother dead, and that insufferable Lightwielder and his followers dead, I will hold full dominion over the armies of the Scarlet Crusade!"

Mograine gave a grim nod, readying his twin runeblades. Yet, before the fight could even begin, a column of Light shot up around Isillien's form, and he was entangled in golden chains.

"What! What is this, Mograine?!" the Nathrezim-possessed corpse shrieked, before a holy dagger was forced between its ribs, through its back. The Highlord took that opportunity to strike, and let his hungering blades feast upon demonic blood. The creature exploded into a swirling cloud of bats, some of which were singed by the storm of divine power. As the Light faded, a woman came into the death knight's view. Her eyes were wide, red-streaked lips opened from panting.

Darion looked from the singed pile of ash on the floor to her, taking in her long, silver hair, and the markings upon her face. "Sally."

Whitemane slowly collected herself, and shook her head. She sunk down to her knees.

"Go," she whispered. "Just go."

The Highlord watched her, bathed in the bloodshot light of the setting sun, and nodded.

He turned, striding out of the chamber. To have killed Sally Whitemane then could have resulted in the immediate collapse of the Scarlet Crusade in Tirisfal.

The pain of a slow, struggling death would be far more appropriate, he decided.

Stormwind City, Cathedral District

Weeks had passed since the events at Onslaught Harbor, and yet Arineme's worried expression hadn't faded. Scibryn, and many of the others, had been saved. They were now scattered among the people of Stormwind, or Dalaran, or Light's Hope. They were living, and fighting, and adapting back into a world that wasn't burning away from all sides.

Except for Scibryn.

She stroked his hair, whispering sweet words into his ear, as she had done every day since the rescue. And still he slept or stared ahead, silent and unmoving. The glowing wisps of holy power no longer flowed around him.

Most nights, she would lie in bed with him, and pray quietly for his health.

Most nights, she would cry herself to sleep.

Tonight, she had come home with the supplies for a stew, offering Scibryn's motionless form the same steadily-weakening smile. She carried the fresh vegetables and chicken toward the fireplace, and set them on a plate to be cut apart.

"Arineme?"

The food, wooden dinnerware and all, crashed to the floor. She spun, and stared at Scibryn. He was awake, his fragile-looking blue eyes making contact with her own. The woman ran to his side.

"Scibryn! Oh, Light, Scibryn, are you alright? I've been trying to make sure you were comfortable, and I'm sorry that I'm a terrible cook and I burn everything but I've really been trying and-"

He smiled, albeit slightly, and the very expression caused her to pause. New tears started to form in her weary eyes.

"I'm sorry, Arineme," His voice was soft, almost cracking from lack of use.

Her head shook, and plate-covered arms were thrown behind his neck. Arineme hugged him tightly, and for the first time in years, he held the fiery-headed woman in return. There they stayed for a long time, until both were smiling, and laughing, and talking of memories neither had dared to think of since the fall of Lordaeron.

The crusade was finally over.

[McKnighter]

Yaaay, happy endings and stuff! Woo!

[FlyingSquirrel]

Except for the one with that Giles guy.

[ToxicFrozt]

Dalaran, The Sky City

Gray sat in his room provided by the Kirin Tor, a stack of books and a few half eaten apples were scattered on the bedside table. It had been around half a week since he had left his fellow Crusaders, "Isn't it funny?" He inquired out loud to an audience of none.

The Scarlet robes still hung in the wardrobe, untouched since he had obtained his new attire. They seemed to be placed almost in a ceramonial fasion, but Gray would never admit to something so obsurd.

His old, weathered face had lost it's usual smug expression and was replaced with one much like a lost puppy, "Yes, it's quite funny." His brow furrowed as the words left his lips.

No one.

It wasn't the lack of company, or the the altitude that made Gray feel so lost and alone. A few books were knocked off the bed as he slumped down, making a loud clapping sound as they hit the cold stone floor. He paid them no heed.

It kept playing in his head, the whole affair. Gray lifted a hand to his eye, or at least what use to be. The flashback was brief but vivid; The hound from hell ingulfed in a twisting inferno, then an Abomination exploding into a hail of acidic flesh.

Gray's hand quickly shot back, "Worst day of my life." He grumbled, as he tried to remove the images from his head.

That's when it hit him, all those bottled up emotions. It was clear now, Rom.. Poor Romaren; the jump, and how hard it had hit all the Crusaders. It was Rom's time, Gray couldn't help but to think if he should have taken the same way out. A single tear streamed down his face.

The last thing Romaren had said to him, "Take care, you crazy bastard." Gray's expression changed, the corner of his mouth tilted up ever so slightly, although the tears still welled up in his eye.

"I will, brother. Luck be with you." Gray placed his head down on the pillow, his last thoughts before his dream filled night were of his brothers and sisters. He had grown quite close to them over the few months of their Crusade.

His head may have been in a different place than theirs, but his heart will always be with them.

[McKnighter]

Icecrown, Argent Tournament Grounds

Calia peered over the edge of the platform she sat on, her robed legs dangling in the air. She had long been in this one spot, simply mulling over all the recent events. She couldn't express her emotions while in the company of strangers, but away from both of the Crusaders, she had let everything out. Her eyes were scarlet and puffy, faint streaks of tears had pressed aganist her face. Her arms, wrapped around her to provide some warm and comfort. Calia watched a spar between a Tauren and a Gnome, but found no humor in it. Her minds was in someplace else.


The Talisman was nothing but a fake. They had all fought and died for a simple empty box.


Calia frowns slightly, closing her eyes tight. Many died during the final battle, her sister as well. She couldn't even find her body afterward.

"... Bella..."


The young woman had no more tears to shed, her mind racing off to another thought, the lesser of the three that plagued her.

Scibryn already had someone that loved him.


Calia shakes her head slowly, her frown fading away to a weak smile. He would be happy with Arineme, there wouldn't be any reason to try and bother the man. Calia opens her eyes as she leans back to gaze upon the night sky, tilting her head. He saved her life countless times, from the first day she saw him, to the retreat to Ty's Hand. It would've been nice, but it seems it wasn't meant to be.


The world isn't how it was preached to you, they could be lying.


The priest pulls her knees up from the ledge and to her chest, slipping both arms around to hold them in place. She bowed her head so that her forehead connected with her kneecaps, exhaling slowly. It didn't matter anymore, she has nothing left. She never truly made any lasting friendships with the Scarlet Crusaders, she didn't even want to join them in the first place. It was her sister that joined, and Calia wasn't about to leave her side.

Now, everyone is gone.


She wiped her face with a scarlet robe, sniffing loudly as emotions begun to run through her chest. She remains out in the cold weather for a long period of time, before she finally picks herself up, brushing the snow from her robe. Her small hands wrapped themselves around the scarlet staff, using it as a walking stick as she begun to walk towards the massive tent.

The Light was suppose to protect any who-


Calia silenced the thought as a certain woman who she met earlier waved at her. Calia only caught it out of the corner of her eye, and reacted to return the gesture, hinting a faint smile.

It's my life now.