Panic

[AkuTazee]

Dong. Dong. Dong.

The fleeting sound of voices, rich and low, echoed from the tall spires of Lordaeron City. People sang joyously, for the occasion was not to be ignored. The central bell tower continued tolling as a shower of rose pedals thrown from the balconies above rained down upon the decorated marble statues and the luscious gardens near the main gate. With a clanging that mingled with the bells, the chains of the drawbridge dropped quickly, coming to the ground with a loud thump.

The blonde haired youth whose return had been anticipated for months stepped forward, his vanguard oddly decorated with outlandish red robes and long mahogany staves which they clutched tightly in their iron grip. The peasants and noblemen who had gathered on the walls roared contentedly. The sun was dipping low into the sky, and upon the city was cast a beautiful bronze glow. No one could imagine anything that could possibly shatter the perfect image in their minds. The prince grabbed a stray rose pedal in his hand, presumably admiring it, before casting it to the ground and walking forward towards the throne room. The door shut with a thud and elicted another cheer from the crowd.

In the corner of the lower level, slumped against a statue out of sight, stood a man, normal in height, with short, cropped black hair caressing his noble features and a tan spreading over his body with a golden light. He had become quite tired of being reffered to as a "Southlander", despite the fact that he was deserving of the title. He scrutinized his hands before pulling his hood over his face and adjusting the long drape across his back. It was time to leave.

Stepping out of the shadowy indent in the rough masonry, he descended a set of stairs and glanced upward, seeing that the mass of people had dispersed to go to their homes for the night, though a few lingered. When they saw his face, they vanished over the rampart. The man turned, entering a cylindrical room which housed a stairwell, and paused, leaning against the wall for support. The sound of several pairs of feet reverberated from above. A group of five men, likewise cloaked and hooded, moved swiftly down the stone rungs, moved toward the entrance. The first man joined them without comment.

"Exactly as he said," one of them muttered. "The prince has returned."

"I still do not trust him," another said, routinely checking his belt for his weapons. "But even so, I fear he is right. Did not Arthas seem... unusually grim?"

"He did not greet his people like he is oft known to," the first asserted.

"No matter what happens here, we should finish up this assignment as quickly as possible. I wish to return home." They all nodded agreement. Though they were all different, some exact opposites, they all bore the same standard issue uniform, and badge. The Stormwind Lion was branded upon the brass medallion which each of them wore.

"Carken..." The leader of the group, his voice made of gravel, addressed the man who had waited for them at the bottom of the stairs. "You have resided in the city longer than each of us. You lead the way."

"As you wish." They moved as a pack down the main road towards the throne room where King Terenas was known to hold court. Gripping the brass knob upon the double doors, Carken opened them. He readied his warrant for entry into the domain of the king... and dropped it altogether. It fell to the ground with a loud clang, the only sound in the room save for the gasps of his compatriots.

"By the Light..."

[Mortica]

((I like it :) ))

[AkuTazee]

((Thankies. =D It's a story to debut an alt.

Well, not debut, really, but, sorta... explain.))

The mouths of all five men hung open, their jaw muscles losing the struggle to clamp down. All eyes were affixed upon a pike, jutting at a perpendicular angle to the wall just above the hand-crafted throne of the old king. The pike itself was not so spectacular, but rather, the man dressed in the blue garb of the Royal Guard who had had his stomach impaled upon it, was. He hung about three feet in the air, his boots dangling in the cold breeze that followed the men into the room. The hilt of the pike, oddly enough, was the end facing inward, embedded into the deep stone wall with such force that the plaster began to crack. The buisness end of said pike was polished, and pristinely white, while the shaft was stained with splattered blood.

Turning away from the macabre scene, the agents scanned the rest of the room. It was no less grim. The rest of the vanguard lay in a semi circle around the room, their bodies ranging from untouched to gored by an unseen weapon, to pale and sickly, to even charred to a crisp. One of the men from Stormwind turned away and hurried back out into the street, from which omitted the sound of gagging and of something wet hitting the ground.

"By the Seven Hells of Draenor..." came the low voice of the one proclaimed leader. He glanced around again, attempting to gather a conclusion. All of them are dead, they have all been murdered, there seems to be signs of a struggle, the impaled man is moving...

Something didn't quite register. The leader blinked. The... impaled... man... is moving. He blinked again.

The hand of the guard grasped the shaft of the weapon on which his body hung. His fingers tighentened around the wooden pole, and all at once, he heaved himself off of it, collapsing to the ground in front of the throne, standing once again. Each of the cloaked men backed up, eyes widening in sudden horror.

The man known as Carken glanced frantically around the room. The impaled guard gazed at the gaping hole in his chest, as if irritated, and then he remembered the spear, grabbing it and reaving it out of the wall. To Carken's left, the charred man stood, his sooty hair still slightly aflame and sending off little showers of sparks, his blackened hand groping at his sheath, his sword entering his hand with familiarity anew. As the knot in his stomach grew, Carken turned full circle and saw all of the fallen Guardsmen come to their feet, all in various states of disrepair.

An old man, hunched over, the outline of his spine visible even through his ostentatious scarlet and purple robes, stepped up from an unseen alcove, a long staff clenched in his hand. His skin was sallow, his beard was long and unkempt, and his eyes were glowing yellow. On top of his head lay the skull of a beast, long and gaunt. A tiny little smile crossed his sunken lips, and in his resoundingly bass voice, he murmured something which carried across more dread than the previous scene altogether. This one terrible little word carried so much force that it destroyed entire minds, and it would do it's job well.

"Panic."