Keraph

Reclamation

Recommended Posts

The town of Southshore. Long the most tenacious foothold of the Alliance in the lands of fallen Lordaeron. For nearly a decade it has stood, one town of two standing as bastions and rally points in an endless battle between the Alliance and Horde, seasoned veterans and training adventurers alike, locked in bloody melee with neither side giving quarter or gaining territory. For years, the conflict in the grassy fields of the Hillsbrad Foothills has been a battlefield, a training ground, a point of much contention and little progress. So long has conflict raged in these lands, with so little progress, that the combat itself that ravages the land has become rote, expected, and accepted. Day in and day out, warriors of each faction have poured in to the foothills to wage war against their enemies, only to return to their respective towns to take their rest and prepare for the next day's bloody battle.

No longer.

The strike was as quick as it was vicious. The attackers, long trained in what few intricacies laying siege to this particular town possessed, came in from all sides, striking down guards and civilians alike with cold, calculated precision. Within minutes, the entire town was rendered defenseless, as it had been so many times before. But this time was different. There would be no recovery, no reinforcement.

Moments after the attackers finished their gruesome work, they began setting into motion the true objective of their siege. Produced from the packs of each shrouded assailant was a collection of black barrels sloshing with a thick, unknown liquid. Around the ravaged town, bony hands worked the barrels, placing them in every point of interest in the town. The docks, stables, inn, town hall, and each home were littered with the mysterious barrels, each glowing with a faint purple light at a point where a small, dark crystal was set. In little time the town was peppered with the things, and the shrouded assailants gathered in the center of the town.

"Take a good look, brethren," The leader of the group, he who had been hissing orders to the others during the brief but brutal siege, lifted his cowl to reveal a gaunt, rotted face draped in matted strands of stringy, once-golden hair. "For this is the last time you must have the displeasure of resting your eyes on this wretched excuse of a town" He smirked sardonically, and those around him reacted in kind. Hollow cackles, wicked grins, and spiteful derisions aimed at the devastated town rose from the gathered crowd, each marked with tabards of a tri-pointed star over their skeletal, rotting forms.

"It's about damned time, Warlord." A female within the group hissed, scowling at her surroundings. A dodgy looking imp clung to her dark robes, making faces at the hollow shells of the dead that littered the ground. "And how fitting that it should be we, Her most devoted, that are granted the honor of wiping this miserable eyesore off of the map once and for all."

"Indeed it is, Baroness," The warlord responded, eyeing the damage that was inflicted before giving the order to mount up. "But we are far from done. This is just the first step in finally reclaiming the lands that we -deserve-, that belong to the Forsaken by right. Soon, all of Lordaeron will be in the hands of it's people, as it should be. And I have little doubt that the Dark Lady will not be content to stop there. Now then, there's still work to be done tonight. Infection, move out. For the glory of the Dark Lady! For Sylvanas!"

Cheers erupted from the gathering as they rode out, praising the Banshee Queen and hailing the rise of the Forsaken. Banners of their race and fold were strewn about the town in a display of pride and superiority. Behind them, the town grew further away, and from afar one might not even know that anything was amiss in the oceanside foothold of the Alliance. That is, until the blight bombs erupted, covering the area in a thick sheet of green mist, obscuring the entire town and poisoning all that laid within. That night, the elite servants of the Dark Lady tore through the lands surrounding their desecrated capitol, the harbingers of the coming armies of the Forsaken that were deployed throughout the kingdom not long after. That night, the Forsaken reclaimed the lands that belonged to them, the true citizens of Lordaeron, and slaughtered any who dared stand in their way.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

[Lordaerons Call has it handled, we're the infections rival and are ready for blood after they killed our guild leader, at least that's how I'll make it]

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites
[Lordaerons Call has it handled, we're the infections rival and are ready for blood after they killed our guild leader, at least that's how I'll make it]

((Now now, there's more than enough ass-kickery to go around, we certainly have time to put each of you in place in due time))

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Jolting from his light sleep, Ivan jumped out of his bed in Southshore's Inn as a terrible earthquake rocked the town. Something was different this time, normally the quakes stopped by now, yet they still persisted. Throwing on his robes, he exited his room, his Felguard looking around suspiciously as the building creaked and shook under the weight of the tectonic movements.

Outside, mass chaos had broken out. Citizens were running everywhere, screaming, while Marshal Redpath tried to maintain some semblance of control. Some of the less scrupulous citizens took this opportunity to raid Loremaster Dibbs' house, seizing any and every item of remote magical importance they could. Dibbs' himself was helping citizens alongside Redpath near the town hall.

Ivan stumbled outside as he tried to gain his bearings. Buildings crumbled as the massive earthquake continued it's fury. During the commotion, the sky darkened, becoming a reddened-hue, and the man realized the situation was more dire than they realized. The chaos worsened; nobody knew what was happening. Ivan stood on the dock, taking in the insanity, unsure of where to start and help Redpath regain control over the population. Or if calming the panic was even possible. It was at this point that an ear-piercing screech shattered the scene.

A gigantic, shadowed, form flew over the Hillsbrad Foothills, screeching and leaving a trail of fire in it's wake. From the ground, it appeared as nothing more than a blackened cloud that had somehow ignited on fire, but the reality was much worse. Deathwing had broken through Deepholme, and was now cutting a firey swath across Azeroth. Ivan and the rest of the citizens watched the firey object fade over the horizon, but in the same moment, saw a more immediate threat.

Marching south from Tarren Mill, the Forsaken had sent an enormous contingent of soldiers, complete with apothecaries and Blight Wagons. In the chaos, Ivan thought he recognized some members of the so-called Dark Lady's personal guard, Infection. Screams proliferated the air even further, and the quake strengthened, collapsing Dibbs' house, trapping several looters inside. Before Ivan could react and warn Redpath, the Deathstalker attack began. Guards who were frantically herding the cattle-like citizens out of buildings found themselves failing to defend against a sudden-Undead attack.

Aiding one of the Guards against a Deathstalker, Ivan realized that it was too much for the small town. The chaos, the looting, the fire, the Forsaken, Southshore would be lost. As the Deathstalker's form melted into the ground, he yelled across the battlefield to Redpath, "FORSAKEN! We need to evacuate the town, Marshal!" Redpath shook his head, "No! We can hold them..." the warrior dodged a Deathstalker strike and repeated, "We can hold them!" Ivan snorted at the man's ignorance.

The scene was incredibly grim. Two of the smaller houses had collapsed, citizens were being slaughtered by the increasingly-appearing number of Forsaken, and the Earthquake that rocked the land was still occurring. Waves crashed up and over the dock, flooding various fishing supplies that an unfortunate Southshore resident left. Finally the quake subsided, but the crashing waves seemed to worsen. Looking about, the Warlock yelled for any to hear, "Southshore is lost! Retreat! RETREAT!" His eyes scanned the approaching Blight wagons and he knew what was to come next. He had absolutely no wish to be here when the poisonous liquid struck.

Spinning a spell, Ivan's Dreadsteed appeared just as an explosion rocked the side of the Inn, flinging the man from his mount into the docks, and crashing through the wood before falling into the water. Pain shot through his body, it was clear his arm had been broken by the fall. The waves rocked him further out toward the sea as he lay helpless. Focusing his magic into his palm, he shot a line of Felfire outward from the sea, propelling him to the beach and onto the sand, near the abandoned Murloc huts along the shoreline.

Coughing, he saw smoke rising from the town and smelled the odor of decaying bodies. Struggling for a moment to simply stand, the man slowly summoned his Dreadsteed. Mounting the fel-beast, he rode toward the town of Hillsbrad only to see the settlement being attacked as well. The Forsaken were going to take the entirety of Hillsbrad back from the Alliance. Riding past the carnage and up the shore of the Alterac Mountain's shoreline, he saw the outline of the castle on Fenris Isle. Urging his Felsteed into the water, he spoke into his communication device before plunging into the Lake, "Watch...this is Ivan...The Forsaken...they've taken Southshore, Hillsbrad is under attack."

"The Foothills have fallen."

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead