Pox

The tiny ghoul hands were grasping at him. He was surrounded, weaponless, trying to fight them off with tooth and nail.

But they still came in waves, pressing all around him with their blank eyes and drooling mouths.

An earthquake shook rubble from the ceiling and a boulder the size of a tauren smashed down upon his head.

Saviero woke up with a gasp.  He was sweating, his new short hair flattened on the side he had been laying, glued to his forehead by sweat. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over at the still woman beside him. Her breath came in regular rhythms, assuring him she finally slept even after her worrisome ordeal. And yet...

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.

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Mature for lots of bad language and drunken ranting.  You've been warned. =P

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On a long march, you hit a point beyond exhaustion where there is nothing in the world but the next step.  Then the one after that.  And the one after that.  A soldier can march for miles simply because the thought of stopping never occurs.

He blinks in the golden light of the falling sun, amazingly bright after the darkness of the little cage in the cellar; bright enough that the figures that wait on him are just silhouettes; indecipherable as individuals as he squints to see.

They gave him just enough slack in his bonds to carry himself with small steps. Tamlin walks as proudly and tall as he can, the red haired demon leading him and the other Kaldorei slaves to a wide expanse of tended and lush growing garden overlooking a high bluff where beyond the sea lies in tranquil lazy motion below.

They only sent one, those gods pounding idiots…one small Sin’dorei; one lithe female in plate mail with a shield and a fiery short sword. The Templar smiles a snarling fierce smile, dawn is breaking but he is dim in his corner and ready to move, watching her as she speaks in Common…some nonsense about the Light and the Witch’s desire to free him.

He is thirsty and his eyes keep betraying him, flicking to the full basin across the room on the low table and the soft play of moonlight on the surface of the still water within.

Something is ill with the moon…its eye is wide but obscured by an advancing shadow, as if some darkened semi transparent lid falls slowly over its brightness…leaving it dark, reddish and shadowed. Stubborn light lingers at the edges, struggling to shine brightly, covering the ground with strange shadows…

It was the second time he had come against her will, her pride, and her temper and had found the Warden to be every bit as stubborn and implacable as he could be, but never without reason and never in anger, not toward him anyway.