Hello Darkness, My Old Friend...

[Draekon]

'I have come to speak with you again.'

His voice cut through the turmoil of the scene before him. Blood coated the walls of his home in booty bay, three figures standing over a mangled corpse that had once been someone he loved. This nightmare was his, and his alone. He did not remember many nights where he did not suffer through it. The figures turned as one. Two trolls, their tusks broken and tribal markings removed, and an orc male. They were dressed in simple leathers, their 'tools' hanging in bandoleers and baldrics about their forms. Daggers, swords, the Orc's preferred hatchets which he gripped now. Their blades were bloodied, and Draekon forced himself to focus on them.

There was only one difference now, apart from the usual dream. Their foreheads were marked with the Runes. The Orc's brand was that of blood, and his eyes were orbs of crimson, leaking dark tears down his face. The First Troll, light blue skinned, bore the Frost rune while it's eyes flickered with coldflame. Then the last, the light green one, bore the Unholy rune. It's eyes were missing, rotten hollows that flies issued from.

The corpse moved and rose, Vilmah stood, a murdered corpse, and pushed through them. Draekon felt his heart wrench, but suppressed it with a wall of Horror from years of battle. They could not, would not, frighten him. To show weakness would give them the slimmest chances of control again.

'You might have, Nightmane, but I don't think we want to speak.' Death hissed in Vilmah's voice, as if her wind pipe had been crushed, 'Nor listen. Your near loss was tragic, but we will not help you. Use us as you may, but you will find no willing traitors here.' It grinned mockingly as the words tainted with sarcasm rasped out of it.

The Warrior grunted, and shook his head slightly. Death. He had been trying to master this rune for a long time now, but it came and went as it pleased. Flickering through his mental grasp and iron will as if it were a net with a hole in it. The Death Rune could be predictable, but was powerful. Far more powerful then the others, as it had all the powers of the others and could use them at will. It had irked Draekon more then once. The Warrior turned from the scene, heavy hooves thudding against the thick wooden planks of his home. The door creaked open, and he stepped through it.

'We will have you soon again. That little brush was only the beginning...'

[Vilmah]

((Woo Vilmah corpse!!))

[Draekon]

One Week Earlier

Always Vilmah. Always the Murder scene. You think they would be more creative...

Distant Thunder roared down the ice wastes of Icecrown. The eight valve motor unleashing fury like a caged demon beneath him. The vibrations had taken a while to get used to, but the Tauren now expertly wove the hog down the trench towards the Citadel. Massive skeletons charged in his wake, unable to move swiftly enough to catch the speeding, blue-black hued cycle as it deftly avoided their pursuit. The Warrior reached behind him, grasping the length of his Lance and disengaged it from the hopper he had attached that morning. Pushing it forward, he locked into it's cradle, the tip whistling in the wind as the bike thundered through the gate, and into the Crusade's Camp.

The swift form cut through the camp, never slowing as it thundered out into the open area before the Citadel where the Lich King's forces had sallied forth to oppose the coming Siege. He adjusted the lance, and openned the throttle to full. The bike seemed to want to leap out from under him as he was pressed slightly deeper into his seat. Guiding it with one paw, the other adjusted the level of the lance as a skeleton crunched beneath his wheels, spraying his undercarriage with bone shards. The Undead Calvary arrayed itself before him already locked into the charge, wheel, counter-charge that Calvary battles were known for with the Crusade's Knights. Corpses already lined the field from both sides, but where the Undead had numbers the Crusade had skill. They deftly manuvered and struck at flanks when available.

Draekon's own howling machine was alone, none like it on the field this day as he plowed into the flank of one of the Undead formations. The lance caught an armored form beneath the arm pit, exiting from the lower neck as it was picked up off it's steed. A flash and he was through, the weight of the corpse dragging his lance down. He released it, and reached for another. Couching it again, he brought Distant Thunder about, the back wheel skidding as he revved the motor for purchase. Shooting forward, he struck into the open flank once more as the Undead formation met with the Crusade and passed through them. Horses cartwheeled, or fell forward, face first into the thick, fractured ice beneath. Their riders, if not impaled, bounced and tumbled fatally or found themselves trampled by a hundred hooves. The Warrior engaged the Undead formation as it wheeled, striking it's center. The wheel of his massive machine, easily the weight of one of the horses, cut the legs out from beneath the first as his lance found the rider of the steed just behind it. The spear point punched through it's chest plate and tore it from it's saddle. The natural springiness of the wood let the haft of his weapon whip-lash as the weight focused on the tip, ripping it from the wound and allowing the rider to be crushed beneath the hooves of his formation.

He was through once again, and turned about. The black ichor of the undead staining his weapon as he sought another target. An arc of green energy barely missed him, hissing into the ice below as the Gargoyles swooped from the Citadel. Arrows and bullets from the Camp lashed up at them, cutting their numbers in half in moments as the disciplined vollies churned the air with whickering shrapnel, screaming bullets and howling arrows. The Gargoyles swept low, attempting to use the Crusader Calvary as a shield while plucking riders from their saddles.

Four swooped down at Draekon himself, maws twisting and writhing with hellish green energy as he put his hog into a slide. Releasing his lance, the Tauren grabbed at the modified Dwarven Hand Cannon at his side. Lifting the four barreled weapon up, he put a round the thickness of a dwarven thumb into each of them. One's chest cavity ruptured impressively as it's torso disintegrated beneath the shattering round. One's head dissapeared from it's shoulders, and the other two lost wings to whirl almost gracefully into the ground below before being trampled by both friend and foe. Holstering his weapon again, the Tauren leaned down and retrieved his lance.

Distant Thunder's engine roared with fury as he gunned it forward and leveled his lance. Today would be a victorious day.

[Draekon]

Night had fallen on the camp, but the number of fires that had been lit combined with the magical lanterns and other light sources erected turned a few hundred yards of the 'Courtyard' into day. Thousands of armored forms milled through it, and the buzz of activity was punctuated by barked orders, roars of laughter, the clatter of steel, and the sound of Craftsmen and Laborers working through the night.

The stars were unreadable, the light dousing them as surely as water would a fire. The ebon blanket above did nothing to help raise the Soldier's morale, much less calm them. The area had a strange, muffled quality about it. The feeling of being surrounded was all pravading. It was like being suffocated in one's sleep, an unending Nightmare. The smell of burning flesh would waft through the camp now and then, ruining a meal or a moments of peaceful rest to be replaced by night terrors of the things they had seen that day, things they would see the next.

Draekon himself shrugged it off, letting himself become lost in his work. While his skill didn't match that of the ashen verdict, there were still things he could do that would assist with the work load. One of them being re-enforcing the sheilds with titanium plating. Sparks scattered before the steady, firm blows of his rivet hammer against the red hot of the rivets. The work had went on for hours now, constant and repetitive, but it kept him focused at least. He didn't feel tired. He didn't feel...Anything at the moment. He wasn't sure how to feel. They would assault the Fortress, the one who tormented him, turned him into a Monster, would die soon. Hopefully. What then? What else was there? The Horde. Vilmah.

"I heard you survived. Didn't believe them." The voice was human, scarred, Captain Stahl. The Tauren continued his work, only pausing to glance over his shoulder with a dead, dull gold eye at the human as he approached. Armored in shining plate etched with golden filigree and a libram chained to his belt, the Paladin looked nearly the same as he had several years ago on the field in the Eastern Plague Lands.

"Good to see you again, Captain." The Tauren growled quietly, putting a small amount of welcome and warmth into his voice as he lifted the finished shield from the anvill. It was hung on the rack with the others, the last one in the hours of work he had completed. He ran a calloused paw over the front of one of the finished ones near by, checking his work.

"You as well, First Sergeant." The Paladin said as he moved to stand by the Tauren, armored arms folding over his chest as he eyed the shields before him then turned his green gaze on the Tauren beside him. "I see you're still interested in destroying the Scourge."

"I have my reasons." The Tauren said absently, glancing at the human again to meet his gaze before turning away. Tools were gathered, and the Tauren prepared to leave. The arrival of the old 'friend' made him uneasy. Reminded him of his failure.

"I want to know..." The Human said, a small hint of threat in his voice, a hint of sadness just behind it, "How did you escape the slaughter of Fifth Company? They were killed to a man."

The Tauren paused, and shiftedh is jaw. A frown twisted his scarred muzzle as he slipped the hammer into the small loop at his hip. Turning towards the Paladin, he spoke two words.

"I didn't."

As he turned away, a small bit of cold fire flickered in his eyes, passing like tears that floated into the sky. The Tauren walked away, shouldering his massive form between tents and men alike.

[Draekon]

The Tauren had made it back to his tent, but rest was eluding him. A camp fire took a moment to light, the high winds frustrating his efforts to light it. Though, eventually, he had a little yellow glow and the soft crackle of flames filling the air about his camp. He nursed the fire, gently adding tender and wood as it grew. A frown pulled at his scarred muzzle, and his eyes seemed to stare at the fire, yet not even see it. They had the distance of one lost in thought, memory or other darker things.

"You, mine friend, seem to be a Tauren with troubles." A robust, slightly accented voice said behind his right shoulder.

Dragging himself from his thoughts, the Tauren looked over. A Draenei Priest stood with his arms clasped behind his back. The long prodominately white robe was edged in gold, black and grey. Symbols of the Crusade marked the item as it's hem and sash were tugged at by the gusts that snickered their way through the camp.

"Good evening, Priest." The Tauren greeted in return after a moment of assessment, "My problems are nothing the Light or good council can solve. There are some men that could probably use your service else where."

The Draenei chuckled at him and approached the fire, up-righting a thick log to sit on. The Priest gathered his robes about him, and pulled a large book from a small leather satchel at his side. It was bound in leather, and shining bronze had been used to re-enforce it. The fronts of the book were emblazoned with the bronze, set in intricate, interlocking patterns so that they resembled a Naaru. The Naaru's 'core' was a large circle with four other larger double spines that interlocked togeather and created a cruxiform shape. Several other smaller spines, ranging in length, scattered themselves evenly between each of the spines. It appeared to have been grafted to mimic the crusade's own symbol. To Draekon, it reminded him of something else.

"Anyone can find solace in the Light, my friend." The Draenei began, flipping through the pages of the book, "Even if they believe themselves to be irreparably damned."

Draekon shifted his shoulders slightly, the frown on his muzzle evening out to a neutral line as he waited for the Priest to find what he was looking for in that book.

"Ah, here we are." The Draenei murmured to himself, and set a thick digit on the page to guide him, "'Behold, the Light will refine you, but not as silver. The Light shall test you in the forge of affliction.'"

The Tauren frowned, "I thought the Light was a philosophy not a God. How shall it test me, or anyone else?"

"The Light tests you surely as any other thing on this world will. A mountain is not sentient, but should you try to reach it's peek, it will surely test you on the way." The Draenei said in responce, "The Path of the Light is not easy. It can be hard for some, testing them and tempering."

The Tauren's head tilted slightly, inquisitively at the Priest's saying. His arms tingled, the action starting at his finger tips and running up the lengths, into his shoulders and then into his chest. He flexed them, rubbing the feeling away, and pushing back the memory that had been gnawing at him.

"What does that book say about the 'taint', Priest?" The Death Knight asked after a moment of silence. The Draenei's burning, golden eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, and he chuckled, a low, mellow sounding laugh.

"Well, let us see, friend." The Pages rustled again, and Draekon fell into deep conversation with the Draenei of the Cloth.

[Swerto]

(I love you so much for quoting that song)

[Draekon]

The Light. He never really trusted it. It was practical to have it's followers about. Healing wounds, and doling out punishment with it. After having read about the Silver Hand, he had been impressed, but the Light Followers were nothing but another type of Mage to him. They simply used magic in a different manner. They had just built a religion around it, rather then simply studying and treating it as a tool to be used. The Draenei hadn't convinced him of anything, but it was comforting. There was something about religion that the Death Knight found conforting, but still saw what it was, but that was a story for another time.

The scythe of bone that slammed through his shield jerked him out of the thoughts. The man next to him went down in a welter of blood, gore and entrails as he was split from his collar bone to his groin by one of the blades. The skeletal...Thing that slew him soon met an end, hulled out from within by a powerful blast of fire, a mage or perhaps Shaman some where in the rear had thrown it. The one before him struggled, attempting to disengage it's blade-arm from where it was wedged. Pulling his shield in, the Tauren swept his mace in and shattered it at the joint, spraying razor sharp bone shards against his shield and shin plates. The thing reeled, and he caught it in the face on the back swing, causing the thing's features to cave inwards with a satisfying crunch.

Lightning, fire, arcane, frost and holy energies arced and danced through the massed undead before him. Bullets burst skulls, rib cages and sent dismembered, skeletal appendages cart wheeling. The line of Paladins, Death Knights and Warriors heaved forwards with him, charging into the massed enemy as they forced themselves through the front gate of the Citadel.

"FORWARD! THE LIGHT PROTECTS!" The Paladin that took the now dead Warrior's place at his side, filling the gap in the line. He swept his maul into the enemy, but soon found that the Light didn't do shit if you were too stupid not to hold the line with the rest of them. The impetuous Knight met a rather horrifying end. Quartered like a hen in a meat market by a group of the bone scythed horrors they were battling against.

"Idiot..." Draekon growled through clenched teeth, knocking a bladed appendage aside with swipe of his shield as he brought his hammer in behind it. He smacked the thing in the chest. The blunt head of the hammer smashed through the rib cage a moment before a storm of bullets from the Riflemen support blew it's torso into spinning shards. The strangely bent hind legs cocked out at strange angles, carried forward by it's forward momentum into the shield wall.

"Push forwa-" The roaring Death Knight bought it hard, an Officer no less. Picked up off his feet by a long, thick spike of ice, it impaled several of the men behind him before it lodged into the stoney floor. Another cut through the men to his left, bloody shrieks were cut off. A four headed giant, lacking legs and carrying a massive axe stormed forward, howling something Draekon couldn't hear. It lashed out, hacking and slashing into the mid. His shield split, and a deep, frigid gash openned him from elbow to fist. Roaring in pain, he staggered back and looked down at the mauled appendage as it bled freely.

"Ready to give in, Nightmane?" It hissed in his ear.

[Draekon]

Armin Stahl was a campaigner. He had been his entire life, for nearly fourty years now. He could have retired years ago, but the old Crusader knew nothing more then War and service to the Light. The Alliance was a distant ally, like an old, childhood home one knew they could never return to. He was tired, oh so tired, and the report he held in his gauntleted hands made him feel even more so. The weight of responsibility and loss weighed down on his broad shoulders.

"This is confirmed?" He asked the runner, who nodded in responce.

"As far as we know, Lord. The area isn't secured yet, but the Vanguard was believed to be lost. A Tauren was reported seen leading the attack against the...Creature." He rubbed his neck, furrowing his brow, "Its unclear how it was destroyed, but I've heard a rumor that he uh...Sacrificed himself to finish it with a brace of satchel charges and gernades."

The Human frowned at the runner, and ran his armored hand over his shaven pate. There was only one person he considered crazy, or brave, enough to have done that. "I...See..."

A Tatical Officer approached, and handed a small stack of papers to him. Names of the lost. It was on the front page.

First Sergeant Draekon Nightmane, of the Frostwolf Brotherhood. Tauren. Missing in Action.

[Draekon]

Light.

Bright, and white. All consuming.

No sound survived here.

Nothing survived here.

Then, darkness. An eclipse of the bright, soundless eternity before him. It settled on his chest and mind with the weight of a sleeping god. It devoured him, and he too slept for what seemed an eternity...





'You were pure once...

Fought for your family....

Killed for your beliefs....

Died for your cause...

Rose again, a tainted servant...

Fought your chains...

And returned to your old habits...

The circle completes again...

The darkness abated about his person, and he laid amongst the familiar tents of his Clan's tents. Not those of the Frostwolf, but rather, those of the Nightmanes. Everything was dim, and seemingly distant. He lifted one of his massive, calloused, scarred and three digited paws towards the side of the nearest tent. It seemed to shrink away from him like a beaten dog, just out of his reach, and he contemplated on how such was possible. The camp was deserted, and jagged clouds cast the night's sky overhead to darkness with the faint suggestion of their almost blade-like edges. A camp fire, long dead, laid scattered in the circle of tents.

A suggestion of a humanoid figure loomed near by.

'I've come to take what is mine, Nightmane.' It's voice was like liquid kissing against hot steel, 'Your soul clings, but your body is broken. Your grasp on this world is fleeting, and I will use your shell in the service of the Lich King.'

'And I guess you're figurin' I'm givin' it up without a fight, eh?' He growled in reply. As he spoke, gauntleted paws worked idly at his sides, hunting for something to strike the creature down with. His paw reached behind him, and grasped a leather woven handle. The maul came free of it's frog and the satisfying weight of the weapon settled into his paws.

'You can't kill me. I am not living nor dead, I do not cling to this mortal coil of yours.' The thing made an amused noise, a blade snickering through flesh, 'What could you hope to do?'

The Tauren's scarred muzzle parted, beginning to reply, but a distant voice sounded softly. It whispered on the wind.

I have failed.

I cannot reach him.

There is only the Light now.

It will be his shield and protector.

[Draekon]

Someone, somewhere, was reading him his death rites. It was strange how he could hear them laying him to rest. Wasn't the afterlife supposed to be peaceful? Perhaps he would never know peace, but then again, that was the price he had been willing to pay when he joined the Horde military so long ago.

Be at peace now, my friend. Rest well in the green pastures of your home land...

The sky had turned from foreboding to dangerous. Lightning licked and flickered through the serrated blade-clouds. Angry grumbles sounded on the horizon, the ground beneath his hooves shivering with the noise. The evil entity known as 'Death', the rune that had eluded his attempts to snuff it's will and bring it under his control if not clense it, lashed out at him. It was in corpeal, a suggestion of a humanoid stature. The thing's arms were long blades, clubs or axe heads, shifting and melding into each as he lashed out. Draekon was already suffering from numerous wounds, his spiritual self leaking it's exsistance into the ashen ground beneath his hooves.

Though you are unable confess any evil that you may have commited, I absolve you of them. The fires of adversity and affliction have burned them from your soul, while the winds of your Valor have carried them away...

His hammer lashed out, passing through the corpeal thing's head and shoulders down to the chest and groin. Gritting his teeth, he side stepped the whickering slice of an shadowy axehead as he brought his weapon about again. The shadow-stuff of the creature did not heed his weapon. The storm clouds grumbled over head, but on the horizon, the hint of a sunrise peeked over the plateau that surrounded his memory of Mulgore.

I bless you, and commend your name to the Light, Brother. May you take your rightful place amongst your anscestors...

A single shaft of sun light lanced through the clouds, touching the dead, greyness around him. It swept over the grasses, turning them verdant and vibrant. The color of the world seemed to rebel, fighting against the death that grasped the memory. The evil clouds rallied, attempting to form an inpenetriable wall before the raising, yet like a bit of parchment held up to a flame, the sun burned through them. Light flooded the plains of Mulgore, bringing all out of the grey-death that gripped it. Life, or rather, the memory of it, returned. Grasses became verdant, flowers vibrant, and the land pure once more.

Death shrieked as the sun shown down on them, and Draekon's own flesh seemed to squirm, writhing beneath the cleansing Light. The shadow-stuff solidified, and the hammer fell onto it. The creature, the thing that had plagued him most for all of his second-life, crunched beneath the force of his blow and tumbled away, burning and broken.

Ur zenn shi Naaru; Ur zenn shi Alar.

Dropping his hammer, the Tauren sat down hard. He was weak. Noon rose into the sky above him, bathing all and chasing away the last vestages of the Nightmare that he had known for so long. He unclasped his gauntlets, and sat them on the ground, then his helm. His scarred, calloused paws were ran over his equally beaten and worn muzzle. It was painful to sit there, yet there within that pain he felt renewed.

Soon, fatigue took him, and the Light swallowed him up once more as he laid himself down in the green sea of Mulgore's plains.

[Draekon]

The bodies of the fallen had been gathered, as per normal procedure. They had learned a long time ago you didn't let a corpse sit around near a scourge held battlefield.

The scent of goblin rocket fuel filled the air. Thick and oily, the area reeked of it and death. Noone wanted burn duty, noone wanted to see their comrades dead and burned in such a dishonorable fashion, piled atop one another in a pit to be forgotten by all. The Corporal assigned to the task sighed, and stood quietly to the side as the Draenei Priest read the last rites to each of the dead as they were thrown into the pit.

This had been going on for some time now, and would for the next few hours. They crawled by, hearing yet not hearing the words the Priest murmured above all the dead forms as they passed him and into the pit.

Finally, the pit filled, the Corporal lifted the torch-

Something stirred.

A single, midnight furred paw, singed and further blackened by fire thrust itself out of oily, stinking depths of the corpses. Then, the bullish head of a Tauren rose out of them, dragging himself up out of the tangle. The Creature's eyes burned balefully, icey hues flickering within their hallowed depths. The Corporal gasped, and staggered back, lifting his torch and preparing to throw it on the undead...Thing.

A calloused, blue hand wrapped about his wrist and caught him as he wound up, "That, my dear Corporal, is a friend." The Draenei Priest murmured behind him, looking down intothe pit as the Tauren hauled himself up the side, then over the rim. "Seems he has cheated death."

The Tauren chuckled, a low, hollow sound. "No, Death has already claimed me..." The Beast rasped quietly, voice rumbling in the depths of his chest, "Even before what I am now."

The Draenei frowned, and released the human, who completed his task and decided to get the Fel out of dodge while the getting was good. The Tauren plodded away, brushing the reek of the pit and the slime of the oil from his armor.

"Have you decided?"

He frowned, and shook his head. "...This..." He motioned about him, to the death and the blood, "This is all I've ever really known. I'm too far gone to be saved."

"So what will you do?"

The Tauren shifted his jaw, stopping for a moment to consider the question. It was a good one. "I'm a pariah." He gave a shrug of his broad shoulders, and frowned, "I guess I'll do whatever I can. For the Horde, maybe I'll get lucky. Save a few that can still be saved."

The Draenei nodded slowly, and clasped his hands at the small of his back as he watched the Death Knight saunter off towards the camp. After a long moment, he sighed heavily and returned to his burial.

"I told you, Nightmane...We're you, and you're us. We'll be togeather...Forever. "

[Smoldergear]

((Beautifully executed. :) ))

[Draekon]

(Thanks Smolder, but this is probably the worst story I've ever written. I basically just wrapped it up as quickly as possible, I lost all interest and purpose with this story a while back but didn't want to leave it uncomplete.)