Grass struggled by the force of nature to not wither beneath the wide stride of Morsteth the blighted between The Sepulcher and that once magnificent trees of Silverpine Forest. Blanketed beneath the clean moon, the secrets of the forest were revealed to his gaze as he took his moment to embrace his command. Mist coated cobwebs shimmered within the moonlight before his path let through them and sent them straining to hold on before snapping, folding around his withered being.
Morsteth's head snap and creaked to attention as his body turned around towards a sound behind him, the cobwebs straining to hold contact to him and the tree before tearing apart. He snarled as his gnarly fingers reached for his axe; a vicious design of a weapon sharped and refined to cause the torment of his victims. His firm grasp med his hands creak instead of the living, where their skin would make the leather straps creak instead.
Posed in defense of an attack, Morsteth's piercing eyes of death were locked on a shadowy figure tumbling through the trees, increasing speed as it got near, closing the gap between him and the Sepulcher. The Forsaken champion snarled and rushed to meet his attacker, his weapon striking through the air in a hiss of decay, lodging itself into the frail skull of a plagued bear. An animal tormented by the gift of the Banshee Queen, its hide a living mess of rot, bloodied fur and open flesh riddled with insects of the wild.
He grimaced as he placed a foot on the bear's head, feeling its already crumbling skull beneath his boot, spongy and blood soaked, using all his strength to pull back his axe with a crunching sound.
The husk of living death tumbled back a step to admire its kill, another creature of the land driven to insanity by its slow demise in the grasp of a land cursed by its ruler. He slowly pulled his way through the forest along the roots and bushes as his glare of vengeance kept an eye on the Forsaken commander. This'll be easy
he said to himself as he was close enough for his attack, having used the moment of the bear's attack to close the gap. People wouldn't think about the bear but to Jarod, it had given him the best opportunity.
He set in a run on all fours to close the distance to his prey, armor this time not proving a problem as he by experience had trimmed some of its edges, permitting him a more silent approach. His body of ferocious muscle and strength took the last few steps before lunging himself at the Forsaken, his claws striking out at his throat - or with more luck, to tear of the whole head off.
Jarod's fierce eyes sprung wide open in confusion as his initial attack was halted in mid motion, there was no ripping of cursed flesh, no tearing of decaying throats or crumbling of rotten bones. His canine teeth grinded and scratched against the handle of the axe, cracking sounds could be heard within their struggle but both of them unsure if that was the weapon or the bestial teeth within the maw of a vengeful worgen. Both hoping it was their opposing threat suffering at the attack. A coarse rattling of gravel and dust were heard growling out in profanities as a blackened gauntlet struck at the side of Jarod's head to send him tumbling along the grass with a yelp, sending him retreated to join with the other members of his group.
Morsteth pushed his body back on its feet, bones cracking back in place after a ferocious worgen had attempted to attack him in vain. He was grumpy, no, that wasn't even the right word. Furious would more be considered, a fury not fueled in the name of the Horde but in the name of their Banshee Queen.
We have stray mongrels running loose in the queen's garden, men! Prepare yourself!
he shouted at two late arriving Forsaken soldiers before yanking the rains out of the hands of one, almost snapping the whole hand with him. The beast of death he was to climb was a gift the Banshee Queen offered her men to serve her to their fullest. One confused soldier struck a pose of arms crossed over his chest before setting in a struggled run behind his commander.
The marshal peered through the darkness as his soldiers and their allies pushed their way through, when his gaze could not reach further then his ears would give him a better story of what was happening within the shadows. He winced a little in reflex as he heard the distant yelp of one of his people.
Alright. Lets increase the pace, people. Recon has been spotted. MOVE IT!
John barked out to his people in a commanding tone before following up with a ear shattering howl.
John leaned down to support himself with one hand as his body jolted itself into a bone crunching transformation, his armor hulked and bulked to accommodate this muscular development as its plating expanded in sections thanks to the Gnomish engineers of the Alliance. The bestial worgen form that many has been seeing as a curse, is also seen as a gift by other members of the Gilnean people - gifted the right tools to reclaim their home.
Claws dug through the forest bed as his stride on all fours set into a fast paced sprint to join the other worgen members, while the people not afflicted by the curse were still bound to the use of their steed, flanking up around the attacking forces. There was no more need for subtlety.
Morsteth's yellow eyes were pinned on a bloodied pile of dead bats, shredded, ripped or just plainly stabbed. The hills and cliffs in the back were all covered by claw marks, most likely from them attempting to climb up once more. His stead stride lead to what looked to be a piece of a worgen claw still lodged in the rocks. The dogs were not wanting reinforcements to come swiftly to the commander. This was messy, this was to be their message? He pondered as he walked away slowly, gesturing for one of his own men to saddle up.
Ride, bring word about these rabid dogs, the Queen's wrath will have them beneath our feet
, Morsteth barked out in his graveled voice. His gaze following the steed charging out of The Sepulcher.
Quartermaster?
Morsteth barked out commanding.
A wrinkly excuse of a risen soldier appeared before his gaze. He looked rather freshly risen but yet his cheek was slowly peeling of, or well, rather now it was pinned to his skull to keep the right side of his face in place. A face hanging to one side but still his stance and salute in the name of the Banshee Queen was proud and determined.
Going to need to conscript for... Volunteers.. In the name of our Warchief. Round up who ever can fight of mongrels, and they'll be rewarded for their service
Morsteth spoke in a dismissing tone as he walked of towards the walls. The members of the Horde that either were of his own people, or had been hearing the word spread were gathering for him at the entrance to The Sepulcher.
Forsaken, many of them, what he loved to see. They were each armored and ready for battle. Two Blood Elves, now this was a rare sight in the defense of this land. Both of the light as well - blood knights he guessed. Loyal to the Horde and not all that group hugging stuff that the Order of the Silver Hand seems to call people for. And the little guy. Morsteth's eyes had to wander downwards a little to take full notice of the Goblin. These small green people could be vicious, brutal and scheming out of their ears without even planning for it - and he had one ready to serve in the name of the Banshee Queen. He'd better not blow us up, he mused as he walked away.
He didn't get further than a few steps before troll strolled in among the ranks and took his stance. There were no message and sound from him but there he stood. Who did he think he was, to just slouch past a commander of the Forsaken. Morsteth let out a low growl but reasoned that one couldn't be picky at desperate times. The scout would bring reinforcement before it was too late anyways.
The steed of rotten flesh and dry bones galloped along the dark roads in all haste, its rider barely able to hold on as his grasp clenched on tightly to the reins, fingers cracking and flakes of worn skin peeled off under the strain. The scout let out a raspy laugh as he saw the forest slowly opening up around him, this meant he would soon be on a straight road for the next camp.
And then it hit him, 80 pounds of raw muscle and teeth tackled the rider to the ground as a rapid succession of arrows took out the steed, sending it crumbling to the side of the road. The beast snarled over the Forsaken scout's husk of a body, part wolf and part something he had no idea about, only that this creature creature was slowly crushing his torso by its weight alone. A simple shape appeared out of the dark to join the wolf, brandishing a camouflaged bow, or nature blessed, he wasn't certain but it looked rather not like something he would be using. He struggled against the weight of his attacker to get eyes on her but all he saw was hair black as coal before blocked out by teeth and drool.
Attaboy, Spuds
, her voice was graceful and calm, this human should've been out of breath if she'd been chasing him down but that wasn't the feel he got from her. She's been waiting on him. With all the might of his risen body, Forsaken husk of lungs, he prepared to yell but before he had a chance, the world was no more.
Oh, gross, Spuds. Ye ain' taking that with you. DROP IT
Natascha scolded her companion as they strode in between the twisted trees, heading towards the Sepulcher to join the rest of the attack. Talking to herself proudly as she strode past another husk of dried bones from a scout that was in the field before the recon was revealed, Told him that it was a good idea
.
The marshal stood shield by shield with another member of his brigade, a worgen of just as many muscles as him, Ted Turner. Their little shield wall had managed to breach the frontlines of the Sepulcher defense by adding pressure to their defense, and maybe it was a little credits to the hulking beast of a werebear that was trampling through the weaker ranks. It was a symphony of clashing steel and the sonnet was profanity and war cries. This was his element. The fog of war had nowhere to hide, the Sepulcher was limited and his people were built for close quarter combat. Claws was striking through the air to meet the shields of the Forsaken, the tattered robes or their dried up bones.
Marshal John Wilcox took a brave moment to free himself from formation as he saw Morsteth looming near his reach, this of course seemed to be the Forsaken's plan all along for the axe of his was set on striking him down. The serrated segments of axe blade lodged into his shield with great force, sending him to a knee. For a strike by bones that were meant to be brittle and decaying, this Forsaken sure packed a hard blow. He just managed to block two more vicious cleaves, others were not as lucky. Morsteth's fury had managed to wound several of the Alliance, and maybe a few Horde members as well - the marshal could only hope so. John blinked as Lupus and Ted yanked him back into formation before Morsteth's axe came down with a shattering blow.
Stone and steel cracked under his empowered blow but no one were to receive his judgement. Morsteth scowled as he slowly pulled back with his men, dragging his axe behind as the armored place was still stuck to his battle axe. The grinding sound was nerve wracking as was the sight, for there was still someone within the armor; a motionless body of a woman, killed during the initial attack.
At his flank were the Sword of Menethil, a unit of soldiers bound for the same goal of retaking the northern kingdoms. Their forces was striking down the Forsaken as they took a shortcut through the major part of their graveyard, assisting the Brigade in a pincer maneuver against the defending members of the Horde, hounding them inside one of their main buildings. John blinked and looked over his people, even though spearheading the attack, his senses were still tuned in for any unwanted surprises. What he saw as he looked back was grusomme, and wasn't what he was expecting to see, not right now - not this close to a victory.
Within and among the many rows of finely carved or crudely engraved tombstones stood an armour clad figure, or more, he was haunched. He was chanting a necrotic spell. The stench was a give away as forces of undeath as well as newly struck down soldiers of the Alliance were forced into his servitude. The sight was grotesque as they set upon attacking members in the rear of the maneuver. The withering hands of the living dead latched on to one unknowing footman before they started to haul him back, tearing at limbs, hair and skin as his screams carried the suffering across the armies.
The wails of the footman was cut short as two arcane arrows were lodged in his chest, he was hardly a footman, more like a squire and had to be put down as one of the wretched Forsakens they were fighting. Violet glanced over her shoulder to find out where the second arrow originate from, her gaze met the lieutenant who was excited from the cover of the forest with a pleasant smile upon her face.
A whizzing sound sent Violet gasping in shock as another arrow was lodged right in front of her, taking down a ghoul that had seen itself hungry on some living flesh and in Violet's moment of distraction, it had taken its chance by without luck. The sack of bones fell to the ground, this was one from the graves, it looked Orcish to Violet but there was no plan to investigate.
In unison, the two hunters drew their arrows back, three at the pair, before sending them hailing across the tombstones. Some ricocheting of the stones and along the ground to pin a ghoul for a better shot. His blue eyes looked up and broke his concentration as he saw the two hunters tearing down his creations before feeling the brunt of their attack to send him running for cover.Where is that fool running of to?
Morsteth yelled in furious anger.
One of his weapons, servants of his command and the Banshee Queen had just fled past their holdout. Leaving them behind to defend themselves in their own little bottleneck. Those mangy mongrel might be superior in close combat but they are even less worth than dirty when they are the size they are, pushing through a doorway. He was proud of his people in this moment, sure he'd been reduced to chopping at his attackers instead of storming them down and swinging his axe but in the heated problem, his shield wall of his strongest people were holding. His group went under the name of the Grim Gest, and they'd earned the honor of their own name - this honor wasn't going to die out today.
Morsteth was about to formulate his command before he was interrupted by one of the living defenders. His own senses had taken the price of undeath, too much so that a Goblin was calling out fire among the ragged and bony soldiers. The little rat might've been here for the money but he was also being sure that he was alive to be paid.
His yellow eyes glowed brighter as he started to notice the assaulting humans and worgen slacking on their attack, they were pulling back slowly to make way for the flames to consume this whole place - and everyone within. With a reassuring but firmly pushing hand, he commanded his shield wall to push and force the Alliance dogs and whelps out of his base, of course the reassuring sensation was more his method of saying, "Do it now or I'll cut you down on the way out".
Mage, you better show the frost of the north after we're out! I am NOT going to lose my command to a flock of flea infested dogs
Morsteth barked demandingly at a female Forsaken.
His eyes were so full of rage that she understood the importance even by his stare. Zardis was to stay back and use her control over the ice and water to do her best to douse the fire that the Alliance had ignited to force them out in the first place. The strange troll patted her head heavily, sending flakes of dust dropping before he joined the push to get out. He was uttering so many odd words, Loa this and hex that. This troll was using a different book than her, and she could see her, for he was almost chanting and dancing as he launched spells of chaos and corruption across the field.
Zardis' gaze went to her own hands as she spoke in a rasping voice, the chants of cold and water slowly became an echo among the war cries. This was her moment, her chance to make the Grim Gest outfit proud. With a screech that could almost make the banshees envious, she let go of her first spell. And it was glorious. The living were the first to notice it. The air growing colder, the water in it freezing as a rain of ice and snow drizzled over the rooftops. The spell was assisted by citizens of the Horde, members who could not fight but they sure could wield buckets like professional people.
Morsteth loomed across the battle of strife as his eyes locked on John's, he was carrying a grin of confidence as he was making a mock gesture of beckoning his ‘guests' to leave this base.
His refined gesture sent shivers down John's spine, he wasn't the only one with a weary feeling in their gut, or ears, or bones. They might have pulled back for the fire but what Morsteth had planned was much worse. Joining him on each side were two Forsaken alchemists, both holding multiple vials of a special concoction; a green liquid resembling that of the plague swirled around inside. The Marshal froze in place for a moment.
This was a pleasure, mutt, but now you better get running
Morsteth snarled as, showing his corroded yellow teeth in a wide grin.
RETREAT!
, it was the only thing the marshal needed to yell to send his units scurrying out of reach of the Sepulcher, pulling back to a safe distance. John's gaze was locked with the Forsaken commander the whole time as small vials of the chemical mixture were thrown.
Gascious green clouds formed from the smashed vials along the base of the wall and drifted outwards towards the forest in the path of least resistance, the same path that the Sword of Menethil and the Nightfall Brigade was taking. The alchemists were cackling as they seemingly looked like they were trying to see how far they could throw before the little puppies had all ran away.
The return to base was rough for John and his people. The Brigade and the Sword of Menethil were to be the victors of this battle of those undead wretches had not been acting so cowardly as to use the plague to chase them away. There were no horses for most on the return, savage beasts had taken them or they weren't brought as they didn't think they would leave with many wounded. And now here they were, bending grass to their will as they set their little caravan for home, the ones in better condition were to protect the wounded.