The Hall of the Sleepless

Dubaku the Sleepless sat upon his perch, deep within the black halls of Icecrown Citadel. All around him were more of the walking dead; his comrades, his allies. Geists patrolled the darkest reaches of the hall, their lonely gaze barely falling short of Dubaku's detailed habitation. Dubaku's station was devoid of luxuries, despite its eminence. This was something he had grown accustomed to, and came to prefer. His subordinates grew in number exponentially with the influx of Argent Crusaders and their allies.

Dubaku twitched, rattling the plates and chains of his armor. A nearby gest spun its unnatural gaze to him for a moment, before scurrying away. Dim light from the halls blue flames danced across his armor, barely reflected by the unholy metal. The two small blue specks that were his irises matched the flames; dancing about in his vigilance. Like a gargoyle, he sat, tirelessly, awaiting the next wave of attackers.

Hours passed, and the shouts and wails of the living grew closer. The blade at his feet was finally brought up, resting on his knee. He trailed his rough, pale thumb across the jagged metal as he slowly leaned forward, flaring his nostrils to take in the scent of his prey. Plated footsteps drew nearer, and the dark hallway grew still. The geists and other undead turned slowly toward the noise, preparing themselves for battle. Blood and ichor dripped to the floor, conjuring a faint rhythm in Dubaku's mind.

The attackers' torches came from the darkness; a band of ten survivors. Despite their position, they were not afraid. They marched forward, weapons at the ready and prepared to strike down any unliving monster that stood in their way. Beneath Dubaku, their former allies stood likewise, dead eyes unrecognizing of their old friends. The attackers' leader barked an order, and the strongest of them rushed forward, met by waves of undead. His valor and purity attracted the unholy creatures, and he valiantly defended himself with a massive shield bearing the crest of a human kingdom. Meanwhile, the quickest of his allies set their sharpest blades upon the undead horde. The simplicity of the creatures kept them focused upon the plated defender while they were stricken down by the others.

A geist jumped to the ceiling amongst the turmoil, without the knowledge of the attacking party. It returned moments later, its sharp claws digging between the defender's plates. He roared in pain and threw the creature off, shattering its bones as it slammed against the wall. A robed and hooded member of his party stood behind, eyes closed as a spell was conjured. The robed figure spread its hands toward the defender, closing his wounds and giving him the strength to continue.

Dubaku sat silently as the battle raged. The undead fought relentlessly, but were beginning to be driven back. A single member of the attackers' group drew the attention of several risen knights. Before the healer had time to realize, the combatant had been slain. Dubaku moved slightly. His hand raised, palm to the air, as green light came from behind the dead comatant's eyes. They rose, wounds still bleeding, to fight those who had been their allies only moments ago. Dubaku's hand fell again as he watched the attackers' horror at seeing one of their own fighting amongst these mindless dead.

The battle continued for upwards of a half-hour; more than enough for fatigue to set in. The undead numbers were dwindling to only the strongest of the creatures. They fought directly beneath Dubaku, sending terrible reminders of mortality to within his grasp. The band of attackers had fallen to six members, and their morale was low. As the final undead combatant fell, the healer began to take account of the damages done. Dubaku rose to his feet, blade in hand as the chains on his armor rattled.

The defender looked up. Dubaku's feet landed upon the defender's shoulders, and his blade thrust into his helmet. Twisting the knife and leaping back, the defender fell, his life trickling from the helmet. The remaining five stared in shock at the sudden attack, before steeling themselves, in spite of their injuries, to continue battle. The defender began to shake, and with an echoing groan, lifted himself from the ground. Hope flickered in the eyes of the survivors, but was soon cast out as they saw the glow from within their protector's helmet. The risen defender stood hunched beside Dubaku, wheezing as his lungs ceased to function.

A bowstring was drawn; an axe readied; a dagger tipped with poison; a pair of swords raised; a prayer muttered. The survivors began forward, and after a silent moment, Dubaku pounced.