Black Omen

*At the floor of the frigid Citadel, the two Ebonites stood together in silence.*

"Behold the binding of sacred and corrupt! The forging of Shadow's Edge, a weapon of untold potential! Bind it to your will and you shall wield unspeakable power! Fail, and your soul shall forever be its slave...."

*She stared at the weapon, exquisite in design. "Perfect for soul-extraction, perfect for my dominion over mine enemies!" She thought.*

"Listen well, Dutchess. IN accepting this weapon, your fate is sealed. Overcome or succumb. I have placed your feet upon this path. You are therefore my responsibility. Should you falter, I am duty-bound to deliver you from this life. Remember my words, Sin'dorei. and do NOT fail."

*Irihapeti stared at the Highlord of her Order with a gaze that could shatter a thousand suns.

The first to burn was Silverwing, a small outpost buried in the forrest that served as a staging area for the Alliance forces in Warsong Gultch. Every Black Omen warrior had spilled their blood on that battlefield as a right of passage. Now, the under trained and inexperienced Sentinals that stood watch fell before the onslaught.

They were dead before he had dismounted. Pity.

Ashhoof stepped off the wyvrn at the well traveled flight point and glanced around at the gathering crowd.

Several days had past since the burning of Silvermoon City, the attack on the peaceful Thunder Bluff and the invasion of the Undercity and he smiled.  Time enough for complacency to settle in.

The time was right. The time was now.

No one commented on him as he walked through the village. What was one more dust covered, gore spattered soldier among the dead and wounded. They were too occupied with more pressing concerns to notice the dust was too red and the blood a different color from what filled the streets.

The air was cold. It bit at the soft skin inside his nostrils and he pulled the furs close and scooted nearer to the fire. Across from him, the Family joked and drank, warming themselves with riotous tales of battle, camaraderie and bitter ale.

It was snowing again in Winterspring and he growled with the acceptance that he would see much more of this hellish ice in a far, far colder place soon.

He pulled out the bound book and checked the small ink-well thawing in the ashes at the edge of the fire. Satisfied that the ink would spread on paper smoothly, he started to write:

"I am the coming of the end."

For a moment, we all just stood staring at each other. Archimonde, leader of the Legion, had made it to the World Tree.

We charged up the mountain road with the sounds of gibbering ghouls and the bellow of warhorns echoing off the cliff walls. Smoke rose up from an abandoned village down in the valley. Gargolyes with leathery wings flew between the buildings looking for any hapless stragglers.

The hardened eyes of the Omen scanned the road for ambushes as we took the final turn and Thrall's camp came into view. His orc grunts and troll spearmen guarded the enterance. They moved aside as we poured inside and took up defensive positions.

"They're right behind us," I said looking from one set of eager eyes to the next. "Get ready."

So, you think I was too young to have fought then yet you want to hear the rest of the story? You want to hear it even though you don't believe me.

Fine then.

The sun rose the next morning and we were all up at dawn. As if any of us could sleep. Dew hung on the grass and beaded on our armor. A chill breeze blew down from the North. Everything was eerily still.