Sneak Peek: The Silver-Hand Tales

[EnheilRas]

The Following is an excerpt from my epic tale:

The Chroncles of Manus: The Silver-Hand Tales.

It denotes the entirety of adventures my character had on the Silver-Hand server. The following is a very small part that introduces a very important character: Therion

[EnheilRas]

Seven Years Ago...

"Come on Therion," Cyrus said. "The meeting is going to happen soon!"

Therion stood up and smiled, pushing his long black hair behind his shoulders. "We're fine," the human told the High Elf. "You worry too much."

THe Blonde, pale wait of a humanoid crooked his head, "Look, perhaps you and Edwin have some kind of understanding between you two, but I can't afford to fail him. Being exiled from Silvermoon is one thing, but Stormwind is another."

Therion laughed. "We are already criminals in Stormwind Cyrus, or haven't you heard? The city belongs to the Nobles, and we are but common people. They have told us Masons simply that we exist to serve them and give them our money. It won't happen anymore Cyrus. Not if Edwin's plan works out. But first," Therion informed, "we must get some Monetary aid. Stratholme is a big city, friend. There's a lot of money to be made here."

The two walked the cobbleston streets as Dusk began to approach and a light fog rolled into the city. The merchants started to close shop and head home, and the sounds of horses and wagons grew distant. Therion and Cyrus entered a pool hall, placing red bandanas over their faces before entering. The Blacktalon Hall was a finely decorated lodge, filled with all sorts of ostenatious amenities afforded by the Nobles of Stratholme. It was known that many of the more fancy-free ones would take young courtesans inside for discrete hedonistic acts. An orgy of the gaudy occured regularly, with no end to the drinking, feasting, and pleasurable immorality while the common folk and laborers starved to feed their families.

The two figures, dressed in Blackened Leather were approached by the Doorman. "Excuse me Sirs. This is a private club. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave."

Therion tilted his head, showing confusion. "A private club? What's so private? Surely nothing to subtlely illegal as to warrant guard activity, no? What must occur for such a place to deserve such a title; such a priviledge?"

"Not at all," The doorman answered. "We just have an exclusive memberlist."

Therion grinned under his bandana. "Ah, I see. An exclusive membership." He turned his head to Cyrus, "Which means we're not good enough I suppose. It means nobility only, right Sir?"

"Yes gentlemen. We cater to nobility." The Doorman said, brushing two fingers up in the air to summon two large bouncers. "So, I'm afraid you must leave."

"What makes them noble and not I?" Therion questioned. "Why is their name so much more prestigious? What gives them the honor? What have they done to earn it? They certainly don't work for it. We, the common people, work for it. We are the reason the nobility can afford to be noble. We give them their prestige. We built their house, grow their food, and fight their wars. But you know what? We're taking back what's ours."

"That's certainly enough!" the doorman exclaimed. "Rufio, Duncan," he said gesturing to the two strongmen. "Escort these gentlemen outside."

The taller of the two, with blonde hair, placed his hands on Therion's shoulders. "Come on now," the oaf said.

"I don't think so Tim," Therion replied, spinning an unsheathed blade in his right hand and jabbing it directly into the man's left kidney. The Bouncer flinched, cowering, and Therion ribbed a second dagger from his cloak and brought it high with his left hand, and jammed it downward into the back of the bouncer's neck, severing his brain cord.

As the ma collapsed, Cyrus quickly raised a miniature loaded Crossbow, and before the doorman could call for help, fired the bolt close-range, the arrow striking the man directly through the voice box and lodging inside his neck, the tip extending out the back. The doorman clasped his neck as his blood poured out both ends, and fell to his knees coughing up his life.

The second goon tore out a large sword, and thrashed it against Therion, whom bent over backwards to avoid the horizontal slice. The rogue stood up straight and laughed, unsheathing a Night Watch shortsword, a favorite weapon of his. "You going to show me your skill, big man? Fine. Let's see it." The strongarm growled and lunged forward, striking directly at Therion's stomach. The rogue turned sideways and slammed his shortsword on the blade, disarming the oaf as he thrust his left shoulder into the man's nose, crushing his nasal cavity.

The bouncer stumbled back in pain, holding his broken nose as Therion kicked up the Brute's sword and tossed it to him. "Try once more," he taunted. The dark haired muscleman gripped the blade and roared, raising it to slam into Therion's skull. Therion gripped his shortsword with both hands like a polearm, and blocked it with the widened edge of his blade. "Bad move,"he said, raising his right leg to strike at the man's kneecap, dislodging his leg. Therion spune to the right as the Bouncer fell and swung the shortsword across his neck, decapitation him.

Therion ripped his daggers from the first corpse and turned to Cyrus, sheathing his shortsword. "Let's clean house, my friend. This hall is now property of the Defias Brotherhood, and all nobility shall face death for trespassing." The Elf nodded, and the two headed upstairs.

[EnheilRas]

One Week Later...

"Lord Therion," Cyrus said, delivering a note. "A letter from the Master has arrived."

"Go ahead and read it Brother Cyrus," Therion said, placing down his pen from his desk. The Mess Hall had been turned into a bustling headquarters and recruitment office for the fledgling Defias Brotherhood in Stratholme. Its distance from Stormwind made it into a hidden temple, and a majority of refugees from the destroyed Kingdom of Alterac had become quite piqued about the idea of taking the Kingdoms back from nobility. The Royal Guard remained blissfully unaware, too busy about this ridiculous plague rumor circling around and hunting for members of some misbegotten cult. It worked out way too well for the cunning Therion, whom had dressed his victims in black robes and made them out to have taken their own lives as sacrificial victims to this supposed cult. It was much too easy now; He was getting away with cold-blooded murder right infront of the sentries' eyes, and their own paranoia would never allow them to see the truth.

"Hail brother Therion," Cyrus read. "News of your success in Stratholme has reached Westfall. Know that your progress is a shining beacon for the brotherhood to follow in our quest to reclaim our Kingdom. I have sent my collector to Goldshire in an effort to rally more support from the farmers there. Digging in Moonbrook goes well. We discovered a secret weapon, if retrofitted, could head the way for the brotherhood's ultimate victory. Keep me informed on your own progress. Edwin VanCleef."

"Excellent," Therion congratulated himself. "Is there any other news to report?"

"Yes, Lord Therion. Scouts have reported that none other than Prince Menethil has arrived here in Stratholme after a victory against the orc Legions in Redridge. He would make an excellent target for assassination. Lordaeron itself would crumble," Cyrus informed.

"No brother. Such a thing would be foolhardy. His protector, Uther, is always near him, as is the daughter of Kul Tiras. Those three, combined with the royal guard, would be too much to handle. After all, Lordaeron is not guilty for the crimes of Stormwind. The House of Menethil cannot beblamed for the House of Wrynn," Therion commanded. "Let's just try to keep things quiet until they leave."

"Understood, my Lord," Cyrus agreed.

The day went slowly as the Defias worked on administrative details. Therion recalled scouts, assassins, and dealers into the Hall, wanting nothing to tip the order of the Silver Hand to their presence. However, nothing would hide Therion from Fate, which came rushing inside that night.

"Therion!" Cyru yelled, waking the rogue. "Wake! Stratholme is in flames. The undea have come!"

Therion leapt up from his quarters, and sped to a window. Sure enough, both the East and West quarters of the city were aflame. On the streets, it ran silent. No Chaotic riots, no rushing armies of footmen. Nothing. "Grab my spyglass," Therion said.

Cyrus brought the ornate rube to the rogue, whom pointed it East towards the flames. There he witnessed a creature more than ten feet in height, sprouting large bat-like wings and devilish horns, leading a cadre of ghouls and stiched-up bloated corpses into houses, with only minor screams being heard before the inevitale. Therion's mouth went agape, and he quikly oomed to the west to witness, in horror, the Silver Hand Paladin prince and his royal cavalry breaking into buildings and pulling commofolk out to the streets where his forces bludgeoned them to death.

"Call the Brothers Cyrus," Therion said. "Everyone to arms. The Prince is killing the people and has aligned with the undead. We will defend this installation, even at the cost of Menethil's life."

The Elf ran to the mens' quarters, waking them up and rushing them to the armory, grabbing crossbows and shortswords, and decked along the second story windows, aiming down at the street. Therion walked along the hallway loading his blunderbuss rifle.

"Lordaeron has come to destroy us Brothers. It fate has ordained us failure, then we should make it painful for them. Aim for Arthas. Strike him down. In Death, we shall have victory." Therion leaned out to the window and pulled the flintlock trigger back on the rifle, aiming it towards the west, watching the flames of war come closer to the Defias Hall.

"I can see the mounted knights!" Cyrus shouted, and pointed down the street. Sure enough, and entire brigade of Lordaeron Cavalry, Dwarven Marksmen, and foot soldiers, led by the Prince himself, approached the Defias Base.

Therion licked his thumb, smearing saliva on the end of the rifle barrel, looking through his scope. "Ready your bows!" he commanded, and the Defias archers loaded bolts into their crossbows, winding them back, and aimed through the windows. The Hall had its lights turned off, and the advancing force had no idea of the pronged death which awaited them.

"Aim for the Prince, my brothers! Strike down the House of Menethil!" Therion ordered. The Defias Archers raised their weapons, watching the soldiers drag out a family of three, slaughtering them in the twilight streets like dogs. When they turned to the Mess Hall, the moment of truth had come. With Arthas' death, Therion's men would have stopped the holocaust of Stratholme, exposing the treacherous evil of the Nobles of Lordaeron and would have easily gained support of the entire city at the Defias' whim.

Yet before Therion could utter a command, a loud shattering was heard, and the sound of something breaking inside. The rucous caused premature firing in askewed aim, with several bolts piercing into the flesh of Knights and Horses, none straying close to the royal Paladin. Through his periphial vision, Therion saw a long, rusted hook thrown through a wall, knocking into a Defias before being reeled back, impaling through the man's stomach. In a mix of agony and guhes of blood, the horror of their brother being pulled through the wall by the chain caused a panick through the ranks, his screams fading to a gutteral 'munching' soud.

"It's the undead!" Cyrus shouted. "The Undead have broken through!" Therion turned to watch as half a dozen ghoulish creatures broke through the hole in the wall, followed by a stitched abomination. He raised his rifle, and fired the shell at one of the zombies, the bullet splitting through its skull, splattering bony bits and corpulent matter on the planks. Witnessing the ghoul's quick death by their leader gave the men resolve. "To Arms my brothers! They are not invincible!"

With swords drawn, the remaining fiteen Defias battled the Scourge. Several late bolts struck deep into the Abomination, unfettered by such weak sticks in its hulking mass. therion reloaded his rifle as more ghouls spilled into the Mess Hall, followed by a giant creature, lithe in ornate armor of fiery embers concealing albino flesh and devilish vestigial wings. An Orb of Ethereal Power orbited the obsidian nails of the demon, sharpened as claws to tear through armor and rip at flesh.

"Get them before the Prince does," Mal'Ganis, Nath'rezim commanded.

Therion fired a second shot, blowing off a ghoul's leg at the knee cap before drawing his daggers, leaping into a ghoul, slamming the knives into its shoulders, twisting them to dismember its arms and kicking the corpse down. The cries of the Abomination as it tore a Defias in two at the torso were unheard by Therion. He was lost in the battle. His men were dying as they became tired and overwhelmed, the scourge pouring into the building as the Dreadlord watched, fascinated by the one rogue tearing through the ghouls in a frenzy. Therion roared, throwing his dagger at a ghoul, pinning its hand to the wall to unshearth his night Wath shortsword, and ran it through the cretin.

"You there," Mal'Ganis called out to the Abomination. "Get that one now."

The stitched one grumbled and grunted, and threw the rusted chain at Therion, dripping with the entrails freshly removed from his fellow men. Therion quickly stepped evasively and stabbed his sword through the chain links, pinning it to the floor. While the creature struggled to retrieve the hook, Therion rushed up the chain, crawling up the beast's arm, and inserted his remaining dagger into the top of the Abomination's Skull, sliding down its back. The Giant of flesh hovered, waivering as a geyser of encrusted, foul blood oozed down its frame. therion ripped the chain back and around the torso, the hook gouging into its abdomen, and splitting it open as it twirled, tossing its insides out along the floor.

Several of the ghouls backed up as Therion ripped the sword from the floor. He was panting heavily, and blind to the fact that there was no one else to stand with him in this Defiance. The Dreadlord grinned. "If you wish to be so... difficult, fine. I shall deal with you myself."

Therion lowered his red cowl. "You'll do yourself a grave disservice falling to me demon." But the bluff wasn't working too well on a creature created to manipulate and deceive. Mal'Ganis' wings soared him through the floor charging Therion, who raised his rifle and fired a random shot, striking the Dreadlord's shoulder before rolling to the ground to avoid the fatal swipe of its claws. Mal'Ganis did not bleed from the fletchette inside and turned, blocking Therion's high strike with his nails, and quickly moved his hand down to pick up the pesky human, spinning to hurl Therion into an outside wall.

"Disservice you say? Quite.." Mal'Ganis boasted as therion slowly raised himself and steadied his stance. The Dreadlord laughed, waving his claw and immediately trancing Therion to sleep. The Dreadlord approached, formed his claws around Therion's skull, and slammed his body through the window, falling two stories onto the road, right in the middle of Arthas' garrison Army.

Therion coughed up blood, his legs broken by the fall and possibly his back. he looked up to see several knights pinning him down unnecessarily. the face of Arthas was not the last thing he saw, it was the face of the Dreadlord watching and siling down at him. Undoubtedly though, the last thing he heard before it all went dark was certain:

"By the Light, be PURGED!"